THE PERFECT TRAP

PROLOGUE

Vic Antonelli almost didn't mind being incarcerated today. Almost.

The cool morning air was a relief, especially since he was wearing long pants and a long-sleeved prison jumpsuit, both of which were bright orange. Like the other inmates around him, he didn't normally have to wear this getup behind the walls of the prison, but out here in the world, it was required.

Vic guessed it was to warn civilians about who they were, should someone try to escape. But Vic had no intention of doing that. After all, he was only four months from being released. Besides, he felt lucky to have this assignment.

Roadside litter pickup duty was a prized job for residents of Los Angeles's Metropolitan Detention Center, even on a hot day. It allowed them to get out, move around, experience anything other than the same relentlessly boring surroundings they saw every other day.

Even better, today wasn't hot, at least not yet. Later on, the temperature would climb into the eighties. But right now, at 8:15 a.m., it was a comfortable sixty-four-degree, late-September morning in Gardena, California. And he was fortunate to be working a stretch of Artesia Boulevard, just as it transitioned into the 91 Freeway.

The fortunate part was that he was working under the 405 Freeway overpass, which afforded some extra shade as he used the claws of his trash grabber to collect various empty aluminum cans, fast food wrappers, and the occasional used syringe. Some of the other guys were more exposed to the elements. But at least for now, he was protected from the sun as he moved from bush to shrub, casually picking out whatever he could find.

Vic walked over to one particularly large bush, hoping that by virtue of its sheer size, it might have accumulated a lot of debris. He knew his life wasn't in the best place when he was hoping to discover intriguing trash by a roadside.

Sure enough, he found multiple plastic grocery bags, a used coffee cup, and, hard to see under some thick brush, a women's, black, high-heeled shoe. He snagged that with the grabber and held it up close, wondering how much it was worth. It looked pretty new.

But then he noticed that it was stained with some liquid, surely knocking the value way down. Not that he was in a position to sell one used women's shoe. He glanced a little closer and noted that the liquid looked a lot like thick, half-damp, blood.

Gross.

Vic might be a felon, but the sight of blood still made him queasy. After all, his specialty was overnight breaking and entering into empty businesses. He didn't like the idea of confronting people, and the gun he carried during his B&E's was always unloaded.

Vic dropped the shoe in his trash bag and moved on. He barely made it five feet when he saw the matching shoe poking out from under the bush. He started to move closer to grab it when something made him stop dead in his tracks. The shoe was still on a foot.

Vic froze as he tried to process what he was seeing. After a few breathless seconds, he nervously knelt down. Hidden under the bush was a young woman, probably not even thirty. She had long, dark, curly hair and dark skin. She was wearing black dress, nicer than work clothes, like something that might be worn during an evening out. And she was clearly dead. She had bruises on her arms and legs and a thick, ugly band of black and blue around her neck. Her eyes were open but empty.

Despite his multiple stints behind bars, Vic had never seen a dead body before. Before he could stop himself, he leaned over and retched in the patch of grass off the side of the road. When he was able to breathe again, he stood up and called out.

"I need help over here!"

CHAPTER ONE

Jessie Hunt wasn't used to sitting in the waiting room. Usually, when she visited a hospital, it was because she was the one being admitted. She almost wished that was the case this morning. But right now, she was the one worrying about everyone else.

As she sat in the uncomfortable chair at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, she adjusted positions. She'd been trying to get a little sleep, but it was mostly useless. Other than a couple of fitful hours last night, she'd spent her time looking up every time someone in a white coat walked by. She was on the verge of just getting up and forcing her way into the ICU to demand answers.

For seemingly the hundredth time, she glanced at the clock on the wall. It was already 8:20 in the morning. The bomb had gone off over seven hours ago. She should have more answers by now.

It felt like it had all gone down just minutes ago. When she closed her eyes, the memory of last night, still painfully vivid, flooded in.

