Chapter Eleven

Something wasn't right. Everlee could feel it. While Shane approached the front door, she'd walked up Bremmer's nicely edged concrete driveway and into her open backyard. No gate, no fence at all. With every step into what appeared to be a commonplace, all-American backyard, complete with three apple trees in blossom lining the back border between her property and the neighbor's, Everlee's spidey senses tingled. This wasn't the disorganized home of a psychotic murderer, not at all. Not unless Bremmer paid a gardener. Or she was just that intelligent and evil...

Which she might be. Everlee hated that nothing about this assignment was lining up like it should. Ms. Bremmer had honestly thought she could just move to another state, buy a family home outright, and never have to worry about the long arm of the law knocking on her door? And another thing, if Everlee and Shane had found her this easily, why hadn't the FBI arrested her by now? Jiminy Christmas , there were several FBI field offices in Texas, one a few miles away in Dallas. If the Bureau could pass Bremmer's whereabouts along to Alex, surely they could've parked on this street and apprehended the woman themselves.

So, yeah, there was something fishy about this particular contract. Office gossip was that Alex and the FBI hadn't always gotten along, that he'd pulled their bacon out of the fire more than once before. Most notably was the mission in Wisconsin, the time they'd gotten Libby Houston's sister killed during an all-out war between the Bureau and some Russian gangsters. Alex had made the Bureau look pretty bad when he'd taken over their operation and saved Libby's parents' lives. Was this just another screwed-up FBI contract that would force his hand? If so, how? And why? What did the Bureau have to gain by offloading their federally assigned responsibility to a private contractor?

The Bureau's mission was to protect Americans and uphold the Constitution. But when they failed, like they had against David Koresh and his followers, a bizarre religious sect known as the Branch Davidians, in Waco, Texas, back in 1993, they failed spectacularly. That time, the federal government had thrown the full force of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, aka the ATF, as well as the FBI, a division of Texas Rangers, and the National Guard, against Koresh and his followers, which amounted to just ninety-one people. Ninety-one! And yes, the sect had had run-ins with civil authorities before. Lots of them. But against all that federal manpower?

During the initial ATF attempt to serve a search and arrest warrant on Koresh, a gunfight ensued, and four ATF agents had been killed. In the end, after a fifty-one-day siege against the sect by the full weight of the United States law, seventy-six members of the Branch Davidians were dead, including twenty-five children and the cult's leader, David Koresh. Public sentiment ran strongly against the government's heavy-handed treatment of so few civilians and the unconscionable loss of so many children. To this day, people called the disaster the Waco Massacre , not the politically correct Waco Siege .

That the FBI and ATF had previously bungled a similar eleven-day siege in Ruby Ridge, Idaho, in 1992, wherein the son and wife of suspect Randy Weaver, were killed, cast the Bureau in particularly inept lighting. The killing of civilians, especially Randy Weaver's wife by a long-range FBI sniper, horrified Americans. But in the end, the damage was done. Randy Weaver's wife and only son were dead and civil lawsuits ensued. The government ended up paying millions to Randy Weaver and his three surviving daughters. But not one cent of those dollars brought his family back.

More recent ill-fated FBI shortcomings were just as telling. Which were all on Everlee's mind as she stepped onto Bremmer's backdoor step and alongside the wrought iron railing beside the rear exit. The sun had set and the house inside was dark. The back door was solid wood, painted white with a window inset in the upper panel. A single motion detection light flickered on over the door at her approach, which made Everlee a well-lit target, damn it. Her heart skipped a beat and her throat went dry. She would've felt better if Alex had sent four agents, not just two. But two was better than one and there she was.

With her pistol in her right hand and pointed up, she lifted her chin and peered cautiously through the backdoor window. Another light had just flashed on somewhere inside. Or that golden glow could simply be from a motion detector light at the front door. It was hard to be sure, since the glow was coming from, or at least through, the front room. Everlee had no way to know if Bremmer had answered Shane's knock or not. The narrow band of light lit the dark hallway that stretched beyond the kitchen. There wasn't any movement inside, not even a shadow most likely cast by that motion-activated front light.

