Valiant Defender

by Shirlee McCoy

  Quinn snuffled the ground nearby, then made a circuit of the yard. It wasn’t large, but someone had planted several trees. At one point, there had been a garden. Now old vines and dead plants filled a weed-choked patch of cleared land. An old swing set sat near the edge of the property. Beyond that, thick woods spilled out into deep forests. It would have been easy for Boyd to reach the house without being seen. The fact that he was on base, stalking victims again, infuriated and worried Justin.

  His phone buzzed, and he pulled it out, expecting to see a text from someone at headquarters. The entire Security Forces was on high alert, ready and anxious to face off with Sullivan.

  Instead, he saw Portia’s number. Read the text. Felt the blood drain from his head.

  I’ve got your daughter. Three guesses where I’m hiding her.

  “What’s wrong?” Gretchen asked, leaning in close and eyeing the message on his phone.

  “It was a setup! He has Portia,” he said.

  “Boyd? How? Didn’t you hire twenty-four-hour protection for her?” Gretchen asked, but Justin was already running back to the SUV, Quinn loping beside him.

  He had to get back to the house.

  He had to find Portia.

  Nothing else mattered but keeping his daughter safe.

  * * *

  There weren’t a lot of things Gretchen was afraid of. Snakes, mice, spiders, the dark. She could face any of those things without blinking an eye or breaking a sweat. She knew how to take down a man twice her size, how to disarm an adversary and how to keep her cool in just about any situation. Being raised in a military family with four older brothers had made her tough, strong and—she hoped—resilient.

  So, fear? It wasn’t something she was all that familiar with.

  Right now, though, she was afraid.

  Portia was a kid. Sixteen years old. At that strange age where childishness and maturity seemed to converge into a mess of impulsivity. This was the age where kids experimented with drinking, smoking, drugs.

  Portia had taken another route.

  And it had turned out to be an extremely dangerous one.

  Blogging about Boyd Sullivan anonymously and thinking she wouldn’t get found out had put her in the crosshairs of a very deliberate and cold-blooded killer.

  One who wouldn’t hesitate to kill again. If Boyd really had her, if he wasn’t just playing a sick game, Portia was in serious danger.

  “Are you sure he has her?” Gretchen asked, hoping against hope that Justin wasn’t.

  But she knew him.

  She’d worked with him for months, and she’d never seen him panic. Until now.

  “He texted from her cell phone,” he responded as he secured Quinn and jumped into the driver’s seat. When he gunned the engine, she let the silence fill the SUV. She knew he was heading back to his place.

  She called headquarters, explaining the situation in a succinct and unemotional way. Not because she didn’t feel desperate, but because she was a military police officer. She was also a woman. Two things her old-school father had never thought should go together. She’d had to prove herself as much to him as she had to any of her fellow officers—not just being good at her job, but being exceptional. Always in control. Always following protocol. Seeking justice. Capturing criminals. Pretending that she wasn’t shaken by the depravity she saw.

  Boyd Sullivan was beyond depraved.

  He was a psychopath. If she had to choose a word to describe him—one that her fellow officers would never hear—she’d call him evil.

  He had no empathy, no remorse. He was his own law. Probably his own god.

  And if he had Portia...

  Please, God, let her be safe, she prayed, surprised by her sudden need to reach out for divine help. It had been a long time since she’d prayed.

  She hadn’t given up on God.

  She hadn’t stopped having faith.

  Not during Henry’s illness. Not during the hours she’d spent sitting beside him during chemo. Not while she’d been planning a wedding she’d known would never happen. Not when she’d held her fiancé’s hand while his breathing became shallower. Even when she’d stood at his graveside listening to the pastor talk about hope during heartache, she’d trusted in God’s plan.

  She’d believed in His goodness.

  She still did, but something in her had broken when Henry died. Four years later, and she wasn’t sure if it would ever be fixed.

  Tires squealed as Justin took a turn too quickly, and she eyed the speedometer. They were going too fast for the area and for the vehicle. She understood Justin’s desire to get back to his house quickly, but if he didn’t slow down, they might not get there at all.

  “Getting into an accident won’t help Portia,” she said calmly.

  “I’m aware of that,” he muttered.

  “So, how about you ease off the accelerator, or pull over and let me drive?”

  “We don’t have time to pull over.” But he eased off the gas and took the next turn more slowly. “I should never have left her alone.”

  “She wasn’t alone,” she reminded him. “You had twenty-four-hour protection for her.”

  “Which failed.”

  “Have you heard from her bodyguard?”

  “No, and I’m not foolish enough to think Boyd somehow slipped under the radar, grabbed Portia and slipped out without being noticed.”

  “So, you think the bodyguard has been...?” She didn’t finish the question. They’d turned onto Justin’s street, and she could see his house. The windows were dark, the front door closed. Everything looked locked up tight and secure.

  “It looks quiet,” she commented as he pulled into the driveway.

  “When it comes to Boyd Sullivan, that doesn’t mean anything.” He braked hard, threw the car into Park and jumped out, opening the back hatch and freeing Quinn.

