Bombshell - Men of Sanctuary Series, Book Three (3 page)

Mac was about to climb into his truck when he caught a peculiar scent in the air.

“Abigail, what is that smell?”

“Ya gotta be more specific, chief.”

“Sort of sweet, like perfume.” He turned toward her, then sucked in a deep breath. “Are you wearing perfume?”

“No, not me. I don’t wear perfume when I’m on the job. Screws with the wildlife.”

She closed her eyes, sniffed the air like a beagle. “That’s wild honeysuckle. It’s all over the damned place. The flowers are dying off now, but you should smell it when it’s in full bloom. Grows like a bushy weed. Why?”

“No reason. Reminds me of something, but I can’t recall what, at the moment.”

He straightened up, scanned the woods.

Abigail nodded. “Research has proven that scent can be the most potent time-machine.”

Time machine. Good explanation
. Then he got it. The last time he’d smelled honeysuckle, his bristly cheek had rubbed against the soft throat of the ebony-haired beauty in his hotel suite. She’d laughed, said the stubble tickled. He’d slid down the length of her body to see what else he could tickle.
Damn.

“Mac, you okay?”

“Yeah, no worries. Just tired.”
And frustrated. Why did Green-eyes take off before I
could find out her name?

“Yeah, well, don’t be too tired to call me if you or Blake come up with anything interesting.”

“Will do.”

Abigail paused as she opened the door to the Rover. “Hey, I hear the Three Musketeers are back.”

“You heard right.”

Yes, they’re back, so I can set Lucian on my mystery woman’s trail. Before I lose my
mind
.

* * * * *

Evening fell by the time Mac caught a break to call Special Agent Chandler.

Chandler picked up on the second ring. “Good timing, Sheriff. I planned to contact you in the morning after I grabbed a couple hours shut-eye.”

“Let me know how that sleep thing works for ya.”

Chandler snorted. “I’ll be sure to do that. I’ve had about enough of sleeping upright in the seat of a moving vehicle. Anyway, confidence is high that the signature of the bomb components has the same characteristics as the device that took out John Larsson. The good news is that the top expert on that particular device—the only expert—will be landing in Boston.”

Mac heard Chandler shuffling papers. He could imagine the chaos of files that probably covered the agent’s bed at the Cata-Lodge Hotel. His desk occasionally looked the same way.

”
Ahh
, here it is. Damn, either my penmanship is really deteriorating, or my eyesight is finally history. I already know my brain cells are gone. And the phone connection wasn’t the greatest. Sounded sorta like K-something Holo-something. I’m guessing it’s Kyle Holloway, maybe.

“Anyway, Holloway apparently worked closely with Larsson. Our D.C. office didn’t have time to divert him, so he and his second-in-command are winging their way to Boston from the West coast as we speak. State Police will snatch them up, then toss them on a red-eye shuttle. They should arrive at the Catamount Lake regional airport in the wee hours, morning after next.”

“Saturday morning. That’s the soonest they can get here?”

“Yep, that’s it. They’re civilians, not government employees—we can request, not order. They’ll be arriving at Logan on their regularly scheduled flight, but they had two stops in between. We’ve been chasing him across the country, always half a step behind.

Hey, count yourself lucky, we’re picking up the tab on this one. Larsson had gone independent, but he was still one of ours. One of the good guys. We want whoever targeted him, and we need to know why. Give Holloway all the cooperation you can, then let him do his job.”

Mac cleared his throat. “Something you should know about Smitty.”

Chandler sighed heavily over the phone connection. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

“Probably not. It sure fucked up my day. Our game warden found him. Well, found his body. She doesn’t think it was an accident. I agree with her. My deputies processed the crime scene without our input, then reached the same conclusion.”

Chandler kept silent for a moment. “Shit. Number one, how reliable is the game warden? Number two, can she keep her thoughts to herself?”

“You won’t find a better investigator. She doesn’t miss much. Neither do my boys. And their sense of discretion is absolute.”

“When will your M.E. be finished?”

“Best estimate, a couple or three days. We usually deal with out-of-control vacationers who party too hard, occasional break-ins. A domestic disturbance or two, usually beer-induced. Tourists who get lost in the thick woods and mountains.

