Pitch Black (2 page)

Will we freeze or will we drown?

“Jase?”

“Ryan, I’m sorry I got you into this,” he sobbed.

Ryan’s head moved, until his frozen hair touched Jason’s face. “S’okay. Sidekick’s always got the hero’s back.”

“Sorry!” Jason cried, trying not to move yet desperate to break away. But before he could do a thing, even say good-bye to his best friend, another crack came and the ice gave way beneath them. Freezing liquid rushed over his feet and ankles, bringing them back to life to experience the agony.

They plunged down until blackness covered their heads and ice seared his lungs. And as the water turned the world above him into an icy grave, Jason could think only of his parents.

God, how he wished he’d gone with them to Florida.

Nine Days Later

F
rom the outside,
the Hoover Building looked like every other D.C. government facility built in the sixties. Square and boxy, with limestone-tinged concrete walls, it lacked the crisp, white grandeur of the monuments farther down on Pennsylvania Avenue or ringing the Mall.

In fact, to Alec Lambert’s slightly jaded eyes, it looked a little like a prison.

Considering his feelings more resembled a convict’s than a special agent’s on this cold winter morning, that wasn’t inappropriate. Walking through the doors of FBI headquarters for the first day of his new assignment felt like the start of a sentence for a heinous crime.

Yeah. A heinous crime: trusting the wrong woman. And getting shot for the privilege. It had been a hard lesson, but he’d definitely learned it. His error in judgment had not only landed him in the hospital with a couple of bullet holes in him; it had come at a much higher cost.

Another agent’s life.

The incident in Atlanta had wounded him physically and crushed him emotionally. It had destroyed his chance to nail the serial-killing bastard he’d obsessed about catching for the last three years, because it had also cost him his position in the Behavioral Analysis Unit. And it had cost him a friend, Dave Ferguson, whom he’d known since his academy days.

That was what kept him up nights.

He could have been tossed out of the FBI altogether. Maybe the higher-ups had figured it would be better to keep him close, saturated in the memories so he could torture himself over it even more. Round-the-clock atonement.

Which was, perhaps, why he’d so desperately wanted his job back.

“Last chance, don’t blow it,” he kept reminding himself as he worked his way through security, finally arriving on the fourth floor. It was time to report to his new boss, the guy who’d saved his ass from having to work as a department store security guard. Wyatt Blackstone.

“Special Agent Alec Lambert,” he said when he reached the outer office of the FBI’s newest Cyber Action Team, or CAT, as someone with no imagination had started calling them. After a widely publicized case last summer, the media had taken things a step further, picked up on an in-house nickname, and started calling Blackstone’s team the Black CATs.
Wonderful
.

The receptionist, a middle-aged, dour woman, studied his ID. “You’re expected.”

Rising from behind her government-issue metal desk, she gestured for him to follow. Alec did, keeping pace as she led him down a narrow hallway. Lined with groaning bookshelves and dented file cabinets, the dimly lit corridor boasted a few framed black-and-whites of the Hoover glory days. They were smeared with dust, lopsided. Everything combined to provide a dull backdrop that was probably invisible to the people who worked in this place from day to day. But to newcomers, it was like stepping into a time machine and coming out in 1970.

Each staccato click of the woman’s heels on the dingy tile floor stabbed into Alec’s brain, an audible emphasis of his change in status. No longer a hotshot agent with the Behavioral Analysis Unit, about which TV shows and movies were made, he was the black sheep now. Far from being a respected, experienced criminal investigative analyst, he was a newcomer to an already established team, the members of which had to have heard everything about him.

Well, everything except the truth.

Forcing himself to focus, he noted the small, cluttered offices they passed. Each office had another of those old metal desks buried under stacks of files and paperwork. But they also had state-of-the-art computer equipment. Way better than the POS laptop he’d been using for the past few years at the BAU.

That was probably a perk of being a part of the Cyber Division. They might be stuck in offices that hadn’t been renovated since the Carter administration, but the Black CATs got the good computer gear. Even if they were new and on probation. Kind of like him.

