The 7 She Saw (Blake Wilder FBI Mystery Thriller Book 1)

by Elle Gray

  Copyright © 2020 by Elle Gray

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Epilogue

  Also by Elle Gray

  Prologue

  Industrial District; Briar Glen, WA

  A thick marine layer had rolled in off the ocean, blotting out the moon, which made the night darker than normal. Tyler hated nights like that. He always thought they were inherently spooky. He sometimes felt like the bogeyman was going reach right out of the shadows blanketing the entire town and snatch him up.

  Tyler shivered and pulled his tattered jacked more tightly around him, then fished the dirty, threadbare floral scarf out of his pocket. He wound it around his neck, then pulled it up over his mouth. It didn’t help all that much, but it was better than nothing. Turning to the wallet in his hands, he discarded some papers and an old condom, then pulled out the cash and quickly counted it out.

  “Twenty-three bucks. That’s it?” he grumbled.

  But he pocketed the money, knowing it would buy him a couple of meals and a few other necessities. If nothing else, it would keep him from having to dig through the trash cans for something to eat for a couple of days, which he was glad for. Tyler hated eating out of trash cans and avoided it whenever he could. The stench alone was off-putting enough, but the food usually tasted like crap to boot.

  He was pragmatic enough to know that when you live on the streets, you usually don’t have much in the way of options. So, given the choice between eating what he found in the can and starving, he always chose to scrape off the moldy, dirty bits, and pretend he was eating a five-star meal. It beat going hungry.

  Sitting on the stoop of a building that had been long abandoned, Tyler rifled through the rest of the wallet and held up the driver’s license he found tucked into one of the side flaps. The photo was of a young kid, twenty-three years old by the date of birth. He had blond hair, blue eyes, was listed at five-foot-nine, one hundred and sixty-five pounds, and he wore corrective lenses.

  “Sorry ‘bout this, Jake Fontenot. But hey, ya do what ya got to do to survive, and I reckon I need this more than you right now. Maybe you’ll be in the same spot as me later on and learn that valuable lesson,” he mumbled to himself.

  He didn’t really believe that. Tyler thought Jake Fontenot had the look of spoiled entitlement about him. And the Lexus he’d broken into where he found the wallet to begin with certainly didn’t do anything to contradict that belief.

  “What kind of idiot leaves their wallet in the car anyway?” he grunted. “A kid with more money than common sense, that’s who.”

  Tyler doubted Jake Fontenot had ever gone without anything in what he assumed was the kid’s privileged, pampered life. He certainly didn’t look like a kid who’d ever suffered hardships or had ever wanted for a damn thing.

  “Not like I have. This kid don’t know tough times or what a hard life really is,” he muttered to nobody in particular.

  He picked out the credit cards but left the debit card behind. Without the PIN number, it was useless anyway. But Tyler reasoned that he might be able to use the plastic to buy some things when the stores opened in the morning. Best to try to use them before Jake Fontenot got wise and canceled them.

  “A jacket. I’m definitely gonna get me a new jacket. And some warm damn socks. Yeah, definitely warm socks.”

  Not finding anything else of interest or value, Tyler tossed the wallet into a pile of trash on the stoop beside him and started to mentally compile a list of things he’d want to buy in the morning. He figured he’d go find a place to sleep near the local Wal-Mart, so he was nearby when they opened, and he could grab what he needed. Tyler had found the cashiers were less apt to hassle him first thing in the morning, before they’d had their coffee, than they were if he came in during peak hours.

  Tyler clocked a guy walking down the street, heading in his direction. The guy was tall and slim. Not very threatening looking. But Tyler noted he had a pretty expensive looking coat, nice shoes, and he glimpsed what looked like a Rolex on his wrist. One thing living on the streets had taught Tyler, it was to size somebody up and calculate the value of their clothing and accessories in a heartbeat.

  He liked to call his ability to almost instantly take somebody’s measure his predator’s instinct. It made him feel like a lion out on the savanna, stalking a gazelle. And as he watched the guy walking down the sidewalk, Tyler thought fate was suddenly smiling down on him for a change. Given the money he saw they guy wearing, he figured he had a fat wallet on him too. Roll the guy, take his cash, and who knew? Maybe he could get himself a room somewhere for a night or two.

  With thoughts of a warm shower and a warmer bed filling his head, he got to his feet and descended the steps. The mark was walking toward him, hands stuffed in his pockets, his head down. He didn’t even seem to notice Tyler coming his way. That put a grin on his face.

  “Easy peasy, lemon squeezy,” he muttered to himself.

  He flexed his hands, clenching and unclenching his fists a few times and shrugged his shoulders, getting himself ready.

