Read the book: «The Gatekeeper»

Praise for
MICHELLE GAGNON

“Boneyard is a winner!

A compelling page-turner that pays due attention to the human heart. It’ll keep you up all night.”

—Jeffery Deaver, New York Times bestselling author

“A stellar work of mounting suspense and terror. Ritual murder, ancient magic and buried secrets all blend seamlessly in this debut mystery by a major new talent. Not to be missed!”

—James Rollins, New York Times bestselling author,

on The Tunnels

“I defy anyone to read the first chapter of Boneyard and put the book down. With a cast of deftly drawn characters and a beautifully resonant setting, Boneyard is pure reading pleasure-creepy, terrifying and utterly believable. I recommend it with great enthusiasm.”

—Douglas Preston, New York Times bestselling author

“The Tunnels starts out scary and only gets worse, or—if you like frightening thrillers—better. Michelle Gagnon is a fresh and confident new voice in crime fiction. An auspicious debut.”

—John Lescroart, New York Times bestselling author

“Gagnon’s plot is fast-paced, appropriately detailed in its forensic depictions, and reveals an attention to authentic FBI detection procedures that lets the reader know that the author has done her homework…an engaging and quick read.”

—Library Journal on Boneyard

“Michelle Gagnon’s stellar debut is an edge-of-your-seat story of suspense and intrigue. With a deftly crafted plot and a winning protagonist, Gagnon spins a fast-moving yarn that is certain to keep you up late. We will hear more from this talented newcomer. Highly recommended.”

—Sheldon Siegel, New York Times bestselling author,

on The Tunnels

“Michelle Gagnon has written a tremendously fine debut novel that’s as dark, twisty, and thrilling as the tunnels she so hauntingly describes therein. Expect to sleep with the lights on for at least a week after you’ve relished the final page.”

—Cornelia Read, author of The Crazy School,

on The Tunnels

“A great read. Scarily good. The Tunnels takes you into some very dark places, as a bright new talent takes on old-world horrors and scares the living daylights out of you. It’s The Wicker Man meets Silence of the Lambs.”

—Tony Broadbent, author of The Smoke

and Spectres in the Smoke

“A fast-paced novel that taps into primal fears as it unfolds in real tunnels as well as in the labyrinth of the human mind. Things go down fast, decisions have to be made, and Michelle Gagnon has written characters who are up to it. Don’t read this one when you’re alone in the house.”

—Kirk Russell, author of Deadgame, on The Tunnels

MICHELLE GAGNON
THE GATEKEEPER

For Kate

“Invictus”

(Unconquered)

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the Pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate;

I am the captain of my soul.

—William Ernest Henley (1849–1903)

Contents

JUNE 25

Chapter One

JUNE 28

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

JUNE 29

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

JUNE 30

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

JULY 1

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

JULY 2

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

JULY 3

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

July 4

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Author’s Note

JUNE 25

One

Madison Grant leaned over the sink, careful not to get her jeans wet as she applied another coat of gloss. She rubbed her lips together, smacked them once, then dabbed the excess with her fingertip. She examined the resulting pink sheen critically—perfect. Stepping back, she tossed the wand into her purse. It was actually her sister’s knockoff Fendi. Bree would totally flip when she realized it was gone. Hopefully that would distract her from checking for other things that had gone missing, like her driver’s license and social security card. Of course by that time the shit would have hit the fan anyway. Their mom would be so freaked out that Bree’s complaints about a stolen purse would fall on deaf ears. At least that’s what Madison was hoping.

She shrugged on the purse and grabbed the handle of her carry-on. It was their fault for basically ignoring her. Ever since the divorce, Dad was only a voice on the phone, and Mom spent most of the day in her room, shades drawn. And Bree was so busy with her friends, she barely bothered to talk to Madison. No, the only person who really cared about her now was Shane.

Madison flushed at the thought of him. They’d only known each other a few weeks, but she could already tell this was it, her one true love. They’d met online and instantly hit it off. She lived for the sweet texts he sent while she sat in class, bored out of her skull. They had these long, intense IM sessions where they talked about everything: what they wanted to be when they grew up, what their families were like. He was the only person Madison had confided in about how shitty things had gotten since the divorce, how awful it was to be dumped in a new city across the country, how she hated school and everyone in it.

Shane was older, nineteen, in his first year of college at San Francisco State. But he said the age difference didn’t matter since girls were more mature, and he was totally right. Madison was a lot older than sixteen in her mind. And with Bree’s license and social security card, she could get a job. Shane had offered to let her crash with him for as long as she needed to. He hinted that since they’d be spending the rest of their lives together anyway, they might as well get started. When he sent the plane ticket she got so excited, dancing around her bedroom. Then she swiped some of the cash her mom hid around the house and lied about staying with a friend for the weekend. That gave her a few days before they’d realize she was missing. And now she had finally arrived.

It was hard to believe she was about to meet Shane in person. It was going to be perfect, just like in the movies. They’d kiss, he’d look into her eyes and tell her he loved her. She’d work at a cool café in the city while he finished school. Maybe she’d take some classes herself, then eventually they’d get married. They’d have two kids, a boy named Max and a girl named Penelope. Someday she might even call her parents to tell them what a great job she’d done with her life. They’d forgive her for leaving, and everything would turn out the way it should have been all along.

