Blood Lines (23 page)

“We buried your family, me and you,” Victor said. “We dug those graves with our hands and laid your family to rest. Then we found out who those men were . . . and we killed every last one of them.”

That had been a bloody business. They'd hunted the men down and ambushed them in the jungle. Some of them had gotten loose. It had taken four days to find the last one. Under Tran's cruel skills, it had taken the man two days to die.

For just a moment, the smell of burned flesh filled Victor's nostrils at the memory. He didn't remember any good times from his tours in Nam. But he just hadn't been able to escape the jungle till Uncle Sam had finally called him home. Even then, the jungle still lived inside him today. It was only a heartbeat away.

“I remember,” Tran said.

“You'd better remember.”

“But in the end, killing those men didn't bring my family back.”

“I know that. But the idea of the man who killed Bobby Lee walking around breathing the same air that I do offends me.”

“Vengeance is for the young,” Tran said quietly. “We are older now. We know the things that matter. This business we're doing matters. You've got a good life. You shouldn't be thinking about throwing it away. I'm asking you, as your friend, to let this be.”

Irritation filled Victor. In the beginning, Tran had been the low man on the totem pole regarding the operation. He hadn't had any contacts. Victor had provided everything.

Now that he had control over the product and thought he could easily pick up another distributor in the United States, Tran wasn't quite as closemouthed about how the operation was conducted as he had been.

The thing was, Tran also knew what Victor was about. If Tran tried to freeze Victor out, Victor would go over to Vietnam and finish a final piece of the war.

“I can't,” Victor said.

Tran sighed. “I was afraid that would be your answer.”

“Was there anything else?” Victor asked.

“No.”

“Then I've got a few things to do around here.”

“Of course. I just wanted to express my condolences and to check on you.”

“You just take care of your end of things.”

“If you need anything, you'll call?”

“Of course,” Victor replied.

“Get some rest. You sound exhausted.”

Victor broke the connection and tossed the phone onto the desk. Then his eyes roved over the security monitors showing the street outside.

He zoomed in on the undercover police car parked in the alley across the street. Every time the Purple Royals gathered, Police Chief Tarlton put people there. It would have been comical if Victor had been thinking about the cops and not about getting revenge.

22

>> Intensive Care Unit

>> Presbyterian Hospital

>> Charlotte, North Carolina

>> 2308 Hours

Even with the pain medication coursing through his system, Shel knew someone was in the room with him. Fear bumped against his mind as he struggled to lift his eyes.

“Hey, Shel.”

Shel recognized the voice before he was able to focus. “Don.”

“I'm here.” Don's hand settled on his uninjured shoulder and squeezed. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah.” Shel tried to nod, but the effort seemed to loosen his head, and he was afraid it would float away. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you.”

“Waste of time,” Shel said. “I'm going to be fine.”

“That's what Commander Coburn told me. But I've been saving up for a vacation. Thought I'd get out of town for a bit. See how the other half lives.”

Shel grinned. “I appreciate it. You doing okay?”

“A little tired. We got word late last night. I caught the first flight out this morning. I've been in airport terminals or on planes all day. Nobody flies straight through anymore, it seems.”

Shel rolled his head around and tried not to be obvious about it. Although he couldn't imagine his daddy leaving the ranch, there was that possibility.

Don grimaced. “Daddy's not here.”

“I didn't think he was,” Shel lied. It was funny how much it bothered him that his father hadn't come. He was a man, full-grown, blooded in a couple of wars.
How old do you have to be before you stop looking for your daddy when you get hurt?
He didn't know. “I was looking for Max.”

“Max is fine. He's sacked out in the waiting room with some woman named Maggie.”

“You got to meet Maggie?”

“I did.”

“Maggie's good people, Don. You'd like her.” Shel hated the fact that pain meds also sometimes gave him a bad case of motormouth.

“She seems like she is.”

“She should be in a hotel, not here. When you go back out there, tell her to go on and that I'll be fine.”

“I told her I was going to stay the night with you. She pointed out that there was no one Max could stay with.”

“She could take him with her. He'll go.”

“They tried taking him earlier. He'll go outside for a little while to answer the call of nature, but he won't get in any vehicles. He just sits at the hospital door waiting to get in.”

“That dog's a Marine's Marine,” Shel said.

Don grinned. “I'd say there is a resemblance.”

“Have you met Will?”

“Just over the phone. I'd hoped to meet him. It seems he and another agent—”

“Remy.”

“That's the one. They're out working on something.”

Shel tried to think about that, but it was hard getting his thoughts to stay connected long enough to make sense of them. “Bobby Lee Gant was the only business we had here.”

“I don't know.”

“Maggie would know what's going on.”

“You can ask her in the morning. Both of you need to get some sleep.”

