Scorched (7 page)

“Okay, repeat that.” He dug a notepad from his jacket and glanced around. Elizabeth handed him a pen. “And this is from her supervisor?” He jotted something down. “Call the airline. Make sure she was on the flight. Then call me back.”

He ended the call and shoved the phone in his pocket. “Kelsey Quinn didn’t show up for work today.”

Elizabeth caught the tension in his voice. “Anyone go to her place?”

“She’s not there. And no one at her work has seen her since she flew to San Diego last week to visit family. She’s got a grandmother there, apparently. And an ex-boyfriend who’s spec ops with the Navy.”

“Spec ops?”

“He’s a SEAL.”

Elizabeth stood there, digesting this, as he took out his phone again.

“Brenda? Gordon Moore here . . . No, I made it, but I need you to book me another one.” He glanced at his watch. “First thing tomorrow I need a flight to San Diego.”

•   •   •

Gage was back in the zone. He could feel it. As the C-130 climbed high into the night, he felt his worries slip toward earth and his mission crystallize in his head. His thoughts were clear, focused. His breathing was steady. He gripped the straps of the parachute in his hands and visualized exactly what he needed to do.

Gage loved night HALOs. The High Altitude Low Opening jumps gave him a rush like almost nothing else.

“Six minutes,” yelled the loadmaster.

Gage checked his gear. Although temperatures in the Mojave soared well above one hundred during the day, it was butt-ass cold in the middle of the night at twelve thousand feet. So Gage and his teammates were in desert cammies, thick wool socks, tactical boots, and insulated aviator gloves to provide warmth. Gage had modified his gloves, cutting out the right thumb and index finger to make it easier to use his weapon and cut detonator cord. He inventoried his gear. His SIG Sauer nine-mil was tucked securely at his hip, on the opposite side of his body from his KA-BAR knife. He had his M-4 strapped to his back. His pockets were stuffed with extra ammo, along with a blowout kit that contained medical supplies. He was good to go.

“Three minutes.”

The ramp at the back of the plane eased down, creating a roar throughout the aircraft. Gage and his three teammates lined up lightest to heaviest, which meant he was after Luke and Mike, but before Derek. Gage waited for the green light to appear and then stepped onto the vibrating platform. Mike disappeared, then Luke. Gage waited a beat and then plunged into the night sky.

A wall of cold air pushed against him as he hurtled toward land. On his first jump he’d clenched his teeth through this part and prayed that the guy who’d packed his chute had been paying attention. But now—nearly a thousand jumps later—Gage no longer worried about
the chute opening and spent this time instead enjoying the thrill of being a human projectile rocketing toward earth at 125 miles per hour.

At three thousand feet Gage pulled the cord. His body jerked back as the chute unfurled and caught air. He switched on his night optical device and searched for the rest of his team against the backdrop of the empty desert. The NOD enabled him and his teammates to see the infrared lights on one another’s helmets, and they maneuvered their bodies so that their canopies stacked like stair steps, which would help them land close together—but not too close.

Gage’s heart thumped steadily. He sucked in air. As they neared the landing zone, he flared his chute to control the speed of descent. The ground flew up at him and then . . .

Freaking perfection.

They were clustered on the ground together in a space no bigger than a baseball diamond. But there was no time to gloat over the kick-ass landing. Mike and Luke already had their weapons ready, holding security as Gage and Derek took off their chutes. Then it was Gage and Derek’s turn to stand guard as the other two bunched up the nylon. In a real-world op, they would break out shovels and bury their chutes out of sight of the enemy, but tonight was a training mission, and they weren’t about to risk damaging nearly ten thousand dollars’ worth of equipment. Mike and Luke stowed everything under a bush and covered it with camo netting while Gage and Derek stood guard.

In a quick huddle before takeoff, they’d debated skipping that step and letting everyone take care of their
chutes simultaneously to whittle down their time. But Gage knew his CO might be lurking in the darkness somewhere, watching their every move through night-vision goggles. He’d be waiting for one small reason to give them a failing grade on this exercise, which would mean instead of taking the five days’ leave Gage had coming to him, he’d be joining his teammates for some extra-hellacious PT work back at the base. Shortcuts didn’t pay—not in the teams.

