Meg headed in and made her purchases and came back to the car. She heard footsteps behind her; they sounded furtive.
One hand on the Glock at her waist, she spun around.
There was no one following her. She saw a shaggy-haired man filling his tank. A woman with a child was exiting the gas station store.
She saw no one else.
Still, when she got back into her car, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being followed—and watched.
She stopped at the security point and produced her credentials while the guards on duty swept her car, a measure that was always taken. Driving back, she parked and hurried in, waving to a few friends in the lounge.
“Meg, hey, Meg! Come on down, talk, play. Where ya been?” Ricky Grant said loudly.
“Tomorrow!” she promised. “I’m absolutely exhausted!”
She fled before anyone else could call her.
Once in her room she closed the door. And locked it. She slipped off her jacket and removed her Glock and the small holster she kept it in, setting both on her bedside table. Then she kicked off her shoes and jumped on the bed, instantly digging into her tote bag for Lara’s journal.
But she couldn’t concentrate. She found herself looking at her door every few seconds. Silly—her classmates were still down in the lounge; it couldn’t have been one of them.
Was she paranoid? Had Lara been paranoid?
She had to keep it together. Adam Harrison had almost magically brought her into his special unit, so she needed to be responsible and capable.
She was getting help on the situation with Lara, and she was grateful for that.
She was even grateful to Special Agent Bosworth.
She caught herself wondering about the man. He betrayed so little. In his demeanor, his behavior, he seemed so…self-contained. And so contradictory. He could act like a dictator—and then turn around and support her when she least expected it.
She didn’t understand why he was so suspicious of Walker, why he suspected Walker might’ve had something to do with Hubbard’s death. Her primary concern was to find out what had happened to Lara!
But what if those two things were somehow related?
And yet it didn’t make sense. Everything about Hubbard’s death had been in the media. The man had been dearly loved by many and practically hailed as the new messiah. He hadn’t bent to pressure from any group. His followers had labeled him “the commonsense candidate.”
Meg realized that she was as exhausted as she’d claimed to be. It was early—only about 8:00 p.m. She was starving but didn’t feel like going back downstairs and winding up in some conversation or other. The energy bars she’d just purchased would be her dinner.
As she ate, she browsed the internet for up-to-the-minute news, but there was nothing she didn’t already know.
She got ready for bed, skipping her usual shower, and crawled in. She decided she couldn’t take any more bad news—not that night. But she was afraid another body might have been found, so she searched until she found a podcast showing the most recent local news.
No more bodies. Not yet.
She went on a classic movie site and let an old adventure movie with Errol Flynn play. Despite herself, she thought about the charm of Errol Flynn’s character—and then about the FBI agent with whom she’d spent the day.
Nothing alike.
But that was just because she’d hardly ever seen him smile. She wondered if he might be as agile as Flynn. He seemed to have the same heroic ethics as Flynn’s character in this swashbuckler. She’d considered him an adversary of whom to be wary. Because he was skeptical of her!
But did that matter when he intended to investigate her friend’s disappearance and not scoff at her fears?
No, he could be as rude as he liked.
But as she drifted off, she had to acknowledge that there was something about him that attracted her.
Yes, he was lean and muscular and wore a dark suit very well. He had a chiseled face that was highly masculine and appealed to all her senses.
Meg rolled over and reminded herself that she’d worked with well-built men on a daily basis.
He was…different.
Worry about Lara, not him!
On the other hand, maybe it was better to wonder what her temporary partner might be like in bed than to spend the night obsessing about Lara.
She needed to sleep. She really needed to sleep.
She’d just started to drift off again when she heard someone at her door.
Meg bolted to a sitting position, instantly reaching for the sidearm at her bedside. She stared into the shadows left by the night-light.
She could swear that her doorknob had turned.
Leaping out of bed, she flattened herself against the wall, then threw the door open. No one there. She looked cautiously into the hallway. It was empty, as well.
Had a friend tested her door to see if she was sleeping?
She’d lived with her fellow cadets for months now. They didn’t try doors to see if they were locked; they rapped loudly. Or they texted. Or called her cell.
Barefoot, she moved silently down the stairs and into the lounge area, but the place was deserted. Everyone who’d been there earlier must have gone out for dinner or drinks. Guards patrolled all of Quantico; it was almost impossible to get in without providing an ID.
She checked the kitchen. No one. Finally, she gave up.
She went to the front door and carefully peered out. But her caution wasn’t needed.
There was no one around.
As she turned to head back in, she paused.
She could hear a motor gunning somewhere.
Ridiculous! She was getting paranoid. She lived in one of the safest places in the country. Only military, physicians, cadets, agents, police and other authorized individuals could be here.
And she’d searched everywhere, found no one. She was, quite simply, paranoid. Maybe not a bad way to be out on the streets—but here?
