Precipice (3 page)

As Dominic proceeded to his office, Faye headed down the aisle to her cubicle and he paused to watch her go. Despite having worked closely with her for a month now, Shannon remained shrouded in mystery. She was new to the staff and young, maybe mid-20s. With her appearance, she’d fit in better at a beauty pageant than a government investigation unit. She was long-legged, with straight auburn-colored hair that would flow nicely over her shoulders were it not secured in a harsh ponytail. In excellent shape, she turned many a man’s head as she passed, their eyes following her to her cubicle at the end.

Yet still an icy determination lurked beneath her surface that pushed people away, a shadow that drove her and motivated her. Dominic was determined to figure out what it was, but so far all efforts had been unsuccessful.

Sloan had assigned Dominic to her for multiple reasons. The young agent had gone through two partners in the last three years; the latter mysteriously disappeared on the job and the former retired after 45 long years, deciding to go out on top rather than wait for his aging body to catch up to him. So Dominic needed another partner.

Perhaps more importantly though, he spent his childhood years in the same part of the country as Shannon. Sloan hoped that connection might make the transition easier for them both. Both North Carolinians at heart and former Blue Devils, they had common ground on which to build a trust. But despite his best efforts to connect, Shannon remained distant. This frustrated him. He was used to the close relationship he enjoyed with his former partners, but he knew these things take time. He just needed to be more persistent.

He finally turned away and entered his office, shutting the door behind him. Despite his youth and minimal field experience, Dominic had shot up the pyramid hierarchy in the agency. He liked to credit his own merit for the ascension, but a large part of the decision behind his promotion was to appease his father, the legendary John Randal.

John had been one of the top agents for the Special Intelligence and Security Agency, SISA, for 35 years until he retired a couple years ago at the age of 60. This promising potential of his son to follow in John’s colossal footsteps, as well as external pressure from John himself, resulted in Dominic’s meteoric rise.

The accusations of nepotism bothered Dominic and he was determined to prove to his co-workers—and more so, to his father—that he didn’t need coddling and deserved the position on his own abilities and accomplishments.

This case was meant to be his coming out party, where he showed he belonged in the corner office, where he silenced the coworkers who whispered about him being a “daddy’s boy” and not deserving his rapid promotion. But to his aggravation, things weren’t going as well as he wanted.

This particular government department was unique. Few people knew SISA existed, much less their mission, headquartered in a drab building a few hours outside of Washington. They mainly handled special cases, ones the more famous agencies couldn’t handle. However, this particular case was dealt their way because it involved one of their own, a former agent—and Dominic’s former partner at the agency—named Amadi Babalola.

Born into the Yoruba people in Africa and raised as an orphan in a refugee camp before being adopted into an American family as a high school student, Amadi was recruited to work for SISA because of his extensive knowledge and expertise of a volatile region. He started by working locally to establish experience, but all signs pointed to him being fast-tracked to the major leagues soon. The higher-ups wanted him running overseas operations within two years.

He was only with the department for just over one year before disappearing without a trace. That was nearly six months ago.

Amadi had been presumed dead, not an unlikely conjecture in this line of work. But that assumption evaporated about two months ago when a junior agent, on a routine scouting mission to Syria, brought back a dozen surveillance photos of Amadi meeting with Sabeh Gorani, a well-known arms dealer based in Syria, specializing in small weaponry that individual soldiers carried.

Since then, ten other sightings of Amadi had popped up from various locations ranging from a bustling Hong Kong marketplace to a poverty-stricken Mexican barrio. This sighting in the suburban neighborhood of Campbell would only add to that ever-growing list once they made a positive identification.

No one could figure out what Amadi was up to, only that it was big. He met with arms dealers, mob bosses, political leaders and a known assassin. He was plotting something and it was Dominic’s job to figure out what.

As partners, the two worked a half dozen cases together before the disappearance. They even spent time together outside the office as friends, so Dominic took Amadi’s betrayal as a personal affront. Sitting down into his fancy leather chair behind the large mahogany desk, Dominic’s mind drifted back to the last conversation he had with his former coworker.

“Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that.”

“Good one. Still too easy though. Reverend King.” As usual, the two agents were engaged in verbal banter. It usually centered around naming a quote one had heard recently and the other citing its source. Dominic enjoyed the back and forth of it. He loved picking the brilliant mind of his partner. And it was good practice for Amadi’s ever-improving English. “Smart man…”

“Randal! Amadi!” The harsh sound of their boss’s voice interrupted their amusements. “Enough fooling around. I don’t pay you two to play games.”

“We’ll come back to this later.” Dominic whispered to his partner as the two quickly pulled up the files for their newest case.

Amadi chuckled. “So, this rich guy, what’d ya find out ’bout him?” Their new case possessed all the markings of being noteworthy, a nice change from the mundane cases that had passed through the office the last few months. The body of a local wealthy investor, Jayden Dodd, was found a couple days ago on the bank of the Geneva River. Shot once in the forehead, a possible execution. More curious was what was missing, a single tooth ripped from the mouth: the upper left canine.

The Medical Examiner confirmed it as a homicide with Cause of Death being the gunshot, resulting in massive brain trauma and almost immediate death. The briefcase clutched in his hand was broken open and empty, but his stuffed wallet had been left untouched. To add to the mystery, his body wasn’t hidden away in the nearby swamp or concealed at all. It was clearly visible from any number of buildings nearby and any car that happened to drive by on the street. Yet no one reported witnessing anything out of the ordinary.

The body had been lain carefully on his back, hands crossed over his chest. The suit was impeccably straightened, no creases or folds. Other than the one ghastly blemish of a bullet hole in the middle of the forehead, he was ready for a funeral viewing. Pristine.

