If the sergeant ever bothered to return.
She held out a hand. Garrison's paw returned instantly, engulfing it. "Second Lieutenant Rachel Pace, US Army—Public Affairs. And, yes, I'm so green I checked into my first command three days ago." Because according to Ava Jelling's gossip, that was how the predatory SF sergeant liked them.
But while this SF soldier's whistle was low and teasing, it carried a surprising tinge of respect. "Three days? That is green." The captain's reluctance at losing her hand might have been charming, had he not motioned for the bartender to refill her drink—without even asking her. "Public Affairs. You're reporting to Terry, then?"
"Yes." As expected, he'd been more than willing to help out. She was now wondering if abusing their friendship for a case on Hohenfels was wise.
Terry. Not Terrance or Captain Vaughn, as most of the Army referred to the man.
She made a mental note to press Terry for information regarding his relationship with Garrison as the bartender stepped up to retrieve her nearly empty glass. He slotted a fresh one in its place and left.
Regan tipped her head toward the empty spot of polished walnut in front of the captain. "You're not drinking."
"Neither are you."
"It's club soda."
"I know."
He'd been studying her, yes. But that closely? She carefully gauged his former vantage point in the bar's mirror. Without the complementary reflection from the glass that the clock provided from this end, he couldn't have had a clear view.
So, how—
His smile dipped back in, underscoring a healthy hint of that dimpled fold. "I can smell the CO2."
Ah.
The fold deepened as he leaned closer, invading her personal space. "So, you came to a bar for a…refreshing round of club soda?"
She shook her head. "I was supposed to be meeting a friend." A so-called friend she'd coldly murder in her sleep—or, at the very least, torture for a solid week—for not getting her ass here in time to deflect this guy.
The captain hadn't been kidding; he was persistent. Infuriatingly so.
Worse, he'd managed to shift closer. That enormous chest was now obscuring her view of the entire bar. A full, three thousand-strong brigade of NCIS agents could be marking time behind the man and she'd never know.
Regan took the ready excuse to lean precariously to her left, ostensibly to check the door for her MIA friend—as she scanned the hall leading to the latrines.
Still no LaCroix.
"And this friend…she still hasn't shown?"
Regan shook her head as she straightened. "No, she hasn't—yet."
"Excellent." He eased off, returning command of her personal space to her.
Definitely an alpha dog. One so sure of himself, he didn't feel the need to push it, or her, unless actively thwarted. So how the hell did she get rid of him? Because like a rottweiler with a meaty bone, this guy had no intention of letting go.
And then she saw it—him.
LaCroix. The sergeant had finally finished whatever he'd really been doing in the latrine, but the fury she'd noted at that incoming text hadn't cooled. If anything, it appeared to have been nurtured into an almost palpable rage.
Garrison had noted it too. "Excuse me. I need a minute."
"Of course." Take a thousand.
Intent on providing him the opportunity, Regan stood as well, adjusting her pink sweater over her faded jeans as she waited for the captain to return to his barhopping buddy. Once Garrison was seated—and speaking—she shouldered her leather bag and headed for the doorway from which LaCroix had returned.
Ears straining for the slightest clue, she caught Garrison's muttered, "Damn it. I said I'd deal with it," as she passed their table.
Shit. Perhaps she'd attracted the right man after all.
Unwilling to risk blowing that attraction, Regan kept walking, turning down into the narrow hall, passing the men's latrine to reach the women's. It was possible she'd missed Mira's arrival, especially if her friend had entered the bar while that massive torso had been blocking her view of the door.
The main area was empty.
A quick dip and scan beneath all three wooden doors at the far end confirmed the stalls were vacant too. Where the hell was she?
Regan unzipped her bag, her fingers wedging up against her 9mm Sig Sauer's hidden compartment as she retrieved the phone she'd silenced before entering the bar.
No missed calls, no texts. Not that Mira would've risked either without a true emergency brewing. Her friend was safe.