She stepped to the side of the rear door, breathing hard but keeping an eye out for activity, in and outside the home. So far this day had been a bust. There was nothing suspicious about Bremmer's place. Even the backyard was pleasant and inviting. Taking one last glance over her shoulder, she stifled a yawn, bored with a mission that seemed to be a waste of time. Until—

KABOOM! The house shuddered. The sky overhead filled with fire and brimstone. Debris exploded out the backdoor's single window in one long, fiery belch that damned near scorched Everlee's hip when it passed. The ensuing backdraft sucked the air out of her lungs, like a dragon taking another breath before—

Jiminy Christmas! The dragon blew the door off its hinges. Even the concrete steps bucked, rolling her forward and backward as if she were on a ship at sea. She grabbed hold of the railing. There was no way to return fire, no one to fire at.

"Shane!" she yelled as she caught her balance when the ground stopped shuddering. She'd been lucky. If she'd stood directly outside the rear exit, she would've been skewered by the broken window. Tightening her shoulders, she tucked her head into the arms she'd raised to shield her face and eyes from the heat emanating from the burning house and from the shrapnel ricocheting into the backyard like a fireworks display gone crazy. The hellish dragon inside Bremmer's home still spewed plenty of red-hot spears across the neighboring yards. Booms, growls, and groans sounded deep inside what was left of the damaged structure.

But all Everlee could think of was Shane in front of that all-glass entry door and the two giant plate-glass picture windows beside it. He had to be dead or severely injured. She bellowed again, needing him to answer her, damn it. "Shane!"

She didn't dare move, not with hellfire raining down on the entire neighborhood. Poisonous vapors swelled around her. So many items that homeowners decorated with were flammable and downright toxic. Couch cushions. Carpeting. If she stepped out of this narrow safety zone, she'd risk death and pain and—

Forget that. Everlee was Air Force, not Chair Force. Not a damned scaredy-cat woman waiting for a big, brave man to come save her, either. Decision made. She jumped away from the blown-to-Hell rear egress, sure some exploding piece of glass or metal could still nail her in the back. Who cared? She chose to fight to her last breath, not to die quivering in fear like a civilian. Dodging fire and streaming debris, she hustled her ass around the house to—

God, no. Shane was on his back in the street. The soles of his boots were smoking. So were his jeans. Most of the front of his shirt was gone. His double holster was still intact, and he was lying there, pointing a pistol skyward. Everlee glanced upward as she ran to him, in case he knew something she didn't. Like maybe a house was falling?

Big mistake. In her haste to reach her partner—and because she was watching the sky instead of where she was going—Everlee stumbled, not sure on what. Probably on her big feet. Might've been debris. Whatever! She lost her balance and ended up skidding sideways on her thigh and butt over the last stretch of dew-laden, smoking grass. Nothing hurt, not even her previously sprained ankle, when, at last, her slide dropped her on the street. She scrambled to Shane's side.

He wasn't on fire, and up close, he didn't look burned, at least his face wasn't. But the front of his shirt was scorched into pieces. Black sooty smudges covered his face, and every inch of him was steaming. His blue eyes were watering plenty. That fine head of dark hair was now feathered and singed. His eyebrows were, too.

"Jiminy Christmas," Everlee breathed when she finally had her hands on him. "Are you okay?" she asked as she lowered his stiff arm and peeled his rigid fingers from the pistol's grip. He was alive but in shock. Damn Bremmer! She'd planned for this! "Look at me. Tell me what hurts, big guy. Did you hit your head again?"

He laid there blinking up at her, and she was remembering how he'd unraveled so quickly at the office yesterday. This wasn't a good time or place for him to have another panic attack, but she wouldn't blame him if he did. She was near to panicking herself, but only because she'd been worried about him. Yeah, right. They both could be dead right now. Hell, she might just join him in one, great big panic attack. They could cry on each other's shoulders.

