“Power bars,” Anderson said. Without looking up from his phone, he tossed one to Jax. “I always travel with them.”
“Thanks.” The protein-heavy power bar was probably better than anything he’d get in the bar, and Jax hesitated, debating returning to his room. But he was too antsy to sleep and although he liked Ben and Anderson, he needed a break from the case. “See you later.”
When he stepped through the door out into the frigid Alaskan air, Jax knew it was what he needed. A walk probably would have been better than the bar, but he didn’t know the area and he didn’t want to get lost or run into a wild animal. So instead, he walked quickly toward the log-cabin-style establishment. The walk was long enough to make his nose and ears sting from the cold, but not long enough to clear his head.
He heard it when he was fifteen feet away. Yelling and crashing sounds. Probably a fight, definitely too many people involved.
Then a couple holding hands darted out of the bar and ran toward him.
“What’s happening?” he asked.
“People are mad and drinking,” the woman said, only pausing briefly as they continued past him, toward the hotel. “It turned into a big fight. I wouldn’t go in there.”
Yanking out his cell phone, he texted Ben and Anderson a message.
Bar fight. Call the Luna police? Or earn your community badges today...
A bar fight was a local PD problem, not the purview of the FBI. But the agents were close and Luna police had a lot to manage right now. Jax didn’t know which option Ben and Anderson would choose. But he figured doubling up couldn’t hurt. He’d just started to dial the Luna police chief directly when a female voice cut through the yelling. A voice he recognized, slightly husky and naturally commanding. But right now underlaid with definite panic.
Dropping his phone into his pocket, Jax raced inside.
Five angry and obviously drunk men were crowded near the side wall, some of them holding beer bottles aloft like weapons. All of them were yelling, most of it incoherent, but what Jax could make out were a mix of violent threats and juvenile insults. Two were facing off against each other, shifting back and forth, glowering.
A sixth was passed out half on a table, half on the floor, and looked like he needed stitches. A seventh stood near the bar, holding his own beer bottle and watching the spectacle with a wide grin. The bartender stood behind him, brandishing a shotgun but looking uncertain.
Where was Keara?
Jax strained to see, then realized. She was behind the pack of men, ordering them to back up. From the way his eyes started watering and his throat was suddenly on fire as he took one step farther inside and the door slammed shut behind him, he realized she’d sprayed them with mace. It seemed to have only made them angrier.
Fear tightened his chest, knowing she was trapped behind the angry group. Could he wade into them, give Keara a chance to slide free?
He rejected the idea immediately. There were too many of them, fueled by alcohol and fury, likely to take any physical contact as an invitation to resume fighting.
Still, he had to do something. The two who’d been circling each other had turned toward Keara, and from the way they shared a sudden look of agreement, they were about to rush her.
Jax wasn’t armed. Even if he was, it probably wouldn’t help, based on the bartender’s worried shake of his head.
“I already called the police,” the bartender yelled at him. “If I fire this now, it might go through those guys and hit the lady back there. She’s in trouble.”
Jax swore and looked around for something he could use as a weapon, even though he knew it was useless. What he needed was Ben and Anderson, a way to even the numbers.
Leaping on top of the bar, Jax bellowed, “FBI!”
As one, the group turned toward him, but they only lowered their fists and bottles for a split second. Then they were up again, and the group was turning back toward each other.
Faster than he would have thought possible, while the men were distracted, Keara slid along the wall, breaking free of the group. She had her pistol out and leveled at the man who seemed to be the primary instigator.
“I’m chief of police in Desparre!” she yelled. “And the man on the bar is with the FBI. Put the bottles down and back away right now!”
For a moment it seemed like it might work.
Then the big guy in front swayed a little and yelled back, “You can’t get us all, bi—”
“People died today!” Jax cut him off as Keara took a slow step backward, closer to him.
They froze, their attention redirecting his way. “We’re searching for a bomber right now! You really want to end up in jail for threatening a police chief?”
Two of the men shook their heads, set down their bottles and stepped away from the group, holding up their hands.
Two of the others hesitated, their bottles lowering slightly.
But the big guy in front flushed an even deeper, patchy red and announced, “You’re not FBI! You’re not even armed!”
A flash of movement below Jax caught his attention. Too fast for Jax to move out of the way, the loner who’d been watching with glee grabbed hold of his leg and yanked hard.
Jax flung out his arms, trying to brace himself, hoping his head wouldn’t smack the top of the bar as he crashed downward, sliding awkwardly, painfully, off it. Broken glass sliced through his arms, and his back scraped the edge of the bar as his legs slammed into the bar stools, knocking them over.
Then he was on the ground, trying to catch his breath and focus through the pain in his head, and a bottle was crashing toward his face.
Knowing it wouldn’t be fast enough, he tried to roll away.
The guy over him suddenly stiffened, his eyes going unnaturally wide. Then he toppled over, the bottle crashing down inches from Jax’s face and luckily not shattering.
Behind him, Keara had her gun trained on the group who’d frozen again, and her other arm directed his way, wires extending from the Taser in her hand to the guy on the ground beside him, still stiff and moaning.
