by Hunt, James
Grant fumbled with the doorknob to the back door. It was locked. Footsteps in the hall grew closer. Mocks removed her pistol. Grant shook the door lightly. It was flimsy material. He shouldered it, and the wooden frame splintered as he stumbled into the backyard.
The noise gave them away, and heavy footsteps chased them down the hall as Grant and Mocks sprinted into the backyard, heading for the gap in the wooden fence. Grant stopped to let Mocks pass through first, and during his pause, three armed men funneled out the back door. They screamed, raised their rifles, and fired as he ducked behind the fence.
“Don’t stop, Mocks!” Grant pulled out his pistol on the run, the laptop still clutched under his arm. Mocks’s legs blurred together in her quick, short strides, and Grant’s own legs burned as they pounded against the pavement.
The small grid of houses where the gang lived had narrow alleys, forcing the pair to run single file. More gunshots fired, and Grant felt a wave of heat and air brush his left ear. He waited for the pain of a bullet, but none came as he followed Mocks around the next corner that spit them out onto the sidewalk of a four-lane road.
Heavy traffic sped back and forth, and Grant spun around to get a pulse on their pursuers. He watched two of them spill out onto the sidewalk a few houses down, their rifles raised.
With pedestrians and civilians outside in broad daylight, they opened fire. Grant and Mocks sprinted into traffic, Grant tweaking his ankle from the sudden burst of speed.
“Jesus Christ!” Mocks said, barely able to keep her feet as Grant pulled her across the road.
Cars laid on their horns and brakes screeched, but it all ended once the gunfire reached the road. Bullets tore apart trucks, sedans, vans, any vehicle that was in the gang’s path. Grant didn’t look back until they reached the other side.
His lungs burned, and the muscles in his legs turned to jelly. Mocks gave him a shove and pointed back to the thugs still trying to cross the now standstill, traffic-jammed street.
The pair sprinted between two houses in an old development and entered another grid-like maze of tight alleys and sharp corners. Clothes hung on lines to dry, most of them still wet from the constant drizzle.
Gunfire echoed behind them, but it sounded farther away now. Grant reached for his phone and dialed Dispatch, reporting their location. “Shots fired at 53rd South and Connolly Ave. Suspects are heavily armed. Medical units needed onsite.”
Grant skidded to a stop the moment the words left his mouth, and Mocks only made it a few more feet before she stopped to rest, too. The cold air was like breathing ice, and every breath was painful.
“There are still people trapped back there,” Mocks said.
Grant ripped off his jacket, wrapped the computer inside, and then stuffed it under the small space beneath the house to his left.
“Ready?” Mocks asked.
Grant removed his pistol and nodded. “Let’s go.”
The crash of metal and screams echoed louder on their return to the highway. In the last narrow alley before the road, Grant had a view of the street and its chaos: Screams. Gunfire. Smoke. Panic.
Grant and Mocks rushed into the violence, their pistols aimed at the gang that had unleashed so much hell.
Smoke drifted up from the hood of a wrecked truck, a young man unconscious behind the wheel. Grant veered to check on him and found the man’s forehead crusted with blood. He checked for a pulse and felt the faint beat of life. Grant started to move him but froze when he made eye contact with a gangbanger through the passenger windshield.
The shooter opened fire and Grant yanked the young man from the driver seat. Bullet holes redecorated the truck, and Grant dragged the unconscious man backward to the safety of the sidewalk.
The jammed cars provided plenty of cover, and Grant found most of them abandoned. He rounded the hood of a Ford Mustang, and another gangbanger appeared around the van’s rear.
Grant charged before the shooter fired and tackled him to the pavement. Both of their weapons fell to the asphalt and the thug rolled left, using the momentum to mount Grant and then wrapped his meaty fingers around Grant’s throat.
Grant’s airway closed. He punched the man’s sides as he choked for breath. The tattooed face above him blurred. His arms fell to his sides, and the mounting pressure in his head slowly faded. A numbness spread from his neck to his hands and feet. And that’s when he saw them.