“Maybe it was a statement by a local gang or organization out to prove something. Certainly an organized killer though. Altering a body afterwards often indicates remorse, but I doubt that’s the case here. More likely, they’re trying to tell a story. Execution killings are usually a sign the attacker craves power. The shooter is getting off on forcing his victims into passive submission.” He frowned. “I mean, who kills the wealthiest guy in this part of the state—a man who would be missed, and quickly—wastes time positioning the body, but doesn’t bother to go after the money in his wallet. He—or they—wanted this to be seen and feared. Fright feeds arrogance and sense of control. A kill like this probably indicates an offender who feels they’ve been wronged and are trying to reclaim the power.

“The tooth is strange, but I’d bet it’s just a trophy. It’s common in cases of victim submission. Symbolizes victory and conquest and demonstrates power over the victim.” He stopped his analysis to take a quick breath. “I admit I’m lost with the empty briefcase though. What were they after? Paperwork, maybe files? Suppose it could have been cash too. But then why pose the body like that? And why not empty the wallet while you’re at it?”

“I got no idea man,” Amadi muttered.

“No opinion at all? That’s not like you. You usually have all kinds of nutty conspiracy theories on tap,” he chuckled.

“Sorry dude.” He shrugged.

“Well, check with those nefarious sources you always seem to know. See if you can get anything out of ‘em.”

“I’m on it.”

Less than 48 hours later, Amadi disappeared. Looking back, that unusual claim of ignorance may have held more meaning than Dominic knew at the time. At first, the assumption was that he’d poked around his criminal sources a little too much and one of them had him offed, a consequence many worried would happen eventually given the nature of the people Amadi knew. When he disappeared, they assumed the worst, but when he resurfaced, whispers of betrayal and deception circulated through the small office. And Dominic was left trying to remember every detail of their final conversations.

Had he been nervous that night? Jittery? Did he answer too slowly? Too quickly? Was there some clue that he missed? These kept Dominic up late, costing him hours of precious sleep. The doubts and anxieties ate at him.

Day after day, for months, he found himself returning to his childhood home on the other side of the city to visit his mother in the hopes that experiencing normalcy—as well as her fabulous home-cooking—would help settle him. There must to be something he overlooked, and whatever it was had returned to haunt him.

Since that first murder of Jayden Dodd, five others had been discovered. All killed with a single bullet, close range, to the middle of the forehead, and placed in the same immaculate position. And all missing a single tooth, ripped from their mouths. The pathology report showed the teeth had been extracted postmortem—after death—but no other signs of trauma were visible.

No fingerprints, fibers, or other trace evidence were ever found. Forensic techs searched the scene for hours, but came away stumped. The attacker was careful. Other than the M.O., no connection in victimology ever surfaced. They appeared to be chosen at random. A wealthy investor on trial for insider trading. A foreign gas station owner. A local television reporter and minor celebrity. A working mother from a non-profit. A sleazy lawyer suspected, but never proved, to be involved in human trafficking. And now this janitor at the local museum. Rich and poor. Local and foreign. Influential people in high positions and weak individuals with zero power or influence. All but one shot in the forehead, and all staged in identical fashion.

And on top of everything, he had to deal with Amadi’s vanishing act. None of it added up, and it made even less sense the more Dominic ruminated. Yet it had become a personal quest, one he was unable to let go, robbing him of sleep and sanity.

He struggled to keep his work up to par, fighting the constant exhaustion that invaded his every move and thought. So far, he was winning—well, surviving—thanks to high, nightly doses of drugs designed to dull his consciousness and knock him out. But it was catching up and he was slowing down; soon it would overtake him. But for now, he poured all spare energy into solving this elusive case.

Needing to bide time until the lab processed the photos, he yawned again. He turned to his computer, shoved the cluttered papers on his desk to one side, and pulled up the case files once more. But he hadn’t finished the initial page of the report before his fatigue took over yet again. His head drooped to the desk and he nodded off, falling into dreams of chasing a shadow that could never be caught.

***

As Will regained consciousness, he became aware of moonlight streaming through the overhanging leaves of the tree under which he dozed.
It was dark outside! He’d slept too long!

He stumbled to his feet, pulled his jacket tight, and started moving again, this time with a limp. He was acutely aware of the sharp throbbing in his leg, a corollary of the gash above his right knee. The bleeding had stopped, but the pain was as fresh as ever. A small laceration was also open above his right eyebrow—he hadn’t noticed that earlier—and a small trickle of blood had dried on his face.

Moving as fast as possible, Will lumbered in the direction of town. He was short on time and backup was probably out looking for him already. Normally, he wouldn’t think to head in the direction of those predators, but time was limited and he couldn’t see an alternative.

As he worked toward Greenlake, Will’s mind raced. The leg wound was his first concern. Unable to move with any speed, he’d never be capable of outrunning a pursuit. But a house in town contained a trusted friend who could patch his leg. The bigger issue was why he ran in the first place: the people hunting him. Will recognized he was up against immense resources and firepower.

Yet, he knew from his collegiate days of hitting the hardwood the dangers of underestimating the power of the mind. He hadn’t earned his playing time based on any innate skill or athleticism. A skinny, un-athletic, white kid would never have seen the court that way. No, his greatest strength was his brain. By understanding his opponent’s thoughts and predicting their next move, he remained one step ahead.

But these men were more complicated than your average ball player. Normal tactics weren’t the best course of action. He’d seen their work before. Two years ago, his previous partner fell into the trap of trusting traditional tactics and learned the consequences the hard way. Caught trying to run for it, he sought to explain himself, but all that earned him was a single bullet in the temple and a brief obituary in the local paper claiming Zachary David Cohen, a 29-year-old businessman, was a victim of accidental suicide.