Allison Brennan - Sudden Death

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 …