Mrs. G frantically waved her arms and shook her head.
Nina switched gears on the fly. “With something that needs to be fixed. Can you come over?”
“I’ll be there in two minutes, bonita.”
Rolling her eyes, Nina disconnected and turned to her neighbor. “He’ll be mad when he finds out I called for you. I won’t be able to get away with that a second time.”
“I called him two days ago,” Mrs. G said. “We are tired of microwave food.” Her lip curled as if she’d been describing toxic waste. Which perhaps she had.
“Hey,” Bianca said, peering around Nina for the first time to get a better look at Shawna. “Aren’t you on TV or something?”
“Shawna Jackson,” she said, standing. “I was on the news last night.”
When Shawna left the Bureau six months ago, Nina felt it as a palpable loss. Agents had to retire at fifty-seven years old, with a possible extension to age sixty. At fifty-two, Shawna had seen an opportunity for another career and taken it. Many members of the Bureau retired to take jobs as consultants, security experts, and pundits, their hard-won expertise a valuable commodity. A few, however, had an unusual combination of talent and charisma that made them a natural to appear on national news programs as law enforcement experts.
When a series of incidents involving white police officers shooting unarmed black men had made national headlines a few months ago, Shawna found herself besieged by requests for interviews. The highest-ranking African American female agent in the history of the Bureau, her position and her experience investigating such cases for civil rights violations gave her the chops to speak with authority. Recently, she’d been hired by a major national news outlet as a senior consultant.
Mrs. G rushed over to shake Shawna’s hand. “But you are even more beautiful in person.”
Before Shawna could respond, a loud knock sounded at the door. Gritting her teeth, Nina tugged it open.
“Hola, bonita,” Jaime said through a cloud of Old Spice. “What’s the problem?”
She blinked away the tears stinging her eyes from cologne fumes. “It’s the stove.”
He frowned. “All four burners or just one?”
“You’ll have to ask Mrs. Gomez.”
She watched as Jaime scanned the kitchen, comprehension gradually tightening his features.
Bianca gave him a finger wave. “Hola, Jaime.”
He turned back to Nina, scowling. “Not cool, bonita. Not cool.”
Bianca got in his face. “You wouldn’t fix our stove. We’ve been microwaving our food, Jaime. Think about it.” She lowered her voice to convey the true horror and gravity of the situation. “Prepackaged burritos. In the microwave.” She held up two fingers. “For two days.”
Jaime grimaced. “Oh, all right.”
He followed them out, muttering something that sounded like “pinche stove” under his breath.
Nina closed the door to find Shawna suppressing a laugh. “I like your neighbors.”
“You don’t know the half of it. They’re like one big dysfunctional family.”
“So you’ve told me. You could afford a swanky condo downtown, you know.” Shawna’s eyes widened and she added quickly, “No offense.”
This time, Nina laughed. “No offense taken. I like it here. This is the kind of apartment building I usually lived in growing up.”
She didn’t add that she’d deliberately chosen a place in the Latin corridor to remain connected with her community. Bouncing from one family to the next during her formative years, she sometimes felt detached from her heritage. To make up for the loss of a family, she studied Spanish in school and hung out with the Guatemalans, Puerto Ricans, El Salvadorans, Peruvians, Mexicans, and Colombians that made up most of the Latino population in the DC area back then.
After Nina moved into the apartment building, Mrs. Gomez, who was from Chile, occasionally acted as a surrogate mother. She taught Nina a great deal about food and cooking, and about Chilean wine, which Mrs. G claimed put “that French stuff” to shame. Nina would have bet a month’s paycheck Mrs. G had never tasted French wine.
Cutting into the casserole, Nina steered the conversation back to its previous course. “You came to talk about Jeffrey Wade?”
Shawna grew serious. “When you went through the applicant process, he’d just been detailed out of BAU.”
