by James Hunt
“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.
Grant nodded. “What kind of situation are we looking at in the suburbs?”
“The neighboring houses have been evacuated,” Hickem answered. “FBI is on scene making sure no one blows their load too early. They don’t move until I give the go ahead.”
“And the location to the north? The one where I said they were going to take Anna?”
“Empty,” Hickem answered. “Looks like second time will be the charm.”
The radio crackled, and Grant’s heart leapt, wondering if it was an update on Sam, but it was from authorities on the ground.
And as if he sensed Grant’s hesitation, Hickem caught his attention. “When we hit the ground, I’ll send you back.”
“No. I’m staying with you.” Grant wouldn’t be good to anyone on the ride back, and the feeling of the rifle returned to his hands.
“Grant, I don’t think—”
“I’m not going back, Hickem.”
Hickem passively held up his hands, nodded, and then leaned back in his seat. And while Grant got what he wanted, he wasn’t sure if he’d like it. He thought that having a mission would provide enough distraction for the worry in the back of his head. There were a thousand scenarios, none of them with a happy ending.
The chopper touched down on the residential street, and Grant unbuckled the straps around his chest and shoulder and jumped to the pavement. Once clear of the blades, he turned to find the end of the road blocked off by a line of police cruisers, and a thick crowd of bystanders watching the action. Grant figured they were most likely the residents of the evacuated houses.
“Multz said the money still hasn’t moved,” Hickem said on their walk through the dozens of police vehicles, SWAT vans, and officers that surrounded the house where they believed Copella was being held. “Which bodes well for our victim.”
But Grant remembered the fingers plucked from Mary Copella’s hand. Charles might still be alive, but there was no guarantee that he was still in one piece.
Grant was surprised to find the neighborhood affluent and middle class. The trimmed yards and newer cars parked in the driveways told the story of a community where this kind of event just didn’t happen.
Yellow police tape was the final barrier to the house, and Grant and Hickem found the commanding officer on scene as choppers buzzed the air overhead.
“We have the location secure,” the captain said. He had a nearly fresh mustache, the hairs so thin that its only contribution was making his upper lip look more swollen. “The first officers on scene could hear screaming from inside, but they stuck to their orders of securing the perimeter. But now that you’re here, what’s the call?”
“Could they hear what the person was saying inside? Or how many people are in there?”
“They said he was calling for help. But from what they heard, it was only one person. And they said it sounded like a man.”
Hickem nodded. “You have K-9 units on scene?”
“We’ve got two on the way.”
“All right, the moment they arrive, I want to have them check the perimeter before we make any moves.” Hickem paced down the line of squad cars that had formed a blockade around the driveway of the house. He shook his head. “It wouldn’t make sense for them to just leave him behind. Unless they’ve got someone else in there, or one of Joza’s thugs decided to stay behind.”
But then Grant’s pocket buzzed, and he jumped from the vibration of the phone. He reached into it and found that it was a number that was blocked. He answered, a sense of dread filling him as he lifted the phone to his ear. “Hello?”
“Mr. Grant. It’s good to finally speak with you.”
Grant turned left and right in half circles, looking for anyone that might be in the crowd, anyone that might be close. “Who is this?”
“I’m sure you know who it is.”
Grant paused, almost afraid to speak the words aloud. “Director Links.” Hickem was within earshot and turned toward Grant at the sound of his boss’s name. He frowned, and Grant noticed how the color drained from his cheeks. “Where is Charles Copella?”
“He’s inside the house,” Links answered, his tone innocent. “Waiting for you to go in and get him.”
“What’s the catch?” Grant asked as Hickem stepped closer and the hundreds of people that surrounded them went about their business.
“I made all of the right moves, Mr. Grant. I followed them down to the letter. But I didn’t account for you. I never anticipated a disgraced detective from the Seattle Police Department would live down the street. It’s almost funny.” But there was no humor in his voice. Only contempt. “But to that ‘catch’ you referred to. I want you to go into that house, Mr. Grant. You won’t need a gun, but I wouldn’t expect you to go inside without one. But you must go alone. When this is done, I’m going to reach out to you again. And when I do, you’ll understand why. Now why don’t you hand the phone over to Hickem. I’d like to have a word with him before this is over. And I’d hurry, Mr. Grant. Time is running out.”
Confused, Grant lowered the phone and then slowly handed it over to Hickem.
“What?” Hickem asked, reaching for the device. “What happened?”
“Links wants to talk to you. And he wants me to go inside alone.”
Hickem wrapped his hand around the speaker end of the phone and lowered his voice. “Grant, if you go inside—”
“You won’t lose much,” Grant said, and to that Hickem only shook his head, complete with an unamused grin.
“Be careful.” Hickem placed his massive palm on Grant’s shoulder and gave two hard pats. Then he turned toward the CO on scene and barked for them to make a hole. “No one fires unless I give the order, but I want guns trained on that house and every window or exit that we have.”
Grant stepped through the barricade of police vehicles, and the moment he crossed that line, he was a man on an island. He turned around, staring down the barrels of the doz
ens of pistols and rifles aimed at the house, and wondered if this was how it would end for him.
Grant reached for the front door of the house, and the hinges groaned as he stepped into darkness. Curtains blocked the sunlight, and all of the lights had been turned off. The front door opened up into an empty foyer, and a living room was set off to the right side, where there was a man with his head down, strapped to a chair in the dark.
Out of instinct, Grant raised his rifle, scanning the rest of the room on his approach to ensure there weren’t any other traps. But the closer Grant moved, the more he realized that Charles Copella was the trap. And the timer ticking down past the sixty-second mark made the bricks of C-4 circled around him that much more ominous.
Charles lifted his head, his face beaten, bruised and swollen. Old blood crusted his hair, and the one eye that wasn’t swollen shut was bloodshot and struggled to focus on Grant as he knelt by his side.
“My wife—” Charles’s own hoarse throat cut him off, and Grant took hold of his hand. There was no time to call in the bomb squad. There was no time to dismantle the explosives. Charles was going to die, no matter what.
“Mary’s alive,” Grant said, trying to offer whatever relief to the man that he could, but by the dazed and shaken look on Charles’s face, he wasn’t sure the man even understood what was happening. “Anna is alive too. Your family is safe.” Grant squeezed his hand. “They’re safe.”
The timer on Charles’s chest dropped to forty seconds, but after a moment of hesitation, he smiled and nodded, reciprocating the hand squeeze. “Links.” He swallowed, the motion painful as he winced. “It was Links who—”
“We know.” Grant examined the explosives, and with the timer below thirty seconds, he knew that he couldn’t stick around for much longer. The blast radius would encompass the house, and he’d need at least seven seconds to get to a safe distance.
“I gave up the codes,” Charles said, his voice hoarse as he started to cry. “I’m sorry, I just couldn’t take it anymore.”
