Sudden Death

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?

At the same time Jack moved, Stetson aimed the Taser not at the man with the knife, but at Jack.

The zip of the Taser C2 cartridge being depressed registered at the same time as two lightning bolts of pain hit Megan in her right shoulder, radiating instant fire through her entire body, blinding her. Her gun fell from her grasp and she hit the ground at the same time.

She’d been told what to expect if she was hit with a Taser and what options she had, but for a full minute- or longer, she didn’t know-she couldn’t think, couldn’t focus, couldn’t stop her body from convulsing. Breathe deep. Control her gun. Focus, dammit!

She heard voices, shouts, a lot of swearing. She pulled herself up on all fours, her vision returning, but she couldn’t see her gun. She felt around for it.

A low, deep voice so close to her ear that she could feel the brush of his lips on her earlobe said, “Relax, Blondie. It’ll pass faster if you relax your muscles.”

“Kincaid has the gun!” a voice shouted. She felt a hand on her back, and the weight of her gun in her holster. She relaxed as best she could and felt her body rising from the floor. Her vision cleared and she was staring into black eyes only inches from her face.

“Put. Me. Down.” Her words were faint and her throat raw.

Jack Kincaid smiled with half his mouth. “I don’t think you have your sea legs yet.”

Hans Vigo, a man who never raised his voice or swore, thundered, “Chief Perez, you’d better explain what just happened or I’ll have the DOJ on your ass so fast you won’t be able to shit.”

Jack carried her out of the cell and Hans rushed over. “You okay, Meg?”

She nodded. “Put me down,” she said quietly.

Jack set her on her feet and she swayed, legs shaking. He stuck his arm behind her, holding her up.

“You have no jurisdiction here,” Perez said. “Kincaid disarmed the woman, took her gun. She had no business being in here. It was a prison riot. We should have been in lockdown.” He glared at the desk sergeant, who was looking at the floor.

“That’s bullshit,” Jack said.

“You shot a federal agent,” Hans said, his voice still vibrating with emotion.

“She intentionally stood in front of Kincaid. She should know better than to walk into a brawl and get herself disarmed. Maybe you’d be in your element, little lady, kicking off those shoes and staying in the kitchen.”

Megan’s generation was rarely confronted with out-and-out explicit male chauvinism and she didn’t know what to say, if she could say anything. Her legs steadied and she took a deep breath.

“I wasn’t disarmed. I didn’t drop my weapon until you Tasered me, you bastard.”

“That’s not how it looked to me,” Perez said.

Father Francis said, “You allowed three men with knives in a jail cell with an unarmed man.”

“I allowed nothing. I wasn’t even here. I’ll mount a full investigation. Back in the cell, Kincaid. You’re still under arrest for breaking and entering.”

Jack didn’t move.

“My hand! Dammit, Art, she shot me!” the first knifeman was sitting against the wall, his T-shirt, now bloody, wrapped around his wrist.

“You’re lucky you still have a hand,” Megan snapped.

Hans said, “I have a warrant to take Mr. Kincaid into protective custody as a material witness.” He handed it to the police chief. “I’ve also contacted the Rangers who said you hadn’t informed them about Lawrence Bartle-ton’s murder, which I believe is standard procedure. They’ll be here first thing in the morning to assist in the investigation.”

“Standard procedure my ass,” Perez said. “There’s no mandate to call in the Rangers or the sheriff.”

“But they should have been informed of the homicide,” Hans said, not backing down. “And because this is connected to an ongoing federal investigation, I’ll be talking to the U.S. attorney and the state D.A. about jurisdiction.”

Perez clearly wanted to argue. Megan watched the veins in his neck throb. Rubbing her head, she felt an intense headache coming on. She was still shaking, but she had her wits about her.

In the end, Perez didn’t say anything as the four of them walked out of the jail, through the lobby, and outside. The night breeze felt like heaven as Megan took off her blazer. Distant lightning lit the sky, followed by the roll of thunder.

“Sit,” Jack told her, pushing her into the back of the Jeep in which Father Francis had picked them up at the airstrip. He slid in next to her.

The priest turned the ignition as Hans got in the passenger seat.

“What the fuck happened, Meg?” Hans turned to her as the Jeep sped away. “What were you doing in the jail cell? I told you to wait until I got the warrant.”

“I heard a fight.” She took a deep breath. “Do you have water in here?”

Jack reached into the small back storage of the Jeep and retrieved a water bottle. “It’s warm.”

“I don’t care.” She tried to unscrew the cap. “Damn.”

“Your strength will come back.” He took the plastic bottle, opened the top, and handed it back to her. “Drink slow or you’ll throw up.”

She sipped. “You’ve been Tasered?”

“Once or twice.”

“Why were you arrested?” Megan asked. Focusing on questions and answers kept her mind off the pain that made every nerve in her body throb.

“Perez thought I was breaking into Scout’s house.”

“Were you?”

“He didn’t catch me.”

“You did.” Megan couldn’t believe it. She felt like some sort of rebel, breaking a criminal out of prison.

“Would you like me to lie to you?”

“Why were those men trying to kill you? Don’t they disarm prisoners before they put them in jail?”

“They weren’t prisoners. They were Carlos Hernandez’s goons.”

“Who?”

“Carlos is a midlevel drug runner I pissed off.”

“Where are we going?” Megan asked, looking at the scenery passing by. “Isn’t that the church?”

“I’m taking you out to Jack’s place. It’s in the county, more private.”

“I need to file a report,” Megan said. “I discharged my weapon, and then-”

Hans interrupted, “I’ll file the report. I’m the senior agent.”

