After nearly a half hour of sitting on the tarmac, their plane finally got runway clearance, and within minutes they were soaring up into the bleak, gray October sky.
“Here’s hoping we have better weather in Houston,” he said, looking over at his beautiful wife. Wife.
He still couldn’t believe Finley was his, and he hers.
“I checked my weather app, and we’re looking at highs in the mid-eighties,” she said.
“Nice.” That was one bright spot in what would be a very difficult few days. Combing through the poor women’s murders would no doubt bring his sister’s murder and the gruesome details surrounding it back to the surface—raw and ugly wounds that never fully healed. He’d reached a place of acceptance, but never peace. How could he after what had been done to Jenna?
“What’s the name of the agent we’re meeting with?”
“Special Agent Lance Thornton, regarding Chelsea Miller’s murder—the case Burke latched onto because he was friends with Chelsea’s dad. Then we’ll let the detectives in charge of the other women’s cases know we’re in town, and hopefully set up meetings today and tomorrow. I’ve always found it easier to catch them when you’re already local. My hope is to interview them in reverse order—most recent case first, working back to Jenna’s.”
“Detectives, as in plural?”
“Turns out all the murders were either in different jurisdictions in the Houston metro area or outside of Houston altogether. Same with the two in North Carolina.”
“Each murder occurred in a different jurisdiction?”
Griffin nodded grimly. This meant the killer most likely knew something about law enforcement procedure, or at least how to best work around it.
“So how did the FBI get involved with Chelsea Miller’s case? I mean, I understand Burke’s involvement as a friend of the family and his work on the side, but why Agent Thornton?”
“Because Chelsea was underage and transported across state lines before being murdered. That indicates federal jurisdiction, which Burke no doubt had pushed, being a friend of the victim’s family. Though, because he and his partner, Chuck Franco, were counterintelligence—and Chuck still is—the case went to Agent Thornton, who specializes in kidnappings.”
“What a rough specialty.” She winced.
That was definitely one area of law enforcement Griffin wouldn’t want to focus on. The heartache. The fear. Never knowing if the loved one would return.
“Are we speaking with the victims’ families?” Finley asked.
He nodded, remembering what it felt like to be one of them. “Yes, all have agreed to talk with us.”
“So we’re going to have a very busy couple of days.”
He clasped her hand, brought it to his mouth, and placed a tender kiss across her fingers. “I’m glad you came with me.” It was going to be a very difficult process—however long it took to conduct a thorough investigation—but having his wife at his side filled him with comfort.
“I am too,” she said. “Any chance we can look at any of the bodies?” Being a forensic anthropologist, studying human remains for clues was her focus.
“I didn’t want to broach that sensitive subject with the families over the phone.”
“Of course not.”
“But I will ask in person. I know it will be a tough ask, but once we explain how many cases you’ve solved that way, they might agree. If not, I definitely want you scouring the victims’ autopsy files.” He reached into his bag and handed her a stack. “Thankfully, Burke had copies or getting these could have been a logistical nightmare.”
Finley took a deep breath and closed her eyes in prayer—always praying for guidance, direction, and deep compassion for each victim she studied, and their families. That was yet another reason he loved her. She had a deep devotion to God, coupled with the determination to fight for those who could no longer fight for themselves. She spoke for them. It was a heavy burden to bear. So was his as a homicide detective. But God continued to equip and sustain them both.
He didn’t know how people in similar professions who didn’t know God dealt with the tragedy and darkness. If they didn’t know that one day justice would reign and that hope and healing were possible even through the direst circumstances, it had to be all consuming and overwhelming. It made sense that such professions drove many to drink. Several of his fellow cops tried to drown the sorrow and frustration instead of allowing Jesus to carry the burden. His heart ached for them, and he prayed they would find the peace waiting for them if they’d only ask. He’d recently tried talking with two officers who were really struggling, but they’d just laughed off his “church talk.” He continued to pray for an opening, and for God to soften their battle-weary hearts.