On the other side of the security gate, a guy wearing a cap held a sign that read GRANT. Madison’s jaw almost dropped. Shane must have some serious cash—first the plane ticket, now a limo? Maybe his family was rich. He was probably keeping it a secret to see if she liked him for who hewas, like in that movie where the prince pretended to be a normal guy. Which was silly, she’d love Shane even if he was totally poor. But she had to admit, the thought of living in a huge house was definitely appealing. Better yet she might not have to get a job, she could just hang out all day. Madison repressed a giggle, trying to look serious and adult as she approached the driver.

“Hi. Are you here for me?”

The chauffeur eyed her, and she drew herself up to her full five-seven. “Madison Grant?”

“Yeah. I mean, yes, that’s me.”

The chauffeur motioned for her bag. She followed him to a Lincoln Town Car. He popped the trunk, tucked the suitcase inside, then opened the passenger door. Madison climbed in, impressed by the plush surroundings. There was even a bottle of sparkling water in the cup caddy. She unscrewed the cap and took a swig, then belted herself in. The car eased into the steady stream of traffic leaving the terminal, and Madison settled back against the seat.

“You know where we’re going, right?” she asked after a minute.

The driver didn’t turn his head, just nodded.

Madison was self-conscious. She’d never been in a limo before, but thought there was supposed to be one of those panels between them. Without one, she felt obligated to make small talk.

“So where are you from?” She asked after a short pause.

The driver didn’t respond, and she figured his English wasn’t very good. He looked Russian, at least around the eyes. Madison sipped more of the water. It had a funny metallic aftertaste, probably because it was from France. Her eyelids drooped. The flight had only been six hours, but she’d spent the whole time amped up in what Dad called her “condensed matter” state. It wouldn’t hurt to take a little nap, she decided. After all, she didn’t want to be sleepy the first time she met Shane.

When she awoke it was dark. Madison felt drowsy, disoriented. She wasn’t in the car anymore, and wondered if they’d arrived and the driver hadn’t bothered waking her. If she had been asleep when Shane first saw her that would be totally embarrassing, she realized, mortification jolting her from a stupor. She was on some sort of bed, there was a rough blanket beneath her. Was she in his dorm room? She stood and felt her way across. It was pitch-black, cold, and she shivered in her light sweater. Shane had warned her to pack layers, but she’d wanted to look cute so she’d kept her fleece jacket in her suitcase. She groped until she reached the wall. It was freezing and felt like metal. She rapped on it once, tentatively, then worked her way along it to a door. There was a handle but it was huge, also metal, and didn’t respond to her tugs. Madison bit her lower lip, experiencing a tremor of fear. Something was seriously wrong.

“Shane?” She called out hesitantly. Her voice sounded squeaky. She tried to inject more assurance as she repeated, “Hey, Shane, are you out there? I think I’m stuck!”

There was no response. Madison felt a tear trickle down her face, followed quickly by another. As she slid to the floor and clasped her knees to her chest, she began sobbing in earnest. She was all alone, and no one even knew she was missing.

JUNE 28

Two

Jake Riley leaned back in his chair, crossing his feet on top of his new desk. It was solid oak, and according to the antiques dealer had once belonged to George Steinbrenner. Even if that was bullshit, it was a nice desk, he decided. And the Steinbrenner story would probably impress potential clients.

His office was still filled with boxes. It had taken longer than expected to find a suitable space, commercial rents in New York were through the roof. Even with the exorbitant severance package from Jake’s previous employer, the new company would have to secure some contracts soon. But they’d made the right choice, he thought, gazing through the floor to ceiling windows. After searching the entire borough for an office with room to expand, they’d finally settled in one of the new skyscrapers jutting up around Columbus Circle. Central Park was across the street, and Jake was looking forward to eating lunch there, maybe strapping on his running shoes for a jog on slow days. Although hopefully there wouldn’t be many of those.

He ignored the needling voice that questioned the decision to branch out on his own. Sure, Dmitri Christou had paid him well, but for the first time in his life he was his own boss. And hell, they’d be doing good work along the way. They’d decided to name the company The Longhorn Group, a nod to the fact that both he and his partner originally hailed from Texas. If Jake had his say, The Longhorn Group would quickly become the go-to company for K&R insurers.

K&R was shorthand for “Kidnap and Ransom.” In recent years there had been a sharp uptick in the number of kidnappings of American executives abroad, some figures estimated as high as twenty percent. To secure the release of abducted employees, many companies hired private firms to either negotiate with kidnappers or, failing that, attempt a rescue. South American countries, particularly Colombia, were the most notorious for kidnappings, but plenty took place stateside. They just weren’t widely publicized, since no corporation wanted to put ideas in someone’s head. And despite the increased number of companies signing on for K&R insurance, most operatives trained in negotiation and recovery were busy working security details in the Middle East. Jake was hoping The Longhorn Group would fill that void.

Eventually Kelly might come on board, and they’d be able to work together again. It was a nice thought. Jake picked up the sole item on his desk, a framed photo of her, and gazed at it. It showed her in profile, sitting on a beach, red hair reflecting the setting sun. She always griped about the angle, but then she hated every photo of herself. He thought it captured a side of her that was usually hidden—there was a vulnerability in the way she held her knees that always got him. He set the picture back on the desk. They were officially engaged now, had been for months, but hadn’t set a date. She said work was keeping her too busy, but he knew better. Still, he didn’t mind. She was worth waiting for.

