Chapter 11 Raven #2
The door swung open, and Shelby rushed in, a flurry of movement as she swiftly swept up the remaining papers, her hands moving faster than his own.
"What's going on?" she asked, not looking up as she stuffed documents into an encrypted hard case.
"Federal agents are at our gate," he said, eyes locking on hers.
The atmosphere in the room tightened like a vice around him as Shelby escorted the two agents into the room.
Raven watched them settle, his gaze sweeping over every detail, every movement.
They weren't just here to ask questions but to dig for information and rattle him.
The way their eyes scanned the room—quick, practiced, methodical—told him everything he needed to know.
They were familiar with environments like this, familiar with sitting across from men like him.
Neither looked uncomfortable, which meant they knew how this game was played.
But so did Raven.
Shelby, ever composed, effortlessly slipped into the polished role of assistant.
"Can I offer you anything to eat or drink?
" The question was simple, almost overly polite.
Still, Raven knew it served a purpose: to set the tone and remind them they had walked into their world, not the other way around.
A glance passed between the agents—subtle, unspoken communication. Raven could tell they worked together long enough that words weren't necessary.
"Coffee. Black, please. Nothing for my partner," the male agent finally said, his tone clipped, with more formality than actual request.
Raven took them in. The man was controlled, direct, and authoritative. The woman had yet to speak, their dynamic was obvious. He was the hunter, and she was the hound. There to sniff out any details that couldn’t be gathered from direct questioning. She wasn't here to interrogate just to analyze.
What the hell could this be about?
"I'm Special Agent Blackwell," the man said before gesturing toward his partner. "This is Special Agent Ames."
Ames didn't speak, only nodded—brief, simple, efficient. She didn't waste words where none were needed.
Raven leaned back slightly, maintaining casual authority over the situation but his patience was already thin. "What can I do for you, Agent Blackwell?" His voice was even laced with a warning tone, indicating that he didn't appreciate the disturbance and wanted them to get to the point.
Blackwell met his gaze. "Mr. Cordoba, I assume you've heard about the recent murders of one young woman and the abduction and suspected murder of a second in the area?"
The air in the room shifted—tightened. The words settled between them as Blackwell paused for dramatic effect.
"And our ongoing search for a serial killer?"
The statement wasn't just informational; it was bait.
Blackwell wasn't just asking. He was watching. Waiting.
"Let's skip the theatrics, Agent. I doubt you came here to confirm whether or not I watch the news."
Blackwell cleared his throat, cutting through the pretense with the sharp precision of a man with no interest in games, just information.
"You seem busy, so I'll get straight to the point," Blackwell replied. "We have surveillance footage from one of the abduction sites. It shows a man near the victim's car before she disappeared."
"The footage wasn't clear enough to give us a face, but we could zoom in on a tattoo. A very distinct one." Blackwell's gaze sharpened, his voice paced, watching for any slight changes in Ravens' face. "It's a mark we've identified as being affiliated with your family and its businesses."
Raven's expression remained unreadable. He’d spent years mastering that art. Even if he was shocked to hear the information, they wouldn't read it on his face.
Blackwell continued, pressing forward. "So, we'd like to know, Mr. Cordoba—how many people in your organization carry that same tattoo?" He leaned forward slightly, his presence shifting the balance of the room. "And more importantly… where were you the night in question?"
"Firstly, which night are you referring to?" Raven's tone remained neutral, but behind it was the unmistakable edge of offense. "While I've seen the footage on the news, I can't say I cared enough to keep track of dates and times."
He let the statement settle. That was their first attempt at implicating him, assuming he knew the date of the abduction. The absence of the date had been a deliberate play—to try and get him to divulge that he knew when it was the girl went missing, an attempt to tighten a noose around his neck.
"Last Wednesday," Ames replied coolly.
Raven barely nodded, shifting slightly in his seat. "Fine. About what time? I'm very busy—appointments late into the evening, sometimes stretching past midnight." His tone was measured and dismissive, just enough to test their patience.
Blackwell exhaled, already irritated. "About three a.m., Mr. Cordoba." He leveled his gaze at Raven, clearly frustrated with the evasive responses.
Raven met his stare with practiced ease. "Three a.m.? I was home for the night." He leaned back slightly, exuding calm confidence. "We have surveillance that will prove that fact. If necessary, I can have the footage sent to your offices—assuming you leave me a business card."
He let the offer settle, but before they could respond, he tilted slightly, just enough to make them reconsider their approach.
"But let's be honest here. You're the FBI—you don't ask questions you don't already know the answers to." A faint smirk ghosted his lips. "So, I doubt you'll require it."
Ames nodded at Blackwell. Indicating that the conversation was getting them nowhere. It didn't stop Blackwell from continuing.
"And the tattoo, how many people in your organization have that same tattoo you have on your hand, Mr. Cordoba?" he asked as his eyes fell on Ravens' tattoo.
Raven didn't move or shift under the scrutiny. Instead, he allowed the silence to stretch, controlled and calculated.
"That's an interesting question, Agent." His voice was even, smooth, neither defensive nor forthcoming. "Why? Are you compiling some sort of registry? Or are you looking for a single name to pin your theory on?"
He met Blackwell's stare, unwavering, forcing the Agent to break the silence first.
Blackwell exhaled, patience thinning. "It's a simple question, Mr. Cordoba. How many men in your organization wear that mark?"
Raven tilted his head slightly, considering. "It's a symbol of loyalty, Agent. Brotherhood. You'll find it on many men—but I suspect you already knew that."
Ames, still quiet, shifted slightly, her eyes never leaving Raven's. "Then help us narrow it down."
Raven let out a slow breath, the tension in the room thickening, the exchange edging into dangerous territory.
"I don't believe in making assumptions about my people." He kept his tone neutral, but just enough steel was beneath it to send a message.
"But let's be honest—you already have a suspect in mind, right? Otherwise, you wouldn't be here."
The game had begun.
"I think we have all we need for today, Mr. Cordoba. If we need any further information, we'll be in touch," Ames said, standing and placing her card on his desk.
"I have my card for the tape if you wouldn't mind." She headed for the door. Blackwell stood and looked at Raven one last time before they both exited the office.
Raven exhaled slowly, brushing fingers over the edge of the card Ames had left on his desk. It was a simple piece of paper, yet it carried weight he didn't want to bear.
The FBI wasn't done with him—not by a long shot. They had walked in with intent, pressed just enough to rattle him, and now? They'd wait. Watch. See what he did next.
A slow smirk pulled at his lips, though it lacked absolute amusement. They thought they had something. Thought they could unsettle him.
They'd soon learn that the Kings dealt with their problems in-house. And if a serial killer was amongst his ranks, bringing heat to the organization, he would be handled with Cartel style far away from FBI jurisdiction.
He slid the card into his desk drawer and turned toward his screen.
Time to prepare for whatever comes next.
He wasn't looking forward to the witch hunt he was about to have to lead to flush this bastard out.
But it's what his father would demand anyway— might as well get in front of the eight ball now.
So, when he dropped the information in his lap, he could tell him he was already on top of the situation.