The Cipher (Nina Guerrera, #1)

by Isabella Maldonado

“You are requesting to change your name from Nina Esperanza to Nina Guerrera.

She had been left to die in a dumpster when she was a month old.

“Her name is Myrna Gonzales. She told me I’d originally been called Baby Jane Doe. She wanted me to have an ethnically appropriate name, so she called me Nina, the English version of niña, which means ‘girl’ in Spanish. She also hoped I would be one of the kids who has a happy ending. That I would be adopted by a loving family, so she named me Esperanza, which means ‘hope.’” The lump in her throat expanded, straining her last words. “I didn’t get that happy ending.”

“But why Guerrera?” He wanted to know. “In Spanish, guerrero means ‘warrior’ or ‘fighter,’ and guerrera—with an a on the end—refers to a female.” The judge took a moment to digest her words before his eyes reflected comprehension. “Warrior girl.”

“I’ve given up on hope,” she said quietly, then lifted her chin. “From now on, I fight.”

“C-cop?” “Special Agent Nina Guerrera.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “FBI.”

“After years of seeking, I thought I would never have Hope again. But today, everything changed. She calls herself a Warrior now. But to me, she will always be . . . The One That Got Away.”

“That necklace was mine,” she breathed. “You’re sure?” Stanton said. “I made it in an art class when I was fifteen. The pattern is ancient. It’s called ojo de dios.” She straightened and pointed at the charm. “God’s eye.”

They both leaned closer. The next row down read 8, 15, 16, 5. The row below that had the numbers 9 and 19, and the final row consisted of 4, 5, 1, and 4.

“He had a little sister,” Shawna said. “She was taken when she was fourteen years old. The police found her after a few days. Physically, she was okay, but . . .”

“What happened to his sister?” “She was twenty years old when she took a lethal overdose of her meds.” Shawna shook her head. “According to Wade, she was never the same after what happened.” A puzzle piece snapped into place. “He thinks that’s going to be me.” Nina made it a statement. “And that my job with the Bureau will be the trigger.”

“Look at it from his perspective. An applicant comes through with a history of abuse and violence worse than some of the victims he’d worked with.” She drew in a breath. “Worse than what happened to his sister.” “So he holds it against me that I got my shit together and became a cop?” She pointed her fork at Shawna. “I was in law enforcement for four years without any problems before I ever applied to the FBI.” “He thought he was looking out for you.”

“Your file indicated that you can be . . . difficult. You don’t always work well with others. You tended to work independently, even as a cop. That’s not what we do in the Bureau.”

“The FBI is still mostly a white male agency. When I first got hired, they had barely accepted women as full agents. Think about what it took for a black woman to get through the door in those days. But like you, I decided to outwork everyone else to prove the ones who doubted me wrong. I took the shit posts, shit assignments, and shit equipment. I sucked it up and made it my mission to get into a position where I could help pave the way for others. That’s what I did for you, and I won’t apologize for it.

“I called Wade’s judgment into question. Told the Director of the FBI that—as a former profiler—I thought Wade’s personal issues had skewed his perspective regarding you.”

“I turned on my partner—a man I had once loved and still deeply cared for—because I believed in you, Nina.” Her eyes moistened. “And I would do it again . . . because it was the right thing to do.”

Wade’s recent track record was against him. He’d been forced out of BAU on a temp because he was viewed as unstable. Meanwhile your performance was exemplary, and your tests were near the top percentile in every other category. Wade had concluded that your polygraph results showed no deception, only a lack of clarity on certain points due to past trauma. In addition, you had an established history of excellence in a large, well-respected police department.” She shrugged. “The Director put you through.”

“The girl’s name is Sofia Garcia-Figueroa,” Wade began. “Sixteen-year-old Hispanic female. Mother’s currently in rehab trying to kick a meth addiction. Father’s two years into a ten-year stretch for drug charges. Sofia has been in foster care since she was five years old. She’d been living in a group home for the last six months and ran away for the third time two weeks ago. The group home supervisor reported it after a missed bed check, but no further action was taken to locate her. According to MPD detectives, she began supporting herself through prostitution.” He looked up from his notes. “Like her mom.”

“Trash is picked up weekly. Scheduled for the following morning at six.” He gave her a nod of agreement. “He wanted her found.”

Both mentioned ‘hope’ in a way that made it clear he knew Agent Guerrera’s former surname.” He turned back to her. “How would he know that about you?” She hesitated a beat before responding. “Because I told him.” The statement hung in the air a moment before she elaborated. “He forced it out of me. At first, I gave him a fake name, but he could tell I was lying.”

“He kept hurting me until I told the truth.” He had broken her that day. A part of her would always remain broken.

“Was Sofia Garcia-Figueroa sexually assaulted in any way?” “Raped,”

“There are also twenty-seven horizontal lacerations across her back as well as three burns from what looks to be a cigarette and ligature marks around her throat.

“You mean the sex assault could have been postmortem?”

“Something’s not right,” Nina said. “The man who attacked me was physically fit and muscular.” She pointed at Kent. “Built like him. This guy looks obese, and he limps on his right foot.”

