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Hit and Run (Moreno & Hart Mysteries)

Page 22

by Allison Brennan


  Scarlet had called last night while she was still at the police station. The skid marks in front of the office were made by Goodyear tires, the size and wheelbase consistent with a Lexus LS 460, which happened to be the car owned by Liz Brown.

  Liz lived in Laguna Beach and her brother—who lived in Irvine—happened to own a white Chevy Avalanche. Whether he’d lent it to his sister one day last August was a question for investigators.

  Krista gazed out at the water, thinking about love and lust and the passions that drove intelligent people to do astoundingly dumb things.

  R.J.’s kiss came back to her. She imagined his lips on hers and the warmth of his hands, and she felt a rush that was better than any runner’s high.

  She shouldn’t start something with him. It would be stupid. And reckless. She didn’t trust him and never had. And there was something else bugging her—this nagging feeling that he wanted to pull her away from Moreno & Hart or drive a wedge between her and Scarlet. Maybe she was imagining it.

  She hooked a left on Main, where restaurants and coffee shops were now coming to life. Morning commuters were on the move, and she had to stop and wait at intersections. Finally she reached the relative quiet of her street where queen palms buffered the noise and the only activity was the occasional dog-walker.

  Krista reached her yard and heard the low growl of a Porsche behind her. Her heart skittered. She turned and watched it round the corner, then glide to a stop in front of her house.

  R.J. got out. “Up and at 'em, huh?”

  The sarcasm in his voice put her on the defensive. She made an effort to steady her breathing. He wore a black T-shirt and faded jeans and his eyes were hidden behind mirrored shades. Something was different today, and she tried to place it as he sauntered over.

  “What’s up?” she asked blandly.

  “Oh, you know. Going to work.” He peeled off his sunglasses and gazed down at her. “How was the jog?”

  “Fine. You don’t have your gun on.”

  “Very observant, Ace.” He smiled. “So, what’re you up to today?”

  Her agenda included taking her car to the shop, doing laundry, and dodging neighbors with pet problems.

  “Working,” she told him.

  “Another day, another dollar.”

  Something in his smile made Krista’s heart thud. How did he always manage to do this to her? Thank goodness she reeked, or she might have been tempted to invite him inside.

  “How about working with me today?” he asked.

  She hesitated. “What’s the job?”

  “A skip trace. One of Walker’s top clients is due in court soon, but he seems to have left town.”

  She raised an eyebrow. Holland, obviously.

  “I’ve got reason to think he may be in Antigua,” R.J. added.

  “Antigua.”

  “That’s right.” He stepped closer and stared down at her with those blue eyes.

  “So, what’s your plan?”

  “The plan is to locate him.” He eased closer and Krista’s skin tingled. “Fill him in on recent developments. Persuade him to come back to California so his lawyer can sort out the mess he’s gotten himself into.”

  She gazed up at him, trying to think straight while her heart thrummed inside her chest.

  “Sounds like you got it covered. What do you need me for?”

  “Like I said, I want a partner.”

  Partner. It was a loaded word, and it made her wary because beneath the teasing she sensed he really was inviting her to partner with him in a professional sense. She felt a sharp kick of loyalty to Scarlet.

  “Yeah, well. Sounds interesting, but I’ve already got a partner.”

  Slowly he traced his hands up her arms. She ignored the shivers.

  “Anyway, I’ve got work to do today.”

  “Take a break for once.” He stroked his thumb over the bruise on her cheek. “You could use a vacation.”

  She gazed up at him. She shouldn’t trust him. Professionally speaking, he’d burned her before. And personally... she’d never given him the chance. She’d never been that careless.

  Maybe she should. Maybe the careless thing would be to let a man who stirred her emotions as he did slip through her grasp. Maybe he was right the other day when he’d told her she was afraid.

  His hand dropped away. “Meet me at the John Wayne Airport in three hours. We’re taking Walker’s plane.”

  She gaped at him.

  “Pack light,” he added.

  “You’re amazingly cocky, you know that?”

  “Not cocky.” He slid his shades on and smiled. “Just hopeful.”

