Hell on the Heart (3 page)

“Right.” He grabbed her shoulders. The warmth of Rolf’s hands rubbing her shoulders anchored her. “That’s why your head’s shaking no.”

She pursed her lips to glare at him, but immediately refocused her attention back on Uncle Luca, waiting for his next words. Cain would know the terror she’d felt.

Luca’s head jerked toward the gate, so quick she almost missed it. What? This was it?

“Let’s go.” The soft command came from someone standing in front of her.

Rolf’s hand on her shoulder guided her with a gentle, but firm push toward the gate. She looked over her shoulder at Rolf, holding a question in her eyes.

“Get in the car,” he murmured. “We’ll talk later.”  The group surrounded her, crowded her between the larger men to form a protective barrier as they marched to the gate.

Dammit, they’d let the bastard win. With one quick glance back, she saw a cruel smile etch Cain’s features.

“We’re not through, little thief,” he hollered after her. “Not by a long shot. Keep watching over your shoulder, because one day soon, I’ll be there to collect what’s mine.”

It wasn’t rain. It was a deluge. Fifteen minutes earlier, gray clouds skated across the sky. Without warning, the heavens opened and drenched the unsuspecting commuters winding their way through bumper-to-bumper traffic in the nation’s capital.

John Stillwater straightened his cream colored tie as he eyed his soggy image in the glass door of the insurance company. Prerequisite dark suit, wingtips, briefcase and a corporate haircut supported his image as a life insurance agent for Family Protection Insurance.

Nothing could be done about his face. He bore the marks of a warrior not only in his eyes, but a series of scars spider-webbed the left side of body from his eyebrow to his chest, compliments of the 2004 Madrid train bombings.

His shoes sank into the thick gray carpeting as he skirted the empty front counter where a woman waited, drumming her fingers on the glossy wood, shifting her weight from stiletto to stiletto.

“Are you an agent?” She demanded as he attempted to slide by unnoticed.

Dammit. He braced himself. Her sharp voice laced with a strong sense of entitlement made his skin crawl. From experience he suspected the woman’s bravado would collapse once he turned. Gasps and repugnant looks of horror were rare, but women with children crossed the street to avoid him.

He purposely looked at the large clock on the wall, turning his head so that his scars were more visible. “Our office doesn’t open for another fifteen minutes. If you’ll have a seat, someone will be with you shortly.”

The woman backed until a chair appeared behind her knees and collapsed into it as Miranda, the pleasantly round gray-haired receptionist came through the front door, flapping her umbrella to leave as much of the rain outside as possible.

“Good, you’re here. This woman needs assistance.” He both gestured and smiled, to imitate a true-to-life insurance agent, both actions foreign and clumsy. He preferred an economy of movement. A life of military stealth was hard to reverse.

The receptionist gave him amused acknowledgement as she played out her role, allowing him to escape. He ducked behind the partition that separated the lobby from the serene offices.

The decor soothed. Subtle pastels and rich woods blended to create harmony or as he secretly suspected a barrier from the chaos that reigned one floor below. At a solid door in the far corner marked private, he punched in a code. A series of metallic clicks followed by a hollow-core thump indicated the tumblers had slid into place. The door opened and he stepped into a small stark-white alcove.

Placing his palm against a pad and his eye against a scanner, he let the machines verify his identity.

“Good morning, Agent Stillwater,” the monotone female computer voice droned as the interior door sprung open to reveal an almost sound-less elevator that took him to the basement level. “Welcome back.”

He didn’t answer. The noise sensitive computer recorded any response. Another alcove. Another door and finally he was in the FBPA office. Automatically, he reached up to loosen his tie and unbutton his collar.

“You’re back.” D’Sean Lassiter leapt to his feet in a sleek cat-like move. On more than one occasion his agile body and quick wits proved essential to their survival. “Was Minnesota as bad as you thought?”

“Montana.” Stillwater corrected absently. “Worse actually. Who’s here?”

