The Cipher

by Maldonado, Isabella

  She had been trained in judo, where a fighter uses his opponent’s own momentum against him. She would have to try that approach to have any hope of defeating the Cipher. That meant allowing herself to open up, deliberately making herself vulnerable in order to find his weaknesses. For the second time that day, she recalled her silent vow.

  Whatever it took.

  So be it. She would defeat him. Or die trying.

  Chapter 43

  The Cipher stood and pulled the hooded raincoat off, letting it crumple to the carpeted floor. The Nina Guerrera show had ended, and he was aroused. He glanced at the old-fashioned mantel clock and forced his mind to the task at hand. No time to indulge himself. He walked toward the stairs to the upper floor, stepping over the body of the old man sprawled by the dining room table.

  Half an hour ago, the codger had answered his knock at the front door. The old man’s eyesight was better than expected, because he took one look at the man on his doorstep and tried to shut the door. The television had been blaring in the living room, and a fairly accurate composite sketch of the Cipher as a tatted-up biker dude was on the screen. A couple of sharp blows to the head had ended the old man’s worries. Permanently.

  He was pleased with his choice. After watching several different houses in the neighborhood, he’d found an elderly man’s house. He’d been prepared to deal with a couple, but the man was apparently a widower. So much the better. No one would come home while he was still here.

  He traipsed up the steps to the master bedroom, then padded into the bathroom and turned on the shower. While the water warmed, he peeled off his black leather gloves, revealing the blue nitrile pair underneath. He took off his clothes with practiced efficiency and stepped under the adjustable showerhead. The hot water sluiced down his scarred back. He wet a washcloth, wrung it out, and scrubbed his arms. The skin grew raw as all traces of the temporary tattoos swirled down the drain at his feet in a Technicolor vortex.

  Why did old people always favor washcloths over loofahs? Perhaps the fabric was easier on their crepe-like skin, or maybe it was just a lack of ability to adapt. They had grown up with washcloths, and dammit, that’s what they were going to use.

  He slid a green-and-white bar of Irish Spring around on the wet cloth and went back to work. The warm water did not soothe him. Only one thing would placate him now.

  Retribution.

  He picked at his chin, peeling away the remnants of the glued-on goatee. Satisfied, he turned off the water and stepped out to examine the results in the wide bathroom mirror. He flexed, admiring the results years of hard training and fighting had wrought. His pale skin glistened with moist droplets that ran in rivulets over his well-defined muscles, powerful without unnecessary bulk. His body, now clean shaven from head to toe, was a blank canvas on which he could paint any persona he wished.

  He toweled off and strode to the master closet. The old man had been stooped but tall. The brown corduroy slacks left his ankles exposed because he was even taller, all the better to show off the compression stockings stretched over his thick calves. The orthopedic shoes were a size too small but ensured he would remember to hobble slightly. Much more comfortable than the rock he had put in his shoe in Georgetown when he was disguised as a delivery man with a limp.

  Thoughts of DC set his teeth on edge. The moment he saw her in that viral video, he’d planned this whole scheme. He had chosen the little Latina runaway to draw Nina into his game, where he made the rules and he decided on the outcome. For years he had thought about the girl he had known as Nina Esperanza, the one that got away.

  Now, thanks to Nina, there were two. She had defied him twice, so she would have to pay twice. First, he would take someone dear to her. Then, he would take her.

  She had seen what he did to the other girls, but they were strangers. No one close to her. That was about to change. But who? She had no family. Wasn’t married.

  That gave him pause. Had she not been with a man since him? Because of him? Had he altered her so deeply she could not bear a man’s touch? He had asked her the question during their first direct message exchange, but she’d refused to answer him. He felt sure he was the only man who had ever touched her intimately. The thought threatened to reawaken his desire, and he tamped it down.

  He finished buttoning the shirt and reached up for the flat cap resting on top of the dresser. Why did every old guy own one of these damn caps? Did they come in the mail with your AARP card? He pulled it onto his bald head, pleased to cover his scalp until his thick blond hair grew back in.

