Dirty soldiers, or cops, had to be taken down. She had absolutely zero issues with being the one to do it. She never had. Garrison and his sister weren't the only ones who'd experienced firsthand what happened when life's traitors were left in place to soil and fester. Like them, she'd lived it.
"Here you go."
She flinched, nearly upending the steaming contents of the mug he held out all over the table and floor. She flushed for the second time that night. "Sorry."
He set the mug on the table. "I didn't know how you like it—black, white, sweet. I've got—"
"Black." Just as God and the Army intended. "Thanks."
He nodded, then sat. Stared. At her. With that same unnerving intensity he'd displayed the previous night. "You sure I didn't freak you out?"
"No."
He didn't appear to believe her.
She tried shaking her head for added emphasis, but that failed to dent the doubt as well. Would the truth? Did she dare?
"I… It's just—" She broke off. Moistened her lips as she searched for the courage to continue.
He waited, damn him. Gave her the same patience she'd given him on several occasions these past two days. Though his appeared to be born solely of genuine concern. Maybe that's what allowed her to actually voice it.
"It's…my dad. You weren't the only loser in the parental sweepstakes. He, ah— He was…killed."
"Oh, hon, I'm so sorry." He shoved their plates to the far side of the table and covered her hand with his. Again. But for some reason, the sight and feel of their intertwined fingers didn't have her pulling back. "When did it happen?"
Just as he had earlier, she laughed. And just as his had been, the sound was dark and stunted. Empty. "Nineteen years ago…tonight."
"Christ. And you chose to come over here and spend it with me?"
She'd had to. For so many reasons. Reasons she doubted he'd accept, even if she could tell him. Which she couldn't.
"If you don't mind me asking…what happened?"
For some reason she didn't. Even though she'd known it was coming. "He was…a cop."
"You said he was killed. In the line of duty?"
She opened her mouth. But as she stared into that unwavering intensity, she just…chickened out. Her courage had been used up. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't seem to recharge it. And God help her, she actually wanted to.
"Rachel?"
Rachel. Not Regan. What the hell was she doing?
He didn't even know her real name.
She watched as his fingers came up to brush her cheek. She didn't flinch. Didn't even feel the urge.
But she did stand. Lie. "Yeah. Line of duty."
He remained in his seat as he blew out his breath. "That's rough."
He had no idea. No one did. Not even Mira. Not really. Her colleague, her friend, who should have been calling her blasted phone right about—
What time was it?
More importantly, when had she stopped tracking it? She always tracked the time. On some assignments, minute by minute.
Maybe there was a God, because as she started to turn her wrist to peek, her phone rang. Its tone was unusually harsh and strident as it pierced the air, despite being tucked securely in her leather bag. Somehow she managed not to pounce on it. She even located a tight smile and pinned it into place.
"Excuse me."
He stood then, moving off to skirt the island as she unzipped the bag. Captain Vaughn's name scrolled across the screen as she retrieved her phone. Evidently she hadn't needed to take the precaution of assigning Terry's professional ID to Mira's number for the night. Garrison wasn't hovering over her shoulder as she'd feared.
"Yes, sir?"
Her friend's breathy rush filled the line. "I am so sorry I'm late. Please, please, please forgive me. I got called in. I'm inside the general's quarters now."
"Of course, sir. I understand." She waited several long beats, then continued, "Absolutely. I'll be right there."
Relief blistered in as she hung up and returned the phone to her bag before anchoring its strap over her shoulder. She would've turned to face Garrison as she crafted the words for her escape, but he was already beside her, disappointment tightening every generous muscle of that body as he stared down.
"Terry?"
"Yeah. He's got a lead on a story, and he's on a dinner date."
A wry smile cracked in. Briefly. "Go figure." The disappointment returned. "I'll see you to your car."
"No, you don't have—"
"I do." It was quiet. Adamant.
Before she could argue, that light, proprietary hand from the night before slipped into place at the small of her back, gently easing her along as they cleared the kitchen and the living room. She waited as he paused to open the front door to the house, then preceded him out onto the now-darkened porch.
Manners demanded she also wait for him to close the door, even as her every instinct ordered her to escape while she had the chance. Run.
Unfortunately, too much had passed between them at the table for her to obey. She stayed, even accepted the hand that settled back into place as he accompanied her down the cobblestone walk.
He was as good as his word, escorting her to her driver's door and patiently waiting while she retrieved the Tiguan's keys. But as she turned to offer her swift thanks and a swifter goodbye, the words clogged in her throat.
The night had closed in, shrinking the world down to just them, much as that tiny closet had that afternoon. But there were no uniforms now, no iron-clad Army regulations protecting her from the man who, yet again, towered over her. At five-eight, she wasn't short. But, Lord, he made her feel it.
He made her feel other things too. Things she didn't want to admit, much less act upon. But he did. It was humming in the air between them.
Expectation.
She ignored it. "Well, Captain. Thank you for dinner; it was fantastic."
He shook his head slowly. Firmly.
"Pardon? I don't—"
"John."
That patience he'd warned her about greeted her stubborn silence—and matched it.
Fine. She'd never get out of here otherwise. "John."
