Pulled Under Page 11

  “You’re angry.”

  “No, Sierra. I’m not angry. I’m just thinking.”

  “But you’re feeling that regret now, aren’t you?” I ask, deciding that is worse than his anger.

  “I’m just thinking, Sierra,” he repeats.

  “About what?”

  “Know your friends and enemies. That’s a profound and accurate statement. I understand what happened in Texas. I get it. You were betrayed by someone that resembles the people in my circles. But if you judge me and my people by him and his people, we’re over before we started and we’re also all going to end up dead.” He steps to me. “Think outside your box.”

  “I have. That’s why I tried to walk away from you.”

  “If that’s what you want, Sierra, I’ll let you go, but it’s not what I want, and someone alone is not better. It’s just alone.” He turns to open the door. I catch his arm.

  “I’m about to take you to the Walker offices. I’m about to invite you into their safe zone. And I’m about to ask my boss, who despite his asshole mood is a good man, to give you the documentation you need to leave the country, while I’ve given you access to the cash. I’m doing this despite the fact that when you’re the kind of good guys we are, we make a lot of nasty enemies that could use someone like you to attack us. And I’m doing it, because you, despite all logic and time, already matter to me. Because I choose to trust you even if that makes me a fool, but I cannot allow that to hurt my friends who are my family.”

  I press my fingers to my temples. “I don’t know what to do, Asher. I see your point of view. I see it clearly, but if you really see mine, you know why I can’t just blindly trust anyone, and yet I have you. Don’t ask for the documents yet. Wait until you trust me, and I’ll wait to ask for that kind of help when you trust me.”

  “You didn’t ask. That’s the thing, Sierra. I’m not holding my help ransom.”

  “I don’t know what to do, Asher. We’re trying to get someplace together that defies time but requires it. Either let me go, at least for now, or don’t involve them. Actually, I need to go.”

  He steps to me, his hand at my hip. “Is that what you want? Do you want me to let you go?”

  No, I think, but I know that’s me being selfish, so I say, “Yes.”

  His hand falls away and he takes a step back, as if I’ve slapped him or hurt him. I don’t expect his reaction. I don’t expect the moment he turns around and presses his hands on the door, his head lowering, as if grappling with what to do next. Nor do I expect to feel the loss of his touch. Or the promise of losing so much more by losing him. I can’t leave him, and us, like this. I move toward him, and slide between him and the door, pressing my hand to his chest. “Not because I don’t want you. Not because I don’t want to see what this is between us. Because this is the only way I can keep you and them safe.”

  His hand slides under my hair and cups my neck and he drags me close. “That’s not a good answer. I don’t wake up any day of my life expecting to be safe and neither do they. We expect to make a difference. And let me be clear: You can choose not to be in my bed, but I won’t let you end up dead.”

  “You know that I want to be in your bed, Asher.”

  “I’ll give you time Sierra, but remember this. Every minute I give you is a minute I give your Beast.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Sierra

  Every minute I give you is a minute I give your Beast.

  Asher says those words and then kisses me. One of those curl-my-toes, feel-his-tongue-all-over-my-body kind of kisses I’m coming to expect from Asher. When it’s over, he takes my hand and leads me to the hallway, and once he’s keyed in his door code that he has me repeat, we head to the elevator. We don’t speak on the ride down because there are two things in the air. That kiss and his words. No, not his words: The Beast. He’s the threat that both divides us and pulls us together.

  Once we’re in the lobby, Asher links the fingers of one of our hands and leads me to the shop just inside the exit. “Fill your purse with things women fill their purses with. That way if anyone grabs it, it won’t raise questions. Put what you need on my account and get what you need for the morning. They’ll send it to the room, but hurry. I need to get to the office.” He kisses me. “I need to call Luke about tonight. I’ll be just outside the door.”

  I start to walk away, but I’m aware of him telling me who he’s calling and why. I’m aware of him trying to earn my trust and I turn around and kiss him. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “Everything,” I say.