Regan returned the phone to her bag as she headed for the sink. Given the Old-World Bavarian charm of the bar beyond, the angular spout was jarringly modern. The reflection in the mirror above, more so. Neither the green eyes staring back at her nor the blond, tousled "beach" waves tumbling down her back were hers. The temporary color and curl job was due to the skill of the stylist she'd visited the previous afternoon. The background file Agent Jelling had compiled suggested LaCroix's preference for both.
The tinted contacts had been her call. They helped her separate herself from the woman in the mirror, enhancing her ability to become Rachel Pace or…whoever.
They usually did.
They should. She'd been slipping in and out of the real Regan Chase since she was six years old. These past few years, she'd simply figured out how to draw on the talent for Uncle Sam's benefit. Every time she did—and succeeded in taking down a dirty soldier or a flat-out terrorist in the process—it helped to quiet the doubts within.
But would it ever be enough?
Regan braced herself as the bathroom door swung open—Garrison had been that determined—only to relax as she caught the smoother, born-blond strands of her friend. She rounded on her as the door closed. "Where the hell have you been?"
Mira stiffened, panic edging into eyes as blue as her own had been that morning. "What happened? Are you okay?"
Regan waved off her concern, embarrassed at the desperation she'd heard—in her own voice. "Sorry. It's been a long day." A longer evening. One that, in light of what she'd heard on the way in here, was about to get longer.
Mira blew out her breath. "No worries. I'd planned on getting here before you, but I got stopped on my way out of your office. I caught another case. Well, mission. Get this, since I'm still in Germany, and your boss has refused to let me do more than hold your purse, NCIS decided to loan me out. A security gig for some Turkish general. No details yet, so I don't know how much juggling will be involved."
Crap. She had details. Several big ones. Any of which could be significant. And now she'd lost her dedicated backup. "Great."
Mira's brow rose. "You said you were good to go."
"I am." Mostly. "It's nothing Jelly and I can't handle. Though I'm beginning to doubt Ava's gossip regarding LaCroix. He's just not biting—but his friend is."
"The gorilla at the table?"
"That's the one." Like her, Mira wasn't fond of muscle-bound men, and for the same reason. "He's—wait—they're both still out there, aren't they?"
Had she made a mistake in coming in here? Had she caused them to lose track of LaCroix?
Her panic eased as Mira nodded. "Yeah, they're there. Huddled up and hashing through something intensely by the looks of it. I couldn't make out what they were saying as I passed. Given their huddle and no sign of you, I was worried you'd slipped in here to send an SOS."
"No, I was just creating space. Trying to shake the big one. Name's Garrison. He's a captain. Also SF. I think I need to switch my aimpoint." Think, hell. She knew. She just hadn't wanted to accept defeat so easily. Especially since they could ill afford it.
Still, the strategy shift might not be a bad thing. Agent Jelling had focused on Garrison and LaCroix's records while she'd scripted and arranged the details of her cover. Everything in Jelly's brief had pointed to Garrison being in the clear.
But what if they'd missed something? Something that would explain that comment.
"As I said, LaCroix is not interested. Garrison is. Also, on my way in here, I heard Garrison say, 'Damn it. I said I'd deal with it.'"
"You think they're both in on it?"
"Maybe." Regan channeled her frustration into a sigh. "I only had time for a cursory look at Garrison's file. Though Jelly cleared him, I figured I'd need the basics if I ran into him, since they live in the same complex. His file's squeaky clean. Though it did appear to be loaded down with a number of the Army's heaviest medals." Which meant the captain had also endured the barrage of back-to-back combat tours and drumming stress that usually went with earning those medals.
And there was that look in his eyes when they'd begun talking. It still gave her pause. Garrison could be burned out or just having one hell of a shitty week.
Like her.
And hers hadn't even gotten started yet. Not the worst of it.
Professionally or personally.
Regan pushed out another sigh. It didn't help any more than the previous one. "I don't have a decent enough bead on Garrison to gauge him."
