Sudden Death

until we got there, unless you don’t need to see it. For us, we can take the report.”

“Same here,” Megan said, “but I’d like to observe.”

Hern said, “We’ll meet you at the rectory in thirty minutes.”

They shook hands, and Hans and Megan left. When they drove up to the rectory, Jack stood on the front porch looking at the sky. “The rain finally came,” he said.

The first fat drop fell from the sky as Megan got out of the Jeep.

“Did you learn anything?” he asked.

“Plenty,” Megan said. “Were you going to tell me about the interviews you conducted, or was I supposed to learn about your private investigation from the police chief’s reports?”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t learn anything that you can use.”

“What were you expecting to find? Fingerprints? A receipt from the local motel? And how do you know what I can use? How many murders have you investigated? How many have you solved? This is my responsibility, not yours, and I will not allow anyone to withhold information without serious consequences.”

Jack stepped forward. Within seconds the rain turned from fat droplets to a downpour. “Scout is my responsibility. Don’t think for a minute that I’m going to back down. If I thought anything I learned was important, I’d have-” He stopped.

“What?” Megan demanded.

“Scout’s tags.”

She blanched. “How do you know about the dog tags?”

“What do you know?”

She raised an eyebrow and didn’t say anything. If this arrogant soldier thought she owed him any explanation or information …

Jack said, “For what it’s worth, I planned on telling you about the missing tag, but with the events last night, it slipped my mind.”

“Tag? One tag was missing?” Just like Price.

“Scout had only one tag-the other was pulled when he went down four years ago on his last mission. Fell off a cliff, broke his back. They couldn’t move him without a chopper, so pulled a tag just in case. So he wore only the one, and it wasn’t on his body. No chain, no tag. Is that the same as the others?”

“Not exactly. Price was missing one of the two tags, and the killers sent it to me. But Johnson and Perry- Johnson’s sons have his tags, and I’m still trying to get word from Vegas about Perry.”

“Why would the killers take Scout’s identification? To dehumanize him?” Jack tensed.

“Maybe they’re planning on sending it to someone else. Or to me.” She frowned. “Hans, what’s going on here? I’d think they were keeping souvenirs, but they’re not. They’re using them for something.”

Hans said, “We’re getting drenched. Let’s talk about this inside.” He walked into the rectory, expecting them to follow.

Jack and Megan stared at each other in the rain.

Her anger had dissipated, surprising her. Jack was used to being in charge, but it didn’t bother her because even when he was pushy, he wasn’t manipulative. So much like her father, her brother-she felt as if she already knew Jack Kincaid and how his sharp mind worked. It was comfortable, like meeting up with an old friend after years apart.

“I’m sorry,” Jack said. “I should have told you last night. I meant to.”

“I’m sorry I snapped. I know you feel responsible for Scout, but we’re on the same team.”

“Truce?”

“Truce.”

Her smile faltered when Jack reached out and brushed back strands of her hair that had fallen out of her knot. Her breath caught in her throat as she looked in his eyes. His dark stare was so intense, so powerful, that for a moment she was mesmerized, caught in a trap she didn’t want to escape. His rough fingers skimmed her face, down her neck, a light touch that made her shiver in anticipation of more.

When his hand dropped to his side, Megan could finally let out her breath.

Jack said, “I’ll fill you in on everything I did yesterday. I don’t know if it’s going to help, but it’s worth a shot.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Ethan woke to nothing.

No movement, no noise. He froze and listened. Distant cars moving fast. Birds chirped and squawked. A motor, but not the truck.

He sat up, looked around. Where was she? She’d left him. Deserted him. Just like the army.

The gunfire was so loud but unreal at the same time. Pop-pop-pop. Poppoppoppoppop. A machine gun spewing out bullets. One nicked Ethan in the arm. He looked down and saw blood. Just a bit. Nothing to worry about.

He was in the middle of a firefight! He wished he had a camera, but on this clandestine mission cameras were forbidden. Adrenaline rushed through his veins. His first real firefight. He pulled out a notebook and rapidly jotted down words and phrases. 103 degrees. Dry and dusty. Arid. Flashes of gunfire. Brows beaded with sweat and tension. A precision team. Well oiled. Well trained. America’s elite. Fighters. Killers. Comrades. Oh, that was good!

“What the fuck are you doing?” one soldier hissed. “Stay put! You already almost got us all killed, dipshit.”

He nodded, eyes wide, and went back to his hiding spot. They didn’t like Ethan, he had known it from the beginning. Didn’t want him to be here, didn’t want to see the truth in print. Continuing to write, he thought of an opening line.

The first gunfight of the day was right out of a Hollywood movie. Heat, heroes, and panic. Special forces were brave, but fear ate at their resolve like …

Like what? Come on, think!

He stayed hidden, writing, the gunfire moving farther away. Shouts, then silence with the occasional report of a rifle. He liked that phrase; he had to be wary and not use it more than twice in the article.

Pulitzer Prize, baby, it was within his reach …

Silence.

Ethan peered out from the cavity of the rocks. The air reeked of gunpowder. And blood.

The soldier, he couldn’t remember his name, who had been assigned to “babysit” him (as he lamented), was dead. There was too much blood for him to be alive. And his head … half of it was gone.

Ethan swallowed and looked around.

Where were the others?

They’d left him? Left him with a dead body?

He heard a helicopter in the distance, coming closer. He relaxed. They were coming back for him. He stepped out of his hiding place and looked skyward, ready to wave them down.

They came out of the woodwork like termites. Dozens of them, men wearing traditional Taliban headdress, holding guns. Rifles. Handguns. Knives. These were not Americans. They were the enemy.

Ethan thought he was going to die. He put his hands on his head and waited for the bullets to penetrate his body.

Make it fast, God. I don’t like pain.

He didn’t learn until later what pain really was.