STORM’S ENDGAME

AMELIA STORM SERIES: BOOK FOURTEEN

MARY STONE

AMY WILSON

Copyright © 2025 by Mary Stone Publishing

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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For the readers who have followed Amelia through every mystery, every danger, every impossible choice. Your passion and loyalty have made every twist worth writing. While this may be the final chapter in her story, the thrill of the chase never truly ends.

Thank you for every page you’ve turned, every theory you’ve spun, and every moment you’ve spent in this world. This one’s for you.

DESCRIPTION

The last act has begun…

A week ago, a woman’s body was found in a park. A day later, images of her death surfaced on the dark web. A snuff film depicting the horror of her final moments.

The murder was shocking. The video was worse.

Now, a second victim has been found. And yet another film is spreading.

FBI Special Agent Amelia Storm has seen horror before, but this case is different. Too calculated. Too performative. Too real. With her former case partner—and now lover—back at her side, she’s racing to unmask the monster behind the camera before he casts his next victim.

But this isn’t just about murder. It’s about the spectacle. The audience. The performance.

The killer’s been watching from afar. Waiting for revenge. And now, he wants Amelia to be his final leading lady.

From the wickedly dark minds of Mary Stone and Amy Wilson comes Storm’s Endgame, book fourteen of the Amelia Storm FBI Series, proving there’s no expiration date on settling old scores.

1

As the fog of sleep lifted from Eric McClain’s brain, his senses returned in hesitant, halting steps, like a frightened animal approaching a human for the first time. Much like the instincts of the animal, some distant voice in Eric’s psyche warned him that returning to the conscious world was a trap.

Light pressed against his closed eyelids, harsh and unforgiving. Even with his eyes shut, the glow burned orange-yellow as heat radiated from above. He fought the urge to move, forcing himself to stay still, to listen.

The air was thick with dust, dry enough to coat his throat, but beneath it lurked something else. Something rancid. His head throbbed with each beat of his heart, and his body ached from lying on the hard yet somewhat rubbery floor beneath him.

This wasn’t the first time Eric had woken in an unfamiliar environment. After the death of his parents, he’d numbed the dull ache in his soul with barbiturates and synthetic opiates. The addiction and the constant need to shut off his grieving brain had landed him in some of Chicago’s more unsavory neighborhoods, but those experiences were in the past. Eric had gotten clean.

This waking situation felt different. He hadn’t relapsed. He was certain.

He tried to remember through the pounding in his head.

No, he hadn’t fallen off the wagon. He’d attended his regular meeting for people recovering from addiction, just like he did every Sunday evening. And, per usual, he’d left to catch one of the elevated trains, known to natives as simply the L. The system rumbled above and below the streets and shuttled people up and down the Lake Michigan shoreline and out to the suburbs and airport.

The L should’ve taken him to a stop only a few blocks from his apartment building.

But he’d never set foot on the train.

He remembered heading toward the station and how the sweat trickled down his chest and back in the humid evening. The thought of getting on the L and standing among equally sweaty people annoyed him. Then a car pulled up alongside him.

A man had offered him a ride home, and Eric, sweaty and uncomfortable accepted. He remembered the blast of air conditioning hitting his face.

In his current state, Eric couldn’t recall why he’d trusted the man, but he had to have recognized him somehow. He knew better than to take a ride from a perfect stranger.

None of that’s important right now. What matters is that I’m barely conscious on some floor in the middle of God knows where. And I’m still sweating.

Wherever he was, it was bright, hot, and dry. If not for the floor beneath him, he might have thought he’d been dumped in the desert.

He gave himself a mental shake and tried to regain his wits. Memories began to return. He’d accepted a ride home, had to have known the guy, and was on his way when…

Something stung his neck. That bastard had injected him.

A litany of questions swirled through Eric’s beleaguered mind but two stood out.

Who injected me?

And why?

Eric had never researched serial killers, but they did this type of shit, right?

As he thought about sitting up, a man’s voice stopped him short. The man wasn’t speaking to him, however.

For a beat, Eric considered calling out. Maybe it’s someone who can help.

A deeper voice chimed in, bringing with it an ever greater sense of dread. Though Eric strained to hear, he couldn’t quite make out what the guy was saying. Something about a car…or maybe a tarp or a bar? From the tone of their conversation, he knew the men weren’t there to help him.

Not wanting them to realize he was awake, he stayed still with his eyes closed. Where was he? He needed to know in order to make a successful escape plan.

The floor reminded him of the mat his grandmother used in her shower to keep from slipping. Racking his brain to figure out what kind of place would have a rubbery floor, he came up empty and focused back on the conversation. Both voices were male, and one speaker was…foreign.

Did I end up in a foreign country? How long was I out?

Finally, his brain pieced together the accent. Russian, or someone from Eastern Europe.

Maybe he’d been taken by people who sold him. That couldn’t be right, though, because that only happened to women and children. Didn’t it? Not grown men.

That was when Eric’s other senses kicked in, and he realized he couldn’t move his arms or feet. Both his wrists and ankles were bound tightly.

Zip ties. As desperate as he was to learn more about his location and bindings, he didn’t want his captors to know he was conscious. If he did, that might prompt them to execute whatever messed-up plan they’d concocted for him.

“I know you are awake. You do not need to pretend.”

There goes that plan. Think, man, think.

Eric knew he wasn’t in a position to bargain, but the stubborn side of him didn’t want to obey the demanding foreigner. He clamped his eyelids tighter.

“Perhaps I was not clear. If you do not open your eyes, my associate will use his knife to slice off your eyelids. Then you will have no choice but to see what awaits you.”

His eyes flew open, and he blinked to adjust to the bright lights on the stands in front of him. The kind he’d seen in movie studios, with flaps on each side to direct the beam of light.

As he struggled against the black dots clouding his vision, two men came into focus. One wore a knit ski mask. Eric recognized the clothes. He was the one who’d offered him a ride.

Why the mask now?

He’d already seen his face, though he couldn’t quite picture it.

But his other captor didn’t wear anything to hide his appearance. He was clean-shaven with short jet-black hair. A wiry mass of dark hair peeked out of the neckline of the white t-shirt he wore under his button-down. With his thick neck, he looked like a high-end bouncer.

Eric swallowed when he realized the second man wasn’t concerned about concealing his identity.

Thick Neck strode over to the area where the lights blazed at Eric, and he lost sight of him through the relentless glare. When he reappeared, he stood between two of the lights, behind a large video camera. Another camera rested on a tripod a few yards away, a red light glowing next to the lens.

What the hell? He’s recording this.

Whatever ‘this’ is.

Thick Neck raised a fist into the air and snapped his fingers in the direction of the masked guy.

Ski Mask grabbed a device dangling from a long cord stretching up to a metal track above him. When he pressed a button on it, a whirring sound filled the room and echoed off walls that seemed miles away.

To his horror, Eric was slowly dragged by his feet closer to the cameras and lights. The rubbery floor gripped at his clothes, as if it were trying to save him. Before he could do anything but scream, his legs rose, and his knees wrenched at an awkward angle, sending a sharp twinge through his body.

Twisting to see what was overhead, Eric spotted a large hook attached to the binds around his ankles. Like something out of a slaughterhouse.

Oh, no.

“Just as your body is being raised above the ground, you, too, will be elevated from a meaningless existence to a form of immortality. I congratulate you on what you are about to achieve. I am sure you never believed when you were a drug addict that you would become a work of art.” Thick Neck made a grand gesture to Ski Mask. A cheerful malice laced his voice.

Dangling upside down, several feet off the ground, Eric watched in horror as Ski Mask pulled a long knife from a sheath on his hip. Blood and terror rushed to Eric’s head, his vision blurring.

“No! You don’t have to do this.” Eric writhed, which only caused him to spin on the hook. “I don’t have a lot of money, but you can have it. All of it.” Panic constricted his throat, making it hard to speak, to breathe.

Ski Mask’s boots squeaked as he stopped at an unmarked spot on the floor. He looked back at Thick Neck, who seemed to be running the show, and waited for his cue.

“Do you have any last words before you are immortalized?” His Russian accent was severe, but his words were clear, his tone inquisitive and…happy?

Eric screamed as he jerked his body with his lingering strength, hoping to snap the zip ties around his ankles. He might break his neck if he fell, but he’d rather control his own fate than leave it up to these two psychos. If anything, the plastic dug deeper into his skin, cutting him but holding him in place.

Sweat poured into his eyes, and he blinked against the salt. He didn’t know if he was crying or not. Everything burned.

“Very well.” Thick Neck leaned down to peer through the camera before pointing at Ski Mask. At that signal, the masked man resumed his approach.

Eric’s burning gaze fixed on the knife moving closer.

With one last look back at the camera for final approval, Ski Mask turned and smiled through the mask’s slit as he wiggled the knife in front of Eric’s face. Eric saw his own reflection. His cherry-red face was already swollen. Veins popped out of his forehead.

No longer willing to watch the events of his inevitable death unfold, Eric slammed his eyes closed.

Thoughts of his big brother raced into his mind. Buddy was like a parent to him, even while he struggled with drug addiction. Eric had put him through hell after their parents’ death, and Buddy had stepped up. He’d gotten clean, but he’d never apologized or thanked Buddy for all he’d done. A surge of useless regret crashed over him.

The barest movement of air was replaced by searing pain slicing across his throat. He struggled for air as a sheet of hot blood blanketed his face, running into his nose and mouth. The coppery liquid choked him.

His big brother would be all alone in the world, and Eric would never have a chance to thank him or say “I love you” ever again.

2

Special Agent Amelia Storm straightened her cardigan as she took a seat, setting her laptop down. Though it was near the end of July and the temperature outside hovered close to ninety-five degrees, the Chicago FBI Field Office always kept its air-conditioning set just above freezing. Or at least that was how it felt most days.

She glanced across the table to where Spencer Corsaw gazed intently at his laptop screen. And when two agents entered the meeting room, her heart lightened as her former-case-partner-turned-lover appeared. Special Agent Zane Palmer and the man at his back, Special Agent Dean Steelman, were mid-conversation, but Zane still took a moment to offer her one of his charming smiles.

“…the migration of the wildebeests in Tanzania. I guess this is the time of year for it.”

“That must be amazing. Is your family planning to visit the Ngorongoro Crater? I’ve heard that’s a sight.”

The snippet of dialogue was all Amelia needed to recognize the topic. They were discussing the African safari trip Zane’s family had planned for nearly a year. Amelia imagined the Palmer clan were having the time of their lives, and she couldn’t wait to hear all about it.

Nearing the seat beside Spencer, Zane glanced around. “Are we waiting for anyone, or is this it?”

As if to answer the question, a familiar, broad-shouldered man appeared in the doorway. Streaks of gray shot through Supervisory Special Agent Barry Burton’s neatly trimmed beard, and his rust-brown hair fell straight back from his forehead. Amelia still wasn’t sure how old the SSA was, but based on his appearance and the ages of his kids, he was likely in his early fifties. Though her interactions with SSA Burton were still somewhat limited, Amelia respected the man.

He scanned the faces gathered around the table and offered them a slight smile. “Morning, everyone. Agent Cowen ought to be here any second, and then we’ll get started.”

Amelia peered at the doorway, her curiosity piqued. Though she knew the case was a joint effort between Violent Crime and Organized Crime—uncommon in its own right—she hadn’t had much chance to research prior to the briefing.

Before she could begin churning out too many questions, Special Agent Sherry Cowen trotted into the room, a black laptop bag tucked beneath one arm. With a quick smile to the group, she closed the door and made her way to the empty seat at Amelia’s side. “Wow, I’m not used to being the last one here. Sorry to keep you guys waiting.”

SSA Burton waved a dismissive hand. “No worries. I only just arrived.” He flipped open the manila folder resting on his laptop. “That being said, we do have a lot to cover and not a lot of time to do it, so I’ll get right to brass tacks.” He dipped his chin in Zane and Spencer’s direction. “Agents Palmer and Corsaw have been the two leads on this since we received it from the Chicago PD the day before last.”

Spencer nodded but remained silent. His lack of response only raised more questions in Amelia’s mind, and she turned back to SSA Burton.

Burton held up a finger. “One week ago, the body of a twenty-nine-year-old woman named Elinor Fogleman was found in Willow Park. CPD’s Area Four Homicide Team took the case. The following day, some of our folks in Cyber discovered a snuff film making rounds on the dark web.”

I think I know where this is going. Amelia shifted in her seat.

“The film depicted Fogleman being killed. A single masked man wearing all black slit her throat as she hung upside down by her ankles. The camera held on Ms. Fogleman until most of her blood drained from her body. Because of this, and a lack of evidence at the park, we believe the park was just a dump site, not the primary crime scene.”

The grisly details of the woman’s murder, the sheer brutality, stoked the first embers of rage in Amelia’s heart. “They treated her like a freshly killed deer?”

Expression grim, Burton nodded. “That was my first impression. Cyber went to identify the victim, and that’s when they came across the CPD’s brand new homicide investigation.” He scratched his bearded chin. “But then Cyber and Intelligence found even more snuff films made by the same person. Whoever this person is, they’ve been filming murders for more than five years.”

Sherry’s jaw went slack. “The same person? How can we tell?”

Burton flipped through some papers. “The long and short of it is that there were multiple digital identifiers that linked the videos. A similar username used to post them, a common following, and even the same mask used in many of them. ViCAP and national missing persons reports haven’t matched up with any of the victims so far, though, and Cyber can’t pin down the exact location of the uploads, but they’re confident all the other videos they’ve found were made in Eastern Europe.”

Eastern European snuff films dating back roughly five years—and now the unsub was in Chicago? Amelia considered a litany of reasons why he might hop continents. She’d worked on her share of challenging cases, including an organ harvester who’d also operated on the dark web. Still, the notion was daunting.

“Two days ago, another body was found.” The SSA straightened the pages in his hand with a light tap. “Rachael Gibber was identified by dental records. A thirty-two-year-old woman who worked as a server at Windy City Eatery near downtown. CPD’s cyber group discovered the video of her murder on the dark web that same day, Sunday, and the CPD, knowing we have jurisdiction, handed the investigation over.”

As if in preparation for the next part, Zane spread several documents on the table in front of him.

Burton gestured to Spencer. “Which is where Agents Corsaw and Palmer come into play. I know you guys have only had this on your desks for about a day and a half, but let’s hear what you’ve got so far.”

Amelia was nearing a year and a half at the Bureau’s Chicago branch. In fact, the man sitting across from her had been her SSA for her entire tenure in Organized Crime. Former SSA and now Special Agent Spencer Corsaw had overseen the division until three months earlier, around the same time Amelia had split off to her new role in the Violent Crime Unit.

The timing of her and Spencer’s role changes had been a coincidence. But now, as Amelia sat across from her former boss, she realized how at ease Spencer seemed. Back when Amelia was in Organized Crime, he’d always held himself like a soldier in the midst of a war zone.

And Amelia would know. She’d spent ten years in the military before joining the FBI.

With his gaze fixed on his laptop, Spencer leaned back in his chair. “For starters, we’ve got an interview scheduled with the manager at Windy City Eatery in a couple hours. In terms of the snuff films, the CPD’s working theory was that the films were being made by one of the organized crime groups here in Chicago. They thought it could be the Russians, the Italians, or one of the cartels. Someone with ties overseas.”

Amelia racked her brain. She was familiar with the mobs and cartels of the city after nearly a year alongside Zane in Organized Crime when she first started there. Of course, that wasn’t the only reason she’d been schooled in the ways of the mob.

During her sophomore year in high school, she’d come across the son of an Italian Mafia capo in her job at a movie theater. They’d dated for two years, but when his father threatened her life, she’d done the only thing she could think of—broke off the relationship, joined the military, and moved across the country.

Her experiences with both Alex Passarelli and her early cases in the Chicago field office gave her an interesting outlook on the city’s organized crime. The Passarelli family, as well as the rest of the crime families in the city, had never delved into snuff films to her knowledge.

Sure, the atmosphere could’ve changed in the last six months, but Amelia couldn’t picture the traditional Italian mafiosos dabbling in that vile industry. Add in the fact that the videos discovered by Cyber dated back more than five years, and she had an even more difficult time attributing them to the Italian Mob.

She turned a questioning glance to Spencer. “Have you found anything to support that theory?”

He shrugged. “Not yet. Palmer and I think we can rule out the Italians, especially if we’re dealing with Eastern Europe. The most likely culprit would be the Russians, even though this would be the first any of us has heard of snuff films being shot in Chicago.”

“Unfortunately,” Zane held out his hands, “there’s a first time for everything.”

SSA Burton nodded. “There is indeed. Whoever this unsub is, they seem to operate much like a serial killer. That’s why we’ve pulled you three in from Violent Crimes. There’s only been one male perpetrator in each video, so we could be dealing with a lone wolf. At the same time, it’s possible we’re dealing with a small group who aren’t tied to the Russians or the cartels.”

Sherry shifted in her chair. “And we’re sure the person in the videos is male?”

“Based on the calculated height, the broad shoulders, and the narrow hips, we’re confident the person in the videos is a man. His shirt is well-fitted enough that we’ve got a pretty good idea of his body type.”

His reasoning made good sense to Amelia. As loath as she was to wade back into the world of organized crime, the idea of a snuff filmmaker targeting people in Chicago for his sick videos settled like a stone in her stomach.

Two victims in rapid succession. The unsub had changed, but why now? He was unraveling—or worse, growing bolder. Either way, something had changed, and Amelia needed to know what before another body turned up.

3

A bead of sweat trickled between Mandy Avery’s shoulder blades as she fought to keep from frowning. With birds flitting about and chirping and the tree branches of the modest public park swaying in the slight breeze, the scene was picturesque. However, it was nearing the end of July in Chicago. Even at midday, the temperature had already climbed to the mid-nineties, and she couldn’t even take her dark-brown leather jacket off.

She needed the damn thing to conceal her service weapon. The man meeting her today already knew she worked as a homicide detective for the Chicago PD, but there was a comforting aspect to concealing her Glock. It provided a sense of control.

Though, lately, she’d been anything but. What had started out as a contract to kill one of the people circuitously responsible for her late husband’s death had mutated into…

Well, she wasn’t sure what this was. All she could say for sure was that her gut was screaming at her to get away from the lunatic she’d hired via the dark web.

Just as the thought of the enigmatic Russian entered her mind, a familiar German sports car rounded a bend and drove into the small lot beside the public park. The heavily tinted windows made it difficult to discern details, but it had to be the guy.

Mandy pretended to be interested in her nails as the car pulled into the space beside her own vehicle. In spite of the aloofness she wanted to convey, the hairs on the back of her neck prickled, and her stomach was in knots. This was only the third time they’d met face-to-face, and she dreaded the encounter.

As the man, who Mandy knew simply as Bogdan, stepped onto the sidewalk to meet her, she dropped her hand and turned to face him. “You’re late.”

He ran a hand down the front of his white button-down and shrugged. “Traffic. There was an accident, otherwise I would have arrived on schedule. The circumstances, they interfered. You see?”

Mandy doubted the excuse and assumed it was a power move on the Russian’s part. “Well, I suppose tardiness is a good way to broach the subject of why I asked you to meet me here today.”

His gaze turned curious. “Tardiness?”

Mandy’s pulse hammered in her ears, but she kept her expression carefully blank. She’d mentally recited their meeting at least a hundred times by now, right down to predicting how he’d react. “Yes, tardiness. It’s been weeks, and you still haven’t delivered.”

He let out a mirthless laugh. “Killing a federal agent is more complicated than, say, picking up an item from the supermarket.”

Mandy held up her hand, forcing all her anxiety down into the furthest recesses of her brain. “I didn’t say it was easy, but you knew what the job was when you accepted it. You’re a professional, aren’t you?”

He narrowed his eyes, though only slightly. “Of course. I am…how is it you say here in America? ‘Covering my bases.’ Yes, that is it. You would not want anything to go wrong. Because killing federal agents is quite the offense in this country.”

She waved her hand. “That’s not the point. The longer this drags out, the riskier it becomes for both of us. You’ve had nearly a month, and nothing’s changed since the first time we met. I’m ending the contract.”

“Fine. I keep the payment.”

Even as relief washed over Mandy’s tense body, she shot him a glare. If she didn’t at least pretend to be annoyed with losing almost a quarter of a million, she’d pique his suspicion. After inheriting Saul’s vast fortune, the sum was a drop in the bucket. But he didn’t need to know that. Right now, all she wanted was to cut ties with this lunatic and forget any of their interactions ever occurred. But she couldn’t show fear.

“The entire down payment?”

“Yes. All.” He shrugged. “No refunds.”

“I gave you a down payment for services I haven’t received. We agreed to half up front, assuming you’d fulfill the contract. The other half paid out when the job was done. Well, the job isn’t done.”

The slightest smile crept across his face like decay crept over the dead. “I can still finish it if you like.”

“No.” She’d prefer to undo every interaction the two of them had ever had, especially when he smiled like that. There was something wrong with the man, a vital piece of humanity missing from his eyes. It was a sight Mandy had witnessed as a homicide detective, but it was much less intimidating when the person was shackled to a table in an interrogation room.

Most assassins, in Mandy’s experience, accepted contracts to kill as a means of making large sums of money. There were also those driven by power. Both motivations made sense to her. But this man was different. Whatever had led him to the world of murder for hire was…darker. And she wanted no part of it.

Mandy heaved an exaggerated sigh. “I believe I’m entitled to get some of the money back.”

He tilted his head, his expression contemplative. “Nyet. What you ask is not possible. I have done a great deal of research on this woman, Amelia Storm. It was risky and took much time. I will not haggle. You always knew the down payment was mine, no matter if the job was completed. Should I remind you that you are the one canceling our contract?”

Mandy barely suppressed an eye roll. Sure, Amelia Storm was a Fed, but Mandy doubted Bogdan had truly put his nose to the grindstone just to fulfill their contract. On the other hand, she didn’t like the spark in his eye when he said the agent’s name.

And what if he continued to stalk Amelia Storm and got caught? Would he sell her down the river?

Of course he would.

With a frown, she turned back toward him and met his unsettling gaze. “Fine, keep the money. But from here on out, you and I no longer speak. We’ve never met, understood?”

“Yes, yes. This I have heard before.” He inhaled deeply and glanced around at the trees. “What a lovely day. I should go enjoy it.”

Ninety-five degrees with eighty percent humidity wasn’t exactly frolicking weather, but Mandy held on to that comment. “You…do that.”

He nodded before making his way back to his shiny sports car in the public parking lot. Mandy didn’t permit herself to move until the vehicle was gone. And though she’d had his license plate number memorized from previous encounters, as soon as he was out of sight, she texted it to herself for good measure.

By the time she slumped down in the driver’s seat of her truck, she was spent. It was like she’d just run a half-marathon. Given the choice, she’d take just over thirteen miles over another meeting with that man any day of the week.

“Why do I feel like I’m not actually done with the scary Russian?” She opened her phone to a picture of her beloved late husband, running a finger down his precious face. “This was stupid. I’m sorry. I know you wouldn’t have wanted any of this. You were a good person, and I thought maybe I was, too, but this…”

She knew Saul would frown on how she’d spent a small portion of her inheritance.

Mandy was wealthy beyond belief and didn’t need to work. But puttering around in their vast mansion made her feel small and only emphasized how lonely she was without her husband. Working had kept her preoccupied and sane, or at least she liked to think so. But considering her first big spend was on an assassin, she doubted that logic.

Leaning back into her seat, she stared at a trio of picnic tables situated beneath a cluster of silver maple trees. Bogdan had taken the news of the contract cancellation well. A little too well.

Was he actually satisfied with his two hundred and fifty thousand dollars? He’d just been paid handsomely for doing next to nothing. A normal person would pat themselves on the back and go out to celebrate.

But she’d promised half a million.

And Bogdan was far from normal.

And his fixation on Amelia Storm was cause for concern.

In her over twenty years as a homicide detective, besides hiring someone to kill an FBI agent, she’d also hired Dr. Lou Sherman to harvest a heart for her dying husband. She’d believed she was skirting unfair medical restrictions on who could receive a viable organ transplant when she’d found him.

Sherman’s experiments, testing the strength of human endurance, had been secret. Mandy hadn’t known what he was doing. She’d assumed he was selling deceased donors’ organs.

Through some of Lou Sherman’s connections, she’d found Bogdan on the dark web. Stupidly, she’d thought that because Sherman was the real deal, his criminal connections would be legit too. Did that even make sense?

She was surely losing her mind.

A moral dilemma was brewing in her heart. Mandy needed to watch him, and she had to be damn careful he didn’t catch on to her surveillance.

4

Slowing to snag a parking space in front of a four-story apartment building, Zane and Spencer arrived at the home of Rachael Gibber’s manager.

Before leaving the office, Zane had stolen a private kiss from Amelia as he’d said goodbye to her in the empty hallway outside the incident room. He wasn’t sure why he’d increasingly felt the need for such gestures, but it was happening often enough that he and Amelia had discussed it one night at home.

She wasn’t opposed to sharing stolen kisses but wanted to make sure they were discreet and limited. The last thing either of them needed was to make their coworkers uncomfortable.

Her compassion for their fellow agents was only one thing that endeared the woman to Zane. Amelia’s upbringing had differed from his own, with her family struggling to make ends meet after her father spiraled into alcoholism when her mother died.

Zane’s family had faced tragedy when his father’s drunk driving resulted in his younger sister suffering a traumatic brain injury before dying. But after his mom left the asshole, she remarried and carved out a successful career in the financial industry, allowing their family to live quite comfortably.

But their different backgrounds didn’t stop them from seeing eye to eye on almost everything. Sure, they had occasional disagreements. Like how when Hup walked across the kitchen counters, he thought the feline deserved a squirt from a water bottle while Amelia wanted to douse Zane for scaring the adopted cat.

Amelia Nicole Storm was truly a delightful and extraordinary woman and a top-notch FBI agent.

More and more lately, Zane’s thoughts drifted to the future he wanted with Amelia. He’d even been doing covert research into what kind of ring he’d give her…if he took the leap. But they hadn’t discussed such a major step, and he wasn’t sure she was interested in that level of commitment.

His reflections on marrying her were wedging into his thoughts between interviewing witnesses and navigating the labyrinth of hallways at the field office more and more. And at night, images of Amelia walking down an aisle toward him were growing ever more prevalent too.

Shaking away yet another of such distractions, Zane parallel parked and peered out the window at the apartment complex. The place was old, but the lawn was lush, with yellow flowers planted in a neat row beside the entrance. “What else do we have planned regarding Rachael Gibber?”

Spencer glanced up from his phone. “We re-interviewed her sister and brother-in-law yesterday, and her mom’s retired and living in Florida. The mother was the last person the CPD interviewed before they sent the case our way, so we’ll want to call her just to make sure everything’s covered.”

“Right. And we’ve got to stop by Windy City Eatery and re-interview Gibber’s coworkers. See if they might’ve remembered anything between the CPD’s initial interview and now.”

Spencer rubbed his clean-shaven chin. “Yeah. They deal with people all the time, so maybe they’d have noticed if a customer was acting unusual.”

The possibility seemed remote to Zane, but there was no such thing as being too thorough. Especially when they were potentially dealing with a snuff filmmaker who’d been active for at least five years.

“All right. What is it, Corsaw?” Zane cocked his head at Spencer. “I know that look. There’s something you’ve been wanting to ask me all day.”

Spencer breathed out a long sigh. “Cyber said they’ve traced this guy back to Eastern Europe. And I know I’m only privy to this information because I used to be your boss, but…don’t you have some experience with that part of the world?”

Zane wasn’t sure whether to laugh or sigh. Though his official employment listed him as a more than ten-year veteran of the FBI, he’d only actually worked with the Bureau for the past three years. Before moving to the Organized Crime Unit, Zane had spent the bulk of his adult life as a covert operative for the Central Intelligence Agency.

His specialty back then was the Russian mob, both overseas and in the United States.

It wasn’t a fact known to many in the Bureau’s Chicago field office, but as the SSA in Organized Crime, Spencer had received a high-security clearance with access to information not always shared with other field agents.

Zane turned to him. “Yeah, you know I do. Trust me, I would’ve said something if this rang any bells.”

“Right. Just figured I’d ask anyway.” The man scratched an eyebrow. “Here’s another thing I’m wondering, though. Why would some snuff filmmaker, who’d set up shop in Eastern Europe, shift his operation to the American Midwest?”

Zane rested his elbow on the car door and rubbed his thumb against his fingers in the universal sign for cash. “Could be for money.”

“Chicago’s the third largest city in the country, so that’d give him an ample supply of victims. You think more people on the dark web will pay good money to watch someone torture or kill Americans?”

Zane shrugged. He couldn’t put his finger on why, but the theory didn’t quite fit for him. “Maybe. But it doesn’t feel right. Money talks for this guy. He’s been doing this shit for years, and God only knows if he’s killed people beyond the victims in the films he’s made. Something tells me you don’t kill people on film without getting some sort of satisfaction out of it. Or without practicing without a camera first.”

Spencer released his seat belt. “That’s why we’ve got VC on the case with us now. Well, that and because half of Organized Crime is dealing with that whole Bartlett Sons shipping mess. Honestly, who would’ve thought that a shipping and logistics company that’s been around since the start of the twentieth century was just a front for running drugs and guns for the Armenian Mob.”

“Stranger things have happened. You’d be surprised, honestly.” That didn’t quite fit either. “Or maybe you wouldn’t be.”

Spencer pushed his door open. “Either way, it’s nice to have the extra help with our case.”

They both hopped out and made their way into the building.

Though Zane was grateful for the chance to work alongside Amelia again, he, like Spencer, was equally thankful for the expertise she and the other Violent Crimes agents could provide. Mob bosses and contract killers made sense to Zane—their goals were money and power. He was less confident in his understanding of what made serial killers tick.

They made their way to the second floor, and Zane double-checked the apartment number before they knocked. Within seconds, the door swung inward, revealing a short woman wearing her chestnut-brown hair in a neat bun.

Zane pulled his badge from the interior pocket of his suit jacket. “Aileen Mayhall?”

She nodded. “Hello. You must be the agents I spoke to yesterday.”

“That’s right. I’m Special Agent Zane Palmer.”

Spencer tucked his badge away and introduced himself as well. “Like we mentioned yesterday, we’d like to ask you some questions about one of your employees. Rachael Gibber.”

Pulling the door open wider, Aileen stepped aside and ushered them through. “Of course. Come on in.”

Zane offered her a smile as he stepped over the threshold. “Thank you, Ms. Mayhall.”

“You can just call me Aileen.” She laughed. “‘Miss’ is pretty formal for my tastes.”

“Got it.” As they followed Aileen down a short hallway and into a well-lit living area, Zane fished a small notebook from another pocket as he and Spencer took their seats on a couch next to a large armchair.

Aileen dropped into the armchair, folding both hands in her lap. “How can I help?”

The obvious nervousness in her posture struck a chord of sympathy in Zane. “From what you told us, it sounds like you and Rachael were on good terms.”

“Yeah. She’s worked at the diner for years. We used to have shifts together a lot before I became a manager.” Aileen dipped her chin.

Considering this, Spencer nodded. “Can you tell us if anything unusual happened with Rachael? Anything that struck you as different or odd? By that, I mean, was she dating someone new, or had she mentioned a new friend? Even someone she met online?”

With a sniffle, Aileen straightened in her seat. “No, she didn’t mention anyone new. Rachael hadn’t dated for more than two years. She was happy just being single and spending time with her family. Meeting a new person would’ve been a big deal to her, and she’d have said something about it. I’m sure. We were good friends. She was always there for me.”

A twinge of sympathy prodded at Zane’s heart. Dealing with the grieving friends and family of crime victims never got easier. Perhaps that was another reason he preferred to deal with the racketeering and drug running of the mob.

Resting both elbows on his knees, Spencer leaned forward. “Do you know if there was anyone at the diner who was paying more attention to her than usual? Maybe someone new? An employee or customer who seemed preoccupied with her?”

Aileen’s eyebrows creased for a moment. “No. Not that I noticed. And no one else said anything about an inappropriate customer either. The diner’s close to downtown, but it’s in a pretty nice area. A lot of the customers we get are families and older folks. We close at eight, so we’re never open late enough to get…you know, the difficult crowd. The drunks and all that.”

Zane could only imagine the types to come through some of the diners that were open all night. “You said Rachael had worked at Windy City Eatery for years. How long was that, and do you know where she worked before?”

“Almost six years, and yes. Well, kind of. She used to work at a chain restaurant out in Wicker Park. She got fired from that place for poor attendance.” Aileen’s knuckles whitened as she clasped her hands together. “She…well, she used to have a problem with pills. Oxy. I had my own battle with it when I was a teenager, so I knew where she was coming from.”

The mention of an illicit activity was like someone waving red flags in Zane’s brain.

Spencer glanced at him. “I’m sorry to ask this, Aileen, but do you know if Rachael had relapsed?”

“No.” She loosened her grip on her hands. “She went to these drug-addiction meetings at a local church. And trust me, if she’d been getting high, I would’ve noticed.”

Zane scribbled out a few notes. Considering Aileen’s own past battle with addiction, he didn’t doubt the woman could spot her good friend using or relapsing. But what if Rachael hadn’t gotten the chance to relapse? What if she’d succumbed to the urge enough to go searching for pills but had been intercepted by the man who killed her?

“I’m surprised you didn’t know about her using. She had a brush with the cops before she got clean.” Aileen’s statement raised more questions than it answered.

They’d conducted a routine background check on Rachael Gibber, and nothing had appeared on her record, nor had the CPD’s interview revealed Rachael had ever been arrested. An encounter with the law was news to Zane. “There’s nothing in her background to indicate she was arrested. Can you tell us everything you know about that incident?”

Aileen clenched her hands again. “Yeah. Rachael got caught trying to sell some pills right before she got clean. I don’t know all the legal details, but she said she worked with a detective to catch some doctor who was giving out bogus prescriptions.”

Spencer lifted his eyebrow.

“Do you know the doctor’s name?” Zane hovered his pen over his notebook.

She wrinkled her nose. “No. All I know is that the doc was basically a dealer. But the detective’s name was Mercer Finley. He came into the diner a couple times over the years, and Rachael always seemed happy to see him. She said he’d been the one to help her get off the wrong track. Helped her get to rehab and get clean before she started here.”

As Zane scrawled out Mercer Finley, his curiosity about Rachael Gibber’s background grew. Could her addiction have exposed her to a person who was involved in a far darker part of the criminal underworld, or was the situation coincidental?

All he could say for sure was that they’d barely scratched the surface in their search for the killer.

5

Taping a glossy four-by-six photo of Rachael Gibber to the whiteboard, Amelia stepped back to observe her handiwork thus far. For the few hours that had elapsed since their briefing with the SSA of Violent Crimes, Amelia and the others had been conducting follow-up reviews of the two victims’ backgrounds. As they went, they added pieces of information to the board.

With Dean visiting the video techs downstairs in the lab and Spencer and Zane interviewing Aileen Mayhall, Amelia and Sherry tackled the tedious but necessary task of digital research.

Amelia tucked a wayward piece of dark-brown hair back into her ponytail as she turned to where Sherry sat at the oval table. “So what do we think? What do Elinor Fogleman and Rachael Gibber have in common?”

Pushing aside her laptop, Sherry fixed her gaze on the whiteboard. “Well, they’re both brunettes, and they both have a fair complexion.”

The similar appearance was one of the first commonalities Amelia had noticed. “Right. But,” she gestured to a group of photos on the other side of the whiteboard, “the victims in the older videos don’t match them. Many of those women have all different hair and eye colors, a broader age range. And at least half of the victims were men. And both genders have lighter-colored hair and light eyes, but if we’re talking about Eastern Europe, that describes a good chunk of the population.”

Sherry popped a mint into her mouth. “Why would he switch appearances so drastically after all this time? Plenty of Slavic-looking people here.”

The same question was burning a hole in Amelia’s head. “I don’t know. Maybe this isn’t the same guy, and it’s a copycat? One of the original guy’s fans could’ve decided to take up his mantle.” She shook her head at her own statement. “No, I don’t know if that makes sense. From everything Cyber dug up, it’s the same dark web user posting the videos.”

Before Sherry could comment, the door creaked open, and Dean stepped through with a manila folder in his hand. “Just got back from the video lab. They were kind enough to print us off a whole mess of stills.” The corners of his sapphire eyes creased as he shot Sherry a knowing grin. “Which means you won’t have to fight with the printer. For the time being anyway.”

“About time we got some good news.” She beckoned for him to set the photos down. “We’ve watched the videos a couple times, but let’s take a look at the stills.”

Though Amelia had to harden her heart to do her job effectively, the eight-by-ten photo of a lifeless Rachael Gibber hanging upside down jarred her resolve. Light glistened off the stream of crimson blood that poured from the gaping wound in her neck. Even in the still, Amelia could practically see the blood cascading over the victim’s face and onto the floor.

“Shit.” Sherry pushed the photo to the side, revealing another image that was zoomed in and focused on the ground. “This is a floor drain.”

Amelia moved to Sherry’s side, glad to focus on an aspect of the scene that wasn’t the young woman’s corpse.

Tapping a finger on the edge of the picture, Sherry moved the photo so Amelia could examine it. “Look at the blood. See the way it’s all flowing down out of frame? You can see a little of the grating at the edge of that still. It’s a trench drain. It’s partially obscured, but it’s there.”

