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  “I’m Detective Weston, and this is my partner. We’re trying to track down this woman.” He showed her the photo of Isis. “Have you ever seen her here before?”

  The girl shook her head. “No, can’t say that I have.” She turned to the receptionist next to her, who had just hung up the phone. “Hey, Barb, have you ever seen this woman before?”

  Barb took the photo from Kirk.

  “This picture is a year old,” Kirk said.

  “Hmmm, she looks familiar. Does she work in this building?”

  “We were hoping you could tell us that.”

  Barb sat down at her computer and began to type. “Do you have her name?”

  “Yeah, but she would probably be under a different name. Do you keep surveillance tapes of the parking garage that far back?”

  “A year ago? No. Sorry. We only keep them for six months.” She held up a hand. “Hold on, I think I have something. I looked up employees who are female and ethnic and came up with Katrina Meskhenet. She sure looks like the same person.” She swiveled the screen.

  Kirk leaned over the counter to look. “Bingo—that’s her. What floor does she work on?”

  “She’s on the fourteenth floor in Suite 102. She’s the supervising field officer for the Middle East division.”

  Kirk smiled and thanked them for their help, then hurried to the nearest elevator. He could feel his heart start to race. Middle East. Did she have anything to do with his kidnapping?

  “Easy, man,” Geoff whispered. “Let’s just question her and not fly off the handle.”

  The elevator stopped on the fourteenth floor. Kirk sucked in a deep breath and stepped out. The floor had a long hallway with suite doors approximately fifteen feet apart on each side of the hallway. They found 102 at the corner and were greeted by a young, dark-haired man. “How can I help you?” His tone was friendly enough.

  “We’re looking for Katrina Meskhenet.” Kirk looked around. The room was filled with Egyptian décor, from pictures of pyramids to a tall, half-dog, half-man statue that guarded an office Kirk assumed belonged to Katrina.

  “She’s out to lunch. If you like, you can wait. She should be returning shortly.”

  “Thanks. We’ll wait.”

  “Do you have an appointment with her?”

  Kirk held up his badge. “She has an appointment with me.”

  “Very good, sir. I’ll show you to the waiting room.” He ushered them to a small waiting area with a couch and a TV in the corner. Kirk plopped down and tuned the television to ESPN to see what was going on with the Lions—if anything.

  CHAPTER 17

  “HELLO, DETECTIVE. I’M KATRINA. I hear you’re looking for me.” She motioned toward her office. “We can talk in my office.”

  After the two men sat down in the two chairs across from her desk, she took a seat in a sleek leather chair behind the desk. She remembered Kirk Weston from pictures and surveillance videos from the MAG Chamber. It seemed this man was not one to give up easily.

  “So, Detective, what can I do for you?” She folded her hands and looked at the two men across from her. Detective Weston was dressed in a white T-shirt and blue jeans. His leather jacket was tattered and in dire need of replacement, but he looked better than the last time she saw him.

  “We just want to ask you a few questions.” Pulling out a photo, he placed it on her desk and slid it toward her. She picked it up and looked at it without expression before handing it back to him.

  “Is that you, Miss Meskhenet?”

  “May I ask what this is regarding, Detective?” She avoided the question, hoping he didn’t notice her evasion. The trail to her was cold, and the case was closed, but something in his eyes told her this would not be the last time she saw him in her office asking questions.

  “That’s confidential, Miss Meskhenet. But I have other photos of a woman who looks a lot like you driving away from a crime scene and into this very office building. Can you explain that?”

  She could tell this would get out of hand if she didn’t give him something he thought was a help. Or maybe she should shut him down so hard he had no reason to ever come looking her way again. She was a smart and complicated person, but she was not careless. Quite the opposite, in fact. She was detailed and covered her tracks in every situation. Now, with a cop poking his nose in a high-profile investigation, she was glad she was so thorough. “When was this taken, might I ask?”

