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Trask.”
    “Trask?”
    Peterson nodded. “That’s the name we know him by. He’s calling himself Trevor Conrad now. His name has changed a half dozen times that we know of, but his real identity remains a mystery. We have his prints from a case five years ago, but they haven’t matched anything on record. He’s not in the system.”
    “He’s been doing exactly what for how long?”
    Peterson took a deep breath, glanced at everyone in the room, then focused on Dillon. “I’m not going to lie to you. Trask has killed at least nine young women over the past ten years. Before he went underground five years ago, he was a semilegitimate businessman running an online porn website.”
    “How’d you get his prints?”
    “Off a murder weapon. We have no name, but we have matched them to a long-standing snuff-film distributor who ran a company called Achilles Film Distribution.”
    “Arrogant,” Dillon said. “He knows he’s not in the system so he doesn’t even try to hide his identity.”
    “Trask is the walking definition of arrogance,” Peterson said. “We know he still runs—through shell corporations, fake identities, and some real people—legal pornography websites. Live webcam sex acts, stripping, pornographic downloads, things like that.”
    “And you haven’t been able to track him from that?”
    “A task force worked for a solid year trying to unravel his network after one of his actresses disappeared and it appeared she’d been killed online. There was no proof, however, and the employees of his company claimed she’d just quit.
    “The task force was dismantled, but two agents continued to investigate on their own time. Trask’s organization came apart when he abducted one of those agents during an unsanctioned sting. He made a federal agent part of his show. He and his crew raped and murdered her live on the Internet, knowing the FBI would see it. Then he disappeared. Our team was”—he gestured helplessly with his hands—“torn apart. And because Trask went into hiding for two years, every trail we had turned cold.
    “He popped up three years ago with another live murder and has killed five more women since Agent Henshaw died. The bodies of three earlier kills—April Klinger, Denise Arno, and Erica Gomez—have never been found, but we have evidence that they are in fact dead.”
    “And you can’t find him?” Connor leaned over and put his hands on the table. “That doesn’t say much about our federal law enforcement, does it?”
    Peterson dipped his head in partial acknowledgment, but his clenched jaw told Dillon he was angry. “We lost two good agents five years ago. We’re not going to lose more.”
    “But you’re willing to sacrifice my sister!” Connor pushed himself away from the table and ran a nervous hand through his hair.
    “We’re not willing to sacrifice anyone,” Quinn responded.
    “So what is the FBI doing?” Dillon kept his voice composed while his stomach churned. He was trying to keep things calm even when he felt anything but.
    Peterson slapped a hand on the thick folder now in front of Dillon. “ This is who we’re up against. A man without remorse, a man who gets his kicks from raping, torturing, and murdering women. But make no mistake about it, he’s in it for another reason, too: to make money. The legal porn industry is a multi-billion-dollar business; the illegal porn industry is worth even more. He thrives on the risk, on taunting us, on being smarter than anyone else. You read his file, Dr. Kincaid, and let me know what you think.”
    Dillon kept his voice low, but his tone radiated his own anger and helplessness. “From what you’ve told us so far, we have less than forty-five hours to find my sister before she’s dead. This isn’t pornography or sex slaves. This is murder. ”
    Peterson curtly nodded.
    “What do we need to do? Between all of us we can pull together a million dollars, maybe.” Dillon glanced at his siblings.
    “He