Chapter One

Fourteen years ago…

Sergeant Keith Knox didn’t know what tune he was whistling as he shouldered open the door to exit Fresh Beanz Coffee Shop, though he’d heard the song a thousand times. The bass would leak through the window of his daughter’s bedroom, disturbing his Sunday downtime in the swing on the front porch. Now the tune, with its regular rhythm and chorus about unrequited love, was stuck in his head like gum on the sole of his shoe.

He crossed the road, still whistling, a cup of coffee in each hand and a paper bag with a pair of cinnamon rolls hooked under his pinkie. His shift was almost done, wrapping at midnight, and the parking lot opposite the all-night café was smothered in darkness. The patrol car was barely an outline under a blanket of shadow.

“Best crime deterrent in Memphis, your whistling. Scares away criminals for miles.” Sergeant Knox’s partner stretched an arm through the open window of the cruiser to take his cup. “Might attract a few stray dogs, though.”

Sergeant Joel Ramirez was in his early fifties, with receding, mostly gray hair always neatly swept to the left. His narrow cheeks and the lines etched into his face gave him a weathered appearance, making him look older than his years. At the start of each shift, he carried a faint odor of tobacco, which tended to fade as the night wore on.

Keith had once remarked that, in another life, Joel should’ve been running a restaurant or owning a bar where he’d greet regulars with a holler of their name and a hearty backslap before handing out a free bowl of peanuts.

Joel had agreed, adding that he might’ve missed his calling.

Keith rested his coffee on the roof of the cruiser. He fished out a cinnamon roll and dropped the bag into his partner’s lap.

“Hey, look.” Joel chuckled and pointed at something behind him. “You did attract a dog.”

A stray came into view from behind the café, sniffing for scraps. Keith studied the pup as he took a generous bite of the sweet treat.

“I’m sure the kids would love that, Knox.”

Keith nodded. “Stella’s been hinting she wants a puppy for her next birthday. Got away with those gold ear studs this year. Have to come up with something real good this year to take her mind off a pooch.”

“You should just get her one. Something cute and fluffy. All fur and eyeballs…like a dust bunny with legs. I want to see you walk that thing in the park.” Joel chewed on his cinnamon bun and gave a nod. “Stella deserves a puppy. She’s a great kid. They both are.”

He flashed a smile, and even in the darkness of the parking lot, his eyes sparkled. He could do that, Joel. A look, a grin, and the toughness that always sat deep inside him would melt away, and he’d become anybody’s best bud, the guy who could listen, empathize, and make a friend feel like a million bucks.

That was what made Joel’s behavior in the past few months particularly worrisome. Keith couldn’t quite put his finger on the issue. But he’d noticed his partner was growing increasingly lax on the job.

It mostly manifested in minor transgressions, like failing to fill out his police reports correctly. But sometimes, when Joel was supposed to be on duty, there were hours-long stretches where his whereabouts were unaccounted for.

Keith wondered what kind of trouble his friend and partner had gotten himself into.

Despite those concerns, a warmth flushed through Keith. He sipped his coffee. “Yeah. I got lucky there.”

Joel set his cup in the car’s holder and took another bite of his cinnamon bun. “Luck my ass. That’s all you…you and Barbara.”

Keith often doubted his parenting skills. He’d left too much to Barbara, missed too many evening meals, and he sometimes thought he showed too little understanding of his son’s love of physics. Joel’s praise carved through his guilt. “Get outta here. Maybe Barbara, but—”

“I’m serious. Parents like you guys? No wonder those kids are turning out so well. Jackson’s smart as a whip. What’s he going to do? Be an astronaut or something? First man on Mars, probably.”

Keith laughed. His son, the astronaut. It was possible.

“And your little girl? A backbone of steel and eyes sharper than a hawk’s, that one. She’d make a great cop, you know.”

The thought of Stella joining the police force made Keith wince. His partner was right, though. Stella would make a good cop. She was calm and unflappable, curious and determined. Once she set her mind to something, nothing stopped her. And if that goal ever became to catch a crook, that crook would be in big trouble.

But law enforcement was dangerous. Every case carried risks, and every patrol brought peril.

And if the crooks didn’t get you, the job could.

Keith stepped to one side as Joel opened his door, picked crumbs off his shirt, and scattered them on the ground outside the car.