The specialized LAPD unit that Jessie worked for as a criminal profiler, Homicide Special Section, had gotten a tip that the serial killer known as the Clone Killer was holed up in a downtown L.A. Skid Row apartment. While she watched on body camera footage from the Central Police Station, four detectives from the unit, along with an eight-person SWAT team, had breached the apartment.

The Clone Killer, whose real name was Mark Haddonfield, was no longer there when they arrived. But before he left, he'd booby-trapped the place with an explosive, which the team had only discovered seconds before it went off. The explosion had cut off the body camera feeds, leaving Jessie and everyone else at the police station in the dark about what happened, and who survived.

Jessie wanted to rush to the scene, but her boss, Captain Ryan Hernandez, who also happened to be her husband, had insisted she stay away. She was recovering from her own head injury sustained less than a week earlier. Equally concerning was that Haddonfield's rampant murder spree was all part of a plan to destroy her. As a result, Ryan didn't want her anywhere near a location where the killer might still be lingering. But that didn't stop him from going directly to the bombed-out apartment to check on his people.

Since Jessie couldn't go to the scene, she'd come to the hospital instead, along with an entourage that included her best friend, private detective Kat Gentry, and her personal bodyguard, Grover Nix, who was trying to keep her safe from Haddonfield. Kat had her own bodyguard in tow, a former Israeli Special Forces soldier, who was protecting her from an entirely different killer intent on harming her.

They had all waited there as patients started coming in. First were the members of the SWAT team who had managed to escape the explosion without injury and were arriving to check on their colleagues. Then came the injured. Two more SWAT team members were brought in together. Both had facial lacerations, and one of them had his pant leg cut off and replaced by a large bandage. But they seemed fairly functional.

Next to arrive were three of her fellow HSS co-workers, Detectives Sam Goodwin, Karen Bray, and Jim Nettles. Sam was alert, though his shirt had been removed and his back was heavily bandaged. Karen was also conscious, though her left arm was immobilized.

"What happened?" Jessie had asked her.

"The blast slammed me across the hallway," Karen explained. "I don't know if I broke the arm or just sprained it really badly, but it smarts."

Jessie wanted to ask more, but her attention was diverted by the entrance of Jim Nettles on a gurney. He was unconscious, and his face was heavily wrapped. Jessie didn't even have to ask before Sam Goodwin answered.

"He was one of the last to get out of the apartment," Sam explained. "He was thrown clear across the hall and landed against the far wall face-first. The EMT thinks he suffered some facial fractures."

Jessie had looked around for any sign of the two people she knew had been closest to the explosion, the SWAT team leader, Sergeant Trey Clark and the HSS detective on point for the breach, Susannah Valentine. Moments later, Clark arrived in his own ambulance. As he was wheeled into the emergency room, Jessie caught a glimpse of him.

It wasn't pretty. He was unconscious and wore an oxygen mask over his face, which looked like ground beef. He had multiple tubes coming out of him. His entire torso was bloody, and it appeared as if his skin and clothing had fused together. He disappeared into the emergency room. Everyone was quiet for a moment after the doors closed, trying to process what they'd just seen.

"What about Susannah?" Jessie eventually asked. "From what I could tell on camera, she was closest to the bomb when it went off."

Sam and Karen shrugged apprehensively.

"We were taken away before we found out anything about her status," Karen said darkly.

Just then the two of them were ushered into the emergency area by an agitated nurse, leaving Jessie alone with Kat, and the two bodyguards. She slumped down into a chair, unsure what to do. After several minutes of silence, the automatic doors opened.

She looked up to see Ryan walking in. Next to him was Susannah Valentine. Jessie breathed a sigh of relief. The raven-haired detective was standing under her own power and walked in without any assistance. She had a bandage on the side of her neck, and several more on her forearms, but otherwise looked fine.

"Are you okay?" Jessie asked, rushing up to meet her.

"Just bumps and bruises," Susannah assured her, rubbing at her left side.

"But I saw your body cam," Jessie insisted. "You were right in front of the bomb with less than five seconds on the timer."

"Trust me, I recall," Susannah said with a pained smile. "I didn't have time to get to the apartment door, so I leaped out Haddonfield's window. Unfortunately, it was closed, which is how I got all these cuts."

