by Andrea Kane
And he’s back for me.
FBI New York Field Office
26 Federal Plaza, New York City
March 24
It had taken some doing, but the Asian Criminal Enterprise Task Force—C-6 as the squad was designated in the New York field office—had finally gotten a Title III so they could wiretap Chen Long Hua’s phone. A damn good thing, too, considering what they’d intercepted and pieced together from his cryptic Friday-night call. A third prostitute had been killed. Same MO, different location, according to what the Bureau had learned from the NYPD. The second prostitute had been killed in Manhattan, the first and third in Queens. No tangible link between them other than their occupation and the fact that they were Asian. Except that they all had been taken to an abandoned building, drugged, and subjected to repeated, violent sex, then killed, their throats slit with a combat knife. In all three cases, the only thing left behind had been a copper coin with a python on one side and a Greek goddess on the other. Probably the killer’s sick idea of payment for services rendered.
And there was one other connection. All three women worked at one of three Fukienese brothels the Bureau had linked to Chen—who was known on the streets as Xiao Long or “Little Dragon,” the leader, or Dai Lo, of the Red Dragons.
Chen had been ripping mad in his Friday-night phone call to his enforcer. He was convinced that Lo Ma, a.k.a. “Old Horse” and his gang, the Black Tigers, were responsible for killing his girls and trying to put him out of business. He wanted revenge. And he wanted it now.
Special Agent Derek Parker took a gulp of lukewarm coffee and turned back to his computer. His squad had kept an eye on the Red Dragons all weekend. The gang had been suspiciously quiet. That meant they were planning something. If C-6 wasn’t all over this like white on rice, an all-out turf war could erupt. Proactive measures had already been taken. Derek had alerted the NYPD’s Fifth Precinct in Chinatown and the 109th Precinct in Flushing to flood the areas with patrol cars. Reinforcements were ready to move in if Chen’s guys showed up in numbers.
Scanning his monitor, Derek continued typing up the FD-302 that detailed Friday night’s surveillance. He ignored the bing that announced the arrival of another e-mail. He’d already made a conscious decision to ignore all of them, even though his in-box was exploding in typical Monday-morning fashion. What he was doing took precedence over everything else. He was working a volatile case, with links to international organized crime. This pissing match between Xiao Long and Lo Ma could screw up years of hard work.
The Bureau had invested a lot in this investigation. They’d sent Derek down to Quantico for two weeks of specialized training. When he returned to the New York field office, he was reassigned to C-6. With one special agent out on maternity leave and another two transferred to counterterrorism, C-6 was short-staffed at a time they couldn’t afford to be.
Derek had been a logical choice to move to that squad. He’d worked just about every kind of violent crime, from kidnapping and extortion to bank robberies and murder for hire. His previous investigations had led him to cross paths with the key gang members currently under surveillance. He knew the players. He knew the turf.
And now he knew the drill.
With a quick glance at his watch, Derek saw he was running right on schedule. Eight-thirty. Early for this squad, who worked the streets till all hours of the night. Not for him. His Ranger training had taken care of that. The army had taught him leadership, respect, loyalty, and discipline. Those traits had stayed with him—discipline included. Up at six-thirty. Workout from seven to eight. Shower and dress. Grab a quick, high-protein breakfast. Then report for duty.
“Derek, good, you’re at your desk.”
Derek swiveled around to see his squad leader, SSA Antonio Sanchez, standing beside his cubicle, elbow perched on the divider.
“Hey, Tony,” he greeted him. “I didn’t know you were in yet.”
“Ditto. I thought you might show up a little late, since you worked half the weekend. Besides, your targets are first heading off to bed.”
“Yeah, but after what we heard Friday night and an eerily quiet weekend, it feels like we’re perched on a keg of dynamite. We can’t afford a full-scale gang war. I’m getting things in order for the U.S. attorney’s office. Early this afternoon, I’ve got a couple of interviews with our informants. They’ll be wired and hitting the streets to pick up on any neighborhood vibes. The NYPD is doing their thing. And the squad and I will rotate shifts in the van, listening.”
