Point of Control 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

  THE AGENT DALLAS SERIES

  The Trigger

  The Target

  The Trap

  STAND-ALONE NOVELS

  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.

  Text copyright © 2016 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: 9781503951495

  ISBN-10: 1503951499

  Cover design by Marc Cohen

  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

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1

  Friday, March 13, 8:05 p.m., San Jose, California

  Nick Bowman had never felt more alive. He’d just had the best sex of his life with a spectacular younger woman who expected nothing from him, and his research had hit a breakthrough that had just earned him an exciting job offer. Plus, he’d finally won the International Metallurgy Award. Nearly euphoric, he strode down the hall of the hotel, eager to climb into his new Jaguar XE, rev the engine, and fully enjoy the moment. Soon enough, he would be home, boxed in by a wife who didn’t appreciate him and two surly kids who didn’t seem to have his DNA.

  As he stepped into the elevator, Nick shoved aside the negative thoughts and replayed his session with Carly, a long-legged model he’d met at the gym. She was incredible—sexy, smart, and independent. She’d waved him off after their second round of sex, telling him to move along so she could shower and have the room to herself for a while. Carly understood that he had to get home to his family before it seemed suspicious, even for a late night at work.

  In the basement parking garage, warm, muggy air engulfed him, and he pulled off his sports jacket. Out in the night air, with the Jag purring under him, the air would be fantastic. He loved living in central California—so much more civilized than the dull Iowa landscape and cold winters he’d grown up with. Nick hurried toward his car, whistling softly. He only had twenty-four hours to consider the job offer, and he didn’t know if he would take it, but the money was exciting to think about. He was already doing quite well. A lucky, lucky man.

  A sudden movement startled him. He spun toward the big concrete post he’d just passed, and a man in dark clothes rushed toward him. No, two men, one behind the other, and both wearing ski masks. The lead guy’s arms jerked up, holding something dark. Before Nick could cry out or swing his fists, a heavy cloth bag came down over his head, and the man spun him around. Powerful hands grabbed his wrists from behind and pulled them together. What the hell? Fear shot from his belly into his throat. “Hey! Stop! You’ve got the wrong guy!” His words sounded garbled inside the cloth.

  A hand clamped the bag against his open mouth. “Quiet! We don’t want to hurt you.”

  Nick didn’t believe him. Heart racing, he prayed for the first time since he was a kid.

  CHAPTER 2

  Sunday, March 15, 7:20 p.m., Washington, DC

  Zach Dimizaro stepped out of the bar and tried to shake off the jitters. Head down against the wind, he hurried toward the nearby park, wishing he hadn’t downed two beers on an empty stomach. But this meeting made him nervous, and he needed the alcohol for courage. The buyer had insisted on a late-night transfer in a part of town he normally didn’t go to, especially after dark. All of it made him uncomfortable. Except the money he was about to put in his pocket. The first step toward forming his own start-up company, making the lifestyle apps he was really interested in.

  The crisp night air penetrated his coat, and he pulled it tighter. Zach picked up his pace, anxious to get the deal over with. He passed two dark storefronts and another bar. Across the street he could see the seedy park, where a cluster of dark figures hung out on the corner. Gangbangers? Heavy footsteps snapped his attention toward the alley beside him. A big man walked toward him with a gun aimed right at his chest. Oh god, a mugger! Zach couldn’t take his eyes off the silver weapon gleaming in the moonlight.

  “Get into the alley. Now!” The mugger’s voice was low pitched and menacing, even through the scarf covering the bottom of his face.

  Run! But he couldn’t. His body was too heavy, too out of practice. Why had he let himself get like this?

  The man stepped out of the alley, grabbed his elbow, and threw him up against a brick wall. “Give me everything in your pockets!”

  Shit! His iPhone was practically new. He’d been lucky to get it before the production slowdown and shortage. Now cell phone resale value had shot so high, everyone was a target for thieves. That’s what this guy wanted.

  Why the hell was he worrying about his damn iPhone? It was the prototype phone and the microchip he needed to focus on. They both had the algorithm. How to distract the mugger from them?

  “I’ve only got about forty dollars, but you can have it.” Zach pulled his wallet from his back pocket and opened it. The microchip was inside, and as he fumbled with the bills he managed to slip it out and palm it.

  “Hand me the whole thing!” The man with the gun reached for it, and the scarf slipped off his chin. Brown skin, wide nose, long black coat, wool cap. That’s all the detail Zach could process in the dark—while scared shitless and a little drunk.

