by Elle Gray
“Please don’t bet your life.”
I give her a wan smile. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to keep ranting and stress you out.”
“You have no reason to apologize. Your friend was taken. I understand why you’re so upset,” she says. “You’ve already been through this once. I can’t imagine the psychic scars this is leaving on you.”
I nod. “Yeah. It was even worse when you were taken though,” I say. “I wasn’t able to control my emotions as well back then.”
She arches an eyebrow. “This is you controlling your emotions?”
That gets a laugh out of me—which I immediately feel guilty about. I shouldn’t be laughing right now. Not while Astra is still out there having God knows what done to her. I walk to the windows and overlook the city. The sky has grown dark, and a blanket of slate-gray clouds has been pulled over the world. As I stand here watching, small droplets splash against the glass and I feel a stitch in my heart.
“Do you remember what Mom used to say about the rain?” I ask.
“It was the angels crying?”
“I hope she’s not in pain,” I mutter. “I hope the angels have no reason to be crying right now.”
“Astra means a lot to you, doesn’t she?”
I nod. “She means the world to me, Kit. She’s been my best friend for years,” I tell her. “In some ways, she was like a surrogate sister to me. She actually reminds me of you in a lot of different ways.”
“Yeah? Like how?”
“She’s hilarious. She’s warm. She’s smart. She is literally one of the smartest people I know. And now that you’re back, I’m officially the third smartest person I know.”
Kit laughs and smiles, pleased with the compliment.
“She’s also stubborn. Just like you. When she feels she’s right about something, she will dig in and will not come off that position until you give her incontrovertible proof that she’s wrong. Then she’ll be the first to admit it and apologize for her error,” I tell her. “You were always a lot like that when you were a kid—minus the apologizing part. You would simply never come off a position once you dug in. And the more somebody tried to prove you wrong, the harder you dug yourself into that position.”
“I did not,” she says in faux outrage.
“You most certainly did. I remember one time you accused me of stealing your stuffed animal. You were so angry with me. But then Mom showed you that she’d put it in the washing machine to clean it—you took that stupid bear everywhere with you and it was always filthy,” I tell her. “Anyway, you were screaming and shouting at me for being a thief, and even when Mom took your bear out of the washer mid-cycle and showed you, you accused me of putting it in there to hide the fact that I’d stolen it.
“I did not do that,” she protests indignantly.
“Oh. You so did.”
Kit laughs. It’s a high, musical sound. She’s had that same tinkling, melodious laugh since she was a kid, and for some reason, I find it reassuring right now. I find some solace in it; it instills a sense of optimism in me I didn’t expect. It tells me that against all odds, my sister came back to me alive and well. And so will Astra.
My phone buzzes and I grab it off the dining room table. My blood freezes in my veins when I see it’s an incoming text from Astra’s phone.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
“What is it?”
Kit gets off the couch and joins me, reading over my shoulder as I call up my messages and click on Astra’s. I draw in a sharp breath, my heart dropping into my stomach when I see it’s a picture of her. She’s tied to a chair much the same way I was when Mangold took me. Her ankles and wrists are bound to it with plastic cuffs. And as I study the picture closely, I see it looks like it was taken in the same place I’d been brought after they snatched me.
But what sends the lance of pain straight through my heart is Astra herself. She’s been beaten. In the photo, her head lolls to the side and it looks like she’s unconscious. At least I hope she’s merely unconscious. Her hair has fallen over half her face, obscuring it from sight, but the half I can see makes my eyes well with tears. Her eye is swollen shut and her lips are split. Blood is running from her nose and mouth, making a bloody mess of the lower half of her face.
“Oh God, Astra,” I mutter.
I feel Kit tensing up beside me. I glance at her and see she looks as angry as I do. It’s a strange reaction given that she doesn’t know Astra, but I’m not going to question her about it. I’m too consumed with my own anger right now. It radiates along my every nerve ending, and that dark tide rises up within me, blotting out my other emotions. All I can feel is hate. Hate and the need to hurt Mangold. And hurt him badly.