Dean’s smile had vanished, replaced with calm focus—a reminder to Amelia that the man had seen much worse in his ten years with the Violent Crimes Unit. “A trench drain? Those are only installed in floors where they expect there to be a lot of liquid on the ground. Food processing plants, chemical factories, car washes, breweries, wineries, kitchens… They usually run the whole length of the floor, and they’re easier to clean and maintain than your average box drain.”

The implication that someone was out there filming innocent people having their blood drained like livestock almost sent a shudder down Amelia’s back. The cruelty humans inflicted on one another was truly boundless.

As Sherry flipped through more photos, she paused on an image of the woman’s legs. The camera’s view didn’t quite pan up to her ankles, which made it difficult to discern what she was hanging from.

“Here.” Sherry pointed to a vent on the wall behind the victim. “That’s a big vent. Industrial, more than likely.”

Amelia put the pieces together. “So we’ve got a trench floor drain and an industrial vent. I suppose it’s safe to say we can cross ‘someone’s basement’ off the list.”

Dean snorted. “Yep. The depth of field from Gibber’s body to the wall where the fan is appears to be at least fifteen, maybe twenty feet. That’s a big room. It looks like some kind of processing plant. Could be a literal slaughterhouse, for all we know. But it might just as easily be somewhere that’s used to process other items. A plant that makes plastic bottles, for instance. They’re trenched. The chemicals combined to create plastic need to be watered down before they’re disposed of.”

“Would a brewery make sense? There are a lot of them in the city.” Amelia could name fifteen without even looking them up.

“Wouldn’t hurt to add them to the list.” Dean seemed thoughtful. “But breweries tend to get more foot traffic. They’re a less controlled environment. So let’s put them on the list, but I wouldn’t get our hopes up.”

Sherry scratched her cheek. “Well, wherever it is, we know they likely deal or have dealt with liquid and have or had a functioning ventilation system. There aren’t any windows visible in these photos, so it could just be in the interior of the building, or it could be underground. Underground could explain the drain, too, since it would be a precaution against flooding.”

Though the photos ruled out plenty of locations, the net was still wide enough that it left Amelia with more questions than she’d had before. Not that questions were a bad part of investigating.

What kind of commercial building would be available to host murders on film?

That was the biggest question, but in order to catch their unsub, they needed to unravel a hell of a lot more than just the type of building they were using to commit their crimes.

They shuffled through a few more photos, with Amelia taping a handful of them to the whiteboard near Elinor Fogleman’s information.

By the time Zane and Spencer returned, the three of them hadn’t quite gotten through a quarter of the stack. As the other two went over their interview with Aileen Mayhall, Dean added a few more details to the whiteboard.

When they came to the subject of Rachael Gibber’s past addiction, Amelia and Sherry both said, “That’s it.”

Glancing up from the pile of photos, Spencer shot them a curious look. “What’s it?”

Animated by the discovery, Amelia pointed to the murder board. “Their past addiction. It’s something Elinor Fogleman and Rachael Gibber have in common. Nothing showed up in Fogleman’s background because she was never arrested, but she did attend rehab. And there wasn’t anything in the first background check on Rachael Gibber because she was never charged.”

“Exactly.” Sherry flattened her hands against the table. “We would’ve found it eventually, but we’d have to search for cases where Rachael Gibber was a witness, not cases filed against her.”

Zane’s gaze shifted from the photos to the whiteboard and back, his focused expression one that Amelia knew well. “That is some substantial common ground, but what does it mean with all the older murders? The ones that were uploaded from somewhere in Eastern Europe?”

“We were wondering the same thing.” Amelia pulled out the chair next to Sherry.

Spencer propped his elbows on the edge of the table. “Cyber’s already collaborating with international law enforcement agencies, but that all takes time. There’s a bunch of red tape they’ve got to get through to pull murder cases from some of those countries in Eastern Europe. Once we’ve gotten some more info from them, maybe we’ll get a better idea of how the older murders fit in with the Fogleman and Gibber cases.”

He had a good point. If they kept trying to solve a puzzle when they didn’t have all the pieces, they might as well just beat their heads against a wall.

“So we focus on what we have right now. Right in front of us.” Amelia pulled the stack of photos piled into physical location details toward her. “Hopefully, that leads us to this guy, and we can figure out the older murders from there.”

“My thoughts exactly. Priority number one is making sure he doesn’t drop anymore bodies.”

“Well, in that case,” Dean pointed to the photos, “there’re a couple pictures and some documents at the bottom of those. I stopped by the forensic lab while I was downstairs earlier. Says in the case notes from the CPD that they found some kind of tiny metal fragments on Elinor Fogleman’s body. They’re small, about the size of dust particles. When you take a closer look, you can see these little circular and oval pieces of metal.”

Amelia recognized the description right away. She’d worked a case earlier in the year where the same types of tiny metal fragments were used to help pin down a killer’s occupation. “The pieces are formed when liquid metal is traveling through the air and cools into those oval and spherical shapes. It’s something you’d see at an auto body shop or maybe with some kind of metalworking hobby. If they were transferred from the killer, it could give us some insight into where they work or what they do in their spare time.”

“Exactly.” Dean plucked a plain sheet of paper from the bottom of the photo pile. “And as it turns out, they found the same fragments on Rachael Gibber’s body. Same substance on two victims means it was likely transferred from the killer. The lab is analyzing it now, and they’ll be comparing the fragments from Rachael Gibber’s body to what was found on Elinor Fogleman.”

Zane gestured to the photos with a pen. “On the other hand, figuring out what those fragments are could also help us narrow down where exactly this guy is filming. If they aren’t from the killer’s clothes, then they could be from the site where the videos were filmed.”

Dean approached the table and shuffled a stack of photos to an image of a dark figure hunched next to Elinor Fogleman in the last few seconds of her life. “The techs think it’s the same dude in both videos. They did a little calculating based on the objects in view and said that he’s the same height, which they estimate is between five-eleven and six-two. He’s wearing a black knit ski mask, black cargo pants, and a black shirt with no visible logos or other identifying marks. But the attire looks identical as well.”

Dressed in all black. How cliché.

Amelia thought back to the video she and Sherry had watched. “Do our experts detect any sounds in the room? Ambient noise from outside? Anything that might help us pinpoint the location?”

“They’re not sure yet, but there’s nothing obvious. They’re still working through the audio, filtering it and whatnot, and they’re still analyzing the videos themselves. We should have more from them in the next couple days.”

Though the anticipation of more investigative data often burned through Amelia’s reserve of patience, quality forensic analyses couldn’t be rushed.

Zane tapped his pen against an open palm. “He doesn’t say much, but they did catch a glimpse of him smiling at different points. That caused his ski mask to shift, and they were able to discern that he’s either white or very light skinned if he’s another race, such as Hispanic or Asian.”

With all the new information whipping through her head, Amelia reached for her phone to double-check the time. “All right, well, Sherry and I were going to head out to talk to the detectives working the Fogleman case before we took it over. See if they have anything new they can tell us. Gut feelings, that sort of thing, that didn’t make it into the report.”

Sherry nodded. “Best to do it while it’s still fresh in their minds. They’re probably already on another case…or two.”

Zane offered Amelia and Sherry a grin and a thumbs-up. “Got it. We’ll work on the murder board while you two are out.”

Returning the gesture, Amelia rose and pocketed her cell. “We’ll be back. Good luck.”

6

Amelia pulled into a parking stall next to a police cruiser and shivered. Sherry had turned up the air conditioner to full blast for the entire trip to the precinct, and Amelia couldn’t wait to step out into the late-afternoon sunshine. All the time she’d spent in the Middle East had given her a bizarre tolerance for heat, and she had to remind herself not all her colleagues shared the trait. Throwing the gear shift into park, she studied the vaguely familiar building.

“Redker and I were at this precinct not that long ago. We were following up on Jamie Calhoun, the arsonist who’s locked up downtown.” Amelia killed the engine, and she could’ve sworn the car sighed in relief.

Sherry unfastened her seat belt. “Yeah, I’ve been here with Steelman a few times too. The detectives have always been helpful.”

“One detective seemed sort of standoffish, but she could’ve just been having a bad day. Or maybe she’s just socially awkward.”

“I can relate. I tend to put my foot in my mouth when I’m around a bunch of new people. Outside work, at least.” Reaching for the door handle, Sherry shot Amelia an expectant look. “Ready?”

With a quick nod, Amelia shoved open the car door. A wave of warm, humid air rolled over her as she fell in beside Sherry and they strode to the front entrance of the precinct.

By the time they reached the homicide department on the third floor, Amelia had mentally created a list of questions. Though Sherry had spoken with one of the detectives on the phone, it took them a few minutes to find him in the bullpen.

As they approached a man hunched over a sheet of paper at his desk, Amelia checked the silver name placard. “Detective Tyrone Dunn.”

He seemed to snap out of a trance, abruptly straightening in his seat. Running a hand over his close-cropped hair, he glanced back and forth between Amelia and Sherry before a smile creased his face. “That’s me. One of you must be the agent I talked to earlier today. Agent Sherry Cowen?”

Sherry stuck out a hand. “That’s me. Nice to meet you, Detective Dunn. This is my colleague Special Agent Amelia Storm.” Her gaze flicked to the adjacent desk. “Is Detective Britton here?”

“Yes, but she went to grab some coffee from the break room. Should be back any second.” He scooted away from his desk and gestured to a couple of unoccupied chairs nearby. “Feel free to pull up a seat. Those desks are night shift, so they won’t be in for a few hours yet.”

Offering the detective a polite smile, Amelia accepted the offer and rolled over a mesh-backed chair. As she sat down, a tall, lithe woman with a badge hanging from her neck emerged from a nearby hallway.

Expression curious, she paused beside the chair across from Detective Dunn. “Are these the FBI agents you said would be stopping by?”

“Yep.” Dunn nodded, turning to the agents. “This is my partner, Detective Kerry Britton.”

Amelia managed another polite smile while Sherry introduced them. “Pleasure to meet you both. I’m Special Agent Cowen. My partner, Special Agent Storm, and I are here to do some follow-up on the Elinor Fogleman case. We understand you two were in charge before it went to the Bureau.”

Britton let out a long breath as she took her seat. “Yeah, that was us. We don’t have the same resources you guys do for all those international videos they found. Same guy. Or at least, that’s what they think.”

Detective Dunn reached for the bottom drawer of his desk’s file cabinet. “Hold on. We’ve still got the case notes. Autopsy report and all that.” He parsed through some folders before pulling one out and flipping it open. “You guys probably have these already, right? We scanned everything and sent it over.”

“We do.” Sherry scratched her temple. “But we were curious to see if either of you had any thoughts, hunches, stuff that might not be in an official report, you know?”

Dunn’s chair squeaked as he leaned back, his dark eyes fixed on the documents in his hand. “I’m not sure about that. There wasn’t a lot to go on. At least until we found that video.”

Britton made a sour face. “It takes a special kind of fucked up to film something like that.”

Amelia wholeheartedly agreed. “We understand that Elinor Fogleman had a prior for drug possession.”

“Right.” Britton took a sip from her paper coffee cup. “About three years ago. We talked to the arresting officer. He said Fogleman pled down to a misdemeanor with the stipulation that she attend rehab. Far as he knew, she fulfilled everything and stayed clean.”

Dunn flipped through some papers. “M.E.’s report says her tox screen was clean, so we didn’t think a relapse was likely. Plus, we interviewed her friends and family, and they all said she was doing well. I didn’t think there was anything out of the ordinary there. Did you, Britton?”

The detective propped her elbows on the desk. “No. Nothing.”

As certain as Amelia was that the two victims’ previous battles with substance abuse were significant, she still wasn’t completely sure how the killer was discovering them. One of Dean, Zane, and Spencer’s tasks was to create a geographic profile of where the two victims could’ve come across the killer. Did he work in rehabilitation? Was he a counselor or even a cop?

Amelia made a mental note to revisit that question when she and Sherry returned to the office. “What about the location where the murder was filmed? Any thoughts?”

Lips pressed together, Britton shook her head. “Nothing specific, no. I’ve lived in Chicago all my life, and there wasn’t anything about it that jumped out to me. Other than the obvious. The victim’s throat was slit. She was bled out like cattle, so we thought it could be a slaughterhouse, but the investigation was yours before we had a chance to look into it.”

Dunn rubbed his chin, expression thoughtful. “Back in the early nineteen hundreds, slaughterhouses started springing up all over the Midwest. Chicago was one of the biggest hubs for them, and some of the big meat producers set up shops downtown. They were real nasty back then, not regulated at all. They even built them in the middle of the city.”

Sherry wrinkled her nose. “Sounds pleasant.”

Chuckling, Dunn nodded. “Yeah, definitely not. It was around the fifties and sixties they started closing those down, moving slaughterhouses. No one wanted to live next to something like that. These days, almost all slaughterhouses and abattoirs are in rural areas.” He sighed. “Sorry. I’m sure you don’t need a history lesson about the Windy City. Basically, if this guy’s using a slaughterhouse to film his murders, then he’s going to be somewhere outside the city.”

Amelia recalled the list of possibilities Dean had rattled off. Based on the short history lesson she’d just received from Detective Dunn, Dean’s brainstorming seemed even more viable. “How about the park where Fogleman’s body was found? Was there anything at the scene that might’ve struck you as significant?”

This time, Detective Britton chimed in. “Willow Park. It all seemed…perfunctory, you know? Like him dumping that body there was just business. Fogleman didn’t live anywhere around the area, and as far as we could tell, the park wasn’t significant to her. We assumed it was either chosen out of convenience to the killer or held some significance to them.”

Dunn waved the manila folder. “As far as the abductions are concerned, the M.E. found a bruise and a needle mark on both victims’ necks. They think it’s the site of an injection, and that the killer used a fast-acting sedative that doesn’t stay in the system long. Nothing turned up in the tox screens, but there are notes regarding some possibilities.”

“Everything we found indicates both victims were abducted in the city.” Britton blew on her coffee. “Neither of them had left Chicago in the hours or days leading up to their disappearances, so we have no reason to believe they were elsewhere. All the interviews we conducted indicate the same thing. Neither of the two women left Chicago much at all nor had any plans to go anywhere.”

The logic was simple enough for Amelia to follow, but even if dumping Elinor Fogleman’s body was impersonal, that didn’t mean the murder and filming of it were. It was a point she’d bring up when they were back in the incident room, but for now, she didn’t see a reason to debate it.

Sherry drummed her fingers against the arm of her chair. “If he’s dumping bodies locally, and if all the slaughterhouses are outside the city, that means he probably isn’t using a slaughterhouse to film the murders. He might not be anyway. Seems a little counterproductive to kidnap someone inside the city, haul them outside the city to kill them, and then bring their body back when you could just as easily dump it in the brush or a rural ditch on the outskirts of town.”

Amelia shot her an appreciative glance. “That’s true. It’s good to keep in mind that serial killers don’t always adhere to the rules of productivity and efficiency, though. If the dump site has some sort of significance to him, then it could explain him driving all the way back into the city.”

“But there are two different dump sites, so I’m not sure what significance they might hold.”

Detective Dunn was right. Now, with an untold number of lives on the line, Amelia and her team needed to find the link between the locations and the victims before a third body dropped.

7

Hands on my hips, I peered down into the massive stainless steel chest freezer. These appliances stored all sorts of things, but for me, they served a singular purpose. A holding space. A waiting room between existence and oblivion.

Taking lives had always come naturally to me. The first was an impulse, a curiosity that, once indulged, revealed something profound. The girl had not wronged me, so I had not been granted pleasure or excitement. It was something deeper. A quieting of the chaos within me.

From that moment, it became a necessity. Not an obsession, not a hunger, but an inevitability. The world was made of those who acted and those who merely existed. I refused to be the latter.

The Bratva provided a semblance of security, a structure in which my work could thrive. As long as I chose the right targets, no one asked questions. If bodies were found, they were dismissed, ignored, buried beneath the weight of corruption of the local politsiya who were in our back pocket.

But eventually, I overextended and reached too far, and when bodies were found all around the region, authorities could no longer turn a blind eye. Even loyalty had its limits.

I became a liability and was forced underground, to hide my deeds from even the Bratva. When they cast me out, they did not simply exile me. They erased me. To them, I was Chernobyl—a disaster best left forgotten. I was forced into the shadows, but shadows had their uses. I adapted.

In the daylight, I was nothing more than a blunt instrument, a nameless enforcer who did the organization’s dirty work. But in the dark, I created something more. A method. A purpose.

When my dear Rurik was murdered and the Bratva told me I was no longer necessary to the organization, my thirst for blood and revenge grew exponentially. My purpose solidified. The killing did not stop my grief…it sharpened it. Grief was not a wound that healed. Instead, it became a blade honed by time. And I sharpened mine with every life I took.

I preserved them in ice, a fitting tribute to my brother’s fate, a quiet act of defiance. If he had suffered in the cold, then so would they. In my home country, it was simple. A frozen river, a snowbank, the brittle air swallowing their final gasps. Here, I adjusted. The tools changed, but the principle remained.

Yet it was not enough. The world had become small, predictable. And I was poor, an insult I would not tolerate. Purpose demanded means.

That was when I thought of film. There was an audience for everything. Why should my work not serve a greater function? Why should I not profit from my craft?

From that day forward, I became deliberate. No longer a vagabond, no longer aimless. Each death was composed with care, framed like a masterpiece. And my patrons rewarded me well.

But money was only a stepping stone. The true prize was still out of reach.

Mischa Bukov.

His name was not Bukov anymore, but it did not matter. I had spent years tracing the thin threads that connected him to his new life. Then, like fate intervening, his face appeared in a news article after my former associate was arrested and put behind bars for organ harvesting.

Mischa was an American now. A traitor turned federal agent.

He had destroyed my brother, and in doing so, he had destroyed me. The Bratva discarded me because of him. The life I built was burned to the ground because of him.

And now I had found him.

I had crossed the ocean for this moment.

Back when my brother worked as a sergeant for the Russian Bratva, operating near the Sea of Okhotsk, Mischa was like a rival to him. Rurik would have never admitted as much, but I could tell that was how he viewed the man.

When Mischa was given authority over the Okhotsk operation, Rurik was livid. He began to drink more, and he was always angry.

As it turned out, my dear brother and some of his men were at the center of a plot to overthrow the leadership of the Okhotsk operation. I was not sure of the specifics, but they were caught before they could see their mutiny through. I had never taken to the mob lifestyle—slinging drugs was, quite frankly, not suitable work for an artist such as myself.

I was a scholar. A cut above the common thugs, but my brother had been very good at his job. Still, the Russian mob dealt harshly with traitors, and that was where my feud with Mischa Bukov started—with the death of my brother.

An American CIA agent posing as a member of the Russian mob. I could not be sure what he had been after, but his real identity as an American spy meant he had been feeding information about the Bratva back to the United States government.

Perhaps Rurik had been on to him, and Mischa had not killed him due to the planned mutiny but in self-defense.

It no longer mattered. The death of Rurik led to snuff films, which led to his killer, Agent Zane Palmer, which led me here.

And thanks to the dark web, my bitcoin account was quickly filling with even more cash. Those transactions were routed through a staggering number of bogus IP addresses, only to end up in an offshore account. Like me, my finances were untraceable.

With everything I had built for myself over the years, it seemed less than productive to risk so much to settle an old score.

So why was I so eager to eliminate Mischa? The answer was simple.

Mischa Bukov killed my brother and ruined my life. The Bratva exiled me when they deemed Rurik a traitor.

Rurik had been butchered and tossed into the icy sea to die.

After that, Mischa vanished as if he’d never existed.

I was here in America to kill that traitor…and this stupid country with all its ignorant and selfish people had led me right to him.

Still, I reminded myself, patience. Rushing a masterpiece ruined the final stroke.

Glancing at my watch, I chastised myself for letting my memories distract me from my tasks. The freezer hummed softly beneath my fingertips. There was work to be done.

Although I had an assistant now, the weight of a body never became easier to manage. Flesh and bone had a way of resisting, of reminding you that it once carried life. But there was an advantage to waiting. The cold made the process cleaner.

I just had to keep my wits about me to make sure we were not spotted. And in such a populous city, that was indeed a feat. It was why I used the cover of darkness. Still, this was my least favorite part of the job.

That, and the people I was forced to deal with. Like the damn cop I met with earlier today.

Hate burned inside me at the thought of Detective Amanda Avery. I had never viewed cops in a favorable light. Not in Russia and certainly not here in America.

Her dealings with Lou Sherman—the organ harvester who had encouraged my interest in snuff films—had initially convinced me she was an asset. That had changed.

She had wanted Amelia Storm dead. As a happy coincidence, so did I. But I had assumed our mutual disdain for the Fed would see the contract through to a satisfying conclusion for both of us—and I was wrong.

Why had the detective backed out of the deal?

The real question was whether she was worth the effort of removing. She was old, and redheads were not my usual choice. But perhaps there was an audience for something different.

Amelia Storm, however, was something else entirely. But how much appetite did my audience have for a Fed?

And Agent Zane Palmer? His family seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth. But Amelia Storm and her entire family were a perfect substitute. They had overcome the death of a mother and brother. And as a Fed, she had many close calls with death herself. Even her sister-in-law had almost been murdered by another agent.

They believed the illusion they were stronger for the tragedies they had overcome.

There was poetry in dismantling that lie.

To watch their resilience shatter, piece by piece, to capture their last moments in perfect detail—it would be my most meaningful work yet.

I would not rush it.

To fight for so long and then have their lives snuffed out in front of my camera…

Envisioning the scene sent a shiver of anticipation down my spine, but I dismissed it before I could sink too far into the sense of satisfaction. There was something Americans said about counting their chickens before they were born. If I wanted my plan to come to fruition, I had to stay patient and vigilant.

“You and your loved ones are perfect subjects, Agent Storm. And you will serve as the opening act to my best film of all.”

The film in which I captured the end of Mischa Bukov.

Or I should say, Zane Palmer, as he was known to his American comrades.

A fitting end.

Ever since arriving in America, I had immersed myself in the language. Of course, no matter how much I worked on it, my accent was still quite thick. That was why my associate was an essential part of the operation, though I would never let him know that.

He was an American and could go places unnoticed, interacting with our victims without drawing suspicion. And, importantly, he was a strong young man who idolized my work and was willing to do anything. It was also not lost on me how much gratification he received from slicing the throats of my subjects. The bulge in his pants spoke volumes.

I opened the freezer to reveal Eric McClain. He had served his purpose, and he had served it well.

“Too weak to fight the siren call of addiction, you wrote your own destiny long before I found you, Eric.” I smiled at the corpse. He was free. “If we were in Mother Russia, I could just drive to a wooded area and dispose of you. There would be no witnesses, no risk of being recorded by pervasive cameras on businesses. None of what I have to worry about in this city. You Americans complicate something that should be easy.”

Rubbing my hands together, I made my way to a nearby shelf and snatched a pair of black leather gloves. Before I could return to the freezer, the door clanged open and my tall, broad-shouldered young friend strode through, eager as ever.

I clapped my hands together. “You are back and just in time.” I gestured to the freezer. “Help me with him.”

“Sure thing.” Cole grinned and grabbed another pair of gloves. “Have you decided where you want to dump him?”

“I think Horseshoe Park. It is small but has plenty of trees and brush. More than enough to hide him.”

His eyebrows creased. “Isn’t Horseshoe pretty close to Ivy Park, the place where we dumped Gibber?”

Although I didn’t like being questioned, I only shrugged. “It is close, yes. But you must learn to trust me. By freezing the body, it will make it more difficult for the authorities to identify when he was killed. Where he is dumped matters little.”

He nodded.

I could tell Cole fancied himself as my apprentice, and for the most part, the role was fine with me. It amused me. His enthusiasm was useful, but his arrogance would be his undoing.

For now, he served his purpose.

One day, he would serve another.

Just like the man in the freezer.

8

As Zane pulled the car to a stop just behind a police cruiser, Amelia stuffed the last piece of lemon cheesecake into her mouth, savoring the tangy, sweet flavor of the scratch-made dessert. Red-and-blue lights glinted off the windshield, and she spotted a handful of onlookers near the pair of police officers stationed in front of a ribbon of yellow crime scene tape. The southern parking lot of Horseshoe Park was blocked off, and vehicles lined the curving street.

Less than two hours after leaving the office, Zane had received a call from Spencer while he and Amelia were in the middle of dinner with Amelia’s father and sister. Only a day and a half since the FBI had received the case, and another body had been found dumped in a park. Like Elinor Fogleman and Rachael Gibber, the cause of death was a deep and long laceration to the throat, resulting in massive blood loss.

Everything was the same, except this time, the victim was male. No one doubted it was the same killer, making the variation intriguing.

Zane killed the ignition and reached over to wipe a crumb of crust from Amelia’s lower lip.

Squeezing a few drops of hand sanitizer into her palm, Amelia lifted an eyebrow. “Why are you staring? Do I have it all over my face?”

He laughed and pocketed the car keys. “You. We’re about to be face-to-face with a corpse, and you just polished off the rest of your cheesecake.”

The scent of rubbing alcohol washed over them as Amelia clapped her hands and rubbed them together. “Hey, I can’t help when bodies turn up. We were eating a nice dinner with Lainey and Dad. If you think I’d leave dinner without dessert, then you don’t really know me at all, Robert Zane Palmer.”

He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Ouch, pulling out the full name. We’ve known each other for almost a year and a half, and you’re right. I should know this. You’ve never been shy about your love of sweets.”

“Good. I’m glad you picked up on that.” She reached for the door handle and stepped into the humid evening air, putting an end to their lighthearted banter.

Outside the car, Amelia straightened her shoulders. They were officially back to work.

“Looks like Cowan and Crawford beat us here.” Zane shaded his eyes against the glare of police cruiser lights. “You said Steelman was staying back at the office?”

“Yeah.” Amelia had been the one to field the call from SSA Burton, and she’d only summarized it for Zane on the drive over. “He’s standing by to research anything we need.”

“Got it.” He adjusted his black tie before they made their way to the yellow tape and a pair of CPD officers.

After flashing their badges and signing into the crime scene logbook, they ducked under the tape and made their way to the parking lot. If the lot had been any smaller, all the crime scene techs and law enforcement personnel milling about would’ve made the area feel claustrophobic.

Sherry and Spencer were conversing with an officer clad in black behind the M.E.’s van. She waved them over.

Zane glanced from Spencer and Sherry to the officer. “Hey, what’d we miss?”

“Not much.” Spencer pointed to a cluster of trees and shrubs not far beyond a group of picnic tables and grills. “Our victim is over there.” He shifted his finger to one of the two picnic tables near the parking lot. “And the folks who found him are at that table.”

A police officer with a name badge that read Norvell dipped his chin. “We asked them a few questions and got their contact information, but we asked them to wait so your team could conduct the full interview.”

Glancing around at the tall trees and foliage, Amelia studied the area, searching for anything that resembled a security camera. “Doesn’t look like they have any surveillance here. Wait, didn’t we pass a gas station on our way?”

Before Zane could answer, Sherry perked up. “Yeah, there’s one. I remember thinking I might have to dash back there to get an energy drink.”

Amelia turned to Officer Norvell. “Do you know if there’s any other surveillance that might’ve caught someone driving in here?”

“No, I don’t think so.” He shook his head. “Just the gas station. This is a pretty small park in a low-crime neighborhood, so the city doesn’t have cameras set up. They usually focus surveillance on the bigger parks or ones with persistent problems, like vandalism.”

Spencer gave Officer Norvell a nod. “Much appreciated.”

“Sure thing. Just give us a holler if you need anything.”

Amelia and the rest thanked the man before he headed over to a cluster of officers working near the caution tape.

“Okay, well.” Spencer studied the parking lot. “We all know the drill.”

“Divide and conquer.” Zane swept his arm toward the road. “Shall we visit the gas station?”

A hint of amusement flickered over Spencer’s face. “You’re so dramatic. But, yes, we shall.”

Zane held up his finger, his expression matter-of-fact. “Dramatic is just a derogatory term for interesting. We’ll head to the gas station and see if there’s anything worth noting on the way there.”

“All right.” Sherry pulled a notebook from her back pocket. “We’ll interview our witnesses and see what the M.E. has to say.”

The dialogue with the family at the picnic table was perfunctory, and none of the answers yielded any groundbreaking information. Wilson and Marlene Hudson had brought their two sons and their dog to the park to grill some burgers and brats for dinner. When one boy had taken the pup for a short walk to do her business, the dog’s nose had led them straight to the still-unidentified body of a young man.

Other than the initial sniff, the boy assured them, neither the dog nor he had disturbed the scene. According to the kid, the instant he spotted the corpse, he’d grabbed the leash and sprinted out of the area, the whining dog racing by his side.

Amelia couldn’t blame them. She didn’t come across her first dead body until she was in the military, and she couldn’t imagine how shocking it must’ve been for an eleven-year-old boy.

After handing the parents their cards, Amelia and Sherry gave the family their blessing to return home. As always, the agents advised the family members to reach out if they remembered any other details.

Tucking the notebook back into her pocket, Sherry rested her hands on her hips. “The CSU is doing their thing, so I suppose we can check in with the M.E.”

With the level of humidity in the air, Amelia would’ve sworn she could smell decay mixed with the scent of lilacs from all the way back by the picnic tables. But if the body had been frozen in the same way as the previous two victims, she knew that wouldn’t be the case.

Movement in the corner of her eye drew her attention to a familiar man. Holding a pricy camera in one hand, the crime scene tech waved his other as she approached. “Agent Storm, Agent Cowen. I heard this case belonged to you and was just about to go looking for you.”

“Norman Odgers, nice to see you.” Amelia shook his free hand. “We were going to check out the victim and talk to the M.E. Has your team found anything so far?”

Norman gestured to where a pair of techs were scrutinizing a handful of yellow evidence markers. “Yes, a few things. There’s some trampled grass and a few broken branches that show the path the killer or killers took when bringing the body in. We recovered a little piece of blue material from the victim’s belt buckle. Looks like it’s part of a tarp, which could indicate the body was wrapped at some point.”

In her mind, Amelia ran through the list of evidence from the previous dump sites. “That makes sense. Although the bodies seem to have little to no blood left when they’re recovered, the perpetrator might want to keep his vehicle clean while transporting them.”

Norman lifted a finger. “We’ll run analysis on the tarp to see if there’s anything unique about it that might help us pinpoint the killer. And although we couldn’t get any clear shoe impressions, as I said, we might be dealing with more than one person, at least regarding dumping the bodies.”

Sherry nodded. “There were similar indications found at the park where Elinor Fogleman was dumped. Anything else?”

“I doubt we’ll get a brand or any other specifics about the shoes our guys were wearing, but we can get an idea of the size.” Norman glanced over his shoulder. “That’s all I’ve got for now. I’ll keep you posted if anything changes.”

“Thanks.”

Amelia and Sherry snapped on their gloves and picked their way down a slight incline to the line of trees, tall grass, and shrubs. Though the sun hadn’t set yet, Amelia caught flashes of yellow light as a handful of fireflies buzzed around the area.

The scene would’ve been a pleasant depiction of a Midwestern summer if it weren’t for the pale corpse lying behind a lilac bush.

Amid the darker shade of the vegetation, the young man’s ghostly skin practically glowed. Dried blood crusted his chin, ears, nostrils, eyes, and hairline. His jeans and gray t-shirt were free of bloodstains.

As Amelia and Sherry made their way around the fragrant bush, a familiar man glanced up from where he’d been studying the body.

Placing a pen back into his shirt pocket, Dr. Adam Francis, one of Cook County’s forensic pathologists, shot Amelia and Sherry a smile. “Agent Storm, Agent Cowen. How are you two doing this evening?”

“I was at a Brazilian steak house with my husband before we got called in, so I’ve been better.” Sherry waved a hand at the corpse. “But I’d venture to say I’m still doing a hell of a lot better than him.”

“Huh, I guess I wasn’t the only one pulled away from dinner.” Amelia hunched down beside the body, ignoring the lingering taste of cheesecake as she studied the young man.

Dr. Francis chuckled. “No, you sure weren’t. I was enjoying a delightful meal with my wife as well.”

Sherry sighed. “What’ve you found so far? Anything new?”

The forensic pathologist tapped one gloved finger on a discolored mark on the victim’s neck. “Nothing new, but this is consistent. It’s a little hard to see unless you’re already looking for it, but it’s a bruise, and in the middle of it is a pinprick.”

Amelia mentally riffled through the M.E.’s notes on the previous two victims. “A probable injection site?”

“That’s right. And based on the bruising around the site, there was some force behind it. I’ll run the same tox screen on this one and let you know if we get lucky and find any traces of the drug used in his system.”

“But you expect it to be a dead end?” Amelia knew the man liked to deal in facts and not conjecture, but his opinion mattered.

“I do. In some respects, the lack of substances in their blood is evidence of its own.”

“Norman Odgers mentioned forensics found indications two people might’ve hauled the body out here. Any thoughts on why the victim would need to be drugged if he was outnumbered?” Amelia had several potential answers swirling in her head, but she wanted to know what the others thought.

Sherry surveyed the area before responding, “Well, we only know there might’ve been two people around to dump the body. We don’t know if either of them is our killer. Our unsub might have an entire team working with him. Someone to apprehend the victim, someone to kill the victim, and more people to dump them.”

That hadn’t been the answer Amelia was looking for. She shuddered at the prospect of a whole team of murderers, like a messed-up Hollywood studio where the star of the show always died at the end.

Amelia considered the body again. “Any estimate on time of death? Autopsy reports from Fogleman and Gibber indicated the bodies were frozen, which made a precise time of death a little more difficult to pin down.”

“I think we’re dealing with the same thing here.” Dr. Francis consulted his notes in a pocket-size notebook. “Frozen until dumped. I got the victim’s liver temperature, but the math doesn’t add up. His body is a bit too cool, considering the weather we’ve had over the past few days. Plus, other than a few flies buzzing around when I got here, the insect activity is minimal. Not what you’d see if he’d been out here for a few days.”

Amelia wasn’t thrilled that a lack of evidence was currently their strongest lead. “By your estimate, how long do you think he’s been out here?”

Dr. Francis shrugged. “Less than twenty-four hours. Probably closer to fourteen.”

Amelia glanced up at the darkening sky. “I doubt the unsub would’ve risked dumping this guy during daylight hours. My bet is last night or in the wee hours of the morning.”

Dr. Francis shifted his weight while remaining crouched next to the victim. “I’m sure you read the full report on the two female victims. Their stomach contents weren’t surprising. They’d eaten like normal, which means they weren’t held for an extended period. Once I can check this individual’s stomach contents, I’ll let you know if it narrows down the time of death.”

Amelia took out her notebook and jotted a few reminders to herself for later. “The women had ligature marks around their wrists and ankles. Have you checked here?”

The medical examiner pulled back the victim’s pant leg. “Yes, that’s consistent. Based on the width of the marks and the edge of the wounds, my thought is zip ties or something similar.”

“Why him?” Sherry waved a hand at the body. “Why this guy? Our last two victims were white, brunette females. This guy is white, but he’s about six feet tall and blond, despite all the blood dried in it. From women to men and brunettes to a blond is quite a deviation.”

Dr. Francis drew his eyebrows together. “The similarities are striking though. Method of death. And there are smears of grease on this guy too.” He pointed out the area of his wrists.

“Grease…” Amelia frowned. The reports on the other victims mentioned grease too, but she hadn’t seen any analysis come back yet on its composition yet.

“I’ll be sure get a sample,” Dr. Francis assured her.

Since there wasn’t much she could do with the grease until the assessment came back, Amelia returned to pondering the change in victim selection.

When she thought back to the older videos from Eastern Europe, the picture made more sense. While the female victims from Chicago had shared similarities in appearance and past drug use, the female victims from the earlier films had featured varying physical descriptions.

Amelia looked forward to hearing Layton’s thoughts on who they were looking for. The BAU analyst was busy compiling as much information as he could so he could deliver a profile soon.

She shared her own hypothesis with Sherry. “Remember the older videos? The ones we’re still wading through red tape to get help with?”

Sherry seemed to catch on right away. “Oh, right. There were men and women in those videos, and all the men were blond with body types on the tall and lean side.” Her gaze shifted to the pale corpse. “Just like this guy. I don’t suppose we were lucky enough to find an ID on him?”

Dr. Francis shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. We’ll compare him with pictures of people who’ve gone missing in the last week and see if we’ve got any matches. I’ll also run his prints and send off a sample of his DNA so they can test it against everything we’ve got in the system. Same with dental impressions.”

Sherry dusted off her hands. “All right. We’ll leave him in your competent care.”

Amelia followed suit, glancing toward the red-and-blue flashes from the parking lot.

Once they had this John Doe’s name, they’d figure out what in his background connected him to their other victims and what about him had drawn this killer’s unwanted attention.

9

Mandy Avery liked to picture herself as a woman who defied many of the typical cop stereotypes. She wasn’t averse to taking time off, she’d always been more invested in her marriage than her job, and she wasn’t much of a drinker. Tonight, though, as the sun sank closer toward the horizon, she’d poured herself a small glass of bourbon as she went through her evening routine. Without Saul, she rarely bothered to cook, so she’d ordered takeout for the fourth night in a row.

However, her husband’s death wasn’t the problem plaguing her tonight, nor was it the reason she’d cracked open one of Saul’s old bottles of expensive booze.

It was that damn Russian. Bogdan, that weird bastard.

Setting her glass of liquor on the coffee table, she strode over to the picture window on the other end of the room and yanked the curtains closed. Paranoia was one cop trait that followed her when she left the precinct, and the sense of anxiety was weighing on her like a stone slab.

