by James Hunt
The parking lot mall was busy. Saturday was always a big shopping day. Parker sat in his truck and leaned back low in the seat. He was a big guy, nearly filling up the whole cabin, and he grew more uncomfortable the longer he sat. He was wedged in a spot between a sports car and a minivan, but his truck was high enough to see over both, giving him a three hundred sixty-degree view of the cars that passed and jockeyed for what few parking spaces remained.
One altercation prompted a man to leave his car and threaten another driver that took his spot. It was all just words though. The moment Parker got a good look at the guy, he knew there wouldn’t be any trouble. He always knew who was a pussy and who wasn’t afraid to bleed.
Parker glanced down to his hand and the white gauze that covered his fresh ink. He patted the puffy bandage with his finger and winced upon contact. He’d gotten it earlier this morning, sealing his fate. He was part of the group now, and the only way out was six feet under. But this wasn’t his first go-around with dangerous company.
The rap sheet filed somewhere in his probation officer’s cabinet told the same story of most parentless kids. Spent some time in juvie for burglary and destruction of property, did a stint at the state pen a few years back for grand theft. But he couldn’t put all of that blame on the back of his nowhere-to-be-found parents. And it wasn’t like his grandparents didn’t try and do their part. The old crows loved him, were good to him, gave him every opportunity in the world. But he just didn’t listen.
Booze, girls, and rock ’n roll were all he cared about during high school, which he didn’t hang around long enough to finish. Once he dropped out, his grandparents stopped trying so hard. He figured they finally understood he was a lost cause. That was fine with him.
They let him stay in the house until he was eighteen. There wasn’t much talking that last year together, but there was always food in the fridge and leftovers waiting for him on the stove with a note from his grandmother that had his name on it circled in a heart.
Parker’s stomach soured at the memory, and he pressed the back of his hand to his mouth to keep the vomit at bay. He was a long way from those days.
It was funny how he still remembered all those things so vividly. He guessed he was lucky that the drugs and booze hadn’t rotted all of his mind, though he figured it wouldn’t be much longer until it did. Maybe he wouldn’t live long enough to find out. There was something comforting about that notion.
The sun grew higher and hotter in the sky, warming the inside of his truck. Parker cranked the manual lever to lower the window and caught a cool breeze that drifted by. It was a gorgeous day outside. A rarity in Seattle for the month of March.
Hordes of people funneled in and out of the mall’s entrance, and it became harder for Parker to keep track of all the movement. If he missed her, then he would have to do it somewhere else. But that went against the plan, and the new tattoo on his hand was a reminder of what happened when those plans changed. Best to do what they had told him to do in the first place.
A gaggle of girls in the middle of the crowd exiting the mall caught his attention, and Parker leaned forward. There were a few bodies blocking the face, and when the fat man in the Seahawks jersey finally shuffled out of the way, Parker saw her.
Annie Mauer was in the middle of her friends, all of them holding bags from whatever teeny-bop store had the hottest trends these days. All four of them held coffees, smiling and giggling about nonsense. They followed the crowd toward the bus stop on the other end of the parking lot where they would catch their ride home, and Parker started his truck to follow.
With Parker’s attention focused on the girls, he missed the white sedan speeding down the parking lot. A horn blared and Parker slammed on the brakes.
The driver behind the wheel of the white sedan waved his hands in circles, mouthing something that would have gotten him shot if Parker wasn’t in a hurry. The sedan passed, and Parker returned to his search for the little blonde girl amidst the sea of bodies.
Parker sped through the parking lot, hoping to reach the bus stop before the girl did. He would have snagged her while she was walking in the crowd, but that opportunity was lost. He had to improvise now.
The truck screeched to a halt in a parking spot right behind the bench where the bus stop was located. Parker kept the engine running as he turned to look for the girl. His heart beat faster the longer he didn’t see her, and he squeezed the steering wheel so tight that the bandage on his left hand popped off, exposing the black spider web tattoo that was still bloodied from the morning’s session.
