Sudden Death (8 page)
Authors: Allison Brennan
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Suspense, #Thrillers
“Fuck off.”
Jack grabbed Enrique by the collar. The kid smelled of beer and marijuana. His red eyes blinked rapidly, and he worked his mouth without speaking.
“Carlos told me you had a nice chat with her. I want to know what you said, what she said.”
“Let him go,” Pablo said. “I don’t want trouble. Please, Señor Jack, just talk.”
Jack let go of Enrique’s shirt. “Spill it.”
Enrique shrugged, rolled his shoulders, picked up his beer. “She bummed a cigarette off me.”
“I want the pack.”
Enrique barked out a laugh. “That was two packs ago. Check the landfill.”
“Did she use your lighter?”
“She had her own. She lit mine.” Enrique reached under his waistband and did an elaborate show of adjusting his dick.
“Name?”
“Didn’t say.”
“Carlos says you chatted her up.”
Enrique shrugged. “Whatever.”
“Did Scout talk to her?”
“Dunno.”
Jack’s fists clenched. He resisted the urge to deck the bastard. “Did she talk about Scout? Friends or family in town?”
“Why? You think she killed him?”
Jack didn’t answer. He stared at Enrique.
Enrique shrugged again, drained the rest of his beer, and motioned for another.
“She didn’t ask anything. Just talked about how much she liked traveling and sitting in local bars. I asked her to dance, she said no, that was it.”
Jack didn’t know what to make of the information, and he knew there was more to it than small talk. “Carlos said you talked to her for quite some time.”
“Fuck Carlos, he’s a liar. He came up when I was just about to get a peek down at her tits. She had these nice”—he cupped his hands—“C cups. Smaller than I like, but her shirt was cut to here”—he touched his chest—“and there was this nice tan line.”
“What color shirt?”
“White. She was too skinny for me; I like some meat on my women.” He made a motion like he was grabbing ass. Jack bit back a comment, and asked, “Hair? Eyes?”
“Dunno. Two?” He laughed at his own pathetic joke.
This was going nowhere. “Carlos talked to her?”
“He came over and hit on her. Told me to scram. I told him to fuck off, then went to take a piss. Came back and Carlos was gone. She was there, paying. I went over, she said she had to go. Early appointment or some such garbage. I thought she might be meeting up to screw Carlos, but ten minutes after she left, Carlos comes back in with his boys.” Enrique leaned over and said in a stage whisper, “I think he was just feeling her out to see if she was a cop.”
“Cop?” Jack raised his eyebrow. “You thought she was a cop?”
“Hell no, but you know how paranoid Carlos is.”
“Shut the fuck up, you drunk fool.”
Jack pivoted on his barstool. Carlos stood behind them with two of his punks—both bigger than the youngest Hernandez.
“You told me you didn’t talk to the woman.” Jack slowly rose from the seat.
“I don’t have to tell you anything, you fucking half-breed.”
Jack stood his ground. “How long was this woman around here?”
“She left. Early. Long before your drunk
gringo
comrade.”
Jack stepped forward, wanting too much to slam his fist in Carlos Hernandez’s nose. “If I find out you’re lying to me, Hernandez . . .”
“You going to tell the priest on me?” he mimicked. “He your boyfriend?”
The three laughed. Jack started to walk out. He was too close to letting loose. Too close to letting the demons out. And Carlos wouldn’t survive.
Art Perez walked into the bar, a deputy at his side. Could the chief of police not go anywhere alone? Jack stopped when Perez blocked his path.
“I hear you’ve been sticking your nose into my investigation,” Perez said.
“I’m not interfering with your investigation.”
“You dragged Pablo Hernandez out of bed, then beat up his little brother in the middle of the street.”
“Damn straight,” Carlos said from the bar. “Arrest him, Officer!” He laughed and everyone around him joined in.
Jack said, “Scout was one of my men. I will find out what happened.”
