Читать книгу SWAT Secret Admirer - Elizabeth Heiter - Страница 10

Chapter Two

“You got another one?” Maggie’s older brother, Scott, was scowling furiously, clenching his fists so tightly, the knuckles looked ready to break through skin. He was standing in the entryway to her row house a mere thirty minutes after she’d called him, which meant he’d broken a lot of traffic laws to get there.

Normally, Scott was all charm, all the time, with an easy grin and a swagger. But today, even with his eyes red from being ripped from sleep before dawn, he looked angrier than she’d seen him in a long, long time.

Their best friend, Ella Cortez, had arrived ten minutes earlier; she lived within DC and closer to Maggie’s house. Maggie had called them instead of heading to the bar, and Ella had gotten in her car practically before Maggie had finished telling her what had happened.

Now Ella put a hand on Scott’s arm and gave him a look Maggie could read as well as Scott could. Go easy.

The three of them had grown up together, back in Buckley, Indiana, and Ella might as well have been her and Scott’s other sister. After Maggie’s assault her senior year of college, they’d made a pact together. Throw out all their plans for the future and join the FBI. Stop this kind of thing from happening to anyone else.

But she couldn’t even stop the man who’d hurt her.

Maggie tightened her jaw, tried not to let them see her fear. “Yes. But the letter was different this time. He said he’s coming back to DC. He said he’s coming back for me.”

“What?” Scott shouted.

He ran a hand through his close-cut blond hair, and she could see him trying to rein in his fury.

Scott was a year older than she was. They’d always been close, but since her attack, he’d become even more protective. She’d expected him to worry less once she’d joined SWAT, but it was only recently that his new girlfriend had taught him to loosen up at all. That would change back now.

“Have the case agents taken the letter?” Scott asked. As a sniper with the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team, Scott was used to being able to take action. Not knowing who the threat was drove him crazy.

“Were those his exact words? That he was coming back to DC, coming back for you?” Ella asked. She was calmer, but Maggie still heard her worry.

“They just picked it up,” she told Scott, then looked at Ella. “His exact words were, ‘I’m coming home for our anniversary.’” She choked the words out. Even saying them made bile rise up in her throat.

Scott swore, and Ella paled, but she still nodded thoughtfully. “Home,” Ella mused.

Her brother took a loud, calming breath, but rage still filled his eyes. “What do you think it means?”

Just like her, Scott had gravitated toward a specialty that would let him physically, personally, take down threats. On the outside, they didn’t resemble each other at all, though they were only a year apart in age. Scott was a head taller than her at six feet, with blond hair and chocolate-brown eyes. She looked more like their younger sister, Nikki, with her dark brown hair and light blue eyes.

But inside, they were so similar, both of them attacking every challenge head-on.

Ella was different. She’d been the glue that had held them together, kept them from butting heads over the years. And while Scott and Maggie had gone into physical specialties with the FBI, Ella had wanted to understand. So she’d become a profiler with the Behavioral Analysis Unit. If there was anyone who had a chance of deciphering the Fishhook Rapist’s motivations—and hopefully his next move—it would be her.

“What does it mean?” Ella repeated. “Well, it could be the obvious.”

“That he was born here,” Scott replied, nodding. “Okay. What else?”

“Well, we know he doesn’t live here now.”

Part of the reason the Fishhook Rapist had managed to evade capture for so long was because he moved around a lot. He claimed one victim a year, and never in the same place. His last victim had been in Florida, and the second letter Maggie had gotten had been postmarked from there.

The first one had come from Georgia, and the most recent one had originated in North Carolina.

“Then, what?” Scott demanded.

Ella frowned, her deep brown eyes pensive. “This guy is a narcissist. He brags about what he does. It’s why he lets his victims go. He wants the attention, and he gets off on knowing the women he abducts can’t identify him. His attacks have become the main source of pride in his life. So the location of his first attack—”

“You think he might see DC as home because it’s where he assaulted me,” Maggie broke in.

She’d gone to school here—and she’d even finished out her senior year after her attack, putting all her focus into her new goal of making it to the FBI—but then she’d moved back to her parents’ house in Indiana for a while, wanting to put physical distance between her and the memories. When she’d made it through the FBI Academy, and they’d assigned her to the DC office, she’d almost backed out.

But she’d stuck with it, then worked her way onto the SWAT team. DC had truly become her home now. It made her sick that he thought of it as his, too.

Ella looked uncomfortable, but she didn’t fidget or honey-coat anything. “Yes. It’s the start of where he got his name.”

The media had dubbed him the Fishhook Rapist after they’d gotten wind of what he did to his victims, branding them on the backs of their necks with the image of a hook. Maggie’s hand tensed with the need to touch the puckered skin on her neck that would never be smooth, but she clutched her hands together.

Ella looked apologetic as she finished, “To him, this is home.”

