Knowing Vescilly, he’d taken something from the apartment, something to remember what he’d done.
Reaching over, he pressed the intercom. “Vescilly, come to my office.”
A few minutes later, Vescilly, now dressed in chinos and an atrocious off-the-rack shirt, strode in. Mikhail shook his head. The least the men could do is dress their part.
“Vescilly, you really must see my tailor sometime, you might learn something.”
Vescilly didn’t answer, just waited, as any good servant would do.
Mikhail took a deep breath and said, “What did you take from the scene of the Rodriquiz apartment? I know you, and I want whatever it is you took.”
Vescilly’s blond brows furrowed, his forehead creasing. He shifted. “I—I, uh, took the shirt.”
Mikhail raised a brow.
“The shirt she was wearing.”
Mikhail shook his head. “The shirt she was wearing? The bloody, ripped one?”
Somehow he wasn’t all that surprised, if a bit repulsed.
“Bring it to me. I want it.”
Vescilly shifted again. “Can I ask why, boss?”
“I’m going to send it as a gift.”
“To?”
He smiled and nodded to the television. “Vescilly, you get a raise. You’ve found the one woman I’ve looked for. The rest I might have let go . . . ” Probably not, but he might have. “But her . . . ” He shook his head again. “No. Dusk was always and will always be mine. It’s time we remind her of that.”
He leaned up and pursed his lips. “Vescilly, find out what you can from our informant and then kill them. Their purpose is done, but . . .” He stopped, held up his finger. “I want more names first.”
Vescilly smiled. “Sure thing, boss.” He turned and started for the door.
Still staring at the image of the close-up, of those eyes, Mikhail said, “Bring in the other girl.”
Might as well enjoy his hard-on.
He cut the camera off, one screen going black, even as he played the video on the other, watching it over and over. He and Dusk. Together. Technology progress was the most wonderful of all, if any asked him. He’d reformatted his private video collection onto DVD last year and now he could pause any picture of her, of them, or her with anyone and just appreciate.
Her stare, pale as winter ice, glared back defiantly at him. She was the only woman he’d never truly broken.
The only woman he’d truly felt anything for. The only one he’d ever truly wanted . . .
And she’d rejected him and all he had to offer her. Bitch.
He’d told the informant he did not want Dusk’s location until the very last. He hoped, hoped and prayed that perhaps she would learn of his exploits, learn of his systematic removal of those who had managed to get away. The best part was that it was not only those that had escaped the life the Devil’s Strip had offered, but those that escaped period. Prague, Cheb, Moscow—any holdings the bosses had.
Whores were whores and any that tried to change were doomed to failure. If they escaped, they had to pay that price.
Mikhail smiled as he watched himself turn Dusk over and take her from behind, the jeweled collar glinting, sharding in the reflection from the lights.
Glenda in Arizona had learned most did not ever escape him, even as she’d begged and pleaded to do anything, perform anything. He’d had his man film that as well.
Glenda really hadn’t been all that interesting . . .
But he’d remembered her.
She’d been a Viking goddess once and had been one of Rjiak’s girls. Rjiak liked blond bimbos.
Personally, Mikhail couldn’t care less what they looked like, as long as they were beautiful, exotic.
The woman staring out from his widescreen had been those things. She had been his. Her body still whispered in his dreams, even if he only had to start the DVD to bring her memory vividly to life.
And in bed . . .
His body tightened. She’d tried whatever he said, whatever he’d ordered in hopes of pleasing him. He knew that. There might have been a motive behind what she did, but she’d known how to fuck. Best lay he’d ever had.
If Mikhail required anything, it was the best.
He shifted and pressed an intercom button. “Bring her in.”
In minutes the door to his sitting room opened. He knew the woman couldn’t see him. He sat in the shadows in the back of the room. The TV lit the room in a blue hue.
The woman in the doorway was blindfolded and shoved into the room. The door shut behind her.
She turned her head, sniffling.
