The FBI Thrillers Collection

by Catherine Coulter

“If Charlotte hadn’t been there, we would have gotten away and I would have moved us to the Eureka jail, no visitors allowed.”

  He picked up her hand and held it. “That crying and cursing—it’s Charlotte Frasier. The pilot, who also seems to be a medic, has been working on her. You shot her through her right arm. Pity, but she’ll be all right. Before you came awake, she was screaming that you were an ingrate, after all she’d done for you. She said she was going to kill you herself.” He didn’t add that she’d punctuated everything she said with the foulest language he’d heard in a long time.

  She was thoughtful for a long moment, then said, “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, just a slight headache now. How’s your head?”

  “Hurts.”

  “Ah, they see we’re awake. Here comes Mr. Alpo Viljo. No, I’m not making it up, his name is Alpo. Sounds Swedish to me. He’s an enforcer, a bodyguard maybe. I’ve never run into a real Swedish badass before. From what I’ve heard, he’s the one who smacked his pistol butt against your head.”

  Alpo Viljo was indeed one of the men who’d chased her on the beach near the cemetery. He was even bigger up close, but really out of shape, his belly hanging over his belt, unlike most of the Scandinavian people she’d met. At least he was blond and blue-eyed. Had to be some Viking blood in there somewhere.

  He didn’t say anything, just stood there, his arms crossed over his chest, staring down at her.

  Lily said, “What’s your partner’s name?”

  He started, as if he wasn’t sure he understood her, then said in his stilted, perfectly understandable English, “His name is Nikki. He’s a mean man. Do not do anything to piss him off.”

  “Where are we going, Mr. Viljo?”

  “That is none of your business.”

  “Why is Mr. Olaf Jorgenson bringing us to Sweden?”

  He just shook his head at her, grunted, turned, and walked back to the front of the cabin, where Charlotte Frasier was still muttering a curse every little while.

  “You got that, Lily? No pissing off Nikki. As for Alpo, I think he likes you. You do look like a princess, and maybe Alpo’s a romantic man. But don’t count on it, okay?”

  She had to grin, even though it hurt her head to move her mouth. She looked out the window at the mountains and canyons of white clouds. She said as she turned back to face him, “Simon, I really do like your hair. Even messed up, it’s cool the way it curls at your neck. Long, but not too long. Sexy.”

  “Lily,” he said, leaning closer, his voice very low, “you’re not thinking straight at the moment. I want you to close your eyes and try to sleep.”

  “I think that’s probably a very good idea. All right. Maybe I could have some aspirins first?”

  Simon called out to Alpo Viljo, and soon Lily was downing a couple of aspirin and a very large glass of water. She gave him a silly grin as her eyes closed.

  And in that exact moment, Simon knew it was all over for him. He’d met a woman to trust, a woman loyal to her bones. She sent his feelings right off the scale. His princess, all delicate and soft and pale as milk—well, not right now, since she was still damp from the rain, her clothes torn and splattered with mud, and that hair of hers, all limp and tangled around her head; it was his opinion that she looked superb.

  What was a man to do?

  He eased a small airplane pillow between her belly and the seat belt. He leaned back against the seat and closed his own eyes.

  Lily awoke thinking of her brother, knowing he must be frantic. Surely Hoyt and Dillon knew they’d been taken. But did they have any idea where? And, for that matter, why had they been kept alive at all?

  She looked over at Simon’s seat. It was empty. He was gone. But where?

  She heard a man’s deep voice say in halting English right next to her ear, “You eat now.”

  Nikki eased himself down into Simon’s seat. He was holding a tray on his lap. It was the man who’d shouted to her on the beach, the man Alpo had said was mean.

  “Where’s Simon?”

  The big man just shook his head. “Not your worry. Eat now.”

  She said very slowly, very deliberately, “No, I won’t do anything until I see Simon Russo.”

  Nikki cupped his big hand around the back of her neck and dragged her head back. He picked up a glass of something that looked like iced coffee without the ice and forced her to drink it. She struggled, choked, the liquid spilling down her chin and onto her clothes, soaking in, smelling like coffee and something else. Something like pills went down her throat. She felt dizzy even before Nikki let go of her neck. “Why did you do that?”

