Allison Brennan - Sudden Death

When she’d first conceived of this plan, she’d felt a bit guilty that the trained psycho had to die, but after Ethan had killed those people at the rest stop, she lost that guilt. He should have been dead years ago. His botched suicide attempts were pathetic. If he’d really wanted to be dead he could have done it.

She pulled a sealed gallon-sized plastic bag from her purse and removed a black-and-red-flowered sarong. The plastic had kept blood and evidence off her clothing. She tied the skirt around her waist, draped the bag over her shoulder, and walked casually toward the pier. Toward freedom, toward revenge and final justice.

It was time to start the endgame. This was the part of the plan she’d never told Ethan about. She had known he’d be dead before it started.

When Megan checked into the motel she had a message that Hans wanted to see her ASAP. She glanced at Jack, uncertain about what had happened between them on the plane. He avoided her eyes and for a moment she thought she’d imagined the whole thing. Or that she had been the aggressor and Jack was embarrassed.

But the truth was he’d kissed her and she kissed him back. And then some.

“I need to talk to Hans,” she said, her voice thick. She handed him his jacket.

He took it, but didn’t seem to know what to do with it. “I’m going for a run.”

He looked like he wanted to kiss her again, then he stepped back. “See you in the morning, Blondie.”

She watched him pick up his duffel bag and walk out of the lobby without looking back. She released a pent-up breath. How could one kiss leave her so disoriented?

Little sleep, lots of work.

Right, Megan, lie to yourself all you want.

She walked through the same doors. Jack was in the room right next to hers. Hans’s room was across the corridor. She was not going to chase after Jack. No matter how incredible that kiss had been, it was just one kiss, and she had work to do. She glanced at her watch. It was nearly midnight.

Maybe Hans was asleep. She’d done everything she could since leaving Colorado-called Quantico’s Assistant Director Rick Stockton himself about Price and Rosemont after getting his home number from her boss, who she quickly briefed. Richardson also had news from Detective Black in Sacramento-the van, where John Doe had been tortured, had been found abandoned in a remote area of Placer County, off Interstate-80.

Which made sense to Megan. Price’s dog tag had been sent to her from Reno. I-80 went through Reno. The killers could have gone almost anywhere after that, but instead took a straight course down to south Texas and killed Lawrence “Scout” Bartleton.

So far, no useful evidence had been collected off the van, but it was being processed in the FBI garage by their trace evidence experts.

When Megan finally talked to Stockton, he assured her that he would take a personal interest in reexamining the Russo case and pull the tapes from the interview Price mentioned. He would also get a warrant for Rosemont’s medical records. He ordered her to sleep. “An exhausted agent makes mistakes, Agent Elliott.”

Except she hadn’t yet connected with Hans, and he’d left her the message. She’d slept two hours during the flight to Colorado. She could spare another hour.

Hans opened the door seconds after she knocked. He held the door open for her to enter, but said nothing, shutting it firmly behind her. He walked over to the desk where papers and crime scene photos were spread, but he didn’t sit down.

The cliche “death warmed over” fit Hans. His skin was too pale, his eyes bloodshot, and he seemed to have aged ten years since she’d last seen him.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“What did you think you were doing tonight?”

“Excuse me? Didn’t you get my message? Rick Stockton said he would call you and-”

“Yes,” Hans interrupted, “but that doesn’t excuse you for going after a suspect on your own.”

“Jack Kin-”

“I don’t care!” Hans crossed over to the dresser and put his palms down on the top, not looking at her. “You know better than this. What about a warrant? What about backup?” He turned and stared at her. “You’ve fucked this up from the beginning.”

She blinked. Hans didn’t swear. Not like this. Did he really think she’d screwed up the case?

She had assumed the first victim was George Price, but the more she’d thought about it that night, the more she realized that if she thought he was a John Doe from the beginning, they’d never have made the connection to the army or Delta Force or the dead soldiers so quickly. Jack had concurred. With the incompetent police chief in the Bartleton investigation, and the lack of communication between the different agencies until the FBI showed interest, they certainly wouldn’t have teamed up with Jack and Padre and had the information about the Delta ops that led to a possible suspect-the reporter, Barry Rosemont. And no way would they have found Price without Padre’s connection. At least not tonight.

Yes, she made a poor assumption, but it had ended up being beneficial.

“Warrant?” she said, not knowing what part of Hans’s verbal attack to address first. “I didn’t need a warrant. I was talking to a potential witness-”

“Witness? Is that what you’re calling killers these days?”

“You’ve lost me, Hans. Where do you think I’ve been?”

“Hunting down George Price. And if he’s-”

“He’s not the killer.”

“And you know this how? Because he told you?”

Her mouth dropped open. “I- He didn’t have motive or opportunity.”

“And you were able to ascertain this in a few hours?”

Megan didn’t know what she’d done to warrant such a dressing down. She straightened her back and said, “Let me explain from the beginning. I think you must have misinformation or something-”

“I talked to Father Francis. He tracked down George Price like that.” Hans snapped his fingers. “We find out the real George Price isn’t dead, and less than twelve hours later the only other surviving Delta team member hands you his location on a silver platter?”

“It’s a close-knit group. They know people. I don’t understand your point.”

“Maybe Frank Cardenas isn’t the good priest everyone thinks he is.”

“This doesn’t sound like you-”

“You don’t know me, then.”

Hans might as well have slapped her. Megan had met Hans three months after her father was killed in Desert Storm. She’d been a senior in college. A visiting lecturer, Hans had recruited her into the FBI. Became a friend, a mentor, someone she’d confided in. He’d been the best man at her wedding, and while her marriage to Mitch Bianchi hadn’t lasted, her friendship with Hans had. They’d spent six weeks in Kosovo together, and afterward she didn’t consider anyone else a closer friend or confidant than Hans Vigo.

“Price told us that-”

He cut her off. “You found him?”

“Yes. It was arranged.”

“And you didn’t arrest him?”

“For what?”

“He went AWOL five years ago and disappeared. You found him, and let him go? You used to believe in the law, Megan. You used to believe in the rules. The system.”

“I still do. I didn’t do anything-”

“You let our primary suspect in seven murders get away!”

Megan’s voice cracked when she said, “Price didn’t have the opportunity. He’s not a suspect. He’s no saint, but if you were there you’d have heard his testimony and known he was telling the truth.”

“I wasn’t there. You left without me.”

“You didn’t answer my call.”

“The interview could have waited.”