Chapter 30 #2
The Mayfair department store loomed against the darkening October sky like a concrete vault.
Five stories of broken windows and graffiti-scarred walls, surrounded by a parking lot that looked like a war zone.
Weeds pushed through cracks in the asphalt, and rusted shopping carts lay scattered like the bones of some retail apocalypse.
Blade pulled the Charger into the lot, broken glass crunching under the tires. The building’s main entrance gaped open, a black mouth waiting to swallow them whole.
The Charger’s engine ticked as it cooled, the only sound in the desolate parking lot.
He pulled out his phone, thumb finding Wells’s number. One ring.
“We’re here. Going in.”
“We’re in position. Go.” Wells’s voice was reassuring.
Blade slid the phone into his pocket and took the notebook from Tori.
He shoved it into his back jeans pocket, the motion sending knives of fire through the gash in his bicep.
Weak side. Liability. If he couldn’t even muscle open the Charger’s door, how was he supposed to shield her when someone came out swinging?
Tori lifted her hand between them, palm open. A scatter of red and white pills pressed into the crease of her skin. “Here, take these.”
“What’s that?”
“Acetaminophen and ibuprofen. One-two punch.” Her eyes didn’t move from his face. “Takes the edge off without fogging you. You’ll need that arm functional.”
He didn’t waste time debating. Dropped the pills on his tongue, chased them with the stale water from yesterday’s bottle he’d forgotten in the cup holder.
“Thanks, Doc.”
Blade stared at the building’s black entrance. Every instinct screamed at him to turn around, drive away, let the FBI handle this. But Stryker was in there.
And so was the man who’d destroyed Tori’s family.
“I want you to stay here and wait for Wells before you go in,” he said without looking at her.
“Not happening.”
“Tori—”
“We’ve been through this before.” Her chin lifted in defiance, ready for a fight. “I’m not staying behind while you walk into a trap.”
Blade turned to face her, memorizing the way her dark eyes held no fear. Only courage. If something happened to her in that building—if Barclay hurt her—
He wouldn’t survive it.
Somewhere between the stalker attacks and the evidence warehouse, between watching her patch his wounds and seeing her devastation over Stryker’s decision to hide the truth about her brother, Blade had figured out that he couldn’t live without her.
“We go in together,” she said. “Watch each other’s back. Just like always.”
He wanted to argue. Wanted to lock her in the car and face Barclay alone. Instead, he nodded.
“Stay close,” he said. “Trust the plan.”
Their boots cracked over loose concrete, each step snapping through the silence. The stench rolled out of the dark. Mildew. A sour tang that clung wet to the back of his throat. Inside stretched an empty husk of a store, shadows swallowing the floor, splintered racks jutting up like bones.
Blade’s Glock cut left, steady. Tori’s barrel tracked right.
The wide floor opened before them, tiles fractured like old teeth, steel frames with their guts rusted out.
Too much space. Too many places to hide a man.
Barclay wanted them in here. Wanted them hunting.
Blade pivoted, weapon raised toward the blind wedge behind a ruined counter. Drawers hung open like slack mouths, nothing moving in the dark beyond. He flicked his fingers, quick signal toward the rear. Tori caught it, pressed on creeping along a pillar.
A soft glow filtered down from the upper floors.
Tori spotted it first, her hand rising in a silent signal.
She pointed upward, two fingers indicating the second floor.
He followed her signal and saw electric light spilling through the dead escalators.
The long jaw of metal teeth ran up between the floors.
They approached the frozen escalators, metal steps locked in place like broken teeth. Blade went first, testing each step for noise before committing his weight. The steel held under his boots. Tori followed three steps behind.
The second floor opened into another cavern of retail decay. But this level felt different. Lived in. The light source became clear as they rounded a concrete pillar. Work lamps on tripods with harsh white beams cutting through the dark.
It took him a moment to comprehend what he was seeing.
The space had been transformed into an artist’s studio.
A massive canvas dominated an easel near the windows, draped in white cloth as if waiting for a reveal.
Smaller paintings leaned against the walls in neat rows.
Paint supplies covered every surface. Brushes, palettes, tubes of color squeezed and abandoned.
Splatters of red, blue, and yellow decorated the floor and walls like abstract blood spatter.
Barclay. Barclay himself was the Mandelbrot Killer.
He turned to share the revelation with Tori, but she was already moving toward the covered canvas. Her weapon remained ready as she approached the easel.
“Tori, wait—”
She grabbed the cloth and yanked it away in one swift motion.
The face on the canvas stared back at them. Maggie Quick.
“The warden,” Tori said.
Half finished but unmistakably her, painted with the same detail as the hidden portraits they’d found at the law firm.
Blade’s stomach dropped. “He killed her.”
“Or he’s about to.”
Blade swung his weapon across the room. Canvases lined every wall. Stacks of paintings leaned against each other. Abstract fractals that probably concealed more faces, more victims. He kept his sights locked on the threat, no room to peel back the fractals and find the buried faces in the paint.
This wasn’t just a studio. It was a trophy room. A monument to decades of murder disguised as art. How many people had Barclay killed?
The warden’s painted eyes seemed to track Blade’s movement as he studied the canvas. The paint still looked wet in places. Fresh. Recent.
A crash echoed from the back of the store. Metal against concrete.
Blade snapped toward the crash, Glock up, sights carving empty air.
“Detective.”
The word landed from behind.
Blade’s muscles locked. He angled his shoulders, ready to pivot.
“I wouldn’t.” The clean snap of a safety clicked off. “Dr. Crew and I are having a moment.”
Blade rotated anyway, and his world collapsed into a single, devastating image. Tori, statue-still, her weapon half raised but useless. Barclay’s service pistol pressed against her temple, his forearm wrapped across her throat.
The crash had been a feint. A distraction designed to exploit the one moment when their attention would be divided. Barclay hadn’t ambushed them. He’d lured them into a kill box of his own design and waited for the perfect opening, and it was Blade’s fault.
Professional curiosity had created that opening. His need to understand the art, to explore the evidence, had given Barclay the split second he needed.
“Drop your weapon, Detective,” Barclay growled. “Slowly. Kick it away.”
“Don’t do it,” Tori said.
Blade’s Glock dragged at his grip, heavier than steel had a right to be. His body screamed to keep it, to fight, to do anything but give the man leverage. But Tori was a step away from execution.
He crouched. Set the weapon down. Nudged it with his boot until it scraped across concrete and vanished into the dark.
Barclay’s mouth tugged upward, that warped grin more vicious than a snarl.
“Good. Now we can talk.”