The Lost Girls (Blake Wilder FBI Mystery Thriller Book 6)

by Elle Gray

  Hand in hand, Astra and I follow her instructions and make our way to Holbrook’s office, stopping when we reach the door.

  “Be careful,” Astra says quietly. “Don’t do the cop knock.”

  “What? I don’t do a cop knock.”

  “You totally do,” she says.

  “Yeah, you kind of do, boss,” Rick says in my ear.

  “Gotta agree with everybody else,” Mo chimes in.

  “You all can kiss my butt,” I say.

  “Watch,” Astra says. “You do it this way.”

  She raises a hand and gently raps on the door with the back of her knuckles. She turns to me and smiles.

  “See? That’s a normal-person knock,” she says.

  A moment later, the door opens to reveal a man who stands all of about five-five or so. He’s lean and fit, with a stylishly groomed shock of thick, wavy dark hair. He’s wearing a very nice—and obviously expensive—three-piece suit and a pair of Bally’s on his feet that probably set him back five or six hundred bucks. He’s obviously a man doing well for himself. But then, trafficking children is a lucrative business.

  Holbrook ushers us inside and closes the door. He directs us to the chairs in front of his desk and takes the seat behind it. His quick smile and friendly demeanor are comforting.

  “So, Ms. Jenkins and Ms. Wagner, what can I do for you today?” he starts.

  I look at Astra then turn back to him, hoping I’m conveying the right level of desperation and desire for a child.

  “Mr. Dansby told me he’d called you on our behalf,” I say. “That he vouched for us?”

  “He did,” Holbrook nods. “Said you two were ideal candidates for a special program we run here at Willet House.”

  Astra nods. “We would very much like to participate in your special program,” she says. “And, as I hope Mr. Dansby said, we are willing and able to pay for your services.”

  I can practically see the dollar signs floating above his head. The unmitigated greed of the man turns my stomach. That he would manipulate people through their desperation to have families, all in the name of making a few bucks, is sickening. It’s what’s wrong with the world—a thought that leads me straight back to the Thirteen. I quickly banish the thought, though, and try to stay in character. This op demands that I do. If we’re going to take down this sleazy ring, I need to keep myself focused and sharp.

  “Yes, he mentioned that you are quite….motivated,” Holbrook replies smoothly.

  “That’s an understatement, Mr. Holbrook,” I tell him. “It’s hard for a couple like us to secure an adoptive child through normal channels. We’ve been turned down three times now. I just can’t let my heart keep being broken like that.”

  “It’s why we’ve sought out—alternative means,” Astra finishes.

  He stares at us both for a long minute. Perhaps he’s trying to determine our truthfulness. Maybe he thinks he’s good at reading people and seeing into the depths of their souls. And the fact that he nods and gives us another smile tells me he’s not very good at it.

  “Well then, I do believe I can assist you,” he finally says. “And tell me, what is it you’re looking for exactly?”

  Astra and I exchange a passably excited look. “We want a little boy. Six months old or less. Hair and eye color don’t matter to us. Just so long as he’s healthy.”

  Holbrook nods. “I do believe I have what you’re looking for,” he says. “He’s five months old and matches your preferred physical description.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful,” Astra grins. “More than wonderful. Wouldn’t you agree, darling?”

  I give her a smile. “It sounds more than wonderful. Almost—miraculous.”

  “Well, as I hope Mr. Dansby mentioned, there is a fifty-thousand-dollar fee to get the ball rolling,” he says. “And the balance is due when you pick up your little bundle of joy.”

  “Yes, he did explain that,” I say.

  Astra reaches into her jacket pocket, pulls out an envelope, slides it across the desk to Holbrook. He stares at it for a moment as if it were a snake, coiled and ready to strike. But his greed wins out and he picks it up. Pulling the flap open, he looks inside, nodding with the light of joy in his eyes.

  “Excellent,” he says. “This will get the ball rolling, as I said—”

  “Oh, there’s one thing I should mention that seems kind of important,” I say.

  “And what is that, my dear?”

