“She’s a professional. And it was an expensive camera. So yeah, I’d put money on it.”
After the sixth stitch, Kincaid’s spine resembled a two-by-four, but he never uttered another complaint. “Any pictures?” he asked through a clenched jaw.
“Not one.”
“She took the memory card.”
“She took the memory card,” Sam repeated, finishing the knot he was working on.
Under the pretext of examining his handiwork, he assessed his patient discreetly. The man was an enigma who gave nothing away. He never spoke about himself. Not like the other stupid pricks Sam had to endure. And despite a thorough search, he hadn’t been able to discover any reliable records on Grant Kincaid.
Much like Sam himself, the guy was a ghost. Neither one of them existed in the real world. Despite that, he recognized Kincaid for who he was—a well-trained, professional killer. It was the reason he hired him in the first place.
“What happened with Becker?” No great loss to society. The dead man wouldn’t be missed. But for his own reasons, Sam needed to know the why of it.
“He had a track record for disregarding your orders.” Kincaid shrugged a shoulder and grimaced, his fingers feeling around his rib cage. “I gave him fair warning.”
“Meaning?” Sam went back to work with the needle.
“Meaning he was going to rape her.”
A bald statement, and in all likelihood the truth. Sam hadn’t witnessed Becker assault anyone firsthand, but he’d seen the asshole’s rap sheet, and he’d heard the men talk. So, Kincaid had a conscience, or at least, a line he wouldn’t cross.
Sam could respect that. Unless he absolutely had to, he didn’t toy with the people he needed to kill either. Lucky for them, most of his victims never saw him coming. “Unfortunate about the Denali.”
Kincaid grinned even though Sam was in the middle of putting in the final stitch. “Yeah, she was a sweet ride. Too bad the fucker who stole her was smart enough to disable the LoJack.”
“And you’re sure he’s got the photographer too?”
“Yeah, I was in and out, but I definitely heard them together.”
As Sam cut the last suture free, Bill Ryerson burst into the kitchen waving a hot pink Post-it square between two fingers. “Got her, boss.”
Grant’s brainpounded as Bill Ryerson nudged Tom Hood with an elbow and handed him a copy of the photographer’s passport picture.
“She looks friendly,” Hood said.
“As friendly as a tiger in a cage,” Ryerson grumbled.
Grant looked at the piece of paper on the table in front of him. Couldn’t say he disagreed with the hellcat assessment. A beautiful, but extremely pissed-off woman stared down the camera, intense emerald eyes issuing a challenge he doubted most had the nerve to accept.
“Her name is Grace Emerson. She lives in Miami Beach, 1194 Michelan Avenue, unit 102.” Ryerson rhymed off the missing woman’s personal information as if running player stats for Monday Night Football. “DOB on her driver’s license has her turning twenty-six in December. She tops out at five eleven.”
An appreciative whistle from Donnie Francisco caught everyone’s attention. Ryerson snorted and took a seat. “Yeah. She’s taller than you, Frodo. The rest is standard. Green eyes. Brown hair. No record. No spousal unit.”
At the pause, Francisco flipped Ryerson the international sign for “fuck you” and jumped in. “Emerson’s a prize-winning freelance photographer with US Press Corps credentials. She and her business partner”—he glanced at his notes—“Jackson Lowe, specialize in blowing lids off shit all over the planet. Her photographs and Lowe’s articles are everywhere,Associated Press, Reuters, New York Times, Washington Post—the list goes on and on.”
Ryerson tapped his yellow pad. “This girl’s got some serious frequent flyer miles. Passport records show travel to every major conflict zone on the planet. Mali, Syria, Afghanistan, Tajikistan. You name the shithole. She’s been there. Seems like this lady likes it rough.”
“Jesus. What’s she doing here?” Joe Drummond asked, looking to the head of the table for answers.
“She was fishing,” Sam said.
Operating on zero sleep and two thousand milligrams of Tylenol, Grant should be the only person at the table with a question mark on his blank puss. Glancing around, he registered four identical matches.
“Fishing?” Hood repeated.
Sam speared the redneck with a piercing look. “Emerson had no clue why she was here. How could she? Until twelve hours ago, we had four potential meeting locations. Wright was the only person who knew where the meeting would take place from the get-go. Since Emerson didn’t get a picture of Wright, there’s no story. Jackson Lowe is the investigative reporter. Ten to one, he had inside information. He sent her here to collect evidence to corroborate his intel.”
