by T. K. Leigh
Grabbing her cell phone, Olivia illuminated the dark stairwell in front of her and climbed down the winding, narrow stairs. When she reached the bottom, a chill set in. Cobwebs hung from the corners of the old basement. She shined her twenty-first century flashlight around the room, searching for the wooden door. She didn’t know why the tunnel hadn’t been filled in over the years, but Olivia was thankful it hadn’t. If it had, she didn’t know what she would do. This was the only place she could think of on such short notice. If someone had figured out her involvement, nothing about visiting two good friends would raise any red flags.
The door hinges screamed through the silent house as she pulled it open and shined her light into the empty tunnel that probably hadn’t been used in ages…until recently. With each step she took, the more her stomach churned. She didn’t know why she was so nervous. She knew everything would be okay, but it didn’t help settle her unease. Nothing would until she saw with her own two eyes that Mischa’s legacy was still alive and well.
Reaching the end of the tunnel, a dim light illuminated a set of stairs. Olivia climbed them and opened a heavy door, emerging into the basement of the guest house. She found a staircase leading to the main floor and climbed it, stopping outside a closed door. Drawing in a long breath, she raised her hand and knocked on it in a specific pattern. Short. Short. Long. Long. Short.
When the door opened, she breathed a sigh of relief.
Chapter Twenty-Six
December 20
8:30 AM
“ALL CLEAR,” A MAN clad in a green bomb suit from head to toe declared, turning away from the front steps of a two-story white house with black shutters. The roof was in a serious state of disrepair, and Alexander didn’t think the siding of the house had ever been pressure-washed.
He looked at Moretti, who stood to his left, and their eyes met. When Alexander miraculously showed up at the house, Moretti had made it readily apparent he was annoyed with his presence. Alexander couldn’t just sit by and do nothing. Sure, Moretti had one of the highest solve rates in the bureau, but what if this was the one case he’d never be able to get to the bottom of? What if he missed something? Alexander needed to be here to make sure that didn’t happen.
Exhaling in obvious annoyance, Moretti handed Alexander a set of shoe covers and gloves. “Fine, but you’d better not touch anything,” he hissed. “I mean it. If you touch so much as a particle of dust—”
“I know. I know,” Alexander cut him off. “It could compromise the integrity and admissibility of the evidence. This isn’t my first rodeo. I want this fucker to burn for what he’s done, so the absolute last thing I intend to do is give him a ‘get out of jail free’ card.”
He pushed past him and toward the front steps of the house, Moretti catching up to him with ease. As they approached the front door, one of the bomb squad technicians stopped them.
“Agent Moretti,” he began.
“Yes?”
“I just wanted to let you know that, although the thermal cam couldn’t pick up on any bodies, our robot found one inside.”
“What?” Alexander’s heart fell to his stomach. His legs were on autopilot as he darted into the house, frantically scanning each room, unsure of what he would find. He feared the worst. That he would stumble on a scene no parent should ever have to.
As he ran from one room to the next, all he could think was he should have been more watchful. More caring. More involved. If he had, maybe this never would have happened.
He tore down a short hallway, past a bathroom that had seen better days, and paused briefly outside a door that was ajar. Entering the room, he looked around, falling to his knees as he stared at a body slumped over a desk. He had never been so relieved, yet so distraught at the same time. Heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor, coming to a stop behind him.
Hanging his head, Alexander slowly stood and walked to the desk, careful not to touch the body. Moretti was probably anxious to get forensics in to figure out what happened, but Alexander needed this. He needed to look into those eyes.
Squatting beside the desk, he tilted his head, staring directly at the bastard’s face. He had a darker complexion than Alexander had pictured, and it was evident he was of Middle Eastern descent. His eyes were blank, having long blinked their last. The through-and-through bullet wound in the center of his head confirmed that.
Straightening, Alexander stepped to the side, surveying the back of his head.
“Entry point?” Moretti asked, standing next to him.
“That’s my guess. Probably never even saw it coming.”
“Fucking Christ,” he breathed, running his hand over his face.
Alexander felt his frustration. He didn’t know how much more of this he could go through before he lost it. Every time they thought they were getting closer to finding Melanie, something would happen to bring them right back to square one.
Glancing out the window to see small snowflakes beginning to fall from the sky, dread flowed through his bones. The Nor’easter was on their doorstep, but there was no telling where Melanie was or whether she had ever actually been here.
“I want every inch of this place searched.” Moretti tore his attention away from the corpse, issuing orders to his team of agents and crime scene technicians, all of them staring. “Document everything. Find out how this happened and where the hell the girl is!” His face reddened with each word he spoke. “Now!” he bellowed, the team jumping into action.
A chill set in when Alexander looked at Maleek’s body once more, analyzing his face. He seemed familiar, and it wasn’t just because of the sketch that had gone out. There was something else. He studied his features inch by inch, searching his brain for a memory he feared wouldn’t come. Frustration sprouted into anger. He had been trained to memorize impossibly long combinations of numbers and letters. He could recognize someone he had seen driving alongside him during his morning commute. He could recall exactly what he was wearing when Olivia went into labor. But when it mattered, when he needed to remember something that could bring his little girl back home, he drew a blank.
