Profile of Fear: Book Four of the Profile Series (Volume 4) (16 page)

Relief washed over Cameron. She was safe.

Robynn nudged him. “What are you waiting for? Aren’t you going to introduce me to your little girl?”

Chapter Thirty-three

Carly Stone didn’t need to look at her clock to know it was two in the morning. Although the nightmares had slowed down, they still grabbed her by the throat and squeezed at least twice a week at precisely two in the morning, the same time of day she was nearly raped and murdered. Drawing a blanket over Brody’s shoulders, she slipped out of bed and went to the kitchen to make a cup of chamomile tea.

Soon Brody joined her and sat at the end of the table, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Gazing at his wife, he asked himself why she hadn’t confided that she knew Juan Ortiz…who might be the star of the perpetual nightmares she experienced.

He’d awaken to the sound of Carly’s rasping breaths and whimpering cries. Each time he’d wanted to reach for her, pull her body tightly against his to make the bad dreams go away, to make her feel safe. But he dared not do that. He’d made that mistake once, and had been pummeled by a flurry of blows from Carly, who was still fighting demons in her sleep. Brody had learned to lie still until the nightmare ended. Sometimes she rolled into the safety of his arms and he’d hold her until the first light of morning.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Look, I know Cam must have told you about my interview with Donda Hicks and our conversation about Juan Ortiz. It’s nothing, Brody. History. Over. The end.” Pulling out her tea bag, she opened the lower cabinet door and threw it away, then sat down at the table with her husband.

“I’m having a hard time believing this piece of your history is ‘nothing.’” Brody understood that working as a federal agent, Carly had lived her own scary movie, including her partner’s beheading by a sex trafficker in Florida. It was one of her off-limit topics, ones she refused to discuss. He knew of that incident from her brother, Blake.

And then there were the most recent bloody crimes scenes, created by serial killers, Jim Ryder, and the ‘Gamers,’ teenagers Evan and Devan Lucas. If those weren’t the stuff of nightmares, he didn’t know what was. Carly had trained herself well, excelled in compartmentalizing, and had not shed a tear at gruesome crime scenes. Nor had she joined his deputies, puking their guts out on the sidelines. Her sense of control was admirable for a law enforcement officer, but he wondered where she packed away all that horror in her mind.

“It’s just the job, Brody. I’m sure I’m not the only one in police work who has bad dreams. We see a lot of bad stuff. I just don’t like to talk about it.”

“You can’t keep all that inside and not have it affect your life, Carly—
our
lives, together.” What bothered him most was that she wouldn’t confide in him about her demons. He’d finally stopped asking because it pissed him off so much.

Carly was the woman he wanted to bear his children, to spend the rest of his life with. He loved her fiercely and shared his darkest secrets with her. If she loved him just as much, why wouldn’t she talk to him? What could be so terrible that she wouldn’t tell him about it?

“It’s not about us.”

“Bullshit. It’s about you not trusting me. What kind of a marriage can we have without trust? Stop shutting me out. There’s nothing you can tell me that will change my love for you. Nothing.”

He was her husband. Whether he had a right to know everything in her personal history was up for grabs. But it was obvious what had happened was disrupting her sleep and intruded upon their relationship.

Carly started a pot of coffee, took out two mugs from the cabinet, and then returned to the table.

She thought back to the days that led up to her personal nightmare. “I was working as special agent in the Criminal Investigation Division of the FBI office in Tampa. Sam Isley was the Special Agent in Charge, and my boss. Juan Ortiz was in Florida, heading a major sex trafficking operation. Sam discovered through an informant that Ortiz was actively looking for a specific type of woman to sell to a customer in Orlando—an American girl with Italian features. It was decided that I fit the bill, and they prepared me for an undercover assignment that could bring down Juan Ortiz’s entire operation. It was my first time undercover in two years, and I’d begged for the opportunity.”

When she paused, Brody urged her to go on.

“They knew Juan Ortiz was a middle man who could lead them to the man who orchestrated the sale of young women throughout the state. My mission was to identify the leader and help my team bring him down, along with his nasty group of pimps and murderers. And in the process, free the young women they held captive, forced into prostitution.

