He walked around the side of the house, hands in view.
Art Perez stood there, in civilian clothes, a cat-ate-the-canary grin on his face.
“I knew you’d show up sooner or later.”
Megan had grown frustrated thirty minutes ago when their ride was a no-show. It was after midnight, she was tired, hungry, and crabby, and stuck in a small, empty airport thirty miles from their destination.
“Have you tried him again?” she asked Hans. Hans had left a message, told the ride where they would be waiting.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure he’s coming?”
“Yes. Dillon talked to him only a couple hours ago.” But even saintly Hans Vigo was beginning to sound irritated.
Thunder rolled through the sky, the clouds were thick with the threat of a downpour, though there was no rain yet. The humidity was enough to make Megan miss the dry heat of Sacramento.
The sound of the Jeep came before they saw it.
The driver pulled near them, but didn’t get out. He was a Hispanic male about forty years old with shortcropped hair and wearing a priest collar. “Your friend’s brother is a priest?” she asked.
Hans shook his head. Megan didn’t like the unknown situation, and had her hand on her gun.
“Dr. Vigo?” the driver asked. “Agent Elliott?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Father Francis Cardenas. Jack Kincaid sent me for you. I’m sorry I’m late. There’s been a situation. Jack’s in jail, and we have to get him out or he’ll be dead by morning.”
He was strapped to a cot. Naked. His eyes burned and he couldn’t see. The room was too bright, too bright, too much light, God help me help me help me die.
The door opened and he began to shake. Not from cold, the room was too hot, the lights too bright, to be cold. The fear. The pain. No, no no no no no no …
No words, no explanation, and the needle went in, at the back of his neck, and every limb screamed in pain, as if he’d been zapped by a lightning bolt. There were no tears, no voice to the agony that rippled through his body, wave after wave after wave …
They’d left him. They hated him and left him. Not to die, they didn’t want to give him anything, they wanted him to suffer. Maybe he was dead. Maybe this was Hell. It couldn’t be that he was alive.
Another needle and the pain put him over the edge….
“Ethan!”
He blinked. Every finger in both hands was on fire. He stared at them in the dim light of the cheap hotel room they’d rented somewhere in New Mexico. New Mexico? He didn’t remember. Not for certain … his fingers weren’t on fire. They were there. Right there. He moved them, watched them glide right and left and right and left …
“Ethan, it’s me.”
The female voice had a panicked sound.
“Ethan, you’re okay. I’m right here. You’re okay.”
He looked at her and didn’t recognize her. Why was this woman in his bed? Another trick? Another perverse, sadistic torment? Let him glimpse a goddess, then snatch her away?
He reached out to touch her face. She didn’t flinch or disappear. He remembered her. Familiar. Pain and love. Hot and cold. She hated him. Loved him.
“They left me,” Ethan croaked.
“I know, baby. I know.”
Ethan’s nightmares—memories?—now occurred nightly. Karin didn’t know what that meant, but it wasn’t good. His slips were more frequent, like going into the woods and burying himself in dirt. But there was nothing she could do about that now. And when he was like this, Ethan was more forthcoming and patient with her training. Karin was almost there. After last night … she resisted the urge to gloat.
Instead, she hugged Ethan close, his head to her breast. The tension started to leave his body. He began to shake violently, then fell back into a deep sleep so suddenly, became so still, that for a moment she thought he’d died.
She felt his pulse. Strong. She stared at Ethan as he slept, this time without the memories, the real nightmares that had turned him into … into what?
A killer like you?
She swallowed. She had good reasons for what she needed to do. Karin always had good reasons.
You turned him into a killer. Without you, he would be locked up in a padded room, or maybe someone could have helped him. What do you think of that? That you turned this pathetic, tortured man into a sadistic killer?
What was sadistic about killing those who hurt others? If it weren’t for those soldiers, who were supposed to protect the innocent, who were there to make sure no harm came to Ethan, he would never have been a hostage and tortured for months.