My phone rings in my hand, startling me. I get myself under control and grit my teeth when I see the call is coming from Astra’s phone. Just so I don’t have to repeat the conversation to Kit later, I hit the speakerphone button to connect the call.
“I trust you received my message,” Mangold starts in that honey-sweet accent of his.
“I’m going to kill you,” I tell him.
“I wish you didn’t feel that way, Agent Wilder. It would make our working relationship a might awkward, don’t you think?”
“We have no working relationship now or ever,” I hiss. “I don’t work for murderers. I lock them up.”
“Yes, yes, you believe in the righteous wheels of justice and all. I get that,” he replies. “But when you work for me, you’ll be serving a different kind of justice. A justice for the people worthy of it.”
“And I suppose you’re the arbiter of who’s worthy?”
“You still have no idea what’s really going on, do you?”
“This is only going to end one of two ways,” I growl. “Either with you behind bars for the rest of your life. Or you lying dead on the ground with my bullet in you.”
“Oh, how I do love your passion,” he crows. “I swear it makes me all tingly inside.”
“Keep laughing,” I tell him. “You won’t be able to much longer.”
“See darlin’, now that’s where you’re wrong. I’ll be laughin’ ‘til the day I die. And contrary to your bluster, I’m never goin’ to see the inside of a prison cell either,” he says. “See, people like me? We don’t do prison. Not even if we’re guilty. There ain’t a judge in these fifty states who’d convict me—and I can make sure of that personally.”
“I want Astra back,” I tell him. “I want her back now.”
“Of course you do, dear girl. What friend wouldn’t want her friend back?” he asks.
“Did you miss the part where I said now?”
“Oh dear, I don’t respond to demands well,” he says. “And let me remind you that you are in no position to be making demands anyway, Agent Wilder. Your friend’s life is in my hands. I am not the man you want to be triflin’ with.”
“What do you want?” I ask coldly.
“In exchange for lettin’ you leave with Special Agent Speedbag here, want all the information you gathered by snoopin’ on us, of course,” he says. “I want you to turn over all the files, thumb drives, and yes, even those pictures from Bocasilva you claim to have. I want the whole kit and caboodle, darlin’.”
“Fine. Done,” I say.
“I’m not done.”
I let out a long, loud sigh. “What else do you want?”
“What I asked for before—you workin’ for me.”
I exchange a glance with Kit, whose face is nearly purple. She’s apoplectic and I absolutely understand why. I feel the same way.
“Done,” I say.
“Very good,” he replies. I can hear his slimy grin through the phone already. “And I’ll have to warn you—I’ll be havin’ no shenanigans durin’ the exchange. You come alone, bring what you need, and everything will be right as rain.”
“And how is Astra supposed to drive home?” I ask. “Judging by that picture, she’s in rough shape. Probably can’t drive in her condition.”
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“I’ll have one of my men take her home,” he says. “I give you my word.”
“Sorry, your word doesn’t mean anything to me. The exchange will not be made until I receive confirmation from Astra’s partner that she is home safe with him,” I snap. “Am I clear about that?”
“Yes, yes,” he replies. “You’re clear. Then I’ll see you soon. Wait for me to text you the time and address. And again, I cannot possibly stress this enough—come alone and no trickery.”
“I’ll wait for your text,” I say and disconnect the call. I turn to look at Kit, who is wearing a small smile on her lips.
“He going to kill you?” she asks.
“Oh yeah. He’s going to kill us both,” I say.
Twenty-Five
Platinum Precision Tech Warehouse Site 11B; Seattle, WA
It’s exactly midnight when I pull to a stop outside the warehouse I was directed to come to. It’s an offsite storage facility for the weapons manufacturing plant Mangold has in the city. This section of the larger complex looks like it hasn’t been used in quite a while. Or at least, hasn’t been used for anything legal in quite a while.
