She punched in Glen’s number.
One ring. Two.
Glen picked up on the third ring.
“Why the hell are you calling me?” He was clearly livid.
Hysterically, Suzanne blurted out everything that was taking place. “They’re going to kill me, Glen! I heard them! Please, do something!”
“Calm down, you stupid bitch. They don’t want you. They want me. Now hang up before they can trace this call.”
* * *
Glen practically threw the phone across the room. “Fucking idiot.”
He whipped around, his blazing stare finding Claire, who was lying in the same position she’d been in for hours, naked and bound.
She cringed as he approached her.
“Scared? Good.” Glen squatted down and gripped her neck with his hand. He smiled when he felt the racing pulse at her throat. He squeezed—just enough to make her whimper in pain. Then he shoved her aside. “You’re a good stress reliever. But the prize is on its way.”
* * *
Ryan, Hutch, Patrick and Marc were gathered in Ryan’s lair, tense and waiting to see if their ruse had worked.
Ryan nearly jumped out of his chair when Yoda announced, “Call traced. Do you wish to hear the recording?”
“Now!” Ryan screamed.
“Call from 917-555-3644 to 917-555-6802,” Yoda dutifully responded. “Message as follows...” He then replayed the terse conversation between the Fishers.
Ryan ignored Suzanne’s hysterical voice and Glen’s volatile response. “That’s it,” he said in excitement. “That’s Fisher’s number.” He turned to Patrick. “How long will an NYPD warrant take?”
“A couple of hours, if we’re lucky,” Patrick replied.
“On an expedited basis? With Casey’s and Claire’s lives on the line? You’ve got to be kidding me!”
“It’s close to midnight, Ryan. We have to wake up some judge and get him to agree we have just cause. Or do I need to remind you that we obtained this information illegally?”
“Fuck that.”
“‘That’ is an ambiguous term, Ryan,” Yoda said. “What are we going to fuck?”
“Everyone, that’s who,” Ryan yelled. “I’m not sitting on my ass for some sleeping judge to wake up while Fisher’s doing God knows what to Claire and Casey. It’s time I ran this show.”
He crossed over and grabbed some black clothes and his gear bag, which he began to stuff with items he selected from his work area.
“Yoda, check the network used by Glen’s burn phone,” he commanded.
A few seconds passed. “Call was received using Verizon Wireless network.”
“Deploy Tracer on call destination,” Ryan ordered. “Operational mode is Stealth. Resources Maximum. Target is Verizon Wireless.”
Tracer was a hacking script of Ryan’s that would penetrate a cell phone provider’s massive network of towers and use its own computer systems to triangulate the location of a cell phone, given its phone number and approximate time the call was made. Stealth insured that no one could trace the illegal hack to Ryan and FI. Maximum resources would simultaneously launch a denial-of-service attack at Verizon’s network, using a worldwide network of zombie computers at Ryan’s disposal, set to divert all of Verizon’s security systems and resources to repelling the fake assault, letting Tracer complete its urgent mission undetected.
“Tracer deployed,” Yoda confirmed. “Mode is Stealth with Maximum resources. Target is Verizon Wireless.”
“Good.” Ryan turned back to the other men. “Hutch, you and Patrick can excuse yourselves. Marc and I will handle this.”
“I’m in,” Hutch insisted, refusing to leave. “I’ll deal with the fallout later.”
“I’m in, too.” Patrick’s features were taut. “I’m an FI team member, first and foremost. We protect our own.”
“Okay.” Ryan nodded. He didn’t seem all that surprised. But he did seem a lot less pissed. “Then it’s time to get ready. We move as soon as Yoda gives me my answer.”
The four men prepped for an assault to rescue Casey and Claire. They all found and changed into dark clothing, checked their weapons and packed their tactical gear bags.
Yoda still hadn’t come back with an answer.
Ryan glanced over at Hutch and decided to do the guy a favor. He faked a cell phone call, sending it from Glen Fisher’s burn phone to Hutch’s.
