But that was when the door to the basement slammed shut, the bulb simultaneously snapping off to plunge us into darkness.
Instead of screaming or shouting, our police training immediately kicked in. I could sense Bryan reaching for his gun and I did the same. Yes, we were wearing concealed weapons, and rightfully so given that this mansion was a place of suspicion.
“You take the left, I’ll take the right,” muttered Bryan again, repeating his phrase from before.
Because we were prepared … to fight or die.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Callie
The tea was slightly rancid, but I didn’t say anything. I was here for more important things, mainly consoling my benefactors, Mr. and Mrs. Adams.
“Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do,” I said, tentatively biting into a cookie as we waited for Bryan and Blake to come up from the basement. “I’m not sure exactly how I can be helpful, but really anything, just ask.”
Just then, a door slammed shut loudly, jarring in the quiet.
“What was that, my dear?” asked Mrs. Adams, perking up a bit. “What were you saying?”
Was it my imagination or had the older woman just dropped ten years from her appearance? She was already sitting up straighter, looking healthier, more vigorous.
“I was just saying that I’d be happy to help you out with anything you might need. You’ve been so kind to me over the years.”
“Oh yes,” said Mrs. Adams, taking a big gulp of tea. Okay, it definitely wasn’t my imagination. Just two minutes earlier she hadn’t been able to drink anything, the grief overwhelming, and now here she was guzzling like a hungry bear.
“Mrs. Adams?” I said, as the woman looked around the living room. “You were saying?” I asked, perplexed.
“Oh honey,” said the older lady, her voice strong and assured. “You have no idea of the big favor you’ve done.”
I was really confused now.
“But I haven’t done anything,” I murmured, looking around. Was she referring to the flowers? “I mean, we haven’t sorted through your son’s stuff yet, not that I don’t want to, I’m just saying that I haven’t done anything of value.”
That made the older woman laugh.
“You silly, silly girl,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You really have no idea, do you?”
Now I was genuinely confused.
“Mrs. Adams,” I said, setting my teacup down carefully. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Please, enlighten me.” Where were Bryan and Blake?
But the woman saw me looking around and laughed raucously.
“Those boys aren’t going to be able to help you … and boys isn’t the right word to describe them either,” she snarked.
Of course not, they were more manly than most of the men I knew. Bryan and Blake were mature, giving, kind and had it together. That was saying a lot more than many adults out there.
But I couldn’t hide the look of confusion from crossing my face.
“Mrs. Adams, please, I’m tired of asking. What exactly are you talking about?” I queried.
And the woman just rolled her eyes.
“You’ve been living with SFPD, didn’t you know? Undercover cops,” she jeered. “Did you really think Bryan and Blake Hanson were senior transfers to Canterdale? In the middle of senior year?”
I gasped. It couldn’t be.
“No, that’s not true,” I shook my head. “They’re normal guys with aspirations to attend the Police Academy. They told me so themselves,” I stated resolutely.
“You’re so stupid!” cackled the older woman. “They are the police, they already graduated from the Academy. Haven’t you noticed that classes seemed easy for them, that everything seemed too easy for two boys from a bad neighborhood in Queens?”
Well yes, but I thought it was because an intelligent mind could make up for a deficient education. I’d never thought it was because they’d already graduated from high school … and not just high school but the academy, no less.
I was frozen with shock, suddenly realizing that there was some truth to what the hag was saying.
“But … but why are they here?” I asked tremulously. “What’s going on at Canterdale that would merit undercover cops?”
“I’ll tell you,” said the old lady nastily. “They’re here to bust a drug ring. One that my husband and I run.”
That made me gasp. Sure, there are kids with drug issues at school but it was just pot, chew, the small stuff.
The old hag cackled and spilled the beans.
“You stupid girl,” she said, an evil grin on her face. “My husband and I have been running cocaine through San Francisco using Canterdale as a transfer station. It’s never been easier, and so profitable until our boy died,” she lamented.
I was still confused. I shook my head, my mind racing as I struggled to process the information.
“Mrs. Adams, what are you talking about?” I asked softly. “What drug ring? And what did Brian have to do with any of this?”
“Brian was our courier,” said Mrs. Adams offhandedly. “Our son was the best courier you could ask for, a straight-A student with a Harvard admissions letter,” she bragged, “that is, until he got addicted to the junk himself.”
That made me gasp. Brian was an athlete, there’s no way he could have been using and play football at the same time.
“Oh he was no good at sports,” waved his mom, “but he had a bright future. We were just waiting to expand to Cambridge with his impending move East. Imagine that,” she cackled again. “A bunch of rich Ivy League kids with money to blow and time on their hands. Perfect customers,” she summed.
“But why?” I asked, stunned. “Why did Brian have to die?”
This made the old woman pause, looking momentarily sad.
“Brian decided to sample the stuff freshman year. He started using, just a little bit at first to feel better, to build confidence, but it grew … and grew and grew. Pretty soon he was a full-blown addict, we had to bribe his doctor to fake medical records to play football. But he never stopped using despite our efforts. You can’t use and sell successfully, you’ve got to maintain distance from the product,” she shook her head sadly.
