Texas Ranger Showdown

by Margaret Daley

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  Mission to Protect

  by Terri Reed

  ONE

  The back door of Canyon Air Force Base’s military working-dog training facility stood open. It should have been closed and locked tight.

  Alarm slithered through lead trainer Master Sergeant Westley James like the venomous red, yellow and black coral snake inhabiting this part of Texas.

  Something was wrong.

  As he entered the building an eerie chill went down his neck that had nothing to do with the April early-morning air. The stillness echoed through the center as loud as a jet taking off. His pulse spiked. He rushed to the kennel room and drew up short.

  The kennels were empty. All of them.

  Lying on the floor in a pool of blood were the two night-shift dog trainers, Airman Tamara Peterson and Airman Landon Martelli. Each had been shot in the chest.

  Grief clutched at Westley’s heart. Careful not to disturb the scene, he checked for pulses. None.

  They had both been murdered.

  Under the left arms of Tamara and Landon were a red rose and a folded white note, the calling card of a notorious serial killer.

  Horror slammed into him. The news report he’d heard this morning on his way to work had become reality.

  Boyd Sullivan, aka the Red Rose Killer, had escaped prison and was back on base.

  * * *

  Staff Sergeant Felicity Monroe jerked awake to the fading sound of her own scream echoing in her head. Sweat drenched her nightshirt. The pounding of her heart hurt in her chest, making bile rise to burn her throat. Darkness surrounded her.

  Where was she? Fear locked on to her like a guided missile and wouldn’t let go. Panic fluttered at the edge of her mind.

  Memories flooded her system.

  Her father!

  A sob tore from her throat.

  The familiar scent of jasmine from the bouquet of flowers on her bedside table grounded her. She was in her bedroom of the house on Canyon Air Force Base in southwest Texas. The home she’d shared with her father before his accidental death a month ago.

  Her breathing slowed. She wiped at the wet tears on her cheeks and shook away the fear and panic.

  Just a nightmare. One in a long string of them.

  According to Dr. Flintman, the base therapist, she suffered mild post-traumatic stress disorder from finding her father after his fall from a ladder he had climbed to clean the gutters on the house. Knowing why her brain was doing this didn’t make the images seared in her mind any less upsetting.

  She filled her lungs with several deep breaths and sought the clock across the room on the dresser.

  The clock’s red glow was blocked by the silhouette of a person looming at the end of her bed.

  Was her mind playing a trick on her again? Or was she still stuck in her nightmare? She blinked rapidly to clear the sleep from her eyes.

  Her breath caught and held.

  No trick.

  Someone was in her room.

  Full-fledged panic jackknifed through her, jolting her system into action. Self-preservation kicked in. She rolled to the side of the bed and landed soundlessly on the floor. With one hand, she reached for the switch of the bedside-table lamp, while her other hand searched for the baseball bat she kept under the bed.

  Holding the bat up with her right hand, she flicked on the light. A warm glow dispelled the shadows and revealed she was alone. Or was she?

  With bat in hand, she went through the house, turning on every light. No one was there.

  She frowned and worked to calm her racing pulse.

  This wasn’t the first time she’d thought someone had been in the house.

  But this time had seemed so real.

  Back in her bedroom, she looked again at the clock. Wait a minute. It was turned to face the wall. A shiver of unease wracked her body. The red numbers had been facing the bed when she’d retired last night. She was convinced of it.

  And her dresser drawers were slightly open. She peeked inside. Her clothes were mussed, as if someone had rummaged through them. She wasn’t a neat freak or anything, but her military training and her air force father had taught her to keep her things in proper order.

  What was going on?

  Was the stress and grief of her father’s passing messing with her brain, as her therapist suggested? Was she losing her mind?

  Wouldn’t that just be the icing on the cake? Her mother already thought she was nuts for choosing to join the United States Air Force and train military dogs for service rather than follow in her footsteps and pursue a high-powered career in corporate law.

  Felicity set aside the baseball bat.

  Maybe someone was pulling a joke on her.

  She dismissed the idea quickly. She didn’t know anyone that cruel.

  She turned the clock to see the time. Five after five in the morning. Perfect. The one day she could sleep in, and her psyche wouldn’t let her. She wasn’t expected at the training center until tonight. She usually had Sundays off and worked the Saturday-night shift, but had traded with Airman Tamara Peterson, who was taking a few days of leave to visit her parents and wanted to head out Sunday morning.

  Felicity glanced at the clock again. Maybe she could nap for an hour or so more, then go to church.

  Noises outside the bedroom window startled her. It was too early for most people to be up on a Sunday morning. She pushed aside the room-darkening curtain. The first faint rays of sunlight marched over the Texas horizon with hues of gold, orange and pink.

  They provided enough light for Felicity to see a parade of dogs running loose along Base Boulevard. It could only be the dogs from the K-9 training center.

