Hotshot (Buchanan-Renard #11)

Hotshot (Buchanan-Renard #11) Page 34

TWENTY-EIGHT

On the morning that Peyton’s car blew up, Ronan got to see another side of Finn, and it shocked the hell out of him. Finn was interrogating a punk-ass kid they knew had committed a double murder, all because of a dare. Finn had been called in to question the suspect because it was determined the kid would respond well to his methods. Finn had been so successful with his strategy, five new agents stood with Ronan on the other side of the observation glass. They were there to watch the master at work, to learn from Finn who, their superiors and Ronan believed, could get anyone to talk. It was only a matter of time and patience.

Finn didn’t have a dark side, and he never lost his temper . . . until that day. Only the suspect, a twenty-year-old who insisted on being called Tic, and Finn were in the room. A small metal table with a legal pad and a ball-point pen on top separated them.

Tic was butt ugly, Ronan thought. Big ears, big teeth, thin lips, and an odd-shaped head. As was the trend with the morons in his gang, he had shaved his head and wore a tattoo of a skull and crossbones on the back of his neck and a smaller one on his forehead. Now, how original was that? After listening to him boast for several minutes, Ronan thought it might be nice to put a bag over his tattooed head so they wouldn’t have to look at his gloating smirk.

Tic was big, close to six feet two inches, and weighed around 225 pounds. He wasn’t handcuffed, and he was known to have a short fuse. Ronan stationed himself close to the door in the event he became aggressive. He knew Finn could handle the punk, but he wanted to be ready to help.

Even though he had been talking to the suspect for hours, Finn couldn’t have looked any more relaxed. He slouched in his chair with his long legs stretched out and one ankle crossed over the other, and it appeared that he was actually enjoying their conversation. Finn had perfected the hint of a smile, just enough to make the suspect comfortable. Tic was trying his best to impress Finn with stories about friends who had gotten away with big-time crimes because they were so much smarter than the cops. He laughed while he told one particularly gruesome story. It was evident Tic loved to brag, and Ronan was convinced Tic would soon brag his way into thirty years to life. If Finn played him just right, Tic would get cocky and want to prove how smart he was, too, and he’d boast about his own accomplishments.

Things were progressing nicely until Finn received a text. His phone was on vibrate. He should have given it to Ronan when he’d handed him his gun before he entered the interrogation room, but it was in his pocket, and he’d forgotten about it. He pulled the phone out and was about to turn it off when he glanced down and saw he had a text from Braxton. He wasn’t concerned to see the name. Against Peyton’s wishes, Finn had ordered Braxton and Drake to give him regular updates.

Tic was off in his own world, staring at the wall while he fondly reminisced about another crime he thought had been cleverly executed. Then he moved on to the recent double murder. It was obvious he wanted to tantalize Finn, to let him know he’d pulled the trigger four times without actually saying it. Tic became so caught up in the memory and thrill of it all, going on and on as he bragged, he didn’t realize he was taking credit for the crimes.

Finn glanced at the window to let Ronan know the confession was on record, and then, while Tic continued to talk, Finn opened the text. He expected to read that everything was okay and that there hadn’t been any problems. Instead, he read, Sniper blew up car. On way to hospital with Peyton.

He lunged to his feet. His heart felt as though it had just been ripped out of his chest. Gripping the phone in his left hand, he read the message again. She was hurt, but how bad was it? Didn’t Braxton know? He should have protected her. Finn felt a desperate need to get to her.

“I don’t have any time left,” he said, his voice harsh. “We’re going to wrap this up. Pick up that pen and start writing. I want names and I want your confession to be concise. Got that?”

Tic laughed, but the sound was forced. “I’m not going to tell you how I . . . You’re not getting a confession.”

“You already confessed. Start writing.”

Ignoring Tic’s protests, Finn read the message for the third time, thinking maybe he had read it wrong.

Outside the room Ronan was explaining to the young agents that, in this case, Finn had quickly realized how important it was to the suspect that Finn thought he was smart, and he took his time and played on the suspect’s ego to get him talking. It was a good thing Ronan was looking through the window. Otherwise, he would have missed what happened next. Tic must have realized he had said too much, and believing Finn had made a fool of him, he flew across the table, his fists swinging. All 225 pounds of rage attacked. One second he was in the air, and the next he was up against the wall, his feet off the floor. Finn had his hand around his neck cutting off his air supply. He whispered something into Tic’s ear, and while he continued to pin him with one hand, he texted with the other.

