Page 110 of Fatal Pattern

The casual arrogance made Blade’s teeth grind. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Safe deposit box 894. First National on Federal Highway.” Barclay chuckled. “You really thought that little AI stunt was clever, didn’t you? Cloning a voice to harass every bank in Florida creates a massive electronic footprint. One my network has been monitoring for years.”

Of course. Barclay had been watching them, waiting for this exact moment. He’d known about the blackmail, he just hadn’t known how to find the evidence. And now they’d led him straight to it.

Blade closed his eyes for a beat, then, “What do you want, Barclay?”

“I want whatever you found in that box. I want Damien’s notebook.”

“What makes you think I’d give you anything?”

“I received a fascinating anonymous tip,” Barclay said. “About a pretty Records Administrator named Kiara Kerns. Something about accessing sealed IA files after hours. Granting access to an outside officer. A felony. It would be a terrible shame for such a bright, honest young woman to have her life ruined.”

Blade’s throat shut down. Air fought to get past it. He snapped his gaze to Tori—she stood stiff, palms pressed to the table, eyes locked on him like she’d just watched him pull the trigger on Kiara’s life. Heat crowded his ribs, grinding in from every angle.

Barclay said, “I’ve sent you a picture. Take a look.”

His heart hammered wild. What had he done to Kiara? If he’d touched even one hair—

The image detonated across the glass. It wasn’t Kiara.

Stryker.

His mentor was strapped in a wheelchair, head lolling. A purpling bruise spread across his cheekbone, fresh as a punch an hour ago.

Blade’s hands shook, the phone nearly slipping from his white-knuckled grip. “You abducted a man from his hospital bed? How?”

“I didn’t abduct him, I reclaimed him. He was my sergeant long before he was your mentor,” Barclay said with a bark of laughter. “I came to see him. More than once. Practically a regular. This time my people handled the transport while the duty nurse was too busy dealing with a ‘coding’ patient three doors down to notice a wheelchair leaving the floor. It’s amazing what a well-timed distraction can buy.”

“Snatching a man from an ICU bed is a new low, even for you,” Blade said, his heart hammering against his ribs as he looked at the image of his mentor. “You’ve got my attention. Now tell me what you want before I lose my patience.”

“You have my property, Detective,” Barclay said. “As you can see, I have yours.”

Blade’s fingers balled tight, every muscle in his arm primed to drive it straight through the phone and rip the man’s throat open. “Just tell me what it’s going to take to get him back.”

“The old Mayfair department store on the causeway,” Barclay said. “You have one hour. Bring the book. Dr. Crew can be your plus-one, but not another soul, understand?” A pause. “If I see one uniform, a single cruiser, or a federal agent . . . King dies. And I promise you, Detective, the evidence against Ms. Kerns is already in the right hands. The frame will stick, and her fate will be one worse than death. Promise.”

The line went dead.

Blade locked his eyes on the phone, running plays that collapsed before they started. Barclay hadn’t left him room to maneuver. A cage. One wired so tight every angle hit trip wire.

Garrison had her hands slicing the air, her lips firing off protocol and channels and official paths, but all of it scattered useless, like static. The only sound that mattered lived inside his skull. Barclay had known exactly where they were, exactly when they’d found the evidence, and he’d been ready.

Fifty-seven minutes.

“We have to go.” Blade shoved the notebook into an evidence bag.

Garrison’s words finally registered. “—need to coordinate with the FBI and—”

“No time.” Blade cut Garrison off, already moving toward the exit. “We have fifty-six minutes and it’ll take every one to get there.”

“Detective, you can’t just charge off with evidence and face Barclay alone.” Garrison stepped between Blade and the vault door. “This is a crime in progress. We need to coordinate law enforcement response.”

He stopped dead, his hand already reaching for the exit. “I am law enforcement.” He turned back. “There’s more than enough evidence in those files. Take them straight to your office and secure them, but don’t tell anyone what’s going on until I’ve had a chance to talk to SAC Sebastian Wells.”

“Blade—”

“No one. I’m not letting local law enforcement get involved.” He gestured at the scattered documents. “I don’t know how deep this corruption goes. Could be half the department on Barclay’s payroll. Maybe even BSO.”