Allison Brennan: Fear No Evil

Her instant messenger beeped. Only one person had her IM identity.

She sat down and read the message.

Kate, it’s me. I know you’re there.

She typed.

You don’t know. You’re just guessing.

I know you’re there because you won’t leave until she’s dead or you locate him.

What do you want?

She didn’t need any of Quinn Peterson’s crap. He typed,

The hostage is Lucy Kincaid. She’s eighteen and was supposed to graduate from high school yesterday. Trask used the name Trevor Conrad to lure her out. We need your help.

I already helped. I sent you the link less than twenty-five minutes after it went up.

I know you’re tracking him. You can’t go after him alone.

Do I have immunity?

A long pause on the screen before Quinn typed,

You know I can’t do that. But I’m on your side. I’ll do anything and everything I can.

I’m not coming back until I find him. Otherwise everything I’ve done since Paige died will have been for nothing.

She shut down the IM so Quinn couldn’t argue with her. He’d been her only link with the outside world during the last five years, and she would always be grateful to him. But the truth was, he couldn’t give her freedom. And last year he had been as frustrated as Jeff Merritt that her information had led the feds into a trap.

She’d rather be in a prison of her own making than railroaded into a jail cell by her own people. They should have listened to her when she had told them it might be a trap. But Merritt was as headstrong as she was about bringing Paige’s killer to justice. He’d jumped the gun. Was that Kate’s fault? She’d warned them.

It was just Kate now. Her versus Trask. She wasn’t about to jeopardize any more lives. If Merritt and the others had been killed, their deaths would have been on her conscience, no matter what she’d tried to do to protect them.

The center screen showed that Roger and the goon had wrestled the girl-Lucy-to the floor. She was positioned on the ground, tied to metal hoops protruding from the beige carpet. The camera panned over her breasts and face.

His voice, Trask or Conrad or whatever name the bastard was using now, came over cyberspace clearly.

“Only thirty more minutes to enjoy the free show. If you’d like to continue after that, log on to my secure server and use your credit card to purchase the entire forty-eight hours for only fifty thousand dollars.”

He’d doubled his prices.

“Once you register, you’ll be able to vote on how our lovely guest will be treated. Isn’t Lucy just perfect? Fiesty. And I have it on very good authority that she’s a virgin.

“For your enjoyment, and for a limited time, you can download highlights from our past shows for a small fee. Simply click on the box in the lower left-hand corner of your screen.”

Kate swallowed. She didn’t want to see them, but she had to force herself.

She clicked on the box and bought the compilation, saving the server information to analyze, though she knew he would keep this particular server at a location far from his hideout.

The video was ten minutes long.

Play.

Meghan was first. Her humiliation of being stripped and put on all fours. Kate knew Meghan had been told that if she cooperated, she’d be spared.

She had cooperated but hadn’t been spared.

Trask didn’t show Meghan’s death. Kate didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified.

She dreaded the thought of watching Paige be stabbed to death, but her guilt would force Kate to watch if he showed it. She hadn’t seen Paige’s death; she had been just minutes away in the woods, desperately trying to reach her in time. She had failed. She’d only seen the aftermath, touched her partner’s blood, smelled her fear.

Trask didn’t show Paige. Of course he wouldn’t, Kate thought. Paige had been his one mistake, and hers. He couldn’t show her death again because of who she was, an FBI agent who most certainly didn’t consent to the so-called fantasy rape role-playing. Her death connected him to the murder game, and he couldn’t pretend there weren’t people still looking for FBI Agent Paige Henshaw.

Rayanna was next. There she was on-screen, her chest marked by cigarette burns. Her eyes terrified, her lips quivering, her expression fighting with the need to give in. A knife came down toward her, her mouth opened to scream…

Cut . One of Trask’s men was raping another victim. Joanna. They’d spliced the tape, making it appear that Joanna enjoyed her assault. It was all part of Trask’s tightrope walk: to make everything appear somewhat legitimate.

Other girls flashed by, Angela and Carol and Christy. Over time the photography improved, but Trask’s cruelty was the same. He’d started in snuff films-DVDs-but technology had given him a boost with webcams and untraceable downloads. Kate didn’t know how many young women Trask had actually murdered before Paige, filming their agony to share with other sickos, but he’d been at his grisly task for years. She may have only identified a fraction of his victims, and they had so little evidence they’d never been able to build a solid case. That’s why she and Paige had come up with their plan five years ago. The plan that had ended in death and failure.

The “sample” ended. Kate slapped the tears off her cheeks. She had no right to cry. No right to suffer for the women who had died at his hands. The emotional pain she harbored was nothing compared to what they’d endured: the humiliation and torture. Their deaths were probably a relief.

Consensual role-playing? Who did Trask think he was kidding?

Unfortunately too many people. Including many of her superiors back then. Now they believed her, but only because Paige had died.

If only Kate hadn’t acted so soon…

If only she’d followed her instincts…

If only Paige hadn’t lied to her…

A lot of good all that did her now. And how could she blame Paige? Kate couldn’t very well yell at her partner about backup that never arrived. Because Paige was dead.

If Kate saw Trask again, he would die.

Even if she had to die along with him.

His first kill had been an accident.

It was early morning. Far too early for the sun, too early for the birds. The time he liked best, alone, to think.

Remember…

They’d been sixteen, two young lovers exploring as only eager amateurs could. Not really knowing what they were doing, but enjoying the thrill of being sexual, of tasting forbidden fruit.

He’d wanted her forever, and he always got what he wanted. He was the son of wealth and power; few dared to say no. And Monique had loved being his girl. She had a mouth on her that wouldn’t quit, knew how to use it. He’d suspected she’d practiced giving blow jobs on other boys-or maybe men-because she was too good to be a novice. But in bed, she had been a virgin, her telltale blood marking his sheets.

For six months they joyfully had intercourse, and were inseparable. But for him, it was never enough. He pushed Monique for more. Role-playing. Pain. Her pain. At first she was amicable. Anything to please him.

“Not like that,” she told him that last time, panting. They were in the pool house at his family’s estate. He had her on all fours, wearing a leash. He wanted her from behind. Her ass was so firm, so round, so perfect.

“You’ll like it.” He pushed her down.

“No, I won’t.”

Defiant. A bubble of anger surfaced. He would not let her say no.

“Are you jerking me around?”

“Of course not, I-”

“If you don’t want to play, get out.”

“You don’t mean that!” Monique’s voice quivered. She glanced over her shoulder, hurt, a little fear in her eyes. He stared, his entire body reacting to that faint panic on her face. He wanted more of that.