The Ranger Brigade

“And you don’t like the press.” Her eyes met his over the top of the water bottle. They were the green-gold of dragonflies, he thought, fringed with gold-tipped lashes.

Focus, he reminded himself. “The press sometimes makes my job more difficult.”

“And men like you make my job more difficult.” Amusement glinted in those beautiful eyes, and he had to look away.

“What can you tell me about the man in the plane?” he asked. “Was he the pilot?”

“Bobby was a pilot. I never saw his plane, but I know he owned a Bonanza.”

“You and he had been dating?” Some emotion he didn’t want to look at too closely—jealousy?—pinched at him and he pushed it away. “For how long?”

“We only went out a few times. We weren’t lovers, just friends. He was having a hard time and needed someone to talk to.”

“What do you mean, having a hard time?”

“His little boy is sick, and needs a lot of expensive care. Bobby was worried about money—that’s the reason he took the job with Richard Prentice, even though he couldn’t stand the guy.”

“He worked for Richard Prentice?”

She nodded. “That’s how we met. I wrote a profile of Prentice for the Post last year. Bobby was kind of like a chauffeur—he piloted his Bonanza, or sometimes he flew a plane Prentice owned. He was on call to take Prentice wherever he needed to go.”

“When you saw him two nights ago, did he say anything about doing a job for Prentice the next day, or the next?”

“No. We didn’t talk about work. And he didn’t just fly for Prentice. He worked for anybody who wanted to hire his plane. He taught flying lessons, too.” She set the still-full water bottle on the desk and leaned toward him. “What happened? Did the plane crash because he was shot, or did that happen after they were on the ground?”

“We don’t know, though someone would have to be pretty stupid to shoot the pilot while they were still in the air.”

“You’re sure there was a passenger?”

“We’re not sure about anything. But someone shot your friend, and someone took the cargo that was in the plane. And we found fresh tracks that looked like a truck or another big vehicle pulled up alongside the wreckage.” He clamped his mouth shut. He was telling her too much.

“I saw the busted-up crate,” she said. “What was in it?”

“We don’t know that, either.” Though Marco Cruz, the DEA agent who’d been patrolling with Randall, had recognized the markings on the crate.

“Do you think this is connected with Richard Prentice?” she asked. “Is he running a smuggling operation?”

“We don’t know. How well do you know him? You said you wrote a profile for the paper?”

“I spent two weeks visiting his home and shadowing him as he conducted business. He was charming. Arrogant, but when you have as much money as he does, maybe it comes with the territory.”

So she thought Prentice was charming? The idea annoyed him, probably more than it should, but he wasn’t going to waste any more time playing the polite card. “I’ll need you to tell me everything you know about Richard Prentice. And I want to see all your notes, recordings and any other material you collected while researching your article.”

“I’m not one of your officers who you can boss around, Captain,” she said. “If you really want that information, you can get a subpoena.” She stood, her face flushed, eyes practically snapping with fury. “And if you want to know about Richard Prentice, read the article.” She stalked out of his office, slamming the door hard behind her.

He stared after her, stomach churning. So much for his attempt to not be a jerk around her. But the thought of her and that arrogant billionaire...

“Captain! Wait ’til you hear this.” Marco Cruz, trailed by Randall Knightbridge, burst into the headquarters trailer. Lean and muscular, with skin the color of honey, Marco was the epitome of the strong, silent type. But at the moment, his face was more animated than Graham could remember ever seeing it.

“What’s up?” he asked, rising to meet them.

“I made some calls to some people I know,” Marco said. “I think my hunch about what was in that crate was right.”

“So what was in it?” Graham had no patience for top secret time-wasting, not when the agencies were supposed to be working together.

“I thought the crate looked just like the ones the military uses to ship Hellfire missiles. My sources in the army tell me they’ve had a few come up missing the last couple of years.”

“What, they just lost track?” Graham asked.

“That’s what I said,” Randall said. “But I guess people steal them to sell on the black market.”

“So what was a Hellfire missile doing in that plane?” Graham asked. “Provided that’s what was really in that box.”

