She wished it was just her and Hans right now so she could get him to tell her why he was so upset. He’d been the closest thing to a father to her after her dad died….
She was shivering. The air was warm, electric with the pending storm. She couldn’t stop shaking and didn’t know why she was so cold.
Jack reached over and rubbed her shoulders. “The tension isn’t going to help you get over the shock. We have a twenty-minute drive. Relax, close your eyes. Let it go.”
Relax? How could she relax with Hans angry at her? With Jack Kincaid sitting so close to her she could smell the soap he’d used in the shower. She felt the heat radiating off his body. His thigh pressed against hers in the small Jeep. She wanted to move away from him—she wanted to move closer. Put her head on his broad shoulder. His body was rock hard—all muscle, no fat. His face—dark, eyes probing, a day’s growth of beard making him look even more dangerous. When he saw her looking at him, he winked. She turned her head and frowned.
Jack Kincaid’s presence was overwhelming. Smart, sexy, confident. Too damn sure of himself. He’d almost gotten killed, and he was sitting here in the back of the Jeep, his arm draped over the back of her seat, as if nothing had happened—nothing too unusual anyway. She blamed her strange reaction to him on weakness— she’d been hit with a bolt of electricity. She absently rubbed her shoulder where the probes penetrated her skin.
Her problem was she liked confident men. She liked the smart guys. No, she told herself, Jack Kincaid was beyond confident. He was arrogant. Cocky.
He shifted in his seat and pulled the edge of her blouse from her neck. “You’ll have a nasty bruise,” he said, inspecting the punctures. “But you’ll be back in action after a good meal and a night’s sleep.”
Attentive and sexy.
Don’t think about him.
“You’re shaking.” Reaching into a box in the back, he pulled out a wool blanket. “Not a satin sheet, but it’ll do the job.” He wrapped it around her body, touched her hands. “Damn, Blondie, your hands are like ice cubes.”
He brought her hands to his mouth and blew into them, then rubbed them in his large, very warm hands.
It was hard, impossible, to ignore Jack Kincaid when he was blowing hot air into her hands, when their bodies rubbed against each other as the Jeep bounced over the rough road. She tried to scoot away, but with every jolt of the Jeep, she was pushed back against him. He wrapped an arm around her and stuffed her hands into his leather bomber jacket. God, he was hot. Literally. A furnace …
She pulled her hands out as if they burned; he grabbed them again, turning stiffly in his seat, a faint grunt in his chest. Megan remembered his injuries. She’d been thinking about Jack the man, instead of Jack the victim. What was wrong with her?
She pulled one hand from his grasp and pushed up his chin, inspecting the cut. “They went for your throat.” That ticked her off. Someone needed to answer for the attack on Jack Kincaid. “It doesn’t look too deep.”
“It’s not.”
She tore a small piece from her blouse, poured some of the water from her bottle onto it, and dabbed away the dried blood. She then wiped the blood from his face. His jaw tightened.
“Sorry,” she said.
“It’s not you, Blondie.”
Blondie. “We weren’t formally introduced. Megan Elliott.”
“Jack Kincaid.”
She nodded. “Were you stabbed?” She put her hand on the front of his shirt, feeling around for a wet spot that would indicate blood.
“No, but feel free to inspect anywhere you want.”
She pulled her hand away and put it in her lap. “You were favoring your right side.” She sounded like she was accusing him of something. She breathed deeply. Megan Elliott, he’s just a man.
Jack Kincaid was not just anything.
“Paul got a jab in there, his fist, not a knife.” He shifted again in his seat, obviously uncomfortable.
She was going to regret this, but she couldn’t help herself. Jack was like her brother in that he’d never admit he was hurting. Matt had cracked a rib during a high school football game, and if it wasn’t for her, he’d never have gone to the hospital until the bone had broken and punctured an organ or worse.
