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  “You don’t know that.”

  The red joined the black in a roiling cauldron boiling up from his gut. “I do! They were loyal.”

  “David—”

  “Get out.” With one sweep of his arm, he knocked everything off the worktable. The box of bottles crashed to the ground. So did the radio. Music vanished as the boom box splintered into a thousand pieces of plastic and wire.

  “I can’t. I—”

  “Go!” Rage consumed him. With a growl, he shoved the worktable over, then kicked the 55-gallon drum that served as a trashcan.

  It crashed to the ground with a metallic cacophony.

  Abigail backed away.

  More gravel crunched. Kyra cried, “David!”

  He ripped Kyra’s bags of soil from the potting table. They burst open when they hit the concrete.

  He turned to the shelves holding Kyra’s flower pots. One swoop of his arm sent them tumbling to the ground. They shattered.

  “David?” Jonathan’s voice barely penetrated his black rage.

  He began kicking the ones on the lower shelf. They slammed into the jeep.

  “David! No! No!”

  With a roar, he whirled and raised his fist.

  Kyra screamed and cowered. She raised her hand to fend off the coming blow.

  “Bro, don’t!” Jonathan slammed into him.

  They tumbled into the dust.

  David struggled and tried to throw a punch.

  Jonathan pinned his wrists to the hard earth. “Stop!”

  Reality crashed into his consciousness. He turned his head. Kyra huddled on the ground, her arm still outstretched, her eyes so wide he could see the whites even from ten feet away. His strength drained away, and he sagged. “Let me go.”

  Jonathan turned his head. “Kyra, I’ve got this.”

  “Let. Me. Go.” David shook loose and rolled onto all fours. His body ached from his fall. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  Jonathan didn’t take his eyes off him as he stayed between him and Kyra. “Uh, yeah, I did when you were about to hit your sister.”

  He winced, then stumbled to his feet. He caught himself on the hood of Kyra’s Forester before he fell again.

  Jonathan studied his face. “What happened?”

  David stared at the ground. “Leave me alone.”

  “David—”

  “I said, leave me alone!” Shame flooded him.

  Without another word, he fled toward his apartment.

  13

  Wednesday, April 19, 2017, 1500 hours MDT, Burning Tree, UT

  Life had ceased to make sense. That thought stuck with Abigail as she sat on the balcony of one of the hotel’s suites and stared at the Bible on her lap. Its words, always so clear and meaningful for her, suddenly seemed incomprehensible. God would give her the desires of her heart? So said the Psalms. She doubted it, just as now, she doubted the promise Paul had made in Romans that God worked all things for the good of those who loved Him. Maybe she should try praying, even if she only groaned in her soul like Paul also said in Romans. Lord, I’m struggling. Truly I am.

  David’s rage haunted her, tore at her. She’d fled, more out of the wound he’d cut in her soul than her worries she’d get hurt. Even the care Shep, David’s father, had displayed hadn’t helped. He’d upgraded her to a suite, apologized for the actions of his grown son, even prayed with her before she’d beat a hasty retreat upstairs.

  Her ordeal had worn her down, and she’d crashed for almost four hours. Had it helped? Maybe. Now, she needed to work on one of her cases. Since the Mighty Men one had ground to a halt, she chose the Athena file case.

  Abigail palmed her jump drive and headed downstairs to the business center. It took her only a moment to log in and print the report Osorio had sent. She tapped the papers coming off the printer until they lined up in a neat stack. For a moment, she sat there and gazed at the report.

  In the hotel’s lobby, the noise picked up as people began returning from a day’s adventures or pulling into the hotel after a long drive. The heels of her cowboy boots tapped on the hard planks of the floor as she crossed the lobby to a small bar. Sure enough, people had begun gathering. She eyed the Chardonnay on a shelf behind the bartender. Technically, it was too early for happy hour in Burning Tree, but, hey, it was five o’clock somewhere, like on the East Coast. Glass in hand, she headed to her room for some light reading.