“Maybe you brought trouble back with you from Guatemala.” Perez glared. “Yeah, I know all about you and the other soldiers of fortune here. I also know a bit about your good friend Frank Cardenas. You might want to think about that, Kincaid. Frank’s history may not go over well with some of the people here, and if enough of them flood the diocese with complaints—well, let’s just say he may find a nice post in the cold Alaska diocese after I’m done.”
Jack had always known that Perez was a bastard, but this was low even for him. The police chief was baiting him, waiting for Jack to throw a punch so he could arrest him. Waiting for him to react. Jack froze. He would do Scout no good in jail.
“Stay out of police business. I know how to do my job.” Perez stepped forward, toe to toe. Jack didn’t budge. He barely breathed. “And leave Carlos Hernandez alone, or it’s war. Ten years living here is nothing, Kincaid. You’re still the outsider, and I’m still the hometown boy made good.”
Perez left. Carlos and his two cronies followed. Jack turned back, glared at Enrique, and slapped his hand on the bar, rattling every glass underneath.
Pablo slid a Tecate over to him. “On me. Sorry about Scout, Señor Jack. Really.” He ambled off down the bar.
Jack breathed out slowly. He took a long swallow of the beer, tasting nothing. He glanced up at the television. There was no sound, but the tag on a photo of some capitol building read
“
THREE DEAD SOLDIERS.”
“Pablo!” he shouted. “Turn up the TV!”
Pablo obliged, and the ancient Zenith TV behind the bar blasted into life. The fuzzy channel at least had clear sound.
The reporter was saying, “So far, three men in three different states, all U.S. Army veterans, have been found dead—execution style.” Pictures of three soldiers in uniform flashed on the screen, but the images weren’t clear enough for Jack to make them out. He could tell, however, that Scout wasn’t one of them.
“According to the Austin Police Department, the Federal Bureau of Investigation has taken an active role in the case, sending two agents from Washington, D.C., to assist local authorities in tracking who may be the first serial killer targeting our armed forces. . . .”
Serial killer?
Scout?
Jack didn’t want to believe it, but he couldn’t deny that Scout was killed execution style. Except the report said nothing about hamstringing. Jack knew the police routinely didn’t share all details of a crime with the public.
The reporter continued. “If anyone has information about these crimes, please contact Detective José Vasquez with the Austin Police Department at . . .”
Jack left. Austin P.D. be damned. He was going straight to the top.
He sat in his truck and called Washington, D.C. His brother Dillon was living with a fed. And dammit, Jack would pull every string and make any promise if it led to justice for Scout.
For the first time since he’d seen Scout’s body, Jack believed he had a decent shot at finding his friend’s killer.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
The VFW Hall that Duane Johnson had frequented every Monday night for a poker game was located on the dilapidated side of the Austin business district. As José Vasquez drove Meg and Hans across town, the scent of thunderstorms hung in the air even though the colorful, sunset-hued sky was clear. Megan was exhausted. This was their last stop before checking into a hotel Agent Davis had secured for them.
The hall was more than half full, with the majority of patrons in their late fifties and sixties. Vietnam era, Megan thought. Still, a decent number of men were in their thirties. And while women had a larger role in today’s armed forces, there were only a handful in the establishment.
Taking the lead, Vasquez led Megan and Hans over to two men sitting at a table on the far side of the back room. Two of three pool tables were in use.
“Reggie, Norris, meet Special Agent Elliott and Dr. Vigo from the FBI. They’re here to help find Duane’s killer.”
Reggie was as white as Norris was black. He was tall, skinny, around forty years of age; Norris was tall, linebacker-wide, and at least sixty, if not older. He also had only one eye, but it didn’t miss anything. Both were drinking draft beer.
“Hmm,” Norris said.
“Skeptical?” Hans asked.
Norris shrugged. “Been a couple months.”
Megan sat down next to the men. “Sometimes it takes awhile, but neither Hans nor I are backing down.”
“Yep.”
Megan tried a different tack. “Where were you stationed?” she asked.
“Fort Meade,” Reggie said. “Spent three years in Iraq.”
