by James Hunt
Grant took off his own and tossed it at Stacy’s feet then removed Mocks’s badge and added it to the pile. Mocks looked like she was ready to charge, so Grant made sure to keep half his body in front of hers to avoid any mishaps. And besides, if someone was going to do something stupid, it was the woman with the gun.
“Did you date him just to get close to the kids, or did you actually love him?” Grant asked.
“More for the kids,” Stacy answered. “And talk about the perfect cover!” She laughed, the stick up her ass suddenly removed, now that she could be herself. “It’s not hard playing the little church girl when you’re attractive. Hell, it’s not hard doing anything when you’re attractive. Not that everyone here would know.”
“Fuck you,” Mocks said.
“You’re not my type, sweetheart,” Stacy said then smiled, and the fading evening light made her eyes look bloodred. “If you only knew what I knew, Detectives. There’s a world you can’t even imagine out there.”
“Underground,” Grant said, trying to keep her talking, trying to stall, trying to figure out how he would keep Mocks afloat with those cuffs on. “You’re talking about the site you visited on Glenn’s computer.”
“Your cyber team will eventually find a ghost file with some stalking pictures I put on there of Mallory, but they won’t be able to crack the site.” She smirked. “No way some government pencil pusher could do that.”
This time of year the water was close to freezing. With Mocks in tow it was at least a five- to ten-minute swim to the shore from all the way out here. More than enough time for hypothermia to set in, and the wind would only make it worse when they finally made it out… If they made it out.
“We will nail you, bitch,” Mocks said. “I promise you that.”
“No. You won’t,” Stacy said, fingers curving over the triggers. “Turn around.”
“Can’t look us in the eye and do it?” Grant asked.
“Now!” Stacy said.
Slowly, the pair complied. Once they faced the water, Grant felt the barrel of steel once again return to the back of his skull. And judging from Mocks’s shudder, he guessed she had one on the back of hers as well. He knew she was scared. So was he.
“Goodbye, Detectives,” Stacy said.
It was now or never. As quick and as hard as he could, Grant shouldered Mocks forward and to the right, sending both of them crashing to the waves below. Gunshots thundered, but when Grant smacked into the icy waters, his whole body went into shock. He could have been shot a dozen times and he wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference between the bullets and the thousands of knives piercing his skin.
Underwater, Grant opened his eyes, the cold stinging his eyeballs. The water was dark and murky, and he groped in front of him but couldn’t find Mocks. His lungs choked for air, and he clawed toward the surface. He broke the plane of water and was met with an icy burst of air that burned his cheeks.
Gunshots fired from above, and Grant splashed frantically for the cover underneath the pier, then plunged back under to search for Mocks. His heart rate was jacked and his muscles stiff and sluggish, but the initial shock had lessened a little.
Again, his lungs choked for air, and just when he was about to paddle back toward the surface he saw a figure in the murky depths. He plunged deeper, his muscles cramping from the lack of oxygen, and as he drew closer he saw Mocks kicking both legs and the last few bubbles of breath escaping her lungs.
Grant grabbed her under the left arm and shoved her toward the surface, both kicking with maddening fury. The last few inches felt like it would kill them, but when they broke the surface they gulped the icy, life-giving air.
Mocks coughed up a mouthful of water, her lips almost blue, but whatever reprieve they hoped to have was spoiled by the continued gunfire from above. Bullets splintered the old wooden boards of the dock, sending lead and wood raining over their heads.
With Mocks still cuffed and disoriented, Grant took hold of one of the pillars and shielded her from the gunfire. Stacy screamed unintelligible words, but it wasn’t long before she was out of bullets as well as patience. Footsteps scurried back toward the shore, and then there was the faint sound of Grant’s car starting then driving away.
Grant spun Mocks around, struggling to keep the two of them afloat. “You all right?”
Mocks’s teeth clattered together, and she wouldn’t stop shivering. “Bitch still has my gun.”