Five years ago, when he’d first arrived, Joel had been warmer, more relaxed and easier to be around. His compliments had flowed more freely too. That cheeky smile of his would appear at every mention of his name, and every conversation would leave Keith feeling better and more confident he was on the right track. It never took more than a smile from his partner and best friend to make Keith’s doubts melt away.

A hardness had settled in over the years, though. Joel would no longer volunteer to fetch the coffees, leaving Keith to relax in the car. Now he expected to be served, and if Keith said it was Joel’s turn to pay, he’d say he didn’t need a break anyway and drive off.

And then there was that thing with his girlfriend.

Joel had sworn it was a one-off, a sudden moment of madness that had never happened before and never would again.

But when Keith had seen the bruise on Gail’s face, he’d almost arrested Joel himself.

Joel had pleaded and apologized, almost begged. He’d sworn it was the stresses of the job and the difficulty of a bad day. When Keith had asked Gail if she wanted to press charges, she’d hesitated. She didn’t want to make a fuss and he didn’t push.

He wondered about that sometimes. If it had been anyone else—if that moment of madness hadn’t been his partner’s—Keith would’ve taken the victim to one side, talked to her quietly, and given her the reassurance she needed to press charges. He always wanted to see those guys sitting in cells, sweating in front of a cellmate twice their size. But for the first time, he let the incident slide and hoped his experience was wrong and that it wouldn’t happen again.

As far as he knew, it hadn’t. Still, Joel had started another relationship shortly afterward and let Gail drift into the background, never breaking up with her but showing just enough attention to keep her dangling. It was cruel.

Keith hoped Joel’s recent truancy from work wasn’t because of some new fling. And if it was, maybe it was over. Tonight, their banter felt like old times.

He sipped his coffee. “All I want is for my kids to be happy and settled. And if they happen to end up rich enough to buy me and Barbara a condo in Fort Lauderdale…well, I wouldn’t complain.” He licked the foam from his top lip. “How are things with Gail?”

Joel shrugged. “I dunno. Fine, I guess. Hal reckons I should just give her the old heave-ho. Starting to think he’s onto something.”

“Hal said that, huh?”

Keith found himself agreeing with Officer Hal McKay, though he wished he didn’t. The station had a clique, a gang of officers who were quick with their fists, too fast with their guns, and thought the rules didn’t apply to them. Hal McKay was one. Donald Monahon was another. There were plenty of others too. They had a habit of pulling in the new guys, indoctrinating them into their gang. But the problem with a bad apple was that it soon rotted the whole barrel.

And Keith was sure they were rotten.

Internal Affairs had sniffed around, but nothing closed lips faster than the sight of the cops’ cops, and they’d never been able to dig anything up.

So Keith had watch them. He’d even talked to a couple of addicts who said they bought heroin from Monahon and McKay in the past. They didn’t want to file a report, but if he could just get those addicts on the record, he could fold them all up and clean out the station.

Joel hung around with Hal and his friends sometimes. Keith wished he’d associate with them less. It was only a matter of time before they dragged him down with them to the dark side of the law. There were few things more dangerous than a corrupt cop.

A sneaking, suspicious part of his brain whispered to him that Joel had already crossed over.

“Ah, shoot.” Joel stuffed the remains of the cinnamon roll into his mouth. He picked up his coffee from the cupholder and tossed the liquid out the window, narrowly missing Keith’s shoes. “There he is.”

On the opposite side of the street, ambling toward the café, was a young Caucasian man in a white undershirt, hands buried in the pockets of his sweatpants.

The engine of the patrol car roared to life. Joel turned on the headlights. “You go after him. I’ll cut him off.”

The car’s beams landed on the informant like a spotlight, freezing him in place. He squinted into the glare, then turned and raced into the alley behind the café.

Joel gunned the engine and roared out of the parking lot, blue-and-red lights flashing, siren screaming.

“Dammit.” Keith tossed away the remains of his own coffee and ran. He sprinted across the road and disappeared into the darkness of the alley.

A puddle splashed under his feet, though no rain had fallen for days. He dodged around a dumpster, ignoring the stink of rotting vegetables and old urine. With a yelp, the stray from earlier raced across Keith’s path, almost sending him stumbling to the ground.

