Irrevocable Trust (Sasha McCandless Legal Thriller Book 6) Page 18

  Pulaski opened his mouth to fire back.

  “Enough,” Hank said. “Sasha, stay here with Mr. Pulaski. Leo, come with me. We’re going to assess the environment and figure out Bricker’s most likely point of entry.”

  Hank headed for the door. Connelly paused beside Sasha.

  “Do you want my gun until we get back?”

  “No. I don’t trust myself not to shoot him. Besides, I have this.” She gestured toward the knife, which was now strapped to her waist.

  Connelly smiled and kissed her lightly on the forehead. Then he was gone.

  She looked at Pulaski. He looked back at her. Under the best of circumstances, they didn’t have a relationship that lent itself to small talk. So they just sat there in silence, watching one another’s faces.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Bricker focused on keeping his breathing shallow and quiet. Luckily for him, Andy Pulaski kept his office at the temperature of a meat locker, so his noisy air conditioning unit was working hard and loudly.

  As an added bonus, the chilled air would help cover any scent he might be giving off, which, to be sure, was probably considerable given that he couldn’t remember the last time he showered with the benefit of hot water and indoor plumbing.

  He shifted from side to side, trying to keep his muscles loose in the cramped, freestanding wardrobe that was shoved in the corner of Pulaski’s office. Despite the cool temperatures, he was soaked in sweat. In part from the stress of having spent the afternoon waiting for a chance to strike. In part from the hot, searing pain radiating from the bullet wound in his arm.

  He’d dug out the bullet with his pocketknife and had done his best to clean it out with the lukewarm water left in his canteen, but eventually he’d need to attend to it better. Antibiotics, a sterile bandage, maybe even some painkillers.

  He raised his head and spots danced in front of his eyes in the dim light that managed to penetrate his particle-board hiding spot. His stomach growled.

  He had two energy bars stuffed in his pockets, but he didn’t dare open them. The rustling of the wrappers would probably go unnoticed by his attorney—for all his blustering and tough guy posturing, Pulaski was a soft target. Unobservant and weak.

  But McCandless was just feet away, on the other side of the wardrobe. She was no doubt alert and watchful.

  Still, this might be the best chance to strike.

  It would take the two feds some time to canvas the space. And if they were thorough, which they surely were, they’d also take the time to walk over to the Vietnamese nail salon on one side of the law office and the computer repair shop on the other, flash their badges, and inspect the shared walls, looking for a crevice, crawlspace, or other means of ingress.

  Yes, this was his opening.

  Think it through.

  Presumably McCandless and Pulaski were both still sitting out there, although if they were, they weren’t speaking to each other. He assumed Pulaski would be seated behind his desk, which was directly across from the closet where he hung his cheap suit jackets. There was no telling where McCandless might be, so he had to plan for the worst possibility—act as if she would be standing on the other side of the wardrobe door with a weapon drawn.

  His primary goal was to kill Pulaski. Easily achieved. Burst out shooting. He’d almost surely hit him squarely.

  But he had secondary and tertiary goals that mattered, too. Secondary goal: kill McCandless. That was nonnegotiable, really. She had to pay, too. But this mission was aimed at Pulaski, she was just gravy. Tertiary goal: Avoid capture. It went without saying that he didn’t intend to let the government put him back in a cage. But with a squad set up in the restaurant on the hill, according to Richardson, it would be difficult to make a clean escape.

  Unless …

  An idea was forming. He probed it for weaknesses, but it seemed solid. Shoot Pulaski and leave him for dead, grab McCandless and use her as a hostage/human shield to make his getaway. Connelly would be paralyzed, unwilling to act to harm her. Richardson would hesitate. And once he was out of the building, the agents rushing to the scene would be instructed to hold their fire. He’d get away and could kill McCandless at his leisure.

  As well-thought-out plans went, it stunk. But for an improvised action, it had appeal, logic, and a chance of success.

