Renegade

by Catherine Mann

  He gestured to Tanaka walking with both crutches and Livia Cicero with one crutch, picking her way along after him in her flat-heeled knee boots and cream-colored mini-sweater dress. Ferguson followed, giving Roscoe’s lead a firm tug.

  Firm or harsh? Difficult to tell from a distance. Regardless, the dog would be Chuck’s, not the other guy’s, so no worries for Roscoe.

  Phil knelt to wriggle his fingers for Peanut in the kennel and looked up at Mason. “Thanks again for stopping by so I could see Jill’s okay with my own eyes. You keep my girl safe now. You hear?”

  “Absolutely. She and I are going back to her place tonight, and we’re locking down tight.” Mason fed the bait Barrera hoped would lure a killer. “You like that Chinese place, right?”

  He’d rolled out the line smoothly enough, letting Phil know where they would be at her duplex. Anyone could pose as a delivery person or break in while someone else was distracted at the front door. The bait was out there. Now they had to wait to see if Phil took it.

  She kissed Uncle Phil’s cheek. “Love you.”

  He kissed the top of her head. “Love you, too, Gingersnap.”

  Her eyes stung with tears. Jill blinked them back hard and fast. She couldn’t afford for Barrera’s people to say she’d done anything to tip him off. She just prayed he would forgive her later.

  She turned to join up with Mason.

  The dog—Roscoe—let out a yip and yanked free from Ferguson, bounding across the sandy yard.

  Tackling Jill flat on her ass in a pile of dirt.

  Mason paced around the living room in the base quarters where they’d stayed last night—a lifetime ago since he’d made love with Jill. She was showering while he met with Agent Barrera.

  After the dunking, they’d called the interview session a wash—so to speak. Her listening device had been submerged, and even if it had survived intact, they couldn’t risk the wires being visible through the wet and clingy clothes. He’d draped his flight jacket over her ASAP and hauled her back to his truck. Agent Barrera had been waiting two minutes down the road.

  Now, Barrera was working his cell phone and BlackBerry with ambidextrous skill, tying up last-minute loose ends. Once Jill finished her shower, they would make their official move to her place and cross their fingers that the killer made another attempt—now that her place had been completely security-proofed with alarms and video cameras. He had a job to do.

  While his crew flew the final test flight of their hypersonic jet.

  Not only were they flying without him, but now Scanlon was off the flight as well. His crew rest had been busted by the latest development. Since he was an extra pilot, they’d sent up the flight with Vince, Jimmy, and the sub loadmaster—and without Scanlon—rather than scrap the whole mission. Keeping this test on schedule was critical, but good Lord, they were spread thin.

  Scanlon cleaned his horn-rimmed glasses on a dish towel from the kitchen. “You’re going to wear a hole in the carpet with those chewed-up boots of yours, Sergeant.”

  “I hate not being on that flight. If anything happens . . .” They were a superstitious lot, following routine, working as a unit, nervous about surprise changes. During war situations, it wasn’t unusual to fly while sick because you couldn’t send your crew up without you.

  Incontrovertible fact in their world: survivor’s guilt crippled fliers.

  Rex clamped him on the shoulder. “I understand, but Smooth, you’re doing the right thing.”

  He had to believe that was true. It was taking everything inside him to stay focused, worried about his pals in the air and Jill here on the ground. “I wonder how Chuck’s not losing his damn mind going this long without flying.”

  “Sounds like physical therapy is keeping him busy.”

  “Yeah, he’s got that new dog to help him out.” Roscoe, the Lab-collie mix, had given the physical therapist a run for his money when he’d gotten loose and dunked Jill. Phil’s tight-lipped expression had no doubt silently accused Ferguson’s dog-handling skills. Something about that whole incident bothered him, but he couldn’t put his finger on what.

  “Jill’s pretty upset over not being able to take Boo with us.”

  “He’s safe at the base kennel. Hopefully this will all be over soon. Once they have the sadistic bastard behind bars, everyone can resume their lives again.”

  That niggling something in the back of his brain started sparking, snapping, demanding air so it could flame to life. “Sir, what did you just say?”

