“Crazy bastard,” Tripp muttered, as he dipped his chin to the top of Ashley’s sweaty forehead.
Peewee was finally quiet. Tripp had a feeling that Special Agent Tate Higgins was behind the silence since he was no longer in sight. Tucker Chase still roamed the entire apartment, searching for evidence, which was downright disconcerting. Tripp didn’t need Chase finding his face paint and jumping to conclusions about a certain vigilante.
“Director Chase?” he asked, hoping to distract the FBI director on the prowl. “Want to bet you’ll find photographic evidence inside this guy’s home that will tie him to every murder he’s ever committed? Maybe others we don’t know about?”
Tucker nodded. “Already got a man on it. The second Isaiah gets back to me, I’ll let you know what he found.”
“Do we have a name?” Jameson asked.
“Doug Driscoll. He was APD’s crime scene photographer, which gave him all the inside information he needed. Also helped him escape notice. Hold on. Here’s Isaiah now.” Tucker cocked his head the same way Jameson always did. Was Tuck listening to Isaiah? Sure looked like it. His eyes were unfocused, as if he were watching something far away. “Driscoll’s been with APD a little over two years. Lived in Atlanta before that. He’s got… shit! Do not enter until Tate arrives. I’m sending back up, Isaiah!”
What the hell?
Tucker broke whatever psychic connection he had with Isaiah, shook his head, then turned to Tripp and hissed, “Driscoll’s got a gawddamned shrine inside his place. Photos of dozens of victims, all female. But the largest is a blurry shot of Ashley in the center of what looks like an altar.”
“How do you even know that?” Tripp asked, pressing Ashley more firmly inside his jacket, wishing he could absorb her to be able to always keep her safe. “Isaiah couldn’t have gotten to Driscoll’s place already. He just went downstairs. It isn’t humanly possible.”
Tucker tapped his index finger to his temple, that far-off gaze back in place. “Oh, good to know. You’re right. Carry on.” Tuck turned to Tripp. “False alarm. Isaiah isn’t at Driscoll’s apartment. It’s in Arlington, but he’s still downstairs with the body. Isaiah doesn’t need to travel to investigate crimes like you and I would,” Tucker said, with something that sounded like pride in his tone. “Trust me. My guys are the best.”
“He can tell all that just by being with a dead body?” Un-fuckin’-believable.
“By reading that body, yes. Isaiah’s a Level Ten.” Tucker said that like being a Level Ten explained everything. “You’d be surprised what he can get out of a dead man’s mind if the death is recent.”
“So this is what psychics do,” Jameson murmured. “Interesting.”
Tripp needed more than psychic babble. “And Eden and Ky? Where’d they go?”
Tucker stuck his big square chin at the shared wall between Tripp’s and Ashley’s apartments. “They’re next door with Tate. He’s our Doctor Doolittle. He’ll see to it Peewee’s taken care of for as long as you need, ma’am,” Tucker told Ashley. “These two apartments are now crime scenes. I’ll let you know when you can move back in.”
“Thank you,” Ashley replied. She’d wrapped both arms around Tripp’s waist. He could feel her fingers spread across his back. One cheek rested over his heart. And Tripp stopped worrying about what Tucker might find that could link him to the vigilante. Ashley was alive. That was all he cared about.
He dipped his nose into the silky depths of her hair and inhaled. Cherries and Ashley. His two favorite flavors. It had finally happened. He’d fallen, too. Into Ashley. Into love.
“You’re a damned fast learner, woman,” he murmured, a healthy load of adrenaline still working its way through his body. “I’m proud of how you handled that rat bastard.”
Tilting her chin, she looked up at him. “You saved me.” Tears of relief washed down her pretty face. Her lower lip quivered. “If you hadn’t gotten here when you did, if you hadn’t fired when you—”
“Uh-uh, that wasn’t me. That was Alex from the next building over. He fired the first shot. Jameson and I just followed up with double taps to make sure the bastard couldn’t hurt you again.”
“Alex? Your boss?” She turned to look over her shoulder. “Where’s—?”
“Here,” Alex replied gruffly from the doorway.
Man, he was a sight for sore eyes. Long, lean, and every bit the gunslinger his TEAM claimed he was. Alex shouldered past Director Chase, with a damned fine sniper rifle in his right hand. A Springfield, if Tripp wasn’t mistaken. Looked like one of those rare as hell, big-assed, Israeli, sniper rifles. If it was, it’d bear the Star of David behind its scope mount. That baby had to go for around four K. Sweet.
“Good job, guys. Ma’am.” Alex nodded respectfully to Ashley. Sirens screamed from the alley below. “Tripp, get your woman somewhere clean and quiet. She’s been through enough. Does she need a doctor?”
Ashley’s hands tightened around Tripp’s waist. “No. I just need Tripp.”
Alex never batted an eye, just sent him a silent signal to do whatever she asked.
“I’ll get a room close to the hospital,” Tripp told her. “If you change your mind, the ER’s just around the corner. You good with that?”
“You’ll stay with me?”
“Try and stop me.”
“Could we visit your mom, too?”
“You bet.”
Alex turned on Tucker. “You need anything more from my guys?”
“No need for you or them to stay. My team and I witnessed how everything went down. We’ll clean up here. Might be good if you paid me a visit in the next couple days, though. Details, you know.”
“I can do that,” Alex answered, shouldering his rifle, the strap as worn as the weapon.
Eden ducked into the apartment doorway with a cheery, “I’ll accompany