Nausea welled up, and Maggie sank onto her couch. Scott sat next to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. A few seconds later, Ella was on her other side, hooking their arms together.

“He can write as many letters as he wants, but he’s not getting anywhere near you,” Scott vowed, in the dark, determined tone he probably used on the job. It sounded convincing.

So did Ella when she added, “We’re going to get him, Maggie. He’s making a mistake trying to come back here.”

She wanted to believe it. Wanted to believe that the case agents, and her brother and Ella and all of her FBI and SWAT training were enough to keep her safe.

But that fear she’d pushed down for ten years rose up, strong and painful, like the feel of fiery metal on the back of her neck.

Maggie squeezed her eyes closed, grasping her brother and Ella by the arms. “I’m not supposed to be anywhere near the case.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Ella said. She was a stickler for doing everything by the book—except when it came to a possible lead on this particular case.

“We’re not waiting for that SOB to come after you,” Scott agreed. “And we’re not leaving this to the case agents, no matter how good they are.”

Maggie nodded, tears welling up in her eyes at their loyalty. “It’s time to go on the offensive.”

* * *

WHERE WAS SHE?

Grant Larkin tried not to stare through the near-empty pub at the entrance to O’Reilley’s, but he couldn’t stop himself, the same way he couldn’t stop himself from taking a peek at his watch. The team had been at the pub for a solid two hours, letting the adrenaline from the arrest fade.

Now daylight was rapidly approaching. Even though it was Saturday, and they got a break, a couple of them were heading out the door, along with the last of the cops who’d been in the pub when they’d arrived.

Maggie wasn’t coming.

“What happened to Delacorte?” Clive Dekker asked, looking at Grant as if he would know.

Grant shrugged, but he’d been resisting the urge to call her for the past hour and find out. He’d been shocked when she’d agreed to join them, after six months of skipping out on anything social. Even more shocked by the way she’d looked at him while agreeing. As if she was as interested in him as he was in her.

He’d been drawn to her from the moment they’d met, nine months ago. For most of that time, he’d tried to keep his attraction hidden. They were teammates, a definite Bureau no-no. Lately, though, he hadn’t been able to suppress it, and he knew she’d noticed. But she’d never looked at him quite the way she had tonight, as if maybe she wanted more from him. If only...

“Well, I’m calling it, before my wife sends out a search party,” Clive said, then squinted, leaning closer to him in the noisy pub. “Is that your phone ringing?”

Grant grinned at him. “I think you’re still hearing the aftereffects of that flash bang, old man,” he joked. The team leader was thirty-nine, only four years older than Grant. But Clive was the oldest guy on the Washington Field Office SWAT team.

“Ha ha,” Clive replied. “It’s your hearing that’s going.” He slapped Grant on the shoulder as he maneuvered out of the booth. “That was definitely your phone.”

Grant frowned and took out his FBI-issued BlackBerry. Clive was right. One missed call. Hoping it was Maggie saying she was on her way, he held in a yawn and dialed his voice mail.

The message was from the supervisor of his Violent Crimes Major Offenders, VCMO, squad. SWAT was his calling, but VCMO was his regular position at the FBI, the job that filled most of his days.

“We’ve got a situation,” the supervisory special agent said in his typical no-nonsense way. “I need you back at the field office, ASAP.”

That was the extent of the message. Grant swore as he slapped some money on the table to cover his drink, then told his remaining teammates, “Gotta go. I’ll catch you guys on Monday.”

“Hot date?” one of them asked.

“I wish,” Grant said. And boy, did he. If only Maggie had shown tonight. “But that was my SSA. Duty calls.”

It was a short drive back to the office, which was oddly busy for 5:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning. Not that this was a nine-to-five sort of job, but from the amount of agents gathered in one of the interagency conference rooms, something big had broken. Or they wanted it to.

It wasn’t his VCMO squad in the conference room, so Grant strode past with only a curious glance inside. His own SSA was waiting in the drab gray bullpen, a scowl on his face as he marked up a stack of paperwork.

“Thanks for coming in,” James said, not glancing up as he wrote frantic notes on whatever case file he was reviewing.

Judging from the way his rapidly receding gray hair was sticking out, and the heavier-than-usual shadows under his eyes, the SSA had never left yesterday. But that was pretty standard for James.

“What’s happening?” Grant asked, wishing he’d stopped for a coffee instead of settling for the bitter junk they brewed in the office. He’d been up nearly twenty-four hours straight now, and he was heading for a crash that even caffeine could only hold off for so long.

“Hang on.” James finished whatever he was writing, then pushed it aside and looked up at Grant, a deep frown on his face.

Discomfort wormed through Grant. In his gut, he knew that whatever was happening, he really wasn’t going to like it. “What is it?”

