Authors: Allison Brennan
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Suspense, #Thrillers
Sudden Death (13 page)
“Quantico,” Hans corrected. “Megan’s from Sacramento. She pulled the third victim. The killers are escalating.”
“We read the hot sheet y’all sent over,” Barker said. “Ted, you were Delta, right?”
Ted Hern nodded.
“Did you know any of the victims?”
“Only Scout. Bartleton,” Hern said. “But not until he moved here to join Kincaid’s men a few years back.”
A truck turned onto the street and sped into the lot. Art Perez, in uniform, jumped out and put on his hat. “Rangers, this wasn’t necessary.”
“Art,” Ted tipped his hat. “Let’s go look at what you’ve got on the Lawrence Bartleton homicide.”
Perez looked from Hans to Megan and back to the Rangers. “As I told Lieutenant Gray last night, I’m certain that Bartleton was taken down by one of the Guatemalan rebels Kincaid’s group has been battling. They just returned from an unofficial operation not three days before the murder. And—”
“Gray? You mean Scott Gray?” Barker nodded to Hern. “Were Kincaid and the lieutenant at boot camp together, or was it Desert Storm where they hooked up? No matter, Scott tells the story to anyone who’ll listen, how Kincaid, then just an Army Ranger, saved his ass when he walked into the middle of a minefield without detonating a single one, but got trapped. Damnedest thing, really, but Kincaid hotwires a Chinese chopper, never even flew one before, and lowered a rope for Scott to grab on to. The bastard almost got himself killed in the process, but hell, they all came away without a scratch.”
Hern nodded. “I don’t see Kincaid leaving loose ends in Guatemala.”
Perez reddened. “Kincaid isn’t a saint. He was arrested for obstructing justice.”
“How so?” Hans asked.
At the invitation to expand, Perez went off. “He’s been all over town asking questions as if he were a cop. Talking to everyone who was at El Gato, where Scout was drinking the night he was killed. He even had one of his mercenaries track down three college kids from UTSA and interrogate them! He’s been asking everyone about this woman who was in the bar, he attacked one of the bar owners, and he threatened one of my deputies. I’ve been saying since he came to town that Jack Kincaid is dangerous, but just because he’s friends with the
priest,
no one listens. I caught him red-handed at the crime scene after the fact. He wouldn’t tell me why, and it supports my argument that he brought back trouble to Hidalgo from Central America, and he’s trying to cover it up.” Perez was red in the face when he was done, but satisfied that he’d finally gotten his thoughts off his chest.
Barker said, “Hidalgo has plenty of trouble all on its own.”
“What woman?” Megan asked. “Have you followed up with the bar owners? What did they say—”
“Go ahead and talk to them yourself. My reports are all filed.” Perez opened the door and said to the desk sergeant, “Jorge, let them have the Bartleton files and anything else they want to see.” He glanced at Megan, then turned to the Rangers and said, “You think Kincaid is a saint? Go pull my file on him.”
“If you had anything on Kincaid, he’d be in jail,” Barker said.
Perez stared at Megan. “He was.” Then he left.
“He certainly doesn’t like Jack,” Hans said thoughtfully.
“Was anything he said true?” If Jack knew something that would help in this investigation, why didn’t he say something? Megan didn’t like being deceived or manipulated.
The desk sergeant led them to the evidence room and put the files in front of them.
An hour later, Megan stood up and stretched. Perez had spent more time tracing Jack’s steps than following his own investigation. And Jack had done what she’d have done were she investigating the murder. But he wasn’t a cop, and he had overstepped his bounds. Perez had some justifiable reasons to arrest him, though certainly not to allow three armed men in to attack him. Meg wasn’t sure the chief of police hadn’t known about that.
“There’s not much here,” Barker said. “Perez was more interested in following Kincaid; that’s where all the info came from. We should talk to him.”
“He’s at the rectory,” Hans said. “We’ve been working with him.”
But he didn’t share this information with us.
