Sixteen seconds for the exchange. Perfect.
“Mike went back to finish them off, just like you said.” A wide grin split the truck driver’s face. “Bet it was like shooting ducks to take out those two bastards.”
But Mike hadn’t called in. Maybe it hadn’t been so easy.
No Mike meant… even less time. “You used gloves in the truck?” The stolen pickup that they’d had for three hours. They’d swapped plates and been good to go.
“The whole time.” The guy slammed the truck’s driver side door closed. “Now let’s get out of—”
The knife caught him right between the ribs. The blade dug in deep, then twisted. Blood bubbled up from the driver’s lips.
“The plans have changed.” Not really. This had been his plan all along. Why split the money? Splitting didn’t make sense. Not when it could all be his.
“Sorry, Jim, but I guess you won’t be getting out of here.” He pulled back the blade in a long, slow glide.
Jim fell to his knees. His head sagged back as he stared up with big, dumb, what-did-you-do eyes. Stupid sonofabitch. Had he really not seen this coming?
No time to waste.
He slashed Jim’s throat open from ear to ear. One down…
By the time Jim’s head smacked into the cement, he was already in the sedan.
Then he just backed out, adjusted his mirror, saw the dead man on the ground—and kept going.
Hyde stared down at the body, careful to keep his distance from the pool of blood already settling on the cement. Different clothes, same build, and the guy was positioned right behind the damn truck that Hyde had been following.
Hyde’s jaw clenched. He’d known the instant the truck turned into the garage that trouble was coming. He’d gotten in as fast as he could, but it had taken two minutes to get inside, thanks to a traffic slowdown on the street. Two minutes.
Plenty of time for someone to die.
His gaze rose and swept the perimeter. No security cameras. Figured. He pulled out his radio. “Seal the place up,” he ordered. Too late, though; he knew it. The kidnappers had been so smooth. “No cars in and no cars out.” Not until they’d checked every inch of the place.
“Sir?”
“Get Dante on the line. Tell him we’ve got another body.” He shook his head. And tell him to get ready for more.
Because he knew how criminals operated, and it sure looked like someone was tying up loose ends.
CHAPTER Nine
Max had never been in FBI headquarters before. He paced the small room, his hands knotted and his shoulder aching.
Samantha had herded him there after they’d left the park. They’d swept away from that chaotic scene right before the reporters swarmed. She hadn’t talked to him much, but he’d caught her glancing at him, eyes wide but shadowed.
The door squeaked open behind him. He didn’t turn around. It was about time someone came in, though he knew that he’d been watched every moment since he’d arrived. That long mirror to the left had to be a two-way.
“There’s been a new development.” Samantha’s quiet voice filled the small room, and he couldn’t help but tense. “Hyde trailed the second kidnapper to a parking garage near the train station.”
Max looked over his shoulder.
“By the time Hyde got inside—”
“Who the hell is Hyde?”
Her shoulders squared. “Keith Hyde created this unit. Hyde is the Serial Services Division.” She’d ditched the eye-hurting pink jogging suit and now wore a simple black blouse and pants. The black made her skin look paler. Her hair tumbled across her shoulders.
So they’d sent in their big dog on this case. “And?” Because there was more that he wasn’t going to like. But what had he liked so far? Christ, sitting there doing nothing was killing him. For almost two days now, he’d done nothing.
Not the kind of guy he was.
“By the time Hyde got inside the garage,” she said, “it was too late.”
His heart slowed, then immediately began racing too fast as he faced her.
She exhaled. “The perpetrator he’d followed was dead, and the money was gone.”
What? “What about Quinlan? Is he alive?” He wanted the brutal truth.
Max got it.
“I don’t know,” she said softly and he realized that Samantha feared his brother was dead.
The kidnapper knew the authorities were involved. He had his money. Why bother keeping Quinlan alive?
