01 A Cold Dark Place

by Toni Anderson

  His gut churned. If he carried on like this eventually he’d get caught. His fingers tightened around the leather of the steering wheel and he straightened in his seat. No way in hell was he getting caught. No way in hell.

  ***

  Alex stood on the top step of the Lincoln Memorial and watched people stream toward the WWII Memorial for the early morning Veterans’ Day ceremony. He’d arrived back from North Carolina late last night. He should be sleeping but instead he was here.

  The jingle of a police horse’s harness rang across the wide open space. Elderly men, many using canes or wheelchairs, were helped by relatives and friends to attend the laying of wreaths at the monument at the far end of the Reflecting Pool.

  He remembered being a small boy standing beside his grandfather—a man who’d flown bombers over Germany—not understanding why they were out on a cold November morning, dressed up in their Sunday best. He remembered slipping a hand into his grandfather’s palm and the feeling of safety that had enveloped him in that moment.

  Heat tingled in his palm. His fingers curled.

  This was why he came to the ceremony every year. To honor the dead. To beg their forgiveness. As minutes marched onward there was a hum of respectful silence. An energy of fierce pride that was both emotionally charged and quietly stoic. It made him proud to be an American. Despite its idiosyncratic betrayal, he still loved his country.

  “Reveille” echoed through the mist that clung to the smartly shorn grass and elegant marble edifices. The piercing notes of the bugle rang through his bones and made him quiver like a tine. His chin lifted, shoulders stiffened, fingers itched to form a salute. But he wasn’t worthy.

  Working in the shadows was a cold dark place.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket.

  Choice had been taken from him when he’d failed his last mission, and failed his country so he edged through the crowd, away from the dignified tribute to fallen comrades. Without the bargain he’d made he’d still be rotting in that North African jail with all the other vermin. He put his phone to his ear.

  “I need to see you in your office.” Jane Sanders. His boss’s lackey.

  He clicked off and hailed a cab. Ten minutes later he stood in front of the old brownstone in Woodley Park, which held a small brass plaque beside the front door with “Cramer, Parker & Gray. Security Consultants” etched in small block letters. It was quiet on the streets. Early morning on a national holiday. He hadn’t been followed.

  Jane got out of her car and came up the steps behind him. They didn’t speak.

  He unlocked the door and walked inside. The house had all the appearance of a normal business—reception counter, row of uncomfortable-looking chairs, low coffee table with glossy magazines laid neatly across the surface. Although they weren’t exactly the usual nine-to-five operation, he and his partners—Haley Cramer and Dermot Gray—ran a legit security and crime prevention business that had made all three of them rich. They’d been best friends since MIT.

  Haley and Dermot knew he hid stuff from them. They knew he’d been in jail in Morocco and had fought hard to get him released. But they sure as hell didn’t know what he did for the government on a part-time basis. And that was the whole point of being a covert operative.

  Welcome to the dark side.

  He turned off the alarm system and unlocked his office door, indicating Jane should precede him inside. She flinched at the sound of the lock turning behind them. His office was soundproofed and swept for bugs before and after every appointment. Not that he handled many clients—just enough to make it look like he earned his pay the traditional way. Which didn’t involve blood.

  He turned on the signal jammer as a precaution he only used when the building was empty. Jane Sanders also had another job, but it was their work with The Gateway Project that brought them together.

  “The Gateway Project” sounded so innocuous, like a community garden or construction company. Instead they did their best to show serial killers and pedophiles the Gateway to Hell. The Project involved some rich, very powerful people at the highest level of government. Dangerous people. Ruthless people. People who had a hell of a lot to lose should things go sideways. The work was more covert and deniable than any foreign assassination he’d ever carried out and, morally, he had less of a problem with his current targets than his former ones. The fact he had a problem at all was why there was a time limit on his commitment.

