The Trapped Girls Collection: Detective Grant Abduction Mysteries

by James Hunt

  5

  The moment Grant was out of eyeshot of the marshal building, he broke into a sprint, and he didn’t slow down until he no longer heard the din of the alarm, but he still kept a light jog.

  Rule number one after abduction was to get as far away from the point of extraction as possible, as fast as possible. Once Hickem determined that Grant was no longer in the building, assuming they found out it was he who accessed Links’s accounts, it wouldn’t be long before they put the whole city on lockdown.

  But Grant didn’t have any plans on leaving Seattle. Everything he needed and planned to do was within the city limits. Still, he kept off the main roads, dodging down side alleys and skittering through slums. He knew every dark spot in the city, and he planned on using that to his advantage. If he couldn’t evade the authorities for the next twenty-four hours in his own damn city, then he would hang up his coat for good.

  Still, even with Grant’s knowledge of Seattle and his understanding of the authorities’ response, it wasn’t going to be a cakewalk.

  Grant’s face was about to be plastered on every television and computer screen in the country. He flipped up the collar of his jacket and kept his head down, hands in his pockets, feeling the thumb drive between his fingers.

  He had no idea what he downloaded, but he knew that it had to be tied to the money. Even though Links had the codes, the accounts still hadn’t been drained.

  Withdrawing 5.8 billion dollars and hiding it was no easy task. It would take a slew of accounts to handle transferring that much money. Grant just needed to figure out exactly how Links planned on accomplishing that.

  He planted his foot in a puddle down an alleyway, causing water to splash up his pant leg. He paused to shake the water from his shoe, and when he lifted his head, he saw a police cruiser crawl past the alleyway entrance.

  He froze, knowing that if he made any sudden movements it would only draw more attention to him, so he continued his charade of drying his pant leg, waiting for the cruiser to disappear. With nothing but the trunk viewable from the alley, Grant sprinted in the opposite direction, quickly veering left at an intersection of alleys behind a mix of apartment buildings and businesses.

  Panting, he leaned up against a brick wall, the rough edges of stone catching on his jacket, as he caught his breath. He needed to find a place to lie low, someplace where he could blend in with others who didn’t want to be found. The docks fit that bill perfectly.

  Grant craned his neck around the corner of the alley where he’d just retreated from and found the police car gone, and his heart rate slowed. He’d head north and then skirt around downtown and then head west to the water. Pending any sightings by police or pedestrians, he should be fine.

  But just to be sure, Grant scoured the dumpsters in the back alleys, knowing he needed a change of clothes. He found a ratty old coat, the faded blue smeared with dirt, and a weathered grey beanie that he pulled over his skull.

  Both reeked with a rotten stench, but it helped him blend into the local community of drug addicts and homeless that plagued not just the docks but also the whole city. It had been a problem when Grant lived in Seattle, and there hadn’t been much in the way of progress, at least from what he could tell.

  The huddled masses that clumped beneath dirty sheets, towels, boxes, and newspapers either slept from exhaustion or were passed out from their most recent high. He watched outstretched feet poking out from blankets twitch from the drugs coursing through the people’s veins.

  People didn’t realize the thin line between their life and the lives of the homeless. Your world could come undone in the blink of an eye. He remembered telling Mocks about that one night during his probation. His very public trial had recently ended, and he had to fight the urge to run.

  “I just want to fade away,” Grant said.

  “That’s not who you are, Grant,” Mocks said. “You don’t run away from things. You run through them.”

  Grant shook his head. “Did you ever get like this? Going through rehab?”

  “A few times. But my desire for disappearing stemmed more from escaping to a place where I could do bad things. Getting high was the purpose for my retreat.”

