dark ops 3 - Renegade (10 page)

“I’ll try.” She clicked off her computer and snagged the keys from his fingers. The newer trucks definitely had better pickup than the older Jeeps with a couple hundred thousand miles on them.

“This Mason Randolph guy, do you think he could be our killer?”

“He says he wasn’t even in the country when victims number three and four died, and of course he was with me in quarantine during the fifth crime.”

“Okay, sounds like he’s in the clear. All the same, go ahead and document his alibi in case this fifth case turns out to be a copycat.” Thomas hesitated in the doorway. “I just hate to think about you taking down this sick bastard all by yourself.”

She tamped down resentment over the implication that she was more vulnerable as a woman. Mason hadn’t doubted her strength for a second—a surprise strength she’d found when she’d started jogging alongside Uncle Phil her senior year in high school. “I’ll be careful.”

“I’m just glad you’re all right.”

“Thanks, boss. Me, too.”

There had been a time she called him by his first name, back when they’d both worked for the local sheriff’s department. She’d even considered dating him. Ten years wasn’t that much of an age difference, after all. But then he’d transferred to this job and been promoted outside her realm.

He stayed planted in her path, crowding her space. “Next time, call it in before charging off on your own. And before you get your hackles up, this has nothing to do with your being a female.” He leaned closer. “I don’t like the idea of any of my people out there without backup.”

She struggled not to back away defensively. That would only draw attention to an awkwardness she hoped was only her imagination. “Will do, boss.”

The sound of tires crunching gravel in the parking lot snapped his attention. Thomas looked over his shoulder, giving her the chance to step past.

He backed up just as the front door opened in the reception area, security buzzer sounding to announce the new arrival. Mason Randolph walked into the lobby, skimmed his fingers over the empty secretary’s desk, and stopped to wait by a framed grid map.

Her stomach knotted. What the hell was he doing here?

“Mason?” she called from behind him. “Is there news on the crash at the hospital?”

“Hello, Jill.” He swept off his blue air force hat. “I’m afraid not.” He turned to Thomas. “I’m Sergeant Mason Randolph, the guy responsible for keeping her in quarantine last night.”

“Thomas Gallardo,” he thrust out his hand. “Jill Walczak’s boss.”

Thomas and Mason shook hands, Thomas assessing and Mason seeming as laid back as ever. Did the guy get worked up over anything? If he started playing with the equipment here—a vest, ammo belt, and radio hanging on the wall—Thomas would blow a gasket.

A memory flashed of Mason’s raw pain and his hoarse shout when he’d thought his crew died in the desert.

Thomas rocked back on his heels. “What was it you were doing out there in the first place?”

“Like I told your camo cop here, I was flying a regular old cargo drop, and things went to hell. I got caught in some crosswinds and landed where I shouldn’t have.”

“That’s what she said.”

Did Thomas question if she’d told him everything? Did he suspect her?

“Your people sure are Johnny-on-the-spot. Walczak here showed up as I was still kicking free of my parachute.”

“Lucky for you, given what happened with that explosion. Blister agent, right? Sure wish we could get more details from your base.”

“Sorry to have tied her up with a hospital stay.” Mason neatly dodged answering the question.

“I’m just glad we have her back safe and sound.”

Thomas’s cell phone rang. He glanced down at the number and winced. “I need to take this. Nice to meet you, Randolph.”

Once Thomas retreated into his office full of coyote skulls and cacti, Mason turned toward Jill. “It’s almost suppertime. How about we get something to eat?”

A dinner date? “You’re kidding, right?”

“I’m hungry. It’s the end of the workday, so you must be hungry, too. We both almost got hit by a truck this morning. Seems to me like you would want to know how that happened as much as I do.”

He had insider info? That was a mighty big bone to waggle in front of her, and she could see from his eyes that he knew how much he tempted her, damn it.

Still, she could hold her cool. “You’re not asking me out on a date?”

He shifted closer, his green eyes narrowing. “Do you want me to?”

She sagged back against the secretary’s desk. “Now I know you’re kidding.”

He scooped up a photo cube from the desk and flipped it in his hand. “I’ve had a shit week, and I really need to turn it around.”