The sky is still choked with clouds, but the rain has let up. Puddles glisten in the lights in the parking lot and overhead, the sound of thunder rumbles in the distance. The lonely, monotone note of a ship’s horn echoes through the darkness all around me, sending an ominous chill rushing through me.
Kit and I spent the day in Fish’s office above the Fat Buddha in Chinatown copying and converting every scrap of relevant paper we had. There were a lot of things to go through. At first, I’d been hesitant to include her in the process, but I feel like we’re coming to the endgame with Mangold now and I needed her help. I had to open up and trust her out of necessity. And now I just have to hope that’s a decision that doesn’t come back to bite me in the backside.
After we got that done, we went back to my apartment where I practically had to handcuff Kit to something solid—like a load-bearing wall—to make her stay. She had been so fired up about coming along to help that I really thought I was going to have to subdue her. It was only after I told her my plan that she agreed to stay—reluctantly. And only because I’d given her the most important task—providing us cover for our exit.
I don’t know if Mangold thinks I’m that stupid, or if he thinks I’m so overwhelmed by my emotions that I’m not thinking clearly, but I’m almost disappointed that he thought I believed him when he said he would let us go. It makes me think he’s not as smart as I thought he was. He knows I will never willingly work for him, which only leaves him one option—to kill me. Because he knows if he doesn’t, I am going to dog him for the rest of his life. He knows I will hunt him to the ends of the Earth until he’s either rotting in prison or rotting in the ground. At this point, I truly don’t care which.
I do know he’s desperate to get his hands on the files I’ve put together on the Thirteen as well as on him personally. He wants the photos of the mass grave site every bit as much as I want Astra back. And that’s the leverage I have on him. It’s his weakness, because he knows if those photos are released, his entire house of cards comes crumbling down around him.
“All right, let’s get this done,” I mutter.
I get out of the car and pop the trunk. I pull out the banker’s box, then close the trunk again, bound for the open door in the side of the building. The asphalt of the parking lot is cracked and pitted; I take note of it to make sure I don’t injure myself in my escape attempt.
Light from inside spills out onto the small concrete stoop outside the door, and as I approach, I can hear voices inside. I make out at least three distinct voices, but I don’t hear Mangold. I know he’s in there though. There is no way he’d let anybody else get their hands on what I’m bringing him.
I step inside. Astra is the first thing I see. She’s still bound to the chair, her clothes torn and her face a bloody mess. But at least she’s awake. She seems alert, because when her eyes fall on me, they widen, and her entire body stiffens. I drop the box in front of me and pull my weapon, leaving it at my side. I just want them to know I’m not messing around.
Three men are standing around the open space—the automaton twins have become triplets. The third man is dressed like the first two. He’s a tall, fit six-three or so. He fills out his custom suit well, and with his sandy blonde hair, green eyes, and chiseled jawline, has leading-man good looks.
“Agent Wilder,” Mangold says as he steps out from behind a stack of boxes.
“I’m here. I have your stuff,” I announce. “Now, let her go.”
His eyes land on the gun in my hand and he frowns. “There is no need for that,” he croons. “You can clearly see we’re not armed.”
“Give me a break,” I counter. “Your men all have rigs under their jackets and I’m sure you’re carrying too. By my count, that’s four guns to my one. Are you really feeling that threatened?”
“This doesn’t have to be an ugly process, Agent Wilder,” he says. “Or may I call you Blake, now that you will be in my employ?”
From behind her gag, Astra is screaming and probably cursing up a blue streak as she realizes what she thinks will be the cost of her freedom. Mangold turns to her and smiles.
“That’s right, my dear,” he purrs. “Your best friend in the whole wide world has chosen to give up her career at the Bureau in order to earn your freedom.”
Astra’s face is a picture of torment as she shakes her head wildly, her eyes pleading with me. Mangold laughs, clearly enjoying this. He reaches out and takes the gag out of her mouth.
