As much as those two morons had embellished and fictionalized what really happened, they ought to go into journalism. Because Tripp didn’t remember flying or promising or killing. Cussing, yes. Beating the shit out of a couple assholes, you betcha. But him a giant? Hell, no. Compared to some of the guys he worked with, like Mark, Zack, Lee, and Beau, he was a titch on the puny side. Plus, he hadn’t killed anyone, not even in Seattle. Just gave them something, as in a few broken bones, noses, and fingers, to remember him by. But he had scuffed his knuckles over the weekend. His eye hadn’t blackened, but he was sporting a butterfly bandage on his forehead. God help him if anyone asked what happened. He’d have to lie, and he hated liars.
He punched the elevator’s close door button. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”
“Why not?” she asked, while the car sealed itself for the ride back down to the street.
Tripp hit the hold button. “Because everyone I work with is former military, and they’re mostly guys. Lots of big, dumb, loud-mouth Marines. A couple know-it-all Navy SEALs.”
“Oka-a-a-ay...” Ashley pursed her lips and expelled a measured breath. “So, you’re not throwing me to a pack of wolves. That’s good.”
“More like a herd of wild donkeys. Some of these guys can be real asses. A couple of the women are, too.”
That made her smile. “Donkeys, really? Sounds like a fun office. I’ll be okay.”
“You sure?”
Ashley confirmed her conviction with a nod. “I deal better in group settings. It’s the single situations where I freak.”
“If I ever get my hands on the guy who hurt you—” Tripp didn’t mean to, but he growled, wishing he could tell her who’d saved her, that he was the guy who’d showed up in time Friday. That for her, he’d do it again.
“Don’t.” She stopped his rant with a firm grip on his wrist. “Please. I don’t want to talk about it.”
Tripp knew then he’d overstepped her capacity to deal with what had happened, and that she liked when he complied without arguing. He hit the button and the door reopened. “Okay then. Let’s see what Mark wants. He’s standing in for the boss tonight. Sorry, but I might have to park you at our customer service desk until I’m through talking with him. You’ll be okay there. Mother doesn’t bite.”
“Everyone else does?” Ashley asked, the sassy sparkle finally back in her sapphire blues.
“Mostly they bray,” he grumbled, steering her through a maze of walls, none more than three feet high, at the center of which loomed a tall bank of computer equipment and the customer service desk.
Connor Maher peered over his monitor and waved, his head tucked into the phone on his shoulder. Tripp gave him his chin. Ashley fluttered her fingers at him.
“You’re new,” a growly masculine voice said behind them.
“Hey, Beau,” Tripp replied easily. “Mark called me in. Thought you guys would be in the Sit Room. Am I late?”
“Nah, he’s still in his office talking with Director Chase. Guess the FBI needs an assist on a case they’re working.” He turned his gaze to Ashley. “Who’s your friend?”
“Hello, I’m Ashley Cox,” she said brightly, as she presented her hand. There she was again. The real Ashley Cox, Tripp’s confident girl next door. “I’m Tripp’s neighbor. We live in the same apartment complex.”
Her fingers all but disappeared inside Beau’s big, bear-like paw. “Nice to meet you, ma’am. Agent Beau Villanueva at your service. You need anything while you’re here, you be sure to let me know. Just ask, and I’ll come running.”
Enough already. Tripp rolled his shoulder to shake off the green-eyed monster suddenly sitting there and poking the shit out of him. “Beau’s one of The TEAM’s best snipers, Ashley. He also troubleshoots technical problems that pop up here in the office,” Tripp explained, his right hand settling possessively at the small of her back, in case Beau upped his game and got friendlier.
It was a Neanderthal move, and Tripp knew it. He just couldn’t help himself. Beau was built like a brick shithouse. Dark haired, dark-eyed, and Hispanic, he was one of those bulky, grouchy types who could turn on the charm at the drop of a hat. He shouldn’t have grabbed her hand like he had, and he’d better stop smiling like he’d just found a delectable morsel. That alone was unlike the guy.