It’s not your fight. You’re using him. You’re killing him.
Perhaps she was, but she didn’t start it. And Ethan wanted to die, anyway. He’d tried it enough times.
She was confident in the rightness of Ethan’s cause. When she’d killed before, it was for the justice of others. Never herself. When General Hackett died, she would finally be able to kill for herself.
It would be a righteous kill.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
Megan walked into the Hidalgo Police Department with Father Francis Cardenas while Hans worked on getting a warrant from the presiding U.S. attorney to remand Jack Kincaid into their custody if she couldn’t sweet talk the chief of police into releasing him. Because it was so late, Megan wasn’t holding her breath on either count. But the priest was certain that Kincaid was in grave danger and Megan couldn’t not at least try and figure out what was going on and see if she could fix it.
She felt out of her element in the border town, blond hair, green eyes, and boobs, which the desk sergeant stared at instead of the badge that was clipped to her belt. She grabbed her badge and put it directly in his line of sight. “Supervisory Special Agent Megan Elliott, Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’m here to speak to a witness in a homicide I heard you have under arrest.”
“And who might that be?”
“Jack Kincaid.”
The sergeant grunted. “Sorry, it’s after hours. Unless you’re his attorney.”
A loud thump and slam against the back wall made Megan unconsciously jump.
“Is that the jail?” she asked, gesturing toward the door in the back with the words Authorized Personnel Only.
“So?”
Megan felt as if she’d walked into the Twilight Zone. “Sergeant, I think you have a fight in your jail.”
Father Francis said, “Jorge, you don’t want to be party to Art’s vendetta against Jack.”
Jorge hesitated a second.
A body was slammed against the wall, making the room shake. Megan strode past the sergeant without waiting for an invite. Someone was getting the shit beaten out of them, and Megan feared it could be fatal.
She tried the door. It was locked.
“Key. Now!”
The sergeant hesitated, then pressed a button that released the door.
Megan opened it, holding it only briefly so Father Francis could join her. “Stay back,” she told him.
Inside the jail were two small cells on the left and one large “drunk tank” on the right. Megan quickly assessed the situation—three against one—in the larger cell. Oddly, or not, considering the priest’s fear, the cell door was ajar.
Megan drew her Glock and held it steadily on the men. “FBI. Put your hands behind your head and get down. Now!”
They stopped, all four registering surprise.
The priest stepped forward. “I told you to stand back,” Meg said. Though Father Francis looked fit, she didn’t want to bring a man of God—or, frankly, any civilian—into a potentially dangerous situation.
He ignored her. “You okay?” he asked a tall, dark-haired, olive-skinned man.
He—Jack Kincaid, most likely—nodded slightly, never taking his eyes off his three attackers, none of whom had obeyed Megan’s orders. Megan saw a flash of steel in the palm of one man. He had a knife.
“This isn�
��t your business, Padre. Take your girlfriend and go. Five minutes.”
“You’ll need more than five minutes to kill me,” Jack said, voice low. “You’ve been trying for ten.”
What was this, Megan thought, the Wild West? Didn’t these guys hear her? “FBI!” she said again. “Drop your weapons, now!”
The wiry guy with the knife lunged for Jack. Dammit, the situation had rapidly deteriorated. “Knife!” she shouted. She aimed for the attacker’s hand, pulled the trigger, and the bullet clipped his wrist. He dropped the knife, clutching his hand to his chest, and backed away against the wall.
Jack kicked the knife out of the way and stepped toward Megan, eyes still on the other men.
“Fucking bitch shot me!”
Megan gestured to the other two men. “Hands up. Up where I can see them. Now!”
Jack was two feet from her. She wasn’t sure he wasn’t dangerous as well. He certainly looked it, especially with the blood around his nose from the fight and a cut along his neck. At second glance, she realized it was a knife wound. They’d gone for his throat. Father Francis had been right. They’d fully intended to kill him. He was favoring his right side. Had he been stabbed? Did he need medical attention?
