Chapter One

As the fog of sleep lifted from Eric McClain’s brain, his senses returned in hesitant, halting steps, like a frightened animal approaching a human for the first time. Much like the instincts of the animal, some distant voice in Eric’s psyche warned him that returning to the conscious world was a trap.

Light pressed against his closed eyelids, harsh and unforgiving. Even with his eyes shut, the glow burned orange-yellow as heat radiated from above. He fought the urge to move, forcing himself to stay still, to listen.

The air was thick with dust, dry enough to coat his throat, but beneath it lurked something else. Something rancid. His head throbbed with each beat of his heart, and his body ached from lying on the hard yet somewhat rubbery floor beneath him.

This wasn’t the first time Eric had woken in an unfamiliar environment. After the death of his parents, he’d numbed the dull ache in his soul with barbiturates and synthetic opiates. The addiction and the constant need to shut off his grieving brain had landed him in some of Chicago’s more unsavory neighborhoods, but those experiences were in the past. Eric had gotten clean.

This waking situation felt different. He hadn’t relapsed. He was certain.

He tried to remember through the pounding in his head.

No, he hadn’t fallen off the wagon. He’d attended his regular meeting for people recovering from addiction, just like he did every Sunday evening. And, per usual, he’d left to catch one of the elevated trains, known to natives as simply the L. The system rumbled above and below the streets and shuttled people up and down the Lake Michigan shoreline and out to the suburbs and airport.

The L should’ve taken him to a stop only a few blocks from his apartment building.

But he’d never set foot on the train.

He remembered heading toward the station and how the sweat trickled down his chest and back in the humid evening. The thought of getting on the L and standing among equally sweaty people annoyed him. Then a car pulled up alongside him.

A man had offered him a ride home, and Eric, sweaty and uncomfortable accepted. He remembered the blast of air conditioning hitting his face.

In his current state, Eric couldn’t recall why he’d trusted the man, but he had to have recognized him somehow. He knew better than to take a ride from a perfect stranger.

None of that’s important right now. What matters is that I’m barely conscious on some floor in the middle of God knows where. And I’m still sweating.

Wherever he was, it was bright, hot, and dry. If not for the floor beneath him, he might have thought he’d been dumped in the desert.

He gave himself a mental shake and tried to regain his wits. Memories began to return. He’d accepted a ride home, had to have known the guy, and was on his way when…

Something stung his neck. That bastard had injected him.

A litany of questions swirled through Eric’s beleaguered mind but two stood out.

Who injected me?

And why?

Eric had never researched serial killers, but they did this type of shit, right?

As he thought about sitting up, a man’s voice stopped him short. The man wasn’t speaking to him, however.

For a beat, Eric considered calling out. Maybe it’s someone who can help.

A deeper voice chimed in, bringing with it an ever greater sense of dread. Though Eric strained to hear, he couldn’t quite make out what the guy was saying. Something about a car…or maybe a tarp or a bar? From the tone of their conversation, he knew the men weren’t there to help him.

Not wanting them to realize he was awake, he stayed still with his eyes closed. Where was he? He needed to know in order to make a successful escape plan.

The floor reminded him of the mat his grandmother used in her shower to keep from slipping. Racking his brain to figure out what kind of place would have a rubbery floor, he came up empty and focused back on the conversation. Both voices were male, and one speaker was…foreign.

Did I end up in a foreign country? How long was I out?

Finally, his brain pieced together the accent. Russian, or someone from Eastern Europe.

Maybe he’d been taken by people who sold him. That couldn’t be right, though, because that only happened to women and children. Didn’t it? Not grown men.

That was when Eric’s other senses kicked in, and he realized he couldn’t move his arms or feet. Both his wrists and ankles were bound tightly.

Zip ties. As desperate as he was to learn more about his location and bindings, he didn’t want his captors to know he was conscious. If he did, that might prompt them to execute whatever messed-up plan they’d concocted for him.

“I know you are awake. You do not need to pretend.”

There goes that plan. Think, man, think.

Eric knew he wasn’t in a position to bargain, but the stubborn side of him didn’t want to obey the demanding foreigner. He clamped his eyelids tighter.