  As always Jane found it impossible to hold his gaze for more than a fraction of a second. His being an assassin made her nervous, even though the only woman he’d ever shot had been decked out in a suicide vest. No direct orders necessary.

  He didn’t say anything. Just slumped in the chair behind the desk. Fading into the background was one of the things he did best and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy needling this woman. They were about the same age and there the similarity ended. She was blond and pretty and put together like DC Barbie. If she had a mind of her own it was hidden under the thick agenda of their mutual task-master. She watched him from the corner of her eye the way you watched a supposedly tame lion—very, very carefully.

  She stood in her tailored black suit, looking out through the window’s old fashioned net curtains, so beautiful he wondered why he wasn’t the least bit attracted to her.

  One touch of Mallory Rooney’s hand had electrified his skin, heart tripping like a teen on speed. Of course, she didn’t know what he really did for the government and had blown him off anyway. Smart woman.

  “Any trouble?” Jane asked.

  Again he said nothing. She wasn’t his superior and it pissed him off when she pretended she was. She was as complicit in the deaths of these people as he was, but she never got her hands dirty. They weren’t pals. They weren’t brothers-in-arms. He’d bet two fingers on his left hand she’d never even seen a dead body—why that irked him so much he didn’t know.

  “Did you find anything...?”

  He waited for her to make full-on eye contact. Shook his head.

  She cleared her throat. “I suppose you’re angry because we cut it a little fine with the timing the other night.”

  He raised one brow. He’d had to call upon all of his magician skills to disappear without being seen at Meacher’s house. Not that he’d really worried. The Bureau always followed procedure while the Agency did its best work by bending the rules. Not that Alex worked for the CIA anymore; and on paper he never had. But he expected this new operation to keep their end of the bargain, part of which was to supply critical intel and insider information on the exact movements of specific law enforcement personnel in a timely manner.

  “My source said there were technical issues—”

  “They fucked up.” Accidentally or on purpose he didn’t know. “If I go down I take everyone with me. Don’t forget that.” It was his only insurance from being screwed by these people. He’d learned his lessons the hard way.

  Her hands fluttered over the hem of her jacket, the first physical sign of real nerves he’d seen in the woman. “They said there was some sort of dead zone.” Her gaze flashed uneasily to his.

  More silence, lengthening to discomfort. Hers.

  “Who tipped off the cops?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Someone called it in before I’d done the job.”

  Her eyes went wide and frightened, and he felt a thousand years old.

  Between the early tip-off regarding Meacher’s identity and the delayed warning that the cops were on the way, the op had almost been compromised. Alex rubbed his hands over his face. He was exhausted and didn’t want to deal with Jane’s paranoia on top of his own. “Forget it. I’ll figure it out.”

  Eager to be gone, she fumbled open a briefcase and pulled out a file. She almost handed it to him but changed her mind and slid it onto his cherry wood desk instead.

  Scared was good.

  Scared kept people at a distance and that’s where he wanted them. For some reason Mall
ory Rooney popped into his head again, with her short hair as dark as a raven’s feather and sparkling amber eyes. No point lying to himself—he wouldn’t mind a little less distance between himself and that particular federal agent.

  “They found another body,” Jane Sanders said without preamble.

  “Where?”

  “In a remote wooded area in Virginia, near the West Virginia state line. A couple walking their dog. The killer took the trouble to hide the body.” Excitement vibrated low in her voice. “I don’t think he expected this one to be found until next spring.”

  Alex stood and opened the file. Looked down at the graphic color photographs of more pointless death. On top of eliminating serial killers they were also trying to solve one cold case. He picked up a photograph. Frowned. “The connection’s a little thin, don’t you think?”

  Slim shoulders rose and fell with false confidence, as if she wasn’t terrified to be in the same room with him. Because he was the scariest thing she knew. Pissed, he smiled. Maybe she was right. He was more dangerous than most of the monsters they hunted.

