Hunted (FBI Heat Book 1) (4 page)

From the first moment their gazes had connected Friday night, Ben had been entranced by the doe-like quality of her huge brown eyes. Now they widened, and she froze like a deer in headlights. He would’ve laughed if she hadn’t looked so freaked.

After several beats, she yanked her hand back. “Is this part of your FBI shtick?”

His laugh broke loose. “FBI shtick? Is there such a thing?”

“Yeah, well, a comment like that is supposed to be funny, right?”

The last chuckle died away. “Not at all. Everything from your handling of Gary to having an extra lock on your door—yeah, I heard the click—says you’ve had a bad experience with a man or men. Tell me I’m wrong,” he challenged her.

She stared at him and gulped. Stiffly, she wiped her mouth with the napkin. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

“Look, I just want to help. If some guy’s hassling you, tell me.”

“Thanks, but I don’t need your help, Ben. Everything’s
fine
.”

The defiance in her voice told him nothing was fine. But he saw no sense in pushing the issue. If she didn’t want to confide in him, so be it. “Okay, then, finish your dinner. Please.”

For a moment, she looked like she would argue, but she finally picked up the slice and took another bite.

“How’s the job security?” he asked, hoping it wasn’t another dead-end topic.

Amber released a long sigh. “Sketchy, at best. I… I think…” She paused before clamping her mouth shut.

Well, hell.
She’d already told him she might be laid off, so what was the big deal?

“How’s your job?” she asked, offering him a conciliatory smile.

He studied her a moment. “Frustrating.”

“Tough case?”

“Yeah. Especially the human side of it.”

“Can you talk about it?”

He shook his head.

“Aren’t we a pair?” She huffed and angled her head toward the window. “I’ve never seen the Hotel del Coronado at night. It’s beautiful all lit up. So majestic. And magical, like a fairy tale.”

“Have you ever been inside?” Taking a swig of beer, he admired the view with her.

When Amber didn’t respond, he turned and saw her face blanch. He followed her frozen gaze to a point across the street, to a man standing in the shadows of the closed shops. As if sensing them watching, he pulled the hood of his gray sweatshirt tighter around his head and hurried up the street.

Ben reached across the table and touched her arm. “Amber?”

She jumped. Blinking, she stared at him. “What?”

“You know that guy?”

She continued to blink and breathe hard. “No. I-I don’t think so. Are you ready to go?”

“Sure.”

After paying the bill, he ushered her outside. She glanced up and down the street before walking with him to the car. As they neared the Beemer, he noticed a piece of paper held down by a windshield wiper.

* * *

When Amber spotted the paper, dread speared through her. She almost stalled, but she forced her feet to keep walking. She’d convinced herself that the man in the gray hoodie couldn’t be Jeremy, but notes on windshields were one of his favorite terrorizing tactics. She wanted to yank it from under the wiper before Ben was witness to her horrible secret.

But he reached the paper first.

He glanced at it briefly before holding it out to her. “Next time I need a facial, I’ll know where to go.”

She snatched the paper from his hand: an ad for a local day spa. A cry of relief lodged in her throat.

Holding her door open, Ben gazed at her, puzzled. Again. Well, this would probably be the last time he asked her out. Once more, her past had screwed up her present. Even if Jeremy wasn’t physically here, the specter of her predator haunted her. The paranoia he instilled colored her whole world. Would it never end?

She didn’t even try to make polite conversation on the drive back to the apartment complex. What was the use?

After thanking Ben for dinner, she marched across the dimly lit courtyard, her hand gripping the pistol in her purse. As always, she put her ear to the door to listen and then inspected for marks on the doorjamb before entering. Carefully opening the door, she surveyed the room. Everything seemed to be in order.

Everything except her life.

No longer interested in doing more research on surrogate mother fees, she relocked the door, checked the secured windows, and headed to the bedroom. After tucking the gun under her pillow, she lay for a long time, staring at the ceiling. Tears ran down the sides of her face. She hadn’t cried in a long time. But tonight was tear-worthy.

