Compromised Security

by Cassie Miles

  WITHIN THE HOUR, FLYNN WAS behind the wheel of a slick four-wheel drive military jeep with bullet-proof glass windows and reinforced steel body. He and Marisa were on their way to Jackrabbit Gulch, a ghost town about an hour’s drive away in the mountains.

  The chase was on, and he was damned ready. It seemed like every random shred of evidence in this investigation and the prior Judge killings had been pointing toward this moment. A showdown. Finally, he would come face-to-face with his nemesis. He would not fail.

  Beside him in the passenger seat, Marisa rolled up the leg of her black slacks, revealing the firm curve of her calf above her black running shoes with a blue lightning bolt logo. She fastened Velcro straps on an ankle holster for a small Glock, then smoothed her trouser leg.

  He knew she’d also be carrying a switchblade in a hidden pocket inside her black jacket as well, in addition to her regular pistol. A dangerous woman. Kind of a turn-on.

  She reached into the backseat and grabbed a leather attaché case. Neatly unfastening the locks, she flipped the case open. “After you go another few miles, pull over.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “The Judge’s instructions said no electronics, no backup teams, no choppers, right?”

  “Right,” he said.

  “Wrong. I’m going to take every advantage we can get away with.”

  “Not with Grace’s life at stake. We can’t take the risk.”

  “What about this?” She tapped the computerized map on the dashboard. “This is an electronic system.”

  “And I’d rather not use it.” He’d insisted on bringing along a regular paper map of the area, which she’d stashed in the glove compartment. “I’m willing to go along with the computer map. But that’s all.”

  “We have our cell phones.”

  “Turned off unless we need them.”

  Their cell phones were their only communication link with Mackenzie. He hadn’t been pleased about sending them on this chase without backup, but he’d had to agree. Ultimately, there was no other choice than to follow the Judge’s rules.

  “I have one more untraceable electronic backup.” She held up a hypodermic gun. “This is used to insert a tiny GPS locator, similar to the type used by pet-owners to find wayward dogs.”

  “I’ve heard about that,” he said. “Puppy LoJack.”

  “Works for people, too.” She peeled off her jacket and unbuttoned the cuff on her long-sleeved blue shirt. “I inject the LoJack into my arm. When activated, it gives off a signal that can be tracked to my location.”

  “How do you get it out?”

  “It’s just barely under the skin. Taking it out is like pulling a splinter.”

  He wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea. “Does Mackenzie know about this?”

  She gave a quick shake of her head.

  “Why not?”

  “If the Judge has an inside track on FBI communications, I didn’t want to take a chance on being overheard at the safe house.”

  “We’ve swept the house for bugs. There’s nothing.”

  “Nothing that we can find.”

  A slight tremor in her voice caught his ear. He’d been so pumped to get this showdown underway that he hadn’t taken Marisa’s mood into consideration. Though she was a trained agent who gave every appearance of being a one-woman SWAT team, he suspected that her stress level was off the charts.

  If this GPS locator made her feel better, fine. He’d do it, too. He pulled onto the shoulder of the road, put the jeep in Park and rolled up his sleeve. “Go ahead. Shoot me now.”

  Using the hypodermic gun, she inserted the tracking device and dabbed away the smear of blood that appeared on the inside of his arm. Her touch felt cool and slightly moist. Like a caress.

  He looked into her tense blue eyes, wishing they had time for themselves. An unstressed moment when he could kiss her the way she needed to be kissed. Hell, a moment was too short. He wanted hours with her. Time enough to patch old wounds and start in a new direction. “When this is over—”

  “Stop,” she interrupted him. “We can’t think about what might happen later. The job comes first.”

  “Grace comes first,” he agreed.

  After inserting her own device, she showed him the black plastic receiver, about the size of a pack of cards with a screen in the center. “This activates by flipping the switch.”

  When she turned it on, a map appeared on the screen and two blips indicated their location. “If we get separated, we can use this to find each other.”

