Chapter 31
The muzzle branded her temple, a circle of cold metal that wasn’t just steel.
It was a gravestone marker. Every wrong turn, every second she froze, every gut signal she’d shoved aside pressed into her skull with that barrel.
She’d given Barclay the opening. She was the weak point.
The moment she’d turned toward that canvas, she’d handed Barclay everything.
Barclay leaned close and breathed in, savoring her stillness the way a hunter measured the twitch before the strike.
Blade’s eyes shattered her. Across the studio he had his palms up, face locked into tactical stone, but his eyes screamed his fury. Stripped of all options, all forward momentum. A man built for action rendered helpless.
They would both die here, and then Barclay would finish Stryker.
Her lips shaped the word across the gap—sorry.
Blade cut her off with a single head shake, short and hard.
Barclay lifted his chin. “Your phone. Kick it to the wall. Now.”
Tori watched Blade’s hands move, but his eyes never stopped calculating. Even now, he searched for angles, for that sliver of hope that would crack this situation open. His phone hit concrete with a hollow clatter.
“You too,” Barclay said, squeezing her tighter. His breath was hot against her neck. Like the stalker’s had been.
She clenched her jaw and let her Glock tumble from her hand, then her phone. The clatter cracked through the room. Her only equalizers, gone.
Barclay’s arm yanked her head back until her vision tilted. She heard him kick her items away, but she couldn’t track where. Couldn’t see anything except the stained ceiling tiles illuminated from the harsh work lamps burning in the corner.
“Well, well, well,” Barclay said against her ear. “Stryker King’s mighty proteges are still just children playing with adult consequences. The two of you thought you were so smart. Digging into the past. But you never understood the bigger picture, did you?”
“You murdered my parents,” she said, straining against his forearm. “Damien. All those other people. It’s just one big game to you, isn’t it?”
Air scraped thin through her throat. Black spots freckled the edges of her sight. The ceiling tilted above her, water-stained and indifferent. The paintings she’d seen on her way in might as well have been a thousand miles away.
Barclay’s grip loosened just enough for her to breathe, but not enough to move. He wanted her conscious for this.
“You kids were weeds I never pulled. Grew up wild in the cracks I left behind.” Barclay laughed. “And look at you now—one badge, one doctorate. Life turned out pretty fine for you both. What’s there to whine about?”
Tori’s stomach twisted. He talked about their lives like they were proof of his benevolence.
“Then Damien had to ruin it. He told me he wanted to purge his guilt, even if it meant exposing the corruption and bringing us both down.” Barclay’s laugh held no warmth.
“I thought framing him for those officer murders at the precinct was the perfect solution. A life sentence was better than the grave he’d earned.
Should’ve gone with my gut. Made it a mass shooting and suicide.
But after all those years he spent looking the other way and helping me bury messes, I suppose I felt I owed him a life. ”
Damien’s notebook was right. He’d been framed for the shooting. Whatever corruption had stained his badge, he hadn’t killed those officers. Barclay had.
“But that’s over. I took care of him for good now.”
“And my brother? What about him? Did you take care of him too?”
“Never mind about him.” The gun barrel pressed deeper into Tori’s temple, metal warming against her skin. Barclay leaned closer and whispered, “You’ll never find him.”
Across the studio, Blade shifted. Not his normal restless energy, but a predator measuring distance. She caught the micro-movement of his right foot, sliding closer to where his Glock had fallen. Blade could kill Barclay with a paintbrush if he had an opening.
She had to give him one.
“The paintings,” she managed, forcing admiration into her voice. “They’re brilliant. The way you staged the crime scenes with the geometric patterns.” She turned her head slightly, trying to meet his eyes. “You’re the Mandelbrot Killer.”
Barclay’s laugh cracked through the studio.
“Interesting moniker. A bit dramatic, though.” He dismissed the artistry with a wave. “It’s all necessary, if theatrical, housekeeping. But, I guess you can say that Stryker has his proteges, and I have mine. I just find ways to use them a bit more creatively.”
Tori barely registered Barclay’s nonsensical chatter. Blade’s eyes locked onto hers, and she read the message there.
Opening. Be ready.
Barclay dragged her back a foot, repositioning for better control.
“You may be pretty smart, Barclay,” Blade said, taking half a step. “But you made one very big mistake.”
Barclay’s grip tightened. “And what would that be?”
