Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
brEWSTER
Somewhere between the third and fourth homicide, I stopped hoping the unsub would make a mistake.
Hope was a luxury.
I dealt in patterns.
The call from Mallory McBryan came at 3:52 a.m., and the moment she said “a finger”, I was already sliding out of bed and sending a message for a field unit.
It wasn’t the first time someone close to a case had been pulled into the blast radius, but it was the first time this particular unsub had taken that step.
I’d been waiting for the escalation. Now I had it.
“Let’s move,” I told the driver, barely waiting for him to stop in front of the hotel before I climbed in. I still had a phone to my ear. We weren’t far.
Chicago’s skyline bled into view through the windshield, a blur of glass and steel, glowing red at the edges like something had gone rotten in the core. The silence in the SUV was only broken by the occasional crackle of comms. I preferred it that way. Quiet gave you clarity.
We hit the front of her high-rise at 4:12. Two uniforms—local LEOs—flanked the front doors, already twitchy. They tried to step in front of me. Bad move. Chicago PD should know better.
“Agent Eliot Brewster, FBI.” I flashed my badge, sharp and fast. “You were told to expect me.”
As the men studied my badge, one of them called it in. He read off the number, then checked his phone. After a second nod, he opened the door.
My opinion of them elevated.
The doorman said nothing, just walked me and Marsden across the lobby to the elevator where he swiped his card to access the elevator. “They said you have a team coming?”
“They would be correct. I don’t want PD up there, if they don’t have FBI credentials you can verify, you don’t send them up. Any problems, call me.” I handed him my card.
“Yes, sir.”
Before the doors could close or he could walk away, I braced the doors open. “Did you receive the package?”
The doorman grimaced. “No. I just got here. You’ll want Williams. He’s in the security office. Stashed him there after the calls went out.”
“You’re his supervisor?”
“Yes, sir.” The man blew out a breath. “Al Moses.” He offered his hand. “I’m lead here at the Towers. Security and the doormen report to me.”
“We’ll want to talk to you and Williams both.”
“I figured.” The older man gave me a tired smile. “Also figured you want it quiet from the other residents.”
“You figure correctly.”
Marsden and I rode the elevator in silence. We didn’t need to prep. The team would need it, they were pros but this had a lot of threads. When the doors opened, I took my time to study the hall, the doors, the cameras—or lack. One visible camera pointed at the elevator.
“Do a walk through,” I told Marsden. “Mark cameras, ingress and egress. Stairs. Alarms. Everything. Get it ready for the unit when they get here.”
“Got it,” Marsden said, phone in hand. “You sure about going in there alone?”
This wasn’t a raid—it was a claim.
We were here to secure the asset.
With a snort, I gave him a look and the other man shrugged it off. You interviewed suspects with two agents. It was a crime to lie to federal law enforcement. One agent could serve as a witness for the other.
“She’s not the one we’re investigating,” I reminded him. Not acknowledging the unspoken yet. Because we would definitely be investigating everything.
The hallway was clean. Too clean. Sterile in that moneyed, urban-chic way—nothing out of place, but everything too perfectly staged to be real. Her door was still closed, but the lights were on inside. Shadow passed behind the peephole, cutting off the light briefly before revealing it again.
I knocked.
Not loud. Just once.
The deadbolt clicked. Then the chain.
She opened the door and stared at me like she was daring me to say the wrong thing.
Mallory McBryan.
Meeting her the day before had confirmed the woman was every bit the looker she appeared on television.
I’d seen the photos. Surveillance. News clips.
Headshots from her network’s PR archives.
Seeing her now, in the dark hours of early morning, sans any cosmetics, proved that none of them did her justice.
She was taller than I expected. Sharp-featured. Dark blonde hair pulled into a tight knot at the back of her head. Eyes like storm fronts—restless and relentless.
But the most striking thing was the fire simmering under her restraint.
She wasn’t panicking. She wasn’t afraid.
She was pissed.
I respected that. Didn’t mean I planned to indulge it.
“Mallory,” I said, stepping in and bypassing formalities, “you’re coming with us.” We were about to be the best of friends.
Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
“This isn’t up for debate. You’re not safe here.”
She crossed her arms. “And what, you’re safe?”
“My safety isn’t relevant. Yours is.”