“Police! Stop!”

The shout was hopeful, but this kid was fast. His street name was “Speed,” and he’d already outrun Keith once, racing away across Belz Park before he could get close. A rattle and thump from the end of the alley suggested Speed was already over the fence and on the sidewalk on the other side.

“Shit.”

Keith slipped on something slimy, found his balance, and ran on. The siren drew nearer. Joel was almost there.

A wire fence blocked the end of the alley. Keith jumped onto a dumpster, grabbed the top of the wall, and hauled himself over the fence. He landed on the sidewalk of the narrow street with a solid thud just as the patrol car raced past. With a screech of brakes and a stink of burning rubber, Joel pulled the car to the left, cutting off the path ahead of Speed.

The informant skidded to a halt and, in the same movement, twisted and sprinted back the way he’d come.

Keith stood tall, hands on his hips. “No.”

Speed slowed, then stopped and bent over, his hands on his knees. “Okay, okay. What?” He panted. “What the hell do you want from me?”

The door of the patrol car opened and closed. Joel approached slowly. He patted Speed twice on the back and held out a bottle of water.

“Here. Deep breaths. Have a drink. It’s hot tonight.”

Speed took the bottle and drank it down in a few gulps.

There was something off about how Joel watched him.

“Quite a chase you gave us. They should put you in the Olympics. But I guess you’d fail the drug test, am I right?”

“Very funny.” Speed handed back the empty bottle. “What do you want?”

Keith rested his hand against the wall. His chest still ached, and he was sure he’d done something to his knee when he hopped that fence. He was getting too old for these games.

Joel continued. “Just the news from the street. What you’ve seen, what you heard. What you think you heard.”

“I haven’t heard shit. I seen even less. And if you think I’m going to tell you what I think, you must be—”

Joel placed a hand on Speed’s chest and shoved him against the wall. The back of his head hit the brickwork with a crunch that closed his eyes and made him wince.

Keith cringed. That shove was too hard for his liking. They were fishing for information, not trying to pull a confession out of a killer. This, again, was the type of behavior Joel never used to exhibit.

Speed rubbed the back of his head. “Fuck, man. That hurt.”

Joel patted Speed twice on the chest. “Sorry. You know I didn’t mean that. Listen to me, my friend. You and I have known each other a long time. You know how much help I’ve given you over the years. If you want that help to keep coming, you gotta help me in return.”

“I ain’t—”

“You ain’t? I’ll tell you what you ain’t. What you ain’t is going to jail, not while I’m looking after you. Just as long as you keep looking out for me, I’ll keep looking out for you.”

The young man glared at Joel. “I don’t need no one looking out for me.”

“’Course you do, son.” Joel cupped his hand around the back of Speed’s neck and tightened his grip. “It’s a dangerous world out here. And right now, me and Sergeant Knox here, we’re the two best buddies you got. So how about you help your friends out, so your friends can keep helping you?”

“Okay, okay.” Speed took a deep breath. He rubbed the back of his head again and checked his palm for blood. There was none. “Look, you didn’t hear it from me, okay?”

Keith loved hearing those words, and Joel did have a way of breaking down defenses, even if it wasn’t technically by the book. He held up his hands. “’Course not. So what didn’t we hear?”

“There’s a shipment come in tonight. Something big. It’s being cut right now. Down at C1 Warehouse. You know the one?”

Keith knew the one precisely. The warehouse sat on the Mississippi River and hadn’t been used for years. There were rumors that drug importers were using the river to bring in their shipments, and using the warehouse to send them out, but the police had never found anything. If they could catch them in the act…that would be something.

“You sure about this?”

“You asked me what I heard. That’s what I heard. Now will y’all fuck off and leave me alone?” He looked around nervously. “Someone sees me talking to you, I’m dead.”

They left Speed in the street and returned to the car. As Joel reversed off the sidewalk and headed west toward the river, Keith reached for the radio.

“What are you doing?” Joel’s hand landed on his arm.

“Calling it in.”

“Nah, don’t do that. Not yet. You know Speed. He’s full of crap. Let’s get there first, make sure he’s on the level. If we see something’s happening, we’ll call for backup. I don’t want Speed getting us laughed out of the station.”

Keith didn’t move. Not calling a situation in was against protocol.

