Sudden Death f-1

by Allison Brennan

  “Ethan.” Her voice was low and he opened his eyes. He hadn’t realized he’d had her pinned so hard against the wall she couldn’t breathe. But she didn’t look scared, never her. Karin wasn’t scared of him.

  She should be. Everyone should be.

  “Admit it. You watched every needle go into his flesh. The poke. The slow pressure, his muscles tensing. The convulsions. The screams and panic and fear in his eyes.”

  “Fear,” she breathed.

  “Why aren’t you scared of me?” he asked.

  Her blue eyes, only inches from his, stared at him. “Why aren’t you scared of me?”

  “You don’t even know yourself.”

  “You turn me on.”

  “Maybe I do.” He shoved two fingers into her and she shuddered. His thumb pressed on her sensitive pressure point and she couldn’t control her reaction; her arms tightened around his neck as a flood poured through her onto his hand.

  “Oh, God, that was too fast.”

  “We’re not done, are we?”

  She grinned and pushed him away from her. She stripped. He watched, oddly disconnected. His penis had a life of its own, as if it watched and enjoyed the show, but Ethan himself was above it all. Watching his body, her body, reacting to the sight and smell of sex, but without fully participating.

  She removed his clothes and took his hard dick in her mouth.

  Ten minutes later he was still rock hard and she was frustrated. “Ethan.”

  “You know what to do.”

  She frowned, but her eyes lit with excitement. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Lying bitch.

  “If you want to help me, you need to do it. It’s the only way.” He was sweating and shaking. Was this like wanting heroin? Meth? The physical reaction was real. Too real. He needed her to do it. “Now, dammit. I need it.” He grabbed her by the neck, pushed her back up against the wall. “You want it.”

  “I don’t.”

  He slapped her. “You do. You need it as much as I do. You just won’t admit it. But I know you better than you know yourself. Your eyes betray you.” His lips touched her ear as he whispered, “Your body betrays you. You’re shaking as much as I am. I’m in withdrawal. You’re in ecstasy. Do it now, or I swear I’ll kill you.”

  She pushed him away. “Don’t threaten me.” She opened his special black box. She was naked, had a curvy body, shapely legs, tight ass. Things he would have appreciated before. Things he would have enjoyed before.

  Now he only craved one thing.

  She turned toward him, the leather pouch in her hand. “Lie down.”

  He obeyed and lay on the hard floor. She took two needles from his kit. He quivered. She straddled him and sank his dick deep inside her. She shuddered. “I hate this.”

  She was a liar.

  He could barely speak, but the words had to be said.

  “You hate that you enjoy it.”

  She held the two needles in front of him. Taunted him. He moaned. “Please. Please please please.”

  She moved and gyrated on top of him, sending him into agony not from sex, but from the inability to release. But it was always about her. Her, her, her, her …

  … she found the nerve on the side of his neck and put in one needle. The pain surged through his body as his nerves reacted to the invasion. He’d taught her well.

  “Kill me,” he moaned. “God, kill me.”

  She then inserted the second needle high on his inner thigh and he screamed, tears streaming from his eyes, sweat pouring off his body as his hips moved violently. The first time they’d done this, he’d bucked her off him, but he didn’t care. It wasn’t about her pleasure, it was about his pain. Now she anticipated it. Enjoyed it. Craved his agony so she could get off.

  He exploded within her, the pain giving him the release he needed. He whimpered with humiliation and pulled out the needles himself. The pain subsided. A lesser man would be disabled for several minutes, but he’d had practice.

  He flipped her over, holding her down by her neck.

  “Don’t make me wait again.”

  “I’m s-s-” she began.

  He glared at her and for the first time saw that small glimmer of fear in the back of her eyes. He smiled, giddy, excited. She did fear him. She damn well should. He could kill her.

  No no no! Ethan couldn’t kill Karin. He needed her. What would he do without her? He couldn’t survive. He wouldn’t be able to finish their plans. He kissed her lips. Her neck.