  “Hey man,” Tyler said. “Can you spare a little cash for a guy down on his luck?”

  As if startled, the guy jerked to a stop and raised his eyes. But then a slow, ominous looking smile crawled across his face. It was enough to stop Tyler in his tracks and send a wave of uncertainty rippling through him.

  “Hey, you’re Tyler Salters, right?” the guy asked.

  It wasn’t his predator’s instinct, but the sound of a shoe scuffing the sidewalk behind him, that alerted Tyler to somebody’s presence behind him. A hand snaked around from behind him, grabbing his hair and yanking his head to the side. Tyler felt the pinch of the needle sliding into his neck and grimaced.

  His vision wavered and he started to feel lightheaded. Tyler felt weightless and had the sensation of the ground rushing up to meet him. He hit the pavement with a hard thud and a groan as his head bounced off the concrete. Tyler could hear them talking and the sound of a car pulling alongside them on the curb.

  And then his world went black.

  Tyler gasped and spluttered. The water was so cold, it nearly stole his breath as it rained down on him. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision as the wet cloth of the hood stuck uncomfortably to his skin. Ty
ler was unable to lift his arms or move his legs for that matter. It was then that he realized he was naked and seated in a cold metal chair.

  His hands had been bound behind him and his ankles secured to the legs of the chair by plastic cuffs. They were strapped so tight, he felt the edges cutting into his skin, cutting off his circulation. Tyler struggled against his bonds, but they only scratched him roughly as he tried to move.

  “Hey, what in the hell?”

  His shout echoed around the large, obviously empty space. Tyler shivered as the cold from the water seeped into his bones. The sound a footstep splashing in the water that had pooled around him announced somebody’s presence a moment before the hood was yanked from his head. Tyler gasped.

  Standing around him in a half circle were seven figures in deep purple robes that looked made of velvet. They all had hoods pulled up over their heads, and on their faces, they wore masks. One looked like the mask of a medieval plague doctor. Another looked like a harlequin mask from the theater. Every mask Tyler saw was different, but they covered the faces of the people behind them completely, sending terror-fueled chills running down his spine.

  Behind the seven, he saw more figures, though he couldn’t say how many. As he turned his head, he saw the figures had ringed him completely. They too were robed and masked, and some of them held torches, casting the circle around him in a flickering orange light.

  “What the hell is this?” he shouted.

  The robed figures remained silent. The only sound was his own breath echoing in the vast dark space. The eerie, surreal feeling of it all pressed down on him so hard, he felt like he might crumble beneath it. Tyler saw that he was in some sort of abandoned plant or something. The ceiling was high overhead and cloaked in shadow, and all around him, he saw large pipes, the skeletons of old machinery, and tall stacks of wooden crates.

  “What’s going on here?” he screamed at the silent figures. “Who in the hell are you? What in the hell do you want?”

  Finally, the man in the center of the semi-circle immediately in front of him stepped forward. He wore a mask that was half black and half white, the features twisted and contorted into something that looked more animal than human and was altogether terrifying. Tyler shrank back and whimpered, his face burning with shame as he wet himself.

  “Tyler Salter,” the figure intoned. “You stand accused of a number of serious crimes, for which you have escaped justice. We are here tonight to correct those wrongs.”

  “Who are you people? I didn’t do nothin’!”

  Tyler struggled against his bonds, but they held him fast. He let out a growl of impotent rage.

  “Let me go. I didn’t do nothin’!”

  “We adjudge you guilty of three counts of rape. Multiple cases of theft. Breaking and entering. Assault—”

  “I didn’t do any of that! I’ve never been convicted of nothin’!”

  “We have weighed the evidence and have deemed you guilty,” the man in the mask said, his voice calm and steely.

  “Screw you! I didn’t do that stuff!”

  The man in the mask closed the distance in the blink of an eye and delivered a vicious backhand that snapped Tyler’s head to the side, cutting off his words. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth as his cheek throbbed with heat and pain. Turning to glare at the man in the mask, Tyler spit a glob of phlegm and blood on the concrete floor.

  Tyler looked around at the other shadowy figures who ringed him. The flickering shadows cast by torches danced around him, sending a finger of ice sliding up Tyler’s spine. He swallowed hard as the gravity of his situation began sinking into him.

  “Who are you people?” Tyler gasped, his voice quavering.

  The man turned the vacant eyes of his expressionless mask upon Tyler, sending a shudder through him.

  “We are Manu Dei. God’s Hand,” he said.

  “Please. Let me go. I swear I didn’t do anything. You’ve got the wrong guy. I swear it. Please!”

  “You are guilty in the eyes of God, and we, acting as agents of our Lord, shall carry out your punishment,” the man said. “And for your crimes, your punishment will be death. It is decreed as our Lord wills it.”