“Hellfire missiles are what they use to arm unmanned drones,” Marco said.

The hairs on the back of Graham’s neck stood up. “Anybody with enough money can buy a drone from a private company. It’s not illegal.”

“But only someone with a Hellfire missile can arm that drone,” Marco said.

“Who around here owns a drone?” Graham asked.

Marco nodded. “That’s what we need to find out. And fast.”

* * *

FORGET GRAHAM ELLISON, Emma told herself as she unlocked the door to her house in a quiet suburb on Montrose’s south side. She didn’t need him to get to the bottom of this story. Safely inside, she dumped her purse and the day’s mail on the kitchen table.

“Meow!” A silver-gray tabby emerged from the bedroom and leaned against her ankles.

“Hello, Janey, darling.” Emma bent and scooped the cat into her arms. As she rubbed a finger beneath the furry chin Janey—for Jane Austen—purred loudly.

“How was your day?” Emma asked. “I had to deal with the most frustrating man.”

“Meow!” Janey said—though whether in sympathy, or simply because she wanted to be fed, Emma couldn’t say.

But she opened a can of Salmon Supreme and dumped it into Janey’s dish, then poured herself a glass of wine and sat at the table to try to organize her notes. She didn’t have that much, but she had enough to write a story about the plane crash. For a painful moment the image of Bobby’s lifeless body slumped in the pilot’s seat of his destroyed plane flashed into her mind and she felt a sharp pang of grief for her friend.

She swallowed her tears and opened her notebook. All the more reason to do everything she could to find his killer. Bobby had been a great guy—not a man she could fall in love with, but a good friend, and he deserved better.

Her doorbell rang, the loud chimes startling her. She hurried to the door and checked the peephole, and sucked in a breath when she saw Graham Ellison standing there. He was still in uniform, but he held a large bouquet of flowers in his hand, wrapped in green tissue paper.

She unlocked the door and opened it. “Captain, what are you doing here?” she asked.

“It seems like I’m always apologizing to you,” he said. “We got off on the wrong foot. Can we try again?”

She regarded him warily, trying hard not to notice how he towered over her, or how his shoulders were almost wide enough to fill the doorway. A man who made her feel dainty was a rarity, and she usually liked to savor the experience. But she had trouble relaxing around Captain Ellison. “Why should I give you another chance?” she asked.

“Because we both want to find out who killed your friend.”

It was the one answer that was sure to sway her. She held the door open wider. “Come in.”

He moved past her into the foyer, and handed her the flowers. “Peace offering,” he said.

“Come in here.” She led the way into the kitchen, and motioned to the table. “I was just going over my notes.” She found a vase in a cabinet and filled it at the sink.

“I’m not going to make the mistake of asking to see them.”

She flushed. “I don’t like being ordered around. Also—I have my own system for organizing my research material. It’s messy and it probably wouldn’t make sense to anyone else.”

“I shouldn’t have barked at you like you were one of my junior officers.”

She arranged the flowers in the vase and set it on the counter, then looked him in the eye, ignoring the way her heart sped up when she did so. “What is it about me you don’t like?” she asked. “Is it just because I’m a reporter? Because we’re on the same side here. I want to know who killed Bobby, and I want to see them brought to justice.”

He grimaced, as if in pain. “You’ve got it all wrong. Our problems aren’t because I don’t like you—they’re because I’m so attracted to you.”

Now her heart was really racing, and she felt as if she’d swallowed battling hummingbirds. So she wasn’t the only one who’d noticed the heat between them. “I’m intrigued. Tell me more.”

He looked around the apartment, everywhere but at her. His gaze finally focused on the cat, who had finished eating and was meticulously grooming herself. “When I saw you in that crowd of reporters, I had a hard time not staring.” He hazarded a glance her way. “Is this going to get me into trouble?”

“That depends on your definition of trouble.”

He shoved both hands in his pockets. “We’re both professionals. Maybe we should keep it that way.”

“Or maybe we should be more honest.” She stepped out from behind the kitchen counter, moving toward him. “I’m an adult. I think I can handle my job and my personal life without ruining either.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I’m attracted to you, too, Captain. It takes a special man to appreciate a woman like me.”