  Grant spoke softly, ashamed of the meaning behind his words. “Sometimes I want to end it, Mocks. Just pull the trigger and—”

  Mocks slapped him hard. “Don’t you dare.” Mocks thrust her finger in his face, those pale, freckled cheeks so red it looked as if she’d been permanently burned. “I swear to god, if you ever have those thoughts, you call me immediately. Do you understand?” She grabbed him by the chin and forced his gaze into hers. “You got it, Detective?”

  It had been the first time since his dismissal that anyone had called him that, and Grant figured it was part of the nostalgia that pulled him out of those dark thoughts. And despite how real they felt during the time, and how close he came, Mocks wasn’t ever convinced that he would have really tried to kill himself.

  But it wasn’t long after he finished his probation and moved to Deville that Mocks started giving him the cold cases to work. Grant figured she thought it would be good for him or, at the very least, keep his mind busy. But in the end, even that wasn’t enough.

  Was he still trying to destroy himself? Was that what all of this had really been about? Some internal desire to push himself until there wasn’t anything left?

  Mocks had tried to tell him before he got himself into this mess that he needed to move on, and he had convinced himself that he had, but here he was, in the same position he found himself in four years ago, without a badge and trying to save his partner’s life. Except Mocks wasn’t his partner anymore, and she held two souls in her body now.

  It seemed that while Grant had always tried to help people, to bring them home to safety and peace, it always came at the cost of the people he cared about. But wasn’t that what Links had told him? Sacrifice one to save a thousand?

  A police siren cast a sudden din, blue and red lights flashing down the alley, and Grant froze in his tracks as he half turned toward the cruiser that had snuck up on him while he was daydreaming.

  “Stay where you are, and keep your hands in the air where I can see them.” The officer’s voice blared through the speaker, and Grant complied but knew the moment those cops got a look at him he was finished.

  The car doors of the cruiser opened, and Grant looked at the stirring homeless that lined the alley, flipping off their blankets, and squinting because of the blinding headlights and spotlight that the officers flicked on.

  “All right, everybody, up!” the officer barked, his boots splashing in the puddles with a violent urgency. “You, buddy, turn around!”

  The decision was quick, and Grant wasn’t sure if it would even work since half of the alley was still asleep under blankets, but it was his only shot. “Cops! Everybody run! Cops!”

  Grant’s voice thundered down the alley, and he sprinted away from the police, kicking a few pairs of feet along the way in hopes of stirring the people awake.

  “Hey! Freeze!” The officers drew their pistols, and Grant knew their sights were lining up on his back. But with the added urgency of the officer’s voices, the homeless people started to wake and then joined in Grant’s retreat from the authorities.

  With a wave of bodies now between Grant and the rest of the homeless, Grant finally dared to turn around.

  The cops had subdued three or four of the people that had nestled themselves in the alley, but the majority had heeded Grant’s call to flee, and dozens of homeless flooded from the alley and into the streets, surprising pedestrians and angering a few drivers as some of them sprinted out into the roads without looking to cross.

  Grant kept north, knowing that it was still the best option for him to make it to the docks. Once again he had passed onto the other side and found himself in a race against time.

  Sam remained on the other side of the one-way glass while Hickem continued his talk with Rick. Aside from Sam, Rick was th
e only other person that spoke to Grant before he decided to go rogue.

  The first thing she needed to determine was what Grant had accessed on her computer. It had to be something to help Links move the money.

  Rick and Hickem’s conversation turned from interrogation to shouting match, and it ended with Hickem storming out of the room. He slammed the door so hard it rattled the walls, and when he entered the viewing room, the steam was still blowing out of his ears.

  “That guy is a piece of work,” Hickem said, pointing toward the mirror, then paced back and forth in the short space between Sam and the door.

  “His pregnant wife was kidnapped by a sociopath,” Sam replied.

  “And you’d think he’d be a little more forthcoming with information in trying to help us get her back!” Hickem raised his arms and then flapped them down hard at his sides. “I swear if it wasn’t for having to deal with people, this would be the easiest job in the world.”

  “What’d he say?” Sam asked.