“I’m working tonight.” She held up the keys.

“Tomorrow then?”

She wondered what he really wanted. Without question, he had some hidden agenda. Talking to him would make sense, but on her terms. “If you don’t mind being a third wheel, you can join me and Phil for dinner out tomorrow night.”

“A threesome, huh?” He grinned wickedly, setting the cube back on the desk, his arm an inch away from her hip.

“I was just getting to the point where I could tolerate you.” She flicked a hard glance at his arm then looked back in his eyes again. “Don’t blow it.”

He smoothed his handsome face into somber contrition, a look totally negated by that stubborn cowlick ramping his military short hair up in the front.

“Thank you kindly for the invitation to join the two of you.”

Maybe Phil could tap into his old camo cop skills and help her get a read off Mason—while helping her keep her distance. “Yes, I’m supposed to meet him after he finishes up his shift.” She jotted down Uncle Phil’s new work address. “Meet us here.”

“Will do.”

She searched his face for what he really wanted and found . . . nothing. The man shielded his emotions well.

What else did he have hidden inside his mind that he worked so hard to let no one see? He might have side-stepped all suspicion as the serial killer, but Mason had secrets she hadn’t even begun to tap. And if she wanted any chance at figuring out what was going on at night in Area 51 while the rest of the world slept, she could do worse than aligning herself with an air force sergeant who didn’t miss a trick.

“Trick or treat,” Mason shouted along with his crewdog pals as they stood on the doorstep of Chuck Tanaka’s apartment. This homecoming had been a long time coming and deserved celebrating.

Chuck leaned on one crutch, standing in the entranceway to his new first-floor place, labeled moving boxes lined neatly along the wall. “Trick or treat? It’s January, you morons.”

Mason hitched the two bags of groceries more securely in his arms as he angled sideways past Chuck, careful not to bump the cast on his pal’s leg. “January, huh? Guess we’ll have to unload all this junk here then.”

Gucci and Werewolf trailed behind holding sacks of cupboard staples and premade meals. Vapor and Jimmy brought up the rear with their girlfriends in tow, everyone draping their jackets one at a time along the arm of the brown leather sofa. Mason had planned to bring Jill along, an idea that hadn’t panned out, but at least she’d agreed to dinner tomorrow. He would have liked to see how she interacted with his crew. That could have given him some additional insights for the colonel—

Ah, damn.

Who was he kidding? The woman intrigued him, and he wanted to see her again. He never had been particularly smart when it came to females. Something he would be wise to remember the next time he was on the receiving end of one of Jill’s carefully rationed smiles.

Chuck backed out of the way, his crutch and one good foot in a gym shoe thud-thumping an uneven gait. “Leave it to Vapor to make sure no one goes hungry.”

Vapor unloaded his bag on the counter—mustard, hot sauce, buffalo wings, pretzels, and doughnuts. “Don’t thank me.” He clapped Mason on the shoulder. “This was our buddy Smooth’s idea. His contributions are those frozen things he stored in Tupperware.”

Chuck’s eyes narrowed, lifting a container labeled baked ziti. “Are you trying to poison me?”

Mason opened the freezer and wrenched away the best freaking pasta this guy had never tried. “I like to cook. So sue me.”

He hadn’t regretted turning his back on his parents’ millions, but he sure as hell missed the family chef. With limited funds, Mason had figured out how to make his own favorites from scratch. He’d even handmade the pasta while trying like hell to purge a certain Gingersnap from his mind.

A noise sounded from deeper in the apartment.

“Oops.” Vapor held up his hands, a pilfered doughnut in one large fist. “Uh, you’ve already got company. We’ll scram.”

Chuck leaned against the kitchen bar stacked with paper plates and bottles of Gatorade. “No need. That’s my physical therapist, checking the workout gear in the spare room.”

Footsteps sounded from the hall a second before a lanky guy in a navy blue windsuit came into sight. Chuck waved him over. “This is my PT guy, Garrett Ferguson, does contract work for the base hospital. He’s been checking out all the new toys in this specially equipped apartment to make sure they work right.” He gestured behind him further. “And you already know Annette.”

