Not So Innocent (Shattered Glass #2)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Riley took his frustration and fear out on the gas pedal, pushing a hundred as he passed two cars. If he kept up this speed, they’d make it in less than fourteen minutes. Eighteen, if he couldn’t. He told himself that they had enough time.

Cole’s men needed to keep Cai alive, but not necessarily in one piece. The things they could do to get information made for nightmares. How much could he withstand? The long stretch of highway left too much time for dark thoughts to move in. Riley pushed past a hundred, foot edging closer to the floor.

His driving didn’t faze Kitts, who took out his gun and dropped the magazine into one hand. He checked it, popped it back in, and then casually dropped a question that foretold the end of Riley’s career. “You and the Strakosha kid?”

The landscape of concrete blurred in front of Riley for a second as his focus waned. His mouth went dry. He scrambled for how to answer.

“Are you going to be a problem?” Kitts asked.

Would he get in the way? Could he act objectively? Riley hadn’t answered the first question, and now he had to weigh another one. “I’ll follow orders. Is that good enough?”

“Good enough for me. Marks requested to partner with you. I’ll trust her judgement.”

“She did?”

“Right after McCleary got promoted.” Kitts checked the two extra magazines clipped to his belt. “You’re good at following orders and are calm under pressure. Not recently, but you’ve been steadfast as long as I’ve been here.”

“Not my best week.”

“No shit.” Kitts made a sound that was part laugh, part disgusted huff. “Fucking the primary while we’re outside risking our necks? In the last two days, you managed to lose respect of nearly the entire field office. William’s and Johanson’s deaths won’t help, either.”

If Riley wasn’t sure about the end of his career before, he was now. In his defense, the other choice was to sit and watch TV with a gun in his lap. He wasn’t on the case. He wasn’t even on duty. Of course, ‘fucking the primary’ was not an optimal use of his time either. “You pissed too?”

“Eh, I didn’t want to kick a dying dog. All of us, Cordova. We’re all ticked off.”

“Fair enough,” Riley murmured. Embarrassment kept him from pointing out that he hadn’t been on duty the last thirty-six hours. This past week he’d made one poor decision after another, defending his actions over that period wouldn’t be one of them. He didn’t regret choosing Cai over his career, but he certainly regretted the unprofessional decision to fuck him that first night. And Johanson and Williams would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Kitts stared for a few seconds, like he was letting the truth steep, then he relaxed in his seat. “That feeling of shame you have right now? Remember it when you want to go rogue today. Strakosha isn’t just an assignment to you, I get that. If it was my Jessica? I’d be pushing a hundred with my gun in my lap, too. But you remember that we all have families. Johanson and Williams had families.”

Riley would keep those names tucked away in case he felt his judgement being compromised by his personal feelings. “I’ll remember.”

As Denver merged into Centennial, the scenery changed from office parks and shopping malls to stretches of barren land and industrial buildings. They passed the local airport, where there were more office buildings but plenty of empty land.

“GPS puts him around here forty minutes ago,” Kitts said, tracing the blue navigation line to the southern edge of the map on Riley’s phone. The older phone rested under the dashboard where it connected to the charging adapter for the car’s lighter. Kitts picked it up. “The technology is years old but, if we trust it, Strakosha is there.”

They were approximately five minutes from their destination and all Riley’s hope was in that blue dot that hadn’t moved in nearly thirty minutes.

Speaking more to himself, Kitts continued, “Pinging a mile and half from Centennial Airport. Hm. Makes sense. McCleary closed the air space just in case. That’ll put them on foot. Nearest subdivision is almost a mile away, so smaller chance civilians could get involved.” Kitts pushed around the map, until he found an area with spread out buildings. “There are three buildings closest to the last ping.” He zoomed into the location with his fingers. “That’s where I’d be. Prime locations. All containable. Okay, I’ll tell McCleary to look for property owned by FSI in that area.”

The navigation line changed to the new end point, pulling them off the highway to the barren area near where Kitts indicated. Two minutes until they were in range of the last ping.

“I have a feeling they chose this place because it wasn’t easy to find through public records, but the necklace has an RFID chip with a hundred and fifty-meter range,” Riley said. “If he’s in one of those buildings, we can drive by them all in less than ten minutes.”

“Got it.” Kitts typed into his own phone, presumably to let Kelly know their movements. “Clever putting that necklace on,” he said. “Wonder how they missed it in their search? Or if they did.”

