by Неизвестный
“Jack. Connor. Now.” Dillon stepped through the door, toward her gun, no fear on his face. “Kate, please.”
As soon as he entered, his eyes caught movement on the screen against the far wall. His expression changed, hardened. Worry clouded his face.
Kate lowered her gun, keeping her eye on the men Dillon called Connor and Jack. Brothers? Perhaps. Jack was all military, hard-edged. She knew the type. Connor had the same hard edge without the layer of dissociation. Cop, not military. Yet another man was behind them. Thinner, with fair skin and dark hair. His gun was holstered, and she instantly thought Patrick, the computer expert.
As soon as Jack and Connor lowered their weapons, she followed Dillon’s eyes to the screen. Her dance over, Lucy was being shackled to a straight-backed chair by two men. She fought them, the freedom of her dance over.
Dillon walked to the screen. “Which one is Trask?”
“Neither,” Kate said. “He won’t show himself on camera.” She paused. “I’m the only one who has seen him and lived.”
Dillon turned to her. “Did you work with a sketch artist?”
“You don’t understand.”
“You didn’t tell anyone? What if we can get his picture out?”
“The man I saw is a chameleon. Of course I gave a description, even while I was on the run from my own government. Do you think I’m so callous that I would let women die in order to protect myself? Because of me they have his fingerprints. Because of me they have a description. Lot of good that did catching him!” Kate turned to the screen, jumping when one of the men slapped Lucy across the face.
“And because of me my two best friends died.”
Dillon almost didn’t hear what Kate had said. He tore his eyes away from Lucy on the screen and touched Kate’s arm. All muscle. In her midthirties, her shortish hair was so blond it was nearly white, pulled into a haphazard hair band with loose strands falling out, tucked behind her ears. Her face was devoid of makeup, fresh and clean, worry lines creasing her forehead, her red lips dipping into a frown. This woman had so much pain and sadness in her face, taking the crimes of others as her own personal cross to bear.
Her computer beeped as Dillon was about to question her. Connor, Patrick, and Jack filed into the room. Jack remained at the door, on alert. Patrick sidled over to the computer system.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“A message.” She clicked on it. “From Quinn.”
We’re still checking your data. Hold.
“What is he checking out?” Patrick asked.
“The coordinates I sent about thirty minutes ago. But I think it’s a trap.”
Dillon asked, “What coordinates?”
Kate tensed, obviously feeling a touch of claustrophobia with all these men, these Kincaids, in her personal space. Dillon glanced around the functional room. It was large, but sparsely furnished. A bed in the corner. A nightstand. No personal effects anywhere. Two doors probably led to a closet and a bathroom. There was a whole wall of weights. And another full wall of computers and computer screens. Systems he didn’t understand, but by the expression on Patrick’s face, his little brother was impressed.
“Kate?” Dillon said softly.
In a move that surprised Dillon, Jack said, “I need to check on my men.” He walked out, shutting the door behind him.
“Who did you bring?” Kate asked, panicked.
“Jack—” What could Dillon say about his brother when even he didn’t know the truth? Dillon didn’t even know if Jack still worked for the government, or if he was truly a mercenary. “Jack’s a soldier down here. I contacted him and he and his unit helped us get up the mountain.”
“The terrain is dangerous,” Kate said, “but it’s safe this far up. The observatory is university property, and they pay handsomely for the land.”
“So what coordinates did you come up with?” Dillon repeated his question.
Kate motioned toward her computer. “Have a look.”
Patrick sat down almost before she finished the invitation.
“I’ve been pinging constantly, trying to get a lock on the coordinates of the originating feed,” Kate said.
“Pinging?” Dillon asked.
Patrick translated. “It’s where one computer can see if another on a network is online. A ping is sort of like calling a phone number and hanging up when you get an answer. You know someone is there, but you don’t want to talk to them.”
Kate smiled at the analogy. “Trask is good—very good,” she said. “He has the feed going through numerous routers, using legitimate servers to mask his signal. I’m also working on the delay—there’s a full minute-thirty-second delay, I think. But again, it’s almost impossible to tell. The delay could be caused by one of the servers he’s moving data through. He’s sending the transmissions through a variety of hubs and nodes—virtually everything is a dead end.”
“Wow,” Patrick muttered. “Where’d you get this trace program? I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“I wrote it.”
“You?” Patrick was impressed.
“More or less. I improved it, I should say. The less you know the better. Quinn already told you I’m wanted by the government. Since they already want me for high crimes, a little hacking isn’t going to increase my jail time.”
Her words were light, almost self-deprecating, but there was a wistful quality that Dillon caught.
Connor spoke up. “But you think you might have found Lucy. Why are we standing here doing nothing? Let’s get off this damn mountain and find her.”
“Because I think it’s a trap,” she said.
“Why?”
Kate didn’t answer.
“You have coordinates, but you don’t want to do anything about it?”
“Do anything? What do you think I’ve been doing for the last five years? Trask killed my partner. He’s been killing women for sport for years. He’s a genius and he’s not going to let me find him until he wants me to, unless I can somehow outmaneuver him. He wants me to walk into a trap so he can kill me. He’s gone underground because we have his prints—because of me. We have a physical description, and I think he’s too vain to change his appearance. He’s vindictive and powerful. He’s not going to simply let me find Lucy, or any of his prey.”
