Page 24 of So Savage (Faith Bold #21)

Faith was taut with anticipation when she exited Marcus’s truck and approached Peter Kane’s residence. There was nothing particularly remarkable about the house. It was a single-story ranch of average size with a modest yard hidden by a wood-plank fence. The lights were off, and the garage was closed, but that didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t home.

Turk reacted to the house almost immediately when they approached, growling and pawing at the gate. “Easy, boy,” Faith said. “Let’s take this slow. Marcus, can we get officers to the back of the house?”

Marcus looked back at the six officers who had joined them on the raid. "Garland, Eli, with us. The rest of you to the back. Check for a dog before you enter, and be prepared even if you don't see one. Dollars to donuts, he has a dog."

The officers nodded and rushed to their position. Marcus peered over the fence and said, “I don’t see a dog in the front yard. Knock on the front door and see if you get an answer, Faith. Garland, Eli, stay here and watch for anyone escaping through the window.”

The two uniforms nodded acknowledgment, and Faith walked up to the door, Turk at her side. He bared his teeth and flattened his ears when they stepped onto the front porch.

“Easy, boy,” Faith said again. “Wait for my command.”

She knocked firmly, keeping her hand on her gun. “Peter Kane! Police! Come out slowly with your hands where we can see them!”

There was no response. Not that Faith was especially surprised. Whether he was here or not, he wasn’t likely to answer to the police at his door.

She tried again. “Peter Kane! This is Special Agent Faith Bold of the FBI in partnership with the Duluth Police Department! Come to the door! Now!”

No answer. She gave Turk a look and nodded. Turk stepped back and coiled up, ready to explode into action at the first sign of danger.

Once more, Faith knocked. “Peter Kane, if you don’t come out now, we will be coming in! Do you understand me?”

“Nothing.”

“No response at the door,” she told Marcus. “Let’s go in.”

“Roger,” Marcus replied. “Tranh, Garcia, you’re going in through the back. Martin, Walters, you’re watching back windows.”

He trotted up the steps next to her and gestured for her to backup. She complied, drawing her weapon to cover Marcus when he broke the door down.

“Tranh, are you in position to breach?” Marcus asked over the radio.

“Affirmative,” Tranh replied.

“Okay. On three. One. Two. Three!”

He lifted his leg and grunted with effort as he kicked, splitting the door in half and sending both pieces flying inward. Turk shot ahead with a snarl, tail corkscrewing as he sprinted into the house. Faith and Marcus were a split second behind, guns and flashlights drawn.

The interior of the house was as typical as the outside. Modest furniture, some years old. A TV far too large for the size of the living room. Being a man's house, the décor was sparse to nonexistent, and what was there didn't make any sense.

Most importantly, it was empty. Tranh and Garcia came in from the kitchen and announced, “Kitchen’s clear. Backyard too.”

“No dog?”

“No dog. No sign of one either. Just grass.”

“Take the garage,” Marcus told them. “Faith, you go to the end of the hallway and work your way up. I’ll start at the front and meet you in the middle.”

Faith nodded and rushed down the hallway. Halfway to the end, Turk shot past her. He nearly collided with the bedroom door, growling and barking and scratching at the door. Faith said into her radio, "Turk has something. Backroom."

She knocked on the door, standing to the side just in case Peter had a gun and shot through the door. “Peter Kane! Last chance! I’m coming in if you don’t come out!”

“He might have tranqs,” Marus said softly. Be very cautious.”

“Doing the best I can,” Faith said. “Peter! We’re coming in now! If you’re in there, keep your hands where we can see them and comply with our instructions!”

Turk was nearly insane now, pawing at the door and growling with something that sounded almost like rage to Faith. She wondered if he took this case personally after seeing Delgado in the hospital. Did it remind him of Faith? Of Jack Preston?

“Turk.”

Her dog turned to her, and she could see the pain and anger in his eyes. Her heart went out to him. “It’s okay, boy. Let’s just do our jobs.”

Turk's expression softened slightly. He dipped his head and stepped back, giving her room to break open the door. She took a deep breath, lifted her leg, and, on the exhale, kicked hard. The door splintered inward, just like the front door after Marcus's breach.

The three of them rushed into the room. This was Peter's bedroom, apparently. The bed was loosely made, and there was an empty cup of soup on the nightstand with a fork inside of it. A smaller TV—still too large for the room—sat on top of a dresser, and beyond, they saw a towel hanging over the shower curtain in the bathroom.

No sign of Peter. Turk looked under the bed, and Faith checked the closet while Marcus cleared the bathroom. He wasn't here.

Faith sighed and lowered her weapon. “Damn it. We’re too late. He’s gone.”

Her radio buzzed, and a moment later, Garcia’s slightly awed voice said, “Guys? You might want to come see this.”

Faith and Marcus shared a look, then started for the garage. When they arrived, Faith gasped and Marcus breathed, “Oh shit.”