He really hated when they sniffled. He preferred them . . . not crying. At least not until he was ready for them to start crying and begging.
She turned, her short linen skirt hanging slightly longer on one side, wrinkled, her sleeveless white top a bit dingy. Her red hair might have appeared pretty around her shoulders if clean and kept. But now it was lackluster, dirty, ratty. Her small stubborn jaw jutted out as she turned her head one way then the other. She’d gained a bit of weight. He’d never liked his women rounded, and it had saved on the expense of keeping them if he didn’t allow them to be fed all the time. As long as the bosses profited without any trouble, they never checked too closely.
He remembered this one . . . Maddy. Magdalene. Now he could not remember her whore’s name, but she’d fought him—like the others. Always saying her name was Maddy, as if the words would give her courage. She was Irish. He’d like the lilt of her voice.
He’d lost her at least a year before Dusk had disappeared along with that other slut, Sparkle. He grinned to himself. Sparkle didn’t sparkle anymore.
He took a drink of his wine, anticipation coursing through his veins.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked as he strode to her, holding the glass.
Her head jerked around to the sound of his voice, her arms tied behind her back, her small breasts thrust forward. They’d had her for two days. He’d had Ivan pick her up outside of Orlando while Vescilly had been busy in New Mexico. Maddy went by the name of Sharron now.
“I remember you,” he whispered, grazing a finger down her cheek.
She moaned and pulled her face away.
Once a whore, always a whore.
He tried to lead her to the couch, but she pulled back, straining against his hands, garbling from behind her gag.
“Don’t worry,” he said softly. “I just need to remind us both of who you are.”
He looked at the image, the raving beauty on the screen. As he ripped this one’s clothing and listened to her cries, he only saw those icy blue eyes staring back at him from the screen.
Chapter 23
Arizona; November 7, 6:21 p.m.
Lincoln scanned the crowd. The smaller airport for corporate jets and privately owned aircraft was not teeming with people. There was no one standing near the baggage claim area of the Phoenix airport with a nameplate plastered to their chest.
Just then his gaze locked on a familiar man, dressed in jeans, boots, and a faded blue button-down, as the man stood and walked toward Lincoln.
“Been a while, Blade.”
Lincoln studied the salt-and-pepper hair, rugged features, and thought the man could easily pass as someone in his mid-forties, though he was only in his mid-thirties.
“Tarver.” Lincoln nodded.
“Been waiting on you. Called your office this morning and they said you were already in-bound to here.” He tossed the paper he’d been reading into a chair. “We worked well enough together before, so I don’t have to worry about playing nice. I’ll use all the help I can get.” He lowered his shades as they walked through the crowd of people. “But I’ll tell you right now, this is my case. I’m running it. You may, technically, have more experience with the players involved, and I’m told you’ve been temporarily reinstated with the task force, though not directly, but I’m still the last guy who has to approve any decision.”
“
Fair enough.” Lincoln followed him out into the warm Arizona day and across the parking lot. Tarver had never been a man big on communication. “Happy to see some people don’t ever change.” Bloody fine with him. He rubbed his head, tired and wondering if Shadow had yet arrived. Two more missing since yesterday. There was a body in Arizona that may or may not be one of his girls, though probably was. Another missing from New Mexico and another from Orlando.
New Mexico had him worried the most. Amy. He hadn’t exactly contacted Morgan yet. Not with this. He’d sent an email to her, as he often did—though he rarely let himself think of what motivated him. No, he hadn’t voiced his worries to her. She wasn’t stupid. He’d wait until he knew something for certain. However, he’d sent Shadow to keep a discreet eye on things until he knew exactly what the problem was and exactly where it was coming from.
Tarver clicked the keypad and a silver Ford rental beeped. Lincoln opened the back door, tossed his bag in. Before climbing inside, he took a deep breath of dry air and wished he’d remembered to bring his eyedrops. Blinking, he climbed into the front passenger seat.
