Face Last Seen Excerpt
Chapter One
Tuesday
Murderers didn’t usually prowl Tony Peretti’s suburban LA neighborhood, so why did a wave of concern course through him at the sight of someone approaching?
By the time Tony had come home late from work, darkness had fallen, casting the figure in shadow and increasing the sense of danger. He stood in his driveway, uncertain what to do.
The street was quiet. Everyone else had gone inside, probably getting ready for bed—he himself had stepped out to wheel the trash to the curb. He tended to forget the chore, as Chelsea good-naturedly reminded him.
Tony’s phone was in his pocket, but—though ever-vigilant and security minded due to the nature of his work—he was reluctant to hit 9-1-1 without an obvious threat. Embarrassment was more likely than becoming a crime victim.
The hairs on the nape of his neck had prickled as he was midway back to his home. Sensing someone watching, he’d whirled around to find a stranger moving in.
Tony darted a quick glance around for something to wield as a weapon. Even if he summoned the police, no responders could get here before the stranger attacked . . . Spotting nothing more dangerous than a trash bin and a sprinkler, he prepared to stand his ground. His career as an engineer at LIBX Technology made him more accustomed to using his brains than his questionable brawn.
Recalling fights he’d seen in movies, he bent his knees and raised his fists, assuming his best approximation of a fighter’s stance.
The man came closer. He held something bulky. What was it?
Tony had opened his mouth, prepared to shout at the stranger to back off, when the warning died on his lips.
The figure had stepped into the glow of the lights over the garage, revealing him to be Douglas Kowalski.
Not a stranger. Not a murderer. A friend.
Doug looked at the boxing stance and chuckled.
Tony nearly sagged with relief. “Didn’t expect to see you, Doug.”
His friend veered onto the sidewalk and headed for the front stoop. Tony could see now that the object the man was carrying was a brown grocery bag, which he set down beside the welcome mat.
Doug glanced his way, raised a finger, then trotted toward a car parked by the curb near the driveway’s entrance.
Tony recalled the last time his friend had dropped by, a month ago. Doug was going through a rough patch with his wife, and he’d needed some Peretti therapy—that is, drinking beer, eating chips and dip, and watching a movie with plenty of blood and guts and machine guns. A few car chases thrown in for good measure. Man stuff.
Doug hadn’t spoken about the home situation. Not part of the bro code. They’d spent a few hours reminiscing about college, trading jabs about sports teams and earning significant calories on snacks and Dos Equis.
Which was probably what was inside the bag.
Smiling, Tony remembered the fly-fishing rod he’d borrowed from Doug two months earlier. If he didn’t grab it now, the rod might stay in his garage forever. Tony walked to the open overhead door.
He hit the light switch and quickly found the rod leaning against the wall. Moments later, he’d made his way across the driveway and onto his front doorstep.
But Doug was nowhere in sight.
Suddenly a muscular arm slid around his throat, jerking him off his feet. His back slammed into the hard chest of a man who had soundlessly crept up behind him.
He tried to call out to Doug, but the crushing pressure against his windpipe stifled all sound. He struggled to twist away when a needle pierced the side of his neck with a hot sting.
He clawed at the forearm locked across his throat as darkness began to close in.
When his head rolled sideways, he caught a glimpse of his attacker’s shirt. The same shirt Doug had been wearing.
Jesus, had his friend snapped?
He slumped, feeling arms catching him. Lowering him to the ground.
What he saw next stole what little of his breath remained.
What . . . ?
An odd contraption a few feet away. Something he’d never seen in real life—just in movies or history books. He tried to bring order to the chaotic thoughts rushing through his brain as the world went black.
Couldn’t be . . .
But, yeah, the hand—Doug’s hand—was picking up what looked just like . . .
Just like a miniature guillotine.
Chapter Two
Wednesday
Agent Carmen Sanchez studied the woman’s face and body language.
The fear, the uncertainty.
Eyes jotting about. The slim woman with straggly blonde hair was wringing her hands. Knuckles red. Cuticles too.
Carmen had spoken with Emma Fuller twice on the phone, but this was their first meeting. They were standing in front of the Federal Infrastructure Agency in LA County, a nondescript headquarters in a deserted, tree-filled lot off a minor Southern Californian highway. Their outfits were both professional. Emma wore a blue skirt suit with a white blouse, while Carmen sported a black pantsuit with a gray crewneck top. Carmen’s jacket, however, was of a different cut. It was shaped to accommodate the bulge of the Glock in its Blackhawk holster on her right hip. She had them tailored. You couldn’t buy such garments off the rack, at least not where she shopped.