One wall of the garage held a collection of dart guns ranging from pistols to rifles to pump guns that Faith guessed were supposed to emulate shotguns. There were a dozen weapons that she could count, but the safe to the right of the wall suggested there might be more. Unless the safe was where he kept his actual guns.

Underneath the dart guns were crates of darts. Thousands of them, stacked three deep, two high and eight wide.

“Forty-eight crates,” Marcus whispered, doing the math. “That’s gotta be, what? Twenty thousand darts?”

“A hell of a lot, that’s for sure.”

Tranh cleared his throat. The three agents turned to the back of the garage where Tranh and Garcia flanked a table, their faces ashen. Tranh pointed at a loose pile of paper on the table.

Marcus and Faith approached. As soon as Faith saw the papers, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Peter Kane was their killer.

The top paper was a dossier on Master Sergeant Thomas Reeves. A picture at the top was labeled MOST RECENT PHOTOGRAPH. The dossier listed his home address, his current deployment dates, his expected date of arrival and departure in Duluth, and detailed vital signs for both him and his dog, Shadow, a dark-furred German Shepherd. Scratched underneath those vitals were different doses for the two different compounds Peter had used along with a note that read KETAMINE FOR SHEPHERDS AND SMALLER.

She put a hand on the paper and brushed it to the side. Underneath the file on Master Sergeant Reeves was a collection of photographs showing him training with Shadow. Behind that was a similar file on Staff Sergeant Walsh and Rooster.

Faith scanned through the documents. There was a file for Delgado and Rex as well. Here, it was noted that PHENOBARBITAL OK FOR LARGER DOGS.

Amongst the files were handwritten papers that showed a disjointed psyche. Peter rambled at length about his own dog, Monkey, and the events that led to Monkey’s death and his dismissal. Interspersed with that story were paragraph-long rants against the “assholes who killed him” and his pledge to make them all pay.

Notably, there was nothing here about anyone in particular except for a sentence about Reeves that mentioned punishing him for making the wrong decision during his hearing. Even then, it was almost a distracted comment. Most of the focus seemed to be on the Army as a whole and how their policies made it dangerous for K9s and handlers. “It’s their fault,” came up an awful lot.

As she was reading one of the notes, a photograph slipped out. She frowned and picked it up. The woman in the photographs wasn’t one of the other women.

Her breath caught in her throat. She dug through the papers, looking for anything that might mention other victims. She found it on the bottom of the stack. A list of names, nine in all. The top three names were crossed out. Below the fourth name was a note that read, TOO DANGEROUS TO STAY. THEY GET TO LIVE. OH WELL.

The fourth name was Jennifer Martinez.

Faith looked at the picture. There was no name on it and no other papers on the desk with that name, but this must be her. Probably Kane had taken the file with him and this photograph fell out.

“Who’s that?” Marcus asked. “Next target?”

She nodded. “I think so. Jennifer Martinez. We need an address ASAP.”

Marcus brought his radio to his lips. "Dispatch, I need an address for Jennifer Martinez, a Hispanic female, mid-twenties, with blonde hair and gray eyes, almost certainly a service member and a K9 handler. I don't have an exact height and weight, but looks to be five-five or so, maybe one hundred twenty pounds. I'll send a picture of the photograph we found."

He took the photo from Faith. Faith tapped her feet on the floor, anxious to have the address.

Frustration crept up her spine. They were so close. If they had only been an hour earlier, maybe even less, they would have caught him.

You can’t know that. For all you know, he’s been out of the house all day.

She doubted that, though. He kept his mini armory in his garage, and it wasn’t likely he had a dart gun with animal tranquilizers just chilling in his truck. He probably staked out the crime scene he preferred, came home and waited for the sun to set, then grabbed his weapons and took off.

“Call the military bases, Tranh,” she commanded. “All of them. Tell them to keep their K9s and handlers indoors.”

“He’s not just going after the one girl?”

"We don't know where this one girl is," Faith replied. "And if he doesn't find her where he wants her, he might go after someone else. While you're at it, though, ask them if they have a Jennifer Martinez."

“No need,” Marcus interrupted. “We have an address. She’s a sergeant in the U.S. Army, and she’s renting a home on Baseline. We can get there in five minutes. Tranh, I still want you to call the military bases and let them know what the situation is. If they have units to help, have them send them our way. We can use all the help we can get.”

Tranh nodded, and the five of them—humans and dog—rushed outside. Marcus relayed instructions to the four officers outside the house on his way out.

Faith's heart pounded, but not with excitement now. Telling herself that she'd been in this situation before did nothing to quell the pounding in her chest. This killer moved quickly. He didn't have elaborate rituals. He didn't need to prepare his scenes. He just sedated them and slit their throats. She doubted they'd get "lucky" again like they did with Delgado. Even if they did, Delgado's survival barely qualified as luck, considering the health problems she was likely to have.

Don’t think about everything that can go wrong. Focus on what will go right.

Jack Preston had taught her that when she was a young agent. Jack Preston was dead. His head had been split open by the same serial killer that nearly murdered Faith.

It was hard to focus on what could go right when Faith knew firsthand how much could go very, very wrong.