Without Mercy (A Dakota Steele FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 1)

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER ONE

Dakota Steele frowned at the text message, re-reading it. Got something I want to say. Coming over!

Marcus was the last person she wanted to hear from. The FBI agent just didn't know when to leave well enough alone. What could he possibly want, anyway?

“Don't be stupid, Dakota,” she murmured to herself. Of course, she knew exactly what he wanted. She'd been dreading this visit for months.

She slipped her phone back into her pocket, scowling and returning her attention to the task at hand.

Dakota held the watering can in a firm grip, watching in fascination as the liquid trickled in the pewter flowerpot. Momentarily, the phone and the ominous text was forgotten as she stared at the single jutting stem of the orchid. No flowers—she'd trimmed off the old, wilting branch at the second nub. It would regrow. That's what the online experts had said. But it had been two weeks, and nothing yet.

Still, she diligently watered the orchid, determined to see it through. As the plant itself took a drink, she joined it, throwing back the nearly empty beer bottle in her other hand.

The orchid would rebloom—it had to. The same couldn't be said for former BAU agent, Dakota Steele. Despite her old partner's best efforts.

She frowned at this thought, and slowly lowered the watering can. Marcus was a persistent man—she had to give him that. She glanced at the clock above the cramped apartment's small television set on the other side of the room, away from the window and the orchid. Five minutes until Marcus was supposed to show up.

She pulled her phone from her pocket, double-checking to make sure she hadn't received any new updates. But the last text message was the same. She scrolled past the first message towards the last one. Be there in twenty-five. Marcus was a punctual man.

She frowned at the presumption of the text. She'd never really been able to say no to her old partner. She didn't like speaking much either way. Words were... useful. To some. But words, in her mind, were simply preemptive to someone else solving one's problems. She'd never been given that luxury. She solved her own problems.

The screen saver on her phone was a reminder of this—an image of a black hexagonal cage. She'd spent years in that thing, training—fighting. The only pictures she had, which she'd framed herself, sat on the cabinet by the television. Each of them displayed images her father had taken—grainy, nearly a decade old. All of them showing a younger Dakota preparing for a bout or raising her hands in victory. She had some medals and even a couple of trophies, but these she kept locked beneath her bed. They gathered dust—what else would they be useful for? No reason to linger on past accomplishments.

The photos, though, were reminders. She particularly favored the ones where she'd gotten her a*s kicked. Each of them a lesson. A lesson she thought she'd learned until three months ago.

Marcus or not, she wasn't going back to the FBI.

She took another long drink from her bottle and, once she was finished, walked over to the recycling can and gently lowered the glass into the container, shivering as she did. She glanced around her tidy apartment. Neat, organized. Even now, the fifth bottle deposited in the canister where it belonged. Already, she felt a healthy buzz.

Still, a little bit of chemical dependence and a lot of PTSD didn't mean she had to live like a slob. Control the controllables—wasn't that what her old coach always used to say?

She adjusted the watering can until it was symmetrical to the flowerpot and then began to check her phone again.

Tap. Tap.

She stiffened, shooting a look toward her door, eyes narrowed. She swallowed once, tasting the bitter tang of the sour draft.

Another insistent Tap, Tap.

She sighed but didn't say anything, blinking blearily and trying to clear her vision. She held her alcohol well enough. The knock on the thick, metal door—with the bolt and the chain—was too polite for the area. Things were done differently in Rapid City, South Dakota. She'd come home a few months ago, after...

After the incident...

She shivered in horror and looked frantically towards the six pack on the counter. Just the plastic rings left. She'd have to grab some more liquid courage from the fridge.

Tap. Tap.

Not now, though. Marcus would never let her hear the end of it. It had been only a few short months since she'd left the agency. Her wavering sobriety, though, wasn't nearly so new. She'd battled this particular demon for more than a decade.

“Hello?” a pleasant voice called through the door. “Dakota?”

She scowled again, jamming a trembling hand into her pocket. She adjusted the sleeves of her turtleneck. A neat, pressed shirt smelling of lavender. Her pants were creased and might have seemed less out of place on the form of a lawyer or a banker.

But like the tidiness of her place, Dakota liked presenting a certain front. Appearances mattered. Besides, the neat shirt and pants hid the tattoos. Some of them she still liked, but most were badges gifted by the stupidity of youth.

She reached the door, unlocked it, unlatched and opened it. Normally, back in the hood, she would double-check to make sure this was a guest she was expecting. A single woman, in her thirties, moderately attractive with sea-gray eyes—one could never be too safe. Granted, most good-for-nothings if they knew anything about her, or her past, would likely skip this particular apartment for their ill-intentions, but a girl could never be too safe.

