Chapter One
One year later
The swirl of red and blue lights exposed the taut crime scene tape in a back alley outside of DC. Rain blasted down, pinging off battered metal garbage bins at the rear of businesses long since closed for the night. The bastard had dumped the victim near a pile of litter the rain had mangled into a sopping mess of paper and take-out cartons.
Angus kept his face stoic as he ducked under the tape and flashed his badge to the uniformed officer blocking access. It felt good to show the badge, even though he worked better without it, apparently.
It would be the only good feeling of the night, without question.
HDD Special Agent Kurt Fields was the first one to reach him, skirting several numbered yellow evidence markers placed on the wet asphalt. The guy was pale and had grown even grizzlier in the year they’d worked together. Kind of worked together. “I heard the call go out, got the details, and figured you’d be here on this fine Monday night.” His T-shirt was wrinkled and his brown shoes scuffed. He grimaced. As an HDD handler, he wasn’t bad. “The locals don’t want us at the scene, just so you know.”
“The FBI will take over soon enough.” Unless there was a way HDD could force itself in, which didn’t seem possible. Federal agencies rarely played well together, regardless of the party line. Force straightened, acutely aware of his men at his back. West and Wolfe had both seen some rough shit in their time, but this was something new. He needed West’s mind clear to run the office for now, but when he turned his head to issue an order, West was already shaking his head at him, his gaze direct. No way would he be left behind.
The guy would make a good profiler. Angus had never known an undercover operative who could inhabit another identity as completely as West.
Angus turned back around and started to focus, speaking as much to himself as to his team. “Everything is relevant. Anything out of place on a piece of garbage, any scratch on a building, any glint of something shiny.”
Agent Fields shook his head, sliding to the side and putting his barrel of a body between Angus and the scene. “You’re not understanding me. This is not your case. Hell, it isn’t even our case. Never will be.”
Fire ripped through Angus so quickly, his ears burned like he’d been touched with a poker. “Lassiter killed this woman, which makes this my case. Period.” He had to get to the body to make sure, but his gut never lied.
Special Agent Tom Rutherford, his blond hair mussed for the first time, reached them next. For once Force’s partner was not impeccably put together, although his too-blue eyes were as pissy as ever. “You’re not supposed to be here. Neither are we.”
“I still have some sources in law enforcement and was contacted immediately about the crime,” Angus muttered, his hands itching for his gun. “Now get out of my way.”
Rutherford had light stubble at his chin—a very rare sight. “Don’t make me track down your source and fire them.”
Angus turned his focus to the HDD agent. He’d look good with two black eyes again. “I’m working this scene—this is Lassiter. He’s finally making a move.”
“You’re wrong. This scene isn’t the same as all the others,” Rutherford said, his eyes bloodshot.
Wolfe rocked back on massive boots. “What do you mean?”
Rutherford slid a manicured hand into the pocket of his perfectly creased dress pants. Who dressed up for a crime scene at midnight? “I’ve studied your old case files on Henry Wayne Lassiter. His MO was unique. This crime scene is different.”
Angus swallowed. “Where’s the note?” The psychopath had always left him a note.
“No note,” Fields said as the local techs moved around efficiently.
“Look again,” Angus said evenly, his gut aching so bad he wanted to bend over and puke.
Rutherford planted a broad hand on his shoulder. His law school class ring dug into Angus’s skin through his T-shirt. “Please leave before I have you escorted away.”
Wolfe shoved Rutherford’s hand off before Angus could grab it and break a finger or two.
Angus probably owed Wolfe for that. “There are two options here. Either you get the hell out of our way so we can examine the scene, or we get in a fight, beat the shit out of the two of you, and then we go and examine the scene.” His voice had lowered to a hoarse threat. Once the FBI showed up, he was definitely going to be thrown out of the alley. His exit from the agency hadn’t been cordial.
Wolfe tensed next to him, while West drew up abreast, his shoulders back.