True, there was nothing to worry about with anyone here at TEAM HQ. Tripp knew that. Beau was happily married. Most agents were, or, like that dumbass Jameson Tenney, soon to be married. That was a mistake waiting to happen if Tripp had ever seen one. The guy was not only blind, he was marrying the first woman he’d dated in years, aka the boss’s Protocol Officer, Maddie Bannister. They’d barely met a few weeks ago! What was Alex thinking, hiring a blind agent in the first place? And what were those two kids thinking? Love at first sight? There was no such thing.
Never mind that Tripp had just met Ashley. He sure as hell wasn’t in love with her and yeah. He knew he had no right being possessive. He was as big an idiot as Jameson. Yet he couldn’t help growling at Beau, who was still holding Ashley’s hand, damn it. “You mind?”
The big guy flashed a toothy grin, then smoothed his free hand over the back of hers, almost like he was petting her. “I don’t mind, but it sure seems like you do,” he teased, as he finally released her. “Like I said, Ashley Cox, you need anything while you’re here, just ask. We’re all here to serve. Can I get you a cup of coffee or a donut while you wait? I think there’s some left in the breakroom.”
“Thank you, no. I’m good,” she answered, a little more breathlessly than Tripp would’ve liked.
What the hell was wrong with him? Again, the Neanderthal inside roared to the surface with a need to pound Beau’s grinning ass into the floorboards. Fighting the urge, Tripp placed one arm around her shoulders, a definite caveman stamp of, ‘She’s mine. Back the fuck off or die.’
Beau, damn him, winked. The prick knew precisely what he was doing.
“Tripp. Beau,” Mother said from where she sat on her side of the counter. “Mark wants you two and Jameson in his office now.”
About time. Tripp turned to the real technical advisor for The TEAM. “You mind if Ashley sits with you while I’m in with Mark?”
“The more the merrier,” Mother muttered without looking up at him and with no hint of friendliness toward Ashley.
Jameson strolled up. “You brought a friend,” he told Tripp, his hand already extended toward Ashley as if he could see. “Hi, Ashley, I’m Jameson Tenney, junior agent in charge of light bulbs. That’s a joke, by the way.”
How that guy got around the office as easily as he did still amazed Tripp. Except for the round-framed dark specs perched high on his nose, you’d never guess Jameson was blind by the way he moved.
“Nice to meet you, Jameson,” Ashley replied evenly, shaking hands again. “You’re visually impaired?”
“That’s me, the token handicapped kid in an office of military geniuses. But I’m learning.” Jameson lifted both shoulders and managed to look humble, a skill Beau ought to think about acquiring.
“Don’t let him jerk your chain, Ashley,” Beau muttered, cuffing Jameson’s shoulder a solid one. “This guy’s a former Navy SEAL. He’s got radar none of the rest of us have. Like sharks and dolphins, he doesn’t need to see to know which way to shoot.”
“Oh, my goodness,” Ashley gushed all over Jameson. “How do you do it?”
While he regaled her with a minute of humble deference meant to distract her from his disability, Tripp focused on not ripping the blind guy’s jugular out and hanging him from the ceiling with it. Not that he would have, but—
Why was he so damned territorial all of a sudden? He didn’t own Ashley. Hadn’t even kissed her. Sure, he wanted to, but he’d barely touched her yet, mostly just to keep her from falling. Maybe that was it. She’d been scared of him, but she didn’t seem to mind these guys handling her, and that bugged Tripp.
“Well
, yes,” she exclaimed. “I’d love to meet your fiancée for dinner. Tell me when and where.”
Jameson asked her to dinner? Tripp ran a hand over his head, pissed that he’d missed the invitation. Jameson did have one of those cavalier guy-smiles that snared the ladies. Tripp had to give him that.
“Great. Let me check with Maddie. I’ll be in touch.” Jameson rapped his knuckles on the countertop. “Hey, Mom, how’s Justice?”
Justice was Mother’s hubby or boyfriend, Tripp still wasn’t sure which, and he wasn’t about to ask, either. Not as grouchy as she’d been since he’d been hired.
“Don’t call me mom,” she growled.
