Ruthless (37 page)

No one could know.

Not until Spears was dead.

Debra Webb, born in Alabama, wrote her first story at age nine and her first romance at thirteen. It wasn’t until after she spent three years working for the military behind the Iron Curtain—and a five-year stint with NASA—that she realized her true calling. A collision course between suspense and romance was set. Since then she has penned nearly one hundred novels, including her internationally best-selling Colby Agency series. Her debut romantic thriller series, the Faces of Evil, propelled Debra to the top of the best-seller charts for an unparalleled twenty-four weeks and garnered critical acclaim from reviewers and readers alike. Don’t miss a single installment of this fascinating and chilling twelve-book series!

Visit Debra at
www.thefacesofevil.com
or at
www.debrawebb.com
. You can write to Debra at PO Box 12485, Huntsville, AL 35815.

The Faces of Evil series

Obsession

Impulse

Power

Rage

Revenge

Birmingham, Alabama

Wednesday, July 14, 1:03 p.m.

S
pecial Agent Jess Harris’s career was in the toilet along with the breakfast she’d wolfed down and then lost in a truck stop bathroom the other side of Nashville.

God, this wasn’t supposed to happen.

Jess couldn’t breathe. She told herself to either get out of the car or power down a window, but her body refused to obey a single, simple command.

The scorching ninety-five degrees baking the city’s asphalt and concrete had invaded the interior of the car about two seconds after she parked and shut off the engine. That appeared to be of little consequence to whatever reason she still possessed considering that ten minutes later her fingers were still locked around the steering wheel as if the final hours of her two-day drive had triggered the onset of rigor mortis.

She was
home
. Two weeks’ worth of long overdue
leave was at her disposal. Her mail was on hold at the post office back in Stafford, Virginia, where absolutely no one would miss her. Still, she hesitated in taking the next step. Changing her mind and driving away was out of the question no matter how desperately she wanted to do exactly that.

Her word was all she had left at this point. The sheer enormity of her current circumstances should have her laughing hysterically but the muscles of her throat had constricted in equal parts disbelief and terror.

Screw this up and there’s nothing left
.

With a deep breath for courage, she relaxed her death grip, grabbed her bag, and climbed out. A horn honked a warning and she flattened against the dusty fender of her decade-old Audi. Cars and trucks whizzed by, determined to make the Eighteenth Street and First Avenue intersection before the traffic light changed. Exhaust fumes lingered in the humid air, mingling with the heat and the noise of downtown.

She barely recognized the heart of Birmingham. Renovated shops from a bygone era and newer, gleaming buildings stood side by side, their facades softened by carefully placed trees and shrubbery. An elegant park complete with a spectacular fountain welcomed strolling shoppers and relaxing picnickers. Great strides had been taken to transform the gritty streets of the city once recognized as the infamous center of the civil rights movement to a genteel version of a proud Southern town.

What the hell was she doing here?

For twenty-two years she had worked harder than a prized pupil of Henry Higgins himself to alter her speech patterns and to swipe the last damned trace of the South
from her voice. A master’s degree in psychology from Boston College and seventeen years of relentless dedication to build an admirable career distinguished her résumé.

And for what? To come running back with her tail tucked between her legs and her head hanging low enough to the ground to smell the ugly truth.

Nothing had changed.

All the spritzing fountains and meticulously manicured storefronts couldn’t hide the fact that this was still Birmingham—the place she’d put in her rearview mirror at eighteen—and the four-hundred-dollar red suit and matching high heels she wore would not conceal her plunge from grace.

He
had called and she had promised to come and have a look at his case. It was the first time he’d asked her for anything since they parted ways after college. That he extended any sort of invitation astonished her and provided a much needed self-esteem boost. No one from her hometown had a clue about her current career debacle or the disaster zone that was her personal life. If she had her way, they would never know. The million-dollar question, however, remained: What did she do after this?

The wind from a passing car flapped her skirt around her legs, reminding her that this curbside parking slot was not exactly the place to conduct a cerebral overview of
This Is Your Life
.

Game face in place, her shoulders squared with determination, she strode to the Birmingham Police Department’s main entrance. Another bout of hesitation slowed her but she kicked it aside, opened the door, and presented a smile for the security guard. “Good morning.”

“Good morning to you, too, ma’am,” said the guard, Elroy Carter according to the name tag pinned to his shirt. “I’ll need your ID. You can place your bag here.” He indicated the table next to him.

Jess handed over her official credentials and placed her bag as directed for inspection. Since she’d stopped bothering with earrings years ago and the gold band she still wore for reasons that continued to escape her didn’t set off any alarms except in her head, she walked through the metal detector and waited on the other side for her bag.

“Enjoy your visit to the Magic City, Agent Harris.” Another broad smile brightened the big man’s face.

Probably retired Birmingham PD, undeniably Southern through and through. He obviously took pride in his work, past and present, and likely carried a wallet full of photos of his grandchildren. The only trait that wouldn’t be readily discernible by way of a passing inspection was whether he was an Auburn or an Alabama fan. By September that, too, would be as clear as the rich color of his brown eyes. In Alabama, college football season turned even the closest of friends into fierce rivals.

“Thank you, Mr. Carter.”

Extending a please, welcome, and thank you remained a stalwart Southern tradition. On the etiquette scale, the idea of passing a stranger without at least smiling ranked right below blasphemy. Keeping up with your neighbor’s or coworker’s business wasn’t viewed as meddling. Not at all. It was the right thing to do. Concern was, of course, the motive.

Jess would give it twenty-four hours max before speculation about her business became the subject of water-cooler talk. Then the sympathetic glances would begin.
Along with the reassuring smiles and the total pretense that everything was fine.

Fine. Fine. Fine.

As much as she wanted to avoid her dirty laundry being aired, the odds of complete circumvention fell along the lines of being hit by falling satellite debris twice in the same day. Once the news hit the AP there would be no stopping or even slowing the media frenzy.

Her life was a mess. She doubted any aspect of her existence would ever be
fine
again. But that was irrelevant at the moment. She was here to advise on a case—one that wouldn’t wait for her to gather up the pieces of her life or for her to lick her wounds.

Jess set those worries aside, steeled herself, and headed for the bank of elevators that would take her to the fourth floor.
To him
.

None of the faces she encountered looked familiar. Not the guard who’d processed her in or either of his colleagues monitoring the lobby and not the woman who joined her in the elevator car to make the trip to Birmingham Police Department’s administrative offices.

Once the doors glided closed, the woman attempted a covert inspection, taking note of Jess’s Mary Jane pumps with their four-inch heels, the swath of skin separating the hem of her pencil skirt from the tops of her knees and the leather bag that had been her gift to herself on her fortieth birthday. When eye contact inevitably happened, a faint smile flashed, a superficial pleasantry intended to disguise the sizing-up of competition.
If she only knew.

The car bumped to a stop. The other woman exited first and strolled down the long corridor on the right. Jess’s destination waited straight ahead. The office of the chief
of police. At the door she conducted a final inventory of her appearance in the glass, straightened her belted jacket, and plucked a blond hair from her lapel. She looked… the same. Didn’t she? Her hand fell to her side.