Grant laughed and then kissed her forehead. “Humor is a good sign. C’mon.” The next ten minutes were grueling. The waves and cold battered him as he kicked and clawed to the seawall, looking for any ladder or rope the pair could ascend.
The longer Grant stayed in the water, the more his limbs turned into immovable pieces of lead. His joints stiffened, and halfway to the dock Mocks had run out of steam. He was lucky she was so small. If it was anyone else he didn’t think they would have made it.
His shoe scraped barnacled concrete from an old boat ramp, and Grant sighed relief. He dragged Mocks out of the water, and the pair collapsed on the ground and wheezed, trying to stave off hypothermia a little while longer.
The cold seeped through everything: clothes, skin, muscle, all the way to the core of Grant’s bones. “We… need to… radio… for backup,” Grant said, chattering through clanking teeth. He clawed his fingers into the dirt and pulled himself over to Mocks, who had stopped shivering; a very bad sign.
Mocks’s lips were blue, and her eyes were half-closed. He gave her body a gentle shake. “Mocks, stay with me.” He pressed his fingers against the side of her neck and felt the faint bump of a pulse. Ice formed in her hair and eyebrows, freezing from the cruel coastal winds.
Grant looked around for anything that could warm her and noticed an empty oil drum on its side along with a cluster of trash that had spilled out of a dumpster. With two shaking legs, he pushed himself off the ground and forced himself to walk to the empty oil drum.
Every step felt like his bones were going to snap in half. Numbed fingers flipped the empty drum barrel right side up, and then he grabbed as many old papers from the dumpster as he could, tossing them inside the drum barrel. With it about a quarter of the way full, he dragged the barrel over to Mocks and then patted her down to find the lighter in her pocket.
He pressed his thumb against the starter, but no spark flickered to life. He repeated it a few times, frustration building as he gritted his teeth and did his best to steady his shaking hands. Sparks finally ejected from the lighter’s barrel, then flame, which he held to paper.
It smoldered for a minute but caught fire even in the cold. He dropped the makeshift tinder into the can, and the rest slowly caught fire. Embers flew from the drum barrel into the fresh night sky, and Grant dragged Mocks’s body to the barrel to keep her warm.
Grant reached for his phone, but the cold bay waters had done their work well, leaving him nothing but a black screen. He patted Mocks down, who was now shivering, a better sign, but when he found her cell phone, it was in the same condition as his. He cursed under his breath and then hobbled away from the warmth of the fire and deeper into the biting wind that had picked up speed.
When Grant reached the road there was no sign of Stacy or his car, or any other vehicle for that matter. It was nothing but asphalt as far as the eye could see. He glanced down at his watch, which had survived the plunge, and the timer ticked up to ten hours. The next thirty minutes were crucial. He knew Stacy would transport herself and Mallory somewhere new now that she had been found out. It was the only play she had left.
Grant stumbled down the road, his ragged and tired brain trying to remember any buildings or stores they passed on the way over. But every time he got close to a thought, it was quickly snuffed out by a blast of icy wind.
Exhausted, Grant collapsed to his knees. The timer on his watch continued to tick away seconds. And every second that passed was one more where Stacy had time to get a head start. Mallory, the girl who had wanted an adventure
, was now going to take a trip from hell.
Grant closed his eyes, and he saw his wife then suddenly felt warmer. Ellen smiled, and he reciprocated, his face tight and numb. She was in the living room, playing the piano. She was so good, and he loved to watch her play. It was her hands. She had the most beautiful hands.
A pair of headlights appeared down the road, and Grant lifted his head. It looked more like a mirage at first, but the longer he stared and the closer it moved, the more he realized it was real. He waved his hands in the air, stepping out into the road, forcing the car to stop.
Grant reached for his badge but quickly remembered that Stacy had taken it. He leaned against the hood, his hands warming against the engine as the driver rolled down his window. He wore a jacket and beanie, squinting through a pair of small glasses that rested on the bridge of his nose. “Damn, buddy, are you all right?”