  Now, I turn away from him and walk into the store. I grab random items and I make it fast. I charge Asher’s account because it’s faster and easier, but I keep the receipt. Asher meets me at the door, obviously done with his call. Hand in hand, we head outside into the dark, and judging from the thunder, a potentially stormy night. Asher guides me right and we head down the sidewalk.

  “Walker Security is three blocks down,” he tells me. “The brothers don’t just own the building and the garage I mentioned. They live there. I’m telling you this for a reason. There is always someone present in their location who is as deadly as anyone chasing you. I’m going to make sure you have about ten numbers in your phone you can call.”

  I don’t argue. I’ve claimed to be smart. I’m going to back it up with actions and having a resource of people to help me is smart, but I’ve also been taught by way of my near capture in Texas, that you never assume that association, job title, or even brief encounters means someone is honorable or safe. I’ll pick whose number I’m willing to use and do so cautiously.

  We reach the Walker building which is a white stone structure that is high and narrow, like so many in the city. Asher uses a security code and a key to open the door. We enter the business office to find the lobby, which has several mahogany desks and a waiting area with leather chairs vacant. “My meeting is in the conference room,” Asher says. “I’ll come get you to meet them when we’re done.” He glances at his watch. “We need to be at the bar in an hour.”

  “I’m fine waiting. I want to freshen up anyway. Where’s the bathroom?”

  “I’ll show you,” he says, leading me down a hallway.

  We stop at a doorway and he motions to an open door. “I’ll be there if you need me.” He kisses me—he’s always kissing me, and I like it—and then heads toward his room.

  I open the bathroom door and flip on the light to find a simple single-stall bathroom with a sink and mirror, and a fancy marbled counter top. There is also a fancy soap dispenser on one side of the sink and a small vase of flowers on the other. I smile with the certainty that there has been a female intervention in an all-male environment. Not that men can’t be in touch with their feminine sides, but I’ve met Asher and Luke so far and talked to Blake. None of them strike me as the types that would do flowers and fancy soaps.

  I start to shut the door, but I’m just fixing my make-up and the idea of being in a strange place and not knowing what is sneaking up on me stirs the claustrophobic sensation I’ve battled since the car accident. Or maybe since The Beast entered my life. I’m pretty sure it started then, and the accident drove it to full realization. I leave the door open and walk to the sink, applying a rose-colored lipstick when I hear footsteps pass the door, as if there are people joining the meeting. A minute later, Asher’s voice lifts in the air. “Why did you pull Kyle off the job? What aren’t you telling me, Blake?”

  I suck in a breath with the realization that I can hear their conversation. “I have intel that Alvarez might be alive,” a male voice that I recognize as Blake’s replies.

  “Our worst fear when his body wasn’t discovered,” a female says.

  “I was there, Kara,” Asher says. “Your sister pushed him out of a chopper. He couldn’t have survived that.”

  “Unless he did,” Blake says.

  “No,” Asher says. “That can’t be true. I’m telling you. No one could survive
that. You’re both letting your fears that he’ll come for Myla again affect you. What does Kyle say about this?”

  “I sent Kyle and Myla to Rome on the pretense of doing a job for Kayden Wilkens.”

  Asher grimaces. “Pretense? Does that mean you mislead him? Did you even tell Kyle what’s going on?”

  Blake’s jaw sets hard. “Not yet.”

  “You’re fucking kidding me,” Asher snaps. “Myla’s his wife.”

  “And my sister,” Kara chimes in.

  “And,” Asher says. “The woman Alvarez picked out of a harem of kidnapped women to make his own. She was brutalized by that man. She and Kyle have a right to know.”

  He’s right, I think, leaning on the wall. Though, of course, I don’t completely understand what is going on, but if Myla was kidnapped by this man, she needs to know she’s at risk.

  “We don’t want to create panic,” Blake says. “And Kayden Wilkens is not only a friend to Walker Security, he’s the equivalent to the mafia in Italy and Rome, if the mafia had a good version. He’s the balance keeper there and he’s far more powerful that Alvarez and his cartel have ever been. They’re staying with him and his wife, Ella, and Kayden knows he’s protecting them.”