He glanced up at a knock on his door. His new partner, Syd, stood grinning at him. Looking at her, compact in a well-tailored navy suit, every blond hair in place, you’d never guess she had single-handedly brought down one of the most dangerous terrorist cells in Yemen a few years back. Even though she was only in her mid-thirties, she’d been one of the CIA’s best operatives. Lucky for him she’d become so disenchanted with the amoral aspects of Agency work, she jumped at his offer to partner up.

“I think we’ve got something,” she said. Like him, over the years she’d managed to shed her drawl.

“Seriously?” They had just begun meeting with insurers to secure contracts. “That’s great! Did Tennant Risk Services get back to us?”

Syd plopped down on the wing chair opposite his desk. “Nope, not yet. This is a private client.” She paused a beat before continuing. “Actually, it’s kind of a favor for a friend.”

“Uh-oh. We talked about that.”

Syd sighed and wound a strand of hair around her finger. “I know, I know. But this could be a good case to build on. He’s a physicist for a lab that does Department of Defense work. It’s worth considering, anyway.”

“That sounds suspiciously like a pro bono job.”

“He’ll pay us what he can afford. Probably not much, but it’ll be something. Besides, it’ll give us a chance to double-check our operations. Kind of like the soft opening of a restaurant.”

“Uh-huh.” Jake examined her closely. “Just how good a friend is this guy?”

“That’s a long story.” Syd kicked off her heels and set her bare feet on the desk opposite his, settling back in the chair.

“No nylons?” he teased.

She tossed a paper clip at him. “That’s the main reason I’m doing this, so I won’t have to stuff my legs in sausage casings anymore.”

“Benefit of being the boss,” Jake said. In spite of himself, his eyes trailed up to where the navy hem rode above her knees. He forced his focus back up to find her grinning.

Syd wiggled her toes. “See something you like?”

“I wasn’t aware we had a dress code,” he said, gesturing to her suit. Even he could tell it was pricey, Chanel or something like it.

“One of us has to dress like a grown-up, on the off chance that a client comes calling.”

“You kidding? These are my good jeans. And I have it on authority that Bono wears the same T-shirt.”

“I’ll bet. But then, Bono isn’t exactly the first guy you call when a loved one goes missing.”

“Speaking of which.” Jake tapped his finger on the desk. “What’s the story with this guy?”

“His name’s Randall Grant. We met at a conference before I left the Agency.”

Jake frowned. “You’re dating him?”

“Dating is a strong word. Let’s just say, we see each other when we can. Anyway, his kid got taken.”

“His kid? Sounds like an FBI case to me.”

“He can’t call the FBI. Whoever took her wants information on his work.”

“What’s he do?”

“I don’t know specifically, something high clearance. Nuclear stuff.”

Jake let out a low whistle.

“Exactly,” Syd said. “So you can see why he doesn’t want the FBI riding in and screwing things up, Ruby Ridge-style.”

Jake raised an eyebrow at her last comment. She waved it off. “No offense. I’m sure your fiancée is great at her job. But you worked for the Bureau, you know how ass-backwards they can be. Bottom line, they care more about the secrets than the kid. And Randall doesn’t trust them with her life.”

“But he trusts us?”

Syd shrugged. “He trusts me.”

Jake examined the ceiling, considering. His gut was saying this was a bad idea, and he knew better than to question that. Getting involved in a case where you had personal ties was always a mistake. Still, it was a job, and after months of inactivity he was itching to do something besides choosing office furniture.

“Get him on the phone,” Jake finally responded.

“You sure?”

“Let’s hear what he has to say. But he’s got to give us more information, security clearance or not,” he warned her. “And the minute I get a bad feeling, we pull out. Deal?”

“Deal,” Syd said, tucking her feet back in her pumps. “You’re a prince, Jake.”

“Don’t I know it.” He grinned back at her. “Now let’s call your boyfriend.”

Kelly frowned as she took in the scene. Directly in front of her was a memorial to Arizona peace officers lost in the line of duty. The artist had made some interesting choices. The kneeling figure was straight out of a spaghetti western: neckerchief in place of a tie, hat in one hand, revolver at his side. The metal base he perched on jutted out into the points of a star. And on each point rested a different piece of Senator Duke Morris.

A few smears of blood marred the base, but other than that it was clean. Police tape cordoned off the area. Stairs led from the small platform to the State Capitol building, which currently housed a museum. A sign described it as neoclassical with Spanish influences, which explained the shade of salmon rarely seen on government facilities. At the top, a copper dome was dominated by a statue called Winged Victory. It was a strange choice for a body dump site.

As she waited for the crime scene techs to finish, Kelly pivoted. The capitol complex was sprawling. The statue was dead center in the middle of a pavilion, surrounded by modern buildings that currently housed the seat of power. Wide concrete paths penned in browning grass and scraggly bushes, all fighting to survive the onslaught of the desert sun. Late June, and at 10:00 a.m. it was already a hundred degrees. Kelly raised her arm, wiping a bead of sweat from her brow, and wished for the umpteenth time that the FBI dress code allowed shorts.

Agent Danny Rodriguez appeared at her elbow. “They’re still canvassing, but so far no one saw anything. The locals set up a tip line for information, they’re already flooded with people blaming everyone from the president to bin Laden.”

“Great,” Kelly sighed. A high profile murder always drew the crazies. “What about cameras? State Capitol building, there should be a surveillance net.”

“You’d think so, but thanks to budget cuts security was axed. They’ve got cameras focused on the main buildings, but nothing on the plaza. Guess they figured vandals were their biggest threat.”

