by Trisha Wolfe
“I relayed a message to him in my text. Something only he would understand and the Feds wouldn’t. Trust me, Quinn,” I say, locking gazes. “This will work. It has to.” Because Avery is out of time.
Agent Proctor didn’t question what “You know where” referred to in my text to the UNSUB. Since The Lair is the only common denominator linking most of the victims together, I let the assumption slide.
“I just can’t believe Proctor thinks this obvious stakeout will get past anyone.” I right my dress collar, and look up when Quinn doesn’t respond. “What is it?”
His mouth creases into a tight frown. “My gut doesn’t like it. I think you should go ahead with the botched operation—”
“And leave Avery to suffer longer? Or worse…die? Avery needs this to happen, Quinn.” Despite my own hesitations, I grab his hand, sending a sure pulse to his palm. I stay latched onto him until his hazel eyes warm. “Just keep Proctor and his team focused on The Lair, giving the techs enough time to run the DNA through the database. Trust the plan. Trust me.”
Even though I mean every word, know that I don’t have a choice but to succeed—I can’t let Quinn see the fear harboring just below my surface. My plan only gets me face-to-face with the UNSUB. What then? Despite my past, regardless of what I’ve done, I don’t know how this will end.
With a deep breath, Quinn nods. “Get your ass in there before lover boy starts to freak out.”
I can’t help it, I smile. Only the small relief doesn’t last nearly long enough. Quinn’s grip on my hand loosens, and before I can say anything, he walks away. I wait for him to send me a signal that once this is over, we’ll be okay. But he doesn’t look back, and I feel the loss of his protection.
I’m truly on my own.
From my spot on the corner of the building, I watch the pro—my doppelganger—be escorted into the van. Besides Carmen, she’s the only person who’s possibly seen the UNSUB and can make an identification.
Making sure Proctor and the team see me go into the club, I walk straight through the front doors. If I didn’t already feel like a spotlight was beaming right on me, as soon as I enter onto the main level, it’s as if I’m walking onto a stage.
I slink past dancing bodies on my way to the bar. I get a curious glare from Agent Rollins at the other end, but I nod to the bartender, ignoring his assessment. She sets the shot of bourbon in front of me and I throw it back with force.
One for the nerves before I commit to this.
Letting the burn of alcohol warm my insides, I push away from the bar top and weave my way toward the spiral staircase. The beat of house music reverberates through my chest, pushing my feet faster up every step.
One of the bouncers nods for me to pass. I reach the office door, and Colton has it open before I knock.
“I saw you coming,” he says as he rests his hand at the small of my back and leads me in. “Let’s make this quick.”
A petite UC agent stands beside Carson in the middle of the office. She greets me with a nod and an easy smile that feels at odds with this meeting. But I move hurriedly, unzipping the side of my dress and pushing it down my body.
Colton clears his throat. I look up to see him send Carson a stern glare. With an exasperated sigh, Carson turns to face the wall of monitors. “Nothing I haven’t seen before,” he says.
“Not from her, you haven’t.” Colton takes the dress as I hand it off to him, swapping it out for the satin one he dressed me in at my apartment. Even now, as he helps me slide it over my head, I feel his hands and mouth claiming my body.
The UC agent slips into my dress, allowing Carson to help her zip into it. From the back, she can pass as me. Her makeup and hair are a match, and in the dim lighting of the club, with agents that have only seen me during short periods, she can pull this off.
I step toward her and push the wire Quinn taped to my dress under the collar. “Be careful,” I tell her.
“You, too,” she says. “We’re going to get this bastard, Agent Bonds.”
I hold her green gaze, relaying a silent thanks. “We are.”
“I need your phone,” Carson says.
One less thing to be tracked with. I remove it from my clutch and hand it to him. “Don’t let her out of your sight.”
Our eyes meet, and understanding passes between us.
“Anything to get one over on the Feds. I’m onboard.” A smirk lights his face.