But Joel’s argument made sense. In the past, Speed hadn’t been the most reliable source in the world. He’d fed them some low-level information, helped them pick up small-time dealers. But he’d never given them anything this good, and half of what he had given them hadn’t played out.

If they called this in for nothing, they’d never hear the end of it.

“All right.” Keith dropped the radio back in place. “But let’s be careful.”

Joel grinned and gunned the engine. “When am I ever not careful?”

Keith side-eyed his partner, and they both got a laugh out of that statement.

Fifteen minutes later, they pulled up under the trees at the end of a long, narrow lane. Between the trunks, the river glistened and lapped gently at the bank, a constant ripple of black movement in the background. The warehouse sat in the darkness ahead of them. Starlight turned the roof a faded gray and revealed the shape of an SUV outside the wide double doors at the front of the building.

Keith’s pulse rose, and he picked up the radio once more. “Guess Speed was onto something.”

Joel lifted a finger. “Hold on with that. Could be the owners doing something with the place or a couple out enjoying the river at night. Let’s make sure before we get half the station down here to bust a couple of midnight skinny-dippers.”

“Why are you so against calling this in?” Keith searched Joel’s face half hidden in the darkness.

Joel faced him. “I’m not. Call it in. I just don’t want to look like an asshole, that’s all.”

He climbed out of the car and eased the door shut behind him.

For a moment, Keith held the radio tight. His breathing was erratic. He knew he should call this in. But Joel had never steered him wrong in the past.

With a mumbled curse that was half prayer, he returned the radio to its holder, drew his weapon, and followed his partner.

As he walked toward the warehouse, his heart thumped in his chest, and his doubts returned. This wasn’t the way to do it. Even checking the place out without telling dispatch what they were doing was dumb. How Joel managed to talk him into this stuff, he never knew.

And yet, he always did.

Joel had already taken up a position by the crack of the door. A dim, yellow light leaked between the boards, but there was no sound and no voices. After a glance at Keith, he held up his hand, then slowly pulled the door open until the crack of light became a broad stripe that illuminated his face.

He grinned.

Keith held his breath, and his stomach fell.

He knew what Joel was about to do. There was a twinkle in his eyes, a red tinge on his cheeks. The way he held his gun. Nothing was going to stop him. He wasn’t going to wait to call this in.

Joel yanked open the door, lifted his gun, and marched inside. His voice came loud and clear, from the other side of the wall.

“Police. Put your weapons down and your hands up. Do it now!”

Keith froze. The hesitation lasted a second, maybe less, but there was a pause between knowing what he needed to do and doing it that he’d never experienced before.

He pulled open the door and ran after his partner.

And that was when he froze for the second time in his career.

Two men stood directly in front of him. He knew them. Donald Monahon and Hal McKay. They both carried handguns, which were aimed at his head.

Joel stood by the wall. He holstered his weapon and met his partner’s gaze, then said the last words Sergeant Keith Knox ever heard.

“I’m sorry, pal. Really, I am. But you’ve been nosing around. And you’re just too good a cop.” Joel turned his back on Keith and walked away. “C’mon, boys.”

As the guns raised and the inevitable loomed, Keith’s thoughts turned to his family. He saw his wife’s smile, heard her laughter, and felt the warmth of her embrace. He pictured Stella’s bright eyes, filled with curiosity and mischief, and Jackson’s earnest determination to see the world and beyond. The thought of them growing up without him, of not being there to guide and protect them, tore at his heart.

“I love you all.” It was all he had time to say, a final breath of devotion.

Both guns fired.

Chapter Two

A pile of broken, blackened beams and the smudge of charcoal across burned grass looked almost natural in the Memphis countryside. The midday air held a faint odor of cooked flesh above the scent of ash and smoked wood. A line of beech trees stood a safe distance from where the blaze had lived and died, before the bank dropped gently, then steeply, down to the river.

Only the plastic tape flapping in the breeze, the police cars lined up beside the dried mud track, and the forensic techs still preparing their equipment indicated this wasn’t the scene of a small and extinguished fire.

FBI Special Agent Stella Knox closed her Tyvek suit and lifted the police tape. Her similarly suited partner, Hagen Yates, bowed beneath her arm.

They should’ve been home, enjoying what was left of their weekend.