“They figured wrong.” Kelly squinted against the glare. A two lane road marked by a center divider faced the pavilion. On the opposite side, a park stretched off into the distance. Too much to hope for an ATM or liquor store camera nearby. “Where were the guards?”

“They got two guys, but the Diamondbacks were playing the Yankees.” Rodriguez shrugged.

“So what, they were busy watching baseball?” Kelly eyed him. She was less than thrilled with her new partner. Rodriguez was just four years out of the Academy, young to have been assigned to the elite Behavioral Science Unit. Rumor had it his career was fast-tracked after he ratted out a former partner to OPR, the FBI’s internal affairs division. And Kelly had a sneaking suspicion he’d been assigned to spy on her. Ten months earlier one of her cases had turned into a debacle, and she knew some of the Bureau higher-ups were screaming for her head. Her boss had stood by her, so far at least. Being stuck with Rodriguez reminded her she was on shaky ground.

“Hey, don’t take it out on me. I’m a Mets fan,” Rodriguez joked. He shrunk slightly under her stare. “So what next, chief?”

Kelly watched the medical examiner gingerly lift one of Morris’s legs off the base of the statue. Senator Morris was popular in Arizona, but best known outside it for his draconian ideas about immigration reform. She’d seen him on the talk show circuit last week, railing about how America’s borders needed to be closed entirely. The cop that led her past the tape mentioned that Morris had a good shot at president, then mumbled something about wetbacks before she cut him off. A man like that had probably made a few enemies over the years. And by gruesomely displaying his remains, someone was clearly sending a message.

The leg slipped from the ME’s grasp and bounced along the ground as he fumbled for it. Kelly repressed the urge to roll her eyes. “Family has already been notified, right?”

Rodriguez nodded.

“Let’s go ask them who hated the senator enough to hack him up with a machete.”

Three

Madison shivered. The thin blanket they’d left her barely made a dent in the chill, and she swore it grew colder by the hour. She had no idea how long she’d been here. She usually told time by her cell phone but that had been taken along with everything else. She hoped it was already Monday, and that her family had realized she wasn’t at Cassidy’s house. A tear snaked down her face as she berated herself again for being such an idiot. Everyone knew that creepy older guys had MySpace pages; people weren’t always who they claimed to be. But she’d fallen for the whole Shane thing like a total moron. And now something horrible was going to happen to her.

The worst part was the waiting. She’d screamed for a while, becoming increasingly hysterical until the door had suddenly been thrown open. It was the driver, now dressed in jeans and a filthy sweatshirt. Madison hushed as he approached, shrinking back against the wall. She expected him to start tearing her clothes off, or worse, but he’d just injected her with something that knocked her out again. She’d learned pretty quickly that screaming brought the needle.

Madison couldn’t figure out what they were waiting for. So far no one had hurt her. In fact they brought her food and water regularly, and cleaned out the bucket as soon as she used it. And they’d left her a blanket. Though the light only changed slightly, she could now differentiate between night and day, the room brightened enough that she could make out the dim edges of her surroundings by sight, and the rest by touch.

She was in a ship of some sort, military judging by the dull gray paint job. The room was a steel box, ten-by-ten, with a cot in one corner and a bucket in the other. Other than that there was no rug, chair, or other decoration. She guessed she was being held in the bowels of the ship, she could hear the occasional slap of a wave against the hull. They didn’t appear to be moving, which she took as a hopeful sign. Maybe it was one of those white slavery rings, and they were planning to ship her off to Saudi Arabia. Madison shuddered at the thought. If she was lucky, they’d kidnapped her for ransom, confusing her with the daughter of someone rich. Maybe they’d realize the error and let her go—she’d only seen one guy’s face, and she’d promise not to tell if they just let her go home.

She had tried to pry the door open, hauling the cot frame across the room to use as a lever. But the minute she exerted some force, the sound of a chair scraping against the floor on the other side sent her scampering back. A moment later the door creaked open. The driver came in and glanced at the cot on its side, shook his head and gave her another shot. She hadn’t tried again. Escape was clearly hopeless: there were no windows, and a guard was stationed at the only exit. She was screwed.

The door suddenly banged open. The driver still didn’t speak, but something about the way he looked at her made Madison recoil. She protested as he crossed the room. Without breaking stride he yanked her up and flung her on the cot. She shrieked and clawed at him, “No, oh please God no…” then paused when he didn’t do anything.

He was holding something inches from her face. A flash, then he left the room.

She sat up, puzzled. He’d taken her photo, so maybe this was about ransom. She couldn’t decide if that made the situation better or worse. Madison pictured her parents’ reaction to the photo, and in spite of herself felt a spark of something like satisfaction. Served them right, the way they’d been ignoring her. If she ended up dying some sort of horrible death, it would be their fault.

She dropped back on the cot and crossed her hands behind her head. There would probably be a huge funeral if she didn’t make it out of here. Even her former best friend Jamie, who had totally screwed her over last year, would probably cry. Chris Dinsmore would be completely devastated that he’d never asked her out. They’d get a choir to sing “Ave Maria,” and hundreds of sobbing people would follow the casket through the streets. They’d all regret how they’d treated her.

But she really might not make it out of here. The guy had let her see his face, which wasn’t a good sign. And her parents didn’t have any money. The whole divorce had been a joke with them fighting over air miles; it wasn’t like they had a fortune hidden somewhere. And once the kidnappers realized that…she’d watched enough cop shows to know what would happen. At the thought she started to shake, teeth chattering. Madison drew the blanket up to her neck and tucked the corners under her heels so her whole body was covered. But it did nothing to stop the uncontrollable shivering.

