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  “No.”

  He gave her a sharp look, and she realized that might have come out a little strong.

  “I’ve only been with this office a few months.”

  He raised an eyebrow, and she could tell he’d picked up on the edge in her voice.

  A heavyset patrol officer got out of his car as they approached.

  “Evening.” Moore flashed his badge. “Officer Resnik? I talked to Lieutenant Tooley a few minutes ago. Mind taking us inside?”

  The officer darted another glance at Moore’s FBI shield before ducking back into his car to retrieve a key and a clipboard, which presumably contained the crime-scene log.

  “Sir. Ma’am.” He nodded at Elizabeth. “Right this way.”

  They followed him up the stairs. Elizabeth noticed the fingerprint powder all over the door frame. Resnik donned a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and used the key to open the door.

  “Crime-scene techs just left an hour ago.” He passed the clipboard to Moore. “Said someone might be back later to get a carpet sample.”

  Moore handed the clipboard to Elizabeth and she scrawled her information beneath his. Her first real murder scene. She felt a little numb. She glanced around and tried to seem calm as the officer left them alone in the condominium.

  A square piece of butcher paper lay near the door. Moore stepped onto it and traded his black wingtips for a pair of paper booties from one of the cardboard boxes sitting there. He snapped on some latex gloves and handed her a pair. Elizabeth took his place on the paper and swapped out her navy flats.

  “Ever been to a homicide scene before?”

  “Just at Hogan’s Alley,” she said, referring to the area at Quantico where New Agents in Training—or “gnats,” as they were affectionately known—practiced takedowns and worked mock crime scenes. “I’m brand-new, sir. Just graduated this year.”

  “Call me Gordon.” He stepped into the kitchen and looked around, then opened the cabinet beneath the sink and checked the trash can. He used an index finger to tug open the refrigerator. “And new’s all right. It’s good to have a fresh perspective.”

  He stepped back into the hallway and crouched beside a pool of dried blood. Elizabeth saw little dots in the reddish-black where it looked as though a CSI had used a cotton swab to get a sample. Dark rivulets radiated out along the lines of the floor grout.

  Elizabeth studied the walls but saw no sign of bullet penetration. Still, a slug could have lodged in the body.

  “Cause of death?” she asked.

  He stood up. “I talked to the ME. Someone snapped his neck, then stabbed him through the right kidney with a combat knife.”

  Elizabeth frowned down at the blood. “Not the most common way to murder someone.” She glanced around the foyer. “Then again, it’s quiet.”

  “It’s also up close and personal.”

  He stepped over the puddle and walked into the living room, where numbered yellow markers on the coffee table took the place of evidence that had been removed.

  “TV was on when the maid showed up at eight this morning,” he informed her. “There was a beer on the table. Looked like he’d been home watching ESPN when someone came to the door.”

  “Someone he knew?”

  “No sign of forced entry.”

  Elizabeth surveyed the room, taking in the spare furnishings, the empty bookshelves. The walls were bare, which wasn’t that surprising given that Blake Reid was single. Most guys Elizabeth knew didn’t spend a lot of time decorating their apartments. She glanced at the kitchen clock. It was 6:10. Any minute now her boss would be calling, wondering what she’d done with their VIP. Headquarters had sent one of their top investigators down to oversee the case.

  “What’s Reid’s reputation?” he asked from across the room.

  Elizabeth shifted on her feet. “I hear he’s a good agent. His team took down that terrorist cell—what was it, two summers ago?”

  He kept watching her and she decided, What the hell? If he poked around long enough, he was going to hear this anyway.

  “You mean personal reputation?”

  “Whatever you heard around the office,” he said. “Or what you know from your experience with him.”

  “Well, like I mentioned, I haven’t been here long.” She tucked her hands in the pockets of her blazer. “But he was pretty forward. He asked me out three times.”

  “What’d you say?”

  “No.”

  “All three times?” He looked skeptical.

  “I don’t mix work and personal. And anyway, he was engaged to someone. At least that’s what I heard. I thought it was pretty sleazy for him to be hitting on new agents when he had a fiancée up in San Marcos.”