They finished up with the chutes and checked their compasses. No GPS, as part of tonight’s purpose was to test navigation skills. Luke signaled the direction of the target and they moved out with Gage on point.

Slowly, silently, they crept through the desert. In contrast to the briny air of Coronado, the valley smelled of dust and sage. A thin layer of cloud cover and some stealth tactics would prevent them from being seen by the enemy—which tonight might be members of their own platoon ordered to try to ambush them on the way to the target. So the limited visibility was helpful, but could also lead to problems if Gage’s team botched the calculations and walked right past the target in the dark.

Tonight’s winning streak continued, though, and after an hour-long patrol in silent slow motion, they walked right up on their objective: a three-thousand-pound Tomahawk missile. According to their pre-op briefing, the weapon had missed its designated target and landed behind enemy lines without detonating. Now it was the SEALs’ job to destroy it before enemy forces could get their hands on the valuable technology or convert it into an IED that would be used against American troops.

Mike and Luke held security while Gage and Derek took a knee and got to work unloading supplies from their rucksacks. Derek took out four pounds of C-4, which looked like modeling clay and smelled like hot asphalt. As the team’s top demo man, Gage was in charge of the blasting caps, fuse igniters, and fuses. By itself, the C-4 couldn’t explode, but mishandled blasting caps could blow off a finger—or some other valued appendage—so Gage never carried them in his pants pockets. He took a deep breath now and concentrated as he unloaded everything carefully.

Derek prepped two blocks of C-4—one for each end of the missile. Gage put blasting caps into each block. Then he readied the fuse igniters, all the while thinking hard about how much he did not want to botch this up. When everything was in place, he traded looks with Derek and then pulled the lanyards attached to the fuse igniters.

“Fire in the hole!” Gage shouted.

The smell of burning cordite filled the air as they sprinted for the cover of a nearby boulder. They ducked behind the rocks and Gage checked his watch. He waited. Three . . . two . . .

Boom.

The earth shook. Debris pelted down on their helmets. Gage waited a beat to make sure the explosion was over.

“Score!” Luke said, leaping to his feet. They no longer worried about noise discipline now that their cover was literally blown to bits.

“Time to haul ass,” Gage said, and hustled out from behind the rocks. After a quick check to ensure that no
overly large missile fragments remained, they bugged out, making the two-mile trek to the pickup point in less than fifteen minutes. They exfiltrated using a different route from before, just in case the enemy had somehow discovered their tracks and set up an ambush.

Ten minutes later, they were on a helicopter headed back to base, grinning at one another like a bunch of kids who’d just won a baseball game.

Mike slouched back against the side of the helo. “I’d give my right arm for a mile-high stack of Flo’s pancakes.”

Gage’s stomach growled in response. Flo’s Diner near base was a popular breakfast spot. He and Kelsey had gone there on more than one occasion to fuel up after a marathon night.

“Cowboy omelet,” Luke said, and passed Gage a spare T-shirt to wipe off his greasepaint. “You in?”

“I’m in,” Gage said, pushing away thoughts of Kelsey. He didn’t want to believe that her broken engagement had anything to do with his good mood. And he damn sure didn’t want to think it had anything to do with his recently rediscovered ability to do his job well. This wasn’t about her. It was a good morning, simple as that. With any luck, it might end up being a good day, and maybe even a good week. Gage watched the first rays of sunlight hitting the San Bernardino Mountains and felt a lightness in his chest that had been missing for a long time.

The team was still talking about breakfast when they landed at Coronado. The base was alive with activity as new recruits grunted it out on the hard top doing morning PT. Lines of flush-faced men did sit-ups and
push-ups. SEALs in training clawed their way up the sixty-foot cargo net on the obstacle course. Not a good place to lose arm strength.

Derek slapped Gage and Mike on the back as they jogged across the base. “Let’s make this quick. I’m starved.”

They hustled to the SEAL building, where they took off their helmets and weapons and stowed them in lockers. They still had to debrief and downstage the rest of their gear before they could have so much as a cup of coffee. On the way to the briefing room, Gage turned a corner and nearly crashed into Jeff Hallenback, his new CO.