They were ready to fight with him if necessary. Angus would reflect on how much that warmed him later. His team was good. Better than good.
Rutherford smiled, no doubt wanting payback for when Raider, another team member, had broken his nose a few months ago. “I’m ready. You hit one of us, just breathe wrong on us, and I’ll plant your ass in a jail cell. You’re done, Force.”
West cleared his throat, his green eyes piercing through the dark. “If you’re so sure Lassiter didn’t do this, give us a minute with the scene. Force will know the truth.”
Rutherford began to shake his head.
“Okay,” Fields said, stepping aside. He shrugged at his younger partner. “Why not? Lassiter is dead, right?”
“Right,” Rutherford gritted, his gaze promising retribution.
The stench of puke, garbage, and worse filled Angus’s nostrils as he stepped past the agents to venture deeper into the alley. “Lassiter kidnapped women and tortured them for days. We’ll need an autopsy on this one, but we probably won’t know much about her heart.”
“Why not?” West stopped short as the body came into view.
“That’s why,” Angus said, consciously switching from feeling human to something else. Something that would allow him to analyze the crime and not lose his soul any more than he already had.
West’s breath caught. “Oh.”
Yeah. Oh. A tarp had been erected above the body to protect it from the elements. The woman lay naked on the pavement, her eyes open and staring straight up. She had long dark hair, milky brown eyes, a petite form. Her arms were spread wide, hands open and facing up. Her legs were crossed and tied at the ankles with a common clothesline rope. Worst yet, her chest gaped open, the ribs and breastbone spread, leaving a hole. The crime signature was similar to Lassiter’s, but not exactly the same. What did that mean?
West coughed. “Her heart is gone.”
Angus went even colder. Rain dripped off his hair and down his face. The scene was . . . off. “He eats it. Says it keeps the victim with him forever.” Nausea tried to roll up his belly and he shoved it down.
Wolfe came up on his other side, his movements silent. He didn’t gasp, stall, or go tense. He just stared at the body, his jaw hard. He pointed to the victim’s arms. “Burn marks?”
“Affirmative,” Angus said crisply. “There will be both cigarette and electrical burns.” Outside and inside the woman. “As well as whip marks, ligature marks around the neck, and knife wounds. Shallow and painful. Not enough to let her bleed out.” Angus noticed that the cuts for the heart were rough—not smooth, the way Lassiter liked to do—which was why the press had dubbed him “the Surgeon.”
Yet the heart was gone.
West coughed. “Raped?”
“Probably,” Angus said.
Agent Rutherford approached from the far end, carefully stepping over water-filled potholes with his shiny loafers. “There’s no note, and she’s not blond. In addition, the cigarette marks are too large—almost like a cigar was used.” He looked around, as if worried they’d be caught working outside their jurisdiction. The Homeland Defense Department didn’t deal with serial killers. Well, not usually.
Angus breathed in and out before responding. He much preferred Fields to this guy. “Lassiter is very choosy about his cigarettes and would never use a cigar. Too common.” Angus dropped into a crouch, closer to the woman. Lassiter had also loved blondes. This close, the victim’s skin l
ooked dusky, not pale. Was she Asian? Lassiter had liked them pale, the whiter the better. “Are you sure there isn’t a note?”
“No note,” Rutherford snapped. “Told you it wasn’t him.”
Everything inside Angus insisted it was Lassiter. But was it a certainty born of necessity? Because he needed to be on the case and hunting the evil psycho down—finally? He looked around, noting the alley had been cordoned off, blocking the view of any nosy neighbors or the press. In a different situation he’d be fighting with Rutherford right now about the news media. It probably killed the guy that he couldn’t chase the cameras. “Once you get an ID, track down her medical records.”
“No ID,” Rutherford said, glancing down at his shiny phone. “Her prints came up negative, and this isn’t our case. Time to go, gentlemen.”
Wolfe scouted the alley, his gaze sharp. “You think Lassiter did this?”
