CHAPTER 8
Chapter Title: Blood Calls to Blood
Kathy
I was mid-sentence, charming the pearls off a rich retiree in Coral Gables, when my burner phone lit up like a gunshot in a silent room.
Encrypted SOS. I didn’t look. I didn’t flinch.
"Now, Mrs. Wilson," I said sweetly, wrapping my voice around her like a warm quilt. “I know it’s frustrating. These systems can feel impossible, but I’m here to help you. All you need to do is read me the six-digit code you’re about to receive. It’s going to fix everything, I promise.”
My face was calm, eyes trained on the five screens in front of me. Around me, the scam center pulsed with chaos—concrete floors, exposed pipes, and at least fifty phones ringing off the hook like Wall Street on Black Friday. Desperation had a soundtrack, and it was dial tones and hold music.
Six months undercover. Six months buried in Miami’s filthiest cybercrime dens. I’d worked my way through fake sweepstakes firms, ransomware teams, crypto laundromats disguised as wellness startups—all for this one target.
And here I was. One more phone call away from the big fish. Then, it was New York.
I hadn't been home in years. I was planning to make a surprise visit to my sister who I knew was angry at me.
Especially after our father died.
Two million dollars sat in Mrs. Agnes Wilson’s bank account. Retirement funds. Social security. The whole tragic bundle. All about to get rerouted through a dark web maze we built to trace it back to the man funding this circus.
The elusive Calderón. No photo. No origin. Just a myth moving money through digital shadows.
A chime went off. Mrs. Wilson had received the code.
"It's seven, eight, one... two, four, six," she said, careful like she was reading scripture.
I typed it in slowly. Precisely.
“Seven, eight, one, two, four, six,” I repeated, making sure my voice stayed soft, sympathetic. “Is that correct, ma’am?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
Click.
Just like that, the account was drained.
“Thank you, Mrs. Wilson,” I said, cheery and fake. “Your account has been restored. You’re all set now. Have a wonderful day.”
I hung up, exhaled. Watched the transferred amount—$2,137,921.84—lit up in green across the big screen at my desk.
Bingo.
Cheers erupted around me like confetti. A bottle of cheap champagne popped open, fizzing over the concrete. Someone else was already screaming my name like I’d just won a Grammy.
I grinned. Showtime.
“You!”
Matt, my district supervisor, came flying toward me like a lemon-colored missile. Six-foot-five, loud as a freight train, and today dressed like a radioactive banana in a velour tracksuit. He practically vaulted over the nearest desk.
“Girl, you just cracked the damn ceiling!”
I stretched and tossed my headset down. “I better be getting champagne for this.”
“Oh, honey, you’re getting champagne and caviar!” he sang, twirling like a Broadway extra. “Pack that pretty little bag of yours, Kathy, because you’re flying first-class to New York tonight. You’ll be face to face with the top brass before sunrise!”
My laugh came easy, but my mind was already turning gears. The alert was still blinking on my desk. Encrypted. Persistent. That wasn’t normal.
My thumb hovered over the burner’s screen, a cold prickle crawling up my spine. Alerts like this didn’t come for nothing—not in my line of work. I quickly picked up the burner and placed it in my purse. “Wait. Did someone say check?”
Matt gave me a dramatic wink. “Accounting’s got a gift for you, sugar. Go collect before you strut your fabulous self out of here.”
I made a pit stop at the accounting desk on my way out. Lourdes—sharp, sarcastic, and my favorite in this whole cesspool—grinned as she handed me the envelope.
“Two hundred grand,” she said. “You ever think about adopting a broke cousin?”
I chuckled, folding the check and sliding it into my purse. It was all going straight into the Bureau’s victim reimbursement fund. Every cent. My bonus wasn’t for me. It was for Agnes Wilson, and all the others like her. Once Calderón was in cuffs.
“What are you gonna do with that kinda money?” Lourdes leaned on her elbow like we were at a backyard BBQ, not an organized crime front.
