“You know I can’t do that, Bruce. You’re a cop. You wouldn’t walk away either.”
“Cop.” He laughed. “I’m a hired gun, by both the government and the criminals who run it.” He laughed, then it shut off abruptly. “Get away from me!” He released some of the dirt and Claire’s scream from deep in the grave pierced the night, over the sound of the backhoe.
She was alive.
Mitch took a step backward. “Okay, Bruce. Okay. Look. I’m backing off.”
Meg was in position.
“I’m backing off,” Mitch repeated.
“It’s better like this,” Langstrom said.
In the rapidly fading light, Mitch saw movement in the backhoe. Was that a gun?
He hit the ground and rolled as a bullet whizzed past his head. Mitch had his gun out and aimed, but more gunfire rang through the air and Langstrom fell out of the backhoe.
The dirt in the scoop above Claire cascaded down.
“No!” Mitch jumped up and ran. “Claire!”
Damn motor, he couldn’t hear her.
He ran to the edge of the hole. “Claire!”
He couldn’t see her. Oh God, no, all that talking while she was dying . . . then he saw Claire’s limp hand sticking out of the dirt.
He jumped down and began digging around her hand. Her arm. Her head.
“Claire!”
He pulled her head free of the dirt. She wasn’t conscious. He felt for her pulse. Strong, but rapid. Blood coated her hands. Had she been shot? Where was the blood coming from? He checked for a head wound and found none.
“Hans! Meg! I need help.”
The motor shut off.
“Mitch! Where are you? Mitch!”
“Down here! Call for an ambulance!”
Mitch dug away more dirt from Claire’s body. She was naked. Her body was so cold. There were cuts, now filthy from the dirt, all over her arms and chest.
“I need help getting her out.”
Meg jumped into the half-filled grave and rapidly scooped dirt away from Claire’s body until Mitch could pull her free. He lifted her up and handed her to Hans, who was kneeling at the edge of the hole.
“Her leg’s bleeding,” Mitch said. It also appeared bandaged. What had that bastard done to her? Mitch wanted to kill Langstrom all over again. His eyes burned as Hans laid Claire down on the ground. Mitch pulled himself out of the hole, then helped Meg out. Both he and Hans removed their jackets and wrapped them around Claire.
Four more agents ran to the site. Meg gave the orders. “You two, secure the property. You, get the first-aid kit and blankets, stat. You, get the status of the ambulance.”
Mitch smoothed Claire’s hair away from her face. “Claire. Claire, come on, wake up. Please, Claire.”
“She’s lost a lot of blood,” Hans said. He focused on removing the bandage. “The bleeding has mostly stopped, but we need to get the wound washed out and antibiotics administered ASAP.”
“Claire, honey, please.” Mitch swallowed thickly. He couldn’t lose her. Dammit, he could not lose her like this. He would rather have her throw him out of her house in a rage than have her die in his arms. “Dammit, Claire. Yell at me. Hit me. Blame me. Just don’t die on me. Don’t do it.” He pulled her into his arms, cradling her, taking comfort that her heart still beat, that her lungs still breathed.
He kissed her forehead, her cheek, her lips. “Claire,” he whispered, “I need you. I need you back. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me like this. I love you.”
Sirens pierced the night. Thank God. “Claire, we’re getting you help. You’re going to be okay.”
Mitch looked up. He’d forgotten that Hans and Meg were kneeling with him. He turned away from their inquisitive expressions. He didn’t want to explain, but he said, “I love her. Go ahead, fire me.”
Meg said, “I already figured that out.” She took a deep breath. “I must have been a real bitch these last couple years if you think I’d fire you for falling in love.”
Mitch stared at her. “What—”
“As far as I’m concerned, what you do on your own time is your business.” She reached out, touched him. “You’re a great agent, Mitch, flaws and all. I’m glad you’re on my team.”
Mitch nodded and stroked Claire’s hair.
