From The Shadows (A Dirk King FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 2)

F R O M

T H E

S H A D O W S

(A Dirk King FBI Suspense Thriller —Book 2)

Katie Rush

Katie Rush

KATIE RUSH is author of the DANA BLAZE mystery series, comprising five books (and counting); of the CARA WARD suspense thriller series, comprising five books (and counting); and of the DIRK KING suspense thriller series, comprising five books (and counting).

An avid reader and lifelong fan of the mystery and thriller genres, Katie loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit katierushauthor.com to learn more and stay in touch.

Copyright © 2024 by Katie Rush. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

BOOKS BY KATIE RUSH

DANA BLAZE SUSPENSE THRILLER SERIES

DARK CORNERS (Book #1)

DARK THOUGHTS (Book #2)

DARK DREAMS (Book #3)

DARK SECRETS (Book #4)

DARK ROADS (Book #5)

CARA WARD SUSPENSE THRILLER SERIES

AMONG THE DEAD (Book #1)

AMONG THE ASHES (Book #2)

AMONG THE DARKNESS (Book #3)

AMONG THE SHADOWS (Book #4)

AMONG THE LOST (Book #5)

DIRK KING SUSPENSE THRILLER SERIES

FROM THE ASHES (Book #1)

FROM THE SHADOWS (Book #2)

FROM THE DARKNESS (Book #3)

FROM THE SILENCE (Book #4)

FROM THE PAST (Book #5)

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

PROLOGUE

About a thousand people were watching their TV screens that morning when the unthinkable thing happened. Almost all women, the watchers stood barefoot on their exercise mats or carpeted floors, their gazes fixed on the screen that glowed with Emily Parker’s vibrant presence.

Engage those abs, ladies! Feel the burn, Emily’s crisp and encouraging voice pierced countless rooms across the country. To the rhythm of background tunes strategically selected to keep exercisers in constant motion, scores of watchers simultaneously sucked in a breath, tucked in their stomachs, and struggled to mirror Emily’s precise movements.

In one small city among many others, the morning sun splashed its warmth across a tidy living room, where one of those watchers had carved out a small sanctuary amidst the remnants of a family’s hurried breakfast. Amy Peterson’s husband had already vanished into the thrum of his daily commute, and the children’s laughter was fading with the school bus that carried them away. Now, in the silence of her emptied nest, Amy sought solace in ritual—her daily appointment with Emily Parker’s livestream exercise session.

The familiar scent of lemon-scented polish lingered in the air, mingling with the faint tang of sweat beginning to bloom on Amy’s skin. With each lunge and lift, a sense of accomplishment swelled within her, knitting tightly with the rhythm of her elevated heartbeat.

Like so many others, Amy admired the fitness guru for more than her toned physique; Emily’s indomitable spirit and enthusiasm were infectious. The woman on screen was not just a distant figure to emulate but an unwitting companion in Amy’s pursuit of reclaiming the body she remembered before motherhood softly rounded her edges.

Abruptly, the cadence of the session was shattered by a sharp crashing sound—a sound that didn’t belong to the curated playlist thumping in the background of Emily’s stream. On the screen, Emily’s smile faltered, eyes flicking off-camera to the source of the disruption. The echo of the noise seemed to ripple through Amy’s own living room, leaving a trail of disquiet that raised goosebumps on her arms.

Sorry, everyone, Emily’s voice, usually so sure, now carried a tremor that belied her calm appearance. It sounds like something happened in the bedroom—like maybe something fell over and broke. I’d better go check. Give me just one moment. And with that, Emily stepped gracefully out of frame, her absence as conspicuous as a missing tooth in a smile.

Amy stood motionless, still posed for the ongoing exercise, as a strange sensation burrowed deep into her gut. It was the kind of feeling one got when a step was missed going down the stairs—an unexpected jolt, a sudden awareness of uncertainty. The music continued to pulse from the speakers, hollow without Emily’s guiding voice, and Amy realized she was holding her breath, waiting for the reassuring return of her virtual instructor.

A sense of unease crept over her. This break in routine was jarring, a jagged tear in the fabric of what should have been another uneventful morning. There was nothing to do but wait and watch the empty space where Emily had been, hoping that any second now, normalcy would resume, and she could shake off the unsettling feeling that something was terribly wrong.

