Page 260 of Chameleon Killer

For one moment, I thought I was wrong and made another mistake. Then he turned, reached inside and dragged Mallory into view as he hoisted her into a fireman’s carry.

My hands stopped on the keyboard.

She was unconscious. Her head and arms lolled, slack as though a puppet with her strings cut. I backed the video up a handful of frames to zoom in on her face. There was blood on her forehead near her hairline, not much, but enough.

Something inside me became very quiet.

Brewster shifted his grip. Mallory’s hand moved, it was a faint twitch. Barely. But there. Was she conscious?

I didn’t think so. Reflex, perhaps.

He carried her down the corridor while I watched. I could have triggered the fire alarm, locked the doors, called the police, released the elevators.

I could have shut the entire building down.

All viable options. But each and every one introduced unknown variables. Brewster had already demonstrated he was willing to use violence against Carter. Against Mallory.

I did not know whether he was armed. I did not know what he had done to Mallory. I did not know what contingency he had prepared if interrupted. I did not know if Carter’s shooter worked for him or had just been arranged.

Uncertainty changed the calculus.

So I waited. I had never been a fan of waiting, but rushing could cost far too much. Brewster had reached the service exit. There he opened it. The external camera remained compromised.

But—I had alternatives. I’d paid for the tools to access the traffic systems, municipal feeds, private security, even the parking structure. According to the reference I’d gotten—doorbell cameras on bluetooth feeds should also be available.

It had taken time and I’d done it more to flesh out a puzzle. I would like to say I was unaware of the need for them, but I didn’t lie to myself. A lifetime spent in service to a task gave me good instincts.

My gut had said to cover all contingencies.

So I’d done that.

People imagined surveillance as a collection of eyes. It was far more like memory, than eyeballs. Modern cities had been designed to remember almost everything. They were being upgraded each and every day to increase that storage space and access to the constant flow of data.

A camera across the alley caught him emerging. Mallory was still over his shoulder and he walked—no running for our profiler—he just carried her to the dark sedan parked illegally just beyond the loading zone.

Not his Bureau vehicle. He always had been a clever boy. He opened the trunk.

I leaned closer. “No.”

Mallory McBryan disappeared into the trunk of Elliot Brewster's car. For several seconds, Brewster stood with both hands resting on the metal.

With his head bowed, he looked tired—almost defeated. Then he straightened and looked directly toward the camera I was using. One he should not have known existed much less that I was using it.

He smiled. It was broad or triumphant. No, it was the smile of a predator who had their prey in sight.

I leaned back in the chair. Brewster kept his gaze fixed for far too long to be accidental. He knew I was watching.

His mouth moved. The camera had no audio, but it didn’t matter. I read his lips.

Come find her.

He gave it a beat, then he said it again.

Three times over the course of sixty-three seconds. He wanted no question about the gauntlet he was throwing down.

Then he got into the car.

For the first time in a very long while, I experienced an emotion I had no immediate interest in naming.