UNSPOKEN

ERIK CARTER

Copyright © 2024 by Erik Carter

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.

AUTHOR NOTE

If you enjoy the book you’re about to read and would like to check out a different take on the same core story, check out my novel, No Fake, an action thriller in one of my other series.

I adapted No Fake as the basis for Unspoken, so as an introduction to my other series—the Dale Conley series—you might enjoy seeing a different take on the story and checking out the similarities and differences between Unspoken and No Fake.

If you enjoy the Silence Jones series, I’m certain you’ll love the Dale Conley series as well. It’s set in the groovy ’70s and features a headstrong, cocky, yet competent hero who travels the country solving history-related crimes.

CHAPTER ONE

St. Augustine, Florida

The 1990s

Archie Kovacs didn’t know where the hell he was.

No clue.

All he knew was that it was dark, and his head hurt like hell. Pulsing. White-hot.

His next observation was a feeling of heaviness permeating his entire body. His limbs felt leaden, immobile. It was as though the awful waves of pain surging out of his temple were washing away the strength from the rest of his body.

He didn’t know the origin of his head wound—as clueless about this as he was about his location.

Despite the awful pain, his attention was quickly diverted back to the initial question that had formed the moment his eyes blinked open, a question that was so much more pressing.

Where the hell am I?

He was lying down, indoors, in a room. That much was evident. The room was small; he felt the presence of walls close by.

As the fog in his throbbing mind began to clear, Archie tried to piece together what had happened, searching his memory. What was the last thing he remembered? Driving on the highway. Yes. A1A, going south, he’d been⁠—

No.

No, there was a more recent memory than that, coming back to him in segments, strobe light images of himself in a nighttime environment, brightly lit with exterior lighting, boots crunching against blacktop, trying to be quiet, to move silently.

He’d been investigating… yes, his latest investigation. He’d hopped the fence, cleared the razor wire, evaded the security cameras. He’d been outside the StashPoint storage facility.

Then there had been men, two of them… not the armed guard he’d already evaded—he’d also dodged a vicious dog, he recalled.

No, these other two men hadn’t worn a cheap rent-a-cop security guard outfit like the first one. They’d been dressed in suits.

Archie blinked, grimaced. The pain throbbed. His eyes adjusted, taking in more details. Corrugated walls. Concrete floor. The room was dimly lit, just a bit of light filtering in from somewhere.

Wait…

Corrugated walls, concrete, a tight space.

He was inside StashPoint!

The two men had dragged his unconscious body inside and locked him in one of the storage units…

That’s what brought everything back.

He remembered.

StashPoint storage facility. Two men in suits. The first one, a husky white guy with a buzzcut, had tackled him. Archie had taken a brutal hit to the head when he fell. That explained the throbbing pain.

In his woozy state, moments away from passing out, Archie had heard the second suited man—a black guy with an athletic build—chide the other one.

“Dammit, Landers,” the second man had hissed. He had a deep voice, resonant. “This guy could be a cop for all we know. Why the hell did you knock his ass out?”

“I didn’t mean to!” the white guy had said. His voice was nasally and surprisingly high-pitched for someone his size. “We fell, and he whacked his head.”

“Shit!” the black guy had said. A long pause, “I’ll need to call Crane. If this ends up…”

The memory ended there. That must’ve been when Archie entirely lost consciousness.

All of this meant one thing: Archie was now a prisoner.

Archie jolted. Again he sensed his motionless arms. But now he realized they weren’t useless dead weight—paralyzed by the head wound—like he’d thought. No. There was pressure against his arms, holding them down.

He squinted, forcing his eyes to focus, dipping his chin to look down the length of his body. Thick straps pinned him. One across his arms and chest, another over his stomach, and another digging into his thighs. He was strapped down, not paralyzed.

His breathing quickened.

They’d strapped him down to a gurney and locked him in a room.

Yes, he really was a prisoner.

Oh, shit. Oh, shit…

He shifted his head, testing the limits of his restraints. The gurney’s metal frame creaked under his slight movement, echoing in the small, metallic space.

Then there were voices from beyond the dim light source—two of them. The same voices from earlier. The suited men. Hushed, urgent voices.

“Did you call?”

“Yes, and he’s pissed. He thinks that…”

The voices faded along with footsteps as the men paced farther away in what must have been a hallway outside the light source.

Then Archie recognized the source of the light by its shape—rectangular. A thin line of yellowish glow, turning at ninety-degree corners. An outline of a closed door. He was inside a dimly lit storage unit, but there was brighter light beyond—the hallway, of course.

A door…

His escape.

If only he could free himself from the straps.

Desperation surged through him, melding with the pain, as he tested the straps, trying to find any slack, any bit of give.

The gurney creaked loudly, the noise echoing against the corrugated metal walls.

Archie froze.

Listened intently, his breath shallow, rapid.

Nothing. Just quiet. No footsteps, no voices.

He tried again, tugging harder this time. The strap across his chest held firm, but the one over his arms… there was a hint of movement.

He seized on that tiny bit of hope, twisting his wrist and pulling with all his strength. The gurney rocked, the metal frame groaning under the strain, louder.

Archie paused, his heart thudding in his chest, listening for any sign of his captors. Still nothing.

He gritted his teeth and pushed harder, feeling the strap begin to loosen just slightly.

Yes!

He flexed his fingers and lifted his forearm. There was a good two inches of clearance, enough room he could work with if he just pulled the arm slightly farther outward.

He swung the arm in the limited bit of free space he had, and the gurney jolted.

Bam!

The corner slammed into the wall with a deafening clank. The sound reverberated through the metal structure

Archie stopped.

Listened.

Footsteps. Outside. Fast and heavy…

…and coming right toward him.

CHAPTER TWO

Silence Jones wasn’t afraid of a little hard work.

But everyone has a task they despise.

And Silence loathed painting.

He stood on the stepladder, paintbrush in hand, glowering at the half-finished living room wall. The smell of fresh latex paint hung heavy in the air, mingling with the musty scent of Mrs. Enfield’s century-old home.

Silence felt a twinge of irritation as he surveyed the work. Mrs. Enfield had asked him to paint this one portion of the room even though the rest of her creepy old Victorian house was covered in antique wallpaper. Why the hell did this particular area need to be painted when wallpaper would have matched the rest of the house’s aesthetic perfectly?

And why did a blind woman care so much about her walls’ visual appeal?

He loved the old woman—his sightless, sweet, and all-alone next-door neighbor—really he did, but at that moment, his mind couldn’t think of a single thing that made him as grumbly as painting did.

Well, maybe one thing.

As if summoned by Silence’s sour thoughts, Baxter sauntered into the room. The massive orange tabby fixed Silence with his perpetual cat-smile, a thin line of drool escaping from the corner of his mouth. The drooling was as ever-present as the contented look on Baxter’s furry face.

Silence glared back, paintbrush hovering mid-stroke.

Baxter was a beastly cat with a big, square jaw and a saccharine-sweet disposition. He padded to within a yard of the stepladder and sat, watched, laughing at Silence’s plight.

The front door creaked open, bringing a gust of humid Gulf Coast Florida air and the sound of cheerful humming. Silence recognized the hum, who it belonged to.

His scowl deepened.

If painting was number one on his list of despised activities, and Baxter’s devotion was a close second, then Lola’s visits ranked a solid third.

“Yoo-hoo! Mrs. E? Silence?” Lola’s voice carried through the house, sickeningly sweet.

Silence grunted in response, not bothering to turn around. He heard Lola’s footsteps approach, the thump of her biker boots on the hardwood floor growing louder.

“There you are!” she said, entering the living room. “Look at you up there, Si. You look good splattered with paint.”

Silence shot her a withering glare over his shoulder.

Lola stood in the doorway, all curves and smiles, her brown eyes twinkling with barely concealed mischief. Mixed-race Asian, thirty-something. A natural beauty. She wore jeans, a concert T-shirt, and a bangle bracelet. Sunglasses were perched atop her head, half-submerged in silky dark hair.

She’d said Silence looked good. She’d also called him Si, a nickname he permitted from Mrs. Enfield but never offered to Lola. This was what Lola did—she constantly pushed the limits.

She knew Silence was engaged. That’s what Mrs. Enfield had always told her. That’s what Silence had always told her. And in Silence’s mind, it was true, even though his fiancée was deceased—murdered years ago.

Silence had never wanted anyone but C.C.

He’d found his person.

And lost her.

Tragically.

Silence had never explained to Lola that his fiancée was dead—and as far as he knew, neither had Mrs. Enfield—so that made Lola’s insistent quasi-flirting all the more frustrating.

Lola was Mrs. Enfield’s prior caretaker. She’d moved away from Pensacola years ago and now lived in Knoxville, Tennessee, several states away, but she came back to Florida at least once a year to visit “Mrs. E.,” as she liked to call the old woman.

Silence flicked his eyes to the wall. “I’m here to work,” he said and swallowed. “Not look good.”

He did that a lot—interrupted his speaking to swallow.

Concurrently with C.C.’s murder years ago, a related event nearly took Silence’s life, leaving him with not only a surgically reconstructed face but also a permanently injured voice box. Speaking caused intense pain to the glut of scar tissue in Silence’s neck. The more syllables he attempted, the worse the suffering, leading him to swallow frequently to soothe his throat.

A new voice that had emerged—and remained—from his injured throat, and the voice always perplexed people the first time they heard it. It was a crackling, rumbling, popping monstrosity, at the same time volcanic and robotic.

But Lola was accustomed to it. She’d heard it many, many times through the years.

Lola groaned. “Ugh! Always so serious. Where is my dear old friend, anyway?”

Before Silence could answer, Mrs. Enfield’s ancient voice drifted down from upstairs. “Is that you, Lola? Come on up, dear. I’ve got some things I’d like to go through.”

“Coming!” Lola called back. She paused at the foot of the stairs, glancing back at Silence. “Don’t work too hard.” She winked, left.

Silence waited until he heard her footsteps fade away before allowing himself a small shudder.

He looked down at Baxter, who had settled into a loaf position at the base of the ladder, still staring up at him, still cat-smiling, still drooling.

At least you don’t talk, he thought.

The cat blinked slowly in response.

For the next hour, Silence worked in blessed quiet, broken only by the occasional thump or exclamation from upstairs. He had no idea what the women were doing, but it had clearly excited them both.

He had just finished the second coat on the far wall when the sound of hurried footsteps on the stairs made him tense.

“Si! Si, you gotta see this!” Lola burst into the room, waving an old, leather-bound book in the air. Mrs. Enfield followed more slowly, guided by Lola’s free hand, her cloudy eyes wide with both excitement and apprehension.

Mrs. Enfield was small, black, frail, and had hair even whiter than her functionless irises. She lived next door to Silence, across a gravel drive, in the East Hill neighborhood of Pensacola.

Silence set down his paintbrush with a sigh. “What is it?”

“It’s Rory’s old journal,” Mrs. Enfield said, her voice quavering slightly. “From right after the war. I had no idea he kept one.”

Rory was Mrs. Enfield’s husband. Long deceased, much longer than C.C. had been.

Lola nodded eagerly. “We found it in a box of his old things. But Si, you won’t believe what’s inside. It’s full of the most incredible stuff!”

Despite himself, Silence felt a flicker of curiosity. After all, Rory had been a World War II vet.

He descended the ladder, wiping his hands on a nearby rag. He stepped over Baxter and approached the women.

“Here, look,” Lola said, thrusting the journal toward him. She flipped it open to a dog-eared page, pointing to a series of scrawled notes. “It’s all in code, or some kind of secret language. And there are mentions of operations, strange places… I think Rory might have been some kind of spy!”

Silence knew a thing or two about spies in his line of work as a vigilante assassin working for an unsanctioned organization embedded surreptitiously within U.S. government…

He frowned, scanning the page. The writing was cramped and hurried, full of abbreviations and alphanumeric sequences. They meant nothing to him, didn’t align with any system with which he was familiar.

But one entry—circled and written larger than the rest—caught his eye: X7R9Q2P.

“What do you make of it?” Lola said, bouncing with intrigued excitement.

Silence shrugged, handing the journal back. “Who knows.”

But Mrs. Enfield shook her head, her expression troubled. “Rory never talked much about the war,” she said in her tiny, raspy voice, “ but… there were times, late at night, when he’d wake up muttering about things. Names I didn’t recognize, places that didn’t exist. I always thought it was just nightmares, but now…”

Her voice trailed off, and Silence felt a pang of sympathy. He’d seen enough in his line of work to know that some secrets were better left buried.

It was clear she was getting upset.

He looked at Lola. “Let’s put it…” He swallowed. “Away.”

But Lola didn’t register the seriousness of his request. She was already flipping through more pages, her eyes wide. “Oh, listen to this! ‘Met with J today. New assignment, deep cover. God help me if L ever finds out.’ Who’s J? And L – could that be you, Mrs. Enfield?”

Mrs. Enfield’s face was lowered, as though studying the hardwood with her dead eyes. “I… I don’t know. Lola, perhaps we should⁠—”

“Wait, there’s more!” Lola interrupted, still oblivious. “’Awaiting further instructions. I’m wanted at⁠—”

“Lola!” Silence barked, sending a jolt of pain down his throat.

Lola jumped, dark eyes now wide, lips parted. She looked up at him.

“Stop,” Silence said. Another swallow. “She needs to rest.”

Lola finally grasped the gravity of the situation. “Oh! Yes, of course.” She put her hand on the old woman’s shoulder. “Come on, Mrs. E, let’s get you to bed for a few.”

But Mrs. Enfield didn’t move. She shook her head. “I need to know,” she said, her voice stronger now. “Lola, dear, would you mind doing some research? See if you can find anything about these names, these codes?”

“Don’t think…” Silence said and swallowed. “That’s a good idea.”

“Hush!” Mrs. Enfield said and smacked his hand, surprisingly painful. Despite being entirely blind, she had pinpoint precision when it came to physically admonishing Silence. It was eerie. She turned to Lola. “Lola?”

“Of course, ma’am. I’ll start right away. There’s bound to be something on the internet about all this.”

“Good.” Mrs. Enfield brought her lifeless eyes to Silence. “When you live behind a mask, you risk forgetting your true face. But if my Rory was more than I thought he was, that doesn’t change the man I knew. He was strong. Yes, he was strong.” A beat passed, then, “Lola, would you mind reading to me for a bit? It always calms my nerves.”

“Of course. Kingdom of Desire?”

Mrs. Enfield nodded.

Silence suppressed a groan. While he was grateful to be spared from reading the book himself, he wasn’t sure listening to Lola’s rendition would be any better.

Lola retrieved the well-worn paperback from its place of honor on the bookshelf. She settled into the chair opposite Mrs. Enfield, cleared her throat, and began to read.

“’As Tristan’s smoldering gaze captured Lady Vivienne’s every secret,” Lola read, “‘her heart raced like a wild stallion, and her thoughts dissolved into a sea of longing…’”

Silence couldn’t suppress his groan this time.

Mrs. Enfield scowled at him before she leaned forward, hanging on every word.

Silence glanced at the familiar cover in Lola’s hand, focusing on the model’s faces, their exaggerated desire and intensity. At first glance—or upon first reading—Kingdom of Desire didn’t seem like a book that would hold a special place in anyone’s heart. To Silence, it seemed rather throwaway, like something even the author herself had forgotten about as soon as she’d written it.

But people get sparked by quirky things, and something about Kingdom of Desire had sparked something in Mrs. Enfield when she was a twenty-something-year-old young woman, so much so that her husband had continued to read it aloud to her when she went blind in her thirties.

Years later, long after Rory had passed, Lola began reading the book to her. Silence moved in next door to Mrs. Enfield shortly after Lola left Florida, so the Kingdom of Desire-reading torch had been passed on to him, a chore he’d dutifully tackled for years. Lola occasionally resumed her duties when she visited.

Silence’s cellular phone rang.

He pulled it from his pocket, checked the LCD multiplex. The call was from Falcon, his boss.

This surely meant his next mission was in order.

Back into the fray once more. Danger. Long hours. Stress. Killing.

A welcome reprieve from painting, Lola, and that damn Baxter.

Silence grinned in relief.

CHAPTER THREE

The next day—dusk.

St. Augustine, Florida, was an amazing city. At one time, it had been among Silence’s favorite places.

But Silence was conflicted about being back.

Because of his deceased fiancee.

Because of C.C.

St. Augustine was the oldest continually inhabited city in the United States, and it hosted countless people every year who came for the transcendent historic district, plentiful eateries and shops, and enchanting Spanish colonial architecture.

Yet, Silence’s own city of Pensacola was the true oldest city in America in terms of European occupation, founded in 1559. Unlike St. Augustine, however, Pensacola had not been continually inhabited since its founding. There was a bit of friendly rivalry between the two Floridian cities, each claiming its own version of historical significance.

Throughout the day, as he traveled through St. Augustine—seeing its transported-from-another-time historic district, its palm trees and quaint streets, its excellent restaurants, its beautiful views of the Atlantic—memories of his last visit flooded back.

Back when he was Jake Rowe, before he became Silence Jones.

Back when C.C. was still alive.

Their spontaneous weekend trip, full of laughter and adventure. The centuries-old buildings, the smell of fresh-baked bread, the wind in their hair at the top of the St. Augustine Lighthouse. For a moment, he could almost hear C.C.’s infectious laughter, feel her hand in his as they strolled the streets of the historic district.

These days, C.C. lived on as a voice in his brain, a voice that came to him in times of need.

Times such as this very moment.

She spoke to him now.

Focus, love, she said. Focus on the mission. I’m with you. Always. But leave the past where it is.

She was right. She always was.

Silence shook his head, forcing himself back to the present. He wasn’t technically in St. Augustine at this moment, anyway. He was in a small community on the outskirts, just beyond the city limits—a rough, industrial region west of town. Specifically, he was at a rat’s nest motel on the other side of a razor-wire-topped fence across from the brightly lit StashPoint storage facility.

StashPoint was a sprawling, brand-new setup—a modern-design two-story building with interior units. Sparkling white walls with blue trim, awash in exterior lighting, a jarring contrast to the motel. Surrounding the facility were neatly landscaped grounds.

Only two vehicles were parked outside—the truck Silence had followed here and a car that evidently belonged to the lone security guard in a uniform patrolling the perimeter. The lack of vehicles and the squeaky clean exterior made Silence guess that StashPoint had not yet opened for business.

On the unhappier side of the fence, at the far end of the motel’s parking lot, stood a pair of battered dumpsters. This was Silence’s current location after a day’s worth of chasing leads across town. Next to him, leaning against the fence, barely lit by streetlights and the last remnants of the sunset, was a man who called himself Twitch.

With the noticeable tic in his left eye and constant fidgeting, Silence presumed Twitch’s name came from his mannerisms, which seemed to be consequences of long-term cocaine use, a theory that was supported by bloodshot eyes and constant sniffling.

Twitch was scrawny, short, squirming. A round head on a long neck. Thin in the way that only a long-time drug user could be. He wore a tattered dress shirt and equally tattered slacks. The outfit told his story better than words ever could.

“Have you seen…” Silence said and swallowed. “Adam Crane around here?”

Twitch’s nervous eyes widened once more. Even though the guy had heard Silence’s voice a few times by this point—they’d exchanged a few lines since Silence approached him two minutes earlier—there was still palpable confusion in the man’s eyes. Silence’s crackling, growling voice was that perplexing to first-timers.

“Crane?” Twitch said. “You mean, the guy who’s holding those meetings with the rich folks about the dead-people website?”

Silence nodded. “Revere, yes.”

Revere was the name of the website Twitch had mentioned.

Twitch guffawed. He had a smoker’s laugh. Cigarettes were likely an ancillary vice to coke. “Look around you, man!” He waved an arm toward the motel behind him. “Why the hell would Crane come to this shithole?”

Silence pointed toward the storage facility. “Not here,” he said and swallowed. “StashPoint.”

Twitch laughed again. “Dude, you’re funny. First you think Adam Crane would hang out at hump-n-dump motel; now you’re saying a guy like Crane would go to a damn storage facility.”

“What about the truck?” Silence pointed to the black extended-cab pickup truck on the other side of the parking lot.

Twitch’s squinting eyes narrowed a bit more as he finally took a look through the fence. He saw the truck. And that little grin dropped from his face.

“Oh, shit. Oh, shit! I gotta go!”

He started to move, and Silence’s arm shot out and grabbed Twitch’s wrist so quickly that both men hardly registered it. Silence’s inhuman speed was compliments of the elite training he received when he joined the Watchers years earlier, his employers, the clandestine—and illegal—organization who paid him to be a vigilante assassin.

“Why running off?” Silence said, omitting a few words from the more grammatically correct Why are you running off?Using broken, shortened English was another of Silence’s techniques to help with his tortured throat.

“You want to know about that truck? No way, man,” Twitch said. “I’m out.”

Silence pointed at the truck again. “I followed truck here…” He swallowed. “From Crane’s place, the Blackwood estate.”

“The storage place,” Twitch said, motioning with his head toward StashPoint, “it’s where… where they dump them.” He gulped. “With that truck.”

“Dump who?”

Twitch was shaking now, clawing at Silence’s hand, trying to get free. “I don’t know, man! Just… people. They’re always unconscious. Always on gurneys.”

“Like, hostages?”

“I, I guess.”

“Who does this?” Silence said, swallowed. “Adam Crane?”

“I don’t know who does it! I don’t know!”

Silence stared at Twitch for a moment longer. Sensed that there was nothing else to be had here. C.C. had always said Silence was good at reading people, and right now, Silence could tell Twitch had told him all he knew.

Silence released.

Twitch sprinted off, slipping through a pool of street light to the corner of the fence in the back by the wooded area. He clambered over and disappeared into the trees.

Silence turned around and looked at the pickup truck, motionless and unoccupied, surrounded by the glistening perfection of the StashPoint storage facility, a jarring outlier in this rotten part of town. This area was so different than the environment from which Silence had started following the truck: St. Augustine’s historic downtown with all the glowing streetlights, palm trees, trimmed shrubbery, and immaculate sidewalks.

…where he’d strolled with C.C. years ago, one of the best weekends of his life.

Silence’s thoughts were suddenly brought back to the present. One of StashPoint’s doors opened, and three men rushed out.

They scuttled in a tight cluster, squeezed in upon each other. The two men in suits—the guys Silence had followed from downtown—were on either side of a bearded man in jeans, a canvas jacket, and a stained T-shirt. The bearded man was wobbling—drunk or high… or maybe roofied.

One of the suited men was white; the other was black. The latter turned to look in Silence’s direction just as they reached the truck, and the two of them locked eyes. In that brief moment before the trio climbed into the truck, Silence was able to study the man.

He was tall and lean, with intense dark eyes and a shaved head. Dark skin. Tidy goatee. He threw open one of the doors to the truck’s rear seating, and he and the other suited man threw the stumbling man into the back. This was clearly a prisoner situation. Just like Twitch had alluded to.

And Silence had one hundred percent confirmation: the moment the man was thrown into the back of the truck, Silence had gotten a glimpse of his face and saw that it was the missing man he was looking for.

It was Archie Kovacs.

The suited man slammed the driver-side door and disappeared behind a heavily tinted window.

Silence sprinted toward the front of the motel, following the fence, ready to round the corner for the gate at the front of the StashPoint property.

The other truck door slammed shut. The brake lights came on. And the truck began to move.

Silence slowed slightly to round the corner. Almost there. But StashPoint’s gate rattled open, and the truck quickly took off, heading toward the street, pulling away from Silence.

Silence sprinted. The bed of the truck was only a few yards ahead. It was Silence’s only shot. He pumped his legs faster, arms swinging.

A yard away now. He leaped, flying through the air and clamping down on the tailgate.

The truck sped off, and as it did, Silence pulled himself into the bed. He slapped down on the metal floor, searching desperately for a grip. With his other hand, he clamped down on the side of the truck bed, finally stabilizing himself.

The truck sped faster and faster down the two-lane road, which left the storage facility and headed into an even more desolate area of town. Ramshackle buildings and overgrown lots blurred past as the truck raced through the night.

Silence rolled to his stomach and got his other hand to the opposite side of the truck bed. He felt pretty silly, all stretched out like he was—a Vitruvian Man in Hugo Boss—eyes squinting with the air rushing over him, hair flapping across his face. But he was stable now. He wasn’t going to fly out of the truck. That was a good thing.

But what the hell was his next move?

The question answered itself when the truck suddenly started swerving erratically on the empty street. Though Silence couldn’t see what was happening in the truck’s cab behind the dark window tinting, it was clear the driver knew there was an uninvited visitor.

Silence held tight for a moment longer, but the guy kept swerving. Silence’s fingers slipped. And he was loose again. He bashed side to side against the metal walls of the bed. Pain shot through his body with each impact.

They flew past a row of abandoned storefronts, their broken windows gaping, toothless mouths in the moonlight.

Gritting his teeth, Silence managed to draw his Beretta 92S from its shoulder holster beneath his sport jacket. But as soon as he did, he heard a mechanical noise—a motor of some sort.

He glanced back and saw the tailgate lowering. The truck had been fitted with some sort of motorized system.

The tailgate finished lowering with a clunk. Silence held on tighter, but the driver was swerving even harder. They careened past a decrepit playground, rusty swings creaking in the wind.

Finally, with a screeching turn, Silence lost his grip and flew out the back of the truck.

Time slowed as he sailed through the air, arms and legs flailing. The ground rushed up to meet him.

Whack!

He hit the street hard. The impact drove the air from his lungs in an explosive gasp. Pain exploded through his body. He bounced and skidded across the asphalt. His Beretta clattered against the street as his arms slapped down with each revolution.

Everything was a blur of sky and pavement as he tumbled repeatedly, each turn bringing fresh waves of agony.

When he finally skidded to a stop, every nerve in his body screamed in protest. He lay there, stunned, gasping. He became aware of the gritty texture of asphalt against his cheek, the coppery taste of blood in his mouth.

With a monumental effort, Silence lifted his head just in time to see the truck’s taillights disappearing around a corner.

CHAPTER FOUR

Leon Flynn had nearly messed up.

Badly.

All he could do now was consider himself lucky and report what had happened.

…well, maybe not all the details.

He stood outside a gas station on the rough outskirts of St. Augustine, leaning against the weathered brick wall beneath a metal awning that circled the building, cellular phone pressed to his ear. The once-bright paint of the station had long since faded, peeling away to reveal patches of bare concrete underneath. A flickering neon “OPEN” sign hung crookedly in the window, casting a spasmodic red glow over the cracked asphalt of the nearly empty parking lot. The air was thick with the smell of gasoline and mold.

Flynn’s employer, Adam Crane, was on the other end of the call.

Crane, a young tech entrepreneur, had exploded onto the St. Augustine scene, touting revolutionary technology for those grieving lost loved ones. His charisma and cutting-edge demos had attracted the attention of wealthy investors and grieving families alike.

But Flynn knew the dark truth behind Crane’s operation.

Because he was a part of it.

“Mr. Crane, we’ve got a problem,” Flynn said. He ran a hand over his shaved head, wiping away sweat. “Someone’s following us.”

“Who?” Crane’s voice crackled through the receiver.

“I don’t know, but he was white, tall, about six-foot-three, muscular build. The guy moved like a professional.”

“Shit! Could be a fed,” Crane said. A moment passed, then, “How far did he follow you?”

Flynn hesitated. “To StashPoint.”

He purposely didn’t mention how close the man had come to catching them, how he’d actually made it into the bed of the pickup truck. Crane didn’t need to know that… not now that Flynn understood just how ruthless his employer could be.

“Are you goddamn serious?”

Flynn again hesitated. “Yes, sir. After we lost the big guy, we pulled over and searched our other guest’s pockets. Turns out he’s Archie Kovacs, the⁠—”

“The missing millionaire activist?!” Crane cut him off. “Shit!”

There was a moment of silence from the receiver.

Flynn bit his lip. His employer was unpredictable. He prepared himself for anything, his mind racing with concern. The thought of upsetting him sent a chill down his spine. Flynn knew he was in deep, perhaps too deep to ever climb out.

Yet, as the dead air continued, a new thought occurred to him. Maybe this was his way out. Since Crane was so utterly ruthless, perhaps he would eliminate Flynn for his failures, finally ending this awful predicament Flynn had gotten himself into.

The fact that this was a comforting thought showed Flynn just how bad his life had gotten.

Finally, Crane responded. “Who was he, the guy who tailed you?”

“No idea. I’ve never seen him at any of the demonstrations. He could be a cop.”

Another moment of non-response from Crane.

Flynn turned to the truck. He saw Landers outside with one of the truck’s rear doors propped open, looking in on their prisoner in the back seat. Though Flynn couldn’t see what Landers was looking at, he knew it was the semi-conscious Archie Kovacs.

Flynn ran a hand over his face, looked at it. His palm was wet with sweat. It was a humid night, but Flynn’s perspiration was as much from panic as from the balmy Florida night…

…because a drugged millionaire activist was lying unconscious in the back of the truck!

“What do we do now?” he said to Crane.

CHAPTER FIVE

If it weren’t for the painful memories, returning to a place like St. Augustine would have been amazing for Silence.

Because while he was by no means a historian—he wouldn’t even call himself a history nut—he did love historical things. After spending much of his life in historic Pensacola, how could he not?

St. Augustine scratched his nerdy historic itch. Block after block of beautiful Spanish colonial homes, all surrounded by majestic palm trees and lush tropical vegetation. The historic district was an absolute gem, loaded with old buildings, giving the city a quaint, Old World quality that overlaid perfect landscaping, museums, restaurants, and charming cafes.

One couldn’t help but feel one’s spirits lifted while walking through the oldest continually inhabited city in the U.S.

St. Augustine was also known to be one of America’s most haunted cities. It celebrated this reputation with numerous ghost tours, a popular tourist activity. While Silence wasn’t superstitious, he had his own ghost related to this trip.

C.C.

The only woman he’d ever loved.

Though she was no longer alive, she was alive in his head—that voice, always talking to him—more than just a ghostlike set of memories. But a few of his memories—ghostlike or otherwise—had been formed in this city several years ago.

As they had earlier when he’d driven through town, phantom images assaulted him. Images… and sounds. And smells. And touches.

The old Spanish fort, Castillo de San Marcos, where C.C. insisted on taking a cheesy pirate photo. For a moment, he felt the warmth of her body next to his on that quaint bed-and-breakfast porch, wrapped in a blanket, watching the stars and talking about everything and nothing, back when he was J8ake Rowe and back when she was alive.

The relationship hadn’t lasted, not because of a breakup, but because of C.C.’s untimely death. Silence had yet to return to St. Augustine since that fateful trip. So as he walked down the beautiful sidewalks—and his heart ached with the memories, feeling their weight, their presence—a large part of him felt a distant, faint, yet overarching shadow.

Painful beauty. Torturous joy.

This trip to a haunted city was already summoning ghosts for Silence Jones.

He’d set off on his walk an hour earlier than was needed to with the intent of clearing his head. By the time he arrived at the plaza where he was to meet his contact for this assignment, the C.C. nostalgia had been abated. Hopefully, he would manage to keep it properly repressed for the duration of the mission.

He rolled into Plaza de la Constitución, the oldest public space in the United States. The night cloaked the palm trees and oaks in shadows. The gazebo in the center—with its red Spanish-style roof—was illuminated by the soft glow of nearby lamps. Walkways and monuments traced their way around this central feature, while historic buildings traced the park’s periphery.

In a spot of darkness beneath a streetlight-illuminated palm tree, a man stood alone by a bench and signaled for Silence—a subtle lifting of the hand. Silence recognized him from the mission materials Falcon had given him.

This was Terry Hager, Silence’s contact for the St. Augustine mission.

Hager was in his early forties, clean-shaven with a pair of metal-frame glasses, gold-colored. His dark, curly hair was starting to show hints of silver at the temples, slightly receding—not severely, just a “mature” hairline. He had a chiseled, masculine face with medium brown skin, sharp jawline, and intense dark eyes. Silence knew from the mission materials that Hager was of Hawaiian descent. His suit was well-tailored and looked expensive, but it was neither stylish nor flashy. He oozed casual success.

But the fretful look in Hager’s eyes, the furrowed brow, the slightly slumped demeanor, and the slightly turned-in shoulders negated the successful businessman effect. There was an air of quiet sadness about him, like an invisible weight on his shoulders.

Hager offered his hand. “You must be Brad.”

Silence accepted the handshake, nodded.

“Brad who?” Hager said.

“Just Brad.”

Yes, for the St. Augustine mission, Silence would go by “Brad.” Just Brad. Silence adopted a new identity for each mission, always one-syllable names. This helped to lower the number of syllables he ran through his painful throat. Not a significant benefit, but it added up. Every little bit helped.

Hager started at the sound of Silence’s voice, took a half step backward. A typical response. Hager’s was neither the worst nor the most subtle reaction Silence had received to his monstrous voice.