“Vaughn. Dietz.”

“Sir,” they said in unison.

“Where’s Jones?”

“He’s in the head, sir.”

“Find him and get to the briefing room, ASAP.” The CO’s gaze landed on Gage. “Brewer, come with me.”

Gage straightened his shoulders as he followed his commanding officer back across the hard top. His mind raced. The op had been flawless, but the expression on Hallenback’s face told him something was wrong.

Gage followed him inside the base’s main headquarters and down an air-conditioned corridor lined with black-and-white photographs of aircraft carriers. Gage had never been in here before, but the ball of dread forming in his gut far outweighed his curiosity.

Hallenback stopped outside a closed door and turned to face him.

“Some people here to see you.”

“Sir?”

“They’re with the FBI. Be direct. Be brief. And don’t hesitate to stop the meeting if you want legal advice. I’ve got someone I can call.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and passed it to Gage. “Clean up your face before you go in there. I’ll be down the hall.” He nodded curtly and walked away.

Gage took a second to process the orders. His ears were still ringing from the helo ride and he was covered in grime. He wiped his face and stepped through the door.

Two civilians stood in the windowless conference room. In dark suits and white shirts they looked like his-and-hers ads for Brooks Brothers.

The man stepped forward and offered a handshake.

“Lieutenant Brewer.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Take a seat.”

The woman lowered herself into a chair at the end of the table and politely crossed her legs, leaving five empty seats. Gage took the one on the other end.

The man sat in the chair directly to Gage’s right. “Do you know why you’re here, Lieutenant?”

“No idea.”

Gage dropped the “sir.” Fuck this guy if he couldn’t even be bothered to identify himself.

“We’re with the FBI,” the woman piped up. “I’m Special Agent Elizabeth LeBlanc and this is Supervisory Special Agent Gordon Moore.”

Gage watched the blonde talk, but his real focus was Moore, who was clearly the one in charge. The agent was six feet, one-eighty. His demeanor came across as relaxed, but his gaze was sharp.

He leaned back in his chair now and looked Gage up and down. “You ever met an agent, Blake Reid?”

Shit.

“In Texas, two summers ago,” Gage said.
Same time he’d met Kelsey.
“Why?”

“And do you remember the circumstances of that meeting?”

Gage gritted his teeth. He glanced at the woman—LeBlanc—who had her pencil poised above a yellow legal pad.

“I was in West Texas helping out on an archaeological dig.” This was total bullshit. Gage had been guarding the dig, at Joe’s request, after Kelsey’s team had run into trouble with some of the nastier elements along the border. Joe had sent Gage down there on a quick PSD assignment, maybe thinking a little personal security detail would be a good break from combat.

Turned out to be not much of a break, though, as Kelsey’s workers stumbled into evidence of a terrorist cell trying to infiltrate the United States. Blake’s counterterrorism team was called in to head them off, which—despite numerous fuckups—the feds managed to do.

With Gage’s help.

He stared at the two feds before him now. They were watching him closely.

“All due respect,” Gage said sarcastically, “what exactly is this about?”

The woman looked at Moore, who was trying to stare a hole through Gage. Gage folded his arms over his chest and stared right back.

The woman cleared her throat. “Agent Reid—”

“Blake Reid is dead,” Moore said flatly. “Where were you, Lieutenant Brewer, on Monday night?”

Gage’s shoulders tensed, but he didn’t blink.

“You’re telling me someone killed him?”

He nodded.

Shit.
Gage glanced at the BlackBerry sitting on the table near the woman. He wanted to call Kelsey.

“Why don’t you walk us through your whereabouts since Sunday?” Moore said, very low-key.

Unbelievable. They thought he was a suspect.

“Lieutenant?”

“I was here Sunday.” Gage’s mind was still reeling and he looked at that phone again. It was Thursday. Why hadn’t Kelsey called him? She had to be devastated. Unless—

“What time did you arrive—”

“Where’s Kelsey Quinn?” Gage demanded.

Moore just looked at him.

“Blake Reid’s fiancée—where is she?”

“
Ex
-fiancée, from what we understand.”

Gage slapped the table. “
Where
is she?”

Moore stared at him, and Gage’s blood ran cold.