A new fear formed in Riley’s chest. “You think they found it and tossed it?” No. Cai outsmarted them. He had to have. “If they found it, they would have gotten rid of asap which means we are miles off.”

First stage of grief: Denial.

“I was thinking the same,” Kitts said. “But don’t worry. McCleary is searching property records in any case. If Strakosha is somewhere else, we’ll find him.”

Did they throw it out here to lead us off track?

Glancing at the map, Riley watched for movement. Any movement. He’d relied on the necklace. Had been the driving force to getting all resources diverted here.

If he’s not here, he’s dead. We won’t find him at another location in time.

Cai’s death would be his fault.

Second stage: Guilt.

He shoved the thoughts aside and watched for the Easter Avenue exit. There was still hope.

* * *

Cai opened his eyes for the third time that day in pain. Tiny icepicks stabbed at his cheek. Memories rushed back of the trunk opening and a huge fist coming at him. The entire left side of his face was swollen. He could see the top of his cheek. A headache blossomed and spidered through his brain to the nerves behind his eye. He gave up and shuttered his lids.

“ Arush .” Papa used the same voice when he was five and woke him up for breakfast. No tickles followed this time, though. “Look around. Find a way out.”

Cai fought through the hurt to get a look at his surroundings. Easier said than done. His eyes watered. He blinked rapidly but quickly focused beyond the headache. This was going to hurt. And not in the good way.

He held in a cry when fresh agony spiked in his neck. Breathe through it. Just one quick look. One quick look at what’s in front of you.

He was in the center of a large room. Julian sat at the far end of a leather sofa across from him. Bound. No longer gagged. White wool carpet between them with a small stone coffee table in the middle—good for bashing someone’s head against. Giant windows floor to ceiling. Mountain view meant he was facing west. More windows at the south. Black duffel bag in front of a mahogany desk. Glassed-in conference room east, with a shadowed figure sitting at a large table. Obviously, the guy in charge. Cai’d call that one Bad Guy One.

That took care of one measly quarter of the giant room. He closed his eyes again.

Not bad for twenty seconds. He even got a partial view behind him. Okay, now for the rest. Remember to breathe.

“Don’t let them see your pain, Arush.” Papa took the seat next to Julian on the sofa.

“They will find out about pain, Papa,” Cai said.

“Is that Russian?” A man behind him asked. Call him Bad Guy Two.

“No.” Bad Guy Three apparently knew Russian, and sounded like the same guy from the driveway of James Thorpe’s house.

“Dimbiababa?” Bad Guy Two butchered the pronunciation.

“He’s Albanian, ya knobs.” Forced bravado from Julian, but it made Cai giggle. If Julian could retain that courage, they’d make it out of here.

Oh, what was the corner of that marble thing behind him?

A bar? A desk? He could ask Julian.

“Sure. And then you could ask him to jump up, take their guns, and free you.”

Cai laughed harder, then coughed. Blood sprayed from his mouth onto a swatch of electric blue pressed against his jeans. “Rach!” He turned to see her clearly, his neck protesting. A howl of rage eclipsed his pain. His shoulders threatened to separate from their sockets as he fought the zip ties to get to her. “Rachel! Rach!” The chair tipped and someone snatched his hair and yanked him back down.

Rachel barely moved, her face a caul of bruises mostly hidden by the curtain of matted hair. The only sign of life was her shallow, wheezing breaths. A line of spit fell from her opened mouth. Cai yanked at his bindings, skin ripping. “Rachel! Talk to me!” She didn’t even try to open her eyes.

Bad Guy One exited the conference room and sat on the coffee table in front of him.

The dead partner not really dead.

Xander Rocha placed his hands on Cai’s knees.

Rage spent, Cai’s struggle ended with heavy breaths.

“Find a way out,” his father whispered in his ear.

Cai strained to scan the rest of the room. North area had a floor to ceiling metal partition that blocked off giant half circle desk. Receptionist area? That meant phones and a computer. Past that, the edge of an exit sign poked out from behind a hallway wall. Okay. Stairs on the northeast. Elevator too. And where there’s an exit sign, there’s a fire alarm.

He checked the conference room to his left again.

Table that could be turned over for cover, if they could get in there.

Where else to hide?

The door directly behind him had a name plate that read: Jean Gross, Executive Assistant. Desk, phone and computer, in there.

Marble bar four feet long between Jean’s office and the conference room.

Paneled walls? Were they designs or functional? Executive office this big had to have a private bathroom. Hidden door?