  Hickem leaned his shoulder up against the glass, and Sam could only see Hickem’s reflection. “He said that Grant told him he was sorry, and that he would do whatever was necessary to get her back.” He faced Sam. “And then he told Grant that if he didn’t bring her back alive, he’d kill him.”

  “Strong words.” Sam sat on the edge of the table in the room, arms crossed as she watched Rick pace the room. She couldn’t imagine the hell he was going through at that moment. But from the rage still steaming off of him, she had no doubts about Rick keeping his promise.

  “Has he contacted you?” Hickem asked.

  “What?”

  Hickem shuffled toward her. “If he’s going to ask anyone for help, then it’ll be you. So has he reached out?”

  “No,” Sam answered. “Whatever he’s going to do, he’s dead set on finishing it alone.”

  Hickem regarded her, for once keeping his thoughts to himself, and then finally nodded. “All right, Cohen. But if he does try to reach out, then you should tell me. Or at least tell Multz. Because if you help him, your career is over. There won’t be an agency or department that would be willing to hire you, and you’d be thrown into the treason conversation along with Links and Grant. It’s not worth it.”

  “It’s worth it to him.” Sam gestured toward Rick.

  Hickem’s expression softened. “I admire the hell out of Grant.” He moved close to Sam, and she finally had a sense of his size. As a tall woman, it was rare she felt that way with a man. “But we have a job to do.”

  “So what now?” Sam asked.

  “I’ve got IT running a diagnostic on your computer, so I hope you cleared your porn cookies before it was confiscated. We’ll see what was taken, what it could be used for, and if we can track it.”

  Sam arched her left eyebrow. “It has to be some program to move the money, right? I mean it’s the only thing that Links would want.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Grant said. “But after everything that’s happened, I really can’t be sure of anything these days.”

  Sam forgot how much this had probably affected the big guy. She knew that if she discovered that Multz was somehow a double agent or betraying the agency and country that she cared for so much, she’d be a little wary too.

  Anyone who chose law enforcement as a career, no matter the agency or position, understood very quickly that they were walking into a very big family, and that loyalty had to be earned.

  And once that loyalty was earned, it was coveted more than any other asset in an officer’s repertoire. An officer of the law wore that badge more proudly than any other commendation or medal. It was the ultimate sign of respect and fraternity.

  Nathan Links had been given that trust among his peers and subordinates and even the country. And the moment he decided to get into bed with Anton Joza, that trust and loyalty was shattered. And if there was one cardinal sin in law enforcement, it was to break that loyalty. Because those were bonds that could never be mended.

  “I’m sorry about Links,” Sam said. “Regardless of what he did, I know you worked with him for a long time.”

  “He was the one who pushed for my appointment to deputy director,” Hickem said, his expression showing that he was lost in nostalgia. “He could be a hard ass, but he was very good at his job.” He frowned. “I actually looked up to him.” Hickem grimaced with pain.

  “He fooled everyone, Hickem,” Sam said.

  “Yeah, well, we better get to it.” Hickem headed for the door, and when he opened it, he exposed the small viewing room to the noises of the marshals’ building. He paused and turned back to Sam. “Grant will run this till the end if it kills him. You know that, right?”

  “Yeah,” Sam answered. “I know.”

  Hickem nodded then shut the door behind him, leaving Sam alone in the viewing room. She looked through the glass and saw that Rick had finally sat down. The anger had subsided, and he bowed his head, tears streaming from his eyes in buckets, his shoulders bobbing up and down.

  Sam reached for the speaker switch and flipped it on, letting Rick’s sobs echo through to her. Twice, Rick tried to stop himself, and twice he failed. He moaned, cried, and swayed from side to side, still unable to come to terms with his grief.

  Mary Copella had cried like that when Sam told her what happened to Charles. She had screamed and cursed and called her every name under the sun. Sam couldn’t imagine the words exchanged between Rick and Grant. Those two had history. And history always muddied the water.

