dark ops 3 - Renegade (23 page)

Jimmy grinned. “No shit. Don’t say anything though. I’m taking a weekend off for a getaway with her when we wrap up this test. I’m proposing then.”

Werewolf waved dismissively. “Engagement.” He harrumphed. “Doesn’t count without the vows.”

Jimmy narrowed his eyes at Werewolf. “So, fine then, how did you know, Married Guy?”

Gucci and Dr. Drummond both looked at him. Werewolf stayed silent.

“Come on.” Gucci elbowed him. “Don’t hoard all the state secrets for yourself. Share the wealth.”

Werewolf shoved to his feet abruptly, charging through the door, even ignoring the fact that Colonel Scanlon stood in the opening with his arms crossed. How long had he been there?

Scanlon slowly shifted his attention from the mercurial Werewolf back to Mason. The commander’s thumb rubbed over his empty ring finger. “You know when you can finish each other’s sentences without even thinking.”

The widowed commander’s answer sucked the air out of the room, right along with any inclination to razz him about kissing the Italian singer. Mason stared at his chewed boot, an image of Jill cuddling the pooch with obvious maternal love making his neck itch all over again.

He was in deep.

Scanlon cleared his throat. “Smooth, Barrera’s ready for you. He’s investigating a solid new lead on a perp.”

Chairs creaked throughout the room as everyone sat up straighter. “Just tell me what to do, and I’m there,” Mason said.

Scanlon waved Mason out of the room with him and started down the hall lined with aircraft photos, pictures of past commanders, and of the current president. “Barrera still wants to use you and Miss Walczak as bait. But it’s going to take some work persuading your friend.”

Mason struggled to envision Jill getting cold feet. She had every reason to be scared, but she’d been driven to nail the man who’d killed her friend since even before Mason knew about the case.

“Jill will do whatever it takes to bring this guy to justice.” He knew it as well as he knew she collected teacups and was a sucker for dogs. He wondered if that was the first step toward finishing each other’s sentences . . .

“I’m sure she will,” the colonel acknowledged, gesturing toward the meeting room on the right. “But she isn’t happy about the latest direction of the investigation.”

“As long as we’ve got a lead—”

“A lead that points too close to home.” Colonel Scanlon glanced right then continued, “To put it mildly, she’s more than a little upset to hear our new primary suspect is her stepfather.”

Lee Drummond readjusted the alignment of her PDA and notepad on the briefing table, checking her slim silver watch. The aviators all huddled together, reviewing flight data before the brief in their flyers’ club way that seemed to zone out the rest of the world. She smiled when they pretended to be interested in asking her opinion, vaguely registering what they said.

She had bigger issues at hand.

The mission planning brief with Vince Deluca, Jimmy Gage, and their replacement loadmaster should start in another ninety seconds if the colonel would finish his business with Mason Randolph in a timely manner. Werewolf and Gucci would be flying their Predator by remote control in prep, since they would be on hand for the big show in front of the three visiting generals and their own general in only a couple more days. As part of the secret test squadron, Werewolf and Gucci had the clearance to know exactly what they were protecting—which would make their job simpler.

The boss certainly had a lot dividing his attention. Lee twisted her hands together tightly to hide the revealing tremble of excitement. Good. More chances for things to go awry. This morning’s testosterone huddle would prepare for the last test flight set to occur at oh two hundred. Of course it would go flawlessly.
Tonight’s
flight was not the issue. The next one, the one in front of the visiting generals, would make for the perfect time to finish exacting punishment.

What good was her scheme without an audience?

Her body hummed with anticipation from the mental stimulation of bringing all the pieces together. Finally Mason would pay for his arrogance in asking the colonel to replace her with another contractor during earlier work on the jet. She’d tried to explain that the plane wasn’t perfect, that more time was needed for honing. Sergeant Randolph had dared to imply she micromanaged to a degree that hampered production, and her expectations were unrealistic, unachievable given current-day science.

The colonel had actually been planning to follow on the sergeant’s recommendation to remove her. Her fingers twisted tighter in her lap. But life had intervened in the form of budget cuts, and they’d been too short-staffed to let her go. Everyone else seemed to have forgotten the incident from a year ago, or at least they were pretending to play nice, perhaps even laughing behind her back. But she never forgot a single detail, and she most definitely did not believe in playing nice.

At least her life was anything but boring right now, although tampering with the dog’s vitamin drops had been easier than expected. She worked with chemicals, after all. Slipping a little cash to a delivery boy who never saw her face had taken care of the rest.

Plans to put Mason in the police’s crosshairs as a suspect in the killings hadn’t quite gone as planned, but other things were still working to her advantage. Authorities on and off the base were so busy chasing their tails, much of their focus had been siphoned from the upcoming unveiling of the hypersonic jet.

Perhaps they might even catch that annoying Killer Alien. She even had a sneaking suspicion who the psychopath might be, but tipping off the police would then leave everyone free to focus on the flight again.

Security was still tight, but those tiny cracks in resources spread too thin would give her all the opportunity she needed. She loosened her fingers from their death grip and toyed with the ID dangling from a lanyard around her neck. That little square of laminated plastic provided her unsupervised entrée to the most secret of places on base. So she could easily waltz through unobserved and scope out the best way to plant explosives on the flawed plane, set to detonate during the big flight for the visiting generals.

No one would ever know it was her—she was that good, that smart. Smart enough to make it look as if Mason had somehow screwed up the drop again.