No signs anywhere. What kind of business was this? Were there guns?

Giant mirrored clock above the bar. Twenty-five minutes to six. Game over in twenty-five minutes. Would Riley find them?

Twenty-five minutes.

How long?

Six.

Stop.

Stop.

Think.

Don’t repeat.

Best plan? Cover behind the bar, draw their attention while Julian dragged Rachel to the stairs. Have him pull fire alarm.

Relied too much on Julian.

Not much of a choice there.

Next best? The office or conference room. One had glass walls. Other had...he didn’t know, but they’d be trapped either way.

Only important thing was keeping their attention on him and away from Julian and Rachel.

Okay, he was ready. Ready. Had to wait.

Wait wait.

Wait.

“Careful. Don’t let them see your shoulder move.”

Get the blade. Draw one close.

“You good?” he asked Julian, slurring on blood. Where was that coming from? He drew his tongue along his teeth until he found the missing spot in the second to last molar. Just a tooth. Must have popped out root and all. The one next to it wiggled, sending a lance of pain through his skull. His vision briefly went black.

“Do I fucking look good?” Julian tried to keep a brave face through the tremor of his lips. “Wanker.”

Rachel wheezed again. An almost laugh. Hope shot through Cai. She’d be okay. She had to be okay.

“Not much left of her face,” Xander said. Cai had forgotten he was even there. “But now that we know her value to you, maybe I can get my drive.”

“They call my father ‘The Hammer’,” Cai replied. “I sat beside him while he worked. He spent hours killing a man. I learned a lot about painting with blood spatter. Wonder what I’ll make out of yours.”

“Look at her,” Xander said, as if Cai hadn’t spoken at all. “She has all ten fingers. Her shoes are on, but take my word that she has all ten toes. I imagine your father taught you something about toes. We can compare notes. What do you say?”

“Oh, this is perfect,” Julian said. “A who’s the bigger psychopath contest. Just bloody brilliant!”

“Besa,” Cai whispered. Then he spat into Xander’s face.

Xander lifted the neck of his t-shirt to wipe his cheek, leaving the green fabric streaked with blood and spit. “I heard you’re smart. Have you figured out why she’s alive with all ten piggies and all her pretty blue nails? It’s because she told us everything she knew. Unfortunately, she didn’t have the information we needed. What she did tell us is that you do. Now, we’d rather not have to beat the information out of you, Nikolaj. It takes time. A lot of time, if I judge you correctly. We know you have the drive. We need our money. That’s all we want. Give us that and we’ll leave you here. All of you. Alive.”

“Torture takes time,” Cai said. “Death takes an instant. I tell you where the drive is, you shoot us all. At least with torture, we all live. If you kill one of them, I’ll take my secret to the grave. Wanna ask Rachel something? Ask her if I’m afraid of death.”

Julian’s eyes blew wide open, his neck grew two inches longer while shaking his head to get Cai’s attention.

“Why would we kill you?” Xander asked. “We kill out of necessity. Look out the window. We’re two minutes from an airport. There’s close to a billion dollars on that drive. We could buy a whole country and have more money leftover than we could spend in our entire lives. You pose no threat to us.”

“Then let them go. When I know they’re safe, I’ll take you to the drive.”

“Come on, now,” Xander said, his face an easy read of ‘do I look that stupid.’

“You were stupid enough to touch Rachel.”

Bad Guy Three moved from out behind Cai to sit on the mahogany desk. His Glock 17 rested against one enormous thigh, suppressor attached. The only other thing visible from Bad Guy Two was his gloved hands. Suppressors and gloves. Yeah, sure, you’ll just let us go. “Wish I had a mallet,” he said in Albanian. “I’d show him what you did to fingers and toes, Papa.”

Papa threw back his head and bellowed a laugh. Cai giggled again.

“Pierce.” Xander tapped to his own ear.

Pierce, the gloved goon, aka Bad Guy Two, stepped over to Rachel, tilted her head, and then ripped all five earrings out of her ears at once. She tried to scream, her mouth open and hoarse gurgles frothing in her throat.

Cai roared, “I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you.” His vision went red. “I will fucking kill you!”

Rachel sobbed, though it came out as raspy wheezing. Her breath struggled through snot and phlegm before her head fell forward. She devolved into unintelligible whimpers.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Rach. Tears of rage and helplessness poured out.

“Tell them!” Julian screeched. “Look at her. Tell them before they tear her apart!”

