Renegade Page 7

  SIX

  Lee Drummond charged down the main hallway in Mason Randolph’s test squadron, rounded a corner, and slammed smack into someone stupid enough to try to juggle coffee and a BlackBerry. Scalding-hot java splashed from Gucci’s paper cup onto Lee’s blouse.

  Gucci jumped back to avoid getting burned. Lee wasn’t so lucky. Pain fired deep.

  “Oh God, Dr. Drummond, I am really sorry.” Gucci tucked aside her BlackBerry and pulled three neatly folded tissues from the sleeve pocket on her flight suit. “I would dab it for you, but that would be, uh, rather awkward.” Gucci waved toward Lee’s shirt.

  Damn it. Lee plucked at the fabric, rage steaming hotter than the drink. This was her favorite silk blouse, and now it was likely ruined. Just because she was a PhD engineer didn’t mean she had to dress like a nerd. She spent a lot of time and money on her clothes.

  Of course, she’d learned to expect the misconceptions. When most people read her byline on scholarly pieces—Dr. Lee Drummond—they assumed she was a man. It wouldn’t have occurred to anyone that the young genius PhD who’d written groundbreaking papers pioneering new ideas in explosives could actually be a female—Ashlee, actually.

  Lee took the tissues and blotted the pink silk. “I can take care of it myself. Thank you.”

  “I’ll have it dry-cleaned for you.” Gucci threw away her cup in an industrial bin. “That looks like an Ann Taylor.”

  “It is.” Lee sniffed back some of her anger. At least somebody had noticed her clothes. Anger cooling faster than her stinging skin, Lee reminded herself why she was here in the first place—because of Gucci.

  The rumor mill had it that Werewolf and Gucci had been called into a closed-door briefing. No such invitation came Lee’s way when they should all be desperate for her opinions about the incident two days ago. Her ire heated up a notch again.

  She might not be an active duty aviator in this squadron, but by God, she was a civilian contractor for them, with the highest level of security clearance. They needed her. “How did the meeting with Colonel Scanlon go?”

  Gucci blinked fast, tucking to the side to let other foot traffic in the hall pass by. She ducked her head and lowered her voice. “You know about the meeting?”

  “I was consulted beforehand. It’s my equipment, after all, but I had a prior appointment and couldn’t make it over until now.”

  “Oh, right, of course you’re in the loop. We weren’t able to add anything new, though. The whole in-flight incident really has them stumped.”

  Good. Lee suppressed a smile. “That’s too bad.”

  Mason didn’t have a clue, and he wouldn’t, right up to the time she ruined his career in the middle of next week’s high-profile gathering. She hadn’t gotten this much satisfaction since she was nine years old in high school and realized she could pay back the girl who’d beaten her in the race for class president.

  Lee wadded the tissues in her hand. “Is there any fallout from local authorities?”

  “There doesn’t appear to be a problem, although I think the colonel’s a little concerned about why that camo dude was so deep in the testing range.”

  A simple phone call with an anonymous—and false—tip about the serial killer had sent Jill Walczak running. “Security’s not something to mess with around here, that’s for sure.”

  “Amen, sister.” Gucci pulled out her BlackBerry and glanced down, reading. “Hmmm . . . Gotta run. Hey, if the coffee stain doesn’t come out, let me know, and I’ll get you a new shirt. Ann Taylor’s even having a sale right now, so I could buy you two for the price of one.” Gucci smiled apologetically. Genuinely.

  “Not necessary. It was an accident.”

  And lucky for Gucci, she’d taken the time to be sincerely nice. Not that an apology would have saved the high school class president from her injuries. Lee had been too young back then to understand the difference between good people and bad people when she’d rigged a science experiment to bubble acid out of a test tube, scarring the pretty new class president’s arm.

  Things were different now. She was wiser, more mature. She had a code. She lived by logic these days. Only those in the wrong deserved punishment. If ever someone deserved to pay, it was Mason Randolph.