A polite way to put it. Some said he ended up at the bottom of a bottle, others said he lost thirty pounds he couldn’t spare, and a few claimed he spent some of his vacation days in an institution. She wasn’t sure how much was true, but the damage to his reputation had been profound and ongoing.
Shawna stared into the distance, apparently lost in thought. Nina sensed a logjam about to burst. Knowing better than to interrupt, she silently dished the fragrant food onto two plates and carried them to the table.
Finally, Shawna continued, “There’s another reason he didn’t recommend you for hire. I’m one of the few people who knows the whole story.”
Nina dropped heavily into her chair, a sense of foreboding overtaking her.
“He had a little sister,” Shawna said. “She was taken when she was fourteen years old. The police found her after a few days. Physically, she was okay, but . . .”
Nina looked down at her hands. She had always wondered why Wade had gone into the child-crime section of BAU, a relatively new position when he took it. At least she had an answer for that now. “What happened to his sister?”
“She was twenty years old when she took a lethal overdose of her meds.” Shawna shook her head. “According to Wade, she was never the same after what happened.”
A puzzle piece snapped into place. “He thinks that’s going to be me.” Nina made it a statement. “And that my job with the Bureau will be the trigger.”
Shawna raised a placating hand. “Look at it from his perspective. An applicant comes through with a history of abuse and violence worse than some of the victims he’d worked with.” She drew in a breath. “Worse than what happened to his sister.”
“So he holds it against me that I got my shit together and became a cop?” She pointed her fork at Shawna. “I was in law enforcement for four years without any problems before I ever applied to the FBI.”
“He thought he was looking out for you.” Shawna cut into the enchiladas.
“And he didn’t want any blowback if he signed off on my mental fitness, and five years later, I went nuts.” She let out a derisive snort. “He’s worse than I thought.”
“No, it’s not just that.” Shawna hesitated. “Your file indicated that you can be . . . difficult. You don’t always work well with others. You tended to work independently, even as a cop. That’s not what we do in the Bureau.”
Nina couldn’t argue the point, and she hated knowing there were secret files out there. Files that detailed everything about her life from the time she was a month old. Files that were kept from her when others could see them. Most children didn’t have paperwork documenting every aspect of their behavior and situation throughout their lives. Foster children did. Foster children described as “difficult” had the thickest files of all.
“You know Wade was my partner when I was assigned to the BAU,” Shawna said, changing the subject. “But what you don’t know is that a few years after I was promoted out of the unit, we became . . . involved.”
“Wait, what?” She could not imagine Shawna with Wade.
“Like I said, he was a different man back then.” Shawna placed a bite in her mouth, apparently considering how much to share. “We had already broken up when you applied to the Bureau, but he knew I had encouraged you to submit an application. He felt obligated to tell me he refused to support your instatement.” Her features hardened. “So I went straight to the Director.”
“I know,” Nina said. “And there are some in the Bureau who know you intervened and hold it against me. No doubt Wade is one of them.”
Shawna laid down her fork and narrowed her eyes a
t Nina as the mingled scents of cumin and onion filled the air between them. “I did it because the Bureau needs you.” She tapped her chest with a forefinger. “Needs us.” When Nina didn’t respond, she raised her voice. “The FBI is still mostly a white male agency. When I first got hired, they had barely accepted women as full agents. Think about what it took for a black woman to get through the door in those days. But like you, I decided to outwork everyone else to prove the ones who doubted me wrong. I took the shit posts, shit assignments, and shit equipment. I sucked it up and made it my mission to get into a position where I could help pave the way for others. That’s what I did for you, and I won’t apologize for it. Not to you. Not to anybody.” She was breathing hard.
Shawna never talked about the early days in her career. The discrimination she’d faced. The glass ceilings she’d continuously shattered on her way to the top tier of US law enforcement.
“I didn’t see it that way,” Nina said quietly. “Thank you.”
