Ultimate Kill (Book 1 Ultimate CORE Trilogy) (CORE Series) (25 page)

“Even if I tell you his name, he won’t stop until I go to him.”

Jake squeezed her hand tighter. “You don’t know that.”

Actually, she did. She knew the man, knew that he wouldn’t quit until he possessed her. He’d made that painful fact clear even before he’d murdered her family.

She drew in a shaky breath, squeezed Jake’s hand back and then turned to Ian. “Christian Hunnicutt.”

Ian’s eyes widened, while Jake tensed. “The owner of BH-Xpress,” Ian said with disbelief.
 

“The very same.”

Ian drummed his fingers against the table. “I had lunch with Christian and the Director of the FBI, Martin Fitzgerald, last month. Do you realize—?”

Naomi released Jake’s hand and stood. “I tell you his name and you still don’t believe me.” She looked down at Jake. “Forget it. I’ll handle this on my own.”
 

“Wait,” Ian called as Jake grasped her wrist. “I believe you. But you’re right. No one else will. Hunnicutt is not only a personal friend to the Director of the FBI, he and the Vice President have a long family history. Hunnicutt has also been a big player on the political scene.” He glanced to each of his employees. “We’re on our own until we have the evidence we need.”

“And how are we going to get that in time to stop the next bomb from exploding?” Rachel asked.

Ian turned to Naomi, his eyes filled with regret and concern. “We’re going to give him what he wants.”

*

Norfolk, Virginia

1:09 p.m. Eastern Daylight Saving Time

Christian stormed into the warehouse apartment. Loosening his tie, he entered the great room, glanced around, saw Santiago in the kitchen and told the Columbian to pour him a Scotch. After crumpling up the tie and tossing it on the floor, he slumped into his throne chair.
 

“That fucking bitch is finished,” he said and rubbed his hand along the mahogany lion’s head. How dare the news anchor cut him off when he’d been about to reveal to the world that another bombing had occurred. He’d planned for that moment. He’d spent hours practicing his speech and facial expressions in front of the damned mirror.
 

With fury raging through him, he leaned forward and knocked the tray of refreshments off the table. “Fucking finished.”

“I doubt she had a choice,” Ric said and took a seat on the sofa next to the smart brother.

Santiago came forward and handed him the drink. “Do I look like a give a shit?” He drank the Scotch in two gulps, then threw the tumbler across the room. “And what the fuck did you just give me?” he shouted as glass and ice splintered against the wall and hardwood floor.
 

“Johnny Walker Blue,” Santiago responded.
 

“That swill is for the dicks I don’t like. Give me the good stuff, then clean up the mess.” After Santiago went into the kitchen, he rubbed a hand along his forehead and looked at the TV. He threw his arms in the air. “And, because we couldn’t get out of the building—my motherfucking building, I missed the next bombing.”

He drew in a deep breath and glanced away from the TV. When he caught Harrison staring at him, he said, “What the hell are you looking at?”

The smart brother quickly focused on the floor.

“Again, that news anchor had no choice,” Ric reminded him. “As for missing the bombing…that was unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate, he says.” Unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt, he leaned forward. “What would be unfortunate is if that bitch anchor loses her job or, worse yet, is found beaten to death in a back alley.”

Ric grinned. “Indeed.”

“After we’re through here today, I expect you to make it happen,” he said and took the fresh tumbler from Santiago.
 

“Of course,” Ric responded and picked up the TV remote. “Meanwhile, would you like to hear about the latest tragedy that’s befallen the country?”

He took a sip of the Scotch and waved a hand. “I heard enough on the drive over here. And, if I do say so myself, the execution was brilliant.” He turned to Santiago. “Excellent job,
mi amigo
.”

“
Gracias
,” the Columbian responded and left the room.

“Sixty-eight people died in that church,” Harrison said, keeping his focus on the floor.
 

God, he’d love to kill the insolent prick. “And your point?”