  And Jill Walczak? The lady cop had proved useful once. Perhaps she could be useful again for dealing with another increasingly infuriating problem.

  Sitting at her corner desk in the trailer offices, Jill opened a fifth computer file to go along with the four other records on victims of the serial killer—one woman attacked, three people murdered in the past year—outside of Las Vegas. All mutilated. Sometimes she wondered why she’d decided to go into law enforcement. She’d expected less gore and more intrigue in switching from the police department to contracting with the company that hired camo dudes.

  So much for expectations. She shoved aside the half-eaten bag of baked barbecue chips.

  This latest murder had only been discovered an hour ago. The press hadn’t even caught wind of it. Yet. So far the media coverage had been mostly local. This latest killing would send the whole thing national, inviting copycats from all over everywhere.

  She scrubbed a hand over her gritty eyes, not that she expected to wipe away the image or feel any better rested. Body number four had been discovered while she was in the hospital. The murdered female had been dead for less than two hours when discovered just before sunup, when she and Mason Randolph had been pretending not to know the other was still awake in quarantine.

  Now she wouldn’t even need to check his flight log. He couldn’t be the perp, since she could attest personally to his location during this new, fourth killing. She tamped down twinges of relief over his innocence. She needed to get her priorities in order. A woman was dead, a military wife and mother of a young child.

  Her boss had alerted her to the file on victim number five the minute she’d walked through the door. Now Thomas Gallardo paced around the double-wide trailer that housed their main office deep in the desert. They had smaller, single-wide outposts for housing surveillance equipment and space for an occasional coffee break, since they were so far removed from any fast-food row. She ate most meals in the truck, however. As the only female in a so far predominantly male profession, she didn’t want to be seen as slacking off.

  Thomas paused by the table with a coffeepot and two microwaves. He’d trimmed his hair into a super-short buzz cut as his hairline started its journey backward. The overall effect was of a man confident in himself, no hiding behind a comb-over. “The freak is really ramping up on the violence.”

  Jill clicked through the file to the first photo, even though she’d already studied it so hard she’d burned the image into her brain. A dark-haired woman in her late twenties lay in her backyard, eyes wide in a death stare. Her sleek pink workout suit was slashed, her wounds administered post mortem just like the others. “She also had the same nail-sized fatal wound penetrating her temple.”

  That detail had not been released to the public.

  “That’s the only consolation I can find in a case like this. At least the victims die fast before he mutilates them.”

  Her finger circled the photo on the screen, along a pattern in the desert backyard where landscaping rocks had been swept away to create the signature swirls around her corpse. Only by the third killing had they made the connection with those rings. They’d gone back and reviewed photos from the earlier crime scenes, and sure enough, the round pattern had been left every time, growing larger. “How many tips have we received on her murder?”

  “We stopped counting an hour ago. I moved Rhonda to one of the outlying trailers and transferred all calls to that number. The nonstop ringing was driving me batty. I hear that downtown they’re getting ten times as many.”

  Just what this area needed. A killer on the loose who seemed determined to stir up every alien conspiracy loon, which left authorities wading through an astronomical amount of crap looking for a lead. “There’s no way w
e have enough manpower to investigate all of them in any timely fashion.”

  “We’ll pass everything along to the local sheriff’s department like I did with the other three killings, and keep an eye out for what we can.”

  She minimized the file, her screen saver rippling with the ocean waves of an island paradise she’d never seen in person. “I want to see copies of the notes on all the calls.”

  “Sure. It’ll be your lost sleep, not mine. Actually, you’ll have the afternoon free, since I don’t have a vehicle for you yet. The truck you were driving when you stumbled on that flier has been repoed by the air force. They said once they’re sure it’s been decontaminated, we can have it back.”

  “I’m sorry for the inconvenience. I know we’re already short of vehicles this month.” They seemed to be suffering from an outbreak of mechanical issues, so much so that their in-house mechanic was being quizzed.

