by Ethan Cross
Munroe said, “The kids will be dead by that time. We don’t care about any of that right now. Sir, we just need any clue that you can give us.”
“We’ve been working mostly in the Southeast Tract. That’s probably where they would have done it.”
“That’s exactly where they wouldn’t have buried them. They wouldn’t want your men digging them up on accident. Is there a section that your employers wanted you to avoid?”
The blond man thought for a moment and said, “They’ve told us not to work in the top right quadrant of the Northeast Tract because that bumps up against the golf course, and they don’t want the noise from our equipment disturbing the golfers.”
“Excellent. Would we see fresh digging?”
“It rained here last night, and that place is really just a big mud hole. You could tell if something had been dug up if you looked close, but not really from a distance.”
“How big is that area?”
“Maybe forty or fifty acres.”
Black growled in disgust. “Needle in a damn haystack.”
“We need to think outside the box. If traditional methods fail, find an alternate solution. And there are always alternate solutions. Let’s take a drive out to the Northeast Tract.”
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FOURTEEN
The FBI van bumped and rattled its way across the uneven terrain, heading to the Northeast Tract. Black helped Munroe out of the van, and then the blind man stood and listened as the others piled out and searched the area. “Everyone, shut up and don’t move.”
The background noises Munroe detected in Almeida’s video—the clanging metal sound and the rythmic tut-tut-tut—hadn’t helped him to pinpoint a location from a wide geographic scale. But now that they had narrowed the search to a very specific region, he hoped those area-specific sounds could help narrow the search even further.
He strained to hear something familiar, something to indicate that they were in the right place. But there was nothing. Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe…
A clang of sheet metal resounded from somewhere in the distance, but it was much farther away than in the video. He pointed in the direction of the clanging and said, “Mr. Black, take me to that sound.”
Black guided him across the rocky, muddy ground, the clanging growing closer and closer as they went. Finally, he said, “Stop. What’s making the noise?”
“Looks like a rusty little maintenance shed. A piece of the corrugated metal siding is torn free and flapping in the wind.”
They were close, but Munroe still didn’t hear the tut-tut-tut sound. “Describe the rest of the area to me.”
“It’s just kind of a huge open mud pit,” Black said. “A lot of grass and weeds covering the surface, showing that they haven’t buried anything in this section for a while. Maybe we could get a bunch of volunteers together and walk the tract to see if we can find a spot where the vegetation is disturbed?”
“We don’t have the time! We need to narrow down the search. Keep describing.”
“There’s the old shed, but that’s about it. The tract butts up against a line of trees to the east.”
“Where’s the Operations Supervisor?”
“Right here,” the man said from fifteen feet away.
“What’s on the other side of those trees? Is that the golf course?”
“That’s right.”
He listened for the tut-tut-tut sound, but it wasn’t there. “Take me closer to the trees.”
Once there, he stood still again and fought to hear anything familiar. It seemed right. The shape, pitch, and volume of the clanging noise matched. He heard the chirping of insects and birds in the trees. But still no tut-tut-tut.
What was he missing? What had changed since the previous evening? What had been different in the video? Then he realized that the time of day was different. It was now early afternoon, and the video had been shot at dusk.
“Ask our FBI friends if they have the groundskeeper for the golf course in custody. If so, get him on the phone.”
The sound of Black’s heavy footsteps moved away, and Munroe heard him speaking with the agents and explaining the situation. Within a few moments, he returned and placed a cell phone in Munroe’s palm.
“Is this the groundskeeper?” Munroe said into the receiver.
“That’s right. How can I help?”
“Are you doing any extra watering around dusk?”
“Yeah, there’s a section of new grass by the trees that I’ve been giving some extra TLC to. Have the sprinklers there scheduled for dusk and in the middle of the night. Why are—”
“Turn those sprinklers on. Right now.”
A few moments later, he heard it. The faint, rhythmic tut-tut-tut of a sprinkler system, but it was too far away. He pointed in the direction of the sound and said, “Black, that way!”
He stopped several times and listened, found the shape of the sounds inconsistent in some manner, and moved on. Finally, after they had raced across a few acres, he stopped and said, “This is it! Everyone spread out and look for anything out of the ordinary. Anything to indicate that—”
One of the FBI agents yelled, “Here! This is freshly dug ground!”
~~*~~
Black watched as the track hoe clawed furiously at the earth, exposing the metal shipping container. Munroe had found the kids. Black still couldn’t wrap his mind around how Munroe had accomplished it, but in that moment, he couldn’t have cared less. The most important question still remained: Had they made it in time?
When the entrance was clear of dirt and clay and the old construction debris buried with it, Jonas Black jumped down into the hole first—pain stemming out from his knife wound shot through his leg on impact, but he pushed past it—and yanked on the the doors to the container. The edges of the metal door panels dragged against the dirt and didn’t want to open, but with the adrenaline pounding through his veins, he forced them to move.
Light from above filled the container, and three teenagers shielded their eyes and breathed deeply from the new source of air. Black rushed forward and embraced all three of them in a bear hug.