As Tarver pulled out of the lot, Lincoln said, “I have no problem with this being your case. As you said, I know the people involved. But you running it does not negate the fact that the girls come first and foremost. Whatever you decide outside of that, I don’t give a bloody damn about.”
For a minute Tarver didn’t say a word, then he glanced at Lincoln and nodded. A small half smile tilted one corner of his mouth. “You’re still the same codgy Brit you’ve always been.”
“And you’re still the same brash American you’ve always been.” After several minutes, Lincoln asked, “Where precisely are we going?”
The scenery was rather beautiful here. Other than a vague sense, he’d never really thought about Tucson. The early evening was full of color, the sun setting behind the mountains, sharding off yellows, oranges and bright purple. The city sprawled out in all directions. Lincoln could see as far as was possible. No smog. Not gray and dingy, as London or even New York often appeared to him. Bet it was beautiful here at night, away from the city.
Tarver sighed. “Morgue. To visit Glenda Hilldenbrant.” He thrummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “I believe she is one of yours. Though you’ll be better able to ascertain that when we arrive.”
Lincoln leaned his head back and wished life were easier but knew it wasn’t. The past always had a way of wrapping back around to sneak up and catch one unawares.
Not ten minutes later, he stared down at what remained of Glenda Hilldenbrant. She’d been beautiful once. Had walked through hell and made something of herself. Owned a little shop in a suburb of Tucson selling used books. He’d hoped there had been some sort of mistake, but the reality was staring him grotesquely in the face. Fingerprints from Ms. Hilldenbrant’s apartment confirmed this victim was indeed Glenda. Not that he would have needed it. There was a small tattoo on her ankle he remembered Glenda having. A star. The ankle, abraded, skin decomposing and peeling back, lay still on the table, the star clearly visible near the top where the calf met the ankle.
When Glenda hadn’t shown up for work, her friend and coworker had called her and the cops. They’d been looking for a week before a couple of hikers had found what was left of her.
When Lincoln had gotten off his mobile yesterday with Shadow, his old boss from Interpol rang. Lincoln was now back, working for them, yet not officially. Then again, had he ever really been official? He was currently a consultant to one Noah Tarver.
“Cause of death?” he asked, his voice tight.
The medical examiner raised a brow, then looked at the local law, Sheriff Jones. Linc looked at the man in jeans and boots, khaki button-down and his hat pushed back off his forehead, a red line creasing where the hat had set.
Noah Tarver, brown hair buzzed short and peppered with gray, lines carving deep brackets around his mouth and eyes, nodded to Lincoln and said in that same deep slow voice of his, “Sheriff Jones is in charge of this case. We are only here to make certain this is in no way related to an older case this woman was involved in.”
“And that case would be?” Jones asked.
Tarver cleared his throat and offered what must have been a smile. “I’m afraid we can’t tell you that. If I was able, I would. But it could comprise the lives of several women.”
“Several?” Jones asked.
“Several dozen,” Linc interjected.
Jones frowned. “Well.” And that was all he said.
Linc was glad of his restraint, yet concerned that the man hadn’t been more persistent. As yet, Lincoln wasn’t set on his feelings toward Tarver. True, they’d worked together in the past, but never like this. The man seemed confident enough, preferred jeans and boots, seemed a bit too casual for Lincoln’s frame of mind. But regardless of clothing, Agent Noah Tarver was clean and impressive as he’d been before. Tarver had worked stints in the DEA, U.S. Marshals, and finally the FBI.
The medical examiner turned the head of the victim, scraggled blond hair matted to the skull from dried blood, dirt and debris. “The cause of death was a wound to the back of the skull.”
A neat bullet hole sat at the base of her skull. “So it was.”
