Web of Secrets (Agents Under Fire) (27 page)

Oh, please let her be chaste. Let her be the woman I have searched so long for.

She stirred again. Their eyes met. Hers changed. Tightened. The joy vanished.

“Hello, Lauren.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, that’s not my name?”

“Ah, but my DNA test says otherwise.” He held out his phone for her to read.

She jerked her arms. Her feet. She looked around, fear darkening her eyes. “Where are we?”

“Oh, this place.” He waved a hand over the room. “It’s an old gun shop. My father once ran it and Mother held on to the place for a nest egg. But she died before she could sell it. Now it’s mine.”

“What happens next?”

“Next?” he asked. “Next, we have that talk. Then Mother and I decide your destiny.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

CONNOR SAT BESIDE Taylor in the FBI war room that had been set up as an emergency command center. The day had passed without a lead on Becca, the knot in his gut tightening more and more with each moment that passed. Had Van Gogh taken her life?

Jae poked her head in the room, her laptop in her arms. “You know those pictures that were found in the time capsule?”

“Yes,” Taylor said.

“Something about them kept bugging me, so I enhanced them.”

Taylor stepped closer. “Okay.”

“Let me show you.” Jae attached her computer to the projector and an image of Zwicky came onto the screen.

“What are we looking for?” Connor’s gut churned as he studied the giant-sized face smiling at him.

“His eyes,” Jae said. “There’s a reflection in them.”

Jae hopped up and went to the screen. “See right here. A building.”

“Okay, so we have a building. Big deal,” Connor said. “If this is important, cut to the chase.”

“Geez. Way to ruin my big build-up that’s going to save the day.” Jae crossed her arms and scowled at Connor.

“C’mon, Jae,” Taylor said. “Just spill.”

She went back to her computer and zoomed in, then broke that section from the photo with an editing program and enlarged the reflection even more.

“Ace in the Hole Gun Shop,” Taylor read. “And this is related to our case, how?”

“The shop was owned by Zwicky’s parents. From what my research says, Dad and Mom split in 1987. Dad took over and it went out of business in the early nineties, but he never sold the building. So guess who it belongs to now?”

“Reginald Zwicky,” Taylor said.

“Exactly.” Jae clicked on another file. “Here’re the blueprints on file at the city. It has a basement like Zwicky seems to prefer, and, wait for it . . .” She grinned. “It’s only a few miles from the motel.”

Connor grabbed Jae in a hug and swung her around. She actually looked embarrassed, but he didn’t care. She might have just saved Becca’s life.

He put her down. “Print a good set of recon maps of the area.”

She sat behind the computer, her face still red, and pulled up aerial maps and street views for the front of the building and the rear. Paper started spitting from the printer in the corner, and she went to get it.

“Thanks, Jae, you’re amazing.” He took the pages from her, quickly reviewed the printouts and maps, and then shoved them at Taylor. “Let’s go.”

“Me?” she asked. “Don’t you want to call SWAT?”

He shook his head. “I won’t risk a standoff situation. If he’s got Becca in a basement, there’s no way she can win if a SWAT team forces their way in.” Connor raced for the door.

Taylor charged after him. “So it’s just you and me?”

“Yes. We’ll go in low and hard and take Van Gogh down before he knows what hit him.” He kept moving. “You have a vest and rifle?”

“In my car.”

“Then we’ll stop to get it.”

At the elevator, she waved the pages at him. “I’m like all over this, you know that, right? But are you sure I’m the right person for this job?”

“Do you know how to handle a gun better than most people who work here?”

“You know I do.” She grinned. “I was born to shoot.”

He smiled back. “Do you feel bad about Becca being taken on your watch?”

“You know that, too.”

“Then what more motivation could there be to free her?”

Taylor raised her eyes in thought as if she believed he was really looking for an answer.

“Love,” she said as they got on the elevator. “I’d have to say love trumps it. At least Nina and Kait would say that about Becca.”

Yeah.
Taylor was totally right. Love did trump it. Add a healthy measure of guilt over her being taken, and that just about explained how he was feeling.

