The Prey (17 page)

Adam bit his lip. “He looked familiar.”

“Familiar? Like you’ve seen him before?”

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Think, Adam! This is important.” John didn’t mean to snap, but his frustration level was rising.

“I don’t know. He just seemed familiar somehow. Like I saw him before. I’m stupid. I don’t remember. I’m stupid!” Adam pounded the dashboard with his fist.

John took in a deep breath as he turned the ignition. “You’re not stupid, Adam. You’ll remember. And when you do, I want you to call me.” He wrote his cell phone number on the back of a card and handed it to him. “Call me anytime and tell me anything you remember, okay?”

Adam took the card with a frown, turning it over and over in his fingers. “Okay.”

He marveled at the numbers of brunettes in D.C. who ignored the warnings issued by the police. Some traveled in groups, but most left work and headed for the Metro alone, or at least parted with their friends before boarding the commuter train.

He had to thank Rowan for this one. Four of the victims in her book were unidentified, so he didn’t have to worry about finding a victim to fit the name detail. It had been harder in Portland to find a Harper family that fit, but when he saw the younger daughter he knew he could deviate from the plan and send Rowan a little memory. Adapt. He’d adapted to circumstances his entire life. Adapt, manipulate, destroy.

But to find a single brunette between the ages of twenty and thirty who commuted from Washington, D.C. to Virginia was much easier. He’d picked out a potential victim last week. Tonight he waited by her car.

Another minor deviation, but one Rowan would appreciate. After 9/11, security had changed on the Metro and he couldn’t take the risk of being caught on camera. He wondered if Rowan would recognize him—it had been a long time—but he thought she would. If she didn’t, certainly they could run any image through the crime lab and learn he had a record.

That simply wouldn’t do. Rowan would learn his identity soon enough. On
his
terms, in
his
time.

Every one of Rowan’s books fascinated him. They were so full of detail, so rich with life and death. He’d been surprised the bitch was capable of such creativity. He’d studied the protagonist and wondered if Rowan had written Dara Young to be her. Dara was nothing like Rowan; the fictional FBI agent was a brunette with brown eyes, older, and actually had friends.

No family, he thought with a wide smile.

Rowan would never suspect what he planned, but it was brilliant. Brilliant! He’d always known he was smart. Much smarter than the average schmo out there. But now . . . now he was inspired.

He would break her. Then he would kill her.

He heard the Metro pull into the station, the end of the line. He grinned at the irony of it.
The end of the line
. He looked forward to this particular story. All the victims of Rowan’s fictional villain Judson Clemens were raped. He’d never thought of raping a woman. What was the point? After all, he could get laid whenever he wanted, pay for it if he had to. Not in prison, but the fags had stayed away from him after he sliced the dick of the first one who tried to fuck him. The rapist he knew in the joint had a problem with “anger management,” as the shrinks called it. He laughed. He had no problem managing his anger, no problem at all.

He concealed it very well.

But he wasn’t really raping the woman. He was simply following the script Rowan had so graciously laid at his feet. It was her plan, her victims.

Sorry, Melissa Jane Acker, this is the end of your line.

Rowan dressed in a simple black gown with a single strand of pearls around her neck. She had no desire to dress fancy for this premiere; she didn’t even want to go. But Roger was right about one thing. Though the bastard would deviate if he had to, bombing the theater was not his style.

Still, her stomach churned and she hadn’t been able to eat anything all day. Before dressing, she drank a glass of milk to settle her stomach, but it sat like a hard lump in her gut and she prayed she could get through the evening without puking.

Normally she had an ironclad stomach. But these circumstances could hardly be called normal.

When she ran this morning with Michael, she’d missed John’s presence. It wasn’t that Michael wasn’t a good bodyguard. Michael was more than competent, though she was uncomfortable with the amount of time he spent looking at her when he didn’t think she noticed.

John was more like her. When she looked at John, listened to him, she sensed he felt the same about things as she did. Not just justice—Michael had been a cop and acted it. He believed in justice. But John understood what justice really
meant
, especially to the victims who couldn’t speak for themselves.