  # # #

  Read an excerpt from BEYOND LIMITS, the next book in Laura Griffin’s bestselling Tracers series, coming spring 2015...

  Chapter One

  Asadabad, Afghanistan

  0300 hours

  The night was all wrong for an op, but they were going anyway and not a man among them disputed the call.

  Lieutenant Junior Grade Derek Vaughn sat wedged between his teammates in the Black Hawk helicopter listening to the thunder of the rotor blades as he pictured the city below. The rugged outpost was hemmed in on either side by mountains. Even by Afghan standards the place was a hellhole, frequented by opium traders, arms smugglers, and Taliban fighters with Al-Qaeda links--including a group that had recently hijacked a caravan of aid workers on their way back from a medical mission in Badakhshan Province.

  The hijackers had killed the drivers and taken three hostages, all aid workers. Two were Swedish and one was American, and both governments were scrambling to resolve the crisis while keeping it under wraps. But the situation had dragged on, which wasn’t good. Derek had seen first-hand how TAQ fighters treated their prisoners, and the thought of what those people had likely been through made his blood boil. But he tamped down his anger and focused on his job.

  “Five minutes,” the crew chief said over the radio.

  Derek closed his eyes. He regulated his breathing. He recalled the map of the compound he and his teammates had memorized during the briefing. Drone photographs had shown two buildings separated by a narrow courtyard. The hostages were thought to be held in the basement of one or both of the houses.

  Or so they hoped. Tonight’s entire mission was based on a call that had traced back to a phone believed to belong to one of the kidnappers.

  One phone call. That was it.

  Typically, deploying an entire platoon of SEALs required slightly more intel. But tonight wasn’t typical, not by a long shot. Sixteen days ago, the kidnappers had demanded five million dollars in ransom from the international relief org, MedAssist. Nine days ago, they’d upped the ante to ten mil. Two days ago, negotiations had broken down and twenty-four hours ago MedAssist had received an e-mail. The attached video clip showed twenty-six-year-old Ana Hansson blindfolded and kneeling before the camera, pleading for her life just seconds before her captors slit her throat.

  “Four minutes,” the crew chief said over the headset.

  Derek pictured the two remaining hostages. Dr. Peter Lindh of Stockholm was forty-nine and had been in excellent health before his abduction. Hailey Gardner of Boston had just graduated nursing school before taking a job with an international relief org. Her passport photo showed a pretty blond with a wry smile. The photo had immediately reminded Derek of a different woman, a woman he’d been trying to get out of his head for months now. It wasn’t the blond hair or the smile, but the determined gleam in her eyes that made Derek think of Elizabeth LeBlanc.

  As if he needed a reason.

  “Three minutes.”

  Derek snugged his assault gloves on his hands. Focus. Thinking about Elizabeth or anything besides the op right now was a good way to get his ass shot off. Or one of his teammates’.

  The crew chief slid open the door and the roar from outside cut off all communication. Derek got to his feet and edged closer to the opening, where he could see the valley below bathed in silver. The
y were infiltrating under a full moon into hostile territory with scant intel to guide their assault. The odds were stacked against them, but Derek knew every last one of his teammates relished this mission. They’d trained together, fought together, lived, breathed, and bled together for six long months of deployment. On this tour alone, they’d racked up more successful tactical operations than anyone cared to count. But this mission was special. It wasn’t every day they got the chance to rescue a civilian from the country they’d sworn their lives to protect and defend.

  At the front of the helo Derek’s CO held up two fingers. Two minutes.

  Derek pulled down his night vision goggles, casting everything around him in a greenish hue. He checked his M-4, outfitted with a ten-inch barrel. The weapon was designed for closed-quarters combat and had a suppressor to keep the noise down. He also had his Sig Sauer P226 in his thigh holster, but didn’t expect to use it. Tonight was a straight-up, take-no-prisoners rescue mission. Get in and get out, hopefully before anyone realized they were there.