She didn’t know what, if anything, Jack had learned about Scout’s murder, but she had a few choice words for him. If he didn’t answer her questions right she’d put him in jail herself.
Barker stuffed a piece of gum in his mouth and said, “Perez fucked up the collection of evidence. How could he let so many people contaminate the crime scene? The kid, the kid’s mother—”
Hern said, “She was Scout’s girlfriend.”
“—the priest, Kincaid, a half dozen cops. I swear, half of Hidalgo walked through that house before Perez sealed off the place.”
Hans said, “My boss has given us priority use of the trace evidence lab, just let me know what you need. They’re already working on two of the other murders and maybe something will come from this one that will help.
Hern said, “We appreciate the help.”
“There’s no autopsy report,” Megan said. “Wouldn’t the autopsy have been done by now?”
“I’ll ask the sergeant,” Barker said and left the evidence room.
“Is the body here?” Megan asked.
“Probably up in Edinburg, at the morgue. Twenty minutes or so north.”
Megan glanced at Hans. “We need that report. I’d like to talk to the supervising pathologist as well. Compare the marks on Johnson and Perry with Scout.”
“Agreed,” Hans said. “Would you like to join us?” he asked the Ranger.
“One of us will,” Ted said. “We’ll also want to follow up on the witness statements from El Gato. And no one talked to the girlfriend or her kids.”
“Do you want to follow us back to the rectory, then we can split the interviews?” Hans asked. “Meg and I are headed to Las Vegas tomorrow morning if nothing breaks here. We have a meeting with the coroner and investigating officer.”
“I didn’t know the FBI sent teams around the country. I thought you folks were regional.”
“Special circumstances,” Hans said.
Barker returned. “No report. I called the morgue and they haven’t done the autopsy yet. I told them to hold until we got there, unless you don’t need to see it. For us, we can take the report.”
“Same here,” Megan said, “but I’d like to observe.”
Hern said, “We’ll meet you at the rectory in thirty minutes.”
They shook hands, and Hans and Megan left. When they drove up to the rectory, Jack stood on the front porch looking at the sky. “The rain finally came,” he said.
The first fat drop fell from the sky as Megan got out of the Jeep.
“Did you learn anything?” he asked.
“Plenty,” Megan said. “Were you going to tell me about the interviews you conducted, or was I supposed to learn about your private investigation from the police chief’s reports?”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t learn anything that you can use.”
“What were you expecting to find? Fingerprints? A receipt from the local motel? And how do you know what I can use? How many murders have you investigated? How many have you solved? This is my responsibility, not yours, and I will not allow anyone to withhold information without serious consequences.”
Jack stepped forward. Within seconds the rain turned from fat droplets to a downpour. “Scout is
my
responsibility. Don’t think for a minute that I’m going to back down. If I thought anything I learned was important, I’d have—” He stopped.
“What?” Megan demanded.
“Scout’s tags.”
She blanched. “How do you know about the dog tags?”
“What do you know?”
She raised an eyebrow and didn’t say anything. If this arrogant soldier thought she owed him any explanation or information . . .
Jack said, “For what it’s worth, I planned on telling you about the missing tag, but with the events last night, it slipped my mind.”
“Tag? One tag was missing?” Just like Price.
“Scout had only one tag—the other was pulled when he went down four years ago on his last mission. Fell off a cliff, broke his back. They couldn’t move him without a chopper, so pulled a tag just in case. So he wore only the one, and it wasn’t on his body. No chain, no tag. Is that the same as the others?”
“Not exactly. Price was missing one of the two tags, and the killers sent it to me. But Johnson and Perry—Johnson’s sons have his tags, and I’m still trying to get word from Vegas about Perry.”
“Why would the killers take Scout’s identification? To dehumanize him?” Jack tensed.
“Maybe they’re planning on sending it to someone else. Or to me.” She frowned. “Hans, what’s going on here? I’d think they were keeping souvenirs, but they’re not. They’re using them for something.”
Hans said, “We’re getting drenched. Let’s talk about this inside.” He walked into the rectory, expecting them to follow.
