Jodie Bailey - Freefall

The smart move would have been to let the authorities handle it, but no. He’d shown up in time to spot someone bolt from a souped-up Honda near the building just before it exploded in a shower of flame.

The container door twanged a hollow rattle as he slapped his palm against it. Shane gave up the chase and dropped against white-hot metal. He propped his hands on his knees, gulping thick air that didn’t do anything to slow his heart rate.

Shouts and sirens overtook the pounding in his ears as his body settled down. Pressing his hands against the container, he pushed himself upright and trudged toward his truck.

The torched Honda lofted oily smoke into the air. Yellow fire trucks rounded the corner with sirens squealing and pulled into the parking lot, firemen at the ready.

Shane reached his truck and snatched his cell phone off the seat in disgust. No power. The battery in the thing died on a whim if it wasn’t plugged in nightly. Fat lot of help it was right now.

He let his eyes drift toward the fire as he pocketed the device. Through the smoke, soldiers gathered on the far side of the parking lot. One stood apart from the others, shoulders slumped until he almost bent double. Probably his car. Poor kid. No telling how much of his enlistment bonus he’d dropped on jazzing that thing up.

Shane leaned his hip against the side of the truck and crossed his arms, waiting for the Military Police to arrive so he could describe what he’d seen. Because all he’d gotten a good look at was a black T-shirt and jeans, he doubted anything he said would do much good. At least he could convince them this most likely wasn’t an accident.

Movement at the near end of the loading dock caught his eye. A side door opened, and two other soldiers—a middle-aged man and a tall, slim blonde—stepped out. They stopped to view the carnage, and she appeared to give orders before he walked off and she turned in Shane’s direction.

His heart, which had returned to normal after his full-tilt flight across the parking lot, thudded to his feet. He straightened and squinted against the sunlight. It couldn’t be her. It just...couldn’t be.

Before he could duck and cover, she pivoted on one heel and stalked across the loading dock in the direction of the soldiers on the other side of the lot.

Releasing the breath he hadn’t realized he held, Shane sidestepped toward the bed of his truck to keep her in view. It was her all right. In almost a decade, her stride hadn’t changed.

Scattered thoughts clicked like tumblers in a lock. It appeared she was in charge of the rigger shed. Everything his contact had told him pointed to...

Cold sweat broke out along his back. It all indicated his ex-wife was the target.

* * *

“Nitrous? Over the fuel line?” Genius. Cassidy wanted to pound her palm against her forehead. The amount of money some of these guys poured into their cars—either to look cool or to boost the engines for street races—could buy her an early retirement and a house on the coast. She stopped herself before she rolled her eyes heavenward.

Private Anderson’s chin dipped, and his shoulders tipped forward before he caught himself and straightened. He was wound so tight even his close-cropped red hair seemed to shiver.

“Is that even legal, because I’m pretty sure it’s not street legal?” Cassidy looked over the private’s shoulder at Master Sergeant McIntyre, who shrugged and shook his head. She turned her attention to the younger man. “You hooked nitrous to your car last night. In the barracks parking lot, under the supervision of your buddies who have zero experience in the process. Am I tracking? Have I got it straight?”

“We didn’t actually leave it hooked up, ma’am. I think that’s the illegal part.” Anderson stared at a spot just over her shoulder. “Ma’am.”

Oh, how she wanted to confine this kid to quarters for walking the line just this side of stupid. But it wasn’t her place to dish out that kind of discipline and, try as she might, she couldn’t find one single thing he’d actually done wrong. “I really, really hope you had your car insured.”

At the hint of his charred vehicle, the private’s expression slipped even further. “I did,” he muttered.

“Doubt they’ll cover after-market parts like nitrous, though.”

“I don’t think the nitrous...” He shook his head. “I’ll check, ma’am.”

Cassidy bit the inside of her lip. It was already well past the end of the duty day, a day in which the investigation ate up their time and put them behind on the number of parachutes packed for the Eighty-Second Airborne Division’s soldiers. The chute riggers would have been finished and gone already if the fireworks in the parking lot hadn’t locked them all down until the investigators found the source of ignition. “Go ahead. You’re dismissed. And you’re lucky this little stunt didn’t get your buddies all stuck here for the whole weekend. It’s a post-9/11 world. Nobody likes it when things go boom on a military base.” She waved a hand toward the door. “Keep me posted on what happens, and I have a pretty strong hunch the commander will want to meet with you sooner rather than later when he gets back.”

Snapping a salute, Anderson was out the door, through the outer office, and already on the stairs before Cassidy could blink.

She looked from the door to McIntyre as she sank against the front of her desk. “Think he’s scared?”

“More like grief-stricken. His baby just went bye-bye. A guy like Anderson would sooner break up with a hot girlfriend than get a scratch on his car. Imagine what this kind of carnage is doing to his soul.” He leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms over the rank on his chest. “He’ll get over it eventually. Think about it. The kid just bought himself legend status in the Division. He’ll forever be the guy whose car went up like the Fourth of July in the parking lot of the rigger shed. They’ll still talk about him when they’re in their seventies and swappin’ stories at the VFW hall.”

Straightening, Cassidy took the three steps across the room to the windows that looked down at the cavernous parachute packing area below, where Anderson huddled with several of his buddies by one of the long wooden pack tables. “You really think he’ll be okay?” Try as she might, she couldn’t always stop the mothering instinct as it surged in her.

“Yeah. I imagine as long as he didn’t have the bottle hooked up, insurance will cover most of it. He’ll get something new and shiny, and he’ll have a reputation to boot. He’s one bad dude now.”

She snickered and glanced over her shoulder at him. “Know what? I think it’s time we both got out of here. The fire’s out, Criminal Investigation Division is done and has released us to go. There’s no reason to stick around. Sergeant Jamison and Private Reynolds are locking up tonight. If you herd the rest of the crew out, you can get home to your wife.”

Mac straightened. “Works for me. See you Monday?”

“Yeah. Hopefully nothing will go up in smoke between now and then.” She waved as Mac rounded the corner into the main office, then turned her attention to the floor below. Normally, the warehouselike room was filled with riggers carefully inspecting and meticulously packing the parachutes that kept the “airborne” in the Eighty-Second Airborne Division. Now, after the excitement of this day, only a small knot stood between the tables and the door. From the looks of the small group, they’d ended the consolation portion of their day and had moved on to ribbing Anderson about his car. Circle of life or something like that.

Cassidy rested her forehead against the glass and studied them. In some ways, it felt like only a few weeks since she’d been a red-hatted rigger herself. Today, she felt every one of the days between then and now, days when she’d fought through quartermaster school, battled her private demons and emerged as one of the few females to ever sit in her position as Division Parachute Officer. Most days, it was an accomplishment that squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. Right now, the weight of her responsibility anchored her to the spot, too heavy to let her move.