dark ops 3 - Renegade (24 page)

“Hell, no! I don’t want some toxic waste dump pit in my yard, much less risk some wild animal drinking it at night.” He pulled off his work gloves and tucked them in his coat pocket. “I gotta admit I’m confused, though. These came from my regular supplier, and I’ve never had any trouble before.”

That’s what the cops had told her. They suspected he’d set her up.

Phil swiped a bandanna over his forehead. “I’m not taking any risks with my puppies, though, until I get the professionals out here.” He gestured to the stark but clean trailer. “Want to go inside and have a Coke?”

“No thanks. We’re good.”

He leaned against the trailer. “How’s Boo?”

“The vet says he’ll be fine.” Jill winced at the lie and changed the subject fast. She pointed to the van. “Where did that come from?”

“Ah, yes. Thanks to your friend Mason here, I think Roscoe’s found a new home. A pal of yours from base heard about my doggies, and that kid Chuck Tanaka came by to check out my pack the other day. Now they’re here to pick up the winner.” Phil pointed up the road. “I never adopt out a dog on the first day. Gotta make sure it’s not an impulse thing. Everybody loves them on sight, you know.”

Mason nodded, his body angled perfectly for the listening device clipped inside his belt buckle, under his leather jacket. “A companion will be perfect for him, and the dog will sure have a lot of his attention while he’s waiting to get back up to speed to work.”

“That’s true,” Phil agreed. “But Roscoe can be much more than that. He’s a highly trained Labrador-collie mix. He can fetch items your friend can’t reach yet. He can also open doors and bark for help if his owner takes a fall. It’s a good match.” Phil waved for Jill and Mason to follow him. “Come on. They’re around back.”

She followed her stepfather around to the other side of the kennels. Chuck Tanaka leaned on both crutches today, a long-haired gold dog sitting at his feet. The physical therapist—Ferguson—stood off to the side, eying their third companion kneeling by the mutt.

Livia Cicero nuzzled the scraggly canine, cooing in Italian, threading her fingers through the long yellow fur. The group was too taken up in getting to know the mutt to notice that anyone else had arrived.

Stopping ten kennels down, Phil whistled low and long. “Nice of Chuck to bring his friends, huh? Can’t deny the truth. That’s a fine-looking woman. I don’t care for her music much, but I know who she is.” He grinned. “She likes dogs, too. I think she took a shine to little Peanut.” He pointed to a miniature poodle plus mystery mix, half-shaved while recovering from a skin disease brought on by neglect from his previous owner.

Phil’s besotted expression couldn’t be missed. It didn’t have to be twisted obsession. His reaction could be as simple as appreciating a person who took an interest in one of his more pathetic-looking creatures. That’s all it was. She couldn’t be wrong. She already hurt enough because authorities were listening in on the conversation, and covert cameras were searching around the place while she kept him occupied.

She looked at Phil. Something made her ask, “Are you okay?”

He shuffled his cowboy boots in the sand. “It’s probably nothing. Doesn’t even matter really.”

“Tell me anyway.” She hated pressing for answers, abusing his trust of her. Mason, standing next to her, kept his face impassive.

“I just don’t like the PT guy—Ferguson. He’s a tough customer. Didn’t even wince when he passed poor Peanut there.”

She looked back at the poodle with the shaved coat and skin red and raw from infection. Her arms ached to scoop up the little scamp.

Phil shook his head. “Never have trusted a person who doesn’t like animals. I was kinda surprised to see him. He doesn’t strike me as a military sort.”

“He’s not,” Mason interjected. “He’s a contract worker at the hospital. Rumor has it he wanted to enlist but didn’t pass the physical.”

“How sadly ironic,” Jill said, “given his career field.” She shifted her glance to the physical therapist holding a leather leash looped in his hands and idly snapping the strap while he waited for Chuck to finish greeting his new pet. “Uncle Phil, I thought you said it was Ferguson’s suggestion to get a helper dog.”

“Oh no. It was Tanaka’s idea. Ferguson just came along to offer input.” Phil rocked back on his heels, eying the group as the physical therapist hooked the leash onto Roscoe’s collar. “Well, girl, it was kind of you to come out and see if I needed any help, but my doggies and I are doing fine. As a matter of fact, I need to take care of settling Roscoe with his new family.”

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.

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

Damn.
Shivering, Jill tucked herself 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.