  “Kelsey Quinn. What do you know about her?”

  She shrugged. “Just her professional reputation, really. She’s a forensic anthropologist at the Delphi Center. She’s trained some of our people in bone recovery.”

  “I understand she and Reid were no longer together,” he said.

  “That’s news to me.”

  “Did he hit on all the new agents or just you?”

  “I know of at least two. And they said yes. You should talk to them if you want more about his private life. I really only saw him at work.”

  Gordon glanced around the living room. His gaze lingered on the coffee table.

  “What’s a combat knife, exactly?” Elizabeth asked.

  He looked up at her. “Typically, a seven-inch, double-edge blade, partially serrated on the bottom for cutting rope, et cetera. KA-BAR makes them. They’re somewhat expensive, but standard issue for active-duty Marines, Navy, spec ops guys.”

  “That doesn’t really tell us anything,” she pointed out. “I bet any ten-year-old can order one off the Internet.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.” He walked past her into the hallway. The light was on, and Elizabeth noticed the fingerprint dust on the switch. He paused beside a bathroom, then walked to the door at the end of the hall. The door got stuck on the carpet and he had to push it open with his shoulder. Elizabeth followed him into the room and looked around. The bed had been stripped. She guessed this was a guest room based on the lack of items on the dresser and nightstand. A band of sunlight seeped through a gap in the curtains and she peered outside at a balcony. No plants, no patio furniture. There was a nice view of the trees along the River Walk, but it didn’t look as though Blake had spent much time outside enjoying it.

  Gordon went back into the hallway. Elizabeth stood in the room a moment longer, looking around at the paint, the carpet, the draperies. Everything was very generic.

  She followed the veteran agent down a carpeted flight of stairs to the ground floor. At the base was a hallway. Elizabeth poked her head left into a utility room and saw what looked like an exterior door to the carport. She turned right down the hall and joined Gordon in what was clearly the master bedroom. Tossed over the nearest chair was a suit jacket and tie. On the wall opposite the king-size bed was a huge flat-panel TV. The bed had been stripped here, too, but the nightstands on either side were blanketed with clutter: a TV remote, a Sports Illustrated, an alarm clock. Gordon pulled back the curtain to reveal a pair of French doors looking out on a private patio. He glanced up and seemed to be checking out the security system.

  “No evidence of forced entry, you said?”

  “None,” he confirmed.

  Elizabeth added that info to the up-close method of attack. Breaking a man’s neck and stabbing him was not only violent but personal. And Blake was tall. It wasn’t just any man who would be able to get the drop on a guy like him.

  “So, are you assuming he knew his killer?” she asked.

  “Don’t assume.” He glanced over at her as the phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out.

  “Moore.”

  Elizabeth sauntered over to the nightstand and pretended not to be eavesdropping. A TV Guide tucked under the Sports Illustrated was open to Sunday’s date. She tapped the
button on the alarm clock. It was set for 6:10 a.m.

  “All right. And we have this confirmed?” Pause. “You mean the Delphi Center?”

  Elizabeth glanced over at the dresser, trying to add to her catalog of clues. If this were her case, what would she make of all the items in this bedroom? What about his medicine cabinet? His refrigerator? His laptop computer? Any one of those things might hold the key to understanding Blake’s murder. But she, of course, wouldn’t be finding it because this wasn’t her case. Gordon Moore had clearly brought her along to get the inside gossip on Blake’s private life, but he didn’t take her seriously as an investigator. And why should he? She was brand-new.

  “Okay, repeat that.” He dug a notepad from his jacket and glanced around. Elizabeth handed him a pen. “And this is from her supervisor?” He jotted something down. “Call the airline. Make sure she was on the flight. Then call me back.”

  He ended the call and shoved the phone in his pocket. “Kelsey Quinn didn’t show up for work today.”

  Elizabeth caught the tension in his voice. “Anyone go to her place?”