She could’ve sworn the same damn BMW Z4 had driven by the house on three separate occasions in the last two hours. It was a common color and an even more common make and model for the high-end neighborhood she lived in, but that knowledge did little to relieve the mounting sense that something was wrong.

The problem was it was a gunmetal sports car. Because the trees along her street cast deep shadows and because her home was set back from the road, she couldn’t read the license plate number.

Toying with the idea of having one of the beat cops follow the car, she pushed the thought aside. Not that she was above abusing her position. She just didn’t want anyone to ask her questions about the need for the tail.

“Trust your gut.” She glanced around the spacious living area, noting the bookshelves, the plush sectional, and the photos hanging on the walls. Nothing out of place.

The housekeeper was here all day, and now I am. No one else has been here.

But the car she’d seen passing her home…

Pulling in a shaky breath, Mandy dropped onto the center couch cushion and massaged her temples. “Trust your gut.”

She’d been told to listen to her instincts by more cops than she could remember, and for the most part, her intuition had served her well.

When she’d called off the hit on Amelia Storm, Bogdan had accepted the news easy enough. He’d still received a tidy sum for doing nothing. But if he really wanted to kill the agent, Mandy wouldn’t be able to stop him.

Not that she cared. She had wanted the woman dead at one point. Mandy wasn’t proud of putting Amelia Storm in Bogdan’s crosshairs, but the FBI agent’s safety wasn’t her primary concern at the moment. She needed to focus on self-preservation, not lingering guilt.

If it was Bogdan driving past her home, why would he want to kill her? Why not just ask for the other quarter of a million?

With his contract cancelled, did the guy think he needed to tie up a loose end? Was he under the impression she’d sell him out?

She snorted. Dirty cops were common enough that she doubted her own idea. It wasn’t unheard of for an officer of the law to become a contract killer. Mandy hadn’t, but she’d hired one.

Tomato, tomahto.

But Bogdan was…unsettling. Anytime Mandy had looked at him, she’d been certain if she could peel back his face, she’d find a machine of some kind—almost like the Terminator—underneath. There was a vital piece of humanity missing, and the oddity had become more and more obvious with every meeting.

All right, look at the situation from his perspective. He made a deal with me, a cop, to kill an FBI agent. Dirty cops might not be uncommon, but I don’t think this guy adheres to the norms of the average contract killer.

The primary motive of just about any assassin was simple. Money. And when a smart assassin took a client, he collected information on said client. That way, when faced with a cancelled contract, enough information was available to keep the client from selling him out.

Bogdan had to know she wouldn’t talk. Murdering her to tie up a loose end wouldn’t be worth the risk or the hassle.

But this guy wasn’t the average contract killer. In their discussions, she’d picked up on enough details to know the man had killed before and more than once. He’d kept the specifics vague, but Mandy’s intuition told her the man hadn’t just been bragging.

Although he’d never outright stated his motivation to kill, Mandy could tell money didn’t drive him. Something much darker steered his course.

To deal with him, Mandy needed to throw all her preconceived notions of contract killers out the figurative window. Bogdan acted more like a mass murderer or a serial killer than a Mafia assassin.

So what’s going through Bogdan’s head right now?

If she took all sense of humanity out of the equation, then the answer to her question seemed obvious. Bogdan wouldn’t risk leaving a loose end that could land him in prison or worse. If he didn’t kill just for money, if he’d accepted Mandy’s contract just because he wanted the opportunity to murder a Fed, then who was to say he wouldn’t kill her just to scratch an itch in the back of his head?

“That’s it, then. That’s the answer.” She balled her hands into fists as she waited for the sudden spike of adrenaline to pass. “Now what should I do about it?”

What could she do about it?

Taking in a deep breath, Mandy counted to four as she exhaled. It was a calming technique that didn’t always work, but tonight, it was enough to stave off her fight-or-flight reflex so she could concentrate.

Turning Bogdan over to either the Chicago PD or the Feds was out of the question. If Amelia Storm ended up dead tomorrow, a prosecutor would hold her just as liable for the woman’s death as the man who killed her. Even if the agent didn’t die, Mandy’s punishment would be harsh.

She’d inherited a stupid amount of money when Saul died. Maybe she could use some of her vast financial resources to find a tenacious defense lawyer. Or maybe she could put some money in the right pockets.

No, that idea still didn’t sit right with her. Mandy never gambled, and she wasn’t about to start now. She used to joke with Saul that she’d used up all her good luck by meeting him when she was a young runaway, fighting for survival on the streets of Chicago.

The memory came with a sharp stab of melancholy, and she rubbed her hands on her knees.

If she wasn’t going to turn herself and Bogdan in to the authorities, then she was left with two options.

She could confront Bogdan and renegotiate the contract or find another way to ensure he didn’t view her as a loose end. Much like the idea of turning herself in, there were far too many variables out of her control with that plan. She’d already concluded Bogdan didn’t operate like a typical contract killer, so negotiating with the lunatic was like navigating a minefield with a blindfold on.

The second option was simpler.

She could kill him.

It wouldn’t be easy. She knew little about his routine—hell, she wasn’t convinced she even knew his true identity.

But Mandy was a detective, and she was damn good at her job.

“That’s it.” She smacked both hands against her legs and stood.

She made her way out of the living room, down a short hall, and into her first-floor office. Killing Bogdan wouldn’t be the first time she’d ventured outside the confines of the law, though she didn’t make a habit of killing. For the most part, she preferred to go through the proper channels to deal with a rapist or a murderer.

If Bogdan wanted to stalk Mandy to either intimidate or eliminate her, then she could play that game too.

But she wouldn’t just play. She’d win.

She had to win. Her survival depended on it.

10

The setting sun cast elongated shadows across the asphalt as Zane and Spencer made their way toward the gas station at the end of the road. Birds and insects created a constant buzz around them, weirdly soothing over the hustle and bustle of the city.

Passing numerous brownstones on their way, the two agents scanned the facades searching for video doorbells, security cameras, or any other surveillance system that might’ve caught an image of their unsub.

Zane stopped under a large oak tree, moving to the edge of the sidewalk to get a better look at one group of homes.

“See something?” Spencer moved beside him, craning his neck toward the four conjoined homes.

“I thought I saw a video doorbell, but it’s just one of those locks realtors use when a house is for sale. Let’s keep going. Maybe the gas station will prove more fruitful.”

After waiting for the walk signal, they made their way across the road. Inside, a middle-aged man with a shaved head perched on a stool behind the counter. When the bell on the door announced their entrance, he glanced in their direction before turning his gaze back to the baseball game on a TV bolted to the ceiling.

Zane strode forward and introduced them both before looking up at the TV screen. “Cubbies fan? What’s the score?”

The clerk spun on his stool but didn’t get up. “Game just started, so nothing yet.”

“Well, here’s hoping they win. I promise we only need a few minutes of your time, then we can let you get back to the game.”

“Feebs, huh? What’s up?” The clerk grinned as the Cubs batter hit a single to center field and took first base, then muted the game with a remote resting on the counter.

Spencer fished his notebook out of his suit coat. “Do you mind telling us your name?”

The clerk’s gaze flicked to Spencer, appearing to size him up. “Name’s Martin Partridge, but everyone calls me Bird, so you might as well too.”

The agent’s pen scrawled out the name. “Thank you, Bird. We’re investigating an incident over at Horseshoe Park just down the road. Do you have any surveillance footage? Anything that might pick up the traffic on the street?”

Partridge turned to look through the large windows adorned with signs advertising their combo meal deal and a special on bags of ice. He studied the area beyond the pumps before turning back toward Zane and Spencer. “Yeah, we got footage. I suppose it picks up the street. Never really gave it much thought. I only ever look at the cameras inside for shoplifting and late-night troublemakers, stuff like that.”

Zane scanned the store, finding two cameras. “And outside?”

“Yeah, there’s one along the side to catch vandals by the public restroom and to make sure no one helps themselves to free bags of ice or messes with the lock on the propane storage cage. There’s another one on the front corner of the building. Everyone has to prepay before they can pump, so it’s not like the owners should be worried about people fueling up and driving off.”

Leaning over the counter slightly, Zane dropped his tone low. “Maybe the owners want to scare off anyone before they get any ideas. A deterrent.”

Partridge shrugged and rotated his stool to check the score of the game before turning back. “I s’pose so.”

Spencer moved to the entrance and craned his neck toward the camera in question. “Any chance you have footage from last night?”

“The footage overwrites every twenty-four hours.” He checked the clock hanging over the register on the wall behind him. “If you don’t need anything before about seven thirty, you should be good.”

Zane patted the counter. “Do you have the authority to get us that footage, or do we need to contact a manager?”

Patridge sat up a little straighter and laughed. “Actually, I’m the manager. We can’t seem to keep any clerks employed, so it feels like I end up covering every shift.” He rose to his feet and arched his back. “Mind watching the place while I go get it?”

“Seems like a fair trade. We appreciate your cooperation.”

As the clerk disappeared through an Employees Only door, Zane eyed a display of snacks. His and Amelia’s dinner had been interrupted, and smelling the hot dogs rolling on their warmer made his stomach growl. Although Amelia had grabbed her dessert on their way out the door, half of his entrée was still on his plate when they’d departed. He wasn’t going to grab a dog, but maybe a bag of something salty-crunchy would hold him over.

He snagged two bags of sea salt kettle chips and tossed them onto the counter as he waited for Partridge’s return.

Spencer was still stationed by the front window, where he cupped his hand to the glass to block the glare as he peered out. “On the way back to the park, we should walk on the other side of the street to get a better view of the front porches. See if we missed any video doorbells or other exterior cameras.”

“It’s a pretty nice area with relatively low crime. Not super high-end, where folks seem to buy security systems by default, though. More middle-of-the-road nice.” Zane settled his hands in his pockets. “The kind where your wealth isn’t obvious enough to attract criminals. Folks probably think they don’t need the extra expense.”

“Isn’t this the age of the porch thief? I thought everyone was guarding against their online packages wandering off before they could get home to secure them.”

Zane moved up alongside Spencer and looked up and down the street. “Maybe people around here are more neighborly and⁠—”

“Here ya go.” The office door swung shut behind Partridge as he approached. “I loaded it onto a flash drive. It’s everything that hadn’t been written over. I didn’t know the time frame you needed, so I gave you everything through just now. The video has a running clock, so you’ll see the date and time if you find anything.”

Moving back to the counter, Zane shook the clerk’s hand before pocketing the small device. In his experience, he’d found, most people wanted to help if they could. Encountering people like Partridge while investigating the darker side of humanity always lifted his faith in humanity. “Much appreciated. Now before we let you get back to the game, were you working last night?”

Partridge bobbed his head. “Yeah, like I said, I feel like I’m here all the time. Overnights are the toughest shift to fill. So guess who that falls on? Me, the manager.”

Spencer approached, notebook still poised to take notes. “Did you by any chance notice any suspicious vehicles? Maybe ones that drove by a few times or went into the park and stayed there awhile?”

The clerk shook his head. “Nah. Sorry. With the glare from these megawatt lights, I can’t see a thing out the window. ’Bout the only thing I notice is when the crotch rockets race down the road and it sounds like the windows are going to shatter, or when an emergency vehicle goes past and the sirens and lights bounce around the whole store.”

“Okay, thanks for your time.” Zane glanced up at the TV a final time. “Looks like the Cubs are off to a decent start. Maybe they’ll get one over on the Cardinals, huh?”

Partridge let out a snort. “Doubtful, but at least it passes the time.”

After paying for his snacks, Zane stepped out into the evening air, happy to leave the bright fluorescent lights behind. Nodding toward the park, he tore open one bag of chips and began walking. He offered some to Spencer, who waved him off with a laugh.

“I’ll send this to Cyber, and first thing tomorrow, we can look at the footage Bird gave us.” Zane wasn’t someone who got his expectations up during an investigation. But he couldn’t help but hope the thumb drive tucked away in his pocket held a lead to stop the killer bleeding out his victims and selling the spectacle online.

11

At the field office the next morning, Amelia and Sherry settled their gear on the conference room table. After setting up her laptop, Amelia moved over to the evidence board and uncapped a dry-erase marker. She pulled her notebook from her pocket and began copying information onto the board.

They had an ID for the victim found at Horseshoe Park. Eric McClain.

She paused filling in details, flipping back and forth through pages of notes but not finding the one she needed. “How long since he’d gone missing?”

Sherry consulted the case files open on her laptop. “His older brother reported him missing on the twentieth when he hadn’t heard from him since the day before.”

Amelia noted down both the date Eric had been discovered and the day he was last heard from, adding a question mark at the end. Those dates bothered her. While they were combining forces between the VCU and Organized Crime yesterday, their unsub’s third victim might have already been stuffed into a freezer somewhere. They needed to move faster on this. The killer certainly was.

After getting a call from the medical examiner’s office at the crack of dawn, she and Sherry had met with Arlin “Buddy” McClain first thing this morning. Arlin was seven years older than Eric, but they’d been close despite the age difference. Part of what drew them together was a shared bond over the tragic deaths of their parents three years earlier.

The McClains had been driving home from an anniversary dinner celebration marking thirty-five years of marriage. A semitruck driver dozed off and ran the parents into the center divider, crushing the car and trapping them in a burning inferno. After that, Eric began using drugs to stop feeling anything. He’d just needed something to dull the pain, according to Buddy.

“Layton should be here soon with his preliminary profile.” Amelia checked her watch. “Any idea when the others will get here?”

“I feel like I was just summoned.” Layton Redker smiled as he stepped in and held the door open for Zane and Spencer. Before they could finish settling into seats around the table, Dean entered with a stack of folders and grabbed a chair across from Amelia.

Layton’s laptop hummed to life as he connected a cable to the overhead projector. “My apologies for not meeting with you sooner. With new victims found in rapid succession, I’ve had to revise my impressions a few times. A profile is always more informed if I can include as much information as possible.”

SSA Burton strode in carrying his own laptop and a few loose papers. “Sorry for interrupting. Please, continue.”

The BAU analyst nodded and adjusted his glasses. He clicked, and an image of the Eric McClain filled the screen. “At first, the latest victim, Eric McClain, didn’t appear to fit the unsub’s victim preference. But that’s only if we focus on the Chicago murders. When we broaden the profile to include the victims from the films made in Eastern Europe, McClain fits the same victimology as the earlier male victims.”

Dean grabbed his water bottle and leaned back in his chair. “And we know McClain’s murder was done by the same suspect because all the details are the same.”

Layton projected images recovered from the Eastern European snuff films along with images of the three Chicago victims. “And the male victim similarities indicate they are likely a surrogate for someone the unsub cannot lash out at directly. That could be because they died, they’re in jail, or some other reason. Likewise, because there’s no overlap in the female victims’ appearances, they likely don’t hold the same significance.”

“Well, the two recent female victims resemble each other. Same age range, race, both brunettes.” Sherry spun her coffee cup in circles.

“They do, you’re right. But when we add in the female victims from overseas, the significance of their similarity diminishes. There was a traumatic event that involved someone who resembled the male victims that so enraged our unsub, he continues to lash out at him symbolically through these surrogate victims.”

Zane scoffed. “Isn’t that always the case? Some jerk wrongs someone and that sets that victim off on a path of destruction.”

“Right.” Sherry flipped through her notebook. “Dr. Francis confirmed that Eric McClain had wounds similar to Elinor Fogleman and Rachael Gibber’s. The only real difference, other than gender, is that they were each found in different parks.”

Layton clicked again, and the image became a map, a duplicate of the one they had on the murder board. “Thinking of that, let’s talk about the geo profile. These parks aren’t right on top of each other, but they’re clumped together. That tells me the unsub either lives or works somewhere near this area.” Using the mouse arrow, he circled an area that encompassed the three parks.

“It’d be a good idea to ask the CPD to increase their presence around the parks.” Zane pointed out a perimeter. “And maybe monitor parks nearby. Just in case our guy has anyone else to dump.”

“Let’s hope not.” Amelia paged through her notebook before tapping one mark and shifting gears. “Cowen and I spoke with McClain’s older brother this morning. He mentioned that after he and Eric lost their parents, Eric turned to drugs. That means each victim had a history of drug addiction.”

Layton scribbled a few notes on a legal pad next to his laptop. “Okay, that’s one good avenue we can pursue. Did the victims use the same drugs? Could they have had the same dealer or source? Is there any overlap in their individual recovery journeys?”

“I think we already have that answer.” Zane scrolled down his laptop screen. “Here it is. The two female victims both attended meetings for drug addiction with an organization called SOS. Stands for Surviving Opioids Successfully. Did McClain’s brother say anything about that?”

“He did. The same group.” Amelia flipped to a different page in her notebook. “Eric’s meetings were at the Palmer Center of Hope. He went every Sunday…religiously.”

Groans filled the room.

“Storm.” Zane leveled a serious look her way. “Was that a dad joke?”

Layton’s mouth barely moved, but Amelia thought he appreciated her attempt at humor. “Okay, the case file had the rest of the info. Elinor Fogleman attended SOS meetings at St. Margaret of York off Grand Street. Rachael Gibber…she regularly went at Chitown Community Center on First Street through their outreach program for addicts.” As he spoke, he added a marker for Eric McClain’s meeting location.

“My god, those meetings are all across the city. They’re way outside the area where their bodies were found.” Just when Amelia had thought they were making progress, the search net just got a lot wider. The early days of an investigation could be frustrating at the best of times, but with victims turning up rapidly, she felt they weren’t making headway fast enough.

Sherry swiveled in her chair to study the map closer. “Three different treatment centers. Not a slam dunk for commonality. I don’t want to discount any leads, but it’s looking less likely that three different groups would have a common counselor.” She glanced at the BAU analyst. “Any thoughts on if our unsub has a savior complex?”

Layton smiled but shook his head. “We shouldn’t rule it out, but it isn’t currently an element in my profile. Often, someone with that mindset would have to think they’re saving someone. But people in recovery, who are holding down jobs, with a roof over their heads and supportive friends and family, usually aren’t seen as needing mercy.”

SSA Burton ran his hand back and forth across his keyboard, as if the light rattle of keys helped him focus. “Anybody know anything about this SOS organization?”

Zane tapped his laptop screen. “‘Surviving Opioids Successfully was founded by Jason McCole, a twenty-year-recovered addict, who’d branched out from more traditional groups to cater to the needs of others who suffered from prescription drug addiction.’ It says that SOS doesn’t adhere to any book or the traditional rules. McCole serves as the organization’s CEO. It says ‘…while discretion is advised, accountability is our key to success.’”

“So maybe not so anonymous. Be good for us.” Dean raised an eyebrow.

“I think we should try to compile a list of all the attendees at the meetings.” Amelia already doubted they’d have much luck in that regard before she’d finished speaking. Even if they weren’t Narcotics Anonymous, there had to be some level of privacy and protection in place.

Anonymity was foundational for some people before seeking a drug recovery program, especially since the drugs they abused were illegal or obtained illegally. It was more than just any shame they felt. They had to consider legal repercussions before shedding their secrecy. Not that any group would turn them in. But the paranoia was very real.

Layton returned his gaze to his laptop screen. “I’m labeling our unsub as an organized serial killer. There’s been very little evidence found at the three dump sites, and no witnesses or even any cameras have spotted our suspect. But he’s more than likely male, between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-four, with above-average intelligence. I want to clarify that the age range is for when our guy started killing.”

Dean snorted. “So we could be looking for anyone twenty-five plus? We’ll have to cross reference Narcotics Anonymous with the AARP?”

Layton ignored him and clicked through a few files. “We know he’s been at this for at least five years thanks to the older films, so we need to tack at least five years on to the age of our suspect. Five years, not fifty.” He sent Dean a dry glance. “And we can’t rule out non-American citizens or immigrants. There’s an international element to this.”

Amelia twirled the loose end of her braid, a practice that often helped her focus when she was trying to make sense of the pieces of a case. Instead, she noticed that the month-old balayage her sister-in-law Jo had given her was growing out. She flipped her braid behind her back, an idea percolating. “If I recall the details you offered from a previous case, an organized killer often has three separate crime scenes.”

“Right. If there’s a dump site, which there is, then you’ve got the site where the perpetrator confronts the victim…” Layton gestured for her to finish the thought.

She took the metaphorical ball and ran with it. “The kill site and the dump site. So far, we have one of the three figured out. He likes to dump his victims in public parks in covered areas.”

“Storm gets the gold star.” Layton smiled as Dean made exaggerated kissing noises and Sherry muttered “suck-up” under her breath.

Amelia appreciated how each of her colleagues tried to lighten the mood when dealing with such somber cases.

As the laughter faded, Layton tapped the table, regaining everyone’s attention. “From the three murders, we’ve established that the unsub’s M.O. is to inject the victims with something that subdues them. At some point, he binds their wrists and ankles. He kills them by hanging them upside down and slitting their throats, with exsanguination as the cause of death. After freezing the bodies, which is likely a forensic countermeasure, he dumps them in a park.”

Zane leaned forward with a look of deep thought that Amelia recognized. “Where do the snuff films come in? Aren’t they part of his M.O.?”

“I think the snuff films are part of his signature. The need to film the crimes satisfies something in him psychologically or emotionally. Recording the murders fulfills a fantasy that our perpetrator had long before killing his first victim.”

“The forensic lead mentioned some evidence at Horseshoe Park showed more than one person carried the body to the dump site.” Amelia didn’t need to check her notes. She’d gone over them many times. “Does your profile change if we’re looking at two suspects?”

Layton rolled his chair closer to the table and peered at his laptop screen. “The profile I’ve created is for the mastermind. If he has accomplices, they’re following orders. Our suspect wouldn’t take orders from anyone else and likely sees himself as smarter than everyone around him, including law enforcement.”

These were ideas Amelia could work with. A picture, although still faceless, was forming of their suspect. And if he thought he was smarter than everyone, he might just make a mistake.

SSA Burton cleared his throat as he looked at the analyst by his side. “Great stuff, Redker.” He turned to face the other agents. “Corsaw, Palmer, you’re scheduled to meet with the lab techs, right?”

Spencer checked his watch. “We were supposed to be there half an hour ago but told them we’d be delayed. Didn’t want to miss the profile.”

“Okay, you two head over there and see what they have for us.” Burton turned to Sherry. “You and Storm can get a jump on trying to track down the employees and counselors at each of the addiction centers. See if there’s any commonality.”

Dean raised his hand partway. “And me?”

“See if you can get the different organizations to provide us with lists of the meeting attendees.”

They had three victims and a lengthy list of loose threads they needed to chase. Any of those leads could be the missing piece to help them identify their killer…and the existing evidence said the asshole was just getting started.

12

Zane and Spencer walked in silence down the second-floor hallway to the forensic lab. Layton’s profile had offered useful tidbits that would hopefully allow them to find the bastard terrorizing recovering addicts. They just had to put those tidbits to work.

Upon entering the brightly lit lab, a slender man with close-cropped hair looked up from his microscope and waved the two agents over. Zane had worked with Oliver Jeffries the previous summer when they’d investigated the disappearance of a well-known journalist. Jefferies had an expansive wealth of knowledge, even though he was still in his twenties.

“Thanks for coming down.” Jeffries gestured to a pair of nearby stools. He had very white teeth that nearly glowed in contrast to his medium-brown skin. “Feel free to pull up a seat if you want.”

“We appreciate you making the time to update us. What do you have so far?” Spencer got straight to the point, and Zane appreciated that. Time was of the essence as long as the person hunting Chicagoans was still roaming the streets.

“We’re analyzing everything recovered from each victim, including the metal fragments and dirt found on their clothing, going back over each piece of evidence just to be thorough.” Jeffries rubbed the back of his neck and rolled his shoulders. “Sorry, hazard of the job. My partner got me one of those automatic neck massagers, but I haven’t brought it into the office. I’m afraid if I do, a tech will snag it, and I’ll never get it back.”

Zane couldn’t fight the urge to massage his own neck, then stopped halfway through and laughed. “I see what you mean. So have you managed to narrow anything down with what you’ve analyzed so far?”

“CPD investigators believed the dirt found on the victims’ clothing was from the various dump sites. I can tell you from a preliminary analysis that the dirt from the clothes doesn’t match the soil where the victims were found. And it appears the makeup of the soil was similar on each victim.” Jeffries checked some notes on a clipboard next to his microscope. “My working theory is that it comes from the kill site, the killer’s own clothes, or the vehicle that transported the victims.”

Spencer arched an eyebrow and leaned forward. “Can you tell us anything about the dirt that might pinpoint where our killer’s operating? It would be great if you told us it was a super rare soil found only at a specific address here in Chicago.” He elbowed Zane, who just rolled his eyes.

“Sure. Once I finish my tests, I should be able to get you the latitude and longitude of the crime scene.” The chemist’s expression never faltered.

“Wait, really?” A spark of hope gleamed in Spencer’s eyes.

“No.” Jeffries glanced at Zane. “Sorry.”

Zane shook his head. “It’s too easy to pull one over on this guy. What about the metal fragments?”

“Right. Do you know if the victims worked as mechanics or in a metalworking environment?”

Spencer checked his notebook before responding. “No, nothing like that.”

“Well, much like the soil on the victims’ clothes, the metal fragments recovered have a similar chemical compound. That can’t be a coincidence. Since they didn’t all share the same profession, my educated guess is that it was transferred from the unsub or the kill site.”

“What’s your thinking if the fragments were from the kill site? Any idea where we should be looking for this guy’s killing field?” Like Spencer, Zane hoped the forensic chemist had a crystal ball that could pinpoint where their unsub was slaughtering his victims.

“Assuming the flecks were transferred from the kill site, preliminary tests indicate it’s an industrial site.”

Spencer ran his fingers through his dark hair and leaned his back against one of the tall lab tables. “While I joked earlier, I wish that was more specific. But it does eliminate residential sites, so that’s something.”

Zane tried to connect the dots between what they knew about the three victims and what Jeffries was surmising from the lab’s test results so far. “Let’s say the metal particles aren’t from the crime scene but are from the unsub. Does that change anything about your theory?”

“Yes and no. From what we’ve been able to identify, this metal is a specific type. If they came from the unsub’s clothes, then he could be employed in an industrial setting, a mechanic’s shop, or just be a DIY metalworker or hobbyist. We’ve subjected the samples to a variety of tests. Once we have the results back, I might be able to narrow down the setting where you’d find this particular type of metal in this size and shape.”

“What about the piece of blue tarp found on the male victim’s belt? Does that help narrow things down?”

“We haven’t had that long enough to do extensive testing on it. And nothing like that was recovered at the other dump sites, so it might be a coincidence and was there before the unsub encountered the victim. But once forensics completes the analysis, we’ll upload everything to the case file and shoot you a message that we’ve done so.”

Spencer and Zane thanked Jeffries for his time and made their way back into the hallway.

“Amelia asked me to pick up a fresh latte for her.” Zane punched the call button for the elevator. “Do you want anything?”

“I’m good, thanks. I’ll head up and update Amelia and Sherry.” Spencer stepped aside to call a different elevator before they parted ways.

On the ride down to street level, Zane’s thoughts bounced to Amelia. He wasn’t sure if it was because this was the first case they’d worked on together in a while, but his desire to formalize his commitment to her grew stronger by the day.

He’d never daydreamed about getting married to anyone before, but they were so compatible, and he was head over heels for her. If he decided the time was right to pop the question, he wanted to do things right.

But first, he would bring her a latte.

When the elevator dinged to signal his arrival, Zane’s focus returned to the case.

As he pushed through the doors onto the sidewalk, the sticky July humidity stuck his crisp white cotton button-down to him like a second skin. He eyed the pedestrians he passed and resolved to protect them from the hunter who walked among them.

13

Mandy Avery inhaled, trying to relax on the couch with her laptop open. Sometimes, she could still feel her husband in the buttery leather. A soft, familiar ache formed in her diaphragm. She never knew when the memories would press against her. Most days, she could ignore the hollow sensation. Keeping busy helped.

Every afternoon for the past couple of days, she’d been surfing the dark web. As a homicide detective, she’d learned a variety of tricks used by the criminals she chased, and she was putting them to use. After terminating the contract to kill Agent Amelia Storm, Mandy doubted Bogdan Kremlin—had to be an alias—would just disappear from her life. So she was learning everything she could about the man.

The best defense is a great offense.

And Mandy had built her offense. She’d discovered that Bogdan was the serial killer creating the snuff films that had claimed the lives of two Chicagoans in the last week. This was what she should’ve done when she found him—investigated further. Then she’d have been coming up the hero, catching a killer rather than sitting in a dim room trying to figure out how to stop him while saving her own ass.

She’d heard chatter at the precinct about those murders and that the PD had handed the case over to the Feds. And through a friend at the Chicago Field Office, she learned Amelia Storm was assigned to the case.

Of all the damn chances.

Mandy didn’t have access to the FBI files, but the local news had just reported a third murder victim. Her intuition said Bogdan had probably killed the newest victim too.

After that, she created a fake profile and made herself a fan. She needed to see what he was saying, how his fans were responding, what he had planned.

Bogdan was hyping up to some kind of special film for his fans. She’d read enough to understand that his ultimate plan was to use someone who worked for the federal government. “String up the Fed for all to enjoy.” He talked about her gender, height, hair color, age, tattoos.

Does he have a camera inside her home?

Mandy didn’t know where Amelia Storm’s tats were, but it didn’t take much to verify the agent had a recovering addict sister and former alcoholic father—Bogdan had mentioned them too.

Her gaze hopped all over the room just thinking about his obsession with the agent. The smallest objects could conceal a camera. Short of tearing her beloved home apart, Mandy doubted she’d find any devices the man might’ve planted. She could do a sweep with equipment she’d “borrow” from the station, but that might raise eyebrows. Perhaps it was time to install a high-end security system.

She’d asked Saul about getting one many times, but he’d found her paranoia off-putting. By the time she’d worn him down, his health became priority, and she got sidetracked finding him a suitable donor heart on the black market.

Shaking her head, she returned her attention to the task at hand. The more Mandy sifted through the Russian’s biggest fan site, the more convinced she was that he’d only accepted the contract to kill Agent Storm because he was planning something special for her already. It seemed like he’d been referring to his master plan to destroy a Fed—and sometimes he’d said ‘the Feds’—since before she’d hired him.

What kind of a batshit coincidence is that?

She shivered despite the comfortable seventy-two degrees of her home. Ever since Saul passed away, it didn’t matter how warm she kept the home. Each room of the cavernous, empty house was a frigid reminder of the love that once filled it.

All she could figure was that Dr. Lou Sherman was affiliated with Bogdan Kremlin somehow, and Agent Storm had taken Sherman down. How important was Sherman to Bogdan that he’d risk killing the agent who busted him? It seemed too extreme…

Mandy pulled a cashmere throw blanket over her legs and onto her lap, the scent of Saul’s woodsy aftershave wafting up to greet her. She closed her eyes and imagined his frail form beside her. The phantom sensation haunted her when she was both awake and asleep. She bit back grief for the millionth time, adjusted her laptop, and continued sorting through the trove of information on Bogdan Kremlin.

What Mandy knew she needed to do was take her laptop and head into the precinct—or better yet, the FBI Chicago Field Office—and turn herself in. Hand over everything she’d just discovered. A serial killer was on the loose in Chicago, and Agent Storm’s life was on the line on top of it. Consequences be damned, it was the right thing to do. The only rational thing to do. She’d taken an oath to serve and protect.

She stared at a wall for who knew how long before coming to a decision.

The agent could handle herself. Mandy had to put her own survival first. She wasn’t too proud to admit she’d been unnerved yesterday when she’d seen that shiny little Z4 driving through her neighborhood multiple times. But she just needed to stay one step ahead of the crazy Russian and then kill him. Problem solved for everyone.

Setting her laptop on the walnut burl coffee table, she pulled the blanket up to her shoulders. She just couldn’t shake the pervasive chill. As she warmed up, her thoughts turned into dreams.

Jolting awake, Mandy sprang to her feet. What had woken her? What time was it? The room had fallen into darkness. She moved to the lamp next to the couch and turned the knob. It bathed part of the living room in a warm glow, but there were still too many shadows.

There!

A scuffle came from the back of the house. Mandy didn’t have any pets. Someone was inside her home. Her sanctuary.

Bogdan.

It wasn’t a question. She knew she’d be confronting the Russian monster. She’d miscalculated his speed though.

Knowing her service gun was in its holster hanging over the back of a stool at the breakfast bar—right where she’d draped it when she’d gotten off work earlier—Mandy would have to move through the formal dining room and the massive chef’s kitchen to retrieve it.

The smooth hardwood beneath her socked feet would at least allow her to glide silently through her home. She edged along the wall that separated the living room from the formal dining area.

That was when she saw a shadow dart through the kitchen, moving inhumanly fast, and her police training kicked in as she crouched to make herself a smaller target.

But the blow came from behind. “We had a deal, bitch.”

Bogdan. Dammit, a trick of the light!

He thrust her into the kitchen. Landing with a thud, she had no time to brace herself when he slammed on top of her.

Mandy would not go down without a fight. Bogdan had the upper hand, but she’d lived on the streets of Chicago’s South Side. Tucking her arms under her so he couldn’t grab them, Mandy bucked with her whole body and pushed off with her hands to launch him off her back.

“Get out of my house, you Russian bastard.”

There’s no way this asshole’s making a film about me. Not today, dickhead.

She scrambled to her feet, but her socks couldn’t gain purchase on the clean tiles, and she slid as she tried to get to her holster.

The Russian grabbed her ankle and tugged on it hard, dropping her to her knees. She twisted her body and aimed for his ear with her free foot. If she landed a blow, it would disrupt his vestibular system, and she’d buy herself some time to get her gun.

The bones in her foot crunched against his skull, stunning the angry Russian. As soon as he released his hold, she scrambled to her feet, stepping out of one sock as she did so.

“Tonight, you will die.” The calm menace in his tone sent a fresh wave of shivers through her.

She used her sweaty and sticky bare foot to gain traction and propelled herself toward her holster. As she grabbed the familiar worn leather, it was far too light.

“Looking for this?”

Mandy spun on her heel, trying to see where the slippery bastard had gone. A loud bang greeted her, and pain seared through her gut. Everything had happened in a split second, and her mind raced to catch up.

That son of a bitch shot me with my own gun.

Several years ago, a suspect’s bullet had grazed her upper arm. The pain then had been like a sharp sting. Nothing like the deep burning and the sensation of internal shifting she experienced now.

Trying to stem the flow of the warm liquid leaking from the fire in her gut, Mandy headed toward the back door. Bright spots danced before her vision, forcing her to use her knowledge of her own home, since she couldn’t see anything.

As soon as she heard a growl from behind, she darted to the side, into the mudroom, and Bogdan fell. Hard.

Mandy slammed the inside door shut with a foot to slow him down, and the effort took her breath away. She fought back a groan as blades of pain jabbed into her side.

At the sound of Bogdan himself moaning and rustling, her adrenaline kicked in again, and she looked around, trying to get her bearings. Her house, so familiar to her, seemed strange and out of focus. She used the smooth floor to slide toward the exit. It was easier than walking.

Her spare keys hung on a hook by the door. Mandy, on autopilot, grabbed them. She reached up and unlocked the door to their manicured backyard, scooted through the door, and locked it behind her to buy time. Blood coated her hand, sticky and slippery, but she slid the lock home.

Once outside, she used the door handle to pull herself up, but she couldn’t stand without blood leaking out of her gut. Something smelled off about the wound too. Like something rotting. The bullet had nicked her stomach or her intestines. Mandy knew she needed help or she was done.

Stumbling, hunched around her wound, she made it to the hedges. The world seemed to tip, and she steadied herself by leaning into the juniper. It was dense enough to hold her upright. Barely.

Bogdan crashed through the back door. Angry Russian curses sounded through the night.

She used the hedges for cover as she made her way along the perimeter of the backyard toward the driveway and her truck.

Her priority was to get away. To get help. But her wound was losing a lot of blood. Running would speed that process up as her heart pumped faster. So she moved slow but steady, hoping she wasn’t leaving a trail of blood behind her.

Staying put and hoping to hide from the maniac would be suicide.

Whatever luck she had left held. Bogdan headed away from her side of the yard and started searching the other side first.

Mandy didn’t know what her next move would be. She just knew she needed to make it to the truck.

14

“I am going to kill that bitch if I have not already!”

I slammed my flimsy apartment door so hard that I thought it would come off the hinges, but it somehow survived.

Her backyard had been blacker than the Russian sky at midnight in the dead of winter. I knew I had shot her up good, because I had fallen in some of her blood in the kitchen. She was leaking like an old hose. But then, outside, I could not find her anywhere.

I had searched and searched for her. When I heard the truck peeling out of the driveway, I could not believe it. But by the time I got around to the front of those audacious mansions with yards bigger than a football field, she had taken off down the road.

I raced to my car, but she was gone. I circled the neighborhood and took three separate routes to two of the nearest hospitals to see if she was hiding out on a side street.

Nothing!

After throwing my car keys onto the kitchen counter, I launched an empty glass across the living room. Instead of shattering, it bounced off the wall. That was the evening I was having.

I stomped over to where the damn thing came to rest so I could crush the glass into oblivion. The room spun. A lingering side effect from that bitch detective. She had kicked me in the ear, trying to kill me, but she was a few centimeters off.

It was a trick I had learned from my time in the Bratva, when I toiled alongside Rurik.

Stomping the glass with my booted foot caused another round of dizziness to strike, but I enjoyed the release of the shattering. It was not the same sensation as seeing the fear in my victims’ eyes or watching the life drain from them as they writhed in pain, dangling from my hook. But it provided minute relief.

