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The suburban home stood bathed in the orange glow of the late afternoon sun, an ordinary façade masking the lair of a predator. Fiona's heart thudded against her ribcage, mirroring the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the dashboard. She watched the house, its windows dark and inscrutable, waiting for Rhodes to emerge.
"Remember, we need him alive," Jake murmured beside her. "He's our best lead."
"Understood," Fiona replied, her voice steadier than she felt. She glanced at Jake, his profile etched with the same resolve that had driven him since the unsolved murder of his mother. It was a shared pain—her own sister's disappearance remained a wound never fully healed, a mystery still unsolved.
Taking a deep breath, Fiona steeled herself. Rhodes' profile painted a picture of intimidation: an assailant skilled in violence with a twisted affinity for spiders. But beneath the anxiety, there was a spark of defiance. She was Fiona Red, agent of the FBI, armed not just with a gun but with a mind honed for deduction and detail. She wouldn't allow fear to cloud her judgment.
"Any moment now," she whispered, more to herself than to Jake. She was ready. Beside her, Jake gave a silent nod, his hand resting near his holster. They both knew what was at stake. With the team on standby, waiting for their cue, Fiona focused on the door, knowing that whatever lay beyond it, they faced it together.
Fiona's eyes locked on the figure stepping out onto the porch. Rhodes, clad in his extermination uniform, descended the steps with a slow, measured gait, equipment in tow. She caught her breath, heart pounding against her ribs like a caged bird yearning for escape.
"Team, we're moving in," Jake's voice crackled over the radio, calm yet commanding. "Stay sharp and be ready to back us up."
Without another word, they opened their doors and stepped onto the pavement, the afternoon sun casting long shadows that seemed to reach out towards Rhodes. Fiona felt the weight of her gun against her hip, a reminder of her duty and newfound courage.
They approached with caution, watching as Rhodes heaved his gear into the back of a nondescript van. His movements were practiced, those of a man who had performed the same routine countless times. But today would be different.
Rhodes' spider tattoos crawled across his arms, a grotesque mimicry of the creatures Fiona spent her life studying. They seemed to undulate with each shift of his muscles, a sinister dance that chilled her to the bone. She pressed on, Jake by her side, their footsteps a silent herald of the confrontation to come.
"Calvin Rhodes?" Jake announced firmly, brandishing his badge. "We're with the FBI. Can we have a moment?"
Rhodes stiffened, his expression souring instantly as he turned to face them. His eyes flickered with hostility, a storm brewing beneath the surface. "I ain't talking to no cops," he spat, venom in his voice.
"Mr. Rhodes, it's important," Jake persisted, taking a step closer, but maintaining a respectful distance. "We just need a few minutes of your time."
With a snarl, Rhodes lunged forward, aiming to shove Jake aside. Instinct kicked in, and both agents braced for impact. But before chaos could erupt, the tactical team swarmed in, a flurry of movement and commands.
"Stop! FBI!" echoed around them as Rhodes was swiftly apprehended, his attempt at flight thwarted by the well-coordinated efforts of the team. Fiona watched, her pulse racing, as the man who might hold the answers to their gruesome case was finally in custody. The pieces were falling into place, and the hunt for truth was closing in.
Fiona's hands remained steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins as she watched Jake recover from the attempted shove. Rhodes was a powerhouse of a man, his broad shoulders and inked arms indicative of someone who wouldn't go down without resistance. But the FBI team was faster, their training evident in the swift containment.
"Hands behind your back!" one of the agents commanded, his voice authoritative, brooking no argument.
Rhodes grunted, his face contorting in anger as he was forced into submission, handcuffs clinking as they secured his wrists. Fiona felt a twinge of satisfaction; this was what they had trained for, why they spent countless hours poring over case files and chasing leads.
"Got anything to say now, Rhodes?" Jake taunted lightly, though his brown eyes were dark with seriousness.
"Go to hell," Rhodes growled, his voice muffled as an agent pressed his head down toward the waiting car.
Jake exchanged a look with Fiona, a silent communication that spoke volumes. This was a big break in their case, potentially the linchpin they needed to start unraveling the web of crimes that had brought them to this spider-tattooed suspect.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Jake gripped the metal door handle, feeling the cool weight of authority in his grasp as he pushed into the interrogation room at the FBI headquarters in Portland. The air was static with tension, each breath hanging heavy like the fog that often blanketed the city. Fiona followed close behind, her presence a subtle reassurance against the unease knotting in his stomach.
Across from them, Calvin Rhodes sat caged by the stark, sterile confines of the room. His burly frame seemed to dwarf the flimsy chair he was perched on, muscles tensed and ready beneath skin etched with a web of spider tattoos. His eyes, hard and unyielding, fixed on Jake with a glare that could cut glass.
Jake remembered the moment Calvin's meaty hand had shot out towards him, a misguided attempt to shove past and escape questioning. That decisive shove had been all the reason they needed to bring him in. Now, cuffs replaced the possibility of further shoves, and frustration smoldered in Jake's chest. He hated bullies, hated those who used their size to intimidate. It reminded him too much of finding his mother, the way powerlessness had enveloped him that day.
"Rhodes," Jake said, his voice steady but edged with the irritation simmering just below the surface. He took his seat opposite the man, the table between them a thin barrier to the animosity that crackled in the air.
Calvin leaned back, a sneer curling his lips as he settled more comfortably into his defiance. His arms crossed over his broad chest, a silent fortress built of flesh and ink. Jake could nearly hear the unspoken challenge in the posture: 'Make me talk.'
"Let's not waste time," Jake pressed, meeting the other man's gaze without flinching. "We both know why you're here."
But Calvin remained silent, his sneer deepening. Jake's jaw clenched as he observed the obstinate tilt of Calvin's head, the casual spread of his tattooed arms. This was a man who reveled in confrontation, who wore his nonchalance like armor.
Fiona, ever the composed counterpart to Jake's mounting impatience, shuffled her papers beside him, undisturbed by the palpable hostility. She glanced at Jake, a silent signal to maintain control, before turning her eyes back to Calvin.
