Pembrook was petite enough that even standing while most of the team was sitting didn’t give her much clearance over those assembled. But she didn’t need it. Pembrook had been with the Bureau for almost forty years, meaning they’d opted to keep her on past the regular mandatory retirement age. With her pale, lined skin and well-coiffed gray hair, she might look like someone’s sweet yet chic grandma, until you locked eyes with her. Then you knew exactly why the FBI had handpicked her to lead TCD—a rapid response team that could activate quickly and take on almost any threat.
Davis Rogers was still amazed he’d made the cut to join the team. He looked around the room at the other agents, with backgrounds ranging from the military like him to hostage negotiation and profiling to missing persons and computer hacking. He’d only been here for a few months. But they’d welcomed him into the fold fast, with the kind of camaraderie he’d only felt with his family—in and out of the military.
Normally he’d sit back and take the assignment the director gave him. He’d be willing to bide his time and prove himself, without any of the hotshot antics that had motivated many an army ranger. But not today. Not with this case.
He gritted his teeth as Hendrick Maynard stepped up beside Pembrook. Hendrick was their resident computer genius. With his tall, lanky frame and a face that was still battling acne, he looked young enough to be in high school, but that facade hid a genius mind and mature outlook.
Hendrick seemed more serious than usual as he pressed the handheld remote and started playing the video on the screen behind the director. The clip he played was one Davis had seen last night on the news and again this morning in slightly more detail on the YouTube version.
It started suddenly, in the middle of a firefight, with gunshots blasting in the background and sand whipping everywhere, the sound intense even over video. The soldier who’d been frozen on screen finished his fall and didn’t get up again. The camera made a quick scan of soldiers and Afghan locals going down, all of it hard to see through the sand that shot up from the ground like a tornado. Then everything suddenly cleared as the camera dived in for a close-up of a young soldier, eyes and mouth open with the shock of death. The camera panned down, a hand slapping against his chest as the bullet holes became visible.
The average American probably wouldn’t have realized from the brief footage that the soldier had been wearing full body armor. But somehow the news station had known. They’d also known who’d been running the camera: decorated US Army captain Jessica Carpenter. Widow, mother of three, and as of 6:52 a.m. Tennessee time, a confirmed casualty.
Davis pictured her the way she’d looked a decade ago, the day he’d met her. Only a few inches shorter than his own six feet, with gorgeous dark skin and hair she’d had twisted up and away from her face in braids, she’d worn that army uniform with a confidence he’d envied. She’d been five years older, and with two months more military experience, it had seemed like much more. If she hadn’t been happily married, with a toddler and a new baby at home, he might have taken his shot with her.
Instead, they’d become friends. She’d even trained him early on, back before she’d become a captain and he’d headed for Special Operations. If he wasn’t sitting in this conference room right now, waiting for the chance to go after the people responsible for her death, he’d be flying to Mississippi to attend her funeral this weekend.
Davis squeezed the underside of the table to keep himself from slamming a fist on top of it. As he refocused, he realized Hendrick had turned off the video screen and taken a seat. Around him, agents were nodding thoughtfully, professionally. Only fellow agent Jace Cantrell—JC to the team—showed a hint of anger on his face. But JC had been military too. And once a soldier, always a soldier.
As in the Bureau, dying in the field was a possibility you accepted. You did whatever you could to prevent it, but if it happened, you knew you’d be going out doing something you believed in. But not like this. Not the way Jessica had died, trusting the military, trusting her training, trusting her equipment.
“I want to take the lead on this case,” Davis blurted.
Gazes darted to him: from profiler Dr. Melinda Larsen, silently assessing, suspicion in her eyes, as if she somehow knew he had a history with one of the victims. Always buttoned-up Laura Smith was quiet and unreadable, but her Ivy League brain was probably processing every nuance of his words. JC, staring at him with understanding, even though he didn’t realize Davis knew Jessica personally. No one on the team did.
“Is your personal investment in this case going to be a hindrance or a help?” Pembrook asked, voice and gaze steady.
Davis’s spine stiffened even more. She was talking about his army background. She had to be. But if she thought he was going to fidget, she underestimated the hell he’d gone through training to be a ranger for the army. “A help. I’m familiar with how the army works. And I’m familiar with the product. I’ve worn Petrov Armor vests.”
Petrov Armor had supplied the body armor Jessica and her team had been wearing during the ambush. That armor—supposedly the newest and best technology—had failed spectacularly, resulting in the deaths of all but three of the soldiers and one of the locals. In his mind it wasn’t the insurgents who had killed Jessica and her team. It was Petrov Armor.
He didn’t mention