  That was the goal, but everyone knew it wasn’t likely to become reality. And they were good with that. SEALs were trained to think on their feet. To move, shoot, and communicate. To take whatever shit the mission threw at them and find a way to make a victory out of it.

  The helo entered a hover and the crew chief kicked out the rope attached to the fuselage. Both buildings had a rooftop balcony. The pilot would drop off one group, then the other on the neighboring roof, and each four-man element would assault down. Meanwhile an armored Humvee would pull up to the compound and unloaded two more elements to clear from below.

  Hit ’em from all directions, a classic SEAL tactic.

  They stacked by size with Derek first, followed by Mike Dietz, the team corpsman. Next was Cole McDermott, their best sharpshooter, who would man the roof. Luke Jones--another medic--would bring up the rear.

  Derek grabbed the rope. Across the helo Sean Harper grinned and shot him the bird.

  Go time.

  Derek’s palms burned as he slid down and hit concrete. Fifty pounds of gear on his back, but he hardly felt the impact as he sprang to his feet and sprinted for the door. They’d expected locked, but the heavy iron grillwork added a complication. Derek grabbed his kit and crouched down to prep a breaching charge. Having been shot at through doors on more than one occasion he’d learned to do it kneeling.

  Brakes screeched below as the Humvee arrived on target. Derek heard a string of pops, like firecrackers, as the other teams dealt with the doors. So much for quiet.

  “Going explosive,” Derek said, and everyone hunched down.

  Pop!

  The door burst open and a barrage of machine gun fire spewed through gap. Derek rolled away, breathing hard. Even when you expected it, it was always a shock when bullets whizzed over your head. Luke laid down cover fire as Derek reached into the doorway and pulled away the ruined gate.

  They darted through the opening, one, two, three, with perfect coordination born of years of training.

  “Room one clear!” Luke shouted, tossing an infrared chem light to the floor to signal his teammates.

  Derek darted past him and cleared the next room. A staccato of bullets echoed in the stairwell.

  “This is Alpha,” Luke said over the radio. “Level two clear.”

  “This is Bravo. Level one clear.”

  Derek rushed down the stairs, stepping over a body as he joined his team. Two tangos lay dead in the middle of the floor, their AKs and chest racks beside them. Derek glanced around. Sleeping pallets, trash, empty food cans. The smell of cooking oil hung in the air.

  Mike looked at him. “Notice anything funny?”

  “No women, no kids.”

  Taken with everything else, it confirmed their intel. This was no typical family home.

  “This is Delta. House two clear and we need Dietz over here ASAP.”

  Mike rushed to answer the call while across the kitchen Luke kicked open a door.

  “Basement!”

  “Check for booby traps,” Derek said, following him down a primitive staircase carved from the rock. At the bottom was a door with a heavy-duty lock.

  “Need your sledge,” Luke said.

  Derek was already pulling it from his pack. They didn’t want a breaching charge in case a hostage was being held on the other side. Derek swung back the hammer and gave the door a sharp whack, sending splinters flying as it burst open.

  Luke ducked in first. Derek covered him. The room was dark and cold and reeked of urine. In the corner was a shadowy lump with a mop of blond hair. She wasn’t moving--not good news, considering all the noise.

  “NVGs,” Derek said, shoving his up. Their goggles and greasepaint made them look like alien robots, and they didn’t want to scare the hell out of her. Derek switched on the flashlight attached to his helmet as Luke reached to check her pulse. She flinched, then rolled over and suddenly started kicking and screaming like a banshee.

  “It’s okay, ma’am,” Luke said. “Don’t be afraid.”

  More shrieks and kicks.

  “Hailey, it’s okay.”

  She went still. Derek aimed the light at her as she cowered back. Dirt smudged her face and the collar of her shirt was dark with blood. The nasty gash above her eye made Derek’s stomach turn.

  “I’m Petty Officer Luke Jones, U.S. Navy.” He was already digging through his medical kit. “We’re here to take you home.”

  Derek knelt down and looked the woman over. She held her wrist protectively against her body, and it was wrapped with a dirty scrap of cloth. Luke tore open a syringe as Derek peeled away the bandage to reveal an oozing green wound with bone jutting through the skin.

