Page 4 of ILY
I turn my attention back to the screen and scroll through the rest of LeifyMolotov’s messages. I have his name written down: Leif Holloway, and despite having that, I’ve come up with next to nothing about him in my search.
This guy pinged my radar the first time he started commenting on old posts regarding explosives, and when I hit him up, he just asked me straight out if I had any TNT. Like this was a damnTom and Jerrycartoon. I almost couldn’t believe my eyes.
And what makes it even worse is he was naive enough to accept my yes and my request for a duffel bag full of cash. This entire conversation and how easy it was tells me loud and clear that he definitely hasn’t done anything like this before.
He’s a novice, someone who has no clue how the dark web works.
I gave him every chance to back out, to run far away in the other direction, but it seems the guy is bound and determined to kill Michael.
A Michael he says is a groundhog, but I’m pretty sure that this is most likely code for a man he’s got trapped in some kind of underground bunker or hole.
Criminals like this—killers and monsters—they’re never as clever as they think they are.
I’ve seen the worst of the worst. Something my mind can never forget. Dark web cybercrimes was not where I wanted to retire from, but I ended up having a knack for it, so here I am.
And to make matters worse, I’m on the verge of a forced early retirement, trying to get in one last decent case so I don’t have to be buried with a basic-as-fuck record.
My last solve was a guy trying to buy ground-up elephant fetuses for some kind of magic potion he was convinced he could make. He was going to take down the Illuminati, he’d said. We did make an arrest—well, my team made an arrest. I sat on my ass in my office and got the confirmation text when he was brought in.
I’m pretty sure he was sent to a mental health hospital until he could get his life back on track.
The good news was that no one on the web seemed to have what he was asking for because that might have really destroyed my faith in humanity.
Not that the law enforcement system isn’t already doing that for me. Retirement isn’t going to be all bad, really. And being younger than forty means I still have time to figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life.
I just…need some kind of inspiration.
Tapping my fingers on the desk, I rock back in my chair and stare at the last message from Leif. It’s going to take a while to get all of the background information on him. My job is also not like the movies, where we can pull up any and all information about a suspect with the tap of a button.
The logical thing would be to go tell my supervisor what I’ve set up so he can get one of the undercover agents to meet him and get him to confess to a crime—maybe even tell us where Michael is being hidden—and then have him arrested. The illogical thing is to beg to put myself undercover because god damn it,this is my case.
I’ve done all the legwork. I’m tired of being banished to my fucking desk.
Pushing to my feet, I start toward the door, then freeze when I remember I’m not wearing my hearing aids. They’re discreet enough for now that they don’t draw attention. My hair sits just long enough that they can nestle behind my ears and remain camouflaged. And the wire that leads into my ear canals is thin enough that it blends in with my skin.
Normally, it wouldn’t bother me to be seen as hard of hearing. The more I study ASL, the more I feel a sort of longing deep in my chest to involve myself in a community that might actually welcome me. But any sign of being different here is unwelcome, and it’s yet another reason everyone’s hoping I’ll retire quietly and not inconvenience them by asking for accommodations.
Trying not to think too hard about it all, I slip the hearing aids on, then open the door as they boot up. By the time they’re pinging softly in my ears, I’ve reached my boss’s door. Carlo Russo is a former Navy veteran with a long life story that had him handpicked for the supervisor position.
His door is open, and I can see him sitting at his desk, zoning out on his computer. He’s old-school, been here for ages, so I have half a mind to peek and see if he’s playing something like solitaire on his desktop.
“Got a minute?”
He blinks up, and annoyance flickers across his face before he gestures me inside. “Heading out?”
“In a bit. I have a lead on a possible missing person.”
His brows lift, which is the only invitation I have to continue.
“The person I’ve been speaking to on one of the forums I’ve been monitoring is searching for explosives in order to take out a man named Michael. I have reason to believe he’s got this person hidden somewhere underground.”
When I say it aloud, it does sound a little…ridiculous. If Leif is a serial killer and has a man underground, why does he needexplosives to kill him? Though to be fair, most psychopaths have a fetish for killing a particular way, and Leif would not be my first firebug.
“Last name of Michael?”
“I don’t have one.”
“So this missing person…”
