by Elle Gray
“I went off-book with it precisely because of the reach Mangold has, Rosie,” I explain. “If he’s got the Director in his hip pocket, they would have quashed this investigation before it ever began. And we’ve uncovered some evil, evil stuff. Mangold is a murderer at the very least.”
She sits back in her seat and looks as surprised as I hoped she would. The expression quickly fades though, and she sits forward again. I can see her thinking through all the possible scenarios and excuses she can give to the Director when he calls back. The fact that she hasn’t lit into me is good news. It means my butt chewing is likely going to be minor. If I’d pissed Rosie off, she would have let me know by now, in the tone of her voice alone.
“And you’re sure you can get the evidence proving all of this?” she asks. “I mean, you’re in tinfoil hat territory, Blake. I’d be lying if I said I was totally comfortable with it all. As it is, I’m going to tear you a new one as soon as we have a minute for going off-book and not telling me in the first place.”
“Yes ma’am, we will have the evidence to bring Willem Mangold down,” I tell her. “I am not uncertain of this.”
“Knock it off with the ‘ma’am’ crap. You’re still in big, fat trouble, young lady,” Rosie counters with frustration in her voice—but a light of determination in her eyes. “But if what you’re saying is true, this is—huge. If you can prove this, it will rock this country to its very core.”
“Trust me, Rosie. I’m going to prove this,” I say. “I am going to prove that Willem Mangold not only murdered eight hundred people, but he and the Thirteen conspired to murder three Supreme Court Justices simply to get rulings more favorable to their bottom lines. They’ve earned hundreds of billions of dollars to date because of their scheme. The net worth of the one percent of the one percent has skyrocketed since Justices Witkowski, Havers, and Pearce were seated, and we’ll be able to prove the ties between them and the Thirteen.”
She runs a hand over her face and shakes her head. “Jesus, Blake. This is one of those once-in-a-lifetime cases. It will change literally everything.”
“Maybe for a while. But eventually, the pendulum will swing back around. It always does.”
“You’re not wrong about that. But it may take a while this time,” she says. “But from this point on, you keep me looped in, Blake. You don’t make a move without telling me simply because if I’m going to lie for you, I need to know what you’re doing.”
I nod. “Understood. And thank you.”
“Also, watch your back out there. I mean it. Keep your head on a swivel,” she says. “I’ve heard of this assassin before, and though I don’t know much, I know he’s lethal. Do not let him get the drop on you.”
“I hope not, Rosie. But I’m scared he already has Astra.”
“All the more reason to take backup.”
I shake my head. “If he has her and sees me coming with a SWAT team, he’ll kill her.”
She sighs, knowing I’m right. “Yeah. Go. Go find her and bring her back safe,” she says. “I’ll have them on standby anyway. If it gets hairy, promise me you’ll get out of there.”
“Rosie…”
“Promise me, Blake. If you can’t get her out of there, you need to save yourself. I can’t lose two of my best agents. Not when the case is this big.”
Rosie’s face is dark. She doesn’t want to believe she’s giving this order any more than I want to. On a certain level, she’s right. If I go in there and get killed trying to get Astra out, that means all our work has been for nothing. If the Thirteen can get to Astra, they can get to Mo and Rick. If they have the FBI Director, they can squash Rosie. If I don’t make it out of there with or without Astra, they could bury this whole thing as easily as they covered up evidence of the slaughter in Paraguay.
But if I cut and run, would I ever be able to live with myself again? Would I ever be able to square with the fact that I left my best friend to die to save my own skin? And for that matter, would it even be worth it? Even if I do escape, couldn’t they just send the Đavole after me and kill me anyway?
“Promise me, SSA Wilder. That’s an order,” Rosie says.
For the first time in my career, I do the unthinkable. I give her a tight nod—and I lie to her.
“I promise.”