  Zach clenched his jaw and handed him the wallet, keeping the chip wedged between two fingers.

  “Phones too. And whatever else you’ve got on you.”

  Shit! Shit! Shit! Phones, plural. Why would the bastard assume
he had more than one? The device prototype he was carrying was worth fifty thousand, and the man he was supposed to meet had a satchel of cash waiting for him. The damn mugger wouldn’t even know what he’d taken. “I’ve got an iPhone,” Zach said quickly. “That’s it.” He slipped the cell from his jacket and held it out.

  The mugger snatched it and shoved it into his own coat.

  In the brief second that the big man glanced down, Zach slipped the microchip into his mouth. A cab drove by, the only car on the street, but with the chip in his mouth, he couldn’t call for help.

  “Empty your pockets!”

  He worked the chip under his tongue to hide it. “I’ve got nothing else!” Zach heard the fear and bullshit in his own voice and cringed.

  The mugger shook his head, and a sharp pop echoed in Zach’s ears. Heat and pain flared in his chest, and he realized he’d been shot. His mouth fell open, and a strange squeak came out. He tried to step back, but his knees buckled and he went down. His last thought was that he would die without ever having a real girlfriend.

  CHAPTER 3

  Monday, March 16, 12:05 p.m., Washington, DC

  Special Agent Andra Bailey closed the report she was writing. Time for lunch. She heard the distinct footsteps of her boss’ boot heels and realized she’d waited a minute too long. She turned in her chair and gave a practiced smile to the striking woman glaring down at her.

  “I need to see you in my office.” SA Lennard was six-one with short platinum hair and a grim expression that somehow didn’t hurt her looks.

  Bailey stood, feeling short at five-eight. “I’m right behind you.” She had no idea what her boss wanted, but projecting confidence was a lifelong habit. She followed Lennard down the hall.

  FBI headquarters in Washington, DC, was a blue-chip assignment inside the bureau, and Bailey felt lucky to be there. Not that luck really factored into it. At her original assignment in Denver, she’d simply worked harder than her peers to earn the promotion. She also knew how to manipulate people to get what she wanted—and to make them feel good about it. Her mindset usually felt like a gift. At other times, such as late at night, alone in her apartment, her sociopathic nature was painfully limiting. She was reasonably attractive with thick ginger-red hair that people liked to touch, so she didn’t lack for male attention. She just wasn’t capable of bonding the way empathetic people were. She’d had her share of affairs when she was younger, but her lovers had wanted more than she could give. In time, she’d simply stopped dating.

  After several twists and turns in the maze-like building, they came to a corner office. Brent Haywood, the bureau’s second in command, stood outside Lennard’s door. Good news. If the assistant director was involved, this case was a big deal. Bailey nodded at the AD, and the three stepped into the office. Lennard closed the door and took a seat behind her shiny metal desk. Haywood, an ex–football player who shaved his head to hide the gray, continued to stand.

  Lennard glanced at him, then looked at Bailey. “We have an issue developing that could turn out to be nothing, or it could be a global crime spree.”

  Intriguing! Bailey leaned forward.

  “Ten days ago, Milton Thurgood, an Australian scientist, disappeared. His wife came home and he was gone. Some of his clothes and personal items were missing too, and his car was found at the airport.”

  She’d heard the name recently but couldn’t place it. “Why does he sound familiar?”

  Lennard squinted. “Unless you’re a science buff, there’s no reason it should. Thurgood lost the International Metallurgy Award recently to another scientist named Nick Bowman, of California.”

  “What else?” Bailey was a voracious reader who filed information for later use, but this Australian scientist’s disappearance hadn’t made major headlines.

  “Three days ago, Nick Bowman also disappeared, after work in San Jose, and his wife reported him missing. This morning, hikers found his body in the Sunol Regional Wilderness, northeast of Silicon Valley.”

  “Murdered?”

  “Most likely.” Lennard ran a hand through her bristly hair. “His body was broken in just about every conceivable way, as if he’d taken a horrible beating. But with Thurgood missing—and having a history of irrational behavior—we think the events could be connected.”

  There had to be more to it. “Did Thurgood get on a plane?”

  “He took a flight to Los Angeles. After that, we don’t know.”

  “It’s rather bizarre.” Bailey wasn’t usually assigned homicide cases—they were generally too easy—but this one was unusual and could involve a lot of travel.

  Lennard continued. “The local sheriff’s department called our San Jose field office for help. One of our monitors hit on the possible connection to the Australian scientist.”

