Free Girl of Vengeance by Charles Sheehan-Miles Page A

in the Army at the same time, though Larsden was nothing but a paper pusher. But he didn’t owe him that much. Larsden had screwed up and he couldn’t be allowed to keep screwing things up.
    Worst of all, Larsden knew Marky’s name.
    “I’ll take care of him, sir.”
    “Good. Let me know when it’s done. It needs to be quick, before he tells the American police anything. Am I clear?”
    “Yeah. He’s in the Bellingham jail. I know how to take care of that.”
    “Then the woman and her daughter.”
    “Yeah?” Marky asked.
    “Yes. They’re in a hospital in Abbotsford. Once you’ve taken care of Larsden, then I’ll get you more details.”
    “I’m on it, sir.”
    Oz hung up without another word. Seconds later, the Bluetooth switched back over and the death metal came back on the radio, once again causing the rearview mirror to pulse. Marky started the car and backed out of his parking space. It was a four-hour drive to Bellingham.

Bear. May 5.
    When Bear stepped off the elevator on the 20 th floor, he immediately saw two armed and uniformed security guards standing in the hall. A third was at the opposite end. All three wore tactical vests and carried both pistols and rifles.
    The occupants of the other three penthouses must be overjoyed.
    Bear walked down the hallway toward Carrie Sherman’s condo and one of the guards immediately approached him. The other stood back, hand on his hip, while the first said, “You’re here to see Mrs. Sherman? Identification, please?”
    He took out his Diplomatic Security Services identification and badge and showed it to the guard. He approved of their thoroughness. The guards wore the logo of Pinkerton Security Services, a firm that had been doing security and private investigation since before the Civil War. Julia Wilson, who was undoubtedly paying for this, didn’t kid around.
    A moment later they cleared him to head into the condo.
    Bear’s first impression was utter chaos. He’d last been here on Friday night, a few hours after the attack. The forensic team had been through over the weekend, searching the entire condominium, and they’d left behind a tremendous mess. They hadn’t made any attempt to clean up the fan of blood stains on the wall near the front door, where Dylan Paris had cut off the hand of one attacker with a meat cleaver, then stabbed the other in the back during a short and extremely violent melee.
    He continued inside.
    Carrie Sherman was standing in the middle of the chaos. Papers everywhere. The coffee table turned over. Bookshelves emptied, the books scattered in a pile on the floor. Knick-knacks taken from the mantle and left—somewhere? Carrie’s face was strained, angry.
    Across the room from her, Anthony Walker was gathering up a pile of papers and stacking items. He could hear the others—Sarah and Alexandra, he supposed—talking in another room.
    When Carrie spied him, she said, “Was it your people who did this?”
    Bear shook his head. “FBI forensics. Normally they straighten up after themselves. This was—excessive.”
    “Well, you can help straighten up.”
    Bear grunted. “Sure. I need to ask you guys some questions, and have a talk with Walker here. What brought you out here anyway?”
    Anthony shrugged. “I had questions too, but when I walked in the door, Carrie put me to work.”
    Bear chuckled.
    Carrie was staring at the mantle. She muttered, “The goddamned head is missing.”
    “The what ?”
    “My father brought back this stupid head from Indonesia or someplace. It’s been on this mantle for thirty years or more. It’s gone.”
    “The forensics team should give you a list of anything they removed from the apartment,” Bear said.
    Carrie muttered something under her breath and walked out of the room.
    “She’s cranky,” Bear said.
    “Wouldn’t you be?” Anthony replied.
    Bear surveyed the ruin of the room again and frowned. “Yeah.”
    Anthony stood and faced Bear. “So what’s this about?”
    Bear