Chapter 6

2024—

Los Angeles, California—

The hum of the temporary operations center was interrupted by the sound of Agent Dirk striding back into the room, a self-satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

He carried a slim folder and his tablet, the telltale signs of someone who had uncovered something big. Lindsay, standing near the evidence corkboard, turned her attention to him immediately.

“Well, Dirk,” Lindsay began, her tone cautious but curious, “you look like a cat who just caught a mouse. What have you got?”

Dirk slid the folder onto the table with a flourish and leaned back slightly, savoring the moment. “I’ve been digging into Krista Morrigan’s financials,” he began, his voice carrying a hint of smugness. “And let me tell you—what I found isn’t just interesting; it’s downright damning.”

Lindsay motioned for him to continue as Schraigg and Davies joined them, their curiosity piqued.

“Krista has two main bank accounts,” Dirk said, tapping his tablet to project a detailed breakdown onto the screen. “One with Capital One and the other with Chase. Her Capital One account is exactly what you’d expect from a part-time working college student. A balance of about thirty thousand dollars, with most transactions being small—groceries from Walmart, some snacks, and recurring payments to a mobile game called Arknights.” He raised an eyebrow. “Pretty normal stuff, all things considered.”

“Go on,” Lindsay prompted, sensing there was more.

“Her Chase account, though?” Dirk paused for emphasis. “It’s suspicious at best and incriminating at worst. The current balance is over twelve million dollars.”

Schraigg let out a low whistle. “Twelve million? That’s a hell of a lot of money for a college student.”

“And it gets better,” Dirk continued, his grin widening. “The most recent transaction—made just 48 hours ago—was a deposit of three hundred and eighty thousand dollars. The sender? James Carrow.”

Lindsay’s jaw tightened at the mention of the alias. “Our mystery benefactor strikes again.”

“That’s not even the kicker,” Dirk said, his tone shifting to one of grim satisfaction. “I reached out to one of our trusted black-market informants. Let’s just say he’s sold some very interesting items to someone who matches Krista’s description.”

“Interesting items?” Davies asked, leaning forward slightly.

“Oh, you’re going to love this.” Dirk ticked the items off on his fingers as he spoke. “Four one-gallon containers of napalm. One kilogram of calcium metal. An Israeli TAR-21 assault rifle. Two M1911 handguns. A grenade launcher. Several short Japanese wakizashis. A whole array of scalpels, shears, and chisels. And—wait for it—a Browning M2 50-caliber machine gun with two thousand rounds of ammunition belt.”

The room fell into stunned silence.

“She bought all of that?” Lindsay asked, her voice sharp with disbelief.

“Not all at once, of course,” Dirk clarified, “but yes. And here’s the kicker: my source said there’s no way a twenty-something slender girl could carry all of that herself. So, she asked him to deliver the items to an abandoned house on Porter Street—150 yards away from her suspected residence on East 8th Street.”

Lindsay exhaled, a mixture of shock and frustration swirling in her mind. “She’s not just an ordinary killer. She’s building an arsenal.”

“And that’s not all,” Dirk said, his tone darkening. “When I asked my source if he recognized her, he said she was wearing a mask during the transactions. But her size, build, and the general description match Krista to a tee. He also mentioned that she was highly specific about her orders—precision tools, military-grade weapons, and explosives. This isn’t someone who’s improvising. She knows exactly what she’s doing.”

Lindsay turned to Davies and Schraigg, her mind racing. “Didn’t we determine that a Japanese-style sword was consistently used in nearly all seven hundred murders?”

Davies nodded, flipping through her notes. “Yes. In most cases, the weapon was either a wakizashi or another Japanese blade. There were a few exceptions—daggers in some early killings—but the pattern has been remarkably consistent.”

“And yet,” Schraigg added, “we’ve never seen any evidence of firearms being used in the murders.”

“Which means,” Lindsay said, connecting the dots aloud, “the firearms and explosives aren’t for her killings. They’re for something else.”

Schraigg nodded grimly. “They’re for a quick escape. If she ever gets cornered—by law enforcement, rivals, or anyone else—she’s prepared to blow her way out and fight back.”

