Kate hadn't bothered to stop in and see him off.
As for Lou, he'd finally stopped yelling at her when he'd realized both she and Ruger required a few stitches.
Almost two weeks later, they were both healing nicely, and Kate was well on her way to making good on her first promise to Thomas Burke. The Army was in the midst of clearing Staff Sergeant Holmes' name and posthumous reputation. Even better, Holmes' remains were on track to be excavated and reinterred at Arlington before the year was out. She'd had Burke's ashes scattered over the countryside as per the request Burke had also enclosed in the package he'd mailed to her.
As for her second promise—
Kate stared at the pair of black coffins in front of her. The closer one belonged to Grant, the farther one to Abel. The funeral had finished an hour ago. The minister, Lou, Seth and the rest of the department had left soon after—including, to Kate's surprise, Detective Arash Moradi from Mazelle.
Liz was still at her side though.
Along with Kate's guilt.
She wasn't sure she possessed the strength to turn around, walk out of the graveyard, climb into her waiting Durango and make good on that second promise to Burke.
But she had to try.
"It's almost eleven. I could use some lunch. Interested?"
Kate shook her head. But she did look up and finally meet her friend's reddened stare. "I have something I need to take care of. How about dinner later tonight? My place, say around six?"
"You bet." Liz smiled, carefully linking arms with Kate's rapidly healing one as they turned together to cross the cemetery so the men waiting to finish with the graves could take over. "But only if I get to cook."
Kate laughed. It came out rusty, but it felt good. "On behalf of Ruger—and especially Ruger's stomach—I accept."
After all, the Shepherd was the real hero of it all.
They reached the parking lot all too quickly. Kate was grateful when Liz paused beside the Durango.
It forced her to get inside and start the engine.
She pulled out of the lot, setting aside her memories of Grant and Abel as she reached the highway. She'd honored the good times while she was at their funeral, but it was time to let both men go—and let Max back in.
The night Burke had died, she'd returned home from that clinic to find a seriously stressed-out Liz sitting on her couch and Max's records in the inbox on her computer, still unopened. Once Liz had calmed down and left to check in on her dad, Kate had finally faced the write-up for that fateful day four years ago. Attached to the write-up had been a transcript of the video the terrorists had been making when she'd stumbled into that room moments before Max's beheading.
Burke was right. As much as she hated to admit it, there wasn't anything she could've done to save her friend. But somehow, the knowledge hadn't helped.
Maybe Liz and Burke were right, and what she was about to do today would help. At the very least, it might give her a place to start.
Kate turned off the highway as she reached Little Rock. Several more turns and she arrived at her destination: Fort Leaves.
Scraping together her courage and her nerves, she parked the Durango in the hospital's sparsely populated, Saturday-morning lot and smoothed her fingers over the set of dog tags she'd received two weeks earlier as she got out of the SUV.
With the tags' help—and Max's spirit—the trip into Fort Leaves and up one of the hospital's main elevators was easier than it had been the first few times she'd been here.
She reached her floor and that outer office before she was ready though, tensing when the door opened before she had a chance to knock. The man she'd come to see stood on the other side, holding that towering, stainless-steel thermos he'd had on his desk two weeks earlier.
His lopsided smile was a bit baffled, but friendly and welcoming. "Deputy Holland. I didn't expect to see you today. Then again, I know from experience how things can crop up during the course of an investigation, even on a weekend."
"Good morning, Dr. Manning. That's...not why I'm here. The case, that is."
"No?" The shrink's snowy brows shot up, but they were suddenly and embarrassingly full of hope.
It gave her the courage to continue.
Kate nodded at his thermos. "I'm guessing you finished your paperwork. I don't want to hold up your plans—and it is short notice—but...do you have time to talk?"
"Absolutely. Come on in."
The door to the outer office swung wide as Kate took a deep breath and followed the shrink inside.
Are you ready for
Kate’s next gripping adventure?
IN THE NAME OF:
He’ll do anything for his country
…even murder.
* * *
CLICK HERE for details on IN THE NAME OF, Book 2 in the Hidden Valor Military/Veterans Suspense Series.
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Did You Know?
I’m also writing an active-duty
Army CID Detective series.
