Kill Zone: A Lucy Guardino FBI Thriller

by CJ Lyons

  KILL ZONE

  A Lucy Guardino FBI Thriller

  CJ Lyons

  PRAISE FOR NEW YORK TIMES AND USA TODAY BESTSELLER CJ LYONS:

  "Everything a great thriller should be—action packed, authentic, and intense." ~#1 New York Times bestselling author Lee Child

  "A compelling new voice in thriller writing…I love how the characters come alive on every page." ~New York Times bestselling author Jeffery Deaver

  "Top Pick! A fascinating and intense thriller." ~ 4 1/2 stars, RT Book Reviews

  "An intense, emotional thriller…(that) climbs to the edge of intensity." ~National Examiner

  "A perfect blend of romance and suspense. My kind of read." ~#1 New York Times Bestselling author Sandra Brown

  "Highly engaging characters, heart-stopping scenes…one great rollercoaster ride that will not be stopping anytime soon." ~Bookreporter.com

  "Adrenalin pumping." ~The Mystery Gazette

  "Riveting." ~Publishers Weekly Beyond Her Book

  Lyons "is a master within the genre." ~Pittsburgh Magazine

  "Will leave you breathless and begging for more." ~Romance Novel TV

  "A great fast-paced read….Not to be missed." ~4 ½ Stars, Book Addict

  "Breathtakingly fast-paced." ~Publishers Weekly

  "Simply superb…riveting drama…a perfect ten." ~Romance Reviews Today

  "Characters with beating hearts and three dimensions." ~Newsday

  "A pulse-pounding adrenalin rush!" ~Lisa Gardner

  "Packed with adrenalin." ~David Morrell

  "…Harrowing, emotional, action-packed and brilliantly realized." ~Susan Wiggs

  "Explodes on the page…I absolutely could not put it down." ~Romance Readers' Connection

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2012, CJ Lyons

  Legacy Books

  ISBN: 9781939038029

  Cover art: Cory Clubb

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, Legacy Books. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law.

  Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

  Library of Congress Case # 1-804386841

  KILL ZONE

  A Lucy Guardino FBI Thriller

  CJ Lyons

  Dear Reader,

  This book would not have been written without your constant emails asking for "More Lucy, please!" or shouting out, "We love Lucy!" As always, I am most grateful that you have fallen for Lucy, a character who unlike so many thriller heroes is "just" a normal mom juggling work and family, trying to do it all as best she can.

  I must warn you that in KILL ZONE the stakes have never been higher–and neither has the body count. When I came up with the idea of a cartel invading Pittsburgh I thought I'd have to work hard to make it seem possible.

  Boy, was I wrong! As I researched, not only did I find that there already was cartel activity in Pittsburgh (and many other US cities) but that I would have to lower the level of violence by at least 90% in order for readers to accept it as realistic.

  How often do you hear a thriller writer saying they had to portray LESS violence so the audience would believe a story? The more I read about the cartels in Central America and traffickers in the Middle East, the more horrified I was…especially as I realized that my scenario could actually happen.

  The majority of details included in KILL ZONE, even the cartel's favorite method of body disposal, are all true. I actually did view the covert DEA video mentioned and still have nightmares about it.

  If you'd like to learn more about the real life facts that create Lucy's world, I've set up a webpage listing the most relevant research as well as a dictionary of FBI and law enforcement terms and other info. You can find it here: http://cjlyons.net/extras/lucys-world/

  Those links and articles are just a small fraction of the research I do for each book. Most of it involves talking to experts and KILL ZONE was no different. I'd like to thank my law enforcement, tactical, explosives, and weapons experts including: Robin Burcell, Joe Collins, James Faris, Adam Firestone, Finn Jackson, Lee Lofland, Wally Lind, Bob Mueller, and the others on the CrimeScene Writers' loop. A very special thanks to SWAT Lieutenant Randy Shepherd for taking me through tactical situations and letting me shoot the big guns.

  Any errors are mine, not theirs. I'd also like to point out that I did rearrange some of the geography of Pittsburgh, creating fictitious streets, housing projects, churches, and even a zoo. No animals were harmed in the making of this story.

  Thanks for reading!

  CJ

  CJ Lyons

  August, 2012

  Prologue

  Jim from Diamond Security double-checked the directions on his GPS. The alarm’s address was off his usual beat. Diamond specialized in expensive home protection systems. Their usual Pittsburgh clients lived in upscale Shadyside or fancy lofts downtown or out in Fox Chapel. Not here in Point Breeze North.

  It was late enough on a December Friday afternoon that he didn’t have to worry about school buses slowing him down as he drove his Blazer with its flashing amber lights to the address. Mr. Rashid Raziq. He practiced saying it, hoped he had the name right. At Diamond, it was all about customer service, especially as 99% of these alarms were homeowners forgetting their key code.

  According to his records, this system had been installed only a few weeks ago, making it even more likely that this was a false alarm. The Twelve-Carat Package: interior and exterior motion sensitive cameras and lights, remote viewing via any Internet enabled device, 24/7 monitoring. Pricey.