After taking Kate by Charm City Investigations and standing guard while she showered, changed clothes, and grabbed some items for the next few days, Luke and Kate entered Declan’s FBI office. At nine thirty, according to Declan, they’d be briefing the Bureau chief, Alan King, and then addressing a task force assembled to take down Ebeid. As awkward as it was to be entering an office building and what was essentially a “normal” job, Luke was thankful for the time he’d continue to have with Kate.
If their time together last night had revealed anything, it was that an inexplicable bond still existed between them.
Malcolm had insisted time and time again that the life Luke was now living wasn’t one that he, nor any other black ops field agent, could simply walk away from. Even if Luke found a way, how on earth would he function in regular society? For years he’d been living in an entirely different world, with fluctuating rules or complete lack thereof, different objectives, intense focus. . . .
Could he just shut off his brain to the crises surrounding him and be a “normal” citizen? Okay, Declan, Griff, Parker, and Kate weren’t exactly “normal” citizens. They still battled darkness and crime, but in a far different manner. Could he adapt to fighting injustice the way they did?
“When does Lexi return?” Kate asked Declan, and Luke’s attention shifted back to the conversation.
“Tomorrow,” Declan said, looking with longing at Tanner.
“And Lexi is?” Luke asked.
“My partner,” Declan said.
Luke’s gaze shifted between Declan and Tanner. “But I thought . . . ?”
Declan explained how their boss, Alan, had paired Tanner and himself while his usual partner, Lexi, was on bereavement leave.
“So . . . what happens with Tanner’s involvement in the investigation when Lexi returns?” he asked, curious.
Declan smiled at Tanner, clearly madly in love with the woman. “For now, Alan is keeping Tanner on the case and pairing Lexi with another agent.” He glanced at his watch. “Time to go to work.”
They briefed Alan, and then Luke followed Declan, Tanner, and Kate down the hallway to the briefing room. It’d been years since he’d been in one—most of his briefings since recruitment being clandestine.
The twenty-by-twenty-foot room was full of agents, and he felt every eye on him—the stranger in the room.
Alan strode to the front of the room and cleared his throat. “Good morning. Let’s get straight to it.”
Alan was tall and broad. Dark hair combed neatly to the side. Brown eyes, an aquiline nose, and a strong jaw. He exuded the strength of his position of leadership. His voice was deep, but he kept it even and on point. “Agent Grey is lead on this investigation and head of the task force, so I want you to give him your full attention. He believes we are facing one of our country’s greatest threats, and after yesterday’s attempted attack on the Bay Bridge, I have to say I concur.”
8
The air was warm and sticky as Finley followed Griffin through the exhaust-filled parking structure to their rental car, her heels clicking along the concrete a few inches behind him, the sound of her presence soothing. A black Chevy Equinox was waiting for them in slot C3 with keys in the ignition.
Griffin glance
d at his watch. They had an hour before their arranged meeting with Special Agent Lance Thornton, the federal agent assigned to Chelsea Miller’s case. The same agent who’d stopped the investigation within three months of opening it, pronouncing all leads dead.
From Griff’s brief conversation with him over the phone, Agent Thornton still sounded unwilling to acknowledge a pattern in the cases. How any law enforcement official worth their salt could deny the obvious connection once the evidence was presented to them was beyond him. To Griff, it sounded like Chelsea Miller’s case was fully closed in Thornton’s mind and he had zero interest in reopening it. Griffin prayed he was wrong.
After a round of quick calls to the various detectives, and a few return calls, their meetings for the next couple days were set.
Today, after meeting with Thornton, they’d make the hour-and-a-half drive southwest of Houston to Edna, Texas, to speak with Detectives Clint Eason and Joel Hood. Then they’d be on their way to Pasadena, Texas, which was only twenty minutes outside of Houston, where they’d meet with homicide detective Gil Crest. It wasn’t the most efficient route drive-wise, but Detective Crest wasn’t free until early evening, and it allowed them to work the murders in reverse order. Plus, it would bring them back toward Houston for dinner and their night at their hotel.
