No. Too soon. Ian needed to know what it was like to suffer. The Everglades might be a bitch, but Stateville Correctional Center was a cunt. He should know—he’d spent the past six years of his life in the hellhole.
But he was free now and ready to exemplify exactly what he’d endured, thanks to Ian and his trumped up reputation.
Time for some fun.
Hell, yeah, it was. But he needed to eliminate the enemy first.
The sunlight gleamed off the edge of the blade again. He stopped mid-swing and smiled when he noticed a small piece of cream-colored silk hanging off a thorny branch. Had to belong to the screamer. Nice.
He crouched and studied the ground, then, staying low, brushed leaves aside until he finally found a print.
Very nice.
A two-fold plan quickly formulated. The men behind him would not screw with his hunt. He couldn’t be in two places at once, but he could slow Ian and Cami’s progress.
Poor Cami. He really was a fan of her movies. Too bad the horror role she’d become famous for was about to become a reality.
Chapter 8
CORE Offices, Chicago, Illinois
Thursday, 11:34 a.m. Central Standard Time
“FOUND THE HUNTER,” John said, rapping his knuckles along Dante’s desk. He hated to wake the man, but they could sleep on the jet down to Florida.
Dante jerked his head off the desk. A yellow sticky note was stuck to his face and the spiral notebook he’d been resting his cheek on had left an impression. “Sorry,” he said, smothering a yawn and rising from the office chair. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep—wait, what did you say?”
“I think I know who the hunter is.” John moved toward the door. “I’m on my way to grab the others.”
Dante rounded the desk. “Who?”
“Steven Weir.”
“Weir? He’s in prison.”
“Not anymore,” he said. “He was released less than two months ago.”
Dante puffed his cheeks and blew out a breath. “We could be fucked.”
Those had been John’s exact thoughts when he’d realized Steven was no longer incarcerated. Steven Weir was not only handy with a knife and gun, but crazy enough to pull off the hunt. Plus he hated Ian. While John wouldn’t defend the man, he also couldn’t blame him. Because of Ian, Steven had lost the past six years of his life.
After grabbing Hudson from his office, they rushed to the evidence and evaluation room.
“Rachel,” John began, “I need you to look up Steven Weir.”
“Weir?” Owen dropped the papers he’d been holding onto the table. “No.” He shook his head. “Can’t be. He was sentenced to seven to ten years.”
Hudson took a seat. “That’s right. It couldn’t be him.” He held up a file. “But I found a prime suspect that—”
“It’s him,” John said, tension crawling up his back. “Trust me. This is one time I want to be wrong.”
“Got him.” Rachel studied the laptop screen. “Actually, I have two. One is an obituary for Steven Isaac Weir, sixty-eight, died this past September twenty-seventh. I also have Steven Isaac Weir, Junior, age forty-five, current address listed in Wilmington, which is…” She continued typing. “…About an hour southwest of Chicago.”
“His current address should be Stateville Correctional,” Hudson said with disgust, then looked to him. “You’re sure he’s out?”
John held up a print off of Steven’s discharge records. “I’m sure. He was released October…sixth.” Not good. That meant Steven was still in prison when his dad died. While he hadn’t been close with Steven, the man had spoken often about his dad, giving him the impression they’d been tight.
“If prison didn’t change him, I can’t imagine Steven was happy about that.” Dante folded his arms across his chest and leaned against one of the white boards. “We need to confirm his location—without letting his parole officer know we’re looking for him.”
“Before we confirm anything, can you explain to me what this man did to end up in Stateville and why you suspect him?” Rachel asked. “Plus, six years ago, I wasn’t working for CORE. Remember, the hunter called me by name.”
Too anxious to sit, John paced. “The original text came from Ian’s cell phone, and I know for a fact you’re still listed in his contacts as Davis, not Malcolm.”
“He still doesn’t know me,” she countered.
“Doesn’t matter why he sent the text to you,” he said, growing irritated by the second. “What matters is that because of Ian, hell, because of us, he did hard time in Stateville. I’d say that’s excellent motivation for his hunt.”