  “I need you.” He started crying and hated himself for it.

  “Don’t, baby. Don’t cry. I’ll take care of you.”

  “Are you mocking me?” he asked.

  “No, of course not!”

  He didn’t believe her. “Don’t move.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  He took one of the needles that had been in his body, and without hesitation, inserted it just under her nipple. The pain that crossed her face delighted him. He could see why she became so excited watching the others suffer.

  She couldn’t scream, she couldn’t think. He counted off the seconds. One. Two. Three.

  Ten seconds would feel like hours. He knew. He’d been there. He’d been through far worse. If only she knew. If only she’d been there. To watch. Would she have gotten all hot and horny watching him suffer? Hearing him scream? Would she fuck the man with the black gloves as Ethan froze in pain?

  Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Whoops. Too long.

  He pulled out the needle. She rolled over and threw up on the wood floor.

  “Bas-bastard.”

  He stood, happy. Odd feeling, but there it was. Birds singing and a zip-a-dee-do-dah day. He laughed and dressed. “I’m hungry,” he said. “I’ll make dinner, okay? Your favorite.”

  Karin watched Ethan as he walked to the kitchen, whistling. Jekyll and Hyde. Bastard. She’d shoot him in the back for what he’d done to her if she didn’t need him to finish teaching her the tools of his trade. She had watched him and had learned, but there was nothing like doing it herself. And he didn’t let her do it often. When she pushed too hard, he clammed up and it was almost impossible to get him to open up again.

  He was a fucking lunatic. But she’d forgotten that Ethan, though probably certifiably insane, was also dangerous.

  She wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Megan went home late Monday night, the murder of George L. Price weighing heavily on her mind. She didn’t know why it bothered her so much-murder was part of the job.

  She poured herself a glass of red wine, kicked off her shoes, and sat heavily in her armchair. A white ball of fur jumped into her lap and meowed loudly.

  She frowned at Mouse, as she called the cat, and said, “I already fed you.” She’d never been an animal person. Her job wasn’t nine-to-five, and she didn’t want to be responsible for anyone else. Megan liked to come and go as she pleased. But her ex-husband had recently presented her with the furry creature, rescued by his new fiancee when someone threw the animal into a local lake.

  Unconsciously, she stroked her pet, who immediately started to purr. The purr was surprisingly soothing, and Mouse kneaded his paws on her lap.

  Megan sipped her wine and closed her eyes. It was close to midnight after a long, long day. Her squad was the only Violent Crimes Squad in the Sacramento Regional FBI Office, and she’d spent hours on the Price homicide, following up with Detective Black and Simone Charles several times throughout the day, reviewing the little evidence they’d thus far collected.

  Their one lead-the license plates noted by the security patrol Sunday night-was still viable, though Megan wasn’t holding out hope. Two of the vehicles cleared quickly-the owners had valid reasons for leaving their cars in the garage, and they had verified alibis as well.

  The third plate was a possible. The plate was registered to an eighty-two-year-old great-grandmother. When Black went to her house, he discovered that the plates on her sedan did
not match the numbers logged by garage security-someone had switched them with those off a black Econovan registered to a neighbor who had reported his vehicle stolen Monday morning. When Black followed up with him, the owner said the last time he’d driven his van was on Saturday morning, and he didn’t know it was gone until he left for work on Monday. So far, the van hadn’t turned up. Black was checking into neighbors and relatives. He was thorough and methodical.

  In addition to this priority serial murder, Megan had to clear the paperwork piling up on her desk. She preferred taking care of her supervisory duties as they arose, not putting anything off too long, knowing how quickly the stacks of paper grew. But in the course of dealing with paperwork, she had to delegate new assignments, review reports, and attend a joint task force meeting on child prostitution while the assigned agent prepared to testify in a high-profile case.

  She hadn’t submitted her own written report on the Price homicide until after ten that night. But she left the office with a clean desk and a plan for tomorrow.