  Stunned, her stomach clenched.

  Someone had literally let the dogs out. Most of them, by the looks of it. At least a hundred or more canines filled the street and were quickly leaving the area.

  Felicity’s chest constricted. Had Tamara or Landon, the other trainer on last night’s shift, forgotten to lock the gate? That didn’t seem likely. Both were experienced trainers. Uneasy dread gripped her by the throat.

  A dog barked, reminding her that the canines needed to be rounded up and returned to their kennels. She didn’t want any of them to get hurt. Some of the dogs suffered PTSD from their service, while others were being trained to serve. Many were finished with their training and ready to be partnered, but set loose like this...

  Galvanized into action, she hastily dressed in her battle-ready uniform.

  On the way out the door, she grabbed her cell phone, intending to call her boss, Master Sergeant Westley James. Before she could dial, her phone pinged with an incoming alert text from the training center.

  Urgent. Dogs’ kennels tampered with. Red Rose Killer escaped prison and believed to be on base. Use caution. Report in ASAP.

  Felicity stopped in her tracks. Her heart fell to her feet then bounced back into her throat as fear struck har
d through her core.

  The Red Rose Killer.

  Boyd Sullivan. Cold eyes, merciless.

  She shuddered.

  Two years ago, after being dishonorably discharged from the air force during basic training, Boyd had returned to his hometown of Dill, Texas, and killed five people whom he’d believed had wronged him in some way.

  The media had dubbed him the Red Rose Killer because he would leave a red rose and a note for his intended victims, taunting them with the warning—I’m coming for you. Then he made good on his threat, and each victim was found with an additional red rose and a new note tucked under their arm, with the words Got you.

  A Dill sheriff’s deputy and her K-9 partner had been the ones to bring down Sullivan. He’d been captured, convicted and sent to prison.

  And now he’d escaped and was on base.

  Why would he release the dogs? She remembered he always liked the furry creatures.

  She dialed Westley’s cell.

  He answered on the first ring. “Felicity. Did you hear the news?”

  “Yes. There are dogs everywhere in base housing,” she told him.

  “They are everywhere on base period.” His voice sounded extra grim. “We need to bring them in.”

  “I’ll retrieve as many as I can here and bring them over to the kennels.”

  “Good. I’ll send others over to help.” There was a pause then he said, “I should tell you there have been two murders.”

  She stilled. Fear whispered down her spine. Her pulse spiked. “Murders?” She swayed. Please, Lord, no. “Tamara? Landon?”

  “Yes.”

  Her heart sank. Tears flooded her eyes. That explained why the dogs were loose. She knew neither trainer would be so careless. “Did Boyd Sullivan kill them?

  “That’s the assumption. Each was found with a red rose tucked under their arm and a note that read, ‘Got you.’”

  “Boyd used that same tactic in Dill. But why would he go after Tamara and Landon?”

  “I don’t know,” Westley replied. “But right now the dogs need us.”

  Westley’s no-nonsense tone made her pull herself together. The last thing she wanted was for him to consider her weak. He was stingy enough with his praise, especially for her. He was always watching and waiting for her to mess up, but just because she was the newest member, and the youngest on his team, didn’t mean she didn’t belong.

  Strangely, though, she didn’t feel the familiar prickling at the back of her neck that his words normally brought.

  Her usual irritation with her handsome boss was muffled by grief and the need to act. This time he was correct. The dogs needed her.

  She wiped at the tears falling down her cheeks and took a shuddering breath. “Of course. I’m going to find our dogs.”

  “Be careful. Boyd is still out there.”

  His husky tone sent little shivers over her skin. She frowned, annoyed by her reaction. Though his words expressed concern for her, she knew his real concern was for the dogs. She could only imagine his upset. The dogs were his life.

  Had Westley been the one to find Tamara Peterson and Landon Martelli? How had they been killed? Who would tell their families? Had they suffered? A million questions ran through her head, but she forced herself to stay focused. To be strong. Her mother would be proud of her. Maybe. “I’ll be careful,” she assured him and hung up.

  After pocketing her phone, she dug through her satchel for a small canister of pepper spray and slipped it into her front pocket. In case she met Boyd along the way.

  * * *

  Master Sergeant Westley James paced by the back wall of the large auditorium-style conference room.

  Shortly after discovering the bodies of his trainers and alerting the base’s USAF Security Forces, Westley had received a call from the base commander to report here. His stomach twisted with grief and shock as he glanced around the room, noting an eclectic mix of high-ranking officers and civilian personnel. With over seven thousand people on base, keeping Canyon Air Force Base running took a large staff.

  He couldn’t sit, though most everyone else had taken a seat. His heart still beat too fast. This wasn’t where he should be. He needed to be out searching for the dogs. He struggled to stay in the moment.

