Guilt Game_The Extractor Read online

  ALSO BY L.J. SELLERS

  The Detective Jackson Series

  The Sex Club

  Secrets to Die For

  Thrilled to Death

  Passions of the Dead

  Dying for Justice

  Liars, Cheaters & Thieves

  Rules of Crime

  Crimes of Memory

  Deadly Bonds

  Wrongful Death

  Death Deserved

  The Agent Dallas Series

  The Trigger

  The Target

  The Trap

  Stand-Alone Novels

  The Gender Experiment

  Point of Control

  The Lethal Effect (previously published as The Suicide Effect)

  The Baby Thief

  The Gauntlet Assassin

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2017 by L.J. Sellers

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477848395

  ISBN-10: 1477848398

  Cover design by Damonza

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1

  Tuesday, April 18, 9:52 a.m., Salem, Oregon

  Roxanne MacFarlane watched on the monitor as three people approached the building. A bearded fifty-something man, a thin anxious woman, and a pensive teenage girl. Damn! The reverend had come along. This could get sticky. Rox hoped she didn’t have to resort to kidnapping, but she would do whatever it took to help her client. Every case was personal for her.

  The trio disappeared inside the building, so Rox glanced at the second monitor. The view of the lobby was a little distorted, but she could clearly see her partner—her stepdad, Marty, in a fake security uniform—scoot out from behind a small counter. He blocked the access door and gestured for the man in the black cloak to step aside for a weapons search. The reverend looked annoyed but complied.

  That was her cue. Time to put on the act. Grabbing the girl and dragging her out would be easier, but at forty years old, Rox was finally learning to pretend. After a deep breath, she bolted down the short hall, opened the door to the lobby, and stepped partway in. “Mia Bankston? You’re late for your appointment.” Rox focused on the girl, a slender fourteen-year-old.

  “I am? I’m sorry.” Mia bit her lip and turned to her mother. The woman shrugged and glanced at the phony spiritual leader and polygamist she’d married. Reverend Jonah was arguing with the security guard, who had his hands under the cult leader’s robe. Nice touch, Marty.

  Rox stepped forward, holding the door open. “Let’s get this done right now, or we’ll have to reschedule. I have another appointment soon.”

  “I’d like to wait for my husband.” The mother’s voice was soft and uncertain.

  “I just need Mia to sign.” Rox paused, then projected her voice. “If she wants her money today.” She had lured the girl and her mother—who rarely left the polygamist’s home—with a letter about a phony inheritance.

  “Go ahead,” the self-appointed reverend said. “I’ll be right behind you.” He was pulling ID from his wallet.

  Greed had overruled his usual control and caution.

  The girl stepped past Rox and through the opening. Rox quickly followed and shut the door behind her, locking the mother out. Rox grabbed Mia’s arm and steered her down the hall. She had rented the small building for a week just for this assignment.

  “What about my mother?” The girl seemed surprised but not alarmed.

  So far so good. Ideally Mia’s actions should be voluntary. “Your great-aunt left the money specifically to you. I just need a signature so I can release the funds.” Rox kept moving. She’d done her best to disguise herself with a wig and oversize reading glasses, but she still wanted minimal exposure. During her time at the CIA, they’d never let her do fieldwork, but she’d learned a lot from the operatives anyway.

  Behind them the mother screeched, “Why is this door locked?”

  The girl stopped.

  Damn! Two more steps. Rox gave a small shrug. “Don’t worry, it’s just stuck. Happens every day, but I don’t have time to deal with it right now.” She tugged on Mia’s arm. “Come get your money.”

  For a moment, the girl hesitated, her eyes wary.

  Rox gave her another charming smile. She was dressed in her only lawyer-looking clothes, a navy skirt and jacket, and she knew she had a trustworthy face. One of the reasons they’d hired her at the CIA—that, and her analytical skills.

  Mia shrugged and moved forward. Rox opened the door at the end of the hall, and they entered the room where her client waited.

  The girl let out a shocked cry. “Dad?” She stepped forward, confusion and joy playing out on her innocent face. “I thought you were dead!”

  “No, honey. No . . . I’m . . .”

  They ran toward each other and embraced in a tight hug.

  Rox smiled. This was why she did this work—to reunite people with their families.

  The man and his daughter stepped apart and started crying. Tears of joy had always confused Rox. Why did people cry when they were supposed to be happy? It wasn’t logical. But she’d become used to not being able to read people correctly. Except for Marty, who she’d had a lifetime to figure out.

  Rox took a photo of the two, then stepped out of the room to give the family some privacy. Her part was done. Now it was up to her client to convince his daughter to go with him—rather than stay in the polygamous cult and end up as a child bride for a man who already had six wives and fourteen children he controlled with an iron fist. Mia’s father had joint custody, which had been established at birth with his name on the certificate, and never altered in court. But Mia’s mother had taken the girl and gone into hiding.