“This killer is methodical. He chose Sofia as his victim specifically to draw Guerrera into the investigation. His note makes it clear he’s connecting this crime to the one he attempted to complete eleven years ago. It’s wish fulfillment. We can reasonably conclude that he acted out after seeing Guerrera in the viral video.”

“You’re saying the video was the precipitating stressor?” “That’s the most logical assumption,” Wade said. He glanced at Nina. “Killers may fantasize about their crimes for quite some time before acting on them. Usually a series of circumstances or events converge in a way that spurs action. Seeing you again—especially where you are in a position of authority, decisively taking down a predator—could certainly set him off.”

“What kind of predator hits twice in eleven years?” “A truly obsessed stalker who found another victim to take your place,” Wade said. “Someone who had repressed his urges until they were triggered by a stressor.” Kent pushed his glasses back on. “Or a predator who’s been flying under the radar but has killed others during the last decade or so. We can’t be sure Guerrera was his first or his last before this murder occurred.”

“Thirty-two, eighteen, ten, and thirty-six, followed by an F and an R.”

“What’s our best guess for his next move?” Buxton’s pinched expression told Nina he dreaded the answer. “He’ll double down,” Wade said. “Go after Guerrera personally. Prove his superiority by taking out a Fed.”

“What kind of killer communicates in code?” “In my experience,” Wade said, “serial killers.”

“That’s another problem I’m having with this case.” Wade dragged a hand through his coarse gray hair. “The ones who engage in this way have killed before, but the physical evidence—or lack thereof—says he’s only had one prior unsuccessful attempt.”

The fact that he wore gloves, avoided committing the crime on camera, altered his appearance, and obtained a delivery uniform tells me he’s organized and disciplined. The stunt with the media indicates that he craves attention and further underscores his need for control. He wants to show the world that he’s in charge of the investigation, not the FBI.” He cut his eyes to Nina. “And he has a fascination with you.”

Serial killers were defined as having at least three victims, with a chronological or psychological separation between each event. Mass murderers were characterized as killing at least four individuals in one incident. Finally, spree killers had two or more victims in different locations with no de-escalation period between.

“Did you fight him?” “Like my life depended on it.” “How did he respond?” “The more I struggled against him, the more violent he got. Actually, I think it turned him on.”

“After he got me inside, he shut the door and laid me facedown on a steel table. He used nylon rope to bind my left wrist to a pole at the upper left corner. Once I was secure, he cut the tape off, grabbed my right wrist, and tied that to the other corner. He did the same to my ankles.”

“He kept touching the marks on my back. Said he . . . he wished he had been the one to give them to me.” She paused, rethinking her words. “Actually, he said ‘bestow’ them on me, like he was talking about an award.”

“He took out a cigarette and lit it. I watched him from the corner of my eye. He talked to me the whole time, asking me questions about the belt marks and whether I cried when I got them. That’s also when he asked me to tell him my name.”

“He used it on my back three times.” Her pulse raced, but she held herself still, unflinching with her answer. “He made a triangle. A burn hole at each point.”

“After he finished, he seemed . . . excited. He untied the rope around the cloak’s waist and spread the front open.” Pulse pounding, she proceeded to describe all three times the monster had raped her. He had held her for hours, repositioning her between each assault.

“Did he say anything to you at that time?” “He laid on top of me. Spoke into my ear.” She scrunched her eyes closed, willing his words to come to her. “Dammit, I can’t remember what he said.”

Yes, he had worn a fresh condom each time. No, he hadn’t bitten her. Yes, he had struck her repeatedly. No, he hadn’t broken any bones, but she had sprained her left wrist trying to get away.

“How did you escape?” Wade said, moving on with obvious reluctance. “After he was . . . done with me, he left. I was still tied to the table, and I could only move a little. He had hurt me.” She swallowed a lump in her throat. “A lot. I was soaked with sweat. My hands were so damp, they were sliding on the plastic rope. I kept pulling. My hands are small. I made them narrower like this.” She raised her arm, tucking her thumb into her palm to demonstrate. “I kept pulling until my left hand slid out. After that, I managed to untie myself.”

The van was gone, so I took off running through the woods.” “Still naked?” Breck spoke for the first time. “There were no clothes in the shed, and he must have left mine in the van. Either way, my life was more important than my modesty at that point.”

She thought back to her frantic search for help, her terror at knocking on the door of a stranger when she was hurt and vulnerable. A stranger who could be worse than the monster she had just escaped.

“I spotted a house with a light on and rang the doorbell. A man answered, took one look at me, and hollered for his wife. She put a blanket around me while her husband called the police.”

“You mean did they do a rape kit?” she said, her tone sharper than she’d intended. “Yes. I never saw the report, so you’d probably know more than I do about the results.”

“What drew you to study linguistics?” Nina asked Kent, far more interested in his background than food. “It was a logical progression,” he said. “I can speak four languages, and I like to read. Words interest me.”

“You know who bestows things on people?” “A king?” Breck said. She had just returned from the register at the far end of the room. “An organization?” Kent offered. Nina responded with the first thing that occurred to her. “A god.” Wade lifted his beer in mock salute. “Exactly.”

“The god’s eye necklace. He kept it all those years. What does that mean? Does he think he’s a god?”