Scorched

by Laura Griffin

  “It was news in Memphis. He set fire to a church outbuilding, got sent up for three years, out in one.”

  “He looks really different.”

  “From what? A corpse?” He smiled at her.

  “You can tell a lot from a skeleton.” She opened the file and pulled out an eight-by-ten photograph. It had been taken in an autopsy suite in Manila at the country’s main forensic center. The skeleton lay spread out on a steel table. All the bones had been cleaned. She handed the picture to Blake and then passed him a close-up of the skull.

  “I only have photos, unfortunately,” she said. “The bones themselves are with the Filipino authorities. I’d recommend going through the embassy if you want to send someone out to look at them.”

  “These are the implants?” Blake hunched over the picture, which showed small pockets of silicone arranged beside the skull.

  “They were recovered with the skull. Notice the marks on the mandible and the nasal bones here? Those are from an osteotome, or bone chisel. After his surgery, he would have had a receding jaw and a very narrow nose, totally unlike how he looks in that video.” She handed over another picture. “Here’s a back view of the skull where you can see the entry wound in the parietal bone. Someone shot him in the back of the head.”

  The stony look on Blake’s face prompted Kelsey to voice what had been on her mind for weeks now.

  “The extensive plastic surgery has me concerned,” she told him. “Why would he go through all that effort and expense, unless he planned to resurface someplace? Someplace where authorities were on the lookout for him, such as America.” She didn’t want to sound alarmist, but she could tell from Blake’s guarded expression that he’d thought about this, too.

  The computer screen changed abruptly, and she glanced at it. The new footage was taken in a wooded area. A line of men in green fatigues lay in the dirt, shooting at paper targets with machine guns.

  “This is from a training camp in Indonesia.” Blake put the photos aside. “He’s the second one from the right.”

  “Hard to see with the beard.”

  “I asked Trent for confirmation on this ID. He knows our tech who specializes in facial recognition software. We’ve had it analyzed and managed to get IDs on everyone you see there. See this guy?” He pointed to one of the men who was crouched down, tinkering with something that looked like a homemade explosive. “We’ve been looking for him for years. He’s thought to be involved in the Bali outdoor market bombing back in 2009. Thirty-three people were killed, including four American tourists. And this man here?” He pointed to another commando in the background. “We think he was involved in a foiled bomb plot against the American embassy in Manila back in 2010.”

  Kelsey couldn’t take her eyes off the video. Now they were thrusting guns in the air and cheering as someone hoisted a mannequin from a tree limb. The mannequin was clad only in combat boots and an American flag, and the crowd cheered as someone set fire to it. Her stomach knotted as she thought of Gage.

  “So much hate,” she murmured.

  Blake squeezed her knee. She looked up at him.

  “What happened to your hands?”

  She glanced down at the razor-thin cuts on her knuckles and fingers.

  “Oh, you know. Corrugated boxes and packing tape.” She stood up and glanced around. “Do you mind if I use your bathroom?”

  He looked irritated by her formality. “You know where it is.”

  She took her purse with her and shut herself in the guest bathroom. She couldn’t explain the sudden tightness in her chest. Maybe she was tired. Or still feeling the emotions of her trip to California. Or maybe it was watching that training video and seeing what a mob of young men were so eager to do to an American soldier. To soldiers like Gage.

  She bent over the sink and splashed water on her face. She looked in the mirror.

  Eight months. Eight months and still she couldn’t stop worrying about him. She’d thought when she and Gage broke up that it would magically go away, that she’d be free again to watch the news and read the paper without this terrible dread in the pit of her stomach. But she still thought of him everywhere she went. She still dreamed about him. She had conversations with him in her head, and even though she knew it probably meant she was crazy, she actually enjoyed them. She enjoyed joking with him and laughing with him and flirting with him.

  She needed to get past this. It was time to get over Gage Brewer and move on with her life. He had dumped her. Flat. She’d given him a choice: her or the teams. And—big surprise—he’d chosen his precious SEALs.