“The moment I do, we are all dead!” I’m so sorry, Rach. It was supposed to be me. He could only use the side of his palm to touch her arm. He hoped she felt it. That she understood, he was there. “Besa,” he whispered the promise to her.

“Mr. Thompson isn’t very reliable with secrets, is he?” Xander murmured. “I haven’t had much time with him. He just waltzed into our lap when your friend left him outside a police station. He seems amenable though. Think he’ll negotiate?”

How much torture could Julian withstand? They only needed twenty-two more minutes. His friend had a few scratches and he was already whining. If Julian told them about the web page, they were toast. Cai’d written everything there. “Julian, Riley is coming. I promise you he’s coming.” Take a little pain.

Xander stood up and patted Cai’s shoulder. “Bring him in.”

Pierce gave a gentle press on a panel near the bar. It popped open, revealing a bathroom where Walter Cole sat on the toilet, suit rumpled but clean. Pierce grabbed the Senator’s arm and pulled him into the room. “Where do you want him, sir?”

We’re toast.

The one thing Julian will give up everything for, a chance at Walter Cole.

“Doesn’t matter, Arush. You have the blade.”

Xander dragged an armchair away from the desk. He used his foot to shove the coffee table out of the way and then placed the chair facing Julian. Pierce brought Cole over and pushed him into the leather seat. Julian’s glare could have drilled a hole through Cole’s face. “This is who you wanted, right?” Xander asked. “We have a mutual enemy, Mr. Thompson. The night he killed your friend—”

“Boyfriend,” Julian growled, baring his teeth.

“Boyfriend,” Xander acknowledged. “Your boyfriend died because he was about to find out that the Senator had paid for my murder. What you and Jonathan witnessed was a coverup of my escape. Unfortunately for Walter, Colonel Rivers over there”—Xander indicated Bad Guy Three leaning against the desk—“was more loyal to me.”

Julian scoffed. “Do you think I’m an idiot? We aren’t on the same side. You both stole that money. Then he tried to steal it from you. Probably before you could do the same to him. That money was unfrozen to help support the Somalian military. To fight terrorism. How many will die now? How long until Al Shabaab takes over? Hundreds of thousands of civilians and soldiers will be slaughtered because of your greed.”

“But I am not responsible for Jonathan’s death,” Xander said calmly.

Cai gritted his teeth. Fresh pain spiked through the loose molar. The pain grounded him, focused his energy. He exhaled a hot breath through his nose. “And Zip? James? Father Wolff? Senator Cole did that too?”

“I am genuinely sorry to hear the priest died.” Xander looked over his shoulder.

“You opened fire on him! And now you’re sorry?”

They needed time and Xander enjoyed talking. The man did seem to feel bad. No reason to tell him Father Jeremy wasn’t dead. Guilt made people sloppy. Cai wasn’t going to get in the way of an enemy making a mistake.

“This is business,” Xander responded. “You are taking it personally, which I understand. Be logical. They were threats and collateral damage. You are not. We only need your cooperation. And, Mr. Strakosha.” He pulled out a pistol and attached a suppressor slowly. “I need it quickly.”

Walter Cole turned from the gun. Cai caught a brief slash of fear in his profile. “Xander, this isn’t you.”

“Walt, be quiet.” Xander dropped the magazine out and made a show of reloading three bullets into it. “Or I’ll put a bullet in your skull right now.”

Cai’s heartbeat finally sped up, panic thundering through him.

“I have three bullets, Mr. Thompson,” Xander said, pointing the gun at Rachel’s leg. “She has two knees. The third bullet goes through her head or Walter’s. Your choice. Where’s my drive?”

Have to get free. “Julian, do not believe a word he says.” Cai leaned back to hide his hands and picked frantically at the skin around the top implant on his back. He watched the clock, fingers digging and scraping, slick and slippery, but he got one edge free. He pushed the plastic tube out and felt around for the lid. When he found it, he dragged the cap off with his thumb, letting it fall into his waistband. Feeling for the blade end, he sawed at the zip tie. A minute or so just to weaken the plastic to break it.

The clock on the wall ticked to six. “Six o’clock,” Cai said to Julian. Texts sent.

Even if he wanted to, Julian could make no deals. But he could tell them the FBI had the drives now. If he did that, they were dead.

* * *

A ‘911’ text popped up on Riley’s screen. “You have got to be kidding me,” he muttered and then told the voice assistant to call Pops. The phone picked up on the first ring. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

Pops’s voice came over the speakers. “Riley, Nikolaj sent your mother a message a few minutes ago. It says, ‘This is a scheduled text. If I don’t call within the next five minutes, call Riley, or I die. Only Riley. Another scheduled text will follow at five minutes exactly.’”