  “She’s not there. And no one at her work has seen her since she flew to San Diego last week to visit family. She’s got a grandmother there, apparently. And an ex-boyfriend who’s spec ops with the Navy.”

  “Spec ops?”

  “He’s a SEAL.”

  Elizabeth stood there, digesting this, as he took out his phone again.

  “Brenda? Gordon Moore here . . . No, I made it, but I need you to book me another one.” He glanced at his watch. “First thing tomorrow I need a flight to San Diego.”

  • • •

  Gage was back in the zone. He could feel it. As the C-130 climbed high into the night, he felt his worries slip toward earth and his mission crystallize in his head. His thoughts were clear, focused. His breathing was steady. He gripped the straps of the parachute in his hands and visualized exactly what he needed to do.

  Gage loved night HALOs. The High Altitude Low Opening jumps gave him a rush like almost nothing else.

  “Six minutes,” yelled the loadmaster.

  Gage checked his gear. Although temperatures in the Mojave soared well above one hundred during the day, it was butt-ass cold in the middle of the night at twelve thousand feet. So Gage and his teammates were in desert cammies, thick wool socks, tactical boots, and insulated aviator gloves to provide warmth. Gage had modified his gloves, cutting out the right thumb and index finger to make it easier to use his weapon and cut detonator cord. He inventoried his gear. His SIG Sauer nine-mil was tucked securely at his hip, on the opposite side of his body from his KA-BAR knife. He had his M-4 strapped to his back. His pockets were stuffed with extra ammo, along with a blowout kit that contained medical supplies. He was good to go.

  “Three minutes.”

  The ramp at the back of the plane eased down, creating a roar throughout the aircraft. Gage and his three teammates lined up lightest to heaviest, which meant he was after Luke and Mike, but before Derek. Gage waited for the green light to appear and then stepped onto the vibrating platform. Mike disappeared, then Luke. Gage waited a beat and then plunged into the night sky.

  A wall of cold air pushed against him as he hurtled toward land. On his first jump he’d clenched his teeth through this part and prayed that the guy who’d packed his chute had been paying attention. But now—nearly a thousand jumps later—Gage no longer worried about the chute opening and spent this time instead enjoying the thrill of being a human projectile rocketing toward earth at 125 miles per hour.

  At three thousand feet Gage pulled the cord. His body jerked back as the chute unfurled and caught air. He switched on his night optical device and searched for the rest of his team against the backdrop of the empty desert. The NOD enabled him and his teammates to see the infrared lights on one another’s helmets, and they maneuvered their bodies so that their canopies stacked like stair steps, which would help them land close together—but not too close.

  Gage’s heart thumped steadily. He sucked in air. As they neared the landing zone, he flared his chute to control the speed of descent. The ground flew up at him and then . . .

  Freaking perfection.

  They were clustered on the ground together in a space no bigger than a baseball diamond. But there was no time to gloat over the kick-ass landing. Mike and Luke already had their weapons ready, holding security as Gage and Derek took off their chutes. Then it was Gage and Derek’s turn to stand guard as the other two bunched up the nylon. In a real-world op, they would break out shovels and bury their chutes out of sight of the enemy, but tonight was a training mission, and they weren’t about to risk damaging nearly ten thousand dollars’ worth of equipment. Mike and Luke stowed everything under a bush and covered it with camo netting while Gage and Derek stood guard.

  In a quick huddle before takeoff, they’d debated skipping that step and letting everyone take care of their chutes simultaneously to whittle down their time. But Gage knew his CO might be lurking in the darkness somewhere, watching their every move through night-vision goggles. He’d be waiting for one small reason to give them a failing grade on this exercise, which would mean instead of taking the five days’ leave Gage had coming to him, he’d be joining his teammates for some extra-hellacious PT work back at the base. Shortcuts didn’t pay—not in the teams.

  They finished up with the chutes and checked their compasses. No GPS, as part of tonight’s purpose was to test navigation skills. Luke signaled the direction of the target and they moved out with Gage on point.