  “Life can go back to normal once we have this sick bastard in custody.”

  “No.” Mason’s heart pounded faster, harder, adrenaline kicking through him. “You used a different word.” Sadistic. A word he’d heard recently, but in reference to someone else.

  “What is it, Sergeant?”

  Such a small coincidence. “It may be nothing, and I may be grasping at straws because I really don’t want this killer to be Jill’s stepfather.”

  “What’s your hunch?”

  “Colonel, do you remember relaying a conversation to me that you had with Chuck in the hospital?”

  “Refresh my memory.”

  “You were talking about Chuck getting out of the hospital sooner than expected . . .”

  “Because his physical therapist is a sadistic bastard.”

  “Chuck said the same thing to me at his apartment. And today, Jill’s stepfather mentioned getting a bad feeling about Garrett Ferguson, something about not trusting people who don’t like animals.”

  Barrera closed up his cell phone, eyes sharp, apparently having been listening in the whole time. He shook his head. “It’s not much to go on. What else do you know about this guy?”

  Mason pushed ahead. “Not much. He’s pretty closemouthed for the most part. Started working on the base a year or so ago. After a couple of drinks one time, he mentioned wanting to go into the army, but he failed the physical on what he called a ‘technicality,’ so he decided to do contract work for the military instead.”

  Barrera nodded. “That’s a start. He has a connection to the base and has a medical background, which could explain the wounds on the victims. I wish there was some kind of description from the first victim—Annette Santos.”

  Ah hell. “Chuck Tanaka’s girlfriend.”

  “But they started dating after the attack . . . Still, it’s damn coincidental.” Barrera shook his head. “And she can’t give us a description of her attacker. She was chloroformed from behind.” His face cleared. “You’re right that it could be nothing, but it’s worth a second look. I’ll hook up with Gallardo and see what else we can dig up on his background. You wouldn’t happen to know where Ferguson went after you saw him at the kennel?”

  Mason replayed everything that had happened and had been said in the mayhem after Jill was tackled into the water by Roscoe. “Ferguson had driven his van to transport the dog more easily. He was going to drop off Chuck and Roscoe, then he was going to . . .” Oh hell, his instincts sparking higher, his gaze snapped up to Colonel Scanlon, aka the pop star’s roadie. “He was going to take Livia Cicero back to her hotel. He said something about giving her some tips to help her get rid of the crutch sooner.”

  “Shit,” Scanlon cursed.

  Barrera snapped to attention. “Get Jill Walczak out of the shower and on the phone with Gallardo. I’m going to see if I can track down the Cicero woman. God, I hope she’s not one of those inaccessible star types.”

  Mason sprinted through the bedroom and pounded on the bathroom door. “Jill? Jill, we need to get a move on. There’s been a development.”

  No one answered, and the shower wasn’t running any longer. How big was that bathroom window? Could someone have gotten inside?

  He felt like his fucking head was on fire. To hell with privacy.

  Mason shoved open the door.

  SIXTEEN

  “Jill?” Mason’s voice bounced around the tiled bathroom walls.

  Damn. Shivering, Jill tucked hers
elf deeper into the corner of the shower behind the half-drawn curtain. She scrubbed her wrist across her eyes and scrambled to regain control before she faced Mason.

  God, she didn’t want him to see her like this, hugging her knees and crying long past when the steam had evaporated. But once the water had begun pouring over her, the true waterworks had started. Even when she’d shut off the real shower, she hadn’t been able to control the flow of tears—for her murdered friend Lara, for all those victims, for Uncle Phil’s past that wouldn’t let him go.

  And yes, she’d even sobbed some selfish tears for herself.

  She wasn’t any better than all those women she’d labeled idiots in the mess hall because they’d fallen for Mason Randolph only to have him pull away. Her only consolation? He wasn’t shallow. He was just too damaged from his divorce to let himself get close, truly close to another woman. Crap. Now that she thought about it, that wasn’t any consolation at all.

  She stood, tucking the plain white shower curtain against her as she peered around the edge. “Mason,” she hissed low, “give me a damn towel and then get out.”

