What Lies Behind. J.T. Ellison

came into view.

      Xander stepped to the side, out of earshot, and phoned James Denon, who answered sounding rather panicky. “What’s happening? They won’t tell us what’s happening.”

      “We’re here, sir, we’re waiting on you. There’s nothing apparent on the ground. Are you all right?”

      “I am. What in bloody hell is going on?”

      “They’re saying it was an engine problem. Chances are, that’s all this is. You just sit tight once they land. If they force you to disembark, make sure you come out last. I’ll be waiting for you at the foot of the stairs. We can follow the same protocol as before, staying out of sight, but right now, I think we should stick close.”

      “I agree. Something feels off.”

      “Roger that, sir. You hang tight inside as long as they’ll let you.”

      Xander hung up and casually turned, scoping the building behind him. He still had his shades on, eyes roving right, then left. He couldn’t see Chalk, which was good. His adrenaline was surging, running hard through his body, so hard his hands were fighting the urge to shake. Breathe, Xander. Breathe.

      The Gulfstream touched down, a small puff of white smoke rising from its tires. It headed toward the terminal, then suddenly altered course and began taxiing toward the southern hangar instead of the terminal. A radio crackled on the hip of the employee standing nearest him.

      “This is Gulfstream 890. Got another warning light, we’re leaking oil. Gonna head directly into the hangar. We’ll disembark the passengers before we go in. Better find another plane, looks like we’re going to be out of commission for a while.”

      There were sharp curses from the assembled crowd, but Xander ignored them.

      The hangar.

      A hundred yards away.

      Xander had eyes on it, but he wasn’t close enough to scope it properly. He scanned the building rapidly, looking for anything out of place. There was something, near the roof, twenty degrees to the right. A shadow. As he watched, the shadow pulled back slightly, and there was a flash. A mirrored flash.

      His adrenaline shot into overdrive, and he clicked on his comms unit.

      “Chalk, buddy, we got a shooter on top of the hangar.”

      “Roger. Can you take him?”

      “I need to get closer, and higher. If I start heading his way, he’ll know I saw him. You’re gonna have to end around, let me get into position.”

      “There’s a metal ladder behind me, runs up the side of the terminal building. The two buildings are about the same height. Should be the right angle.”

      “This might draw some attention to our client.”

      “Better attention than dead. I’ll cover Denon, you take the shooter. Out.”

      Xander heard the whine of the engines. He was out of time. He broke with the employees and quick-walked to the edge of the terminal. Went up the ladder, wishing like hell he had his M4. He’d have a better chance of taking the guy out that way.

      His mind was preternaturally calm, clear, crisply assessing everything. Wind speed, atmosphere, angle. The lack of a load in the SIG, the best place to take the shot. Up on the roof now, and of course there was very little to hide behind.

      He’d lost eyes on his target, but he scooted to the north edge of the roof, and found him again. The assassin was low now, crouched against the concrete buttress. Relaxed, but ready, a M2010 ESR trained on the crowd below. Xander recognized a professional at work, and his heart sank.

      Xander clicked his mike. “I’m in position. Son of a bitch has an M2010.”

      Chalk whistled. “Can you take him out?”

      Xander took off his sunglasses. Laid on his stomach, inched to the edge. The terminal’s high roof was a boon; he had a down angle on the shooter.

      “Xander? Talk to me, buddy. What’s happening up there?”

      “Shh. I’m concentrating.”

      Chalk’s voice raised slightly. “Concentrate faster, the plane door’s opening.”

      God, he would kill for a set of binoculars, or even a range finder. He made the distance between the two buildings, from the end of his muzzle to the shooter’s head, at just under a hundred yards.

      Doable.

      Xander shut his eyes, then opened and refocused. Modulated his breathing. Rolled onto his knees. Braced, got his grip perfect. Ignored Chalk in his ear saying, “Tick tock, buddy, time’s running out. They’re making them all disembark. I’ve counted three, that’s the staff. Denon’s going to be out next.”

      He watched the shooter on the roof swivel his rifle down, finger in the trigger. It was time.

      Xander braced his arms. Felt a wind gust, made a small adjustment. Swallowed, and squeezed.

      The gun moved smoothly in his hands, and the shooter on the opposite roof collapsed, his rifle catapulting over the concrete buttress to the tarmac below.

      “Threat eliminated.”

Chapter 9

      Georgetown O Street Tommy Cattafi’s apartment

      SAM ADMIRED THE building that housed Cattafi’s apartment. His place was in the basement of a beautiful three-story redbrick town house. An overgrown Norway maple was planted in front of the house, its broad leaves just beginning to show a tinge of yellow. In a few weeks, Georgetown would be a riot of colors, putting on a show, but for now, it was still green, only a bit less vibrant and deflated than even a week before.

      Crime scene tape fluttered in the breeze. A patrol officer sat in his vehicle, unseeing, staring into his lap. The scene hadn’t been fully released yet. It would be another day or two at least before that happened and the cleanup could begin. The reparation of lives torn asunder by those left behind. As if by cleaning away the blood and gore, a life could be set to rights again.

      Sam thought about the kid in the hospital, and his family flying to see him, to make life and death decisions on his behalf, and a familiar sense of hopelessness filled her. Senseless violence always did.

      The cop still hadn’t noticed them standing five feet from his vehicle. Fletcher arched an eyebrow at her and put a finger to his lips. He squared his shoulders, put on his best glower and marched up to the patrol car.

      When the young patrol saw Fletcher, he jumped out of the car, fumbling his phone into his pocket, and practically saluted. Sam bit back a laugh—Fletcher’s new position was a source of great pride for him, and if terrorizing the junior officers made him happy, so be it.

      The young officer stammered a greeting. “Lieutenant, I didn’t know you were coming by.”

      “Officer Beggs. Are we finding the crime scene less than scintillating this morning?”

      “No, sir. Not at all, sir.”

      “Hmm. This is Dr. Samantha Owens. We’ll only be a minute. You have the sign-in sheet?”

      “Yes, sir.” Beggs reached into the patrol car and came out with the clipboard. Fletcher signed himself and Sam into the crime scene. “I’m sorry, sir. I should have been ready for your arrival.”

      “Yes, you should have. What if Chief Armstrong had walked up to you playing with your dick in the front seat of your car?”

      The patrol’s face turned beet red. “Sir, I was texting my girlfriend that I wouldn’t be home for a while. I wasn’t—”

      Fletcher started to laugh. “Relax, kid. I’m playing with you. You’re fine. Go back to whatever it was you were doing.” And to Sam, “Come