Doubt pinched her friend's brows. "Platt didn't give me the impression there was a third asshole on this. Nor were there any calls to Garrison or any other SF colleagues."
True. But, "Platt may not have known." Nor did they. Not really. That was what was so maddening about this. Especially on her end. Unlike Mira, she hadn't even been able to question Scott Platt, much less get a bead on him.
As for LaCroix, a Navy SEAL Mira knew—who also knew LaCroix—had come through with a bit more information the night before. According to the SEAL, LaCroix's attitude had been on a downward spiral for the past year. The SEAL hadn't known why.
Would Garrison?
And did the captain share LaCroix's deteriorating attitude?
They needed to find out, and soon. As much as she hated to admit it, Brooks was right. That call their stateside sailor had overheard and those phone records were still circumstantial at best. The SEAL's opinion, hearsay. They needed hard evidence linking LaCroix to terrorism. It was up to her to get that evidence. And as things stood tonight, there was only one clear path to obtaining it.
Garrison.
"Rae?"
She shook her head. "Just thinking." Planning. Because the decision had already been made. Since the moment she'd heard that comment as she passed Garrison's and LaCroix's table. "I'm switching my focus."
"The gorilla?"
"Yeah. Do you have time to go to my office? Pull up everything we have on him. Go over it again and see if you can find a connection to Platt." LaCroix had one. Lack of calls or not, if Garrison was involved in whatever was going down, there was a chance he was connected to Platt too. She'd need to know what that connection was if she hoped to abuse it.
"Consider it done. And you?"
"I'm still leaving here with someone tonight." Just not the one she'd assumed. No matter. Like any soldier, she accepted her targets of opportunity when and where she found them. And then locked and loaded.
"Be careful. The big guys often come with bigger egos. And they do so like to have them stroked."
That was what she was counting on. Unfortunately for the tenacious captain, his swollen ego was all she planned stroking.
Regan nodded and left the latrine. Ten steps down the hall and a short turn into the still-crowded Bavarian bar, she knew she'd made the right call. LaCroix might've been seated when Mira arrived, but he was gone now. Garrison, however, was waiting. Even better, he too had vacated his table—to station himself beside the main door, every muscle in that mountainous body letting her know he had no intention of missing her departure.
He caught sight of her and headed over. "You still waiting for your friend?"
Regan shook her head. "Just got a text. Something came up on her end, so we've rescheduled. It's getting late anyway. I need to call a cab."
"You're staying on post? At the Sunrise Lodge?"
She nodded. "I haven't decided if I want live in town yet."
"You should. You'll see more of the locals and get a better grasp of the language. But skip the cab. And don't worry about your tab; I settled it. I'm parked outside. I'll give you a lift." He turned to push the bar door open before she could argue.
"You don't mind?"
The proprietary hand already grazing the small of her back to gently nudge her along assured otherwise. "Not at all."
The hand shifted as they cleared the bar, securely engulfing hers as he led her across the modest, but well-lit lot as though she was a leashed puppy. Regan bit back her irritation as he brought them to a halt beside the passenger door of a silver Wrangler.
She glanced about. "What about your friend? I don't see him." Damn it, she couldn't even name LaCroix. Not until Garrison did.
"He's already gone."
"I hope everything's okay."
Garrison's nod was clipped, determined. "It will be."
"You sure you wouldn't rather go after him?"
That dark gray stare sharpened—on her.
Crap. Too much, too soon. "He seemed upset."
The gray softened. As did his nod. "Sergeant LaCroix got some bad news. He'll work it out."
"Sergeant? He's Special Forces, too?"
Another nod, and decidedly back to clipped. The stare had sharpened again, too. Narrowed. "If you prefer the man over me, say so. I'll back off. But you should know, Evan's not in a good place. He hasn't been for a while. I wouldn't want you to get hurt."
She waited for the captain to offer more, but he didn't.
