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  She left WCF and stepped into the still, chilly air. She loved walking and didn’t even mind the cold that much—though she still missed sunny, temperate So-Cal. She pulled her scarf up to cover her ears and neck and walked briskly toward the Metro.

  A chill brought goose-bumps to her arms, like fingernails on a chalkboard. She told herself it was the cold, but she knew better—the feeling of being watched was far too familiar. She faked a cough and stepped to the side so she could discreetly observe the people walking around her, the traffic on the street, the dinner crowd eating in the restaurant on the other side. A man passed her, nodded a greeting, and kept walking.

  She sighed, frustrated with herself for being paranoid. For six years she’d never been able to shake the sensation that people were looking at her, that they knew what had happened and somehow blamed her for her fate. The sensations had faded over time, but Lucy doubted they would ever disappear completely.

  Her past would always be chasing her, no matter what she did.

  “Suck it up,” she whispered to herself.

  You’re about to put a rapist back in prison. You have a lot to celebrate.

  With that thought, she continued toward the Metro station, hyperaware of the people around her.

  BY ALLISON BRENNAN

  Love Me to Death

  Original Sin

  Carnal Sin

  Sudden Death

  Fatal Secrets

  Cutting Edge

  Killing Fear

  Tempting Evil

  Playing Dead

  Speak No Evil

  See No Evil

  Fear No Evil

  The Prey

  The Hunt

  The Kill

  Love Me to Death is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Ballantine Books Mass Market Original

  Copyright © 2010 by Allison Brennan

  Excerpt from Kiss Me, Kill Me copyright © 2010 by Allison Brennan

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design: Scott Biel

  Cover photo: Roy McMahon/Stock Image/Getty Images

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  BALLANTINE and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Kiss Me, Kill Me by Allison Brennan. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  eISBN: 978-0-345-52040-1

  www.ballantinebooks.com

  v3.1

  For Charlotte Herscher and Dana Isaacson, my amazing and insightful editors.

  Your high expectations, sage advice, steadfast guidance—and Dana’s ruthless pencil—are always needed, and very much appreciated

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would not have been able to write this book without the kindness of experts who were willing to answer numerous questions—some common, some definitely unusual. I’ve probably taken some liberties with the facts, but I tried hard to keep the spirit and truth intact.

  Authors Terry Spear and Kathy Crouch for information about the United States Air Force; the two soldiers from Travis Air Force Base who let me pick their brains about the USAF and the Ravens between SWAT training exercises at McClellan AFB (you know who you are!); SaVern Fripp with the D.C. Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, who graciously responded to my emails with terrific imagination; and my longtime friend Dora Kingsley, a California transplant to Georgetown.

  A special thank-you to the Sacramento FBI Citizens Academy and fellow alumni for indulging my questions—and detours—during our trip to Quantico, FBI headquarters, and Georgetown; and especially the dedicated SAC Drew Parenti, and FBI SA and media rep Steve Dupre who joined us and made it all happen. I appreciate your time and answers to even my oddest questions.

  I especially want to thank the volunteers and staff at the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children who took the time to give our group an extensive and informative tour.

  Stories may be written in solitude, but they are produced by many. The Ballantine team is truly exceptional in the industry. From editing to copyediting to production to cover design to marketing to publicity and the entire sales force, I’m lucky to have such a great group of people backing up my books. I particularly want to thank Scott Shannon, Kate Collins, and Gina Wachtel for their support and enthusiasm. And I would be remiss if I didn’t thank my agent, Dan Conaway at Writer’s House, who has taken over the reins with both vision and class.

  Where would any of us be without the unconditional love and support of our friends and family? Toni, Rocki, and Karin—you guys stuck with me in good times and bad and I don’t know what to say because thank-you seems so inadequate. How about I’m buying the next round when we all meet again?

  My husband, Dan, who picks up the slack when deadlines loom, thank you for understanding my long hours and wandering mind. My kids—thank you for being you, keeping me focused on what’s important, and occasionally making me stop everything just to play games. And of course my mom—wouldn’t be here without her!

