Sudden Death

by Allison Brennan

  A tic throbbed in Jack’s neck as he walked past her, toward the far end of the rest stop.

  She answered the phone. It was J.T. “You’re not going to believe the latest,” she said.

  “That the victim isn’t Price?”

  “Dammit, J.T., how do you know these things?”

  “From the same guy who told me about the autopsy. CID knew yesterday, by the way. They kept it to themselves. What does that mean on your end?”

  “It means I need to find George Price.”

  “Thought so. I put some feelers out, but so far not even a nibble.”

  “Father Francis Cardenas, the priest I told you about, used to be on Price’s Delta team and is trying to track him down. Considering he’s been AWOL for five years, he could have taken a new identity or left the country. For all we know, he’s hiding out in Mexico or Canada. Anyway, right now I need to get back to work. I’m at an ugly crime scene.”

  “Aren’t you interested in the background check you asked me for?”

  She looked around for Jack and couldn’t see him. She wanted the information, and she didn’t. She felt like a voyeur, spying on Jack Kincaid’s life. Did she really need to know who he was and what he’d done?

  Yet he was a witness. Jack Kincaid had a relationship with at least one of the victims, and he was their pilot for the time being. She needed to know who she was dealing with, especially if it got really messy.

  You’re kidding yourself. You know exactly who you’re dealing with.

  She found herself trusting Jack in ways that surprised her, but her training told her she had to be cautious. And she was curious.

  “Abbreviated version,” Megan said. “I really don’t have much time.”

  “There’s nothing that sends up red flags for me, so you can rest easier. Now, the government might have some issues with him, but he had an honorable discharge, several major commendations, and saw some heavy combat. Most of his records are sealed so tightly that even I can’t sneak a peak. Frankly, I wouldn’t mind having a man like Jack on my team.”

  That made her feel marginally better, but she’d also dealt with some of the men J.T employed and contracted with. They were hardly saints.

  “Jack enlisted in the army when he was eighteen. Army Rangers. Made it out—most don’t last through training. Missions across the globe, most in Central and South America. Ten years ago he retired and has been living in Hidalgo ever since, hiring out his services. I don’t know him, but I ran the name by Duke Rogan and he says it’s familiar. Probably through Kane—he’s been known to bring in mercenaries when needed. There’re no public photos of Kincaid that aren’t military issue, no public articles or interviews. He does the job and keeps his mouth shut. He’s exactly the type of man I would want for liberation and rescue operations. But—”

  She waited. “But what?”

  “He’s a bit of a maverick. I get a sense that he’s a bit of a fixer.”

  “A what?”

  “Fixer. Kane and I use it to describe people who want to right wrongs, who stand for the underdog even when the underdog is about to get his brains bashed in. I don’t have a list of all his ops, Delta or private, but the ones I found support this. I did hear that last week he led the rescue of a team of medical missionaries from the University of Mexico, and not only returned them to the embassy unharmed, but retrieved most of their supplies. Penicillin, hydrocortisone, prednisone. All extremely valuable on the black market.”

  Megan almost wished she was writing this down. “Thanks, J.T.”

  “You don’t have any questions? How unlike you, Meg.”

  “You’ve been immensely helpful. Now if you can find George Price for me …”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “I owe you another one.”

  He chuckled and hung up.

  Hans approached her. “I’m going to the morgue with the assistant sheriff. He said there’s a decent motel just outside Indio. His deputy will give you directions.”

  “I’ll go with you—” she said.

  “No,” he cut her off. “Stay here and see if they come up with any witnesses. I’ll meet you at the motel later.”

  “Hans—”

  He’d already turned his back to her. She watched him get into a sheriff’s car and drive away.

  Why in the world was Hans so angry with her? He hadn’t been himself since he learned about the mistaken identity. Didn’t he see that the dog tags actually helped them? She frowned. Why would the killers intentionally point them in the right direction? If she could sit down with Hans and try to talk it out, she knew they’d find something to go on.