“They planned to kill you and Malone all along,” Samantha told him. “You realize that, don’t you? That’s why they attempted the hit in the park.”
His shoulder throbbed.
“Special Agent Monica Davenport wants to talk with you. She has some questions about your family—”
Max grabbed her, clasping her shoulders and drawing her close, even as he ignored the burst of pain from his wound. “I’m a suspect? Is that what you’re telling me?”
Samantha shook her head. “Monica’s our best profiler. She’s trying to figure out why things are going differently with your family. These perps—they’ve never gone after any of the other families at the drops. But they came gunning for you.”
If he hadn’t heard that twig snap…
Samantha’s brows lowered and a faint furrow appeared on her forehead. “If you’d walked in there unarmed, you would have been a sitting duck. Even with weapons, if it hadn’t been for Ramirez, you’d probably be dead.” Her voice seemed wooden, so at odds with the dark fire in her eyes.
Max stared at Samantha, caught by her burning gaze. “You didn’t tell me you were going to be there.” If he’d known… hell, what would he have done? No way to stop her.
“I couldn’t let you walk in there without me. And when I heard the shots…” Her breath rushed out. “You scared me, Max.”
Honesty. Real emotion plain to see on her face and to hear in her voice.
This was the woman he’d needed to see. The one who’d been hiding from him. Maybe from herself. Christ, this was the woman he wanted.
“Max?”
He took her lips, crushing his mouth against hers, and he just tasted her. Not over. She couldn’t slip away from him yet.
A low moan rumbled in her throat, and a shudder worked the length of her body. Then her hands were on him, tightening around his shoulders and—
He wrenched back from her. “Fuck!”
“I’m sorry. I forgot—”
Max caught her hands and pushed Samantha back against the wall. Screw the pain. He had her, right then, right there, and he wasn’t going to lose her.
His tongue plunged deep even as his c*ck shoved against the front of his jeans. Wrong time, wrong place. He couldn’t have her here, but he’d take his taste.
And it would have to sustain him when she walked away.
Her br**sts stabbed against his chest. Tight ni**les, eager, aroused. She wanted him just as much as he wanted her. They touched and ignited.
“Why?” The question was torn from him as his mouth tasted the slender column of her throat. “Why do I need you so damn much?” Like an addiction. The more he had, the more he craved.
Was it the same for her? Did the hunger just keep growing?
Her pulse thudded beneath his mouth, so fast, but she didn’t answer him.
And he heard the squeak of the door again. Fuck them. He tightened his hold on Samantha.
“Ah… should I come back?” Quiet, cool, a woman’s voice questioned.
Samantha stiffened against him. Her hands jerked beneath his. Strong again. Why did he keep forgetting that strength?
Max eased away from Samantha and turned his stare on the new agent.
“Is everything okay in here?” Now the guy was there. Dante. He crowded in behind the dark-haired woman, and Max didn’t miss the way the guy’s hand moved to the small of her back.
“Everything’s fine,” Samantha said, and she really, really needed to get better at keeping her voice level.
Max flashed a cold smile at the agents in the doorway. “You interrupted.” So they could come grill him. Tired of this shit. He could play the bastard, and he was getting ready for his role. “I thought you were going to keep me in the loop from now on, Agent Dante.”
The woman strolled inside with careful tap-tap-taps from her high heels. She pulled out a chair next to the small wooden table. Yeah, he knew that he was in an interrogation room. These rooms all looked the same, and he hadn’t forgotten his last visit inside one.
He’d been alone then. No lawyer. No family beside him. His mom had been hysterical. They’d shoved her into the back of an ambulance, and then they’d taken him away. He’d confessed fast enough. After all, why lie?
I swung. I hit the bastard. I’d do it again.
“Why don’t you have a seat, Mr. Ridgeway?” The female agent suggested.
“Call me Max.”
Her lips curled but her bright blue eyes didn’t warm, not even a little. “Max, I’m Agent Monica Davenport.”