Parker pressed the bandage back down over his skin. He looked to his left, and there walked Annie Mauer and her friends. He turned his head away and reached for the hat that he tucked low over his head. He flipped his collar up and opened his door just a crack.
Annie would pass right by him, so caught up in her conversation about boys, or music, or whatever kind of shit that little girls talked about, to even notice the fact that he was near. She stayed in the middle, which wasn’t ideal for a quick grab, but Parker had a long reach. She didn’t look heavier than seventy pounds.
The sweats worsened, and Parker kept his eyes locked on Annie in his side mirror as she stepped within reach. He thrust the door open and knocked over the closest two girls to the asphalt.
Parker wrapped his meaty hand around Annie’s arm and pulled her toward him. She was heavier than he expected, but even with his sensitive left hand, he managed to get her over his lap and into the passenger seat.
The girls screamed, and Annie kicked and thrashed inside the truck. Parker shifted into reverse, balancing one hand on the wheel while the other was busy subduing the girl, and caught a glance in his rearview mirror.
The girls had their phones out, recording him. Distracted, Annie kicked him in the ribs, and Parker slammed on the brakes. He backhanded her so hard she slammed into the passenger side door.
“Stop it!” Parker said, shifting into drive and pulling out into traffic as he ran a red light that nearly wrecked him.
The girl’s eyes welled up with tears, and a red lump appeared on her cheek. She curled up into a ball in the farthest corner away from him and cried.
Parker kept both hands on the wheel, adrenaline rushing through his veins. His chest raised and lowered with each heavy breath, and he changed lanes, quickly getting off the main road, and slowed his speed. He had the girl. Now he just had to get to the drop off point.
“What do you want?” Annie sniffled through choked sobs, her knees tucked into her chest with her feet on the seat. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Shut. Up.” Parker cast her a hard side-eye, and the girl shriveled up into nothing. “The more you talk, the worse it will be for you. Got it?”
The girl trembled, silently sobbing to herself. Parker reached for the crumpled paper with the address on it one last time. It was in the middle of nowhere, and a place he would learn to know well if today was successful. But there were a few snags now.
People saw his truck, hell, maybe people saw his face. No doubt those little bitches had already called the police. Plus they had him on video. He had to ditch the truck.
Parker spotted a van parked behind a seafood restaurant. It looked old enough for him to hotwire without any problems. He pulled up next to it, and the abrupt stop jerked the girl into the dashboard. He shoved her out of the way and reached into the glove box. He removed the pistol and searched for anything with his name on it. He paused for a moment as the girl’s eyes were locked on the gun, and then he remembered what they had said.
Scare them to the point of torture. We want to break them so we can mold them into whatever we want. The event needs to be traumatic so it changes them. Do whatever it takes.
Parker pressed the end of the pistol’s barrel against the side of Annie’s head, and the girl moaned with grief. He grabbed her chin with his free hand and squeezed hard, keeping the pressure from the pistol against her skull.
“Listen to
me very carefully,” Parker said, the tears from the girl’s eyes causing his grip to loosen on her chin. “You are going to meet some bad people. They’re gonna do things to you, and it’s better to just go with the flow from now on, all right? The more trouble you cause, the more they will hurt you. And I’m not talking a spanking like mommy and daddy used to give you. Real bad stuff. Real pain. Understand?”
The girl trembled. Parker pulled the little girl’s face closer to his until they touched noses. Freckles spotted her cheeks, and even with her eyes bloodshot, he saw the rich brown color they were. “Do. You. Understand?”
Annie shut both eyes, two more tears streaming down the corners, and nodded.
“Good,” Parker said. He slowly removed his hand, and then the pistol. “Get out.” He retreated, and the girl did as she was told. Parker pocketed the truck keys and then stuffed Annie in the middle row of van seats. He pulled a roll of duct tape from his cargo pants and bound the girl’s tiny hands together, then did the same to her feet. He sidled up to the driver’s side door, which was unlocked, and pried open the dash underneath, exposing the wires.
