The stranger took notice. His eyes widened, and clearly frightened, he turned and took off at a run. Chris yelled “Move!” at the crowd and took off after him, vaulting over the barricade as they scattered. The stranger weaved in and out of the stragglers milling about, pushing people aside in his hurry to escape—for Chris they simply got out of the way. He was vaguely aware that there were others running behind him, possibly the police, but he didn’t waste time looking over his shoulder to find out. Pouring on as much speed as he could muster in the heavy bunker gear, he charged forward, the distance between them growing shorter.
By now they had run to the entrance of the complex. The stranger veered into the lane, likely hoping that his sudden change in direction would slow his pursuer down. What he hadn’t counted on was the large Ford truck turning in at precisely the same moment. He was hit and thrown about fifteen feet back in the direction from which he’d come. Chris stopped short at the curb, flailing his arms momentarily to stop himself from also being hit as the driver of the diesel-powered vehicle slammed on the brakes. As soon as he’d gained balance, he ran back to where the blond stranger lay groaning on the asphalt.
“I couldn’t stop in time,” the truck’s driver declared as he dropped out of his car. “He ran right out in front of me!”
Chris ignored him and knelt next to the blond man moments before two uniformed officers joined him. One of them radioed for the on-scene detectives and requested an ambulance as Chris looked into the eyes of the man he’d chased.
“You’re Larry, aren’t you?” he asked.
The man nodded and then coughed, sending blood and spittle into the air and rolling down the side of his face.
“Tell me where Martie is. Where did you take her and Ronnie?” Chris demanded.
Larry shook his head. “H…he’ll kill…me,” he wheezed.
“Looks to me like you’re already in danger of dying. ‘Fess up now and meet your maker with a clear conscience. Where are they?”
Larry shook his head again and Chris grabbed his shirt, lifting him up off the ground. “Tell me where Martie is, Larry!”
“Chris, back off!” Scott yelled as he ran up to the scene.
He ignored him. “Where is she?!” he screamed, shaking Larry like a rag doll.
Scott grabbed him by the arm. “Let him go, Chris, and back off!”
He was joined by one of the uniformed officers, a burly fellow who took Chris’s other arm in hand. Together he and Scott pulled at Chris, who tried to maintain his grip on Larry’s shirt and shrug them off at the same time. Desperation entered his voice as he said, “Just tell me where you took her! Tell me where they are!”
Larry’s eyes widened as he looked up at them. He started to gurgle and cough, causing more blood to spill from his lips. His eyes rolled back in his head and his chest stopped rising, and then he went limp. Chris set him back on the ground and started chest compressions as soon as Scott and the officer released him.
“No you don’t, you son of a bitch!” he yelled as he pushed, noting absently that Larry had suffered a number of broken ribs when the truck had hit him, and that the blood he’d spit up was the likely result of a punctured lung.
“You’re not clocking out on me, Larry,” he said, still pushing rhythmically. “I’m not going to let you die until you tell me where they are. Wake up, damn it. Wake up!”
***
Martie nearly jumped out of her skin when Graham reached into a pocket and pulled out a folded knife. Staying calm with her shirt open and a killer on her lap—a man she thought she knew—was becoming more and more difficult.
Graham unfolded the knife, then traced a finger down her cleavage, making her skin crawl. “I’ve wanted to see these beautiful breasts for so long. Do you mind if I have a look?”
Without even waiting for a response, he hooked his finger around the middle of the bra where the two cups met and pulled it out. He then carefully slipped the knife between the fabric and her skin, saying, “Don’t worry, I won’t cut you,” as he jerked it toward himself. The lace and cotton split, and his breathing became ever more shallow as he stared at her chest, folding the knife against his leg and putting it back in his pocket before reaching up and slowly peeling the cups of her bra away from her skin.
“Oh my God,” he said reverently. “You’re beautiful, Martie, do you know that? Your tits are so fucking beautiful.”