The tension spiked, along with that slow smile. That seriously distracting fold. She dragged her focus down, settling it on those three tattling scars that cut into his lightly whiskered jaw and neck. It didn't help. The pulse within was thrumming steadily, causing the tension to thicken.
Desperate to diffuse it, she reached up to trace the surprisingly smooth slivers of flesh, not for the first time wondering, "How did you get these?"
"Shrapnel."
Well, that she'd figured out on her own.
Of course, she'd had help discerning the cause of the thicker pair tangling down his neck, along with the endless, coarser rope that fed up his right arm, not to mention the dozen other scars she couldn't see because they were currently covered by his sweater and jeans. But his bronze star with V device for valor and twin purple heart write-ups hadn't mentioned this particular trio.
She was curious as to why.
He must have accepted that her patience and stubbornness matched his because, eventually, he offered a shrug. "Hindu Kush. I was still a kid. Stupid. Stuck my head up when I should've kept it down and nearly got it blown off. The shrapnel that ricocheted in served as a timely reminder to not do that again. After things cooled off, our medic pulled out the pieces and patched me up. The nicks had already started to close by the time we reached camp, so I never bothered with stitches." His hand found its home at the small of her back as he pulled her close. Very close. "Do they bother you? My scars?"
"No."
But he bothered her. And he shouldn't.
It was time to—
The thought burned away as that hand slid up her spine and smoothly drew her the rest of the way in. A split second later, his mouth was coming down to meet hers. Given his size, she would've expected him to bulldoze his way through the kiss that followed�
�would've been able to hold out if he had. But he didn't. He used his lips and his tongue to gently tease and torment until, before she realized what she was doing, she was stretching all the way up into the hard cocoon of his body, asking for more. John Garrison was one hell of an amazing kisser, and he tasted even better.
The eight o'clock whiskers beneath her fingers and palm dug in as he groaned and pulled her that much closer. Went deeper.
She didn't care. She wanted him to stay exactly where he was, continue doing exactly what he was doing. So much so, she actually protested and tried to draw him back when he stiffened, then straightened.
Why—
"Well, well. Looks like someone's inherited my taste for fresh meat."
LaCroix.
She couldn't see the man, of course. And it wasn't because of the dark.
It was John. He'd shifted as he'd straightened, those imposing shoulders now effectively shielding her from the sergeant's view. He didn't turn to face LaCroix. Nor did he speak. But the man's emotions were flat-out roaring their protest at the crude interruption. As her palm slid down to his chest, she could feel the fury as it thundered and rolled beneath. She could also feel him working to tame it, until suddenly it was gone, seemingly absorbed. Completely.
It wasn't until John had tucked her keys into her hand and deftly guided her into the Tiguan's driver's seat that she realized he'd taken them from her to open the door. She felt more than heard the click of her safety belt as he latched it, and then his lips were brushing her temple and warming her ear.
"Drive safely. Text me when you get back to the Lodge."
Though gently murmured, it was an order. From the man she'd dined with tonight, not the combat-hardened captain who straightened and stepped back, patiently waiting for her to depart before he risked turning to confront his friend.
Except, she wasn't too sure about the friend part.
Not anymore.
As much as she wanted, needed, to stick around for the coming confrontation, Rachel wouldn't have. So Regan nodded obediently and started the engine as John shut the door. Regan also kept both men in her view for as long as she could as she backed the Tiguan out of the drive before ninety-degree reversing it into the street.
Just before she lost sight of the men, she caught the fury that lashed back in to permeate John's entire body just before it blistered free.
What the hell was he saying?
6
Regan was well into her second cup of morning coffee when her phone rang. Adrenaline kicked in, superseding her desperate need for caffeine as she spotted the number on the screen. It wasn't the call she'd been dreading since dinner had ended the night before; it was Jelly.
She snatched the phone off the tiny table in her room's kitchenette. "Morning, partner. Please tell me you got your hands on a copy of that lease."
"I did. And it says exactly what we want it to say—"
Yes!
"—but that's not why I'm calling."
Just like that, her euphoria burst. The apprehension in Jelly's voice had punctured it. That, and the distinctive rumbling of an engine in the background. A diesel engine. Jelly was in his SUV, driving while using his phone. Something the new paranoid papa in him was loath to do—even with the vehicle's hands-free feature.
"What happened?"
"Got a call from Mikel. That number you memorized off Ertonç's phone?"
"Yeah?"
"He's got nothin'—and it ain't for the lack of tryin'."
Shit. "Are you telling me that number came back to a burner phone?"
"Yep. Not to worry—at least not yet. Mikel's still digging. Let's just say, we've piqued the man's curiosity. He's triangulating the location of those two calls, and any others from that number, as we speak. I'll let you know what he finds out. Meanwhile, Mikel was able to give me the name of the vender who sold the burner." The diesel's rumble died out. Moments later, Regan caught the slam of Jelly's driver's door. "I'm in front of the kiosk in question now; it just opened. I'll call you when I'm out."
"Good luck. I'll be waiting."
Regan hung up. She was about to dump her phone on the kitchenette's table when it resumed trilling.
