by Jory Strong
The burn phone was in the glove box.
He couldn't look away from Grace's face.
Caleb turned the radio on, found a news channel. His gut roiled and burned and twisted at hearing the reporter say, "A neighbor reports seeing Grace North ride past the house on her skateboard just seconds before a dark blue car being driven by an African American man. The skateboard was found against the curb a few houses away after Grace's dog returned home and her parents began searching. Anyone who might have information should call—"
The number was drowned out, overlaid by remembered conversation, the woman they'd encountered among the snakes talking about another girl, one who looked like Grace, dying while trying to escape after a black man used a tranquilizer dart in an effort to abduct her.
Everything inside Caleb screamed that this was the man Mallory and the others hunted. This was the predator who'd stayed under the radar for a couple of years, but now he was escalating.
Because he couldn't control himself? Because the news reports had him afraid time was running out or gave him a thrill? Because killing the girls provided more gratification than just molesting them?
Caleb choked on a wave of guilt, wondered if because of the news reports, if because of him, his association with Mallory, Grace had been targeted, taken.
For long moments it felt as if his chest had been ripped open so rough hands could plunge in, gripping his heart and delivering excruciating pain.
His throat locked, trapping the swell of anguish there, sending a burn through his jaw. Mallory had ensured her sister was safe, while his—
No.
No. He wasn't responsible for this. Grace being taken because of him only worked if he'd been made.
Deep in his gut he didn't believe the man they'd been hunting knew what he was, who he really was. Deep in his gut, he didn't believe Mallory did either.
He wrestled the worst of the guilt into a cold mental box, but that left his heart banging, a furious pounding of denial and fear and raging conflict.
Vadim Korotkin's phone might hold the clue to the man who'd taken Grace.
He'd intended to hand it off to Zack, to get ahead of cold-blooded murder but now—
The police, the FBI, the task force—if they'd even formed one to look for this monster—none of them knew as much as Mallory did. None of them would act without probable cause, assuming they could pinpoint a likely suspect. But Mallory could, she would, only it wouldn't end there.
He closed his eyes and her voice whispered through his mind.
We've got killing in our blood.
He wouldn't be able to prevent murder if they found Grace's abductor.
I can live with that.
But could he live with betraying Mallory afterward?
He forced the question aside, opening his eyes and drawing a deep harsh breath, because Grace's face remained on the billboard.
I'll be there for you this time and from now on.
I'm coming for you.
Just stay alive. Grace, just be alive when I get to you.
Scenarios played out as he drove to where he'd left the bike. Enough of his training, his sanity survived to swap the car for the Harley before heading to the Brass Ring. Enough of his personal loyalty, to Zack, remained for him to use the burner phone when he reached it.
"Your parents are holding up," Zack said. "We've got men on this."
"Do they have anything?"
"Nothing solid. Not yet. He's smart enough to have avoided traffic cams. But eventually he'll show up on one. Someone will have gotten a partial plate. We'll find him. We'll find her."
Eventually.
Eventually was horror for Grace, for his parents, for him. Eventually was Grace dead, the same way the other girls were. And more pain came, at realizing there'd be no rescue of Iosif's other daughter.
"Those famous spidey senses of yours picking up on anything?" Zack asked. "On someone keeping an eye on the situation?"
He stiffened. "What makes you ask?"
"After Mallory Cassel's face started showing up on screen, I got a call from Deputy Director Bly. A lot of dancing around without either of us imparting information. It gave me an itch."
"Maybe we're about to move into need-to-know territory."
Inexplicably, ice slid down Caleb's spine.
Somebody walking on my grave.
"Maybe. If you get a lead on Grace, you call me, Caleb. You don't go in alone. That's an order. Understood?"
"Understood."
He pocketed the burner phone, not expecting a welcome when he entered the Brass Ring, but some of the pressure eased at finding Mallory sitting with Mikhail at a table, their attention on a TV screen.
