Suitcase Girl (Abby Kane FBI Thriller - SG Trilogy Book 1)

by Ty Hutchinson

  Kang was reaching for his weapon, which was on the floor. He hadn’t fired. Lucy stood by the door, crying. A strange man lay motionless on the floor next to her. A few feet away was Abby. She lay prone, slightly on her side.

  House had quickly holstered her gun and hurried over to Abby with one thought on her mind.

  Stop.

  The.

  Bleeding.

  Reilly brought the SUV to a stop at the intersection. He checked his watch; it was fifteen minutes to ten. Traffic over the bridge was light, and he expected they would arrive for their appointment on time. He inhaled deeply and then let out an airy breath through his mouth. One minute we’re enjoying a BBQ, and the next my team and I are en route to a government facility I had no idea existed before today.

  The light turned green, and Reilly stepped on the gas pedal. He glanced once more at the GPS console to ensure they were still heading in the right direction. They were. He knew it. Still he glanced at it again. It wasn’t a nervous tic. More like an uncomfortable one. He still hadn’t come to grips with his actions.

  That day at Kane’s place, he was the third person to arrive at the terrible scene in the living room. Earlier he had been in the middle of making a stupid duck sound when House disappeared.

  He’d spun around, “It’s that bad?” he had said, laughing.

  At that point, he was still unaware of the deadly situation unfolding. He tried to tell himself that he hadn’t been the only one who was clueless. Sokolov, Bennie, and Green were still conversing, though Sokolov had craned his neck at House’s abrupt exit.

  No matter how Reilly tried to spin his actions in those first few moments, he couldn’t deny it. He’d screwed up. His instincts were off. Chalk it up to not being in the field and spending most of his time behind a desk.

  Still, Reilly always thought he could react appropriately when needed. He never once thought his training had been compromised. And really it hadn’t. Tactically, Reilly had done nothing wrong; he’d arrived in the living room only a few seconds after House. Yes, the situation had been diffused by then, but someone had to be first, someone had to be second, and someone had to be the third to arrive.

  When he got there, Kang had Lucy in his arms. A man lay unconscious next to them. House was on the floor with Kane’s head cradled in her arms and resting in her lap. She was applying pressure to Kane’s neck.

  Reilly was already on his phone calling for an ambulance when he noticed Ryan standing on the stairs, still holding the handgun in his trembling hands. Tears trailed down his face, but he wasn’t sobbing. He just stared ahead.

  Reilly had reached out slowly and taken hold of the firearm. “Let go, son,” he remembered telling him before giving the boy a hug. But the truth was… he didn’t know the severity of Kane’s injury. It was unquestionable that the amount of blood he’d seen wasn’t a healthy sign, but she did appear to be conscious, as he’d seen House whisper in her ear.

  Reilly made a left onto to a quiet lane that deadened at the foot of the mountains. Straight ahead he saw a lift gate with a small guardhouse off to the side. He slowed the vehicle, and a uniformed military guard appeared. Reilly gave him their names, and after a quick check, he was waved through. The lift gate rose and the ground barrier lowered itself, allowing the SUV to drive onward. Reilly followed the map the guard had given him to Building D.

  Inside the small lobby, another guard manning a counter asked for credentials and checked the system. He told them to have a seat and wait. A few minutes later, two men—one wearing a navy-blue suit, the other a white lab coat—appeared.

  “Special Agent Reilly, did you have trouble finding the place?” the man in the suit asked.

  “The directions were spot-on,” Reilly responded. “This is Agent Kang and Agent House.”

  The man in the suit extended his arm. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Gerald Watkins, and I’m the director here. This man standing next to me is Dr. Julian Yates.”

  With the introductions complete, Watkins led the group down a tile-floor hall. There were no pictures on the walls, no notices, no signs. They walked through a series of double doors, each one requiring Watkins to use his security card to gain entrance. They didn’t pass a single person the entire time.

  Eventually they reached a hall lined with gray doors. Each one had a viewing window.

  “She’s in room F,” Watkins said as he pointed at the door.

  Reilly stepped forward and peeked through the glass pane. Lying on the bed with her arms and legs secured by restraints was Xiaolian.

  “She’s sleeping,” Dr. Yates said. “We keep her restrained because she’s been having vivid nightmares and we don’t want her hurting herself. Aside from that, she’s doing fine health-wise.”

  Kang and House each took a peek at the girl.

  Xiaolian had turned up at Kane’s house shortly after the shooting—out of breath, sweat pouring off every inch of her body. She had run most of the way from the motel to Kane’s home. She froze when she saw the person lying in the doorway. And it was through her that Reilly learned about Walter Chan, the twin brother to Alonzo Chan, the man they still hadn’t identified.

  Once she had calmed, she was able to fill Reilly in on what had happened to her and the man who had taken her. A team of agents dispatched to the motel confirmed her story. In the room, they’d found him dead.

  It wasn’t until she began to talk about where she was from that red flags were raised. A mysterious home in an undisclosed location, experiments and testing, the fact that her real name was Abby. It was a story fit for science fiction. Reilly had no choice but to elevate the matter. It was beyond him.

  Once the DOJ got involved, they took over the investigation, quarantined the girl, and advised Reilly and his team not to mention a single word about her to anyone. If the Chinese were indeed behind this, the State Department had a keen interest in why they were meddling in something far worse than cloning.

  “How long do you expect to keep her here?” Reilly asked.

  Watkins referred the question to Dr. Yates. “That’s a hard question to answer,” Yates said. “We’ve just started our testing. We still need to debrief her and confirm everything you’ve told us. I would say the answer is indefinitely.” Yates noticed Kang looking through the viewing window of another door. “You can go inside if you want. It’s fine.”

