Hotshot (23 page)

Jill Walczak had a secret. But she was used to keeping them in her current job as one of the highly classified civilian security forces contracted to patrol the perimeter of Area 51, anonymous guards known simply as “cammo dudes.” With a serial killer on the loose trying to stir up the alien conspiracy nuts, she couldn’t afford to relax her guard for even a second.

“Flyboy? Nothing to say?” Keeping her M4 against his head, she carefully set her flashlight aside so it illuminated his face. “Okay, then. We’ll chitchat in a minute after we take care of business. I’m not telling you another time after this. Put your hands behind your back. Slowly. Grunt if you hear me.”

“Got it,” he growled, his discarded parachute ruffling and snapping in the night wind.

One broad hand in a flight glove slid along the parched earth and tucked against his lower spine. His other hand started to move, inching a little too close to the flashlight for her peace of mind.

“Touch that flashlight, and I’ll shoot you in the wrist.”

His fingers froze.

Then he started moving his arm again, slowly, not so much as a flinch or suspicious move. Thus far he was the perfect detainee. She hoped he would stay that way.

Quickly, she set aside her weapon, locked the handcuffs around his wrists, and regained control of her M4. She was toned and trained these days, but she knew better than to underestimate the hard-muscled man in her custody. She was alone out here in the desert tonight, and she’d driven deeper into Area 51 than was normally acceptable, all because of an anonymous tip.

Was the parachuting flyboy her “something spectacular and lethal on the horizon” that would lead her to the “Killer Alien”? Four bodies—one man and three women—had shown up around Area 51 and nearby Nellis Air Force Base, all murdered in the past year, all in a manner to make it appear extraterrestrial linked.

She shivered. Desert winter nights were damn cold and desolate. But her chill settled deeper in her bones as she thought of how her friend had died.

Jill inched off her captive and scooped up her flashlight, wind kicking sand up until it stung her face. “The time for grunts has passed. Tell me what you’re doing in Dream-land.”

The flyboy kept his face down, nose to the gritty ground. “I work as a loadmaster and flight engineer in the U.S. Air Force. A cargo drop went to hell, and I got sucked out the back of the plane. The heavy wind tonight must have drifted me over into the box.”

The box. At least this aviator spoke the flyboy lingo for Area 51.

The man cleared his throat. “Hey, do you mind if I turn my face to the side?” His muffled voice rumbled low in the night air. “I’d rather not talk through a mouthful of sand.”

“Fair enough. But just your face.” She did not intend to end up like those four murdered souls, sliced like a science experiment. And around their dead bodies the killer had left an eerily undisturbed sand circle. “Slowly. Then I’ll need your name.”

She shifted her flashlight to his mug again. The more she kept the beam on him, the less visibility he would have in the dark to see her or attempt an escape. She swiped the piercing shaft of light over his face. The chill of darker thoughts eased.

Move over Hugh Jackman.

The flyboy blinked fast, his green eyes glinting as she studied him more closely. Recognition tickled the back of her brain. She looked closer, taking in the smoothly handsome face. A tuft of dark hair twisted by a cowlick ramped in front as if refusing to submit to the military cut.

Yeah, she’d seen him around, all right.

The people working top secret jobs in this region shared certain facilities as budget savers. It wasn’t uncommon to pass someone in the mess hall multiple times and have no knowledge of the other person’s job or even name . . . until now. “Who are you?”

“Tech Sergeant Mason Randolph.”

She’d heard him called a number of other things from the women dining at her table who he’d winked at, smiled at, flirted with, dated. They’d called him names like Smooth, Loverboy, and lastly, That Jackass.

Would he remember her when he wasn’t blinded by the flashlight? She ratcheted up her grasp on his cuffed wrists.

He winced beneath her. “Hey, aren’t there police brutality rules against that hold?”

“Then don’t move.”

“No worries, ma’am. I’m a lucky son of a bitch, so we’re going to be just fine.” He flashed his killer smile her way, the first time he’d turned that power on her.

She was immune.

Jill eased her knee off his back, ready to haul him up. The wind howled, tumbleweed speeding past, the parachute whipping faster, lifting. Jill yanked at the flyboy’s arm to pull him aside.

The nylon sheeted forward, toward her. She barely had time to blink before it wrapped around her and her captive.

She stumbled, her feet tangling with his. “Stay still.”

He did, but she couldn’t. Her feet shot out from under her. Cord and nylon binding them together, he fell with her, his muscled bulk sending them tumbling.

“Damn it all,” he snapped seconds before they both slammed to the ground.

His body covered hers, his leg nestling between hers. Hot breath gusted over her cheek, sending gooseflesh prickling along her skin at the possibility she could be sharing air with a monster.

She forced herself to breathe anyway. He was cuffed so she was safe. All she had to worry about was the teasing she would take at work if this part of the arrest leaked out. They were all looking for an outlet for the stress, especially with the added pressure on finding the killer and locking down security before some big shindig at Nellis Air Force Base next week. “Roll to your side, please.”

“I’ll try, but it would help if you freed your left boot from that cording that’s lashing our feet together.”

“Sure, I’m on it.” She started inching her leg away.

The ground rumbled under her with an ominous reminder that anything could happen in Area 51. What the hell? She clawed at the nylon, thrashing until finally, finally, finally the parachute swooped free of their heads.

The warning rumble in the distance increased. What if Mason Randolph wasn’t what the tipster had meant after all? His muscles tensed beneath her grip.

An explosion blossomed into a hazy red cloud on the horizon.