42. Maverick
MAVERICK
VENDETTA
We can’t fucking find him.
The mayor wasn’t home when we executed the warrant. His house gave us everything we needed to bury him—journals documenting his hunts, a surveillance setup that would make the NSA jealous, and enough evidence to put him away for life. Then he all but vanished.
After meticulously packing up Evans’ computers, surveillance equipment, and handwritten journals, we left the rest of the evidence collection to a secondary team.
Everything we didn’t take would be en route to the Minneapolis field office for processing, but that didn’t matter if we couldn’t find the son of a bitch.
Cruz and I had raced to the mayor’s office downtown, expecting to find him sitting behind his desk since he wasn’t at home.
We were prepared to slap on the cuffs and march him through the walk of shame.
But he wasn’t there. His assistant—a nervous man in his fifties who kept fidgeting with his hands—hadn’t seen him since he left for our meeting this morning.
He kept asking if his boss was in trouble, his voice getting higher with each question we wouldn’t answer.
“You’re telling me this guy has zero fucking family and friends? There’s got to be something we’re missing,” I’d muttered to Cruz as we stood in Evans’ pristine office, scanning the walls for any clue about where he might be.
But there wasn’t. No second home or family properties on file. No family photos in his office or home. No known associates outside of work. The sick bastard covered his tracks well. At least on paper.
Now I’m standing in the hallway outside the FBI resident agency’s conference room, needing a moment to think without the cacophony of voices and noise.
The buzzing fluorescent lights make my eyes ache; they’re too bright for this level of exhaustion.
I lean heavily against the wall and close my eyes—a temporary reprieve from the harsh white light.
When we met with Evans this morning, he had no idea we were onto him.
He left the building under the impression that he’d lead the next press conference.
We assumed he’d head back to his office to write the public statement.
Where the fuck could he have gone? Did his assistant call him as soon as Cruz and I left?
I swipe a hand down my face and drop my head back, staring blankly through the glass doors of the conference room.
The space we’ve commandeered has been transformed into what Cruz calls our “war room.” The long conference table is covered with laptops, case files, and printouts, while multiple phone chargers snake across the surface like electronic ivy.
Empty evidence boxes from Evans’ house line one wall, their contents now spread across every available surface.
I force myself to take a deep breath and push off the wall, ready as I’ll ever be to dive back into the organized chaos.
Arlo and Spencer are hunched over their laptops at the far end of the table, their fingers a blur as they work to crack Evans’ multiple hard drives.
Lines of code scroll across their screens in green text that might as well be hieroglyphics to me.
I can only imagine the amount of evidence we’ll find once they break through his encryption.
Cruz sits at a portable table with three RPD task force officers. Two of them are sifting through traffic camera footage, hoping to track the direction Evans fled. The other two are digging deeper into his background, looking for any connection, any place he might be.
Jesse and Evie have claimed one corner of the room, methodically cataloging Evans’ journals and uploading crime scene photos to the database.
Every few minutes, one of them mutters something under their breath—likely coming across a particularly disturbing entry, if what little I’ve seen is any indication.
“Holy shit,” Jesse says suddenly, his voice laced with disbelief. He’s holding one of the earlier journals. “Boss, you need to hear this.”
I stride over to where he and Evie are working. Cruz stands and follows close behind.
“He was younger in this one—it’s number seven. I can’t pinpoint his age, though,” Jesse explains. “He talks about his aunt, Lisa Evans. And fuck. She locked him in the cellar for days at a time. Called it ‘correcting his behavior.’”
Evie looks up from the journal she’s cataloging, her face pale. “There are pages and pages of this shit, Mav. About how she beat him, kept food from him, left him isolated in complete darkness—things you’d see in a horror movie.”
“She was a fucking lunatic,” Jesse cuts in. “Psychologically tortured Evans for shit like mistaking the salad fork for the dinner fork. A fucking fork , boss.”
“Jesus,” I mutter, scanning the array of journals spread out on the table.
Jesse grabs another one and flips several pages ahead.
“There’s more. Journal number twelve. Listen to this: ‘Aunt Lisa will never hurt me again. I waited until she was deep in sleep, then I drew the blade across her throat. I watched the blood drain from her body. God, it was fucking liberating. And now the only darkness I’ll be in is the one I welcome. ’”
“He slit her throat while she slept,” Cruz says, his grim voice slicing through the absolute silence the room has fallen into.
“No wonder he’s fucked up,” I muse, shaking my head. “Let me know if you find anything else in those.” I nod to the worn journals before pacing behind the row of chairs. Sitting still isn’t an option—not when time is working against us. Not when we can’t find him.
“I got something,” Riley reports, her fingers flying across her keyboard. Multiple screens display GPS tracking data, cell tower pings, and traffic camera feeds. “His phone went dark four hours ago.”
“Wait, what?” I blink hard, rounding the table to stand behind her. “ Four hours? ”
She nods, keeping her eyes locked on the screens. “Last ping was on I-35 northbound between Rochester and Minneapolis. After that, nothing.”