  Next, he pushed the man’s oversize blue-blocker glasses onto his nose, distorting the hue of his eyes. If the TSA wand wavers asked him to take them off, he’d rant about his glaucoma and threaten a lawsuit. He loved being a grumpy old man.

  His former disguise lay on the bathroom floor, the discarded skin of a snake. He couldn’t use the biker persona anymore, and he couldn’t fly to DC with the same ID he’d used to get from Atlanta to Phoenix, which he’d left in the RV. Today’s disguise would last a day or two, but it only took five hours to fly to Dulles airport, and then he would disappear.

  He found the man’s wallet on the dresser along with his car keys. Perfect. With enough orneriness, he could bluster his way through airport security as Mr. William Winchell, eighty-six-year-old curmudgeon who didn’t take any guff from smart-aleck whippersnappers. He might even shake his fist at them.

  He slid the wallet in his pocket along with the keys and went downstairs to collect his phone and webcam. The TV was still blaring, and he decided to catch a quick update before he drove Mr. Winchell’s Buick to the airport.

  That FBI woman was on again. The one who’d said she was close to Nina Guerrera. She was quite attractive but obviously much older than Nina. He read the name at the bottom of the screen. RETIRED FBI EXECUTIVE ASSISTANT DIRECTOR SHAWNA JACKSON. A very high-ranking official in the Bureau. Perhaps Nina looked up to her. Admired her. Wanted to be like her. An idea began to take shape. He used his phone to google her, found her Instagram profile, and clicked on it. Shawna lived in the suburbs of DC. Like Nina. Interesting. He scrolled through her posts.

  In less than sixty seconds, his plan veered in a new direction. Shawna appeared in a photograph taken at a ceremony with Nina, who was receiving a community action award for mentoring an at-risk foster girl named Bianca Babbage. The petite teen was in the picture as well, her young face framed by long dark hair with a streak of blue.

  He thumb-typed Bianca’s name so fast he almost dropped the phone. He found her Instagram account first. He scrolled back a month and spotted her getting ready to start the fall semester at GW. Nina was standing with her, all smiles, in front of an apartment building. This girl was clearly very important to Nina. Someone she cared deeply about. He shoved the phone back into his pocket as his predatory instincts uncoiled. He had caught a scent.

  Target acquired.

  Chapter 44

  Instead of her accustomed seat at the small table with Wade, Kent, and Buxton, Nina opted for the chair next to Breck’s as the Gulfstream climbed to cruising altitude. She instinctively sought out a comforting feminine presence in Breck, who provided refuge from the testosterone-laden environment across the cabin. Phoenix was behind them, but the fallout from what the Cipher had done hung in the plane like a toxic cloud.

  Nina was fully aware that millions had watched the video. They had seen the monster break her, crush her spirit, blight her soul as he slowly, methodically, and thoroughly destroyed every ounce of dignity she possessed. Now that she had some private space, Nina mustered the nerve to ask Breck what had been uppermost on her mind.

  “Did it run all the way to the end?”

  Thankfully, Breck understood the question without the need for further explanation. “Buxton gave the order and we made arrangements to shut the video down after only eleven minutes. Then we took all the Cipher’s social media accounts back offline.”

  Next chance she got, she’d buy Breck a
mint julep, or whatever they drank in Georgia. She cleared her throat, determined to hear the worst. “Did it get as far as the rape?”

  Breck’s pale skin grew pink, then crimson. “Yes.”

  Aware it was costing Breck to provide details, she still had to know exactly what the world had seen. And what was yet to come, because she was damn sure the Cipher wasn’t finished with the show.

  “Tell me.”

  Breck leaned so close their heads almost touched. “After you left, the video continued for a while with him choking you half to death, then slapping you until you were fully awake. Then he—” Breck put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, Nina, do you really want to hear this?”

  “I do.” Her heart was hammering, but she willed herself to listen.

  Breck looked like she would rather be anywhere else. After a long pause, she squared her shoulders and looked Nina full in the face.

