Allison Brennan - Sudden Death

“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.”

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.