ONE

      The back door of Canyon Air Force Base’s military working-dog training facility stood open. It should have been closed and locked tight.

      Alarm slithered through lead trainer Master Sergeant Westley James like the venomous red, yellow and black coral snake inhabiting this part of Texas.

      Something was wrong.

      As he entered the building an eerie chill went down his neck that had nothing to do with the April early-morning air. The stillness echoed through the center as loud as a jet taking off. His pulse spiked. He rushed to the kennel room and drew up short.

      The kennels were empty. All of them.

      Lying on the floor in a pool of blood were the two night-shift dog trainers, Airman Tamara Peterson and Airman Landon Martelli. Each had been shot in the chest.

      Grief clutched at Westley’s heart. Careful not to disturb the scene, he checked for pulses. None.

      They had both been murdered.

      Under the left arms of Tamara and Landon were a red rose and a folded white note, the calling card of a notorious serial killer.

      Horror slammed into him. The news report he’d heard this morning on his way to work had become reality.

      Boyd Sullivan, aka the Red Rose Killer, had escaped prison and was back on base.

      * * *

      Staff Sergeant Felicity Monroe jerked awake to the fading sound of her own scream echoing in her head. Sweat drenched her nightshirt. The pounding of her heart hurt in her chest, making bile rise to burn her throat. Darkness surrounded her.

      Where was she? Fear locked on to her like a guided missile and wouldn’t let go. Panic fluttered at the edge of her mind.

      Memories flooded her system.

      Her father!

      A sob tore from her throat.

      The familiar scent of jasmine from the bouquet of flowers on her bedside table grounded her. She was in her bedroom of the house on Canyon Air Force Base in southwest Texas. The home she’d shared with her father before his accidental death a month ago.

      Her breathing slowed. She wiped at the wet tears on her cheeks and shook away the fear and panic.

      Just a nightmare. One in a long string of them.

      According to Dr. Flintman, the base therapist, she suffered mild post-traumatic stress disorder from finding her father after his fall from a ladder he had climbed to clean the gutters on the house. Knowing why her brain was doing this didn’t make the images seared in her mind any less upsetting.

      She filled her lungs with several deep breaths and sought the clock across the room on the dresser.

      The clock’s red glow was blocked by the silhouette of a person looming at the end of her bed.

      Was her mind playing a trick on her again? Or was she still stuck in her nightmare? She blinked rapidly to clear the sleep from her eyes.

      Her breath caught and held.

      No trick.

      Someone was in her room.

      Full-fledged panic jackknifed through her, jolting her system into action. Self-preservation kicked in. She rolled to the side of the bed and landed soundlessly 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.