One
Tommy Granger awoke with a start, the remnants of a disturbing dream fading as he struggled under his twisted, sweat-soaked sheets. As it was with most nightmares—at least for him—he didn’t remember details. A vague sense that he’d been at the office, but Regan was still a marshal. They were suited up in full gear, preparing to track a fugitive, but as dreams were tricky, he was then alone in the woods at night, deep in the Shenandoah National Park, tracking a predator who was elusive and dangerous, his heart racing, pounding, an unfamiliar feeling because his training taught him to keep his fear in check.
The break of a branch behind him and he was awake, not knowing if the sound was in his head or in his yard.
He fought to untangle himself from his bedding as he sat up, rubbing his bare feet on thick carpet, grounding himself. The panic was brief, fleeting. Training and control were hard to break, even in a deep sleep.
The faint numbers of his bedside clock told him it was 4:51 a.m. His alarm was set for 5:30, but he always woke a few minutes before then, as if his body was trained to anticipate the irritating buzz. He hit the off button; he had a busy day.
He was finally prepared to share with his office his off-book investigation into the murder of Chase Warwick.
It was all about money, Tommy thought with disgust as he pushed himself out of bed. Money and greed and what corrupt men were willing to do to keep their secrets buried. The killer may have been apprehended, but Adam Hannigan’s motives had never sat well with Tommy. And then Hannigan was dead and the case closed.
He paused at his bedroom window. The air was still, but he couldn’t get the sound of a cracking branch out of his mind. It had sounded crisp, sharp. Real. But he saw nothing out front, no jogger, no passing car, still too early for Mrs. Benson down the street to be walking her friendly golden retrievers or for Richie Luna, his neighbor to the east, to leave for work—though he noted the faint light in the kitchen, signaling that Richie, like Tommy, was an early riser.
Dreams and nightmares were deceiving, which was why he was having a hard time shaking this one.
The hot water cleared the remnants of fog from his brain. He shaved, dressed, the morning ritual comforting. Downstairs, he brewed a pot of coffee and stared out at the large kitchen window into the side yard, running through his head how he was going to lay out the case to Charlie and then his boss.
Knowing why Chase Warwick had died was only one piece of the puzzle. He knew Adam Hannigan, the man arrested for murder, was only a pawn—used or hired—but Tommy couldn’t prove who he suspected was behind everything. If Tommy could convince his boss that he was onto something—that the murder of Chase Warwick was a small piece of a bigger conspiracy—they would then be up against high-priced lawyers, big name corporations, and even their own government.
Bring it on, he thought. He was itching for a fight. Itching to get to the bottom of this conspiracy. He’d only recently realized that he couldn’t do it alone anymore. There was information he couldn’t access without a warrant.
Regan deserved to know why her son was dead. Chase deserved justice for his murder. And those responsible must pay for their crimes.
And maybe...just maybe...Regan would come back.
Don’t be a fool. She made it clear she was done with the Marshals Service, that she wasn’t going to return to duty, that she wanted to be with her friends and family. Far, far away from the pain and heartbreak she’d left behind here in Virginia.
He’d go anywhere for her, but Tommy wasn’t naive. Regan was her own woman, and while he was confident of his feelings, his greatest fear was that she didn’t love him like he loved her.
And he wouldn’t follow a woman who didn’t want to be followed.
When the coffee was done, he pulled out the carafe and poured a cup. He walked to his office, a comfortable room with built-in bookshelves and cabinets, two comfortable leather chairs facing the original brick fireplace, and his massive antique desk he had painstakingly refinished years ago. It was his favorite room in the large house, but since he started this investigation, he couldn’t relax and drink Scotch while listening to a ball game or watching the news. Not when he was so close to the truth.
Tommy packed up his laptop, notes, and the evidence he’d collected. No smoking gun, but ample circumstantial evidence. The government had opened cases with less. He needed an unbiased eye, someone who hadn’t been eating and sleeping Chase Warwick’s murder for the last month. Tommy needed to talk through his theory with his most trusted colleague, put everything on the table, then ask Charlie to help Tommy present the entire case to their boss in the DOJ.
