Kill Without Mercy

by Alexandra Ivy

  “Exactly,” Rafe agreed, leaning forward to keep anyone from overhearing his words. “Keep an eye on Hauk. I don’t think he’s taking the threats seriously enough.”

  “Got a hunch?” Teagan demanded.

  Rafe nodded, as always surprised at how easily his friends accepted his gut instincts. “If someone wanted to hurt him, they wouldn’t send a warning,” he pointed out. “Especially not when he’s surrounded by friends who are experts in tracking down and destroying enemies.”

  Teagan nodded. “True.”

  “So either the bastard has a death wish or he’s playing a game of cat and mouse.”

  “What would be the point?”

  Rafe didn’t have a clue. But people didn’t taunt a man as dangerous as Hauk unless they were prepared for the inevitable conclusion.

  One of them would die.

  Rafe gave a sharp shake of his head. “Let’s hope we have a culprit in custody when we find out. Otherwise . . .”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to him, my man.” Teagan grabbed Rafe’s shoulder. “Not on my watch.”

  The small but stylish condo on the edge of Denver offered a quiet neighborhood, a fantastic view of the mountains, and a parking garage that was worth its weight in gold during the long, snow-filled winters.

  With a muted blue and silver decor, the condo was precisely the sort of place expected of an upwardly mobile young professional.

  Not that Annie White was upwardly mobile.

  Not after walking away from her position at Anderson’s Accounting just six months after being hired.

  At the moment, however, she didn’t really give a crap about her future in the business world. Instead she was trying to concentrate on her packing. A task that would have been easier if her foster mother hadn’t been following behind her, wringing her hands and predicting inevitable doom.

  “I wish you hadn’t traveled all this way, Katherine,” Annie said to her foster mother, moving from the bedroom to the living room to place a stack of clean underwear in her open suitcase.

  The older woman was hot on her heels. Still attractive at the age of fifty-five, Katherine Lowe had faded red hair that was pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head, and clear green eyes that could hold kindness or make a child cringe with guilt.

  Dressed in a jade sweater and dress slacks, her narrow face was currently tight with concern. “What did you expect me to do when you called to say you were traveling back to that horrible place?” Katherine demanded.

  Annie swallowed a sigh. Unlike her foster mother, her honey-brown hair tumbled untidily around her shoulders, the golden highlights shimmering in the September sunlight that streamed through the skylight. Her pale features were scrubbed clean instead of discreetly coated with makeup. And her slender body was casually covered by a pair of faded jeans and gray sweatshirt.

  With her wide, hazel eyes she barely looked old enough to be out of high school, let alone a trained CPA.

  “I shouldn’t have called,” she muttered.

  She loved her foster parents. She truly did. There weren’t many people who would take in the ten-year-old daughter of a serial killer. Especially after she’d spent several months in a mental institution.

  They’d not only provided a stable home for her on their ranch in Wyoming, but they’d offered her protection from a world that was insatiably curious about the only survivor of the Newton Slayer.

  Now, however, she wished her foster mother would dial back on the fussing.

  “You think I wouldn’t have found out?” Katherine demanded.

  Annie grimaced. She tried to ignore the fact that while she’d moved away from the ranch, her parents continued to monitor her on a daily basis.

  Not only by their nightly calls, but by speaking with her boss, Mr. Anderson, who happened to be a personal friend of her foster father.

  They only wanted to make sure she was safe.

  “I don’t want you to worry,” Annie said.

  Katherine waved a hand toward her open suitcase. “Then reconsider this rash trip.”

  Annie moved into the bathroom, collecting her toiletries as she struggled to smooth her features into an unreadable mask.

  Overall, her foster parents had been supportive. They’d urged her to discuss her past with them as well as a trained therapist. They’d even allowed her to keep a picture of her father beside her bed, despite the devastation he’d caused. But the one thing they refused to accept was her claim that she’d seen visions of the murders as they’d happened.

  And they weren’t alone.

  No one believed the strange images that had plagued her were anything more than a figment of her overactive imagination.

  Over the years, Annie had tried to convince herself they were right. It was insane to think they’d been psychically connected to her father while he was committing the murders.

  Right?

  Then two nights ago the visions returned.

  The images had been fragmented. A woman screaming. A dark, cramped space. The shimmer of a knife blade in the moonlight. Newton’s town square.

  Annie didn’t even try to deny the visions.

  Either she was losing her mind—or they were real.

  The only way to know was to return to the town and confront her nightmares.

  “It isn’t rash,” she said as she returned to the living room. “I’ve given it a great deal of thought.”

  Katherine made a sound of impatience. “But what about your position at Anderson’s?”

  “It’s possible they’ll hold my job for me,” Annie said, mentally crossing her fingers.

  It wasn’t a total lie.

  Her supervisor had said they might reconsider rehiring her when she returned.

  “Do you realize how many strings Douglas had to pull to get you a place at such a prestigious firm?” Katherine demanded, clearly not appeased. “In this economy it’s almost impossible to find anything that isn’t entry level.”

  Annie turned to take her foster mother’s hands. She knew she should feel bad about leaving her position. It was what she’d trained to do, wasn’t it?

