She felt a tinge of worry that she was letting a criminal get away, but at the same time, she couldn’t very well have arrested Price and dragged him back to California with her and Jack on the Cessna. And he had provided important information. They were getting close. The key was Russo’s murder. Completely different M.O. Why? There was something there, something at the crime scene or Russo’s background that the killers didn’t want authorities to know about. Otherwise, why not kill him in the same manner as the others? Why not torture him? In addition to Russo’s murder being nearly a year ago, it had been set up as a robbery. Was that so the police wouldn’t link his death to the others? Possibly.
“Relax,” Jack said.
“I am.”
He reached out and snatched her cell phone from her grip. She hadn’t realized she’d been twisting the phone around in her hands until he took it away.
“You can try again when we get airborne, or we can use the radio.”
“Okay. Good. Thanks.”
“Let me get the bird off the ground. I need to stay ahead of the storm.”
“Right. Of course.”
She had a million things on her mind, from the investigation to Hans’s strange behavior at the crime scene to her guilt that she’d messed up at the beginning. But now she had a huge break, a major lead. She couldn’t wait to work it.
She glanced at Jack when he started the plane, his profile momentarily taking her breath away. Her stomach fluttered and she turned away, flushed, remembering how Jack had touched her face earlier.
Maybe it was that she was still wearing his leather jacket, wrapped in his scent and warmth. That was it. She’d known him only twenty-four hours. Why did it seem so much longer than that?
Jack double-checked the gauges. Then he said, “Ready?”
“Yes.”
“Meg?”
Turning, she opened her mouth to respond and his lips were on hers.
All thoughts vanished, all reason gone, her lips melted into Jack’s. His hand held her jaw, keeping her facing him, in just the right position for a kiss that was so perfect, she forgot every mouth that had ever touched hers.
Her lips parted unconsciously, her body reacting, unable to control her physical response. Her mind was mush, full of Jack and all the possibilities that lay between them. At that moment, she couldn’t have given directions to her apartment even if she’d been in front of the building.
When Megan’s lips opened, she released a sigh and the spontaneous kiss took on a life of its own. Jack didn’t know what he had been thinking, just that she looked too good, too kissable, sitting in the co-pilot seat, a frown on her lips because she couldn’t use her cell phone, her bottom lip protruding in a slight pout that made him want to suck it. He’d planned to give her a quick peck-for luck or some such excuse-but when he’d tasted her, he wanted more. That she felt the same, that she opened to him and put her hand around his neck as if to keep him right there against her lips, made him want to lie to her, tell her the storm was imminent and directly in their path. Then he could take her to the back of the plane and make love to her.
He was halfway out of his seat, pulling her up with his hands, before he realized what he was doing. What he’d been thinking-or not thinking. He let go of her and sat down, his breathing labored. Her skin was flushed, her lips swollen and red, turning Special Agent Megan Elliott from a no-nonsense federal cop into a soft, warm, and incredibly sexy woman.
Her eyelids slowly opened and for a moment he pictured a siren, the way her green eyes had darkened, beckoning him, her lashes long and thick, her lips parted. His cock twitched and he shifted, but failed to alleviate the discomfort.
He coughed to mask his lust and focused on the gauges. “Buckle up, Blondie, it might get bumpy.”
Megan looked straight ahead as she obeyed, but he didn’t miss the confusion on her pretty face. He felt the exact same way.
Watch out, Kincaid. You like Blondie way too much.
Ethan waited to the left of the door. Waited. Waited.
She’d called fifteen minutes ago and said she was coming back with Hackett.
He wasn’t good at waiting. He was barely able to hold off the panic, the overwhelming sense to flee, that had gotten him captured in Afghanistan in the first place.
It was their fault! They left you!
They were coming back. Thornton had said they were coming back to get them. Thornton had kept whispering, “Shut up. Shut up.”
