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