by Hunt, James
“With the Senator’s connections, I didn’t think it would,” Grant said, thinking about the offer the man had extended earlier that morning. He was sure the senator would pressure him even more to take the job now. If he was successful of course. “C’mon, we need to get ready.”
Grant returned to the S.W.A.T. van, which had become the HQ for operations. “I need to see the schematics for the house.” One of the officers retrieved it and spread it out on the table for Grant to examine. He switched his gaze from the blueprints to the house. “Is there any bushes or trees over here by this window?”
An officer decked out in tactical gear nodded, his helmet bobbing with the motions. “Yeah, we tried to position an officer there earlier, but once we discovered the bomb threat, we pulled our guys back.”
Grant stepped outside and spotted the growth on the south side of the house. The trailer was wedged up against a cluster of other homes, which provided good cover. “What’s the distance from the side of the house to the front door?”
“Eleven feet,” he answered.
It was longer than Grant would have liked, and there was still the possibility that Johnson would wire the boy to blow like Mallory Givens’s abductor. Though if he used the explosives for around the doors and windows, he might not have enough to make a vest. “All right, that’s our play.” He turned around to Mocks, who was already back in the van and examining the blueprints herself.
“I’ll go around the north side, and we’ll hit him from both angles,” Mocks said. “If we catch him off guard, we can force his initial reaction to shoot us first.” She let out a low breath. “This will go down really fast.”
When she stepped out of the van, Grant pulled her aside, out of earshot from everyone else. “It’ll be helpful to have two people do this, but if you can’t—”
“I’m in, Grant,” Mocks said. “This guy may have taken some classes on how to abduct kids, but he hasn’t had the firearms training we have. And besides,” she smiled and punched his arm. “Maybe I’ll get my own medal for this.”
“Careful what you wish for,” Grant said. “Let’s grab some vests.”
The Kevlar was bulkier than Grant would have liked, but he knew it was needed. There was something ominous about strapping on Kevlar. He didn’t wear it in his normal day-to-day. He felt like he was tempting fate when he did. Like he was asking for a bullet.
Once they were strapped up, Grant noticed the hum of the chopper blades fading. He looked to the grey, clouded sky and watched them disappear. Senator Pierfoy had come through.
“Sergeant,” Grant said. “Get your people back.”
In the chaos of the retreat, Grant and Mocks slid up around the backside of the houses next to where Johnson was located and huddled in their position.
It wasn’t until Grant was alone at the south end of the house that he realized he never said anything to Mocks before the pair parted. There was the possibility that he wouldn’t come out of this alive, and if so, his last words to his partner would have been ‘let’s grab some vests.’
Not the most eloquent goodbye. He would have preferred something more personal. After all, they’d been together for over two years, and it was by far the most successful partnership he’d ever been attached to. Plus, he was fond of Mocks. She was the little sister he never had. And he knew she looked up to him, though he wasn’t sure why. In many aspects, she already surpassed him in the position. She had the mind and tenacity for the job, and once she picked up on the subtleties of dealing with people, which was the only area she lacked, she’d be the best in the field.
Heavy thumps snapped Grant’s attention back to the house. Johnson shouted, but the words were muffled through the trailer walls. Grant removed the 9mm Glock from his holster and inched to the front corner of the house, ducking below the only window he passed along the way.
The last few police cars disappeared down side streets, and the crowds of pedestrians were corralled away from the scene. The thump of the choppers overhead faded. Everything was falling into place. All that was left was the getaway car and the cash. But the quieter it grew outside, the louder it became inside the trailer.
Johnson stepped heavily, running around the house, screaming nonsense. He could be hopped up on drugs. He could have already killed the boy. But could haves always bounced at the bank. Grant needed to stick with what he knew, and that was Craig Johnson stepping out of that house and trying to kill anything that got in his way.
Grant drew in a breath as the brakes from the getaway car squealed to a stop just short of the driveway. The officer inside stepped out of the vehicle slowly, his hands in the air. Grant saw the outline of the man’s Kevlar underneath the bulky coat.
