Raw Edges (8 page)

The travel agency was on the first floor of a two-story whitewashed concrete building. Part of the top floor was being renovated—a bright yellow construction debris chute caught Morgan’s eye as it led down from a second floor window into a dumpster parked in the alley between the building and its Chinese take-out restaurant neighbor. The other part of the top floor was occupied by a lawyer specializing in accident claims, an 800 number emblazoned across his windows.

There was no special security as the officers walked Morgan through the front door of the former travel agency. No lobby, no metal detectors, no one manning the reception desk—just a cubicle farm filled with weary law enforcement professionals, most with phones to their ears while also working at computers.

Several large maps littered with notations were duct-taped to a wall—they appeared wrinkled and worn, as if they’d been taken down from other temporary locations before finding their way here. Which was probably the truth since, as the search area expanded, the command posts would have moved as well. There was none of the Hollywood glamor that the public at large associated with a manhunt.

Some of the task force members looked up from their work to stare at Morgan with disdain and contempt, others with a hint of fear, many with frank curiosity as if she were a freak in a circus sideshow. Whatever stories Jenna had told them, they appeared to be having difficulty reconciling them with the polite, pretty young woman in the pink coat.

When her escorts stopped to talk to one of the officers manning a desk at the front of the room, Morgan drifted past the cubicles in a seemingly aimless pattern that was anything but as she zeroed in on the maps with their search grids and notations. No matter that she was here, in the lion’s den, and could be arrested herself at any moment. She wasn’t nervous or afraid. She was hunting her prey—something she shared with these men and women. Only difference was she was going to find him while, despite their superior numbers and technology, they didn’t stand a chance in hell.

She casually leaned against one of the empty cubicles as she continued her reconnaissance. Although the officers had their own laptops and cell phones, each cubicle also had its own landline. It was obvious these guys weren’t fielding random tips from a hotline, so any communications they received would be high-value intel.

She glanced around. No one watching the brunette civilian in the pink coat. It would only take a minute for her to program the phones to forward to hers, allowing her to listen in to any incoming calls. She kept her posture relaxed, bored even, as she reached behind her and eased the phone’s handset off its cradle and punched in the numbers. Twenty-two seconds later it was done.

“This is her?” a woman’s voice cut through the din.

Morgan spun around, her most gracious smile plastered to her face. A petite African-American woman had emerged from the back hallway and was staring at her. Like the other officers, the woman was dressed for field work in utilitarian cargo pants, a gray polo shirt, and windbreaker with the state police logo on it.

It was clear from the way the others glanced up at the sound of her voice that she was in charge. It was equally clear from the woman’s clear, no bullshit gaze as she visually dissected Morgan that she was not going to be an easy mark. Good thing Morgan enjoyed a challenge.

“Corporal Liz Harding.” The woman didn’t extend her hand as she introduced herself. Morgan had the feeling it wasn’t meant as a slight, rather simply a reflection of how many things the State Trooper was juggling right now, day four of the search for three killer fugitives. Manners meant time wasted. Morgan liked that.

“How can I help, Corporal?” She followed Harding to her cubicle at the edge of the maze closest to the wall with the map. Since she still wore her pink wool coat and other young professional accouterments, Morgan decided to stick with that persona. Seemingly helpful while actually on a reconnaissance mission. By the time she left, she’d know exactly where
not
to waste her time searching for Clint as well as what leads the task force was following.

“Call me Liz,” Harding said absently, her focus on a sheaf of papers, folders, and maps strewn across a cubicle desk. Morgan took the seat beside her.

Even better than her coup with the landline would be a chance to clone Harding’s cell phone, but that would take longer and physical access to the cell, and she didn’t see someone as guarded as Harding leaving her phone unattended. Morgan slid her own phone into her hand concealed within her coat pocket as she considered her options. Maybe she could do something with the laptop? A RAT attack? The remote access Trojan horse would allow her to gain control of the microphone so she could listen in, plant a keystroke logger, and access admin privileged info. She had the software, but she needed the opportunity to use it without interruption.