Jack and Megan stared at each other in the rain.
Her anger had dissipated, surprising her. Jack was used to being in charge, but it didn’t bother her because even when he was pushy, he wasn’t manipulative. So much like her father, her brother—she felt as if she already knew Jack Kincaid and how his sharp mind worked. It was comfortable, like meeting up with an old friend after years apart.
“I’m sorry,” Jack said. “I should have told you last night. I meant to.”
“I’m sorry I snapped. I know you feel responsible for Scout, but we’re on the same team.”
“Truce?”
“Truce.”
Her smile faltered when Jack reached out and brushed back strands of her hair that had fallen out of her knot. Her breath caught in her throat as she looked in his eyes. His dark stare was so intense, so powerful, that for a moment she was mesmerized, caught in a trap she didn’t want to escape. His rough fingers skimmed her face, down her neck, a light touch that made her shiver in anticipation of more.
When his hand dropped to his side, Megan could finally let out her breath.
Jack said, “I’ll fill you in on everything I did yesterday. I don’t know if it’s going to help, but it’s worth a shot.”
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
Ethan woke to nothing.
No movement, no noise. He froze and listened. Distant cars moving fast. Birds chirped and squawked. A motor, but not the truck.
He sat up, looked around. Where was she? She’d left him. Deserted him. Just like the army.
The gunfire was so loud but unreal at the same time. Pop-pop-pop. Poppoppoppoppop. A machine gun spewing out bullets. One nicked Ethan in the arm. He looked down and saw blood. Just a bit. Nothing to worry about.
He was in the middle of a firefight! He wished he had a camera, but on this clandestine mission cameras were forbidden. Adrenaline rushed through his veins. His first real firefight. He pulled out a notebook and rapidly jotted down words and phrases. 103 degrees. Dry and dusty. Arid. Flashes of gunfire. Brows beaded with sweat and tension. A precision team. Well oiled. Well trained. America’s elite. Fighters. Killers. Comrades. Oh, that was good!
“What the fuck are you doing?” one soldier hissed. “Stay put! You already almost got us all killed, dipshit.”
He nodded, eyes wide, and went back to his hiding spot. They didn’t like Ethan, he had known it from the beginning. Didn’t want him to be here, didn’t want to see the truth in print. Continuing to write, he thought of an opening line.
The first gunfight of the day was right out of a Hollywood movie. Heat, heroes, and panic. Special forces were brave, but fear ate at their resolve like . . .
Like what? Come on, think!
He stayed hidden, writing, the gunfire moving farther away. Shouts, then silence with the occasional report of a rifle. He liked that phrase; he had to be wary and not use it more than twice in the article.
Pulitzer Prize, baby, it was within his reach . . .
Silence.
Ethan peered out from the cavity of the rocks. The air reeked of gunpowder. And blood.
The soldier, he couldn’t remember his name, who had been assigned to “babysit” him
(
as he lamented
)
, was dead. There was too much blood for him to be alive. And his head . . . half of it was gone.
Ethan swallowed and looked around.
Where were the others?
They’d left him? Left him with a dead body?
He heard a helicopter in the distance, coming closer. He relaxed. They were coming back for him. He stepped out of his hiding place and looked skyward, ready to wave them down.
They came out of the woodwork like termites. Dozens of them, men wearing traditional Taliban headdress, holding guns. Rifles. Handguns. Knives. These were not Americans. They were the enemy.
Ethan thought he was going to die. He put his hands on his head and waited for the bullets to penetrate his body.
Make it fast, God. I don’t like pain.
He didn’t learn until later what pain really was.
They were going to punish General Hackett for sending Ethan on that mission in the first place. For assuring him, and his editor, that he would be safe. Protected. “It’s an easy mission,” Hackett had said. “In and out.”
Where was that woman?
