Aimpoint Candace Irving (mobi reader .TXT) 📖

his grip shifted, she could make out the dim glow of the screen as it flashed amid the clock's generous belly. A text bubble. One that had succeeded in extracting the only emotion she'd seen in the sergeant this entire Sunday evening—fury.

"Fuck!"

The hulk grabbed LaCroix's arm amid the sudden silence and pointed stares from the surrounding tables, clearly hoping to ease the sergeant back into his seat without creating more of a scene than he already had. LaCroix shook his friend off. Panic threaded through Regan as he swung away from the table. But instead of storming out of the bar, the sergeant stalked deeper within.

The pockets of German chatter and clinking of steins and glasses resumed as LaCroix turned into the hall that lead to the latrines.

Once again, her relief was short-lived. This time, as the only soldier whose interest she had succeeded in hooking tonight stood as well.

He was headed straight for her.

All too quickly, the behemoth had cut a path through the sporadically populated tables to stand beside her at the bar. Make that, tower over her. At six-three, easy, he rivaled the beanpole she'd shot down earlier, but with an added eighty pounds of muscle. Every ounce of which appeared to have been forged in the cauldron of combat too, judging by the trio of inch-long scars digging into the left edge of his darkly stubbled jaw, not to mention the thicker pair that tangled all the way down his neck to end somewhere beneath the collar of his black pullover. And that didn't account for the mottled rope feeding up his right forearm.

The arm currently heading her way with an equally large, scarred paw attached to its end. "Captain John Garrison, US Army Special Forces."

And that confirmed it.

She pushed a slight smile to her lips, not bothering to infuse it with sincerity, much less interest. "A soldier."

"Guilty as charged."

Agreed. But of what else? Plotting a terror attack?

Because his barhopping buddy was. The more she'd dug into LaCroix's life these past two days, the more certain she'd become. There was something off about the man, and it didn't have anything to do with who LaCroix preferred to screw.

Although she wasn't here to hook this man, the two had seemed awfully close at that table. And both were SF.

Was the captain in on it?

The unmet paw finally retracted. A moment later, its unfazed owner used that same paw to lift her leather shoulder bag from the seat beside her. He carefully settled the bag on the bar before commandeering the now empty stool with a finesse the beanpole would've envied, had he stuck around. Hell, it even impressed her.

Regrettably, the captain's interfering interest did not.

She had until LaCroix returned to get rid of him.

Unfortunately, he'd leaned closer. "So, you're American. Civilian? Or are you stationed at Hohenfels, too?"

She fielded the captain's curiosity with her own. "Special Forces? Am I supposed to be impressed?"

"Trust me, it's not all it's cracked up to be. At least not today."

An intriguing response, made more so by the shadows that momentarily flickered amid the depths of that steady stare. Both succeeded in ratcheting up her suspicions. And there was his name. Garrison. She'd come across it while prepping for tonight. John Garrison wasn't just Special Forces, he was LaCroix's former A-team leader. Not to mention, he and LaCroix resided in the same apartment complex.

"And your name is…?"

Regan fielded that question with silence.

"Ah, a woman of secrets."

He had no idea.

The captain met her noncommittal shrug with a nod—and raised her a slow smile. "I don't mind."

Odd. Most men did—especially the ones she ended up arresting. No matter how gigantic they were.

This one shrugged. "I'm a patient man. Persistent." The smile strengthened, causing a deep, dimpled fold to cut in on the right. "Motivated."

Perhaps. But, he wasn't as persistent as her. Definitely not as motivated. Without the glut of her so-called life lessons to draw upon, how could he be?

And there was the date on the calendar. The one relentlessly whittling down to Oktoberfest.

For the first time since he'd entered the bar, she studied the captain. This close, his hair appeared lighter than she'd first thought. More a medium brown. His jaw was too hewn and squared-off to be handsome, his brow and cheekbones too raw and prominent. He was arresting, all the same. No doubt because of that enormous frame. Those intimidating shoulders and bulging biceps. Hell, every inch of the man was intimidating, and she was not easily intimidated.

The scars didn't help. They made him appear harder. Aloof. In the end, it was that deep fold that saved him.

Until the man's innate arrogance kicked back in. "Well?"

Her name. Damn. He was persistent.

Where the devil was LaCroix?

For that matter, where was Mira? The woman should've put in an appearance by now. Though Brooks had remained firm on her friend's backup-only status, Regan wouldn't have thought anything could've kept her away. After an entire weekend holed up at CID along with Jelly, combing through every facet of LaCroix's life, Mira was as anxious as they were to get this operation going. To take the sergeant down.

Regan glanced at the door to the bar as it swung open, ushering in a group of rowdy locals with cheeks ruddy enough to suggest all were well past ordering their first round of the night. No NCIS agents in sight.

And still no sign of LaCroix.

Surely he'd managed to pee by now. Or was LaCroix on his phone? Responding to that rage-inciting text? Plotting his end game.

And, damn it, did it involve six million innocent people?

Resigned to the wait—barely—Regan returned her attention to the steady stare that had been focused on her up close and from afar these past twenty minutes. If she stalled any longer, she risked converting the interest still brimming within into annoyance—and absence. While she certainly needed the latter, Garrison just might be insulted enough to drag LaCroix off with him.

If the sergeant ever bothered to return.

She held out a hand. Garrison's paw returned instantly,