Page 60 of Thorned Vengeance

“Good. I think I’ve got something.”

“You think?” Delaney asks, excitement in her tone.

“I know I’ve got something,” Jez corrects. “I know how the Phantom knew about your clients, De. Once I was hacked into your computer, I found a virus. I didn’t say anything at first because I wanted to be sure it wasn’t just a coincidence and something you picked up from clicking on some innocuous email.”

“And it wasn’t?” I ask.

“No. I was able to trace the virus back to the Phantom’s laptop.”

“Then you’ve got a name, right?” I demand.

“I wish.” Jez clears her throat. “The laptop he uses was registered under the name of a man who died eighty-six years ago.”

“Couldn’t they just have the same name?” Delaney questions.

“That’s what I thought so I dug a little deeper. The credit card used to purchase the laptop was obtained using the deceased guy’s social security number. I have hacked into every database that I can think of, checked all records I can tie to the same person, and it’s all hinky.”

“Like I said, the guy’s good,” Mark repeats his earlier sentiment.

“And I’m better,” Jez quips.

“Goddammit, Jez,” I snap. “If you’ve got more, spit it the fuck out.”

“Now that I’ve gained access to the freak’s laptop via the backtrace, I’m in,” she says proudly. “I can see everything he’s doing digitally, as well as follow his movements.”

“And?” Delaney prods.

“He’s almost to Vegas,” Jez informs us.

“You’re sure that’s where he’s hitting next?” I ask.

“His internet history was full of searches about male stripper shows in Vegas,” she explains. “Think about it… He wants to be where he’ll have his pick of victims. What better place to do that than where drunk women congregate?”

“Then the city of sin, here we come.”

“Be safe.”

I disconnect the call as I stomp on the gas. We’ve still got several hours before we reach our destination, and the sooner we get there, the better.

“What if we’re too late?” Delaney asks, fear in her voice.

“We won’t be,” I growl.

Thankfully, I didn’t promise because when we reach the last known location of the Phantom’s laptop, there’s the all-too-familiar yellow crime scene tape blocking off the area.

Motherfucker.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me!” Delaney stares out the window as we drive past the scene to an area where we might find parking. “How are we still so far behind him?”

“He’s been doing this for a long time,” Mark states.

“And you’d think that’d be his downfall,” I hiss. “We’ve got so much information to work with, and?—”

“There!” Delaney yells, pointing to an empty spot in a nearby parking lot.

The three of us walk back toward the scene, and unlike Seattle, there’s no pushing through the crowd. Thousands of people are gathered on the sidewalks, and police are standing guard. All we can do is wait until things clear up a bit.

It takes hours, but eventually, we’re able to get close enough to start asking questions.

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