Here’s a sneak peak for
* * *
BLIND EDGE
Book 2 in the Deception Point
Military Thriller Series
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 had been carved into their souls. A second later, the night breeze shifted—and 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 if the bastard 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 prey 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.
And he'd just murdered the woman he loved.
Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
* * *
If I should kill before I wake,
I pray the Lord it's my enemy I take.
Chapter 1
Military Police Station
Fort Campbell, Kentucky
US Army Special Agent Regan Chase stared at the five-foot fir anchoring the corner of the deserted lounge. A rainbow of ornaments dangled from the tree's artificial limbs along with hundreds of twinkling lights, each doing its damnedest to infect her with an equally artificial promise of home, hearth and simpering happiness. Fifteen months ago, she might've succumbed. Tonight, that phony fir simply underscored the three tenets of truth Regan had crashed into at the tender age of six. One, no one sat around the North Pole stuffing sacks with free toys. Two, reindeer couldn't fly. And three, if there ever had been some jolly old geezer looking out for the boys and girls of the world, he'd been fired for incompetence a long time ago.
The current proof was handcuffed to a stall in the military police station's latrine, attempting to purge what appeared to be an entire fifth of nauseatingly ripe booze. Unfortunately, the majority of the alcohol had long since made it into the man's bloodstream. Even more unfortunate, Regan had no idea whose bloodstream said booze was currently coursing through.
Not only had their drunken John Doe been arrested sans driver's license and military ID, he'd stolen the pickup he'd used in tonight's carnage.
Regan turned her back on the tree and headed for the coffee table at the rear of the lounge, sighing as she sank into one of the vinyl chairs. She reached past a bowl of cellophane-wrapped candy canes to snag the stack of photos she'd queued into the duty sergeant's printer upon her arrival. The close-up of the stolen pickup's silver grill splattered with blood flaunted its own obscene contribution to the night's festivities. The scarlet slush adhering to the tires beneath provided even more proof of yet another Christmas shot to hell.
Make that crushed.
Regan studied the remaining dozen photos. From the angle and depth of the furrows running the length of the snowy street, John Doe hadn't tried to slow down, much less swerve. Instead, he'd plowed into a trio of teenagers making the rounds of Fort Campbell's senior officer housing and belting out carols to the commanding general himself. One of the boys had suffered a broken leg. Another had dislocated his shoulder as he'd tried to wrench his younger brother out of the way of the truck's relentless headlights. Unfortunately, he'd failed.
As far as Regan knew, the kid was still in surgery.
She should phone the hospital. Find out if he'd made it to recovery. She was about to retrieve her cellphone when the door opened. A lanky, red-haired specialist strode in, a ring-sized, gift-wrapped box in his left hand, the naked fingers of a curvaceous blond in his right.
The specialist paused as he spotted Regan. Flushed. "Sorry, Chief. Thought the lounge was vacant."
He held his breath as he waited. Regan knew why. She'd transferred to Fort Campbell's Criminal Investigation Division two weeks earlier. Not quite long enough for the resident military policemen to know if CID's newest investigator had a poker up her ass regarding midnight rendezvous while on duty, even on holidays.
Regan scooped the photos off the table, tucking them into the oversized cargo pocket on the thigh of her camouflaged Army Combat Uniform as she stood. She scanned the name tag on the soldier's matching ACUs as she grabbed her parka and patrol cap. "It's all yours, Specialist Jasik. I was about to leave for the hospital."
Why not?
She wouldn't be getting a decent statement until their drunken Doe sobered up. Given the stunning 0.32 the man had blown on their breathalyzer, that would be a good eight hours, at least. If the man didn't plunge into a coma first.
Jasik relaxed. He led the blond to the couch as Regan passed. "Thanks, Chief. And Merry Christmas."
Regan peeled back the velcroed grosgrain covering of her combat watch and glanced at the digital readout: 0003. So it was—all three minutes of it. Though what was so merry about it, she had no idea. But that was her problem. Or so she'd been told.
Regan returned the salutation anyway, donning her camouflaged parka and cap as she departed the lounge. Nodding to the duty sergeant, she pushed the glass doors open. Icy wind whipped across a freshly salted walk, kicking up snowflakes from the two-foot banks scraped to the sides. The flakes stung her eyes and chapped her cheeks as she passed a pair of recently de-iced police cruisers at the head of the dimly lit lot.
