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“You, too,” she says. “We’re going to get this bastard, Agent Bonds.”
I hold her green gaze, relaying a silent thanks. “We are.”
“I need your phone,” Carson says.
One less thing to be tracked with. I remove it from my clutch and hand it to him. “Don’t let her out of your sight.”
Our eyes meet, and understanding passes between us.
“Anything to get one over on the Feds. I’m onboard.” A smirk lights his face.
Although Carson has been chasing the wrong man, he’s been devoted to capturing a serial killer who’s eluded him for two years. Even if I still don’t trust him, I trust that he’s committed to this operation. It’s his chance to not only make amends, but to get retribution for his career.
I turn toward Colton. “I’m ready.”
His hand is in mine, then he’s leading me toward the other end of the office. “Only me and Julian know”—he cuts short—“Julian knew about this access.”
He pushes aside a tapestry and reveals a door. “My brother made a lot of enemies,” he says. “He always made sure to have a way to escape.”
A pang hits my chest as I stare into his eyes, both of us leaving the truth unsaid. His brother didn’t escape his fate, which may remain a mystery to Colton.
The dark hallway leads down a flight of stairs and to a back door, where Colton pauses. “I want you to take this.” He holds out his phone—the one issued to him by the department.
“I can’t,” I say, shaking my head. “I can’t have anything—”
“I disabled the GPS,” he interrupts. “I hated doing it…because it’s killing me to let you go out there with no way to find you. You’re asking a lot of me, goddess. Almost too much. I have to at least know you have a way to call for help. If you need it.”
I swallow, allowing Colton to wrap my fingers around the cool device. “I promise,” I say, moving close to him. “I’m coming back to you.”
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He cups my face, kisses me with everything he has. I can feel his torment in that kiss—his absolute devotion and warring anguish.
As I pull away, he whispers, “I love you, goddess.”
I know there’s more to be said, so much more than that word can convey. But right now, it has to be enough. “I love you, Colton Reed.” I release the strain from my lungs. “Make sure you show our girl a good time.” I smile up at him.
“The crew is doing a special tribute to Julian tonight,” he says. “I won’t let her out of my sight. That, I promise.” He pushes the door open. And even in the dim lighting of the street, I can see the tremor of his hand gripped tightly to the door. “I’ll storm heaven and hell if you don’t come back to me.”
As I step onto the sidewalk, I say, “Hell’s not ready for me yet.”
* * *
In the distance, the lights of the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge flicker, peeking in and out of the trees like a movie reel flipping through a projector. The highway is teeming with cars, city-goers passing on their way into downtown.
I lean forward and knock on the plastic window between the cabdriver and me. “Pull over onto the median at the entrance to TRI, please.”
He does as requested, and the cab comes to a stop on the small strip of road. I push a few bills through the slot before my heels meet the uneven pavement. I twist my ankle and curse, righting myself as I make my way over first the gravel, then the grassy divider toward the extensive walking bridge connecting the mainland to the island.
The rancid smell of marshy river mixing with gas fumes drifting off the highway turns my stomach, reminding me of the morning the exsanguinated victim was discovered.
I pass the memorial with the TR statue, crossing onto the cemented bridge where a few ground accent lights illuminate the man-made pond and center fountain. Otherwise, it’s near black out, with only the lights from the city and DC glowing against the skyline.
The UNSUB marked this island, giving me a targeted, unsubtle hint when he painted the reeds with his victim’s blood. I didn’t understand at the time why he chose to stray from his MO and chance being caught in broad daylight, in a place that’s usually bustling with tourists.
But it’s all very clear now.
On the other side of the island, just off the swamp trails, is where he bled the vic. In theory, that’s where I should go—where the crime scene tape still marks off the blood-coated reeds, and the Bathory crest has been washed away by the rain, but still signifies his X marks the spot mentality.
