Sudden Death (17 page)

CHAPTER

TWENTY-TWO

One thing Karin’s mother taught her was how to gather intelligence. If you learned your target’s strengths and weaknesses, you could better strategize.

This lesson was particularly important when you were playing double agent, so to speak. That she’d been using Ethan didn’t bother her; that she intended to seduce Lyle Hackett bothered her even less.

When she’d started planning Ethan’s revenge, she’d had to locate their targets. That wasn’t so easy, and Ethan wasn’t a lot of help.

But because of his public comments and the attack on his life, Lieutenant Ken Russo had been the easiest to track down. He’d retired to Florida where he lived off disability and worked part-time as a bartender. It had been no problem to move to Orlando and seduce him. Easy to engage him in pillow talk. Easy to search his computer, his files, his memories for the information on all of his team members. He’d been right about everything—except Frank Cardenas.

“Cardenas. He’s down in south Texas with Bartleton and some mercenaries.”

She had known Russo had a drinking problem, and she’d exploited it. Got him talking about the operation where Ethan was taken hostage, about the men and what had happened to them since. What he didn’t know she was able to find once she uncovered their full legal names in Russo’s records.

But she’d assumed that when he said Frank Cardenas was with Bartleton, that he was a mercenary as well. It had never occurred to her that he could be a
priest,
even though Russo said his nickname was
Padre.
Until she saw him the other day. He might as well have had a damn
halo
over his head.

She sat at a small table in the bar of the resort hotel and ordered a chardonnay. What she really wanted was something stronger. Cardenas reminded her too much of Father Michael. Not in appearance—Father Michael had been Irish, sixty, and jovial. Like Santa Claus.

Until he was dead.

But she’d claimed vengeance for him. It was only right—he hadn’t deserved to die. She was to blame. . . .
No! It wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t stop her. But you avenged Father Michael. You took care of it when you had the opportunity and the means and the alibi.

And she had made it look like an accident. Suicide.

But Father Michael was still dead, and the fact remained that if she hadn’t told him the truth, he would still be alive.

All she’d wanted to do was get her mother out of her life. She wanted to see the bitch behind bars. And would she gloat! She imagined visiting hours, saying to Crystal, “You’re stuck here and I’m free and don’t have to listen to you anymore.”

She’d never felt guilty for any death until Father Michael’s. And she hadn’t even pulled that trigger.

She sipped her chardonnay and looked around. Hackett was late, and that bothered her. She wasn’t going to be able to hold Ethan together for much longer. She might have to change her plan and find another way to get rid of him . . .

Then retired general Lyle Hackett strode into the bar and glanced around. He did a double take when he saw her, then sat at the bar on a stool—where he could watch her—and ordered his usual double Chivas on the rocks.

Research had paid off. When Hackett’s wife had her monthly Bunco games, he came here. Had been doing so for more than two years. For the next twenty minutes she discreetly flirted from across the room. For a sixty-two-year-old retired general, Hackett was good looking. He still had a flat stomach. And while his hair was salt-and-pepper gray, he had most of it, trimmed neat and short. He fit the image of retired military.

The bartender brought over a chardonnay. “Compliments of the gentleman at the bar.”

She raised her glass to Hackett. He raised his in response.

She said to the bartender, “Tell him he’s welcome to join me.”

Less than a minute later, General Hackett sat next to her. She raised her glass in a toast. “Thank you.”

“A beautiful woman like yourself shouldn’t drink alone. Here on business?”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s just such a beautiful resort. I wish there was more time for pleasure.” She smiled, sipped her wine, and added, “My boss put me up in a cabin right on the beach. I could stay there the entire week, leaving only to walk along the ocean at sunset.” Karin sighed.

“Sounds nice.”

“It is. I’m Rose,” she lied smoothly.

“Lyle. Very nice to meet you, Miss Rose.”

“Likewise, Mr. Lyle.”

She had him on the hook. All she had to do was reel in the line, all the way back to the oceanfront cabin where she’d drop the sinker. Two fish, one bait.

While Jack checked the plane and weather reports, Megan walked up and down the airstrip trying to get cell phone reception.

“Damn, damn, damn,” she muttered. The Hamstring Killer had to have killed Ken Russo. There was no other explanation for how a homeless John Doe had George Price’s dog tags around his neck. And the killers had to know he wasn’t Price, yet they still sent her the tag. They wanted to make sure there was no mistake, that her homeless victim was connected to the other victims. Why?

But she couldn’t get anyone on her cell phone—not the Florida FBI office, or Quantico, or Hans in California.

Jack called to her, “Meg, we’ve got to go. There’re thunderstorms from the southeast moving this way.”

“Do we have time to go back to town so I can find a phone? I need to call in this information. If the police can look again into Russo’s murder we might finally have a suspect.”

“If we go back to town, we won’t be off this mountain until morning. It’s now or not tonight, Meg.”

“Fine, we go now.” There was no way she wanted to be stuck in Colorado when the investigation was going full force in California. She glanced at her watch. She’d changed it to Pacific time that morning—eight-thirty. They’d be settled into the motel by midnight, but as soon as they landed she’d be on her cell phone to Florida about Ken Russo. And she wanted a copy of that interview Price said had been the impetus of his attack on Russo. And find out if Hans had been able to locate the reporter, Barry Rosemont.

She felt a tinge of worry that she was letting a criminal get away, but at the same time, she couldn’t very well have arrested Price and dragged him back to California with her and Jack on the Cessna. And he had provided important information. They were getting close. The key was Russo’s murder. Completely different M.O. Why? There was something there, something at the crime scene or Russo’s background that the killers didn’t want authorities to know about. Otherwise, why not kill him in the same manner as the others? Why not torture him? In addition to Russo’s murder being nearly a year ago, it had been set up as a robbery. Was that so the police wouldn’t link his death to the others? Possibly.

