With Visions of Red 3

by Trisha Wolfe

  The UNSUB marked this island, giving me a targeted, unsubtle hint when he painted the reeds with his victim’s blood. I didn’t understand at the time why he chose to stray from his MO and chance being caught in broad daylight, in a place that’s usually bustling with tourists.

  But it’s all very clear now.

  On the other side of the island, just off the swamp trails, is where he bled the vic. In theory, that’s where I should go—where the crime scene tape still marks off the blood-coated reeds, and the Bathory crest has been washed away by the rain, but still signifies his X marks the spot mentality.

  But one: I’m wearing a dress and heels. Hiking into the woods, and down through swampy marsh, then through river grass isn’t happening. Two: he wouldn’t have requested I wear something so unsuitable for the scene if he didn’t plan to meet me in a more civilized setting.

  And three: no damn way am I going off the beaten trail to meet a killer on his turf.

  He’s followed me here; he’s watching me now. He can meet me halfway on this.

  A snap draws my attention to the wooded surroundings of the memorial. I set my clutch down, silently removing my gun from the bag before I creep toward the darkness.

  “We’re alone,” I call out. I hook my finger around the trigger. “I left them all back at the club.”

  Silence mocks me. Even the creatures stop stirring.

  “Please don’t shoot me,” someone says.

  “Hands up!” I shout. “Move into the light. Now.”

  “Jesus!” A guy dressed in a jean jacket and ball cap walks onto the memorial with his hands over his head. He holds a small paper-brown package in one. “I was just supposed to drop this off… Oh, my God. Is it drugs? Is this a trap?”

  I keep my SIG aimed on him as I approach. “Drop the package.” He does, and I pat down his front pockets. “Take out your ID…slowly!”

  With trembling hands, the young guy—who looks no older than twenty—removes his wallet and hands it to me. “Are you a prostitute or something? Am I being robbed?”

  “Stop talking,” I snap. I look through his wallet, find his driver’s license and read off his name. “Mike Linsinski, who told you to bring this here?” I nod toward the package at his feet.

  He rapidly shakes his head. “Some dude, ma’am. I don’t know. He gave me some cash and said to bring it here. Fuck.” He seals his eyes closed. “I’m an idiot.”

  “Yeah, you are.” I bend down to pick up the package, a nervous flutter attacking my stomach. “Don’t move, you hear me?”

  At his adamant nod, I holster my gun under my arm and rip the package open. Inside, with dried blood staining the paper, my necklace rests on a bed of cotton.

  My heart leaps into my throat. “Where’s the man who gave this to you?”

  He shakes his head again, arms still raised. “I was just walking around downtown. He approached me. I don’t know the dude!”

  Shit. Shit, shit shit! I run over to my clutch and pull out a pair of zip ties. Then I wrestle the guy’s hands behind his back. “You’re going to stay here. Do you get that? If not, I will hunt you down, Mike Linsinski. I know where you live.”

  He swears under his breath as I link his wrists together.

  I stuff my gun and the necklace, with what I assume is Avery’s blood, into my bag and kick off my heels. My feet slap the pavement as I race toward the bridge, but a cry slams me to a stop.

  I glance back at the guy, but he’s searching for the noise, too.

  Another ear-splitting shout, and I’m pulling my gun; I know that voice—though I’ve never heard it in such anguish, I can still discern who it’s from.

  “Quinn!”

  14

  Ties

  Colton

  The news of my brother’s grisly death traveled through the scene like wildfire. With my personal cell phone confiscated by the cops, I’ve been out of touch, which raised an alarm for the club. And with the Feds infiltrating the scene, it seemed like a good time to shut the club down.

  That is, until I returned this evening to find the club crew already organizing a tribute to Julian. Lilly Anne and Onyx did the work, contacting members and insisting I relax. Relax. That’s not happening tonight.

  Besides being in a constant state of worry over Sadie, the guilt has begun to eat at me. My main reason for agreeing to the tribute was because it would bring in a swarm of people, giving the UC agent enough cover to make Sadie’s crazy plan work.