Gray metal desks, savaged from some defunct military installation were crammed together, hemmed in by white walls lacking any ornamentation save that of the United States flag and a framed photo of the President. But despite the no-frills décor, the Federal Bureau of the Protection of Americans or the FBPA served its function well while not beholden to any overseer group other than as a direct adjunct to the President himself with the proviso that the last thing the country needed was one more secret government agency working independently of others.

Information sharing was essential. As a result, the small, tight, handpicked group operated hand-in-hand with both FBI and Homeland Security.

“Everybody except Twylla and Skeet,” D’Sean said. “She’s stuck in traffic, but should roll in any minute and he’s doing the weekly curtsy at Quantico.”

Stillwater studied the black man as he spoke. Something was different. “You shaved your head. Cornrows got old?”

D’Sean ran long tapered fingers over his newly shorn head. “What’d you think?”

Stillwater shrugged. What’d he think? He thought his partner of ten years looked like his partner, but without hair. “It’s not what I think that matters. Do women think you are still ‘lickable’?” He raised his eyebrows in amusement as he quoted one of the many barflies who’d lusted after D’Sean.

The black man laughed. Combined with his smooth looks, many were fooled into doubting his ability as a warrior. Stillwater knew different. No one else could be trusted to have his back, and he was confident D’Sean believed the same. But that didn’t mean their relationship didn’t include a heaping helping of trash talk. While the rest of the team approached carefully, D’Sean lived to annoy.

“What’s not to love, Tonto?”

Stillwater grunted, refusing to give in to the taunt. Tonto. His Indian heritage was a fact, but he was nobody’s sidekick. And he was nobody’s whelp. “I bet Shantell could answer that better than me.”

Shantell was a crazy woman, the kind that flocked to Lassiter like dust to computers. The black man sported two superficial gunshot wounds from a wild night in Chicago when she’d chased him down a hotel corridor firing a Saturday-Night-Special. He’d taken a load of shit from the team over that incident. Even more after it became public knowledge that he’d been buck-naked at the time.

D’Sean scowled. Direct hit. John smiled for the first time since his return from Montana.

Lassiter wasn’t one to go down without a fight. “Your day’s coming, Tonto. Some hot little mama will take you in hand and you’ll never know what hit you. She won’t be like those other women you choose, so eager to please.” His fingers fluttered under his chin and he batted his eyes.

John snorted, confident in his retort. “Never. Women I see know the rules. They’re welcome to come home with me at night as long as they’re gone in the morning.”

D’Sean shifted his shoulders as though warding off an invisible hand as he scoffed in disbelief. “I can feel it in my bones. Hundred bucks says it happens before Christmas.”

Almost seven months? Piece of cake. “You’re on. Gather everyone in the conference room in…” he glanced at his watch, “twenty-seven minutes.”

He heard Lassiter’s amused chuckle as he sauntered back into the bullpen to spread the word. Stillwater dropped the file folders onto his desk and closed his office door.

Winning the bet would be a snap. This case promised to be his undoing. As a healthy male, he liked women. And women liked him back, despite his scarred face or in some cases because of it. But recently he couldn’t talk to a woman without evaluating what each of her actions or reactions would get her if he hadn’t been one of the good guys. It’d be a miracle if he managed another date before Christmas.

In thirty-four years, he’d seen more than his fair share of human misery and cruelty. Every time he closed his eyes, the shattered faces of the young girls he interviewed danced before him. Good thing sleep was overrated.

The girls in Montana were the lucky ones. They’d been rescued. Family and friends waited to welcome them home and help put their lives back together. How many other parents waited for word on their missing daughters?

As he concentrated on entering details from the Montana trip into his computer, D’Sean opened his door a second time and poked his head inside.

“What does the schedule look like for this week?” D’Sean attention was focused on the cell phone glued to his ear and for a brief moment, John wasn’t sure the question was directed to him. His fingers poised above the keyboard hung in midair while he waited to see if D’Sean needed him to respond.

“It’s not an issue. I can get there,” Lassiter spoke into the phone addressing the caller on the other end. Concern and intimacy flowed through his voice. This was a personal call.

