Each time, a Lazarus, or one of their partners, had been captured on CCTV nearby. Joe knew because he was the one to look up security records after linking the events. His gut feeling said the Lazarus family was the vigilante group known as the Deadly Seven, but it wasn’t enough for a conviction. Not even close. Yet.
He had to first prove who they were, then prove they were responsible for a list of felonies a mile long, including, but not limited to, reckless endangerment, aggravated assault, and manslaughter. Maybe even murder.
Liza needed to emancipate herself from that family. He’d counted six different Deadly Seven costumes captured in shady newspaper clippings and hand-held home video footage on YouTube. There were meant to be seven of them, but he’d only counted six. Joe’s gut also said Liza wasn’t getting dressed up in Halloween digs like the rest of her family. She was too busy saving lives the right way.
Pride swelled in his chest. She’d always been a stickler for the rules, and she’d always hated being told what to do by her family. As soon as he’d made the mental leap to connect the family to the vigilante group, so many things in their history made sense. Liza’s and her siblings’ seven years “studying abroad” for one. All of them had come back changed. There had been a hardness to them, yet a creeping silence, a violent calm. Anyone with military training could see they were power coiled and veiled beneath feigned mundane appearances. They worked hard at shifting the conversation to their public identities, but Joe had known them before.
Before they were killers.
That was why he had to be the one to bring them down.
Liza didn’t deserve to go down for her family’s vigilante ways. He would help her see that. Maybe he could save her from suffering their fate. One day she would thank him for it.
Before he’d left for the gym that morning, he’d checked the balcony she was on the night before. He’d found dead rats. Had she seen them, and that’s why she’d fled? But he didn’t think she was the kind to be afraid of rats. Nothing seemed to scare Liza Lazarus.
A quiet knock came at his door. A small female detective stood in his doorway.
“Captain is ready to give the briefing,” she said. “Five minutes.”
Joe nodded, packed his classified files back into his small filing cabinet, and locked it with a key. Then he straightened his suit and tie and smoothed his hair. One check in the small mirror behind the door, and he was ready to go. Walking down the hall, he tried to remove the image of his reflection from his mind.
His eyes were bleak, cold, and empty. They still belonged to the mask he wore. Maybe he’d been wrong, and it wasn’t so easy to take off. Perhaps he’d worn it for so long it was now a part of him. Worse, maybe the man he’d been before joining the FBI had been the mask and this was the real Joe.
Hard. Unforgiving. Dead.
The briefing room consisted of a display board at the front and several lecture desks and chairs. Already there were a few faces he recognized. Houlahan. Briggs. Bugsy. Tom. Debbie from Accounts. Joe scanned the room and failed to see Liza.
She should be here.
Had that incident on the fire escape been more serious than he gave credit? Thinking back, he tried to pinpoint any evidence that indicated a problem. It wasn’t the rats. She’d stared at her hands, then she’d fled. Remarkably, Liza had descended the fire escape with the dexterity and speed that had stunned him, but only cemented his suspicions about her training.
Conversation in the room picked up in decibel as more detectives and officers entered. Geoff, Joe’s colleague from the bureau, arrived late, tucking his shirt into his pants and straightening his hair. Joe frowned at him. How the rookie had passed through Quantico, he’d never know. Geoff was constantly late, always in a disarray, and his sandy brown hair was never neat. The twenty-two-year-old looked like a ring-in. But the ex-high-school quarterback was good with the grunt work and great in a fight.
Geoff jogged up to Joe and flashed him a cocky grin. “Sorry, I’m late.”
Joe stifled an eye-roll and handed over the case files pertinent to the briefing. “Stick those to the board once the official task force meeting starts.”
“Rogee.”
“You mean Roger.”
“Nope.” Geoff smiled again. “Rogee.”
Joe blew air through his teeth. Geoff was always making up his own words. As if he couldn’t look more incompetent, the petite detective who’d alerted Joe to the briefing arrived looking more disheveled than Joe remembered. He slid his gaze to Geoff who only cleared his throat and glanced away.