* * *

“What’d you find, Dillon?” Ben stood at the head of the conference room table at nine o’clock Tuesday morning.

“Both the Carlsbad and Oceanside locations had activity last night. Carlsbad was the busier of the two. Plenty of johns at both sites though. I uploaded the pictures this morning.”

“Did you see any of the women?”

“Not one. I’d guess each house had three or four bedrooms, so probably at least that many hookers inside.”

“Guards?”

“Four armed guards, both places. Big mothers too. Seemed like overkill until I saw a fight break out in the front yard in Carlsbad. Booze and testosterone—a dangerous combination.”

“Good work. How about you, Staci?”

“One of the National City sites wasn’t open for business last night. But I was able to see inside, and the place is still furnished. Maybe it was just their night off.”

“I don’t think H worries much about labor laws.”

“True. Anyway, it didn’t look abandoned. They’ll probably be back. The other National City location was so busy they had johns waiting outside.”

“Jesus. What about Chula Vista?”

She shrugged. “I saw only four customers during the hour I watched.”

“But you’re sure it wasn’t just four friends visiting someone.”

“Uh, no. An armed guard dragged one of them out of the house while he was still half-naked. The bottom half.”

“Nope, not your average visitor,” Dillon said, shaking his head.

“But definitely my best picture. Took a bunch and uploaded them late last night,” Staci said.

“Any of the women visible?” Ben asked.

“Only barely through the windows. Tried a couple shots, but they didn’t turn out clear enough for ID.”

“Well, shit. I didn’t have any better luck than you two. The Barrio Logan house was slightly more popular. The downtown site had more diverse customers. As you experienced, the women were held completely out of sight, and armed guards kept the places under control.” He hung his head. After the disappointing dinner with Amber, the fruitless stakeout had made for a frustrating night.

“I didn’t see anything unusual, nothing indicative of a new business operation,” Dillon added.

“Me neither. Staci?”

“Nothing. So what’s the plan?” she asked.

“I want to raid three of these places tonight. My choices are Carlsbad, the active National City location, and Barrio Logan. I’ll devise a plan and get Rex’s approval. We’ll each take a different site, and I’ll make the additional manpower arrangements. Rex may want to invite ICE and the local LEOs to participate. I’ll have to see how many resources he wants to devote to this op. I’ll be in touch.”

* * *

On Tuesday night, Amber stood in the middle of her living room and stared at the handful of personal belongings scattered around. None of the furniture belonged to her. Furniture took too much time and effort to move. Every apartment in the past two years had been rented furnished, which meant each one was decorated differently. They never felt like home.

For her survival, she had to be able to pack everything she owned in a few hours; and the boxes, bags, and suitcases had to fit in her six-year-old Suburban. She’d bought the vehicle used right before she went on the run. Although more car than she needed for everyday use, its power and size had saved her ass more than once. She put up with the lousy gas mileage and parking challenges for the sake of an appropriate escape vehicle.

She plopped down on the couch and buried her face in her hands.
What should I do?

Her Jeremy-Spidey-sense had been tingling, but the incidents had all been false alarms: the guy in the crosswalk, the one at the party, and most embarrassing, the dude across the street from the restaurant last night. Had she finally taken a left turn into Paranoiaville? Was her mind so screwed up that she saw her stalker everywhere? Was Jeremy even out there this time?

How she would love to believe he’d finally gotten tired of the hunt, that he’d realized Amber Jollett wasn’t worth all his trouble. But he wouldn’t. Not until he was caught and returned to a mental health facility, where he couldn’t hurt anyone.

She had listened to the shrinks drone on and on about his condition, his obsession. They claimed they could control him with medication.

They lied.

Jeremy was bad, a very bad person. He enjoyed destroying people, lives, and relationships. He also loved to inflict pain. It was a game to him. Predator against prey. Hunter versus hunted. He would never give up. Which meant she would have to move on soon.

