Page 111 of Fatal Pattern

Garrison’s jaw worked, legal training warring with the reality staring them down. Finally, she nodded. “Two hours. Then I’m calling in the cavalry whether you like it or not.”

Blade was already moving, Tori beside him, her face still pale but her stride steady. They hit the bank’s lobby at a jog, ignoring the curious stares from customers.

Fifty-three minutes.

The Charger’s engine roared to life as Blade peeled out of the parking lot, tires screaming against asphalt. The city streets blurred past. Familiar territory that suddenly felt alien, hostile. Every shadow could hide Barclay’s eyes.

Tori sat beside him, checking her Glock. She ejected the magazine, counted rounds, slapped it back home.

The clock on the dashboard glowed: 5:27 p.m. Forty-three minutes to reach the causeway. Blade tromped on the accelerator and raced off.

“We have to think,” Tori said. “What’s Barclay’s weakness?”

He nodded at the battered notebook resting across Tori’s knees. “That’s it. His weak spot.”

“We’re really handing Damien’s notes over? You think he lets us leave after that?” She shook her head. “No way.”

They both knew them getting out alive wasn’t part of Barclay’s plan.

“Barclay buried half his life setting pieces in place, shielding himself, tying off loose ends.” Blade shifted his grip on the wheel, eyes fixed on the traffic. “He choreographed every move. Every one but this.”

Tori looked up from her weapon. “What?”

“He’s expecting me to follow his rules. Walk into his trap like a good little soldier.” Blade pulled out his phone. “I’m calling Wells.”

“The FBI? Barclay said—”

“I know what he said, but he’s our only shot. Barclay has eyes in the department, maybe even IA. He knows we’ve got FDLE and BSO at our fingertips, but a federal ghost team? That’s the one backup he won’t be looking for.”

Blade hit the call button before doubt could creep in. The phone rang twice before Wells’s cheery voice answered.

“Hey, Blade, good to hear from you. I know I owe you a—”

“Chief Dean Barclay has kidnapped Stryker King.” No preamble. No wasted words. “He’s forcing a meet at the old Mayfair department store. Threatening to kill him if he sees any backup. It’s a trap, Sebastian. I need a covert team. Your best. Untraceable.”

Silence stretched for three heartbeats. Then Wells’s voice returned. “Okay, Blade. I’m on it. Give me the details.”

Blade laid out the situation in clipped sentences—the notebook, the evidence, Barclay’s threats against Kiara. Wells absorbed it all without interruption.

“I’ll handpick the team,” Wells said. “We’ll be ghosts. Thermal imaging, long-range overwatch, entry teams on standby. He won’t see us coming, but neither will you.”

“Great.” The vise around Blade’s ribs eased, just enough to let his lungs drag in more air than they had all day.

“Call me two minutes before you go in,” Wells continued. “We’ll be in position. We’ve got your back.”

The call ended. Blade dragged his gaze from the asphalt just long enough to catch Tori watching him.

“Wells has us,” he said.

She gave a sharp nod. “Then we have a chance.”

The Charger ate up the miles toward the causeway, carrying them toward whatever waited in the shadows of the abandoned department store. But now they weren’t walking into Barclay’s trap alone.

We’re coming, Stryker. Hold on.

The Mayfair department store loomed against the darkening October sky like a concrete vault. Five stories of broken windows and graffiti-scarred walls, surrounded by a parking lot that looked like a war zone. Weeds pushed through cracks in the asphalt, and rusted shopping carts lay scattered like the bones of some retail apocalypse.

Blade pulled the Charger into the lot, broken glass crunching under the tires. The building’s main entrance gaped open, a black mouth waiting to swallow them whole.