Born into the Yoruba people in Africa and raised as an orphan in a refugee camp before being adopted into an American family as a high school student, Amadi was recruited to work for SISA because of his extensive knowledge and expertise of a volatile region. He started by working locally to establish experience, but all signs pointed to him being fast-tracked to the major leagues soon. The higher-ups wanted him running overseas operations within two years.
He was only with the department for just over one year before disappearing without a trace. That was nearly six months ago.
Amadi had been presumed dead, not an unlikely conjecture in this line of work. But that assumption evaporated about two months ago when a junior agent, on a routine scouting mission to Syria, brought back a dozen surveillance photos of Amadi meeting with Sabeh Gorani, a well-known arms dealer based in Syria, specializing in small weaponry that individual soldiers carried.
Since then, ten other sightings of Amadi had popped up from various locations ranging from a bustling Hong Kong marketplace to a poverty-stricken Mexican barrio. This sighting in the suburban neighborhood of Campbell would only add to that ever-growing list once they made a positive identification.
No one could figure out what Amadi was up to, only that it was big. He met with arms dealers, mob bosses, political leaders and a known assassin. He was plotting something and it was Dominic’s job to figure out what.
As partners, the two worked a half dozen cases together before the disappearance. They even spent time together outside the office as friends, so Dominic took Amadi’s betrayal as a personal affront. Sitting down into his fancy leather chair behind the large mahogany desk, Dominic’s mind drifted back to the last conversation he had with his former coworker.
“Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that.”
“Good one. Still too easy though. Reverend King.” As usual, the two agents were engaged in verbal banter. It usually centered around naming a quote one had heard recently and the other citing its source. Dominic enjoyed the back and forth of it. He loved picking the brilliant mind of his partner. And it was good practice for Amadi’s ever-improving English. “Smart man…”
“Randal! Amadi!” The harsh sound of their boss’s voice interrupted their amusements. “Enough fooling around. I don’t pay you two to play games.”
“We’ll come back to this later.” Dominic whispered to his partner as the two quickly pulled up the files for their newest case.
Amadi chuckled. “So, this rich guy, what’d ya find out ’bout him?” Their new case possessed all the markings of being noteworthy, a nice change from the mundane cases that had passed through the office the last few months. The body of a local wealthy investor, Jayden Dodd, was found a couple days ago on the bank of the Geneva River. Shot once in the forehead, a possible execution. More curious was what was missing, a single tooth ripped from the mouth: the upper left canine.
The Medical Examiner confirmed it as a homicide with Cause of Death being the gunshot, resulting in massive brain trauma and almost immediate death. The briefcase clutched in his hand was broken open and empty, but his stuffed wallet had been left untouched. To add to the mystery, his body wasn’t hidden away in the nearby swamp or concealed at all. It was clearly visible from any number of buildings nearby and any car that happened to drive by on the street. Yet no one reported witnessing anything out of the ordinary.
The body had been lain carefully on his back, hands crossed over his chest. The suit was impeccably straightened, no creases or folds. Other than the one ghastly blemish of a bullet hole in the middle of the forehead, he was ready for a funeral viewing. Pristine.
“Maybe it was a statement by a local gang or organization out to prove something. Certainly an organized killer though. Altering a body afterwards often indicates remorse, but I doubt that’s the case here. More likely, they’re trying to tell a story. Execution killings are usually a sign the attacker craves power. The shooter is getting off on forcing his victims into passive submission.” He frowned. “I mean, who kills the wealthiest guy in this part of the state—a man who would be missed, and quickly—wastes time positioning the body, but doesn’t bother to go after the money in his wallet. He—or they—wanted this to be seen and feared. Fright feeds arrogance and sense of control. A kill like this probably indicates an offender who feels they’ve been wronged and are trying to reclaim the power.
“The tooth is strange, but I’d bet it’s just a trophy. It’s common in cases of victim submission. Symbolizes victory and conquest and demonstrates power over the victim.” He stopped his analysis to take a quick breath. “I admit I’m lost with the empty briefcase though. What were they after? Paperwork, maybe files? Suppose it could have been cash too. But then why pose the body like that? And why not empty the wallet while you’re at it?”
“I got no idea man,” Amadi muttered.
“No opinion at all? That’s not like you. You usually have all kinds of nutty conspiracy theories on tap,” he chuckled.
“Sorry dude.” He shrugged.
“Well, check with those nefarious sources you always seem to know. See if you can get anything out of ‘em.”
“I’m on it.”
Less than 48 hours later, Amadi disappeared. Looking back, that unusual claim of ignorance may have held more meaning than Dominic knew at the time. At first, the assumption was that he’d poked around his criminal sources a little too much and one of them had him offed, a consequence many worried would happen eventually given the nature of the people Amadi knew. When he disappeared, they assumed the worst, but when he resurfaced, whispers of betrayal and deception circulated through the small office. And Dominic was left trying to remember every detail of their final conversations.
Had he been nervous that night? Jittery? Did he answer too slowly? Too quickly? Was there some clue that he missed? These kept Dominic up late, costing him hours of precious sleep. The doubts and anxieties ate at him.
