“And J Street is one way. They’d have to exit J Street, turn on Twelfth, down L Street, up Tenth, then turn on Eleventh to get back to this exact spot. A wide circle.”
Megan disagreed. “You’re assuming they’d obey traffic laws.”
Simone agreed. “At five in the morning, they could drive the half block down J the wrong way and no one would notice. Pull into the alley and pop the guy. I’m surprised at you, John. Making such a blanket assumption.”
Black rolled his eyes. “I guess I assumed people obey traffic laws.”
“Why didn’t they just execute him in the garage?” Megan asked. “Why dump him in the alley? Even if they didn’t follow the flow of traffic, they had to drive around to get back to the alley.”
“Downtown is dead most nights, especially on Sundays,” Simone said. “I could run around here naked and no one would notice.”
Black raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything.
“I’d like a copy of the tapes,” Megan said. “And your forensics report. With security cameras on the pedestrian entrance we should get a face, possibly a good shot, and I.D.”
“That’s what I’m thinking. No problem.”
Megan asked, “Is there any evidence that they took him out the same way? Not used the van, but brought him down the stairs?”
“Nooo,” Simone said cautiously. “But after a little time, the injury would have clotted and there might not be blood evidence. We’re still combing the crime scene-”
So that was a possibility. That was all Megan needed to know to confirm that these killers had a plan. Whether they drove out and dumped the body or carried him down the stairs and executed him next to the Dumpster, they had carefully determined that their way was the best way. Organized. It was risky to use such a public place for the murder, but clearly the location was important to them for some unknown reason.
As Megan walked back to the alley with Detective Black, she couldn’t grasp the motive. Why go through such elaborate measures to kill a homeless veteran? Why kill him nearly a block from where he was kidnapped in a risky, public location?
It seemed both foolish and deliberate.
What did George Price have in common with Austin’s small-business owner Duane Johnson and Las Vegas’s Dennis Perry?
Why were they tortured?
Why were they executed?
And if the M.O. held, Megan would probably not learn anything else about the killers until they were caught, Simone’s glee in having the three license plates to run notwithstanding. They’d moved around the country with ease, and if they’d killed Price at dawn, they could be three hundred miles away by now.
Fortunately, they had a lot more information than at the previous two crime scenes. Security tapes; a larger, public crime scene; greater chance of witnesses. With a little time and a lot of hard work, Megan was confident they’d I.D. the killers. She was good at working each piece of the puzzle until an identity was confirmed, a suspect arrested, and a killer prosecuted.
Megan didn’t know that in twenty-four hours, they’d have nothing. No tapes. No evidence. No body. And no jurisdiction.
CHAPTER TWO
Jack Kincaid leaned against the wall of El Gato during happy hour, a bottle of Tecate in his hand-his first and only drink of the evening. Scout, Lucky, and his other team members were celebrating their most recent success. They had rescued four medical missionaries in Guatemala who’d been kidnapped by rebels wanting their supplies. The rebels had thought ransoming the missionaries would yield more cash. After safely escorting the hostages to the U.S. embassy, Jack and his team returned to the jungle, retrieved the stolen supplies without incident, and in seventy-two hours were back at their base of operations in the border town of Hidalgo, Texas.
While Jack should have been more involved in the celebration, he was preoccupied. When he’d returned to the States earlier in the day, there was a message from Dillon that their younger brother, Patrick, had awakened from his coma. Jack weighed whether to visit Patrick. He wanted to see him, but he didn’t want to see the rest of the Kincaids.
That wasn’t fair. He didn’t have a problem with his brothers and sisters. And certainly not his mother.
But his father had made it very clear two decades ago, reiterated more recently, that Jack was not welcome. And frankly, Jack didn’t want to see Colonel Pat Kincaid either. Long ago, Jack had put the fuck-up in Panama behind him, but his father couldn’t do it. Couldn’t see that sometimes the rigid military rules were bullshit. That sometimes it was more important to stand for something than to take wrong-headed orders.
That Jack had moved so far up the ranks after Panama was a shock to Pat Kincaid, and in many ways to Jack as well. He’d almost walked away, but instead he’d remained steadfastly loyal. He had owed it to his unit and himself to see it through, stand up during the fallout, defend his decision, and take his punishment. In the end, however, Pat Kincaid had decided to bury the situation and “protect” Jack’s future-something Jack had neither asked for nor wanted.
Then the Colonel had the audacity to demand an apology and a thank-you, or Jack need not come home for Christmas.
Except for weddings and funerals, Jack hadn’t been home since.
But he wanted to see his brother. He simply couldn’t plan a scenario that would guarantee he could go to San Diego, visit Patrick, and leave without running into Colonel Kincaid.
Life has no guarantees.
He’d considered watching the hospital and going in after the Colonel left. According to Dillon’s message, Patrick would be released within the week. It would be easier to control the situation if Jack went to the hospital then to postpone a visit until his brother was home.
Scout walked over to Jack with Padre-Father Francis-at his side. The priest was drinking bottled water; Scout was on his third draft. Sitting at the table next to where Jack stood like a stone sentry, they all faced the door.
“Go,” Scout said.
Jack didn’t have to ask what his longtime friend meant. He didn’t say anything, but glanced at Padre. Padre had been Frank’s nickname since he and Jack met that first day of basic training when they both signed into the Army Rangers. Frank was a couple years older, and when it got out that he was a Catholic seminary dropout, the name stuck. Jack thought it ironic that when Padre left the army five years ago, he’d gone back to the seminary.
Padre had told Jack that the nickname saved him. Jack told him he’d saved himself.
Scout said, “We just got off a successful op, we have no pending assignments, now’s the time.”
“Something may come up.”
Scout shook his head. “You’re the last person I expect to make excuses.”
Jack tensed. “The Guatemala situation came down fast. If we hadn’t responded immediately, the outcome could have been worse.”
“We’re not the only guns for hire.”
Jack frowned-he didn’t like the expression, though it was accurate.
Padre interjected, “Is Dillon in San Diego, too?”
“Yes.” Jack glanced at Padre. His friend knew what was important to him, and the irony that Padre-a man Jack had fought beside, a man he had saved, a man he had almost died with-had become his confessor wasn’t lost on him. In many ways, Padre was a closer brother to him than his twin, Dillon; in fact, half-Cuban Jack looked more like the full-blooded Cuban priest than he did his fair-skinned twin. In other ways, they were worlds apart.
Scout drained his beer and centered it on the worn wood table and continued. “Do you think I couldn’t handle the team on my own? Or was putting me second in command lip service?”
“You know it wasn’t.”
Scout shook his head. “You’re fucking scared.” He tipped his beer to Padre. “Sorry.”
Padre smiled. The scene always played out the same.