In a flash he grabs me by the back of the neck and lifts me up, crushing his lips to mine, delving his tongue into my mouth for the roughest kiss he’s ever attempted, and then he pulls me back.
“Again.”
“I can’t,” I whisper, and his fingers tighten painfully at the base of my skull. “Please! I-I can’t!”
“Yes, Jasmine. You can.” He releases me, nodding with a strange look in his eyes, and I can see exactly where his gaze is aimed. “I’ll help you.”
“Please, Daniel, I—” My words are cut off as he tries to twist his hand to use his fingers on my clit, but when that fails, he plants his thumb over the place I showed him and begins to rub.
My fault. My fault. My fault.
I whimper as I drop back to the box, fighting the weak signals my body is sending, because even though I’m oversensitive, friction is still friction. He’s brutally patient, refusing to even move his hips as I writhe and whine. “Please,” I beg, but there’s no humanity in his eyes.
“Again.” It’s a simple command, and the problem is that I think my body is listening. While at first the rubbing had hurt more than it felt good, now it’s changing, morphing back into teasing jerks that make me clench him deep inside. He groans, thrusts once, and then continues to torment me. Using his other hand to grope my breasts, squeezing, pinching my nipples before soothing them with a stroke of his thumb in the same tempo of the other on my clit.
I fucking hate you.
I try to get that through in my eyes, but it’s hard to do that when my back arches, and all my body wants is another thrust. Daniel waits, holds back until I’m panting again, whimpering broken pleas that I won’t really let past my teeth. He doesn’t move until I’m moaning with every subtle shift of his massive cock inside me, until I’ve ripped my shirt and bra off to get rid of the constricting feeling at my throat.
“Yes, Jasmine, like that,” he growls as he grabs onto my hips and pulls back to slam in hard and fast, over and over and over. I’m lost before I even have the chance to contemplate the ache between my thighs. Sparks flicker and then ignite, and I cry out as I come for him. Again. He thrusts once, twice, and then forces himself deep enough to hurt as he comes. Spilling his seed inside me with a shout while his hands glide up the backs of my thighs so he can bend my knees toward my shoulders and lean over me.
He’s all I can see, taking over the sky above me, trapping me where I feel every twitch of his cock, and I’m forced to watch the way his massive chest expands and contracts inside his sweat-soaked shirt. He doesn’t look like Daniel anymore, there’s too much on his face, too much tone in his voice as he groans and presses me harder into the shining metal box.
This is a new low. A new depth to the hell he’s created, and like all roads I’d paved this one with selfish good intentions. For this, just this, I have no one to blame but myself.
Daniel spreads my thighs wide enough to make them burn so he can lie on top of me, our faces close enough that I can feel his heavy breaths on my lips. There’s something new in his gaze, something wild that makes me nervous as he strokes his thumb across my cheek. “I love you, Jasmine.”
I swallow in a too-dry throat, fighting the shivering aftershocks making my muscles tremble, but when he smiles I’m not completely sure they’re the only reason I’m trembling.
“I want you to say it.”
Oh God, no.
“Jasmine…” There’s more than a threat in his not-so-monotone voice, and with his cock still buried inside me I can’t do anything. I can’t be anything but who he wants me to be… and it’s all my fault.
Just say it.
It’s just a line. Just another line.
“I love you, too.”
The kiss bruises my lips, the same lips that just damned me, the same lips I used to moan for him, to beg for him.
This is all my fault. Mine. Me.
Fifteen
Mason
The FBI flies coach.
I learned that years ago, after Quantico, and to this day I’m not sure why that was as much of a disappointment to me as it was. There was just a part of me that believed back then that being an FBI agent was something unique, and that being a part of the agency would come with certain perks regardless of budgets and all the other shit.
Heh. Yeah... I was an idiot.