Five feet away, Hutch grabbed his phone when it rang. “Hutchinson.”
“Now you just received a call from Glen Fisher telling you where you can find Casey’s body,” Ryan said. “Your ass is covered with the Bureau.”
Hutch gave him a tight smile. “Thanks. But it wouldn’t have mattered.”
“I know. That’s why I did it.”
Yoda interrupted their conversation, supplying them with the critical information. “Tracer has found the phone. Location is 275 South 2nd Street, Brooklyn. Accuracy is within three hundred wavelengths, based on the cell phone frequency.”
Ryan’s head snapped up. “Yoda, I need distance, not wavelengths.”
“Fifty meters, Ryan, as you requested.”
“That’s all I needed.” Ryan grabbed his gear. “Yoda, delete all traces of what went on here this evening—down to every last communication.”
“Deletion under way,” Yoda responded.
Ryan turned to the other three men. “Come on. We’re out of here.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Jack entered the warehouse through the back door, an unconscious Casey slung over his shoulder.
“Here. As promised.”
“What took so long?” Glen demanded. “You were only driving a couple of miles. It’s been over an hour.”
“There was an accident. I couldn’t get around it. No worries. I just gave Sleeping Beauty some more chloroform. She’ll be out of it for a while.”
“I want her awake.”
“She will be. Hang in there.” Jack bent down and dumped Casey’s limp body unceremoniously on the concrete floor.
Glen gazed at her. He couldn’t help smiling. Finally. Lying at his feet. At his mercy. She was all his. He leaned over and fingered a lock of her red hair. This was going to be every bit as satisfying as he’d expected.
“Hey,” Jack said, watching his uncle’s irked reaction turn into a pleased one. “Is it time for my reward?” He jerked his thumb in Claire’s direction.
“Not yet.” Glen waved him away. “Not until I’ve had my fill of Casey Woods. I’ve waited a hell of a lot longer than you have. Plus, I don’t want the psychic screaming and distracting me, or ruining the mood I have in mind. You can have her later. Red can watch—and know that it’s all her fault and there’s not a damn thing she can do about it.”
Jack rolled his eyes. More waiting. He wanted to punch his uncle in the gut. But he wasn’t going to take him on—not at this point. It wasn’t worth the hell that would ensue. He’d waited this long. He’d wait a little longer.
But not happily.
“Fine,” he said in a voice that clearly sounded pissed. “I’m going out to Carmine’s for a thin Sicilian.” He paused to wink at Claire, who was staring at Casey. “I’ll be back for my dessert— a blondie.”
As soon as Jack left, Glen went to work. He began to yank off Casey’s layers of clothes, which only took a few minutes. She was a petite woman, and it required very little juggling to get her as naked as he wanted her.
That done, he dragged her over to an area of support beams, and stretched her out on her back. Pulling her arms above her head, he anchored them around one of the beams. Grabbing some of the rope he had nearby, he bound her wrists tightly together.
Shifting his attention downward, he couldn’t resist pausing to eye every inch of her body—especially the part that declared her a natural redhead. Then he got to work on her legs. He spread them wide, tying each ankle to a support beam, set about five feet apart.
He sat back on his haunches and admired his handiwork
. It was so tempting to do something now—but there was no way he was sacrificing the fear factor for a quick lay. He wanted her awake—and utterly terrified.
Still...he couldn’t resist touching her, just for a second.
He laid his palm on her stomach, let it glide downward.
Claire gave a sharp cry.
“Shut up!” Glen commanded, rising to his feet. The mood was broken.
It was that damned blonde bitch’s fault.
Glen strode over to Claire, fists clenched at his sides, and glared down at her. She cringed with terror. He ignored it, kneeling down and locking his hands around her throat.
“Do you want to feel what’s going to happen if you make another sound?” he asked.
He didn’t wait for an answer.