“She’s going to be okay,” Meg said. “She’s a strong woman. I like her a lot.”
FORTY-FOUR
Mitch stood to the side of the property with Meg and Hans. It was Sunday morning, dawn, and the evidence response team was getting to work on a grisly project. It reminded the three of their shared past. Only, this was somehow worse.
They had already identified seventeen possible grave sites. They excavated the most recent: The girl, sixteen or so, had been dead only a couple days. She had dark hair and fair skin.
Like Claire.
“It’s come full circle, hasn’t it?” Meg whispered. “Our first case together.”
“Kosovo,” Hans and Mitch said simultaneously. Thirteen years had passed since their horrifying weeks in Kosovo unearthing mass graves to identify human remains after the brutal civil war tore apart Yugoslavia. It still haunted all three of them.
“What do I say to her?” Mitch asked quietly. They had been upstairs and had put together what Bruce Langstrom had done. The young girl’s room where evidence of a struggle told them Claire had been inside. The worn bear, her name on the door, the photo of a young Claire and her friend on the wall—it didn’t take a rocket scientist to surmise the room was a replica of Claire’s childhood room.
The blood in the hallway where he’d shot her in the leg to prevent her from escaping. Her cut clothes in the bathroom, which matched up with the marks on her body when Mitch found her.
But it was the disk playing in a loop in the bedroom that had Mitch and even the seasoned, unflappable Hans Vigo speechless.
That bastard had been watching her for years. Filming her in the privacy of her own bedroom. Mitch wanted to kill him again—with his bare hands—for putting Claire through hell. For forcing her to watch her most intimate and private moments. Why? Some sick mind game? To demoralize her?
“Tell her you love her,” Hans said.
“It’s not going to be that easy.”
“Nothing worth having is easy.”
“How is she going to live knowing that he—”
“She will because she’s a fighter,” Hans said.
“And,” Meg added, “she has you.”
Mitch watched their evidence response team bring up another body and lay it on a bright yellow tarp. How do they stop monsters like Langstrom? So many victims. Innocent. Maybe he was supposed to be a cop. But the rules that favored killers like Langstrom would always be stacked against them. He didn’t want to go back to a desk, more concerned with paperwork than criminals.
“I want the disk,” he said.
“I can’t—” Meg said.
“Just stop with the rules. I don’t care if it’s evidence. He’s dead! I have to protect Claire. If that gets out, it’ll destroy her.”
“I’ll do it,” Hans said.
“I can’t ask you to—”
“You didn’t. Trust me, Mitch. No one else will see it. Ever.”
Hans turned and walked toward the house.
“Go back to the hospital,” Meg said as they watched Hans enter Langstrom’s house. “You’ll want to be there when Claire wakes up.”
“You need me here,” Mitch said.
“Scram. Claire needs you more,” Meg said.
“Thanks.”
“By the way, a friend of mine called. He’d heard about you, might have a job you’re interested in.”
Mitch stared at her. “Am I fired?” Did he sound hopeful?
“No. I want you to stay. But—” Meg glanced down, then back at Mitch. “You’ve never been happy in the FBI. I saw it, but never addressed it, because I didn’t want to lose you from my team. You’re a great agent. But I want you to do something you really want
to do, not what anyone else wants for you.”
“I guess you know me better than I thought.”
“You don’t have to take it. And your job is safe, if you want to stay. Just give this guy a call and listen to what he has to say.”
Mitch took the card Meg held out.
J. T. CARUSO
ROGAN-CARUSO PROTECTIVE SERVICES
“I’ll listen,” he said and walked to his car, leaving the dead, and the past, behind him.
* * *
Claire woke to soft voices. Her eyes opened halfway. She breathed as deeply as she could and smelled hospital.
She’d made it. Somehow, she got out of her grave and made it.
Memories of sound, voices, filtered in. Being buried with dirt. Screaming. Begging for her life. Then nothing but warmth. Being rocked. Someone holding her.