Norris stared. “Ord.” He sipped his beer.
Meg nodded. “California. I know it.”
Norris raised an eyebrow. “It’s closed.”
“Right. In 1994. I lived there when I was ten. My father moved around a lot.”
“Army brat.”
“One of the brattiest.”
Reggie chuckled. “Somehow, I don’t see that.”
“Just ask my brother. He was so fed up with army brats that he joined the navy.” She rolled her eyes.
The men laughed, and Megan breathed easier.
“You really think you can catch Duane’s killer?” Norris asked doubtfully.
“Yes,” Megan said. “I don’t give up.”
“Easily?”
“I don’t give up.” She had a few cold cases on her desk that she still worked. She hated to lose; she hated more to have a killer walking free while his victims were six feet under.
“We told the detective everything we know.”
“My partner, Hans Vigo, and I have some questions. They might sound strange.”
“Did Vasquez say you’re a doctor?”
Hans shrugged. “Depends how you define ‘doctor.’ I have a Ph.D.” Hans had three, but Megan didn’t elaborate. “I might be able to save you if you start choking on peanuts, but if you need emergency brain surgery, you’re dead meat.”
The men laughed again, and Hans sat next to Megan.
“What do you want to know?” Reggie asked. “We told Vasquez everything about Duane. He plays poker with us on Monday nights—that’s when his restaurant is closed. He’s known for his ribs, but it’s the hamburgers that bring me out on payday.”
“We’re a tight bunch here. We’d notice strangers hanging around,” Norris said. “Nothing bizarre or out of the ordinary for as long as I can remember. Duane was a good guy. Paid his taxes. Loved his kids. Hell, he even loved his ex-wife. Dawn was a good woman, they just couldn’t live together, you know?”
“They were still getting it on,” Reggie said.
“Shut up, kid,” Norris said.
Reggie waved his hand in the air. “Duane wouldn’t care. What do you think, that Dawn had something to do with his murder? Not a chance.”
Megan said, “What I’m really interested in is Duane’s military background.”
Both men grew serious. “Why?” Norris asked.
“Have you seen the news? Two other veterans have been murdered in a similar manner.”
“You mean that homeless vet in Sacramento?” Norris said. “Just saw that tonight, before you walked in. There wasn’t much to the story. Just that police thought it might be connected with Duane’s case, but they didn’t give us shit in the report. Same as we been hearing for the last two months. No offense, José.”
“None taken.”
“So you remember the news story?” Hans asked, one eyebrow raised.
“ ‘There, but for the grace of God, go I,’ ” Norris quoted.
“I was at the crime scene,” Megan said. “George Price is my case.”
“And that’s connected to Duane?” Reggie asked. “How?”
“There are three victims, all were army, all with multiple tours, and thus far there are about ten years of overlapping enlistment. We’re trying to find any common posts or assignments.”
“It wasn’t just a random act of violence?”
“No,” Megan and Hans said simultaneously.
Hans added, “Someone is targeting specific veterans. He will kill again if we can’t figure out the connection and stop him.”
Reggie and Norris drank their drafts simultaneously. “What do you want to know?” Norris finally said. “We don’t just sit here and talk about our lives like this is Oprah’s studio.”
Megan nodded. “You probably know where Duane served.”
Reggie nodded. “He did basic at Fort Bragg.”
Megan made the note. “1982.”
“About right. If that’s what his records say, that’s probably right,” Reggie said. “He did a tour in Desert Storm.”
“Do you remember when?”
“First year—ninety. I enlisted that year, but didn’t get over there until ninety-one. He was gone by then.”
“He was in Afghanistan for a spell,” Norris said. “Went back voluntarily.”
“A lot of the guys do,” Reggie said.
“Somalia,” Norris said. “He was Delta.”
That was a revelation. Special Operations. Were Price and Perry Special Ops as well? Megan made a note to find out.
“Fort Bragg?” Hans asked.
