Without A Past (A Dakota Steele FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 3)

PROLOGUE Billie winced, rubbing at her sore leg where she'd bumped against the metal shelf. She carefully adjusted the stack of trash can lids she'd nearly toppled, grimacing against the scraping sound of metal. More than one customer had complained about the friction marks along the bottom of the containers upon purchase. She'd relayed this to the higher-ups. But did managers listen to shelf-stockers? No-siree. She shook her head, trying to keep positive as she reset the shelf and then continued in her haste towards the back of the store. “Ha! What happened to you, Billie?” a voice called from aisle six. She adopted a sufficiently sheepish grin, tugging at one of her dark braids, her fingers scraping a red and blue bead woven into her hair. “Oh,” she said, “Just a little accident. Spilled some of the ketchups.” She glanced ruefully down at her stained, blue uniform. Her nametag was also covered in the red stain which went from her collar down to her ribs. “Ha!” laughed Jeremy, another employee. An easy-going, kind man who often stole packs of chips when the managers weren't looking. “You look like you're in a slasher movie!” She snorted, but continued on, her feet squeaking against the freshly mopped tiled floor. She'd been the one to mop it, early in the morning when she'd reported to the large shopping center for work. But she didn't mind the odd jobs, or small indignities. Her own mother had worked two jobs just to support the rest of them. And now Billie was paying her way through grad school. She smiled at the memory of her mother when she'd announced her acceptance into the prestigious university. Now, though... Trash can lids and ketchup stains. Such was life, she supposed. She sighed faintly, moving towards the supply closet in the back hall past the employee bathroom. “It isn't break time yet!” a voice called after her from behind a counter near the information kiosk. She couldn't see her manager, but she recognized Demi's voice well enough. Billie rolled her eyes, pushing one of her braids back behind an ear before calling out. “Thanks—just getting a clean uniform!” “Hurry up—need to re-stack the display shelf. The chips fell.” “Of course they fell,” Billie muttered beneath her breath. She'd told Demi they would fall. Out loud, though, she said, “Be right there!” She reached the supply closet. The single light bulb above the door was sparking and flickering. She frowned. Maintenance had a work order for the bulb but were running behind due to the new expansion in the garden wares section of the store. Billie, tugged faintly at her shirt, trying to separate the red stain from her skin. She twisted the handle to the supply closet, in the dark, flickering section of the back hall. The faint scent of bathroom powder kegs and cleaning supplies lingered on the air. Her fingers grazed the cold metal of the door handle. She shouldered the thin, flimsy wooden door inward and stepped into the large supply closet. As she did, she heard the faint sound of whistling. A janitor was in the back, fiddling with some of the window-cleaners. “Hey Carl!” she called. He raised a gloved hand, giving a brief little wave. She turned away from the janitor, glancing at the nearest shelf. She wrinkled her nose. “Huh. All the mediums are taken I see.” Carl didn't reply. She heard the clink of glass and sloshing of liquids as he continued to work with the bottles. She fingered at the blue material of one of the uniforms. XXL. It would hardly compliment her figure. She sighed, shifting through the pile of outfits, thumbing at the tags, and looking for a medium. As she did, Carl brushed past her. “Sorry,” he muttered in a muted, almost muffled voice. “No prob,” she said, sighing and deciding she might as well go with one of the large shirts. The janitor brushed past her, reached the door but didn't leave. She heard a faint click. She frowned, turning. Carl was still facing the door. About two feet away from her, his back to her... Except... Wrong skin tone. This wasn't Carl... And what was that thin elastic band wrapped around the back of his head, creasing his skin like a wire in a bread pan. “Umm... s-sorry, sir are you new? Can I help you?” she said, hesitantly, frowning at the janitor. He'd taken one of the spray bottles... except... it didn't look quite like any cleaning solution she'd ever seen. It came in a sleek, stainless steel container, with a strange, black nozzle with multiple sections like some sort of security feature. The sections, she noted, had been twisted free. “Sir... sir...” she said, starting to feel tremors up her spine. She swallowed now, forgetting completely about the uniform for a moment. She took a hesitant step back. “Did you look the door?” she said, her tone suddenly frightened. He didn't look at her, still facing the door, his face only inches away, but concealed from her gaze. “Yes,” he murmured. And only then did he turn to look at her. The blood left her face. Her heart thumped wildly. A man wearing a gas mask was staring right back at her. The mask had an air filter at his chin, dangling like some sort of odd protrusion. The glass itself was streaked and spattered as if from much use. She thought, vaguely, she could glimpse two dark eyes behind the mask, but this may have just been her imagination. She was stumbling back now, stammering, louder—her voice rising in volume. “Hey... Hey! HEY! Get out of my way!” she yelled. “What are you doing—what do you think—” He held a gloved finger to his lips, emitting a strange, filtered shushing sound through his mask. “Sorry about this,” he whispered, his voice still muffled. Then, he raised the steel container, pointed it right at her, and began to spray. She felt flecks of moisture on her cheek, along her arms. The spray poured from the nozzle, expanding in the air, and lingering before landing in small droplets along her body and arms. “HELP!” she screamed now. “HELP!” But he was still holding his finger to his lips, making a shushing sound. She inhaled shakily, something suddenly stinging her throat. Only a second later did she think to hold her breath. She grabbed one of the uniforms from the rack, holding it in front of her face. Her eyes were stinging now too. The man with the gas mask didn't react. Didn't move. He just watched her, his head partially tilting as if gazing upon some unusual specimen. Only one door. Her eyes stung, watering now. Her throat felt as if it were tightening. She tried to bolt towards the door, shoulder lowered, still screaming. But her legs wouldn't move the same way they had before. She took two steps, then stumbled. Tried to put weight on her other leg, then fell completely. She hit the ground with a painful gasp and tried to rise. But even this was too much. Her arms were too weak. Her throat was on fire. It was difficult to see now, with tears streaming down her cheeks. Her fingers uncurled from where they clutched at the soft fabric of the blue employee shirt. She felt the shadow of the figure at the door shift. He didn't come near her, preferring it seemed to watch his work from a distance. He didn't look away either. Those dead eyes behind that streaked glass just watched her. If anything... he looked amused. “H-help,” she tried to cry out. But he didn't move. Didn't touch her. Didn't try to help. In parting, he pointed his spray bottle at her, giggled in a muffled sort of way. And gave her a final little spritz of the liquid, like a child splashing a parent in a swimming pool. As if it were just a harmless, mischievous gesture. But then her vision vanished as the stinging intensified. As her mind shut down, she heard the door unlock. Heard the sound of footsteps. And then rapid footfalls. A shout—Demi's voice. Her manager. At least someone had heard Billie's screams.