To get my mind off the maddening woman who had eluded me, I thought of my next victim. He would be special. Killing him would revive the joy that had vanished since the murder of my brother.

“Mischa.” I spat the name. Soon, Federal Agent Robert Zane Palmer would die, and so would his little piece of ass.

Right now, however, my immediate concerns were for that bitch detective who got away. If she went to a hospital, they would question her injuries.

But without medical care, she would die. And that would be the best for me.

Kicking away the glass shards, I pulled back a corner of the tattered curtains covering the window that held my view of the street. I wondered where she was. I had not stuck around after she ran off, unsure if she would contact authorities.

But there was no way I would leave her fate to chance. She was a loose end. Still, it would be a challenge to take her out inside a hospital if she went there with some far-fetched story about a home invasion. Security people and surveillance cameras would be everywhere. I could not let my image be captured, even if I wore a disguise. I knew the Feds had technology that might see through my subterfuge, eventually leading them to me.

Der’mo!

What would I do if that suka ratted me out? She could be doing that now, and I would never know until the authorities showed up at my door.

She did not know my address…or even my real name. But she had seen my car and could describe my face. I moved to the card table where my laptop rested. Sitting down, I entered a series of passcodes and opened the browser that the Feds knew existed but seemed incapable of policing. My portal to the dark web.

I was going to go crazy thinking through the many possibilities if I did not act soon. The detective was a problem, which meant I needed to speed up my plans for Mischa and his little girlfriend, Agent Storm. And she was a clever one.

She had brought down a sitting United States senator and lobbyist Brian Kolthoff. His death had come behind bars at the hands of Maxim Severov, a Russian mobster whose name was familiar to me.

The woman did not back down, not to anyone. Well, she would not have the upper hand when we met.

But how could I get to the two American agents?

Knowing that the wounded and desperate detective could be singing like a canary as I plotted my revenge, I needed to shift my focus.

I scrolled through the photos I had taken while following Mischa and Amelia. Stopping for coffee. Grocery shopping. Picking up expensive suits from the dry cleaner or meals from fancy restaurants. Such extravagance and indulgence. Americans loved their capitalism.

I glared at each picture, my hate percolating. And then I landed on one that featured a different face. Not the smug face of Agent Palmer or his girlfriend.

“Ah, there she is. She looks wise for her years.”

Wild excitement coursed through me as I dialed my protégé.

He picked up on the first ring, but of course he did. “Yes?”

“I need you to meet me at the site in two hours.”

“Sure thing.”

Being an artist meant having an eye for detail, which was why we had been cleaning the set for several hours.

The floors had been mopped thoroughly, twice. My freezer had also been scrubbed.

Lou Sherman, the man who was supposed to be my colleague when I moved to the states, had believed he was too smart to be caught. That had been his downfall. But he had been a perfectionist like me, unlike the new guy. Still, no one would ever accuse my current colleague of being too smart or full of himself. And that made him the perfect assistant.

“Cole? Did you clean the tarp?”

Clutching the worn mop handle, my new friend stared at me as if he did not understand the question.

“Did…you…clean…the…tarp?” I smiled when the mop handle trembled.

“Yes. It’s folded up in the back room.”

“Did you sharpen the knife?”

“Yep. You should trust me now. I do everything you ask and haven’t screwed up once.”

I closed the distance between us and slapped him across his cheek with the back of my hand. “Such a big head will be your downfall. And if you go down, I go down with you. Do you understand?”

He stood his ground and nodded. I appreciated a dog who could take abuse.

Although my English was fairly good, my accent was distinctive. And despite shopping at the clothing stores downtown, I seemed incapable of looking like a foolish American, like my protégé, always advertising one sports team or another, incapable of dressing like an intelligent, educated businessman.

Because I could not bring myself to appear as if I ate fast food, drank lots of beer, and worshipped men in tights, I could not stalk my prey up close. Attending their sob fests, where they confessed their weaknesses, was not possible. Someone would notice the unusual man with the serious clothes and the Russian accent.

But my colleague was indistinct. The best accomplice was someone no one remembered. I gave his shoulder a squeeze of confidence. I needed him after all.

I glanced around the space again before taking a seat on an old chair I had moved out of the abandoned office. “You are going to have your work cut out for you with my next target. She is very special, and we must move carefully.”

He nodded. “Who is it?”

I pulled a photo from my shirt pocket and unfolded it, running a finger over her face. So beautiful. So perfect. “Here. She is more important than the others we have discussed.”

He took the picture. His eyes seemed to dance with excitement, and I swore his pants twitched at the sight of her. “Maybe we can switch things up a bit. Let me have some fun with this one before we string her up.”

Under my tutelage, I had taught him the beauty of acting out his fantasies. But his arousal from watching our prey, studying them, and interacting with them was growing with each kill. Now he was indicating his desires were shifting even as we slit their throats. That was a complication I could not allow.

After I selected our last victim, he had confronted me about why we were going after a man. He preferred feeling powerful over our female subjects. The fool had even questioned if I preferred the company of men in my bed over women. I drove my knee into his balls to settle that question. I was no gomosek.

“Bogdan, did you hear me?”

I was lost in my thoughts. “No. What is it?”

“Who is this special target?”

“She is the key to getting everything I desire. Bringing her here will set in motion a chain of events that will bring me the ultimate pleasure.”

My assistant looked puzzled. “Huh?”

“It is simple. She will allow me to get revenge. And nothing is sweeter than that.”

Cole studied the photo as if it would give him some clue. “And who is this that will bring you that kind of joy?”

“Lainey Storm.”

15

Shaking the remaining cobwebs from her sleep-deprived mind, Amelia settled into a chair in the conference room. Zane dropped into the one beside her. At three thirty in the morning, they were both exhausted, but when SSA Burton had called Zane, he’d stressed the urgency to get to the office. Riding the wave of adrenaline that accompanied such a call would have to be enough to help her focus on the newest development.

The door swung open, and Spencer entered with a large travel mug of coffee.

Amelia eyed the cup and shot him a sideways glance.

He held up his hands. “Hey, I didn’t make any stops. This is ice-cold and at least eighteen hours old.”

Zane laughed. “I’d like to see the light show when you try to put that metal mug in the break room microwave.”

“Give me some credit. I might be working on four hours’ sleep, but I know enough not to do that.” Spencer settled into a chair across from Amelia.

Sherry was next through the door. “Steelman’s not far behind me.”

Dean slipped inside the open door on Sherry’s heels. “Morning.” He collapsed into the chair next to Spencer before Sherry had even made her way to that side of the table. “I’d like to request that the Bureau put a sleeping berth in the office. I’m not even sure why I bother going home.” He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes as he yawned.

SSA Burton, the man who’d made the middle-of-the-night call, entered the conference room. With a nod to the five agents, he wasted no time with pleasantries. “Sorry about the urgency. We got a call from an old friend of mine in the CPD Homicide division.”

He flicked off the overhead lights as he hit the button on a remote. An image of Detective Amanda Avery filled the screen on the wall.

Amelia wondered if this was a video call with the detective and if the dim room was going to put her to sleep. SSA Burton didn’t leave her wondering for long.

“Detective Amanda Avery died tonight after being attacked in her home. She made a video earlier this evening, prior to her death, and sent it to her supervisor at her precinct. Instead of summarizing, I think you all should see this for yourselves.” Burton took a few documents from Spencer and looked through them before zeroing in on Amelia. “Most this video is about you, Agent Storm.”

Amelia’s attention sparked anew. If she’d been drinking coffee, she’d have choked on it, she was sure of that. “Me? I’m sorry. I barely know her. What did she say about me?”

“See for yourself.” Burton hit a button, and the screen filled with Detective Amanda Avery’s pale face. She appeared to be sweating, with locks of auburn hair stuck to her forehead and cheeks.

Amelia recognized that she was recording herself on her cell phone from inside a vehicle, slouched low in a seat. Was she running from someone?

“I don’t have much time.” Avery’s voice was clear but soft through her labored breathing. She cast a glance around the cab. “After my husband Saul died, I was so angry. So sad. I needed someone to blame, and that ended up being Agent Amelia Storm.”

Amelia felt the eyes of her colleagues as they all turned to her for answers. All she could do was shrug. There was no reason Avery should blame her for her husband’s death. Doing a mental inventory of her past cases, she couldn’t recall Saul Avery being mixed up with any case.

Wait. Except…

“The FBI busted Lou Sherman,” Her voice caught from grief and whatever else was going on with her. “and I couldn’t get a heart for Saul’s transplant…”

Amelia understood. Busting Dr. Lou Sherman’s black-market organ ring had prevented Saul Avery from getting a heart. She’d arrested the organ harvester, sealing his fate.

“…I was pissed and desperate for revenge. Saul was the best thing that ever happened to me. He saved my life, and I was going to save his. But Storm made that impossible.”

Beads of sweat dotted Avery’s brow, and she shivered as she glanced around again. As the detective shifted the phone in her hand, Amelia focused on her partial view of a truck window, trying to see if anything outside could determine Avery’s location.

“I couldn’t kill her myself, but she needed to die.”

Amelia sat straighter in her chair. She knew plenty of people she’d hunted over her career probably wanted her dead, but hearing it stated so plainly jolted her even more awake.

“I searched the dark web for an assassin and found Bogdan Kremlin, an alias, but that’s all I got. He’s the one making the snuff films and murdering the people you’re finding in the parks.” A coughing fit overcame the detective, and blood spurted from her mouth, trickling down her lower lip. She dabbed at it with a bloody cloth.

Had she been shot? Knifed? Amelia wondered how long she’d clung to life after making the video.

Avery was leaning too close to the cell phone, clearly struggling. Her unsteady hand drooped, and the camera moved to capture her shirt.

“She’s bleeding.” Sherry pierced the tension in the room with that comment.

Burton paused the video. “The CPD found her truck and body, which is with the M.E.” He resumed the video.

“It seems Storm,” the detective’s voice weakened, and more blood dripped from her mouth, which she didn’t bother to wipe away this time, “is supposed to be the feature of his next film.” She looked down with an expression of futility. “He’s the one who did this to me. I’m sorry.”

Amelia peered over at Zane. She knew the creased lines in his forehead too well. Their emotional connection was one of the reasons they worked in different divisions. Neither of them wanted to be clouded with worry in the heat of a confrontation. That could get one of them hurt…or worse.

Zane tapped the conference table. “Let me make sure I’m following. A Chicago PD detective has a grudge against Amelia and ordered a hit, which she later regretted and tried to cancel? And that’s what killed her?”

If Amelia didn’t know better, she’d swear Zane’s question had made the SSA uncomfortable. Burton met Amelia’s gaze. “Let’s just finish the video.” He pressed Play.

“He’s average height, very fit, Slavic traits.” Avery spit up more blood. “Early forties, very thick accent, and he dresses like…dresses…like he manages an IKEA…” She started choking, which soon turned into gasps. The labored breathing stopped an instant before the camera flipped up to the cab ceiling.

Barry stopped the video and flicked the overhead light back on, causing everyone to blink. He held up his hands as questions flew at him.

“Did she just die right then?” Sherry looked at Amelia.

“Yes and no. She regains consciousness long enough to send the video…then dies.”

“Okay…we have a name, but it’s an alias.” Zane spread his palms open. “And a description that could be any forty-something white male from here to Russia.”

“Were her final words ‘he dresses like he manages an IKEA?’” Dean rubbed his temple. “What does that even mean?”

Amelia spoke over everyone, “I know this looks like a conflict of interest, but I’d like to point out that this information is valuable. It’s good news. This assassin is after me, but he doesn’t know we’re aware of that. We can use that to our advantage.”

She refused to look to her side where Zane shifted in his seat. To his credit, he didn’t object. His trust in her abilities was another thing she loved about him.

“And I think her strange last words meant he probably wears button-downs and slacks or khakis. Doesn’t dress like he’s about to go to a Cubs game.”

Dean nodded. “Makes sense, and I’m inclined to agree. If this assassin had some kind of confrontation with Avery, he’s probably hiding. We could use Amelia to draw him out. Bring the vermin into the light.”

Zane shifted more visibly now, and Amelia worried about what he’d say. “I knew a man in Russia named Bogdan. Obviously, his last name wasn’t Kremlin, which according to Avery is fake anyway. But I have some doubts that this would be the same man, even though that guy was about five-ten, fit at the time, and would be around forty right now.”

Burton crossed his arms over his chest. “Palmer, why don’t you tell us what you can?”

The familiar mannerism of Zane’s fingers drumming on the conference table indicated he was deep in thought.

After a few moments, he broke the silence. “I can’t tell everything without clearance. Basically, there was a man named Rurik with a younger brother named Bogdan. They were part of a Bratva.”

“Anything you can tell us that would support the idea this isn’t the same man? Is this even a common name?” Spencer’s words carried the weight of friendship born from working with Zane since he’d joined the Bureau.

“It’s not uncommon, but why would it be the same Bogdan is the question.” Zane waved at the image of the cab interior still displayed faintly from the projector. “Here in Chicago, making snuff films. Chasing after Amelia. What kind of outlandish coincidence would that be?”

“I wouldn’t bet on those odds in Vegas.” Dean shook his head.

“Right. And I’m wondering if the proclivity for snuff films just materializes out of thin air, or if this type of fetish would take roots from a younger age. The man I knew didn’t show any signs of being into this crap.”

Sherry chimed in. “How does this dovetail with Redker’s profile?”

Burton nodded. “I called Redker to get him to update us based on this new information. He’s consulting on another case but said he’d be able to join us after he’s reviewed this video for himself. Meanwhile, I’d like to state my concerns about either Storm or Palmer staying on this case.”

Once again, the SSA held up his hand to stop the protests already peppering the air.

“But,” he drew the word out, “I don’t think I have much choice. We don’t have anyone as familiar with this case as the people in this room. And we may need to use Storm as bait, especially given her knowledge of Russian.” Looking at Zane, he added, “Not to mention his.”

“Da,” Zane deadpanned.

Laughter filled the room, though it quickly faded.

Amelia looked around the table at the assembled team. These were some of the smartest people she’d ever had the honor to work with. She would trust them with her life. And that was just what she was about to do.

16

Chatter from numerous side conversations between brainstorming agents bounced around the conference room. An hour had passed since they’d first gathered, and everyone now had coffee, except Sherry. She’d decided on an energy drink for the extra boost of caffeine. It was part of the job to be called in at all hours, but it was hard on the system. It had been her husband, Teddy, who’d roused her when the call came in. She was in full REM.

After SSA Burton had cleared Amelia and Zane to stay on the case, they all began discussing theories about why Amelia was still a target, how to draw the assassin out, and how to capitalize on Zane’s time in the CIA without compromising the work he’d accomplished during that time.

Blinds clattered against glass as Layton pushed open the conference room door. “Apologies. I got here as quickly as I could. Sorry to keep you all waiting.”

“No worries.” Sherry moved some papers strewn across the table to clear a spot for the BAU agent. “We’ve kept busy.”

He scanned the conference room table covered in folders, loose papers, and laptops. “So I noticed.” Nodding at Amelia, he continued. “I assume I have you to thank for the full coffeepot in the break room?”

“Ha, more like Palmer. Didn’t you know he’s her personal barista?” Dean elbowed Zane, who made the gesture of locking his lips closed and tossing away the key.

“Ah, pleading the Fifth. Smart man.” Sherry lifted her energy drink and toasted in the direction of Amelia and Zane.

As Layton’s laptop came to life and reflected off the lenses of his black-rimmed glasses, everyone turned their attention to the behavioral analyst. “I’ve viewed the video from the deceased CPD detective. Since her dying declaration indicated she knew the person creating the snuff films, I watched it a few times to see if she offered any other clues to inform the profile.”

“I don’t know if she was just trying to ease her conscience, but it didn’t seem like she gave us anything useful beyond an alias.” Sherry’s tone mirrored the bitterness the whole room felt.

“She might’ve been distracted with the dying and all.” Dean’s sarcasm held some validity.

“Right, well, we have to look below the surface of what she told us. The female victims Elinor Fogleman and Rachael Gibber both have some of the same physical traits as Storm.”

Sherry glanced at Amelia as her friend stiffened in her chair.

Layton shook his head. “There’d have been no reason to tie the victimology to Storm before this. White, brunette, same age range. It wasn’t enough. Even now, it may just be a coincidence. But I asked Cyber to take a look at the snuff films with the new filter of the victims potentially serving as surrogates for Agent Storm.”

He clicked some keys on his laptop and adjusted his glasses, a familiar tic Sherry knew meant the analyst was hyper-focused on the topic. “From my experience working in Cyber, I think I’ve run into this guy’s work before. The films aren’t just connected by the same user posting them. He also has basically the same followers interacting with his posts, a loyal pack of sociopaths.”

“And one of them is a local and helping him move the bodies.” Amelia eyed Sherry.

She perked up, although she wasn’t sure if it was the energy drink or her intrigue at a potential lead. “Followers? Can we find out who these people are? Maybe one of them can lead us back to Bogdan.”

The analyst tilted his head. “Cyber’s on that too. So far, the users are savvy enough to hide behind fake identities and firewalls. But we’ve got a talented team trying to break through.”

Dean set his coffee on the table. “Is there anything that sets this guy apart?”

“There is, yeah. He produces very high-quality films. Usually snuff films have low image quality, in part to prevent detection of the person who created them and because the film is just a vehicle to showcase the murders. But Bogdan Kremlin’s films have crisp, clear images. Cyber’s been practically giddy over how much detail they’ve been able to lift.”

Sherry clapped her hands together. “Like the drain in the floor that screams processing facility.”

“Exactly. Those quality images tell me that our suspect fancies himself a filmmaker or artist, albeit a twisted one.”

SSA Burton gestured toward Zane sitting to Amelia’s right. “I know you don’t think our suspect is the same Bogdan you knew in Russia, but has anything Redker said made you reconsider that?”

Sherry felt the subtle vibration that indicated Zane was tapping his foot beneath the conference room table.

“It’s possible. Again, I didn’t know Bogdan as well as his brother Rurik. The Bratva didn’t deal in snuff films. And Cyber’s only found films from Eastern Europe dating back five years, right? I was long gone by then, so it’s possible the guy I knew, Bogdan Kopeykin, started doing that after I left. Redker’s profile indicates our mastermind is smart, and Bogdan did seem intelligent.”

Dean indicated Amelia with an open hand. “Do you have any reason to think you’ve crossed paths with this guy? Have you felt like anyone’s been watching you or following you?”

Amelia stared into her coffee mug. “I’d like to think I’m hypervigilant about paying attention to my surroundings. And I haven’t noticed anyone following me or even run across the same person in my daily activities.”

Sherry knew Amelia well enough that she understood her friend would be worried about being taken off the case. She decided to shift the focus, knowing that if they lost Amelia’s presence in the field, it would make it harder to catch their suspect. “Redker, if the hit was called off, why do you think Bogdan would still go after Storm?”

“If the detective’s dying confession was accurate, then Bogdan must have another connection to her.”

“Or he might want to make a power play by going after a federal agent.” Layton seemed to be adding to his profile as he went. “He’s been at this for a while, and targeting an agent could be an escalation. A way to get the same high.”

Burton cleared his throat and stood, and all eyes turned to him. “But it’s quite a leap to go from addicts to agents. One thing we know about the victim profiles is that they have a common link of addiction. Obviously, Agent Storm doesn’t fit that profile.”

Amelia’s head snapped toward their SSA. “Sir, my sister and father are recovering addicts. I’d like to request protective custody for them. If I’m a target and the suspect’s been killing proxies for me, it doesn’t seem like a stretch that he’d go after someone in my family.”

“Of course. I’ll give the necessary clearance. Go ahead and reach out to your family members on a secure line. For the rest of you, the lab finished some of its analyses, and we need to dig into those. Cyber’s still working with our international partners to try to track down more details about the victims from the snuff films posted overseas.”

Sherry’s heart clenched for her friend and colleague. But since her husband was a U.S. Marshal, she knew the Marshals Service would protect Amelia’s family. That would allow Amelia to focus on bringing down the serial killer targeting her.

17

“Amelia, I appreciate your concern at the ass crack of dawn, but no one’s after me.” A click sounded on the other end of the line, as if Amelia’s sister Lainey had turned on a lamp. “I just got the job at the restaurant. There’s no way I can walk away without at least talking to my manager.”

“No! You can’t talk to anyone.” Amelia squeezed the phone pressed against her ear. “You and dad are going into protective custody. Dad’s already packing. The husband of one of my fellow agents is Teddy Kielman. He’s a U.S. Marshal, and he’ll be by to get you soon. The FBI will get you a cover story to make sure you don’t lose your job. I promise.”

“You’ve never played big sister with me before.” Lainey was referring to all the times Amelia had ignored her pleas for money she could go blow on drugs. But after their dad’s bout with alcoholism, Amelia had known giving in to Lainey would only make her situation worse. Still, leaving her on her own had sucked. “Dad and I will be fine.”

“It’s not negotiable.” Teeth gritted, Amelia cut a hand through the air, even though Lainey couldn’t see the gesture. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but protective custody is where you need to be.”

“Jeez, how much danger are you in? I know you’re a badass special agent and all, but you’ve never done anything like this before.”

“I can’t go into much detail. Let’s hope we’re being overly cautious, but I’m concerned that you and dad might be targets of a suspect the team is after. I’m not debating this with you.”

“That’s not fair.”

Amelia drew in a deep breath and blew it out to steady herself as memories of her sister-in-law Joanna’s kidnapping at the hands of Joseph Larson sent anger pulsing through her. “You know what happened to Jo. She could’ve died. That’s⁠—”

“But she didn’t.”

Amelia knew giving her sister too many details would only freak her out more, but she had to convince her.

Lainey was putting her life back together. A run-in with a Russian serial killer would be enough to make anyone self-medicate, let alone a recovering addict. If she even survived such an encounter, which was why she and their dad needed to be far away when shit hit the fan.

“This conversation is over.” Amelia couldn’t suppress the tremor in her voice. “I just got you back. I can’t lose you now. You and dad are the only family I have left.”

Zane placed a hand on her shoulder. She hadn’t even realized he was there.

Amelia couldn’t ponder how much he’d overheard. Obviously, he’d heard enough.

“Amelia. You…I…I love you too.” Lainey’s voice broke, and Amelia knew her sister had ended the call hoping Amelia wouldn’t hear her sob.

Great, I freaked her out, and she’s still in the dark over the circumstances. Good job, dummy.

Amelia rolled her shoulders back and met Zane’s intent gaze, offering him a weak smile.

“Let’s do this.” She didn’t wait for her partner’s response. She knew he’d be right by her side as they faced this monster together.

18

As Amelia and Sherry rode the elevator to the forensic lab, Amelia pondered Layton’s analysis. If she was Bogdan’s real target, that meant innocent people were dying because of her.

“It’s not your fault.” Sherry’s words pulled Amelia out of her spiraling contemplations.

“How’d you know what I was thinking?”

She shrugged as the elevator doors slid open, and they stepped into the hallway. “You had that look in your eyes. And you were balling your fists.”

Amelia glanced down and flexed her fingers. “Well, remind me not to play poker with you if I have this many tells.”

They both laughed as they approached the wall of windows by the lab’s entrance. Just inside the door, a dark-haired twentysomething lab technician with an eyebrow slit over her left eye greeted them. “I’ve been expecting you. I’m Casey Hebrank. Let’s move to the larger monitor. I queued everything up there.”

“Perfect. Thank you.” Amelia already liked the young woman’s confidence.

She crossed a short distance to a big monitor with a laser show dancing on the screen saver.

“Sorry about the old-school light show. One of the new techs said the retro stuff is cool again.” She shook the mouse, revealing an image of Elinor Fogleman hanging upside down. Hebrank clicked the mouse a few times, and the image shifted.

Even though Amelia had seen this same image several times, it was still heartbreaking to witness. And now knowing that the woman could have been selected because of the resemblance to her was chilling.

I’m so sorry.

“Our team has been analyzing every frame of video. If you pay special attention to the victim’s eyes here,” she paused the image again and pointed to Elinor’s face, “you’ll note they seem to be following something off-screen.”

She was right. The movements were small but there.

The tech hit Play and let the video continue. Sure enough, Amelia noted the victim’s gaze tracking something. Even when the video jumped to a camera in a different position, it was clear that Elinor Fogleman focused on something or someone off camera.

“The camera switched to a different angle again and zoomed in. Can that be done with a remote control? Or are you thinking there’s more than one person present for these murders? Are we looking at a pair of serial killers?”

Hebrank paused the video again and selected a different file, clicking a few times to bring a new image onto the screen. “To answer your first question, you can use a remote to zoom the camera in, but our guy with the knife isn’t doing that.”

“Couldn’t they create this smoke and mirrors show in postproduction?”

“Yes, there’s that too.” The tech moved the video feed forward a few minutes. “However, it would seem that there’s at least one accomplice. Look at how the victim isn’t even focused on the killer.”

“Her eyes are pleading with someone off camera to make it all stop.”

Sherry looked up from her notebook. “The crime scene techs out at the last dump site found evidence that indicated two people carried the body into the park. So your findings confirm that.”

Amelia recalled Layton’s assessment that the maker of the snuff films likely viewed himself as an artist. “Our working profile indicates our guy thinks of himself as a filmmaker, so he’d want to be controlling the cameras. If we pair that tidbit with Detective Avery’s dying declaration that Bogdan is involved, we never hear a person with a Russian accent speak. And she stated that the guy had a thick accent. Not to mention ‘average height’ is about five-ten for a man, and this guy doing the killing looks taller, three or four inches at least. Not to mention the obvious.”

The other women stared at her.

“Make my day, Storm. Mention the obvious,” Sherry said.

“That even Elinor Fogleman thinks the man back by the cameras is the boss.”

Hebrank nodded and displayed a new image on the screen. “Now watch the man committing the murder.” The video played before she paused it and pointed. “See here? He seems to be looking toward the person off-screen, too, as if he’s being given instructions. Agent Storm is right that we don’t hear the cameraperson, but it looks like he’s offering some kind of cue, possibly nonverbal, to the perpetrator of the actual murder.” She resumed the video.

A silent partner, so to speak, controlling the killer like a puppet master behind a screen. “I think it’s safe to say our unsub isn’t the six-foot-something, athletic-looking man in front of the camera. But we’re looking for him too. He can lead us to Bogdan.”

Sherry tapped the screen. “Look. There’s the drain.”

“Right.” Hebrank paused the video again. “We’ve analyzed the details of the scene that appear in each of the snuff films for our local victims. Based on the positioning of the common elements, such as the drain, we’re confident the murders are taking place in the same location.”

Amelia leaned in to inspect the dark grate in the image. “So we know it runs the whole length of the floor. Or at least off the edge of the video image. Our research into processing plants supports the idea of a floor drain being present.”

“I understand your team’s awaiting some forensic analysis results regarding materials found on the victims’ clothing. I think those might help us pinpoint the purpose of the building. With three murders happening on-site, I can’t imagine it’s being used for anything. A worker reporting for a shift in a building would notice something like that.”

“I’d sure hope so.” Sherry hunted through her notes. “But if it’s abandoned, it’s quite clean. Aside from the victims’ blood, of course. Otherwise, very clean.”

Amelia recalled a poem from her high school English literature class she’d been thinking about since the case started. “Carl Sandburg wrote ‘Chicago’ for a reason. There used to be a lot of slaughterhouses here, and that’s how we earned the nickname the ‘Hog Butcher for the World.’”

“Right.” Sherry flipped her notebook closed. “This city was lousy with them.”

Hebrank ended the video. “I haven’t thought of that poem in a long time.” She gestured to her surroundings. “My colleagues and I tend to focus on the things we learned in science classes more than in English Lit.”

Amelia straightened as she rubbed her neck to release some of the tension from leaning too close to the monitor. “Did you manage to pull anything else from the videos that we might be able to use?”

“The new guy with a love for retro screen savers is sifting through the sound bites as we speak, isolating background noises to see if we can determine a location. Things like planes flying overhead or frequent sirens that might indicate it’s near a hospital or fire station. He did note that the microphone being used is of a very high quality. In general terms, that makes it more difficult to isolate the background noises. But our lab has some tricks.”

Good. They needed every trick they could think of.

She opened a folder next to the keyboard and flipped through a few pages. “I’ll upload all this to the case file.”

Amelia admired the dedicated professionals who made the FBI their chosen career. Although it felt like they were chasing ghosts when it came to the serial killer making snuff films, she hoped their combined expertise would soon bring an end to his murder spree.

19

As Amelia eased her black BMW sedan out of the parking garage, she realized she was gripping the steering wheel so tight, her knuckles were white.

“I’m sure we’ll hear from the Marshals any second now.”

Amelia didn’t like that her worry over her family’s safety was leaking out.

“I don’t mind driving if you want me to.” Layton smiled. “Steelman or Cowan usually drive when you guys are heading somewhere, right?” The muscles in his angular jawline flexed, and Amelia thought she heard his teeth grinding together.

She found, ironically, that his tension seemed to dissipate most of hers. “You don’t seem much more relaxed than I am. My driving isn’t that bad.”

As she turned onto a side street, the sun glinted off the silver flecks in Layton’s faux hawk. “Your driving is fine…so far. But seriously, it’s not even lunchtime yet. I’ll never understand driving when the L is a perfectly good transit system.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were hangry.”

Layton adjusted his seat belt and relaxed into the passenger seat. “I always have room for a doughnut, but I’m not hungry. I think I’m just on edge about this case.”

“Safe to say we all are. Why don’t we run through the details again and make sure we’re on the same page before we meet with Elinor Fogleman’s SOS counselor?” Amelia slowed the car to a stop at a red light.

“Well, we knew about the past involvement with drugs for each of our victims. But they used different drugs, lived in different areas of the city, and were found at different parks.”

“So, on a micro level, there isn’t overlap. When we think more broadly, each of them regularly attended meetings to battle their drug addiction.”

As Amelia took another turn, her phone vibrated along with Layton’s.

He checked his. “It’s Cowan. Teddy said your father and sister are at the safe house. You can breathe now.” He adjusted the visor and fiddled with the air-conditioning vents, wiggling his fingers in front of them to feel if air was coming out.

“So even the meetings the victims attended were held at distinct locations and sponsored by different organizations.” Pretending the waiting for news about her family hadn’t bothered her meant Amelia couldn’t release a sigh of relief now that she knew they were safe. She had to plow on with the case.

Close the case, bring them home.

“But attending counseling is something. It’s a link.”

“And that brings us to our first group leader and CEO of Surviving Opioids Successfully, Mr. Jason McCole, age forty-one. He runs the groups Elinor Fogleman attended in the basement meeting room at St. Margaret of York’s church.”

Amelia and Layton had debated if phoning the various drug counselors would prove fruitful and had landed on the conclusion that an in-person visit would be more persuasive. Amelia knew from Lainey’s counseling experiences that it was the confidentiality that allowed the recovering addicts to open up and make progress. A counselor who betrayed that risked losing the trust of the people they were trying to help, so they needed to plead their case.

The GPS announced their arrival at the church. There was a noon meeting scheduled, and they hoped to speak with the counselor before the participants started streaming in. Amelia pulled into a spot and turned off the engine.

Following the directions from the SOS website, they found the room. Inside, a tall, muscular man wearing faded jeans and a tight Green Bay Packers t-shirt was arranging chairs in a circle. He sized up the two agents as they stood in the doorway.

“Feds? What can I do ya for? I’ve got folks arriving soon, and they won’t like seeing me talking to two G-men. Er, G-persons.”

Amelia chuckled as she stepped forward with her hand extended and shook the man’s hand. “Mr. McCole? I’m Special Agent Amelia Storm, and this is Special Agent Layton Redker, though you already pegged us as federal agents. We’d like to ask you a few questions. Hopefully, your powers of observation about the people you meet will be of use to us.”

Layton shook McCole’s hand as well. “Maybe there’s a more private place we could talk? So your group’s participants won’t see us?”

McCole smiled at Layton’s faux hawk. “If you lost the fancy threads, you’d fit right in here. The attendees at this group like to express themselves through creative hairstyles and unusual clothing. Agent Storm, sorry to say, but you’d stand out. You’re a bit too buttoned-up.”

“No need to apologize. Can you spare a few moments? We need to ask you about someone who came to your meetings. Elinor Fogleman.”

“Yeah, Elinor.” The spark of humor drained from Callum’s face. “Damn, I still can’t believe she’s dead. That girl was full of life, ya know?” He gestured toward a door in the back corner. “That’s a converted supply room. The church lets me keep my things in there and use it as an office space. If you don’t mind close quarters, we should talk in there.”

A beat-up metal desk, a two-drawer filing cabinet, and an outdated computer served as the bulk of the furnishings. There were only two chairs, so Layton wedged himself into a corner after insisting Amelia sit.

McCole didn’t waste any time as he glanced at his wristwatch. “I don’t mean to rush ya folks, but let’s cut to the chase. We might be concealed in here, but you’ll still need to walk out past everyone when we’re done. The sooner we wrap things up, the better.”

Amelia took out a notebook and clicked her pen open. “We don’t want to create any issues. We learned that Elinor attended meetings here. Can you confirm that?”

“Though I like to be discreet, she’s gone.” He shook his head. “So, yes, this was where she came.”

“From what we could find, Elinor attended meetings that your organization labels as ‘open.’ So that means anyone can attend. That doesn’t really come with a promise of privacy.”

The counselor studied Layton before nodding. “True enough. But I won’t violate her trust or those of the others in the group. There are addiction recovery groups on various social media platforms. Perhaps you could find your answers there.”

“We tried those. Most of them are closed, and it would be a long process to discover who the members were in each group…” Amelia let the statement trail off, hoping the counselor would help streamline the investigation. Of course, if he didn’t, she was prepared to do as much digging as necessary.

McCole scratched his beard. “I don’t know…”

Amelia lowered the notebook. “Your goal is to help these people in their journey to recovery. My father and sister are both addicts, so I understand the value of confidentiality. It adds a layer of safety many addicts struggle to find. But if you can help us, then you might help us bring Elinor’s killer to justice.”

Layton tugged at his shirt collar in the stifling heat of the small space. “Elinor isn’t the only person this man has killed. We’re still piecing things together, but he appears to be targeting recovering drug addicts that attend SOS meetings. If you don’t help us, it’s only a matter of time before he strikes again.”

McCole stretched and then leaned back against the folding chair until it looked like it wanted to split in two. The creaking metal was the only sound in the room, but faint murmuring could be heard outside, and Amelia feared their time had run out.

“Okay,” he said. “Tell me what you need.”

“We need the names of the people who were in the groups that Elinor attended. Our research indicated that she came at least four days a week, always with you, but not always at the same time. So we’d need the list of attendees from each of the groups she frequented. If you have one. We know other organizations don’t even have this sort of thing on hand.”

The counselor leaned forward, and the small space felt even smaller. “I understand you want to find this person. I want that too. And, yes, I started this nonprofit to run things my way, to curb the riffraff, if you will. I have lists. But I can’t have you harassing those folks.”

Layton moved out of the corner until his shoes were touching the side of the desk. “I assure you we won’t do that. We have other counselors we’re going to reach out to. Once we have lists from each victim, we’ll see if any name appears at different meetings. We won’t contact anyone on the lists unless we believe they have information that could help us or we think they could be our suspect. You have our word.”

The murmuring from the meeting room grew in volume, and McCole got to his feet.

Amelia’s heart sank, fearing they were about to leave empty-handed. She closed her notebook and tucked it into her crossbody bag along with her pen.

McCole pointed to the filing cabinet next to Layton. “Top drawer. It’s the file marked ‘Group 3A.’ Elinor was consistent and only went to that group. I give you permission to copy down what you need, but the folder and its contents can’t leave this office. Understood?”

Amelia stood and shook the large man’s hand. She glanced at his green-and-gold t-shirt. “Bold move, huh?”

A smile spread across his face. “Damn straight. You can keep da Bears.’” With that, he slipped past Amelia and out the door, closing it behind him.

Layton had to move Amelia’s chair to open the filing cabinet, but the information they needed was just where McCole had said. Instead of copying it all down by hand, they took pictures of each page.

Muted conversation and laughter sounded from outside their tight quarters.

“He’s not expecting us to stay in here for the whole meeting, is he?” Amelia finished snapping pictures and returned her phone to her pocket.

“He didn’t say. But there’s no way I’m staying in this hotbox one minute longer than I need to.”

The lone vent in the converted supply room didn’t feel like it was pumping out any air. Sweat beaded on Layton’s upper lip, and a lone drop ran down Amelia’s spine.

“Any suggestions? If we leave right now, we’re going to look like two teenagers caught by their parents making out in the coat closet.”

“Ha, yeah. I doubt many people waltz out of this room during meetings.”

Before they could ponder it further, the door opened, and they both jumped.

McCole poked his head in. “The group’s having a quick birthday celebration for one of the participants, and they’re grabbing ice cream cake down the hall because the church doesn’t let us bring food into the meeting room. If you hurry, you can leave without anyone seeing you.”

“Thanks.” Amelia darted across the meeting space and was around the corner and down the hall in no time. Layton stuck close behind.

Before returning to the field office, they made two more stops. They visited the Chitown Community Center, where Rachael Gibber attended meetings facilitated by Flora Bleeker, and took a trip to the suburbs, where Eric McClain attended outpatient meetings at the Palmer Center of Hope every Sunday. They’d had to wait for that social worker, Joel Strickland, to get out of a meeting, but the facility was air-conditioned, so neither of them minded.