He ran his hand through his hair, tugging at it, letting out a defeated groan.
“What is it?” Moretti asked, eyeing him.
“I feel like I should know this guy.”
He narrowed his gaze. “Why’s that?”
“I don’t know. He looks familiar, and it’s not because of the sketch.” Alexander kept staring at Maleek, wracking his brain. He did everything he could to force a forgotten memory to return. He mentally went back in time, thinking perhaps this man was connected to Mischa. Did he work for her organization? He hadn’t yet told Moretti his theory that Mischa’s death was connected to Melanie’s disappearance. The only people who knew were Simpson and Martin. Maybe they weren’t connected. Maybe Alexander was just a desperate man at the end of his rope, grasping at straws.
“Agent Moretti,” a young blonde called, out of breath as she ran toward them.
“What is it?” he replied, turning his attention away from Alexander.
She stopped in her tracks, swallowing hard when she saw Maleek’s pale, cold body. It was apparent she hadn’t been to many homicides.
“Agent Gibson asked me to come get you. He needs you upstairs.”
“Did he find something?”
“I believe so.”
“Thank you, Agent…” Moretti raised his eyebrows.
“Stocker, sir.”
“Agent Stocker, please go across the street to the convenience store and ask if the clerk has seen anything suspicious over the past twenty-four hours. See if he or she remembers seeing any cars parked along the street or in the driveway, anyone coming or going from the house.”
She smiled in excitement. Alexander had the feeling she hadn’t been out of the academy for too long. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” She practically ran down the hall and out of the house.
Moretti headed toward the living room, Alexander following. “Get blo
od spatter in there,” he ordered another agent, gesturing with his head toward the room they had just come from. “I want to know exactly where the shooter stood when he fired the weapon. I want to know what kind of bullet was used and the gun that shot it. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” a man clad in a white jumpsuit answered as Moretti and Alexander headed up a narrow staircase leading to the second floor. More agents filled each room, combing through every nook and cranny for anything that could put the puzzle together.
“Moretti!” Agent Gibson called out from the end of the hallway. “In here.”
They followed the sound of his voice, curious as to what was so urgent, but neither could have expected to stumble on what awaited them.
Crossing the threshold into a square ten-foot by ten-foot room, Alexander tried to wrap his head around what he was staring at.
A desk sat in the center facing away from the door. The windows were boarded up with plywood, and there was a musty smell, probably from the lack of air and sunshine for who knows how long. Photos, newspaper articles, and handwritten notes covered the walls from floor-to-ceiling. None of it made sense until Alexander turned around and stared at the wall adjacent to the door. As his eyes fell on four rows of black-and-white passport photos, his mouth fell open.
He approached the wall, running his fingers across every photo. A name, along with a list of various offenses, was scrawled below each one — adultery, sexual promiscuity, refusal of arranged marriage, seeking divorce. Each woman had been accused of something different, but the intended end result was clear, just as it was the day Landon had convinced Alexander to finally do something good with the massive fortune the security company made. Every single one of these women was Afghani…except one.
Alexander continued along the wall, stopping in front of a black-and-white photo, her face obscured with a large red X. She was so vivid, so full of life, even in the two-dimensional photograph. It was a stark contrast to the last time he had seen her, bruised and bloody, stuffed into a metal container.
Agent Moretti approached, staring at the name below the photo. “Mischa Tate,” he read. “Is this the same—”
“Yes,” Alexander cut him off, swallowing hard. His theory that Mischa’s murder could be connected to Melanie’s disappearance was no longer just a theory. The two events were part of something bigger. “It is.”
“I see,” Moretti mused, staring straight ahead. “And the rest of these women?”
Alexander shook his head. “Some of their faces look familiar, I think.” He scanned the rows of photos, all of them looking nearly identical. Did he really know any of them, or did he just think he did? He couldn’t be sure.
“From where?”
“Afghanistan. Some of these women…” He ran his hand over the wall. “I won’t know for certain until I can cross-reference my files, but I think they went missing from the women’s shelter my company ran there.”
Moretti grabbed his notepad from his coat pocket and flipped through the pages. “The shelter Ms. Tate’s brother, Landon, was in charge of? The one destroyed by an explosion most likely to cover up his abduction by the Islamic Union?”
Alexander nodded, not even bothering to ask Moretti how he knew so much. Of course he knew all about Landon’s death. He knew everything.
“And Ms. Tate’s connection to all these women?” Moretti raised his eyebrows.
Staring at the photos, Alexander let out a heavy sigh. “Apart from being the sister of the man running the shelter where these women lived, none that I’m aware of.”
Maybe Moretti was right. Maybe Alexander was too invested. Maybe he needed the agent’s detached brain to put the pieces together because Alexander had come up empty. The girls. Landon. Melanie. Mischa. What was going on?