“I want eyes on every route between here and Minneapolis,” I order. “Traffic cams, highway patrol, anything that moves. And get a BOLO out to every jurisdiction within 400 miles from here.” It’s fucking 8:45 p.m. If Evans has a four-hour head start, he could be anywhere.
“Already done,” Cruz responds, leaning over his laptop.
“Rhodes, Cruz, you might wanna take a look at this.” Officer Marquez stands up and walks to the printer, snatching a set of papers from the tray. He meets us halfway and hands them over.
It’s a property record printout showing ownership details. But it’s the address that catches my attention: a house on the outskirts of Minneapolis.
“What are we looking at, Marquez?” Cruz asks, taking the paper from my hands.
“That’s the house the mayor grew up in,” Marquez explains, pointing to the address. “It’s been sitting empty since he killed his aunt. She might’ve tortured the shit out of him, but she left him the house in her will.”
My pulse quickens at the possibility of a lead. “What are the chances he headed there?”
“Pretty fucking good, I’d say,” Cruz mutters, studying the deed. “Especially since Riley confirmed he left Rochester.”
Before I can respond, Cruz’s cell phone rings. He fishes it out of his pocket and glances at the caller ID, his forehead creasing as he swipes the screen and brings the phone to his ear.
“This is Detective Cruz.”
I’m immediately on alert when his head snaps up, his gaze catching mine. I watch his expression change from focused to something I can’t decipher but know I don’t like.
“Hold on.” Cruz sets the phone on speaker and holds it steady between us. “Repeat that.” The look he gives me as he barks the order makes my blood run cold.
“Yes, sir,” a deep, unfamiliar voice responds. “This is Officer Williams with the Minneapolis Police Department. We responded to an emergency call at a residence on Cedar Avenue fifteen minutes ago?—”
The blood drains from my face, and it takes a herculean effort to remain standing when my knees buckle.
“Who made the call?” I interrupt, unable to keep the panic out of my voice. Because I live on Cedar Avenue. And Tamara and Clara are at the house.
“Tamara Martin. She wouldn’t let the ambulance take her to the hospital until I called and spoke with Detective Cruz and a Maverick Rhodes.”
“Yeah, that’s me,” I respond absently, taking the phone from Cruz’s hand and bringing it closer. “Is Tamara okay? Is there another woman with her? ”
“No, sir. Tamara was alone when we arrived at the scene. She?—”
There’s a scuffle on the line, a number of raised voices coming through the speaker.
“Ma’am, you need to sit back down.” Officer Williams’ voice sounds distant, as though he’s holding the phone away from his face.
“Is that him? Did you call him? I need to talk to Maverick,” a woman’s frantic voice sounds in the background. “Give me the phone. Please give me the phone.”
“Officer Williams,” I bark, my eyes filling with unshed tears at Tamara’s panicked and pained voice. “Give her the phone.”
A moment of silence passes before Tamara’s voice comes on the line. “Maverick? Oh my god, is that you?”
“It’s me. What happened, Tamara? Where’s Clara?” I ask, my voice breaking on her name.
“I couldn’t stop him,” she whispers. “I couldn’t stop him. I’m so sorry.”
I feel, more than see, Spencer’s approach. His strong hand on my shoulder is enough to choke me, reminding me of the last time he lent me his strength.
“Tamara, it’s Cruz.” Cruz leans toward the phone, taking over without removing it from my hand. “What happened, sweetheart?”
“Clara and I w-were cooking dinner,” Tamara starts, her voice shaking and racked with sobs.
“She w-went to answer the d-door. I went to check on her b-because she was t-taking too long. I s-saw him, Jonathan. He had her on the f-floor. I tried to s-stop h-him.” She pauses, sounding as though she’s on the verge of hyperventilating.
In the background, someone tells her to take a breath.
“I’m okay, I’m okay,” she tells the voice.
“And then what?” Cruz presses.
I can’t speak. If it weren’t for Spencer, I wouldn’t even be standing. My knuckles are white from how hard I’m clutching the phone, and my chest feels like it’s caving in.
“H-he knocked m-me out. I was out f-for hours. T-two, I think. I called 911 and m-made the o-officer call you.”
“Good,” he replies, running a hand through his hair. “You did good, sweetheart. You need to let them take you to the hospital. We’re going to get her back, okay? We’ll get her back.”
Officer Williams takes over the line again, and Cruz orders him to ensure Tamara’s safety and put out an alert for James Evans, the mayor of Rochester, Minnesota.
As soon as the call ends, Cruz takes the phone from my trembling hands. “I’m calling the chief. We’ve got a chopper. We’ll take it to Minneapolis. You’ll be there in no time.”
“We’re with you, Rhodes,” Spencer adds, squeezing my shoulder. “We’ll find her.”
All I can do is nod.
That sick motherfucker has my Clara. He took her, and I failed.
I fucking failed.