Chapter Twenty-Seven

Aching from the top of her head to the soles of her feet, nonetheless, Everlee planted one boot flat to the reflective circle of the hotel's rooftop helicopter landing pad. It was go-time. Once outside the helo, she stood still as her neck acclimated to the weight of the helmet Shane insisted she wear. It was more cumbersome than she'd expected, though most of that extra weight was probably her stubborn need to take Astor down instead of letting her team, or herself, rest for the night. It was knowing where Astor was that pushed Everlee. So what if her head and neck ached tomorrow? Outing Astor's plan to destroy Tuesday, maybe ending Astor herself, would be worth it.

Man, this mission had been one helluva long damned drag. Everything had gone wrong since the moment they'd pulled in front of Tuesday Bremmer's cute little home back in Dallas. Only now, there was no Tuesday Bremmer, never had been. Only one darned intelligent Tuesday Smart. Everlee wondered how long Astor had planned to kill Atchison Bremmer before she'd carried through with it. Were those two kids physically, biologically hers? Jesus, had she given birth solely to trick Atchison? To get his insurance money? It seemed too bizarre to be true.

Everlee pushed that quandary to the back of her mind. It was bad enough Astor had duped Atchison for five years before she'd killed him. But that she'd gone through the pain of childbirth was pure abomination. What kind of mother could stoop so low? Ev would never understand, not if she lived to be a thousand. So yeah, Everlee refused to rest. She was driven, as much as Tuesday. The Bremmers, Freddie Lamb, and Tuesday deserved better. Everlee's helmet didn't feel so heavy anymore and the heads-up display was cool.

She'd worn a helmet cam before. That time on a joint training exercise with a group of Navy SEALs, at their Special Operations Forces Cold Weather Maritime Training Facility in frigid Kodiak, Alaska. It hadn't been easy working with them. SEALs were a different breed of spec ops from Air Force members Everlee knew. They'd been damned serious and totally focused, as if their lives depended on passing the course.

Talk about tough. Everlee respected anybody dedicated enough to survive Hell Week, then tackle Cold Weather Training the way those guys had. By the end of the course, she'd been run ragged and she had pneumonia. But by hell, she'd kept up with those bigger, meaner, sturdier men. They'd good-naturedly nicknamed her Squirt, which she still hated. But one of them, Chief Petty Officer Nick Coletti, had at least slapped her back when they'd headed to their helo for the ride back to San Diego. He'd told her she'd done good. She'd told him she never wanted to see him or his team again. He'd laughed, but she'd meant that, too.

Everlee had slept the entire flight back to Seattle, she'd been so sick. She still thanked her lucky stars there were no women on SEAL teams—yet. Because then she'd have to prove she could beat those types of guys, anytime, anywhere, too. Ah, the story of her life.

As agreed upon prior to landing, they left Tuesday with Heston. He'd cut the engine the moment they'd touched down to reduce the raucous noise of rotor slap.

"We'll be watching," he called to Shane, who was also on the ground. "Try to keep it PG."

"You bet," he replied.

But Everlee doubted Tuesday would mind seeing Astor's brains eject from the back of her head. She watched the silent guy-speak between Heston and Shane. The way they communicated with a nod, the thrust of their chins, or head bobs. Like the chin Shane had just directed toward Tuesday. "Keep her safe, amigo. She's the target here, not the killer."

"Copy that," Heston answered with a swift two-fingered salute.

Shane closed the side door, hitched his gear bag high on his shoulder, and turned to Everlee. "You ready?"

"Been ready since this shit show started."

Besides the helmets with cameras, they were both now armed to the gills, each with a McMillan bolt-action, TAC-338 sniper rifle slung over their shoulders and plenty of ammo. But this was no training exercise and the rifles were for just-in-case scenarios. Close quarter combat demanded pistols, Shane with a right nice pair of Browning Black Label 1911-380s, Everlee with two Glocks from Smoke's vault. Between them, they'd preloaded a dozen magazines and were more than ready to end Astor and her goons. Anticipation was palpable, and Everlee was on high alert, ready for this sprint to the finish line.

But what the hell? Shane had just stepped into her, blocking her way with that big, squared-off body of his. She titled her head upward, intent on staring him down if he'd decided to go all alpha male on her and insist she stay behind too. Not. Happening.

"You got something to say?"

"Don't forget our date once this mission is over."

"You gotta bring that up now?" She was impatient to be done with this never-ending day, didn't need the pleasant distraction he offered. Her head needed to be in the game and her reflexes sharp, not sluggish like they'd been since her encounter with Ringo and Bud. Shane needed to knock off the small talk. Multi-tasking took too much effort.

"Why not? I'm looking forward to it, Agent Yeager."

"Me too," she admitted grumpily.

"So?"

"So what?"

"So how do you want to go in?"

Everlee sucked in a lungful of the cold night air, her smaller body buffeted by the chilly wind raking over the rooftop. "Fast and quiet. Hard but without unnecessary roughness. No collateral damage. Alex hates that. Only one we take out is Astor and only if she shoots first. Watch your backstop and don't get hurt again."

