That didn’t fit with Anya’s profile. Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she yanked it out to press to her ear. “Reese?” she asked, her adrenaline spiking.
Quiet fizzed across the line for a moment. “Who is Reese?” came next.
Anya’s heart sank. “Excuse me,” she whispered to Agent Dingman before hurrying into the smallest conference room for privacy and shutting the door. The instant quiet surrounded her, and she put her back to the brick wall. “I asked you not to call me, Carl.” Her voice shook and she quickly calmed it.
“Where are you?” he asked, ignoring her words.
“None of your business,” she all but snarled. “We’re over, we’re done, and you need to leave me alone before I file a complaint against you.”
Carl snorted. “You already had your badass sister come and threaten me. Isn’t that enough?”
Anya swallowed several times. “Loretta visited you? When?” She dug her nails into the phone.
“Put a gun in my face and told me she’d blow my head off if I came near you again, which is both a battery and an assault, you know. I’m thinking seriously about lodging a complaint with the police. Agents can’t go off half-cocked like that.”
He was such a weasel. “When?” Anya snapped. She’d had no idea Loretta had tracked Carl down. “When did you see her, damn it?”
“Saturday night. Why?”
Loretta had disappeared on Monday, and Anya had seen her Sunday night. So Carl the asshat hadn’t hurt Loretta. “Did you see anybody following her? Any odd vehicles or people around?” Anya gripped the phone tighter.
“No. Why? What does that have to do with anything?” Carl hissed.
Anya drew in a deep breath. The FBI had kept Loretta’s kidnapping out of the news. It was doubtful Carl knew anything, but she’d give the FBI the information anyway so they could question Carl. “Nothing. Just stop calling me.” The last time he’d called, she’d gotten upset and cried all over Loretta. So her big sister had apparently visited southern Washington in her spare time. Every bone in Anya’s body began to ache.
“Listen, Anya.” His voice turned low and soothing. “You and I dated for months, and I made one little mistake. I said I’m sorry, and you need to let me make things up to you.”
She bit her lip. “Not a chance.”
“It was once. Cathryn came on to me,” he cajoled.
Anya shook her head, her stomach hurting. How had she ended up in a situation with such an asshole? To think she’d wondered, even once, if they could make a go of it. “You don’t know me, Carl. One mistake like that is all you get.”
He was silent for a moment. “Please.”
She dropped her chin to her aching chest. “Sorry, pal.” The curt words actually sounded like Loretta, and Anya stood straighter. She knocked her head gently against the wall. “No. For the final time, no.”
A ruckus set up in the main room. “I have to go. Don’t call me again.” She clicked off and yanked open the door, rushing inside. “Is there any news?” she asked.
Dingman stared at the photographs of the murdered victims. “Yeah. Reese called in and he’s about thirty minutes out from some abandoned barn in the middle of nowhere. It’s the only structure anywhere near the town where we think Loretta was taken.” Dingman didn’t turn around. “He’ll call as soon as the helicopter touches down.”
“Do you think we’ve found the place?” Anya whispered.
Dingman turned and looked over her shoulder. Her face remained calm, but her eyes sizzled. “I really do.”
CHAPTER
5
Cold trickled down Heath’s back. Pain pounded through his head, and he winced as he opened his eyes, blowing hay out of the way. He was flat on the barn floor, and his head pulsed like his skull had met the metal end of a hammer. The concrete beneath him felt like a solid block of ice. He uncurled his fingers inside his gloves, his bones aching. “Loretta?” he croaked.
The storm bellowed outside, and the worn barn slats clacked against each other.
He lifted his head and fought nausea, shoving up from the rough concrete to find her. Ah shit. She lay on her back, head turned to the side. A coarse burlap sack covered her from thighs to upper chest, stained with blood. He crawled over to her, his movements jerky. “Agent Jackson?” he whispered, moving to her other side and smoothing the hair back from her face.
His breathing stopped when his vision cleared and he could actually see her.
Her pretty brown eyes were glassy in death.
God. She was dead. He touched her cheek, and the skin felt unreal. Not alive. Just there.
