Fear No Evil (15 page)

The glass Trask was holding as he sat on the deck now shattered in his hand. He glared at it, angry with himself and angry at those damn women. They were dead now, long gone, no one would ever find them, because they no longer existed. He’d wiped them off the face of the earth.

And no woman has ever been in control since.

That’s why Kate Donovan would die by his hand. She’d fucked up his life like no woman had done since those two whores humiliated him for his father. He wouldn’t give up until he had her naked beneath him, and he fucked her dying body.

Kate slammed the folder shut.

“This is getting us nowhere.”

She got up and paced. Dillon Kincaid was driving her crazy, and they’d only met a few hours ago. He was so damn
reasonable.
Logical, straightforward, focused. She couldn’t stand sitting around and reading files she had practically memorized over the last five years. They knew Roger Morton’s identity and background. A lot of good that did them. He’d disappeared. Probably had a new identity. Unless someone saw him, turned him in, they couldn’t touch him.

She felt Dillon’s eyes on her back. She turned to face him. “What?”

He looked like he wanted to say something else, but instead, pointed to the file. “Roger Morton is from a wealthy Northeast family.”

“So?”

“Seems like an unusual background for being the CEO of a pornography company.”

“Sociopaths know no economic limit.”

“True. But why porn? How did he meet Trask? They were in it together since the beginning of Trask Enterprises thirteen years ago. Back when the Internet was still relatively new, and online porn just starting. They pioneered a lot of the webcam technology. The files say that Roger went to Stonebridge Academy and graduated in 1989, but there are no details. I don’t even know where it is.”

Kate crossed over to her computer. She regained her focus and did what she did best. Forget people, they were too unpredictable. Computers were logical. You couldn’t love them and you couldn’t lose them. Her hard drive might crash, but she always had a backup—like a clone—to download.

People bled. They died. They disappeared.

“Stonebridge Academy is in Connecticut. Opened its doors in 1909.”

“College?”

“K through twelve. It’s a boarding school.”

“So Roger Morton went to what I’ll assume is an expensive boarding school in Connecticut. Graduates in 1989. Trask Enterprises opens its doors in 1994. According to your notes, Trask started in pornography—films—but dumped them in 1998 when the Internet provided a better distribution mechanism.”

“That’s what we believe,” she said.

“Where was Roger during those five years? There doesn’t seem to be a college degree.”

“We don’t know. He wasn’t in prison, he wasn’t in the military, and he didn’t own property under his name.”

“What about his parents?”

“His mother’s dead. His father disowned him after Morton’s association with pornography became public.”

Kate snuck a look at Dillon while he flipped through pages in her file. He was dangerous. To
her.
He was a shrink, dammit, and here she was sitting in a pool—an ocean—of guilt and regret and vengeance. He could probably dissect her for an entire class of psychology students, enough fodder for an entire semester.

But he was also handsome. Classically, perfectly handsome. His light-brown, sun-streaked wavy hair had probably been slicked back before he’d started the trek up the mountain. He was tall, trim, and all muscle, like he worked out regularly but didn’t live for the weight machines. She could see him as a professor, like Indiana Jones before he put on the hat.

Only Dillon Kincaid was even sexier, a small, imperfect cleft in his chin highlighting his otherwise sleek, chiseled face.

She turned her head. This is what two years of isolation with only a grumpy, seventy-year-old professor for company did to you. One hot, sexy guy in the right age range comes up the mountain and she gets all twisted up.

No, the real twists came from the fact that Dillon Kincaid was a shrink. Kate feared what he might figure out about her, even more than how much she was attracted to him.

There was no hope, no future. Certainly not for them. His sister would probably be dead in thirty-one hours, ten minutes. And Kate would never see Dillon Kincaid again.

A knock on the door had her reaching for her gun. “Grand Central Station,” she muttered, crossing the room.

She opened the door, using it as a shield, her gun out and ready.

Jack Kincaid stood there.

“Jack?” Dillon couldn’t hide his surprise.

“My men went with Connor and Patrick, but I figured you two might still need some help.”

