“Hey.”
“You should have your license revoked!” the man yelled.
“I’m so sorry.” Ethan looked at the blond standing next to him, apologizing profusely. Did he know her? Of course. Yes.
“My husband has been driving all night,” she said, “and I was supposed to keep him awake, but I fell asleep. I know we should have pulled over, but my mom …”
Tears slid down her cheeks. Ethan had never seen her cry. She looked like a sad angel. His angel. He wanted to protect her, take care of her. He put his arm around her. She put her face in his shoulder.
The man glared at them, but stepped back. His wife, a pretty woman devoid of makeup, took his arm. “Don’t make a scene, Ned. It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not,” the blond wept.
“Where are the kids?”
“Eddie is with them. It’s okay.” She smiled nervously at Ethan. “We’re sorry to bother you.”
The blond said-What was her name? Carrie? Annie? Kelly? No, nothing like that. Ethan couldn’t remember. She was a stranger.
“No, I’m sorry. Mom had a heart attack yesterday and we’ve been driving all night from Houston. I have to see her before-” She took a deep breath.
Ethan thought her mom was already dead. She wasn’t a stranger. He squeezed his temples. His head pounded like he had a hangover.
“Let’s go, honey. The coffee will keep us going until we reach San Francisco.”
“I thought we were going to Santa Barbara.”
She squeezed his arm so tightly he would have yelped, except it felt too good.
“San Francisco.” She shook her head and said to the strangers, “My mom moved last year. John never liked her, and-” More tears rolled out. “John, I need to go. Please.”
Who was John?
She pulled Ethan out of the restaurant and back to the truck. She had the keys.
“Get in the backseat and close your eyes. You are screwing everything up!”
Ethan obeyed. There was a blanket on the floor. He pulled it around him. He was so cold.
He fell asleep before they reached the interstate.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Megan called J. T. Caruso at seven Thursday morning while Hans was on the phone with Quantico and Father Francis was celebrating Mass in the church. At that moment, she didn’t know where Jack Kincaid was, and that was probably a good thing. She was too aware of his presence, of the way he looked at her, of his quiet arrogance and intense loyalty. The latter two reminded her too much of the men she respected more than anyone, her father and her brother. She’d instantly felt an odd kinship with the mercenary; yet at the same time was acutely aware that he was
“It’s five o’clock in the morning,” J.T. answered unceremoniously.
“I know.” She’d forgotten about the time difference. “It’s important, and I don’t have a lot of time.”
“Now you really owe me one. I’m going to be off-stride for the rest of the day.”
She doubted that. “I’m sorry.”
“Tell me.”
She filled him in on what she knew-and what she didn’t know. “I need information on Jack Kincaid, Francis Cardenas, and Jerry Jefferson,” she concluded. “I need to make sure that what I know is accurate.”
“Don’t you have paid staff to run background checks? I know budget cuts are hard, but I didn’t realize how bad.”
“Please, J.T. The wheels of the bureaucracy grind slowly. I need this information before I retire.”
He let out a brief laugh. “Kincaid. Common name. Jack. Even more common. Jerry Jefferson? Really, Meg. I’m good, but I need a little more.”
She looked at the notes she’d written when Hans had filled her in on the plane trip down the night before. “Jack Kincaid, thirty-nine, father is Patrick Kincaid, Senior, retired colonel, U.S. Army. His brother Dr. Dillon Kincaid is a civilian consultant for the FBI at Quantico. Jack enlisted when he was eighteen, based in Texas- Army Rangers. I don’t have anything about his service, except that he went to Fort Bragg at some point and trained for Delta Force. He left ten or so years ago and is now a soldier for hire based in Hidalgo, Texas.”
“What type of mercenary work?”
“Primarily hostage rescues in Central America, according to what I’ve learned, but I don’t have independent confirmation. He’s at least bilingual-Spanish and English-and I suspect he might know other languages.”
“Suspect?”
“He has a lot of books, not all in English and Spanish, and I don’t think they’re for show.”
“One of the Rogans should know of him. Why?”
“He’s a potential victim of our killer. And he has weaseled himself into my investigation.” She didn’t honestly believe Jack was a possible victim, though she suspected Francis Cardenas was in danger. But it sounded better than her simply wanting to know everything about Jack Kincaid because he’d gotten under her skin. Besides, she was running a murder investigation. She had every right to know about Kincaid.
“Anything else?”
She gave him what little she knew about Father Cardenas and his friend Jerry Jefferson. “Jefferson is supposedly still enlisted and stationed in Afghanistan. I need to make sure. If not-”
“He’s in danger.”
“Or a killer.”
“Is it always black or white with you?”
“Are there other colors?”
“You think a priest is involved?”
“I think he’s a target. I want to get him into a safe house, but he refuses to leave his church. Somehow thinks that because he’s a big bad former Delta warrior he’s invulnerable.”
“All of us special forces ‘warriors’ are invincible,” J.T. said. “I thought you knew that.”
She sighed. “Right. You bleed just as red as the rest of us, J.T. The four known victims were all Delta trained, I remind you. I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Kane yet.”
“Not yet. I’m on it, Meg. Be careful. Matt is ticked that you’ve been calling me and not him.”
“I’m thirty-eight years old, I don’t need to call my big brother every day.”
“But you’ll do it because he’ll worry.”
“Right, as soon as I can. Thanks, J.T.”
She hung up.
“So who has the privilege of giving my life a rectal exam?”
She jumped and whirled around. Jack Kincaid stood against the wall, trying to look casual yet was anything but. He was angry. She was embarrassed that she hadn’t noticed he was standing there. Talk about stealth …
“You’re a potential target, and-”
“Bullshit. All you had to do was ask me.”
“I don’t know
“You sure knew what to ask J.T. J.T. who? Some snot-nosed desk nerd at Quantico running me through his fancy computer database?”
“That would be Harrison Ng,” she retorted. “I decided to keep this off the books.”
“Off the books?” He took a step toward her. “Dragging my name, and my life, through some slimy private investigator? A former cop maybe? Your lover?”
“What’s with the attitude, Jack? You’d do the same thing in my shoes. And I’m not going to apologize for doing my job. I’m not going to violate your privacy.”
“You already have.”