  “We won’t get separated.”

  “We’re walking into a trap, Flynn. There’s no way of predicting what he’ll demand. He might purposely send us in different directions.”

  Again, her voice quaked. He asked, “How are you holding up?”

  “Don’t worry about me. Just drive.”

  He started up the engine and pulled forward. For a few miles they drove in silence.

  Then she exhaled a huge sigh. “I don’t understand the timing of all this. The Judge disappears for two whole years. Then, he makes this over-the-top, dramatic comeback.”

  “We have a name now,” he said. “William Graff.”

  “I’m not so sure.” Her tone was pensive. “I’d rather keep an open mind about all three suspects. And that still doesn’t answer my question: why now?”

  “Arrogance,” he said. “He explained as much in his note. He didn’t like Russell taking credit for his crimes.”

  It must have grated on William Graff’s ego to have someone else named as the killer even if it was his son. All those Internet sites were being updated with new evidence on the Judge serial killings. The name of Russell Graff would be infamous. More importantly, the legend of the Judge would be over.

  “Why us?” The corner of her mouth hitched in a frown. “What is it about you and me? The Judge is specifically targeting us. Why? What’s he trying to prove?”

  “The same thing he’s been after from the beginning. He wants to show that he’s smarter than we are. Better than we are.” He shrugged. “Don’t try to reason it out, Marisa. The man is insane.”

  “A dangerous madman.”

  The danger didn’t bother Flynn in the least. He welcomed the confrontation. For far too long, he’d been chasing a shadow.

  He drove into the rugged foothills of the San Juans. The long shadows of late afternoon spread across the hairpin curves in the road as he took the indicated turn onto a side road.

  “Almost there,” he said. “What do you think we’ll find?”

  “More clues. I’m guessing this is going to be similar to a ransom drop, with clues leading from one location to another, to another. The postmark on the letter he sent to my apartment shows that he planned this exercise ahead of time. He could send us all over the countryside and back again.”

  The final stretch of road leading to Jackrabbit Gulch was a rutted dirt road. Past a lone pine tree at the top of the hill, they looked down on the ghostly bones of a small town, overgrown with weeds. Nobody lived there anymore. Many of the houses had disintegrated, leaving only stone foundations and chimneys to mark where they once had been. The few structures that were still standing butted up against the side of a cliff that offered some protection from the elements, and even those buildings appeared to be on the verge of collapse, with huge gaps in the weathered wood walls. Doors were boarded over, and rusted signs warned against trespassing.

  Flynn parked in the middle of the town and turned off the engine. The dust settled.

  “Should we put on Kevlar vests?” Marisa asked.

  “I don’t think he intends to shoot us,” he said. “And if there’s a sniper in the trees, he’ll have time to take aim. To be protected, we’d need full body armor and helmets.”

  Though he’d promised Mackenzie they’d take every precaution, there was no point in weighing themselves down with armor. He pushed his car door open. “Let’s get this over with.”

  As he stepped out
into the waning sunlight, his senses prickled. Was someone watching? His trained gaze scanned the surrounding forests, searching for the glint of sunlight on a rifle. A hint of movement. Something out of place.

  He saw no sign of life. There was nothing here but the ghosts of old prospectors who had once lived in this town at the edge of Jackrabbit Creek.

  Marisa stepped up beside him. Her gun was in her hand. “The note mentioned a church. Which of these buildings do you think it could be?”

  “These old mining towns seem to follow a pattern. The middle of town usually had a general store or trading post. And some kind of boardinghouse.” He peered into the maw of a long one-story building. Protected by the redstone cliff, it was the most intact structure. “That could be the saloon.”

  “But we’re looking for a church,” she said. “An abandoned church.”

  “The house of worship was usually at the edge of town. As far away from the saloon as possible.”

  Together they paced along the dirt road that had once been the center of Jackrabbit Gulch. The motionless air hung heavy as if time had stopped.

