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

cab. And don't worry about your tab; I settled it. I'm parked outside. I'll give you a lift." He turned to push the bar door open before she could argue.

"You don't mind?"

The proprietary hand already grazing the small of her back to gently nudge her along assured otherwise. "Not at all."

The hand shifted as they cleared the bar, securely engulfing hers as he led her across the modest, but well-lit lot as though she was a leashed puppy. Regan bit back her irritation as he brought them to a halt beside the passenger door of a silver Wrangler.

She glanced about. "What about your friend? I don't see him." Damn it, she couldn't even name LaCroix. Not until Garrison did.

"He's already gone."

"I hope everything's okay."

Garrison's nod was clipped, determined. "It will be."

"You sure you wouldn't rather go after him?"

That dark gray stare sharpened—on her.

Crap. Too much, too soon. "He seemed upset."

The gray softened. As did his nod. "Sergeant LaCroix got some bad news. He'll work it out."

"Sergeant? He's Special Forces, too?"

Another nod, and decidedly back to clipped. The stare had sharpened again, too. Narrowed. "If you prefer the man over me, say so. I'll back off. But you should know, Evan's not in a good place. He hasn't been for a while. I wouldn't want you to get hurt."

She waited for the captain to offer more, but he didn't.

That trio of scars at the left edge of his jaw were spinning a story all their own, though. And it was fascinating. From this angle and directly under the lot's relentless fluorescent light, she realized the scars were longer than she'd thought—roughly two inches each. They cut down into his neck where the ends of two of them furrowed in around his carotid, as though embracing it. And in the middle? A lovely, tattling pulse point.

One that had begun to flag.

The captain had a tell. Quietly or not, it was ratting him out. She may have only just met the man, but he was invested in her answer. Intimately.

Regan deliberately softened her gaze. "If I was interested in your friend, I wouldn't be standing here with you." She watched as relief entered the storm, calming it—and that pulse—before she pushed into the rest. "But I confess, I am worried about him. Your sergeant wasn't just upset tonight. He was livid. I caught his reaction before he left for the bathroom; the entire bar did. He was still furious when he returned. Is he…okay?"

To her surprise, Garrison shook his head. "Not really. Evan's hurting. He has been for a while. He was involved with someone. It was pretty serious."

Something in his tone had her asking, "Was? As in…she's dead?" If so, that was something Jelly and even Mira's SEAL hadn't been able to glean.

Yet another of the captain's stunted nods followed. But this one was softer, infused with a genuine compassion that nearly slipped past her defenses.

Rachel's—and Regan's.

Surprised, she shored up the latter's and pressed on. She had a terrorist to thwart. "I'm so sorry. What happened?"

"She was a nurse. Working with an NGO in Syria—in the north. She was killed by an artillery round last year, shortly after we were ordered to pull out so the Turks could do their thing. Evan's mindset's been on a bit of downward spiral since, and lately it's been getting worse. Just do me a favor and stay away from the guy, okay? At least for now."

Turks? Something began to niggle. Coincidence…or a connection?

Maybe this wasn't about Oktoberfest after all.

"Rachel?"

She felt the calloused pads of the captain's fingers on her cheek. The contact pulled her from her thoughts a split second before she instinctively jerked herself from him. That damned hand. The one that, once again, had touched her without her permission.

"You okay?"

She dragged a distracted frown into place. "Sorry. It's just…that's awful." And it was. But that didn't excuse the taking of more lives. Because her gut was now telling her that was exactly what LaCroix was plotting. Revenge. And if her other suspicion was correct, she might've figured out how—and it did not center on Oktoberfest. But if she was right, the fallout could be just as deadly.

"Yeah, it sucks." The remote clicked as Garrison unlocked his Wrangler.

She drew on her patience as he opened the passenger door for her, touching her yet again as he physically guided her into the seat. When one of those obscenely muscular arms reached across her torso to latch her belt for her, she nearly lost it.

Good Lord, was she two?

He hooked that same, scarred forearm along the roof of the Wrangler, catching her gaze, and pointedly holding it, as he straightened. "So—you'll stay away from the guy?"

"That should be easy enough."

He shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not. Evan's living with me at the moment. You might run into him when you come to dinner tomorrow. I make a decent stir-fry."

Oh, the man could flash that dimple all he wanted, but it would not take the sting from his innate arrogance. What had happened to patience?

"I did mention I was motivated, right?"

Yeah, well, so was she. Because she'd definitely attracted the right man's attention. He and LaCroix didn't just reside in the same complex; they inhabited the same apartment. A geographical distinction which could prove critical given what she'd just learned about the sergeant. If LaCroix was in mourning, her chances of attracting the man's attention had been slim to none from the start.

Regan tamped down on her adrenaline and nodded calmly. "Okay."

The captain's brow arched. "Okay to which? Staying out of Evan's way?" The brow settled into place as his smile—and that ego—took over. "Or dinner?"

"Both."

"Outstanding." He finally backed out of her personal space and closed the SUV's door before heading around to the driver's side to climb in and start the engine.

She was working through possible conversational threads for the coming drive when his phone pinged.

"Excuse me." He leaned forward to retrieve his phone from his back pocket, frowning as he focused on the screen.

"Is everything okay?"

"Hmm? Sorry."