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  “Come with us, Miss Davenport.”

  She was escorted to a limo. Why wasn’t she struggling to get away? The thought occurred to her too late.

  Shit.

  “Listen closely and you’ll make it home alive. Don’t and you’ll wind up floating in the Potomac.”

  The inside of the car was dark, and she couldn’t make out the face of the man speaking. Fear kept her from turning to the man at her side, so she just nodded.

  “You’re going to stay away from the Doll House and stop asking nosy questions, especially about Corbit Upwood. I’m sure you can find something else to write about at that paper of yours.” The voice had a thick Hispanic accent. Dino looked like he was possibly Hispanic. Was she talking to Dino Carranza?

  The limo stopped at a red light and Carrie wondered if she could make it to the door and roll out like they do in the movies. Probably not. As she was considering her options, something hit the back of the car and jerked Carrie forward nearly launching her off the seat.

  “Son of a bitch,” the man next to her said.

  The privacy panel lowered, and the driver spoke.

  “Sorry, Mr. Carranza. He hit us pretty hard. The cops are probably on their way.”

  Mr. Carranza jumped out of the car and Carrie watched out the window as he disappeared around a corner.

  Someone tapped on the driver’s window and Carrie heard him lower it.

  “I’m so sorry mister,” a voice said.

  “I’m sure it’s OK. Let’s have a look at the damage,” the driver said, opening his door.

  Her captor opened the limo and climbed out to speak to whoever hit him. He was pulling out his wallet as he did. Perhaps he was going to try and pay the guy off. The door nearest her opened and someone dragged her from the car. Fuck. Whoever pulled her from the car crouched with his arm around her waist and put his other hand over her mouth.

  “Run around the corner as fast as you can. A cab is waiting for you. Take this number. Call Peter Mercer. You can trust him.”

  Then the stranger was jerking her to her feet and whispering for her to run as he shoved a scrap of paper in her hand. As if on auto pilot, she took off running around the corner.

  Sure enough, a cab was waiting for her.

  • • •

  Carrie’s hands trembled as she unlocked her apartment. When she was inside, she leaned against the door and inhaled deeply, willing her heart to stop beating so fast. Whatever she had stumbled into was even more serious than she first imagined.

  Twice, she had picked up the phone to call the police or Peter’s number but wasn’t sure what to tell either of them. Her story sounded ludicrous when she went over it in her head. It also occurred to her to tell Tom what happened, but he was likely to bench her if she did.

  No, she needed to keep quietly investigating until she knew what she was dealing with. Only then would she call Peter or bring Tom in. Stripping off the tiny dress she was wearing, she made her way into the shower hoping the hot water would relax her enough that she could sleep.

  Sleep came, but it wasn’t as restful as Carrie would have liked. She spent the night being chased in her dreams and woke every hour or so with her heart racing and her face and back drenched in sweat. Finally, at six in the morning she dragged herself back into the shower before pulling on slacks and a blouse.

  By seven, she was sitting at her desk digging into Dino Carranza. Most of her basic internet searches came up empty, but she found mention of his name in some police reports an hour later. No charges had ever been filed against him, he was just listed as a person of interest in multiple crimes that ranged from assault, to rape, to drug trafficking.

  When the morning mail arrived, she was eyeballs deep in Corbit Upwood’s public travel history. The manila envelope with no postmark caught her eye first, and she set the rest of the mail to the side to tear into it.

  A note was on top of the contents.

  Have you called Peter Mercer yet? He’s a good man. He’ll help you. Show him this package. I’ll be in touch soon. I’m sorry I can’t just come to you directly, but it’s dangerous and lives depend on my anonymity.

  RIP

  Along with a stack of photos, there was a thin notebook about five by seven inches. Inside appeared to be a date log of some kind. Flipping pages, she realized that whoever owned this book had been tracking something. There were names next to each entry. Most appeared to be female, but she saw the initials D.C. and C.U. a few times as well. Dino Carranza and Corbit Upwood? Or was D.C. the city? It was difficult to tell.

  The tipster’s question kept nagging at the corners of her mind. Have you called Peter Mercer yet? Not Agent Mercer. Something told her this person knew Peter on a more personal level.

  She wanted to call him, but she wasn’t sure what she was going to say. Then she reached the last entry in the book and there was a note beneath it.

  These women have gone missing, but nobody is digging into them. Dig into their disappearances and I’ll send you more information when I have it.

  Missing women certainly raised the stakes. Flipping back through the log, she noted that there were no last names. That was going to make the search for these women harder. Especially if they were strippers from the Doll House. If that was the case, it was unlikely that these were their real names, and she felt like she couldn’t go back there anytime soon. Not if she wanted to stay alive. She fully believed her captors last night when they warned her that she might wind up floating in the Potomac.

  Grabbing the envelope, she stuffed it in her laptop case and picked up her energy drink. A glance down the hall told her that Tom was out. She didn’t feel up to talking to him about this yet. Not until she had a game plan anyway.