"You leapt out the window?" Kat repeated, stunned.

"Yeah," Susannah replied. "I notice earlier in our search that there was a fire escape and figured I had a better shot getting to that than the door before the bomb went off. I slammed into the railing pretty hard after smashing through the window, but the wall of the apartment protected me from the worst of the blast. I'm just sore."

Their conversation was cut short as a different nurse took her back to get checked out as a precaution.

In the hours since then, multiple people had emerged from behind those doors, among them Susannah, Karen, and Sam. But there was still no word on the SWAT leader, Trey Clark, or on Jim Nettles.

Finally, at 8:25 a.m., Ryan pushed the doors open and walked over. Jessie knew her husband well and could tell from his expression that he had an update. She stood up to meet him. The rest of the group saw her reaction and did the same.

"How are they?" she asked.

"Nettles is going to be out of commission for a while," he answered, "but he'll ultimately be okay. Amazingly, he didn't suffer a concussion. But multiple bones in his face were fractured. He's going to have to stay here for a few weeks, and it'll be several months before he can return to full duty. But he'll be back."

"And Clark?" Jessie asked, referring to the SWAT team leader.

Ryan shook his head.

"I'm afraid he didn't make it," he said. "He died on the operating room table a short time ago. His internal injuries from the blast were just too severe."

Hearing the words, Jessie felt slightly dizzy. Sergeant Trey Clark was one of the most decorated members of LAPD SWAT, not to mention the married father of two young children. She looked around and managed to find a seat to slump in.

She only half-heard Ryan talking about the funeral plans that Police Chief Roy Decker was putting in motion. In addition to the light-headedness, she also felt the beginnings of a headache coming on. She took several deep breaths, hoping to stave it off.

"How are you feeling?" someone whispered from the seat next to her, making her jump slightly.

Jessie hadn't noticed it, but at some point, Dr. Janice Lemmon had taken a seat beside her. Lemmon, her long-time psychiatrist, was currently a patient here at Cedars too. She was recovering from injuries she sustained last night while trying to fight off a troubled client who had taken to killing therapists who couldn't "fix" him like he wanted. But somehow, even requiring a cane to move about, the sixty-something-year-old doctor had made her way down from her own hospital bed to this waiting room.

"I've been better," Jessie conceded bitterly, keeping her voice low. "Headache, disorientation, overwhelmed at the carnage wrought by Mark Haddonfield. How about you?"

"I'm good," Lemmon replied quietly, though Jessie couldn't tell whether she was being honest. "My wounds are improving, and my doctor said I should be able to go home by the weekend. But let's not focus on me. Tell me more about you."

"Are we in a session, Doc?" Jessie asked, trying to force a grin.

"No," Lemmon replied gently. "Just checking on a friend."

The doctor smiled warmly, her bright eyes shining behind her thick glasses. Her aggressive perm, comprised of tight little blonde ringlets, framed her kind face.

"Like I said, I'm struggling right now," Jessie told her. "There's all this, plus the Hannah situation, which I can't even begin to get into. But I can't complain too much, not after what happened to Sergeant Clark. Give me a few hours and I'll be good as new."

"Don't push it, Jessie," Lemmon warned. "That's when you get into trouble. You need to give yourself some downtime."

Jessie fought off a snort. With everything going on, when was she going to find downtime? Before she got the chance to respond, Susannah Valentine's loud voice grabbed her attention.

"I'm fine, Captain," she said forcefully. "There's no need to keep me here."

"You only had a basic workup," Ryan replied calmly. "The doctors want to make sure they didn't miss anything."

"I'll come back later," Susannah promised. "But right now, I need to get back in the field. This Haddonfield bastard has been terrorizing the city for months. He's killed five innocent civilians. And now, he's turned Chelcie Clark into a widow and left two children fatherless. I want to get this guy—now!"

Jessie looked at Ryan and saw the conflicting emotions on his face. He obviously felt the same way that Susannah did, but he was doing his best to be the responsible, measured captain of Central Police Station. She felt for her husband, who was in an impossible situation.