But before she went, she had to make sure that a wonderful surrogate mother clinic didn’t go out of business. She had a plan. But did it matter?

And what about Ben? Nice, non-creep, wanted-to-help Ben. She hadn’t seen or heard from him today. No big surprise after last night at the restaurant.
He must think I’m certifiable. Maybe I am.
FBI Special Agent Ben Alfren would be the first person in a long, long time whom she would really regret having to leave. Despite her standoffish behavior and self-defensiveness, he seemed interested.
Had
been interested. Ben would forget her quickly, but she’d remember him.

She released a huge sigh and straightened, lifted her chin, and squared her shoulders. Pity parties were for the weak. Amber Jollett had been weak once, but she would never be again. She believed what hadn’t killed her made her stronger. She would outsmart Jeremy Nelson by staying one step ahead of him.

In the bedroom, she pulled a flattened cardboard box, a roll of packaging tape, and a sheaf of packing paper from under the bed—the bed that didn’t belong to her. After assembling the box, she returned to the living room to pack.

* * *

Ben hid in the bushes across the street from the Barrio Logan site. Nearby, but unseen, were three San Diego vice cops, two ICE agents, and another FBI agent. Although he might’ve overestimated the manpower needed for this raid based on the lack of activity at the whorehouse tonight, he was thankful for the other agencies’ involvement. The diversity of the law enforcement officers covered all the crime angles: prostitution, illegal immigration, human trafficking, and kidnapping. Of course, his personal goal was to find Maria and the four other women taken from Pedro’s group.

The vice cops were taking lead on the raid since prostitution was the obvious crime and the other violations were only possibilities. He didn’t like not being in charge, but sometimes, playing nice in the sandbox was required. He snorted softly. Seriously, what were the chances that all the people inside the building were here legally and voluntarily?

He rolled his shoulders, twisted his head from right to left, and arched his back to work out the kinks from crouching in the shadows for the past hour. Impatience simmered just below the surface.
Get on with it already.

As if hearing his silent plea, the top vice cop spoke in his ear. “Standby. On my mark.”

Thank God, it was time to move in. A minute later, the command to proceed came through loud and clear.

Seven armed men advanced on the whorehouse, which was actually a small commercial building, not a residence. Four headed for the front entrance while three circled around to the back. Each had been trained to know his role and what to expect from the others.

On the leader’s command, both doors were rammed open. Shouted orders and Spanish cursing competed to be heard over the music playing on a radio. Smoky haze stung Ben’s eyes. The stench of dirty bodies, stale booze, and old garbage filled his nostrils.

The four guards sat on the floor, smoking weed with some of the johns. Surprising the drug-impaired suspects, the agents and cops subdued them before they could even reach their weapons.

As designated on the blueprints he’d studied earlier, Ben raced down the hallway leading to the three offices that served as bedrooms. Assigned the closest one, he flung the door open and brandished his gun. “FBI! Freeze! Hands where I can see them.”

The woman screamed. The john sprang off the rollaway bed and launched himself at Ben. A quick sidestep and a blow to the back of the neck was all Ben needed to take down the half-naked man. With the john sprawled at his feet and whimpering, he shot a quick glance at the prostitute. His jaw clenched.

Poor woman.
She was completely naked and tied to the filthy bed. Wide-eyed and trembling, she babbled something Ben couldn’t understand. He exhaled.

She wasn’t Maria or any of the others.

Part of him was disappointed, but another part was really glad.

Dead tired, Ben trudged up the stairs to his apartment at two a.m. Wednesday. He should be on an adrenaline high, but he wasn’t. The three raids had been successful in every way except one: They hadn’t found any of the five kidnapped women. Of course, the ten women who’d been freed from forced prostitution had sobbed with appreciation, but still, Ben had felt like a failure when he’d told Pedro that Maria wasn’t one of them.

Eighteen johns and twelve of H’s guards were now behind bars. Not a bad night’s work, but Ben hadn’t met his goal. So he had already planned more raids for Wednesday night.

