“She agrees with me. That April was murdered.”
“Let’s say that she was. That they were filming one of those rape-fantasy scenes Trask is known for. Things got out of hand. April died. Prove it.”
“I can’t, but if—”
“You can’t because they covered it up. Got rid of her body. It could be at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean for all we know. Unless there’s a body or a witness willing to come forward, you got nothing. You’re spinning your wheels. And it’s hurting us. I love you, Kate. I want you to be happy.” He kissed her.
The front door opened and Paige burst in. “Kate, guess wh—” She covered her eyes. “Sorry, didn’t mean to catch you making out.”
Evan swore under his breath.
Kate squeezed his hand. Evan and Paige had butted heads since they’d met. “What’s up?” she asked her partner.
“I have someone willing to talk. Remember Denise Arno? She’s one of the actresses at Trask. She just contacted me. She quit and is scared to death. Wants to meet with us tonight. She has evidence that April was killed, and that they’re planning on smuggling illegals into the country to use as victims.”
“When and where?” Kate dropped Evan’s hand and grabbed her notebook.
“Ten tonight, at the Jefferson Memorial.”
Evan shook his head. “I don’t like this.”
“Come with us,” Kate said. “Maybe you’ll understand why this is important.”
“I understand,” Evan said. “Are you going to have backup?”
Kate tensed. “You think I’m stupid? Or a maverick?”
“No, but—”
“No buts. You don’t trust me.”
“I think this case has blinded both of you.”
“I’m not going into this blind.”
Paige interjected. “I already talked to Jeff. He’s waiting for us to debrief him. I think we’ll get everything we want.”
“Jeff Merritt agreed to this?” Evan frowned.
“Of course.” Paige pouted. “I outlined the game plan.”
Kate turned to Evan. “Please, Evan. It’s important to me that you’re with me on this. If you don’t want to be involved, I understand. It’s not your case. But don’t turn your back on me.”
Evan touched her. “Oh, Kate. I’d never turn my back on you.”
Beep beep beep beep beep beep…
Kate shook her head, ridding herself of the bittersweet memories. She typed in a series of numbers and stopped the computer from beeping at her.
Five days after that conversation with Evan, he’d followed her to the sting operation she and Paige had set up. Evan had informed Kate that there was no backup, Merritt hadn’t authorized it. He’d looked at Kate as if she’d lied to him. But she hadn’t.
She’d repeated what Paige had told her just that morning. She’d never thought to question her partner. She’d never thought her partner would put them in jeopardy.
Evan had died believing Kate had lied to him. It still hurt.
She glanced up at the screen just as Roger climbed off Lucy Kincaid, a crooked grin on the bastard’s face. The poor girl was crying, then the picture was cut off. Trask’s voice came over the speakers as another “best of” compilation began.
“Lucy wants to clean up after her first act. Wasn’t that fabulous? Lucy definitely has a future as an actress. So while she takes care of her business, here are highlights of our past shows.”
Kate didn’t watch, not this time. She was frantically trying to isolate a frequency. But as soon as the highlights began, Lucy’s feed was off the network. Kate was tracking phantoms.
She buried her head in her arms. She’d been so close, then he cut her off. Did he do it on purpose? Or was he trying to set her up, give her a false location like he had with Paige? Could Kate even trust her skills anymore? She was better, much, much better, than five years ago, but so was Trask.
Again, it was all about power. Trask had all the money he could ever want from his pornography trade. He didn’t need to kill women to increase his cash flow. And on top of the legitimate money, she suspected he had a number of illegal schemes going on.
So why kill? And why kill online? Why show the world what he was doing?
He thinks he’s God.