The crew might or might not make it out alive. And the blame would fall squarely on Mason Randolph.

Dead or alive.

Desert sun streaming unrelentingly through the windshield on Mason’s truck, Jill refused to believe her stepfather could be a psychopathic serial killer. She’d first gone into law enforcement to vindicate Phil after the way he’d been ruined by gossip that he was responsible for a prostitute’s murder—gossip that all later proved to be unfounded. There was no way the man she’d always had so much faith in could have deceived her at such a deep level.

She’d wrapped her brain around plenty of implausible scenarios during her career, but this, she could not accept. All the more reason for her to follow Barrera’s instructions about interrogating Phil undercover with a wire. At least then she would have a chance at proving Phil’s innocence.

Mason wasn’t as supportive of her unconditional faith. She bit her lip to keep from pleading Phil’s case the deeper they drove into the desert. There was no budging him. Her tender lover was nowhere in sight. He’d transformed into her protector. She respected that on a professional level.

But they’d moved way into the personal when they’d climbed into bed together, and for the first time, she was torn.

Mason sat behind the wheel of his truck, driving down the narrow, mile-long driveway to Phil’s, listening devices on Mason’s belt and in her bra. Barrera and his people were in place behind and ready to act if needed. So she certainly couldn’t talk about anything so private with him now, not with Barrera’s people listening in.

If only Mason would give her some kind of sign—a smile, a simple touch while no one was looking. She wanted to think he was only edgy because his crew was mission planning without him—a top secret fact she’d stumbled on during the transfer from Barrera’s questioning.

Instead, he kept his eyes trained on the dusty desert road, the truck plowing through tumbleweed as they drove deeper into the mountain valley. “You’ve heard the old saying about a doctor not treating his own family. You can’t be objective when it comes to your stepfather. You need to be realistic about that. We both have to keep our objectivity here.” His piercing green eyes drilled through her. “No emotions.”

She heard him. She understood. But something had shaken loose inside her when they’d made love, and she resented that he could put it all aside to regain control so easily. For that matter, the warning not to have emotions on today of all days felt like a dig after what they’d shared last night.

“You don’t know Uncle Phil. I do.”

“Can you at least accept the possibility, if not for your own safety, then for the safety of all the other women at risk from this serial killer?”

His words sounded reasonable enough, but it was impossible to turn her back on the man who’d been her only real consistent support over the years, her only real parent figure. She settled for a vague, “I will be careful.”

His fists tightened around the wheel. “You’re not answering my question.”

“Damn it, Mason,” she finally snapped, “of course I’m going to do my best to make sure no one else dies. Nothing comes before that.”

She’d been on the police side so often, and even with Lara’s murder, she’d been able to channel her focus. Now for the first time, she understood the panic that drove victims. When the water had burned through the carpet, they’d called Barrera immediately. She’d been stunned to hear that Barrera suspected her stepfather because of the tainted vitamins and a few thready connections to the victims.

Those old, unsubstantiated accusations in the unsolved murder of a prostitute, accusations that had ended his career early, had come back to haunt him. Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?

For the safety of the other dogs—on the off chance Phil wasn’t to blame—Barrera had agreed to let her call and “warn” him about the vitamins. She had to lie and say Boo had taken ill. No longer would she be able to use the pet for protection, because if Phil was the killer, the dog would be useless to her. He would obey Phil’s commands over hers.

She’d hated lying to him about the dog most of all. Phil had sounded devastated hearing Boo was ill. He loved his animals. Jill would bet her life on that.

Barrera had made sure she heard that those could very well be the stakes.

The truck bounced closer to the double-wide trailer with no neighbors other than the dogs and a big fat Joshua tree. Barren mountain ranges surrounded the acres of land, providing a world-of-its-own feeling. A tire swing he’d hung on a gnarled tree branch for her many moons ago twisted in the harsh desert winter. Rows of kennels stretched in back with dog runs and a circular fenced playground that resembled doggie heaven with toys, climbing rocks, shelters, and a constant flowing spigot for clean water.

This day had turned everything upside down.

And the man beside her had bolted on her emotionally, leaving her high and dry when she’d never felt so utterly adrift. She searched for the steely will and cool reserve that had gotten her through so much more than the years of hard physical training to be the best at her job. Today, she was coming up damn empty.

“Mason,” Jill whispered. “You don’t have to scare me away from you. You can just tell me how you feel.”

He put the truck in park and turned to face her, arm draped over the steering wheel. “This is not the time or place to talk about . . . us. We have business to take care of.”

“Yes,” she said, stung by his matter-of-fact attitude. “Of course we do.”

He frowned, leaning on the steering wheel. “Does your uncle have another vehicle?”

“He has a truck.” Jill looked around the yard and found a white industrial van parked back near the kennels. “That’s not his. Maybe someone is here looking at a dog?”

Uncle Phil ambled from around the corner of the dog shelter, a tray of medicine vials in his arms. Jill shuddered as she stepped out of the Chevy, her ankle boots puffing dirt.

Phil hefted the crate onto the trailer hooked to his 4x4, then anchored his panama hat against a stiff, cold wind. “Hello, you two. Thanks for that heads-up call about the tainted batch of vitamins. Thank God, I hadn’t given this new batch to any of my other animals yet.”

Mason shook Phil’s hand in greeting with such ease it chilled her inside how easily he could guard his real intent. She hugged Phil quickly, not so sure of her own acting skills.

Mason placed his hand on top of the sealed crates. “So you haven’t dumped any of them out?”