  I’ve been able to dodge most of my brother’s “investors.” Those who still owe him money and who are anxious to be taken off his blackmail list. I’ve found my little, sacred corner of the voyeur room where I down a shot of bourbon, no one questioning my request to be left alone.

  Even though my brother was trying to pull away from the scene, and despite the fact that he was never really in it other than to make money, I can’t help but feel he would’ve been honored.

  The stage is set for the scene to begin. Lilly Ann has stage-managed my brother’s favorites: ménage à trois, girl-on-girl, and submission. He was never big into kink; liked to keep it simple. Which only reminds me that I somehow have to organize his funeral with his fiancé.

  I tip back another shot.

  Across from me, Carson sips on a non-alcoholic beer, keeping his head clear but trying to appear inconspicuous. Dressed down in jeans and a T-shirt, he still looks completely uptight and out of place.

  Up ahead, a few tables closer to the stage, the UC agent watches the first scene. I admit, for the short briefing she had, she’s doing a decent job at playing Sadie. She keeps to herself, fending off any advances, and doesn’t invite any attention. But with the number of people here tonight, she wouldn’t stand out. That’s the idea.

  I’m trying my best to be here, in the moment, and to pay Julian my respects despite every fiber of my being screaming to be with Sadie. Trust is not the issue—I trust her. I trust her to keep herself safe; she’s handled herself in similar situations, and I have no care for the sick shit she plans to end tonight. I just can’t stand the helpless feeling stealing over me, taunting me. Shouting that she’s up against something deadlier and more dangerous than anything she’s faced in her past.

  Dammit it to hell. There’s a sick roiling in the pit of my stomach tempting me to go after her.

  I should’ve followed her.

  “Relax,” Carson says, his gaze steady on the stage. “She’s not out there alone.”

  I glare across the table at him. “What are you talking about?”

  He glances at me. “Did you really think Quinn would let her go off by herself to meet up with a fucking serial killer?” He chuckles. “Sadie’s good, but she’s no field agent.”

  Anger rips through my veins. “Who’s out there with her?” I kick the leg of his chair, forcing his full attention on me. “Who the fuck is out there?”

  It finally registers in his thick skull. His eyebrows pull together as he says, “I wasn’t in on the side op. I was working the club angle with you and Sadie. Quinn put together—”

  “Fuck.” I leap up, rocking the table and knocking over Carson’s beer, and am weaving through the crowd before he can finish.

  I’ve never trusted Quinn. Despite Sadie’s reassurance—her own faith in the man—I’ve always been suspicious of his intentions where she was concerned. But motherfucker, I know he has feelings for her—so why the hell would he jeopardize her safety?

  The UNSUB gets one whiff that Sadie set him up, and he’ll…

  I stop that thought. Right there in its tracks.

  I hit the hallway where I’m shoved against the wall. Carson braces his forearm against my neck. “Whatever you’re thinking about doing, don’t.” His eyes widen. “This isn’t your call.”

  “I think we’ve already figured out who’ll win this fight.” Breaking his hold, I push him off. “She thinks she can trust him. I won’t let her get hurt.”

  “She won’t,” he insists. “Would you rather her b
e out there alone?”

  I grit my teeth. “Knowing the fucking UNSUB is one of you? Yeah. I’d say she’s safer being on her own.”

  Carson keeps my glare, neither of us making a move until he turns his head away, distracted. He presses a finger to his ear. “They got a hit on the DNA,” he says.

  My whole body comes alive. I’m off the wall, muscles thrumming with the need to move. “Who is he?” There’s still time. They can pull Sadie out. I can pull Sadie out.

  Carson shakes his head. “They’re not saying. They’re running facial recognition software on everyone in the club. Fucking FBI. That will take forever, and they’re looking in the wrong damn place.”

  “Who is he?” I’m seconds away from coming out of my skin.

  Carson finally meets my gaze. “I don’t know. But he must be big on the inside if they’re keeping that on lock down. Just calm down. We’ll get ahold of Sadie.” He looks around, then throws his hands up. “Shit. She doesn’t have a phone.”

