by Mary Stone
Not the type of home that welcomed and provided shelter, but the type of home where a piece of her had been broken and left behind. The type of home that had changed everything. Almost like it was a monument or a shrine, a revered place where only a select few could set foot.
But it wasn’t a privilege to go to this home. It was an obligation, a reminder, and a testament to her failure.
Sun knew she was in a dream, but no matter the effort she put into waking herself, she always witnessed the first part of the exchange.
The mannequins in the windows of the boutique clothing store were dressed in the newest spring styles, and on a normal day, Sun might have paused to consider the looks.
Tonight was far from normal, however, and her attention was fixed on the line of people seated on the polished floor in front of the shop. Their hands had been bound behind their backs, and the same hallowed look darkened each of their faces.
Even from the distance where she’d crouched behind the ceramic pot of a decorative tree, she could see the malevolence in the eyes of the only two people who stood upright.
Each was clad in a Kevlar vest, a dated camouflage jacket, and matching cargo pants. But amidst the unremarkable shades of olive drab, a red armband stood out in stark contrast. In the center of the band was the SS insignia used by Nazi officers during World War II.
Bobby Weyrick was hunched down behind another tree on the opposite side of the wide hall, an M4 Carbine tucked tight against his shoulder.
When his eyes snapped up to hers, she knew they were out of time.
The corridor in which they hid sloped downward from the two gunmen and their hostages, but at any other angle, there hadn’t been adequate cover to conceal their movements. If they had come in through the boutique, they would have been spotted almost immediately.
Maybe, if the damn mall had been two stories, Sun could have gone to the second floor with a couple members of the SWAT team to get a clean shot at one of the two men.
But she knew that Tyler Haldane and Kent Strickland had meticulously planned their offensive. They chose the front of the boutique because it bordered a security station that sported footage from each camera throughout the entire premises, and the store itself was open and had no alcoves or barriers behind which a law enforcement agent could hide.
They were at a tactical disadvantage in more than one way. Not only were they downhill from the hostages and the captors, but there was no way for them to advance for a clearer shot without making themselves an easy target. And as the two gunmen strode back and forth in front of the captives, they needed a clearer shot. If the angle was off, if they missed, the bullet was likely to hit a civilian.
But they were out of time.
The crack of a gunshot ripped through the uneasy quiet of the building like a machete through jungle foliage. A handful of terrified cries followed, and when Sun dared a glance past her cover, another shot rang out.
The newest victim had knelt, and the harsh fluorescence caught the crimson spatter that exploded from the side of her head.
Sun felt her stomach lurch at the sight of the blood, but the typical anxious reaction was overruled by the adrenaline that pumped through her body with every rapid beat of her heart.
It wasn’t the sight of the blood that unnerved her when she looked out onto the scene. It was the woman’s eyes.
Pale blue or gray, Sun couldn’t tell from the distance. As her body slumped to the floor, Sun could see the life vanish from her features. The abject terror, the sadness, the apprehension, it all fell away, and what was left was…nothing.
“That was two!” one of the two gunmen called. “And if we go another sixty seconds without you giving us what we want, then two more are going to die! And two more after that!”
Now, Sun knew the voice belonged to Tyler Haldane, but at the time, she hadn’t known which one of them had spoken.
Neither the local PD nor the FBI response teams had even entertained the idea of caving in to the shooters’ demands.
They wanted to be broadcasted live by every major news network in the country, supposedly so they could rally like-minded men to their cause. Before the tech team had been able to loop all the security cameras, the shooters had rambled off a list of supposed justifications for their crusade against modern society.
Among the top of their list of grievances was technology, and Bobby Weyrick had made more than one comment about the Unabomber.
Sure enough, the two assailants had cited Ted Kaczynski as a source of inspiration. But then, what had taken Sun aback was the next man to whom they paid homage.
The Preacher.
Sun knew the man’s real name, but neither of the shooters had. And none of them knew that Douglas Kilroy would die before the night was over.
“We’re running out of time,” a tinny voice in her earpiece advised. “It’s pretty obvious that they weren’t lying. With those two, the body count is up to five.”
“If we go in there with our guns blazing, five is going to look like nothing,” Bobby put in, his tone hushed. “We need precision.”
“Which is why you two are in there,” the voice, Max Osbourne’s voice, replied.
Two more shots rang out after Max’s statement, but in the dream, the sounds were always muffled.
“Okay,” she said, fervently glancing over to Bobby. “Weyrick, can you lay down some covering fire for me? Aim high, but low enough that they’ll realize they need to try to duck and cover.”
He nodded. “The hostages are sitting, so that gives us a little bit of leeway, even if they’ve got the higher ground.” She spotted a flicker of movement as the agent readjusted his rifle.
“I have to make a headshot,” Sun advised. The volume with which she spoke was barely a whisper. She was surprised Bobby could hear her at all.
“You’re cleared for it, agents,” Max put in. “Shoot to kill.”
She’d never heard those words used during the line of duty until that night.
The minutes that followed were a blur, and until she awoke, she could never recall what exactly had transpired.