That quickly, he flashed back to another dead woman covered in blood. His mother’s startling hazel eyes had also been glassy, and the smell of her blood still haunted his nightmares. Why did they always die and keep their eyes open? Were they looking for something? Somebody to save them?
He was too late again.
“Fuck, I’m sorry.” His chest contracted as if he’d been kicked by a horse. Every muscle in his body tightened to the point of pain. He levered up onto his knees and reached out to close her eyes, his hand shaking. “Go somewhere nice, Loretta,” he whispered.
His entire body shuddered. While he didn’t know how to pray, he could offer silence. The floor chilled his knees, and a sense of urgency slammed into him. Outside, the wind whistled angrily, but inside, death kept silent.
He had to get out of there. His faculties returned, and he quickly looked around the otherwise empty room. Whoever had hit him had taken off.
He swallowed, and dots swam across his vision.
While he already knew the answer, he needed to double-check. Gently, with his hand shaking, he tugged down the burlap sack enough to read the letters M-I-N-E carved into her upper chest.
Fucking Copper Killer.
Rage ripped through Heath so quickly his ears heated. He sucked in air to calm himself, wavering slightly.
Reaching out, he smoothed the burlap back into place and fought the urge to wipe the blood off her temple. The killer liked to knock his victims out with a hit to the temple and then revive them. Closer scrutiny proved Loretta had likely been strangled to death. Heath didn’t want to know more than that and moved away from the body to stagger to his feet.
Tears pricked his eyes, and he rapidly wiped them away. Failure settled in his stomach and swelled like a sponge until it filled him. The woman had been dead for at least a day, and he hadn’t been even remotely close to rescuing her. The idea of the strong and proud agent being reduced to a naked woman in burlap made him want to puke. Bile rose in his throat, and he ruthlessly swallowed it down. How frightened she must’ve been.
Even now, he could hear his mother pleading for mercy from the asshole beating her to death so many years ago. Heath had tried to save her and had caught a backhand to the face, a slam into the oven door, and then unconsciousness.
There was no mercy when monsters harmed women.
He gagged. Here and now. He had to focus on the here and now . . . and remember his mother later.
Cases involving women usually took him back to the night his mother died, but not like this. Not like razor-sharp claws ripping into his chest to slash at his heart. He tore off a glove to wipe his cheek.
The blood brother scar across his palm caught his eye. Family. Brothers. He had to call his brothers. He reached for the phone in his back pocket to find nothing. Damn it. A quick glance around showed the killer had taken not only Heath’s phone but his gun, too. Neither could be traced to him, but the idea burned anger through him. He felt his other pocket. Ah hell. His wallet with the real picture but fake ID was also gone.
He shivered. It was freezing in the barn. His gaze went once again to the silent victim.
Cold. The woman on the ground was so cold. He didn’t give a shit that she was dead and wouldn’t feel the chill. She needed to be covered up. To be protected, even though he’d been too late. He yanked his glove back into place.
A side door he hadn’t noti
ced burst open, and he dropped into a fighting stance.
“Heath?” Denver asked, the storm swirling in with him. Snow covered his black hair, and his hard face was set in stone. His thick boots clomped across the concrete.
Heath blinked twice at his brother and straightened. The chill took over his bones. “She’s dead,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.
Denver swallowed, surveyed the area, and finally walked toward the deceased agent to look down. His scruff-covered jaw tightened, and his bloodshot eyes widened. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” Heath’s vision blurred again.
Denver glanced at Heath’s hands. “Good. Gloves.” Then he leaned to the side, frowning. “Holy shit.” Rushing forward, he grabbed Heath’s head and tugged, scrutinizing his temple. “How bad?”
Agony lanced through Heath’s skull. “Not too bad. Minor concussion.”
“Knocked out?” Denver leaned in to study the wound above Heath’s right ear.
“Yeah. Not sure for how long.” The room took on a surreal glow, and Heath slowly went numb. No more pain—no more cold. He moved on autopilot and tugged his gloves up his wrists.
