Chapter 3
Raiden
“Goddamnit!”
The drawn-out curse is punctuated by my fist banging against the steering wheel.
Dropping my head back, I close my eyes and take a few moments to gather my thoughts and check my emotions.
Unfortunately, when my gaze slides to the side, I find an elderly woman looking positively aghast at my outburst. I can practically see the invisible strand of pearls she’s clutching.
My chagrined grimace does little to put me back in the stranger’s good graces, judging by her tsk and upturned nose.
Thankfully, the light turns green, and I’m relieved of any more judgment.
It’s safe to assume that she’ll be mentioning our brief interaction at her weekly prayer meeting.
This is Chaplain County, which means every minor inconvenience is worthy of a police report or a chat with God.
The second my distraction drives away, my frustration and worry surge back with a vengeance.
As I make my way through the busy city streets, it hits me that I barely know anything about the place I’ve decided to call home.
I moved here six years ago to earn a Bachelor's degree in Criminal Justice. I’d done my due diligence and knew the local university produced well-qualified candidates for the career field I was interested in pursuing.
I was determined to graduate by my twenty-first birthday, and though my social life suffered as a result, I did the work and made it happen.
Following graduation, I applied to the Officer’s Training Academy, then spent the next three years as a police officer, serving my community to the best of my ability.
I took the shifts no one wanted and did the menial tasks that were often pushed to the wayside.
I went above and beyond, willing to do whatever was needed to set myself apart from my peers.
The burnout was brutal, but I achieved every goal I set, as well as a few I didn't even know I had. I made detective by age twenty-five, and nearly two years later, I’m trying my damnedest to make a name for myself.
It’s crazy to think the path I’m on now was put into motion by a simple freshman year career day, but when I listened to that officer speak so passionately about his work, I was captivated.
That moment, combined with the overwhelming pressure I’ve always felt to succeed, made my choice of profession a foregone conclusion.
I grew up with constant retellings of all my parents and grandparents had sacrificed when they immigrated to the States, so I knew with certainty that job security was paramount to my success, especially after watching my father give everything he had to a factory job that ultimately cut him loose after two decades of loyalty.
Now, at the age of fifty-four, he’s started his own woodworking business to help make ends meet.
Their savings are pretty substantial, but anything can happen.
I’m grateful that he no longer answers to someone who doesn’t give a shit about the tireless work their employees do, without so much as a thank you in return.
Now, he and Mom spend most of their free time traveling since he only takes orders when he feels like it.
Initially, my parents struggled with my decision to be in law enforcement in any capacity, worried for my safety and how far I’d have to move from our home state of Texas, but they finally came around.
All I’ve ever wanted is to make my family proud, to reinforce that their struggles weren’t for nothing, and the day my father pinned my detective shield, a sliver of that oppressive weight was alleviated.
And yet, despite all I’ve managed to accomplish, the need to do and achieve more is a constant thrumming in the back of my mind.
I barely have a second to decompress most days, much less explore Chaplain properly.
The majority of what I do know has been learned through working patrol and responding to calls for service.
It’s a beautiful city, steeped in religion and history, but it’s not without its faults.
Though how deeply those faults run came as a complete shock to me and the rest of the department, or at least those of us granted access to the case.
By my best guestimate, I’d been living in Chaplain for the better part of a year when I had my first run-in with the elusive group living off-grid near the outskirts of the city.
They were selling produce at the local Farmer’s Market, and by all accounts, were friendly and well-liked.
The men were personable, and even though the women kept to themselves, they’d give polite nods and smiles to every customer they tended to.
Nothing about them stood out. They were known for keeping to themselves, and if there’s one thing the people of Chaplain understand and respect, it’s a deep-seated love for Christ. As far as anyone was aware, they were ultra-conservative Christians who didn’t have any desire to partake in the lustful ways of modern society.
And like good little neighbors, no one batted an eye.
In fact, some even thought it noble and steadfast that in today’s times such restraint was even possible.
It was the perfect con, really. They showed their faces once a month, just enough to placate the locals’ curiosity, then went about their business.
I wouldn’t have thought twice about them if I’d never crossed paths with Andi.
I’d spent that morning getting chewed out for completely fucking up a years-long investigation.
I gave a shoddy informant too much leeway, which brought my own discernment into question when he ran his mouth to the wrong people.
It was, arguably, a shitty situation for a rookie detective to find himself in.
But there she was, like a ray of fucking sunshine, breaking through the gloom of an otherwise wretched start to the day.
Her hair was the color of cinnamon, the light breeze giving it a tousled look.
She was clothed in a shapeless sack and wasn’t wearing a lick of makeup, and still, I’m certain I’ve never encountered a creature more beautiful than Andilyn Adams.
But nothing could’ve prepared me for the events that unfolded following our chance encounter.
The things I’ve learned, having to listen to Andi herself recount the horrors she’s endured at the hands of those sadistic zealots, will haunt me for the rest of my life.
Because it’s me she insisted on speaking with, and despite the numerous times I’ve lost my lunch after hearing about their depraved inner workings, I’d never dream of passing her off to someone who’s better equipped to stomach the details.
Andi’s lived it for the past decade; the least I can do is listen.
There are parts I still can’t wrap my mind around.
When you haven’t personally been subjected to such evil, your brain wants to refuse that it actually exists.
Being in this line of work has somewhat curbed that innate response to deny the reality of how many things actually go bump in the night.
Chaplain’s a relatively safe place to live and raise a family, but I’ve studied case files that’d give you nightmares for weeks on end.
It’s hard to fathom a person could do such twisted things to another living being when you find it impossible to place yourself in their position of being so pitiless.
