Fear No Evil (11 page)

Lucy would die over his dead body. And maybe, just maybe, his death would mean something.

But he’d much rather get off the damn island alive. Fuck orders. Saving Lucy Kincaid was more important than arresting Trask, or whatever his name was.

He’d wait until Trask and Roger were occupied. And that wack-job, Denise. She really creeped him out.

“Sexy bitch, isn’t she?”

Roger came up behind him as Mick stared at the monitor.

“Hm,” Mick grunted.

“Trask said you can have her next. Thinks you’re ready for the big time.”

Mick tensed. He’d never thought—

“What?” Roger said.

“You’re fucking with me.”

Roger laughed, slapped him hard on the back. “Trask doesn’t joke around, not with his bitches. You can have her at the twenty-four-hour mark.” Roger leaned forward, whispered. “Or maybe I’m right about you.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, asshole.”

Roger laughed again. “Yeah, you probably don’t. Be ready, Mick, or maybe we don’t need you around after all.”

Roger left the small observation room, closing the door behind him. Roger was in charge of surveillance, monitoring the security cameras that panned the island, the dock, the sky. Mick’s job was to monitor the cameras and alert Roger of a security breach. Now he looked for a landmark. Something, anything to give him a clue where he was. Only the sun told him he was on the West Coast, north of California. Probably off the coast of Washington based on the angle.

Thank fucking Uncle Sam he’d spent enough years in the military to learn something—like how to make a sextant.

He also had a 24/7 visual on Lucy Kincaid. He touched the screen. “I don’t want to hurt you, Lucy.”

But he didn’t see any other way. He’d be dead if he didn’t act the part, and if Mick was dead he couldn’t save Lucy’s life.

NINE

K
ATE HAD RECEIVED
a one-word response from Quinn Peterson:
Working.

She hated waiting. Her entire life had become a waiting game. She pushed away from the console and heard something.

Her gun was in her hand without another thought. She leaped from her chair, moving to the door, putting her back against the wall. The hum of her computers distracted her, the movement of Lucy dancing on the screen drawing her eye. She took a deep breath, focused. Listened.

Footsteps on the metal stairs.

Someone was here. It wasn’t Professor Fox. It was the middle of the afternoon and he’d be sleeping. And he wouldn’t come to her room. He always used the intercom to summon her, especially after Kate had almost killed him when he startled her that first time.

More footsteps. At least three people. Possibly four. Kate closed her eyes. Boots. Army? Hiking? She’d heard that Dominguez’s troops had been hiding out on the mountain after taking out a humanitarian aid convoy last month. The government didn’t take kindly to criminals who stole so blatantly, so Dominguez had a bullet with his name on it, from both his competitors and now the government. It was only a matter of time, not that Kate cared. She could get off the mountain whenever she wanted—by air.

A knock on her door. If this was the FBI finally coming for her, they wouldn’t have been so polite.

“Kate Donovan? It’s Dillon Kincaid. I’m here to talk about my sister.”

Kate stopped in her tracks. The guy who said all those things online? Who, without knowing her
at all,
had seemed to get inside her head? How could Dillon Kincaid have found her? And how could he get to her in half a day?

“Kate, please let me in.”

“Who’s with you?”

“My brothers.”

“How many?”

“Three.”

“You have three brothers?”

“Yes.”

“And you all came up here because you think I can lead you to your sister? Think again. I don’t know where she is. Go home.”

The doorknob turned. It was locked.

“Go away,” Kate said. “I’ll send all the information I get to Quinn.”

But if I think I know where Trask is, I’m going after him myself.

“I’m not leaving,” he said.

“Then sit out there all night. It gets cold when the sun goes down, even in June.”

“I called in favors, traveled hours by plane, jeep, and foot, to find you. I think you know more than you’re saying. I know you can find Lucy. I brought my brother Patrick. He’s a computer expert, like you. He’s the one who isolated your transmission and located you.”

“Bullshit.” Was the FBI planning her takedown right now? She needed to get the hell out of here. No, dammit! Kate didn’t want to leave. She was so close.

“We’re here, aren’t we?”