She pulled up Jack’s shirt; he let her. She saw a bruise forming, but no blood. She ran her hands around his stomach to make sure there wasn’t a life-threatening injury elsewhere. In the dark, with his darker complexion, she might not see any blood. His abdomen molded a perfect six-pack. She jerked her hand back, averted her face. What was she thinking?
Are you serious, Megan? You think Jack Kincaid would sit so casually if he were seriously injured? This man knows how to take care of himself.
Jack leaned over, his breath warm in her ear, sending first heat, then chills through her body. She blamed the sensation, and the distant memories it aroused, on being hit with a Taser. This was not normal. Not for her.
He wrapped the blanket tighter around her, holding her close to his side.
“I would have survived,” he whispered. His lips touched her ear. On accident? On purpose? “But thanks for the backup. I’ll have fewer scars because of you.”
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
Jack checked his perimeter and was satisfied that no one had been out here since he left two days ago. San Diego seemed so far away—the confrontation with his father, seeing his family again. Even his call last night to Dillon that brought the two feds into his world seemed long ago.
While some people went with high-tech security measures, Jack was old school. A string in the doorway, seemingly random props that weren’t so random to see if anyone had rifled through his stuff. And a good old-fashioned safe, no computers to store important documents.
He brought out several bottles of water and beer to the table and watched Megan Elliott carefully. When she’d walked into the jail and announced herself as FBI, he had almost laughed—it seemed so Hollywood. While he hadn’t liked the three-to-one odds, he was at his best when using his wits, and the three idiots Carlos had sicced on him would have been dispatched without the one-woman cavalry.
He touched his tender nose. Swollen, not broken. So he’d missed one or two well-aimed punches; the bastard broke a finger because he didn’t know how to throw a punch in the first place, well worth the bruising Jack had.
The bridge in his mouth had been knocked loose, and he’d have to go see someone to fix it, unless he could convince Padre to pull out his old field kit. Padre could fix damn near anything, organic or mechanical.
The senior agent was angry and worried, and at first Jack thought there was something going on between Vigo and Megan, even with the fifteen-year, give or take, age difference. But he quickly ascertained that Agent Vigo was protective of Agent Elliott like a father would be to a daughter. Good.
Not good. Jack had no time to dally with a fed. Frankly, he hadn’t had time for a personal life in years, and he didn’t care to start up with someone who played too close to the rule book he’d tossed twenty years ago. Most feds followed those damn rules as if they were a sacred text. Otherwise, they walked, or ran, away, like his brother’s girlfriend.
Megan Elliot was something else. She’d been damn scared when she walked in and saw the fight. All female cop—hip-hugging slacks and tailored blazer, her badge flashing, pinned to her slender waist. Long, long legs … tight ass … perfect tits. How the woman could look so damn sexy in clothes that concealed all that incredible, silky skin he didn’t know.
Though scared and facing an unknown situation, she held her ground, exuding confidence and control. Taking charge. She’d told Padre to stand back. Jack smiled. Lieutenant Frank Cardenas, Delta Force. “Stand back, Father!”
Her unexpected arrival had given him a few precious seconds to recover from the knife attack and had tipped the scales in his favor. A good gunner could do that, and she’d hit Jorge in the wrist without hesitation when he lunged with the knife.
God,
he liked a woman who could shoot.
Beauty and brawn. What a combination.
He went to the bathroom to wash out the cuts that Blondie had tried to clean in the Jeep with her torn blouse and water. He wished she’d have gone lower than his abs with her soft hands …
The antiseptic wash burned enough to send all thoughts of the sexy fed and her roaming fingers from his mind.
“I’ll do it.”
Padre stepped into the bathroom and bandaged the cut. “Why’d you let him get so close?”
“Three against one.”
“You’re getting old, Jack.”
“I didn’t see you stepping up to the plate.”
“I would have if I thought you were in real danger.”
“Having my throat sliced and my nose whacked isn’t enough?”
“It’s a shallow cut, and your nose isn’t broken. What’s going on with Perez? Did he let Carlos take over?”
“Hell if I know, but I can’t worry about the drug trade or Perez or Carlos when Scout’s killer is out there.”