When he reached his door, he glanced across at Amber’s apartment. What a shame she had refused to give him her phone number, because he would’ve called her earlier, knowing he’d be busy tonight.

Oh well, she hadn’t seemed very interested, and he certainly wasn’t looking for anything serious. But dammit, he liked her. A lot.

A flash of light between his building and the next caught his eye. Curious because of the late hour, Ben moved to the end of the landing to investigate but stayed out of sight in the shadows.

Standing at the array of mailboxes attached to the opposite wall, a man pointed a flashlight at each name and apartment number label in turn. Ben grinned.
Too drunk to remember which one’s yours? Besides, isn’t it kinda late to be picking up your mail?
He scrutinized the man. Just because that was what he always did as an agent.

The man’s back was to him so he couldn’t see his face, and the hood of his sweatshirt covered the rest of his head. Average height. Even though the loose gray hoodie camouflaged his upper body, the butt and legs of his jeans revealed he was lean, not stocky. Ben didn’t see any signs of a weapon, only a piece of white paper sticking out of his back pants pocket.

The guy finished reading the labels and started a second pass. Ben frowned. The stranger wasn’t looking for his own box; he was searching for someone else’s. The second round apparently proved unsuccessful, because he slammed his fist into the top row of boxes and kicked a heavy-duty boot into the bottom row.

When he prepared for another assault on the mailboxes, Ben called, “Hey, dude, lighten up.”

The man spun around. Instead of responding, he took off toward the street.

“Shit,” Ben grumbled, flying down the staircase. As he rounded the corner of the building, he instinctively jammed his hand inside his jacket and gripped his pistol.

By the time he reached the front of the complex, the man had disappeared. The squeal of tires snapped his attention to a white vehicle careening around the far corner.

* * *

After work on Wednesday, Amber packed another box. As she set it next to the rented end table, she glanced through the blinds at Ben’s apartment. Dark again. She hadn’t seen or heard from him in two days. Was he out on a date with another woman?
None of my business.
She gave herself a mental shake. Special Agent Alfren had already moved on. And she couldn’t blame him. She’d be moving on soon herself.

She never enjoyed fleeing from Jeremy, but this time, the prospect seemed especially repugnant. Was it because she’d just grown so tired of being hunted? Or was it because of Ben, the first person she’d made a connection with in a long time? She didn’t know, but it didn’t matter.

She flopped onto the couch—which wasn’t hers either. Closing her eyes, she imagined the living room she would design if she could buy her own furnishings. Warm, vibrant colors appealed to her. If she never saw a beige couch and chair again, it would be too soon. The cushions would be loose, not attached to prevent loss or theft. She’d have a half dozen—no, make that a whole dozen—throw pillows in every conceivable color. Lots and lots of drawers in all the tables because she’d finally be able to have lots and lots of stuff. Like normal people. And pictures on the walls. How she’d love to have pictures of her family hanging where she could see them every day. Of course, if Jeremy was out of her life, she’d be able to actually go home to visit her family in person.

Well, none of it would be happening now. No, she’d already picked out her next destination: Phoenix. Her preliminary feelers to both of the surrogate mother clinics there had resulted in positive responses. Not job offers, but definite interest. After a long online search, she’d even picked out her new apartment complex. A huge savings from what she was paying here in Coronado. When she’d seen this unit, the view of the bay, city, and bridge had convinced her to spend a little more. In Phoenix, she could recoup her splurge in a cheaper place.

Maybe she should just finish packing and leave in the morning. Get it over with. Jeremy was getting close again—she could feel it in her gut. She didn’t dare wait too long. Been there, done that. The result was painful—literally.