Silence pulled out his wallet and handed Hager a card. The card’s size, thickness, and shape—including the round corners—were the same as a swipe card, but no magnetic strip was on the back. Aside from a design flourish on the left-hand side—two angled, blue stripes—the plastic was clear with an opaque, matte finish. A message covered the front of the card in dark blue letters, thick and raised off the surface:

After reading the card, Hager returned it, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “Yes, the man on the phone told me you had a condition, but I… I must admit I wasn’t prepared for the voice.”

Silence didn’t respond. He just looked back at Hager, blinked.

Silence gained a new contact for each assignment—usually a single person like Hager, but sometimes a couple or a family. The Watchers rarely reached out to these contacts before Silence arrived at the mission locations but did so in rare cases like this current mission.

Hager waved an embarrassed hand. “I’m… I’m sorry, man. I don’t know why I said that. Shit, I just met you. I⁠—”

Silence shook his head. “Don’t worry…” He swallowed. “About it.” He put his hands in his pockets. “Talk.”

“Talk… about the situation here?”

Silence nodded.

Hager sighed, his shoulders slumping farther. “It’s my friend, Archie Kovacs. He’s gone missing. We met at Steel Fist Studio—it’s this martial arts place where I’ve been spending a lot of time since… well, since personal tragedy. Anyway, Archie was looking into this tech startup called Revere.”

“Tell me about…” Silence swallowed. “Archie.”

“He’s… not your typical guy. He comes from old money, but he’s made a name for himself with this blog called the Daredevil Dispatch, or D³ as he also calls it. He investigates corruption, exposes wrongdoing. Started out doing these crazy publicity stunts, but now it’s serious journalism. Well… serious topics, serious intent, but still with some of Archie’s trademark personality.” Hager chuckled. “He’s fearless, maybe reckless sometimes, but he’s got a real talent for uncovering the truth. When he started digging into Revere, I think he sensed something was off. That’s what worries me—Archie’s not the type to just disappear unless he’s onto something big.”

“Revere has been…” Silence said, swallowed. “Big news in St. Augustine.”

“Oh, yeah. It’s run by this young tech guy, Adam Crane. He claims to have developed a technology, Revere, that can create virtual representations of deceased loved ones. Like, living digital avatars, something to ease the pain of a person’s loss. He even…” Hager trailed off momentarily, looking at Silence, debating whether to continue. “He even says there’s a supernatural element for those willing to believe, to have faith. Crane claims that besides being a tech guy, he has ties to the spiritual world. As someone who’s… struggling with loss, I was intrigued. But Archie was suspicious. Especially about the spirituality component.”

Silence nodded. He would’ve been suspicious of that component as well. In fact, he’d nearly snickered when Hager first mentioned it.

And as he thought about it again, he nearly snickered once more, and he would have done so had it not been for C.C.’s voice cutting in to chide him.

Don’t be an ass, love! she said. This man is hurting. Look at his eyes.

“Crane’s under the wing of Moira Blackwood,” Hager continued. “The Blackwoods are old money here in St. Augustine, like the Kovacs—very influential, very well known. Since Moira got involved, suddenly Crane’s demonstrations are attracting wealthy people in various stages of grief.” He paused. “Like me.”

That was twice now in a few moments that Hager had mentioned that he was in the grieving process. Silence considered that Hager might be seeking support. Hager’s sad eyes and drooping shoulders—which had at first looked wrong on the large and powerful man—now made sense.

Still, Silence had just met the guy. He didn’t need to be a shoulder to cry on. There were more important matters—the mission. He pressed on.

“And Archie?” Silence said.

Hager shook his head. “He went with me to one of Crane’s sessions, which are sort of like spiritual-sermons-meet-fundraisers. Then he started digging deeper. Next thing I know, he’s vanished. I contacted the police. Other people did, too. But they aren’t taking it seriously.”

“Why not?”

Hager sighed. “That’s the thing about Archie, his reputation for wild adventures and risky behavior, even after devoting himself to a just cause. The cops know about the Daredevil Dispatch, of course, so they just dismissed the disappearance as another one of Archie’s escapades. They think he’s off chasing some lead or story, that he’ll turn up in a few days with another exposé.” Hager looked off through the trees for a moment. Then, “But this feels different. Archie may be a thrill-seeker, but he’s not irresponsible. He wouldn’t just disappear without a word, especially not to me. We’re close friends. Something’s not right, and I’m worried that by the time the authorities realize it, it might be too late.”

“You suspect Crane?”

“Exactly,” Hager nodded, his eyes filled with worry. “I’m afraid Archie might have stumbled onto something dangerous. Maybe Revere isn’t what it seems. It’s especially suspicious since Crane has aligned himself with Moira Blackwood.”

“Explain.”

“Moira’s a fixture in St. Augustine’s high society, but not always for the right reasons. She married into the Blackwood family, but it’s an open secret that she’s had multiple affairs, mostly with younger men. Her husband, Doug, is at least a decade older, and word is Moira prefers more… vigorous company. Younger, ambitious types. Like Adam Crane.” He paused, looking uncomfortable. “Now she’s taken Crane under her wing, my guess is Crane’s playing to her tastes, using her influence and money to prop up his venture. He gets her support, and in turn, access to other wealthy potential investors.”

One thing didn’t add up for Silence. “If you distrust Crane…” he said, swallowed. “Why do you keep…” Another swallow. “Going to the sessions?”

Hager immediately averted his eyes. A moment passed, then, “Because what if I’m all wrong about him? What if Revere is legitimate?” His face broke out into a strange, hopeful smile while the sadness remained in his eyes.

Okay, now Silence had to ask him, to sate curiosity if nothing more. It was mission-prudent.

“Your grief,” Silence said. “Want to share?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

Now it was Silence’s turn to look away into the park and lose himself in thought. As he stared into the gently rustling leaves of a nearby oak, he processed the intel Hager had provided. A few moments later, he reached into his jacket’s inner pocket and took out his notebook.

It was a NedNotes brand PenPal. Five by three and a half inches. At a hundred pages, it was thick enough for the spiral binding to accommodate a pencil or pen, hence the name. The plastic covers came in a variety of bold colors. This one had a red-and-black marble pattern.

Typically, Silence conveyed what he needed to others through his abbreviated speech or non-verbal cues. But sometimes, he needed to get a lot of info out at once; in these situations, he used his PenPal notebooks.

He’d written a note for Hager before he arrived at Plaza de la Constitución explaining what he’d already found out since arriving in St. Augustine. He’d also written a couple of questions for Hager at the bottom.

He flipped to the appropriate page, handed the PenPal to Hager, who began to read.

A few moments later, he looked up.

“StashPoint storage facility? No, I don’t know any reason that would be connected to Adam Crane. And I know nothing about drugged-up people on gurneys. Sounds like… human-trafficking, doesn’t it? But that’s not what Archie suspected Crane of. He thought Crane was some sort of con man, milking all those rich, grieving people out of money. And Moira Blackwood, too.”

Silence had purposefully omitted something from the note, already knowing the basics of Hager’s situation before coming to St. Augustine—specifically, the notion that Hager’s dear friend Archie had vanished. That’s what had gained the Watchers’ attention in the first place—Hager’s frantic insistence to the police that his friend was indeed missing, not off on another adventure.

So Silence hadn’t pointed out that he saw Archie stumbling—probably drugged up—out of StashPoint, being forced into a truck by two toughs in suits.

Now, Silence debated…

He took the PenPal back from Hager, pulled the mechanical pencil from the spiral binding, and jotted down: I saw Archie being moved out of the facility.

He figured Hager could handle the truth, that he needed to hear it.

All the same, Silence still omitted the detail about Archie being drugged up.

Hager gasped as he read the new note. “You saw him?”

Silence nodded.

Hager pumped a fist—a big, beefy fist worthy of the man’s martial arts habit.

A moment later, Hager cleared his throat, his expression thoughtful. “Crane’s been holding these two-night events once per week for the last few weeks. It’s been a popular topic in the news, actually. They’re very exclusive, limited seating, and only for people with, well, a ton of money. I’m scheduled to go tomorrow night. I wish I could get you a pass, but I used up my complimentary ticket on Archie, and⁠—”

“I’m going with you,” Silence said.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Hager’s eyebrows shot up. “I used up my complimentary pass, which⁠—”

Silence cut him off again, this time by pulling an invitation from his jacket pocket.

Hager’s eyes widened as he examined the invitation. It was printed on thick, cream-colored cardstock with a subtle embossed pattern along the edges. The text was in gold foil lettering. A holographic serial number was in the lower lefthand corner.

Hager looked up at Silence, stunned. “How did you…?”

Silence shrugged. “My organization has connections.”

Hager didn’t have a response.

People were frequently amazed like this by the Watchers’ capabilities.

CHAPTER SIX

After meeting with Hager, there was still time to spare that night.

And Silence always took advantage of spare time.

Despite the painful memories, Silence appreciated one aspect of this St. Augustine assignment: the fact that much of it took place in very nice areas of a very nice city…

…aside from his earlier stop in the neighborhood surrounding StashPoint storage facility, of course.

The pace was slower and more pleasant in these nice areas of town, and everything was well taken care of and clean. A lot of attention to detail. And a lot of places to park his car without worry.

The car was a blue Mercedes. And he adored it. But he wasn’t going to get too attached. While the Watchers provided him with his vehicles in an entirely stress-free setup, they also switched them out every six months.

There was never enough time to fully fall in love.

Silence pulled the Mercedes into a parking spot along the edge of another pristine park on the edge of the historic district, just a few slots away from where he had parked earlier in the day, at dusk, when he’d scoped out the Blackwood house and left to follow the suspicious black truck—and its two suited occupants—across the city to a shithole side of town with the disproportionately pristine storage facility.

This park was styled differently than Plaza de la Constitución, but it was just as ornate and just as full of history as the rest of the city. More palm trees. More oak trees. More quiet paths.

Silence leaned down, looked through the Mercedes’s passenger window, across the street toward the Blackwood home, where Adam Crane had been holding his Revere sessions for the last few weeks.

It was a stately, two-story building, and from his research, Silence knew it to be five-bedroom, three-and-a-half baths. It had a coquina stone base, white railing around the porch, and a distinctive Spanish colonial style roof. The balconies were lined with wrought iron, and on either side of the whitewashed steps were two patches of garden, filled with tropical plants and a few small palms. Along the sidewalk were more palms. The shutters and doors were painted a deep blue. Very stately and very beautiful and very old.

Everything in St. Augustine’s historic district was like this—stately, beautiful, and old—but this particular house seemed to glow. It had literally glowed with copious exterior illumination the previous night when Silence first visited, but evennow, in broad daylight, there seemed to be a presence about the house that exuded itself, displayed itself even among all the other magnificent homes surrounding it.

At his last visit, Silence had stayed in the car the entire time, leaving to follow the black pickup truck.

This time, he’d get a closer look.

Silence stepped outside, pressed the button on his key fob. Honk! He walked across the street, onto the sidewalk, going along the side of the home. As he walked past, he glanced at the windows. The drapes were pulled. No one looked to be home. But it was hard to tell, as the streetlights glanced off the glass.

He went to the rear side of the house. Maybe the curtains wouldn’t be closed there and he would be able to get a good look inside. There was a small brick auto court, big enough to hold maybe half a dozen cars. Behind that was a detached one-car garage, brick.

There was a small landing, with a wrought iron handrail and six steps leading up to the house’s back door. The window next to that also had its drapes drawn, so his earlier guess was inaccurate, but he did see that there was a gap between the drapes. He headed toward the steps, saw a reflection in the glass.

Something approaching from behind him. He turned.

And found a man rushing in his direction, arms outstretched, teeth bared.

Silence considered going for his Beretta, but instead, he sidestepped the man, raised his hands in the air, and put a bewildered look on his face.

Because the person who had thrown him down was a young rent-a-cop security guard. Couldn’t have been older than nineteen. Ill-fitting uniform. Oily hair. Freckles and acne in equal portions covering his face. Rail-thin. Silence could have snapped him in half.

A couple of his lessons from Nakiri were coming into place in this moment. First, the power that diplomacy can have, sometimes even outmatching violence. Second, the need to be a skilled actor in his role as a vigilante assassin/investigator.

“Just getting a…” Silence said and swallowed. “Sneak peek. See?”

He slowly reached into his pocket and took out the invitation, held it up for the guard to see.

The guard squinted at the invitation, then glared as Silence. “You can’t just go snooping around here! I don’t give a shit if you were invited.” His voice cracked with the late stages of adolescence. “And if⁠—”

The back door at the top of the landing behind them opened. A man walked out.

A man wearing a suit.

Silence recognized him.

He was the athletic looking black guy Silence had followed to StashPoint storage facility earlier in the evening. There was that tidy goatee, the shaved head. Up close, Silence could see the keen intelligence shining out of the man’s large, dark eyes.

“What the hell is going on here?” the man grumbled as he walked down the steps.

And as he looked down at Silence, a look of remembrance flashed across his face. He recognized Silence as much as Silence recognized him, even if they had only locked eyes for a moment before he and the white guy with the buzzcut had peeled away from StashPoint.

Silence said nothing. He extended his invitation toward the man in the same way he had just done for the pimply security guard.

The guy scoffed. “You’re about twenty-one hours early.”

Silence still said nothing, only offered a shrug and a big—almost theatrical—sheepish grin. Whoopsie.

The suited man scowled. Stared at Silence. Then turned to the guard. “Take a walk.”

The guard’s mouth opened. He looked back and forth between Silence and the suited man.

“You deaf?” the suited man said. “Go!”

The kid jumped, spun around, and took off down the sidewalk.

They were alone—Silence and the suited man.

“Who are you?”

“Brad.”

The man waited for more.

Silence offered none.

“I’m Leon Flynn,” the man said as he came down the steps and stopped right in front of Silence. “Adam Crane’s head of security.”He leaned closer, and in a whisper he said, “I saw you earlier. At StashPoint. And you know I saw you.”

Silence didn’t respond.

They stared at each other. The moment stretched on quietly—just the sounds of foot traffic and friendly laughter echoing in the distance.

Finally, Flynn backed off, going for the steps. “See you tomorrow night. For now, you’re trespassing. Get out.”

He turned around, went up the steps, and the door slammed shut behind him.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Archie’s eyes opened.

Like the last time Archie woke up in a haze, he didn’t know where he was.

But unlike the last time, the memories came back to him immediately. They’d drugged him again—the two men in the suits.

As he blinked back into consciousness, he realized he was in a room not all too different than the first one insomuch as it was a plain utilitarian room. But this room had cinderblock walls, not corrugated metal like the last one, which made him unsure if this was another storage facility room.

He strapped to a gurney again. That much was the same.

But another difference was the fact that he was not alone.

One of the two guys who’d taken him was there with him—the white guy with the buzzcut. He sat at a chair at the opposite end of the room, by the door where light was creeping in.

Archie made eye contact with him, tried to get to an elbow to say something…

…and stopped in his place.

Oh, yeah. The straps.

He relaxed back into the gurney.

The other guy spoke. “There you are. ‘Bout time you woke up. Feeling all right?”

“It’s a little stuffy in here, to be honest.”

“Let me help with that.” He turned on a box fan that was at his feet, which was plugged into an outlet on the wall. “I’m not here to torture you, don’t worry, pal. It’s nothing personal. Just doing my job.”

Archie eyed the outlet. “So we got juice in this place, but no AC?”

“That’s right.”

“I see.” Archie paused, then said, “It’s Landers, right?”

Landers seemed slightly confused, so Archie continued, “I heard your partner say your name before I passed out the first time. Ya know, after you knocked me to the ground.”

Landers snickered, “Hey, like I told Flynn, I didn’t knock you over. You fell.”

Excellent. Archie now had a name for the other man: Flynn.

A win, yes, but he was still in a damn tight spot. As the reality of his situation sank in, Archie felt a wave of desperation wash over him. Sweat beaded on his forehead, not just from the stuffy confines and the shitty box fan..

…but from the subtext that had suddenly crept up on him.

The Daredevil Dispatch had gotten him into tight spots before, but this was different. Once, he’d dangled from a corrupt CEO’s office window, thirty stories up in downtown Houston, desperately clinging to his camera with incriminating photos.

Or there was the night he’d spent hiding in a dumpster outside a shady nightclub, tangling with both rats and thugs as he waited to snap some pics a politician’s backroom deal.

And, of course, the event with the cartel…

He’d crashed the luxurious “Helping Hands” charity gala at the Ritz-Carlton in Chicago, posing as a wealthy donor, his tuxedo concealing a state-of-the-art hidden camera. As the city’s elite sipped $1000-a-plate dinners, Archie had slipped away to the hotel’s business center. There, he’d hacked into the charity’s secure servers, uncovering financial records that proved the nationwide organization was laundering money for a certain Mexican drug cartel.

He posted his findings on the D² website, exposing the network of corrupt executives and their cartel connections. The night had ended with him narrowly escaping through the hotel’s kitchen, pursued by both security and cartel enforcers. The story had made national headlines and led to a federal investigation.

And as far as he knew, the cartel still wanted him dead.

Those moments had been thrilling—and more than a little dangerous—but there had always been a way out. Even with the cartel.

But his current predicament was different.

Lying there handcuffed to a gurney in a cinderblock room with no windows and only one door, Archie felt truly trapped.

He tugged at the binds, hearing them whine against gurney’s metallic railing.

It all seemed so reckless now. Who’d have thought that his most dangerous adventure would take place right there in his home town of lil ‘ol St. Augustine?

Archie had matured in the last decade. The Daredevil Dispatch had done that to him. But as he lay there, he wondered if it was time to grow up even more than he already had.

The thrill of the chase, the rush of exposing corruption—it all paled in comparison to the thought of never seeing his Ethan again.

His son needed a father, not a reckless thrill-seeker constantly putting himself in danger.

For now, though, no matter how lofty his thoughts were becoming, he had to survive the immediate situation he was in.

So, pushing his thoughts aside, Archie looked back at Landers. “So, if this is nothing personal to you, why don’t you tell me why you guys have tied me up?”

Landers leaned in closer, and for the first time, his somewhat bland and almost pleasant demeanor turned sinister as a slight grin played on his lips. “That’s not for me to decide. The boss wants to talk to you. So just hang tight, sport. Be patient. You’ll get your answers soon enough.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

The sky was a deep, inky black, studded with stars, as Terry Hager stepped into his house. The house was almost as dark. Drapes closed. Lights out. The only illumination was digital clocks and tiny glowing bulbs on outlet covers and appliances.

He called out to Kassidy. “Honey?”

No response.

Hager flicked on the kitchen lights. Everything was tidy and clean, just as it had been when he’d left. Exactly as it had been when he’d left—magazines stacked in the exact same askew fashion, the same coffee mug he’d left on the counter. Not one thing had moved an inch. Kassidy must have slept the day away again.

The house was a one-story, Spanish-style in a suburb on the edge of St. Augustine, only a few years old but designed to blend with the city’s historic architecture. Cream-colored stucco walls and terracotta tile flooring. Wicker furniture with colorful cushions, so new that they still gave off the smell of brand-new fabric. A kitchen with modern appliances disguised behind rustic cabinet fronts. Lots of potted palms.

He put his keys on the table.

Yes, Kassidy was asleep. There was no doubt of that. But he was going to talk to her anyway. He did this every day.

“Not a bad day, but I’m afraid I am only stopping by for just a bit.”

No response.

“I guess my gamble paid off taking that phone call. You wouldn’t believe the man they sent to help. Huge guy. Six-foot three or so. Broad shoulders. Got a shape full of lines and angles. You know, he kind of reminds me of that actor you like—the one from Edward Scissorhands. Except a lot bigger.”

Hager opened the cabinet and took out a loaf of bread.

“His name’s Brad. Works for some sort of… I don’t know, covert group, I guess. A fixer. He’s already figured out part of the case.”

He opened the fridge. Scanned the shelves. Found some turkey, half an avocado. He grabbed both and set them on the counter. Opened a drawer and pulled out a knife—old, serrated, the kind that had seen better days. The blade wasn’t sharp, but it would do.

“He quiet. Doesn’t say much. Can’t say that I blame him. He has a throat condition and this crazy voice you would not believe!”

He pressed down, slicing through the avocado, the dull metal dragging against the pit. After grabbing some potato bread from the nearby drawer, he slapped the sandwich together, tossed the knife into the sink, and put the components back into the fridge and cabinet.

“But he’s sharp, I’ll give him that.”

He took a bite of the sandwich and continued talking while he ate with his mouth half-full. Kassidy hated when he did that, but, hey, she was asleep.

“I guess we’ll see how it plays out.”

Hager paused, chewing thoughtfully. For the first time in weeks, a glimmer of hope stirred inside. Brad’s arrival in St. Augustine had brought a new energy, something that had been missing since Archie’s disappearance. Despite his initial skepticism, Hager couldn’t deny the man’s sharp intellect and dogged determination. Maybe this outsider’s fresh perspective was exactly what was needed.

As he swallowed a bite, Hager allowed himself a small smile. It felt good to have something to believe in again, even if it was just the possibility of answers.

“But I gotta go. Like I said, just dropping by.”

He looked toward the hallway, the closed bedroom door. That’s where she was sleeping. He could hear her soft snoring from down the hall, considered going back there. But he didn’t. He didn’t want to bother her.

She was asleep. Always sleeping these days.

CHAPTER NINE

Silence wasn’t a party animal.

But he sometimes enjoyed nightlife, especially from an observatory position, hiding away in his beloved shadows.

Like he was doing right now.

After a day spent crunching intel and chasing down a few feeble leads, he was in a pocket of nightlife establishments along the Matanzas River—a handful of bars, coffee shops, and restaurants. He sat at the quietest table he could find in a bar and grill, watching the sky gain color and lose its light, drinking a Heineken from a glass, a departure from his usual in-the-bottle way of drinking his favorite beer. But it was a good departure; it was nice to mix things up from time to time.

He and C.C. had stopped at a bar not far from this one during their trip to St. Augustine years ago. He’d had a Heineken then, too. So had C.C. Both had drunk from the bottles.

This bustling enclave was a region of town along the Matanzas River, full of Spanish colonial buildings that had since been converted into chic restaurants and bars and tourist shops and boutiques. There were green spaces and fountains and lots of people strolling up and down Avenida Menendez—the name given to the A1A highway within the city. Palm trees lined the side walks. Families laughed. Drunks flirted. Various songs—both live and playing through crackling speakers—filled the air, vying for attention.

This bustling spot was located right on the Matanzas River. Spanish colonial buildings all around, now dressed up as chic restaurants, bars, tourist shops, and boutiques. Green spaces and fountains dotted the landscape, with people everywhere, moving up and down Avenida Menendez—the stretch of A1A that cut through the city. Palm trees lined the sidewalks, swaying in the moist breeze. Families laughing, early evening revelers leaning in close and flirting. A mess of music in the air—some live, some blaring from crackling speakers—each tune fighting to be heard over the others as the day transitioned into night.

Silence sat facing the river, which glistened in the fading light of dusk. He’d been like this for several minutes, trying to drink away the ghost of C.C.’s memory.

She always haunted him. In the best possible ways. That voice in his head.

But this…

The St. Augustine trip had been one of their purest moments. Unadulterated joy.

He could hardly stand the memories.

Another gulp of beer. Another. Another. Guzzling now, and⁠—

…he stopped.

This was his third beer. In ten minutes. He was feeling it. Not intensely, of course. He was a big guy, after all. But he was feeling it.

He’d left the Mercedes at his hotel and taken a taxi with the express intent of feeling it.

But he needed to stop. Now.

Alcohol had been his crutch and nearly his undoing when C.C. was murdered years ago. If it hadn’t been for Mrs. Enfield, he might have succumbed. She’d saved him, put an end to his drinking.

He owed it to her to stop this nonsense. He owed it to the mission and the Watchers and Terry Hager.

That’s right, love, C.C.’s voice said. You’re done. That’s enough. Focus.

He pushed the glass to the opposite side of the table and grabbed another shrimp popper—which had gone cold—from the plastic tray, popped it in his mouth, starting the process of sobering-up.

Spread before him were his materials—some brochures of St. Augustine’s various ghost tours and a newspaper clipping. The clipped article was a casually-written fluff piece from the paper’s “Lifestyles” section and was titled, Tech Entrepreneur Adam Crane Wows City’s Elite. Below the title was a photo of Crane himself.

Silence pulled the clipping to the center of the table. He studied the image closely.

Adam Crane wore a dark gray t-shirt over a lean, muscular frame. Despite the casual attire, his confidence and charisma oozed through the photo. Mid twenties. Clean shaven. His hair was dark blond and perfectly parted. Blue eyes. Sharp jawline. He looked like an overgrown high school track star or a primetime sitcom son.

The photo had been taken at one of Crane’s demonstrations, evidenced by the large screen behind him displaying some kind of website interface—presumably the Revere website Crane claimed could create virtual representations of deceased loved ones. In the background were high ceilings and ornate moldings of what seemed like a great room in a mansion—the Blackwood house, clearly.

Silence scanned the newspaper article again, his eyes landing on one paragraph that had struck his interest when he’d first read it:

…and St. Augustine’s very own tech visionary provides his services one weekend per month. Alongside his presentations of the Revere website and its cutting-edge technology, Crane now offers more spiritual encounters in private sessions, starting at $1,000 each. Clearly, these events are not geared toward the city’s many out-of-town visitors.

A thousand dollars a pop. For spiritual encounter nonsense.

Could that be it? Simple, old-fashioned snake oil sales?

No.

No, that couldn’t be it.

What about the Archie Kovacs?—vanished, drugged-up and spirited away from StashPoint, a gleaming-new storage facility plopped right in the middle of a war zone area of town. The junkie Silence had met, Twitch, alluded to the fact that Archie was far from the only drugged-up person who’d been taken to StashPoint.

Yeah, the storage place is where they dump them, Twitch had said. With that truck. And when Silence had asked for clarification, Twitch had said, I don’t know, man! Just… people. They’re always unconscious. Always on gurneys.

Twitch had been an astute cokehead—he’d surmised that the operation at StashPoint was human-trafficking.

Silence had considered the same notion.

He set the article to the side, popped another shrimp popper, and picked up one of the ghost tour brochures, pondering the connection between Crane’s technology and the city’s obsession with the supernatural.

A thousand bucks a pop…

It seemed too convenient, too perfectly tailored to exploit people’s grief and desperation.

The waitress, Kim, came by, a petite blond wearing petite shorts and an even petiter crop top. She’d tried flirting with Silence despite being easily a dozen years younger.

As Jake Rowe, he’d gotten more than a few looks, but the phenomenon was exacerbated when the Watchers rescued him after the disaster and restructured his destroyed face to the aesthetic delight of the Beverly Hills plastic surgeon who did the work.

Silence didn’t care, though.

He had C.C.

“Damn, boss!” Kim said, looking at his nearly empty glass. “Need another already?”

Silence shook his head. “Just a water.”

This seemed to disappoint Kim somehow. She pouted playfully and left.

And Silence went back to work, leaning back, crossing his arms over his chest, thinking.

Was Crane’s game extortion?

Or was it human-trafficking?

Or somehow, inexplicably, could it be both?

CHAPTER TEN

Two hours later, Silence was all sobered up and back at the Blackwood house.

And he was looking damn good.

His suit, a sleek black Canali, was fresh off the rack from a boutique downtown. But it didn’t look off the rack—far from it. He’d found a tailor on short notice, and the guy had worked some kind of miracle with a needle, sculpting the fabric to hug Silence’s broad shoulders just right, tapering down to a narrow waist. The work cost him a pretty penny, but it was worth it.

The light gray shirt beneath, open several buttons deep, was soft Egyptian cotton. No tie. Instead, he’d chosen a simple, silver necklace, something he’d also just purchased, grabbing it at a small shop across the street from the tailor. It caught the light just enough to draw the eye, not too flashy.

Silence knew how to make an impression—and tonight, he was making one.

He was outside the mansion, across the street in the Mercedes, watching wealthy people enter. Evening gowns, cocktail dresses, suits, even a couple of tuxedos. Laughter. The click-clacking of copious high heels.

The house was lit brilliantly again like it had been the first time Silence had seen it the night before. Lights on the porch. A few lights in the landscaping, pointed up toward the walls. A pair of lights under each of the palm trees as well, illuminating them from below. Everything was beautiful and glistening and shining.

Framing the house was a dramatic sky full of large, purple-blue clouds illuminated by a bright moon. There was the occasional streak of silent heat lightning. The air was humid, more so than it had been during the day.

Silence adjusted his suit jacket, tracing an appreciate hand over its clean lines and perfect fit. While he was accustomed to wearing fine clothing, he didn’t often wear an outfit of this caliber. It was appropriate for the evening’s event, where he would be mingling with the well-to-do with enough discretionary income to drop 1000 dollars on nighttime entertainment.

Hager approached, coming out of the darkness. He looked Silence over. “Nice suit.”

“Likewise.”

Silence wasn’t just being cordial. Hager’s suit really was nice—sharp lines, immaculate fit, the kind of craftsmanship that spoke for itself. And he appreciated that.

It was a deep, midnight blue, set off by a crisp white shirt and a black tie. Silence recognized the suit as a Calvin Klein—one of his favorite brands. He might have gone for Canali tonight, but there was a reason Silence’s closet had more Calvin than almost anything else. They knew how to blend quality with modern sensibility, without the fuss or flash.

He liked high-quality clothing, but he wasn’t snobbish about it. If he had to choose, he’d still pick a Calvin Klein over Canali nine times out of ten.

Silence pointed to the house. “I came by here…” He swallowed. “Again last night.”

Hager looked back at him. Blinked. “Um… why?”

Silence shrugged. “Bored.”

Hager continued to stare, continued to blink. Finally, he sighed.

Silence had that effect on people. Resigned exasperation. They quickly recognized Silence’s impulsiveness… and quickly came to respect the effectiveness of his impulsiveness.

Well, most people. Not his boss, Falcon.

Falcon, unlike others, needed frequent reminders. That’s why Silence bent the Watchers rules so often.

Plus, he sort of liked toying with the guy.

Hager covered his face with his hand. Exhaled. “Well… what did you find?”

“A pissed-off guard…” Silence said, swallowed. “Leon Flynn.” He waited a beat, considering, then, “He’s one of the guys…” He swallowed. “Who kidnapped your friend.”

Hager started. “Archie? You got a lead on Archie?”

Silence nodded.

Hager smiled. A huge smile.

There it was again—that quick acceptance of the efficacy of Silence’s impulsive actions.

“Come on,” Silence said and led them toward the queue lined up out the front door.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Inside, the house felt as warm and inviting as it looked from the outside. The foyer set the tone—three-foot wainscoting in dark wood with recessed panels, perfectly matched to the polished floors and the thick molding around the doorways and ceiling. A chandelier hung above and cast a soft glow over the space. The walls were dressed in elegant wallpaper. And scattered everywhere were the kinds of trinkets you’d expect in a well-kept historic home—candlesticks, pewter figurines, tiny boxes, and glass ornaments, all carefully placed.

After being escorted out of the foyer, they were led into a living room area with three rows of four folding chairs, all facing the front of the room. A masterpiece of a fireplace was on the right wall, and one doorway was covered by a brightly-colored and very much out-of-place velvet curtain. Presumably, this was where Crane would make his entrance.

A handful of guests milled about the room. Silence counted them. Fourteen including himself and Hager.

There were other people in the room as well, standing along the walls, facing the chairs—clearly event staff. They looked like a mix of caterers and perhaps household staff, which struck Silence as a very old-fashioned Southern touch.

But there were two who were clearly not servers or cleaners.

One was a striking fifty-something woman. Icy blue eyes. Sleek silver hair that fell just past her shoulders. She wore a black dress that wasn’t exactly skin-tight but was certainly form-fitting. Her curvy figure was both elegant and commanding, and she clearly wasn’t afraid to show it off a little.

Next to her stood a brute of a man. Brutish not in his size, but his demeanor. A boiler one rivet away from exploding. Bright red hair, strands falling into his face. Intense eyes, deep-set.

He wore a dark, suit. Since Silence’s mind had already been fixated on the topic of men’s suits that night—after purchasing and having tailored his own Canali, as well as admiring Hager’s Calvin Klein—he gave the brute’s suit special scrutiny.

It was made of expensive-looking fabric with clean, tailored lines. Still, it looked all kinds of wrong on the rough-edged man, and he seemed accordingly uncomfortable in it, like he’d rather be in something that didn’t have buttons. The suit hugged his lean, rock-hard physique a little too tightly, in a way that wasn’t designed for someone who looked like they could break someone’s jaw with a single punch.

On the opposite wall were two men in suits that Silence immediately recognized: the pair from StashPoint, the ones who had thrown Archie Kovacs in the back of the black truck. After the second confrontation last night—at the back of the house, only yards away from where Silence currently stood—he know one of their names: Leon Flynn, the tall and lean guy with intense dark eyes, goatee, and shaved head.