  He fished the chunky Cougar out of his pocket and hefted it in his palm.

  One … two … go!

  He exhaled, kicked the doors open, and leapt from the wardrobe. He wasn’t prepared for the light. He squeezed his eyes shut.

  Once his vision cleared, he took aim at Pulaski’s chest and pumped one, two, three bullets into his mid-section.

  Pulaski slumped over his desk.

  McCandless had been standing at the window behind the desk. She turned, startled, and then dove for the floor.

  Bricker strode toward her.

  He could hear footsteps running down the hallway, presumably Connelly and Richardson. But it didn’t matter.

  He reached down, grabbed a fist full of her hair, and dragged her to her feet. He eyed her chest.

  “A bulletproof vest? Nice,” he said as he shoved his gun against her temple.

  Her eyes were dilated with fear but she kept her breathing under control.

  “Thanks. Lucky for Big Gun he’s wearing one, too,” she said.

  He kept the gun snug by her ear while he turned to check on Pulaski.

  Crap. It was true. He’d clearly had the wind knocked out of him by the force of the shots, but he was very much alive. He’d probably have a bruised sternum, but no other damage.

  Anger bloomed in his chest.

  Connelly and Richardson raced through the doorway and skidded to a stop. Their guns were drawn, both aimed squarely at Bricker.

  “How?” Connelly asked.

  “He was in the wardrobe.” McCandless’ voice was even, calm.

  Richardson shook his head.

  “Unbelievable. The local PD didn’t sweep the building?”

  “Uh, maybe we could dissect this thing later?” McCandless suggested.

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I’m okay. It’s Captain Bricker here who has the problem. He wanted to kill Andy, but that vest did its job. So, now what’s he do? Shoot Andy through the head? Solves his problem, but he knows you two will drop him like a load of bricks if he does. Quite a quandary.”

  “Shut up.” He jabbed her in the head with the gun’s muzzle. He was sure it was still hot. Good.

  Pulaski lifted his head and stared at Bricker with wide owl eyes, unblinking and terrified.

  “Please don’t,” he begged.

  McCandless acted as if nothing was amiss.

  “You should make a decision soon. I’m sure Hank radioed the agents as soon as he heard shots fired. No doubt as soon as they finish up their mozzarella sticks or riblets or whatever, they’ll be breaking down the door.”

  Bravado. Covering up her terror.

  “No decision needed. Pulaski’s inconsequential, either way. You? You’re my ticket out of here. Then, when we’re clear of danger, I can waste you. Leave you somewhere to rot, so lover boy can find you and give you a proper burial. If I’m feeling charitable. Or maybe I’ll dismember you and make it a challenge.”

  Connelly charged forward. Richardson stuck out an arm and held him back.

  “Leo, no,” the older man rumbled.

  Bricker laughed.

  “Coming through.”

  He pulled McCandless toward the doorway.

  “Connelly, listen to me—stay calm,” she pleaded.

  “I love you, baby,” he answered.

  Bricker was preparing to mock the exchange when suddenly his thigh exploded into a hot, wet fireball.

  “Wha—?!”

  His vision swam, and his knees buckled.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Sasha waited for her moment. When Connelly attempted to charge Bricker, she knew she had her opening. Bricker was distracted by H
ank and Connelly. She yanked the knife from its holder and drove it like a spear into Bricker’s upper thigh, not stopping until she hit bone.

  He wobbled on his feet and tightened his grip on the gun, but he was too late. She’d already wrapped her hands around the barrel.

  In a motion she’d once used to disarm her husband, she moved her right hand to the base of the grip and twisted until she heard the bones in Bricker’s fingers cracking and splintering.

  And just like that, she had control of the gun.

  She jammed it into his forehead, right between his eyes.

  His bladder gave way and a large wet spot spread across the front of his trousers.

  She glanced at Connelly and Hank, who were both still frozen in the doorway.

