“Call the local sheriff if there’s a problem,” he had said every year they went. The number sat on the fridge downstairs, under an I Love Robots magnet that had come with the Roomba he had purchased. She had watched him demonstrate it, then promptly vacuumed properly. She would have thought he had been hurt by her lack of interest, but she knew he had bought it for only one purpose.
To tear it apart.
Within a week he had reprogrammed it to tie into the house’s wi-fi network, and as a joke for his friends, he could send a command from his iPhone, which would activate a servo on his beer fridge, pushing the door open, which would then allow a ramp to drop. The robot would whistle like R2D2 and promptly deliver six ice cold beers to wherever the phone was located. It would then return to the fridge, the ramp would rise, and the door would close.
The roar of laughter the first time it had been demonstrated left her beaming. She loved to hear her husband laugh. It didn’t seem to happen often enough. She was an elementary school teacher and loved to laugh, the children she taught every day bringing an immense amount of joy into her life. But at home, laughter seemed a little sparse compared to at work. When their son Charlie was growing up, there was plenty, but now he was a teenager and didn’t seem to laugh as much around his parents. Her husband was usually happy, and would laugh when they watched a movie or TV show, or when they had company and a good joke was told, or with her at the dinner table or in bed when she told him about her day and something one of the little rascals had done at school.
But he rarely initiated the humor. The curse of marrying a scientist. She knew he was an egghead, and loved him for it. His brain was what had attracted her. She loved smart men. She loved Carl. But lately he had been distant. Whatever had happened at the lab had drummed most of his humor from the house.
She performed a quick toilette, then stepped back into the bedroom, flopping face down on the bed. On his side of the bed. She inhaled, hard, drawing in his scent from the pillow.
I miss you. I miss the old you.
Which had her concerned. Could their marriage survive? She thought so, but it would be difficult. And that was based on an assumption. That things would get better. That whatever was going on at the lab would work itself out, and they could move on.
If only I knew what was bothering him! If only he would talk to me about his work!
But it was forbidden. She had no idea what he was working on, but she had the sense Maggie did. When she had talked to her about Carl, about how he had changed over the past few months, she had said, “I’m not sure what’s going on, but I’m terrified that they might have actually succeeded.”
She had pressed Maggie on it, demanded she tell her what she meant, but Maggie had laughed it off—uncomfortably Phoebe thought—and nothing more was said. The conversation moved on to kids and life, and the topic of their husbands’ work and their state of mind, never came up again.
The door opened with a click and a creak.
“Charlie! I’m not dressed!” she yelped, grabbing her pillow and curling up into a ball as she tried to cover her naked form. Looking at the door to admonish her son, she gasped, then screamed. A man stood in the doorway, all dressed in black, a face mask covering his features.
She reached for the phone and the man quickly strode around the bed to stop her. She rolled several times to her side of the bed, closest the door, and hit the floor running.
“Charlie! Get out of the house! Run!” she screamed as she raced toward the stairs, her mind a jumble of disjointed thoughts. Who was the man? Why was he dressed as if he were something from a movie? Was he alone? Why did she have to lie naked on the bed today of all days? Where was Charlie? Was he okay? Who had been at the fridge? Was Charlie even home?
Her feet slid on the floor and she grabbed the railing, rushing down the first few steps and turning the corner for the final run. She cried out as another man was coming up the stairs toward her, and with the thud of footsteps behind her, she knew there was no going back.
Her kickboxing classes popped to mind, and she snapped out her right leg at the knee, her heel nailing the surprised man squarely on the jaw. He tumbled backward and hit the floor with a grunt. She continued down the stairs and jumped over him, but as she cleared his stunned form, she felt an iron grip on her ankle that stopped her dead, sending her crashing to the floor. She writhed and kicked, and a blow to the man’s head with her free foot was enough to break his grip for a moment.
She yanked away as the second man cleared the last few steps. She jumped to her feet, rushing toward Carl’s office. Bursting through the door, she slammed it shut, pressed the button on the door knob, locking the door, then reached up to a piece of wood protruding from the bookshelf that lined the wall by the door.
The bookshelf was solid oak, integrated directly into the wall, and had been designed by her husband. This was their mini-panic room. It wasn’t meant to hole up for a long time, it was meant to delay. But it would only work if she could pull the damned wood out. She yanked as hard as she could, but it wouldn’t budge. She screamed at it, and it finally gave slightly, and with a better grip, she was able to pull it. She pulled the three by three inch thick wood across the door and slid it into a slot on the bookshelf that continued on the other side of the door.
Somebody tried the door, the rattling of the doorknob sending her own hands shaking even more than they already were. She grabbed the second piece of wood, at waist height, and yanked on it, it coming easier. As she slid it across the door, there was a loud bang, and the door bowed inward. A yelp escaped her and she lost her grip on the bar. It sagged toward the floor, but she grabbed it and resumed pulling. Just as she was about to slide it in the slot there was a tremendous thud against the door, and the lock seemed to burst into shards of wood as the frame cracked. The door pushed inward, but was halted at the top by the bar already in place, and smacked against the one she held. Somebody pushed on the door again, and she stood, momentarily stunned, terrified at what might happen when they got in.
