Sudden Death (11 page)

CHAPTER

FIFTEEN

Jack ran a hand over his face, walked over to the window, and stared into the darkness. The storm that had been threatening all night had just started to drop its load of rain. It would come down hard for an hour or two, then stop. Dawn should be clear, though another storm was heading their way. As he listened to Padre talk, Jack knew Padre was on the kill list. All he could think about was what had happened to turn someone against an entire special forces team.

“I’ve known Scout for nineteen years—same as Jack,” Padre said. “Jack and I were in the Rangers together, both of us young and stupid.”

“I wasn’t stupid,” Jack said automatically, though there was no humor in the joke he’d repeated a hundred times.

“Met Scout two years later when he transferred in from Virginia.”

“With the dog,” Jack said.

Padre nodded. “Scout had a thing for dogs. That mutt almost got him court-martialed.”

“Scout tried to convince our sergeant that the dog just showed up one morning.”

“Hannibal didn’t believe him, but he let the dog stay.”

“Drew the line on letting the mutt come on tour.”

Padre smiled sadly. “I didn’t know Duane until after Jack left. I was thinking of going as well . . .”

“But?” Hans said.

“I was fighting the call.”

“The call?” Megan asked.

Padre pointed heavenward.

She blushed slightly and glanced downward. Jack would have been more intrigued by her embarrassment and blush, and wondering how else he could bring color to her pale face, if he wasn’t so worried about Padre.

“Ten years ago. I moved to another unit, hooked up with Johnson and Perry. Duane was solid. Perry had a drug problem. Could be an asshole, but when push came to shove, he always came through. Thornton was also on the team.”

“Thornton? Where can we find him?”

“He’s dead. Died during an operation five years ago. We’d been on at least two dozen missions together, but when Thornton died that was my final mission. I asked for a discharge, got it, and joined the seminary. Rejoined, I should say. I’d been in for two years before but that’s another story.”

Jack squeezed Padre’s shoulder. “Price?”

“Scout knew him well. We called George Price ‘Princeton’ because he dropped out of some Ivy League college to enlist. He and Scout worked together before.”

“Was it just six of you?”

“Eight. Last I heard, Jerry Jefferson was still overseas. Afghanistan. Re-upped four or five times.”

“And?”

“The team leader, Ken Russo.”

“Russo?”
Megan dropped a set of papers on the floor, then gathered them up.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” Padre said.

“I’m sorry,” Megan said. “It may not be connected.”

“You think it is,” Jack said.

“It could be a coincidence, but in light of everything else . . . we’re going to pull all the files and ballistics reports. He died ten months ago during an apparent home robbery. No one was charged.”

“I need to warn Jerry,” Padre said.

“Of course,” Hans said. “Better coming from you. Do you know how to contact him?”

“Yes. I’ll take care of it.”

“Wait,” Megan said. All eyes turned to her. “Are you sure Jefferson is still in Afghanistan?”

“Last I heard,” Padre said.

“What are you implying?” Jack interrupted.

“Other than Father Francis, Jefferson is the only member of that Delta unit who is still alive. He may not be a potential victim.”

Padre shook his head. “I will vouch for Jefferson. He wouldn’t kill in cold blood, not his people. Not Scout.”

“We have to consider every possibility,” Megan said.

Hans added, “I don’t have to tell either of you that soldiers have the highest incidence of post-traumatic stress syndrome—”

“No!” Padre slammed his fist on the table. Jack turned his head. The priest rarely lost his temper. Conflict and anger gave his hard-lined face an ominous expression.

Jack didn’t want to agree with the feds, in fact, he didn’t agree with them, but he also understood that they had a job to do.

“We’ll do our job, Padre. They need to do theirs.”

“What do you plan to do?” Padre asked, biting down on each word. “Not warn him?”

“Of course not,” Megan said. “He could be in danger, but if he’s still in Afghanistan he’s probably safer there than here. We need to look at his movements, however, and if he’s in the States . . .”

She didn’t have to finish. Jack nodded curtly while Padre quietly tamped down on his temper. “I’ll find him,” he said.

“Did you know any of the other victims, Jack?” Megan cleared her throat. She was upset that Padre was distressed, but she didn’t back down. Jack liked that.