  When she got to the metro stop, she was grateful that the train was arriving. She had spent the entire walk there glancing over her shoulder. Next time she was taking a cab. Though she had proven that those weren’t difficult to follow either.

  Without realizing what she had done, she rode the train to the stop closest to the Doll House Cabaret. Might as well see if there was anything to see. She told herself she would stay back, maybe sit in the deli that was across the street and see if she could spot anyone suspicious going in. The club wasn’t open yet, so she didn’t expect to see much, but if it was the front for a criminal enterprise, it would make sense that much of the criminal activity would happen while the place was closed.

  When she got to the deli, she went in and ordered a sandwich then went and sat on the bench outside. Ignoring the sandwich, she pulled the manila envelope out of her bag and flipped through the pictures. Some of them were from the Doll House, but others were in unfamiliar places, many of which looked like strip clubs. All of them contained either a girl or Upwood and Dino Carranza. Were these the girls who had gone missing? After flipping each photo, she would glance up to see if there was any activity across the street. So far, nothing.

  The last photo made little sense to Carrie. It was of what looked like a rest area with a picnic table and a restroom in the background. Why would he send her a picture with nobody in it? Did he want her to find this place? She flipped it over. There was handwriting on the back.

  Call Peter Mercer.

  This guy really wanted her to call Peter. His number was sitting in her bag, but still she resisted and went back to watching the strip club across the street.

  Someone sat next to her, and she jumped. It was Carla.

  “You need to stay away from here. I like you, but you’re going to get yourself killed.”

  Carrie fought the urge to scoot away from the bartender. She had a feeling it was Carla who had put something in her drink last night.

  “What’s going on Carla? If it’s illegal, we can go to the police.”

  Carla was shaking her head. “No. No cops. Stay out of this. I’m warning you. You don’t want to stick your nose in here. Not only will you get yourself killed, you’re putting me and the other girls at risk.”

 
; Saying nothing else, she got up and walked across the street. When Carla turned back to look at her one more time, Carrie snapped a photo of her with her phone. She sat there for a few more minutes contemplating her next move. With one more glance at the strange photo, she sighed and pulled out the scrap of paper with Peter’s number on it.

  7

  ♥♥♥

  “Director Upwood has two more off-site meetings today, so you’ve got some work to do. Nothing out of the ordinary, just a lot of moving parts because they are public meetings. Let’s keep our wits about us and get through the rest of this shift.”

  As Peter finished his lunchtime briefing of Upwood’s protection detail, his personal cellphone rang. Frowning, he excused himself and stepped away.

  “Mercer.”

  “Agent Mercer, I’m terribly sorry to call you, but I need to meet you as soon as possible,” a feminine voice said.

  “Who is this?”

  “Shit, sorry. It’s Carrie Davenport.”

  What the hell?

  “How the hell did you get my number? Who gave it to you, so I know who to fire?” he bit out.

  “Calm down agent. I’m a journalist. I have my ways. No need to fire anybody. Meet with me and I’ll tell you everything.”

  Peter moved out of the conference room and stood in a corner of the hallway as his men began to return to their stations.

  “Cut the shit and tell me what you want. Unwanted phone calls count as stalking you know.”

  “I would really rather not say on the phone, but I promise I’m not stalking you and I promise you’ll want to see this.”

  Peter felt his hand clench around the phone. She was trying to coerce him into a meeting, and he didn’t appreciate it. He was going to kill whoever gave her his number.

  “I’m not agreeing to anything until you tell me what’s going on Miss Davenport.”

  There was silence on the other end and for a moment thought she’d hung up on him.

  “Are you someplace private?” she finally asked.

  “Yes,” he lied. “Now spit it out.”

  More hesitation then she cleared her throat.

  “I got a package from an anonymous tipster with photos and a note saying they can prove the things I was trying to tell you.”

  Peter rolled his eyes. “I have no interest in theories or unverified sources. I have to get back to work.”

  “Your name was in the second package.”

  Well that got his attention. Still, he had no reason to believe her and had no intention of giving her a meeting.

  “Please. We need to meet.” Her voice cracked as she spoke, but Peter remained unmoved.

  “I’m afraid I’m working fourteen hour shifts for the foreseeable future. There’s no way I can meet anytime soon.”

  “Please don’t leave me hanging. Why wouldn’t you at least want to see a package that names you directly?”

  She had a point, but his stubborn streak was showing, and he wasn’t going to give in.

  “I really have to go, Miss Davenport.”

  “Someone tried to kidnap me last night,” she blurted.

  “Excuse me? Why the hell didn’t you lead with that?” he hissed as he went back into the now empty conference room and locked the door.

  “You have my attention now. Tell me everything. If you’re in danger, you need to go to the police.”

  “I have a feeling these people are more powerful than any police department.”

  Her voice trembled, and it tugged at his heart. Images he’d pulled up on her social media flashed in his mind. His protector side said he needed to hear her out. The part of him who had been jaded by betrayal told him to walk away.

  His protective nature was winning out.

  “Tell me what you can over the phone please. I promise you have my full attention.”