  Astra and I get to our feet and badge him. Holbrook’s face immediately turns whiter than milk and his eyes widen with shock.

  “You’re under arrest,” I say, unable to keep the note of glee out of my voice.

  Thirty-Five

  Situation Room; Seattle Field Office

  When Rosie’s text came through, instructing me to get to the situation room ASAP, my first thought was that we’d had a terrorist attack somewhere in Seattle. But when I walked in and found Rosie standing with Hedlund and a few men in suits, a flutter of worry passed through me, ruining what had been a good morning. We busted up a trafficking ring and put a narcissistic groomer behind bars all in one case. I should be walking on sunshine right now and feeling pretty good about myself.

  But then Rosie had to go and send me the message. The situation room is typically reserved for monitoring actions that are taking place. Filed ops. Raids. Takedowns. Things of that nature. But so far as I’m aware, nothing was scheduled to be on the books today. But the large screens that line the far wall of the room show a SWAT team in motion.

  “Rosie, what’s happening?” I ask as I step up beside her.

  She gives me a frustrated look then turns and stares at Hedlund. The Congresswoman looks back at me with a malignant gleam of joy in her eyes.

  “I have a joint FBI-ATF team raiding Haven,” she says simply.

  “You’re what?” I gasp.

  “Mr. Dansby said they were stockpiling illegal weapons,” Hedlund says. “It’s up to us to disarm them.”

  “You can’t do that, Congresswoman. There are women and children in Haven,” I argue. “You send in an ops team and something goes wrong, a lot of people die.”

  “As long as they do what they’re told, when they’re told to do it, there shouldn’t even be a need for shooting,” Hedlund says.

  “I’m sure the same thing was said at Ruby Ridge and Waco. Why don’t we go talk to them about how it—oh wait, we can’t. They’re all dead because of actions just like this one.”

  “I have faith in your SWAT team,” she says.

  “All well and good—and they’re deserving of everybody’s faith and trust,” I counter. “The people in Haven are emotionally volatile and on edge, because we have Crawford in custody. You send in the army and I can guarantee you that people are going to die. Call this off, Congresswoman.”

  “I can’t,” she spits. “I won’t.”

  “Your own daughter is in there, Kathryn,” I spit. “How are you going to feel if she gets caught in the crossfire?”

  “First of all, you don’t know this will break down into gunfire,” she fires back.

  “Historically speaking, people who willingly live the way the people in Haven do don’t react well when you try to disarm them.”

  “Secondly,” she goes on as if I hadn’t just spoken. “My daughter has made her choice. As far as I’m concerned, she is dead to me. I no longer have a daughter. I have already started taking steps to expunge her from my life.”

  I stand there, gaping at her. “You are an absolute monster.”

  “Call me what you will, but this is still happening.”

  I glance up at the monitors and the screen shifts to another POV that shows the teams approaching the gates of Haven. I turn away, knowing already that this is going to be a bloodbath. A lot of people are going to die out there, and for what?

  I turn to Rosie who just shrugs. “The AG signed off on it. There’s nothing we could do,” she says. “There’s still nothing we can do about this.”


  “Why did you call me in here?” I ask.

  “I didn’t,” she replies.

  “I did,” Hedlund says. “I wanted you to see what bold, swift, and decisive action looked like for a change.”

  “Are you this desperate for a headline?” I sneer. “You’d actually kill your own daughter to generate a little sympathy for yourself? To increase your odds of re-election? You’re more of a monster than I ever thought possible.”

  I turn and head for the door just as the sound of gunfire erupts. As I step out of the situation room, I hear the anguished wailing of somebody who’s been shot.

  “And let the bloodbath begin. I’m sure it’ll look terrific in tomorrow’s poll numbers,” I mutter to myself as I walk away.

  Thirty-Six

  Wilder Residence; The Emerald Pines Luxury Apartments, Downtown Seattle

  I pull into the underground garage and into my assigned space, then sit there for a long few minutes, trying to summon the energy to get out of my car. All I want is a glass of wine and a hot shower to wash off the stink of the day. I can’t get the sound of the gunfire that had erupted at Haven out of my mind. That Hedlund had orchestrated that attack for nothing more than exacting revenge on a daughter who’d rejected her, and a bounce in her poll numbers, makes me sick. I can still taste bile in the back of my throat.

