Predator

by Linsey Lanier

  “It’s the name your sisters called you.”

  “I have no sisters.”

  “You have three sisters. They paid me to find you.”

  Santana lifted the barrel of his gun to her temple. “Where you destroyed my club.”

  “Udar,” she said with defiance. And put a stop to a multimillion dollar drug deal.

  “This man goes by the name Doroshenko now. You will call him that. He came to me after your imbecile of an FBI agent let him go.”

  She didn’t answer.

  Using the muzzle of the 45, Santana began to play with her hair. “I will make you pay for what you did in Kiev. And Los Angeles. And all the rest of it.”

  Fear rippled through her, and he smiled as he took pleasure in terrorizing her. But all she could think about was Mackenzie. She had to get her away from this man, even if it cost her her life.

  She dared to step away from the gun. “What have you done with my daughter? Mackenzie?” she called out. “Are you here?”

  Suddenly she heard a young voice coming from that hallway across the room. “Mother? Is that you? I’m here.” Then there was the sound of pounding. “Let me out of here right now. Don’t you dare hurt my mother.”

  Miranda broke away from Santana and rushed across the room and down the hall. “Mackenzie? I’m here, sweetheart. I’m right here.”

  Santana crossed the room as if he were about to play a round of golf.

  Miranda spun around to him. “Just let us go and no harm will come to you.”

  He only laughed.

  “The FBI knows who you are now, Santana. It’s only a matter of time before they arrest you.”

  “Obviously, you have no idea about the power of a bribe. I have excellent connections with the Boston police.”

  “In case you didn’t know, the FBI is federal.”

  “I have even better connections there. But it’s time for the happy reunion. Take her.”

  The huge tattooed man came toward her, grabbed her arms. She tried to fight, but once again Santana put his gun in her face.

  “Mackenzie? We’re going to open the door. If you try to get out, I’ll shoot your mother in front of your eyes. Understand?”

  “No. Don’t hurt her. Please.” She broke into tears.

  Her daughter’s cries broke Miranda’s heart. “Just do what he says,” she called to her.

  They had no choice.

  The man now called Doroshenko pulled her arm behind her back and pressed her against the wall while he retrieved keys from his pocket and opened the door. Then he yanked her backward and shoved her into the room.

  As Miranda caught herself on a dresser, the door slammed and locked behind her.

  “Enjoy your reunion,” Santana said. “I have great plans for both of you.”

  Miranda could only imagine what he meant, but all she could think about was her daughter standing before her in a sweater and jeans, her hair matted, her eyes swollen from crying.

  “Did he touch you? Did he hurt you?”

  Mackenzie shook her head and stared at her as if she were dreaming.

  Then she threw herself into her arms. “Oh, Mother, Mother. I thought I’d never see you again.”

  “I’m here now, sweetheart. I’m here.” Miranda kissed her forehead and stroked her hair as she held her darling child tightly against her.

  She had found her. She was alive. She couldn’t stop the tears. She had her baby in her arms once again.

  And in this moment nothing else seemed to matter.

  But now the trick would be keeping her alive.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Santana listened to the moans and tears inside the room with a sense of satisfaction he had not felt in a very long time.

  Contingencies. Flexibility. Yes, that had always been the key.

  Turning, he made his way to the wet bar. He selected seltzer water, grapefruit flavored. He would need a clear head for the days that lay before him. He opened a bottle, poured the pungent liquid into a glass, and took a large swallow.

  Though worthwhile, his episode with Ms. Steele had been rather draining.

  He had thought the entire team would come together, storm him most likely at his office. He hadn’t expected Miranda Steele to try to face him alone.

  She had pluck, he had to admit. He admired that.

  Too bad he’d have to destroy that trait in her. But watching her and her husband slowly break down bit by bit would be immensely gratifying.

  And now he had two pieces of bait. Two was always better than one.

  Soon they would all fall into his trap one way or another. All he had to do was work out the moves the way he would in a chess match. He would have to do something about the FBI agents, though.

  As he was mulling it over, his phone buzzed. He took it out of his pocket and scowled at the screen.

  It was Phineas.

  The general was demanding to see him. Important. Emergency.

  Phineas was going too fast with the conditioning. He’d have to go to the medical center and take care of this himself. He would take a third car and leave the Infiniti here. Right now, there was no such thing as being too careful.

  “Doroshenko,” he called.

  The large man appeared at the end of the hall. “Yes, sir?”

  “Come over here.”

  The bulky man followed him into the large open kitchen with its granite counter tops and gleaming stainless steel.

  Santana opened the refrigerator and took out the vial he’d taken from the lab. “In one hour’s time feed them lunch.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Give them water to drink, and make sure you put exactly one dropper of this in their drinks. No more, no less. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And be sure not to get any on your skin. If you do, by mistake,” he pulled a vial of brown liquid from the shelf. “Take two drops of this. Exactly two drops.”

  “Very well. What will the clear stuff do?”

  “It will put them in a relaxed state. They will be easier to handle that way. I need to go out, but I’ll be back to get them.”

  “Yes, sir.” Doroshenko needed no further explanation.

