Hunger Moon (The Huntress/FBI Thrillers Book 5)

by Alexandra Sokoloff

  “No rapist is safe. No rape apologist is safe.

  “This is a call to arms. This is a war on rape culture.

  “The war begins now.”

  The screen went black.

  Epps shifted his eyes from his phone, glanced behind them.

  Roarke turned to look. Frat brothers had filtered into the room behind them and were watching their own phones in the same dazed disbelief. There were murmurs.

  “They can’t do that, right?”

  “Are they going to kill people?”

  Before he could stop himself, Roarke was turning, and answering, “Yes. They’re going to kill people.”

  And beside him, Epps muttered, “Lock your doors, boys.”

  Chapter Fifty

  Jade had found the stables on one of her long rides in the valley. No one could see the building from any road that she’d been able to find, and she’d never once seen anyone anywhere near it.

  She and Kris had set up supplies in the stable master’s quarters. Sleeping bags on the bed frame, food, gallon jugs of water, Diet Coke, vodka.

  And 4G worked just fine. They were isolated, but not far from civilization.

  They sat on the musty sofa they’d covered with blankets, watching the Bitch video in bemusement—and awe.

  “No rapist is safe. No rape apologist is safe.

  “This is a call to arms. This is a war on rape culture.

  “The war begins now.”

  It was the third time they’d played it.

  Kris was wide eyed, stunned. “What the actual fuck? Do they know about . . . ?” She looked toward the wall, in the direction of Topher’s stall.

  Jade narrowed her eyes, shook her head. “I don’t think so. They’ve been planning some of this for a long time.”

  “What do you mean?” Kris looked at Jade, and somehow she figured it out. “Wait. You know Bitch?”

  “Yeah, I know them. Some of them.” Jade thought of Elliott, and felt a brief twinge of—

  Guilt?

  Well, fuck that. This is happening. Because we’re making it happen.

  Kris was staring at her, processing it. “So was this all . . . what we did . . . a plan?”

  “No. I wasn’t in on all that—” Jade indicated the phone. “I came looking for whoever did that dummy on the tower, just like I said.”

  Kris hesitated, then looked away. “I did a dummy. But I didn’t do the thing on the tower.”

  Jade raised her eyebrows, waiting.

  “I did some stuff that night, but not that. I just let you think I did.” Kris looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know who did it. But you came to the meeting, and you were asking for people willing to step up. I figured . . .”

  “It’s cool,” Jade reassured her. “That’s the way this all works. They put out a call to action, people jump on it in their own way. The whole point of it is, we don’t have to be hooked up with them. Everyone runs their own campaign. And it ripples. It grows. That’s how you scare people. It all starts to feel like something bigger, something exponential . . .” She reached for the word. “Something mythic.”

  “But this video—”

  Jade was on her feet now, unable to keep still. “The video only helps us. People are going to freak the fuck out about ol’ Toph being gone. Everyone’s going to think he’s one of those that they’re talking about.” She pointed to the phone, and felt a wave of excitement. “And it’s suddenly a lot bigger than us.”

  “So . . .”

  “So now we send our own message.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  As they played the video through again, Roarke saw a lot of confused faces, a growing alarm . . . as some of the assembled frat boys started to process the implication that they might finally be held accountable for their actions.

  He nodded to Epps, signaling the door. He had no intention of talking anywhere within earshot.

  The boys didn’t even notice them leaving.

  Outside the Tau house, the agents walked in silence through the littered street, toward the loop of shops and restaurants.

  When they were far enough away, Epps spoke. “Kinda starting to look like terrorism now.”

  Roarke’s gut was churning. It was all a bit surreal. Certainly unprecedented. He was having trouble getting his mind around it.

  Epps’ voice was worried. “You think this is for real? They’re planning on following through?”

  “It’s not just for real,” Roarke answered slowly. “This is someone who knows about these programs—knows ViCAP, knows the rape kit backlog, knows percentages.”