His gaze swept over her like a caress. “Then those other men are fools.”

She laughed. “Maybe. But some men don’t know how to handle a woman who’s five-eleven and probably outweighs them. I’m no delicate flower.”

“I’m not interested in flowers.” His gaze drifted to her cleavage. She had plenty of that. And an ample backside. He wouldn’t be the first guy to appreciate her killer curves, even if the women in fashion magazines never looked like her.

“So did you come here this afternoon to ask me out?” she asked.

“No. I came to ask for your help. You know a lot more about Richard Prentice than I do. Maybe you can give me some insight.”

“Richard Prentice?” The mention of the billionaire surprised her. “Do you think he’s behind Bobby’s death?”

“We don’t know. Your friend worked for him, so that seems the most logical place to start our investigation.”

He still wouldn’t look her in the eye, a sure sign he was holding something back. “You’re not telling me everything,” she said. “Why focus on Prentice? Do you think he’s connected to other crimes in the park?”

“I’d rather you tell me what you think—and what you know—about Prentice.”

She considered the question for a moment, sorting through her impressions of the billionaire. “He pretty much hates the federal government, but you already know that,” she said. “He’s made a career of forcing the government’s hand and of trying to circumvent regulations he sees as controlling and unjust. But he’s never broken the law.”

“Never that anyone can prove.”

“But you think he has now? Why? How?”

Graham shook his head. “I have no proof that Mr. Prentice has anything to do with any crime—his only connection is that the dead pilot was known to have worked for him.”

“But you have your suspicions.”

His silence was as good as a confirmation. “I understand why you won’t say anything more,” she said. “And I wouldn’t write anything about Mr. Prentice without a lot of proof to back it up—he can afford very good lawyers and we both know he’s not afraid to use them. But anything you can tell me I’ll keep in confidence until it’s appropriate to write about it.”

The line of his jaw tightened, but he gave a single nod. “I can’t tell you everything I know about the case,” he said. “But I will say—off the record—that the cargo we think was in that plane could be very dangerous, and it’s definitely illegal.”

“Will you tell me more when you can?”

He hesitated. “When I can, yes.”

“Then I’ll tell you what I know about Richard Prentice, even though I don’t see how it can help.”

He took his hands out of his pockets, and some of the tension went out of his shoulders. “Good. Why don’t we discuss this over dinner?”

“Is this a date?”

He flushed. “No. Yes. Why don’t we call it dinner and see what happens after that?”

* * *

EMMA INSISTED ON driving her Jeep to the restaurant, with Graham following in his Cruiser. He’d do whatever it took to put her at ease, though he wasn’t used to yielding control. The little Italian bistro occupied an old house off a side street, and at this time of day they were the only customers, but the owners seemed to know Emma and greeted her warmly. “I just took some lasagna out of the oven,” the woman, who looked more like Sophia Loren than an Italian grandmother, said.

“And we have a new wine you should try,” her husband, a short, burly man added.

Emma looked at Graham. “Does that sound good to you?”

His stomach growled, and he realized he hadn’t had anything but coffee since breakfast. “It sounds great.”

The couple left them alone in a secluded booth and Graham studied Emma across the table, vowing that he wouldn’t press her for information, even though he was dying to know her impressions of Richard Prentice—and what her relationship with the billionaire might have been. She’d insisted on changing before they went out, and instead of the jeans and boots she’d worn earlier, she’d put on a long dress made out of some light fabric that clung to her curves. A colorful scarf around her shoulders brought out the green in her eyes. She looked soft and sexy and too distracting for him to be comfortable. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about her suggestion that they explore their mutual attraction. Getting involved with a reporter struck him as one of the worst ideas he’d ever had.

But if the reporter was a beautiful woman...

“My editor at the Post wanted a story on Richard Prentice after his run-in with the county officials here over his attempts to force the federal government to buy the land he owns near the park entrance,” she said after their host, Ray, brought their wine. “I approached Prentice with the angle that this would be a chance for him to tell his side of the story. He ended up inviting me to visit his ranch and shadow him for a couple of weeks.”