Then the door burst open and Ben and Anderson were there, weapons out, yelling, “FBI!”
As they rushed into the room, giving Keara an approving nod, Ben glanced down at him with a mix of concern and amusement.
“You’ve got to stop playing agent, Jax.”
* * *
SHE’D GOTTEN LUCKY.
Although no officer was immune to the danger of being caught alone and outnumbered, at least in Houston, backup tended to be relatively close. You might get caught in a dangerous situation—and it wasn’t uncommon—but you’d probably be in the thick of it with other officers. In Alaska, the danger was far less persistent. But you were way more likely to be caught alone. The distance it could take the closest officer to come to your aid could be deadly even if you held off the threat for a long time.
Keara had been reaching the end of that time when Jax had walked into the bar.
She glanced at him now, sitting across from her on a couch in the lobby of the hotel down the street from the bar. He was grimacing in a T-shirt, his bloodied sweater in a bundle next to him along with his coat, as one of the agents—a tall, lean blond guy who’d introduced himself as Anderson—wrapped his arms with gauze.
“There’s no glass left behind,” Anderson said. “I was SWAT for a while in DC, so I had to get some basic medical training, but you still might want to go back to the hospital. Most of these cuts will close up, but this one—” he pointed at the last, deepest cut he’d bandaged “—might scar unless you get it stitched.”
“I’m fine,” Jax said tightly.
“Yeah, I get it. I wouldn’t want to go back there, either,” Anderson said. “That was a rough evening, talking to all those victims. Especially the one who lost her leg, whose fiancé died in the blast. I don’t know how—”<
br />
“You should have stayed outside,” Ben cut his partner off. “You keep forgetting—you’re not an agent.” He glanced at Keara, eyes narrowing as he studied her. “Was this all drunken, overemotional idiocy or did you hear anything we might want to know for our investigation?”
She didn’t have to glance at Jax to feel his embarrassment, but the truth was, she’d needed him tonight. Law enforcement or not, his presence—and presence of mind—had definitely saved her from getting hurt. Maybe even from getting killed.
“Idiocy,” she confirmed, trying not to cringe as she subtly probed her lower back with her fingers. Between the time she’d maced the group and Jax had arrived, she’d been shoved into the wall, right where some kind of decoration hung. The bruise ached with every quick movement.
“And grief,” she added, remembering the man who’d burst into tears when Luna police arrived and cuffed the whole lot to escort them to cells. His younger sister had died in the explosion.
Her hand shook as she stopped pushing on the bruise and it wasn’t all from pain. The bruise was nasty, but she didn’t need medical care, just time to heal. It was also adrenaline, still pumping as if she hadn’t left that bar. As if she hadn’t gotten away from the crowd of men towering over her with bottles and fists and anger they were willing to redirect at the nearest available target. Especially one who’d just sprayed them all with mace.
With six years on the police force in a big city like Houston—five of them on patrol—Keara had faced plenty of dicey situations. Most of them with a partner at her back, but a few alone. Back then she’d lived with a different level of awareness at all times.
In Alaska, she’d gotten used to needing to be wary of the elements more often than the people. She should have positioned herself near the door. Should have ignored her emotional desire to avoid the grief-stricken man there and picked a spot near the exit. She still might have been overrun, but she probably could have gotten to a safe distance to pull her weapon sooner. Maybe stopped the brawl faster, without anyone getting hurt.
“So, Keara,” Ben said as Anderson finished patching up Jax, “you were at the scene a few hours ago.”
When he stared at her assessingly, as if waiting for her to confirm what he already knew, she nodded.
“Did you notice anything unusual? Anyone hanging around who seemed off?”
Ben didn’t need to clarify as all three of them stared at her, waiting for an answer.
At the scene of a bombing, in a small town full of people who liked their business to be their business, it would be easy to slip into the edges of a group. Pretend to be sympathizing. Pretend to be there out of safety concerns or empathy for neighbors, while actually reveling in your handiwork.
Police officers—especially someone like her, who’d spent years on patrol in a busy city—learned to spot the outliers. People who were trying to blend in, but were just a little too focused. On the woman alone, walking in front of them. Or the fire blazing in a building, origins unknown. Or the devastation of an attack, like a bombing.
Keara mentally reviewed the people she’d noticed at the edges of the scene, near the hastily assembled memorial made of candles and flowers and stuffed animals, or down the street, pointing and shaking their heads. Everyone had looked the way she’d felt. Shocked. Horrified. Like a veneer of safety had just been ripped away, revealing a vulnerability they’d never expected.
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I don’t know everyone here. Not even close. But many of the people on scene I recognized at least vaguely. If the bomber was there, he’s a good actor.”
“Or she,” Anderson put in.
Keara shrugged, acknowledging that truth, although as far as she knew, bombers were more likely to be male. Running murder investigations in Houston had told her that men liked to kill violently: strangulation, bullet wounds, stabbing. Women were less likely to murder in the first place, but more likely to use arson or poison. And they were more likely to kill a single person; men were significantly more likely to kill multiples or commit mass murders. Of course, those were generalizations. Bombings weren’t something she’d ever investigated.
