windows. The powerful beam confirmed there was no one sitting behind or slumped over the wheel. A cautious circuit of the vehicle showed all four bucket seats were empty. A roll-out shield covered the rear luggage compartment, giving no clue as to its contents.
Frowning, Jill made another circuit, aiming the flashlight at the ground this time. The sand was hard here, not like the snowy, fine-grained white stuff farther north, but her boot prints showed clearly enough. As did the faint indentations leading toward the rocky outcropping.
Jill eyed the single set of prints. Their size and shape suggested a male. A big one. That didn’t particularly worry her. She’d learned enough tricks over the years to take down any two drunken soldiers stupid enough to get crosswise of her. What worried her was why the heck this guy had stopped just inside the perimeter of the Pegasus site.
Easing her semiautomatic rifle from her shoulder, she nestled it in the crook of her arm and rested her finger on the trigger guard. The M-9 was light enough to carry easily for long distances and accurate enough to be fired on the run. Jill could attest to both attributes from past experience. Aiming the flashlight at the tracks, she followed them toward the rocks.
“There’s a set of footprints in the sand,” she advised Control, tilting her chin down to speak softly into the mike. “I’m following them to… Damn!”
What happened next was just the kind of unexpected situation she’d learned to anticipate in her years as a cop. Still, she just about jumped out of her boots when a shadowy figure suddenly rounded the rocky outcropping and almost collided with her.
“What the hell!”
His deep snarl shattered the stillness of the night. Jill danced back, her heart pumping pure adrenaline, and whipped up both her weapon and the flashlight. She caught a glimpse, only a glimpse of his startled expression before he, too, reacted with razor-edged instincts. One moment he was squinting into the blinding light. The next he was hurtling through the air like a NFL linebacker with a ten-thousand-dollar bonus riding on his next quarterback sack.
Jill’s instincts were every bit as quick. She danced to the side and resisted the impulse to bring the butt of her rifle down on the man’s neck as he barreled past. She’d been trained to use force only as a last resort, but she wasn’t above stacking the odds in her favor by thrusting out a boot.
He went down with a grunt and a thud that raised puffs of sand. If she’d been out to cuff him, she would have barked out an order for him to plant his face in the dirt at that point. Instead, she stood well away from his feet and kept a wary eye on his hands as he rolled onto his hip. As an added precaution, she aimed the powerful flashlight right at his face, effectively blinding him.
He threw up an arm to shield his eyes from the intense light, allowing Jill to catalogue his wavy black hair, a square jaw and powerful shoulders under an open-necked red knit shirt. The rest of his body matched the shoulders, she noted in a swift sweep. Narrow waist, lean hips, well muscled thighs that strained the fabric of his well-washed jeans. She also made note of the gold watch circling his left wrist.
The Lincoln and the obviously expensive watch suggested he wasn’t a hunter or a smuggler running illegal aliens. Nor did he look like your average lost tourist. A few years ago Jill might have said he didn’t look like your average terrorist, either, but the Oklahoma City bombing proved even clean-cut, ex-Marines were capable of committing the most despicable acts of violence.
“Is that your vehicle parked by the road?” she asked, keeping him pinned in the flashlight’s beam.
“Yes.”
“Who are you and what are you doing in this area?”
“The name’s Richardson. Cody Richardson.”
Jill sucked in a quick breath. She recognized the name, if not the face. Commander Cody Richardson, Public Health Service. Dr. Richardson, if she accorded him his title instead of his rank.
Jill had thoroughly reviewed the background dossiers and security clearances of every test cadre member, including that of Dr. Richardson. But the head-and-shoulders photo of the PHS officer assigned to the Pegasus Project didn’t come close to matching this hunk of raw maleness. The subject of that photo had worn wire-rim glasses, a white lab coat and scowled into the camera as if annoyed at being disturbed.
This man wore a red knit Polo shirt that clung to his wide shoulders and a pair of worn jeans that displayed lean hips and muscled thighs. Evidently the doc—if he was the physician and brilliant researcher expected at the site—believed in keeping himself in shape.
Squinting at her from under his upraised arm, he rapped out a question of his own. “Who are you?”
“I’m Major Jill Bradshaw, United States Army.”
Some of the belligerence seeped out of him. “U.S. Army?”
“That’s right.”
His tense, corded muscles relaxed. “Sorry I came at you the way I did, Major. Chalk it up to the fact that you surprised the hell out of me. I saw the rifle pointed straight at my middle and my self-preservation instincts kicked in.”
When she made no comment, he angled his head behind the shield of his upraised arm, trying to see her.
“How about you get that light out of my eyes.”
“How about you show me some ID?”
The cool response didn’t win her any Brownie points with the doc. Above the muscular forearm, his black brows snapped together. “My wallet’s in my back pocket.”
“Get up, plant your hands against the rock, and spread your legs. Please,” she tacked on after a moment.
He rolled to his feet with an athletic grace that didn’t impress her a bit. The butt-head who’d attacked her in college had been a star skier, golfer and swimmer. Personally, Jill preferred the gangly, gawky type.
She patted him down for hidden weapons, then asked him to extract his wallet from his rear pocket. Slowly. Carefully. He did so, turning around to hand her the slim leather billfold. She examined both his driver’s license and Public Health Service ID card. The ID confirmed he was, in fact, the expert in biological agents who’d been tagged to work the Pegasus Project, but Jill still had a few questions that needed answering.
“May I ask where you were headed?”
“I’m en route from San Antonio to San Francisco. I decided to cut across country and pick up I-40 in Albuquerque, but took the wrong road out of El Paso.”
She gave him full marks for a good cover story. He must have figured out by now she was with the Pegasus security team but wasn’t going to admit it until she asked for the code. She took her time doing so.
“Why did you stop here? Did you run out of gas?”
“No.”
Neither his expression nor his stance altered, but Jill didn’t miss the slight hesitation before he continued.
“I stopped to admire the view from the top of the rocks,” he said ruefully, as if admitting to an embarrassing character flaw. “It’s pretty awesome.”
Yeah, right.
Jill
