by Dan Padavona
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
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Author's Acknowledgment
Why Novellas?
Copyright Information
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
Vengeance is the progeny of maltreatment and corruption.
The weather, fair and warm for October along the Chesapeake Bay, should have put Scarlett Bell at ease. Yet something dangerous prowled inside the FBI agent as she paced the beach. Her partner, Neil Gardy, the Behavioral Analysis Unit’s dark-haired senior agent, spotted Bell’s anger the moment he arrived. Dressed in his work clothes, black suit and shoes with his hair neatly combed, Gardy’s clothing was ill-suited for a walk on the beach. Gardy had visited Bell’s bay side apartment on her day off, concerned over his partner’s wellbeing.
“Any word from Weber on the San Giovanni assassination?” she asked, skipping a smooth-sided rock across the waves.
“Weber doesn’t want BAU involvement.”
Ever since a sniper gunned down star congresswoman Lana San Giovanni, Don Weber, Deputy Director of CIRG, had lobbied against BAU involvement in the investigation. The murder of political figures fell upon the FBI, and the BAU typically contributed to counter-terrorism and corruption cases, so it confused Bell and Gardy why Weber remained steadfast against the BAU investigating the assassination.
“Weber claims we’re stretched thin,” Gardy continued, stumbling when the sand engulfed his dress shoes. “His number one priority is catching Logan Wolf, and he wants all available resources devoted to bringing Wolf to justice.”
Gardy’s words were fuel to the flame, and Bell grew irritable as Gardy justified Weber’s decisions. Bell believed Wolf, the former BAU profiler accused of murdering his wife in 2013, was innocent. The murder felt too perfect, too planned for a disorganized, violent serial killer. Wolf had found Renee on the kitchen floor of their Virginia home, throat slashed with a sack placed over her head. Forensic evidence pointed an accusing finger at Wolf. The crime scene investigators uncovered Wolf’s prints and hair fibers at the scene, but it was expected. Wolf lived there. The lack of DNA evidence for a third person implicated Wolf, and the profiler had been a fugitive ever since, murdering serial killers across the country to avenge his wife. Worse yet, Wolf adopted the unknown murderer’s modus operandi, slicing his victim’s throats and placing sacks over their heads to draw his wife’s killer out of hiding. But since then, no other killings mimicked the 2013 murder, further proving Wolf must be guilty.
“Nothing changes. It’s a waste of resources. Weber can’t catch Wolf.”
“He will,” Gardy said, studying the breakers as the ocean dragged a string of kelp over the beach. “Wolf keeps taking chances by involving himself in our cases. One of these days, he’ll walk into an ambush.”
Though Gardy had come around to Bell’s belief that Wolf might be innocent, she didn’t trust her partner to keep their collaborations with Wolf secret. While the fugitive had helped Bell and Gardy track multiple serial killers over the last year, Gardy put honor and duty first. Eventually, Bell theorized, Gardy would lay a trap for Wolf and turn the mass murderer over to the FBI.
“There’s something San Giovanni’s mother told me at the hospital,” Bell said, ducking when a wind gust hurled sand at their faces. She stepped through the waves, prompting Gardy to follow, the agent maintaining a safe distance between the tide and his expensive shoes. “San Giovanni had powerful enemies. The congresswoman headed the task force targeting government corruption. What are the chances she uncovered evidence that got her killed?”
“It’s a logical theory, except the FBI couldn’t find a connection. Most of the task force’s targets were small time offenders: government officials accepting bribes, overzealous lobbyists influencing elections. Nothing particularly juicy.”
“Doesn’t it concern you Weber kept us out of the loop? It makes me wonder about his innocence.”
Gardy stopped along the shore and grabbed her arm.
“Wait a minute. Are you suggesting Weber masterminded an assassination?”
“Weber is involved. He didn’t pull the trigger, but I bet he knows who did.”
“Listen to yourself. Bell, regardless of your personal issues with the deputy director and the amount of hurdles he puts in your way, you can’t possibly believe he’s behind the murder.”
Bell chewed her lower lip, unconvinced. The sun dropped low, the water turning red as light seeped out of the sky.
“I’m certain Weber would do anything to accelerate his career.” Gardy started to protest, and Bell raised her hand. “Let’s assume San Giovanni’s task force gathered damning evidence against an elected official, someone powerful enough to push Weber up the food chain.”
“But they didn’t. We saw the notes. The task force investigations are old news.”
“Let me finish. The congresswoman was a bulldog, but until she had evidence against an opponent, she played the hand close to her chest.”
“So you’re suggesting San Giovanni wouldn’t bring the case to the task force until she knew it was strong.”
“That’s exactly what I’m thinking. The FBI hasn’t turned over enough stones. I’d check the congresswoman’s computer files for—”
The gunshot echoed down the beach. At first, Bell thought the naval jets flying out of Norfolk caused the sound. Then a red streak formed across Gardy’s pant leg, and he dropped to his knee, clutching his thigh.