  But she does. I head back into the voyeur and locate the landline phone behind the bar. My thumbs push the numbers I memorized, my heart beating painfully against my chest wall. On the fifth ring, it goes to voicemail. No recording. Just a generic beep.

  My fist locks around the phone, ready to pound the information from Carson’s mouth with the damn earpiece, but to hell with that. My feet are already moving, taking me past him and down the hallway, then down the stairs. I don’t stop as I clear a path toward the exit.

  I throw the side door open and break into a run, heading right for the not-so-discreet van parked a block away. I hear Carson calling my name, but I can’t slow.

  Before I reach the van, two FBI agents apprehend me. “She’s not in there…neither is your UNSUB. Sadie’s out there—”

  “Sir, you have to calm down,” one of them says. He tilts his chin toward his shoulder. “Sir, we have a situation here.”

  The van door opens, and out comes Agent Proctor, the head honcho who took over my club. “Colton Reed. I figured we’d have a problem with you.”

  The agents drag me into the van. Proctor grabs me by the neck. “I told them not to let a civilian in on this op,” he says. “Cuff him. Reed, you’re being arrested for obstruction.”

  “I don’t give a damn. You’re wasting your time trying to find him inside the club. He’s not there.”

  Proctor squints his pale eyes at me. “What are you talking about?”

  “Sir.” An agent sitting before a row of monitors turns our way. “We have another situation.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Proctor scrubs a hand down his face. “What is it?”

  “Agent Bonds, sir. She’s missing.”

  Proctor turns and points to one of the monitors, to where the UC agent is still sitting at Sadie’s table. “Then who the hell is that?”

  “I don’t know, sir. But she’s not Agent Bonds. We ran facial recognition for Agent Bonds, also…to try to locate the perp, assuming he would be near her. We were trying to narrow the search parameters—”

  “Jesus Christ, spit it out!” Proctor shouts.

  “The program confirmed Agent Bonds isn’t inside the club, sir.”

  Proctor says into his radio, “Detective Carson, bring that decoy agent here. I’m going to have everyone’s badges before the end of the night.” Then he narrows his gaze on me. “Where is she? Where’s Bonds?”

  My throat burns dry. “I don’t know, but Quinn does. Locate him. Do whatever you do to track him. He’s out there with her.”

  I know I’m breaking my promise to Sadie…but as soon as I heard Quinn changed the game plan, I could feel it in my bones—sense the tables turning. Sadie’s in danger.

  And as soon as my words register with Proctor, I see it in his eyes, too.

  Proctor brings his radio up. “Pull everyone out!” He turns to the front of the van. “Get the coordinates up on Quinn’s last known location. I want eyes on this perp now.”

  15

  You

  Sadie

  “That little fucker!” Quinn slurs.

  I brace my hand underneath his head, bringing him into my lap. “Don’t move. Where’s your radio?” My hands shake with adrenaline, my head pounds with the rapid beat of my pulse.

  I rip a section of my dress and tear it free, then wipe the blood from Quinn’s lips. “Jesus, Quinn. What are you doing here? What happened?”

  He tries to sit up and falls backward, grabs the back of his head. “I was tailing you,” he admits. “Don’t look at me like that.” He turns his head away and spits out the blood filling his mouth.

  “You botched it,” I say, my jaw tight. I push him aside and get to my feet, bending over to grab Quinn’s radio. He intercepts it first. “Avery’s life depended on this, Quinn.” Then it hits me.“ He knew. He knew that I wouldn’t be alone. Whatever plan you had going, he knew beforehand.” I think about the necklace—coated in blood—and anger fuels my limbs so swiftly I have to grip my hair to keep from screaming.

  Sitting forward, he says, “I know. I fucked up. But dammit, Bonds…I wasn’t going to lose you.” He stares up at me, and I see the pain he’s in. Mentally and physically. My anger dissipates. But only a fraction.

  “What happened?” I demand.

  He opens his mouth and touches his jaw, rocks it back and forth. “My tooth is gone.”

  Bile coats my throat. “…What?”

  “I was jumped from behind and hit over the head .” He groans as he touches the back of his head. “I came to with fucking pliers in my mouth. He ripped my damn tooth out.” He glances at me. “But I got a good hit in. I think we can pull some trace. Maybe even blood.” He looks over his knuckles.