Ethan whimpered as if he was still trapped in the rocks. Something crawled over his foot. He looked down, saw the scorpion as if he were right back in the rocks. He shook his foot violently.
“You’re going to get us killed!”
He looked around the room, expecting to see Thornton. His heart raced. Where was he?
Voices. Oh, God no, he was going to be killed.
A woman’s laugh. Odd. What woman traveled with the Taliban? Waves crashed across the desert … Ocean waves. He wasn’t in Afghanistan.
Santa Barbara.
Ethan looked at the knife in his hand. He remembered what he had to do.
“Whoops!” A female voice said outside the cabin door. She giggled. “I dropped my key.”
“I got it,” a man said.
Ethan frowned, clutched the knife. What was she doing? Too much noise.
Shut up! Shut up! You’re going to get us killed.
He stayed flat against the wall, silent.
He had to trust her like he hadn’t trusted Thornton. Had he just listened, not panicking, not screwing up in the first place, he’d never have been held hostage. Thornton would never have died. Ethan couldn’t have done any of this without Karin. She was the brains. He knew it. It was all her plan, to help him get better. But he didn’t feel better. Instead he felt cold. He was so cold.
“Rose, God woman, you’re driving me crazy.”
Rose? Who was Rose? Was Ethan in the wrong room? No, this was his room. He’d taken it using his fake I.D. Ethan Rose. Rose. Rose.
The door opened.
“Lyle,” the woman said. “You’ve made my whole week worth it.”
“And we haven’t gotten to the good part.”
Lyle Hackett. It was him. Ethan’s target.
The door swung shut. In the dim light, Ethan saw her eyes staring at him over Hackett’s shoulder. She nodded as Hackett kissed her neck. Her head tilted back. She mouthed “now,” then wrapped her arms around the general’s neck.
Smooth and swift, with more confidence than anything else he had done in the last five years, Ethan brought the blade down hard across the back of General Lyle Hackett’s hamstrings.
Hackett screamed, but it was stifled when he fell to the floor.
“Gag him!” Ethan exclaimed. “You were supposed to drug him so he couldn’t make any noise!”
Hackett was dragging his body toward the sliding door that led to the beach. He was howling, a fierce, pain-filled bellow that could summon the devil himself.
Ethan grabbed a gag from his black bag and stepped toward Hackett. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement. And something …
She had her gun out. The gun she’d told him she got rid of. That’s when he saw the shine of the plastic gloves as her hands gripped the weapon. And finally Ethan figured out what had seemed so wrong and out of place earlier.
She’d been wearing gloves the last time she was in the room.
She aimed the gun at Hackett.
“No,” Ethan said. “Not yet-”
She fired the gun twice, in Hackett’s back and his skull. Bang bang. His body convulsed, then was still. Blood seeped from under his body and spread wide, a dark burgundy as the thick beige carpet absorbed what seemed like a huge amount of blood. She must have hit his aorta. Ethan hadn’t ever seen that much blood, even when Thornton’s body had been riddled with bullets.
“What are you doing?” he cried. “Someone will hear.”
She pointed the gun at Ethan.
He stared at
her. Her eyes looked different. Darker. Her disguise-she didn’t look like the woman he’d met two years ago, or the one he’d left Texas with two nights ago.
“You fucked up yesterday, Ethan. You killed without a plan.”
He shook his head. “This isn’t about yesterday.” The gloves. The gun. In a clear and terrifying flash of sanity, he knew. He’d been set up.
“Thanks for the lessons. I’ll put them to good use.”
He stepped toward her at the same time the fire alarms went off. Someone must have heard the gunshots and pulled the alarm. Ethan made a move for the gun, knife in hand. She dropped to her knees and now he was over her, knife raised in a stabbing motion.
“You fucking traitor!” The pain and rage and hurt overwhelmed him. He saw clearly, and in the brief moment before he sliced her he realized this had been her plan all along.
She pivoted at the last second and the knife went into her arm.