“That makes her even more dangerous,” Lindsay said, her tone tightening. “Not only is she methodical and precise, but she’s also planning for contingencies. This isn’t a desperate killer flying by the seat of her pants—this is someone who thinks ten steps ahead.”

Davies shifted uncomfortably. “And if she’s using that abandoned house on Porter Street as a stash, we might be looking at a fortified escape route. She could have traps, weapons, or worse waiting for anyone who gets too close.”

Lindsay turned her attention back to the corkboard, her gaze locking onto Krista’s photograph.

“This girl has been underestimated for far too long,” she said, her voice steely. “We need to act, but we can’t rush it. If she’s half as prepared as this suggests, a misstep could cost us dearly.”

She turned back to the team. “Dirk, get a surveillance team on that Porter Street property. I want eyes on it 24/7. Schraigg, Davies—start coordinating with bomb disposal and SWAT. If this escalates, I want every possible angle covered—”

Before Lindsay could process the implications of Dirk’s findings, the door to the operations room creaked open, and an agent stepped in, escorting an elderly woman and a younger girl in her early twenties.

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The older woman walked with a cane, her face both nervous and resolute, while the younger woman appeared equally uneasy but determined.

The room turned its attention toward the newcomers, sensing that their arrival wasn’t ordinary.

The agent cleared his throat. “This is Mrs. Beverly Grant and her granddaughter, Samantha. Mrs. Grant believes she might’ve seen something—or someone—important. She also took a photo.”

Lindsay straightened her posture and walked over, gesturing for them to sit.

“Mrs. Grant, thank you for coming. I’m SSA Lindsay McDermont. Please, tell us what you saw.”

The older woman fidgeted slightly but spoke with surprising clarity.

“Well, I was on my balcony two nights ago—over on Werdin, you know, right by Skid Row. My stupid cat kept jumping up there, and I was trying to shoo it off before it fell. That’s when I saw her.”

“Her?” Lindsay asked, leaning in.

“Yes, this girl,” Mrs. Grant said, her tone firming. “She had dark hair, young—maybe in her twenties. She was carrying this red ice box, and her hands… her hands were covered in blood.”

The room fell silent for a moment, tension thickening. Lindsay exchanged a glance with Schraigg before nodding for Mrs. Grant to continue.

“She didn’t seem bothered, you know?” Mrs. Grant continued. “Not in a hurry, not panicked—just walking down the street like it was any other day. It was… unsettling. I didn’t know what to do, so I took a picture.”

The agent nodded and urged her to show Lindsay the photo. Mrs. Grant reached into her purse, pulling out a phone and swiping to her gallery. She handed it over, and Lindsay studied the image intently.

There she was—a beautiful young woman with long dark hair, walking down a dimly lit street.

She carried a red ice box in her right hand, and her left hand was visibly smeared with what could only be blood.

Something long and thin poked out from under her hoodie, tucked against her back. Lindsay’s sharp eyes locked onto it immediately.

“Is that…?” Lindsay murmured.

“A stick,” Mrs. Grant interjected, though her tone was uncertain. “Or at least, that’s what it looked like. But now that I think about it, it might’ve been a sword. The way it poked out—it was too deliberate to be just a stick.”

Lindsay’s pulse quickened. A wakizashi. It had to be. She handed the phone to Schraigg, who nodded grimly as he examined it.

“That’s not all,” Mrs. Grant added. “I overheard her talking on the phone. I couldn’t hear everything, but I got a good chunk of it.”

“What did she say?” Lindsay asked, her voice steady.

Mrs. Grant thought for a moment before mimicking the girl’s tone. “‘Hey, B… yeah, it’s done. Yeah, I’m coming over now. Be there in ten. Yeah, fucker… have my money transferred. Yeah, the 380 grand. Alright, see you.’”

The room erupted in murmurs. Lindsay’s mind raced. “B” had to be Bradley Kinford—or “James Carrow.”

The mention of 380 grand matched the exact amount transferred to Krista’s account 48 hours ago. Everything was lining up too perfectly to be a coincidence.

“That’s not all,” Samantha, the granddaughter, chimed in nervously. “I… I think I know her.”

Lindsay’s gaze snapped to the younger woman. “You do?”

