Ten days ago, Senator Collins and his soldiers had caught me alone here, coming upon me on my blind side while I’d been packing up some of my tech stuff. He and his soldiers had beat the shit out of me, then Collins had shot me in the chest while Logan had been trying to save me. I’d been alone that night because Logan and Nishi had just left, and Ryan and Luke had gone to Riley’s bar to pick up women. If it weren’t for the dreg bond that had alerted Logan to my physical pain, he wouldn’t have known I’d been injured, and he certainly wouldn’t have gotten to me in time. Without Logan, I would be dead now.
I heaved out a sigh. The “something” that was keeping me rooted here? Well, it wasn’t a something. It was a someone.
A willowy blonde who doesn’t even know I exist.
Yeah, and now we were back to Shannon Collins. Call me a stalker if you want, but I’d investigated her after her father, that evil bastard Senator Collins, had kidnapped and tortured Logan a few weeks ago. Her father had been a major shareholder in The Company, an evil man, and therefore, an enemy of the dregs. After he’d shot me in the chest that night ten days ago, I had to shoot him in the head (with Logan’s help) effectively putting the monster to rest. Did Shannon Collins know what kind of man her father had been? Or had the man been leading a double life, keeping his involvement with The Company separate from his family life?
I’d convinced myself I was only “researching” her to make sure she wasn’t involved with The Company in any way. But even after my research didn’t link her to the Company (at least not that I was able to find), I still found myself uncharacteristically intrigued with her. I wasn’t the type of guy who got blown away by a woman. There wasn’t anything in the world that interested me more than my tech stuff.
Except for Shannon Collins.
From the moment I’d first seen her picture, I’d been blown away and curious as hell about her. But it wasn’t as if I could just approach the woman and introduce myself. For one, I’d killed her father. For another, she could be a secret part of The Company. And I was a dreg.
But none of that meant I couldn’t check into her. Just in case. So I’d done a little research. Now I knew everything there was to know about Shannon Collins.
An only child who’d been born into a wealthy family, Shannon had lived with her parents in California until the age of thirteen when the family had moved to Georgia and her father joined the senate. Shannon had been a straight-A student in both high school and college. She had received her BA in Multimedia Journalism from Berry College three years ago. She was now twenty-five, an investigative reporter for one of Atlanta’s major television channels, and a top internet blogger. She didn’t hesitate to share her views about various different subjects on her blog. The woman did not shy away from controversy. In fact, her blog was titled, “Shannon’s Views—A Modern Woman’s Take on the World. Good, Bad, and Ugly.” She posted articles regularly about things that interested her. I began following her blog, and eagerly awaited the email notifications announcing she’d posted something new. Each blog post was bound to entertain. She had a way with words that sucked people in, encouraging them to comment on her blog. While I never commented on her blog, I read each post with fascination.
Shannon had been oddly silent for over a week. In fact, her most recent blog post had been about her father’s murder. She’d stated loud and clear that she intended to find the killer and bring him to justice. But since that post, her blog had gone stale. Was she off researching a new story somewhere, and therefore, too busy to write another blog post? There was no way any evidence would lead her to me, but I was still curious what she might find out about her father’s death. Was she investigating her father’s murder right now? If so, what would she find? I could probably hack into her computer and search her files to see for myself, but I wasn’t willing to go there yet. Sneaking into her computer was an invasion of privacy I wasn’t keen on doing unless absolutely necessary. I didn’t feel threatened enough to go to that extent.
If Collins had found this place, then it was possible others might as well. So Ryan, Luke and I had been extra watchful this past week. I just needed to leave here. Forget about Shannon Collins.
Except…I would never get a chance to meet Shannon if I left Georgia. Call me stubborn…call me a fool…
A little tingle zipped down my spine.
Could Shannon Collins be on to me? Could she be the one who’d hired MK Investigations? Could I be a part of her investigation?
Hell. If Shannon was searching for me, I needed to know why.