“I’d rather keep my eyes and tongue in my head.”

Chuckling, he raised the glass to his lips. “Pussy,” he said and took a drink.

The smart brother glared at him. “You’re killing people for a woman. What does that make you?”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I’m not killing people for her. I’m killing people to send her a message.” He set the empty tumbler on the table. “Think about it, smart brother. Think about every place that went up in flames so far today. Think about the places that haven’t. What do they all have in common? If you can figure that out, I promise you and your brother a special bonus once the job is complete.”
 

“Bonus?” he asked with a mixture of disbelief and pitiful hopefulness. “What kind of bonus?”

 
He’d like to fuck with Harrison and tell him the truth. That the bonus would be a swift death, but he refrained. If he admitted he would kill them, he’d lose his leverage. “I’d rather it be a surprise.”

“Okay,” Harrison said. “Then can I have a pen and paper? I’d like to see if I can come up with the common link and get that bonus for me and Mickey.”

“
May
I have a pen and paper?” he corrected Harrison.

The smart brother gave him an
eat shit and die
look before asking, “May I have a pen and paper?”
 

“Absolutely. Santiago, bring our friend a pen and pad of paper.”

“Thank you,” Harrison said. “I’m wondering though…this message you’re sending, what if she doesn’t get it?”

“She will.”

“But what if she doesn’t?”

He’d never given that option a thought. Although he hadn’t seen or spoken with Rose in eight years, he doubted the woman had changed. She had always cared too much and carried too much goodness inside her. Plus, she was smart. She’d make the connection he doubted Harrison would, and she’d want to stop him. During both her mother and father’s funerals, he’d taunted her and told her she was to blame for their deaths. When he’d hinted to killing her parents, he’d caught the guilt in her eyes and body language. The people who had died today would weigh heavy on her conscience. Moral and righteous, she’d want to do everything possible to stop him. Now if only the bitch would call.

“She will,” he said with confidence. “If she doesn’t, I’ll just have to turn it up a couple of notches and be sure she does.”

Ric laughed.
 

“You find that funny?” he asked the sadist.

Grinning, Ric said, “You’ve already outdone yourself. I can’t imagine what else you could do.”

He half smiled. “Give me some time, I’m sure I could come up with something.”

“But you only have six more hours left,” Harrison reminded him. “What if she doesn’t contact you before the final device is set off?”

He hated to admit it, but Harrison was right. What if she hadn’t contacted him by seven o’clock this evening? Would he stop looking for her? Was Ric right? Could he somehow top the bombings and make his message clearer?

When the Columbian brought Harrison the pen and paper, and the smart brother began writing, an idea occurred to him. If the bombings weren’t enough to draw her to him, he’d send her another message. Only this time, he wouldn’t be cryptic and use different combinations to come up with Rose Wood. This time, his intensions would not be mistaken.
 

“Santiago, have Vlad bring Mickey to me.”
 

Harrison looked up, the pen he held poised over the paper. “Why do you need Mickey?”

“You’ll see. Actually, you can stop trying to come up with the connection. I’m going to give it to you. But don’t worry. Because you’ve given me yet another brilliant idea, I’ll still give you and Mickey that bonus.”

 
When Harrison’s eyes widened and his forehead wrinkled with concern, he turned. Vlad half carried, half dragged Mickey into the great room. The dumb brother’s head rested against Vlad’s shoulder. Dried blood coated his face and part of the silver duct tape covering his eye. The tourniquet around Mickey’s thigh was no longer bright red. Now that the blood had dried, it had turned a dark, reddish brown. Carmine, his wife had called it when she’d showed him an ugly dress she’d bought in a similar shade.
 

“Santiago, bring two garbage bags and lay them on the floor.”

“Look,” Harrison began, “it’s okay, we don’t need the bonus. I don’t need to know the connection.”