“You’ll be in there,” the receptionist said, not even slowing her stride as she pointed into a shadowy, empty office. Or closet. He couldn’t be sure which.

“Great,” he muttered.

“We hear they’re going to move us to better quarters if things pan out.”

Alec had been briefed by Wyatt Blackstone during his interview down at Quantico. He was well aware that Blackstone’s team’s future, like Alec’s, was up in the air. Apparently the supervisory special agent had pissed off the wrong people, though Alec didn’t know the details.

“How’s that looking so far?” he asked.

She gave him a tight, impersonal smile. “We manage to keep busy.”

He’d like to know how. This particular CAT was unlike any other in the agency, and it focused on a new type of Internet-related crime. Rather than ferreting out weak, pimple-faced college students who liked to unleash viruses into the world’s computers, or perverts who exchanged vile pictures of little kids in pedophile chat rooms, this team investigated murder. Internet-related killings.

It sounded very limited. Besides, most of the cases would probably involve interaction with the BAU and ViCAP—the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program—some members of which were notoriously territorial with their files. As he had been mere months ago.

He’d been driven and focused, working seventy-hour weeks and not often accused of playing nice with others. While doing his own job to the best of his ability—and the detriment of his personal life, as most women he’d dated could attest—he’d sought to learn everything he could about profiling. The next coveted supervisory special agent position to become available should have had his name written all over it.

Until Atlanta. The screwup, the shootings. After that, the only thing his name had ended up on were a slew of hospital reports and disciplinary actions. And a Dear John e-mail from his girlfriend, who’d decided the glamour of dating an FBI agent faded when bullets started flying.

Alec’s senior profiling ambitions were now over. But he suspected they were also the reason he’d been plucked from the verge of termination and thrown into the Black CATs’ den. Blackstone had enough computer geeks, it seemed. He needed a behavioral analyst, his own unofficial pet profiler. Alec had fit the bill, even if he was an outcast.

He wasn’t complaining. It sure beat civilian life or practicing law with the degree he’d obtained a month before applying to the bureau.

“Excuse me, sir?” The receptionist knocked on a partially closed door. “Special Agent Lambert is here.”

Alec entered, realizing Blackstone’s entire team was present, which explained the empty offices he’d passed. Judging by the frowns on their faces, the meeting was an intense one.

Lucky for them, he’d provided a distraction. Which wasn’t so lucky for him. Because as soon as the receptionist nodded and bowed out, every voice silenced, every head turned, and the six people sitting around the table focused their attention solely on Alec.

He offered a brief nod to one agent he recognized from the publicity on last summer’s Reaper case. Then he focused on the team leader, who was rounding the table, his hand extended. “Glad to see you, Lambert. Your timing is appropriate, given the topic of this morning’s briefing,” the man said, his voice smooth and solid.

That smoothness had impressed Alec during his interview. Blackstone seemed very calm, even tempered, and eminently professional.

Alec shook the extended hand. “This morning’s briefing?”

“We’ll get to that. First, introductions.”

Gesturing toward the conference table, which dominated the small room, he pointed to each team member, introducing them in rapid succession. Alec put the names together with the faces as Blackstone ran down their backgrounds.

“Dean Taggert,” Blackstone said, gesturing toward the agent Alec had recognized as the one who’d helped bring down the Reaper. He remembered the man’s history—a hard-nosed former street cop, he’d recently been in ViCAP working the most violent of crimes. Had a temper. Tough and intuitive.

“Brandon Cole.”

A punked-out blond who would never have gotten away with the hairstyle in any other bureau office. Young and good-looking, he should have been wearing a neon sign over his head proclaiming,
I’M A REBEL WITH A BRAIN AND DON’T YOU FORGET IT
. Alec wasn’t surprised to hear he’d been a hacker as a teenager, which probably hadn’t been more than a half dozen years ago.

“Lily Fletcher.”

A pale-haired, fair-skinned programmer who’d been lured over from cyber crimes. He’d heard of her, too. Something about a tragedy in her family, though he couldn’t remember the details. She was probably in her late twenties, and appeared quiet, serene. He’d lay money she didn’t have field experience, but the intensity in her eyes said she was devoted.

