Sylvia Wilson’s brother, Aaron, is working with a joint bank robbery task force. When he goes missing, she joins forces with the FBI to search for him.

But nothing is what it seems.

With very little time left, Sylvia will burn Heaven to the ground to find her missing brother and bring him back alive. FBI, be damned.

Excerpt

I walked out to the parking lot. The night smelled crisp and new. The snow that had been held prisoner in the clouds was now free and drifting down in fat wet flakes. I scuffed to my Jeep, shivering despite my dense parka.

At least I had a new ragtop on the Jeep, courtesy of my family at Christmas. Growing up in Iowa, winter hadn’t seemed so bad. Then Aaron and I had moved to Texas. We’d acclimated quickly. Now my blood congealed at the hint of cold. This was my second winter in St. Louis and it seemed my body would never get used to snow and ice again.

Snowflakes in my headlights zoomed toward me like they were stars and my vehicle was a starship at warp speed. The highways wouldn’t be slick yet, but I predicted my neighborhood streets would be. My feeble heater whined louder with each minute. I’d intended to replace it before winter, but hadn’t gotten around to it.

Almost all of its own, my Jeep drove to Olive Street. A thick blanket of snow covered the burnt scar where Smugglers had stood. I imagined Tom screaming, limbs and body aflame, even though Gideon had assured me much later that my friend had already been dead before the fire. Tom had been a good employee: hard-working, honest, eager. He’d been a student at WashU with a bright future ahead. His mother wouldn’t even look at me at the funeral.

Though alone, I now whispered to her, to everyone, to the universe, “I’m so, so sorry.”

I took a deep sigh to scatter the image, pulled away from the curb, and headed home. As predicted, the highways were decent for travel, but the snow was starting to build up along the shoulders. Also, as foreseen, my neighborhood streets were slick. Point in fact, my Jeep slid right through a stop sign and was in the middle of the intersection before halting. Thankfully, I was the only fool out trying to drive.

Lights flickered from TVs and whatnot inside homes as my neighbors played games or watched shows, waiting out the weather. My house lights would soon be doing the same thing, but for now, they were dark. Ominous. My Jeep skated past my house. Deciding it was my intention to park in back anyway, I fishtailed around the corner into the alley and skidded to a stop in my parking space, inches away from destroying my storage shed.

I blinked once. Twice. Filled my lungs with a deep breath and blew it out through pursed lips. My scolding sent puffs of icy vapor onto my windshield, “Good job, Sylvia. Do you think you’re made of money?”

I opened my glovebox and found my Colt Python. There had been a gun constantly near me since the psychopath, and though one pistol had burned in the bar and was currently at the gun shop, there were still four hidden around my house. This one should have been in a glass cabinet; there was provenance that it was used in the Dirty Harry movie, though sadly not by Eastwood’s character. But it was the one that made me feel most steady. Hence, it went everywhere with me.

My headlights lit my backyard and into my house, where I could see the shadowy silhouettes of my two dogs pacing inside the sliding glass backdoor. My gaze roved the yard and looked deep in the bushes along the fence for any sinister shapes, but found none. Satisfied, I turned off the Jeep and the headlights, climbed out, and went through the back gate toward the house. Even though a square of light from my neighbors’ windows spilled over the tall wooden fence that surrounded my backyard, it was pitch black most places. My heart thudded against my skull and my finger tapped against the side of the trigger.

I was about one-third the way up the walk, too far from the house for the security light to kick on, when the front gate to the yard opened and carefully clicked closed. My heart came to a screeching halt. The Python automatically raised into a double-handed grip, pointing toward the sound.

“Whoever you are, you should know I’ve killed a man before and right now my gun is pointed your direction.”

“It’s FBI Agent Dawes,” came the soft response. The tall, Black man slowly stepped forward, hands wide open out to the side. He moved close enough to my house that the security light kicked on, ricocheting snowflake-speckled light across his dark features. Inside, my pooches went ballistic. Now the whole neighborhood would know someone was creeping in my backyard. Again.

I lowered my hands. “What’s happened to my brother?”

“Not here. Inside.”

The Python lifted again. “Now. I’m not playing around.”

“We don’t know. We lost contact with him. Our last message was over a week ago. Has he contacted you?” Snowflakes were settling on his shoulders and uncovered head. How could anyone go out without a hat in this weather?

“I’ve heard nothing.” Aaron had told me he wasn’t supposed to be in contact with anyone but Dawes while on the mission.

The FBI agent exhaled loudly through his nose. “Help us. We know he texted you. Four days ago he sent you, ‘All good.’ Has he contacted you in any other manner?”

Well damn. They’d probably duplicated his phone or something. I’d be sure to tell Aaron about it when he was found. I shook my head, not caring that he probably couldn’t see it. “Do you think there’d be a gun pointed at you if I weren’t worried about him?”

“No, I don’t.” He hesitated, looked up at the falling snow, brushed his hand across his bespeckled hair, then asked, “Can we go inside to talk, now?”

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About the Author

Wendy Koenig is a published author living in New Brunswick, Canada. Her first piece to be printed was a short children’s fiction, Jet’s Stormy Adventure, serialized in The Illinois Horse Network. She attended University of Iowa, honing her craft in their famed summer workshops and writing programs. Since that time, she has published and co-authored numerous books and has won several international awards.

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