The other was white with a buzzcut, his face set in a perpetual scowl that, along with his slow blinking, suggested he was on the unhappy side of the intelligence equation.

Silence knew Flynn’s name, but this other man was still a mystery.

He stared at them, waiting.

Flynn’s eyes scanned the room, eventually landing on Silence. For a moment, their gazes locked.

Flynn narrowed his gaze fractionally.

A moment of this.

Then Flynn looked away.

Silence saw that several people were taking their seats. He and Hager followed suit, grabbing two chairs in the back row.

Silence studied the people surrounding him, clearly loaded with cash, but also clearly hurting—pain in all the eyes.

“Crane preys on…” he said to Hager without taking his eyes of their neighbors. He swallowed. “The hope of people with money.”

Hager nodded his agreement, then pointed to the front of the room. “Speaking of his victims, that’s Mrs. Blackwood in the dark dress.”

Silence looked. Hager was indicating the woman he’d noted earlier, the one with the silver hair in the slightly-form-fitting dress.

He studied her. She looked like money, but not old money. As Hager had told him, Moira was a married-in member of the Blackwood legacy. As she nodded at passing guests, Silence saw that her smile was warm and genuine and had a down-to-earth quality that aligned with her coming-into-money background. Absolutely beaming. Big white teeth. Bright red lipstick.

She laughed through that smile of hers and put her hand on the shoulder of the brutish man standing beside her. He smiled back; this seemed to pain him. He caught Silence’s gaze, continued smiling, gave Silence a friendly nod. Silence nodded back.

“And you see him?” Hager said, pointing again, this time to an older man sitting in the front row. “That’s Robert Holloway. Tilt Systems CEO.”

Silence knew the name. “Holloway? Really?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Robert Holloway was a name that carried weight in every boardroom from Silicon Valley to Wall Street. As the CEO of Tilt Systems, one of the largest and most influential tech companies in the country, he wasn’t just a player—he was a power broker. Known for his ruthless business acumen and a knack for turning cutting-edge technology into billion-dollar empires, Holloway had shaped the digital landscape like few others.

There was also a dark rumor that Holloway had killed a political rival years ago. Holloway was never convicted—never even tried—and the rumor had mostly vanished from public consciousness. But it had stained Holloway’s image at the time, and the rumor’s faint echo was always present.

An interesting choice of guests.

Holloway’s presence here at the Crane event wasn’t just a nod of approval; it was a signal to anyone paying attention that Crane’s work had caught the eye of someone with the resources to make—or break—it on a global scale.

From the doorway to the side, Leon Flynn entered the room again after leaving for a few moments. He resumed his position by the wall.

“While we’re making introductions,” Silence said, swallowed. “That’s Leon Flynn.”

Hager snapped his attention to where Silence had indicated. “That’s the guy who took Archie?”

“Yes.”

Silence saw Hager tense. A vein stood out on the side of his neck. For a moment, it looked like Hager would jump right out of his folding chair.

Silence grabbed his arm. “Don’t get any…” He swallowed. “Ideas. Not yet.”

Hager’s nostrils flare. He stared at Flynn for another moment longer, the turned to Silence with a reluctant nod.

The lights dimmed.

Silence looked to the front of the room.

Moira Blackwood approached the seats, smile blazing.

“Ladies and gentleman, thank you. Thank you so much for joining us on our Revere journey.”

Her voice was powerful, soft but booming. Slight Southern accent.

“And that’s exactly what this evening is—a journey. A journey with Adam Crane and the Revere website. Tonight, we’re stepping into a new frontier of groundbreaking technology, one that merges cutting-edge innovation with human connection in ways you’ve never seen before. You will witness demonstrations and experiences that push the boundaries of what’s possible, blending the digital with the deeply personal. I want you to understand the magnitude of what you’re about to see—this is not just another tech showcase. And for those who are truly adventurous, I invite you to explore Adam’s more spiritual side of the Revere technology during the second half of our presentation tomorrow night. If that piques your interest, you won’t want to miss it.”

She paused here, smiling into the crowd.

Applause. Even some gasps.

Silence looked. A few troubled souls were already beginning to cry, dabbing at their eyes.

“One year ago, I was blessed. I was with my husband, Doug, who can’t be with us tonight, at a tech conference downtown. Luck, chance, fate—God, I would say—brought us to a young man, completely brilliant, completely visionary. We took him under our wing, only to discover that he was a genius. A genius! The Good Lord sent a tech prodigy with a spiritual connection to share our home. Adam Crane, the creator of Revere, a revolutionary web-based technology that can recreate the essence of our departed loved ones.”

An image of C.C. flashed through his mind. Silence felt a smile tugging at his lips before he realized he was caught up in the moment, thinking of the impossible—a chance to have C.C. back, even if it was just a web-based avatar. The thought of seeing her again, hearing her voice, even in a hollow, digital form, was enough to make him forget where he was for a second.

He had to admit, the idea of the Revere technology held a certain pull, a dangerous allure he hadn’t expected.

But he caught himself, shutting it down fast. He almost laughed at how easily he’d nearly gotten swept up by the same fantasy he was here to dismantle. He hadn’t even laid eyes on Adam Crane yet, and already he’d been halfway to believing the hype.

And what for? He didn’t need some digital shadow of C.C. He had her right where it mattered—alive and vivid in his mind.

Right on cue, C.C. said, Focus, love.

He did so, bringing his attention back to Moira.

“Not only did we get a genius,” she was saying, “but we got someone in tune with the spiritual side of things, too. Adam’s creation, Revere, made him a tech sensation because, yes, it can create an avatar of a deceased loved one. But the premium version? It goes beyond that. It can connect to… well, the other side, in a fashion. Something about quantum computing, or some such thing. Don’t ask me how it works—I can’t even program the VCR!”

The audience chuckled.

“You’ll have to save your tech questions for Adam. All I know is, with all his brilliance and his incredible gifts, he’s still the sweetest, kindest, most generous soul I’ve ever met. And pretty dang handsome, too, if I’m being honest. Don’t tell Doug I said that, y’all.”

More chuckling.

Silence remembered what Hager had told him about Moira Blackwood’s reputation—that she was notoriously adulterous with a taste for younger, ambitious men.

He also remembered the deduction he’d made—that the younger, ambitious Adam Crane was preying on these tastes of Moira’s.

“But enough of my blabbering,” Moira said. “Who’s ready to begin?”

Cheers, applause.

“I have been truly blessed to have this young man in my life. And I’m so very happy to introduce you to him. Ladies and gentleman, the visionary behind Revere, Mr. Adam Crane.”

Moira retreated, going back to her post at the wall.

A brief delay. Quiet, small, excited voices.

Then a man walked confidently through the velvet curtain.

Loud applause.

Adam Crane.

Smiling. Glowing. Radiant.

He wore a black t-shirt and jeans, a combination that Silence noted looked not dissimilar to Steve Jobs’s famous black-turtleneck-and-Levi’s getup—a purposeful choice, no doubt. His dark blonde hair was perfectly styled, and his piercing blue eyes burned straight through the crowd. He had a charismatic smile that Silence found immediately suspicious… and, admittedly, infectious.

Flynn stepped over and handed Crane some notes. He then retreated but not all the way back to the wall. He stayed a few feet behind Crane, standing attentively, hands behind his back.

“Welcome, everyone. I’m Adam Crane, and I’m here to change your lives.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in as the audience applauded.

“What if I told you that death is no longer the end, that with the power of computers, we can bring back the essence of the loved ones we’ve lost?”

A hushed murmur rippled through the crowd.

He waved a hand toward the screen behind him, and it lit up with the name Revere in an elaborate design—sleek letters in a modern but not too modern style, one that would work for both a tech company and a mortuary. Some graphic designer must’ve spent hours fretting with that balance.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Revere—a revolutionary web-based technology that uses cutting-edge algorithms to recreate the personalities, memories, and mannerisms of your departed loved ones.”

Crane gestured to the screen again, and it switched to a sleek web-based interface.

“Revere doesn’t just show you pictures or play recordings. It creates a living, responsive digital version of your loved one. You can talk to them, ask them questions, share new experiences—all through the power of our proprietary technology.”

Another swing of Crane’s hand, and a lifelike avatar appeared on the screen, smiling and waving at the audience.

A few people gasped.

“This is just the beginning. Tonight, you’ll have the opportunity to experience Revere firsthand. To reconnect with those you’ve lost. To say the things you never got to say.”

Crane’s voice lowered, becoming more intimate.

“But I must warn you—this technology is powerful. It can bring great joy, but it can also reopen old wounds. That’s why we proceed carefully, in stages. Not everyone is ready for the full Revere experience.”

He looked out over the crowd, his gaze intense and captivating.

“Who among you is ready to take the first step into the future? Who is ready to transcend the boundaries between life and death?”

Hands shot up around the room.

Adam Crane smiled, pointed at Mr. Holloway. The other hands went down.

“You sir. Please, tell us who you’d like to connect with tonight.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Flynn watched him.

Adam Crane.

There was a time when Flynn trusted the man. Hell, Flynn had given up his previous employment just to be in the man’s orbit.

And this had only been a few weeks ago.

Like so many others, Flynn had rapidly fallen under the Adam Crane spell.

But, unlike the others, Flynn had been exposed to the truth.

Crane was listening to the person he’d invited to speak, the older gentleman in the first row who’d given his name as Robert Holloway, CEO of Tilt Systems. As an insider, Flynn knew Crane had had his eye on Holloway for some time.

Holloway was now standing. He wept as he passionately told the story of his dead daughter, lost to cancer five years ago.

Crane nodded thoughtfully, gave a few insights, encouraged him to continue.

Flynn knew what would happen next. After the man finished his story, Crane would offer him the chance to see his daughter again—at least a version of her—through the basic Revere system. But then, if the man seemed receptive, Crane would take a step or two closer and suggest that, for someone truly open-minded, Revere could go further—linking him to a more spiritual side of his daughter, her remnants lingering in the ether.

This was Crane’s game—playing the savior. But Flynn knew better. The man was a fraud, and a wicked one at that, praying on people’s deepest-held feelings, their yearning for deceased loved ones. Yet with all the influence Crane wielded, he still had weak spots. He needed someone to watch his back. And since Crane had managed to fool so many into believing he was some kind of visionary, it meant Flynn had his own role to play—keeping the scam artist safe.

Because although Flynn was too smart for his own good, in some ways he was naive.

And he’d gotten himself in too deep with Adam Crane.

Crane owned him.

If only Flynn had used that big ol’ brain of his…

He’d always been the smartest kid in class, the one with all the answers, the one who finished tests first. This label, this reputation, had stuck with him all these years, to the point where he felt trapped by it, despite his best efforts to break free.

The label was a burden, especially in comparison to his brother, Samson, who seemed to coast through life with ease. Flynn’s intelligence had set him apart, made him a target for ridicule and isolation.

His family, particularly his Momma, didn’t approve of Flynn’s employment. They had been heavily invested in his academic success, and knowing that Flynn now worked as a bodyguard had sent Momma into a rage. The Flynns were an educated family, with generations of doctors, lawyers, and professors. That’s where their pride originated. And it was blasphemous, Momma contended, for Flynn to willingly throw away his potential.

You’re wasting your life, Leon, Momma’s voice echoed in his head. All that potential, all those opportunities, and you choose to be a glorified bouncer? You’re breaking my heart.

It had been years since Momma outwardly expressed her distaste for Flynn’s choices, but for his entire life, Flynn had absorbed her underhanded venom. Disappointed sighs. Comparisons to more successful cousins. Little snide comments that Flynn was smart enough to understand all too well.

Why can’t you be more like your brother? Momma would say. Samson’s making something of himself. He’s not throwing away his God-given talents.

That’s not how a mother was supposed to act. It wasn’t right. No one, blood-related or not, should be cruel to someone because of their intelligence or choices. That’s how Flynn thought of it, what he labeled it as. His burden of brilliance. He wasn’t a failure or a disappointment. He was just on a different path than Momma expected.

But Momma had a way of cutting Flynn down. She told him his intelligence—or “wasted potential,” as she called it—was what should have led him to greatness. Flynn didn’t lack ambition—in fact, it was quite the opposite—but he lacked the desire to follow the path Momma had laid out for him.

After declining multiple scholarship offers and turning down prestigious university acceptances, Flynn had emerged into the world determined to forge his own path. He was going to do something different, something that challenged him physically as well as mentally.

He began seeking employment in the security industry. There was plenty of that need in the tech world. He didn’t like the idea of being someone’s human shield, but at least it wasn’t what Momma wanted.

He thought his dreams had been answered when he joined up with Adam Crane, agreeing to be the primary bodyguard for a tech prodigy. He’d never felt such a proud sense of responsibility and duty, watching over this brilliant and gifted individual. He finally had a job that excited him.

Initially, Flynn had been a true believer in Crane’s vision. The technology seemed revolutionary, and Crane’s charisma was infectious. But as time went on, Flynn began to see cracks in the facade. The morally ambiguous activities, the secrets, the lies - it all started to add up.

Now, Flynn found himself trapped. He knew Crane was utterly evil, though the full extent of his crimes remained hidden. Yet Flynn couldn’t leave, couldn’t expose what he knew. He was in too deep, and the consequences of speaking out seemed too dire to contemplate.

And so, Flynn continued to play his role, all while grappling with the weight of his knowledge and the guilt of his complicity. He’d escaped one trap…

…only to find himself ensnared in another, far more dangerous one.

Crane’s eyes were closed. The sympathetic, spiritual visionary. Finally, when Holloway was done speaking, Crane opened his eyes and said, “I can help you see your daughter again.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Just look at these people.

Lined up to get a heaping helping of hocus-pocus.

Silence groaned.

He and Hager were in the queue that was lined up to go through the small, veneered door in the back, waiting to have their one-on-one sessions with Adam Crane, the next stage of the event.

In these sessions, Crane was to determine—with his supposed spiritual connection—if the individuals would be candidates for the more spiritual component of his Revere software.

Nearly everyone in attendance had signed up for the one-on-one sessions.

Silence studied them. Polished shoes tapping impatiently. Manicured hands fidgeting with purses. Hushed whispers of anticipation. These pillars of society were practically vibrating with childlike excitement as they waited in line to speak to a conman.

The age-old snake oil salesman routine—dressed up in modern tech clothing, but apparently still as effective as ever.

Silence tried not to shake his head.

And as he did, he caught a glimpse of Hager behind him. The man was just as anxious looking as the others. In fact, worse. Hager was slightly pale with a bit of sweat glistening his forehead. He rubbed his hands together.

Silence raised an eyebrow.

“I know, I know,” Hager said, averting his eyes from Silence’s stare. “It’s just… I try to be open-minded, you know? It’s just, things haven’t been good with Kassidy in a while, and I… could use a win, something to believe in.”

“Kassidy’s your wife?”

“Yeah. Well… Yeah, she is, but… It’s a long story.”

A long story? Silence thought, confused. But he let it be.

Hager turned away. “Look, I’m gonna run to the bathroom. Be right back.”

He left suddenly.

While Silence was trying to process this, the man behind him—where Hager had stood a moment earlier—spoke up.

“Your friend seems on the edge,” the man snickered.

It was an older gentleman in a droopy tux—white hair, white beard, done-with-life-and-all-its-bullshit demeanor. Earlier, Silence had studied the crowd thoroughly, of course, noting all the individuals, and this was one of the the few people—aside from Silence himself—who seemed to be a sceptic. Silence had gotten the impression the man who had been dragged to the event by his wife.

As Silence turned to the man now, the man was grinning—a skepticism so dark, so smug, that Silence immediately hoped that this hadn’t been the impression that he’d given Hager moments earlier when he raised an eyebrow at him. Silence certainly didn’t like the idea of offending someone’s hopes, no matter how different they might be from his own.

Besides, C.C. had been a devotee of the spiritual side of life. There’s a good chance she would have been as big of a believer as Hager or any of the rest of them.

Silence watched Hager turn a corner, heading past the foyer and going for the restroom.

He looked at the smug man behind him. Didn’t reply. Turned back around to face the front.

Someone stepped up to him, just behind him, out of his sightline. Silence felt the person’s presence, inches away. He turned. It was Flynn—Crane’s bodyguard.

“Can I have a word with you?” Flynn said.

Silence looked at the other people in line. He knew he shouldn’t follow this man, but he also knew he couldn’t make a scene.

So he just nodded.

He stepped out of the line and followed Flynn toward the darkened kitchen. They slipped through a side door and stepped out into the night, moving down a short set of steps that led to the auto court.

Once they were out of view from the rest of the crowd, Flynn spun around. He crossed his arms over his chest. Streetlight glinted off his shaved head. “I can’t let you get in a one-on-one situation with Mr. Crane.”

“Why?” Silence said.

For a moment, Flynn was too stunned to respond—a standard first-time reaction to Silence’s voice. Then the man’s eyes narrowed. “Because I don’t trust you.”

Silence didn’t respond. Just stared back at him for a long moment. Then he turned away, but Flynn’s hand clamped down on his back, yanking him back hard. With his trained reflexes, Silence immediately spun around and caught his balance. But Flynn was quick, grabbing him by the throat with a firm grip, his eyes locked on Silence’s with cold determination.

Flynn’s goatee twitched as he sneered. “I said⁠—

Silence lunged forward and grabbed Flynn by the jacket. He spun a full revolution, building up momentum, and then released Flynn, sending him flying past a Porsche en route to the detached garage at the back of the court. Flynn slammed into the wall with a grunt but recovered quickly, pushing off and coming at Silence again, fist swinging with a surprising speed and force. Silence felt a flicker of respect. Flynn had some fight in him, more than he’d given him credit for.

But it wasn’t enough to counter Silence’s skillset. As a fist came at him, Silence easily ducked his head to the side. Flynn’s punch cracked into the garage door, the impact making a warbling metallic noise. Flynn let out a howl of pain.

And Silence saw his opening.

He moved in with an uppercut, precise and brutal, catching Flynn right in the soft spot under his chin and snapping his head back.

Silence backed away, steady on his feet, but Flynn wasn’t done. He shook off the blow and charged after him, eyes wild, a growl rising from his throat. A trickle of blood ran down his lip, but it seemed only to fuel his rage.

Silence’s back bumped into something.

He turned. A garden hose reel.

And as Flynn bounded over—fingers spread wide—Silence grabbed the metal reel, hefted it with all his might, and swung it like a club, catching Flynn across the face. Flynn stumbled back in a wide-eyed daze. Silence grabbed the lapels of Flynn’s suit jacket, planted his leg, and pulled Flynn toward him, swiftly wrapping the hose around his arms and torso.

Flynn was all tied up now, cartoon-damsel-on-the-railroad-tracks style. He growled, trying to shake free, his legs kicking uselessly.

Silence straightened his necklace, which had gone askew during the scuffle.

Then he went back up the steps and inside the house.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

It was time for Silence’s one-on-one.

He stepped into the dimly lit room.

Adam Crane sat behind a small table. His perfectly styled dark blonde hair caught the soft glow from the lamp in the corner. The room was tiny, a partition from an original, larger area, no doubt. Not only was it small in width, but was also short in height—only an inch or two of clearance for Silence’s six-foot-three figure.

Though the space was clearly temporary, it had been thoroughly decorated, almost theatrically so. This made sense, of course—stage dressing for the snake oil salesman act.

Everything was sleek and modern, a jarring shift from the warm, historic feel of the rest of the house. There was a small table in the back corner, home to a futuristic lamp of Sharper Image caliber and a few decorative objects styled like abstract circuit boards. A slightly larger table—this one home to a pair of chairs and a laptop—sat in the center of the room.

Adam Crane was seated in one of the chairs, hands stacked on the tabletop. He smiled broadly and motioned to the empty chair. Silence sat. They faced each other across the table.

Crane looked past Silence toward the door. Frowned. Then the showman’s smile returned, and he brought his attention back to Silence.

“You must be my newcomer,” Crane said and glanced at the laptop. “Brad, is it?”

Silence nodded.

“Brad who?”

“Just Brad.”

Crane’s smile faltered slightly at the sound of Silence’s voice. He gave another concerned look to the door then pulled the laptop closer. “Let’s begin, shall we?”

Silence didn’t respond.

“Take a deep breath. In. Out.”

Silence complied. And the act felt familiar. Uncomfortably so. Among C.C.’s many esoteric interests, she’d been quite interested in yoga, meditation, breath work, and the like. As Jake Rowe, Silence had done countless breathing exercises.

And as Silence Jones, after C.C.’s death, he continued with the the exercises. He frequently used breathing techniques and short meditations to calm the tempest of his overactive mind, especially during tense moments in his missions.

Crane squinted at his laptop, tapped a few keys. “Who would you like to connect with through Revere?”

“No one.”

Crane tilted his head.

“Then why are you here?” he said with a chuckle

“Call it morbid…” Silence said, swallowed. “Curiosity.”

Crane nodded, his eyes narrowing slightly. He’d picked up on the subtle hint Silence had laid down: I’m not here like for the same reasons as all the others, Crane. I’m here to bring you down.

“There must be someone you’ve lost,” Crane pressed. “You know I have a special connection to the other side, right? Yes, let’s see what Revere can find.”

Silence didn’t respond. He watched Crane instead.

Crane’s eyes focused on the laptop. He pecked a few more keys. “Revere is detecting a strong emotional connection. Someone whose absence left a void. Someone who… haunts you, for lack of better word. A woman, perhaps?”

It was so random yet on-target that the hairs on Silence’s arms immediately stood up. Because Silence had indeed been haunted by someone since he first arrived in St. Augustine.

C.C.

Silence felt the memories of her and their romantic weekend together, right in this area, years ago.

She haunted him always—not just in St. Augustine—in the best possible way.

She spoke to him now. Focus, love, C.C. said. This man is dangerous. Don’t fall for his bullshit.

Silence stared back at Crane, didn’t respond.

Crane traced his finger on the laptop’s trackpad. “Revere is picking up on a woman with… how to put this… a vibrant spirit, a powerful energy.”

A vibrant spirit…

C.C.

Whisking Silence away to an impromptu weekend vacation in St. Augustine. The lighthouse. A ghost tour. Pausing for a meditation here, a breathing exercise there.

Free-spirted.

Vibrant.

Not just here. But home, too. Pensacola. Home. C.C. Her nose in a book. Her flamboyant clothing choices. Her⁠—

Love! C.C. yelled. Focus! Crane is using vaguenesses, getting your own mind to fill in the blanks—the tactic of conmen and grifters for centuries.

She was right. She always was.

Silence was having an emotional reaction, losing sight of logic. That wouldn’t do.

Silence hated emotions.

He blinked. And focused his attention on Crane, who was typing more rapidly now.

It was time for Silence to turn the tables.

“Let me ask…” Silence said, swallowed. “You something.”

Crane froze, fingers hovering over the keys. He slowly turned, met Silence’s gaze, looking more than a little thrown off. “Yes?”

“What does…” Silence said, swallowed. “StashPoint storage facility mean to you?”

Crane’s lips parted. Ever so slightly.

He’d tried to hide it. But couldn’t.

Gotcha.

Silence had caught him.

And Crane knew it, too. Because buried in his steady gaze there was something else—a hint of bewilderment, maybe even fear. He knew that Silence knew.

His jig was up.

Surely there had been others who had questioned Crane’s authenticity. But this would be the first time someone had invoked the seeming human-trafficking operation just outside the city limits.

Crane’s mouth opened farther, started to speak…

And the door behind Silence suddenly swung open.

In walked Flynn. Sweaty. Disheveled. Holding a hand to his temple where Silence had slugged him.

Crane’s eyes stayed on Silence for just a moment longer then turned past him to look at Flynn.

“Where the hell have you been?” The calm facade slipped for a moment, revealing genuine anger.

Flynn bowed his head. “Apologies, Mr. Crane.”

Crane looked away from him, toward Silence. “Thank you for your time, but I need to move onto my next guest. I’ll see you later at the next stage of the event.”

Silence smiled at him. Stood up.

Then he gave a smile to Flynn as well.

And he left.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A few minutes later, Silence waited for Hager in the living room among the now empty folding chairs. Through the doorway, he could see other people lined up to wait for their one-on-ones, while others mingled and chatted excitedly. He was alone.

Hager appeared at the corner and approached, looking disappointed. “Crane wasn’t able to find anything in the Revere system about my deceased loved one,” he said. “I won’t be able to go to the next segment of tonight’s session. He said I’ll have to return at the beginning of tomorrow night’s session.”

Silence was surprised Crane would tell anyone their loved ones were unreachable via his fraudulent technology.

And he realized that Hager still hadn’t told him who he was mourning over.

“Want to share who…” Silence said, swallowed. “Your dead loved one is now?”

Like last time, Hager said simply, “No.”

Pivoting to a different way of helping the man, Silence said, “You know it’s all…” He swallowed. “Bullshit, right? Revere, Crane.”

Hager just looked at him, not responding. But Silence could see the hurt in his eyes.

Guilt sprang upon Silence with ferocity—a backhanded slap of remorse. He’d thought what he said would help, but clearly Hager was an even truer believer than Silence had originally thought.

To change the subject, Silence pulled out his PenPal and scribbled out a note, handed it to Hager. Since I’m going to the next segment, could you do some more investigating for us? Specifically, could you check out Moira Blackwood’s husband? He lives in a separate estate outside the city limits.

Silence had reached out to Watchers Specialists with another information retrieval request—this one a proper, mission-oriented inquiry. He’d uncovered that Doug and Moira Blackwood owned two estates: the one he was currently in and a larger country estate outside the city limits.

The country estate sprawled over fifty acres of upscale countryside—definitely not a working farm, but more of a luxurious retreat, with manicured lawns, a private pond, and expansive woodlands. It had the kind of wide, open space that screamed old money and exclusivity, a place for riding horses or hosting lavish outdoor parties without a neighbor in sight.

The two-houses-living-separately-from-each-other setup lined up with what Silence already knew about the Blackwoods. Moira, a decade younger than Doug, was known for her promiscuity and her preference for younger men. It wasn’t hard to imagine how Doug fit into that picture—a wealthy, powerful man, but one who had likely been worn down over the years.

Silence couldn’t help but feel a pang of pity for this stranger, assuming Doug must be a broken and beaten man, maintaining his fortune and influence while his personal life slipped further out of his control.

“How am I going to get access to another Blackwood?” Hager asked.

“You’re a private…” Silence said and swallowed. “Investigator.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are tonight.”

“Huh?”

“My organization…” Swallow. “Has resources. Check your email.”

When Hager read the email Silence had a Specialist send him, he would find credentials and a fake identity, both of which would stand up to scrutiny of a night’s worth of work.

For a moment, it looked like Hager was going to say something. But then he just threw up his hands, and with a resigned laugh, he said, “All right. Fine. And there’s someone else I can talk to tonight, someone who can help us out. I’ll call her right now.”

Silence nodded.

And Hager left.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Who the hell was calling so late?

Rachel Kovacs hated getting phone calls at odd hours—she’d made it clear to friends and family that people needed time to disconnect—but when the phone rang around 9:37 PM, she welcomed it.

Her son, Ethan, was refusing to eat his macaroni and cheese. Instead, he was using it as modeling clay, sculpting little towers and creatures on his plate. That’s why she welcomed the nocturnal telephone call.

Anything for a break.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Rachel. It’s Terry Hager.”

The voice was familiar enough, but it took her a second. She knew Terry—Archie’s friend. They’d crossed paths a few times during custody handoffs with Ethan and at a few events where both parents had to put on a united front.

She didn’t know Terry that well, but over the last year, she’d gotten to know him some. A nice guy, if not a bit on the serious side. She was glad Archie was making friends with quality people, even if Archie still frustrated her more often than not.

“Terry? What’s going on?”

“Sorry to bother you this late,” Terry said, his voice sounding a bit strained. “But have you heard from Archie lately?”

“Nope.”

“I’m sorry to say this, but I think he might be missing.”

Rachel groaned. “There’s no way. He’s probably off on one of his dumbass adventures, somewhere remote, trying to get an adrenaline kick while defeating the evil forces of the world. You know how he is. Somewhere so far out there, it doesn’t even have cell reception.”

As she said this, Rachel felt a familiar pang of frustration. The divorce was still a fresh wound, barely over a year old. While Archie had shown continued signs of growth—which coincided with the changes in tone of his Daredevil Dispatch blog and community—his reckless streak remained intact.

It was that recklessness, that constant need for danger and excitement, that had driven a wedge between them in the first place. She’d hoped that becoming a father would temper his wild side.

But Archie’s idea of being a good dad involved showing Ethan how to “live life to the fullest,” which to Rachel translated to “taking unnecessary risks.” The hurt of their failed marriage was only amplified by watching Archie continue down this path, seemingly oblivious to how his choices affected those around him.

“I get that,” Hager said, still sounding serious. “But I really think something’s up this time. He hasn’t checked in, and it’s not like him to go off-grid like this without a heads-up.”

Rachel paused, sensing the true concern in Hager’s voice. “Look, I don’t know what to tell you. Archie and I don’t talk much unless we have to.”

She thought for a moment. Something told her this wasn’t a call she could brush off. And as much as she didn’t want to get involved, she felt a tug of obligation.

“But… I’ve got a key to his house,” she said reluctantly. “I can swing by and see if there’s anything unusual.”

“Really appreciate it.”

“No problem,” she sighed. But then she remembered something that made her realize she should be gentler with this man. She said, “How’s Kassidy?”

A slight pause. “She’s sleeping a lot these days.” Another pause. “Thank you for asking.”

“Of course.”

She hung up and stared off for a moment, her mind turning over the situation.

Then her son flung a handful of macaroni in the air like confetti.

That’ll snap a person back to reality.

“Ethan, stop that, honey. Pasta isn’t a party favor.” She scooted him away from the table, and her thoughts went back to what she’d just agreed to.

Returning to Archie’s house…

It wasn’t like she hadn’t been there in a while. With the back-and-forth of belongings and all the other logistical hassles of a divorce, she’d found herself at his place more than she’d like to admit. But it had been a good four months now, and she’d enjoyed not having to step foot in his territory.

Still, sometimes a woman’s gotta things she doesn’t want to do.

This felt like one of those times.

Shit…

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Silence counted the members of his group: thirteen.

There had been fourteen originally. That meant only one person hadn’t been invited to the evening’s next stage—Hager.

Interesting.

Silence followed the group into a spacious room at the back of the house. The hardwood walls were lined with sleek monitors and high-tech equipment. In the center of the room stood a rectangular chamber constructed of a metal frame with plexiglass walls offering an unobstructed view of the interior.

Inside was a treadmill with various obstacles protruding from its surface. Above it hung a complex array of sensors and cameras.

Excited whispers filled the air as the guests crowded around the chamber. Smiles. Pointing.

Silence hung back.

Moira Blackwood stepped to the center of the room, that oversized smile of hers on full display. “Ladies and gentlemen, you’ve already aligned your spiritual auras with Revere. But for the software to work as intended, we need to establish a physical connection as well. A simple test, if you will.”

Apprehension rippled through the crowd.

Moira laughed, her Southern charm disarming their concerns. “Don’t worry. It’s nothing too strenuous. We’ll make sure you don’t mess up all those pretty dresses and suits.”

The audience chuckled.

Adam Crane took his place next to the chamber, while Flynn stationed himself at a nearby control panel. Crane’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “Folks, it’s nothing more than a brisk walk on a treadmill… with a twist.”

Robert Holloway, the tech mogul, was the first to enter the chamber. The treadmill started slow, barely above a walking pace. Small hurdles rose and fell, but they were low enough for Holloway to step over without breaking stride. Foam cylinders swung from the sides, which he batted away with a grin. He emerged from the chamber looking barely winded, straightening his tie with a sheepish smile.

The second participant—a middle-aged woman in a skirt suit—had a similar experience. The treadmill’s speed remained gentle, while the obstacles were more minor inconveniences than actual challenges. She let out a delighted laugh as she dodged a few soft projectiles. When her turn ended, she stepped out with a flush of excitement, not unlike Holloway’s reaction.

Both Holloway and the woman were smiling and chatty as they rejoined the group. Their easy success seemed to put the rest of the participants at ease.

Silence, however, had the sense something was off.

And C.C. had always told him to listen to his intuition.

Moira smiled at Silence and waved him toward the chamber. He stepped inside.

Flynn followed him and attached sensors to his temples and wrists, his touch unnecessarily rough. He winked as he left—a wicked wink.

“Begin,” Crane’s voice came through a speaker.

Silence began to walk. He felt the steady churn of the treadmill through the soles of his derbies. The hum of the machinery droned in his ears, almost hypnotic.

At first, it was a simple stroll. But then small obstacles began to emerge—foam rubber blocks rising from the treadmill’s surface, forcing him to step over or weave around them.

