This time he didn't call back.

  She stared at her phone, feeling that same sense of guilt. She sighed, rubbing a hand across her face. Then, muttering darkly to herself, she placed a call again.

  “Feel better?” Johnny said when he answered.

  “Not really. You know...this is why I didn't call. I don't have time to deal with the attitude, John.”

  “Alright, Cobra,” he retorted, fully knowing just how much she loathed the nickname.

  For a moment, they both remained on the line, both breathing heavily, both clearly irritated. But then, Cora, biting back whatever retort she could feel burbling in her throat, said, “Can you run a plate or not, Johnny?”

  “Already got the database up, Cora. Just wanted you to ask nice is all.”

  Cora, still frowning, rattled off the plate number for the truck. She heard the sound of fingers tapping on the other line. Before he'd finished, though, she quickly added. “Also, should mention, don't let this show up anywhere traceable. Probably best no one knows what I'm looking for.”

  He snorted. “I'm working private security in South America. Not exactly swimming in red tape down here. If I wanted to, I could fly a helicopter into the president's house, and they wouldn't blink.” Then, his tone shifted. “Stolen truck,” he said. “Big black thing, that the one?”

  “Yeah...” Cora trailed off, frowning. “Anything else besides it being stolen?”

  “Nu-huh. Owner was shot at the scene. Three days ago. What are you involved in?”

  “I didn't shoot him.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Johnny. I mean it. I didn't shoot him.”

  “Of course.”

  She sighed. She could tell he wasn't so sure. But she didn't have time to convince him of this. And so, instead, she said, “Alright—so I got something else then. Forget the plates. I figured they'd be a dead end. I want to know about a golden snake.”

  “That a euphemism?”

  “Har. Har. No, it was on a briefcase. Looked like an S, with a red eye like a ruby.”

  “And what am I looking in.”

  Cora sighed, considering it, then said, “Suspected traffickers. Drug dealers. International cartels. The like.”

  More typing sounds. She waited now, walking in the night-time breeze, shivering a bit now as she moved into the night. She was now far enough away from the crime scene that she decided it would be safe enough to call a taxi.

  She cycled to the app on her phone while Johnny continued to work in the background. A few more minutes passed though, before he said. “Got it. Yeah, looking at it now. So, we've got three options. Chinese mob, working primarily in Beijing.”

  “Nope.”

  “Hmm. Well, we got a golden snake emblem for a shell company suspected to be associated with Rhode Island organized crime. And then...” A pause. “Yeah, Colombian cartel.”

  “That last one,” Cora said quickly. “Send me the picture, will you.”

  No sooner had she made the request, had her phone buzzed. She glanced down at the attached picture in the message. Her eyebrows lifted slowly. It matched. The same golden snake she'd seen on the briefcase.

  “What is it?” she said.

  “Umm...warehouse,” he replied after a moment. “Looks like nothing is confirmed, but DEA has some eyes on the place. Pretty quiet for the last couple years...but there was an issue where they found a man working for the company with a big stash of narcotics in his tires.”

  “Company name? Oh, wait, never mind. I see it.” She frowned at the logo he'd sent, staring at the golden lettering beneath the golden emblem. Gild & Sundry.

  She wrinkled her nose, frowning. “What are they supposed to be involved in?”

  “That's part of the issue,” he replied. “Nothing clear on the books. Technically, a shipping company, but their tax info is spotty at best. IRS is looking at an audit. But...you know places like this...”

  “A shell within a shell,” she replied, nodding slowly. “Reminds me of the UAE. Remember that banker?”

  “Huh, yeah,” Johnny chuckled.

  And for a moment, it almost felt good-natured. But then, both of them, realizing they were letting their guards down, cleared their throats awkwardly.

  “I—well, thanks Johnny. You got an address for the place.”

  “Umm, yeah, yeah. Gotta be going myself. Here, sending you the warehouse. It's a state over from where you are.”

  “I didn't tell you where I was.”

  “Nah. Psh. Think that's gonna stop me? That all Cobra, or you want to reminisce some more?”

  She hung up this time.

  And, admittedly, it felt good.

  There was something just so... pleased with itself about Johnny. She shook her head, glaring into the night. Once upon a time, she'd found him charming.

  Now...

  She sighed, closed her eyes, and tried not to allow her mind to wander too far afield.

  She checked her phone for an update from the taxi app, waiting on the curb, and listening to the sounds of the night. Her screen brightened, the device buzzing as Johnny sent her the address for the warehouse.

  She studied the information, feeling a sense of inevitability. She was in too deep now to back out. Besides, she still had to make sure those cops in Westville got more than a hand and leg shot. If they were looking the other way while girls from single-parent families were kidnapped, she'd be happy to see the whole station burned down.

  She scowled, exhaled, and sent a quick follow-up message to Saul about the audio recording. “Captain and officers from Westville police station,” she texted quickly. “Dirty. Deal with.”

  Then she lowered her phone again, considering her next move.

  A warehouse associated with the same company the man in the expensive suit was from.