Jake rolled his head to work out a kink in his neck. He didn’t generally mind flying, but the only seat available on such short notice had been in coach, and his body wasn’t designed for middle seats at the rear of the plane. His knees were jammed against the seat back in front of him, high enough that they prevented him from lowering the tray table. He’d tried to work on his laptop, but the kid on the aisle was playing a handheld video game that bleated nonstop, and the woman in the window seat issued a heavy sigh every few minutes. Another kid hung over the seat in front of him, staring at him while she picked her nose. All in all, the experience was making him seriously reconsider starting a family. Maybe he and Kelly could get a puppy and call it quits.

As they taxied to the gate, the flight attendant announced information for connecting flights, and the woman beside him grumbled something unintelligible. Jake hunched over, waiting for the slow file off the plane to proceed far enough for him to grab his carry-on. Once out of the Jetway he glanced at his watch and flipped open his cell phone.

“Frank? Yeah, sorry about that. My connecting flight at O’Hare was delayed. Where am I meeting you?”

Five minutes later, Jake was stationed in front of a bank of monitors. Frank, an old Agency buddy of Syd’s, shifted nervously at his elbow. Apparently he’d done something bad enough to get shuffled down the ranks of Homeland Security to airport detail. Jake couldn’t imagine what kind of heinous act would result in such a reassignment. Screwing the president’s dog, maybe. Hard to believe anything less would matter to the CIA.

“I can give you a few more minutes, man, but that’s it.” Frank’s eyes shifted from the screens to the door in a constant cadence, like he was watching a tennis match. “Shift change is in a half hour, and I got plans tonight.”

Jake jabbed a finger at the screen. “That’s her right there. Pause and rewind five minutes, then go forward slowly.”

Frank obliged, working the elaborate controls. A few other men were scattered around the room. After their initial appraisal they’d pointedly ignored Jake, which was fine by him. Although it didn’t instill much faith in airport security, he thought, watching them peck away at phones and BlackBerries, periodically casting a token glance at the monitors.

They watched in silence as Madison Grant made her way from a restroom near the gate to baggage claim. The angle changed as Frank shifted from camera to camera. Jake had to admit, he was good at this. Had the tapes cued up and ready to go when he arrived, and despite the employees, the technology itself was state-of-the-art, HD quality.

“Pretty girl,” Frank said. “What’d she do?”

Jake eyed him, not liking his tone. Maybe that’s what the CIA had found so offensive. Syd had fed Frank some backstory about a CI they were tracking. Not very plausible, but then Frank obviously wasn’t the type to ask questions when enough money changed hands. That level of pliability was also not a good sign for air travel, Jake thought. Maybe he should take the train home.

“Zoom in,” Jake said, as Madison approached someone. Big guy, looked yoked even from this angle, six-five easy. A cap obscured his eyes, and the hands holding the sign were large and meaty. Jake frowned as they exchanged a few words, then watched Madison follow him out of the building. The film switched to a line of cars stacked at the curb. Madison climbed into the rear of a sedan. Jake frowned as it drove off.

“Can you get me a printout of that guy, and of the plate?”

Frank shrugged. “Yeah, no problem. Technology is a beautiful thing.”

Jake didn’t respond. He leaned back against an empty console as Frank shuffled to the printer. So Madison Grant hadn’t been snatched, she’d been lured. Not surprising, he’d done plenty of dumb shit himself at that age. And whoever she was meeting must have money, curbside limo service didn’t come cheap. He’d have Syd run the plates, but he doubted that would give them anything. This smelled professional. Someone had spent enough time developing a relationship with the girl that she didn’t hesitate to jump on a plane. And if Syd was right about the dad’s job, there were high stakes involved. Jake shook his head. He was liking this less and less by the minute.

“Here you go.” Frank handed over a stack of pictures.

Jake flipped through them quickly. It didn’t look like there was enough of the guy’s face to run through facial recognition software, but there was a nice close-up of Madison. She was a pretty girl, light hair, big smile. She appeared sweet and trusting and more than a little naive. And right now, she was probably in some shit-hole, scared to death.

“Crap,” Jake said, shifting the photo to the bottom.

“What?” Frank asked.

“Nothing. Thanks for your help.” They shook hands and Jake walked out, blinking in the fluorescent glare. Even without looking at it he could still picture the photo. It was as if Madison was challenging him to try and forget about her. Jake tucked the stack into the outside pocket of his carry-on and headed for the car rental courtesy shuttle. He already knew there was no walking away from those eyes.

Four

Kelly adjusted the surgical mask over her mouth. Rodriguez was growing progressively paler as the medical examiner peeled the skin back from the senator’s face. And she had to admit, she was enjoying his discomfort. Kelly had sat in on more autopsies than she could count. It wasn’t the sort of thing you got used to, exactly, but she’d developed coping mechanisms. Plus this wasn’t a victim that inspired the warm fuzzies. Kids were still tough, she preferred to come in at the end for those results. But this guy, the more she found out about him the less she liked. Not that he deserved to be hacked up, but Duke Morris didn’t inspire a lot of sympathy.

The ME had arranged him on the table like a jigsaw puzzle. Morris’s feet were splayed out, arms and legs canted at angles that would have been impossible were his skeleton intact. A disassembled mannequin, Kelly thought. And an ugly one at that.

