25. Kagaway

T he drive to Exotix was stone silent. Kellen watched Alexei step out of the passenger side of his rental car, still wearing his borrowed T-shirt—along with pants, now.

He didn’t wait for Alexei to reach the entrance. He drove off the second the passenger door was shut.

Back in the motel unit, Kellen crawled onto the unmade bed and collapsed onto his stomach on top of the blanket. He dragged a pillow under his head and shut his eyes.

And then something started vibrating.

For four seconds, Kellen didn’t move. Slowly, his eyes reopened, and he raised himself up onto his elbows. That jacket. The jacket with the pocket where he was keeping the flip phone.

Sighing stiffly, Kellen leaned over as far as he could without getting up and barely snagged the crumpled hood of the jacket. He retrieved the vibrating phone from the front pocket. He folded it open and lifted the phone to his face. His eyes shut again. “Hello.”

“I need you to come to the address and room number I’m about to send you.” Marcus’s voice.

Kellen lowered the phone and glanced at the tiny screen. He raised it again. “Right now?”

“Yes, right now. See you here within the next half hour?”

The phone vibrated once to signal a new text message.

Kellen lowered the device a second time and opened the text. An address. A room number. The tip of Kellen’s thumb hit the hangup button. “Fuck…” he whispered, the phone snapping shut in his hand. His lungs froze mid-inhale.

There was a smell.

Something between match smoke and sweet spice clinging to the blanket on the left side of the bed, just inches from Kellen’s face.

“Fuck!”

* * * *

There was an undeniable level of apprehension slowly growing in Kellen’s chest from the moment he realized the address Marcus had sent him was that of a hospital.

Lynn Memorial Hospital, the large words on the side of a fifteen-floor building read. But the label encompassed an entire compound of buildings. Kellen followed signs for the non-emergency entrance and found an open parking space at the bottom of a parking garage.

It took asking directions from three different strangers before Kellen finally found his way to the third floor and an inpatient room labeled B 392 . Unsure what else he was supposed to do, Kellen raised a hand to the door and knocked.

“Eastland!”

Kellen’s head snapped around to the left when he heard Marcus’s voice from down the hallway. Two people were approaching: Marcus in full police uniform, and a tall stranger wearing a suit and tie.

Why the fuck is he meeting me in a public place like this, dressed like that? The mildly irritating thought flashed through Kellen’s mind.

“You got here quicker than I was expecting,” Marcus explained, stopping in the hallway near the door. “We went to get coffee.”

Kellen glanced at the coffee cup in Marcus’s hand, then the one the stranger was holding.

“Evan, this is Kellen Eastland,” Marcus introduced. “Eastland, this is Federal Agent Evan Danovich.”

Kellen hesitantly moved to meet the stranger’s handshake. His eyes darted between the expensive suit and Marcus. “Federal…?”

“Due to the unfolding scale of the case,” Evan immediately provided, “It’s become necessary that federal resources step in.” His crisp voice somehow matched his stature and trimmed brown beard.

“The Feds are overriding jurisdiction?” Kellen’s eyes shifted again in Marcus’s direction. Then, sharply, “What happens to my CI?”

Evan let out a professional laugh. “Don’t panic. We’re not excluding local jurisdiction—merely combining resources.”

Marcus took a small step sideways. “You’ll be reporting to Agent Danovich going forward, Eastland.”

Yeah, Kellen heard in his head, eyes switching back between them. Jurisdiction override. “What happens to my CI?” he repeated.

“Your CI is our most valuable resource,” Evan answered smoothly. “And given you are his trusted handler, you’re our second most valuable resource. Nothing will change for your CI.” He was staring. His eyes were boring into Kellen in a way that didn’t seem natural, even for someone whose career it was to catch criminals of national importance.

Kellen turned back to Marcus. “This is what you wanted to meet at a hospital for?”

Marcus cleared his throat. Evan took a step backward out of the conversation. “You and Arlo saw the basement before the detonations,” Marcus said.

And suddenly, Kellen’s heart was pounding.

“We only pulled one survivor,” Marcus said gravely.

Dry. Dry and cold. Kellen’s throat felt like it might crack if he tried to speak. His lips parted, soundless. Like something out of a nightmare, their faces came back to him. Caged, helpless. Staring eyes, bodies huddled as far away from him as possible. “One?”