“John’s right.” Hudson set his files aside. “Even if he knew about the other CORE agents, his beef would be with Ian and us.”
Rachel raised a brow. “And that would be because? I have no record in CORE’s system files that this man had ever worked here. I also haven’t come across any of the cases he was assigned to, so an explanation would be nice.”
Dante pushed off the white board. “Short version, CORE was in business for two years when the FBI asked Ian for assistance. It was the first time this happened, so Ian involved me, John, Owen, Hudson and Steven. He wanted us to apprehend the suspect and make a name for CORE.”
“Who was the suspect?”
“Franklin Dixon. He’d murdered eight men.”
“And all eight were either with the Chicago PD, FBI or the Marines,” Owen added.
“I remember hearing about that case,” she said. “Dixon was killed during his arrest, right?”
Dante looked away and rubbed the back of his neck. “Not quite.”
“Not at all,” John said, deciding Dante’s short version wasn’t short enough. Sure, Rachel should be brought up to speed, but it was an hour’s drive to Wilmington and he was anxious to check up on Steven. If he was their hunter, John planned on being on the company jet by mid-afternoon.
“It was late August,” he began, “about nine in the evening when Dixon shot his last victim—a Marine, and the only one who’d survived Dixon’s killing spree. Steven was driving home when we found out about the shooting. Since he wasn’t far from the scene, Ian told him to go after Dixon. Steven called in his location just as he spotted Dixon running between alleys toward an abandoned warehouse. We were about fifteen minutes behind, and Ian chose to not call the Feds or Chicago PD for backup.”
“Dixon was Ian’s arrest,” Hudson said, with a shake of his head.
“Right, and Steven’s kill,” John continued, remembering Steven’s words from that night. “Steven followed Dixon into the warehouse. Instead of slapping handcuffs on the man and letting us know his exact location, he used a set of brass knuckles and…” He stared into Rachel’s wide green eyes and decided to spare her the details. If she really wanted to know the full extent of what Steven had done to Dixon, she could find out from her husband. “Anyway, Hudson and—”
“Don’t anyway anything,” Rachel said, her tone accusing. “If this is our guy, then I want to know what kind of man he is and what he’s capable of doing.”
He shrugged. “Fine. When we walked into that warehouse, Steven was pounding his brass-knuckled fist into Dixon’s face and head with so much force he’d knocked a handful of teeth from the guy’s mouth and literally smashed in his face.”
“We’re talking concave cheekbone, nose and part of Dixon’s skull.” Hudson blew out a breath. “John pulled Steven off Dixon, which wasn’t easy since the guy is what? Six-six, six-seven?”
“Six-six,” John answered, thinking back to the recorded Skype call. The man in the video had been huge and would fit Steven’s profile. “No, it wasn’t easy. He fought me and kept saying Dixon was his kill, that no one killed one of his own without paying the ultimate price.”
“One of his own?” Rachel asked.
Dante took a seat. “Steven is a former Marine. His dad was also a Marine, and if I recall, served two tours in Vietnam before coming back to Chicago and becoming a co
p.”
“In other words, Steven took the murders of those men in uniform personally.” Rachel shifted in the chair. “Okay, I see where this is going. Because of his use of excessive force, the Chicago PD arrests him and he ends up doing time. Got it. What I don’t get is why he blames Ian or any of you.”
“Because Ian was the one who turned Steven over to the police,” Dante answered.
She looked between John and Dante. “And this surprises you? Ian has always done it by the book.”
If only she knew. John pushed a hand through his hair. “Ian could’ve had one of us confiscate the brass knuckles and get rid of them before the cops and Feds even knew we had Dixon. We could have covered for Steven. But, and I think I speak for everyone in the room, none of us wanted him to get away with what he’d done.”
“Sounds about right to me,” Owen said. “Talk about a guy who needed a session or two in anger management.”
Hudson nodded. “He was also arrogant and carried a weird sense of justice. Since I’m a former Marine, he kept thinking we had a bond—which we didn’t. I always steered clear of guys like him. Too gung-ho, too ready to fight. Give ’em a gun, and they think that’s their license to mete out justice in any manner they deem fit. Steven was one of those guys, which was why he was discharged from the Marines.”
