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“Stay with me, Avery,” he orders, my name sounding too intimate. He holds the gun steady just inside me, a violation of an even more intimate nature as he issues another command. “Now type.”
I place a shaky hand on top of my laptop. A thousand questions rush me through the fear. All of which I’m sure will end my life if I’m given the answers. Do I want to know how this man knows about Wells—the monstrous things he did to me; how I forged his COD report—badly enough to die for?
I crack the laptop. Log in to my interface and open the reports. As I type, the barrel of the gun ensures I make no other movement. I finish editing the cause of death for the first victim, citing that further tests prove the damage she sustained to her liver was determined to be accidental. Then, barely finding my voice, I ask, “How did Miss Carter die?”
I use her name instead of thinking of her as a numbered victim, hoping that enforcing the fact she was a person will nudge the humanity in this man.
“Once you autopsied her, you’d have discovered a common denominator between the two women.” His voice is low, too close, and I don’t mistake his use of the past tense. I still my breathing, the feel of the gun more threatening with every breath. “We’re calling it Trifecta. You know it better as your ambrein cocktail, but our batch has far more kick.”
I wince. “They died because of me?”
His laugh is dark and disturbing. “No, Miss Johnson. Ease your mind. We’ve got our own cooks, who did a fine job of improving your mix, though we did need it for the base. That was essential. However, as you can see, we’ve run into some minor…setbacks.”
Death is a minor setback? “You can’t just use people like lab rats,” I say, disgust evident in my tone.
He chuckles again, and the weight of the gun assaults me. “See? You are smart. You’re putting the pieces together. But you’re not in a position to pass judgment, Miss Johnson.” The pressure increases between my thighs, and my stomach pitches with nausea. I stare at the laptop screen, trying to glimpse his reflection. The only thing I can make out is the crest on his necktie: the initials AK.
“Complete Miss Carter’s report stating she overdosed on painkillers. You’ll find opioids in her system. A suicide or accident, if you will. Whichever you believe is more likely in these circumstances.”
I swallow hard as I type my notes into the report. This won’t matter. The reports can be overridden. Not by me…I won’t make it out of this alive—I know this. But Quinn won’t accept my findings. There are too many other factors linking these two deaths together. The brand on the victims’ thighs, for one. He’ll question the reports. He won’t let it go. And once I’m found dead…
Quinn won’t stop until he has the truth.
I run my finger over the base of the laptop; a message to Quinn. Because I believe he won’t give up.
As I log the last statement, the man beside me sighs. And the gun is suddenly removed. As the steel leaves my body, I slump forward and gasp in full breaths. With trembling hands, I grip my skirt, clinging to it as I force it down my legs.
“Thank you for being so cooperative, Doctor Johnson,” he says as he backs away. “Now, it’d be wise for your cooperation to continue as we move on to the next phase.”
I close my eyes, wrapping my arms around my stomach as I shrink onto the stool. “I’ve done all I can do. I can’t help you any further.”
Hands clamp my arms and I’m hauled backward. Before the scream makes it past my throat, tape is slapped over my mouth. The bag swiftly covers my face once again. I struggle against the brutes, but my hands are pulled behind my back and my wrists fastened with a zip tie before I raise a fist.
One of them yanks my hair, snapping my head back. I feel the intense presence of the man slink near me. “I thought you’d continue your great deducing skills, Miss Johnson,” he says close to my ear, his hand brushing my cheek through the cloth and making me shiver. “Of course you can help me further. And you will.”
My only prayer as I’m dragged from the lab is that Quinn checks the surveillance in time. That these assholes don’t have the skills Wells did to pull off a clean abduction—that they’ve made a mistake. But as I’m thrown into the back of the transport van, I know my prayer is useless.
These men are nothing like Wells. Wells was the parasite feasting on the bottom rung. And these men… They are the monsters at the top of the food chain.
8
Pursue
Quinn
“Contact me right away if you get a hit on anything close to a match,” I tell the tech analyst.
He starts the search, hitting the precinct and national databases at the same time. With any luck, we’ll find other working girls carrying the same brand. Preferably alive. Not that questioning a pro has ever produced much in the way of aiding in any investigation, but it could give us a clue as to what we’re dealing with.
I save a new copy of the scanned image Avery texted to my phone. My thumbs hover over the onscreen keyboard. I type out “thank you” and hit Send before I close out the text.
What else can I say? Thanks for the blue balls? Thanks for making me feel like the shittiest man alive?
Better to let this one simmer.
I’m aware that I’m avoiding the bigger issue between us, but being married to a pissed off woman has taught me when to tuck balls and duck. There’s nothing I can say to Avery that won’t come out wrong, come back to bite me. She needs more time…and I need to solve this case before another g
irl winds up dead in my city.