Next thing she knew, she was out from behind the potted tree as she lined up the sights of her handgun with Kent Strickland’s head. The man was midway through raising his rifle when she squeezed the trigger, and as soon as his eyelids drooped, she thought for sure he was dead.
Only in the dream, the series of events never quite played out that way, and tonight was no exception.
Despite the care with which she’d targeted the center of Strickland’s head, the projectile whipped harmlessly past the side of his face. Sometimes, even after crimson blossomed from beside his temple, he would continue to raise the military-grade rifle to take his shot.
Mercifully, every time he fired the high-powered weapon, she jerked awake.
As Sun sat bolt upright in her bed, her breathing came in short, labored gasps, and the night air was cool against the sheen of sweat on her forehead. Grasping at the site of the wound she’d sustained from Tyler Haldane’s gun, she pulled her knees to her chest and took in as deep a breath as she could manage.
She had heard of soldiers, cops, or firefighters who had recurring nightmares, but every man or woman’s recollection varied. Some relived the entire event in vivid detail, some only relived portions, and still others, like Sun, experienced a slightly different series of events each time.
The start was always the same: the scent of fried food and baking cookies from the food court, and then the execution of the woman Sun later learned was a high school chemistry teacher.
No matter what else occurred, even if the dream took a different turn entirely, she always saw the woman’s face as the bullet from Tyler Haldane’s weapon—the same weapon he had used to shoot Sun—blew through her head.
On some nights, she woke up as soon as the woman hit the ground, but on most, she lived through some bizarre rendition of the rest of the event.
Max hadn’t been in Danville that night, but
she so often heard him speak in the dream that she had to double-check to make sure she hadn’t lost her grip on reality. On the other side of the hall, a couple black-clad SWAT members had been crouched.
Bobby Weyrick had been at her side, and when he raised his rifle to fire the first few rounds into the distance, a chunk of the ceramic pot had been ripped away by the abrupt return fire from Kent Strickland.
He had been forced to duck back down to cover, and as soon as he did, two more hostages were killed. Haldane and Strickland chided the attempt at a surprise offensive, but Bobby hadn’t waited to hear the spiel before he’d raised his weapon and fired again.
Both gunmen had dropped to their knees to make themselves smaller targets and to put the line of hostages at their backs.
At the sight, Sun had been overcome with a cold resolve, the likes of which she wasn’t sure she ever wanted to feel again. In that moment, she had been ready to die. If it meant the lives of the men and women at Haldane and Strickland’s mercy would be spared, then she would die.
She had slung the more powerful M4 over her shoulder and retrieved her service weapon. As long as she didn’t miss her target, the nine-mil had a far lower chance of piercing through to wound a civilian.
Sun never missed.
The row of medals in her house was proof of that.
As soon as Kent Strickland had slumped to the polished floor, a searing pain ripped through her shoulder. Weyrick had risen to his full height to fire two shots into the center of Haldane’s vest. The Kevlar ensured the wounds were not fatal, but the force had been enough to knock Haldane off-balance.
In a blur of movement, a middle-aged man from the row of hostages had leapt up from the floor to tackle Haldane to the ground. Haldane’s head bounced off the tile with a sickening crack, and just like that, the fight was over. Thirteen were dead, two critically injured, and seven more wounded.
It could have been worse.
It also could have been better.
Tightening her grip on her shoulder, Sun forced herself to focus on the feeling of the plush mattress, on the light scent of pineapple from the candle warmer on the nightstand, on the slats of moonlight that pierced through the blinds.
The technique was referred to as grounding, and she had learned it not from the FBI mandated counselor, but from Bobby Weyrick.
To this day, he was the only other person who knew about the lingering hardships she still faced. And even though the man had seen more than his share of combat during his tours of duty in the military, she knew the toll that night had taken on him as well.
But in the midst of the pervasive feelings of isolation, she and the agent from the night shift had formed a bond.
As she glanced to the glowing blue numbers of the alarm clock, she reached for her smartphone. At half-past two in the morning, Bobby would still be at the FBI office. He hated the night shift, but he stuck to the routine in a half-hearted attempt to keep his sinking marriage afloat.
For almost a year, he’d been convinced that his wife was having an affair, but he didn’t have the heart to invade her privacy to confirm the suspicion.
Had another nightmare, she typed. Doubt I’ll be going back to sleep any time soon.
His response was almost immediate. I’m sorry. That sucks. I’m about to fall asleep at my desk—wish we could swap places.
Me too. Want to take a break from work and stop over? I can make some coffee for you so you don’t have to drink the poison from the breakroom.
Yes. Please. You are a lifesaver!!! The exclamation was followed by a heart emoji and a happy cat emoji.
In spite of herself, Sun chuckled.
For now, at least, their secret was safe.
20
Winter could sympathize with Noah’s assessment that he felt more like an employee in a call center than a federal agent. Two days after Ben Ormund’s murder, almost all she had done was call around to check alibis.