Patrick said, “But here you have your program—unbiased—tracing the feed through dead ends and nodes and landing at a live spot. The trace looks exactly the way it should look.”
“I know the program seems to have found the live feed, but Trask plays a game of cat and mouse. The coordinates are the cheese.”
“We have to do something!” Connor stared at the screen, watched Lucy helpless and fearful.
Dillon spoke. “Kate, she’s our little sister. We have to follow every lead.”
“By the time you get to that island, it’ll be too late to get back here and retrace the steps. If it’s a trap, or a phony lead, we’ve lost all the time we have. You can do what you want. I’m not going anywhere.”
“You don’t have to. She’s not your sister. But we’re going.” Connor looked from Dillon to Patrick. “Right?”
Dillon was torn. He wanted to go to the island the coordinates pointed to. Lucy had said she was on an island.
But Kate was the one with experience tracking this killer. She’d seen his face, been inside his head. Could Dillon trust Lucy’s life to Kate’s instincts?
Kate spoke up. “I sent the information to Quinn. He’s looking into the data now.”
“We can’t wait for the FBI to act,” Connor said. “Not when we’re this close. What if he rushes it? What if this Trask knocks time off Lucy’s clock, doesn’t give us the full forty-eight hours to find her?”
Dillon glanced at the countdown.
33:50:02. 33:50:01. 33:50:00. 33:49:59.
His heart raced twice as fast as the countdown. He didn’t want to wait, but he trusted Kate’s instincts—on this, on understanding this killer.
&n
bsp; “He won’t jump the clock,” Dillon said. “The countdown is part of the thrill.”
“And you’d bet Lucy’s life on your psychoanalysis? You haven’t even met him!” Connor shouted.
Dillon took the jab, understanding his brother’s frustration. “It’s the anticipation. He’s working himself up toward the final act.” He turned to Kate. “Has he ever changed the countdown?”
“Only Paige,” she said quietly. “She had twenty-four hours, not forty-eight. But that was a completely different situation. He…he had another girl, killed her when he captured Paige. We were close and he knew it. So the countdown was the same, he just killed two women.”
“How did you track him then?”
“He wasn’t as cautious then as he is now. We tracked him through his corporation, Trask Enterprises, which has several online pornography sites.”
“What happened to the corporation?”
“The board of directors testified that they didn’t know anyone named Trask, that Roger Morton was the owner/operator as far as they knew, and that someone from the outside had hacked into the company’s equipment. We didn’t catch anyone lying, but that’s not to say someone didn’t. Soon after, several people disappeared from the company. The corporation lost all its assets, but ultimately it owned the domain names and rights to all the big online porn sites and was able to refill its coffers. Quickly. Trask operates solely outside of Trask Enterprises, at least for now. The FBI is still tracking the company. Spending too much time doing it, in my opinion.”
“He’s bringing in money from all over the world. He’s promised these people something,” Dillon said. “He’s not going to renege on his deal with them. He’ll lose face, and they won’t trust him down the road.”
“But if Lucy is on that island, we can get her out before anything more happens to her.” Connor’s voice cracked. “You can stay, Dillon, but I’m going.”
“Go,” Kate said. “I never asked any of you to come here. I didn’t want anyone to find me. You’ve already screwed me. As soon as this is over, I’m going to have to find another place.”
“You’re already giving up,” Dillon said.
“I am not giving up.”
“You’re talking about when this is over. When Lucy is dead,” said Dillon. “But if we do stop him this time, you won’t have to hide anymore.”
“You don’t understand. Quinn didn’t tell you everything.”
“You might be surprised. He’s been protecting you. You have friends you might not even know about.”
Kate shook her head, not wanting to hear what Dillon had to say. And he couldn’t push. He didn’t have time to sweet-talk her, to coddle her and tell her everything was going to be just peachy. He didn’t know if he believed it himself. But if they didn’t do something, he’d never forgive himself.
Patrick spoke up. “I think these coordinates are valid. If we jam, we might make it to Hidalgo in four hours, maybe less, charter a plane and get to Baja in another four hours. That puts the countdown at twenty-five hours, giving us time to set up a rescue effort. It’ll take the feds nearly that long to get permission for an op on foreign soil. We can meet them there.”
“Do what you feel you must.” Kate rubbed her eyes as if she had a fierce headache. “A few things you need to know. First, Trask will wire any facility to explode. He did it with Paige and others. Second, he kills on sight. He will give you no time to negotiate or plead. He shot Evan at point-blank range without hesitation.”
“Who’s Evan?” Dillon asked.
Kate didn’t answer. “Third, he has four to six men surrounding him at all times. Trask doesn’t like to lose his men, but they are casualties of war as far as he’s concerned. He’ll leave the wounded behind, possibly even shooting them so they can’t talk. I doubt he trusts any of them, even Roger Morton, who’s been with him since the beginning.”