  His rejection still stung, even though she should be over it by now. But the reality was, she missed him—so much sometimes that it put an ache in her chest. Some nights she lay awake, thinking of all the ways she could have settled for less and how they might still be together if she’d been willing to put up with being an accessory in his life instead of an equal partner.

  Kelsey took a deep breath. She’d made her choice. He’d made his. And if her visit to San Diego had proven anything, it was that nothing had changed.

  She dug a bottle of ibuprofen from her purse and downed two tablets. Then she ran a brush through her hair and used a tissue to dab away the makeup smudges under her eyes. What she needed most was a good night’s sleep. She’d leave the file with Blake and get it back from him later. Nothing good was going to come from hanging around his place all night.

  She stepped into the hallway and was surprised to see two men standing in the foyer—Trent and a short, stocky guy she didn’t recognize. And Blake . . . was on the floor, motionless. What on earth?

  Kelsey saw blood.

  She gasped and both men looked up, startled. They exchanged glances. Trent jerked his head in her direction, and the short man lunged toward her.

  For a split second she couldn’t move. Then adrenaline kicked in and she dashed into the bedroom. She slammed the door and turned the thumb latch. Shrieking now, she watched as something rammed against the door, making it shake on its hinges. She glanced around frantically. She rushed to the glass door leading to the balcony.

  A muffled pop pop! Bullet holes in the wood. She clawed at the curtains, desperate for the door handle. Her mind reeled.

  He’s shooting! He’s got a silencer!

  She yanked open the slider and lurched onto the balcony as the bedroom door burst open.

  She screamed—a shrill, piercing sound. She was on a second-story balcony overlooking a tile patio. She glanced at the neighboring balcony and then the tile patio below. The curtains moved behind her. She heard cursing. She scrambled onto the adobe wall and leaped onto the neighbor’s balcony, where she landed hard and crumpled to her knees.

  Omigod omigod omigod. He has a gun!

  She cowered beside a propane grill and found herself face-to-face with a plastic garden gnome.

  Noise on the other side. Voices. She crawled to the sliding door and pulled on the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. The room was dark, silent. The neighbors weren’t home. Kelsey’s heart slammed against her rib cage. Her body quivered. She felt paralyzed with terror, but she couldn’t stay here. She had to move.

  A noise from within the apartment. She peered through the glass. A light went on in the hallway and a silhouette appeared.

  Him!

  Kelsey jumped to her feet. Blake’s balcony was empty now. She hitched herself over the wall and looked down at the ground-level patio. More tile. A garden hose. A tricycle. The door behind her slid open and she leaped to the ground. Pain zinged up her legs, but she managed to roll sideways and under the overhang.

  Noise at the side of the building. Trent? God, what was happening?

  She scrambled to her feet and raced to a wrought iron gate. Terror shot through her as it squeaked open, giving away her location. She raced down the side yard between the condos. Carport. Empty. No one home, no one to help her. She spotted the main entrance to the shared courtyard and forced herself to think. She remembered a gate tha
t led to the trash cans. But she’d have to double back.

  Shouts behind her. Kelsey’s pulse jumped. Instead of going back, she bolted for a concrete wall, about six feet high. She climbed it, ignoring the pain in her ankles as she scraped for a foothold. She pulled herself over and landed on her back on the asphalt. For a long moment, breathless shock. Then she rolled to her feet, sucking in air.

  Voices nearby. Trent’s voice.

  She glanced around. She was in an alley behind a row of buildings. On one end, a brick wall. On the other end, traffic. She scooped her purse off the pavement and sprinted for the cars, keeping close to the concrete wall she’d just scaled, hoping the shadows might conceal her. Blake is dead. Blake is dead. Blake is dead. The words pounded through her brain, keeping time with her galloping heart. Her breath came in gasps. Her thighs burned. She ran as fast as her legs could carry her toward the noise and safety of the crowd.

  A man stepped into view. The short one. Kelsey stumbled to a halt and glanced back over her shoulder.