“Relax,” Jack said.

“I am.”

He reached out and snatched her cell phone from her grip. She hadn’t realized she’d been twisting the phone around in her hands until he took it away.

“You can try again when we get airborne, or we can use the radio.”

“Okay. Good. Thanks.”

“Let me get the bird off the ground. I need to stay ahead of the storm.”

“Right. Of course.”

She had a million things on her mind, from the investigation to Hans’s strange behavior at the crime scene to her guilt that she’d messed up at the beginning. But now she had a huge break, a major lead. She couldn’t wait to work it.

She glanced at Jack when he started the plane, his profile momentarily taking her breath away. Her stomach fluttered and she turned away, flushed, remembering how Jack had touched her face earlier.

Maybe it was that she was still wearing his leather jacket, wrapped in his scent and warmth. That was it. She’d known him only twenty-four hours. Why did it seem so much longer than that?

Jack double-checked the gauges. Then he said, “Ready?”

“Yes.”

“Meg?”

Turning, she opened her mouth to respond and his lips were on hers.

All thoughts vanished, all reason gone, her lips melted into Jack’s. His hand held her jaw, keeping her facing him, in just the right position for a kiss that was so perfect, she forgot every mouth that had ever touched hers.

Her lips parted unconsciously, her body reacting, unable to control her physical response. Her mind was mush, full of Jack and all the possibilities that lay between them. At that moment, she couldn’t have given directions to her apartment even if she’d been in front of the building.

When Megan’s lips opened, she released a sigh and the spontaneous kiss took on a life of its own. Jack didn’t know what he had been thinking, just that she looked too good, too
kissable,
sitting in the co-pilot seat, a frown on her lips because she couldn’t use her cell phone, her bottom lip protruding in a slight pout that made him want to suck it. He’d planned to give her a quick peck—for luck or some such excuse—but when he’d tasted her, he wanted more. That she felt the same, that she opened to him and put her hand around his neck as if to keep him right there against her lips, made him want to lie to her, tell her the storm was imminent and directly in their path. Then he could take her to the back of the plane and make love to her.

He was halfway out of his seat, pulling her up with his hands, before he realized what he was doing. What he’d been thinking—or not thinking. He let go of her and sat down, his breathing labored. Her skin was flushed, her lips swollen and red, turning Special Agent Megan Elliott from a no-nonsense federal cop into a soft, warm, and incredibly sexy woman.

Her eyelids slowly opened and for a moment he pictured a siren, the way her green eyes had darkened, beckoning him, her lashes long and thick, her lips parted. His cock twitched and he shifted, but failed to alleviate the discomfort.

He coughed to mask his lust and focused on the gauges. “Buckle up, Blondie, it might get bumpy.”

Megan looked straight ahead as she obeyed, but he didn’t miss the confusion on her pretty face. He felt the exact same way.

Watch out, Kincaid. You like Blondie way too much.

Ethan waited to the left of the door. Waited. Waited.

She’d called fifteen minutes ago and said she was coming back with Hackett.

He wasn’t good at waiting. He was barely able to hold off the panic, the overwhelming sense to flee, that had gotten him captured in Afghanistan in the first place.

It was their fault! They left you!

They were coming back. Thornton had said they were coming back to get them. Thornton had kept whispering,
“Shut up. Shut up.”

Ethan whimpered as if he was still trapped in the rocks.
Something crawled over his foot. He looked down, saw the scorpion as if he were right back in the rocks. He shook his foot violently.

“You’re going to get us killed!”

He looked around the room, expecting to see Thornton. His heart raced. Where was he?

Voices. Oh, God no, he was going to be killed.

A woman’s laugh. Odd. What woman traveled with the Taliban? Waves crashed across the desert . . . Ocean waves. He wasn’t in Afghanistan.

Santa Barbara.

Ethan looked at the knife in his hand. He remembered what he had to do.

“Whoops!” A female voice said outside the cabin door. She giggled. “I dropped my key.”

“I got it,” a man said.

Ethan frowned, clutched the knife. What was she doing? Too much noise.

Shut up! Shut up! You’re going to get us killed.

He stayed flat against the wall, silent.

He had to trust her like he hadn’t trusted Thornton. Had he just listened, not panicking, not screwing up in the first place, he’d never have been held hostage. Thornton would never have died. Ethan couldn’t have done any of this without Karin. She was the brains. He knew it. It was all her plan, to help him get better. But he didn’t feel better. Instead he felt cold. He was so cold.

“Rose, God woman, you’re driving me crazy.”

Rose? Who was Rose? Was Ethan in the wrong room? No, this was his room. He’d taken it using his fake I.D. Ethan Rose. Rose. Rose.

The door opened.

“Lyle,” the woman said. “You’ve made my whole week worth it.”

“And we haven’t gotten to the good part.”

Lyle Hackett. It was him. Ethan’s target.

The door swung shut. In the dim light, Ethan saw her eyes staring at him over Hackett’s shoulder. She nodded as Hackett kissed her neck. Her head tilted back. She mouthed
“now,”
then wrapped her arms around the general’s neck.

Smooth and swift, with more confidence than anything else he had done in the last five years, Ethan brought the blade down hard across the back of General Lyle Hackett’s hamstrings.

Hackett screamed, but it was stifled when he fell to the floor.

“Gag him!” Ethan exclaimed. “You were supposed to drug him so he couldn’t make any noise!”

Hackett was dragging his body toward the sliding door that led to the beach. He was howling, a fierce, pain-filled bellow that could summon the devil himself.

Ethan grabbed a gag from his black bag and stepped toward Hackett. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement. And something . . .