  “We’re pulling some of the older Jeeps out of retirement. We should be fine as long as there aren’t any high-speed chases.” He held up a set of keys. “Have a nice evening shift.”

  “I’ll try.” She clicked off her computer and snagged the keys from his fingers. The newer trucks definitely had better pickup than the older Jeeps with a couple hundred thousand miles on them.

  “This Mason Randolph guy, do you think he could be our killer?”

  “He says he wasn’t even in the country when victims number three and four died, and of course he was with me in quarantine during the fifth crime.”

  “Okay, sounds like he’s in the clear. All the same, go ahead and document his alibi in case this fifth case turns out to be a copycat.” Thomas hesitated in the doorway. “I just hate to think about you taking down this sick bastard all by yourself.”

  She tamped down resentment over the implication that she was more vulnerable as a woman. Mason hadn’t doubted her strength for a second—a surprise strength she’d found when she’d started jogging alongside Uncle Phil her senior year in high school. “I’ll be careful.”

  “I’m just glad you’re all right.”

  “Thanks, boss. Me, too.”

  There had been a time she called him by his first name, back when they’d both worked for the local sheriff’s department. She’d even considered dating him. Ten years wasn’t that much of an age difference, after all. But then he’d transferred to this job and been promoted outside her realm.

  He stayed planted in her path, crowding her space. “Next time, call it in before charging off on your own. And before you get your hackles up, this has nothing to do with your being a female.” He leaned closer. “I don’t like the idea of any of my people out there without backup.”

  She struggled not to back away defensively. That would only draw attention to an awkwardness she hoped was only her imagination. “Will do, boss.”

  The sound of tires crunching gravel in the parking lot snapped his attention. Thomas looked over his shoulder, giving her the chance to step past.

  He backed up just as the front door opened in the reception area, security buzzer sounding to announce the new arrival. Mason Randolph walked into the lobby, skimmed his fingers over the empty secretary’s desk, and stopped to wait by a framed grid map.

  Her stomach knotted. What the hell was he doing here?

  “Mason?” she called from behind him. “Is there news on the crash at the hospital?”

  “Hello, Jill.” He swept off his blue air force hat. “I’m afraid not.” He turned to Thomas. “I’m Sergeant Mason Randolph, the guy responsible for keeping her in quarantine last night.”

  “Thomas Gallardo,” he thrust out his hand. “Jill Walczak’s boss.”

  Thomas and Mason shook hands, Thomas assessing and Mason seeming as laid back as ever. Did the guy get worked up over anything? If he started playing with the equipment here—a vest, ammo belt, and radio hanging on the wall—Thomas would blow a gasket.

  A memory flashed of Mason’s raw pain and his hoarse shout when he’d thought his crew died in the desert.

  Thomas rocked back on his heels. “What was it you were doing out there in the first place?”

  “Like I told your camo cop here, I was flying a regular old cargo drop, and things went to hell. I got caught in some crosswinds and landed where I shouldn’t have.”

  “That’s what she said.”

  Did Thomas question if she’d told him everything? Did he suspect her?

  “Your people sure are Johnny-on-the-spot. Walczak here showed up as I was still kicking free of my parachute.”

  “Lucky for you, given what happened with that explosion. Blister agent, right? Sure wish we could get more details from your base.”

  “Sorry to have tied her up with a hospital stay.” Mason neatly dodged answering the question.

  “I’m just glad we have her back safe and sound.”

  Thomas’s cell phone rang. He glanced down at the number and winced. “I need to take this. Nice to meet you, Randolph.”

  Once Thomas retreated into his office full of coyote skulls and cacti, Mason turned toward Jill. “It’s almost suppertime. How about we get something to eat?”

  A dinner date? “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I’m hungry. It’s the end of the workday, so you must be hungry, too. We both almost got hit by a truck this morning. Seems to me like you would want to know how that happened as much as I do.”

  He had insider info? That was a mighty big bone to waggle in front of her, and she could see from his eyes that he knew how much he tempted her, damn it.

