Kill Without Mercy

  “The book he left for you and the nursery rhyme . . .” He shrugged. “They all pointed toward someone who knew you as a child.”

  “And?” she pressed.

  Rafe glanced around as the suburbs were replaced by dairy farms and rolling hills.

  “He called you Annabelle.” Rafe slowed the truck, turning onto a small side road that wound through a thick cluster of trees. “That’s the name listed on your birth certificate.”

  “Annabelle. God.” She sucked in a sharp breath, her knuckles turning white as she struggled to contain her seething emotions. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

  Well, shit.

  How did she know?

  He didn’t have Lucas’s ability to hide his emotions behind a charming smile, but he could usually hold his own in a poker game.

  Annie, however, seemed capable of seeing right through him.

  “And he killed your mother by slicing her throat,” he gently reminded her.

  Silence filled the truck. A pulsing, thick silence that scraped against his nerves as Annie was forced to accept that her newfound brother wasn’t going to fill the void of the family she so desperately wanted.

  In fact, he was more than likely a demented killer.

  With a tiny cry, Annie pressed her hands to her face. “He’s the Newton Slayer, isn’t he?”

  “It’s a possibility,” he hedged. It wasn’t just to protect her feelings.

  He was willing to follow his hunches, but he preferred cold, hard facts before he came to a conclusion.

  She lowered her hands, her face set in grim lines. “It’s more than that and we both know it.”

  Pulling to the side of the road, he unhooked his seat belt so he could lean to the side and grab her chilled hands, rubbing them between his.

  He wanted to assure her that everything was going to be okay. That they could drive to his ranch and forget all about Martin and his connection to the Newton Slayer.

  But he wasn’t a fool.

  Neither of them was walking away from this.

  Not when there were still women missing.

  Smothering his instinctive urge to protect, he gave Annie’s fingers a small squeeze.

  “We need to look at the journals,” he reluctantly confessed. “Are you ready for this?”

  Her jaw clenched, but she gave a firm nod. “I have to be ready.”

  Holding her darkened gaze, Rafe bent forward to grab the stack of journals. Then straightening, he made a sound of impatience when a stack of Polaroid pictures slid out of the back.

  Snatching them off the floorboard, he felt his heart miss a beat.

  Jesus. The pictures were grainy, but there was no mistaking the images. Each photo was of a different woman, but they were all bound to the same wooden chair in the middle of the same empty room.

  Women he recognized as the first victims of the Newton Slayer.

  He grimaced, trying to ignore his fury at the unmistakable terror on the women’s faces. It was obvious they were heart-breakingly aware that they were about to die.

  The bastard.

  Instead, he concentrated on looking for any clue that might help him get into the twisted mind of Martin Emerson.

  There wasn’t much.

  The photos were dark, with little to see in the background. Beside each chair was a shallow bowl of water and a cloth, as if Martin had washed the women after stripping them naked. But there was no distinguishing feature that would indicate a precise location.

  It could be the bomb shelter, or it could be a thousand other places.

  Still, something nagged at the edge of his mind.

  He shuffled through the pictures again and again, trying to pinpoint what was bothering him.

  “Damn,” he at last muttered.

  Beside him, Annie pressed a hand to her mouth, her face completely white with horror. “Are these the women who died?” she choked out.

  “Yeah.”

  Belatedly sensing his distraction, she lifted her head with a frown. “Rafe?”

  He gave a short shake of his head. “There’s only six.”

  She blinked in confusion. “Six?”

  He held up the pictures. “He only photographed six of his seven victims.”

  “Oh.” She licked her dry lips. “He was interrupted after the seventh,” she pointed out. “Maybe he didn’t have the time.”

  “True,” Rafe murmured, far from satisfied.

  The pictures were all taken before the women were killed.

  Had he known the sheriff had found his hideout and was in a hurry? Or was there something special about the last victim?

  Oh hell.