Sabin shot pool solo. He looked up, threat and the willingness to kill in eyes that might be sky blue but held a darkness deeper than Mallory's black.
The screens flashed, the TVs in the bar tuned to different stations but covering the same story—Grace's story. Amanda Edson's story, Caitlyn Lawrence's story, a Jane Doe's story, and Christ how many other girls were out there, like Maven Stone and Belinda Brooks and Zinaida Gruzinsky, whose disappearances hadn't been linked to these?
How long until the news media dug deeply enough to come up with the fact that Grace was adopted? That there was a brother who'd served his country? Until one of the few pictures of the four of them as a family, taken when the FBI wasn't a part of his future, surfaced and ended up on the web or plastered across the TV?
It didn't matter. He'd sacrifice himself for Grace. Not that he meant to take unnecessary risks.
On every screen, news reporters rehashed, voices unloading recap and rhetoric and speculation. Details of Grace's abduction along with what was known about the other girls. His eyes met Mallory's. "Come outside?"
Mallory rose, heart double-timing at reading the tension in Matthew's body, triple-timing at reaching him and scenting the desperation, the fear.
Outside he said, "How close are you to finding him?"
"Close." And she hoped it was true. Hayden thought Korotkin had purchased the code from someone in the old KGB, or what replaced it. He was counting on a contact getting back to him—soon. They all were. In less than five hours, the Reaper Lord expected to hunt.
"Why are you here?" she asked.
Matthew shoved hands into his Harley jacket rather than reach for her.
Her heart spasmed at the rejection.
So he'd looked up Hellhounds.
It wouldn't explain the fear, not unless he believed. It didn't explain the desperation in his scent.
"What gives?" she asked.
"I went to Vadim Korotkin's house. He had one of the women from the files there. She let me in, let me search. I found his personal phone."
Mallory held out her hand for it. "Was there a safe?"
"Yes."
They'd figured as much given the one in the office. She'd agreed that it wasn't worth the risk of breaking in when Sabin told her about the cameras he'd seen doing a drive-by of Korotkin's house. Now she was doubly glad for not having to involve Matthew any further.
"Where's the woman?"
"I've got her stashed in a motel. There's a chance she'll bolt, but someone she cares about may have been in that warehouse. I told her someone would come for her, that she'd get her passport back."
"Mikhail will go."
He gave her Bela's name and location, pulled the cell from a pocket, fingers locking it to his palm. "I stay with you. I know Grace North, Mallory. Her brother was in the Army."
"No."
He crowded close, the scent of fear and desperation subsumed for an instant by want, need. The heat between them undeniable, inescapable, and hope was a hawk diving, sinking talons into her heart, that the fear in his scent had nothing to do with what she'd told him and everything to do with Grace North.
"You can't be with us today, Matthew. Can't."
"Then promise you'll call me if you find her. Promise me that much."
"I promise,"
she said, because it was the right thing to do. Because she was defenseless against the liquid pleading in his voice, the sheen of it in his eyes. Against the knowledge that more than anything else, the girl would need the familiar, she'd need someone she knew and trusted.
His mouth slammed down on hers, sealing the oath with a kiss that scorched through her, feeding the hope that they could make this work and for long moments, obliterating everything else.
He pulled away, handing her the phone. "Be careful, Mallory."
"You too."
* * * * *
Chapter 33
Sabin and Mikhail had returned to the ring room.
Mallory entered it, giving the cell to Hayden. "It's Vadim Korotkin's."
"Via Matthew," Hayden said.
"Yes." Her gaze shifted to the desk, to the ledger.
Still undeciphered.
Mikhail lay in the center of the ring. She joined him. Crouched. "Matthew rescued another of the women. Her name is Bela. He's got her stashed at a motel."
Mikhail's eyes opened. "I'll go."
She gave him the location.
He stood.
Hayden opened a desk drawer, tossed a phone to him. "Keep this on."