She forced herself to remain patient and instead focused on the map taped to the wall behind Harding. The cops were building a geographic profile of each of the escapees, but it was obvious they had much more data for Clint than any of the others. Made sense since Western Pennsylvania had been his stalking ground for almost two decades. In fact, a geographic profile was how Lucy had discovered him originally.

Morgan made note of the areas they’d already searched and cleared as well as the presumptive sightings. Not all of the sightings would be true ones, but since she knew Clint and his habits intimately, she could eliminate potential false leads far more easily than the cops could.

As she stared at the map, she was both frustrated and relieved. Frustrated because there was no discernable pattern—and there should have been. Clint was a creature of habit. Relieved because if the cops weren’t close to finding him, she still had a chance to get to him first. Clint behind bars was almost as dangerous as Clint on the loose, so the best solution for everyone, especially Morgan, was Clint dead and buried.

“Can I see some ID?” Harding asked, interrupting Morgan’s fantasies of exactly how she’d end Clint. Her favorite would be to use her well-honed CQC knife. Ironic, since it had been Clint who taught her how to wield a blade with surgical precision.

“Sorry, didn’t know I’d need any.” Morgan kept her voice relaxed.

Harding’s glance was sharp-edged. “I have conflicting reports on your age, Ms. Ames. Do we need to notify a parent or guardian? There’s nothing in the database to verify your identity. ”

Something Morgan prided herself on, but it obviously made the state trooper uncomfortable. Then Harding flipped open one of the manila files. To a blurred shot of Morgan leaving the scene of Deputy Bob’s murder.

The cubicle suddenly felt small and intimate, almost as intimate as killing Bob had been. Morgan felt distanced from the person she’d been back then. It didn’t feel like her, not at all. The girl who’d killed the deputy had been totally in Clint’s thrall, unable to think or act for herself. If she hadn’t killed Bob, Clint would have killed her. Simple self-defense. Only the law would never see it that way.

Nor would they understand what it truly was: survival of the fittest. Bob had been fooled by Morgan’s youthful appearance, thought she was a lost little girl who needed his help. Morgan glanced from the photo to Harding and saw that the state trooper would not be similarly taken in.

“Is this you?” Harding asked, tapping the photo of the pony-tailed little girl dressed in a bulky snow coat and puffy hat. The girl could have been half Morgan’s age, and other than the same dark hair and eyes, there was little resemblance to how Morgan looked now.

Morgan shook her head, not committing anything to the record. She assumed they were being recorded, even if they weren’t, it was always best to think and act that way. “I’m not sure how I can help, Corporal Harding.”

“You can start by cutting the bullshit,” Harding said without raising her voice. She didn’t need to, given that their chairs were mere inches apart.

The fabric-covered cardboard that created the cubicle’s walls gave a false sense of privacy. Despite the fact that Harding hadn’t raised the volume of her voice, her tone had cut through the conversations surrounding them and Morgan felt the focus of all of the law enforcement officers in the room suddenly on her.

“You are not under arrest,” Harding continued. “Not yet. Give me a reason—” She stopped herself, her gaze on Morgan’s face, obviously realizing threats were not the way to get what she wanted. “Give me a reason to believe you,” she pivoted, “and we can bring in Clinton Caine. Together. Something we both want, correct?”

“Correct.” Morgan liked Harding. She was a lot like Andre, except not as warm and fuzzy—no, wait, not Andre, Harding reminded Morgan of a less-seasoned, younger version of Lucy Guardino. “Jenna Galloway didn’t send you to get me, did she?”

Harding hesitated, deciding on her play, then led with the truth. “We followed you from her office. We’ve been surveilling Galloway and Stone for three days now.”

“On the advice of Lucy Guardino.” Morgan wasn’t asking a question, but Harding answered with a slight nod before she caught herself. Now things were making more sense. Lucy might not be here in person, but it was clear she was directing the manhunt from afar. Keeping her family safe—both by staying away and by staying involved. A balancing act only Lucy could pull off.

