Fear No Evil

by Allison Brennan

  It took her a little time, and she kept looking at the door waiting for Dillon to walk back in. But after hacking into every ISP in that area, she found him.

  Thirty minutes, but still it seemed too easy. He’d had to point her to the time stamp. Why hadn’t her computer picked up on it? Had she messed up her program somehow? Had Trask planted the data and had her program ignored it because it wasn’t a live feed?

  She rubbed her head. This was more than she’d had before. And Trask had contacted her. Why would he send her on a wild-goose chase? The FBI, yes—he didn’t want them around. But he wanted her. She’d known it since that night five years ago, and she knew it now.

  She had the exact coordinates of the webcam that sent up the signal. That’s where Lucy was. Dillon and Jack were off somewhere. She hoped they were sleeping, but doubted it. Lucy’s screen had been quiet, and Kate packed her bag. Guns. Ammo. Emergency supplies. Check. Key to the plane. Check. Her codes and another laptop and a handheld. Her backup laptop wasn’t as fast as the one she’d given to Patrick, but it was all she had left.

  She hated leaving Dillon. She wanted to trust him. She wanted to trust someone. But bringing him along would most certainly get both him and Lucy killed. There was no way Dillon would allow her to intentionally sacrifice herself for Lucy.

  Kate didn’t see any other way to save her. If Trask even suspected that Kate was bringing in anyone, he’d kill Lucy. Without remorse, without hesitation.

  Though she knew she could die, accepted it as part of her job, Kate didn’t want to die. She’d worry about that when Lucy was free.

  Movement on the screen. A man came into view. He looked familiar.

  No. Not another rape.

  She frantically typed on her computer.

  I’m coming, you bastard! Don’t touch her. You touch her and I’ll send the fucking military to your location!

  Nothing. He wasn’t there. Damn him!

  Lucy cried out, her voice vibrating in the small room. Kate muted the sound and prayed that Dillon wasn’t on the other side of the door, that he hadn’t heard his sister’s pleas.

  Something odd came over her computer terminal. At first she thought it was Trask responding. She stared at the series of numbers and letters. It looked familiar. Why?

  She glanced up at the screen. That man with Lucy. He was familiar. Why? Was he a fed? She couldn’t name him, but she’d seen him before, a long time ago.

  She looked back at the code on her screen and it came to her instantly. The FBI training academy. A test code in one of their textbooks.

  She wrote down the numbers and letters, then translated the code from memory. It was a simple code, something all trainees used to pass messages and have fun. It helped them see the patterns behind words and actions, not just learn to decode.

  What did these numbers mean? They looked like degrees. Degrees of what? Or time. Military time. Wait. Both. The code had been backward, and now she saw that the numbers were definitely time of sunrise, noon, and sunset and degrees, which would be the degrees of the sun over the hemisphere.

  But she didn’t know what they meant—if Lucy was south of the equator, the numbers meant one location. If she was north, they meant something completely different.

  She typed frantically in her computer, searching for an online nautical map that would give her the longitude and latitude that corresponded to these times and degrees.

  If in the south, she was in the middle of the ocean. If in the north…eighty miles from the location Trask had given her. Same latitude, different longitude. Was it her mistake?

  She recalculated the data Trask had sent her and the mystery data. No, she knew this stuff. And her numbers were right. That meant that Trask was either messing with her, or he was deliberately sending her eighty miles away.

  Why? To keep her away from Lucy. In case she brought in the feds. Once he had determined that she was alone, he’d bring her to Lucy.

  He wanted Kate to watch her die. He’d get a sick, twisted pleasure in that.

  Movement on the screen distracted her. She watched as the man on-screen climbed on top of Lucy. She typed frantically into the feed she’d locked onto with Trask.

  Get that man off Lucy now and I’ll be there as soon as possible.

  Nothing.

  Dammit you fucking bastard! Don’t do this!

  Nothing.

