Lori finally locked eyes with Gregor. "What?"
"My legal team will not be providing their services." Gregor sat up straight again, his free hand loosening the knot of his tie. "I need to distance myself from you as much as possible. I can't have your inability to control yourself bring down everything I've spent my entire life building."
"But... what do I do?"
"Secure your own legal representation." Gregor grabbed his cane and stood. "Use a public defender, if you have to. That's no longer my concern."
Lori opened her mouth to speak, but the words stuck in the back of her throat. She bolted out of her chair, clutching the receiver as tightly as she could, as if it were the only thing keeping her planted to the ground. Her lower lip quivered and the tears that had been building in her eyes streaked down her cheeks. Her free hand reached out and pressed against the glass.
"David..."
"This is the last time you will hear from me." Gregor glared at the hand presented to him, shaking his head. "You knew what was expected of you, Ms. Taylor. You also know what happens to those who betray me."
The shift from her first name to such a formal address had Lori doubled over, eyes panicked and lips quivering. "But—"
Without another word, Gregor replaced the receiver and rose to his feet. He paused just long enough to take in Lori’s panicked, tear-stained face before turning and hobbling toward the exit. The limp was more annoying than anything, and with any luck, he would only need the cane for another day or two.
Duvall opened the door as Gregor approached, giving him another smile and hat tip. "That was a short visit, Mr. Bernard."
Gregor paused in the doorway before removing his wig and casting Duvall a sideways grin. He produced a wad of cash from inside the wig, slipping it from his hand to the officer's as he leaned in so that his lips were by Duvall's ear.
"You know what to do."
CHAPTER 29
Several months ago...
Given the build-up leading to Paul Andersen's execution, both in terms of the years he had spent on Death Row and the media coverage his trial, conviction, and eventual death generated, the act itself was without ceremony. Whereas the trial had been the talk of the town, and every day saw lawyers and judges alike dodging a horde of television cameras and relentless reporters, the execution was borderline clandestine. There was no media present. In fact, the city and state hadn't even bothered to officially announce anything. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, Paul Andersen didn't even warrant a death notice.
The handful of dignitaries in attendance had no reaction to Paul’s final moments of suffering, and a woman sitting in the front row had actually breathed a sigh of relief once the doctor on-hand confirmed his passing. Those in attendance then dispersed, little more than hushed murmurs filling the otherwise silent room. No one from the family had bothered to show up; that was seldom surprising anymore. The guards and doctors in charge of the entire display were silent and methodical in taking care of the necessary equipment before wheeling Paul's corpse out of the viewing room.
As soon as the double doors slammed shut with an echo, the overhead lights burnt out. Before the guards could reach for their flashlights, an unseen force knocked them in their temples and sent them to the floor unconscious. The doctors responsible for the gurney shook in a potent mixture of fear and confusion before the same force attacked them. Once all the men surrounding Paul's body had been disposed of, a flashlight cut through the darkness, focused in on the lifeless form hidden under a plain white sheet.
A hand wearing a black leather glove removed the sheet, revealing Paul's face. His eyes were wide open, a line of dried blood running from the corner of his mouth and down his left cheek. In his thrashing just moments before death, he had bitten off the tip of his tongue. The man who had torn off the sheet stood over Paul, flashlight shining down on the disgraced cop's face.
"Oh, come on, now," David Gregor said with a soft chuckle. "You didn't really think death would free you from my grasp, did you?"
Cocking his head to the side, studying what age and more than a decade on Death Row had done to the man many had once considered the city's most virtuous cop, Gregor made a tsk sound and frowned. Few had been as dedicated to the badge as Paul, which had made the fact that Gregor had corrupted him that much sweeter. It made up for all the cops who had managed to tell Gregor no over the years; most eventually fell in line once Gregor started adding zeroes to the check, but an annoying handful kept their principles.
But in the end, even the greatest of them all could be bought.
Of all the cops Gregor had in his back pocket, none gave him the satisfaction, the sheer joy, of the one lying prone in front of him. Paul's downward spiral was even more special, because of the lives it had ruined in the process. Some might have seen Paul's conviction and eventual execution as a failure on Gregor's part, but he thought otherwise. One less goody-goody cop on the streets, his fall from grace little more than fodder to feed the distrustful masses.
The fact that Paul's daughter had become his unofficial nemesis was beside the point. She had all her father's initial idealism, with an annoying helping of righteousness on the side. Gregor knew, even before the revelation that Jill was Bounty, that he would never be able to tangle her in his web. But if that was all it had been, he could've let it go. The fact that she made it her personal mission to bring Gregor down was a complication. One he needed to deal with.
With any luck, she would now learn the truth about her father, and that knowledge would cause such lasting, irreparable damage that she would no longer be a threat.
Something told Gregor he wouldn't be that fortunate, though.
"Now, before you go on thinking I just like to torture you, I should tell you this isn't about me." Gregor shrugged and pulled out a flip phone with his free hand, putting the device to his ear. "Someone's paying me a lot of money to secure your remains. What for? Don't know. And as long as the check doesn't bounce, I don't care."
