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  Without taking her eyes away from the screen, she raised her right hand, sliding it around Blue’s neck. Using it to pull him close, she pressed her cheek against his for a moment, already envisioning what was to come next.

  Now that she knew who she was up against, it was time to extend the same to them.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Wallace Grimes was seated on the same chair he had been on twelve hours earlier, though that was about the only similarity the two encounters held in common.

  Gone was the uniform jacket he had been wearing upon his early morning arrival, replaced by shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows and a tie that was slightly askew, a look Reed had only seen him sport once before, during an especially heinous case a year prior.

  A series of bags underscored each eye, coupling with the folds of skin stacked beneath his chin to give him the appearance of an aging hound dog, his frown only heightening the effect.

  Which was to say it had been a hell of a day, the subject of which Reed felt reasonably certain speculating at.

  “How ugly we talking?” Reed asked, lowering himself into the same all-too-familiar seat, Billie by his side.

  Glancing to the parking lot, a flash of hostility crossed Grimes’s features before vanishing.

  “I’ve just been informed that the media has gotten wind of things,” Grimes said. “The expectation is it will be leading the news cycle coming up here in an hour.”

  Pulling in a sharp intake of air, Reed felt his eyes squeeze tight in a wince. Working with the media was something they both had begrudgingly accepted – even using it to their advantage a time or two – but it was never a preferred option.

  Especially when the victim was someone like Lynda Cantwell, promising to emphasize the salacious over the factual.

  “Downtown?” Reed asked.

  “Huh-uh,” Grimes said, twisting his head slightly. “The family.”

  Matching the glance to the parking lot Grimes had made a moment before, Reed muttered, “Christ.”

  The mutual disdain that had permeated the interview suite hours before was palpable, though never had he thought Eva Cantwell would succumb to the temptation of going to the press, the vile nature of what had occurred to her mother making him believe she would try to keep it under wraps.

  A belief that didn’t take into full account the extreme need of most people these days to live through television or social media, the woman no doubt unable to resist the urge to splash herself across the screen.

  Her mother’s demise be damned.

  “Any idea what they’ll say?” Reed asked.

  “Dade gave a call from HQ,” Grimes said. “He’s trying to get out ahead of things, massage the narrative as he put it, but it doesn’t sound promising.”

  Reed knew that Oliver Dade was the ranking PR specialist for the entire CPD, his office second in size only to the Chief and sitting directly across the hall.

  If he was already involved, things were not promising.

  “So, and don’t take this as me exerting pressure,” Grimes said, “please tell me you’ve got something moving on this.”

  Every part of Reed wanted to be able to do just that. To tell him that the family, or the landlord, or even the local pawn shops, had turned up something beneficial.

  That there was at least a solid lead for him to be following up on.

  Just as surely, he also refused to lie to his captain.

  “The short version?” he began. “I don’t have a damn thing.”

  Rolling his head back a few inches, Grimes drew in a breath through his nose, saying nothing.

  “The longer version,” Reed began, “the scene played out pretty true to form, but Billie and I are going back over there after we go upstairs and grab Earl’s report to take another pass through.”

  He made no mention of dodging the media that was surely camped out there as they did so, both knowing it went without mention, neither even considering going on camera to give a statement.

  “My talk with Eva Cantwell turned up nothing but a lot of piss-and-vinegar, ditto for the property manager, who said one was a cross between an angel and a ghost, and the other was the devil incarnate, but didn’t do anything bad enough to cause this.”

  “Or so we thought,” Grimes interjected.

  “I swung by Rainbow’s End,” Reed said, pushing on ahead, “and definitely got the impression they’re running some major stuff through there, but I don’t seriously believe they’ve seen anything we’re looking for.”

  Lowering his attention back to face forward, Grimes asked, “Reason being?”

  Lifting his left shoulder into a shrug, Reed replied, “Call it a hunch? Guy was pissing his pants at the idea of Billie doing some snooping, barely even blinked when I started asking him about the list of jewels that were taken.

  “Best guess, we can ask some of our undercover guys to talk to the fences in the area, but I still don’t really believe this had anything to do with the robbery.”

  Nodding slightly, the folds of his neck uncoiling and spooling beneath him, Grimes said, “Which means it was always about the victims themselves.”

  “Agreed,” Reed said.

  “Which also means it seems unlikely that a nun teaching school could have done anything to deserve this.”

  “Also agreed,” Reed replied.

  Raising both palms to his face, Grimes swiped over his cheeks, skin pulling around his mouth and eyes.

  A feeling Reed shared, knowing that it in a matter of moments he would be forced to start sorting through the maelstrom that was Lynda Cantwell’s last six months.

  “How much heat are we taking from downtown?” Reed asked, bracing himself for a response he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear.

  “Nominal, at the moment,” Grimes said, “but again, that’s going to depend on how ferocious the blowback is after this thing hits the air here soon.”

  On a handful of occasions in the previous year, Reed had handled some high-profile affairs, including one that involved the Chief herself and her family.

