In His Blood (An Eve Hope FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 1)

I N   H I S   B L O O D

(An Eve Hope FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 1)

K a t e   B o l d

Kate Bold

Bestselling author Kate Bold is author of the ALEXA CHASE SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising six books (and counting); the ASHLEY HOPE SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising six books (and counting); the CAMILLE GRACE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising eight books (and counting); the HARLEY COLE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising seven books (and counting); the KAYLIE BROOKS PSYCHOLOGICAL SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting); and the EVE HOPE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting)

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

Copyright © 2023 by Kate Bold. 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. Jacket image Copyright Stivog, used under license from Shutterstock.com.

BOOKS BY KATE BOLD

ALEXA CHASE SUSPENSE THRILLER

THE KILLING GAME (Book #1)

THE KILLING TIDE (Book #2)

THE KILLING HOUR (Book #3)

THE KILLING POINT (Book #4)

THE KILLING FOG (Book #5)

THE KILLING PLACE (Book #6)

ASHLEY HOPE SUSPENSE THRILLER

LET ME GO (Book #1)

LET ME OUT (Book #2)

LET ME LIVE (Book #3)

LET ME BREATHE (Book #4)

LET ME FORGET (Book #5)

LET ME ESCAPE (Book #6)

CAMILLE GRACE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

NOT ME (Book #1)

NOT NOW (Book #2)

NOT WELL (Book #3)

NOT HER (Book #4)

NOT NORMAL (Book #5)

NOT AGAIN (Book #6)

NOT SAFE (Book #7)

NOT TODAY (Book #8)

HARLEY COLE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

NOWHERE SAFE (Book #1)

NOWHERE LEFT (Book #2)

NOWHERE TO RUN (Book #3)

NOWHERE LIKE THIS (Book #4)

NOWHERE GIRL (Book #5)

NOWHERE TO HIDE (Book #6)

NOWHERE CERTAIN (Book #7)

KAYLIE BROOKS PYSCHOLOGICAL SUSPENSE THRILLER

LAST BREATH (Book #1)

LAST CHANCE (Book #2)

LAST WISH (Book #3)

LAST SHOT (Book #4)

LAST MISTAKE (Book #5)

EVE HOPE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

IN HIS BLOOD (Book #1)

IN HIS SIGHTS (Book #2)

IN HIS REACH (Book #3)

IN HIS MIND (Book #4)

IN HIS WAY (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

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

Sierra Maybach frowned, glaring at the book in her lap without reading a word. The paperback novel, which she'd intended to enjoy while she sunbathed on the inflatable pool lounger, was still open to page one. She'd read the first sentence so many times she was sick of it, but every time she found her thoughts fuming angrily in other directions before getting to the second paragraph. She cursed time zones for existing, the Wilcox Trust International Co. for sending her husband to Beijing, and her husband himself for extending the stay another three weeks. Phone calls between them were rare because of the time difference. She had woken up to a long email explaining why he must stay longer, how it broke his heart to be away, but unfortunately he was too essential to the securing of company interests in…blah blah blah. She'd heard the song before, but every time the disappointment, frustration, suspicion, and longing were made fresh as a whip cut.

The Maybach's two-story Tudor cast a narrow band of shade that was slowly growing out towards the pool. On the deck table, a small portable speaker linked to Sierra's phone streamed sugary pop tunes into the sleepy Friday afternoon atmosphere. The phone itself was on the table beside the speaker, plugged into a solar-powered charging brick. Sierra heard the creak of her side yard gate. How long had she been putting off treating those hinges with the WD-40? The floating lounger was facing away from the house, so she had to crane her neck to look over her shoulder in the direction of the side yard. She saw a glimpse of motion as somebody stepped into the shadow of the house.

The portable speaker's volume started to increase. Sierra frowned, slipped her feet into the water, and began kicking, turning herself around.

Oh! she said when the lounger had made the slow one-eighty, It’s you! I wasn’t expecting to see you today. She grinned, a bleach-white, sun-drunk kind of smile, at the man who must have let himself in the side gate. The breeze picked up a little, drifting the lounger in another lazy circle while the leaves susurrated in the birches.

The inflatable headrest bounced gently against the edge of the concrete stairs in the shallow end. Sierra was just turning her attention back to her open pages when a shadow fell across the book. She glanced up and saw the man standing over her. His face was perfectly calm, although his eyes were screwed up as if he were trying to read over her shoulder. The man still hadn’t spoken since entering Sierra’s yard. She laughed. Come on, get out of here. You’re in my light. Her giggles of protest were lost to the electronic music.