  Now that she thought of it, the road they'd fled on would take them in the same direction as the warehouse. She frowned, and then reached a decision.

  It wasn't like there was any reason to head back to West Virginia anyhow.

  Besides, things with the cops in Westville could easily escalate. It was probably best she wasn't readily locatable.

  She waited, watching for the taxi. Part of her wished she'd stayed long enough to keep one of the guns she'd snatched at the police station. But in her haste to beat a retreat, she'd left the firearm on the premises. No sense carrying around a weapon used to shoot public servants.

  She wasn't certain what she was doing, but she did know that one way or another, she needed to find that man with the golden chain.

  Either willingly...

  Or very, very painfully...

  He'd lead her to Caitlin.

  And anyone else standing in her way?

  It wouldn't be pretty.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Cora watched from the vantage point overlooking the small compound. The warehouse was situated off a desert road, at the end of a switchback, hidden from the highway or any prying eyes. A row of barbed wire topped a gate, only further serving to isolate the lonely warehouse.

  Trucks carrying shipping containers occasionally came and went.

  Odd, since there were no ships, or even large bodies of water, for hundreds of miles.

  Cora maintained her prone posture, resting amidst dust and scrubby vegetation. The taxi had taken her to the nearest town. Hoofing it had brought her the rest of the way.

  And now, the collar of her shirt lifted to help her breath despite the dust, she watched the movement patterns of the guards.

  Men with guns.

  Too many men for a shipping warehouse.

  No sign of the man with the golden chain yet, though. She didn't have binoculars, and wished she'd been able to get some sort of aerial footage.

  But now, working without the seal of approval from the American government, she supposed she'd simply have to make do with what she had.

  She huffed in frustration, wishing that she'd also brought a weapon.

  She'd thought she was coming to a funeral, though, not a livewire mission into the arms of a waiting army.

  She'd already counted seven armed men. Their weapons were hidden, for the most part. But who was there to hide them from, out here, in the desert?

  They clearly didn't know they were being watched, and yet they moved with precision, with great care. Not military training, but rather a different type of training, a darker sort of experience.

  She kept her attention fixated on them, looking for a flaw in their movement patterns. Currently, she was specifically eyeballing two men in blue uniforms and gray hats with golden snakes on the brims. They were moving around the side of the warehouse, eyes forward. No chatting, no small talk. One of the men, earlier, had taken a smoke break, but had done it out of the line of sight from the cameras dotting the place.

  She exhaled slowly, feeling the warmth of her breath against the cupped hem of her shirt.

  The sun was bright, high in the sky, watching her where she lay. She'd managed to get a few hours of sleep in the ride from Westville, but now she was holding back a yawn. Still, while she normally would have waited until evening, the hornet's nest she'd kicked up back at the police station suggested the sooner she pulled these threads, the better.

  Already, she'd received phone calls from both the director and from Agent Brady. Whether they wanted to know about the recording she'd sent or wanted to discuss the charges being brought against her, she didn't know, nor did she care.

  Now, she faced a mission.

  There was something exhilarating, almost relieving about finding herself face-to-face with a virtual army.

  An impossible problem.

  Impossible, though, was the fun part.

  And so, she slipped back, keeping low until she was no longer within the view of the compound. Then she pushed to her feet, shook the dust from her hands, checked the utility knife in her pocket, and broke into a jog, head low under the sun. She would need to grab some water soon. She also would have to pay close attention to her own temperature.

  In her experience, the quickest way for missions like this to go sideways was to neglect the simple things.

  It was in the details that a mission would succeed or fail.

  As she moved down the trail, considering her options, she wondered if a phone call to Brady was in order. But no, the FBI had been clear where she was concerned.

  If they found out where she was and what she was up to, chances were a prison sentence would have her name on it. And so, waving the dust from her face and lowering her collar, she moved towards the portion of fence where she'd spotted a small blind spot from the guards and cameras. She moved slower now, cautious, not wanting to catch any eye before she was close enough to breach the fence.

  She steadied herself, taking a quick breath.

  Cora watched through the gaps in the fence, waiting for the two men with the gray caps to continue their circuit around the side of the rectangular, white building. Once she spotted the backs of their heels, she took this as her cue. Her fingers found the mesh, pulling taut on the wire. She made it halfway up, and then removed the sweater she had borrowed from Jamie. Using this, she flung it over the top of the fence.

  She scrambled up the rest of the way, moving with practiced precision, the muscles in her arms straining. Where her arms extended ahead of her, no longer wearing long sleeves, she spotted the many tattoos, including the one of the cobra on her right forearm. There were scars too. She spotted the two white marks on her left bicep. Gunshot wounds. There was a knife wound on her shoulder, which she couldn't currently see.

  To her, sometimes it felt as if she had already lived multiple lives.

  She reached the top of the fence, slowly, quietly pushing the loops of barbed wire to the side as best she could. This was the benefit of being slim. The sweater was used to block one side of the adjusted wire. Then, she moved up the fence, through the wire, hung for a second, wincing where her pants leg caught on a barb. Carefully, using her abdominal muscles, she removed her leg from the hook of metal, and dropped to the ground.