Like Jason McCole, Flora Bleeker and Joel Strickland turned over the list of attendees, both convinced the benefits of sharing the information outweighed the need for confidentiality. It also helped that Amelia and Layton could leverage McCole’s support of cooperation.

He’d started both of the other support groups before passing the baton and then establishing the one at St. Margaret of York’s. And he filled in for both Bleeker and Strickland occasionally. Turned out, Jason McCole was a bit of a celebrity in the community for branching out and starting his own organization.

That set off red flags. McCole might’ve known all their victims.

Amelia was eager to get back to the office to review the images of the files. Maybe, just maybe, the lists would give them the break they needed. Or maybe, just maybe, given his connection to every group, Jason McCole was Bogdan’s accomplice.

20

Lainey Storm rolled onto her side on the unfamiliar bed in the safe house. It wasn’t comfortable, but after serving time in a Milwaukee prison, she wasn’t one to complain about creature comforts. And she had more privacy here than the halfway house she’d lived in after doing her time up in Wisconsin.

U.S. Marshal Teddy Kielman had explained the rules when he came to grab them. Cell phones could be traced, so she and her father couldn’t bring them. Lainey suspected most women her age would freak out without their phones, but she’d managed just fine while she was in prison, so this wasn’t anything new to her. Ironically, it had been her dad, who struggled with technology, who’d gotten a little cranky at the idea of being without his phone.

The marshal, who was a friend of Amelia’s, had been very nice but also quite authoritative. It probably came with the job, but heck, Amelia and Zane were both Feds and they didn’t act quite so militaristic in their interactions. Then again, she’d never had to deal with them when they were on the job.

Thank goodness for minor miracles.

Their protectors had only given Lainey and her dad a few minutes to pack some clothes and try to grab everything they would need for an indefinite stay in an unfamiliar place. She’d initially thrown an e-reader into her bag, but Teddy had said they couldn’t have any electronics. This was going to be legit old-school. Instead, she packed some cooking magazines, a few puzzle books, and three novels. She hoped she wouldn’t be here long enough to run through all the items.

Through her closed bedroom door, she could hear one of her dad’s favorite programs. For as long as she could remember, her dad had loved watching game shows. She enjoyed them, too, in moderation. It always amused her when he’d try to guess the price of the item or yell at a contestant who didn’t know the answer to an obscure question. He had his favorite shows, but he’d watch any game show that was on—there was no limit to this pastime.

Escapism, Trevor had called it. Her brother ended up taking on the role of the head of the house and default therapist after their mom died. That was because their dad had fallen apart. Lainey had only been six when she lost her mom, but she’d understood that life inside their home had changed forever.

At first, it was small things, like ordering takeout instead of cooking. Trevor had sat Amelia and Lainey down one day and explained that there were “stages of grief,” and their dad had stalled out in the depression stage and not moved on.

God, I miss Trevor.

Lainey’s heart clenched at the thought of her brother. After leaving the Marines, he’d worked his way up in the Chicago PD and became a detective. The whole family was proud of him, but he always insisted his greatest source of pride was his wife, Jo, and their two children, Hailey and Nolan.

For years, the family had thought thugs had killed him in the line of duty. But one case Amelia had worked revealed his death had been a hired hit.

Damn, we are one fucked-up family.

Despite Trevor’s best efforts to hold the family together, Jim Storm had succumbed to the bottle and spiraled deeper into depression. He was in recovery now and hadn’t touched alcohol in a long time.

Lainey’s own recovery journey had taught her to take responsibility for the choices she made and not blame life circumstances or other external factors.

She pushed herself to a sitting position, scooted closer to the headboard, so her back could rest against it, and picked up one of the cooking magazines she’d subscribed to after starting her job at the restaurant.

Working there had been a lifeline after prison and had sparked a genuine interest in tapping into her more artistic side by creating new recipes or altering existing ones to improve them.

As she flipped through the pages, she found a few recipes she wanted to play with. Climbing off the bed, she kneeled on the floor next to her duffel bag and started digging through it for a pen. As the pile of unfolded clothes grew taller on the hardwood floor, she knew her search was futile. She didn’t recall throwing one in. But there was probably one somewhere in the safe house, right?

Boredom overcame her. Prison had given her plenty of practice at passing days filled with nothing, but she’d already gotten used to her routine at the halfway house and restaurant. Doing nothing made her antsy.

A familiar yearning formed deep within her. Using a technique she’d learned in rehab, she grounded herself by counting all the green objects in the room.

The leaves in the design on the comforter. The strange stain on the nightstand. And…

Seriously? Of course I pick a color with only two objects. Get it together, dumbass. You know you can’t relapse here, because you don’t have any of that crap anymore. You don’t need that to pass the time.

Lainey snatched up her duffel. She unzipped the side compartment and took out one of the puzzle books.

Right. Crossword puzzles require a pen.

She wasn’t in the mood to read, and she didn’t want to watch game shows.

Trying to decide between a thick volume from her childhood, written by a social pariah, or Julia Child’s autobiography, Lainey chose the familiar fantasy world that she often escaped to.

Propping up extra pillows against the headboard, she settled back onto her bed. Cracking open the relatable book, she was immediately immersed in the plot. With page after page, her annoyance at her situation faded.

21

Amelia was glad to see Sherry, Dean, and Zane busy sifting through files when she and Layton returned.

Zane beamed at her. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but something about it caught her off guard…in the best way possible. Realizing she was blushing, she busied herself with setting her things on the table, hoping no one had noticed. But Zane had, and he winked.

What the heck? He never flirts at work.

Sherry seemed oblivious. “Welcome back. How’d it go with the counselors?”

Amelia fished her phone out of her bag and waggled it. “Better than expected. We managed to get the complete list of names of everyone who attended the group sessions our three victims attended. I’m about to go through them to see if anything jumps out.”

“Oh, and CEO Jason McCole, who runs the St. Margaret of York group, started the other two SOS groups first. He fills in occasionally at both. I’ll run background on him.” Layton pulled up a chair.

Amelia flashed Zane a quick smile before addressing everyone. “McCole’s been sober for two decades. He was very friendly and cooperative. But the fact that he’s connected to everyone…”

“And his profile?” Sherry asked.

“Yeah, that. White. Six-three, maybe taller, built.” Amelia raised an eyebrow.

“Packers fan.” Layton frowned.

“The Packers of Green Bay? And you didn’t cuff him on the spot?” Dean smiled.

Zane rolled his eyes. “So this guy, he fits the suit…but do you really think he could be Bogdan’s right hand?”

“His personality and willingness to cooperate tell me no, but his physical traits and access to all the groups tell another story.”

“If serial killers acted like crazy, blood-hungry murder machines all the time, our job would be much easier.” Sherry shook her head.

“What about here? Any new developments?” Amelia got seated and opened her laptop.

Dean angled his screen so Amelia and Layton could view it. “Yes. Forensics updated us on what they uncovered in their analysis of the trace evidence found on each of our three victims. All the reports are in the case file, and you can read the minutiae if you want, but we can summarize it for you.”

“Ooh, the CliffsNotes, please. Much appreciated.” Amelia took a sip of ice-cold water from her travel mug as she began reviewing the lists of the participants’ names.

“Palmer, do you want to give the overview while I pull up my notes?” Dean fussed with the touch pad on his laptop, scrolling and clicking as he spoke.

“Sure.” Zane swiveled in his seat. “The lab determined the metal fragments are all the same composition. That means they weren’t transferred when the victims were dumped. They either came from the killer or the kill site.”

Sherry stretched her arms out in front of her. “According to the techs, the fragments are all high-grade steel, which is something typically seen in industrial settings.”

Amelia remembered a case from February wherein bodies were being dumped in cars at a scrapyard. “Did the techs offer any opinions on what type of industrial setting it might be? I’m wondering if our killer might be an auto mechanic or work at a salvage yard.”

“I thought the same thing. But if that was the case, there’d be other types of metal present as well, such as aluminum. So they’re leaning toward the killer or his accomplice being the source, because the idea is that the person deals with one type of metal almost exclusively. Or it could be the kill site, which is not likely a junkyard.”

Dean tapped the table. “Found what I was looking for. Because the metal fragments were high-grade steel, the lab believes the killer works in construction or metalworking. It could be a hobby, too, but since we’ve seen where the killings take place, or at least fragments of the scene, our guy isn’t killing them in his basement where he tinkers with metal on the weekends.”

“No, and Jason McCole didn’t have any metal sculptures on display in his office,” Layton added.

“McCole couldn’t fit a stapler in that office,” Amelia pointed out. She recalled the videos. “We’ve already suggested a meatpacking plant, among other possibilities. But Casey Hebrank from the forensic lab speculated the location likely wasn’t operational. The snuff film site was clean from what we could see. Sherry and I were going frame by frame through the videos.”

Zane rested his forearms on the conference table. “So our guy probably has a day job that involves him coming in close contact with high-grade steel. Hey, Steelman, didn’t forensics say the grease was also from the killer’s job?”

“They did. The actual composition was inconclusive, but since it was also found on every victim, the working theory is the grease is also present at his job or the kill site.”

“No noticeable grease under McCole’s nails. No strange residual odors that would point to that either.” Layton tapped his laptop screen. “We’ll see what pops up. Jason McCole isn’t out of the woods yet. Did the lab find anything noteworthy about the dirt on Erin McClain?”

“So far, they can confirm that the dirt on the victim was not the same composition as the dirt in the park where he was found.” Dean clicked the mouse a few times. “They’re going to run more tests on it, the same kind of test they ran the metal fragments through. The technical name for it is ‘energy-dispersive X-ray spectroscopy.’ Say that three times fast.”

They all laughed, right as Amelia experienced a surge of adrenaline for another reason. There, on each attendance list, one name stood out. One person who managed to zigzag across the city attending drug addiction meetings run by the three different organizations, held in different facilities, and occurring on disparate days of the week at various times of day. One person had sat in the same meetings as Elinor Fogleman, Rachael Gibber, and Eric McClain. He’d listened to each of them share their struggles in their battles against addiction.

This was no coincidence.

They’d poured out their hearts and souls in an effort to stay clean, and in return, they’d had their throats slit and their blood drained.

It was time to add a second name to their list of one.

Robbie Hendrix.

22

Zane pushed away from the conference room table and stretched. Rising to his feet, he fiddled with the blinds to redirect the heat from the late-afternoon sunlight beating into the room.

Ever since they’d landed on the identity of the person who’d attended the same drug counseling meetings as each of their victims, they’d been combing through every database and resource at their disposal to find the man.

There were a handful of men named Robert or Robbie Hendrix in the greater Chicago area. And they hadn’t limited the search to only the name used at the meetings. They’d culled through different versions of both the first and last names and variant spellings for each. That had given them an even bigger pool of names to track down. But everyone on their list, even those that didn’t fit the profile, had alibis.

One seventy-three-year-old man had kept Spencer on the phone for fifteen minutes, telling him about all the suspicious people who lived in his apartment complex. The incident had been the one moment of humor in what was turning into a long, frustrating afternoon.

With the blinds adjusted, Zane turned back toward the table where his colleagues focused on various tasks. “Okay, Robbie Hendrix is a dead end. It would seem our suspect used a fake name. So how do we hunt this guy down?”

Amelia finished typing a few notes. “Right. Joel Strickland at Palmer Center of Hope had no problem giving us the names, but he pretty much warned us that might be the case.”

Layton ran his palm across his faux hawk. “And Flora Bleeker at the Chitown Community Center hadn’t seemed too encouraging, either, when she provided us with her list of recovering addicts.”

Zane dropped into his chair. “Well, the name might be bogus, but I doubt he wore disguises to all the meetings.”

“Even if he did, it would be difficult to disguise his height and general build. In the sweltering heat of a Chicago summer, I doubt our guy was wearing a bodysuit to appear heavier.” Dean twisted in his seat to join the discussion.

“So Jason McCole still fits the physical profile, even though his record has been clean as a whistle since high school. Let’s see if Robbie Hendrix does too. Layton, we need to reach out to the counselors. They should be able to provide us with a description of the fake Robbie Hendrix.” Amelia pushed her chair away from the table.

“Right. We could at least compare the height and build descriptions to our masked man. I don’t know how useful a facial comparison would be. We only see snippets of his profile here and there.”

Spencer shoved the door open. The occupants of the room all whirled as the handle banged against the wall. “Sorry.” He tried to grab the door as it bounced off the rubber stopper and back toward his face.

Zane bit back a grin. He knew his fellow agent was mortified to have made a clumsy entrance.

“Guess I don’t know my own strength.” Spencer took the seat at the end of the table and surveyed the room. “What’d I miss?”

“So far, a whole lot of nothing. But Amelia and Layton are going to call the victims’ counselors to get a description and anything else they can learn of our suspect.”

Amelia grabbed her phone as she joined Layton by the door. “Be back as soon as we learn something.”

The group nodded as the two left the room.

Sherry redirected her attention to Spencer. “What’d you learn in forensics?”

“After running the energy-dispersive X-ray spectroscopy test,” Spencer waggled his eyebrows at nailing the long name, “Juana Gordon said the substance is a mixture of single amino acids, small peptides, and fatty acids. In other words, the debris found on the victims is organic.”

Zane wished that labs in real life didn’t provide case-changing information like they did on TV. “I know the lab uses the results and tries to narrow down what that substance could be from. Do they have any theories?”

Spencer nodded. “Together, those chemicals can be found in fertilizer. They also can be present in agricultural settings and around livestock.”

Zane rose from his seat and approached the murder board. He tapped one of the stills from the snuff films that showed the floor drain. “Earlier, we discussed the idea that the murder site is some kind of abandoned warehouse or possibly a slaughterhouse. Is the material the lab found consistent with byproducts that might be produced in a meatpacking facility or someplace similar?”

Sherry navigated through documents. “Yes. The lab’s findings fall within the list of waste those facilities create.” She clicked around. “Slaughterhouses, in particular, have a great deal of organic waste after the animals have been processed.”

Dean leaned forward. “We started with the more obvious theories about where the films were being made. We never considered a fertilizer plant, so we’ll need to look into those locations as well.”

Spencer held up a hand. “The lab had some additional information that should help us narrow our search.”

All eyes turned to the man at the end of the table.

“Traces of chlorofluorocarbon, or CFC, were found on the victims’ clothes. That’s a gas that was used in refrigeration and air-conditioning.”

Sherry’s eyebrows rose. “Was used? Past tense?”

“Right-o. That gas was phased out of use in the United States in 2020. That means that wherever these films are being made, the building hasn’t been in use since then. At least not while also conforming to current regulations.”

Zane closed his notebook. This was progress. “Okay. So we need to research buildings that haven’t been used since that year and that would have floor drains.” It wasn’t a lot to go on, but he knew even the smallest detail could be the one that helped them catch their suspect.

When Amelia and Layton returned and resumed their seats, Amelia looked at Zane, then each of her colleagues. “The three counselors have all basically described the same person, so at least he didn’t try to disguise himself while attending the meetings. Of course, those meetings are all about anonymity, so he might have felt he could hide in plain sight.”

“We pretty much ruled out Jason McCole, though, because he was running both meetings at St. Margaret’s around the time Fogleman and Gibber were taken.” Layton cocked his head as he crossed his arms. “Robbie Hendrix, on the other hand, was an attendee at the last meetings both women went to. He was not at the last meeting Eric McClain attended, but if they recognized each other on the street, McClain could’ve gone with him willingly and then gotten drugged.”

“Flora Bleeker described our imposter as having dark hair and brown eyes. She wasn’t sure if his hair was black or a very dark brown. He also has fair skin.” Amelia looked at Layton.

“And Jason McCole said the man is about six-two. He felt confident in this height estimate because he’s six-three, and when he spoke to the fake Robbie Hendrix, they were nearly at eye level. However, he described him as having a bit of a tan.”

“We’re attributing the changing skin tone to sun exposure or variations in lighting at the group meetings,” Amelia added.

“Also, being tan could be a matter of opinion.” Zane knew that from over a decade with the CIA and FBI. Even eye color fell under “a matter of opinion” half the time.

Sherry shifted in her chair. “Any scars or distinguishing marks? Something that makes him stand out?”

Amelia shook her head. “None that any of them recalled. Bleeker and Strickland both mentioned broad shoulders and an athletic build. And all three counselors guessed his age to be between twenty-five to early thirties.”

“Oh, and he doesn’t have any facial hair.” Layton nudged his laptop awake. “At least, he didn’t when he attended their meetings.”

Zane pointed at Layton with a marker. “That’s consistent with what we could see of the shape of his face in the videos. The mask didn’t appear to be covering up a beard.”

Dean gave Zane a quick nod and moved over to the murder board, where he began writing down the descriptions of their suspect. “Any mannerisms?”

“Two of the counselors noted he was bouncing his leg throughout the duration of the meetings.”

That made Zane hopeful. “Did the counselors say he seemed nervous?”

Layton fielded the question. “At first, they both assumed it was nerves. He was new to the group. But from their collective experience, new attendees tended to calm down once the meetings got rolling, often relaxing enough to participate. Not the case with Hendrix. But no accent or other identifiable mannerisms.”

Amelia joined Dean at the murder board to get a better look. “There’s a big railroad yard in the middle of the three dump sites. I don’t think it jumped out at me before, because I was more focused on the movements of the victims prior to being kidnapped and murdered.”

Dean took half a step back, as if to get a fresh look at the map. “Well, we’ve been looking at slaughterhouses and agricultural businesses in that area too. What’s drawing you to the rail yard?”

“The lab’s findings of the high-grade steel fragments.” Zane knew how Amelia’s mind worked.

Amelia gave him a quick glance. “Couple that with the trace bits of grease on each victim and I’m wondering if our killer works for the railroad.”

Sherry’s fingers flew over her keyboard. “That line belongs to Chicago Rail, right? I’m going to see if I can catch someone over there before they close for the day and try to get a list of employees.”

“Good thinking.” Zane swept unseen crumbs off the table, a habit he’d only recently adopted that Amelia said made him act like Hup. “We probably don’t need the names of any administrative or front-office staff. If our guy is transferring grease and fragments of steel to our victims, he must work with his hands.”

Layton cleaned his glasses. “Chicago Rail’s a big company. We’re going to have a lot of names to go through, even if we eliminate front-office workers and anyone over the age of maybe forty, just in case our counselors were wrong about our suspect’s age. And remember, my profile was for the mastermind. Our fake Robbie Hendrix is probably just his lacky. We’re looking for the person in front of the camera to get us to the man behind the lens.”

“At least it gives us a place to start.” Going by the muscle jumping in her jaw, Amelia seemed to be fighting back a rising tide of frustration. Zane shared the sentiment. Two steps forward, one step back. It was always a battle between optimism and vexation.

They had a surprising amount of trace evidence on each of the victims’ bodies and a general description of the masked man who’d been captured on film killing their victims. Yet without a face or a name…

Spencer tapped the table. “I’m going to have forensics send a CSI team over to the rail yard to collect some samples. It’s possible different companies would have debris that differed from location to location. At least it’ll give us something to compare against the samples taken from the victims.”

“Great idea. And while Sherry chases down the list of employees at the rail yard, I think we need to remember he might work in an agricultural setting. Maybe he works on a farm and fixes the tractors and other machinery.”

Amelia had a good point, and Zane appreciated how none of the agents allowed themselves to get tunnel vision, even when a lead felt promising.

“Sure. And maybe the victims are held there before being brought to the site where the snuff films are made,” Dean suggested.

Spencer checked his watch. “Okay, let’s look into those sites as well. Anything within thirty miles of our suspect’s hunting zone. It’s going to be more challenging to chase down every farm or agricultural business in the area, so let’s get on it.”

Sure, they had leads to chase, but would it be enough? Three people were dead, and two of them, the women, had been murdered because they resembled Amelia. Unease snaked through Zane’s stomach at the thought of Amelia getting hurt.

But she would never abandon the hunt unless the SSA took her off the case, so Zane didn’t even consider asking her to go into hiding. At least Lainey and her dad were holed up in a safe house under the watchful eye of the U.S. Marshals.

23

The encrypted message had come in less than thirty minutes ago. It was the signal I had been waiting all day for. After discovering Lainey Storm was not at her place of work, I was suspicious.

Luckily, I had what the Americans call an ace in the hole. I had had my suspicions that Mischa and Amelia might be onto me, and so I contacted my ace, a mole inside the U.S. Marshals.

I did not care about the grudge he held against his government, but it was something that I was using to my advantage. So I listened and pretended to care and paid him generously for his services. Weasels were easy to buy, and he alerted me to the whereabouts of Agent Storm’s family. Both members were at the safe house—her father and her sister.

The fool thought I was an idiot. He wasted far too much of my valuable time reminding me of the plan we had put in place to extract the FBI agent’s loved ones from the safe house. Every soft word he spoke tested my patience, like a dull blade scraping against my nerves.

I did not need a lesson in “drugging him,” so his government would not discover he was the traitor. But, again, I just smiled and nodded. It was a go, and that was what mattered.

“Ready, Boss?” Cole had maneuvered the car past the last few houses. If the other marshal on watch was successfully drugged, the porch light would be on. That was our signal.

Was I ready? We had been waiting all day to get this rolling. The sun was setting. The fading light painted the sky in shades of blood and fire—a fitting backdrop for what was to come. My hands itched for action after hours, days, months, and years of waiting, of playing the patient predator.

“Yes, I am always ready. Do you have everything?” Although he had done as I had asked at each step, I did not fully trust this man so eager to take my orders. Mischa had convinced me, my brother, and the rest of our Bratva that he could be trusted. Perhaps the person sitting next to me in the car was equally deceptive.

The memory of Mischa’s betrayal burned in my chest like acid. In our world, loyalty was everything, and his treachery would not go unpunished.

For now, my protégé served a purpose. But he was a loose end as much as the snitch marshal. And it would not be long before Cole’s services were no longer necessary.

I looked forward to the moment the realization dawned in his eyes. I could not wait to string him upside down from one of the meat hooks before slicing his throat and filming it for my rabid audience.

I scrutinized him as his head bobbed like a stupid toy. “Yes, of course. I’ve got all the syringes.” He removed a small case from his pocket and unzipped it. We had more than we needed because I always came prepared for any eventuality. And that was why I was running things, and he was just my muscle.

The porch light was on, so we exited the car and moved to the front door. I could hear the inane sounds from the television. Had the snitch turned up the volume to conceal my entrance? He might be smarter than I had given him credit for. And that could be dangerous—if he thought he could outsmart me.

I pressed the lever on the front handle and relaxed as the sound of the door latch releasing greeted us. The doorway was concealed from the living area by a wall to help separate the two areas. As the door opened, the noise from the television assaulted me, and light from it bounced off the walls. Television was an inferior form of entertainment, and listening to it at such loud volumes only amplified my opinion. Some obnoxious American game show.

The snitch sat on the far end of the couch. Without looking at me, he gave a quick nod of his head to indicate everything was in order.

I tapped my protégé on his elbow, and he crossed the space from the door to the couch as I peered around the corner. Jim Storm sat laughing as he watched idiots in costumes choose between three doors with prizes behind them.

As the snitch plunged the needle into his neck, his hand flew to the spot. But it was too late, and his head bowed forward. He was out. He did not prove to be too irritating after all. I waited a moment before entering the home.

The snitch rose to his feet and used military hand signals to indicate the location of the other marshal and my intended target, Lainey Storm. This was not the time to trust anyone, so I moved to the wall separating the living area from the kitchen to verify that the other marshal was, in fact, incapacitated. He was prone on the floor just around the corner inside the kitchen.

“How long ago did you drug him?” I whispered.

The snitch moved to stand next to me in the opening between the two rooms so the young woman down the short hallway would not hear our conversation. “He’s been out for about five minutes. I didn’t want to take the chance that the girl or her dad would want a snack and stumble across him, so I waited until the last minute to knock him out.”

“Then, perhaps, you should not have left him in the kitchen.” I leveled him with a stare, and this man with all the training the Marshals Service had provided looked as though he was going to piss himself. Good. That was how he should feel around me.

“Look, he never saw it coming. He went into the kitchen to grab some water, and I went with him under the guise of talking about our witnesses. I drugged him, as instructed, and then helped him to the floor so he wouldn’t raise suspicion by making a lot of noise when he fell.” The snitch folded his arms across his chest and widened his stance in a foolish show of posturing. “Don’t doubt me. I know what I’m doing.”

Cocky little son of a bitch. Too cocky.

I made eye contact with Cole, who moved up behind the snitch as we spoke. It was a prearranged signal, and when I gave it, he did not hesitate. The needle loaded with a lethal dose pierced the flesh on the neck of the marshal. He knew he’d be drugged to keep suspicion off him, but he did not know he would not see tomorrow.

His eyes grew wide as his legs gave out.

My protégé acted quickly, catching the marshal as he fell.

I smiled at the government official being cradled in the arms of my assistant as his life flickered out. “Give me the pouch and then put him on the couch by the old man. Set them up so they look like they’ve fallen asleep while watching the show together.”

Cole handed me the satchel with the remaining syringes. With a quick glance down the hallway toward the bedroom that was supposed to contain Lainey Storm, I moved into the kitchen as my protégé set up the men in the living room.

I knelt beside the unconscious marshal, wondering what made him tick. The snitch had mentioned who his partner would be on this night. He called him Marshal Teddy Kielman. Did he have family who would miss him? Would his government claim he died a hero? Or would he slip into anonymity as just another crime statistic in a big city?

A pang of regret gnawed at me. Not over the fate of this marshal.

No, earlier I had wrestled with whether to film these events. They were not my typical fare, but there was a dark web audience for murdered government officials, nonetheless. More than anything, I had wanted to film the young, fiery sister as she was placed under my control. Her struggles would be delightful. And her inevitable look of horror as she feared what fate I might have planned for her would send my usual audience into an erotic frenzy.

There would be no film made here, though.

Tonight, my art would take a back seat. Allotting time for filming and lighting would infuse too much risk into my finely crafted plot. Besides, although my mole had offered enough information about the arrangements surrounding this safe house, I still was not sure I could trust the man. His arrogance had made him dangerous, not invaluable.

I studied this Marshal Kielman and ran my hands over his body. Bending low, I felt his shallow breathing. He was still alive.

A wave of disgust washed over me at his vulnerability. These American law enforcement officers were so soft, so unprepared for the true depths of human cruelty. They played at power but could never understand it.

I held up the syringe, rolled it between my fingers, and thrust the needle into his neck, harder than I needed to. I did not care, and he would not feel it anyway. Rising to my feet, I bent to grab his ankles so I could drag him farther out of view.

But before I could take a step, I heard the distinct sound of a door unlatching down the hall.

24

Lost in another world, Lainey was halfway through her book when she startled at a noise from somewhere in the house. A glance at the digital alarm clock on the nightstand told her that her dad’s prime-time programming was just beginning. Her night owl father wouldn’t be turning in anytime soon. But, damn, the TV was loud.

In normal conversations with her dad, he’d given no indication that he was losing his hearing. But he sure as hell would if he kept the TV cranked up like that. It couldn’t be the marshal’s hearing. They wouldn’t let someone who couldn’t hear work in the Marshals Service.

The more she tried to ignore the sounds from the game show, the more intrusive they became. Frustrated but not wanting to have a stupid argument with her dad, she convinced herself it was nothing.

“He’s probably just getting something to eat. We ate early because we were bored, and now he’s snacking. It’s no biggie.” Although it wasn’t a strategy she’d been taught, she’d always found talking to herself a decent way to calm down. The sound of her voice made her feel less alone.

But that didn’t explain the volume on the TV. She heard something else. Muttering? A thump?

What was going on?

The sound sent staticky spikes down her spine. That thump wasn’t right, wasn’t normal. She’d learned to read situations in prison, learned to spot trouble before it spotted her.

Trust your gut.

Easier said than done.

“This is just your lame-ass brain playing tricks on you. It’s what you get for reading about dementors and spirits and werewolves. Go check it out.”

Lainey took a deep breath to calm her racing heart and surveyed her room. It made sense there wasn’t anything that could serve as a weapon in a safe house. She unplugged the small lamp by her bed and wrapped the cord around the base. It wasn’t very heavy, but it was all she had.

Upon stepping out into the dark hallway, she could see the light from the TV flickering off the walls of the living room and a light from a small nightlight in the kitchen glowing amber. But before moving down the hallway, Lainey tightened her grip on the lamp, just in case. She was sure her dad and the marshal would laugh at her, but having the makeshift weapon brought her an odd sense of comfort.

Shit. Will the marshal shoot me if he sees me wielding…a lamp? Oh, my god, no one’s going to shoot you. Just check it out, and you can go back to your book. Better yet, you can find a pen to do the puzzles.

Lainey hugged the wall until her dad came into view.

He was asleep on the couch, his head bowed forward with his chin touching his chest. He wasn’t snoring, so he must’ve just fallen asleep. Next to him, the marshal’s head was dipped to one side as he faced the TV.

That wasn’t right.

He wouldn’t be allowed to sleep on the job while protecting them. Lainey’s instincts hadn’t failed her when she’d been living on the streets and in prison, so she refused to ignore them now.

Turning to scan the room for any signs of trouble, she gasped when a shadow moved at the edge of her vision. Adrenaline raced through her veins as a bulky figure wearing a mask over his whole head rushed at her.

What the hell?

The large figure moved impossibly fast. Her instincts screamed to life. She swerved to the side to avoid the impact—except the lamp she’d brought to protect her slipped from her grasp.

Her prison days had done one very important thing for her, though. She’d learned how to take care of herself in a fight. Her cellmate, a sprightly woman known only as Santos, had taught her to use her smaller size to her advantage. As the masked man shot up and came at her, she spread her feet apart to provide more balance.

Ducking low, she dodged the arm that arced toward her head and lunged for his knees. Lainey sent every ounce of fear and anger into the attack. She wanted nothing more than to drive his joints the wrong way and incapacitate him. Then she could wake her dad, and they could run for help.

But why the hell was she wrestling an attacker on her own? Where was her “protection?” Where was her dad?

Dad. Please, let him be okay.

Lainey managed to knock the guy off-balance, and he collapsed on top of her. She didn’t manage to hurt his knees, though. He was still pretty mobile. Before he could grab her, she twisted and squirmed free. That was a technique she’d learned as the youngest child of three when she wrestled her older siblings. She couldn’t rely on her cellmates to teach her every trick in the book.

He scrambled to his feet, and his breathing was heavy through the knit ski mask.

Good. I hope he suffocates. Asshole.

“Get the fuck out of this house, or I’ll call the cops!”

Just then, Lainey spotted the shoes of the other marshal lying on the floor in the kitchen. She knew he’d have his radio on him. They all did.

She darted under her attacker’s arm by diving to the floor, somersaulting, and then bouncing to her feet. It was a small bungalow-style house, so she was in the kitchen quickly. Adrenaline rocketed through her veins at the sight of the prone man. She spied his gun and tried to remove it from his holster but sensed her attacker returning before she could free it.

Spinning on her heels and rolling to one side, she sprang upright and came face-to-face with…another stranger.

Fuck.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, but she refused to show fear. These guys might be professionals, but she was street-smart.

Before she could fully process the new guy, the masked man had recovered enough to pin both her arms behind her back. In past fights, she’d let her body go limp, surprise her attacker, and slip out of their grasp. But this giant bastard was applying upward pressure that made the attempt excruciating.

“Ow. That hurts, asshole.”

He pressed up behind her with his full body, and she could feel he was hard with excitement.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Don’t worry, baby. I’m going to take real good care of you.”

Her whole body wanted to recoil at the implication, but the sound that came from the man in front of her was almost worse. He was laughing.

“Do not struggle, Miss Storm. You will only make this worse for you. It is true my partner here has many thoughts of what he would like to do with you. All in good time.”

What the…? Russian. Was this the man Amelia had tried to protect her from? Safe houses were supposed to be safe. This dickhead must be pretty well-connected.

He stepped forward and ran his finger down her cheek. She tried to jerk her head away, and he grabbed her face. He wasn’t wearing a mask like the one holding her was. His narrow-set eyes were soulless. Lainey had seen that look in some of her fellow inmates and had steered far out of their way. They were nothing but trouble.

This man was cocky enough to not worry about her being able to identify him. That didn’t bode well. He didn’t intend for her to ever be able to describe him.

Well, she wouldn’t go down without a fight.

He leaned forward with his crooked nose practically touching hers. Lainey could headbutt the creep, but the asshole behind her might dislocate her shoulders if she tried. Kicking the Russian in the nuts would be satisfying, but it also might be a death sentence.

No, she’d wait for a better opportunity, when they weren’t expecting it.

The Russian moved his head away, releasing his grip on her chin, then turned toward the kitchen counter, where he fiddled with a small black pouch sitting there. When he turned back around, the glint of a familiar object caught her eye. A syringe.

Shit, if they knew her name, did they know about her past with drugs? A shiver ran down her spine. The sight of the syringe with its slender, glistening needle brought back a flood of memories. She could almost feel the cold, sharp metal piercing her skin.

Lainey had worked hard to get clean, and she liked her life now. Her dad had forgiven her, and she was mending her relationship with Amelia. The Hungry Fiddler had ignited a positive passion within her, and she finally had a vision for her future. The shiny needle and the ominous contents of the syringe terrified her.

Needles, no matter what was in them, weren’t anything she ever wanted to be around again. Whatever poison was inside whispered warnings of death. Lainey Storm was a fighter, and this wasn’t how she wanted to go out.

She struggled against the masked man’s grip, but that only seemed to arouse him more. The son of a bitch was getting his rocks off the more she struggled.

Wait. If he wants to rape me, then they aren’t going to kill me. And if he tries to rape me, that might just give me the opening I need to fight back and escape.

Her skin crawled at the thought of either of these guys touching her, but at least she’d be alive.

Paralyzing dread gripped Lainey. There was an inevitability to her situation that pissed her off. Since being out of prison, she’d controlled her life for the most part. And once she was released from the halfway house, she’d have full control.

But now some asshole and his goon had all the control.

The Russian held the syringe up as if to taunt her. “Do not fear, Miss Storm. This drug is not what you were addicted to. But if I inject too much, it might kill you. Much like I killed the two men who swore to protect you. They were powerless to stop me.”

Lainey looked down at the man on the floor. She didn’t remember his name, but a tear ran down her cheek all the same. She’d hoped he was just unconscious. Confirmation that he was dead sent more adrenaline through her system.

“Ah, I see you are saddened by their deaths. Do you not shed tears for your own father? He was the first to die.”

Anger surged through her, and she kicked at the Russian, regretting it as she felt one shoulder pop out of its socket. “Son of a bitch, you motherfucker! If you killed my dad, you’re as good as dead.”

“Oh, that was not a good sound. I do not have anyone that can tend to your injury. You should be more careful.”

“My sister will hunt you down, and she won’t show you any mercy!” Lainey spat at him, hoping if she puked from the pain of her dislocated shoulder that she’d cover him in it.

He wiped the spit from his cheek with his sleeve as if it were nothing. Then he looked past Lainey to the man holding her captive. “Make sure she does not move.”

In one swift motion, the masked man swept Lainey’s legs out from beneath her, sending her to her knees but still tightly in his grasp. He now felt even closer to her and still very much aroused. But the pain of her knees slamming onto the tiled kitchen floor was nothing compared to the stars she was seeing from her dislocated shoulder.

Closing the distance between them, the Russian now stood over her, smiling down through tight lips. He grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking her head to one side.

Tears spilled onto her cheeks as she felt the prick of the needle in her neck.

Her dad, Amelia, and her niece and nephew flashed before her eyes.

Then nothing at all.

25

Amelia examined the list of employees from the rail yard. When Sherry had called them with their request, the person who was authorized to release the information had left for the day. They’d had to wait for him to get back to the office to email them everything they’d requested.

Of course, there were no physical descriptions, but the employees did have names, ages, and their role at the company. That had allowed them to fine-tune their search. Once they’d received the list, Dean, Sherry, Layton, and Amelia each took a few pages and began going through them.

“The techs we have working here don’t get enough credit for all they do.” Zane’s voice broke the silence in the conference room as he and Spencer returned from a meeting with Cyber. Amelia smiled at the pair of agents as they dropped into empty chairs.

“That sounds promising. What did they have for us?” She knew everyone working on the snuff-film murders was exhausted, but no one was willing to stop until the responsible parties were off the streets.

“Cyber pulled a few useful things from the gas station surveillance near the park where Eric McClain’s body was dumped.” Zane had taken the seat across from Amelia, and she noted with concern how exhausted he looked. “They managed to clarify the picture enough to track a total of four cars that entered the park the night McClain’s body was discovered.”

Layton set his glasses on the table and rubbed deep indentions on the bridge of his nose. “Tell me they got plates.”

“They did, but only for three of them. The fourth car had aftermarket lights around the license plate frame. They were so bright that the security camera just recorded a blotch where the plate information was. They tried different enhancement techniques to isolate it or get a partial, but they were unsuccessful.” Spencer poured himself a glass of water from a pitcher.

Across the conference table, Zane was typing on his laptop. “I’m running the plates through the DMV now to get the registration information for the three they could identify.”

“Like Zane was saying when we came in, Cyber enhanced the audio track from each of the three snuff films made in Chicago too.”

Dean clicked a pen. He wasn’t taking notes, just fiddling with it. “What’d they find?”

“They isolated the sound of a train going by the kill site. Based on the pitch of the rumble, they determined it was a freight train. That means that the site we’re looking for has active railroad tracks near it.”