  Rox was careful about custody issues and had done her homework. At fourteen, the girl was free to choose who she wanted to live with. Her client had hired her to find the girl, then get her out. He hadn’t trusted the legal system to help because he had a criminal drug record. But he’d turned his life around and started a business that was doing well enough to afford her twenty-thousand-dollar fee. The second half was being held by a bank that would release it when she showed them the photo. She’d learned early not to trust people to follow through with the
final payment, or as she liked to think of it, her success bonus. Her very first client had stiffed her once she had her son back, giving a sob story instead.

  Rox left through the back of the building to avoid drama in the lobby with the reverend. Her client would do the same. Marty had probably already escorted Jonah from the building. Her stepdad was an ex-cop and could take care of himself, but she called him anyway. “Are you out?”

  “Yep. That bastard came at me when he realized the girl wasn’t coming back, but I hit a few of his pain centers, and he decided to cooperate. I’ll be at the meet-up spot in five minutes.”

  She walked a few blocks to her car, then drove another three to join Marty, who was already in his own car. They usually took both in case circumstances called for it. He got out, gave her a high five, then burst out laughing. “I dig the adrenaline rush of messing with assholes to rescue someone in need.”

  “Me too. See you at home.”

  Marty gave her a mock salute and drove off. She’d loved seeing him in uniform when she was a kid and had followed him into law enforcement as an adult. But the department had stuck her in tech support after a year on the street. She’d been disappointed but not surprised. The way her brain worked, with its atypical neurologics, made her a great data cruncher. But after six years spent cyber hunting addicts and thieves, she’d gotten bored and joined the CIA. Hoping for fieldwork, she’d ended up as an analyst again. After her sister, Jolene, died, Rox had left the agency and started an investigation firm. Now she was her own operative and doing pretty well. With any luck, the treatments she was about to start—a new form of magnetic brain therapy—would make her even better.

  Successful missions were essential. She’d failed to rescue Jolene when her sister was in a cult-like multiple marriage. Rox had taken an overseas CIA assignment instead, and Jo had been murdered by the cult leader while she was gone. Rox would never forgive herself. But she was doing her best to make up for it.

  Twenty minutes later, she parked at the bank as her work cell phone rang. Assuming it was her current client, she picked up. “Is everything all right?”

  “No. Is this Karina Jones?” The woman’s voice was tentative and stressed.

  Jones was the code name she used with clients. Another one already! “Yes. Who is this?”

  “My name is Jenny Carson. My husband, Dave, and I need your help.”

  “Who referred you to me?”

  “Detective Scott Monroe.”

  Rox didn’t know Monroe personally, but she knew of him. She and Marty had put out the word about her services among select law enforcement people with the understanding they would pass it along to others they could trust. Only her first circle of close friends knew she conducted extractions. Beyond that, clients knew her fake name and paid in cash deposits, including some that went directly into a bank account.

  “What kind of help do you need?”

  “Our daughter joined that charity cult, Sister Love, and we haven’t seen her in months. We’re worried sick.” The woman choked back a sob.

  Another extraction so soon? Rox didn’t feel ready. And she was supposed to start her therapy tomorrow. But the woman sounded so desperate. Plus, the group mentioned was local, so she wouldn’t have to travel. “What specifically are you worried about?” A rescue target had to be at risk for her to take the case.

  “We think the leader is keeping her captive. Other girls work in their soup kitchen, but Emma doesn’t, and we haven’t seen her since she joined.” The mother burst into tears.

  This grief she understood. “Have you been to the police?” Of course they had.

  “They won’t help us. Emma is eighteen, and she joined Sister Love willingly.” Jenny Carson had to stop and take a deep breath. “After we didn’t see her at the soup kitchen, we asked the police to check on her. But even if they knew where the cult members lived, they can’t go in there without a search warrant, and they say we don’t have a real reason to think anything is wrong.”

  Rox understood the legal limitations officers faced. “Do you have any evidence that your daughter is being abused or restrained?”

  A telling pause. This time, Dave Carson spoke, and she realized they were on speaker phone. “No, but they prey on vulnerable girls. We think the leader trolls online for conversations about suicide.”

  A flash of rage burned in Rox’s chest. This was a new low. “That’s deplorable. Do you know his name?”

  “Yes.” Mr. Carson was still doing the talking. “We called the state office where charities have to register, and it was founded by Deacon Blackstone and Margo Preston.”

  Deacon? She hoped that was his name and not his religious title. The other person, Margo, might not even exist. “How did he contact your daughter?”

  “Online.” Mrs. Carson was still fighting for control of her emotions. “Our girl was in a car accident, and her best friend died.” Another sob. “Emma was devastated, and she joined the group out of guilt. I’m afraid he’ll ruin her life.”