He smiled when the call connected on the fifth ring.
"It's done," he announced. "Meet at the rendezvous point in twenty minutes."
CHAPTER 30
Present day...
Captain Mahoney woke to the pressure of a Sig Sauer against his temple.
"Don't. Fucking. Move," Daniel Richards hissed. His hand was perfectly still. His stiff upper lip, not so much. The captain of the Seventh Precinct had stood in this one spot for what felt like hours—in reality, it had barely been thirty minutes—and he lost track of how many times he had counted himself down to pulling the trigger. And yet Mahoney was still alive. Fortunately, they were the only two men in this room. Though a gunshot would undoubtedly have the other captains and BPD brass barging in. Not every room in this bunker was soundproof.
It would likely mean the end of Richards' career. Then again, his career was likely on its last days anyway. If these Collective jackals had their way, they'd probably eventually get to him. Assuming there wasn't something else out there waiting to cut Richards down where he stood. He couldn't remember when he became so paranoid, but as Richards sucked in a breath to hold off the cough tickling the back of his throat, he found he didn't care.
He'd done his part for this city.
Damn anyone who didn't see that.
"Hit more of a nerve than I thought." Mahoney had the gall to smile at Richards. He wouldn't even raise his hands the way most did when being held at gunpoint. Mahoney chuckled instead, because apparently, the whole thing was so damn funny to him... Richards had half a mind to cold cock him and leave it at that.
"It ain't that." Richards flicked off the safety, arching a brow when Mahoney flinched. "See, Mahoney, I've been thinkin'. If I recall, you were pretty chummy with both Wagner and Gordon back in the day."
"Two damn fine soldiers," Mahoney muttered, watching the door over Richards' shoulder creak open. "Even better cops. Wagner was in my precinct for a bit."
"So, you've got a soft spo
t for cops who think their badge gives 'em license to do whatever the hell they want."
"Put down the gun, Daniel," Jeff Downs ordered, walking into the room with his own piece cradled in his hands. They weren't as steady as the captain's.
"Hell, Captain, you got the biggest soft spot of us all." Mahoney rolled onto his back, his hands where Richards could see them.
There was that urge again. It was like an itch, the sort that hid deep under the skin's surface, the sort of itch that a cursory, shallow scratch wouldn't cure. No, the fingernails had to dig down deep to get this sort of itch. Richards’ hand shook for the first time, but he kept the grip true on his Sig. He tossed a glance over his shoulder at the bald man whose presence made things more complicated—as was always the case with those downtown. But Downs kept still. At least someone in this room remembered their Academy weapons training.
Richards lifted his chin, peering at Mahoney down the bridge of his nose. "You one of them, Mahoney?"
Mahoney snarled. "What?"
"We already know you're sympathetic to the cause." Richards shrugged with his free arm. "You don't take part in briefings. You insult everyone who might be a target. I didn't know any better, I'd swear they planted you with us, give us the illusion of being safe when reality is, you're one order away from adding murderer to your list of fine qualities."
"If you didn't have me at gunpoint," Mahoney growled, "you'd be nursing several broken bones right now."
"Violent threats." Richards arched a brow and suppressed a cough. "Not exactly helping your cause, Mahoney."
Jeff Downs had always been the sort easy to miss. Even as one of the highest-ranking officials in the Baltimore Police Department, he often sank into the background. He didn't have the military background of Commissioner Saunders, and he lacked the public persona or the gravitas to truly draw attention toward himself. As a younger man, Downs had struggled with that reality, but as he grew older and moved up the ranks, Downs had learned to not only appreciate being relegated to the shadows, but how to use that to his advantage.
Which was why Richards never saw it coming when Downs smacked his weapon against the captain's temple. Richards was unconscious before he hit the ground.
"You always were a shitty detective, Daniel."
CHAPTER 31
"And where the hell have you been?"
Jill could count the number of times Ramon had raised his voice at her on one hand, and when she looked at him, she saw eyes wide with worry and anger. She had once again gone off on her own without informing her partner first, and she supposed being indisposed the way she was for a few days—if that—probably had him sick with worry. Jill ducked her head and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Not just to avoid Ramon's gaze, but also because the first thing she saw upon entering Operation: Flashlight's hidden bullpen was The Collective's latest video. Even if all she could see was the masked man with the machete, she knew exactly what this was about.
"Castillo, run it again," she said.
"Answer me," Ramon demanded, standing between his partner and the task force's resident tech guru. He folded his arms over his chest and lifted his chin. He was probably the only person who could get away with not backing down from Jill like this, and it was only because of how close they had become over the years.
When Paul had been executed, Ramon was the one sitting on a rooftop downtown comforting Jill.
When Ramon and Jorge tied the knot, Jill was not only one of the few non-relatives in attendance, but she also gave Ramon quite the wedding gift—a job offer with the FBI.
If Ramon couldn't stand up to Jill, who could?
"Sorry, Ramon," she huffed with a sigh. "Ran into one of these jackals the other night, came out on the wrong end of my sword."
Ramon's eyes somehow widened even more. "What?!"
