Enquiring minds wanna know.
Unfortunately, dead men don’t talk.
His gaze slid to the right, moved past the big black question mark representing Johnson’s mystery backers, and paused on a blurry image. Takoda Keenan. In Boston. One day before the mass shooting. The only US military-trained sniper capable of making the shot that had killed Vice President Laski-Haines.
Jamie still didn’t want to believe it. He’d spent two years with Tak, running in circles, trying to discover the identity of the biggest threat to ever hit US soil while Johnson led them around by their dicks.
Not a bad plan, really. Create the Joint Task Team to hide behind while scaring American voters to the polls by inciting certain fringe members of society to regular bouts of extreme acts of violence.
Hell, the JTT would still be chasing their tails looking for Johnson if it hadn’t been for the link to Colonel Grayson’s daughter. After capturing pictures of Jonas Johnson Junior stealing a cache of ground-to-air missiles from a forward-deployed marine base on the Northern border of Jordan, the adrenaline-chasing freelance photographer had been shot in the leg and had almost bought it in the process.
In the end, JJ Junior had been the one to find himself on his back, staring at the lid of a silk-lined casket for all of eternity. Murdered by his own father’s people for threatening to quit the illegal arms trafficking lifestyle after very nearly exposing the whole operation.
Didn’t matter who pulled the trigger.
Johnson blamed Gray. Wanted her to suffer and die in retribution for his son’s death.
Her brother had a thing or two to say about their former boss’s plan. So did her new husband. Chase would stop bullets with his bare chest to protect the woman he loved. Hell, any one of the JTT would. Tak included. So why would he switch sides now?
Jamie had no answers. None. Didn’t change the facts.
Kosamina was dead. His fault for being too slow on the trigger. Her daughter left to struggle without a mother. Also, his fault. Add on putting his parents at risk, disappointing Jay along with the rest of the JTT, being a useless piece of shit with a bum leg, and he was batting a thousand at losing in life.
He lifted the rum to his lips, the smoky-sweet flavor of burnt sugar coating his throat, swallow after swallow as he finished what he’d started. He’d be needing another bottle soon, and the woman who cleaned his room, delivered his groceries, and cooked his food wouldn’t be back for a couple of days.
She had her own family to ring in the new year with. He had a killboard and greasy take-out chicken from Cocina de Amanti down the street. Maybe he should put some pants on, grab his cane, and go find some company?
Or he could continue to lounge right here in his cut-off shorts, his butt’s sweat glands glued to the recliner, wallowing in self-pity. The choices were endless. And all around unappealing. He clunked the bottle down next to his Glock on the TV tray, his eyes tracking back to the picture of Johnson.
The primary elections would be starting soon. The candidates on the road, campaigning to be chosen as their party’s presidential hopeful. Ahead of the game, Johnson already had a clear majority of Republican support. His “Let’s make America Safe Again” slogan befitting the violent times being faced by citizens from one side of the country to the other. Violence he’d instigated for the sole purpose of landing himself in the oval office. An almost forgone conclusion with Nancy Laski-Haines out of his way.
Left scrambling by the vice president’s assassination, the Democratic Party faced turmoil and division with no clear leader ready to step into her shoes. Yeah, Johnson had effectively paved his way to The White House, his yellow brick road littered with the bodies of the people he’d murdered to get there.
Fucking prick had to die, and Jamie had no issues with being the one to get the job done. He had his target. The only thing left for him to do? Find the perfect opportunity. Hello, campaign trail. Goodbye, presidential wannabe.
Thirty-one days until the start of the primaries in February.
Gave him four weeks to devise a plan, get his knee in half-decent shape, and slip his ass back into the US undetected. He couldn’t afford to make a mistake. Too many people were searching for him. The FBI, the CIA, Johnson and his backers.
Jay and the JTT.
No question, his team had plans to bring him home. Those motherfuckers didn’t know the meaning of quit. And if they found him, they’d be talking sense about taking down Johnson the right way while hauling his ass back to Montana.
Not where he needed to be. Not where he wanted to be.
And hell would have to freeze over before he volunteered to go back.
The only reason his heart still beat, a bitter hunger for revenge pumped through his veins, a sludge so black and thick, it left no room for anything else. Yeah, he was a toxic wasteland, and he’d done his JTT family a favor by taking off.
He’d done Ko’s daughter a favor too.
Behind his ribs, a tiny spark ignited, and he tamped it down. She didn’t need him. She had Adam and Eve, Chase and Gray, a house full of uncles to spoil the crap out of her. She even had a dog. What more could a little girl want? They’d protect her. Keep her safe. Raise her right.
Nothing else mattered.
He reached for his bottle of rum. Empty. Son of a bitch. When had that happened? His grip tightened. His head swam. Anger, hate, vengeance tinged with regret beat hard against his chest, looking for escape.
The bottle flew. Hit the killboard dead center. Shattered into a million pieces.