“I’m fully aware.” He cocked his head. “But you were
so
concerned that my…lady friend wouldn’t get my message. Ric’s right. I don’t think I could top what I’ve done thus far today, at least not without giving it serious thought. What I can do is send a message that’ll be more…personal.”
 

After the Columbian placed the garbage bags on the floor, he instructed Vlad to lay Mickey on top of them. “Santiago, I’d like to borrow your knife.”

Smiling, the Columbian bent and retrieved the blade hidden within his right boot, then handed it to him.

He eyed the three inch, razor-sharp double edge blade and its blood-groove. He’d given Santiago it as a gift, and had liked this particular knife. When used to stab or slash, the cut was extreme and quite effective. “Excellent. Vlad, expose his torso.”

With a nod, the Russian knelt and shoved Mickey’s stained t-shirt up to his armpits.

“Really, sir,” Harrison said, his voice shaky, nervous. “I’m sure she’ll contact you. Give her time. Maybe she doesn’t know how to reach you. Or maybe she hasn’t heard about what—”

“Unless she’s dead, she knows.” Since Rose had changed her name, she’d remained completely out of reach and always one step ahead of him. During the first three years she’d dropped from existence, he’d thought she might have died. Suicide, he’d figured. After all, he
had
killed her parents and scarred her for life. But then five years ago he’d considered her brother. Initially, he hadn’t gone after him. The saying, ‘don’t eat where you shit’ had been quite applicable at the time.
 

When Rose had first disappeared, he and the Director of the FBI, Martin Fitzgerald, had just become acquainted and their relationship was still tentative. Three years later, they’d gone from mere acquaintances to friends. During the many luncheons and dinners he shared with Martin, he’d learned quite a bit about the FBI. When he’d heard about a case Thomas Wood had been working on, he’d swooped in and took advantage. Ric had tortured the man and his girlfriend, making it look as if the criminals Thomas had been after had done the job. But neither of them gave up any information on Rose. Well, the girlfriend probably would have, only Ric had taken her beating a little too far. He’d rendered her unconscious to the point they’d all assumed she’d die. She hadn’t, but due to the results of the beating, she would have been better off dead.
 

The day of Thomas’s funeral, he’d disguised himself and had made an appearance hoping Rose would show. She hadn’t. With no other family, no close friends and no lovers, he no longer had any leverage with her.
 

He looked down at Mickey and smiled.
 

He had plenty of leverage now.

“Harrison, come here.”

When the man didn’t move, Santiago grabbed his arm and forced him to his feet. Harrison’s eyes were wild with fear as the Columbian gave him a shove. He stumbled forward, righted himself and stood above his brother.

“How’s your handwriting?” he asked the smart brother.

Harrison frowned. “I…it’s okay. I’m better at typing.”

“Unfortunately you won’t be able to type what I’m going to dictate to you. So, I suggest you do your best to make your letters legible. I’d hate for you to have to rewrite the information I’m about to give you.”

Nodding, his hair falling into his eyes, Harrison turned slightly toward the table. “I’ll grab the pen and paper.”

“No need. I have your writing instrument right here,” he said and tapped the blade against his palm for emphasis.

Harrison darted his gaze from the blade to his brother’s bared chest and stomach. He slid his eyes closed and slowly shook his head. “Please. Don’t.”

“I haven’t even told you what you’re to do and you’re already begging me to stop?”
 

Harrison opened his eyes. The grief and hatred in them only made him want to taunt the man even more. The hatred he could accept. Many men hated him for good reasons. The bellyaching, childish sadness he could do without. That was an emotion foreign to him, along with regret and guilt. How could he feel sad or remorseful even if the resulting outcome hadn’t been what he’d planned? From a very young age he’d learned that no risk meant no reward. Sometimes those risks had paid off, while other times they hadn’t. The risks he’d taken today, planning terrorist acts against his country, against his own business would yield his reward. Rose would come to him. And, yet again, the smart brother would help send her another message.