Samantha nodded, fidgeting with her hands. “I go to UCLA too. I’ve seen her on campus a few times. She’s insanely smart—like, scarily smart. People talk about her all the time. But there’s one thing that sticks out.”

“Go on,” Lindsay urged.

“It was last year,” Samantha said, her voice faltering slightly as she recalled the memory. “I was in the quad when these guys started harassing me. They wouldn’t leave me alone, and I was starting to panic. That’s when she showed up. Krista.”

“What did she do?” Schraigg asked.

“She… pulled out a sword,” Samantha said, her voice tinged with disbelief even now. “A Japanese sword—a wakizashi, I think. And a gun. A Colt, I think? She pointed both at them and told them that if they valued their lives and didn’t want to end up as ‘props for the Fallout TV series,’ they’d leave. They ran off so fast, they didn’t even look back.”

“She was armed on campus?” Lindsay asked, her voice tight.

“Yes,” Samantha confirmed. “How she got past the metal detectors is beyond me, but she did. And the way she talked—it wasn’t like she was bluffing. She meant every word.”

The room fell silent again, the weight of the testimony sinking in. Finally, Schraigg broke the silence with a half-serious, half-joking comment.

“You know,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “it’s wild. How is it that not one single person called 911 after seeing a girl walk down Skid Row with bloody hands and a red ice box?”

Lindsay shot him a look, but he continued before she could reply.

“I mean, think about it. If you saw someone like that on Skid Row, would you bat an eye? In LA, no less? It’s like seeing someone in a fur suit walking around Times Square with GoPros strapped to their head. You shrug it off. LA’s the new New York—nobody wants anything to do with anyone they don’t know.”

The room’s mood lightened slightly, but Lindsay’s expression remained stern.

“That may be true,” she said, her tone firm, “but that attitude is exactly why she’s been able to operate in plain sight for so long. We can’t afford to be complacent.”

She turned back to Mrs. Grant and Samantha. “Thank you for coming in. Your information is invaluable. If we need anything else, we’ll be in touch.”

As the two were escorted out, Lindsay faced her team, her resolve hardening. “This is it. We have her picture. We have her trail. Now, let’s make sure we don’t lose her.”

Her words still hung in the air when an agent stormed in, panting heavily and clutching a tablet.

“Ma’am!” the agent shouted, drawing every pair of eyes in the room. “We’ve got something. Just hit r/eyeblech—someone posted CCTV footage from the bar in Werdin.”

Lindsay's eyes narrowed, and she motioned for him to bring it over.

The agent quickly plugged the tablet into the large monitor at the front of the room, and a grainy black-and-white video began playing.

The footage showed the street outside the bar where the murder had occurred. The timestamp confirmed it matched the approximate time of the crime.

Lindsay leaned closer as the scene unfolded.

There she was, Krista, walking briskly, her black Cannibal Corpse hoodie standing out under the dim streetlights.

She carried the same, identical and distinctive red icebox in one hand, its metallic latch glinting faintly. Her other hand brushed her long black hair away from her face—an unmasked face.

“Pause it!” Lindsay snapped. The image froze, capturing a clear view of Krista’s features. The room buzzed as agents exchanged knowing glances.

“She’s not wearing a mask yet,” Lindsay noted. “It’s her.”

The footage resumed. Krista stopped next to a pile of garbage bags and knocked lightly on the edge of a makeshift cardboard shelter.

The homeless witness from the earlier news broadcast emerged cautiously.

Krista crouched down, handed him a wrapped sandwich and a crisp $100 bill. As the man examined the money, she stood up, pulled a surgical mask from her pocket, and secured it over her face.

The timestamp showed she moved into the alley moments later—minutes before the murder was believed to have taken place.

Lindsay grabbed the remote and froze the footage again. Her voice was calm but decisive. “The witness’s testimony is now confirmed. This is our killer.”

The room fell silent for a beat before erupting into action. Lindsay turned to Agent Schraigg, her eyes blazing with intensity.

“Get the warrant,” she said firmly. “We’re raiding her place tonight.”

Schraigg nodded, a faint grin tugging at his lips. “Finally,” he muttered, sprinting out of the room.

Lindsay addressed the rest of the team. “I want everyone ready. Once we have the warrant, we’re hitting that East 8th Street warehouse. This ends tonight.”