Enigma

by Dee Davis

  The floor was buckled and broken, gaping holes filled with rubble from above. The cellar below had remained intact, for the most part, except in the center where the blast had originated. Outside light drifted through glassless windows and the missing east wall, still hazy from smoke and dust despite the fact the fire department had successfully extinguished all hints of fire.

  She stopped near the seat and turned slowly in a circle, envisioning the blast and its path of destruction. From the proximity of the remains to the seat, it was fairly certain the men killed had felt no pain. It had been over in an instant.

  Not that it made the horror any less. Plastic table tents with black numbers marked the places body parts had been found. The forensics people had already been at work, although Sam was certain there was more to find.

  At least the casualties had been limited. The hotel had been closed for over a year, massive renovations from a new owner underway. The blessing was, of course, also part of the puzzle.

  “It smells like death.”

  Sam whirled around, trying to locate the source of the voice. She’d specifically asked for time on the site alone. A chance to get a feel for what had happened without interference from anyone.

  “The cause doesn’t matter. It always smells the same.”

  A man emerged from the shadows near what had been the entrance. The haze made it hard to see his features, but he was tall and well built, his movements carrying a grace that marked him as more than a casual athlete.

  He walked slowly forward, his eyes checking and rechecking the floor in front of him. He knew his way around bomb sites. But he didn’t have the look of a bomb tech, or the uniform of a firefighter. In fact, she’d never seen anyone move so quickly or so quietly, at the same time maintaining constant vigilance.

  The man was a panther.

  He stepped into a pool of light, and she almost gasped, green eyes and sleek black hair echoing her line of thought. But it was the scar that held her attention. Jagged, and almost silver in the light, it bisected his face from brow line to chin. Whoever he was, he’d be a tough opponent.

  But right now, he was on her turf.

  Uninvited.

  “Who the hell are you?” The question came out sharper than she’d intended. Partly because she was angry and partly because he unsettled her, his innate quiet far more intrusive than a more vocal man.

  “Payton Reynolds.” He moved closer, and she fought the urge to step back a pace. She normally trusted her instincts, and at the moment they were insisting that distance was a good thing. Except that she never backed down, and he was the intruder here.

  “Well, Mr. Reynolds—” She narrowed her eyes, her gaze meeting his. “This is a crime scene. My crime scene. And no one is allowed on site without my authorization.” She paused, waiting for some sign of remorse, or apology.

  But instead he shrugged, a hint of laughter cresting in his eyes. “Well, I think maybe you’ve been misinformed. You see, in point of fact, this is our crime scene. I know this because Cullen Pulaski told me so himself. And what Cullen wants, Cullen gets.”

  The irony in his voice was hard to miss. Whoever this man was, he wasn’t a fan of Cullen Pulaski’s. Which, at the moment, was a point in his favor as far as Sam was concerned. But it didn’t excuse the fact that he was here without her permission.

  “Are you a bomb expert, then?” she asked, keeping her voice purposefully neutral.

  “No. But I’ve had my share of field experience.” Again there was no hint of apology. Instead she got the distinct feeling that this man was capable of handling whatever life threw at him with very little trouble.

  “What kind of experience?” she asked, her tone slightly combative. This was after all her territory and she wasn’t interested in some yahoo riding in and taking over.

  “Three tours with Delta Force and time served with the CIA.”

  That explained the panther act, and probably the scar. She’d bet her whole salary his work with the CIA was on the less-than-legitimate side. A dark horse if ever there was one.

  “Well, unless you’ve worked a bomb site, you’re not much use to me. So if you’ll kindly wait outside, I’ll finish in here.”

  “This the seat?” He walked over to the hole in the floor, obviously not listening to a word she said.

  “Yeah.” She came and stood beside him, staring down at the rubble in the basement.

  “Looks like about five pounds of explosive. Any indication of what was used?” He bent down to pick up a tiny piece of wiring from the rubble, silently holding it out to her.

  She took it, impressed that he knew what to look for. “The forensics people were more interested in finding body parts. Now that they’ve been marked and removed, we’re free to start putting together the evidence of what happened. I’ve got an ATF team coming in from Atlanta. And we’ve got use of the forensics team here, as well as an FBI response team. The senators are big news, and that means lots of attention.”

  “Including Washington.”

  She had to bend close to hear his words. “You’re talking about Cullen Pulaski.”

  Payton nodded, and stood up, almost unbalancing her in the process. Automatically his hand closed around her wrist, steadying her, his touch oddly unsettling.

  She pulled away, absently rubbing her wrist, not sure why exactly since it didn’t hurt. “What exactly is his role in all this?”

  Payton’s eyebrows quirked at the question. “Haven’t you talked to him?”

  She shook her head. “No. I just got a call from my boss telling me that I was part of some team looking into the bombing. I thought it was a bit odd, but I never pretend to understand politics, and my orders were clear.”

  Truth was, she’d been too interested in the particulars of the bombing to think very much about why she’d been pulled into this or who it was that had done the pulling.

  “Cullen’s big with orders.” He gave her the ghost of a smile, and she wondered suddenly what it would be like to be the recipient of the full-blown thing.