  Terrific. Both Jack and Hans were ticked off at her, and she hadn’t done anything to warrant it.

  “Hey, Blondie. Meg.”

  Her stomach jumped into her throat and she whirled around. “You scared me!”

  “I know.” Jack had no remorse, but a faint hint of humor tinged his voice. “Padre just called. He thinks he found Price. I can talk to him if you need to stay here—he’s in southwest Colorado. Two, two-and-a-half-hour flight.”

  “Are you sure it’s him?” Megan was skeptical. “How did Padre find him so fast? The guy has been hiding from the military for five years. I find it hard to believe your friend found him in less than twelve hours.”

  Jack shrugged. “They served in the same unit. Padre probably had a better idea where to start looking than anyone in the military bureaucracy.”

  “I’ll go.” Megan looked at her watch. It was nearly five. She dialed Hans’s cell phone. His voice mail picked up. “Hans, I have a lead on George Price. I’m going to follow up on it with Kincaid. I don’t know when I’ll be back, but I’ll call you tonight.” She pocketed her phone. She couldn’t worry about Hans right now. She only hoped that Padre had really found Price and this was not a wild-goose chase.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY

  Jack could sleep anywhere, anyplace, anytime—except during take-off and landing.

  Megan didn’t have that problem.

  She’d fallen asleep as soon as he leveled off after taking off from Joshua Tree. Two hours, fifteen minutes later, he’d landed near Cortez, Colorado, and she was still sleeping.

  The quiet flight time had given Jack the opportunity to reflect on more than Scout’s murder and his brother Patrick coming out of his coma. Jack also spent a lot of time, too much time, watching Megan.

  There was something about her …

  Her curves. She had one of those tall, hourglass bodies. The kind of curves that a man could dip in and out of. The kind of breasts that begged to be touched, kissed, squeezed.

  Long, long legs. Legs too long for her torso, long and muscular. Megan wasn’t fat, but she had the shaped body of an athlete. Hard and soft. Hard muscles covered by soft, soft skin. He pictured her legs naked, moving up and down his legs, uncontrollable.

  And damn, but was she smart. It was almost sexy that she didn’t realize how good she was, but it bothered him that she second-guessed herself so often. He didn’t even think she noticed it, it was so ingrained in her. Maybe that was part of being an FBI agent. You weren’t allowed to think for yourself. Sort of like being enlisted in the army. You implement orders. That was your job, your vocation. And if you think too much, you’re screwed.

  After they’d landed, he couldn’t resist pulling the clips from her hair. He did it slowly, so as not to wake her. Nothing happened, but he suspected when she sat up, her hair would fall in silky cascades down her back. He touched the bun. Soft. So white. His hands looked nearly black against her hair.

  Jack had turned forty last month and in all those years he had never been in love. He’d slept with women, had what might pass as a relationship, and for a time he had a fantasy that his brother’s girlfriend would turn to him instead of Dillon. Not that he wanted Kate. She was too much like him.

  But Megan was like him, too … and completely different. She was a bulldog, pushing, thinking, probing … bu
t she also played by the rules. She worked within the system. Jack hated the system. The tired old rules that had forced him to leave innocent people to die.

  Megan Elliott was one of them. She may not have made the rules, but she sure as hell followed them. And no matter what Jack saw in her, the internal light that told him she would—she could—be her own person, he suspected that when push came to shove Agent Elliott would sacrifice anyone and anything, including herself, to preserve the damn system.

  Yet she had come with him to talk to Price. She had left her security blanket—Dr. Hans Vigo—and joined Jack on a trip into the unknown. She’d attempted to ask for permission, but when it wasn’t forthcoming, she’d made her choice. She might follow the rules, but she was willing to forge her own path.

  Jack swallowed uneasily and focused on the controls, double—triple—checking the gauges and system.

  Twenty-four hours ago Megan had burst into his life, gun drawn and hackles raised, and now Jack never wanted her to leave.