He heard someone else dropping clumsily into the hole. Munroe stumbled forward with open arms. His daughters ran to him. Tears streamed down all their faces. Munroe broke out laughing, and the joy infected them all. They alternated between crying and laughing as they rocked back and forth, squeezing each other tightly.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FIFTEEN
With balloons and flowers in his arms, Jonas Black led his nephew through the bustling corridors of Stafford Hospital. Will’s mother occupied a private room on the third floor. The doctors said she was recovering nicely and would be able to return home soon.
As Black placed the get well gifts on a table in the corner, Will ran up and squeezed his mother, pressing down on and pulling against the various tubes and cords connected to her body.
“Easy,” Stacey said with a laugh and returned her son’s embrace.
Then she looked over at Jonas Black. She didn’t say a word, but her eyes told him all that he needed to know. She may never forgive him and she’d certainly never forget, but while he couldn’t bring back his brother, he had brought Will home. He knew something between them had changed.
He couldn’t replace his brother or make the pain of Michael’s absence go away, but he vowed that he would always be there to watch over the family that his brother had left behind.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SIXTEEN
Sitting at a picnic table in his backyard, Deacon Munroe listened to the sounds of laughter and conversation. It was a gorgeous day. Warm, but not hot, with a gentle breeze blowing down off the mountains. The smell of grilled hamburgers floated through the air. He soaked it in, enjoying the sounds of his loved ones, new and old.
Joey talking about the newest video games with Black’s nephew a
nd some girl who the young genius had apparently met at a coffee shop. Jonas Black tossing a football back and forth with Makayla. Annabelle opening the grill and flipping burgers. Katherine O’Connell discussing boys with Chloe.
It was a beautiful scene, and he wished more than anything that he could actually see it, instead of just visualizing it in his mind.
He pressed a button on his watch, and a digital voice announced the time. He realized that the sun was likely setting, and so he turned in that direction and tried to remember the colors. He painted the picture in his mind. A scene of rolling green mountains, reds and yellows overlaying a bright blue sky, purple hues outlining the clouds.
It would have been easy to resent the fact that there was so much beauty in the world that he would never see again, but if the events of the past several days had taught him anything, it was to be grateful for all that he did have and to take nothing for granted.
His phone vibrated against his leg, but he ignored it, not wanting to spoil the beautiful tapestry of life and happiness being created all around him.
But then Annabelle’s phone rang the moment his stopped. He heard her answer and start walking toward him. “Deac, it’s the Secretary of Defense. He says it’s important.”
She handed him the phone, and he listened to the laughter and joy for a moment longer before bringing the device to his ear.
“Mr. Secretary, what can I do for you?”
Acknowledgments
First of all, I want to thank my beautiful wife—Gina—and my children—James, Madison, and Calissa—for their love and support (especially Gina who has to endure a lot craziness in the name of research and put up with me in general).
Next, I wish to thank my parents, Leroy and Emily, for taking me to countless movies as a child and instilling in me a deep love of stories. Also, thank you to my mother, Emily, for always being my first beta reader and my mother-in-law, Karen, for being my best saleswoman.
And, as always, none of this would be possible without the help of my UK editor, Tim Vanderpump, my wonderful agents, Danny Baror and Heather Baror-Shapiro, and my mentor and friend, Lou Aronica. In addition, I wouldn’t be here without the guidance and friendship of all my fellow authors at the International Thriller Writers organization.
A huge amount of research went into this book, which would not have been possible without the help of the following people and groups. My friend and fellow author, Anthony Franze, for being my partner-in-crime during my DC trips and helping to arrange some of the behind-the-scenes access needed for the book. Michael Sozan for his wonderfully informative tour of the US Capitol Building and the Senate office buildings. Carl Woog for arranging a private tour of the Pentagon and PFC Yates for being my guide. Major Bruce H. Norton for helping me to understand the mindset and tactics of a Recon Marine. And all of those at the Mary Bryant Home for the Blind especially Allan J. Rupel, Dave Jackson, and Howard and Janice Thomas for providing insight into the world of the visually-impaired.
To all of these and my extraordinary readers, thank you so much. I couldn’t be living my dream without your support.
About the Author
Ethan Cross is the award-winning international bestselling author of The Shepherd (described by #1 bestselling author Andrew Gross as “A fast paced, all too real thriller with a villain right out of James Patterson and Criminal Minds.”), The Prophet (described by bestselling author Jon Land as “The best book of its kind since Thomas Harris retired Hannibal Lecter”), The Cage, Callsign: Knight, and Father of Fear.
In addition to writing and working in the publishing industry, Ethan has also served as the Chief Technology Officer for a national franchise, recorded albums and opened for national recording artists as lead singer and guitar player in a musical group, and been an active and involved member of the International Thriller Writers organization and Novelists Inc.
He lives and writes in Illinois with his wife, three kids, and two Shih Tzus.
Also by Ethan Cross
The Shepherd
TO STOP A MONSTER…
Marcus Williams and Francis Ackerman Jr. both have a talent for hurting people. Marcus, a former New York City homicide detective, uses his abilities to protect others while Ackerman uses his gifts to inflict pain and suffering.