Shawna gave her a nod of acceptance before continuing. “I told the Director we shouldn’t hold the fact that you were a survivor against you. I reminded him you’d been a cop for four years with nothing but commendations in your personnel file.” Picking up her fork, she stabbed her enchilada like it had somehow offended her. “Then I used the nuclear option. The Director knew I’d been Wade’s partner years earlier.” She lowered her gaze. “I called Wade’s judgment into question. Told the Director of the FBI that—as a former profiler—I thought Wade’s personal issues had skewed his perspective regarding you.”
“Damn, Shawna.”
“I turned on my partner—a man I had once loved and still deeply cared for—because I believed in you, Nina.” Her eyes moistened. “And I would do it again . . . because it was the right thing to do.”
“That must have been painful.” She reached out to squeeze Shawna’s hand, humbled by the faith her mentor had shown in her. “What did the Director say?”
“What could he say? Wade’s recent track record was against him. He’d been forced out of BAU on a temp because he was viewed as unstable. Meanwhile your performance was exemplary, and your tests were near the top percentile in every other category. Wade had concluded that your polygraph results showed no deception, only a lack of clarity on certain points due to past trauma. In addition, you had an established history of excellence in a large, well-respected police department.” She shrugged. “The Director put you through.”
“And Wade is treating me like I belong outside the investigation because that’s what he actually thinks.” Resentment settled over her. “That I have no business being in the FBI.”
“I never meant to tell you any of this, but now that you’re his partner, I thought you should know.”
“How can I work with Wade when I can’t trust him?”
“Because it’s your only option,” Shawna said. “It’s your decision, but if you choose to be his partner, at least now you’ll know where you stand.”
She processed Shawna’s words, fully aware that she would stand exactly where she always had. Alone.
The price of admission to the most important investigation of her life was partnering with an agent who had tried to bork her appointment to the Bureau. She didn’t bother to say it wasn’t fair. They both knew it.
She met Shawna’s steady gaze. “If my choice is to stand by and watch or get in the ring, I’ll fight. Every time.”
Chapter 7
Steel Cage Central Fight Club
Washington, DC
After a careful assessment of the injury, the fighter known as Odin raised the needle to pierce the edge of the ragged tear above his left eye. White-hot pain rose up to challenge him, cow him, defeat him. He beat it back, pulling the surgical thread through the swollen flesh.
“Damn,” Sorrentino said from behind him. “You don’t feel nothing, do you?”
Eyes on the cracked mirror, Odin pushed the needle through the other side of the wound, watching the skin tent before the tip broke through. “I feel everything.” He tugged, pulling the edges together. “But I’m in charge. I decide whether or not to react.” He plunged the sharp steel in again. “I master myself.”
Sorrentino guffawed. “Like you mastered The Raider tonight.”
Odin allowed a satisfied smile to curve his lips. Andrew “The Raider” Bennett had been the fool who had stepped into the cage with him. Now Bennett would discover the joys of a ruptured spleen.
That was the way of blood sport. Those in the crowd vented their pent-up fury in vicarious combat as the gladiators vied for glory. But Odin had a secret that gave him an edge. He was different from the others. Different from all of humanity. He had taken the genetic advantages he’d been blessed with and pushed himself harder than the rest. The combination of physical and mental superiority set him apart. The sight of flying sweat, the taste of blood in his mouth, the musky scent of fear—all of it intoxicated him.
“I had good money riding on you,” Sorrentino said. “I always bet on Odin.”
He ignored the flattery. Sorrentino had landed somewhere on the evolutionary scale between a cockroach and a toad, but he had an instinct for business. He knew enough to bet on a winner.
Odin finished the last suture and began to tie it off.
Sorrentino moved in closer, bushy black unibrow scrunching as he watched. “Nice straight stitches. Where’d you learn that?”
He cut his eyes to Sorrentino, resting his cold gaze on the man until he took a nervous step back. Satisfied he’d ended that line of discussion, he returned to his task.
“You available Friday night?” Sorrentino asked, switching to a safer topic.
