Special Agent Ariel Juárez ran her hand through her shoulder-length hair, tying it into a hasty ponytail. She took the keys out of the ignition and got out of the unmarked SUV. In a stiff, navy-blue suit, she put on her game face. She wore a void expression as she stepped onto the cracked curb of a small community in the lowest parts of California. A few hours ago, Fed dispatch had picked up on a call about a homicide, including a “Mary Jane.”

She and her partner, Robertson, were on cleanup duty. The women who were strippers and prostitutes for Beasley had all been given reparations straight from the honey pot, and Grienke had just about a never-ending honey pot. The selected tech team at the Federal Bureau of Investigations knew how to work Grienke’s brainwasher system, so they’d given each woman a clean slate. Clearing their minds of this innate alliance to Beasley, but the reworking of Grienke’s deception had just begun. She pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed.

“Let’s see if the dynamics fit,” Robertson said glumly, rubbing a hand over his buzz cut before closing the passenger door. They’d already tied Jakob Woods to five deceased Mary Janes in the past four months.

It took them ten days to learn more about Grienke’s dealings. After the computer forensics investigators bypassed Peter Grienke’s firewalls, they had concrete evidence regarding a billion-dollar a year industry. Rich people were selling their family members to Grienke because they didn’t want to have their wives, daughters, or friends murdered. Beasley was not provided all of the women. There were others all over the world.

Ariel’s mother would douse holy water on her if she knew Ariel and the Feds were doing nothing about the women and young girls who were successfully sold into the international sex slave industry. Some less attractive women and children had become indentured servants to wealthy homes. Their “employers” had given Grienke a nominal fee instead of paying them monthly.

They just couldn’t be saved.

And domestically? Well, fathers of women like Bonnie Timms and Tiana Clement lived scot-free at this very instance because Grienke’s dubious dealings were not being brought out to the media.

This was the president’s orders.

Everything that the Feds actually had a hand in, such as reparations to Beasley’s freshly brainwashed girls, seemed to be tied up in a nice, little bow. Well, that’s how the president saw it after being debriefed. He’d given the ultimate order not to pursue those trafficked internationally.

Yellow tape clashed with the paler shade of yellow roses around the scene, leading to a tiny entry way, made even tinier by more rose bushels. Ariel and Robertson flashed their badge to a uniformed cop standing at the front of the yard. His pupils widened, but then he nodded. Ariel stepped onto the porch of a very tiny house. Clay pottery lined the narrow porch, outlining an artistic clay sun at the top of the door. The all-too-familiar smell of death greeted them first.

They entered the perimeter that the local police Crime Science Unit had constructed. The lab boys, the department’s Science Investigation Division, cased the tiny entry way. One, a latent-print expert, worked at the handrail of the tiny stairs.

In the quaint living room, the team surrounded a spot right behind a lumpy loveseat. There had to be a coroner, most likely kneeling next to the body on the floor. And right on key, a male voice mumbled about the time of death, which Ariel already knew. The instant dispatch recorded a call about a homicide linked to the name Mary Jane, the agents were on their way.

A short black woman in a black suit with braided hair glanced over. With a voice of authority, “What are the Feds doing here?”

Ariel flashed a respectful smile, knowing the obstacles this detective had to surmount to become a detective. She wanted to tell her she empathized with her, knowing full well how hard it was as a female minority in a male-dominated workplace. “Special Agent Ariel Juarez, and this is my partner Robertson. We’d like to offer our–”

“Correct me if I’m wrong.” The head detective placed a hand on her large hips that seemed to encompass the living room. “Isn’t a homicide a local affair?”

Robertson and Ariel glanced at each other. The fleeting look spoke volumes. He told her not to chew out this head detective. She responded with a glimmer of a smile that indicated she’d try her best to play nice.

“We believe your Mary Jane Aguayo may be the next victim of a serial killer.”

The detective’s eyes glittered with interest. “How so?”

The rest of the team gave their attention as well, and an Indian man stood up. Ariel figured he had to be the coroner who was just interrupted.

“We’ve collected a few bodies, all of which had the given name, Mary Jane,” Robertson said. “If you would be so kind as to allow us a moment to view your MJ and the scene, we’d be glad to provide our expertise if this is Jakob Woods’ handiwork.”

“Dispatch stated that the perp identified himself as Jake,” one of the detectives mumbled in disbelief. Apparently, he hadn’t heard the bomb drop.

“The terrorist Jakob Woods?” The head detective arched her eyebrow. Even the photographer stopped taking photos. “He’s got a new skill?”

“Yes,” Ariel confirmed.

“Well,” the coroner took over. “I’ll have more later, naturally. For now, I can say that your–our victim has been dead for about ten to twelve hours. From the type of stab wounds, the weapon was not a knife, but indicative of an ice pick or maybe even a power tool, screw driver, the likes. And then we have the repeated, blunt force trauma to the skull.”

The coroner consulted with a small notebook as they stepped around the couch to see this Mary Jane.

The woman’s long black hair was matted with blood. Her face was indistinguishable due to the brutal disfigurement of her face, brain matter and skull fragments exposed.

“Given the amount of wounds, you’d expect more erratic movement, but no. The stab wounds are meticulous. None appear near vital organs or major arteries. The perp didn’t want her to die until he was ready.”

As the coroner gave his expertise, Ariel took in the remainder of the scene. Her eyes stopped on a photo at the end table. Her heart sank.

She pulled on her gloves and grabbed the picture frame at the edge and looked at the photo. With all of the other Mary Janes, Jake had smeared blood over their eyes as if the act blinded them from his sin.

Jakob Woods had added another notch to his resume. He was a serial killer.

She and Robertson took a step outside. He made the call. She took down her ponytail, forked a hand through her hair, and then redid it in a severe bun.

Robertson ended the call. “Our team will be here stat.”

“We can keep the lead detective on as liaison,” she said. “But ultimately, Robertson, this shit is going too far. The crew finding Mary Jane—Portman-Grienke, or whatever the fuck she wants to be called these days, needs to move it!”

“They’re on it, Ariel. Breathe.”

She wanted to smile. Her partner always kept her grounded, but this situation was spiraling out of control. “I’ll try, but when we get her in our grasps, she’s not to be out of our sights—and I mean, you or me, not the team, but us. We keep an eye on her, and we will force her to fix this mess Jake has caused.”

He sighed. “We’ll feed her to the wolf?”

Her eyes trained onto his. This was not the time for religion or morals to clash with the truth. “It must be done.”