  Cumulatively, they had earned him a bit of wiggle room, but even that would be short lived if the court of public opinion started to shift toward mob mentality.

  Like a great many things, that was just one of the realities of the job.

  “Like I said, we’re heading back over right after we leave here. I’ll keep you posted on whatever I find.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Earbuds were jammed into either side of Sydney Rye’s head, the attached cord hanging down her chest, buried beneath the fleece workout shirt she was wearing. With each stride, it bounced lightly against her chest, giving the impression that loud music was pumping through, fueling her run.

  In reality, the opposite end was attached to nothing, the metal jack tucked against her stomach, the item nothing more than a ruse, an extra prop to add to the authenticity of her look.

  Keeping her head up, her gaze aimed out ahead, she inventoried everything around her.

  The myriad of side streets that fed into the main city artery she was on. The occasional sideways glances of people that she burst past. Even the number of cameras that were mounted along her route and the angle of their lenses, chronicling in her mind every bit of information that might be useful.

  By her side, Blue lumbered along, his elongated strides giving the appearance that he was barely even trying, keeping pace merely to humor her. Every block or so Rye could see him glance up as if tracking her movement, making sure they were continuing on ahead.

  The setup at the motel earlier had accomplished the goal of telling Rye exactly who she was dealing with, bringing with it a litany of memories.

  In her line of work, it was sometimes easy to let time and distance blur some of the details. One job became another became another, nothing but a series of names and faces that weren’t important, the lessons and experiences they imparted worth far more than any minutiae.

  The case of Nora Heatherington, of Clarence
Koob and the people he represented, was not such a case.

  Occurring shortly into her time in London, it was one of the closer scrapes Rye had ever found herself in, a time when she had started to believe a little too much in her own abilities, letting it cross over into the delusion that she was invincible.

  The faint scar running along the side of her left ribcage was now a permanent reminder just how fallacious that thinking was.

  A mistake she would never make again.

  Time and again as she ran, Rye let those memories intermingle with the image of Koob entering the motel room, the black-and-white picture seared into her frontal lobe.

  Enough concentrated venom and adrenaline pulsated through her system to power a locomotive as she chewed up the short distance between the park where she had left the SUV and the apartment complex that Nora called home.

  The entire scene at the motel took only a matter of minutes, the precision of Koob on full display as they cleared the space and were gone as fast as they arrived, taking nothing with them.

  Though they did leave behind a couple of presents for her, things that would make their job easier, but also ensured that she could never return.

  They already knew where she was staying, so the miniature microfiber cameras they placed weren’t of much concern to her.

  The plastic explosive they lined along the bottom of the toilet seat and under her mattress was a different matter entirely.

  Watching them place the traps for her had little effect beyond spiking the hatred she already felt for the men, bringing with it an instant longing to drive straight to the motel and have it out with them, smashing the front end of the SUV into whoever she saw, raising the Beretta and emptying it into whoever else remained.

  Just as fast, the impulse dissipated, replaced by the woman that now had more than a few battles and their corresponding scars on her record. The one with the foresight to plan, to make sure every encounter was on her terms.

  Once before, she thought she had finished Koob off.

  This time, she needed to ensure it happened.

  For twenty minutes after they left her motel room, Rye sat and watched the monitor, ensuring nobody was returning, before setting off. Intent to spot a sporting goods store nearby, she circled the surrounding neighborhoods for half an hour before finding a Wal-Mart.

  Settling on it with only minor irritation, she went inside and procured a handful of items needed for both she and Blue, some of them as basic as foodstuffs, others – such as the length of nylon cordage and the basic folding knife that were now tucked away on her person – of a much more lethal nature.

  In total, more than two hours had passed, long enough that her meal was digested and Blue was rested and had relieved himself.

  Long enough that Koob and his men would now have resumed their posts overlooking the apartment complex.

  With that single thought in mind, Rye continued pounding ahead, careful to keep her face aimed forward, to not let anybody see her checking her surroundings. Fixed in that position, she spotted the gathered collection of vehicles long before she arrived at the apartment building, seeing them just as she rounded into view at the end of the street.

  Much like the night before, there looked to be a dozen or more in total, all having crammed into the narrow confines of the road. Some parked up on the front grass of the lawn, others were wedged in tight behind, all with people spilling out, pushing as close as the yellow police tape strung outside would allow.

  The main difference between this and the night before being that instead of flashing lights atop the hoods, these vehicles were equipped with antennas, the logos of various television stations emblazoned down the side.

  “You’ve got to be shitting me,” Rye muttered, the sound of her voice pulling Blue’s gaze up in her direction.

  For almost eighteen hours, the media had been kept at arm’s length. To her recollection, not a single person had been on site the night before, something that was such a stark difference to most scenes of that type she had picked up on it almost immediately.

  Now, for whatever reason, the moratorium that had existed on coverage was over.

  Possibly taking with it whatever chance she had at drawing Koob or his men out into the open.