The pace picked up. He adjusted his stride, stepping quickly over hurdles that sprang up unexpectedly. The walk became a brisk march, the treadmill tilting slightly from side to side, testing his balance.

“Fascinating brainwave patterns,” Crane’s voice said through the speaker. His eyes darted between Silence and the monitors. “But we should stop.”

Silence could tell he was already going faster than either of the first two participants.

Through the plexiglass, he caught a glimpse of Flynn, sitting behind the controls. Flynn’s eyes were locked on him, his hands working the dials and switches with a twisted glee.

Silence’s jaw tightened. He knew exactly what Flynn was doing.

The treadmill sped up again, forcing Silence into a light jog. The whir of the belt grew louder. Rapidly, the jog turned into a faster pace. Sweat began to bead on Silence’s forehead.

“That’s enough,” Crane said to Flynn.

Silence glanced through the plexiglass again—Flynn was watching him, eyes cold.

The machine surged again. Silence went to a full run. His legs pumped harder. Suddenly, a hurdle popped up in front of him. He leapt over it, barely clearing it, kept going.

The floor beneath him tilted, throwing his balance off. He adjusted quickly, pivoting, feet finding a new rhythm. Foam projectiles shot from the sides; he juked left, right.

He saw the audience outside murmuring, their excitement having changed to concern.

The treadmill went even faster. The obstacles became more erratic. Projectiles came quicker, harder.

Silence stumbled, nearly fell. He caught a glimpse of Flynn’s face, twisted in a sadistic grin.

“I said, that’s enough!” Crane shouted.

Flynn’s hand slammed down on a big, red emergency stop button…

…and the treadmill came to an abrupt halt.

Silence went flying.

Over the obstacles. Over the handrail.

And into the plexiglass wall.

Whack!

Pain exploded across his body as he crumpled to the floor.

For a moment, Silence lay there, stunned, gasping.

Then, with a surge of strength, he pushed himself to his feet, unlatched the door, threw it open…

…and slugged Flynn across the jaw.

Flynn fell out of his chair.

Screams from the audience.

As Silence drew back for another punch, the crowd gasping in horror, someone stepped between them.

Moira Blackwood.

She lifted a hand. “Oh my goodness, Mr. Brad, I’m so, so sorry! I don’t know what happened!”

Silence looked down at Flynn—on the floor, rubbing his jaw—and back at Moira.

“I do,” he said.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Hager hadn’t left the city limits in a while. It felt good to be in the country.

Therapeutic, even.

Apparently, he needed this.

Perhaps it was also therapeutic to assume a different persona for a few minutes. Hopefully. Because that’s exactly what he was doing here in the country: using the fabricated credentials Brad had emailed him to pose as private investigator Kip Lambert.

The mansion he was currently in was different from the one he had been to earlier in the historic district, but like the other, it also belonged to the Blackwoods. This one was larger, newer. The interior was ultra-modern and sleek. There were long panes of glass, pieces of polished metal, and minimalist furniture. Exposed steel beams crossed the ceiling.

Large windows looked out into an open field. Dark outlines of forests edged the periphery. Way out in the distance, somewhere in the middle of the fifty acres in a swath of open field, was large, squarish building. Looked more like a warehouse than a barn. The sky was dark but there was plenty of moonlight, making the field glow. The little flashes of heat lightning every few seconds gave the field an almost surreal quality, illuminating the structure a bit more, revealing to Hager what seemed to be a cinderblock construction.

Doug Blackwood walked in with two tumblers in his left hand, his fingers pinching them together.

“Drink, Detective Lambert?” Doug said, extending one of the tumblers in Hager’s direction as he sat on the burgundy leather sofa.

“Oh, I’m fine. Thank you, Mr. Blackwood.”

“More for me, then.” He gave the extra tumbler a happy little shake, rattling the ice cubes. “And call me Doug.”

Doug didn’t need “more.” He was already three sheets to the wind.

“Okay, Doug,” Hager said. “And thank you for your time. I know you’re a busy man.”

Hager settled into an ergonomic chair across from Hager—polished metal frame, orange leather cushions—and got his first good look at the other man as Doug flipped on the floor lamp.

Doug had a slight build and a face that was odd mix of age and youth, though Hager knew he was in his sixties. He wore a polo shirt, jeans. A flap of hair atop his head looked like a toupee but was not. His eyes were glossed-over from his tipsiness, but there was a sadness in them too, a kind of despair that seeped through despite the faint, polite smile he’d worn since Hager arrived.

Hager turned to the window again, looked at the structure in the distance. “That’s quite a building out there. Looks industrial, almost.”

“Oh, that?” Doug waved his hand dismissively. “It’s something related to one of Moira’s side businesses. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure what goes on out there. She’s always getting into something new, and we tend to stay out of each other’s business.”

At this, Hager’s mind flashed on gossip in the society pages—the poorly kept secret that Moira Blackwood slept with lots of other, younger men. He thought, Yeah, I’d say you stay out of each other’s business, all right.

“I’m hoping you can tell me a bit more about you and your wife and your relationship with Adam Crane.”

“Adam? Is he in some sort of trouble?”

“No, sir. But someone disappeared not long after attending one of his Revere sessions—Archie Kovacs.”

“That clown?” Doug snorted. The ice cubes rattled in his tumbler. “Kovacs probably got lost somewhere doing that website of his. Damn do-gooder idiot.”

Hager winced. His fist balled. But he caught himself before he could say—or do—something stupid. He was Kip Lambert right now, not Terry Hager.

He was formulating something to say, when Doug started speaking again.

“Tell ya, it’s the weirdest thing, really. Moira and I were at this tech expo in town, and there’s this young guy with a laptop, showing off some kind of web interface. Of course, there are plenty of startups at these events. They’re everywhere. But this one was different. His tech looked real, and frankly, revolutionary.”

Doug paused, taking a sip of his drink before continuing. “Turns out, he’d snuck into the expo. Stole a lanyard and commandeered an unmanned booth until event staff kicked him out. You believe that? Ha! But the guy didn’t leave. He just popped open his laptop and started wandering around, cold-approaching attendees. Ballsy move, if you ask me.”

He chuckled, shaking his head in admiration. “Moira was intrigued. You know how she is with her charitable work and that eccentric personality of hers. She saw potential in the kid. Or maybe she was just entertained by his boldness. Either way, she took him under her wing.”

I’m sure that’s not all she saw in him, Hager thought. Out loud, he said, “So you believe his claims about the technology?”

“Oh, absolutely. Especially after the miracles I’ve seen it perform. It is truly groundbreaking. It can recreate lifelike personalities and let people talk to their dead loved ones. I mean, really lifelike. It’s incredible.”

This gave Hager some hope. He had been sorely disappointed when he hadn’t been able to go further in tonight’s program like Jones had, but maybe at tomorrow night’s session he get closer to using Revere himself.

For now, he pushed on. “A fellow P.I. followed a suspicious vehicle from your house in city last night. A black pickup truck. Does that sound familiar to you?”

Doug waved it off. “Probably something to do with the Crane event tonight. I wouldn’t know anything about that. I’ve not been to any of the sessions.”

Hager cocked his head. “Sir, I’m confused. The events take place at your house. And you’re not only Crane’s benefactor but also a true believer.”

“Crane says I have a dark energy.” He chuckled. “That it would interfere with the aura or whatever. His ‘spiritual connection’ and all that. You don’t think that, do ya? I seem like a nice enough guy, yeah?”

“Yes, sir. Very friendly.”

Doug’s smile barely formed before the tumbler was back at his lips. It had been a small smile anyway.

Desperation hung over the man like a raincloud. Even in his own home.

His own mansion.

Poor bastard.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Archie had grown oddly accustomed to the dry air, the heat, and the hum of the box fan. Maybe it was the sedatives Landers had been pumped into him an hour earlier. But the atmosphere felt almost peaceful now.

Landers had barely moved. He just sat on that chair by the door of the makeshift medical room, a magazine in his hands, flipping pages.

“Hey, Landers,” Archie said.

The other man looked up.

“You know who I am, right?” Archie said. “Flynn told you.”

“That’s right.”

“So you know I’m rich…”

Landers raised an eyebrow.

Archie had been formulating a proposal in his head for a while. It was simple. Too simple. Impotent. Stupid. But it was worth a shot. Landers seemed like a pretty dull knife, so, hell, maybe it would work. He threw it out there.

“Landers, listen. I have money. You know this. Let’s deal. Let me out of here, and I’ll make it worth your while. Cash. More than you’d ever make working for these people.”

He didn’t mean that, really. He took his work as an investigative journalist seriously, and he wanted to take this scumbag and everyone associated with him down. Archie hated lying and deceiving, so should Landers take him up on the offer, Archie would expose him, most certainly double-crossing him. It would be a rotten thing to do. But they’d drugged him and were holding him against his will. Archie could live with the guilt.

As it turned out, his worries were all for naught because Landers said, “Trying to bribe me? That ain’t good.”

“I have an ex-wife. Her name’s Rachel. Rach, I call her. I’ve been doing my damndest to make myself a better man, something to get her back. And my son, too. Ethan is his name. He’s two. She got custody in the divorce. You got any kids, Landers?”

Again, his efforts were in vain. Because Landers just shook his head, didn’t break his gaze from his magazine.

“I feel for ya, bud. I really do. But I got my own set of problems.”

“Yeah,” Archie said quietly as he let his head sink back into the thin pad of the gurney. “I’m sure you do.”

A feeble attempt. That’s what it had been. If Rachel had seen it, back during their worst days, back when things were at a boiling point, she would have called it a “reckless” attempt. And then she would have told him he was being irresponsible. Again.

When they’d first met, Rachel had been transfixed by Archie’s passion, his drive. While neither one of them were saplings at the time, they were still in their relative youth—their late twenties—and his youthful exuberance had won her over. He’d been a playboy, yes. But he liked to think he was a playboy with a heart of gold. He’d never really cared about the money. He didn’t care about titles, either. In the end, he only cared about the dream—what would eventually become the Daredevil Dispatch—something he felt passionate about, something he knew he had a talent for, something with which he knew he could make a positive impact upon the world. And Rachel absolutely loved it. She was smitten, and she knew it. Archie knew it too.

But as the years went by, Rachel’s admiration turned to concern. She wasn’t a thrill-seeker like Archie. She was more of a realist. And realists need stability and safety. In Rachel’s eyes, Archie’s pursuit of dangerous stories and his constant need for excitement was no longer charming—it was reckless, harkening back to the playboy days.

Her concerns only intensified when Ethan was born. Archie’s blog, the Daredevil Dispatch, was taking off, but with that came more risks, more danger. Rachel couldn’t bear the thought of Ethan growing up without a father because Archie had taken one risk too many.

So she left, taking Ethan with her before he was even two years old.

As Archie lay there, thinking about his past, a realization struck him. After the breakup, his heart had yearned to be with his son, but the loss of Rachel never affected him as much as one might have expected. He was so caught up with his work at the Daredevil Dispatch that he, in a way, hardly registered the loss of his wife.

Perhaps this was a sign that Rachel was right, that he was immature; emotionally, at least.

But now, suddenly, in this position as a prisoner, not knowing whether he was going to live or die, he found himself missing not only Ethan but Rachel too. He missed his family. The weight of that realization struck him hard.

Archie had studied lots of motivational programs in his pursuit of his dreams. One overarching concept was that of setting small goals to achieve a vision. Keep your eye on the prize and all that. If he was going to achieve his larger vision of being reunited with Rachel and Ethan, he first had to survive this ordeal he’d found himself in.

His initial attempt, trying to bribe Landers, hadn’t worked. So Archie was going to need to take more drastic measures.

Things were going to have to get violent.

But beyond that, Archie made a promise to himself. If he got out of this alive, he was going to do whatever it took to get his family back. Not just Ethan, but Rachel too. He was going to prove to her that he could be the husband and father they needed—passionate about his work, yes, but not at the expense of his family’s security and peace of mind.

With this new resolve burning in his chest, Archie began to formulate his plan of escape.

CHAPTER TWENTY

There was a woman’s hand on Silence’s back.

And he didn’t like it.

Especially how it kept stroking up and down every few moments in a seemingly friendly manner.

Seemingly.

The touch made him recoil, made his mind flash on C.C.

Silence knew all about Moira Blackwood’s proclivity for adultery and her taste for younger men, and though he didn’t know her exact age, he was clearly a decade-plus younger than her.

She’d been particularly eager to offer him a change of clothing after his flight into the plexiglass wall ruined his suit. Now, the somewhat salacious nature of Moira’s touch brought a sense of near guilt to Silence. Though she was gone, C.C. remained his one and only.

No one else could compare.

And no one else should be touching him.

Moira led Silence down a dimly lit hallway—wooden walls, plush carpeting, sconce lights—on the second floor of the house.

“So sorry about your accident, Mr. Brad!”

Silence grunted.

Moria pressed a bit harder on his back, guiding him around a corner. And as she did, her fingers moved a little too much, a little too friendly.

“I have some spare clothes we keep for guests,” she said. “We should be able to find something that’ll fit you.” She looked him up and down. “Though, you are a big thing, aren’t you?”

She stopped at one of the doors and opened it for him. Inside was a bedroom that perfectly befitted the grandeur of the mansion—ornate woodwork, antique furnishings, a four-poster bed draped with heavy, luxurious fabrics.

“Over there,” she said, pointing to a wardrobe. “Take what you need.”

She smiled and left, closing the door behind her.

Silence took off his ruined jacket then shimmied out of the tattered remains of his suit pants. He picked the pants up, examined the holes. Then he looked at the jacket, also hole-riddled. Shook his head.

His perfectly tailored Canali suit…

He sighed.

There was a trash can beside the wardrobe. He dropped the jacket and pants inside.

He pulled open a few drawers and found chinos and a button-up short-sleeve to wear. It was nothing compared to what the other guests were wearing, but at least it wasn’t t-shirt-and-jeans. Or sweatpants.

After dressing, Silence stepped over to the full-length mirror and checked himself out. The clothes fit well. And there’d been enough choices that he’d been able to create a suitable outfit—tan pants, white shirt, striped belt.

Not bad.

He put his shoes back on, then switched his mind to more critical matters. He had finally been afforded a moment alone in this house. Probably the only such moment he would get. How to capitalize upon it? He opened the dresser drawers. Mostly empty. A few more spare pieces of clothing. Some empty storage containers. Nothing of interest. Same for the nightstand.

On the other side of the room was a closed door leading to an adjoining room. There was a decent sized gap between the bottom of the door and the floor. He stepped over, got to his knees, looked beneath.

Clearly no lights were turned on in the room, but there was a bit of illumination from the open windows. He could see the bottoms of what looked like servers or other tech equipment. He stood up, took his lock-picking tools from his pocket, and worked on the lock. After a moment of fiddling, he heard the click. He put his tools away.

He swung the door open. The windows were uncovered, and muted light from the exterior illumination filtered in through the thin blinds. There were multiple servers and computer setups, far more than would be necessary for a typical home office. While everything was state-of-the-art, there was certainly something about it that didn’t look quite right. This setup wasn’t for casual use; it was for serious data processing or storage.

Crane.

It made Silence frown, the image in his head of Crane up here, running who-knows-what kind of operations with all this computing power.

He scoffed.

In the back was a desk with multiple monitors. He stepped to it and began searching through the drawers. Most contained typical office supplies. But the bottom drawer held a stack of thick folders. They were labeled with names and dates. Silence took one out, held it toward the bit of light coming in through the window.

And something immediately took him by surprise.

The folder was labeled NeoLumen Pharmaceuticals - Belarus. And inside were documents in both English and what looked like Russian or a similar Slavic language.

Belarus??

Sure, in theory these documents could be related to just about anything. But why were they here in Crane’s private office? Surely it had something to do with the strange goings-on, but he would never to this point have thought the NeoLumen business had international connections like this. If this was to be⁠—

Footsteps.

From the hallway. Approaching.

Shit!

Silence looked at the folders. He wanted to take them with him, to study them, to see what the hell was going on. But he couldn’t risk doing more than he’d already done. He had to get the hell out of there. Whoever was in the hall could very well be coming to this room.

He quickly breezed back to the adjoining door, slid through, and pulled it shut, as quietly as possible, grimacing when the door made a soft click as it re-locked.

He held perfectly still, listened.

From the opposite side, he heard the door of the adjacent room open.

Silence exhaled slowly, quietly, held perfectly still.

Footsteps again. In the other room. Coming right at him.

He looked to the floor. The line of light beneath the door broke into three parts. Two dark spots slid across the light and stopped. Someone had stepped up to the door, right on the other side. Inches away from Silence.

Silence held his breath, trying to remain motionless.

The line of light below remained static with its two breaks. The person on the other side of the door was holding perfectly still too. Listening. Inches away from Silence.

Finally there was movement. The lines of light rejoined as the person walked away.

The sound of the door shutting followed by footsteps fading away down the hallway.

Silence exhaled.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Rachel groaned as she knocked on the door to Archie’s house.

Four months.

It had been the longest stretch of time she’d gone without coming here since the divorce. They’d worked out an alternative way of making the Ethan hand-off—at a shopping mall parking lot, about halfway between their homes—and that had negated the need for visits here.

She’d hoped to never return.

Of course, there could, in theory, be a dark reason that she had to come here, why Terry Hager hadn’t heard from Archie in days. And part of her had a bit of apprehension, a bit of worry.

But the bigger part of her was frustrated—frustrated that she had to rearrange her schedule, find a last-minute babysitter for Ethan, and then drive across town in the middle of the night to find out that Archie had simply forgotten to check in, had accidentally knocked his phone off the hook, had… had another goddamn reckless adventure.

There was no answer to her knock.

She knocked again. Louder. Listened for his footsteps to sound on the other side of the door, to see his big smile, the smile of an eternal thrill-seeker, a smile that had seemed so charming years ago when Rachel had been swept up in his passion.

Nothing.

Damn you, Archie.

She sighed and opened her purse, found her keys. As she unlocked the door, she was overwhelmed with the thought that this was part of Archie’s plan, getting her to enter his home by her own doing, forcing a familiarity upon her. That’s why he’d given her the key in the first place. He’d said it was for emergency purposes. For safety. They shared a son, he’d said, and who knew what sort of situations might arise. It just made good sense for her to have a key, he’d said.

But she knew there had been more to it than that. He was trying to force a lingering connection between them, trying to make them a quasi-family. The reckless dreamer. Their little “family” had fallen apart before Ethan was even two.

Safety my ass, she thought.

He’d asked for a copy of her key too. For safety. She’d refused.

She cracked the door open. Darkness.

“Archie?”

She flicked the light switch by the door. The ceiling light flickered on.

The sink was empty. No dirty dishes.

Hell, that was enough to bring concern.

“Archie?”

No response.

She went into the living room, turned on a lamp. The modern furniture he’d bought shortly after the divorce. The television set. The table with a few magazines and some stacks of notebooks and printouts—more work on his latest blog post, no doubt, the one he was certain was going to finally break open some big conspiracy. Always the reckless crusader.

Into the hallway. She flicked on the bathroom light. Then to the bedroom, another lamp.

Still nothing.

He wasn’t there. His desk—with more files, notepads—and his bed. She noted that the bed was made and there were no clothes on the floor. For a moment another dark, snide reaction came to her mind, but it was quickly silenced by a stronger reaction.

Archie really wasn’t there.

She wasn’t sure why, but the whole way there, she was utterly convinced that Archie had simply pulled another Archie-esque stunt. She’d had only a tiny fraction of real concern.

She took in a couple of breaths then went to the bed, sat down, and grabbed the phone from his nightstand, put it on her lap, then pulled the scrap of paper from her purse with the phone number she’d written. She put the receiver to her ear and dialed.

“Hello?”

“Terry, this is Rachel. I’m at his house. Archie’s not here.”

A long exhale from Hager. “All right. Thanks for checking. I’ll see what else I can find out. Be safe.”

“Will do.”

She hung up, put the phone back on the nightstand.

And then she stayed put. She just sat there for a moment.

Archie was missing.

The thought was on a loop in her head, spinning faster, amplified by a strong fear that surprised her as much as it distressed her.

She stood up and walked away from the bed.

Stopped.

There was something on the nightstand she hadn’t noticed a few moments earlier. A framed photograph. She picked it up.

Him, her, and Ethan. All smiles.

She looked at it for a moment. Archie’s face. Dark, shaggy hair and a beard that was a bit too thick. So damn handsome. He didn’t look like the blue-blood that he was. He looked like the man next door. The damn handsome one.

She put the frame down, and through a crack in the drawer, she noticed something. She pulled the drawer open. Inside was a stun gun.

Her eyebrows rose. “Damn, Archie!”

She leaned down, examining the device. Black plastic casing. Vicious-looking metal prods on the end. Something he must have bought for one of his investigations.

She shut the drawer, left the bedroom, and was about to leave, when she saw something on the desk that arrested her.

She stopped.

It was among his notes.

And when she looked closer, she gasped.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Earlier, Archie had determined that his next move was to take decisive action.

After several minutes of planning and building up his nerve, it was now time to take that action.

Strapped to a gurney was a tough position from which to take action, however. So Archie forced himself to take slow, measured breaths, preparing himself. He then opened his eyes again and scanned the stuffy storage room, searching for anything he could use to his advantage.

Nothing. Just cinderblock walls and concrete floor.

He’d have to go a different route…

But it was risky.

The thought of it made everything seemed to close in on him—the walls, the straps holding him down—amplifying the oppressive heat. Landers sat in the corner, idly flipping through a magazine, droplets of sweat on his buzzcut gleaming under the harsh fluorescent light. At his feet, the box fan rattled ineffectively.

He closed his eyes again. Another deep breath.

Archie had only get one shot at this. He had to make it count.

Eyes open.

He started with a small cough, barely more than a throat clearing. Landers’s eyes flicked up from his magazine, then back down. Archie waited a beat, then coughed again, louder this time. He threw in a wheeze for good measure.

“Okay over there?” Landers asked, not looking up.

Archie responded with another cough, this one evolving into a hacking fit that shook his entire body. He thrashed against his restraints, eyes watering as he gasped for air between coughs.

“Ah, shit,” Landers muttered, tossing his magazine aside and approaching the gurney. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

As Landers leaned in, Archie made his move.

He snapped his head forward, using ever inch of space he had in his straps. His forehead cracked into the bridge of Landers’s nose. A satisfying crunch. Landers stumbled back. Blood streamed down his lips.

Using the momentum from his headbutt, Archie threw his weight to one side, rocking the gurney violently. The motion was enough to pull one of the straps loose from its clamp, giving him room to move his arms.

Relief flooded through them, from fingertips to shoulders.

Landers was still reeling from the headbutt, giving Archie precious seconds to work his arms free. He clawed at the remaining straps. His fingers clambered over the buckles as Landers shook off his daze and advanced, fire in his eyes.

“You’re gonna regret that, you piece of shi—” Landers’s threat was cut short as Archie’s newly freed fist connected with his jaw.

All those martial arts classes he’d attended weren’t just for fun or fitness—they helped as a self-authorized investigative journalist who’d chased down some seriously dangerous leads over the years.

Landers stumbled back again, spitting blood. Archie went back to work on the straps, managing to entirely free his other arm just as Landers came at him. The man grabbed a fistful of Archie’s shirt, but stumbled, hauling Archie partially off the gurney.

Archie didn’t waste the opportunity. He grabbed Landers’s wrist with both hands and twisted, using the man’s own momentum to pull him off balance. They both lost balance. Landers went sprawling across Archie’s body as they crashed into the cinderblock wall with a resounding thud.

Archie groan.

Heart pounding. Head throbbing. Archie fumbled with the straps on his legs, which were propped up above him, stubbornly clinging on to the gurney. He could hear Landers groaning, starting to stir. Just as he freed his left leg, a hand clamped down on Archie’s ankle.

Landers had crawled back, blood coming from his nose and a nasty gash on his forehead. His eyes were wild. “You’re dead,” he snarled, yanking hard on Archie’s leg.

Archie struck with his free foot, catching Landers across the bloody jaw. Once. Twice. Three times. Each impact sent a shock up his leg. On the fourth kick, there was a sickening crunch as he connected with Landers’s already-ruined nose and it gave way entirely.

The grip on Archie’s ankle went slack. Landers collapsed, moaning incoherently.

Panting, every muscle screaming, Archie finally freed his other leg. He stumbled to his feet, the world spinning around him as the adrenaline began to ebb.

He had to move. Had to get out of here, find help, use Daredevil Dispatch to expose whatever the hell was going on with Adam Crane.

As Archie staggered toward the door, a wave of dizziness washed over him. His vision blurred.

And he realized…

The sedatives.

The sedatives Landers had given him were still in his system. Stronger than he’d thought. The fight had burned through some of it, but now it was hitting him full force.

He made it two more steps before his legs gave out entirely.

He blinked.

And passed out.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Flynn stood in the darkened kitchen. Moonlight filtered through the ornate windows casting long shadows across the marble countertops and high-end appliances.

“It was him, Mr. Crane,” Flynn said, his voice low and steady despite the tension in his shoulders. “The guy from the physical test earlier, Brad. He’s the same one who followed Landers and me last night from the mansion to StashPoint.”

Crane’s reaction was immediate and explosive. “What?” he hissed, his face contorting with rage in the dim light. “And you’re just telling me this now? Why the hell didn’t you say something earlier?”

Flynn took a deep breath. He glanced to the door to ensure they were still alone. “Because it was the night before this presentation, sir. With Mr. Holloway being such an important target for you, I didn’t want to throw you off your game.”

“Bullshit!” Crane spat, slamming his hand down on the granite countertop. The sound echoed through the cavernous kitchen. “That’s a lame excuse and you know it. Some security guard you are. I should never have hired you as head of security.”

Flynn flinched at the words, feeling them cut deep. He opened his mouth to respond, but Crane wasn’t finished.

“I’ll be watching you, Flynn. Don’t think for a second that your position here is secure.”

Crane stormed out of the kitchen, leaving Flynn alone in the darkness.

The quiet that followed was deafening.

Flynn leaned back against the cool stainless steel of the refrigerator. Exhaled.

Maybe Momma had been right all along. Maybe Flynn had been foolish to think he could make something of himself in a career like this.

All those years, trying to prove himself. He’d always been seen as smart, as someone who could amount to so much more. But he’d been determined to show everyone he could make it on his own terms. He’d worked hard, learned everything he could about security and protection, thinking that in this field, he could use both his intellect and his physical abilities.

But now, standing in this opulent kitchen that seemed to mock his choices, Flynn wondered if he’d misdirected his talents. Maybe, like Crane said, he wasn’t much of a security guard after all. Had he wasted his entire adult life chasing a path that disappointed his family, especially Momma?

Straight-A student wantin’ to be a rent-a-cop, Momma had scoffed.

As these doubts swirled, another thought emerged. Brad. The mysterious interloper. Despite the tense rivalry he’d had with Brad, Flynn wondered if perhaps he’d been subconsciously trying to help Brad out. Maybe that was the real reason he’d delayed in telling Crane the man’s identity.

Because with the way Brad was acting, Flynn got the feeling that he was more than just one of Crane’s more eccentric followers. The way Brad moved, the questions he asked, the look in his eyes…

Flynn suspected that Brad was a cop.

And if Brad was indeed law enforcement, it meant that Crane’s operation was under scrutiny. It meant that all the ethical concerns Flynn had been pushing down were justified.

And if Brad was a cop, maybe he could help.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Everyone had returned to the main living room, mingling—a short, friendly mixer with which to conclude the evening. Adam Crane wove through the crowd, speaking briefly with each of his guests.

Naturally, Silence was eager for his turn to talk to the supposed tech genius again, to see what else he could uncover now that Crane knew Silence was onto him.

Silence was overwhelmingly sure his cover was blown, so there was no use in continuing to act like he was there for the same reasons as the other guests—not after the gotcha moment in the one-on-one session, not after the treadmill incident.

The fact that Crane hadn’t yet addressed him made Silence believe Crane was entering into a game of cat and mouse with him.

Crane probably thought he was exceptionally clever by doing so.

Devious assholes like him usually thought this highly of themselves.

At the refreshment area, the catering staff Silence had spotted when he and Hager first arrived earlier in the night were busy at work. They moved efficiently—freshening the food trays, replacing empty platters with new ones filled with delicate hors d’oeuvres, and stacking fresh plates at the end of the table.

Silence stood at the full-service bar, sipping from a bottle of Heineken. He promised himself he’d have just this single beer. He’d had his scare with drinking too much last night; he wasn’t going to make the same mistake again.

As he surveyed the group, their faces alight with wonder and excitement, Silence felt a pang of sadness. How easily they were duped, how willing they were to believe in this technological snake oil. It spoke to a deeper state of humanity, a desperation for connection that made people vulnerable to charlatans like Crane.

“Hello there.”

Silence turned to find Crane standing behind him, face warm and cordial—the perfect host. He had to admit, the guy was a good actor.

Crane was looking Silence right in the eye, not half an hour after Silence had fooled him into a gotcha moment, only minutes after Crane’s goon had tried to seriously injure him… and yet he wasn’t breaking character at all.

Impressive.

Silence gave a small nod. “Mr. Crane.”

It was the second time Crane had heard Silence’s awful voice, but he still paused a beat before he spoke. “I’m so glad you could join us this evening. Everyone seems to be having a wonderful time.”

Crane’s voice had a dark, confident tone to it, a slightly more sinister version of the booming voice he’d offered during the presentations.

He motioned with his head to Flynn, who stood scowling at Silence from across the room. “My head of security, Leon Flynn, seems to suspect you’re some sort of authority figure.”

So, they thought Silence was a cop.

During his investigations, it was common for people to assume he was a cop or a federal agent or a private. Often, it was in Silence’s best interests to let the assumption ride.

He would do so now.

If they thought he was a cop, he might as well ask some cop questions.

“Earlier I mentioned StashPoint…” Silence said, swallowed. “Talk.”

Crane’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. Not enough for the mingling crowd to notice. He didn’t respond to Silence’s query.

So Silence pressed on. “Where’s Archie Kovacs?” Swallow. “Is he still alive?”

Crane gave another of his expertly blank-faced non-reactions. Again, Silence was impressed, but he wondered why Crane kept up the charade. The guy already knew that Silence was onto him. Why the steadfast fakery?

Finally, Crane said, “Perhaps we could continue this conversation somewhere more private? The front porch, in ten minutes?”

He gave a quick glance toward the front of the house.

Silence was getting somewhere. A private meeting with the mastermind himself.

It was dangerous. Very dangerous. Could be a trap.

But Silence cared more about answers than he did about danger.

“I’ll be there.”

Ten minutes later, Silence sat in the darkness of the front porch on a massive wicker sofa with overstuffed cushions. The humidity was thicker now, and he felt sweat beading on his forehead. The street was quiet, with only the occasional vehicle drifting past. A woman’s laughter echoed from somewhere in the distance.

There was a soft rustling. A figure emerged from the shadows—Adam Crane had slipped out a side door and now stood in the corner of the porch, waiting.

Silence stood and walked to him.

“I have something important to tell you,” Crane said, speaking quieter than he had inside. A beat passed, then, “I’m not Adam Crane.”

Now it was Silence’s turn to pause for a beat.

Finally, he said, “Talk.”

Crane nodded. Exhaled. Opened his mouth to respond.

And a pair of hands grabbed Silence from behind.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Piston-like fingers clamped down on Silence’s shoulders, pulled him down the porch’s steps, his derbies scraping against the concrete and sending jolts up his legs. The fingers dug into the base of his neck.

Crane shouted in alarm, rushing after him.

They were in the yard now. Silence felt grass beneath his shoes and saw palm fronds swaying overhead as he was dragged. He caught a glimpse of his attacker’s hands—wiry, pale, with a dusting of ginger hair.

Wait…

Silence twisted against the pressure on his neck, looked behind him.

It was who he thought it was.

The brute.

Red hair. Angular face. Cold eyes. He was the guy Silence had spotted earlier when he and Hager first arrived—standing by the wall beside Moira Blackwood, looking uncomfortable in his tailored suit. Now, the man was still wearing his suit pants and shirt, but the jacket was gone, his sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms.

The guy was strong as shit. It took a lot to overpower Silence, even when he was jumped from behind. And this guy was several inches shorter than Silence.

Crane ran after them as the brute dragged Silence into the narrow space between the Blackwood house and the adjacent one. He shoved him away, and Silence stumbled before regaining his balance. He spun around, squared up, fists raised.

The other man came at him. Stopped. Turned. Looked at the house.

Silence looked, too.

In the gap between a set of drapes was a face, watching. Leon Flynn. He ducked back into the house when they looked his way.

Crane yelled from behind them. “Stop this now!”

The brute ignored Crane, scowled at Silence, his cold green eyes narrowing. “I’ve had enough of you snooping around. This ends here.” He had an earthy voice.

A fist arced towards Silence’s face, blazing fast. He ducked, feeling the air whoosh past his ear. Silence countered with a quick jab to the solar plexus, but the redhead barely flinched.

