The Last Execution

By Jerrie Alexander

To survive, she must put the past behind her. To love, she must learn to trust.

 

Homicide detective Leigh McBride's first assignment with the FBI brings her face-to-face with a past she's tried hard to forget. And when her temporary partner, a cynical ex-marine, lights a fire in her she thought long-extinguished, her darkest secret is threatened.

 

Scarred physically and emotionally, Special Agent J. T. Noble is a man of few words. He prefers to keep people at a distance—until he meets Leigh. He's attracted to her strength and drawn in by her secrecy. But in their line of work, secrets can be deadly.

 

When the killer they are hunting aims his vigilante justice at Leigh's past assailant, the fine line between right and wrong blurs. To heal the past—and find their future together—Leigh and J. T. must learn that only through trust and forgiveness can love grow.v

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alexander Publishing
• Release date: Jul 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781941205181

Jerrie Alexander

A student of creative writing in her youth, Jerrie set aside her passion when life presented her with a John Wayne husband and a wonderful daughter. Her love for romantic suspense inspires her to write alpha males and kick-ass women. Her characters weave their way through death and danger to emerge stronger, because of, and on occasion, in spite of, their love for each other. If they're tough enough, they live happily ever after. Jerrie lives in Texas, denies having an accent, thrives on sunshine, children's laughter, sugar (human and granulated), and researching for her heroes and heroines. She loves to hear from her readers. Find a complete list of her books at http://www.jerriealexander.com or contact her at [e-mail].

Book preview

The Last Execution has been updated and revised in 2024

E book copyright © 2020 by Jerrie Alexander

Publisher: Alexander Publishing

Print Edition ISBN:  978-1-941205-19-8

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission of the copyright owner or publisher of this book. This contemporary romantic suspense is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The publication or use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This book is licensed for your personal use only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

Published in the United States of America

Cover illustrator:

www.BrynnaCurry.com

Edits by: Eve Arroyo

www.evearroyo.com

Proofreading by Red Pen Edits

www.redpenedits.com

Kym Roberts

If you Google the word friend, your picture should be there. If it’s not, you were cheated.

Chapter One

Doyle Preston cradled the Remington 700 VTR in his hands as if the rifle were a beautiful woman, tenderly and with reverence. Pulling the trigger was like making love: you take your time, use a gentle hand, and then enjoy the sweet reward.

Appreciative of the starless, windless night, he lined up the scope’s crosshairs with the target. From his spot, on top of the high-rise, the shot would be easy. He closed his mind to outside influences, silencing the traffic noise surging from one of Atlanta’s busiest streets, and ignoring the steady drum of his heart. Every hair on his arms rose in anticipation. Here and now, the destiny of another person’s life rested in his power.    

Inhale.

Exhale.

Squeeze.

The bullet passed through Officer Brian Slocum’s head, exploded his skull like a dropped watermelon, and then embedded itself into the brick wall, exactly as planned. The lifeless body crumpled to the pavement, leaving shards of bone and brain matter splattered on his stunned partner.

Bastard never knew what hit him.

Preston’s heart hammered against his ribs as adrenaline surged through his body, but now wasn’t the time for euphoria. Methodically, he stowed his rifle, retrieved the shell casing, and inspected the area to ensure he’d left no trace evidence behind. Wearing electrician’s overalls and carrying an oversized toolbox, he boarded the service elevator and made his way to his car. After he’d pulled onto the freeway, he allowed himself a moment to be proud of a job well done.

The rifle was his weapon of choice, how he delivered justice. How he helped the abused. How he’d ended the condemned man’s brutality.

****

Special Agent J.T. Noble glanced over his shoulder and damned if heaven on two feet wasn’t walking straight toward him. He feasted from her shoes all the way up to her luscious lips and—ouch—icy glare.

Noble. Special Agent in Charge, Casey Granger’s all-business tone, broke into J.T.’s thoughts. Stop scowling. You’ll scare the new liaison. He waved his hand in the direction of their visitor. Bring her here. We need to get started.

I don’t scowl, J.T. grumbled as he moved across the office to intercept her.

With her long stride, she’d already crossed the bulk of the FBI’s office space. Head held high, her golden hair had been pulled back into a low ponytail of some sort. Fuzzy curls, which had escaped the bondage, hung at random around her neck and face. The low-heeled shoes and weapon on her hip projected the image of a serious, no-bullshit kind of woman, quite in contrast with her face, which conjured up images of his grandmother’s porcelain china.  