His wife, Ellen, and his unborn child, Annie. The daughter he never had a chance to meet had red hair like her mother and blue eyes like him. She was smiling, reaching out to him. And just before they touched, she was gone. Vanished into nothing, just like in the car accident that had altered Grant’s life forever.
The thug’s limp body landed on top of Grant, the heavy man suffocating his lungs still gasping for air. He shoved the body off and rolled to his hands and knees. There was a muffled noise in his ears, like someone shouting underwater. His vision cleared, and when he craned his neck to the noise he saw Mocks huddled behind a car, evading gunfire.
“Grant!” she screamed between the gunshots, and he stumbled to his feet. He made it two steps before he stopped and reached for the AK-47 that belonged to the thug. He tucked the butt of the rifle under his arm and blinked away the last few black dots from his vision. He crept alongside the van and craned his neck around the front bumper for a better vantage point.
Two shooters. Automatic rifles. Grant motioned for Mocks to stay down. He retreated a step, his head still fuzzy from the fight, and then jumped straight up, slamming his elbows on the van’s hood to steady his aim before squeezing the trigger.
The recoil from the automatic rifle pounded against Grant’s shoulder in rapid succession. The power of the weapon caused his aim to drift, but the distraction alone was enough to give Mocks the needed time to escape the piece of Swiss cheese that used to be a Mazda.
Mocks leapt behind Grant and the van, and the trail of bullets followed her. The tires exploded, and the windows shattered as Grant and Mocks kept low on their retreat behind another cluster of cars.
The pair stopped at the driver side door of a BMW, the rear bumper smashed from a collision. Grant saw the man he’d dragged to safety still unconscious on the sidewalk. But aside from him, the street had turned into a ghost town.
“You all right?” Mocks asked.
Grant nodded. “Thanks for bailing me out back there.”
“I thought it was the chivalrous thing to do,” Mocks answered.
Grant peeked over the BMW, the pair of shooters closing in. There was nowhere left to run. “How much ammunition do you have left?”
Mocks removed her magazine. “Four rounds.”
Grant reached for his phone and texted Sam a message: yellow house off of 53rd, computer under the house wrapped in my jacket. Pivotal for case against the Web.
Grant clicked send in case they didn’t make it and then pocketed the phone. Vibrations rattled through the Beemer as gunfire grew louder. Glass shattered and rained on their shoulders. Mocks and Grant kept low, waiting for any lull in gunfire to make a move. The pair made eye contact and with hellfire raining down, Grant realized Mocks could be the last person he saw on this earth. Dying next to your partner didn’t sound so bad though.
“Ready?” Grant asked.
Mocks nodded. She inched toward the hood while Grant went to the trunk. He paused at the rear blown-out tire now sitting on its rim. Grant held up his hand, counting down from three, two, one.
Grant stood, lifting the rifle’s sight to the gangbangers to his left. Blood splattered over the man’s suit and he flew backward. He saw Mocks in his peripheral, the four quick strikes from her pistol, and she ejected her last magazine. She was empty. He pivoted his aim and knew that he wouldn’t make it in time before they gunned her down, but he had to try. Just as he squeezed the trigger on the thug who had Mocks in his sights, something stole his attention. A siren. Lots of them.
“Grant!” Mocks said, and pointed to the cluster of squ
ad cars down the road.
The surviving gang members retreated into the crevices of their slums, firing randomly as the police formed a perimeter. Grant and Mocks quickly fished out their badges as officers converged on their location. Grant lowered the rifle then tossed it on the Beemer’s trunk, his hands raised as the officers circled him.
9
The aftermath from the gunfight made the south side look more like a Middle Eastern warzone than a community in Seattle. People watched from the windows of their houses while pedestrians snapped pictures on their phones and streamed video to the web. The show of police force in the area was impressive, and officers scoured the area looking for the gang but found no one.
“Detective Grant.” An officer exited one of the alleys between the houses, the same one that had taken his statement on what happened. He was thorough, though his mechanical method of questioning was tedious. He held up the jacket and the laptop wrapped inside. “This what you were looking for?”
