Page 98 of Lock ’N’ Load

“Yeah, no shit.” Matt snorted, gunning his truck toward the on-ramp as the light turned green. “I got a major ass-kicking over that.” Not that he’d cared. Saving Trista’s life that day had taken precedence over anything else in his world. The politicians would just have to deal with it.

“I should tell you, your name came up in court during Lukashin’s initial appearance. The judge asked if you’d unnecessarily roughed up the rezidentura, because he had a noticeable shiner the day he was arrested. You shoulda seen the smile on this crotchety judge’s face when I told him Trista popped him a good one in the eye.”

Matt grinned. He’d heard from Nick that she didn’t even remember doing it.

“As it turns out,” Fenway continued, “things couldn’t have gone any better. The AG plans to charge Lukashin and his surviving henchman with murder and attempted murder. Catching Lukashin with that syringe full of digitalis in his hands was the nail in the old bastard’s coffin.” Fenway chuckled. “Russia, as expected, still refuses to waive diplomatic immunity, but the AG, the president, and Senator Ashburn don’t give a shit.” Fenway laughed. “Last I heard, there was a champagne-popping party at the White House, and the heaviest trade sanctions ever imposed by the U.S. are about to slam down on Russia’s head.”

“What am I missing here?” Matt narrowed his eyes as he merged onto the highway. “How do the rezidentura’s actions translate into trade sanctions for an entire country?”

“Ah, my friend, here’s the kicker. Lukashin’s been in the business for a lotta years and he knows the system. He’s got too much intel on the Russian president in his head, so much that he figures even if he did get released—which he won’t—he probably wouldn’t live a full day on Russian soil.”

Matt uttered a disbelieving laugh. “You telling me he’s talking?”

“About everything, including the plot to blackmail Ashburn. In exchange for not getting the death penalty, the old fart’s singing like a fucking bird. Even though he’s looking at life in prison for what he’s done, our prisons are like hotels compared to a Russian gulag. He’d rather live out the rest of his life in an American jail than risk getting offed by his own people before he sees his first Russian sunset.”

“Holy shit.” Matt shook his head. Fenway hadn’t been kidding. Things really had turned out better than any of them could have anticipated.

Matt and his friends had been a heartbeat away from being supremely reprimanded, if not shitcanned, by their respective agencies for going completely off the grid on an unapproved, high-risk rescue op that should have entailed a small army of feds, not seven officers and their K-9s. But given the overall outcome, which included saving the life of the CIA’s top intelligence analyst, the higher-ups had wisely decided to give them a complete pass.

Even Sheriff Underwood had benefited from this whole mess. Matt had called Underwood to notify him that his cold case had been solved. From what Matt had read lately in the Berkeley County, West Virginia, polls, Underwood was well on his way to being re-elected.

“The holiest,” Fenway agreed. “And by the way, I wasn’t kidding when I said we could use a man of your skills. If you ever want to jump ship and join on with the FBI, say the word.”

Matt laughed as he took the exit to home. “Not a chance. You guys are a bunch of pussies.” Good thing Dayne hadn’t heard that or his FBI friend would probably call him out. He hung up to the sound of Fenway’s laughter.

The digital clock read six fifteen as he turned into his driveway. After shutting off the engine, he sat there several minutes unable to move, yet knowing he had to.

This will be the second most difficult day of my life. The first being the day he watched Jerry burn to death.

Taking a deep breath, he got out of the truck.

Matt pocketed the ticket stub the valet handed him. He stared at the Manor House’s grand entry with its enormous columns and massive, hand-carved wooden doors. His hands were shaking, and his stomach was twisting so violently he thought he’d puke. Fuck. Me. Now who’s the pussy?

He’d been fearless in combat, leading his unit into dangerous territory nearly every day. Later, as a cop, he’d arrested more violent criminals than he could count. But tonight…facing Jerry’s family for the first time since the funeral…totally, unequivocally scared the living shit out of him.

“Sir, are you all right?” the valet asked.

“Yeah. Fine.” So fucking not.

Walking up the stairs, he blew out several short, quick breaths, steeling himself for the emotional shit about to rain down on his head. Everyone who was anyone in his community would be there, not just his and Jerry’s families. And they all knew his history.

For two decades, this charity event had been the talk of the town, attended en masse not only by people who knew the Wilshires, but by community leaders, local politicians, businessmen and women. Old money and new, plus philanthropists up the wazoo. Anyone who donated to the annual fund in Jerry’s name would be there to cheer on the lucky recipient of nearly a hundred thousand dollars. Knowing the Wilshires would never consider giving him anything, he hadn’t ever put his name in the hat. Somehow, I’ll get the money for Jerry’s Place.

As the doorman opened the door, Matt’s throat constricted, and he ran a finger between the shirt collar of his tuxedo and his neck. But he knew the tux wasn’t to blame for his throat closing.

Sights and sounds slammed into him. Other men in tuxedos, women in fancy full-length gowns. Glasses clinking, people chattering loudly to be heard over the orchestra playing on the raised dais. Using classic room-clearing cop technique, he “sliced the pie,” scanning the room in wedge-shaped segments. Ignoring the curious looks thrown his way, he shoved a hand into his pocket, fingering the charm bracelet as he began making his way through the glitzy crowd.

Many people he hadn’t seen in years greeted him along the way. Some stopped talking altogether, leaning in to whisper to one another. He didn’t need to have ESP to know what they were gossiping about. Him. The dumb kid who got his best friend killed.

He swallowed the bile rising in his throat. You can do this. You can do this.

Amid the throng, he spotted his parents and his sister. Them he could handle. He’d been to Sunday dinner at his parents’ house twice since seeing Dr. Lawrence, something he hadn’t done in more than ten years. His mother had broken down and cried the first time he’d set foot in the door. The second time, she’d managed to make it to dessert before the waterworks had kicked in.

“Sweetheart,” his mother said as he leaned down to kiss her cheek. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”

“Me, too.” Next he accepted a tight hug from his sister. “You look great, Joy.” And she did, wearing a body-hugging purple sheath that accentuated her tall, willowy figure. A fact, he realized, every other man in the room had already figured out. He’d already caught several of them ogling his baby sis. “I’m going to have to fight to keep the men off you all night, aren’t I?”

“Very funny.” She punched his arm, something she’d always done when they were kids and he’d pissed her off, which back then was pretty much all the time.