What are you doing? she asked, an uneasy note slipping into her voice as the man slowly knelt, one knee on the tile lip of the pool. Sierra began trying to turn the lounger in a circle once again. The man’s silence was starting to put her on edge. 

As soon as her foot touched the water, however, the man’s hand shot out, seizing Sierra by the throat. The hand was thin and bony, but strong, nearly encircling her whole neck in its vice-like grip. The squeeze forced her airway shut. In a wild panic, she tried to scream, but before she had time to execute even this most basic defense, the hand was applying more pressure. Sierra’s eyes were wide with crazed fear, her lungs filling with pool water, but still the hand forced her down. Her mind swam crazily as her body steadily depleted its oxygen, trying and failing to comprehend what was happening to her. Through the water, she could see the distorted face of the man.

Why? Her mind cried out in anguished confusion, even as the darkness closed in and her consciousness flickered. Why now? Why you? Her vision tunneled; her body stopped fighting. An absurd thought struck her in the twilight of her life as her brain malfunctioned and petered out: Oh no! My book’s getting wet!

CHAPTER ONE

The swallowtail butterfly landed on the window of Eve Hope’s kitchen while she was brewing coffee. It was 6:30 in the morning, but already Eve had been awake for two hours, jogged four miles, eaten a small breakfast, done thirty minutes of a Krav Maga workout, and showered. Now she sat at her kitchen table while the java maker percolated, gazing thoughtfully at the jewel-winged insect outside her window.

Butterflies always made Eve think of her father, a bittersweet barrage of memories that might threaten to make her emotional if she allowed it. She watched the butterfly beating its wings against the glass, her father, resting his weight against the bars of his cage in Red Onion supermax. The sun was rising on his fifteenth year in prison, and still she thought of him every time she saw a swallowtail. As if the shattering of her young world wasn’t enough, the bastard had ruined butterflies for her too.

Eve’s doorbell sounded, a loud, grating buzzer that made her start in her chair. The sudden motion scared the swallowtail, which flitted off into the freshly broken dawn. The familiar chill of adrenaline ran through Eve’s body, which was trained to prepare for combat in any situation. It was too early in the morning for a social call, even if she had any social callers. A rich social life was a risk Eve couldn’t afford to take.

Moving with smooth, practiced motions, Eve slipped out of her chair and opened a drawer below the kitchen counter, drawing out a compact but powerful handgun. She locked the magazine into position, and clicked off the safety. She leveled the pistol, leaving her finger at disciplined rest on the trigger guard, and moved towards the door, keeping out of the line of fire should someone start blasting through the panels.

Eve peered quickly through the peephole, and let out a breath. The man waiting in the hall outside was her boss, Deputy Director Pliny of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He carried a box of donuts and two coffee cups.

Eve clicked the safety back on her pistol, lowering it at the same time she was unlocking the bolt and chain.

Good morning, sir, she said as she opened the door. It wasn’t completely unusual for Pliny to show at her doorstep first thing in the morning, usually with coffee and donuts, when they had a case to work. The Deputy Director lived in a suburban cul-de-sac less than a quarter mile from Eve’s apartment, and he knew her reputation as an early riser and minuteman. Standing in her hallway now, Pliny gave Eve a grin that she couldn’t quite believe and held up the box of donuts.

Good morning, Agent Hope, I hope I’m not disturbing you. May I come in?

Of course, Eve stood back, allowing Pliny room to enter, You’re not disturbing me at all, sir. What’s up? Eve glanced self-consciously around her apartment as the Deputy Director walked in. There was a few days’ worth of soiled coffee mugs in the sink, and last night’s Chinese takeout boxes were still congealing on the table next to the coffeemaker. The bedroom door stood open, leaving the room in full view. Perhaps the only bastion of order in Eve’s deeply lived-in apartment was the twin-size cot mattress, which was perfectly made with hospital corners and the blanket so tight you could bounce a quarter on it. Four years of military bunking had made it second nature to her.

Christ, Hope, you live like a bachelor, the Deputy Director said to his agent with a wide, ribbing smile. Eve returned the grin, but her highly trained eyes detected a watery falseness in her commanding officer’s jocular attitude.

"I am a bachelor, sir."

Bachelorette? he corrected distractedly.

Call it what you like, Eve shrugged, I sleep alone, and my only vows are to the Bureau and the flag. I don’t mean to be impertinent, sir, but I doubt you came over before Reveille to discuss my lack of dating habits.

No, Special Agent Hope, you’re right. I’m sorry for commenting on your personal affairs. Let me get to brass tacks. Pliny followed his agent into the small kitchen, taking a seat in one of the chairs at the table while Eve unloaded her pistol and restored it to the kitchen drawer. The Deputy Director went on, There’s a new case coming across my desk, and I’ve got to choose who gets it. He slid one of the coffees across the table toward her.