John returned his eyes to the monitor and resumed working, giving his partner privacy that hadn’t been requested.

“Are you sure?” Lassiter asked after several minutes of silence. John glanced up and D’Sean shook his head mouthing ‘never mind’ as he disappeared into the hallway, pulling the office door closed behind him.

Stillwater immediately dismissed the call from his mind. If Lassiter wanted to share the details, he’d volunteer them.

The conference room was a misnomer. It was the only place that had enough chairs for the team to gather and compile data. John chose the chair at the far end of the rectangular cherry wood table, a discard from the upstairs Insurance office.

RJ “Ciggy” Reynolds, computer geek and demo expert, pulled up a chair next to him, flipped it around and threw a leg over the seat. “Judging by your expression, I’d say you didn’t get what you wanted.” His freckled moon-shaped face belied his concern. Unlike the rest of the team, Ciggy actually looked the part of an insurance agent despite the fact he’d shed his jacket and tie.

Stillwater ran a hand through his hair. “I did and I didn’t. We have a break through, but the situation is much more pervasive than we imagined.” He nodded to each of the others as they trickled through the door and took seats.

D’Sean, the last to arrive, settled on the opposite side. “So what do we know?” Around the table the three men and one woman leaned in closer for a detailed report.

John shook his head. “Nothing good. My info confirms all our suspicions.”

The group groaned. He opened the top file.

“Becca George,” he flashed her driver’s license photo from three years earlier, “just turned sixteen. In the middle of the day, two men, one with a television camera knocked on her door in Shreveport, Louisiana with a huge bouquet of balloons. Told her she’d won a ten thousand dollar shopping spree at a local mall from a contest she didn’t remember entering. A limo was to take her to the television station for the public announcement. Her parents were already on their way to meet her at the station. The sixteen year old didn’t even hesitate. Once she was in the back seat of the limo, she doesn’t remember another thing until she woke up naked, cuffed to a bed in a strange house.”

He pulled another photo from the file folder. “Here is what she looks like today. Nineteen. Haggard. Underfed. Scars, bruises and broken bones decorate her body with the addition of intimate piercings and a branding that I can’t even imagine how painful it must have been.”

He grit his teeth to keep his anger from spewing forth. The others at the table, hardened men and woman, all ex-military, who had seen both combat and suffering, looked shocked as he recited the facts.

He opened the second file folder and passed another photograph. A typed bundle of pages held the next girl’s story, but Stillwater didn’t refer to his notes. Each story was imprinted in his memory.

“Courtney Shaffer and her best friend Sarah Pickens were looking for a night of adventure before they headed off to college the following week. A limo driver, waiting for his boss, convinced them to try a three-way in the back of the limo. It was all fun and games until the boss showed up. The limo driver scrambled out to explain the situation. The last thing Courtney remembers is the limo motor being turned on. She never saw her friend Sarah again. I’ve checked the records in Clearwater, Florida. Neither girl has been heard from in twenty-seven months.”

More photos changed hands. At the end of the table, Dare posted the pictures on the whiteboard and carefully printed their names and abduction date underneath.

“The third girl was a college student, Missy Harding. She left a campus party about midnight. Two men standing beside a black limo were arguing over a map. She offered to help, and since they were going in the same direction she accepted a ride home.”

“Oh, man,” Ciggy mumbled under his breath, loud enough John heard.

“That’s not the end. At the party she and her boyfriend had a fight, which was why she left the party alone. He was tried, convicted and hanged himself in prison.”

The room was silent while the man absorbed the damage done to both families.

Dare directed their attention back to the situation at hand. “How are they subduing the girls?”

“I’m assuming the limo is rigged with some sort of gas that’s being piped in. Probably activated by a lever from the driver’s seat. None of the girls could remember smelling or hearing anything unusual. Most limos have a window between the driver and the passengers. Closed and properly sealed, anybody in the front seat wouldn’t feel the effects of the gas.”