The Lost Sister (Blake Wilder FBI Mystery Thriller Book 7)

by Elle Gray

  Before he can say a word, I see the shadow moving among the shadows behind him. Mangold sits perfectly still, a smarmy smile on his face.

  “You do realize when I don’t call in, my sister will release those photos,” I add. “You’d be wise to call off the Đavole, Mr. Mangold.”

  He doesn’t though, and it’s as if I’m watching a shadow come to life bleed out of the darkness of the sculpture park. Dressed in black from head to toe, a balaclava on his head, I can’t get a good sense of the assassin. He’s probably just under six feet tall and lean. He’s wearing a long-sleeved black shirt that hugs the taut, corded muscles in his arms, and a black utility vest over that. He cuts an imposing figure, I’ll give him that.

  “I know how to find your sister, Agent Wilder. In fact, I have a couple of men headed to that safehouse she keeps in Redmond as we speak.”

  I shake my head. “How could you possibly know that?”

  “When you’re in my position, with my wealth and influence, you will find that information can be had with a single word,” he replies. “There is no information that is unavailable to me.”

  “Yeah, I kind of figured that,” I say. “Christmas.”

  I see Mangold’s eyes widen as I speak the code word, the realization of what is happening dawning on him. And all at once, the scene erupts into chaos. The Đavole charges me, a pair of long-bladed daggers suddenly appearing in his hands seemingly out of nowhere. Before he can reach me though, another figure in black—smaller, with a lean, lithe body—sweeps in and takes his legs out from under him. The assassin hits the hard-packed ground with a thud and his teeth clack together audibly.

  Kit rolls away and is on her feet in the blink of an eye. Dressed in her own set of black tactical pants, boots, a long-sleeved black shirt, Kevlar-reinforced tactical vest, and balaclava, she too is impressive to look at. The assassin is on his feet again and faces down my little sister. They slowly began to circle each other, taking their measure, and probing for weaknesses.

  My heart is in my throat for Kit. I’m terrified for her. If the Đavole is half as good as his legend says he is, she might be in real trouble.

  And not because she isn’t a competent fighter. Seeing her in action before proved to me that she is a beast. She’s fast and graceful, can deliver a multitude of blows from a host of different angles, and is an efficient and compact fighter. What she doesn’t have, which falls in his favor, is the length his taller frame gives him. His arms are far longer than hers, meaning she’s got to slip inside his guard if she’s going to do any real damage—a difficult and frightening prospect.

  As they complete another circle, I notice that Kit has a pair of daggers in her hands, mirroring him as they move. All around us, the night is filled with pulsing red and blue lights and shouting voices. Bureau agents clad in windbreakers pour into the garden through the northern entrance, lights atop their weapons sweeping left and right, the bright beams cutting through the darkness.

  As I watch, Bureau agents, as well as a few SPD officers, fall upon men—Mangold’s men—who were hiding in the shadows. I watch as they’re hooked up with plastic cuffs and led out of the park—men I didn’t even know were there. A quick count shows me there were probably a couple dozen heavily armed men hiding amongst the statues—all of whom are now thankfully in the custody of Detective TJ Lee and his officers.

  But where is Mangold?

  I hear Kit cry out and I spin in her direction. She’s locked up with the assassin and there are half a dozen Bureau agents forming a loose ring around Kit and the assassin, not knowing exactly what to do. Kit and the Đavole spar in a flurry of limbs and blades whirling so fast, they’re simply a blur of movement.

  He strikes. She parries. She raises her knee. He dodges and counters with a flash of his blade. Kit dances back just in time, the fabric of her shirt parting to reveal a thin red slice along her skin. Thankfully, it doesn’t look too serious. She lets out a cry and throws a fist. He blocks. She flips her arm around and takes hold of his wrist, pulling his arm down as she raises her dagger in a beeline for his stomach. The Đavole yanks both arms down, breaking her grip and deflecting her blade with his own.