Kate frowned. The shrink was bad enough, but she didn’t trust the military goon, either. He came in anyway.

“Great,” she said sarcastically, rolling her eyes.

She slammed the door shut, turned to the computer out of habit.

Lucy Kincaid was there. Naked. Tied to the floor.

“Dear God, not again,” Dillon said.

“What god?” Kate said. Dillon turned to stare at her and she almost didn’t say what was on her tongue. But she couldn’t stop it. “If He’s up there watching, He sure as hell doesn’t care about any of us.”

Dillon looked angry. She hadn’t even known he could get angry. He seemed so even-tempered and in control, even when watching his sister onscreen. Then again, she always did bring out the worst in people.

But he didn’t say anything. Instead, he left the room.

“Sensitive,” she said, trying to laugh it off, but feeling like she’d crossed a line and could never go back.

“Never mind him,” Jack Kincaid said, staring at her with dark, probing eyes. “Dillon is a saint.” He took a step toward her and it took all Kate’s training not to take a step back. Jack was no one to mess with. “Me, on the other hand, I’m no saint. But Lucy doesn’t deserve to die to give some bastard cheap thrills, so you’d better not be fucking with us or you’ll be following her to the grave.”

THIRTEEN

A
S SOON AS THEIR PLANE LANDED,
Patrick got Quinn Peterson’s message about where to meet. He relayed the information to Lucky and Drake, the two men Jack had sent with them after getting them a private plane and pilot. Patrick had a newfound respect for his mysterious older brother after Jack got them the plane, gave him two of his men, and then went back up the mountain. Patrick didn’t understand him or his decision to stay clear of the family for the past two decades, but Jack’s brand of honor and loyalty was rare.

The four men trekked two miles on foot to where Agent Peterson and a small group waited. Lucky stepped forward and pulled a paper from his jacket. “I’ve already mapped it out.”

He’d been working on a map earlier in the back of the plane. “We’re here now, the target is here.” Lucky had the two points circled and pointed to a small red circle off the coast. “The island is two miles out, but I think we go in by sea. A copter would be too noisy.”

“We have an unmarked Coast Guard vessel,” Peterson said.

Lucky stared at him. “In Mexican waters?”

Peterson’s face remained blank.

“We can get to the island inside an hour, rescue the target, and get back here,” Lucky added.

“We have transport waiting at the embassy two hours away,” Peterson said. “And a copter on standby. I just need to call when we have the target. But remember, we need to be careful. This could very well be a trap. Keep your eyes open.”

“I have an explosive-detecting device,” Patrick said. “It’s primarily used for checking for explosives on commercial aircrafts and is calibrated for the most common explosive materials.”

“Then you lead with me,” Peterson said. “Trask likes bombs, but they’re usually simple, time-detonated devices.”

They left in the small, unmarked boat. There were nine men total: Peterson and his team of four; Patrick and Connor; and Jack’s two men.

The island was small, not more than one square mile. If there hadn’t been a large, dense grove of trees in the middle, Patrick would have assumed, from what he could see from the Coast Guard vessel’s deck, that it was underwater half the time. It was also dark, the sun had already disappeared, leaving a spectacular glow on the horizon but doing nothing for their visibility, and they were running slow, without lights. The muggy weather stayed with them, even in the ocean. Saltwater coated their skin and sinuses. It was different here than farther up the coast. Hotter, humid, the air still, the waves warmer even at night.

“There.” Connor pointed to a small inlet.

“No,” Peterson said without elaborating. He motioned for the boat’s pilot to slowly circle the island.

“What are you doing?” Connor demanded of Quinn.

“Recon.”

“My sister could be dying!”

Lucky shook his head. “I don’t think anyone’s here.”

They spent fifteen minutes circling the island before Peterson agreed to dock. They had to approach cautiously for fear of underwater rocks. There was a faint light in the center of the island, which was not much more than a mile at its widest, possibly a house or cabin. No boats, but that didn’t mean anything. Lucy’s captors could have left to get supplies.

Lucky stared at the brothers, his young face stern. “We go in low, quiet. Jack will have my ass if I get one of you killed.”

