by Elle Gray
I come to a stop behind the chair I was sitting in and lean down, planting my hands on the back of it. I stare at Mangold for a long moment, taking him in. Snatching me out of the garage was a bold, brazen move, and given how things seem to be playing out, it was intended to show me just how much power he has. It was immediate proof that he can get to me anywhere. It’s probably why he sent the man into my apartment—not to kill me, but to rob me of my sense of security. To frighten me into believing he’s omnipotent and that I am not safe from him anywhere. As much as I hate to admit it, his tactic wasn’t entirely ineffective.
“What is it you want?” I ask finally, trying to put as much steel into my voice as I can.
“I have been an admirer of yours for a very long time, Agent Wilder. I’ve followed your career closely,” he says. “You have an impressive track record—but more than that, you have a dogged determination I admire. You do not stop, and you do not quit until you obtain the result you want. You are a woman of sheer will and I respect that.”
“As kind as those words are, they’re also false flattery and empty platitudes,” I respond. “So, I’ll ask again, what is it you want?”
There’s an amused twinkle in his eye and he smiles. “You and I are not so different, you know,” he says. “We are both resolute. We are strong-willed, and we will not be deterred from getting that which we are after.”
“Oh, we’re very different, Mr. Mangold,” I say. “I don’t murder people.”
He looks at me with an expression of distaste on his face. “Nor do I.”
“Oh, that’s right. You merely order other people to do it for you,” I snap. “Don’t like to get your hands dirty? Is that it?”
“Careful, young lady,” he warns. “My patience is not an infinite thing.”
“Neither is mine,” I shoot back. “So, get to your point so I can tell you to go to hell and we can both go on our merry ways.”
There’s a tense moment of silence between us and then Mangold lets out a hearty bark of laughter. He claps a hand against his chest and his eyes dance with mirth. He slaps his knee and his face turns scarlet. Tears of mirth spill from the corners of his eyes, and as his laughter fades, he’s left with a look of sheer amusement on his face.
“Oh, I do like you, Agent Wilder. You have such spirit. Such spunk.”
“I understand you were pivotal in getting our three newest Supreme Court Justices both nominated and confirmed,” I say.
He inclines his head. “My work with the Prosperity Policy Alliance is influential, yes,” he says. “I’m honored to be in such a position to advise our leaders on the future of this great nation.”
I roll my eyes. What a crock of crap. He knows that I know exactly what he did behind the scenes to get those Justices on the bench, but admitting it out loud? Too much for him.
“Imagine. To no longer have to sit idly by and wait for things to happen, but to concentrate on a point, to extend to the world and dominate it,” he says. “That quote’s about Napoleon. Much has changed since his day. But some truths are eternal. There are those who can rise up—those who can shape events with their willpower alone. And those men deserve to direct the spoils of the earth.”
“Sure,” I say sarcastically. “But you still haven’t answered my most basic question—what do you want?”
“Like a dog with a bone you are,” he tsks. “Fine. Put simply, I want you, Blake. I want you to work for me.”
“I have a job, but thanks.”
“I’m offerin’ you a seat at the table,” he says. “You shouldn’t turn it down so rashly.”
I begin to pace back and forth again, doing my best to keep my temper under control. Blowing up right now would do nothing for me. That man has answers to questions I’ve had my entire life and I need them.
“So, you’re asking me to join the Thirteen?” I ask.
He cocks his head. “I’m not sure what you mean by that. I’m merely askin’ you to join my security staff,” he replies smoothly. “To head it up, actually. I can offer you seven figures to start, Blake. Do you imagine you’ll ever see seven figures at the Bureau?”
“The Thirteen. A group of very wealthy and powerful individuals who are helping shape policy in this country—and legalizing it with a brand-new Supreme Court—all in pursuit of the almighty dollar,” I say. “Hundreds of billions of dollars, to be specific.”
Mangold chuckles to himself. “You believe you have it all figured out, don’t you? Is that what you’ve been up to all this time?”
I shake my head. “No, not at all. I have some of it figured out, but by no means all of it,” I reply. “And as for you, I’m quite sure I could spend a lifetime studying you and never figure you out completely.”
He gives me a wolfish smile. “Nor I you,” he says. “You are a complicated woman, Agent Wilder. Complicated indeed.”
“Why did you have my parents killed?” I ask simply. “Were they getting too close to the truth about you? About the Thirteen?”
“Well see, now that is interestin’. The truth is such a relative term,” he says. “Which truth are you speaking of?”
“There’s only one truth that I’m aware of,” I say.
“That would depend on a great number of things. Includin’ who’s telling it.”
“Why did you have my parents killed?”
“I never knew your parents, Agent Wilder.”
He’s slippery. He’s never outright denied that he killed my parents—though he’d insist that he never confirmed it either. It’s one of those shades of the truth he’s talking about.
“You act as if the Thirteen is some criminal enterprise,” he offers.
“Isn’t it?”
“Not at all. Criminal enterprises are for thugs like your friend Huan Zhao—or would you prefer I call him Fish?”