“I didn’t know that,” Owen said. “Was he dishonorably discharged?”
“He should’ve been. The way he told it to me, when he’d been on tour in Iraq, he was out on patrol. He said he came across a village and claimed he saw a few men who were linked to Al-Qaeda. While Al-Qaeda was alive and well in Iraq at that time, I know for a fact they weren’t in the territory Steven was patrolling.” Hudson held up a hand. “Please don’t ask how. I was with the CIA then, and that info is still considered classified. The gist of it is that Steven went in and started shooting up the village. At one point, he even tossed a few grenades. It’s my understanding eighteen people were killed, including several kids and women, and twenty-plus were wounded. Of course, he claimed he didn’t know there were any women and children hiding in the buildings he’d hit with his grenades.”
“How was he not sent to prison for that?” Rachel asked.
“Not sure. But one night, when I was stuck on a stakeout with him, Steven told me he felt bad about the kids and women. Then he smiled and said something like, women married to terrorists bore children who would become terrorists, so maybe killing them wasn’t such a bad thing after all.”
Rachel’s eyes narrowed. “That’s sick. Why would Ian even hire someone like him?”
“Ian didn’t know about that. It’s something I haven’t told anyone because he ended up being arrested about a week later.”
“Don’t kid yourself,” Dante said. “Ian knew what he was doing when he hired Steven. He flat out said as much the night Steven beat Dixon, right before the cops and EMS arrived. Ian hired Steven because the man was a skilled marksman and hunter.”
John remembered that part of the night. “Ian also told Steven he was hired because he showed no fear and took risks.” He picked up the file he had on Steven. “In this are details about how Ian had tried to force Steven into therapy during the ten months he was with CORE. There are also classified copies of the psychological assessments the Marines put Steven through—some dating back years before he was discharged.” He flipped through a few pages of the file. “One psychiatrist diagnosed Steven as an aggressive psychopathic personality. Another psychiatrist claimed that he felt Steven used the Marines to channel his aggressive tendencies, and that he used his position to cross socially acceptable boundaries.”
“Such as killing innocent women and children in the fight to stop terrorism,” Rachel said with disgust. “Okay, so Ian turns Steven over to the cops. What happened to Dixon?”
“He died a week after the beating,” John said, still looking through the file. “The authorities involved in Dixon’s manhunt weren’t too broken up over his death, but once the media found out about the excessive force used, there were plenty of people outraged over it and demanding justice on Dixon’s behalf. Steven ended up stuck with a court-appointed public defender, pleaded guilty to secondary manslaughter and was sentenced to seven to ten years with the possibility of parole after serving five years.”
“Which was bullshit,” Owen said. “The media made Dixon out to be the victim, instead of focusing on how the guy had shot nine people in the back.” When Rachel raised a brow at her husband, he shrugged. “I’m not saying what Steven did was right, but what about the real victims? What about the last Marine Dixon shot? He survived Iraq without injury, yet thanks to Dixon, he ended up a paraplegic.”
“Owen,” Dante began, his tone cautionary, “Ian built this company on his reputation. What Steven did to Dixon was an act of vigilantism.”
Owen fisted his hands and rubbed his eyes. When he looked at Dante, he shook his head, a mocking smile curving his mouth. “How is what we’re doing any different? We’re keeping what’s happening to Ian and Cami between us.”
“Because we were threatened.”
“I’ll give you that. We all agreed to let Lola and Harrison handle the situation in Florida until we could confirm our suspect. In the meantime, we have several crime scenes that are now compromised. Hell, at one of them, we have a dead guy—”
“I don’t know what you’re implying, but I think we should end this discussion and find Steven.”
“I’m not implying anything. Fact, if we find that Steven is the hunter and we go to the authorities, that means trouble for CORE. Jordan Marquette’s dead body is decomposing in Fort Lauderdale and we knowingly left—”
“Enough,” John shouted, his patience wearing thin. “Let’s worry about how we didn’t follow protocol when it matters.” He moved toward the door. Screw protocol. He needed his father-in-law home. “I’m heading to Wilmington.”