His grip tightened, cutting off her air supply as he applied painful pressure to her neck. He held it that way for fifteen seconds, pleased when he felt Claire struggling to breathe and to free herself.
Abruptly, he released her.
“Now, shut your goddamned mouth. Worry about your own life, not hers.”
Claire continued to gasp, heaving air into her lungs. Red welts in the shape of hand marks—some of which had already been visible on her delicate skin from his previous assault—intensified, and were now far more pronounced than they’d been before.
Glen scrutinized her and decided his tactics had had the desired effect.
He turned his back on her and walked over to Casey.
Pulling up a chair, he straddled it and stared at his prize.
She’d be waking up soon enough.
* * *
Marc pulled the van around to the front of the Forensic Instincts office and screeched up to the curb. Hutch and Patrick tossed their gear bags into the backseat and climbed in. Ryan hopped into the passenger seat with his.
“Two seventy-five South 2nd Street, Brooklyn, New York,” he instructed the voice-activated GPS on the dashboard.
The GPS displayed the most direct route with a bright blue line.
Marc glanced at the screen, then floored the pedal and took off.
As they drove, Hutch took out his cell phone and called the New York field office. He reported his supposed anonymous tip. The Bureau agreed to dispatch a team ASAP, but there was no way they’d arrive in time to save Casey and Claire. Not given the immediacy of the crisis.
They gave Hutch the green light to go ahead.
Ryan was using his computer skills to zero in on a local map of the area. Hutch worked with him until they had the diagram they needed.
Marc stopped at a red light and analyzed the diagram. The back entrance to the warehouse was on South 1st Street. It was clearly more deserted, and had easier access, plus the element of surprise would be in their favor. The only thing separating them from the building was a barbed-wire fence. Medium height. Easily scaled.
That gave Marc enough info to lay out assault plans. He, Hutch and Ryan would enter the warehouse through the back entrance on South 1st Street. Patrick would drive around to the front of the building on South 2nd and keep watch, just in case Glen and Jack Fisher tried to escape via the main entrance.
Either way, the bastards weren’t going anywhere.
* * *
Casey stirred, wincing at the dull pounding inside her head. She felt woozy, as if she’d had too much to drink. Her bed was hurting her back. It felt as hard as a brick. And she couldn’t seem to make her body work. She wasn’t sure why.
She was so tired. She should recall the reason, but whatever it was, it eluded her. Dazed, she felt her head droop to one side, and sleep began to take over again. All she needed was a little more rest. Then she’d pop a couple of aspirin for her headache and get back to work.
She felt troubled as she drifted off. There was something she should remember. She wished she knew what. It was important.
But it slipped away as she lost consciousness.
* * *
Glen noticed the minute Casey started to come to. He perked up, then scowled when she faded back into unconsciousness. Damn Jack for giving her the extra chloroform. Glen wanted her awake—now.
He wasn’t going to wait much longer. He’d smack her awake if he had to, rape her until the pain brought her around.
The thought of it made him smile. He didn’t have the chance to play out his fantasy.
He’d barely started getting aroused when Casey moved her head again, this time in a more pronounced manner.
* * *
Casey let out a low moan. Pounding. Her head was pounding. She tried to reach for her temples, to rub them, but her arms wouldn’t move. They were stuck. And she was freezing. Where were her blankets? And why was there such a funny smell in her nose and a bad taste in her mouth?
Something was very wrong.
Slowly, she cracked her eyes open. She wasn’t in her bedroom.
Where the hell was she?
She blinked once, twice, and realized there was a man sitting across from her, staring down at her. Painful or not, she gave her head a slight shake.
Her vision cleared.
The man was Glen Fisher.
The room was a warehouse.
“Finally,” Fisher said, visibly irritated. “It’s about time you woke up. I was about to help the process along.”
Woke up?
Memory crashed through Casey’s mind like an avalanche. The text message. The warehouse that was a decoy. The man in black. The handkerchief. That smell—it was chloroform. He’d knocked her out with it. She’d come to in a car. He’d dosed her with it again.