  Still, she could hold her cool. “You’re not asking me out on a date?”

  He shifted closer, his green eyes narrowing. “Do you want me to?”

  She sagged back against the secretary’s desk. “Now I know you’re kidding.”

  He scooped up a photo cube from the desk and flipped it in his hand. “I’ve had a shit week, and I really need to turn it around.”

  “I’m working tonight.” She held up the keys.

  “Tomorrow then?”

  She wondered what he really wanted. Without question, he had some hidden agenda. Talking to him would make sense, but on her terms. “If you don’t mind being a third wheel, you can join me and Phil for dinner out tomorrow night.”

  “A threesome, huh?” He grinned wickedly, setting the cube back on the desk, his arm an inch away from her hip.

  “I was just getting to the point where I could tolerate you.” She flicked a hard glance at his arm then looked back in his eyes again. “Don’t blow it.”

  He smoothed his handsome face into somber contrition, a look totally negated by that stubborn cowlick ramping his military short hair up in the front.

  “Thank you kindly for the invitation to join the two of you.”

  Maybe Phil could tap into his old camo cop skills and help her get a read off Mason—while helping her keep her distance. “Yes, I’m supposed to meet him after he finishes up his shift.” She jotted down Uncle Phil’s new work address. “Meet us here.”

  “Will do.”

  She searched his face for what he really wanted and found . . . nothing. The man shielded his emotions well.

  What else did he have hidden inside his mind that he worked so hard to let no one see? He might have side-stepped all suspicion as the serial killer, but Mason had secrets she hadn’t even begun to tap. And if she wanted any chance at figuring out what was going on at night in Area 51 while the rest of the world slept, she could do worse than aligning herself with an air force sergeant who didn’t miss a trick.

  SEVEN

  “Trick or treat,” Mason shouted along with his crewdog pals as they stood on the doorstep of Chuck Tanaka’s apartment. This homecoming had been a long time coming and deserved celebrating.

  Chuck leaned on one crutch, standing in the entranceway to his new first-floor place, labeled moving boxes lined neatly along the wall. “Trick or treat? It’s January, you morons.”

  Mason hitched the two bags of groceries more s
ecurely in his arms as he angled sideways past Chuck, careful not to bump the cast on his pal’s leg. “January, huh? Guess we’ll have to unload all this junk here then.”

  Gucci and Werewolf trailed behind holding sacks of cupboard staples and premade meals. Vapor and Jimmy brought up the rear with their girlfriends in tow, everyone draping their jackets one at a time along the arm of the brown leather sofa. Mason had planned to bring Jill along, an idea that hadn’t panned out, but at least she’d agreed to dinner tomorrow. He would have liked to see how she interacted with his crew. That could have given him some additional insights for the colonel—

  Ah, damn.

  Who was he kidding? The woman intrigued him, and he wanted to see her again. He never had been particularly smart when it came to females. Something he would be wise to remember the next time he was on the receiving end of one of Jill’s carefully rationed smiles.

  Chuck backed out of the way, his crutch and one good foot in a gym shoe thud-thumping an uneven gait. “Leave it to Vapor to make sure no one goes hungry.”

  Vapor unloaded his bag on the counter—mustard, hot sauce, buffalo wings, pretzels, and doughnuts. “Don’t thank me.” He clapped Mason on the shoulder. “This was our buddy Smooth’s idea. His contributions are those frozen things he stored in Tupperware.”

  Chuck’s eyes narrowed, lifting a container labeled baked ziti. “Are you trying to poison me?”

  Mason opened the freezer and wrenched away the best freaking pasta this guy had never tried. “I like to cook. So sue me.”

  He hadn’t regretted turning his back on his parents’ millions, but he sure as hell missed the family chef. With limited funds, Mason had figured out how to make his own favorites from scratch. He’d even handmade the pasta while trying like hell to purge a certain Gingersnap from his mind.