Authors: Allison Brennan
All Roger needed was some up-front cash to set up the offshore operation. It didn’t matter that he was on parole; he’d skip out and never again step on American soil. That took more money than he could make working
fifty-hour weeks at his cousin’s car dealership changing oil. Originally, he’d demanded twenty thousand for startup costs, but when they expressed interest in Adam’s old jewelry box, Roger doubled the buy-in.
Roger’s contacts had given him the thumbs-up on the players involved, but he still hadn’t liked any of the meeting places they suggested—too great a chance of being caught on a damn security camera. He’d told them the marina. Secluded, but close to everything and best of all, no surveillance cameras, few hiding places, and no witnesses. He was taking a risk, but the potential rewards were well worth it. Besides, using his old contacts, Roger had tracked these guys down. It wasn’t as though they’d been looking for him. He’d kept a low profile since getting out six months ago.
He’d rather be dead than go back.
He spotted his new partner approaching the rendezvous point. The man was wearing jeans, a dark windbreaker, and a Yankees baseball cap—just like he’d said. Roger glanced around, saw no one else, and waited for the man to reach him.
“Hey,” Roger said casually, sizing up the other man.
“The box?” The man’s voice was raspy, as if he’d been a two-pack-a-day smoker for decades, though he didn’t smell of cigarettes now.
“You got my advance?” Roger was waiting for entrapment clues—such as him explicitly saying that he was using the money to set up an illegal porn website—but the guy didn’t go into details. An agreement could mean anything in court. Sure, he was in the marina after dark—a misdemeanor, and he could technically be thrown back in prison for even the smallest slip-up—but they still couldn’t get him on anything big.
“I want the jewelry box and everything inside.”
“I want to see the money first.” Did this guy think he was an idiot?
Tensing as the man reached into his pocket, Roger’s hand moved to the gun in his waistband, but he didn’t need to use it. His new partner handed him an envelope.
Roger frowned. “A little thin for forty g’s. This isn’t what we agreed to.”
“You were supposed to bring the box.”
“You were supposed to give me half the cash yesterday. What kind of partnership is this if you can’t live up to your end of the deal?”
“Open it. You’ll understand.”
Cautious, but curious, Roger opened the unsealed envelope and removed a folded piece of paper. It was blank, with a faded photo tucked between the folds. A beautiful teenage girl with long black hair and large, sultry brown eyes stared at him in the faint light.
His instincts had him reacting almost before he recognized the dead girl, but not fast enough. Roger dropped the photo and paper and went for his gun, but the man moved faster, karate-kicking his wrist. In the faint glow from the dim lights over the dry dock, for the first time Roger saw the man’s face dead-on.
Another ghost from his past.
“I wish I could be the one to put the bullet in your head,” the man said before slamming Roger face first into the hard-packed dirt. A burst of pain told him his nose might be broken. He swallowed a thick wad of blood.
Coughing, Roger tried to rise, but the traitor kicked him between the legs three times with steel-toed boots. Excruciating pain froze him. It was worse than when
he’d been raped in prison. And then, he’d had his revenge. This time he wouldn’t get the chance. Panic and self-preservation rose with the pain as he tried to stand, only to be knocked back down.
“Mr. Morton.” The quiet, cultured voice didn’t belong to his attacker. Roger hadn’t heard another man approach, and the idea that two—or more—men stood over him made him tremble even as he tried to get up one last time.
A boot in his balls had him seeing nothing. He almost didn’t hear the slide of the nine-millimeter.
“I wish this hurt you more, but in this case expediency is more important than my personal satisfaction at seeing you suffer. Rot in Hell, bastard.”
Roger Morton was dead before he registered the sound of the gunshot.
Brad Prenter thought he had a get-out-of-jail-free card, but Lucy Kincaid would set him straight.
She glanced at the clock on her computer and frowned. It was nearly six, and she’d promised her brother Patrick she wouldn’t be late after canceling their dinner plans twice last week.