She felt belittled somehow, and Hans wasn’t looking at her. What had she done wrong? She’d followed protocols-okay, she didn’t wait for him, but she had reason to believe the life of a civilian, a potential witness, was in danger, she had to act. Hans would have done the same thing. Hell, he had trained her at Quantico; he would have been the first through the door had he been in her position.

“Hans, I didn’t do anything wrong.”

He pivoted and stared at her. “You nearly got killed.”

“It wasn’t that bad-”

“Dammit, Megan.” He turned away from her again.

Hans was upset, but so was she. She didn’t understand why he was treating her like this, why he sounded so angry. A life had been in danger, she acted. That was Megan’s job. Perez’s comment about being barefoot and in the kitchen made her tense again. Hans wasn’t like that; he’d never treated her differently because she was a woman. At Quantico he demanded as much from her as from the men. He didn’t let her slack off, and he respected her. Or so she’d thought.

She wished it was just her and Hans right now so she could get him to tell her why he was so upset. He’d been the closest thing to a father to her after her dad died….

She was shivering. The air was warm, electric with the pending storm. She couldn’t stop shaking and didn’t know why she was so cold.

Jack reached over and rubbed her shoulders. “The tension isn’t going to help you get over the shock. We have a twenty-minute drive. Relax, close your eyes. Let it go.”

Relax? How could she relax with Hans angry at her? With Jack Kincaid sitting so close to her she could smell the soap he’d used in the shower. She felt the heat radiating off his body. His thigh pressed against hers in the small Jeep. She wanted to move away from him-she wanted to move closer. Put her head on his broad shoulder. His body was rock hard-all muscle, no fat. His face-dark, eyes probing, a day’s growth of beard making him look even more dangerous. When he saw her looking at him, he winked. She turned her head and frowned.

Jack Kincaid’s presence was overwhelming. Smart, sexy, confident. Too damn sure of himself. He’d almost gotten killed, and he was sitting here in the back of the Jeep, his arm draped over the back of her seat, as if nothing had happened-nothing too unusual anyway. She blamed her strange reaction to him on weakness- she’d been hit with a bolt of electricity. She absently rubbed her shoulder where the probes penetrated her skin.

Her problem was she liked confident men. She liked the smart guys. No, she told herself, Jack Kincaid was beyond confident. He was arrogant. Cocky.

He shifted in his seat and pulled the edge of her blouse from her neck. “You’ll have a nasty bruise,” he said, inspecting the punctures. “But you’ll be back in action after a good meal and a night’s sleep.”

Attentive and sexy.

Don’t think about him.

“You’re shaking.” Reaching into a box in the back, he pulled out a wool blanket. “Not a satin sheet, but it’ll do the job.” He wrapped it around her body, touched her hands. “Damn, Blondie, your hands are like ice cubes.”

He brought her hands to his mouth and blew into them, then rubbed them in his large, very warm hands.

It was hard, impossible, to ignore Jack Kincaid when he was blowing hot air into her hands, when their bodies rubbed against each other as the Jeep bounced over the rough road. She tried to scoot away, but with every jolt of the Jeep, she was pushed back against him. He wrapped an arm around her and stuffed her hands into his leather bomber jacket. God, he was hot. Literally. A furnace …

She pulled her hands out as if they burned; he grabbed them again, turning stiffly in his seat, a faint grunt in his chest. Megan remembered his injuries. She’d been thinking about Jack the man, instead of Jack the victim. What was wrong with her?

She pulled one hand from his grasp and pushed up his chin, inspecting the cut. “They went for your throat.” That ticked her off. Someone needed to answer for the attack on Jack Kincaid. “It doesn’t look too deep.”

“It’s not.”

She tore a small piece from her blouse, poured some of the water from her bottle onto it, and dabbed away the dried blood. She then wiped the blood from his face. His jaw tightened.

“Sorry,” she said.

“It’s not you, Blondie.”

Blondie. “We weren’t formally introduced. Megan Elliott.”

“Jack Kincaid.”

She nodded. “Were you stabbed?” She put her hand on the front of his shirt, feeling around for a wet spot that would indicate blood.

“No, but feel free to inspect anywhere you want.”

She pulled her hand away and put it in her lap. “You were favoring your right side.” She sounded like she was accusing him of something. She breathed deeply. Megan Elliott, he’s just a man.

Jack Kincaid was not just anything.

“Paul got a jab in there, his fist, not a knife.” He shifted again in his seat, obviously uncomfortable.

She was going to regret this, but she couldn’t help herself. Jack was like her brother in that he’d never admit he was hurting. Matt had cracked a rib during a high school football game, and if it wasn’t for her, he’d never have gone to the hospital until the bone had broken and punctured an organ or worse.

She pulled up Jack’s shirt; he let her. She saw a bruise forming, but no blood. She ran her hands around his stomach to make sure there wasn’t a life-threatening injury elsewhere. In the dark, with his darker complexion, she might not see any blood. His abdomen molded a perfect six-pack. She jerked her hand back, averted her face. What was she thinking?

Are you serious, Megan? You think Jack Kincaid would sit so casually if he were seriously injured? This man knows how to take care of himself.

Jack leaned over, his breath warm in her ear, sending first heat, then chills through her body. She blamed the sensation, and the distant memories it aroused, on being hit with a Taser. This was not normal. Not for her.

He wrapped the blanket tighter around her, holding her close to his side.

“I would have survived,” he whispered. His lips touched her ear. On accident? On purpose? “But thanks for the backup. I’ll have fewer scars because of you.”