Aimpoint by Candace Irving (e reader pdf best TXT) 📕

engulfing it. "Second Lieutenant Rachel Pace, US Army—Public Affairs. And, yes, I'm so green I checked into my first command three days ago." Because according to Ava Jelling's gossip, that was how the predatory SF sergeant liked them.

But while this SF soldier's whistle was low and teasing, it carried a surprising tinge of respect. "Three days? That is green." The captain's reluctance at losing her hand might have been charming, had he not motioned for the bartender to refill her drink—without even asking her. "Public Affairs. You're reporting to Terry, then?"

"Yes." As expected, he'd been more than willing to help out. She was now wondering if abusing their friendship for a case on Hohenfels was wise.

Terry. Not Terrance or Captain Vaughn, as most of the Army referred to the man.

She made a mental note to press Terry for information regarding his relationship with Garrison as the bartender stepped up to retrieve her nearly empty glass. He slotted a fresh one in its place and left.

Regan tipped her head toward the empty spot of polished walnut in front of the captain. "You're not drinking."

"Neither are you."

"It's club soda."

"I know."

He'd been studying her, yes. But that closely? She carefully gauged his former vantage point in the bar's mirror. Without the complementary reflection from the glass that the clock provided from this end, he couldn't have had a clear view.

So, how—

His smile dipped back in, underscoring a healthy hint of that dimpled fold. "I can smell the CO2."

Ah.

The fold deepened as he leaned closer, invading her personal space. "So, you came to a bar for a…refreshing round of club soda?"

She shook her head. "I was supposed to be meeting a friend." A so-called friend she'd coldly murder in her sleep—or, at the very least, torture for a solid week—for not getting her ass here in time to deflect this guy.

The captain hadn't been kidding; he was persistent. Infuriatingly so.

Worse, he'd managed to shift closer. That enormous chest was now obscuring her view of the entire bar. A full, three thousand-strong brigade of NCIS agents could be marking time behind the man and she'd never know.

Regan took the ready excuse to lean precariously to her left, ostensibly to check the door for her MIA friend—as she scanned the hall leading to the latrines.

Still no LaCroix.

"And this friend…she still hasn't shown?"

Regan shook her head as she straightened. "No, she hasn't—yet."

"Excellent." He eased off, returning command of her personal space to her.

Definitely an alpha dog. One so sure of himself, he didn't feel the need to push it, or her, unless actively thwarted. So how the hell did she get rid of him? Because like a rottweiler with a meaty bone, this guy had no intention of letting go.

And then she saw it—him.

LaCroix. The sergeant had finally finished whatever he'd really been doing in the latrine, but the fury she'd noted at that incoming text hadn't cooled. If anything, it appeared to have been nurtured into an almost palpable rage.

Garrison had noted it too. "Excuse me. I need a minute."

"Of course." Take a thousand.

Intent on providing him the opportunity, Regan stood as well, adjusting her pink sweater over her faded jeans as she waited for the captain to return to his barhopping buddy. Once Garrison was seated—and speaking—she shouldered her leather bag and headed for the doorway from which LaCroix had returned.

Ears straining for the slightest clue, she caught Garrison's muttered, "Damn it. I said I'd deal with it," as she passed their table.

Shit. Perhaps she'd attracted the right man after all.

Unwilling to risk blowing that attraction, Regan kept walking, turning down into the narrow hall, passing the men's latrine to reach the women's. It was possible she'd missed Mira's arrival, especially if her friend had entered the bar while that massive torso had been blocking her view of the door.

The main area was empty.

A quick dip and scan beneath all three wooden doors at the far end confirmed the stalls were vacant too. Where the hell was she?

Regan unzipped her bag, her fingers wedging up against her 9mm Sig Sauer's hidden compartment as she retrieved the phone she'd silenced before entering the bar.

No missed calls, no texts. Not that Mira would've risked either without a true emergency brewing. Her friend was safe.

Regan returned the phone to her bag as she headed for the sink. Given the Old-World Bavarian charm of the bar beyond, the angular spout was jarringly modern. The reflection in the mirror above, more so. Neither the green eyes staring back at her nor the blond, tousled "beach" waves tumbling down her back were hers. The temporary color and curl job was due to the skill of the stylist she'd visited the previous afternoon. The background file Agent Jelling had compiled suggested LaCroix's preference for both.

The tinted contacts had been her call. They helped her separate herself from the woman in the mirror, enhancing her ability to become Rachel Pace or…whoever.

They usually did.

They should. She'd been slipping in and out of the real Regan Chase since she was six years old. These past few years, she'd simply figured out how to draw on the talent for Uncle Sam's benefit. Every time she did—and succeeded in taking down a dirty soldier or a flat-out terrorist in the process—it helped to quiet the doubts within.

But would it ever be enough?

Regan braced herself as the bathroom door swung open—Garrison had been that determined—only to relax as she caught the smoother, born-blond strands of her friend. She rounded on her as the door closed. "Where the hell have you been?"

Mira stiffened, panic edging into eyes as blue as her own had been that morning. "What happened? Are you okay?"

Regan waved off her concern, embarrassed at the desperation she'd heard—in her own voice. "Sorry. It's been a long day." A longer evening. One that, in light of what she'd heard on the way in here, was about to get longer.

Mira blew out her breath. "No worries. I'd planned on getting here before you, but I got stopped on