“I can't sleep. How's the family doing?”

Shel tried to listen as Don told him about soccer games and birthdays. It made him sad to think he'd missed all those things, but he knew it was the pain meds. They tended to depress him too.

Somewhere in there, though, he hung on to Don's voice and felt more at home than he had in a long time. And he slept.

>> The Bloody Skull

>> Charlotte, North Carolina

>> 0119 Hours

Fat Mike knocked at the office door.

When Victor looked up, he saw his second standing there with a sheaf of papers rolled up in one big fist.

“Where have you been?” Victor demanded.

Fat Mike entered the room and dropped into a chair in front of the desk. The chair squeaked in protest. He took a pull on his longneck.

“I been out doing what I always do,” Fat Mike said. “Keeping your six clear.”

“You didn't tell me you were going to leave.”

“You were on the verge of pulling a mean drunk. You still are. Nobody wants to be around you when you do that. Me included.”

Fat Mike, Victor reflected, was probably the only person in the world who could talk to him like that. The only reason Victor allowed it was because Fat Mike was being truthful, not disrespectful. There was a difference.

“I'm not drunk,” Victor said.

“No, and I'm surprised. If I was you, I think I would be. Or maybe seriously messed up about now.”

Victor nodded at the sheaf of papers. “When did you take up reading?”

“A long time ago. I'd do it more often but my lips go numb after a while.” Fat Mike leaned forward and spread the pages on the desk.

Victor was in a mean mood and knew it. He glanced at the pages and saw that there were photos in the midst of the blocks of type. “At least it has pictures.”

“Yeah,” Fat Mike said, taking no offense. “Did you get a good look at them pictures?”

Intrigued, Victor slid the pages over to his side of the desk and studied them. He recognized Shelton McHenry's photo at once. The man was in Marine dress at some military function.

There were a lot of other pictures. Evidently the Marine's career had been extensive. His work at the NCIS had gotten him mentioned on several occasions.

“So this is our jarhead,” Victor said.

“Yeah.” Fat Mike took a pull on his beer. “He's still military-issue. Assigned to an NCIS team in Camp Lejeune. I've got more information coming on the rest of the team.”

“Where'd you get the info?”

“From Beetle. Computers are his thing.”

Beetle was a computer whiz. He was also a hanger-on of the Purple Royals. He was a paraplegic, the victim of a motorcycle-van collision when he'd stolen a sled at fifteen. He still rode on a specially converted three-wheeler, but these days he did most of his cruising on the cyber highways.

“Beetle was glad to do this research,” Fat Mike said. “But I think it would mean a lot to him if you'd give him a kind word.”

“I will.” There was more information on Shelton McHenry in the printout pages than had been on the television all day. “Did you pay him?”

Fat Mike grinned. “Yeah. Gave him enough cash and drugs to keep him smothered in the vice of his choice for months.”

Victor nodded. “When he gets information on McHenry's friends, pay him again.”

“Happy to. Beetle'll probably be happy too.”

“Somebody thinks this jarhead is some kind of hero,” Victor grated.

“Guy's been around,” Fat Mike said. “Pulled Iraq. A lot of special-ops assignments. He's looked death in the face.”

Victor studied the Marine's classic handsome face. “Pretty boy.”

“That he is.”

The dark, violent anger writhed inside Victor. He felt it moving, and he embraced it. When he had that, he could do anything.

Victor read through the bio on the man again. “McHenry. Where do I know that name?”

Fat Mike grinned. “Now that was the part I was waiting for you to remember.”

Victor put the papers down and looked back through all those years. “That skinny farm boy we ran into in Qui Nhon was named McHenry.”

“Yeah, he was.” Fat Mike rifled through the pages till he found the one he was looking for. He pushed it across to Victor. “Turns out maybe we should have killed him that night too.”

“We needed him to get us through the checkpoints.” Victor remembered that night like it had been yesterday. They'd sweltered in the truck as the kid, McHenry, drove along Highway 19 out of the coastal city. “If he hadn't been along, we wouldn't have gotten out of the city.”

“I know. And without him, we wouldn't have gotten one of those guys that killed Tran's family.” Fat Mike took in a breath and let it out. “Once we dumped that body off, I wanted to kill him. But you didn't.”

“We needed him to get back into Qui Nhon.”

“We coulda walked back in,” Fat Mike said. “We did it plenty of times before.” He tapped the paper. “You read that report, you'll see Shelton McHenry's father is Tyrel McHenry.”

Victor couldn't believe it. “That guy was the same grunt we jobbed in Qui Nhon?”

“Yeah. Ain't that a kick in the head? Just proves how small this world is. If we'd killed Tyrel McHenry back then, he wouldn't have had a boy that grew up to kill Bobby Lee.”

23