Day after day, for months, he found himself returning to his childhood home on the other side of the city to visit his mother in the hopes that experiencing normalcy—as well as her fabulous home-cooking—would help settle him. There must to be something he overlooked, and whatever it was had returned to haunt him.
Since that first murder of Jayden Dodd, five others had been discovered. All killed with a single bullet, close range, to the middle of the forehead, and placed in the same immaculate position. And all missing a single tooth, ripped from their mouths. The pathology report showed the teeth had been extracted postmortem—after death—but no other signs of trauma were visible.
No fingerprints, fibers, or other trace evidence were ever found. Forensic techs searched the scene for hours, but came away stumped. The attacker was careful. Other than the M.O., no connection in victimology ever surfaced. They appeared to be chosen at random. A wealthy investor on trial for insider trading. A foreign gas station owner. A local television reporter and minor celebrity. A working mother from a non-profit. A sleazy lawyer suspected, but never proved, to be involved in human trafficking. And now this janitor at the local museum. Rich and poor. Local and foreign. Influential people in high positions and weak individuals with zero power or influence. All but one shot in the forehead, and all staged in identical fashion.
And on top of everything, he had to deal with Amadi’s vanishing act. None of it added up, and it made even less sense the more Dominic ruminated. Yet it had become a personal quest, one he was unable to let go, robbing him of sleep and sanity.
He struggled to keep his work up to par, fighting the constant exhaustion that invaded his every move and thought. So far, he was winning—well, surviving—thanks to high, nightly doses of drugs designed to dull his consciousness and knock him out. But it was catching up and he was slowing down; soon it would overtake him. But for now, he poured all spare energy into solving this elusive case.
Needing to bide time until the lab processed the photos, he yawned again. He turned to his computer, shoved the clut
tered papers on his desk to one side, and pulled up the case files once more. But he hadn’t finished the initial page of the report before his fatigue took over yet again. His head drooped to the desk and he nodded off, falling into dreams of chasing a shadow that could never be caught.
***
As Will regained consciousness, he became aware of moonlight streaming through the overhanging leaves of the tree under which he dozed. It was dark outside! He’d slept too long!
He stumbled to his feet, pulled his jacket tight, and started moving again, this time with a limp. He was acutely aware of the sharp throbbing in his leg, a corollary of the gash above his right knee. The bleeding had stopped, but the pain was as fresh as ever. A small laceration was also open above his right eyebrow—he hadn’t noticed that earlier—and a small trickle of blood had dried on his face.
Moving as fast as possible, Will lumbered in the direction of town. He was short on time and backup was probably out looking for him already. Normally, he wouldn’t think to head in the direction of those predators, but time was limited and he couldn’t see an alternative.
As he worked toward Greenlake, Will’s mind raced. The leg wound was his first concern. Unable to move with any speed, he’d never be capable of outrunning a pursuit. But a house in town contained a trusted friend who could patch his leg. The bigger issue was why he ran in the first place: the people hunting him. Will recognized he was up against immense resources and firepower.
Yet, he knew from his collegiate days of hitting the hardwood the dangers of underestimating the power of the mind. He hadn’t earned his playing time based on any innate skill or athleticism. A skinny, un-athletic, white kid would never have seen the court that way. No, his greatest strength was his brain. By understanding his opponent’s thoughts and predicting their next move, he remained one step ahead.
But these men were more complicated than your average ball player. Normal tactics weren’t the best course of action. He’d seen their work before. Two years ago, his previous partner fell into the trap of trusting traditional tactics and learned the consequences the hard way. Caught trying to run for it, he sought to explain himself, but all that earned him was a single bullet in the temple and a brief obituary in the local paper claiming Zachary David Cohen, a 29-year-old businessman, was a victim of accidental suicide.
Attempting to devise an explanation, however legitimate, was no longer an option if he hoped to avoid the same end result as Zach.
He needed an alternative.
Chapter 6
One of the earliest memories Will Ricketts recalled of his father was from when he was seven or eight. He’d tagged along to work one day in the big shiny office building downtown, all the way to the top floor. William Ricketts, Sr. stood at the pinnacle of his career, a testament to hard work, drive, and a little luck. He was the sole owner of one of the biggest investment banking firms in the country.
William Ricketts, Sr. had always been proud to have a son to take over the family business and hoping to spur an early interest in banking, he often took Will to work with him when school was out. Not allowed to sit in on meetings with private clients, Will kept himself busy by talking to Cindy, the nice receptionist, and playing on the floor of their office.
This particular day, he’d brought a few books to read, but soon became bored and began to look for a different activity. He wandered out to the main office to say hi to Cindy, who kept sneaking him candy when they were alone, and to see the wonders of the large outer room with so many people. Much of the massive amount of wealth they earned had been poured back into the company and the firm’s office reflected that. No expense was spared in design and decoration.
As his mother always reminded him when his bedroom crossed the line between living quarters and pig sty, “A successful individual has two things, the support of his friends and family, and a clean environment in which to conduct his work.” As Will ambled down the hallway, he caught sight of his father near the lobby entrance and took off, delighted at finding him. But as he drew near, it became obvious something wasn’t right. His dad looked upset.
