Found You (A Rylie Wolf FBI Suspense Thriller—Book One)

CHAPTER ONE It all came down to this. Three months of round-the-clock investigations, thousands of false leads, gallons upon gallons of coffee consumed . . . all of it with the promise of one thing: to bring this mean son of a b***h, a man who’d terrorized an entire community for months, down. Now, it was time to make good on that promise. Cloaked in darkness, under a non-working streetlight at the corner of a run-down section of town outside of Seattle, Rylie Wolf waited for her target to appear. He’d been in there, in his house, for hours, ever since she’d followed him and his old blue minivan back from his job at Beaver Lake Elementary School. What was he doing? Instinctively, she reached into her pocket and pulled out her cell phone, lifting it up and tapping the display. The screen was black, the battery dead. Of course. She got like that sometimes—so focused on a case that even the most essential acts of daily living escaped her. She’d forgotten to plug her phone into the car charger on the way. Son of a b***h. So much for calling for back-up. Just as she made the decision to move closer so that she could venture a look in the windows, the garage door slowly lumbered up. From her vantage point, she could just see inside. Nothing concerning, just the back end of the blue van with the Washington license plate. The ignition coughed and fired, the red taillights switched on, and the car slowly began to pull out. Then, suddenly, it lurched to a stop. Rylie squinted, trying to see better in the darkness. The single light in the garage bay illuminated the face of one Edison Blaze in the side-view mirror. He was tough, mean, and ugly, the type of guy you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley. No clue on why the administration had decided it was a good idea to take him on as janitor at the elementary school. If Rylie had her way, soon, they’d all be regretting that hire. Very soon. Clean record, my a*s. Someone had fudged those files, big-time. She watched as he moved in the darkness. He seemed to be wrestling with something in the back seat. It was just a flash. No more than that. But for a brief instant, she thought she saw, in silhouette, a tiny hand, pressed up against the side window. Christopher. The world spun. Her head rushed in a whirlwind, eyes clouding over, breath quickening. This was it. Fingers wrapped around the useless phone, spreading white at the knuckles. She took one unsteady step forward, her sneaker hitting the dewy, slippery grass of the lawn. Okay. Okay. Think, Rylie. Be calm about this. You can’t afford to make any mistakes. She touched her left hand to her pocket to make sure her car keys were still there. She glanced at her pick-up, across the street, trying to decide if she should make a break for it, now. It was her private vehicle, so she didn’t have a radio in there to call for help, but if she made it there, she could peel out and follow him. Or . . . she could end it. Right here. Right now. Meanwhile, still halfway out the garage door, the car’s driver-side door opened, and out popped the substantial form of Edison Blaze. Hiking up his sagging jeans, he went back into the house. In that moment, she made her decision. Grabbing her Glock, she moved forward, pausing at the back of the van, her g*n pointed at the slightly-open inside door from the garage to the house. She peered into the window, but saw nothing beyond the darkened pane. When he appeared in the doorway, he didn’t see her at first, as he must’ve been blinded by the headlights shining in his face. He was carrying a paper lunch bag. He took a few steps toward her, oblivious. She pointed her g*n at her suspect. “Freeze! FBI.” The man did no such thing. Somehow, she’d known it wouldn’t be that easy. Edison Blaze had a long list of arrests, but no convictions. He was used to evading blame. Not this time. She was determined to make sure of that. Without hesitation, he jumped into the minivan, and it lurched back again. She dove away, narrowly missing the van’s rear bumper as it barreled out under a streetlight, revealing him completely. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead, a wild look in his eyes. Black hair fanned over his forehead like splayed fingers. She scrabbled to her feet and headed for her pick-up. Jumping in, she punched the gas, tearing onto the road and giving chase. It was after midnight, so the roads were empty. A light turned red just as she was approaching it. She paused but did not stop as she sailed through the intersection, spotting Blaze, making a right on Sammamish Pike, headed for Interstate 86, the main drag around these parts. Was that where he was heading? It made sense. If he wanted to get out of town—out of the country— quick, that was the easiest way. Headed west, it went all the way to the Canadian border. And if so, she knew a shortcut. It paid to have lived here in the suburbs of Seattle for the past sixteen years. From her research, she’d seen that Blaze was a drifter. He’d been making his way up the western seaboard, from Mexico, to California, to Oregon, to Washington, leaving a path of unsolved child abductions along the way. Rylie had connected Blaze to a man in Mexico, who’d sell kids for top dollar, to bidders who’d use them for a variety of shady things. Now, he’d brought his reign of terror to Washington. And it ends here, she thought, pressing on the gas and taking SE 28th Street, the street before. Tonight. Because I know these streets better than you, asshole. Wheeling into the darkness, at unsafe speeds, she wrapped her hands around the steering wheel. A thin, wispy fog settled over everything, a light drizzle spritzing the windshield. The headlights illuminated the bodies of unsuspecting insects, right before they were pummeled by the pick-up’s front end. She turned up the wipers, leaving a track of their gooey bodies behind, worsening her view. On either side of her, there was nothing