by James Hunt
Sam turned, finding the taller agent already at the door, jiggling the handle as he swiped a card into the slider. It could have been her expression, or the fact that the pair of men had what they wanted, but the shorter man opened his jacket and brandished the nine-millimeter Ruger, and she leapt behind her desk for cover.
The percussion of the gunshots was quick and efficient as Sam landed hard on her side behind the desk. She dropped the phone, reaching for her pistol as the gunfire ended. Training replaced thought, and Sam jumped up, her eyes guiding her arms to line up the shot, the sight of the pistol bringing the shoulder of the current shooter into frame, but just when she fired, a light muscle spasm forced her to overcorrect, and the gunman reacted too quickly.
Sam’s three quick gunshots forced the imposter back, sprinting toward his partner, who, to Sam’s horror, had opened the door.
“No!” Sam stood, straightening her aim as she readjusted her stance, this time hitting the left arm of the shooter as he retreated into the room.
Sam sprinted around the desk, beelining it for the door. Anna screamed, and Bandit barked wildly, and then both were cut short by another gunshot. Sam’s blood froze, and it took a concentrated effort to move forward. “Anna!” Sam skidded to a stop at the closed door, fumbling for her card as she yanked on the handle. “Anna!” She swiped, but the door didn’t open. She ran the badge again. Still nothing.
The commotion on the floor caught the attention of the rest of the building’s tenants, who hurried to Sam’s aid.
“What do we have?” Director Multz led three other marshals, each of them armed save for the man in the back, Multz’s assistant, who had his phone glued to his ear, relaying information to the authorities.
“Two males, both Caucasian, at least one armed.” Sam shouldered the door, giving one last swipe of her card, but it still failed to open. Whatever they’d done to override the security had also jammed the door for anyone else who tried to enter. “Shots were fired inside.”
Glass shattered inside the room, and the noise sent all of them toward the stairwell, Sam leading the charge. “Let’s move!”
Sam had quick feet on the descent, using the railing to help her jump two or three steps at a time. The patter of boots and shoes followed her, and Sam didn’t break stride when she landed on the first floor and sprinted out one of the building’s emergency exit doors, triggering an alarm.
The blaring din of the security system escaped from the stairwell, breaking the quiet of the night as Sam rushed to the west side of the building, where the windows of Anna’s room were attached to a ledge on the third story. Where the hell the kidnappers thought they could go from there, she had no idea.
Sam turned the corner, her cohorts close behind, and watched as the taller man landed on two feet, quickly detaching a rope from his waist, Anna limp in his arms.
“Freeze!” Sam rushed forward, but a gunshot rang out from the third-story window and pushed Sam back behind the corner as Director Multz and the others caught up. The four of them remained pinned against the corner of the building, flush against the concrete as repeated gunshots turned the building’s corner into puffs of dust.
When the firing ended, Sam stole a quick glance at the man sprinting down the street and the gunman protruding from the broken third-story window. The gunman fired again, pinning Sam next to Director Multz behind the cover of the building.
“Sniper rifle. Third story,” Sam said. “Must have been assembled in the room from the briefcase they brought.” Anther gunshot rang out. “The second assailant is heading north on Twenty-Second Street. Victim looks to be unconscious.”
Multz turned toward his assistant, relaying the information while Sam inched closer toward the edge, almost to the point of crossing the plane into the sniper’s field of vision. She had her eyes on the cars parked across the street. If she could make it there, then she had a chance at catching up with the runner. Sixty pounds of child were bound to slow him down, and Sam had always been quick.
“Cover me.” Two quick exhalations, then Sam exploded from the corner, immediately triggering gunshots from the third-story shooter, quickly followed by Director Multz’s screams as Sam pumped her legs on her sprint across the road.
Sam kept her eyes locked on the cars across the street, and it wasn’t until she ducked and skidded on her knees and shins, her pants tearing on the sidewalk, that she looked toward the window.
The sniper managed to get off one shot before Multz and the others provided cover fire, and with the shooter distracted, Sam turned her attention down the road in time to watch the kidnapper disappear down a side alley. With her knees aching, Sam jumped into pursuit.
Nearing the alley, Sam slowed, trying to get a handle on her breathing as the cool evening air stung the cuts along her legs. She spun from the corner, gun aimed, listening to the sounds of the kidnapper’s footsteps as he disappeared down the next street.
Sam kept up the pursuit, catching up with the runner as he weaved between streets and down side alleys. The longer it dragged out, the more her muscles burned, but she pushed the fatigue aside, knowing what would happen if she failed. But she couldn’t break her promise to Anna. Not again.
Once the distance between their gap had shortened to less than twenty yards, Sam raised her pistol, poised to shoot, but couldn’t get a clear shot on the run without risking hitting Anna. She had to get closer.
Their chase brought them to the shores of Lake Washington, and during the sprint, Sam kept glancing up toward the night sky, wondering where in the hell air support was. They needed to be tracking this guy.
