“I think you’re underestimating me,” Blake stated flatly. This guy had no clue who he really was.
“I like that Samantha isn’t alone out there. I like that she may have someone she can trust. For her, trust is everything.”
She doesn’t trust me. Not yet. But I’m working on it.
“Good night, Agent Gamble. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
And it was just weird meeting you.
Cameron turned away and began strolling down the sidewalk. He’d just slipped away from the lamppost, gliding back into the dark, when he paused. His head turned as he looked back at Blake. “I certainly hope... I hope there aren’t any repercussions from tonight.”
“Repercussions?” Blake repeated, voice careful.
“Um...yes, when you take a life, there’s a domino effect. What will it do to the killer...to Samantha...? What will it do to the way she reacts to the world around her?”
“She’s not exactly a damn killer.”
“She’s the one who pulled the trigger.”
That didn’t make her a killer. She was an FBI agent, and she’d just been doing her job.
Cameron gave a sad shake of his head. “What does the act do to the deceased and his loved ones?”
He had an answer for that one. “In this case, nothing. George Farris had no immediate family. His parents were both deceased. The guy started withdrawing from his friends months ago. He barely spoke to anyone at his job, so he sure didn’t have any colleagues who were tight with him at the software company. Most people described him as quiet, intense. Not the affable sort. Farris isn’t exactly going to have a packed funeral.” There weren’t a whole lot of folks grieving for the guy. It was hard to grieve for a sick, sadistic killer.
“Well, then I guess there isn’t anything to worry about. One less monster on the street, and everyone can sleep better tonight.” Cameron gave a little wave. “See you around, agent.”
Unfortunately, he would.
Blake spared one last look toward Samantha’s dark apartment, then he turned, hunching his shoulders, and he headed into the night.
* * *
SHE SAW HIS body on the news. Or rather, she saw the bag that held his body. A black body bag, zipped up, filmed and shown on TV by some unfeeling reporter. She’d recorded the footage when it first aired, just hitting the button on her remote because she was sure there was a mistake.
George wasn’t dead.
But...
The chirpy reporter repeated the story for her, over and over, as she clicked the remote and replayed the scene. George’s little house, on that quiet cul-de-sac. And he was a suspected serial killer. A victim had been found—bound and gagged—in his house.
And George had been shot by an unidentified FBI agent.
Shot.
Killed.
She replayed the video once more, then hit the pause button. The image froze on her TV. Her eyes narrowed. Behind that body bag, she saw an ambulance. A woman was in the back of that ambulance, getting her arm tended to by an EMT. The woman wore black pants. A white button-down blouse. There’s blood on that blouse.
Who was that woman?
Who in the hell was she?
If you’re the one who took George, you’re going to pay.
She’d make sure of that.
CHAPTER FOUR
SAMANTHA FLASHED HER ID at the guard who’d been stationed at Missy Johnson’s hospital door. He gave a quick nod and Samantha straightened her shoulders. She’d woken up at 5:00 a.m., the image of Missy’s bloody body in her mind, and she hadn’t been able to go back to sleep.
Nightmares sucked. Especially when the nightmare that kept replaying in her head was the moment of the shooting. Bam. Bam. The shots fired from her gun and the life left George Farris’s gaze again and again.
Clearing her throat, she stepped inside the hospital room. She immediately heard the beeps and buzzes from the machines near the bed. Samantha pushed the curtain aside and pasted a smile on her face. “Missy, I’m—”
A man stood there, tall, with graying hair and deep lines on his face. “My girl ain’t seeing anyone right now! That damn guard was supposed to keep the reporters out and—”
“Dad...” A soft voice, coming from the bed behind him. “I don’t... I don’t think she’s a reporter.”
His blue eyes narrowed on Samantha.
She lifted her badge.
“She’s the one who saved me,” Missy said, her voice still soft, weak.