For five years the FBI had been trying to find Morton and Trask, but they didn’t even fully believe Trask existed. The Bureau wanted vengeance for the murder of two federal agents. They’d take anyone and everyone they could. Some believed “Trask” was an alias of Roger Morton’s, and no matter how Kate tried to convince them that they were two different people, they’d found no proof that Trask was a separate individual. Through her contact, Special Agent Quinn Peterson, she knew they’d raided Trask Enterprises, arrested and interviewed everyone on staff. But Roger Morton had disappeared, and no one else in the company had ever heard of an individual named Trask. They all believed it was just the name of the company, not related to a living, breathing person. Then, a new CEO was appointed by the board, a man above reproach—other than the fact that he ran a strip club in New York.
There was no evidence that Trask Enterprises had anything to do with Paige’s murder.
But Kate knew the truth, even if she couldn’t prove it.
SEVEN
THE DIVE BAR in the depressed border town of Hidalgo, Texas, was open from six a.m. until two a.m. Dillon suspected it had never been cleaned. Stale beer, cheap cigarettes, and sweat assaulted his senses as soon as he entered. He approached the bar, sat on a stool, the knowledge that he was far from his comfort zone hitting him hard. He should have brought Connor. He would have fit in better with this rough-and-tumble crowd. And Connor knew how to use a gun. Dillon didn’t own one, and hadn’t been comfortable with Connor’s offer of his backup piece.
The fact that he was the only Kincaid who didn’t know how to shoot wasn’t lost on him. What was he doing going after a renegade FBI agent? What was he doing trekking through dangerous Mexican territory, enlisting the help of the twin brother he hadn’t seen in eleven years?
Lucy. She would die if he didn’t do something, and even with all the gun power the Kincaids had—and their ability to use it—only Dillon could think like Trask. And understanding the mind of the killer might just be the key to saving Lucy.
“I told you to come alone.”
Dillon hadn’t heard Jack approach. He turned to face him. They were not identical, and at first glance one might not think they were brothers at all, aside from the fact that they were both six feet two inches tall. Dillon had light-brown curly hair that he tamed by keeping short compared to Jack’s black military cut. Dillon was fair-skinned, green-eyed, lean, and athletic. Jack was dark-skinned, black-eyed, and muscular—not a man you would want to encounter alone. How many men had Jack killed?
Dillon didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t know why the thought had even come to mind. Jack had been in the military for more than half his life, and in special operations for a decade. Whatever he did, he did with the sanction of the United States government. At least Dillon hoped that was still the case.
“Hello, Jack.”
Jack had aged, as evidenced by the lines on his face, the experience in his eyes.
“Deal’s off.”
Jack started to walk past.
“Don’t.”
Jack turned, stared at Dillon. “I told you to come alone.”
“I’m here alone.”
“Connor and Patrick are outside.”
“I’m surprised you recognize them.”
If Jack was embarrassed or guilty about that fact, he didn’t show it.
“This isn’t a family reunion,” Jack said.
Dillon was slow to anger, but Jack had always been the one to set him off. His voice was low and hard. “The bastard raped Lucy, and people paid to watch. Are you going to help her or protect your damn pride and ego?”
Jack flinched almost imperceptibly, but Dillon saw it. He’d hit a sore point. Good.
>
Dillon said, “I need Patrick because he’s a computer genius and Agent Kate Donovan has a setup on the mountain that’s trying to track the kidnapper’s satellite feed. And I couldn’t have kept Connor home if I’d tried.” He raised an eyebrow. “Connor’s a lot like you.”
He’d almost not been able to keep his future brother-in-law Nick Thomas back home as well. But Nick had undergone knee surgery three months ago and wouldn’t have done well on what promised to be a tortuous trek up the mountain. And they couldn’t go slow. Lucy had only thirty-nine hours left.
“You keep them out of my face and out of my business, Dillon.”
“Understood.”
Jack assessed him, dipped his head. “I have my team ready. We’ll escort you up the mountain, then you’re on your own.”
“So that’s it?”
“That’s it. I’m not a fucking tour guide, and I have a job to do.”
“Right. You have places to go and people to kill.”
Jack took a step toward him but Dillon stood his ground.
Jack said, “Stay out of my head.”