  Several buildings down, a door was propped open by a milk crate. She ducked low as she darted across the alley, praying he wouldn’t shoot. She squeezed through the door and found herself in a dim lobby that smelled like ammonia. Hysteria bubbled up as she glanced around. Marble tile. Vintage staircase. There was an information board on the wall displaying the names of businesses. From upstairs came the high-pitched whine of a vacuum. A janitor. But she didn’t want to risk getting trapped up there. She raced through the lobby and tried the front door. Open.

  Kelsey rushed into the muggy night air and glanced up and down the street. A few parked cars. Some panhandlers on the corner near the River Walk. She hurried for the people as thoughts tumbled through her head.

  They killed Blake. They’re after me. What is happening?

  She ran down a few stairs toward the noise. She stopped, chest heaving, and looked around. Mariachi music filled the air, along with the smell of fresh tortilla chips. She saw neon signs, riverboats, umbrella tables filled with people laughing and drinking.

  She dashed into the nearest open door—a T-shirt shop. Kelsey ducked behind a clothing rack and peered through the glass. She gripped a hanger, suddenly aware that all her limbs were trembling. She surveyed the faces outside, looking for help.

  Standing beside a lamppost was a man in a dark uniform. He turned.

  Cop!

  She hurried outdoors and ran toward him just as he moved aside.

  The short guy. He stood beside the cop now and flashed a badge.

  Kelsey’s stomach plummeted. The uniformed officer listened and nodded. All the air seemed to rush out of her lungs as her brain put the pieces together.

  She turned around and race-walked in the opposite direction, clutching her purse against her side, trying not to draw attention to herself as she wove through the crowds. She had to get out of here. She had to find her car—

  Her car.

  Just a few blocks away.

  She realized with a sinking heart that her keys were back at Blake’s, sitting on his coffee table.

  Okay, think.

  She glanced over her shoulder. Fear shot through her as she spotted the man with the now-familiar black crew cut weaving his way through the crowd.

  Her gaze snapped to a riverboat gliding by. Too slow. She picked up her pace until she was nearly running, dodging around couples and families.

  He wouldn’t shoot her out here, would he? Would he shoot her in public?

  She glanced over her shoulder. Their gazes met through a gap in the crowd.

  Kelsey took off. She pushed through the pedestrians and sprinted over a footbridge. On the other side was a concrete water fountain. A crowd milling nearby. Another glimpse behind her. She couldn’t see him, but he was back there, she knew it. Her limbic system had kicked in and her panicked brain knew she was being hunted. Kelsey ran past the fountain. She spotted the sign for a familiar hotel chain. She hurried past the revolving door and pushed through the handicapped entrance.

  A wall of cold air hit her. She was in a lobby. A huge, air-conditioned, terrifyingly empty lobby. God, it was much too empty. All the people were either behind the counter or clustered near the elevator bank. A glass elevator soared up, up, up and stopped at one of the top floors.

  She glanced around and felt horribly exposed. She saw another revolving door. A flash of yellow.

  She raced across the lobby and shoved her way outside.

  “Taxi!”

  The cab rolled forward.

  “Taxi!”

  A squeak of brakes. She yanked open the door and dove into the backseat.

  “Drive!”

  The cab lurched forward. She was facedown on a seat that smelled like air freshener and vomit. She pushed herself up and glanced out the rear window.

  The hotel receded. She watched it, searching the alleys and sidewalks and surrounding parking garages, waiting for the short, dark-haired cop to burst out and chase her down.

  A cop.

  And Trent.

  And—dear God—Blake.

  He was dead. Kelsey’s chest convulsed as she pictured the blood pooling beneath him. Bile rose up in her throat and she remembered the red rivulets spreading out over the tile grout.

  “Where to?”

  She glanced at the driver, an enormous black man wearing an Astros cap. Kelsey stared at him blankly.

  Where to?

  Her pulse pounded as she tried to think. She brushed her hair out of her eyes with a trembling hand and took a deep breath. San Marcos was north. Her home was north.