LAX to Amarillo is a four-hour flight, and four hours in coach at the crack of dawn on a Wednesday morning commercial flight could have been worse, but today is my day. The flight is only half full, my row is empty except for me, and the flight attendants have already seen by the profile on their manifest that I’m an agent, so they leave me mostly alone. I spread out my paperwork to pretend I’m working, but I’m not. It’s all a smokescreen to keep them away after they’ve given me my bag of pretzels and a can of Coke.
I could have asked for rum to go with it. But I didn’t. I kept up the illusion that an agent really is a force for good, as much complete and utter bullshit as that is.
I sit in my seat and stare at the files, but my mind is elsewhere. I’m still thinking yet again about my interview with Ms. Tucker. I know I’m as jaded and fucking cynical as they come, a burnt cylinder in an engine that has wanted to give up the ghost a long time ago, but… damn her. She’s pricked at something I’ve thought long dead and gone inside me. My conscience. And I can’t figure out why. Nothing she said to me should have affected me to this degree. And yet here I am, headed to Texas just like she asked.
Except you’re not doing it for her, Mason, are you? You’re just doing it to flesh out your report and keep Sinclair happy. Nothing more than that, right?
Right?
I skim the papers in front of me out of sheer boredom. Sloane Finley had gassed up in Stockdale. Her little Civic had pulled up to the Shell station, debit card closing out a purchase for $32.45 for gas, followed by a $5.36 purchase from the store. Then the now dead girl had pulled out of town headed north on highway 385 toward Rita Blanca where her cell phone pinged off a tower another twenty-five miles further up the road. At some point she’d stopped and taken a picture of herself looking back at an old farm, the one that Trish Tucker had bleakly explained to me.
And then Sloane Finley and her little blue Honda Civic disappeared off the face of the earth.
I’ve been over this so many times it’s beyond redundant, and the report is one that I can spout verbatim. No further cell phone pings, all calls straight to voicemail, and if my suspicions are correct, that Civic was parted out in a chop shop somewhere in Amarillo weeks ago. And Sloane Finley is buried in one of those gullies that weave around the pointillism patterned fields that make West Texas on Google Maps look like a Seurat wet dream.
Stop, Mason. Just… stop.
“Can I get you anything else, sir?” The flight attendant is looking down at me, all smiles, and I catch her scanning the paperwork spread in front of me. Go on, honey. There’s nothing there but the remnants of a miniscule life cut short.
“Another Coke would be great, thank you.”
She smiles, eyes giving one final dance over the pages before she leans back up to her cart. A moment later we shuffle empty cup for full. “If there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
I give her a tight, polite smile. “Of course.”
I sit and ruminate for the remainder of the flight. What bothers me most is those goddamn figures that never leave my head. 68,000 women. Poof. Gone. Disappeared. And less than a quarter of them warrant a picture on the proverbial milk carton, or a poster on a Walmart bulletin board. Just another carbon copy on a conveyor belt that passed beyond an event horizon and blinked out of existence. Tens of thousands of Sloane Finleys lined up like ducks in a row, moving forward one step at a time, not knowing that their little blip in time was going to end a lot sooner than on a death bed in a hospital surrounded by a loving family.
I’m not even two hours out of LA and already I’m ready to head back.
Jesus fucking Christ
, I’m old. And tired.
So damn tired of it all.
* * *
What little I see of Amarillo once I’m in the cab heading to the station does not inspire confidence, and the thirty-minute wait they put me through does little to improve my impression. I know I shouldn’t complain, because it’s really not that bad. I’ve certainly been through worse, but I never wanted to be here in the first place.
When I finally get called into the assistant director’s office — Whitmann is his name according to the plaque on the wall — it’s him and another agent. A woman only a few years younger than me.
“Agent Jones. Pleasure to meet you,” Whitmann greets me.
No it isn’t, but we have protocol to follow here, don’t we?
“Sir. Thank you for your time.” I shake his hand and glance toward the other agent, who stands by silently.
“Please, sit,” he says, motioning me toward a chair. “How long have you worked for David?”