  “And I appreciate everything he’s done for me,” she assured the older woman. “That you’ve both done for me.”

  Katherine clicked her tongue. “If that was true you wouldn’t be tossing it all away on this harebrained scheme.”

  “I get that you don’t understand, but it’s something I have to do.”

  Katherine pulled her hands free, clearly frustrated by Annie’s rare refusal to concede to her stronger will. “Nothing can change the past,” she snapped.

  Annie turned, unnecessarily smoothing the jeans she’d placed in the suitcase.

  This wasn’t about the past. The visions weren’t memories. They were glimpses of the present.

  “I know that,” she murmured.

  “Do you?” Katherine pressed.

  “Of course.”

  There was a long silence, as if the older woman was considering the best means of attack.

  Katherine Lowe was a wonderful woman, but she was a master of manipulation.

  “Is this because it’s the anniversary of the deaths?” she at last demanded.

  The thought had crossed Annie’s mind. Within a few days it would be exactly fifteen years since the killings started.

  Who could blame her for being plagued with hallucinations?

  But her heart told her it was more than that.

  “I don’t think so,” she hedged.

  Katherine pressed her hands together, a certain sign she was trying to maintain her temper. “Maybe you should talk with your therapist.”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  “I don’t need a therapist,” Annie said, her voice uncharacteristically hard.

  What was going on in her head couldn’t be cured by sitting in a room and talking.

  She had to go see for herself.

  Seeming to realize she couldn’t badger Annie into giving up her pl
ans, Katherine glared at her with an annoyance that didn’t entirely disguise her concern. “What do you hope to find?”

  Annie flinched.

  It was a question she didn’t want to consider.

  Not when the answer meant she was out of her mind. Or worse, that there was a killer on the loose.

  “I just need to know that . . .” Her words trailed away.

  “What?”

  “That it’s over,” she breathed. “Really and truly over.”

  A shocked expression widened Katherine’s eyes. “What are you talking about? Of course it’s over. Your father . . .” The older woman hastily crossed herself, as if warding off an evil spirit. “God forgive him, is dead. What more proof do you need?”

  Annie shook her head. “I can’t explain.”

  Reaching out, Katherine placed her hand on Annie’s arm, her expression anxious. “Do you know how many nights I woke to hear you screaming?”

  Annie bit her lower lip. No one could have been more patient over the years as Annie had struggled to heal from the trauma she’d endured.

  The last thing she wanted was to cause Katherine or Douglas even more concern.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, Annie.” Katherine pulled her into her arms, wrapping her in the familiar scent of Chanel No. 5. “I’m not trying to make you feel bad. I just don’t want the nightmares to come back.”

  “They already have,” Annie whispered, laying her head on her foster mother’s shoulder. “That’s why I have to go.”

  Chapter Two

  The small café on the north side of the town square had a large front window painted with the name “Granny’s Home Cooking.”

  Rafe didn’t know if there was an actual granny doing the cooking, but the place looked like it’d been around long enough for the original granny to be long gone.

  There was a chipped linoleum floor straight out of the fifties, along with aluminum tables with Formica tops. Overhead, the drop ceiling was faded a weird shade of yellow, while fluorescent bulbs flickered with a crazy light that threatened to cause a seizure.

  But despite the lack of elegance or any adherence to basic health regulations, the food was actually edible and the coffee was hot and black, just as he liked it.

  A good thing, since his hope of finishing the packing of his grandfather’s belongings in a day or even two had been demolished the second he’d entered the small house. Hell, he’d barely managed to shove open the front door without toppling over the boxes that were stacked from floor to ceiling.

  Worse, there was a garage and two outbuildings that were equally stuffed.

  His first instinct was to toss the entire mess in the Dumpsters he’d had delivered the day he’d arrived. It wasn’t as if the old man had anything of value.

  Most of the shit looked like it’d been bought at the local flea market.

  It was only the knowledge that his father would have wanted him to keep any family pictures or heirlooms that’d forced him to face the daunting task of actually going through each box.

  Which meant he was stuck in Newton for at least a week, if not two.

  Finishing his French toast, Rafe was waiting for a refill on his coffee when he realized the middle-aged waitress was busy with a young woman who’d entered and taken the table next to the wall while he was busy checking through the messages on his phone.

  Well . . . hello. How’d he missed a beauty like that sitting a few feet away?

  He wasn’t a horny eighteen-year-old anymore, but damn, he wasn’t dead.

  Leaning on his elbows, he openly studied the pale, perfect face that was framed by a curtain of windblown brown hair. No, wait. Not brown. It was a glorious multitude of colors. Honey and gold and sunlight.

  Her eyes were wide and thickly lashed, although he couldn’t determine their exact color, and her lips were a lush curve that made a man think about the pleasure of having them exploring various parts of his body.

  She wasn’t a flashy beauty, but she had a wholesome prettiness that drew him with a fierce urgency he hadn’t felt in far too long.

  Ignoring the voice in the back of his head that warned he didn’t have time for distractions, no matter how delectable, Rafe turned in his seat, watching as the waitress with the name tag that revealed she was Frances laid a laminated menu in front of the woman.

