It was too late. The damage had been done.
John stood.
She didn't even rate a parting glance as he executed a stiff turn and strode to the door. John stopped beside her fellow agent, but didn't deign to look at Jelly either. "Am I finished?”
The scarlet tide bled all the way down to bloodless white as Jelly swallowed audibly—and risked a glance at her.
She nodded.
Another swallow as he shifted his attention back to John. "Yes, sir. We'll have your statement transcribed. We'll call when it's ready to be signed."
"Excellent. See that you do." The implication was as clear as it was humiliating. Worse, the dam that John had carefully wedged up against his anger since he'd discovered her true identity was about to blow.
John knew it too, because he didn't say another word. He left.
Regan stood and crossed the room.
"Fuck, Prez. I'm sorry—"
Unlike John, she did spare Jelly a glance as she paused at his side. "Not your fault." This was all on her, and she knew it. "Turn off the recorder and watch those two evidence bags for me, will you? I'll be back to log it all in."
"Sure thing."
She followed John out the door. She had to double-time down the hall and out of the building to catch up with him in the darkened parking lot. He was closing in on the cluster of sand-colored trucks and Humvees. His silver Wrangler appeared to be tucked in the middle. So much for situational awareness. If she hadn't been so unsettled by that showdown with LaCroix when she'd arrived back here, she might've seen the Wrangler then and realized John was waiting inside.
Though, really, would that have changed any of this?
Still, she had to try.
"Wait! Please, John, let me—" She broke off as he whirled about to confront her beside the bumper of the nearest Humvee.
"Explain? Oh, feel free, Chief. What exactly was going through your head when you came over to console me so very sweetly tonight?"
Shit. He really had survived the day from hell, hadn't he?
The vestiges were all right there in his face, threatening to break free. The stress of walking that classified line between an eager Ertonç and a recalcitrant Saniye, as the Pentagon—and quite possibly the White House—breathed down his neck with expectant breath. Dealing with LaCroix and their disintegrating friendship as he'd tried to support the man amid the sergeant's grief and burgeoning anger. His guilt over failing to help LaCroix, let alone discern what the sergeant was plotting in time to talk him down, much less thwart him from nearly killing Olan, Saniye and those kids. The risk to NATO. Not to mention losing yet another fellow soldier and good friend to that Iraqi bombing in the middle of it all.
And now her.
She reached out to touch his arm. It was a mistake.
The rage was all but radiating off him. He wasn't even trying to absorb it anymore as he jerked back. Glared down at her. "Well?"
"I wanted to tell you. I was going to."
"Really? And was that confession scheduled for before or after that first time, up against the wall in my living room? Or how about the second, in my bed? Or the third? Or how about while you were waiting for me to fall asleep so you could crawl out of my arms and sneak into my kitchen to rifle though my garbage? Or maybe you just planned on waiting until the bitter end, gathering it all up and hoarding the juicy details of my goddamned stupidity before confessing all when you took the stand at Evan's court-martial?"
"That's not—"
He shook his head, cutting her off again. "The funny thing is, I knew something was wrong when I woke. Call me crazy, but I could feel it. Still, part of me hoped you got called out on a story and just…didn't have time to let me know. Not even with a pithy text. The other part of me—and you're going to love this—thought, hey, she's young. Tonight was intense. She just needs time to process. Hell, when I found Saniye's address in that laptop, I was relieved you'd left. I didn't want Evan anywhere near you 'til I'd figured things out, especially since our budding relationship just seemed to piss him off. What a goddamned crock. There is no relationship. There never was. Not for you. It was all lies—all of it."
"It wasn't. John, I swear—"
The side of his fist slammed into the back of the Humvee, causing two-and-a-half tons of Army steel to rattle, along with her skull and her teeth. Her shock must've shown because he jerked his hand down, dragging the night air in deep as he worked to get that crackling temper back under control.
He finally purged his breath and nodded. "Fine. You want to explain, go ahead. Tell me, which one of your many heartfelt confessions was actually true? And do be honest, honey, because I'd really like to know. Your mom's death? Your bastard of a grandfather? The sob story about the foster homes?" He stepped closer, leaned down. "Was your father even a cop? Was he shot in the line of duty? Or was it all just some carefully crafted fairytale designed to reel me in once you got a good look at all the childhood shit in my BI?"
She opened her mouth, then closed it. As much as she wanted to explain, she couldn't. Not like this. Not here, in the middle of the parking lot.
Disgust darkened John's scowl as he straightened. "Yeah, I thought so. I gotta hand it to you. Your partner was right. You are outstanding at what you do. Mata Hari in the flesh. And even better in bed. And the lies? You're right up there with my old man. Hell, you surpassed him—and you punch a lot lower and a hell of a lot harder. So congratulations, Chief. First place to you. I hope the win was worth it."
It wasn't. Because he was wrong. She hadn't won.
She'd lost everything.
She'd lost him.