It’d been a while since he’d hotwired a car, and it took a few tries, but he finally sparked the engine to life. He looked back in the middle row of seats and saw that the girl had lain down, curled up into a ball. Her face was wet and her eyes were still red, but her expression was stoic.
Parker had seen that look before. He’d even worn it a few times. Your mind reached a threshold where it just couldn’t take any more, so you burrowed inside yourself. It was the only way to cope, because the alternative was insanity.
As they drove to the meeting point, Parker’s mind drifted back to the priest of his childhood. He wondered if the holy man ever heard any of the really bad stuff, stuff like he’d done over the past few years. And if the priest did, Parker wondered what he thought of those people that he saw on Sundays. All of those vile creatures sitting in his church, filling his pews, nodding and singing and chanting all of that bullshit. It was all just a show. Just a game people played to make themselves feel better. The only god and devil in this world were the ones people created for themselves, and Parker had already chosen sides.
Chapter 2
The crowd turnout was larger than expected and turned the auditorium into standing room only. Guest speakers, press, politicians, anyone who was anyone was at the ceremony. Congratulations were thrown around, all the appropriate agencies patting themselves on the back. It wasn’t every day that an ambassador’s daughter was rescued. But the longer the ceremony continued, the more anxious Detective Chase Grant became. He didn’t like the spotlight. Loathed it, really.
Grant was the youngest man on the stage by at least ten years and, standing at six feet, was the tallest. Still, at thirty-five years old, he understood he was no spring chicken, but he’d kept in decent shape, unlike the public servants surrounding him. However, Grant’s complexion was much paler than his fake-tan counterparts. A bi-product of Seattle’s weather and basking in a fluorescent glow for hours at his desk.
The press in the front row snapped pictures. Grant didn’t smile. It was hard to think about anything other than the new case he’d stumbled into just the day before. It was unprecedented.
Grant twirled the gold band on his left ring finger and tried to ignore the tie choking his neck. He glanced to his left and examined the exit just off stage. He’d need to get there quickly. The line of politicians to his right, which included the ambassador, Senator Pierfoy, and the mayor himself would be eager to extend the event with photo-ops. Grant intended to avoid it.
“And so in closing,” Mayor Brugsby said. “I want to thank everyone involved in the successful rescue of Ambassador Mujave’s daughter and returning her safely to her family. None more so than Detective Chase Grant, whose input and expertise brought a speedy end to a horrible nightmare. And for his efforts, I present to him Seattle’s highest honor, the Medal of Valor.”
Grant gave a light bow as the medal was ceremoniously placed around his neck. Applause. Pictures. More congratulations, and then a slow exhale as Grant ducked off stage and headed toward the exit, his hand in his pocket to retrieve his phone. He’d kept it on silent, so if Mocks had called him with an update—
“Detective Grant!”
Grant stopped and closed his eyes. So close. He turned slowly as the mayor’s press secretary, Stephanie Gutz, jogged toward him with a clipboard and headset.
She grabbed Grant’s arm and tugged him back toward the front of the stage. “You need to say a few words to the press.”
Grant stood his ground. “The department has already made a statement.” He placed a gentle hand over hers and carefully removed her claws from his jacket. “I have to get back to work.”
Grant made it one step before she blocked his path, hands clasped together, begging for him to stay.
“Please! Your picture tested so well with our focus groups. You have no idea how good this will make the mayor look, especially with his campaign for re-election kicking off next week. We need the momentum.” Stephanie paused and then leaned in closer. “The mayor doesn’t forget things like this, Detective. It could be beneficial for you in the future.”
There were a number of reasons that Grant could have given Stephanie to avoid the dance of Q&A with the press, but there was only one that mattered. Reporters liked to dig, and the more they dug into Grant’s past, the more they would find. And it was a past Grant preferred to keep buried.