  She kicked the desk. Who was she to be giving orders? Trask held all the cards. He knew where she was, but she didn’t know exactly where he was. Which feed was right? What Trask sent, or this FBI code?

  Why would he send her to the wrong place?

  What are you thinking, Kate? He wants to control you. If you’re nowhere near Lucy, he can do whatever he wants.

  He’ll never let her go.

  The man on the screen leaned over Lucy. Kissed her. She tossed her head back and forth, straining to get away from him. This man was different. He didn’t have the violent urgency to hurt Lucy that Roger had.

  Did the FBI have an undercover agent there? An FBI agent who would rape to protect his cover?

  She looked at the coded message again. An FBI training code from the Academy. Her gut instinct was that this man was, or had been, one of theirs.

  She typed.

  Don’t let anyone touch Lucy again and I’ll meet you. Fair trade. If anyone touches her, you’ll never get me. I’ll go so deep you’ll never find me.

  He was there.

  You’d never be able to live with yourself.

  You’re right. But you won’t be the one killing me.

  Nothing.

  She watched the screen. The man seemed to be listening to someone off-camera, then he unzipped his jeans.

  The man was leaning into Lucy, his face burrowed in her neck. But the expression on Lucy’s face changed. Almost imperceptibly. As if she were listening intently. Would Trask notice? He wasn’t a fool. Dammit, the fed was going to get himself killed. Maybe he deserved it.

  Damn you, Trask!

  Lucy didn’t want to be raped again. The humiliation of being naked and exposed to a camera was almost unbearable, but she was alive. Yet every time she thought about what had happened that morning, she screamed inside, her mind trying to make sense of it, trying to accept it. Her heart was crying at the pain, the embarrassment, the deep wound on her soul that the one thing that was hers, all hers—her choice—had been ripped from her. And she’d never have it back.

  She had never felt helpless before, not like this. When she was seven and Justin was killed she had known what had happened—her parents never lied to her about it—but she hadn’t seen Justin dead, she hadn’t been physically hurt. The pain from that time was emotional, mostly from an overwhelming sense of loss, like part of her was missing.

  Now death was a reality, the defiling sex, the humiliation of the film. Her rape was going to be replayed for everyone, even after she was gone. It wasn’t fair. She hoped that her family never saw, that they didn’t know what had happened to her. She didn’t think she could look them in the eye again.

  More than anything, she wanted her mother.

  Tears escaped from her eyes, and she hated herself for showing her pain and fear. She didn’t want Trevor to know how much she hurt inside. She tried to keep a straight face, blank, block everything out, but it was getting harder and harder the longer she was restrained.

  “Don’t cry.”

  The man on top of her, the man she’d been able to block out while he kissed her neck and breasts, had noticed her anguish and she froze.

  She tossed her head back and forth, trying to avoid his lips. Avoid his eyes. In the background she heard Roger say, “Fuck her already. People are paying for a show.”

  She heard his zipper. Felt him against her leg. He buried his face in her neck, his hands on her hips.

  God no, please no, not again.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I sent for help. You need to trust me. Watch carefully
.”

  Trust him? Her rapist wanted her to trust him? Was this some sort of sick mental game, a bastardized version of good cop, bad cop? She’d never trust him or anyone here.

  “Get off me!” she screamed as loud as she could.

  From the door, “Do it already. Spread her legs. Show the camera.” Then, muttered, “Amateurs.”

  “Please trust me,” her rapist whispered in her ear. Then he raised himself up, looked down at her.

  She closed her eyes. Just do it. Do it and I hope you die a horrible death and burn in Hell for eternity.

  “Cut!”

  It was Trevor’s voice.

  Roger intervened. “What? Come on, we’re just getting going. Mick is a little slow to the task, but he’s finally getting into it.”

  “Change of plans.”

  The red eye of the camera was off. Lucy’s eyes widened. What was happening?

  The man, Mick, stood up slowly. He turned to Trevor. “What the fuck?”

