Predator

by Linsey Lanier

  He was hiding something and Miranda didn’t like it. “Why did they give you a new team here in Boston?”

  “Personnel changes.” He doled the coffee into the machine and started it up.

  “And have you been one of them?” she said.

  Sloan opened one of the pizza boxes, wrinkled his nose, shut it again. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

  “What?” Parker said, sounding leery.

  “When Tatiana was in New York last month I asked her for a DNA sample.”

  Miranda’s brows rose. “Oh?”

  He nodded. “I tested it against a sample we took from Tamarkin. We got the results back from the lab a few days ago.”

  “And what did it say?”

  “It was conclusive. They have the same father.”

  Miranda let out a breath. “That’s good to hear.”

  When they were in Kiev, Tatiana’s sister had told them the heartbreaking story. Years ago their mother had been raped by Russian soldiers, and the sisters had never known whether Tamarkin, whom they called Sasha, was their father’s son or not.

  This proved he was. He wasn’t a Russian, though he had insisted he was one in the interrogation room.

  Miranda glanced up at Parker and saw he was having mixed emotions as he processed the news.

  She was about to tell him they’d talk about it later, when Becker ran in from the hall.

  “We’ve got something.”

  “What?”

  “Come and see.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Miranda rushed back into the war room and slammed down into the seat she had occupied before. “Where is it? Where’s the footage?”

  “Right here, Steele.” Becker’s fingers danced over her keyboard and brought up the video. “It’s from the west exit. It isn’t used much.” He found the right spot and moved forward frame by frame.

  “There she is!” Miranda pointed at the screen as a side-angle camera caught Mackenzie stepping through the airport’s tall glass doors, her gold-star backpack still slung over her shoulder.

  A man walked beside her. With the angle, he was almost out of the picture, but Miranda could see a dark overcoat and the pant legs of a suit.

  Mackenzie walked with the man to a black limo waiting at the curb. The man opened the door to the backseat for her. Mackenzie hesitated a moment, then slid inside.

  Miranda’s chest ached at the sight. “There was a limo in Los Angeles,” she murmured. “I thought I had dreamed it.”

  The man disappeared from the frame as he went around the front of the car and got in the other side.

  Was he avoiding the camera? He must have known where it was.

  Miranda’s heart sank to the floor as the limo pulled away, taking Mackenzie with it.

  And then she shot to her feet. “Stop it. Stop the video.”

  Becker pressed a button. “What is it, Steele?”

  Miranda pointed at the screen. “There. Right there. The license plate. Can you read it?”

  Becker pressed more keys and the still frame enlarged. “I can now.” He read off the numbers. “Can we get a trace on it?”

  “I’m on it.” Archer hurried over to Miranda’s keyboard, copied the screen, and sent it to her own laptop.

  As the woman rushed to her station, Miranda sat back, clutching her throat, her head and heart pounding in syncopation. Could it be true? Could they learn the identity of the man Mackenzie went off with in just a few minutes?

  More than a few. Ten went by. Fifteen.

  After half an hour, she heard groaning from the other side of the table where Archer was surrounded by the new team.

  “This can’t be right,” Carlson moaned. “Run it again.”

  “I’ve already run it three times,” Archer told him.

  Miranda jumped up and rushed over. “What do you mean?” she demanded. “What’s wrong?”

  The group parted, allowing her to see the data on the screen.

  “The vehicle matching the tag number is a six-door Lincoln with a V-8 engine. Manufactured this year,” Becker read.

  Carlson waved a finger at the screen. “That’s not it. It’s who it belongs to.”

  Miranda leaned forward. “Who does it belong to? Isn’t that what we’re after?”

  “His name is Donovan Santana,” Carlson said.

  “Santana,” she repeated. “And?”

  “Donovan Santana?” Hernandez echoed.

  “He can’t be our MIB,” Rasmussen said.

  “Why not?” Miranda demanded, her head about to split with frustration.