  “Dammit,” she whispered, her pace never faltering as she kept moving on. “Dammit, dammit, dammit.”

  One after another, alternate plans ran through her mind, each one contemplated for no more than a minute before being cast aside, obvious flaws keeping them from being considered a viable solution.

  Ahead, the gap between her and the trucks continued to grow smaller, a crowd starting to assemble on the narrow strip of grass visible around the front door. Behind them, a gaggle of associated personnel pushed forward, some carrying boom mics, others with cameras lifted to their shoulders.

  There would be no way to draw Koob down into a crowd such as that. He was too smart, would not put himself in a position to be caught on film.

  But that didn’t necessarily mean she wouldn’t still be able to pull him off to the side.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The woman herself looked different. With her hair cut shorter, changed from blonde into something much darker, the top half of her face partially hidden from view, it would be almost impossible to make a positive identification from where he was standing.

  Even her build seemed to have shifted, stripping away any softness that might have still been present during their last encounter, replaced by a form made entirely of sinew and tendon, ropy muscle stretched tight between her joints.

  There was no denying the enormous hound that bobbed along by her side, though, the creature one that Clarence Koob had seen only once before in person, but often encountered late at night when trying to sleep.

  The very same one responsible for the strip of furrowed skin above his left hip, the animal tearing away a chunk of flesh that turned his previous battle with the girl, the only reason she was able to even get a shot off.

  Much less have it draw contact.

  Springing from his seat at the sight of her, Koob snapped upright so quickly the backs of his knees slammed into the plastic chair, sending it skittering across the floor. From the opposite side of the room, he could sense Braun Neville turn to appraise him, even going as far as to ask, “You got her?”

  Ignoring the question, his pulse quickening, Koob snatched the pair of binoculars from the edge of the window sill before him, squeezing them so tight he could hear the plastic casing protest as he lifted them to his face.

  The timing of her appearance was too much to be ignored. He had spotted the small camera hidden back at the motel room, had known even as he asked Hirsch to keep an eye on the place that there was no way she was returning.

  She had sat somewhere nearby and watched as they went through her things, even planting strips of harmless putty just for effect, letting it be known that they knew she was around.

  Now, she was returning the favor.

  “Boss?” Neville asked, stepping up alongside Koob. His appearance jerked Koob away from the binoculars, back into the present, his mind fighting to process what he was seeing.

  The best way to handle it.

  Gerard was right. This case was personal, in a way that far outstripped whatever small slight the old man seemed to hold about what had happened to his son.

  In the decade Koob had spent in the private sector, Sydney Rye and that damned dog were the sole opponents that had gotten the best of him.

  Each leaving him with a scar to prove their victory.

  “It’s her,” Koob replied, the words coming out low and even.

  Taking a step forward, Hirsch pinched his brow in tight, staring down at the street, fighting to get a clearer view of whatever Koob had spotted.

  “You sure?”

  Keeping the binoculars gripped in either hand by his waist, Koob watched the figure in black pants and purple fleece bound down the opposite side of the street, the animal tha
t looked more wolf than dog running alongside her.

  “Positive.”

  Leaning in, Hirsch pressed his palms against the window frame, the position causing his triceps to bulge as he peered at Rye before twisting in the opposite direction.

  “Shit,” he muttered. “Couldn’t have picked a worse time.”

  Jerking the binoculars back to his face, Koob shifted his focus to the same spot Hirsch was staring, instantly seeing what the man was referencing.

  In the few minutes he had been watching Rye, the assemblage of vehicles in front of the apartment building had grown three-fold, a full press conference looking like it was set to begin at any moment.

  Swinging his attention over the mass of people and vehicles, he saw a handful of recognizable TV emblems, though nothing that resembled law enforcement of any kind.

  “Or maybe she didn’t,” he muttered, his mind piecing together what he saw, formulating a way to potentially turn the situation to their advantage.

  Beside him, Hirsch pulled back from the window, this time leveling his focus on Koob, ignoring the street below.

  “What do you have in mind?”

  Keeping the binoculars raised to his face, Koob studied the crowd for another moment, watching as Rye came upon them from the west, never once seeming to break stride as she ran, barely even glancing over as she passed.

  Clearly, she was sending them a message.

  It was on him to let her know it was received.

  Dropping the binoculars onto the window sill, Koob turned for the door, trusting Hirsch would be right behind him.

  “Come on. Let’s go.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The words of Grimes sat in the front of Reed Mattox’s mind, rattling from side to side, dominating his thoughts. While he knew the directive wasn’t coming from the captain – a man that had repeatedly gone out of his way to protect his employees – it didn’t change the fact that the pressure was there.

  And about to grow infinitely larger.

  Raising himself higher behind the steering wheel, he tapped out a steady rhythm against his thigh, using his right thumb as a makeshift drumstick. Smacking it in time with a tune heard only in his head, he thought on how to best play the next hours and days, a scenario that likely had more to do with what the media decided to blast across the airwaves than anything the investigation itself presented.