by Cynthia Eden
“Sophia, you made it.” Rick strode toward her, hand outstretched.
She clasped his hand and made a half turn toward Austin, but he’d melted away into the crowd. “It’s so good to see you.”
“And you.” He hooked his arm with hers. “I’d like to introduce you to a few of the symposium panelists, people striving to make a real difference, like you did.”
She snatched a crab puff from a passing tray. Her nerves had prevented her from eating much all day, and now she felt weak and light-headed. Austin was right about staying well nourished.
She popped the puff into her mouth just as Rick led her to a group of three people.
“Sophia, this is Sylvia Fuentes and Paul…”
But she couldn’t hear the names over the roaring in her ears as she met the dark gaze of the man in the pictures with Vlad.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sophia had recognized him. She knew.
He knew, too.
Austin group-texted the agents stationed around the room, but cautioned them from making any sudden or obvious moves. The man whose photo had been taken with Vlad was with Rick Stansfield, Sophia’s friend. He hadn’t come through the front door, hadn’t come through security.
They didn’t know what he had on him or what he had planned.
He hoisted the .300 Win Mag, which had been waiting for him in the balcony above the room, on his shoulder, and for the first time wished he was looking at his quarry face-to-face instead of through a scope. He wanted to be by Sophia’s side.
The group text lit up. No ID had been made on the man yet, but for this function he was Paul Alnasseri, executive director of Reach Out for Redirect, an organization committed to mentoring disenfranchised youth. One of the agents had gotten hold of a program for the symposium.
Austin’s heart skipped a beat as Alnasseri put his hand on Sophia’s back and they broke away from the group.
He licked his dry lips, and his trigger finger itched. If Alnasseri had a bomb, he might very well have a kill switch—a button rigged up to set off the bomb even as he went down. He couldn’t risk that. He wouldn’t risk that.
Three agents began to move in a circle around Alnasseri and Sophia. Austin’s shoulders tensed.
All they knew about him was that he had met with Vlad, a whole network of his associates had killed to keep that information from getting leaked and he was at the symposium under false pretenses and probably a false name. For the FBI, that wouldn’t be enough to take him down, no questions asked.
But he wouldn’t have a problem doing it. Not if it meant saving dozens of lives; not if it meant saving Sophia’s life.
Alnasseri’s head slowly cranked from side to side. He knew he’d been made. Even in tuxedos, the FBI agents looked like FBI agents.
A shout echoed from below and Austin watched with a clenched jaw as Alnasseri pressed a gun against Sophia’s temple.
Alnasseri’s voice rose. “Stay back. It’s over.”
Some of the people on the opposite side of the room weren’t even aware of the drama, but a ripple of awareness zigzagged through the people near Alnas-seri and Sophia, and some of them started backing up. A few screamed. Several dropped to the floor.
If he set off a bomb now, there would be massive carnage. If Austin shot him dead, Alnasseri might have enough time to squeeze the trigger and kill Sophia—and there might be massive carnage, anyway.
Alnasseri started ranting and threatening, and when he mentioned the word bomb, chaos erupted.
Austin tightened his finger on the trigger. He had to take the shot. Sophia had to know that.
In a split second, she disappeared from his view and Austin fired. Alnasseri fell to the floor, the gun dropping from his hand.
A stampede of people headed for the exit doors, and Austin held his breath, bracing for the explosion.
None came.
EPILOGUE
Sophia took a deep breath of the fresh air that carried a hint of sweetness from the multicolored flowers scattering down the side of the hill, announcing spring in Wyoming. Jenny, Austin’s mother, had called them Indian paintbrush, and they did resemble an impressionist’s watercolor canvas. She could get used to this.
A crunch of a cowboy boot on the dirt behind her brought a smile to her lips, and the arms that wrapped around her from behind widened that smile.
Austin kissed the side of her neck. “I heard you were naming the cows. Don’t do it.”
She turned in his arms and cupped his stubbled jaw with one hand. “I’ll stop when Maisie has her puppies and I can adopt one of my own.”
“You’re not going to bring the pup back to Boston and your apartment, are you?” He turned his head to kiss her palm.
“Your nephew, Kip, told me I could leave him here, and I can visit when I came back…if I’m coming back.”
“What do you think?” He traced her lips with the pad of his finger. “My family loves you—almost as much as I do.”
“I can’t believe how they just opened their home to me, a perfect stranger.”
“They’re like that, and when I told them what you’d been through and what a huge help you’d been to me, it was a no-brainer for them.”
“Did you tell them about Vlad? That the man responsible for Tucker’s death was involved in this latest scheme?”
“I don’t talk about that with them. They don’t need to know the details, especially since I believe Vlad had set his sights on Dr. Fazal, anyway, because of his connection to me. Jilani handing off those photos to Fazal just gave Vlad the excuse to come at him.”