  Feint and parry, dart in, cut, slice, dart out. Both of them are mirroring each other and I have to wonder if they know they’re doing it. It makes sense though—they both trained at the same school with the same instructors. Of course their fighting styles are similar. When he turns, I see that Kit’s scored a couple of slices along his unprotected areas as well and feel a flush of pride to go along with the stark terror I feel for her. As much as I want to tell the agents to shoot him, I know they won’t. With a civilian as close to him as she is, they will not risk her life.

  Technically, the agents should subdue both of them and sort it out after. But I can’t blame them for standing there watching. As I look around, I see awe on the faces of everybody in the gathering crowd. It’s not often you actually see people who bring a knife to a gunfight. More than that though, watching two highly trained masters with a blade going at it is an amazing thing to witness. It’s like a beautifully choreographed dance between the two combatants as they spin, twirl, slash, and thrust. It really is something to see.

  Movement in the corner of my eye draws my attention and I see Mangold slipping among the statues, creeping his way toward the southern entrance. With all the action at the northern door, the southern path is clear, so the worm known as Willem Mangold is trying to slither his way to freedom. Yeah, not on my watch.

  I push my way through the thickening crowd around the two combatants, a buzz of excited conversation hanging over the growing crowd. I’m sure some of them are taking bets. But my attention is solely where it needs to be. On Willem Mangold. I sprint after him, determined that he’s not going to get away this time. I shadow him from a distance, not wanting to spook him just yet. I’m not sure if he’s armed and I don’t want anybody to get hurt.

  I keep to the shadows and flitting from sculpture to sculpture, running almost parallel with him. And when he gets to the open path that leads to the southern gate, he makes a break for it. I break cover and sprint after him. He must have heard me coming because as I close the distance, he wheels around. I only catch a glimpse of the gun in his hand. Acting on instinct, I throw myself to the side as the thunderous explosion rings in my ears.

  A bright light of pain scores my side along my rib cage. I grunt and bear the pain. Mangold has already turned and continued bolting for the door. The gunshot must have drawn the attention of the crowd of agents watching my sister battle the Devil, because I hear shouts of alarm and the thunderous stampede of footsteps behind me. I grit my teeth and press on, summoning every ounce of energy in my body for the final sprint.

  For an older man, Mangold is surprisingly spry—and fast. But he is not going to outrun me. And the agents closing in from behind are not going to overtake me. Mangold is mine. The slice of pain along my ribs is throbbing. I feel the blood, warm and thick, spilling down my side, but I ignore it as best as I can and push on. I barrel forward, closing the distance between me and Mangold.

  Ten yards.

  I can hear his breathing. It’s labored and ragged—and matches mine.

  Five yards.

  My legs and lungs are burning. I’m silently cursing myself for sitting at home drinking wine instead of staying in top physical condition.

  Two yards.

  He must realize it’s over and I’m going to catch him, because he stops and pivots, bringing his gun hand to bear. I turn on whatever’s left of my afterburners, lower my shoulder, and drive straight through him. As I connect with his body and feel it give way before me, Mangold buckles. And as I’m driving him to the ground, I hear his gun go off again, though I’m sure it’s a harmless shot into the air. A moment later, I hear the hard metallic thud of his weapon hitting the concrete path and know he’s defenseless now.

  Mangold grunts heavily as we hit the ground, my shoulder driving hard into his solar plexus. I
hear the wind leave his lungs in a loud, “oomph,” and he lays where he is, stunned and probably hurting. Behind me, I hear a lot of “oohs’ and “aahs” as well as laughter that’s bordering on hysterical.

  I have no idea what’s so funny but I literally could not care less. I have the man who ordered the murders of my parents. Who abducted my sister and groomed her to be a hired killer. The rage flows through me, the darkness filling my veins.

  I’m straddling Mangold’s chest, staring down into his wide-open eyes. He looks stunned and is gasping, fighting for every breath. I’m suddenly aware of the weight of the weapon on my belt. The urge floods me to pull it and put a bullet through his face. With every second that passes, the urge grows stronger. It’s rapidly approaching the point where I don’t think I’ll be able to resist. My weapon is singing a siren song and I’m feeling powerless to ignore it.