She recognized the voice, however. A gentle, soothing tone. Like the voice of a doting father or a particularly compassionate youth pastor. Not that she'd been in a church in a long time.

As the door swung open, she rearranged her features. The scowl vanished; the pressed lips loosened. Appearances mattered.

She stood poker-faced, impassive in the doorway of her apartment on the bad side of town back in her old, childhood stomping grounds. She'd returned three months before, but the place fit like a glove. This was where she belonged.

The same couldn't be said for the lumbering galoot just outside her door.

“Galoot” was a word he'd taught her.

His size was second only to his immense vocabulary and his appetite for educating others on his pet favorite words.

Today, it seemed, was no exception, announced by the sudden clearing of his throat, a smiled greeting and then, “Angakkuq,” he said simply.

Dakota quirked an eyebrow, absentmindedly touching her fingers to her turtleneck collar, making sure the tattoo of the dragon whose tail ended over her throat was hidden from sight. A nervous tic she'd developed over the years. Once upon a time, in her cage-fighting days, she'd displayed the tattoos proudly. Things had changed. So many things.

“Hmm?” the gentle giant asked, matching her quirked brow.

Dakota just shrugged.

“Angakkuq,” he said primly, adjusting his glasses, “is an Inuit wizard.”

She snorted. “Yeah right.”

“It's true,” Marcus insisted. “Look it up.”

“Don't gotta,” she replied. “I trust the brain that told me mundungus was a type of withered leaf.”

“Ah, tobacco actually,” he said, clearing his throat.

She nodded, but the motion was a bit delayed. The faint buzz in her skull had migrated to her lips, and she closed her eyes briefly, attempting to stave off a headache. Her mind felt looser, now, less taxed. The dark cloud from earlier, the one that had made it difficult to even rise from her bed was fading. Not gone, but somewhat forgotten, or veiled. The drink served as somewhat of an umbrella against the deluge. An umbrella made of tissue, though—it faded fast.

For the moment, though, Dakota was glad to simply be even keeled. She acknowledged Marcus Clement in her doorway. A tall, black man whose muscles barely squeezed into his comic-book t-shirt. A faint mustard stain had been rubbed from the upper pectoral, and she frowned at it, briefly, her more basic instincts screaming for orderliness.

The giant, muscled FBI agent looked like a Doberman, but really was a golden retriever. She wished she had a smile for him. But her lips hadn't found reason to curl for a long time now... Especially since...

She swallowed, her eyes staring off. A body. A dark room. A discarded purse stained with blood, the strap wrapped around her neck.

She wanted to grit her teeth, to squeeze her eyes or scrub them against the horrible images. But appearances mattered. So she kept her expression as guarded as ever.

“You look great,” he said conversationally. “As ever.” He glanced towards her eyes, and she wondered if he spotted the red rings, the dilated pupils. He rarely missed small details. But he glanced away the same way she had from the mustard stain on his comic-book t-shirt.

“Why are you here, Marcus?” she said, not one to mince words. “Not really a nice part of town for a social call.”

“It's...,” he glanced over his shoulder towards a railing with more than one piece of gum stuck to the dilapidated thing. “Quaint,” he said, turning back to her and forcing a smile. Mostly white teeth, a couple off-white. He hadn't brushed this morning. She pushed the thought from her mind. She noticed details, especially details about people and their appearances. Growing up, training as a ju-jitsu and kickboxing practitioner, she'd been raised in the school of thought in which focusing on one's opponent's weaknesses was just as important as focusing on one's strengths. What you don't know, you can't defeat. Her old mentor's favorite saying. The old Irish tough guy lived in the same town. Though she hadn't been by to visit since she'd returned.

Marcus rubbed at his chin. “Are you here alone?” he asked, trying to phrase it conversationally, but the concern in his tone was evident.

She frowned. “Yeah.”

He waited for her to expound. But he knew her well enough not to wait too long. He sighed, shaking his head. “And your father? Does he still live in the area?”

She shrugged. “Don't even know if the house is still here. Marcus, again, what do you want?”

Now it was his turn to pause and allow the silence to linger. His throat tensed. His fingers tapped against his large thigh. His eyes flitted then steadied. She knew people. She knew their weaknesses, and their strengths. She'd spent a lifetime studying others. As a woman in the fight game, half the battle was gaining an advantage wherever it could be found. She'd competed with other women in the cage, but more than one man—trying to prove some testosterone-fueled point to a buddy at the time—had picked a fight with her after a match, or at a bar, or just for the fun of it.