Instead, Shane curled his torso forward, the muscles of his bare abdomen taut but wrinkling as he forced his body into an impressive sit-up. Turning his head, he looked straight at her, but his eyes were spacey. He wasn't dead, but he was hurt and—

"Damn Tuesday Bremmer to Hell!" Everlee spat as she took firm hold of Shane's hefty biceps and tried to ease him back to the ground. "You're hurt. Not bad, but you hit your head again, didn't you? Lie down. The EMTs, firemen, and police are on their way."

"What?" he yelled, pushing her hands away and refusing to stay put. Confusion and maybe a bit of hysteria darkened his deep blue eyes as he sat back up.

"Can't you hear the sirens?" She could barely talk over them emergency responders screeching up the street. It was then she saw the ink on Shane's left pec. In caps adorned with light green vines and tiny pink flowers. Sara and Abby ? Who were they? His mother maybe, and who else? A girlfriend? Two girlfriends? Not like it mattered. Everlee stored that detail away, saving it for another day—when she could think.

"What?" he asked again, louder this time and blinking like that might help his ears work.

Muscling him onto his back one more time, Everlee shook her head. There was no sense talking to a man whose eardrums must've shattered from that blast.

Shane shook his head at her, then signed in ASL, "You okay, Ev? Are you hurt? You're scaring me."

Will wonders never cease? Everlee knew American Sign Language, too. She'd learned early because she had two deaf friends, also because ASL actually helped her thinking process work a little slower and a little better. Quickly, she signed back, "I'm scaring you? You're the injured one here, buddy. I'm good. Just worried about you. How bad are you hurt?"

He shrugged, then signed, "My shirt's scorched, and I can't hear for shit, but otherwise, I'm good. Just out of breath." Shane rolled his neck, lifted both shoulders off the ground, and stretched forward, testing for injuries. "Looks like I got a little toasted."

Everlee ran her hand over his head, searching for blood or bumps or… Oh, what the hell? She just needed to touch him, to make sure he wasn't bleeding or lying or dying. Guys tended to fib when they were hurt, and every one of them said they were good when they were anything but. She didn't need that kind of macho crap, not today.

At last satisfied that he wasn't badly injured, she allowed a deep breath, then settled her brain and signed, "I thought you were dead. When I first saw you, you were smoking, and on your back, and..." She ceased signing before she signed something dumb, like how scared she'd been that she might have gotten him not only hurt on his first mission but killed.

"No such luck, Yeager," he signed enthusiastically, "but Tuesday Bremmer" —he nodded his chin at what was left of the damned witch's latest hideout— "if she did what it looks like she did, then we're looking at another crime scene. Maybe attempted murder. Of us."

"Yeah, I know, but I'm just glad you're okay," Everlee signed, her heart pounding in her throat, high enough that her eyes were watering like crazy now, too. He could've been killed, and that would have been her fault. Alex told her not to let him get hurt, and right out of the gate, this happened. She signed furiously before her emotions betrayed her. "She just tried to kill us, Shane. This was a trap. One that she set, damn her. She's mine!"

He shook his head, as the first of what eventually became five police cars, three fire engines, and two ambulances, screamed up to the scene, their blue, red, white, and yellow lights flashing. Dazed, he took his pistol back and returned it to his left holster cup. He'd only drawn the one, Everlee guessed because he'd probably been polite and rang Bremmer's doorbell with his other hand.

"Did you open her screen door? Is that when everything blew?"

He bobbed his head and signed, "She didn't answer her doorbell, so yeah, I opened the door to knock, thought maybe—"

"That's what triggered the bomb." Damn Bremmer. She'd known someone would come looking for her. And damn the FBI, too, for offloading this nightmare to The TEAM.

A neighborhood crowd had already gathered on the opposite side of the street beyond the fire trucks. The rental SUV's side windows had been turned into cracked safety glass and the windshield was gone. Something small burned on its roof. Several men, probably the homeowners, were spraying both houses on each side of Bremmer's with garden hoses to keep the fire from spreading. The homes' windows were broken and both lawns were checkered with blackened or burning spots from where the debris landed. What a disaster.