“That’s what I said.” Norris said it in such a way that Megan was certain Norris knew for sure. There were only two or three bases the army’s elite Delta Force operated from.
“Did Duane mention either Dennis Perry or George Price to either of you?”
Reggie shook his head. “If he did, I don’t remember. But if you’re in the same unit, most guys don’t use the name your mama gave you. I was Apollo from day one.”
“Apollo?” Megan asked. “I don’t think I’ve heard a Greek god used as a nickname before.”
“Not everyone gets shot in the foot first day in basic,” Reggie said. “Fucking big-city prick never held a gun before in his life—
bang—
takes out my big toe.” He slipped off his shoe and showed everyone his four-toed left foot.
Norris shook his head. “He gets a kick out of that story. I still think you shot yourself in the foot.”
“Fuck you,” Reggie said in a jovial tone.
“One more question,” Megan said. “Can you remember anything Duane might have mentioned about an operation gone bad? Something that might have generated bad will?”
“Nope,” Norris said. “He took an honorable discharge in 2004. Had near twenty years, I think. Good pension, opened up the restaurant. If he had a bad op—and I sure had one or ten, we all did—he didn’t talk about it. Duane was one of the good guys. Fought for his country, didn’t whine about it, had a nice family, ran his business, and did some charity work for . . . what group was it Reggie?”
“An at-risk youth group. I don’t remember the name. But he’d go speak at high schools about joining the military instead of gangs or dropping out of school. There was even a write-up in the paper about him a year or so ago—nice spread, too.”
Megan thanked them for their time, got their numbers in case she or Hans had follow-up questions, and they left. Vasquez dropped them off at the hotel. Hans and Megan sat in the nearly empty restaurant before they checked in, both of them famished.
While waiting for their meals, they discussed their notes and observations, but their meals had just been served when Hans’s cell phone rang.
He excused himself and left the restaurant. Megan thought it was odd, but dug into her meal realizing she hadn’t eaten since a quick pastry at the airport as she boarded the plane before eleven. It had been another long day.
Her phone rang. It was a restricted number. “Hello,” she answered.
“Megan, J. T. Caruso.”
“Got news?”
“Price was stationed at Fort Bragg and attached to Delta Force, Special Operations.”
“I know about Delta.” She dropped her fork and grabbed her notebook. Her heart raced as she said, “The first victim was Delta out of Fort Bragg.”
J.T. continued. “Price went AWOL when his commanding officer, Lieutenant Kenneth Russo, charged him with assault and attempted murder. He hasn’t been seen since.”
“Attempted murder?”
“It was nasty and political. From what I’ve heard—and this is not public information, and the army will deny it, so it’s FYI only—five years ago, Russo was assigned an operation to extract a Taliban leader who was quietly seeing a prostitute outside Kabul. Price was assigned to his team.”
“I thought the purpose of Delta was to create teams of men who worked together and trained together, not put together randomly.”
“Generally, that’s true. I don’t know the details of this operation, I just know this was the first time Price was under Russo’s command.” He paused. “I put out a message for Kane to see if he’s familiar with either Russo or Price or that operation, but it may take him a couple days to make contact.”
Kane Rogan, one of the three Rogan partners in Rogan-Caruso, worked out of the country extensively on sensitive projects for business and governments. Megan remembered he’d done time in the military, but she had no idea in what capacity.
“I appreciate it,” Megan said.
“A few months after they returned stateside from this failed mission,” J.T. continued, “Price and Russo got into a fight in the barracks. Price supposedly pulled a knife, stabbed Russo, and ran. Russo was in surgery for a couple hours, and when he recovered, he retired.”
“And now Price is dead.”
“So is Russo.”
“What?” Megan straightened. “When?”
“Last summer. Robbery. Shot multiple times.”
“Where?”
“When he retired, he moved to Florida. I’ll email you the stats.”
“You’re incredible.”
“So I’ve been told. Do you think there’s a connection?”
“The first victim was stationed at Fort Bragg. I’m waiting to hear on the second victim. But I’m putting my money on the same background.”