  “We land soon. Officials here. We want you quiet. Too bad you did not eat. Too thin.”

  “Where’s Simon, you son of a bitch?” But she knew the words didn’t sound right coming out of her mouth. She wished she’d eaten, too. She heard her stomach growl even as she fell away into a very empty blankness.

  24

  Bar Harbor, Maine

  Special Agent Aaron Briggs, neck size roughly twenty-one inches, biceps to match, a gold tooth shining like a beacon in his habitual big smile, nodded from behind the counter at agents Lowell and Possner. Both agents were dressed casually in jeans, sweaters, and jackets, trying to appear like ordinary customers looking at frames and photo albums.

  It was two o’clock, on the dot.

  Savich was in the back. Aaron knew he had his SIG Sauer ready, knew he wanted Tammy Tuttle so bad he could taste it. Aaron wanted her, too. Dead was what Tammy Tuttle needed to be, for the sake of human beings everywhere, particularly young teenage boys. He’d listened to every word Dillon Savich had said on the flight up here. He knew agents who’d seen the wild-eyed guy in Antigua who’d slit Virginia Cosgrove’s throat, agents who couldn’t explain what they’d seen and heard. He felt a ripple of fear in his belly, but he told himself that soon she’d be dead, all that inexplicable stuff he’d heard she’d done down in the airport in Antigua would then be gone with her.

  The bell over the shop door sounded as the door opened. In walked Tammy Tuttle, wrapped up in a thick, unbelted wool coat that hung loose on her. Aaron put out his big smile with its shining gold tooth and watched her walk toward him. He could feel the utter focus of agents Possner and Lowell from where he stood, his SIG Sauer not six inches from his right hand, just beneath the counter.

  She was pale, too pale, no makeup on her face, and there was something about her that jarred, something that wasn’t quite right.

  Aaron was the best retail undercover agent in the Bureau, bar none, with the reputation that he could sell a terrorist a used olive green Chevy Chevette, and he turned on all his charm. He said, “Hi, may I help you, miss?”

  Tammy was nearly leaning against the counter now. She wasn’t very tall. She bent toward him and his eyes never left her face as she said, “Where’s the other guy? You know, that little twerp who spells Teddi with an ‘i’?”

  “Yea, ain’t that a hoot? Teddi with an ‘i.’ Well, Teddi said he had a bellyache—he’s said that before—and called me to cover for him. Me, I think he drank too much last night at the Night Cave Tavern. You ever been there? Over on Snow Street?”

  “No. Get my photos, now.”

  “Your name, miss?”

  “Teresa Tanner.”

  “No problem,” Aaron said and slowly turned to look in the built-in panels, sectioned off by letter of the alphabet. Under T, he found Teresa Tanner’s envelope third in the slot, which was exactly where he’d placed it himself an hour before. He picked up the envelope with her name on it, was slowly turning back to her, knowing Savich was ready for him to drop to the floor so he’d have a clear shot at her, when suddenly he heard a hissing sound, loud, right in his ear, and he froze. Yes, a hiss, like a snake, right next to him, too close, too close, right next to his neck, and its fangs would sink deep into his skin and…

  No, his imagination was going nuts on him, but there it was again. Aaron forgot to fall to the floor so Savi
ch could have his shot. He grabbed his SIG Sauer from beneath the counter, brought it up fast, just like he knew Possner and Lowell were doing, and whipped around. The photo envelope was suddenly in her hand; he didn’t know how she’d gotten it, but there it was, and then both Tammy Tuttle and the envelope were gone. Just gone.

  He heard Savich yell, “Get out of the way, Aaron! Move!”

  But he couldn’t. It was like he was nailed to the spot. Savich was trying to shove him aside, but he resisted, he simply had to resist, not let him by. He saw a harsh, bright glow of fire in the corner of the shop, smelled burning plastic, harsh and foul, and heard Agent Possner scream. Oh God, the place was on fire, no, just a part of it, but it was mainly Agent Possner. She was on fire—her hair, her eyebrows, her jacket, and she was screaming, slapping at herself. Flames filled her hair, bright and hot and orange as a summer sun.

