Serial Games (Virginia Justice Book One)

Serial Games

by

K. Victoria Chase

Published by K. Victoria Chase

http://www.kvictoriachase.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. The reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, without the express written consent of the author constitutes a copyright violation.

SERIAL GAMES

Copyright © 2014 K. VICTORIA CHASE

ISBN 978-0-9903757-1-5

Cover Art Designed by For the Muse Designs

Edited by Faith Williams

This book is dedicated to my brothers Kahlil Bernard Chase and Jonathan Brandon Chase. May God grant you the desires of your hearts. Oh, and thank you for having such great names.

“US Marshal! Don’t move!”

The man in orange immediately halted. He raised his arms, familiar with the arrest process. His dark, bald head glistened with sweat, his breath in ragged gasps. Whatever freedom he’d thought life just offered him, was evidently too fleeting by the dejected, downward tip of his mouth and the slight droop of his chin.

With gun raised at chest level, Brandon Worth circled his prey, his footsteps barely rustling the decaying leaves and fallen twigs that littered the forest floor. His weapon aimed on the escapee, Brandon’s gaze quickly swept the wooded area, whose massive pine trees and thick underbrush could hide anyone. “Where’s your buddy — oh, hey, thanks for joining us,” Brandon finished cheerfully.

The second convict stupid enough to run had torn through what appeared to be a holly bush with teeth. The pale, dark-haired man was dressed in the same color jumpsuit that now sported tiny tears from the waist down. He slowly raised his arms and mimicked his fellow inmate’s stance.

“Now, just where did the two of you think you were going?”

The Adam’s apple on the pale man bobbed. He cut a glance at the bald guy, who remained silent.

“Aren’t you looking forward to your new home? You couldn’t have thought you’d get very far. Why run?” Brandon didn’t care how the men answered; he was simply amusing himself until the rest of his team arrived. The voice in his earpiece confirmed they were twenty seconds out.

“We ain’t the ones you should be worried about.” The bald one spoke.

Pale guy nodded. “Yeah, yeah. While y’all out here chasin’ us down, the one you really should be after is probably long gone.”

The one you really should be after
… Brandon was silent a moment as he considered the words. Of the half a dozen convicts on the transport bus, only two stayed in their seats when it was commandeered. Two others were missing, but another team was tracking their movements.

The comment continued to nag Brandon long after his team had arrived and the escapees were cuffed and on their way to the nearest detention facility. Both men had not only fear in their eyes when they spoke of one of the other fugitives, but a sense of anxiety and foreboding in their tones as well.
What’s the big deal? They’re gonna get caught
.

“Brandon!”

Brandon halted his walk to his agency-assigned vehicle amid the crowd of law enforcement vehicles and officers at the command and control point near a trucker’s rest area off Interstate 95. He had wanted to join the other team that was still out searching, having captured one of the two remaining fugitives. Brandon turned at the sound of his name. One of his colleagues jogged up to him. A file was shoved into his hands.

“You gotta take a look at this.”

“What is it?” He flipped open the manila folder and scanned the contents of the fugitive notice while he listened to the marshal’s response.

“It’s him.”

****

If it isn’t a game, then why do you say you’re losing?

The words of FBI profiler and Special Agent Margaret Weston’s mother echoed in her head. The previous evening, they had another heart-to-heart phone call. All of them ended the same: you are not in competition with your sister.

Easy for you to say. She isn’t the one lacking
. Maggie shoved the disturbing thoughts from her head. She needed to concentrate on work. She could win at work. Maggie pulled the daily paper from underneath a pile of notes for a case due to the Richmond office. The headline caught her eye.

“Suspect in Gruesome Murder of Four Surrenders”

Maggie bit her lip as she unfolded the paper to continue reading. For the last week, a small community in western Virginia had been held hostage over the discovery of four bodies found in the backyard of an ex-cop. The officer married four times; after two to five years of marital bliss, he would report his wife missing and move on to the next.

Maggie shuddered. The suspect reminded her of the profile she completed on another monster: a man obsessed with women who possessed certain features. Nine women went missing from his hometown and were never heard from again.

Burrows
…

Maggie’s fingers shook as she re-folded the newspaper. She could only imagine the suffering those women endured at his hands, their worst nightmares realized. Maggie whispered a silent prayer of thanks. Every day Burrows remained off the streets was a day the people of Culpeper, Virginia would be grateful for. Maggie expelled a breath of relief. Each day offered her an opportunity to identify and catch the bad guys. Maggie lived for it.

A knock at her office door drew her attention. Her colleague, Special Agent Douglas Fairbanks, peeked his head in. A noted look of concern crossed his features. “Maggie, you have a visitor.”

She waved her hand for Doug to enter. She didn’t expect the agent from the Richmond office until tomorrow. She gathered the loose papers on her desk into a couple of piles, careful not to cover her notes for their case. Maggie glanced up and ceased her organizing. She slowly rose from her chair, her eyes focused on the man behind Agent Fairbanks.

“This is Deputy US Marshal Brandon Worth.” Doug stepped aside and allowed Maggie a full view of her visitor.

A dark-haired, square-jawed man about six feet tall and all muscle confidently entered the room. Maggie let out a restrained breath as she took in his stonewashed jeans, tucked-in collared shirt, and dark brown blazer. His pale, gray eyes grew larger when they met hers, but by the time he crossed the room to meet her, they were unreadable.