A cold chill sweeps through me—which is the effect he was going for with that remark. He wants me to know he knows the people who are important to me. The people in my life he will hurt if he doesn’t get his way.
“Your fundamental misunderstandin’ is that the Thirteen is some nefarious organization. The Illuminati or some such? Honestly, it’s just a social club. A specialized lobbying group, really,” he says. “Just one of ten thousand similar groups in DC—some of which I advise, some of which I oppose. This great game of chess has more players than I could count.”
“There’s that subjective truth you were talking about,” I reply.
He chuckles softly to himself. “Touché.”
“Why did you have my parents killed?”
“As I said previously, I never met your parents, Agent Wilder.”
“Why did you abduct my sister and not kill her outright?” I double down. “That’s the one thing that doesn’t make sense to me. Why kidnap a nine-year-old girl? That was risky behavior.”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talkin’ about.”
“What did you do with her all these years?” I ask. “I’m positive you weren’t trafficking her. So, what did you do with her?”
It’s a shot in the dark and one I’m hoping would elicit some reaction from him—a reaction that would tell me the truth of things. But he gives me nothing. I’m left without the answers to my most pressing questions and once more, that feeling of self-doubt rising up within me. Am I barking up the wrong tree here? As far as Mangold goes, anyway? Could it have been somebody else who ordered their murder?
“Agent Wilder, your opposition to the Thirteen seems to stem from some sort of misunderstandin’ of what we do. We believe prosperity is the highest good to society,” he says. “Some say that we shouldn’t have such wealth, or that we are corrupt—but frankly, those people are missing the forest for the trees. We provide jobs. Stability. We provide—”
“Is that what you were providing down in Bocaselva?” I interrupt.
His eye twitches but his face otherwise remains perfectly cool and calm. He looks like I might have simply asked him about the weather. But in t
hose eyes, I can see the heat. The anger. And also, a hint of concern that I know about what he did. I can see he wants to know how much I know about Bocaselva or if I’m just fishing.
It wasn’t the most prudent thing to say, I know that. Letting on that I know about his mass grave might earn me a bullet to the head. But I had to ask simply because I needed to see his raw reaction to the question. And after seeing it, I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that it’s true. There is a mass grave just outside his factory campus. And the fact that I got a reaction to that question but not even the slightest wobble about my parents reinforces that self-doubt once more. It’s yet another thing in a seemingly endless string of things I’ve been wrong about.
“Yes, in fact, my factory provided a great deal of assistance for the people down in Bocaselva,” he says smoothly. “That region has never been more prosperous than it is now. The people there are actually making money rather than living in the dirt like they were before the arrival of my factory.”
He’s got a slick, polished answer for everything. It would be admirable if it weren’t so annoying. I clear my throat and stare at him for a long moment as I gather myself, pushing away my uncertainty and doubts, and regain my focus on what’s right here in front of me.
“So, what else do you want?” I ask. “Surely, if you were only interested in offering me a job, you could have called. You wouldn’t have needed to go all these theatrics.”
“Quite right,” he acknowledges. “I also felt it necessary to look you in the eye and tell you, face to face, to be very careful with your lines of inquiry. I think you’ve now gotten a glimpse of what I am capable of. You have a bright future, Agent Wilder. I would hate to see it cut short because you simply didn’t know when to back off.”
“Are you threatening me, Mr. Mangold?”
“Of course not. Just offerin’ a little friendly advice is all. And I want to give you a few days to think about my job offer. I don’t want you to make a hasty decision under these—stressful—circumstances. So, think about it and I’ll be in touch,” he says, then turns to the droids. “Richard, please be good enough to drive Agent Wilder home.”
Mangold disappears through the door again as the automatons step forward and silently hold out the hood once more.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I groan.
They aren’t, and only after I put it back on do they lead me back to the car to take me home.
Twenty-One
Wilder Residence, The Emerald Pines Luxury Apartments; Downtown Seattle
I walk into the apartment and close the door behind me and lock it, then set the alarm—a task made more difficult by how badly my hands are shaking. I finally manage it, then drop my keys into the dish and my bag beside the table and make a beeline for the kitchen, where I pour myself a glass of wine and drink it down—then pour another.
I’m on my third glass of wine when the shakes finally stop, and my heart slows to a reasonable rate. At least, it doesn’t feel like it’s about to explode in my chest anymore. Movement from the corner of my eye draws my attention and I set the wine glass down. Then I wheel around, pulling my weapon in one fluid motion.
Kit stops short and throws her hands up in the air. I quickly lower my weapon and slide it back into the holster.
“Jesus, Kit,” I gasp, trying to catch my breath. “You scared me to death.”
“I’m the one with the gun in my face and you’re the one who’s scared,” she says. “Yeah, that makes sense.”
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“You said I could stay here.”
I give her a look. “You’re normally out doing—whatever the hell it is you do at night—by this time.”
“I took the night off,” she replies.
I unclip my holster and set it down on the counter, then scrub my face with my hands. The fact that I nearly shot my sister in the face is only adding to the raging case of nerves gripping me already. Kit steps forward and takes my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. I look up and see the concern and compassion on her face.