  Agent Aaron Briggs shoved Savich aside and started running, yelling as he ran toward Possner.

  Agent Lowell was turning to Possner, not understanding, and when he saw the flames, he tackled her. They fell to the floor of the shop, knocking over a big frame display, and he was slapping at her burning hair with his hands. Aaron jerked off his sweater as he ran toward them, knocking frame and album displays out of the way.

  Savich was around the counter, running toward the door, his gun drawn. Aaron saw him but didn’t understand. Didn’t he care that Possner was on fire? He heard a gunshot, a high, single pop, then nothing. Suddenly the flames were out. Possner was sobbing, in the fetal position on the floor, Lowell’s shirt wrapped around her head, and Aaron saw that Lowell was all right, no burns that Aaron could see. He had his cell phone out, calling for backup, calling for an ambulance. And Aaron realized that his fingers looked normal. He thought he’d seen them burned, just like he’d seen Possner burned.

  • Savich was running, searching through the streets. There weren’t that many folk around, no tourists at all, it being fall and much too chilly for beach walks in Bar Harbor. He held his SIG at his side and made a grid in his mind. He’d studied the street layout. Where would she go? Where had she come from?

  Then he saw her long, dark blue wool coat, thick and heavy, flapping around a corner just half a block up Wescott. He nearly ran down an old man, apologized but didn’t slow. He ran, holding his SIG Sauer against his side, hearing only his own breathing. He ran around the corner and stopped dead in his tracks. The alley was empty except for that thick wool coat. It lay in a collapsed pile against a brick wall at the back of the alley.

  Where was she? He saw the narrow, wooden door, nearly invisible along the alley wall. When he got to it, he realized it was locked. He raised his SIG Sauer and fired into the lock. Two bullets dead on and the door shattered. He was inside, crouched low, his gun steady, sweeping the space. It was very dim, one of the naked bulbs overhead, burned out. He blinked to adjust his vision and knew he was in grave danger. If Tammy was hidden in here, she could easily see his silhouette against the streetlight behind him and could nail him.

  He realized he was in a storeroom. There were barrels lining the walls, shelves filled with boxes and cans, paper goods. The floor was wooden and it creaked. The place was really old. It was dead quiet, not even any rats around. He swept over the room, hurrying because he didn’t believe she’d stayed in here, no, she’d go through the door at the far end of the storeroom. It just wasn’t in Tammy’s nature to hide and wait.

  He opened the door and stared into a bright, sunlit dining room filled with a late-lunch crowd. He saw a kitchen behind a tall counter on the far side of the dining room, smoke from the range rising into the vents, exits to the left leading to bathrooms, and a single front door that led out to the sidewalk. He stepped into the room. He smelled roast beef and garlic. And fresh bread.

  Slowly the conversations thinned out, then stopped completely, everyone gaping at the man who was in a cop stance, swinging a gun slowly around the room, looking desperate, looking like he wanted to kill someone. A woman screamed. A man yelled, “Here, now!”

  “What’s going on here?”

  This last was from a huge man with crew-cut white hair, a white apron stained with spaghetti sauce, coming around the kitchen counter to Savich’s left, carrying a long, curved knife. The smell of onions wafted off the knife blade.

  “Hey, fellow, is this a holdup?”

  Savich slowly lowered his gun. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, just couldn’t believe that he’d come through a dank storeroom into a café and scared a good twenty people nearly to death. Slowly, he reholstered his gun. He pulled out his FBI shield, walked to the man with the knife, stopped three feet away, and showed it to him. He said in a loud voice, “I’m sorry to frighten everyone. I’m looking for a woman.” He raised his voice so every diner in the big room could hear. “She’s mid-twenties, tall, light hair, very pale. She has only one arm. Did she come in here? Through the storeroom door, just like I did?”

  There were no takers. Savich checked the bathrooms, then realized Tammy was long gone. She might have remained hidden in the storeroom, knowing he’d feel such urgency he’d burst into the café. He apologized to the owner and walked out the front door.

  In that moment, standing on the Bar Harbor sidewalk, Savich could swear that he heard a laugh—a low, vicious laugh that made the hair on his arms stand up. There was no one there, naturally. He felt so impotent, so completely lost that he was hearing her in his mind.

