“Agent Buchanan? This is Agent Spalding. We have a case we think you’d be perfect for. Please come to my office this afternoon at three to discuss.”
I replay the voicemail, a thrum of excitement buzzing in my veins. Agent Spalding always gives me the best assignments. Last time, I brought down one of the corrupt judges Vincenzo keeps on his payroll. I wish I could have seen his face when he saw the news reports.
I glance at the clock. One forty-five. Just enough time to finish up the day’s paperwork before the meeting.
Knocking on Agent Spalding’s door just before three, I tamp down the excitement and settle my features into one that appears calm. Entering at the other agent’s command, I take a seat across from him and wait.
After we exchange pleasantries, Agent Spalding gets to the point. “This hasn’t made it to the media yet. I’d prefer to keep it under wraps as much as possible. If we can get the bastard before it manages to hit the news, even better.”
Raising a brow, I wonder what the secrecy is all about. Agent Spalding hands me a thin manilla envelope. Inside is an assortment of pictures, and my eyes widen as I sort through them.
“We appear to have a serial killer on our hands,” Agent Spalding explains. “We have no knowledge yet of who the perp is, although we do have a composite sketch from a maid who got a quick glance at the guy.” He shuffles some papers around on his desk, then meets my eye. “This city has been through too much. I don’t want the public to panic. Keep a low profile, discover who he is, and put a stop to him.”
Tucking the photos back into the envelope, I stand and reach over the desk to shake his hand. “I’ll do my best, sir.”
When I get back to my office, I shut and lock the door before spilling the contents out over my desk. Switching the desk lamp on, I quickly sort through the sparse information. I make a pile for autopsy reports, another for photos, and finally, the composition sketch.
I pick it up, studying it. The eyes that stare back at me are both cruel and haunted, as if they’ve seen too much. Whoever the artist was is immensely talented to have been able to capture such emotion with a bit of paper and a pencil. I scan the rest, noticing he has short dark hair, a beard, and a strong jaw. The description reads that he's around six feet tall, maybe six foot one.
Going back to the eyes, I get lost in them, and a tingle of premonition slides down my spine, chilling my blood.
It’s almost like déjà vu, as if I’ve met him someplace before.
Chapter 6
Dutch
“Whatarewegoingto do now?” I ask the group of people scattered around me. We had originally planned to get out of London as soon as possible once the deed was done; the vans are all packed with our belongings, flights are booked to various destinations. We’ve handed the keys to the property we had rented back to its owners, and now have nowhere to stay.
Everyone glances at each other, low murmurs sound as most shrug with confusion. Irritation thrums through me as I turn to Nate, then Eric. Even Trey shrugs. We don’t know when my father discovered our plan, who tipped him off, or if he’s even still in the country. Will he run and hide, or return to New York? Without a base of operations, and so many of us, it’s going to make it difficult to work out just what exactly we’re going to do.
Ryan Grant, head of the Charon Group, raises his hand and everyone falls silent, turning to him. At just over six feet tall, he’s a striking man. His dark hair is liberally sprinkled with silver and his gray eyes flash with determination as he looks around the group. There’s no mistaking that he’s ex-military; the quiet confidence he exudes is calming, and his leadership skills are undeniable. At forty-eight, he is the oldest amongst our group, and even Nate, who is our self-proclaimed leader, quiets when Ryan signals.
“We own a building in Manhattan.” He turns, making eye contact with various people. “Although we generally travel on our missions, we have a headquarters based there. There’s an entire floor made up of apartments. If anyone needs a place to stay, you’re more than welcome to use the space. Our apartments are in the same building, which would allow us to stay together, make plans, and finish off Vincenzo once and for all.”
Nate glances at me, and I nod. I have my own place in Manhattan, so it wouldn’t be a hardship. Trey, Rebecca, and The Duke all agree as well, making it unanimous. Eric gets his laptop out of one of the vans and arranges a private jet. I’m a little astounded that he can just do that, but I suppose when you need to get out of the country as quickly as possible, and you’re fucking loaded, it’s probably the best option.
We all load up into the vans, abandoning them a mile from the airport, the black billowing smoke from the burned-out carcasses the only sign that we had been there.
It’s time to go home.
When the Bannermans do something, they do it right. I know fuck all about planes. I couldn’t tell you anything about this one—except it’s luxurious as hell. Deep leather seats, sofas so comfortable they beat any mattress I’ve ever had, a bedroom with a queen-sized bed, and a bathroom that rivals the one in my apartment. Un-fucking-believable. We had to wait a few hours for them to fuel it up and bring meals on board, and we all breathed a sigh of relief once we were in the air.
Everyone has broken off into little groups. The Charon Group sits around a small table, playing poker with The Duke’s men. Trey and Rebecca retired to the bedroom, Nate graciously letting them have the space. After so many months apart, and Rebecca spending that time believing her husband to be dead, it was the least we could do for them.
The Duke and I are sitting with the Bannermans, enjoying a drink and snacks when Nate and Eric exchange glances, going silent. My brows lower as I glance back and forth between them, my shoulders tensing with foreboding. “What is it?”
Nate swallows, looking a little uncomfortable. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” he starts, an earnest look on his face. “With everything going on, it never felt like the right time to say something, but you need to know.”
Eric places his hand on his brother’s, squeezing it. These two don’t look much like brothers; Nate is a fucking giant at around six-foot-six, with golden-brown hair and amber eyes, while Eric has nearly black hair that curls softly at the ends, and silver eyes. Then I remember a comment Tessa made in passing about them being stepbrothers and realize that’s why they don’t have more features in common.
“Spit it out, Nate,” I snap, having had enough these past few months.
Nate sighs, running his hand through his hair. “You’re my sister,” he says in rushed words, eyes lifting to meet mine.
I snicker, looking at Eric, Tessa, and The Duke to see which one of them is holding a camera. Because this has to be a joke, right? “Hey, Dukey, hear that?” I ask, nudging her in the side, barely able to get the words out through the laughter. “Nate’s my brother.” When no one else joins me, I quickly sober up, my brows rising in confusion. “Wait, what? The fuck is going on, Nate? How the fuck are you my brother?”
“Okay, so, don’t get mad, all right? Hear me out.”