Homicide is not a problem up here—which is why I accepted this job. The M.E. should be able to give the body his undivided attention.”

Chandler sighed. “I suppose we shouldn’t get all sorts of nuts until he finishes his report.”

“Works for me. Sweet dreams, Chandler.”

“Bite the big one, MacBride.”

Mac grinned as he disconnected.

The next morning, Deputy Collins cocked his head after Mac finished relaying the news. “Let me get this right. The Fibbies are babysitting our bomb, now we’re parking our butts on the sidelines over Smitty’s corpse, which is probably a homicide and also in our jurisdiction.”

“Yep, appears so.” With a heavy sigh, Mac headed out of the office into the fresh air and sunshine, turned toward the Hungry Bear Café with its high-octane coffee.

And I’ve been awake all night, haunted by recurring memories of having had the hottest
sex with the hottest woman any red-blooded man could ever imagine. So, suck it up and deal
with your disappointment, partner. I’m fresh outa sympathy.

Chapter Two

Saturday

What would have been a five-plus hour drive to Catafuckingmount Lake from Logan International in Boston was only a quick hop by plane. Keko was convinced it took longer to load their luggage than the time they actually spent in the air.

Including the pilot, copilot, and flight attendant, the total passenger list of the sky shuttle boasted five. The FBI had apparently put a rush on their trip. As soon as they touched down at Logan, the State Police ferried them to the waiting puddle-jumper by the State Police and damn near catapulted back into the air.

Keko copped a squat in the single seat row, while Kamaka spread comfortably across both seats of the two-seater row. He snored. She checked files and made notes on her laptop. An occasional glance through her window gave her visions of the Monet-like effects of September’s end, as yellow, orange, and red leaves mingled with the still lush green of the north country.
Which means the tourists, the leaf-peepers, will be out in
force
.

She finally sat back in her seat, closed her eyes.
Could it be true? Did the Fibbies
actually identify the bomb maker responsible for Dad’s death? In omigod Maine, for chrissakes?

What self-respecting terrorist would hide out in Maine?

The bomb signature had been truly unique, the mechanism so sophisticated that once armed, it couldn’t be disarmed. John thought they’d disarmed it, and so did she.

Seven minutes later, after she’d vacated the post office building where the device had been found, the rearmed bomb erupted in a Vesuvius of shrapnel that shredded John into bloody bits of nothing recognizable.

The number of mourners at John Larsson’s funeral impressed Keko. Included among those paying their last respects were high-ranking military officials, members who represented all the armed forces, his retired SEAL team, and leaders and representatives from other countries who owed thanks to John, in part, for their peace and prosperity.

Keko’s mother refused to leave her artists’ colony in Hawaii, refused to attend the memorial with the “black angels of death” in attendance. Those black death angels included her daughter, as a demolitions specialist who followed closely in her father’s footsteps.

Keko came to terms with being a disappointment to Aolina Hualami years before, so she ignored good ol’ mum’s refusal to attend the memorial service. She had her father’s remains cremated, or what they could gather of his remains, as he’d wished.

She placed the urn with his ashes over the mantelpiece in the living room.

Every evening before bed, she settled herself in what had been his favorite wing chair, and poured two fingers of his favorite bourbon, Old Fitzgerald 1849. No more, no less. Then she shared the day’s events with her dad, while listening to Garth Brooks sing
The Dance
. John Larsson would rest for eternity in his black, faux Ming dynasty urn embellished with fire-breathing, golden-scaled Chinese dragons that seemed to undulate in the hearth light. She thought he’d like that.

I’d certainly tell him about this trip
. She hadn’t yet had a chance to acquaint him with the story of her encounter with the man in L.A., and wondered if the incident was something she should share with her father’s spirit. She decided yes, she would.

In a few moments, the transport would bounce along the regional airport’s weeds-in-the-cracks runway that she could see looming under the shadow of the descending plane. When the warning bell dinged, Keko repacked her gear, leaned across the narrow aisle, swatted her second-in-command in the arm.

“Rise and shine, Makaha.”

He corrected her automatically. “Kamaka.”

