The Chosen Girls (Blake Wilder FBI Mystery Thriller Book 4)

by Elle Gray

  He sighs and runs a hand through his sandy brown hair. “It’s just… when you told me that not only was the guy you were meeting with murdered, but you were shot at, I flipped out, Blake. The idea of you getting shot scares me to death.”

  “I know you don’t want to hear this, but the job I do comes with risk. Every time I’m out in the field trying to run down a bad guy, I’m at risk of being stabbed, or shot, or run over by a bus.”

  He arches an eyebrow at me. “Run over by a bus?”

  I shrug. “There was a story once that a couple of agents out in like Kentucky or something were trying to run down some meth head, and the guy got his hands on a bus. Apparently, he ran them both over with it.”

  “Well, that’s comforting. So, not only do I have to worry about guys with guns coming after you, now I have to worry about guys driving buses coming after you too,” he says with a small smile on his face.

  “The point is that my job is always going to have risks. And I don’t know any other way to do my job than to be the one kicking down the door and charging in,” I tell him. “That’s just who I am.”

  “I have noticed that about you.”

  “That’s part of the deal with me. It’s who I am and who I’ll always be. I need you to not just understand, that but accept it. I’m going to be shot at. I’m going to be attacked. I may even have somebody try to kill me with a bus. And I can’t handle coming home to you freaking out about it. This is me, Mark. This is my job. And you’re either going to be all right with it, or maybe I’m not the girl for you.”

  “But your parents’ case. That’s not an official Bureau case,” he points out. “I get that those other cases are your job. But that one’s not. And that’s the one I worry about the most.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because when it comes to your job, you’re dealing with garden variety criminals, for the most part. You’re steeped in the rules of that world,” he says softly. “But the people who killed your folks—those aren’t run-of-the-mill criminals. If I’m to go by what you told me about them, they’re assassins. Your folks were executed. And I have a fear that if you dig too deeply into that, they might execute you too. That scares the hell out of me.”

  “I won’t stop, Mark. Which is why I say, you either need to accept it—or don’t,” I tell him. “But it’s far too important for me to give up. Ever. Not until I’ve gotten justice for my family.”

  He looks down and frowns, seeming to be considering my words. Or maybe considering whether or not this is going to work after all. At the moment, he looks like he could be going either way. And while I don’t necessarily want to lose him, I’m not giving up my drive to get justice for my family.

  “I can make you one promise,” I offer.

  “And what’s that?”

  “I’ll do my very best to minimize the risk,” I say truthfully. “And I’ll do my best to avoid putting myself in dangerous situations.”

  He sighs heavily. “That’s about the best I’m going to get out of you, huh?”

  “This is me, Mark. This is who I am. I am the job, and there’s only one way I know how to do it—by totally committing myself to it and accepting that every time out in the field could be my last. And being at peace with it.”

  “To be honest, I don’t know that I’ll ever be at peace with it. I care about you, Blake. I care about you a lot,” he says. “And I don’t know that I can ever be blasé and just accept your death. And I sure as hell can’t be at peace with it.”

  “Then I just need you to accept it,” I urge him. “Because I can’t alter the way I do my job. That’s just not who I am. So, if it’s too much for you and you want out, I understand. Go and find somebody who makes you happy and is less likely to meet a violent death at the hands of some cracked-out wannabe bus driver.”

  He laughs softly. “That’s what sucks about this whole thing. I don’t want anybody else.”

  “Neither do I.”

  He frowns and shakes his head. “I’ll try to find a way to be at peace with the job you do. I can’t promise there won’t be rough patches. But I’ll try.”

  I give him a smile and get to my feet, then walk around the table and wrap my arms around him. My mouth finds Mark’s and we descend into a fiery, passionate kiss that feels natural. It feels right. And it makes my heart turn somersaults inside of me.

  “What was that for?” he asks.

  “Because I wanted to make you shut up so we can eat.”

