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

mysterious text John had received at the hospital? His beneath-the-radar negotiations for General Ertonç?

Or had his deteriorating relationship with Sergeant LaCroix finally come to blows?

The ringer on her phone grated against the quiet in the room, along with her increasingly excoriated nerves. She snatched her phone from the table, disappointment cutting in as she glanced at the readout. Mira.

"What's the word?"

"Still waiting."

"He hasn't even texted?"

Regan raked her fingers through the dyed strands of Rachel's hair, pushing the loose waves behind her shoulders. "No. And to answer your next two questions, Brooks says no on bringing John in on the case and an even louder no when Jelly reiterated our request to put a tail on LaCroix."

Yes, the sergeant was Special Forces. And, yes, if anyone had eyes in the back of his head, an SF soldier did.

Still, she'd managed to hold her own with John. So far.

She had worried that he'd begun to doubt her story after he'd departed the hospital that morning. But he hadn't so much as texted Terry to verify her claims about that phone number search. She'd checked.

So why hadn't John called, damn it?

Regan caught the distinctive whir of a microwave kicking in on Mira's end.

"Have you figured out how you're going to get into LaCroix's room?"

She drummed her fingers on top of the table. "Not a bloody clue." As attractive as those keys of John's were, breaking and entering was illegal. Faced with exigent circumstances, she'd do it in a heartbeat. The hell with it standing up in court. But she wasn't there—yet.

Worse, with Brooks' no-go still in effect regarding her coming clean with John about LaCroix, there was no way she could risk asking him to search his guest room for her.

The microwave ceased its whir with a loud ping. "Rae—" She heard Mira open the oven. "Are you certain Garrison's loyalties are still sound? He did buy that burner."

"I know. And, yes." As many times as she'd done this, she ought to know. And that was before she'd absorbed the childhood horror detailed in John's BI.

"Then trust your gut. You're in the trenches, not your boss. If you think you need to bring the captain in, do it. When all's said and done, Brooks will be forced to back you up; you know that. For what it's worth, my instincts are in sync with yours. I've seen the guy a number of times these past few days—all of them with the general in the room. Those two have serious history, but it's not the sort that has Ertonç in danger. Not from Garrison. I can feel it."

"I know."

"So…what are you going to do?"

Brazen. This morning it had been the only path. It still was. "I'm going to drop by. Now. Because, well, come to think of it, John must've said, 'Dinner—same time, same place,' unless he phoned to say differently."

Mira's soft inhalation filled the line, followed by the thick silence of caution. "You sure? If you push it too hard, it might blow up in your face…and his."

They both knew what Mira wasn't saying. It just didn't matter. It couldn't. Only the case did. The general's life. NATO.

"I appreciate the concern, but I don't have a choice." When all was said and done, whatever she and John had managed to forge these past few days was destined to implode anyway. She'd realized that at the same moment she'd accepted that, somehow, he'd managed to well and truly get under her skin.

A swift glance at that taunting clock made her that much more determined. "If I leave now, I can be there by eighteen thirty."

A good half an hour past last night's invitation, but close enough for her to blame her tardiness on yet another impromptu assignment from Terry.

She was going to owe the man a crate of vodka by the time this was done.

"Rae…what if LaCroix is there? If the two of them have gotten into it again, that could explain Garrison's silence."

That was what she was most afraid of.

Regan channeled the growing unease into action, eyeing her mist-green sweatshirt, faded jeans and running shoes as she stood.

Not exactly date-wear.

Too bad. They'd have to suffice.

She grabbed her bag from the back of the chair, double-checking that her most important accessories were still securely hidden within.

Satisfied, she slung the strap over her shoulder and departed the room. Within seconds, she was in the adjacent, darkened parking lot, unlocking the Tiguan and slipping into the driver's seat before she could change her mind. "I'll be fine. But stand by. If I need an out, I'll use John's bathroom to text you." He knew she had a girlfriend in town, the one she'd been waiting on in the bar that first night. "I'll tell him you got dumped and need a shoulder to sob on."

"Gee, thanks."

"What are friends for? Wish me luck." She hung up, hit the VW's lights and started the engine before Mira could do just that, lest the woman jinx her.

Fifteen minutes later, Regan turned the car into John's drive, once again parking beside his Wrangler. LaCroix's truck was missing.

One worry negated.

Unless the sergeant had already come and gone—violently.

She killed the lights and bailed out into the dark to skirt the front of the VW. She laid her palm on the Wrangler's hood.

The metal was stone cold. John had been home for a while.

So why hadn't he called?

The tension gripping her gut ratcheted tighter as she unzipped her leather bag—just in case—and stepped onto the walkway that led around the house. The tension eased a bit as she cleared the corner and reached the living room's main window. The blinds were drawn, but the slats were open. Though the table lamp beside the couch was switched to low, there was enough light for her to make out the distinctive white tee shirt and denim-clad form looming within.

John.

Unfortunately, her relief was supplanted by a fresh bout of unease that quickly morphed into dread as she headed for the door. She'd also spotted a bottle