Under the glare of the overhead lights his skin was pale, suggesting he spent more time on the Beltway than in his home state. A protruding gut attested to plenty of pricey dinners, and his body was covered with an alarming amount of hair. His eyes and mouth were closed, and the hair plugs along his forehead stood out in stark relief. Kelly flipped open the file. On top was a professionally taken photo of Morris in front of an American flag, robust and strong, grinning obsequiously at his constituents. He possessed that air of smug satisfaction common to men who took money and power for granted.

“So officially, gunshot wounds were the cause of death?” Kelly finally asked. Over the years she’d learned that MEs came in all shapes, sizes and levels of ability. This one didn’t seem half-bad, but whether it was the pressure of working on such a high-profile corpse or his own habitual pace, this autopsy was taking a hell of a long time. She pulled back the sleeve of her surgical smock to check her watch: nearly 5:00 p.m. Her stomach growled, reminding her that they’d missed lunch.

The ME peered up at her. “Yes, I’d say so. Two to the back of the head, fired at a downward angle.”

“Execution style,” Rodriguez noted faintly.

“Any way to tell how long they waited before using the machete?” Kelly asked.

The ME shook his head. “No blood around those wounds, so he was definitely dead. That would put it anywhere from a few minutes after his heart stopped beating to several hours. Time of death was around midnight last night.”

Kelly nodded. That matched what they knew about the senator’s schedule. He’d attended a fundraising dinner at the Hilton in downtown Phoenix. His wife thought that afterward he’d gone to a private men’s club, but according to his credit card receipts Morris had actually whiled away those hours with a blonde from a local escort service. And not for the first time, according to both the lovely, gum-snapping Trixie and a trail of charges on his government-issue card. Kelly repressed a sigh—politicians, always so predictable. Apparently stamina wasn’t one of Morris’s strong suits. After spending less than half an hour in the room, hotel cameras captured him strolling out the lobby doors while adjusting his tie.

If the ME was right, Morris had been waylaid somewhere between the hotel lobby and the lot where his Cadillac was parked. And the next time he was seen, it was in pieces in front of the capitol building.

“I voted for him,” the ME said contemplatively as he draped the sheet over Morris’s body.

Kelly closed the file. “I hear he was a real pillar of the community. When will you have the full report?”

He shrugged. “A few hours. Initial tox screen shows he’d had a few drinks, but no illegal substances or anything that points to him being drugged.”

“Make sure to scan for everything and fax the results to this number.” Kelly handed him a card and left the room, tossing her mask and gloves in a bin.

“I’m kind of surprised you let the hooker go,” Rodriguez grumbled as they strolled back out to the lot.

“Why?” Kelly asked.

“She might have been in on it.”

Kelly tilted her head to the side. “But then why not drug him in the room and take him out the back stairs? No cameras there, and it would have been easier than trying to grab him on the street.”

Rodriguez shrugged noncommittally. “I’m just saying,” he said. “She smelled funny to me.”

“She’s a prostitute, they don’t usually smell very good,” Kelly replied wryly. She slid into the driver’s seat and glanced at him across the interior. Rodriguez’s face was still too round for his body, definitely a former fat kid who’d worked off the residual pudge in the gym. A few more years would probably take care of that. He wasn’t much taller than her, maybe five-nine, and his high cheekbones and light eyes pegged him as closer to a Spanish-Mexican lineage than a Mayan one. Based on his file she knew he was twenty-seven years old, had entered the Academy straight out of Princeton, and spent his childhood in Los Angeles. Aside from that, not much there. Which lent further credence to the OPR rumors. His constant second-guessing of her decisions was irritating. Plus, every time he called her chief it was getting harder not to smack him.

“So what next, chief?” he asked casually.

Kelly gritted her teeth. “Don’t call me chief.”

“You prefer boss?”

Kelly decided not to get drawn into a pissing match, dinner was coming up and she didn’t want to lose her appetite. “You make any progress on those gang files?”

Rodriguez shrugged. “The machete thing has been popular in L.A. for a few years, originally started by the Salvadoran gangs like MS-13. But then it caught on with everyone else—there have been incidents with immigrants from Sierra Leone, Somalia, Mexico. It’s a cheap weapon, and chopping someone into bits sends a pretty strong message. There weren’t any tags near the bodies, and according to the local Gang Task Force no specific group or gang is claiming responsibility. Which is kind of weird. Something high profile like this, you’d figure folks would be coming out of the woodwork to build their street cred.”

Kelly shook her head. “Probably not with something this big. A mayor, maybe, but a senator? They’d have to know the government would throw their whole weight behind this one. Death penalty for sure.” Which made her wonder again why she’d been assigned such an important case. Either the brass had more faith in her skills than they’d let on, or they knew this was a stinker. Still, it gave her a team of fifty agents doing everything from running down Morris’s staff history to canvassing door-to-door. With that kind of man power, she wasn’t complaining.

“Maybe ballistics will turn something up.”

“Doubtful. Shot with a .45, no casings, and you heard the ME—the bullets ricocheted around his skull, they’re a mess. If we find the gun we might get a match, but I’d be surprised if it turned up.” Surprisingly clean for a gang hit, Kelly mused, unless they were well organized or got extremely lucky. Now that they had a rough idea where Morris had been snatched, Kelly had a team of agents combing through video surveillance footage from 10:00 p.m. to midnight. That was their best shot, to get a grainy image of a license plate, anything that would provide a lead. Barring that, without a specific group claiming responsibility, her list of suspects ranged from environmentalists to illegals to single parents, all of whom Morris had recently managed to piss off.