He cupped his hands around them again, and Martie bit her lip to keep the rising bile in her stomach from reaching her throat. Graham began to knead her breasts, his thumbs once again brushing against the nipples. At the same time, she felt his hips beginning to move, gyrating slowly back and forth as his ministrations excited him.
“They feel so good in my hands, baby,” Graham told her. “I love your tits. I want to fuck them—oh my God, I just have to fuck them!”
He stood then and unzipped his jeans, shoving them and his briefs down and exposing his partially erect penis. Swallowing against the threat of vomiting, Martie’s eyes widened, horrified that she was about to be sexually abused—and that there was nothing she could do about it. Graham grabbed hold of her breasts again and stepped forward, bending slightly at the knee as he laid himself against her skin and closed her flesh around his.
I will not cry, I will not cry, she vowed to herself, closing her eyes and biting her lip again so that she didn’t have to watch. She wished she could turn off her sense of touch as easily as that of her sight as Graham began to move, sliding himself up and down between her breasts. He began to moan, and his grip on her became painfully tight as he began to pump faster.
“Oh man, this feels so good!” he declared. “Oh Martie, you make me so hot. I can’t wait until you’re ready for me to fuck you for real. It’ll be so good, baby, I swear. I’ll make you come so hard you’ll forget every other loser you ever slept with.”
Martie doubted that. Her eyes stung with unshed tears and she was forced to release her bottom lip or she’d draw blood.
“Kenny?”
Graham growled angrily, but he didn’t stop. “What the fuck do you want, Veronica?”
“I want you,” she replied.
Her assailant stopped moving, and Martie opened her eyes, looking around him at Ronnie as he turned and looked over his shoulder. “What’s the matter, Veronica? Are you jealous I’m giving my dick to another woman?” he asked her.
“I don’t know about jealous, baby, but it sure is making me hot,” Ronnie replied. “I never thought that watching other people would turn me on so much.”
What the hell is she doing? Martie thought. She can’t be serious.
Graham stepped away from her and before she could act on the sudden impulse to kick him in his exposed balls, he turned and sauntered across the room to stand before Ronnie, who sat perpendicular to Martie. He took his member in his hand and began to stroke himself.
“You want this, huh? You miss it, don’t you? Tell me, little whore, do you miss my dick?”
Ronnie nodded. “Yes, I… Your little whore misses your dick.”
Graham chuckled. “Prove it. Suck my cock, you dirty whore.”
With that he stepped forward, his legs on either side of Ronnie as he had stood over Martie, who watched with increasing horror as the other leaned forward and placed her mouth around Graham’s penis.
She couldn’t believe this—was sickened by what was happening right in front of her. Graham had threaded his hands into Ronnie’s hair on either side of her head and was now rhythmically thrusting himself in and out of her mouth. She had closed her eyes tight, and the tear that escaped from the corner of the eye Martie could see told her that she wasn’t doing this because she wanted to: she was returning the favor. Martie “waking up” had saved her from a possibly brutal rape, and Ronnie was now trying to spare her the same fate.
Something told Martie that Graham wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t be satisfied with just a blow job. He’d been going on and on about how much he wanted to fuck them,
and she instinctively knew that one or both of them would end up being his unwilling partner if Larry didn’t hurry back soon. On the one hand, she would welcome the interruption, but on the other, she hoped he was thwarted by the police, that little Jessica was already safely ensconced in protective custody.
She needed to do something. She was proud of Ronnie for her sacrifice, but she couldn’t let this go on much longer—but what could she do with her hands tied behind her back? She’d already tried the rope binding her wrists together and her body to the chair. Larry had done a thorough job on the knots, as she couldn’t get loose even a little.
Think, Martie! she scolded herself. You’ve got legs, don’t you?
She took a few deep breaths to shore up her nerve, and judged the distance between Graham and herself to be about five feet. She could run at him and head-butt the bastard, knock him over…but then what?