“Perhaps I was not clear. If you do not open your eyes, my associate will use his knife to slice off your eyelids. Then you will have no choice but to see what awaits you.”

His eyes flew open, and he blinked to adjust to the bright lights on the stands in front of him. The kind he’d seen in movie studios, with flaps on each side to direct the beam of light.

As he struggled against the black dots clouding his vision, two men came into focus. One wore a knit ski mask. Eric recognized the clothes. He was the one who’d offered him a ride.

Why the mask now?

He’d already seen his face, though he couldn’t quite picture it.

But his other captor didn’t wear anything to hide his appearance. He was clean-shaven with short jet-black hair. A wiry mass of dark hair peeked out of the neckline of the white t-shirt he wore under his button-down. With his thick neck, he looked like a high-end bouncer.

Eric swallowed when he realized the second man wasn’t concerned about concealing his identity.

Thick Neck strode over to the area where the lights blazed at Eric, and he lost sight of him through the relentless glare. When he reappeared, he stood between two of the lights, behind a large video camera. Another camera rested on a tripod a few yards away, a red light glowing next to the lens.

What the hell? He’s recording this.

Whatever ‘this’ is.

Thick Neck raised a fist into the air and snapped his fingers in the direction of the masked guy.

Ski Mask grabbed a device dangling from a long cord stretching up to a metal track above him. When he pressed a button on it, a whirring sound filled the room and echoed off walls that seemed miles away.

To his horror, Eric was slowly dragged by his feet closer to the cameras and lights. The rubbery floor gripped at his clothes, as if it were trying to save him. Before he could do anything but scream, his legs rose, and his knees wrenched at an awkward angle, sending a sharp twinge through his body.

Twisting to see what was overhead, Eric spotted a large hook attached to the binds around his ankles. Like something out of a slaughterhouse.

Oh, no.

“Just as your body is being raised above the ground, you, too, will be elevated from a meaningless existence to a form of immortality. I congratulate you on what you are about to achieve. I am sure you never believed when you were a drug addict that you would become a work of art.” Thick Neck made a grand gesture to Ski Mask. A cheerful malice laced his voice.

Dangling upside down, several feet off the ground, Eric watched in horror as Ski Mask pulled a long knife from a sheath on his hip. Blood and terror rushed to Eric’s head, his vision blurring.

“No! You don’t have to do this.” Eric writhed, which only caused him to spin on the hook. “I don’t have a lot of money, but you can have it. All of it.” Panic constricted his throat, making it hard to speak, to breathe.

Ski Mask’s boots squeaked as he stopped at an unmarked spot on the floor. He looked back at Thick Neck, who seemed to be running the show, and waited for his cue.

“Do you have any last words before you are immortalized?” His Russian accent was severe, but his words were clear, his tone inquisitive and…happy?

Eric screamed as he jerked his body with his lingering strength, hoping to snap the zip ties around his ankles. He might break his neck if he fell, but he’d rather control his own fate than leave it up to these two psychos. If anything, the plastic dug deeper into his skin, cutting him but holding him in place.

Sweat poured into his eyes, and he blinked against the salt. He didn’t know if he was crying or not. Everything burned.

“Very well.” Thick Neck leaned down to peer through the camera before pointing at Ski Mask. At that signal, the masked man resumed his approach.

Eric’s burning gaze fixed on the knife moving closer.

With one last look back at the camera for final approval, Ski Mask turned and smiled through the mask’s slit as he wiggled the knife in front of Eric’s face. Eric saw his own reflection. His cherry-red face was already swollen. Veins popped out of his forehead.

No longer willing to watch the events of his inevitable death unfold, Eric slammed his eyes closed.

Thoughts of his big brother raced into his mind. Buddy was like a parent to him, even while he struggled with drug addiction. Eric had put him through hell after their parents’ death, and Buddy had stepped up. He’d gotten clean, but he’d never apologized or thanked Buddy for all he’d done. A surge of useless regret crashed over him.

The barest movement of air was replaced by searing pain slicing across his throat. He struggled for air as a sheet of hot blood blanketed his face, running into his nose and mouth. The coppery liquid choked him.

His big brother would be all alone in the world, and Eric would never have a chance to thank him or say “I love you” ever again.