“We should wait until Quinn Peterson returns his assessment.” Dillon remembered what Peterson had said about the last false lead and the lives that had almost been lost. Lucy was already in danger. Dillon couldn’t send his brothers on a deadly mission without additional support.
“We don’t have time,” Patrick said, showing rare frustration. “Dil, I understand where you’re coming from, but we have to move. We can’t wait for the feds.”
Kate pulled open a desk drawer and took out a laptop. “This is my extra portable. It has a four-hour battery, and an extra four-hour battery in the bag.” She plugged the unit into her hard drive and started typing a bunch of commands.
“What are you doing?” Dillon asked.
“Giving Patrick everything I have. Everything except the trace program, which you wouldn’t be able to run off this anyway without wasting battery life. You have the coordinates, maps, the connections he’s used in the past. If I learn anything else, I’ll communicate with you through this computer.” She pulled another trick out of the drawer. “Here’s a nifty device. Checks for explosives. Trask loves his bombs.”
As Kate’s hand brushed against her keyboard, a scream pierced the air. All four of them jerked their heads toward the screen.
Lucy was still tied to the chair. A woman stood over her. Dillon couldn’t see her face, but she had short dark hair and was small and bony. Lucy’s arm had been cut, the skin barely punctured, and blood slowly seeped from a three-inch incision.
“Dear God,” Patrick said.
They heard Lucy’s voice on the speakers. “Get away from me, you freak! Get away from me!”
The knife came up in the woman’s hand and her profile was in view.
“No!” Connor screamed at the same time Lucy did.
The woman laughed, a low, barely audible rumble. “Just teasing,” she said and kissed Lucy on the lips before walking out of view.
Dillon turned to Kate, whose face was ashen. “What is it?” he asked.
“It’s Denise Arno. She’s supposed to be dead. She’s supposed to be dead!”
Kate punched her fist into her desk.
* * *
TEN
DILLON WALKED with Connor and Patrick as far as the edge of the observatory. “I wish you’d wait until we hear back from Agent Peterson. They’re on top of this.”
“We’ve been through this,” Connor said. “You know how to reach us.”
Jack motioned for his team. They immediately fell into position without a word.
Dillon stared at his twin. So much time had passed since they had considered themselves brothers. And they had been close—best friends as well as brothers.
Dillon wished he knew what had changed. He had hints, his years of experience, his counseling, understanding the delicacy and strength of the human psyche. But he didn’t know enough to get into Jack’s head. Jack’s actions, however, gave Dillon hope. His help today had been invaluable, and Dillon would never forget it. Maybe later he and Jack could reconnect. When Lucy was safe and the family was back together.
“That Kate Donovan is a piece of work,” Jack said. “Leave her. I don’t think she’s all there.”
Dillon raised an eyebrow. “Since when did you get your psych degree?”
“Observation, brother. You don’t need a fancy degree to see what’s what.”
“I’m staying until we hear from the FBI.” Dillon slapped Connor and Patrick on the back. “Be careful. I know why you need to go. But stay in the loop. Remember that Kate thinks it’s a trap.”
“We’re expecting anything,” Connor said. “But you be careful, too.” Connor looked worried and told Dillon to keep his backup weapon.
“Don’t try to leave the mountain alone,” Jack told Dillon. “I’ll come and get you when I’m back in the area.”
“Don’t count on me being here.” Dillon believed Kate was close to finding Trask, either through her computer or because Trask wanted her to find him. If she left, Dillon was going with her.
Jack turned and walked with his team, Connor, and Patrick down the mountain road. They disappeared from
sight.
Dillon didn’t know what made his twin tick, but he had ideas. A fierce sense of loyalty. A code of honor that wasn’t exactly the same as their father’s. Jack showed no fear, no remorse, and little emotion. Like an automaton. He did what he did—both good and bad—for a purpose, not because he enjoyed it. Unlike the man who had Lucy.
Trask imprisoned women for pleasure. And he relished the power he had over life and death, to be able to do exactly what he wanted without remorse, without repercussion.
Dillon remembered the tragic case of Angie Vance earlier in the year. Her killer had suffocated her, laid on top of her body while she was dying, becoming sexually aroused while in physical contact with her dying body. Afterward she became garbage to him, disposed of in bags on the beach. A necessary cleanup after the act of murder.
Trask had the same basic fantasy—murder while in the process of a rape—but he wasn’t the emergent killer who had raped and suffocated Angie. Trask was older. Orderly. Mature. Angie’s killer had been aloof, with few friends. Trask had charisma, an ability to bring people, suspecting or not, into his fold. He had help in his killings, people loyal to him in the same way Jack’s team was loyal to him.
Maybe Trask had been in the military? Maybe the men he surrounded himself with were indebted to him for reasons other than a common bond of hurting women. There was some connection between Trask and those who helped him. Military seemed the most logical, because these efforts relied heavily on strategic planning. But other groups had the same kind of bonding and ability to plan. Cops, for one. Any group of people who had been through a traumatic event. Had Trask saved these men at one time? From death or prison? Were they criminals? Had they gone to school together? Worked together?
Maybe finding out who Trask surrounded himself with would lead them to Trask himself. Starting with Roger Morton.