“What’s going on here? Serial killer? It doesn’t make sense. How did Scout get on his radar?”
“I don’t know. The feds may have the law on their side, but that’s not going to help them if a soldier has gone off the deep end.”
“You think one of ours did this?” Padre asked, shaking his head.
“I don’t know. I don’t know the other victims, but we need to find out how they connect to Scout. Because they do.” Jack lowered his voice. “We find out what’s been going on, then deal with it ourselves.”
“Then why’d you call your brother for help?”
“Because he’s the only one I could get information from about this so-called serial killer. Dillon thinks Vigo walks on water or something. Don’t know anything about the woman, but I’ll find out.”
Jack made it a point of knowing everything about the people he worked with. Even when he planned on ditching them.
The FBI wouldn’t be able to do squat about who killed Scout. They had strict rules, and all it took was one idiot and an entire conviction could be thrown out. They needed evidence, they needed to build a case, and while Jack believed in the system in principle, it didn’t always work. He’d make sure the system worked this time. No one would get away with killing Scout, or the others.
As a soldier for his country, Jack had fought on the front lines for the rights of criminals as well as victims. Fighting for a country he believed in never used to bother him because he was a patriot first. Even with all its problems, it was still the best damn country in the world.
But because what was broke couldn’t be easily fixed, Jack preferred his new approach: taking jobs where there was a clear bad guy, where he could make a difference— and he had the authority to do what was needed to protect the innocent.
And he was damn good at it.
After Padre patched up his neck and Jack took care of the minor cuts, he went back to his living area—kitchen, dining, and living all in one, with a bedroom and bath off to the side, and a loft upstairs where he preferred to sleep. Simple and functional.
Blondie had cleaned up well, he noted, using his kitchen sink. She’d taken off her blazer and her blouse, revealing a little creamy camisole that was too modest to be considered underwear, but sexy nonetheless, hinting at curves and peaks without showing anything. She’d taken her hair down from the twisty knot, and while she’d pinned the sides back, he was surprised at the length. Straight, very blond, and so silky it shimmered under the lights.
She caught him staring, and instead of blushing or averting her eyes she said, “If my attire bothers you, I’ll put on my blouse, but considering it’s wet—I washed out the blood before it stained—it might end up bothering you more.”
“Nothing you wear, or don’t wear, would bother me, Blondie.”
“Megan,” she said.
“Where are you from, Megan?” Padre asked.
“California. Sacramento.”
“Sacramento?” Jack raised a brow. “You’re a long way from home. I thought feds stayed in their own territory. Is this akin to doctors making house calls?”
“I had the third victim, but he was snatched from me by the military police. Because I have a familiarity with this case, and I have a background working serial murders, I was brought in to liaise with the individual FBI offices and the local police in order to collect evidence and track these killers.”
“Well, that’s—” He paused. “Killers?”
She nodded. “Two.”
“How do you know that?”
“Evidence. Should we start at the beginning, or are you just going to ask me questions?”
Testy. And tired. Dark circles rimmed her eyes. Agent Vigo put a cup of coffee in front of her and a bowl of Frosted Flakes with milk. “You don’t have a lot of food,” Vigo said.
“I’m rarely home.”
“You didn’t have to—” Megan began.
Vigo interrupted. “Just eat. You were given a decent jolt, you need to keep your strength up. Considering we skipped dinner when Dillon called, this is probably your first meal since last night.”
“I had something at the airport this morning,” she grumbled, but ate the cereal. She smiled. “I haven’t had Frosted Flakes since I was a kid.”
Jack felt mildly uncomfortable having his provisions teased. He strode over to the coffeepot, where Vigo had made a very strong brew. He poured a cup, added sugar, and drank.
Vigo asked Padre, “How far are we from town? Twenty minutes?”
“More or less. Why?”
“We need to get a room. While Meg fills you in, I’ll call for reservations.”
“I don’t know that you’re going to find a room in town; there’s only one motel I could even half-recommend. I’d offer the rectory, but it has only one guest room.”