But monsters really do exist, and they’re far scarier than anything we imagined as children.
A part of me wishes Andi was embellishing some of the more horrid aspects of Veritas’ personal brand of cruelty, but I know it’s far more likely that she’s kept the worst of it to herself.
She’s given me a plethora of information to work through, and I’ve spent many sleepless nights trying to piece it all together.
I’m ashamed to admit it, but my first thought after processing everything was how this could very well be my defining moment.
A case like this only comes along once in a lifetime.
It would’ve been so easy to use Andi as a stepping stone to further my career.
But I got to know her through hours of conversation and months of pouring over the intel she’s passed along.
One of the first things we’re taught is to separate our emotions.
Being overly involved is a recipe for disaster.
It can cloud your judgment and jeopardize the integrity of the investigation.
So I guess it’s a good thing I’m nothing more than a middleman where Andi’s concerned, because I’m so emotionally invested in the outcome, I’d likely lose my job if I had been assigned a more active role.
There’s been an itch beneath my skin since our first phone call.
The need to get her the hell out of there batters against my common sense on a daily basis.
The strength it’s taken her to willingly stay behind enemy lines so we’ll have an iron-clad case is so fucking commendable, but I loathe every second she’s still firmly in their clutches.
It’s not something I’ve divulged to Andi, knowing it’d only crush her spirit, but our Chief of Police wasn’t initially convinced she hadn’t fabricated the whole thing.
He wasn’t there to witness the fear in her eyes when she pleaded for help, though, and he hadn’t been on the other end of the line to hear the crack in her voice when she’d recount the atrocities she’d witnessed or been the subject of.
I stormed his office by week two, begging him to call in a favor so we could finally raid the place, but he’d not-so-nicely reminded me that no judge in their right mind would issue a search warrant without more evidence.
I’ve never cursed our justice system as much as I did that day.
As someone who’s sworn to obey and uphold the law, I can freely admit it’s heavily flawed.
I tried every trick in the book to find a workaround, but Veritas has the required permit and license to sell their produce at the market, and there are no outstanding tax liens or judgments.
By all outward appearances, their ducks are in a perfect, unsuspecting row.
But with the FBI’s involvement, the facade they’ve crafted is beginning to crumble.
Especially now, with the possibility of Hudson Taylor being recovered.
Glaring at the silent, blank screen of my cell phone, I exhale roughly.
It’s been nineteen days since I last spoke with Andi.
We have a standing appointment every Thursday to check in and update one another on any new developments, but she never called.
And now we’re creeping up on week three, and it’s still crickets.
I’ve kept my ringer on loud, ignoring the Chief’s disgruntled comments about silencing our devices during debriefings, but I paid his scolding no mind.
There’s not a chance in hell I’m going to risk missing her call because I’m indisposed.
I’m trying my best to rationalize her sudden disappearance, clinging to the hope she’s just been busy and couldn’t get away.
Anything besides the alternative. It makes me physically ill when I think of the risks she’s taking at our behest. We practically sent her into the lion’s den with a stick of dynamite strapped to her chest, and I can't bring myself to think of what they’ll do to her if she’s caught with that burner.
They dole out punishments for far less offenses.
If they’ve been made aware of Andi’s duplicity, I fear we wouldn’t be able to get her out in time.
As I make the final turn into the precinct parking lot, I’m amazed I made it back in one piece.
I have no recollection of the past twenty minutes, and the last thing I want is to face Chief O’Connor and pretend I didn’t just spend an hour on the clock prowling the Farmer’s Market for any sign of Andi.
I toss the burger I grabbed for lunch, my stomach too twisted in knots to attempt eating it.
I knew going into this it wouldn’t be a quick or easy process, but the price Andi’s paying grows steeper by the day.
At some point, that cost will be too high.
Their demands will surpass the threshold of bullshit she’s willing to endure, and she’ll react, like any normal, self-respecting person would if they were constantly berated and made to feel worthless.
And if there’s anything I’ve learned about Andi over these past seven months, it’s that her spark and tenacity are beacons, but they’ll use those traits against her if given the chance.
Veritas is merciless without being provoked.
I’d hate to see what they’re capable of when anger and humiliation are the driving forces behind their torment.
As I reach the door, I pause, exhaling audibly as I go through the motions of rechecking every facet of my phone.
The ringer. Cell reception. Network settings.
Nothing’s amiss, not that I actually expected it to be.
Which means the reason for Andi’s silence lies solely on her end.
Whether she’s temporarily cut off communication to avoid detection or she’s already been made, there’s not a damn thing I can do to change the outcome.
I’m forced to sit and wait, twiddling my thumbs while conjuring up every worst-case scenario imaginable.
I’d give just about anything to hear that sweet voice of hers right now.
There’s a softness in the way she speaks, but it’s not fragile.
Even after the longest day at the office, it’s her I want to listen to when I’m lying in bed at night trying to decompress, no matter if she needs to purge the pain or simply wants to talk about something completely off topic.
Groaning, I lightly bang my head against the door, knowing the path I’ve ventured down is far from professional, but the time for course correcting has come and gone.
I’m in the thick of it, going against everything we’re taught and risking the very future I envisioned, but no career could ever measure up to the chokehold Andi has me in.
Steeling my spine, I breeze through the back entrance like a man on a mission.
I refuse to accept that our last conversation could’ve actually been our last. We have too many things we’ve yet to talk about.
Stupid, mundane things you don’t think to bring up because time is on your side.
You’ll get to it when you get to it. But if there’s anyone who’ll be just as concerned with Andi’s silence, it’s the agent stationed in Chaplain for the remainder of the FBI’s investigation.
Between the two of us, maybe we can scrounge up enough support to finally make a move.