A breath hitched in her throat—more fury than fear. Good. Fear paralyzed. Rage moved the blood. The elevator dinged in the hall and I spared a glance to where Marsden had reappeared.
“My team is here,” I told her, taking her arm and moving her further into the space to allow them access.
I nodded to my agents. One moved to secure the condo, another checked the evidence on the counter. The white plastic bag was still there, precisely how she’d described. She hadn’t disturbed it. The DSLR beside it blinked in standby.
“You documented it yourself,” I said, watching her. “Predictable.” It was. She hadn’t reached her level at the network without being ruthless in her attention to detail and pursuit of a story.
“Wasn’t for you. Was for the story.”
There it was. That sharp-edged defiance. She’d rather be killed than sidelined. I’d seen it before—in soldiers, embedded reporters, a few too many dead informants. People like Mallory didn’t want protection. They wanted control.
Control was exactly what this killer was stripping from her.
I didn’t ask permission to explore. I moved through the place like it was already mine, noting entry points, sightlines. The camera on her bookshelf blinked red. Recording.
She hadn’t turned it off.
“Pack a bag,” I said.
Mallory didn’t move.
“You’ve got ten minutes before we walk out. After that, I don’t care if you’re in your pajamas.”
She didn’t glare—she burned. But she turned, marched to her bedroom, and started packing. I didn’t watch. I used the time to photograph the package again from my angle, then stepped aside to update the SAC.
I was reviewing the transport route when the elevator pinged again. I didn’t need to see the man to know who it was. The angry energy hit the hallway like a slap.
Flint Carter.
The man offered no surprises. Whether that was a good thing or not, I remained undecided.
He was a network soldier. Controlled chaos in a tie.
His reputation was solid and he wielded battlefield charm—like a news anchor with a military complex.
Explained his success as a journalist before promotion took him out of the field.
He stormed down the hall, ready for combat.
“You can’t just pull her out of here,” he said without breaking stride.
I turned. Met him stare for stare. He’d changed his tune from our previous meeting. Too bad.
Tall. Forties. Hair standing haphazardly, still defiant against sleep. He wore a coat over what looked like a wrinkled button-down and jeans. No weapon. No badge. Just ego.
“Yes,” I said. “I can.”
“I’m her news director. You don’t have jurisdiction over her career.”
I almost snorted. Her career? Was this performative on his part?
“This isn’t about her career. This is about her surviving the next forty-eight hours.”
“I’ve had reporters stalked before. Threatened. You don’t get to turn this into a federal circus because you think—” He had been stalked before. Not something he’d admitted, but it had been in the file.
Nearly twenty years earlier. A girl at his university. She’d stalked him and eventually hung herself in his dorm room. Not an outcome he could have predicted. It left a mark.
It had to have.
“She received a severed human finger.” I corrected. “That’s not a threat. That’s a statement.”
“I know what engagement looks like.” He met me glare for glare. “This is her doing her job.”
“No,” I said, stepping closer, “you know what it means for your ratings. I know what it means for her life.”
He stared me down like he thought he could push me back with sheer conviction. He couldn’t. The fingers of his right hand curled into a fist.
Mallory reappeared behind us, bag over her shoulder, mouth set in a grim line.
“I’m going,” she said flatly.
Flint turned, about to argue—but one look at her stopped him. Whatever fire was in his chest, it wasn’t hotter than hers.
“Mallory—”
She didn’t blink. “Flint, it’s fine. I told you. I’m not stupid.”
Flint blew out a breath and stepped back. Smart man.
The smell of coffee had filled her place. She bypassed us and filled two tumblers in the kitchen. She snagged the camera off the shelf on her way back.
When she offered the second tumbler to Flint while ignoring me, I almost smirked. Flint grunted, but then she bumped his hip with hers.
“Suck it up,” she murmured. “You’re getting what you wanted.” That earned her a faint snort. He also didn’t deny it.
We exited in a triangle—her between me and Marsden, Flint pacing like a tiger behind glass.
Downstairs, our black SUV was already waiting.
Mallory climbed in without a word. Flint climbed into the passenger seat. Apparently, he was coming with.
Journalists.
As I slid into the seat beside her, I caught the look she gave me in the window’s reflection.
Wary.
Calculating.
I didn’t blame her. If I were her, I wouldn’t trust me either.
But I wasn’t here to make her comfortable.
I was here to catch a killer—and now she was the best lead I had.