“I need… your phone.”
***
By the time medics and the police arrived at the old marina, Grant had run out of paper to burn in the old oil drum, and Mocks had slipped into unconsciousness. The prick who let Grant use the phone bolted the moment the call was over. Had he a coherent mind, Grant would have gotten the license plate number and paid a visit to him later. He had at least been able to take the handcuffs off Mocks though, the key managing to stay in his pocket after the plunge.
A change of clothes was brought for Grant, and a liaison from Seattle PD arrived to take his statement, though the officer moved a little too slowly for Grant’s taste.
“It was your squad car that was stolen, Detective?” the officer asked, repeating what Grant had just told him.
“Yes,” Grant answered, a space blanket wrapped around him and the growing warmth fanned by the flames of frustration. “You need to get on the horn with dispatch and put in a request to lock down my vehicle’s GPS coordinates. It’s registered as an undercover vehicle, so it will have LoJack.”
The officer asked him something else, but the sound of Mocks awakening on the stretcher in the back of the ambulance stole his attention. He jogged over, his knees still stiff from their icy swim.
“Let me off this thing,” Mocks said, trying to sit up, but the paramedics kept her down. “I’m fine.”
“Ma’am, please,” one paramedic started. “You need to—”
“It’s all right, guys,” Grant said, walking up. When Mocks saw Grant, she relaxed a bit. “Give us a minute, will you?”
The paramedics nodded and begrudgingly hopped out of their ambulance and into the cold. Once they were gone, Mocks finally collapsed onto her back. Ice still lingered in her hair, and her skin was white as snow. They’d managed to get most of the wet clothes off and replaced them with frumpy wool blankets that made her look like a kid lying in a bed that was much too large for her.
“They want to take me to the hospital,” Mocks said.
“And that’s where you’re going,” Grant replied.
“Like hell I am.” Mocks lifted her head, reaching for the sheets. “I’m going with you.”
Grant placed his hand over hers. Her skin was still ice to the touch.
“You’re going to the hospital,” Grant said. “And you don’t have a choice in the matter.” A burst of color returned to her cheeks, and before she had a chance to rebuke his comment, he added, “You told me two years ago that we had each other’s backs. You made me promise that neither one of us would let us do something we knew we couldn’t handle, because it’s not about our stats, or our records, it’s about the people we help.” He placed a hand on her shoulder, and her muscles relaxed. “Remember?”
Mocks looked away. “You’re a pain in the ass sometimes, you know?”
Grant smiled. “I know.” He gestured for the paramedics, and they climbed back inside.
Mocks raised her head to look at him before they closed the doors. “Find her, Grant.”
“I will.”
The doors slammed shut, and the ambulance honked its horn, and the driver pulled out onto the road, the lights flashing brightly against the fresh night sky. Grant turned back to the officer who had made his way to his squad car and, much to Grant’s delight, was on the radio. He walked over just as the officer set it down.
“All right, Detective, I put in the request to track the squad car, and it turns out it only made it about a mile down the road before it was ditched and switched out for another vehicle.”
“Any traffic cameras nearby?” Grant asked, holding on to the one thread of hope.
“Just one,” the officer said. “Looks like your girl is driving a 2004 white Toyota Corolla. An APB was put out, and it was sighted outside an apartment complex. Turns out one of the apartments is registered in Stacy West’s name.”
Grant nearly jumped behind the wheel of the squad car himself. “Let’s go!”
***
Dozens of police cruisers had circled the old apartment building, blocking off exits, officers establishing a perimeter. The spotlight from the helicopter circling above highlighted the fifth floor, where Stacy’s apartment was located.
The whole neighborhood was lit up with red and blue lights, and nearly every person in the surrounding houses and duplexes had stepped out of their dwellings. Grant just hoped they wouldn’t get the show they expected.