  He stiffened, abruptly recalling who exactly the last woman was.

  She was the sheriff’s wife.

  Clearly it’d been Martin’s final act of defiance before disappearing.

  Disturbed by the depth of the man’s depravity, he tossed aside the photos and began reading through the cramped writing that filled the pages of the journal.

  He heard Annie drag in a shaky breath, her hand lifting to push back the thick strands of her hair. “What else?”

  Rafe shrugged, skimming from page to page. “Mostly it’s ramblings about the evils of mothers who don’t love their children.”

  Annie stiffened, her fingers reaching to dig into his arm. “Were all the women who were killed mothers?”

  He gave a slow dip of his head. “Yeah.”

  “God.” She shivered, leaning forward to glance at the pages he was rapidly flipping past. Obviously not fast enough as she caught sight of her name repeated over and over. “What’s that?” she demanded.

  “Just gibberish,” he muttered.

  “It’s about me,” she argued. “What does it say?”

  Rafe swallowed a curse. She was already freaked out enough. He didn’t want to let her know that her brother had devoted the last twenty-two years to his obsession with her.

  “He clearly felt the need to protect you,” he at last conceded.

  She scowled. “Protect me from what?”

  “At a guess, I would say your mother,” he said.

  Her pale face took on an ashen shade as she pressed a hand to her stomach.

  She looked . . . broken.

  “My God,” she breathed.

  Rafe tossed the journals back on the floorboard.

  He’d seen enough to accept that Martin was the most likely candidate to be the Newton Slayer. Later he’d go through the journals in greater detail. Or better yet, have Max travel to Newton and let him take a look.

  The forensic expert had a much greater eye for small details.

  For now, he needed to take care of the woman who was once again dealing with the realization a member of her family was a killer.

  Taking the time to send out two quick texts, he tossed aside his phone and shoved the truck into gear.

  “Hang on, sweetheart,” he murmured, heading toward the winery he’d spotted just down the road.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Hauk strolled into the tiny house to discover Teagan seated at the kitchen table with two computers running a dozen different searches.

  At his entrance, Teagan rose to his feet, stretching his big body as if he was working out the kinks. No surprise. The man had probably been sitting in front of the computers the entire day.

  Once Teagan was on the hunt, he was like a bloodhound.

  Crossing toward the counter, Hauk set down the groceries he’d traveled to LaClede to buy.

  “Any word from Rafe?” he asked as he turned back to watch Teagan scrub a weary hand over his face.

  “They left the clinic,” Teagan said.

  Hauk’s lips twisted.

  He loved Teagan like a brother, but the man had the social skills of a rabid badger.

  “What did they find?” he pressed.

  Teagan shrugged. “Rafe sent a text that said he’s fairly certain Martin Emerson is not only the current Newton Slayer, but that he was responsible for kill
ing the women fifteen years ago. Oh, and that he’d be back with Annie in a few hours.”

  Holy. Shit.

  Hauk gave a shake of his head.

  Unlike his companion, he couldn’t treat the thought of chasing a serial killer like another day at the office.

  This was serious shit that put them all in danger.

  “Do we have a photo of Martin Emerson?” he asked.

  Teagan reached over the computers to shuffle through a tall stack of papers he’d obviously spent the day printing off, pulling out a photo that he shoved into Hauk’s hand.

  Hauk silently studied the enlarged picture of a man with a narrow face, brown, curly hair that tumbled onto his forehead, and guileless blue eyes.

  “This is the most recent I could find,” Teagan told him.

  Hauk felt a flicker of surprise.

  He wasn’t stupid. He knew that killers rarely looked like the bad guys in the movies.

  One of the bastards who’d tortured them while they were imprisoned in the Afghan hellhole had the face of an angel.

  But this man was . . . average.

  So average he would melt into the background, no matter where he was.

  “He’s not the sort of guy a person would remember seeing,” Hauk muttered.