“Oh, I almost forgot.”
“I doubt that.”
“Price didn’t die of a gunshot wound. They did the autopsy. He had a heart attack. He was dead or close to it when he was shot.”
“Then why shoot him?” Megan pondered.
“That’s your arena, darling. I just supply the facts. Maybe they didn’t know he was dead, or thought he might recover if someone found him quickly.”
“Would you know he was dead?”
“I’m special.”
“These killers would know.”
“If you say so.”
Megan frowned. How did it all fit together? “Thanks, J.T.”
“I’ll let you know if I hear from Kane, but I don’t know if he’ll be able to shine any more light on the situation.”
“I owe you one.”
“I think we’re up to twenty-two, but who’s counting?”
“Ha.”
“Anytime, Meg. Watch your back.” He hung up.
Megan shut her cell phone. J.T. walked a fine line between legal and illegal security work, but he was her brother Matt’s closest friend. Megan didn’t know everything that had happened between J.T. and Matt, but they would move heaven and earth for each other, and that included helping her out.
Hans sat down and Megan told him everything in a rush. “We need to contact the Orlando FBI office and have them look into the circumstances of Russo’s murder. That may be the beginning. He may have been the first victim.”
“We should do that,” he said absently, and Megan said, “You didn’t hear a word I said.”
“I did. Sorry. That was a friend, Dr. Dillon Kincaid. He’s a civilian consultant with the FBI and I’ve worked with him on several cases.”
“He’s helping us on this?”
“Now he is. His brother just contacted him. We might have another victim.”
“Who? Where?”
“Former Sergeant Major Lawrence Bartleton, now a soldier for hire based in Hidalgo, Texas. Dillon’s brother Jack runs a small mercenary group focused on rescue missions and foreign hostage situations. Jack was Delta, as was Bartleton. This is our first real lead, with people who have an in with the victims and might give us something tangible we can work with.”
“Did the local police call it in?”
“There’s a bit of a problem with the local police.”
“Dammit, we can’t just walk in there and take over. It’s just not done that way anymore. And they don’t have to give us anything.”
“True, but the police chief isn’t pursuing the same investigation. He’s following a personal vendetta against Kincaid’s group by running with the idea that one of the rebels Kincaid ticked off in Guatemala or some such country is behind the murder. Kincaid saw the news report on the other victims, and made contact. He’s willing to help us. We need it.”
Megan didn’t like the idea of walking into a small town and taking over an investigation, officially or unofficially, but as she learned from J.T., she had no easy access to the military and their methods. How could she find out how these men were connected without inside information? While she could get name, rank, and serial number—and not much more—through proper channels, any personnel records would take time—a commodity they didn’t have. It had been less than seventy-two hours since George Price was killed in Sacramento. The killers had escalated exponentially. Two months, two weeks, two days. Having a real in, someone like this Jack Kincaid, might be their only hope to stop two killers who had killed four, maybe five times, with impunity.
“When are we leaving?”
Hans grabbed two rolls from the bread bowl and stood. “Now.”
CHAPTER
TWELVE
It was dark while Jack sat in the cab of his truck outside El Gato watching who came and went, waiting for Dillon to call back about the possible serial killer. Jack called a Delta buddy Scott Gray, who now worked for the Rangers, and filled him in on the murder in Hidalgo on the Q.T. While local authorities could work their own murder investigations, generally the small towns like Hidalgo would call in either the county or, more commonly, the Texas Rangers to work the case. Scott confirmed what Jack suspected: Art Perez had not contacted them about Scout’s murder.
“But we’re interested,” Scott said. “I’ll pass this up the chain of command, but I suspect someone will be down there tomorrow.”
“I’m having some problems with the chief of police,” Jack said without further explanation.
“I got a call from a reporter,” Scott said with a wink in his voice.
“Thanks. Let me know if you need anything. I contacted my brother, who’s affiliated with the FBI. I’m waiting to hear how they’re involved.”
“If it’s the Hamstring Killer, the feds are all over it. I heard two agents were in Austin today.”