  Rox knew she would take their case. “Okay, I’ll meet with you, but I have conditions. Such as, you can never tell anyone where my office is or discuss the details of my services—unless you’re sending me someone who needs my help. Did Detective Monroe mention my fee?”

  “He said you were expensive, but money is no object.”

  Good to know. “I’ll need ten thousand in cash up front. Bring it with you when we meet. If the case has unexpected expenses, we’ll discuss them at the time. If I’m successful, I get another ten grand. Are you fine with that?” Rox sometimes reduced her fee for clients who couldn’t afford her rate, so she had to get full payment from those who could.

  “Of course. We just want our daughter back.”

  “Come to my office tomorrow morning at ten. Bring photos of your daughter, a large one and a wallet size. I’ll text you directions and instructions later today.” At the moment, she was still in Salem, fifty miles south, and had to pick up her payment from the bank, drive back home to Portland, and wrap up the details of her current case.

  It was unusual to have another extraction so quickly. She often went months without a call and had to supplement her income with routine investigative work. But she itched to get started. After seven years as a cop and ten with the CIA, she loved the thrill of the chase, even when it was all on paper. Plus Deacon Blackstone seemed like a dirtbag predator, and she couldn’t wait to extract Emma from his clutches.

  CHAPTER 2

  Wednesday, April 19, 7:55 a.m., Portland, Oregon

  Rox glanced at the clock. Yikes! She’d been dancing for forty minutes and was running late now. It was easy to get caught up in the music, the moves, and how dancing made her body and soul feel. God, she loved it. Except for hiking—which took her to interesting wilderness places—she hated all other exercise.

  She quickly showered and dressed for her appointment in nice pants and a button-up blouse. Blue, of course, the only color she wore. She chose a serious-but-friendly cobalt blue, saving the lighter shades for dates and other nonwork activities. She liked blue because it muted her reddish skin tone and looked good with her dark hair and eyes. Sticking with one color made shopping and dressing easy. Her current boyfriend had bought her a pale-pink blouse to try, and she really liked him, so she’d put it on. But wearing the odd color had made her so uncomfortable, she’d asked him to take her home to change. How long would he put up with her quirks? He’d made it six months, so far.

  As Rox blow-dried her short hair, her phone rang, and she almost didn’t hear it. Kyle! She’d missed two of his calls while working out. Rox pulled on her wireless receiver, a habit from her days at the agency, and answered. “Hey, Kyle. Sorry I missed your calls. I’m getting ready to meet with a client, then I’ve got my first TMS treatment.”

  “I know. I just wanted to say good luck.” He sounded both excited and worried. “Please tell me you’re not doing this just for me. It has to be what you want.”

  She wanted norma
lcy. To feel the emotions of the music as well as the beat. To be able to wear pink and not feel self-conscious. To finally look into people’s eyes and know what they were thinking.

  “Rox?”

  “I want this treatment. I’d been mulling it over even before I met you.” Yet her relationship with him was now a driving factor.

  “Okay. But know I love the way you are.”

  Love? He’d never said that before. Nervousness overcame her, and she laughed. Of all times!

  “See? I like that you think it’s funny.”

  Now she was confused. “I have to get going. Thanks for calling. I’ll see you later.” She hung up, wishing she’d said something affectionate back. But he hadn’t actually said he loved her. He’d said he loved “the way” she was. Very different. She started to text him but heard a familiar knock.

  Rox pulled on black sneakers, hurried to the living room, and called, “Clear!” A cop’s term for safe or okay to enter.

  Her stepdad hurried in.

  “Hey, Marty. What’s up? I’m running late.”

  “Let me go with you to your doctor’s appointment. There’s no reason to do this alone.”

  Except that she wanted to. “I appreciate your support, but it’s not necessary. Besides, you’ll be bored, sitting in the waiting room while I get the treatment.”

  “I’ll be bored and worried sitting here.” Much shorter than her, with cropped silver-blond hair and blue eyes, Marty was her physical opposite.

  By here, he meant the other half of the duplex they shared, with him as the owner. She’d moved in after leaving the CIA, thinking her stay would be temporary until she found her own place. But she liked the quiet southeast neighborhood, and the rent she paid was far less than its market value. Back then, Marty had still been working, so she hadn’t seen much of him. That all changed when he retired and she started her PI business—and his proximity was both a blessing and a curse. “It’s transcranial magnetic stimulation,” she reminded him. “Not heart surgery. It’ll be easy and painless.”

  He pushed past her and stood in the middle of her living room. “You really should let me paint a few walls. All this beige is depressing.” She ignored his home-improvement suggestion, and he got back to the subject at hand. “We both know it’s not about the treatment, but the aftermath. You could be overwhelmed.”