  Shit. What was he thinking? He wasn’t, and that was the problem. He wanted to screw her. That’s all it was, he hadn’t had a good lay in months. Years! The last few women had been … nothing to him. He didn’t even seek out companionship anymore. If someone was willing and able, sure, he’d oblige, but he didn’t pursue any woman.

  He wanted Megan in the worst way. He wanted to kiss those pink lips. Top and bottom. He wanted to put his mouth on her breasts, suck her nipples until she squirmed and moved beneath him. Jack wanted to hold her hips as he moved in and out of her, bringing out her passion. He saw in her a fireball ready to combust if he touched just the right spot.

  He stifled a groan and willed his dick to settle down. He was only horny because he had a smart, sexy woman sleeping in the cockpit next to him, her lips slightly parted, her lacy little camisole peeking out from under her blouse.

  Man, he was in deep shit.

  “Wake up already.”

  Megan groaned and tried to roll over on her side. Her elbow hit something metal and she jumped, sitting straight up.

  It was dark. She looked out the window and saw her reflection. Her hair had fallen out of her bun. She must have been in a rush, her hair never fell out when she put it up. She glanced around, feeling out of sorts.

  Jack smiled her way, his dark eyes unreadable.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have fallen asleep.”

  “We’re here.”

  He rose from the pilot’s seat and walked stooped over to his small overnight bag sitting on one of the seats.

  She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and glanced at her watch. Seven-thirty. “Wow, you made fantastic time.”

  “Scout kept the Caravan in great shape.”

  She hadn’t realized they had been using Scout’s plane. She should have put the plane into evidence, or logged it as part of the victim’s estate, but she didn’t say anything.

  She turned in her seat. Jack had pulled off his shirt. His back was to her, marked with scars. She sat on her hands when she almost reached for his deltoids. She swallowed, needing water.

  You just woke up. You’re dehydrated.

  Right. More excuses. Admit it, Megan, what warmblooded woman wouldn’t want that hard body next to her in bed?

  He pulled on a body-hugging black T-shirt, strapped on a shoulder holster, then donned his bomber jacket. Covering up the goods didn’t slow her racing heart. He looked as dangerously sexy clothed as bare-chested. “Do you have a jacket?” he asked.

  “What you see is what you get,” she said lightly.

  He turned and frowned. “We’re at sixty-two hundred feet. While this area is nice and warm during the day, it gets cold when the sun sets. It’s fifty degrees now, with an expected low of forty-four.”

  “You should have told me before we left,” she snapped. “I asked the deputy to take my bag to the motel back in California.”

  “I assumed you’d have known that the Colorado mountains weren’t south Texas in April.”

  She bit back a response. “I’m fine,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “Take my jacket.”

  “I’m fine.“ She whipped out her cell phone to dial Hans. She couldn’t get a signal.

  “Try later. We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Where is nowhere?” she asked as they left the plane.

  “A small unmanned airstrip outside Mesa Verde.”

  “How’d you land?” There were only two landing lights on the runway she could see.

  “I’m good.”

  “Where are we going? Should I call the local field office and have someone pick us up?”

  Jack laughed. Meg stopped walking and crossed her arms. Damn, he was right. She was freezing.

  “Give me your jacket,” she said.

  He did. She almost felt bad, except that he was still laughing as he handed it over.

  She wished she hadn’t taken his leather jacket. Sure, it was warm, but it smelled like Jack Kincaid. All male. She wanted to sink into his jacket and close her eyes, feeling as if Jack himself was wrapped around her.

  “I have it all taken care of.” He walked across the dark airstrip. Megan wanted to protest and demand information; instead she followed.

  They’d walked in silence half a mile and came upon a four-wheel-drive pickup. Jack stopped just out of sight of the pickup, then nodded. “It’s Princeton.”

  “Who?”

  “George Price. Princeton is what Padre called him.”

  Megan stopped walking. “He could be a killer. You should have warned me.”

  “The killers were in Riverside County this morning. In a vehicle. They couldn’t have driven here in ten hours.”