  The detective looked over to his partner then back to her with a knowing look in his eye.

  She knew now he knew he was chasing a cold case and had nothing on her other than some blurry satellite pictures. “Last year in October. October fifth, to be exact. Can you tell me where you were on that day?”

  “I’m not sure where I was a year ago. Do you remember where you were a year ago Detective Weston?”

  Kirk grinned and nodded. “Actually, yes. I can tell you exactly where I was.”

  Isis mentally kicked herself. Wrong thing to ask. “Let me see what I can do.” She pushed a button on her phone. “Biba, please pull everything on my schedule from October fifth of last year.” She smiled at Kirk. “We keep very good records, due to how much I travel with the company.”

  The intern came into the office a few minutes later with a folder marked October. He glanced at the two men sitting across from his boss, handed the folder to Isis, and left the room without speaking.

  “Okay.” She flipped through the folder until she came to the fifth. “Here it is. You said the fifth of October, right? I was in Baghdad working on a story about oil drilling and its effects on our environment. Here’s my hotel receipt plus a few from a local restaurant.” She smiled politely as she handed the contents to the detective.

  * * *

  KIRK TRIED TO HIDE his disappointment as he looked through the folder. Everything was signed and date stamped for the fifth of October. She was his only real lead, but maybe this woman wasn’t Isis Kanika. He thought back to her file. Did it contain fingerprints?

  He returned the folder. “Thank you, Miss Meskhenet. Apparently you’re not the woman we’re looking for. Do you have any idea who the person in this photo is?”

  She glanced again at the photo. “It is a little fuzzy, but I can understand how you could mistake her for me. Same hair color and skin tone. The fact she drove to this building is very strange, but this is a big parking garage. Maybe she just came here to drop something off.”

  Kirk looked at Geoff, who hadn’t spoken the entire time, hoping he had something to offer, but got nothing extraordinary from his expression. He turned back to Isis. “Thanks for your time.”

  “Not a problem. If I can be of any further help, just let me know.” She stood and walked them to the door.

  As they were about to leave, Kirk asked, “Oh, one other thing. Does the name Isis Kanika ring a bell?”

  She thought for a moment. “It sounds Egyptian in origin. But, no, I can’t say that it does.”

  He nodded. “Thanks, anyway.” As they made their way down the hall toward the elevators, Kirk thought about the interview. Everything fit so well. The picture leading them to the building. This woman and the Isis lead... “Geoff, I think we’re being played.”

  “How so, boss?”

  “Everything fits too well—the picture, the building, and this Katrina woman looking like our suspect. I think we were set up to think it all came from here. Something is definitely going on, and we need to find out what it is.”

  “So we’re back to square one, huh?”

  “No, we ruled out this Miss Meskhenet woman, which leaves us with one other option.”

  Geoff looked confused, but then his face lit up. “Follow the file, right?”

  “Yup, the file was sent to the FBI. From there, the case was ruled as a freak food poisoning accident. Something went wrong—or should I say someone. We find who touched that file, we find our guy.”

  * * *

  ISIS SHUT HER OFFICE door and sighed in relief. That
was too close for comfort, but at least she convinced them. Or did she? She sat in her leather chair and spun around to look out the window. The sun was shining on the frost-covered ground, which sparkled like gems in a clear stream. She could see the outline of Central Park with the trees, the faint glint of light as it hit the water. Picking up her phone, she dialed Big B.

  “They’re gone. Can you text me when Mark is out?”

  “Will do.”

  She closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair to let the sun warm her face. How much of her story did the detective believe? Was he on a vendetta now that he was free? Was he out for blood? She hoped he wouldn’t be a problem and made a mental note to bring it up in the next meeting. They might need to intervene again in Detective Kirk Weston’s life.

  * * *

  THE MAN SWIVELED HIS chair to meet Mark’s gaze. He wore a tailored, black, pinstriped suit and wire-rimmed glasses.