Her sea-blue gaze scanned from his feet to the top of his head. She got points for not flinching when she reached his face. One of her eyebrows went up at the same time her shoulder shrugged her dismissal. He liked her right-back-at-you attitude. She’d inspected, rejected, and put him in his place all in one easy motion.

Special Agent J.T. Noble. He extended his hand. You the liaison?

Detective Leigh McBride. She met his palm with a strong grasp and pumped once.

SAC Casey Granger is expecting you. He pointed toward Casey’s office and fell in step behind her.  

Normally, he checked his libido at the door when at work, so his reaction to her surprised him. Pissed at himself, he pushed aside his attraction to her.

Entering the room, she introduced herself to Casey before J.T. had a chance to speak.

Chief Hampton instructed me to provide you and your team the information we’ve collected on the sniper. As the liaison, I’m to assist in any capacity you deem appropriate.

Her words, formal and disciplined, dropped cold and hard, like ice cubes falling into an empty glass.

Good. Take a seat. Casey waved to the small conference table in the corner. Detective McBride comes to us from the police department's criminal investigation division.

She nodded, placed her briefcase on the table and waited, her eyes hooded, not showing emotion. The lady clearly wasn't comfortable with her assignment. He got that the FBI taking over the investigation pissed her off. If he’d been in her shoes, he would’ve felt the same way.   

Silence filled the room while Casey motioned to fellow agents, Olivia Cisneros and Tobias Romeo Bailey, to join the meeting. After introductions, Leigh joined the team at the table. J.T. recognized her discomfort at being an outsider. He shied away from getting too familiar with coworkers. It kept him from getting too close and caring when somebody was killed.

Casey shifted in his chair to address Leigh. Bring us up to speed on the sniper.

Yes, sir.

No sirs in here. I run a close-knit, informal unit. It’s Casey. He waved his hand toward the group, his signal she should continue.

A pretty face didn’t qualify her as an asset to the team, so J.T. leaned back and observed.

Leigh passed a folder to each member of the group. Casey removed a handful of crime scene pictures, stood, and then attached them to a whiteboard. J.T. studied the close-up and wide-angle photos of three men with a large part of their heads missing.

Hell of a shot. Why the head? A military-trained sniper would’ve aimed for the heart.

Leigh gave J.T. a frosty look as if he’d interrupted her rhythm, so he shut up.

March 29, Marcos Ortega, married, father of four, attorney for a local drug czar, was shot and killed in a grocery store parking lot. She stood to indicate the first picture. Two weeks later, April 12, Qassim Mussa-Shir, the married father of three, taxi driver, was killed coming out of a Stop-N-Shop. Last night, Officer Brian Slocum, married, father of one, Atlanta PD for thirteen years, shot while standing in the parking lot of a Waffle House.

The detective didn’t appear nervous, wasn’t sweating while under the team's scrutiny. Her behavior would carry some weight with them, but if she’d hoped for an ally when a female agent joined them for the briefing, she’d be disappointed. Olivia wasn’t sending any camaraderie-like vibes. Her body language was more closed off than Leigh’s. He’d had to earn Olivia’s respect through hard work; Leigh would have to do the same.

Time of day? J.T. asked, flipping through the papers.

The murders occurred at ten in the morning, one thirty in the afternoon, and nine-fifteen in the morning, respectively. The first two occurred on a Monday. He changed his pattern with Officer Slocum’s death yesterday. Leigh returned to her chair. So far the bullets have provided no information. Each one had to be dug out of a brick wall. That’s a quick overview. The transcripts of the interviews my team conducted and the forensic information are in the folders.   

Casey thumbed through the pages in his file. Good briefing, Leigh. His fingers drummed on the table. Okay. Let’s get started. Olivia, continue to look for a link between the victims. Romeo, you—

I know. I’m going. If anyone needs me, including our newest member, I’ll be in cyber-world researching the dead men.

While you’re there, run a timeline on each of them. Compare it with what Atlanta PD assembled. We need to know the victims’ movements on the days they died. Casey checked his watch. "We’ll meet back here in the morning at oh eight hundred.