Don’t die on me. Don’t do it.
I need you.
I love you.
Mitch had been there. Claire had heard him, felt him.
“Mitch.” Her throat was thick and raw.
“Honey.”
It was her dad. She turned, saw Tom O’Brien sitting with Nelia Kincaid in her hospital room. He wore a bathrobe, but her dad was sitting up. Alive and well.
“Daddy?”
“You’re okay.” He took Claire’s hand.
Nelia said, “I’ll be right back.” She left.
“Oh, Daddy, I don’t know where to begin.”
He fed her water through a straw.
“You don’t have to say anything.”
“He killed Mom.”
“I know.”
“He was in my room. He took my bear. He—”
“Shh. Don’t.”
Claire breathed deeply. “How’d they find out?”
“Mitch and the FBI put the information together, and they gave Don Collier a deal for Langstrom’s name.”
“Langstrom?”
“Phil Palmer’s real name was Bruce Langstrom. He was an assassin, for lack of a better word. The FBI is going through countless records of Judge Drake, Richard Mancini, and Congressman Riordan. They’re putting together a conspiracy going back nearly three decades. Political corruption, illegal land deals. Murder.”
“Murder?”
“Seems they killed an old woman for her land. It’s what started this, at least for us. Frank Lowe ratted out Riordan to Chase Taverton as part of a plea agreement. Judge Drake found out about it and had them killed. It was just chance that Lydia was having an affair with Taverton. If not Lydia, it would have been some other woman who died, another husband or ex-boyfriend framed.”
Her dad held her hand.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
“This isn’t your fault, or mine, or even your mother’s. Blame those selfish bastards. Be satisfied that their crimes are being exposed now that they’re dead.”
“The time we lost—”
“Honey, believe me, I could hate for a long time if I think about what I lost. That’s gone. I have you back, and that means more to me than anything in the world. I’ve regained my reputation. My innocence. My freedom. I can walk the streets again. And then there’s Nelia.”
His face softened and Claire squeezed his hand. “I’m glad you found someone who loves you.”
He nodded. “And I’m glad you found someone who loves you.”
“I—”
“Mitch told me everything last night after you were brought in.”
“Everything?”
“More or less. Honey, he’s a good man.”
“I know.” Her voice cracked. Mitch was more than just a good man. He was the love of her life.
The door opened and Mitch walked in. Nelia stood in the doorway. “Tom, you need to rest.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Tom leaned over and kissed Claire on the forehead. “Love you, Claire Beth.”
“Love you too, Daddy.”
Tom shuffled out arm in arm with Nelia.
Claire turned her head toward Mitch.
“You probably want to know what happened,” he said.
She nodded. “Yeah. I missed a lot.”
“Well, I guess I should start at the beginning.” He sat down where her father had been sitting. “Apparently, thirty years ago, Bruce Langstrom—”
“Did you go in the house?” she whispered.
Mitch nodded.
Claire closed her eyes, unable to squeeze back burning tears. She wanted to disappear, to run away where no one knew who she was. Soon everybody would know, everyone would see all her secrets exposed, watch her have sex . . . oh, dear God, the Internet. It would be everywhere . . .
“Claire, don’t do this to yourself.”
“How can I face my dad? Everyone I work with, my friends, Dave and Bill—”
“It’s gone. Destroyed. No one is going to see it. No one is going to talk about it.”
“But it’s evidence—”
“No it’s not.”
Claire looked at Mitch, saw that he spoke the truth. Her lips trembled. “I—Thank you.”
“Don’t do that. God, Claire, when I saw you in that grave, my life was over. I couldn’t imagine not being given another chance to explain why I lied, to ask for your forgiveness, to tell you I love you. To ask for time to prove it.”