  He studied the photograph. This particular killer generally dumped bodies out in the open in drainage ditches in remote areas. Why was this victim different? Or was it simply the first time law enforcement had found a body that he—or she—had hidden this way? Impossible to say for certain.

  “Can we get access to the police and Medical Examiner’s reports?” He wasn’t a psychologist but he understood killers better than most. He didn’t get the compulsion or the buzz, but he definitely had a handle on the mechanics, and the mechanics were usually what tripped these guys up. Like the FBI profile combined with Meacher’s cell phone data had finally earned him his just rewards.

  “Not immediately unless someone hacks them, but now the local PD has started searching ViCAP. It won’t be long until they find a connection to the other bodies. The feds will be all over this very soon.”

  His eyes flicked over his wall map of the United States. Forensics took time. Finding a killer took time. “I have some other appointments that require more immediate attention—”

  “The boss is most insistent—”

  “It’s a long shot at best.”

  “After all these years, everything is a long shot.”

  Alex hid his reaction by staring out of the window. It wasn’t ghosts of the people he’d killed that kept him awake at night. It was the wreckage of families he’d left behind. He’d always followed orders. Right up to that last fateful mission when he’d been poised to break the neck of an international arms dealer. Then the man’s twelve-year-old daughter had walked into the room and Alex had frozen. A better assassin would have killed them both, but he couldn’t do it. He’d left them alive and walked away.

  He’d had plenty of time to regret that decision.

  What bothered him most was he still wouldn’t be able to kill that arms dealer in front of his daughter. Even after the bastard had exacted some personal retribution in prison. Maybe Alex had deserved it.

  Jane gathered her things, obviously in a hurry to get away from him. “There’s something else,” she lowered her voice to barely above a whisper. “Someone involved in the Meacher investigation started snooping.”

  It had only been a matter of time.

  “We need to adjust some of our practices.” A little more assisted suicide and a little less lethal force. “You need to inform the others.”

  Her slight gasp made him frown. Did she really think he didn’t know about the two other assassins The Gateway Project had recruited for this operation? He hoped they weren’t as fucked up as he was. “Who’s the person doing the snooping?” He’d tap their email and cell phones.

  “I’m surprised you don’t already know.” There was a bite to Jane’s tone that almost made him smile. “The boss wants you to keep a close personal eye on the situation.” She paused again, but it would take more than a well-timed silence to crack him. “The person doing the digging is one Special Agent Mallory Rooney, FBI Charlotte Division.” She walked out without another word as though she hadn’t just smacked him in the face.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Mallory’s hair was wet from her rushed five minute shower and her ears burned from cold as she raced through the frosty morning into the building. She’d worked at home yesterday. Normal routine for a federal holiday, curled up in front of her fireplace. She took the stairs up to her floor, a bounce in her step that had been missing recently. Not only had she managed to get some decent sleep and run three miles this morning, she was also pretty damn certain there was a vigilante at large, targeting violent criminals. Maybe that was a good thing, but for the most part Mallory believed in the legal system—she had to.

  She pushed through the door and saw a group of people hovering outside the boss’s office. Wary glances shot to her and then darted quickly away. She frowned. She’d thought they’d be over the whole Post deal by now, although a new version had been rehashed and made the print edition. She rolled her eyes and walked to her desk, dumped her bags, and started to wander to Lucas’s desk but he wasn’t in yet. He was going to be the case officer in charge of this investigation, and if her theory was correct this could be special.

  “Special Agent Rooney.” SSA Danbridge’s voice cracked like thunder from her doorway. “My office.”

  Mallory had thought they’d parted on good terms Monday night. What had happened to destroy the truce? She closed the door behind her. “Ma’am?”

  “You know I applied for that position at the BAU in Quantico?”

  “You got the job?” Mallory smiled, cartwheels and fireworks going off in her head as her inner voice sang Hallelujah. “Congratulations!”

  Danbridge’s blue eyes glowed in narrow slits of rage. Mallory shifted back a step.