  No discussion. No plan. This wasn’t the way Gretchen operated. She liked to be methodical and organized in her approach to the job. In a situation like this—one where a serial killer could be lurking nearby—that was especially imperative.

  She knew Justin felt the same.

  She’d worked with him for several months, observing the way he led the Security Forces, how he approached dangerous situations, how he and his K-9 partner worked together and the way he interacted with his subordinates. He seemed to have unlimited energy and a passion for justice that was admirable.

  But right now, he was running straight into danger without thinking the situation through.

  She had two choices: sit in the car and wait for him to return, or run after him.

  She opted for the second. She couldn’t let a comrade face danger alone.

  She sprinted after him, snagging his arm and yanking him to a stop. He was taller and heavier, packed with muscles he worked hard for. But she had decades of experience dealing with four older brothers who were also taller and more muscular than she was.

  “Hold on!” she whispered, keeping her voice low. “We need to call for backup.”

  “Go ahead.” He yanked away and headed around the side of the house.

  “Captain, this is what Sullivan wants—you panicked and not thinking.”

  “I don’t care what he wants. I care about Portia, and I need to see if he left anything behind. Any hint of where he took her.”

  “This could be a trap,” she cautioned, following him into the backyard, the hair on her nape standing on end. She didn’t think Boyd Sullivan would hang around waiting for Justin’s return, but she couldn’t guarantee that he wouldn’t. He was a psychopath, extremely intelligent and determined to seek revenge for perceived wrongs that had been committed against him. Based on the file of police reports she’d read and the crimes he’d committed since escaping prison, Gretchen knew he was capable of anything.

  “It’s no
t a trap, but if you’re concerned, go back to the vehicle.”

  “Justin, you need to slow down and think things through.” She tried using his first name, speaking to him the way she did when they were off duty. He glanced in her direction, but didn’t slow down. Quinn was just ahead, snuffling the ground, his ears back and his tail low.

  The dog looked tense, and that worried Gretchen.

  Quinn was good at finding people. She’d been with him and Justin when they’d tracked down a kid who’d vandalized the school. She’d also been with them when Quinn tracked a guy who’d beaten his wife black-and-blue and then fled the house. She’d observed the dog several times, and she knew the posture he was displaying indicated someone’s presence.

  He barked and took off, running to the edge of the property, Justin on his heels. She was close behind, staying just far enough back to give them space to do their work.

  They pushed through the thick foliage that surrounded the property. Gretchen followed, twigs catching at her short dark hair and scratching her face.

  When Justin stopped short, she nearly slammed into his back, her hands coming up automatically, grabbing his shoulders to catch her balance.

  “What—” she began.

  “Quinn found the bodyguard,” Justin said, crouching and giving her a clear view of what lay in the bushes in front of him. A man sprawled on the ground. She pulled her Maglite and turned it on, wincing as she saw blood trickling from the back of his head.

  “Gunshot wound?” she asked, crouching beside Justin as he checked for a pulse.

  “Yes. Just one to the head.”

  “Pulse?”

  “No.”

  She eyed the fallen man as Justin radioed for backup and medics. The bodyguard had been dragged into the shrubs. She could see the trail his body had made—empty of leaves, dirt scraped up by his shoes. His jacket was hiked up, and his firearm was visible. Still holstered.

  “He didn’t have time to pull his weapon,” she commented as Justin straightened.

  “Boyd doesn’t give people time. He doesn’t play by rules. He doesn’t care who he hurts. Stay here until backup arrives. I’m going inside.” He called for Quinn and took off, racing back the way they’d come as if he really thought she’d stay where she was.

  But he wasn’t the only captain on the team.

  And he wasn’t thinking clearly.

  That was an easy way to get killed.

  Especially when someone like Boyd Sullivan was around.

  She ran after him, the faint sounds of sirens drifting on the velvet night air as she sprinted across the yard, up the porch stairs and into the dark house.

  TWO

  Quinn didn’t sense danger.

  Justin was as certain of that as he was of the fact that the house was empty. He could feel it—the silence, thick and unnatural. Up until Portia had come to live with him, Justin had lived by himself. He’d been used to returning to a house that was empty and quiet. Since his daughter had arrived, things had been different, better in a way he hadn’t anticipated. He’d always been a loner. He’d never thought he needed what so many of his friends had—a wife, children, family.

  He’d known, of course, that if anything happened to Melanie, Portia would live with him. They’d discussed that after the death of Melanie’s mother. That had been six or seven years ago, and Justin had been quick to agree that he would step in if Portia needed him. He and Melanie had been high school sweethearts. They hadn’t married, but he’d still cared about her. And he’d certainly wanted to be there for her and Portia. He’d obviously also wanted to be the custodial parent if something were to happen to Melanie. He just hadn’t expected it to happen. Melanie had been young and fit, health-minded and cautious. He hadn’t expected her to suddenly be gone. Portia hadn’t, either. Her mother’s death had been a shock. Being forced to move from Michigan to Texas had meant giving up everything she knew and loved.

