He just needed a little more time to find Brandon Harris. The lieutenant hadn’t gone home as he was supposed to—where he would have died in what the coroner would have written off as suicide. In one afternoon, two seemingly separate incidents would have taken care of Harris and the Flores woman.
Except now things were more complicated. Complicated, but not unsalvageable. It wasn’t difficult to arrange accidents, better planned this time. He’d done it before for the greater good, to protect the weak, just as he’d done for his mother and younger brother.
His father had been a falling-down drunk. It had started with after-work mixed drinks to ease the tension of his corporate job, and his mom didn’t say anything because his old man was nicer drunk. Or at least he was in the beginning. But then cocktails turned into shots, and it wasn’t just after supper. Through the whole weekend. During lunch. Until his old man lost his job, which gave him an excuse to start drinking earlier, once he rolled his hungover ass out bed.
And he wasn’t so nice anymore.
Once they were the same size, he’d pushed his father down the stairs hard enough to break his neck. Cops hadn’t questioned it. Even if they were suspicious, they’d been called over a dozen times by the neighbors reporting domestic disputes. The police had likely looked the other way when it came to an abusive husband who happened to have stumbled down the steps.
Family secured, he’d left his mother and brother behind to join the military. No boot-camp sergeant could dish up anything even half as tough as what his drunken father had doled out with his fists, belt, electrical cords, whatever was in reach.
Nothing scared him anymore—except the prospect of losing power over his life again.
He’d survived wars, put himself through college, risen through the ranks by grit rather than pedigree. He wouldn’t give up all he’d achieved. This country needed what he had to offer.
So he had to keep this contained and low-key, ensuring his plans for the international satellite summit went smoothly this week. Too much was at stake. Too many lives.
A handful of people—Harris, McCabe, Flores—were dispensable for the greater good. And he had two of them here under this roof right now, which didn’t mean jack until he shut up Harris. And Rachel Flores was the connection to figuring out where the guy had disappeared to after his counseling session today. In a way, it was a damn lucky thing his people hadn’t succeeded in their ill-conceived plan to run the Jeep into the ocean.
Shoving away from the console, he tossed aside the headset. He couldn’t just sit here, cowering behind the techno equipment. He needed to be in the field, evaluating the enemies who could ruin his whole battle plan when he was so close to the goal. He needed to see everyone close-up, to read their eyes. He wouldn’t interfere in the process by stepping into Sylvia Cramer’s interview.
That actually could draw undue attention, not to mention piss her off. She could handle that end.
He strode down the hall, sparsely populated this late, which made the duo at the corner all the more conspicuous. Captain Bernard stood with the base commander, Colonel Mary Zogby. They exchanged salutes, as expected, and he kept right on walking. He and Mary avoided the hell out of each other, so it wouldn’t look at all strange for him to make tracks past her.
As long as he kept his cool, nobody would think twice about him watching the interview in progress. His assignment here might only be temporary until the new satellite project was successfully launched. But there was only one other person on the base as high ranking as himself, and then Mary Zogby one rank below him.
His combat boots pounded carpet all the way to the observation room. McCabe, Rocha, James—they all snapped to attention, standing chin up, shoulders back, chest out, eyes forward.
And hell yeah, the rush of power that brought never faded. He was in control, respected. Obeyed.
“At ease, gentlemen,” he said, stepping deeper into the room, Special Agent Cramer and that annoying Flores woman only a window away.
McCabe made eye contact first. “Good evening, General. What can I do for you, sir?”
Chapter 6
Liam relaxed—somewhat—as much as anyone could in front of General Ted Sullivan. The gray-haired veteran was a by-the-book workaholic with a reputation for running a tight ship. And he was clearly in control of whatever was going on here tonight. He’d already sent Wade Rocha and Jose James to another area to speak with Captain Bernard. Although why they had been called eluded him.
Now he stood in the small observation room with the general, waiting for Rachel’s interview to end. Liam respected the senior ranking official in some ways—for the most part, the general knew his shit, and no question, the guy could keep up on a training swim and run.
Except after a while working with him, it became apparent the guy didn’t get nuances. And there was no humor, no fun, and definitely no “marry one, screw one, kill one” games.
While crossing paths with Sullivan made this temporary stint at Patrick Air Force Base stressful, there was also a certain level of peace in knowing there wasn’t a chance of anything going wrong with the summit on this guy’s watch.
The micromanaging general wouldn’t allow it.
Which explained why he was here. The man almost never slept. And that could bode well for Rachel, which was all that mattered now.
Captain Bernard rejoined them quietly—no surprise, since a renowned butt-kisser would never be far from the highest-ranking person on the premises. Colonel Zogby stepped into the doorway and swept the room with an assessing glance before she stepped back out.
Sullivan leaned forward and punched in a code on the panel by the door. Sound flooded the observation room—Sylvia Cramer interrogating Rachel.
“Let’s go over what Brandon Harris told you one more time to make sure I have this right,” Sylvia said, even though it was clear the smooth agent wasn’t missing a thing. “Where were you when he first shared his suspicions? At his place?”