Then I needed to stop her before she found me.
CHAPTER TWO
Shannon
Not one to be late—especially to a meeting as important as this one—I arrived at my ten-thirty p.m. appointment right on time. Michael Kent himself, the owner of MK Investigations, greeted me at the door to his business. His company was located in a less-opulent area of downtown Atlanta, on the main floor of a small office complex. The other businesses were closed down for the night, the doorman long since gone home. Michael had left the front entrance to the building unlocked for me, and now he ushered me into his small office.
“Come in and have a seat, Ms. Collins,” he invited warmly. “I have information for you.”
Michael was approximately in his late forties or early fifties, with dark, gray-streaked hair and a craggy, pock-marked face with intense dark eyes. I’d researched him prior to hiring him. He’d come with excellent recommendations. Michael had once been a professional boxer, but now operated his own private investigations firm. I had found him a bit intimidating at first, but after a week of communicating with him, he no longer scared me. Michael was good at what he did, and he didn’t try to screw over his clients.
I sat in a chair across from his desk, waiting while he strode behind the desk and lowered his large bulk into the black leather chair. Without preamble, he tossed a file folder on the desk before me. I leaned forward, pulling the file closer, my heart thumping. Whatever was in this file could lead me to my father’s killer. My chest tightened as a wave of emotion washed over me.
Oh Dad. I miss you so much. I promise I will bring your killer to justice.
I opened the file, my gaze landing on the top page.
CONSIDERED ARMED AND EXTREMELY DANGEROUS.
Huh. A wanted poster of some kind.
“What’s this?” I glanced up at Michael.
He waved at the file. “The information you paid for. My entire investigation is in that file. And the man on the front page is the most likely suspect for your father’s murder.”
I had secretly hired MK Investigations to research what had happened the night of my father’s death. My father had been a state senator, a high-profile government employee who had been murdered about ten days ago. I’d had to pay Michael an ungodly amount of money in order to convince him to venture into the gang-ridden city of Augusta where my father’s body had been found. But being a senator’s daughter meant I had a large trust fund, and since I’d turned twenty-five a few months ago, I now had unrestricted access to the trust fund my father had left me. I could spend the money however I wanted without my mother’s input. The police had determined my father had been murdered by a gang—or at least, that’s what they were saying. There had been something suspicious about that conclusion and about my father’s activities prior to his death. So, I was looking into it on my own, paying MK Investigations to get to the bottom of it.
I am known for being a truth seeker. I always thoroughly research a story before reporting it. When I have questions, I seek answers, so I ask and ask until I’m satisfied with the response. When I’m reporting on television, I’m required to remain unbiased, no matter who or what I’m reporting about. But when I’m writing articles for my own blog, I will happily assert my opinions. It is my blog, after all. So yeah, I don’t give up until I uncover the truth. Don’t lie to me, and I won’t badger you.
I pulled my gaze back to the file and read the wanted post
er on top.
CONSIDERED ARMED AND EXTREMELY DANGEROUS.
A full-color photograph of a man in approximately his late twenties with spiky, sandy-brown hair and vibrant aqua-colored eyes stared out at me from the page. He wasn’t smiling. Even so, the displeasure on his face couldn’t hide the fact that he was extremely good-looking. There was something blatantly masculine about him, a virility, a strength that made it clear he was purely male. Damn, he was hot.
The woman in me took notice of his attractiveness, my heart giving an excited thump as genuine interest spiked in me. I had never been so affected by a photograph before.
I gave myself a mental slap. Damn girl, get a grip.
Underneath the photo was a paragraph with a physical description of the man.
Six-foot-four.
Two-hundred-twenty pounds.
Sandy-brown hair.
Blue-green eyes.
Known as The Hacker.
A dreg.
Wait…what? A dreg? I had always believed the rumors about the dregs were make believe. Someone’s idea of a joke. I’d even investigated them once, about a year ago, trying to substantiate whether they were fact or fiction, trying to find out if the stories were anything more than speculations. But my research had revealed nothing. If the dregs were real, they were ghosts.