“However, she would have died from internal injuries as well.” The medical examiner shook his bald head, twisting the end of his mustache. “Granted the animals, probably coyotes, had been after her. But with the temps as they were, the damage was minimal. Still, a rib had punctured a lung. There were eight broken. Someone hit her repeatedly from the side with a blunt object.” The doctor motioned, slicing his hand down, showing them how the victim had been hit. As if Lincoln couldn’t imagine well enough on his own. “Pipe maybe. Breaks too clean for the damage to have been the coyotes. Probably galvanized, as I found filings in some of the wounds and breaks. But I’m also running a trace on the wood splinters we found in her to make certain it wasn’t from the surrounding brush. With the splinters, and if they’re not from the surrounding brush, I’d have to say your guy also used a bat on her as well.” Large, blunt, latex-covered fingers pointed to the face. “Cheekbones were caved in and some of her teeth were missing. Sexual assault is probable though inconclusive as the elements and animals did a lot to help nature along.”
Linc closed his eyes, breathed deep, then wished he hadn’t as the sharp sting of disinfectant watered his eyes as much as the horrid stench that could never be washed from any morgue no matter how much anyone scrubbed.
He rotated his neck, hoping to ease the tension.
But he remembered a body in Paris that had turned up. Not one that he’d saved. It had been just as he’d signed on. But he remembered the file on the broken and abused woman, beaten to death. Broken ribs then as well, missing teeth.
“Which teeth are missing?” he asked.
Bushy white brows danced above sharp green eyes as the medical examiner looked at him. “Eyeteeth and two back lower molars. Those are not congruent with the damage the animals did, so I’d say it was done premortem and prior to dumping her off.”
Bloody hell.
His blood chilled. How had they found her?
He bit down, felt a muscle bunch in his jaw.
His phone rang. Tarver arched a brow at him and Linc said, “Excuse me.” Linc walked away, back through the doors. “Yes?”
“We have a problem,” Shadow’s voice was dark and dangerous.
He fisted his hand. Morgan? “What?” Darkness swirled around him and Linc saw through it, remembering how to navigate in places most dared not contemplate.
“Nothing serious. Yet. But I can’t get a flight yet to Dallas. I’m currently sitting in Houston thanks to a nasty thunderstorm.”
He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Any word from New Mexico yet?”
“Not as I’ve heard, but then I’ve been playing nice with the airport employees. I’m about to rent a car and drive.”
“Fine.”
“True, you can afford it.” Shadow muttered something about Texas weather, then asked, “What about Arizona? ID been confirmed yet?”
“Yes and it’s her.”
For a moment, Shadow said nothing, then, “I’ll get the car, be en route to Dallas. I’d suggest you check out New Mexico. Orlando is still missing as well.”
“Bugger it.” He slammed the phone shut and turned to see Jones and Tarver watching him.
Jones watched him beneath bushy brows. “We need to contact her family. The friend she shared her shop with was wanting to know about making arrangements. You seem like you knew her. Glenda was well liked around these parts. Always nice to the customers,” Jones said around a toothpick he’d decided to chew on at some point.
Lincoln took a deep breath. “She had no family.”
Tarver cleared his throat. “Release her body to the friend.”
Lincoln shoved his hand in his pocket and felt a smooth gold band he always carried there. His heart skipped and the blood iced in his veins. If Jezek found Morgan, he’d kill her, torturing her slower than he had poor Glenda.
Lincoln needed to get on his plane and he had to make a call.
“I’m going to New Mexico,” he said, staring into Tarver’s eyes.
For a moment, neither said a word. Then Tarver pursed his lips. “Fine. Do you want to see the crime scene?”
Yes, he wanted to, but needed to get to New Mexico. New Mexico was linked all too closely to Morgan.
He shook his head, wishing he’d come sooner, checked things out before now. Out of this work or not, he’d kept tabs on Morgan, why not the rest of them? Now Glenda was dead. Orlando—Sharron—was missing.
Tarver’s phone rang. His eyes on Lincoln’s, he answered.
Lincoln watched the face harden, the eyes narrow, never leaving his.
“When?” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Uh-huh. Tell them we’re en route.”
Tarver clicked the phone shut. “We’re going to New Mexico.”
* * *
Taos, New Mexico; 10:10 p.m. MST
Hunted Page 25