What’s the case look like? Eve picked up the coffee and took a sip. It was black and burned her tongue.

Familiar, Pliny said, That’s the trouble. It looks familiar.

I’m afraid I don’t quite follow you, sir, said Eve, squinting at her boss through the steam rising from her coffee.

That’s because I’m hedging around it. Pliny admitted, Here’s the facts, Hope. We’ve got two bodies with similarities in the victim profile, general location, corpse display, and modus operandi. It’s too early to say with certainty that these murders were perpetrated by the same individual, however the overlap between the cases is too much to be discounted. It’s the official position of the FBI that these cases are to be treated as correlated until evidence shows otherwise; therefore these cases fall under the jurisdiction of my Serial Crimes unit. Pliny smiled thinly at Eve. She was one of the top agents in the Serial Crimes unit, a team of criminal psychology, profiling, and investigative experts within the larger Violent Crime division of the Bureau.

What do you mean by ‘familiar,’ sir? Eve asked. She had an uneasy feeling in her gut about the way her boss was avoiding the issue. The former Army Field Colonel-turn-FBI Director didn’t avoid confrontation often, so his delicacy was more terrifying to Eve than his wrath.

The details of these cases, Pliny said, leaning forward on his elbows and tenting his fingers in front of his lips, as they’ve been reported so far, match with an older case. The Deputy Director sighed, shook his head, and muttered something to himself that sounded like Christ, I’d better just say it.

Sir, what’s going on? Eve asked, Is there something I should know about?

Agent Hope, Pliny looked her in the eye at last, the reason I’m here this morning is because I’m facing an ethical dilemma that I wanted to discuss with you before we got into the office. You’re without question one of my finest and most competent agents. You’ve dedicated your life and career to the Bureau, to solving crime and saving lives. You’ve faced and defeated serial killers and brought real monsters to justice. Unfortunately, your outstanding military and civil service record cannot erase your personal history, nor can I ignore it.

I have to assume, sir, that you’re talking about my father, Eve said, her voice turning stony. Pliny nodded.

There are a number of points in these case files that parallel details in your father’s case. The emotional impact that these similarities might have on you, the way in which your relationship with your father might affect your objectivity must be weighed when I assign this case.

You mean you’re really considering not giving me this case? Eve was indignant, Sir, with all due respect, it’d be foolish not to assign this case to me. I’ve spent my entire adult life studying my father’s sect of abnormal psychology. I can handle this.

The Deputy Director made a noncommittal noise somewhere between his chest and his throat. I’m sorry, Hope, but I think this one is too close to home for you. You may not believe me, but I’m acting in your best interest.

I’m a big girl, sir. Eve hit the sir with all the venom she dared. I can act in my own best interest.

I know, but it’s possible that we’re dealing with a copycat, and I’m afraid the emotional toll would be too much for you, for anyone in your position. Pliny rubbed his smooth chin pensively, Your father’s case got a lot of press. He wouldn’t be the first mass murderer to inspire a sycophant.

Sir, Eve’s voice rose into a hint of pleading, atypical of her personality, Please, you have got to assign me this case. I can be objective. Yes, I’m Howard Hope’s daughter, but I’m also a Marine, a graduate of Kings Point, and a Special Agent of the FBI. My job comes first, feelings second. You should know better than anyone that’s the best way to stay alive. The Deputy Director looked up, made a moment of heavy eye contact, then looked away.

You’re right again, of course. But would it be ethical to assign a serial murder investigation to an agent with a personal agenda? The Deputy Director’s intonation suggested the question was not rhetorical.

Personal history aside, sir, Eve said, I’m your best shot at actually solving the case. My background knowledge alone makes me the most qualified candidate, and that’s before you look at my service record. It’s a matter of who can get you results, and I think that should be a factor in your decision, sir. Who else would you give this to?

I was thinking Thompson, Pliny said, giving her another glance. Eve bristled.

Thompson couldn’t solve a finished crossword. You’d be better off assigning the case to your most competent agent and trusting Melborn to keep me on the straight and narrow. Eve heard the tone in her own voice and quickly added, Sir.

Melborn is a steady agent, Pliny mused as if to himself, and more explicitly, he’s a whiny snitch, so I’d be kept up to speed on your every move.

I believe you would be, sir. Eve rolled her eyes. Anthony Melborn, her latest in a long succession of partners in the Violent Crime division, had recently reported her to Pliny for taking coffee filters home from the FBI breakroom. The Deputy Director heaved a breath and seemed to reach a decision.

"All right, Agent Hope, you’ve convinced