Aimpoint, Candace Irving [best love novels of all time TXT] 📗

headed to the office. I'll see you in a few."

She hung up and shoved the phone into her pocket. But as she reached for her bag, she remembered the wad of paper.

If the sticky had fallen from LaCroix's hand while he'd been dumping his guest room trash…was the wad his too?

She pulled it out and returned to the archway to use the light bleeding in from the living room lamp as she unraveled the paper.

It was a receipt from a local florist.

Regan stiffened as she spotted the itemized tally for an oversized teddy bear, a roll of gift wrap and a trio of eleven-inch latex balloons. Pink.

What better way to disguise a bomb?

Even more chilling, she and Jelly had purchased a dozen latex balloons several months back to celebrate a fellow agent's promotion, only to become annoyed when they'd lost their collective oomph and sunk to the floor by the following night. According to the receipt, these balloons had been filled with helium that morning—when John had been at the hospital with her.

Not only was the receipt LaCroix's, the clock on the sergeant's carefully crafted revenge was already counting down.

Damn it, she had time. LaCroix was being watched. If he was about to make his move, she'd know. Because John would know.

The knowledge kept the bulk of her panic at bay—until a phone rang. The sound wasn't coming from her back pocket. It was coming from the crumpled jeans less than a yard from her shoes.

John's jeans.

It rang again, the deep trill reverberating straight through her, across the living room and down into John's bedroom at the far end of the hall. She could hear him rising up from the bed and moving off. His door opening.

"Rachel?"

Shit. She didn't have time to answer, much less explain. Not if that call was about LaCroix.

Not if she hoped to save Saniye's life.

Regan shoved the receipt in her pocket and spun around, grabbing her bag and her keys on her way to the back door of the kitchen. She cleared the house and raced across the darkened drive to vault into the Tiguan. Within seconds, she'd fired up the engine and was using the car's hands-free feature to dial Jelly as she backed the car into the street and spun it around toward Vilseck.

Three agonizing rings in, Jelly picked up. "Just got off the phone with Brooks. He says—"

"Call him back! Have him dispatch SWAT and a bomb disposal team to the Karmandi home! I'm on my way there—LaCroix is executing his attack now."

If he hadn't already.

8

Regan reached the heart of Vilseck in record time.

Unfortunately, LaCroix had arrived first.

Though that dark, sweater-clad back was roughly sixty yards away and on the opposite side of the divided, mostly residential street, it was him. Who else would be carrying a three-foot box covered in pastel-pink wrapping paper with a trio of matching latex balloons and a froth of ribbons floating behind him shortly before midnight?

Make that forty yards from her now—and twenty from the door of that ice-blue, two-story Bavarian home.

The Karmandi home.

A fresh wave of adrenaline coursed through her veins as she hit the brakes and swerved to the right, pulling the Tiguan off the paved road and onto the flanking cobblestone walk. She killed the engine and grabbed her bag, slipping her fingers into the hidden compartment within.

Seconds later, she and her 9mm Sig Sauer were bailing out of the VW and heading across the blessedly otherwise deserted road. By the time she'd reached the grassy divider, LaCroix was less than five yards from the white-washed door of the Bavarian stucco. A single light burned from within. She could only pray that whoever'd left it lit had long since fallen asleep.

"US Army CID! Stop right there, Sergeant. Gently lower the package to the ground, then turn around—slowly."

The man stopped. But he didn't lower the box, much less turn. Though his head did shift far enough to the left to catch their reflections in the windows of the car parked in front of the Karmandi home.

"Now, Sergeant."

"Evening, Rachel. Well, this makes sense now, doesn't it? Though, if you're CID, I seriously doubt that's your name. How about you introduce—"

The piercing wail of a German police car bearing down on their location drowned out the rest. Moments later, several more joined in, obliterating the surreal calm of the darkened street.

The cavalry had arrived.

One by one, the sirens cut out as the vehicles closed in.

It was too late. Another light had fired up inside the Karmandi home, then another, as half a dozen silent, pulsing red, white and blue strobes pulled up on both sides of Regan and the primary focus of her attention.

The white-washed door opened. A curious Olan Karmandi stood inside its frame, peering out—with his swaddled, days-old daughter in his arms.

"Go back inside, doctor! Don't—"

"Luftballons, Papa!"

Shit. Karmandi's pajama-clad son had spotted the giant gift-wrapped box and darted out past the hem of his father's robe.

"Sener, Halt!"

The four-year-old boy froze five feet from the sergeant and his deceptively cheery burden. Tears welled up, splashing down onto pale, chubby cheeks as the boy stared at the 9mm in her hands.

The one sighted in on the back of LaCroix's cropped, dark-blond curls.

Regan forced herself to remain where she was, even as the sergeant took a step away from her and toward the now openly sobbing child.

"Evan, don't do this."

He stopped. "Evan?" He shook his head as he tsked softly. Pointedly. "I'm afraid we don't know each other that well, do we—Rachel?"

"Regan. Special Agent Regan Chase."

He nodded, but still didn't turn. Much less lower that damned box. He did, however, remain where he was. "Nice to meet you, Regan."

"Let the boy go back inside, Evan."

"He can go as far as his dad. But if he takes one step further—"

"He won't!" shouted Karmandi. "You have my word." Though the doc had addressed LaCroix, he was alternating that tortured stare of his between her and his son. Karmandi might not understand what was going on, but he was