  For the first few months, they’d tiptoed around each other. Mostly silent. Uncertain. He’d been a little too eager to build a bridge between them. Portia had been resistant. Recently, though, they’d begun to relax around each other, and he’d begun to enjoy the music drifting from her room, the quick tap of her fingers on the laptop keyboard while he made dinner.

  He couldn’t remember when she’d begun sitting at the kitchen table while he cooked, but he knew he enjoyed having her there. Even when he didn’t know what questions to ask or how to ask the important ones, it was nice to have a house that felt like a home. It was nice to return from work to the very real and unmistakable feeling of not being alone.

  Now the house was empty, and the terror he felt at the thought of his daughter being with the Red Rose Killer stole every thought from his head. Except one: finding her.

  “Portia!” he called, knowing she wouldn’t answer.

  Boyd had her phone. He had her.

  Justin was surprised that his voice wasn’t shaking, surprised that his legs were carrying him upstairs.

  Quinn loped ahead of him, following a scent trail into a narrow hall that opened into three bedrooms and a bathroom. The Malinois beelined to Portia’s door, scratching at it with his paw.

  It opened silently, swinging inward.

  “Portia?” Justin repeated, stepping inside.

  The room was empty.

  Just like he’d expected.

  Tidy. Portia liked her things neat and organized. Just like Justin. She liked an uncluttered environment. Also, like Justin. Funny how those traits had carried genetically. Melanie had been creative and disorganized, her house filled with knickknacks and art projects. The few times Justin had been there, he’d had the urge to declutter and organize.

  Had Portia felt that way?

  Had her bedroom at her mom’s house been as neat and tidy as this one? He hadn’t asked her. The topic had felt too fraught with emotion—a minefield he wasn’t sure either of them was ready to walk through.

  “I’m sorry, Justin,” Gretchen said, stepping into the room behind him.

  “This is my fault. I should have sent her somewhere safe.”

  “Nowhere would be safe. Not if Boyd wanted to get his hands on her. You know that.”

  He did, but that didn’t make it easier to stomach.

  “And the only person at fault here is Boyd,” she continued, turning a slow circle, taking in all the details of the room. “There’s no sign of a struggle.”

  “I don’t think she’d have tried to fight someone who had a gun,” he said, trying not to imagine the terror Portia must have felt, the fear that must have been in her eyes. She might be organized and meticulous like Justin, but she felt things deeply like her mother. She was a writer. Of journals. Of blogs. All the things she didn’t say, she poured into written words and sentences and paragraphs. He didn’t have to be father of the year to know that about his daughter.

  “It looks like she was on her computer.” Gretchen walked to the bed, moving past Justin and Quinn. He let her lead the way, because his judgment was clouded by fear. He was a good enough officer to know that, and she was a good enough one to take control of the scene.

  He’d noticed the laptop, and now he noticed a note taped to it as he approached the bed. He could read it easily, the words printed in bold red ink: Now the formerly anonymous blogger of CAFB will really have something to write about.

  “I need to find her.” He called for Quinn, planning to run outside. If Quinn could find a scent trail, they might be able to follow it to Boyd’s location.

  “You need to slow down, Justin.”

  “That’s an easy thing to say when it’s not your daughter in the hands of a serial killer,” he responded, regretting it immediately. He knew Gretchen cared deeply about the work she did and about the people she worked for. She took the job as seriously as he did, and she was as eager as he was to find and stop
Boyd.

  “Maybe. Probably. But we have a job to do here, and the first step in that is figuring out where he took her.”

  “That’s what Quinn and I are going to do.”

  “Find!” he commanded, and the Malinois took off, sprinting downstairs and out the door. Sirens were blaring, lights flashing on the pavement. Backup had arrived, but Justin ignored everything but his K-9 partner.

  Please, God, don’t let it be too late for Portia, he begged silently as he followed Quinn around the side of the house and across the backyard. The night was cool, the moon high, and he could see Quinn easily, loping toward the woods at the edge of the yard. Confident, excited, tail up, ears alert, nose dropping to the ground every few yards.

  The scent trail was fresh.

  They were right on the heels of Boyd and Portia. With a dog as well trained as Quinn, it would be easy to overtake them. Portia would be moving slowly. At least, he thought she would be. She’d be dragging her feet, trying to slow progress, because she was smart, and she’d know just how much she could push before Boyd reacted.

  That was what Justin was telling himself.

  He didn’t know if it was true.

  Sure, his daughter was smart—an A student who excelled at both math and English—but their bond was still tenuous and new, their knowledge of each other limited, and he really had no idea how she’d react to being kidnapped.

  They reached the tree line, and Quinn trailed back toward Justin, then circled around a place where the grass seemed to have been smashed down and trampled.

  “Looks like someone fell,” Gretchen said, flashing her light on the spot. He hadn’t expected her to stay at the house and wasn’t surprised that she’d followed him. Her methods of approaching crime scenes were spot-on. She’d been an MP for six of her nearly eight years in the air force. He’d seen her military record. She was well-known for her dedication and professionalism, and he’d seen both during her time at Canyon Air Force Base.

  Right now, though, he didn’t want to spend time discussing the crime scene or working out the details of a plan. He wanted to find his daughter.