Evidence of Passion (Shadow Agents 7)

Yes, it was.

Noelle shifted slightly in her chair. “And Agent Anthony will be there, covering you both.”

Dylan glanced down at his hands. Rachel’s fingers had been clenched into tight fists. Her knuckles had been white as tension coursed through her body. He’d wanted to stroke her shoulder, to soothe her, but he hadn’t reached out to Rachel. Not with Mercer and Noelle watching them so closely.

“The EOD has taken a very personal interest in Jack.”

Dylan looked up at those low words. Mercer’s smile was gone.

“That interest isn’t just because of Agent Mancini, though I hope you know how much I value her.” Mercer stood. His chair rolled back behind him. “Jack has been killing for ten years. The very first man that he killed—the first we linked him to, anyway—worked in my military unit. Carson George survived wars, enemy camps and flat-out hell, only to be taken down in his own apartment just outside D.C.”

Dylan had read all of the files on Jack. “He always goes after military, either currently enlisted personnel or retired members.” No civilians, ever.

Why?

Noelle cleared her throat. “I think he’s ex-military, too. And he sees his victims...he sees them as more of a challenge. Going after civilians would be too easy, and Jack isn’t for easy.”

No, he was for blood. For death.

“I’ve known several of his victims. They were good men and women. Jack has to be stopped.” Mercer nodded toward Noelle. “The FBI is after him, too, so watch your step.”

“I have...associates who are eager to close in on him,” Noelle explained carefully.

“One way or another, we will take Jack down.” Mercer was adamant. “But I don’t want to lose any of my team members in this hunt.”

Rachel would not be lost. “Understood, sir.”

“Good.” Flat. “I knew I could count on you.”

Mercer and Noelle filed out of the room.

Dylan remained seated. Count on him? To take out Jack?

With pleasure.

* * *

BEFORE HIS DEATH, Hank Patterson had been planning to rule on a court-martial for Lance Corporal Chris Harris, a man who’d been accused of attacking a fellow marine—that marine had wound up in the hospital with three broken ribs and a broken arm.

Mercer had pulled strings and gotten Rachel and Dylan access to Chris Harris. A military guard was stationed a few feet away from the prisoner, and they were in a small, narrow room at the military holding facility.

Chris Harris, barely twenty-two, wore a smirk on his face as he glanced at Rachel and Dylan. “What do you two want?” His gaze drifted over them. “You’re not officers...”

“Not anymore,” Dylan agreed. He didn’t sit. Neither did Rachel. She was too tense to stay still, so she paced toward the left wall and prepared to watch the show.

When it came to interrogations, Dylan had a gift.

“If you’re not officers, then who are you?” Chris glanced at her. His eyes were a dull blue, his cheeks ruddy. And his hands were moving nervously against the table.

“We’re friends...of Hank Patterson’s,” Dylan answered.

Chris’s lips trembled. Rachel was staring right at him when he made that telling movement. The guy almost smiled. She was sure of it.

Dylan’s hands slapped down on the table in front of Chris. Dylan saw that movement, too. “You know he’s dead.”

Chris nodded. “Real shame.” His voice said it was anything but a shame. “My lawyer...he’s checking things for me now.”

“Yeah, I’m sure he is. I heard the trial wasn’t going so well for you.”