Yes. “I don’t know. The MO is close, but not perfect, and he was a perfectionist.” Frustration tasted like metal in Angus’s mouth. “If it isn’t Lassiter, it’s a copycat. That I’m sure of, and I was the best profiler the FBI had.”
“Until you drank the entire wagon,” Fields said, his bushy eyebrows rising. “You no longer work for the FBI, remember?”
Something on the victim’s hand caught Angus’s attention. “Glove?” He gestured toward a couple of techs.
One tossed him a blue glove and he slid it on, gently turning over the woman’s right hand.
“Shit,” West said, leaning down. “Is that what I think it is?”
Angus swallowed. “Yeah.” A perfect tattoo of a German shepherd had been placed right beneath the knuckles on the back of her hand.
Wolfe swallowed. “Looks like Roscoe.”
“Could be a coincidence,” West said, his lips turning down.
“Probably is.” Angus stood. Oh, that was his dog; the markings were distinctive. “Fields? I want this case. Lassiter or not. FBI or not.”
West gripped his arm and pulled him to the side. He leaned in to speak quietly. “Even if the FBI and HDD both allow it, are you sure you want this? Serial killers don’t just change their MOs, right? Especially ones like Lassiter.”
Angus nodded. “You’re right.”
“You’re obsessive and you’re just getting your drinking under control. If this isn’t Lassiter, and that tattoo is a coincidence, why take on HDD, the FBI, and the local DC police force right now?” West released him, his gaze again straying to the poor woman on the ground.
Right now they were the best chance for justice the woman had.
Fields slid his phone back into his pocket. “The HDD higher-ups say no way to you taking on this case. Sorry. It’s a no-go.”
Angus turned on his heel and shoved his hands in his jeans pockets, striding down the alley. The rain increased in force, a cold, angry prelude to the dark, oncoming winter.
His team members flanked him.
Wolfe stepped over a puddle. “We’re not letting this go, are we?”
“Not a chance in hell,” Angus said. “Call everyone in. We have a new case.” He ducked under the crime scene tape, walking away from death.
This time.
Chapter Two
Nari Zhang zipped her leather jacket as she stepped out of the Porsche, forcing a smile onto her face and leaning down. The crisp fall breeze lifted her hair. At least it had stopped raining after midnight. “Thanks for dinner, Ronald.”
He angled to the side in the driver’s seat, a lock of blond hair falling over his strong forehead. “Why don’t you let me follow you home? Maybe come in for coffee?” His blue eyes were earnest in the dim light from the car.
Nari kept the smile in place, looking around the nearly deserted parking area of the seventies-style office building. Her new VW Bug waited for her beneath the one streetlight, which showed there were no predators close to her vehicle. “That’s all right.” She purposely didn’t look at the large truck parked in the darkness closer to the building. Did Angus Force ever go home any longer?
Ronald reached for her hand. “I had a good time tonight. How about we meet up for another late dinner tomorrow? The senator’s intelligence briefing should be done by ten, and I could pick you up around eleven. Okay? Very late dinner? Maybe dessert?” His voice lowered into a suggestive tone that was probably beyond sexy to most women on Capitol Hill, and his hand was large and warm around hers. In his dark sports jacket and red power tie, he looked as powerful as she knew the chief of staff for the Senate majority leader to be.
“Work is heating up, but I’ll call you.” She pulled her hand free and stepped away to shut the door. Ronald was intelligent and mature, and he’d bored her into glancing at her watch before the appetizers had been served. What was wrong with her?
His jaw tightened and he sped off, leaving her alone in the parking lot. Most women probably didn’t turn him down.
Nari sighed, her gaze going to the darkened doorway of the old office building. Shadows danced across its face and over to the adjacent, desolate park. Thunder rolled in the distance, promising another late fall storm. Her bed called to her; it’d only take twenty minutes to drive home. And if she couldn’t sleep, it was time she rearranged her kitchen, anyway. She needed things to be color coded.
The wind rustled the barren trees and leaves crackled. She shivered.