Tony gave an emphatic nod. At forty-five, he’d been with the Bureau for sixteen years. He was tight with his squad, but he was every bit a leader. He was shrewd. He was intense. And he knew his team. Including its newest member.
“There’s no doubt that a strike is imminent. Do what you have to. But plan on a short interruption around ten. There’s a meeting I need you to take.”
Derek’s brows rose. “When did this come up?”
“Over the weekend. It’ll only chew up half an hour of your time.”
“What’s it about, and who’s it with?”
“It’s about the Penelope Truman case. You’re the case agent of record. The Trumans requested that you meet with the new consultant her parents just hired.”
The Truman case? That was the last thing Derek had expected. That case had been cold for nearly a year. Plus, it was a missing persons case, unrelated to anything handled by C-6. So why was Tony inserting himself, especially when it wasn’t his style to volunteer one of his team members without any forewarning?
“I don’t get it,” Derek stated bluntly. “Is there some new lead I don’t know about? Did the Trumans hear from their daughter?”
“I wasn’t given any specifics.” Tony straightened and turned back toward his office. “Just call up the file, print out the related paperwork, and take the meeting. Answer whatever questions you can, as cooperatively as you can.” A pause. “Consider it a personal favor.”
“A personal favor,” Derek repeated slowly. “For who?”
“Me. The Trumans. And a couple of our people down in CIRG.”
It was almost time.
Sloane wandered around the table in the small meeting room on the twenty-second floor, rolling her bottle of Poland Spring between her palms and steeling herself.
The next half hour was not going to be fun. Then again, at least she knew who’d be walking through that door in—she glanced at her watch, aware that Derek was always punctual—precisely three minutes. He, on the other hand, was about to be coldcocked.
She’d called in a favor from Tony Sanchez, who’d mentored her during her hostage negotiation training in Quantico. He’d been kind enough to set things up, no questions asked, even when she requested that her name be withheld during the orchestration of the meeting.
Maybe he knew about the history between her and Derek. Maybe not.
Her bottle of water hit a tender spot in the curve between her thumb and forefinger, and Sloane winced at the contact. She used her left hand to set the bottle on the table and cap it, grimacing as the throbbing in her right hand continued. It wasn’t just the injury. The scars themselves were really bothering her today. Her physical-therapy session this afternoon was going to hurt like hell.
She began performing some simple pain-relief exercises, bending and straightening her fingers, then stretching them to relax the muscles.
The conference room door blew open, and Derek strode into the room. He had a file folder tucked under his arm, and that same cocky walk Sloane remembered all too well. It had been thirteen months, but one quick glance told her he hadn’t changed—at least not intrinsically. The surface was another matter entirely. His dark hair was longer than before and his attire was a one-eighty. Derek had always been a suit-and-tie kind of guy. Now he was wearing jeans and a navy T-shirt. Sloane couldn’t help but do a slight double take on that one.
Even without knowing who he was about to cross paths with, he clearly didn’t want to be here. His
entire body language told her that.
It got worse. His probing stare found her, and his midnight-blue gaze went from brooding to glacial.
“Sloane.” He said her name as if seeking confirmation that this wasn’t really happening.
“Hello, Derek.” Sloane had rehearsed her opening. No physical contact. Not even a handshake. No proximity. She stayed where she was, letting the table act as a barrier between them. “Right on time, as always. Excellent. I appreciate your taking this meeting. I see you printed out file information. That’ll give me a jump start. Shall we begin?” She gestured for him to take a seat.
“You’re the Trumans’ consultant?” he demanded.
“Guilty as charged.”
“And you asked Tony not to mention that.”
Clearly, he wasn’t going to make this easy.
“Guilty again. I couldn’t risk your refusing to come. So I asked Tony not to mention my name.”
“Obviously nothing’s changed. You’re still a coward.”
