Dark Sky by Carla Neggers Read Free Book Online

feet that same day. The shooting was the first inclination the USMS had of the very complicated plot to extort a presidential pardon on behalf of Nicholas Janssen. Rivera insisted it alone was reason for Juliet to be on alert of PTSD symptoms, never mind the rest of what had transpired that week. She still had the scars from a killer road rash she’d received after Janssen’s goons had grabbed her and she’d leaped out of their moving car. Then it was on to Tennessee and meeting Ethan over the bodies of the same two goons, distracting their killer—crazy Conroy Fontaine—before he could shoot Ethan, too. Fontaine had proceeded to drag her to a dark, dank cave, tie her up, gag her and leave her there with the snakes.
    If she’d had to, Juliet would have hurled herself into the river below the cave to escape. Even bound and gagged, she’d have managed to swim. But Ethan had found her and convinced himself he’d saved her life. Conroy Fontaine was dying of a snakebite by the time he was taken into custody. Meanwhile, Ethan took off to find Nick Janssen, who’d placed the order to have Ethan’s wife murdered the previous fall.
    More grounds, in Rivera’s view, for him to watch Juliet for PTSD.
    Then came August and the assassin. Juliet had reminded her boss more than once that she’d never been in serious danger, but he’d just give her a skeptical look. After Ethan had chased Janssen over the summer, putting pressure on him, a Diplomatic Security agent—Maggie Spencer—got a tip that led to Janssen’s arrest. Even in a Dutch prison, he was dangerous. His hired assassin started working her way down a list of targets he’d given her—with a few of her own thrown in. Maggie Spencer and Rob Dunnemore finally caught up with her in a pretty village on the Hudson River. But Ethan—and Juliet—had been on the scene.
    Rivera had warned her that Ethan was a prime candidate for PTSD himself. No doubt. How many people could tolerate the stresses he’d endured? Combat, black ops, the grief and guilt of his wife’s murder—and that was all before Juliet had met him in May. But, as she’d reminded Rivera—and herself—as a Special Forces officer, Ethan was uniquely trained, and perhaps naturally mentally and physically suited to endure extreme stress.
    Juliet pulled herself out of her thoughts and took a swallow of coffee, but it had gone cold.
    Tony Cipriani, her partner, ambled over to her desk. In his late thirties with a wife in the NYPD and two small boys, he was a wiry, mostly bald, ultrafit guy and one of the more likable federal agents Juliet had encountered. They’d been working together for a few weeks, and so far, so good. As a favor, she’d asked him to do some basic research into vigilante mercenaries.
    â€œThere were these guys who showed up in Afghanistan,” Cipriani said in a low voice. “Americans. One of them was an insurance salesman, for the love of God. They decided the U.S. military was being too namby-pamby with interrogations and flew to Kabul to set up their own jailhouse. The military shut them down.”
    â€œI remember reading something about it in the papers.”
    â€œPress was all over the story. The military turned two of these wingnuts over to Afghan authorities but there wasn’t enough evidence to hold them. The rest disappeared.”
    â€œDo we have any names?” Juliet asked.
    â€œNo. I’m still working on it.”
    â€œAny hint they put up shop in South America?”
    Tony shook his head. “That’s all I’ve got.”
    Juliet wondered if Ethan, as an army officer, had been deployed to Afghanistan at the time, but warned herself not to go off on a tangent. Follow the facts. She sighed. “Thanks, Cip.”
    â€œAnytime. When you want to tell me what this is all about, you know where to find me.”
    Juliet understood the subtext. If she wanted