Although Carson has been chasing the wrong man, he’s been devoted to capturing a serial killer who’s eluded him for two years. Even if I still don’t trust him, I trust that he’s committed to this operation. It’s his chance to not only make amends, but to get retribution for his career.
I turn toward Colton. “I’m ready.”
His hand is in mine, then he’s leading me toward the other end of the office. “Only me and Julian know”—he cuts short—“Julian knew about this access.”
He pushes aside a tapestry and reveals a door. “My brother made a lot of enemies,” he says. “He always made sure to have a way to escape.”
A pang hits my chest as I stare into his eyes, both of us leaving the truth unsaid. His brother didn’t escape his fate, which may remain a mystery to Colton.
The dark hallway leads down a flight of stairs and to a back door, where Colton pauses. “I want you to take this.” He holds out his phone—the one issued to him by the department.
“I can’t,” I say, shaking my head. “I can’t have anything—”
“I disabled the GPS,” he interrupts. “I hated doing it…because it’s killing me to let you go out there with no way to find you. You’re asking a lot of me, goddess. Almost too much. I have to at least know you have a way to call for help. If you need it.”
I swallow, allowing Colton to wrap my fingers around the cool device. “I promise,” I say, moving close to him. “I’m coming back to you.”
He cups my face, kisses me with everything he has. I can feel his torment in that kiss—his absolute devotion and warring anguish.
As I pull away, he whispers, “I love you, goddess.”
I know there’s more to be said, so much more than that word can convey. But right now, it has to be enough. “I love you, Colton Reed.” I release the strain from my lungs. “Make sure you show our girl a good time.” I smile up at him.
“The crew is doing a special tribute to Julian tonight,” he says. “I won’t let her out of my sight. That, I promise.” He pushes the door open. And even in the dim lighting of the street, I can see the tremor of his hand gripped tightly to the door. “I’ll storm heaven and hell if you don’t come back to me.”
As I step onto the sidewalk, I say, “Hell’s not ready for me yet.”
* * *
In the distance, the lights of the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge flicker, peeking in and out of the trees like a movie reel flipping through a projector. The highway is teeming with cars, city-goers passing on their way into downtown.
I lean forward and knock on the plastic window between the cabdriver and me. “Pull over onto the median at the entrance to TRI, please.”
He does as requested, and the cab comes to a stop on the small strip of road. I push a few bills through the slot before my heels meet the uneven pavement. I twist my ankle and curse, righting myself as I make my way over first the gravel, then the grassy divider toward the extensive walking bridge connecting the mainland to the island.
The rancid smell of marshy river mixing with gas fumes drifting off the highway turns my stomach, reminding me of the morning the exsanguinated victim was discovered.
I pass the memorial with the TR statue, crossing onto the cemented bridge where a few ground accent lights illuminate the man-made pond and center fountain. Otherwise, it’s near black out, with only the lights from the city and DC glowing against the skyline.
The UNSUB marked this island, giving me a targeted, unsubtle hint when he painted the reeds with his victim’s blood. I didn’t understand at the time why he
chose to stray from his MO and chance being caught in broad daylight, in a place that’s usually bustling with tourists.
But it’s all very clear now.
On the other side of the island, just off the swamp trails, is where he bled the vic. In theory, that’s where I should go—where the crime scene tape still marks off the blood-coated reeds, and the Bathory crest has been washed away by the rain, but still signifies his X marks the spot mentality.
But one: I’m wearing a dress and heels. Hiking into the woods, and down through swampy marsh, then through river grass isn’t happening. Two: he wouldn’t have requested I wear something so unsuitable for the scene if he didn’t plan to meet me in a more civilized setting.
And three: no damn way am I going off the beaten trail to meet a killer on his turf.
He’s followed me here; he’s watching me now. He can meet me halfway on this.
A snap draws my attention to the wooded surroundings of the memorial. I set my clutch down, silently removing my gun from the bag before I creep toward the darkness.
“We’re alone,” I call out. I hook my finger around the trigger. “I left them all back at the club.”