Right. The profiler.
Dante walked around and positioned himself near the window. A window Max was sure was reinforced, but since they were several floors up, he figured perps didn’t jump much.
Max pulled the chair out with his foot. He sat down and stretched his legs out before him. Samantha hadn’t moved yet.
Had these two been watching them from behind that mirror? If so, then they knew his weak spot. Her.
“So I heard your team screwed up again, and the other a**hole is dead,” Max said, ready to cut right through the bullshit.
“I’m afraid the perpetrator was dead before our agents could arrive on scene,” Monica said cooly, not so much as a line appearing on her face. “But I assure you, we are doing everything possible—”
“Not good enough.” Max turned his stare to Dante. “I told you, I want to know everything. No more shutting me out. Good, bad, I want to know.”
Dante nodded. “We just need you to answer a few questions first.” The guy’s voice was so calm, almost friendly. “Then we’ll move ahead and share everything we have with you.”
Max laughed. “Really; what is this? Are you supposed to be the good one?” His gaze returned to the woman. Good cop, bad cop. Stupid game. “You don’t look bad,” he told her.
“You have no idea,” she murmured back, and the arctic in her gaze nearly froze him.
“Do you know,” Dante’s voice with its hint of a southern drawl cut through the room, “why your family was targeted?”
He leaned back in the chair. “Because my stepfather is rich. Pretty easy one to figure.”
“Your stepbrother fit the victim profile,” Samantha said. His gaze slanted toward her. She stepped forward with that chin up. “I told you, he was victim number five.”
“He didn’t fit the profile perfectly. Quinlan wasn’t attending college,” Monica pointed out.
“No.” Max shook his head, aware that Samantha was coming closer. “He dropped out of Georgetown last semester.” Just a year away from getting his degree. Quinlan had said that he’d go back. Now would he have the chance?
“Does your stepfather have any enemies?” Dante asked.
Max laughed. “Yeah, dozens. Every business owner he’s ever screwed.” And there’d been a lot of them. “But for names, you’re going to need to ask him.”
“We are.” Monica tucked a strand of dark hair behind her left ear. Her right shoulder moved in a small shrug. “Do you have enemies, Max?”
A hand came to rest on his uninjured shoulder. Soft and smooth, a light touch. Samantha stood by his side. Enemies? He straightened a bit. “No one who hates me enough to do this.”
Monica opened a folder and pushed a series of photos across the table toward him. “Do you know any of these men?”
His gaze scanned the color photographs. He touched the picture of the blond with the winking grin. He would have recognized the guy even if his picture hadn’t been splashed on the news. “Adam Warrant. He and Quinlan hung out a few years back.”
He felt the sudden tension in the room. “Anyone else?” Dante asked.
Max stared down at the photos. The redhead with the broken nose looked familiar. “I… might have seen him with Quinlan once, but I can’t be sure.”
“Do you know his name?” Dante’s voice was still easy.
“No, no, I’m not even sure I saw him but I think—” He frowned, remembering a rain-soaked day when he’d gone to Quinlan’s dorm room. “I think I saw him when Quinlan was at Georgetown.” His fingers tapped on the photo. “He another vic?” Another one who knew Quinlan? What were the odds…?
“No, he’s not a victim.” Monica pulled the photo away. “He’s the perp we found with his throat slashed in the parking garage.”
His gaze flew up to catch hers.
Monica’s head inclined toward him. “Sam ran his prints and turned up a hit in our system. That’s where we got the picture. His name’s James Hackley. He’s an ex-con, and as far as we can tell, he’s never been a student at Georgetown or any other college.”
Max’s eyes narrowed.
“And this is the other man.” A photo slid toward him, and this time, it was obvious that the guy was dead. Close-cropped black hair. Closed eyes. A bullet’s entrance wound in his forehead. “Do you know him?”
Had to be the guy who’d tried to kill him. “No. Never seen him.” At least, not without a black ski mask.
