Snatched Super Boxset

by Hunt, James

  And then, with the squeeze of Hickem’s trigger, the lock exploded, the door swinging inward as Hickem popped the smoke inside.

  “Move!” Hickem stepped through the smoke first, gunshots immediately erupting before Grant even approached the entrance.

  Grant stayed hunched low on his entrance, and when he stepped through the door, a few muzzle flashes appeared through the smoke as the team pressed forward. The light from the high windows streamed through dirty glass and penetrated the smoke.

  “On the right!” Hickem and the others pivoted their aim toward the cluster of flashes and fleeing thugs coughing and hacking from the smoke.

  The stock from Grant’s rifle thumped in three hard strikes from the pull of the trigger, and one combatant collapsed, while the others fled, firing blindly as they tried to cover their faces from the gas.

  “I count five. Grant and Sam, you take the west side of the building, we’ll search the east. Keep eyes peeled for target.” Hickem waved them forward, and Grant kept close to Sam as the gunfire died down with the enemy’s retreat.

  Smoke crawled forward and drifted upward, quickly dissipating in the large open ceiling of the factory. A row of conveyer belts lined the area to Grant’s left, and he and Sam paced the rows carefully, the still machinery providing plenty of areas to hide.

  A ray of sunlight caught the shimmer of a black piece of metal, and Grant held up his hand, stopping Sam. He pointed toward the man’s boots, and she nodded. They kept low on their approach, and just before they passed the corner, Grant fired at the man’s legs. Blood sprayed from the man’s jeans as the bullets tore through him, and he dropped to the floor, writhing in pain.

  Grant darted around the corner, rifle aimed at the man’s chest as he squirmed on his back. “Don’t move!” He kicked the AK-47 away from the man’s hands and waited for Sam to restrain him.

  “Secured,” Sam said, tightening the zip ties around the suspect’s wrists, then reached for her rifle, as Grant continued his scan of the remaining belts.

  He moved from the row first, and he made it one step before gunfire echoed behind him, and he turned to find Sam on her back.

  “Sam!” Grant scanned ahead and spotted the shooter, returning fire as he rushed to her side. The bullets sparked on the corner of the metal siding the gunman used for cover, and pushed him in retreat.

  Sam ripped off her mask, grimacing pain. “I think I’m all right. Shit.” She fumbled her hands over her chest, her fingers finding the bullet wedged in the Kevlar. “It didn’t go through.”

  Relief flooded through Grant’s veins, but it was cut short by Hickem’s voice over the radio.

  “East side secure,” Hickem said. “We have two shooters down. No sign of target. You guys have any loose ends on your side?”

  “I’ve got a runner,” Grant answered.

  “Lock it down,” Hickem said.

  “Go,” Sam said, having trouble breathing. “I’m all right.”

  Grant nodded and then handed her rifle back to her and sprinted toward the shooter’s position. He paused at the corner where the gunman had fired, and then dropped to a knee as he spun around and planted his foot, finding the shooter sprinting toward an exit.

  Grant sprinted from the alley, passing the dead man on the way, and weaved his way through the factory floor, his eyes scanning for any exit, and then spied the door opening as one of the thugs escaped outside.

  Grant was at the door, ready to pursue the thug outside, but a barrage of gunfire pushed him back into the warehouse. The bullets striking the wall sent vibrations through to the other side against Grant’s shoulder as he waited for the gunfire to subside.

  When it ended, Grant stepped from the cover of the door, rifle aimed and his finger over the trigger. The contrast of light blinded him for a moment, but he was able to make out the blur of cloth that sprinted behind a bulldozer.

  “Suspect is heading west.” Grant jumped through the door, gun up. He paused at the bulldozer, performing a quick glance around. Once cleared, he pressed forward.

  Sweat had drenched his clothes, and as he scanned the horizon, he found nothing but a dozen different locations for the gangster to hide.

  Slowly, methodically, he moved forward. He kept the rifle up and moved forward, sure footed as he did his best to stay quiet. He watched for shadows, any type of movement that would give away the gunman’s position. But the assailant was patient. And that made him dangerous.

