by Kay Hooper
Titles by Kay Hooper
Bishop/Special Crimes Unit Novels
HAVEN
HOSTAGE
Bishop Files Novels
THE FIRST PROPHET
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Copyright © 2013 by Kay Hooper.
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eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-62491-3
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hooper, Kay.
Hostage / Kay Hooper.—First Edition.
pages cm.—(A Bishop/SCU novel ; 2)
ISBN 978-0-425-25937-5 (hardback)
1. Bishop, Noah (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Government investigators—Fiction.
3. Survival—Fiction. 4. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3558. O587H67 2013b
813'.54—dc23
2013028695
FIRST EDITION: December 2013
Cover photo of “Woods” © Guillermo Rodriguez Carballa/Trevillion Images;
photo of “Man” by Haveseen/Shutterstock Images.
Cover design by Rita Frangie.
Text design by Kristin del Rosario.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
Contents
Titles by Kay Hooper
Title Page
Copyright
Author’s Note
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
EPILOGUE
Haven Operative and Special Crimes Unit Agent Bios
Psychic Terms and Abilities
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Once again, and at the request of many readers, I have chosen to place this note at the beginning of the book rather than after the story, so as to better inform you of the additional material I am providing for both new readers and those who have been with the series from the beginning. You’ll find some brief character bios, as well as SCU definitions of various psychic abilities, at the end of the book, information that will hopefully enhance your enjoyment of this story and of the series.
PROLOGUE
Shayna Freeman woke with a throbbing headache and the groggy realization that she must have really tied one on the previous night. Not that she could remember, but that had to be it because she never felt this bad unless alcohol was involved.
Stupid. Stupid. When will you learn to ignore a dare?
That was usually how she got in trouble.
She just lay there for a while, eyes closed because she knew from experience that the room would be spinning dizzily if she dared open them. Gradually, though, things started to nag at her. The bed beneath her felt oddly lumpy and . . . damp. The air she breathed had a stale, faintly sour odor. Even through the headache, she was aware that the room felt weirdly hollow somehow. And cold. She didn’t feel covers over her. Why not?
Little things.
Lying there, eyes closed, feeling more and more cold, she kept telling herself nothing was wrong. Again and again, she told herself that. Because if she believed it, then . . . well, then, nothing was wrong.
Nothing.
Shayna didn’t know how long she lay there with her eyes squeezed shut, the mantra of nothing being wrong on a continuous loop in her mind, before she finally forced herself to open her eyes.
Dark.
But not . . . completely dark.
She thought she could make out heavy timbers above her, the sort she imagined would be used to hold up tons of earth to allow a passage into a mountain. For a mine of some kind, maybe.
She was in a mine?
How on earth—
She tried to move her arms, to lever herself into a sitting position. And that was when she heard the loud rattle and felt the heavy constriction on her wrists. Both wrists.
Instinctively, she tried to reach one hand to check the other and discovered it to be impossible. Whatever she was lying on, the chains, the . . . manacles . . . were fastened from her wrists to either side. She couldn’t even push herself up to her elbows, because there wasn’t enough play in the chains. Couldn’t lift either hand high enough to confirm what she felt.
Not handcuffs. The bands around her wrists were wide and heavy. The chain was—sounded—thick. Old. Rusty. She could smell the rust.
And when she tried to move her feet . . .
She lay there for some unmeasurable time, staring up at the heavy beams and trying not to think about why someone would have chained her, wrists and ankles, to an old, smelly, lumpy cot in what might have been a mine somewhere in the mountains.
Because that was surreal.
Something like that didn’t happen, not to her. Not to anybody she knew. Because it was just . . . crazy. She didn’t have a rich family, so nobody would consider kidnapping her for ransom. And if she hadn’t been kidnapped for ransom, then . . . then . . .
Young women were snatched every day. She saw it on the news. Snatched out of their lives without warning, sometimes never to be seen again. And sometimes . . .
Sometimes seen, found, as bodies buried or floating in rivers or just left somewhere like garbage.
Bodies showing the evidence of the horrible things that had been done to them, unspeakable things.
She could hear herself breathing in shallow little gasps, the only sounds in the cold, dank, hollow space all around her. The chill was seeping into her, into her very bones, a kind of cold she’d never felt before.
A terror that took hold of her and squeezed and squeezed until it forced out a sound, a name she hadn’t uttered since she was very, very young.