“You’re jeopardizing everything!”

“I didn’t tell Agent Peterson where you were. He knows we know, but he didn’t ask, I didn’t tell. Please let us in.”

She closed her eyes. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t want help, but she needed it. The Baja island—had she been right? Wrong? Was Trask there, or was it another trap? She didn’t know, couldn’t see the truth anymore.

She was so damn tired. She missed Evan, she missed Paige. She hated being alone, but she didn’t see any alternative.

She opened the door, kept her gun leveled at the man on her threshold.

Two guns were aimed at her head.

“Kill me and he still dies,” she said, staring into the green eyes of the man she assumed was Dillon Kincaid.

“Put the guns down,” Dillon said without taking his eyes from hers.

He was tall. Handsome. In shape, but no bodybuilder. He reminded her of Quinn,
GQ
good looks; a strong, square jaw; and intelligent eyes. Dillon stared at her, as if he could literally read her thoughts. She quickly appraised his dusty jeans, the dark green T-shirt, and his mussed-up sun-streaked, light-brown hair that, though short, fell in waves across his forehead. But it was the intensity of his eyes, their focus and strength, that took Kate’s breath away.

“Jack. Connor. Now.” Dillon stepped through the door, toward her gun, no fear on his face. “Kate, please.”

As soon as he entered, his eyes caught movement on the screen against the far wall. His expression changed, hardened. Worry clouded his face.

Kate lowered her gun, keeping her eye on the men Dillon called Connor and Jack. Brothers? Perhaps. Jack was all military, hard-edged. She knew the type. Connor had the same hard edge without the layer of dissociation. Cop, not military. Yet another man was behind them. Thinner, with fair skin and dark hair. His gun was holstered, and she instantly thought
Patrick, the computer expert.

As soon as Jack and Connor lowered their weapons, she followed Dillon’s eyes to the screen. Her dance over, Lucy was being shackled to a straight-backed chair by two men. She fought them, the freedom of her dance over.

Dillon walked to the screen. “Which one is Trask?”

“Neither,” Kate said. “He won’t show himself on camera.” She paused. “I’m the only one who has seen him and lived.”

Dillon turned to her. “Did you work with a sketch artist?”

“You don’t understand.”

“You didn’t tell anyone? What if we can get his picture out?”

“The man I saw is a chameleon. Of course I gave a description, even while I was on the run from my own government. Do you think I’m so callous that I would let women
die
in order to protect myself? Because of
me
they have his fingerprints. Because of
me
they have a description. Lot of good that did catching him!” Kate turned to the screen, jumping when one of the men slapped Lucy across the face.

“And because of me my two best friends died.”

Dillon almost didn’t hear what Kate had said. He tore his eyes away from Lucy on the screen and touched Kate’s arm. All muscle. In her midthirties, her shortish hair was so blond it was nearly white, pulled into a haphazard hair band with loose strands falling out, tucked behind her ears. Her face was devoid of makeup, fresh and clean, worry lines creasing her forehead, her red lips dipping into a frown. This woman had so much pain and sadness in her face, taking the crimes of others as her own personal cross to bear.

Her computer beeped as Dillon was about to question her. Connor, Patrick, and Jack filed into the room. Jack remained at the door, on alert. Patrick sidled over to the computer system.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“A message.” She clicked on it. “From Quinn.”

We’re still checking your data. Hold.

“What is he checking out?” Patrick asked.

“The coordinates I sent about thirty minutes ago. But I think it’s a trap.”

Dillon asked, “What coordinates?”

Kate tensed, obviously feeling a touch of claustrophobia with all these men, these
Kincaids,
in her personal space. Dillon glanced around the functional room. It was large, but sparsely furnished. A bed in the corner. A nightstand. No personal effects anywhere. Two doors probably led to a closet and a bathroom. There was a whole wall of weights. And another full wall of computers and computer screens. Systems he didn’t understand, but by the expression on Patrick’s face, his little brother was impressed.

“Kate?” Dillon said softly.

In a move that surprised Dillon, Jack said, “I need to check on my men.” He walked out, shutting the door behind him.