  Finally, my readers—who love the Kincaids as much as I do. Thank you for the letters and emails and enthusiasm for Lucy’s series. I hope you enjoy her stories as much as I enjoy writing them.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Excerpt from Kiss Me, Kill Me

  What lies behind you and what lies in front of you, pales in comparison to what lies inside of you.

  —RALPH WALDO EMERSON

  PROLOGUE

  One Week Ago

  This was Roger Morton’s big chance—his only chance—to get out of the country and re-create the life he used to have. All because of a box of cheap jewelry.

  The marina was closed this late at night, but Roger still kept to the shadows as he walked toward the docks. He’d pic
ked this place because it was mostly open and flat; he could see who approached. Tonight, the marina was empty of people, covered boats monuments to warmer days. The security lights over the docks provided the only illumination; it was too foggy to see D.C. on the other side of the Potomac.

  He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, wishing he had a warmer coat. It was friggin’ cold. He couldn’t wait to grab his money and get out of this miserable town. He already had a place lined up in South America. Even after six years in prison, Roger had contacts. Once he had the money in hand, he’d be sitting pretty.

  Six long years behind bars. His attorney had said he was lucky to get away with only that after the attempted murder of a federal agent and felony rape. Six years in the federal pen was lucky? He’d spilled his guts, given the cops everything they wanted, admitted to everything—well, he had left out the crucial detail that he’d killed one of their own people. That fact he’d most certainly kept to himself, thanks very much. Anyway, the Feds didn’t have anything implicating him—no gun, no witnesses, nothing. It had been easy enough to lay blame for that escapade on someone else.

  Six years of his life gone. For cooperating.

  Everything had changed while he was in the pen, and he was damned if he was going to sit around working as a car mechanic making chump change. Not when he knew how to make real money. The kind of serious dough that would set him up in his previous lifestyle, the kind that bought freedom. In prison, his life had been on hold. Now he had the chance to start over.

  Adam had spouted off that Roger was the dumb one. Well, Adam was dead—how smart did that make him?

  Roger cautiously approached the meeting spot on the far side of the dry docks. The air coming off the Potomac was so damn cold he wished they could have found a bar to make the exchange. Except Roger couldn’t be seen in his old stomping grounds. He had to keep a low profile. Make the exchange on neutral ground. Of course, he’d left his half of the bargain back at his motel. No fucking way was he going to have his new partner double-cross him. First, he’d get the money, then he’d tell him where to find the jewelry. He wasn’t an idiot; cops were bastards and Roger wouldn’t put it past any of them to set him up. But he’d vetted this guy, demanding to see some of the action he planned on sharing with Roger’s new venture. No way he was a cop.

  Roger had enjoyed the digital files of young women getting screwed every which way. Some were experienced actresses; others were junkies desperate for a quick buck to pay for their next fix. Some of the recordings—the best, in his opinion—were those where the chicks didn’t even know they were being filmed. Amateur whores—Roger saw the marketing potential for that campaign, practically salivating over the dollars he’d rake in. Straight porn wasn’t illegal, but the money was in edgier areas—hidden cameras, underage teens, fantasy rape that wasn’t necessarily consensual.

  When there was this kind of money involved, he knew not to bring the merchandise without cash up front. All of it. They’d tried to pull a fast one on him yesterday; they’d learned real quick they weren’t dealing with a novice. Adam had been a prick, but he’d taught Roger the tricks of the trade. Only now, with Adam six feet under, Roger wouldn’t have to take orders or get a small percentage of the take. He’d run the website, handle the back end, and his new partner would provide the sex tapes. Fifty-fifty split. Roger was confident the cash would stream in fast, and he’d learned from Adam how to manage the credit cards of their customers and funnel money to offshore accounts. Best of all, without Adam around, Roger wouldn’t have to worry anymore about the snuff films that had brought the Feds down on them in the first place. If Adam hadn’t gotten his ya-yas off strangling the women he screwed, they’d never have been busted. Rape was a crime, but murder was a whole other story.

  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.

  ONE
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  Present Day

  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.