  “You’re pathetic,” Trevor said. “Any other red-blooded man would have taken what was offered. Seven minutes to get that dick hard? What are you, a fag?”

  Mick reddened. “I, I—”

  “Just go. Monitor the cameras. Now.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “None of your business,” Trevor said and watched him leave. “Denise!”

  The woman who hated Lucy came into the room. She wore a business suit with a short skirt, heavy makeup, and her hair had been styled and teased.

  To Roger, Trevor said, “You and Frank play out the rape game with Denise.”

  “Aw, come on, what happened?”

  “Are you questioning me?”

  “No, but—”

  “Lucy will be back onstage in just a few hours. But I need to leave the island. I don’t want any down time from here on out.”

  “You never leave in the middle of a show. You need to tell me what’s happening.”

  “I need to tell you nothing.”

  Lucy listened to the exchange, unsure what was going on, but seeing this as an opportunity. Both Trevor and Roger sounded angry.

  Watch carefully, the man who had almost raped her had said.

  Something was happening.

  And she would definitely be watching carefully.

  For the first time, she felt a tickle of hope that she might get out of here alive.

  SIXTEEN

  “WHERE’S LUCY?”

  Dillon walked into her room and Kate jumped, still uncomfortable having people around after so many years being alone.

  He stared at the muted computer screen where Denise was being raped by two men. Kate had almost forgotten it was on. She’d been so intent on planning how to get off the mountain without alerting Dillon or his brother.

  “I don’t know. The screen went blank, then Denise came on. I’m not worried about her. She’s doing this willingly.”

  “Are you sure?” Dillon frowned at the sick perversion playing out on the screen.

  “I’m sure,” Kate said. “She faked her own death and attacked Lucy. She helped set Paige up to be killed. You have any doubts?”

  “I—”

  “Trask Enterprises’ biggest moneymakers were their rape-fantasy scenarios. That’s where Denise got her start. Don’t feel sorry for her.”

  Dillon couldn’t help but wonder how Denise had gotten to this point in her life. What had happened to make her feel that her only choice, her only option, was to be used in such a vile, sick manner? She had no self-esteem, no self-respect.

  Someone had destroyed Denise’s ego years ago, and Dillon couldn’t help but feel compassion for the abused woman, regardless of the crimes she’d committed.

  “Why?” Dillon said.

  “Oh, she probably has some tragic story in her childhood.” Kate rolled her eyes as if she didn’t believe it. “But that doesn’t justify her actions.”

  “No, what I mean is why did he take Lucy off air?” Dillon feared he wouldn’t have the next full twenty-four hours to find her. Though he didn’t want to see her on the Internet, there was some comfort in seeing her alive. Now he knew nothing of her fate.

  “I don’t know,” Kate mumbled.

  Dillon stared at her. She was lying. He knew it as surely as he knew his name.

  “Has he done this before?”

  “He intersperses his ‘best-of’ shows with his live action. Maybe he was losing ratings because Lucy wasn’t cooperating, so he pulled her off to lie to her, to convince her that if she played along he would let her go. How am I supposed to know?”

  Dillon frowned. Something wasn’t right. He hadn’t met Trask, but he knew enough about his process to know that for him, it was about the end. The murder. Everything else—the money, pretending rape was consensual sex, even the legal online pornography he’d been associated with—was nothing compared to his need to control, rape, and kill women.

  He wouldn’t let one go. Ever.

  “What did you see before he took Lucy off air?” Dillon demanded.

  Kate stared at him. “Go check it out yourself,” she snapped. “Go back to the twenty-four-hour mark.”

  Dillon strode over to her backup terminal, where she had digitally recorded Lucy’s captivity. He found the time stamp and watched a man walk slowly into view of the camera. His hands clenched as the man fell on top of Lucy, touched her. Unzipped his pants.

  For the first time Dillon wanted to kill someone. He’d been traveling from San Diego to Texas when Lucy had been raped the first time. He only knew about it because Quinn Peterson had called to tell him. He’d almost been relieved he hadn’t watched it.