“Mommy . . .”
* * *
HIS DOGS WERE well trained, well fed, and well housed. In fact, if he was inside the cabin, so were they.
He didn’t approve of chaining dogs. Besides, they were more likely to be protective of what they perceived as the pack’s territory, and he wanted that to be wherever he was.
It had cost him valuable time and effort to make the necessary detour to pick up his dogs from the friend who had taken them in when he’d been positive he was going to be arrested.
It had also cost him a chunk of money from his stash, but he didn’t begrudge that. His friend had clearly taken good care of the
dogs, and the money was not only compensation but also strong incentive not to talk if the police managed to locate him.
Not that Jacoby expected them to be able to do that. He had been warned before his capture, and in time to make his preparations. And everything since then had gone very much according to plan. After his escape, he had switched cars half a dozen times, and he’d destroyed GPS units before moving the cars an inch. Still, paying his friend well for his care of the dogs just made good sense.
Not a lot in Jacoby’s life made good sense.
The voices in his head, for instance. The ones telling him to do Bad Things. That didn’t make good sense. It didn’t make any sense at all. It never had.
You have to go after him.
Some of the voices were soft and whispery, and some were distinct, but they almost always spoke in concert, their words identical.
“No, I don’t.” He brushed the largest of his three dogs, gently removing twigs and dried leaves from her thick coat. “He’ll go away. They always go away and leave me alone.”
They caught you before.
“That was a mistake. I was careless. The target was too big and drew the wrong kind of attention. You made me do that.”
You had to push your boundaries, Cole.
“Not that far. There was no reason to go that far. To take that much. It won’t happen again, not like that. And I told you. They always leave me alone when I hide in these mountains.”
Not this one. He’s different. You know he is. You felt it.
“He ran, didn’t he? They all run. They all leave me alone once I run them off. Besides, I shot this one. Hit him. There was blood.”
You have to go after him. You have to be sure.
“I’m sure. He’s dead.”
Then why does your head hurt, Cole? Why did the nightmares wake you up again last night?
“You. It’s your fault. You won’t leave me alone.”
Because the job isn’t finished. It was never about the money, Cole. We all know that. It was just the next step. The money was just bait to draw the right kind of attention.
“I didn’t want attention. I never want attention. I just want to be left alone.”
When it’s all finished, Cole. You agreed. And now you have to finish what you started.
“But I—”
Right now, you have to change the game. You have to hunt the hunters. Because they’re coming for you. He’s just the first.
“No. They’ll leave me alone.”
Not this time. There’s already someone else. Someone you need to take care of.
“It’s just him. Nobody else found me.”
Someone did, Cole. Someone who can hurt you.
“No, I’m safe here. Safe. I’ve made sure of that. Nobody is coming to get me. Nobody is taking me back.”
Do you really believe you can hold them off alone?
“I can. I will. If they come. But they won’t. They won’t come after me. Because all I did was steal some money, and after a while they just stop looking for it.” His head was pounding, and it was becoming more and more difficult to think straight.
Not that his thoughts had been normal for a long time. Not since he was hardly more than a kid. Not since his cellmate all those years ago had slammed him against the metal corner of his cot.
Jacoby wondered if that son of a bitch was dead yet.
Concentrate, Cole.
There had been so much blood, surely he was dead.
Cole—
“Leave me alone! Why can’t you leave me alone?” He felt the dog tense, then tremble, and forced his hands to gentle her. “It’s okay, girl. It’s okay. Just ignore them, all right? Just ignore them.”
We’re not going away, Cole. Not until you keep your promise. Not until you do what you agreed to do. You have to stop him. Stop them. And you have to take care of the girl.
“I—”
You have to do what we taught you to do. Don’t forget, Cole. Don’t forget who we are.
He felt the distinctly unpleasant sensation of something cold touching him, like an icy hand stroking his back. Up and down, up and down, making him shiver.
“I remember,” he whispered.
Then don’t fail us.
“No. No, I won’t. I promise I won’t.”
ONE
TUESDAY
Luther Brinkman could see his breath misting before his face in the moonlight; mid-October was cold this year, even in the South. Many hardwood trees that normally showed off colorful foliage that drew tourists to the Blue Ridge were already bare-limbed and glittering with frost, and the rest boasted only dead brown leaves clinging stubbornly.
“Shit.” He paused and leaned against a big oak, grimacing as he adjusted the makeshift bandage around his upper thigh.