She forced herself to go upstairs and back to bed, locking the door to her room again. She tried to sleep, but couldn’t. She was glad she’d received her regulation real Glock and had that to use rather than the red-handled fake they’d had during their training period.
Why would someone take on the dangerous task of stalking her here? Not that she was so dangerous, but this was Quantico.
And really, why would anyone stalk her?
* * *
What people didn’t know seldom hurt them, Slash thought.
But it could kill them!
What Ms. Brand-New-Agent didn’t know was that Slash McNeil was the most intelligent and organized serial killer she’d ever face. Every move he made was planned; for every step he took, he had a backup plan. He had access—anywhere he wanted to go.
He could watch her, as he had watched others. Watch, and not make a move until the time was right. He could make her disappear; he could make her reappear—whenever he chose.
Now, Lara Mayhew…
The time wasn’t right!
But this woman…
She annoyed him. She couldn’t leave well enough alone. Had to be a cop, had to be an agent. Thought she was tough.
Well, it didn’t matter how tough she was. He had strength and power. Physical strength—and the power of the right people behind him. And power, everyone knew, mattered much more than strength.
He’d watched her as she’d looked around, watched her face, and the emotion she couldn’t hide. She was an open book, especially when she didn’t know she was observed. She was beginning to doubt her own senses, her own sanity. She was afraid she was letting it all get to her, that she was paranoid.
Slash smiled. He liked paranoid. Paranoid was good.
&nb
sp; A scowl replaced his smile. He didn’t like Bosworth. He didn’t like the “special” unit, the Krewe of Hunters. They were secretive. They had separate offices. They had more security cameras than the damned White House or the Capitol building.
But he knew about Bosworth. He knew some of his weaknesses.
And while the man might be tall and solidly muscled, that didn’t really mean anything. A single bullet could bring down a football tackle, a Hulk Hogan, a mixed-arts expert…
Slash reminded himself to stay on target.
Right now, she was the target, pretty, tall, lithe, with all that raven hair drawn back, indigo eyes still giving so much away.
It was going to be fun taking her down.
He smiled, revved his car and began to mentally plan the things he might do to her.
* * *
“We don’t know about the second girl yet,” Jackson said. “No prints in the system and we haven’t been able to find a missing-persons report to match up with her. But the information about Cathy Crighton is interesting. She was tentatively identified by a coworker from a police sketch, and then a DNA match was made. She grew up in foster homes in Kentucky, moved to Los Angeles, worked in a few restaurants there, then moved to New York City, and came to Georgetown about five weeks ago. A friend in Oklahoma—someone she’d met in one of her foster homes—first filed a missing-persons report. She has no known family and was just starting to make friends at the restaurant, Big Fish, where she was working. Police interviewed her old boss and they don’t think he was involved. She’d been late for work previously and he’d told her that if she failed to show up for her shift on time again, she was fired. It never occurred to him to call her in missing.”
“What was their take on the boss?” Matt asked. He was in Jackson’s office in their Alexandria facility, sitting in one of the handsome oak chairs in front of Jackson’s desk while Jackson sat in his swivel chair behind it. The office also included a sofa grouping with a number of chairs by the fire; it was a pleasant place, conducive to group discussions and brainstorming.
Matt’s own office was just down the hall. While the four-story row house wasn’t furnished with antiques, it still seemed to offer more of an at-home feel than their more modern facilities around the country. At first Matt had been surprised that the Krewe of Hunters chose to be outside the Bureau’s main offices. But their tech services here were top-notch, and so, Matt gathered, was their security.
They had access to various labs and nonagent employees, computer whizzes and experts in all kinds of fields. The special agents of the Krewe units, overseen by Adam Harrison and managed by Jackson Crow, occupied the entire second floor with offices that allowed for consultations and a large boardroom with screens and computers and everything they needed for major conferences.
Jackson passed him a file. “It’s all emailed to you, as well. But I figured you’d want your own take on the man and that you’d want to interview him right away.”
Matt raised a brow. “I thought you wanted me on the trail of our missing woman, Lara Mayhew.”
“I do.”
“But what you’re saying is that we have a bird in the hand?”
“Exactly.” Jackson hesitated. “I’m not sure yet what I feel about Lara Mayhew’s disappearance. We have nothing solid to link that to the murders of these young women and we certainly have nothing to link Congressman Walker to any of it. But sometimes our work is all about eliminating possibilities. If we can find Lara Mayhew alive, then we’ll know she was in hiding and that none of this is related.”
“We may be on a wild-goose chase,” Matt pointed out.
“We’ve been on a few. And on more than one occasion, we’ve caught the goose.”
“Meg is convinced that her friend is dead.”