Finish your job!
She snapped back to reality and shoved the bar into its slot, and dropped to her knees, yanking the third and final bar from the left side of the door, across the frame and into the slot, then collapsed backward onto her behind, staring at the door as those on the other side hammered away at it, trying to break it down to no avail, the three pieces of sturdy oak, braced on either side, protecting her for the moment.
For the moment.
Catching her breath, her mind immediately focused on Charlie and where he might be, if he were okay. She silently prayed this was one of the days he moseyed on his way home, and just didn’t have the courtesy to call her.
Please be one of those days.
Somebody slammed against the door again. Hard. The entire bookshelf shook, but the custom brace held. She jumped to her feet, grabbed a cardigan from the back of her husband’s chair and pulled it on as she reached for the phone. Grabbing the receiver, she dialed 9-1-1 and waited.
The click of the connection, and the operator’s voice sent a wave of relief through her.
Then the line went dead.
Her chest became tight and the walls began to close in. She dropped into Carl’s chair, hung up the phone, and tried again.
Dead.
She threw the phone on the desk, tears welling in her eyes as she looked at the windows, the outdoors only feet away, beckoning her, but she knew there was no way to open them. They were sealed, with reinforced glass and a bullet-resistant laminate.
If only I could get a message out!
She looked at the computer. The computer with a password she had no clue as to what it could be, and slammed her fists into the keyboard.
“Mom?”
The voice was scared. Terrified. Trembling.
And at the door.
Her heart slammed into her ribcage as adrenaline fueled her to her feet. She looked for a weapon, a method of communication, anything.
But she
found nothing.
“Charlie, is that you? Are you okay?”
“Open the door, Mrs. Shephard, or we’ll kill the boy.”
“What do you want with us?” she screamed, dropping to her knees. “Why don’t you just leave us alone?”
“Open the door, Mrs. Shephard. You have ten seconds.”
The countdown, supplied by her own mind, pounded in her head, and before she knew, it was already at five. She jumped across the floor, pulling at the bottom brace, sliding it out of the way.
“Time’s up,” she heard the voice say.
“Wait!” she screamed. “I’m opening it, I’m opening it!”
She slid the second piece of oak out of the way, and reached for the third.
“I’m getting impatient, Mrs. Shephard.”
She grabbed the final piece and slid it out of the way.
“It’s open!” she cried, reaching for the handle.
The door burst open, smacking her outstretched hand, batting it away as if an unwanted advance. She yelped in pain and stepped back, startled, as the man, still masked, entered the room. He raised his weapon and fired as she heard her son, standing just behind her assassin, scream in horror.
Ogden Police Department
2186 Lincoln Ave, Ogden, Utah
Detective Jamie Conway sat in the female locker room and took a long swig from her water bottle, quenching a thirst that had been growing over hours. She always took care to have a water bottle in the car when out on calls, but they had been out all day. Things like this just didn’t happen in Ogden. Murders? Yup. They had them, and she loved working them, bringing the bastard or bastards to justice. They were usually domestic or gang related.
But this was different.
A mother and her two young kids forced into the back of a semi-trailer, in broad daylight, then taken by helicopter to parts unknown. It had all the hallmarks of something out of a Hollywood movie, but it had happened in her town, on her watch. She tried to picture how horrible it must have been for the poor woman knowing she could do nothing to protect her children, but gave up, unable to imagine having a bond so close with anyone. She wasn’t a mother, wasn’t even sure if she wanted to be.
Certainly not now.
Beyond trying to establish a career, she was chronically single. She knew she was attractive, which seemed to attract the wrong guys. The pretty boys who cared about their looks more than their relationships, the jocks who cared more about their bodies than their brains. Most men seemed to be looking for a piece of eye candy for their arm, rather than a long-term relationship. And those that she was attracted to, ran away, in fear they were out of her league.
She took another drink, her shoulders slumped, arms dangling between her legs, head down, eyes closed. She focused on her breathing, and the sounds in the locker room, the shift change just beginning with the uniforms, the chatter of excitement and exhaustion of a day finished, an evening shift beginning. Her thoughts drifted to the beginning of her career in Seattle as a regular uniform. It had been exciting, exhausting, terrifying, but immensely rewarding.
Until her first brush with a true killer.
That was pure terror.
Gangbangers firing their weapons with their eyes closed half the time, their weapons at an angle because that’s how their favorite rapper fired his in the music videos, were one thing. They were just idiots who killed indiscriminately. Did they deserve to be caught and locked up for life? Absolutely. But she was never scared of them.
But a true killer. That was something completely different. A true killer targeted someone. For a reason. And there was nothing preventing you from being that target. And it was terrifying. Because a true killer could almost never be stopped. A true killer could be caught, but not before that first victim was already dead. Because a true killer didn’t announce himself with a Honda Civic and soup can muffler, blaring the latest gangsta rap from speakers meant for a house, with a car full of buddies and witnesses, their arms and heads dangling out the rear windows rolled only halfway down because they were too stupid to figure out how to override the child safety mechanism while they had the two foot high rear spoiler installed.
