Bloody Heart (Brutal Birthright #4) - Sophie Lark Page 0,89

Polish mafia and killed the head of the Bratva.

But that doesn’t mean our feud had no casualties—there’s no bringing poor Jack back from the dead.

I scan the entry for Christian Du Pont—graduated from the US Army Sniper Course in Fort Benning, one year after me. Deployed to Iraq almost the exact same time that I was there.

He’s got a decent record—a couple of commendations, three bronze stars awarded.

I never heard of him, though.

“Hey,” I say to Nero, interrupting his search of the sniper school records. “See if you can find anything else on Christian Du Pont.”

Nero starts searching that name.

“I see his sniper school records,” he says. “He beat your score on the Advanced Range test.”

“He did?”

I go over behind Nero so I can look over his shoulder at the screen. Sure enough, Christian beat me by just one point. He scored lower on Land Navigation, though.

“Is there a picture of him?” I say.

Nero pulls up a couple shots of Christian in training, though he’s hard to differentiate from the other soldiers in their helmets and gear. But then Nero finds his headshot, the one they use for military IDs.

“Holy shit,” Nero says.

We stare silently. It’s a bit like seeing a ghost. Christian and Jack Du Pont could be brothers—same strawberry blond hair and narrow blue eyes. The only difference is that Christian is younger in his photo, and his hair is buzzed.

“What’s their relation?” I ask Nero.

“Doesn’t say here, obviously,” Nero says. “But it lists his parents as Claire and Alexander Du Pont. And there’s a picture of Alexander with his brother Horace on this Yale alumni site. So looks like Jack and Christian were cousins.”

“So he blames us for getting his cousin killed. Why didn’t he do anything about it until now?”

“He only just came home,” Nero tells me. “Look at his discharge records—he was in Iraq until the start of the summer.”

“Why’d he leave?”

“It says ‘Chapter 5-13’ dismissal.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

Nero types, then reads. “Separation because of personality disorder. A ‘pre-existing maladaptive pattern of behavior of long duration that interferes with a soldier’s ability to perform his duties.’ ”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“No, it does not. Especially because he was just about to break your one-day record in Mosul.”

“You think he’s in competition with me?”

“Yeah,” Nero says, leaning back in his computer chair and folding his arms across his chest. “I do.”

“Show me his service record again,” I say.

Nero pulls it up, and I check the list of assignments, looking to see if Du Pont and I were ever in the same place at the same time. If we ever met without me remembering.

“We never served together,” I mutter. “But look at this . . .”

I point to his last deployment.

“He was in the forty-eighth two years ago.”

“So?” Nero says.

“That’s the same unit as Raylan.”

“Good,” Nero grunts. “Call him up. See what he knows.”

I do it right there and then, dialing my most recent contact number for my old friend, hoping it’s still the right one.

The phone rings and rings, then switches to voicemail, without any confirmation that it’s Raylan’s number.

Taking a chance, I say, “Long Shot, it’s me. I need your help. Call me as soon as you can.”

I hang up the phone. Nero’s still leaning back in his chair, thinking. He says, “If this Christian guy knows what actually happened in the cemetery, he’s not gonna be happy with Miko either.”

“That’s true. I’ll call Mikolaj to warn him,” I say.

I pull Kenwood’s hard drive out of my bag.

“I have another job for you,” I say. “Can you crack into this?”

“Probably,” Nero says, coolly.

“Let me know what you find."

“And what about Du Pont?” he says.

I look at Christian Du Pont’s picture on the screen—cool blue eyes. Intense stare.

“We can’t wait for him to set up his next perch,” I say. “We gotta find this fucker and flush him out.”

33

Simone

When I get back to the hotel room, I’m hoping that Henry will be working on his schoolwork with Carly. Alone.

No such luck—my parents are sitting right next to them in the little living room of the suite, my father reading, and my mother sketching in a leather-bound notebook.

They both look up as I enter the room, wearing the “I Heart Chicago” t-shirt, sweat shorts, and flip-flops.

“Where have you been?” Mama asks, eyebrows raised. She obviously thinks I was abducted by a tour bus and forced to sight-see all morning long.

My father is more suspicious. His eyes flit to the high-heeled sandals I’m carrying. At least I