by Rita Herron
Korine inhaled sharply. “You didn’t believe her?”
He shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. When he opened them, emotions darkened his face.
“But this time she wasn’t lying,” he said in a hoarse voice. “The Skull . . . there were two of them. And one of them was watching her.”
The guilt that had nagged at Korine surfaced again, raw and harsh. Hatcher’s pain bled into her. The need to comfort him made her reach for him.
“I’m sorry, Hatcher. But under the circumstances, it’s understandable that you didn’t believe her.”
His gaze met hers, turmoil darkening his eyes. “Maybe so, but it’s still my fault she was murdered.”
Grief and self-disgust ate at Hatcher as an image of Felicia dangling from that tree with blood running down her neck taunted him.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Korine said. “You obviously had reason to doubt her story, and when you discovered it was true, you did everything you could to save her, didn’t you?”
Hatcher pinched the bridge of his nose. “I was too late. He had her tied up and he . . . she bled to death right in front of my eyes.”
Korine cupped his face between her hands. “She knows you tried to save her. We may be federal agents, but we’re also human.”
“But if I hadn’t been investigating in the first place, he wouldn’t have targeted her.” Guilt edged his voice. “He took her to get to me.”
“He took her because he was a sadistic monster who preyed on women,” Korine said softly. “Our jobs put us and anyone we care about in danger. Felicia knew that when she married you.”
“I shouldn’t have gotten that close to her.” Or anyone else.
“Just because you chase bad guys doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to have love.” She cradled his hands between hers. “Your job is part of you. If she didn’t understand that and love you for it, then you weren’t right for each other.”
Her softly spoken words got to him. She’d had a hell of a day and was being tormented by her brother. Yet she was comforting him when he should be the one consoling her.
She stroked his palm with her finger, and his breath caught. The memory of her lips and hands on him teased him. Korine was nothing like his wife. Her strength aroused his admiration. Even mired in her own problems, she wasn’t clingy or needy.
He wanted her again. Wanted her now.
The heat in her eyes seared him and stirred his hunger, and he couldn’t resist. He pulled her up against him.
Her body felt warm and inviting. His cock hardened. She pressed one hand against his cheek and traced the other along his chest.
He sucked in a sharp breath. Desire heated his blood. She licked her lips, and he lowered his head and kissed her.
One touch of her lips set him on fire. She curled against him, rubbing her body against his.
Their weapons were in the way.
He removed his jacket, holster, and gun, and laid them on the side table, and she did the same.
Then he reached for her. She went into his arms, her breath puffing out. He plunged his tongue into her mouth and tasted her desire, a sweet, fiery need that unleashed his own primitive, raw passion. She met his tongue thrust for thrust.
Pleasure shot through him, and he dragged his mouth from her lips to nibble at her neck. She moaned as his lips and teeth played havoc with the sensitive nub of her ear and her slender throat.
Hunger speared him, and he lowered his hand and cupped her breast in his palm. Her shirt stood between them.
He wanted to touch bare skin. Wanted to tease her nipple with his tongue, draw it into his mouth.
She slid the top button of his shirt open and trailed her fingers across his bare chest. His skin ached for more.
He wanted to be skin to skin. Naked and hot and pumping himself inside her.
Need raging through him, he lifted her shirt over her head and tossed it aside. Her breathing grew rapid. Voluptuous breasts spilled over her lace bra, begging for his hands, and he complied.
She moaned and pushed at his shirt, and he shucked it and threw it to the floor. Then he swept her up in his arms and carried her to his bedroom.
As he eased her onto the bed, she reached for his jeans. Her finger teased his cock as she pushed the jeans over his hips. He kicked them off and removed hers, his pulse clamoring at the sight of those tiny lace panties.
He remembered that about her—she was no-nonsense on the job. Dressed conservatively. Except for her underwear. It was the one area where she was all woman.
With a groan, he pressed his mouth to her heat and nuzzled her through the lace. She lifted her body in invitation, and he kissed her again.
He teased and tasted her, then trailed his lips over her breasts. Her sharp intake of breath drove him mad, and he stripped her bra and looked his fill.
She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Ivory skin, with luscious coral nipples that stood erect, begging for his mouth.
He’d wanted her every night since they’d parted. Even when he was mourning his wife’s death, he’d craved Korine’s touch.
It was wrong.
But he couldn’t help himself. He was weak.
“Don’t think,” she whispered as she closed her hand over his cock. “Just feel.”
He shut that damn voice of guilt off and did as she said. Then he drew one nipple into his mouth, and pleasure filled him. She urged him closer, her whispered pleas driving him mad with passion.
He lowered his body above her to peel away her panties.
A noise jolted him. His cell phone.
Fuck. He didn’t want to stop now, not when Korine was on fire in his arms.
Korine leaned on her elbows, her breath panting out. “You have to answer it, Hatcher.”
He gritted his teeth. She was right. He’d lost control again.
What the hell was wrong with him? The last time he’d ignored a call because they were in bed together, his wife had been brutally murdered.
Silently cursing, he eased away from her, then retrieved his phone from his jeans and checked the number. Cat.
He connected the call. “Hatcher.”