  A scrape of boot against asphalt turned Grant to the left, the narrow tunnel of vision ahead of the sight of his rifle a blur until he came to a stop on a work truck with deflated tires. The moment he saw the movement of boots, he squeezed the trigger, the bullets decorating the white panels of the passenger-side doors of the busted truck.

  Grant sprinted forward in pursuit, and the moment he reached the truck’s hood, he saw the gunman sprinting for a gap in the fence. He no longer had his weapon up. He was in full retreat. “Freeze!” But the gunman ignored the orders.

  Grant steadied his aim, the man growing smaller at the end of his rifle. He exhaled a breath, calming his mind and his body. And just before the gunman wedged himself into a gap in the chain-link fence, Grant fired.

  The man sprawled forward, his arms extended as the force of the shot flung his body into the rusted mesh, and then he bounced back and hit the pavement, where he lay still.

  Grant hurried toward him, still keeping the rifle aimed even though the target lay motionless on the ground. “Don’t move! Keep your hands out!” He barked the order as a precaution, but the moment he saw the man’s face, Grant knew that he was dead.

  “Shit.” Grant lowered his gun, his eyes on the light drop of blood at the corner of the gunman’s mouth, which stood out against the paleness of his flesh. He was a young man, not even out of his twenties yet. Grant clicked the radio. “East side clear.” His voice cracked. “No sign of target.”

  “He’s not here,” Hickem said. “I’ve got chopper heading inbound. Alternative locations are secure. Where to now, Grant?”

  Grant tilted his head back, closing his eyes, and ripped off the mask. Sunlight made the beads of sweat on his face sparkle, and he wiped his bangs from his forehead. Hickem was screaming in Grant’s ear that they needed to move, and in the distance, there was the whir of chopper blades. He tried to rack his brain, to try to decide which location had Copella. He tried thinking as Links, a man so bold to think he could fool everyone.

  “The house,” Grant said. “We go to the house.”

  * * *

  Driving was just another item to add to the list of activities made difficult due to pregnancy. She couldn’t even fit behind the wheel anymore, but being lieutenant afforded her certain luxuries. Like forcing Lane to be her personal chauffeur.

  “You do know you drive like a grandmother, right?” Mocks asked, staring at Lane’s two-and-ten grip on the wheel and upright, rigid posture.

  “Sorry, Lieutenant.” Lane attempted to relax, but it only made him more awkward.

  Mocks smiled, shaking her head, when her phone rang. It was Rick. “Hey, baby.”

  “Hey, are you home yet?”

  “On my way,” Mocks answered. “How’s work?”

  “Been slow. Only call we’ve had was an elderly woman who was having trouble breathing during her shopping spree at JCPenney.”

  “Must have been a hell of a sale.” Mocks fidgeted in her seat in her never-ending quest to try to stay comfortable with another human inhabiting her body. “I might stop by and see you tonight.”

  “No, you need to rest,” Rick said. “I’ve given Grant enough grief to keep you out of this nightmare, so I’m not going to add to the noise.”

  “Well, you’ll be happy to know that the case is nearly closed,” Mocks said. “Pretty soon I’ll be back behind the desk, safe and sound.”

  Lane pulled up to the house, and she gave the officer a half-assed salute as she pulled herself from the passenger seat, the phone still glued to her ear.<
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  “You don’t sound too happy about that,” Rick said.

  The squad car backed out of the drive, and Mocks fished out her keys on the waddle to the front door. She fidgeted with the keys in her hand, and instead of opening the door, she took a seat on the porch swing. “Listen, after I come back from maternity leave I was thinking about asking for a transfer.”

  Rick hesitated. “To where?”

  “Lieutenant Mackey is retiring at the end of the year, so they’ll be looking to fill his spot with the tactical unit.” Mocks winced, waiting for Rick’s reaction.

  “Tactical?” Rick asked, and then finding the answers on his own, he sighed. “You mean SWAT.”

  “It’s a great stepping stone if I ever want to try for captain,” Mocks said, holding her stomach. “And you’re always telling me to think of the future and what my next steps should be in the department.”