That trio of scars at the left edge of his jaw were spinning a story all their own, though. And it was fascinating. From this angle and directly under the lot's relentless fluorescent light, she realized the scars were longer than she'd thought—roughly two inches each. They cut down into his neck where the ends of two of them furrowed in around his carotid, as though embracing it. And in the middle? A lovely, tattling pulse point.
One that had begun to flag.
The captain had a tell. Quietly or not, it was ratting him out. She may have only just met the man, but he was invested in her answer. Intimately.
Regan deliberately softened her gaze. "If I was interested in your friend, I wouldn't be standing here with you." She watched as relief entered the storm, calming it—and that pulse—before she pushed into the rest. "But I confess, I am worried about him. Your sergeant wasn't just upset tonight. He was livid. I caught his reaction before he left for the bathroom; the entire bar did. He was still furious when he returned. Is he…okay?"
To her surprise, Garrison shook his head. "Not really. Evan's hurting. He has been for a while. He was involved with someone. It was pretty serious."
Something in his tone had her asking, "Was? As in…she's dead?" If so, that was something Jelly and even Mira's SEAL hadn't been able to glean.
Yet another of the captain's stunted nods followed. But this one was softer, infused with a genuine compassion that nearly slipped past her defenses.
Rachel's—and Regan's.
Surprised, she shored up the latter's and pressed on. She had a terrorist to thwart. "I'm so sorry. What happened?"
"She was a nurse. Working with an NGO in Syria—in the north. She was killed by an artillery round last year, shortly after we were ordered to pull out so the Turks could do their thing. Evan's mindset's been on a bit of downward spiral since, and lately it's been getting worse. Just do me a favor and stay away from the guy, okay? At least for now."
Turks? Something began to niggle. Coincidence…or a connection?
Maybe this wasn't about Oktoberfest after all.
"Rachel?"
She felt the calloused pads of the captain's fingers on her cheek. The contact pulled her from her thoughts a split second before she instinctively jerked herself from him. That damned hand. The one that, once again, had touched her without her permission.
"You okay?"
She dragged a distracted frown into place. "Sorry. It's just…that's awful." And it was. But
that didn't excuse the taking of more lives. Because her gut was now telling her that was exactly what LaCroix was plotting. Revenge. And if her other suspicion was correct, she might've figured out how—and it did not center on Oktoberfest. But if she was right, the fallout could be just as deadly.
"Yeah, it sucks." The remote clicked as Garrison unlocked his Wrangler.
She drew on her patience as he opened the passenger door for her, touching her yet again as he physically guided her into the seat. When one of those obscenely muscular arms reached across her torso to latch her belt for her, she nearly lost it.
Good Lord, was she two?
He hooked that same, scarred forearm along the roof of the Wrangler, catching her gaze, and pointedly holding it, as he straightened. "So—you'll stay away from the guy?"
"That should be easy enough."
He shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not. Evan's living with me at the moment. You might run into him when you come to dinner tomorrow. I make a decent stir-fry."
Oh, the man could flash that dimple all he wanted, but it would not take the sting from his innate arrogance. What had happened to patience?
"I did mention I was motivated, right?"
Yeah, well, so was she. Because she'd definitely attracted the right man's attention. He and LaCroix didn't just reside in the same complex; they inhabited the same apartment. A geographical distinction which could prove critical given what she'd just learned about the sergeant. If LaCroix was in mourning, her chances of attracting the man's attention had been slim to none from the start.
Regan tamped down on her adrenaline and nodded calmly. "Okay."
The captain's brow arched. "Okay to which? Staying out of Evan's way?" The brow settled into place as his smile—and that ego—took over. "Or dinner?"
"Both."
"Outstanding." He finally backed out of her personal space and closed the SUV's door before heading around to the driver's side to climb in and start the engine.
She was working through possible conversational threads for the coming drive when his phone pinged.
"Excuse me." He leaned forward to retrieve his phone from his back pocket, frowning as he focused on the screen.
Aimpoint Page 3