The brute grabbed Silence’s shirt, using his momentum to slam him against the wall. He barely had time to recover before another punch was coming his way.

Silence dropped low, the fist grazing his hair as he drove his shoulder into the man’s midsection. They both went down, rolling in the narrow alley.

The redhead was faster than Silence expected. For a moment, he even gained the upper hand, straddling Silence and raining down blows. Silence raised his arms to protect his face; the impacts were so powerful they jarred his entire body.

Silence bucked his hips, throwing the man off balance just enough to roll them over. Now on top, Silence unleashed his own barrage of punches, splitting the brute’s lip, bloodying his nose.

But the red-haired man was far from done. He grabbed Silence’s throat with both hands, squeezing with absurd strength.

With his last reserves of energy, Silence slammed his forehead into the bridge of the man’s nose. There was a wet crunch. The grip on his throat loosened.

Silence scrambled back, gasping. The redhead was on his knees, blood streaming from his nose, green eyes wild with rage. He lunged forward, but Silence was ready.

Silence sidestepped, sending the other man crashing into a stack of empty flowerpots. The pottery shattered, and the brute went down hard—and after Silence smashed a fist against his temple, he finally stayed down.

Panting, Silence turned to face Crane, who stood frozen a few feet away, his eyes wide with shock.

“Who is that guy?” Silence demanded, stabbing a finger toward the unconscious form.

Crane swallowed hard before answering. “He’s Sawyer. Moira Blackwood’s personal bodyguard. Been watching over her for years.”

As Silence looked at Sawyer, noting his age—a few years younger than Silence’s—he thought, Yeah, and probably been humping her for years, too.

He turned back to Crane. “Sawyer who?”

“Just Sawyer.”

“Just Sawyer?”

“Just Sawyer. Like ‘just Brad.’”

Well… touché. Silence supposed he didn’t have a monopoly on one-name monikers.

“You wanted to talk,” Silence said, swallowed. “Talk!”

When Crane replied, his voice was completely different. Gone was the confident, charismatic tone of the tech mogul who’d just given an hours-long presentation. Instead, he sounded… almost scared. “Okay. I’m not really a tech entrepreneur.”

Silence threw his hands up in exasperation. “No shit!”

“My real name is Jared Brody. And I haven’t done anything to Archie Kovacs or anyone else. I’m being used.”

“What?”

Crane paused, taking a shaky breath.”You see, I’m not the con man here. I’m the one being conned.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Flynn didn’t know who the hell he’d become. Barely recognizable. Even when looking himself right in the eye.

He stared at his reflection in an ornate mirror. The bathroom, like the rest of the Blackwood mansion, exuded old-world opulence—dark wainscoting, patterned wallpaper in muted gold, the floor a mosaic of tiny hexagonal tiles.

Flynn’s mind reeled from what he’d just overheard. Adam Crane— the man he’d been working for, the man he’d feared—was nothing but a fraud. Jared Brody. That was his real name. And like Flynn, Brody was just another pawn in someone else’s game.

Moira Blackwood.

The realization hit hard. All this time, Flynn had been terrified for his life, for his family’s safety, both of which “Adam Crane” had threatened. Flynn had done unspeakable things—abducting homeless people off the streets of St. Augustine, sending them off to God-knows-where for medical experimentation.

And for what?

A fake threat from a conman who was just as scared as he was.

Flynn reached out to the sink, both hands, steadied himself. His head dropped. He felt sick, disgusted with himself.

Momma’s words echoed in his mind. You ain’t never amounted to nothin’, Leon Flynn. Just another disappointment, that’s what you are.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Momma had been right all along. He was a failure—no wife, no kids, not even the degree Momma wanted him so badly to obtain—and now he was worse than that. He was a criminal, complicit in human trafficking and who knows what other horrors.

All those brains, but ain’t got the sense God gave a goose, Momma’s voice sneered. Always takin’ the easy way out, never thinkin’ about nobody but yourself.

He thought of the man he’d known as Adam Crane, the threats he’d made. Crane had even threatened Momma! Flynn had told himself for the last several weeks that he was doing this to protect his family, to keep Momma safe.

Last several weeks…

Weeks.

That’s all it had taken for Flynn to give up every shred of his former ideas. It had only taken weeks for him to turn into a monster.

But then a different face flashed in his mind. Not Crane’s. Not Momma’s.

The big guy. The man Flynn had been keeping a careful eye on, the one who’d chased Flynn to StashPoint. Towering. Brooding. Dark hair in choppy strands and a face full of angles.

Had to be cop. Yes, had to be. Flynn had had strong suspicions at first, but now, after seeing the conversation with Jared Brody, Flynn was certain.

But the man carried himself differently that any cop Flynn had ever known.

A fed?

Probably. After all, the crimes involved kidnapping and overseas human-trafficking.

Flynn’s racing thoughts began to slow. Maybe this was his way out. Not through more cowardice or self-preservation, but by doing the right thing for once. By helping this stranger, this fed, uncover the truth about Moira Blackwood and her operation.

Maybe he could make this right.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

“Talk…” Silence growled.

After two days of crisscrossing St. Augustine, of chasing false leads, of being haunted by his painfully happy past with C.C., of uncovering disparate crimes and factoids—everything from snake oil sales to kidnapping to human-trafficking—Silence was ready for some damn answers.

Crane—or Jared Brody, rather—looked away, took a deep breath, and began.

“Okay, well, I mean, I am a con man, technically. But I’m not the big con man here. I’m begin conned!”

“By who?”

“Moira Blackwood.”

Silence exhaled. This mission had already shifted tectonically multiple times. But this… he couldn’t have seen this one coming.

“Start from the…” Silence said, swallowed. “Beginning.”

Brody nodded. “I was living on the streets, man. A college grad living on the damn streets. Just a normal, middle-class kid from a small town. I had potential, but I wasted it. Dropped out of college after a bad breakup. You know how it is—young and in love.”

Yes, Silence knew exactly how it was. Except, he hadn’t been that young—in his thirties—when he’d been in love. And he hadn’t dropped out of college. Instead, he’d gone on a killing spree, slaughtering the men who murdered C.C.

That’s how he’d ended up in the Watchers. That’s when they recruited him.

“I ended up homeless,” Brody continued. “And I mean home-less. Begging with a can. Scraping cheese off fast-food wrappers. The whole nine yards. One day, I found this old ’50 sci-fi novel in… well, in the dumpster I was sleeping in. It described a technology that could create virtual avatars of dead loved ones. That sparked something in me.

“I finally put that graphic arts degree to use and created mockups of this fictional tech. Spent hours in public libraries learning basic web design to make it interactive. It was rudimentary, but enough to give the illusion of a working product. I called it Revere. My plan was to get investors and…” He looked away. “And take the money and run.”

Brody continued looking away for a few moments.

“Go on,” Silence said.

“So I stole the best clothes I could find, snuck into a tech expo here in St. Augustine, and commandeered an unmanned booth until security kicked me out. But I didn’t leave. I wandered around, cold-approaching attendees with my laptop.

“That’s where I met Moira and Doug Blackwood. Moira was intrigued by my boldness. And with Revere. On a whim, I told her I also have a mystical connection, that I was planning on incorporating spiritual elements into Revere. I don’t know why the hell I said that, but it impressed her even more. She took me under her wing. With her backing, I started holding these presentations—part tech demo, part sermon, part fundraiser. They attracted St. Augustine’s elite.

“Along the way, um… well, Moira and I stared sleeping together. And this lady is into some freaky shit, let me tell you. I mean, dark shit. Pain. Not a little spanking. Not hair-pulling. Serious pain.

“One night, Moira confronted me. She’d known I was a fraud from the start. You should have seen the creepy grin she was wearing. Just hideous. I confessed everything. I thought that was it, back to the streets. But then Moira proposed a deal…”

Brody trailed off, his eyes darting nervously to the unconscious Sawyer before continuing.

“For years, Moira’s been abducting people. Homeless. Mentally ill. It’s a side business for her. Like you said, human-trafficking. Now, with these bogus Revere sessions, she has a new funnel. She convinces the most ardent followers there’s a spiritual element to Revere that they need to pray over a dying person with Revere’s medical tech—technology meets spirituality. She gives them a keyboard. Tells them to press the button to make a… ethereal bond or some such nonsense. It’s all a bunch of BS., but these heartbroken idiots fall for it.

“What they’re actually doing is getting themselves on camera committing a crime. The camera’s hidden in the room. When the person presses the button, it administers a toxin that kills the hostage. Then Moira has them on tape, killing someone, a missing person. Bear in mind, these are influential people. Now she has them. She owns them… like she owns me. Now she gets bribes, political favors, you name it.”

Where do the…” Silence said, swallowed. “Trafficked people go?”

“First they’re moved to one of two local facilities: StashPoint—which I understand you’ve already visited—and some other place. I don’t know where it. After they’re held here in the States, the final destination is Belarus. NeoLumen Pharmaceuticals. They’re conducting off-the-books drug trials, testing experimental compounds that would never pass ethical review boards. NeoLumen pays Moira, and she ships those poor bastards across the Atlantic.” Brody hooked a thumb in the general direction of the nearby coastline.

“Archie Kovacs?”

Brody wrapped his arms around himself, as if trying to hold himself together. “Wrong place at the wrong time. He was suspicious of me… well, of Adam Crane. Chased a lead from here to StashPoint. Decided to blend in, dressed up like a homeless guy to avoid attention in that rough part of town. Sawyer mistook him for a truly homeless person and had Flynn and Landers do the dirty work of abducting him.”

Silence took it all in, feeling the weight of the information settle over him. Brody’s story painted a tangled web—Archie Kovacs in the wrong place, Moira pulling strings, and her enforcer, Sawyer, carrying out orders. It was a lot to process. Silence knew he’d have to shift gears, adjust his plans on the fly. This wasn’t just about finding Archie anymore; it was about navigating a much bigger game with players who were far more dangerous than Silence had initially realized.

A drastic course correction was needed. And fast.

A low groan emanated from the ground. They both looked down to see Sawyer’s fingers twitching, his eyelids beginning to flutter.

“Let’s go,” Silence said, grabbing Brody’s arm.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Silence and Brody made their way up the steps of the front porch, heading for the door. As Silence reached for the handle, Brody grabbed his arm.

“What are you doing?” Brody hissed. “I gotta go back in there, but you—you should get the hell out of here before you get in too deep.”

“Going back in,” Silence said, swallowed. “And coming back tomorrow night, too.”

“Are you crazy? I don’t think you understand how dangerous Moira is!”

Silence didn’t respond. He pulled the door open, and they stepped into the foyer.

The mixer was still in full swing, though the crowd had thinned slightly. The air hummed with conversation and the clink of glasses. Guests congregated in small groups, faces flushed with excitement and a bit of alcohol.

From across the room, Moira Blackwood caught Silence’s eye. She smiled warmly and waved, every inch the gracious hostess. Silence waved back.

As Brody began to mingle with the guests again, expertly slipping back into the poised and confident Adam Crane persona, Silence saw Moira’s gaze flick briefly to the younger man. When her eyes returned to Silence, there was a flash of something behind them—a glimmer of skepticism that belied her welcoming demeanor.

Clearly she was wondering why Brody had been gone so long outside alone with one of the guests.

The sound of the door opening behind him made Silence turn. Sawyer walked in, his appearance now decidedly disheveled. Suit was rumpled. A bruise blooming on his jaw. As he passed Silence, he slowed dramatically, fixing him with a cold stare.

Silence stared right back. Didn’t flinch. The two men stood there for a moment, a silent battle of wills, before Sawyer finally moved on, making his way across the room and approaching Moira.

For a few moments, he spoke to her in a hushed tone, leaning in close.

Then they both glanced in Silence’s direction.

Moira’s eyes registered shock.

And rage.

Again, Silence just stared right back.

When Moira finally looked away, Silence let his gaze wander, ostensibly taking in the room, but actually looking for something.

Then he spotted what he’d been searching for since reentering the house.

The small door to the side where he’d seen the servants coming and going. It was a hidden door, stylistically blending into the wall. He watched as one of the catering staff entered, getting a flash of the room beyond—an oversized butler’s pantry.

Silence’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He took it out, glanced at the multiplex. 865 area code. East Tennessee.

Lola.

Ugh.

He flipped the phone open.

“Yes?”

Lola’s voice came through, tinny and breathless. “Silence, thank God. I think… I think I’m being followed.”

Silence stiffened. “What?”

“Ever since I started researching those names in Rory’s journal, strange things have been happening. Men loitering outside Mrs. Enfield’s house, cars tailing me…” She paused, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I’m almost certain one of them will be back tonight.”

Shit, Silence had almost forgotten—the web searching Mrs. Enfield had requested of Lola. He’d told them not to do it…

Silence rubbed his fingers against his temple, feeling a headache coming on. He glanced at his watch. 7:30 PM. He was in St. Augustine, a good five and a half hours from Pensacola.

But he couldn’t leave Lola and Mrs. Enfield stranded.

“Stay inside. Lock doors.” He swallowed. “On my way.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

The five-and-a-half hour drive from Pensacola to St. Augustine—slicing all the way across northern Florida on I-10—was a blur of headlights and mile markers. Silence’s mind raced as fast as the Mercedes as he tried to blink the drowsiness out of his eyes.

He’d known that Lola’s digging into Rory’s past was a bad idea—he’d tried to warn her, dammit!—but even he’d underestimated just how bad. If someone was willing to stalk Lola over a decades-old secret, there was no telling what they might do to Mrs. Enfield.

It was well past midnight when Silence finally pulled into the East Hill neighborhood. He killed the engine a block from Mrs. Enfield’s house, approaching on foot. The street was quiet, most windows dark. But as he neared the old Victorian, a flicker of movement caught his eye.

There. Inn the shadows beside the house—a figure, barely visible in the gloom.

Silence moved silently, his Watchers training and years of experience kicking in. He circled around, using the Mrs. Enfield’s crape myrtles for cover. The figure was male, medium build, dressed in dark clothes. As Silence watched, the man produced a small device from his pocket—a lock pick.

Not on Silence’s watch.

He burst from cover, closing the distance in three long strides. The man whirled, surprise flashing across his face before his own training took over. He dropped into a fighting stance, the lock pick forgotten.

“Who the hell are you?” the man hissed.

Silence didn’t bother responding. He lunged, aiming his jump punch at the man’s solar plexus. But the guy was fast, twisting away, avoiding the blow, before immediately retaliating.. A fist grazed Silence’s jaw, snapping his head back.

They circled each other, sizing each other up. Zero doubt remained in Silence’s mind—this guy was indeed an elite operative, some low-level yet entirely capable CIA minion sent to clean up decades-old dirty work.

Another few moments of circle. Then they both exploded into action gain—brutal dance of strikes and counters. Silence landed a solid hit to the man’s ribs, feeling something crack beneath his knuckles. But his opponent retaliated with a vicious knee to Silence’s thigh, buckling him, nearly toppling him.

For a moment, they were at each other’s throats, all locked up, grappling crashing into Mrs. Enfield’s prized rosebushes. Thorns tore at Silence’s clothes—which pissed him off; he’d just bought the pants less than a week earlier—but he barely felt it. He managed to get an arm around the other man’s neck, and he squeezed hard.

But then the world tilted.

Silence found himself airborne, thrown over his opponent’s shoulder.

Shit! This guy was good. Very few people could have gotten the best of Silence like that, and even fewer had the strength to propel someone of Silence’s size.

Whack!

Silence hit the earth hard. Pain rocketed through his ribs, up his spine, into his head.

The other man was on him in an instant, a knife suddenly gleaming in the moonlight. Silence caught the descending wrist. Muscles quivered, brawn against brawn. Silence gritted his teeth as he fought to keep the blade from his throat.

For a moment, they were locked in a stalemate, neither able to gain the advantage. Then Silence saw his opening. He jerked his head forward, smashing his forehead into the man’s nose. A satisfying crunch. Blood spattered Silence’s face.

The knife dropped blade-first, poking the earth in lawn dart fashion. The operative reeled back, clutching his ruined nose. Blood poured through his fingers. Silence scrambled to his feet, snatched up the knife, and lunged, tackling his opponent back to the ground.

This time, Silence ended up on top. He pressed the knife to the man’s throat, his other hand grabbing a fistful of man’s shirt.

“Talk!” Silence barked. More pain—a shot of it in his ruined throat.

The man glowered at him. Blood trickled from his nostrils. “Piss off.”

Silence pressed the blade harder, feeling the skin dimple beneath the edge. “Why are you here?”

For a long moment, the only sound was their labored breathing. The man wasn’t going to talk.

“I know you’re…” Silence said and swallowed. “CIA.”

This brought a reaction from the man—one he couldn’t hide, a flash of something he couldn’t hide.

“What makes you say that?”

“A810-470,” Silence said.

The man’s eyes went wide. “Shit! You’re one of us.”

Silence had offered up an alphanumeric code—not unlike the one in Rory’s journal—a low-tech identification system used within certain intelligence agencies, a stubborn vestige of the recently defunct Cold War, something that only people in the alphabet community knew of.

…well, the alphabet community and the Watchers.

But this guy surely didn’t know the Watchers existed.

Silence nodded at the man. He pulled the knife away . “Rory’s journals.”

“That’s right,” the operative said, rubbing his neck. “We just need to know what was found, make sure nothing sensitive gets out.”

“By breaking into…” Silence said, swallowed. “An old woman’s house?”

The man chest was still rising and lowering visibly, but his breaths were slowing. “We were just going to take a look, that’s all. No one was going to get hurt.”

“Talk,” he said again, swallowed. “Everything you know…” Another swallow. “About Rory Enfield.”

The agent gave a resigned sigh. “The Agency approached the guy toward the end of the war. We were recruiting anyone we thought might be useful someday.”

“As what? A spy?”

The agent shook his head. “More like… a sleeper agent. Someone we could activate if we ever needed them. One of a few dozen. Some were activated; some weren’t. I don’t know about Rory Enfield’s status.”

Silence frowned. “Then why all this? Why follow his wife, break into their home?”

“Because of a damn code he wrote down,” the agent said, frustration evident in his voice.

Silence’s mind flashed back to note he saw in Rory’s journal, the code that was circled and written larger than the surrounding notes. He’d memorized it. During his rigorous onboarding with his Watchers trainer, Nakiri, he’d been brutally conditioned to memorize complex numbers and codes upon a single glance, and he’d subconsciously stored Rory’s mystery code away in the back of his mind.

Silence studied the man, weighing his options as he weighed the truth of the man’s words. Finally, he spoke. “X7R9Q2P.”

The agent’s eyes widened. “Yeah, that’s it!” The man paused here, eyes narrowing. He too was weighing his options as he considered Silence’s veracity—two pros feeling each other out. Finally, he said, “X7R9Q2P is tied to an old operation, something big. When we saw someone searching for it online, we had to make sure it wasn’t falling into the wrong hands.”

“It hasn’t hasn’t,” Silence said, swallowed. “Trust me.”

The agent studied him, a small grin forming. “All right, stranger. Whoever the hell you are, I know you don’t want me in that house. The notes in the journal were always going to be a dead end anyway. This is a shit assignment they sent me on. I’ll trust you. So… let me up?”

Silence hesitated. Then moved. They both got to their feet.

As the two of them brushed themselves off and stood in a fresh and awkward alliance in the middle of Mrs. Enfield’s lawn at 1 in the morning.

“X7R9Q2P,” Silence said, swallowed. “What does it mean?”

The other man shrugged. “Above my pay grade. All I know is, it’s important enough that they sent me to retrieve it.”

Silence would have hoped that driving five and a half hours through the night and getting into a scuffle with a world-class operative would have gotten him another step closer to solving the mystery of Rory Enfield’s past.

But at least he’d gotten there in time to stop the man from breaking and entering.

“You’ll leave…” Silence said, swallowed, and pointed toward the Victorian house behind them. “Alone?”

The man nodded. “Absolutely. I trust a fellow operator. I’ll… tell them what I need to tell them. Just keep it quiet, all right? For everyone’s sake.”

Silence considered for a long moment, then jerked his head towards the door. “Go. And don’t come back.”

The man didn’t need to be told twice. He turned, walked off.

And paused.

He turned back around. “Hey, uh… what agency are you with, anyway?”

Silence didn’t respond.

The agent studied him, then nodded slowly. “Right. Black ops. I get it.” He grinned, then added, “For what it’s worth… you’re good. Damn good.”

Then he was gone, disappearing into the night as silently as he’d come.

His mind churned. He’d gotten an indirect answer—the fact that the CIA took Lola’s web searches seriously enough to send someone to Pensacola certainly meant something— but this had only led to more questions. What was the significance of Rory’s code? What operation was so important that the CIA would go to these lengths decades later?

And most importantly – what the hell was he going to tell Mrs. Enfield?

Silence stood in Mrs. Enfield’s lawn for another long moment. His eyes drifted to the adjacent house—his.

A modest single-story house, low and unassuming. It was the kind of place that looked lived-in, comfortable—and it was, having been around since 1955. A prominent front porch with white columns ran the width of the house. The siding was a pale blue. Hedges lined the sides.

The Watchers had afforded him this quaint starter house when he’d first joined the organization years earlier, but though Silence was well compensated, he had never moved from the tiny shotgun-style home, staying put to remain close to Mrs. Enfield. He watched over her.

But he’d updated the interior of the house to GQ levels of ultra-modernity.

Humble on the outside, but chic on the inside.

Among the interior refinements was a king-sized bed decked out in all black-and-gray bedding. The linens were clean, un-slept-in; he’d just washed them and made the bed before he left for St. Augustine.

The bed called to him now.

He checked his watch.

A half hour nap in his own bed.

Then he’d make the five-and-a-half-hour drive back to St. Augustine.

He trudged to his house.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Moira Blackwood wasn’t panicked.

She was pissed off.

She’d worked her ass off formulating this plan, and now it would appear that Jared Brody was trying to sabotage it.

Unfortunately, Moira needed Jared. He was the central figure in Moira’s plan. The tech genius, the visionary.

Moira had always known how to play the game. From a young age, she’d understood that power was everything, and she’d clawed her way to the top of St. Augustine’s social ladder through sheer force of will. Marrying into the Blackwood family had been a calculated move, a stepping stone to greater influence. Doug, with his weak chin and weaker spine, had been nothing more than a means to an end.

But even with the Blackwood name, Moira had wanted more. The NeoLumen deal was supposed to be her crowning achievement, the thing that would secure the Blackwood legacy for generations to come. Illegal human trials, blackmail, exploitation of the vulnerable—it was a masterpiece of manipulation and greed.

And Jared Brody, the scared little con artist she’d plucked from obscurity, was the lynchpin of it all. She’d molded him into the perfect puppet, or so she thought.

“What the hell happened?” Moira demanded.

“I’m not entirely sure,” Sawyer said. “But you’re right to suspect him. He dropped the tech genius act when he was talking to the guy.”

Shit! Moira had told that little weasel to never drop the act, especially at one of the events.

Something was happening. Something not good. Something that felt out of her control.

And Moira hated being out of control.

“What did they discuss?” she said, picking at her thumbnail, her mind already racing through contingency plans.

Sawyer shook his head. “I don’t know. He gave Brad his real name, though. I heard that much.”

“Shit!”

“That’s all I caught before…” Sawyer trailed off, looked away from her.

“Before what?”

Sawyer slowly lifted his gaze back up. “Brad, he… he knocked my ass out.”

“Oh, for shit’s sake, Sawyer!”

She turned away from him, utterly disgusted. This was the man she’d been screwing for years? This pathetic excuse for a bodyguard who’d let himself get taken out by some nobody? She felt dirty, used. It was a feeling she wasn’t accustomed to, and she hated it.

She looked to where she’d last seen Brad in the foyer.

He was gone.

“So who the hell is this ‘Brad’?”

“Not sure.” Sawyer looked away from her, toward the front of the house. “But I know how to find out.”

She followed his sightline.

Leon Flynn was entering the house through the front door.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Rachel hesitated as she closed the car door. Her mind was telling her not to exit, and her body was in full agreement. But her conscience, her heart, propelled her on. She took a deep breath and closed the door.

And then she approached the frightening looking motel.

She looked at the note in her hand, the one that had brought her here, the one she’d grabbed from Archie’s desk.

Nothing but a few cryptic words in her ex-husband’s handwriting.

right off A1A

StashPoint storage facility - Thu night - motel next door

Twitch - guy at motel, hangs out by dumpsters

murders?

abductions?

the Blackwood house

Moira Blackwood - events

Robert Holloway?

As far as she could tell, the motel was nameless. The sign said simply, “MOTEL.”

It was a two-story relic with a facade barely clinging to its last coat of white paint, now a grimy gray. The trim around the windows and doors was a washed-out blue. A few rusted cars—that matched the motel’s general state of neglect—littered the parking lot. A neon sign stuttered above the entrance, missing enough letters to read “VAC NCY”. Out back, behind the drawn curtains of silent rooms, a couple of old dumpsters stood, their green paint flaking away, surrounded by a scatter of trash they could no longer contain.

The dumpsters. That’s where she had to go.

Twitch - guy at motel, hangs out by dumpsters

She took a deep breath and squeezed her fists, willing her hands to stop shaking.

The sky was full of huge, angry looking, bluish clouds. There was the sporadic flash of heat lightning, which only made things more nightmarish, made her want to turn back around.

She slowly walked along the units. Battered roll-up doors. Faded paint. Missing numbers. Looking for number 23.

She slowly navigated past the rooms. Battered doors with peeling paint. Missing numbers. Sounds of “passion” slipping through the thin walls.

Oh, god, Archie, why the hell were you here? Why the hell am I here??

As she neared the dumpsters at the facility’s far end, a man popped out in front of her. She screamed.

“Why the hell you back here? You a cop?” the man said, left eye twitching. “You a cop, lady? Huh? Huh?”

He fidgeted constantly, a nervous energy radiating from him. He wore ruined dress clothes.

Twitch.

She didn’t respond for a moment. Gulped. Then she said, “No, I’m not a cop.”

He stepped toward her. Too fast.

She pulled the stun gun out of her purse. “I’m not a cop, but I have this!”

Archie’s stun gun. She’d borrowed it from his desk before she left after making up her mind to follow the note to StashPoint and the neighboring motel. She’d assumed she was going to need it, knowing the kind of misadventures Archie got himself into.

And she knew Archie wouldn’t mind.

Twitch put his hands in the air. “Easy, lady! I’m just asking because there’ve been so many people poking around her lately, and you look so, ya know, clean.”

“What about this person?” she said and reached into her purse again, pulled out an old photo—one of her and Archie. “You seen him?”

The man nodded, still twitching and fidgeting. “Oh, yeah. He was here a couple of nights ago. They brought him in the truck. Drugged up. They took him away the next night. The other guy chased after him.”

Rachel gasped. “He was drugged? Who was the other man, the one who chased after them? And where’d they take him?”

Twitch shrugged. “The other dude was a big guy, tall.” He demonstrated the height with a twitchy hand. “Cold-looking dude. Dark hair. Dark eyes.”

“A cop?”

A snicker from Twitch. “I asked him, like I asked you. But he didn’t tell me one way or the other. The guy didn’t say much. Had a crazy deep voice. Sounded painful. Think he had laryngitis or something. If he was a cop, I’d say he was a fed. He had that look about him.”

A federal agent?

What the hell had Archie gotten himself into?

“As to where they took him,” Twitch said, his twitching intensifying, clawing at his neck, his upper chest, “I guess they took him to the other location.”

“What other location?”

“Rumor has it, it’s the place where they get the people ready to ship overseas. Don’t know where it is. Don’t know what it’s called. But around here, we call it the Dispatch Center.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The Mercedes rocketed down Interstate 10, surrounded by forest on each side of the eastbound half of the highway.

A blue-black sky full of stars. A chill in the air. Shortly after 2 in the morning.

Silence yawned. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he tried to focus on the highway ahead. But his eyes kept wanting to close and his mind kept drifting, pulled inexorably back to St. Augustine—not to the memories of yesterday, but the memories of years earlier.

C.C.’s laugh. It echoed in his ears. Her smile. Taking Silence by the hand, and⁠—

No.

Taking Jake by the hand and pulling him toward a coffee shop. Their second coffee break of the day. She was gonna be wired; she always was when she had too much caffeine, and C.C. was a total caffeine lightweight. If she had another latte, then⁠—

Focus, love, C.C.’s voice said. Pay attention to the road. What did I tell you before?

To leave the past where it is, Silence’s mind replied.

That’s right. Stay in the present, focused on your mission. And for God’s sake, stay awake!

Silence shook his head, both to knock out the drowsy cobwebs and to forced the thoughts away. He’d been to St. Augustine just yesterday, and now he was returning again—two return trips in such a short time after years of promising himself he’d never set foot in that city again.

It was too much. Too much at once. Too much to handle. The weight of the past pressed down on him.

A green rest area sign rushed up on the interstate’s right shoulder. Silence signaled and exited, slowing as he rolled down the ramp.

The rest area was a well kept building surrounded by palm trees with pathways leading to picnic areas and vending machines. Passenger vehicle parking on one side; truck parking on the other.

Silence guided the Mercedes into an empty slot beneath an oak. He put the car in park and leaned back, closing his eyes as he exhaled slowly.

A five-second meditation. One of the many techniques C.C. had taught him to calm the tempest of his often chaotic mind.

He forced his eyes open again, then reached for the file folder on the passenger seat.

Last night, after his short nap in his own bed, he’d made an information retrieval request to Watchers Specialists and printed off the subsequent intel from his home printer. Making the request had been a severe breach of protocol—as the information wasn’t related to his current mission—but the CIA agent Silence had confronted hadn’t known the full story behind Rory Enfield’s mysterious code, and Silence needed to figure this thing out. His employers had the resources he needed, so he’d risk admonition to get Mrs. Enfield’s problem solved.

Silence was accustomed to being admonished anyway.

He opened the folder, scanning the printed materials inside. His boss, Falcon, was going to be pissed when he found out about the information retrieval request. Silence could already hear the lecture about misusing resources and compromising operational security.

In fact, it was odd that Falcon hadn’t called yet.

Especially since he’d just called last night…

When Silence had left St. Augustine the previous evening, racing back to Pensacola to deal with the emergency at Mrs. Enfield’s, Falcon had known immediately due to the GPS dot embedded in Silence’s right forearm—a surgically implanted device that allowed the Watchers to track Silence at all times.

Falcon had been less than pleased. But he’d accepted the explanation, knowing how much Silence cared for Mrs. Enfield’s.

But an unsanctioned information retrieval request… Now, that would really test Falcon’s patience.

As if summoned by the thought, Silence’s phone rang. He glanced at the multiplex—Falcon. With a sigh, he answered.

“Sir?”

Falcon’s voice crackled through the speaker with barely contained fury. “Why the hell did you make an information retrieval request unrelated to your mission? About the CIA, no less??”

Silence winced, pulling the phone away from his ear. “It’s about…” he said, swallowed. “The Mrs. Enfield situation.”

“Explain. Now.”

Silence looked down at the file, flicked through the pages, remembering what he’d pieced together last night… well, technically, earlier that morning.

“Her late husband…” he said, swallowed. “Was approached by the CIA.” Another swallow. “In the War. For…” Another swallow. “Something called Operation Crossroads.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Then a hiss of static as Falcon sighed. When Falcon spoke again, his voice was less stern. “What do you know about Crossroads?”

“Nothing.”

“And was Mrs. Enfield’s husband officially brought onto the operation?”

“Uncertain.”

Another sigh from Falcon. Then his voice regained a bit of its frustration as he said, “I’ll look into it.” A third sigh. “You’ve done your good deed, helping out your neighbor. I’ll take it from here. Get your ass back to St. Augustine!”

Beep.

Falcon was gone.

Silence grinned. Falcon usually came around to seeing things Silence’s way.

Hell, now Silence even had the guy working for him.

Silence chuckled with self-satisfaction, fisted more of the sleep from his eyes, dropped the folder on the passenger seat, and backed the Mercedes out, heading for the interstate.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Twelve hours later.

Three in the afternoon, and Kassidy was sound asleep.

Always sleeping.

Hager was in his kitchen, pouring a glass of water at the sink. He called out to Kassidy.

“So, yeah, I gotta go back there in a little bit. This Jones is one crazy guy. I found out some interesting stuff about the case in the meantime.”

He waited for a response. None. She was asleep again.

Naturally. Always sleeping.

“It turns out Archie Kovacs was looking into missing people, all of them connected to the West Augustine area. The guy was undercover, and he hasn’t checked in for a couple of days. There’s a connection to the Blackwood family. Something stinks, and I’m not sure how it’s gonna turn out, to be honest.”

He finished the water, put the glass in the sink. Walked toward the hall.

“Unfortunately I didn’t get to proceed with the meeting. So we’re not going to get any direct help. But the good thing is, though, that Jones did get through.”