A slim woman in a baggy dress entered the living area, long dark hair shielding her face. She swept back her brown mane, and Mason recognized her.

Mason tried to place a name with the face . . . and then it came to him. “Annette Santos, right? You used to work contract with us.”

“Now I have a real life working normal hours, thank you very much. I was even able to get the afternoon off to help Chuck come home.” A denim hobo bag swung from her arm, the contents spilling over the top. Heavy dark eyebrows and her light accent were attractive enough, but they didn’t hold the same firepower for him as Jill’s clipped way of speaking.

Thank God Annette had been here for Chuck. Now that Mason thought about it, Chuck had never mentioned any family back in Hawaii. For them, the squadron filled that void. Or it did for Mason anyway. Since he’d left home at eighteen, the once-a-year phone call from his folks at Christmas—while unfailingly polite—was hardly the stuff of Hallmark cards.

Jimmy’s girlfriend, a local orchestra conductor, plumped a pillow on the sofa. “Nice digs.”

Annette elbowed Chuck lightly in the side. “He needs a decorator.”

Vince dropped onto the couch, the big lug sinking in deep as he propped his feet up in front of the wide screen television. “Looks to me like he’s got all the important stuff. We’ll have to hang out here on game days.”

Mason took in the generic apartment floor plan, two bedrooms, the door to the spare now open and showing pristine new workout equipment.

Chuck leaned back against the wall, standing on one foot. “The building has an indoor pool and a gym, but this here doesn’t close up at night.”

The physical therapist—Ferguson—passed him another crutch. “Don’t overdo. Stick to the pace.”

“That’s rich, coming from you, you sadist.” Chuck took the second crutch and propped it against a chair.

Annette stopped beside him, tucking her shoulder under his arm in a way that could be intimate or could be simply supporting. “Push yourself too far, and you’ll set back all your hard work.” She arched up to kiss his cheek, still slightly hollow and sallow beneath his darker skin. “I have to go. I’ll call later.”

Chuck squeezed her against his side in a one-armed hug, his dark eyes shifting to her. “Thanks again, beautiful. You’re the best.”

“Enjoy your guests. No need to see me out.” She waved over her shoulder. “Nice to see everyone.”

The front door closed quietly behind her.

All eyes shifted toward Chuck, but no one asked the burning question about the woman who’d just left.

Mason didn’t see the need for silence. “I didn’t realize you and Annette were an item.”

Vince stretched his arms along the back of the sofa. “Rumors have been flying all around the squadron that you’re seeing the Italian singer.”

“You dog!” Werewolf slugged his arm. “You’re using this R & R to your advantage.”

“Yeah, that’s me, a freewheeling bachelor.” Chuck plowed his hand through his jet black spiked hair.

“So which is it? Friend or girlfriend?” Werewolf leaned toward the physical therapist. “You’ve seen more of him than we have lately. Any good gossip to share?”

Ferguson shook his head. “Patient-therapist confidentiality.”

Laughter rumbled through the room at his none-too-subtle dodge.

Chuck collected the second crutch, some of the fight slipping from his face. “Annette came by the hospital. She was attacked a few months back and needed someone to talk to.”

Attacked? Holy shit. Mason leaned forward. “What happened?”

Chuck’s eyes narrowed. “Someone mugged her on her way into her apartment, roughed her up badly enough she spent a night in the hospital. She wasn’t raped, thank God, but the incident, the feeling of being so out of control, screwed with her mind all the same.” His face went tight and gaunt. “She needed to speak with someone who could relate.”

Chuck would definitely fit the bill. He’d taken a helluva pounding during his captivity. He bore outward marks even now with his limp and a scar that slid up into his buzzed short hairline.

Straightening, Chuck plastered his lighthearted look in place again. “So do you want to crank up the wide-screen television and help me eat some of this food?”

No one questioned the mask. Mason understood as he knew the rest of them would, too. “Sure, I’ll fire up the grill.”

“I don’t have a grill.”

Mason clapped him on the shoulder. “You will as soon as we unload it from the back of my truck. Welcome home, brother.”

This was his family. It was enough. It had to be.