  Mark gasped when the older man rose from his chair. It was as if he knew him, knew him well, but couldn’t remember who he was or when he’d seen him before. The thought bothered him. This was happening a lot these days. Was his memory going? Or was he in some sort of twilight zone, where everyone knew him—but he couldn’t remember them?

  “Who are you?” His simple question broke the silence and made him feel like he had some sort of control, as slim as it might be. The man, who had thick, silver hair, appeared to be in his late sixties or seventies. The cane that leaned against his desk had a bright-red ruby on top. It sparkled and glimmered, looking like an all-knowing eye.

  “That’s a loaded question, Mark. In time you will know everything.” The older man stood, reached for his cane and walked to where Mark stood. He held out his hand.

  Mark took his hand. The man’s handshake was firm and warm. Somehow, that made him feel a little better, despite every cell in his brain telling him something was wrong, dangerously wrong.

  “My name is Solomon. I’m the leader of the World Justice Agency. I’m sure you have many questions, which will be answered in due time. Just be patient with us, if I might be so bold as to ask.” Pointing to a chair, he motioned for Mark to sit down.

  Mark walked over to the wood-lined chair, sat down, and watched this—boss—or mastermind, or whatever he was—pace in front of the desk, his cane clicking. From the looks of it, Solomon didn’t need the cane. Mark wondered why he used it.

  For a moment, the gray-haired man stood with his back to him, stroking his neatly trimmed beard, as if to gather his thoughts.

  Mark looked around the room, marveling at the tall bookcases, wondering what wisdom they held and the years it must have taken to build the collection. He’d never seen so many books in one place. There had to be thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands covering every wall, floor to ceiling, all around the great room.

  Solomon leaned with both hands on the cane. “I’m going to tell you who we are and what we do. After I’m finished, you may ask any questions you like, and I will answer them. Is that acceptable to you?”

  Mark nodded.

  “The world is filled with violence, evil, hate.” Solomon began. “For thousands of years, justice was meted out by kings and judges. In our current era, it is the duty of government. In centuries past, citizens have sometimes been driven to rise against their governments to restore justice when it was lost.” He stepped to the nearest bookshelf and pulled out a leather-lined book that looked like it was about to crumble.

  “This great country was founded on the rights of the people. The people ruled themselves because everyone had the same basic values as to was acceptable, what was considered a crime, what was sin—if you will. Today, we are losing more rights every day with each perverted laws Congress passes in the name of saving us from ourselves. The Supreme Court houses judges who crave power and overturn whatever laws they are not paid to support. We have lost the passion and the common sense to see the difference between a what and why.”

  He leaned toward Mark, looking deep into his eyes.

  Mark felt like Solomon was looking into his very soul. The feeling unnerved him so much he wanted to turn away—but he couldn’t.

  “Do you see the murder, the rape, the evil going on all around you? Do you feel the fear of dark alleys where women are raped and killed without retribution?” He straightened. “I do, Mr. Appleton. I see that our justice system is not doing what it should. I see where it is understaffed, unable to keep up with the amount of hate that is splashed across our streets every single hour of every single day.”

  Standing tall, he raised his voice as he paced the room. “Throughout time, there were groups of people who were appointed judge and jury. In Bible times, it was the Levites. In the reign of the British Empire, it was Parliament. In our great country, it’s the Supreme Court.”

  He slammed his cane on the floor, his eyes blazing with passion. “WJA is here to bring balance to the court system. We, the World Justice Agency, carry out justice. We are here to uphold the law that says if you kill, you will pay with your own life. Eye for eye. Tooth for tooth. Life for life. This is our country, and we are taking it back.

  “We have two choices. We can sit by and let our country burn under the flag of tolerance, or we can recreate a world where our children and grandchildren can live in safety.” Once again, he slammed the cane against the floor.

  Mark swallowed. The guy was serious.