Not according to this flyer. Whoever had created this wanted poster seemed to believe the dregs were real.
This guy was called The Hacker. What did that mean? Did he hack off people’s heads? Was he a killer? Or did his title refer to one of the two most common definitions of the word “hacker”: “An expert at programming and solving problems with computers” or “a person who uses computers to gain unauthorized access to data”. Which of the above described this man? What kind of hacker was he?
I stared at the “most likely suspect” and his unusual aqua-colored eyes, then jerked my gaze back to Michael’s. “Where did you get this flyer?”
“At a grocery store in Eatonton. The dregs have been spotted there over the past several months.”
I glanced back at the photo of The Hacker. Despite what he represented: violence, death—hacking off people’s heads?—illegal retrieval of private data, I was intrigued. Who was he? How was he involved with my father’s death? What did he know?
“What makes you think this man killed my father?”
Michael settled back in his chair, his gaze direct as it held mine. “It’s all in the file. But I can give you a condensed version of what’s in there if you’d like.”
“Yes, please do.”
He smiled. “The night your father was murdered, a man matching the physical description of The Hacker was admitted to the emergency room in Eatonton with a gunshot wound to the chest and multiple contusions and stab wounds. To put it bluntly, he was brutally beaten and nearly died. The nurse I spoke to said he flatlined several times in the operating room and they didn’t expect him to survive. The bullet that was removed from his chest was an exact match to your father’s gun.”
I recoiled. What? No. My father wasn’t a murderer. He had been the victim. His body had been found in a vacant warehouse in Augusta, his murder a complete shock to the citizens of Georgia. But mostly, to my mother and me.
I stared at The Hacker. He didn’t really look like a killer, a man who hacked off heads. But what did a killer look like, really? If you take into consideration some of America’s most famous killers, like Ted Bundy or Jeffrey Dahmer, then you can hardly use looks to decide if they are evil or not. Evil burrowed deep underneath the surface, not always visible to the naked eye, even to those watching closely. Which posed the question: Just how well do we know the people we love?
“Why would this Hacker guy kill my father?”
Michael shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Why was a bullet from your father’s gun removed from The Hacker’s chest? And why was The Hacker beaten to an inch of his life? I don’t know what your father was involved in, but I would venture to guess it wasn’t legal, or at the very least, not something he wanted anyone to know about. I suspect he was somehow involved with the gangs in Augusta, though I have been unable to determine what that activity might have been.”
I was silent a moment as that sank in. Had my father been involved in something illegal? Or had he merely been a victim? As a daughter, I wanted to blindly believe my father would never do any wrong. But as a reporter, I had to accept the fact that he might have been keeping secrets from me. And that painful realization made my heart hitch.
Michael waved at the file. “Maybe this Hacker guy will have more answers for you.”
I drew in a deep breath, pushing the pain aside. I again stared down at the photo of The Hacker. What did his title mean? Had he killed my father? Had my father been involved with the gangs?
Again, the daughter in me battled with the reporter. The daughter said, no. My father would never do such a thing. He’d been an upstanding man. But the reporter said, remain open-minded if you want to get to the truth. Who had beaten The Hacker? Who had nearly killed him? My father? Or someone else? Had someone set my father up to take the fall? Stolen his gun and shot The Hacker, then stuck his gun back in his hand? My father’s body had been found with a gunshot wound to his head, and with his gun clutched loosely in his right hand. His funeral had been “closed casket”, but I’d been the one to identify his body, since my mother was in Paris. I’d seen the horrifying result of a “gunshot wound to the head” and even now, in remembrance, my stomach rebelled. No one should have to see his or her parent like that.
I swallowed hard, shoving the gruesome memory from my mind.
