Terminal Vendetta (A Diana Weick Thriller Book 3) Cate Clarke (little red riding hood read aloud TXT) 📖

bodies, the gap between the sill and the glass allowing Diana to hear every huff of their breaths in the coastal air. Axtell brought up the rear, her face coated in sweat. Her eyes slid toward the office, and she gave Diana a salute as she went past.

“Don’t get distracted, soldier,” Diana called through the window, jutting out her chin toward her.

“Yes, ma’am!” Axtell exclaimed back and ran faster, not only catching up with the rest of the group but making her way toward the front.

Diana smiled as she got up from the desk to watch the soldiers disappear around one of the exterior concrete walls.

There was a knock on the door. It was already open, Laird’s knuckles resting against the wood as he looked her up and down.

“Busy, boss?” he asked as he limped inside, leaning on a plain black cane with one hand. There was a paper-wrapped package under his other arm.

“Come on in,” Diana said, gesturing for him to close the door.

“I gotta get back,” he replied. “I just came to drop this off.”

Diana had gone to bat for Laird. After everything he’d done with the Readers, there were several agencies who wanted him arrested, fined, maybe killed. But he’d also been the one with the plan that took down Cameron Snowman, the remaining Reader. He was the one that had crashed the drones, saving dozens of lives in DC at Axtell’s swear-in. The plea bargain hadn’t been easy, but she’d got him off of doing jail time by coming to do some tech service for the naval base. It was pretty much jail time in Laird’s eyes, but Diana was happy to have another familiar face around amongst the sea of insecure old white guys.

“What is it?” Diana asked as she crossed the room and took the package from under his arm, flipping it over in her hands.

“It’s a federal crime to open up somebody else’s mail, ma’am,” Laird said, coated with some type of attitude, sarcasm or just patronage—she wasn’t sure.

Placing the package on the desk, Diana checked it over for a return address, but there was nothing on it.

“Did this get swiped?” Diana asked.

The cane clicked twice as Laird walked forward to stand next to her.

“Yup. Bomb squad and toxicology test,” Laird explained. “Nothing.”

“So everybody has seen what’s in here except for me?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Drop the ma’am, Laird,” Diana snapped. “It’s just annoying.”

“Whatever you say, Lieutenant.”

They both looked down at the package. Laird gave her a small nudge on the arm, pushing her slightly forward. Of all the things she’d been through, all the people she fought, Diana still couldn’t stop her fingers from trembling as she peeled back the brown paper. Not bothering with an opener or scissors, she ripped apart the tape that was holding the cardboard box closed. Her muscles flexed and her biceps warmed, reminding her of the lack of physical activity over these last few weeks. She’d taken it easy after taking down a Russian terrorist organization and an anti-military rebellion.

Inside the box, there was a black leather bag that was zipped closed, no larger than a schoolkid’s backpack. Laird tried to get a view over her shoulder but she moved her body in front of him. With a sigh and a click of his cane, he took a step back. Diana could hear his fingers tapping against the top of his cane, restless hands, needing something to smoke.

She unzipped the bag.

There was a small note on top with printed text on the paper, not hand-written, that said, “Your share.”

Underneath the paper, there were two bundles of cash, thick and wrapped up in cellophane, pressing against Benjamin Franklin’s face—at least two hundred thousand dollars in cash sitting on her desk.

Diana took a step back.

“What’s that about?” Laird asked.

She rushed around to the other side of the desk, checking the livestream of Cameron Snowman’s trial as if he had suddenly stepped out of the laptop and into the room with them. But he was there, in handcuffs, head down with a tilted grin across the bottom of his face. He had recovered well from his Brown Recluse bite—it had only put him in the hospital for a couple of days unfortunately.

Had he been holding on to this? Something he planned before he’d gotten arrested and had a contact send it on his behalf? Or had Cameron somehow organized a package to be sent to her from inside his jail cell?

Either way, it was blood money—Cameron’s payoff to the veterans that had gone around the country a couple of months ago. But he had sat on hers, waited for the moment when he knew it would really get into her head to send it.

“Diana,” Laird said, bringing her back into the room. “You good?”

“They recovered all of Asher’s money, right?” Diana asked, looking up from the laptop.

“Pretty sure,” Laird stated, nodding. “Definitely not hidden in the walls of my house.”

She narrowed her eyes and tilted her head to one side.

“I’m kidding,” he said flatly, sitting down on one of the chairs in front of her desk.

“Actually, Laird,” Diana started, taking both of her hands and running them over her face. “Can you give me a sec to process this?”

“Sure. God, I hate standing up nowadays.” Laird sighed and struggled back up to his feet, wincing and groaning as he circled back around the chair. “Don’t let him do that, Weick. He’s just fucking with you. He’s going to prison for a long time.”

Not looking up from the surface of the desk, holding her head in her hands, she said, “I know.”

“Lunch later?”

“Sure.”

As Laird hobbled out of the room, Diana turned back to the computer, watching the courtroom for any indication of another Reader attack or Cameron’s contacts, but there was nothing. Just the droning of the judge’s voice. The polite shuffling of the audience and the jury. The clicking of the court reporter’s keys.

Not a thing that should have caused her to be concerned. But she was. Diana was worried that these