Rachel Lee - The Hunted

“A highly complex thriller…deft use of dialogue.”

—Publishers Weekly on Wildcard

“The Crimson Code is a smart, complex thriller with enough twists to knot your stomach and keep your fingers turning the pages.”

—New York Times bestselling author Alex Kava

“With its smartly paced dialogue and seamless interweaving of both canine and human viewpoints, this well-rounded story is sure to be one of Lee’s top-selling titles.”

—Publishers Weekly on Something Deadly

“A suspenseful, edge-of-the-seat read.”

—Publishers Weekly on Caught

“Rachel Lee is a master of romantic suspense.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

To the lost, and the men and women of law enforcement

who try to find them.

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Epilogue

Afterword

Caracas, Venezuela

She shuddered as she heard the bolt on the door open. She always did, even after…how many months had it been?

She was sixteen, she thought. Or maybe seventeen. Had it been two years since she’d left home, or three? It was hard to be sure. When she’d been on the streets of Denver, she’d been able to keep track of time. Even though one day had been mostly the same as the next—get high enough to function, then find a john to get money for the next fix—there were cycles. There were the days when the shelters offered free lunches and showers. There were Sundays, when it was more difficult to find johns because they were trying to pretend they were good, churchgoing men. There was the change of seasons.

It was the change of seasons that had done it. She’d already decided she wasn’t going to spend another winter in Denver. Phoenix would be nice, or Los Angeles. Somewhere warm. So she’d forced herself to cut back on the crystal—what a bitch that had been—to save enough money for a bus ticket.

“Anywhere warm,” she’d told the woman behind the ticket counter.

“How about home?” the woman had asked.

She’d actually thought about it—for perhaps two seconds. It would have been Thanksgiving soon. The thought of a home-cooked feast, the memory of her mom’s homemade stuffing and savory gravy, had almost made her mouth water. She’d almost said, “Yeah, is this enough to get to Virginia?”

But there was her uncle. Living two blocks down. Coming to spend the night drinking with her dad, and then, once Dad went to bed, coming into her room. Again. At least now she got paid for it.

“Nah,” she’d told the woman. “How about Phoenix?”

That had been the last decision she’d made. The bus to Phoenix wouldn’t leave for an hour, so she’d decided to get some food and crystal money for the trip.

The john had seemed nice enough. Reserved. Not outright leering. She knew the type. In her profession, the world’s oldest, you had to learn to spot them. The type who’d settle for a straight half-and-half, a blow job and a fuck, ten minutes each, if that. He didn’t even try to bargain. A quick fifty bucks.

Looking back, she realized that should have been the warning sign. Johns always tried to bargain. She was cute and clean, slender, a natural blonde, with high, firm tits and prominent nipples that showed through her T-shirt. So she could get a little more than the older girls who had been doing it for so long they looked and felt like worn-out kitchen sponges.

Even so, fifty had been more than twice the going street rate. He’d just nodded and said, “Fine. I know a place close by. What time does your bus leave?”

And that was when she’d disappeared forever.

Yes, it had been just before Thanksgiving. But what month was it now? She had no idea. When she heard the TV from the next room, it was muffled and in Spanish. There were no windows in her room, and the weather never seemed to change here.

No cycles anymore. One day truly was the same as the next. The food was the same, day in and day out. Even the john was the same. Two, sometimes three times a day. It had been more at first. He’d gotten bored, she guessed.

That’s how men were, except for her uncle. If he’d gotten bored, she would probably still be living in the Better Homes and Gardens fantasyland of Fairfax County, in the two-story brick front on the eighth-of-an-acre lot, with the perfectly manicured lawn, the three-car garage, the giant-screen TV in the family room always tuned to whatever game was on at the time, listening through the shared wall as her brother whacked off to Internet porn.

But her uncle never had gotten bored, and she couldn’t stand him anymore, couldn’t stand wondering if her brother whacked off listening to her uncle’s grunts and the creak of her mattress springs, wondering if her brother heard or cared when she’d lain in her bed afterward, crying into her pillow and counting the days, the hours, the minutes, until she could get the hell out of that house and never ever come back.

Well, she’d gotten out. And she would never get back.

The door opened, and he stood in the doorway with a bag in his hand. He tossed it onto the bed. “Get dressed. You go home.”

He pulled the door closed as he left. He didn’t bolt it. First time ever. She pursed her lips, wondering what that meant. His words didn’t matter. She’d learned to ignore words. Home. Beautiful. Love. Whatever. But he hadn’t locked her door. That mattered.

She opened the bag. Faded jeans and a green T-shirt. No bra or panties, but she hadn’t worn them in so long, she didn’t care. The jeans and T-shirt still had store tags clipped on. She bit the tags off and felt a tooth chip. It was the diet, the gritty tortillas that wore away at the enamel. But Dad was a dentist. He’d fix it.

New clothes. The door not locked.

She was going home.

She washed up as best she could at the sink. Put on the jeans and the T-shirt. Brushed out her hair with her fingers. It had lost some of its blond luster, but the girl in the mirror still had the big brown eyes everyone had always talked about. Her face wasn’t quite as fresh. But with some exercise and makeup and a good diet again…Yeah. She could go home. She could be…

…who?

Candi was the name she’d used in Denver. Her parents had called her Candace. But no one had called her anything since she’d gotten here. Not a name, anyway. Just puta. Whore.

Who would she be when she got home? Her uncle’s puta? Candi? Would she even remember what it meant to be Candace? Or would she take one look at her dad’s face, then look at his crotch and wonder how many half-and-halves it’d take to get her tooth fixed?

“Are you ready?” he said, opening the door again. “You look good.”

Words. Whatever.

“Sure.”

She followed him out of her room and then the front room and then out into the courtyard. She’d only seen it once before, when she’d been brought here. Looking around, she realized she’d been living in the servants’ quarters. Well, that fit.

Terra-cotta tiles glistened in the morning sun. It had rained last night, and the air was thick with moisture and the sweet scents of the garish tropical flowers that bloomed in carefully trimmed beds around the courtyard. Not a stone, not a grain of sand out of place. That part was like home, at least.