He stopped at the bedroom door. Put his hand on the doorknob. She was asleep, yes. But he would keep talking. And he would open the door.

He turned the knob, stopped just beyond the threshold.

He flipped on the light.

And there she was.

Kassidy.

His golden retriever, named after his late wife.

Hager sat on the edge of the bed, scratching behind Kassidy’s ears. The dog’s tail thumped lazily against the comforter. Kassidy was showing her age - her once-golden fur now mostly gray, her movements slow and stiff. Her eyes, though still warm and loving, were clouded with cataracts.

He’d tried everything to save his wife. When the cancer diagnosis came, they’d fought it together, exploring every treatment option available. From aggressive chemotherapy to experimental trials, they’d left no stone unturned. For months, they’d lived in a whirlwind of hospital visits, medication schedules, and fleeting moments of hope. But in the end, it hadn’t been enough. Kassidy had slipped away, leaving Hager alone and devastated.

Now, he was trying everything he could to save the second Kassidy’s life, but there was only so much he could do against old age. The vet visits were becoming more frequent, the medications piling up.

He hadn’t intended to get a dog after Kassidy’s death. But when he saw the golden retriever named “Kassie” at one of those sidewalk adoption events outside a chain pet store, he felt it was some sort of sign. So he adopted the six-year-old “puppy” and gave her name a slight change to “Kassidy”.

Hager sighed heavily. He couldn’t save either one of them - not his wife from cancer, not his dog from the relentless march of time. It was a painful reminder of his own powerlessness.

He’d tried everything to connect with his deceased wife—from the scientific to the spiritual, from religion to the occult. He’d never been a particularly religious man, but he’d always believed in God. And through all of this varied experimentation, as well as the depths of pain from losing Kassidy, he felt more connected to God than he’d ever been in the years since her death.

And yet, it wasn’t necessarily a strong connection. He often wondered if he’d angered God, if the Almighty wished for Hager to let things be, to listen to His plan. Still, Hager was going to risk it. He was going to continue to hope that Crane’s company and Crane’s tech, while maybe not in the spiritual way that Crane espoused, could help him move on.

That is, unless the guy ended up being a human-trafficking psychopath.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Sleep can do a man wonders.

Silence had been back in St. Augustine for nine hours. He’d been asleep for half that time.

It had made all the difference in the world.

He guided his Mercedes through the dusky outskirts of St. Augustine, the setting sun painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. Terry Hager was in the passenger seat; Silence picked him up earlier at his house, and they’d spent the last hour reviewing intel.

As Silence drove, he found himself reflecting on the recent memories that had been tormenting him—the ones tied to his last visit to the city with C.C.

Surprisingly, they seemed less invasive today. Perhaps the extra sleep had helped. Even combined with the few hours he’d gotten in his bed in Pensacola, it was shy of a full night’s rest, but he still felt more refreshed than he had in days.

Or maybe it wasn’t the sleep at all that was lessening the impact of the C.C. hauntings. Maybe it was the physical toll the past few days had taken on him—the fighting, the stress, the constant action.

Getting whacked in the head enough times can evidently knock the painful memories right out of a person.

He’d chosen a beachside resort as his place to stay while in St. Augustine, so as he drove along a lonesome road, Silence caught occasional glimpses of the Atlantic Ocean to his left. For a moment, he allowed himself to relax, to breathe in the smell of the sea seeping through the car’s ventilation system.

But the calm was short-lived.

In his rearview mirror, Silence noticed a car gaining speed behind him. A Cadillac. As it drew closer, the face behind the wheel became unmistakable—Sawyer, his bright red hair a beacon in the twilight, his cold, piercing eyes locked on Silence’s Mercedes. The recognition was instant, and Silence knew what was coming next.

Without warning, the Cadillac surged forward, its engine roaring as Sawyer closed the gap between them. Silence’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, his body tensing for the inevitable confrontation. He pressed down on the accelerator, and the Mercedes responded with a burst of speed.

What followed was a high-octane chase that tore through the outskirts of St. Augustine. The Mercedes and Cadillac weaved in and out of traffic, their engines growling, tires screeching against the asphalt. Silence maneuvered deftly, using every bit of his driving skill to stay ahead, but Sawyer proved to be a formidable opponent behind the wheel.

Silence threaded the needle between slower cars, narrowly avoiding collisions as he pushed the Mercedes to its limits. He careened around sharp bends, the g-forces pressing him into his seat. But no matter how skillfully he drove, Sawyer remained hot on his tail, matching Silence’s every move with terrifying precision.

The cat-and-mouse game reached a fever pitch as they entered a more populated area. Silence’s heart pounded in his chest, adrenaline coursing through his veins as he sought any advantage he could find. But Sawyer was relentless, his Cadillac a persistent shadow in Silence’s mirrors.

Then, without warning, Sawyer made his move. The Cadillac suddenly swerved, slamming into the rear quarter of Silence’s Mercedes. The impact sent the Mercedes into a violent spin, tires squealing as Silence fought for control. But it was too late. The car careened off the road, crashing into the side of a dilapidated building with a sickening crunch of metal and shattering glass.

For a moment, everything was still. Then, as the dust began to settle, Silence shook off the impact, his hand instinctively reaching for his Beretta. He kicked open the driver’s door, preparing to face whatever came next. But as he tried to step out, a blur of motion caught his eye.

Sawyer was on him in an instant, tackling Silence with bone-jarring force. The Beretta flew from Silence’s grasp, clattering to the ground as both men tumbled onto the hard asphalt. Silence rolled with the impact, years of training kicking in as he immediately engaged in a brutal hand-to-hand fight.

As they exchanged blows, Silence quickly realized that while the CIA agent he’d fought the previous night was tough, Sawyer was on another level entirely. He’d faced many skilled operators in his time, but very few with this combination of raw power and refined technique.

Sawyer’s fists were like hammers, each strike threatening to end the fight then and there. Silence used every trick in his arsenal, countering and evading, but each blow he landed seemed to barely faze his opponent. They grappled and struck, their bodies a blur of motion as they fought for dominance.

The fight was a grueling test of endurance and skill. Silence’s muscles burned, his lungs working overtime as he pushed himself to the limit. Sawyer was relentless, his attacks coming in swift, brutal combinations that left Silence reeling. But Silence refused to give in, meeting each assault with one of his own.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they broke apart. Both men stood breathing heavily, blood trickling from cuts and bruises that marred their faces. They eyed each other warily, two warriors locked in a standoff, neither willing to back down.

In the midst of this tense silence, Sawyer spoke up. “Mrs. Blackwood wants a word with you,” he said between labored breaths, his voice carrying a menacing calm despite the exertion.

Silence, still catching his breath, glanced at the wrecked Cadillac, then back at Sawyer. “You could have just told me,” he replied, his tone half-wry, half-irritated. “I want to meet with her too. You didn’t have to wreck my car.”

A smirk played across Sawyer’s bloodied lips, seemingly unfazed by the destruction around them. Silence, seeing an opportunity to de-escalate, continued, “I’ll go with you willingly, as long as you let me help my friend.” He gestured towards the Mercedes, where Hager sat slumped in the passenger seat, unconscious from the crash.

Sawyer’s eyes flicked to the gathering crowd of onlookers, then back to Silence. With a nod towards the bystanders, he said, “Call an ambulance for him if you want. But these people seem eager to help.”

Silence weighed his options. The crowd was indeed moving closer. A few had their cellular phones out, already dialing emergency services. He knew Hager would be taken care of. And right now, the opportunity to meet with Moira Blackwood was too important to pass up.

“Fine,” Silence said with a shrug. He retrieved his Beretta, holstered it, and walked over to the Cadillac.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Rachel tried to be as casual as possible as she walked up the sidewalk while stealing glances across the street.

There it was. The Blackwood House. The one Archie had written on his note.

It was a beautiful, old-style mansion, like many of the historic homes surrounding it. She’d seen the house a million times but didn’t know the name before tonight. There were so many historic buildings in St. Augustine. It was impossible to know them all.

This one was particularly stately. Something out of a dream. Lit up brilliantly on the outside. The interior lights were aglow as well, and she could see lots of silhouettes milling inside the house. Some sort of upscale event, no doubt.

How the hell was a place like this connected to the frightening motel and the StashPoint storage facility she’d been to an hour earlier?

And now that she was here, what the hell was she going to do?

There was another person. A man. A few yards away, standing under a palm tree, hidden in shadow, also watching the house, as though waiting for someone. Dress shirt, dress pants. His hands were in his pockets.

Rachel wasn’t sure what to do at this point, but maybe this man could help. He could also very well prove to be dangerous.

Risky.

But she did have a stun gun. In the event that things went south.

So, screw it. She would do it.

She started toward the man…

…and quickly realized she wasn’t going to need the stun gun. Because as she drew closer, the man’s face materialized in the street light. She recognized him.

It was Terry Hager.

“Terry!” she called, picking up the pace. As she got closer and Terry turned in his direction, she saw a massive bandage on his forehead. “Holy shit! What happened to you?”

“A little car accident,” Terry said.

Rachel started to ask more, but he waved it off.

“Terry, I’m so glad to see you. I did what I said and went by Archie’s house. I found a note. I think he’s in trouble.”

Terry stepped closer. “Let me see the note.”

Rachel pulled the folded paper from her back pocket and handed it to him. She watched as Terry’s eyes scanned the contents, his expression growing more serious with each line.

right off A1A

StashPoint storage facility - Thu night - motel next door

Twitch - guy at motel, hangs out by dumpsters

murders?

abductions?

the Blackwood house

Moira Blackwood - events

Robert Holloway?

Terry looked up from the note, his gaze darting between Rachel and the Blackwood House. “Of course,” he muttered. “Mrs. Blackwood and Robert Holloway. It’s all connected.”

“What is it?” Rachel said. “What does it mean?”

Terry took a deep breath before explaining. “Archie was onto something huge, Rachel. The Crane demos happening in that house? They’re fronts. Moira Blackwood is conning the upper crust of St. Austin. And it’s tied to human-trafficking.”

Human-trafficking…

Knowing Archie had somehow gotten his fool-ass involved in all of this, Rachel’s heart raced. “How?”

“Illegal medical trials,” Terry said. “The guy helping me out here, Brad, he figured it all out.”

“The fed!” Rachel said. “The fed that Twitch at the motel mentioned.”

“I’m not sure if he’s a fed. Seems like it to me. But he wouldn’t give me an answer one way or the other.”

Rachel smirked. “Neither confirm nor deny.”

This brought a slight smile to Terry’s face. “Exactly. And whatever the Blackwood crew is doing,” Terry continued, “it involves Robert Holloway.” He tapped the note. “One of the biggest tech CEOs in the country. He’s in that house right now.”

He turned to look at the Blackwood mansion for a long moment. Then he turned, looked right at her.

“Brad told me something else.” A pause and a sigh. “Rachel… Brad saw Archie last night, and I don’t know how to say this… They were… transporting him, drugged-up.”

The term flew up in Rachel’s face again: human-trafficking.

She felt an honest-to-God jolt in her heart. Her hands flew to her mouth. “Oh my God!”

Terry checked his watch. “And now all we can do is wait for Brad. He’s inside.”

“How do you know?” Rachel asked.

“I got a call from him on my cell phone when I was in the ER. But that was over an hour ago.” He checked his watch again, frowned. “I’m gonna check it.”

“Wait!”

But before Rachel could reach out to stop him, Terry was jogging up to the Blackwood mansion.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Silence had been in the room for more than an hour.

But he’d recognized the place immediately.

He was back where it all started. Or, at least, where the pieces of the puzzle had started to fall into place, back where he first discovered the folder labeled NeoLumen Pharmaceuticals - Belarus.

He was back in the extra bedroom on the second floor of the Blackwood House, the one with all of Adam Crane’s tech setup, standing right in the center of the room, back where he’d changed clothing after his short flight into a plexiglass wall last night. For nearly seventy-five minutes, he’d been staring at the computer equipment. Monitors. Servers. All of it haphazardly positioned among the regal furnishings of a stately manor.

He grimaced. A sharp, splitting pain to the side of his head. The injury from Sawyer, one of the many vicious blows he’d taken after the guy had wrecked Silence’s lovely blue Mercedes.

Bastard.

He was jammed into the back corner, staring at the wall. Handcuffs held his hands together in front, wrapped tight around a pipe stretching from the ground up, boxing him in close. The corner allowed barely enough space to breathe. He rocked on his heels, shifting his weight, looking for any bit of ease. The cuffs gave none.

It wasn’t surprising that Moira Blackwood owned handcuffs—what with her dark fetishes and all—but Silence had expected them to be of the cheap sex store variety. Oh no. These were the real deal. Police-issue. As a former cop, it was easy to spot the difference.

Real cuffs…

Damn. This lady really was a freak.

The squeak of hinges in front of him. The door opened, and Moira Blackwood breezed into the room, the standard smile on her face, big and toothy, encircled with bright red lipstick.

“So you’re the man who’s been causing all the troubles?”

She walked up to him, a foot away, close enough that he could smell more than just her perfume; he could smell her skin, her hair. He saw the small details in her face. The thickness of her foundation; the wrinkles it had failed to hide.

Silence didn’t respond.

“Looking for your friend, huh?”

“Archie Kovacs?” Silence said and swallowed. “Never met him.”

“But you’re looking for him nonetheless.”

Silence didn’t respond.

She put her hand on his chest, ran her finger along the arch of his pec. “Why are you really here?”

The hand balled into a fist, and she struck him hard in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him.

Silence gasped.

The fist connected again, this time to his ribs.

Moira bit her lip, inched back, smiled. “I’ll assume you’re a fed. I know you’ve talked to my little friend, Jared Brody. I know he told you he’s a fraud. Which means you think you’ve discovered something big here in St. Augustine.”

Another punch landed.

Moira smiled bigger, leaned her head toward his neck, breathing heavily. Her face was flushed.

“Who sent you?”

Silence didn’t respond.

“Who? Who are you and Kovacs working for?”

The blows came faster now, alternating between his torso and face.

“Who??” she said, her voice rising, sounding orgasmic.

Silence grunted, trying to stay focused through the pain.

Moira stepped back, chest heaving, eyes gleaming. She shook out her hand, flexing her fingers.

“I know what…” Silence said, swallowed. “You’re doing, lady.”

“Oh?”

Silence nodded. “Human trafficking. Medical trials in…” He swallowed. “Belarus. And extortion.”

“It’s an emerging market, Brad, or whatever the hell your real name is. Not just Belarus. We were going to expand into other countries, other pharmaceutical companies. It really is a prospering field for those willing to get their hands dirty. And the extortion? That’s just some good old-fashioned fun.”

“Why Holloway?”

She stepped back up to him, pressed herself against him, every bit, top to bottom, her breathing rapid. “Because Holloway… is…” she said between breaths. She slapped his face. Hard. “In the tech… the tech industry… and… Oh, god!” She moaned, slapped his face again. “And so is the supposed ‘Adam Crane,’ which… which means…” She was grinding hard against him now. “That I can tie everything… back… to… a… fake… man. Oh! Oh god!”

Her head fell to Silence’s shoulder.

For a long moment she was like this, wrapped fully around him, panting. Slowly, she pulled away, pausing to place a deep, hot kiss on his neck.

Silence motioned with his eyes to the chains hold him to the ceiling, raised his eyebrows.

“Oh. What do I have planned for you?” Moira said. “I’m not quite sure…” Her eyes traced over him. “Can’t kill you or ship you off to Belarus if I’m not sure you’re not a fed. For now, I need to keep you in one place. Because you’re naughty.”

She winked.

And left.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

The Jaguar flew down the two-lane road, slicing through the trees. Moira had both hands on the wheel and her eyes locked forward on the asphalt ahead of her. A few miles from the country estate.

But her mind was far away, in a land of abstraction—lofty thoughts of family and heritage and fate.

She had clawed her way into the Blackwood family through a calculated marriage, and now she was determined to secure her place at the top. Doug meant nothing to her. He was a weak and repulsive man, nothing more than an overgrown country hick who happened to possess the Blackwood name—along with the money and status Moira needed.

For years now, she’d been a Blackwood. A Blackwood! And unlike Doug, she’d earned that title, dammit.

Now, Moira, this self-made Blackwood, was getting the family in a position to succeed in ways it never had in its storied history. By the night’s end. With what she had planned.

Oh, Mr. Holloway. You don’t know what you’re about to get yourself into.

She reminded herself, though, of Holloway’s rumored dark past.

Supposedly, Holloway had killed a guy.

Years back, Martin Darnell, a brilliant young tech innovator with a groundbreaking encryption algorithm, had been found dead in his apartment just days after meeting with Holloway. The official ruling was an accidental fall, but the timing was too convenient to ignore. Darnell had been on the verge of signing with a competitor of Holloway’s company, Tilt Systems, and suddenly Tilt announced a strikingly similar software to Darnell’s creation. The police found nothing, but the computer world buzzed with theories of corporate espionage turned deadly.

Moira would need to be careful. Holloway be grieving, but he wasn’t naive.

She brought her attention back to the road. There was the curve, the last landmark before the estate.

Almost showtime.

She looked to the side. Jared was in the passenger seat, clearly shellshocked by it all, staring forward with glassy eyes. The con artist weasel had served his purpose to this point. He’d been a good little actor. One more performance—that’s all she needed from him.

And… maybe one more roll in the hay as well. Jared was cute. Sexy body. Big hog.

Yes, she’d get one more lay out of the kid.

But first, Jared was going to have to pull himself together, quit the shellshocked routine, be a good little actor again.

And soon.

Because Moira needed him to give the performance of his lifetime.

When the cinderblock building was constructed on her property, Moira had had the builders create it to her exact specifications. Ostensibly, it was a test facility for the LLC that owned StashPoint—a proving ground of sorts for storage facility technologies. She’d obtained all the appropriate building permits and other legal mumbo-jumbo.

On paper, the facility was designed to test various environmental control systems, security measures, and storage unit configurations. It supposedly housed mock-ups of different storage unit sizes, climate control equipment, and even experimental automated retrieval systems.

What the building actually was, however, was one of her two holding facilities to store her human trafficking victims before they were put on ships for their ultimate trip to Belarus. There, they would become unwitting and unwilling guinea pigs for NeoLumen’s illegal pharmaceutical trials. The bland interior served a dual purpose—maintaining the facade of a testing facility while providing an ideal environment for temporarily housing and processing her “merchandise.”

Inside, the space was plain. Concrete floors. Steal supports. Cinderblock walls. Fluorescent lighting. A large center aisle was line with doors belong to the individual storage units.

…but the only thing they stored were human beings. Often strapped to gurneys. Often drugged.

Sometimes she had a full house. Right now only one of the cells was occupied.

For two years, Moira had been at this game. She had always some dark associates, sure, but most of those individuals were involved in things like money-laundering or insider trading. And she knew more than a few coke fiends as well.

But until a couple of years ago, she’d never met anyone involved in human-trafficking.

Her contact had been extremely subtle—and careful—at first, slowly leaking details about a European company named NeoLumen, but once the topic was broached, Moira was fully onboard. There were as many lowlifes in St. Augustine as any other city—junkies, vagabonds, vagrants—to serve as her victims, and hiring out muscle to abduct these people had been simple. Money talks.

She’d made a small fortune for two years, money she hid in the LLC and other locations far from the Blackwood family coffers. This cash was hers and hers alone. She’d earned it.

All of that success had brought her to this point. Here. In the building that sat on the property behind her country estate.

Jared stood beside her, wearing the suit she’d had him change into. He no longer looked shellshocked. He looked like Adam Crane again. Moira had talked some sense into him before they entered the building. She’d been very persuasive.

They were in the center aisle, in the middle of the smooth, flat, unmarred concrete. The fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling above blazed, brilliantly displaying an environment of grays and whites and slashes of steel.

Moira didn’t have much time. But she was going to try to get some answers out of her favorite little conman.

“Do you want to start talking now, Jared?”

No reply.

She stepped closer to him. “Tell me about your fed friend Brad. He was pretty tight-lipped. I know you told him everything.”

Still no reply. Jared inched away from her.

Moira traced a finger down his neck, along his collar. “This is a nice suit, isn’t it? I’ve sure decked you out in some fine clothes, fed you the finest foods, treated you like… well, like a Blackwood.”

Jared’s eyes focused on her for a moment. Then he quickly looked away.

Moira patted Jared’s cheek, hard, almost a slap. “Pull yourself together, ‘Adam Crane.’ Come now. We have someone to visit.”

She wrapped her arm around his shoulder and led him toward one of doorways.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Back in town, Hager circled the rear side of the Blackwood house. A few moments earlier, he’d found nothing at the front and was quickly turned away by one of Moira’s security staff when he tried to enter.

Behind the house was an auto court. A one-car garage. A pair of cars and a black pickup truck. But no people in sight.

The back door was up a three-step concrete landing. He started in that direction.

Suddenly, a figure burst from the shadows, lunging at him. Even in the dim light, Hager recognized him instantly—it was Sawyer, Moira Blackwood’s bodyguard, the man who’d run Brad off the road and put Hager in the ER less than two hours ago.

His wiry build was accentuated by his well-tailored suit, now slightly rumpled. The red hair, thick and slightly tousled. Cold green eyes.

Hager’s martial arts training kicked in instantly. He pivoted, using Sawyer’s momentum to throw him off balance. As the man stumbled past, Hager landed a solid strike to his kidney.

Sawyer grunted but recovered quickly, whirling to face Hager. He came at him with a flurry of punches. Hager blocked most, but a few slipped through his defense, clipping his ribs and jaw.

He countered with a swift kick to Sawyer’s thigh, followed by a quick jab to the face.

For a moment, they circled each other warily. Hager had encountered plenty of tough opponents during his years of martial arts training, but this guy was on another level. His strikes were lightning-fast, his technique flawless. Hager realized with a sinking feeling that he might be outmatched.

Sawyer feinted left, then swept Hager’s legs out from under him. As Hager hit the gravel, Sawyer pounced, trying to pin him down. Hager bucked and twisted, managing to reverse their positions. He got in two solid punches before Sawyer bridged, throwing him off.

They both scrambled to their feet. Hager was breathing hard now, while Sawyer seemed barely winded.

“You’ve had some training, haven’t you?” Sawyer said with a smirk. “Well, so have I. Lots.”

He launched into another attack. Hager defended desperately, giving ground. He’d fought some real badasses over the years, but never anyone this skilled, this relentless. It was like trying to fight a force of nature.

Hager’s foot slipped on the gravel. In that split second of imbalance, Sawyer struck. His hand clamped over Hager’s mouth and nose, pressing a cloth soaked in some noxious chemical against his face. It felt cold, tasted bitter.

Hager thrashed, trying to break free, but Sawyer’s grip was like iron. His strength began to fade, his limbs growing heavy.

As Hager collapsed, Sawyer caught him, easing him to the ground. Hager’s vision swam. He looked up at his attacker - a man with a wiry build, close-cropped red hair, and cold green eyes. Sawyer was still wearing his well-tailored suit, though it was now rumpled from the fight.

There was a flash of heat lightning in the sky behind him.

And a dark smile played across Sawyer’s face.

Sawyer stepped away briefly. When he returned, he held a blue polyethylene tarp.

“Shh. I’ll come back for you.”

As consciousness slipped away, the last thing Hager saw was the tarp descending over him.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

For the longest time, Archie’s only companion in the cinderblock room had been Landers.

Now he had two more visitors.

One was Adam Crane, the tech wunderkind who had taken St. Augustine by storm. The other was Moira Blackwood. He recognized them both not just from their local notoriety, but from the connections he’d been piecing together during his investigation into the missing persons cases. Based on the theories he’d been developing about their operation, Archie knew he was in serious trouble…

It was a surreal way to meet them—strapped down tightly to a gurney. Archie’s heart rate spiked as he noticed Moira was carrying a soldering iron. She walked to a nearby outlet and plugged it in, the implications making Archie’s quake.

Moira spoke. “Which of you is going to start talking?” Apparently, she was interrogating both Archie and Crane. Strange. Very strange indeed. Archie wasn’t sure what to make of it, but his eyes kept darting to the soldering iron, now starting to glow faintly red at the tip.

He remained silent.

So did Crane.

“Have it your way,” Moira said, a cruel smile playing at her lips. She looked at Landers. “Leave.”

Landers obeyed, lowering his head and shuffling past, twisting his body to stay clear of the soldering iron. When he opened the door, Archie finally got a quick glimpse of what lay on the other side—just a hallway of the cinderblock-and-concrete construction as the room and several matching doors.

When the door shut, Moira approached the table, standing right beside Archie. The acrid smell of the warming iron filled the small room, making Archie’s nostrils flare in fear. “Who are you really?” she asked, her fingers trailing idly along the iron’s cord.

Archie swallowed hard, his throat dry. “You know who I am.”

“Ah yes, Archie Kovacs,” Moira purred. “Your reputation precedes you. And what about that stupid blog of yours, Daredevil Dispatch? What did you publish there?”

Archie’s voice was firm, despite the fear. “Nothing.”

Moira’s eyebrows raised, disbelief evident on her face. With deliberate slowness, she moved the soldering iron closer. Archie could feel the heat radiating from it even from a distance. “Very well,” she said, bringing the tip nearer to Archie’s chest.

Archie could smell his shirt starting to singe.

Suddenly, Moira pressed the iron down, burning a hole straight through the fabric. Archie gritted his teeth, refusing to cry out. But the searing pain was unlike anything he’d experienced before.

He screamed.

Crane turned away, visibly disturbed.

“How did you find us?” Moira demanded, her cheeks flushed. She bit her lip, smiling, eyes manic.

“I don’t… I…” Archie gasped, body trembling.

Moira touched the iron to Archie’s skin again, holding it longer this time.

The smell of burning flesh filled the room.

Archie’s back arched involuntarily, his restraints creaking as he thrashed against them. The pain was beyond description now—a living thing that clawed and burned through every nerve in his body.

“How are you two connected?” Moria said, waving a finger between Archie and Crane. “Tell me! One of you had better start talking!”

“We’re not! I’ve never seen him before!” Crane shouted.

Moria pulled the iron away.

Archie gasped.

A moment of nothing but the smell of burnt flesh and the echoes of violence. Then Moira began tracing lazy patterns in the air with the soldering iron, letting Archie see its glow…

…before pressing it to his skin once more. His scream of agony was deafening in the confined room.

The pain exploded anew, somehow even more intense than before. Archie’s vision swam, dark spots dancing at the edges as his body fought to remain conscious through the torment.

Finally, Moira set the iron aside and leaned in close, her face inches from Archie’s. “Whatever brought you here to my domain, Mister Wannabe Detective, you’re going to serve a greater purpose tonight. You’ll help me ensnare someone very powerful and influential.”

She ran her fingers over the fresh burns on Archie’s chest, her breath quickening. She bent slightly at the knees, thighs squeezing together.

“You’re going to wish you’d never started digging into this, Kovacs.”

Moria planted a lingering kiss on his neck—sucking hard enough to leave a painful tingle—before pulling away, breathless. She straightened, her cheeks flushed, eyes gleaming. A quick swipe of a hand to smooth down her tousled silver hair, then she headed for the door.

“Come along, Jared. We need to get you ready for your performance, big boy. And Kovacs,” she added, turning back with a wicked grin, “I hope you like Belarus, because that’s where you’re headed.”

CHAPTER FORTY

As a Watcher, Silence was off the grid in almost every way. He paid no taxes. He had no social security number. He didn’t have a birth certificate, and someday he would leave no death certificate behind.

So, he couldn’t be an organ donor.

But he would if he could.

Now, it looked like fate might have provided a bit of an alternative—because if he didn’t figure something out soon, he was going to be shipped to Belarus for illegal medical testing.

He looked at his hands. The genuine police handcuffs were still there, one cuff on each wrist, looped around the pipe. Earlier, he’d given the pipe a good shaking. To no avail. He’d restrained himself somewhat, however, knowing that breaking the pipe from the wall would create a hell of a racket.

At this point, he had to risk the noise.

No more holding back.

He dug his heels into the floor, bent at the knees, and⁠—

The door suddenly opened.

Leon Flynn entered.

Silence straightened up. He remembered earlier when Moira had beaten the shit out of his stomach… but done so in a friendly way.

Very friendly.

Now, he suspected another beating was in his immediate future. Moira had sent her goon in there to soften him up.

But like Silence determined a moment earlier, he was no longer going to hold anything back. He could beat this guy with his hands tied. Literally.

He stared at Flynn.

Bring it on, asshole.

Flynn stepped within arm’s reach, and as he approached, Silence noticed his face wasn’t menacing or sneering. Rather, there was a look of… regret.

Interesting.

And, potentially, advantageous.

“I’m setting you free, sir,” Flynn said. “She’s deceived all of us. Me included. And innocent people are getting hurt.” He paused a beat. “A lot of those people have gotten hurt on my watch. It ends now.”

Flynn reached into his pocket, took out a set of keys, and unlocked the handcuffs.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Flynn had done it—the right thing.

It was the first time he’d done the right thing in weeks.

Flynn had confirmed his initial impression that the fed—whose name he now knew to be Brad—was a man of integrity. Though Brad had been perplexed by his sudden release, he’d expressed genuine gratitude to Flynn for doing what he termed “the right thing.”

Flynn had a sense of redemption, something to quell weeks’ worth of losing track of who he was.

Maybe it wouldn’t undo the horrors he’d committed. Not by a long shot.

But it felt damn good.

He opened the door at the back of the kitchen and escorted Brad onto the rear steps facing the auto court and the garage. The nighttime air was cool. Insects trilled. The sky pulsed with underlying heat lightning.

“Be careful,” Flynn said. “Moira Blackwood has added security personnel stationed throughout the grounds. No uniforms. And there’s always Sawyer. The man’s eyes are everywhere.”

Brad surveyed the darkness for a moment, then turned back to him. “Where is the…” he said and swallowed. “Second facility.”

“Aside from StashPoint?”

Brad nodded.

Flynn shook his head. “I don’t know. ‘Adam Crane’ only told me so much. I only ever transported people to StashPoint. Anyone who went to the second facility was taken there by Sawyer.”

Jones nodded, smacked a massive hand on Flynn’s shoulder, then disappeared into the shadows.

Flynn reentered the house.

And grinned.

Yes, he’d done the right thing. How he would spiritually rectify what he’d done over the last few weeks was still up in the air. But for now, he was pleased. He headed upstairs.

As he rounded the corner from the stairwell and entered the second-floor corridor, he halted.

Because Sawyer was emerging from the spare room.

No words were necessary.

Flynn knew. He knew that Sawyer had discovered the empty restraints.

Sawyer advanced.

Flynn assumed a fighting stance, his mind already mapping out potential scenarios.

None of them good.

Because he’d had a conversation he had with Sawyer shortly after taking the position as Adam Crane’s chief of security.

Flynn remembered the chat vividly. A strange moment of You don’t want to screw with me, and I’m gonna tell you why. The details had been chilling.

Sawyer had grown up in a small, forgotten town in the South United States, where he’d developed a disturbing fascination with inflicting pain from an early age. By his teenage years, he’d discovered martial arts, which became an outlet for his violent tendencies. He threw himself into training with a fervor that shocked his instructors, devouring knowledge from multiple disciplines and eventually earning black belts in several disciplines.

But it wasn’t just technical skills that made Sawyer so dangerous; it was the man’s complete lack of empathy. He was an empty pit of violence and depravity. And he constantly added to his knowledge, his skill set. In his spare time, aside from martial arts training, Sawyer studied history… from a very specific lens, that of death, murder, and torture.

Years of intense training honed Sawyer’s body into a weapon. His sadistic nature meant he approached every fight from an angle of brutality that few would even consider. Flynn had seen him nearly beat a man to death right behind the Blackwood house. The man had been nearly twice his size.

As Sawyer approached—his footsteps soundless on the hallway’s plush carpeting—Flynn knew he was about to tangle with a man who’d spent his whole life perfecting the art of violence.

The odds were overwhelmingly poor.

There was a twitch from Sawyer’s hips, then one of his blurring, instantaneous roundhouse kicks met Flynn’s face, dropping him.

And that was all it took.

The fight was over before it started.

Flynn knew he’d never had a chance against Sawyer anyway.

His cheek was pressed into the thick carpet. Felt good. Like a pillow. Luxurious. The Blackwoods spared no expense.

He tasted blood. Felt it trickling out of the corner of his mouth, down his chin, onto the red carpet.

Red on red.

He’d failed. He was a failure. Momma was right all along.

His vision blurred, lightened.

Pressure on either side of his head, at the temples—Sawyer’s hands.

Crack.

Electric pain, surging through his body.

And then nothing.

Nothing at all.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Silence crept along the side of the building, scanning the shadows and crevices for the guards Flynn had warned him about.

He spotted one. A figure lurking at the far corner. A woman. He’d need to be cautious, and⁠—

Movement caught his eye.