  “Does somebody want to help me out here, or should I just shoot him?”

  Hank blinked and sprang into action. He pushed Bricker against the wall and started Mirandizing him.

  Connelly gently took the gun out of her hands and pulled her against his chest.

  “It’s over,” he breathed.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Sasha snuggled closer to Connelly. Upstairs, the house was quiet. The half-dozen Bennett children were curled up in a half-dozen beds, snoring softly or—in the case of the two littlest—drooling onto their pillows, facedown with their bottoms in the air.

  Even Cole had drifted off to sleep, sheer exhaustion overriding the adrenaline that had followed his encounter with his father. She’d popped her head in to check on him earlier. He was sound asleep, with Java burrowed into his armpit as if the cat could tell he needed a companion.

  She murmured, a content purr in the back of her throat, and reached across the couch for her wine glass. Connelly shifted his arm and handed it to her.

  “Thanks.”

  He stroked her hair in response.

  She took a sip of the Argentinian red and tried not to notice how close its ruby color was to the blood that had squirted from Bricker’s thigh.

  “You’re quiet,” she observed.

  He moved sideways so he could face her full on and said, “I’m overwhelmed. I’m afraid if I talk, I’ll start to cry. I almost lost you.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t say that.”

  “It’s true, Sasha.”

  “But it’s over. He’s in custody. We don’t have to look over our shoulders any more. Every bump in the night isn’t going to make us sit up with our hearts in our throats. He’s going back to prison, Connelly. For a very long time. We’re safe.”

  Hank had seen to it that Bricker was transported directly to the Florence Supermax in Colorado. There wasn’t a federal prison in the country with a higher level of security.

  Connelly’s eyes were sad.

  “I know. I just …” he trailed off and pulled her against him, jostling her wine glass.

  She rested it on the table and placed her hands on his chest.

  “Shhh,” she said.

  They sat like that for a very long time.

  The television played softly—a breathless Maisy informed the late-night news viewers of the day’s stunning events, culminating in the daring capture of a dangerous fugitive.

  Sasha glanced up to see the footage of Connelly walking her out of Pulaski’s office, shielding her from the cameras with his broad shoulders.

  Then Hank’s face filled the screen, all-business and serious, as he answered Maisy’s questions with the artful non-answers that marked him as a federal agent.

  Finally, Pulaski came into view, gesticulating wildly as he inflated his role in the day’s events to mythical proportions.

  “Hey, this is it,” Sasha said with a giggle as she grabbed the remote to turn up the volume in time to hear Pulaski proclaim …

  “…is why you can be confident that Big Gun Pulaski will dispatch your ex’s support modification request with same fierceness used to dispatch murderous felons.” Pulaski looked straight into the camera and nodded firmly.

  “So, in other words, he’ll pee himself?” Connelly asked.

  “That was Bricker,” she reminded him.

  They laughed together then, a real laugh that came from somewhere deep within and drove away the residual anxiety and worry that were lingering between them.

  After a moment, Sasha spoke again. “The kids are going to need permanent guardians.”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know about adoption—that’s still down the road a way—but we should put in papers with Judge Kumpar offering to serve in that capacity.”

  Connelly sat up straighter.

  “Do you mean it?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure?”

  He searched her face.

  She cupped his cheeks with her hands, hoping they were steadier than they felt.

  “Take yes for an answer, Connelly.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  One week later

  “All rise. The Honorable Abhinav Kumpar presiding.”

  Sasha stood between Marsh and Will, waiting for the judge to take his seat and wondering if the butterflies swirling around in her stomach planned to settle down any time soon.

  “Good morning.”

  “Good morning, Your Honor.”

  “Be seated. Quite an entourage you have, Ms. McCandless,” the judge gestured toward the front row of the gallery, where Connelly, Hank, Naya, and all six kids were squeezed in, shoulder to shoulder.