That leaves you two. Casey stood, walked over, and studied the pictures on the board.

Leigh, you know this case better than anyone, and J.T. is one of the best in the bureau. You’ll work this with him.

Thank you for including me. Her face lit up, and the rigid line of her jaw relaxed.

J.T. understood she wanted to be involved. Atlanta had a nut job on the street killing people, and this was her city, her murders. Now, they were his too.

You two check in with the lab. See if the techs have run the latest bullet under the microscope. Then offer our condolences to Officer Slocum’s wife.

Good enough. J.T. waited while Leigh gathered her purse and briefcase.  A new assignment always cranked up his heartbeat, and this was just the type he liked. When the bastard went to trial, there’d be enough evidence to put a needle in his arm.

J.T. introduced Leigh to Lauren Grant, who everyone knew was the real brains in the organization. Leigh’s going to be with us for a few weeks and needs a workspace.

Then I guess it’s handy that spot next to you is empty. Lauren handed J.T. keys to the desk and then turned to Leigh. Welcome. He’ll show you the way, and I’ll get your supplies right away.

Thank you.

We’re over here. He led her to a cubicle, stepped back to let her check out the arrangement. Low walls separated teams of two and offered little privacy.

Romeo bounded over like a playful puppy, his charm locked on Leigh. J.T. stifled the urge to tell the kid to wipe the slobber off his chin. Maybe twenty-five, Romeo's dark hair, and dark eyes were appealing to women. They flocked to him wherever they went. Leigh, Olivia, and I are stopping by the Oak Barrel for a drink around six tonight. Come by and knock back a beer with us.

I’d love to. She looked at her new partner.

He's too good for us. Romeo pointed at him.

J.T. headed for the elevator. Best to leave before questions were asked. Questions he wasn’t going to answer.

****

Leigh checked the time, signed in with the desk clerk at the crime lab, and requested to see Dr. Heintz. She stepped aside for J.T. to do the same.

This way. She led J.T. through the cold, white-walled lobby and down the hallway.

He drew more than a modicum of attention from the two female clerks they passed. Leigh hoped they stared because he was handsome and not at the jagged scar starting at the outer corner of his right eye, curving downward on his cheek to his chin.

He carried himself proudly, ignoring both women. His crisp white shirt and black slacks molded to his tall, muscular frame, silently shouting dignity and confidence. Regardless of how brave he acted, she knew the stares had to hurt.

Just as they entered the hallway, his stomach growled registering a loud protest. We should’ve eaten first.

We shouldn’t be here long, but I wanted you to meet somebody. She led him into a small break room and over to an empty table. I’m afraid there are no snack machines in here. Sit. I’m pouring.

No worries. I know of a much nicer coffee shop. When she returned, he accepted the paper cup with a nod. The left side of his mouth lifted. Don’t worry about me.

Leigh sucked in a breath. Oh, boy. He gave her a half-smile, which so far today was a first, and a dimple winked in his left cheek. That simple movement transformed his granite face to heart-stopping handsome. How long have you been with the bureau?

I’ve been in Atlanta a few months. With the bureau for nearly five years.

I figured you more for a career man.

Marines first then Quantico. His thumb stroked up and down the scar. In a flash, he dropped his hand and glanced away.

Leigh’s gut clenched. Was it a constant reminder of war or a knife fight with some criminal? She wouldn’t ask.

When do I meet this person?

Right now. He’s walking through the door. She stood and breathed out a sigh of relief. Smartest guy in this department. Leigh waved Willem to their table. Doctor Heintz oversees the lab and is a ballistics expert. Willem, this is Special Agent J.T. Noble. He’s working the sniper case.

J.T. He stood and shook the smaller man’s hand.

Willem. Wearing jeans and a white lab coat, he straightened his wire-rimmed glasses and locked his gaze on Leigh. How’d the feds get involved?

A nerve in Willem’s jaw twitched. Leigh sensed he hadn’t heard about the taskforce and didn’t like the idea his ballistics lab might be bypassed.

I should’ve called ahead. She jumped in to explain. The chief asked the FBI to take the lead on the sniper killings.  

You’re going to want the evidence transferred, Agent Noble?

Too soon to say. You’ve compared the bullets? J.T. asked.

