“CIA? Sheesh.” Kang turned his head away briefly. “This story gets more unbelievable.”
“I’m the lucky one.”
“That’s the other body at the corner of Turk and Golden Gate?”
I nodded. “It’s unfortunate. He had no beef in this.”
“What was the meet about?”
“Park was an operations officer who had spent time in Asia, particularly Shanghai. The hope was that he would have actionable intel on our assassin. The information I received from Choi had last placed her there.”
“And?” Kang raised both palms.
I retrieved the USB flash drive Park had given me from my pants pocket. “He handed me this right before he got clipped. According to him, it holds everything he knows about the girl.”
“That’s hopeful.”
“Yeah, in a roundabout way. I mean, tracking down a ghost assassin in order to shut the game down so that its players, who I can’t identify, won’t come after me is, well, grasping.” Even I saw that what I was attempting was pretty absurd.
“What about the shooter? What do you know about him so far?”
“Aside from his team name, not much. He had no identification on him, but we’re running his prints and looking into the room he rented for his operation.”
“Kane.”
I turned to the voice behind me and saw Bennett approaching. “Our shooter turned up on the National Crime Center database.” Bennett removed a small notebook from his jacket. “His name is Colin Benton. A passport scan had him arriving in the U.S. via Seattle from Vancouver.”
“He’s Canadian?” I asked.
“Negative. He’s an American. Last known address was in North Dakota.”
“I never suspected an American team,” I said. “What else you got?”
“He did four years in the army. He was a qualified marksman but was dishonorably discharged for an unauthorized kill during Desert Storm.”
“Well, that explains his ability to take out a target from a few hundred yards away. He should have hit me as well.”
“There’s more,” Bennett said. “He has known ties to a small militia group that the Bureau had been keeping tabs on. They called themselves American Freedom and operated in Montana. They had a growing presence until the leader was arrested and later found guilty of pedophilia. They disbanded shortly after.”
“This keeps getting better.” Kang folded his arms across his chest.
Bennett continued. “This Colin guy tried to start his own outfit with some of the remaining AF members, but it never gained traction. He went off the grid shortly after and hasn’t been seen since.”
“Until now,” I said, shifting my weight from one foot to the other.
“You know, the Vancouver destination isn’t that far away,” Kang added. “Did you know a team was active there?”
“According to the game, no.”
“Maybe it stopped tracking teams.”
“It didn’t appear that way the last time I logged on, but you might be right. Team Militant should have been listed as being active in that city unless he hadn’t completed an Attraction.”
“We should log on and check to see if there’s any movement with the other teams. Maybe it’s a glitch.”
I shrugged and tilted my head. “Either way, I think we have to assume that all fourteen teams will come after me.”
“Why? Because this guy did?”
“No. It’s something that I’ve thought all along but tried to suppress. My bounty isn’t a bonus Attraction. It’s the only Attraction. If the players want to remain in the game, they have no choice but to come after me.”
Chapter 13
News choppers circled above while their counterparts operated media stations at the north end of the lane. The high-powered lights used by the cameramen lit the area as puppet reporters all fed their stations the same story. This would be a spectacle that would continue long into the night and provide days of fodder for the ratings-starved media outlets. They were making Team Militant infamous.
“Are you stuck here all night?” Kang asked.
“No, but I’m waiting for word on where my family is being relocated to.”
No sooner had I said that than my cell phone rang. It was Castro. He said they were in the process of relocating my family and they were safe.
“I want to see them.”
“I’m sorry, Abby, but we don’t know if you’re being watched right now, and—”
“No, I’m sorry, because that’s not how it’s going to work,” I countered with a voice that was stern but even toned. I needed Castro to understand my position without unnecessary explanation. “I know if I’m being tailed or not. Give me the address.”
“What was that about?” Kang asked after I ended the call.
“The agent in charge of moving my family to another location thought it was best that I not be in contact with them right now. Worried about me being tailed.”
“He doesn’t know you that well.” Kang chuckled. “Where are they?”
“Heading to Napa Valley—a small B&B.”
Kang pushed his bottom lip up and mulled over my answer. “That works. Is that where you’re going now?”
“I’ll swing by the house first for some personal items, maybe a quick shower.”
“Who’s there?”
“Nobody. It’s empty.”
“Tell you what.” Kang clasped his hands together. “I’ll come with you.”
I patted the front of my vest. “Thanks, but I’ll be okay.”
“That wasn’t a suggestion,” he said, flashing a grin. “Come on, I’ll follow you with my car.”
Before heading back home, I wanted to fetch my purse and laptop from the office. I had been keen on seeing if there was a glitch in the game or if I perhaps no longer had access to live updates. When Kang and I exited the alleyway, we did our best to avoid the media gauntlet.
I kept my head down and worked to make my body look as inconspicuous as possible, but it didn’t help. The shrill I had come to recognize as the coming of the beast had sounded. No, it can’t be. I looked over to my left, and my jaw fell limp. Striding toward us dressed in a white pantsuit with matching heels and a cherry-red scarf was my nemesis, Suzi Zhang.