  Shaking her head, she frowned up at him, pushing her crazy thoughts aside. “So you’re part of this Last Chance thing?”

  “Duly drafted.” This time his mouth definitely slid upward into a smile.

  “What Cullen wants, Cullen gets?” she asked, repeating his words, studying his face, trying to make sense of it.

  “Something like that. Or more accurately what Washington wants.” He turned to face the ruined staircase, his expression serious again. “Last Chance is a team of experts the president calls in for special cases.”

  “My boss said something about the best of the best.”

  “A flattering observation. And probably true to some extent.” There was no hint of braggadocio in his voice, just a statement of fact. “But that’s not how it started. Cullen had a problem. No one would listen. So he called in favors and assembled his own team.”

  “You.”

  “And some friends.” Sam wondered if a man like Payton Reynolds really had friends. “Anyway, the point is, we solved the problem. And the president liked what he saw and made our little task force permanent.”

  “But not full-time.” This wasn’t a man who sat around waiting for adventure.

  “No. Let’s just say in the interim we have other jobs.”

  “And the ‘we’?” Sam asked, curious despite herself.

  “You’ll meet them in Austin, when we finish here.” His response was just this side of curt, but she had the feeling it was more a matter of function than condemnation. He was just a business-first kind of guy.

  And that was an attitude she could totally relate to.

  “Anyone say what the senators were doing in the building?” Payton said, walking over to another pile of rubble. “Guy outside said it was closed for renovations.”

  “Ruckland was from San Antonio, so at least his being in the city isn’t all that unusual. But according to his staff he wasn’t scheduled to be at the Prager or to meet
with Dawson and Keith. And neither of them was scheduled to even be in the state.”

  “So there was something going on that they didn’t want anyone to know about.” He was kneeling now, looking at the charred markings on what was left of the east wall. “Something someone else was willing to kill for.”

  “Maybe.” She crossed over to him, intrigued despite her distrust. “But if they were keeping the meeting here a secret, how the hell would the bomber have known? And more to the point, why would they have been meeting here in the first place?”

  “That’s what we’re here to find out.” He stood up, rubbing his hands together to remove the dust, his gaze colliding with hers.

  With a smile, she turned back to the bomb site, her mind split between the man behind her and the task at hand. Both were enigmas. And there was nothing in the world Sam loved more than a good puzzle.

  She knelt to retrieve a fragment of timer, still feeling his gaze burning into her back.

  Let the games begin.

  CHAPTER THREE

  J.T. STARED AT THE HEADLINES, his frustration building to a fever pitch. The man in the Lincoln—the one he’d seen at the hotel—his face was plastered all over the front page. Joseph Ruckland. Texas’s senior senator. And the two other men weren’t exactly chump change.

  The theories were swirling—everything from terrorism to underworld plotting. But nothing about him. Nothing about the explosion. The beauty of his work had been lost in the brouhaha. That, and the reason he’d blown the building in the first place.

  He sighed and looked longingly at the collage of pictures covering his wall.

  Samantha Waters.

  She’d been called in on the case, all right. Just as he’d planned. But instead of the focus being on the explosion, the emphasis was on the murders. And because of that she’d been assigned to some kind of task force.

  Damn it all to hell. He’d planned this for years—the Prager the third jewel in the crown. His defining moment. And hers.

  But now everything was different.

  He hurled his beer bottle at the wall, watching dispassionately as it shattered, spattering beer across the photographs and newspaper articles. He had to change the plan. Find some way to turn this debacle to his advantage.

  He’d built everything on the assumption that his latest orchestration would lead to the discovery that he had been responsible for the others. And he’d counted on the fact that Samantha would be the one to make the discovery, eventually seeing the significance in his choices.

  But now everything was focused on the deaths. And any connection to his earlier work would be lost in the fervor to find the motive for killing Ruckland and his cronies. All the planning—everything—it had been a waste. A complete waste.

  He clenched his fist, surprised to find blood. Absently raising it to his mouth, he licked the droplets away and then pounded his hand on the table, the resulting pain clearing his head. He’d just have to change the rules of the game. Adapt the plan.

  Samantha was involved, at least that much had been accomplished. Now all he had to do was find a way to shift interest away from the senators and back to the blast.

  Or maybe he’d take advantage of the accidental raise in the stakes. He reached for the scissors and carefully cut out a picture of Senator Ruckland, then crossed to the beer-dampened wall and tacked it next to a fuzzy photo of Samantha at the Prager. A smear of blood marred Ruckland’s features, and J.T. smiled, exhilaration flooding through him.

  He’d never killed a man before. Never even considered it really. Except in passing. And now he’d killed three. There was power in that, surely. Even if the deaths hadn’t been planned. He traced the curve of Samantha’s face, his mind turning it all over, trying to figure the next move.

  The deaths had definitely upped the ante. And truth was, he already had blood on his hands. What was a little more? Especially if it brought her attention back to his work. He needed her to know. To understand their special relationship. And to do that he had to become a worthy foe.

  So maybe murder was the answer. Murder by explosion.