Rodriguez’s cell buzzed an electronic version of some pop song. He flipped it open and barked, “Rodriguez!”

Kelly shifted irritably, waiting for him to finish. Until they got reports from the ME and the tape squad, there wasn’t much more they could do. Time to call it a night. She repressed a yawn and idly wondered whether room service would be available at the hotel. She’d love some Mexican food—she could almost taste a burrito dripping with cheese and guacamole.

Rodriguez snapped his phone shut, a triumphant expression on his face. “We got the gun.”

“What?” Kelly snapped awake.

“Phoenix P.D. got an anonymous tip today about a local MS-13 stash house. They raided it, turned up a stack of weapons. And one of them is a .45.”

“There are a lot of .45s out there. How do they know it was used in our killing?”

“Because it had Duke Morris’s name right on it.”

“What, literally? We inventoried his guns, everything was accounted for.” And what an armory it had been: the entire wall of Morris’s study was a display case with everything from handguns to paramilitary weapons. All registered legally, his wife hastened to point out, and licenses backed that up. Had the fighting ever gone house to house, Duke Morris would have been ready.

Rodriguez shook his head. “Not this one. Gift from a grateful lobbyist. It’s a beautiful 1911, bone handle with his name carved in it. Phoenix P.D. already checked with the wife, she said he probably hadn’t gotten around to registering it yet.”

“Yeah, I’m sure it just slipped his mind. And he was in the habit of taking it to fancy dinners?”

“This is Arizona, Agent Jones.” Rodriguez looked bemused. “Carrying concealed is considered a God-given right in these parts.”

“Remind me never to move here. Jesus.” Kelly furrowed her brow. And they wondered why the gun fatality rate was through the roof. “So whoever snatched him shot him with his own gun?”

“And then that gun turned up in an MS-13 stash house,” Rodriguez concluded. “MS-13 loves machetes. They’re questioning the gang members downtown, said we could observe if we like. Looks like this case might be open-and-shut after all.”

“Looks like it,” Kelly said. She punched the Phoenix Police Department’s address into their GPS and silently kissed her burrito goodbye. While she waited for the machine to calibrate their course, she nudged away the feeling that something was off. Hell, she was due for an easy one, Kelly reminded herself. And the less time wasted on a scumbag like Morris the better, as far as she was concerned. It made sense: a gang composed primarily of illegal immigrants targeted a loudmouth who was making their lives difficult. Still, she’d feel a lot better with a confession, or footage of them hauling an overweight senator into a van.

Randall Grant was clearly having a bad day, Jake thought as he took the man in. Honestly, he was having a hard time understanding what Syd saw in the guy. Tall and thin, slightly gawky-looking. Maybe under normal circumstances he had a sparkling personality.

But these were obviously not normal circumstances. He looked hollowed out, shoulders slumped, bags under his eyes, the portrait of the tormented father. They sat across from each other in a nondescript café on the outskirts of Livermore. Initially Jake was glad they weren’t meeting in one of the coffee franchises that dominated the Bay Area, but after a sip of espresso he’d changed his mind. Say what you will about Starbucks, he thought. At least they were consistent.

“So why don’t you want to get the FBI involved?” Jake asked. Randall had spent the first ten minutes rambling on about his daughter, including too much information about his divorce and the dance classes she used to take. None of it had direct bearing on the case, but he seemed unable to help himself. Jake wondered whose brilliant idea it was to trust Randall with government secrets, if he spilled this much personal information over a cappuccino.

Randall shook his head violently. “Can’t do it. The people who took her said they had someone high up in the Bureau, that they’d know if I called in outside help. And the minute I did, they’d kill her.”

“And you believed them?” Jake asked, skeptical. It sounded like an idle threat. What better way to keep parents from calling the authorities than to sow distrust of them?

“Did you ever hear of Operation Snow White?” Randall asked.

Jake shook his head. “Nope. Some sort of poisoned apple scheme?”

Randall glared at him through red-rimmed eyes. “I was hoping Syd would be here.”

“I’m sure you were. Unfortunately, I’m the one who needs convincing before we agree to help you.” Jake raised an eyebrow.

Randall sank an inch lower in his chair. “Operation Snow White was initiated by the Church of Scientology back in the seventies. They wanted to purge any records that cast them or L. Ron Hubbard in a bad light. By the time it was discovered, they’d placed operatives in over a hundred government agencies in more than thirty countries. It was the single largest infiltration of the U.S. government in history. They denied it, but I have it on good authority that the FBI was one of those agencies.”

“So, what? Scientologists took your daughter?” Jake had to fight an urge to laugh, he had a sudden mental image of Tom Cruise and John Travolta carting off a struggling girl in a duffel bag.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m just saying, such a thing isn’t outside the realm of possibility.”

“Background checks are a lot more intensive post 9/11,” Jake pointed out. “It’s a whole different ball game now.”

Randall shrugged. “Who says their guy wasn’t already inside? Anyway, I couldn’t risk it.”

“And what exactly do they want from you, in exchange for her life?”

Randall rubbed his eyes with one hand. His jaw was stubbled with at least a day’s worth of growth. “I can’t tell you. It’s classified.”

“You’re considering handing whatever it is over to the kidnappers. So I don’t see the harm in telling me what they’re looking for.”

“Does it really matter?” Randall met his eyes sharply. “Would knowing help you find her?”

