“Ava?” Caden asked, walking over to her. “You okay?”
She grimaced, realizing she’d expressed her frustration in the form of a low growl. No, she wasn’t okay, but . . .
She and Caden returned to his truck as Zane pulled away from the curb with a wave. “Just a phone call that I thought might help things and wound up . . . not.” She paused. “We need to know the name my father was going by when he met with Jesse Fields, right?”
“It’s possible it could help. Or it could wind up being a dead end.”
“But if we had his name, at least we’d know—one way or another.”
“Yes. Maybe.” He paused. “I think the aliases might work better in the connections search. I’ve sent Daria the names he used as aliases. There’s no way he’d use his real name. I think I noticed a flicker of a reaction when I called off Dimitri, so I told Daria to focus on that one first.”
“Okay.”
“I was also thinking that while the aliases might reveal more, there’s a slim chance he used his birth name for something. If we had it, Daria could still check for a connection between your father and the families who’ve been killed. If she’s able to find that connection, it might lead us to the person who had a grudge against this family—or at least Michael—and the others as well.”
“So, it’s like it might be helpful or it might not, but if we don’t have it, we might be missing something.”
“I’d say that’s an accurate summary.”
“Then we’re going to find out his name.”
“How?”
She sighed. “There’s really only one way I believe it can be done—at least done quickly—and you probably don’t need to know the details.”
“What do you mean?”
“Because it’s not exactly the most ethical thing I’ve ever done.”
“You’ve lost me.”
She studied him. “I honestly don’t even know if it’ll work.” She nodded to his car. “How do you feel about a road trip?”
“I’m okay with it. Why?”
“I’ll explain on the way.”
“On the way to where?”
“Give me your phone and I’ll put the address in.”
THIRTEEN YEARS AGO
Nineteen-year-old Ava opened the door to her father’s safe house and stepped inside. “Dad? I’m here. Why wasn’t your door locked?”
“Because I knew you were coming.” His voice came from the kitchen. He walked toward her, wiping his hands on a towel. “I got you something.”
“Let me guess,” she said with a laugh.
He picked the puzzle box up from the table and waved it at her. “I got you a puzzle, Ava-girl.” They said the line together like always.
“Come on, Dad,” she said, “we both know the puzzles are for you.” But she’d admit she loved them too. Mostly because of the time spent with him. She took the box from him and smiled at the picture on the front. “Cades Cove, huh?”
“You loved the bears.”
“I was ten. Of course I loved the bears.”
“That was nine years ago.” His eyes flickered. “I always wanted to take you back there.”
“I always wanted you to.”
“Well”—he drew in a deep breath—“this will do for now. Come on, dump it out.”
Two hours later, Ava looked up from the puzzle and frowned at her father. “Why does John keep asking me about my plans after I get out of the Navy? Is he trying to recruit me?”
Her father’s eyes met hers. “Probably.”
“Well, tell him to stop. I’m very happy doing what I’m doing, and he needs to leave me alone.”
“I assume he figures if he keeps harassing you, you’ll cave eventually.”
She laughed. “Has he met me? He does realize I’m your daughter, right?”
“He does. And I know how stubborn you can be, so just let him talk. He’ll give up eventually. Maybe.”
“He’s so predictable. Not the best thing for a CIA director. Before he opens his mouth, I know exactly what he’s going to say.”
“Yep.” He chuckled. “He’d be mortified to hear you say that, but it’s not just with you. He’s that way in every aspect of his life. Predictable and hates change. Julie jokes that if she cooks the rice in a different pot, he knows it. And if the government didn’t remind him to change his password, he wouldn’t.”
They shared a grin, and Ava placed the last puzzle piece into the empty spot. “Good work, Dad.”
“Good work, Ava. Now use your Russian. I need to practice.”
Mickey hurried across the street, pulling his hoodie farther down on his head. He’d spent the night back at the homeless community, tucked inside the cramped tent of the birthday boy. He’d waffled about going to the police. If he went, would the killer find out and kill his grandparents like he’d said?
Could the police protect what little family he had left?
The dojo was just ahead and Sensei would know what to do. And besides, he had to warn him that the killer knew about the dojo. Just like he had to find a phone to call his grandparents. Mickey had ditched his phone before he’d even left the yard, not knowing what the killer’s skills were or the technology he had available. But if he could kill four people without blinking, he could probably find a way to track Mickey’s phone.
Mickey’s throat tightened at the thought of never seeing his family again. What was he going to do? The downtown sidewalk wasn’t busy, thanks to this being a Monday morning, and he was able to jog most of the way to the building. The man lived above the karate school. Odds were in Mickey’s favor he’d be home.
Just as he was about to open the glass door that would take him up to the apartment, he froze. The man who’d killed his family was standing ten yards away, staring. When he caught Mickey’s eye, he started walking toward him. No expression flickered across his face, but those black eyes sparked a malevolence that sent Mickey’s pulse skittering and his heart thundering.
He spun and pounded down the sidewalk.
Something slammed into his back and burned a fiery path just below his right shoulder blade. He stumbled, got his balance, and spotted a police officer sitting in the diner to his right. Weakness invaded his knees, but he pushed through the door. And fell to the floor, breathing hard.
Someone screamed. Then the officer was bending over him. “Hey, kid, what happened? You okay?”
“Don’t let him kill me,” Mickey whispered.
The diner faded, the officer’s face blurred, and his voice—the voice yelling into the radio on his shoulder—echoed. He’d been shot. Really? That’s what it felt like?
“Help’s on the way, you’re going to be okay.” The officer’s concerned gaze locked on Mickey’s. “Just keep breathing.”
Someone turned him over and put painful pressure on his wound. The world wobbled. Mickey blinked, trying to stay awake, not wanting to black out. “He shot me?”
“Yeah. He did. Who? Who shot you?”