He looked at her and didn’t recognize her. Why was this woman in his bed? Another trick? Another perverse, sadistic torment? Let him glimpse a goddess, then snatch her away?
He reached out to touch her face. She didn’t flinch or disappear. He remembered her. Familiar. Pain and love. Hot and cold. She hated him. Loved him.
“They left me,” Ethan croaked.
“I know, baby. I know.”
Ethan’s nightmares-memories? — now occurred nightly. Karin didn’t know what that meant, but it wasn’t good. His slips were more frequent, like going into the woods and burying himself in dirt. But there was nothing she could do about that now. And when he was like this, Ethan was more forthcoming and patient with her training. Karin was almost there. After last night … she resisted the urge to gloat.
Instead, she hugged Ethan close, his head to her breast. The tension started to leave his body. He began to shake violently, then fell back into a deep sleep so suddenly, became so still, that for a moment she thought he’d died.
She felt his pulse. Strong. She stared at Ethan as he slept, this time without the memories, the real nightmares that had turned him into … into what?
A killer like you?
She swallowed. She had good reasons for what she needed to do. Karin always had good reasons.
You turned him into a killer. Without you, he would be locked up in a padded room, or maybe someone could have helped him. What do you think of that? That you turned this pathetic, tortured man into a sadistic killer?
What was sadistic about killing those who hurt others? If it weren’t for those soldiers, who were supposed to protect the innocent, who were there to make sure no harm came to Ethan, he would never have been a hostage and tortured for months.
It’s not your fight. You’re using him. You’re killing him.
Perhaps she was, but she didn’t start it. And Ethan wanted to die, anyway. He’d tried it enough times.
She was confident in the rightness of Ethan’s cause. When she’d killed before, it was for the justice of others. Never herself. When General Hackett died, she would finally be able to kill for herself.
It would be a righteous kill.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Megan walked into the Hidalgo Police Department with Father Francis Cardenas while Hans worked on getting a warrant from the presiding U.S. attorney to remand Jack Kincaid into their custody if she couldn’t sweet talk the chief of police into releasing him. Because it was so late, Megan wasn’t holding her breath on either count. But the priest was certain that Kincaid was in grave danger and Megan couldn’t not at least try and figure out what was going on and see if she could fix it.
She felt out of her element in the border town, blond hair, green eyes, and boobs, which the desk sergeant stared at instead of the badge that was clipped to her belt. She grabbed her badge and put it directly in his line of sight. “Supervisory Special Agent Megan Elliott, Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’m here to speak to a witness in a homicide I heard you have under arrest.”
“And who might that be?”
“Jack Kincaid.”
The sergeant grunted. “Sorry, it’s after hours. Unless you’re his attorney.”
A loud thump and slam against the back wall made Megan unconsciously jump.
“Is that the jail?” she asked, gesturing toward the door in the back with the words Authorized Personnel Only.
“So?”
Megan felt as if she’d walked into the Twilight Zone. “Sergeant, I think you have a fight in your jail.”
Father Francis said, “Jorge, you don’t want to be party to Art’s vendetta against Jack.”
Jorge hesitated a second.
A body was slammed against the wall, making the room shake. Megan strode past the sergeant without waiting for an invite. Someone was getting the shit beaten out of them, and Megan feared it could be fatal.
She tried the door. It was locked.
“Key. Now!”
The sergeant hesitated, then pressed a button that released the door.
Megan opened it, holding it only briefly so Father Francis could join her. “Stay back,” she told him.
Inside the jail were two small cells on the left and one large “drunk tank” on the right. Megan quickly assessed the situation-three against one-in the larger cell. Oddly, or not, considering the priest’s fear, the cell door was ajar.
Megan drew her Glock and held it steadily on the men. “FBI. Put your hands behind your head and get down. Now!”
They stopped, all four registering surprise.
The priest stepped forward. “I told you to stand back,” Meg said. Though Father Francis looked fit, she didn’t want to bring a man of God-or, frankly, any civilian-into a potentially dangerous situation.
He ignored her. “You okay?” he asked a tall, dark-haired, olive-skinned man.
He-Jack Kincaid, most likely-nodded slightly, never taking his eyes off his three attackers, none of whom had obeyed Megan’s orders. Megan saw a flash of steel in the palm of one man. He had a knife.
“This isn’t your business, Padre. Take your girlfriend and go. Five minutes.”
“You’ll need more than five minutes to kill me,” Jack said, voice low. “You’ve been trying for ten.”
What was this, Megan thought, the Wild West? Didn’t these guys hear her? “FBI!” she said again. “Drop your weapons, now!”
The wiry guy with the knife lunged for Jack. Dammit, the situation had rapidly deteriorated. “Knife!” she shouted. She aimed for the attacker’s hand, pulled the trigger, and the bullet clipped his wrist. He dropped the knife, clutching his hand to his chest, and backed away against the wall.
Jack kicked the knife out of the way and stepped toward Megan, eyes still on the other men.
“Fucking bitch shot me!”
Megan gestured to the other two men. “Hands up. Up where I can see them. Now!”
Jack was two feet from her. She wasn’t sure he wasn’t dangerous as well. He certainly looked it, especially with the blood around his nose from the fight and a cut along his neck. At second glance, she realized it was a knife wound. They’d gone for his throat. Father Francis had been right. They’d fully intended to kill him. He was favoring his right side. Had he been stabbed? Did he need medical attention?
“Kincaid?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“You okay?”
“Fine.” His voice was casual, laced with a hard edge.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw one of the two uninjured men pull a switchblade into a throwing position.
The priest said, “Paul, put the knife down. It’s over.”
Jack stepped toward Megan in a protective move.
The slam of a door had Megan glance toward the entrance. A tall, bulky man in a Stetson entered with the desk sergeant who’d ogled her breasts.
Everything else happened fast.
“Down, Kincaid!” Stetson shouted, a Taser in hand.
Megan’s badge was on the front of her belt, clearly visible, and she again identified herself.
“Megan Elliott, FBI. Blue shirt has a knife.” She didn’t want to shoot another man, but a knife thrown this close could kill. She inched in front of Jack, who was unarmed and obviously the target. Why these thugs wanted him dead Megan had no idea, but it was clear neither her gun nor her badge panicked them even with their friend down.
“All fours, Kincaid,” Stetson said again.
The priest said, “Art, don’t.” Megan was perplexed but didn’t have time to reflect on it.
Jack stepped in front of her. Did he have a death wish? She turned her body to be a bigger shield, but Kincaid wasn’t making it easy. He was injured and bleeding and she was the one with the gun and the badge; why didn’t he stand back and let her do her job?