  With a heavy sigh, I get out of my car and turn to head for the elevators, only to find myself face to face with a man who seems to have materialized out of thin air. Instinctively, I drop my bag, and knowing I don’t have time to pull my sidearm, lash out with a fist. He easily deflects it and dances back a step.

  “Agent Wilder,” he says. “Calm down. It’s me.”

  The blind fear that jolted me ebbs when I realize who’s standing before me. “Fish?” I ask, my voice quavering. “Jesus, you scared the hell out of me.”

  “Apologies, Agent Wilder. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Yeah well, lurking around in a dark garage and popping in out of nowhere tends to do that to a person.”

  He bows his head. “Apologies.”

  “What are you doing here?” I ask. “If you have information, I could have stopped by the Pearl—”

  He shakes his head. “No, I needed to see you immediately—and in secret.”

  The tone of his voice puts another charge of fear-fueled adrenaline through me. Gone is the playful, flirtatious Fish. And in its place is one who sounds—scared. Fish doesn’t scare easily, so the fact that he seems rattled can’t be a good thing.

  “All right,” I say. “What’s going on?”

  “Concerning the matter you asked me to look into, I am sorry, but even with my considerable resources, I have not been able to discover his true identity,” he says, sounding surprised himself. “He is truly a ghost. There is nothing to be found about Mark Walton anywhere. The backstopped information is all there is.”

  “How can that be possible?” I ask. “Everybody has a digital trail. It’s almost impossible to be completely off the grid.”

  “‘Almost’ is the operative word there, Agent Wilder,” he replies softly. “I have checked with overseas contacts, domestic contacts—there is absolutely no trace of him.”

  “Wow,” I say. “That’s—disturbing.”

  “To put it mildly, yes.”

  I run a hand through my hair, trying to wrap my mind around that piece of intel. The fact that Mark is truly a ghost—that neither Brody nor Fish has been able to find a single scrap of information about him—is worrisome on so many levels. But I get the feeling that Fish has even more to tell me that I’m not going to like.

  “What else is there, Fish? What aren’t you telling me?”

  “You have made some very powerful enemies, Agent Wilder,” he says. “Perhaps even more powerful than you know.”

  I shake my head. “No, I think I’m pretty aware of who’s gunning for me these days. It’s a pretty lengthy list.”

  The gate to the garage rumbles up and a black Audi drives in. Fish melts into the shadows so effectively, I can barely see him. He waits until the car has passed by without incident before he emerges again.

  “Why are you so jumpy, Fish?”

  “Because I fear I may have drawn the eye of those who hunt you,” he says. “My inquiries may not have gone unnoticed.”

  My stomach churns wildly and I feel I’m going to be sick. It’s then I realize that Fish has become part of my pack. Part of my tribe. It’s the strangest thing, given that we exist on opposite sides of the legal spectrum, but I have to admit that I have a genuine affection for him. And the thought that to him—because of a favor he was doing for me, no less—sends an intense lightning bolt of fear shooting through me.

  Even in the darkness, I can see his smile. “Don’t worry for me, Agent Wilder. I’m protected. I will be fine,” he says. “I will probably go underground for a little while. But I will always be reachable to you. Always.”

  “Thank you, Fish,” I say. “And I’m sorry I brought this down on you.”

  He laughs softly. “Knowing you certainly keeps life interesting. I will say that.”

  “Well, here’s to many, many more years of it being interesting.”

  “Well said.”

  “But tell me, what is it that has you so rattled?” I ask.

  He sighs. “There is an assassin on US soil right now. The person is a legend, somebody even monsters fear—”

  “You’re not saying ‘he’ or ‘she,’” I interrupt.

  “That is because nobody knows who the assassin is, whether male or female, or which nationality,” he explains. I can hear the nervous tension in his voice. “There is only one thing that is known about this person. And that is he or she is called Đavole.”