Jack thanked Scott for his help and hung up. He watched Deputy Ripa leave the bar. As usual, he’d drunk too much and was ripe for conversation. Jack had gotten some of his best information from Ripa after a night out. He needed to find out what evidence, if any, had been collected at Scout’s house. This mysterious brunette had captured Jack’s interest, especially if it was the same woman who’d approached Padre. Had she been sent to make sure Scout was alone? To keep Padre occupied? The priest often went to El Gato near closing to take care of Scout and any others who had drunk too much. Or were they not connected at all? Was Jack reading too much into the situation?
Right now, he needed to gather intelligence so he could create a plan. Intelligence, plan, execution.
He opened his truck door quietly and said, “Ripa.”
“Go away, Kincaid. You’re going to get me in trouble with Perez.” The deputy still wore his sidearm. Guns and alcohol were a dangerous combination. Jack kept his guard up.
“Perez is doing nothing about Scout’s murder. Where’s the evidence?”
“The station. And he is working it. He traced Scout’s last week. He says you brought the trouble to Hidalgo, it’s not on his head.”
“Do you watch TV?”
“What?” Ripa swayed a bit, squared his feet. “I gotta go. If Perez hears I even told you to fuck off, he’ll be in my face. I don’t need that shit. I got an ex-wife and kid to support.”
“What happened to Scout had nothing to do with Guatemala.”
“I don’t care. I just don’t want trouble.” He burped loudly.
“Where’d he send Scout’s body?”
Ripa blinked. He hadn’t expected the question, and it was obvious to Jack he wasn’t lying when he said, “I don’t know. I guess Edinburg, or McAllen. Why?”
Jack didn’t trust Perez with the investigation into Scout’s murder, but he’d follow proper procedures with Scout’s body. There was no morgue or coroner in Hidalgo; they generally sent autopsies to the county seat. Jack would go up there first thing in the morning and talk to the coroner. He hoped the feds didn’t screw it up. Jack usually got the information he wanted, but he knew that the FBI and other government bureaucrats went in with attitudes that sometimes didn’t go over so good down here in south Texas.
Jack told Ripa, “I’ve been all over town and back and talked to everyone at the bar last night. Where has Perez been? Who’s he talking to?”
“I told you.” The bar door opened and Ripa said loudly, “Get out of my face, Kincaid, or I’ll arrest you.”
“On what charge?”
Two of Perez’s cronies came out.
Abbott and Costello,
Jack thought.
“Arrest him, Ripa,” the tall jerk said. The squat one laughed.
Jack’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He ignored it and said, “Thanks for nothing, Ripa.” Though he confirmed what he suspected: Art Perez was doing next to nothing to find out who killed Scout; worse, he was mucking up any legitimate investigation by not sending the evidence to the Ranger’s state-of-the-art lab. Jack knew why: Hidalgo City would be charged for the services, and Perez ran the police department on a tight budget. The chief of police would wait until the Rangers came on their own. Suddenly, it was clear to Jack: it was all about the money. If the Rangers came in and took over the case, Perez wouldn’t have to pay for it. If he asked for help, half came out of the city coffers.
Jack mentally berated himself for not figuring it out earlier. But now he had a card to play.
He got in his truck, ignoring the stares of Ripa and the Abbott and Costello lookalikes, and drove off. He missed his call, so he retrieved his phone and hit Send. It was Dillon.
“What do you have?”
“The two agents in charge of the Hamstring Killer investigation are currently in Austin, Texas. I talked to my friend Hans Vigo. He and Agent Megan Elliott are flying to McAllen as soon as they get to the airport. He figures two hours.”
“I’ll be there.”
“I gave Hans your cell phone number.”
“Fine.”
“He’s good. He was part of the FBI effort to identify Lucy’s kidnapper. Just—” Dillon didn’t say anything else.
“I won’t be pushed aside.”
“That’s what I told Hans. He’s fine with it, Jack. He said they need an in. You can trust him.”