He pursed his lips and blew her a kiss. "I love it when you talk dirty."

She slugged his biceps, meaning it to hurt. Which it probably didn't. "Stop yakking and move out."

He gestured for her to take the lead. Which Everlee loved. She stepped out ahead of him and aimed for the only rooftop exit, grabbed hold of the metal handle, and damned near pulled her arm out of its shoulder socket. It was locked. Shit! That newbie move made her look stupid, which she wasn't. Green and cocky, yes. But also smart enough not to challenge Shane when he dropped to one knee beside her and pressed a small shape charge—probably C4, something he'd obviously raided from Smoke's place but hadn't told her about—around the door handle and—

Poof! Open sesame.

Everlee wondered what else he had in those pockets. No time for that now. She clapped his right shoulder, then walked past him through the now open exit. Not much to see there, just the lighted stairwell. At the bottom of said stairs, Shane lightly tapped her shoulder, a signal for her to proceed through the fire doors ahead. Those should open to the private hallway that housed the penthouse entry and its private elevator. She hurried quietly, the Glock in her right hand, pointed down at the floor, adrenaline pounding through her veins at the audacious thing she was about to do. Into the hallway she went. Elevator to her right. Penthouse entry to her left.

Wordlessly, Shane stepped around her, reached one long arm up to the ceiling, and pressed a small glob of what looked like Silly Putty over the lens of the tiny security camera above the elevator.

Damn. Ev hadn't thought to look for cameras. "Thanks," she whispered guiltily.

"That's why I'm here," he answered easily, "and why we work in pairs. One is none, but two is one, Ev. Don't forget it. Let's do this. Ring the doorbell. See who's home."

"With pleasure," she answered, kicking the doorknob out of her way like the hardass she was. The door banged open because she'd meant it to. Or, she thought, it hadn't been locked. Or maybe, they'd been expected. Not a comforting feeling—all those doubts.

Once inside, she leveled her weapon and announced loudly, "Down on your knees! You're all under…"

The command died on her lips.

She'd expected resistance.

Not this.

Talk about an entire mission gone sideways.

The first whiff inside was so horrendous that Everlee wanted to puke. The stench of perforated bodies and heads. The horrific bouquet of blood spatter and perforated bowels would cling to her hair and clothes until she showered. A dozen times.

There. In the center of the expansive white carpeted room. Six men. Well-muscled, big-bodied men. As big as those SEALs she'd trained with. All in various stages of undress. All laying face up with ugly, black holes in the centers of their foreheads and chests. Looked like they'd been ready for bed, or in bed, when they'd died. Make that when they'd been killed. Murdered.

Some wore sweatpants and t-shirts, others just boxers. One was completely nude. But their bodies had definitely been posed, their faces tipped intentionally toward the penthouse entry. Facing Everlee. All those unseeing eyes were staring… Straight. At. Her. Daring her to relive her worst nightmare. A scream edged up her throat like that old familiar snake she'd never been able to swallow down.

Not here! Not now! Damnit! This is pure coincidence. Astor does not know one damned thing about me. Certainly not that!

The walls closed in. If she stayed with these six bodies, she'd lose her cookies and any respect Shane had for her. Everlee refused to bow to her body's natural aversion to gore, not in front of Shane. Throwing up and fainting like a sissy were out. Too bad she couldn't get her heart to slow down. Or her lungs to breathe right. Or her throat to swallow.

"Call the police," she ordered huskily. She'd honestly tried to relay that order with military precision and authority. She was former military police, damn it. So why'd that command sound weak and pitiful?

"Already did," he answered.

"You did?"

"Yes, ma'am."

And why's he calling me ma'am? Her brain refused to process another puzzle. It was already overloaded with what her eyes were seeing. Fighting nausea and the primal instinct screaming from the animal side of her brain to run, Everlee dragged her gaze away from the nightmare. She pointed the muzzle of her Glock to her right, at the bloody drag marks in the hallway. "These men didn't die here," she told Shane in case he hadn't already figured it out.

"No, they didn't," he replied grimly. "Cut your feed, Ev. Hurry. Shut it down. Tuesday doesn't need to see this."

"Oh, yeah, yeah, I… I f-forgot," she muttered, fumbling the helmet's butterfly switch under her chin. At last the feed to the helicopter ended, but poor Tuesday had to have seen everything. "Damn. I'm… I'm too late. Sorry." So, so sorry. For Tuesday. For me. For Shane taking charge like he did. For my mom For his mom. For Lamb. God, for everything!

The memory rolled over her like an attacking M1 Abrams tank. Her coming home from school that day. She'd been sixteen going on fifty. Too young to feel so old. Too young to have grown up so alone. So deserted. So betrayed. But that afternoon, when the high school bell rang dismissal at three fifteen, she hadn't expected to run home and find her mother murdered in the middle of their kitchen floor. She'd been staring at Everlee then, too. Just like these guys were staring at her now. Which made this death scene eerily familiar, and the thought that Astor knew everything about her, that the witch was really after her, scary as hell. That all of this was more about ending, torturing, and outing Everlee Billings. Not killing Tuesday Smart.