She was just as torn as he was, but she felt obligated to choose a side. The question was: whose?

CHAPTER TWO

In the end, Jessie sided with Susannah. After all, she wanted to get Haddonfield, too, now more than ever. And she intended to do whatever was necessary to make it happen. Susannah Valentine, even at half-strength, would better help them achieve that goal.

When they arrived downtown and entered Central Police Station, Jessie found it to be strangely silent. As she filed through the hallway along with the others, officers and civilian staff alike stopped talking, lowering their heads in shared grief over the injuries to their co-workers and the loss of Trey Clark. Jessie didn't make eye contact, keeping her head down too until they got to the conference room, the very same one where they'd watched on multiple screens as the bomb went off.

This was where they planned to regroup to go after Haddonfield. She took a seat and looked around. Not everyone was there. Jim Nettles was in a drugged-assisted sleep back at Cedars-Sinai. Karen Bray and Sam Goodwin were being kept there overnight as well for observation. That was three quarters of the HSS detective squad.

Susannah Valentine, who couldn't be kept away, was sitting across from Jessie. Whatever token exam she'd let the doctors do, it had taken all of five minutes before she insisted on joining them on the trip back to the station. Everyone else settled in in the remaining chairs. Jessie was surprised to realize that half of them weren't even affiliated with the LAPD.

In addition to herself and Susannah, there was Ryan, of course. Also attending the meeting was HSS's two-person research team, comprised of lead researcher Jamil Winslow, as well as Beth Ryerson. But that was it for the department.

Two of the remaining chairs were occupied by Kat and her bodyguard, Gila Jabarin. The two of them had uncovered Haddonfield's Skid Row lair, and their input might prove valuable. And as always, there was Grover Nix, Jessie's personal guard. He ran Secure Analysis Services, or SAS, the company that employed Jabarin and the other bodyguard Jessie was currently paying. Nix didn't take a seat, choosing instead to stand by the glass door, where he had a better view of people walking down the hallway in their direction.

"Should we begin?" Susannah asked. "The sooner we start comparing notes, the better chance we have of catching this monster."

Ryan, who hadn't actually sat down, sighed quietly. Jessie sensed that what he was about to say would not make her happy.

"We'll start in just a minute," he said. "We have one more person joining us. He's on his way right now."

"Who's that?" Kat asked.

Jessie studied her husband. Ryan Hernandez's handsome face was troubled. Normally, it was defined by his giant, warm brown eyes, shy grin, and adorable dimples. Those features—far more than the square jaw and well-muscled frame that strained at his dress shirts—were what first attracted her to him. But right now, his eyes were like dark clouds.

"I'll let him formally introduce himself," he said, "though most of you know him already."

A moment later, Jessie saw someone striding purposefully down the hall and understood. Grover took note of him too and stiffened, unsure who he was dealing with.

"It's okay, Grover," Jessie told him. "He's FBI."

The man entering the conference room didn't look the part. With his weathered, suntanned face, longish, silvery hair, and surfer vibe, it was hard to believe that he was a Special Agent in Charge at the FBI's Los Angeles field office. But Jessie knew that his looks were deceiving.

After working—and clashing— with him on a case a few years back, they'd become friends. She supported his embrace of sobriety, and he was instrumental in coordinating a massive rescue effort when she was kidnapped by an obsessed killer on her wedding night. They had history, mostly good. But as he entered the conference room this morning, she got the distinct impression that he wasn't just here for moral support.

"Good to see you, Jack," Ryan said, shaking his hand.

"Thanks for having me," Dolan replied.

"For those of you who don't know," Ryan announced," this is FBI Special Agent in Charge Jack Dolan. At this point, I'm going to hand things off to him."

"Thank you, Captain," Dolan said formally, stepping forward. "I know many of you already, and I'm sorry we aren't reuniting under happier circumstances, but I guess we rarely do. I want to offer my condolences on the loss of your colleague from SWAT."