“Yeah, whatever. Shake your sorry ass awake.”

He lazily waved a hand in her direction. “Be gone, evil spirit.”

His sparkling black eyes closed again.

Podunk
definitely described the little airport. Since they were the only passengers, the lone luggage attendant unloaded their bags and equipment onto the cracked tarmac, left them standing there, then went about his own business.

The crisp chill in the air crawled along Keko’s exposed arms.
Damn, it had
definitely been warmer when we landed at Logan and made the transfer.
My jacket would be
useful, if it wasn’t crammed into my luggage
.

Inside the terminal, Keko took possession of a wheeled luggage rack to transport her equipment and single roll-along suitcase, plus Kamaka’s pair of oversized, florescent, fuschia bags with their fancy tandem wheels.
Really. How many Aloha shirts,
Hawaiian shorts, and pairs of Birkenstock sandals does one fat man need to survive a trip from
Massachusetts to Hawaii and back?

Keko found the ladies’ room, took care of that issue. Desperate for caffeine, she cruised past the few storefronts, found them all gated and locked.
Damn, nothing open
yet, not even a damned vending machine for coffee.
As she rolled the luggage rack toward the only lit check-in kiosk sign, she vaguely noticed a tall LEO, a law enforcement officer, leaning on the counter. The body language of the woman standing next to him indicated an open flirtation was in progress. The woman’s perfectly creased, mocha-colored pants suit looked very expensive, as did her leather-trimmed rolling luggage.

Still jet-lagged and cranky from the LA to Honolulu trip, plus the return twenty-something-hour flight from Honolulu to Boston, by way of Minneapolis and two other airports that she couldn’t even identify, she suspected the counter-leaning womanizer was probably their ride to Catafuckingmount Lake.

Shit
.
Really?
The woman was well dressed, certainly. But it stopped there
. Did
anyone other than NASCAR groupies do the platinum blonde poofy hair thing and the Ford
Mustang Blue eye shadow these days?
Crap. Then we get stuck with a backwoods Lusty Lothario
who’s permitted to carry a side arm to add to the excitement
.

As she and Kamaka moved closer to the kiosk, Keko caught a better look at what appeared to be thick, wavy Hugh Grant hair that barely touched the officer’s crisp khaki uniform collar. The only time she’d seen lovely, sexy, unruly hair that same color had been … .

* * * * *

Mac heard a strange, gasping sound. He turned away from Pepper Hunsacker to investigate the noise. Next to a large Hawaiian man who looked vaguely familiar, and half-hidden by the mound of bags stacked on a large, wheeled, luggage rack, stood a petite beauty whose hair hung to her waist like a shiny black waterfall.

She stepped around the luggage rack. Came to a rock-solid halt. Stared at him.

Her emerald eyes opened wide enough to mimic Garfield the cartoon cat. Wearing a sleeveless button-down vest in some dark red shiny fabric, hip-hugging black capris with a thin silver chain around her naked waist, and black high-heeled sandals, she was a knockout. Sexy enough to cause any greeting to catch in his throat. Competition enough for Pepper to utter rude, catty comments under her breath from her position next to the counter.

As he struggled to focus on the improbability, Mac’s cock recognized her immediately—followed a millisecond later by the rest of his body. The brain came in, third out of three.
Dear Jesus sweet Christ in heaven, it’s her! The sex-crazed nymph, the girl
with the emerald green eyes and the phoenix tattoo. How the hell … ?

The woman didn’t say it aloud, but he had no trouble reading her pouty red lips.

She mouthed the words, clearly:
Oh fuck
.

Her Hawaiian companion smiled broadly at Mac. “Yo dude, it’s you. Far out.”

She elbowed the big guy in his well-padded ribs, but did not break eye contact with Mac. “Please tell me you’re not MacBride. I beg you.”

The Hawaiian glanced at her, shook his head sadly. “Have I taught you nothing, my little coconut? Don’t beg—it’s tacky.”

Pulling himself into professional mode, Mac stepped forward, offered his hand.

“Sorry to disappoint. Yes, ma’am, Sheriff Brian MacBride of Catamount Lake, Maine.