Cross that bridge when you come to it and just do something! she yelled at herself silently, and taking one more breath, she made her move.
Martie launched herself across the room and slammed into Graham’s side as he turned toward her, surprised that she’d moved. They went down in a tangle, knocking Ronnie over in the process. Rolling to try and get back to her feet, ignoring the pain in her shoulder from the fall, Martie grunted as she struggled to stand upright.
“You bitch!” Graham screamed, reaching for her before she could move away and grabbing her by the hair. “You lied to me!”
Martie hissed as he yanked her back to the ground. “You lied to me, you bastard!” she yelled back, bracing herself just in time as he swung his left foot and kicked her forcefully in the stomach. She grunted, tears stinging her eyes as the pain seared across her midsection. Graham got down on one knee and grabbed her by the hair again, lifting her head and leaning close.
“How could you do this to me—to us?” he seethed, slapping her hard with his free hand. “I had such plans for us! I would have made you happier than your wildest dreams, Martie—how could you betray me?!”
She spit at him. “How could you betray me, Graham?” she retorted bitterly. “How could you betray your wife, your family? How could you betray the oath you took to protect and serve?”
Rather than reply, he hit her again. More pain lanced through her skull and she blinked against the spots dancing before her eyes.
“We would have been great together!” Graham raged. “I wanted you willing and compliant—you’re too good to be forced, Martie. Or so I thought. Now I’ll have to take what I’ve wanted from you for the last ten years whether you like it or not!”
He reached for the ropes binding her, and Martie struggled, bringing her knees up to try and strike him. Graham pulled his hand back in a fist and punched her, and an agony so blinding that she nearly passed out radiated all over her skull.
Too disoriented from the blow to fight, Graham managed to untie her. He had just shoved the chair out of the way and rolled her onto her back when Ronnie cried out wildly and threw herself at him. As they struggled with each other Martie struggled to stay conscious, knowing that it was crucial to hers and Ronnie’s survival.
As she rolled onto her stomach and tried to focus, Ronnie suddenly screamed. Martie looked up, and to her horror she saw that Graham had managed to pull his knife, which was now sticking out of Ronnie’s stomach. He jerked it out and stabbed her again, pulling the knife out one more time and watching Ronnie drop to the floor before turning to Martie.
“Now it’s just you and me, bitch,” he snarled, punching the other cheek as he reached her and knocking her back to the floor. Martie’s stomach heaved and she fought the blackness again, rolling clumsily away from him. Graham grabbed her arm and rolled her onto her back once more, straddling her on his knees as he angrily jerked at her fly.
“I’m going to have you, Martie,” he taunted her. “I’m going to fuck you hard and fuck you fast, and while I’m pounding my cock inside that wicked pussy of yours you’re going to beg my forgiveness.”
He then drew the edge of the knife blade across her throat, leaving a trail of Ronnie’s blood in its wake. “And if you don’t, I will kill you while I fuck you.”
Fourteen
“Graham, please.”
He paused, and a smile spread across his face. “Please what?” he prompted.
“Please don’t hurt me,” Martie had been about to say, but instead felt her heart sing Hallelujah when a voice—Chris’s voice—called out her name.
“Martie!”
“No!” Graham roared, shoving to his feet. He pushed his suddenly flaccid flesh back into his pants, hastily doing up the fly as he made his way over to the bedroom door.
“Chris,” Martie called out weakly, coughing as she sat up. “Chris! I’m here! We’re here!”
“Shut up!” Graham shouted, stepping back to her long enough to hit her again, his backhanded strike sending her crashing to the floor a third time. Through the haze of pain she watched as he then walked over to the burned-up dresser by the door and grabbed a container sitting there, what she realized with growing terror was a plastic gas can.
Graham popped the tab on the spout and started pouring the contents across the doorway. Martie immediately recognized the smell of acetone. He pulled a lighter from his pocket, flicking it open as he poured more of the liquid from the canister around the room.