She had her black, silky hair pulled around to the left of her neck, resting over her perky breast like a Pantene shampoo commercial. Each step crossed over in front of her, accenting the swing of her hips from side to side. Why can’t you just walk normally and not like you’re trying out for a spot on America’s Next Top Model? It annoyed me the way she turned the sidewalk into her catwalk.
I had first met Suzi in a hospital when she came to visit Kang. We had gotten off on the wrong foot, and it stayed that way.
“Agent Kane, might I have a moment?” she called out, microphone in hand and white veneers on display. And what’s with using the “might”? You’re Chinese, not British. I rolled my eyes and kept walking until Kang answered.
“Sure, we have a moment.” He turned to me. “Is that okay?”
No. Not okay. “I guess.”
Kang and I waited as Suzi positioned herself next to me, checked her makeup, raked her fingers through her hair a few times, and flashed a few practiced smiles before giving her cameraman the go-ahead. I just stared at her bared chest, wondering about the blouse that should have been accompanying her suit.
“This is Suzi Zhang reporting live from the Civic Center, where a deadly sniper shooting has taken place. Standing next to me is FBI Agent Abigail Kane.”
Abigail?
“As we understand, you were the initial target of the lone gunman. Could you tell us why you were singled out?”
“There’s no indication that I was the target, nor have we come to any conclusion on whether the gunman worked alone or conspired with others.” I’ll contradict every question you ask, so keep wasting everyone’s time.
“But isn’t it true that you are being targeted by a group of killers?”
/>
I shot a look at Kang before turning back to her. “The FBI has no knowledge of a group of killers that are targeting agents,” I said, tucking my shoulder-length black hair behind my ears. “As far as the bureau is concerned, this is an isolated incident, and we are investigating it as such. That’s all the information I have at this time. Thank you.”
Before the serpent could spit out another question, I kicked my tiny legs into gear and exited the frame. Once we were out of range of any sort of recording device, I laid into Kang.
“I can’t believe you told her about my situation,” I said, picking up the pace.
Kang kept in step and raised both hands in protest. “I swear I didn’t say anything. I never discuss my investigations with her.”
“Really?” My left eyebrow arched, punctuating my question.
“Look, Abby. She’s a journalist—”
“Journalist? That’s being generous.”
“Look, my point is that she probably heard a few sound bites from my phone conversations with you and dug around a bit. I’ll be more mindful around her from now on.”
My gut told me Kang spoke the truth, but somehow his girlfriend had put two and two together, because no other media outlet had suspected that I had been the intended target. And I didn’t think asking me those questions had anything to do with her doing her job. I think she wanted to let me know that she knew or at least give the impression that she knew what was happening. Speaking to me was about exhibiting control. Bitch!
We arrived at my home forty-five minutes later. Kang parked his Crown Vic across the street, and I pulled my Charger into the driveway.
I was halfway to the front door before Kang exited his vehicle. “I’ll be in and out,” I shouted as I held up a hand.
Once inside, I flipped a lamp on near the front door, and an empty living room stared back at me. I tried to recall the last time I had come home to a quiet house, and the answer was never. No bear hugs from my youngest. No tantalizing smells from the kitchen to tease my nose and water my mouth. Nothing. I suddenly felt lonely. I shook off the dullness before it could settle in.
I hurried up the stairs and down the hall. My eyes had adjusted to the dark, and there was enough moonlight shining through the window at the opposite end of the hall that I didn’t bother switching on the hallway light.
I pushed opened the door to my bedroom, hit the light switch, and did a double take. The floral comforter on my bed had disappeared, and the marigold-colored sheet had been replaced with a stark white one. Near the bottom of my bed, folded in a neat square, sat a gray woolen blanket. Next to it I saw a long-sleeved blue denim shirt with a number stenciled across the left breast. It looked like a prison uniform. But the strangest thing was the crudely constructed rubber mask lying on one of the pillows. The hair had been glued on in clumps, and the facial features were drawn on with a black marker pen.
And then I heard it—slight movement behind me—before the bedroom went dark.
Chapter 14
Not again.
I took a step while turning, hoping to set distance between myself and whomever I was about to face. At the same time, my hand shot to my side holster, but I had lost the draw. A foot separated the barrel of a gun from my nose. Behind it was a shadowy figure, not much taller than me and a little on the thin side. Boxing this guy into submission was an option.
“Remove your hand from that gun,” he said with a noticeable accent.
I followed his instructions while I estimated the distance between my right foot and his crotch. Damn you, short legs. I still had my vest on, but at this distance, my face was an easy target.
I wished I hadn’t told Kang to stay put. Maybe that punk would have gotten the jump on both of us. I doubted it. Kang would have waited downstairs.
“You know why I’m here.”
“Is that a question?” I asked.
“You answer. I ask. Are we clear?”
“You’re playing the game.”
“I’ll be rich soon. You do realize that, don’t you?”
The situation grew dimmer with each passing second. I had yet to see an opportunity to turn it around. “I do.”
