What Are You Afraid Of? (The Agency #2)(16)

“Exactly. I create the software.” He deliberately paused.

“The information that gets put into that software comes from the authorities.”

It was his condescending tone—like he was talking to a particularly stupid child—that was the breaking point.

Enough.

Carmen had known when she’d hopped on the plane that it would be a long shot. Griffin Archer didn’t like her. Didn’t trust her. And apparently felt as if he had no reason to treat her as anything more than an unwanted intruder.

“So what you’re saying is that you won’t help me.”

He frowned. “I’m saying that I can’t help you.”

“Fine.” She folded her arms around her waist. It was the only way to hide the fact her hands were shaking with suppressed emotions. “Can you give me copies of the enlarged pictures?”

“Sure.” He hit a button on the keyboard and there was a sound from a printer cleverly hidden behind a potted plant.

“Thanks.” Carmen moved to grab the sheets of paper, stuffing them into her purse. “I’ll leave the originals here,” she said as she turned back to meet his guarded gaze. “I’m sure the cops will be more willing to look at them if they come from you.”

“I have a few contacts in the FBI that might be interested,” he assured her.

“Perfect.” With her spine stiff and her chin high, Carmen marched across the room.

“Wait.” He surged to his feet. “Where are you going?”

Well, that was a hell of a question, wasn’t it?

A pity she didn’t have an answer.

“Merry Christmas, Griffin,” she muttered.

She walked through the door, and then out of the house.

She’d figure out where she was going when she got to the airport.





Chapter Five


December 22, Kansas City



Hunter was invisible.

It was a trick he’d learned when he’d been very young.

He didn’t scream and demand attention like other kids. He didn’t stand out at school or in sports or the arts.

Instead, he would fade into background.

It allowed him to see the world from the eyes of a predator.

In the shadows he could detect the weaknesses of others. He peeked through windows. He listened at doors. And collected secrets like other boys collected girlie magazines.

Then he would strike.

Without warning. Without morals.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!”

Now he waited once again in the shadows, watching his prey as she stood in line to collect her keys for a rental car. The crowd ebbed and flowed around him, never giving him a second glance. Neither did the woman who shifted her small overnight bag from hand to hand, her expression one of weary impatience.

Excitement bubbled through him.

It wasn’t sexual. No. This was sweet anticipation.

She was close enough he could see the sheen of gold in her tumble of curls. And the soft curve of her breast beneath her sweater. It was too far to make out the clear blue of her eyes, or to see the dimples that dented her cheeks when she smiled, but he smothered his flare of frustration.

All good things come to those who wait.

Those were words his mother had whispered in his ear, never understanding what she was teaching him.

So he had waited. Years. And years.

His dark thoughts were interrupted as his phone suddenly vibrated. Keeping his gaze locked on his quarry, he pulled it out of his pocket and pressed it to his ear.

He already knew who was calling.

“What is it now?” he demanded, his voice edged with annoyance. His disciple, who’d taken the name Butcher, had called three times in the past two days.

It’d been his own idea to create secret names. Just like the killers from The Heart of a Predator. He not only liked the thought of being called Hunter, but it’d helped to solidify his hold over the others. He’d created them. Molded them out of lumps of meaningless clay into killers with a true purpose.

Now he controlled them.

“I found her,” a childish voice breathed. Butcher was in his twenties, but acted more like a boy just entering puberty.

Stunted. Both intellectually and emotionally.

His parents had thrown him away, but Hunter swiftly recognized a weapon when he saw one.

It had taken years to hone the fool into a suitable disciple, but now Butcher was loyal beyond question and willing to perform any task demanded of him.

No matter how depraved.

“Good for you,” he said, his voice low and soothing. Not for Butcher, but to keep any passerby from glancing in his direction.

Invisible.

Incapable of replicating Hunter’s Zen-like calm, Butcher was babbling with a hectic eagerness.

“She’s lovely,” he assured his mentor. “Not too tall, and soft in all the right places.”

“She’s blond?” Hunter asked. It was one of his three requirements.

Their prey must be young, white, and blond.

“Of course,” Butcher said, his voice edged with impatience. “When do I get to squeeze her?”

“Soon,” Hunter said, distracted as the woman completed her paperwork and took the keys that were handed across the narrow counter.