Aimpoint by Candace Irving (best mystery novels of all time .TXT) 📗

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AIMPOINT.

Aimpoint

A US Army Detective Regan Chase Thriller: Book 1 in the Deception Point Military Thriller Series

Candace Irving

1

Your suspect is Special Forces.

Special Agent Regan Chase stared at the text on her cellphone, unable to move, unable to breathe, as the implications pummeled in.

Please, God. Let her be wrong. Perhaps her friend had jumped the gun.

Except, the text was from Mira Ellis. She never jumped. Not with her past. The woman was painfully cognizant of what could happen when a special agent piled incomplete evidence onto rumor and conjecture. Careers were ruined. Lives.

A follow-up text pinged Regan's phone, confirming her stateside colleague's usual zealous due diligence—and her own worst fears.

The warrant came through. See enclosed file. Off to see my boss. Will call soon.

Regan shot to her feet as she sent the file to her printer, rounding her desk to get a look at the papers already spitting out into the tray near the door of the tiny office deep inside the US Army's Criminal Investigation Division in Hohenfels, Germany. The door to the office opened as she retrieved the initial pages. Yet another special agent—though this one was Army CID like her—entered, his laptop tucked beneath the right arm of his slightly wrinkled dark blue suit.

Agent Jelling tipped his thatch of strawberry curls toward the papers in her hand. "That the ballistics report we've been waitin' on?"

"Nope. Different case. These are phone records—from Mira." She collected the remaining pages from the tray as the printer wound down, glancing at the customer details on the uppermost sheet as she headed for the only other piece of furniture in her spartan office. The work table. "Her warrant came through; they belong to Scott Platt."

The Army—and Navy's—newest suspect of the hour.

Although Mira wasn't Army, she had a vested interest in the case since she'd initiated it when a sailor had walked into the Naval Criminal Investigative Service in Washington, DC, the day before. The sailor claimed he'd overheard a civilian he knew on the phone, discussing a pending terror attack in Germany. Mira had dug into the tip with a vengeance and discovered that not only had Scott Platt worked at the Pentagon, but he'd also been fired the previous summer. Mira had immediately brought him in for questioning. Platt was still refusing to talk.

Hence, the presence of the warrant and the records now in Regan's hands. "She thinks our guy's Special Forces."

Jelly's laptop thumped onto the table. "Holy shit."

Regan nodded as she set the stack of papers down beside the computer. A thick yellow line bisected the uppermost page, highlighting a phone number corresponding to a call Platt had received the previous September, almost a year ago to the day. The call had lasted over an hour.

Mira had scrawled a name and rank inside the margin.

Jelly's freckled brow furrowed as he gave voice to both. "Sergeant First Class Evan LaCroix. Huh…I know that name."

"From where?"

"Not sure. Just know I'm familiar with it. And not in a good context."

"A run-in from the MP days?" They'd been friends since their first joint patrol as military policemen. She'd learned then that Jelly never forgot a name or a face. Getting promoted to Chief Warrant Officer Two alongside her four years ago and qualifying as an Army CID special agent had only enhanced his skill.

He'd just need time.

"Nah, that's not it. Damn." His hands came up to rub reddened eyes. "I'm raw today. The baby cried most of the night. Ava was so stressed, I took her midnight shift. It's left me chuggin' enough coffee this afternoon to satisfy even you."

"Yikes."

"It's a stage; it'll pass. As for that name, a photo might help." Jelly dragged his abused laptop around and opened it, quickly pushing through the requisite security protocols until he'd accessed the Army's personnel file on one Sergeant First Class Evan LaCroix, Special Forces.

The man's official uniformed photo greeted them, featuring cropped blond hair and an unnervingly baby-faced mug, along with the requisite green beret.

"Christ, he looks fifteen."

Regan checked the sergeant's birthday and did the math. Thirty-three. Definitely old enough to serve. And kill. But did this man possess the mindset to target his fellow soldiers—or worse, murder innocent civilians?

She waited as Jelly studied the photo at length.

Disappointment cut in as he finally shook his head. "I got nothin'." He glanced up. "Doesn't look like much of a terrorist though, does he?"

"They never do."

"True."

Regan studied the official photo as well, imprinting those baby blues and chipmunk cheeks firmly into memory. Jelly was right. Hardened Special Forces soldier or not, not only did that face not scream terrorist, it didn't even whisper big, bad snake eater. More like earthworm.

Then again, looks truly could be deceiving. She and the agent beside her had learned that the hard way, during the same knock-down, drag-out takedown in Iraq.

"You sure—"

"Wait! I remember him. Stateside. Three years ago. Fort Bragg." Disgust tinged Jelly's own bloodshot baby blues as he shook his head. "Man's a piece of shit."

"Then you did have a run-in with him."

"Nope. Never even met the guy. Ava did. We weren't married yet—had just met. Ava had recently transferred to Fort Bragg. So had LaCroix. He was the topic of conversation on post for damned near a month. Hell, a lot of posts. I'm surprised you never caught wind of it—oh, yeah. Right. You'd got called back to Afghanistan."

That explained it. But if Jelly didn't get to the point, she was going to throttle him, friend or not. "Damn it, what happened? What did he do?"

"Not what—who. LaCroix had a rep for hunting the young and newly commissioned. The younger and more newly commissioned they were, the more determined he was. Then, as soon as he'd bagged them, he'd dump 'em. He was quiet enough about it—at least outside of SF. But inside? They all knew. Anyway, three years ago, he