I gave a half-serious sigh. “Maybe retire. Buy a lemon farm. Disappear.”
She snorted. “Retire? Please. You were born for this hustle. You retire when you own a private island and a manservant named Pierre.”
I smirked. “Fair point. Want anything from New York?”
“Yeah. Bring me a tall, tan man who works on Wall Street and sweats money.”
“Give me an hour alone with him,” I said, tossing my hair, “and by the time I’m done, he’ll be broke and begging me to Venmo him lunch money.”
We laughed like we had nothing to lose.
Outside, the building looked like something out of a crime drama—peeling paint, rusted bars, and a parking lot filled with more potholes than pavement. My white BMW sat under a flickering streetlamp, patient and gleaming.
I tossed my purse in the front seat, slid behind the wheel, and slipped my Bluetooth into my ear. As the engine purred, I reached into my purse and pulled out the burner. The alert still glowed red.
Shit.
I tapped in the Bureau’s secure line.
"Special Agent Katherine Margaret Hastings, ID number Charlie-Alpha-seven-two-five-four-one,” I said, voice clipped. “Davis, what do you have for me?"
There was a pause.
Heavy.
“Kathy…” Davis’s voice came through, low and tight. Not the tone you wanted from your handler. “We’ve got a situation.”
My hand froze on the steering wheel.
“What kind of situation?”
“It’s your sister.”
My whole body stilled, the silence deafening.
“She’s missing.”
A thousand memories crashed through my brain like shards of stained glass. Kimberly in ballet slippers, Kimberly in braces, Kimberly crying when our mom left. Kimberly, always a few steps behind me in age—but years ahead when it came to love and trust.
The words dropped like bricks inside my chest. I blinked, once. Twice. The engine hummed. Outside, someone lit a cigarette near the dumpster. The scent of it, sharp and acrid, pulled me back into my body.
“…Kimberly?” I asked, my voice barely there. “Kimberly’s missing?”
“Yes.”
I swallowed the lump clawing its way up my throat. My baby sister. We hadn’t spoken in months—not since she blew up at me about a birthday I forgot. It wasn’t just the birthday—she’d been furious about my silence, my excuses, the way I’d let the Bureau swallow me whole.
And now—
“Where?”
Davis hesitated. “We don’t know. She ordered an Uber in Maryland two nights ago. Never made it to her destination.”
Maryland?
“What the hell is she doing in Maryland?” I said out loud, more to myself than to Davis.
"Well, she listed her destination as 1245 Delmarva Drive, Crisfield, a tiny home near Chesapeake Bay," Davis continued. "Her pickup location, a club called Delish. There was no trace until her phone pinged two hours later from a warehouse outside Crisfield. Then it went dark.”
"Crisfield?" I asked, sounding stupid. She doesn’t live there. Or at least, I didn’t think she did. I've been too busy chasing shadows to notice she’d left New York for some small-town life I couldn’t picture. "Any idea what she was doing in Crisfield?"
“Living,” he said grimly. “Quietly. Owned a small bakery, engaged to the town's golden boy, Hank. A wedding was planned for October. Her fiancé was the one who filed the report."
"Wedding?" I blurted, fumbling for my phone in the glove compartment, the one reserved for her and close friends. Apparently, she had left me several messages wanting to talk. "She left me messages. Maybe she was going to tell me she was engaged."
This was all my fault. I've been a ghost for almost 3 years. All this while I thought she was in New York City living her best life. Apparently, she had gone to some place I knew nothing about.
“Jesus Christ,” I whispered, staring out at the broken skyline.
“Whatever cover you’re under,” Davis said, voice razor-sharp now, “burn it. I need you on a plane to D.C. tonight. We’ve pulled jurisdiction. You’re lead on this.”
I didn’t breathe. Couldn’t.
All I could see was Kimberly’s face—brilliant, stubborn, always just a little angry with me. And now, gone.
“Copy that,” I said finally.
And just like that, the job was over.
The sting was done.
Now it was personal.