?ONEYEARAFTERTHE EXPLOSION AT THE NYPD - FBI PROFILER, SAM EAGLE ?
The holding room was spare and functional with concrete walls, steady fluorescent light, and the air kept cold. A metal table sat bolted to the floor between us, and Kane Creed occupied his side of it with a terrifying calm. It made the restraints at his wrists and ankles look like pathetic attempts at keeping him caged. His blond hair had been buzzed down to the scalp, exposing the brutal solidity of his features and the thick muscle filling his orange jumpsuit. Tattoos marked him everywhere, black ink climbing his neck and arms, and my attention caught briefly on the word CREED stamped into his bicep in heavy block letters. His gaze tracked me as I crossed the room, sharp and assessing and openly hostile. He was easier to read than I thought he would be, aggressive somehow without moving an inch. When our eyes finally held, his green and unmistakably lethal, I felt the familiar tension shift into something colder. I had interviewed hundreds of violent men who enjoyed the power they held over others, but beneathKane's hardened, cocky exterior, there was suffering there, dense and unresolved.
I took the chair opposite him. The metal legs scraped against the floor. “Hello, Mr. Creed. I’m Agent Sam Eagle. FBI,” I said, keeping my voice even as I set a thick file folder on the table between us. It was packed with reports and photographs and transcripts from interviews that had gone nowhere. The Creed case had become the bane of my existence between the on-going public outrage and the lack of an evidence trail. Whatever corruption the three criminals were bred from had proven exceptionally difficult to trace.
Kane’s attention dipped to the folder, then lifted back to me. His lips twitched subtly before he raised his hand and scratched at his temple with his middle finger. I felt my brows lift before I could stop them. It was a small thing, juvenile of him really, but it was the most personality I’d seen from any of Creed, and it caught me off guard. Rafe Creed had been an impenetrable wall beyond feeding me what I knew were lies, his interpreter explaining thathewas at fault for it all. A guilty conscience, I was sure. Arden had done the same. It seemed both cared very little about freeing themselves—at least not through the proper pathway and with the help of authorities. Kane so far was different.
I set the recorder on the table and switched it on, the red light blinking to life. Kane watched it with interest. “State your name for the record,” I said.
His gaze pinned me. I understood why the public was enamored with Creed. It was more than the leaked footage of their apparent torture. All four of them, including the diseased Thorne Creed, had an allure that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. “Kane,” he said gruffly.
“Last name?”
He sucked on the inside of his cheek before answering. “Don’t have one.”
“This document here says otherwise. You told the NYPD you were Mr. Creed.”
“Mr. Creed’s dead.”
“Metaphorically?”
“No. Cancer fucked him.”
“I assume you’re referencing…“ I flipped through my notes. “Alexander Creed. Your accomplice gave us that lead when he was questioned at the NYPD. We looked into Ms. Creed’s late husband and found a suspiciously scrubbed clean trail.”
“Yeah? It’s almost like money can really buy you anything or something.”
“I sense a note of passive aggression there.”
“You sure you went to school to get that fancy FBI uniform, agent? Seem kinda uneducated.”
I jotted down:Instigator. Aggressive.
He grinned a little. “Cute. Will you draw hearts around my name later?”
I sighed. “Kane, you do realize what we record here today will be reviewed in front of a jury, correct?”
“Fucking better be.”
I eyed him curiously. “You have a lot to say then?”
“Maybe.” His eyes zeroed in on my tie. “You wear that around, Arden?”
“Why?”
He cleared his throat. “No reason.” He forced a cruel smile.
I adjusted my collar. “Let’s refocus. Rafe Creed. He told the NYPD quite the story about his childhood.”
“Yeah. Guy’s got a bit of a bleeding heart. Big, ole murdering teddy bear. I miss that fucker…Shit, can you take that out?”
“No.” I adjusted my notepad.
“It was…a joke. The murdering thing.”
“Uh-huh.” I tapped my pen. “Now I’ve reviewed your case thoroughly, Kane, and I’m going to be blunt with you: there’s no way out. You likely will have two options as your verdict: life in prison or death row. You murdered sixty-seven people at Hotel Viktoria—”
“It said Viktor,” he interrupted. “The hotel sign.”