  Slowly, silently, they crept through the desert. In contrast to the briny air of Coronado, the valley smelled of dust and sage. A thin layer of cloud cover and some stealth tactics would prevent them from being seen by the enemy—which tonight might be members of their own platoon ordered to try to ambush them on the way to the target. So the limited visibility was helpful, but could also lead to problems if Gage’s team botched the calculations and walked right past the target in the dark.

  Tonight’s winning streak continued, though, and after an hour-long patrol in silent slow motion, they walked right up on their objective: a three-thousand-pound Tomahawk missile. According to their pre-op briefing, the weapon had missed its designated target and landed behind enemy lines without detonating. Now it was the SEALs’ job to destroy it before enemy forces could get their hands on the valuable technology or convert it into an IED that would be used against American troops.

  Mike and Luke held security while Gage and Derek took a knee and got to work unloading supplies from their rucksacks. Derek took out four pounds of C-4, which looked like modeling clay and smelled like hot asphalt. As the team’s top demo man, Gage was in charge of the blasting caps, fuse igniters, and fuses. By itself, the C-4 couldn’t explode, but mishandled blasting caps could blow off a finger—or some other valued appendage—so Gage never carried them in his pants pockets. He took a deep breath now and concentrated as he unloaded everything carefully.

  Derek prepped two blocks of C-4—one for each end of the missile. Gage put blasting caps into each block. Then he readied the fuse igniters, all the while thinking hard about how much he did not want to botch this up. When everything was in place, he traded looks with Derek and then pulled the lanyards attached to the fuse igniters.

  “Fire in the hole!” Gage shouted.

  The smell of burning cordite filled the air as they sprinted for the cover of a nearby boulder. They ducked behind the rocks and Gage checked his watch. He waited. Three . . . two . . .

  Boom.

  The earth shook. Debris pelted down on their helmets. Gage waited a beat to make sure the explosion was over.

  “Score!” Luke said, leaping to his feet. They no longer worried about noise discipline now that their cover was literally blown to bits.

  “Time to haul ass,” Gage said, and hustled out from behind the rocks. After a quick check to ensure that no overly large missile fragments remained, they bugged out, making the two-mile
trek to the pickup point in less than fifteen minutes. They exfiltrated using a different route from before, just in case the enemy had somehow discovered their tracks and set up an ambush.

  Ten minutes later, they were on a helicopter headed back to base, grinning at one another like a bunch of kids who’d just won a baseball game.

  Mike slouched back against the side of the helo. “I’d give my right arm for a mile-high stack of Flo’s pancakes.”

  Gage’s stomach growled in response. Flo’s Diner near base was a popular breakfast spot. He and Kelsey had gone there on more than one occasion to fuel up after a marathon night.

  “Cowboy omelet,” Luke said, and passed Gage a spare T-shirt to wipe off his greasepaint. “You in?”

  “I’m in,” Gage said, pushing away thoughts of Kelsey. He didn’t want to believe that her broken engagement had anything to do with his good mood. And he damn sure didn’t want to think it had anything to do with his recently rediscovered ability to do his job well. This wasn’t about her. It was a good morning, simple as that. With any luck, it might end up being a good day, and maybe even a good week. Gage watched the first rays of sunlight hitting the San Bernardino Mountains and felt a lightness in his chest that had been missing for a long time.

  The team was still talking about breakfast when they landed at Coronado. The base was alive with activity as new recruits grunted it out on the hard top doing morning PT. Lines of flush-faced men did sit-ups and push-ups. SEALs in training clawed their way up the sixty-foot cargo net on the obstacle course. Not a good place to lose arm strength.

  Derek slapped Gage and Mike on the back as they jogged across the base. “Let’s make this quick. I’m starved.”

  They hustled to the SEAL building, where they took off their helmets and weapons and stowed them in lockers. They still had to debrief and downstage the rest of their gear before they could have so much as a cup of coffee. On the way to the briefing room, Gage turned a corner and nearly crashed into Jeff Hallenback, his new CO.

  “Vaughn. Dietz.”

  “Sir,” they said in unison.

  “Where’s Jones?”