Friday night, they’d flown back from Miami, having just cracked a case in Florida. She and Hagen had the next day off, and both were hoping their Sunday would be more of the same.

However, the call from Supervisory Special Agent Paul Slade came early this morning, telling them to make the three-hour drive to Memphis. He’d heard there was something outside Tennessee’s other big city—Stella’s hometown—they’d want to see.

He was right. This was something they wanted to see.

A police officer, his rank hidden beneath his bunny suit, turned at their approach. He introduced himself. “Sergeant Erik Sebald, Memphis Police. You’re FBI, right?”

Hagen nodded. “That’s right.”

Sebald pointed to a group of agents in bunny suits. “Your forensic folks beat you here. Apparently, we’re handing over the case to y’all at the FBI. Something about the victim’s connection to ongoing investigations or something.”

Hagen nodded again. “That’s what we heard too. The rest of the Violent Crime Unit are right behind us. They should be arriving any minute now. I’m Special Agent Hagen Yates, and this is Special Agent Stella Knox. Thank you for—”

“Stella Knox?” Sebald’s eyes narrowed. “Any relation to Keith Knox?”

On the drive across the state, Stella had wondered whether someone would ask her that. She was in her father’s old territory here, and it was always possible she’d bump into someone who knew him. But Sebald looked too young to have served with him. His name must float above the Memphis police station, a warning to new cops to take care out there.

“His daughter.”

“Small world. Heard a lot about your old man. I know it’s been a while, but I’m sorry for your loss.”

Stella cleared her throat. “Thanks.” She didn’t want to talk about her father now. Not here and not with someone who didn’t know him and could thus only offer platitudes and stale consolation. “What have we got?”

Sebald lowered his face mask and drew his mouth into a thin line. He had pale lips, and a rushed morning shave had left a small tuft of dark bristles beneath his nostrils. “Come along, I’ll give you a tour. But there’s some real nasty stuff in there. Hope y’all haven’t had lunch yet.”

“Whatever you’ve got, we’ve seen worse.” There was no trace of boasting in Stella’s statement. Whatever was inside, she was sure she’d seen worse over the few weeks she’d spent in the FBI. Dead teenagers, dismembered corpses, tortured bodies, a man impaled on the top of a skyscraper…

They’d come across them all and put their perpetrators either behind bars or in graves. Except one who’d gotten away.

The man who gave the order for her father’s murder, Hagen’s father’s murder, and for the destruction they were about to investigate.

A familiar voice called from across the field. “Stella!”

She turned and saw Agent Mackenzie “Mac” Drake, a cybercrimes expert and her best friend at the Bureau, striding toward them. Mac was flanked by the rest of the VCU, their boss SSA Paul Slade, and Special Agents Chloe Foster, Martin Lin, Ander Bennett, Stacy Lark, and Caleb Hudson. They must’ve driven in a convoy.

A few minutes and a few introductions later, the entire unit was suited up in Tyvek and ready to inspect the scene.

Sebald set off toward the remains. The group followed. Their feet crunched over the burned grass. Small clouds of ash, disturbed by their approach, sprang off the ground and clung to the hems of their pants.

Hagen called out to Sebald. “Ground’s dry. Fire service didn’t put this out?”

“Nope. Too far. Couple of campers on the other side of the river thought they smelled smoke in the middle of the night last night and came to investigate. By then, the thing had pretty much burned itself out.”

They drew closer to what must’ve once been a good-sized cabin. Half a pair of steps marked the boundary to what had been a small porch. Beams chewed by fire lay on the ground like spent matchsticks.

In the center of the porch, on top of a pile of cinders and under a couple of charred logs that must’ve fallen from the roof, lay the skeletal remains of a body.

Rising from examining the corpse was another individual in a Tyvek suit. He introduced himself as Dr. Colin Calloway, Chief Medical Examiner for the Western Region of Tennessee.

“Let me walk you through it.” Calloway led them back toward the porch. “As you can see, every part of the corpse is black. The muscles on the forearms and lower legs have melted away, leaving only charred bones that seem to turn and twist to one side. This is a typical pugilistic reaction. The muscles contract from the heat.”

“Damn,” Stella muttered under her breath.