  He laughs and gets to his feet and leads me into the kitchen. It feels like we’re back on track and that we can put this behind us. He may not like it, but hopefully, he can accept it.

  I know this is a conversation we’re probably going to be revisiting again. Probably more than once. But as long as we feel like we’re moving in the right direction, I think we’ll be all right.

  Fourteen

  Belltown District; Seattle, WA

  I grip the wheel tight, turning my knuckles white. The pressure’s been building up in me all day and I know there’s only one way to release it. It came on quicker this time than it did last time. That gnawing hunger in me. That need. I imagine this is what druggies feel like when they’re jonesing for their next fix.

  “Druggies or vampires,” I mutter to myself with a giggle.

  The streets are crowded with both cars and foot traffic. It’s both a blessing and a curse. In this part of the city, there’s lots of variety. Lots of girls to choose from. It’s like a buffet. But the sheer amount of people makes it hard to get away clean. But hey, like my mommy always used to say, you have to take the good with the bad. That’s what I’m doing here, right? Taking the good with the bad?

  “Taking the good and doin’ somethin’ bad with it is more like it.”

  I giggle again, amused by my own cleverness as I scan the crowds on the sidewalks passing by. I’m like a Great White Shark, slowly and silently cruising through the waters, looking for my next meal. And none of the people out there on the sidewalk knows just how close Death is to them. Unlike the Great White Shark though, I’m picky about my meals. I’m not going to eat just anything. No, not me. They’ll never cut open my belly and find a license plate or an old, deflated basketball. I only choose the finest morsels to sate my appetites.

  I pass by the bars, restaurants, and coffee houses that line these streets. Belltown’s one of the trendiest spots in the entire city, and as a result, it’s never short on tasty morsels. The trick is finding that one little fish that somehow gets separated from its school. Once you spot the straggler, you have to time it just right so you can swoop in and snatch it up with nobody being any the wiser. That’s something else my mommy always said—make a plan. Always make a plan. My mommy was a fount of wisdom like that.

  I turn up the radio and sing along with Blondie. “One way or another, I’m gonna find ya. I’m gonna get ya, get ya, get ya, get ya…”

  The song seems perfectly fitting. It’s almost like my theme song, and I take it as a good sign that it came on while I’m on the hunt. I turn down Bell Street from Second Avenue and cruise by a line of bars. There. Up ahead. As if the angels themselves are smiling down on me, I see her. She’s standing beneath a streetlight—alone. Her hair shines like spun gold and her pale skin glows like she’s lit from within. She’s beautiful. She’s perfect. And like a moth, I’m drawn to the light she casts.

  Even from where I am, I can see that she’s crying. She keeps angrily wiping away the tears that are spilling down her cheeks. And the way she’s swaying on her feet tells me she’s had a few. Perfect. I pull to a stop beside her and roll down the passenger side window.

  “Hey, are you all right?” I ask.

  “Fine. I’m fine,” she slurs.

  She’s unsteady on her feet and looks like her legs could give out at any moment. Although she’s swaying like she’s on the open ocean during a hellacious storm, the girl somehow manages to keep her feet.

  “Hey, why don’t you get in and let me get y
ou home, huh?” I ask. “A girl in your condition shouldn’t be out here alone like this.”

  “I’m fine,” she repeats, still slurring and still swaying.

  I put the car in park and pull my ballcap low before getting out of the car. I casually glance around, making sure I’m not being observed, then circle around to the other side and lean against the car, making myself look as non-threatening as possible. The girl has her face glued to her phone and is tapping away on the screen furiously. Tears are streaming down her face. Only now, she’s not bothering to wipe them away and lets them fall.

  “Boy problems, huh?” I ask.

  She snaps her head up and looks at me like she didn’t even realize I was standing there. Her eyes are unfocused, and her jaw is slack. She sways, and I’m sure she’s just about to go down but manages to catch herself and stumbles a step closer to me.

  “Your boyfriend givin’ you grief, huh?” I ask, pointing to her phone.