“If so, the body may turn up. Until then, let’s proceed this way. Meg is due in here within the hour. Angela went over to the academy with a few agents and they’re moving Meg out of her quarters and into a town house she’s rented. Kat is at Wong’s office, and we’ve arranged to bring the first body to him, as well. You might want to go over there after you’ve met up with Harvey Legend—boss at the Big Fish—and see what Kat and Wong have to say, although I’m pretty sure we’ve got a budding serial on the rise.”
“When I get back from all of that, we can head out on Ms. Mayhew’s trail,” Matt said.
“Hey, it’s a road trip,” Jackson told him, with a smile that offered little humor. “Bring some music. That’ll pass the time.”
“I know one thing,” Matt said.
“What’s that?”
“I’m doing the driving. I like being at the wheel, in control.”
“Sure. Whatever. Cling to that power, Agent Bosworth.”
“I like driving.”
“I’m happy for you.”
* * *
Meg could hardly believe how quickly she could be packed and out of the quarters she’d called home for nearly four months. But that was because she’d had help.
She wasn’t against doing the hefting and hauling herself, but she had Angela for organization and four agents for trips to the car with her boxes and gear. When Meg had said she could just hire a moving company, Jackson Crow had shaken his head and told her they could draw on their own manpower.
Of course, it hadn’t been that difficult because she didn’t have much of anything. When she’d gone into the academy, she’d left most of her own belongings in storage in Richmond; she hadn’t arranged to have her bed, sofa, TV, books and other belongings sent to her new town house yet. It would take a phone call and a day of being there to receive them, but at the moment, she thought the place was rather sad. It was empty; it wasn’t home yet.
Her room at the academy had been home.
Saying goodbye wasn’t easy. Most of her class would be in their rooms for a few more days. The friends she was able to see were both sad and excited; some were headed off to field offices in other states, but they all had encouraging words for one another. “It’s the agency. We never know where we’ll end up, do we?” Or “It’s never goodbye in the agency. We’ll meet again somewhere.”
And they might. And some of those who’d been with her for the four months might well meet again. But then, they might not. That made every goodbye sad.
Still, everyone was curious. Fascinated that she’d been selected to join the “special” unit that held a certain mystique and seemed almost like a secret society.
Everything had happened quickly; Angela had called her that morning. Since she’d be going off for a few days with Special Agent Bosworth, it might be best to get her moved now. She shouldn’t worry about logistics, Angela had said; she’d have all the help she needed.
And she had. She’d been out in a remarkably short time.
“I put your perfume bottles on that side table,” Angela told her, looking around the parlor of her small town house. “Makes it seem a little more like home. Jackson and I combined places so we have furniture you might like,” she offered. “Do you want to come over and look at it?”
Meg understood that a number of agents in the Krewe were married or living with or seeing one another. The FBI didn’t disallow agents from having relationships, but they weren’t customarily permitted to work in the same units. Here, it seemed almost par for the course. She’d rather awkwardly mentioned the ease of fraternization within the Krewe.
“Maybe we find it hard enough to develop relationships on the outside. Most people will never really understand us. And then again, the closer we are as partners, lovers, friends, whatever, the more successfully we work together. It’s almost as if you begin to get a sense of what the other person is seeing or feeling—or even where he or she might be. We’re still exploring, of course. Our special units aren’t even a decade old. But for the moment, we’re not trying to fix
what isn’t broken.”
That made Meg think about her own life.
About her own problem with relationships. She’d always told herself that her dating life suffered because of her passion for law enforcement. She was young and she had plenty of time to figure out who she was before adding another person to her life. But she’d never really believed that was true.
She might have believed that she was a bit of a freak. And every time she dated someone, it was an act because she could never really make it work. Anyone who understood the truth about her would walk away. And so, she always did so first.
“You okay?” Angela asked her.
“Yes, of course, why?”
“I asked you about needing furniture. You’re just staring at me.”
Meg flushed. “Sorry. Thanks. And I do own furniture. I have to call the storage and moving people. I’ll do that when we’re back.”
“Well, if you need anything else—or you need stuff before then, let me know,” Angela said.
She stood by one of the windows. The town house had come with drapes so she was all right as far as window coverings went.
Angela peered down at the street. “I wonder if that’s one of ours,” she said.
“One what?”
“There’s a black sedan down there…” She paused, shrugging as she turned back to Meg. “Government vehicle of some kind. They all seem pretty much identical.”
Meg went to look out the window, too. The car in question was just like the black sedans the Bureau—and other government agencies—often used.
It was parked about a block down the street in a legal parking spot, too far away to see if it had any special insignia or some kind of marking.
But before they could take another look, the sedan jerked out of the parking place.
It sped down the quiet street.
As if the driver knew he’d been seen.
“Strange. The license is covered with…”
“Mud,” Meg finished. “It looked like mud, anyway. As if the driver had spent time out in the woods or something.”
Krewe of Hunters Series, Volume 5 Page 9