  “He began to hit you,” Breck said, her voice strained with emotion. “Really hard. All over. And he kept making you talk. Making you beg him for mercy.” Her eyes welled with tears. “Then he stood with his back to the camera and opened the front of his cloak. His body was completely covered by the dark fabric, even his hood was still up over the back of his head. I couldn’t see anything except his hands and feet. Then he climbed on top of the table and laid on your back and . . . and he kept choking you from behind and speaking in your ear while he raped you.” Her last words came out as a breathless whisper. “That’s what was happening when we shut the sonofabitch down.”

  Sweat prickled her hairline and dampened her palms. She tamped down her revulsion at the images rushing back to her to focus on something Breck had mentioned. The Cipher had spoken to her. She had forgotten that detail. “Could you hear what he was saying to me?”

  Breck shook her head. “Too low for the mic to pick up. Do you remember what he told you? Is it important?”

  “I’m not sure. Could Video Forensics enhance the sound?”

  “Absolutely.” Breck looked relieved to have something constructive to do as she pulled out her laptop and opened it on the armrest table attached to her seat. While it booted up, she turned to Nina and laid a gentle hand on her arm. “Do you want to go in the back and get some shut-eye? It’s a long flight to Dulles.”

  Breck was offering her an out. A perfectly good excuse to retreat. No one would fault her for being jet lagged after so many cross-country trips and emotionally drained after the video had aired. She could easily say she needed rest, head back to the private lounge at the rear of the plane, and hide from the world for a few hours while she licked her wounds.

  That may have been precisely what she wanted to do, but it was the opposite of what she needed to do. There were more girls like Trina out there, and if she was going to save them, she’d damned well better step up.

  She covered Breck’s hand with hers, giving it a brief squeeze before breaking the contact. “Actually, I’d rather get to work.”

  She stood and strode to the other table, surveying each of the men in turn. Kent had rushed out into the hall to find her after she’d left the Phoenix conference room and had remained at her side since that moment. When she went to the bathroom, he stood sentry outside the door. Wherever she walked, he’d been right on her heels, an overprotective, brooding shadow. Now, he regarded her silently from his chair.

  Wade had spoken with her briefly, offering himself as a sounding board, but had not pushed the issue when she declined. He hadn’t seemed surprised or offended when she gravitated to Breck, who had no background in psychology.

  Buxton was uncharacteristically quiet, keeping his own counsel. She had no doubt the boss had spoken with his superiors about this new development. Excitement over Trina’s rescue had been fleeting, and the Cipher’s retribution had been swift and devastating for the whole team. And for the Bureau.

  They had stopped talking when she got to her feet, watching her as she approached. “I’m ready,” she said without preamble.

  Wade eyed her. “For what?”

  She had spent years shoring up her internal walls. Her legal name change reflected the fact that she no longer believed in hope. Throughout her childhood, no one had fought for her. When a broken system utterly failed her, she had decided to fight for herself. As an adult, she now fought for others. She had learned to trust only herself. Time to try something different.

  “Ready to do what it takes to catch this bastard,” she said. “It’s clear the Cipher knew a lot about me before he took me. It’s also clear there are details I don’t recall. Details that might point us in the right direction.” She gestured to Wade and Kent, prepared to do something she had never done. “I’m asking for your help. I need to remember.”

  The two profilers exchanged glances.

  “Where would you like to start?” Wade asked her.

  She considered for a moment, relieved they didn’t ask her if she was sure or if she wanted to wait. Perhaps they also felt time pressing down on them. “I’m not sure. Sometime before the abduction.”

  “He was fascinated by the scars on your back,” Kent said. “Why don’t we start there?”

  She plopped down next to Wade, opposite Kent and Buxton, who remained silent. She addressed Kent. “You want to know how I got them?”

  Wade shifted uncomfortably, already aware of the particulars from her file. She was sure it was one of many reasons he had doubted her suitability for the Bureau. It wasn’t a pretty story, nor did it cast her in the best light.

  Kent nodded. “Due to the Cipher’s comments to you about them, I believe it’s the best place to start.”