He paused for a second. Jessie could tell he was about to lay down the hammer.

"Rather than beat around the bush," he continued, "I'm just going to come right out with it. The FBI is taking over the search for Mark Haddonfield."

Jessie felt her whole body sag.

"What?" Susannah exclaimed angrily.

"I know this isn't what—," he started to reply.

"We've been after this guy for months," the irate detective interrupted. "He's targeting people that Jessie has previously saved. This case is under LAPD jurisdiction, specifically HSS's. It's ours."

"It was yours, Detective Valentine," Dolan told her firmly. "It's ours now."

There was a long, stunned pause in which no one seemed sure how to respond.

"Isn't your plate full with the hunt for Ash Pierce?" Jamil Winslow finally asked, referencing the assassin on the loose, one who had a very personal connection to Jessie.

"It was," Dolan replied, "but we're handing that off to the U.S. Marshals Service. In fact, we've already done it."

"So, to be clear, the FBI is overseeing the hunt for Haddonfield, but we're working together?" Beth Ryerson asked hopefully, "pooling our resources?"

"I'm afraid not," Dolan said. "I'm sorry to be so blunt, but look around. HSS is decimated. Three of your detectives are in the hospital. Valentine here would be too if she wasn't so stubborn. Your criminal profiler is still technically on medical leave because of a serious head injury. HSS is not equipped for this right now."

"That's not fair," Jessie found herself shouting in unison with Susannah.

Dolan shrugged.

"I agree," he admitted. "But over half of your unit is hospitalized or should be. You're in no position to help. It's moot anyway. Chief Decker has already signed off on the change. Your unit will be kept apprised but not formally assisted."

Susannah looked she was about to object again when Ryan cut her off.

"He's right," he said. "We're not in a position to pursue this case right now. The only HSS team members who haven't been admitted to the hospital in the last week are me, Jamil, and Beth. Need I remind you, I have a whole station to run. And Jamil and Beth are researchers, not cops."

"Having said that," Dolan added, "while HSS is technically no longer a part of this case, we could certainly use your research team's assistance, if you're willing to share them. It would help us a lot to have access to everything you've compiled in recent months rather than having to start from zero."

"Of course," Ryan said without hesitation. "Jamil and Beth are at your disposal. Let's end this meeting now so you can talk with them."

Susannah didn't object this time. Jessie knew that even she couldn't find fault with the offer. Jamil Winslow and Beth Ryerson were a key part of what made HSS so effective.

Jamil, only twenty-five, was not what one might picture when imagining the research leader of LAPD's top investigative unit. Short and incredibly skinny despite taking on an aggressive workout regimen lately, with thick glasses and no sense of fashion style, Jamil was quite literally a genius. He was capable of filtering through massive databases, sorting surveillance video into manageable buckets, or making complicated financial records understandable, all seemingly in the blink of an eye.

Beth was almost his polar opposite. An unfussily attractive former college volleyball star at UC Santa Barbara, she was over six feet tall, dwarfing even Jessie. But she didn't just contrast with Jamil physically. She more than compensated for her supervisor's reserved demeanor with her outgoing one. Her perpetually chill, friendly vibe was the complete inverse of Jamil's constant, jittery intensity. She almost always had a sunny disposition.

But her casual demeanor had hidden advantages. First, it masked an especially sharp mind, which people tended to underestimate. Secondly, her relaxed energy helped center her more high-strung boss, keeping him focused and positive. As co-workers, they were well-matched.

And what Jessie knew—which no one else did—was that in recent weeks they'd become well-matched personally as well. Independent of that little detail, their shared knowledge and commitment would be an asset to the Clone Killer investigation, no matter who was running it.

Dolan moved in their direction, but Jessie cornered him before he could get there.

"I'm sorry, Jessie," he said, holding up his hands, "but this wasn't my call."

"I understand that it's not your fault," she assured him. "That's not what I want to talk to you about. You said that the Marshals were taking over the search for Ash Pierce?"

"We handed off the case just before I came over here," he confirmed.

"Did you make any progress before that?"