“The first time I saw Juan Ortiz, he was leaning against a wall in a downtown Orlando bar called Chillers, looking very much like a lead in the old
Miami Vice
television series. Hispanic with angular facial features, dark eyes and skin. He worked a white blazer, pastel-blue silk T-shirt, and new jeans almost as well as actor Don Johnson.

“I headed for the ladies room, checked to make sure it was empty, and then counted out loud to test the microphone taped between my breasts. I also made sure my Colt Defender semi-automatic was securely holstered on the inside of my thigh.

“Within seconds, I heard the voice of Agent Dan Levitt through my earpiece; he told me he could hear me perfectly.”

Carly became so lost in the story, it was if she were reliving what had happened.

Chapter Thirty-four

Dan lowered his voice to a whisper. “Thought you might like to know that Special Agent in Charge Sam Isley is heading toward the van. Did you know he’d be here tonight?”

“No, I didn’t. Thanks for the heads up.” Carly frowned as she checked her look in the mirror. Why was Sam here?

He was getting protective again. And Carly hated it. Just because she slept with him did not mean she needed him to go guard dog on her. Didn’t he think she’d learned how to protect herself in all that training in Quantico? What would her team think about his presence? Sam was giving the impression he didn’t think she couldn’t handle herself on this assignment, and it pissed her off royally.

Pulling a small brush out of her purse, she pulled it through her long ebony mane, making sure her hair covered the wireless earpiece in her right ear. Glancing in the mirror, she barely recognized herself. Camille, the only other female on the team, had applied the foundation, blush, and mascara so thick that she looked like she just stepped out of a department store makeover. Good lord, she was supposed to look like a call girl, not
America’s Top Model
.

Carly applied some scarlet lip gloss to her lips and straightened her dress. She’d brought three dresses to the team meeting for a vote, and all three were vetoed. Then Camille pulled out a shopping bag from beneath her chair and handed it to Carly. Inside was a beaded, red wrap-dress with a full mini-skirt, the neckline cut into a deep V in front.

When she’d balked about wearing it, Camille had said, “Carly, you’re supposed to be a high-class call girl. How many call girls do you know who dress in starched, button-down shirts and blazers, like you usually wear?”

“What about the three dresses I brought from home?”

“Yeah, you could wear those to church, or maybe if you ever have to chaperone a junior high school dance,” Camille had said, as the rest of the team howled with laughter. Carly’s face burned. They were right. She was not the type to dress provocatively. Could she pull this off?

Carly checked out the dress in the mirror and realized she disliked it as much as her team enjoyed her having to wear it. It was so tight she could barely breathe, and the beading scratched her legs when she walked. Thanks to the four-inch red pumps, she wouldn’t be walking that much if she could help it. It was more like teetering on stilts and heading for a fall.

Tugging the top of the dress, she thought she’d be lucky if her breasts didn’t pop out to say hello. She wished she’d taken Camille up on her offer to tape her into the dress. Too late now. It was time to meet Juan Ortiz.

Back in the bar, a band had started playing and the lead singer was doing a really bad impression of Robin Thicke. Juan Ortiz was now sitting at the bar, talking with a blond-haired woman. Carly knew the second Juan noticed her; his eyes widened and an almost feral expression lit his face. She gave him her best come-hither look, and sat down at nearby table. A waitress asked her for a drink order, and just as she was about to order a Coke, Juan Ortiz appeared at her table holding two frozen strawberry daiquiris, and said, “I have the lady’s drink.”

As the waitress returned to the bar, Carly asked, “Are we celebrating something? If so, I should know your name.”

Juan pulled Carly’s hand to his mouth and kissed it, then said, “My name is Juan Ortiz, and this might be the luckiest night of your life.”

“Hello, Juan. I’m Charlotte,” Carly began. “And why is this the luckiest night of my life?”

“You are very beautiful,” he said as he fingered a lock of her hair and brushed it away from her face. She nearly flinched. If he uncovered the earpiece, she’d be made.

Backing slightly from his touch, she asked, “And why would meeting you be lucky for me?”

“That is for you to discover before the night ends,” Juan responded. “Do you model?”

“Does that line usually work for you?” Carly asked with a flirtatious smile.

