dark ops 3 - Renegade (18 page)

“Of course you didn’t.” Jill leaned on her elbows, her face intense in his defense. “And Mason also doesn’t have the money to hire that kind of hit.”

Mason had to be honest. “I used to, though.”

Scanlon swept off his glasses again. “Are you trying to land in jail?”

They would find out anyway once they looked into his past. Scanlon would already know, since he’d seen his file, complete with background checks. “My family is loaded, but I don’t have any of their money. I live off what I earn.”

Barrera closed up his pad and slid it back into his jacket. “Thanks for the heads-up. We’ll look into your family’s finances, and yours, of course, if you have no objection.”

It wouldn’t matter if he did. Yet again, he was glad he’d never taken a penny from his parents since he’d walked out their front door with his new bride. “Go ahead and look.”

Barrera smiled for the first time, and damned if it didn’t seem genuine. “It’s just a formality, since you already have an alibi.”

Scanlon scooted his chair back, his face resolute. “Let’s assume for a moment that there was a plane about to be unveiled next week that could travel fast enough to bust those alibis.”

Rex pulled off his glasses and sagged behind his office desk. Talk about a shit day. He’d been so focused on the flight, he’d been completely blindsided by the whole serial killer issue. He pitched his glasses on his desk beside a stack of performance reports waiting to be reviewed.

Thank heaven he’d gotten the clearance to tell the basics about the hypersonic jet to a select few investigators. Hell, more was actually out there on the Internet, hypothesized in articles written by unofficial sources. Still, it rankled having to reveal even part of the project ahead of schedule.

Bottom line, lives wouldn’t be lost by telling a couple of investigators four days early. But lives could be lost by holding back information that could be vital. He’d paired up the cops’ time lines with the TDY schedules on the three dozen people who’d worked on the craft, including flying in the cargo hold and running maintenance. At least Mason Randolph could be officially crossed off the list, since he actually had been out of the country, incontrovertibly, when two of the attacks occurred.

So far there were three who could use another look, but his gut told him they were as honest as they appeared. Except in this case, it wasn’t up to just his gut. It was in Barrera’s investigative hands.

So why not go home?

Because his gut was also still kicking up a storm over one simple second during the interview in the vault. He couldn’t stop thinking about when he’d offhandedly said the link to Randolph was so flimsy the people—the next victim—could be tied to others on the base, including him. An image of Livia Cicero had flashed to mind, hard and fast and as vivid as the woman herself.

He pulled out his cell phone. He’d tucked Mason and the lady camo cop in the distinguished visitors’ quarters on base, rooms reserved for visiting colonels and generals. Not your typical Residence Inn sort of setup, but more of a luxury apartment with the added protection of being within the protective walls of a military base. The rooms would be secure and not a place someone would look for a sergeant since the particular space was reserved for senior officer members. He’d even had one of his people round up a change of clothes for both of them.

He could see the wisdom behind Barrera’s idea to use the two of them as bait when the time was right. Randolph and Walczak were both trained and hired to protect. But damned if Rex would give his thumbs-up to some half-cocked scheme.

Thank goodness Barrera and Gallardo had seen the wisdom of taking the time to devise a solid plan. This could be their one shot to catch this killer. Meanwhile, Randolph and his new girlfriend would stay tucked safely away.

Once he’d seen to that, he’d run a call-out to check on everyone in the squadron, under the guise of a practice run so as not to arouse any suspicions. Everyone was safe and accounted for. His thumb stroked over the keys. Almost everyone. Why not check on Livia? He had nothing to lose by calling and a helluva lot to regret if something happened to her.

He dialed the number he’d programmed into memory back during a trip to Turkey when he’d been in charge of keeping up with the Italian diva. While the phone connected, he creaked back in his chair, surrounded by walls packed with hangings. His diploma from Virginia Military Institute was framed, along with going away gifts from eight bases, usually a sketch of the plane with a squadron patch, the matting signed by people he’d worked with. Could this be his last base? The last place to add to his wall collection?

The phone rang for the fourth time, and he started to disconnect, reconsidering—

“Hello?” a groggy voice answered, a husky female voice with a distinctive accent.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up.” His eyes fell to the sofa where he napped with a pillow from his Virginia Military Institute alma mater. He’d caught a lot of ribbing down the years over the kangaroo mascot, but his boys had enjoyed playing with it every time they’d come to visit. Heather had brought them up often, along with supper when he’d worked late. More often than not. How well would he have known his boys if she hadn’t made that effort for him?

“This is Rex Scanlon,” he added belatedly.

“I know your voice.” A mattress creaked through his earpiece, spiking his pulse rate. “I wasn’t sleeping that deeply. I have trouble making the time zone adjustment. Now that you called, I’m not restless and bored.”

“We certainly wouldn’t want you to be bored.”

“Oh, Colonel,” she tut-tutted. “Why did you call me if you are just going to be grumpy?”

He spun his glasses around on his desk and thought of the time in Turkey when Livia Cicero had boldly asked him if he’d ever considered wearing contact lenses—or at least new frames. “I, uh, wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

“I could use a decaf double latte, but other than that, I am much the same as I always am.”

Time to stop toying around. He nudged his glasses aside. “There’s a serial killer on the loose.”