Their list of suspects wasn’t so much a list of suspects as it was a list of people who matched the necessary skillset to shoot and kill Tyler Haldane from almost a mile away. Though casting a wide net was often useful to revitalize a case and keep it from becoming cold, a wide net also meant a hell of a lot of tedious work.
Twice, including earlier that morning, Winter and Noah had met with ADD Ramirez and Max Osbourne to answer a handful of questions about Sun Ming.
Has she been jumpy or especially irritable lately? No.
Has she taken a major interest in any one part of the case, like the murder weapon? No.
Have there been periods of time where her absence has seemed unnecessary or suspicious? No.
Even though she hadn’t provided any incriminating information about Sun’s activities, Winter still felt like a narc.
And for what? To find whoever had killed Ben Ormund?
The crestfallen look in Linda Cahill’s pale eyes as she explained the reason she hadn’t reported Ormund to the police was still ingrained on Winter’s mind.
As far as she could tell, Linda Cahill was a decent person, a good mother, and a tough woman. The fact that she hadn’t been able to seek protection from the agency whose sole purpose was to protect and serve had struck a chord for Winter and, as best as she could tell, for Noah.
They had dug around in Ormund’s records some more, and they learned he had been in the same fraternity as a state supreme court judge, as well as a couple of tenured criminal attorneys.
Just like that, the mystery of how Ormund managed to get away with so many despicable acts had been solved.
If the press hadn’t been breathing down the bureau’s neck, Winter would have dug in deeper to the histories of Ormund’s judge and lawyer friends.
She would have dredged up anything and everything she could use to pin them with an obstruction charge for sweeping away Linda Cahill’s requests for a restraining order. Even if she couldn’t charge them, she would make the acts so well-known that the men’s jobs would be jeopardized.
Instead, she jotted their names and pertinent information down in a notepad and stowed it away in her desk. Once the case was behind them, she would follow-up on the three men. The publicity from Ormund’s murder and the speculation that the killer was a vigilante would be more than enough leverage to draw their transgressions out into the light.
Between the unease from her task to effectively spy on Sun Ming to the irritability that bubbled into her thoughts whenever she so much as glanced at Ben Ormund’s name, the air in the Violent Crimes area of the building was all but suffocating.
It was a quarter after ten, but she felt like she’d been seated at her desk for at least twelve hours.
Whether due to the visit with Linda Cahill or another unknown reason, Noah’s demeanor had returned to just a step away from brooding. Even outside the office, a little storm cloud had followed him around for the past couple days.
From the corner of her eye, she spotted a flash as the smartphone lit up to notify her of a new text message. She snatched up the device to unlock the screen as soon as she saw Autumn’s name. At the hurried movement, she realized how desperate she was for a distraction.
All the paperwork went through! It’s official. I get to start working tomorrow!
The announcement was a much-needed reprieve from the aggravating tedium of the day so far. Plus, now Winter had an excuse to leave the office for a long lunch.
That’s great news! Let’s get lunch to celebrate. I really need to get out of here right now. I feel like I’m in a fishbowl or something.
Yikes, Autumn replied. Yeah, you definitely need to get out of there, then. Is Noah still being weird, or will he be there too?
Winter couldn’t help the sigh that slipped from her lips. He’s being weird, but he’ll still be there. I’ll drag him if necessary.
Pocketing her phone, she pushed herself away from the cubicle and glanced up and down the short row. There was no one, and as she stood to peer over the partition that separated her row from th
e next over, Noah’s desk was empty.
Yeah, I definitely feel like I work in a call center right now.
She had been employed by a small center for a few months during college, and the experience had been just short of soul crushing.
Before she could grab her phone to send Noah a text message to find out where in the hell he was, the first twinge of pain pulsed through her head.
Shit. It wasn’t just a headache—the pain was too sharp for a regular headache.
Gritting her teeth, she spun around on her heel and set off for the bathroom at as rapid a pace as she could manage without drawing attention to herself.
Her vision swam, but she managed to lock the stall door before she dropped down to sit on the cold tile floor. After gathering a ball of tissue, she closed her eyes and gave in to the darkness.
The crackle of burning wood drew Winter’s attention to the flames of a tall bonfire as they clawed their way up into the night sky. Pale moonlight glinted off a tarnished metal mug as a pair of women toasted one another.
Right away, Winter knew she was far from the modern world, and she was far from North America.
They were outside, and beyond the orange glow of the fire, she saw a shadowy line of trees. Near the blaze, a handful of people danced to the beat of a drum and the melodic sound of a woman’s voice.
To avoid burning the lush grass, a circle of stones and earth had been erected around the bonfire. The barrier came up to Winter’s waist, and she figured the pit was used regularly.
She was at a festival, and based on the attire of the men and women who milled about, she was in Ancient Greece. As she glanced over her shoulder, she spotted the gate of the community to which the festival’s attendees belonged.
In the center of an arch above the open doors, a familiar symbol was carved into the rich wood—the same symbol that adorned the pair of shields that rested on the stones around the fire.
The crescent-shaped bow and accompanying arrow were not only on the two shields and the arch, but it was featured prominently on rest of the décor, including the attendees’ clothes.