“Kincaid?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“You okay?”
“Fine.” His voice was casual, laced with a hard edge.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw one of the two uninjured men pull a switchblade into a throwing position.
The priest said, “Paul, put the knife down. It’s over.”
Jack stepped toward Megan in a protective move.
The slam of a door had Megan glance toward the entrance. A tall, bulky man in a Stetson entered with the desk sergeant who’d ogled her breasts.
Everything else happened fast.
“Down, Kincaid!” Stetson shouted, a Taser in hand.
Megan’s badge was on the front of her belt, clearly visible, and she again identified herself.
“Megan Elliott, FBI. Blue shirt has a knife.” She didn’t want to shoot another man, but a knife thrown this close could kill. She inched in front of Jack, who was unarmed and obviously the target. Why these thugs wanted him dead Megan had no idea, but it was clear neither her gun nor her badge panicked them even with their friend down.
“All fours, Kincaid,” Stetson said again.
The priest said, “Art, don’t.” Megan was perplexed but didn’t have time to reflect on it.
Jack stepped in front of her. Did he have a death wish? She turned her body to be a bigger shield, but Kincaid wasn’t making it easy. He was injured and bleeding and she was the one with the gun and the badge; why didn’t he stand back and let her do her job?
At the same time Jack moved, Stetson aimed the Taser not at the man with the knife, but at Jack.
The zip of the Taser C2 cartridge being depressed registered at the same time as two lightning bolts of pain hit Megan in her right shoulder, radiating instant fire through her entire body, blinding her. Her gun fell from her grasp and she hit the ground at the same time.
She’d been told what to expect if she was hit with a Taser and what options she had, but for a full minute— or longer, she didn’t know—she couldn’t think, couldn’t focus, couldn’t stop her body from convulsing. Breathe deep. Control her gun. Focus, dammit!
She heard voices, shouts, a lot of swearing. She pulled herself up on all fours, her vision returning, but she couldn’t see her gun. She felt around for it.
A low, deep voice so close to her ear that she could feel the brush of his lips on her earlobe said, “Relax, Blondie. It’ll pass faster if you relax your muscles.”
“Kincaid has the gun!” a voice shouted. She felt a hand on her back, and the weight of her gun in her holster. She relaxed as best she could and felt her body rising from the floor. Her vision cleared and she was staring into black eyes only inches from her face.
“Put. Me. Down.” Her words were faint and her throat raw.
Jack Kincaid smiled with half his mouth. “I don’t think you have your sea legs yet.”
Hans Vigo, a man who never raised his voice or swore, thundered, “Chief Perez, you’d better explain what just happened or I’ll have the DOJ on your ass so fast you won’t be able to shit.”
Jack carried her out of the cell and Hans rushed over. “You okay, Meg?”
She nodded. “Put me down,” she said quietly.
Jack set her on her feet and she swayed, legs shaking. He stuck his arm behind her, holding her up.
“You have no jurisdiction here,” Perez said. “Kincaid disarmed the woman, took her gun. She had no business being in here. It was a prison riot. We should have been in lockdown.” He glared at the desk sergeant, who was looking at the floor.
“That’s bullshit,” Jack said.
“You shot a federal agent,” Hans said, his voice still vibrating with emotion.
“She intentionally stood in front of Kincaid. She should know better than to walk into a brawl and get herself disarmed. Maybe you’d be in your element, little lady, kicking off those shoes and staying in the kitchen.”
Megan’s generation was rarely confronted with out-and-out explicit male chauvinism and she didn’t know what to say, if she could say anything. Her legs steadied and she took a deep breath.
“I wasn’t disarmed. I didn’t drop my weapon until you Tasered me, you bastard.”
“That’s not how it looked to me,” Perez said.
Father Francis said, “You allowed three men with knives in a jail cell with an unarmed man.”