Jake shrugged. “Hard to say. I just don’t like going into a case blind. I’m kind of puzzled that they didn’t just snatch you. If you’ve got what they need, why take your daughter instead?”

“Because it’s not like I have it in my head. They need me to requisition things, pinpoint certain…materials…then gain access to transport records. And they want it done over a period of time.”

“So whatever they’re after, they want a lot of it, is what you’re telling me.”

“Essentially, yes.”

“But you can’t say what.”

Randall shook his head. Jake tilted back in his chair and eyed him. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something off about this. “Remind me which department you’re with?”

Randall smiled slightly. “Advanced Defense Capabilities. But Syd would have told you that.”

“Right, Advanced Defense. Any chance that has something to do with nuclear defense? Or are you folks still working on Star Wars?”

“Like I said, Mr. Riley…”

“Right, I know, you really can’t say. And you did your postgrad work in physics?” Randall didn’t answer, dropping his gaze to the table. Jake watched him closely. “What makes you so sure that Madison was abducted? Maybe she ran off with this Shane guy she was e-mailing.”

Randall pushed a photo across the table, keeping his eyes averted. Jake held it up for a better look. It was a close-up shot of Madison Grant, eyes wide and terrified, printed off a JPG onto regular computer paper. She was lying down against a nondescript gray background.

“When did this come in?” Jake looked up sharply.

“This morning. It was in my work account.” Dr. Grant buried his face in his hands and rubbed his cheeks hard. “No one outside the facility has that e-mail address. And I mean no one, any personal exchanges are strictly forbidden.”

“But they had it. And that got you even more spooked,” Jake said. “I need you to forward this to me.” He considered for a moment before continuing, “This isn’t proof of life, you know.”

“What?” Randall looked puzzled.

“Proof of life. Usually in a kidnapping, they have the victim hold up a newspaper so we know they’re still alive, or were on the day the photo was taken.”

“So you’re saying what, that Madison might already be dead?” The anger in Randall’s voice was overlaid by fatigue.

“Not necessarily. But we need to push for that on the next contact. How have they been getting in touch with you?”

“They sent me a phone.” He fumbled in his pocket and dug out a generic cell, the disposable kind available in any drugstore.

Jake flipped it and pulled off the back panel: no SIM card, which meant it would be nearly impossible to clone. Someone was being very careful. “Funny they didn’t just text you the photo,” Jake mused, handing the phone back. “And I’m guessing hitting the call return button doesn’t work.”

“The number is blocked. I even had one of the lab guys see if they could trace it, but nothing. Maybe the phone company…”

Jake shrugged. “I’ll give it a shot, but chances are they’re calling you from the exact same thing, a prepaid cell that gets tossed when the minutes are gone. And if they’re really smart, they paid cash for it. Tough to even triangulate those.”

Randall slumped lower in his seat. One more bit of bad news and he’d be on the floor, Jake thought.

“So you’re saying there’s nothing you can do,” Randall mumbled.

“Nope, not saying that at all. But it sure as hell won’t be easy. And not knowing what they’re after doesn’t help.” Randall started to speak, but Jake waved him quiet. “We’ll leave that for now. What’s our time frame?”

“They said it would be in stages. I’m supposed to go to work, pretend everything is normal, and get them the information.”

“How do you get it out of the lab?”

“Flash drive.” A pained expression crossed Randall’s face. “To get it out undetected, I have to—”

Jake cut him off. “Trust me, that sounds like ‘need to know,’ and I’m not feeling the need right now. So you’re getting them something this week?”

“It might be information, or it could involve rescheduling some…things. They haven’t told me yet.”

Jake eyed Randall coldly. The guy was scratching at some ketchup that had congealed on the surface of the table. “So tell me, Doc. You’re a smart guy. Say you do everything they ask you to. I’m guessing you’ve got a pretty good idea what the end result would be, right?”

Randall paused, then nodded without lifting his eyes.

“All right. So what are we talking here? How bad could it be?”

Randall waited a long time before responding. His eyes swept the room, taking in all the people with their cardboard cups, laptops and cell phones. He slowly shook his head. “It depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“Let’s just say they could do a lot of things with what I give them. All of which could result in significant loss of life.”

“What, hundreds of people?” When Randall didn’t respond, Jake raised his eyebrows and asked, “Thousands?”

“Maybe. That’s why you need to find Madison soon. Because I can’t allow them to get their hands on what they’re looking for. No matter what.”

In spite of himself Jake was shaken by the finality in Randall’s eyes. If it came down to it, he was willing to sacrifice his daughter. And the only thing standing between him and that outcome was Jake and Syd. Bad odds, any way you looked at it. Jake cleared his throat. “So. Looks like I better get to work, huh?”

Dante Parrish ran a hand over his bald scalp, the stubble reassuring against his palm. No need to be nervous, everything was going better than expected. Still, he always had to gather himself before opening the large mahogany door. Most people would find that surprising: at six-five, two-fifty, Dante wasn’t easily intimidated. But Jackson Burke could make him quake.

Dante rapped twice with his huge knuckles, then turned the knob. Inside was the kind of office he used to think only existed in movies: plush carpets, fancy paintings on the walls, sweeping views of downtown Phoenix. An enormous desk dominated the room, mahogany, like the door. Aside from that and two small armchairs, there were no other furnishings. As always, Dante was momentarily awed by the fact that somehow he had ended up here. His reflection was cut short when the man behind the desk slammed down the phone. In spite of himself, Dante jumped.