Information was advantage. Knowledge meant knockout.

And she knew what he wanted even without him saying anything. The way he hesitated, the faintly guilty look in his eyes replaced by a stern posture of defiance as if resenting his own guilt. Also, she spotted the rolled-up folder in his baseball-glove-sized right hand.

“That a case?” she asked, pointing.

Instinctively, he flinched, his hand jerking back nearly imperceptibly. He caught the motion though and just let the rolled folder remain jutting.

“It is,” she said. It wasn't a question. Her expression remained emotionless, but inwardly her chest tightened. She needed to grab another drink but didn't want to partake in front of Marcus. Her head was pounding now. “Why are you on my doorstep with another case?” she said, her voice firm.

He sighed. “Look, Dakota, please, hear me out.”

She considered this. Then shook her head. “Nah. Nice seeing you, Marcus.” Then she shut the door. As it swung shut, though, an economy-sized foot jutted in the doorway. Just as quickly it jerked back. “Sorry, sorry,” he said quickly. “Sorry,” he repeated. He winced and adjusted his spectacles. “Look, Dakota, I wouldn't be here if it wasn't important. Please, please hear me out. For old time's sake, yes?”

“There a word for that?” she said. “Old time's sake?”

“Er... Commemorative?”

“Nice.” She shut the door again.

This time he didn't try to interrupt.

She turned, moving back towards the fridge.

Tap. Tap. More insistent this time. “Dakota!” A muffled voice called through the door. “Please—we all want you back. I want you back. This won't be like last time.”

She flinched, having reached the fridge now, one hand gripping the cool handle of the appliance. She didn't reply, preferring her silence. She opened the fridge, scanning the contents. More beers. A bottle of ketchup, a packet of soup and milk that looked like sludge...

She sighed. She'd have to go to the store soon enough.

Tap. Tap. “I don't blame you!” the voice echoed through the door. “I never did.”

She tensed at this, turning. Now that no one was watching, she allowed the scowl to curdle her features, and she directed it towards the door. She touched her fingers towards her turtleneck again, just to make sure it was still there.

“Anyone could have made that mistake!” the voice continued. It waited as if expecting a response. When none came, with a huff, it continued, “Anyone! I wasn't even sure about the lead myself. It was fifty-fifty.”

Dakota snorted at this. Her partner was being generous, and he knew it. So did she. As a former agent, she'd worked with the BAU—closely examining threats for a living. But the last case, the one three months ago, had ended in disaster. And it had all been her fault. She'd let a killer escape, and a young girl die.

The same way it happened to Carol... A nasty voice whispered in her head.

She flinched at a far more distant memory of her own baby sister. Two decades was a long-time, but not nearly long enough to outpace certain recollections. She snatched a bottle from the fridge, twisted the non-twist cap with a heavily calloused hand and chugged the thing in four gulps.

The smooth, somewhat bitter drink assuaged her throat, wetting her lips. She walked over to the recycling and lowered the bottle into the trash.

Marcus had known she'd been wrong about the killer three months ago. Had offered another lead. He'd wanted to follow an anonymous tip. It had the markers of the killer. He'd probably been right, but they'd never know because Dakota hadn't been able to see clearly. The case was too close—had been too close to her own sister's death. It had clouded her judgment; she'd ignored her partner's lead and she'd single-handedly allowed a murderer to flee, a young girl to die...

She'd left the BAU the next day and returned home. Prior to that, she'd made a good agent. A damn good one, in fact. But that case... just too similar. Too much baggage.

“I flew here just to speak with you!” Marcus said, patient as ever. His voice didn't carry an inch of hurt or frustration. Only concern and a plea. “They're sending me west,” he said. “My flight is this evening. From the Regional. You should come with me, Dakota! It's been long enough. I need you at my back.”

“Get Spencer!” she called back, waiting for the newest drink to take its effect.

“Spencer's unideal,” he retorted through the door.

“Is that how you pronounce asshole?” she called back.

The man on the other side of her door snorted. He didn't swear himself, but he often had a schoolboy reaction when others did. Just another reason she liked the guy. She wouldn't have even opened the door for anyone else from the agency. Now, though, she was wishing she hadn't made an exception. Not even for her old partner.

“Just think about it, alright?” he called through the door. “I need the backup, and I don't trust anyone else.”

“The new boss feel the same way?” she called back, scowling at the door.