“What about this?” Ben asked, sounding like he already expected the answer to be negative. “This is a bomb fragment. Does the symbol on it look familiar? Does it mean anything to you?” He held out his phone, zoomed in so she could see the detail, the series of interconnecting loops.
Distantly, she felt Jax leap up and grab her arm as she swayed. She heard Anderson’s surprised “You know it?”
But she couldn’t focus enough to answer. The lobby around her spun in dizzying circles as her whole body seemed to catch fire and her lungs couldn’t get enough oxygen.
She’d seen that symbol once before, seven years ago. On the wall at a murder scene in one of Juan’s last investigations before he was killed.
CHAPTER FOUR
Could their bomber be connected to a case Keara’s husband had investigated seven years ago?
Jax’s heart thudded too hard as he watched Keara, her olive-toned skin too pale, a sudden tightness around her eyes and mouth. The knowledge that she was a widow surprised him, filled him with sadness for what she’d experienced, along with a tinge of jealousy. Ridiculous and inappropriate, but he was self-aware enough to recognize why. He’d been instantly intrigued by her, attracted to her. Seeing her in trouble in the bar, then seeing her in action, had only increased those feelings.
None of that mattered. Not when she was staring back at them, trying to get it together after she’d announced that her dead husband had investigated a case with the same symbol. Not when she might have the key to the investigation.
Ben and Anderson were staring at her, too. Ben’s fingers tapped a frantic beat against his chair and Anderson was leaning toward her, hanging half out of his seat. But both of them were experienced enough not to rush her.
Finally, her fingers loosened the death grip they’d had on the couch since he’d helped her sit. “I haven’t seen that symbol in seven years.”
“Are you sure it’s the same symbol?” Ben asked.
She held out her hand for his phone, then zoomed in and stared at it a long moment. “I’m pretty sure. It might not be exact, but it’s close enough to look connected.”
“Tell us about this case,” Anderson requested.
“It was a murder,” she said and some of the intense energy radiating from Ben and Anderson instantly deflated.
Jax had been part of enough investigations—even though he was on the periphery—to know why. A murder was pretty different from a bombing.
“The victim, Celia Harris, was fairly well-known in Houston. She owned a popular chain of bakeries and was always volunteering her time to local charity events. The press picked up news of her murder fast, maybe because she had two young kids and was killed in a back alley in a bad part of town. Probably also because the murder was violent. That symbol was spray-painted on the wall behind her. I didn’t work the case, but I know Juan and his partner suspected it was going to be the start of a series of killings.”
“They thought it was a serial killer?” Ben asked. “Why?”
“None of the obvious suspects panned out. There were signs Celia had been abducted and probably not by someone she knew. They thought the symbol was a serial killer’s signature.”
Anderson scooted back in his seat, looking less anxious the more Keara spoke. “But...”
“But there were no more killings that matched. They never saw the symbol again. Well, Juan’s partner didn’t. Juan died a few weeks into the investigation.”
Jax didn’t ask the question he most wanted to know the answer to right now: What had happened to her husband?
Instead, he glanced from Ben to Anderson. He knew them well enough to recognize their waning interest. They didn’t think this was connected. But the symbol was unusual, an od
d series of interconnecting loops that he’d heard the agents say earlier didn’t mean anything they could identify.
“Any idea what the symbol means?” Jax asked Keara.
She shrugged. “Juan and his partner thought it was the killer’s own design.”
“How sure were they that the killer actually drew the symbol? Couldn’t it have been spray-painted before the murder happened?”
Keara shrugged, suddenly looking exhausted. “I didn’t ask for particulars. I just knew they’d determined it was put there by the killer. You can contact the Houston PD for more details. Juan’s partner is still there, as far as I know. I don’t keep in close touch with the department, but I don’t think the murder was ever solved.”
Ben nodded and Anderson wrote down the contact information for Juan’s partner, but Jax didn’t need to ask to know it was low on their list of priorities. They’d follow up—they were both good agents—but despite the strange symbol, they didn’t think it was connected. And he understood why. The symbol was too generic, the crimes too different. Besides, there were too many variables. They couldn’t even be sure the murderer in Keara’s husband’s case had been the one to draw the symbol. Alleyways were often filled with random graffiti, especially in a big city like Houston.
Keara stood, flinching in a way that told him that he wasn’t the only one who’d left that bar with injuries. The closed-off expression on her face said she wouldn’t welcome him asking about it, so instead he asked, “Are you okay to drive home? Desparre isn’t exactly close.”
“Out here, it’s about as close as you get,” she replied, her chin tilting up just slightly. “Thanks for the help,” she added, her gaze sweeping the three of them, lingering briefly on him before she headed for the door.
“The symbol is unusual,” Jax said once she’d left the hotel and it was just him and the agents in the brightly lit lobby.
“It’s not connected,” Ben said, rubbing a hand across his eyes.
“I’ll call the partner and follow up anyway,” Anderson added, “but Ben is right. It’s strange, but coincidences happen.”
Harlequin Intrigue April 2021--Box Set 2 of 2 Page 39