“I allowed nothing. I wasn’t even here. I’ll mount a full investigation. Back in the cell, Kincaid. You’re still under arrest for breaking and entering.”
Jack didn’t move.
“My hand! Dammit, Art, she shot me!” the first knifeman was sitting against the wall, his T-shirt, now bloody, wrapped around his wrist.
“You’re lucky you still have a hand,” Megan snapped.
Hans said, “I have a warrant to take Mr. Kincaid into protective custody as a material witness.” He handed it to the police chief. “I’ve also contacted the Rangers who said you hadn’t informed them about Lawrence Bartle-ton’s murder, which I believe is standard procedure. They’ll be here first thing in the morning to assist in the investigation.”
“Standard procedure my ass,” Perez said. “There’s no mandate to call in the Rangers or the sheriff.”
“But they should have been informed of the homicide,” Hans said, not backing down. “And because this is connected to an ongoing federal investigation, I’ll be talking to the U.S. attorney and the state D.A. about jurisdiction.”
Perez clearly wanted to argue. Megan watched the veins in his neck throb. Rubbing her head, she felt an intense headache coming on. She was still shaking, but she had her wits about her.
In the end, Perez didn’t say anything as the four of them walked out of the jail, through the lobby, and outside. The night breeze felt like heaven as Megan took off her blazer. Distant lightning lit the sky, followed by the roll of thunder.
“Sit,” Jack told her, pushing her into the back of the Jeep in which Father Francis had picked them up at the airstrip. He slid in next to her.
The priest turned the ignition as Hans got in the passenger seat.
“What the fuck happened, Meg?” Hans turned to her as the Jeep sped away. “What were you doing in the jail cell? I told you to wait until I got the warrant.”
“I heard a fight.” She took a deep breath. “Do you have water in here?”
Jack reached into the small back storage of the Jeep and retrieved a water bottle. “It’s warm.”
“I don’t care.” She tried to unscrew the cap. “Damn.”
“Your strength will come back.” He took the plastic bottle, opened the top, and handed it back to her. “Drink slow or you’ll throw up.”
She sipped. “You’ve been Tasered?”
“Once or twice.”
/> “Why were you arrested?” Megan asked. Focusing on questions and answers kept her mind off the pain that made every nerve in her body throb.
“Perez thought I was breaking into Scout’s house.”
“Were you?”
“He didn’t catch me.”
“You did.” Megan couldn’t believe it. She felt like some sort of rebel, breaking a criminal out of prison.
“Would you like me to lie to you?”
“Why were those men trying to kill you? Don’t they disarm prisoners before they put them in jail?”
“They weren’t prisoners. They were Carlos Hernandez’s goons.”
“Who?”
“Carlos is a midlevel drug runner I pissed off.”
“Where are we going?” Megan asked, looking at the scenery passing by. “Isn’t that the church?”
“I’m taking you out to Jack’s place. It’s in the county, more private.”
“I need to file a report,” Megan said. “I discharged my weapon, and then—”
Hans interrupted, “I’ll file the report. I’m the senior agent.”
She felt belittled somehow, and Hans wasn’t looking at her. What had she done wrong? She’d followed protocols—okay, she didn’t wait for him, but she had reason to believe the life of a civilian, a potential witness, was in danger, she had to act. Hans would have done the same thing. Hell, he had trained her at Quantico; he would have been the first through the door had he been in her position.
“Hans, I didn’t do anything wrong.”
He pivoted and stared at her. “You nearly got killed.”
“It wasn’t that bad—”
“Dammit, Megan.” He turned away from her again.
Hans was upset, but so was she. She didn’t understand why he was treating her like this, why he sounded so angry. A life had been in danger, she acted. That was Megan’s job. Perez’s comment about being barefoot and in the kitchen made her tense again. Hans wasn’t like that; he’d never treated her differently because she was a woman. At Quantico he demanded as much from her as from the men. He didn’t let her slack off, and he respected her. Or so she’d thought.
Sudden Death Page 13