“Hmm.”
“You can trust him like you can trust me.”
“And this Elliott?”
“Don’t know her, but Hans says she’s good.”
“Thanks, Dillon.”
“I can come down.”
“Not necessary.”
“If you need another set of legs or just to run a theory past, call me.”
Jack would normally deflect any offers of help. He had his team, men he’d trained or retrained to suit him, and he didn’t want or need anyone else. But already he had two feds on the way, and Dillon did have an expertise that Jack didn’t. More than that, Dillon was his brother. Jack had to remember family helped each other, both ways.
“I will,” he said. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
Jack hung up and made a U-turn. It was less than thirty minutes to McAllen, so Jack had time to stop by Scout’s. Jack had been a soldier long enough that he could read a scene as well or better than any cop. Perez wasn’t sharing information with him, so Jack had to find out what happened on his own.
It was ten at night with thunderheads obscuring the moon, minimizing the chances of anyone seeing him. If a neighbor spotted him, Jack was fine. If Perez had a patrol out on Scout’s street, Jack might have some trouble.
He parked around the corner from Scout’s house and walked casually along the street. Crime scene tape had been woven around the porch railing. There was a seal on the front door. No patrol car in sight. Jack walked around back while slipping on gloves.
There was a police seal on the back door, but Jack knew that Scout didn’t lock any of the sunroom windows. The police hadn’t even checked. Jack was inside in less than ten seconds.
The smell of Scout’s violent death hung in the stifling house, retaining the heat of the day. Jack looked around the sunroom, didn’t see anything out of place, and walked the house with a flashlight.
Scout was a patriot through and through, and did whatever Uncle Sam had asked him to. It was that blind loyalty, however, that Jack was certain had led to some actions that Scout couldn’t deal with, and that had led to his drinking. Yet when Jack told him to sober up, they had a job, Scout did just that. Maybe it was Jack’s fault. He’d let Scout do what he wanted when they didn’t have an assignment—maybe he should have ordered him to stop drinking or he was off the team. Maybe he should have showed him some tough love.
Shit. Nineteen years and Scout was gone. If it had been in the field, Jack could have handled it better. Scout always expected to die doing what he loved. Maybe took too many risks because of it. But to die with a bullet in the back of the head? Naked and hamstrung? Jack wanted to snap the neck of the bastard who did it. Who took away Scout’s dignity before he killed him.
Still, something about the scene had bothered Jack from the minute he walked in earlier that day, and now he hoped to figure out what it was.
He went to the front door. The blood spatter told Jack that Scout had been hamstrung just inside his living room. Enough time to walk in, close the door . . . There was no sign of a struggle, save for a broken lamp near the door that could have fallen if Scout tried to grab on to something when he fell. Jack followed the trail of blood to the kitchen, where Scout had been duct-taped to a chair for an unknown length of time, before the tape had been cut. Scout had been pushed or fell to the floor. Shot in the back of the head. The sight was burned into Jack’s head.
Scout had been drunk. His reaction time may have been slow, but his instincts always stayed sharp. Like Jack, he wouldn’t walk into a dark house, even his own, without caution. Pausing. Listening for a breath, a heartbeat. Sensing movement, heat, the faint expel of air from an enemy’s lungs. Sniffing for adrenaline, cologne, the smell of something
different.
Jack closed his eyes and used his other senses to try and figure out what had bothered him earlier in the day.
The stench of death that Jack had been ignoring came rushing in. Death and fear. He walked through the small house. If he were a killer, he would have secured the building, made sure no one was inside.
Ten minutes later, Jack was frustrated. He went back to the kitchen and stared at the dried pool of blood on the floor. “Dammit, Scout. Who did this?”
He pictured Scout lying on the floor. He had avoided looking at his friend’s dead body as much as possible. But now he couldn’t get it out of his mind.
And suddenly he knew.
Scout hadn’t been wearing his dog tags. He always wore them, even in the shower. Or, Jack should say,
it.