  Savich walked slowly back to Hamlet’s Pics. When he got there, he stood a moment outside the shop, incredulous. There’d been mayhem when he’d burst out of there. But now there were no cop cars, no ambulance, no fire engines. Everything was quiet, nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary.

  He walked into the photo shop. There were three agents standing on the far side of the shop just staring down, talking quietly among themselves.

  Agent Possner wasn’t burned. There was no sign that there had ever been a fire in Hamlet’s Pics. Agents Briggs, Lowell, and Possner stared back at him.

  Savich walked out. He sat down on a wooden bench on the sidewalk just outside the photo shop and put his head in his hands.

  For the first time, he thought the FBI needed to assign someone else to catch this monster. He’d failed. Twice now, he’d failed.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder and slowly raised his head to see Teddi Tyler standing over him. “I’m sorry, man. She must really be something to get past you guys.”

  “Yeah,” Savich said, and he felt just a shade better. “She’s something. We’ll get her, Teddi. I just don’t know how as of yet.”

  She was still somewhere in Bar Harbor with Marilyn, she had to be. He got slowly to his feet. He had to get a huge manhunt organized.

  In that instant, he realized that even if they didn’t find her, she had every intention of finding him. She would hunt him down, not the other way around. And the good Lord knew, he was much easier to find.

  Gothenburg, Sweden

  It was cold, so bloody cold Lily didn’t think she could stand it. Strange thing was that she knew she wasn’t really conscious, that she didn’t really know what was happening or where she was, but her body just kept shuddering, convulsing with the cold. The cold was penetrating her bones, and she felt every shake, every shudder.

  Then, suddenly, she felt Simon near her, no doubt it was him because she knew his scent. She already knew his damned scent, a good scent, as sexy as his hair curling at his neck. His arms were suddenly around her, and he hugged her hard against him, pulling her so close she was breathing against his neck, feeling his heart beat steady and strong against hers.

  He was breathing deeply, and cursing. Really bad words that Savich had never said even when he was pissed off, which had been quite often when they were growing up. What a long time ago. Sometimes, like now, she thought as she shivered, being an adult really sucked. She pressed closer, feeling his warmth all the way to her belly. The convulsive jerks lessened, her brain began to function aga
in.

  She said against his collarbone, “Where are we, Simon? Why is it so cold? Did they leave us beside a fjord?”

  His hands were going up and down her back, big hands that covered a lot of territory, and he rolled her under him so he could cover more of her.

  “I guess we’re in Sweden. It’s sure too cold in this room for us to be in the Mediterranean near Ian’s yacht. I just woke up a while ago. They drugged us. Do you remember?”

  “Yes, Nikki forced something down my throat. I guess you were already under. How much time has passed?”

  “A couple of hours. We’re in a bedroom, and there isn’t even a heater working. The door is locked, and the bed is stripped, so we have no blankets or sheets. I didn’t realize you were so cold until just a minute ago. Are you warming up now?”

  “Oh yes,” she said, against his neck, “definitely better.”

  He was silent for a long time, listening to her breathe, feeling her relax as she grew warmer. He cleared his throat and said, “Lily, I know this is an awfully unusual place and perhaps even a somewhat strange time to mention this, but I have to be honest here. You didn’t do well picking your first two husbands. I’m thinking that you need a sort of consultant who could help you develop a whole new set of criteria before you try a third husband.”

  She raised her head, saw his bristly chin in the dim light, and said only, “Maybe, but I’m still married to the second one.”

  “Not for much longer. Tennyson is soon to be only another very bad chapter in your history. Then he’ll be a memory, and you’ll be ready to begin work with your consultant.”

  “He’s scary, Simon. He married me to get to my paintings. He fed me depressants. He probably tried to kill me by cutting the brake lines in the Explorer. He’s a very bad chapter, maybe the biggest, baddest yet, and my history isn’t all that long. It’s not particularly good for the soul to have both Jack Crane and Tennyson Frasier in your life.”

  “You’ll divorce Tennyson just like you did Jack Crane. Then we’ll figure out these new criteria together.”