Amelia glanced at the map on the whiteboard. She was becoming frustrated with herself. Every time she looked at the information they’d collected, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was missing something. But what?

Zane sat straighter in his chair. “Okay, I have the DMV results for the three readable plates. The cars are registered to Molly Myers, Coleman Foster, and Clancey Hightower.”

Amelia and the others began scrolling through the employee lists from Chicago Rail. She scanned the page, eager to find a match, but careful not to miss a name. After leafing through the pages in front of her, she sighed. “Nothing.”

Dean and Sherry echoed the same response. All eyes turned to Layton as he ran a finger down each column on the paper. When his finger came to a stop near the top of the third page, Amelia realized she was holding her breath.

“Bingo. Coleman Foster.”

Zane pulled up the image from Foster’s license and then spun his laptop so everyone could see it.

“He matches the descriptions we received from the counselors.” Layton was typing now. “I’m going to reach out to them and see if they can confirm that Coleman Foster is the man who claimed to be Robbie Hendrix.”

Amelia woke up her own laptop and began searching for any information she could find on Foster. “He doesn’t have any run-ins with law enforcement. I’m not even seeing any traffic citations.” She fiddled with her mouse for a moment. “And the forensic team posted a note to the case file that they’ve collected samples from the rail yard but don’t have any results yet. Just an FYI.”

Sherry twisted her white-gold wedding band. Amelia used to assume she was playing with the ring because it was something she wasn’t used to wearing. But in the months since Sherry’s marriage, Amelia had come to recognize it was something Sherry did when she was deep in thought. She wondered if she even realized she was doing it.

“I can’t stop thinking about what Detective Avery said in her confession video before she died.”

“About IKEA?”

Sherry flipped Dean off. “No, smartass. She was adamant that a Russian person named Bogdan was creating the snuff films.” She stopped fiddling with her ring. “Amelia, is there anything in Foster’s background to tie him to Russia?”

Amelia scrolled through the information she’d found so far. “Nothing. He’s as American as baseball and apple pie.”

“Zane, are you sure this couldn’t be your Bogdan?”

Amelia felt like she was injected with caffeine. “Could be. Eric McClain and all the other guys in the snuff films in Eastern Europe…they look like Zane.”

“Are you suggesting that Bogdan from the Bratva in Russia has been biding his time creating snuff films while he’s been looking for me?” A frown creased Zane’s brow and disbelief laced his voice. “Then he winds up in Chicago and is coincidentally hired by Detective Avery to take a hit out on my girlfriend…because she arrested the man who was going to save her husband’s life?”

“That would mean,” Amelia looked at Zane, “that this Bogdan is trying to hurt me not because he was hired by Avery, but because he wants to hurt you.”

“It’s not unreasonable,” Layton ventured, “to think that ten years of planning his revenge put you on Bogdan’s radar, Zane.”

“You mean, like, this nutcase manifested it? What are you saying? We’re Feds, not a coven of witches. Speak English.” Dean laughed.

“I know I’m the one who brought it up, but now I’m having a hard time connecting these dots. It’s so outrageous.” Sherry looked as though she doubted her own theory. “If it is the same Bogdan, we’re missing a very important puzzle piece here.”

“No, I get it.” Zane’s frown was now aimed at the wall, as if he were warming to the theory. “And revenge is a strong motive. Unfortunately, none of this gets us closer to Bogdan…if he is, in fact, Bogdan Kopeykin, the younger brother of Rurik Kopeykin.”

“You’re right. Bogdan is still a ghost.” Amelia agreed with Zane. “But Coleman Foster is real…tangible.”

They all agreed on that.

And that was something Amelia could work with.

26

I stood over the pathetic, scrawny addict crumpled on the floor and smiled. Agent Amelia Storm’s fiery little sister had put up a good fight, but she was no match for me or my protégé.

Some might think I was overconfident, not wearing anything to conceal my identity. But acting in unexpected ways was one of the best tricks to stay two steps ahead of the authorities.

My days in the Bratva back in Mother Russia provided a valuable education on how to evade the police. It had also taught me that the authorities could be bought. I had learned how to get what I wanted.

Securing the handcuffs around her wrist, I exited the room and fastened the lock.

I sized up my partner. It was clear her struggle had aroused him. Neither of us had sexually assaulted any of the victims, though I knew Cole wanted to.

Although I was not immune to the desires of the flesh, I refused to let my ultimate plan get derailed by his base desires. He needed to be reminded of his place.

“Your sexual desires created an unnecessary situation back at the safe house.” I stared at his groin, and the oaf moved his hand to adjust it, though his erection had since faded. “She might not have fought us or spit on me were not for your dick pressing against her.”

He laughed. “Ha, well, I think you should let me spend some quality time with her, if you know what I mean.”

I slapped him hard across the cheek. “This is not the time to indulge your fantasies. You will do what I say when I say to do it. Nothing more. Nothing less. Do you understand me?”

Cole rubbed his cheek as he took half a step away from me. He was a sizeable specimen, but he was no match for me. The fool had no idea he was on borrowed time.

“I said, do…you…understand?”

“Yeah, yeah. Cool it, man. I’ve done everything you’ve asked. Why are you so pissed? Tonight went off like you said it would. I can’t help it if the scrappy bitch made my dick hard. That’s biology.”

“Make sure it does not happen again. Or I will remove it myself.” I pulled my knife from its sheath at my hip and waved it to make sure the message was delivered.

He shrank away from me. “That’s fucked up, man.” His bravado was forced, and I savored that.

“I need you to set up the cameras in their usual spots. Soon, I will be filming the ultimate masterpiece, and I want to make sure everything is in place. Make sure the lighting is adjusted too.”

Cole rubbed his jaw again where redness from my earlier strike had blossomed. “Yeah, okay. Whatever you say, Boss.”

“Excellent. Now, I would like to be alone with her. I have some unfinished business with our young captive.”

He raised an eyebrow in question. My fingers twitched, and I fought the urge to beat the insubordination out of him. I gestured to the main room, making it clear that our interaction was over and he was dismissed.

I did not watch him walk away. If he knew what was good for him, he would follow my instructions.

Unlocking the door, I pushed it open. The light from the hallway illuminated Lainey Storm’s body crumpled on the floor next to the pole I had handcuffed her to. She was still under the influence of the drugs I had injected into her.

I pulled up a chair and sat in the doorway, watching her chest rise and fall. Lying on the ground before me was the bait I needed for my trap. When the time was right, I would use the young sister to snare Amelia and her traitorous boyfriend.

Mischa.

I spat on the ground, and the girl groaned.

“Soon, Mischa. Soon, you will know the unrelenting sorrow that chases you through your days and wakes you in a cold sweat. When you have watched the last drops of blood drain from the body of your beloved, then I will cut off your head and mount it on my wall.”

I rose from my chair and squatted in front of the worm that would bait my hook. Using the back of my hand, I slapped her hard across her cheek. Her eyes flew open, and fear registered across her features.

“Wake up, my little worm.”

She tried to scoot away from me, but the handcuffs kept her in place. Again, all according to my plan. I grabbed her shoulder and squeezed.

“Son of a bitch! Stop it.”

“Still sore? Perhaps you should not have fought so hard. But that spunk you show will make you a wonderful subject for my next film.” I rubbed my thumb across her full lips. I wanted her to fear the ultimate violation, and the revulsion in her eyes indicated my acting was flawless. The seed had been planted when Cole could not help his arousal. I was feeding into that.

“Perhaps I should bring my partner back in. He is keen to spend some quality time with you…alone. And I would not mind watching that.” Running my gaze across her body, I tugged at her shirt.

That was when the bitch kicked me. It landed only a glancing blow, but my anger bloomed. It would not help my plan to finish her off out of the unrelenting gaze of my cameras.

“I told you before, my sister is going to hunt you down. You’re gonna pay for everything you’ve done.”

I rose to my feet and moved back toward the door as laughter bubbled to the surface. “Oh, I know all about your sister Amelia and her lover Zane Palmer. I know him better than you do.”

Her fear morphed into confusion before my eyes, and I suppressed a smile. Again, everything was going according to script.

“You might think you know them. But you don’t know what they’ll do for the people they love. The risks they’ll take.”

“Yes, but you see, you are assuming your sister will come looking for you. Can you be so sure? You are a drug addict and your father a recovering alcoholic. Or at least, he used to be. He is dead now. He is decaying back at the safe house. He will never say your name again.”

Lainey stared at me. Stunned. I smiled.

“He rots there with the two marshals who were supposed to protect you. If they could not keep you safe, do not assume your sister can do anything to help you either.”

“Dead? Did you really kill him?” Her voice cracked, and tears began to flow.

“Yes. And as for you, who is to say if your big shot sister will even search for you? Your history with drugs might only make her think you have relapsed.”

She dipped her head and brushed away more tears. Her words were barely audible. “She has faith in me.”

“Do you believe that? Truly?” I leaned over her, close enough to smell her shampoo. “There is a reason the subjects of my films have been addicts. You are all disposable. You are trash. Your family and friends have had enough. They turn their backs on you, unwilling to suffer through another cycle of lies and heartbreak.”

I was curious if she would continue this verbal sparring, but she only lowered her head and cried harder.

Pity.

I pushed the chair out into the hallway. Then I turned back one last time. “No one is coming for you.”

Pulling the door shut, I smiled as she cried out from the darkness. I secured the door, making sure she heard the lock. Now she would fall into despair, and the fight would leave her. All hope extinguished.

“Do not worry, my little worm. I have preparations to inspect. But I will be back for you soon.”

27

“Hey, I think I found something interesting on Coleman Foster.”

Amelia had been poring over the list of potential agricultural sites where Foster and Bogdan might be holding the victims before moving them to the kill site, and she was glad for a break.

She mentally crossed her fingers that “interesting” would equal important. “What’d you find?”

Dean wasted no time. “His family owns a large meatpacking and shipping business. They process and ship meat around the country.”

“Well, that certainly seems to align with the forensic report. The fertilizer-like residue found on the victims was organic and potentially used in an agricultural setting. What if he’s using one of his family’s buildings?” Amelia glanced at the map on the whiteboard.

“It gets better.” Dean scrolled down his screen and began reading aloud. “‘Foster and Sons Meatpacking was shuttered in 2018 due to skyrocketing regulatory costs and difficulty retaining skilled laborers. Today, the building stands empty as the owners and the city fight over potential uses for the site and the required EPA clearance and potential zoning changes.’”

Sherry massaged her temples. “Well, 2018 puts the building in the right time frame for using the refrigeration gas that was on the victims’ clothes. That chemical was completely phased out two years later.”

“And it sounds like it’s abandoned while the owners fight with the city about what to do with it.” Zane scratched at the stubble that had sprouted along his jaw.

“There’s too much here to call this a coincidence. Palmer, I think it’s time we pay Coleman Foster a visit.” Spencer rose to his feet as Zane collected his things.

“I’ll request the search warrant.” Layton was already opening the digital form on his laptop.

The incident room suddenly felt lighter. All the evidence pointed to Foster being at least one of the people involved in the snuff film murders. They had a current address for him and should ought to get a warrant quickly.

Putting her family in the safe house might have seemed extreme to Lainey and her dad, but Amelia could relax knowing her actions had kept them safe. On the heels of that thought, vibrations from an incoming call sent her phone dancing on the table next to her laptop.

She didn’t recognize the number but answered it, pressing the phone to her ear. “Agent Storm.”

“Agent, it’s Marshal Calvin Fulton. Do you have a moment?”

Panic raced down her spine, and the tiny hairs all over her body stood on end. Something was wrong. “Yes, of course. What’s going on?”

“It’s about your family. I need you to come to the safe house. Now. I can’t say more over the phone.”

Shit. A million possibilities ran through her brain, and none of them were good. Amelia knew that protocol prevented him from providing information over the phone. Trying to focus on the least worrisome options, she raced through the possibilities. Her dad might’ve had a medical event. Or maybe Lainey somehow managed to sneak drugs in.

No. Lainey’s different. And her dad’s health had been much better since he’d stopped drinking.

Realizing she hadn’t responded to Marshal Fulton, Amelia cleared her throat. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Zane and Spencer had already left the incident room, but the rest of the agents were all staring at her.

Sherry rose to her feet. “What is it? What happened?”

“I don’t know. But I have to get to the safe house. It’s my family.”

“Was it Teddy who called? He’s supposed to be working there tonight.”

Amelia shook her head. “No, it was a Marshal named Calvin Fulton.”

“Calvin? That’s Teddy’s boss. Let me guess, he couldn’t tell you anything over the phone.”

“Right.”

“I’m coming with you. Teddy’s there, and he can tell us what’s going on.”

With a glance at Dean and Layton to make sure they didn’t object, Amelia and Sherry gathered their things and rushed from the room.

28

Zane shifted the FBI-issue car into park and turned off the engine. Beside him, Spencer unbuckled his seat belt.

“How does a twenty-eight-year-old kid working at a rail yard afford his own home?” Zane studied the small bungalow with empty flower boxes under the two front windows. He couldn’t tell if the lawn had been mowed or had gone dormant in the heat of summer.

“Dean’s research indicated his family has a lot of money. Maybe they helped him pay for it. The real estate records say it was a cash purchase with no loan, and Coleman Foster holds the title. If they gave him money, they didn’t care about getting any back.” Spencer scanned the street.

Zane understood about coming from money. His parents had been successful in the financial industry, but they hadn’t spoiled him. His mother instilled the idea that people needed to work for what they had. For the most part, Zane preferred to keep his family’s wealth under the radar, though Amelia knew all about it.

Spencer smacked him on the shoulder with the search warrant they’d printed before heading to Foster’s home.

Zane unsnapped his holster and scanned the yard. They were alone.

As they neared the door, it opened, and the young man exiting the house seemed surprised to find two men standing on his front walkway. “Can I help you?”

“Coleman Foster? I’m Special Agent Spencer Corsaw, and this is Special Agent Zane Palmer. We’d like to ask you a few questions. And we have a search warrant for your home.” He held up the piece of paper and waved it at the young man.

Foster took half a step back from them as he checked the area around his front yard. Before they could ask a single question, he bolted toward his neighbor’s place.

Zane had already noted where all the obstructions in his yard were, preparing himself in case their suspect fled. He hated chasing people in the dark and used surveillance to get any advantage he could.

As Foster approached the property line, he darted around the corner of his home and disappeared.

“I’ll go the other way to make sure he doesn’t circle around.” Spencer raced in the opposite direction.

Zane reached the corner and slowed in case Foster meant to jump him. Rounding the end of the house, he spotted the young man retreating into his neighbor’s backyard. He radioed to wherever Spencer was. “He’s moving east behind the neighbor’s house.”

“Roger that.”

As Zane approached the adjacent yard, Spencer joined him, and they continued their pursuit. A clanking noise drew their attention to the far side of the yard.

Zane drew his side arm and held it at low ready. “Coleman Foster, you’re under arrest. Put your hands above your head.”

Foster continued to fight against the lock on a tall privacy fence that ran along that side of the property. Noting the hot tub in that corner of the yard, Zane understood the reason for the tall wooden fence.

Spencer and Zane closed the gap, spreading out to prevent any further attempts to run. “It’s over, Foster. Put your hands up and back away from the fence.”

The rattling stopped, and Foster looked over his shoulder at the two agents with their guns drawn. He raised his hands above his head and took a few steps backward toward them.

The fight left him at that point, and they handcuffed and secured him in the back seat of the sedan without much effort. Since the car was equipped with a divider between the front and back seats, they didn’t need to worry about anymore wild behavior from Foster. They read him his rights before informing him that the search of his property would be conducted by a CSU team that was headed there now.

His reaction to that piece of news didn’t seem to register an ounce of concern. That didn’t give Zane much hope that the team combing through Foster’s belongings would come up with anything that would help them put an end to the murders.

His annoyance at Foster’s lack of concern only strengthened his resolve to get answers.

Coleman Foster’s days of running were over. What he didn’t know was that Zane had learned his interview techniques not at Quantico but during his years in the CIA. He wouldn’t break any laws while he interrogated their prisoner, but he was more than willing to walk right up to that line.

They needed answers, and Zane intended to get them. Tonight.

29

Amelia and Sherry pulled up to the safe house, Amelia gripping the seat so tightly that her knuckles ached. They’d had to jump through hoops to get the address, but the second they had it, Sherry had driven like a bat out of hell, weaving through late-evening Chicago traffic while murmuring reassurances that neither of them believed.

Amelia had already known something was terribly wrong.

But nothing prepared her for the sight of the medical examiner’s van.

Forensic techs moved with quiet efficiency across the front lawn, their presence a grim confirmation.

Her stomach clenched, nausea creeping up her throat. She barely registered Sherry throwing the car into park before she bolted out.

A stoop. A step. The rush of breath that was too loud, too sharp, too fast.

Protective booties. Fucking booties.

She yanked them on, barely aware of the crime scene tech kneeling just inside the door as she stormed through.

Then…

The room. The flickering TV. Game Show Network.

Her dad.

The world tilted for a second, reality slowing, stretching, distorting.

A marshal stepped into her path, hand raised. “Agent Storm, I’m sorry.”

Amelia forced her expression into something blank, something useful. Falling apart wasn’t an option.

“Tell me.” Her voice had become a stranger’s.

Forcing her mind into a sharp lockdown, she scanned the room with surgical detachment, clinging to training, to anything that could anchor her against the tidal wave of emotion rising in her chest.

A platinum-blond head kneeling beside the body bag—Sabrina “Breena” Ackerley.

Two body bags on the floor.

Her throat tightened. She forced herself to meet Marshal Calvin Fulton’s gaze.

Though his eyes were filled with sorrow and regret, his words were clipped, clinical. “I’m sorry to say your father is dead.”

White noise filled her ears, replaced by the sound of her pounding heart.

Amelia barely heard the rest as she fought to maintain control, fought not to scream, fought not to pound her fists into this man’s chest.

Dad is dead.

No.

No, this wasn’t happening. He was supposed to be safe.

The floor swayed beneath her feet. She locked her knees to stay upright. Sherry gripped her arm.

A pause. A breath. Stay sharp. Stay present.

“How?”

The M.E. rose to her feet. “Amelia, I’m so sorry. I can field those types of questions. Why don’t you talk with the marshal first? Then we can speak.” Breena’s eyes were the picture of compassion.

“And my sister?”

“She’s missing.”

Missing?

Amelia’s vision tunneled.

She barely heard them tell her to move into the kitchen, barely felt her legs carrying her forward.

Lainey’s missing.

Fulton’s expression was full of sympathy. “All I can tell you is that it appears there was a struggle here, but there are no signs of open wounds on the on-site victims.”

Victims. Plural.

Dad is a victim. Lainey’s missing. This is real.

The air was too thick. The walls too close.

She swallowed down the scream clawing its way up her throat.

Two marshals—Holden and Carter—were dead.

A fact. Just another fact. Just another fucking fact.

She focused on details, scribbling them in her notebook, grounding herself in procedure. The bolt wasn’t forced. It was opened from the inside. Two unknown sets of shoe prints.

Fulton rubbed the back of his neck. “Looks like an inside job.”

Inside job.

Someone let them in.

“Wait.” Amelia clenched her jaw so tightly, her teeth ached. “If both marshals are dead, how could it be an inside job?”

Fulton ran a hand through his dark hair. “That’s a great question, and one we’re investigating. My hunch is that one or both of them got played.”

Got played.

Her father died because someone got played.

Amelia’s fingers dug into the notebook cover, her nails nearly puncturing the soft material.

Someone had walked through that door and slaughtered her father. Had taken Lainey.

And Amelia had done nothing.

I wasn’t here.

Fulton was still talking. Something about no red flags in their files, something about one marshal considering retirement, the other new to the service.

She didn’t care.

She needed to move. Needed to do something.

“Where’s Teddy, Calvin?” Sherry’s tone was pleading but not desperate. She was keeping it together.

“He wasn’t here tonight.”

Relief flooded Sherry’s face, and Amelia realized her colleague was also keeping it together…but only by a thread.

Calvin gripped Sherry’s arm. “He was supposed to be, but he got called away for a fugitive recovery. I can’t tell you more than that, but you know Teddy’s the best we have in that area. So we sent over Marshal Wyatt Holden to work with Marshal Etienne Carter.”

Sherry released her breath. “Wyatt? He and Etienne are both dead?” She shifted her gaze to the closed body bag on the kitchen floor.

Amelia knew that Sherry and Teddy often socialized outside of work with his fellow marshals, and she wondered how well she knew the men.

Fulton sighed. “Unfortunately, yes. I’m sure Dr. Ackerley will fill you in with more specifics about their deaths, but let me give you the rundown of what we know so far.”

Amelia felt both her heart break and her impatience building, not by any fault of Fulton’s. But the sooner they could get this briefing concluded, the more answers she’d have. Then she could begin hunting the men responsible for her father’s death.

“Okay. Anything else?” The words seemed so normal.

“Not yet. But I promise you we’ll update you whenever we learn something.” He paused and rubbed his neck again. “Agent Storm, I’m very sorry. We’re going to find out what happened here.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that. Do you mind if we look around?”

Keep it together.

“Suit yourselves. The techs have been working quickly and are nearly done. We called out practically everyone, as I’m sure you noticed from all the vehicles outside.” Fulton excused himself and moved back into the living room before making a phone call.

Sherry placed a hand on Amelia’s arm. “You okay?” She lowered her voice as they moved down the hall toward the bedrooms. “I want to give you a hug, but I don’t want to give anyone a reason to take you off this case.”

Amelia nearly choked on hysterical laugh threatening to burst free.

She shook her head as she fought the overwhelming desire to scream. “No, I’m not okay. But I’m holding it together. Hopefully, I don’t look like an ice queen to everyone.”

“I’m sure they understand, as much as anyone can. They’ll probably write it off as shock. But I’ve got your back.”

“Thanks.”

“Always.”

The lights were already on, and it appeared Amelia’s dad had claimed this room. She took a deep breath and released it. Then a smile formed, accompanied by a lone tear trailing down her cheek.

Her father had never been one for making his bed or keeping a tidy home. But Lainey had been over at his place so much, helping him out, and she’d become organized and clean, a real type A personality. Her father’s unzipped duffel rested on the bed, and his toiletry bag sat beside it. The clothes inside the bag were folded, and there were slippers lined up right next to the nightstand.

“Aw, Dad.” Her voice cracked, and that single tear slid free. “You were making so many positive changes in your life.”

Sherry nudged the bedroom door shut with her foot and embraced Amelia. She squeezed her hard before releasing her. Then she slipped out and moved down the hallway.

Amelia brushed the tears away and walked around the room. Her father’s belongings appeared undisturbed. She picked up his bottle of drugstore aftershave, uncapped it, and inhaled. Never again would she smell the smoky scent when she hugged her dad. She’d never feel his arms around her again either. More tears trailed down her cheek that she didn’t wipe away.

After placing the bottle back on the dresser and taking a few deep breaths to steady herself, she moved down the hallway and found Sherry in the room Lainey had been using.

It was a mess.

Too much of a mess.

The Lainey who had emerged from prison wasn’t the same person who went in. She had become controlled, precise. And yet—clothes strewn, magazines out of place—this didn’t fit.

Sherry handed her a magazine. “Looks like she was planning to cook chicken tikka masala.”

Amelia stared at the turned-down page.

Dammit, Lainey. Where are you?

She set the magazine down, forcing herself back into the moment. “I don’t think we’ll find anything useful in here. The techs will let us know if they do.”

Sherry nodded and left the room.

Amelia lingered, taking one last look at her sister’s belongings.

She wasn’t dead.

Amelia knew it.

Yet…

“Let’s talk to Dr. Ackerley.” Sherry left the room, and Amelia wondered if her friend and colleague was giving her a moment alone with her sister’s belongings. It was the same thing she’d done across the hall in her dad’s room.

Out in the living room, the M.E. was writing notes on a clipboard. She looked up when Amelia approached. Sherry was standing by her side, away from the body bags.

“Amelia, I’m truly sorry.”

“Thanks.” She forced more emotion back. “What can you tell us?”

“Your dad and the marshals did not appear to suffer. Each of them had a prick mark on their neck, indicating they’d been injected with a lethal dose of a drug and just…fell asleep.”

No suffering.

A quiet death.

Amelia wanted to scream.

She scribbled notes, anything to keep herself from breaking apart. “Any ideas what the drug was?”

“Not until I can run a tox screen. We’re getting ready to transport them, so we can expedite the investigation.”

“Did they fight back?”

“Marshal Holden had a second injection site. Some bruising. Maybe two different people were involved in administering the drug and used different levels of force, or that one person used more force on Holden than Carter. Or the first injection knocked him unconscious, but they had to administer a second to kill him. I’ll leave the ‘why’ of that to you. I’ll take some measurements in the lab that might paint a clearer picture.”

Amelia nodded, barely taking it all in.

Her gaze drifted to the body bag.

Her father’s outline beneath the plastic.

His arms, the ones that held her as a child. His belly, his face, his smile lines.

She had failed him.

She had failed Lainey.

I’m sorry, Dad. I’m so fucking sorry.

But she wasn’t done yet.

Amelia swallowed hard, stepped outside, and breathed the warm night air into her lungs.

Somewhere out there, Lainey was still breathing.

And Amelia would burn the world down to bring her home.

30

Amelia paced the length of the conference room, her body vibrating with rage and sorrow, her mind refusing to settle. She could still hear the rustle of the body bag as it was wheeled away. Still see the empty space where her sister should have been.

When she’d notified SSA Burton, his sympathy had been immediate, but his decision wasn’t. He told her to go home. She was too close. Too compromised. Too broken to be objective.

She begged him to reconsider. She wouldn’t take any leads, wouldn’t get in anyone’s way, but she needed to be there. She was still their best tool to get to the man who’d done this terrible thing.

It wasn’t until Sherry had gone to bat for her, making it clear that Amelia hadn’t just held it together at the safe house. She’d been in control, professional. Every single witness to her presence there would say the same. No outbursts. No reckless decisions. No signs that she’d become a liability.

Burton had listened. And, for now, he’d relented. She could stay. With conditions.

She knew what that meant. He’d be watching. Monitoring. Looking for any cracks that might splinter under the weight of what happened.

Amelia inhaled deeply, steadying her breath. There was no room for cracks.

There would be time to grieve later—time to let herself feel the depth of what she’d lost. But right now? Right now, Lainey needed her. And she couldn’t do a damn thing for her sister from behind a desk or, worse, locked out of the case entirely.

She clenched her jaw and forced her body to obey, using a technique she’d learned years ago—one she’d relied on in interrogation rooms, on stakeouts, in the worst moments of her career. She worked her way through her body, flexing each muscle group, then releasing. Toes. Calves. Thighs. Hands. Shoulders. Neck. She focused on the sensation of control, exhaling the tension in measured breaths.

With every slow inhale, she pushed away the image of her father’s body inside that bag.

With every slow exhale, she blocked out the hollow, suffocating stillness of Lainey’s empty bedroom.

There was no room for grief.

Not yet.

Now there was only the case.

“Did you call Zane?” Sherry’s tone was laced with concern.

“It wasn’t the way I wanted to tell him, but yeah. He shouldn’t hear that from someone else, and if he checked the case file, he’d have seen the information there.” She cleared her throat. “Zane said they were on their way back, but that was a little while ago. I thought they’d be here by now.”

Zane’s fondness for her family was one of many things that endeared him to her. He’d grown especially close to her father, with the two men bonding over their shared love of game shows.

At gatherings, Amelia would find Zane missing…only to follow the sound of his laughter as he and her father watched people make fools of themselves for money. And her dad had started opening up to Zane too. They’d shared many heartfelt conversations while off by themselves, and their bond had deepened.

When she’d broken the news, his sharp intake of breath had almost been too much to bear. Of course he’d been sympathetic, but his own pain was clear, and that hurt Amelia almost as much as the news itself. She wondered if Lainey knew their father was dead.

Images of her sister, alone, scared, and grieving were almost too much. Thinking that way was counterproductive, so Amelia again tried to push the thoughts and images from her mind.

Giving up on the exercise, she took a seat.

Layton glanced at her over the black rims of his glasses before pushing them back up the bridge of his nose. Once her colleagues had learned about what transpired at the safe house, they’d embraced her and offered their sympathies. And when everyone returned to their tasks, there was a new air of determination energizing the occupants of the incident room.

But their silence was almost too much for Amelia. She needed to be doing something. Anything. Being active would allow her to channel her energy into stopping the bastards who’d done this.

The door swung open, and Zane and Spencer entered. Amelia’s heart squeezed as she took in her usually impeccably dressed partner. Zane’s hair was matted to his head, and his Tom Ford suit had sweat stains under the arms. Spencer looked even worse with the knees of his dress slacks torn with bits of grass on them. For a moment, she wondered if they’d come in looking that way to lighten everyone’s spirits.

“What happened to you two?”

Zane forced a smile that was about as convincing as a bargain-bin toupee in a hurricane. He placed his hands on the back of Amelia’s chair and looked down at her. “Foster’s cooling his heels down in an interrogation room. He hasn’t said a word since we cuffed him. Not even to ask for a lawyer.”

Layton turned in his chair. “He’s here? I thought you were just going to serve the warrant and try to talk to him at his house.”

Spencer took a long drink of water from the glass he’d just filled. “That was the plan, until the fool took off running. I tripped over a garden hose and landed hard on my knees.” He gulped more of the water, then looked down at his clothes as if realizing the state he was in for the first time. “I guess this suit is trashed. At least we roped the CPD in before we brought him here. They’re searching the house right now.”

Dean tutted as he shook his head. “Palmer, you look like hell too.” He tossed a handkerchief from his back pocket at him.

Zane caught it and examined the cloth like it contained a deadly virus, dangling it from two fingers. “My shirt feels like a second skin. But I think I’ll pass on the snot rag, thank you very much.” He tossed it onto the table and then scooped up Amelia’s travel mug, sniffing the contents. “Water?”

“Yeah, go ahead. Did Foster say anything before he tried to run?”

Amelia was grateful for the moment of levity and the opportunity to get busy.

Spencer’s water glass was empty, so he drained the pitcher’s contents into it and took another long drink. “No. He said he was headed out, but we never got more than that.”

“I’m not sure if making him wait will work to our favor, but it can’t hurt.”

Zane moved into the empty chair next to Amelia and rested his hand on her forearm. It was a rare display of affection in front of their coworkers. “Has the lab returned any results yet from the samples they took at the rail yard?”

Amelia patted his hand. “We were checking the case file when you two sweaty hogs burst into the room and stunk the place up.” She made a show of plugging her nose by pinching her nostrils closed.

“That’s right, Mr. Kotter. The Sweathogs are in the house.” Everyone turned to look at Spencer. “What? You know, from the show Welcome Back, Kotter. Vinnie Barbarino.” He looked at each agent gathered around the table. “I am not that much older than you! Layton, you’re basically the same age as me.”

Dean’s laugh set off a cascade of laughter that did a little to heal Amelia’s battered soul.

“Did you learn anything new about Foster that we can use when we question him?” Zane leaned back in his chair, withdrawing his hand from Amelia’s arm. Under the table, his knee pressed against the side of her leg.

Amelia returned the gesture of comfort with her knee before answering his question. “The Fosters own two properties that match the criteria we’ve identified. There was the one mentioned in the article that’s within the city limits and has been abandoned since 2018. And there’s another one about an hour outside Chicago that’s been vacant since 2019.”

“I think we should check out both properties. But it’s reasonable to focus on the abandoned building in the city. It’s more in line with the geography of the previous body dumps.” Dean straightened in his chair. “I can contact the local police where the other building is and have them sweep it for any signs that someone’s been there.”

“Meanwhile, we have a man sitting down the hall in handcuffs who I’d like to convince to cooperate with us.” Zane squeezed Amelia’s shoulder. In that moment, she didn’t know what her colleagues thought of his display of affection. And she didn’t care. If she had to, she could handle this crisis on her own. But it was damn nice not having to.

Emotions warred within her. Where was Lainey, and was she still alive? Or was a snuff film about to be posted on the dark web with her sister as its main character?

Her family had been through enough because of her job. Hell, they’d been through it all once already, after Trevor was murdered. Then Joseph Larson kidnapped her sister-in-law Joanna and nearly killed Amelia. Her skin crawled at the mental image of the disgraced and deceased agent.

Her family had made it through all of that, beaten-up but stronger. But her family kept getting smaller in the most horrific way. Still, she had her sister.

Hang on, Lainey. We’re coming for you.

31

Outside the interrogation room, Amelia stood beside Zane and Spencer.

Zane took a few deep breaths, and Amelia could tell her partner was working hard to suppress his anger. His usual laid-back demeanor was gone, trampled over when he’d learned about her dad and Lainey.

While Amelia couldn’t be part of the interrogation, she knew she’d be well-represented by Zane and Spencer. If anyone could get Foster to talk, she knew it was the pair of agents standing with her. And she planned to watch the interaction unfold from behind a one-way mirror.

Amelia moved a short way down the hall and entered the observation room.

On the other side of the mirror, Coleman Foster was shackled to the table looking equal parts concerned and annoyed, but he wasn’t yet scared. Not an uncommon reaction after being chased by two FBI agents.

Gazing at him through the glass, Amelia was glad there was a wall between her and Foster. She flipped the switch to hear the conversation and waited.

The door to the interrogation room opened, and Zane and Spencer entered, chatting as if they were oblivious to the man chained to the table. The advocate who’d been reading a book in the corner exited without any fanfare. She’d have mentioned it if Foster had requested a lawyer in their absence.

Good. Don’t lawyer up. Time to spill your guts.

“Sorry to keep you waiting. Do you need anything to drink?” Spencer sat across from Foster.

His expression was still unreadable. But Amelia could use nonverbal cues better than most to size up a suspect, second only to Zane. It was a skill he’d said was essential to his survival when he’d been deep undercover in Russia. Reading the body language of the Bratva members or their enemies had kept him alive.

Zane stood near the mirror, and she wondered if it was his way of showing solidarity. In an odd way, it almost made her feel as though she were the one about to interrogate Foster. She leaned closer to the glass.

Spencer’s posture was relaxed, a common tactic to appear less threatening. “We have agents preparing to investigate two abandoned properties that your family owns. One in the city and one about an hour outside town.”

Smart. If he didn’t ask a question, Foster didn’t need to contribute to the conversation. That would allow Zane and Spencer to lay out the case they had against their suspect.

“Your family owns a lot of properties and doesn’t seem to be doing anything with them. That doesn’t make a lot of sense from a business perspective. But then, if they were savvy businesspeople, the business would still be operational.”

Foster smirked, just a hint.

So you hate your family. Good. I’m sure they feel the same.

“I bet that’s why you’re carving your own path. It’s wise to distance yourself from people who don’t know what they’re doing.”

Zane pretended to activate an earbud that he wasn’t wearing. That trick made the suspect realize a steady stream of information that might incriminate them could be funneled to the agents. It kept them off-balance.

Spencer continued. “You know, it can be difficult to go against your family, especially if they have money. Money is power. But if you have someone you can work with, someone you trust…that can make striking out on your own so much easier.”

Foster shifted in his seat but remained silent, though he looked back and forth between Spencer and Zane. An almost imperceptible shrug followed.

Thanks for confirming that you have an accomplice.

“I don’t mean to interrupt, but I have a different perspective.” Zane pushed away from the wall and dropped into a seat at the end of the table. “In my experience, when you start relying on others, that’s when you expose yourself to liability.”

Spencer turned toward Zane, as if they’d both forgotten Foster was even there. “How do you mean?”

“Say you want to do something risky. Sure, having someone by your side makes you feel more confident. But if things go south, well…”

“Oh, I see. The partner could turn on you.”

Foster squirmed.

“And if the partner is conniving, they might use your generosity against you,” Spencer added.

“I’m not following.”

Zane and Spencer had built a great rapport, and the way they played off each other fascinated Amelia.

“If you need a place to commit a crime, it’s better not to have a connection to it. Maybe a place your partner could provide. Then his name is tied to it, and you can plead ignorance.”

“So if you want to keep your hands clean, you have your partner do the dirty work.” Zane shrugged. “You provide the building. Maybe you find the victims. Maybe you help move the bodies. Heck, maybe you even do the killing. Your supposed partner is covering their ass. They can point the finger at you when the time comes, even though they’re pulling all the strings. It all circles back to you.”

Beads of sweat glistened on Foster’s upper lip under the bright fluorescent lights. Obvious, even from Amelia’s vantage point.

Zane bobbed his head. “All I can say is it would suck if you had a crappy family and then you make friends with someone who’s just using you. Someone who will turn on you.”

Spencer slapped the table, and Foster jumped. “In case it wasn’t obvious, we have a mountain of evidence against you, Mr. Foster. We found trace particles on three victims from the job you have at your family’s rail yard that tie you to having physical contact with each victim. We also found evidence on all the victims that tie them to byproducts found at a meat-processing plant. Like the abandoned one your family has right here in the city.”

Zane turned to face their prisoner but spoke to Spencer. “Don’t forget the three drug counselors. They all confirmed that Mr. Foster here is the same person who attended the same drug-addiction meetings as all three victims. Those meetings were all over the city. Seems like there was a purpose in going to so many locations. You know, like scouting out victims.”

“Right. I’d almost forgotten.” Spencer leaned forward, and Foster met his gaze. “In short, we have a lot of evidence against you. But we know you weren’t working alone. Except we don’t have anything on the other guy. From where we’re sitting, your partner used you so he could throw you under the bus once the authorities came around. He’s going to sell you out if given the opportunity.”