Startled, Will slowed to a halt and followed his father’s gaze, spying two unknown men disappear around the corner toward the elevator. Try as he might, Will remembered nothing else from this brief memory: not what the men looked like, not even his father’s stuttered, false explanation of who these men were and what they wanted. The only thing he remembered was how upset his dad had looked.
It was a mixture of fear and anger, mingling with sweat on his brow. William Ricketts, Sr., the mighty head of one of the largest, strongest companies around the globe, was scared by those mystery men. It had shaken Will and that memory stuck with him to this day.
Other than a few brief flashes, Will didn’t have many memories of his father. Always the workaholic, William Sr. spent long hours at the office and every two or three weeks, he spent a weekend traveling to exotic locations to meet with clients. The mighty Ricketts wealth did little to improve familial relationships, despite the tired clichés he spouted about the value of family. And then one day when Will was sixteen, the phone rang at their house and the voice on the other end delivered the bad news.
His father had died of an apparent heart attack. He’d been found sitting on a park bench a quarter mile from his office. His mother, a deeply emotional person, went through a bout with depression and also succumbed to a heart attack a few months later, orphaning Will before he turned seventeen. None of this made any sense to Will at the time, but reflecting on it, he recognized that these memories were where it all began. On the outside, everything appeared pristine, but the inner downward spiral that was Will’s life had begun.
Will had never worked a real job in his life and never wanted for anything, from toys as a child to fancy cars and houses as a man. Everything his father had acquired through a lifetime of hard work had passed to Will. Will didn’t realize at the time, but this included more than vast amounts of money or the company.
Despite his father’s reputation as a self-made, honest, and upright man, he’d developed a few contacts who worked below the radar, people he’d never admit knowing. And it was these relationships, transferred from dad to son, which brought ruin upon the young man’s life. This unwanted “inheritance” stalked him, and as Will continued to traipse through the deep woods toward town, he silently cursed this pain he never asked for.
***
As the door to the back chamber swung open, a slight creek from the un-oiled hinge broke the silence and a man nervously slipped inside the dark room. He approached the desk along the far wall. He’d visited many times, but just now noticed how empty this room truly was.
No curtains nor carpet, only a fancy desk at one end near the fireplace. The desk was accompanied by a large chair facing the other way, and a wooden cabinet that housed a rarely-used television and books that never left their shelves. The lack of furnishing to absorb sound caused every small noise to reverberate and magnify. Every squeak of his shoes echoed throughout, causing the atmosphere to feel even more unnerving. Not letting it break his concentration, he forged ahead.
“He ran, sir. I lost him.”
The figure in the armchair didn’t turn to face him. He muttered something unintelligible under his breath, and then enunciated, “That’s too bad. What are you planning to do about that?”
“I – I don’t know, sir...” the messenger replied. His demeanor showed a sign of cracking in this man’s presence, a faint twitch in his eyebrows, barely discernible to all but the most careful observer. There was something about this dark, dingy room and the man who inhabited it that sent shivers down his spine. If he believed in that sort of thing, he might swear it was indwelt by pure evil.
“Well, you’d better decide quickly. You have one week to find him and get what we need. You know what happened to the last man who failed in one of his collections…”
“Yes sir, I do. Don’t worry. I will finish this.” Sean Lynch feigned confid
ence, but he was slowly losing his hard exterior in the presence of his boss, the one man who had ever been able to strike him with true fear. It was chilling, but except for one lone bead of sweat sliding down his brow and over his cheekbone, he felt pleased to be holding up so well.
“Then go.”
Turning to leave, Lynch stumbled once but recovered and hurried out the door, determined to track down Will Ricketts and relieved to be free from the invisible grasp that surrounded that infernal room. He wasn’t about to let Mr. Ricketts slip through his fingers a second time.
Chapter 7
The old high school’s red brick building cast a long shadow across the weather-beaten parking lot as Dominic pulled his battered Chevy into an empty spot. It was a Saturday afternoon, so almost every spot stood empty. A small construction crew worked on one side of the campus, repairing damage where a few bricks had fallen from the aging main building. The area had been deemed unsafe for students and fenced off, but they were working hard to make the repair.
However, unlike the day before, Dominic did not head for the school building. Instead, he opened the car door with a loud creak, got to his feet and set off in the opposite direction. Across the street lay the left field fence, bordering the school’s baseball field. The outfield blazed a brilliant green, newly installed, hybridized grass, resistant to heat and draught. Its color was a marked contrast to the browning blades that pock-marked the rest of the school grounds. Spring had yet to end, but an unusual dry heat spell had stunted the growth of the normal grass, mimicking its traditional summer manifestation.
Along the first base side of the diamond, behind the dugout and past a single tier of rickety, wooden bleachers, stood a small, netted batting cage. The enclosure normally held host to a handful of teenagers perfecting their swings, especially on a beautiful day like today. However, when the team played an away game on the other side of the county, the facility was abandoned. Save for the one, older man lazily whacking balls delivered from a mechanical pitching machine.
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