He nodded and left.
Mallory returned to the desk.
Hayden was working his magic on Korotkin's cell.
Numbers fed in, spawning window after window of personal information on the people they belonged to.
DMV records.
Criminal records.
News mentions.
Anything.
Everything.
Data quickly covered other data and Mallory's heart sped, her mind raced, trying to make connections.
There were too many possibilities.
Hayden's email program pinged.
He shut down the app he was using on the phone, freezing the collage of images and text.
"My source," he said, opening the email.
Unpacking the file.
Printing out code, translated first into Cyrillic letters and numbers, then transcribed to English.
"We'll have to do this by hand."
It took time to decode the entries in the ledger. The slow crawl of it.
Mallory heard it ticking down.
Too late. Too late. Too late.
Finally Hayden said, "Here's the mother."
Viktoriya Evanoff. Moscow. Anja Suvorin. Merchandise destroyed.
And beneath her name, the girls.
Kseniya Evanoff. Moscow. Anja Suvorin. Oscar.
Zinaida Evanoff. Moscow. Anja Suvorin.
Anja Suvorin would be the procurer Iosif had mentioned.
Iosif's daughters had been interchangeable to Korotkin. It hadn't mattered which of them remained locked in the warehouse prison.
Oscar.
"I saw Korotkin on Mulholland when I was hunting a high-end skip. It was a movie industry party."
"On it," Hayden said.
The collage began breaking apart, reforming, reducing because Hayden was looking for legitimate, for mainstream, for the men who had the power to deliver what Korotkin wanted.
Exactly what she didn't know, but she ruled out actor, director, unless he wanted those things for someone he loved. Producer maybe—not hands-on, but another name for a moneyman, the power behind the film.
The images on the screen winnowed down to around fifty, maybe sixty of them. Mallory scanned, tried to connect one of them from the party.
"Anything?" Hayden asked.
She shook her head. "I don't remember seeing any of these faces near Korotkin."
A couple of them looked familiar. She touched the screen. Trey Griffin. Producer. "I think he was there."
Hayden tapped the keyboard. Trey Griffin had a blonde-haired, blue-eyed daughter who attended a parochial school. She was seven.
"Close," Mallory said, sickened by the prospect that Griffin was acting out his fantasies with other girls, waiting for his own daughter to get a little bit older.
Hayden found the uniform for the girl's school. The plaid was dark blue and red and green. "Not the same. But maybe it doesn't have be. Recognize anyone else?"
She found four others. Three they could confirm were out of town.
Without getting close, without the witch scent there was no way to clear the fourth.
This was going to take too long.
Hayden continued tugging and digging and massaging information, one man at a time, none of them a sure bet. Her chest got tighter and tighter, her breathing shallower and shallower, until it ceased when the image of Aubrey Spiller appeared on the screen.
The likeness to Sorcha was inescapable.
Her gaze flicked to the picture of Linden Spiller. Blond. Blue-eyed. Like the man Kseniya had described.
Dane growled, low and savage.
She touched the back of his neck. "We've got to be sure."
"Parents were divorced," Hayden said. "Mother a high-powered executive. Father a teacher."
A move and click and the file housing the research on uniforms opened.
"There's the match," Mallory murmured, seeing the name of the school Spiller's father had taught at, along with the image of a uniform that matched the one the Jane Doe clothed herself in when summoned. "Did Spiller go there?"
Hayden dug, shook his head. "Didn't attend. But here's another connection. Aubrey Spiller's dog goes to acting classes. There's a show today."
"The same show Grace North was going to be at?"
More than one news reporter had mentioned the show while showing a picture of the terrier that had alerted Grace's family to her disappearance.
"Yes." Hayden turned, eyes meeting hers, saying, Make the call, Mallory. Don't fuck around.
"Track his phone."
"Done." He swiveled, tapped. "He's at the show."
