“No cowboy shit.”

Andy’s words replayed in Macy’s head as she stared into the reporter’s camera and microphone.

Macy reminded herself that Bennett had been missing fifteen hours, and if she were still alive, her life expectancy wouldn’t be long.

When Sullivan beckoned Nevada back to the office, she made her decision to act. She knew this was the kind of move that would not win her a place on the profiler’s team in Quantico. This move was going to find her permanently chained to an FBI department housed in a basement somewhere in Podunk, America. Of course, all this was assuming she still had a job.

“Special Agent Crow, do you have an update?” Stuart asked.

“Can you broadcast live if I have an announcement?” Macy asked.

“I can.”

“Perfect. Let me know when you’re ready.”

He raised his phone and turned on a social media live application. He nodded and then introduced her.

“Deputy Brooke Bennett was taken from her home last night. I believe her abduction is directly linked to Tobi Turner’s murder, the three rapes that occurred in Deep Run in the summer of 2004, and the disappearance of Cindy Shaw that same year.” She held up the sketch Spencer had made. “We are currently searching for a white male in his midthirties. He uses red rope to bind his victims, and when he is capable, he resorts to sexual assault. Though he is wearing a mask, there might be something familiar about the man’s eyes. One woman just came forward after hearing our last news conference, and I’m hoping there are more individuals out there who may know something about this man. If you have a neighbor or colleague who fits this description and you’ve noticed unusual behavior, contact the Deep Run sheriff’s office immediately.” She paused and focused on the camera. “I’ve done a profile of this individual. He thinks of himself as weak and inferior to other males and has a desperate need to prove he can win. He is most likely impotent and uses violence to compensate for his shortcomings.”

“Agent Crow, do you have any leads on his identity?”

“Several,” she said. “And we’re receiving more by the hour.”

Challenging this killer openly was the kind of action that would get his attention. With luck, he’d shift his focus from Bennett to her.

She answered several more questions and then turned back toward the station. Nevada was standing outside the door.

And he looked pissed.

He saw Macy Crow’s interview minutes after it aired. At first he was amused. Who did she think she was? Years had passed, and he’d never been caught. Did she think she’d show up in town and just catch him?

But there was something in her voice that grated on his nerves and forced him to watch it again. And again. The more he watched the replay, the angrier he got.

“Shit, she is just baiting you,” he said to himself. “Don’t fall for it. All the cops have is a lame sketch.”

“He thinks of himself as weak and inferior.”

Macy’s words echoed in his head.

He was not inferior. He could beat her anytime, anywhere.

“Dumb bitch.” She thought she was going to catch him. She thought she was in control. But he was in control.

He had the power!

“He thinks of himself as weak and inferior.”

Again her words stoked his fury.

That pompous bitch! He reached for his phone and dialed a familiar number. When he heard a gruff greeting, he said, “I need you now.”

“This is bullshit. I told you I can’t keep doing this.”

He gripped the phone, clinging to the reins of his temper. “One more time.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“I mean it this time.”

Sucking in a breath, Brooke suddenly awoke. Her hands and feet were bound, making it awkward for her to push into a sitting position. She searched the darkness broken only by a light filtering under the cracks of a now-closed door.

She raised her bound hands to her throat and swallowed. The insides of her chest and throat burned as if they had been scraped raw. She tilted her head back against the wall to open her airway. She drew in deep breaths until she could think clearly.

She reached for the button on her waistband, decided whoever this guy was, he’d not raped her. Yet.

He’d taken her shoes, belt, and all the decorative pins she could have used as a weapon.

Her eyes adjusted to the dim light, and she could make out that she was in the same small room. The last time, she had barely had time to study it before he had arrived, but now she had a chance to assess.

It was not a basement, but a room. She searched the perimeter for a window, a grate, or a sharp edge to cut her bindings. When she found nothing that appeared to be of help, she reached for the bindings around her ankles and pulled hard, but the knots were locked down tight. She kept wedging her fingers into the bindings and pulling until a small section of rope gave way and she was able to unknot her ankles. Her heart pounding, she bit into the bindings around her wrists, trying to loosen them. She lost track of the time as she pulled at the knots and worked her hands back and forth until they came free.

When the red rope fell to the floor, she rubbed her raw wrists and wiggled her numb fingers until some of the circulation returned.

Outside, approaching footsteps stopped her cold. She closed her eyes and lay very still. All she needed was to place one strike to his knee or midsection. She had a chance of disabling him. Maybe then she could punch his throat or nose. She wanted to inflict the maximum damage. All this was assuming that her aim was true. If she missed, she’d just piss him off, and when he played his strangulation game, he could take it too far and kill her.

Holding her breath, she readied to kick. Floorboards shifted. But he never entered the room. Her heart beat in her throat as she waited for him. But the footsteps retreated.

Brooke quietly stood, her fists raised and body poised to fight. The muffled sounds of angry male voices reached the room. She strained to hear what the men were saying, but couldn’t make out the words. Hoping her jailer was distracted, she unclenched her fingers and twisted the doorknob. To her surprise, it turned, and the door opened. Her heart pulsed in her throat as she thought about the possibility of getting free. Then she hesitated. This was a trap. It had to be. What was he luring her toward?

However, she made the decision to go, knowing that staying assured her death. She opened the door and peered down the hallway. Slowly she moved, one careful step at a time, and made her way into a small living room. She looked around, ready to see him watching or lunging toward her. But she was alone in the room that was now bathed in shadows. She heard only silence. Flexing her fingers, waiting for an attack, she hurried toward the front door.

Outside she heard two men arguing.

“What the fuck have you done?” She recognized the voice. It was Bruce Shaw.

Whoever he was talking to spoke in low, deep tones, and it was impossible to hear his response or to identify him. Who was here with him? God help her if there were two.

“You’re talking about killing a cop this time. Her disappearance is all over the news. It’s a matter of time before the cops figure all this out.”

For a beat, there was only silence. And then a gunshot fired and she flinched. She stepped back from the door, searching the simple living room for something she could use as a weapon. Her heart pounded in her chest. Think, Brooke, think!

Outside, she heard one of the men mumble a curse. She peered out the window and saw a dark figure dragging another man, but in the darkness she couldn’t tell who was who. She waited, listened until the figures vanished around the side of the house.

If she could get out the door and make it to the woods, she had a chance. Gritting her teeth, she stepped out onto the front stoop. Her toes curled.

The half moon hung over her, and cold air whipped through the trees. Ahead were woods. And somewhere in the distance she heard running water.

But as she took a step, a shadow lunged from the darkness and grabbed her by the back of the neck. He slammed her hard against the house.

“Crow thinks I’m inferior. Do you?”

Fury, not fear, rolled inside her. She should try to calm him. She should find a way to talk him down. Instead, she simply said, “Yes.”

Her head hit the siding, and she was so stunned she could barely stand. He dragged her back into the house, forcing her to stumble forward into the living room. He slammed the front door and then dragged her back to her prison room. He was on top of her again, squeezing her throat.

“I am in control,” he said. “Me. Not you. Not him. Not her. Me!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Thursday, November 21, 11:00 p.m.