A true killer was methodical. Deliberate. With a purpose.
And her first encounter had terrified her so much, she had wanted to become a detective from the moment those who took over the investigation had arrived. She wanted to be in on the action, in on the hunt, rather than providing crowd control.
She drained the bottle, tilting it up high, sticking her bottom lip out, raising her head as little as possible. Her neck hurt. She needed a massage. She needed a man to give her a massage. She tingled at the thought. That was one thing that was great about Seattle. If you wanted to, you could hook up with someone, and just have casual, meaningless sex whenever you wanted. In a small town like this, she was too recognizable. Then again it wasn’t like she was promiscuous back in Seattle. She could count on two thumbs how many times she had had sex with someone she wasn’t in a relationship with.
Sometimes though it’s just nice to know you had the option, even if it was never exercised.
She loved this town. To a point. It was so small compared to Seattle, it seemed sometimes everyone was in your business. They made an effort to get to know your name, to greet you by name. Whether it was at work or at the grocery store. Sure, that was small town friendly, and knowing you could count on your neighbors was a wonderful thing.
But what if you wanted to just go out and grab a pint of Dulce de Leche Häagen-Dazs ice cream without taking a shower and dolling up? You could risk that in the city, since nobody wanted to know you. But here, in Ogden? It terrified her that she’d become water cooler chatter.
And it was locker room chatter that caught her attention.
“Did you hear what happened over in Huntsville?”
“Nope.”
“A nine-one-one hang up call. Operator figured it was a misdial, but when she tried to call back, the lines were dead, so we were sent over on a low priority. When we got there, everything looked fine, nobody home. But some neighbor came out and said she saw two black SUVs on the street. One had pulled into the garage for a few minutes, then both sped off.”
“That’s odd.”
“Yeah, so we forced the door, went inside, nobody there, but one of the doors to what looks like the guy’s home office had the shit kicked out of it.”
Jamie was already on her feet, rounding the lockers.
“Did you say ‘two black SUVs’?” she asked.
The officer, in nothing but bra and panties, looked up and nodded.
“Yes, Detective.”
“Anything come of it?”
The young officer shook her head.
“We called it in, and have an APB out on the vehicles, and my partner is doing the paperwork on the missing persons reports now. We can’t find the teenage boy, the mother or the father.”
Jamie’s mind raced. Black SUVs. Multiple Black SUVs. It was thin. Very thin. “Where’d the husband work?”
“Omega Bionetix. Some kind of scientist.”
Bingo!
A little less thin. If it was assumed this second family was kidnapped as well, the evidence connecting them was actually fairly substantial. Same type of vehicles used. Same day. Approximately the same time by the sounds of it. Husbands worked at the same company, doing the same type of work possibly.
“You said your partner is still doing the paperwork?”
The officer nodded as she buttoned up her shirt.
“Holder. He’s upstairs right now.”
“Great, thanks.”
Jamie rushed from the locker room, tossing her empty water bottle in the recycling bin.
Much bigger than we think.
Unknown Location
Jason Peterson awoke again with a throbbing headache, and a raging pain in his nose where he had been hit. This time he kept his eyes closed, and just listened, his lesson learned. He could hear voices, but they sou
nded distant, the drone of some type of engine drowning them out.
He took the risk, and moved his head slightly, eyes still closed. He raised his right ear off the floor of whatever vehicle he was being transported in or on, and suddenly the voices became much clearer.
“—forced to take them on a public street. Didn’t go according to the original plan, but no worries, it worked out.”
“No worries? Are you kidding me? That public takedown means the police are already involved. We were supposed to have at least a twelve hour window!”
“Unavoidable. The Peterson residence was too well secured. Gated community, with one hell of a security system. The guy’s paranoid.”
They’re talking about my house!
But what did they mean? Public takedown of who? Their kidnapping on the lake certainly wasn’t public. And besides, his house could in no way come into play. He wasn’t even in the same county.
“Still, you could’ve figured out something a little more private.”
“We did, but she deviated from her normal route. We were lucky to get the truck in place in time.” There was a pause and Peterson’s mind raced to catch up to what it was piecing together. “Why are you giving me the sixth degree on this? We got the wife and kids. Nobody knows who we are or where they are. Mission accomplished. Move on.”
Maggie!
He wanted to cry out, to jump to his feet and attack whoever was within reach. They had his wife and kids. His family. But why? What was going on? Was it ransom? Were they being held hostage so his family, or the company, would be forced to pay some massive amount of money for their safe return? He knew the company had kidnap and ransom insurance, and he had even had the mandatory meeting with the K and R specialist at the company, an ex-Navy SEAL named Connelly who Peterson hadn’t taken very seriously at the time.
Who would want to kidnap me?
The question had seemed reasonable and ridiculous at the time, but now here he was, hog tied in some vehicle that to him sounded like a propeller driven plane, with at least two men who were talking casually about the kidnapping of his family.
And he was helpless to do anything about it.
“And the other one?”
Rogue Operator (A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller, Book #1) Page 4