  Santana put the vials back into the refrigerator and headed for the door. “Watch them carefully. Ms. Steele can be cunning.”

  “I will, sir. You can count on me.”

  “I know I can.” He patted him on the shoulder.

  Doroshenko was like a son. Too bad he wasn’t intelligent enough to take over his empire. He’d have to find someone else for that job.

  He reached for the door. “Remember. One hour.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Satisfied, he left.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  The past hour had not been totally unproductive, Parker told himself as he made the turn onto a street in the sound side of the Financial District.

  They had found several likely candidates in the area for the residence of Donovan Santana.

  There was a promising building on Devonshire Place that offered a concierge, doormen, and housekeepers. Another on Arch Street boasted penthouses with unparalleled vistas of the Boston Harbor and the city skyline.

  Just now Parker was approaching a quaint looking building on Atlantic Avenue that offered luxury waterfront lofts.

  The problem was Santana could be living anywhere in or near the city. In some brownstone apartment. In a hotel. In a palazzo in Harvard, for all they knew.

  Once again, they were grasping at straws.

  He circled the block and found a parking spot about a block from the building. He was just about to get out when a squeal came from the backseat.

  He turned around. “What is it?”

  Dave Becker’s face was glowing. “This FBI app is awesome. We just got the records off the Infiniti’s plate. It has Santana’s address.”

  “We weren’t far off,” Carlson added. “It’s in the next block. He rattled off the street and number.”

 
; Parker opened the line on his phone. “Did you hear that, everyone?”

  “We heard.” Rasmussen sounded gleeful.

  “Thank God,” said Wesson.

  “Let’s all head that way. O’Cleary, get there as soon as you can.”

  “Will do, Mr. Parker.”

  He bypassed the luxury lofts and turned onto Pearl, making his way down the narrow one-way road to the next row of old financial buildings. He turned onto another street, this one a bit wider and lined with more modern structures. He followed a curve in the road and as he slowed for the traffic, their destination came into view.

  Stopping at the light, Parker gazed up at the residential skyscraper that was Golden Epoch Towers.

  It was almost a twin to the Sector Building. An ultra modern design, with interesting contours. But this structure was in silver glass-and-steel, its sleek opulence rising to sixty stories, by Parker’s guess.

  The man had a well-defined taste.

  “The units are top flight,” Becker said, sharing Carlson’s tablet over the rear seat. “State of the art everything. Hardwood floors. Floor to ceiling windows. Breathtaking views.”

  The light changed and Parker turned onto a side street and found a spot along the curb being vacated by a green service truck.

  “And penthouse apartments?” he asked.

  Carlson swiped around on the screen. “Yes, sir. Several.”

  “One at the top?”

  Becker and Carlson studied the tablet together while Elizabeth Archer twisted around to get a view of it.

  She pointed at what she’d found, though Parker couldn’t see the device from the driver’s seat.

  “There’s a penthouse on the top floor, sir. It’s occupied. Do you think it belongs to Santana?”

  “I believe it would be the only accommodation in the building that would meet with his approval.”

  The tablet beeped and Archer muttered something to her colleague.

  Carlson straightened as if coming to attention. “Oh, right. I’m pulling up a schematic of the building from City Planning.”

  The Boston team was good. “Let me see it.”

  Carlson handed over the tablet.

  Parker studied the design. The HVAC, the electrical, the control panels. An idea came to him.

  Turning in his seat, he eyed Curt Holloway in his casual clothes. They would do. His detective’s expression was grim. He’d been quiet while he watched the electronic investigation of the gurus. For all his fuss about having Miranda as his boss, he respected her and cared about her.

  “Detective Holloway?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I have a plan. I want you to take the lead.”

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Miranda lay on the bed beside Mackenzie staring up at the ceiling.

  It was a nice bed. Ultra comfortable with soft pillows and a downy blue comforter. Outside the windows, the airy clouds matched the spectacular view.

  She’d never been in such a beautiful prison. Too bad they weren’t on vacation.

  She’d already checked all the floor-to-ceiling windows. The glass was thick and UV insulated. The neighboring high-rises were dwarfs compared to this giant of a building. Even if she could cut through the glass—which she couldn’t—all they’d get for it would be a sixty story drop straight down to the pavement below.

  Mackenzie raised an arm and pointed at the ceiling. “There’s an air duct up there.”

  About ten feet up. Maybe they could move the dresser under it and climb up. But then what?

  She shook her head. “We don’t know where it leads.”

  Getting stuck in an endless tunnel wouldn’t be a good option.

  She rolled over to face her daughter and Mackenzie put her arms around her. Despite the dire situation, her touch felt good.

  Her dark brows knit together, she gazed at Miranda with eyes as deep blue as her own. “Oh, Mother. I’m so sorry I got you into this mess. I was so stupid.”

  “No, you weren’t.”

  “I fell for someone online. How lame is that? I should have known better.”

  On top of everything else, Mackenzie’s heart had been broken. “Ambrose,” Miranda said softly.

  Mackenzie sat up, her pretty dark hair falling over her shoulders. “You know about him?”

