Hunted

Tonya. Tonya Myers. The twenty-two-year-old college coed who’d vanished a week ago. And, yes, unfortunately, he was sure. “It’s her.”

He glanced back at the water. The waves rocked against the boat. As one of the FBI’s elite USERT members—Underwater Search and Evidence Response Team—his job routinely took him to the deepest depths. He searched for clues, he searched for evidence and, on damn unfortunate days—days like today—he searched for the dead.

“That makes three bodies,” Hayden gritted out. The waning light glinted off his blond hair. “Three bodies in the last three weeks.”

And that was why Josh was there. The FBI knew they had a serial hunting in the quiet coastal town, and Josh had been sent to provide backup to the local Bureau team—and to the sheriff.

Josh and Hayden had crossed paths in the past. Once upon a time, they’d trained together as SEALs. They’d worked together on a few missions years ago, then had gone their separate ways. Josh had joined the FBI and Hayden—hell, Josh never would have figured the guy for a small-town sheriff.

I would have figured wrong.

“This town has already had enough heartache,” Hayden muttered. “The people need peace, not more fear.”

More divers went into the water. Josh had done his job and located the body. His team would work to bring the victim to the surface.

“We just put one killer behind bars.” Hayden raked a hand over his face. The sheriff’s star on his uniform gleamed. “Theodore Anderson’s trial is barely over. Now some other jerk is terrorizing my Hope.”

Not just terrorizing the town of Hope, but killing mercilessly. The victims taken were all women in their twenties, attractive, fit. And they weren’t locals. Hope was a beach town along the Florida Gulf Coast—popular in the early summer for its pristine white beaches. The victims had been tourists.

The killer had a twisted MO. He took the women, then he immediately called the sheriff’s station, taunting the authorities. Telling them to hurry and find the victim before it was too late.

But so far, they’d always been too late. Each victim had been stabbed to death. The first two victims had each been stabbed five times, and then their throats had been slit. Josh was betting that when the ME had a chance to check the body of Tonya Myers, he’d find the same wounds on her.

After he’d dumped his victims in the water, the perp made a second call to the authorities. A brief call that just gave longitude and latitude coordinates. The dump site location for the body.

In Josh’s experience, most killers didn’t offer up their victims that way. For someone to do that—to deliberately call the authorities and just spill the location of the dead—it meant one thing.

The perp wants attention. He wants the world to know what he’s doing.

And the guy was getting that attention. News crews were camped out in Hope, desperately trying to get a scoop on the new case that was transfixing the nation. Murder was always big business.

“He’ll be going after a new victim soon,” Josh said quietly. His wet suit stretched as he strode to the bow of the boat. “You need your deputies to be on high alert. You need to warn the people in this area to stay extra vigilant. Because if we aren’t careful...” His words trailed away. The killer was very careful. He didn’t leave evidence behind, none of his taunting calls to the sheriff had been traced back to him...he was always one step ahead of the authorities. “If we aren’t careful, soon I’ll be searching for another body.”

* * *

THEY’D FOUND THE VICTIM. Cassandra “Casey” Quinn tensed when she saw the black body bag being unloaded from the boat. “Another one,” she whispered as sadness tightened her heart. Another woman who’d been struck down in the small, coastal town.

“Should I start filming?” her camerawoman asked.

She should say yes. The other camera crews were already rolling, capturing the moment when that body bag was transferred out of the boat and onto the stretcher. The ME was there. He’d be taking the body back to his lab.

“Casey?”

How long had the woman been in the water? One day? Two? Tonya Myers had finished up her bachelor’s degree at Florida State University just two weeks before. She’d gone to Hope to relax. To have a little fun in the sun.

Not to die.

“We’re missing the shot, Casey,” Katrina Welch snapped.

Right. The shot. The story. That was why she was down there, after all. Why she’d left New York and flown down to face the already blistering Florida heat. “Keep the camera on me and the sheriff,” she directed. Not the body bag. I just... I can’t. “Maybe I can get him to share an exclusive with me.” Doubtful. So far, Hayden Black had been like a vault.

Good thing she was pretty good at safecracking.

