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“Then what do we do?” Amelia asks, as eager to find Henley as I am. “We can’t just fucking sit here and wait for the devil worshipper to find her first.”
Macy’s shrug only lifts her shoulders to the shell of her ear before they sink again. She fumbles while removing her phone again before her voice is as smooth as milk when she says, “Hunter, I’m calling in that favor for real this time. I need to know everyone who handled the files of a suicide three years ago…”
30
BRODIE
“Clear.”
“Clear.”
“Clear.”
“Clear.”
The repeated words break through my earpiece while we raid a derelict property on the outskirts of New Jersey.
Macy’s hacker friend Hunter advised that the only heat source he found via satellite surveillance was in a nonhuman form, but voiced caution because of the content he found online.
The symbol Henley sketched on the notepad in my office was the break in the Night Killer’s case we’ve been seeking for the last five years. It led us to a satanic cult running on the east coast. The members’ identities are locked up tighter than the details of witness protection clients the feds are meant to protect.
I’m reminded that I’m wearing a body cam when the gravelly voice in my ear asks, “Can you pull anything out of the flames?” I’m standing next to a lit trash can filled with computer equipment. “Most of the mainframes appear melted but could still be useable.”
When the raging inferno melts the glove covering my hand, I kick over the trash can before separating the melting bits of plastic and steel with my boot. Even with surveillance announcing the property was empty, we entered in full riot gear. The stuff Hunter unearthed about this cult made even the most seasoned agents’ stomachs revolt.
“Which piece?” Macy asks, joining me near the debris.
Hunter’s reply comes through both our earpieces. “The green one on the right.”
Macy picks up the flat disc-looking object, dusts it off, then moves to the counter that most likely housed all the equipment the criminal entity disposed of before abandoning their hideout.
“There’s a cable in your backpack. Second pocket from the front. It’s around three inches long.”
“This one?” Macy asks after rummaging through the backpack supplied to us by a known mafia source.
“Yes. Plug it into the right quadrant of the driver, then into the laptop in the bag.”
I stop watching when a familiar voice calls my name. “We’ve got something near the scene.”
“Go,” Macy suggests. “I’ve got things covered here.”
Trust does not come easily to me, but since Macy and Grayson brought me in on the investigation instead of demanding I sit and twiddle my thumbs like the head of our unit did, I jerk up my chin before hotfooting in the direction Grayson is standing.
“Dogs followed a scent through the back streets. It initially led us to a dead end, but a civilian called in about a dark sedan crashed into a power pole two miles from your house. The occupant is refusing to surrender to local authorities until he speaks to you.” The stomps of our boots chop up his last words as we race to an empty SUV.
“Prepare yourself,” Grayson warns during the commute. “This is worse than we realized.”
My skyrocketing heart rate reduces to a sluggish thump when the plates on the sedan we’re approaching register as familiar.
They’re government-issued plates.
As I cautiously approach the sedan from the back, Grayson provides backup by moving in a circular pattern around the vehicle. Grayson will take him down if the driver moves his hands an inch off the steering wheel.
The reason for the driver mounting the curb and crashing into the pole becomes apparent when I spot the blood coating his clothes. I hit him as suspected. There’s an exit bullet wound in the upper left quadrant of his stomach and a second one in his shoulder.
Blood splatters on the cracked windshield when the man says, “I ca-can’t believe you shot me.” He smears his teeth with blood when he runs his tongue along them to loosen up his next set of words. “I-I thought we were friends?”
His words are barely audible since he’s in a world of pain, but his hitched-at-one-side smile gives him away.
“Leroy?”
He smiles again before pulling off the balaclava and glasses keeping his face hidden. He knows he’s minutes from death, so there’s no need to continue hiding.
“How have you be-been, man?” He coughs through the blood gargling in his throat. “It’s been a long time si-since you’ve looked me in the eyes. Was it at Caroline’s wake?”
We lost touch after Caroline’s death. I didn’t want to associate with anyone, family or friends. When I returned to work after a six-month absence, I was pulled off the investigation of the Night Killer, and Leroy was promoted to it. I used protocol as a reason not to associate with him, but in reality I resented him for putting more hours into his other cases instead of Caroline’s.