  Miranda pushed up and leaned against the elegant fabric headboard. “We found your phone under your bed. Parker hacked into it and we discovered the conversations you were having with him. Then we found your flight itinerary on your computer.”

  “I’m so embarrassed. But Ambrose wasn’t really a boy. He was that man. Mr. Santana.” She pointed toward the door.

  “His name’s Donovan Santana,” Miranda told her. “He hacked into a sixteen-year-old’s social media account and stole his identity. We did find the real Ambrose, by the way.”

  Mackenzie’s eyes went wide. “There’s a real Ambrose?”

  Miranda nodded. “He lives in Allston, a local neighborhood. His father’s a podiatrist at Boston Medical Center. His mother teaches Biology at MIT. He already has a girlfriend. And he’s pretty nerdy. I’m not sure you’d like him.”

  “Oh.” She moved to sit cross-legged on the bed and picked at a hole in her jeans.

  Miranda watched the lines in her daughter’s pretty face. The poor girl was so troubled. And not just about Ambrose and the predicament they were in.

  She’d been this way for a long time.

  Once again the worry that had dug at Miranda’s soul for months raised its ugly head. It was time to talk about it.

  High time.

  Miranda took a deep breath. “So why did you do it?”

  Mackenzie frowned. “Talk to Ambrose online?”

  “Fly to Boston without telling anyone. Without a way to contact you.”

  Mackenzie put her hands to her face as if she wanted to fall through the floor. “I’m not sure I know anymore. I was so sad about Ella.”

  The classmate who had tried to commit suicide and fortunately, had failed.

  “I told you Ella was going to be all right.”

  “I know, but—” She traced a pattern over the silky comforter with her finger.

  Miranda was quiet and after a moment, Mackenzie continued. “I met her at school about a week ago. She was new. I was trying to recruit her for TAV and we got to talking. I don’t know how, but the conversation got personal. She told me she had been adopted by her aunt and uncle. Her mother wasn’t fit to be one, her aunt would say. Anyway, we connected.”

  Miranda had known there was something deeper between the two girls.

  “When Rachel did what she did last Friday, I don’t know what came over me. I thought, ‘I don’t want to be like Ella. She’s broken. I don’t want to be broken, too.’ But I guess I am, anyway.”

  Now she was tearing Miranda’s heart out. She touched her hair and was thrilled her daughter didn’t push her away. “Everyone breaks in one way or another. I was broken. But I got past it.”

  Mackenzie looked at her with yearning in her eyes. “How?”

  What could she tell her? “Determination. Persistence. Mostly Parker. And you.”

  “Me?”

  “When you came back into my life, when Parker found you for me, I had something to live for again. It was as if I could breathe for the first time in a long while. I could feel again. I could be whole, happy. It was Parker who made it happen, and I love him for it. And I love you, too.”

  Mackenzie put her hands over her face. “But it isn’t really like that. Not now.”

  Miranda tensed. “What do you mean?”

  She didn’t answer. She began to play with the comforter again.

  “You know, don’t you?”

  She turned her head away. “Know what?”

  “You know what I’m talking about, Mackenzie.” Just say it. “You know who your real father is.”

  Slowly the girl nodded.

  Miranda held her breath. For so long she’d worried her daughter ha
d somehow learned the truth about her father. She’d agonized over it, told herself it wasn’t true, told herself it had to be true.

  And now she knew.

  The months of tension and heartache began to seep out of her. But a new pain rushed in to replace it. Her daughter had been suffering so much all this while. That was the real reason she’d turned to “Ambrose.”

  “Did you find out about him on the news?” Miranda said softly.

  Mackenzie shook her head. “Rachel told me.”

  Rachel again. “How did she know?”

  “She has a friend whose father works for the APD. She overheard him talking to her mother at a soccer game about the case in Jasper County last September. He wasn’t supposed to tell anyone. He said he’d get in trouble if anybody found out, but Rachel thought I should know.”

  “When did she tell you?”

  “Right after my birthday.”

  Not at Coco and Estavez’s baby announcement party after the DeBow case. It must have been Leon and Lake Placid that had been bothering Mackenzie that afternoon on the back deck of the Parker estate.

  Miranda didn’t want to bring that up.

  But if they got out of here alive, she was going to have a talk with Chambers about the breach of confidentiality in his department. Her daughter had been tormented with this knowledge for months now. It had driven her to put herself in jeopardy.

  “Did you talk to Dr. Wingate about it?”

  Mackenzie shook her head. “I tried, but I couldn’t get the words out.”

  Couldn’t say out loud that her biological father was a sick serial killer who’d murdered over thirty women? Miranda could barely stand the thought herself.

  “That’s why you’ve been avoiding me, right?”

  Surprise by the question, she shook her head. “No.”

  “Admit it, Mackenzie. I can take it.”

  “That’s not why.”

  “Are you denying you’ve been avoiding me?”

  “No.”

  “Then why?” She had to know. Whatever her failings were as a mother, she needed to know them.

  Mackenzie twirled a strand of hair around her finger. She looked out the window.

  But Miranda needed an answer.