Chapter 30
Blade shuffled through the stacks of papers. Original police reports. Photos. Decades of secrets sat stacked in this vault for years, but this was it. The proof they needed to bring down Barclay and expose the whole rotten system.
“We got him.” He looked up, expecting to see triumph reflected in Tori’s face. Instead, she’d gone bone-white, her lips parted in shock.
“What’s wrong?”
Tori’s hand went to her mouth, and she just shook her head. With her other hand, she pointed a shaky finger at the journal.
His eyes tracked the loops and slashes of Damien’s handwriting over Tori’s shoulder. One name jumped off the page like a slap.
Stryker King.
As he read the journal entry, the context registered.
King and I responded to the call . . . I found the girl child in the closet. King found the male child under the bed.
He shoved his own reaction aside and focused on Tori. Her features buckled, eyes wide then vacant, as if something vital had been ripped clean out of her. Betrayal.
“Tori, don’t jump to conclusions just yet.” He pressed a steadying hand against her back. “We need to—”
His phone vibrated against the steel table, the sound an intrusion into Tori’s private devastation. His eyes dropped to the screen, expecting Harlee’s name, but his blood turned to slush.
DEAN BARCLAY glowed on the display.
Blade’s thumb hovered over the decline button, but rejecting the call wouldn’t make this go away. He glanced at Tori, still reeling from Stryker’s betrayal, then at Garrison, whose face had gone rigid with understanding.
Men didn’t call in this moment unless they were sure the board was theirs. Unless they wanted to rub it in. Confidence bred sloppiness. Sloppiness left cracks.
He hit speaker. “St. James.”
“Detective.” Barclay’s voice filled the vault. “I trust your field trip was productive.”
The casual arrogance made Blade’s teeth grind. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Safe deposit box 894. First National on Federal Highway.” Barclay chuckled. “You really thought that little AI stunt was clever, didn’t you? Cloning a voice to harass every bank in Florida creates a massive electronic footprint. One my network has been monitoring for years.”
Of course. Barclay had been watching them, waiting for this exact moment. He’d known about the blackmail, he just hadn’t known how to find the evidence. And now they’d led him straight to it.
Blade closed his eyes for a beat, then, “What do you want, Barclay?”
“I want whatever you found in that box. I want Damien’s notebook.”
“What makes you think I’d give you anything?”
“I received a fascinating anonymous tip,” Barclay said.
“About a pretty Records Administrator named Kiara Kerns. Something about accessing sealed IA files after hours. Granting access to an outside officer. A felony. It would be a terrible shame for such a bright, honest young woman to have her life ruined.”
Blade’s throat shut down. Air fought to get past it. He snapped his gaze to Tori—she stood stiff, palms pressed to the table, eyes locked on him like she’d just watched him pull the trigger on Kiara’s life. Heat crowded his ribs, grinding in from every angle.
Barclay said, “I’ve sent you a picture. Take a look.”
His heart hammered wild. What had he done to Kiara? If he’d touched even one hair—
The image detonated across the glass. It wasn’t Kiara.
Stryker.
His mentor was strapped in a wheelchair, head lolling. A purpling bruise spread across his cheekbone, fresh as a punch an hour ago.
Blade’s hands shook, the phone nearly slipping from his white-knuckled grip. “You abducted a man from his hospital bed? How?”
“I didn’t abduct him, I reclaimed him. He was my sergeant long before he was your mentor,” Barclay said with a bark of laughter.
“I came to see him. More than once. Practically a regular. This time my people handled the transport while the duty nurse was too busy dealing with a ‘coding’ patient three doors down to notice a wheelchair leaving the floor. It’s amazing what a well-timed distraction can buy. ”
“Snatching a man from an ICU bed is a new low, even for you,” Blade said, his heart hammering against his ribs as he looked at the image of his mentor. “You’ve got my attention. Now tell me what you want before I lose my patience.”
“You have my property, Detective,” Barclay said. “As you can see, I have yours.”
Blade’s fingers balled tight, every muscle in his arm primed to drive it straight through the phone and rip the man’s throat open. “Just tell me what it’s going to take to get him back.”
“The old Mayfair department store on the causeway,” Barclay said.
“You have one hour. Bring the book. Dr. Crew can be your plus-one, but not another soul, understand?” A pause.
“If I see one uniform, a single cruiser, or a federal agent . . . King dies. And I promise you, Detective, the evidence against Ms. Kerns is already in the right hands. The frame will stick, and her fate will be one worse than death. Promise.”
The line went dead.