“But it fits you,” Jameson replied innocently, his head cocked in that uncanny way he had when he was really listening. Which seemed to be all the time. The guy might be blind, but he was damned perceptive. It was almost as if he could read minds. “You take care of us guys and gals. We don’t know what we’d do without you. You are The TEAM’s mom.”
“I am not,” she replied haughtily.
“If you say so.” He grinned and stepped away, then deliberately stage whispered, “Mom.”
That brought Mother to her feet. “Damn it, Jameson! Stop calling me that.”
Ashley tipped back on her heels. She was ready to run. Tripp latched onto her wrist before she could make a break for it. “Don’t mind them,” he whispered into the side of her head. “Jameson’s just teasing. I’ll be right back, then we’ll go grab that cup of coffee, okay?”
“Sure, yeah. Okay.” Ashley skirted cautiously around the counter. “But hurry back.”
“You got it,” he said as he bolted after Beau and Jameson.
Mark stood at his open office door with another guy as big, wide, and dark-haired as he was. Could’ve been his twin. The resemblance was uncanny. “Guys, FBI Director Tucker Chase. He called this meeting.”
“This all you got?” Director Chase barked. “Three guys?”
Whoa, the sarcasm. Mark saved Tripp from jumping straight into a fist fight with this jerk when he replied, “These three will be more than enough. Come in. Take a seat at my table, guys. How’s the little one, Tuck?”
That mellowed the bastard out. “Growing like a baby pig,” he purred, his fatherly pride evident. “Mel says to tell you she needs another night out with Libby and your girls.”
“Libby will like that. Okay, let’s get started.”
Chase changed back into an ass the second he took command of the opposite end of Mark’s small conference table. He was dressed in the official black on black FBI attire, black tie stark against crisp white dress shirt. Everyone else was TEAM casual: black jeans, black TEAM polo, whatever boots or shoes they wanted.
Office scuttlebutt was that Chase had married Melissa McCormack, billionaire Jed McCormack’s former daughter-in-law. How Chase had snagged the likes of her after Brady McCormack passed, Tripp had no idea.
Chase leaned in like the gorilla he was, braced his fingertips to the table top, and glared down at Tripp, Jameson, and Beau in turn. “Okay, guys, this is going to be quick and dirty, so listen up. We’ve got another serial killer in town. We’re sure it’s the same guy that struck two years ago, then went silent until last weekend.” He snagged the remote to the big screen across the office, clicked it on, and—
“Holy shit,” Beau breathed.
“Jameson,” Mark said. “What we’re looking at is a recent crime scene here in west Alexandria, along Interstate-395, I believe. Right, Tuck?”
“Yes. King Street junction.” Chase clicked again. And again. With each click of that remote, he revealed one bloody death after another. All women. All in skimpy skirts pushed up over their hips, and glittery bras pushed up to their necks, where their throats opened into ghoulish smiles. Their arms and legs were spread wide, and each was displayed like a macabre, pornographic mannequin. There was no doubt the scenes had been staged. A single, long-stemmed, white rose lay across each woman’s bloody, open mouth.
Tripp’s heart stuttered into freefall. King Street extended westward from the Potomac River, through Alexandria for a little over five miles. At King Street Junction, it crossed over Interstate I-395. The junction was an organized snake’s nest of declaration lanes that led to on or off-ramps headed in every direction but up. Coincidentally, King Street Junction, the Winkler Botanical Preserve, the free clinic slash Health Department, and Northern Virginia Community College, were all within walking distance of each other. The young men Tripp had rescued at the Preserve went to NVCC. Worse, any one of these women could have been Ashley. Or Trish. Where the hell was she?
“All bodies were left within the declaration lanes of King Street junction.” Mark provided what Jameson couldn’t see. “Are those southbound, Tuck?”
“Yes. All within this area.” Chase pulled a laser pen from an inside suit jacket pocket as he brought up a map of the I-395 junction. The bright red light ran a circle around one of three small triangular patches of grass between the southbound and the declaration lane of the interstate, which Tripp knew was exit five to King Street. Three patches of grass occupied this quadrant of the busy junction. Three ramps ran between the grassy areas. The far-right off-ramp put a driver immediately west on King Street. The far-left off-ramp went beneath the King Street overpass, where it merged, either onto I-395 or circled back onto King Street. The third spur fed traffic from westbound King Street, across an overpass above I-395, then back around to the southbound on-ramp.
