Twisted (Burbank and Parker 1)

With that, Sloane dismissed the entire incident and finished pulling the arrows out of the target. She packed everything up, collected her gear, and turned to head back to the house.

She’d barely taken three steps when the phone rang again.

This time the crackling was minimal and the breathing was audible.

“Who is this?” she demanded again.

Nothing. Just an awareness that someone was there and that whoever it was had no desire to hang up.

Abruptly, the phone call took on a whole new meaning. Violating. Personal.

The slow, raspy breathing continued, scraping Sloane’s ear like chalk against a blackboard.

She stopped in her tracks. Gut instinct made her head snap up, and she looked around, although she had no idea what she was looking for. The woods were quiet. The trees were drizzled with snow. And the sun was slowly rising in the east. No one was around except a few deer. Then why did she suddenly feel as if she were being watched?

The caller was still on the other end of the line, breathing and waiting.

“Tell me who you are or I’m hanging up,” Sloane stated in a hard, no-BS tone.

Silence.

She disconnected the call and turned off her cell phone.

She continued to scrutinize the yard, plagued by the nagging feeling that her anonymous caller was more than a phone presence. He was somewhere nearby. She could sense it.

The hair on the back of her neck stood up. She wasn’t scared. She was poised to strike. Derek used to say that between her agility, her training, and her watchfulness, she was like a cat. And like a cat, her instincts were keen.

Whoever her intruder was, he didn’t want to be seen—at least not this time.

She acted on autopilot. No display of apprehension. No slowing her pace. She just retraced her steps to the house, went inside, and locked the door. The last was a mere precaution, since she didn’t believe she was in imminent danger. Whoever was toying with her had an agenda, and it didn’t involve grabbing her right now, if at all. He’d had ample opportunity, and he hadn’t availed himself of it. So he’d either been going for a scare tactic or playing games with her.

She didn’t know which, why, or who.

But she intended to find out.

FBI New York Field Office

26 Federal Plaza, New York City

7:24 A.M.

Derek was drinking coffee at his desk, reading over what he and Jeff had dug up over the weekend, together with what the cops had found out. It was a long shot that whoever was torturing and killing those prostitutes was one of Lo Ma’s guys—unless he had a death wish. It had to be some sick rival gang member who was desperate to start a war between the Red Dragons and the Black Tigers. Either that, or a psycho client of Xiao Long’s brothels who had a thing for screwing and killing his prostitutes. Regardless, it wasn’t one of the Black Tigers.

C-6 believed that. The NYPD believed that. Now the trick was to make sure Xiao Long believed it.

Late last night, Derek had met with John Lee, who promised to get word out on the streets. The problem was that Lee’s connection was with Lo Ma’s gang members, so his credibility stopped there. Leaving damage control to him alone was a mistake. So Derek had contacted Eric Chang, another of his confidential informants, who had an in with the Red Dragons, and who was tight with someone who was tight with Jin Huang. Chang had promised to get the message to Xiao Long’s enforcer that they should be watching their backs for offenders other than Lo Ma’s people, and also checking their brothel client lists for potential suspects. Not starting a gang war that had no basis.

Now Derek was poised and waiting for the outcome.

His phone rang. He snapped it up. “Parker.”

“Hi, Derek, it’s me.”

“Sloane.” He sank back into his chair. “What can I do for you?”

“Good morning to you, too,” she answered drily. “I’m calling to follow up on our new leads.”

“Which leads?” Derek asked brusquely.