“Come on, come on,” she muttered as she split the large screen into six open chat windows that she could monitor simultaneously. “You’ve been here every day this week at five. Why are you late tonight?”
Out of the corner of her eye, Lucy saw
Women and Children First!
director Frances Buckley walking toward her desk. Fran had retired from the FBI nine years ago after putting in twenty-five years, and though she was sixty, she looked and acted a decade younger. After Lucy had started volunteering for WCF three years ago, Fran quickly became her mentor. She’d written a glowing recommendation letter for Lucy’s FBI job application and had helped her prepare for both the written and verbal tests. And for the last three months, Fran had helped Lucy cope with the anxiety of waiting to hear
whether she’d made it to the next stage in the hiring process.
Lucy didn’t allow herself to think that she could be rejected. Still, she knew the process could take months, and not knowing either way was frustrating. For the last six years, all she’d wanted was to be an FBI agent. Everything she’d done—her double major in psychology and computer science; her internships with the U.S. Senate, the Arlington County Sheriff’s Department, and now the D.C. Medical Examiner’s Office; her volunteer work at high schools and here at WCF—was calculated to help her get into the FBI. She hoped the hiring panel could see that what she’d learned would make her a strong addition to the Bureau.
Fran put a hand on the back of Lucy’s chair. “Tick-tock. It’s six o’clock, Lucy.”
“Five more minutes. Prenter isn’t online yet, and he always logs on in the late afternoon.”
“Life happens. You can’t sit here all night waiting for him. You have a life, too. Don’t you have dinner plans with your brother tonight?”
“Yes, but—”
“Lucy, Prenter will be here tomorrow.”
She said, “I have some time—twenty minutes and I’ll make it to Clyde’s by seven.”
“If you sprint to the Metro.”
“I’m a fast runner.” She smiled at Fran, mentally crossing her fingers.
The older woman shook her head but returned the smile. “I’ll pull the plug if you’re still here at six-fifteen.”
That wasn’t an idle threat—Fran had literally cut the power before. Lucy crossed her heart with her right
index finger and blew Fran a kiss before she turned back to the fast-moving chat rooms.
WCF had a secure bank of computers, as secure and untraceable as any in the FBI, where they investigated the illegal sexual exploitation of women and children. When they collected enough evidence to identify a victim or perpetrator, they turned over the files to the FBI or local police for further investigation.
Aside from their primary charter, WCF tracked paroled sex offenders. By law, felony sex offenders had to register with local law enforcement after release from prison and with every subsequent change of residency.
Yet, depending on the state, on average half of all sex offenders required to register either never did or moved and didn’t re-register. These parolees were the most likely to commit another sex-related crime, and therefore were the target of WCF’s tracking project. Creatures of habit, these guys often made small changes to their online profiles but still targeted the same types of children or women; they thought because they’d moved to another town or state, they wouldn’t be discovered. And if it were solely up to law enforcement, the predators would be right: they’d get away with it. There wasn’t enough time or manpower to track down every sex offender who skipped registration.
For her master’s thesis, Lucy had deduced that while most sexual predators may modify their behavior after serving time in prison, usually these changes were superficial. They could still be identified by vigilant trackers by scientifically breaking down the creeps’ past activities: how they were caught, coupled with their victim
preference—which rarely changed after incarceration. Lucy’s research told her that predators could still be spotted even if they changed their location or online identities. Since graduating, she had continued to develop her database to incorporate all known data as well as a psychological scale that factored in minor behavioral changes. The more information she added, the more powerful—and effective—the system became.
Groups like WCF could use their private resources and volunteers to identify predators online and, if a parolee, it was much easier to put a predator back in prison if he violated parole. Lucy’s database, though still technically in beta testing, had been instrumental in finding and tracking parolees most likely to reoffend, resulting in more than a dozen arrests to date.
