Chapter 15 #3
“Patterns are far more predictable than you realize,” Brewster spoke in a flat tone. “It’s how I know she’s been keeping her interactions with the unsub from me.”
“Convenient.”
I glanced at him.
“Sometimes dressing up assumptions as evidence can make you think they’re facts if you believe them long enough.” It was why trust but verify was a standard. Don’t react. Act. Don’t take the first word on a story, but make sure you know the last.
Never take anyone at their word. Human memory was a fault thing.
The look he gave me should have put holes in the side of my head.
I didn’t care.
The timer reached nine minutes.
Mallory had been inside for nine minutes. No lights changed. No doors opened. Nothing moved.
Waiting required discipline. But mine was eroding rapidly.
Brewster checked his watch. “How long before you go in?”
“When she tells me.”
“And if she can’t?”
I didn’t answer.
“Carter.”
“I heard you.”
“If he disables her phone—”
“It’s passive.”
“If he searches her—”
“He may not find it.”
“If he does?”
“Then we have a problem.”
“We already have a problem.” He wasn’t wrong. I hated that. Brewster’s receiver clicked. He listened, then said, “Repeat.”
A distant voice answered. He leaned forward toward the monitors.
“What?” I asked.
“Thermal picked up movement on eleven.”
“Human?” That seemed logical, but I wanted the facts.
“Two signatures.”
My pulse kicked hard.
“Positions?”
“One stationary near the river-facing wall. The other crossed from the elevator bank.”
Mallory.
The stationary heat signature could be the Auditor. Or a space heater. Or another decoy.
Trust but verify. “Can they identify?”
“No.”
“Then they have nothing.”
“They have two bodies on a floor that should be empty.”
I shrugged. “That only proves someone planned a meeting.”
“It proves she isn’t alone,” Brewster countered.
I was going to hate myself later. “We don’t even know if one of them is her. It could be someone else altogether.”
“You said she went there to meet him.”
“No,” I said without an ounce of deception. “I didn’t.”
“Do you hear yourself?”
“Yes.”
Brewster reached toward his ear. I caught his wrist. His eyes dropped to my hand.
“Don’t,” I ordered.
“Release me.”
“If you send them in now, you destroy the meeting.”
“If I don’t and he kills her—”
“He won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No.” I tightened my grip. “But then neither do you.”
The van seemed to contract around us. Brewster’s eyes had gone cold. “Take your hand off me.”
“Tell your team to hold.”
“They’re holding.”
“Keep them there.”
“Or?”
“Or Mallory discovers you followed her, brought a tactical team, and treated her like bait after she explicitly refused federal involvement.”
His stare sharpened and I played the very last card I had.
“You think she’ll forgive you?”
“This isn’t about forgiveness,” he snarled the words in a heated hiss but he didn’t try to pull away.
“Everything with her is about forgiveness. You just haven’t figured out what you’re asking her to forgive.” The words came from somewhere I had not meant to access.
Brewster went perfectly still. For one second, I thought he might hit me. A part of me wanted him to try. Instead, he slowly lowered his hand.
I released his wrist.
Neither of us commented on the exchange.
The timer passed twelve minutes.
A monitor blinked. Static rolled across the left screen before the image returned. Then the right monitor failed.
Not black. Gray. A flat, uniform field without signal noise.
I leaned forward.
Brewster noticed. “What?”
“We lost an exterior camera.”
“You had exterior access?”
“Public traffic feed.”
The center monitor flickered.
For half a second, the building appeared in negative. Then it changed. A room filled the screen.
Not our camera. A live feed.
Mallory sat in a metal chair beneath a single overhead light. Her coat remained buttoned. Her hands rested loosely on the arms of the chair. She wasn’t restrained.
Behind her, unfinished walls disappeared into darkness.
She looked annoyed.
Good.
Annoyed was alive.
Across from her stood a large screen on a rolling frame. From our angle, I could see only its dark back.
A camera had been positioned high in one corner of the room, showing Mallory in profile and most of the space around her.
No second person. No second heat signature in frame.
Brewster leaned toward the monitor. “Where is this coming from?”
“He hijacked the receiver.” Fucker was more impressive than I realized.
“That isn’t how receivers work.”
“Then he hijacked something else.” Clearly, we now had eyes inside when we hadn’t before.
The speakers cracked. A low burst of static filled the van. Mallory looked toward the screen in front of her. Light reflected across her face as it activated. We couldn’t see what she saw.
A man’s voice emerged through our speakers.
Calm. Educated. Undistorted. “Good evening, Ms. McBryan.”
Every hair along my arms rose.
Mallory’s expression didn’t change. “You promised a conversation.”
“And here we are.”
“This isn’t face-to-face.”
A pause. “You can see me.”
“I can see a screen.”
“You can hear me.”
“I could have listened to you on the phone.”
Despite everything, I almost smiled. Beside me, Brewster didn’t move.
The voice on the screen continued. “You came.”
“You invited me.”
“That’s a false equivalency.”
“Are you going to spend the entire night correcting my syntax?”
“Only if your imprecisions interferes with true understanding.” The man’s voice was clear, distinct and—utterly unremarkable.
Mallory leaned back slightly, then crossed one leg over the other. She was far from relaxed, but this was her interview pose. She was settling in to tackle the subject at hand.
Brewster raised his hand toward his earpiece again. I didn’t touch him this time.
I only said, “Don’t.”