  “South,” she croaked. “Just drive . . . south. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

  He smiled into the mirror and shook his head. “South it is.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Elizabeth LeBlanc disliked airports, especially at rush hour. But today she wasn’t complaining as she made a fifth lap around San Antonio International. Instead of sitting at a computer running background checks, like the other newbie FBI agents in her field office, she actually got to drive. Forget that she was under strict instructions to go straight from her office to the airport and back to her office again—which essentially made her a shuttle service. It was an opportunity to get out from behind her desk.

  Elizabeth scanned the doors, looking for a man in a dark suit. Having never laid eyes on Supervisory Special Agent Gordon Moore, that was all she knew about his appearance, and it was based on a guess. But the passengers pouring through the automatic doors weren’t wearing suits—in June in San Antonio, why would you?—and Elizabeth sighed as she checked the clock. He was officially late. The airport security guy waved her forward and looked completely nonplussed when she flashed her badge at him. She was about to roll down her window to explain when she spotted Moore in her rearview mirror.

  Tall, suit, computer bag. This was definitely her VIP from Washington. It wasn’t his attire that identified him, but the way he carried himself. Men throughout the Bureau had a certain look about them that made them easy to spot. Elizabeth threw the car into reverse and maneuvered into a gap near the curb, earning a honk from a pickup driver.

  Moore noticed her, no doubt recognizing the “unmarked” gray sedan as a Bureau vehicle. He approached the car and she got out to offer him a handshake.

  “Special Agent Elizabeth LeBlanc.”

  “Gordon Moore.”

  She was pleasantly surprised that he didn’t rattle off his superior job title or try to sneak a peek down her blouse. He tossed his garment bag into the back of the car and hung on to his computer case as he slid into the passenger seat. Elizabeth hurried around to her side and got behind the wheel.

  Okay, progress. She’d picked him up without incident and now all she had to do was get him back to the office in time for the briefing. If she sped the whole way, she just might make it.

  “So.” She checked her mirrors and pulled into traffic. “This your first trip to the San Antonio field office?”

  It was a weak opening,
but it was friendly without being personal, so she’d decided to use it anyway.

  He glanced up at her from a stack of files on his lap. Not two minutes in the car and already he was working.

  “No.”

  Okeydokey.

  “It’s not usually this hot in June,” she said. “Actually—”

  “Four twenty-nine Chavez Avenue. How far is that?”

  “Uh . . . fifteen minutes maybe? Depending on traffic.” Damn it, he wanted to go to the crime scene.

  “Drop me off there. I’ll get a cab when I’m finished if you need to get back to work.”

  Ha. Like she had more important things to do than chauffeur him around.

  “I’d be happy to.” She cleared her throat. “There’s a briefing at six, though, and we’ll probably have trouble making it.”

  “They’ll wait.” He glanced out the window as they entered the interstate.

  “Sir?”

  He turned to her, and she noticed the hard look in his dark brown eyes. Damn.

  “Should I call and let them know or—”

  “This won’t take long.” He stowed his bag on the floor and settled back in his seat, ending the conversation.

  Elizabeth bit her lip, annoyed with herself. She should have just made the call instead of asking permission. She stepped on the gas and did her best to make good time to the home of Blake Reid, the FBI agent who’d been murdered yesterday. She knew exactly where he lived—not because she’d been assigned to the case, but because the story had been on the news all afternoon. “Murder on the River Walk” had already become the tagline.

  Moore remained silent as she drove to the scene. By some miracle, she found a parking space at the end of Blake’s block. They got out. Moore seemed unconcerned by the pair of news vans parked nearby as they walked briskly toward the residence. The air felt hot and muggy, and they were hardly out of the car ten seconds before Elizabeth was sweating beneath her navy blazer.

  “What do you know about this case?” Moore asked.

  “Not a lot,” she admitted. “Mostly what I saw on the news.”

  “You ever work with Reid?”