The second tag had been torn off on Scout’s last mission when he’d broken his back and couldn’t walk out. He was left for three hours before his team could return to him.
“I only have two lives, Jack. I used up one.”
To verify that Jack wasn’t imagining it, he went to Scout’s bedroom and bathroom and shined his light around on the off chance Scout had taken the chain off and forgotten it. Nothing.
Jack left the way he’d come in, taking care not to disturb anything. He didn’t know what this meant, but he hoped that Dillon’s feds could use the information.
He heard a car drive up. Another. By the sound, police cruisers. Shit. He couldn’t slip through the backyard, too much light from the streetlamps, and if he were seen it would make him look guilty of something. He’d just talk his way out of it. As long as Art Perez wasn’t around, Jack was confident he could be leaving for McAllen to pick up the feds in the next five minutes.
He walked around the side of the house, hands in view.
Art Perez stood there, in civilian clothes, a cat-ate-the-canary grin on his face.
“I knew you’d show up sooner or later.”
Megan had grown frustrated thirty minutes ago when their ride was a no-show. It was after midnight, she was tired, hungry, and crabby, and stuck in a small, empty airport thirty miles from their destination.
“Have you tried him again?” she asked Hans. Hans had left a message, told the ride where they would be waiting.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure he’s coming?”
“Yes. Dillon talked to him only a couple hours ago.” But even saintly Hans Vigo was beginning to sound irritated.
Thunder rolled through the sky, the clouds were thick with the threat of a downpour, though there was no rain yet. The humidity was enough to make Megan miss the dry heat of Sacramento.
The sound of the Jeep came before they saw it.
The driver pulled near them, but didn’t get out. He was a Hispanic male about forty years old with short-cropped hair and wearing a priest collar. “Your friend’s brother is a priest?” she asked.
Hans shook his head. Megan didn’t like the unknown situation, and had her hand on her gun.
“Dr. Vigo?” the driver asked. “Agent Elliott?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Father Francis Cardenas. Jack Kincaid sent me for you. I’m sorry I’m late. There’s been a situation. Jack’s in jail, and we have to get him out or he’ll be dead by morning.”
He was strapped to a cot. Naked. His eyes burned and he couldn’t see. The room was too bright, too bright, too much light, God help me help me help me die.
The door opened and he began to shake. Not from cold, the room was too hot, the lights too bright, to be cold. The fear. The pain. No, no no no no no no . . .
No words, no explanation, and the needle went in, at the back of his neck, and every limb screamed in pain, as if he’d been zapped by a lightning bolt. There were no tears, no voice to the agony that rippled through his body, wave after wave after wave . . .
They’d left him. They hated him and left him. Not to die, they didn’t want to give him anything, they wanted him to suffer. Maybe he was dead. Maybe this was Hell. It couldn’t be that he was alive.
Another needle and the pain put him over the edge. . . .
“Ethan!”
He blinked. Every finger in both hands was on fire. He stared at them in the dim light of the cheap hotel room they’d rented somewhere in New Mexico. New Mexico? He didn’t remember. Not for certain . . . his fingers weren’t on fire. They were there. Right there. He moved them, watched them glide right and left and right and left . . .
“Ethan, it’s me.”
The female voice had a panicked sound.
“Ethan, you’re okay. I’m right here. You’re okay.”
He looked at her and didn’t recognize her. Why was this woman in his bed? Another trick? Another perverse, sadistic torment? Let him glimpse a goddess, then snatch her away?
He reached out to touch her face. She didn’t flinch or disappear. He remembered her. Familiar. Pain and love. Hot and cold. She hated him. Loved him.
“They left me,” Ethan croaked.
“I know, baby. I know.”
Ethan’s nightmares—memories?—now occurred nightly. Karin didn’t know what that meant, but it wasn’t good. His slips were more frequent, like going into the woods and burying himself in dirt. But there was nothing she could do about that now. And when he was like this, Ethan was more forthcoming and patient with her training. Karin was almost there. After last night . . . she resisted the urge to gloat.