“Look at me.” Red, tear-rimmed eyes met his. The disgust and fear that blared through her dark eyes shot a bolt of anger through him. “Am I not good enough? Is that it? Not enough man for you?”
The girl shook her head, panic now alight in her wide eyes.
At the prime of his life, there was no reason she should be disgusted by sucking him off. He was fit, clean. Most women outside of this small room found him attractive. What was her problem? What was The One’s problem? Why did she not see him? See they were meant to be together? She was the fix to all of this.
With a roar, he shoved the weak female back, sending her sailing across the room. Her spine slammed against the bed frame, sending it skittering against the floor. She cried out and slumped forward.
Chest heaving, eyes wild, he marched to the toys along the far wall, well out of her reach when chained. His favorite, a cracked, well-used leather belt, caught his eye. At the sound of the metal belt buckle rattling, her panicked eyes whipped upward to meet his.
“No, please,” she cried. “I’ll be better. Let me make it up to you. Please, please not that again.”
“Shut up,” he screamed.
Chains scraped and rattled against the floor as she attempted to scurry away until the cuff at her ankle snapped tight. She cried out in terror and pain but was quickly silenced when he wrapped his fingers around her thin throat.
Frantic hands grappled at his wrist as her eyes bulged with lack of oxygen.
A sinister smile tugged at his lips.
He relaxed his hold a fraction, allowing a sliver of air to slip through, keeping his toy alive. The gurgle of her choking, the whimpers, and the tears streaking down her dirty face energized him, causing the soft appendage between his legs to twitch.
But it wasn’t enough.
It would never be enough.
Not until The One came back.
The One’s return would stop it all.
1
Chandler
The low hum and gentle vibrations from the jet’s engines lulled me into a trancelike state, narrowing my focus to the pictures splayed along the table in front of me. The leather groaned, the smooth fabric of my black suit pants sliding easily along the seat as I adjusted to a more comfortable position. This plane was my second home—a very expensive home that wasn’t technically mine.
The FBI had perfected wasting money on frivolous purchases over the years. Not that I would point that out, possibly risking them taking back our team’s jet. Unless it meant they’d finally find the funds to hire another profiler to lessen our workload. But that wouldn’t happen anytime soon.
“Budget cuts” was always their response when we complained that we were spread too thin and couldn’t keep traveling at the drop of a hat to help local law enforcement when the cases were too big, too gruesome—too demented—for them to solve. But a jet to fly us to where we were summoned, sure, that was in the budget.
Fuckers.
Pretty sure flying commercial was more cost-effective.
My muscles protested as I reached back for a quick stretch, the plush headrest molding beneath my fingers as I tightened my grip.
But not nearly as comfortable.
The tense muscles along my spine ached as I arched and twisted one way, then the other. I’d sat in this seat or one of the other twelve too many times over the past year. The solo travel, overtime, and severity of each case was becoming too much. Hell, even my body was protesting at this point. But what would I do? Turn down a case because I needed a lazy weekend, lying naked in bed binge-watching Netflix with enough beer to cause liver damage?
Wouldn’t happen.
I couldn’t live with myself knowing another innocent was now a victim because I needed a vacation. Maybe it was from my upbringing, all those lessons on selflessness and self-sacrifice, but I’d never be that selfish.
Like now.
One of the reasons I sat on the jet, staring at pictures of half a dozen murdered women, instead of at home enjoying the two weeks’ paid time off I had scheduled.
Duty called.
This time I asked for the case that was laid out in gruesome pictures in front of me. My all-female team didn’t argue when I raised my hand. Last year we lost a great agent because she went in alone—the team is stretched so thin we can’t work as a fucking team and protect our own—to profile a repeat abductor in the Smoky Mountains. We found her body months later.
After that tragedy, I swore to myself that I’d do whatever was needed to ensure no one on our team was in the same situation again. Which was why I was back in the air flying across the country instead of a team member. They appreciated my willingness to go, keeping them out of danger. They each had a family at home to think about.
Not me.
A deep groan rumbled in my chest as I released the headrest and relaxed back into the seat. The flimsy photograph wavered when I flipped it over to scrutinize the next picture. Cold, slick glass slipped in my palm as I lifted the half-full beer to my lips and took in every detail of the picture, thinking over all the aspects of the case that I knew up to this point.
Seven bodies within a two-year period.
The seventh victim discarded within three weeks of the previous, a first for this unsub to not keep the victim for months before killing them and disposing of their bodies.
But his timeline escalation was only one reason why a profiler was asked to come down to the small Texas town. When surveying the area where the recent victim was found, additional bodies were discovered as well. Within a ten-mile radius, over a dozen old graves were uncovered. The bones found inside were collected and were currently being analyzed at the Dallas FBI office.
We’d known about the case for a few months. After the fifth victim, the team was contacted for help. Unable to get anyone to Texas at the time, we offered a basic profile based on the evidence to help them narrow down a suspect list.
Thirty-five to forty-five, white, low-level job, weak personality, aggressive toward females.
But they never identified the killer, and the bodies kept coming. Then the most recent victim was discovered. This one came with a message. With the escalated time frame between kills and the message, my boss agreed someone was needed on-site to offer hands-on help to the local authorities.
The phone resting beside the now empty beer bottle rattled against the table, drawing my attention from the gruesome picture.
I smirked at the name that flashed across the screen.
Texas Ranger Alec Bronson.
The other reason I asked to be assigned to this particular case. We handled a case together last year in El Paso and worked well together during the two-week span it took for us to identify the suspect. He was good at his job and a good man, both of which made him a potential friend in my book. If only we didn’t always have to hang out because of a dead body.
But that was the life and job I chose.
Even if it was slowly eating at my own humanity and soul one case at a time.
Thumb to the screen, I gave it a quick swipe to answer the call and immediately hit the Speaker button.
“I’m on the jet racing to save your ass.” Alec’s familiar deep chuckle rumbled through the phone. “Should touch down in Dallas in—” I glanced at my watch. “—forty-five minutes or so. I’ll grab a Suburban and—”
“I’ll stop you right there. That’s why I’m calling.”