“I think something’s going down.”
He slid to the edge of the bed and sat up. “What are you talking about?”
“Is Davenport with you?”
“Why?”
“Go to the Facebook page I’m about to send you. It’s gone live.” Her breath rasped out. “I think a man is about to be murdered on-screen.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Korine frantically threw on her clothes, horror striking her when Hatcher showed her the picture on the computer.
A man with a skull mask was tied to a chair in the dark room. His head hung down, body limp.
Was he dead or just unconscious?
Hatcher put Cat on speaker.
“When was this posted?” Korine asked.
“About an hour ago.”
Korine’s phone buzzed, and she snatched it up, half expecting it to be news about her brother. But Tinsley Jensen’s name appeared on the caller ID screen.
Did Tinsley know about this?
She quickly connected the call. “Tinsley?”
“You have to do something,” the woman said breathlessly.
“What’s wrong?” Korine asked.
“Someone from the group . . . they’ve taken a man hostage. I think they’re going to kill him.”
Korine motioned to Hatcher and quickly put Tinsley on speaker as well, while Hatcher relayed to Cat that Tinsley was on the phone.
“Hang on, Cat—Tinsley might know who posted this.”
“Who’s doing this?” Korine asked Tinsley.
“I don’t know,” Tinsley said. “I swear I don’t. I really thought the posts you questioned were just the women’s way of purging their anger and bitterness. I never thought any of them would actually hurt someone.”
“If you have any idea, Tinsley, you have to tell us,”
Korine said.
“I told you I don’t,” Tinsley said. “But it’s all my fault. Whoever’s holding this man thinks he’s the Skull, but he’s not.”
Hatcher’s brow furrowed into a frown. “How do you know that? You said you never saw the Skull’s face, and you can’t see this man’s either.”
“I didn’t, but I saw his hands.” Bitterness tinged her voice. “He touched me enough so I remember . . .”
Korine worked to stifle her own emotions. “Remember what?”
“He had a tattoo on his hand, and the middle finger on his left hand was badly scarred,” she said in a pained whisper.
Korine zeroed in on the man in the photo—no tattoos. And no scars on that middle finger.
Her gaze shot to Hatcher’s. Tinsley was right.
The vigilante thought he was getting justice for Tinsley, but if he—or she—killed this man, they would kill an innocent.
“You have to stop this madness,” Tinsley cried. “I . . . never meant for anything like this to happen.”
“It’s not your fault,” Korine said.
Cat cut in. “Listen, I’ve been searching the blog comments and message-board conversations and may have found something. Those four women you brought in—Roberts, Grant, Austin, and Willis—they’ve made some suspicious comments. In one post, Roberts says that the police are asking questions. Austin says they have to do something and mentions the Keeper room. Then Grant and Willis chime in. Grant comments that she’s tired of watching the injustices and wants to do something about it. Willis adds that someone has to, that the legal system doesn’t work.”
Korine chewed the inside of her cheek. “Sounds bad, but they’ll insist that the comments are innocent.”
“There’s more,” Cat said. “They talk about meeting at a house on the marsh. I traced the video stream, and it’s coming from a house on the marsh as well.”
“Send me the GPS coordinates,” Hatcher said. “We’ll check it out.”
Hatcher and Korine rushed to the living area, grabbed their holsters, guns, and jackets and raced outside to his SUV. Hatcher checked the address Cat sent to his phone, started the engine, and was tearing out the driveway before Korine could buckle her seat belt.
“Please don’t let anyone get hurt,” Tinsley cried. “Whoever posted this thinks they’re getting justice for me. He or she may be suffering from PTSD—”
“I understand,” Korine said, forcing a calm to her voice as Hatcher sped onto the road. “We’ll do everything we can to make sure no one is hurt.” She exhaled sharply. “I’m going to hang up now. We’ll keep you posted.”
“Call Wyatt and ask him to go to Tinsley’s,” Hatcher said.
She quickly made the call. At first, Wyatt seemed hesitant, but when she explained the situation, he said he’d get there ASAP.
She ended the call, then phoned Detective Brockett and relayed this latest development. “Find the four women we brought in for questioning. If one of them is involved, we have to force them to talk before an innocent man dies.”
Brockett agreed, and Korine said a silent prayer that they found the man in time as Hatcher careened around a corner and headed toward the marsh.
Hatcher floored the gas pedal, his heart hammering as he raced toward the address. He knew this marshland well. They were only two miles from the place where this man was being held.
“Why did our unsub think this man was the Skull?” Hatcher asked Cat.
Computer keys clicked in the background. “I don’t know, but there are photographs of Tinsley all over the wall behind the man.”
Hatcher barreled down a winding graveled drive that looked more like a path than a road. Seagulls swooped in the distance, and vultures circled above the swamp.
A Chevy Tahoe was parked at an angle a few feet away from a small white clapboard house overgrown with seagrass and weeds.
Korine pulled her gun as he parked, and he did the same. Then they eased out of his SUV.
He scanned the property in case someone was stationed as a lookout, while Korine inched toward the house. She carefully took cover from tree to tree as she approached. Hatcher went left, cautious as well. His boots sank into the damp soil as he crept toward a side window.
