Gambit, David Hagberg [most life changing books .TXT] 📗

“Because you refused to go someplace safe.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Kirk, are we going to go through all that shit again?”

“I’m better off doing this alone, and you know it.”

“You’re saying that I’m a distraction?”

“Yes, you are.”

Pete was getting steamed up. “I can shoot almost as well as you can, and you damn well know it. And in case you forgot, we’re in this together, my dear. In sickness and in health, for richer or poorer.”

Mac broke in. “Until death do us part?” he asked. He sat forward. “This is the real deal, Pete.”

“I’ve been there before.”

“And I’ve almost lost you more than once, when even once was way too many.”

“I’ve almost lost you, too, lest you forget,” Pete countered. She was genuinely angry, and it was their first real argument since they’d gotten married. “It’s supposed to be you and me, babe, or have you forgotten that, too?”

Mac studied her pretty face, her cheeks slightly flushed now. She was stubborner than just about any woman he’d even known. But it was one of the many reasons he’d fallen in love with her, against his better judgment. From the start, he’d been a man who thought his only real option was to stay as independent as possible. He could and had accepted that he was on the firing line, the target for someone who wanted him dead. And there were plenty of those people, with a whole host of reasons.

And yet he had come to realize over the years, and especially right now at this moment, that he wasn’t a loner, never had been. And that in a nutshell was his greatest problem—loving someone whose safety he could not guarantee.

Pete reached out and touched his hand. “If hiding here in plain sight is what you want, then well and good. I’m not going anywhere. But I’m just saying it’s not only you, my darling. You may not know what direction they’re coming from, you just know that someone is coming. And you want to overwhelm them with firepower, hoping for a shot that will put them down but not out, so we can find out who sent them and why. But you have to admit that two shooters are better than one.”

“Whoever is coming next will be better than the first two. I don’t think they’ll stop until I’m dead.”

“We’re dead.”

Looking into her eyes, hearing her voice just then, McGarvey never felt so cornered in his life. “We’re dead,” he said, though it just about choked in his throat. “Or we figure out who’s behind it and target them instead.”

“Mac,” Lou said.

Pete’s grip tightened on McGarvey’s hand.

“Yes?”

“A blue Chevy Tahoe is approaching from the north.”

“Can you identify the occupants?”

“The driver is the lone occupant, and I put it at 90 percent James Forest.”

“Anyone else behind him?”

“No,” Lou said. “One hundred percent Jim Forest. He’s slowing down.”

“If no one is following him, and if he turns in to our driveway, ask him to ring the bell,” McGarvey said.

“I understand.”

“And let Otto know.”

“He already knows.”

“Ask him to call us.”

“Looks like Jim is paying you guys another visit,” Otto’s voice came from the same place as Lou’s, which was just about at eye level and a couple of feet away as if he were there with them.

“Did you have any idea he was coming back?” Mac asked.

“Nothing I could find on his email accounts or on the police tactical lines or his cell phone,” Otto said. “I assume you’re talking about his connection with the Bureau. My guess is that he’s coming as a friend.”

Forest’s interest went back a number of years since McGarvey had bought the Casey Key house. The local LE departments were often notified when sensitive people showed up as residents in the neighborhood. There were ex–intelligence officers, judges who’d served at the federal level, a couple of U.S. senators, any number of movie and television personalities, many retired high-ranking military officers, and dozens of multimillionaires, including Stephen King.

McGarvey’s name was high up on the list of sensitives, not only because he’d once briefly served as director of the CIA but because more than one attempt had been made on his life. One in particular had been a bomb put in his car in the parking lot up at the college in Sarasota where he’d taught. A number of students had been hurt and/or traumatized, and the police, in the person of Forest, had begun to keep a close eye on him.

“More than a friend,” Pete said.

“Someone is gunning for me, and he’s come to ask me who and what we’re doing about it,” McGarvey said.

“He’s just pulling into your driveway now,” Otto said. “What’re you going to tell him?”

“That depends on what he’s going to ask me.”

“Don’t let him see the MP7s or the long rifles. They’re military, and he could make a case for placing you and Pete under arrest. And to his way of thinking, he would not only be serving the best interest of the community, he would be helping a friend in trouble.”

FORTY

The doorbell rang, and McGarvey picked up the gazebo phone. “We’re around back, Jim. Join us.”

“On my way.”

A trawler chugged down the ICW, and as it passed, McGarvey reached for the Walther holstered at the small of his back, but the skipper tooted the boat horn for the Blackburn Point Bridge to open, and Mac stayed his hand.

Forest, in jeans, boat shoes, and a light-colored untucked fisherman’s shirt, came around the corner of the house, by the pool, waved, and made his way down to the gazebo. “Hope you guys don’t mind me dropping by unannounced.”

“Are you on duty, or can I get you a drink?” Pete asked.

“Off duty, and I’d take a beer, please.”

McGarvey motioned for him to sit down while Pete went up to the house to get a beer.

“I’ve always liked this house,” Forest said. “Of course you know that Steve King has a place not too far down island.”

“We’ve met,” Mac said. “Are you here officially or