“Your mistake,” she said, pressing her temple harder against the barrel, “was letting me within reach.”
Her heel smashed down, crushing the bones in Barclay’s instep. She could feel the crack jolt up her leg. She snapped her head aside, slipping the barrel by inches. Barclay jerked and screamed. A guttural sound ripping loose as the gallery walls caught the noise and hurled it back.
She didn’t pause to savor it. Her elbow rocketed up and back, targeting the soft space between his ribs. Air punched out of his lungs in a wet grunt that sprayed against her neck. His grip loosened for a half second.
Tori twisted hard left, using his forward momentum against him, spinning out of his grasp like water through fingers. She over-rotated. Her feet tangled and she crashed to the concrete floor. Her shoulder slammed first, then her hip. Pain shot through her arm.
She scrambled backward, putting distance between them, concrete scraping her palms. Her eyes blazed as she gained her feet, ready to fight again.
Barclay pivoted and ran, his limp barely slowing him down as he disappeared through a doorway into the adjacent room.
Tori and Blade dove for their weapons. Her fingers closed around her Glock’s grip as Blade snatched his service weapon from where it had skittered under a canvas.
They came up armed, training their weapons on the empty doorway.
“Side exit,” Blade barked, nodding toward the doorway in the far corner.
Tori’s chest heaved as adrenaline flooded her system. The taste of copper filled her mouth. She’d bitten her tongue during the fall, and she was pretty sure the cut on her arm had broken open. Her shoulder throbbed, but everything moved correctly. Functional damage only.
“He’s setting up another ambush,” Tori whispered, keeping her gun trained on the doorway, finger indexed along the frame.
Blade moved toward the wall, using the shadows for cover. “Be careful. He has Stryker.”
Tori pressed her back against the doorframe and nodded to Blade. His fingers counted down—three, two, one—and they moved as a unit around the corner.
The training kicked in. Pie the corner. Check your sectors.
Trust your partner. But the reality felt nothing like the simulations at the FBI’s National Academy at Quantico.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, and sweat made her grip slippery.
Every shadow could hide another gun. Every step forward increased the chance she’d freeze at the wrong moment, hesitate when Blade needed her to act.
He trusted her. That had to be enough.
They rounded the corner and froze.
The sight punched through her chest like a fist through paper.
Stryker sat slumped in a wheelchair, his salt-and-pepper hair falling across his forehead, hospital gown hanging loose on his frame.
Leather restraints around his wrists and chest held him upright.
Without them, he’d collapse to the floor like a broken marionette. His breathing was shallow.
The man who’d earned MMA championship titles and built warriors looked like he might shatter if someone spoke too loudly.
He shouldn’t be here. Moving him from the hospital could trigger another stroke. The stress alone, his blood pressure spiking, his heart racing, it could kill him fast as any bullet.
Barclay stood behind the wheelchair, his service weapon pressed to Stryker’s temple. The same spot where he’d held the gun against her minutes ago.
This wasn’t a chess move anymore. This was checkmate.
“Drop your weapon,” Blade’s voice boomed. “Now.”
“That’s not how this works.” Barclay’s finger rested on the trigger, casual as a man adjusting his tie. “You see, if you kill me, you convict your girlfriend.”
Blade’s eyes flicked to Tori for a split second. Confusion, then understanding, then something that looked like the world ending.
Barclay didn’t mean her.
“The moment Ms. Kerns’s credentials opened that sealed file, it triggered a deep-system script,” Barclay said.
“I had my programmer create something special. It’s not just dumping files.
It’s fabricating a history. Creating a digital trail that proves that Kiara’s been the one covering cases and switching files for months. ”
Blade’s weapon never wavered, but Tori watched something die behind his eyes.
“You’re lying,” he said.
“Am I?” Barclay’s smile widened. “Right now, there’s a data packet sitting in a buffer, waiting for my heartbeat to stop. The moment I die, it uploads to a DOJ server. Kiara Kerns becomes the architect of a massive conspiracy and cover-up.”
Tori saw it all in Blade’s expression. The anger at being trapped. The devastation of watching someone innocent get destroyed. The terrible calculation of a man who’d spent his life protecting people, now forced to choose between them.
“I’m the only one with the abort code,” Barclay continued. “Kill me, and she goes to federal prison for the rest of her life. But cooperate, and maybe we can work something out.”
