Revenge
Автор
Janie Crouch
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Chapter One
She’d watched him for a year.
She’d traveled all over the country going wherever he went. Others might call it pathetic, but she didn’t think so. Besides, what else did she have to do since he’d taken everything from her?
Joe Matarazzo had cost her the man she’d loved. Losing everything after that—her job, her friends, her home—had been his fault, too. Joe Matarazzo had cost her the future.
So now she journeyed around and watched him. Or when she couldn’t travel she scoured the internet for information about him.
Whenever she heard his name on a police scanner she prepared to rush to the scene. She had no doubt he would save the day once again.
Why couldn’t he have saved the day when it had mattered the most?
Fire had taken the man she loved. Joe Matarazzo could have stopped it, but he hadn’t. Hadn’t tried hard enough, not like he would today. Not like how hard she’d seen him try in all his other successful situations. He had the most important job: rescuing those who couldn’t rescue themselves. Leading them to safety. Putting their lives before his own.
But he hadn’t done his job a year ago. Almost exactly a year ago now. On that day he hadn’t tried hard enough. Hadn’t cared enough about those he tried to help.
Since that time she had observed him, followed him, studied him. She knew everything about him. Because of that, she could say with a clear conscience that he was guilty.
The time had come for Joe Matarazzo to atone for his wrongdoings. To suffer for the lives he’d lost.
He’d paid no price for what he’d done. Instead, he had women, he had money, he had everything. But soon that would change. She would see to it.
First, Joe would fall. And as he did, he would know the pain of losing what he cared about most.
Then he would burn.
Just like the fire that had taken her love.
* * *
“CASANOVA HAS STRUCK AGAIN. I know it’s hard, fellas—don’t be jealous just because Joe Matarazzo looks better on your girl than her outfit.”
Joe rolled his eyes and tried to snatch the newspaper clipping out of Derek Waterman’s—Joe’s Omega Sector Critical Response Division colleague—hands. Derek shifted slightly, holding the paper just beyond Joe’s reach since they were both strapped into the bench seat of the twin-engine helicopter.
Who even read a physical newspaper anymore? Joe hadn’t looked at a news report that wasn’t on his smartphone or computer for years. Not that his dating life was news, print version or otherwise.
Joe had no idea why so many people would want to read about his love life. Yeah, his family had money—a lot of it—and yeah, he’d grown up with some Hollywood A-listers and ended up photographed a lot.
And yeah—he grinned just a little, glancing out the helicopter’s window as Derek continued to read and the seventy miles between Colorado Springs and Denver whirled past—Joe tended to be a bit of a bad boy. Had a reputation with the ladies.
So what? He liked women.
“The lady du jour was Natasha Suzanne Bleat, daughter of British diplomat Marcus Bleat...”
Joe tuned out as Derek read Natasha’s impressive list of family credentials through the headphones that allowed all of them to communicate with each other. Jon Hatton and Lillian Muir—the first an Omega profiler and the second Omega SWAT like Derek—listened raptly from the pilot and copilot seats where Lillian controlled the aircraft.
Seriously, Joe’s colleagues loved this stuff, ridiculous as it may be. They had a whole scrapbook full of Joe’s clippings.
Joe had grown up with press and had learned to pretty much ignore it. The press had their own agenda and nobody’s best interests in mind but theirs. He learned that lesson a little too late, but learned it.
And it wasn’t like paparazzi followed him around. Yet for whatever reason, gossip sites and society pages loved to report on his dating life. A dating life he had to admit was pretty extensive. Everyone called him Casanova. The press and even his colleagues at Omega.
Joe wasn’t offended. It took a hell of a lot more to offend him.
“...the redhead beauty was last seen entering the Los Angeles Four Seasons with Joe, arm in arm.”
Joe raised his gaze heavenward with a long-suffering sigh and waited for the rest, but that was it.
“Last seen?” Joe finally succeeded in snatching the paper away from Derek. “They make it sound like I killed her and hid her body.”
“Oh, it sounds like you did something to her body, but I don’t think anyone figures you killed her. At least not literally.” Lillian snickered from her pilot’s seat.
“I have no idea how you get so lucky, dude.” Derek closed his eyes and leaned farther back on the bench seat next to Joe. “No matter what city we’re in, the women throw themselves at you.”
Joe could’ve pointed out that speeding their way to a hostage negotiation scene was probably not the time to discuss the press version of his love life. But he knew this sort of distraction helped keep the team loose and relaxed.