  Abigail located her notebook with its black cover. Her off-the-books case. Once ensconced on the balcony’s couch, she surveyed her notes. Precious little, but that would change very soon.

  On the terrace, several people chatted as they undoubtedly swapped the tourist version of fish stories. So normal. What she craved instead of what she had. With a deep breath, she dug in.

  Osorio’s background data provided a wealth of information. Captain Katrina Dade Miller. Rutgers ROTC. Commissioned in 2005. Trained at Huachuca in Intelligence. Stationed first at Fort Bragg with Intelligence and deployed to the sandbox called Iraq in 2006. Made first lieutenant in 2007 while deployed. Then, a year later, she came back before turning around and heading to Afghanistan. Upon her return in 2009, she was promoted to captain and sent to the Pentagon for a two-year assignment before getting posted to Fort Huachuca. She married Tuck Miller in 2014, and they settled into life in Arizona. He did shift work as an ER doc in Tucson. She worked at the Army Intelligence Center as the liaison supervisor between DIA and the Army Intelligence Center.

  Judging by Katrina’s commendations, she was quite the officer, and one who’d had a bright future ahead of her.

  Until one night in February the year before.

  Abigail studied the notes made by CWO Osorio. As any good CID investigator would do, he’d interviewed everyone involved in the case of her disappearance and subsequent murder. Everyone agreed. Tuck and Katrina Miller were tight. Two years into their marriage, they still had that newlywed bliss going on. Affair? Hardly. Tuck’s alibi was solid. His grief, genuine.

  Abigail gazed at the red rock rising from the other side of the river. Peaceful, unlike the final moments of Katrina’s life. She scribbled some notes on her notepad and starred a question. Katrina had occupied an important position by liaising between Army Intelligence and the Defense Intelligence Agency. Who would have known enough about what she did to target her for murder?

  And what had happened to her? Osorio had created a nice, nifty outline as part of his own investigation. Thursday evening, Tuck left for Tucson after supper with his wife. He checked into his hotel, then clocked into the hospital the following morning at 0700 hours for the first of three twelve-hour shifts. He clocked out promptly at 1900 hours Sunday night and returned home to find no Katrina waiting on him.

  And no sign of her car.

  She didn’t answer her phone. He got sent straight to voice mail instead and then called her commanding officer, coworkers, and friends. No one had seen her.

  The next morning, he called the cops.

  Abigail’s gut tightened, as did her fingers around her pen. She drew in a deep breath as she remembered Jonathan’s kidnapping. Oh, those emotions Tuck must have experienced. The worrying. The sleeplessness. Teetering between hope and despair.

  She’d been lucky. She’d gotten her brother back.

  Tuck? Not so much.

  Ten agonizing days passed.

  Then came a knock on the door and a visit from the sheriff’s office. They’d found a badly burned body and ID’d it with dental records. Enter CWO Osorio. He’d interviewed everyone involved and obtained the file from the sheriff’s office.

  Abigail gazed at the county’s seal on the Medical Examiner’s report. Her least favorite bit of reading. But a necessary one. She flipped to a new page in her notebook and scribbled the words Medical Examiner’s Report on the top line.

  Her eyes widened as she read the external exam summary. Her wine shook, and she set it on a side table. “What on earth?”

  Katrina’s skin had been burned b
eyond recognition, and only a little hair had remained. No surprise there.

  She cringed as she stared at the next sentence. Someone had cut off her hands and removed her eyes. “Oh, Lord.” She tossed the report onto the cushion beside her and leaned forward as she rested her forehead against her hands. She took another sip of wine. Her stomach twisted. This killer’s competing with Colonel Boone for the creepiest ever. She shuddered.

  Breathe. Take a deep breath. Breathe. She did, and her mind cleared.

  Why had the killer done such a brutal thing? She doubted it was for kicks. There had to be a reason because he’d removed specific body parts.

  She found her answer on the first page in her notebook.

  There it was. Spelled out in her messy handwriting.