Justice didn’t always mean prison.

But it was more than that. John’s worldview was unique and his own. After talking to Roger last night she’d quietly called around and learned more about John Flynn. She wasn’t impressed easily, but she felt a certain pride she didn’t understand knowing that John was one of the good guys, even when some operatives in government didn’t think he wore the proverbial white hat. Justice came first to John. It almost made her feel guilty for quitting the agency. Justice used to be as important to her.

Now survival was all that mattered.

John had been in harrowing situations, including a South American prison, and he’d never broken. He simply changed his boss from the government to himself and went right on fighting for justice. It was damned admirable, and Rowan hated that she hadn’t been able to do that four years ago.

But she had thought she was losing her mind.

She couldn’t help but wonder about John’s past. What did he do in Delta Force? What about after? Roger said he was DEA turned independent consultant—why had he left? To start his business with Michael? Or were there other, deeper, private reasons? Everything she’d learned about John intrigued her. She wanted to know more.

Rarely was her curiosity piqued as it was now. She didn’t focus on other people, because that meant she might start to care. And if she started to care, she might care too much.

She feared she’d already crossed the first threshold with John. She already cared.

When she walked downstairs, John and Michael were standing in the foyer talking to Quinn. All three men in tuxedos, all remarkably handsome.

John caught her eye. Her breath hitched in her chest and for a split second she saw something, sensed something, that went beyond a professional relationship.

He raised his eyebrow. He sensed it too.

Then Michael was at her side and she felt tension between the two brothers.

The last thing she wanted was to cause friction in their family. When John first came back from South America, she’d seen the quiet affection between the brothers. They would be family long after this case was settled, long after she was a dim memory.

“Rowan,” Michael began, his hand on her arm.

Quinn interrupted. “There’s been another victim. Melissa Jane Acker, twenty-four, brunette, picked up by the unknown subject at the Metro station in Falls Church, raped and strangled.”

Rowan had tried to steel herself against the pain, but it hit hard and she almost staggered. “When?” she asked, her voice dull and clipped.

“Last night. When she didn’t come to work this morning, her employer called her apartment, got no answer. Her mother went over to see if she was all right and found her.” Quinn paused, his voice softer. “I’m sorry.”

Rowan closed her eyes. She felt Michael’s hand rub her arm, trying to support her, to share his warmth. He was a comforting presence, and right now she appreciated his coddling. The way John stared at her, he seemed to be accusing her. Or maybe it was her imagination.
You can trust me
, he’d said when she freaked out over the lilies. But could she?

How could her past have anything to do with what was happening now? Even Roger thought her fear was misplaced. He, more than anyone, should know. He’d been there—he’d fought for justice for Dani and everyone else who died.

But, dammit, that fear bubbled and brewed and threatened to burst through the surface. Just because her fear was misplaced didn’t mean it wasn’t real. How long could she keep it under control?

“You don’t have to go,” Michael said. “No one will blame you.”

Rowan glanced from his concerned eyes to John’s intense glare. They both waited for her answer, but John seemed to be waiting for something more.

“I’m going,” Rowan said. “If he’s watching, he’ll know he got to me if I don’t go. I can’t let him see that I’m—worried.” She’d almost said scared. But she wasn’t going to admit it in front of these three men.

John smiled, almost imperceptibly, but Rowan felt his approval. “The place is covered. Peterson walked me through today and it’s clean.”

“Bomb-sniffing dogs are going through it right now,” Quinn said, “and you’ll go in through the back.”

“The back? If he’s watching, he won’t see me.”

Quinn glanced at Michael, his expression one of concern. “It’s the reporters, Rowan. We didn’t think you’d want to face some of the questions they might have.”

Damn, she didn’t want to, but she wasn’t going to show the killer she was afraid. “I’m not going to slink around like some scared rabbit. I’ll go in through the front.”

