Attracted to Fire (16 page)

Chip didn't budge. “If I had anything to do with what just happened, then now is the time I'd be begging for mercy, right?”

“Don't cross me.”

“You need to understand when a man says he's innocent.”

“Inside.” Ash would like to do a little old-fashioned grilling and persuade him to confess.

Lindsay. His responsibility. No one would hurt her as long as he breathed.

Once they entered the house, Pepper stepped from the hall leading to the operation room, armed with the vacuum. Ash caught her glare. “Go pick tomatoes or something.”

“I beg your pardon.” She lifted her chin.

“Pepper, this is not a time to make me angry. The cleaning can wait.”

“Go ahead.” Chip stepped between her and Ash. “This is between the SAIC and me.” He walked inside the operation room with Ash behind him.

To think the snake thought he was in charge. Fat chance. “Sit down.”

Chip didn't budge. “I prefer to stand, unless we're talking across the table like two civilized men.”

Ash noted the confidence in the man's eyes. Not a single twitch of treachery in his body. “All right.” He pulled out a chair, and Chip did the same.

“Are you bringing out the waterboarding?”

Ash chuckled. “Depends on how quickly I could get you to a toilet.”

“Try something else. Like figuring out how someone cut the girth while I grabbed a bottle of water and the rest of you were still inside the house? How many minutes do you think elapsed?”

Ash had met Chip's kind before. Thought they had all the answers when they were hiding the truth. But he didn't look like he was lying. And he made sense. “I want to know why you slit the girth on Lindsay's saddle.”

“You can stop the Homeland Security tactics, A2Z.” Chip leaned over the table. “Use your head. Why would I do it when I'd be the only suspect?”

“Because you're cocky enough to think you'd get away with it. So let's get to the root of the problem. Who are you taking orders from?”

“Are you deaf? Better yet, do you have a polygraph in your briefcase?”

“I don't think it's necessary.”

“Find one. Because I'm telling the truth.”

“All right. If you didn't try to hurt Lindsay, then who did?” Ash settled back in his chair. He could break this guy.

“No clue. But we could time how long it would have taken for it to happen.”

Ash didn't want to admit that Chip had a good suggestion. “Let's do it.”

They walked outside, where Pepper stood on the porch with her arms crossed. Ash nodded at her. “You can have your domain back.”

“How generous. Remind me not to poison you.”

At times, he'd given her reason to kill him. But why didn't people understand Lindsay's safety hailed as his first priority? National security came next, and his team slid into third.

“The horses were tied here at the gate.” Chip pointed to the post that led into the corral. “Time me while I get a bottle of water.”

Ash looked at his watch.

“Do you want one?”

Ash glared at him. “You might poison me.”

Chip's brow raised. “It's a thought. But I'm not vindictive like Pepper.”

Ash studied his watch. “Go.”

Chip disappeared into the stables. Either the man was innocent or he'd planned the perfect storm. Ash considered the seriousness of potentially harming the daughter of the president of the United States, especially with the threats on her life. Not on his watch.

He'd call Warrington, but the man had pressures that Ash had no clue about, and finding who stood behind the car bombing, untraceable e-mails, and a drug runner who'd attempted entry into the new president's home consumed Warrington's attention.

For that matter, the president spent each morning learning about enemy activities, world conflicts, the state of the economy, military requests, and how he should respond to sundry problems and issues. The strength needed to lead this country would depress the strongest of men. Ash couldn't risk barging into the Shield's day through Warrington with something that could be nothing more than an accident or poor judgment.

He took a deep breath to clear his head. He'd send an e-mail to Warrington when he finished investigating what happened. Tomorrow additional agents would arrive, and crews would begin installing security upgrades appropriate for the president's daughter. Ash might rest a little easier then—but not until the stalker sat behind bars.

Someone had tried to kill the Shield in Atlanta. Could that have been an isolated incident, or was it somehow connected to the unsolved crimes of late? Meghan claimed Lindsay knew the force behind her personal threats, and fear of the culprit kept her quiet. Ash had discounted the theory because he thought Lindsay's brains were fried. Too often, she couldn't tell reality from hallucinations. But what if Lindsay had the answers? She'd worked hard under Dave's care. Appeared happier . . . except for her unwillingness to talk about the crimes. Why would someone want her dead?

Chip walked toward him carrying a bottle of water. “I took the same path as before. Got the water and took a look at the new colt. How long?”

“One minute, twenty seconds.”

“Long enough to cut the girth.”

“Did you see anyone before or after saddling the horses?”

Chip shook his head. “My mind was on other things.”

“Like what?”

Chip glanced toward the pasture, then back. “Agent Meghan Connors. She's enough to make me think about returning to the corporate world.”

Ash tried to ignore the green snake of jealousy weaving through him. “That's a discussion you need to have with her.”

“And ignore that you're interested in her too?”

Ash liked this guy even less. “Let's get back to the issue facing you.”

“Us, A2Z. You have a job to do, and someone tried to eliminate your protectee. She could have broken her neck. I don't appreciate being accused of a crime I didn't commit.”

Ash didn't need a reminder. “We didn't look for footprints outside the stables.”

“All right. Do you want my shoe size? I doubt we'll find a single thing. Whoever did this is smart enough not to leave evidence.”

Chip irritated him more each passing minute. The man had led a department of statisticians in Dallas, but not here.

Two hours later when the riders returned, Ash still didn't have any idea who'd sliced the girth. But he hadn't tossed aside the idea that Chip could be involved. The department-head-turned-rancher irritated him, and to think he was interested in Meghan. She wouldn't waste a single moment with him. Her intelligence put his to shame.