But I was still confused. “So the seizure he had during practice. That was all fake?” I asked tremulously, shaking my head.
“No, that was real,” said the old woman. “But Brian didn’t seize up due to some congenital heart problem. He seized up because he was using and overdosed,” she said simply.
“But what about Tyler?” I asked. “Was he using too?”
“Oh yeah,” cackled Mrs. Adams. “I never liked that kid but Brian insisted we needed another courier for better distribution. So John and I agreed to bring Tyler into the fold. What a waste,” she added. “He started in on the cocaine immediately and wasn’t able to get anything done,” she shook her head disgustedly. “A total loss.”
I sat back, petrified with disbelief and fear. What was happening? What I’d expected to be a condolence call had turned into a nightmare tale of drug use and death.
“I need to go,” I said woodenly, getting up. “I’ll just go and get Blake and Bryan, we’ll be out of your hair in a second.”
This made the woman blow a stream of air, the disbelief on her face evident.
“Didn’t I just tell you? Bryan and Blake Hanson are undercover cops here to bust me and my husband,” she said impatiently. “But you honey, led them right into the lair.”
What? My head spun and I felt dizzy.
“There’s a mistake,” I said firmly. “Just let us go and we won’t be back, I promise.”
“Sweetie,” said the old woman nastily. “It’s too late … because the Hansons are probably dead already.”
And it was then that I fell into a faint, the world going black.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Blake
The single bulb light snapped off, the darkness ominous as my brother and I stalk
ed silently in the Adams’ garage. Shadows shifted along the concrete walls and I realized that we’d been played.
Bryan and I had accompanied Callie on a condolence call, thinking we’d do some surveillance at the Adams mansion. No sweat, I figured. John and Jane Adams were elderly community benefactors, known for their generosity and good deeds. It’d be an easy sweep, just some discreet poking around in the most innocuous ways.
But we’d underestimated the enemy. Jane Adams had convinced us to check out the basement, allegedly to pick up some boxes belonging to her deceased son. And like idiots, Blake and I had obeyed without a second thought, only to be trapped in the dank space now, underground, with no obvious out.
I silently cursed. What the fuck was wrong with us? Why had we acted like rookies? I shook my head in disgust. No use getting into it now, it was too late and I just prayed that Callie was alright upstairs as Bryan and I fought our way out of this trap.
Because I wasn’t worried per se. You don’t go undercover unless you’re resourceful with a trick or two up your sleeve, kind of like a cross between MacGyer and James Bond. So I calmly made my way to the corner of the basement and squatted silently in place, lowering myself to the concrete ground. My footsteps had been inaudible and I could feel my pulse grind almost to a halt, my breath mere whispers in the cavernous space. The Adams had to make a move sooner or later and I preferred to have my back to the wall, ready to strike.
There wasn’t long to wait. I heard a scuffle to my left, about twenty feet away, Bryan engaging the enemy. I could hear a muffled grunt, a growl and a thump as something hit the ground.
After about twenty seconds of silence, I called out.
“Yo,” I hissed.
More silence pounded until the light snapped on with a stunning glare. There stood Bryan by the switch, blood running down from a cut on his forehead. The stream was bright red, leaving a stain on his shirt, but I could tell that it was just a surface wound, nothing serious. More telling was the body lying twenty feet from me in an unnaturally frozen angle.
“Oh shit,” I breathed. It was the girl, Valerie, the one who’d tipped us off to the Adams. She had seemed suspicious as shit, a high school dropout who allegedly had a secret child. But now the girl was motionless on the ground, her body twisted awkwardly.
Valerie’s bleached blonde hair was dirty and unwashed, the circles under her eyes visible even in the dim light of the garage. But it was the track marks on her arms that gave her away. A junkie, clear as day, with a serious habit to boot.
I toed her body and to my relief, the blonde grunted, her eyes flickering open. Okay, so her neck was at a weird angle but it wasn’t fatal. She’d just have a sprain.
“What is this about?” I said, kneeling next to the blonde. “Where are the Adams?”
Her eyes rolled back in her head momentarily and I thought I might lose her. She emitted a series of gasping coughs and I rolled her over to her side, the better to keep her from choking. But the girl was okay. Looked like Bryan had administered a body block which would leave bruises but was hardly fatal. She bent over, clutching her middle.
“Uhh, what have you done?” she whispered, her voice hoarse.
“Come on Valerie,” I said grimly. “What’s this about? Why did you lead us here?”
The blonde closed her eyes and drowsed her head wearily, but I wasn’t about to be deterred.
I shook her roughly, insistently this time.
“Come on,” I ground out. “What do you know about the Adams?”
After a few more coughs, she managed to say a few words.
“John and Jane,” she rasped. “Don’t trust them.”
“We know that,” I said sarcastically. “But why? And how the fuck do we get out of here?”
She nodded her head wearily towards a mess in the corner.
“Don’t trust my parents either,” she said faintly. “I’ve been trapped,” she said, her voice trailing off.
What the fuck? This was new. But I looked more closely at the pile of recycling in the corner and realized that it wasn’t just a random series of boxes. One of the boxes, which had probably once held a giant flat-screen TV, was cunningly assembled so that it provided a shelter of sorts.