  “Zavol-ay?” I pronounce.

  “Closer to a D and J at the same time,” Fish explains. “Đavole—that is Serbian for ‘devil’. Nobody knows where the name came from, but this fearsome beast’s reputation certainly lives up to it.”

  “Okay, why is this Đavole here?” I ask.

  “If my information is correct—and it usually is—then Đavole is here for you,” he says. “He or she has been hired by somebody to kill you.”

  His words freeze the blood in my veins, and all I can do is stare at Fish. I take a couple of beats to process it and gather myself.

  “They’re trying to stop me from investigating. They don’t want me to find the secrets they’re hiding,” I say.

  “Đavole would be an effective way to do just that,” he nods.

  “Do we have any idea where this assassin is?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Not specifically, but there was chatter that Davole is still on the east coast at present. Perhaps tying up some loose ends for his or her employer before coming west,” he tells me. “But that is speculation. There is no way of knowing for sure. Not until Davole shows up at your door to kill you, anyway.”

  “Thank you, Fish. For everything you’ve done for me,” I tell him.

  “Of course. And thank you for all you’ve done for me as well.”

  I give him an awkward smile. “Why does this feel as if we’re saying goodbye forever?”

  Fish smiles. “Let us hope it is not,” he says. “Please be careful, Agent Wilder. Watch your surroundings. And be careful of who enters your life.”

  I laugh softly. “A few years too late for that one,” I say. “But point taken. And thank you, Fish. You watch your back and stay safe. When this is all over, I’ll look forward to seeing you in those shiny suits you love to wear.”

  His smile is sad. I get the feeling he thinks he’s looking at a dead woman. It’s not a comforting feeling, to say the least. Fish surprises me by pulling me into a tight embrace. After a couple of moments, he steps back.

  “Be careful, Agent Wilder.”

  “You too, Fish.”

  I watch him walk away and melt into the shadows. And then he’s gone, like a spirit in the night. I pick up my bag and head to the
elevator, keeping a cautious eye out. I scan the parking lot, looking for something—or somebody—that doesn’t belong. Looking for movement in the shadows. But I make it to the bank of elevators and am on my way up without incident.

  Keeping my shooting hand free, I cautiously peek out of the elevator, first one way and then the other, before stepping off on my floor. I walk down to my door and quickly open it, step inside, and close it behind me, throwing all the locks I had installed. I drop my keys in the dish and my bag on the floor, then pull my gun and move from room to room, clearing my entire apartment before I let myself relax—a little bit.

  I’m on edge. All my defenses are up. Which I like to think is somewhat understandable, given the fact that Fish just told me some notorious assassin who everybody fears is coming for me. Part of me feels I would probably have a better chance of stopping a freight train with a blade of grass than this mysterious killer.

  I pour myself a glass of wine, then move around my place, turning out all the lights as I go. When the house is darkened, I sit down in one of the chairs in the living room area with my wine in one hand and my weapon in my lap, and consider. I’m not paranoid enough that I think Fish’s visit has somehow conjured up Davole tonight. It could be days or weeks—or, yes, hours—before the assassin comes for me. But I’m going to have to be a lot more careful, much more prepared, from now on. I’ll have to come up with a strategy to protect myself and those around me. For tonight, though, I’m on guard, just in case. Nobody gets the drop on me.

  Fish has me so worked up that sleep, I fear, is going to be a long way off. Maybe for the foreseeable future.

  Thirty-Seven

  Criminal Data Analysis Unit; Seattle Field Office

  “… two ATF agents were killed in the firefight with homegrown, domestic terrorists in southern Washington last night. I will never waver in my fight against those who’d harm our great country. Yes, it’s a tragedy that twenty-seven domestic terrorists lost their lives. They were Americans, once upon a time. But they chose a different path. They chose the way of violence and treachery to our nation. So, don’t mourn them too much. Instead, celebrate the teams of FBI and ATF agents who took up that fight, some of them paying the ultimate price, to defend this country and everybody in it from those who seek to do us harm…”