Thousands of pairs of eyes remained locked on their screens, the watchers’ muscles tensed in anticipation, not for the next exercise, but for Emily’s return. Without warning, Emily’s voice seeped through the speakers, laced with an unfamiliar anxiety that made Amy’s heart stumble. It was like overhearing a fragment of a worrisome conversation through a closed door—muffled and indistinct yet unmistakably fraught.

No, I... please, what are you doing here? Emily stammered, the words barely more than a breathy whisper, carrying an edge of fear that sent a chill down Amy’s spine. Who was she talking to? And why did her voice tremble like a leaf clinging to a branch in autumn wind?

Then Emily’s scream echoed, a chilling siren that wove its way into the fabric of Amy’s consciousness, leaving icy trails of dread that prickled along her skin. It was a sound that spoke of terror, a raw, human panic that resonated with something primal within Amy herself. She stood frozen, reality warping as the scream reverberated around her.

Amy’s heart thundered, each beat hammering against her chest like an insistent fist. The brightly lit room where she had just been mimicking lunges and squats now felt cavernous and threatening. A chill slithered up her spine, her own breath coming in short gasps; she could almost taste the metallic tang of fear that must have filled Emily’s studio at that moment.

And then, abruptly, the scream cut off—as if someone had pushed the mute button on existence itself. The screen went blank, the lively stream that had been pulsating with energy and encouragement mere moments ago replaced by an oppressive blackness. It was as though the darkness had consumed Emily whole, digesting the light and life she exuded until there was nothing left but an empty void. But the cheerful music continued to play in the darkness.

Amy stumbled backward, a hand flying to her mouth, her other hand reaching out to steady herself against the back of the sofa. The remote control lay discarded on the cushion, its buttons now meaningless. Her mind reeled, unable to process the sudden descent from routine to nightmare. Silence engulfed the room again, but it was a different kind of quiet now—thick, heavy, filled with the weight of unspoken horrors and unanswered questions. What had happened to Emily? Who—or what—had caused her to scream like that? Was this some kind of sick joke or... something far worse?

As the moments passed, the reality of the situation began to crystallize in her mind. This was no technical glitch, no accidental disruption. Something terrible had happened to Emily Parker, live for the world to see. And Amy, like a helpless spectator, had witnessed the prelude to a mystery that promised only darkness ahead.

Amy’s trembling fingers hovered over the keyboard, her eyes glued to the chaotic flood of messages cascading down the screen. The comments section—an erstwhile stream of encouragement and camaraderie—now surged with a frantic tide of confusion and fear.

OMG, what just happened??

Emily, are you okay???

Did you hear that scream?

Someone call the cops!

Each message was like an electric jolt, propelling Amy from stunned witness to active participant in a nightmare unfolding in real-time. Panic clawed at her chest, urging her to do something, anything. She watched as the viewers’ avatars—a colorful mosaic of profile pictures—blurred together, their digital exclamations merging into a single, urgent plea for action.

Hundreds of hands snatched up their phones, pressing the three numbers that signified both an end and a beginning: 9-1-1. Amy was just one of those whose calls got through.

911, what’s your emergency? came the dispatcher’s voice, clear and expectant through the tiny speaker.

I... I was watching a live-stream, Amy stammered, her voice sounding small and distant to her own ears. The woman—Emily Parker—she was doing her exercise show, and then... there was a scream, and the feed cut off.

Ma’am, can you confirm if anyone is in immediate danger? the dispatcher asked, a practiced calm in her tone.

I don’t know, Amy admitted, her heart racing as she realized the absurdity of her call. How could she explain the visceral fear that gripped her, spawned from pixels and wireless signals? Yet, the scream that had torn through the tranquility of her home echoed in her mind with undeniable reality.

Please, you have to send someone to check on her. Something’s wrong. It all happened so fast. It’s not like her; it’s not part of the show.

Stay on the line, ma’am. We’re tracing the location of the stream.

When the dispatcher’s voice came back, steady and reassuring, Amy felt a million miles away, lost in the labyrinth of her own fears, each question leading her deeper into the unknown.