But worse yet, if Chip played an honest hand, who among them walked with a killer?

Chapter 23

Meghan woke from a deep sleep, every nerve alert. She listened and heard nothing. The green numbers on her nightstand clock illuminated 2:15. What had wakened her? When she was a child, her father said Satan did his best work in the wee hours of the morning, and if she wakened, then she needed to pray.

She blinked and glimpsed out the window at the star-studded sky. No sound or strange smells, just her body on alert.

Something touched her left cheek, and she brushed it off and rolled from the bed, grabbing her SIG on the way up. No one stood in the shadows. No one human anyway. Her gut feeling to be leery rose from the soles of her feet. She flipped on the overhead light.

About six inches from where she'd laid her head, a scorpion crept across her pillow—a striped-bark variety. Nasty. A true demon. Snatching one of her boots, she scooted the stinging devil from her pillow and crushed it. Good thing she always carried an EpiPen. Her reaction to a scorpion sting could have deadly implications—like an anaphylactic shock. Not a way she wanted to end her career.

She searched the ceiling above her bed, betting a month's salary that whoever had renovated the house had not nailed wire mesh across the air duct. First thing in the morning, she'd see that job was done. The local pest control would need to be called, and a work order written to add caulking and weather stripping. She cringed at the thought of involving more civilians in Secret Service business. Maybe Chip or Ethan could handle it.

The clock read 2:35, and she was wide awake. Glancing at what remained of the scorpion, she realized any hours left to sleep would be spent feeling invisible creatures crawling all over her body. Maybe she could get a little rest in the recliner downstairs. She reached for the quilt and sheet, shaking each one to make sure no more surprises awaited her. If Lindsay found one of these, she'd be in hysterics. Ash would probably unload his SIG on it.

Seemed odd that a man like Scottard Burnette, who grew up in Texas, would forget to take precautions against scorpions. Then again, when she'd checked the attic, the alarm system had contained faulty wiring, and she'd determined more than once that the remodeling contractor had skimped in other areas.

For certain, the first thing she needed was fresh air.

Ash threw back the sheet and swung his legs over the bed. No point lying there when he couldn't sleep. Especially when his mind raced about the threats made on Lindsay's life, the incident with her horse today, and the crimes committed in DC with no explanation. The slit girth baffled him. Not only had it been done under his nose, but the culprit walked among them. Never had the Secret Service looked so inept. On his watch.

The source had to be someone who had access to all that was going on at the Dancin' Dust and DC. But who? And why go to so much trouble over an addict with a history of lies and manipulation? What did that person have to gain? If Ash could figure out the motive, he could turn his mind toward thinking like the stalker.

Meghan said Lindsay was scared and knew more about the crimes than she claimed. He'd been over this before, and nothing came to mind but doubts about Lindsay's mental state. She'd always been paranoid. Of course, her behavior could be a manifestation of the withdrawal symptoms. He hoped she hadn't ruined her life, but neither did he want to think a member of his team was responsible.

Now that the nation had a new president, the urgency to find who'd initiated the crimes increased to mammoth proportions. A mastermind fueled the scheme, and if Ash gave in to his nagging feelings—a pounding in the back of his skull—he realized the problems went deeper than a drug dealer who hadn't been paid. Whoever had challenged the US government had sophisticated technology at their fingertips.

He walked to the dresser, listening to every creak in the wooden floor. Reminders. Always the reminders of how he'd failed in the past. He flipped open his laptop, and the screen flashed to life. Perspiration dampened his forehead, and his hands shook like an old man's. He rubbed them vigorously until a semblance of control allowed him to type in the address for the Secret Service secure site. Then his screen name and password.

The screen morphed into footage from seven years ago. Faces appeared on the screen, the same ones who stalked his nightmares. . . .

Agents Annette Hamilton, Joel Scott, and Ash were working undercover to arrest an LA gang leader by the name of Guerrero. The three agents had worked for two months on a counterfeit and drug ring and were finally ready to bring in the gang. The deal going down had police backup, and the agents were ready to celebrate.

Three of Guerrero's gang members stood behind him. Each one's chest was tattooed with a machete dripping blood. In the middle of the swap, Guerrero cocked his head, and the other three pulled out .357 Magnums. Joel attempted to reason with them until backup arrived. Annette's hand slipped inside her shirt. Ash hesitated, thinking Guerrero could be talked down. An instant later, a firefight broke out. Annette took two bullets, in the leg and back, that paralyzed her for life. Ash took two bullets to the shoulder, and Joel lay dead in a pool of blood. Ash blamed Annette for reaching for her weapon. LA police shot the three gang members, and Guerrero went to prison. But Joel was gone.

The truth hit Ash harder each time he viewed the scene. His hesitation was what killed Joel and wounded Annette. Never again on his watch. Never again. He exited the site, closed the lid, and stretched tired neck muscles. Nothing took away the nightmares.

God had given him a second chance to prove his worth, to keep those who led this country and their loved ones safe from jerks who had their own selfish agendas. That was his purpose. Each time he stopped a potential assassin, he redeemed his mistake. When he heard his nickname, he worked harder.

Redeem himself.

Protect others.

Keep his eyes and ears open to potential danger.

He blew out a sigh filled with regret, mostly about himself. His record sparkled with glowing commendations in the line of duty. No one complained about his job performance, and he had the potential of stepping into the presidential team. If he could stop telling himself he wasn't to blame for Joel's death, then maybe he'd believe it.