  6

  Mocks couldn’t see her feet, but she knew by the bloated feeling in her toes that they were swollen, but nine months into her pregnancy, she’d grown used to it. It helped that she could walk around the room, but there was only so much waddling she could do before she grew tired and was forced to sit.

  The video camera in the corner prevented her from trying anything funny, not that there was much she could do to escape. The door was steel and locked from the outside.

  But what was worse than solitary confinement was the anxiety of not knowing what was happening beyond that closed door, which had caused the baby to stir into a frenzy. So she entertained herself the best way she knew how, by being a nuisance.

  “Hey!” Mocks’s voice echoed off the walls, only the hum of the halogen lights providing an answer. “You’re really going to let a pregnant woman piss her pants?”

  Silence lingered a little bit longer, and then footsteps echoed on the other side of the door, the noise reaching a crescendo as the door quickly swung open and Links entered, still flanked by the Neanderthals.

  “Stop screaming,” Links said, rubbing his temples. “It’s distracting.”

  “Then let me go to the bathroom,” Mocks said, her tone petulant and defiant.

  Links leaned forward. “So what’s stopping you?”

  “Why don’t you get a little closer, and then maybe I’ll think about it?”

  Links smiled smugly. “Not really my thing.” He turned to leave, and Mocks felt the desperation and pain override her pride.

  “Wait, please.” Mocks jerked forward, praying she could at least keep the tears at bay. “I won’t cause any trouble.”

  “And how do I know that?” Links quickly spun on his heel, those green eyes regarding her with a mockingly accusing tone. “How do I know that the moment I have these men let you out of this room, you won’t try something stupid that’ll get you killed before Grant gives me what I want?”

  “I’m not going to do anything to risk the life of my child,” Mocks said.

  Links walked toward her, the heels of his expensive leather shoes clacking against the concrete in the same arrogant tone as their first encounter. He stopped at the chair and bent down into Mocks’s face close enough for her to smell the wretched sourness of his breath. “Prove it.”

  A chill ran down Mocks’s spine, her skin suddenly clammy and cold. She retreated from Links’s face, but he remained intimately close, refusing to lower his gaze. “How?” />
  Links smiled. “The burden of proof is on the prosecution, correct? You’re accusing me of not providing basic humanitarian needs. It’s up to—”

  “Links!”

  The booming voice preceded the man that entered. He was flanked by six more Eastern European thugs, and Mocks immediately recognized him. The bald head, the suit, the ugly grimace. It was Anton Joza.

  And judging by the way Links’s face flushed white, Mocks thought that he might be the one to soil his pants.

  “I didn’t realize that you had arrived.” Links smacked his lips together dryly. “How was the fli—”

  “You said you wanted to negotiate face-to-face. Talk.”

  “I told you when I have the money I will give it to you in exchange for my freedom.” Links cleared his throat, stepping behind Mocks for safety. “And then once I have my freedom, I’ll tell you where they’re holding your son.”

  There was no playfulness on Joza’s face. No hint of arrogance. Mocks had seen men like him dealing drugs when she was using. She saw it on the faces of pimps when their women got out of line. She saw it on the faces of those mean drunks who never went home without blood on their shirts. Anton Joza cared nothing for words. He was a man of action.

  “You will tell me where he is being held now,” Joza said. “And then I will decide whether to kill you.”

  “I have tapes!” Links blurted out. “Records of our conversations are with an attorney. If you kill me, then all of that information will be sent to the authorities.”

  Joza laughed and stepped closer. “And what information is that? Some dirt you found on one of my propped-up politicians? A deal I made with an unrecognized government? Someone I killed and you know where the body is buried?” Joza stopped just short of Mocks’s chair, close enough to choke her. “You think that other people don’t know what you know? You don’t think that someone tries to kill Anton Joza every day?” Joza’s men circled Links like a wolf pack.