Page 118 of Fatal Pattern

“You really think it’s that simple, Blade? A corrupt old chief and a dusty blackmail book?” He gestured to Barclay, palm flat up. “This man is not a criminal. He’s a patriot.”

“The Nexus Initiative,” Blade said.

Wells paced the narrow space between a concrete pillar and where Barclay stood behind Stryker’s wheelchair. “He built an organization that protects the interests of this country when the politicians are too weak to act.”

“The organ harvesting isn’t a crime,” Barclay said. “It’s a pragmatic solution. Hearts for senators. Livers for tech innovators. Kidneys for defense contractors. We preserve the people who shape the world.”

Blade didn’t bother arguing. There was no reasoning with zealots. Instead he flicked a gaze to the flanking agents.

“What about the paintings?” Tori asked.

“I’m the artist,” Wells said, gesturing back through the open doorway.

Blade could see it now. The Bureau’s golden boy. Sharp suit, charming grin.

The smiling mask most serial killers wore.

Sebastian Wells was the Mandelbrot Killer.

“The Mandelbrot set is the signature of God. I’m the hand that draws it.” Wells patted his chest. “Dean provides the targets. I transform their exits into something beautiful.”

“You didn’t just paint fractals,” she said. “You recreated the crime scenes.”

Wells tilted his head. “Did I?”

“The victims are hidden in the layers,” she continued. “The spirals repeat the geometry of the kill site. The angles. The blood patterns. You’re reliving every kill.”

Tori took a slow step sideways, her gaze moving from Barclay to Wells.

“Every brushstroke lets you revisit the moment you had complete control over someone’s life,” she said. “The fear. The power. The final second.”

A smile crept across Wells’s face.

“Finally,” he said softly. “Someone who appreciates the work.”

“The faces. Hidden in the fractals,” Blade said. “Your victims.”

Wells gave a small bow.

“I prefer to think of them as my stigmata.”

“Then why were they hanging in Florek’s law office?”

Wells glanced at Barclay.

Barclay chuckled. “Because Donald Florek was a problem. Our head legal counsel brought him in to work some magic with our shell accounts.” He shook his head. “McCrary underestimated him.”

Rich McCrary, senior partner of the law firm where Florek worked.

Where they’d first seen the faces in the paintings.

Blade didn’t interrupt. He wanted everything laid out, because when he found a way out of here, these men were going to prison forever.

“Florek was smart,” Wells said, picking up the thread. “Too bad he did the one thing you should never do when you suspect powerful people of powerful crimes.”

“He went to the FBI,” Blade said.

Wells spread his hands. “He came to me.”