  Now that she was home, she could think about why this morning’s crime scene bothered her so much. Price was a veteran. He should have been taken care of by the country he had fought to protect, but instead he’d been marginalized and homeless. How had he gotten to that point? What had happened to put him on the streets? Drugs? Alcohol?

  Megan’s father had been a career soldier and had died on the field during the first Desert War. He’d been her hero, and while he hadn’t turned to drugs or alcohol, many of his peers had. It wasn’t just from what they’d seen or done as soldiers; it was also how they were treated when they came home. Megan had known too many veterans over the years who had serious medical problems, physical or emotional, and often did nothing about it. Partly because they were men-they felt they should be able to handle it on their own-and partly because the system was a bureaucratic mess.

  What if her father had been discharged instead of killed? Her father had been a soldier. He couldn’t have been anything else. But if he couldn’t be a soldier, would he have walked the streets? Lost? Confused? Angry with his fate? What about Price’s family? Did he have kids wondering where their dad was?

  Men like Price often slipped through the cracks.

  She was still waiting on the dead veteran’s files. All they had was one of his dog tags-if they were even his. He could have picked them up off the street or found them in a garbage can. They’d take prints at the autopsy, and the coroner’s investigators would track down family. Hopefully, they’d soon have his identification confirmed.

  But Megan knew soldiers after being raised by one. She couldn’t imagine any of them tossing their tags in the trash. Not the men and women she knew.

  Of course, maybe Price’s wife or ex-wife had tossed them out of spite.

  Nonsequitur, Megan. You are tired.

  And thinking about her mother. If Caroline had still been married to William Elliott, she would have tossed all his medals, commendations, and the numerous newspaper articles Megan had carefully preserved over the years, intending to give him a scrapbook on his retirement.

  The last page in the scrapbook was her father’s obituary and a photograph she took of his headstone at Arlington National Cemetery.

  Her cell phone’s symphony ring tone startled her. She grabbed the phone from the table, looked at the caller I.D., and didn’t immediately recognize the number. But it was after four in the morning-she’d fallen asleep in her chair.

  “This is Megan Elliott,” she answered, clearing her throat.

  “You have to get to the morgue right now!”

  Morgue. “Who’s this?”

  “Simone! Simone Charles, from Sac P.D. CSU. The army is snatching our victim. Says he’s AWOL and wanted for attempted murder.”

  Megan sat up and Mouse jumped off her lap with an irritated meow. She couldn’t believe the army CID was pushing for jurisdiction-and at four a.m.?

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “I called the district attorney and asked him to file some motion or something to stop them. But he thinks the U.S. attorney needs to do it. He’s going to try to slow them down.”

  “Matt Elliott?”

  “Is there another D.A.?”

  “Sorry. You woke me.” Of course the Sacramento P.D. would know the Sacramento district attorney, who happened to be Megan’s brother.

  “I’ll call my boss,” she said. “Hold them there.”

  “They’ll have to arrest me before they take my body.” Simone hung up.

  Megan jumped in and out of the shower before the water warmed, pulled her wet blond hair back into a tight braid, and slid on slacks and a thin blouse, then her shoulder holster. She poured some dry food into Mouse’s dish and added water to his bowl on her way out of her downtown loft, and was in her car twenty minutes after Simone’s furious call.

  She dialed her boss at his home. He answered quietly, probably so as not to wake his wife. “Richardson.”

  “Megan here.” She told him what Simone told her.

  “And?”

  “That’s all I have. I’m on my way to the morgue to see what we can do.”

  “We probably won’t be able to stop them. They have jurisdiction over their soldiers, dead or alive.”

  “It would be much better if we worked together on this.”

  “If anyone can convince the army’s CID to share, it’d be you, but I’m not holding my breath.” He sighed as if to emphasize the point. “I’ll call Olsen’s office.” Olsen was the U.S. attorney who oversaw their district. “Let me know what you find out. It may not be worth fighting them for.”