Riley lifted his foot off the gas. “Did a second one come in?”

“Not— Wait, here it is now.” Silence over the phone and then Pops asked, “It says, ‘Break the wrong table?’"

A car horn honked behind them.

“Cordova?” Kitts said. “My grandmother just passed us. She was walking.”

Riley checked the dash. He’d dropped down to forty-five mph. He floored the gas pedal. His heart picked up speed faster than the car. Timed texts meant Cai had expected to be captured. Sending the text meant he’d given up his only leverage, or he was dead. Don’t get sidetracked. Figure it out. Break the wrong table? “What table could he mean?”

“Hm,” Pops said. “The tile mosaics he’s been doing for the restaurant tables?” The phone went silent except for breath. “How would I know the wrong one?”

“Leave it. The FBI will take care of it. Do not touch the tables. Three people are dead because of what he hid there .” In my fucking parent’s business? Where my mother is every day? God damn you, Cai. I’m going to wring your fucking neck.

“We called DPD. They’re already on the way,” Pops replied. “I’ll tell them to wait for the FBI.” In a lowered voice, he asked, “Is Nikolaj..?”

“Dios nos salve,” his mother cried. She had the ears of a cat. “?Jorge! ?No digas esas cosas!” Hail Mary tumbled out of her in rapid Spanish. She interrupted herself with begging God to protect Cai. “?Dios lo salve!”

Yeah. Riley echoed her. Don’t say that. He made a sign of the cross and kissed his fingers. “Cai is not dead.”

I won’t survive that loss.

Hear me, God? Don’t give me this test. I will fail.

Third stage: Bargaining.

“Son?”

“I can’t tell you more than that, Pops.”

In the background, his mother continued a tearful prayer and then cut herself off with a yell. “I found it. Jorge, come! It’s this one. Look at the lines here.”

“Found what?” Riley asked, the unmistakable sound of scraping telling him what he already knew. His mother was digging the grout out. “Pops, tell her to leave it! It’s FBI evidence and dangerous.”

“Isabela, handle the edges. Give me that!” Riley thought Pops muted the phone, but then he heard the wheels of his chair moving again. “It’s a padded envelope. Size of my palm. Your name is on the front. Want me to open it?”

Information they needed? Enough to risk evidence? “Yes.”

Paper ripped and Pops swore several times before he eventually said, “There’s a letter under what looks like a cell phone battery? It’s flat and silver, about the size of a school eraser.”

“It’s a disk drive from a laptop.”

“Do you need the serial numbers?”

“No. Scan the letter and email me the pictures.”

“You need it asap?”

Kitts nudged his arm and pointed at the Blackhawk helicopter a half mile east of them.

“Yeah, they might have something relevant to what’s happening. Just be as careful as you can.” Riley peeled across two lanes to the off ramp so hard that Kitts slammed into the passenger door. “Pops, I have to go.”

“Sending it now. Be safe. Te queremos, hijo mío. Te queremos mucho.”

“Te quiero, Papá.” Riley pressed the end call button and pointed at the older phone. “The RFID reader.” Nothing as they drove past the first building. Within fifty meters of the second, the scanner picked up a weak signal. “You were spot on,” Riley said to Kitts. “That’s the one.” He pointed to an eight-story building in the center of the empty block.

“Speed up. No more phones. Switch to comms.” Kitts indicated to turn left at the intersection. The tracer blinked faster as they drove past. “Little genius,” he murmured. “I don’t want to know how he snuck it in, but he’s in there. Park around the block. We’ll stay out of sight until backup arrives. Won’t be long.” Kitts looked out his window and up at the sky and then used his radio to give the exact location to Kelly. “It’s pretty isolated. We got lucky. Minimum civilians here,” he said.

Riley’s phone pinged just as Kelly’s helicopter passed overhead and into Centennial Airport. There was barely time to read the copy of Cai’s letter. Laying his gun in his lap, he picked up his phone.

Dear Riley,

I’m on my way to your house to confess some stuff, but, if I don’t make it, this letter will cover everything.

For the last year, Julian and I crafted a plan to destroy two people. If you’re reading this letter, we failed. I can only hope that you’ll succeed in whatever justice you can mete out.