Looking like a spider weaving his web around his next victim, Juan said, “I work for a very powerful man who owns a modeling agency. He is looking for someone like you to model in the show he has planned in Paris next month. Are you interested?”

Carly feigned surprise and delight, and shot him her best smile. “Very. I’ve always wanted to model.”

“If you will give me a moment to make a call, I may be able to introduce you to him tonight.”

“Awesome!” Carly said. She watched Juan Ortiz pull his cell phone out of his pocket and walk toward the bar. Soon he was speaking to someone and emphatically nodding his head.

“Did you hear that?” Carly said to Dan.

“Yes.” His voice sounded through her earpiece. “This is working so much better than we imagined. We thought it’d be weeks before Ortiz took you to meet the big boss. Good job.”

“Are you ready to follow us?”

“Yes. We’re using the GPS inside your cell phone to keep you in our range. Ortiz drives a new Jag and our van is parked right behind him. Don’t worry. We won’t let you out of our sight.”

“Not worried.”

Juan Ortiz returned to the table and said, “My friend can see us. He doesn’t live far from here. Let’s take my car. It’s out front.”

Ortiz led her to a gleaming, black Jaguar and helped her into the sports car. Soon they were shooting through the streets of Orlando like a bullet. Juan Ortiz drove as if he were a competitor for the Daytona 500, squealing the tires as he took turns.

They’d only gone a few miles when he pulled into a shopping plaza parking lot and stopped.

“Why did you stop?” Carly asked.

“Give me your purse,” he demanded. When she didn’t move, he grabbed it from her.

“Hey, what are you doing?” She cried out.

Juan Ortiz ripped her cell phone out of her purse and threw it out the window.

“I’ll buy you a new one,” he said, as he shoved the car in gear and blasted onto the street like a rocket.

Carly fought back the panic that rioted inside her. Glancing at the side rearview mirror, she saw her backup in the white van, two cars behind them. They were still there. When would they realize they could no longer track her by the GPS in her cell?

Racing through the streets, Juan Ortiz took the turns so fast that the car glided on two wheels. He made a sharp right into an alley; at the end he made a left turn onto a busy highway, then onto the westbound ramp of I-4.

“What’s the hurry?” Carly asked, as she glanced in the mirror again. The white surveillance van was nowhere in sight. Her stomach clenched tight. What if they’d lost Juan’s car?

“The boss is eager to meet you,” he said, as his eyes openly appraised her body.

Soon they were near the attractions, Disney World and Epcot, the traffic thick on I-4 with tourists. Without a warning or signal, Juan Ortiz veered the car onto a ramp, and turned left onto a busy boulevard. Carly saw a sign announcing Kissimmee city limits. Juan pulled into an upscale subdivision, then entered the driveway of one of the most beautiful and largest homes she’d ever seen. The house was painted white, with plenty of large windows facing a lake. A dark Mercedes sedan was parked in front. Apparently sex traffickers made a good living off the pain and suffering of others.

Entering the home, he led her into the living room that held two white leather sofas in front of a white-brick fireplace. The room was huge, with most of the walls made of glass. It looked more like a designer show house than someone’s home.

“Where is your boss?”

The feral look was back in his eyes. “I’m so sorry, but something came up and he can’t make it. He asked me to interview you and send him my thoughts on whether he should hire you.”

Alarm bells sounded in her head and a chill rushed down her spine. She was alone with a maniac, and backup was nowhere in sight.

It was then she heard a pounding sound that seemed to be coming from the floor beneath them. “What’s that noise?”

Ortiz visibly squirmed and said, “That’s my dog. He wants out. He’ll just have to wait until after we take care of business.”

She hadn’t identified the noise, but it was not coming from a dog. A dog would have scratched at the door and barked. Her team was certain that Ortiz held the women in an out-of-the-way warehouse, but they may be wrong. Was Ortiz holding women hostage in the floor below?

Ignoring the sound, Ortiz moved toward a bar and lifted a bottle of wine. “Pinot Noir?”

“Yes, thank you.” Carly said, although she would not be drinking it. Ortiz was known for lacing drinks with roofies to disable the women he abducted.