  “Sir, Price is connected to two other murders. Did you read my report? I emailed it last night. We need the evidence to track down a serial murderer, CID and their rules notwithstanding.”

  “Point taken.” He hung up, and Megan wasn’t sure if he was fully on her side.

  While military investigations were essential in keeping order among the armed forces, Megan simply couldn’t see what benefit there was to the Criminal Investigation Division taking over the murder of an AWOL soldier when his death most likely had nothing to do with his being AWOL.

  Unless the other two victims were AWOL.

  She called Richardson back.

  “Sir-”

  “I’m about to shower, since you woke me. Can I have ten minutes?”

  “Did you find out about the other two victims? If they were veterans?”

  “No. I sent an alert to headquarters about the possible connection.”

  “I’m going to follow up on that. Maybe there is another connection-”

  “That they were all AWOL?” he guessed what she’d been thinking. “Let me know.” He hung up.

  Texas was two hours ahead of California, but it wasn’t even seven a.m. there. Still, she called and left a message for the detective in charge of the Duane Johnson homicide. She did the same thing for the Dennis Perry homicide in Las Vegas. Then she called Matt.

  “I need-”

  “Good morning to you, too, Meg.”

  “Sorry, I-”

  “I know. I’ve had an earful from CSU. I got you a temporary restraining order, but I don’t expect it to hold up. It’ll just delay them, and probably not for long.”

  “Enough time for me to convince them that they don’t want to take our victim and evidence.”

  “Good luck. I’m not holding my breath.” He hung up.

  Megan appreciated the legal system. Laws were there for a reason. Even military laws. But she wanted to solve a murder. Find a killer, build a case, and hand it over to the U.S. attorney for prosecution. She wanted to punish the bad guys. She only wished she was better versed in such situations like dealing with CID, but she would wing it. After all, they were on the same side.

  When she pulled up in front of the morgue, there were two army jeeps and a black sedan with military plates. A soldier in uniform stood sentry. She drove around back and saw the crime scene unit’s van. An ambulance
was bringing in two corpses from a local hospital for processing when Megan walked in. She didn’t see Simone, but heard her voice echoing in the sterile building. Megan cringed. She flashed her badge though the intake pathologist didn’t pay much attention, or so Megan thought. She started walking toward the voice when the gal behind the desk snapped “Grab some booties,” and pointed to a box on the wall.

  “Thanks.” Megan slid them on her flats and continued to walk toward the voice.

  “What about ‘restraining order’ do you not understand?” Simone said, hands on her hips, as Megan rounded the corner into the cold storage room. Rows of bodies on steel gurneys, most of them covered with sheets with only their feet showing, lined the huge refrigerator.

  Megan was surprised to see that Matt had beat her to the morgue. She nodded to her brother, and to the pathologist who was standing next to Simone.

  All eyes went to her. Megan quickly assessed the situation and realized that she was likely the ranking opposition, for lack of a better word. She extended her hand to the man in the suit-military lawyer, she pegged. “Hello, I’m Supervisory Special Agent Megan Elliott with the FBI. I think we can work something out where we all get what we want.”

  The lawyer said, “Lieutenant Paul Stork. Your victim is our primary suspect in an attempted murder case. Private First Class Price has been AWOL for five years. And, as I was explaining to the district attorney, section-”

  Megan cut him off. “I understand, Lieutenant. And I respect your need to investigate your own crimes. May I suggest that we find common ground so we-”

  Stork interrupted. “There is no common ground, Agent Elliott.”

  Megan appealed to his sense of justice. “Price was the victim of a serial murderer who has killed two other men-in Texas and Nevada. The evidence is crucial not only to this investigation, but to those investigations. We need to make the link-”

  Stork put his hand up. Megan realized the gesture was the same one she often used when she wanted someone to stop talking, and it irritated her intensely. She vowed she wouldn’t do it again, and planned on apologizing to her ex-husband at her first opportunity.