Dangerous Games

by Tess Diamond

  “It’s always hard when it’s kids,” Peggy sighed.

  “The victim was a kid?” Jake asked.

  “Yeah. A teenage girl shot in a mall. God, how horrible.” Peggy shuddered. “People suck.”

  So Maggie failed to save one girl, and now she was determined to save this one. Was that why she was so stuck on doing things her way?

  Or was she just stubborn?

  “You there, boss?” Peggy asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Just thinking. Keep digging. You find anything relevant, send it to me.”

  “I’m on it,” Peggy said. “Anyone else I need to keep track of?”

  “You’ve got the names of the senator’s staff I sent over?”

  “Yep. Nothing’s popped up on any of them yet. I’m running them through all my systems.”

  “Okay,” Jake said. “Do me a favor. Run a check on the senator too.”

  “You think he’s crooked?” Peggy asked, sounding surprised.

  “No,” Jake said. “But it’s becoming clear he’s the likely target here. There might be no reason why other than he’s rich and powerful.”

  “But there could be more to it,” Peggy finished his thought. “And it could give us a clue. Makes sense. Okay. I’ll get back to work. Hope you find the bad guy soon.”

  “Yeah,” Jake said, thinking about Kayla’s diabetes. “So do I.”

  He hung up, leaning back in the chair, musing. He stroked his jaw. He hadn’t shaved that morning—he’d have a five-o’clock shadow by noon.

  The additional proof of life Maggie had demanded had given him and her time—but it might also give him information. He needed a way to find Kayla—some clue to her location. Without it, he was dead in the water.

  He needed a clue—if it wasn’t found on the video Maggie demanded, he would need the kidnapper to reveal it somehow, unknowingly.

  Jake smiled ruefully.

  It looked like he might need to cooperate with Maggie Kincaid after all.

  Chapter 7

  It was dark. Kayla couldn’t see anything. The rough hood he’d pulled over her head brushed against her lips as she inhaled sharply, unable to quiet the pounding in her chest.

  How could she have been so stupid? She should have noticed. Listened to her dad. He was always saying she needed to be more aware. She always ignored it. She’d been ignoring everything he said lately. She’d just been . . . God, she’d been stupid. So stupid.

  She shifted on the rough concrete, her right shoulder throbbing dully. As she sat up, a sharp pain pierced her calf—a charley horse from sitting crumpled on the ground for so long. Biting her lip, she stretched out her leg, whimpering in relief as the cramp eased. Her knees were sore, raw, like the skin had been scraped off. She stretched her cuffed hands, blindly searching her skin before finding an oozing wet patch that made her flinch when she touched it. For some reason, the blood—it had to be blood—on her fingertips suddenly made things very real. Kayla gulped, her fingernails digging into her palms.

  She tried to push the hood off her head, but there was a drawstring pulled tight around the neck, and her fingers were stiff and clumsy from the lack of circulation.

  Okay. Okay. She couldn’t panic. She needed to concentrate on something else. She closed her eyes, trying to forget the hood over her head, even as the thick fabric scraped her lips. She tried to ignore her aches and pains—and the strangling sensation in her chest as she realized it had been hours since her last insulin shot.

  Don’t panic, she told herself sternly. Think about something else.

  She thought about Mom braiding her hair the mornings before horse shows. The light tug of her mother’s fingers moving nimbly, gently, to put every hair in line. No matter how many times Kayla tried, her French-braiding sucked, so Mom always took over. She had never told her mother, but Kayla liked that time in the mornings the best. Sometimes they talked; sometimes they didn’t, but it was just her mother’s presence that made Kayla feel safe. Loved.

  Oh, God, why haven’t I ever told Mom that? What if I don’t get a chance to? What if he’s going to kill me and is just waiting for the right time?

  Mom must be so worried. And Dad . . . I should have listened to him. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

  Kayla shifted on the concrete, trying to find a more comfortable position. She winced, her back and legs aching as if she’d spent the whole day running suicides. She awkwardly rose to her feet, the combination of cramped muscles and darkness almost making her topple over. The pleated folds of her school skirt flapped against her thighs, and she breathed a sigh of relief to know she was still dressed in her uniform. She wasn’t stupid—she knew there were sickos out there. At least whoever had her hadn’t done anything—so far.