  This is Kara’s sister. How can she leave her in the dark like this?

  “This is your sister,” Asher says to Kara, following my thoughts exactly. “This is okay with you?”

  “Myla went through hell,” she says, her tone high, defensive. “If this is fake news, I don’t want her traumatized. We need to know for sure. And she’s using this time to push her clothing line in Europe. She’s excited.”

  “Right now,” Blake says. “We have a serial killer to catch and a schedule to keep. Let’s talk about Ju-Ju.”

  I straighten. Serial killer? Ju-Ju is a serial killer?

  “With the time in mind and five dead girls to think about,” Asher says, “we’ll talk about Ju-Ju now, but tomorrow, we’re talking about Kyle, Myla, and Alvarez.”

  I suck in a breath. Five dead girls? There are five dead girls? That is all I need to hear. I don’t think about my next move. I just make it. I exit the bathroom and walk down the hall and into the conference room. Asher is standing on the side of a long mahogany conference table. A tall, dark and good-looking man who resembles Luke, and is obviously Blake, since he’s the only other man in the room, is standing directly across from him. Kara, a pretty, petite brunette, is standing next to Blake.

  “Sierra?” Asher says, a question in his tone.

  “I can help,” I say, focused on him for now. “I want to help.”

  “I don’t want you involved in this,” he says. “I don’t even want you at that bar.”

  “I’m here,” I say, stepping to the end of the table. “And I know what this is now, and I can’t not help.”

  “Are you law enforcement?” Blake asks.

  “I don’t want you involved in this, Sierra,” Asher repeats, his tone sharper now.

  “I’m already involved,” I say. “I know. And I’m not going to freak out or blink at the bar. I understand killers. I’ve had to survive living with one and working with one. Ju-Ju doesn’t scare me.”

  “If you mean some crazy ex, that doesn’t make you qualified to help,” Blake says. “So I repeat. Are you law enforcement?”

  “No,” I say, “but I’ve worked with one of the most sought after forensic psychologists in the country, and I’ve actually investigated several serial killers, and a great number of murders that wouldn’t be classified as serial murders, with him. And I’ve interviewed the Son of Sam and the D.C. Sniper as well as studied every serial killer that has ever been documented.”

  “We’re all good at catching killers,” Blake snaps.

  “If good was good enough, then the FBI wouldn’t call in people who are experts. They wouldn’t need Sherriff Rogers, just to name one expert, who isn’t even FBI, but travels the country to consult with the FBI.”

  “And you think you’re one of those experts?” he asks.

  “No,” I say. “I’m not one of them because I’ve come to know that those people have a little Dexter in them that I do not. They’re people who understand a killer’s tendencies a little too well to turn your back on them, even if you think they’re heroes, like you all are. But I know this because I’ve been around my share of Dexter-like people and maybe, just maybe, if not now, one day, that makes me as good as them.”

  “Sierra,” Asher says tightly. “Are you saying that your ex is—”

  “I’m saying that I can help,” I reply quickly, cutting him off. “We’re talking about Ju-Ju.”

  “Yes,” Kara says. “And if you can help, I say help, but you need to know that there are not only five victims, they all look like us, Sierra. Brown hair and varied eye colors. All the same age range and build. All single. None of them were in active relationships. And his mother, who died when she was right about our age, looked like them, and us.”

  I glance at Asher. “Now I know why you were so touchy-feely with me in front of him. Thank you.”

  “That was all my pleasure,” he assures me. “I really don’t want you involved in this.”

  “How does he kill them?” I ask.

  “He taints the drugs he gives to the victims,” Asher says, “but thus far law enforcement can’t tie the drug sales to Ju-Ju. They can’t call him a killer, let alone a serial killer, and the deaths by drugs isn’t reading serial killer to the FBI.”