“Seriously?” Joe mumbled. “Couldn’t keep it in your pants for five minutes?”
Geoff replied, “It was a good five minutes.”
“Is that all it takes millennials these days?” Joe shot back wryly.
The portly Captain Morais entered the room and conversation shuttered. Joe doubted the man had ever been fit in his life. Burst blood vessels around his nose, neck, and face were a testament to his waning health. But being unfit hadn’t stopped the man from becoming Captain. He had a personality like a shark and was no one’s friend. Didn’t matter to Joe anymore. He wasn’t Joe’s boss, after all.
Without pausing to greet Joe, Morais took the podium at the front and cleared his throat. He opened his mouth—
“Sorry, I’m late.” Liza burst through the door.
Joe’s heart stopped at the sight of her.
Every. Damn. Time.
Long, sun-kissed brown hair. The body of an Amazon warrior. The smile of a seductress. Dark, amused eyes belonging in the bedroom. She wore tight jeans, a soft white shirt that clung to her shape with static and pulled under her arm from her holster. The CCPD badge pinned on her belt drew his eye to her swaying hips before she sat down near the back and placed her hands on the lecture desk. Black leather gloves covered her hands.
Odd.
When his gaze lifted to hers, he found she watched him. More specifically, the area below his belt too. She lifted her gaze and blushed.
One side of his lips curved upward.
“Day-um,” Geoff murmured, eyes on Liza. “She’s hot.”
“Act professional.”
“Rogee.”
Joe tuned into Morais’ brief.
“… As you all know, a slew of missing persons and homicides have been reported in the city over the past few months. Some homicides are linked to a killer known as the Ripper. To say the nickname is cliché is an understatement, but when the press runs with something, we’re stuck.” A laborious sigh. “So, we’re taking a multi-agency approach to catch this killer. A special task force based out of the CCPD will take advantage of a collaborative team effort and shared information from local and federal agencies.” Morais paused and looked at Joe. “Some of you remember Joe Luciano from his CCPD days. He’s now Special Agent Joe Luciano, and his colleague is Agent Geoff Slinksi. Our budget for team contribution will include Detective Lazarus and Detective Briggs. Please report to Special Agent Luciano for your briefing. Anyone gathering intel about the Ripper in Cardinal City, please forward it to the task force. That will be all. Dismissed.”
Captain Morais moved to leave the room. The crowd stood. Liza shot out of her seat and tried to head him off.
“Sir,” she protested. “I can’t be on the task force.”
Morais raised his brows. “Why?”
“The Ripper is a sex-related crime. I specifically requested to stay away from them.” She winced. “I don’t want to go back.”
“He’s also removing internal organs. Eighty percent of homicides involve sexually related motivations. And then there’s the trafficking component. Not all are sex related. I’m afraid you’re going to have to deal with it. You’re in law enforcement. Sex-related crimes are unavoidable.”
“B-but…” Liza’s wide eyes shot to Joe. “I have cases.”
“Miss Lazarus,” Morais said. “You’re our best closer in sex crimes and Special Agent Luciano asked for the best. That’s all there
is to it. You can hand your cases over to Houlahan. Now, unless there is a valid reason you want to go against orders?”
She pressed her lips together and shook her head.
The captain turned to Joe. “If you need any more resources, please let me know.”
“That’s generous.”
“I just want your director off my ass.” Morais strode out of the room.
Most of the crowd went with him until it was just Geoff, Joe, Briggs, and Liza. The latter of which gave Joe daggers sharpened with suspicion.
Joe clicked his fingers at Geoff. “Pin those pictures to the board. Briggs, you can help. Liza, a word.”
He walked out of the briefing room and down the hall to his office. The scent of berries stayed with him, so he assumed she followed. He stood inside the door and waited for Liza to enter, shut the door behind her, and closed the venetian blinds on the window. Once satisfied they had privacy, he faced her.