  She stretched her hands out blindly in front of her, shuffling forward. Her fingers hit something smooth—a wall. She moved forward too fast, her feet catching against a heap of . . . something on the ground. Down she went, her bound palms scraping onto the rough concrete floor in an effort to brace her fall. Her cheek slammed into the ground, and for a moment, she lay there, dazed and coughing. She rolled to her side, still coughing, and reached out, making contact with a cool, slippery material. She had tripped over a sleeping bag tossed over a mattress pad. With a shaky breath, her cheek hot and sticky with tears, she got back on her feet, continuing to trace the room, trying to find a way out. Finally, on the farthest wall, her hand touched a door frame. Kayla scrambled for the doorknob, but it was locked. Dead-bolted, she realized as she reached up, feeling metal. She banged on the door, over and over, but the solid wood didn’t even budge.

  “Let me out of here!” she yelled, until her voice was hoarse and her hands felt bruised. She collapsed on the makeshift bed, breathing hard. Her mouth was so dry. When was the last time she drank something—when Becky offered her that extra bottle of water before practice? It seemed like years ago.

  She straightened, remembering something. She’d taken the water, but she’d told Becky. Before she ditched lacrosse practice, she’d told her where she was headed. Becky would say something, right? People had to be looking for her by now. Becky would tell. It’s not like she’s any good at keeping secrets even when you wanted her to.

  A little bit of hope ignited in Kayla’s chest. Becky would tell someone. They could get, like, surveillance video or something. Everyone was probably searching for her right now.

  But just as she began to breathe easier, the sound of the door unlocking and swinging open filled her ears. She cringed against the wall, turning her head back and forth, trying to trace the sound of footsteps as they came closer and closer.

  The hood was roughly torn from her head. A sudden burst of light filled her eyes. Tears flooded them, tracking down her cheeks as she blinked furiously, trying to focus on the blurred figure standing in front of her. Gloved fingers gripped her chin painfully, tilting her head to the left, then the right, as if he was checking something. Her eyes finally adjusting to the light, now she could see he was wearing a black mask that covered his entire face, with a gray hoodie pulled tight around his head, obscuring his hair. God, who was this guy? What did he want? Maybe she could, like, talk him down or something. Make him think of her as a person. That’s what you were supposed to do, right? Kayla tried to think hard back to all those crime shows she and Becky used to watch, even though her mom had disapproved.

  “Who are you?” Kayla asked shakily. “I’m Kayla. I guess you probably know that. Please. If you just call my dad . . . he’ll give you whatever you want—just call him.” She took a breath and willed her voice to remain steady. “Really, I promise there won’t be any trouble. Just call him and ask. He’ll get it for you.”

  The man—her kidnapper—stepped forward, and Kayla shrank against the wall, scrambling back into a corner as he advanced, digging into the pocket of his hoodie. A grip of panic seized her chest. This was it. He was going to pull out a gun or a knife and kill her. Kayla opened her mouth to scream, to plead for her life. But the
sound died in her throat when she realized he wasn’t holding a weapon. He wasn’t going to kill her. At least not yet. He gripped the purple pouch from her purse that held her insulin, pulled out a needle and a vial, and filled it in front of her.

  “Wait a second,” Kayla said slowly, unable to tear her eyes away from the needle. Oh, God, what if there was an air bubble? What if he didn’t know how to administer insulin? The only person other than her doctor she’d ever trusted with her insulin shots was her mom. Her dad didn’t even do them when she was little—he had a thing about needles, so Mom had been the one to teach her.

  What if whatever he was putting in the needle wasn’t insulin? A new kind of fear flooded her. Those vials could just look like her meds.

  Her eyes widened in horror as he tapped the side of the syringe and checked for air bubbles, and then stepped forward, the needle held aloft.