"Gutierrez, I will give you answers. I promise." Jill's eyes darted toward the bank of flat screens along the wall. "But right now, can we focus on making sure my brother keeps his head?"
Ramon's entire body went stiff. Jill couldn't possibly have just said what he thought she said... didn't she? No. He had to have heard her wrong. That was the only possible explanation. There was no possible way...
Then again, she had just called him by his last name—to his face. She never did that. Not unless things were dire. `Ramon's shoulders slumped and his entire body deflated. Because who was he kidding? Of course, it was possible. Hell, given the lives they all led, it should've been the one move he saw coming.
Ramon shut his mouth, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and gave a single nod.
Jill couldn't help the crooked grin on her face. "Run it again."
Castillo opened his mouth to protest, but the glare Jill shot his way had him pressing the appropriate button on his keyboard instead. The video, displayed on every wall-mounted monitor in the bullpen, faded to black again. But then a single overhead light bulb flickered on and two masked men appeared in front of the camera. They were both armed with assault rifles, both wearing olive green long-sleeve tees and camouflage cargo pants. The light revealed them, but nothing in their surroundings—almost as if they knew law enforcement had been pouring over previous videos looking for such clues.
The Collective was as smart as it was ruthless. Not that Jill had expected anything less.
"Volume up."
Castillo did as asked, purposefully keeping his gaze at his feet. Of all the agents working in this underground lair, he had seen all The Collective's videos the most. It was the unfortunate side effect of having video analyst as one of his many job titles. Castillo probably wouldn't sleep for a month once this case was finally over; every time he closed his eyes, he saw those masked men glaring at him.
Then again, none of these videos had targeted him. He couldn't imagine what it was like to be in The Collective's crosshairs. He stared at Jill, a woman he knew more on reputation than anything else. He could already tell she was a capable agent, one who cared about her work far more than some others he had encountered over the years.
She appeared to be composed, standing straight with her arms crossed over her chest, focused on the monitors in front of her. But something told Castillo that she was keeping the storm churning under the surface just out of view. It impressed him; one of the reasons Castillo had the role he did was that he was never quite cut out for field work.
Too jittery, his supervisor at Quantico had said. Too frantic and nervous. But just when Castillo had thought of quitting, that same supervisor pulled him aside and told him that it was okay not to be cut out for field work, that sometimes, the real breakthroughs and heroic moments came from the ones glued to their desks. Castillo had thought it little more than flattery bullshit at the time, but in his nearly four years with the FBI, he had learned otherwise.
"What are you looking for?" he asked.
"I'll know it when I see it," Jill muttered as Ramon joined her side.
"The police are sadly predictable. As are the Feds. You are doing exactly what we knew you would do. You're running off with your tails tucked between your legs and you are letting your grunts stick around to feel our wrath in your stead. Not that there aren't plenty of officers and detectives and agents who are as worthy of our scorn and our judgment as the higher-ups, but... try not to be so transparent about how little they matter."
"Isn't a bit early for the mocking phase?" Ramon muttered.
"They're so convinced that they're right and that they won't get caught that it doesn't matter," Jill countered.
"Just recently, one of this city's own announced he would be running for the vacant District Attorney seat," the masked man on the right continued, cocking his head to the side. "But this man is not fit for the office. Any man who would knowingly look the other way when a crime is being committed has no business serving this city or its citizens in such a capacity."
Ramon, seeing this video for the first time, shook his head. He knew exactly where this was going.
Jill sucked
in a deep breath and straightened her posture even more, hoping against hope her partner couldn't see the way her shoulders shook.
"Make no mistake: there is no sin so small that we will ignore it." The other masked man decided to chime in, reaching behind him to produce the machete. The blade was still caked in blood. "Because the moment we allow the tiniest indiscretion, we open the door for larger, more rampant corruption. The second we drop our guard, the wolves slip into the proverbial hen house and we all wind up standing in a pile of feathers."
Jill felt the bile rising as she watched the video. She had already seen it five times, eyes dancing over the grainy feed on McDermott's smartphone in hopes of finding a clue—anything—that would tell her who The Collective was. Or at least where they were hiding out. But there was even less evidence here than in previous videos, and if the agent specifically capable of siphoning clues from video couldn't find anything, what hope did she have?
Even so, considering the content of this latest message, considering who their target now was, Jill had to admit she was having a hard time concentrating.
Given this most recent development, Agent McDermott would probably be well within his rights to remove Jill from this case. It was Criminal Investigation 101: never let a cop or agent work a case in which they have a vested personal interest. But if he was as smart as Jill liked to think he was, he probably knew trying to take her off this case wouldn't end well for him.
Not this case. Not this target.
But McDermott had already admitted as much, hadn't he? He understood who Jill was, what made her tick. She still didn't like that, considering how little she knew about him. But right now, she was going to use McDermott's trust to her advantage, even if she wasn't prepared to return the favor. Sometimes, Jill wondered why she had agreed to join this task force given her reservations regarding McDermott. But he hadn't steered her wrong yet. Had he?
Betrayal Page 13