  Gabe had said access to move the Athena file required three things. A fingerprint. A retinal scan. And a password from someone who had Top Secret clearance. The fingerprint and retinal scan contained unique biometric indicators. And the password? Anything could be gained through torture.

  She set the notebook down and again gazed at the red rock. Her thoughts ping-ponged around the inside of her skull. If Sal were involved... She didn’t want to think about what would happen if he discovered her little side venture. Jail would be the least of her worries. Maybe I should stop while I’m ahead. Just toss this notebook into the trash and forget about it. I mean, my life might not be the best right now, but I like living.

  No. That wasn’t right. If she’d stopped looking for Jonathan, her brother would be dead. Katrina was dead, leaving behind a grieving husband and a ton of unanswered questions. Abigail had to keep going, had to find the murderer of an innocent woman.

  She picked up her burner phone and dialed Gabe’s number. She tried to tell herself it was purely for information, but honestly, she needed a little comforting—and encouragement.

  “Hey, Abigail.” His warmth filled her.

  She leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees. “Where are you?”

  “Headed home from the gym. I meet a buddy there every week to lift. Where are you?”

  “Sitting on a nice balcony and looking at red rock.” And a nasty Medical Examiner’s report.

  “Why do that when you can watch baseball like I’m going to do? And with a cat on your lap, nonetheless?”

  Oh, did that idea sound good right then. A smile twitched her lips because curling up next to him held great appeal.

  “Did you get what you needed from David and your brother?”

  “Not yet.” And if I share about what happened earlier, I’m going to get all upset again. She shoved that aside in favor of going into the gory details of the report. As she described her grisly discovery, he drew in a sharp breath. Finally, she asked, “Passwords would have to be changed how often?”

  His truck door opened and closed, then his house door.

  “I just got home. Hold on a second.” He began tapping on his computer. “Passwords have to be changed weekly if you’re working at the level she was. I’m checking to see when she changed hers last. Hmmm. Looks like on Wednesdays, so it was the day before she disappeared.”

  Abigail leaned back and rubbed one bare foot over the other. “They killed her for access and probably tortured the password out of her.”

  “I want to check the cameras for the Intelligence Center. What’s the date?”

  “Twelfth of February last year. 2018 hours from what you told me.”

  “Gotcha.” He grunted. “That’s strange.”

  She straightened. “What?”

  “The cameras went down in the section where she worked at 1900 hours.”

  “Unanticipated?”

  “No. Routine maintenance. They came back up at 2300 hours.”

  “Why is that strange?”

  The phone on Gabe’s end shifted. “Because routine maintenance usually occurs in the wee hours of the morning on Sundays, since that’s the time of lowest traffic.”

  Someone had known exactly what they were doing. Abigail’s flagging resolve strengthened. “The murderers.”

  “Be careful, all right? These guys don’t take prisoners.”

  “No worries on that end.” They chatted for a few more minutes.

  Once they signed off, Abigail rose, placed her hands against the small of her back, and stretched. She sighed with relief as back muscles tight from tension and travel relaxed. She hung her head. Her neck muscles stretched.

  A case over a year old. One that had the potential to be a cold case if it didn’t get resolved soon. Regardless, Osorio would most likely transfer it to Quantico so a fresh pair of eyes could review it. When he did, Sal—if he was the murderer—had ample opportunity to let it go. She knew what would happen. It’d sit stale for years in the back of a file cabinet.

  Or vanish altogether.

  “I can’t let that happen.” She faced the red rock again and closed her eyes. Katrina Miller’s face from a wedding day picture in the file popped up before her. Sandy blonde hair covered with a veil. Sparkling blue eyes. A smile of bliss as she wed the man of her dreams. Then someone had stolen those dreams from her and Tuck.

  She thought about Tuck. “I’ll find the killer,” she told him. “And when I do, he’ll pay and pay big time.”

  Then came an image of a burned body with no eyes. She shuddered and picked up a paperback mystery. Maybe delving into fiction would ease the worry throbbing through her.