HE MUST EMBRACE THE MONSTER WITHIN HIMSELF
When both men become unwilling pawns in a conspiracy that reaches to the highest levels of our government, Marcus finds himself in a deadly game of cat and mouse trapped between a twisted psychopath and a vigilante with seemingly unlimited resources. Aided by a rogue FBI agent and the vigilante’s beautiful daughter – a woman with whom he’s quickly falling in love – Marcus must expose the deadly political conspiracy and confront his past while hunting down one of the must cunning and ruthless killers in the world.
Here’s an excerpt:
“Are you okay?” Maggie said, taking a cell phone from her purse and placing it against her ear. “You’re bleeding.”
Marcus reached up and wiped a trail of blood from his lip. He rubbed it between his fingers. “I’m—”
Maggie held up a finger to him, and he guessed that her call had connected. He had always found that you could tell a lot about a person by the way they reacted to a stressful or dangerous situation. As she spoke into the cell phone, he watched her mannerisms, cadence, pitch, tone, breathing, eyes. The words she spoke could have just as easily been issued from the mouth of a valley girl, but he looked beyond the words at the person underneath. Her voice was calm. Her tone was insistent yet professional. Her breathing was steady, and her body language exuded confidence. Her eyes scanned their unconscious attackers. At the edge of his perception, he detected a slight tremble, but that was to be expected. She reminded him of a cop calling in for backup.
“Glenn and some of his buddies just tried to jump me and a friend . . . We’re fine . . . My friend took care of them . . . Yes, Father, it’s a guy friend . . . No, you don’t know him. Now’s not the time. Just get over here. We’re in an alley next to the bar . . . Okay. Hurry.”
She closed the phone and placed it back in her purse.
Marcus watched as Glenn tried to get up but then fell back down and lay still. “Don’t you think we should call the cops?”
Maggie smiled. “My dad is the cops. He’s the Sheriff.”
“Oh, great.”
“That’s not a problem, is it? Lotta guys head for the hills when they hear my father’s the Sheriff. Guess they’re a little intimidated.”
“Not me. I’ve got a lot of respect for anyone who carries a badge. I’m a third-generation cop myself. Or . . . I was anyway.”
“But not anymore?”
“Not anymore.”
For the first time, it occurred to him that maybe he could be a cop again. Maybe I can get a job as one of the Sheriff ’s deputies, sitting next to the highway, issuing the occasional citation? It would be a far cry from the world he had left behind. But calling his previous employer for a reference would pose a problem.
Not pressing the issue, Maggie sighed and brushed a strand of blonde hair from her face. A dark, bronze tan made her hair seem lighter than it actually was. She wasn’t wearing any make-up and didn’t need any. Her pink t-shirt bore the name of The Asherton Tap, the bar where she worked as a waitress and where they had met earlier in the evening. He had offered to walk her home.
“Sorry about all this,” she said. “I knew Glenn had a thing for me, but I never thought that he would take it this far.”
He smiled. He couldn’t believe that he had met someone like her on his first day in town. Although in his experience, things that seemed too good to be true usually were. “Don’t worry about it. I can take care of myself.”
“Kinda noticed.”
He shrugged. “Chuck Norris movies.”
Maggie chuckled. “Don’t get me wrong, you look lik
e a man who can take care of himself, but that usually doesn’t mean anything.”
“I had some martial arts training and did some boxing when I was on the force. Plus, I was a pretty tough kid growing up. But to be honest, what happened here was one part ability and three parts luck.”
He had been lucky. Then again, he had always been lucky in similar situations. He always seemed to come out on top in a fight. When did luck become skill? When did a skill become a talent? In the end, he knew that he had a gift for hurting people, and it scared him. He wished it was only luck, but deep down, he knew better. He knew what he was capable of.
He saw flashing lights coming from around the corner. A moment later, a patrol car stopped in front of them. A middle-aged man with silver hair and goatee stepped out of the vehicle. Maggie relayed the situation to the man who Marcus assumed to be her father.
A crowd from the bar had gathered at one end of the alley. The sounds of a top-forty cover band echoed out of the Asherton Tap as more patrons walked from the bar to see what was happening. Many of the spectators looked disappointed that they had missed the action.
People always seemed to be in awe of the infliction of pain. Why do we find it so interesting to see people beat each other’s brains in? He wasn’t judging. He liked to watch a fight as much as anyone, but he wondered what it was in the nature of human beings that caused a fascination with violence and suffering.
After hearing the story, the Sheriff walked over to Glenn and hauled him up from the pavement while one of his deputies rounded up the cowboy’s friends. “Do you have anything to say for yourself ?”
Still dazed, Glenn said, “Sheriff, I didn’t do nothin’. We were just trying to welcome the new guy, and he got all smart with me. Next thing you know, he’s kickin’ and punchin’ people. It was craziness.”
The Sheriff nodded. “Right. I’ve always thought that you should be head of the welcoming committee. Plus, it was real nice of you and your boys to bring that baseball bat and tire iron as house-warming gifts.” The Sheriff shoved Glenn in the direction of his deputy. “Get him out of here.”