Tomorrow’s lineup included the final two detectives and speaking with the victims’ families. That was the aspect of the investigation Griffin was dreading most, knowing the pain he’d be resurrecting. He wished there was some way to avoid it, but he wouldn’t be conducting a thorough investigation without those interviews.
Declan strode to the front of the briefing room, his perfectly shined leather loafers squeaking on the faded white tile floor. Declan had grown from a medium-built youth into a solidly built man—his shoulder breadth and handspan surely intimidating to most people.
Luke had been trained to handle himself in any situation, but Declan’s rugged build had given him a moment of pause upon first sight—not out of fear, but out of surprise and a bit of admiration.
And Kate . . . She’d grown into the beautiful, complex, fascinating woman he’d always known she’d become. And he’d missed the joy of seeing her go from a twenty-two-year-old student to a spectacular woman who made his heart thud in a way he hadn’t thought still possible. Every nerve ending sparked to life when she entered a room.
“As Alan said”—Declan’s deep timbre pulled Luke back into focus—“I fear we are facing one of our greatest terrorist threats yet, comparable to 9/11, and with potential for even more devastating effects.”
A murmur trickled through the room, and then a hush fell over the group. Everyone’s attention was riveted on Declan, who paced back and forth in front of the LED screen as a photograph—one, strangely enough, Luke had taken in the field—appeared upon it.
“This threat,” Declan continued, “has the potential to spread like wildfire.” He turned and indicated the image on the wall behind him. “Dr. Isaiah Bedan—a foremost scientist in the realm of biological warfare—is in the country, and six ounces of anthrax were stolen en route from Fort Detrick to the CDC. I don’t believe Dr. Bedan’s arrival in the States the same day the anthrax was hijacked is a coincidence. The two are undoubtedly intertwined and are being coordinated by Dr. Khaled Ebeid of the Islamic Cultural Institute of the Mid-Atlantic—a front for a vast terrorist network of sleeper cells here in the U.S.
“Thankfully, we have an incredible asset on our team,” Declan said, his gaze falling on Luke. He indicated for him to step forward. “CIA operative Luke Gallagher is partnering with us.” He gestured for Luke to take the floor as he took a seat in the first row.
Luke stepped to the front of the room. “I’m in full agreement with Agent Grey,” he said. “We are facing our fiercest biological warfare terrorist threat on American soil yet.” He looked back at Ebeid’s picture—the man his world had centered on for years. “To give you some background,” he continued, “we first learned of Dr. Khaled Ebeid’s extremist ties and activities seven years ago—eight this coming May, to be precise.”
He looked at Kate. Her expression indicated she understood this was the operation that he’d left for. Not that it’d make the fact of his leaving any easier to bear, but maybe she’d better understand what he believed he had been fighting—was still fighting—only now on U.S. soil.
“I was first assigned to a team focused on Khaled Ebeid in Ebil, Iraq. Back then, he was co-founder of the Iraqi Heritage Institute. The Agency flagged him when they discovered his loyalty and ties to Osama bin Laden. After bin Laden’s death, Ebeid fled the country, moving, fortuitously for him, to Paris, where he took a position as the cultural attaché at the Middle Eastern Antiquities Museum.
“Five car bombings and one subway bombing occurred during his two-year tenure there. Upon deep investigation in conjunction with local authorities and Interpol, all suicide bombers tracked loosely back to Ebeid, and Interpol continued to work with us. Yet despite their thorough inquest into Ebeid, nothing concrete could officially tie him to the bombings, and again, with perfect timing, he moved. This time to Baltimore, where he set up shop. Though here on U.S. soil he has been more patient and far subtler in his terrorist actions—waiting, building, preparing.
“We, of course, alerted Langley to his presence and background, and the NSA has been keeping close tabs on him. While Ebeid has become less aggressive in his approach, at least on the surface, he’s no less dangerous. I fear he’s even more deadly a threat. He’s still putting on a cultural attaché front, which suits his background and degrees, but he’s using the cultural institute as a buffer for his continued terrorist activities and extremist ties. We know Ebeid has been bringing over young Southeast Asian recruits and forming a network of sleeper cells.”