While the US Marshals were not generally an investigative federal law enforcement agency, they did have a special operations unit that would undertake certain criminal investigations, and Tommy had to make the case that this case deserved their attention. He could already hear the objections—that the FBI had jurisdiction, that they would be causing friction with their FBI colleagues if they took the case—so he needed to be clear and compelling in his presentation—including his reasons for not trusting the local FBI office. No way was he sharing his information with those jokers—not until he could identify the bad cop among them.
Someone in the FBI was rotten to the core.
Once he double-checked to make sure he didn’t leave anything important behind on his desk, he went back to the kitchen, put his briefcase down, topped off his coffee, and went upstairs to retrieve his gun. After he’d holstered his service weapon, he pulled his phone from the charger on his nightstand. Hesitated.
He’d almost called Regan a half dozen times this week while assembling the facts in preparation for his talk with Charlie, but Tommy managed to stop himself. Now...dammit, he wanted her here.
Tommy wasn’t certain he could trust the information Regan’s ex-husband Grant Warwick had given him. Not only did Tommy dislike Grant, but in the past the man had lied to him. Regan was cool and methodical, she’d be able to assess Grant’s information without bias. It’s one of the many reasons Tommy loved her—the clear way her mind worked.
Not that he could tell her yet. He didn’t want to jeopardize their friendship by telling his former partner that he’d been half in love with her for years.
Regan knew that he was looking into Chase’s murder. She didn’t want to be part of it, but she hadn’t told him to stop. In fact, she’d told Tommy to get back in touch with her when he had something concrete. Now he’d assembled solid facts...he just didn’t know how they fit together. Would they be concrete enough for Regan?
Before he could talk himself out of it, he hit her name on his contact list. He almost hung up when he realized it was 3:00 a.m. there in Arizona, but then her voicemail picked up.
He waited for the tone, then said, “Regan, it’s Tommy. I’m close to the truth about what happened to Chase. I’m laying it all out to Charlie this morning, but I wanted to talk to you as soon as possible. I think I have a good case for the DOJ. Call me when you get this message. I—well, just call.”
Tommy ended the call before saying I love you. He couldn’t put that weight on her right now, and definitely not over the damn phone.
It was just after six o’clock and he wasn’t meeting Charlie until eight, but Tommy was antsy. He had toast and a banana, considered how he was going to lay the case out.
Adam Hannigan was a hit man hired to kill the Warwick family.
Charlie would ask him how he knew that. Tommy didn’t have proof, which was one of the problems—to get the proof, he needed a warrant. He had an inside man in Grant Warwick, but even Grant didn’t have the hard evidence they would need, and he wasn’t exactly a reliable witness. Tommy bent a few laws in the pursuit of justice, but he was confident he didn’t cross the line.
Tommy would also have to explain why they couldn’t trust the FBI. His reluctance wasn’t based on hard facts, but he’d seen enough to at least cast doubt—especially with how they handled the Hannigan investigation.
Though it was early, Tommy was too antsy to stay. He poured the rest of his coffee in a to-go cup, topped it off. He’d get to the office early and poke around, start catching up on things after his month’s leave. He was ready and motivated to return.
What if you can’t sell this investigation?
Tommy had thought about that a lot—if he laid all his cards on the table and his boss still said no, they weren’t getting involved. He didn’t know what he would do at that point. He didn’t want to consider failure. He’d been a Marine, dammit—failure was not an option.
Resolved that he had enough to make his case, he grabbed his keys, set his security system, and stepped out the front door. There was a small garage behind the house, but between his tools, home renovation supplies, and ample Christmas decorations—his neighborhood went all out every year—he had no room for his truck.
He hesitated when something caught his attention. A movement, a slight reflection, something in his yard that he didn’t expect. Dawn was just breaking to the east, and his porch light was still on—it automatically turned off at eight and back on at six. Between the dim morning and the bright white light, he saw nothing in his yard, yet the memory of the breaking branch that had drawn him from sleep had him wary.
Tommy had been in the Marines for three years and the US Marshals Service for sixteen. His instincts had always been good...but he knew in that instant he’d hesitated a second too long.