  Her foot caught a discarded glass bottle, sending it skittering. She winced against the noise. The small, concrete curb at the base of the fence had blocked the bottle from sight. But now, as she scanned the ground, she noticed multiple bottles and a few cigarettes.

  Clearly, the blind spot wasn't unfamiliar to the guards.

  Which meant she couldn't stay long. She reached up, snatched the sleeve of her sweater, shook it a bit to dislodge it, and then put it back on.

  All of it had taken a minute.

  Which meant she had thirty seconds before the two guards circled around the east side of the building again. They would see her.

  She kept low, in a crouch, hastening towards the side of the big building.

  As she did, she heard a sudden rattle. Voices. She tensed. She glanced back, and realized a large truck was being brought through the sliding gate outside the warehouse.

  She frowned at the truck. Another shipping container.

  But was it common for shipping containers to have breathing holes?

  She couldn't be sure, but strange perforations along the metal certainly caught her attention.

  She frowned, watching as the truck was wheeled towards one of the loading docks.

  Then she heard footsteps. The guards were drawing near.

  She lingered for a moment, considering her options, but then, keeping low, she moved directly under a westward=facing security camera. Again, it wouldn't be able to see her unless she moved two feet to the left.

  She hotfooted and reached the opposite side of the warehouse just in time, slipping around the edge of the building as she heard the voices of the two men come around the corner.

  She rested, back flat against the warehouse building. Now, on this side, there were two more guards. But they were in a small garage, and she had spotted them working on a jeep

  Another two guards stood stationed by the doors of the warehouse. And one guard remained by the exit, which was only accessible if she turned the corner of the building one more time.

  She wanted to enter the warehouse to find the man with the golden chain. He was the liaison for the police back in Westville. He was the one who had bribed them. If anyone knew where Caitlin Johnson was, it would be him, but as of yet, she had not set eyes on him.

  She considered her options, and then realized what she had to do. A Trojan horse. If she wanted to enter the compound, then the truck, the loading docks would be the necessary disturbance she needed.

  She sighed in frustration as this realization struck her; it meant she would have to backtrack, heading the other way.

  And so, she waited, quietly listening to the voices, the crunch of footsteps.

  She heard the men drawing near.

  She would have to be fast. Non-lethal. So far, all the guys stood guilty of was dealing with a criminal boss. Besides, she wasn't in the business of stabbing people needlessly—she tensed, braced against the wall. The small garage, with the two other guards faced her. But, from her vantage point on the cliff, when analyzing the warehouse, she had noticed the guards occupied by the jeep. She would have to trust her luck held out. If they spotted her and raised an alarm, then there was a good chance this warehouse would also serve as her grave.

  She kept quiet, waiting, patient, listening. The voices were near. Certainly not English. Spanish?

  She couldn't pick it out until she spotted a foot move around the corner two feet from where she pressed. She stared at the booted foot, tense, hand cupped. And then the man that belonged to that foot followed.

  As he emerged, he went still and blinked. That was all he had time for. Her hand shot out, her thumb going directly into his neck. The jutting digit found soft skin. At the same time, she couldn't wait for the second guard around the corner. She cursed, and darted forward, using the motion of her flinging arm to pivot around the wall.

  The second man was a few steps back, and it took her a moment to realize what had caught his attention.

  Blood streaking the wall. She frowned, and realized, in a horrible moment, that her leg was bleeding from the barbed wire. No time to think about it. No time to tend an injury. The man started to shout as he spotted her coming over the crumpling form of his gurgling companion. And so, she went for the throat a second time.

  If he screamed, alerted the rest of them, then five men with guns would be hunting her. Not to mention whoever was still inside the warehouse.

  She brought her knuckles into his throat. The scream cut off into a wheeze. She then followed up with a quick knee to the groin.

  His hand had barely even reached for his holster by the time he was moaning and toppling. She kicked him in the head for good measure as he fell.

  It was like stomping cantaloupe.

  Unconscious the instant she connected.

  She turned her attention to the second man, who was still grabbing at his throat, gasping, but at the same time, reaching desperately for his weapon.

  "I'll take that," she murmured. She reached down, took the weapon from him, and used the butt of the gun to strike the man on the temple. He also slumped to the ground.

  Breathing heavily, she considered hiding the bodies.

  It would take some time before they recovered their senses. So, she grabbed the second gun from the second guard, deciding that if they woke up in the next few minutes, at least they wouldn't be armed. There was no time for anything else; she was playing a game of cat and mouse. If anyone spotted her, the game was over. And if she lost, she could only really think of one outcome.

  She was moving again, one gun tucked in her waistband, the other clutched in her hand.

  She reached the edge of the warehouse near the loading dock, listening intently. Cora shot a glance back towards where she had left the two unconscious guards. No one had raised an alarm. No sign that the men in the garage had seen anything.

  But something she did hear made her skin crawl.

  The echoing, tinny sound of crying.

  At first, she wasn't sure what she was listening to. But after a few moments, she realized that it was weeping. And it was coming from inside the shipping container.