  Derek glanced up at her. “We’ve got a helo coming to give you a ride.”

  “You’re... American,” she rasped.

  “Yep.” Derek got rid of the filthy-ass bandage as Luke prepped the shot. “Hey, your Bruins are doing pretty good. We plan to get you home in time for the Cup.”

  She made a wet, choking sound, and Luke darted him a look. He’d meant to distract her, not make her cry.

  “Five minutes!” someone yelled from upstairs. Derek’s radio crackled and he got to his feet.

  “Alpha this is Delta. We need Vaughn or Jones over here.”

  Derek rushed back upstairs, checking his watch as he went. He’d known Sean since BUD/S training and he could tell by the tone of his voice that something was very wrong. Probably the hostage. A cold feeling of dread gripped him as he thought of losing another one.

  In the courtyard one of his teammates was building a pile of guns and ammo. The heap of AKs, chest racks, and RPGs took up most of the space. Another pair of guys had already started SSE--Sensitive Site Exploitation--which meant confiscating any potential intelligence, as well as fingerprinting and photographing casualties and their weapons, not only for ID purposes but also so that if the mission came to light, the enemy couldn’t claim they’d killed a bunch of innocent civilians.

  Inside the second building, the SEAL pulling security directed Derek toward a stairwell leading to the basement. Someone had slapped a chem light on the wall with duct tape.

  The cavern smelled as rank as the other one. Remnants of a wooden door lay on the floor. Mike emerged from a chamber with the doctor slung over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

  “He’s alive,” Mike said, answering the unspoken question.

  Derek stepped out of his way. “We been on target too long, bro. Need to speed it up.”

  “Vaughn, get over here.”

  He followed a narrow corridor and almost stepped on a pair of legs jutting out from the wall. A young man was seated on the floor with his hands zip-cuffed behind him. He wore loose-fitting pants and high-top sneakers and was fifteen, max, but his eyes already had the flat, battle-hardened look of a warrior.

  “Found him in the tunnel.” Sean nodded toward a passage that connected the house to who the hell knew what. The tunnel system here was like
a rabbit warren.

  Derek spotted a workbench littered with electrical wires, nails, several jars of black powder--all bomb components. He scanned the rest of the room and his gaze came to rest on a large safe in the corner. It was a serious box, definitely imported, and would have been a major pain in the ass to get here.

  Now Derek understood why he’d been called over. He glanced at the kid and tried to remember his rudimentary Pashto.

  “What’s the number?” Derek asked in Pashto, because he didn’t know the word for “combination.”

  The kid didn’t answer.

  Derek pointed the stock of his gun at the safe. “Open it.”

  The kid looked away, sullen.

  “Fuck this.” Sean reached for his kit and got out some C-4. Derek stepped over to check for booby traps. He didn’t see any, but there was only one way to know for sure.

  Sean set a small charge and they crossed to the other side of the room. The burst reverberated through the cavern and they rushed back over.

  “Shit, look at all this.” Sean pulled out a stack of papers, singed around the edges and still smoking. He flung it to the ground and stomped the fire out as Derek reached in and pulled out a notebook computer.

  “Two minutes,” the CO said over the radio.

  Derek cursed. Even with the extra minutes they’d built into the plan, they were running behind.

  Sean was already pulling out his mesh bag, which they carried for this purpose. Some of the papers were in English, but Derek didn’t take the time to read them as he jammed everything in the bag. He reached in and snatched a thumb drive as Sean grabbed another batch of papers. Loose pages fluttered to the ground.

  His teammate held up a sheet. “Hey, look at this.”

  “No time to read. We need to move.”

  “It’s a map.”

  Derek glanced at it. It was in English, with notes scrawled around the edges. Derek scanned the street names.

  His blood ran cold. He looked at Sean.

  “Guys, move it!” someone yelled down the stairs.

  Derek glanced at his watch. They’d been on target way too long. He glanced at the kid. In a matter of hours, this house would be looted and abandoned. In a matter of minutes this guy would be in the wind.

 

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