“If you’ll look here,” Calloway gestured to the top of the corpse, “the victim’s head is like a blackened ball. A line of teeth has been exposed by the absence of lips. Burned skin has fallen away from the eye sockets to reveal a crescent of white bone. Considering the state of her body, the only reason we’ve been able to ID her was the vehicle registration under the seat of her Kawasaki Ninja, parked nearby. We should be able to further confirm this against her dental records.”

Slade cut in. “To be clear, the victim is—”

“Samantha Monahon,” Officer Sebald supplied.

Hearing the name, Stella’s knees buckled, but she caught herself before anyone noticed.

This was all that was left of Samantha Monahon, the daughter of the man who’d served as Joel’s right hand. Who’d killed both Stella’s and Hagen’s fathers on Joel Ramirez’s order.

Hagen had found Donald Monahon, but the murderer had slipped from his grasp over the railing of a fire escape. Samantha had been arrested at the scene, wanted for a long list of crimes, including murder and drug dealing, but she’d been sprung from custody and vanished.

Now here she was. Or what remained of her.

Stella walked around the site, examining the scene from the other side of the cabin. The smell of cooked flesh was stronger here and turned her stomach. She lifted one gloved hand to her nose and breathed in the stink of the rubber. It helped, but not much.

Slade cut in. “What can you tell us about what happened? Any sign of the people who were with her?”

Sebald pulled his mask back up and wiped his brow. “With her? Why do you think anyone was with her?”

Stella glanced at the police sergeant. His forehead was creased, his confusion as clear as the bemusement on Hagen’s face. She crouched and pointed at the corpse’s left hand. The bone of the index finger was no more than a stub. “I don’t think she cut off her own finger.”

“Maybe she was already—”

“The rest of the finger is over here.” Stella pointed at a piece of blackened bone on the ground among the cinders. “There are also rope fibers in the ashes. She was tied down before she went up in flames.” There was a note of irritation in her voice, which she did not try to hide.

The remains of the finger might’ve been small and hard to distinguish among the other bits of burned detritus on the ground, but a forensic tech should’ve noticed the missing digit, even if they’d only started processing the scene.

Calloway made a small nod. “Great catch.”

Hagen gestured at the site. “You found out who owned this place?”

“Yeah, we’ve managed to pull up the registration records.” Sebald eased his weight onto one foot. “Belonged to an ex-cop. A guy called Matthew Johnson. No current address, though. We’re looking for him.”

Stella snorted. “You won’t find him.”

“Why not?”

“Trust me. Matthew Johnson’s long gone.”

“We’ve been looking for him too.” Hagen shrugged.

Sebald wouldn’t find Matthew Johnson because the man never existed. He’d been born Marcus Bell. After Bell completed some tricky undercover work in Florida, he’d received a new identity—Matthew Johnson—and retired. He was then pulled out of retirement to investigate corrupt cops in Memphis, where he received yet another identity. Joel Ramirez. Her father’s former partner.

Joel Ramirez. Matthew Johnson. Marcus Bell.

They were all the same person.

Stella and Hagen had spoken to his former handler, who’d sent him undercover and coordinated his actions. Joel had gone too deep, Carla Reaves told them. He’d lost himself and become darker than the blackness he was hunting.

No one wanted to find the man who’d once owned this cabin more than she and Hagen did.

She stood in front of the corpse and lowered her gloved hand from her nose. Samantha Monahon hadn’t been much older than her. She’d been close to Joel, the daughter of a man she’d trusted. And he’d tortured and killed her.
That was why her knees buckled. She was sure of it.

Calloway crouched beside her. “No signs of a bullet wound or stab marks on the body. Must’ve been the fire that got her. Horrible way to go.”

Sebald gave a long, noncommittal, “Yeah.”

Hagen stared at Stella. She ignored his hard gaze.

Joel had burned Samantha to death.

Her father’s friend had done this, a man who’d worked in law enforcement. A man Stella had trusted and opened up to. He’d burned this cabin to the ground with a woman in it. All these years, he’d evaded justice. And in this moment, she wondered whether justice would ever find him.

A rage lit inside her as hot as the fire that had destroyed the cabin.

She wanted him dead. Strung up. Gutted.

Stella strode away from the scene. Ash and burned timber crunched under her shoes. She had to get away from there. She had to leave this place behind and find him.