Maggie walked around to the front of her desk. “This is Agent Margaret Weston. But everyone calls her Maggie,” Doug continued. The man extended his rather large hand during the greeting.

“Marshal.” Her hand fitted to his and an onslaught of heat surged up her arm. His firm grip and million-dollar smile nearly put Maggie in a trance. “Please have a seat.” She pulled her hand from his and gestured toward two chairs angled in front of her desk. Maggie laid both her palms on the sides of her skirt and took her time as she walked back around to her seat. The last thing she wanted to do was trip over the corner of her desk.

“Sorry to drop in unannounced.” A deep, rich voice filled the room.

Maggie decided it matched him perfectly. She shook the thought from her mind, shocked she found it there in the first place. “Thanks again, Doug,” she called before he softly closed her office door behind him. “On the contrary, Marshal. How may I help you?”

His eyes sparkled and he smiled slowly. “First off, call me Brandon.”

Maggie nodded, unsure whether she could be informal with him so soon. She prided herself in her professionalism.

“Second, I need your help.”

Maggie furrowed her brows. Did her boss forget to leave her a note about another case? She already worked a full load, with profile write-ups needed by several regional offices. “You’re in need of a profiler for a prisoner?”

Brandon’s eyes shadowed over. He placed his elbows on the armrests and interlaced his fingers in front of him. “Something like that. Do you recall a John Michael Burrows?”

Maggie’s eyes widened. “Funny you should mention his name. I was just reading an article in the paper that reminded me of him.” John Michael Burrows made her career, with barely ten years on the job. The FBI’s DC profiling division accepted Maggie’s transfer request a few years ago and almost as soon as she stepped into the office, her supervisor introduced her to her first assignment — Burrows. “At first,” Maggie continued, “police couldn’t identify a suspect in a series of unsolved female disappearances in Culpeper County. A persistent investigation linked the victims to one another, the common denominator being their unidentified suspect. We finally broke the case with the discovery of someone they all had in common. That someone was Burrows.” She casually waved a hand around. “I’m not going to lie. This office is because of Burrows.”

Brandon turned his head to get a one hundred eighty-degree view. “It’s very nice.” He grinned. She detected a note of amusement in his voice. “Your reputation precedes you.”

Maggie dipped her head, embarrassed. The spacious office boasted an open floor plan with locked file cabinets on the far wall opposite her desk. She completed ten thousand steps a day just walking from one end to the other multiple times. Yet, she did enjoy the floor-to-ceiling windows that showcased a great view of the downtown DC area.

Maggie inhaled deeply, hesitant to dwell on the compliment. The FBI awarded her a special commendation with the capture of Burrows. She held the honor of being the Bureau’s first black female profiler to ever identify and capture a serial killer. In the Virginia judicial system, the Burrows case set a precedent; Maggie provided expert testimony pivotal to Burrows receiving the death penalty for the murders of nine women, whose bodies were never found. Maggie signed the final draft of Burrows’s investigative report over a year ago with no real test of her performance as a profiler since. No case had reached that level of difficulty.

“Really, Marshal…” Maggie wanted to dispel the perception.

“Brandon,” he urged.

Maggie cleared her throat. “I was just doing my job, and I’m glad the case is over.” Maggie swallowed to relieve her dry throat. The headline of the newspaper article flashed in her mind. The ex-cop and Burrows were too similar; the need…no, the desire to kill women.

Brandon cleared his throat. “Um, not quite…”

Maggie’s breath caught; her chest tightened. Not over? Brandon’s hands gripped the sides of his chair.
US Marshals handle the transfer of prisoners and the apprehension of fugitives
… “Don’t say it.” Maggie breathed.

“He’s escaped.”

Maggie’s eyes fluttered as she tried to comprehend the news. She looked away. Escaped? The greatest danger to women in the history of central Virginia back on the streets? The Burrows case received the highest media coverage due to the threat to public safety, a title not held by any perpetrator since the DC sniper. Her breathing became more labored as the news sunk in. “How did this happen?”

****

Brandon Worth watched her eyes flash with a mix of anger and confusion when she voiced the very question at the top of his list. How did a serial killer, of all people, escape US Marshal custody? The high-profile nature of Burrows’s case, and Brandon’s tracking expertise, made him the frontrunner to head the recovery operation. He accepted the assignment without hesitation. The reputation of the US Marshals Service hung by a thread if Burrows eluded police again. Brandon lived for this type of challenge.

A quick review of the summary file revealed Special Agent Margaret Weston’s name. The reason for Burrows’s original apprehension rested with her. Usually serial killers became sloppy, or better at what they did. Burrows in no way defined sloppy. Agent Weston miraculously pieced together the horrid puzzle and singled him out as the perpetrator of the crimes. Maggie was blessed with talent for, well, comprehending the sick creatures of the earth. Logic demanded Brandon seek her help.

Brandon appraised the woman before him. He didn’t expect her youthful appearance or her understated beauty. Slightly below average in height, around five feet four or five, he found it hard not to notice her shapely hips when she walked. Her rich, deep mahogany-colored hair bounced with each turn of her head. She exhibited exotic features: cocoa-colored skin, chocolate eyes, and a full, pretty mouth. He looked casually to her left hand. No ring. In the last five years, no woman had ever induced him to linger.

But this woman…

Brandon clenched his hands. Something in him had shifted the moment his eyes rested on her. He didn’t think it was possible again. Even now he struggled to regain control.
I can’t surrender…not again
.