When the second shot tore over the sand, Bell knocked Gardy flat and covered him amid the sloshing water and frantic gulls. She glanced around the beach, searching for cover. The nearest dune lay fifty paces away. Then she saw it. A trench dug around a crumbling sandcastle, just enough space for the two of them to lie flat inside.
Tugging Gardy’s arm, Bell coaxed the injured agent toward the trench as another gun blast flew over her shoulder, close enough to raise the hair on her head.
“Stay low,” Bell said as the gunfire kept them pinned. “How’s the leg?”
“It grazed me. I’ll be okay if I can—”
The next shot barreled into the sand, cutting Gardy off. Grit sprayed her face while she covered her head. Protective of her injured partner, Bell shifted her body to shield Gardy’s, earning her an irritated groan.
Sirens approached the coast. The gunfire ceased, the sniper fleeing.
Carefully, Bell emerged from the trench, convinced the shooter would pull the trigger now that they’d come out of hiding. Gardy’s leg buckled, and she caught him. Blood soaked his pants leg and colored the sand, welling through his fingers where he clutched the wound.
“Can you make it to the building?” she asked.
Bell’s apartment complex rose above the beach, a five-minute walk. Longer if a bullet struck you in the leg.
Grinding his teeth, he nodded and limped over the sand with Bell supporting him. With her free hand, she dialed 9-1-1. An ambulance was on the way.
As Bell glanced over her shoulder, a dark figure disappeared behind a dune along the distant shoreline.
CHAPTER TWO
The Florida storm over the Atlantic turne
d the sunset bloody and flickered lightning like snake tongues.
Christina Wolf sipped a Merlot on her balcony overlooking the ocean as darkness rushed out of the east. The beach house rental was a splurge, a method to unwind and put her work as an information technician specialist aside. She’d survived a messy divorce to Kevin, and Buddy, her Irish Setter of fifteen years, passed in July, leaving Christina alone for the first time since those post-college bachelorette days when her biggest concern was which club to frequent with her friends.
Her job had become a dead end, a compromise. It paid the bills, but she hadn’t been excited about work in years. Now at forty, she felt alone in the world. Both parents dead. Her brother, Logan, a fugitive running from the government. The things the media claimed Logan did, the grotesque murders, didn’t seem real. She refused to accept her brother was a serial killer. He didn’t slaughter men across the United States.
And he didn’t murder Renee. He loved his wife. Worshiped the woman. Logan rarely smiled before he met Renee in college. Christina’s brother always seemed so serious, so career-driven even as he studied criminal justice. But when Renee entered the room, the corners of Logan’s mouth quirked up as though he concealed a joke behind his lips.
She hadn’t heard from Logan since Renee’s murder. But now and then she returned from work and found differences with her house—someone had tightened the lock on the back door which no longer jiggled, and once someone fed Buddy and left a vase of wildflowers on the kitchen table. She wanted to believe the silent benefactor was Logan, not Randy or Kylie next door, the way a child attributes presents at Christmas to Santa.
And this evening she’d discovered the Merlot wrapped by a red ribbon and waiting on the counter. Kevin hated wine, especially Merlot, and she’d forgotten the pleasures of wine during her suffocating marriage. The only surviving member of her family who appreciated wine was Logan. Still, it was more likely the homeowner left the bottle as a gift and she’d overlooked it on her first day inside the house.
Swirling the wine, she raised the glass against the sky’s deepening reds and admired the color. She closed the patio door against the thickening wind. Inside, the house seemed darker than she remembered. Christina flicked on a lamp, disappointed when the light did little to drive back the shadows. Two shopping bags from her day at the Fair Haven Beach shops sat against the door where she’d dropped them after discovering the wine.
As she crossed from the living room into the entryway, a noise came from behind her. The moan of a floorboard. She spun back to the darkened living room, the sectional sofa dividing the floor from the large screen television on the wall. Old houses made scary sounds, she told herself. The wind clamored at the sliding glass door like it wanted to break through.
Snatching the bags, she climbed the staircase to the master bedroom. The floor-to-ceiling window offered a spectacular view of the water, and she contemplated reading a Thomas Harris novel while overlooking the ocean.
First, she determined to change into something more comfortable. Trading the dress shorts and tank for sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt, Christina padded barefoot into the hallway.
The noise came again. A dragged-out groan, like a monstrous beast creeping through the shadows.
This time she was sure it was a floorboard, not the fitful moan of a settling house. She stepped back from the rail. Heart thundering, she believed a prowler had broken into the rental. And her phone lay on the kitchen counter.
Quiet in the gloom, Christina backtracked to the bedroom and edged the door shut. A feeble hook-and-eye latch hung beside the door. Wincing when the lock rattled in her shaking fingers, she connected the pieces and stepped away. There had to be a phone in the room.
Except there wasn’t. And the dark view through the window showed the next house several hundred yards down the beach.
She listened at the door. Ear pressed to the wood. Hands curled into fists and eyes clamped shut.
No sound came from downstairs. Had she overreacted to a random noise?
The clink of glass pulled her eyes open. Then the glug-glug of poured wine.