He cleared his throat. “As I’m sure you’re all aware, Agent Grey had a direct encounter with one of these recruits—a man by the name of Anajay Darmadi. Prior to that encounter, I had been following Anajay in Asia—first in Thailand, and then in Malaysia. I was tracking the funnel Ebeid was using to recruit and then smuggle the young men over.
“But all of this has simply been preparation for what is about to occur. As Declan said, yesterday Dr. Ebeid managed to smuggle Dr. Isaiah Bedan into the country.”
Declan flipped the LED image to one of Bedan.
Luke nodded his thanks and continued. “Dr. Bedan is a U.S.-trained microbiologist at the top of his field, or at least he was until his fall from glory two years ago, when he recruited a young student to release anthrax into the air in Munich by dumping it from the top of a four-story building. Fortunately, a security guard noticed the man headed for the roof, and while he was unable to fully prevent the attack, he did intervene in time to keep the death toll to a minimum. Though six deaths, including the guard’s, is hardly inconsequential.”
“How do you know Bedan recruited him?” a female agent in the second row asked.
“Because the young man proudly confessed before he died from the anthrax he exposed himself to.” Luke’s jaw tightened, the defiance and lack of any remorse in that young man still tugging at him, filling him with righteous anger. Burning anger to protect the country he loved. “After deeper investigation,” he said, shifting his gait to the right, “we discovered this wasn’t the first time Bedan conducted biological warfare. Horrifyingly enough, it appears Bedan had been refining what he refers to as ‘his craft’ by performing human biological warfare experiments for numerous years leading up to the anthrax attack in Munich.”
Shocked expressions and gasps swept through the room.
Luke looked at Kate, whose eyes were wide and her shoulders squared—always ready to take on injustice.
A sea of hands rose like a wave spreading across the room. This was going to be a long and heavy discussion, though he had expected it and, to be fully honest, hoped for no less. The agents present were taking the threat as seriously as it deserved to be taken, though serious didn’t come clos
e to describing just how horrific Bedan, Ebeid, and their plans were.
Luke pointed to the hand farthest away and would work his way forward. Every agent had some form of note-taking device in hand, their full attention on him.
“You said Bedan is a U.S.-trained microbiologist?” an agent with blond wavy hair cropped above his ears asked.
“Yes. Bedan’s background is . . .” Luke exhaled. “I’ll let you judge for yourselves. His family immigrated to the U.S. right after World War II, because his grandfather, Abel Bedan, an Austrian Nazi scientist, was part of Operation Paperclip.”
“Seriously?” Declan said.
“I’m afraid so.” Luke swallowed. “For those of you who don’t know, Operation Paperclip was a decades-long covert program of the Joint Intelligence Objectives Agency. The program brought more than sixteen hundred German scientists, engineers, and technicians—mostly of the Nazi party—along with their families, to the U.S. in anticipation of the Cold War with the Soviet Union. One was Dr. Kurt Blome, who developed offensive and defensive capabilities to counter Soviet biowarfare activities. He had previously committed heinous human biowarfare and germ warfare experiments on concentration camp victims at Auschwitz, including injecting the victims with plague vaccines and exposing them to sarin gas. His right-hand man was Abel Bedan.”
“Isaiah Bedan’s grandfather?”
“Correct.”
With a perplexed expression, the blond agent continued. “How does the Muslim connection fit in if Isaiah Bedan came from Nazi heritage?”
“His maternal grandmother was the daughter of Haj Amin al-Husseini, a mufti in Jerusalem. Al-Husseini lived in Germany from 1941 to 1945 before moving to Egypt. During that time, Abel fell in love with al-Husseini’s eldest daughter, Ayla. They married and had Erich Bedan, who married Eva Shahid, a distant relative of Ayla’s, and they had Isaiah, who has remained unmarried, fortunately. I pray that family line of death and destruction ends with him.”