Marcus nodded. He glanced at the door. “Another Katakawanian, it seems. Our translator is pretty confident she can communicate with her, but the girl is refusing to offer any information until she gets her request filled. We need to know what she―”

“What’s the request?” Kellen cut in. It sank through him like something that would pull him straight through the floor: failure. The fact that they had been alive when he was face to face with them, and he had left them there.

Marcus’s lips folded inward for a moment. He grimaced. “Translation is a little fuzzy on the specific word she’s using. From the translator’s best guess, she seems to be insisting there was a witch in the room with the captives. She’s refusing to answer any questions until she can speak to the witch—sorry—magician. Angela said ‘magician’ might be a closer translation. Um. She gave a physical description, and Arlo said of everyone he saw in that room, the description best fits you.”

“The fuck?” The two words escaped Kellen’s throat in an automatic reaction. He stared at Marcus for a full eight seconds. “Is she mentally ill?”

Marcus watched Kellen for a moment. “That remains to be determined.”

Kellen’s eyes shot back to the federal agent standing nearby. Then returned to Marcus. “Can I talk to you in private?”

“Um.” A small sound escaped Marcus’s throat—something between a gasp and a scoff. He glanced at Evan. “That’s―”

“I was going to have a word with the translator, anyway,” Evan abruptly provided. He gave Kellen a smile. “Join us inside when you’re ready.” He walked up to the door and entered.

“The hell is going on here?” Kellen asked the moment the door was shut behind the agent. He jerked a thumb at the door. “Why are the Feds suddenly interested?”

Marcus was irritatingly slow in responding. He started slowly walking, and Kellen had no choice but to follow him. “Arlo said you split ways to get your CI out of the house after the detonations. Based on your text last night, I’m assuming you were successful. Did he tell you anything about the purpose of that house?”

Kellen’s jaw shut. His eyes strayed, hand lifting to his lips, brushing slowly across them.

Marcus released a short sigh. “Turns out, all the victims we pulled from the box truck are blood type O-negative.” His hand moved in a small gesture to the door they were pacing away from. “This girl, too.”

“I see,” Kellen murmured.

“This is the first time federal law enforcement has seen this type of mass-scale organ trafficking in the U.S., and bonus points for the international implications.” Marcus paused. “Unfortunately, XI did an exceptional job of destroying evidence. Arlo’s bodycam footage is the only reason we even know what that basement looked like. We have no information on the affiliates enabling this activity. If there’s documentation keeping track of it all, it wasn’t left in that house. Evan’s next move will be to look into healthcare connections. Networks, customers, equipment supply, and of course—a surgeon. I believe he is hoping your CI will shed some light in that area.”

Kellen stopped walking. “My CI’s deal still stands?”

“Yes.” Marcus made a small gesture with his coffee cup. “And Evan wants to keep you as his handler.”

“But you’re stepping back?”

Marcus nodded slowly. “I’m taking an auxiliary position in this investigation. There’s still a significant local aspect. I’ll be focusing on that dimension. You’ll be reporting to Evan from here on out.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Arlo wasn’t injured?” Kellen asked. His voice sounded a little stiff, even in his own ears.

An odd look passed Marcus’s face. “We had four seriously injured, but no casualties on the team. Arlo got out in one piece.”

Kellen said nothing.

“The team is tired,” Marcus added after a moment. He took a sip of his coffee. “I’m not sure I’ve ever been happier to pass something off to the Feds.”

The hospital room behind door B 392 was little different from any other—except for the FBI agent standing by one wall, and the woman with square-frame glasses seated by the other.

Marcus slowly shut the door behind himself and Kellen, then gestured to the blue curtain severing off the far side of the room. “She’s in there.”

Witch. What the fuck, Kellen thought. He raised a hand to the blue curtain and drew it back a full arm’s length.

Recognition struck Kellen dead in the nerves. Dread was his first reaction. Immediately followed by whole-body confusion.

The same young woman who had beaten her hand against the side of her cage in the basement now stared back at Kellen through those unnerving dark eyes.

Her hospital gown hung low off one shoulder to reveal extensive bandaging across her shoulder and part of her chest. A gunshot wound, Kellen concluded. And one that was very dangerously located. She was lucky to be alive.

“How did she―” Kellen began, half-turning back to Marcus.

“Kagaway,” the woman spoke. Her good arm shifted, and she pushed aside her blanket. In a slow, painful movement, she sat up.

“Witch, warlock, magician, fortune teller, something like that,” the woman with the square-frame glasses translated. Her pen moved across a pad of lined paper. “It’s hard to be too sure of the translation—that’s not a word in standard Tagalog.”