He probably takes his kids for ice cream and reads them bedtime stories. Lives this whole other life where everybody thinks he's a wonderful dad. And then he comes looking for one of us.
She said, "He'll have another car. He'll have a place he takes the girls. He'll want to get back to Grace as soon as he can and he'll ditch the phone."
"I agree. The house and the car are going to be buried deep." Too deep.
And the Reaper Lord expected to hunt tonight.
Mallory wiped damp palms on her jeans. "Then we get him to come to us. We use Korotkin's name as leverage. Spiller won't refuse a meet if he believes Korotkin is demanding it."
Hayden rocked back in his chair. "Could work, not the warehouse. Korotkin wouldn't have let him see that set-up, or if he did, he'd have brought Spiller in blindfolded. If we tell Spiller to go there he's going to imagine plastic on the floor and a bullet in the head. What about Korotkin's house?"
"I'll call Mikhail. If he's got the woman, he can ask if the house is clear and going to stay that way."
Sabin smirked. "Not going to call your chew toy and ask him?"
Mallory's eyes met Sabin's. She touched the gun at the center of her back.
"Mal," Hayden growled in warning. "We need this asshole."
"Do we?"
Sabin broke the stare by laughing.
"Not pet, not chew toy, what should I call him?"
"Don't call him anything at all."
Don't think about him. Don't go near him.
Sabin's eyes gleamed at hearing what she hadn't said.
"Shoot him later," Hayden said, an edge in his voice. "He's got to be the one to approach Spiller. When we get close to the dog show, I'll send Spiller a text from Korotkin's phone requesting a meeting and giving him the address in case he doesn't know it."
There was no hiding the resemblance to her brothers, no ignoring that her name and face had been in the news. If Spiller was the man they were hunting and one of her brothers showed up, he'd never believe the connection to Korotkin, he'd never believe he wasn't about to walk into a trap.
Sabin's smile was sharp weapon. "Why we don't mix well with humans."
&
nbsp; Mallory left the ring room. It was that or put a bullet in him.
* * * * *
Caleb's heart double-tapped when the tracker pinged with Mallory's emergence from the bar.
He kept his eyes on her, lifted the phone, thumb brushing against the screen. Come on, call me. Offer me some hope. Tell me you've got something.
The phone remained silent though Mallory had hers against her face.
Who are you talking to? Your brother?
He'd followed Mikhail to one of the sedans liberated from the warehouse, left it at that since odds were high the junkie was going for Bela.
The junkie's name is Mikhail.
Mallory's voice, sharper in his mind than it had been the night they'd sat outside the pedophile's house. Sly question sliding in behind it, his own.
Wouldn't you shoot up if you were a hellhound? A bearer of death created by an ancient demon who burned his brand into your arm?
She'd gone missing for eight years. They'd all disappeared in childhood, or at least the ones with a childhood that could be documented had.
Mallory reentered the bar and the tracker's signal died.
Caleb dropped the phone, scrubbed his hands over his face, trying not to think about what might be happening to Grace, what might have already happened, about his parents.
He wanted to be with them. They needed him now, and here he was sitting, waiting, hoping the killers he'd been sent to bring to justice would find the man they were hunting—and he couldn't get Mallory off his mind, couldn't get the things he'd read, the things he'd witnessed off his mind.
It was a relief when the three of them and Dane emerged from the bar and climbed into the Jeep.
This is it.
Had to be.
He let them get far enough ahead that the chance of them noticing the tail, even though he had swapped the bike for the car, was slim. Slim, but not nonexistent.
He slowed when they did, sweat making his shirt cling. His guts twisted when they entered a parking garage, forcing him to keep going or take the chance and follow.
He passed, circled, found a place on a side street and waited, heart thundering like round after round of heavy artillery fire.
Mallory emerged, driving one of the sedans from the warehouse.
A minute later the Jeep came out, Hayden driving, Sabin next to him.