  I aim my gun straight for his head and cock it. I’m ready to end this.

  For the eight hundred people he callously slaughtered—and who knows how many untold more.

  For the three Supreme Court Justices he murdered to satiate his own greed.

  For Gina Aoki and Mr. Corden, who were killed to stop me from finding out the truth.

  For Mark Walton, who I believe really did love me.

  For my parents.

  But then I feel a hand fall on my shoulder, and when I look up, I see my little sister looking back at me. She’s taken a few licks. Her eye is black and she’s got a shallow slice along her cheek. The blood is spilling down her face from the wound, but she barely seems to notice it. She’s got a pair of slices, one on each arm, and one along her ribs—in roughly the same area Mangold’s bullet grazed mine.

  Kit is looking at me as if she’s reading my mind. As if she can see the primal desires coursing through me. As if she can see the need for vengeance blossoming in my heart. Her hand is on my shoulder and she gives it a gentle squeeze.

  “Don’t do it, Blake. You got him. You win,” she says softly. “Don’t become like me.”

  Her words hit me hard and make me recoil. I look at Kit and shake my head. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

  “You know what I mean. Don’t let the monster out, Blake,” she presses. “If you do, you’ll never get it back in the cage.”

  I look down at Mangold and he must see it in my face. He must know I’m deciding whether he’s going to live or die in this moment, because he looks absolutely terrified. Slowly, I get to my feet and step away. Commander Morgan steps in and secures Mangold with plastic cuffs, then hauls him to his feet.

  “Get him out of here,” Morgan orders a couple of the agents.

  I watch as they march Mangold away, slowly coming back to myself as the black rage inside of me ebbs. Kit gives me a smile and an approving nod. Morgan claps me on the back and laughs, his voice a deep, rich baritone.

  “That was a hell of a form tackle there, SSA Wilder,” he says. “Textbook.”

  I laugh and feel my cheeks flare with warmth. “Thanks, Commander.”

  “If you ever want to put those tackling skills to use, come out and join our football team,” he adds with a wide smile. “You’re a way bigger hitter than half the team.”

  He walks off laughing and I notice most of the other agents are giving me a thumbs-up as they head back to the staging area, leaving Kit and me standing there alone. I try gathering my thoughts and calm myself down. I came close to crossing that line. Really close. But I didn’t. It’s something I will have to tell myself over and over again.

  “I know,” Kit says, the melancholy on her face undoubtedly matching my own. “But you did it, Blake. It’s over.”

  “We did it,” I correct her. “Are you all right?”

  She nods. “I’ve taken worse wounds sparring.”

  I laugh softly. “What happened up there?”

  “Turns out even the world’s best assassin isn’t much against a dozen armed men. Somebody got tired of waiting for the fight to end and stepped in,” she shrugs. “Shot him in the chest with a beanbag.”

  I stare at her for a moment, waiting for the punchline. But I see she’s serious and can’t help but burst into laughter. She frowns for a moment, obviously disappointed that she didn’t get to finish the fight, but she eventually joins me in laughter. Eventually, it dissipates, and we’re left watching the mop-up of the scene near the north entrance. Considering the fact that we swept up a whole haul of Mangold’s guys, and one of the preeminent assassins on this planet, it’s a pretty good night. I feel good about it. But there’s one thing that makes it all the sweeter.

  “We finally did it, Kit,” I smile. “We finally got the guy who ordered the murder of our folks.”

  She cocks her head and looks at me. “What do you mean?”

  “Mangold,” I say. “He ordered our parents’ murder.”

  Kit shook her head. “No, he didn’t,” she tells me. “He did a lot of horrible things, but he actually had nothing to do with the death of our folks. That guy is still out there.”

  A yawning chasm opens in the pit of my stomach as I look at my sister, not wanting to believe what she’s saying. I taste the bile in the back of my throat and feel my legs growing week. I force myself to remain standing and push down the nausea.

