CHAPTER ONE
“I’m just saying it’s suspicious. You guys don’t think it’s suspicious?”
Turk, a big, beautiful German Shepherd, elderly but still strong and spry, barked his firm support for Dr. David Friedman's opinion of Dr. Carolyn Maldonado's death.
Or maybe he was only repeating his request for some of the steak David was eating.
The other two beings in David's kitchen, a beautiful, athletic woman in her late thirties with sandy brown hair and intense dark eyes, and a slightly older man with a wrestler's build, a movie-star face, and just enough sag around his middle to betray his fondness for good food, shared a look with each other.
Faith folded her hands on the table and said, “It’s very suspicious. In fact, I think it’s almost certain that you’re correct. I still think it’s a bad idea for you to dig into her research right now.”
David sighed. “So, we’re back to this now? Come on, guys, we agreed that we were going to pursue this.”
“We did,” Michael agreed, “but we also agreed that we have to be careful as hell. This isn’t just some street gang.”
David rolled his eyes. “I’m aware that the CIA isn’t a street gang, David.”
“Are you aware that if they want to kill you, there’s almost nothing anyone can do to protect you?” Faith asked.
David pursed his lips and looked down at his plate.
Several weeks ago, he had seen a patient at his office in the FBI's K9 School, a Marine Corps working dog named Sierra.
Sierra had presented with scarring and signs of severe anxiety.
Had she been an ordinary patient, he would have recommended an investigation into her living circumstances, but since she was a military working dog, his professional capacity was limited.
Working dogs, even ones in training, frequently present with scarring, and the signs of anxiety might not have been clear to every veterinarian.
He was forced to give her a clean bill of health.
But he hadn’t left it at that. He’d investigated Sierra and the handler who’d brought her in, Staff Sergeant Miranda Whitaker, and discovered that both were assigned to a mysterious unit known as the 93rd Testing Brigade.
Further investigation had revealed that the brigade was involved in some very shady stuff.
They had abused many dogs over the past several years and were currently abusing Sierra and at least twelve other dogs as part of a program that David didn’t fully understand but could possibly have something to do with enhancing the psychological connection between handler and dog.
David wasn’t quite ready to believe that they really wanted to create telepathic connections between handlers and dogs.
That further investigation had led to several threats against David from this brigade, culminating in an attempt on his life a month ago when he was on his way home from taking pictures of the brigade’s testing facility at the Marine base in Quantico.
Michael had intervened at the last moment and rescued David from his attacker.
Shortly after, he’d broken the news to Faith, David, and Faith’s partner, Special Agent Jessica Torres, that the 93rd Testing Brigade was, in fact, a CIA unit masquerading as a Marine unit.
The group had agreed to pursue the investigation, but David was frustrated with the slow pace of their approach and their lack of progress. Sierra was being abused as they spoke. If Turk was in that same situation, they wouldn’t be advocating this kind of caution.
“You’re still limping, David,” Faith said softly. “You still have headaches.”
David felt a pang, and his shoulders slumped. The attempt on his life had involved forcing his car off the road and down a hill. He’d suffered serious injuries and only survived because Michael arrived, killed his attacker, and took him to the hospital.
“It’s a minor sprain and a concussion,” David said. “I’ll be fine.”
“This time,” Faith replied.
They fell silent again. Michael shifted awkwardly in his seat and glanced at Turk, who watched David pensively. Faith also watched David, not pensively but with more fear behind her stern gaze than David liked to see.
He sighed. “Okay, I’ll step back. I just… Can someone step forward?”
Faith rolled her eyes, and David lifted his hands and said, “What if it was—”
“Don’t,” Faith interrupted. “Just… stop saying that. It’s not Turk, but it is you, and at this point, it should be clear that being a maverick is the wrong way to handle this case. You doing anything visible is the wrong way to handle this case.
“And Michael is stepping forward. He’s putting his own life at risk helping with what amounts to a personal vendetta of yours.”
“And I’m happy to do that,” Michael said, lifting his finger.
Faith spun toward him, and he clammed up. She sighed and rubbed her forehead. “Babe, I get it. Okay? I do. But please accept that you’re not experienced in this area, and—I love you—but you don’t know how to do this right.”
David’s lips thinned. Heat climbed his cheeks, but Faith was right. He was a veterinarian, not a detective. He didn’t know what he was doing, and that had gotten him in trouble. But…
He ran his hand over his face and looked at the living room beyond where the television played reruns of the Dog Whisperer for Turk. “I just hate thinking that Sierra’s going to die while I’m hiding.”
“She might,” Faith said bluntly. “But if we do it your way, we won’t help her, won’t stop them, and probably will get you killed.”
She counted each item off on her fingers, each one a knife through David’s chest.
“What if it was Turk, Faith?”
She stiffened. He’d made this argument before, and she’d relented.
Not this time.
“It was almost you, David. You almost died accomplishing absolutely nothing.”
That last sentence was more than a knife. It was an axe blow severing him in half.
Because she was right. He’d accomplished nothing. He’d nearly gotten himself killed and made no progress in his case, nothing that brought them any closer to stopping the 93rd.
He hated it, hated it so much that bile rose in his throat.
But Faith was right. If he got in the way, it would almost certainly make things worse. “Fine,” he said curtly. “Fair enough. Keep me posted and let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
Faith relaxed. David hated the relief in her eyes. Like he was a child who had just promised not to mess with Daddy’s fishing equipment so he didn’t get a hook stuck in his finger. He wasn’t proud of feeling this way, but he couldn’t help himself.