but sawgrass and tall trees. In the distance, the line of the interstate was marked by the steady stream of red taillights, edging their way toward the Canadian border. About a quarter mile before Interstate 86, SE 28th Street would intersect with Sammamish. Straining to see, she noticed the headlights up ahead, careening down Sammamish. It was the van. It had to be. The van slowed slightly to make the turn onto the interstate. She surged forward, a terrible, reckless idea lodging itself in her head. Am I really going to do this? she asked herself. Then she asked another question. Do I want to get this creep, or not? The answer: unequivocally, yes. At that moment, Edison must’ve noticed her, because he began to pick up the pace, tires screeching. Too late. She slammed the front side of the van with such impact, it threw her forward, as the airbag deployed, throwing her back and sending her spinning. A horn blared, and the bones of her neck cracked as she loosened her grip from the steering wheel and slammed on the brakes, waiting for the car to finish fishtailing. When it came to a stop, all she saw was the sea of white from the airbag. Shoving it and the screaming agony in her back aside, she groped for the door handle and threw it open, then slipped out from underneath it, her hand still on her pistol. Across the road, she saw a single headlight, shining on the grassy median. There were dark skid-marks from the tires on the road, leading toward where the gravel was disturbed. Beyond that, deep tire ruts in the mud, leading to the van, which was smoking slightly, still. Rushing forward, g*n drawn, she paused when she got close enough, gauging the situation. Then, she reached out and opened the sliding back door. Darkness. Her eyes couldn’t adjust fast enough. Before she could register what was inside, the tires started to squeal and the van began to take off. Without thinking, she threw herself inside. She lost her balance almost instantly, thudding backwards onto the empty floor of the van. The interior was bare, which made sense, if it was his work van. When she grabbed for something to steady herself, her g*n was thrown from her hands. Where. . . she thought, looking around frantically for her weapon. But it was gone. For all she knew, it’d flown out the gaping open door of the van. Likely. s**t. What do I do now? The van jolted again, and she stumbled backward, nearly joining it. Finally, she braced herself against the side of the van. There were no seats back there, no carpeting. There were various tools, things any janitor would use. But then she saw the frightened form, huddled behind the driver’s seat, tiny hands grasping onto a strap on the back of the seat for dear life. The little boy, Christopher, his mouth gagged, wrists and ankles tied, curled as small as could be behind the seat, as if trying to make himself invisible. The fear in his big eyes was heartbreaking. She knew it. She’d just known, from the moment she interviewed that guy in the schoolyard after the disappearance, that she was onto something. He’d been so squirrelly. So wrong. After ten years as an agent, she’d grown a nose for bullshit. She’d smelled it a mile away with him. The sight of the poor kid spurred Rylie to action. The van barreled down the median, swaying this way and that. Edison kept looking over his shoulder as he drove, trying to topple her, a wild look in his eye, as if he was enjoying this. “Edison Blaze. Stop the car,” she shouted. He chuckled. “I’ll stop when I’m dead, b***h. Or when you are.” From the look in his eye, she knew he meant it. Frantically, she looked around. A toolbox was rattling around in the back, sliding back and forth with every wild turn of the steering wheel. She glanced out the front windshield and saw that they were heading for a bridge. He could plunge them off the edge with a slight turn of the wheel. Gasping, the next time it slid toward her, she plunged her hand inside. Wrapping her fingers around a wrench, she dove forward, bringing the full weight of the metal tool down on his temple. He let out a growl and lost control. The van fishtailed wildly, brakes and tires squealing. She scrambled backwards, grabbing the little boy in her arms and holding him in the cocoon of her body. Just in time, because a split second later, she felt her body shoved end over end, falling, weightless for a moment, before slamming down, hard, on the ground. And then, mercifully, silence. Almost immediately, she sprang into action, ignoring the swimming of her vision and the pain in almost every limb. She let go of Christopher, hearing his muffled cries, but it was too dark to see much of anything except the opening to the van, which was now above her, framing the starry sky. She set him down gently. “Stay here,” she whispered. “Let me check things out first.” Bracing herself on the frame, she crawled out, climbed toward the passenger-side front door, and opened it, hoping to see Edison Blaze, knocked out or dead. But the seat was empty. There was the sound of swishing grass behind her. Slowly, she turned around to face him. Her first reaction was a sense of wonder at how big he looked, up close. The pictures never conveyed that. He stood over six feet and broad-shouldered, wearing a black T-shirt stretched over his muscular frame and dirty blue jeans. Blood trickled down his temple and the sneer on his face said that he wasn’t happy with her intrusion. . “You’re Rylie Wolf,” he whispered. “Right? Wasn’t that what you said your name was? FBI. You’re the one who has been on my tail, all this time.” Her mouth worked, lips spreading, but no sound came out. She couldn't even think of what to say. She took a single step toward him, a thousand thoughts flying through her mind as he coiled his legs and charged at her, his mouth twisting into some alien snarl full of teeth. The snarl was all she could see in the dim moonlight before her body was swallowed in an avalanche of muscle, blurred motion, and a