“Mike went back to finish them off, just like you said.” A wide grin split the truck driver’s face. “Bet it was like shooting ducks to take out those two bastards.”
But Mike hadn’t called in. Maybe it hadn’t been so easy.
No Mike meant… even less time. “You used gloves in the truck?” The stolen pickup that they’d had for three hours. They’d swapped plates and been good to go.
“The whole time.” The guy slammed the truck’s driver side door closed. “Now let’s get out of—”
The knife caught him right between the ribs. The blade dug in deep, then twisted. Blood bubbled up from the driver’s lips.
“The plans have changed.” Not really. This had been his plan all along. Why split the money? Splitting didn’t make sense. Not when it could all be his.
“Sorry, Jim, but I guess you won’t be getting out of here.” He pulled back the blade in a long, slow glide.
Jim fell to his knees. His head sagged back as he stared up with big, dumb, what-did-you-do eyes. Stupid sonofabitch. Had he really not seen this coming?
No time to waste.
He slashed Jim’s throat open from ear to ear. One down…
By the time Jim’s head smacked into the cement, he was already in the sedan.
Then he just backed out, adjusted his mirror, saw the dead man on the ground—and kept going.
Hyde stared down at the body, careful to keep his distance from the pool of blood already settling on the cement. Different clothes, same build, and the guy was positioned right behind the damn truck that Hyde had been following.
Hyde’s jaw clenched. He’d known the instant the truck turned into the garage that trouble was coming. He’d gotten in as fast as he could, but it had taken two minutes to get inside, thanks to a traffic slowdown on the street. Two minutes.
Plenty of time for someone to die.
His gaze rose and swept the perimeter. No security cameras. Figured. He pulled out his radio. “Seal the place up,” he ordered. Too late, though; he knew it. The kidnappers had been so smooth. “No cars in and no cars out.” Not until they’d checked every inch of the place.
“Sir?”
“Get Dante on the line. Tell him we’ve got another body.” He shook his head. And tell him to get ready for more.
Because he knew how criminals operated, and it sure looked like someone was tying up loose ends.
CHAPTER Nine
Max had never been in FBI headquarters before. He paced the small room, his hands knotted and his shoulder aching.
Samantha had herded him there after they’d left the park. They’d swept away from that chaotic scene right before the reporters swarmed. She hadn’t talked to him much, but he’d caught her glancing at him, eyes wide but shadowed.
The door squeaked open behind him. He didn’t turn around. It was about time someone came in, though he knew that he’d been watched every moment since he’d arrived. That long mirror to the left had to be a two-way.
“There’s been a new development.” Samantha’s quiet voice filled the small room, and he couldn’t help but tense. “Hyde trailed the second kidnapper to a parking garage near the train station.”
Max looked over his shoulder.
“By the time Hyde got inside—”
“Who the hell is Hyde?”
Her shoulders squared. “Keith Hyde created this unit. Hyde is the Serial Services Division.” She’d ditched the eye-hurting pink jogging suit and now wore a simple black blouse and pants. The black made her skin look paler. Her hair tumbled across her shoulders.
So they’d sent in their big dog on this case. “And?” Because there was more that he wasn’t going to like. But what had he liked so far? Christ, sitting there doing nothing was killing him. For almost two days now, he’d done nothing.
Not the kind of guy he was.
“By the time Hyde got inside the garage,” she said, “it was too late.”
His heart slowed, then immediately began racing too fast as he faced her.
She exhaled. “The perpetrator he’d followed was dead, and the money was gone.”
What? “What about Quinlan? Is he alive?” He wanted the brutal truth.
Max got it.
“I don’t know,” she said softly and he realized that Samantha feared his brother was dead.
The kidnapper knew the authorities were involved. He had his money. Why bother keeping Quinlan alive?
“They planned to kill you and Malone all along,” Samantha told him. “You realize that, don’t you? That’s why they attempted the hit in the park.”