Calm down. Do it right.
Even though she bounced from place to place, she never had any problem getting a new job for two reasons: her specialized skills and her great references. When hired, she immediately showed the appropriate people the restraining orders against Jeremy, police reports with photographs of what he’d done to her, and his outstanding arrest warrants. Everyone on staff was instructed not to give out any information about her to anyone. Then, if she had to leave a position on a moment’s notice, they already knew the truth. If the boss was a woman, the good-bye conversation always ended in tears and hugs. Male employers got angry and wanted to help her. All she needed from any of them was a spectacular reference so she could get the next job to keep supporting herself.

This time, she had a new reason making her procrastinate. She hated the idea of SDSA being run out of business by a clinic undercutting their fees. Her research Monday night confirmed SDSA’s prices were within the industry averages. How much lower were the fees at this new competitor that they were able to steal clients? And how were they able to offer them?

She had to act, and act quickly.

* * *

Just after midnight, Ben trudged through the passageway between the buildings and stopped in front of the mailboxes. He unlocked his and retrieved the mail from the past two days. Then he stood back and studied all the boxes.

Before going to work Wednesday morning, he’d visited Lisa at the office to tell her about the guy attacking the mailboxes in the middle of the night. She’d been pissed about the dents the jerk had left. She concluded he planned to break into some and steal the mail, hoping to find checks or bank and credit card statements for identity theft. Not a bad theory since mail theft was quite common, but Ben thought something else was going on.

The stranger’s examination of the labels meant something. Perhaps he was looking to steal the mail of someone specific. Or he wasn’t interested in the mail at all, but in finding the apartment number of a particular person. Not an illegal activity, but doing it at two in the morning sparked suspicion. And suspicion was Ben’s middle name since he became an FBI agent.

As his gaze traveled across the labels, he counted how many lacked identifying names next to the apartment number. Only eight, his being one of them. As an FBI agent, he didn’t broadcast where he lived. He also rarely revealed whom he worked for, which made him wonder why he’d been comfortable telling Amber the very first time they’d met.
Amber.
His gaze darted to the box with her apartment number.
No name.

He recalled Mailbox Man getting angry as though he wasn’t able to find what he wanted. Since the maximum data available was the apartment number with the corresponding last name, the eight boxes without surnames represented the missing information. Although he couldn’t be sure, Ben’s gut feeling was the guy wasn’t looking for him. So it had to be one of the other seven people. Could it be Amber?

A jaw-locking yawn forced him to admit his exhaustion. Since he needed to get to the office early to write up the reports on tonight’s disappointing raids, he postponed his speculation about Mailbox Man and climbed the stairs. After unlocking the door, he glanced across at Amber’s apartment. Dark, of course. An FBI agent’s hours made personal relationships hard, but not having someone’s phone number made it even harder. He would have to remedy that problem.

As he got ready for bed, he analyzed the raids in Oceanside and Chula Vista. Six prostitutes freed. Ten johns and four guards arrested. Again, not a bad night’s work. But no Maria or the other four kidnapped women. Once again, it felt like failure. Especially during his conversation with Pedro.

Ben lay staring at the ceiling, pondering whether he’d stumbled on something significant tonight. When he’d shown tonight’s women pictures of the ten prostitutes they’d freed Tuesday night, every one of them recognized at least two or three. Not the same ones either. This supported what they knew of H’s practice of constantly shuffling the groups of women so no alliances could be formed to plan escapes as well as to provide new merchandise for the customers. However, when shown pictures of the five missing women, none of tonight’s prostitutes recognized a single one. He’d had the same result when showing the pictures on Tuesday night.

The five had disappeared almost a week ago. Why weren’t they showing up in H’s whorehouse rotation yet?

* * *

As Amber strolled across the main floor lobby with her duffel bag on Thursday morning, she spotted the lady with the stack of blue and pink paper. The man with the newspaper once again had a seat in the elevator lobby on the eighth floor. Thank goodness those players were in place because, without them, her plan would’ve fallen apart.