Prisc Alvarado wasn’t alone the day he raped me. He had a junkie named Thomas Cole there, too. They both beat me, raped me, and strangled me repeatedly for over seven hours. They did other things I can’t bring myself to write or talk about again. I detailed what I could in my police report at the time, though I didn’t know his name then, I do now. Thomas Cole is the son of State Senator Walter Cole.

There’s no getting over the things they did, Riley. But I did try. To get over it. To be normal. Once Prisc was dead, I tried. Then Dare asked me to do a fashion show at the bar.

I had no idea who the junkie was until I ran into Tommy Cole during that fundraiser. It all came crashing down. An attempt was made on his life and it became impossible to get to him after that. His security was too tight, and I didn’t have the heart to murder his bodyguards.

No. That’s a lie. I promised myself I wouldn’t lie to you unless I had to. And it’s 2AM already, so I can’t write this whole letter all over. The truth then.

I didn’t try another way because I wanted Thomas Cole to know who killed him. I wanted time alone with him. I wanted to make him pay. I want to make him scream and beg. I want his blood on my hands and his fear etched in my memory.

I want to watch him die in agony because then I won’t see him over me every night and I’ll hear his screams instead of his whispers.

Riley needed time with God to confess his brief satisfaction from the thought of Thomas Cole’s death. That wasn’t him or his values. But he had no time to confess and get right with God. No time to atone and be forgiven. He had to numb the rage before he lost himself in it.

“Take it easy,” Kitts said, obviously sensing something he didn’t like.

Riley nodded, swallowing down his emotions in order to continue reading.

The plan I needed was something that would get me face-to-face with Tommy. Alone. It took me three years to get here, but if I’m captured—well, that, too, has always been part of the plan.

So, now you know.

There is a monster inside me. A psychopath, just as Agent McCleary knew all along. Hate has got me through each day the last few years. Hate made me wake up every morning. Hate was enough. Until I saw you again.

I have to dig deep for the hate when I’m with you.

Yet here I am running to you for the last time, hoping for a new purpose because when I confess tonight, I don’t know that my love for you will be enough to lock my monster away.

I’m sorry for all this. I’m sorry for all of the lies and deceit.

Please don’t tell Peter or Dare. You know what they’d do to Tommy.

Riley swiped to get the second message. It had FOR THE FBI written at the top.

*Max Porter is buried in the cement floor of the empty condo below ours. Map on the back.

Riley swiped to check out the image, and then returned because there were at least ten different spots marked on the very detailed map. He wanted to pretend he didn’t see that or understand its implication.

Is he my punishment and my reward, God? If so, well done.

(I know the whole “killing thing” is a problem for you people, but he broke into our condo. Julian will explain, but I killed Max Porter, not him. Julian just did a lot of screaming.)

‘Killing thing’. In quotes. The worst part about this so-called confession is that it left out an important hole in the story. They had to have lured Max to his death, or they’d never have been able to subdue or surprise him. A sprinkle of sociopath in a tornado of violence. That was Cai in a nutshell.

*I’m sorry Julian pretended to be the Spanish hitman. We needed a reason for the FBI to get involved. In my defense, I thought you’d figure it out. It was a really bad accent.

*Also, I’m sorry for the bomb threat at the hotel. Please tell Scotland Yard it was me and not Julian or Rachel. I had to get something into Max Porter’s laptop and got stuck in his closet when he came back early.

Biological evidence from my clothing should be with the Prisc Alvarado files. Further biological evidence is a 9mm black Ruger in Prisc Alvarado’s room. I believe that also was collected after his death. Maybe you can get Tommy on statutory rape with this confession and that evidence? If anyone cares to try.

PS: Riley, I’m sorry for where I left this envelope. And for the texts to your mom (Your dad would have called the police). Please know that I would never put your parents in danger. :(

The emoticon was a nice touch, Riley thought. ‘Sorry for the dismembered body, the terrorist threat, the lies I told you, for tossing an extra grenade into your parents’ life, but, really, all that is just a sad-emoticon level of horrifying’.

I have texts timed every two hours to send to Isabela Cordova, unless I or Julian text a code to stop it.

So that’s what time you have from the moment they took me. Two hours. If you haven’t found me by then, I’ll make sure there’s no way I can talk.

I knew the risks of this plan and I chose to continue. I am not afraid to die. I hope that gives you some peace.

-Nikolaj Adnan Strakosha

Riley peered up at the tinted glass and steel building.

I’m coming for you, Cai, with some of that hate fueling me.

He opened the door and got out.