Forbidden (Southern Comfort) by O'Neill, Clark (free ebook reader txt) 📗

play?  A whole hell of a lot worse than an agent being killed in the line of duty.”

Clay could tell that he’d struck a chord with the older man, and lowering his voice, stepped closer.  “I’ll make it look like I didn’t have your approval.  I’ll stomp off right now, you can climb into the van, and when your back’s turned I’ll approach the house.  You can make all kinds of angry noises and no one will be the wiser.  It will help make the situation tenable for you, and may even play well with our HT.  If he believes I’m that desperate,” which he was, truth be told.  Totally desperate. “It will add to his feeling of control.  Come on, sir.” Emotion stripped Clay’s voice bare enough to break. “What do you have to lose?”

Beall’s eyes narrowed as they assessed Clay’s, and he gave a brief nod before moving back.  “The answer is still no, Agent Copeland.”  He said it loud enough for others to hear.  “Now don’t come to me with this nonsense again.”

Beall struck off toward the back of the van, and Clay hung his head, defeated.

Then affixing an angry mask to his face, tried not to smile as he stormed off.

JR emerged from the tunnel’s back entrance at the edge of the field.  Sapling pines and saw palmettos grew thick, affording cover as he crept out.  Moving closer, on hands and knees, toward the tree line that meant salvation, he pulled out his binoculars and studied the scene.

Cops and federal agents were scurrying about like rats in a lab, and as he shifted the field glasses higher he picked out one, two…three snipers positioned in trees near the house, waiting for him to actually be dumb enough to pass in front of one of the windows. Or perhaps step out onto the porch to offer them all some iced tea.

Scanning toward the driveway, he saw several news crews gathered like vultures, waiting for some flesh to pluck.

Ha! Weren’t they going to be happy when that damn house blew all to hell?

JR lifted his head briefly, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth as he considered a slight problem.  How could he be sure that one of the pigs actually fired off a shot toward the house?

Damn.  Why hadn’t he considered that before?  He would have, if he hadn’t been penned in, the surprise of it all making him sloppy.  How the hell had they found him so quickly, anyway?  Was it that damn pretty boy he’d shot?  He probably should have gone outside and given him an insurance tap to the head, but the guy had looked like a goner.

And he’d been in a hurry to get out, so…

He lifted the binoculars again, trying to gage what the Feebs were going to do. Lo and behold, if it wasn’t Agent Copeland, little Tate’s screw buddy, getting all fired up and causing a scene.  Maybe he should call that damn number the negotiator kept repeating, and tell them that he was going to kill the kid.  Once Copeland got word of that, he’d go racing into the place, gun blasting.

Then, boom.

Just as he was trying to work out the angles for making that a viable plan, he caught sight of a commotion near the driveway.  Somebody was causing a ruckus, yelling at some cops, and a couple of reporters were scrambling.

Then the crowd parted and he saw…

Tate.

JR smiled with something approaching giddiness.  She’d made it to see the show after all.

He swung the binoculars around, and saw Copeland getting ready to… walk up to the door?

Damn, the asshole had balls.

And just as he was getting ready to slip his phone from his pocket, he heard a noise in one of the trees several yards away.

“What the hell is that idiot doing?”

Startled, JR quietly lifted his binoculars, and saw that the question had been uttered by sniper number four, who was perched in a tree not thirty feet in front of him.

Damn, that had been close.  If the sniper hadn’t been keeping his full attention on the house through the scope of his rifle, he probably would have spotted JR.

Sweating from the heat, and from his own frayed nerves, JR started to slink away.

But then another thought occurred, and had him reaching for his weapon.

CLAY focused on the farmhouse door, absolutely ignoring the fact that he could be shot down at any second.  He’d removed his sidearm and kept his hands raised high to show Walker he wasn’t carrying.

Behind him, Beall was indeed going through the motions of outrage, and he heard both Kim and Kathleen’s anxious voices.

He blocked it all out.

All he saw right now was the door to that house, and a vision of the child who was behind it.  Holding his hand, laying his head on his shoulder in that sleepy, trusting way kids had… asking if he was going to be his daddy.

Yes, he wanted to tell Max right now, wished in fact that he’d said so yesterday morning.  If Max and Tate would have him, he was utterly prepared to step into that role.

“Clay!”

He heard the voice, frantic and filled with pain.

“Clay!”

He turned, halfway to the front porch, and met Tate’s eyes across the dirt and scrabble of the front yard.  She stood next to Kathleen, who’d wrapped an arm around Tate’s shoulders, helping to keep her on her feet.

“I love you.”

Willing away the tears that stung the back of his eyes, Clay briefly put his hand over his heart before turning back toward the house.  If he tried to speak now, he’d probably lose it.

Then Kim called to him again, urgently, Beall’s voice ringing along with hers.

Clay ignored them both.

He’d just taken another step toward that front door when it blew off its hinges and splintered toward him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

NO.

Every cell in Clay’s body screamed the protest, reacting to the shock.   The house had freakin’… blown up.

“No.”   This time he managed to mutter it aloud, despite the fact that