Grant sat in the back of a squad car, his legs hanging out the door and the sole of his boots grinding glass into the asphalt. He held a cup of coffee in his left hand that he hadn’t touched. He liked the warmth, but not the caffeine. Despite the fatigue, he was still wired from the gunfight. A light twitch in his right hand revealed his frazzled nerves.
“Yeah,” Grant said.
The officer unwrapped the jacket from the laptop and returned it to Grant. He held up the laptop. “What do you want me to do with this?”
“Get it to Sam Braddock over in Precinct Eighteen,” Grant answered, shaking the crud from his jacket. “Tell him it has to do with the website and that I need a summary of everything that’s on that computer.” He tapped the top of the screen. “There is also a note on there with some symbols. I don’t know what they represent, but they might be a password.”
Grant was thankful the young officer had a notepad out, jotting everything down. “Got it. Anything else?”
“Tell him to hurry,” Grant answered.
“Yes, sir.” The officer jogged off and disappeared into the clusters of policemen, paramedics, and from what it looked like, the FBI.
Mocks appeared with her own cup of coffee and leaned against the back of the van. “How you feeling?”
“I’ll be better once we find our kid,” Grant said, looking down at the coffee that had cooled significantly. He dumped the brown liquid onto the pavement just as Hickem and his agents arrived.
“What the hell was that, Grant?” Hickem asked but didn’t bother waiting for a response. “You realize that your little stunt will send these people underground? You may want to find these kids, but I want to bring down their organization, and God knows how much you fucked all of this up!” He pointed his large meaty finger right between Grant’s eyes.
“Did you get anything from the interrogations?” Grant asked.
Hickem’s stony expression reddened. “No.”
“And I don’t suspect that’ll change anytime soon,” Grant said, stepping out of the car and straightening his back, which gave a dull crack. “You’ve never gotten anything from interrogations of Web members, have you?”
“No,” Hickem answered.
“Then why the hell did you even agree to take us over there?” Mocks asked, her own face reddening now. “You almost got us killed, and you got one of your own guys shot!”
The left corner of Hickem’s mouth curved up his cheek. “Our protocols are clear about when I’m allowed to engage and utilize resources for a raid. It’s only by approval from my superior or special circumstances.” A more amiable expression appeared. “I was able to file this one as a special circumstance.”
“Unbelievable,” Mocks said.
“I’ll be able to use your names in the report, and when my boss asks why two Seattle detectives were part of a sting, I’ll get to tell them it was because the ambassador called me, and that’s my get out of jail free card.” Hickem crossed his arms, shifting his glance back and forth between the two. “Getting the jump on those guys allowed us to confiscate a lot of guns and a lot of drugs. And because we took a pivotal crew off the street, the whole organization will have to shift. And when people shift, they make mistakes.” Hickem straightened. “I intend to capitalize on those mistakes.”
“Well,” Grant said, sliding his jacket back on, parts of the inside wet from the ground. “I’m glad we could help you in that matter. C’mon, Mocks.” The pair walked through the crowded street and did one final check-in with the lieutenant on scene to make sure they didn’t need anything else.
“You’re all set, Detective Grant,” the lieutenant said. “And maybe next time when you’re going to be in my neighborhood, give me a heads up? I’ll schedule my guys for overtime in advance.” He cracked a playful smile, and Grant patted him on the shoulder.
“Will do,” Grant answered.
Once they were out of earshot and closer toward the car, Mocks spoke up. “I’m assuming you didn’t tell Hickem about the laptop on purpose.”
“I don’t need him confiscating evidence for his case when we can use it for ours,” Grant said. “He used us, and now we’ve used him. I’d say that makes us even.”
Mocks smiled. “That’s why you wanted that officer to go and get the laptop.” She shoved him in the side quite hard. “You needed to establish chain of evidence.”
Grant fished out his keys and stepped around to the driver side of his sedan. “Want to make sure we have a case that sticks.” He climbed inside, but when he slid the key into the ignition, he didn’t turn it on.