James sighed and rubbed a hand over his craggy face. With three divorces under his belt, he was now just married to the job. He was a tough supervisor, and he rarely looked stressed. But right now he looked very, very stressed. “Take a seat. Let’s chat.”

Grant tugged a chair over and sat down. “Spit it out.”

James smiled, probably because Grant was one of the few agents in his VCMO squad who would push him. But the smile faded fast. “You know the situation with the Fishhook Rapist case, right?”

Grant cursed. Everyone who worked violent crime knew the background on that case. A sadistic rapist who grabbed one woman a year off the street, drugged, raped and branded her, then let her go, too disoriented to provide a description of her attacker. There was never any useful forensic evidence.

The guy was way too smart. He surfaced only on September 1, when a new victim would show up at a police station or hospital somewhere in the country, branded with his signature. Then he disappeared again, until the following year, when he’d hit some other state and leave a new victim.

And he’d started with Maggie Delacorte.

That part wasn’t general knowledge—they didn’t advertise the names of the victims, and they tried to keep the press from getting too much information. They inevitably did, but somehow, the FBI had managed to keep Maggie’s last name out of the media for a decade, along with the fact that she’d moved on to become a standout SWAT agent.

Inside the Bureau, however, a few rumors had gotten out over the years, and when he’d moved to WFO and landed on her SWAT team, he’d heard the whispers.

She worked harder than just about anyone he knew, and he was positive she didn’t want one terrible incident in her past to color the way her colleagues looked at her, so he’d never said anything. To him, it didn’t change a thing. Not about what he thought of her work, and definitely not about how he felt about her as a woman.

“Grant!” his boss snapped, and he realized he hadn’t been paying attention.

“Sorry.” He ran a hand over his shaved head, dreading whatever he was about to hear. They had a month to go before the guy was supposed to surface, so any news about him now could in theory be a lead to catch him. But judging by his boss’s face, Grant didn’t think that was it.

“I said, is this going to be a problem for you?”

“What?”

James let out a heavy sigh. “You know about the letters, right?”

“Letters?” Grant frowned and shook his head.

“The perp’s been sending them to Maggie over the last six months.”

Anger boiled inside. No wonder Maggie hadn’t been herself lately.

Did anyone on the team know? He felt his frown deepening, certain she wouldn’t have told any of them, no matter how close the team was.

“The case agents checked with the other victims,” James continued. “None of the others have received anything. But Maggie got a new one last night.” He looked at his watch. “This morning, actually.”

Grant looked toward the bustling conference room. So that was why the other VCMO squad had gathered. Maggie must have found the letter when she’d gone home. Which explained why she’d never shown at the bar.

Now he really wished he’d called her, even though chances were, she wouldn’t have asked for his help.

“This letter was different from the others. The others were psychological-sick, but meant to hurt from a distance. This one was a threat. And given your background...” James stared expectantly at him, not needing to finish his sentence.

Grant had worked in the New York field office for eight years before moving to WFO, and while he’d been there, he’d closed a serial murder case with unusual elements. Specific dates of attacks over a number of years, letters to one particular victim. In that case, it was a woman who had escaped.

“You think my experience on the Manhattan Strangler case—”

“Could help close this one,” James finished. “Yes. Kammy Ming has requested you be moved to her squad for the duration of the case. Full-time. We’re going to catch him before the next anniversary. There’s no other option.”

“He said he was coming back for Maggie, didn’t he?” Grant asked, shades of the homicide case he’d closed coming back to him. The warm blood spurting on him as he’d driven the perp’s knife into him. Carrying the victim out to the ambulance, then being shoved in with her to have his own wounds stitched up.

Grant had caught the guy four years after he’d started killing, but it had almost been too late for the woman he’d come back for. The thought of Maggie being loaded into an ambulance made him queasy.

“Look, Kammy wants your help,” James said. “But if you being on SWAT with Maggie is going to be a conflict...”

Suddenly glad he was sitting down, Grant shook his head and hoped for once, James’s intuition would fail him.

“Are you sure?” James persisted. “Because once she hears you’re on the case, if she asks you about it, you still have to keep it all confidential. Can you do that?”

Could he? He wasn’t sure. Worse yet, Grant was pretty sure Maggie had no idea he knew about her past. How would she react to him being on the case now?

Did he even want to be on this case? He didn’t have to ask Maggie to know she wouldn’t want him involved.

It was one thing to walk into dangerous situations with her—he trained with her and knew she could handle herself. But to go through all the details of what had happened to her a decade ago, back when she’d been a scared college kid? Being her friend now, feeling the way he did about her, did he have any right to dig into the worst day of her life, without her permission?

“Well?” James demanded, staring expectantly.

Then again, how could he sit by and not do anything when he had a chance to stop the man who’d hurt her?

Rage and determination filled him in equal measure, drowning out the nausea. “Yes, I want in on the investigation.”

“Good,” James said, standing up. “Then, get in the conference room. You start right now.”