Shane's fingers were still flying. "We need to talk with her first, Ev. We don't have any proof she did this. Can't condemn a person without evidence and a fair trial. Alex didn't send us here to be judge, jury, and executioner. Our job is only to take her back to DC."

"Yeah, but…" Everlee stopped signing. She had no words, in ASL or otherwise, that could express the turmoil churning in her head and her heart. She'd never lost a partner, but she'd come damned close tonight. The thought of Shane dying was ripping her up. He was a brand-new hire, one of America's best, and she'd almost gotten him killed. Her, someone who'd never seen combat, but who thought she knew everything.

Jiminy Christmas … So much carnage. Here. In what should have been a nice quiet neighborhood. Not wanting Shane to see her meltdown, Everlee looked over her shoulder at the glowing shell of brick where Tuesday Bremmer had ‘allegedly' lived. Allegedly, my ass.

Every last one of Everlee's suspicions flamed brighter now. Was there any chance in Hell Bremmer was innocent? How could she be anything but guilty? After two vicious murder sprees that resulted in four deaths, her home exploding just when Shane and Everlee approached her? How could she not be behind this disaster? Everlee had seen the security footage from the latest fire Bremmer had set. She'd kept looking over her shoulder while she'd chained her apartment door handles. Sure as hell, she'd known what she was doing, yet she'd done it anyway. Just like she'd rigged this house to explode.

Everlee was a firm believer in the three-strike rule. And by hell, Tuesday Bremmer'd just had her last chance. Just for killing her kids, she needed to go down and go down hard. Three-year-old little Toby and two-month-old Betsy, for the love of God. Their deaths rankled the worst. Killing children was the most unforgivable sin in Everlee's book. But man, killing Shane would've been just as bad.

EMTs were on the scene now and taking charge. Two fired questions at her, and shined their annoying little flashlights straight into her eyeballs. "I'm not the one who's hurt, damn it. Let me be," she snapped, batting the nearest one's attempt to help away. She signed to Shane, "Stay here. I'm calling Alex."

He nodded, not like he was going anywhere. Two EMTs had already manhandled him onto a gurney and were seriously fussing over him. He seemed okay with it, and that worried Everlee. He might've been hurt worse than she thought and was just acting tough like guys did when women were around. He might've landed harder than he realized. Might have internal bleeding after being blown off the front porch. That was a good twenty yards or so. Shit.

Stepping into the middle of the street, she made her way over to their bright red and ruined rental. Everlee tugged her cell phone out of her pants pocket. Before she called home and unleashed the Armageddon that Alex would surely rain down on her for getting Shane hurt, he needed another shirt. She located his gear bag in the front seat where he'd left it and, just as she'd expected, found a neatly rolled extra set of pants, a shirt, socks, and underwear beneath the dozen or so boxes of .380 ACP ammo. Sweet. Then she dialed home.

Of course, Alex picked up on the first ring with a terse, "Stewart."

What'd he do, sleep in his office? So much for his ‘alleged' retirement.

"Boss," Everlee said, her heart suddenly squeezing the single word out of her vocal cords. Making her sound weak. She and Shane were alive, but Shane was hurt, and…

Damn. This was going to be hard, but Alex had to know, and she had to tell him—everything. Fighting tears, she cleared her throat and said, "Bremmer's house blew up when we approached, Boss. I'm okay, but…" She blinked to see straight. Everything had gone blurry. Had to be from all the smoke, damn it.

"Sh-Shane's hurt," she finally spit out. "Police and fire are here, and the EMTs are taking good care of him, and he thinks he's okay, and the fire department's here, and… oh, shit, Boss!"

"What is it?!" Alex barked like the Rottweiler he could be.