  “Wait!” Kayla said, but she knew it was no use as he pinned her against the wall with his free arm. She tried to fight him off, but he was so much stronger, his arm like an iron band pressing her down onto the concrete. He pulled up the hem of her shirt and she kicked out wildly, catching nothing but air, screaming as the needle jabbed into her hip and he pressed the plunger, injecting her with what she prayed was insulin.

  Then he stepped back, placing the pouch in his hoodie pocket, and grabbed a video camera from the backpack by the door.

  Kayla barely had any time to glance around the room—no windows, gray walls, concrete floor—before the kidnapper threw a book in her lap. She looked down at it, confused. Crime and Punishment.

  “Read,” he demanded, pointing the camera at her. His voice sounded funny—too deep and hoarse, like he was trying to disguise it.

  She pulled further into herself. “Okay,” she whispered. She didn’t want him to shove her against the wall again; her collarbone still ached from the impact. It was awkward to open the book with cuffed hands, especially because she was still shaking in fear, but she managed to flip to the first chapter. She took a deep breath and began to read, the words cracking in her dry throat as she forced them out. Glancing nervously at the camera, she finished the first page, turning to the second. She was about to continue when he lowered the camera, shutting it off. He moved toward her, and she tried not to flinch as he pulled the hood back over her head. The last things she saw before everything went black were his brown leather tasseled shoes, polished to a high shine.

  Chapter 8

  By the time eleven o’clock rolled around, Maggie was out of her running clothes and had changed into a dark blue pencil skirt with a crisp white oxford tucked into it. She’d furiously undone her braids, still stinging from O’Connor’s idea of a nickname. Goldilocks indeed. She’d show him. She tried to finger-comb her curls into some sort of order, but ended up twisting her hair up into a (somewhat) neat bun. Her spectator heels clicked on the black-and-white tile floor of the entryway of the Carmichael Academy.

  The academy was surrounded by seven-foot fences and guarded by a gate that was on par with the one at Quantico. The perfectly manicured lawn sprawled over fifteen acres, affording the college-size track, tennis courts, lacrosse fields, and stables the utmost privacy for the children of DC’s elite. The series of brick buildings that made up the actual classrooms had stood the test of time, and the main building had an honest-to-God turret.

  “If you’ll just wait,” said the security guard who’d led her into the building, “I’ll let Miss Hayes know you’re here.”

  Maggie took a seat, trying not to fidget as she went over the pieces she had so far. A highly organized unsub with a big ego and desire for control was never a good thing. They must have been tracking Kayla outside of school, because there was no way they would have been able to bypass the academy’s security. To get through the gates, Maggie had been asked for three forms of ID, and they’d video-called Frank to verify her identity.

  “Miss Kincaid?”

  Maggie looked up to see a thin woman with a long face and silver hair pulled back in a tight bun standing in front of her. “I’m Miss Hayes, the headmistress.”

  “Please, call me Maggie.” Maggie held her hand out, but Miss Hayes didn’t take it. That was when she knew this wasn’t going to be easy. People who ran this kind of place were notoriously protective of their students—and their rich parents.

  “Shall we talk in my office?”

  Maggie followed her inside a windowless room that was as dour and depressing as a principal’s office should be. There were no photos on the wall, but instead, a towering oil portrait of a grim-looking man with gray muttonchops glowering down from above the desk.

  “I understand that you’re a hostage negotiator,” Miss Hayes said. “That means you deal with criminals to release the people they’ve abducted?”

  “Among other things,” Maggie said. “It also means I’m in charge of this case. So I need to know everything I can to get Kayla home safe. That’s where you come in.”

  Miss Hayes’ pinched mouth twisted, and she bristled. “You must understand that at the Carmichael Academy privacy and safety are paramount.”

  Oh, boy. If there was one thing she had no patience for, it was people trying to claim “privacy” in the face of a crisis involving a child. If Miss Hayes wanted to pay hardball, Maggie would step up. And she’d win.

  “I agree that privacy and safety are very important,” Maggie began. “But one of your students isn’t safe right now. She’s in a lot of danger. So you’re going to cooperate with me. I need Kayla’s full school schedule, and you’re going to call Kayla’s friends in here so I can talk to each of them.”