And make him pay.

She ran down to the river and stopped in front of the water. Ripping off her mask, she breathed in lungfuls of clean air. The rest of them could assess the scene. She needed space. And time.

A good five minutes passed before a hand landed on her shoulder.

“Stella.”

Hagen turned her around. She stared at him, and the fire in her chest flamed and roared as she looked into his dark-green eyes. His held his phone, the screen still lit with a recent call.

“Hagen, I—”

“I know.” Hagen rubbed his thumb against her clavicle. “I’ve been there, remember? I know exactly what you’re feeling right now.”

Hagen had felt the same way she did then. And he’d managed to cool himself, to exchange his desire for revenge for the satisfaction of justice.

Stella took a deep breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

“We’ll get him. We’re on his trail. We’ll collect the evidence we need, and we’ll bring him in. Remember that dealer Carla Reaves mentioned?”

Stella frowned. “The one who snitched for Joel? What was his name…Paul Tucker?”

“Yeah, him. I just spoke to the prison. We can see him tomorrow. Come back up. Slade wants to talk to the group.”

She put her mask back on and followed him to the cabin.

As she and Hagen rejoined the group, Slade was making certain things explicit to Sebald. “You wouldn’t know this, but the owner of this cabin, Matthew Johnson, goes by another name, Joel Ramirez. He was also an ex-cop, right here in Memphis. We believe he’s responsible for the murders of Sergeant Keith Knox and Criminal Defense Attorney Seth Yates.” He glanced up and nodded to Hagen and Stella. “Nice to have you back.”

Sebald crossed his arms. “So that’s why you’re taking over.”

Slade nodded. “This settles it. We’re going to find Ramirez. We’re going to bring him in, and we’re going to make him pay—”

Hagen held up a hand. “Boss, we know that Joel’s in Witness Protection.”

“That’s right. So that means we need to gather enough evidence against him to force the marshals to release him from WITSEC, so he can be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.”

Pride and confidence filled Stella’s chest. For so long, with the exception of Hagen, she’d looked for her father’s killer alone. Now, at last, she had an entire team of professionals who’d already proved they were unstoppable. This would be their toughest case yet.

But together…together, she hoped they’d succeed.

Hagen stood next to her, unmoving. She wanted to take his hand and grip it tightly, show him the strength they could summon when they fought together. If she could see through his Tyvek suit, she’d bet his jaw was set and his eyes were fixed on Slade with unnerving intensity.

Hagen addressed Slade. “Maybe we’ve got enough. At least to bring him in. Maybe you should call the marshals office. Tell them what we know and try to arrange an interview.”

The SSA didn’t answer.

Stella could see him working through the suggestion. They lacked evidence, but they knew a lot. And the charges were serious. Hagen and Stella in a room with Ramirez—they might just break him. He might confess. It was a long shot, but at this stage, they were looking at either a long shot or a long chase.

The SSA reached for his phone, but seemed to remember he was in a bunny suit. “I can try. But don’t hold your breath.”

When he walked off to explain he had a team that wanted to speak to someone the marshals were protecting, Stella and Hagen exchanged a glance. Despite Slade’s warning not to, Stella was a little holding her breath.

Soon, Slade came back. “I left a message. The marshals should be getting back to me soon. I also called some of the higher-ups at the Bureau. Joel’s on their radar.” The SSA’s gaze swept over the agents huddled around him. “Mac, I want you to focus on communications. Check any numbers associated with Ramirez or his associates. If he pings any tower anywhere, I want to know. Caleb, he’ll need money. Look into the financial flows of all the known criminal organizations in Memphis. Those funds have to reach him somehow.”

Caleb gave a sharp nod.

Stella was sure he knew where to begin looking.

“Ander, Chloe. You’re on the fire here at the cabin. Talk to the fire expert when they’re done with their report.” Slade turned to Stella and Hagen. “As for you two—”

Stella stepped up. “We’ve got a lead on a dealer who used to work for Joel. He’s locked up at Riverbend.”

“That sounds good. Find out what he knows.” Slade looked around at his agents. “We’ll drive back to Nashville now. Tomorrow morning, we’ll take a solid step closer to bringing Joel Ramirez to justice.”

Once more, Stella’s chest burned with pride.

Hell yes.