  He’s still out there. I can’t believe it.

  Thirty-One

  Office of Senator Daniel Graham, Russell Senate Office Building; Washington DC

  A week after we arrested Mangold, the rest of the dominoes started to fall. The fallout from the scandal has been vast and all-encompassing. To date, more than one hundred and thirty people have been arrested as part of the Thirteen. Lawyers, doctors, Congressmen, judges, titans of industry, and of course, US Senators, have all been swept up in the ever-expanding probe that’s based on the information Kit put together.

  The effect of this scandal has been seismic. Nothing short of biblical. This very minute, what’s left of the House of Representatives is meeting to consider articles of impeachment of Justices Witkowski, Havers, and Pearce. It’s more a formality at this point, since it was proven all three of them were intimately involved with the inner workings of the Thirteen. They were all part of it, planted on the Court specifically to vote on key cases the way the Thirteen’s leadership told them to.

  And the bottom line of this entire conspiracy was exactly what Gina Aoki said it was all about—money. Money and power. And being able to influence the Court ensured they would have plenty of both. It infuriates me that these men who already each had more money than God felt like they needed to murder and manipulate from the shadows just to get a tiny taste more. But that’s greed for you.

  And now, what’s left of the House is going to impeach them and what’s left of the Senate will vote to convict and remove them. It’s the most bipartisan thing I’ve seen Congress do in a long, long time.

  “So, how’d you convince Rosie to let you do this?” Astra asks.

  “I’m a very persuasive individual,” I reply. “Though to be honest, I didn’t have to try very hard. Rosie was glad to let me handle this one.”

  Astra laughs and walks down the corridor with me, half a dozen agents in FBI windbreakers at our backs. After spending a few days lounging on a beach, Astra came back to Seattle specifically because she wanted to be on hand for this—fractured arm in a sling and all.

  “I’m glad she left this mess for you to clean up, because I wasn’t going to miss this for the world,” she says.

  “There’s nobody I’d rather have by my side to do this than you.”

  As we march down the hall like an invading army, the crowd in the corridor parts like the Red Sea. Staffers, visitors, and other Senators watch us walk by with expressions of trepidation mixed with relief on their faces. I swear I hear a few of them muttering words of thanks that we aren’t there for them.

  We get off the elevator on the second floor and proceed down the corridor, the arrest warrant in my pocket feeling like it’s growing warmer the clos
er we get to his office. I turn to Astra and flash her a grin.

  “Did you call your friend?” I ask.

  She nodded. “Are you kidding? Of course I did,” she replies.

  “Excellent.”

  We barge through the doors of Senator Graham’s office dramatically, startling the receptionist and the half dozen people waiting in the outer chamber. His receptionist, a tall, willowy blonde, jumps in our way and holds her hands out.

  “Senator Graham is in a meeting,” she barks. “You cannot go in there.”

  I look at her hands then into her eyes. “Get out of our way right now or I’ll arrest you for obstruction of justice,” I demand, my voice low. “Do you understand?”

  “But—”

  “I said now.”

  The blonde melts away, slipping behind her desk, and I can see by the look on her face she’s already putting together a list of potential employers. We push through the doors into Graham’s inner office and find that he is indeed in a meeting. If you call a young, twenty-something brunette wearing next to nothing sitting on his lap a meeting. He looks at us like a deer frozen in the headlights. His mouth is opening and closing in a passable imitation of a fish out of water. The brunette squeaks and jumps off his lap.

  We give her a minute to get dressed and get out. By the time she’s out the door, a little disheveled but none the worse for wear, Graham seems to have gotten his mojo back. He gets to his feet, his face dark with rage. His eyes bore into mine.

  “What is the meaning of this, Agent Wilder?” he growls. “You have no right—”

  He bites off his words as the sound of all of us snickering and laughing reaches his ears. Astra is outright howling, and the agents behind us can’t hold their snorts in but are trying like the devil to do so.

  “Umm, Senator Graham?” I manage to say through chuckles. “You have a little problem.”