“I was a cop,” Connor said. “I know how to cover my own ass.”

Patrick squeezed his brother’s arm. Connor was tense, on edge. They all were.

Peterson spoke up. “Watch my commands. I agree with Lucky. Low, quiet, no rushing. Years ago Trask set a trap and we walked right into it. I don’t want to walk into another.”

They navigated the boat into the inlet. Peterson left two of his men on the boat, armed.

Patrick’s gut told him Lucy wasn’t on this island. It was too quiet.

Maybe she was on a nearby island. The map showed at least eight within a three-mile radius. Easy to get the coordinates wrong. After this, they’d have to hit each one and check. They might be close; they couldn’t just give up and go home empty-handed.

They couldn’t give up on Lucy.

A small, one-room cabin stood in the center of the island. A faint, yellow light illuminated the room. Patrick took out the EDD to check for explosives. Green. They slowly approached the structure. The needle wobbled toward the yellow. Warning.

“Hold it. There may be explosives.”

Which could be a sign that Lucy was there.

Peterson held up a finger and motioned for his two men to walk around the cabin. They came back. “Nothing external. No electrical power to the cabin.”

The blinds were drawn. A single door was padlocked on the outside. Peterson checked the door frame for explosives. “Clear.”

Drake and Lucky held back while Peterson’s men cut the lock and opened the door.

At first, the smell hit Patrick. Then he saw her.

In the middle of the room was a naked female body, her face turned away from them. Her long black hair looked wet. A cell phone rested in the palm of her hand, as if she had tried to call for help.

Patrick’s stomach clenched.
Lucy.

“Lucy!” Connor ran in.

“Halt!” Peterson shouted and Patrick tried to pull Connor back as the EDD needle moved to the red zone.

When Connor touched the body, the head rolled away. He sucked in his breath.

It wasn’t Lucy. It was another woman, just as young, just as innocent. She had been dead for several days.

“We have to get out,” Peterson said. “I don’t like this.”

“Look at the wall.” Connor pointed to the wall of the cabin. UNTIL WE MEET AGAIN, KATE was spray-painted in bloodred, along with a series of numbers that made no sense to Patrick.

The phone in the dead girl’s hand rang.

There was a flash of bright light, and the cabin went up in flames.

Trask watched on his computer monitor as the men entered the cabin. He’d intended to blow the place as soon as they entered, but he’d been curious to see who they were. He would now get visuals to run through his database.

They didn’t look like feds. There were two men, but there appeared to be a third outside the cabin. He wished he’d put up external surveillance, but he didn’t have an unlimited power supply on that island. When he’d left the prostitute there three days ago as part of the trap, he’d needed the generator to keep the cell phone charged.

He’d never expected Kate to fall for the trap, and had she been the one to walk through the door, he wouldn’t have blown the place. There had been a clue—one only Kate would understand—in the room that would lead her right to him.

But he didn’t want the feds or some other pest to track him down and make him rush the show.

Okay, there was a fed there. The blond with the holster. The way he moved, issued orders, definitely a fed.

He’d been right about Kate from the beginning. She was smarter than most, she understood him. He’d already confirmed that she’d fed the government information and they’d acted on it. And she was still watching, waiting, knowing it wouldn’t be that easy to find him.

Trask had to draw her out.

He saw her in cyberspace, among the hordes of people searching the Internet. She was sly, smart, focused. She had come close, before he’d been ready for her. He manually changed his frequency often now in order to thwart her.

But he was finally ready. Lucy Kincaid was the perfect bait. He’d send her another clue. Or maybe he’d just send her a message.

After he called the cell phone that sat in the dead girl’s hand, Trask closed his eyes to avoid the bright magnesium flash.

Soon the cabin, and all evidence, would be ashes.

And if the feds died in the process, who the hell cared?

FOURTEEN

I
T WAS DARK,
a thin orange line along the western horizon that quickly disappeared as Dillon watched. He’d found this vista point a hundred yards from the main observatory, with a couple of old benches and a well-worn path. He could picture Kate sitting here watching the sunset and thinking about revenge and guilt and justice.