  “Exactly.” Teagan folded his arms over his chest, stretching his black T-shirt to the limits of its endurance. “He could be walking the streets of Newton without anyone giving him a second glance.”

  Hauk narrowed his gaze, studying his friend’s face in the gathering gloom. Teagan always vibrated with a seemingly endless supply of energy, but there was no mistaking the shadows beneath his eyes.

  When the hell was the last time the man had slept?

  “You need to rest, amigo,” Hauk abruptly announced, reaching into his pocket to pull out the old-fashioned key. “Go back to the motel.”

  Teagan gave a shake of his head. “I’ll crash on the couch later.”

  Hauk tossed him the key. “Have you seen that couch? It looks like it was built for a fucking leprechaun.”

  “Then I’ll stretch out on the floor.” Teagan shrugged. “I’ve slept on worse.”

  Hauk hesitated, sensing a tension in his companion that had nothing to do with Rafe or the Newton Slayer.

  “Is there a particular reason you’re hanging around?” he demanded.

  “No point in driving to the motel when Rafe will be back in a few hours,” Teagan said, the smooth excuse tripping off his tongue. “I want to hear what he discovered.”

  “Right.” Hauk leaned against the edge of the counter. “Was Rafe the only one who called?”

  Teagan abruptly smiled, flashing his perfect white teeth. “Hell no. The women of Houston are in collective mourning without their Teagan loving. I’ve spent the past two hours trying to pacify a dozen different women who were hoping to climb into my bed.”

  “Jesus.” Hauk held up his hand. “No need to share.”

  Teagan’s smile widened. “You asked.”

  Hauk wasn’t about to be deflected. “Did Max call?”

  There was a pause, as if Teagan was considering lying, then he gave a lift of one shoulder. “He phoned to check in.”

  It didn’t take a genius to read between the lines. “Was there another note left for me?”

  Teagan grimaced. “A picture.”

  Hauk lifted his brows. His unknown stalker was clearly upping his game. “A picture of what?”

  “A satellite shot of the Afghan village where we were rescued.”

  Hauk hissed in shock.

  He hadn’t even considered the possibility that the nutcase might be a haunting reminder of his time in the Middle East.

  “This is connected to Afghanistan?”

  He tried to conjure up the various enemies he’d made during the war. It was a depressingly long list.

  “That, or . . .” Teagan let his words trail away with a shrug.

  “Or what?”

  “Someone’s trying to make us believe it is.”

  “Shit.” Hauk gave a shake of his head. He didn’t care what grudge the bastard was holding against him, he just wanted him caught so they could concentrate on building ARES into a world-class security business. “Where was the picture left?”

  “It was sent to the office by courier,” Teagan revealed.

  A courier? Hauk frowned. The stalker was becoming more ballsy by the day.

  “Max doing a trace?”

  “Yep.”

  Hauk heaved a resigned sigh. His stalker was a worry for another day.

  For now, they had a serial killer to catch.

  “Then we need to let him do his thing and we need to concentrate on keeping Rafe alive,” he said.

  Teagan’s expression hardened. “Maybe you should think about a vacation.”

  Hauk didn’t hesitate. “No.”

  Teagan made a sound of frustration. “Don’t be such a stubborn bastard.”

  Hauk met his friend glare for glare. He wasn’t trying to be a hero. He was too smart to let macho pride put him in danger.

  But he understood that running from shadows was going to drive him crazy.

  “Look, I don’t know who is harassing me, but I do know if I let him screw with my head, then he’s won,” he said in low, fierce tones. “Got it?”

  Teagan didn’t look happy, but he did give a reluctant nod. “Got it.”

  Hauk’s lips twisted. His friend might accept that Hauk was done discussing the stalker, but he knew there was no way in hell he was going to be able to talk Teagan into returning to the motel to get some much-needed rest.

  Instead he shifted his attention to Rafe’s current troubles. “Did Max have any other intel?” he asked.

