by Meg Gardiner
“No. That’s not . . .”
She closed her eyes. Was back in the subway tunnel, pinned, watching her father battle Rhone. Felt a black sail descend, a shadow that seemingly tore itself from the Prophet to consume her. Heard steel scrape across the platform, and saw the barrel of the shotgun shining within her reach.
Now she opened her eyes.
She saw once more the nauseating whiteblacksnap of the power shorting out in the tunnel, heard Sean’s breathing, rat sounds, bat wings, the black sail scything down to take them all.
The shadows peeled away.
“There’s a second killer,” she said.
Emmerich’s and Guthrie’s heads turned in unison.
“What?” Guthrie said.
The ambush in the tunnel. Icy light, the recorded voice of the Prophet, Rhone attacking her father from behind, then . . .
She hadn’t seen Rhone shoot her father. She had heard the nail gun, seen Mack lurch, and then. And then. The two-by-four hit her in the head. The black sail had swept over her.
She was waking up now.
A hard blow to the side of the head, stars and pain, falling. A hot, calloused hand dragging her to the cabinet before drilling the nails through her hand. While, across the platform, her dad began fighting for his life with Titus Rhone.
“Two men. There were two men who attacked us.” She let out a gasp. “The CI Sean was supposed to meet. What if . . .” She touched her forehead. “There are two of them.”
“A second killer. Working with Rhone?” Emmerich said.
“Not a copycat. A partner.”
Her head throbbed, but she worked past it. “That’s why things didn’t match. The shoe prints. The voice modulation. The times when he seemed to be in two places at once.”
“Because he was?”
Guthrie said, “Hendrix. You were concussed.”
“Fine. But, Sergeant—that explains it. The second killer was the one who lured us to the factory and abandoned tunnel.”
“A second killer.”
“A young man. Obsessed with the Prophet. I saw it, and I didn’t push hard enough . . .”
Emmerich said, “If this is true, he was also obsessed with you.”
“Someone who managed to connect with Titus Rhone. Who used Rhone to get me.” She looked at him. “Someone who lured Rhone to his death.”
“Why?”
“Because he wanted to take the killer’s place and surpass him.”
Emmerich’s hawkeyed stare turned sharper. “An UNSUB.”
“He was the one who nailed my hand to the cabinet in the dark.”
“If so—where is he?”
“He must have escaped in the firefight.”
She heard it again: scuffling, receding sounds. “I think he retreated and observed. Up the tunnel, on the stairs to the ticket hall, under the tarps, somewhere.”
“He wanted to watch,” Emmerich said.
“When he saw Rhone go down—when he saw me holding a twelve-gauge—and the lights went out, he fled.”
“Because he thought you still had shells in the magazine?” Guthrie said.
The cool breeze couldn’t compete with the cold realization taking hold inside of her. “Because he got what he came for. Rhone’s defeat.”
Boom—it hit her.
“The firing circuit wasn’t faulty. The explosives failed to detonate because the UNSUB sabotaged it,” she said.
And she understood the look of revelation and sick satisfaction that had crossed Rhone’s face just before she fired the final shot.
“Rhone knew the truth. He saw the second killer, and knew he’d been set up. Knew his partner had sabotaged the bomb. Knew he was doomed.” She touched her fingers to her temple. “Jesus. Rhone was proud that his student was taking down the king of hell.”
“Because the UNSUB was completing the Prophet’s fantasy?” Emmerich said.
“Because the UNSUB subverted the plan and took it to extremes even the Prophet never dreamed of. Rhone appreciated the poetic irony.”
She looked at them, and shook her head. “That’s why it was the Ninth Circle. The disciple was betraying the master.”
Guthrie’s face went dark. He was working it over in his mind. “If this is true, he wanted you alive. Why? So you could tell the tale? That doesn’t strike me as enough.”
The wind picked up. A crooked nail seemed to scrape down her spine.
“Because he has something else planned,” she said.
Emmerich’s hands hung at his sides. He looked like a gunfighter preparing to draw. “We need to find him. I want you to work with us.”
She raised an eyebrow at Guthrie.
He said, “We’ve been talking. But it’s your decision.”
A gust of wind set the leaves shivering. Caitlin felt rickety on her feet, shocked, drained—yet energy pulsed through her.
“Yes. I want to get this guy. But not just him.” She turned to Emmerich. “Tell me where to start.”
60
The view from the hospital room was painfully bright. Morning sun through the window, lights overhead, heart monitor beeping its EKG pattern. Caitlin, sitting beside the bed.
Her red hair hung loose, soft, drying after a shower. Pale skin too pale, Sean thought, eyes too dark, the left side of her face a map of bruises, purple going green. Her right arm was in a sling, her surgically repaired hand immobilized with wire and plaster. It was a feat of engineering and skill that would let her grip her SIG and punch a bag and maybe, he hoped, give him the finger when he deserved it.
“Hey,” he said.
She smiled. “Hey.”
She stood up, moving like every inch of her ached, and crossed to the bed. With her left hand she brushed his hair from his forehead with her fingertips.
“Didn’t think the hospital had discharged you yet,” he said.
“Can’t keep Wolverine locked up.”
He knew it was late in the week. He wasn’t sure how many days had passed since Caitlin and Mack found him. He was only now holding on to the daylight. He lifted his hand.
She took it. “Michele’s here. She’s been here almost the whole time.”
He nodded. The thought that his ex would stalk the halls for him—and for Caitlin—briefly overwhelmed him.
“Sadie’s with Michele’s mom and dad. When you’re ready, we’ll call and you can talk to her.”
“Great,” he said.