  “He’s a mega wealthy business owner and philanthropist here in Boston,” Carlson explained. “He gives tons to charities every year. I’ve seen him on the news.”

  “We all have,” said Archer.

  Miranda sank down into a vacated chair. “What are you saying? That this guy can’t be the Man in Boston because he’s been on the news?”

  Carlson put his hands in the air. “How can he be? He’s legit.”

  “Or he seems legit,” Miranda said.

  Rasmussen scoffed. “Santana can’t be dirty. What would his motive be? He’s already as rich as Midas.”

  Some rich people weren’t content with what they had. Some wanted more.

  Miranda pointed to the screen. “But the limo Mackenzie got into is registered to him.”

  “Yes, under his company’s name. I guess he uses it for business purposes.”

  The printer beeped and churned. Blowing her bangs out of her face, Archer reached for the paper she’d just printed. “Here’s a picture of him with the mayor on the front page of the Boston Globe. It’s from last July. The mayor was thanking him for a donation to the Policeman’s Fund.”

  Both men, dressed in suits and ties, stood on the steps of a government building shaking hands and grinning from ear to ear.

  The taller one was classy looking with perfectly styled iron gray hair and expressive brows.

  She studied his features—and recognized him.

  A chill went through her like a cold winter wind. “That’s him,” she whispered. “That’s the man I saw on that movie lot in Los Angeles.”

  And he looked a lot like Parker.

  She turned and saw her husband staring at the photo with a look of pure shock on his face. He gripped the chair beside him as if he was about to keel over. She’d never seen him so stunned.

  “What’s the name of his company?” Wesson said.

  Sloan consulted the screen again. “Sector Services. Headquartered in the Sector Building.”

  “It’s near Waters. In the Financial District.” Hernandez gave Sloan the shortest route.

  Miranda folded the picture of the man and turned to her team. “Let’s go have a look at it.”

  “I’ll go with them.” Sloan waved a hand at the Boston people. Everyone stay here and keep working until you can find something to pin on this guy.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  It was nearly one in the morning as Miranda and her team drove through the Financial District of Boston with Parker at the helm, Sloan and Wesson in the back, and Holloway and Becker in the third seat, busily hunting up data on one Donovan Santana.

  Parker turned left at a historic tower in Liberty Square, rode down a block, and pulled over near a Turkish restaurant that was closed.

  Sloan pointed over the headrest. “There is it. The glass monstrosity on the corner.”

  Miranda craned her neck to gaze up at the shiny black glass exterior running all the way to the top. It gleamed in the night, illuminated by countless office lights glowing in its many windows. A giant of a building among the lesser giants surrounding it.

  Was this where Mackenzie was?

  No. If this Santana dude was the Man in Boston, the man who’d met her at the airport, then he wouldn’t keep her here. Probably he had Gregor holding her in some hole-in-the-wall in the suburbs. Her poor baby. She must be so frightened.

  Miranda sucked back her emot
ions. “How many stories is this place?”

  “Fifty,” Holloway reported from the back.

  The edifice reminded her—just a little bit—of the Imperial Building in Atlanta, where the Parker Agency occupied the top floor.

  The idea gave her a chill.

  Wesson leaned close to the passenger window and pointed. “Is that a parking garage over there?”

  It was attached to the building.

  “Seems to be,” Sloan said.

  “I wonder if that’s where Santana keeps his limo during the day.”

  Becker recited the data he’d found from his screen. “The Sector Building in the heart of Boston’s Financial District houses a number of businesses, including IPOs and software startups. Among its illustrious residents are nouveau art galleries and dance studios, as well as several high-end restaurants. But mostly, it is home to the many businesses making up the owner’s conglomerate. Sector Services headquarters occupy the top three floors of the structure.”

  Miranda gazed up again. “So our guy probably works up there. No doubt on the fiftieth floor.”

  “Does he have any connections to Washington?” Sloan asked.