  He thrust a fluffy white towel into her outstretched hand. “Jill, we’ve got a new lead. Barrera’s calling in an APB now, and we’re heading out. Get dressed before we hit the door if you want to come along. There’s no time to waste.”

  By the time he’d finished his sentence, she’d already pulled on her jeans and was hooking her bra. He shoved a shirt over her head, and she grabbed her boots on the fly. “Who?”

  He followed right on her heels. “We’re checking out Tanaka’s physical therapist. He’s now a suspect. And he was last seen with Livia Cicero.”

  Oh God. Her wet hair turned prickly icy against her scalp.

  Agent Barrera stood by Scanlon, who had his cell phone out. “You actually have Livia Cicero on speed dial?”

  Scanlon waved him quiet and turned his cell on speakerphone. Jill sat on the arm of the sofa and tugged on her boots.

  “Buon giorno,” Livia answered, her husky voice subdued.

  “Livia, it’s Rex.”

  “Si.” Her voice shook. “I saw your caller identification.”

  “Are you all right?” Rex pressed.

  Livia hesitated on the other end of the line. “Why would I not be?”

  “You sound . . . tired.”

  She sounded scared as hell to Jill, just about as scared as the stalwart colonel looked. His face had gone so pale his black-framed glasses stood out in starker contrast. But he didn’t lose his composure, ever the in-control commander. “Livia, are you still there?”

  “I do not mean to be rude or grumpy,” she answered, her voice picking up speed, her accent thickening. “You know how I wear my emotions on my shirt cuff.”

  “On your sleeve,” he said, his eyes narrowing with the hint of some kind of awareness.

  What was she missing here?

  “Si, of course, but what does that matter? It is a mute point.” Livia’s breathing came faster. “I have to hang up.”

  “Are you sure?” he pushed, tendons visible in his hand as he gripped the phone. “I could bring you a decaf latte.”

  “No thank you, please, Rex, you know I do not like those. Just leave me alone. I need my rest—” The line disconnected.

  Scanlon charged straight for the door. “She’s been taken.”

  Jill darted a look at Mason, but he was already in step with his commander, no questions, no doubt on his face.

  Barrera followed. “How can you be so sure?”

  “We’ll talk in the car,” Scanlon shot over his shoulder. “She used two incorrect English phrases we’d already discussed correcting, and she damn well adores her decaf lattes. She was sending me signals.”

  Barrera reached for his BlackBerry. “I’ll put out an APB and try to get a warrant for his house.”

  Jill grabbed her phone. “I’ll find Gallardo.”

  Damn, but she really wished she still had her dog.

  Mason paused at the door and held out his hand. “Give me the keys. I’ll drive while you make your calls.”

  Scanlon started to take the keys from Barrera.

  Mason kept his hand out. “Sir—”

  Scanlon nodded. “You’re right. You’ll be steady. Drive.” He turned to Barrera. “Do you have Ferguson’s address?”

  “Yes,” he hedged. “He’s got a small ranch out in the desert.”

  The perfect out-of-the-way place to take and torture victims. Her eyes slid shut as if she could somehow squeeze back the images slamming through her brain at warp speed.

  “Scanlon,” Barrera warned, “you’re staying in the car.”

  “Of course.”

  Jill could see the lie in his eyes, and she didn’t feel the need to stop him. In fact, she and Mason would be right there with him.

  Rex palmed the dash as Mason Randolph took the corner at breakneck speed, sand spewing from the tires on the dusty back road. Jill Walczak and Barrera sat behind, their voices low and urgent in the darkened car as they worked their phones to get backup and a warrant.

  Like he gave a shit about a warrant.

  They’d already learned from the concierge at Livia’s hotel that she definitely wasn’t in her room. She’d never come back after the trip to the kennel that afternoon. This was it. Their only lead.

  Everyone else could sit in the car with their thumbs up their rears while they waited for the cops to find this middle-of-nowhere place, but he was going inside. If he was wrong, they could sort it out later.