  Kang reached for the knob and turned it. He pushed the door open and walked into the small room. It was sparse, just a bed and tray stand holding a pitcher of water and a plastic cup. The walls were painted white, as was the ceiling, and the floor was the same white tile as in the hallway.

  Yates came up behind Kang. “The restraints are temporary. Procedure.”

  He nodded. “How is she?”

  “Agent Kane is fine, for now.”

  An Excerpt from The Curator

  Book #2 in the Suitcase Girl Trilogy

  A man stood slightly hunched over and leaning against the trunk of a pine tree, uncertain of his next step. With each exhale, his breaths billowed in a smoky plume across his chattering teeth. His eyes shifted erratically from left to right.

  Where am I?

  He had just taken two steps away from the security of the tree, his bare feet sinking into mossy dirt, when the crack of a branch jerked his head to the left.

  What was that?

  He squinted and scanned the misty woods, carefully moving forward and nearly tripping over his own steps at the sudden appearance of a mountain bike flying right past him. It landed a few feet away, its back wheel kicking up leaves.

  “The crazies are out early today,” the rider spouted off as he peddled hard, disappearing into the maze of trees as quickly as he had appeared.

  The man looked down at himself. A tattered hospital gown hung from his bony frame. He gripped it and tugged. A rip formed near the shoulder. He grabbed the thin fabric with his other hand and yanked. The gown fell away from him, exposing his pale nakedness.

 
He headed in the same direction as the mountain biker. Aside from his breaths, the woods were eerily quiet. There were no birds singing or breezes rustling the tree branches.

  Am I dreaming? Maybe I am. God, I hope so.

  The situation was surreal; it had to be. He hoped it was, for the last thing he could remember was puffing on a cigar and sipping scotch. There was a glow of a fireplace, and he wasn’t alone. Others were gathered around him. It felt like he knew them, but he couldn’t be sure. His memory was nothing more than spotty imagery.

  He struggled to find clarity, something that could begin to explain the oddness of his predicament. The harder he tried to recall, the more confused he became. Random people and places popped into his head, but they meant nothing. He couldn’t even remember his name or what he did for living.

  Do I even work?

  He continued down the side of the mountain, his body warming from the physical movement. Perspiration appeared, creating a slickness over his body.

  Picking up the speed, he tripped over an exposed tree root, nearly falling flat on his face. In fact, his balance seemed off kilter ever since… well, he couldn’t remember.

  His vision was also marred by a filmy substance in his eyes, which he couldn’t clear no matter how much he blinked or wiped at them. But he remained focused as best he could and pushed forward.

  All he wanted was to go home, wherever that was, and climb into bed.

  A clearing in the trees up ahead revealed the tops of buildings—a skyline with what looked like a large bay behind it.

  I hope this is where I live.

  It seemed slightly familiar to his gut. But if he did live in this city, he had no clue as to where.

  I’ll just ask for help. Someone will offer it.

  He kept his pace, skirting trees and bushes along the way.

  Almost there, keep going.

  The sounds of urbanization began to fill the quiet void: a blaring horn, a barking dog, the engine of a large vehicle shifting gears. With each step, the city revealed more and more of itself.

  Just as he’d walked out of the woods and onto a sidewalk, a loud shriek filled his ears.

  He looked in that direction and spotted a woman pulling her child close to her as she backed away, while a couple carrying coffees stopped in their tracks. They were all looking at him with horrified expressions.

  Wait, what’s wrong?

  Cars slowed along the road as drivers and passengers pointed and stared.

  Why won’t anyone help me? Sir, could you call an ambulance? I’m not well.

  A man walking his dog shouted at him. “Back off, buddy!”

  What’s wrong with these people? I’m just asking for help.

  A siren could be heard nearing.

  Finally, someone heard me.

  A police vehicle screeched to a stop along the curb. The doors flew open, and two officers exited with their weapons drawn.

  “Stop right there,” one shouted out.

  Is that really necessary? I just need help.

  One of the officers advanced on him. “Get down on your knees now, or I’m going to tase you.”

  Tase me?

  “I’m not telling you again. Get down now!”

  Before the man could begin to comprehend the situation, an intense explosion of pain ripped throughout his body, causing him to collapse onto the sidewalk. His body clenched into a tight ball, and his eyes rolled up into his head as he fought to breathe.

  I just need help.

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  A Note from Ty Hutchinson

  Thank you for reading SUITCASE GIRL. If you’re a fan of Abby, spread the word to friends, family, book clubs, and reader groups online. You can also help get the word out by leaving a review.

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  tyhutchinson.author

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  tyhutchinson@tyhutchinson.com

  Also by Ty Hutchinson

  Abby Kane FBI Thrillers

  Corktown

  Tenderloin

  Russian Hill (CC Trilogy #1)

  Lumpini Park (CC Trilogy #2)

  Coit Tower (CC Trilogy #3)

  Kowloon Bay

  Suitcase Girl (SG Trilogy #1)

  The Curator (SG Trilogy #2)

  Sei Assassin Thrillers

  Contract: Snatch

  Contract: Sicko

  Contract: Primo

  Contract: Wolf Den

  Darby Stansfield Thrillers

  Chop Suey

  Stroganov

  Loco Moco

  Other Thrilling Reads

  The Perfect Plan

  The St. Petersburg Confession

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author, Ty Hutchinson.

  Published by Ty Hutchinson

  Copyright © 2017 by Ty Hutchinson

  Cover Art: Damonza