“And you’re still a judgmental hard-ass. Adhering to a new dress code, I see. But otherwise the same.”
“The dress code’s part of the job. You can’t blend into the gang world wearing a suit.”
“Point taken. And, hey, the jeans and T-shirt are as crisp and wrinkle-free as your suits. Different uniform, same Army Ranger.”
“Ditto for the Manhattan A.D.A.,” Derek countered, referring to her pre-FBI days as a New York City prosecutor.
“Touché.” Sloane acknowledged his dig with a tight nod. “Now that we’ve gotten the cutting remarks out of the way, can we talk about Penny Truman?”
“Why? Do you have a new lead?”
“I won’t know until you run through your case file with me.”
“I’m sure you already have all the facts. And unless you’ve become psychic, there’s nothing for you to find. I realize the Trumans are desperate for answers, and that they have the money to pay an outside consultant to find them. But you’re wasting your time. I covered all the bases, and then some.”
Sloane gripped the back of her chair and leveled a hard stare at Derek. “Leave your ego at the door, Derek. This isn’t about your skills as an agent. Yes, the Trumans are desperate. But they didn’t just call me because I’m good and because I can devote more time and resources to their case than the Bureau can. They called me for personal reasons. Penny and I were once close friends. We went through school together. I had no idea she was missing until her mother called me last week. If you need to justify my involvement in the case, use that. Spin it any way you want to. All I want is to find Penny.”
The tension in Derek’s jaw slackened a bit. “I wasn’t aware of any of this. Fine. Have a seat.”
Simultaneously, they pulled out chairs and sat down, facing each other across the table.
“Why didn’t the Trumans mention you when I questioned them?” Derek asked.
“Because Penny and I hadn’t been in touch for a while.” Sloane filled him in on the background of their friendship. “But I did know her—well. And there’s no way she’d just take off like that, not because of a job, not because of a guy. She’s either being held against her will, or dead.”
One dark brow rose.
“Yes, I’m aware the odds favor the latter,” Sloane responded. “That doesn’t mean I’m ready to call it quits—not without a fight.”
“I guess some things are worth fighting for. Others aren’t.”
Sloane gritted her teeth as the pointed barb found its mark. She’d throw it right back in his face, if his implication didn’t have merit. Plus, she wasn’t here to fight. She was here for Penny.
On that thought, she stuck to the case. “When you interviewed Penny’s friends, coworkers, ex-boyfriend, did your gut tell you anything the evidence couldn’t support?”
“Nope.” Derek’s reply was terse. “No red flags. I got the usual—apprehension over what happened to Penelope, jitters over talking to the FBI, and alibis that all checked out.”
“Including the one provided by Penny’s ex-boyfriend?”
“Yup. He was in Honolulu all week—with the colleague he dumped your friend for.” Derek slid the file across the table. “Read it for yourself. It’s all there. Copies of everything—a list of everyone Penelope knew, my interviews with each of them, details of her life during the months preceding her disappearance. Also, the names and phone numbers of the agents I worked with in the Newark field office. Take the file. Dig as deep as you want to. But after eleven months, I’d steel myself for the worst.”
“That’s par for the course these days. Steeling myself for the worst is the only way to survive.” Sloane picked up the file, pausing as she gazed down at it. “How long have you been in New York?” she heard herself ask.
“A year.”
“So you got the transfer right away?”
“We both knew I would. This field office was my first assignment out of Quantico. I spent seven years here before Cleveland. And with so many Bureau members transferring to counterterrorism since 9/11, and so few new agents requesting assignments in New York over the sunny south, a seasoned agent who’d worked Violent Crimes and kidnappings looked pretty damned good.”
“Still on SWAT?”
“Enhanced SWAT,” he corrected. “A bigger team. More sophisticated equipment. New York’s not Cleveland. Ten percent of the Bureau works here.”
“Including you now. You’ve also done some internal transferring since you got back. You moved from Violent Crimes to C-6.”