He snipped the ends close to the skin and straightened before flicking a glance at the row of flat-screen televisions mounted in the upper corner of the wall. “I’ve got business Friday night. I’ll text you when I’m free for another fight.”
Sorrentino, apparently understanding he’d been dismissed, shuffled out of the locker room.
Odin’s gaze returned to the monitors. Ignoring the ESPN and NASCAR feeds, he focused on the screen airing local news. He rammed his scissors into the med kit and spit a thin stream of blood on the cement floor. Local news. He’d damn well make national headlines if the media knew about the connection between the homeless girl in the alley and the FBI agent in the viral video. Nina had been on every channel. Everyone’s hero. What if they found out their new darling had been responsible for that girl’s death?
He recalled the video of her fight with that lummox who had attacked her in the park. He’d watched it a thousand times. She was still small, like he remembered, but she’d obviously been training. She had honed her skills and now wore a gun and a badge.
Nina Guerrera. Warrior girl.
He’d never known about the name change. When he tried to look up Nina Esperanza, the trail ended on her seventeenth birthday. He assumed the name change had been part of a sealed juvie court hearing, one of the few kinds of records he couldn’t access. She’d slipped by him all this time. She owed him eleven years’ worth of retribution.
This time, she would pay her debt in full before he finished with her.
Chapter 8
Behavioral Analysis Unit, Aquia Commerce Center
Aquia, Virginia
Nina hated secrets. This particular one felt like a sore festering beneath the surface, tainting every interaction she had with Wade, destined to explode in a toxic spray and shower its poison over both of them at some unknown point in the future.
No matter what Wade had done, or the reasons behind it, every personal consideration took a back seat to hunting the unsub—the FBI term for unknown subject—which is how she found herself following Wade into the BAU meeting room the next morning as if she had no idea why he’d knifed her between the shoulder blades two years ago.
She took stock of the people seated around the conference table. At its head sat Gerard Buxton, a man she knew by reputation.
“Agent Gu
errera.” Wade gestured in the direction of her gaze. “This is Supervisory Special Agent Buxton, unit chief for BAU Three.”
Buxton acknowledged her with a nod. “I brought together a few key people for the first briefing on this case.” He turned to his right where a pale woman with auburn hair spiraling into a cascade of curls halfway down her back sat upright, her sea-green eyes alight with curiosity.
“Kelly Breck,” she said. “On loan from Cyber, where I landed after a stint in Video Forensics.” The hint of a southern drawl softened the technical terms.
Nina chose not to question the inclusion of a cybercrime specialist at a BAU briefing. Buxton had a reputation for using unconventional approaches to investigations, and for getting results.
The man with a blond crew cut seated next to Breck looked like he was on recon from the Marine Corps base a few miles down the road. Black-rimmed glasses offered an incongruous touch to his chiseled features.
“Jake Kent,” he said. “BAU Three.”
Nina and Wade took chairs opposite the other two agents.
“Let’s get started with victimology,” Buxton said without preamble.
All eyes turned to Wade, who opened a leather-bound notebook. Everyone else had some sort of electronic device open on the table. No one seemed to be surprised by Wade’s antiquated style of note taking.
“The girl’s name is Sofia Garcia-Figueroa,” Wade began. “Sixteen-year-old Hispanic female. Mother’s currently in rehab trying to kick a meth addiction. Father’s two years into a ten-year stretch for drug charges. Sofia has been in foster care since she was five years old. She’d been living in a group home for the last six months and ran away for the third time two weeks ago. The group home supervisor reported it after a missed bed check, but no further action was taken to locate her. According to MPD detectives, she began supporting herself through prostitution.” He looked up from his notes. “Like her mom.”
Listening to the recitation of Sofia’s story tore at Nina. In a few brief sentences, Wade had summed up a lifetime of pain, rejection, and trauma. Sofia might have turned her life around, but she would never have the chance now.
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