There would be plenty of time for tension and focus when they landed and assessed the scene.
Joe shrugged. “What can I say? I’m #blessed, man.” He made the hashtag symbol with his hands, tapping his fingers together.
Everyone groaned.
“Don’t make me shoot you. I’d catch flack for shooting an unarmed man.” Derek didn’t open his eyes as he said it.
Joe was the only unarmed person in the helicopter. Although he was trained in the use of a number of weapons, he almost always went into situations unarmed.
He was Omega Sector’s top hostage negotiator. And he was damn good at his job.
Joseph Gregory Terrance Matarazzo III didn’t need a career. At least, didn’t need one for a salary. He’d been born with money, had known its benefits his entire life. Had used those benefits for a carefree, fun-loving existence until about six years ago when he’d turned twenty-five and decided maybe he’d like to do something with his time besides sit around and look good.
The laid-back, playboy, slacker and media darling had decided to become a better man.
Joe had skills. Not the same skills Derek had in his ability to formulate the best tactical advantage in any given hostile situation. Or the ones Lillian had with the many ways she could kill someone not only through the use of weapons, but just her scary, tiny, bare hands. Or Hatton with whatever he did, which was pretty much overthink everything and come up with scenarios and means of handling crises.
Joe’s skills rested with people. He had a charming way with others. He knew it. Everybody knew it. Joe excelled at talking to people, listening to them, making them feel comfortable. He was likable, a cool kid. The type of person people wanted to be around.
It wasn’t an act. Joe honestly cared about people, even the hostage-takers he was sent to talk to. So he tried his damnedest to connect with the people in these situations, to listen to them and see what he could do so everyone could leave the situation alive. If Joe did his job right, nobody had to get hurt.
If he didn’t do his job right, the Dereks and Lillians with the guns came in with a different solution.
Most of the time Joe successfully completed his mission and nobody was harmed. Sometimes there was no other way and the bad guys got wounded or worse. Joe was trained—and wasn’t hesitant—to make the hard call when he knew he wasn’t going to be able to neutralize the situation and SWAT needed to step in and take the tangos out. That situation wasn’t Joe’s preference, but he didn’t lose sleep when it happened.
Every once in a while something went terribly wrong and innocent people got hurt. Joe touched a burn scar at the base of his neck, one that continued over his shoulder and partway down his back. Innocent people had been hurt that day a year ago. Innocent people had died.
Joe planned to use his skills today to make sure another situation like that didn’t happen again.
Derek and Jon began arguing over the name of the woman the press had spotted Joe with a few days before Natasha during an Omega case in Austin, Texas.
“Her name was Kerri. I’m telling you.” Jon’s voice came crisply through the headphones. “Kerri with an i. I remember it clear as day.”
“No,” Derek said. “That was the one before. Austin was Kelli. But also with an i.”
Joe wondered what Derek’s brilliant wife, Molly, the crime lab director at Omega, and Jon’s fiancée, Sherry Mitchell, a hugely talented forensic artist, would have to say about their men’s topic of conversation.
No doubt they would find it as ridiculous as Joe did.
Joe remembered both Kerri and Kelli. He’d had dinner with one, a drink at a bar with the other. Nothing more. Just like the night at the hotel with Natasha when Joe had walked her, admittedly arm in arm, to her room. And left her there.
Because, hell, nobody could be as much of a Casanova as the press wanted to label him. God knew he wasn’t a monk, but sometimes the women he was with were just pleasant company—clothes on—and nothing more.
But Joe hated to deny his colleagues their fun.
“Would you like me to settle this, boys?” he asked, sighing.
“For the love of all that is holy, please yes, Matarazzo, settle this.” Lillian’s higher voice cut through the baritone of the three men.
“You’re both wrong. It was Kerri and Kelli. Both of them in Austin. Together.” Joe smiled as he told the lie.
If they wanted Casanova he would give it to them. He knew he probably shouldn’t since it reinforced what his colleagues already thought to be the truth about him: that he was less part of the Omega team and more like a novelty. But Joe was great at figuring out what people needed and becoming that, at least for a little while. A distraction en route to a troublesome situation? No problem.
Hatton and Derek both groaned, neither knowing whether to believe him.
“I’m going to check some of the gossip sites when I get back to HQ,” Hatton threatened.