“Which may mean he lives somewhere north,” Beau said.
“Which doesn’t tell us squat,” Chase snapped.
“But why that specific site?” Jameson asked.
Chase ran a hand over his head, “You tell me. It’s out in the open where drivers from at least five different ramps and two busy highways could see him.” He meant the frontage road and the interstate.
“Except they haven’t,” Jameson murmured, “have they?”
“Nope.” Chase popped that P, giving it an impatient, exasperated ring. “Which means he’s an arrogant son of a bitch.”
Jameson tapped his index finger on the table. “Or he’s thumbing his nose at APD and the Virginia Highway Patrol.”
“But that’s not where they were killed,” Mark added. “This guy moves the bodies after the fact, then displays them where everyone can see them. Rigor and lack of blood at the scene verify that much. This is his stage. Damn. That’s hard to look at.”
“Three women,” Jameson stated, not asked. He’d taken the corner chair nearest Chase, facing the screen he couldn’t see. His head canted in what Tripp thought must be his much-touted mad ninja way. Junior Agent Walker Judge, another former SEAL, was the guy who’d recommended Alex hire this sightless agent. He’d coined the silly descriptor, said Jameson had mad ninja skills. Tripp had yet to see any.
“Yup, women,” Tripp told his fellow agent. Like them being female was a big surprise. Then he asked Chase, “All hookers, right?”
The FBI Director’s big chest heaved. “Yes, but what’s concerning is the timeline. He’s murdered two more women since eighteen-hundred hours Friday night. Total time between each murder, at least between each discovery, approximately twenty-four hours.”
Oh, shit. Eighteen-hundred hours was six pm, civilian time. “He struck Friday night?” Tripp asked. “Are you sure?”
Stupid question. One of Chase’s eyebrows spiked to the ceiling. “Of course I’m sure. He murdered victim number one early Friday, but waited to dump her body until right after dark, why?”
Because this creep had been in the same area, at the same time, as Ashley Friday night, possibly while Tripp was with her. And this crime scene was close to where Ashley worked. Too close. It could’ve easily been her in this ugly photo. His throat went dry at the frightening coincidence. He’d gone home that night, thinking he’d cleared the streets of danger, when he hadn’t come close. The only comfort was knowing the bastard who’d assaulted Ashley was
not this serial killer.
Tucker’s fist hit the table, startling Tripp out of past mistakes and regrets. “You want to tell me what’s going on, Junior Agent?”
Shaking the shock of this odd coincidence off, Tripp waved Tucker’s attitude aside. “Just asking questions, shit.” But bile welled at the back of his throat, and a hollow pit had bloomed in his gut. Saving others, even Ashley, didn’t make up for the cold, hard fact that he’d failed these three other women during his late-night patrols. He should’ve been there for each of them. Why hadn’t he?
“They were found by an APD officer, no doubt,” Jameson said thoughtfully, his fingertips lightly drumming the tabletop in front of him.
“Yes, they were,” Chase admitted tersely.
“The killer’s taunting the police, which means he’s escalating. He thinks he’s smarter than they are, but he’s most likely got an average IQ. Chances are he’s handicapped. Killing women, demeaning them by displaying them, is his way of proving his masculinity, that he’s just as good as a police officer. He wants the world to see that side of him, which is why I believe he’s disabled, somehow. This guy doesn’t want to be looked at. He wants, no, he needs to be seen without being seen. He’s an introvert, but violently passive aggressive. I’m guessing he’s shy around women, intimidated by them. Could our killer be a retired officer or a detective who was injured in the line of duty? Or someone who works closely with the police department? Maybe a consultant?”
“Spot on, Tenney,” Chase replied gruffly. “Problem is we’ve looked at all APD employment records. Hell, we’ve even looked at any and all companies and their staff, that might have provided service to that office building. Haven’t found anyone that stands out yet.”
Okay, so that was another lucky guess, that the killer might be taunting Alexandria’s police department just because he’d dumped a couple bodies in the middle of their stomping grounds.
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