Grant pushed his way to the front of the line, where he found the officer in charge, and thanks to a radio command from his captain, the sergeant knew he was coming. His celebrity from the ambassador case didn’t hurt either. There wasn’t a cop in the city who didn’t know who he was.
“Any visual on Mallory Givens?” Grant asked.
“Not yet, Detective,” Sergeant Moynahan answered. “We’re still waiting on establishing some form of contact. We’ve tried her cell phone, as well as the apartment’s landline, but haven’t had any luck.”
“She’s not going to answer,” Grant said, sliding on the bulletproof vest he fished out of the squad car. “We’ll have to get the girl out ourselves. Give me a rundown of the building.”
The surrounding officers didn’t move, their jaws still slack as they looked to one another. It was the sergeant who finally spoke first. “Detective, we don’t have the authority to do that.” The spotlight from the helicopter flashed briefly overhead. “We have to wait until we hear word from the chief.”
The hours and stress finally caught up with Grant, and he wrenched the sergeant by the collar. “You know the average statistic of a predator keeping a child alive during a standoff?” He didn’t wait for a response. “Forty percent. Now I don’t know how well you did in math, but I think we can agree that anything below one hundred percent is too low.” He pointed to the building. “That woman is smart, she’s armed, and she’s dangerous. She knows what’s coming.” Grant let the sergeant go and then turned to the others. “We need to throw her off-balance. We wait, and we lose.”
Sergeant Moynahan looked to the rest of the officers and then glanced down to the radio receiver still in his hand. The others waited for his action, and Grant knew that if he wasn’t on board with the plan, then he’d be going in alone.
Moynahan set the receiver back inside his squad car. “Officers Milks, Petty, Richards, and Grantham, you’re with us.” He looked to Grant. “We’ll follow you inside.”
Grant backed toward the building as weapons were being drawn, addressing the men following him. “How many people do we still have in the complex?”
“At least sixty,” Moynahan said.
“Where are we at with cutting the power?” Grant asked, gradually gaining speed as he led the six of them to the building’s south entrance. Moynahan radioed for a response, and utilities informed them that power would be off in two minutes.
The group paused by the stairwell door. News helicopters swarmed overhead alongside the police choppers, the heavy thump of blades overshadowing Grant’s pounding heart. His arms and legs shook with adrenaline. He didn’t feel cold anymore.
With thirty seconds until power was cu
t, Grant found himself retracing every step of the case. He’d followed it to the letter in regards to protocol and profiles. And yet, here he was, facing a female abductor who had taken a young girl and used that very same book against him. It was like she knew his moves before he was even going to make them. It was nothing but chance that he found her in time, and when investigations came down to chance, events grew chaotic.
The light above the stairwell door cut off, and Grant flung the door open, leading the charge inside. The illuminated circular ends of flashlights revealed the narrow staircase and the five flights of stairs they needed to ascend.
Boots collided against the steps silently but quickly. The stairwell retained a damp coldness worse than outside. The light drip of water into a puddle signaled a leak somewhere, and judging by the warped guardrail to the stairs and the graffiti sprayed on the walls, this place was one building inspection away from being condemned.
Empty beer cans and liquor bottles huddled in the corners. The smell of human waste drifted past Grant’s nostrils a few times, and each whiff agitated the sour pit in his stomach. They passed the second floor, then the third and fourth, and when Grant’s flashlight highlighted the number five on the wall to the right of the floor’s exit, he paused.
The officers clustered at the door and lowered their flashlights along with their pistols. Grant motioned the sergeant close.
“What’s the apartment number?” Grant asked.
“Five-twenty-two. It’ll be on the left when we exit into the hallway.”
Grant nodded. “You do not fire until we have the girl, and you do not fire unless you have a clear shot. Understood?”
Nods answered in response, and Grant slowly reached for the door handle. “Let’s move.” He pulled the door open and stepped into the hallway, the light from his flashlight bouncing across the floor and walls in time with his steps.