Would have been nice if it was at least a through-and-through. But no. I have to have a bullet grinding against bone every time I move.
Painfully against bone.
That was the way it felt, at least; he hadn’t exactly gone digging around in the wound to find out for sure. Slowing the bleeding was the best he’d been able to do. Ignoring the throbbing pain, he concentrated on controlling his breathing so he could better listen.
He couldn’t hear the dogs any longer. That was something. Whether it signaled an end to the pursuit or only a pause was the question uppermost in his mind. It was well past midnight; the bastard might well have decided that his wounded quarry wouldn’t get far, that waiting for daylight to resume the chase was his best bet.
Or to look for a carcass. Even way out here, it wouldn’t be smart to leave a dead body just lying around for the wrong person to stumble across, and he wouldn’t have been able to know just how badly he’d wounded his quarry. Not for sure.
God knew Luther was out in the middle of nowhere, in a dense wilderness that had swallowed up more than one careless hiker and quite a few federal fugitives, never to be seen again. Even with dogs and daylight, tracking someone across this treacherous terrain would be difficult; making the attempt at night was something even the locals would consider suicidal.
But he wouldn’t want to leave a body lying around.
Grim, Luther pushed himself away from the tree and continued on, using a thick broken limb he had found as a rough crutch. The terrain didn’t exactly lend itself to hobbling along with a nice, steady rhythm. Or any rhythm at all. Just keeping himself upright was taking more effort and energy than he liked, given the distance he had to cover in order to reach safety: the tiny mountain town he had skirted on his way up here. He had judged it to be about five miles from Jacoby’s cabin as the crow flew.
He wasn’t a crow and couldn’t even begin to travel in a straight line, not with the treacherous terrain and all the obstacles of the dense forest. It wasn’t like it was just a gentle slope downward. There were ridges and switchbacks and deep gullies gouged out of the mountain by spring and summer rains. There were boulders taller than he was, taller than a house, and dense thickets of briars and other foliage.
Working his way past or over or around took time, and it ate up distance. The ground he’d have to cover probably included an extra mile or two at least, and that was assuming he could even last long enough to make the journey.
His mind instinctively calculated, and he tried to ignore the odds it offered him for success.
Never mind the odds. Take stock. You’re wounded, but it isn’t mortal and you can still use the leg. For now, at least. Dawn is hours away, so even if you can’t reach the town, you have time to put more distance between you and the maniac with the gun and every reason to want you dead.
Okay. Not too bad.
Except that safety is . . . not close. You’ve lost a lot of blood and need medical attention. And you lost most of your gear, including the water, in that first bad fall, which was stupid, but le
t’s not dwell on it. You have your weapon but maybe . . . what? . . . four rounds left in the clip?
The bastard would probably come after him loaded for bear.
Bears. Don’t think about bears.
They could smell blood. And hadn’t he heard something about an attempt to repopulate the area with once-threatened-with-extinction wolves? Or was that farther west?
Much farther. No wolves around here. Maybe wild dogs. Even cougars have been reported. I think. Bobcats. Certainly bears. Too early to be hibernating. I think. Damn bears.
He paused again to rest, leaning against another tree, and mentally took himself to task for letting his mind linger on things there was no sense worrying about unless and until he had to.
He had the uneasy feeling that he’d lost more blood than he had originally thought, and that was why he was having trouble focusing. Why he was light-headed and his breathing was more like panting.
Why he had to fight the urge to slide down the tree and take a real break. Maybe even a nap.
Oh, man, you are so screwed—
“Taking the scenic route?”
Haven
Maggie Garrett rubbed the nape of her neck absently, then sighed when her husband’s fingers replaced her own. “Careful, or you’ll put me to sleep,” she told him wryly.
“You need to sleep,” John Garrett replied. “By my count, you’ve been up forty-eight hours at least.”
“I took a nap.”
“Twenty minutes maybe. Not nearly enough.”
“I’m okay.”
“No, you aren’t. You’re never okay when one of your chicks is out of the nest.”
A little laugh escaped her. “One of my chicks? I think there’s a better nickname for a six-foot-four-inch former Marine. And I think he’d think so too.”
John came around the desk and rested a hip on the corner so he could face her. They were in Maggie’s office rather than the central work area of the sprawling building that was both home and business for them, and they were alone. “Haven operatives are all your chicks, especially when one comes up missing.”