Some people had speculated that my father’s death had been suicide, but I knew better. My father would never kill himself. Besides, when they’d found him, he wasn’t alone. He was surrounded by dead soldiers. His security detail. So whoever had killed my father had likely killed his men as well. Since my father had been a government official, the FBI had been called in to take over the investigation. The results of their investigation were secret. I’d tried many times to get them to tell me what was going on, but I’d been rudely ushered out of the building and informed that the matter was still ongoing.
There were so many unanswered questions that bothered me. So I’d hired Michael Kent.
Why had my father even been in Augusta in the first place?
Illegal activities.
I didn’t want to believe my father would do that. But what if he had? What if my father had been living a double life? Had he been lying to my mother and me all these years? How well had I really known my father? My heart pinched thinking he might not have been who I’d always thought he was.
I had called him the night he’d died, and he’d talked to me for a moment before saying he had to go. He’d apologized for missing our regular game night and promised to make it up to me later. An uneasiness had crept down my spine after we’d disconnected the call. My father had never come home. Instead, his body had been found the next morning.
Why was the FBI being so secretive? What didn’t they want me to know?
I glanced back at the photo of The Hacker, studying his striking eyes and his handsome, chiseled features. Again the word “masculine” came to mind. Though The Hacker was definitely good-looking, there was a hardness to his eyes, as if he’d lived a rough life. A dreg? What, exactly, was a dreg anyway? Who were they? What were they?
The Hacker’s gaze hinted at a deep intelligence that intrigued me. I instinctively knew this man was no fool. There was a seriousness in his expression that said “don’t fuck with me”.
Did you kill my father, Mr. Hacker? What do you know?
I lifted my gaze back to Michael’s. “So you think this Hacker guy killed my father and all his men, too?”
Michael shook his head. “No. Real life isn’t like the movies where the hero kills everyone all by himself. I don’t believe it is physically possible for one man to accomplish that. Dreg or otherwise. I’m guessing he had h
elp. Possibly from the other dregs.”
There it was again. That phrase that hinted at fantasy. The dregs.
“So you think these dregs are real? And that they killed my father and his men?”
“I do. In fact, I think The Hacker has recovered from his injuries and has returned to wherever he’s been hiding out. And I have a good idea where that location might be.”
He did? That was good. But also…frightening. If this man had murdered my father, then he needed to be punished. But if he truly was a killer, then it wouldn’t be safe venturing anywhere near him.
CONSIDERED ARMED AND EXTREMELY DANGEROUS.
I wanted to confront this man and demand answers. If he had killed my father, then why? Had someone hired him? Had my father shot him? If he hadn’t killed my father, did he know who had? What had my father been involved in?
I will expose your killer, Dad. I will see that justice is served.
I needed to know what had really happened to my father. Even if the truth hurt.
“Something doesn’t quite add up,” I murmured, still staring at the man’s photo. “If The Hacker was shot in the chest with my father’s gun, then how did he get hold of the same gun to shoot my father in the face? Wouldn’t a gunshot to the chest be considered a serious injury? Incapacitate him?”
“I don’t know the answer to that,” Michael said. “He may not be your father’s killer, but I’m guessing at the very least he knows what happened that night. And I’ll bet he knows who did kill your father.”
I considered that for a moment. “Where do you think The Hacker is hiding?”
Michael scrunched his brow. “This is not something I put in my report, as it’s pure speculation on my part, and I only report the truth of my investigations. So, taking that into consideration, I will tell you that I’m not sure of the exact location, but several people have spotted one or more of the dregs heading into the woods near Eatonton at one time or another. So, going by my own gut, I’m betting they’re in the forest somewhere, though I haven’t yet ventured there myself. This is purely my own assumption, not truth. Just a word of caution, Ms. Collins, if you do decide to go search for The Hacker, be very careful. As you can see from that flyer…” he motioned to the file where The Hacker’s blue-green gaze stared up at me... “The man is considered armed and extremely dangerous. I would hate for you to get hurt.”
The Hacker Page 2