With that, I head out, my heart slamming into my chest from the inside and my stomach churning wildly. If the Đavole has Astra and is waiting for me, keeping my head on a swivel might not be enough.
Twenty-Three
Russo Residence; 1532 Highcourt Way, Bellevue, WA
I pull to a sudden stop in Astra’s driveway and quickly check my phone. Still no call. Still no text. I jump out and run to the door of the house she shares with her boyfriend, Benjamin Harper. The house is in the posh Wilburton neighborhood of Bellevue and sits on a street that just reeks of money. The houses are all gorgeous, everything is well-kempt, and every driveway’s got a luxury car parked in it.
Benjamin is an architect, and he built this house long ago. It’s an homage to Frank Lloyd Wright’s “Falling Water.” Though to me, it looks more like a replica than an homage. The place is gorgeous, constructed with a lot of stone, wood, and glass. It even has a small river that runs beneath the center of the house—a section of it glassed-in of course, so you can see it—and ends with a waterfall just off the back deck. There are some minor differences—flourishes that Benjamin added on himself—but it is for all intents and purposes a smaller version of “Falling Water.”
I pass under the portico that sits atop a series of stone pillars that line the walkway to the front door, then bang on it as hard as I can.
“Astra? Benjamin?” I call out then press the doorbell button.
A moment later, Benjamin opens the door. He looks absolutely frazzled and out of his mind with worry. His eyes are rimmed red, and he’s disheveled—something he never is. Benjamin is very conscious about his appearance. He’s a tall man with close-cropped dark hair that’s got a smattering of gray, deep ebony skin, and dark eyes that are always sparkling with mischief. He’s always got a smile on his lips and is incredibly quick to laugh.
He’s a good-natured man with an amazing heart. I’ve always thought Astra found herself a good one. He’s one of the only men she’s dated who can not only keep up with her, but exceed her from time to time. They’re really good together and it’s easy to see how deeply in love they are. I’ve always been so happy for them.
He steps aside and lets me into the house. But we stand in the foyer rather than move deeper. It’s as if we both know I’m going to need to move fast so there’s no need to get comfortable.
“Blake,” he gasps. “Have you heard from her?”
I shake my head. “When was the last time you saw or spoke to her?”
“I got home late last night, and she wasn’t here,” he says. “I thought she was with you working a case or something, so I wasn’t too worried. But when she still hadn’t come home this morning and hadn’t sent me a text or anything, I knew something was wrong.”
“Why didn’t you call me earlier, Benjamin?”
He shakes his head. “I’m just so out of my mind with worry that I just didn’t think about it.”
“I understand,” I tell him. “Did you call the police?”
“Yeah, they said they can’t do anything until she’s been missing at least a day,” he says, his voice choked with emotion. “Wouldn’t even take my report.”
“Figures.”
It’s actually a common misconception that you have to wait twenty-four hours before reporting someone missing. You can call the police immediately if you suspect someone has gone missing. But it doesn’t surprise me that the SPD went out of their way to ignore it just so they wouldn’t have to do any real work.
I look around, trying to cut through the emotion and think like an investigator. It’s tough to do when I’m an absolute wreck inside, but I know that Astra would be able to hold herself together if the situation were reve
rsed. I need to keep it together for her.
“All right. Did you notice any sign of a disturbance when you got home last night?” I ask. “Any signs of a struggle?”
He shakes his head. “No, I didn’t notice anything unusual or out of place. It’s like she just vanished into thin air.”
“Have you tracked her car or her phone?”
He nods. “I tried. But it’s like they’ve been disconnected. I’m not getting anything.”
Fresh tears roll down his face and I pull him into a tight embrace. He melts against me and sobs like a child. I’m doing my best to hold it together myself, but I know he needs me to be strong for him right now. After a couple of moments, he steps back, a sheepish expression on his face. He clears his throat and gives me a nod.
“Sorry about that.”
“Nothing for you to be sorry about,” I tell him.
“What are we going to do?”