“Do you think that’s wise? The reporters won’t be kind.” Michael looked at her with a mixture of worry and something else, something more personal. Rowan quickly looked away. His emotional protection was convenient to avoid John’s intensity, but she didn’t want to mislead Michael into thinking she wanted more than the crutch. It was simply there and she’d been using it. Was she that shallow?

“I’m used to aggressive reporters,” she said, taking a step away from Michael. His hand fell from her back and she could breathe normally. She was making the right choice, she knew. Stand back, don’t use Michael’s offered strength. It wasn’t fair to him. “I want to know about the case. Any evidence? Did he screw up?”

Quinn touched her shoulder. “Olivia is heading up the evidence response team,” he said. “She volunteered.”

Rowan felt awful. She hadn’t called either Olivia or Miranda to tell them what was going on. She’d do it tomorrow. “I didn’t know she was field rated.”

“She’s not a field agent, though she has clearance. Roger okay’d it and I wouldn’t want anyone else processing the evidence. If the killer left anything of himself, Olivia will find it.”

“Who’s Olivia?” John asked.

“We graduated together from the Academy.” Rowan shot a glance at Quinn and he turned away, jaw clenched. Still a touchy point, she thought. “Olivia now heads up the Trace Evidence lab at Quantico.”

“John told us about your friend Adam Williams possibly seeing the suspect,” Quinn said. “He got a description from the proprietor, but it’s rough.”

“I heard.” John had called her after driving Adam back to the studio and told her what he’d learned. Unfortunately, the vague description rang no bells for her. It could have been anyone.

“Was Adam able to work with the sketch artist?” she asked, though she didn’t have much hope.

John shook his head. “He tried. Not enough detail. Maybe if we had a photo of the suspect, but even then I’d question Adam’s memory over time.”

“But, if that was him,” Quinn interjected, “and he was in Washington last night, it means he had to have flown out sometime after one P.M. Wednesday and arrived before five P.M. Thursday, Eastern time. That gives us a narrow window.” He grew excited as he talked. “Colleen’s working the airlines and we’re searching the databases for lone men traveling from Los Angeles or Burbank to Dulles or National. We can then pull all the pictures from the security cams and if we’re lucky and smart, get a clear shot.”

Rowan’s heart leapt to her throat. This might be it. He might have made a mistake. Would she recognize him? Would he be someone she knew? Someone she should have suspected, a relative, a fan? A friend? She shivered. She had few friends; that betrayal would hurt.

Not a friend. Wouldn’t she be able to see it in his eyes?

“You might want to broaden it to San Diego, Orange County, and Ontario,” she said. “He’s smart. He isn’t going to do what we expect. And check return flights. Not necessarily the same airport, but he’ll be around tonight. Just to watch. See if he’s gotten to me. I feel it.”

Damn, she was beautiful.

John’s loins stirred as soon as he saw her walk down the stairs in the simple black sheath that hugged her lean, athletic body. Her long, straight blonde hair hung like liquid silk down her back, and the single strand of pearls caressed her bare neck like a lover’s hand. He wondered if her skin was as soft as it looked, if her icy, hard exterior would melt when the right man touched her in just the right place.

He wanted her.

But she was a liar.

Not a liar in the traditional sense, but she was hiding something and that disturbed him down to his core. He’d seen it many, many times in his business. Deception not only by criminals like Pomera, but by his own government. Whether in the pursuit of crime or the pursuit of justice, secrets killed.

Yet he still wanted her. And he sensed she wanted him as well.

John glanced at his brother and saw Michael staring at him. He knew. He knew, and John wasn’t about to tell Michael he’d keep his hands off. He didn’t think he could live up to the promise, and he didn’t lie to family. He felt like a damned hypocrite and that rubbed him wrong. Hadn’t he just told Michael not to get too close?

Rowan had stopped leaning on Michael, John noted with interest. He wondered why. If she didn’t hide behind Michael’s calm understanding, John knew he could make her confess whatever secret she held locked in that beautiful head of hers. Whether or not it was relevant to the case, he needed to know.

Rowan brushed past him on her way to the kitchen. He turned to follow, but Michael crossed in front of him. Just then his cell phone rang.