  “He’s ch—cheating on me,” she sobs, the admission triggering a fresh flood of tears.

  “He’s a fool,” I tell her. “Don’t know what he’s got right in front of him.”

  “Right?” she gasps.

  “He don’t deserve you.”

  She shakes her head. “He doesn’t.”

  “And you shouldn’t be out here in this condition. You just never know what kind of creeps are runnin’ around lookin’ to take advantage of a girl who ain’t in her right mind.”

  She looks down at her phone again and holds it up for me to see. “I’m trying to call Uber.”

  “Well then, it’s your lucky night. I’m a driver for e-Taxi. Same thing as Uber.”

  She cocks her head and looks at me, that wild-eyed, unfocused gleam in her eye. She looks at me as if she’s trying to figure out some complicated calculus equation. I point to the sticker in the window of my car—the black and yellow checkered e-Taxi sticker I stole from somebody who actually drives for them.

  “I should go home,” she slurs.

  “Yes, you should. I’ll get you there,” I tell her.

  She shakes her head and squints at her screen. “I don’t have your app on my phone.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll drop you at home and won’t charge you. I just wouldn’t feel right about leaving you out here on the street like this. You just never know what kind of monster might come along.”

  Inside the car, I hear Debbie Harry’s voice, “I’m gonna get ya, get ya, get ya, get ya,” and smile to myself.

  “That’s sweet,” she says, drawing out the word ‘sweet’ in a long, snake-like slur.

  “Just doing my part to help somebody in need. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

  “Serena—Serena Monroe,” she says, though it sounds more like a question.

  I open the door of the car and let her pour herself into the back seat. As she struggles to sit up and figure out the complicated mechanics of the seat belt, I slip the syringe out of my pocket and uncap it, making sure to tuck the plastic stopper back into my pocket as to not leave it behind for somebody to find—an ounce of prevention, as mommy used to say.

  I lean down, giving her a smile that she returns. The needle slips into her flesh with practiced ease, and before she even knows what’s happening, I’m pumping the ketamine into her system. It starts to take effect quickly and a small gasp passes her lips. The girl leans her head back against the seat rest and closes her eyes with a blissed-out little smile on her face. I finish buckling the seat belt, then close the door.

  I walk back around to the driver’s side door, glancing around at the street. There are knots of people everywhere, but nobody close enough to me to see what’s just happened. I climb in and drop the syringe into the plastic waste collection box on the floor of the passenger’s seat. Feeling that pressure in my starting to lighten already, I look in the rearview mirror and see the smiling face of Serena Monroe. Her eyelids are fluttering closed, and she’s wearing a nearly euphoric expression as she murmurs to herself.

  “You’re trash,” I tell her. “You’re dirty.”

  Serena mutters something I can’t make out. Not that it matters. She has nothing to say that I’d be interested in anyway. She’s one of those filthy girls mommy used to warn me about. Sluts. Spreaders of disease. Those kinds of girls who go out partying all night, hoping to find somebody to go home with because they can’t wait to spread their legs. Girls like that are all trash. Garbage. Girls like that serve no purpose.

  Serena’s voice is soft and breathy. It’s the voice of somebody who is descending into a deep, peaceful sleep. Her smile flickers across her lips and her eyes close as the warm grasp of sleep reaches up and pulls her down into the comfort of its dark embrace.

  I’m really looking forward to wiping that smile off her face. Forever.

  Fifteen

  Wilder Residence; The Emerald Pines Luxury Apartments, Downtown Seattle

  I step off the elevator and am walking through the underground parking garage, my eyes darting everywhere as I search for threats. It’s so ingrained into me by this point, it’s as much an unconscious reflex as breathing is. Being a woman, you always need to be alert and on your toes. Being an FBI agent, you’re trained to be paranoid and expect an attack to come at you. So being a female FBI agent has made me obsessively vigilant.

