“Hello!” Patrick called to him.
“You came!” Alfie said. He had never suspected Patrick would blow him off on purpose, but sometimes life had a way of getting in the way of promises—especially when those promises were made to the dead.
“As I said I would, Alfie,” Patrick said, frowning slightly at the idea he’d expect anything less.
“Well, thank you, Dr. Law!”
Patrick winced. “I never go by Dr. Law.”
“But you are a doctor, right?”
“Of psychiatry. And I have my degree in psychology. But I’ve never liked people calling me doctor—Patrick is good. Anyway, I needed to let you know one of the first things I’ve been tasked with is interviewing Rory Ayers. Apparently, he’s still crying ‘lawyer,’ denying he was ever involved in anything, and we’re all idiots, and the entire facility where he’s being held is corrupt. But we are going to work on your case. Megan is getting the records together from various police departments and law enforcement agencies regarding the event that—that took your life. I wanted to hear—”
“It’s going to have to wait,” Alfie said.
“Pardon?” Patrick said, surprised.
Alfie smiled. Patrick Law was in his late twenties. That meant little; Alfie knew about his credentials and the many cases he had worked alongside police in the state of Pennsylvania and beyond. Alfie knew Patrick from cases his sister Colleen, a Krewe agent, and his other sister, Megan, an editor and accidental consultant, had worked.
Patrick had come to check on his sisters. The siblings were a real trio—triplets—all with strange abilities. While Alfie had many friends at the Krewe, he had most recently worked with Mark Gallagher, Ragnar Johansen, and Colleen Law—and even Megan Law because of her strange abilities—on the Embracer killings. And he’d met Patrick, of course.
Patrick combined the best of qualities when it came to law enforcement. He understood the human mind. He seemed to know when talking might work, and when violence could be avoided.
But he also knew how to move quickly and effectively when talking wasn’t an option.
He had empathy for those in trouble through no fault of their own.
And he knew when tears were real.
And when they were not.
Alfie was glad Patrick was in the DC area.
Because he needed help. Real help.
“There’s a situation going on I’d like to monitor.”
“Alfie, you could have done so—”
“Ah, but you’re alive. You have a car; you can drive. You have a phone, and you can make calls. I need help right now from the living—for the living.”
Patrick arched a brow. “What’s going on, Alfie?”
“I need your help, Patrick. Please. Keep your phone out. I’ll explain along the way.”
One
“No!”
Jordan didn’t know the pretty redhead who choked out the muffled word. She was among the many young women, including Jordan, who had been kidnapped that evening.
She did know the young woman was terrified.
Jordan was somewhat terrified, too. But she was also a trained FBI agent. She had excelled at Quantico, and she’d been incredibly gratified to join the legendary Krewe of Hunters, where she’d been accepted and respected and was already known for her undercover work. Jackson Crow had warned her, though—never be caught off guard.
She’d thought she had been careful, but now that seemed ludicrous. Her service Glock had been hidden in her clothing in her bag, beneath some towels. She had never thought the danger might come from beneath her in the water as she dressed the part of a woman on vacation in a blue bikini.
Now it was her undercover work—and failing to realize Jackson had meant never, ever, not for a single second, be caught off guard—that had brought her here. She didn’t know where she was exactly, though she had tried to listen to every sound she’d heard as they had driven here in what seemed like a van despite them referring to it as “the meat train,” noting every twist and turn they had taken. She hadn’t been knocked out as some of the girls had been. The big man they called Lefty had disliked her from the start and had given her a good knock on the head, hard enough to send her reeling and for him to bind her hands behind her back. Of course, she had fought him. She liked to believe if she hadn’t been taken by surprise in the pool, she might have beaten him and escaped to save the others. She had gone through many self-defense classes. She knew how to kick hard enough to send someone off-balance, how to lock her elbows around an attacker’s neck, how to duck, twist, dive, and deliver a killer right hook. But she had neglected Jackson’s one warning: she had been caught off guard.
Who the hell kidnapped someone right out of the water at a hotel pool that was popular with tourists and locals, anyway?
He’d hit her good—but he hadn’t tied her quite so well. She’d left her gag in place and used every ounce of her senses and strength to work at the rope around her wrists.
If he’d hit her any harder, she might not have picked up on the men calling the vehicle they were in “the meat train” or realized in terror where they might be going—an old packing plant or slaughterhouse.
She feared that, once inside, there would be a deep cellar or basement. There would be cells of some variety, a place where the men kept their “meat” before it was sold.
But the van door had opened and two men were outside arguing about the product.
Jordan knew they were arguing about her. Lefty thought he should have a turn with her since she was clearly in her twenties, no pure angel to be sold to the highest bidder.
His partner was yelling they weren’t paid to sample the merchandise.
This was her chance.
“No!” the redhead cried out again. She, too, had been bound and gagged.
Jordan freed her wrists and twisted to start working at her ankles. She was up in a flash, tearing at the gag in her mouth.
The redhead was sobbing and rambling beneath her gag.
Jordan knew why. There had been talk on the street. That talk had turned into the reason she was here now.
Months ago, the body of a woman had been found floating in the Potomac River. She had never been identified. She had been shot through the heart after being beaten. Rumors began to swirl. Sister Mary Kathleen had gone to the police, claiming homeless youths who had used her shelter had just disappeared.
Then a high-profile someone had disappeared. The daughter of a congressman.
Jordan had already been working undercover as a sex worker. She had started out walking the streets. But when the high-profile woman had disappeared, she’d changed her identity, pretending to be a college girl on holiday. She became friends with a group staying at the Castleberry Estate—an old mansion that had been turned into a five-star hotel with outbuildings, a spa, four Jacuzzis, and a giant, meandering pool that curled around a bar and offered charming, smaller pools within the larger one, between little concrete “islands” that were flush with foliage.