“You’re all staying here tonight,” Jack said. “It’s not safe in town, though Perez is going to realize he made a huge mistake messing with the feds. I don’t know if he let Carlos bring in his thugs, or whether Carlos is just getting cocky. Did you really call in the Rangers?” he asked Megan.
“Damn straight. Did you really break into the victim’s house?”
“He didn’t catch me breaking into anything,” Jack evaded.
She said, “What did he catch you doing?”
“Walking on the grounds. He assumed I was going to break in.”
“But you did enter,” she said. “Before he got there. Why?”
He winked again.
Megan didn’t know what to make of Jack Kincaid. He was unlike anyone she’d dealt with. More arrogant than her brother, which was quite the feat, but just as loyal. He needed to be in charge, she saw, and had probably been a leader in the military, though Hans said Jack had been enlisted not a career officer. Started with the Army Rangers, moved to Special Operations, then the elite Delta Force. He’d been honorably discharged ten years ago, but still trained with the Reserves. And he was a soldier for hire, something Megan knew a bit about through her brother’s friendship with J. T. Caruso.
Hans said, “Okay, what’s said in this room stays here. We’re not here to arrest you, but I have to know that you’re going to tell us the truth. These killers are targeting specific men—and so far, all known victims served in the U.S. Army. Two, at least, have been Delta Force trained. Not easy men to kill.”
Megan pulled out a thick folder from her briefcase, opened it. Turned the first photograph around. “Duane Johnson, served in the U.S. Army, rank corporal, 1986 to 2006. According to his friends, he was Delta, but we don’t have military confirmation on that.”
“You may or may not get it,” Jack said.
She nodded. “I figured. I’m trusting his friends at this point, at least to the extent that we need to come up with a victimology and suspect profile. Johnson is likely the first victim, though there is some question on that. We’re looking into a fatal home robbery in Florida as well—it may o
r may not be connected.
“Johnson was killed two months ago in Austin, Texas, hamstrung in his garage when he came home from closing his restaurant. No suspects, no prints, no DNA, no witnesses. Trace evidence is at the Texas State lab, but so far nothing has popped. They’ve agreed to send the trace to Quantico. Las Vegas agreed as well, and our scientists will work on connecting the evidence to the same person or persons.
“Johnson was tortured prior to his execution-style murder.” She showed the crime scene photo of Johnson with the bullet to the head. “The coroner believes he was pierced with acupuncture-style needles, and although he can’t say for certain, he believes that the locations were chosen to cause intense pain by stimulating specific nerves. There were one hundred nineteen known punctures on his skin, though there may have been more. These types of very small holes heal quickly and are also easy to miss in an exam.”
She slid over the next photo. “Dennis Perry, 1995 to 2005. Both men were stationed out of Fort Bragg for all or part of their enlistment. We have confirmed that Duane Johnson was Delta—as best we can because the military hasn’t been forthcoming with information— and I suspect that Perry was as well. Las Vegas is our next stop. Same M.O.: hamstrung when he was entering his apartment, then tortured. He had something stuffed in his mouth, most likely to prevent him from calling out or screaming. There was a note on the report that some puncture wounds were from possible drug use. A low level of barbiturates were found in Perry’s system, but no mention of multiple acupuncture-type markings. Doesn’t mean they weren’t there, but I don’t know that after this long we’ll be able to determine anything. Still, he was hamstrung, tortured in some manner, and had a broken nose. Then he was shot in the back of the head like Johnson. FBI ballistics now has the evidence, and we should get a confirmation in a day or so whether the bullets came from the same gun.
“Finally.” She opened a second folder. Much thinner, mostly handwritten notes—hers. She showed the few pictures that she’d taken with her cell phone. “George Price. Homeless veteran in Sacramento. Early Monday morning, I got a call from Sac P.D. about a murder that matched an FBI hot sheet connecting the Johnson-Perry homicides. I run the Violent Crimes Squad, so I went to the scene.
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