  “Maybe they had a plane!” She didn’t like being brushed off, and she really hated not knowing the game plan. “You should have told me the plan.”

  “Padre talked to a mutual friend of Price’s who said he hasn’t left the mountain in years.”

  Megan said, “I’m not taking any chances, Jack.”

  “Trust me on this one.”

  She didn’t want to trust Jack. He wasn’t a cop, he wasn’t a federal agent, and she was the one responsible for stopping these killers before they hurt anyone else.

  “I have your back, Blondie.”

  “Be careful,” she said.

  The corner of his mouth tilted up. The half-smile on Jack’s hard-lined face almost made her heart melt. Almost. She could withstand his overwhelming sex appeal.

  That’s what she told herself as she quickly looked away, flushed, and approached the man who might be the real George Price.

  Jack reached the truck first, opened the door, and used it as a shield. “Princeton?”

  Price looked more or less like the photo the army sent this morning but bald instead of a standard military cut. He sported a gray mustache and trimmed goatee and wore a diamond stud in his left ear, which had certainly not been there five years before.

  “You’re not Frank.”

  Price had a gun in his hand fast; so did Megan. She aimed it at Price’s head. He had his gun aimed at Jack through the window.

  “Don’t even think about it, bitch.”

  Jack said, “Jack Kincaid.”

  “Kincaid,” Price murmured. “I know of you. And the cop?”

  How did he know she was a cop?

  “Megan Elliott,” Jack said. “I give you my word no one will know you’re here.”

  “I’ve already packed up,” he said, gesturing toward the back of the pickup. “I’m on my way to Timbuktu. You have five minutes. That is, if the cop puts her gun away.”

  “You first,” Megan said.

  Price didn’t move.

  Jack hit Megan’s wrist and disarmed her. She wasn’t expecting it—her entire focus was on Price. She felt betrayed and hurt.

  And genuinely pissed off.

  Jack had her gun and held it butt out to Price. The AWOL soldier nodded with a half grin, and Jack returned the gun to her. “Put it awa
y, Megan.”

  “Ten minutes,” Price said. “Only because I like her.”

  Jack and Megan got into the pickup. She found herself sandwiched between two Neanderthals.

  “Sorry about the war games,” Price said as he started up the vehicle. “I can’t be too careful.”

  “I understand,” Jack said, then added, “but next time you pull a gun on me or mine, I’ll break every fucking bone in your hand.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-ONE

  Ethan’s head pounded. The six ibuprofen and four Tylenol he’d taken over the last two hours had done little to diminish the pain. He needed to sleep, even if his sleep wasn’t real. Sleep for him was a movie of the past. It left him not only unrested, but panicky.

  “You’re a fool.” She slapped him. Slapped him. “Hold on, Ethan. It’s almost over.”

  “Where’s Hackett?”

  “He’s coming,” she said. “Trust me.” She looked around the rented cabin, foot tapping, angry at him. Ethan didn’t know why.

  He took one of his needles and absentmindedly pushed it into his palm. The accompanying pain masked the ache in his head. He pulled the needle out, rolling it between his fingers. “We should have gone to his house. I told you we should have gone to his house.”

  “I shouldn’t have to explain to you again why that’s impossible. Too many people, a good security system. Hackett comes here every third Thursday. This is the best place to take him.”

  “It’s too open. Too public.” He looked out the window toward the beach.

  “He always gets a cabin, not a room in the main lodge.”

  “That doesn’t matter. It’s still too public.”

  “We’ll stuff a rag in his mouth like the guy in Vegas,” she said. “You just have to focus. No more mistakes, okay?”

  He crossed his arms. The sun was setting. He could hear the ocean, but couldn’t see it under the reflecting shimmer of the light. He didn’t want to be here. He wanted to go home to Pennsylvania. Would his mother even recognize him? He hadn’t talked to her in five years. When he came back from Afghanistan, she’d cried. He couldn’t handle her tears. Her pain. Any pain, except his own.