Before he Sees. Blake Pierce

behind.

      Now, if she could only get the nightmares to stop.

      CHAPTER TWO

      The next morning started bright and early with weapons training, something Mackenzie was finding that she was quite adept at. She’d always been a decent shot, but with the proper instruction and a class of twenty-two other hopefuls competing with her, she got eerily good. She still favored the Sig Sauer that she’d used in Nebraska and had been pleased to find that the Bureau’s standard-issue sidearm was a Glock – not too dissimilar.

      She stared down the paper target at the end of the firing corridor. A long sheet of paper hung stationary from the mechanized rack twenty yards away. She took aim, fired three times in rapid succession, and then put her gun down. The thrum of the shots rang out in her hands, a sensation she had come to enjoy.

      When the green light at the back of the corridor gave her the go-ahead, she pushed a button on the small panel in front of her and brought the target up. It scaled forward and as it got closer, she could see where three holes had appeared in the paper target. It was the representation of a man’s figure from the waist up. Two shots had landed high in the chest while the other had grazed the left shoulder. These were okay shots (not great) and while she was a little disappointed with the stray chest shots, she knew that she was doing much better than she had during her first shooting range session.

      Eleven weeks. She’d been here for eleven weeks and was still learning. She was upset with the stray chest shots because those could be fatal. She had been trained to shoot to only take a suspect down – to deliver the fatal shot to the chest or head under the direst of circumstances.

      Her instinct was getting better. She smiled at the paper target and then looked at the small control box in front of her where a box of ammunition waited. She reloaded the Glock and then pressed a button to send out another target. She let this one go back twenty-five yards.

      She waited for the red light on the panel to turn to green and then turned her back. She took a breath, wheeled around, and fired off three more shots.

      A neat row of bullet holes formed just below the figure’s shoulder.

      Much better, Mackenzie thought.

      Satisfied, she removed her ear and eye protectors. She then tidied up her station and pressed another button on the control panel that brought the target forward on the motorized pulley system that carried out the targets. She took the target down, folded it, and placed it in the small book bag she carried just about everywhere.

      She’d been coming to the range during her free time to sharpen skills that she felt she was a bit behind on when it came to the others in her class. She was one of the oldest there and rumors had circled through the grapevine already – rumors about how she had been headhunted from a miserable little PD in Nebraska right after wrapping up the Scarecrow Killer case. She was somewhere in the middle of the class average as far as firearms skill and was determined to be among the best by the time her Academy training came to an end.

      She had to prove herself. And that was fine with her.

*

      After the shooting range, Mackenzie wasted no time in heading to her final class-based course, a session on psychology that was taught by Samuel McClarren. McClarren was a sixty-six-year-old former agent and best-selling author, having penned six New York Times bestsellers about the psychological makeup of some of the most vicious serial killers of the past one hundred years. Mackenzie had read everything the man had written and could listen to him lecture for hours on end. It was by far her favorite course and although the assistant director had felt she didn’t need the course based on her resume and work history, she had jumped at the chance to take it.

      As usual, she was among the first in class, sitting near the front. She readied her notebook and pen while a few others trickled in and set up their MacBooks. As she waited, Samuel McClarren took to his podium. Behind Mackenzie, the class of forty-two students waited with anticipation; every single one of them seemed to hang on his every word when he spoke.

      “We wrapped up the psychological constructs that we believe were driving Ed Gein yesterday, much to the delight of some of you with weaker stomachs,” McClarren said. “And today, it’s not going to get much better, as we dip into the often underrated yet incredibly twisted mind of John Wayne Gacy. Twenty-six recorded victims, killed by either strangulation or asphyxiation by use of a tourniquet. From the boards beneath his house to the Des Plaines River, he scattered his victims in various spots after they were killed. And, of course, there’s what most people think of when they hear his name – the clown makeup. At its root, the Gacy case is a clinic on psychological breaks.”

      And so the class went, McClarren speaking while students feverishly took notes. As usual, the hour and fifteen minutes sped by and Mackenzie found herself wanting to hear more. On a few occasions, McClarren’s class had brought up memories of her hunt for the Scarecrow Killer, particularly when she had revisited the murder sites in an attempt to get inside the mind of a killer. She had always known she’d had a knack for this sort of thing but had tried to keep it quiet. It scared her from time to time and was a bit morbid, so she kept it close to her chest.

      When the session was over, Mackenzie packed up her things and headed for the door. She was still processing the lecture as she passed through into the hallway and didn’t see the man standing by the edge of the doorway. In fact, she didn’t notice him until he called out her name.

      “Mackenzie! Hey, wait up.”

      She stopped at the sound of her name, turning around and spotting a familiar face in the small crowd.

      Agent Ellington was following behind her. Seeing him was such a surprise that she literally stood motionless for a moment, trying to figure out why he was here. As she remained frozen, he gave her a timid smile and approached her quickly. Another man was with him, trailing behind.

      “Agent Ellington,” Mackenzie said. “How are you?”

      “I’m good,” he said. “Yourself?”

      “Pretty good. What are you doing here? A refresher course?” she asked, trying to inject some humor.

      “No, not so much,” Ellington said. He gave her another smile and it reminded her all over again why she had taken the chance and made a fool of herself with him three months ago. He gestured to the man beside him and said, “Mackenzie White, I’d like you to meet Special Agent Bryers.”

      Bryers stepped forward and extended his hand. Mackenzie shook it as she took a moment to study the man. He looked to be in his early fifties. He had a mostly gray moustache and friendly blue eyes. She could tell right away that he was likely mild-mannered and one of the true southern gentlemen she had heard so much about since moving to Virginia.

      “Pleased to meet you,” Bryers said as they shook.

      With that introduction out of the way, Ellington was back to business as usual. “Are you busy right now?” he asked Mackenzie.

      “Not at the moment,” she answered.

      “Well, if you have a minute, Agent Bryers and I would like to speak with you about something.”

      Mackenzie saw the flash of doubt in Bryers’s face as Ellington said this. Come to think of it, Bryers looked a little uncomfortable. Maybe that was why he seemed so timid.

      “Sure,” she said.

      “Come on,” Ellington said, waving her toward the small study area near the back of the building. “I’ll buy you a coffee.”

      Mackenzie remembered the last time Ellington had showed such an interest in her; it had gotten her here, to nearly having her dream of being an FBI agent and living in the ebb and flow of it all. So to follow him now only made sense. She did so, casting a glance at Agent Bryers as they went and wondering why he looked so uneasy.

*

      “So, you’re pretty close, aren’t you?” Ellington asked as the three of them sat down with their cups of coffee that Ellington had purchased from the tiny coffee bar.

      “Eight weeks left,” she said.

      “Counter-terrorism,