Finally, after one last jarring right turn from an alley, the kidnapper kept a straight path, and his destination looked to end at the water’s edge.
“Stop!” Sam planted her feet, having a clear line of sight on the kidnapper now, but her orders went unheeded, just as they had been the dozen other times she screamed. Her breath had grown labored, and though she gripped her pistol with both hands, she couldn’t keep her aim steady. “I said freeze, goddammit, or I’ll shoot!”
But the kidnapper never broke stride as he grew closer and closer to the water, which looked like nothing more than a pitch-black abyss. The quick lapping of the waves against the seawall matched the same hastened pace of Sam’s breathing as she tried to force her aim steady.
Sam squeezed the pistol tighter, trying to force it into submission. The sight wavered between the man’s back and the water, and then his shoulder, and then the ground, and then the water again, and then back. The target grew smaller the longer she waited, but she’d only get one shot, and she didn’t want to risk hitting Anna.
The faint sound of choppers and sirens began somewhere in the distance. Backup was on the way. Where did he think he could go? Was he going to swim to the other side? Drown himself and the girl?
The thoughts spread across Sam’s mind in rapid-fire synapses, all while she was still trying to steady her aim. The sight passed across his shoulder, the shot clear but only for a moment, and she squeezed the trigger.
The bang of the gunshot and the kidnapper’s leap over the edge of the seawall were simultaneous, and he and Anna disappeared.
Sam hurried forward, the sirens in the backdrop of the city growing louder and louder. Her heart pounded twice as quickly as her feet did against the pavement, and then she heard the sputtering startup of the boat engine come to life and then roar. The engine’s whine drowned out everything else. Including her screams.
Sam skidded to a stop at the seawall’s ledge and raised her pistol to fire at the small watercraft disappearing into the pitch black of the lake. Knowing she was out of range, Sam lowered her pistol, the noise from the boat engine fading and the sirens of the authorities growing behind her.
But Sam stood there, frozen, on the edge of the seawall, her eyes following the wake of the boat until there was nothing left to see.
10
The police vehicles had already surrounded the marshals building b
y the time Grant came to a screeching halt in Matt’s BMW. Matt was still in the backseat, and Grant stepped out before the police even spotted the body in the back.
He scanned the crowd, watching the body language of the officers, listening for any news over the radio crackle that flitted into the open air. The parking lot had transformed from a barren landscape to a packed house. But from the bowed heads, and loose, tense chatter, Grant already knew the outcome of what happened.
“Hey! Buddy, where you going?” A hand on Grant’s shoulder yanked him backward, and out of instinct, Grant reached for the badge that was no longer there... that hadn’t been there for over four years.
It was a street cop who couldn’t have had more than three years with the department but had that practiced stare that most officers learned after a few close calls on the beat. The kid had a good one too, detailed down to every crease and line across his face.
“Where is Marshal Cohen?” Grant asked.
The cop gave him a look up and down, and then Grant watched his partner walk over to the BMW.
“Holy shit!” The partner turned, hand on his pistol. “There’s a dead guy back here!”
The three-year veteran drew his pistol, and Grant kept his hands at his sides, not moving even before the young gun spit the order. “Stay right where you—”
“Enough!” It was Hickem’s voice that drew their attention, but it was the big man’s size that caused them to lower their weapons. “He’s with us. Special investigator.” Hickem flicked his gaze toward the car. “Sam filled me in. Is he in the back?”
Grant nodded. “He’s lost a lot of blood, but he should still be alive.”
Hickem walked over with three of his own people toward the car, pulling the traitor from the backseat. “We need a medic over here!” They propped Matt up against the car, staining the pewter paint job with blotches of red.
Grant kept his eyes on Hickem. Was it some kind of a game? Or was the big brute really not in on it? Before he had a chance to ask, another hand grabbed his shoulder. When Grant spun around, he was staring into the eyes of a short man with a head of thick grey hair buzzed into a flat top that was so proper it could act as a shelf.
“Director Multz.” The man shook Grant’s hand without Grant even offering and then gave him a hard yank to get him to follow him, which Grant did, falling into stride right behind him. “Sam told me what you told her. She’s inside. I think it’s best if we talk alone.”
Grant looked back at Hickem. A pair of medics was attending to Matt, whom they’d already loaded on a stretcher. He didn’t like the fact that Hickem was going to question him first. But he knew that no one else here had the authority to do it. And Grant had a feeling that Hickem was only going to share the information he wanted to share, and not the stuff they probably needed.
Grant followed Multz into the Marshal building and down a hallway on the first floor. Multz entered one of the offices, and when Grant stepped inside, he saw Sam with her back toward the door, looking out a window.
“Found him,” Multz said, shutting the door behind him.
It was just the three of them, and when Grant realized no one else would be joining them, he understood the importance of what would be said here.
“Sam,” Multz said, taking a seat behind his desk and folding his arms in a practiced gesture over the table. “Sam?”