  Sitting down in the oversized chair behind his large desk, he turned his back to Mark and sighed. “You see, Mark, WJA is the last thing holding America together. We are involved in every part of government and in every agency, and the reason you are here today is because of us.” With a soft voice, he finished. “I’m your father, Mark.”

  Mark clutched the arms of his chair as he tried to remember his childhood. His parents had died in a plane crash when he was a baby. As far as he knew, he’d lived with foster parents most of his life. He didn’t have many memories before the age of twelve.

  “What are you saying?” He choked on the words.

  Solomon turned his chair, rested his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers together. “I’m not your blood father, Mark, but I’m the one who rescued you after your parents died. You lived down here with me until you were eleven years old. I taught you and trained you up as a child.”

  Mark opened his mouth, then closed it. “I don’t believe it. If it was true, I’d remember you. I’d remember this place.” This was crazy. He had to get out. Get back to the real world. He tried stand but was too dizzy. He plopped back down in the chair with a thump, feeling his stomach turn and a lost, confusing loneliness wash over his soul.

  “Just relax. It will all come back to you.” Solomon stood and walked over to a dial on the wall. He turned it, and the room filled with music, strong voices of people singing opera. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. It was so soothing, it felt like… like home.

  The music filled his ears and his mind, making everything come into focus. The fear and confusion left him and a sense of peace wrapped him like a warm blanket. He thought of his wife and daughter, but this time, he remembered more than just the recent past. Memories buried deep within his subconscious began to surface. Yes, he remembered Solomon.

  It felt like a movie in fast-forward. The images of his childhood flipped through his mind, skipping from one event to another, taking him back to a world he’d forgotten. He opened his eyes to see Solomon standing in front of him with a kind smile on his face.

  “Welcome home, son.”

  * * *

  MARK SPENT THE EVENING walking through the underground buildings with Solomon, Isis, and the rightfully named Big B as his guides. Solomon was gentle, almost tender. Isis was quiet but obviously taking it all in, not missing a thing. Big B was loud and cheerful in a rather intoxicating way. Mark laughed at his jokes and fought to remain upright each time the giant man pounded his back.

  The Merc Building served as a physical home for WJA, and a media company was th
e front organization that the agency used to cloak its activities. The Merc was the ops base for most of their field agents. The front organization allowed their operatives to penetrate otherwise inaccessible areas, such as the Middle East, and even other areas where nothing but traditional press credentials would do.

  He was astounded by the maze of training rooms, which provided everything from hand-to-hand combat to classes on reading satellite maps to French, Chinese and ancient Greek language instruction. The organization appeared to be far from a group of hell-bent assassins who traveled the world dealing out revenge. They were trained and organized in a way that made the CIA and the FBI look like a bunch of schoolyard kids playing hide and seek.

  Mark learned that there were four classifications of assassins. The first was the Avenger Class. This group was comprised of people who came to the organization through some sort of family crisis. Like Mark, their families were killed or somehow taken from them. They were enlisted to avenge someone or something. Trained to take on the deadliest missions, they jumped when no one else would. They had nothing to lose.

  The second was the Co-op Class. These agents were trained in highly sensitive missions that involved stealth and agility. Most of these killers were women, due to their ability to blend in. Isis, Mark learned, was a CC assassin. Their missions involved chemical warfare and had to be carried out with absolute accuracy and discretion.

  The third was the D Class. Those agents were trained in all aspects of explosives and heavy weapons. They were called in when the WJA got involved in a combat operation and in situations where multiple targets or buildings were to be eliminated.

  Then, there was a fourth and very rare classification. Only a select few advanced to that level. These elite belonged to the Sniper Class. Highly trained snipers, they were also schooled in the curriculum of the three other classes, including hand-to-hand combat. The SC class could only be held by a born assassin, one who was brought up by the WJA and trained from birth.

  Mark rubbed his forehead. That was it. He was a trained assassin. The thought made him cringe, but as his past came flooding back, he knew deep down that was what he’d been born to do.