  “As our Lord wills it,” the rest of the group repeats in unison.

  Tyler trembled hard, and not just because of the cold. The gaze of all those eyes on him was heavy. Oppressive.

  “Please,” Tyler said, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “Please don’t do this. I’ll change. I won’t do that bad stuff anymore.”

  A smaller figure, one Tyler thought looked feminine, emerged from the crowd and stood beside the man who’d slapped him. She carried a long lacquered wooden box in her arms. She opened it gently.

  The firelight from the torches gleamed off the long, curved dagger that lay inside the box, nestled on a bed of crimson velvet. Its blade looked sharp enough to cut through human flesh like butter. Tears spilled from the corners of Tyler’s eyes and he shook his head in disbelief at what was happening.

  “Please don’t,” he sobbed.

  The man reached into the box and lifted the dagger out almost reverently. Cradling it in both hands, he raised it above his head, all faces in the crowd turning upward. The flames of the torches glinted off the cold steel he held.

  “Our Lord demands true justice be done,” the man intoned, his deep voice echoing around the large open space.

  “And our Lord will not be denied.”

  The man approached him, the torchlight gleaming off the cold, cruel blade in his hand.

  Tyler opened his mouth and let out a blood curdling scream that echoed away into the darkness.

  One

  Federal Bureau of Investigations, Seattle Field Office

  “I’ve just received an email from the Director of the FBI,” Astra announces breathlessly as she bursts into our office.

  I look up at her, a grin already playing across my lips as Astra closes the door and drops down into the chair behind her desk.

  “From Director Wilkins himself, huh?” I raise an eyebrow.

  She nods soberly. “Yes. And it concerns you.”

  “Oh, this sounds serious.”

  “It is serious. Very serious. It’s a directive from the Director himself.”

  I drop my pen and lean forward, clasping my hands together, giving her the best expression of faux concern I can muster.

  “Do tell. What is this directive?” I ask.

  “The Director has ordered you to loosen up and remove the stick you have up your backside. He is also ordering you to go out and have a few drinks and some fun with me tonight,” she announces.

  I laugh. “Is that so?”

  “Hey, it’s an order from the Director. I’m just the messenger here.”

  My officemate Astra has been a good friend of mine since we both went through the Academy together, and we were both elated to have been assigned to the Seattle Field Office together coming out of Quantico. I was doubly thrilled since I grew up in the Pacific Northwest. It was a homecoming for me and a bonus since I get to work in an area I’m intimately familiar with.

  Astra is a fantastic field agent. She’s intuitive and intelligent. And she’s also one of those people who take that old t-shirt slogan, “work hard, play harder,” as their personal life challenge. I think she’s the only person I know who can be up drinking and dancing all night, then kicking in doors and running down bad guys the next morning. It’s impressive, if a bit reckless for my taste. But hey, she gets the job done.

  She’s also stunningly beautiful. I like to call her a supermodel with a badge and a gun. At five-foot-six, she’s three inches shorter than me, has hair blacker than midnight, and eyes a shade of blue so light, they’re practically silver. She’s got tawny colored skin, has legs for days, and curves that I’m jealous of. She’s also fit and strong. The guys in the workout room used to challenge Astra to spar as a juvenile way of flirting with her. But after she whooped the ass of almost every guy in the field offi
ce, they stopped asking.

  It’s one reason I don’t enjoy going out for drinks with her after work. I don’t think I’m an unattractive woman, but standing next to her, I sure feel like it. And it gets a little old to watch the men in the bar flocking to her like they’re a bunch of moths and she’s the only source of light in the room while I sit there talking to my damn swizzle stick. Not that she goes home with every single guy who looks her way. She’ll hook up with a guy every now and then, but more than anything, Astra likes the attention and the fact that she never has to buy a drink.

  Yeah, I guess you could say I’m a bit envious of her. Not that I’m actively looking for a guy or anything. A relationship is about the last thing I want or need right now. I’m focused on my career and taking bad guys off the street. And I’m really good at it. I have plans and goals that I’m going to accomplish and getting involved with anybody at this point will likely only complicate things.

  But that doesn’t make feeling like an outcast or the Ugly Duckling when I’m around Astra at the bar and guys are flocking to her, all but pushing me to the side, any easier to swallow. Yeah, I guess I can be shallow and vain sometimes. Sue me.

  “Well, tell the Director that’s an order I cannot follow, since I’m trying to do my job,” I tell her.

  “But that’s all you ever do. Like twenty-four hours a day,” she complains. “All work and no play makes Blakey a dull girl.”

  “Not all of us are like you, Astra. We don’t just fall out of bed brilliant. Some of us have to actually work at it,” I reply.