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

He clicked out of the screen and turned to her before she could get a look at whatever had caused that stare of his to blacken. "It's work. I need to head in. I'll drop you off at the Lodge and call you tomorrow with the details for dinner. What's your number?"

He tapped her digits into his phone as she rattled them off, then appeared to add something else before he switched off his phone and slotted it into the storage well behind the Wrangler's gear stick. Her phone pinged before they cleared the lot.

this is John

looking forward to tomorrow—and you

Ditto on her end. But for an entirely different reason. One she was continuing to hash through in the privacy of her own thoughts as he steered the Wrangler toward Hohenfels. Whatever had come up at his work had caused the captain to be as preoccupied as she was, because he didn't say a word during the drive.

He seemed surprised when they reached the Lodge without speaking.

"Thanks. I appreciate the lift." Regan grabbed the handle to the passenger door and opened it before he could climb out and do that for her too.

She wasn't quick enough. His right hand found her left before she could clear the seat. He squeezed her fingers. "Hey, sorry if I was distracted. It's just—"

"—your head's already in the game."

"Yeah." That dimpled fold made a brief appearance. Sheepish suited the man—and her—a lot more than arrogance. "So…I'll see you tomorrow?" As did actually asking.

"Yes."

The moment he released her hand, Regan bailed out and closed the door.

Garrison wasn't the only one headed to work. So was she.

Hopefully, Mira was already there, because they had some serious digging to do into an NGO's death from the previous year.

If her suspicions panned out, she'd not only zeroed in on LaCroix's motive, she'd identified the sergeant's true target. If so, six million visitors to Oktoberfest would be safe after all—at least from LaCroix.

But the current, precarious configuration of NATO was not.

3

Regan made it to CID in record time. She parked her Explorer and pushed through the main doors, heading straight for her office. To her relief, Mira was already inside, absorbed in a file on the laptop she'd brought from the States.

The adrenaline still coursing through Regan's veins caused her to close the door behind her with more force than she'd intended.

Mira looked up. "Well, that was quick. Bad kisser?"

"Funny." She stepped up to her desk and hooked her hip onto the corner beside her friend's laptop. "What's the name of that Turkish general you're about to babysit?"

The smirk evaporated. Suspicion rooted into its place. "Why?"

"Because I think we have a motive—and a target. And it's not Oktoberfest."

"Holy crap. That was quick. How the hell did you discover that?"

Regan crossed her arms. "The name? And his branch too, please." She'd need that and a bit more before she'd risk saying the rest out loud—and jinxing it.

Mira knew it too, because she cursed beneath her breath as she dutifully swung her attention to the screen to click out of the file she'd been reading before opening another. "Principle's name: Aytaç Ertonç. General, Turkish Army."

"Infantry? Armor? Artillery?"

Please say Artillery.

"Hang on…." Mira scrolled down into the document. "Hmm. Don't see his branch. It might not even say." But she kept scrolling and scanning. "Aren't most Infantry, anyway? Or—wait; here it is." She glanced up, beaming. "Artillery."

"Yes."

"And, why are we so excited by Artillery?"

Regan shook her head. Definitely not willing to jinx it. Not with six million lives potentially on the line. "I need coffee. While I'm gone, do me a favor? Pull up what we've got on known victims of Turkish Army artillery fire following our pullout of Syria last year. Specifically, female NGO medical personnel. I promise to reward you when I return." Meanwhile, she needed to get the taste of club soda out of her mouth and a ready hit of caffeine in.

"Fine—but pour two cups."

"You got it."

Mira was already minimizing the general's file as Regan turned to leave. She made a beeline for CID's coffee station and poured out the requisite cups, pausing just long enough to pollute Mira's with cream and sugar before she headed back.

The NCIS agent's Cheshire cat grin was setting in as Regan reentered her office to slide the contaminated coffee over. "What'd you find?"

"Five victims so far. Need names?"

"No." Garrison hadn't provided one. "Any of them between the ages of twenty and, say…forty?"

"Sure. Here's the first." She slid the laptop around so Regan could see the report. It contained a photo of a pretty black woman…but she'd been a doctor, not a nurse.

"Nope. Next."

Mira leaned closer and clicked the tab at the top of the screen. As she scrolled down the page, another photo popped into view.

They stiffened in unison.

"Damn. She's looks just like you, Rae. Well, how you look tonight."

"Yeah." Hand one to Ava Jelling. Her gossip regarding LaCroix's rutting preferences was spot on. Nor was Mira exaggerating. With her hair lightened and the tinted contacts she'd chosen, she and the woman on the screen could've been sisters. At the very least, cousins.

Regan scanned the photo's caption. "Carys Kaide. Scottish." Nurse. "She died as a result of Turkish artillery fire while they were pounding out Operation Peace Spring to create their 'safe' zone."

Irony didn't even begin to cover that one, did it?

"Hang on—" Mira swung the laptop her way and switched files. "I saw something while I was skimming…Yup, right here. General Ertonç—then Colonel Ertonç—headed up that Syrian bombing campaign. In fact—"

"—he made general off it." Off Carys Kaide's death. "Sorry. I know you hate when I finish your sentences."

"No. I only hate it 'cause you're always right. And, yes, Ertonç's career got a critical bump because of his actions in the same campaign that killed Carys. But I bet you didn't see this one coming…" Mira swung the screen out again. "According to this tidbit—and the call I took earlier in this office—the Ertonç security detail was originally scheduled to muster