By the time Regan reached her Explorer, she was looking forward to the impromptu hospital visit. It would give her a chance to stop by the ER and commiserate with Gil. Like her, he had a habit of volunteering for Christmas duty.
For an entirely different reason, though.
Regan unlocked her SUV. Exhaust plumed as she started the engine. Grabbing her ice scraper from the door, she cleared the latest layer of snow from her front windshield. She was finishing the rear when an ear-splitting wail rent the air.
Ambulance. On post.
Judging from its Doppler, it was headed away from the hospital.
The police station's door whipped open, confirming her hunch. A trio of ACU-clad military policemen vaulted into the night, their combat boots thundering down the salted walk. The first two MPs peeled off and piled into the closest de-iced cruiser. The third headed straight for her.
Regan recognized the soldier's tall, ebony frame: Staff Sergeant Otis T. Wickham.
They'd met in front of their drunken Doe's blood-splattered pickup, where they'd also reached the conclusion that Doe's intended target did indeed appear to be the trio of caroling kids and not the commanding general. One look at the tension locking the MP's jaw as he reached her side told her that whatever had gone down was bad.
He popped a salute. "Evenin', Chief. There's been a stabbing in Stryker Housing. Victim's a woman. The captain wants you there. No specifics, but it's gotta be bad. The husband called it in. Man's Special Forces—and he was downright frantic."
Regan tossed the ice scraper inside the Explorer. "Get in."
Wickham wedged his bulk into her passenger seat as she hit the emergency lights and peeled out after the shrieking cruiser. They fishtailed onto Forest Road, neither of them speaking. It was for the best. Four-wheel drive or not, it took all her concentration to keep up with the cruiser as they reached the entrance to Fort Campbell's snowbound Stryker Family Housing. The strobes of the now-silent ambulance bathed the neighborhood in an eerily festive red, ushering them to a cookie-cutter brick-and-vinyl duplex at the end of the street.
Regan brought the SUV to a halt within kissing distance of the cruiser and killed her siren.
Doors slammed as she and the MPs bailed out.
She recognized the closest as the gift-bearing soldier from the lounge. Specialist Jasik had traded the curvaceous blond for a black, thirty-something private. Staff Sergeant Wickham motioned Jasik to his side. The private headed for the end of the drive to round up the pajama-clad rubberneckers. Life-saving gear in hand, a trio of paramedics waited impatiently for the official all-clear from the MPs.
Regan withdrew her 9mm Sig Sauer from its holster at her outer right thigh as Wickham and Jasik retrieved their M9s before killing the volume on their polic
e radios. Save for the crush of snow, silence reigned as they approached the duplex. A life-sized Santa cutout decorated the front door. A cursory glance at the knob revealed no obvious sign of forced entry. The brass plate above the mail slot provided a name and a rank: Sergeant Patrick Blessing.
Regan moved to the right of Santa's corpulent belly as Wickham assumed the left. Jasik was moving into position when the door opened.
Three 9mms whipped up, zeroed in.
A woman froze in the entryway. Roughly five feet tall, Hispanic, mid-twenties. She was dressed in a long-sleeved pink flannel nightgown and fleece-lined moccasins. Given her wide eyes and rigid spine, she was more startled than they. But she wasn't Mrs. Blessing. Though her cuffs were splattered with blood, the woman appeared uninjured. Definitely not stabbed.
She swallowed firmly. "She—uh—Danielle's out back. I live next door. My husband's a medic." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "He's with them now."
Regan lowered her Sig. The MPs followed suit as the woman waved them in.
Regan tipped her head toward Wickham. She might be senior in rank, but right now, she was junior to the staff sergeant's on-post experience. That included knowledge of Stryker's floor plans. Protocol dictated they assume the suspect was on the premises, possibly controlling the actions of the medic's wife—and search accordingly.
Wickham clipped a nod as he and Jasik headed down the hall.
Regan caught the neighbor's gaze. "Stay here."
The relief swirling into her tear-stained face assured Regan she would. The woman had already seen more than she wanted, and it had shaken her to her core. As Regan passed through the kitchen to join Wickham and Jasik at the sliding glass door in the dining room, she realized why the neighbor was so rattled.
The Garbage Man Page 34