Chapter Two

Special Agent Amelia Storm straightened her cardigan as she took a seat, setting her laptop down. Though it was near the end of July and the temperature outside hovered close to ninety-five degrees, the Chicago FBI Field Office always kept its air-conditioning set just above freezing. Or at least that was how it felt most days.

She glanced across the table to where Spencer Corsaw gazed intently at his laptop screen. And when two agents entered the meeting room, her heart lightened as her former-case-partner-turned-lover appeared. Special Agent Zane Palmer and the man at his back, Special Agent Dean Steelman, were mid-conversation, but Zane still took a moment to offer her one of his charming smiles.

“…the migration of the wildebeests in Tanzania. I guess this is the time of year for it.”

“That must be amazing. Is your family planning to visit the Ngorongoro Crater? I’ve heard that’s a sight.”

The snippet of dialogue was all Amelia needed to recognize the topic. They were discussing the African safari trip Zane’s family had planned for nearly a year. Amelia imagined the Palmer clan were having the time of their lives, and she couldn’t wait to hear all about it.

Nearing the seat beside Spencer, Zane glanced around. “Are we waiting for anyone, or is this it?”

As if to answer the question, a familiar, broad-shouldered man appeared in the doorway. Streaks of gray shot through Supervisory Special Agent Barry Burton’s neatly trimmed beard, and his rust-brown hair fell straight back from his forehead. Amelia still wasn’t sure how old the SSA was, but based on his appearance and the ages of his kids, he was likely in his early fifties. Though her interactions with SSA Burton were still somewhat limited, Amelia respected the man.

He scanned the faces gathered around the table and offered them a slight smile. “Morning, everyone. Agent Cowen ought to be here any second, and then we’ll get started.”

Amelia peered at the doorway, her curiosity piqued. Though she knew the case was a joint effort between Violent Crime and Organized Crime—uncommon in its own right—she hadn’t had much chance to research prior to the briefing.

Before she could begin churning out too many questions, Special Agent Sherry Cowen trotted into the room, a black laptop bag tucked beneath one arm. With a quick smile to the group, she closed the door and made her way to the empty seat at Amelia’s side. “Wow, I’m not used to being the last one here. Sorry to keep you guys waiting.”

SSA Burton waved a dismissive hand. “No worries. I only just arrived.” He flipped open the manila folder resting on his laptop. “That being said, we do have a lot to cover and not a lot of time to do it, so I’ll get right to brass tacks.” He dipped his chin in Zane and Spencer’s direction. “Agents Palmer and Corsaw have been the two leads on this since we received it from the Chicago PD the day before last.”

Spencer nodded but remained silent. His lack of response only raised more questions in Amelia’s mind, and she turned back to SSA Burton.

Burton held up a finger. “One week ago, the body of a twenty-nine-year-old woman named Elinor Fogleman was found in Willow Park. CPD’s Area Four Homicide Team took the case. The following day, some of our folks in Cyber discovered a snuff film making rounds on the dark web.”

I think I know where this is going. Amelia shifted in her seat.

“The film depicted Fogleman being killed. A single masked man wearing all black slit her throat as she hung upside down by her ankles. The camera held on Ms. Fogleman until most of her blood drained from her body. Because of this, and a lack of evidence at the park, we believe the park was just a dump site, not the primary crime scene.”

The grisly details of the woman’s murder, the sheer brutality, stoked the first embers of rage in Amelia’s heart. “They treated her like a freshly killed deer?”

Expression grim, Burton nodded. “That was my first impression. Cyber went to identify the victim, and that’s when they came across the CPD’s brand new homicide investigation.” He scratched his bearded chin. “But then Cyber and Intelligence found even more snuff films made by the same person. Whoever this person is, they’ve been filming murders for more than five years.”

Sherry’s jaw went slack. “The same person? How can we tell?”

Burton flipped through some papers. “The long and short of it is that there were multiple digital identifiers that linked the videos. A similar username used to post them, a common following, and even the same mask used in many of them. ViCAP and national missing persons reports haven’t matched up with any of the victims so far, though, and Cyber can’t pin down the exact location of the uploads, but they’re confident all the other videos they’ve found were made in Eastern Europe.”