“I appreciate the offer, Ms. Gutz, but I really have to be going,” Grant said, subconsciously grabbing the wedding ring still on his left hand. “There’s another case I’m working on, and it really can’t wait.”
Stephanie’s eyes grew wider. “Anything you’d like to share? You’ve been on quite the roll lately.”
“Have a good day, Ms. Gutz.” Grant left the woman with her arms flapping at her sides, exasperated. He headed toward the rear exit door where his undercover sedan was parked when another voice bellowed his name.
“Detective Grant!”
Grant sighed, turning around. “I really don’t— Mr. Ambassador. My apologies.”
“I was hoping to catch you before you left.” Ambassador Mujave was the shortest on stage, but his booming voice and warm grin compensated for what he lacked in stature. He was the only politician that Grant had ever met that didn’t make his skin crawl.
“What can I help you with?” Grant asked.
The pomp and circumstance faded, and the tone of a father emerged as he pulled Grant aside. “I just wanted to thank you again for what you did.” He rolled the tips of his fingers together as he spoke, looking down at his shoes. “My wife wanted to be here to thank you personally as well, but she hasn’t left Dalisay’s side since she was returned to us.” He swallowed. “Since you returned her to us.”
“It was a group effort,” Grant said. “The FBI laid some solid groundwork.”
“The FBI had no idea who took her or where to look,” Mujave said. “Even their lead investigator told me that he couldn’t have done it without you.”
Grant remembered the special agent in charge, Chad Hickem. He was a mountain of a man, but friendly enough. “That was kind of him to say.”
“Detective, the motivation for my attendance here today extended beyond expressing my gratitude.” Mujave paused, his hands clasped together, his brown eyes intently focused on Grant. “I’ve spoken to a number of your coworkers and commanding officers, and it appears you have quite the reputation with the Seattle PD.” He smiled. “You’re very good at your job. The best.”
Grant ran a hand through the thick and wavy head of hair that was as black as the ambassador’s suit. “I’ve been fortunate with some breaks.”
“I’m not sure fortunate is the right word, Detective,” Mujave said. “Your superiors call you the bloodhound.” He tapped the side of his nose. “They say you’re relentless.”
Grant shifted uneasily. He could only take so much praise
in one day, and he was itching to check his phone to see what Mocks had learned. “Most of the missing persons I deal with are children. Abductions by strangers are typically traumatic. The quicker I find those kids, the faster they can start healing.”
“A parent’s grief is a powerful tool,” Mujave said, his words slow. “Perhaps that’s what propelled you to switch departments and join missing persons. Your wife was pregnant when she passed, yes?”
It was the very same question Grant had hoped to avoid with the press. “Eight months.” Grant’s voice caught on the last word, and he cleared his throat.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Mujave said. “It was a car accident?”
Grant nodded. “A semi-truck driver fell asleep at the wheel. My wife and daughter were killed on impact.”
Mujave gripped Grant by the arms and stepped intimately close for a pair that had only met twice. But there was a genuine concern on the ambassador’s face, and it was very calming.
“Your pain has helped many other families,” Mujave said. “Mine included. But I want you to do more. I want to offer you a job.”
Grant furrowed his brow. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a politician.”
Mujave smiled. “No, you’re not.” The ambassador stepped away from Grant, his head down, again quickly rolling the tips of his fingers together. “My country has a terrible problem, and I’m afraid it’s become intertwined with your own.” He spun on his heel, looking up at Grant. “Right here in your very city in fact.”
“What problem?” Grant asked.
“Every year, hundreds of women and young children are taken from the Philippines, plucked from their homes and families, some as young as eight or nine, and sold as sex slaves that are trafficked around the Pacific, including the United States.” Mujave’s eyes misted, but his voice didn’t break. “It would be a great opportunity for you. Both professionally and financially.”