Ronan and the other agents rushed into the room. They all stood together as they watched and admired Finn’s amazing show of strength.

“Are we clear on my expectations?” Finn asked Tic.

It was impossible for the suspect to answer. His face was bloodred and rapidly turning purple. Finn decided to assume he’d agreed. “Okay, then,” he said and let go.

Tic fell to the floor in a heap.

“Crawl over to the table, sit down, and start writing,” Finn ordered.

One of the agents rushed forward to cuff Tic to the table so that he couldn’t attack again while another agent sat down across from him and shoved the notepad toward him.

“I’ve got this, sir,” he said.

Ronan followed Finn out of the room. “That was impressive,” he said. “Texting with your left hand like that. I couldn’t do it.”

Finn let Ronan read the text from Braxton while he slipped his weapon back in his holster. Ronan cursed. “Albertson’s behind this, isn’t he? Is Peyton going to be okay?”

“I don’t know. I’m gonna call the hospital in Port James, and I should be hearing back from Braxton.”

“Then what?” Ronan asked.

“I’m going to Peyton, and when I find the bastard, know what I’m gonna do?”

Ronan answered with a nod. “Oh yeah. I know.”

TWENTY-NINE

Finn was still there in the morning. It hadn’t been a dream after all. Peyton saw him as soon as she opened her eyes. He was standing in the hallway talking to Braxton and Drake and a police officer she remembered seeing in Reds, the bar and grill where they’d eaten nachos and fish tacos. The conversation looked intense, and from their body language she could tell everyone but Finn was angry. Braxton was visibly upset. He kept shaking his head and clenching his fists. Finn was the contradiction. His arms were folded across his chest and he would nod every now and then. He seemed calm yet very serious.

Braxton was the first to notice she was awake. He nudged Finn and then rushed into her room. Stopping at the foot of the bed, he asked, “How are you feeling? That was a close call.”

“I’m okay,” she assured him. That wasn’t exactly true, but it wasn’t a lie, either. Her head didn’t hurt nearly as much as it had last night, and she wasn’t quite as stiff. “I’ll be better as soon as I get out of here.”

Finn walked over to the side of her bed and gently brushed her hair away from her forehead. “You might need to stay another night.”

“No, I won’t stay. People die in hospitals. They check in just fine, and—wham—they get some horrible disease and die.”

Finn was trying not to smile. “If they’re just fine, why would they check into a hospital?”

He was being logical, and she was having none of it. She wanted to go home. “It happens,” she insisted.

He put his hand on top of hers. She tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let her.

“Peyton, I’m so sorry,” Braxton said. “I didn’t protect you. I should have seen it coming. I looked up at those roofs, and I didn’t see anyone. I got too comfortable.”

He looked devastated and she wanted to console him. “There wasn’t a single car around . . . no workers had arrived yet . . . he was up in one of those buildings, wasn’t he?”

Finn answered. “Yes, he was.”

“I told her to stay in the car while I checked to see if the door was unlocked.” Braxton’s voice shook. “If she had, she would have been in the middle of the blast.”

Peyton was about to offer a bit of sympathy and tell him to stop blaming himself, but Finn spoke before she could.

“Yes, you screwed up,” he said. “And it almost cost both of you your lives. It can’t happen again,” he added, his tone hard. “So learn from this.”

“Yes, sir,” Braxton said, all business now.

Drake appeared in the doorway. “I need to talk to both of you,” he said.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” Finn answered. “I want a word in private with Peyton. Shut the door behind you.”

Peyton wanted to protest but didn’t because Finn had that look in his eyes, that don’t-mess-with-me look she was getting real tired of. His clenched jaw was another indicator he was going to be stubborn and tell her something she didn’t want to hear. Agent Know-It-All could be a real pain. God, she’d missed him.

“Why are you here?” she asked quietly. “I didn’t call you. You won’t find any bullet holes in my car. You probably won’t find my car, either. It was pretty much incinerated.”