“They made it easy. No riddles, no clues. But we do have a theme: San Francisco movies. That’s the fun part.”
The rooftop sniper—Dirty Harry—that’s why he targeted me at work. “So now what?”
“You asked another question, but I’ll forgive your incompetence.” He took a step back toward the door. “Put on that shirt.” He motioned with the handgun.
There was enough moonlight shining into my bedroom that I could make out some of my assailant’s features. His skin was dark, an olive complexion, and he spoke with a South American accent. He was clean shaven and bald on top, or maybe it was shaved as well. It didn’t matter. He wore a dark peacoat, the type the inmates from Escape from Alcatraz wore. Maybe that had been his way to get into character—an inmate taking out another inmate.
I grabbed the shirt off the bed. To my surprise, it was fairly close to my size. I unbuttoned it and slipped an arm through one of the sleeves when he stopped me.
“Vest off.”
“I think it’ll fit if I still have it on,” I said, feigning naiveté.
“You’re making me angry.”
I removed the vest, revealing the black blouse I wore. The holster housing my department-issued Glock was still securely tucked into the waist of my pants. “Should I remove this as well?”
He steadied his arm. “Take it out slowly. Toss it over there.”
I did as he said. “You know my partner is just outside.”
“He’s not your real partner. Don’t call him that.”
“Oh?” I said, slipping an arm through one sleeve of the uniform.
“He works for the San Francisco Police Department. You work for the FBI. You’re working together, but you’re not really partners.”
Semantics.
“And what makes you think I don’t have someone outside with a gun pointed at the back of your cop friend’s head? Do you really think I’ve been able to take the lives of twenty-six people without careful planning?”
“I don’t believe you killed that many people.”
“Of course you don’t. The police—not even the FBI—want to admit they can’t catch someone like me. You people are so stupid. You can’t catch anybody.”
His arrogance pissed me off. It made me want to charge forward and put everything I had behind a punch to his face. But that thought also made me realize something else: He hadn’t killed me yet. He could have killed me first then slipped the shirt on me, put the mask over my head, and recreated his little scene for his photo, but he hadn’t. That told me he needed or wanted me alive. Or maybe he simply didn’t want to dirty his hands. What are you planning, and how can I exploit it?
He reached into one of the front pockets of his jacket and removed something. It wasn’t until he threw the object and it landed on my bed that I realized it was a pair of handcuffs.
“Put them on,” he said.
I could sense a smile in his voice, but I wasn’t about to give up so easily. “No.”
“What did you say?” He straightened up—shoulders back and chest popped out a bit.
The way I saw it, this guy couldn’t have been watching me for very long. He had to have arrived in San Francisco recently, maybe a day or two ago. “I think you’re working alone,” I said, changing the subject.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you’re afraid of me, of what I’m capable of.”
“That’s not true.”
From his reaction, I could tell there had been some truth to what I had said. “You don’t have a plan. You got lucky,” I continued.
“You stupid bitch. Look at the prison shirt, the blanket, the mask. That’s planning.”
“No, that’s equipment.”
I didn’t buy what he tried to portray: a serial killer. First off, the way he
spoke, his thought process—it didn’t come across as someone with a high IQ like Ted Kaczynski or Jeffrey Dahmer. He was more street thug. Simplistic. Sure, he had some sort of plan, but the details weren’t there. He’d had an idea that he had been figuring out along the way. A true serial killer would have controlled the situation and his victims from the very start whether they knew it or not. He didn’t have control of my movements or my mouth. In fact, with every second that I remained free, I gained the upper hand.
“Pull that trigger, and in this quiet little neighborhood that gunshot will sound like a bomb exploding. You’ll then need a minute or two to finalize your plan. No photo. No money. The only exits out of this house are on the first floor. I’m guessing you entered through the backdoor, since the front hadn’t been breached. A thick hedge encircles the entire backyard, making the narrow passageways on either side of the house your only viable escape route, but you already know that. Of course, with the valuable time you’ll waste documenting your efforts, you’ll most likely run into my partner as you’re making your way down the stairs while he’s entering the house. I doubt you’re working with someone else, so in the end, it’ll be a spirited competition of who can react faster and with more pointed accuracy.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but I continued.
“You’re not like the other players. You don’t derive a thrill from the kill. You stumbled across this game and saw an opportunity to make a quick buck. You’re an opportunist, and that’s why you won’t win. You’re playing the game for all the wrong reasons,” I said, taking a step toward him.
I had guessed right. I had him questioning and wondering how I could be so accurate in my assessment. His arm relaxed briefly before he straightened it.
“What’s the matter, the gun too heavy? You’ve never pointed one at someone for this long, have you?” I took another step forward.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about. Your psychological lecture won’t work on me. Save it for someone else. Wait, there won’t be another time.”
He laughed.
I struck.
I shot forward, my shoulder squared with his groin, knocking him back and off his feet. The jolt to his body had the effect I had hoped for. His gun had fired. Come on, Kyle. Get your butt up here.
Coit Tower (Abby Kane FBI Thriller - Chasing Chinatown Trilogy Book 3) Page 6