What had Lucy done to deserve this? She’d gone to church every Sunday with her parents. More or less believed. Tried to be good. She liked that commandment, the one that went “love your neighbor as yourself.” She used that as her philosophy of life, and had a lot of good friends. She tried to be a good daughter, a good friend, a good sister.
Why would anyone want to hurt her?
Lucy went back to what she’d heard her older brothers and sisters tell her ad nauseum. There are bad people in the world. They hurt others just because they can. Because they like to. She knew it, intellectually. She was a straight-A student. She had a life, a future she wanted, desperately wanted. All her dreams, everything she wanted to do, had been within her grasp.
But her heart, her soul, couldn’t help but think that something she’d done had created this awful situation. Had she hurt someone and not known it? After all, she’d lied to her parents, to everyone, about her online boyfriend.
And look what had happened.
It was her own fault. She’d gotten herself into this disaster. Still, Lucy didn’t want to die.
Dear God, listen to me! Don’t let him hurt me again. Please. I want to live. I’m sorry I lied. I’m sorry I was stupid. Please don’t let me die.
The shame of what had happened hit her, and her body—involuntarily, repeatedly—shook. The red eye of the camera was off. What did that mean? Were they through with her? Would they let her go?
She wanted to believe the answer was yes, but her mind told her no, don’t get your hopes up, Lucy. They’re never going to let you go.
They’re not done with you. They may never be through with you.
Her jeans were still caught in the ropes around her ankles. Vulnerable, exposed, and terrified. She hated herself right at that moment. Hated what had happened to her, what had become of her. She was changing, it wasn’t a sudden shift, but a process. Something unexplainable was going on inside her. What it was she didn’t know, didn’t understand. She didn’t want to think about it.
A woman came into the room. At first Lucy thought she was going to help her, but Lucy quickly dismissed that thought. The woman’s cruel eyes held nothing but contempt for her.
The woman was short and skinny, and wore her mousy brown hair tucked behind her ears. She’d been pretty at one time, but not today, and probably not yesterday. She strode over to Lucy, took out a knife, and before Lucy could say anything, cut the ropes.
“Can I go?” Lucy’s voice was small, lost in her ears. She swallowed, her body shaking.
The woman laughed.
“Get up,” she said, her voice surprisingly soft. As if she had laryngitis without the hoarseness. The tone was almost as scary as her piercing pale eyes, so pale blue they looked virtually colorless.
Look for an out.
She didn’t care if she was naked, she would run. Go anywhere.
You’re on an island. Where do you think you’d go?
She was a championship swimmer. She could handle the water. Ocean, lakes, whatever. She didn’t care how cold the water was, she’d rather trust her own swimming ability than leave her fate in the hands of the horrible men who’d hurt her.
The humiliation of the rape rushed over her again, like a hot wave, but one that left her cold and shaking.
Forget it! Dammit, Lucy, cry about it later. You have to find a way out.
The woman kicked her in the kidney and Lucy couldn’t suppress the gasp of pain.
“I said get up.” That unnaturally low voice got under Lucy’s skin, bringing forth goose bumps.
She rose slowly, her legs stiff. She tried to pull up her jeans, but the woman slapped her hand away. “Drop them, or you won’t get a shower.”
“I couldn’t care less about a shower. Just let me go.”
“You’ll shower, you’ll clean yourself, and you’ll do exactly what I tell you to do.”
With a sudden movement, the woman stepped forward, grabbed Lucy’s hair, and pulled her head back. The knife that had slashed her bindings now touched her neck. “You don’t know how much I want to kill you,” the woman spat out. “You think you own the world, so pretty, so perfect with your perky breasts and your virtue. How does it feel to have your precious virginity ripped from your body? Taken with force? No man will want you after this. No one will want to touch you. You’ll beg to die before this is over. And I will be happy to—”
“Denise!”
The command was sharp. The woman released Lucy and pocketed the knife.
“She wasn’t complying.”