  The base commander’s executive assistant, a civilian, Brenda Blakenship, had come in a few moments ago to say the debriefing would begin when the base commander and the basic-training commander arrived. Then she’d left again. Conversations in hushed tones were a reflection of the somber mood.

  As the lead trainer of the military working dogs training center, Westley oversaw the welfare of the two hundred and fifty dogs currently being trained in multiple disciplines from explosives and electronic detection to patrol. He was also responsible for the trainers and the various handlers from different branches of the military. It was a challenging post. He loved it.

  And now the lives of two of his trainers had been senselessly taken, and the dogs were wandering the base, putting them in jeopardy. He itched to be out there looking for the dogs. Many of them were traumatized from combat service, which would make retrieving them that much harder. If the dogs were approached by someone they didn’t know and trust... He feared for the safety of both dogs and humans.

  Could this day get any worse?

  His phone buzzed with an incoming text. He glanced at the message from Master Sergeant Caleb Streeter, another trainer, and was gratified to read the number of dogs brought safely in by the training staff. But there were still many left to recover.

  The door to the auditorium opened. Westley put away his phone as Brenda entered with a folder in her hand and a grim expression on her face. Behind her, the base commander, Lieutenant General Hall, strode into the conference room, his face ashen.

  “I’ve just received word that Chief Master Sergeant Clint Lockwood was found dead in his home of a gunshot wound to the heart,” Lieutenant General Hall stated flatly. “A red rose and note were also found.”

  Shock rippled through the room.

  Westley placed a hand on the wall to steady himself. The horror of finding the two trainers’ bodies was still etched in Westley’s brain. And now to hear that Lockwood was gone as well...

  Lord, why would You allow this?

  Westley didn’t hold his breath waiting on God to give him an answer. Westley was used to God’s silence. As a scared kid hiding from the constant chaos of his parents’ fighting, he’d often asked God to make them stop. But the fighting never did. Not until his dad was incarcerated, which threw Westley into a different sort of chaos.

  Questions came at the base commander with lightning speed from those seated around the room.

  “Has the weapon been found?” the air force recruitment commander asked from his seat at the front of the room.

  “Have we locked down the base?” the chief master sergeant of the 12th flying training wing called out.

  “Have the FBI, OSI and the local police been notified?” the cyberspace operations commander asked.

  “How did Boyd Sullivan escape prison?” the vice commander of the medical wing demanded to know.

  Lieutenant General Hall raised a hand to silence the group. “Please, I will answer your questions as best I can. The weapon has not been found. The base is on lockdown. The feds and the local law enforcement will work closely with both Security Forces and the Office of Special Investigations.” A fierce light entered the Lieutenant General’s gaze. “Our problem is not how Boyd Sullivan escaped prison, but how he got on base.”

  “Is he targeting those who were in his basic military training?” Security Forces Captain Justin Blackwood asked.

  “He must have had help,” the commander of the airlift wing pointed out.

  Lieutenant General Hall once again raised his hand and the room quieted. “If he holds true to form, he will
most likely go after anyone he deems has wronged him. No doubt Sullivan blamed Chief Master Sergeant Lockwood for the dishonorable discharge.”

  Westley’s fingers curled into fists at his sides. Boyd would pay dearly for his evil deeds. Westley prayed no other lives would be taken by Boyd’s hand.

  “We must consider Sullivan will go after those in his basic military training.” Lieutenant General Hall nodded at Brenda.

  She opened the file folder in her hand. “I’ve compiled a list of the personnel currently on base who were in the same training class as Boyd Sullivan.”

  “Our first order of business is to secure these individuals and anyone else who had prior interaction with Boyd,” Lieutenant General Hall interjected. “Then we will root out the person who has helped this predator get on base.”

  As Brenda read the names, Westley tried to remember if Tamara or Landon had been in Sullivan’s BMT group, or even been on base at the time. He didn’t think so.

  “Staff Sergeant Felicity Monroe.”

  Hearing his trainer’s name jerked Westley’s thoughts back to the conference room. Felicity. His stomach dropped as his pulse spiked. She was supposed to have been on duty last night, but had changed shifts.

  Had she been Sullivan’s intended target?

  Fear streaked through his system like a fighter jet heading to battle. He couldn’t let another person for whom he was responsible die. Not on his watch. He had to protect her.

  Without asking permission, Westley raced out of the auditorium. He had to find Felicity.

  * * *

  Felicity’s search for the dogs wasn’t going very well. With the base alive and on alert, the dogs sensed the anxiety rippling through the air and were skittish. She moved with a slow, easy gait so as not to spook two dogs in her sights, a three-year-old German shepherd named Tiger and a two-year-old Belgian Malinois named Riff. Both were sniffing around the commissary.

  As she approached, both dogs lifted their heads to eye her, their tails swishing.

  “Come,” she commanded while holding a treat in her hand against her thigh, which would bring the dogs in close enough to grab by the collar.