In the meantime, my brother strode over and kicked the flimsy shanty, revealing rags interspersed with food and a saucer of water.
“Blake,” he ground out. “She’s been kept here like a dog.”
Oh shit. So Valerie had been imprisoned by the Adams in their garage, locked in slovenly, inhumane conditions. But it got worse. The girl coughed again.
“My parents,” she said weakly. “Don’t trust them. Not just them, no one in my family.”
This was just getting more and more twisted. We’d attended the Gordons’ pool party earlier this year and although we hadn’t met the parents themselves, we’d met their daughter, the ebullient and boy-crazy Chrissy. Chrissy also happened to be Callie’s best friend. Oh shit, was our girl in danger upstairs?
“Valerie,” I rasped, my voice urgent now. “Tell us if Callie’s in trouble. We need to know.”
The blonde coughed again, her body jerking on the concrete floor, but I could tell she was slowly recovering.
“My parents,” she said wearily. “My sister. They’re running drugs in San Francisco, Canterdale is a distribution point. The cocaine is shipped in with school supplies, and Chrissy picks them up before they flow through a network of couriers.”
Shit. This was starting to make more sense. The drugs came through Canterdale before Chrissy, the golden girl, picked up the loads, transporting them to her parents’ home. The Gordons in turn acted as distributors, saturating San Francisco with junk.
“But what about the Adams?” I asked urgently. “What’s their role in this?”
“The Adams are small-time distributors,” wheezed Valerie. “My parents cut them in after their son got hooked. The Adams didn’t care about their son,” she said bitterly. “They just cared about the money they could make.”
Damn, but St. Francis Wood was some fucked-up neighborhood. Picture perfect on the outside, but as deadly as a viper’s nest on the inside. Actually, why was I surprised? Parents who didn’t give a shit about their kids were de rigeur in rich enclaves.
But my brother and I were still trapped in this dank basement, with our girl upstairs.
“How do we get out of here?” I asked grimly. The color was coming back to the blonde’s face.
“There’s no way,” she said sadly, shaking her head. “Trust me, I’ve been living here for two years, I’ve checked every nook and cranny. You got a fix for me?” she asked hopefully, her hands beginning to shake.
I shook my head with disgust but also sadness. It was clear that Valerie was treated like an animal, drugged so that she lost consciousness, day passing into night, again and again and again. They must have let her out that one day to talk to us at study hall, bribing her with more drugs, keeping her on a leash using her addiction. Bryan and I were going to have to bootstrap our way out of this shithole.
I tried to shift the blonde into a more comfortable position on the floor, cushioning her limp body with some dirty rags.
“It hurts, I know, but you’re going to be fine,” I said grimly. “Just hang tight. We’ll be back.”
But she just shook her head wearily, her body in the throes of a spasm now. “Don- don’t- leave me here,” she whispered.
“We won’t,” I promised, and locked eyes with my brother. It was time to make a break.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Callie
Jane Adams glared at me with venom, her look pure evil.
“You think the cops are going to come for you now?” she jeered. “Your so-called heroes are trapped in the basement with triple-reinforced locks, you might as well give up.”
I shook my head stubbornly.
“You don’t know Brian and Blake,” I said quietly. “You don’t know them at all,” I emphasized.
The old
er woman cackled again.
“What is there to know? Undercover cops are the worst of the lot, they get assigned to the easiest beats because they’re unfit to do anything else,” she shrugged. “They’re not alpha males. Try beta zeros instead.”
I shook my head in denial again. Maybe Brian and Blake were cops, I could believe that. They’d always seemed mature for high school but I’d always attributed it to their gritty New York roots, a life of hard-knocks. I refused to believe that they were the runts of the litter, the ones that no one wanted.
“You’ll see,” I promised. “Brian and Blake will surprise you.”
And as if on cue, we heard a series of noises emanating from the basement. There were some grunts, some moans, and then a long ahhhhh of ecstasy.
“What is that?” squealed the old woman, her withered face crunching in disbelief. “What the fuck?”
“Like I said, you don’t know them,” I said ominously.
The moaning continued with an unmistakable series of harsh grunts, then the sound of flesh slapping rhythmically.
“Oh god,” moaned a male voice, “Yeah, right there, in my ass!”
Jane Adams’ eyes almost popped off her face. I could see the thoughts whirling through her head.
“Is it? Could it? No, not possible,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief.
But the next interlude from the basement made it clear there was something raunchy happening.
“Hit it hard brother,” growled a voice. “Hit it, oh yeah, just like that, unnnnf.”
And I realized the strategy. Bryan and Blake were engaging in some hot twincest to lure the enemy to the door and unspring the trap.
And it was working. Jane Adams, all of seventy years old, got up unsteadily, her face a mask of unabated lust, her withered form animated with a tense energy.
“My years are limited,” she warbled as she teetered towards the basement. “I’ve got to see those two gods having sex in my house,” she practically panted.
Limping towards the door, she reached out with an arthritic hand, a green laser on the knob.
Beg Me: Sold to My Dad's Boss Page 20
