by Andrea Kane
Her eyes closed, and she was gone.
Luke just stared for a moment, paralyzed with disbelief. Then he lost it, leaning forward until he was lying across his mother’s lifeless body. “I love you, too,” he wept, his whole body trembling. “Don’t leave me…I can’t be here alone.” He was openly sobbing now, sliding to his knees, his head, neck, and shoulders bowing over Lillian as he clutched the blanket Sloane had tucked under her chin.
Sloane knew this was her moment. Luke was consumed with shock and grief, distracted from everything but Lillian’s passing, and devoid of weapons.
She might have tried to grab for the pistol in the hopes of stopping him without causing him further pain. She might have, if he hadn’t muttered his next words: “I’m coming soon, Mother. We all are. To serve you on Mount Olympus.”
That clinched it.
Self-preservation took over. So did her Krav Maga training.
Fisting her left hand, Sloane delivered a devastating blow to the back of Luke’s neck where his brain stem lay beneath the skin. Without pausing, she followed her left punch with a strike from her right elbow to the same spot on his neck. She couldn’t see his face, but she knew her abilities. She’d knocked him momentarily unconscious.
As if on cue, Luke slumped to the floor, making her job that much easier. She caught his shoulders as he went down. There was no time to waste. She had no idea how long he’d stay unconscious.
Using the core strength she’d built up over years of training, Sloane pulled Luke toward the post at the foot of Lillian’s bed. She forced him into an upright position, propping his back against the bed. She then untied the rope that was looped around her waist as a chiton belt. Fortunately, it was thick and sturdy. Yanking it off, she used it to tie Luke’s feet securely together. Then she pulled both of his arms behind him and around the bedpost. Once they were in position, she untied the rope belt from his chiton, and used it to bind his wrists together.
She rose, surveying her handiwork. Even if Luke came to, he wouldn’t be able to get out of here, not without taking the whole bed with him.
Swiftly, she reached down to where Luke had been standing and picked up his combat knife and pistol. As an extra precaution, she dashed quickly down to Luke’s room. Sure enough, the room keys were on his night table, where he’d placed them after he’d changed into his ceremonial garb. Sloane took the whole ring of them and ran back to Lillian’s room.
Luke was still out cold.
Sloane paused for a brief second next to Lillian’s body. “Rest in peace, Lillian,” she murmured. “Luke will get the help he needs.”
With that, Sloane turned and left the room, shutting the door behind her. Placing the knife and the pistol on the floor, she rapidly tried each key on Luke’s key ring until she found the one that fit the lock on Lillian’s door.
She slipped it in and turned it, listening for the click that assured her the bolt had engaged. Once she heard that, she jiggled the door handle just to make sure it was locked.
Retrieving the two weapons, she dashed down the first flight of stairs. She had no idea when Luke had set the timer for. But she had to get those women out of here before the place blew up.
As she neared the first-floor landing, there was an enormous thundering crash, and the entire house shook. The front door practically exploded from the impact of the ram, and SWAT breached the entry, pouring inside.
“Gas,” someone yelled.
The SABTs were immediately on it, heading toward the basement steps and, ultimately, to the furnace area, where experience told them the bomb would most likely be.
“Half of you go with them and free the victims,” John McLeod said to his SWAT team as the muffled cries of female voices begging for help reached their ears. “The rest of us will split up so we can secure the remainder of the house—this level and upstairs.”
“The upstairs is clear,” Sloane announced, reaching the bottom of the stairs and addressing SSA McLeod as she raised her hands high—pistol and key ring in one, combat knife in the other—to demonstrate her non-threatening status. “I’m Sloane Burbank,” she said. “The subject is unconscious, tied up, and locked in the first bedroom upstairs on your left. I have the exact key isolated.” She jiggled her appropriate hand. “May I?”
“Of course.” It was Derek’s voice, and she’d never heard a more welcome sound in her life. “Lower your hands, Sloane.”
“Thanks.” She managed a weary grin. She then placed the weapons on the floor and handed the SWAT team leader Luke’s key ring, gripping the key to Lillian’s room between her fingers to keep it isolated.