Her sigh shuddered through the phone. “That’s horrible, but you already told me that when I came by your home.”

“He struck again.” Thank God Randolph had been with Jill Walczak.

“Dio mio!”
Any flirtatiousness evaporated from her voice. “That poor, poor person.”

“No one died this time, thank God, but there’s evidence it’s the guy.” He traced the folder Barrera had given him. “I wanted to make sure you’re on alert.”

“Because I am so reckless about my safety?”

“Because I was worried about you, damn it,” he blurted, then winced at how loudly he’d spoken. At least he’d closed his door, even though there were only a couple of diehards in the squadron this late.

“Ah, you are grumpy when you care.”

He winced again. There shouldn’t be anything wrong with caring about people. Rex adjusted the cube photo holder on his desk. Images of his sons growing up filled the six blocks, the last one taken two years ago when they’d learned to ski. They’d sent the framed cube for his Christmas gift, telling him they hoped he was ready to have family pictures in his workspace again.

His boys didn’t look that much younger than Livia. “Maybe you should hang out at Chuck Tanaka’s.”

She went silent.

Suspicion nipped. “What? Is he there now?” He closed his eyes, embarrassed as hell. “Sorry to have bothered—”

“No one is here,” she spoke quickly, as if she genuinely cared that he was an instant away from hanging up. “He is busy with his new girlfriend and his physical therapy. I am completely alone in my hotel suite.”

Now there was an image he didn’t need. “Is your door locked?”

“Locked, bolted, and chained.” Her voice went soft. “I didn’t come here just to see Chuck.”

“That’s right. You’re accompanying your family friend to the gathering next week.” Hey, wait. Chuck had a girlfriend? Rex focused on Livia’s voice.

“Again, the general is not my main reason for being here, although it gives me a convenient excuse so I do not feel like an idiot if other plans do not work.”

This woman’s convoluted conversation was giving him a headache on a day that prompted the headache to end all. “What other plans?”

“I was hoping that you and I could go on a date.”

The phone almost slipped from his hand. “You’re joking.”

“Not a very nice thing to say when I put my emotions on my shirt cuff, Colonel.”

“Shirt sleeve,” he corrected, delaying, damn it.

“Thank you, but I believe you understand my meaning. And your answer?”

She was dismantling his walls fast, but defense was his specialty. “You’re only interested in me because you think you can’t have me.”

“If that is true, then your best way to get rid of me is to accept my offer for a date.”

He laughed, brief and hoarse from lack of practice. Who could defend against a sense of humor? “You have some twisted logic.”

“What’s your answer?” A hint of vulnerability slipped into her tone. Accidental or a deliberate ploy to sway him?

Either way, it worked. And there was one way to make sure the woman stayed safe. “I have a full day at work tomorrow, but I can pick you up at six.”

“Oh, that’s perfect. I don’t eat supper until later anyway.”

“Six in the
morning
, for
breakfast
. Take it or leave it.” His invitation was so rude, even he was ashamed. But not embarrassed enough to say anything more. This was about keeping her safe, then scaring her off. Nothing more.

Her husky laugh mocked him, utterly feminine and knowing. “It’s a date.”

What a bizarre date with Mason.

Jill curled up on the sofa in the temporary quarters at Nellis Air Force Base where they’d been sequestered for safety, a guard dog from Uncle Phil curled up at her feet. He’d insisted on the extra protection and refused to let her tell him anything about her plans. He’d said it was safer that way in case any aliens were in search of her location to take them up to their mother ship.

The two-year-old Rottweiler-mystery mix stirred under her hand as she patted his head. He sniffed the air, checking from side to side before he settled his muzzle on his paws again with a huff.

Jill looked through the open archway into the kitchen, where Mason stood at the microwave in his flight suit and socks. “I can’t believe you got them to agree to having a dog in here.”

“I didn’t tell anyone.”

“Can’t you get in trouble for that?”

“I could, but it’s not like our names are even on the registration, and we hung the sign out there for no maid service.”

The place looked nice, a fully decked-out three-bedroom apartment designated for visiting colonels and generals. Sure, it wasn’t the Ritz, but it had some pretty colonial-looking pieces of furniture in a dark cherry-wood. Definitely a step up from the industrial furnishings she’d come to expect in any government-funded building. “As long as you’re certain.”

And as long as they were safe. No one but the OSI and his boss knew where they were. They had a guard and watchdog. She had to admit, it chafed being protected rather than providing that security. She’d always imagined herself as the one dispensing justice with her service revolver in hand and a knee in the guy’s back. She’d never pictured herself as the helpless bait trotted out to tempt a psychotic murderer.

Although she had to admit, she was starting to get a feel for the “helpless” thing as her eyes wandered over Mason’s shoulders encased in his flight suit. The magnetic pull of the man was going to be hard to resist when they were, in a sense, quarantined together all over again.

The microwave dinged and he pulled out two blue ceramic mugs. “You assured me the dog is well-trained. I hope you weren’t lying.”

“Rottweilers get a bad rap because they look so scary people have used them as guard dogs—some have even abused their strength and used them as attack dogs.” She stroked her canine protector’s silky ears. “But they can be very loyal friends. They’re also very smart and trainable in the right hands.”