His shoulder throbbed.
“Special Agent Monica Davenport wants to talk with you. She has some questions about your family—”
Max grabbed her, clasping her shoulders and drawing her close, even as he ignored the burst of pain from his wound. “I’m a suspect? Is that what you’re telling me?”
Samantha shook her head. “Monica’s our best profiler. She’s trying to figure out why things are going differently with your family. These perps—they’ve never gone after any of the other families at the drops. But they came gunning for you.”
If he hadn’t heard that twig snap…
Samantha’s brows lowered and a faint furrow appeared on her forehead. “If you’d walked in there unarmed, you would have been a sitting duck. Even with weapons, if it hadn’t been for Ramirez, you’d probably be dead.” Her voice seemed wooden, so at odds with the dark fire in her eyes.
Max stared at Samantha, caught by her burning gaze. “You didn’t tell me you were going to be there.” If he’d known… hell, what would he have done? No way to stop her.
“I couldn’t let you walk in there without me. And when I heard the shots…” Her breath rushed out. “You scared me, Max.”
Honesty. Real emotion plain to see on her face and to hear in her voice.
This was the woman he’d needed to see. The one who’d been hiding from him. Maybe from herself. Christ, this was the woman he wanted.
“Max?”
He took her lips, crushing his mouth against hers, and he just tasted her. Not over. She couldn’t slip away from him yet.
A low moan rumbled in her throat, and a shudder worked the length of her body. Then her hands were on him, tightening around his shoulders and—
He wrenched back from her. “Fuck!”
“I’m sorry. I forgot—”
Max caught her hands and pushed Samantha back against the wall. Screw the pain. He had her, right then, right there, and he wasn’t going to lose her.
His tongue plunged deep even as his c*ck shoved against the front of his jeans. Wrong time, wrong place. He couldn’t have her here, but he’d take his taste.
And it would have to sustain him when she walked away.
Her br**sts stabbed against his chest. Tight ni**les, eager, aroused. She wanted him just as much as he wanted her. They touched and ignited.
“Why?” The question was torn from him as his mouth tasted the slender column of her throat. “Why do I need you so damn much?” Like an addiction. The more he had, the more he craved.
Was it the same for her? Did the hunger just keep growing?
Her pulse thudded beneath his mouth, so fast, but she didn’t answer him.
And he heard the squeak of the door again. Fuck them. He tightened his hold on Samantha.
“Ah… should I come back?” Quiet, cool, a woman’s voice questioned.
Samantha stiffened against him. Her hands jerked beneath his. Strong again. Why did he keep forgetting that strength?
Max eased away from Samantha and turned his stare on the new agent.
“Is everything okay in here?” Now the guy was there. Dante. He crowded in behind the dark-haired woman, and Max didn’t miss the way the guy’s hand moved to the small of her back.
“Everything’s fine,” Samantha said, and she really, really needed to get better at keeping her voice level.
Max flashed a cold smile at the agents in the doorway. “You interrupted.” So they could come grill him. Tired of this shit. He could play the bastard, and he was getting ready for his role. “I thought you were going to keep me in the loop from now on, Agent Dante.”
The woman strolled inside with careful tap-tap-taps from her high heels. She pulled out a chair next to the small wooden table. Yeah, he knew that he was in an interrogation room. These rooms all looked the same, and he hadn’t forgotten his last visit inside one.
He’d been alone then. No lawyer. No family beside him. His mom had been hysterical. They’d shoved her into the back of an ambulance, and then they’d taken him away. He’d confessed fast enough. After all, why lie?
I swung. I hit the bastard. I’d do it again.
“Why don’t you have a seat, Mr. Ridgeway?” The female agent suggested.
“Call me Max.”
Her lips curled but her bright blue eyes didn’t warm, not even a little. “Max, I’m Agent Monica Davenport.”
Right. The profiler.