He discussed the blueprints and maps with Taylor on the drive to the shop, which didn’t take them long at this time of night. To confirm the pictures were correct, he did a slow drive-by of the building located in a strip of old stores.

The storefront was covered in paper, the exterior paint chipped and flaking. The black letters that made up the Ace in the Hold sign had faded to gray and the A hung at an angle, looking as if a strong wind would rip it free.

Satisfied they were at the right place, he parked near the back of the building where the blueprints showed the basement entrance. They climbed out.

“Door’s gonna be locked,” Taylor said.

He produced a set of lock-picking tools. “That’s not going to stop me.”

“I can’t believe you just pulled those out of your bag.”

The tools were illegal if the owner’s intention was to use them to commit a crime. Sure, breaking into the gun shop was technically a crime, but saving a woman’s life trumped that.

“You mention it to anyone, and I’ll deny it,” he joked as he put on his vest and checked his rifle and ammo, hoping that they’d have better luck than the last time he’d worn the gear, to raid the hotel.

The lock was old and no match for Connor. He soon had it open. A nearly negligible light shone on the stairs, and he heard music playing. It sounded like classic ballroom music.

He glanced at Taylor, and she shrugged. At least it proved someone was here. He gestured that he would go first, and she was to follow.

He eased into the store, walking on the balls of his feet to keep from giving them away. He might be big, but staying out past curfew in high school and slipping into a house filled with family members had taught him how to be quiet.

He made his way down the stairs. Thankfully, the wall went all the way to the floor and the music masked any creaking of the old wooden steps. They reached the bottom, and he signaled to his right, then, with his gun outstretched, he took the corner. It opened to a hallway, dark and shadowy. At the end, light shone from a cracked open door, creeping out like it was trying to brighten the darkness around them. He silently made his way over old split vinyl tiles. Taylor crept behind him.

At the doorway, he heard Van Gogh’s voice for the first time. “Tell me now, Lauren, or Mother will make me get the information from you. Like I had to do with Molly.”

“I don’t know what you want me to tell you,” Becca replied, sounding calm and in control.

Yes! She was alive. Connor’s heart soared. He remembered the horrific injuries on Molly’s body and his heart took a dive.

“I’ve said everything there is to say,” Becca added.

Connor loved hearing the spunk in her voice, even after all these hours in the hands of a killer.

“Then Mother says the number five goes back on your stomach, and you will be cleansed like the others.”

“Do what you have to do.” Becca sounded resigned but strong.

“You may be interested to know,” Van Gogh said, “that Molly’s daughter, Haley, is next on my list. She flaunts herself on Facebook. A real little tease. In fact, I found Molly through Haley. A happy coincidence for both of them.”

“I’m sure my team will catch you long before you get anywhere near Haley.”

“That’s doubtful,” he said, sounding preoccupied.

Connor figured Van Gogh’s focus would be on Becca right now, so he risked easing the door open farther to take a quick look at the room.

It was a small root cellar, with a dirt floor and wooden shelves, with jars lined up, ears in each.

Connor stifled a curse. He’d known the jars existed, that Becca wouldn’t lie about them, but seeing them sitting there all shiny and bright on the shelf brought his dinner up his throat. He searched them carefully, holding his breath as he looked for number five. He could only pray they’d arrived in time.

VAN GOGH HOVERED over Becca, but she wasn’t afraid. She’d had enough of being afraid to last a lifetime. She’d wasted years of being terrified to face up to what she’d done in leaving Molly behind. Running. Shutting others out. And where had that gotten her? On Van Gogh’s table of death, not having really lived at all.

At first, she’d struggled to get free. Strained, until her wrists were raw from the metal handcuffs he’d snapped on, all to no avail. He wasn’t going to forget to lock her shackles again as he had when he’d abducted her last time. So she was trapped, unable to free herself. If no one came for her, she’d put on a brave face to the very end. But if help came?

Oh, if help came, she’d embrace life, find a way to get beyond her past, to live a life filled with laughter and love.
If.

“You can still change your mind, you know. All you need to do is tell me.” Van Gogh grabbed a rag from the table and polished the knife until it gleamed. “Mother says it’s not too late.”

