Angi Morgan - Ranger Defender

Changing a variable in last week’s test would be interesting today. The small amount of excitement she could feel recharged her with purpose.

“Hi, Abby,” Dalia said from reception. “Looks like we have a full day of appointments. You’re going to be busy.”

“Wonderful.” She’d practiced the good-morning smile and mimicked the intonation most used when they were excited for their day. The smile that continued on Dalia’s face indicated that Abby had managed to keep her voice free of sarcasm.

She picked up the charts as she did every morning and took them to their small, efficient office. There were tapes ready to be transcribed and yes, a full day of veterans checking in for their sleep studies. The private at eight o’clock would be perfect. According to the notes in Simon Evans’s chart, he didn’t have a history of violence, but she could change that.

She could definitely change that.

Simon arrived right on time. Abby prepped him for his EEG and then the technician applied the nodes to begin the procedure. No one could connect her to the actual study, which was in a sleep lab, on a different floor, on different days. No one at the shorthanded Veterans Hospital ever questioned her competent help.

The electroencephalogram monitored brain waves while a patient slept. It set up a baseline and then monitored the volunteers throughout the sleep studies. Perfect for her needs since each participant needed a session per month.

Two of her experiments had succeeded recently.

It wouldn’t be long. Not long at all.

Simon was snoring. She checked the monitor. He seemed to be in full REM. She locked the outside door so they wouldn’t be disturbed, cautiously placed earphones over Simon’s head and turned on her carefully recorded message.

For the next hour, her softly spoken words about injustice, violence and murder repeated. Keywords that helped the subject draw the logical conclusion that death was the only possible solution for their problems.

The tape ended. Three hours of sleep was all the patient was allowed. The timer dinged, she awoke Simon and alerted the technician it was time to finish. Once he cleaned up, she brought the questionnaire to be completed along with the second page for her own study.

Simon passed the next appointment on the way out—Private Second Class Rashad Parker with debilitating night terrors. He’d already tried to choke his girlfriend in his sleep. Abby went through all the steps, waited until he entered rapid eye movement and introduced her tape.

Curiosity was the closest she got to elation. She thought Rashad would have succumbed to her mind-manipulation last week. With her new keywords, culmination was probable within the next couple of days.

Wouldn’t Dr. Roberts be surprised if she was still around?

She covered her lips and giggled.

Chapter Three

Wiping down yet another table, Vivian Watts stepped back to let a man slide into the booth. “I’ll be right back with a menu.”

The lunch rush was over and in another hour she’d be off until she came back for the double tomorrow. And then she’d be done and never wanted to see another chicken wing as long as she lived. When she told the manager she’d need off next week for the trial, he agreed and promptly fired her.

Nothing personal, he’d said. Of course it was, she’d replied. And that was the end of the conversation. One more day to feel greasy. At least she’d be clean while standing on the precipice of bankruptcy.

Was it really bankruptcy if you didn’t own anything to be lost? Probably not. So technically, she’d be homeless without two shiny dimes to her name. Technically.

If all else failed, she could reenlist in the army. Who knows, this time she might be a commissioned officer since she’d earned her degree. She really didn’t want to go back into uniform. Of course, it would be better than wearing this little chicken wing thing.

She dropped the dirty stuff behind the bar, stuffed her last tip into her apron, grabbed a water and snatched a menu on her way back to the new table. It would be another single instead of the four-top that just filled up.

“Here you go. Can I get you something else to drink?” The nice hands taking the menu drew her to take a closer look at her latest customer.

Beautiful blue eyes shone bright in a tanned face. Very clean-shaven cheeks and chin, which was unusual with the beard fad for the twentysomething crowd. Crisp, overly starched shirt. There was a cowboy hat resting on the table to go along with the open badge of a...Texas Ranger.

Open in the way they identified themselves. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“I get it, Miss Watts, and I’m sorry to bug you at work. I’m not here in an official capacity.”

“The badge looks pretty official to me.”

“Yeah, I get that. I wanted you to know who I am and that I’m legit.” He pushed the badge back into his pocket. “I know now’s not a good time, but I’d like to ask you a few follow-up questions at your earliest convenience.”

“That also sounds very official.” She glanced around at the emptying tables. “If you aren’t going to order anything, I’d appreciate you leaving. The manager is particular about wait staff fraternizing with the customers. He particularly hates it.”

“Oh, I’m ordering. I’m starved. I’d like a basket of ranch habanero wings, side salad, fries and sweet tea.”

“This is a real order. You’re not expecting it on the house or anything? If you want the cop discount, I have to get the manager or it comes out of my check.”

“Real order. Real tip. Especially if the tea glass never runs dry.” He handed her the menu. “I’m Slate, by the way.”

“I’ll be right back with your tea.”

A week before Victor’s trial and a Texas Ranger shows up saying it’s unofficial business? Hope. A slim chance of it bubbled into her heart. Just as quickly, her rational mind took out a needle and popped it.

It had been over a year with no hope. A year of visiting her brother and faking a positive attitude so he didn’t lose all hope. She wouldn’t allow this one man who was here in an unofficial capacity to rattle her heart.

All the emotional strength she had left was reserved for her brother. Period.

Tea and salad to the table. Menus to another. Sneak a look at the ranger who’s watching something on his phone. Clear and wipe down a booth. Salt shakers filled for the next shift. Order up. Wings for the ranger.

“Need anything else?” she asked, sliding the basket in front of him.

He performed an ordinary shake of his head just like many customers had before him.

“Why should I talk to you without Victor’s lawyer present? Not like he’d know what to do if I wrote it all out for him. Why should I listen to you?”

“I just have a question.”

“For me?” She stuck her thumb in her chest, realizing too late that it drew his eyes to the bulging cleavage her waitress outfit emphasized. “Not Victor?”

The ranger dropped his hands in his lap and looked at her. Really looked at her, like very few people had in the past year.

“I can’t make any promises, Vivian. I just picked up your brother’s file this morning, but I have a question that I hope you can answer. Maybe it’ll lead to another question. That’s all I’ve got at the moment.”

Honesty. Clarity.

And a trickle of hope.

“I...uh...I get off at two.” She was about to cry because of that one snippet of misplaced emotion.

“Can I meet you—”

“I no longer own a car, officer.”

“Slate’s fine. There’s a coffee shop three doors down. That okay?”

“Sure. I’ll get your check.”

She turned quickly and used the corner of the bar towel to wipe the moisture from her face. Maybe he hadn’t seen it. Who was she trying to fool? Looking at her—really looking and connecting with her eyes—that’s why she was crying.