  I make it to my car without incident and toss my bag onto the passenger’s seat as I climb in. I’m just about to put the key in the ignition when my phone rings. I quickly turn the key to start the accessories, then push the button to route the call through the speakers.

  “Blake Wilder,” I answer.

  “Blake, it’s Rebekah.”

  “Hey,” I reply. “Kind of early for you, isn’t it?”

  “A little bit, yeah. I guess,” she says. “Actually, it’s late. I worked overnight last night. I’m just getting off now.”

  Her voice is hushed but hurried, and there’s an edge of fear in her tone.

  “You all right, Beks?” I ask.

  “Yes. No,” she says. “I mean, maybe.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “I’m flipping out there, Blake. Like, I’m having a full-on mental meltdown right now.”

  “Okay, what’s wrong?”

  There’s a pause on the line and I watch an older couple walking through the garage, hand in hand. I’ve seen them in the building before and have exchanged greetings, but I’d never say I know them. They’ve always just struck me as a couple who is in love. And knowing they’re still deeply in love at their age gives me hope that maybe one day, I can have that. Maybe one day, when my life has settled down some, I can find the sort of relationship that, like the couple I’m watching, has not just survived, but flourished over the many years they’ve been together.

  But those thoughts are always followed by the inevitable voice in my head that says that sort of love isn’t in the cards for me. That I don’t deserve it. I’ve tried arguing with that voice on several occasions, telling it that Mark’s presence in my life disproves its opinion. But the voice always ends the argument by saying it’s only a matter of time before I do something that will make my relationship with Mark implode spectacularly.

  “Rebekah, what’s wrong?”

  “Not on the phone. Can you meet me for coffee?”

  “Yeah, absolutely,” I reply. “Just tell me where.”

  “Do you know where the Urban Bean is?”

  “I can find it,” I tell her.

  “Good. I’ll be there in twenty.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  I disconnect the call and start the car then pull up the GPS on the dash-mounted display. I type in the name for the coffee house and let it pull up the route for me. It’s a little bit off the beaten track and is well away from the ME’s office, making it less likely that Rebekah would run into anybody she works with. The precautions pique my curiosity, as did the near panic I heard in her voice. Wanting to find out what in the hell is going on, I put my car in gear and pu
ll out of the garage and merge into the flow of traffic.

  A little more than fifteen minutes later, I pull into the Urban Bean’s parking lot. I pull alongside Rebekah’s VW Beetle and shut off the engine, then climb out. The coffee house is round, like a donut. Large plate-glass windows wrap around the front half of the donut, with tables at each of them. The back half of the donut is brick and windowless and is presumably where the offices are.

  I see Rebekah through the windows, already sitting at one of the tables. She gives me a nervous wave when she spots me walking in. I move straight to the counter and order a coffee drink and a blueberry scone. When my order comes, I take it over to the table and sit across from her, and take a bite of my scone, washing it down with my coffee drink.

  “So, what’s up?” I ask. “You seemed pretty freaked out on the phone.”

  She nods and takes a drink of her coffee—taking a few beats to put her thoughts in order, I suppose. She finally raises her gaze to me, and I can see how freaked out she is. Whatever happened, it left her shaken.

  “Beks?”

  “I had a visit from Deputy Chief Torres last night,” she starts. “And he’s none too happy.”

  I feel my blood run cold. It wasn’t all that long ago that Torres pulled me over on the street and had all but threatened to kill me outright. Suffice it say, we won’t be exchanging Christmas cards anytime soon. Torres is a snake who would rather let killers run rampant through the streets of Seattle than do what’s necessary to catch them. His only concern is in playing department politics and climbing the ladder.

  So, he does what he can to minimize the bad news and talk up his achievements, regardless of how minor they are. The man is a natural-born snake oil salesman. And yet, he plays politics so well and knows exactly which butts he has to kiss, so he continues to advance. Torres is a disgrace and yet, it won’t be too long before he’s running the entire SPD. It’s a shame.

  “What did he want from you?” I ask.