Forty minutes later, Luke received the next text from Sam. His phone beeped, and the screen lightened. Then…
K called. Unidentified number.
“Dammit.” He’d expected as much based on the other cases, but they’d still be contacting the phone company. Maybe, just maybe they’d find a link back to the killer.
“When we get the records, it’s gonna be like the others,” Ramirez warned. “Just a disposable, we’re not—”
Luke whistled as he read the last of the message.
Cops=dead.
He dragged a hand over his face. “I need a way in.” His gaze met Ramirez’s. “Find me a way in, Jon.” A hard trick because he’d bet a month’s salary that the kidnappers were watching the house. They’d be making sure no cops came. No new faces.
I have to get in.
“Get him a cover,” Monica said. She sat nearby, watching. “He has to be doing a job that won’t set off any alarms, but one that’ll give him access to the house.”
“Give me some time,” Ramirez promised, “and I’ll have you walking right through the front door without raising any suspicion.”
Luke knew Ramirez could do it. No doubt.
But…
What about Sam? What cover was she using in that house? And she had to be using a cover. Because if the kidnappers knew that she was an FBI agent, then the vic was already dead.
• • •
Quinlan Malone screamed when the knife sliced into his skin. Blood flowed over his hand, wet, warm.
“This’ll convince them.” Whispered. “A piece…”
Quinlan’s breath hissed out. The pain blasted him like the touch of fire, and bile rose in his throat.
“He’ll pay.” The words were gritted. “He’ll… f-fucking… pay…”
Quinlan’s heart thundered in his ears, nearly drowning out the words. His hand throbbed and burned and, oh, shit…
Tears leaked down his cheeks.
“He’ll pay.” So quiet, then, “He’d better.”
“We’re not paying the kidnappers a dime.” Sam’s eyes widened at his words. The speaker’s voice wasn’t slurred any longer. No, now the voice was strong and fierce and very, very pissed.
Sunlight flickered through the windowpane in the study as dawn cut through the last of the night. Frank Malone stood by the window and stared out into the distance. Dressed now, completely aware, he was no longer the drugged man desperate to understand.
Max paced in the room, tension evident in the taut lines of his body. At Frank’s words, Max stilled. “You’re not serious.”
“I damn well am.” Frank spun toward him. “I’m not going to bow to pressure, boy. I’m not going to—”
“He’s your son,” Sam said, stunned. “If you don’t do something, he’ll die.” Didn’t the guy get it?
Steel gray eyes raked her. “I don’t know you, sweetheart, and I’d advise you to keep your nose out of family business.”
Right. Sam swallowed and lifted her chin. Once upon a time, she would have backed down at that, dropped her head and hunched her shoulders. But she wasn’t the same woman any longer, and staring into Frank’s gaze, she realized that this guy—with his power, his money, and his arrogance—didn’t scare her. When you’ve already faced the devil, a pompous jerk is nothing.
“Haven’t you read the papers? Didn’t you see what happened to Jeremy Briar when he was taken? This—this seems like the same kind of—”
Frank waved his fat fingers in the air. “It’s a copycat. Some ass**les read about the crime, and they thought they’d get rich off it, off me.”
Yes, the SSD had been worried about a copy, but…
“This could even be Quin’s doing.” Frank’s eyes, if possible, narrowed more. “Little bastard just hit me up for cash. Maybe he thinks this’ll be the way to—”
“What if it’s not Quinlan?” Max demanded, and Sam’s gaze flew to him. “Do we just sit with our thumbs up our asses and wait for Quinlan to die?”
“That Briar shit wasn’t even in D.C., Max!” Frank paced toward him. “Come on, you’re smarter than this. At least, I thought you were.”
Sam almost preferred the guy drugged.
“This isn’t the same bunch.” Frank was adamant. “They wouldn’t come to D.C. when they’re hunting in Maryland—”
“Yes,” Sam said quietly, “they would.” The certainty in her voice was obvious, and Max’s head cocked at her words. His gaze bore into hers.
Her heart pounded way too fast. Her hands were sweating. Tell him. Have to tell him.
Frank wasn’t going to pay. She could see it in his eyes. Feel it in the thick tension in the room.
So maybe Quinlan Malone was an immature ass**le who liked to burn his way through his father’s money. She’d sure met enough of that type in her lifetime.
But this was a different game, not some spoiled-boy routine, and she had to make sure that they all knew that.
The silence in the room stretched too long. Then…
The floor creaked softly as Max stalked toward her. “Samantha…”
She’d loved the way he said her name. Never Sam, not with him. He stroked the word out, tasted it each time. Made it sound sexy. Strong.
But this time, there was something different in his voice. Suspicion. The heat was gone, and now a chill had caressed her name.
“You know more than you’re saying, don’t you?” Max pressed.
Sam wouldn’t lie to him. Not then. She gave a slow nod and saw his eyes narrow. A muscle flexed along his jaw.
“Who is she, Max?” Frank demanded. “You don’t ever bring women here. You don’t—”
“She didn’t really give me a choice,” Max murmured, drawing closer. His eyes seemed to burn through her. “She was with me when the call came in, and she was with me when I saw Quinlan for the last time at The Core.”
She sucked in a sharp breath. Oh, no, she knew where this was going. “You don’t understand—”
“The Core?” Frank’s voice dripped disgust. “I told Quin to stop hanging out at that shithole. After he got clean, I told him to—”
The back of Max’s hand brushed down Sam’s cheek. “I don’t really know you, do I?”
She could only shake her head. He had no idea.