Stryker’s head lolled forward, and Tori’s chest tightened. Even unconscious, he was running out of time.
Barclay’s attention shifted to Tori. The gun never moved from Stryker’s temple, but his focus became a weapon all its own.
“You’re still chasing ghosts, aren’t you, Victoria?” The name rolled off his tongue like poison. “Worried about poor Jeremy Hoult?”
He said the name with a sneer that made it sound like Jeremy was something he’d just scraped off his shoe.
“Or should I call him Nikos Jr.?”
Her grip tightened on the Glock. “Hoult isn’t my brother. The DNA test will prove that.” Had to prove that.
“Maybe not, but he’ll go down as the . .
. what did you call him? Mandelbrot Killer?
” Barclay smiled. “I do like that name. Poor Jeremy was just a kid needing a mentor. A mentally unstable man who became obsessed with a woman who’d interviewed him years ago, then convinced himself he was her long-lost twin brother. ”
Tori’s stomach dropped. The confession in the interrogation room. Hoult’s detailed knowledge of her childhood, the purple pajamas, the shared bedroom. “You fed him information about me.”
“The beauty of it is how believable it all sounds,” Barclay went on. “A man who used art therapy to restrain his urges to kill finally breaks free and comes looking for his sister. When she rejects him, he snaps. Starts killing people connected to the investigation into their parents’ murders.”
Her hands trembled. The narrative was airtight. Hoult’s obsession with her was real—that part didn’t need fabrication. His mental instability was documented. His presence at her house, the attacks on her and Blade, all of it would support Barclay’s story.
Tori’s heart pounded so hard her chest started to hurt. All she could do was shake her head.
“Even you believed him.” Barclay’s smile turned vicious. “So desperate for a brother, you opened the door and let the monster right in.”
“He is not my brother!” The words tore from her. “You just twisted him into thinking he is.”
Barclay wobbled his head side to side. “Maybe, maybe not. His DNA might not match yours, but it will match what’s found at the crime scenes.”
“No.” Tori snapped the word. “No one will believe you. You manipulated Jeremy, just like you manipulated the narrative around my parents’ murders. Nikos didn’t kill them. You did.”
The words hit their mark. Barclay’s perfect control cracked like glass under pressure. His face contorted, the mask of calm authority replaced by something raw and ugly.
“Of course he didn’t do it!” The roar tore from his throat, rage pouring out like blood from a severed artery. “A terrified boy with a kitchen knife was a gift! A perfect frame for a job that needed to be done right!”
“You butchered them and shattered two kids’ lives. Framed one. Shoved me into the system like trash.”
Tori advanced, two steady strides, Glock locked on his forehead. “Keep spinning lies. It doesn’t matter. We’ve got the evidence that nails you clean.”
“It’s your mother’s fault. She discovered the pattern.
Figured out that the Mandelbrot set was the key to regenerative cardiac tissue.
The future of organ transplantation. Her research was worth millions!
” Fury burned in Barclay’s eyes. “She could’ve been rich beyond imagination, but she wanted to publish it. Give it away to the world.”
Her stomach hollowed. Her parents were tangled in something bigger than anything she’d ever let herself picture.
“Ji-Yeon forced my hand,” Barclay continued. “I gave her multiple opportunities to fall in line. But Nikos convinced her to go public. So I did what had to be done.”
The room fell silent except for her own labored breathing and the echo of Barclay’s words. Her parents’ murders laid bare.
Bootsteps hammered through the building. More than one set locking in rhythm.
“I heard every word, Dean. It’s over.”
Tori recognized that voice. Special Agent in Charge Sebastian Wells.
They’d done it. Wells had heard everything. Barclay’s confession, his threats against Kiara, his orchestration of decades of corruption. All of it.
Wells walked toward them, unhurried, two agents flanking him in plain clothes. No tactical gear, no badges showing. Weapons drawn but lowered.
He nodded to Blade. “Give me the book. It’s federal evidence now.”
Blade’s face showed exhausted relief. The notebook shook as he extended it.
Wells took the notebook. He examined the worn cover for a moment, then looked up at Barclay with something that might have been disappointment.
He walked past Blade.
Past her.
Stopped beside Barclay.
Wells didn’t reach for handcuffs. Didn’t signal his agents to move in. Instead, he held out the notebook like an offering.
“I believe this belongs to you, sir.”