“Kyle Mulrooney.”

A stout, middle-aged bureau man all the way. From the side-parted, slicked-down hair to the loose-fitting suit and the too-narrow tie, this guy had probably been on the job for a few decades. He was old-school and probably as tough as a well-done steak.

“Jackie Stokes.”

Also from cyber crimes, also someone he knew about. The attractive African-American looked tougher, more street-smart than the blonde. Probably in her mid-forties, maybe ten years his senior, she’d been with the bureau for fifteen years. She’d also been one of the first people Blackstone had brought in. The man apparently wanted agents who were experienced but open to new things.

Like him.

He would bet Jackie Stokes hadn’t landed on the team because it was Blackstone or the unemployment line, however.

“Please take a seat, Alec. We were just getting started.” Blackstone returned to his position at the head of the table and tapped on the keys of a laptop. Behind him, on a portable screen, two yearbook-type pictures appeared.

“Those are the boys?” Lily Fletcher asked, shaking her head slightly, her mouth pulled down at the corners. The blonde wore her emotions on her face. Not a good trait to have when working violent crimes.

“Yes,” Blackstone replied.

Like everyone else, Alec stared at the bright, smiling faces of the all-American teenagers enlarged on the screen before him. Their ordinary appearances gave not the slightest indication of whether they were victims or suspects. Knowing from experience they could be either, Alec waited for a hint.

“Poor kids,” Fletcher murmured.

Victims
. Though of what, he did not yet know.

Blackstone swiveled in his chair to stare up at the screen with the rest of them. “Jason Todd, age seventeen. Ryan Smith, sixteen, both from Wilmington, Delaware.”

The picture changed, a collage of images appearing. Mostly joint photos of the two boys, side by side, mugging for the camera. In a few, the bigger boy, blond-haired Jason Todd, had his skinny friend in a mock choke hold and was noogeying him on the head.

Alec began analyzing the details, seeing a picture of the boys’ relationship. Jason was undoubtedly the ringleader, Ryan the follower.
Did the loyal friend follow his buddy into danger this time?

“High school juniors, good students, lacrosse players, best friends from childhood.” Blackstone ticked off the details in that smooth, calm manner, betraying no emotion. “They disappeared nine days ago.”

Knowing better than to ask Blackstone to back the meeting up and go over familiar ground just for him, since he’d always been annoyed by latecomers himself, Alec figured he’d do what he always did and leap into the action. It was time to dive into the deep end rather than safely treading water on the sidelines.

He’d been treading on the sidelines for months, trying to recapture his health, his job, his life, maybe even his sanity.
Play it safe, go slowly, be careful
—they were words of advice he’d heard from everyone, including his doctor, his bureau-ordered therapist, and his friends. But he’d realized something: The longer he played it safe, the lower his self-confidence went. For someone used to accomplishing anything he set out to do, that was simply unacceptable. Period.

Clearing his throat, he asked the obvious. “Kidnapping?”

It was a reasonable assumption. The FBI would have been brought in by the locals. Blackstone’s team could have been made a part of the investigation because the ransom demand had come in electronically. Of course, Blackstone’s involvement probably meant the boys were already dead. Damn shame.

Blackstone shook his head. Then he tapped his keyboard again, not elaborating. The man apparently thought Alec knew enough to keep up. Meaning the team hadn’t heard much more than the basics—like that the two kids pictured on the screen were dead.

The next set of images confirmed it.

“Jesus,” Taggert muttered.

Everyone at the table stared, taking in the awful visual.

The two boys had been turned into a single crystallized statue. Their bodies were upright, back-to-back, one sitting, tied or taped to a chair, the other on his knees. They appeared to be naked, their skin a uniform bluish white from their foreheads to their feet. Judging by the grainy outdoor backdrop—a slushy shoreline dotted with spiky trees and dead brush—the victims had been pulled out of a lake. A pretty fucking cold one.

And judging by the openmouthed expressions of horror frozen on their faces, they’d been thrown into it alive.