“We should… You should look into Dr. Maldonado’s death,” David said. “The person who sent us that email said to start there. He also said to be quick because they were expanding the project.”
The email was a list of names emailed to him by the informant within the 93rd Testing Brigade. The names allegedly referred to veterinary researchers who were either involved in the 93rd’s project or whose research was used to inform the project.
Faith bristled at the edge in David’s voice, but Michael, who had perfected being easygoing almost to the point of weaponizing it, only nodded.
“Yep. She was an animal behaviorist. That tracks with what we know about the project. I’m doing some surface-level research into her body of work looking for threads to pull. ”
“We shouldn’t rule out the possibility that the email David received is bait trying to see if he’ll keep pursuing this investigation instead of letting it go,” Faith said.
“Yep. That’s why it’s surface-level work. We’re going to be very prudent with our approach. But if it makes you feel better, there’s no sign that any CIA assets are following any of us. I think we’re all right for now.”
They fell silent again. Turk looked between Faith and David and whined, sensing the tension between his humans. When the silence became awkward again, Michael looked at his phone. “Well… I should probably start back. I have a long drive home.”
Michael was the Special Agent-in-Charge of the Philadelphia Field Office.
He was still spending most of his time up there but donating his weekends to this investigation, hiding it behind involvement in some FBI planning committees.
It was Sunday night, meaning he needed to get pack to Philly to work at the field office the following morning.
“I’ll check in with you guys in a few days.
” He looked at David. “Before I go, I’m going to encrypt your laptop.
Just in case. My NSA contacts gave me a program that should make it at least difficult for anyone to look at your computer and see what you’re doing with it.
It’s the same program we used on your office computer. ”
David’s cheeks burned. He knew what just in case meant. The gratitude in Faith’s eyes when she looked at Michael told him she knew too.
No point in trying to act like he wasn’t going to do what they already knew he was going to do. “Thank you.”
Faith laid a hand on Michael’s arm, and David reminded himself not to be jealous. He succeeded, mostly. “Thank you, Michael.”
“Yeah, of course,” Michael said. “Don’t mention it.”
He stood and settled his fedora on top of his head.
The fedora and trench coat made him look like a film noir detective, an obvious and intentional look that had become a signature for the hard-boiled former field agent.
He grinned at them, tipped his cap, and said, “Shee ya later, shweethawts,” then headed out.
Faith waited until Michael’s headlights turned away and accelerated up the road. Then she looked at David. “Do I have to screw your brains out so you’ll stop being jealous every time I look at Michael with something other than revulsion?”
David rolled his eyes. “No, Faith, I’m good.”
“That was flirting,” she said softly. “I was trying to flirt with you.”
“Were you trying to flirt with me or distract from the real reason I’m upset?”
“Are you trying to fight with me or distract from the real reason you’re upset?”
He sighed and nodded, rubbing his eyes with his palms. “Yeah, yeah. That’s it.”
She reached forward and squeezed his shoulder.
“I get it. You don’t think I do, but I do.
It sucks to feel like you’re sitting still doing nothing while criminals are running rampant hurting innocent people.
But I’ve been in your position before, and I’ve made the wrong decision.
We both know what happened when I did that. ”
David winced, but the pain wasn’t from his current, nearly healed injuries. It was a memory of his encounter with Franklin West, the vicious serial killer known as the Copycat for his adoption of an earlier serial killer’s MO.
He had adopted something else from that killer, an obsession with Faith stemming from the Donkey Killer’s death in the middle of torturing Faith. Michael had killed the Donkey Killer, but for some reason, West’s twisted mind had decided that Faith should be the object of his fixation.
David had met Faith into the middle of the FBI’s investigation into the Copycat.
Faith’s career—and her relationship with David—had landed in hot water multiple times due to her own obsession with catching him.
In hindsight, Faith had come to the conclusion that a lot of West’s obsessions with her was fueled by her own obsession with catching him.
David wasn’t sure about that, but he was sure that West had invaded his home and beaten him within an inch of his life to get to Faith.
He didn’t blame Faith for that, but he understood the point she was trying to make.
He smiled and took her hand. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s hard for me to take a back seat, but it’s the right thing to do, and I’ll do it even though I hate it.”
She smiled and leaned forward to kiss him. Her smile turned coy, and she said, “Are you sure you don’t want me to help you deal with your jealousy?”
He laughed. “Well, I would love to screw your brains out, but I want to make it clear that it’s not because of jealousy. It’s because I am keenly aware of how good you are in bed and would like to experience it again.”
She giggled and kissed the tip of his nose. “Okay. Sounds good.”
And, of course, that was when her phone rang.
David fought to keep the frustration out of his face.
Now that Faith was taking cases again, it seemed like she was called away more often than she was home.
It would be a very bad idea to have that argument right after resolving the previous one, though, so David kept his mouth shut.
Faith checked her phone. “Oh wow. I haven’t talked to her in years.”
David’s brow furrowed, but Faith didn’t offer an explanation. She just answered, getting to her feet and stepping into the living room. Turk looked questioningly at David, and he lifted his hands.
Faith gasped a moment later, and both dog and husband instantly came to alert. “Oh my God,” Faith whispered. “Oh no. Oh God.”
“Faith? What is it? Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, fine,” Faith said, waving distractedly at him. “Hold on. When did he die?”
David shared a sober look with Turk. No conversation that included that question was “fine.” Whatever had happened, their lives were about to be turned upside down yet again.