She grunted and scrambled away. Ethan went after her. She had to die. He wailed, a foreign and forlorn sound. He kicked her and she stumbled, then rolled onto her back, right next to the dead general. He brought the knife down again, ready to plunge it deep into her black heart.
“You. Set. Me. Up.”
He felt the searing pain before he heard the gunshot. His body jerked again. Again. He saw Thornton in front of him, his body full of holes, his brain a bloody pulp.
I’m sorry.
Ethan fell to his knees. Reached for his savior, his executioner. She crawled away. Then everything went black.
Finally.
The scent of death permeated the room, the blood cloying, the warm fragrance of gunpowder tickling her nose. She tossed the gun toward Ethan’s body and picked up the knife. Her arm stung, and she was furious that he’d gotten a jab at her. She shoved it into her bag.
She ran out the back door, a quick glance at the digital clock on the desk of the cabin. She’d killed two men in two minutes. There had to be a record in that.
But she wasn’t free yet.
She slipped off her spiked heels as soon as she hit the sand and ran down the beach, away from the cabin, toward the pier in the distance. She paused half a minute to pull her red dress off and stuff it into the side pocket of her oversized purse. She wore a one-piece red swim-suit underneath. It was dark and moonless and no one was this far down the beach, though she heard a group of people in the distance. The tide was coming in, wetting her bare feet.
She bent down and scooped up the ocean water with her arms, splashing it over her body, wetting her hair, washing the blood off her hands and face. She rubbed the saltwater all over her. A larger wave crashed right in front of her, drenching her, and she laughed at the night.
Sirens whirled in the distance. She looked back at the resort hotel, the entire place ablaze with light as the floodlights snapped on. She’d run farther than she’d first thought. A distant whirl of police lights caught her eye as they stopped near the row of cabins.
Her heart raced, her mind awhirl. It had worked out even better than she’d planned. She’d been able to seduce Lyle Hackett instead of drugging him. The thrill of seducing a man to his death exhilarated her.
When she’d first conceived of this plan, she’d felt a bit guilty that the trained psycho had to die, but after Ethan had killed those people at the rest stop, she lost that guilt. He should have been dead years ago. His botched suicide attempts were pathetic. If he’d really wanted to be dead he could have done it.
She pulled a sealed gallon-sized plastic bag from her purse and removed a black-and-red-flowered sarong. The plastic had kept blood and evidence off her clothing. She tied the skirt around her waist, draped the bag over her shoulder, and walked casually toward the pier. Toward freedom, toward revenge and final justice.
It was time to start the endgame. This was the part of the plan she’d never told Ethan about. She had known he’d be dead before it started.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
When Megan checked into the motel she had a message that Hans wanted to see her ASAP. She glanced at Jack, uncertain about what had happened between them on the plane. He avoided her eyes and for a moment she thought she’d imagined the whole thing. Or that she had been the aggressor and Jack was embarrassed.
But the truth was he’d kissed her and she kissed him back. And then some.
“I need to talk to Hans,” she said, her voice thick. She handed him his jacket.
He took it, but didn’t seem to know what to do with it. “I’m going for a run.”
He looked like he wanted to kiss her again, then he stepped back. “See you in the morning, Blondie.”
She watched him pick up his duffel bag and walk out of the lobby without looking back. She released a pent-up breath. How could one kiss leave her so disoriented?
Little sleep, lots of work.
Right, Megan, lie to yourself all you want.
She walked through the same doors. Jack was in the room right next to hers. Hans’s room was across the corridor. She was not going to chase after Jack. No matter how incredible that kiss had been, it was just one kiss, and she had work to do. She glanced at her watch. It was nearly midnight.
Maybe Hans was asleep. She’d done everything she could since leaving Colorado-called Quantico’s Assistant Director Rick Stockton himself about Price and Rosemont after getting his home number from her boss, who she quickly briefed. Richardson also had news from Detective Black in Sacramento-the van, where John Doe had been tortured, had been found abandoned in a remote area of Placer County, off Interstate-80.