  “Before we even think about doing that, I need to call their parents for permission,” Miss Hayes said.

  “I need you to do what I ask. Now.” Maggie smiled, pleasantly, with just an edge of threat. “I don’t think the parents of your students would appreciate knowing your security is so lax that students can easily skip class and leave the grounds. I’m sure Mrs. Thebes is very well connected with the other Carmichael mothers. Just a few phone calls from her, and you might have a public relations problem on your hands.”

  “That’s not true!” Miss Hayes exclaimed angrily.

  Maggie shrugged. She was done playing nice and waiting around. She may have bought some time from Uncle Sam, but she knew it wasn’t much. She wasn’t going to sit around patiently until Miss Hayes got with the program.

  “We don’t know, do we?” she asked. “Kayla could have been abducted on school grounds. I could get forensics out here. I bet the parents picking the kids up in a few hours would love to see FBI agents crawling around your school turned crime scene—that’d make a great photo op. Or maybe she skipped class and was taken after she’d left the grounds, and your security is so lax she was able to leave campus without permission. Until I have a better picture of her day and her state of mind from her friends, I won’t know for sure. So maybe you should get the girls so I can speak with them—unless you want to spend the next few days dealing with angry and worried parents, and maybe some curious reporters too.”

  Miss Hayes’ sharp cheeks had turned bright red with suppressed anger, but she picked up a phone, punching a few buttons. “Glenda,” she said briskly, displeasure dripping from her voice. “Please get Bree Lawson, Becky Miller, and Adrianna Sussman out of class and into my office.”

  “Feel free to stay as I talk to the girls,” Maggie said as Miss Hayes glared at her across the antique desk that took up much of her office.

  “I wouldn’t dream of leaving,” the woman replied stiffly.

  A few minutes later, an aide ushered three teenagers into the office. They crowded close together as they looked at Miss Hayes and then Maggie suspiciously.

  “Girls, this is Miss Kincaid,” the principal said. “By now, you’ve heard about Kayla, I assume?”

  The girls nodded. The redhead sniffled, wiping at her eyes.

  “Miss Kincaid would like to ask you some questions.”

&nb
sp; “Come sit down,” Maggie said, gesturing to the uncomfortable-looking antique settee in the corner. She moved her chair so it was facing them, her back to Miss Hayes. “I know Kayla’s mom called you girls earlier to ask if you knew anything, but I wanted to ask some more questions she might not have thought of. Can you give me your names?”

  “I’m Bree,” said the redhead. “Kayla’s mom said it was a big secret. That we couldn’t tell anyone. Does that mean you too?”

  “Well, I already know Kayla’s missing,” Maggie pointed out. “And I’m working the case. So it’s safe to talk to me. But please, don’t talk about it with anyone else. No social media, okay?”

  The girls nodded.

  “I appreciate that,” Maggie said.

  “Do you know anything?” Bree asked.

  “Not yet,” Maggie said. “That’s why I’m here. So you girls, the people closest to Kayla, can help me. Can you tell me if Kayla seemed nervous at all yesterday? Or upset about something?”

  “She was fine,” the petite blonde who looked like a teenage version of Tinkerbell piped up. “She was a little stressed about the algebra test because she’d stayed up late mucking out Star’s stall—that’s her horse.”

  “And I saw her at PE,” said Bree. “Becky did too,” she said, nodding to the quiet brunette who was hanging her head, refusing to meet Maggie’s eyes. “Kayla seemed totally okay. She said something about the test not being as hard as she thought. She seemed relieved. I was too because I had to take it after lunch. I don’t think I did very good.”

  “We all had lunch together,” Adrianna said. “Just like always. It was totally normal.”

  “Who would do this?” Bree asked.

  “We don’t know yet,” Maggie said. She couldn’t help but look at the quiet girl, Becky. What was she hiding? “Girls, I asked Kayla’s parents if there was a boy in her life. They didn’t think so. But I know it’s not always cool to be up-front with your parents about that stuff. I used to lie to my mom about boys all the time. So . . . was there a boy she was seeing? Maybe someone she didn’t want her parents to know about?”