Yet she steeled her shoulders and strode across the wet, cracked concrete to the front door, which she unlocked with a scratched key. At some point she needed to learn not to beat her head against brick walls, but apparently this wasn’t the night for that. Her boots clip-clopped across the dusty wooden floor of the deserted hallway to the rickety elevator. She said a quick prayer and stepped inside, hoping this wasn’t the night it decided to just break free and crash to the basement.
It hitched and jerked, but finally the door opened to a quiet, dark office. She fumbled for the switch and flipped on the yellow fluorescent lights in the vestibule, illuminating the bullpen with its empty desks.
Male muttering across the bullpen in Case Room One pulled her like a magnet. This was a mistake, but it was time somebody made it. Apparently she was the only one on the Deep Ops team willing to cross Angus Force right now.
Enough was enough.
The smell of whiskey caught her attention as she drew abreast of the doorway. Wonderful. He was drunk again.
She stepped inside to find Angus sitting with his boots on the conference table, staring at a whiteboard of mutilation and death. Papers were scattered across the table in no apparent order, as if he’d flung them across to see where they’d land. A half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s rested on several manila file folders, no cup in sight.
Roscoe snored quietly over in the corner on a new blue bed she’d bought for him the week before.
“Angus. You have to stop this,” she whispered.
He didn’t flinch, no doubt having heard the elevator arrive. “Go home, Nari.”
She wanted to go home, but she had a duty to the team, and it was time she finally did it. “I had the power to take you out of this position for the last year,” she murmured, leaning against the doorjamb. “I haven’t exercised it because I think the team works. But you’re killing yourself, and I can’t let that happen.”
His chair swung around and his boots hit the floor as he turned to face her. The force of his gaze almost had her stepping back. His eyes were a clear green, deep and tortured. Her body took the hit from that look with a slow roll and shiver that had nothing to do with fear, and she could only study him in return, her nipples peaking like little traitors. Thick, dark hair curled around his ears and matched the scruff covering his stubborn jawline. In his ripped jeans and faded black T-shirt, he all but bellowed wounded bad boy who needed saving.
She snorted. “You’re a cliché at this point.” That didn’t mean she couldn’t save him. Yeah, she was as dumb as the rest of the women who were drawn to Angus Force, wanting to ease his pain. Oh, most of the team didn’t kn
ow about the women who flocked to him, but she’d been watching him for months. Long, torturous months during which she’d tried to figure out the right thing to do for everyone while dealing with dreams nearly every night starring his hard body and firm mouth.
His lips turned down. “You’re back early tonight. Another bad date?”
“No. It was lovely,” she said, straightening.
He rolled those desperate green eyes. “Right. Either you’re choosing the wrong guys to go out with or there’s a demon from your past still chasing you.”
Sometimes she forgot that he’d been one of the FBI’s best profilers before his life had disintegrated—yet another intriguing facet to him. “Maybe both,” she acknowledged, willing to give him that much. “At least I haven’t stopped trying to live.”
“Neither have I.” He turned back to his murder board in a clear act of dismissal. “You ever wonder why we don’t like each other?”
The continuation of conversation surprised her more than the pang in her heart at the words. “Because you’re an asshole?” she burst out.
His chuckle was low and dark. “That’s only part of it. The other part, my pretty shrink, is that we see right through each other. To the soul.”
She cocked her head, rising instantly to the unspoken challenge only she could hear while ignoring the possessive tone with nice compliment. “You don’t like what you see? Somehow I don’t think that’s your problem with me.”
“That’s irrelevant,” he murmured, the atmosphere relaxing slightly as he turned his focus from her to his obsession. “You’re gonna want to stay off my radar and out of the way for now. Trust me.”
Awareness ticked down her spine. She’d tried that tactic, and it hadn’t worked. “No.”
He stiffened, and the atmosphere in the room changed. Slowly, deliberately, he swiveled his chair once again. “Nari.”
Driven Page 2