  As they’d left the base, Mason had slapped the bubble light on the roof of Barrera’s nondescript sedan but shut it off once they neared Ferguson’s ranch house in the desert. No siren, though, since they didn’t want Ferguson to hear them even from a distance. Sound carried so far in the desert.

  Mason cut the headlights.

  Barrera looked up, his face glowing alien green from the BlackBerry screen. “What the hell are you doing? It’s damn dark out here without any streetlamps.”

  Rex laughed hoarsely. “We can see anything you need. I’ve landed in Iraq with lights off, no runway, and instruments on the fritz.”

  Mason nodded. “That’s what I was thinking, sir.”

  “Okay, then,” Barrera conceded, stroking his seat belt and checking the latch. “It’s your funeral.”

  As long as it wasn’t Livia’s. Damned if he would take flowers to another grave of a woman he cared about. He swallowed down a wad of fear he’d never expected to feel again.

  Slowly his eyes adjusted, but he didn’t need to say a thing to Mason. The sergeant had the car firmly in hand. If Ferguson was their guy, and he had Livia out here, their window for surprise would be short, since other authorities would be arriving soon—and loudly.

  This had to be the place. He had to be right. Ferguson’s lonely desert ranch house was the logical location for him to take his victims.

  Logical?

  What a damned incongruous word to use in connection to a serial killer.

  They neared the long, one-story house with a barn to the side, the shapes clear enough to a man accustomed to making his way through the dark. Shadows shifted across the yard, a large silhouette walking toward the open barn door with a lamp dangling in the middle. Rex squinted, trying to make out the figure. “It’s a man, hunched over, and he’s got someone over his shoulder.”

  Please God, someone alive. Livia alive. He couldn’t make out the blurry form being carried other than to tell it—she?—wasn’t moving.

  The shadow paused. Shifted. Turned toward the car and straightened. He’d seen them.

  Shit. “Blind him with the lights,” Rex ordered. Mason activated the headlights without hesitation. The wiry guy’s eyes went deer-wide.

  Ferguson.

  The unmistakable form of a slender woman was draped over his shoulder, her silky dark hair hiding her face. But Rex remembered the white sweater dress well from breakfast. And he didn’t know another woman who would pair it w
ith gold leather knee boots.

  She wasn’t moving. She wouldn’t have even been able to run with her injured leg. His eyes burned.

  The stunned look on Ferguson’s face faded, and he sprinted toward the barn.

  Rex rammed the door handle. “You don’t need a fucking search warrant now.”

  He bolted out at a dead run. The barn loomed ahead, double doors wide to reveal a gleaming setup of workout equipment inside. He didn’t even want to know what kind of twisted shit went on in there. But he certainly intended to make sure it ended tonight.

  “Ferguson, stop,” Rex shouted, calling up his best commander tones and hoping it would buy him even a second’s hesitation from the other man. “There’s no chance you’re going to get away. There’s nowhere to hide, and you’re outnumbered. Cops are already on the way. It’s over.”

  Ferguson slowed, then stopped running altogether, standing backlit in the barn door. He turned to face Rex, with Mason, Jill, and Barrera all approaching slowly.

  “Then I guess I’m going down in style.” He hefted Livia more securely on his shoulder, a far too vulnerable and effective shield. “The headlines will double if I take a famous star with me, now won’t they, Colonel?”

  Rex stepped forward.

  Ferguson pulled out a hunting knife, his eyes full of insanity, and worse yet, depravity. “Nobody moves a muscle unless I give the order, understand, Colonel? I’m in command tonight, like I should have been from the start if all you high-ranking tight asses had let me join up like I wanted.”

  The silvery blade glinted from the bare bulb in the barn, jagged teeth angry and bloodstained. If any of that was Livia’s blood . . . Rex’s eyes flashed to her inert form, searching for any signs of injury, difficult as hell to tell for certain in the dark of night.

  “I understand.” In fact he understood more than Ferguson probably realized.

  Years of training for battle, fighting in wars, assessing the enemy came together in his head, and Rex knew. This man was now on a death mission. No reasoning, no waiting would help Livia—if she was even still alive. He would have to take Ferguson down now, before he had a chance to use that weapon to slice up his next victim in front of them.