“I’m going to find her, Benjamin. Everything is going to be all right. I just need you to keep it together and stay strong for her. Can you do that?”
He wipes his eyes again and nods. “Absolutely.”
“Good. I know what I’m about to say is going to be hard, but I need you to just wait. Keep your phone on you,” I say. “I’m going to go looking for her, but I want you here just in case she comes back or calls. If she does, call me. Can you do that for me, Benjamin?”
“Yeah. Of course,” he says. “I’ll call you right away if she turns up here.”
“Great. I’ll stay in touch with you then,” I tell him.
“Thank you, Blake. Thank you.”
“Everything’s going to be all right, Benjamin.”
I leave him standing in his kitchen and head back out to my car and jump in. I sit behind the wheel for a long moment, trying to control my emotions, but a single tear spills from the corner of my eye and races down my cheek.
“Get yourself under control,” I admonish myself. “Now, think. Think.”
I look at my phone and frown, trying to get my thoughts under control. Trying to figure out how I can find her if the tracking on her phone and car have both been disabled. And that’s when an idea hits me. I dial Rick’s number and wait impatiently for him to answer.
“Hey boss, I—”
“Rick, I need you to ping Astra’s Bureau phone,” I interrupt. “I need to know where that phone is right now.”
“On it.” I hear a rapid fluttering of keys on the other end of the line.
Astra doesn’t like using her Bureau phone. She usually leaves it buried at the bottom of her bag. It usually takes her five minutes to ever find it because it’s buried under so much stuff. So I’m hoping that when she was grabbed, they took her personal phone from her and didn’t think to check for a secondary phone. It’s about the only ray of hope I have right now.
“Okay, I got it. The phone is still active, but it looks like it’s been in the same place for hours,” he says, his voice tinged with fear.
“Text me the address.”
“Already did.”
Twenty minutes later, I pull to a stop beside Astra’s black Lexus SUV. I jump out of my car and run around to the driver’s side, yanking the door open. I let out a long breath of relief when I see she’s not inside. That’s the good news. The bad news is she was definitely taken against her will. There’s a broken juice bottle in the cup holder, the sharp jagged pieces glittering in the sunlight on the floorboard.
Papers are scattered around the inside of the car, as if somebody took one of her files and just threw it. There’s a crack in the rear passenger side window and her bag is lying on the backseat, half its contents strewn about. As tempted as I am to grab it, I know I can’t. It’s now a crime scene. I can’t touch anything right now.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and call Rosie. She answers on the first ring.
“Blake. Talk to me,” she answers quickly. “Is she all right? Do you have her?”
“No, she’s been taken, Rosie,” I reply, trying to keep the emotion out of my voice.
“Damn,” she mutters. “Okay, what can I do?”
“I found her car. Her Bureau phone is still in her bag, so I had Rick ping it for me.”
“Smart.”
“I need a crime scene unit out here. We need to dust for prints, fibers, anything. I doubt we’re going to find anything, but we need to cover all our bases. Just in case,” I say. “We’re at the Mayfair Galleria. Rear lot, southwest quadrant.”
“Got it. I’ll roll a tech unit down ASAP,” she says. “Anything else?”
“Not that I can think of. Her phone’s been disabled so we have no way to track her,” I say, my voice cracking.
“Was this Mangold?”
I look around the lot, wincing at the sun glittering off the windshields of the other cars parked in the lot. For all I know, Mangold himself could be sitting in one of those cars watching me, with Astra tied up in the trunk. I watch as a couple pushing a stroller walks down the aisle I’m in. They give me a furtive glance and a weak smile as they pass. A couple of teenagers walk by hand in hand, and I can’t help but wonder why they’re not in school. It’s like I said, when you’re in a screwed-up situation like this, you notice the weirdest details.
“I can’t think of anybody else it could be,” I tell her. “It has to be him making a point to me.”