Once again, the number scrolling across the screen was a welcome one. And, once again, it traced back to one of her colleagues—Mira. "Hey, stranger. Fancy hearing from you. You sure you have the time to call me?"
"Oh, God, Rae. I am so sorry. I know I was late backing you up—"
"Again."
Mira's sigh filled the line as she absorbed the hit. "You're right. First the bar, then your dinner. I got hit with an emergency change to the babysitting schedule—a double shift to boot. The general was nice enough about it, but I couldn't very well explain away a call to you while I was actively watching his back from inside his rooms. The second he went to the bathroom, I jumped; I swear. I just got off duty. I'm on my way to my rental car now."
Which would be why Mira hadn't been waiting impatiently for her at the Lodge when she'd arrived home last night, anxious to grill her about what had happened. "That's okay. I'll forgive you. Someday."
"Thank you. So, how'd it go? King Kong stop beating his chest long enough to give up anything new?"
"Maybe."
That argument in John's driveway flashed in as Regan retrieved her mug of coffee and took a sip. Damn Brooks and his intense paranoia. If he'd authorized the tail on LaCroix, they might've actually known what was said after she'd been forced to depart. As it was, she'd have to return to John's home to explore the lead—and risk a second course of stir-fry and the disconcerting dessert he'd served up afterward.
She didn't get it. Like Mira, she'd never been into gorillas. Worse, she swore this particular one knew her interest had been grudgingly gained. It was as though John had sensed her reluctance all along and had known he'd have one shot at changing her mind. And, damn him, he'd actually succeeded. Where did that leave her? Them?
This case.
Because she still had a job to do. From that tantalizing glimpse she'd caught of John and LaCroix squaring off, she was more convinced than ever that not only did the sergeant have vengeance seething in his heart, he was nurturing it.
The general's days were numbered, all right. Quite possibly, his hours.
"Rae?"
"Yeah?"
"I thought I lost the connection. You okay?"
Hell, no. "Absolutely." She polished off the contents of her mug and headed for the sink to rinse it out. "Just waiting for the caffeine-fueled focus to kick in."
"So…what did you get?"
"A fresh angle." One that could just crack this case wide open—if she could get Brooks to agree. "But first, I just got off the phone with Jelly. We hit a snag with the Ertonç number; it connects to a burner. Stay tuned though. Jelly's source is still on it. As for the angle, we got a positive hit regarding John's current digs. Jelly scored a visual on the lease to that house. John signed it—but LaCroix's name is not on it. Anywhere." Meaning that while she couldn't search the sergeant's room without permission and have it stand up in court, John could. "Also, they nearly came to blows last night as I was leaving. If I can get Brooks to let me bring him in on this, I think John might agree to search—"
"John?"
Crap. She really did need that coming jolt for focus.
Regan turned to press her suddenly pounding forehead into the front of the refrigerator. It didn't help. "Yes, John. That's his name."
She heard Mira's car door slam—but unlike Jelly's, this engine didn't fire up. "I know that's his name. But you don't call them by their names. Not the first ones."
"That's not true. I've gotten cornered into it before."
"Not when they're not around."
That was true.
Trapped, she went on the attack. "Why'd you call me anyway?" If Mira was in her car, she hadn't been home to decompress yet. Shower. Eat.
Sleep.
"Fine. We'll discuss John and what he might do in a minute.
But first—I just got a call too. Kevin Walsh."
Regan pulled her forehead from the fridge and turned around to lean back against it. "Your SEAL buddy?" The one who'd provided Mira's initial intel on LaCroix's deteriorating attitude? An attitude that had gotten so bad it had apparently led to the sergeant getting kicked out of his apartment last week.
"Yeah. Kev just surfaced from his latest mission and got my message about Ertonç. Like Garrison, he dealt with Ertonç when he was still a colonel in Afghanistan, though roughly three years later than your captain. According to Kev, there's some seriously foul blood between Ertonç and the Kurds. He loathes them."
No stunner there. "A lot of Turks do." Hence the blood-letting establishment of that so-called Syrian safe zone.
"True. But Kev got the feeling Ertonç's disagreement was personal. How personal, he doesn't know. Just that Ertonç would shut folks down—and harshly—if anything even remotely positive about the Kurds came up in discussion."
Now that was interesting. It also begged the question: did Ertonç hate Kurds with the standard, all-too-common Turkish disdain…or was there something more specific to his hatred? Say, a particular cause?
More importantly, did that hatred have anything to do with the reason his sons were targeted for death by the PKK in that car bombing the year before?
Before she could pose the query to Mira, her phone beeped. "Hang on. I've got another call coming in." She pulled the phone away so she could check the number.
Jelly?
That was quick. Hopefully, not because he'd been shut down at the kiosk.
"Hey, Mira—it's Agent Jelling. Can you hold?"
"Just hang up and take it. That's all I've got. I'll check in after I've grabbed a nap."
"Sounds good. Sleep tight." Regan braced herself as she pulled her phone from her ear once more, this time to click over. "Good news?"
"Dunno. You tell me."
No engine rumbling in the background on this call. Meaning Jelly had scored—but the results were too startling for distracted driving.
Aimpoint Page 8