  But if he wanted her attention, it had to be something big. Better even than the senators. Something—someone—that connected them. Then she’d understand.

  Oh yes, then she’d have to understand.

  IT WAS LIKE old home week—only she was from out of town.

  Sam stood in the corner of the conference room leaning back against the windowsill, wishing she was anywhere on the planet but here. They’d come straight from the bomb site to Cullen’s offices in Austin, the forty-five minutes in the car not yielding much information. Payton Reynolds made the strong and silent type look chatty.

  She was, however, grudgingly impressed with his knowledge of explosions. He may not have had formal training, but his field work had obviously been of the intense variety, and in those kinds of situations one learned fast, or died trying.

  Her eyes locked on his scar, and she wondered just what it was he’d survived, and then quashed the thought. It wasn’t any of her business, and making friends with her co-workers wasn’t exactly on her top ten list of things to do.

  Still, she would like to at least feel a part of the team.

  Unless she missed her guess, Payton was talking to the team’s leader, Gabe Roarke. As dark as Payton, he lacked his friend’s quiet intensity, instead coming across as a complex mix of machismo and power. This was a man one didn’t cross easily. At least not and live to tell about it. The only time she saw a glint of humanity in his glacier-eyed gaze was when he looked at his wife.

  Madison Roarke was tall and blond, the facade off-putting until one saw the compassion in her eyes. Add to that the way Cullen and her friend Harrison hovered, and it was obvious that she was the kind of woman who inspired loyalty among friends. She wore her pregnancy well, her hands protectively soothing the baby inside. And just for a moment, Sam felt a twinge of envy. Before it could blossom, however, she pushed it aside. She’d made her choices, and she didn’t regret them.

  Harrison Blake looked more like a sexy English professor than a computer dweeb, his bedhead-tousled hair curling aimlessly around his ears and neck. His eyes were an odd combination of green and brown, as if they couldn’t quite make up their mind what color they wanted to be. The boy next door with intelligent eyes. An interesting combo.

  Cullen Pulaski looked exactly like his photographs. His gaze probing, his mind obviously always leaping ahead to the next move. She’d probably like him if she’d met him under any other circumstances, mental chess being her game of choice, but at the moment all she felt was deep-seated irritation. She didn’t belong here. And quite frankly, neither did this case.

  Despite the expertise in the room, this was a bombing, pure and simple, and no matter who the targets had been, the investigation was something to be handled by ATF or the FBI.

  Not that she’d say so. It wasn’t worth the breath. She’d learned a long time ago that political mumbo jumbo and logic were often mutually exclusive, with rhetoric holding sway most of the time.

  “Sorry if we seem a bit exclusive. It’s just that it’s been a while since we’ve all been together.” Madison settled down on the windowsill next to Sam with a sigh. “There’s a lot of catching up to do.”

  “I can see that.” Sam nodded toward Payton and Gabe, the latter gesturing with both hands about something.

  “They’ve known each other a long time.” Madison’s tone was quiet. Almost as if she was sharing a secret. “I don’t think Payton trusts anyone easily, but when he does, you’ve got a friend for life.”

  Sam understood that kind of hesitance. Lived much the same way in fact, except that she wasn’t sure she really trusted anyone. “They’re lucky to have each other.” She shook her head, hating the sound of wistfulness in her voice. She was just tired.

  Madison’s gray eyes were thoughtful, as if she could read Sam’s thoughts. Then again maybe she could, that’s what profilers were noted for. Sam force
d a smile, needing to distance herself. “When’s the baby due?”

  As distracters went, it wasn’t that impressive, but Madison, thankfully, followed her cue. “Two and a half months.”

  Sam frowned. “I thought you weren’t allowed to fly that far along.”

  Madison rubbed her belly, shaking her head. “Eight months is when they really lower the boom, and sometimes if there are problems earlier than that. But we’re doing just fine. And besides,” she lowered her voice conspiratorially, “I wasn’t about to miss out on the action. Even if I have to participate from the sidelines.”

  Sam sighed. “So you guys have been working together a long time, huh?”

  “Not really.” Madison shook her head. “At least not me. Payton and Gabriel go back to their days in Delta Force. But I didn’t know either of them until I was drafted by Cullen. Kind of like you.” Her smile was warm, and Sam found herself smiling in return.

  “What about Harrison?” She nodded toward the man, still deep in conversation with Cullen.

  “I’m afraid I’m responsible for getting him involved. Misery likes company.”

  Sam shot her a look, relieved to see that she was still grinning.

  “It’s not really that bad. In fact, at times it’s proved quite interesting. And you’ll feel like part of the team in no time. After all we’ll be depending on you. You’re the explosives expert.”

  “Well, really I’m better at the live bomb angle. I depend on a team of crack forensics people to help me with the after-the-fact work.”

  It was Madison’s turn to frown. “But Cullen said you had experience with forensics as well. You started with crime scene investigation, right? And then a stint in my neck of the woods with ERT?”

  “You’ve done your homework,” Sam said, surprise coloring her voice.

  The FBI Emergency Response Team had been her first step from city-based work to the national scene. It hadn’t been long before her proclivity for live action versus interpretation landed her at ATF.