  “I’ve already told you everything I’m comfortable with. I’ve received two packages. Someone told me I should trust you. I went back to a place I’ve been gathering research from. Someone put something in my drink, and I wound up in a limo being threatened. Someone pulled me out after staging an accident and put me in a cab. As they did, they slipped me a piece of paper with your number on it and told me to trust you.”

  She barely took a breath as she repeated the story and when she finished, he waited for her to take a few deep breaths before he spoke.

  “Wow. That’s quite a story. I wasn’t lying about the fourteen-hour shift though. Where are you now?”

  “I just got back to my office at the Post.”

  “Stay there until I get off. If what you’re saying is true, I don’t want you roaming the streets of D.C. alone.”

  “Makes sense. Fourteen hours though?”

  He chuckled. “I’ve already been at work for six. You can hang out at your office until eight-thirty or so, can’t you?”

  “I suppose,” she agreed.

  “OK. At exactly eight tonight, I’m leaving here. There’s an Italian restaurant near the Post building. Have a trusted friend take you there or I can come get you.”

  “I would rather discuss this in private. A restaurant is far too public to talk about this stuff.”

  She was probably right.

  “OK Carrie, I’ll pick you up and we can go to your apartment then. Do not leave the Post until I get you, are we clear?” His voice took on a commanding tone that he only used with his men… and certain women he had agreements with.

  “Crystal clear, Agent Mercer. Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet, Miss Davenport. I haven’t said I believe you.”

  “You must think there is some merit to what I’m saying, or you wouldn’t be meeting me.”

  He laughed again. “Fair point, Carrie. Fair point. I’ll see you in eight hours.”

  Peter pulled out his laptop when the call ended. He wished he had asked a few more questions about the attempted kidnapping. If there was an accident with a limo though, it might be easy enough to put in some phone calls and see if it checked out.

  How many limos could have possibly been in traffic accidents last night?

  Turns out at least three. And those were just the ones that had police reports attached to them. When he finished his calls, he pulled up the reports on his laptop. With no other information to go on, other than somebody had purposely hit them, it was difficult to narrow the three accidents down and figure out which one Carrie had been talking about.

  He thought about somebody dragging her from the limo. She was tiny enough it would have been easy to do during the chaos of an accident. It brought to mind a time he had staged an accident to extract an asset for the CIA. The asset had not been small like Carrie, but it had still worked.

  Setting the laptop aside, he looked at his watch. Still seven more hours. It was going to be a long day.

  He cursed himself for being even slightly excited about seeing the pretty reporter again. What’s worse, he couldn’t stop thinking of repeating their kiss.

  • • •

  Carrie paced the sidewalk in front of her building. It was ten minutes past eight. She had no idea how long it would take Peter to get to her since she didn’t know where he was coming from.

  After five more minutes of pacing, a black SUV pulled up and the passenger window rolled down.

  “What the hell are you doing on the street? Get in,” Peter said with a scowl.

  Her shoulders sagged in relief as she flung open the door and jumped in.

  “Sorry. I was just getting claustrophobic inside.”

  “You would really be claustrophobic in somebody’s trunk.”

  He had a point.

  “Thanks for getting me.”

  “Where do you live?” he asked, ignoring her expression of gratitude.

  She gave him her address as she stretched the seatbelt across her and clicked it into place.

  As he pulled into traffic, she said, “I have no food at my house. We might want to stop for something.”

  Again, h
e ignored her. How rude, she thought.

  Fifteen minutes later, he pulled into a drive through and ordered them both grilled chicken salads. Her nose wrinkled in disgust and she leaned across him.

  “We also want a double bacon cheeseburger and a large order of onion rings,” she yelled into the speaker.

  When she brushed against him, his scent filled her nostrils and memories of their kiss came rushing back. As the cashier repeated their order, she settled back into her seat, feeling flustered.

  They got their food, Peter paid, and headed back out into traffic.

  When they got to her apartment complex he frowned.

  “This place doesn’t look very secure.”

  “Not all of us can afford to live in a fortress,” she said.

  “You’ve won a ton of journalism awards. I figured you made better money. At least enough to afford a decent apartment.”

  “First, there is nothing wrong with my apartment. Second, Awards don’t always translate to money.”

  As he drove to the building she indicated he said, “Just tell me you don’t live on the first floor. It’s not safe for a single woman to live alone on the first floor.”

  She rolled her eyes, jumped out of the SUV, and made her way to the ground-floor apartment on the corner. It pissed her off that he assumed she was single.

  His frown remained in place as she unlocked the door and pushed it open.

  “Come in. I promise it’s perfectly safe around here. Hardly any drugs at all and last week I only had to kill one cockroach,” she teased.

  He wasn’t amused, so she went to the kitchen island where she started laying out the things she had received from the mystery person.

  As he examined it, she opened her burger bag and started eating.

  “How do you eat that crap?” he asked as he ripped the plastic wrapper on his utensils and stabbed a piece of lettuce from his salad bowl.