Dante walked around and positioned himself near the window. A window Max was sure was reinforced, but since they were several floors up, he figured perps didn’t jump much.
Max pulled the chair out with his foot. He sat down and stretched his legs out before him. Samantha hadn’t moved yet.
Had these two been watching them from behind that mirror? If so, then they knew his weak spot. Her.
“So I heard your team screwed up again, and the other a**hole is dead,” Max said, ready to cut right through the bullshit.
“I’m afraid the perpetrator was dead before our agents could arrive on scene,” Monica said cooly, not so much as a line appearing on her face. “But I assure you, we are doing everything possible—”
“Not good enough.” Max turned his stare to Dante. “I told you, I want to know everything. No more shutting me out. Good, bad, I want to know.”
Dante nodded. “We just need you to answer a few questions first.” The guy’s voice was so calm, almost friendly. “Then we’ll move ahead and share everything we have with you.”
Max laughed. “Really; what is this? Are you supposed to be the good one?” His gaze returned to the woman. Good cop, bad cop. Stupid game. “You don’t look bad,” he told her.
“You have no idea,” she murmured back, and the arctic in her gaze nearly froze him.
“Do you know,” Dante’s voice with its hint of a southern drawl cut through the room, “why your family was targeted?”
He leaned back in the chair. “Because my stepfather is rich. Pretty easy one to figure.”
“Your stepbrother fit the victim profile,” Samantha said. His gaze slanted toward her. She stepped forward with that chin up. “I told you, he was victim number five.”
“He didn’t fit the profile perfectly. Quinlan wasn’t attending college,” Monica pointed out.
“No.” Max shook his head, aware that Samantha was coming closer. “He dropped out of Georgetown last semester.” Just a year away from getting his degree. Quinlan had said that he’d go back. Now would he have the chance?
“Does your stepfather have any enemies?” Dante asked.
Max laughed. “Yeah, dozens. Every business owner he’s ever screwed.” And there’d been a lot of them. “But for names, you’re going to need to ask him.”
“We are.” Monica tucked a strand of dark hair behind her left ear. Her right shoulder moved in a small shrug. “Do you have enemies, Max?”
A hand came to rest on his uninjured shoulder. Soft and smooth, a light touch. Samantha stood by his side. Enemies? He straightened a bit. “No one who hates me enough to do this.”
Monica opened a folder and pushed a series of photos across the table toward him. “Do you know any of these men?”
His gaze scanned the color photographs. He touched the picture of the blond with the winking grin. He would have recognized the guy even if his picture hadn’t been splashed on the news. “Adam Warrant. He and Quinlan hung out a few years back.”
He felt the sudden tension in the room. “Anyone else?” Dante asked.
Max stared down at the photos. The redhead with the broken nose looked familiar. “I… might have seen him with Quinlan once, but I can’t be sure.”
“Do you know his name?” Dante’s voice was still easy.
“No, no, I’m not even sure I saw him but I think—” He frowned, remembering a rain-soaked day when he’d gone to Quinlan’s dorm room. “I think I saw him when Quinlan was at Georgetown.” His fingers tapped on the photo. “He another vic?” Another one who knew Quinlan? What were the odds…?
“No, he’s not a victim.” Monica pulled the photo away. “He’s the perp we found with his throat slashed in the parking garage.”
His gaze flew up to catch hers.
Monica’s head inclined toward him. “Sam ran his prints and turned up a hit in our system. That’s where we got the picture. His name’s James Hackley. He’s an ex-con, and as far as we can tell, he’s never been a student at Georgetown or any other college.”
Max’s eyes narrowed.
“And this is the other man.” A photo slid toward him, and this time, it was obvious that the guy was dead. Close-cropped black hair. Closed eyes. A bullet’s entrance wound in his forehead. “Do you know him?”
Had to be the guy who’d tried to kill him. “No. Never seen him.” At least, not without a black ski mask.