Blade locked his eyes on the phone, running plays that collapsed before they started. Barclay hadn’t left him room to maneuver. A cage. One wired so tight every angle hit trip wire.
Garrison had her hands slicing the air, her lips firing off protocol and channels and official paths, but all of it scattered useless, like static.
The only sound that mattered lived inside his skull.
Barclay had known exactly where they were, exactly when they’d found the evidence, and he’d been ready.
Fifty-seven minutes.
“We have to go.” Blade shoved the notebook into an evidence bag.
Garrison’s words finally registered. “—need to coordinate with the FBI and—”
“No time.” Blade cut Garrison off, already moving toward the exit. “We have fifty-six minutes and it’ll take every one to get there.”
“Detective, you can’t just charge off with evidence and face Barclay alone.” Garrison stepped between Blade and the vault door. “This is a crime in progress. We need to coordinate law enforcement response.”
He stopped dead, his hand already reaching for the exit. “I am law enforcement.” He turned back. “There’s more than enough evidence in those files. Take them straight to your office and secure them, but don’t tell anyone what’s going on until I’ve had a chance to talk to SAC Sebastian Wells.”
“Blade—”
“No one. I’m not letting local law enforcement get involved.” He gestured at the scattered documents. “I don’t know how deep this corruption goes. Could be half the department on Barclay’s payroll. Maybe even BSO.”
Garrison’s jaw worked, legal training warring with the reality staring them down. Finally, she nodded. “Two hours. Then I’m calling in the cavalry whether you like it or not.”
Blade was already moving, Tori beside him, her face still pale but her stride steady. They hit the bank’s lobby at a jog, ignoring the curious stares from customers.
Fifty-three minutes.
The Charger’s engine roared to life as Blade peeled out of the parking lot, tires screaming against asphalt. The city streets blurred past. Familiar territory that suddenly felt alien, hostile. Every shadow could hide Barclay’s eyes.
Tori sat beside him, checking her Glock. She ejected the magazine, counted rounds, slapped it back home.
The clock on the dashboard glowed: 5:27 p.m. Forty-three minutes to reach the causeway. Blade tromped on the accelerator and raced off.
“We have to think,” Tori said. “What’s Barclay’s weakness?”
He nodded at the battered notebook resting across Tori’s knees. “That’s it. His weak spot.”
“We’re really handing Damien’s notes over? You think he lets us leave after that?” She shook her head. “No way.”
They both knew them getting out alive wasn’t part of Barclay’s plan.
“Barclay buried half his life setting pieces in place, shielding himself, tying off loose ends.” Blade shifted his grip on the wheel, eyes fixed on the traffic. “He choreographed every move. Every one but this.”
Tori looked up from her weapon. “What?”
“He’s expecting me to follow his rules. Walk into his trap like a good little soldier.” Blade pulled out his phone. “I’m calling Wells.”
“The FBI? Barclay said—”
“I know what he said, but he’s our only shot. Barclay has eyes in the department, maybe even IA. He knows we’ve got FDLE and BSO at our fingertips, but a federal ghost team? That’s the one backup he won’t be looking for.”
Blade hit the call button before doubt could creep in. The phone rang twice before Wells’s cheery voice answered.
“Hey, Blade, good to hear from you. I know I owe you a—”
“Chief Dean Barclay has kidnapped Stryker King.” No preamble. No wasted words. “He’s forcing a meet at the old Mayfair department store. Threatening to kill him if he sees any backup. It’s a trap, Sebastian. I need a covert team. Your best. Untraceable.”
Silence stretched for three heartbeats. Then Wells’s voice returned. “Okay, Blade. I’m on it. Give me the details.”
Blade laid out the situation in clipped sentences—the notebook, the evidence, Barclay’s threats against Kiara. Wells absorbed it all without interruption.
“I’ll handpick the team,” Wells said. “We’ll be ghosts. Thermal imaging, long-range overwatch, entry teams on standby. He won’t see us coming, but neither will you.”
“Great.” The vise around Blade’s ribs eased, just enough to let his lungs drag in more air than they had all day.
“Call me two minutes before you go in,” Wells continued. “We’ll be in position. We’ve got your back.”
The call ended. Blade dragged his gaze from the asphalt just long enough to catch Tori watching him.
“Wells has us,” he said.
She gave a sharp nod. “Then we have a chance.”
The Charger ate up the miles toward the causeway, carrying them toward whatever waited in the shadows of the abandoned department store. But now they weren’t walking into Barclay’s trap alone.
We’re coming, Stryker. Hold on.