Morgan leaned forward and grabbed a pen from the caddy beside the phone. “Okay, then. Let’s start with this map.” She began to circle areas of potential usefulness—bolt-holes Clint might turn to if Gibson hadn’t been able to provide an adequate hiding place for him and his comrades…if the escapees were even still together. Clint would go off on his own as soon as the others lost their usefulness, but that was assuming Clint was the one in charge.

The balance of power in a small group could influence so many things: how fast they moved, how they divided themselves, if they hid out or tried to put more distance between themselves and the authorities… Morgan hesitated, her pen hovering over the map. How would Lucy approach the problem?

“Tell me about the others,” she asked Harding. “The men who escaped with Clint.”

“Dead-eyed killers, each of them,” Harding answered. “Brothers, Pete and Paul Kroft, serving life for a spree of home invasions that left seven dead, including an eighty-two-year-old great-grandmother, who they raped and burned alive.”

Morgan started to force her expression into a semblance of the shock a Norm would feel, but when Harding raised an eyebrow, she dropped the act. Professional courtesy, in a way.

Harding continued, “I understand you found intel about possible IEDs at the Radcliffe residence? The younger Kroft brother, Paul, he’s former military, used pipe bombs to gain access or as threats during several of their crimes. Liked to put a suicide vest on the children and make the adults go to the bank with his brother, withdraw their life savings. And then they’d kill them all anyway.”

The brothers, young, physically fit, they would be a force to be reckoned with. Clint would need to walk a fine line, creating the illusion that brothers were the ones calling the shots. It wasn’t a game Clint would have the patience to play for long, so he’d want to kill them as soon as he no longer needed them. But two brothers like the Krofts, used to maintaining constant control even as they divided and conquered, would not be easy marks. No sheep, these two.

Since Morgan had already taken most of Clint’s money, she’d left him with no resources. If he couldn’t kill the brothers, couldn’t buy them off, he was helpless and vulnerable…unless Gibson Radcliffe provided both money and an escape route. All those bomb making materials… Gibson had to have a plan—or rather Clint did. But what? Maybe the bombs were for the brothers, some big score they were planning?

Harding’s cell rang at the same time as the landline. And most of the other phones in the office. She answered, listened, then asked, “Where?” She circled a location on the map and grabbed it, telling Morgan, “Wait here.”

The room exploded into action as Harding barked questions and men and women tried to get her answers. There was an officer down. No, there wasn’t, but an officer was involved in a shooting. No, it was a sighting of the fugitives. Conflicting reports spread across the cubicles like wild fire.

Morgan didn’t hesitate. She took advantage of the momentary chaos to sidle through the maze and into the rear hall where the restrooms, staircase, and fire exit were located. As she walked, she dialed. Because the place on the map Harding had circled was Clint’s bank, Crossroads.

Exactly where she’d sent Jenna.

JENNA LET OSHIRO
lead the way to the building’s front door. She felt exposed, out here in the open, but took comfort in the knowledge that Oshiro’s partner was covering them from her sniper’s perch. Up close, she could see that the brick building was older than she’d first thought, dating from close to the turn of the last century. Yet it was well maintained, including a very modern biometric keypad beside the front entrance.

“Definitely not a church,” she said, nodding to the keypad.

Oshiro had his hand on his weapon but used one finger and a jerk of his chin to indicate the laser sensors at the door and windows.

He reached for the door handle—old-fashioned bronze molded into a lion’s head—but before he could complete the motion, the door opened from inside. It was a movement timed to throw visitors off balance. Oshiro didn’t fall for it. Instead, he stood at the entrance, scanning the inside, blocking Jenna’s view with his bulk.

After a long moment when he didn’t move, she stepped to his right, her own hand on her weapon, and looked past him. A twenty-something redhead dressed in a slinky gold cocktail dress stood smiling at them both, a tray with two bubbling glasses of champagne extended toward Oshiro.

“Welcome to Crossroads.” With her free hand, she gestured to the interior. “Please. Come inside.”

Marble columns stood on either side of the entrance. Beyond them more marble, reminding Jenna of the lobby of a luxury hotel. Leather couches and chairs ringed the space, girls in low cut dresses waltzing between the furniture and the men who occupied it.