“You said the subject was unconscious?” McLeod asked.
“When I left him, yes. My guess is, he’ll be out for a while. I slammed his brain stem pretty hard—twice.”
“With his weapon?”
“With my fist and my elbow.”
“I see.” McLeod looked a little taken aback, and Sloane could see Derek’s lips twitch.
“The only other upstairs occupant is the subject’s mother, Lillian Doyle,” Sloane continued. “She’s deceased. Natural causes; end-stage cancer. Her body is in the same room where you’ll find her son.”
“Nice work,” McLeod commented, gesturing for several of his men to go upstairs and carry out the secured subject and his deceased mother. His gaze returned to Sloane. “Are you hurt? Or is that a stupid question?”
“I’m fine.” Sloane was already heading for the basement. “But there are seven hysterical captives down there, who’ve been sedated, and are terrified they’re about to be carved up.”
“Sloane, stay the hell away from there,” Derek ordered as he and the rest of the team blew by her. “Let us do our job. We’ll evacuate the victims. The SABTs will take care of the bomb. And you’ll get your ass out of this house.”
“I don’t know how much time is left,” Sloane called after him, ignoring his command to leave.
“Then we’ll have to move fast.” He and his team were halfway down the steps. “Are they all alive?” he yelled over his shoulder.
“Yes,” Sloane yelled back. “Somewhere on your right. Just follow their voices.”
“Come with me, Ms. Burbank.” One of the state troopers was easing her toward the open space where the front door had been. “We need to keep the area clear so SWAT can do their job.”
Reluctantly, she complied. She could hear the SWAT team moving from room to room, securing each of them as they progressed toward the women.
In the meantime, the SABTs had spotted the propane cylinders, proceeding with caution toward the garbage can. They assessed the bomb, then radioed for the disrupter to be brought down ASAP to the basement. If the numerical display on the detonator was correct, they were almost out of time.
When the disrupter arrived, they positioned it carefully at the crude incendiary device Luke had constructed, and fired it. With the detonator deactivated, one of the bomb techs carefully removed the liquid-filled ice-cream container, making sure not to spill its contents. With the bomb and its components secured, he and his partner then focused on closing the valves on the propane tanks and dispersing the explosive gas that had accumulated in the basement.
Having conducted a final search to ensure that no other incendiary devices had been placed, the SABTs resurfaced, and gave the thumbs-up to SSA McLeod.
“Great work, guys,” McLeod said.
A second later, Sloane heard Derek call out to the victims. “FBI. We’re going to get you out of there. Step away from the door.” Another loud crash as the door gave way from the impact of the ram.
One by one, the women were carried up the stairs and out to freedom.
Sloane moved to the side of the porch, counting and matching names with faces. She recognized Lydia Halas right away. Striking Mediterranean coloring, a serene expression on her face. She looked drawn and gaunt from her ordeal, but she was still the same kind-looking RN who’d cared for Sloane at the hospital. Even now, drugged and dazed,
Lydia spotted Sloane and managed a weak smile as the agent carried her outside.
Another of the state troopers hurried over. “I called the EMTs. They’ll be here in ten minutes to take these ladies to the hospital, and have them checked out.”
Next, came Cynthia Alexander, whom Sloane identified from her photos. She was trembling violently. “My parents…” she whispered, tears filling her eyes.
“Your mother’s been in New York ever since you disappeared,” Derek, who was carrying her, reassured her at once. “I’ll call her now and send a police car to pick her up. She’ll meet you at the hospital.”
“Thank you,” she managed.
Sloane didn’t recognize the next three victims. Two were older, more mature-looking. One was a college kid.
“Eve Calhoun,” Derek reported from behind her. “You worked in the D.A.’s office at the same time. Helen Daniels, and her daughter, Abby—a professor and a student at Penn State.”
“My first workplace…and my alma mater…” Sloane shook her head in disbelief.
“You have no idea how warped Luke Doyle is.”