“Just Scout.” Jack looked squarely at Padre. “Frank, I’m calling in Tim, Mike, and Lucky. None of them were Delta, so they’re not targets—if I can believe you,” he glanced at Megan and Vigo, “which I’m inclined to do on this point.”

“Don’t call,” Padre said. “I know there’s a threat, I’ll watch my back.”

Jack’s voice dropped and he said through clenched teeth, “I’m not going to let you die like Scout.”

“You didn’t let him die.”

Padre didn’t understand. Scout had been Jack’s responsibility. He should never have stayed the night in San Diego. If he’d returned sooner, he could have stopped it.

“Don’t push me, Frank. You’re not going solo. The guys will skin me alive if I don’t call them in. We’re still brothers; that’s never going to change.”

When Padre gave his silent assent, Jack sighed a margin of relief.

“I’ll go back to the rectory with Father Francis,” Vigo said.

“No.” Jack didn’t want to offend the FBI agent, but he looked about fifty, had a bit of a belly, and frankly, Jack didn’t know him. Could he even protect himself, let alone a Delta-trained sniper like Frank Cardenas?

“Then I’ll go,” Megan said.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Who did she think she was? Wonder Woman?

“I get it.” She started putting her files together and shoving them back in her briefcase.

He expected her to explain herself, all women did, often ad nauseum. He had three sisters. He knew a bit about women.

She didn’t explain. She grabbed her blouse, felt that it was still wet, and stuffed it unceremoniously into the side pocket of her briefcase. She pulled the blazer over her camisole, and somehow, the entire process only made her look sexier, when her purpose was clearly to show she wasn’t going to be manipulated or placated.

“Father, the three of us will go back to the rectory. We need you to write down every operation you worked with those seven men. Every place you went, any other people you worked with, failures as well as successes. Your friend Jefferson is probably a target; we need to contact him immediately and see if he can fill in any blanks. But if he’s in the States, we need to bring in a team to find him.”

“No,” Jack repeated. Didn’t they get it? “You’re all in danger: Padre from a serial killer, and you two from Perez.”

“Perez has cooled down,” Megan said. “He’s not so stupid as to send anyone after two federal agents, and he doesn’t have a death wish to do it himself.” She turned to Padre, ignoring Jack. “You are the only one we know who has information we need to help figure out why these men were targeted.”

Vigo nodded. “Between official and unofficial channels,” he nodded toward Megan—and Jack couldn’t help but wonder if maybe Blondie wasn’t the straight-laced, rule-playing fed he’d first thought—“we should be able to piece together the victims’ service records and find any common points. They were selected for a reason, and when we know
why
we’ll know
who.”

“Thank you for the cereal,” Megan said and started toward the door. “Father Francis, we can put you in protective custody while we work on this. There’s no reason you should feel threatened or—”

Jack shook his head, laughing. “Oh, this is rich. The feds putting a Delta-trained sniper in protective custody.”

“Jack,” Padre snapped.

“They have rules and procedures. How the hell do we know we can trust them or anyone in their office? How did the killers find those men? How did they trace a homeless guy who went AWOL? The killers have too much fucking information about our people. Someone has been talking or one of the killers is someone high up the food chain. High enough to know where Price was hiding out. The feds have no idea who to trust. Dammit, I’ll go with you. I’m not letting you out of my sight unless someone
I
trained is covering your back.”

Padre turned to him. “Jack, you want to find Scout’s killer as much as I do. What I know can help.”

“Stay here,” Jack said.

“I have Mass in the morning. I can’t stay.” He held his hand up when Jack tried to protest. “And don’t suggest for one minute that I cancel Mass. I know it was on the tip of your tongue. I’m going to do my job. You do yours. Work with them. Agent Elliott did a good job covering your ass tonight; I think they’ll be fine.”

“Blondie doesn’t know who she’s up against.”

Megan dropped her briefcase on the wood floor. “First, do
not
talk about me as if I am not in the room. Second, you may call me Meg, or Megan, or Agent Elliott, or Your Royal Highness, but do not call me Blondie.” She turned to Vigo. “
You’re
the senior agent; what are we doing?”

Jack could see that asking anyone what to do got under Agent Megan Elliott’s skin. She was used to being in charge, making the rules, not following them. Well, so was he. And he wasn’t going to relinquish command to a feisty blond cop. Though it would be fun to watch her try to wrestle control away from him.