  “Abandoned church,” Marisa repeated as she walked up to a tall stone-and-mortar fireplace. It was all that remained of a house. “None of these buildings look big enough to be a church. And I wouldn’t refer to them as ‘abandoned.’ These are skeletons.”

  “Like his victims.”

  A shudder tensed her shoulders. “I think we should concentrate on the structures that are still standing, even if it doesn’t seem logical that they’re churches.”

  “Why did the Judge send us here?”

  “There has to be a reason,” she said. “This town— Jackrabbit Gulch—must connect to something in our investigation.”

  “Or to us,” he reminded her. “We’re the target.”

  She still held her gun in her right hand. With her left, she massaged her forehead as if trying to stimulate her brain. “I can’t think of anything.”

  “You grew up in a small town.” He kicked a rusted beer can, a leftover from a more recent era when teenagers came to this deserted place to party. “Is there anything here that reminds you of home?”

  “My home town was a farming community. We had some vacant storefronts, but nothing like this desertion. This emptiness. This place is dead. The soul is gone.”

  He turned back toward the center of town, half-expecting to see the ghostly shapes of the former residents. “Prospectors built this town over a hundred and twenty-five years ago. But who else lived here?”

  “Shopkeepers,” she said. “There are enough houses that I’d guess there were families. And the saloon girls.”

  Like his mother. He’d had no contact with her in over a year, not since his brother had gone to prison. He didn’t even know if she was still alive. “My mom found her religion in the bottom of a vodka bottle. The local saloon would have been her church.”

  Marisa eyed him curiously. “What’s your mother’s name?”

  “Bunny.”

  “We’re in Jackrabbit Gulch.”

  This clue was about Flynn. His family. His mother’s alcoholism. A spark of anger lit inside his chest as he strode toward the saloon at the center of town.

  Chapter Eleven

  A couple of weathered boards blocked the entrance to the saloon. With a surge of energy, Flynn ripped down the barrier. He held one of the boards so Marisa could see. “These nails aren’t rusted. This board has been taken down recently and put back up.”

  Her expression was worried as she pulled him toward the side of the door, away from the opening. “Don’t go barging in there. It could be a trap.”

  Annoyed with himself that she had to warn him to be careful, Flynn unholstered his gun. He needed to concentrate. To think before he reacted. But he was so damned angry. His blood pumped like lava through his veins. Bunny. Jackrabbit. A saloon as a church.

  The Judge had brought them here to reference Flynn’s mother, whose alcohol-drenched life was as stark and wasted as a ghost town. Jackrabbit Gulch was another backhanded slap in the face. Another reminder of his miserable youth, a time in his life that William Graff had openly scorned.

  He kept his past in the past. Every memory was an embarrassment, especially when it came to his mother. For as long as he could remember, Bunny O’Conner had been a walking disaster, assuming she was even capable of walking. More often she lay collapsed on the kitchen floor. In the bathroom shower with the water still running. Outside on the front stoop with her legs splayed.

  But she was still his mom, the woman who had given him life. Somewhere deep inside, he still loved her.

  “Are you okay?” Marisa asked as she handed him a flashlight that she’d got from the jeep.

  “Only a coward attacks a guy’s mother.” He squinted at the opening into the saloon. “Go inside slowly. Watch for trip wires.”

  He entered first, holding his gun in one hand and the flashlight in the other. The floorboards creaked, and he tested each step to make sure the rotting floor would hold his weight.

  Part of the roof was gone. Some of the boards on the outer walls had rotted away, allowing enough sunlight to see into the dusty darkness. They were lucky to be in the arid Colorado climate instead of somewhere humid. Mold wasn’t a problem.

  His flashlight beam spotlighted broken chairs and tables coated with years of grit. The bar itself—a long countertop—was intact.

  He heard Marisa moving behind him. “If this is supposed to represent a church,” she said, “the bar must be the altar.”