“Maybe he wanted you close, where he could keep an eye on you.” His fingers tightened on the stem of the wineglass as he thought of how close Prentice had probably wanted to be to her. As close as Graham himself wanted to be.

“Maybe. But it worked in my favor. I met the people who worked for him, saw how he lived.”

“What did you think?”

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “You really should read the article.”

“I will, but give me your impressions now.”

“All right.” She spread her hands flat on the table in front of her. She wore rings on one thumb and three fingers of each hand. Her nails were polished a shell pink, the manicure fresh. “First of all, he’s smarter than you probably think. A genius, even. He can rattle off phone numbers of almost everyone he’s ever called, remember minute details about things that happened years ago—he practically has a photographic memory.”

“Smart people can still do dumb things.”

“Yes. And he does have a weakness—because he’s very smart, he views everyone else as dumb. That kind of arrogance leads him to underestimate his opponents sometimes.”

The woman, Lola, brought two plates loaded with thick slabs of fragrant lasagna, accompanied by buttered and seasoned zucchini. “This looks amazing,” Graham said as he spread a napkin in his lap.

“It is.” Lola beamed. “My special recipe.”

“It really is divine,” Emma said. She slid a forkful into her mouth and moaned softly.

The sound made Graham’s mouth go dry. He shifted to accommodate his sudden arousal, and took a long sip of wine. When was the last time a woman had affected him this way? Maybe when he was a teenager—twenty years ago. “What kind of people does Prentice hang out with?” he asked. Focus on the case.

“All kinds. Politicians. Foreign businesspeople. Fashion models. Celebrities. Lobbyists. People who want favors. People he can order around. He’s not the kind of man who has close friends, though, just a lot of contacts and acquaintances.”

“Any romantic interests?”

She shook her head. “He’s been photographed with a lot of beautiful women at various events, but he treats them like accessories—necessary to his image, but there’s no real attachment there. He likes women, but they’re not an obsession. And in case you’re wondering, he was a perfect gentleman around me.”

Neither perfect nor gentleman fit his impression of Prentice, but he was relieved to know the man hadn’t taken a personal interest in Emma. “How did he get all that money he has?”

“He was vague about that. Some of it he inherited. He owns a lot of different companies. He’s sort of known for running competitors out of business, and for buying up marginal concerns and selling off their assets. As you might have gathered, he has no qualms about using people or situations for his own gain.”

“He clearly enjoys sticking it to the government.”

“Definitely. Believe it or not, he sees himself as a kind of champion, fighting against the feds. And there are people who look up to him for that.”

“Even if it means destroying historic landmarks or using public land for private gain?”

She nodded. “I met some of his fans—everybody from property rights lobbyists to extremist groups who believe everything the government does is wrong.”

“So if he wanted to do something illegal, he could probably find people to help him.”

“I’m sure. And they don’t have to be fans of his—he has enough money to pay anyone to do what he wants. For some people that’s enough.”

He had enough money to buy a drone and a black-market missile to arm it. And people who’d cheer him on as he did so. “I’ll probably have more questions for you later, but right now, let’s change the subject to something less grim,” he said. “Why did you decide to be a reporter?”

She laughed, and the sound sent a tremor through his middle. “You don’t have to sound so disgusted. I’m not an ax murderer.”

He winced. “Sorry. Let’s just say a lot of my interactions with the press haven’t been positive.”

“I can’t imagine.” Suppressed laughter again.

Point taken. “So I’m not Mr. Personality. But I really do want to know what drew you to journalism.”

She sat back and took a deep breath, as if bracing herself for an ordeal. “All right, I’ll tell you. When I was nineteen, a freshman in college, my older sister disappeared. She was a nurse, working nights at a hospital. She got off her shift early one morning and was never seen or heard from again.”

He felt the pain behind her words, despite her calm demeanor. “How awful for your family,” he said, the words completely inadequate.