The morning passed slowly, partially because of a canceled egg retrieval procedure but mostly due to anticipation of putting her plan into action. Amber waited until all the staff had left or gone into the employee lounge for lunch before closing herself in a stall in the ladies’ restroom. She removed her scrubs and dressed in the yoga pants and tank top she’d packed in the duffel. Sandals replaced her nurse’s shoes. A short brunette wig covered her blond hair. Colored contacts transformed her eyes from dark brown to hazel. She added a heavy layer of makeup. Finally, large black-rimmed glasses gave her a bookish appearance.

Leaving the duffel in the stall, she slipped out of the bathroom into the empty hallway. She headed for the reception area, but before she could make her getaway, Laura stepped out of her office.
Damn, I saw her in the lounge earlier.

Her boss started at the sight of a stranger alone in the back hall but recovered quickly. “Oh. Hi, may I help you?”

“Uh, I was in the bathroom. I’m turned around. Where’s the front door?” Amber ad-libbed.

Laura cocked her head and peered at her intently. “Amber?”

Well, shit. Busted.
She blew out a frustrated breath. “Yeah, it’s me.”

Her boss blinked. “What on earth…?”

“I promise I’ll explain later. Right now, I have to go. Okay?”

Laura shrugged. Amber took it as a yes.

She grabbed an SDSA pamphlet as she flew by the reception desk. At the front door, she stopped and drew a deep breath before calmly opening it.

Standing in the elevator lobby, she pretended to study the glossy, colorful flyer. Absently, she shuffled to the unoccupied chair next to the man with the newspaper. He glanced at her and studied her surreptitiously.

“My God, I can’t believe it’s so expensive,” she muttered loud enough for him to hear.

As expected, he pulled a phone from his pocket and made a quiet call.

Amber stayed another couple of minutes before standing up and moving to push the down call button. As she waited, she shook her head to resemble disbelief at what she was reading.

Once inside the elevator, she breathed a sigh of relief.
Halfway done.

The Hispanic woman with the blue and pink papers was waiting for her when the elevator doors opened onto the first-floor lobby. Amber strolled out, still acting engrossed in the pamphlet.

“Excuse me, ma’am. I have some information for you,” the woman said in English with a heavy accent.

Amber looked up, then glanced around as though she thought the woman was speaking to someone else. When her gaze came back, she tapped her chest and asked, “Who? Me?”

“Yes. This is information about surrogate mother services.”

She blinked in faux surprise. “How… how…?”

A pink paper was shoved into her hands.

“Read this. Other clinics charge too much money. We help you for much less. Call us with questions or for a no-obligation appointment.” Done with her sales spiel, she turned and hurried away. Maybe she wasn’t trained to answer questions.

Clutching the precious paper, Amber left the building and almost ran to her car in the parking lot a few blocks away. Once inside, she read the information greedily.

The clinic’s name: Dream Makers. Its slogan: We make your dreams of a baby come true. The promise: to save you tens of thousands of dollars.

“Oh my God.”

The Dream Makers flyer listed a downtown address and a phone number as well as the names of five doctors. The clinic was open on Saturdays. The next step in Amber’s plan came into focus.

She removed the brunette wig, pulled on a curly auburn one, and wiped off most of the makeup with moist wipes she kept in the glove compartment. After pulling jeans on over the yoga pants, she buttoned on a bulky sweater. The nerdy glasses were dropped into the console and replaced with outlandish sunglasses.

A glance in the vanity mirror confirmed she no longer resembled the nurse who’d arrived this morning or the potential client who’d just left the SDSA clinic. The transformation seemed clever unless someone realized her quick-change skills had been borne of necessity. Escaping from a stalker often required not looking like the woman he knew.

When she talked to her boss, Jeremy Nelson would be the explanation for her disguises today. Hopefully, her boss wouldn’t think she sounded like a crazy person.

* * *

“Go home,” SSA Rex Kelley ordered late Thursday afternoon.

“But, Boss—” Ben began.

“No buts. You’ve been putting in eighteen-hour days. If you were hot on a trail, it’d be different. You’ve done good work shutting down some of H’s goddamn whorehouses, but you don’t have a single lead on the five missing women. Take a break.”