Yes. The bullet that killed Officer Slocum is as damaged as the other two. The impact in the brick building made identification on a particular rifle impossible. You want to see for yourself?

Not if it’s that damaged. I may want Quantico to take a look, get their take on it, J.T. said.

Let me know, and I’ll handle the transfer myself, Willem said on a sigh. We’re proud of our equipment, however, yours may be newer.  

Contact me with any new information. J.T. fished a card from his wallet, handing it to Willem.

They said their good-byes, and she led her temporary partner to the exit. He fell in step with her as they made their way to his car. He didn’t talk much. Silent and handsome made a powerful combination.

He slid behind the wheel of the standard-issue, dark sedan. Let’s get a burger before we talk to Officer Slocum’s wife.

Works for me. Leigh had schooled herself not to react to men, professionally or personally. They were simply off-limits. Every free minute she had was one hundred percent Ethan’s. He was her only priority. Yet, something about J.T. intrigued her.

****

The Slocum’s house in Smyrna made Leigh long to own a place with more outside space. Her home had a stamp-sized backyard with a swing set. Ethan would go wild, playing and running at full speed on such a large patch of lawn. Scattered toys and tricycles reminded her how desperately he wanted a big-boy bike.

She and J.T. stepped out onto the well-groomed lawn.

You go ahead. I’ll catch up. Leigh paused at the curb and turned her back to afford herself privacy. She tapped in her mom’s number and asked about keeping Ethan so she could go with the gang to the bar.

When she turned, J.T. stood three feet away, leaning against the hood. How much had he heard?

You ready? His right hand swept in an arch toward the sidewalk. 

I don’t discuss my personal life at work. She pulled a calming breath into her lungs.

Exactly how was I too ‘personal’? He scowled at her as if she’d grown a second head before he marched up the sidewalk without waiting for an answer.

Well, hell, he’d spoken his longest sentence of the day, and all she’d done was piss him off. Over the years, through transfers, promotions, and attrition, the number of cops in her division privy to the details around the birth of her son had dwindled, making it easier to keep her private life...well, private.

A cold hand gripped her heart and squeezed. She shivered while standing under the warm sunshine. The nightmare wasn’t a bad dream anymore, he’d come home from prison. Her nightmare walked the streets of Atlanta.

****

Leigh McBride squared her shoulders, put a smile on her face, and stepped inside her parent’s real estate agency. A small yellow ball greeted her. She faded right as it whizzed past, missing her head by inches.

Hey, watch it, she admonished the blond-haired, six-year-old bundle of energy.

Mom, he squealed. Dropping his toy, he ran to her.

Leigh caught Ethan in midair, shifting him away from the badge and gun onto her left hip. She nuzzled his warm neck until he shrieked with delight.

You don’t look sick to me. Maybe you should've gone to school this morning.

I like staying with Papa. Ethan wiggled from her arms, grabbed the plastic golf club, and waved it through the air.

I'd say he's well. Her dad’s blue eyes sparkled. His hair, the same shade as hers and Ethan’s was in its constant state of disarray.

She glanced around the room. Where’s Mom?

Grocery store. I thought you were going to be late.

Look. Ethan swatted the practice ball and it skittered across the floor.

Leigh ruffled his curly mop and sighed as he raced off in search of the ball. I’ll be a little late. I just needed a kiss from my guys.

How'd the day with the feds go? Her dad moved her out of Ethan’s earshot.

Better than I expected.

You’re still part of the hunt?

Yes. And assigned to work with one of their top agents.

Carrington’s release is keeping you up nights. No use denying it. I see the dark circles under your eyes. The lines around her dad’s mouth deepened. I don’t understand. Carrington received twenty-five years and served seven. It’s not right. His fingers lifted her chin. You’re not sleeping well.

Yeah. I felt a lot safer with him behind bars. She glanced at her innocent son. Love, fear, and uncertainty flooded her heart. She’d tell Ethan the truth about his birth father someday. Please, God, not until he was a lot older.

Have you heard from that SOB?

Nothing except the few hang-ups on my cell and home phones. Leigh’s stomach rolled. Has to be him.

How did he get your numbers?

If you’ve got enough money, there are ways.

You had the calls traced?

I tried. He’s using a burner phone. She glanced toward the door. Maybe I'll blow off tonight. Stay home with Ethan.