Because that afternoon, her mother's murderer had still been in the house. Everlee had never expected it'd be her dad. Which begged the question: Did Astor know the intimate details of her mom's murder? Was that why these guys were facing the door, to scare Everlee? Was her dad behind this mess? Or was Astor so smart that she knew the sight of these dead men would unsettle Everlee? Worse, Astor had killed one of her men after she'd declared he'd kidnapped the wrong woman. Was that a lie? Just another smokescreen to confuse Everlee? Had those despicable murders been about her, not Tuesday? Who was Astor really after?

Tuesday or me? Both of us? She dug her fingernails into the side of her head, shifting the helmet out of her way. I don't know anymore! So many questions, none of which Everlee could accurately process at this sudden shock. Her gloved hands trembled so hard that her pistols were shaking, too. Not wanting to appear weak in front of Shane, or, heaven forbid, unable to perform like the skilled operator she damned sure was, Everlee pressed both fisted weapons against her thighs. There. See? Better. Not falling apart here.

Not me. No way.

As if looking better could ever be the same as being better. Or being in charge of her heart and her body and that damned snake still edging perilously up her throat to… to unman her. Unwoman her? Was there such a word? There should be.

Before Shane could take over again, Everlee blocked his path to the smeared carpet in the hall at their right. "Don't touch anything," she ordered in the weakest damned voice that had ever come out of her mouth. "Understood?" she nearly yelled as she tried to recover her tougher-than-shit, LT Everlee Yeager, Chief of Security Forces, persona.

Shane stared her down. "Copy that," he replied with a nod of his head, showing her respect. Judging by the tender glint in his eyes, he knew she was close to falling apart. But Ev was damned if she'd admit it. And he'd better not ask.

His eyes were such a deep, bottomless ocean blue that… she had to get a grip. "Is… is there any way our helmet cams can record this scene without transmitting it to Heston and T-T-Tuesday?" Damn it. Her tongue didn't seem able to perform the simplest question.

"Yes, ma'am," Shane answered politely. Without another word, which was really good considering the half-assed way her brain was working, he reached both hands for her helmet and—

Everlee saw him coming. She knew Shane was good and honorable, yet still… Still! A terrified flinch vibrated up her spine when he cupped her head. She closed her eyes and jerked out of his reach. She knew he'd never strike her. He'd touched her before and that hadn't hurt. Not at all. Yet she couldn't stifle her reaction whenever a man's hands came for her. Especially not now. Cold, stark panic climbed up her throat. Adrenaline kicked in.

Fight or flight? Which will it be?

He took another step into her. She fought to not take a step back. Because she knew—she knew!—he wouldn't hurt her. And he didn't. Instead of knocking her around, choking her, punching her face, breaking her nose, or spitting insults, he simply cradled her head and her helmet and… Click. The heads-up display relayed what he'd done. Recording. Not transmitting. Why was thinking so damned difficult?

Because her poor brain was pinging through years' worth of physical abuse from her dad, then from asshat Butch. For God's sake, as much as she'd detested what her father had done, she'd still married a man like him. What was wrong with her? Had all those slaps and punches caused her ADHD? Had it messed up her brain? And why was she thinking about that crap now? Here?

Because she was the worst, biggest fraud in the universe. "Okk-kay then," she declared shakily, stretching her neck forward to get the cramp in it to ease up. "F-follow me."

"Always," Shane whispered as she led him into each of the four guest rooms and six horrific murder scenes.

One by one, Everlee documented the rooms, but didn't touch anything. She used her cell phone to capture as much as she could, just in case something happened to the coverage from the helmet cams. Extra backup never hurt. Redundancy was rule number two: Always take more pictures than you think you'll need. Someone else might see something you missed. Right after rule number one: Don't get Shane killed. And stop shaking. Too many of the pictures she was taking were blurred, another reason for redundancy. She couldn't even do this right.

Shane already had his cell up. Of course. He didn't need to be told what to do. He'd been capturing images before she'd thought of it, and his were probably crystal clear. But okay. He might just be smarter than her. Everlee didn't mind admitting that. Shane was her partner. She trusted him. She really, really did. She wasn't alone, and he always had her six. Maybe she should admit her shortcomings and let the real hero in this twosome lead…

Just that fast, the snake in her throat vanished. Her chest expanded. She could breathe again. If that wasn't an all-out nudge from the universe, nothing was. Okay then. As soon as this f'd-up mission was done, she was done thinking she had to be as big a badass as Shane. She was stepping back from being a fraud. Maybe then she'd stop hurting herself, falling and spraining her ankles.

Which took her full circle to the very real fact that she was a fraud. Always had been. It might just be time to come clean. To let someone in.