“Paul Alnasseri was the perfect mole. They must’ve been grooming him from a very young age, and he’d completely stayed off the intelligence community’s radar.”
“Until the wrong guy was in the wrong place at the wrong time—to our benefit. Even Jilani probably didn’t know what he had until he brought the disc to Dr. Fazal in Boston and saw the symposium lineup.”
“Do you think that’s when he changed his mind and asked Dr. Fazal to keep the information quiet?”
“Yes, because Vlad’s associates threatened his family.”
“Poor Dr. Fazal was out of it, away from the madness, and Jilani had to implicate him.”
“Like I said, Sophia, I think Vlad was going to hit Fazal sooner or later.”
“I’m just happy Alnasseri died before he could activate his bomb.”
“And I’m happy you had the presence of mind to duck down in the chaos.”
“Because I knew you had him in your crosshairs and you’d be taking the shot—whether I was standing there or not. And you have to go back to it all.” She dropped her hands to clutch his jacket. “I’m going to be worried every minute of every day.”
“You’re going to be busy with your new job, finishing school and coming out to Wyoming to visit your puppy. There are so many ways for us to communicate, you’ll probably get sick of seeing my face and hearing my voice.”
“Never, Austin Foley.” She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his chin.
“And when I’m done with this tour, you’ll be waiting for me?”
“Where else would I be?”
“No more Spark dates?”
“Too shallow and meaningless.”
“You used to thrive on shallow and meaningless.”
She shoved the tips of her fingers in his back pockets. “That’s before I met you.”
“You take me, you get the whole bunch.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at his family’s sprawling ranch house.
“I’m counting on that.” She squinted at the house. “Your nephew’s waving his arms and shouting something. Shh.”
Austin cocked his head. “It’s the puppies. Maisie’s having her pups.”
“Let’s go.” Sh
e grabbed his hand and tugged.
“This means you’re going to stop naming those cows, right?”
“Of course—except for Sydney and Clyde and Hopper and…”
He scooped her up and tossed her over his shoulder. “City girl.”
* * * * *
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After the Dark
by Cynthia Eden
THE SCENE WAS all wrong.
The killer—the balding man in his late thirties—the man who stood there with sweat dripping down his face, a gun held in his trembling hand and a dead girl at his feet…he was wrong.
FBI Special Agent Samantha Dark raised her weapon even as she shook her head. She’d profiled this killer, studied every detail of his crime spree. And…
This is wrong.
“Drop the gun!” That bellow came from her partner, Blake Gamble. He was at her side, his weapon drawn, too, and she knew all of his focus was locked on the killer.
They’d come to this house just to ask Allan March some follow-up questions. He’d been one of the custodians at Georgetown University, a university that had recently become the hunting grounds for a killer.
At Blake’s shout, Allan jerked. And when he jerked, his finger squeezed the trigger of the gun he held. The shot went wide, missing both Samantha and Blake. She didn’t return fire. Allan doesn’t fit the profile. This is all wrong—
Blake returned fire. The bullet slammed into Allan’s right shoulder. Not a killing wound, not even close. Blood bloomed from the spot, soaking the stark white shirt that Allan wore. Allan should have dropped his gun in response to that hit, but he didn’t. He screamed. Tears trickled down his cheeks, and he aimed that gun—
Not at Blake, but at me.
“Has to be you…” Allan whispered. “Said…has to be you…”
She didn’t let any fear show, even as the emotion nearly suffocated her. “Allan, put down the gun.” Blake’s order had been bellowed, but hers was given softly. Almost sadly. Put the gun down, Allan. I don’t want to shoot you. This isn’t the way I want things to end.
The FBI had been searching for the Georgetown University killer for months. Following the trail left by the bastard—a trail of blood and bodies. But the trail shouldn’t have led here.
Allan March was a widower. His wife had passed away two years ago, slowly dying of cancer. He’d been at her bedside every single moment. All of the data that the FBI had collected on Allan indicated that he was a dedicated family man, a caregiver. Not—
A serial killer.
“I’m sorry,” Allan whispered.
And Samantha knew what he was going to do. Even as those tears poured down his cheeks, she knew.
“No!” Samantha screamed.
But it was too late. Allan pointed the gun right at his own face and pulled the trigger. The thunder of the gunfire echoed around them, and, a moment later, Allan’s body hit the floor, falling to land right next to the dead body of Amber Lyle, the twenty-two-year-old college student who’d been missing for three days.
“Fucking hell,” Blake muttered.
This is wrong.
Samantha rushed toward the downed man. Her weapon was still in her hand. Her eyes were on Allan. On what was left of his face. Dear God.
* * *
“THE PRESS IS ripping us apart, Samantha! Ripping us apart!” Her boss glared at her as they stood inside the small FBI office. “You were supposed to be the freaking superstar—a profiler who could do no wrong. But your profile was shit. You had us looking for a man who didn’t exist. Three women died while we were looking for the killer you said was out there!”