  A putrid smell caused him to wince. He shone his light on the floor in front of the bar. He saw dried blood. Lumps of fur. Maggots crawled in the eviscerated remains of several small animals. “Rabbits. A coyote.”

  Marisa joined her light with his. “A natural predator didn’t do this.”

  The carnage disgusted Flynn. At the same time, it raised doubts in his mind. He couldn’t see William Graff doing something like this; he wasn’t the kind of man who got his hands dirty. This kind of animal sacrifice seemed more like the work of Eric Crowe.

  “They were gutted,” she said. Her light slid across the floor, finding others. “Probably all lined up at the bar before the scavengers got to them.”

  Though his eyes were becoming accustomed to the dim light, he lifted his beam. Written in blood across the front of the bar were three words: Welcome Home, Hero.

  Stunned, he dropped the flashlight.

  “What’s wrong?” Marisa asked. She was right beside him, tugging on his arm. “Flynn?”

  “How could he know?”

  “Know what?” She punched his arm. Hard.

  “Ow.” He glared down at her.

  “What the hell is going on with you?”

  “I’m fine.” He leaned down and picked up his flashlight. “Just keep looking for the next clue.”

  “Hold on there, Sherlock. I think we found a clue,” she said. “Welcome Home, Hero. Written in blood.”

  “I saw. Keep looking.”

  She looked at his face, and let it go.

  He turned away from the bar and shone his light on a pile of shattered furniture. His mind was far away.

  In high school, he’d been a running back on the football team. A damn good player. Some people had thought he could go pro. In his junior year, the city-wide championship had been an away game across town. Nobody had expected his team to win, but Flynn had made a spectacular catch and scored the winning touchdown.

  It should have been the best night of his life.

  After the bus got back to the school, his cheerleader girlfriend had had a party at her house. There’d been a banner hanging over the door: Welcome Home, Hero.

  A moment of glory. Never before or since had he truly felt like a hero, like David after wiping out an army of Goliaths.

  Then his mother had showed up. Drunk as a skunk and smelling twice as bad.

  “Flynn,” Marisa called to him. “Look up here.”

  The beam of her f
lashlight flickered on a high shelf behind the bar. He squinted. There seemed to be a bit of glass. “What is it?”

  “Mini-cam,” she said. “He’s watching us.”

  “Bastard,” he muttered.

  Flynn had wanted a face-to-face confrontation. Instead, he was trapped in a fishbowl providing entertainment for that psychotic son of a bitch.

  She lowered the beam. “There are probably microphones stashed in here, too.”

  “Can any of this stuff be traced back to a source?”

  “Sure,” she said. “But I have no doubt that the final result will be an anonymous Web site.”

  “We’ll leave it.” He took a step toward the door. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “Not yet.” She snagged his arm. “If the phrase written in blood isn’t the next clue, we’ve got to find it.”

  Ironic. On the drive here, she’d been quavering and nervous. Now, he was the one who wanted to run away and hide—hide from his past.

  He couldn’t give in, wouldn’t give up. He wasn’t a coward. “Where do we start?”

  “He’s never left much in the way of crime scene clues for us before,” she said. “Only the bodies.”

  His stomach curdled with revulsion. “Aw, hell. I don’t want to touch those dead animals.”

  “He wouldn’t leave a clue in those bodies. He’d have to know that scavengers would come after the remains and drag them out of here. I’ll look behind the bar. You stay out here.”

  Ignoring the turmoil inside, he directed his flashlight along the walls and floor. How had the Judge known about that Welcome Home, Hero banner? It was a piece of Flynn’s history that wouldn’t show up on any official records. He’d talked about the incident to an FBI shrink, but that information was buried in an archive. He’d have to ask Treadwell how someone might gain access.

  Or maybe the Judge had talked to someone from his past. His mother? A fresh rage burst inside him at the thought of a serial killer talking to Bunny O’Conner. If he bought her a couple of drinks, she’d tell him anything.

  “Over here,” Marisa called.

  He turned and saw her standing behind the bar. “What did you find?”