  The video was Bitch. There was no doubt in his mind. And the lists the Santa Muerte figure had talked about—those would be coming soon, if they weren’t already being circulated online.

  Epps laughed shortly, without humor. “It should put the fear of God into some trolls, at least.”

  Roarke had to agree. Certainly turning the online threats against the threateners was a brilliant idea. And his long experience, personal and professional, was that bullies are cowards, for the most part. It might well work to make this kind of man watch what he said.

  It might start making all men watch what they said.

  An uneasy look crossed Epps’ face. “They could end up making it worse for women, though. I mean, all women.”

  Roarke had thought the same, himself. “I think the point is that it can’t be any worse.”

  Epps shook his head in something like admiration. “They’ve been pulling all this together for a long time. Must have been. You can’t just come up with this overnight.”

  Roarke had to agree. But did Bitch take Topher Stephens? He had a sinking feeling. Was he the first to die?

  Epps spoke his thoughts aloud. “So the parents are right? Bitch took the kid?”

  It was the obvious conclusion. And yet there was that element of doubt. That was the brilliance of Bitch’s video. It claimed preemptive credit for every attack on any man anywhere. A page from the terrorist playbook.

  Roarke answered, “They were ready for this nomination. They’ve been waiting for it. Wrote out a script. Probably made most of the video beforehand. But . . . if Stephens was their first victim, it would’ve been part of the video. We might even be seeing a body.”

  Epps gave him a sharp look. “You think he’s dead?”

  Roarke didn’t know how to answer that. But his gut feeling—now—was that the kid was in serious trouble.

  Epps didn’t wait for an answer. “Stephens’s parents are going to be losing it. Do we go back up there?”

  Roarke didn’t need more than a few seconds to decide. “We’re not getting anything useful out of that crew. They’re so deep in denial they might actually believe all the bullshit they’re shoveling.”

  Just as he was talking, his phone buzzed. Epps raised his eyebrows—but it wasn’t Mr. Stephens, or Sandler. Roarke showed him the call on the screen. SAC Reynolds.

  The agents moved off the sidewalk and stopped under a tree. Roarke lifted the phone. “I was just about to call you.”

  “I just got off the phone with Kirk Sandler—”

  “I’m sure you did. But all due respect, sir—I’m suspending this investigation until someone decides to be straight with us.”

  Epps shot him a startled look. Roarke signaled for Epps to keep quiet. He put the phone on speaker so Epps could hear the SAC, and continued. “We were here investigating the disappearance of Topher Stephens even before he disappeared. It might never have happened if someone had filled us in up front.”

  The SAC cleared his throat. “I didn’t have prior knowledge that any of this was going to happen.”

  Roarke fervently hoped that Reynolds hadn’t known, but he wasn’t going to let it go. “It’s clear that any number of people here in Santa Barbara saw something like this coming. We’re not capable of conducting this investigation in the dark.”

  There was silence on the phone, and Roarke knew he might have pushed his boss over the edge. The
n Reynolds spoke.

  “No one thought the Stephens kid was going to be abducted. Not that I know of. It was the director who wanted the campus attacks investigated. He was the one who suggested Santa Barbara.”

  Roarke realized with a jolt that Reynolds meant the director of the Bureau. Epps met his gaze.

  Roarke pressed it. “The director wanted us here investigating Bitch. So what does Stephens have to do with it?”

  “The director said there were two witnesses at the Tau house. He didn’t mention Stephens. I have no idea what he has to do with it.”

  “Sir, I don’t either. His disappearance—it doesn’t feel like Bitch to me. But if they really have gone after him, it’s undoubtedly because they think he’s a sex criminal. Until someone tells us the truth about that, our hands are tied.”

  “I understand that.” Reynolds didn’t sound happy about it, but Roarke was relieved that the SAC was going to be reasonable.

  “Look. We’ll go back to Sandler when it’s useful to us. But the gloves come off. If he keeps stonewalling, we’re out of here.”