Samantha stood, her shoulders back and her spine straight, as Justin Bass berated her. Spittle was flying from her boss’s mouth. His blue gaze blazed with rage.
The executive assistant director was far more pissed than she’d ever seen him before. The guy had a temper, everyone knew that truth, but this time… There’s no going back.
Justin didn’t like to look bad. He liked to be the agent in charge, the man with the answers. The suit who handled the press and gloried in the attention he got when his team brought down the bad guy.
“Damn it, Samantha!” Justin snarled, a muscle twitching in his rounded jaw. “Do you have anything to say?”
Did she? Samantha swallowed. Did she dare tell him what she thought? When every single piece of evidence said just how wrong she’d been?
“Take it easy, Bass.” Blake spoke on her behalf. He was at her side, sending her a sympathetic glance. “What matters is that the Sorority Slasher has been stopped.”
The Sorority Slasher. Samantha hated that name. It sounded like something from a really bad horror flick. Leave it to the tabloids to glam up a grisly killer.
“We’re the fucking FBI,” Justin said, stopping to slap his hands down on his desk. “We can’t afford to make mistakes.”
Her temples were throbbing. She knew exactly who they were.
“Someone has to take the fall for this one. Three women died because you were wrong. You were wrong, Samantha. The superstar from Princeton. The woman who was supposed to change the face of profiling. FBI brass shoved you down my throat, and you were wrong.”
She made her jaw unclench.
“You’re taking the fall for this one.” Justin nodded curtly toward her. “Consider yourself on suspension.”
Samantha almost took a step back. Her lips parted—
Don’t take the job from me.
“What?” Blake was the one who’d given that shocked cry. It was Blake who sounded furious as he snapped, “You can’t do that! Samantha is the best—”
“Yeah, right, you think I don’t know about the hard-on you have for her, Agent Gamble?” Justin fired right back. “You two never should have been partners. So take some advice, buddy. Save your own ass. She’s a sinking ship, and you don’t want to go down with her.”
Her boss was a bastard. Lots of men she’d met in the FBI were arrogant assholes. Blake? No, he was a good guy, and that was why she respected him so much.
“Leave your weapon here,” Justin ordered her. “And your badge.”
She unsnapped her holster, walked slowly toward his desk.
My profile was right. I know it was.
She put her gun on his desk, but when she reached for her FBI badge and ID, Samantha hesitated.
“You know, we found pictures of all the victims at his place.” Justin’s voice was flat. “Souvenirs that he kept.”
“Trophies.” It was the first thing she’d said since coming into his office. “Not souvenirs, they’re trophies.” Serial killers often kept them so that they could relive their crimes.
“Shoved in the back of his closet, under the guy’s winter boots.” Justin shook his head. “Dropped like they didn’t matter, and you spent all that time telling us we were looking for a cold, methodical killer. One who wanted to push boundaries and study the pain of his victi
ms. One who wanted to see just how well matched he’d be with authorities. A smart killer, a damn genius. Fuck me, Samantha, Allan March barely graduated high school!”
And that was just one of the many reasons why he was wrong.
Her fingers had clenched around her ID. “Did you ever think…” Her voice was too soft, but it was either speak softly or scream. “Did you consider that maybe Allan had been set up?”
Justin’s hands flew up into the air in a gesture of obvious frustration. “He shot himself! Killed his damn fool self when he blew off half his head! If that doesn’t say guilty, then what the hell does?”
Her drumming heartbeat was too loud. “He could have killed himself for a number of reasons.” Reasons that were nagging at her. He’d lost his life savings battling his wife’s cancer. Extreme financial hardship? Hell, yes, that could lead people to suicide. It could—
Justin yanked the ID from her hand. “Get the hell out, Samantha. You are done. I won’t have you talking this shit in my office—and you sure as hell better not plan on stopping to talk to the reporters outside.”
“Director Bass—” Blake began angrily.
“Don’t!” Justin threw right back at him. “Not another word, unless you want to be giving up your badge, too.”
No, Blake wouldn’t do that. The FBI was his life.
She kept her spine ramrod straight as she walked out of the office. When she reached the bull pen, she heard the whispers—from the other FBI agents there, from the cops who’d come to team up with them. Everyone was staring at her with confusion in their eyes.
She was wrong. She screwed up. She let those women die.
This was all going to be on her. Samantha clenched her hands into fists.
She made it to the elevator. One step at a time. Her spine was starting to hurt.
She slipped into the elevator. Pushed the button to go down to the parking garage. The doors were starting to close—
“Samantha.” Blake was there. Shoving his hand through the gap between the doors, trying to get to her.
She shook her head. “No.” Because she couldn’t deal with him right then. He pulled at her emotions, and she already felt too raw.