“No, I’m good.”

He looked at her quizzically. “You’ve changed over the years.”

“You haven’t. Still a big mama’s boy.” She couldn’t get at him with a weapon, so she’d wound him with words. And they hit the mark.

He flinched. “That wasn’t necessary, Lauren. Mother and I simply have your best interest at heart here.”

She scoffed.

He moved closer, lifted the knife.

She saw movement at the doorway. Twisted her head to see Connor standing there with a rifle, Taylor behind him. She nearly shouted with joy. He lifted his finger to his lips to silence her. She blinked a few times to acknowledge it, her mind racing as she tried to come up with a way to help him. When he started moving forward, she realized she could do something—she could distract Van Gogh so Connor could sneak up on him.

“Reginald.” Her voice was so syrupy sweet that she almost gagged. “I’ll tell you what you want to know, but I want to whisper it in your ear so your mother doesn’t hear.”

His head popped up. “Mother hears everything.”

“I still want you closer when I tell you.”

He moved up the table, his knife still in his hand.

“Closer,” she said, trying not to vomit or spit in his face. “I know you have a thing for ears, and I want to whisper into yours.”

A light sparked in his eyes, and he inched closer. His breath, a mixture of garlic and foul air, fell on her face. “Mother always hurt my ears. She didn’t mean to, but when I was bad and needed discipline, she dragged me by them. I deserved it.”

“I’m not going to hurt your ear.” Becca swallowed hard. She sensed Connor nearing her.

Now was the time. She rested her head on the table. “Look into my eyes first, Reginald.”

He lifted his head a fraction. She smiled, and with all the force she could muster, she head-butted him. He bumped backward. She heard feet pounding closer.

Connor’s arm shot around Van Gogh’s neck, the other karate-chopped his arm.

The knife clattered to the floor.

Van Gogh’s hands came up to pry off Connor’s arm. He gasped. His mouth opened and closed, making him look like a fish out of water.

“Secure the knife, Taylor,” Connor called out then looked at Becca. “Are you okay, honey?”

“I’m fine.” She should warn Connor to loosen his hold, but she simply watched Van Gogh struggle, his face turning red, his hands clawing at Connor’s arm. Frantic. Terrified. It felt good to see him as the victim for once. To see him fight off pain and fear of death.

His eyes bugged out, and his mouth flopped open. He looked like he might pass out.

“He can’t breathe, Connor,” she finally said.

“So?”

“Let him go. We can have the pleasure of knowing he’s behind bars for the rest of his life.”

“He doesn’t deserve to live,” Connor growled out.

“It’s not up to us to decide that.”

Connor’s gaze waffled.

“Please, Connor. For me. Let him go.”

Despite the barely restrained fury on his face, he released his hold enough for Van Gogh to drag in air and start coughing. Connor spun him against the wall and quickly cuffed him.

Becca wasn’t happy to see Van Gogh released from his pain, but it was the right thing to do. She closed her eyes and took a few breaths of her own. She offered a prayer of thanks for her safety, then, feeling like she could face the million questions that would be coming in a debrief and interview, she opened her eyes.

Taylor was just finishing a call to request backup. Van Gogh’s breathing had calmed, though Connor still had him up against the wall, his hand planted on his back, holding him in place. Connor’s body was rigid and nearly vibrated with anger.

Taylor came up beside him and took hold of Van Gogh’s cuffs. “You tend to Becca. I’ve got him.”

Connor watched Taylor for a moment, then he suddenly spun to face Becca. His eyes were a volcano of anger ready to erupt as he ran his gaze from her head to her toes and back up again. His focus rested on her face and his expression softened as the moments ticked by, slower than a malware-infected computer. He shook his head, as if shaking off his anger, and dug out his handcuff keys before coming over to her.

He rested a hand on her cheek and stared into her eyes, his concern masking the anger that had consumed him a moment ago. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

She kept her focus trained on him. The caring he was exhibiting was beyond anything she’d ever experienced. Love? Was this what pure and complete love looked like? If so, she wanted more of it.

“Honey,” he said, breaking the trance. “Did he hurt you?”