  “Understood.”

  Roarke disconnected and the agents stood looking at each other.

  Epps spoke first. “The director.”

  Roarke was silent.

  And finally Epps exploded. “I’ll tell you. I am done with these white men using their offices and their roles and their privilege to do whatever favors for their white brothers and their white sons. While anyone of color . . . any kid on the street . . .” He broke off, swallowed to compose himself. “When does this shit end?”

  And that was a question Roarke had no answer to. Except one.

  “Fuck this,” he said. “Come on.”

  He pointed to the nearest bar.

  The agents sat out on the enclosed patio. It had a Hawaiian, Tiki theme, with surfboards on the ceiling, stuffed puffer fish, and coconut carvings on the pillars.

  Outside a strong wind had come up, rustling the dry palm-frond awning. A storm was coming in.

  Epps was calmer, but still seething. “This is not what I signed up for. I’m not down with carrying out that man’s agenda.” He didn’t say the director’s name. He didn’t have to. He stared out at the palm trees swaying in the gusting wind. “I think every day that it can’t possibly get crazier. But now I don’t think we’ve even seen the beginning of crazy.”

  He looked back, meeting Roarke’s eyes. “I’ve got to be straight with you, boss. I don’t know what I want to be doing in this new world order. And I don’t know what we’re going to be asked to do next.”

  Roarke felt a sudden chill. “You can’t resign. That’s not allowed. I need you.”

  “But how long is it going to be before we’re asked to do things that I can’t do?” Epps’ face and voice were stormy, urgent. “The Bureau starts going after protesters, I’m out of here.”

  “I agree. I’m with you. But we’re not there, yet—”

  “It’s more than that.” Epps paused, gathered himself. “I’m proposing to Tara.”

  Epps never used Singh’s first name. They didn’t speak of the agents’ relationship; that was a personal line that had been drawn from the beginning of Roarke’s knowledge of it. Roarke was so surprised, at first he could only blurt out, “When?”

  “I wanted it to be yesterday. I wasn’t there. But . . . she got the picture.”

  Valentine’s Day, Roarke thought, and then—so Singh already knew, all that time we were monitoring Ortiz. Not that she had any obligation to tell him. Her discretion constantly amazed him.

  He wanted to shake Epps’ hand, embrace him like a brother. Instead he reached across the table, clasped his arm.

  “That’s the best news I’ve heard in years. I mean it.”

  Epps nodded thanks, a brief moment of what was almost shyness. “We’ve talked about it before. But I’m not going to wait. With all this shit coming down . . .” He groped for the words. “I have this feeling, like—time is running out. I want to keep her safe.”

  Singh was a citizen. But it was the first time Roarke had ever considered that her status might be in jeopardy. For a moment he fully felt the shield of his race, and berated himself for the oversight. Privileged, much?

  “Are you—” Roarke stopped himself before he said “afraid.” Instead he finished, “Are you concerned she’ll be deported? Because the office will never let that happen. I would never let that happen.”

  Epps kept his voice low, but anger pulsed underneath the surface calm. “We don’t know fuck all about what’s going to happen. Every day is something more unthinkable. I’m not taking any chances. Not where she’s concerned.” He paused, struggling with himself. “Although I might not be her best defense.”

  Roarke swore to himself. What’s happened to our country? How could we slide so far into darkness in so little time?

  “And neither of us is so sure we’re going to be able to carry out the duties of the job. Who knows what shit’s going to go down?”

  And that was exactly the problem. Roarke didn’t know. But when he spoke, his voice was firm.

  “But we have to fight this from inside. If we don’t hold the line, who will?”

  “I don’t know,” Epps said, and his voice was haunted. “I don’t know.”

  Roarke reached across the table, but stopped his hand without touching him. “Look. Go back up to the city now. Really. Go. Be with her. I can handle things here.”