Mocks noticed the pause as she clicked her seat buckle into place. “What’s wrong?”
Grant twisted the gold wedding band. “I saw them when that gangbanger was choking me.” He kept his eyes glued to the metal. It was cold to the touch and damp from the moisture outside. “I saw their faces clear as day.” He smiled. “Even my daughter’s.” When Mocks didn’t respond, Grant looked over and then he shook his head. “I know I sound like a crazy person.”
“You’re not crazy,” Mocks said, then after a pause, she added, “What did she look like?”
“Annie?” Grant asked.
“Yeah.”
Grant closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the seat rest. “She had red hair like Ellen. Her eyes were like mine.” He smiled. “Everything else was all Ellen though. Ears, nose, skin.” Grant opened his eyes. “Ellen always said that I was her anchor and that she was my ship. I always thought it was silly, but after she died, I realized what she meant. There were places that I could only go with her. And there were storms that she could only weather with me.” The smile faded from Grant’s face, and his voice grew very quiet. “The perfect pair.”
Mocks placed her hand on Grant’s shoulder. “It’s good to have those memories. And it’s good to be that close.” And then she dug into the meat of his shoulder with her nails. He winced and she leaned closer. “Do not chase that feeling again.”
Grant shook his head, confused. “What are you talking about?”
“I know what it’s like to have something make you feel good when there isn’t a whole lot to feel good about,” Mocks answered. “Heroin did that for me for a long time, and I’ve got the scars to prove it. But there are other highs in this world that are just as dangerous. And I don’t need you turning into an adrenaline junkie so you can chase visions of your wife and child. You’ve still got work to do.” She let go of his shoulder, and the pinpoint pressure from her nails left indentations in the jacket.
He understood what she meant, because the thought had crossed his mind more than once. He wanted to see his wife again. He wanted more time with the daughter that he never had the chance to hold. He wanted the life that he envisioned before the accident.
“We should head back to the precinct,” Grant said. “See what we’ve got from the AMBER Alerts while—”
“Unit thirty-five, please advise, Craig Johnson is out of surgery and stabilized. He has been cleared by the doctor
s for interview.”
Grant snatched the receiver that still lay on the floorboard after his outburst from earlier. “Copy that, Dispatch. Tell the hospital we are on our way.” He clicked his seatbelt into place and cranked the engine to life.
“I meant what I said,” Mocks said, shifting in her seat. “Chasing after it will only get you killed.”
“I know,” Grant said, putting on his seatbelt. “But there are worse things.”
* * *
The fluorescent lights reflected off the polished tile of the hospital, highlighting the white floors and walls. Nurses walked by with clipboards, their sneakers squeaking with every step. Grant tapped his finger impatiently at the nurses’ station while Mocks sat in one of the chairs in the waiting area.
“All right, Detective.” The nurse behind the desk returned his badge and a visitor’s sticker. “The patient is in room two-twelve.”
Grant slapped the sticker on his front jacket pocket and slipped his badge back around his neck. He walked around the station and Mocks followed. He spied the room guarded by an officer. It was standard protocol for someone like Johnson to have protection. Pedophiles weren’t popular with any group of people.
“Let me know if you need anything, Detective,” the officer said after Mocks stepped inside.
“Thank you,” Mocks said, and then shut the door.
Grant sidled up to the left side of the bed, and Mocks went to the right. Johnson slept, but there wasn’t anything peaceful about it. The bed sheet was pulled up to Craig’s waist. The hospital gown they put him in lay flat against his thin body. Wispy, lightly browned hair sprouted from the top of his head. His cheeks were hollow and curved into his mouth. His eyes were closed, and the machines hooked up to his body beeped in rhythmic intervals. Grant gave the bed a light rattle.
Craig’s eyes fluttered open, and when he saw Grant and Mocks hovering over him, the machine monitoring his heart rate beeped wildly. He pressed himself deeper into the mattress as if he could melt into the sheets and escape.