Trevor Conrad stood in the doorway, his blond hair damp from a recent shower or swim. His billowing shirt was reminiscent of a pirate, his tan slacks pressed and creased. He looked more like the handsome CEO of a major corporation, or a movie star, than a sadist.
He smiled.
Lucy would not be tricked by his appearance like she’d been tricked by his online words.
“Come, Lucy. You probably want a shower after the show.”
“It wasn’t a show,” she said, her heart pounding so hard in her chest that she thought for certain he could see it beating through her skin. “He raped me.” As she said it she remembered that she was naked. She heated from embarrassment, wanting to cover herself. She didn’t want to show her fear, her humiliation, to the man in front of her.
But she couldn’t stop shaking.
Trevor smiled. “The first time is always the most difficult.” He held out his hand. “Come.”
Lucy didn’t know what his game was. He’d been cruel on the boat, now he was nice? Was this some mind game to get her to comply? To brainwash her? She’d been such a fool to believe everything he’d told her online. That he was a student at Georgetown. That they liked the same music, that they both loved romantic comedies—what guy her age likes romantic comedies? Her boyfriends only wanted to go see action movies. She had thought she’d been so smart, so safe, but she’d been stupid.
Lucy started toward Trevor, but didn’t take his hand. For an instant, anger flashed in his face, a cold hardness that hadn’t been there when he’d stood in the doorway. She wasn’t going to give in to his game.
He let her pass him in the doorway. She froze. Four men sat in a large room. They stared at her and whistled. One of the men was Roger, the man who had raped her.
She turned and walked straight into Trevor’s hard chest.
“They’ve already seen everything. No sense being modest now,” he said, his light tone further humiliating her.
Tears sprang from her eyes. She didn’t want to cry in front of these men, didn’t want to cry at all, but she couldn’t stop the tears from pouring out. Head high, she walked through the room at Trevor’s direction. Tall windows showed only pine trees beyond. No water, no people. They were on an island in the middle of nowhere.
Trevor opened a door on the far side of the room. A large bathroom with a skylight in
the roof but no windows. A stack of fluffy towels sat on the counter. A cheery photograph of a whale hung on the wall, reflected in the cabinet mirror.
“There’s shampoo and soap in the shower,” Trevor said. He snapped his fingers and Denise was at his side holding clothing that wasn’t Lucy’s. She thrust the garment into Lucy’s hands. Lucy let it fall to the floor.
Trevor scowled. “Put those on when you’re done. You have twenty minutes. Use them wisely. You don’t want to see me when I get angry.”
He shut and locked the door.
Lucy picked up the clothing. It was a white filmy layered dress with a wide belt with studs and hoops. There were no underclothes, just the dress and belt.
She turned on the water, almost in a daze. Maybe there was something she could use as a weapon—against five men? Hardly. Her self-defense skills hadn’t even done damage to one.
Still, she looked through the cabinets.
They were empty. Not even a bobby pin. Not only empty, but unused. Not a stain of toothpaste or perfume in the drawers, not even a strand of hair.
The shower beckoned. It wasn’t only her legs that were sore. She now saw the blood on her stomach, the blood on her thighs, the dried semen. She looked in the mirror and saw the spot on her neck where Roger’s knife had cut her, the deeper cut on her breast.
She climbed into the shower, sat on the tile floor, and cried as she scrubbed herself, ridding herself of the scent of violence, trying to reclaim her dignity.
And failing.
EIGHT
JACK AND HIS TEAM had driven them to the base of the mountain in two hours; then two more were spent trekking up the mountain to the observatory at the top. The morning had started cool, but as the sun rose so did the heat. The dust from the dirt roads coated Dillon, and he drank heavily from his water bottle.
“I made some inquiries after your call,” Jack had told Dillon. “Learned that an old man up here, Professor Fox, has had some female company for the last couple of years. No one knows who she is, but she’s treated the locals well so they haven’t bothered her.”
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