He stopped abruptly as his eyes fell on one of the names. He glanced at the photo above, his breath hitching. He’d recognize that face in his sleep. It was something one didn’t forget. Her scars had faded and the bruising and swelling had diminished, but those haunting eyes would stay with him forever. The last time he saw them, they pleaded with him to put an end to her suffering, as well as the suffering of all other women in her position. Now they looked at him, mocking, telling him it wasn’t enough, that he should have done more.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Fourteen Months Ago
ALEXANDER STEPPED OUT OF the SUV and onto the sidewalk in front of his office building, a crisp breeze blowing through the city on the sunny October day. Entering the lobby, he nodded a greeting to Jerry, one of his security guards. He was already looking forward to the end of the day when he would get on a plane and take his daughter to Disneyland for the first time.
He’d left Olivia and Melanie in bed as he got ready to head into the office, both of them watching The Little Mermaid for the hundredth time. Melanie was fascinated with the movie and kept asking if she would ever be able to turn into a mermaid. Not wanting to crush her hopes and dreams, he did what any good parent would. He lied.
“Melanie, sweetie, you can be anything you want,” he had told her. He truly believed that if she wanted to be a mermaid, in her mind, she would be. A child’s imagination was a gift that shouldn’t be broken with the dark cruelty of the real world.
Thinking of how blessed he was, Alexander smiled to himself the entire way up to the twenty-ninth floor, still in his own little dream world as he headed down the corridor and entered his office.
“A bit of a late start today, don’t ya think?” a familiar voice said, snapping him out of his thoughts.
Alexander shot his head to the right, curious as to why Landon was lounging on the couch in the sitting area, his cap over his eyes. He hadn’t mentioned he was heading stateside, and Alexander wondered what had brought him here, especially considering he had just been back not even six weeks ago. Maybe Rayne convinced him to finally stop dragging his feet and marry her. They had been engaged for longer than many people remained married.
“Landon.” Alexander strode toward him as he jumped off the couch. They hugged briefly. “Good to see you, you bastard.”
“You, too, you dumb prick.”
Olivia always shook her head when they got together, not understanding why they would call each other such names. After persevering through something as mind-numbing and grueling as BUD/S, you formed a certain camaraderie with your teammates. And part of that included terms of affection, such as “bastard” and “dumb prick”.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you for another few weeks,” Alexander admitted.
Landon’s brilliant smile faltered and he ran his hands over his pants. “Yeah, I know, but…” He trailed off.
“What is it?” Alexander sat down on the couch, Landon lowering himself beside him.
“I didn’t know what else to do, Alex,” he admitted, his jovial voice turning serious. “I’m in deep here and I don’t know who else to turn to.”
“Slow down, Landon.”
Being in life or death situations with someone teaches you a lot about that person. Alexander knew all of Landon’s tells. Anytime he was nervous, he would speak in vague terms. The bigger the problem, the more obscure the words. Whatever the problem this time, Alexander had a feeling Landon was in way over his head.
“Start at the beginning and tell me what this is all about.”
Landon let out a sigh. “It’s the girls.”
“The girls?” Alexander furrowed his brow, not understanding. “I thought everything at the shelter’s been manageable, aside from a few expected hiccups.”
Shaking his head, Landon ran his hand over his face. In an instant, he looked years older than he was. His eyelids drooped, a forlorn weariness seeping into the lines around his eyes.
“We’ve been able to handle it all. Between myself and the staff, as well as some help from my buddies in the Marines and navy stationed over there, we’ve been able to thwart various threats.”
“Then what’s so important that you flew all the way here to
talk to me in person?”
Landon hesitated. “Promise you’ll let me finish what I have to say before you blow up.”
Studying him, Alexander looked for some sort of indication about what had his friend so wound up and acting incredibly out of character. “At least you’re not asking me not to get mad.”
“I know you better than that,” Landon replied. Turning toward Alexander, he paused, taking a breath. “It started about a month ago. As you know, we’ve been working with the Ministry of Women’s Affairs every step of the way. And we still are.”
Alexander nodded. He had met with a few liaisons in the ministry numerous times. Without their help, the shelter never would have seen the light of day.
“We’re still meeting all the requirements the ministry has set forth. We’re not technically breaking any protocol.”
“Okay…,” Alexander replied in a drawn-out voice, waiting for the punchline.
“Typically, the ministry’s goal is to reunite the family unit. They arrange supervised meetings, with a facilitator, between the girls and their families to try to make each side understand where the other is coming from. It can be a long process, sometimes taking a year or more, but in the end, the ministry wants the family unit to become whole again. As you know, our shelter’s different. We take the worst of the worst, women who the ministry believe face a great risk of death or severe injury if the family members even knew their location. Our liaison handpicks these women, sending them to us for safe harbor. No one knows it’s even a shelter. For all intents and purposes, it’s just a medical clinic.”
“Yes, I understand all of that.”
“Everything was going great until…” He closed his eyes.
“Until what?”
Sighing, his shoulders fell. “A few months ago, our ministry liaison, Rahima, went missing. Her body was found a few days later, a bullet to the head.” He briefly closed his eyes. “Immediately following her disappearance, the clinic was hit for the first time. I think someone figured out what’s been going on and went through her to find out these women’s location. Police brushed it off as just a group of locals unhappy with the western presence, but it’s got to be connected to Rahima’s disappearance.”