“I think I do,” Sloane replied softly. “That’s Lauren Majors,” she murmured as a woman in her late twenties, who looked shell-shocked, was carried to freedom.
“There’s one more,” the agent who was transporting her reported. “She’s in bad shape emotionally. Even sedated, she’s cowering in the corner.”
Derek met Sloane’s gaze. “I’ll go.”
“I’ll go with you.”
He didn’t argue. The two of them reentered the house, descended the stairs, and went to the anointment room.
Penny was shuddering and cringing in the far corner, her gaze hollow, her arms wrapped around herself for security. After a year in captivity, she was severely traumatized.
Sloane went right to her, speaking softly, saying familiar and soothing things. “Penny? It’s Sloane. It’s so good to see you. It’s been forever.” She squatted down beside her friend. “We have so many years of catching up to do. Your mom and I had tea the other day. She served me ladyfingers, just like old times. She looks wonderful. But she’s very worried about you. So’s your dad. Can we take you home to them?”
Slowly, Penny tilted back her head, gazed at Sloane with a flicker of hope and recognition. “Sloane?”
“It’s over, Pen.” Gently, Sloane caressed her hair. “We got him. You’re free. The nightmare is over.”
Tears began sliding down Penny’s cheeks. “Really?”
“I promise. We can carry you out of here right now.”
Penny continued gazing at Sloane, and it was obvious the reality had only partially sunk in. She was somewhat heavily sedated, and between that and the effects of her long-term confinement, she was pretty out of it. Still, she stopped shaking, willingly accepting their assistance. “Okay.”
She sounded like a child. That broke Sloane’s heart. But she reminded herself that it could have been a lot worse. Penny was alive. Alive and physically unharmed. The emotional healing would come—with time and counseling.
Sloane and Derek made a chair with their hands, and together carried Penny outside. Penny gripped Sloane’s chiton the entire time.
“You won, Penny,” Sloane said adamantly. “And so did all the other women. Everyone’s fine.”
Sloane’s words were swallowed up by the sound of approaching ambulances.
“Great timing.” Sloane waited, then she and Derek carried Penny over to the trained medical techs who would transport her to the hospital. “I’ll call your parents,” she promised her friend. “They’ll probably charter a helicopter and fly to meet you.”
A tiny flicker of amusement touched Penny’s lips—the first human reaction Sloane had seen her show.
“Aren’t you coming, ma’am?” the medical tech asked Sloane.
“It’s not necessary. I’m fine.” She shook her head.
“She’ll be there,” Derek amended. “I’ll bring her myself.”
He shut the doors so the women could get to the hospital ASAP.
“Is everyone out now?” one of the state troopers asked Derek.
“Yes.” Derek nodded. “Everyone’s out.”
The trooper trudged back to the scene as the ambulances drove off and the tension began to ebb.
Once the din had died down, Derek turned to face Sloane. She looked disheveled, pieces of her braid having come loose to dangle down the sides of her face. Her ridiculous tunic-thing was hanging on her like a queen-size sheet, with no belt to hold it in place. She was a total mess—and Derek had never seen a more beautiful sight in his life.
“You got my text message,” Sloane breathed in relief.
Derek tugged her against him, held her tightly. “Are you really okay?” he asked in a rough voice.
“Now I am.” She pressed her face against his SWAT vest, wrapped her arms around his waist.
“You scared the shit out of me.”
“I’ll try not to let it happen again.”
“I’m holding you to that.”
“Okay.” Sloane’s adrenaline was rapidly dropping as the full impact of what she’d been through sank in. “If I promise to go and get checked out at the hospital later today, can we just go home now? I’m going to have to answer tons of questions for the Bureau and the NYPD anyway. For now, all I want is a hot shower to wash away the past twenty-nine hours, and an afternoon in my bed—complete with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, all three hounds, and you.”
“You know,” Derek speculated aloud. “I did an awesome job solving this case. So if I ask for a few days off, just this once, I’m pretty sure I could get them.”