Farther away, at the edge of the brick-paved auto court.

Sawyer was hefting an unconscious form into the bed of a pickup truck. Silence’s heart raced as he recognized the limp figure just before Sawyer slammed the tailgate shut.

It was Hager.

Silence sprinted toward the truck.

Sawyer’s head snapped up, their eyes locking.

In an instant, Sawyer vaulted into the driver’s seat. The engine roared to life. Brake lights flared red in the darkness. Gravel sprayed as the tires spun, seeking traction.

The truck lurched forward.

Silence pumped his legs harder, eating up the distance. For a moment, he was gaining.

But the truck began to pull away.

Silence gritted his teeth, pushing himself to the limit. The truck’s taillights grew more distant with each second.

Just as his lungs were about to give up, Silence made a final, desperate lunge. His fingers caught the passenger door handle. He clung on, feet dragging painfully across the concrete as Sawyer accelerated.

And for a half second, his mind flashed on a recent memory. Two nights ago. Hanging onto this very truck, farther back, on the tailgate. He’d managed to get inside the bed, but the outcome had been… less than what he’d intended—getting dislodged, his body slapping hard on the street, tumbling, looking up, watching the truck disappear.

With any luck, his fortunes would take a different turn this time.

Grunting with effort, Silence managed to work the handle. The door swung open, nearly throwing him off balance. He scrambled to pull himself inside⁠—

Only to find himself staring down the length of a tire iron. Sawyer’s face was as blank and cold as ever, but there was confidence in the eyes. He certainly had the upper hand.

He swung.

Silence pulled his hand away right as the tire iron clanged into the door. He held on one-handed for another second before the friction of the asphalt on his bouncing shoes peeled him away.

He dropped.

His body hit the ground hard, rolling and tumbling across the pavement. The rough surface tore at his clothes, his skin.

Silence came to a stop, his entire body throbbing. Groaning, he propped himself up on his elbows just in time to see the truck screech around a corner, momentum slamming the passenger door shut.

And then it was gone.

Déjà vu.

The outcome had not been any different than two nights before. In fact, it was frustratingly identical.

Silence let his forehead rest against pavement, gasping. He tasted blood.

He’d failed.

Hager was gone.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Rachel couldn’t move.

Because she’d just seen a man get abducted.

She stood alone at the rear of the Blackwood House in a state of shocked paralysis, staring at a brick auto court where she’d just watched Terry Hager’s unconscious form get stolen away into the night.

She’d been standing like this for some time.

A few minutes earlier, after Terry had said he was going to check for Brad, she’d watched him enter through the building’s front entrance. Two minutes later he emerged, by himself.

But instead of coming back to the sidewalk and joining Rachel, Terry had slipped around the side of the house, going toward the rear.

He must have been attempting to be stealthy. At this point, Rachel had no qualms about employing some stealth herself. So when he failed to reappear after several minutes, she followed his path.

He was clearly something stealthy. Why? Rachel had no clue.

She waited to see if he would reappear. Several minutes passed. And he did not reappear.

So Rachel decided it was time to take action. Hell, at this point, after everything that had happened to her that night, she had no reservations about employing stealthy tactics herself. So she hurried up the sidewalk to the house, slipping into the shadows of the copse running along the property line, and traced the path she’d just seen Take. She moved quietly, sticking to the shadows, keeping her footsteps light in the mulch and undergrowth.

As she rounded the corner, she witnessed something that stopped her dead in her tracks.

It was Terry.

Out cold.

And he was being loaded into the bed of a pickup truck.

A wiry man with bold red hair and an expensive-looking suit slammed the tailgate shut and sprinted to the driver’s side. He leapt in, and the truck peeled out. Almost immediately, another man gave chase on foot—a huge man in a white shirt and tan chinos.

Both the truck and the pursuing man vanished into the night.

And now, for the last few minutes, Rachel had remained rooted to the spot at the corner of the house, frozen in shock.

She was on her own. Her only ally had been abducted. Archie was in trouble.

And she had no idea what her next move should be.

A noise from behind. Footsteps.

She spun around, heart pounding…

…and saw a large man approaching from the trees, hidden in the shadows, a moving silhouette, only yards way.

How the hell had he sneaked up on her, gotten so close?

She backed away, keeping her eyes locked on the man.

A few moments ago, when she’d first approached Terry on the sidewalk, she’d decided that if things went south tonight, she could use the stun gun she’d borrowed from Archie’s desk.

She hadn’t actually planned on using it…

Her hand went to her purse.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Pressure on his shoulders.

And his chest.

His thighs. His ankles.

Hager’s eyes fluttered open. As he regained consciousness, he found he was secured to something. Straps up and down his body.

He was tied to a gurney.

He was indoors. A ceiling above him. Dry, stuffy air. Harsh fluorescent lighting.

A turn of the head revealed the rest of his situation. Cinderblock walls. Concrete floor. Nothing else.

A door, open, revealing an equally stark hallway beyond.

The man wearing an expensive suit, the one with the red hair and the rough face, the one who’d knocked Hager out and, evidently, dragged him to this place. He was the same man Hager had seen at the first Crane session, the guy who’d been constantly at Moira Blackwood’s side.

The man was cinching Hager’s straps, their metal clasps clicking. He looked in Hager’s direction, grinned. “Ah, welcome back. Don’t you worry; you’re in capable hands,” he said as he tightened another strap. “Sawyer’s the name.”

“What… what’s happening here?”

“Well, you see, you’ve been relocated.”

Hager started to put the pieces together, remembering everything he and Brad had uncovered. Moira Blackwood’s abductions. Human-trafficking. NeoLumen.

“Oh, shit…” Hager muttered. “Medical trials…”

Sawyer halted his work, snickered. “Oh, you think you’re gonna be another test subject? That we’re gonna ship you to Belarus?”

He gave the strap a final yank, tightening it painfully around Hager’s forearm. He leaned in closer. His smile widened.

“No, no. You’re fulfilling a far more significant role.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Silence saw the woman’s hand inching toward her purse.

Weapon.

He yanked his Beretta from its shoulder holster and aimed it at her, doing so in a flash, quicker than she could reach her purse.

The woman screamed.

And as Silence moved closer to her and more of her features revealed themselves in the scant light coming from the fixture on the back of the Blackwood house, he realized she wasn’t another of the Blackwood guards as he’d assumed when he’d first spied her staring intently into the auto court from the corner of the property.

He knew she wasn’t a guard because he recognized her from the photos in the mission materials.

He holstered the Beretta and said, “Rachel Kovacs?”

It took Rachel a moment to process both the bizarreness of Silence’s voice and the fact that the man who had just been pointing a gun at her suddenly stopped doing so. Finally, she managed a weak, “Yes?”

Silence stopped in front of her. “I’m a friend.” He swallowed. “Helping Terry Hager…” He swallowed. “Find Archie.”

Rachel’s eyes lit up. “You’re Brad!”

Silence nodded. “Why’re you here?”

“I was with Terry. He went inside looking for you…”

Shit…

Hager had gotten his ass knocked out and thrown in the back of a pickup truck… because he went searching for Silence.

“You’re helping…” Silence said, swallowed. “To find Archie, too.”

Rachel nodded. “I assume Terry told you he called me last night? Yeah, I’m doing my best, but I’m not sure what help I’ve been. All I’ve been able to find is this, and it just led me here, right to where you guys already were.”

She pulled a note from her purse and handed it to Silence.

right off A1A

StashPoint storage facility - Thu night - motel next door

Twitch - guy at motel, hangs out by dumpsters

murders?

abductions?

the Blackwood house

Moira Blackwood - events

Robert Holloway?

“It’s a note from Archie’s desk,” Rachel said.

As he scanned what Archie had written, he gave a nod of approval—one professional to another. For a self-assigned truth-seeker with no training, Archie had done a damn good job. He’d chased down the same leads Silence had, and it appeared he was reaching the same conclusions, evidenced by the fact that he’d followed the trail all the way to StashPoint.

He’d even met Twitch.

Silence snickered. Good ol’ Twitch.

As he handed the note back to Rachel and she stowed it away, he saw an impressive stun gun in her purse. He pointed. “Nice.”

Rachel glanced down. “Yeah, I found that in Archie’s desk, too. Borrowed it.” She zipped her purse. “Where do we go from here?”

Silence shook his head. “They know StashPoint is…” He swallowed. “Compromised. They’ll take Archie…” Another swallow. “To the second facility.”

“Where’s that?”

“Don’t know.”

Yes, that was the million-dollar question now, the one that meant the lives of Archie and Terry—and probably Jared Brody, too.

Rachel snapped her fingers. “The building on the Blackwood property!”

“What?”

“Terry told me about a cinderblock building out back on the Blackwood property,” she said. “He asked Doug about it, and all Doug said was it’s something to do with his wife’s construction ventures. Didn’t know much, didn’t care to know more. That’s got to be where we they are!”

Silence considered this for a moment.

Last night, before Silence’s impromptu five-and-a-half hour drive to Pensacola, he’d sent Hager out under the guise of a private investigator to dig up more intel. Since then, Silence had grappled with a CIA agent, driven five and a half more hours back to St. Augustine, napped, picked up Hager, and drove for only a few minutes with the man before they were PIT-maneuvered and Silence was taken prisoner.

He and Hager had only had a few minutes together, barely time to talk about what Hager had uncovered. Hager mentioned the building at the Blackwood estate, but only in passing.

It made sense. A large, isolated structure on private property. Easy to control access.

“You’re right,” Silence said, swallowed. “That’s the other facility aside…” Another swallow. “From StashPoint.”

He gave one more look to the house behind them, then turned to run. “Gotta go.”

He pivoted, about to dash off to the Mercedes.

And Rachel grabbed his arm.

“I helped you figure it out. Archie is in that building. I’m going with you.”

Silence didn’t have time for delays, didn’t have time to argue. He’d learned long ago that arguing was futile in situations such as this, anyway. If a person wanted to risk his or her life for another, nothing was going to stop them.

“Fine,” he said. “Let’s roll.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Moira had him exactly where she wanted him.

Robert Holloway. The ultimate guest of honor.

Moira stood on the concrete flooring of the building’s wide center aisle with Brody again, as they’d been a few minutes before visiting the man in the cell.

But now the situation was different. Adam was composed, his earlier distress hidden behind a mask of calm professionalism—the Revere frontman once more. What a good little actor.

Moira was all smiles as well. Together, they faced Robert Holloway, CEO of Tilt Systems, one of the biggest software companies in the country.

So close now. So very close.

Holloway stood dead-center in the middle of the concrete expanse, making him look rather small, a drop of navy blue in a sea of gray—a visual humbling for someone of his stature.

Not that he needed any help being humbled at the moment. He looked about as humble as one could be, like a man about to prostrate himself at the feet of a deity.

His damn eyes were glistening.

Still crying—literally crying—over a grown-adult daughter he lost over a decade ago.

Weak.

Pathetic.

Moira remembered her earlier concerns about the rumor that this man had killed a rival years ago. No way. Not this blubbering fool. Seeing him like this, she felt like an idiot for even entertaining the notion.

Despite the tear-filled eyes, Holloway looked every inch the executive titan. His tall figure cut a sharp silhouette in his blue suit. Silver hair slicked back and a neatly trimmed beard to match framed as strong face with sharp eyes. He had the air of someone used to ruling boardrooms and commanding corporate battles.

Moira delivered her standard speech, the one she gave to all those who reached this final stage, those who would witness the “groundbreaking technology” firsthand, those who were secretly recorded, those who would later be blackmailed.

“Congratulations on making this decision, this commitment, Mr. Holloway.”

She gave a little flourish of the hand and paired it with a quick flash of a toothy smile to soften the moment’s seriousness. At this point, her victims had to be fully convinced they were entering into something entirely important and illegal.

Which, in a sense, they were.

“You’ll soon be using Revere technology to connect to the other side, to your daughter. And for that, you must pay a very steep spiritual price. And, of course, complete secrecy is absolutely necessary.”

She paused. She always paused here.

“Are you ready to begin?”

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Silence sat in the passenger seat of an Accord.

His Mercedes was damaged and abandoned back in St. Augustine proper.

Ugh.

He’d loved that car. Maybe he loved it too much, considering that he would have only been able to keep it for a maximum of six months anyway.

C.C. would have given him some sage wisdom if she were alive, something about possessions and simplicity. She might have offered up ideas of the noble truths—desire leading to suffering, concepts like that.

Or she might have quoted the rock-n-roll band .38 Special, told him that he’d held on to the car too tightly.

In the driver’s seat was the woman Silence had just met, Archie Kovacs’s ex-wife, Rachel.

Though Silence was concerned for her safety, in a way, he was glad Rachel had insisted on coming. It meant he had a ride.

The shadowy two-lane road cut through forests and open expanses. It wasn’t far enough outside the city to be considered true countryside; it was the sort of area where the wealthy—like Moira Blackwood and her kind—erected their vast estates.

“What will we find when we get there?” Rachel said.

Silence shook his head. “Don’t know.”

Rachel remained silent. Silence noticed her hands fidgeting nervously on the steering wheel.

She glanced over, saw him looking. Stopped fidgeting. Shrugged sheepishly.

Silence motioned with his head toward her purse. “Don’t forget, you have…” He swallowed. “A stun gun. You got this.”

He gave her a grin.

Rachel chuckled. “Yeah. You’re right. How could I forget?”

As the Accord’s headlights swept around a curve, Silence recognized the number on the brick mailbox at the end of a long drive that cut through the trees—489.

This was the place. The address Hager had given him. The Blackwoods’ country estate.

“Turn here.”

Rachel decelerated, turning onto the paved driveway. As they proceeded, twisting through the woods, Silence saw what the trees had hidden from view: a grand mansion—two stories, brick, classical styling—with expansive grounds stretching behind it. In the middle of this field was Silence’s destination: a squarish, commercial-style building glowing in the moonlight.

The building’s doors were closed, but light spilled out from within. Floodlights illuminated the exterior. The black pickup truck and a Jaguar were parked outside.

Flanking the entrance, standing at attention like a pair of sentries, were the men Flynn had warned Silence about.

Highly-trained security personnel.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Hager didn’t know what they were waiting for.

Since waking up in the concrete and cinderblock room, where Sawyer had hinted that Hager had a particular role to play that night, they hadn’t left. Sawyer leaned casually against the wall, ankles crossed, while Hager lay strapped to a gurney.

A few minutes into this, Sawyer’s cellular phone had rung, and he’d stepped out. Hager had been alone for a few. When Sawyer returned and resumed leaning against the wall, there had been voices from elsewhere in the building. Hager recognized one of them, the one that had spoken the most—Moira Blackwood. He couldn’t determine what she was saying, but it sounded almost like a speech or a sales pitch.

Then Sawyer had returned, and they went back to the same silent arrangement. They’d been like this for a good ten minutes. Hager had been staring at the fluorescent light fixture on the ceiling; Sawyer had done nothing but stand there and occasionally check his cellular phone and the doorway.

Hager looked down the length of his body, past the restraints across his chest and legs, to the open door and the hallway beyond, trying to see what Sawyer kept looking at.

Nothing there. Empty. And silent.

Hager turned his head in the other man’s direction. Sawyer glanced over, made eye contact, said nothing, did nothing.

“If you’re not shipping me to Belarus, then why the hell am I here?”

Sawyer uncrossed his legs, stretched. “What did I tell you? A much grander purpose. We expect your friend to show up any minute, trying to derail tonight’s proceedings. And this is Ms. Blackwood’s most ambitious plan yet. So if he causes any trouble…”

He picked up a syringe filled with a cloudy white liquid. He squeezed the plunger. A thin stream of the liquid shot out. He chuckled.

“That for me?” Hager said.

Sawyer shrugged. “Could be. Mrs. Blackwood’s associates at NeoLumen have a rather… flexible interpretation of medical ethics. They don’t worry about things like the Geneva Convention. This little concoction here?”

He held the syringe up to the light, admiring its contents.

“It’s their latest creation. Technically, it would be classified as a chemical weapon.”

He straightened up, still idly toying with the syringe.

“So, ya see, we don’t need to ship you to Belarus. If your friend comes here causing trouble, we can experiment on you right here in Florida.” He paused. “But hey, I don’t know you that well. Maybe you’ve built up an immunity to experimental neurotoxins.”

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Moira grinned.

Because Archie Kovacs was playing his part in her grand charade.

Kovacs was strapped to one of Moira’s gurneys, top to bottom. A medical drape covered his face, and beneath the drape, Kovacs’s mouth had been gagged. Landers had set this all up moments earlier, just before Holloway arrived.

And Kovacs was thrashing about. Violently. And screaming, trying to say something but muffled by the gag.

Good. It only added to the realism.

To further sell the illusion, a few well-placed props by the bed turned the bare storage room into a convincing medical setup. There was a stainless steel tray—loaded with forceps, scalpels, and the like—and a heart rate monitor, beeping at a steady rhythm, though it was not to Kovacs; it was a preprogrammed dummy device.

One part of the medical setup was genuine: the IV that had been started in Kovacs’s right arm. The tubing traced up to a bag of clear liquid on the stand beside the gurney. This setup was electronically linked to the nearby computer.

Moira’s eyes flicked to the corner of the room. Though it was entirely concealed, that’s where the camera was positioned, the final yet most important part of the setup. The angle was perfect; the video would not reveal Moira or Jared, only Holloway and the man he kills with the keyboard command.

She stood at the corner of the bed with Jared on one side and Robert Holloway on the other. A few moments earlier, after Holloway had arrived, Moira had watched as Jared gave his Adam Crane spiel, reiterating to Holloway that to access the full potential of Revere, he must fully commit to the “electronic prayer” over a dying, terminally ill individual.

Holloway held the keyboard. Its cord connected it to the computer on the stand beside the tray of medical tools. As soon as he pressed the button—thinking he was sending the man on the gurney the “electronic prayer”—he would actually transmit a lethal poison, courtesy of her friends at NeoLumen.

The substance was a lethal injection formula. Not yet available on the market. Still in the testing phase.

In Belarus.

Unfortunately, Holloway was hesitating, just standing there with the keyboard cradled between his palms, staring at Kovacs.

So Moira kept smiling. It was a reassuring smile. A practiced smile. Warm and encouraging.

“Mr. Holloway, I understand your reservations. This must be a jarring sight to you, with the man thrashing and hollering like he is. But remember, he’s terminally ill, not much longer for the world. Adam’s technology bridges the gap between our reality and the next.”

She reached over and gave the keyboard a little push, lifting it higher for him.

“To really connect with your daughter, you just need to press that button and send this suffering man a digital prayer. That’s all. I’m sure it’s creepy, off-putting, but it’s the only way to truly reach your daughter.”

The words seemed to have an impact on Holloway.

But he just kept staring at Kovacs—his twisting body, his head thrashing beneath the blue medical drape, screaming unintelligible words.

Come on! COME ON!

Finally, Holloway set his jaw.

And raised a finger over the keyboard.

CHAPTER FIFTY

Maybe the two guys standing on either side of the building’s entrance in dark clothing with 9mms strapped to their thighs were the friendly types, the welcoming committee.

Silence highly doubted it.

The Accord crunched to a stop in the gravel area surrounding the cinderblock building—a windowless rectangle with gray, ten-foot walls glowing in the moonlight. The building was surrounded by open land. Dark outlines of the surrounding forests framed the scene. A streak of silent heat lightning flashed across the night sky, unmasking clouds hidden in the darkness and making the building glow even brighter for a brief moment.

Silence turned to Rachel—“Wait here. Stay low.”— and stepped out of the Accord. He didn’t give her a chance to respond. This was precisely why he’d wanted her to stay back in town: mortal danger. There were two armed—and likely highly skilled—individuals right in front of them, and all she had was a stun gun.

As Silence made his way toward the building, the two guards approached. Silence stole a glance at the tactical thigh holsters they wore over their jeans. Each man had a SIG-Sauer P220—a comparable weapon to Silence’s Beretta 92FS.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” one of them said. His voice was clipped, professional. Sounded prior.

Beside him, his partner’s hand went for his SIG. “This is private⁠—”

Silence lunged at them, shouldering straight into the first man’s abdomen and knocking him into his partner domino-style.

There’d been no time for diplomacy, not with one of the guys going for his gun and with an unarmed bystander sitting in the Honda a few yards back.

Silence could have pulled his own gun, sure. But there was no telling who these guys were. As far as he knew, based on what Flynn had told him, they were outside, contracted help. They probably had no clue what was happening in the building behind them.

Still, Silence had to get into that building. And fast.

So he had to take these guys out. Non-lethally.

As the three of them tumbled to the ground, Silence heard an unmistakable sound from a few yards away—a car door opening.

Oh, shit…

He stole a glance.

There was Rachel. Sprinting toward them. Stun gun in hand.

Silence tried to dash toward her, but a pair of strong hands grabbed him by the throat—sending a jolt of pain down his neck—and yanked him back.

The second man pulled away from the tangle and rushed toward Rachel.

Silence slugged his opponent across the jaw, giving him enough time to roll away, creating separation. He hopped to his feet.

The guy was big and tall, so while Silence’s punch had been enough to make a solid crack against his jaw, it wasn’t enough to knock him out. It just pissed the guy off. His teeth were bared, eyebrows knitted. He lunged at Silence, meaty hands outstretched.

Silence absorbed the man’s palm strike hard against his chest, the impact jarring him deep inside. The guy powered him backward, but Silence set his feet firm and snapped an uppercut right into the guy’s ribs.

The man stumbled but recovered quickly. He threw another swing, a haymaker aimed at Silence’s head. Silence leaned back, avoided the blow. Seizing the opening, Silence jabbed, cracking the man on the temple.

The moment his knuckles connected, he knew it had been a good, solid hit—the winning blow. An impact tremor rippled through his forearm. The guy’s eyes glazed over, his knees gave way, and he fell into a heap in the gravel.

Silence heard sounds of the struggle to the side. A few feet away, the other man had Rachel from behind, her neck in the crook of his elbow. She was swinging her fists and feet backward. One of the strikes landed—right in the guy’s nuts. The man howled and released her, dropping to his knees.

Silence sprinted. Three strides, then he launched himself. His jump punch hit the man square in the temple.

The guy went as limp as his partner had gone and sank into a mound on the gravel.

Silence panted, put his hands on his knees…

Then he saw Rachel.

Lying in the gravel. Eyes closed.

“Shit!”

He bounded over to her, dropped to his knees, ignoring the protest from his battered body.

He saw movement. In her chest. She was breathing.

The man had had her by the neck from behind. She must have been moments away from losing consciousness before she drilled the guy in the junk.

Silence tapped her face a couple of times. Lightly the first time, a little harder the second time. Nothing.

Completely unconscious. But she was alive.

He gently hooked one arm beneath her, hoisted her over his shoulder, and headed for the Accord.

A few moments later, she was secure.

That’s when Silence heard a noise from the barn.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Oh, yes. YES!

Moira was finding it difficult to maintain her warm, pleasant exterior and her public smile. Her outside smile.

Inside, she felt lecherous, greedy, hungry, and those sensations began creeping into her face.

Because Robert Holloway’s finger was hovering over the Enter key on the keyboard he held before him. Ready to push. His hesitation dissipating.

This was it.

Moments away.

Holloway was about to kill Archie Kovacs. As soon as that button was pressed, the NeoLumen poison would travel down the IV tubing, Kovacs would suffer for somewhere around two minutes—according to clinical trials—and Moira would have video of it all.

Then, not only would she be able to blackmail Holloway to her heart’s content and for the rest of Holloway’s miserable life, but she would have also silenced Archie Kovacs, the professional squealer, who’d been snooping around her operations.

A double delight.

She was getting… quite excited.

Mmm.

Moira was about to be set for life. Of all the targets she’d blackmailed, Holloway was the crown jewel.

No more dicking around with random St. Augustine well-to-do. This one act—extorting the CEO of one of the country’s largest tech companies—would lead to more than just money. She could see herself making appearances at Silicon Valley galas. IPO celebrations. The glory of the Blackwood name would be amplified to heights never seen in its illustrious history.

All because of her. A married-in outsider with ambition.

Moira felt her mouth salivate as Holloway’s index finger finally descended toward the Enter key. She could almost hear the gentle tap it would make.

So close.

Moira grew tingly, warm, moist below.

This was it.

The finger descended.

It was a half-inch from the key, and it⁠—

Whack!

The door in the back swung open, smacking into the wall.

Someone rushed in, holding a gun, aiming it right at Holloway.

It was Brad.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

What the hell was he supposed to do now?

Silence burst into the room and found a scene exactly like Jared Brody had described.

It was a cramped storage room, one of several lined up along the building’s center aisle. A computer, heart rate monitor, and a tray with medical tools were lined up on one side. A man—presumably Archie Kovacs—was strapped to a gurney, thrashing, a blue medical drape covering his face. There was an IV in his arm. Brody was in the back, barely keeping up his Adam Crane facade, panic showing in his eyes. Next to him was Moira, leering at the table.

And standing right beside the thrashing man on the table was Robert Holloway. Navy blue suit. A desperate yet crazed look on his face. Keyboard in his hands.

Yes, it appeared exactly as Brody had predicted. Holloway was millimeters away from pressing a button on the keyboard. If Brody’s prediction was entirely accurate, then if Holloway pressed the button—thinking he was engaging in a “digital prayer” for the man on the table—then he would actually administer a lethal dose of poison that would kill Archie Kovacs.

But Silence couldn’t be entirely sure this scenario would play out as predicted, especially not since the information came from Brody, a self-admitted conman.

Since Watchers executions were extra-judicial and illegal, a target was never killed until the organization was “three hundred percent” certain of guilt, as they colloquially liked to say.

Silence was far from three hundred percent certain Holloway was about to kill a man.

So what the hell should he do?

In a flash, the answer came to him.

He fired.

The bullet struck the CPU with a shower of sparks. Robert Holloway recoiled, his hands jerking away from the keyboard. Silence swung the gun toward Moira Blackwood.

“It’s over, Moira,” he said, swallowed. “You’re done.”

That fake, smarmy smile of hers faltered. “What about your friend?”

She cocked her head to the side, indicating the center aisle of the building.

Silence’s gaze followed her gesture. He looked through the doorway and saw Sawyer emerge from a doorway at the far end of the building, pulling a gurney identical to the one across from Silence. Terry Hager was strapped to it, his eyes wide with fear. Sawyer’s face split into a wicked grin as he held up a syringe, poising it over Hager’s arm.

Silence’s heart raced. He looked back and forth between Moira, Holloway, and Hager in the distance, helpless on the gurney.

Moira raised her hands, shrugging obnoxiously. “What’s it gonna be?”

What indeed?

Seconds counted. Sawyer could plunge that syringe into Hager’s arm at any moment.

And yet… the worst monster was right in front of Silence.

Moira.

Again, Silence had a decision to make. If he⁠—

Something caught his eye.

Brody was no longer in the stall with them. Silence looked through the doorway again and spotted Brody at the back of the building, creeping up behind Sawyer.

Suddenly, Brody leaped onto Sawyer’s back, yanking him away from the gurney. The syringe went flying from Sawyer’s hand. Sawyer snarled, his elbow connecting with Brody’s ribs.

Silence knew Sawyer’s reputation. Flynn had told him that Sawyer was a student of violence and death, learned in almost every related topic, including copious marital arts trying. Brody wouldn’t last long against him.

Silence turned back to Moira. She had seen the commotion in the center aisle. As she whipped her head around to face him, her smug grin was gone, replaced by genuine fear.

There was no time to delay with Brody’s life on the line.

And, unlike the situation with Holloway, Silence was three hundred percent sure of Moira Blackwood’s guilt.

So…

Crack! Crack!

Two shots rang out. A double tap. Silence’s preferred firearm method.

Moira crumpled to the floor. Blood poured from her forehead.

Holloway flinched at the sound, the sight.

Beside him, Kovacs was now thrashing harder, violently. With the drape covering his face, he probably thought the gunshots had been meant for him. This would freak anyone out. In one move, Kovacs managed to finally shake the drape off his face while simultaneously freeing his mouth from a gag that was wrapped around his head.

Kovacs saw Moira’s body, jolted back in his binds.

Silence didn’t have a second to spare. He sprinted through the doorway into the center aisle, going for Brody and Sawyer. He saw Brody take a vicious blow to the face.

There were only moments to reach them before Sawyer finished Brody off.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

The guy was getting the living shit beaten out of him.

And Hager could do nothing but watch.

Hager strained against his restraints, the gurney creaking beneath him. His eyes were locked on the brutality unfolding just feet away—Sawyer taking Jared Brody apart, piece by piece.

To his credit, Brody had managed to stay on his feet. He might have been a conman—a petty conman who was himself conned by a much more ruthless con artist—but there was grit in him. Survival.

All the same, Sawyer was letting him survive. It was plain to see that Sawyer was using only a fraction of his power, a smidgen of his skill. Though his face retained its typical cold appearance, a tiny, smug grin played at the corners of his mouth as he kept landing half-strength blows on Brody’s battered body—kicks and jabs and backhands.

He was toying with his prey.

Brody looked bad. His face was a mess of bruises, swelling in shades of dark blue and purple. Blood seeped from a split lip and a gash over his eyebrow, sticking his hair to his forehead and splotching his shirt. He breathed heavily. His shoulders were slumped, legs shaking.

Sawyer’s fist connected with Brody’s jaw, the impact echoing across the concrete walls. Brody stumbled back. More blood trickled from his split lip.

“Come on, Brody!” Hager said. “Stay up!”

But Sawyer was relentless. His grin expanded slightly as he hopped to the side—easily avoiding one of Brody’s sloppy jabs—and followed with an uppercut to Brody’s ribs.

Brody doubled over, gasping.

Hager saw something at the far end of the center aisle. Movement.

It was Brad.

He was sprinting toward them, closing the distance fast.

Sawyer grabbed Brody by the collar…

…and stopped, his head jerking up. He saw Brad, too.

Sawyer just watched for a moment, stunned.

Then he rammed his knee into the younger man’s face. There was a wet crunch as Brody’s nose broke.

“Hurry, Brad!” Hager shouted.

Brody swung wildly. He hit nothing.

Sawyer’s eyes gleamed with cruel satisfaction. He seized Brody’s arm, twisted it behind his back. Brody cried out.

Hager watched Brad getting closer, sprinting even harder.

…but Sawyer was about to finish Brody off.

“Come on, Brad! He’s gonna kill him!”

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Archie’s eyes were fixed on Robert Holloway.

The tech mogul stood frozen, his gaze darting between Archie and the crackling, sizzling remains of the computer Brad had shot.

Moira Lockwood lay dead on the floor.

Brad had shot her, too.

The building was quiet now, save for the distant sounds of struggle from the center aisle. Someone was fighting. Punches. Grunts. Thuds. It all sounded disproportionally distant—echoey, dreamlike.

…maybe that was because Archie was alone in the room with a dead body and a man who had only moments earlier tried to sign Archie’s digital death warrant.

Archie’s investigative instincts were on high alert, assessing the situation, looking for any way out, any advantage. But he was strapped to a damn gurney. He was a prisoner. He was at Holloway’s mercy. There was nothing Archie could do.

Holloway’s shoulders sagged. He turned to Archie. Aside from the deep regret in his eyes, the man looked like he was in a true state of shock. “I… I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

Archie studied the man’s face, searching for sincerity. Despite everything, he found himself nodding curtly. “Yeah, well, untie me, and let’s just forget this happened.”

For a moment, it seemed Holloway might comply. But then his expression hardened. The regret in his eyes switched to panic. Rapid blinking. Looking side to side rapidly.

“You don’t understand,” Holloway said. “I’m an important man. If anyone finds out what I almost did here tonight, I’ll be ruined.” He pointed to the spot where the camera was hidden. “My company, my reputation… everything I’ve built will be destroyed.”

He stared off for a moment. The sounds of the fight echoed from the hallway. A man groaned.

“All I wanted,” Holloway said finally, “was to find a way of connecting with my dead daughter. It’s an… inconceivable pain. Have you ever lost anyone?”

Archie thought of Ethan. Seeing his son one weekend a month and a few sporadic days here and there.

He thought of Rachel, too. No longer his wife.

These losses weren’t the type that Holloway was referring to, but still Archie answered, “Yes.”

Holloway nodded, continuing to stare into the hallway, into the awful sounds of a man getting his ass beaten. A moment of this. Then his gaze drifted to the nearby medical tray.

Archie’s stomach dropped.

Because he had a feeling he knew why Holloway was looking at the tray…

“Listen, Holloway, we can work something out. You haven’t actually done anything illegal yet…”

But Holloway wasn’t listening. His hand closed around the handle of a scalpel. Picked it up. Examined it. Light glinted off the blade.