  Jim didn’t think it was worth the money, himself. Nowadays two hundred bucks could buy you a decent camera you could set up yourself with alerts going to your email and phone. Probably faster response time than any company could promise.

  But you wouldn’t get the handholding. That’s what people coming to Diamond were really buying. The reassurance that a real live person would come when you called, day or night. That peace of mind they got when Jim rang the doorbell and told them everything would be okay.

  Like many Pittsburgh neighborhoods this one was a contradiction. A block north, near the Busway, was lined with warehouses, auto repair shops, abandoned small-time wholesale operations. A few blocks east were yellow brick row houses and run down single-family homes crowded together.

  Jim drove past Westinghouse Park—once upon a time there used to be mansions in this neighborhood. Westinghouse and Henry Heinz, the ketchup guy. The Raziqs' street seemed to have retained some of the stately elegance inherited from Westinghouse and Heinz. It was a wide boulevard lined with mature trees at least a century old. Adding to its charm was a central grassy median, wide enough that he imagined kids running along it, flying kites when the weather was nice. The houses were mostly large, stately brick homes on nice-sized lots, evergreens forming natural privacy fences between neighbors.

  The homes were in various states of disrepair or gentrification, reflecting their owners. Young couples buying cheap, pouring their sweat into renovations—those were the houses with the older Fords
and Toyotas parked in front. The driveways with dumpsters parked on them belonged to remodelers knowing a bargain when they spotted it, flipping homes for a tidy profit. And the houses with the mid-sized sedans and crossover SUVs: people with enough money to buy a flipped house but not enough to live in one of the tonier sections of town.

  He pulled to the curb several houses down from the Raziqs' address and decided they belonged in the final category. The house was a white frame Colonial—which made it stand out among the brick houses on the block—otherwise, totally unremarkable. Two stories, porch too narrow for his taste, bonus room above the attached garage.

  “Dispatch, I’m at the location. No signs of anyone present or any disturbances. Have you raised the homeowner?”

  “Still no answer.”

  “Okay, I’m going to check it out.” Jim grabbed his large D-cell Maglite, closest thing to a weapon that he was allowed to carry, and exited the SUV. According to the customer profile, the Raziqs had three children. Probably one of them came home from school and tripped the alarm before becoming immersed in their milk and cookies and afternoon cartoons. He climbed the porch steps. No welcome mat or any holiday decorations. Not even a porch swing.

  He rang the doorbell. No answer. Rang it again. Nothing.

  The front door was solid and the drapes were drawn tight. He keyed the radio on his phone. “Dispatch, no answer. I’m going around back.”

  “Okay, Jim. Let me know if you need me to alert police.” Since 99% of their alarms were not true emergencies, Diamond had a hands-on policy of sending their own people to respond before calling the authorities on routine calls. It saved the police unnecessary calls and their clients' unnecessary embarrassment. In the rare case of a true alarm, what was the rush anyway? If there’d been a break in, the crooks would be long gone before anyone arrived.

  He climbed down the porch steps and walked behind the garage to the rear of the house. The back yard was quiet, reminded him of his own out in Swissvale: swing set, turtle-shaped sandbox, flagstone patio. Mature hemlocks lined the property boundaries, giving the yard a feeling of privacy. An oasis, the sounds of the city barely audible. At some time in its life, the house had been expanded, and now boasted a large, eat-in kitchen with a wide bay window to the left of the door.

  Jim climbed the stone steps leading from the patio and looked through the window. Oak table, six chairs, one with a baby seat strapped to it. Nothing out of place. The only window on the working side of the kitchen was up high, over the sink. But, if he flattened against the door, he could just see past the edge of the counter.

  A splash of color against the white tile near the sink caught his eye. His first thought was, spilled ketchup. At least that’s what his brain tried to tell him even as his stomach twisted in revulsion.

  He blinked once, twice then forced his gaze to move past the blood and focus on the body it had come from. A little girl, maybe three, maybe four, just a little girl, almost as pale as the tile she lay on.

  Except for the slash of blood across her throat.

  Chapter 1

  The last Friday before Christmas, all of Pittsburgh seemed intent on careening down the same stretch of the Parkway East, pushing and shoving and wielding their middle fingers as gestures of Peace on Earth and Good Will to Men.

  “See if there’s any update from Burroughs,” FBI Supervisory Special Agent Lucy Guardino told her partner as she drove through traffic leading from Downtown. Pittsburgh drivers were immune to lights and sirens, but she used them anyway.

  Isaac Walden waited until he had Don Burroughs, the city detective who’d requested their help, on the line before putting the phone on speaker.

  “Raziq’s still not talking,” Burroughs reported. “Except to ask for the Feds—you, the DEA, CIA, I don’t think he cares. Says he can’t compromise his safety, won’t deal with us locals. I’d be offended, except this one has fucking crazy written all over it, so I’m glad to have you on board.”

  The last came out in an almost conciliatory tone—for Lucy’s benefit, she was sure. She and Burroughs had worked together before. They’d had their differences, but he was a good cop.