Denver released him. “Somebody actually got the drop on you? I thought that was impossible. Who is this guy?” Snow clung to his black leather jacket and faded jeans. The blue in his eyes overtook the gold flecks, darkening with concern. “Did you lose any blood?”
Heath looked toward where he’d fallen. Blood was everywhere, but it was probably all Loretta’s. “Not sure.”
“Not good.” Denver rushed over and kicked hay out of the way, scowling as he studied the barn floor. “Don’t see any.”
Yeah, but one drop would get them screwed. “We have to cover her up,” Heath said, his chest compressing. He hadn’t saved her. The woman deserved protection. Safety. Warmth.
Denver’s mouth gaped for a second, and he slowly focused on Heath. “No.”
“Yes.” Heath looked frantically around. There had to be a horse blanket somewhere. He moved toward one of the three stalls on the north wall.
Denver intercepted him with a hand against his chest. “We need to go, brother. Now.”
“No.” Something rose in Heath, something dark and fluid. “We’re covering her up. Period.” He couldn’t just leave her on the floor like that. Not cold and alone. Damaged. Destroyed.
“No.” Denver’s voice strengthened, and he leaned into Heath’s face until their noses were inches apart. “The police are coming, and we have to get the hell out of here.”
Heath caught his breath and tried to think through the rage. Rioting thoughts filled his mind, all with violence. The only thought he could grasp was that he needed to help Loretta. To protect her even though it was too late. He shoved Denver out of the way and strode toward the tack room. Had there been a blanket in the far corner?
Denver wasn’t the type to attack a brother, ever, so Heath didn’t see him coming. Within seconds, Denver had him in a headlock and was dragging him toward the side door.
“What the fuck?” Heath wheezed, digging his gloved fingers into Denver’s rock-solid forearm.
“Gotta go.” Denver’s breath brushed Heath’s hair.
Heath struggled, scattering hay in every direction. He never would’ve thought Denver would grab him from behind, or he wouldn’t have turned his back. “Let go.”
“Nope.” Denver continued relentlessly dragging Heath toward the door, his arm exerting enough pressure to restrict breathing.
Heath struck back and hit Denver in the thigh. Hard.
Denver grunted, stumbled, and kept on moving. “Need you to settle back into yourself. The smooth and in-control Heath. Need him now.”
At well over six feet tall and muscled, they were evenly matched in a fight. But a headlock was a fucking headlock. Heath tried to get enough leverage to dig in his boots and toss Denver over his head, but Den was just as well trained as Heath and kept him off balance. They reached the door, and Denver flung them both outside into the storm. With a twist, he shoved Heath away from the barn.
Wind howled through the trees around them. The storm was getting worse. Fire roared inside Heath’s chest even as freezing snow slapped his face. He dropped his chin and charged.
“Stop.” Denver held up one hand. “We can’t disturb the scene if we’re gonna catch this guy.”
The scene. Loretta was just part of the scene. Heath kept moving toward his brother, his hands clenching. She was more than that. She was so much more than that, and the killer had taken that away. Had taken her away.
“She’s gone, man. Not here any longer.” Denver always could read his mind somehow. “Dead and gone. There’s nobody left here to save. Except us.” He coughed out. “We have to get out of here if we’re going to find this guy. And protect Ryker.”
Heath blinked. The haze across his vision wavered. Police were on their way. If he and Denver got caught by them, they were screwed. He sucked in frozen air. It was too late for Loretta, and he’d deal with that failure later. Right now he had to get his brother to safety. It was Heath’s fault Denver was out in the open like this. “You’re right.”
Denver’s face cleared. He hunched in his coat and headed down the road and through inches of new snow. “I parked close.”
Heath leaned into the piercing wind and followed his brother into the snow-filled dusk, concentrating to keep his balance on the ice. The smell of blood stayed with him somehow. Coppery and intrusive.
They reached a stand of fir trees, and Denver shoved branches aside to reveal an older Volvo. He slid into the driver’s side. “Stole it.”
Heath ran around the other side to jump in. “Move, Den.” The FBI couldn’t be far behind. “We’ve been running for too long to get trapped now.”