She nodded. “Sherry had left once before without telling the rest of us—she’d run off to Vegas with a guy she was dating for a wild weekend. At first the police suspected a repeat of that caper. We tried to tell them that this time was different, but they wouldn’t listen. They didn’t take the case seriously until we went to the newspapers. A reporter took an interest in the case and helped us. Eventually, the police found her body, not far from the hospital. She’d been murdered. They never found her killer.”

He reached across the table and took her hand. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” She withdrew her hand and sipped wine. “Anyway, that reporter inspired me. I wanted to help others the way she helped our family. Sometimes that means riding the police—reminding them to do their job.”

“Those questions you asked about Lauren Starling.” Understanding dawned.

She nodded. “She’s another woman who’s gone missing, and no one is doing anything about it.”

“We are keeping our eyes open for any sign of her. But we don’t have anything else to go on.”

“I’m still trying to find out more about her and the case,” she said.

“If you learn anything, let me know,” he said. “I’m not a callous jerk, no matter what kind of first impression I gave you.”

She patted his hand, which still rested on the table in front of her. “You still have a chance to redeem yourself.”

They finished the meal over espresso and small talk about each other’s background. He told her about growing up in a military family, playing football, then joining the marines and eventually moving into law enforcement with the FBI. “No wife or family?” she asked.

“I was married once, but it didn’t work out. I guess I’m one of those men who’s married to his work. No kids. What about you?”

She shook her head. “I was engaged once, but we both thought better of it.”

By the time Ray brought the check, Graham felt almost comfortable with her. He debated asking her out for a real date, but decided to wait. He’d be sure to see her again; the case gave him a good excuse to do so. No need to rush things and risk screwing up.

He walked her to her Jeep and lingered while she found her keys and unlocked the car door. “Here’s my personal cell.” He wrote the number on the back of his business card and handed it to her. “Call me anytime.”

“About the case—or just to talk?” Her tone was teasing.

“Either. Maybe you’d like to give me your number?”

“I could make you work for it. I’ll bet the FBI could find it out.”

“I probably could, but I’d rather you gave it to me voluntarily.”

She smiled and opened her purse. But she never had a chance to write down her number. The loud crack! of gunshots shattered the afternoon silence. Her screams rang in Graham’s ears as he pushed her to the ground.

Chapter Three

Emma might have fantasized about Graham on top of her, but not like this. Gravel dug into her back, she couldn’t breathe and her ears rang from the sound of gunshots. The smells of cordite and hot steel stung her nose, and she realized he had drawn a weapon and was firing. A car door slammed and then a revving engine and the squeal of tires signaled their assailant’s escape.

Graham rolled off her, then took her hand and pulled her to her feet. “Are you all right?” he asked.

She brushed dirt from her skirt, and tried to nod, but she’d always been a lousy liar. Her legs felt like jelly and she was in danger of being sick to her stomach. “I think I need to sit down.”

Ray and Lola emerged from the restaurant and crowded around them, followed by most of the waitstaff and half a dozen customers. “We called 911,” Lola said. “What happened?”

“Someone shot at us.” Graham put his arm around Emma. She leaned on him and let him lead her back inside. The reality of what had happened was beginning to sink in. They could have been killed—but why? “Can you bring us some brandy?” he asked.

Ray left and returned with a snifter of brandy. Graham held it to Emma’s lips. “Drink this.”

She did as he asked, then pushed the glass away, coughing, even as warmth flooded her. “I don’t even like brandy,” she gasped.

Graham handed her a handkerchief. It was clean, white linen and smelled of lemon and starch. She wiped her watery eyes, leaving a smear of black mascara on the pristine cloth. “If this is a typical date with you, I think I’m going to quit while I’m ahead.”

She tried to return the handkerchief, but he waved it away. “You keep it. I promise you, this isn’t typical.”

“Did you see anything?” she asked. “The shooter, or their car?”

“A man dressed in black, wearing a ski mask and a watch cap. He drove a dark sedan, no license plate.”

“I’m impressed you saw that much—I didn’t see a thing.”

“I make it a habit to notice things. The car was parked at the corner, waiting for us.”