Go. You don't get out enough. Her father patted her back as if she were the child in the room. Your new friends are waiting.

His jaw was set, bringing a smile to her face. As usual, he was right. She stepped into his arms. The familiar scent of Old Spice cologne gave her spirit a boost.

I won't be too late.

No worries. Pick up Ethan at the house anytime.

Thanks. She knelt on one knee. Come kiss me. Mom’s going to hang out with the men in black.

Chapter Two

Doyle sat at his kitchen table staring at the personal advertisement section in the Atlanta Constitution. He’d paid through the month for the ad. Not expensive, still, the one line Preston from New York needs help had drained his cash. He’d been instructed to flee to Atlanta and wait for someone to contact him. Therefore, he waited, drifting like a ship without a rudder.

He missed his wife’s steady logic and warm body next to his. She was one of the reasons he’d become a member of the Final Justice Unit in New York. She’d asked him to get justice for their daughter. A justice he’d personally administered.

Where was his support? He’d given up everything to join the underground movement. When the FBI had discovered their home base, he’d been forced to run. Now he lived in poverty, mopping floors in a hospital. Doyle refused to give in to the panic gnawing at him. He’d live up to his commitment. He prayed not to be the only one who’d escaped.

****

Leigh joined the taskforce at Casey's conference room table with a lot more confidence today. Olivia, with her short, wavy, brown hair and dark chocolate eyes, was the last member to arrive. Casey with his sun-streaked hair, warm blue eyes, and serious square jaw, got down to business.  

Olivia reported she hadn’t found anything new in any of the victims’ backgrounds. Hearing a federal agent reaffirm the research Leigh had provided was rewarding.

Romeo’s timeline for Officer Slocum and his wife’s activities before his death gave them no additional insight. Slocum had reported for duty on time, and the call log reflected nothing out of the ordinary up until he and his partner had stopped for breakfast.

This sounds more like a random killing. How did the sniper know Slocum and his partner would go to that restaurant? J.T. moved closer when Casey asked the two of them to update the group, and Leigh found herself wedged between the table leg and J.T.’s rock-hard thigh. The warmth from his body made concentrating difficult.

Unless they were being followed, Romeo answered.

It’s possible, J.T. agreed.

Hard to believe Mrs. Slocum said her husband had no enemies. Casey shook his head. There’s not a cop on the force who hasn’t pissed more than a few people off.

She lied, J.T. stated in his usual clipped speech. She wouldn’t look at us.

J.T.’s right. There was a lot she didn’t say, Leigh agreed. Her husband’s dead, yet she was completely unaffected.

J.T. leaned forward. Leigh noticed the bruises on the widow’s face before I did.

The discoloration on her cheek was obvious, along with a leftover black eye. We’re betting she’d been abused. Sympathy for the widow blurred her thoughts, forcing Leigh to struggle to keep her tone professional. Bruises faded, but memories of a beating never went away. The feeling of helplessness and desperation lingered long after.

Olivia spoke up. What else, Leigh?

She detected a hint of respect in Olivia’s tone. Maybe having a beer with her and Romeo last night had been worth the time away from Ethan.

Mrs. Slocum’s body language was closed off. She kept shifting her gaze toward the door. Perched on the edge of her chair, she gave me the impression she wanted to bolt. Her eyes weren’t swollen from crying. That was no teary-eyed widow talking to us about her husband.

Casey stood and paced for a minute. Romeo, look into the Slocum’s finances and see if she made a lot of trips to the doctor. Casey gathered the morning’s notes and glanced at J.T. You and Leigh see what the neighbor’s say about Mr. and Mrs. Slocum. Tread lightly.

We’ll be discreet. Leigh closed her file, stood, and walked back to her desk. She’d only just nestled into her new chair when her cell buzzed. The ID screen read unknown caller. Was this another hang-up? Reluctantly, she answered.

McBride.

No one spoke.

McBride, she repeated. Fire raced across her skin. Aren’t you a little old to be playing games?

Games? What makes you think I’m playing? A hard edge vibrated through the voice. Cutting and cruel. Okay. Let’s play, Jason said.

Don’t threaten me. Don’t call me. Don’t come near me. You’ll pay the price if you do. She hit the end button, tossed the phone in her top drawer, and then slammed it shut. Leaning her forehead into her hand, she closed her