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

that call may be key to why he's really in Hohenfels." And that may impact LaCroix plans.

Which definitely impacted their case.

"Your gut's good 'nuff for me, Prez. Zap it to me."

Regan rechecked her six before quietly rattling off the digits she'd memorized at the start of the interview, then waited dutifully as Jelly repeated the string of numbers back. "Yeah, that's it."

"And I'm on it. But it may take a day or so before we get the information. I don't know if Mikel's workin' today."

"If not, step into him." With everything she'd learned during that speech and after, with both Garrison and the general, not to mention that blistering stare down, her gut was also telling her they didn't have days. Nor did Ertonç.

And where would their US-Turkish army-to-army cooperation be then?

Where would NATO's?

5

Regan brought the Tiguan she'd rented in Rachel Pace's name to a halt in front of Garrison and LaCroix's two-story picturesque timber and whitewashed stucco. Since the home's cobblestone drive afforded space for a mere two cars, and the captain's silver Wrangler was already parked on the right, she could only assume the slot on the left belonged to the pickup truck registered in LaCroix's name.

Which was missing.

Regan weighed her options for all of two seconds before pulling the Tiguan into the empty slot instead of parking politely behind the Wrangler. If she was lucky, the sergeant just might be annoyed enough to interrupt his housemate's date before she departed. And if he didn't?

Tonight might well be for naught.

That she couldn't afford. There was too much at stake. Namely, the general's life.

Meeting Ertonç and empathizing with his own shitstorm of a life, however unexpectedly, had made the coming hour and a half all the more urgent, even without NATO in the mix.

Regan killed the VW's engine and retrieved her phone from the passenger seat to text Mira. okay, here. 90 min—not one second more.

If she decided she was making worthwhile progress at that point, she could always signal to Mira that she needed to stay longer.

Her phone pinged with the woman's thumbs up emoji, followed by a smirking smiley face and a pithy u can do this.

Right.

She could. She had. This was standard op, nothing more.

So, go in there and make nice. Eat. Connect. Get what the Army needed—what her country needed—and then get the hell out.

Only that was the problem. There was nothing standard about tonight. As far as she'd been able to determine, the man she was about to dine with wasn't guilty of anything other than protecting a fellow—if foreign—officer. Worse, the captain was looking forward to their dinner. For added professional reasons, yes. But for him, tonight was extremely personal. He was a decent guy, too. Someone she might have eventually accepted a real date with had the circumstances been different.

But they weren't different.

Garrison was her only viable conduit to LaCroix.

The reminder didn't help. In fact, she'd never felt more like her father than she did right then. The irony twisted in as she tucked her phone in her back pocket before grabbing her trusty leather bag with its trustier, concealed metallic contents. She checked her watch as she bailed out of the Tiguan.

Eighty-eight minutes left.

Move out, soldier.

She ignored the stiff evening breeze cutting through her cable-knit sweater and jeans as she pointed her boots toward the cobblestone walk. Though the sun had set, there was enough lingering light for her to follow the path around the house to the main entrance.

The door opened before she could knock. Her date's daunting proportions crowded the frame.

Like her, Garrison had exchanged his uniform for a several shades darker, oatmeal-tinted sweater and jeans. Unlike her, the man had a checkered dish towel slung over his right shoulder—and a wide smile that was doing its damnedest to showcase that deep, dimpled fold.

"Hey, Rachel." He motioned her inside as he stepped back to allow her to enter. "Good timing. I'm almost done. "

She closed the door and followed him through the modest living room with its overstuffed couch and matching navy chairs. The archway near the end opened into a slightly larger and more modern kitchenette with an eat-in area on the near side of a stainless steel, granite-topped cooking island. "That smells fantastic. What is it?"

It wasn't an exaggeration. Her stomach actually growled at the pungent aroma.

"Sesame ginger beef." He rounded the island and began scraping a bamboo spatula in and around the interior of a large blackened wok as she stopped at the square table to hang her bag on one of the dark-red chairs. "I hope you weren't being polite when I texted about allergies and preferences."

"I wasn't. I'll eat pretty much anything I don't have to cook. And thanks for the GPS pin." Not that she'd needed it. She'd driven by the house after she'd rented the Tiguan that morning. After discovering he'd moved from the apartment complex still listed on his record, how could she not?

"No problem." The captain launched another open grin over the island. "I had a vested interest in getting you here."

That was what worried her. At least his mood was light. Whatever General Ertonç had reported back about their meeting, it couldn't have bothered Garrison. She'd take the win. Especially since she was still waiting—and none too patiently—on Jelling's back-door connection with the German phone company.

As for the address, "I'm surprised though." She tipped her head toward the living room. "I figured you for a studio bachelor pad. This is a lot of space."

"Yeah, it is—and I did have an apartment. But when my lease came up a few months ago, a local I'd met talked me into staying here and watching the place while he and his wife traveled." He shrugged as he refocused on the wok. "It's worked out okay."

"I'm glad." Regan slipped her phone into her bag and secured the zipper before heading for the counter and that amazing aroma drifting up from his efforts. "I might not be able to cook, but I'm good