Everlee stopped whining and babbling. She was repeating herself anyway. But only because three firemen had materialized through the smoke billowing from Bremmer's scorched front entry. Something lay on the gurney between them. Something long and black and charred and…

"Looks like a body," she answered. Everlee blinked, shocked she'd said that last thought out loud. "Boss…" Her heart fluttered like it had that day she'd ended Finch. Too! Much! And too hard! "The firemen just exited Bremmer's house. Looks like they found a body inside," she answered, her voice still weak with shock. "Someone was inside Bremmer's house when it blew, Boss. Might be h-her."

Might not be…

Probably wasn't, knowing Bremmer.

But Everlee couldn't keep the quiver out of her voice.

"She blew herself up?" Alex asked, his tone calmer now. Gentler. Which meant he recognized the shock in her tone, damn it. Everlee hated sounding wimpy, especially to her boss.

"Not sure. I hope not… I mean, I doubt it." Everlee had already jumped past the conclusion that the body was Bremmer to the very real probability that it was another innocent victim. "I think she planned this, just like she's planned everything else. Bremmer's been one step ahead of the FBI all along, and now she's ahead of us. She knows she's a wanted fugitive. She set a trap in this house and waited for someone stupid enough to come looking for her. For us. For someone to knock on her front door. God, what if that had been a kid? A paperboy or someone lost or—?"

"How bad's Shane hurt?" Alex interrupted evenly.

With the rolled pack of Shane's clothes under her arm, Everlee leaned to one side to see past the line of firemen manning the hoses and into the street where the EMTs attended Shane. "He caught the worst of it, but he isn't too badly burned. Just a little scorched, you know. We split up. I was going around the house, you know, while he took the front. You know, in case Bremmer ran." Everlee wanted to kick herself for her repeated use of ‘you know' . But she was frazzled, and her mind was jumping all over the place. Every time it landed, it landed on the very real possibility that she was responsible for whatever happened to Shane. That she could've gotten him killed. "After the house exploded, I found him on his back in the middle of the street. Whatever she used blew him off her front porch, you know?" Damn, I can't stop saying it. "I thought he was dead." You know?!

She lowered her gaze to the ground and bit her lip. Her ADHD was killing her. There was no going back from this. Everlee would never forgive herself for the fact that Shane had nearly died tonight.

"Is he conscious? Can I talk to him?"

"Not right now. He's a little spacey and the front of his shirt's g-g-gone." And I can't stop stuttering! "But he was signing plenty when the EMTs took over and m-made him lie down."

"Signing?"

"His ears, you know? He can't hear, so yeah…" Might never hear again as hard as he'd hit his head. Everlee swallowed her guilt down one more time. "We've been communicating by ASL. American S-s-sign Language."

"Son of a bitch!" Alex's relief was tangible over the phone. Harsh, but sincere. That helped.

"This is my fault, Boss. I sh-should've taken the front door. We shouldn't have a-approached until we did more recon. I shouldn't have—"

"Stop."

Everlee shut up despite the hissing command from Virginia, or maybe because of it. Her gaze dropped to her boots. For the first time in a long damned time, she was submissive and scared Shane was now damaged for life. Wouldn't that suck? His first TEAM op and he'd never be able to hear again? He'd spent years in the Corps and had come home safe, but one day with her, and she'd gotten him injured. Her eyes teared up again. Damn all this smoke!

"There's no sense jumping to conclusions, Everlee," Alex said quietly. "Shane's a big guy, a lot bigger than you. He's built stronger and sturdier." Yeah, that's what he said. "And I'm sure he's thinking he's glad he took the hit instead of you. Go see what the medics say. Find out what they think about his condition before you fall apart."

She nodded, listening to the kinder side of her boss. Alex was the first one in a fight, and he could be brutal when brutality was needed. But he had a tender side as wide as the ocean and twice as deep. Which was the real reason she'd crushed on him all these months. Once—just once!—it'd be nice to have a gentle man, a no-kidding thoughtful male, in her corner. A guy who would actually put her first once in a while, like Alex did with Kelsey all the time. Just because. Not because he wanted something out of her, like breakfast or dinner or sex or mothering or… or whatever. But just because he liked her as a person, because he actually saw her. The real her.