Who was she kidding? John had never been hers. Not really. Nor did he want to be. Because he'd already turned and walked away. Again. As much as she hated herself for it, she stood there and waited as John got into his Wrangler, started the engine, and pulled out of the lot. She needn't have bothered.
He never looked back.
9
The phone rang as Regan added the final touch to her latest cover identity. A swift glance at the caller ID had her truly smiling for the first time in weeks. She hadn't spoken to Mira in almost a month. Not since the NCIS agent had returned to the States to resume plowing through her own, ever-increasing caseload.
Regan closed the file on her laptop and swapped it for the phone on her coffee table. There'd be time enough to absorb the finer details of Corporal ReAnne Shelby in the morning. "Hey, stranger. What's up?"
Mira's sigh filled the line. "I know, I know. I've been MIA again. I've been meaning to call. I've just had too much filth to wade through for a case."
"You want to talk about it?"
"I can't. Not yet, anyway. But thanks." She could hear Mira's TV on in the background. The talking heads were going at it over something, but she couldn't make out what the argument was about. "So, how have you been? Have you heard anything from King Kong?"
"Nope." And it stung. Still.
Since it had been a solid month since John had walked out on her in that parking lot, she wasn't likely to hear from him either.
And there was the rest.
"Jelly saw him when he came in to sign his statement. John left a couple weeks later." They wouldn't even have to track him down for the court-martial.
There wasn't going to be one.
Sergeant LaCroix had pled guilty to a host of charges and had been busted down to Private LaCroix. He'd even admitted that he and Scott Platt had reconnected after LaCroix had referred Carys Kaide to the disgraced Pentagon employee eighteen months earlier when Carys and her Syrian NGO had come up short on critical medical supplies. Platt had been happy to provide "diverted" US military stock...at a price. Within the week, LaCroix—also stripped of his Special Forces tab and Army medals—would be enjoying his new, scaled down, maximum-security accommodations located inside the US Disciplinary Barracks at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas.
She'd thought it odd that LaCroix had gone down without fighting, but then, LaCroix was odd
. Especially now. She'd gone to see him a few days ago to wrap up her case file and inform him of his pending flight to the States. He'd spent the entire hour just staring at her, smirking.
As for John—
"Rae, are you saying Garrison left? As in, the captain's no longer in Germany?"
"Correct."
"When's he due to return?"
He wasn't. "According to Jelly, he received orders to Fort Bragg." John would be deploying to yet another hotspot from there soon enough.
Damn it—stop. He wasn't hers to worry about. He never had been.
Regan abandoned the couch and headed for the door to her tiny Vilseck apartment. Midnight had come and gone. It was time to lock up and crawl into bed for yet another sleepless night. She should probably bring her laptop. Might as well fire it back up and work on memorizing Shelby's backstory.
It beat counting her many screwups and sins in lieu of sheep.
"Oh, hon. I'm so sorry."
Yeah, so was she. But that didn't change anything, did it? Least of all, this malaise she couldn't seem to push through.
At least something good had come from the investigation. Saniye had met with the general the morning after they'd arrested LaCroix. Not only had father and daughter reconciled, but the entire Karmandi family had disappeared into thin air last week, along with Ertonç. It seemed new identities were in order. And this time, the general had been included—following a tragic collision with a fuel truck on the autobahn that managed to burn so hot, there was nothing left of the man but the DNA they'd managed to extract from a tooth.
She had no idea where they'd gone. Nor did she want to know.
It was better that way. Just as she was better off without John. Lord knew he was definitely better off without her.
Apprehension filtered through the malaise.
"Mira?" For someone who'd called to chat, the woman wasn't being all that chatty.
"Yeah?"
"What's wrong?" Washington, DC, was six hours behind Germany, something the NCIS agent was well aware of. "Why are you calling this late?" And why was she asking about John?
And there was that odd, reluctant tension on her friend's end of the line. Regan could feel it thickening in the silence. As though Mira had something significant to say…but couldn't quite bring herself to say it.
Nausea sloshed into her gut as she glanced across the room. Her TV was off. Mira's wasn't. And she was calling.
Had there been a training accident at Bragg? Or was John already deployed? Had something happened? Another one of those goddamned bombings in the world?
Was he injured—or worse?
The nausea began to churn in earnest. "Is John…okay?"
"He's fine—at least, I think so. I haven't spoken to him since I left Hohenfels. But, uh, turn on the news."
Regan was already striding toward the TV. If Mira wasn't calling about John, had someone figured out Ertonç wasn't really dead—and had taken pains to ensure the man became so?
Too tense to translate, Regan snatched the remote off the coffee table and punched in the channel number for the local, English-language cable news network.
She needn't have bothered. The succession of photos that were flashing across the screen transcended language.
"Sweet Jesus."