Emma’s trembling finger tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Thank you for coming out.” She licked her lips. “You’re the only one taking me seriously.”
“Have you been able to think of any reason someone would do this?” Carmen asked.
Emma shook her head. “I’ve been racking my brain, but I’ve got no clue what this means. That’s what makes the whole thing so creepy.”
They both glanced down at the reason for this morning’s urgent call.
A black butterfly had been stenciled on the concrete walkway.
Federal agents don’t deal with graffiti but, due to the circumstances, Emma had called the FBI, who punted it to DHS, who forwarded it to Carmen’s boss. Supervisory Special Agent Eric Williamson headed a pilot program designed to investigate micro threats—a term he used to describe small incursions that appeared insignificant, but had the potential for outsize impact on national security. His analogy was tiny metal fatigue cracks in jet engine fan blades. Catch and cure them fast, avoiding later catastrophe. When SSA Williamson assigned the case to her, he’d been equal parts skeptical and alarmed at the disturbing progression of what had started as a minor incident.
Carmen knelt to get a closer look. This wasn’t sloppy spray-painted tagging. The precise, crisp edges were perfect, likely from a laser-cut template. Squinting, she watched as a feather blown by a gentle breeze floated to the paint and stuck. Still tacky. The image had been created within the hour.
She let her gaze slowly travel over the walkway. There were no footprints or other signs of the perpetrator, who had painted the image on the sidewalk in front of the parking lot, right behind a sign indicating the space was reserved for the director.
“I’ll call Crime Scene,” Carmen said. “Maybe they can get something.” She didn’t add that she’d wanted to assess the situation before deploying resources. Emma returned to the office to collect copies of the threatening messages.
Her attention was drawn by a black Suburban pulling into the far end of the parking lot. The driver spotted her and steered her way.
The SUV parked about ten feet away, and Carmen joined the mountain of a man as he clambered out to greet her. Ordinarily, she would’ve handled this follow-up herself, but she’d opted to perform a full threat assessment given the suspect’s escalation, so she’d asked Liam Grange to meet her at the scene.
Grange was the tactical team leader for the Long Beach branch of another federal law enforcement agency. He’d recently been detailed to assist her outfit with a small contingent of his operators on an as-needed basis. And she’d decided adding a tac expert’s observations to her own was not a bad idea.
“What’s up, Sanchez?”
“Victim’s the director of the FIA.” She nodded at the signage. “She’s been getting emails on her home computer and on her work box. The messages started off kind of weird. ‘What’re you reading?’ ‘What’s on the agenda for today?’ They got more ominous. ‘You’d better make the right decisions next time.’ The last one was ‘This is your final warning.’”
“Decisions about what?”
“She has no clue. She supervises septic systems and air conditioners.” Carmen stepped a few feet away. “Each email ended with the image of a black butterfly, like that.”
He studied the stencil. “She have any idea what it means?”
“Nope. According to my quick research, butterflies are often symbols of transformation, but a black butterfly could refer to a transition from life to death.”
“No security guards?”
Carmen shook her head. “Too expensive. This place is low priority.”
“And yet someone breaks into a database to find the director’s personal and work email, then hacks the camera system, which should be secure. That’s sophisticated. She up to anything?” He paused a beat. “Claiming it’s some mystery person she made up while she pads government contracts?”
She caught the note of skepticism. “I had my doubts too. But after meeting her in person, I don’t think so.”
“This has stalker vibes. What about an ex?”
Carmen had already gone down that rabbit hole. “She’s not in a relationship and doesn’t use dating apps. Hasn’t had any bad breakups. And she was divorced—amicably—six years ago. No kids, no drama.”
Grange snorted. “No such thing as a drama-free divorce.”
“Sounds like you’ve got some battle scars.”
He gave her a side-eye.
“When we go in, you can get a read on the emails the unsub sent,” Carmen said. “And Jake and I . . .” Her voice faded.
“Jake’s not here,” Grange said quietly.
“Of course,” she said quickly, covering the awkward moment with a forced chuckle. “I know that. It was just . . . habit.”
They had taken a step toward the front entrance when with a massive bang something slammed into the side of the building about six feet away from them. An instant later, the thunderous report of a high-powered rifle split the air.
–
Read more of Face Last Seen when it is released in December.