“I’m here because you need me.” It was an outrageously arrogant thing to say, and he knew it was going to rile her, but he didn’t care how upset she became. She did need him.

“I do not need you. I’m a capable adult, and I can take care of myself.”

“Where’s your car?”

“You know it blew up. I just told you.”

“And where are you now?”

“In the hospital, but—”

“So, taking care of yourself . . . How’s that working out for you?”

“Normally I’m quite capable of taking care of myself, but this isn’t a normal situation. People are trying to kill me, for Pete’s sake.”

“Precisely,” he answered. “Which is one of the reasons you need me.”

“I have a security team.”

“Peyton, I’m here to stay.”

“Wait a minute. What’s the other reason I need you?” she asked, suspicious.

The physician interrupted the discussion, and she was glad of it. She had to be at her best to spar with Finn. She was discharged with the stipulation that she rest and take it easy for a week or so. Right. Rest. It took all she had not to laugh when she gave her promise.

Braxton drove them back to Bishop’s Cove. Finn got into the backseat with her, and Drake rode shotgun. Peyton tried to keep her distance from him and hugged the door, but it was a challenge not to touch him because he was such a big man and took up most of the space. It was impossible to relax; however, once they’d driven over the bridge and she could see the gates to Bishop’s Cove she began to breathe easy.

“It was all a setup, wasn’t it? That call Debi took wasn’t from the post office.”

“No, the call came from a disposable cell phone. A burner,” Braxton told her. “No way to trace it.”

She thought about it a minute and said, “You know, it really was an ideal place for an ambush. Two tall buildings with a little post office squeezed in between. It was a well-thought-out plan.”

Exasperated, Finn said, “Peyton, when have you ever received a call from the post office? Any post office? Let me answer that for you. Never. They don’t call when a package arrives. If it’s too big to deliver, they send out a notice. And if you don’t pick it up, they send out a second notice. And if you still don’t pick it up, they send it back. What they don’t do is call.”

“It was such a small post office in a resort town. I just assumed . . .” She felt like an idiot. She hadn’t questioned the call at all. Hadn’t given it a thought. “I told Braxton we needed to go to the post office. I didn’t mention getting a call.”

Finn took hold of her hand, and this time she didn’t try to pull away. “Whoever it is has been here a while scoping out Port James.”

“I disagree,” Drake said. “It wouldn’t take any time at all to find a couple of places to ambush. Port James is a very small town.”

“Is Agent Hutton back in Dalton?” Braxton asked Finn.

“Yes. He paid a visit to Eileen Albertson. She told him she didn’t expect the boys home from fishing for another week. They changed their minds and didn’t go to Canada, but she didn’t know exactly where they were. She just kept saying way up north. She asked Hutton if that Peyton bitch was trying to make more trouble.”

“Then she didn’t send me her love?” Peyton asked.

A few minutes later she was back in her condominium. She immediately changed out of yesterday’s clothes and took a shower. The wallop of a bump on the back of her head throbbed each time she touched it, so she was careful not to scrub her scalp when she washed her hair. The water revived her and she felt so much better. After toweling off, she reached for her jeans, but they rubbed the gouge in her thigh, so she put on a pair of old shorts and a silk camisole. Barefoot, she padded into the living room and came to a quick stop. Lucy, Mimi, Lars, and Christopher were all there waiting for her. Lucy had tears in her eyes.

“What happened?” Peyton asked, bracing herself.

Mimi laughed. “We’re here to welcome you home, not give you bad news.”

Finn came up behind her and slipped his arms around her waist. The show of affection wasn’t lost on their audience. They wanted to let her know how much they cared about her, and she thought that was terribly sweet, but she wasn’t comfortable being coddled for long.

Christopher was the first to take off. The concrete trucks had arrived and were going to pour the walkways today. It was an expensive undertaking, and he wanted to be there to make certain there weren’t any screwups.

“Who’s minding the store?” Peyton asked.

“Debi,” Lucy answered.

“Oh God.”

She’d sounded so appalled, they all laughed. Only then did Lucy seem to realize the damage Debi could do and rushed back to the office.

“How about I cook dinner for you tonight?” Lars suggested.