  14

  Wednesday, April 19, 2017, 1615 hours MDT, Burning Tree, UT

  With a towel wrapped around his waist, David stared at his closet. For this apology, he’d get dressed up, at least as dressed up as he normally got. That meant his jeans, nicest sailcloth shirt, and cowboy boots. So much better than the ratty fatigue pants, T-shirt, and flip-flops he’d worn for his shopping expedition with Jonathan earlier that day.

  And less man stink.

  At least the afternoon had been cathartic. Jonathan had confronted him, albeit gently, as only a warrior surviving the same battle could. He’d brought up a salient point, one David hadn’t wanted to admit. Abigail could be right in her suppositions. One of the Mighty Men could have betrayed the others. She didn’t want to be right, only wanted to make that determination once and for all. Maybe then would true peace come.

  Or not.

  David didn’t know. Still, Jonathan was right. He needed to talk to Abigail—and set things right with his sister.

  Maybe replacing the flower pots he’d destroyed, plus her bags of soil, would be a start. Once they’d made those purchases at a plant nursery in Green River, they’d cruised to Walmart and gotten another case of oil to replace what had spilled into the drain pan. All thanks to totally forgetting to put the plug in place—again. Upon returning, they spent a half hour in the brutal Burning Tree sun searching for the oil plug, another victim of his rage, in the dusty yard. With a cry of victory, Jonathan had finally found it. David vowed never to do something so boneheaded as sweeping it off the worktable again. Well, he’d never do anything as boneheaded as going into a rage like he had.

  One could hope.

  At least he’d locked those demons back in their cage.

  After pulling on his boots, he approached his kitchen table. A flower pot with the face of a dog that looked like Lilly, the family Australian Shepherd, held spunky purple and white petunias, Kyra’s favorite. It might not completely mend his relationship with his sister, but it was a start. With flowers in hand, he descended the inner staircase.

  Kyra stood at the sink with her back to him. The frying pan’s handle peeked at him from soapy water. Hmmmm. Spaghetti sauce. His mouth watered at the rich aroma.

  Something was different.

  He cocked his head.

  Silence.

  No Little Bit running around in the yard with Ranger, his dog, and Lilly. No Mike and Stan at the kitchen table doing their homework. He set the flowers down.

  “Kyra.”

  His sister cried out and jumped. As she whir
led, suds flew across the room. “You scared me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She began rinsing the pan.

  “Where are the kids?”

  No answer at first. She slapped the handle to the faucet but didn’t face him. “At the hotel. Mom met them at the bus stop.” She placed the pan in the drainer. “I-I didn’t want them here until I knew what kind of mood you were in.”

  She didn’t trust him. What had he expected?

  He hung his head. “I’m sorry. Truly. I am. I have no excuse. Forgive me?”

  With a cry, she whipped around and ran into his arms.

  He held her close and winced at the wet spots her hands left on the back of his shirt.

  She sniffled. “I was so scared.”

  His own breath shuddered. “I know. I-I scared myself.”

  She pulled back, and tears tracked down her cheeks. “It was like a different person was there.”

  “I know.”

  She grabbed a towel hanging over the stove handle and dabbed at her eyes. “It worries me.”

  “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  “How do I know?”

  His head snapped up.

  She stood there as she ran the towel through her fingers. Her brow knitted. She threaded it faster and faster before finally tossing it onto the counter. “How do I know it won’t?”

  “Kyra—”

  “I can’t bank on that, David. I can’t.” With a sigh, she approached him. “Promise me you’ll start seeing Mack again.”

  She had a point. He should see the counselor he’d seen when he’d first arrived at Burning Tree four years ago. Besides, he knew what would follow. “If I don’t, I need to find new accommodations?”

  Another tear trickled down her cheek. Biting her lip, she nodded and turned away.

  He shouldn’t have been surprised. Kyra protected her children like a bear would her cubs.

  She’s right, you know. You need to address this. Mack would tell you that as well. “When Jonathan and Abigail leave, I’ll call him.”

  “I want to you to call him today.”

  “Kyra—”