Their eyes clashed and electricity zipped up his spine, in the air, in the world. Every time they were in the same room, his body sang with awareness. It almost hurt to look away. How could this be one-sided? How had she spent their entire friendship ignoring this charge between them?
She put her hands on her hips and flared her nostrils. Each time she inhaled, her chest inflated, and the press of white lace pushed against her blouse. An indignant eyebrow raised. That’s all she did and, yet, he felt like she’d razed him to the ground. He’d intended to have a quiet word with her, to insist that their collaboration would remain professional, but words came out from a dark, hungry place.
“Did you enjoy watching me last night?” His voice was thick, rough.
Rosy lips parted, surprised. Joe caught a tantalizing glimpse of wet, pink tongue as it darted out to moisten. Then her lips mashed together.
She scowled. “Did you enjoy me watching you?”
“Yes.”
It was the honest answer neither of them expected.
He stepped closer. The pulse point in her neck rabbited. Her berry scent turned heady and drunk, doused with champagne. Desire clouded his mind. This was inappropriate. But...
She inched closer.
“Tanya?” she murmured.
He took a step. “Broke up.”
“Her loss.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Joe,” she whispered. Pleaded.
Her body heat licked his skin. Painful pleasure sensations. He was a moth. She was the flame. She would consume him. He knew it was bad. But it didn’t stop him from claiming the final inch between them. His mouth hovered near hers.
Both froze. Neither willing to make the final concession.
She exhaled. He inhaled. Their breaths mingled, heated, and buzzed with anticipation.
Will she?
Will he?
This wasn’t normal. He was losing himself. Without Liza, Joe was a man who crossed his t’s and dotted his i’s. With her, he couldn’t recite the alphabet.
She’s not pulling away.
Pupils were blown. Color painted her freckle-dusted cheeks. Her gaze darted to his lips every few moments. She squirmed, as though unable to contain the sensations in her body.
She’s into it. Into him.
The realization surged through him with triumph.
This was what he wanted. Kissing her was all he’d damn well wanted for the past twenty years. That’s why he pulled away.
She chased his lips with her own. A hard warmth bloomed in his chest. Amusement hit his eyes. Yes. He liked this better.
It was Liza’s turn to wait.
He opened the door. “We have a strategy to prepare.”
She blinked at him.
“After you,” he prompted.
“Who are you?” she breathed, squinting at him.
“The same guy I’ve always been.”
When she walked past him, her body brushed his front, and thank Christ she didn’t look down. His gig would have been up.
7
Despair descended creaky wooden steps into the basement level of a laundromat that doubled for a Faithful headquarters. There were nine such establishments around Cardinal City. This one was special.
She paused at the foot of the stairs and scanned the large room. In it, twenty or so Faithful in white robes reclined and gathered in leisure, their usual white Halloween masks discarded or pulled back on their heads. Billiard tables, gaming stations, and large flat-screen televisions depicting the latest streaming entertainment were scattered about the room. Help-yourself bars filled with all you could eat food and drink were at either side of the room. But at the front, directly ahead of Despair, was the pièce de résistance on the podium next to a lectern—a replicate tank.
The Syndicate rarely revealed their prized intellectual property, but this replicate tank was special. Inside grew a clone of the leader of the Faithful—Quarry. Not just a clone, but a new and improved clone. A replicate. Floating in viscous water was a blemish-free, younger version of the man standing at the lectern, giving a speech.
The real Quarry had scars down one side of his body. He’d been in a devastating car accident when he was younger and was left disfigured and partly disabled. The Syndicate had promised him eternal life as a powerful, superhuman being. The evidence of which floated in the tank in full view.
Faithful numbers had been dwindling as the Deadly Seven had grown in power. The deal with the Syndicate was the Faithful had to give their life to the cause and, in return, the Syndicate would resurrect them as a perfect, immortal replicate. Except the Deadly Seven had made it a point to keep captured Faithful alive for as long as possible, having them sent to prison instead of killing them outright.