“Who did you bring?” Kate asked, panicked.

“Jack—” What could Dillon say about his brother when even he didn’t know the truth? Dillon didn’t even know if Jack still worked for the government, or if he was truly a mercenary. “Jack’s a soldier down here. I contacted him and he and his unit helped us get up the mountain.”

“The terrain is dangerous,” Kate said, “but it’s safe this far up. The observatory is university property, and they pay handsomely for the land.”

“So what coordinates did you come up with?” Dillon repeated his question.

Kate motioned toward her computer. “Have a look.”

Patrick sat down almost before she finished the invitation.

“I’ve been pinging constantly, trying to get a lock on the coordinates of the originating feed,” Kate said.

“Pinging?” Dillon asked.

Patrick translated. “It’s where one computer can see if another on a network is online. A ping is sort of like calling a phone number and hanging up when you get an answer. You know someone is there, but you don’t want to talk to them.”

Kate smiled at the analogy. “Trask is good—very good,” she said. “He has the feed going through numerous routers, using legitimate servers to mask his signal. I’m also working on the delay—there’s a full minute-thirty-second delay, I think. But again, it’s almost impossible to tell. The delay could be caused by one of the servers he’s moving data through. He’s sending the transmissions through a variety of hubs and nodes—virtually everything is a dead end.”

“Wow,” Patrick muttered. “Where’d you get this trace program? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I wrote it.”

“You?” Patrick was impressed.

“More or less. I improved it, I should say. The less you know the better. Quinn already told you I’m wanted by the government. Since they already want me for high crimes, a little hacking isn’t going to increase my jail time.”

Her words were light, almost self-deprecating, but there was a wistful quality that Dillon caught.

Connor spoke up. “But you think you might have found Lucy. Why are we standing here doing nothing? Let’s get off this damn mountain and find her.”

“Because I think it’s a trap,” she said.

“Why?”

Kate didn’t answer.

“You have coordinates, but you don’t want to do anything about it?”

“Do anything? What do you think I’ve been doing for the last five years? Trask killed my partner. He’s been killing women for sport for years. He’s a genius and he’s not going to let me find him until he wants me to, unless I can somehow outmaneuver him. He wants me to walk into a trap so he can kill me. He’s gone underground because we have his prints—because of
me.
We have a physical description, and I think he’s too vain to change his appearance. He’s vindictive and powerful. He’s not going to simply
let
me find Lucy, or any of his prey.”

Patrick said, “But here you have your program—unbiased—tracing the feed through dead ends and nodes and landing at a live spot. The trace looks exactly the way it should look.”

“I know the program
seems
to have found the live feed, but Trask plays a game of cat and mouse. The coordinates are the cheese.”

“We have to do something!” Connor stared at the screen, watched Lucy helpless and fearful.

Dillon spoke. “Kate, she’s our little sister. We have to follow every lead.”

“By the time you get to that island, it’ll be too late to get back here and retrace the steps.
If
it’s a trap, or a phony lead, we’ve lost all the time we have. You can do what you want. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You don’t have to. She’s not your sister. But we’re going.” Connor looked from Dillon to Patrick. “Right?”

Dillon was torn. He wanted to go to the island the coordinates pointed to. Lucy had said she was on an island.

But Kate was the one with experience tracking this killer. She’d seen his face, been inside his head. Could Dillon trust Lucy’s life to Kate’s instincts?

Kate spoke up. “I sent the information to Quinn. He’s looking into the data now.”

“We can’t wait for the FBI to act,” Connor said. “Not when we’re this close. What if he rushes it? What if this Trask knocks time off Lucy’s clock, doesn’t give us the full forty-eight hours to find her?”

Dillon glanced at the countdown.

33:50:02. 33:50:01. 33:50:00. 33:49:59.

His heart raced twice as fast as the countdown. He didn’t want to wait, but he trusted Kate’s instincts—on this, on understanding this killer.

“He won’t jump the clock,” Dillon said. “The countdown is part of the thrill.”

“And you’d bet Lucy’s life on your psychoanalysis? You haven’t even met him!” Connor shouted.