“I’m sorry,” Holloway repeated, his voice steadier now. “I can destroy the camera easily enough.” He motioned to the corner again. “But I know who you are. You’re famous around town, Mr. Kovacs. Your website—Daredevil Dispatch. You expose people. You right wrongs. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I haven’t done anything yet. But what are you going to say about Robert Holloway on that website of yours.”

“Nothing!”

Archie struggled against his bonds.

Holloway approached, scalpel raised. “I don’t believe you.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Rachel groaned. Her neck hurt horribly.

She blinked, grimaced, and realized where she was—in her car, reclined in the passenger seat.

Then she remembered it all.

The brawl with the men outside the building, the man getting behind her, squeezing her neck until she could no longer breathe, until she saw nothing but white.

But now she was back in the Accord.

It took her only a moment to piece it together.

Brad.

But where were the other two men, the ones Brad had attacked, the ones Rachel had also tried to attack?

She assumed they were nearby, but she would need to step outside to find out. The problem was she didn’t know if she could step outside. Pain had a hold of her. Bad pain. In her neck but also on her side. She must’ve fallen when she passed out.

She took a breath—which burned going down her neck—worked up a little more energy, and threw open the door.

One unsteady foot on the gravel. Then the other. The pain had been stationary, but now it rippled through her entire body.

The cinderblock building was before her, glowing like a stone relic in the moonlight. Nighttime clouds—blue and wispy. A flash of heat lightning.

There they were. Both of the security guards. Two mounds of men on the ground. Unconscious.

Brad must’ve handled them.

Rachel’s eyes fell on something metallic glinting in the moonlight—a pistol lying next to one of the fallen men.

She hesitated, remembering the few times Archie had taken her to the shooting range when they were married. The loud reports, the kickback—she hadn’t enjoyed it. Not at all.

But given the circumstances, she knew she needed protection, something with a bit more oomph than the stun gun.

With shaking hands, she reached out and grasped the weapon. It was surprisingly heavy. She remembered that from the times she’d shot with Archie how unbelievably heavy firearms were.

The gun felt foreign in her grip, unsettling.

Then she heard something. It came from the building.

A series of thuds and a rattle.

These noises were followed by the unmistakable sounds of a struggle—grunts, the wet impact of fists on flesh, bodies slamming against walls or floors.

Rachel’s heart raced. She tightened her grip on the gun, trying to steady her nerves.

She reminded herself why she was here. Archie’s in that building.

She shook her head, dug deep for another burst of energy

Then she was on her feet, the heavy pistol held uncertainly before.

She moved toward the noise.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Silence raised his Beretta as he sprinted down the aisle, boots thundering, drawing closer to the chaotic scene.

He saw Brody on the concrete floor—bloody, barely conscious—and Hager strapped tightly to a gurney, his eyes burning with anger and helplessness.

The only man standing was Sawyer. Staring right at Silence as he approached. Body taut, ready. Cold green eyes. Waiting.

Silence was yards away now. He slowed slightly, ready to take the shot.

Suddenly, Sawyer bent over and, in a show of surprising strength, hoisted Brody’s entire body up off the floor with one hand. A flash of motion, and Sawyer was now positioned behind Brody; Sawyer was using Brody as a human shield.

Shit!

Silence eased off the trigger. There was no way to take the shot without risking Brody’s life. He picked up the pace again.

Sawyer’s cold confidence taunted Silence, daring him to make a move. Green eyes—dead yet flashing with life. Veins bulging at the temples, an overworked boiler ready to explode.

In that split second, Silence made his decision. He didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow down again.

But he did slow down time itself.

Well, his perception of it, anyway.

It was another of the techniques that C.C. had gifted him when she was still alive, more of her efforts to help soothe his often turbulent brain.

Without slowing his sprint, Silence took a deep breath, from the stomach, a diaphragmatic breath.

Exhaled it, feeling air drifting out of his nostrils.

Things became quiet.

And his legs were now moving in measured fractions.

Ahead, Sawyer was all but frozen. The gradual lowering and lifting of his eyelids—a blink that seemed to stretch into eternity—was the only sign he hadn’t turned into a living statue.

In this moment of arrested reality, Silence made his move, pushing off with his boots.

The deadly, borderline smug look on Sawyer’s face shifted to an expression of utter shock.

But Silence didn’t let him stay confused for too long.

As time returned to its normal state, Silence leaped forward, launching himself into a Superman-style dive, aiming straight for both men—Sawyer and his human shield, Brody.

This was going to injure Brody, he knew.

Sorry, Brody, Silence thought just before impact.

Whack!

The hit was thunderous. Silence felt bodies give way as he crashed into them. Sawyer’s grip on Brody loosened. All three of them tumbled to the floor, arms and legs everywhere.

Pain shot through Silence’s shoulder where he’d struck Brody in the ribs, but he immediately disregarded it. He had to act fast.

As they hit the concrete, Silence rolled, trying to position himself between Sawyer and the others.

The world spun. Motion blurred. There were grunts of pain. Silence caught a flash of Brody skidding to a stop a few feet away, eyes closed, body limp, the last of his consciousness zapped.

When they came to a stop, Silence scrambled to his feet.

And found himself face-to-face with Sawyer.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

This guy was going to slice Archie up. He really was. Archie could see it in his eyes, no denying it.

And he remembered the rumors—that Robert Holloway had killed a man years ago, a business rival. That had always seemed like an urban legend to Archie.

Until now…

His heart pounded as Holloway approached, scalpel glinting in the dim light.

Panic surged.

But only for a moment. Because beneath the panic, an unshakable determination took hold.

Archie wasn’t going out like this.

No, this wasn’t the way it ended for Archie Kovacs. Despite what he may or may not have been in the past, now he was a different man. He was a proud member of a storied lineage. He was the investigative force behind Daredevil Dispatch. He was Ethan’s father.

And for some reason, his mind flashed on Rachel.

Holloway was a foot away now.

And the deadly intent in his eyes hadn’t wavered.

As Holloway lunged, Archie summoned all his strength and jerked to the side. The gurney teetered for a moment…

…and it fell.

Holloway let out a little yelp of surprise, then a second yelp of pain as the railing whacked into his thighs. The gurney crashed down to the floor, taking both men with it.

Pain exploded through Archie’s shoulder as he hit the concrete, but he heard a satisfying metallic sound that negated it—the clatter as the scalpel skittered across the floor, dislodged from Holloway’s hand.

Archie blinked out of the pain, taking in his new perspective—one of the polished metal handrails inches from his face, a dusty concrete plain beyond that—and tried to find it.

Searching. Searching…

There!

The scalpel was right there! Just inches from the outstretched fingers of his right hand, which had been jostled slightly free of the strap with the impact of the fall.

The gurney lay heavy against his back, and Holloway was all twisted up between his legs. Holloway snarled, his face screwed with rage. The guy scrambled to regain control, tried to pull himself out of the tangle of straps and Archie’s legs. But Archie wasn’t about to let that happen.

Even bound, Archie had some fight left in him.

Archie slammed his forehead into Holloway’s face. Both men groaned, but Holloway took the worst of it. There was a sickening crunch as Holloway’s nose shattered. Blood sprayed.

Holloway howled, and the blow seemed to drain the moments-earlier ferocity out of him. He tried to crawl away, but the combined weight of Holloway and the overturned bed pinned him in place.

Archie stole another quick glance to his right. The scalpel. His fingers strained toward it. So close. Less than a quarter inch from his pinky, so close he could feel the cool metal just beyond his reach.

He gritted his teeth, stretched farther, muscles burning.

Just a little more…

There!

His fingertips brushed the handle. It spun. And he grabbed it.

He sawed frantically at his restraints, freeing his right arm. Relief flooded through his body. Just having that one arm free after all these hours was heavenly. But there was no time to savor it. He swiped away at the other straps while Holloway continued to squirm beneath him, clutching his nose, groaning.

The straps gave way. Archie’s other arm was free now, and⁠—

Things quickly changed.

Reenergized, Holloway lunged back at him, shoulder crashing into Archie’s collarbone, dislodging the scalpel, sending it clattering across the concrete a second time.

They grappled furiously, twisting on the floor, locked in place by the weight of the gurney. Despite all that training at Steel Fist, Archie was having a hard time holding off Holloway, who fought with the desperate strength of a cornered animal. Archie had always been told to never underestimate any opponent. Adrenaline and survival instinct go a long way against high-level training.

…especially when one of the combatants is restrained. There were still straps binding Archie’s legs to the gurney, twisting him at an awkward angle from his hips.

Holloway ducked out of Archie’s grip. Immediately, his hands went to Archie’s throat, crushing his windpipe. Black spots danced at the edges of Archie’s vision. He clawed at Holloway’s arms.

But the man’s grip was shockingly firm, all of that adrenaline and survival instinct revealing itself again.

Archie’s lungs burned. As his vision started to white out, a strange, almost morbidly comical notion came to him…

Maybe he was wrong moments earlier when he had all that bravado, all those righteous images of himself.

Maybe this was the way it ended for him.

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

Hager’s hands were tied. Literally tied.

The damn gurney!

His body demanded he jump into the fray, tugging and thrusting against the straps.

But he wasn’t going anywhere. All he could do was watch.

In a way, even with the danger to both his own life and Brad’s, Hager had a sense of awe as he watched Brad and Sawyer tangle. Because while he’d watched countless master pugilists exchange blows at Steel Fist…

…this fight was something else entirely.

These two were stunning, like a pair of mythological figures duking it out.

They’d exchanged a few blows after scrambling to their feet. And it had been incredible. Masters at work. Strikes and parries and dodges so fast that Hager had hardly been able to keep track. Some of the moves he’d recognized. Many he hadn’t. It was like a vocabulary lesson in a language he thought he’d already mastered.

There’d been a few moments of this—maybe thirty seconds—then the fighters had broken apart. And began circling each other. Hager had been confident that Sawyer would say something wicked or that Brad would growl at his opponent in that awful voice.

But they’d both remained perfectly silent, circling each other, watching each other. There was an energy flowing between them, crackling, ready to burst.

One of them was going to have to break the stalemate.

It was Brad who struck first—a lightning-fast jab that Sawyer barely dodged. Sawyer counters with a textbook-perfect roundhouse kick that Brad managed to block, barely.

“Come on, Brad,” Hager shouted, straining against his restraints. He might not be able to join in, but he could at least help from the sidelines like a cheering parent at the youth competitions at Steel Fist.

The two fighters went to work, trading blows at a dizzying pace. As before, Hager recognized some moves—a butterfly kick here, an axe kick there—but others were beyond his expertise.

Incredible.

Brad attempted a spinning back fist, but Sawyer caught his arm, twisted, and brought them both down to the floor, transitioning smoothly into an omoplata. Brad grunted in pain but somehow slipped the hold, rolling quickly back to his feet.

Incredible.

For a brief, guilty moment, Hager felt a thrill of excitement. This was amazing! Like watching a masterclass in martial arts, something he would have paid thousands of dollars for. But he quickly banished the thought.

Sawyer unleashed a flurry of strikes—a combination of Muay Thai elbows and knees that left Brad reeling. Seizing the moment, Sawyer closed the gap, but Brad juked to the side—so fast Hager could hardly register the movement—and followed up with a perfectly executed flying armbar that brought them both crashing back down to the concrete.

His advantage was short-lived. Sawyer swept to the side, pulled out of the armbar, and got his arm around Brad’s neck.

Hager winced. His own skills, while solid—damn solid—were nowhere near this level. Still, he burned to assist Brad, to do something other than watch helplessly.

Brad managed to break free, but Hager could see he was slowing down. Blood trickled from a cut above his eye. His breathing was labored.

As skilled as they both were, it was obvious that Sawyer had devoted his entire life to fighting and held an advantage.

Sawyer looked barely winded. He grinned, enjoying himself, sensing his growing advantage as he launched into a capoeira-style attack, his body twisting and spinning.

Brad countered with a series of quick jabs and hooks, but Sawyer slipped each one.

In a move so fast Hager could barely follow it, Sawyer executed a perfect hip throw, slamming Brad onto the concrete floor—so hard that Hager grimaced with second-hand pain.

Before Brad could recover, Sawyer was on him, raining down vicious ground-and-pound strikes.

Hager’s heart sank as he watched Brad struggle to defend himself. The fight had been incredible, but now it was clear—Sawyer was in a league of his own.

As Sawyer’s fists continued to pummel Brad, Hager realized with growing dread that he was about to watch Brad die.

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

Rachel charged into the building, heart hammering, not knowing what she’d find.

What she found was chaos.

To her left, Brad was in a desperate grapple with a crazed man with red hair who was pounding him with relentless strikes. Despite Brad’s well-honed skills—which she and Terry had assumed must be from some high-level government training—the redhead was overwhelming him, delivering one brutal blow after another.

Not far off, Terry was strapped to a gurney, his face twisted in rage, furious that he was sidelined and unable to jump in to help Brad.

Rachel’s hand tightened on the gun.

She could help Brad, but⁠—

Movement caught her eye. In one of the rooms to her right, another struggle was unfolding. Her breath caught in her throat.

It was Archie!

He was tangled up with another man on the floor, partially hidden beneath an overturned gurney, just like the one Terry was strapped to. Loose straps still bound Archie’s feet to the frame, but the other man—a sixty-something in a blue suit with crazed eyes, sweating profusely—had his hands wrapped around Archie’s throat.

Rachel felt a chill. The attacker’s face was twisted with pure fury, teeth bared. Archie’s eyes began to roll back.

No time for delay. No time to even think.

Rachel bolted into action.

She raced through the central corridor. Her shoes thudded on concrete. Each step echoed, bouncing off the solid walls. Gaining ground. But not enough, not fast enough. The room ahead seemed a mile away. Her breathing was sharp and painful. She pushed harder. Faster.

Finally, she reached the doorway. Her hands shook as she lifted the gun.

“Stop!” she shouted, voice cracking.

The crazed man’s head snapped up, gaze locking onto Rachel. His hands remained on Archie’s throat.

Rachel’s finger found the trigger.

Those crazed eyes just kept boring into her.

Then the man released Archie and scrambled out from beneath him.

“Don’t move!” Rachel shouted.

But the man continued moving.

Rachel saw a glint of metal as the man snatched something from the floor—a scalpel.

He began creeping toward her…

…with the scalpel raised high above his head.

CHAPTER SIXTY

Whack!

Sawyer’s fist connected with Silence’s jaw.

Instant pain, right down the spine, straight into the nervous system.

He tasted blood. His vision blurred. Through the haze, he spotted something just out of reach—the syringe.

Sawyer kip-upped back onto his feet and began circling Silence, grinning. “You know, I expected more from a pro like you. A fed. That’s what you are, right? Some sort of black-ops guy? SAD, perhaps?”

Silence inched his hand toward the syringe, keeping his eyes on Sawyer.

Just a little farther…

“I’ll admit,” Sawyer said. “You have skills. World-class. You had me worried for a few moments there.”

Silence’s fingers brushed the plastic. Almost there.

At the same time, he grimaced more than he needed to, made his limbs look more lifeless than they really were.

Sawyer continued his taunting. “It’s almost disappointing, really. We’d had such a good thing going. I wish I didn’t have to do this.”

The syringe was millimeters from Silence’s grasp. He stretched.

Sawyer dropped a crouch and gripped Silence’s head. Silence recognized the move instantly—it was one of his favorites. Quick, clean, lethal.

Time slowed, not via another C.C. technique, but from imminent, mortal danger. Silence felt Sawyer’s hands tighten, preparing to snap his neck.

In that heartbeat, Silence’s fingers finally closed around the syringe.

Silence swung.

He jammed the syringe upward, burying it into the soft flesh beneath Sawyer’s jaw, then slammed the plunger all the way down.

The effect was instantaneous. And horrifying. Sawyer’s eyes bulged. His mouth opened in a scream that was not of this realm. In all his years as an assassin, Silence had never heard a sound like it—raw, primal, barely human. Unimaginable terror.

Sawyer collapsed to the concrete, clawed at his face, trying desperately to dislodge the syringe. His body convulsed, wracked by whatever hellish concoction now coursed through his veins.

Silence got up—slow, unsteady. He moved behind Sawyer, twitching on the floor. He crouched. Put one hand on either side of Sawyer’s head, just like the asshole had tried to do to him.

A quick motion. A sickening crack.

And Sawyer went limp. Dead.

Silence stood there for a moment, panting heavily. Then he turned to Hager, still strapped to the gurney.

“Hold on!” Silence said. I’ll get you out.”

He put his hands on the top strap, and⁠—

Crack! Crack!

The thunderous report of gunfire echoed through the concrete building.

Silence flinched. He waited to feel a jolt of searing pain and the hot ooze of blood. He waited for his knees to give, to topple over like Sawyer had.

Nothing.

He spun around.

Nothing. No one.

But he saw a flash of movement, locating the gunshots’ source—the room at the opposite end of the center aisle, the room he’d left just minutes ago.

He took off.

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

Rachel’s entire body shook, her ears ringing from the deafening gunshots.

The crazed man had inched toward her for several long moments.

Then he’d suddenly lunged.

And Rachel had fired.

The pistol’s raw power continued to vibrate through her hands, her arms. She stood frozen. The weapon was still extended in front of her, both hands squeezing it tight, quivering.

And the man was still standing.

A large, dark stain spread across his dress shirt, and a tendril of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. But somehow, impossibly, he remained on his feet. The scalpel glinted in his hand as he stumbled toward her.

Rachel gasped, backing away. She kept the gun trained on the man, her finger trembling on the trigger, ready to shoot again.

The man’s eyes were wide with shock. He took another unsteady step forward, then his fingers loosened. The scalpel clattered to the floor.

One more faltering step.

Finally, mercifully, the man’s legs gave out. He crumpled to the concrete in a lifeless heap.

For what felt like an eternity, Rachel stood there, her whole body quaking. The gun felt impossibly heavy in her hands. She lowered it slowly, her gaze fixed on the man’s motionless form.

He was dead. She had killed him.

A wave of nausea washed over her as the reality of what she’d done crashed down.

She’d taken a life. The thought was almost too much to bear.

But then she thought more clearly—this man had attacked her. And he’d nearly murdered Archie.

Archie!

With a jolt, Rachel dropped the gun. She rushed to her ex-husband’s side. Archie lay in a crumpled heap beneath the upturned gurney, barely conscious.

“Archie!” she cried, kneeling beside him. Her hands hovered over him, afraid to touch, afraid of what she might find. “Archie, can you hear me?”

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

Silence sprinted to the stall.

The scene that greeted him was grim.

Moira Blackwood’s body lay where he’d left it, but beside her was a new corpse—Holloway, shot in the chest, a pool of blood spreading beneath him. A pistol and a scalpel lay discarded nearby.

Rachel knelt on the floor next to an overturned gurney, cradling a man’s head in her lap. The medical drape was gone now, so Silence saw that his earlier assumption was correct—the man in the gurney was Archie Kovacs.

The reunion between Archie and his ex-wife was clearly an emotional one; Silence knew better than to intrude. He turned away, giving them their privacy.

As he entered the center aisle, he saw Brody in the distance stirring, slowly regaining consciousness. Hager, of course, was still right where Silence had left him—strapped to the gurney.

The threats had been neutralized, so now Silence needed to free Hager and see just how badly injured Brody was.

He ran down the aisle.

Brody was sitting upright on the floor—legs spread, arms draped over his knees—as Silence approached. He was in bad shape. Terrible shape. But it looked like there had been a modicum of a silver lining to the fact that Sawyer had been toying with him as he beat him—none of Brody’s injuries appeared life-threatening.

So Silence gave him a nod as he jogged past him, going for Hager instead. He began undoing the straps.

“What took you so long?” Hager said.

Silence grinned.

Brody groaned and got to his feet, stumbled over to them, started helping with the straps. He motioned toward Sawyer’s body, contorted in his final death throes on the floor. Sawyer had never managed to dislodge the syringe from the underside of his jaw.

“What happened to him?” Brody said.

Silence pulled one of the straps loose. “He overdosed.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

Archie’s consciousness flickered. A weak flame. Threatening to extinguish at any moment.

A sense of dread came over him, a sort of déjà vu…

Three days ago. Waking up in a room he didn’t recognize, a room similar to this one. Drugged-up. Tied down.

But this…

This time, it was different. Archie felt it, sensed it.

As his vision slowly cleared, he saw a face hovering above him.

Rachel?

This had to be a dream. Her hands were on his face, gentle and warm. He could almost believe it was real.

“Archie? Archie?” Her voice broke through the haze. “Can you hear me?”

Reality crashed back with jarring clarity. This was no dream. Rachel was here, and the events that led to this situation came flooding back.

Robert Holloway. The keyboard. The fight. The scalpel.

The gunshots…

Rachel.

“Rachel,” he croaked. Grimaced. Swallowed. It felt like a steak knife was lodged in his throat. “You… you saved me.”

She nodded, tears welling in her eyes. “I thought I’d lost you.”

As his strength gradually returned, Archie managed to sit up with Rachel’s assistance. She took hold of his shoulders, gently guiding him upright.

They sat there speechless for a moment, the weight of everything that had transpired hanging between them. That weight… and the weight of their past.

Finally, Rachel spoke. “Archie, I… I’ve been thinking. About us. About everything.”

Archie met her gaze. The history between them was written there on her face, in that pained expression, plain to see. Their whirlwind romance. Their child. Their bitter divorce. And all the strife in between.

“I was wrong about you,” Rachel continued. “I thought you hadn’t changed, not fully, anyway, but maybe… maybe I just never looked deep enough before.”

Archie considered her words. “You’re right, Rach. I’ve not changed the way I should. Not enough. I’ve always been the thrill-seeker, the risk-taker, and you never saw past the surface… but maybe there wouldn’t have been much for you to find if you did.”

Rachel wiped away a tear. “There was! I know that now. And I… I want to try again. Us. Our family. Ethan deserves that. We all do.”

This was Archie’s chance…

A chance to reunite his family, to be the husband and father he always should have been.

He thought of Ethan, two years old, all the missed opportunities with his son over the last year and a half.

Everyone wore different personas above and below the surface. Maybe it was time for Archie to let Rachel see all of him.

“Okay,” he said softly. “Let’s give this thing another shot.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

The bus station hummed with chatter and engines. Diesel fumes clung to the humid Florida air. Travelers hustled about, dragging luggage and checking schedules on the old-fashioned retro-chic flip boards. Morning sunlight glinted off the windshields of idling buses.

Silence, Hager, and Brody stood near one of the buses, its door open, passengers funneling in. Brody was covered in large bandages, but of all his wounds, he was fixated on the fresh sutures on the inside of his right arm. His brow furrowed. “So this is a GPS dot?”

Silence nodded. He pulled up his sleeve to reveal a scar on his own forearm. It was in the exact spot where Hager’s sutures were. “Welcome to the club,” he said, swallowed. “My organization will be…” Another swallow. “Monitoring you for the next decade.” He shrugged, swallowed. “Beats the hell out of prison.”

Brody looked unsettled but nodded. “Yeah, you got that right.”

Though the Watchers did much of their justice-equalizing via the bullets laid down by their assassins like Silence, sometimes they did things in less violent ways. In this case, they’d made Jared Brody a deal—he was to be watched for ten years, and during that time, he was to devote himself to a charitable career of his choosing.

And, of course, no more criminal activities.

As Brody joined the queue for the bus, he turned back to Silence. “Thanks, Brad. Truly. I mean it. Thank you.”

Silence gave a curt nod as Brody boarded. He and Hager turned and headed for the parking lot.

“I appreciate everything you did for me, too,” Hager said. “Bringing down Moira Blackwood’s network… it’s given me some closure about Kassidy.” Hager’s face softened. “I know I can’t bring her back, not even as some digital avatar. But I’ll never stop cherishing her memory.”

Silence winced. Guilt. He thought about C.C., the persistent ghost in his mind, a ghost that had been even more persistent than usual—if that was possible—in the haunted city of St. Augustine.

He had been quick to slam Hager for trying to keep his deceased loved one alive through ones and zeros. But here Silence was, not much different. A man who spoke to his dead fiancee in his head.

The guilt sting of hypocrisy was sharp. And it stung even more when, earlier that day, Hager had finally told Silence the name and relationship of his deceased loved one—Kassidy, wife—and went on to give Silence the full story behind the two Kassidys in his life.

But Silence didn’t know how to make up for his foolishness now, how to address it.

So he didn’t overthink things; he just said, “Do you have a picture?”

Hager looked at him blank-faced for a moment, before quickly taking Silence’s meaning. “Which one of them?”

“Both.”

Hager pulled his wallet from his back pocket and took out two well loved photographs, handed them to Silence.

Silence studied them. The first showed an aging golden retriever—gray hairs on the snout, milky eyes—staring up at the camera with a giant dog-smile from a background of lush green grass.

“She had a few years on her when I adopted her,” Hager said. “I was never going to have much time with her.”

Silence turned to the next photo. The other Kassidy, the human one. She also had a few grays, hers showing in the temples of a head of silky black hair. Her smile was as bright as her canine namesake. She sat on a bench with a Starbucks cup cradled on her crossed legs.

“Cancer,” was all Hager said.

Silence nodded, returned the photos, then dropped a hand on Hager’s shoulder.

“You’re a good man,” he said, swallowed. “So I’m sure Kassidy was…” He swallowed. “An amazing woman.”

Hager gave a grin befitting the moment—two dudes in a rare instance of feelings-sharing. But there was something deeper to the look, something buried in the back of the eyes, like relief or catharsis.

Silence suspected that the recent events had as much impact on Hager as they had on him.

“She was,” Hager said.

They continued on, and in a few moments, they reached Hager’s Lumina. “Take care of yourself,” Hager said, climbing in.

Silence watched Hager drive away, then checked his watch. 11:38 AM. The drive back to Pensacola would take about five and a half hours, plus a stop for gas. He’d be home around 5:30 PM.

He sighed.

Because while he was dying to get back to Pensacola—to leave St. Augustine and its memories behind, hopefully for good this time—he was dreading facing Mrs. Enfield…

…and telling her he’d failed her.

He’d failed insomuch as he had no good news to share. Falcon had yet to get back to Silence with information about Rory. Silence had no definitive answers to offer the old woman. All he was going to be able to tell her was that it appeared her deceased and beloved husband may have been involved in CIA Operation Crossroad for decades…

…and never told his wife.

Silence stood there, running a hand along his neck.

Then he took off, walking toward his blue Mercedes.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

Several hours later.

“You missed a spot,” came a raspy voice behind Silence.

He groaned.

Silence stood on the oh-too-familiar step stool in Mrs. Enfield’s creepy living room, paintbrush in hand, scowling at the half-finished wall. The room was bathed in the pink light of dusk, and it smelled of fresh paint and hideous antiques.

He turned to see Mrs. Enfield settled in her favorite armchair, wearing another one of her floral dresses. Her milky eyes conveyed amusement, a liveliness that belied the eyes’ lifelessness. Baxter’s massive orange form was sprawled across her lap—cat-smiling and drooling in equal measure.

Silence had come over and gotten to work before Mrs. Enfield woke up from a nap. Two minutes ago, she’d said hello as she settled into the chair behind him. Since then, she’d been “watching” him paint.

Mrs. Enfield had said he missed a spot, but he found nothing amiss when he scanned his work.

“Where?” he said

Mrs. Enfield chuckled. “I’m blind, remember? Just keeping you on your toes, Si baby.”

Silence grunted. He dipped his brush back into the paint tray and resumed his work. Despite how much he loathed painting, the rhythmic strokes were almost meditative, allowing his mind to wander back over the past few days’ events.

St. Augustine was no longer Silence’s present; once again, the city was nothing but memories for him.. Everything with Moira Blackwood and Jared Brody was behind him.

The trip with C.C. was behind him, too.

He would always treasure the memories of his trip with C.C. But he would be haunted by them no longer. St. Augustine’s infamous ghosts would no longer torment Silence.

He put the brush back in the tray, stepped down, and kneeled before Mrs. Enfield. They both looked at Silence—Mrs. Enfield and Baxter, the latter purring loudly, cat-smiling, drooling.

Falcon had called Silence a few hours ago during Silence’s drive back to Pensacola with the intel that the Watchers had uncovered about Rory Enfield. Just in the nick of time. Now Silence was going to tell his dear friend what he knew.

Mrs. Enfield cocked her head. “What is it, baby?”

“Rory was asked…” Silence said, swallowed. “To join a CIA operation. Crossroads.” Another swallow. “Stayed in ready state…” Another swallow. “During the war.” Another swallow. “But was never activated.”

Silence expected a relieved smile. Instead, Mrs. Enfield frowned.

“You’re not…” Silence said, swallowed. “Relieved?”

“Oh, I am,” she said. “But if Rory was involved in the CIA, then that means there was always the possibility they might come knocking on the door some time down the line.”

Silence couldn’t argue with that. He’d seen it before. The CIA had a long memory. And they liked to call in favors. Like the mob.

“Possibly,” he said.

Mrs. Enfield nodded, and more of the almost-disappointment showed on her face for a moment before she smiled. “You know what, Si? Know what I’ve just realized?”

“What?”

“If Rory had a secret, it doesn’t change a damn thing.”

Silence’s eyebrows shot up at the mild profanity. Mrs. Enfield rarely cursed.

She continued. “Rory was Rory. Whatever the CIA’s grand plans might have been for him—it was all just words on paper. And maybe he thought he couldn’t tell me. Maybe he thought doing so would put me in danger. The man I knew, the man I loved, was real. You can’t fake that kind of love, Silence. Not for a lifetime.”

Silence thought of C.C.

Baxter let out a thunderous purr, rubbing against Mrs. Enfield’s forearm. She scratched him behind his ears.

“Now, are you going to finish that wall,” Mrs. Enfield said, “or should I call Lola to do it?”

As if summoned by the words, the front door creaked open behind them. Silence groaned internally. He’d hoped to finish the painting in peace.

Lola breezed into the room, a whirlwind of floral perfume and barely contained energy. She wore a leather jacket, tank top, black jeans. A shopping bag was hooked over her left forearm. “Hello, hello, everyone! Oh my, doesn’t it smell all fresh ’n painterly in here?” She beamed at Silence. “Hey!”

Silence grunted.

Undeterred, Lola made her way to Mrs. Enfield, bending to kiss the older woman’s cheek.

“I brought those soaps you asked for,” she said, shaking the shopping bag. There was the clank of soap bars. “Let me show them to you.”

Mrs. Enfield tilted her withered face. “I thought you were leaving me, girl?”

“Surprise! I just got a call from Tennessee. Scheduling change. The facility doesn’t need me until Tuesday now. I can stay another two whole days, if you’ll have me.”

“Of course!” Mrs. Enfield said. She did a single clap of her hands, startling Baxter. “Oh, thank the Lord!”

Silence blinked. And climbed the stepladder, went back to work.

He groaned internally once more.

But quickly chided himself.

Because while the news of Lola’s protracted stay was unsettling…

…something about it felt good.

It was good to have them behind him, chatting excitedly about the scents of the artisanal soaps—lavender and honey almond and grapefruit. It was good having that damn Baxter with them, purring and drooling and sniffing the soap bars.

He didn’t need to talk to them. Talking was painful, anyway.

They could do all the talking.

While he painted.

MORE SILENCE JONES AND A FREE BOOK

I hope you loved reading Unspoken. The Silence Jones missions continue with Book 14, Dying Breath, available for Kindle pre-order now. Just click the image above.

But first, a few quick things:

ONE: If you enjoyed Unspoken, I kindly ask that you leave a review on Amazon. It only takes a minute, but it makes a huge difference.

TWO: Interested in seeing a different take on the book you just read? I adapted my book, No Fake, as the basis for Unspoken, so as an introduction to another one of my series—the Dale Conley series—you might enjoy seeing a different take on the story and checking out the similarities and differences between Unspoken and No Fake. If so, click the image above.

THREE: To introduce you to another one of my series, the Ty Draker series, I would like to offer you a FREE THRILLER. Just sign up for the Erik Carter Readers Group (where you’ll get updates on upcoming releases) with THIS LINK.

ALSO BY ERIK CARTER

Ty Draker Action Thrillers Series

Novels:

Burn It Down - coming soon

Raw Deal - coming soon

On the Edge - coming soon

Novella:

Point-Blank

Silence Jones Action Thrillers Series

Novels:

The Suppressor

Hush Hush

Tight-Lipped

Before the Storm

Dead Air

Speechless

Quiet as the Grave

Don’t Speak

A Strangled Cry

Muted

In the Dead of Night

Tell No Tales

Unspoken - coming soon

Dying Breath - coming soon

Novella:

Deadly Silence

Dale Conley Action Thrillers Series

Novels:

Stone Groove

Dream On

The Lowdown

Get Real

Talkin’ Jive

Be Still

Jump Back

The Skinny

No Fake

Novella:

Get Down

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

For their involvement with Unspoken, I would like to give a sincere thank you to:

My ARC readers, for providing reviews and catching typos. Thanks!

Christine, for medical knowledge.