“Are you all right?” she asks. “What happened?”
I don’t answer. I reach for the bottle of wine again. With a hand shaking so bad I slop it all over the counter, I finally manage to pour myself another glass and head out to the living room. I drop onto the sofa and take a long swallow before I sit back and nestle into the plush cushions. Kit sits down next to me and takes my free hand, staring at me with that look of worry on her face.
“What happened to you tonight, Blake?”
I take a deep breath and exhale slowly, counting to ten to calm myself. Afterward, I feel sufficiently serene to hold a conversation.
“I was abducted just now.”
“What?”
I give a slight nod, my eyes locked on the door in front of me. “They pulled me out of the parking garage, Kit. Stun gun. Put a hood over my head and took me to some safehouse.”
“Who did this to you?’
I cut a look over to her to see what her face will look like when I say his name.
“Willem Mangold.”
If Kit recognizes the name, she doesn’t show it. “Isn’t he some businessman?”
I nod. “You could say that. He’s more of a mass murderer in my book. I’m working on finding evidence that he is responsible for the slaughter of eight hundred innocent people in a village in Paraguay.”
“Jesus,” she mutters. The troubled look crossing her face is real, at least. I feel confident in saying that.
“I know. But it’s bigger than that. Mangold has some of his fingers in some of the highest centers of power in the world. He has enormous influence not just on American politics, but on world events. And somehow, he keeps to the shadows while doing it. I believe he is the leader of a secret group called the Thirteen, who orchestrates events behind the scenes to enrich themselves and entrench their power.”
I slide my eyes over to her again, watching her every facial tic. Once again, if Kit recognizes the name ‘the Thirteen’, she doesn’t show it. Either she’s really not an operative of theirs—or she is a better actor than I could have ever thought.
“Oh my God, Blake.”
“This man could snap his fingers and have me dead in an instant, and he wanted to prove that to me.”
I explain to her the sequence of what happened. How Mangold snickered and sneered at me as I was helpless to his whims. How he was so brazen to just openly admit to his corruption. How he tried to silence me by dangling money in my face.
“And he just let you go?”
“It was just a power play,” I tell her. “He wants me to feel off-balance and unsafe. This is how he’s asserting his power over me. He wants me to be afraid of him. And I hate that it worked. So much.”
“You have nothing to fear from him, Blake. He’s an old man,” she snaps. “He’s nothing. That’s why he keeps an army of bodyguards around him—he’s nothing without them.”
“But he’s got them, and they aren’t going anywhere anytime soon, so there’s that.”
She shakes her head. “Maybe we need to get you a bodyguard or two.”
“Pass. But thanks.”
“Why not?”
“I…” I don’t know how to say it. I haven’t wanted to admit this part out loud, even to myself, “—and yet again, I need to look over at Kit’s face to see what she knows.
“I have reason to believe that Mangold has hired an assassin called the Đavole to come after me.”
There it is. A slight twinge of the eyes. It’s almost imperceptible, but finally, I see something break through Kit’s exterior, even if only for a split second. Recognition, perhaps? Or fear? Either way, I continue on as if I hadn’t noticed.
“He’s the world’s deadliest mercenary. Nobody knows who he is, how he operates—or even if he is a he. All I know is he might be the deadliest person on Earth and he is on Mangold’s payroll.”
I explain to her what Fish told me about the assassin
’s exploits and what I was able to dig up online. Throughout, I watch her closely, looking for something, anything that tells me she knows who I’m talking about—or that she’s the assassin herself. My sister gives nothing away though. She simply wears that mask of cool indifference, making it impossible to get a read on her. She very well could be this assassin and I wouldn’t know.
“How do you even know this guy is real?” she asks. “Isn’t it all just internet rumor and legend?”
“Some of it is undoubtedly fake. But some of it is real too. I’ve seen news accounts corroborating some of the internet chatter. I’m positive this guy is real, Kit,” I tell her. “It’s one reason I don’t like you wandering the city at night. Mangold knew about Fish, which means he’s going to know about you. And he is definitely the sort of man who would hurt the ones I love just to prove a point to me.”
“My God, what is even happening around here?”
“Bad things,” I say and drain another glass of wine. “Welcome to my life.”
“So? What are we going to do?”
“We? Nothing,” I say. “I am going to get another glass of wine.”
“I think you’ve had enough, Blake. We need to talk about this,” she insists.
“What is there to talk about?” I respond. “We are surrounded by enemies, we might have the most lethal assassin in the world looking for us, and I’m all out of wine.”
“I think you’ll survive without the wine,” she says.
I laugh softly. “This is definitely not what I had in mind when I used to picture being reunited with you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just that—we both have so many secrets we’re keeping from one another,” I explain. “I used to daydream about you coming back and think about how we’d stay up all night telling each other stories about our lives, getting reacquainted with each other, and opening ourselves up. I thought about really reconnecting and being open with you. And you with me. Instead, we’ve got more secrets than anything. It makes me sad, Kit.”