  “You in town for long?” the plump waitress with short salt-and-pepper hair demanded.

  Rafe lifted his brows.

  So the beauty wasn’t a local.

  “I’m not really sure.” The woman grabbed the menu, studying it with an unnecessary concentration, as if hoping the nosy waitress would take the hint and move away.

  Rafe could have warned her that she was wasting her time.

  Frances was a nice enough lady, but she wasn’t shy about prying into her customers’ private business.

  “Visiting family?” the older woman pressed.

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, of course you would be. Not much else in this place to bring visitors.”

  The stranger kept her head down. “True.”

  Impervious to the lack of enthusiasm, Frances bent down to get a better look at her customer’s face. “You look familiar,” she said. “Do I know you?”

  The woman tucked her hair behind her ear in a gesture that seemed oddly nervous. “I doubt it,” she muttered.

  “Are you on TV?”

  “No.”

  “Were you in the papers?”

  “I—” The woman seemed to shrink into her seat, as if wishing the floor would open up and swallow her.

  Before he even realized he was moving, Rafe was out of his seat and crossing to slide into a chair opposite the poor badgered stranger.

  “Hey, Frances, can I get another cup of coffee and some of your world-famous French toast for my friend?” he said as both women glanced at him in surprise.

  “Friend?” Frances lifted her brows in disbelief.

  He flashed a killer smile. “Absolutely.” He tugged the menu from the younger woman’s unresisting fingers and handed it to the waitress. “And we’re in something of a hurry, so if you don’t mind.”

  The older woman studied him with a narrowed gaze. Then seeming to decide he didn’t intend any harm to her pretty young customer, she turned away with a smile. “Charming rascal.”

  Waiting until the waitress was out of earshot, the woman leaned across the table to glare at him.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  Rafe sprawled back in his seat, admiring the wide hazel eyes flecked with gold.

  Exquisite.

  Or they would be if they weren’t shadowed with a hidden fear, and the skin below them wasn’t bruised with weariness.

  His spidey sense was on instant alert.

  This wasn’t a woman here to enjoy a family reunion.

  She was on the run from something. Or someone.

  The realization should have put an end to his fascination. After all, the last thing he needed was to get involved in some stranger’s trauma. Even if his every instinct urged him to wrap her in his arms and carry her away from this place.

  But Rafe had a full-blown case of savior complex.

  And even recognizing the symptoms, there was no way in hell he was going to be able to walk away. Instead, he held the female’s gaze and kept his voice deliberately light.

  “Having endured Frances’s special brand of interrogation, I thought you could use some backup,” he teased. “I swear the woman should have been alive during the Spanish Inquisition.”

  “So you’re just a Good Samaritan?” Her voice was soft. Deliciously feminine.

  “We’re both strangers in town,” he pointed out. “It seemed like you could use a helping hand. End of story.”

  There was a subtle shift in her expression.

  Wariness.

  Suspicion.

  “You don’t live here?”

  “Rafe Vargas. Born and raised in San Antonio,
Texas, although I’ve recently relocated to Houston.” He reached out his hand, not surprised when she refused to shake it. She was so tense she looked like she might shatter into a thousand pieces. Besides, she was clutching a newspaper as if it was a lifeline. “And you are?”

  She hesitated before grudgingly offering her name. “Annie.”

  “Just Annie?”

  “Yes.”

  “A woman of few words.” His smile widened. “I like it.”

  She sucked in a deep breath, annoyance replacing the unease in her eyes.

  Which suited Rafe just fine. She clearly needed a distraction from her problems.

  “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m not in the mood for company,” she informed him.

  He ignored her warning, reaching across the table to tug the paper from her white-knuckled grip. “Is this today’s?”

  “That’s mine,” she snapped as he unfolded the front page to reveal the enormous headline:

  FIFTEENTH ANNIVERSARY OF THE NEWTON SLAYER

  Below it were two grainy pictures. One was an image of seven bodies in a morgue, covered by sheets, and next to it was a middle-aged man with brown eyes and a kind smile.

  “Gruesome,” he muttered.

  “Ah.” Frances reappeared at the table, refilling Rafe’s coffee mug at the same time she tapped a finger to the picture of the man. “That’s our local celebrity.”

  Rafe frowned. “Celebrity?”

  “Yep. Don White murdered seven women before he was caught.” Frances gave a dramatic shudder. “A terrible thing.”

  “Yes, murder usually is,” Rafe said, covertly glancing at the woman across the table.

  Her face was white, her hands clenched together.

  What the hell?

  Was she related to one of the victims?

  “I’d forgotten it was the anniversary,” the waitress continued, leaning her hip against the table. “Not to brag, but I knew him.”

  Rafe was barely listening, his gaze locked on Annie. “Really?”

  “Oh yes. Came in for breakfast before Sunday school regular as clockwork. Brought his sweet daughter—” Frances’s babbling words came to a sudden halt as she snapped her fingers and pointed toward a startled Annie. “That’s it. That’s why I thought you looked familiar. I never forget a face even if it has changed over the years,” she said. “Little Annie White.”