  “Not that I can see,” Becker said. “I’ll keep looking.”

  Miranda glanced over at Parker, who was studying the building with a hard look. He hadn’t said much since they’d seen that picture of Donovan Santana. She could only image what was going through his mind.

  Again she eyed the top floor towering above in the dark sky. “We need to get in there.”

  Sloan rocked forward behind her. “We’re not sure he’s our guy, Steele.”

  She turned around to face him. “That’s how we’re going to find out.”

  Wesson’s face went limp. “What do you mean, Steele?”

  “I mean we go in, snoop around, see what we can learn.”

  Parker suddenly came alive with a voice that was a low and dark. “And just who is going to do that, Miranda?”

  That was a good question. She thought a moment.

  The answer became obvious. “Has to be me.”

  She could hear his chest rumble. “You are the last person it should be, Miranda.”

  She raised her palms. “It can’t be anybody on our team. If this is the guy, the Man in Boston, he knows us. It certainly can’t be you.”

  She didn’t say why out loud. But in addition to looking a little like the guy, there might be a family tie. That could only lead to disaster.

  “Sloan has an entire team at the ready,” Parker countered.

  “But they don’t know what to look for. I do.”

  “No, Miranda. For the same reason it can’t be any of us. This man knows you, too.”

  True he had seen her in Los Angeles. Their gazes had locked. But that could be remedied.

  She straightened her shoulders. “That’s what disguises are for. You got any of those, Sloan?”

  “That could be arranged.”

  “A good one?”

  “The best the Bureau can offer.”

  She felt Parker squeeze her hand. “No, Miranda. You can’t do this.”

  “I have to, Parker. I have to find my daughter. I’ll have you and the team behind me. I’m just going in to look around and get information.”

  He didn’t agree, but he let go of her hand.

  They were on.

  She turned to Sloan again. “How about meeting at the brownstone at eight tomorrow morning?”

  “I’ll have my people ready.”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Dazed and disoriented from the shock of what they had learned tonight, Miranda came out of the shower of their luxury suite to find Parker sitting on the edge of the bed staring down at a paper in his hand.

  He was still in his slacks, his shirt unbuttoned. He must have been sitting there a while.

  As she tiptoed over and sat down next to him, she realized he was looking at the printout from the newspaper Archer had given them.

  The picture of the man named Donovan Santana.

  She put her head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  “None of this is your fault.”

  “She’s my daughter.” But she knew what he was really talking about.

  He turned to her.

  There was a coldness in his gray eyes. The lines of his face were taut and drawn. His whole demeanor was rigid, exuding an unquenchable anger.

  His voice rumbled like an earthquake. “If this man has hurt Mackenzie. If he’s touched one hair on her head.”

  She didn’t want to think about that. “I know. We’ll get him. It’s what we do. Isn’t it?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Get him? Do you mean prison?”

  “I hope so.”

  Slowly he shook his head. “It isn’t enough. How can you think that’s enough?” He shot to his feet. “It isn’t enough for this beast, this scum.” He pointed a finger at her. “Miranda, I swear to you. If I get the chance—”

  He stopped himself. Then suddenly overcome with rage, he rushed to the wall and pounded his fist into it with a boom.

  The room shook. Sheet rock and paint fell to the floor.

  “Parker!” She got up and hurried to the spot where he stood.

  He’d actually put a hole in the wall.

  Now she was worried about him. She took the paper he was still holding from his hand. “Parker, we don’t really know who this guy is. We don’t even know if he’s really the Man in Boston.”

  “Who else could he be, Miranda?” He snatched the printout back, marched to the trashcan, balled it up, and tossed it. “I feel like I’m looking in the mirror at an older version of myself.”

  Or at an older brother. But that couldn’t be true. It couldn’t be. “We don’t know if the woman your father was with even got pregnant. She never contacted him.”

  He looked at her as if coming out of a trance. His eyes were filled with pain. “My father. I cannot fathom how he could do such a thing to my sweet adoring mother. How? And look at the result.”