“Oh—you heard about her?”

“I heard there was some movement up top after my screw-up.”

Marcus sighed. “That's good for you,” he said, trying to keep his tone light. “No baggage. Maybe she doesn't even know you quit.”

Dakota snorted. “Funny.”

“Alright, maybe not. But this case is a serious one, Dakota. The women are young. Mid-twenties max. Look—can you do that? Just take a look?”

She heard a huff and then a grunt and then light moving beneath her door. A second later, the same rolled up folder she'd spotted was now being slid beneath the c***k under the door. She frowned, watching the folder emerge in her living room.

The one thing in the tidy place now marring the carpet.

For this reason alone, she marched over, snatched the thing and moved straight towards the recycling bin, tossing the papers in without a second thought.

“Did...,” the voice paused. “Did you just throw it away?”

“Yup,” she called back.

“Really?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Dakota... please. I need your help!”

“You're just saying that. I'm not going to, Marcus.”

“This is no way to live!” the big man implored, despite the barrier in his face. “Alone in a rancid part of town...”

“I thought you said it was quaint.”

“I lied.”

Dakota snorted humorously. “I miss you too, Marcus. But I'm not coming back.”

The shadow shifted beneath her door. The voice didn't reply at first. Briefly, she thought perhaps he was still lingering, but then she heard a sigh and the faint sound of retreating footsteps. Moments later, she heard the buzz of the door below.

Once more, she was alone.

Dakota frowned, her head buzzing, her gaze blurry. She turned to face the pruned orchid, staring at the n***d plant. Marcus had been the one who'd bought the flower for her. A year ago. He'd thought it might make her happy.

Most things didn't make her happy. She wasn't even sure what the word meant.

But it had made her... grateful? Glad? As close to happy as she knew how to get. But now the flowers had wilted. Nothing had budded back.

She was alone again. But she sure as hell wasn't going to help on some new case. Wasn't going to let Marcus lure her back.

Suddenly, she heard a tapping sound against the window.

Dakota whirled around, staring past her orchid.

Another tap.

She frowned and hurried over, peering out across the street. She didn't lean out too far. A few seconds passed and she heard the downstairs door open and close. The big man, head bowed, moved up the street in the opposite direction.

Dakota didn't call after him.

Instead, she glanced towards a couple of kids with s**t-eating grins.

They were standing in the big red dumpster, pebbles in their hands.

Dakota got one glimpse of the yellow t-shirts they were wearing, and her eyes narrowed. At the same time, she felt a jolt of fear.

Two reunions on the same day?

What were the odds? She frowned. Not high. Unless... unless Marcus was pulling strings.

But Marcus didn't scare her half as much as what the two kids heralded.

“Get lost!” Dakota called out, waving a hand. “Go!”

The kids tossed their pebbles in the trash can.

“He said you better be up!” One of the kids shouted, still grinning. “Said he's coming by.”

Dakota rubbed at the bridge of her nose.

Those yellow shirts came from Little's gym.

Coach was stopping by. s**t. Had Marcus called him? Must have. She made a shooing motion again and slammed the window.

Coach always did have an unusual way about him. Pebbles on the window—like something out of a movie. He'd sent his two gym rats to keep an eye on her, no doubt. She felt like a bird in a cage, being watched.

Part of her considered bolting, making a break for it. If she wasn't home, he couldn't confront her, right?

Then again, those two kids outside were likely tasked with following her wherever she went.

More tapping against her window. More pebbles.

She sighed. They'd probably been assigned to keep her up. Keep her there.

Until Casper Little arrived. Like the godfather himself.

“Dammit...,” she muttered. With Casper, one could never really tell what he was thinking. His little lookouts would keep an eye on her for as long as he told them. An hour? Six?

He might stop by at midnight or at the break of dawn the next day.

No telling with him, and Dakota wanted nothing to do with another surprise meeting on the same day. She felt like that little furry-footed creature from that movie she'd once seen. Habit? Hobo? Something like that.

Well... no naps with pebbles rattling off her window every five minutes. No time to relax knowing Casper was en route to her place either. She shivered at the thought of his temper when he realized she'd been in town for months without stopping by.

Suddenly, a horrifying thought struck her.

Marcus was more forgiving, but Casper would smell the beer on her.

“s**t,” she muttered. “s**t. Shit... Dammit.”

Another pebble bounced off her window.

How much time did she have before Casper showed up?

Not much. Not much at all. But hopefully just enough to cover her tracks.

She spun on her heel, racing down the hall.