Body Count Read Online Free

pace, keen to get into my car and put the heater on.
    Marco walks me to my car first. I get in and start the engine.
    â€œSee you there?”
    â€œOf course,” he says.
    I close the door and give him a wave. Once I’m out of the parking lot, it takes me nearly two full minutes of driving to get to the perimeter. I pass the security gates and drive to downtown Quantico, if you could call it that. Quantico itself is a small town that was built mainly to service the massive marine corps base. The township’s main strip consists of a grocery store, a bakery, a realestate business, an Internet café, two café restaurants, a few bars and four barbers—Quantico is crew cuts galore.
    From the bars on offer, the Bureau has picked Club Victor as its local. Most nights it’s wall-to-wall agents and marine officers, with a smattering of husbands, wives, girlfriends and boyfriends thrown in for good measure. There are usually quite a few from forensics too—the fingerprint guys and lab techs. The only difference between Club Victor and the usual special-forces haunt is that police officers are replaced by the corps.
    The FBI agents often nurse soft drinks, or “soda” as they call it here, looking on the marines with some envy. I’m still getting used to the Bureau’s mandate about alcohol. We have to be “fit for duty” at all times, which means only a couple of drinks. I’m sure that rule’s broken by many of us in the privacy of our own homes, but in public the armed forces slam them back like there’s no tomorrow, while we get labeled sissies.
    Tonight, Club Victor will be full of agents who want to help us celebrate the case’s end, plus the usual crowd from the marine base. Then of course there’ll be our boss, Rivers, and maybe even the unit head, Jonathan Pike. Flynn and some of the other police officers who live on this side of D.C. may make the trip too.
    I pull in around the corner from the bar and break into a light jog to the main street. The flashing neon light gets closer and I walk down the few steps to the bar’s sunken entrance. A horn honks and I look up. Marco’s pulling in to a parking spot right out front. I give him a wave and then walk into the bar. The contrast in temperature is dramatic and within a couple of seconds a hot flush runs through me and settles in my face. I peel off my coat, and take off my gloves and scarf. The heat generated by forty-plus bodies crammed into the small bar, coupled with the building’s heating system, is stifling.
    The room is long and thin, with ten booths along the left-hand wall and the counter and bar stools on the right. It’s dimly lit and fitted out with lots of wood. Tonight the place is crowded. I search the faces for a familiar one in the mostly male clientele. I see our group toward the back.
    The door opens and Marco enters.
    â€œDrink?” he says, sidling up next to me.
    â€œYeah, I’ll have a—”
    â€œBecks.”
    I smile. “That’s the one.”
    I stand near the bar and have a closer look at who’s here. There’s a group from the lab, including Marty, Marco’s roommate. He’s one of the Bureau’s top forensics guys, a team leader who specializes in fingerprints andblood spatter. He smiles at me and beckons me over uncertainly. He’s pretty shy. I smile back but then spot Sam Wright, the person I really want to see, standing on the other side of the little huddle that Marty is part of.
    As usual, Sam’s surrounded by males who are captivated by her every movement, her every word. I don’t know exactly what it is, but that girl’s got something. Her wavy brown hair hangs halfway down her back and is cut in long layers, and every now and again she runs her fingers through one side. Her face is sculpted by high cheekbones and a strong jaw. Intense green eyes capture most people’s attention; however, by far