Mission To Protect. Terri Reed

on the floor. With one hand, she reached for the switch of the bedside-table lamp, while her other hand searched for the baseball bat she kept under the bed.

      Holding the bat up with her right hand, she flicked on the light. A warm glow dispelled the shadows and revealed she was alone. Or was she?

      With bat in hand, she went through the house, turning on every light. No one was there.

      She frowned and worked to calm her racing pulse.

      This wasn’t the first time she’d thought someone had been in the house.

      But this time had seemed so real.

      Back in her bedroom, she looked again at the clock. Wait a minute. It was turned to face the wall. A shiver of unease wracked her body. The red numbers had been facing the bed when she’d retired last night. She was convinced of it.

      And her dresser drawers were slightly open. She peeked inside. Her clothes were mussed, as if someone had rummaged through them. She wasn’t a neat freak or anything, but her military training and her air force father had taught her to keep her things in proper order.

      What was going on?

      Was the stress and grief of her father’s passing messing with her brain, as her therapist suggested? Was she losing her mind?

      Wouldn’t that just be the icing on the cake? Her mother already thought she was nuts for choosing to join the United States Air Force and train military dogs for service rather than follow in her footsteps and pursue a high-powered career in corporate law.

      Felicity set aside the baseball bat.

      Maybe someone was pulling a joke on her.

      She dismissed the idea quickly. She didn’t know anyone that cruel.

      She turned the clock to see the time. Five after five in the morning. Perfect. The one day she could sleep in, and her psyche wouldn’t let her. She wasn’t expected at the training center until tonight. She usually had Sundays off and worked the Saturday-night shift, but had traded with Airman Tamara Peterson, who was taking a few days of leave to visit her parents and wanted to head out Sunday morning.

      Felicity glanced at the clock again. Maybe she could nap for an hour or so more, then go to church.

      Noises outside the bedroom window startled her. It was too early for most people to be up on a Sunday morning. She pushed aside the room-darkening curtain. The first faint rays of sunlight marched over the Texas horizon with hues of gold, orange and pink.

      They provided enough light for Felicity to see a parade of dogs running loose along Base Boulevard. It could only be the dogs from the K-9 training center.

      Stunned, her stomach clenched.

      Someone had literally let the dogs out. Most of them, by the looks of it. At least a hundred or more canines filled the street and were quickly leaving the area.

      Felicity’s chest constricted. Had Tamara or Landon, the other trainer on last night’s shift, forgotten to lock the gate? That didn’t seem likely. Both were experienced trainers. Uneasy dread gripped her by the throat.

      A dog barked, reminding her that the canines needed to be rounded up and returned to their kennels. She didn’t want any of them to get hurt. Some of the dogs suffered PTSD from their service, while others were being trained to serve. Many were finished with their training and ready to be partnered, but set loose like this...

      Galvanized into action, she hastily dressed in her battle-ready uniform.

      On the way out the door, she grabbed her cell phone, intending to call her boss, Master Sergeant Westley James. Before she could dial, her phone pinged with an incoming alert text from the training center.

      Urgent. Dogs’ kennels tampered with. Red Rose Killer escaped prison and believed to be on base. Use caution. Report in ASAP.

      Felicity stopped in her tracks. Her heart fell to her feet then bounced back into her throat as fear struck hard through her core.

      The Red Rose Killer.

      Boyd Sullivan. Cold eyes, merciless.

      She shuddered.

      Two years ago, after being dishonorably discharged from the air force during basic training, Boyd had returned to his hometown of Dill, Texas, and killed five people whom he’d believed had wronged him in some way.

      The media had dubbed him the Red Rose Killer because he would leave a red rose and a note for his intended victims, taunting them with the warning—I’m coming for you. Then he made good on his threat, and each victim was found with an additional red rose and a new note tucked under their arm, with the words Got you.

      A Dill sheriff’s deputy and her K-9 partner had been the ones to bring down Sullivan. He’d been captured, convicted and sent to prison.

      And now he’d escaped and was on base.

      Why would he release the dogs? She remembered he always liked the furry creatures.

      She dialed Westley’s cell.

      He answered on the first ring. “Felicity. Did you hear the news?”

      “Yes. There are dogs everywhere in base housing,” she told him.

      “They are everywhere on base period.” His voice sounded extra grim. “We need to bring them in.”

      “I’ll retrieve as many as I can here and bring them over to the kennels.”

      “Good. I’ll send others over to help.” There was a pause then he said, “I should tell you there have been two murders.”

      She stilled. Fear whispered down her spine. Her pulse spiked. “Murders?” She swayed. Please, Lord, no. “Tamara? Landon?”

      “Yes.”

      Her heart sank. Tears flooded her eyes. That explained why the dogs were loose. She knew neither trainer would be so careless. “Did Boyd Sullivan kill them?

      “That’s the assumption. Each was found with a red rose tucked under their arm and a note that read, ‘Got you.’”

      “Boyd used that same tactic in Dill. But why would he go after Tamara and Landon?”

      “I don’t know,” Westley replied. “But right now the dogs need us.”

      Westley’s no-nonsense tone made her pull herself together. The last thing she wanted was for him to consider her weak. He was stingy enough with his praise, especially for her. He was always watching and waiting for her to mess up, but just because she was the newest member, and the youngest on his team, didn’t mean she didn’t belong.

      Strangely, though, she didn’t feel the familiar prickling at the back of her neck that his words normally brought.

      Her usual irritation with her handsome boss was muffled by grief and the need to act. This time he was correct. The dogs needed her.

      She wiped at the tears falling down her cheeks and took a shuddering breath. “Of course. I’m going to find our dogs.”

      “Be careful. Boyd is still out there.”

      His husky tone sent little shivers over her skin. She frowned, annoyed by her reaction. Though his words expressed concern for her, she knew his real concern was for the dogs. She could only imagine his upset. The dogs were his life.

      Had Westley been the one to find Tamara Peterson and Landon Martelli? How had they been killed? Who would tell their families? Had they suffered? A million questions ran through her head, but she forced herself to stay focused. To be strong. Her mother would be proud of her. Maybe. “I’ll be careful,” she assured him and hung up.

      After pocketing her phone, she dug through her satchel for a small canister of pepper spray and slipped it into her front pocket. In case she met Boyd along the way.

      * * *

      Master Sergeant Westley