“You did an awesome job?” Sloane leaned back to stare at him in amazement. “I’m the one who—”
Derek shut her up with a long, bone-melting kiss. “I know. But you know what an arrogant hard-ass I am. I have a reputation to uphold.”
“True.” Sloane’s eyes sparkled with provocative amusement. “Actually, you have several reputations to uphold. Two of which are performance related—one for the Bureau, the other for me. I should warn you, my standards are even higher than the Bureau’s. Think you’re up for it?”
“Definitely. Besides, I like a challenge.”
“Good. Because, Special Agent Parker, you’ve got one.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The creation of Twisted involved an extensive learning experience for me. I always spend months on research before and during the writing of a novel, but this time I did far more in-the-trenches detailed field research than I can begin to describe. And I’ve never been more fascinated. My writing took me into the world of the FBI, where I met and spoke with some of the most dedicated professionals I’ve ever had the good fortune to consult with. Without their cooperation and their generosity—sharing their time and expertise with me—I could never have infused Twisted with the level of depth and realism I did, nor could I have brought my characters and their stories so vividly to life. I’m immensely grateful to everyone at the Bureau who went out of their way to help me. I hope I did you all proud.
Specifically, I’d like to thank the following:
Angela Bell, public affairs specialist at FBI Headquarters. Angela, working with you was a true privilege. You coordinated every aspect of my Bureau-related research thoroughly, intuitively, and in record time—and you were always spot-on with every contact you put me in touch with. You are awesome!
SA Steve Siegel and the Newark field office, including SSA Bill Evanina, SA Laura Robinson, and an enormous special thank-you to SA Sherri Evanina, who just made things happen. Sherri, you either knew the answers to my million and one questions, or produced someone who did. You’re a real miracle worker.
SA James Margolin of the New York field office, who connected me up with all the right people, and made the necessary meetings happen no matter how busy the most densely populated FBI field office in the country was. Included in that list of outstanding contacts were SA Rich DeFilippo, SA Leslie
Berens, SABT Pete Licata, and SSA Konrad Motyka, the supervisor of C-6, who, along with all the members of his squad, taught me what I needed to know about the Asian Criminal Enterprise Task Force in order to bring the squad to life in Twisted. He also educated me in various Chinese dialects (including how to curse in each of them, which was necessary to the book), and in the workings of Enhanced SWAT. Konrad, your knowledge base is extensive—thank you for taking so much time to share it with me.
The two principal firearms instructors at Fort Dix: SA Jody Roberson and SA Mike Adams, who allowed me the opportunity to watch a Pistol Qualification Course (PQC) firsthand. Mike also skillfully (and patiently) taught me how to load and shoot a Glock 22, working on my grip, aim, and accuracy, until I was hitting every target. I was very proud, but very sore. Trust me, it’s not as easy as it looks on TV.
Kurt Crawford, who escorted me through the FBI Academy at Quantico, and showed me where qualified men and women evolve into special agents.
And an overwhelming, special thank you to the awe-inspiring agents at CIRG who helped me create the heart and soul of this book:
CNU Unit Chief John Flood, who took me through an entire day of crisis (hostage) negotiation training with his unit and his trainees, so I could witness and experience firsthand the astounding skills and strategies employed by real FBI crisis negotiators. The commitment and solidarity of the CNU is a tribute to Unit Chief Flood’s skill and team-building efforts. He is a true leader in every sense of the word, and I have tremendous admiration and respect for him, his team, and their contribution to our country.
SSA James McNamara of the BAU, who exemplifies the term the real deal. Extensively published and a true expert in his field, he taught me so much about psychological and behavioral techniques used by the BAU in order to understand who and what a person is—including the ability to analyze the mind and actions of a serial killer.
My thanks also to SA Al Tribble, SSA Russ Atanasio, and SSA Bob Holley for taking the time to explain so many Bureau nuances to me—from the different squad responsibilities and how things are broken down, to the additional training that’s necessary for various ancillary responsibilities, to what it’s like to be a retired Army Ranger who becomes an FBI agent.