She finally turned, and the first thing Grant noticed was the change in her eyes. There was a glaze that covered them. It wasn’t one of fear, or grief, or rage. It was almost of disbelief. But then Grant finally recognized it. Doubt.
“You were right,” Sam said. “We should have looked closer. I don’t know how you made it out of there alive, but the girl is gone. We need to get her back, and the family, if they’re still alive.”
“Does that mean you’re bringing me on board?” Grant knew it was ultimately the director’s decision, but he kept his gaze on Sam.
“I don’t know who else on Hickem’s team was involved,” Sam answered. “Hell, I don’t know if Hickem was the one who ordered it, but I know that we’ll still have to work with him.” She stepped forward, an intimate need to her motion as she drew closer. “I need someone I can trust.”
“You’ll be working as a special investigative liaison,” Multz said. “You will report directly to Marshal Cohen and me. No one else.”
Grant cocked his eyebrow. “Special investigative liaison?”
Multz shrugged. “We wanted it to sound somewhat official. But I want to make it clear that you are here to analyze and predict. No fieldwork. We just need you to help us find the girl.”
“I’ll need access to everything,” Grant said. “And that includes any dirty laundry you might not want exposed. I’m only good when I can get all of the facts.”
“You’ll have everything you need,” Sam answered. “We’re setting up a command station down the hall.” She checked her phone. “First meeting is in fifteen minutes.”
Grant nodded, taking a breath, but remembered what Mocks had told him about moving on, about getting out of neutral. A part of him didn’t think this was what she meant, but for the first time since Ellen passed, or since he was kicked off the force, Grant felt purpose flood through him.
He looked at the watch on his wrist then switched the mode to timer. He clicked start, and the first few seconds wound past. “Let’s get started.”
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Missing Person: Book 1
1
Due to the chronic pain and the darkness, Charles Copella had lost track of time. He faded in and out of consciousness, only woken by a draft of cold air or a nightmare. The restraints over his chest, wrists, and ankles were a reminder of his captivity. Not that they were needed anymore. He could barely keep his head up, let alone try to escape.
But the restricted mobility only added to his torture. His feet and legs had swollen, doubling in size and turning a light shade of purple. He couldn’t wiggle his toes anymore, and any feeling beneath the waist had disappeared. He’d soiled himself a half dozen times, but he couldn’t smell it anymore.
Drifting between consciousness and unconsciousness, sanity and madness, Charles spasmed randomly in pain from the welts, bruises, and lacerations that covered his body. The worst was the wound in his left shoulder, which had finally clotted, except now it reeked of infection, and he was sure that those fever dreams that plagued his sleep were because of it. Even if he did get out of this alive, he didn’t expect to be whole again. But so long as his family was safe, so long as he didn’t give up the one ace up his sleeve, they had a chance.
Charles hadn’t seen his wife since they were taken. But he knew that they didn’t have his daughter. If they did, they would have used her against him the first day. They’d threatened his life and his wife, but so far the only damage that had been done was to him. So far as he knew.
The metallic groan of the door opening preceded the blinding light that accompanied his captor’s entrance, and Charles jolted awake, keeping his face turned away, eyes squinted shut. Whatever courage he owned was taken the night he was brought here, and as the sound of f
ootsteps filled the room, he trembled.
Each time, the torture was different. Waterboarding came first, then sleep deprivation, and the welts and bruises on his face were from the most recent effort to extract information. The abductors made a game out of it. Every time Charles didn’t answer a question, they hit him. And every time he did answer a question, they hit him. It was a game that Charles could never win.
A fluorescent light flicked on, and the door clanged shut. In the light, blood and sweat shimmered off of Charles’s body, which no longer resembled the thirty-eight-year-old frame that was plucked from his home in the middle of the night.
“Charles.” The voice was smooth, calm, masking the violence just below the surface. “Are you ready to cooperate?”
He didn’t answer. He’d been quiet for so long, he wasn’t sure he remembered how to speak. But it was better that way. Silence was survival.
“Charles.” The voice was accompanied by the touch of a hand that lifted Charles’s face, like a human tugging the leash of a disobedient dog.
Charles blinked. The man speaking to him was blurry due to his vision struggling to maintain focus.
“I asked you if you’re ready to cooperate, Charles.”
Charles struggled to work his lips and tongue in coordination with his thoughts. He stuttered, mumbling nonsense. Finally, he stopped himself, hunching over in exhaustion.
“Oh, Charles.” The man shook his head. “Don’t you want to get out of here? Don’t you want to see your family again?”
“M-M-M-Mary,” Charles said.
“Yes, Mary,” he replied. “Don’t you want to keep her safe?”
The man paced around Charles, the expensive leather of his shoes skirting the shit and piss that had congealed around the legs of his chair. Charles used to own shoes like that. He used to wear suits and drive nice cars and take expensive trips around the world. But like Icarus, he had flown too close to the sun, burning his wax wings, and had fallen from his perch among the rich and powerful.