Hmm. First-name basis. Noted.
“Director Sinclair has been my supervisor for eight years now.”
Director Whitmann smiles at me. “You enjoy working for Dave?”
Careful, Mason.
“I believe I enjoy working for Director Sinclair far more than he enjoys working with me.”
He laughs.
“Yeah, I’m betting your lying, but I get it.” Whitmann leans back in his chair, grinning. “I went through Quantico with Dave for our initial training, and I’ve done classes with him since. When he got assigned to the LA station I wasn’t surprised in the least.”
I keep my face blank as I answer. “I’m certain his qualifications were a leading factor in his being awarded the assignment, Mr. Whitmann.”
“Oh, of course, of course. A very circumspect response, Mr. Jones.” He glances over at the other agent, who during all this has sat silent, watching me. “Sorry, where are my manners. Agent Jones, this is Agent Rodriguez. Carmen, this is Agent Mason Jones out of the LA station.”
The woman leans up from her chair, extending a hand toward me. “Agent Jones.”
I return the firm handshake she offers. “Agent Rodriguez.”
As we both sit back down the room goes quiet, and I take a moment to look at her. She is a tight, compact woman, with a no-nonsense look like any other agent. She catches my eye for a second and acknowledges my stare. All part of the shakedown process I figure we’ve both been through a hundred times.
“I read the report you forwarded. I’m sure you’ll understand if I have questions.” Whitmann’s voice breaks me out of my reverie.
“I’ve little doubt, Director.”
“So, you want to fill me in, or do you want to spend the next hour going through a Q&A session?”
I admire that. He’s not like Sinclair. ‘Dave.’ He’s giving every appearance he wants to cut through some of the normal back-and-forth bullshit that tends to go on every time an out-of-towner shows up at a station to investigate something outside their jurisdiction, which is definitely appreciated. I take a deep breath and rattle off the details I’m pretty sure he wants to know.
“Ms. Finley’s father is an executive with Parson’s Corporation. Not exactly a well-known name, but they handle the Newport Chemical facility for the US Army out in Indiana. Which just happens to be one of the largest concentrations of chemical weapons in the world. Now, as you might imagine, at the moment that makes him somewhat of a VIP, especially in certain political circles. Suffice to say he knows some people who know some people, and when his dear daughter turns up missing and the LAPD figures out her last known location was Stockdale, Texas, the case is punted directly to us.” I stop there to see how well he can fill in the blank spaces himself.
Whitmann stares at me for a moment, then looks to the far wall. His lips push against each other in an almost grinding motion as he mulls what I’ve said over. “So, Dave’s looking to use this to bolster his upcoming budget requisition, make nice-nice with… I’m guessing a California politician of some sort. Maybe a senator? And do a little empire building all at the same time.”
Impressive.
“I’m certain all of that is way above my paygrade, Director.”
“Oh...” He gives me a tight, knowing grin. “I’ve little doubt, Agent Jones.”
He’s throwing my own words back at me, but I’m still impressed. He’s nailed this thing down almost to a T. I suppose it’s not hard to understand the motivations behind this case, but I still have to give respect where respect is due. Sinclair would have dragged this damn thing out, if only to power play it for everything he could. Whitmann obviously values his time more than that.
“To be clear,” I add, filling in the gap, “the U.S. Senator involved is Senator Harris. Who sits as a ranking member of the Senate Appropriations Committee.”
“Ah.” Whitmann nods, appraising me.
“Obviously we would react the same for any case involving a young woman gone missing, but the senator asked if we could take an especially close look into this.”
For the first time in the meeting Agent Rodriguez makes a noise. It is a grunt of disdain, and I glance over to see her finishing a shake of her head and looking away.
“Of course,” Whitmann says, ignoring Rodriguez entirely. “Well, I know you’re aware that the local authorities did a thorough search for the young woman as requested by the LAPD, and they found no trace of her or her vehicle.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And while we are always willing to help out our brethren in need from LA, my resources here are stretched tight as it is.”