She was a captive.
She tried to move again, this time more vigorously, but with the same lack of success. She stopped, gazed down at herself and an icy chill shot up her spine.
Dear God. She was naked. Open. Exposed. Arms and legs bound. Totally at his mercy.
She shut her eyes against the image, gritted her teeth to bite back the cry of fear that lodged in her throat.
“Is it all coming back to you now?” Glen asked with a wry grin.
Casey’s eyes opened. “Actually, yes.” She was stunned at her own ability to feign control. Was that really her voice, steady and even? How was that possible when she’d never been so horrifyingly afraid in her life? So afraid that the whole situation felt out-of-body, surreal, like a nightmare she’d force herself to awaken from at any moment?
It must have been, because Glen gave an admiring grunt. “Impressive. You’re one strong, feisty bitch. I’m glad you also have a good memory. It’ll mean less to explain.”
“No explanation necessary. You pulled this off well. Congratulations.”
He looked pleased, like he was enjoying their sparring match. “I appreciate the accolades. What’s more, I deserve them. You’ve made this one hell of a challenge, Red.”
“That was my goal.” Casey twisted in her bonds, trying to see past Glen and to find her friend. “Where’s Claire?”
“Right over there.” Glen stepped out of Casey’s line of sight.
Claire looked frail and exhausted. All her limbs were secured with ropes the same way Casey’s were. And there were ugly red welts around her neck.
“Claire?” Casey called out. “Are you okay?”
Claire raised her head a little and managed to nod.
She was definitely not okay.
“You choked her,” Casey said, staring at the bright red welts on Claire’s neck. “What else have you done to her?”
“Your psychic friend has been a perfect outlet for anger release,” Glen told Casey. “But she hasn’t enjoyed the benefits of our hospitality yet.”
“Does that mean you haven’t raped her?” Casey couldn’t help it. She blurted out her question before she could stop herself. It was stupid. Her fear for Claire was something Glen was going to feed on.
Sure enough, he smiled—a cruel, evil smile. “It means I’d rather have you awake to watch when I do. Mental torture for you will be an added bonus.”
Thank
God, Casey thought. She’d bought Claire a short reprieve.
This time she was careful to keep her sheer relief from showing.
“Where are we?” she asked instead.
“What difference does that make?”
“I want to know.”
Glen shook his head, more amusement twisting his lips. “Still hoping for a rescue? Not going to happen. Your boyfriend and your team have no idea where we took you. End of the road, Red.”
Casey readdressed the current most pressing issue. “Then why can’t you let Claire go? She’s served her purpose. She got me to you. I’m the real deal—a redhead and the woman you most hate. Pull one of those black sacks over her head, and drop her off somewhere.”
Glen leaned forward menacingly. “You’re in no position to negotiate.”
“I’m not negotiating. I’m being practical. Once you’re done with me, I’m sure you plan to leave the country. So why ruin your perfect track record? You haven’t had a victim who wasn’t a redhead since you were a novice, like with Jan and Holly.”
“True.” He considered that and shrugged. “You’re playing me. It’s not working. But the fact is I don’t really care what happens to your psychic friend. When the time comes, I’ll see who I’m feeling more amenable toward, Jack or her.” He jerked his thumb in Claire’s direction. “For whatever reason, my nephew wants her.”
You and your nephew can both go to hell, Casey thought.
Glen began pacing around the room. “Where the hell is that asshole?” he muttered. He glanced at his watch. “I’m giving him five more minutes. That’s it.”
Casey knew what that meant. She had to keep Glen occupied. It was the only way to buy enough time for her team to orchestrate a rescue. On the other hand, she couldn’t be too obvious. He’d recognize mind games. Glen Fisher was nothing if not smart.
“By the way, I understand why you only want redheads,” Casey told him.
Fisher stopped pacing and turned around. “What are you talking about?”
“Colleen McCoy. Your redheaded teacher. I know about her.”