Hans looked a bit sheepish. “Meg, I’m sorry, I only said that because I was worried about what happened in the jail—” He stopped as he saw that he was digging himself farther into a hole that Megan’s silence was widening. Her silence and her piercing green glare.

Yowza.

Vigo glanced at his watch. “It’s two-thirty in the morning. What do you think, Meg?”

She took off her blazer and draped it over a chair. “We’ll crash the Jeep in sheer exhaustion, though I’m sure the Delta studs here”—she jerked her thumb in Jack’s direction—“will claim that they don’t need sleep, food, or water and are still functioning human beings. We’ll leave at dawn, in time to get Father Francis back for his obligations—if that’s okay with you, Father.”

Padre nodded. Jack shot him a look. Ten minutes ago he had everything under control. How had he lost it to Megan?

Yet he was getting exactly what he wanted: the four of them under his roof so he could protect them and monitor the situation.

“As soon as Mass is over, we need to sit down and start on that list,” Megan continued. “And when the Rangers arrive, we’ll make contact and get a copy of the evidence, autopsy report, and witness statements regarding Scout’s homicide. Someone saw something. These killers aren’t invisible men.”

“Good plan,” Vigo said.

Jack realized that if he wanted to regain control and protect those he cared about, he’d better earn the respect and the ear of Agent—Supervisory Special Agent—Megan Elliott.

“Fine,” Jack said. “Then I guess the only question is where everyone is going to sleep. Ladies choice: where would you like to bed down, Your Royal Highness?”

Ethan hadn’t slept well. The cheap motel room’s laboring air conditioner made the hot air only more humid. The nightmares had been followed by an odd lull, a peace he should have enjoyed but instead it terrified him.

Dawn came too bright, too fast, in the rearview mirror. Hours ago they’d left Benson, Arizona, passed through Tucson, and were now . . . where? He didn’t know. I-10 was endless, a ribbon of asphalt in a bleak, dry desert. Another time he would have appreciated the contours and colors, the vastness and the vistas. Now he wanted to bury himself in a hole and die. Take a handful of pills and disappear forever.

He needed to die. But the fucking
bitch
stopped him every time he had a gun to his head, a knife on his wrists, ready to fade away, painless, thoughtless. She said she cared. He started laughing again.

“Ethan?”

He swallowed the laughter, but it squeaked out in a feminine giggle. “What?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” What
wasn’t
wrong? He stared at his hands on the wheel of the truck. They looked foreign to him. Were these
his
hands? Had they given him new hands? Hands that could hurt, torture, kill? Maybe the restraints they’d used had cut off his hands at the wrists, and they sewed on his tormentor’s fists. That’s why he knew where to poke, where to press the needle into the flesh. A fraction of a millimeter off and the pain was only as irritating as a bee sting. But when the nerve was stimulated just so . . .

He screamed and let go of the wheel.

“Ethan!”

He barely heard her voice. He was drowning, his lungs unable to draw in air. His scream continued, he was helpless. He couldn’t stop. They were killing him . . .

Real pain cut through the vision. His mouth shut. Her hands were on the steering wheel, keeping the truck in their lane. His foot was on the accelerator flat to the floor. They rapidly approached the rear of a minivan.

He glanced at the odometer. Death at 110 miles per hour. Yes. Sixty more seconds and splat, all over the desert. Him and her, gone instantly. Just. Like. That.

She turned the wheel and put them into the eastbound lane, barely missing a collision with the minivan. The car they passed honked at them. Ethan glanced over, saw the kids in the back of the car. The infant seat.

They didn’t care about him. Not when he was imprisoned, not when he was freed. He was nobody.

His foot eased up on the accelerator—100 mph . . . 90 mph . . . 80 mph. He hovered between seventy-five and eighty miles per hour and only then did Karin take her hands off the wheel.

Biting his lip—he didn’t notice how hard until he tasted blood—he glanced at her. She’d dyed her hair again. When? She was dark blond when they’d met. Then brown. Now . . . blond. How had she done that? When? In the motel? He didn’t remember. She was prettier as a blond. Softer. As a brunette, she looked unreal, like everything he saw, as if in a dream. Now she was crisper. Real. Not a figment of his imagination.