  She glanced back at the squeaky clean faces and spotless outfits. She’d been awake since five thirty, brushing hair, ironing shirts, and matching socks.

  “Your chambers called and said to bring all the Bennett children, Your Honor.”

  And Naya and Hank had insisted on coming along.

  Connelly spent the better part of his morning jamming booster seats into cars and working out a caravan system that would transport the ten of them to the courthouse. Marsh wisely opted to meet them there.

  She figured going forward they should just budget an extra two hours to get anywhere.

  “Indeed. So, you’re the Bennetts?” the judge smiled at the assembled kids.

  “Yes, sir,” Cole answered in a booming voice. A chorus of “yeses” followed.

  “And this is our Uncle Hank!” Calla added, tugging on Hank’s sleeve. She was sitting on his lap, her princess braid tucked over her shoulder.

  “Black sheep of the family,” Hank cracked.

  Judge Kumpar threw back his head and laughed.

  “Nice to meet you, Uncle Hank. And you are?” The judge nodded at Naya.

  “Naya Andrews, Your Honor. I’m Mr. Volmer and Ms. McCandless’ legal assistant and, uh, a friend.”

  “Naya also just finished her first year of law school,” Will offered.

  “My condolences,” the judge deadpanned.

  All the light-hearted jokiness should have put Sasha at ease, but she knew she wouldn’t relax until Judge Kumpar officially appointed her and Connelly as the kids’ guardians. She wished he’d stop joking around and just get started.

  “Okay, let’s get to it,” the judge said as if he had read her mind.

  Marsh straightened his bow tie in anticipation.

  “Let me make this easy for you,” the judge began. “I see no reason not to accept Ms. McCandless as the trustee of the irrevocable testamentary trust. I understand that Mr. Bricker had planned to object through his court-appointed counsel. However, one consequence of shooting one’s court-appointed counsel is that there’s not exactly a crowd lined up to take his place. So Mr. Bricker has not formally filed any objection. There’s no objection of record, so you’re it, Ms. McCandless.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor. But for clarity, would you consider ruling that even if he were to secure counsel brave enough to represent him, Mr. Bricker lacks standing to contest my appointment in the future?”

  A slow smile spread across the judge’s face.

  “I would indeed, Ms. McCandless. Having read Mr. Volmer’s brief on the su
bject, this Court is convinced that Mr. Bricker has no more standing than any other stranger to the estate. He cannot take under the will because he killed the decedent. And he consented to the termination of his parental rights, so he cannot object on behalf of the minor children.”

  Sasha snuck a glance behind her to make sure the reference to their father killing their mother hadn’t upset the kids. Cole and Brianna were paying rapt attention, but the rest of the kids seemed to be lost in their own thoughts. Or, in the case of Mark, trying to play Minecraft on Naya’s smartphone.

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Will said.

  “So with that out of the way, we can move Ms. Bennett’s will into probate just like any other,” the judge said, clearly addressing Marsh.

  “Very good, Your Honor.”

  A silence fell over the courtroom.

  “Is that it, Your Honor?” Marsh finally asked.

  The judge cleared his throat.

  “There’s one other small matter. Judge Perry-Brown and I went back and forth on which of us should rule on the pending guardianship issue, and we agreed that in the interest of expediency and conservation of judicial resources, I would rule. That said, I’ve discussed my ruling with her, and she concurs.”

  This is it. The butterflies in Sasha’s stomach picked up speed.

  She locked eyes with Connelly, who looked as if he were about to jump out of his skin with anticipation.

  Judge Kumpar paused. Then he said, “This Court faced a difficult decision because two highly qualified applications were submitted. In choosing between them, the Court was comforted by the knowledge that all of the applicants care deeply about the Bennett children and will no doubt remain involved in their lives.”

  Two applications?

  Sasha’s head was buzzing.

  Two?

  “Having reviewed the applications, the Court hereby appoints Henry Michael Richardson to serve as the permanent guardian of the six minor Bennett children.”