“I’m sure they are, sir.”
There is a pause while he stares at me. No doubt trying to gauge whether any part of me is being sincere, or completely flippant as I’m sure he suspects.
“How long were you planning on staying in Texas, Agent? Just long enough to fill in some checkboxes and file a halfway decent report?”
It’s a goad, but I don’t rise to the bait.
“As long as I need to, Director. Since so much investigation has already taken place, as you noted, my initial projection was no more than two to three days.”
Whitmann nods, face impassive. I don’t know if that’s because I didn’t take the bait as he’d hoped, or what.
“I’ll allow for three days, Agent Jones. Three days. You can tell Dave no more than that. As I said, my resources are better utilized elsewhere than on a rehash just so he can give a reach around to a California senator.” He emphasizes the word ‘California,’ and the message is clear — he has no stake in this, so he’s not going out of his way for me. “Otherwise, please let Dave know that we’ll be happy to help him out. Just have him transfer the case here, and we’ll take over.”
He shoots me a slick smile, and I nod in return. Nothing I enjoy more than being the messenger boy between dueling egos.
“I’ll pass that along to Director Sinclair, sir. Although I am certain I can wrap up whatever’s needed here in the time you’ve so generously allowed.”
“You do that.” Whitmann’s voice is all director-firm. “I’m going to have Agent Rodriguez birddog you while you’re here. She knows the area you’re going into, and I’m sure she’ll be able to help out with the locals and anything else you may need assistance with.”
I don’t even try and argue against it. There’s no point. He’s not about to turn me loose in his playground all on my own, and on the off-chance I do turn something up, he is going to want to piss on it and lay claim as quick as he can.
“Of course, sir. I’m grateful for the assistance.”
He glances over at Rodriguez, who is sitting with a stony face, looking beyond me to the back wall.
Not any happier about this than I am, are you?
“Three days, Agent Jones. Then you toodle off back to Dave and send him my regards.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. I’ll let the two of you get acquainted and work out whatever details you need to for the balance of y
our time here with us.”
“Thank you, sir.” I start to rise.
“And let me be clear, Mr. Jones.” His voice stops me.
“You get Agent Rodriguez and a car. That’s it. Don’t go asking for flyovers or any bullshit like that. Dave does not get to spend my money unless there’s a quid pro quo. And the last time there was supposed to be that, I didn’t get so much as a half-assed handjob. Clear?”
“Crystal, sir.”
“Good. Enjoy your time in Texas, Agent.”
“Thank you, sir.”
A moment later, I’m out of the office, standing in the hallway waiting. I don’t know what he’s saying to Agent Rodriguez, but I can guess. One final conversation to emphasize keeping me on a short leash, and if I find anything, to plant a flag in it and lay claim immediately. As if that’s going to happen. The door opens a few minutes later, and Agent Rodriguez steps through, stopping to give me an appraising stare.
“Let’s go to my office.” She jerks a thumb in the direction of the hallway, and I follow silently behind her.
This is a resident station, so they don’t warrant their own government building. The offices are housed in a surprisingly modern bank building, all mirrored glass windows and cool tiled flooring. No cast concrete monolith dating back to the fifties for the folks here. The office Agent Rodriguez leads me to puts mine to shame. She moves and sits at her desk while I take a chair across from her.
“So who did you screw over to draw this short straw assignment?” she asks.
I chuckle. “This is as important a case as any other assignment, Agent Rodriguez.”
“Uh huh.” She gives me a pointed stare.
“As I said to Assistant Director Whitmann, I believe… Dave,” I emphasize his name with just enough disdain to make it clear. “Enjoys working with me far less than I do him.”
“Wow.” She shakes her head ruefully. “So you’ve seriously pissed your boss off that bad, huh?”
“For several years now.”
Rodriguez snorts, and then begins tapping out a staccato pattern on her keyboard.
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