  “He got the book and pictures I sent,” Teagan said. “He said that something was wonky.”

  “Wonky?” Hauk frowned. Max was brilliant, but he could be . . . eccentric, to say the least. “What the hell does that mean?”

  Teagan held up his hands. “He didn’t know. Just a feeling he was overlooking something.”

  Now Hauk truly was curious. Max was a scientist. Pure and simple. “I thought Rafe was the only one with gut instincts?”

  Teagan’s lips twitched. “Max would tell you that gut instinct is nothing more than our unconscious mind rationally solving a problem and attempting to bridge the gap with the conscious mind.”

  “Yeah, that sounds like him.” Hauk shoved his fingers through his hair, which was still damp from his recent shower. Christ, he couldn’t wait to get back to his luxurious apartment in Houston. The bathroom in the motel was not only cramped, but the water pressure was epically shitty. “So until he’s figured out what’s wonky, he doesn’t have anything to help us?”

  Teagan glanced at the watch strapped around his wrist. “He’ll let us know when he gets here.”

  Hauk blinked. Well, hell. What else had he missed during his short nap?

  “He’s coming to Newton?”

  “Yep. Rafe texted him to ask if he would meet him here,” Teagan explained. “He has some sort of journals from Martin Emerson he wants Max to take a look at.”

  “Makes sense,” Hauk said. Max had a freaky ability to see what others missed. “What about Lucas?”

  “He said he had lunch with the coroner and that the guy didn’t deny he was under a great deal of pressure to close the case on Don White.”

  “And to make sure it was officially classified as a suicide?”

  Teagan nodded. “The doctor was cagey, but that was the implication.”

  Hmm. It didn’t take a giant leap to guess who was putting the pressure on the coroner.

  “The sheriff?”

  “That was my first thought,” Teagan surprisingly hedged.

  Hauk studied his friend with a flare of puzzlement. “And now?”

  Teagan waved a hand toward the stacks of paper. “Now I know that he wasn’t just plain Don White, but a high-ranking naval officer. And that there are powerful people in very importan
t places who desperately wanted to keep the shit storm that was swirling around him from landing on them.”

  Hauk took a minute to consider his friend’s words.

  It was true.

  He didn’t have Lucas’s experience with the rich and influential, but he understood they played by a different set of rules than most mortal men.

  It really was true that the more you had to lose, the more you were willing to risk.

  Even having a man killed while he was sitting in a jail cell to prevent a scandal from ruining their career.

  “Fair enough,” he murmured.

  A silence fell as they both considered the fact that a decent, potentially innocent man had been so easily sacrificed fifteen years ago.

  It was something they’d both had to endure during their years in the military.

  Wars were a messy, brutal business.

  Sometimes peace was even worse.

  At last Teagan shook off his air of brooding and nodded toward the brown paper sacks that Hauk had placed on the counter. “What’s in the bags?”

  “Ah.” Hauk flashed him a smile of anticipation. “I’m about to treat you to the best damned Swedish meatballs you’ve ever eaten.”

  Teagan widened his eyes. “God almighty. I don’t know whether to be excited or terrified.”

  “I also brought beer.”

  Teagan laughed. “Okay, now I’m excited.”

  Annie was lost in a fog.

  A part of her had already accepted that her brother was responsible for killing at least seven women . . . and likely at least three more, unless they managed to find those poor missing females.

  It wasn’t like she could ignore the evidence that was piled against him.

  His tortured past. His obsession with her. His disappearances from the clinic. The journals filled with pictures of the dead women . . .

  And more importantly, the visions that had plagued her.

  It made sense that she would have some sort of psychic connection to her brother.

  But another part of her couldn’t help but mourn the loss of him.

  Again.

  How could fate possibly be so cruel as to dangle the hope she had at least one family member still alive, only to snatch it away?

  Lost in dark thoughts, it took a minute for Annie to realize that the truck was parked in a nearly empty parking lot.