  “This doesn’t make sense,” I say, shaking my head. “It couldn’t have been the UNSUB.”

  Quinn raises his eyebrows and stares up at me. “Who the hell would it have been? How many other psychopaths did we lure here who would rip my fucking tooth out? I’m sure he wasn’t done with me.”

  The honesty of that statement smacks me hard. No, Quinn would be missing much more than his tooth if the perpetrator would’ve had time. “Can you ID him?”

  He shakes his head, then winces. “Too dark. But think about it. It was personal.” Quinn leans over to spit again. “Only someone within the department would know about my damn tooth. My personal brand of torture. Crazy dentists,” he says, trying to diminish the severity of his injuries.

  Quinn’s radio crackles. “The perp is on foot. Repeat. The perp is on foot. All units be advised. White male, approximately six foot, brown hair and wearing black clothing was last scene leaving TRI.”

  Quinn wipes his mouth using the scrap of my dress to clean the blood away. He lifts the radio. “Kyle, do you have his location?”

  Static. “Negative.”

  Quinn curses.

  Flashes of red and blue light up the highway, blinking against the wooded tree line. I pull Quinn’s arm over my shoulder and help him stand as unis surround the memorial. Once I’m sure Quinn can stand without my support, I step away and take out Colton’s phone.

  I’m dialing the number to the club when I spot Colton entering the clearing. In cuffs. Being escorted by Carson. “Get those off him,” I shout.

  I make a beeline for Colton, but Proctor steps into my path. “This will go down as the worst UC operation ever. I hope you have a good explanation, and a damn good reason as to why I shouldn’t lock every single one of you up for obstruction.”

  “Quinn needs medical attention,” I say, nodding to where he’s sitting on one of the benches. “I take full responsibility. I put Quinn in harm’s way. I organized a side op to apprehend the UNSUB away from the club.”

  “And failed. Big time,” Proctor grates. He points toward the bridge. “You and your crew. In the van for debriefing.”

  I glance back at Quinn, a mix of emotions assaulting me. Anger that he didn’t trust me enough to enter the field on my own battling with my concern for him. He almost got himself
killed.

  “He’ll live.” Proctor eyes me closely before he shakes his head and starts toward Quinn. “It will be your captain who takes the hit. Just remember that.”

  People know just where to strike to hurt the worst. No one else was supposed to suffer for this. And now…now, we’ve loosed an unstable psychopath on Avery. She’ll pay the highest price.

  I turn toward Carson. “Uncuff him.”

  He expels a heavy breath. “Why not? I’ve already lost my badge. Why not go the whole nine yards and let the Feds arrest me, too.” He jerks his head toward the bridge. “Not here.”

  As we make our way toward the van, I link my arm through Colton’s. “How did you end up arrested?”

  “I ratted you out.”

  I stop short. Turning to face him fully, I say, “You did what?”

  Carson holds up his hand. “It doesn’t matter, Sadie. The Feds already made the UC agent. The op was a bust as soon as they got a hit on the DNA from the sample.”

  My head begins to spin. Despite being cuffed, Colton manages to keep me upright. I lean into his chest. “We have the UNSUB?”

  Carson’s features smooth some. “Yeah. Well, we have his identity. You know that lab tech that works with Avery? The tall guy. Glasses. Skinny…”

  My stomach bottoms out. “Simon?”

  “Simon Whitmore. He evaded the initial search of the department by tampering with his file. That’s why the profile didn’t align with him,” Carson says. “The Feds have already pulled his original info. He worked in the Roanoke forensic lab. Moved here about six months ago, though his file states he’s been here for a year after transferring from upstate.”

  I take off toward the Van.

  If Avery isn’t already dead…if there’s a chance she’s still alive…finding that bastard Simon is our only hope. I pull the door open and am immersed in a full-scale search already in progress.

  One monitor displays Simon Whitmore, his face captioned as the UNSUB—the face I looked right into as he handed me the note from Avery. The techs are running searches on his financials, a team already en route to his house and two hotels that he recently paid for with a credit card.