For the past two weeks, Lucy had been working on one specific parolee, Brad Prenter, a convicted rapist who’d been paroled after serving only half his time. Normally, WCF targeted predators who hunted children and skipped town after parole, but Prenter was a special case. He used homemade GHB—Liquid X—on his dates. Mixed with alcohol, GHB was especially dangerous. The victim who’d sent him to jail—a Virginia college freshman he’d met because he was the teaching assistant in her chemistry class—had had the wherewithal to text her roommate when she started feeling strange. Otherwise Prenter would most likely have gotten away with his crime.
During the investigation leading up to his trial, authorities learned that Prenter had been suspected of raping another girl in his hometown of Providence, Rhode Island, but there had not been enough evidence
to go to trial. He’d given that victim such a high dose of GHB that it had left her in a coma. Due to a delayed investigation—the police weren’t immediately called, because the hospital didn’t find signs of forced sex and didn’t initially test for date-rape drugs—Prenter had time to dispose of his home chemistry lab.
There had been circumstantial evidence that Prenter targeted other victims online. He’d hook up, drug and rape them, then drop them at their house. Waking up, the women remembered very little. The only reason Prenter’s name came up in another investigation was because a friend of the victim had seen him with her the night she was raped.
But even in that case, there had been no physical evidence, and the victim didn’t remember anything. Prenter’s house and car were searched, but the investigators found no GHB.
Two weeks ago, the research arm of WCF identified Prenter’s new online persona, and based on his profile he was living in northern Virginia. He had registered as a sex offender and received permission to attend college at American University. He trolled a particular dating website to hook up in the flesh, so Lucy created a fictional character that met Prenter’s personal criteria: a petite, blond college girl who liked running, rock music, and live bands. It didn’t matter that Lucy was tall with black hair, her job was to draw him to a public location where he’d have the opportunity to violate his parole in full view of law enforcement. It had worked many times during her three years volunteering for WCF, and Prenter was already hooked. Lucy just had to reel him in.
And when she did? One of WCF’s volunteer off-duty cops would be there to cuff him and haul him back to prison.
Justice would be
fully
served. All three to five years.
For too long she’d felt helpless. Even with all the self-defense training, her education, and her dreams, Lucy had felt she needed to be doing
more
. Interning with Senator Jonathon Paxton on the Judiciary Committee had been interesting, but when he introduced her to Fran at WCF, it had changed Lucy’s life. She was a far stronger, better person today because of the work she did for WCF. She could almost believe she was a normal, average woman.
Even her brother Patrick had admitted the last time they’d talked that Lucy was back to her old self.
Perhaps not her
old
self. She was no longer the naïve teenager she’d been six years ago when she trusted too easily and thought she was invincible. But she’d finally let go of most of the pain and anger. Some righteous anger, the outrage for injustices in the world, kept her focused on what was important. Saving the innocent. Stopping criminals. Her inner drive was so strong that if she didn’t get into the FBI, she’d find something else in criminal justice. She could go to law school and become a prosecutor. Or join a local police force. Or even go to medical school and become a psychiatrist specializing in crime victims.
But instead she wanted to be on the cutting edge of federal law enforcement in cybercrime.
Talking to predators like Prenter, even in the anonymity of a secure chat room, made her physically ill, but it was for a greater good and taught her more about cybercrime than years in the classroom.
Lucy had done her part to entice Prenter—playing coy and sexy, never suggesting they meet but always giving him the opportunity. He’d asked once, early on in their online chatting, about “hooking up” somewhere, but she’d declined. If she made it too easy for him, he’d smell a cop. And if the case ever came to trial—highly unlikely because he was a registered sex offender on parole—WCF would need to testify that Prenter had plenty of opportunities to walk away, that he actively pursued his intended victim.
The second time he asked, she again declined, but hinted that she was interested, just busy. She’d never suggest a meeting, because WCF played by the same rules as law enforcement—don’t give them a chance to cry entrapment. Be as passive as possible while still giving the pervert the hints he needed to convince himself that he could have sex with the person behind the computer.
At 6:10, Lucy’s computer softly beeped.
aka_tanya
received a private message from
bradman703
.