CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Rich! Get in here!”
Bill Matthews sat at his desk in the FBI’s Field Office for the Analysis of Violent Crime in Seattle, feeling pissed. He’d woken up pissed, and it had only grown as he went through page after page of national news regarding the FBI’s rising star.
Rylie Freaking Wolf.
He thought about that time, in this office, a month ago, when he’d given Rylie her walking papers.
“I think what you were doing was going against the rules. As usual,” he’d said.
“Possibly. But the main objective was to catch the man, right? And I—”
“Catch the man, yes. Tear up half a mile of highway? The median’s a wreck. They say it’s going to cost millions of dollars to fix!”
She’d scoffed at him, completely insolent, as always. “To plant a few bushes? Come on—"
That was enough