“At a dog park,” Rachel answered without hesitation, although her espresso-dark eyes turned flinty at the implication her meeting might have been more than professional or even casual friendship.
Something he hadn’t considered. But he should have. Damn it, she clouded his thinking.
On the other side of the window, Rachel held her ground. “And Brandon wasn’t in the car—my car—that tried to run us off the bridge.”
“How can you be sure?” Sylvia pressed. “It was dark. You were busy ducking bullets, even steering the Jeep.”
A few feet away, General Sullivan pressed a palm to the wall by the one-way mirror and leaned closer, intent on Rachel’s answer. His eyes all but bored through the glass into both women.
There was intense. And then there was in-tense.
“I’ve worked in stressful situations before with search and rescue missions.” A hint of irritation flashed in her eyes, but she held her cool, stroking Disco’s head. “Shifting rubble in the aftermath of an earthquake. Pitch-black woods in a storm, looking for a missing toddler. Tracking escaped convicts. I could go on and on. But the point is, I’m as sure as I can possibly be. Brandon Harris was not in the car that rammed us.”
“Fair enough.” Sylvia swept a hand along her immaculate auburn hair. “If we go with the assumption he wasn’t in the vehicle, then who else could be gunning for you?”
“Who else?” Rachel’s ability to hide her frustration with the extended questioning seemed to be wearing thin—which was no doubt Sylvia’s intention. “Who else besides the person in the military that I’m accusing of espionage? Individuals who could be in a crap ton of trouble if they’re discovered and Brandon’s story turns out to be true?”
“Even if Harris’s ramblings are accurate, there could still be another explanation for the threats against you, and we need to explore that. So think, please.”
“Besides Brandon? Completely separate from this…?” She blinked fast. “I hadn’t considered that.”
Liam frowned, stepping alongside the general to follow more closely. As much as he wanted to be in there with Rachel, wrapping himself around her like an armored tank if need be, Sylvia was making headway here.
“Okay,” Sylvia said, “assuming it’s not, what about the other people you’ve helped?”
Rachel’s lips went tight and thin with barely constrained anger. “Why does everyone assume that just because a military service member is suffering from PTSD, he or she is automatically going to start killing random people?”
“There’s no need to get defensive. I’m only exploring every possibility, so truly, you can calm down.”
“I will… when you stop patronizing me.”
Sylvia’s eyebrows shot upward, only a brief break in her cool before she smoothed her features again. “My apologies.”
“Apology accepted.” Her fingers resumed stroking her dog’s head, something he was fast realizing she did to calm herself. “It just freaks me out to think of how they would react to this kind of inquisition. They’ve already been through so much without having you hassle them.”
“Understood.” Sylvia thumbed a smudge on the side of her iPad absently. Or so it seemed. Nothing about this woman appeared anything but calculated. “Let’s change gears and go back to my earlier question about possible suspects. How are you supporting yourself? I don’t imagine there’s much money in therapy dogs for disabled vets.”
Liam angled closer to the window, wondering why Sylvia had backed off questioning Rachel about Harris when it was obvious she knew more than she was sharing. Had the general picked up on that as well?
“I teach dog obedience classes and I’m training service dogs. It brings in enough to let me do what I want with my life.” Rachel shook her loose curls back over her shoulders with a dry smile. “You may have noticed I’m not exactly into haute couture.”
Grinning back, Sylvia twisted one pearl earring. “And how do you afford the dogs?”
“My animals are all rescues from shelters.” She frowned, her eyes darting from side to side as her mind appeared to race. “Except…”
“What?” Sylvia pressed, her hand falling to her lap.
“Not all of the dogs are owner surrenders or strays. Some have been seized due to neglect or abuse by so-called humans—scum of the earth, actually. Charges were pressed and sometimes evidence of further crimes was found in the homes.”
“Ahhh…” Sylvia nodded. “And those people could have a grudge.”
“Do you want me to make a list? Sadly, it could well be a long one.”
“Eventually, yes, but right now, keep talking. Follow where your mind was headed. You’d be surprised what comes up when we don’t overanalyze.” No question, the interrogator had a knack for putting people at ease, which made them spill more.
Rachel leaned forward, her fingers gliding down Disco’s spine as the dog stayed immovable by her side. “Some of the dogs are what you would call pit bulls.”
“What I would call?”
“Pit bull is a catchall phrase for a number of different breeds—bull terriers, Staffordshire terriers, American bulldogs. People use the phrase pit bull pejoratively. But bulldogs make great therapy dogs because they bond so strongly with people. There are owners out there who will abuse that bond and turn them into fighters.”
“These people wouldn’t be happy about your taking their livelihood. Dog fighting is often tied to gang activity. Could one of them be out for revenge or trying to get an animal back?”
“That’s certainly possible… but I’m not able to give you anything helpful there. I know the history of the dogs I take in, but I don’t know names of their original owners.”