She put her fingers to his lips. “I’m sorry, Mitch. I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry? Sorry for what? I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you. I’m sorry he hurt you. I would do anything to turn back time and stop it from happening.” Mitch reached out for Claire, hesitated.
She took his hand and squeezed it.
“I was so mad and hurt when I found out the truth about you,” she said.
“I know, and—”
“Let me finish, okay? I was hurt because I thought I had fallen in love with a lie, with someone who didn’t exist. But it’s you. Writer or damn FBI agent, it’s still you. I love you, Mitch.”
He let out a long breath, touched his head to hers. “I’ve been so worried. I need you, Claire. You showed me how lonely I was. How jaded. How miserable. When I’m with you, I see myself in a whole different light. I’ve been moving from job to job in the FBI—from Atlanta to Washington to Texas to Sacramento—never settling down, never happy, until I met you. I love you so much.”
He kissed her lightly.
She sighed. “Aren’t we a pair? I’d never have thought I could fall head over heels for someone like you, but now that I have, I couldn’t imagine loving anyone else.”
He smiled, touched her face.
“Can you do me a favor?”
“Anything.”
“Can you check on my dogs and Neelix? They haven’t eaten. They’re probably—”
“I’ve already done it. I went by last night, and decided to stay. They missed you, I think.”
She smiled. “They like you. They’re good judges of character.”
“I had a job offer.”
“What kind of job?”
“Something that challenges me, that speaks to my sense of justice and fair play.”
“Tell me.”
“J. T. Caruso offered me a position at Rogan-Caruso.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“You’re okay with us working together?”
She nodded. “Absolutely. We’d make a good team.”
“I agree. I won’t lie to you again, Claire. Just promise me you’ll trust me once more. I won’t let you down.”
“I trust you. No secrets, Mitch. You and me, no matter what, no secrets between us.”
“I promise.” He kissed her. “You won’t regret loving me.”
Also by Allison Brennan
The Prey
The Hunt
The Kill
Speak No Evil
See No Evil
Fear No Evil
Killing Fear
Tempting Evil
Playing Dead
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SUDDEN DEATH
the first book in the new FBI trilogy
by
Allison Brennan
Coming from Ballantine Books
Available wherever books are sold
The murder had been ritualistic, brutal, and efficient.
There didn’t appear to be any signs of a struggle, but here in the decrepit underside of Sacramento, that was difficult to determine. While the city did a fairly good job at keeping most of the streets clean, on the north side of downtown—away from the Capitol building and closer to the soup kitchen—the grime and unwanted bred. Here, the homeless weed through the garbage for something edible. Cardboard boxes had been pulled from the trash to shield them from an early heat wave.
Based on the lack of blood spatter, the victim had been prone when shot. But the victim had the same outward injuries as the other two known victims. His hamstrings had been cut clean through, incapacitating him.
“What are you thinking?” Sacramento PD Detective Dave Kamanski asked. He’d been the one to contact the local FBI office about the like-crime, and Meg was pleased to be able to work with someone she already knew and respected.
“His hamstrings weren’t cut here. Not enough blood.”
Kamanski frowned. “If the killer sliced his hamstrings first to prevent him from running, then shot him in the head, would there still be pooling?”
“I’m not a forensic expert,” Meg said, “but my guess is that there would be some sort of spray or castoff.” Without touching the victim, she inspected the deep gash in the back of his legs. She mimicked a slicing motion with her hand and then said, “I need the coroner’s report, but it appears that the killer sliced right to left, cutting both legs with an even, fluid motion.” She stood and said, “Turn around.”
Kamanski did, looking over his shoulder at the tall blonde. She said, “I’m shorter than the killer and you’re taller than the victim, but my guess is that the victim was walking somewhere, and the killer came and slice, cut the hamstrings. The vic went down on his knees—that should be obvious at the autopsy with early bruising or physical evidence of a collapse—and then even if the killer immediately sheathed the knife, there would be blood on the ground and castoff”—she looked to the left—“over there.”
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