"You mean in the twelve hours since she broke into your sister's safe house last night and almost killed both her and her bodyguard?" he asked defensively. "No, Jessie, we haven't."

"It's not a crazy question," she noted, trying not to get agitated herself. "Pierce jumped out a second-story window to escape when she heard the cops coming. She left on foot in the middle of a rainstorm. Isn't it reasonable to think she might have been noticed under those circumstances?"

"Of course," he said. "I didn't mean to imply the question was out of bounds. I guess I'm just frustrated. It's like she completely disappeared, and we don't have any idea how. It's been the same thing ever since she escaped from that prison transport five days ago. We think we have a lead on her, but it dries up. Clearly she's got multiple hiding spots in the city that she's established over the years and she's making full use of them."

"So you can understand why I'm a little on edge," Jessie told him. "No one knows where she is, and she's apparently made it her mission to find my sister. She did it once, even though Hannah was supposedly in a secure safe house. Now Hannah has been moved to a new one and almost no one know where,

other than her and her bodyguard, Rufus. Not even Grover, my security guy over there, is in the loop, and he's Rufus's boss."

"That may be for the best, Jessie," Dolan told her. "If they're holed up somewhere solid and they don't communicate with the outside world, it will be virtually impossible for Pierce to find Hannah, no matter how skilled she is."

"I'd like to believe that," Jessie replied, "but Ash Pierce was a Marines Special Operations element leader and later, a CIA asset who conducted covert assassinations before becoming a hitwoman for hire. She's working on a different level. And if she finds Hannah, we might not know until it's too late."

"Listen," Dolan said, leaning in close so that only she could hear. "We may have handed this off to the Marshals, but that doesn't mean we're blind."

"What does that mean?" she asked.

"It means that part of the deal was that two of my agents were allowed to stay on as advisors. I get constant updates. And if I learn anything new, you can bet I'll share it with you right away. Don't forget, I was there the night you first met Hannah, even before you knew she was your half-sister. I saw the carnage that her father—that your father—caused, torturing her and killing her adoptive parents. This is personal for me, too."

"I get that, Jack," she told him. "But it's not the same. Within weeks of that night, I went from not knowing I had a sister to becoming her guardian. I've spent the last two years raising her, helping her recover from the trauma she suffered. Now, she was finally moving into a new stage of her life. She was supposed to start college on Monday. But instead, she's god

knows where, living in constant fear of a professional assassin who's only goal is to kill her."

"I know," Dolan assured her. "And I know how important this is to you. We'll find Pierce."

Jessie nodded. But she knew his words were empty. He couldn't promise anything. No one could.

Ash Pierce was out there and until she was brought down, Jessie would never rest easy. The thought made her head start to hurt.

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The cool morning air bites through my orange jumpsuit as I crouch beside the bush, trash grabber in hand. I just pulled out a single black high-heeled shoe—fancy, almost new—except it's smeared with something dark and sticky. Blood. My stomach twists. I drop it fast, stepping back, but then I see the other one. Still on a foot.

Under the brush, half-buried in dirt, is a woman. Young, dark-skinned, curly hair matted with leaves. Her dress is torn at the shoulder, her neck ringed with bruises. Eyes open. Glassy. Dead.

I stumble back, bile rising in my throat. I retch into the grass, heart slamming. This isn’t supposed to happen. I’m just here to pick up garbage, earn good behavior points, get out in four months. Not find murder victims planted like landmines.

I shout for help, but the guard ignores me, laughing with another cop near the van. No one comes. So I stand there, frozen, staring at her face. That’s when I notice the small tattoo behind her ear—a tiny double helix. I’ve seen that symbol before. On a file photo. In a news report. It belongs to the Clone Killer.

And suddenly, I know: this wasn’t random. She was left here for a reason. Maybe for me to find. Or maybe… to silence anyone who does.

Now I have to decide: do I keep yelling until someone listens? Do I hide the shoe and pretend I saw nothing? Or do I take it—evidence—and hope it leads somewhere before they come for me too?