“My cases shifted. The subjects were into narcotics and gangs. So my transfer to C-6 was a logical step.”
“Tony spoke highly of you. He also mentioned that you just got back from a CE training course at Quantico. You’re building quite a diverse résumé.”
“Diversity’s good. It keeps you challenged and in demand.” Derek leaned forward, and Sloane could feel his hard stare without looking up. “What about you—enjoying the life of a high-paid consultant?”
“It keeps me challenged and in demand,” she parroted back, her chin coming up. “Plus, being my own boss is gratifying—no red tape.” Inadvertently, she gripped the file folder more tightly, causing the edge to dig into her palm right where the scars were. She flinched, and released the file.
Derek’s glance flickered from her hand to her face. His expression didn’t change. “Still in pain?”
“Yeah, well, a two-inch knife slash will do that to you. So will three surgeries, and thirteen months of physical therapy.” Sloane wasn’t looking for sympathy, nor did she expect any—not from Derek. “That’s another reason being in my own business makes sense. I need the time flexibility. My hand therapist and I see a lot of each other.”
“Three surgeries?” Derek’s eyes narrowed in puzzlement. He’d only been in her life for the first—the emergency surgery that had been performed to stop her from bleeding to death. “Why?”
“Complications,” Sloane replied tersely. “Excess scarring, grafting a ruptured tendon, nerve damage—let’s just say it’s been a busy year.” Gathering up Penny’s file, Sloane rose, her body language declaring the subject closed. “I’ve taken up enough of your time. I appreciate your candor and your thoroughness. If I pick up the slightest lead on Penny’s whereabouts, I’ll advise you immediately.”
“Here’s my direct contact information.” Still scrutinizing her, Derek came to his feet, handing her the familiar Bureau card with the official FBI logo on it, along with his own private extension and cell-phone number.
“Thanks.” Sloane responded in kind, whipping out one of her business cards and passing it across the table. “There you go. I doubt you’ll have any cause to reach me, but just in case, everything you need is on there.”
Derek glanced down at the card, which had her office and cell-phone numbers on it, but was devoid of a street address, listing Sloane’s office only as a PO box in Hunterdon County, New Jersey. “You’re working out of your parents’ vacation h
ouse,” he surmised.
“Living there, too. My folks retired to Florida. I bought the house from them. It’s perfect for my needs. Small, airy, with an extra room for my office, and four country acres to explore. My hounds like that. So does my archery course.”
“You’re shooting again.”
“Just recently. And just a bow and arrow.”
“Why? Target practice is target practice. A bow, a gun—what’s the difference?”
“About four pounds of trigger-finger pressure and a lot of dexterity and control. Right now I have none of those. It’s possible I never will.” Sloane walked around the table, passing Derek without a backward glance, and heading for the door. “But, like I said, it’s good to see you haven’t changed. Same empathetic guy. Always ready to cut a person some slack. I’ll be in touch.”
CHAPTER
FOUR
DATE: 24 March
TIME: 2200 hours
I crave my time in this room.
Peace, solitude, fulfillment. There’s nothing but me, my thoughts, and her. Being here renews my focus and my strength. And it keeps the demons away.
But only when I’m behind these doors.
I spent hours with Athena tonight. As I suspected, preparing her is harder than the others. She’s young. Intelligent. An unwelcome obstacle. Especially now. I must finish. But it exhausts me.
When I left her, I had to come here. I needed the relief—and the reminder. My resolve has to win out over my weariness. She reminds me of that. She reminds me that I have to channel my energy, even when they scream for justice. Justice delivered by my hand. And she’ll be my muse.
I don’t want to leave here. I want to shut my eyes and breathe, inhale her scent, visualize her beauty. Then I’ll sleep—maybe for an hour or two. It’s the only time I do, the only place I can.
The demons are lying in wait just outside. Once I open the door, leave this sanctuary, they’ll consume me again.
And I’ll do exactly as they command.
Hunterdon County, New Jersey
March 25, 10:15 A.M.