“Wait,” Dante called, as John walked into his office to grab his car keys. “About what Owen said…I’m doing what I think is best for not only Ian, but for the agency.”
He’d never had an issue with Dante, and didn’t have one with him now. As for Owen, John agreed to every one of his points, as well. But they’d all been running on little sleep. Between worry and exhaustion, he’d figured tempers would eventually flare. And if anyone stopped him from finding Steven, they’d discover he had a mother of a temper.
He scooped up his car keys. “And like Owen said, we all agreed to let Lola and Harrison go. But Owen’s also right. We’re screwed when it comes to police procedural.” He bypassed Dante and met Hudson in the hallway. “Are you coming with me?”
“If Steven is in residence, you might need backup.”
Since Ian had ordered him to slap the cuffs on Steven, and the man had just spent the past six years in prison, there wasn’t a chance in hell this would be a happy reunion. But as he and Hudson took the stairs to the parking garage, he suspected there would be no reunion. Steven had to be the hunter. Everything pointed in his direction. And once John had confirmation, the next direction he would take was south.
Somewhere in the Everglades, Florida
Thursday, 1:02 p.m. Eastern Standard Time
“I’m so thirsty,” Cami said, tripping over a fallen tree. She fell before Ian had the chance to reach for her and landed on her hands and knees. “Damn it.” She leaned back on her slippered heels and examined her broken pinky.
Ian looked around the dense, wet thicket. “What if I use one of these thin vines to tie your pinky to your ring finger?”
“God, no. Just blowing on it hurts.” She stood and drew in deep breaths. “You know what else I hate about this place? It’s made me realize how out of shape I am.”
After he helped her to her feet, they started walking again. “What are you talking about?” he asked, eyeing her curves. Her filthy camisole accentuated the cleavage of her full breasts, along with her tiny waist. Even covered in dirt and mud, Cami was still one of the sexiest women he�
��d ever seen. “You’re on the treadmill all the time.”
“No amount of walking or running on gym equipment could prepare anyone for this nonsense,” she said, shoving leaves from saplings aside and kicking at large overgrown ferns. “I wish we could rest, just for a few minutes. I’d give anything to close my eyes.”
“I know, but we can’t take the risk. We’ve put a lot of distance between us and the sawgrass marsh. I don’t want to lose what we’ve gained.” He looked to his feet, which were coated with dirt and blood, and wished they could stop for a while. “Actually, I think we should pick up our speed again.”
When her torn robe snagged against a branch, she plucked it free and retied the sash at her waist. “Let’s just wait for a bit. I’m still trying to catch my breath from our last sprint.”
Up ahead he noticed the sunlight spilling onto a clearing of some sort. “Okay,” he said, pointing to the open area and hoping it wasn’t another marsh. They could use a break from the dense wet woodland, and needed the opportunity to run faster and farther. “When we reach that spot, though, we start running again.”
She groaned her disapproval, but didn’t disagree. “Have you been trying to come up with who this guy is?” she asked. “You were a profiler for the FBI. Can you…profile him?”
He’d been trying for hours. “He’s clearly psychopathic.”
“Meaning?”
“He disregards laws and social standards, as well as the rights of others. He feels no remorse or guilt, and has displayed violent tendencies.”
“I could have told you that,” she said, then swore and quickly jerked her arm from a tree wrapped in a thorny vine. “Damn, that hurt.” She rubbed her arm, where blood droplets darkened the sleeve of her robe, then looked to the ground. “Oh, no. Look.”
He followed her gaze. Amid the decaying leaves and dirt were pointy thorns varying from three-quarters to one inch long. Cami might have on slippers, but those thorns would easily impale the thin material, just as they would his bare feet. “Let’s go this way and try to avoid them.” After they backtracked slightly, then walked west, they found a patch of thorn-free ground. “Since you could have defined a psychopath,” he said, picking back up on their conversation, “why don’t you finish profiling the bastard for me?”
Ultimate Prey (Book 3 Ultimate CORE) (CORE Series) Page 16