Johnson cracked open the front door and Grant remained glued to the side of the house, out of sight.
“Where’s the money?” Johnson said, his voice raspy from shouting.
The officer, moving slowly, reached inside the car and grabbed hold of a duffel bag. He opened it and exposed the cash piled inside. Grant couldn’t see the exact bills, but it was more than enough to convince Johnson that it was legit.
Johnson had everything he wanted. The choppers gone. The officers retreated. The getaway car, and now the cash. The trust was established. The only question that remained was if he would take the bait.
The officer placed the duffel bag back in the car and slowly retreated, keeping his hands in the air as he walked backwards to the end of the street.
Grant’s mouth went dry. His tongue turned into sandpaper and it hurt to swallow. He panted quietly from his mouth: adrenaline, nerves, blood pressure, and heart rate all skyrocketed and bundled together in the pit of his stomach.
The front door swung shut and Grant inched to the edge, his back scraping up against the faded paint. He craned his neck around the front and saw the porch. He made eye contact with Mocks as she did the same, her figure even smaller with the distance between them.
He couldn’t tell if she was nervous. She just gave a slight nod and then retreated behind the house. Grant did the same. More thumps echoed inside, and Johnson barked something, and the question of whether the boy was still alive was finally answered as Tommy Steeves screamed.
Grant gripped the handle of his Glock with both hands, his knuckles white from the tight hold. He raised the pistol in preparation to strike. His muscles grew taut with anticipation, his mind and body poised to act at the sound of that door. He had two, maybe three seconds to assess the situation before shots were fired.
The details of the plan faded from his mind. The moment consumed him. He clung to the element of surprise, his only advantage, and hoped it was better than Johnson’s nothing-to-lose. Johnson could miss. Grant couldn’t.
The front door’s hinges whined, and Grant planted his foot past the plane of cover. It was all instinct now. His mind and body retrieved the years of weapons training, the hours spent at the range, and muscle memory. But there was no paper target when Grant turned the corner, no stationary dummy with a burglar painted on the face, no blanks in the chamber. This was the field, where your actions had real consequences. And when Grant saw Craig Johnson with a pistol to Tommy Steeves’s head, Grant aimed for the one square foot space on Johnson’s chest just above Tommy’s head. That was his window.
Johnson turned and made eye contact with Grant. Everything moved in slow motion. He screamed something as Grant applied pressure to the trigger, and the man removed the barrel of the gun from Tommy’s head and aimed at Grant.
The bullet jettisoned from Grant’s pistol and connected into the right of Johnson’s chest. He stumbled backward and another gunshot fired. Instantaneously, a sharp pain ripped through Grant’s gut.
Grant tumbled backwards, and amidst the ringing in his ears from the gunfire, a high-pitch scream broke through. He smacked the ground and the wind was knocked from his lungs. A third gunshot fired, and Grant rolled to his side, a pressure in his head so intense that he thought his eyes would bulge from its so
ckets.
He looked to the porch where Mocks had Johnson cuffed on the ground. The next thing he saw was Tommy Steeves. He was crying and covered in blood. Grant just hoped it wasn’t his own.
5
The sirens and flashing lights flooded the street as every squad car and cruiser that had retreated returned in full force. Dozens of officers and a handful of paramedics rushed over to both Johnson and then Grant, who had managed to steady himself on all fours. He gasped for breaths and fingered the center of pain in his lower abdomen. It felt like it went through.
“I just need you to sit still for me a minute, Detective.” The paramedic had thick eyebrows and a shaved head. He flashed a light in Grant’s eyes and then gently patted the area on the vest where he’d been shot, then took his blood pressure. “Can you hear me okay?”
“Yeah,” Grant answered, inhaling a deep breath through his nose. He glanced over to the porch to see what happened with the boy, but a cluster of officers and medics blocked his view. He couldn’t even see Mocks.