Silence mocks me. Even the creatures stop stirring.
“Please don’t shoot me,” someone says.
“Hands up!” I shout. “Move into the light. Now.”
“Jesus!” A guy dressed in a jean jacket and ball cap walks onto the memorial with his hands over his head. He holds a small paper-brown package in one. “I was just supposed to drop this off… Oh, my God. Is it drugs? Is this a trap?”
I keep my SIG aimed on him as I approach. “Drop the package.” He does, and I pat down his front pockets. “Take out your ID…slowly!”
With trembling hands, the young guy—who looks no older than twenty—removes his wallet and hands it to me. “Are you a prostitute or something? Am I being robbed?”
“Stop talking,” I snap. I look through his wallet, find his driver’s license and read off his name. “Mike Linsinski, who told you to bring this here?” I nod toward the package at his feet.
He rapidly shakes his head. “Some dude, ma’am. I don’t know. He gave me some cash and said to bring it here. Fuck.” He seals his eyes closed. “I’m an idiot.”
“Yeah, you are.” I bend down to pick up the package, a nervous flutter attacking my stomach. “Don’t move, you hear me?”
At his adamant nod, I holster my gun under my arm and rip the package open. Inside, with dried blood staining the paper, my necklace rests on a bed of cotton.
My heart leaps into my throat. “Where’s the man who gave this to you?”
He shakes his head again, arms still raised. “I was just walking around downtown. He approached me. I don’t know the dude!”
Shit. Shit, shit shit! I run over to my clutch and pull out a pair of zip ties. Then I wrestle the guy’s hands behind his back. “You’re going to stay here. Do you get that? If not, I will hunt you down, Mike Linsinski. I know where you live.”
He swears under his breath as I link his wrists together.
I stuff my gun and the necklace, with what I assume is Avery’s blood, into my bag and kick off my heels. My feet slap the pavement as I race toward the bridge, but a cry slams me to a stop.
I glance back at the guy, but he’s searching for the noise, too.
Another ear-splitting shout, and I’m pulling my gun; I know that voice—though I’ve never heard it in such anguish, I can still discern who it’s from.
“Quinn!”
14
Ties
Colton
The news of my brother’s grisly death traveled through the scene like wildfire. With my personal cell phone confiscated by the cops, I’ve been out of touch, which raised an alarm for the club. And with the Feds infiltrating the scene, it seemed like a good time to shut the club down.
That is, until I returned this evening to find the club crew already organizing a tribute to Julian. Lilly Anne and Onyx did the work, contacting members and insisting I relax. Relax. That’s not happening tonight.
Besides being in a constant state of worry over Sadie, the guilt has begun to eat at me. My main reason for agreeing to the tribute was because it would bring in a swarm of people, giving the UC agent enough cover to make Sadie’s crazy plan work.
I’ve been able to dodge most of my brother’s “investors.” Those who still owe him money and who are anxious to be taken off his blackmail list. I’ve found my little, sacred corner of the voyeur room where I down a shot of bourbon, no one questioning my request to be left alone.
Even though my brother was trying to pull away from the scene, and despite the fact that he was never really in it other than to make money, I can’t help but feel he would’ve been honored.
The stage is set for the scene to begin. Lilly Ann has stage-managed my brother’s favorites: ménage à trois, girl-on-girl, and submission. He was never big into kink; liked to keep it simple. Which only reminds me that I somehow have to organize his funeral with his fiancé.
I tip back another shot.
Across from me, Carson sips on a non-alcoholic beer, keeping his head clear but trying to appear inconspicuous. Dressed down in jeans and a T-shirt, he still looks completely uptight and out of place.
Up ahead, a few tables closer to the stage, the UC agent watches the first scene. I admit, for the short briefing she had, she’s doing a decent job at playing Sadie. She keeps to herself, fending off any advances, and doesn’t invite any attention. But with the number of people here tonight, she wouldn’t stand out. That’s the idea.
