Page 80 of PSYCHOlogical

Chapter Thirty-Three

Staff Sergeant Briggs

Iwalked the perimeter of the property, at the tree line. The thirty-minute precautionary measure interfered with my plan to get Trevino but gave me peace of mind that the property was free of any other intruders.

Now in front of the home close to where I killed Payne, I turned toward the house and scanned the distant horizon through the thermal scope. After determining that there was nothing alive within my field of vision, I rushed through the moonlit yard—toward the garage.

I pressed my back against the home’s outer wall, removed my phone, and called Doctor Rhoades.

You’ve reached Valerie Rhoades, please leave a message…

I hung up and immediately dialed the number again.

You’ve reached Valerie Rhoades, please leave a message…

I shouldered my rifle and inched my way along the home’s exterior, hoping to conceal myself from view of anyone who may be on the back side of the house.

Upon clearing the rear corner of the home, I noticed bloody footprints on the porch glistening in the moonlight.

One set was left by a man’s tactical boot. The other set was from a much smaller flat-soled loafer. I swallowed heavily, crept to the back door, and opened it.

A body was positioned immediately inside the door. Another was ten feet away, just outside the kitchen. A pool of blood connected the two.

CW and Taggert.

One set of footprints had gone through Wilson’s blood and into the home. Two sets came back, toward the back door.

My gut told me she was gone.

After an extensive room to room search, I ended right back where I started, next to Taggert and Wilson. I searched the walls for any signs of a firefight. No bullet holes—anywhere—told me the only shots fired were the ones that killed the two combat-experienced Marines that lay at my feet.

CW’s body was facing to the side. From what I could see, one bullet—positioned just below his left eye socket—ended his life.

Using the heel of my boot, I rolled Taggert’s onto his back. There was one visible bullet hole in the center of his forehead.

Whoever killed them wasn’t a novice.

It didn’t make sense.

Doctor Rhoades was a psychiatrist, not an assassin.

While I tried to press the pieces of the puzzle into place, my personal phone rang. With my heart in my throat, I rushed to the living room and picked it up off the end table. A Washington, D.C. area code and a phone number I didn’t recognize wasn’t a good sign. Nonetheless, I answered it.

“Mister Briggs,” an unidentified voice said. “You have something I need, and I have something you want.”

“If there’s one hair out of place—”

“I can assure you, short of a few bumps and bruises, she’s unharmed,” he said. “I have very specific instructions for you, Mister Briggs. Failure to follow them in any manner will result in Miss Rhoades’ immediate demise. Are you prepared to listen to my demands?”

My muscles tensed. “I am.”

“I will text you an address. Come, unarmed. Bring any and all remaining copies of electronic files that contain information regarding the operations and activities of the New Dawn program that Miss Rhoades created. Upon delivery of said electronic files, you will be required to take a polygraph test. If you pass the polygraph, you will be released. If you come armed with so much as a nail file, both you and Miss Rhoades will be executed. Is the information I’ve requested at your disposal?”

“I can make it available, yes.”

“When can I expect you?”

“There are two copies of that electronic file in existence,” I said. “I assume you’ve acquired one?”