Denver ignited the engine, pulled around, and drove quickly down the barely there lane. He reached Heath’s truck and let out a low whistle.
“Son of a bitch,” Heath muttered, taking in the slashed tires. The killer had used precious moments to make sure Heath couldn’t follow him. Thank goodness Denver had hidden his ride better than Heath had. “Keep going.”
“Wiped down?” Denver asked, punching the gas pedal.
“Yeah.” Thank goodness. “There’s no way to trace it to us.” Though he didn’t like the thought of the FBI being distracted for even a second from Loretta’s case, and they’d work hard to locate the owner of the truck. Good thing he’d stolen it, too.
Something buzzed, and Denver yanked a cell phone from his pocket. “Yeah?” He pressed the speaker button.
“The FBI is on the way. They should be there any second. Where are you?” Ryker asked, his voice low.
“Just leaving.” Heath naturally spoke up so Denver wouldn’t have to. “Almost off the property.”
Denver fishtailed down the road and quickly corrected. “Sorry.”
Ryker breathed out loudly. “Did you find Agent Jackson?”
Her name was like a punch to Heath’s gut. He grunted. “Yeah. I was too late.”
Ryker was silent for a moment. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too.” Heath stretched his neck to look out the window at the blustering storm. His body felt heavy. “We have to get out of here.”
“Turn right at the end of the lane and not toward town,” Ryker said. “Your only option is to head into the mountains.”
Denver reached the end of the lane and slid right, corrected, and hit the gas.
Sirens sounded in the distance.
“Shit,” Heath said, buckling his belt. “Buckle up, Den.”
“No time.” Denver leaned over the steering wheel and stared into the swirling white evening.
Heath unbuckled and leaned across his brother to grab the seat belt. He quickly strapped Denver in and then refastened his own belt. “Faster.”
“The storm is too bad for additional air support,” Ryker said evenly. “So keep going, be careful, and you’ll actually end up in the northwest part of Washington State. Ditch the car and find somethin
g else as soon as you can.”
Denver’s knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. “Road might be closed.”
Yeah. Mountain passes were rarely kept open during storm season. They’d have to risk it anyway. Heath wiped snow off his forehead and then planted a hand on the dash to balance himself. “Ry? See if you can trace my cell phone. The killer took it, my wallet with the fake ID but real picture—and my gun.”
“Are you okay?” Ryker asked even as he started typing loud enough to be heard through the speaker.
“Fine. Little headache.” Heath gingerly touched the lump above his right ear. Why hadn’t the killer taken him out completely? Was the guy only into killing redheads? “Find it?”
“Yeah. It’s back at the farm somewhere.” Ryker fell silent. “Are your prints on it?”
Heath shook his head. “I’m not sure. They’re on my gun for sure.” He winced. Would the Copper Killer somehow use those? Probably. “I’m sorry, guys.” He rubbed his aching eyes. What had he done? He’d rushed in and now had put his entire family at risk of exposure. The hollowness in his chest actually hurt.
He was the smooth and calm brother, and yet he was acting like an emotional jackass. His issues with female victims had to be kept under control or he’d hurt the few people in life who were his. “I’m so damn sorry.”
“We’ll figure it out,” Ryker said. “Don’t worry. Chances are the killer took the gun and left the burner phone somewhere to be found by the FBI. I know you. You regularly wipe down everything, and if you’re wearing gloves, you’re okay. We’re okay.”
Yet were they? Heath had been in such a rush to find Jackson, he wasn’t sure. A sour taste filled his mouth, and he slowed his speech to regain control. “I don’t know, Ry.”
Denver increased the speed of the windshield wipers. “Worry about now.”
“Agreed,” Ryker said. “One catastrophe at a time. For now, you guys have to get through the mountain pass in this storm before the FBI is able to get birds in the air and conduct surveillance.”
“Before they block the roads,” Denver muttered quietly.
Heath stiffened. “You’re right.” Once the FBI found the agent’s body, they’d put up roadblocks in every direction. “Hurry, Denver. We have to get out of here.”
Lethal Lies Page 5