“Before you think he wouldn’t get that opportunity, I want to remind you that we have agents preparing to breach your family’s abandoned facilities.” Zane shrugged. “If he’s at one of them, and he talks first, it won’t matter what you tell us here.”

Teams hadn’t been organized to investigate either location yet. They were feeling Foster out to see if he’d give anything away.

Foster’s eyes widened, and reality seemed to settle on his shoulders. He slouched in his seat. “He doesn’t think I know his last name, but I’m smarter than he gives me credit for. The Russian bastard is Bogdan Kopeykin.”

Shit!

Zane flinched. It wasn’t much but enough for Amelia.

The confession sent a chill down her spine that had nothing to do with the frigid temperature in the observation room.

She knew more about what transpired in Russia than she should, but that was the nature of being in a personal relationship with someone in this line of work. Bogdan’s brother had put together a poorly conceived plan to overthrow the Bratva commander, and Zane, as Mischa, had been forced to kill Rurik to show his loyalty to the Bratva and not blow his cover.

Now it appeared Bogdan was, in fact, in Chicago to settle the score.

Although the identity of the accomplice wasn’t unexpected at this point, it was still shocking that Detective Avery had managed to find a former member of the Bratva—a man whose brother Zane had killed…

The contract hit Avery ordered on Amelia. A growing library of snuff films with victims. The deaths of Amelia’s father and two U.S. Marshals. And now Lainey’s kidnapping. It was all connected.

This was personal. Bogdan was going after the people Zane cared about. He might’ve tried to go after Zane’s family, but they’d been on an African safari for the past month. Looked like the vacation had saved them.

Bogdan likely knew that kidnapping a federal agent would be complicated and deadly. And that going after an agent’s family members would be an easier place to start. Jim and Lainey Storm were two civilians who didn’t know how to defend themselves against sociopaths. But they shouldn’t have been in danger in the safe house.

And Bogdan had been warming up for the last five years—killing men that resembled Zane.

He’d likely been searching for him for the last decade. And Eric McClain was a perfect surrogate for her boyfriend.

But how had he found out Mischa Bukov’s real name and that he lived in Chicago? Amelia still didn’t have the answer to that question. Had Avery connected those final dots for him by hiring him to kill Amelia? Or had he come to Chicago to kill Zane, and rolling in the hit on Amelia was a happy accident?

That had to be it.

Zane hurt him deeply by killing his brother. He was taking slow, calculated revenge on him.

Rachael Gibber. Elinor Fogleman. Lainey. He was building up to Amelia.

Zane’s voice pierced Amelia’s thoughts. “We know you killed three people, including two federal law enforcement officers, and kidnapped a young woman earlier this evening. Where is she right now?”

Foster’s eyebrows narrowed. “What the hell? I didn’t kill three people.” He shifted in his chair, and the chain from the handcuffs scraped across the metal table. “The old man was only drugged, not killed. You’re not hanging that on me.”

“You seem a bit…agitated.” Spencer traced his finger across the table. “This all goes a lot better for you if you’re honest with us. We found three bodies at the safe house you breached. You’ve already admitted to drugging the older gentleman. I’m not sure a jury’s going to believe you didn’t mean to kill him.”

Amelia’s heart clenched. Dear god, please don’t let Dad have suffered. Breena Ackerly had said he didn’t, and Amelia needed to cling to that thought.

“Bogdan didn’t want any loose ends. Our guy must’ve offed the other marshal in the kitchen. That’s how we gained access to the safe house. I thought he was just drugged like the old guy. All this was Bogdan’s idea. After the two marshals and the old man were unconscious, we grabbed the girl and left.”

So Etienne Carter was the corrupt one, because veteran Marshal Wyatt Holden was found on the kitchen floor. And Holden had two injection points, so there’s a chance Foster didn’t know they were killing people, and Bogdan finished him off after Carter let them in.

Amelia pressed closer to the one-way mirror, eager for any piece of information that would tell them where Lainey was or how she was doing.

Zane rose to his feet and leaned over the table. “Tell me where the girl is.”

Foster was trying to lean away from Zane, but the handcuffs held him in place. “Bogdan was creepy obsessed with her. We had a list of targets. Her name was Lainey⁠—”

“You said was,” Zane interrupted him, his nostrils flaring. “Is Lainey dead?”

Inside her head, Amelia’s heartbeat thrummed so loudly, her ears were ringing. She turned up the volume on the speaker, not wanting to miss a single word.

“After we got to the warehouse, Bogdan made me leave. She was awake, and he wanted to be alone with her. That wasn’t the way we usually did things, so who knows what he did. But with the way he looked at her…sorry to tell you this, but she’s probably already dead.”

Amelia dropped into one of the chairs in the tiny space.

She can’t be dead. She can’t be dead. She can’t be dead. First Dad, then Lainey…

Zane spun out of his chair. He was next to Foster now. “This goes much better for you if you cooperate. Last chance. Tell. Me. Where. She. Is.”

Foster’s lower lip quivered, then he dropped his head just as he…smiled? Before Amelia could process the incongruity, the smile was gone, and he looked scared again.

His voice was steady when he replied. “There’s an old plant on the outskirts of town. It belonged to my dad’s rival in the industry. He hated the guy. I thought if you guys found the place, you’d pin the murders on him. At least as an accessory. That’d be sweet revenge for my family. And it would financially ruin the jerk.”

The victims had traces of CFC on their clothing. That would be consistent with an older plant. The location fit the evidence. Foster’s reasoning for using a rival location made a certain kind of sense. But Amelia was hesitant to believe him.

Spencer pulled out his notebook. “Address.” After jotting down what Foster rattled off, he studied the page for a long moment before leveling his stare at their prisoner. “Isn’t this still an operational plant?”

“Huh?”

Zane jumped in, his hand pressing Foster’s shoulder against the back of the old metal chair. “How are you killing people in a meatpacking plant that’s still operating? You could be discovered by workers or security personnel.”

Foster turned to address Spencer. “It’s only used occasionally. When meat demand gets higher, like at the holiday. But even then, it hasn’t been used in a couple years.” He laughed, adding, “He’s either lazy or stupid enough to think barbed wire is enough to keep people out, so there aren’t any security guards.”

Amelia thought Zane was going to smack the guy. She could see his anger simmering just below the surface.

“Something funny?” Zane managed through clenched teeth.

“You have to admit it’s smart, right? All the blood just heads down into the massive floor drain. They do frequent cleanings to stay ahead of the health inspectors and the FDA, so we have our own industrial cleaning crew. It’s kind of perfect.”

Spencer tapped the table. “Should we give you a cookie for being a smart murderer?”

“I’ve got a better idea. I think we give him a life sentence of gray food in a prison cafeteria.” Zane backed away from Foster and glanced at the one-way mirror.

When Spencer rose from his seat, Amelia knew he was ending the interrogation, at least for now.

She bolted into the hallway and came to a stop outside the interrogation room. Her sudden arrival startled the social worker who was serving as Foster’s advocate. She looked confused. Amelia nodded to the woman and began pacing, her breathing rapid.

Spencer and Zane stepped into the hallway, and the social worker disappeared into the interrogation room to sit with Foster.

The three agents exchanged glances before Spencer said what they already knew. “We’ve got an address. We need to tell Burton and the others so we can get things set up.”

After Spencer finished recounting the interview, SSA Burton was already rising from his chair, not wasting a second on unnecessary deliberation.

“Corsaw, how credible did you find Coleman Foster?” His gaze cut to Spencer, but Amelia’s stomach clenched. Was she about to be pulled from the case?

Spencer didn’t hesitate. “Do I trust the guy? No. But the address he gave us matches an active plant west of the city.”

“That’s good enough.” Burton checked his watch. “If we’re lucky, no one should be there except Bogdan Kopeykin and Lainey Storm. We move right away. I want blueprints for the plant pulled up now, and we’ll plan breach strategy within the hour.”

Amelia latched onto the moment. “What’s my assignment?”

SSA Burton shot her a sympathetic look. “Your assignment is staying here.”

No!

“Sir, I⁠—”

He cut her off with a raised hand. “I let you stay on this case after your father was murdered and your sister was taken. That ends now. I need you here, running ops, keeping our case against Foster and Kopeykin airtight.”

Amelia’s mouth opened, but no argument came. At least Zane was still on the case. He’d keep her in the loop.

“And, Palmer, you’re sidelined too.”

Crap.

“Sir, I object. Amelia and I are both fluent in Russian. We don’t know how Bogdan will react when he’s cornered. Having me there, someone he knows, might smooth over the situation.”

Much to Amelia’s surprise, Spencer disagreed with Zane. “Or it could escalate things. Your whole family is out of the country, right?”

Zane nodded.

“Then Bogdan would have gone after them if he could. Instead, he’s targeting Amelia’s family.” Spencer’s voice was steady, decisive. “But you’re the goal.”

The weight of this truth settled in Amelia’s chest like a brick.

She and Zane were off the case.

And the worst part? She couldn’t even blame them.

Lainey was out there, running out of time. And Amelia was stuck, helpless to do a damn thing about it.

32

Amelia knew Zane well enough to be certain of one thing…he was blaming himself.

His past in the CIA had painted a target on her and her family. He’d carry that guilt like a second skin, just as she carried her own. The two female victims in Chicago had been surrogates for her. The male victims? Surrogates for him. And now?

Her father was dead. Her sister was missing.

They would have to talk about it later—if there was a later—but convincing Zane that he wasn’t responsible would be an uphill battle. A battle she would fight later.

Right now, the only thing that mattered was Lainey.

The energy in the room crackled despite the late hour. The team was running on adrenaline, laser-focused as they edged closer to shutting this nightmare down.

SSA Burton stood at the head of the table, sleeves rolled up, blueprint copies spread out in front of them. “Each of you has a copy of the blueprint for National Meat. We need to plan the best course of action to breach the structure.”

Amelia tuned in and out of the discussion, every strategy and contingency a reminder that she wouldn’t be there. She clenched her jaw, her fingers curling into fists beneath the table. She’d practiced her focused breathing. It hadn’t worked.

Was Lainey still alive?

She forced herself to believe that Bogdan wouldn’t—couldn’t—act without his assistant. Foster was in custody. That had to buy them time.

“…any tips that can help us when we confront him?”

Burton’s question snapped her back to the room. All eyes turned to Zane.

“Bogdan’s a coward. If you send in tactical, he’ll kill Lainey before you can get to her.”

Amelia’s stomach twisted. She knew he was right, but hearing it stated made her sick.

Lainey had no training, no way to fight back.

And she’d been drugged.

That was their M.O. Every victim they’d taken had been drugged before starring in one of their sick productions.

Another thought occurred to Amelia.

Was the drug they used the same substance that nearly ruined Lainey’s life before?

If she lived through this terror, would she face a different type of hell?

She wasn’t sure how addictive the substance was, or even what it was, but she’d be by her sister’s side every day to help her get clean if need be.

God, don’t let Lainey have to go through that again.

But maybe the drug was a small mercy. Maybe it dulled whatever horrors she was facing. Maybe it made it easier.

She swallowed against the rising panic and attempted to focus back on the briefing.

“We’ve all come across people before who think like Bogdan.”

Dean was right, but Amelia barely registered the words. She was slipping.

This was exactly why Burton had pulled her. Her thoughts were fractured, bouncing between the past and the worst-case scenarios of the present.

She couldn’t afford to be unfocused. She wouldn’t let herself be the reason one of her colleagues got hurt.

“He thinks he’s smarter than us.” Zane squeezed her arm. “That might just give us the upper hand.”

The team continued ironing out the final details of their entry. Amelia listened, but her frustration burned like acid.

They were going in—and she wasn’t.

She had been trained for this. Had been built for this.

But she’d been sidelined with only her fear and thoughts to battle.

As the team filed out, leaving her and Zane alone, she exhaled a slow, shaky breath. She could do nothing now but send a silent plea into the void.

Please let Lainey come home.

33

Lainey had no idea how much time had passed since the creepy Russian had left her alone.

Without her fitness watch or phone, time had lost meaning. Her world had shrunk to the darkness around her, the bite of metal against her wrist, the grinding throb of her dislocated shoulder.

Pain and fear. That was all that existed.

She didn’t mind being alone. Not after what she’d already endured. First, the goon with the hard-on. Then the smug Russian who had whispered about Amelia, telling her that her sister would think she’d relapsed.

Bastard.

The idea of Amelia being worried burned worse than her shoulder. Lainey’d fought so damn hard to claw her way out of addiction, to rebuild her life.

But that wasn’t her biggest problem.

The Russian.

“There is a reason the subjects of my films have been recovering drug addicts. You are all disposable.”

Lainey wasn’t naive—she understood exactly what he wanted. What he did to his victims.

She also knew what men like him were capable of when their sick little games didn’t go according to plan.

A shiver racked her as she thought of the goon pressing himself against her. The things he’d implied.

Would he come back? Would he do worse?

She couldn’t think about that.

She wouldn’t.

Instead, she took stock of her situation.

Dark. Silent. No light under the door.

She strained to make out any details in the room. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, but little light managed to leak in around the doorframe. When the Russian had come to pay her a visit, the blinding light through the doorway had helped her assess her surroundings.

The room was empty except for the metal pole she was cuffed to. The Russian had taken the chair when he left, and there was no sign of a bed, no bucket, nothing.

Not even a damn blanket.

Lainey shifted, testing the restraints. Her right hand was cuffed at an awkward angle, digging into her wrist, the metal biting into skin. Her left arm was useless—her shoulder dislocated thanks to that piece-of-shit pervert.

The pain was like a pulse, deep and unrelenting, but the worst part was the weakness. The vulnerability.

She wasn’t helpless.

Not yet.

The room appeared to be an empty office or storage space. There had been a light fixture on the ceiling, florescent, but Lainey couldn’t get to any walls to feel for switches. The walls. Those were gray, maybe purple-ish. The floor had some kind of industrial coating on it. She doubted anyone had any of those things in their homes.

The stark surroundings reminded her of prison. Fitting, since she was clearly a prisoner again.

Using her good hand, she fumbled blindly along the ground. A nail. A splinter. A shard of something sharp. Anything she could use to pick the lock. Anything to fight with.

Nothing.

She exhaled through gritted teeth, frustration mixing with the sharp edge of panic.

She needed her left arm.

A flood of memories surfaced—hazy, drug-fueled days on the streets, surrounded by people just as lost as she’d been. She’d once watched a guy pop his shoulder back in place after a bad fall. Lefty. That was what they called him after he wrecked his dominant arm.

It had been brutal to watch, but Lefty had been too damn high to notice. Everything was over in a matter of minutes, and it all looked pretty simple. And she was about to do it alone.

Her stomach twisted.

What’s the worst that could happen?

She could pass out. That was the first, most obvious risk. Or she could screw it up and lose what little function she had left.

But if she got it back in place, she’d have two working arms. She’d be able to fight.

All right. Do it before you chicken out.

She maneuvered onto her knees, adjusting for the cuff on her wrist. The cold metal pole pressed against her bare arm as she moved.

She shivered, from revulsion and dream.

Lainey had hated being incarcerated. But she’d made the most of her time behind bars. She’d read every book she could get her hands on and exercised to try to clear her head and keep busy. But on the occasions when the guards needed to move her from one location to another, she’d hated being handcuffed. It felt even more hopeless than being in a cell behind cement block walls and watched by armed guards.

Panic started to creep in. If she didn’t do something to fight it off, it might take hold of her, and she’d be paralyzed with fear. She wasn’t going to let that happen. Not now. Not after everything she’d been through.

Breathe.

Slow inhale. Don’t think about it.

She braced her cuffed wrist against the pole, angling her body. The joint was already misaligned—she just needed force. A hard, brutal shove.

Exhale.

She bit down on her sleeve and slammed her shoulder forward.

Pain. Blinding, nauseating pain.

A choked scream escaped before she collapsed against the pole, her body trembling violently.

Had it worked?

Her fingers twitched, but her arm still felt dead, useless.

Dammit.

There was no way to know when the Russian would return or worse, his goon. But if he came back and tried anything, she needed to be ready. They wouldn’t be expecting her to have use of her free arm. And she could use that to her advantage.

Fucking perv. If I get a chance to knee him into next week, I’ll make sure his dick never gets hard again.

Willing her hatred for them to fuel her, she leaned back and slammed forward again.

Pop.

Agony exploded through her shoulder. White spots danced in her vision, nausea twisting her gut. Sweat beaded along her hairline, her breath shuddering in and out as she clung to consciousness.

For a moment, she just existed, resting her forehead against the pole, trying not to vomit. Trying to find strength.

Then…she flexed her fingers.

Her breath hitched, and relief washed over her. It’d worked.

Tears burned down her cheeks, mixing relief with raw, lingering pain.

She clenched her fist.

Okay, assholes. Try me now.

34

It had been almost thirty minutes since the team left to raid the location Coleman Foster supplied. Thirty minutes since Amelia had been forced to sit here, useless, while others went to save her sister.

She paced near the whiteboard, her nails digging deep wells into the palms of her hands. The air in the conference room was too still, too thick. Too empty.

Across the conference table, Zane sat, staring blankly into space. Her heart squeezed. He was as crushed as she was.

“Does that stare mean you’re struggling to control your frustration as much as I am?” She moved to the conference table across from him to enter his line of sight.

His focus snapped back to her. “Huh?”

“Want to talk about it?”

Zane’s face twisted—grief, anger, guilt—emotion flickering so quickly she could barely track them before they vanished.

He pushed back his chair and moved around the table to her side. “Do you hate me?”

She was momentarily stunned by the question. “What? Why on earth would I hate you?” Amelia had expected anger or even frustration, but not this.

“Because everything that’s happened is my fault. Lainey wouldn’t have been taken, and Jim…your dad…oh, my god, Amelia.” His jaw tightened, his body coiled like a wire stretched to its limit. He was holding on to control with every cell of his being. “I’m so sorry.”

Heart twisting, she reached out and cupped his cheek in her palm. “I love you.”

If three little words could simultaneously break and heal a man, it was those. He turned his lips into her palm…and the dam burst.

She’d never seen him like this—never seen him break. But she understood the weight of guilt. It’d been choking her all night.

She climbed onto his lap, pressing her face into his shoulder. His arms circled her like he was afraid to let go.

Tears slipped down her cheeks, hot against her skin, to join his on his shirt. They clung to each other, wrapped in silence, grief rolling through them like a tide neither of them could hold back.

After what could have been seconds or hours, she pulled away just enough to wipe the tears from his face. Then she held his head between her hands, forcing him to look at her.

“I don’t know how to process that Dad is gone. It’s too much.” Her voice was raw. “But you need to know…I don’t blame you. Not at all.” She pressed a finger over his lips when he tried to speak. “I mean it, Robert Zane Palmer. It was an inside job. Marshal Etienne Carter was corrupt. Bogdan was one step ahead of us. Not to mention Avery hired him to take me out. This was never on you.”

Zane took her hand in his, gripping it tightly as fresh tears streamed down his flushed cheeks. “But Jim’s gone, and they have Lainey. If my family hadn’t gone on that damn safari⁠—”

“Then they’d be the ones we’d be grieving. And that wouldn’t be any better.”

His gray eyes were so beautiful, and as she gazed into their depths, something stirred deep inside her, something more than love.

She pulled his face down to hers and kissed him.

It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t a distraction. It was solid. Real. A reminder that they were still there. That no matter how broken they felt, no matter how much they’d lost—they had each other.

When she pulled back, she was glad to see that his tears had slowed. “I need you to know how much I love you, no matter what else is going on around us, to us. Period. You’re not responsible for any of this. I love you.”

A small, sad smile flickered through the grief that had taken his expression hostage. “Robert Zane? You used my full name.” He wiped at the last of his tears. “I love you too, Amelia Nicole Storm. More than you can ever comprehend.”

Amelia smiled, even as the weight of everything pressed back in. “We’ve both suffered losses in our lives. We’ve endured a lot, and we’ve always gotten through it. There’ll be plenty of time to mourn Dad…the rest of my life.” Emotion burned her sinuses again, but she pushed through. “Right now, we need to focus. Something about all this isn’t sitting right with me.”

Zane’s expression shifted “What do you mean?”

As much as she didn’t want to, she moved from his lap and went to the whiteboard. The case sprawled in front of her in facts, figures, connections. But something was wrong.

“Foster said things in the interrogation that didn’t add up.” She closed her eyes, replaying those moments. “And that smile? Did you see?”

“No.” Zane pushed to his feet and joined her at the board. “When?”

“When you were towering over him. From my angle, there was this flash of a smile right before he gave the address of National Meat.”

“Why would he smile?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” Amelia hunted for the right words. “He was too eager to give up that address. Almost like he wanted us to have it.”

Zane’s expression darkened. “Which means it’s either a setup or a diversion.”

“Right.” She shrubbed her face with both hands. “And his reasoning? ‘Sweet revenge’ against his dad’s rivals? We already know he hates his family. So why the hell would he care?”

Zane tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Trying to get in his father’s good graces for inheritance?”

“Maybe.” But Amelia didn’t think so. “Or he was lying.”

She stared at the map. The circumference of potential locations. The National Meat plant. The Foster family’s abandoned plant.

Her gut twisted.

She grabbed her laptop, clicking through pages.

Zane slid into the chair beside her. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

She didn’t answer immediately, her breath shallow as she searched.

Then—

“Shit.” She turned the screen to him. “Look.”

Zane arched a brow. “National Meat.”

Amelia nodded. “Sherry and I went deep with Layton on all the operational aspects of meat-processing plants. I know more about butchering than I ever wanted to.”

Zane bobbed his eyebrows. “So, what, we’re going vegan?”

“Shut up.” She swatted his arm but kept scrolling. “Foster’s story made surface-level sense. Framing a rival, just in case. But it’s risky as hell.”

“Right. You’re breaking the law from the get-go that way. You’re breaking and entering, risking security you don’t know. But killers get caught making dumb decisions all the time.”

“That’s what’s wrong. Foster is dumb. Bogdan’s not.”

Zane’s jaw tightened. “Right. We need to focus on what we know about Bogdan.”

Amelia ticked the details off on her fingers. “He likes control. He liked ‘directing.’ That means being in charge of his environment.”

“Every time he hasn’t had control of his environment, he’s messed up. The Mandy Avery murder⁠—”

“The safe house was a disaster zone. Chaos. The films are his ‘masterpieces,’ he’d never risk a space where he could be interrupted by unanticipated security additions or surprise inspections.” Amelia’s words kept spilling out. She couldn’t stop them. “So he wouldn’t use Foster’s rival’s meatpacking plant. Which means⁠—”

They said it together. “He’s not at National Meat.”

Zane blew out a hard breath. “Shit.”

“Yeah.” Amelia’s pulse thundered. “The team is heading there now. No one’s looking at the Foster plant.”

Zane sighed and rolled his shoulders. “I know that look, but spell it out. What are you thinking, Agent Storm?”

“I’m thinking we need to cover our bases.”

Zane was already shaking his head. “We’ve been ordered to stay here.”

“Special Agent Robert Zane Palmer, I thought your powers of observation and recall were better than that.” She poked him in the chest with a smirk. “Burton said we should ‘run support ops and handle paperwork.’ If we’re going to support the operation, we should make sure no site is overlooked…right?”

Zane poked her back. “That’s not all that Burton said.”

Amelia rolled her eyes. “Shush, you. I can’t sit here idle any longer. I need to feel useful. What harm is there in just checking out an alternative location?”

Zane exhaled, standing. “If you’re right, this is bad.”

She grabbed her cardigan. “Then let’s go find out.”

Zane patted her bottom. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah.” Snatching up the keys, she winked at him. “And you love me for it.”

He grabbed her arm, pulling her to him. His gaze softened. “Yeah. I do.”

She wanted to stay right there, in the safety of his arms, and never move. Though she really did love this man more than she’d thought possible, she couldn’t.

They moved toward the door.

Wherever you are, Lainey, help is on the way.

And please stay alive until we get to you.

35

The surveillance van serving as the command center rumbled to a stop, parking just out of sight near National Meat.

Sherry stood near the back door of the van, eager to spring into action. They were close. This was the moment they had been grinding toward—storm in, take Bogdan down, and bring Lainey home.

Except she wasn’t doing shit.

SWAT was taking point.

Two tactical vehicles flanked the building, their team in place. Final checks were issued through her earpiece, the low hum of voices. They were ready.

So why did it feel like time was crawling? That they were too late?

She thought of Amelia, left behind, frustration burning in her eyes. Amelia had been right to be pissed…and sad…and everything. Despite looking dejected and annoyed, she was all business as she assisted in the team’s preparations.

Sherry admired her colleague and friend.

She exhaled and rolled her shoulders, trying to shake off unease as SSA Burton’s voice cut through the comms.

Before leaving the field office, they’d grilled Foster about where Bogdan usually was when he was in the plant, what room Lainey was being held in, and if there was anything they needed to know about the current layout of the building. Their suspect’s answers had come with their fair share of holes, but they’d supplemented it as best they could. He wasn’t the mastermind behind the operation, after all.

Wallace Hu, the owner of National Meat, had proven especially cooperative, if skeptical that murders were happening in his plant. He’d provided updated blueprints, which SWAT had used to formulate their plan of entry.

“Testing, testing. Cue your radio once if you can hear me.” It was Burton. They were getting closer.

Four distinct clicks resonated through Sherry’s earpiece, signaling that each agent had working equipment.

“Everyone check your earpiece.” SSA Burton’s voice held a sharpness that reflected the mood.

A chorus of “checks” followed.

Sherry adjusted her Kevlar vest, the rough fabric chafing her skin. Minor discomfort. Nothing compared to what Lainey must be going through.

“Once SWAT clears, we move in behind them. First, we secure the exterior. Corsaw, Steelman, you take west. Cowen, Redker, east. We rendezvous before breaching.”

“Roger that.” Sherry opened the door and ducked outside, eager to arrest Bogdan Kopeykin and rescue Amelia’s sister.

No, think of her as a hostage, not your friend’s sister. You can’t make this personal.

“FBI, serving a warrant!” Alpha A’s commander’s voice was so loud, Sherry nearly jumped. His command was followed by Alpha B’s leader shouting the same thing.

Boots pounded forward.

Sherry’s pulse kicked higher. Go time.

But as she entered the parking lot of the building from the east end, Sherry’s hopes of finding Bogdan and Lainey at the plant faded. There were no cars anywhere in the lot. She continued to scan—not only for cars but also any surveillance cameras or booby traps the SWAT sweep might have missed.

Zane had highlighted all the traps the Bratva had used.

Calls of “clear” began coming from the SWAT team inside the building. Each call chipped further at her waning hopes, the certainty in her gut twisting into something sharp and wrong.

Sherry scanned the exterior again. “Do you see that camera?”

Layton followed her line of sight. “Yeah. Wire’s dangling. Looks like it was never connected or it got pulled loose.”

“Or it’s a damn decoy.”

She hated this. They were wasting time.

“Layton, this…this isn’t adding up.”

Layton cued his mic. “Possible tampering with security camera. Southeast corner of building.”

Sherry reached the corner, peering around the building, her heart sinking as it became clear that there were no cars there either.

Please, be here, asshole. I want to end this tonight.

Sherry spotted movement along the far end of the back wall of the building. The hair on her neck prickled before she recognized Spencer’s silhouette, followed by Dean.

She and Layton worked their way toward them, checking each door and window as they went.

“All the doors we passed have padlocks. New. Untouched.”

“We saw what looked like a disconnected CCTV camera near the roof on the southeast corner.” Sherry gestured in the direction they’d come.

Dean perked up. “You don’t think it’s operational? Or are we standing here waiting for Bogdan to come out and join our party?”

Layton leaned closer. “There was a wire dangling from it that led nowhere. I don’t think it’s working.”

“What do you make of the intact padlocks?” Sherry’s question was open to anyone.

More and more shouts of “clear” came through their earpieces. Sherry heard the echo of rooms in those calls. With each “clear,” her hope faded a bit more.

Where the hell was Lainey Storm?

Or Bogdan?

“A locked padlock means he’s probably not inside.” Dean spoke the words Sherry feared.

Using the information from the blueprints, the four agents’ points of entry were predetermined. More and more, Sherry knew they were wasting their time. But she’d continue the mission. The plant was large. It would take time to search every corner.

Her hands trembled slightly as she keyed her mic again. “Burton. We’ve got no vehicles on-site. No signs of movement. All external padlocks intact.” She hesitated, hating what she was about to say. “I don’t think they’re here.”

Burton’s reply came a second later, clipped and unyielding. “Stay on mission. Full sweep.”

Sherry gritted her teeth. Dammit. She gestured to Dean and Spencer. “Let’s get inside.”

Her pulse pounded in her ears.

They had to keep moving. They had to be sure.

But deep down, she already knew.

Lainey wasn’t here.

And every wasted second meant they were running out of time.”

36

Amelia and Zane parked behind a Mexican restaurant’s dumpster a block away from the Foster family’s abandoned processing plant.

The car barely stopped before the stench hit them so hard and unexpected that Amelia nearly gagged. The late-July heat had turned the garbage into something putrid, the smell seeping into the vents before she had a chance to switch to recirculate.

Zane covered his nose. “Fantastic choice of cover. They certainly won’t smell us coming.”

Amelia ignored him, focus locked on the darkened warehouse down the street. They’d driven past before finding a place to park—no obvious movement, no lights, no cars.

But that didn’t mean it was empty.

Zane turned to her. “Want to walk the perimeter, see if we missed anything on the first pass?”

No. She wanted to break down the doors, guns blazing, but she kept that wish to herself.

“We’re here, so we might as well check it out.”

He studied her. “You know we can’t go inside if we don’t have cause.”

Amelia knew Zane was right, but it still made her stomach twist.

She clenched her jaw. She knew that. But every second they sat here, she imagined her sister alone in the dark, waiting for help that wasn’t coming.

She shook her head. “I’m not walking away.”

He sighed but said nothing as they stepped out of the car, Amelia moving fast, eager to put distance between her and the reeking dumpster. Zane caught up and grabbed her arm, his voice low but firm.

“Slow down. We have to look casual. If Bogdan’s inside, he’s watching. We’ve likely already triggered a motion sensor.”

He was right…again. Amelia let out a slow breath and forced herself to match his pace.

“Keep your head down.” Zane turned her until she faced him. “We’re lovers on a stroll.” He stroked her cheek. “Maybe seeking a place to make out.” He bobbed his eyebrows.

The gesture made her smile. He was trying so hard to protect her physically and emotionally. Rising onto tiptoes and pressing her lips to his, she lingered there a second longer than intended, knowing that this kiss could be their last.

They were hunting down a monster who hated Zane with his entire being. He had shown an enormous amount of skill to stay ahead of them at every turn, outmaneuvering the FBI, the marshals, and every safeguard they had in place. Bogdan wasn’t just dangerous—he was disciplined, calculated. A man who didn’t make reckless mistakes. If he was here, he was prepared for them.

Amelia pulled back from the kiss, her heart pounding. From love. From fear. This wasn’t blind optimism. She wasn’t walking into this thinking they had the upper hand.

If anything, she was stepping into a trap she already knew was set.

And she—they—was doing it anyway. Together.

Zane linked his fingers with hers. “Come on. The faster we can save your sister and take down that bastard, the quicker I can get you into bed.”

She laughed again…such a fragile sound, but a miracle under these circumstances.

Leaning against him, the act of intimacy, disguised the tension in her body. They crossed the street, slipping into the parking lot.

“If he has cameras, he definitely sees us now.”

Amelia nodded, glancing up subtly at the building’s corners. If Bogdan was smart—and he was—he wouldn’t just be watching. He’d be listening.

Like a lovestruck teenager would, Amelia pulled his head down to whisper in his ear. “We need to act like teens.” She giggled, a foreign sound that didn’t seem to belong to her.

“This is kinda fun.” He swung her around, but his focus was on the building, not her. “Everything’s by the book. We’re just here on recon. To tie up a loose end.” He leaned down and kissed her forehead. “For luck.”

As they reached the side of the building, they released hands and pressed close to the brick, with Zane taking the lead. Their progress around the perimeter was slowed by uneven, broken concrete. Upon rounding the back of the building, Zane put his hand up in a stop gesture.

She did but peeked around him to see what had spooked him, her hand on her weapon.

A door was open.

Light spilled out in a thin, eerie line across the cracked pavement.

The building wasn’t abandoned after all.

Adrenaline surged through her veins. “Let’s go.”

Zane yanked her back. His voice was a ghost of sound. “That’s an invitation.”

Amelia’s gut twisted. “Or he’s waiting for Foster.”

“Or for us.”

Amelia turned her back to press against Zane’s. Watching their six.

Her fingers curled around her gun. “One in the chamber.”

“Copy that.”

A long, quiet beat.

Amelia exhaled. “We should call it in.”

He pulled out his phone. “I’ll text details to Burton, letting him know it could be a squatter. We don’t want to pull the team off National Meat if we’re wrong.”

Amelia swallowed. And if we’re right?

After he hit Send, they moved toward the door, careful, slow, their weapons low but ready.

Inside was like a hothouse, and sweat pooled beneath Amelia’s Kevlar, sliding down her spine in sticky, uncomfortable trails.

Zane took the lead, sweeping left. Amelia took right. Their movements were silent. Measured. She counted five still-operational exit signs casting an eerie green glow. Their footfalls barely made a sound on the concrete floor.

They passed door after door, each one closed.

Zane’s hand snapped up, and she froze in her tracks. She followed his pointed finger—a trip wire. Thin. Nearly invisible. Running low across the doorway.

She tracked it up the wall, where a rusting shelf held something heavy. A spiked metal sphere balanced precariously on the edge.

Using military hand signals, Zane indicated the wire and their path over it, first verifying that a secondary wire wasn’t waiting for them on the other side. He’d briefed everyone about tricks Bogdan might use, noting that this was Rurik’s favorite trap, since it gave the unsuspecting victim a false sense of safety. No secondary trap was visible, but Amelia moved carefully as she stepped far clear of the first wire.

It was too hot.

Too quiet.

Hang in there, Lainey. We’re coming.

A light at the end of the hallway beckoned. Each room they passed was empty. One door stood open—a break room. The tables had been folded and stacked. Cabinets lined the walls.

Amelia pulled one open. Nothing. They cleared two more rooms. Nothing.

Thump.

They both froze.

A muffled shriek was followed by a scream of rage. “You asshole!”

Lainey.

Amelia’s chest constricted.

She’s alive. And furious.

“Call it in.”

Zane was already moving, radioing the team. Amelia moved behind him, watching their six. She didn’t fully trust that this wasn’t a trap.

“You’re pretty tough against an unarmed girl,” Lainey taunted. “Why don’t you drop your gun and fight me like a real man?”

Lainey was fighting. But he had a gun.

Zane’s voice came fast and urgent in her ear. “Boss says not to do anything stupid. They’re on their way.”

Amelia didn’t answer. She knew what the SSA meant—wait for backup.

To hell with that.

Zane must have felt the same way, because he didn’t try to stop her. They advanced, keeping low as they approached the light.

Amelia angled wide to get a broader view as she entered. She spied an array of cameras in a semicircle. They were set up for three-camera angles. A semicircle of studio lights. The same industrial meat hook from the snuff films.

A drain in the floor.

Holy shit.

Laughter echoed across the cavernous room, beyond the cameras.

Amelia and Zane split wide around the makeshift stage, weapons up and ready.

Amelia’s heart clenched when she spotted Bogdan Kopeykin, a gun pressed to Lainey’s temple. Her left eye was swelling shut. A fresh bruise darkened her cheekbone. His fucking studio lights left nothing to the imagination.

Fury burned through Amelia’s veins.

But Lainey…she stood tall.

No shaking. No pleading.

Was she drugged?

No. Her eyes were sharp. Focused.

Bogdan’s mouth tipped up in an ugly smirk. “Zdravstvuyte, Mischa. Dobro pozhalovat’ na tvoi pokhorony.”

His Russian was slow, deliberate.

Amelia didn’t need to translate.

Hello, Mischa. Welcome to your funeral.

37

Zane’s mind raced as he pieced together the scene before him.

He knew Amelia could follow the conversation in Russian, but this wasn’t just about her understanding—it was about controlling the rhythm, setting the tone. He needed to keep Bogdan unsteady, unpredictable. At the same time, he couldn’t show weakness. A Bratva enforcer like Bogdan fed off submission. If Zane gave an inch, Bogdan would take a mile.

The balance of power was razor-thin.

So Zane did the one thing he knew would set Bogdan on edge.

He spoke in English and used a nickname.

“Let her go, Bodia. This isn’t about her.”

Bogdan continued to advance, pushing Lainey in front of him as he moved. He spat over her shoulder. “How dare you call me Bodia. Only my closest friends may call me that, and you are not my friend.”

It was worth a shot.

Zane raised a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “We go way back. I know you. You know me. The girl means nothing to you. Let her go.”

“She is my worm, Mischa. I used her to snare the big fish. And she has served me well.” The hand gripping Lainey’s arm slid to her breast, cupping it roughly. “We have had a lot of fun while we waited for your arrival.”

Rage burned through Zane’s veins, hot and sharp, but he didn’t react. Didn’t give Bogdan the satisfaction.

Instead, he studied Lainey’s face. The lights were so bright, every detail was evident. Although her expression didn’t change and her head didn’t move, she shifted her eyes from left to right—a signal. She was using them as a substitute for shaking her head, indicating Bogdan was lying.

Badass, just like your sister.

He could work with that. “If I’m the big fish you’re after, then the worm has served her purpose. Release her.”