Eastern European snuff films dating back roughly five years—and now the unsub was in Chicago? Amelia considered a litany of reasons why he might hop continents. She’d worked on her share of challenging cases, including an organ harvester who’d also operated on the dark web. Still, the notion was daunting.

“Two days ago, another body was found.” The SSA straightened the pages in his hand with a light tap. “Rachael Gibber was identified by dental records. A thirty-two-year-old woman who worked as a server at Windy City Eatery near downtown. CPD’s cyber group discovered the video of her murder on the dark web that same day, Sunday, and the CPD, knowing we have jurisdiction, handed the investigation over.”

As if in preparation for the next part, Zane spread several documents on the table in front of him.

Burton gestured to Spencer. “Which is where Agents Corsaw and Palmer come into play. I know you guys have only had this on your desks for about a day and a half, but let’s hear what you’ve got so far.”

Amelia was nearing a year and a half at the Bureau’s Chicago branch. In fact, the man sitting across from her had been her SSA for her entire tenure in Organized Crime. Former SSA and now Special Agent Spencer Corsaw had overseen the division until three months earlier, around the same time Amelia had split off to her new role in the Violent Crime Unit.

The timing of her and Spencer’s role changes had been a coincidence. But now, as Amelia sat across from her former boss, she realized how at ease Spencer seemed. Back when Amelia was in Organized Crime, he’d always held himself like a soldier in the midst of a war zone.

And Amelia would know. She’d spent ten years in the military before joining the FBI.

With his gaze fixed on his laptop, Spencer leaned back in his chair. “For starters, we’ve got an interview scheduled with the manager at Windy City Eatery in a couple hours. In terms of the snuff films, the CPD’s working theory was that the films were being made by one of the organized crime groups here in Chicago. They thought it could be the Russians, the Italians, or one of the cartels. Someone with ties overseas.”

Amelia racked her brain. She was familiar with the mobs and cartels of the city after nearly a year alongside Zane in Organized Crime when she first started there. Of course, that wasn’t the only reason she’d been schooled in the ways of the mob.

During her sophomore year in high school, she’d come across the son of an Italian Mafia capo in her job at a movie theater. They’d dated for two years, but when his father threatened her life, she’d done the only thing she could think of—broke off the relationship, joined the military, and moved across the country.

Her experiences with both Alex Passarelli and her early cases in the Chicago field office gave her an interesting outlook on the city’s organized crime. The Passarelli family, as well as the rest of the crime families in the city, had never delved into snuff films to her knowledge.

Sure, the atmosphere could’ve changed in the last six months, but Amelia couldn’t picture the traditional Italian mafiosos dabbling in that vile industry. Add in the fact that the videos discovered by Cyber dated back more than five years, and she had an even more difficult time attributing them to the Italian Mob.

She turned a questioning glance to Spencer. “Have you found anything to support that theory?”

He shrugged. “Not yet. Palmer and I think we can rule out the Italians, especially if we’re dealing with Eastern Europe. The most likely culprit would be the Russians, even though this would be the first any of us has heard of snuff films being shot in Chicago.”

“Unfortunately,” Zane held out his hands, “there’s a first time for everything.”

SSA Burton nodded. “There is indeed. Whoever this unsub is, they seem to operate much like a serial killer. That’s why we’ve pulled you three in from Violent Crimes. There’s only been one male perpetrator in each video, so we could be dealing with a lone wolf. At the same time, it’s possible we’re dealing with a small group who aren’t tied to the Russians or the cartels.”

Sherry shifted in her chair. “And we’re sure the person in the videos is male?”

“Based on the calculated height, the broad shoulders, and the narrow hips, we’re confident the person in the videos is a man. His shirt is well-fitted enough that we’ve got a pretty good idea of his body type.”

His reasoning made good sense to Amelia. As loath as she was to wade back into the world of organized crime, the idea of a snuff filmmaker targeting people in Chicago for his sick videos settled like a stone in her stomach.

Two victims in rapid succession. The unsub had changed, but why now? He was unraveling—or worse, growing bolder. Either way, something had changed, and Amelia needed to know what before another body turned up.