“You do that,” Joe responded. “Because you know everything they publish can be taken as gospel.”
Silence fell as they flew the last few miles and Lillian landed the helicopter on the roof helipad of a building that had been cleared two blocks from First National Bank of South Denver. Temporary home of two bad guys and a dozen or so hostages.
Lillian landed and switched off the rotors. “Time to go to work, boys.”
Joe slid the door open and he and Derek both ducked their heads and briskly made their way down the stairs, out of the building and over to the bank. Jon quickly joined them as they found the officer in charge. Lillian would be there after she took care of the helicopter. Jokes and talk about Joe’s exploits ceased. Omega now had a job to do.
The older man shook everyone’s hand. “I’m Sheriff Richardson. We appreciate you coming out so quickly.”
“We need the most up-to-date intel you have,” Derek told the sheriff. Joe was glad the locals had called Omega and egos hadn’t come into play. Situations like this tended to be delicate enough without law enforcement working against each other.
Richardson nodded. “We have two men in their midtwenties holding, as best as we can tell, sixteen people hostage inside the bank. Two of those hostages are children. They’ve been inside for two hours and we haven’t been able to speak with them, despite trying multiple times.”
Richardson turned from Derek to Joe. “You’re the negotiator, right? The city has a good one of our own, but she had a baby a couple of days ago. She was still going to come in but I put a stop to that immediately.”
Joe nodded. “That was the right decision. I won’t let you down, Sheriff. I’ll do my very best to get everyone out safely.”
“Do you have building plans for the bank, Sheriff?” Derek asked.
“Yes.” He gestured over to a younger man who brought them over. Lillian joined them, and she, Derek and Hatton were soon poring over the plans.
Joe took a deep breath, looking out at the small bank. He couldn’t see anything happening inside. The Denver County police didn’t have a sizable SWAT team, but it did appear like they had a couple of marksmen. He knew Derek and Lillian were both expert sharpshooters also.
He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
Why were the hostage-takers here at this particular bank? Had they tried to rob it then got stuck so took hostages? Robbing a bank wasn’t a very smart move and didn’t have a high success rate, but people did desperate things sometimes.
There were kids inside. That upped the ante a lot. Joe’s natural inclination was to march up to the door right now, even without backup. But he knew to set wheels in motion before Derek and the team were ready could spell disaster for everyone.
“Derek, there are kids, man,” Joe said softly. He knew he didn’t have to remind his friend of that—with his pregnant wife, it would be in the forefront of Derek’s mind, too—but couldn’t help himself. “They’ve already been in there a long time. Let me know which direction you’ll be coming from if it goes south and I’ll get started. At least get the kids out.”
“There’s not a lot of good options with a bank this old that was built in the fifties,” Derek muttered, studying the plans more intently. “It looks like the roof will be our best bet. Probably a ventilation shaft. We might have to send Lillian through alone if it’s too small.”
Lillian alone would be plenty enough to put down two tangos. Joe nodded at her; she winked at him. Despite her beauty, he had never tried to make a move on her. He knew better than to hit on a woman who made a living shooting people.
“Okay,” Joe said. “What’s today’s go-signal?”
The team always had a phrase and action, both meant only to be used as a last resort, that Joe could use to signal SWAT that the situation inside was out of hand and they needed to use deadly force.
“Word is sunglasses.” Derek glanced up from the plans. “Action is putting your sunglasses on your head.”
Joe’s shades were in the pocket of his shirt. Unlike the other Omega members, all wearing full combat gear and bulletproof vests, Joe was wearing a black T-shirt, jeans and casual brown boots. It was important that he seem as normal and nonthreatening as possible when he approached the hostage-takers.
“Be careful in there, Joe.” It was Jon who looked up from the building plans this time. “We’ve got a lot of blinds here. I know you’re good on the fly, but watch your six.”
Joe nodded, already beginning to walk toward the building. “Those kids and their mother will be coming out first. Be ready for them.”
He blew out a breath through gritted teeth, forcing his shoulders then jaw to relax. Coming in tense—or at least looking overly tense—never helped. There were two guys in there who needed to be heard. Joe wanted to do that. But even more he wanted to get the hostages out safely. Every one of them.
Joe walked up to the glass door of the bank and knocked, then held his hands up in a position of surrender so they could see he wasn’t armed. And he waited.
He was about to become best buddies with two potentially dangerous guys.
Just another day at the office for Joe Matarazzo.