  “SWAT means you’ll be back on the street,” Rick said, his tone edging on the side of frustration. “We’ve discussed this. We talked about it at length when we decided to try for kids, and we both agreed that a desk job would be a better fit for you as a mom.”

  Mocks shut her eyes, frowning. “I know we talked about it, but this could be a really good opportunity. And after being a part of this case and helping Grant—”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “What?”

  “You know I didn’t even want you to be a part of that case in the first place.”

  “The commissioner requested me for this position personally.”

  “Because of your ties to Grant.”

  “Because I was the best person for the job.” Mocks stood, her posture matching the defensive tone. “It’s part of my job.”

  “No, this is not part of your job. Your job is missing persons, not bailing out your old partner when he gets into trouble after sticking his nose somewhere that it didn’t belong.”

  “A girl was missing, Rick. If Grant hadn’t gotten involved, then she would have died.”

  “That’s not our problem!” Rick said. “Our priority should be our family.”

  Mocks scoffed. “So you’re saying that I don’t have our family’s best interests at heart?”

  “No, that’s not what I meant—” Rick sighed. “I just don’t want you taking any unnecessary risks.”

  Mocks leaned against the front of the house and glanced up to the grey skies that were threatening rain. “I know you don’t approve of me helping Grant. But you haven’t seen the shit that’s out there, and the horrible things that people can do. Not like I have. If you had, then you’d understand why Grant has done the things he’s done.”

  “That’s not a good excuse.”

  “You’re right, it’s not an excuse. It’s the truth, and it’s something I’m thankful for.” Mocks placed her hand on her stomach, feeling the baby kick. “Me and Grant, we’ve been… touched by all of that bad stuff. And it never washes off.”

  “Yeah,” Rick said. “Um, listen, there’s a call coming in. I’ve got to go.”

  “Okay.”

  Mocks hung up and clutched the phone in her hand, lightning flashing in the sky and followed with a slow, rolling clap of thunder. The light patter of water hit the roof, and Mocks took a deep breath of the fresh scent of rain. She watched the rain fall for a minute, and then stepped inside the house.

  Thunder clapped again when she closed the door, and she didn’t bother turning the lights on when she stepped through the living room. She liked the ominous setting of the house whenever it stormed. She found a spot on the couch that gave her a good view of the window to the front yard, and plopped down, leaning back into the cushions.

  The view was distorted by the drops of water on the glass. She knew the conversation would stir up some conflict with Rick, but she knew that he’d get over it. He had always been the one to slough the bad stuff off in their relationship. It was one of the reasons why theirs worked so well. Mocks would get in trouble, and Rick would forgive her.

  She stared down at her belly, knowing that trouble was going to complicate things even more when the baby came. A baby always complicated matters. At least that’s what the baby books told her. So. Many. Baby books.

  Mocks rested her head back on the couch and closed her eyes. The warm embrace of sleep pulled itself over her, and she grew warm as she began to drift off. But in that space between consciousness and unconsciousness, she jolted awake, her pulse spiking and the baby growing anxious.

  Mocks shifted on her seat and looked toward the back of the house. She could see the back windows, the rainfall growing harder outside. But the partition between the dining room and the kitchen blocked her view of the back door. And she could have sworn she thought she heard the sound of glass shattering.

  Quietly, Mocks pushed herself off the couch and tiptoed her way to the staircase. She paused on the first step at the sound of the hinges of the squeaky back door. The storm noises grew louder as the door swung open. Someone was inside the house.

  Mocks hurried up the stairs, cradling her stomach to keep it from swinging too wildly. Her heart hammered wildly, and it felt like it was caught in her throat as she reached the top of the stairs. She glanced down over the bannister and caught the barrel of a rifle before she darted into the bedroom.

  Mocks shut the door to her bedroom and reached for her cell phone as she opened the top dresser drawer and pushed aside the socks to find the 9mm Glock buried underneath. She loaded the magazine into the pistol and then crouched low behind the bed, the gun aimed at the crack she left in the door so she could see the bastards coming.

