As he flew out of his neighborhood, he called Rebel.
“Hey, brother,” Rebel answered.
“Slash has been taken.” Carrera rattled off the address. “It’s a house in Arlington. I’m on my way. ETA fifteen. Can your team?—”
“Putting out the call,” Rebel said. “Brit and I will suit up.”
Carrera pressed on the gas. Despite the energy flowing through him, he stayed calm. Years of training had taught him that anxiety only made things worse. He focused on the road, on the traffic, pushing to get to Russell’s as fast as he could.He slowed at the red light, checked both ways, then floored it through the intersection.
I’m on my way, babe. Fight with everything you got.
Slash
Slash slowed her racing thoughts.Panicking would make everything worse. She was alone, trapped, and without her Glock.
Slash eyed her phone. No signal.
Fuck.
She activated her phone’s flashlight, turned off the recorder.
As she scanned her surroundings, disbelief washed over her. The room looked like a mini-command center. A desk sat facing a wall where four monitors hung. She tapped on the keyboard and mouse. The screens lit up, four different scenes started playing, the sound muted.
Three of the videos were from the Blue Suit Club. Each screen showed a different stripper dancing on one of its stages. She recognized all three women. Both Billiawitz sisters and Deb Weaver. The fourth screen was replaying Alexandra Wilde’s news story about the women going missing from the club.
“What the fuck,” she said.
On the other side of the room, a bulletin board covered the entire wall. On it were yellowed newspaper clippings. Walking over, she read the headline for the first article.
“Ohgod,” she blurted as she studied the photo that accompanied the article. “No way.”
“Way,” said a harsh voice behind her.
She spun around. Greg stood behind her, his face angled down, evil eyes drilling into her.
As the stare-down continued, a sense of determination filled her soul. She wasnotgoing to die at the hands of this insane monster. Was he Russell? Was he Greg?
Confidence rose to the surface. She didn’t give a fuck who he was. She was going to take him out, even if it meant dying in the process.
He pointed a gun at her. “Hello, Slash. Welcome, welcome. Let me give you the grand tour.”
He flipped a wall switch, and red recessed lights filled the room with an eerie glow. Then, he gestured with the gun toward the command center across the room.
“This is where I would sit, night after night, trolling for my next victim,” he explained.
“Very impressive,” she said.
He nodded. “Yes, it was ingenious. By day, I’m Russell Fitzpatrick, restaurant owner, future United State Congressman, then one day… President of the United States.” A faraway look softened his gaze. “I’m so close to winning the congressional election, I can taste victory.”
“And how does victory taste?”
A narcissist like Russell needed his ego stroked. She needed to disarm him by playing the damsel in distress. She wanted him to think he had all the power. But he didn’t. Despite the gun in his hand, she was well equipped to fight back.
“Victory tastes like more,” he said. “One victory would lead to another and another and another.”
“But then, there’s Greg,” she said. “Who are you now?”
“I’m Russell,” he said. “Greg is the name I gave to my pain-in-the-fucking-ass GM?—”