Whoever said a picture was worth a thousand words had woefully underestimated the amount. Because those were worth a million. At least to her. The photos were of Sergeant First Class LaCroix, John Garrison…and her. But while John's face had been thoughtfully blurred out by the network, LaCroix's and hers had not. She rated several pictures, in fact. Her official Army mugshot, a candid of her in civilian clothes…and a slightly out-of-focus view of her with Rachel Pace's hair before she'd had a chance to have it dyed back to her normal, muddy brown.
The commentary? That was so much worse.
The remote clattered to the floor.
Her phone nearly followed.
"Yeah, I know, Rae. It's bad." She could hear Mira grinding her teeth. "The upshot? According to LaCroix's lawyer, the Army knowingly pimped you out. Basically, they're saying you set out to screw Garrison in order to make your case. Don't worry. It won't hold up, and you know it. So does LaCroix. He's just pissed. Even his bastard of a lawyer admitted John wasn't the target of the investigation. Heck, you'd cleared him of suspicion several times over before that night—along with me and Agent Jelling."
She nodded numbly. She had. They all had.
But that wouldn't matter, would it?
Not to her still gun-shy boss and certainly not to John. In fact, John's anger and humiliation were bound to be reinforced by this. Magnified.
LaCroix had planned on that too. The bastard's twisted, personal payback for John bringing that laptop of his into CID and signing a statement regarding the breach of those encrypted files on John's work computer.
She finally understood that smirk.
LaCroix had gotten his revenge after all, and then some. General Ertonç was alive, but his career was toast. Saniye, her husband and their kids had been uprooted and forced into hiding. Hell, even Turkey was eyeing NATO though a serious squint—as they fluttered their geo-political lashes and blew kisses at Russia.
And as for her? She'd dared to thwart LaCroix's initial plans by intercepting that first, physical, bomb—so the sergeant had ruthlessly constructed another. This second one might have been virtual and crafted on the fly, but with it, LaCroix had succeeded in blowing her career as an active, undercover investigative asset into oblivion.
She could still feel the molten shrapnel raining down. The devil with the slur against her reputation, her face was on the international news.
What the hell was she supposed to do now?
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Excerpt: BLIND EDGE
Book 2 in the US Army Detective Regan Chase thriller series (Please note: the following excerpt is gritty.)
Prologue
The Bible was wrong. Vengeance didn't belong to the Lord. It belonged to him.
To them.
To the twelve soldiers who'd stumbled out of that dank, icy cave, each as consumed as he was by the malevolence that'd been carved into their souls—until the night breeze shifted. A second later, he caught a whiff of him. He couldn't be sure if that rotting piece of camel dung had been left behind as a lookout or was part of a squad waiting to ambush his team. When the combined experiences of countless covert missions locked in, allowing him to place the stench wafting down along with stale sweat and pure evil, he no longer cared. Because once again, he smelled blood.
Fresh blood.
It permeated the air outside the cave, as did the need for retribution. As his fellow soldiers faded into the wind-sheared boulders, he knew they felt it too.
By God, they would all taste it.
Soon.
He shot out on point. There was no need to glance behind as he reached the base of the cliff and shouldered his rifle. His team had followed, protecting his back as they'd done every op these past months. The trust freed him to focus on their unspoken mission. On the blood pooling around seven bodies laid out on the floor of that cavern, and then some. He tucked the blade of his knife between his teeth and began to climb. Rock tore at his fingers as he jammed them into crevice after crevice, causing his own blood to mingle with the death still staining his hands. Moments later, he stopped, locking the toes of his boots to a narrow ledge as he scanned the dark.
Nothing.
He resumed his climb. The same moonless night that cloaked his pre
y protected him and his team. As long as they were mute, they were safe. Unless—
Shit!
He froze as the wind shifted, shooting his own stench heavenward. He caught the answering scuffle of panicked boots.
Too late, bastard.
He was almost there.
His position compromised, he grabbed a scrub pine, using it to whiplash up the remaining three feet of cliff.
Loose rock bit into his soles, causing him to skid to a halt two yards from his prey. The wind shifted once more, whipping a filthy turban from the bastard's face. A second later, he was staring into pure, bearded hatred as an AK47 rifle swung up. He grabbed his knife and lunged forward. Blood gushed over his knuckles as he buried the blade to its hilt. He hauled the bastard in closer, staring deep into that blackened gaze, for the first time in his life embracing the carnal satisfaction that seared in on a close-quarters kill—until suddenly, inexplicably, the gaze wavered...then slowly disintegrated altogether.
To his horror, it coalesced once more, this time into a soft blue hue he knew all too well.
Sweet Jesus—no!
It was a lie. A trick. An illusion. This latest flood of adrenaline had simply been too much to absorb. That was all.
Goddamn it, that was all.
He'd never know how he managed to hold his heart together as he released the knife and brought his fingers to his eyes. He rubbed them over and over, praying harder than he'd ever prayed as he sank to his knees. But as he blinked through his tears and forced himself to focus on the river of scarlet gushing into the snow, he knew it was true. The body in his arms wasn't that of his enemy. Nor was he in some freezing mountain pass half a world away. He was in his own backyard.
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