  As a field agent in Lennard’s Critical Incident Response Group, or CIRG for short, Bailey kept busy with high-impact events. The monitors watched global news feeds around the clock to connect and anticipate incidents. Bailey wanted to run the unit someday—and she would.

  She’d been racking her brain for what she knew about Thurgood, and now it came to her. She’d read an article about that science award and some of the inventions that had earned nominations. “Thurgood and Bowman are both metallurgists,” she recalled aloud, “and Thurgood is developing an extraction process for rare earth metals.” She started to suggest a theory, but the AD cut in.

  “We think Thurgood went off the rails and killed Bowman out of jealousy and to keep him from reaching a breakthrough before he did.” Haywood finally sat down but perched on the edge of his chair.

  “That’s one possibility,” Lennard added.

  The assistant director gave her a silencing look. “It’s the strongest possibility.” To Bailey, he said, “Focus your investigation in that direction.”

  They obviously disagreed. Bailey weighed the advantage of making the AD happy by agreeing with him against the harm of pissing off her direct supervisor. A draw. So she wouldn’t comment. She still didn’t understand why she’d been chosen for this assignment, but she was happy to get out of DC. The snow was driving her crazy. “You need me to go to California. And Sydney too?”

  Haywood nodded. “Start in San Jose. To the best of our knowledge, Thurgood hasn’t returned to Australia.”

  “Why is this even a bureau concern?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Bailey realized it had been too blunt. Sometimes her carefully crafted filters didn’t work.

  Neither boss seemed ruffled by the question, though. Lennard handed her a thin file. “It’s possible that Thurgood might target other scientists in the field. We need to find him and stop him.”

  A scientist serial killer. How unusual. She couldn’t wait to get started. “Does the San Jose field office know I’m coming?”

  “Yes. Don’t worry about stepping on toes. Just dig deep and do what you do.” Lennard gave a tight smile. “I chose you because you have that rare combination of a highly analytical mind and a charisma that opens doors.”

  Was Lennard giving her an unspoken message to think beyond the AD’s directive?

  Haywood was silent.

  She probably wasn’t his first choice. Too bad. She would prove him wrong. Bailey focused on her boss. “I need the field offices to report anything unusual they might pick up involving metallurgists.”

  Lennard nodded. “It’s done.”

  Bailey was already making a mental list of things to do, starting with buying a plane ticket. “I’ll catch the first flight I can.”

  “Report directly to both of us,” Haywood said, standing. “And if the San Jose field office holds a task force meeting, conference us in.”

  Lennard added, “If this case gets too complex, we can assign other agents to the investigation.”

  Bailey preferred to work alone, but collaborating was part of the job. She sto
od. “I’ll keep you posted.”

  Back at her desk, she scheduled a flight for that evening and made a hotel reservation near the San Jose FBI office. One of the perks of being an agent. Airlines and hotels always made room for her. She stuffed the file into her satchel and headed home to pack.

  Another reason Lennard had picked her was flexibility. No spouse or kids to slow her down or pressure her to wrap up quickly and come home. She loved that about her life, but at times hated it too. Other successful sociopaths managed to make deep connections and establish families. At her age, she accepted that she wouldn’t have children—and wouldn’t want the responsibility of raising a sociopath, as her father had had to do. But she did want to fall in love someday, and so far, it hadn’t happened.

  CHAPTER 4

  Monday, March 16, 1:55 p.m., Washington, DC

  Detective Jocelyn Larson inhaled a quick dose of nicotine vapor before she walked into the department’s forensics building. She loved that the vapor had almost no smell and didn’t ruin her breath or her clothes. The joy of smoking, without the disgusting part or the guilt. At her age and with her body type, she was tired of taking crap for her bad habit.

  At the security counter, she showed her badge. “I’m here for the John Doe autopsy.”

  The woman behind the safety glass barely glanced at the ID. “Lucky you.” They’d had this exchange a few times. Jocelyn was a career detective, all of it spent in DC, and had attended more autopsies in this building than was healthy for the soul.

  The desk clerk pressed the button, the door to the left buzzed, and Jocelyn headed past the crime lab to the morgue. In the small front room, she pulled on a gown, hairnet, and booties, grateful she didn’t have to wear the gear at crime scenes, because technicians collected and processed the evidence. Inside the autopsy center, stainless steel and constant disinfecting didn’t mask the slight stench of decay that hung in the air.

  An assistant medical examiner looked up from her microscope. “If you’re ready, we’ll get started.” The ME had a fresh young face, but the rest of her body was covered in puffy blue scrubs.