  “No, I didn’t get the job.” The SSA thrust a piece of paper at her. “You did.”

  Mallory’s mouth gaped. “What?” She took the paper and scanned it. She was being transferred to Quantico? She tried to hand the letter back but Danbridge wouldn’t take it. “That can’t be right. There must be some mistake.”

  Her boss gripped the edge of her desk as if to physically restrain herself. Her voice carried and Mallory could feel her colleagues’ interest through the walls like darts in her flesh.

  “There’s been a mistake all right. There is no way you’re the most qualified person who applied. You are nothing but a Harvard dropout—”

  “No.” Mallory corrected her. “I didn’t drop out, ma’am.” She hadn’t done anything wrong and she could fix this. “I graduated with my law degree before I joined the Bureau.”

  “Well,” Danbridge practically hissed, “we both know it isn’t your law degree that got you a position at the BAU.”

  “There has to be some mistake. I didn’t even—”

  “There’s no mistake! I called them to confirm. You got it. You got the best fucking job in the FBI.” Danbridge leaned closer, her jaw muscles working frenetically. “You got it because your mother is a senator on Capitol Hill—”

  “My mother has no pull within the Bureau.” Mallory gritted her teeth. This had to be a clerical error.

  “She shouldn’t have that’s for damn sure.” Danbridge’s lips curled, accentuated by blood-red lipstick. “Don’t expect your mother to save your ass when you need back-up.” Deep creases arrowed at the outer edge of her eyes. Her voice was low and mean. “I have a lot of friends in Quantico.”

  Was that a threat? Mallory turned on her heel and strode back to her desk. She called Quantico and got nothing but a terse change of orders spiel and a tight-lipped refusal to let her talk to anyone higher up the food chain. The transfer was with immediate effect. She texted Lucas that she needed to talk to him ASAP, but he didn’t reply. A sense of failure wrapped around her like a cold, wet, shroud.

  Filing the last of her reports and clearing her desk took most of the day. Two boxes and three plastic bags of belongings were all she had to show from her time in
Charlotte. Plus, a few gangbangers safely behind bars and one dead serial killer, she reminded herself. She thought about Janelle Ebert as she hauled her possessions out the main door and past the frost battered trees. Maybe one day she’d look back at her time here and know she’d made a difference. She dumped her boxes in the trunk and slammed it shut. Right now she felt like a puppet on a string. The FBI played the tune, she just danced.

  ***

  Alex swore as he drove past Mallory Rooney’s small two-story home on the outskirts of Clanton Park. She didn’t usually get back from work until late at night, but there she was struggling through the front door with a bunch of boxes. Her change in routine screwed with his plans. Now he had to rethink.

  He parked a couple of blocks over and approached from woods that edged the back of her property. He hoisted himself up a gnarled American oak grateful for the leather gloves he wore. Muscles burned from the strain until he was able to swing a leg over a branch about fifteen feet up, and straddle a bow that allowed him to look over her fence into the shadowed yard. There was a small shed and a rectangle of neatly mown grass. The neighbor’s house on the south side was dark; those to the north appeared to be watching TV, images flickering through the drapes like flash photography. A light in Mallory’s kitchen filtered outside. She came into sight as she rolled down the kitchen blind. Her features were pinched and tired. It made him wonder what sort of day she’d had, and what sort of woman chose to fight crime when she could afford to live in idle luxury.

  The wind rustled the branches around him, the tree creaking and groaning in gentle protest at his weight. He needed to leave. The idea of breaking in while she slept didn’t appeal. He didn’t want to terrify her should she awaken, and if for any reason she saw his face, she could identify him. Then he’d be well and truly screwed.

  Mallory Rooney represented a complication he didn’t need. Since his conversation with Jane Sanders, he’d made it his business to learn everything there was to know about the special agent and the initial attraction had ramped up a notch. He liked smart women.