Ethan got out of the truck. The sun burned and he began to sweat as he started toward the bathrooms. A semi with insignia from Arkansas or Alabama—Ethan couldn’t tell from the distance—was parked on the far side. Fear clawed at him, constricting his throat. He went back to the truck and reached under the passenger seat for the gun the woman kept there. It snagged on the metal wires and he pulled hard.
Bartleton’s dog tag fell to the ground.
Dammit, he’d told her not to do it again. He didn’t know she’d grabbed it, but there was the proof, wrapped around her gun. Lying bitch.
He picked up the tag, tossed it into the cab, and slammed the door shut.
Behind the restrooms were half a dozen picnic tables. The woman—Kate? Christina? Carmen?—hadn’t seen him. She was sitting at one of the tables. Was that her? She’d changed; he remembered now. She’d cut her hair in the motel. All of it, off. Put a different color on. Told him it was part of her disguise. But he knew her now from her build, the way she moved, her eyes. She couldn’t change her eyes.
Karin.
Her name was Karin.
He skirted the building and walked around to the far side where she couldn’t see him approach. He’d scare her. Serve her right.
Then he heard the voices. For a minute he thought they were in his head. They weren’t. It was Karin, and she was talking to a man. The trucker? Ethan peered around the side of the building. Looked like a trucker. Jeans. T-shirt. Skinny kid. Twenty, twenty-two maybe. The building shielded Ethan, but he could hear their conversation.
“Are you okay?” the trucker asked Karin.
She didn’t say anything, just shrugged.
“Are you here alone?”
“Yes.”
She glanced toward the truck and Ethan smirked.
“Are you sure? You’re looking kind of skittish. I’m not going to hurt you.”
“I know.”
“It’s going to be okay,” he said. “Do you want me to call someone?”
“I’m just getting a breath of fresh air.”
“Do you have a name? I’m Thomas. Let’s pray, okay?”
What was this kid doing? Praying for Karin? Did he know how many men she’d killed? Didn’t he know that she wanted to kill him? Ethan could see it. She’d fuck him and kill him. She’d done it before, had told Ethan all about it. Why couldn’t this kid see that?
Why was he praying for her, the spawn of Satan?
“Thomas?”
A woman’s voice from behind him startled Ethan. When he whirled around the woman screamed.
Panic spread to every nerve in his body. He pressed the trigger. A reflex. He didn’t plan it.
The woman fell to the ground.
“Loretta! Dear Lord, Loretta!” Ethan heard the shouts from the picnic table, but the noise barely registered.
He stared at the woman. She was dead. It was obvious from her eyes that he had killed her. Her hands were on her stomach. A large, round stomach.
An agony-filled cry bellowed from behind Ethan. He turned and saw the praying Thomas now rageful. He was running toward Ethan. Ethan fired again. Then two more times. Thomas dropped to the ground, his chest a bloody mess.
“What have you done?!?”
Roxanne? Rachel? Regina? Whatever her name was—Ethan couldn’t remember—she panicked. She screamed at him. Her eyes were wild. Maybe she had changed her eyes. He couldn’t remember her name. He should know it. He frowned. It was right there minutes ago.
“Shit! Shit! Oh fuck, Ethan, you’re crazy!”
She snatched the gun from his hand. He let her. Why didn’t he shoot her, too? Why didn’t he just stop it all now? Shoot her, then himself. But now he had no gun.
She pushed Ethan. He stumbled backward. “Dammit, Ethan, why? Why did you kill them?”
“I don’t know.”
She screamed in rage and slapped him, then grabbed his wrist and pulled him toward the truck. “Get in, I’m driving. We have to get out of here right now. You’re ruining everything. You fucked up again, Ethan. How am I going to get out of this?”
He opened the passenger door and clamored in, slammed it shut, and she drove off, yelling at him. Then she stopped and the silence was bliss. Then it was Hell. Total silence, just the purr of the truck and the woman’s sniffles. She was crying. Why was she crying? They didn’t talk about what happened. He didn’t know whether to be worried, scared, or elated.
He didn’t feel guilty.
Thirty minutes later he asked, “How long until Santa Barbara?”