  For a moment Epps looked almost sick with relief, and Roarke was sure he’d take him up on it. But then the other agent straightened, shook his head. “Let’s just get this done. We’ll have all the photos from the party by now. I’ll go through them and see what I can see. Get the boy back to speak for himself.” He gave Roarke a grim smile. “He could be innocent, couldn’t he? There’s a chance.”

  Roarke shook his head. “Anything’s possible.”

  But the outlook on that was bleak.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  The skull glared down from beneath her hood, as Jade lit candles on the crude altar she and Kris had made, setting planks on two sawhorses, covering it with a horse blanket.

  She’d shoplifted a whole handful of the skull masks from the party store where she got her snake bodysuit. One of them now served as the saint’s face.

  The girls had started the altar as a prop for their own video message. But as they gathered cigarettes, wildflowers and candy, tequila and money and dope, all the offerings Jade knew that the saint favored, and laid them all out on the altar, she felt the saint’s presence intensifying. Already the figure was becoming far more than a skeleton costume, but a real, live force, with a will of her own.

  Jade could see that Kris was getting into it, too. She was scouring the barn, exploring every stall for random leftovers for the altar, and the offerings she brought were becoming more and more interesting.

  An iron bit. Chains.

  Now she came forward with another item: a long, rusted iron pike, and extended it almost shyly. “I found it. I thought it was a poker. But it’s not.”

  Jade frowned, examined it. It wasn’t a poker. The end wasn’t pointed at all. It was . . .

  She jolted with the realization. And then she smiled.

  “Brilliant. Freaking awesome. This is it. This is what we do.”

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  The ocean rumbled and crashed below him as Roarke walked the sandy trail of the bluffs outside the Bacara.

  The agents had taken their cars back to the hotel. But tired as he was, Roarke couldn’t bear to be enclosed in the room yet. He needed the walk. He needed to think.

  Epps was right. It was clear where this was headed. The FBI director had sent them here to do reconnaissance for some kind of crackdown on Bitch. And how long would it be before any and all protesters were targeted?

  They would all be forced to take a stand.

  Singh and Epps deserved every great thing in life. Not this shadowy, ambiguous world of threats and alternative facts.


  But was there any place they could be free anymore?

  The sun dipped below the sea, and soon he was walking along the sandy trail under the faint light of the rising moon. He could see only a glimpse, through the clouds. But it was uneasily close to full . . .

  Hunger Moon.

  He had checked the dummy email box throughout the day to see if there had been another email from Ortiz or the bounty hunters.

  Nothing.

  The absence was a relief. But the constant raw worry lingered.

  The waves thundered below. And the sound brought inevitable, forbidden thoughts.

  Epps talking about Singh, the pain and triumph of their relationship . . .

  They were thinking of giving up their jobs. Going off the grid. Together.

  He’d had a taste of that, out in the desert. The freedom of living outside work, outside law.

  Outside law.

  It made the impossible seem . . . closer, if not entirely real.

  Off the grid. Answering to no one, no law. Making my own life, on my terms . . .

  And what would that look like? What are you really thinking that would look like? Here, in the dark, with no one listening. Make a wish.

  Below him, the surf churned. And the sound of it brought every feeling he’d ever had about Cara flooding back. It was a straight shot through his body, to that night on the beach. He felt her, tasted her, in the salt air and the sound of the sea—

  Felt the terror of her presence . . .

  And let’s be real. Terror is what it was.

  He had held her in his arms, and what he’d felt was his own death.

  How many men has she killed? A hundred? Three hundred? There’s no going back from that.

  His wild thoughts retreated back to the steel cage he kept in his heart.

  But the sense of presence remained.

  Presence.

  He was suddenly straight back in the present. Because there was someone with him.

  He could feel someone behind him. He was being followed. Again.

  And in a rush, he felt it. The familiar shameful, fearful, exhilarating feeling . . . that she might be there, right behind him in the dark, watching him. Her eyes on him, seeing him the way no one in his life had ever seen him . . .