  Local law enforcement officers didn’t call the FBI for assistance except as a last resort. Not even for two dead girls.

  Except the victims’ father’s name had shown up in the NCIC database with a note to call a DEA agent named David Haddad. No reason why, no label, no sign that Rashid Raziq was in protective custody, just a cryptic flag. Burroughs was savvy enough to know a lose-lose situation when he saw it.

  Walden was working his own phone. “Only thing I can find on Raziq is that he’s here on a State Department-sponsored visa. From Afghanistan. Everything else is behind DEA firewalls.”

  “Nice to know us locals aren’t the only ones being kept in the dark,” Burroughs said. “Happy to hand this off to you before word gets out.”

  “I take that to mean you want us out there as targets for the press if things go wrong,” Lucy said.

  “Not to mention the DEA. Only things are already about as wrong as they can get.” Burroughs sounded jovial. “Just the way you like them, Guardino.” She had the feeling it was payback time after she’d gotten him involved in a case that almost got him killed a few months ago.

  “The ME release the bodies yet?” Walden asked.

  “No.” Burroughs grew serious. Two kids dead on his watch: a four-year-old and a fifteen-year-old. Close in age to Burroughs’ own sons, Lucy realized. “They’re taking it slow so we can process the scene fully. You can jump on board the crazy train with everyone else once you arrive.” He hung up.

  “Still nothing from this DEA Agent, Haddad,” Walden said before Lucy could ask. Federal agents’ cell phone numbers weren’t shared readily, not even with fellow agents, not without a supervisor’s permission. “I left a message with the call center.”

  Exactly why Lucy liked working with the man. Walden was her Rock of Gibraltar, his logic a good counter-balance to her more intuitive methods of investigation. She could trust him not to undermine her, even when she wasn’t playing as close to the FBI protocols as the brass upstairs would like. Plus, it was a whole lot of fun working with him. There was nothing like seeing the look on a subject’s face after being questioned by a big scary black man only to have Lucy with her petite Italian frame walk in acting even crazier and scarier than Walden. It usually sent them scurrying back to Walden for protection, ready to give it up.

  “Two kids dead and a father refusing to talk to the locals. Why is it the crazies always come out at Christmas?” she asked.

  “No idea.” Walden shifted in his seat as she edged the Tahoe into the lane beside them, sliding into a vacancy that hadn’t existed when Lucy began the maneuver. “Maybe just to piss you off?”

  “Then they’d better watch out. Nick is surprising me with tickets to The Nutcracker tonight and there’s no way I’m missing it.”

  “The Nutcracker? You do know it’s a ballet, right?”

  Lucy smiled—not at him but at the driver who moved out of her way without her even needing to show him her weapon. “Yeah, I know. My mom told him I was in it when I was a little girl. I was one of the extras, those kids opening presents in the background, barely even remember it myself—but now he thinks I like ballet.”

  “Wait a minute. After fifteen years of marriage, Dr. Nicholas Callahan, the man with a doctorate in clinical psychology, who has taken advanced training in behavioral analysis and specializes in untangling the dark recesses of the mind, this man thinks you like the ballet because your mother told him so?”

  “Isn’t it sweet? Good thing I found the tickets so I can act surprised.”

  They hurtled down the parkway—well, crawled would be more like it, as they approached the Squirrel Hill Tunnel. Why the hell did everyone slow down just because they were driving beneath a mountain? If you were worried about the damn thing collapsing on top of you, shouldn’t you go faster?

  “Mom had ulterior moti
ves,” she continued. The radio cut out as they entered the tunnel, leaving only the tires humming against the concrete pavement as background noise. “Gives her an excuse to take Megan for the weekend.”

  “Your mother would have made an excellent hostage negotiator.”

  “I’m actually looking forward to it. It’s three hours long and you have to keep your cell phone off, so I’m thinking it’s going to be the best uninterrupted sleep I’ve had in a long time.”

  “Still worrying about Morgan Ames?” His voice dropped as if someone could be eavesdropping.

  Morgan was a teenaged girl-slash-psychopath whose homicidal tendencies had been instilled in her by her serial killer father. A serial killer father who’d kidnapped Lucy last month and tried his best to kill her before she’d been able to turn the tables on him. Now he was in maximum security, locked down twenty-three hours a day, awaiting trial.

  “Yeah,” she admitted grudgingly, not wanting to talk about Morgan, Morgan’s father, or last month. She hadn’t told anyone the entire truth, not even Nick. He specialized in treating posttraumatic stress disorder and wanted her to see one of the FBI headshrinkers, but no way was she going to let one of the Employee Assistance goons rattle around inside her brain. Not when she had the best guy for the job sleeping beside her every night. “But it’s getting better.”

  Walden gave a small grunt. “Still owe you for not taking me on that one. What a nut case.”

  They emerged from the tunnel, the mountain’s shadow casting them in darkness. Lucy goosed the accelerator and they took the exit onto Braddock Avenue, narrowly avoiding running down a car ogling the Christmas decorations adorning Regent Square.