“I need to get this vest off you,” the paramedic said.
Grant slid off his jacket, grinding his teeth as another shot of pain spasmed from his abdomen. Velcro ripped apart from the connecting pieces of the vest, and he tossed it aside. The paramedic ripped open Grant’s shirt and examined the red blotch on his abdomen. The paramedic poked the injury, and Grant winced.
“No bruising,” he said. “So that’s good.” The paramedic flipped the vest over and found the bullet that nearly traveled all the way through. He rubbed his finger over the flattened metal and shook his head. “Looks like someone was looking out for you today.”
But was somebody looking out for Tommy Steeves? Grant pushed himself off the ground and leaned up against the front of the house to steady his wobbling legs. He spied his Glock in the grass and bent down to grab it, being mindful of the soreness in his stomach.
When Grant raised his head, the cluster of bodies had disappeared, and he saw Craig Johnson being wheeled toward an ambulance, paramedics keeping pressure on the gunshot wound to his body. And off to the side of the porch, with a blanket wrapped around him, was Tommy.
Grant exhaled with relief, and the tension melted from his body. Mocks sat with the boy, holding him as he sobbed. The paramedic grabbed Grant by the shoulders but he shrugged him off, stumbling over to the pair and dropping to his knees.
“Are you all right?” Grant asked.
“We’re fine,” Mocks answered.
The ambulance doors carrying Craig Johnson closed, and the vehicle sped away. The remaining paramedics carried Tommy Steeves toward the second ambulance, and Mocks looked down at Grant’s exposed shirt.
“Showing off that six-pack?” Mocks asked, cracking a smile.
Grant buttoned up. “Hardly.”
The paramedic walked over and handed Grant his jacket. “You should really let us check you out. Make sure you’re all right.”
“I’m fine,” Grant replied. “What hospital are they taking the suspect?” Grant meant to question him the moment he was medically cleared. If Craig Johnson survived, it was their first big lead.
“Northside Memorial,” the paramedic answered. “They won’t let you in until he’s stabilized.” He paused, then looked back at the boy. “God knows he deserves a worse punishment than death.”
The sergeant cantered over, shaking his head and smiling. “That was some legendary shit, Detectives.” He looked to Mocks, his pupils dilated. “I suppose I have you to thank for that twenty bucks I lost.”
“Keep the thanks,” Mocks said, taking a step back.
“I want every corner of that trailer searched,” Grant said. “Anything you find, you report it directly to me, understand?”
The sergeant held up his hands defensively. “I got it, Detective. I got it. Hey, maybe the mayor will give you another medal for this one.” He chuckled and left.
“I doubt it,” Grant said.
“Yeah,” Mocks said. “The next one is for me anyway.”
The phone in Grant’s pocket buzzed and he jumped. When he removed his cell, the number was blocked. “Hello?”
“It’s a dangerous game you’re playing, Detective,” Senator Pierfoy said. “Don’t let this win go to your head. The next time it might result in your resignation and a child zipped up into a body bag.”
“The goal is to make sure it doesn’t escalate that far to begin with,” Grant said. “The officers that arrived on scene chomped down on the bit so hard that the suspect had no other choice. They pushed him. He pushed back.”
The praise and kindness that Pierfoy exhibited earlier that morning had disappeared. The amiable tone had transformed into disappointment. “And what are you pushing, Detective? Your own death wish? I hope you don’t expect for me to bail you out every time you find yourself in trouble. I don’t want our relationship to become muddled.”
“No, Senator,” Grant said. “We wouldn’t want that.”
“Find the rest of those children,” Pierfoy said quickly. “I want whoever is responsible for this madness behind bars now!”
The call ended, and Grant shoved the phone back into his pocket. He wasn’t sure if he was shaking from anger or if the adrenaline from the gunfight had yet to fade.
“What now?” Mocks asked. “It’ll take a while for forensics to sweep the place.”
“The girl at the mall,” Grant answered, pulling on his jacket. The air had grown oddly cold. “Let’s see if forensics is done analyzing that video.”
