Caribbean Rescue (Coastal Fury Book 16), Matt Lincoln [best book recommendations .txt] 📗

“Mom!” Christina gasped as she knelt down to check on her mother, who was now openly sobbing on the ground.

“Mrs. Newark.” Olivia leaned down to address her. “What’s wrong?”

“What is this?” Barbara gasped between sobs. “Is this some kind of trick? Why is this happening?”

“Mom, what the hell are you talking about?” Christina gaped at her.

“He looks just like her,” Barbara cried as she snatched her handbag off the coffee table with shaking hands. She rummaged through it for a moment before pulling out her wallet and slipping a picture from behind her driver’s license. “He looks just like my Allie.”

She held the picture out to Olivia, who took it from her gently. Her eyes went wide as she looked down at it.

It was obviously an old photograph from the age of printed film that had long since been faded by time. The child in the picture, however, was uncannily similar to the little boy standing before her now. It looked as though someone had taken a picture of Eddy himself.

“That’s my little girl, Allison,” Barbara explained as fat tears rolled down her face. “She disappeared almost twenty years ago. Why? Why does he look like her?”

A cold silence fell over the room as the woman finally revealed her dark secret. Olivia looked back and forth between her, the photograph, and the boy.

She had no idea how she was supposed to answer the woman’s question.

7

Ethan

Holm and I headed out to the group home the kid was staying in as soon as Diane had finished briefing us over the details of the case. Well, as many details as she could give us, anyway. Apparently, between the FBI not wanting to hand over the case and the details being so confusing, to begin with, it wasn’t totally clear just what exactly was going on.

“Just when we’d gotten rid of the FBI, too,” Holm muttered from the passenger seat. “Not that some of them hadn’t turned out to be cool, in the end. It was nice not having to play nice and worry about jurisdiction, though.”

“I hear you,” I sighed.

“Maybe the mom was involved in drug trafficking,” Holm mused aloud. “Got spooked and split when it seemed like things were going wrong?”

“And she just left her kid behind?” I responded incredulously. “Why would she have him with her in the first place if she was running drugs?”

“I dunno.” Holm shrugged. “Why did the Hollands build a whole-ass ship and create a fake journal just to mess with you? People do dumb stuff, especially criminals, and especially when they’re panicking.”

“You’re not wrong,” I replied. It was a bizarre case, and I was itching to get to the scene and figure things out.

“That’s definitely the place,” Holm snickered as we pulled up to the house. Two sleek, black cars with dark tinted windows that just screamed FED were sitting in the driveway.

“No subtlety as usual,” I snorted as I parked and got out. Unlike the FBI, MBLIS preferred to keep a low profile. Very few people had ever even heard of our organization, and we preferred to keep it that way. It made it easier for us to move around and strike undetected.

“Although,” Holm hummed, “there is something kind of respectable about just blatantly announcing your presence like that. Kills any element of surprise, but it’s one hell of a power move.”

“Don’t go joining the FBI on me now, Holm,” I teased as we walked up to the door.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied easily as I knocked.

The door opened almost immediately, and a talk, wiry-haired woman wearing thick glasses greeted us.

“Hi.” I smiled politely at her. “I’m Agent Marston, and this is Agent Holm. We’re with MBLIS.”

“Of course,” she replied as she opened the door wider for us. “I’m Mrs. Abernathy. I was expecting you. Come on in, join the party.”

I could hear voices talking as we stepped inside. Mrs. Abernathy closed the door behind us before leading us further into the small house.

My first impression of the home was that it seemed cozy. The furniture was a little mismatched and worn, but in a way that seemed live-in rather than trashed. There were also photographs and picture frames hung all over the walls. I assumed, judging by the wide range of ages and ethnicities present, that they must be pictures of all the children that had come through here.

Even more evidence indicating the presence of kids were the toys that covered every part of the room. Stuffed animals sat on the couches in place of throw pillows. The bookshelves along one wall, aside from housing a colorful array of books, were also home to various dolls and figurines. Even the floor hadn’t escaped unscathed, as there was a large pile of toys in the center of the living room, all, apparently, for the little boy currently sitting on the floor examining a plastic toy truck.

Aside from the kid, there were four adults sitting in the den. Two of them, judging by their clothes, must have been the FBI agents. I couldn’t immediately discern who the other two might be until I spotted the child sitting between them.

The kid had a dreamy, faraway look in his eyes, and his skin was raw and red. I figured he must be the victim then. The two women flanking him both had the exact same hair and eye color, which meant that they must be some kind of family to him.

“Agent Hastings, Director Evans,” Mrs. Abernathy’s voice broke through the group’s chatter. “These are Agents Marston and Holm. Agents, this is Agent Olivia Hastings. She’s been handling the case up until now. And this is Christina Newark and her mother, Barbara Newark.”

She huffed for breath as she finished the lengthy introduction.

“Nice to meet everyone,” I responded. I noted immediately that the female agent, Olivia, appeared to be glaring daggers at me. She had dark brown hair and eyes that were set into an unimpressed glare. It was an