  The phone rang, and then dispatch answered.

  “This is Lieutenant Susan Mullocks,” Mocks said. “I’m at 455 Baker Street, and I have an intruder in my house. I need officers on scene.”

  “Copy that, Lieutenant,” dispatch said. “We have units nearby. Stay on the line with me.”

  Mocks kept the phone glued to her ear, finger over the trigger, and despite the rush of adrenaline flooding through her body, the pistol remained steady as a rock.

  The thunder and rain made it hard to hear, but she could have sworn that she heard footsteps on the staircase.

  “Do you know how many intruders are in the house?” Dispatch asked.

  “At least one, but possibly more,” Mocks answered. “Be advised that the suspects are armed. I repeat, suspects are armed.”

  A body appeared in the crack in the door as the intruder ascended the staircase, and Mocks dropped her voice to a whisper as thunder clapped. “He’s upstairs. Close proximity. I’m putting the phone down.”

  Before dispatch could answer, she set the phone face down on the carpet. She clasped the pistol with both hands. The intruder kept close to the wall, out of her field of vision, but she could feel that he was close. She took a deep breath, the world dissolving to the sight on her pistol. She had cover. She had a bead on him. She was going to be fine.

  The seconds that followed felt like an eternity, and when the door slowly crept open, Mocks didn’t hesitate on the trigger pull.

  Bullets tore through the wood of her door, the recoil from the gunfire sending a sharp pain from her wrists all the way to her shoulders. The ringing in her ears blocked the sound of the second intruder coming up the stairs, but the door was more open now, and Mocks had a clear shot.

  She squeezed the trigger, this time dropping the gunman to the floor as the intruder’s partner tried sneaking around the corner. Mocks emptied the rest of the magazine, pushing the intruder back, and when the firing pin clicked empty, she dropped back behind the bed and grabbed another magazine.

  But the adrenaline had finally caught up with her, and she couldn’t keep her hands still long enough to shove the magazine into place before the intruder had a gun to her head.

  Mocks dropped the pistol, her hands in the air, unable to stop the stream of tears as the masked gunman barked orders at her in broken English.

  “UP! UP!”


  But when Mocks couldn’t stand up by herself, the masked man viciously grabbed her arm and flung her on the bed on her back. She desperately tried to sit up, but the rifle was shoved in her face to keep her still.

  “Don’t move!” The cloth of the man’s mask stretched as he spoke, and he reached around to the left side of his belt, opening a compartment. But the motion forced him to drop the rifle slightly, and when Mocks tried to make a move, he smacked her forehead with the rifle barrel. “Don’t move, bitch!”

  The pain cut through Mocks’s head like a knife, and she winced. Blood oozed from the wound on her forehead and sent a warm trickle down her face. When she finally came to, she saw the man had shifted his aim to her stomach.

  “No,” Mocks said, her lips quivering as she desperately tried to cover her stomach with her hands. “No, please, I’ll stop.” She shook her head. “I’ll stop, just don’t hurt the baby, okay? I’ll cooperate.” The barrel pressed into the side of her stomach, and Mocks shut her eyes, crying. “Please, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” She sobbed, the worst culmination of her fears unfolding right before her eyes.

  “Don’t move!” The masked man kept the rifle trained on her stomach and then finally removed the syringe from the compartment on his belt.

  When the needle penetrated her leg, Mocks immediately felt the effects of the drug as she drifted into sleep.

  12

  Grant kept his ears peeled to the radio chatter. Sam had been left at the factory with a team of medics, who then sent her to the nearest hospital for X-rays to check for any broken ribs. When she peeled the Kevlar off her chest, the bullet had nearly gone through, and had pricked blood that stained her shirt red.

  It was the pain on her face the flooded Grant with rage. Something feral had broken loose inside of him. Every ounce of control was harnessed not to execute the two men they’d captured at the factory. He knew they deserved it. But law and order restricted Grant’s rage. So he channeled it, waiting to unleash it on the next location.

  “Five minutes,” the pilot said.