I’m trying my best to be here, in the moment, and to pay Julian my respects despite every fiber of my being screaming to be with Sadie. Trust is not the issue—I trust her. I trust her to keep herself safe; she’s handled herself in similar situations, and I have no care for the sick shit she plans to end tonight. I just can’t stand the helpless feeling stealing over me, taunting me. Shouting that she’s up against something deadlier and more dangerous than anything she’s faced in her past.
Dammit it to hell. There’s a sick roiling in the pit of my stomach tempting me to go after her.
I should’ve followed her.
“Relax,” Carson says, his gaze steady on the stage. “She’s not out there alone.”
I glare across the table at him. “What are you talking about?”
He glances at me. “Did you really think Quinn would let her go off by herself to meet up with a fucking serial killer?” He chuckles. “Sadie’s good, but she’s no field agent.”
Anger rips through my veins. “Who’s out there with her?” I kick the leg of his chair, forcing his full attention on me. “Who the fuck is out there?”
It finally registers in his thick skull. His eyebrows pull together as he says, “I wasn’t in on the side op. I was working the club angle with you and Sadie. Quinn put together—”
“Fuck.” I leap up, rocking the table and knocking over Carson’s beer, and am weaving through the crowd before he can finish.
I’ve never trusted Quinn. Despite Sadie’s reassurance—her own faith in the man—I’ve always been suspicious of his intentions where she was concerned. But motherfucker, I know he has feelings for her—so why the hell would he jeopardize her safety?
The UNSUB gets one whiff that Sadie set him up, and he’ll…
I stop that thought. Right there in its tracks.
I hit the hallway where I’m shoved against the wall. Carson braces his forearm against my neck. “Whatever you’re thinking about doing, don’t.” His eyes widen. “This isn’t your call.”
“I think we’ve already figured out who’ll win this fight.” Breaking his hold, I push him off. “She thinks she can trust him. I won’t let her get hurt.”
“She won’t,” he insists. “Would you rather her be out there alone?”
I grit my teeth. “Knowing the fucking UNSUB is one of you? Yeah. I’d say she’s safer being on her own.”
Carson k
eeps my glare, neither of us making a move until he turns his head away, distracted. He presses a finger to his ear. “They got a hit on the DNA,” he says.
My whole body comes alive. I’m off the wall, muscles thrumming with the need to move. “Who is he?” There’s still time. They can pull Sadie out. I can pull Sadie out.
Carson shakes his head. “They’re not saying. They’re running facial recognition software on everyone in the club. Fucking FBI. That will take forever, and they’re looking in the wrong damn place.”
“Who is he?” I’m seconds away from coming out of my skin.
Carson finally meets my gaze. “I don’t know. But he must be big on the inside if they’re keeping that on lock down. Just calm down. We’ll get ahold of Sadie.” He looks around, then throws his hands up. “Shit. She doesn’t have a phone.”
But she does. I head back into the voyeur and locate the landline phone behind the bar. My thumbs push the numbers I memorized, my heart beating painfully against my chest wall. On the fifth ring, it goes to voicemail. No recording. Just a generic beep.
My fist locks around the phone, ready to pound the information from Carson’s mouth with the damn earpiece, but to hell with that. My feet are already moving, taking me past him and down the hallway, then down the stairs. I don’t stop as I clear a path toward the exit.
I throw the side door open and break into a run, heading right for the not-so-discreet van parked a block away. I hear Carson calling my name, but I can’t slow.
Before I reach the van, two FBI agents apprehend me. “She’s not in there…neither is your UNSUB. Sadie’s out there—”
“Sir, you have to calm down,” one of them says. He tilts his chin toward his shoulder. “Sir, we have a situation here.”
The van door opens, and out comes Agent Proctor, the head honcho who took over my club. “Colton Reed. I figured we’d have a problem with you.”
The agents drag me into the van. Proctor grabs me by the neck. “I told them not to let a civilian in on this op,” he says. “Cuff him. Reed, you’re being arrested for obstruction.”