Gun at the ready, Korine remained behind a live oak as Hatcher peered inside the house. The sound of voices echoed from the front, and he stooped down and eased his way to a window and looked inside.
Three women stood talking in hushed whispers beside their hostage.
Hatcher motioned for Korine to join him, and she crouched low and crept through the brush until she reached him.
He held up three fingers, indicating they were dealing with three perps inside, then mouthed for her to back him up.
She gave a quick nod, and he eased toward the door with her on his heels. With every step, he hesitated, listening for sounds that someone had heard them or his vehicle.
But the women inside seemed too busy in their huddle to notice.
Hatcher motioned to Korine that they’d enter on the count of three, then counted down with his fingers. He turned the doorknob, surprised that it wasn’t locked, then stepped inside, careful to keep his footfalls light and his gun at the ready.
Korine followed, her gun aimed. He veered toward the living area, then raised his weapon.
“Stand back, ladies.”
A sharp gasp punctuated the air, and the women threw up their hands. Not three women—four.
Liz Roberts, Beverly Grant, Laura Austin, and Rachel Willis.
“Don’t shoot,” Grant said.
Korine inched toward the parole officer. “Put down the gun, Ms. Willis.”
Willis’s eyes widened, and she glanced at her gun as if she hadn’t realized she’d been holding it.
“Do what she says,” Hatcher barked. “There’s no reason for anyone else to get hurt.”
“Set the gun on the floor,” Korine ordered.
“Rachel, do it,” Roberts said in a hiss.
The young woman slowly lowered her hand, then eased the pistol to the floor. “I wasn’t going to shoot,” Willis said vehemently.
“It’s not what it looks like,” Austin added.
Roberts moved toward him, but Hatcher threw up a warning hand. “Don’t come any closer.”
Roberts froze, her face ashen. “You have to let us explain—”
“It looks pretty clear what you’re doing.” Hatcher retrieved Willis’s gun from the floor. “You’re holding this man hostage.”
Keeping her gun aimed at the women, Korine crossed to the man and checked for a pulse.
She gestured that he was still alive, then quickly called for an ambulance.
“You thought he was the Skull,” Hatcher said. “Tinsley called.”
“Tinsley Jensen called you about us,” Willis said in a surprised tone.
Grant paled. “We’ve all tried to help her.”
“By eliminating a man you believed hurt her?” Korine asked.
“That’s not the way it is,” Roberts said.
“Listen to me, you have the wrong person,” Korine said. “This is not the man who abducted Tinsley. That’s the reason she called.”
Shock registered on the women’s faces.
Roberts fidgeted. “It’s not?”
Willis moved toward Korine. “But—”
“But what?” Korine waved her gun, indicating for the woman to halt.
The parole officer froze, fear flashing in her eyes.
Hatcher wrestled his cuffs from inside his jacket. “You are all under arrest for kidnapping and attempted murder.”
More shocked gasps, then Roberts cleared her throat. “Don’t say anything, girls. We need to speak to our attorney.”
“You’re damn right you do. Our FBI analyst traced posts you made regarding this place to your computers and phones. We got you red-handed.” Hatcher crossed the room, took Grant’s arm and forced her to turn around. “Three murders and now another abduction and attempted murder o
n top of it.”
“We didn’t murder anyone,” Austin protested.
“Be quiet.” Grant tossed a frown over her shoulder at her friends.
Hatcher snapped cuffs around the Grant woman’s wrists. Korine cuffed Roberts and Willis while he took care of Austin.
He left Korine reading them their rights while he phoned Detective Brockett and asked for backup to transport the suspects to a holding cell.
While they waited on Brockett and the ambulance, he walked over to the man slumped in the chair.
If this had been the Skull, he might have considered looking the other way. But according to Tinsley, he wasn’t.
He shoved the mask off the man’s face. Shock slammed into him.
It was Trace Bellamy, who’d been working the crime scenes.
Why the hell had the women thought he was the Skull?
Korine met the ambulance outside and led them to the victim. On the heels of the ambulance, the evidence team, Drummond, and another female agent named Carla Watley, arrived along with Detective Brockett. Hatcher was helping him load the women into the police van to transport them to the jail.
The four women had lapsed into silence, their expressions worried but calm as they exchanged furtive looks.
Drummond, on the other hand, was visibly upset. She shifted back and forth on the balls of her feet. “I can’t believe this. My God, why would they think Trace was the Skull?”
“I don’t know,” Korine said. “The suspects aren’t talking, but we’ll push them for answers at the police station.”
Drummond shivered. “Is Trace all right?”
Korine gave her a tentative look. “He’s unconscious, but he’s breathing. The medics are with him now.”
Drummond pushed past Korine to go inside, but the medics rolled a stretcher through the door before she could enter. Trace lay motionless, his complexion ruddy.
Drummond made a pained sound in her throat, then squeezed his hand. “Hang in there, Trace. I’ll work here and make sure we have the proof to nail these women for trying to kill you. I’ll see you at the hospital.”
He didn’t respond.
Drummond wiped at a tear that trickled down her cheek as the medics loaded Trace onto the ambulance and raced away.