strange, guttural growl of hatred and rage. He slammed into her, shoulder drilling into her chest, propelling her clumsily backwards, thudding against the dewy ground. She felt something sharp dig between her shoulder blades a split second before it exploded and splayed apart on either side of her. The jagged remnants of the small bush, or whatever it was, tore at her shirt and skin under his assault. Her vision clouded and darkened, the black of endless night creeping in from the edges, forcing a kind of tunnel vision. He was everything she saw, pushing forward, arms extended, one hand on each shoulder, flanking her collarbone and pressing backwards, straining her every muscle. "Finally," he growled, his breath sour and rank. Neat rows of forehead wrinkles twisted into strange divots of anger above his narrow, piercing eyes. Crow's feet extended from the edges of each of them, and his wide nose crinkled into a stubbed toe of flesh and cartilage. He had more than a five o'clock shadow spread across his jawline and down his neck. She closed her eyes as, despite her best efforts to stop him, his hands slid from her shoulders and start to close around her throat, narrow, muscular fingers wrapping all the way around and starting to squeeze. Frozen. Completely immobile. Pain flared between her shoulders and down the length of her back, but it was nothing compared to the burning in her lungs. His strength was incredible, the pressure undefeatable. Somewhere, little Christopher began to cry. Stop it. Stop it, Rylie. That boy needs you. The assailant’s fingers closed tighter, and her breath lessened. All the while, she stared up at him, wondering if this was the last sight she’d ever see, The blue eyes bore deep into hers, and she shook her head, tossing her long, curly hair down over his wrists. His narrow smile exposed yellow teeth, illuminated by the single glowing headlight, and bathed her in horrific breath. She reached towards his hands in a pleading motion, fingers spread and palms open, trembling for some sort of mercy, but she could tell from the look on his face that he had none. Fingers closed even more tightly, and he pushed back even harder. She wrapped her fingers around his wrist, and by then, he was so intent on his victim that he didn’t even notice. With her right hand clasped tight, she pulled at his wrist while her left hand came up from her hip and struck underneath the same wrist. Torquing her hips, she tore his wrist up and away, and his fingers released, springing apart like an opening latch. Using the full momentum of her body, she rolled her shoulders and tangled his arms together, then spun, propelling herself off the ground and ramming her hip into his waist. His feet left the floor, and he was carried over her hip into a clumsy forward roll, his shoulder slamming against the ground. Frantically, she backpedaled as he came to a stand, face enraged, and charged again, barreling into her with his right shoulder. She toppled backwards. “b***h!” he bellowed and lunged at her, wrapping his huge hands around her shoulders and lifting her off the ground. “I’m going to kill you!” He meant every word of it, she knew, even before he spun and sent her sideways through the air until she slammed into the cold, wet ground. Sparks blasted behind her eyes. He advanced again, but the moment she hit the floor, she bounced up in a mad scramble. Every muscle in her body screamed, and she could barely catch her breath. Even so, she had to. Getting into ready position, she prepared for the attack. Then she heard the sound of sirens. Edison Blaze must’ve heard them, too, because he suddenly dropped his hands, which were raised to wrap around her throat. He straightened for a moment, listening, and then said, “Shit.” He broke into a run. Ignoring the pain screaming through every nerve in her body, she pursued him, driving through the long sawgrass. Much of the time, she couldn’t see him. She had to stop to listen for him, and only once in a while, she’d see his large body, moving up ahead. He climbed to the asphalt surface of the road and started to run for the bridge, but when he got to it and peered over, he stopped and turned around. A police car skidded to a stop, and two officers emerged, guns drawn. “Freeze!” one said. He staggered forward, as if on his last legs, and lunged for escape. When more police joined the fight, he spun around, helpless. Seeing nowhere to go, he held up his hands in surrender. Breathing hard, she finally allowed her body to relax. One of the officers turned to her, g*n drawn. “Agent Wolf? Is that you?” She nodded, still unable to speak, her lungs burning. She clutched the knot in her side. Her daily five-mile run hadn’t been enough to prepare her for this—hot pursuit after nearly having all the air strangled out of her by a man twice her size. “I’ve done nothing wrong,” Edison Blaze whined as they approached him. Sure, you haven’t, Rylie thought as she turned and headed back toward the van. By now, Christopher’s cries had become steady, mournful sobs. She climbed inside the open door and looked at the little boy. Other than a few scrapes and bruises that most normal seven-year-old boys had, he seemed okay. She smiled. “Hey, you. Is your name Christopher?” He nodded, fear in his face. “I’m Rylie Wolf from the FBI. I’m here to get you home. You want to go home?” He stared at her for a long time. Then he said, “Y-you have a badge?” She pulled it out from the pocket of her jacket, and showed it to him. “Want to hold onto it for now?” He nodded and took it, staring at it with awe. “I want my Mom.” She motioned him forward, and he allowed her to scoop him into her arms, then clung on for dear life. “And I promise you. She wants you, too. So let’s get you back there, okay?” Her body aching, she carried him toward the closest cop car, seeing double. She already knew she was going to catch hell from Matthews for this, but she didn’t care. That was tomorrow. No matter what, it would be worth it.