There were about half a dozen reporters gathered on the dock. Most of them were filming the body bag. Some were rushing toward the ME, and yes, two others had tried to go after the sheriff. He waved them back. She heard the growl of “No comment” that came from Hayden. Typical. She’d discovered that even though he was a native Florida boy, Hayden wasn’t exactly big on the southern charm.

Her gaze darted over him. Tall, blond, strong...the sheriff walked with a furious intensity, his body practically vibrating with tension. He didn’t like what was happening in his town. Not one damn bit.

But there was another man with him. Also blond, but his hair was a darker shade, shaggier than the sheriff’s. This man moved with a predatory power, and his gaze swept the scene, as if looking for threats. Dangerous. This guy is seriously dangerous.

“That’s the USERT guy in charge, right?” Katrina asked as she pressed closer. “I think I saw him go out on the boat that retrieved the body.”

Victim, not body.

“He looks mad.” Katrina lifted her camera and aimed it toward the sheriff. “They both do.”

“Probably because they don’t like finding dead women.” She swallowed. “And, yes, he’s USERT. His name’s Josh Duvane.” As soon as the USERT group had arrived, she’d begun digging up information on them. Digging up information was sort of her thing...almost a compulsion. She didn’t even date a guy without doing a full background check, and Casey knew that was weird. But with her past, it paid to be careful. “Ex-SEAL, tough as nails, swims like a fish.” And he’d been the guy to find all three of the victims.

She swallowed. “Maybe he’s the one who’ll talk.” Maybe. She smoothed back her dark hair, straightened her already straight blouse and lifted her chin. “Let’s just see what happens.” Briskly, she walked toward the two men, with Katrina at her heels. “Sheriff Black!” Casey called out brightly. “Can you confirm that the body of Tonya Myers has been recovered?”

Hayden turned toward her, and his golden eyes were sharp with barely leashed fury. “No comment, Ms. Quinn. None.”

Figured. The guy was far too tight-lipped.

She lowered her microphone. Voice softer, she said, “Don’t you think the public has a right to know what’s happening here? People are dying, Sheriff. And if you found Tonya’s body, then that means another victim will be taken soon.”

He stared at her. Then he gave a grim nod. “Film me.”

He’d just said—her eyes widened and she gestured to Katrina. Film the man. Film the man! Before he changed his mind.

Hayden stared into the camera lens. “There is a predator hunting in our city. I would like to ask every citizen to be extra vigilant. If you see anything suspicious, please do not hesitate to call the sheriff’s office. I am working in conjunction with the FBI to track down and apprehend this criminal, and I ask that all individuals—particularly women in their twenties who may be visiting our area—take every precaution—”

“Is that because the Sandy Shore Killer has a special victim type?” Casey cut in. “He only kills women in their twenties? Women who are vacationing in Hope, not locals?”

His eyes glittered. “Turn off the camera.”

Well, at least they’d gotten something. Casey waved toward Katrina and made a quick, slashing motion across her throat.

Katrina’s sigh was very, very loud.

“The Sandy Shore Killer?” It wasn’t Hayden who’d spoken. It was the FBI agent—the USERT supervisor, Josh Duvane. His voice was deep, dark and sexy. Not that Casey found the guy sexy. She was at a crime scene for goodness sake. She had a job to do. She wasn’t there to lust after some agent.

Her gaze swept over Josh Duvane, studying him, assessing him. Tall, over six feet, with broad shoulders. His thick blond hair was still a little wet. His skin was tanned—probably because of all the time he spent in the water—and his hard jaw appeared freshly shaven. He had a faint scar on his right cheek, a slash of white that told her the scar was old. His eyes were hazel. Not a warm and cozy hazel, though. They were stone-cold.

Chilling, she would say.

Or maybe that was just the look he was giving her. Like an ice glare. He’s freezing me out. Because if Casey had to guess, she’d say that FBI Agent Josh Duvane did not like her very much. A pity. When sources didn’t like her, they had a tendency not to share information. She really needed him to share.

“Who the hell gave the guy the moniker of the Sandy Shore Killer?” Josh wanted to know.