* * *
While Grant searched the trailer, Mocks called the precinct and got an update on the video. They got a hit on the suspect in the Annie Mauer abduction.
“Parker Gallient,” Mocks said, walking up to Grant and flashing him the picture. “Convicted felon for grand theft, assault with a deadly weapon, possession, and endangering the life of an officer. He was released by the state six months ago, and his probation officer hasn’t seen him since.”
“Six months ago,” Grant said. “That’s around the same time that website was created. Any affiliates or addresses we can check out?”
“They’re putting that together now,” Mocks answered, “and we have some good news.” Mocks clapped her hands together. “The chief finally authorized the rest of the AMBER Alerts. They’re going to be pushed within the hour.”
“Good,” Grant said, removing the gloves after his sweep of the trailer. “Let’s get Parker’s picture to the media. I want his face plastered on every screen in the northwest.”
“Already done. Find anything?” Mocks asked.
“Since it was a rental, we only tagged the supplies he brought with him. Looked like he planned on camping out for the next few days. He also had passports for both him and the kid. They looked legit.” Grant crumpled the blue glove into a fist. “It could be what the others are doing.” He bit his lower lip. “Sam give you an update on the website?”
“No, but I can call him while we’re waiting on the Parker info.”
“I’ll wrap up inside and meet you back at the car.”
With the precinct phones jammed from chaos that was the city, concerned parents calling every five seconds, Mocks dialed Sam directly. She had stolen his number from his HR files when Cyber started working on the website. It wasn’t exactly protocol, but no one tried to stop her.
“Hello?” Sam asked.
“Hey, it’s Mocks. We need an update on the site. Did you manage to cross reference Craig Johnson with any of the usernames?”
“How did you—never mind,” Sam said. “Yes, I managed to link Craig to one of the accounts. He was one of the sixty that actually finished all of the coursework.”
“Sixty,” Mocks said, raising her eyebrows. “That’ll help weed out the amateurs.”
“I also tracked Parker’s truck through the traffic cams after he left the mall,” Sam said. “He dumped it at some restaurant south of downtown. It’s where his trail ends. You want the address?”
“Y
eah.” Mocks recorded it in the memory bank and nodded. “Thanks, Sam. You have anything else?”
“Not yet.”
“Keep digging.” Mocks ended the call and leaned against the passenger door, waiting for Grant to finish. She glanced around the poor neighborhood, with its houses of peeling paint, dirt yards, and chain link fences.
Mocks didn’t like being this far north. It wasn’t far from here where she used to go on her benders. Days of no sleep, no food, and all the heroin she could handle. Her hand shook just thinking about it. She reached inside her jacket and retrieved the green Bic. She flicked it on and off, the flame wiggling over the metal hole. Her hand steadied when she held it. Every time.
Her old rehab group had called it a trigger. All those years of spoons and needles had left more than a physical mark. Whenever she was stressed or went through some adrenaline-fueled event like today, her hand wouldn’t stop shaking until she grabbed the lighter. Her sponsor had told her once that her body was just looking for something familiar to help calm itself, but Mocks knew the real reason: her hand was always still as water when she wanted a hit.
Mocks didn’t want the familiarity of the lighter. She wanted the familiarity of what came next: the high. Heroin, weed, Oxy, coke, it didn’t matter as long as it made her feel good. She flicked the lighter a few more times and a gust of wind blew out the flame.
It was one of the biggest reasons she didn’t want kids. And no matter how many times Rick pestered her about it, she just couldn’t bring herself to say yes. It wasn’t that she was afraid she would use again; those days were buried. She was scared that her kid would use.
In the support groups Mocks had attended when she finally got clean, a lot of the people had addicts as parents. And there was strong evidence that suggested that certain genetic codes were more susceptible to addiction. She didn’t want that for her kid. She didn’t want that for anyone.
Grant stepped out of the trailer. “What’d Sam say?”