In the background, each song on the meticulously curated playlist still blended seamlessly into the next, filling the air with an upbeat and energizing mix of pop, hip-hop, and electronic sound.

CHAPTER ONE

Dirk King sat in his quiet kitchen, where early morning light filtering through blinds cast long shadows across the worn oak table. His breakfast lay untouched, cold eggs lying on the plate, coffee steaming idly beside it. But Dirk’s appetite had been consumed by something far more potent than hunger: obsession.

His eyes, sharp and unyielding, were locked onto a plastic evidence bag lying before him. The note visible inside that bag taunted him with its crooked handwriting, each letter a twisted dance of menace and mockery. He’d sent a scan to the forensics team the night before, but the physical presence of the thing was a weighty reminder of unfinished business—of a vendetta that snaked deep into the marrow of his bones.

Know this, Dirk King, he read aloud, his voice raspy with the ghosts of yesterday, Our paths will cross again someday, and when they do, the outcome shall be disastrous—for one of us. The words echoed off the white kitchen tiles, as if the killer’s specter loomed there, whispering dark promises over Dirk’s shoulder.

The Glory Hound. The name itself was a mocking tribute to the media attention the killer craved—and received in spades. Each syllable sparked images of crime scenes Dirk could never scrub from his mind, especially those of Mandy Dixon, his erstwhile partner whose life had been so cruelly snatched away by this very hand.

He felt a familiar surge of rage mixed with icy resolve. The words in that note were surely true. A day would come when he would face this monster again, and he would end it—one way or another.

The shrill ring of his landline phone shattered Dirk’s reverie, slicing through the thick tension that hung like smoke in the air. His hand, steady despite the years and scars that adorned it, lifted the receiver to his ear.

King, he answered curtly, his voice betraying none of the turmoil that roiled within.

Agent King, it’s Foster. I need you to bring the original of that letter to HQ as soon as possible. Forensics is waiting for it.

The clipped tone was that of the Deputy Director Samuel Foster, a man bound tightly in the red tape of bureaucracy but not entirely devoid of concern.

Breakfast first, Dirk replied, his gaze still tethered to the letter as if it might spring to life and flee if he looked away. Then I’ll head in.

King, listen, Foster continued, his voice firm, brooking no room for argument. This isn’t the time to go off half-cocked after the Glory Hound. We’ve gone over this. There’s not enough to follow up on—

Yet, Dirk interjected, the word a growl rumbling from deep within his throat.

Even so, Foster pressed on, undeterred. You need to keep yourself in check. Don’t let your emotions cloud your judgment. Wait for what forensics comes back with on that letter. In the meantime, there’s another case that needs your eyes. A fresh one.

Fresh? Another killing? Dirk’s voice was raspy, like gravel underfoot, betraying the toll of countless nights spent replaying the moment when he lost Mandy, the moment when the Glory Hound’s shadow had first fallen over him.

Two murders, Foster said, his words clipped. And I want you on it, Dirk. That is, if you can manage to be a team player again.

The implication was clear as the sting of ice water. Team player—the phrase echoed in Dirk’s mind, a reminder of the distance between him and the man who now held his leash. It was a jibe that struck at the heart of his solitary war against the darkness that had taken so much from him.

Dirk’s grip on the phone relaxed, but the tension did not leave his body. He stared blankly at the countertop, seeing not the scattered breadcrumbs or the empty coffee cup, but rather the haunting faces of past partners and the few unresolved cases looming over him like dark shadows.

Alright, Dirk finally said, the word scraping out from a well of reluctance. I’ll be in soon.

Good, Foster replied, a note of satisfaction in his voice. We’ll talk then.

The call ended, leaving Dirk alone with the echoes of a conversation that felt like another round in an ongoing bout. He glanced once more at the note, its words a taunt that promised a reckoning. For a moment, he allowed himself the luxury of hatred—a bitter draught that fortified him for the day ahead. Then, with a measured breath, he filed it away, a cold case in the vault of his mind, and turned to face the day’s grim duties.

With a click, he returned the receiver to its cradle and finally allowed himself to look away from the killer’s scrawl.

Foster’s words had