She could hear Chris and at least two others pounding through the building, opening doors as they searched, the sound coming from below. Fighting the nausea and pain, she cried out to him. “Chris! Up here! He’s going to start a fire!”
Graham turned to her as he tossed the now-empty canister aside. He held up the butane lighter, and she could see from the look in his eyes that he was ready to go. He’d been caught and there was no way out for him now. But if he was going, then he was going to take them all with him.
“Graham, don’t do it!” she pleaded. “You’ll kill us all if you light that fire.”
“That would be the plan, my dear,” Graham replied, sounding almost sad. “I love you, Martie. I wanted you so much, and you betrayed me. I would have given you anything and everything you ever wanted. But you lied to me. You betrayed me, and now you’re calling for that fucking loser!”
As he spoke, she could hear Chris and his companions (the police, she hoped) enter the apartment they were holed up in.
“Martie!” Chris called.
“I’m not going to let it happen,” Graham said. “He can’t have you. You’re mine, Martie. And now…you always will be.”
With a flick of his thumb, the flint was struck and a flame appeared. Graham turned as Chris appeared in the doorway, then threw the lighter.
***
It had taken a minute or two, Chris couldn’t be sure, but by the time the ambulance arrived for Larry, he’d gotten the man’s heart beating again. As the medics brought their equipment, he leaned over the injured man and said, “I am begging you… Please tell me where they are.”
“Sir, I need you to move out of the way,” one of the EMTs said.
“No, he needs to tell me where he took them!”
Chris felt a hand on his shoulder. “Chris, he’s not going to be able to tell anyone anything if you don’t let the medics stabilize him,” Scott said softly.
A guttural cry born of fear, anger, and frustration escaped him as he stood and gave the EMT room to work. The medics started immediately, taking Larry’s vitals and assessing his condition. Chris began to feel the panic closing in again, stealing the breath from his lungs. Martie was out there, possibly suffering at the hands of a madman, and he could do nothing help her.
“We’re going to find her, Chris,” Scott assured him again.
He turned to the detective at his side. “I want her back, man. I don’t care what she’s done, I want her back.”
Scott nodded in silent understanding, then looked down at the medics as they worked. The one who had urged Chris to move said to Larry, “Try not to talk right now sir. We
need you to stay calm.”
Larry gurgled again, and Chris could see his lips moving. The medic leaned down to catch his words, then turned to look up at them. “He said ‘Breckon’—that mean anything to you?”
Chris and Scott exchanged a look. The Breckon Apartments—that was where this nightmare had all started. That was where, it appeared, it all would end.
He turned and walked up to the driver of the truck that had struck Larry. “I need to borrow your truck,” he said.
The driver, a kid who couldn’t be more than twenty-two if a day, blinked, appearing to still be somewhat dazed by the fact that he’d run a man down. “Uh…sure.”
That was all the permission Chris needed, and he headed for the driver’s side door.
“Chris, wait a minute!” Scott said. “You can’t go down there, not without back-up.”
He whirled even as he pulled the door handle to open it. “And you sure as fuck can’t go down there with sirens blaring—the bastard that has them might kill both Martie and Ronnie!”
Scott scowled at him. “I’m well aware of the risks. You need to let me do my job. I’ll have units surround the building—no sirens—until we can get there.”
“We?” Chris queried.
The detective nodded. “Clearly I’m not going to be able to leave you behind, not without using a Taser on you. I’d rather have you with me so I know exactly where you are.”
“Then get in, Detective.”
Scott turned toward the officers keeping the new crowd back as Chris was climbing in behind the wheel. “Cooper, call in to Dispatch. Tell them we have a possible 207 situation at 1427 West High. Suspect is likely a 417. I want them to respond Code 2.”
“Got it, Detective,” the officer replied, reaching for his mike.
Scott jogged around to the passenger side of the truck as Chris gunned the engine, pealing out backward as soon as he’d shut the door.
Fire Born (Firehouse 343) Page 20