The injured woman silently dropped her feet to the floor. Eyes pinned on Kellen, she slowly, unsteadily, stood up. She leaned heavily on the bed railing for support as she took a single faltering step forward.

Kellen abruptly took four steps back. “Should she—Should she be getting up like that?”

Something breathed, almost breathless, escaped the young woman’s lips. Her uncombed dark hair slipped over her shoulder, falling halfway to her waist. More foreign, murmured words followed.

“Sounds like she wants to get a look at you,” the translator provided with a dull glance at Kellen. “She asked why you’re scared of her.”

“What?” Kellen’s brow flinched. “No, I’m not—Why?” He stepped, only half wittingly, behind Marcus. He met eyes very briefly with the detective.

“Well, I don’t know why,” the translator responded. “Maybe if you let her have a look at you, she’ll tell us.”

Kellen met eyes with Marcus a second time. Brief, and still the detective managed to pass off a meaningful look.

Kellen’s arms met across his chest. Wordlessly, he took a few steps back toward the girl. He stopped just out of reach from her and stood there for a few seconds. Then he dropped his arms into the air and turned a short circle in front of her. He looked back at Marcus. “Are we done here?”

And then there were fingers on his arm.

Kellen flinched away from the touch and turned immediately back to face the patient. She met him with the darkest eyes Kellen had ever looked into. Her grip on his arm returned, and he only watched in a thin, paralyzed daze as her fingers traveled up to his shoulder. He didn’t move as her cold fingers contacted his neck. Her hand lifted to his face—touched a strand of his hair and lightly traced up the side of his cheek.

And then, with a depthless softness in her eyes, she smiled at him.

Kellen shuddered away from her uninvited fingers and quickly stepped out of reach. “What the fuck,” he whispered. His hand lifted to the goosebumps at the back of his neck. Sweat. Cold sweat. And he was shivering, suddenly.

“Do you know her?” Evan spoke up.

Kellen’s eyes shot toward the FBI agent. “Do I know her? Fuck, no.” He glanced at the woman, then abruptly looked away when he almost met her gaze again.

“She is kinda acting like she might recognize you from somewhere,” Marcus put in. “Any kind of prior op you might’ve run into her before?”

“I saw her in the damn house, ” Kellen responded, voice unintentionally tense. He swallowed, shut his eyes for a moment against the strange pressure building in his head. “I’ve never seen her before that. I don’t know why we’re doing this. You said she thinks I’m a witch. She’s clearly fucking crazy.”

It was something about his own words that made Kellen freeze.

“You are a seer.”

And suddenly, his erratic heartbeat slowed. His eyes lifted—gradually, uncertainly—to the woman standing by the hospital bed.

She met his gaze.

“Or, she’s religious,” Marcus was saying. “And you could pass as Filipino, to be fair. Religion is very central to the culture in Katakawan. Maybe it was something you did or a way you spoke…”

“You could be part Japanese. Or Filipino. Or Guatemalan. Or—Aztec!” Lila’s voice.

“The DNA test confirmed you are biologically related to neither Michael Hanson Farrar, nor his wife, Sarah Isabel Farrar.”

What the fuck am I thinking? Kellen broke eye contact with the woman and turned away. With a hand pressed to the side of his head, he looked back at Marcus. “Am I done here?”

“Think so,” Marcus responded.

Something about the air in the hallway outside made Kellen’s head hurt. The chemical smell. The bright white lights.

It progressively worsened, the closer he got to the exit.

Tired. Hungry. Dehydrated. There were a million reasons for his head to be hurting.

But by the time Kellen reached his rental car, and the ache was growing to the level of a full-blown migraine, none of those reasons seemed applicable.

Hand pressed to his forehead, half covering his eyes in an attempt to relieve a new sensitivity to light, Kellen pulled the passenger side glove compartment open. But this wasn’t his Cherokee. There was no aspirin in the glove compartment.

He shut it again, wincing, rationing his breath, and leaned back in the driver’s seat. Closed his eyes. He drew a five-second breath through his nose. Filled his lungs to maximum capacity, then let the breath out slowly through his lips. Again.

The sound of a door slamming cut through the silence in Kellen’s car, and his eyes shot open.

He wasn’t in his car anymore.

It was dark. Wet. He was outside, standing in an unfamiliar city alley, staring down the narrow, rain-soaked streetway.