Which made sense to Megan. Price’s dog tag had been sent to her from Reno. I-80 went through Reno. The killers could have gone almost anywhere after that, but instead took a straight course down to south Texas and killed Lawrence “Scout” Bartleton.
So far, no useful evidence had been collected off the van, but it was being processed in the FBI garage by their trace evidence experts.
When Megan finally talked to Stockton, he assured her that he would take a personal interest in reexamining the Russo case and pull the tapes from the interview Price mentioned. He would also get a warrant for Rosemont’s medical records. He ordered her to sleep. “An exhausted agent makes mistakes, Agent Elliott.”
Except she hadn’t yet connected with Hans, and he’d left her the message. She’d slept two hours during the flight to Colorado. She could spare another hour.
Hans opened the door seconds after she knocked. He held the door open for her to enter, but said nothing, shutting it firmly behind her. He walked over to the desk where papers and crime scene photos were spread, but he didn’t sit down.
The cliche “death warmed over” fit Hans. His skin was too pale, his eyes bloodshot, and he seemed to have aged ten years since she’d last seen him.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“What did you think you were doing tonight?”
“Excuse me? Didn’t you get my message? Rick Stockton said he would call you and-”
“Yes,” Hans interrupted, “but that doesn’t excuse you for going after a suspect on your own.”
“Jack Kin-”
“I don’t care!” Hans crossed over to the dresser and put his palms down on the top, not looking at her. “You know better than this. What about a warrant? What about backup?” He turned and stared at her. “You’ve fucked this up from the beginning.”
She blinked. Hans didn’t swear. Not like this. Did he really think she’d screwed up the case?
She had assumed the first victim was George Price, but the more she’d thought about it that night, the more she realized that if she thought he was a John Doe from the beginning, they’d never have made the connection to the army or Delta Force or the dead soldiers so quickly. Jack had concurred. With the incompetent police chief in the Bartleton investigation, and the lack of communication between the different agencies until the FBI showed interest, they certainly wouldn’t have teamed up with Jack and Padre and had the information about the
Delta ops that led to a possible suspect-the reporter, Barry Rosemont. And no way would they have found Price without Padre’s connection. At least not tonight.
Yes, she made a poor assumption, but it had ended up being beneficial.
“Warrant?” she said, not knowing what part of Hans’s verbal attack to address first. “I didn’t need a warrant. I was talking to a potential witness-”
“Witness? Is that what you’re calling killers these days?”
“You’ve lost me, Hans. Where do you think I’ve been?”
“Hunting down George Price. And if he’s-”
“He’s not the killer.”
“And you know this how? Because he told you?”
Her mouth dropped open. “I- He didn’t have motive or opportunity.”
“And you were able to ascertain this in a few hours?”
Megan didn’t know what she’d done to warrant such a dressing down. She straightened her back and said, “Let me explain from the beginning. I think you must have misinformation or something-”
“I talked to Father Francis. He tracked down George Price like that.” Hans snapped his fingers. “We find out the real George Price isn’t dead, and less than twelve hours later the only other surviving Delta team member hands you his location on a silver platter?”
“It’s a close-knit group. They know people. I don’t understand your point.”
“Maybe Frank Cardenas isn’t the good priest everyone thinks he is.”
“This doesn’t sound like you-”
“You don’t know me, then.”
Hans might as well have slapped her. Megan had met Hans three months after her father was killed in Desert Storm. She’d been a senior in college. A visiting lecturer, Hans had recruited her into the FBI. Became a friend, a mentor, someone she’d confided in. He’d been the best man at her wedding, and while her marriage to Mitch Bianchi hadn’t lasted, her friendship with Hans had. They’d spent six weeks in Kosovo together, and afterward she didn’t consider anyone else a closer friend or confidant than Hans Vigo.
“Price told us that-”
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