  “I don’t know, but we can’t think about that now. We have to get some rest to be ready for tomorrow.”

  Now he seemed to snap out of it. He came to her and took her face in his hands. “You can’t do this tomorrow, Miranda. I don’t want to choose between you and Mackenzie.”

  “I’ll be okay, Parker. I’ll be in and out in no time. What if I find out, this guy isn’t the Man in Boston?”

  “What if you find out he is? What will you do?”

  Good question. She’d like to shoot the man herself. But she had to get to Mackenzie. With any luck, she would. “I’ll keep my head, gather as much evidence as I can, and get out of there as fast as possible. Then Sloan and his team can get a warrant and go in and arrest him. We’ll find Gregor and arrest him, too. We’ll find Mackenzie and take her back to Atlanta. And everything will be okay. Right?”

  He looked like he didn’t believe a word of it.

  “Tell me that’s what will happen, Parker. Tell me.”

  He drew her close to him and kissed her hair. “Oh, my darling. I only wish I could.”

  Chapter Fifty

  At nine a.m. the next morning Janelle Wesson was sitting next to Simon Sloan in a maroon sedan across the street from the Sector Building while they kept the engine running and a keen eye on the entrance to the parking garage.

  Parked in front them stood a row of white work vans, whose drivers performed everything from HVAC to flower delivery. They were good cover.

  Janelle looked down at her phone. “I can’t believe Rasmussen got us a schematic of the parking garage complete with the location of all the security cameras.”

  “Like I said, he’s good.”

  Sloan grinned and gave her a sexy wink that sent a chill through her.

  A totally inappropriate feeling for this mission.

  She also couldn’t believe Steele hadn’t protested when Sloan told her he needed her help for this task. But Steele had said okay, and here she was.

&
nbsp; After breakfast at the hotel, the Parker Agency team had gone back to the brownstone to discuss the strategy for this morning. When they’d come up with a plan, they’d armed themselves and donned disguises.

  Janelle’s outfit wasn’t particularly elaborate, but it was appropriate. The drop in temperature to the high thirties had helped determine her choices.

  Her thick red hair was tucked up under a gray knit ski cap. Its bill and a matching scarf would hide her face. Other than that, she had on the black leather jacket she’d bought in LA, dark dress slacks and low heels.

  She might have to move quickly.

  Simon was wearing a new look. In a blue plaid flannel shirt over which he’d slung a dark polyester jacket with a hood, he was something to look at. That shirt made the blue in his eyes even dreamier than before. His black hair was slicked back with gel and a gleaming ebony. His handsome Hollywood face was as drool worthy as ever.

  In a pair of ordinary jeans, and work boots, he kind of reminded her of a lumberjack. Outdoorsy. And he smelled good, too.

  Concentrate, Janey, she chided herself.

  After a long look, Simon turned his attention to his cell, where he’d installed the Agency’s walkie talkie app they’d used in Boston Common. When Becker showed it to him last night, Sloan had taken a liking to it and decided it would come in handy today.

  “There he is,” Sloan said, now in work mode.

  She sat up and used her side mirror as a shiny grill and black hood turned onto the street. Massachusetts required a front plate, but it was too far away to read. “Are you sure that’s Santana’s limo? I mean, he can’t be the only exec in this building with his own driver.”

  “Let’s see.”

  They waited as the gleaming six door Lincoln glided past them and slowly turned into the garage entrance.

  Janelle squinted at the rear plate number, feeling the nerves in her stomach. “Same one that picked up Mackenzie at the airport.”

  “Definitely not a coincidence,” Sloan said, anger in his voice.

  He waited until the limo disappeared into the darkness, then pulled onto the street and made the same turn into the garage.

  Keeping a few car lengths behind, they followed the limo up the ramp to the third floor of the parking deck. In the center of the structure was an entrance to the building with a set of tall glass doors. The limo pulled up to it.