He reached for his gun while he dove to the right where there was some small cover behind the laurel bushes. Nothing solid to stop a bullet, but maybe enough to give him time to fire back. He had just put his gun in hand when the whoosh of a sniper rifle echoed in the still morning.
The bullet hit his left thigh, and he grunted as he stumbled off the small porch into the bush. The shooter was in the tree—in the fucking tree!—in the middle of his front yard. He couldn’t see him in the faint light, the yard still dark. He immediately turned his gun on his porch light and fired; glass shattered, dark fell. He didn’t need to make himself an easier target.
He fumbled for his phone as blood flowed down his throbbing leg. His vision blurred as the unrelenting pain flowed through his body.
Focus, soldier!
He’d never been shot before, not in the military, not in the Marshals Service. He was trained in how to handle being wounded, under attack, learning to take cover, to call for reinforcements, to survive until help arrived. He dropped his phone, couldn’t unlock it, hit the emergency button, then refocused in the direction of the shooter.
He could see nothing in the near dark, he couldn’t see the tree through the bushes. He scrambled up, put too much weight on his leg and grunted. The blood was coming out too fast; his head felt light, woozy.
He heard a bullet hit the brick behind him. Another.
He couldn’t fire at what he couldn’t see!
Where are you, you bastard?
A bullet ripped into his shoulder, another into his neck, and he knew then that he was a dead man.
Nelson Lee didn’t hesitate: as soon as Granger shot out the light, he’d reached into his small bag and retrieved his night vision goggles.
The distance was child’s play; he could have hit a target twice as far back when he was ten and shooting cans in his backyard. Granger had moved suddenly, surprisingly quick, diving for the only potential cover.
But leaves couldn’t stop bullets.
The clean one-shot kill eluded him, but Nelson hadn’t lost. Granger was wounded, bleeding, and Nelson had the high ground, training, and patience.
He adjusted the goggles, looked into the bushes. Saw the large man stuck between the house and the hedge. He fired. Saw flecks of brick when the bullet hit the wall. Adjusted his sights, fired four times in rapid succession, moving the barrel down slightly to compensate for the different angle.
The third bullet hit the target, shoulder. The fourth in his neck. His body slumped and Nelson didn’t have a clear shot of his head.
Granger would bleed out in less than a minute, but Nelson left nothing to chance.
He descended from his roost in the tall oak tree, collapsed his rifle, put it in his case, then slung the case over his back as he walked across the driveway and up the short flight of stairs to where he could better view the body behind the hedge. He had on a Kevlar vest, neck gear, a helmet, goggles. Not only to avoid being identified by a neighbor, but Granger was a marshal; he might have fired back.
He was dead; Nelson was certain as he stared at the body slumped against the house. But he put a bullet in Granger’s head on the off chance that he wasn’t. He hadn’t known the man; it was better that way. Nelson didn’t like killing men he knew personally. But he had learned Granger’s routine, schedule. He knew the man was well trained, and had to wait for a successful kill. He’d had two previous opportunities where he’d walked away because they weren’t perfect. Nelson didn’t want to be caught or killed.
Nelson heard a faint noise, listened more carefully, realized it was a phone. He looked carefully and saw Granger’s phone under the bushes, the screen up, dimly lit.
Dammit. The man had called 911. Nelson didn’t have much time.
He grabbed the briefcase that Granger had dropped on the doorstep, then ran down the steps and around to the bush. He had to get on all fours to reach under and extract the phone. Immediately, he ended the call, cutting off the voice of the dispatcher. Working quickly, he shut off the phone, pulled out a faraday bag, and slipped the phone inside to block all tracking. He would turn the device over to his employer for analysis. There might be information from the phone that they could use, once they removed GPS tracking.
Nelson walked briskly away from the house. The man was dead; he had the documents and his phone; as soon as he turned them over, he would be paid the second half of his fee.
A hefty price because of the tight deadline.
“He has to be dead by eight Monday morning. Any means necessary. Collect the documents.”
And so it was done.
When his money was in hand, Nelson would return to his South Carolina retreat and wait for another call, another job. That might be a day or a month. Could even be a year.
But inevitably they’d call, and he would come. Nelson Lee owed his life to his employer; they owned him until the day he died.
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