It came out choked. He knew he was going to be okay. He knew Caitlin had rescued him. He knew not everybody had gotten the same second chance.
“Your dad,” he said. “Above and beyond.”
She pressed her lips together and blinked back tears. “Yeah. That was him.”
He blew out a hard breath. “And your officers . . .”
“I know.”
Silence was all either of them could give. Caitlin stood for a long moment, gripping his hand. Holding something back.
“What else?” he said.
“Rhone had a partner.”
“Jesus.”
She explained in quick strokes. He shook his head.
“A new Prophet,” he said.
“No. I think this guy is something else entirely.”
She held on, regarding him with an openness he rarely saw on her face. New barriers would be going up, he figured, but for the moment, she’d shed her emotional Kevlar.
He squeezed her hand. “There’s more, I can tell. What?”
“The FBI offered me a job in the Behavioral Analysis Unit. I said yes.”
“Holy shit. Joining the G?”
She brought him up to speed. “It means the academy at Quantico—”
“Know it well.”
“—and working there, at least to begin. But none of that can happe
n unless I get medical clearance.” She looked uneasily at her right hand.
“Until you get medical clearance. It’ll happen.”
She leaned over him and rested her left arm across his chest. Her voice grew quiet. “But I’m not going anywhere until you’re back on your feet.”
“Tomorrow. Weekend at the latest.”
“Sean. I’m not leaving you.”
“I know you’re not.” He took a slow breath. “Two feds? We’ll work it out.”
She tried to peer into him, unsure.
“Yeah, I’m drugged to the eyeballs,” he said. “But it’s your life’s work, and important. And the chance won’t come again. You’ll never be able to live with yourself if you miss it.”
She put her hand to his face and kissed him, carefully. “I love you.”
“You know I’m Sean, right? Not Shadow.”
Her expression turned mordant. “Asshole.”
“Just checking. You have a concussion.”
“Bark and see what I do to you.”
“I love you too, Wolverine.”
In her jeans pocket, Caitlin’s phone rang. She flinched. Flinching at phone calls had become a habit, Sean noticed, though she didn’t realize it. She stepped to the window, talked, listened, and clicked off.
“That them?” he said.
The sunlight seemed to gather around her, to infuse and energize her. Her wan skin took on a sheen, her eyes a dark focus. She nodded.
“Go,” he said.
“I’ll be back.”
“Good. Or I’ll follow you.”
Then she was out the door, leaving only air and light behind.
Epilogue
The late-summer leaves shimmered green in the heat. Locusts buzzed in the trees. Even at eight A.M., Virginia was a different world from California. Caitlin parked in the Quantico lot, smoothed the jacket of her new black suit, and strode into the lobby.
The FBI shield dominated the wall. Today the sight of it made her stand straighter, made her heart beat harder. The woman at the desk smiled knowingly. So much for playing it cool.
“Good morning,” Caitlin said.
“Welcome to the FBI, Special Agent Hendrix.”
Caitlin tried to contain her own smile as she buzzed through the door.
SAC Emmerich’s assistant met her on the other side. The young woman extended her hand as if ready for a firm shake, but softened her grip at the sight of the brace Caitlin wore.
“How’s the rehab?” she said.
“A bitch, but it’s done. This is precautionary.”
“Glad to hear it. And glad to have you with us.”
She led Caitlin deep into the cubicle maze, to a desk stacked with file folders, office supplies, and a box of books. The young woman patted the files.
“These are for your review. Team briefing is at nine.” She nodded, an efficient, tidy nod. “Settle in. I’ll see you afterward.”
Caitlin stood there, savoring the moment. She sent Sean a text: Hey, G-man: I’m here. Fed Central, baby. Love, your G-woman. Grinning, she sat down. She pulled the stack of files toward her. The desk phone rang.
She picked up, relishing her first chance to say it. “Behavioral Analysis, Hendrix.”
A coarse voice said, “So it’s real. Caitlin rises anew.”
The voice said Caitlin like the word was a snake, a slithering thing that had shed its skin and continued on in a new guise. Her gaze lengthened, across the floor, out the windows, to the rolling Virginia hills and the shimmering sky.
“Truly amazing,” the voice said. “You’re hard to bring down.”
She put a hand against the desk to steady herself. “I’m a goddamn nightmare.”
That voice . . . It was young, harsh, with a crack at the edge, like he’d once been punched or cut in the throat. She saw a man saunter past her in a biker bar, saying, Ladies. Or should I say, lady and narc.
He had been that close.
“But hard doesn’t mean impossible,” he said. “Enjoy your time. And your gift.”
The call went dead. She stared at the things on the desk. Grabbing a pair of scissors, she sliced open the box of what she’d thought were books.
Inside, wrapped in a gleaming shroud of cellophane, lay a bouquet of black lilies.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This novel wouldn’t be what it is without the skill, support, and hard work of many people. As always, I’m grateful to Jessica Renheim and Ben Sevier; Ivan Held; and everyone at Dutton. My thanks also go to Don Winslow, and to Edward Tsai, David Koll, and the entire team at the Story Factory. For his insight, dedication, and belief in the project, my deepest thanks go to Shane Salerno.
For their steadfast encouragement, my appreciation also goes to Nancy Freund Fraser and Ann Aubrey Hanson. For educating me about Arabian horses, I thank Leslie Gardiner. For his knowledge of all things Bay Area, I’m grateful to David Lazo. And for everything, now and forever, my love and thanks go to Paul Shreve.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MEG GARDINER is the author of twelve critically acclaimed novels, including China Lake, which won the Edgar Award. Originally from Santa Barbara, California, she lives in Austin, Texas.
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