If they weren’t dead, then they wouldn’t be regrown as replicates. It was a firm rule of the Syndicate, only one copy of each human being alive at one time. Multiple clones of oneself existing would draw too much attention.
It was getting hard to entice loyalty when the promise of a quick resurrection was taken from the Faithful. Nobody was a fan of prolonged suffering.
Something had to be done to inspire devotion again. Despair’s gaze washed down the replicate tank. The virile specimen neared maturity and already sparked with electrical surges. Occasionally his limbs jolted with spasms, eager for life.
She slid her gaze to the Quarry and sneered. That was the name he’d given himself when he’d joined the Faithful, and he encouraged all others to pick new names too. It was all part of the experience. Shed your lowly human life and pick a god’s name, because that’s how people will see you when you’re reborn.
His old name was Gareth Smith.
Pity he didn’t know the truth. Unless she retrieved stem cells from Wrath’s unborn child’s umbilical cord, they wouldn’t be able to halt the expiration problem with the replicates. As it stood, replicates died at a few months of age. If any of them knew that, this place would be empty.
Quarry gave her a small nod of acknowledgment and then finished up his speech. The five people listening at his feet nodded emphatically like star-struck groupies. From their lack of robes, they were new recruits. When Quarry stepped down from the podium and approached Despair, he first stopped and graciously shook the hands of the newly converted cannon fodder.
Despair had plans for them.
“Enforcer,” Quarry said. His lip was split, and he had bruising down one side of his face.
Enforcer, or Falcon, was the name these cretins knew for Despair. Her father Julius, one of the leaders of the Syndicate, knew her as “my darling” or Despair. And her family—her brow flinched—the Lazaruses—knew her as Daisy. Identity was becoming a fluid thing for Despair. She hardly knew which name to go by.
“What happened to you?” she asked.
“As it happens, one of the Seven struck me.”
“Which one?”
“Lust.”
She mulled that over. “Tell me more later. We could use this. For now, do you have enough Faithful for our plan?”
&nb
sp; His cold eyes searched the room and nodded. “It’s not ideal, but I think it will do.”
“And they’re aware of expectations?”
Another nod.
“Good,” she continued. “I’ll need them to be ready at a moment’s notice. You have your strength-inducing serum supply.”
Despair’s cell phone rang.
“Yes,” she answered.
Her father’s voice echoed down the line. “Are you there?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Hand the cell to Quarry.”
Frowning, Despair passed the handset to the Faithful leader. Since when did Julius go around Despair to talk to Quarry?
Since you started blacking out, said a little voice in her head. Since he’s already written you off.
No. Julius had Despair’s hair in his locket. If she was done for, then he would bring her back—perfect this time. Without the sickness in her gut every time someone felt despair. He promised.
Quarry handed the cell back to Despair. “He wants to talk to you.”
She pressed the handset to her ear. “Yes.”
“You have one chance, my darling. Use it well. If this doesn’t work, well, then we will have to resort to more drastic measures of obtaining the stem cells we need.”
“The pregnant whores aren’t enough?” she asked.
Julius’s silence betrayed his irritation. He didn’t think she knew Quarry had been tasked to catch prostitutes and send them to the Syndicate lab. And if it wasn’t hookers, it was teenage runaways. But he was getting sloppy, leaving evidence and a trail of dead bodies across multiple states. He already thought he was invincible.
The Syndicate didn’t care where their backup stem cells came from. These hookers were just for practice. The real deal would come from Wrath’s child.
And that important job was for Despair. It was why she’d waited so long to put it into action. She had to be sure everything went according to plan.
8
Liza was in Joe’s car, patrolling the streets, looking for familiar people to question about the trafficking. But it was the middle of the day, and she was still worked up from the almost kiss they’d shared that morning. Joe hadn’t mentioned it once, but it was all she could think of.
Lust Page 6