"Are you still with me?"

"Yes," she murmured, then swallowed again, trying to work up enough spit to keep talking. "I can see them from here. They're still working on Shane. He's not bleeding, but he's shaken up, and they've already inserted an IV in his arm, and I… I'm so, so sorry."

"Stop blaming yourself," Alex told her with what sounded a lot like understanding. "Shit happens, and you of all people know that. Trust Shane. Trust the medics. Go check on him, then call me back if he needs to be hospitalized. He's your first priority. Get him sorted, then find out for sure who that dead body is. Talk to Bremmer's neighbors. Find someone who's spoken with her face-to-face. You've got to find her before someone else does."

That wasn't what Everlee expected to hear. She cocked her head at the worry in his tone. Not nasty anger or suspicion, just worry. For a killer like Tuesday Bremmer? Her moment of self-pity faded into righteous wrath. "Why should I? Who cares who finds her first, us or the FBI? As long as someone stops her murder spree, what does it matter?"

"Because I said so," Alex growled. And there he was, the volatile man she'd grown to love—in a purely platonic way. But then he coughed and backed off all that male arrogance with a quiet, "Son of a bitch. Belay that last order. Didn't mean it the way it sounded. You're not an idiot, Ev. I trust you and Shane. I've just got a bad feeling about this entire mission."

"Go on," she encouraged. It was rare anyone got the upper hand over Alex. Had the FBI?

"Think about it. Why send a highly skilled team like ours into a state with more than one FBI field office? Hell, there's one in Dallas."

She liked that Alex said ‘team like ours' instead of just ‘his.' "Go on."

"Why hire private contractors to locate anyone in the first place? What's so difficult about finding a murder suspect—if Ms. Bremmer is in fact the killer everyone thinks she is—that the Bureau can't do it themselves? They've got some of the best agents in the country. Thousands more than I do. And they knew precisely where she was."

It sounded as if Alex didn't think Bremmer was guilty. That gave Everlee pause. "Yet they've sent us straight to her last known residence."

"According to the Dallas County Assessor's office, it is. The property title hasn't transferred yet, but Ms. Bremmer did, in fact, buy it from her aunt and uncle, Val and Sharlett Coogan, two days ago. Mother's already double-checked."

"You think something else is going on, don't you? You think she's innocent? So why'd the FBI hand this case off to us?"

"To be honest, I can't reach FBI directors Zachary Strong or Tucker Chase to get confirmation. But when you catch up with Ms. Bremmer—and you will—place her in protective custody, yours and Shane's, and get her to the nearest safe house. Keep her safe, Ev. Don't talk to anyone, not even the FBI. Just bring her back to Virginia alive."

Whoa. "A safe house? Virginia, not DC? You want us to bring her to you now? Not to the FBI?" Everlee asked, her heart fluttering again at the three hundred and sixty degree turn this seemingly simple case had taken. Sure sounded like Alex wanted them to protect Ms. Bremmer from the FBI.

"Yes, a safe house, and yes, bring her to TEAM HQ. Call me when you get close. Once you find her tonight, take her to Smoke Montoya's ranch. You know where it is. But look around now while you're at the scene. Sometimes the safest place to hide is in the open. Check the crowd that's watching her house burn. Look closely at any women in emergency responder uniforms, police, fire, or EMT. Use your head, Ev. Find Tuesday Bremmer."

"Copy that," she replied, her gut back online and her head once more in the game. "I've got to get back to Shane. He needs a shirt. We'll be in touch."

"Stay safe."

"We will. I promise." Everlee ended the connection. A safe house meant going off-grid. Once they were securely inside the one Smoke Montoya provided, they'd be shielded from the Bureau, the National Security Agency, hell, even from the USA's geosynchronous satellites that watched everything and everyone on the planet from above. But first, she had to find that dirt bag, Tuesday Bremmer.

Alex might be convinced she was innocent, but Everlee wasn't.