  Dark agony crawled around his mind, suffocating his heart, making him see red. He could all too easily picture himself with the gun Connor gave him, pulling the trigger over and over, hitting this bastard square in the chest. Killing him for touching Lucy. Dillon’s head pounded and all he could think of was murder without regret.

  Then the man looked over his shoulder and the screen went black. Dillon fast-forwarded the recording. Five minutes of time passed before the screen went back up. Denise was there, fighting with two men as they tore off her clothes.

  He shut off the monitor.

  “He took Lucy somewhere.”

  “You don’t know that. He’s giving her a break. For the finale. Denise is a great actress. Her show will do well, prep the perverts for the end.”

  “Any more headway on his location?”

  “No.”

  “Dammit, Kate, what aren’t you telling me?”

  Kate stared at him and Dillon ran a hand through his hair. He was grasping at straws, trying to find his sister in the proverbial haystack. Patrick was in a coma and Lucy was going to die.

  And this woman—this renegade FBI agent—was holding back.

  When she didn’t say anything, Dillon left the room. He needed to talk to Jack and figure out what they were going to do.

  Dillon was ready to sell his soul to the Devil for Lucy’s whereabouts. But he had a feeling the Devil himself was behind Trask’s evil mind, and wouldn’t tell him a thing.

  Roger walked into the room Trask had converted into an office. “Sixty e-mails wanting to see Lucy. They’re not happy.”

  “Sixty out of eighteen hundred seventeen paid viewers?”

  “Sixty in fifteen minutes.”

  Trask waved his hand. “They’ll get off watching Denise. Why aren’t you in there with her?”

  Roger scratched his crotch. “I gave them a show. I’ll be back. How long do you want us to go at her?”

  “At least an hour. That’ll keep these”—he tapped the stack of e-mails—“perverts jerking off.”

  “Why’d you pull Lucy?”

  “I have my reasons.” Not that he planned on sharing them with Roger. Roger had always told him Kate Donovan was a threat. Give it up, pal. If you know where she is, go in and kill her. But don’t play games. She’s a wily bitch.

  Kate Donovan was no threat. She was as
weak and vulnerable as any woman on the face of the earth. Just more driven than most.

  Trask would take care of her and enjoy every second. He’d imagined too often her neck in his hands and his cock in her cunt. She would know the moment before she died that she was nothing but a source of pleasure for him and him alone.

  And then he’d crush her windpipe and watch those blue eyes freeze in death.

  “Watch Mallory.”

  “I always watch the new guys.”

  “There’s something about him. He’s…off.”

  “He checked out.”

  “Are you questioning me? Again?”

  “No,” Roger said slowly. “Why are you cutting me out? You messing around with Donovan again? Wait until after tomorrow night. We’re still getting new viewers, we’ll top two thousand by the last hour. I say we let everyone have a turn with her and then—”

  “I’m the director,” Trask said, his voice low. “Is she locked up?”

  “Tight.”

  “Go back and fuck Denise. I have something to do.”

  Roger left and Trask opened the drawer and stared at the photograph of his father in his judge’s robes. His face burned, remembering the humiliation this man had forced him to suffer.

  Then he cut him off completely. His twenty-first birthday, cut off without one fucking dime.

  His father was unforgiving. If only he’d had the courage to kill him before being disowned, everything would have gone to him when the bastard croaked.

  “Look at me now, Father,” Trask said. “You rode on Mother’s bank account. You were nothing before you married that stupid woman. Just pathetic. I have money, millions. You cut me off, but I came back even stronger. If you were alive, you’d be paying me to watch my shows.”

  His father was dead, and good riddance, but for once Trask wished he were alive. Just so Trask could turn the tables and do to him what he’d done to Trask.

  Degrade and humiliate him. Hurt and abuse him.

  But the bastard even stole that small pleasure from him.