The man’s expression immediately changed. In an instant, he went from being fierce and angry to wild with relief. He grabbed Samantha’s hand, pumping it. “Agent Dark?”
She nodded.
He yanked Samantha forward and hugged her, hard enough to squeeze the breath from her. “You saved my little girl,” he whispered. “Thank you.”
He was too tall for her to see over his shoulder. He was big and burly, kind of like a grizzly bear, and when he finally let her ease back so that Samantha could suck in a deep breath, she saw the tattoos that covered his arms.
“My little girl means the world to me,” he added. “I owe you.”
“No, sir, you—”
“You ever need anything, you call me.” He yanked out his wallet and shoved a crisp, white business card into her hand. “My name’s Robbie Johnson, and you can believe I’ll pay my debt to you.” His hard gaze told her he was serious.
She smiled at him and put the card into her pocket. “I appreciate that, Mr. Johnson, but I was just doing my job. As far as I’m concerned, Missy is the real hero. She survived that hell. She’s a fighter.”
His chest puffed up. “She gets that from me.”
Samantha slipped around him. Bandages covered Missy’s arms, and she could see the bulk of other bandages poking up beneath her hospital gown. “I wanted to see how you were doing.”
Missy lifted the hand that wasn’t hooked to an IV. “All stitched up.” Dark shadows lined her eyes. “He’s...he’s really dead, right? I—I didn’t dream that? Y-you shot him and—”
“He’s dead,” Samantha assured her. “He won’t hurt you or anyone else ever again.”
Missy’s breath blew out on a rough exhale. The machines beeped faster. “I was just... I was running, doing my morning jog in the park. He was waiting in the lot, said he had a flat and asked if he could use my phone.” Her eyes squeezed closed. “I didn’t want to be rude. Rude. That’s what I was worried about...being rude.” Pain and shame flashed on her face. “I gave him my phone and h-he grabbed me.” A broken laugh escaped her. “What in the hell was I thinking?”
Her father stiffened. “Missy...”
“I should have just gotten in my car, walked away. Why did I care about being rude to some stranger? What—”
Samantha stepped closer to the bed. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” She’d seen this bef
ore—victims, blaming themselves. “He was a predator, Missy. You weren’t the first woman that he took.”
“Just the only one to survive,” her father said darkly.
Cold words, but, yes, he was right.
Samantha hesitated as she stared at Missy. She shouldn’t be there. Official questioning would come later but...
I just needed to see her once more. To make sure that she really was okay. “Get some rest,” Samantha told her. “You need to focus on healing.” She turned for the door.
“Tell me...about them.”
Her shoulders stiffened at that soft request.
“The other victims...” Missy murmured. “How did he pick them? Why? Why did he pick me?”
Samantha glanced over her shoulder. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” she said again, her voice calm but strong. “You have to understand that. You didn’t cause the attack. You didn’t draw his attention. George Farris was the one with the issues. You just—”
“I had the bad luck to get in his path?” Missy licked her lips. “I saw...on the news...” She pointed to the TV that was attached to the right wall of the room. “A guy on the news was saying that serial killers like Farris had—had victim types. Was I...his type?”
Samantha kept her expression blank. “He preferred young blonde women with delicate builds. Probably because he, himself, wasn’t an overly big man. Women of that type—he found them easier to control.”
Missy’s father swore.
“I need to leave,” Samantha said. “You don’t need to hear this now. You have time, Missy. Time for all the bad details later. You survived. You got away—you have time for everything.”
“He thought I was weak.” Missy’s hand fisted over her covers. “That’s why he took me.”
“No, he thought you were perfect.”
Missy’s head jerked up.
“He thought you were the perfect woman, Missy.” There were things she wouldn’t say right then, about the way that Farris had arranged the bodies of his victims, how he’d styled their hair. How he’d taken their pictures with such care after he’d mutilated them. “Men like him...they fixate on their ideals of perfection. Blonde, young, delicate like a ballerina—to him, that was perfection.”