  She had no better suggestions. She scrolled back mentally, bringing up long-buried pain, prepared to recount one of the worst incidents of her life. “I was sixteen,” she began. “CPS put me in a foster home with a childless couple. They were a bit older, in their late forties, so the authorities gave them a high school kid to foster. I thought they were ancient at the time.”

  “What happened the day you got your injuries?” Kent asked, keeping her on track.

  “When I came home from school, there was a strange man in the house. I’d never seen him before. He reeked like he hadn’t showered in a week, his hair was long and greasy, and he was huge and hairy, like a grizzly bear. He was yelling at Denny, my foster father. Looked like he’d punched Denny a few times. My foster mother was out of the house. No idea where.”

  The memories became more vivid as she recounted the tale.

  “Grizzly took one look at me and said he knew how Denny could pay off his debt.”

  Kent’s eyes hardened into chips of blue ice.

  “Denny told me to go into the bedroom with Grizzly. I refused. I tried to run, but they caught me. Grizzly said he’d teach me my place. Told Denny to hold me still, then he took out a knife and cut off my T-shirt and bra.”

  She noticed Buxton’s hands clench before he slid them under the table.

  “Denny held me tight with my bare back to Grizzly, who took off his belt. It was one of those braided leather types. He promised to beat me until I passed out or went with him willingly, but either way I’d be going to the bedroom. He started on me, but I didn’t give in, so he turned the belt around and swung it buckle first. That’s what made all the gashes.”

  Kent looked like he wanted to hit something, but he didn’t interrupt her.

  “Finally, I told him I’d do whatever he wanted,” she went on, surprised at the calm in her own voice. “Before Grizzly could drag me away, I dug a hand in Denny’s pocket, where I knew he kept a folding knife. I’d decided to stab that motherfucker in the throat once he got me alone. Unfortunately, I went into the wrong pocket, and I got Denny’s lighter instead.

  “Grizzly grabbed my wrist and yanked me down the hall and into the bedroom. I told him I was on my period. He didn’t care. I told him I had to pee. He didn’t care. I told him I was about to barf and started retching, so he let me go to the toilet.”

  Even at a young ag
e, she had learned to think on her feet after fending off a lot of people much bigger than she was.

  “I went in the bathroom and looked around for a weapon. No scissors. Nothing sharp. Then I saw a can of my foster mother’s hair spray. I got in position, holding the nozzle toward the door. I flicked on Denny’s lighter and held the flame right under the can’s nozzle. When Grizzly opened the door, I pressed down and blasted the flaming spray straight into his disgusting, hairy face. His beard caught fire. While he ran in circles screaming and smacking his face trying to put out the fire, I beat feet.”

  She half smiled at the memory.

  “Ran straight past Denny, who was coming down the hall to see what was going on. Kept going until I made it to the crosswalk down the street. The elementary school let out after I got home, so I knew a crossing guard would be there.”

  “What did the crossing guard do?” Kent said.

  “She put her vest over me and called the police. I still didn’t have a shirt on. Less than five minutes later, the cops showed up. So did an ambulance. Turns out she told the emergency dispatcher I was bleeding pretty bad.”

  “What did the police do?”

  “The cops were asking a lot of questions. While I was telling them what happened, one of the paramedics put something on my back that burned like hell. Must have been an antiseptic. I didn’t think, I just reacted. Spun around and socked the guy as hard as I could. He was big, so it didn’t seem to hurt him, but he grabbed my wrist. I’m sure he just wanted to stop me from taking another swing, but when I felt his big hand around my wrist, I lost it. Started kicking him and hitting him with my free hand.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He was strong as hell. Quick reflexes too. Grabbed both of my forearms and pulled me into him so I couldn’t kick his balls, which is where I was aiming. The other paramedic and the two cops joined in. It took all four men to restrain me. They finally let up a bit, then the guy who put the antiseptic on my back told me to calm down. I absolutely freaked when he said that. He grabbed my arm tight enough to leave bruises, then he got right up in my face and ordered me to . . .”