Snatched Super Boxset

by Hunt, James

  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.

  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.”

  Grant covered the wedding ring on his left hand with his right. “I appreciate the opportunity, Ambassador, but I have plenty of work here in Seattle.”

  Mujave nodded and reached inside his pocket. “If you change your mind, give my office a call. Do your best to not misplace the card.” He leaned closer and pointed to the number. “It has my personal cell.” He flashed that wide political grin. “Thank you again, Detective Grant. You have done more for me than I could ever repay.”

  Grant nodded his thanks and escaped the auditorium without further obstruction. He flipped his collar to shield himself from the cold wind blowing outside. Despite the sun, it hadn’t warmed past forty degrees, though Grant was thankful the rain finally stopped. He flipped over the card Mujave had given him and read the scribble on the backside. There were two words written on it: Polaris Project.

  Grant had heard of it. The organization had an office based here in Seattle. He had heard reports through some of the other precincts of the sex trafficking issue the ambassador mentioned and how it had quickly turned into an epidemic along the West Coast.

  The individuals that were kidnapped in the Philippines and other parts of Asia were funneled through Seattle’s port. After they were given fake identification, they were shipped down south. Massage parlors were the biggest cover up. Almost all of them operated without a license, and they popped up like weeds choking the communities where they were housed.

  When Grant was still with Homicide, he stumbled into one of those places from a case he was working. The women were packed inside the tiny buildings like sardines. Sleeping bags and piles of clothes lined the floors. They were all Asian and scared to death.

  None of them spoke any English, and even when the translator arrived, they kept silent. The people who owned them had threatened them into silence. The girls were whipped, beaten, verbally abused, whatever it took to ensure their obedience.

  After the raid, Grant turned the case over to the Special Victims Unit and the FBI. A few days later, he heard that three of the women they brought into custody had committed suicide. They were so desperate to escape their captors that they believed death was their best way out. Grant couldn’t imagine a monster like that, but he wouldn’t mind finding the person responsible.

  “Detec
tive Grant!”

  Grant’s hand froze on his car door handle. He turned slowly, only his eyes visible behind the upturned collar, bracing for the hordes of reporters.

  But it wasn’t paparazzi. It was an older gentleman shuffling after him, waving his hand in the air. He wore a dark suit with a bright purple tie. As he moved closer, Grant also noticed a flag pin on the man’s lapel. It didn’t take long for Grant to fill in the rest of the blanks.

  “Senator Pierfoy,” Grant said. “What can I do for you?”

  The old senator consumed Grant’s hand with his own and gave it three hearty pumps. “I just wanted to thank you again for all that you’ve done.” He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “Maybe have you come around to the front so I can snap a few pictures with the press while standing next to Seattle’s favorite son?”

  Grant gave a light-hearted smile and pulled his hand back from the senator’s. “I’m afraid I’m in the middle of something right now.” He turned, but the senator leaned his heavy body against Grant’s car door to keep it shut.

  “I saw you speaking with the ambassador. Most likely about that job?” Pierfoy asked. “I hope you haven’t given him an answer yet.”

  “I have,” Grant said. “It was no.”

  Pierfoy sighed. “Well, that’s a relief.” He straightened his jacket and lifted his chin. “I’ll make this brief then, seeing as your disdain for this kind of talk is well known. I want to promote you. To Captain.”

  Grant’s jaw went slack, and Pierfoy laughed.

  “I’m glad I can still surprise people,” Pierfoy said. “My wife says I’m too predictable. Glad I can prove the old cow wrong.”

  Grant held up his hand. “Senator, I don’t feel comfortable taking that large of a leap. Especially over Lieutenant Furst. He’s well liked by the officers. Me included.”

  “Oh god, no,” Senator said, his guffaw exaggerated. “You wouldn’t take over your current precinct. No, no, no. What I’m talking about is something new.”