“What do you think about the selflessness of your friend?” he asks Astra.
“Blake, don’t you do this,” she begs, her voice weak and cracking. “I would rather die—literally die—than let you work for this piece of—”
Mangold chuckles and puts the gag back into her mouth before she can finish her sentence. He looks at me and shrugs.
“Your friend doesn’t seem to have a very high opinion of me,” he notes.
“Yeah, that’s a really hard one to figure,” I reply.
I send the box toward him with a strong kick. It slides along the slick concrete and nearly makes it to him. One of his goons picks it up though and sets it down on top of a wooden crate. Mangold walks over, lifts the lid off, and starts pawing through all the paperwork I’ve put together. At the bottom of the box is a small manila envelope. He opens it and shakes the thumb drive into his palm then looks up at me.
“On that drive are the photos of your mass grave in Paraguay,” I tell him. “You now have all the evidence I’ve collected and put together on you and on the Thirteen.”
He shakes his head, his eyes full of wonder. “My, my, my, you are an industrious girl, aren’t you?” he says. “You are quite a lot farther along than I suspected. Why, if Daniel knew just how close you were to pullin’ the rug out from under him, he very well might wet himself. That boy talks a big game but when it comes down to it, he doesn’t actually have the constitution for a confrontation. That House Rep you’re tusslin’ with—Hedlund, I think her name is? That woman is tough. If I had my druthers, I’d give her Daniel’s spot at the big table.”
“So, she’s not part of your group?”
“Oh, heavens, no,” he replies. “She’s far too morally rigid for my liking.”
I scoff. “Clearly, you didn’t see her the day she executed her own daughter and twenty-eight others,” I say. “I would have thought with credentials like that, she would have earned a special place in your heart.”
He lets out a long, pained sigh and shakes his head. “You seem to think I’m a monster.”
“No, I don’t, actually,” I say. “See, monsters aren’t real. But you? You murdered eight hundred people. There isn’t a strong enough word to describe what you are.”
“You are so very judgmental, dear Blake,” he counters. “When you’re a man in my position, you simply must make certain sacrifices
. That is the cost of progress—a regrettable, but necessary cost. We only did what was needed to keep forging ahead and delivering progress to the world.”
“You’re sick.”
“I am merely following history, my dear. And frankly, I don’t know if you have much leg to stand on, Agent Wilder. Don’t you know the bloodstained history of the FBI? Of the United States government—hell, of this city? Don’t you know the very city you live in was built on the ashes of the Duwamish people after the white man came and kicked him out of his own land? But such is the cost of progress.”
I know what he’s trying to do, but I won’t fall for it. It’s extremely rich, coming from him—he’s trying to rationalize his horrific acts by turning it around on me. But he’s the one who murdered eight hundred people in cold blood.
“Progress. Is that what you call it?” I ask. “You built a plant whose sole purpose is to build things that will kill people more efficiently.”
He screws up his face and looks off for a minute then turns back to me. “Yep. I’d call that progress,” he replies. “At least we’re not throwing rocks at each other anymore. See, we’ve progressed beyond that sort of primitive warfare. My missiles are accurate to within ten yards, Blake. It limits collateral damage and civilian casualties. Tell me how that is more barbaric than the carpet bombing we used to do in Vietnam. Instead of wiping out an entire village and killing everybody in it, we can eliminate a single house full of terrorists Tell me how that isn’t progress.”
“Personally, I’d prefer living in a world where we didn’t have to kill each other at all.”
“Yes, well, when you find that fantasy world, you be sure to send me a postcard.”
“So, killing those three Justices. How do you call that progress?”
He stares at me for a long moment, his eyes suspicious. I realize he must think I’m wearing a wire. I laugh and shake my head.
“I’m asking because I want to know,” I say. “If you’re worried that I’m wearing a wire, come check me. I’m not. I just need answers to some of these questions.”