Bogdan’s face darkened. “Dostatochno!”

Enough?

Not even close.

Zane held his ground, willing to play his game. He responded in Russian. “Stop hiding behind a small girl. Face me like a man.”

“Never!” Slipping back into English, Bogdan demanded, “Put down your weapons.”

Zane patted the air in mock compliance. Slow movements. Deliberate. He slid his weapon back into his holster, careful to make it look like obedience without actually disarming. From the corner of his eye, he watched Amelia do the same.

Bogdan wasn’t fooled.

“No, Mischa. Not in your holster. Drop it. You and your piece of ass must drop your weapons now. Or I kill the worm.”

His hand moved away from Lainey’s breast to grip her left shoulder.

Her face contorted into a mask of agony. “Stop!”

She was injured. Shit. But she seemed like she was holding up, for now.

“Let her go, Bogdan.”

He sniffed Lainey’s hair. “You are not in charge here. I am running things, and you will do as I say.”

That’s what you think.

“Do you forget that I knew you years ago?” Zane needed to keep Bogdan distracted. “I saw how you and Rurik hid behind women and children.”

“How dare you! Again, with the insolence. You are not fit to speak that name.”

“What would you have me call him then? What about trus?”

Coward.

Bogdan bumped Lainey forward with the weight of his body but didn’t let her go. They were out from under the catwalk now.

A shift.

A crack in control.

“Rurik was a hero. A god. He was not a coward.”

Zane shook his head and forced a chuckle. “I guess we have very different definitions of the word. You see, I think a man who uses people as shields is a coward. The lowest of the low. And I can see you are no different. Here you are, hiding behind a defenseless girl.”

“My brother was a good man until you murdered him. You are a traitor, Mee-sha.” He stretched Zane’s name like an insult, a reminder of the alias he’d once worn like a second skin.

Zane didn’t react. “Traitor? You don’t know what you’re talking about. I was more loyal to the Bratva than Rurik ever was.”

Bogdan scoffed. “Lies.”

“You think so?” Zane raised an eyebrow. “Did you know he was plotting a mutiny in Okhotsk?”

Bogdan flinched.

That tiny, imperceptible hesitation.

Zane leaned in. Pressing. Twisting the knife.

“I was undercover for the CIA, yes.” There was no reason to lie about that now. “But even then, my loyalty was stronger than your brother’s. Rurik didn’t give a damn about the Bratva. He just wanted to run things.”

“The leaders were weak,” Bogdan hissed. “My brother had vision.”

“No.” Zane’s voice turned cold. “He was a liar. Just like he lied to you.”

Bogdan’s face tightened, but it didn’t hide the doubt creeping in.

“I can see in your face you’re doubting what he told you. You know Rurik better than anyone. Know he wasn’t satisfied taking orders. Yes, I stabbed him and threw him in the freezing water. He met the same fate as the young woman he murdered for no reason. It was the justice he deserved.”

“No. You are the traitor.”

“You want to know why the Bratva discarded you?” Zane scoffed. “Because you couldn’t be trusted. Just like Rurik. They knew. That’s why they cast you out.”

“Enough!” Bogdan snapped.

Zane held his ground. “And you. You were just a shadow of your brother. You never followed the rules. Your only loyalty is to yourself, and look where that got you.”

“Shut—”

“The Bratva got one thing right.” Zane took a step closer. “Tossing you aside was the smartest move they ever made.”

Bogdan screamed and threw Lainey to her knees.

Zane’s muscles coiled, but before he could reach for his weapon, the bastard’s gun was pressed against the back of her head.

“You are right.” Bogdan’s voice dropped into something lethal. “The worm is no longer useful.” His finger curled on the trigger. “Say goodbye, Mischa.”

38

Amelia’s breath caught as Lainey hit the floor, her knees slamming against the rubbery surface. The first sign of fear became evident in the harsh lights paling her skin.

Lainey had been stoic, stubborn, but now, tears streaked her face. A crack in her armor. A reminder of just how badly this could end.

For a brief second, Amelia thought this was the opening they needed. But before she could even draw her weapon, Bogdan lifted the gun and fired.

Bam.

Bam.

Bam.

Amelia threw herself behind a stage light and stationary camera. Zane dove in the opposite direction, rolling behind what looked like a stainless steel industrial freezer.

A chill shot down her spine. That was where he kept them. The victims.

Lainey screamed.

Amelia’s stomach turned. Was she hit? Oh, god, was she hit?

Peeking out, she took aim, but like the coward he was, Bogdan had dropped into a crouch behind her terrified sister.

She couldn’t fire back without risking hitting Lainey. But she was relieved to see no blood on her sister. For now.

Something else caught her eye. The Russian was squinting. The angle of the lights, the glare. The bastard couldn’t see them clearly. His own set design was screwing him.

“Nyet!” Amelia needed to distract and disarm the Russian, so she spoke his native tongue, something she hoped would be unexpected.

Peeking out from behind her meager cover, she stared into her little sister’s eyes, desperate to convey a sense of calm. But Bogdan hauled Lainey back to standing, continuing to use her as a shield.

Lainey whimpered, and the sound simultaneously broke Amelia’s heart and pissed her off. From her periphery, she saw Zane make his way behind the freezer.

“You speak Russian?” he sneered. “Are you a traitor too? Perhaps you slept your way into an undercover role in my homeland.”

Amelia’s blood burned. She wanted to pull the trigger so badly it hurt.

Another peek showed that the lights still blinded him to their exact locations, but he still held Lainey. Still had the upper hand. She needed to get in his head.

She kept her voice even, baiting. “I speak several languages. I thought you’d respect me more if I spoke in yours.”

Bogdan scoffed. “You are a woman. I will never respect you.” His grip tightened on Lainey. “And you have slept with a traitor. That makes you one too. I will not cheapen my native tongue by speaking it to you.”

Amelia swallowed her anger. Let him talk. Let him keep revealing himself.

Zane pushed the advantage. “Fine, then speak to me.”

Bogdan squinted toward him. “Show yourself.”

Zane rose slowly, peeking over the edge of the freezer.

Bogdan’s lips curled. “Why do you even care about this worm? She is a worthless drug addict. Her best contribution would come in front of the lens of my cameras.”

Amelia’s vision reddened.

Zane spoke first. His voice was calm, steady, deliberate. “She has more value than you, your brother, or anyone in the Bratva.”

Bogdan snorted. “You are a weak American, corrupted by illusions of morality. This worm…” He yanked Lainey’s hair, forcing her to cry out. “She could be a star.”

Amelia saw the way Zane’s body tensed. He wanted to lunge, to attack, to end this.

But he didn’t.

Instead, his tone dropped, casual, like he wasn’t shaken at all. “Are you confessing to murdering people for snuff films?”

Bogdan grinned. “What good is such a thing?”

Zane took a calculated risk. “The FBI doesn’t even know we’re here. You think this is a raid? It’s not. We’re here alone. If they knew, we’d lose our badges. Our careers would be over.”

Bogdan’s gaze sharpened. “That is the least of your problems.”

Zane shrugged. “But none of that matters. We came for her. I don’t care about the job. I care about saving her.”

Bogdan tilted his head, mocking. “I understand why the woman is weak. But you, Mischa? Why throw away everything for someone who lives on the fringe of society?”

Amelia clenched her jaw. Asshole. She turned, searching for anything she could do to get the upper hand while Zane kept him distracted.

“The fringe?” Zane’s voice was laced with something dangerous. “You’re the one on the fringe. You always were. The Bratva didn’t trust you with real jobs because they knew you’d screw them up.”

Bogdan’s cheeks burned red. “You are lying.”

Zane tilted his head, casual. “Am I? Your brother had so much ambition that he cut you out completely. Said he had nothing to do with you. He disowned you long before I ended his life.”

Bogdan’s breathing changed.

Amelia saw it. Zane saw it.

Perfect.

“You are lying,” Bogdan spat again.

But his hand tightened. His gun shook.

Zane leaned forward slightly, voice dropping to a taunt. “You had so much potential. And what did you do with it? You made crappy films and played director in the background because you were too much of a coward to get your hands dirty. And now? You hide behind women, and you’re not even strong enough to kill your own victims. You have someone else do it. Because you are nothing.”

Bogdan’s eyes went wild.

His face turned red.

He fired.

The bullet pinged off the freezer’s steel surface.

Before Amelia could take a shot, the gun pressed tight against Lainey’s head again.

Shit.

Zane chuckled, and then, in a quiet, almost sympathetic voice, he twisted the knife. “The Bratva got one thing right. Discarding you was the smartest move they ever made.”

Bogdan screamed.

Lainey’s eyes flickered shut.

And in the space between thought and action…she moved. Her fist slammed into his groin.

Bogdan howled, doubling over. The gun dipped.

Lainey lunged forward, but Bogdan snatched at her ankle. She hit the floor—hard.

Amelia heard the crack of Lainey’s jaw smacking against the rubbery floor as she pulled the trigger.

Once.

Twice.

Bogdan dropped to his knees, his hand still around Lainey’s ankle, before falling face down.

A single black hole in his forehead.

The second shot? Center mass.

Silence.

A second later, Zane was at Lainey’s side.

Amelia approached Bogdan, gun still raised. She nudged him with her boot before kneeling to double-check for a pulse.

A formality.

“He’s gone.”

Her gaze lifted to Zane, who had Lainey wrapped in his arms.

The nightmare was over.

39

As the late-afternoon sun warmed the incident room, Amelia surveyed the table full of files. It had been almost three weeks since she’d killed Bogdan Kopeykin and they’d pressed formal charges against Coleman Foster.

Both Amelia and Zane had been on administrative leave as the internal affairs team investigated the circumstances around the shooting. But she didn’t care how slowly the wheels of justice turned, since Bogdan would never hurt anyone again and Foster was behind bars.

The Cyber division had eagerly accepted the video cameras Amelia and Zane had recovered from the meatpacking plant. They were even more excited to get ahold of Bogdan’s computer and hard drive in his apartment.

It was there that they found the camera feed linked to the apartment Amelia and Zane shared. She hated to think of what Bogdan had witnessed or how long the cameras had been in place. Thankfully, he hadn’t recorded the images on his computer, or he’d deleted the recordings. Either way, her colleagues in Cyber wouldn’t be privy to their personal lives.

Of course, the discovery meant a team had to go sweep the whole apartment to also check for hidden listening devices. All of it was reminiscent of when Joseph Larson had planted cameras in her first apartment. Considering the violation of their privacy, Zane and Amelia had agreed they needed to find a new place to live.

After the CSI team scoured Bogdan’s apartment, they’d also found a list he’d made of his intended victims. The young people on his list—all recovering drug addicts from the SOS groups, all women—had no idea how close they’d come to being the stars of snuff films.

Layton straightened the peak of his faux hawk. “Does anyone have an update on where we stand with the international groups trying to identify some of Bogdan’s earliest victims?”

Dean tapped the table. “I checked about half an hour ago, and they’ve only been able to identify three of the girls.”

“Out of the more than thirty films we found?” Amelia was frustrated that some of the victims’ families might never find answers about their missing daughters.

Sherry flipped through the pages of a file in front of her. “Correction. They’ve found more films that have the same signature as the others. The count is up to forty-two snuff films that were made outside the States.”

Zane whistled low and long. “At least he’ll never make another film. Were there accomplices in the older films? Did he have another Coleman Foster doing his dirty work for him?”

Layton punched some keys on his laptop. “No. He filmed those a bit differently. Instead of seeing the person who slit the victims’ throats like they were another character in the film, there’s only a hand reaching in front of the camera.”

“Right. The camera wobbles a lot when he’s slitting the victim’s throat. I think it took him a while to figure out to use a tripod.”

Dean rose from his chair and moved to the window, flipping up one of the slanted blinds to peek out before letting it fall back into place. “I heard Foster’s having a tough time behind bars.”

“Snuff films can be frowned upon by even those on the other side of the law.” Amelia sipped her iced coffee.

“Well, he confessed to everything and provided helpful details that should help resolve some of these open cases. He’ll never be a free man, but at least the mastermind is dead.” Zane leaned back, putting both hands behind his head.

“Teddy told me that the Marshals Service did a thorough investigation into what happened at the safe house. After searching Etienne Carter’s home, they seized boxes of personal effects…radical propaganda about a Deep State and other nonsense. He had quite the grudge against the government. Not to mention a vile fetish.”

“You’re kidding.” Amelia felt queasy. “Snuff films?”

“How do you think he met Bodgan? Carter’s financial records show he was paid a hundred grand by the man too.” Sherry crinkled her nose in disgust.

“One hundred thousand dollars to betray his country. And two more innocent people died because of his deceit. Not to mention, he lost his own life.” Zane’s anger was palpable, and she understood exactly how he felt.

Amelia’s thoughts drifted to the U.S. Senator, D.C. lobbyist, and federal agent who got away with horrific crimes before she’d stopped him. This time, a recovering addict helped bring down a former member of the Russian mob…with a little help from her big sister.

Lainey had been on her mind nonstop lately. Her bravery and quick thinking likely saved the situation from becoming worse. Amelia had underestimated her little sister. But she wasn’t going to do that ever again. She’d confided in Zane that she was going to forget Lainey’s past and do whatever she could to help her sister build a strong future for herself.

In a week, Lainey was scheduled for release from the halfway house. The whole family was going to be there to help her move into her new apartment.

Well, everyone except her dad.

They’d honored his wishes and held a private funeral. Because of the case, they’d put off holding a memorial service. But that was coming up soon. In fact, Joanna, Lainey, and Amelia had agreed that Jim would’ve found it fitting to hold the service after moving Lainey into her new place.

“Earth to Storm. Hellooooo…” Sherry’s voice pierced her thoughts, and Amelia flushed with embarrassment.

“I’m sorry. What’d I miss?”

Sherry bumped her arm. “I’m teasing. You didn’t miss a thing. And you don’t need to apologize. My god, you’ve been through the wringer. You’re entitled to get lost in thought.”

Her gaze fell on Zane, who smiled reassuringly at her. “I think she’s just turned into a zombie after being assigned desk duty while waiting to be cleared for firing her weapon.”

Amelia stuck out her tongue at her partner. “Correction. You were on desk duty, too, for disobeying a directive from your supervisor. It just took a little longer to clear me. Sadly, that hasn’t made all this paperwork go away.” She lifted a stack of files next to her, then let them fall to the table with a thud.

Layton reached out. “Hey, those are in order. If you mess them up, I’m going to tell on you.”

Laughter bounced off the walls of the incident room.

After they’d dug through Bogdan’s possessions, they’d found a photo of Zane when he’d accompanied Dr. Lou Sherman to jail. It had really been another random coincidence—the first of many—that Bogdan had seen the newspaper clipping with Zane in his FBI jacket outside a prison as he escorted the murderous organ harvester into the building. Evidence on his computer and a few maps they found in his apartment proved he’d been stalking Zane prior to meeting Detective Avery and shifting his focus to Amelia.

Zane placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’m heading to the break room.” He looked around. “Can I get anyone anything?”

Amelia smiled up at the man she loved. “No, thanks. But don’t spoil your dinner. Lainey’s cooking for us tonight. She’s got a new curry dish she wants to try.”

“Oooh, dinner at the Palmer-Storm residence. Who’s in?” Dean beamed as he glanced around the room.

Zane waved off the remark as he left, but Amelia bobbed her head. “You know, Lainey mentioned that she wants to cook a big meal for all of you. It’s her way of saying thanks.”

“We should be the ones thanking her. She thinks fast for a civilian. I have mad admiration for your li’l sis, and it’s clear that all the Storm women are fearless.” Dean lifted a fist, and Amelia bumped it. “But seriously, she doesn’t owe us anything. Tell her it was payment enough hearing about how her fist crushed Bogdan’s nuts.”

“Steelman did look a bit pale after hearing that.” Sherry winked at him across the table.

Amelia smiled at her team. She’d been with the FBI in Chicago for almost a year and a half. And she’d been with the Violent Crimes Unit for just four months. But these agents were her friends and her extended family. Without fail, this group would lay down their lives for her, and she’d do the same for any one of them.

Chicago was also where she’d met Zane. What had started as a friendship had bloomed into love. Her feelings for him were stronger than any she’d ever allowed herself to experience before. Working in the same field, he understood what the job involved without her having to explain.

It was more than that, of course. Sharing a career wasn’t enough to build a life around.

She’d worried about moving in with him, but her fears had been that she’d annoy him or that he’d do something she found disgusting. Instead, she’d been treated to little bonus versions of Zane. Him cleaning out the litter box after Hup had been particularly active. Or making dinner, doing all the dishes, and boxing up the leftovers when she was exhausted after a rough day. He’d even put the toilet seat down from day one without her ever having to ask.

He was a keeper, but she feared broaching the subject with him. What they had was going so good, she didn’t want to ruin things by making him feel pressured into a long-term commitment. But the thought of losing him was worse.

They’d been scanning rental listings in their time off, now that they’d be moving, but Zane had shared a few property listings for actual homes. So maybe he wasn’t too afraid of a commitment…

Since everything that happened to her dad and Lainey, Zane had become more open with his displays of affection at the office. Nothing over-the-top, but more than they’d ever shown previously. Amelia knew it was his way of saying he didn’t care what anyone thought. They’d both lost a lot, and they weren’t going to stand on formality another day, even at the office.

Zane returned to the room and tossed an assortment of snacks onto the center of the table. Dean and Sherry immediately sorted through the options and snagged their own bags. He winked at Amelia while their fellow agents acted like kids in a candy store. “Hey, easy now, I got enough for everyone, even though you all said you didn’t want anything.”

“Thanks, Dad.” Sherry blew a raspberry before tearing open a bag of chocolate-covered pretzels.

Zane grabbed his suit jacket from the back of his chair. “I’m calling it. These files will still be here on Monday. You can stay and stuff your faces, but Storm and I have a chef-prepared picnic waiting for us. Have a great weekend.”

Amelia gathered her things, and as she turned for the door, Zane took her hand and gently squeezed. No matter what the future held, she knew without a doubt that she wanted to share it with Zane Palmer.

40

String lights swayed in the evening breeze, casting a warm glow over their secluded picnic spot. Amelia leaned against Zane’s chest, savoring the gentle lap of Lake Michigan’s waves against the shore. Her belly was full of chicken tikka masala and quiet contentment.

This moment of peace was surreal.

How long would it last? How long until the next case, the next nightmare, the next time they were dodging bullets instead of basking in the quiet? She had spent years surviving in the eye of the storm, always bracing for the inevitable crash. What if this was just the calm before the next one?

As if he could read her thoughts and wanted to comfort her, Zane shifted behind her, his warmth grounding her, his fingers tracing soft, absentminded patterns against her skin. No matter what came next, he was here. They had made it through hell together, and for the first time in her life, she didn’t have to face the unknown alone.

Maybe peace wasn’t something you held on to forever.

Maybe it was something you fought for, again and again.

And for him? She’d fight for it every damn time.

After everything they had been through—the near deaths, the impossible choices, the ghosts that never stopped haunting them—sitting here under the stars was almost like a dream too fragile to be real.

“More lemonade?” Zane reached for the mason jar, his fingers brushing hers as he handed it over.

The simple touch sent a flutter through her stomach.

She took a sip, savoring the tart sweetness, grounding herself in the moment. Zane shifted behind her, his fingers moving to her bicep, tracing the delicate lily tattoo Joanna had convinced her to get.

Amelia smiled, remembering the day they’d sat together, ink and pain bonding them forever as sisters.

Zane sighed, and she tilted her head to look up at him, but his focus was still on her tattoo. His fingers followed the inked petals, and before she could ask what was on his mind, he bent down and pressed a kiss to her shoulder.

When he pulled away a second later, the absence of his touch was immediate, jarring. The warmth that had seeped into her skin just moments ago vanished, replaced by an unsettling chill.

Amelia blinked as Zane pushed himself to his feet, his movements measured, careful.

Something shifted in the air between them.

He’d been quiet all evening—thoughtful in a way that seemed different. And now, for the first time tonight, she wondered why.

“Are we going so soon?” She rose onto her knees and grasped his hand before he could pull away.

His fingers curled around hers, holding tight. Not pulling back. Not letting go.

“I was going to be smoother about this.” He took a slow, deep breath. “Had a whole speech planned. Maybe a metaphor or two. But let’s be honest…neither of us is great at that whole traditional romance thing.”

Amelia’s heart rate picked up speed. “Zane…”

He met her gaze. Steady. Sure.

“I used to think I was fine on my own.” His voice dropped lower, softer. “Then I met you.”

Memories flooded her all at once.

Their first case together. How they had circled each other, testing boundaries, snapping at one another, but always falling into sync the second things got dangerous.

The close calls. The nights when he’d stitched up her wounds, and she’d tended to his—neither of them saying what they meant, but everything in their eyes speaking louder than words ever could.

That moment she knew. That terrifying, heart-stopping second when she realized she felt more for him than she should. When she had denied it. Fought it. Because how could she love someone when everything she touched eventually broke?

But he had never let her push him away.

Through every gunfight, every betrayal, every loss, Zane had been there. Not just as a partner. As something more.

And somehow, they’d made it to this moment.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box.

A sharp breath hitched in Amelia’s throat. Not just her heart—her entire being—reacted.

A rush of warmth. A flutter of nerves. A thousand emotions tangling together so fast, she couldn’t separate them—hope, fear, disbelief, the aching want of something she hadn’t let herself dream of for so long.

Her stomach dipped and swayed, weightless, like the first drop of a roller coaster.

She had stared down killers, bullets, death itself, and yet—this terrified her.

Because this was real.

This was forever.

Zane knelt, eye to eye with her, and every thought scattered.

There was only him.

“Every moment with you, even the disasters, has been better than any dream I could have had for my life.” Zane stroked her cheek. “You make the good times brighter and the hard times bearable. You’ve become part of my family, and I want to spend the rest of my life building our own.”

He flipped open the box, and the breath whooshed out of her lungs.

Nestled inside was a thin, delicate band—simple, elegant, but completely encrusted with tiny, shimmering diamonds. The engagement ring beside it? Bold. Showstopping. A single flawless diamond surrounded by smaller stones that caught the light in a way that made it look almost alive.

Her throat went tight. She’d never seen anything so beautiful.

Zane turned the box slightly, and the rings caught the soft glow of the string lights.

“I know you can’t wear the engagement ring at work.” His voice was low, a little rough, like he already knew what she was thinking. “But the band? That’s for every day. I wanted it to sparkle, like our future.”

She actually giggled and covered her mouth to stop the laugh that wanted to follow.

He gave her a lopsided grin, the tips of his ears growing red. “I know that sounds corny as hell, but every time you look at the ring, I want you to remember that, after everything, after every hellhole we crawled out of, we made it here. To this. To each other.”

Amelia’s vision blurred. God, she loved this man.

One corner of his mouth tipped up. “Besides, let’s be honest…I had to make sure you’d say yes.”

Her laugh came out wet, breathless.

Like there had ever been another answer.

Zane’s voice dipped into something teasing. “I asked Lainey’s permission first, since your dad isn’t around to give me the third degree.” He stroked her cheek again, and she covered his hand with hers. “She told me if I ever hurt you, she’d kill me in my sleep. Which, honestly, is fair.”

Amelia let out a shaky laugh, but she couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Her father.

He should have been here. Should have been the one walking her down the aisle.

Grief surged in her throat, hot and unexpected.

But right behind it came something stronger.

Love. Hope. The absolute certainty that this man—this stubborn, reckless, infuriating man—was her future.

Her lips trembled. “Zane, I⁠—”

“Before you say anything, I should warn you…I plan to keep barging into danger with you, breaking rules, making bad jokes, and stealing all your fries.” He cocked his head. “You really want to sign up for that?”

She launched herself at him with such force that they toppled backward onto the blanket.

Yes!” she managed between sobs and kisses. “Yes, yes, yes!”

The ring fit perfectly, just like everything else.

Soon, they’d be back at work, in the thick of catching killers and criminals. But tonight, under the string lights by Lake Michigan, they were just Amelia and Zane.

Two people who’d found something rare and beautiful in the middle of a dangerous world.

Amelia stood in Lainey’s new kitchen, hands on her hips, surveying the aftermath of the morning’s work.

Moving Lainey into her first real home in years had been a group effort. She, Zane, Joanna—even Hailey and Nolan—had spent the day hauling boxes, arranging furniture, and watching in awe as Lainey took charge like a seasoned general.

Who knew her sister had such an unyielding streak for organization?

When Lainey had been released from prison, the judge had required her to complete nine months in a halfway house. But after her role in taking down Bogdan and proving herself at the restaurant, a judge granted her early release. She’d used it wisely, saving money, mapping out her future, and—true to form—scrubbing her new apartment top to bottom before allowing a single box inside.

Now, with nearly everything in place, only a few boxes remained.

Zane leaned against the counter beside Amelia, his lips twitching as he surveyed the near-sterile space. “I think this might be the cleanest apartment I’ve ever seen.”

Amelia nudged his ribs. “Don’t start.” She wasn’t the world’s best housekeeper, but neither was he.

He smirked but didn’t push it.

Jim Storm’s cats, Cheese and George, had settled in remarkably well, claiming their new cat trees like thrones. Lainey had insisted on keeping them after their father’s death. Watching her dote on them now made Amelia’s heart ache with a strange mix of joy and longing.

Dad should be here.

He should have been standing in the middle of the chaos, teasing Lainey about her newfound cleanliness obsession. He should have been taste-testing her latest recipes, making jokes about needing a gym membership just to keep up.

He should have been here to walk Amelia down the aisle in a few months.

Her throat tightened, a fresh wave of grief taking hold. She had long accepted that life didn’t promise happy endings, but for the first time in a long time, she had something real and precious to lose.

Warm fingers brushed against her cheek, wiping away a tear she hadn’t realize had escaped.

Zane was there, as always, grounding her as only he could.

“You okay?” He pressed his lips to her temple.

Amelia swallowed hard and pulled him down into a deep, lingering kiss.

It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t sad. It was thank you. It was I love you.

When she finally pulled back, Zane grinned.

“Mmm.” His eyes twinkled. “What did I do to deserve that?”

From across the room, Nolan groaned. “Ew, Aunt Amelia, that’s gross.” He stuck a finger down his throat in mock disgust before darting off to torment Hailey.

Amelia let out a watery laugh as Zane wrapped his arms around her, pulling her flush against him.

“You really want to know?” She raised her left hand, wiggling her fingers.

Zane exhaled dramatically. “Oh, right. The ring.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Guess I should have made it bigger.”

She held it up to the light, watching it shimmer. “It’s perfect.”

He held her a little tighter. “I’m glad you’re happy.”

Amelia closed her eyes, loving the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against her temple. “I am.”

He rested his chin on top of her head. “Lainey looks happy too.”

Amelia didn’t dare break their embrace, but she followed his gaze.

Lainey was laughing.

Not just smiling, not just pretending—but really laughing.

Amelia had been so afraid that after Bogdan, after everything, her sister would spiral. But somehow, she’d come out the other side stronger, more determined.

“She is,” Amelia agreed softly. “I haven’t seen her like this since before Mom died.”

Zane’s fingers traced slow, gentle circles on her back. “I talked to her for a long time after I asked for her blessing to propose. She’s got a hell of a perspective. After everything she went through, I was worried she’d relapse. But she said something that stuck with me.”

Amelia tilted her head back to study his face. “What’s that?”

“She told me, ‘I didn’t survive all that just to waste my life.’”

A swell of pride warmed Amelia’s chest.

That was Lainey.

Still here. Still fighting.

“She played a role in her own rescue,” Zane added. “I think that mattered. She wasn’t just another victim…she took control. And she knows we believe in her.”

Amelia considered her sister again, watching as she playfully shoved Joanna while setting up new shelves.

“She looks up to you, you know.” Amelia pressed her cheek to his chest again. “I think you’re a bit of a stand-in for Trevor.”

Zane chuckled, but there was a weight behind it. “That’s an honor.”

“When you told her how much respect you had for her, after she reset her own shoulder⁠—”

Zane groaned. “God, don’t remind me. Makes me queasy just thinking about it.”

Amelia laughed, tightening her hold on him.

For the first time in what seemed like forever, the future felt open. Full of possibility.

Today, they would honor Jim Storm.

But no one would be drowning in grief.

They had shed their tears at his burial. Today was about celebrating his life.

The Storm family had lived through more than any family should. But, somehow, they had come out on the other side stronger and more determined.

For years, Amelia had lived with the weight of the past, always bracing for the next storm. But standing here, wrapped in Zane’s arms, she finally understood—this was Amelia Storm’s endgame. Not just survival. Not just another battle. This was peace, love, and a future worth fighting for.

Jo was raising Hailey and Nolan with the same fire Trevor had. She was building something new from the ashes of everything she lost.

And Lainey?

She had been to hell and back. She could have been bitter, resentful.

Instead, she was hopeful. She had dreams, plans. She was embracing the life she’d nearly lost—and fighting for it every single day.

Amelia squeezed Zane a little tighter. He returned the gesture, his arms strong, solid, the safest place she’d ever known.

The hum of activity swirled around them—Nolan and Hailey arguing, Joanna rattling off a to-do list, Lainey throwing in sarcastic commentary.

But Amelia was oblivious to all of it.

Because right here, in Zane’s arms—she was home.

And this time, she was never letting go.

The End

WHAT’S NEXT?

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How did it all start for Amelia Storm?

I hope you enjoyed Storm’s Endgame as much as I enjoyed bringing these characters to life. Amy and I invite you to step back in time and join Amelia on the day she first moves back to Chicago, the city she ran from ten years ago. What brought her back? And what was the first case she had to solve? Storm’s Awakening is a short story that answers these questions and more. Best...it’s completely free. Interested?

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I have a new book available.

If you were captivated by Journey Russo’s pivotal role in rescuing her sister, Michelle, you’ll be intrigued to learn that her path to becoming an FBI special agent was forged long before—sparked by a tragic past that set her on a mission for justice. Want to learn more about Journey? Then I have wonderful news…she has her own series!

Journey's Call (Journey Russo Series Book 1)

Discover the depths of Journey’s resilience in Journey’s Call, the first installment of my Journey Russo Series. Dive into a story where Journey’s professional and personal worlds collide, challenging her like never before. As she uncovers clues that bring her face to face with her past, Journey must leverage all her skills and determination to navigate her most challenging case yet.

Dive into Journey’s Call and follow the evolution of a character who proves time and again that from the ashes of tragedy, a hero can emerge, ready to face the world with grit and grace.

SERIES READING ORDER

Storm’s Fury (Amelia Storm Series: Book One)

Storm’s Peril (Amelia Storm Series: Book Two)

Storm’s Cage (Amelia Storm Series: Book Three)

Storm’s Ruin (Amelia Storm Series: Book Four)

Storm’s Wrath (Amelia Storm Series: Book Five)

Storm’s Rite (Amelia Storm Series: Book Six)

Storm’s Justice (Amelia Storm Series: Book Seven)

Storm’s Nightmare (Amelia Storm Series: Book Eight)

Storm’s Revenge (Amelia Storm Series: Book Nine)

Storm’s Cut (Amelia Storm Series: Book Ten)

Storm’s Target (Amelia Storm Series: Book Eleven)

Storm’s Burn (Amelia Storm Series: Book Twelve)

Storm’s Symbol (Amelia Storm Series: Book Thirteen)

Storm's Endgame (Amelia Storm Series: Book Fourteen)

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Journey Russo Series (Completed)

Ellie Kline Series (Completed)

Winter Black Series

Autumn Trent Series

Emma Last Series

Charli Cross Series (Completed)

Shadow Island Series

Amelia Storm Series

Stella Knox Series

Sky Stryker Series

A Villain’s Story Series (Completed)

Kylie Hatfield Series (Completed)

Psychological Thrillers

Don’t Tell

Gone Viral

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UPCOMING NEW SERIES

Genevieve Steel Series (pre-order now)

Get ready to meet Genevieve Steel, an FBI Special Agent with the BAU—and a past that refuses to stay buried. Genevieve is driven by a chilling truth: her father is a notorious serial killer. And the person who put him behind bars? Genevieve herself. Determined to stop predators like her father, she’s hiding a secret of her own, and must confront a terrifying question: Does darkness run in her blood?

Claire Legacy (coming in 2025)

Home for Special Agent Claire Legacy is New Orleans: a city of shadows and secrets—a place where history whispers from haunted mansions, danger lurks in the bayous, and Mardi Gras masks hide more than just faces. Tasked with solving brutal crimes that strike too close to home, Claire must confront not only ruthless villains but also the secrets that shattered her family. As the cases pull her deeper into New Orleans’ tangled web of corruption and betrayal, Claire discovers that some legacies aren’t worth preserving—they’re meant to be broken.

Ivy Chance (coming in 2025)

When Ivy moves to Key West for a fresh start with the FBI, she’s focused on building a new life for herself and her four-year-old daughter. But fate has other plans. A chance encounter with someone who looks exactly like her turns Ivy’s world upside down. What begins as a shocking meeting with a supposed doppelgänger reveals a deeper truth—they’re twins, torn apart by madness and lies at birth, brought together by fate. But the secrets that kept them apart for so long aren’t done yet. And some truths are more dangerous than the killers Ivy hunts.

Indie Reign (coming in 2025)

In Sherwood County, Detective Indira "Indie" Reign and her K-9 partner, Broc, are an unstoppable team—both a little rough around the edges, fiercely loyal, and brilliant at what they do. Broc isn’t just a partner; he’s family, and together, they tackle the town’s darkest secrets. But when the cases start hitting close to home, Indie realizes the biggest mystery may be her own past. As bodies turn up and the line between friend and foe blurs, Indie and Broc will have to outwit villains who prey on innocence—while Indie confronts the truth behind her family’s disappearance.

Olympia Smith (coming in 2025)

Journey to Hawaii with FBI agent Olympia Smith. She might look like the all-American girl next door, but beneath her easygoing vibe lies a mind obsessed with puzzles and patterns. Using her sharp investigative skills and expertise in mentalism to solve Hawaii’s most violent crimes, Olympia’s greatest mystery is her own past. Orphaned at three with no memory of her family, her search for the truth will lead her into a dangerous web of secret societies, international espionage, and a family legacy steeped in betrayal. As bodies drop and secrets rise from Hawaii’s shadowy underbelly, Olympia will discover that some puzzles were never meant to be solved.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

How does one adequately express gratitude to all those who have transformed a shared dream into a stunning reality? Let us attempt to do just that.

First and foremost, our families deserve our deepest thanks. Their unwavering support and encouragement have been our bedrock, allowing us the time and energy to translate our collective imagination into the words that fill these pages. Their belief in our vision has been a constant source of strength and inspiration.

As coauthors, our journey has been uniquely collaborative and rewarding. Now, with Mary also embracing the additional role of publisher, our adventure has taken on an exciting new dimension. This transition from solely writing to also publishing has been both a challenge and a joy, opening doors to share our work more directly with you, our readers.

We are immensely grateful to the entire team at Mary Stone Publishing — a group who believed in our potential from the very beginning. Their commitment extends beyond editing our words; it encompasses the tireless efforts of designers, marketers, and support staff, all dedicated to bringing our stories to life. Their expertise, creativity, and passion have been vital in capturing the essence of our tales and sharing them with the world.

However, our greatest appreciation is reserved for you, our beloved readers. You took a chance on our book, generously sharing your most precious asset—your time. It is our fervent hope that the pages of this book have rewarded that generosity, offering you a journey worth taking and memories that linger.

With all our love and heartfelt appreciation,

Mary & Amy

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Mary Stone

Nestled in the serene Blue Ridge Mountains of East Tennessee, Mary Stone crafts her stories surrounded by the natural beauty that inspires her. What was once a home filled with the lively energy of her sons has now become a peaceful writer's retreat, shared with cherished pets and the vivid characters of her imagination.

As her sons grew and welcomed wonderful daughters-in-law into the family, Mary's life entered a quieter phase, rich with opportunities for deep creative focus. In this tranquil environment, she weaves tales of courage, resilience, and intrigue, each story a testament to her evolving journey as a writer.

From childhood fears of shadowy figures under the bed to a profound understanding of humanity's real-life villains, Mary's style has been shaped by the realization that the most complex antagonists often hide in plain sight. Her writing is characterized by strong, multifaceted heroines who defy traditional roles, standing as equals among their peers in a world of suspense and danger.

Mary's career has blossomed from being a solitary author to establishing her own publishing house—a significant milestone that marks her growth in the literary world. This expansion is not just a personal achievement but a reflection of her commitment to bring thrilling and thought-provoking stories to a wider audience. As an author and publisher, Mary continues to challenge the conventions of the thriller genre, inviting readers into gripping tales filled with serial killers, astute FBI agents, and intrepid heroines who confront peril with unflinching bravery.

Each new story from Mary's pen—or her publishing house—is a pledge to captivate, thrill, and inspire, continuing the legacy of the imaginative little girl who once found wonder and mystery in the shadows.

Discover more about Mary Stone on her website.

www.authormarystone.com

Amy Wilson

Having spent her adult life in the heart of Atlanta, her upbringing near the Great Lakes always seems to slip into her writing. After several years as a vet tech, she has dreams of going back to school to be a veterinarian but it seems another dream of hers has come true first. Writing a novel.

Animals and books have always been her favorite things, in addition to her husband, who wanted her to have it all. He’s the reason she has time to write. Their two teenage boys fill the rest of her time and help her take care of the mini zoo that now fills their home with laughter…and yes, the occasional poop.

Connect with Mary online