  “Proof law enforcement likes to repeat mistakes,” I say. “There’s a case history on just this type of killer. Charles Cullen. He was a nurse. He killed at least forty patients. He overdosed them or contaminated their medications. There were signs that he was a killer. There were opportunities to stop him that were ignored by the medical facilities to avoid liability. They fired him. They didn’t report him and that happened more than once. But there was another killer that used drugs as well.”

  “Harold Shipman,” Kara says.

  “The killer drug doctor,” Blake adds. “We’re both ex-ATF so we know how drugs are used as a weapon, and we both know those people who use them as such.”

  “Which is why this client came to us,” Kara says.

  “I’ve killed killers no one else could kill,” Asher says, looking at me, a point in that statement. “That’s why I’m involved and I’m a fast study. Who was Harold Shipman?”

  “He was technically not a doctor,” I say, “but a general practitioner who ran a private practice. He killed fifteen of his patients with drugs. He won awards in his field and was highly regarded in his community. There were no signs that he was a killer except for dead bodies that his practice justified as natural or medical causes. In both of those cases, neither left notes or taunted the police like Son of Sam or the even the D.C. Sniper, though I’m of the opinion he was trying to cover up killing his ex-wife.” The way The Beast would cover up killing me.

  “Those kinds of killers, the ones that taunt people and brag, resemble the drug cartel killers we know,” Kara says. “They kill and brag about it. I find the ones that don’t brag, that just kill to revel in it privately, far more terrorizing.”

  “Agreed,” I say. “And Ju-Ju most resembles these types of killers, and most certainly Cullen and Shipman. He’s got a drug connection as they did, and drugs are his weapon. It’s not quite the perfect crime with the perfect cover, as it was for Cullen and Harold, because they chose legal professions, but they could have inspired him.”

  “Which means he’ll be hard to catch,” Kara says. “But we wouldn’t be involved if this was easy.”

  “Maybe I’m thinking about this wrong,” I say, thrumming my fingers on the table. “Maybe he’s not like Cullen and Shipman. Maybe he’s using the illegal drug trade as a taunt. He can do whatever he wants, and we still can’t catch him.”

  “That’s a good point,” Blake says. “He’s breaking the law right in front of our faces, and still getting away with killing, too.”

 
“If that’s the case,” I say. “Then he’ll keep pushing, trying to get noticed, until he can’t push anymore. Then he’ll go underground. Can I see his file?”

  “We have a time issue here,” Asher says, tapping his watch. “We need to continue this later.”

  “If you want my help, I need the file,” I say. “I’ve studied enough killers to look at their history that ties to their actions when they killed. Maybe I can find something you haven’t that will let you catch him before he kills again.”

  Blake, Asher, and Kara share looks before Blake nods his head. “Asher will give you what you need.”

  “And in exchange for her help,” Asher says, “We need you to create a digital identity now, tonight for Kelli Vincent. My father showed up tonight and took an interest in her. He’ll look her up and soon. I need her to clear his review and anyone else who looks.”

  “Done,” Blake says, pinning me in a stare. “But I have questions.”

  “That you’ll ask me,” Asher says, his tone steel. “And to be clear. She is not, and will not, become bait.”

  “No,” I say, pretty sure I sense a prior conversation in play. “I won’t be bait for a serial killer. I’m already living that. Though I might be perfect for the job. I’d kill him and it wouldn’t matter. I don’t exist anymore and then we’re rid of a killer.”

  “Holy fuck,” Asher murmurs.

  “I don’t know if I love you,” Blake says, “or if you scare the fuck out of me.”

  “By the way,” Kara says, as if I haven’t just suggested I’d kill the killer. “If you notice the tendency for Asher to say ‘fuck’, you can blame Blake. They’ve worked together too much, and Blake doesn’t seem to have another verb or noun for any sentence.”

  “Who has Kyle’s role tonight?” Asher asks, ignoring her, clearly not looking to lighten the mood. He glances at Kara. “I mean, who the fuck has Kyle’s role tonight.”