“Jesus,” she whispers. “Don’t give up hope, Blake. We don’t know anything just yet. Let’s not go gloom and doom, worst-case scenario. Let’s try—”
“If you say think positive, I am going to crack you upside the head when I get back to the office,” I say, not even half-kidding.
“Noted,” she says with a quiet chuckle. “Are you all right?”
“No, not really,” I reply. “She’s been taken because of me. He warned me to back off and stay out of his business. I didn’t. And now Astra’s paying the price.”
“You can’t think like that, kid. For all we know, this has nothing to do with you. This might not be Mangold at all,” Rosie points out. “For all we know, this could be one of Astra’s old cases coming back on her. We just don’t know yet, so don’t give up on her. Don’t lose faith.”
I nod. She’s right. It could be anything. It could be a random carjacking. It could be a million different things. But I know, deep down inside, it’s not. In my heart of hearts, I know this is Mangold. He’s proving a point to me and trying to force me to back off. But I don’t think he realizes that although I’m an emotional wreck right now, that righteous fire is burning in my gut. If he does anything to Astra, if he hurts her in any way whatsoever, I will come for him twice as hard. And I will not stop until one of us is dead.
“The techs are rolling, Blake,” Rosie says. “They’ll be there soon.”
“Thanks, Rosie.”
“In the meantime, keep the faith.”
“Doing my best.”
Twenty-Four
Wilder Residence, The Emerald Pines Luxury Apartments; Downtown Seattle
“I don’t know what to do,” I growl. “I suck at waiting. And all the while, Astra is still out there having God knows what done to her.”
I pace back and forth in the living room, muttering darkly to myself. Kit is curled up on the couch watching me. She’s worried for me, I can tell. And she feels as powerless to do anything as I do. I’ve tried calling Mangold, but he’s refusing to take my calls. He’s playing his power hand right now. He’s got Astra and he’s leaving me to twist in the wind until he’s good and ready to talk to me about her.
That’s probably the only bright spot I can see—if he’s still playing these games with me, the chances are good that she’s still alive. If he’d killed her, he would talk to me. Tell me he did it. Probably tell me how he did it. He would need for me to know that just as he had the power of life and death with Astra, he holds that over me too. That’s the message he wants me to receive—he’s a god and I’m a peon, and I need to do what he tells me to do, or others are going
to pay a price for my, as he put it, intractability.
“You should sit down, Blake. Rest your body. Rest your mind,” Kit says.
“I can’t. I’m not going to be able to rest anything until I have Astra back. Safe and unharmed,” I tell her.
“Do you think he’ll kill her?”
“Not until he gets what he wants.”
“And what does he want?” she asks.
“Me,” I tell her. “He wants me to come work for him. Be his head of security, he said. I’m sure it’s a job with a real short shelf-life. I can only imagine why he has an opening. Probably threw a temper tantrum and killed his old one.”
Kit frowns and looks down, a strange expression crossing her face. I’m sure this is all weird for her. Overwhelming, maybe. After learning she grew up in the French countryside attending ballets and operas, reading Sartre and Camus, I can’t imagine this gritty, real-world violence is an easy adjustment for her. And I wonder if that’s why she slips out at night sometimes—to get away from me and all the death that surrounds me. To find some semblance of peace and serenity. God knows there are plenty of beautiful, tranquil little parks around Seattle where you can sit and meditate or whatever.
“Wh—why would you think that?” she asks.
I shrug. “That’s what psychopaths like Mangold do. They like to lord their power over everybody. They especially like to show others that they have no power. That they’re helpless and can’t do anything to stop him.”
“But didn’t you say your boss thought it might be something totally unrelated?” she asks.
“Wishful thinking. I mean, sure, it’s possible. It’s also possible a cow will fall out of the sky and land on you right now, but I don’t think either one of us believes that’s actually going to happen,” I reply, sharper than I intended. “No, this is Mangold. I would bet my life on it.”
