Taken (Second Sight) by Hazel Hunter Page A

Mac’s blood pounded in his ears. “I shouldn’t have been the one to think of this. It should have been you.”
    Mac blinked as though he’d been struck.
    “Think of what , exactly?” Mac said, keeping his voice tightly under control, though just barely. “Some half-baked idea? Some dim-witted plan to acquiesce to a murderer?”
    Ben’s face turned a slightly darker shade of red.
    “Clear your goddamn head, Mac,” he said loudly. “From the moment you told me that you and Isabelle were involved, I’ve watched you. You’re not running on all cylinders. Your head is barely in the game. If you insist on staying in L.A. and not going back to Quantico, then I suggest you get with the plan. Rapidly.”
    Mac smiled coldly at him.
    “Are you taking the lead on this investigation, Ben?” Mac asked. “Is that what this is about? You want to take charge?”
    Ben’s face twisted in anger and he moved his feet as though he’d stand up but apparently thought better of it.
    “You know that’s not what this is about,” Ben replied. He paused and looked directly into Mac’s eyes. “I think we both know what this is about.”
    There , thought Mac. He’d as much as said it. This was about Lynn.
    Mac quickly took Isabelle’s gloved hand and pulled her to her feet.
    “I can no more put Isabelle in that kind of danger,” Mac said, returning Ben’s gaze, “than you could Esme.” He saw the words sink home. Esme was the only person who could testify against the Chameleon and they both knew it. They both had something at stake. “This discussion is over.”

    • • • • •

    Prentiss gave himself the once over in the bathroom mirror but was careful not to wash his hands. Otherwise the body make-up would come off.  
    How would that look? A Hispanic man with white hands.  
    The bizarre image almost made him laugh out loud. As he adjusted the heavy, black duty belt, he checked his mustache–thick, black, and glued firmly into place. It was a perfect match to his dyed hair, that he now wore in a new crew cut. He’d decided against a wig this time. Just the feel of the military-style hair helped him get into character. He was Officer Felix Aguilar, on patrol. He gave himself a quick wink, picked up the lumpy manila envelope, and turned to leave.
    The costume and props had come together very quickly. The police uniform had come from an adult shop not two blocks from his apartment. He still had to snicker at the “Fetish Attire” sign that had hung over the clothes section. The handcuffs had come from there too.
    As he took up his slow stroll in the wide hallway of the seventh floor of the Federal Building, he took care to swagger, though not too much. He puffed out his chest, stood up straight, and pointedly met people’s gazes. He was a cop. They were worried about him , not the other way around.
    It’d been no trick to find Sergeant Dixon and FBI Director Olivos. All he’d had to do was collect articles from the L.A. Times. He’d have collected them anyway for his scrapbook but they’d come in quite useful when it came to finding Isabelle. He’d seen Dixon only yesterday. The sergeant’s post here was part of the precinct that policed this building in Westwood. Dixon didn’t wear a uniform but Prentiss had seen him on the news, pushing reporters back from the last victim’s house. He’d spotted Director Olivos a couple of days ago, recognizing him from the television coverage of Esme’s abduction.  
    Prentiss pressed his lips into a thin line and his fingers tightened on the wide belt.
    Esme. The kill that had been thwarted by psychic Isabelle de Grey. He narrowed his eyes . She would pay.
    Where Dixon and Olivos were, Isabelle wouldn’t be far away. They had to be using her psychic ability to track him. It was the only explanation for the way they were always on his heels–ever since Esme. Always careful to never leave a trace of evidence, Prentiss knew, without a doubt, it had to be Isabelle.