Yes, someone was inside the house. A hopeful thought occurred to Christina. Logan was downstairs. He sneaked inside to surprise her and partook in the gift he’d left on the counter.
Terror prevented Christina from calling her brother’s name. Instead, she slid the windowpane up, cringing when the wood shrieked and gave her away.
The two-story plunge ended in a pile of sand and scrub grass. Too far to leap, but she’d take a broken leg over rape.
The screen remained the only barrier between Christina and freedom when the bedroom door imploded.
She shrieked as the flimsy lock burst off the jamb in a shower of splinters. It couldn’t be Logan. Her brother wouldn’t hurt her, would he?
The dark shadow filled the doorway. Christina shoved both hands through the screen and knocked it off its hinges. As she ripped the screen out of the frame and climbed onto the sill, his hands grasped her hair from behind and yanked.
Christina’s head slammed against the hardwood. Her vision blurred as two hands clasped around her neck and lifted her off the floor as though she was a child’s doll.
Legs kicking and flailing as he walked her across the room, Christina beat at the masked figure’s head.
When he reached the wall, he smashed the back of her head against the plaster. Christina went limp. The room turned black.
Then the masked killer swept Christina into his arms. Almost lovingly.
The starlight caught the wicked gleam of his blade as he drew the edge across Christina’s throat. Her body convulsed, and he hugged the dying woman, whispering in her ear that it was time to sleep, time to let go of the pain.
He stood over her, grinning.
Admiring the pooling blood.
Plastic wrapped around his shoes and up to his calves. He’d leave no identifying footprints, and the woman’s DNA would be at the bottom of a dumpster after he discarded the plastic.
From inside his jacket, he removed a black sack and placed it over Christina Wolf’s head.
“Come home, little one. Time to sleep.”
CHAPTER THREE
The bright lights of the hospital stood in stark contrast to the night when the physician’s assistant pulled the last stitch tight on Gardy’s thigh.
Bell sat in the corner and waited for the assistant to clear the room. Gardy’s legs dangled off the table like a child at his first doctor’s exam.
“I hate stitches,” he said, gritting his teeth when the man bandaged the wound and secured it with tape.
Bell leaned forward with her elbows on her knees.
“Be thankful the bullet grazed your thigh.”
The talk of bullets and snipers won an unsettled look from the physician’s assistant. He hurried out of the room as though he suddenly realized there was somewhere he needed to be.
“But I doubt the shooter aimed for your thigh,” Bell said, tapping her keys against her leg. “For that matter, I’m unconvinced he targeted you.”
“There you go trying to steal the spotlight. You said you saw the guy?”
“Hardly. I saw a shadow on the far side of the beach. No way I could ID the bastard.”
Gardy rubbed at his chin.
“So he fired from two hundred yards. Considering the strength of those wind gusts, I’d say he’s a damn skilled shooter.”
“The wind saved our lives. A light breeze, and the medical examiner would be pulling bullets out of our skulls.”
“Nice thought.”
The police had responded to the gunshots, and after learning the shooter struck one of their agents, the FBI arrived. With the FBI present, a police detective named Schroeder interviewed the two agents while Gardy awaited stitching. Neither Bell nor Gardy told the investigators anything useful.
“Funny,” Bell said, meeting Gardy’s eyes. “One second we’re discussing a political assassination and Weber’s involvement, and the next
we’re under fire.”
“Hold up. You discussed Weber’s involvement, I listened.”
“And did you learn anything?”
“Only that losing a chunk off your thigh hurts like a son-of-a—”
“It’s the same sniper, Gardy. The same killer who shot the congresswoman and tried to kill us in the alleyway.”
“Must be more than one shooter,” he said, picking at the tape. “Unless the guy you shot came back to haunt you.”
A dark memory returned to Bell. The night she took down the God’s Hand killer and rescued San Giovanni’s daughter, a sniper shot at Bell and Logan Wolf on a Virginia hillside. After she killed the sniper, she discovered a pendant around his neck. A pendant worn by special ops. When she directed the FBI to the sniper’s coordinates, the body vanished.
Bell peeked down the hallway and closed the door.
“Former special ops soldiers don’t come cheap, Gardy. You might not believe my conspiracy theories, but it’s convenient the guy disappeared when the FBI investigated the hillside. Not a single bullet found, not even from my gun. How’s that possible?”
“How is it possible Don Weber monitored our conversation and called a hit? Paranoia is getting the best of you.”
“He’s corrupt, and San Giovanni knew.”
Gardy opened his mouth to argue and snapped it shut.
Bell’s phone hummed inside her pocket. She entered her passcode and found a text from the BAU at the same time the message arrived on Gardy’s phone.
Gardy squinted, holding the phone at arm’s length as he read. His eyes widened.
“Impossible,” Bell said.
The murder scene was still fresh, the body discovered inside a beach house in Fair Haven Beach, Florida, after an anonymous message tipped off the local police.
“That’s Wolf’s M.O. You still think he only murders male serial killers?”
Bell placed her hand over her mouth.
“Gardy, read the name of the victim.”
“What’s that have to do with…”
