He entered his personal cell number. “Now if you change your mind or have any trouble, you have someone local to call. Someone who isn’t your boss.” He handed it back. “And you can always delete it.”

She slipped the cell into her jeans pocket. “I won’t call you.”

“Wait,” he said sharply.

“What?”

He’d startled her again. He got out of the truck and jogged around the front. Opened her door and offered her his good hand. She frowned and tentatively took his fingers in hers, her expression clearly saying she thought he had a screw loose.

There was that electricity again, that zap, that neither of them wanted to acknowledge. She quickly withdrew her hand. She was spooked and he could respect that. He walked her to her front door. Watched her unlock it and disarm the surprisingly sophisticated alarm system.

When everything appeared to be secure, he took a step back and nodded. “Goodnight, Ms. Brooks.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Livingstone.”

He grinned. She’d done enough research to figure out his last name which had to mean something. He backed away and she watched him with a mix of amused surprise and innate suspicion. His plan to get her to trust him had hit a roadblock but Shane understood the value of the long game and how to overcome obstacles. He and Yael Brooks were going to become friends despite her natural reluctance. And then, one way or another, she was going to help him catch this motherfucker and put him either behind bars or six feet under—Shane didn’t care which.

Yael just didn’t know it yet.

7

Although the joint task force hadn’t stopped searching for Evi1Geni-us, this was the first time they’d assembled for an in-person team briefing since the killer had handed them their asses ten days ago.

Yael parked her scooter, put down the kickstand and got off. She locked her helmet in the box on the back even though it should be safe enough here. Old habits died hard even on the hallowed grounds of the FBI’s National Academy. She pulled out her map and shifted the heavy bag on her shoulder, glancing around to orient herself.

The FBI’s facilities were situated inside the massive Marine Corps Base Quantico and she’d had to go through several armed roadblocks to gain access. Every time she’d been stopped and questioned, she’d envisaged Shane Livingstone’s eyes crinkling with amusement at her powder blue mode of transportation.

The main FBI Academy was visible to the left so she set off, heading in what she hoped was the correct direction. Rolling grassy areas were surrounded by dense forest. Shouts could be heard in the distance—probably Marines training. Far off, there was the almost constant sound of gunfire.