No stars, not even the moon that just two nights before had seemed so big and bright as I walked along the bank of the Gibbons River.
Not a chance in hell could anybody get me to live in a city again.
Shoving the gearshift into park, I popped the top on the coffee, downing a quarter of it in a single pull, feeling the warm liquid as it slid down my throat. Pausing, I drew in a deep breath, hoping the aroma alone would be enough to keep my body thrumming until the caffeine kicked in, before taking a second drink.
Setting it aside, I reached across, grabbing up the bag from the passenger seat. Pulling the top open, I fished past the assortment of items in the bottom, grabbing up a trio of phones and dropping them into my lap.
The first was my own, a very basic model that fit easily into the palm of my hand, a couple of inches wide and twice that in length.
The other two were much larger, by comparison, each with screens almost twice as large. Both with heavy protective coverings on the back of them, one was black, an orange block T for the University of Tennessee in the center of it. The other was neon green, a single solid color free of design or insignia.
It wasn’t hard to figure out who the pair likely belonged to.
Starting with my phone, I thumbed it to life, the screen bright in the darkened interior of the SUV. Hitting two quick buttons, I pulled my call log up on screen before punching in my most recent contact.
Pally’s voice appeared a moment later.
“I take it you made it out okay.”
Not a question. Definitely a statement.
“I did, and thank you,” I said.
“I also take it you didn’t leave without nabbing at least something to point you on your way.”
Again, a statement.
“Two phones,” I said, “taken right off the desk of the main guy while he and his brood were out committing attempted murder.”
“Anything in them?” he asked.
“I don’t know yet,” I said. Without another word, I dropped the phone on my left thigh, the call timer still up on screen and counting. Shifting my attention to the opposite leg, I grabbed up the phone with the Tennessee sticker, pressing a button along the side.
On cue, the faceplate lit up, a picture of the S-2 graffiti scribbled across the wall in the building I’d just exited serving as the backdrop.
“It’s asking for a password.”
“Try 1111.”
Doing as instructed, the keypad on screen remained in place, again asking me for the entry code. “Nothing.”
“1234.”
Once more, I typed in the numbers, watching as this time the display dissolved, a bevy of icons replacing it.
“I’ll be damned,” I whispered.
“Two most common passwords on the planet,” Pally said, a tinge of disgust lining his words. “Kind of defeats the purpose, wouldn’t you say?”
Nodding in agreement, I didn’t bother responding aloud. My focus went straight to the screen as I scrolled through, seeing most of the basic things on the home page, a handful of others I had never heard of.
iTunes. Pandora. Youtube.
Some things called Waze. Uber Eats. Tinder.
Swiping past them, my gaze skimmed over everything, landing on his messaging center. Scrolling through it, I saw dozens of entries all file past, each with a name assigned to it, most of the messages completely benign.
Comments about a ball game. Or a car. Or telling someone to bring him dinner.
Nothing about Elyse. Or a meeting. Or anything even remotely close to what I might need.
Outside, a trio of young girls spilled out of the McDonald’s. Not much older than Elyse, they fell against each other as they walked, all holding paper cups, their hair spilling down over their faces.
Oblivious to my sitting there – or even the world around them – they piled into the car, the front headlights popping on a moment later.
As clear an indicator as could exist that time was slipping by. That already my niece had been moved twice. That there would be no more than three.
Feeling my core pull tight, I exited the messaging bank and went into the recent call log. Much like the messaging center, there was a lengthy list of names filed in chronological order, none of them meaning a damn thing to me.
Which meant it was time to start fishing.
“Okay,” I said, raising my voice slightly to be heard over the speakerphone, “how long would it take you to track down his most recent calls?”
“Assuming they’re legit numbers and not burners?” Pally replied. “About five seconds each.”
If he was offended by the question, he did nothing to show it.
Nodding to his response, I thought for a moment, considering what he’d said, what it might mean.
Odds were, someone involved with something like snatching and transporting young girls probably would insist on using burners. They would want nothing connecting them, no matter how tenuous.
A fact that wasn’t good, considering every entry in the phone was assigned.
“Alright, I’m going to start rattling off every number he’s talked to in the last forty-eight hours. We’re just going to have to hope that whoever he might have contacted does enough business with them to be stored.”
“Go when ready.”
Chapter Sixty-Three
Amber Denman’s feet hurt. The shoes she’d grabbed on the way out the night before weren’t the best for arch support, and the pair that Josh had grabbed her on his quick run to the house for clothes and supplies wasn’t much better.
Thinking she would be better off in a pair of running shoes, he had mistakenly grabbed the ones from the garage, the broken down sneakers she saved solely for gardening or bathing the dog in the backyard.
Not that she could bring herself to say as much. As taxing as the last couple of days had been, she knew he was trying. That his run home had been for her benefit more than his own.
That seeing his son laid up, having to sit and think about his daughter still out there somewhere, was absolutely killing him.
A fact that was apparent by the look on his face, his brow furrowed, a web of crow’s feet perched at the corners of his eyes. Leaning forward in the small chair he sat in, only the bottom few inches of his backside even touched the molded plastic. The rest of his weight was balanced forward, elbows resting on his knees.
Between his hands was clutched a copy of Eric’s favorite book, Josh reading it to him before their son drifted off without warning a few moments prior.
Quite possibly the first time anybody had ever fallen asleep in the middle of a Game of Thrones novel.
Standing in the corner, Amber let the walls on either side of her support her weight. Rocking her head back, she lay her skull against the drywall, her focus glazing as she stared straight ahead.
Little by little, Eric was improving. The splint on his nose was still an eyesore, and most of his shoulder and chest were both buried beneath gauze bandages. Months of rehab and physical therapy awaited.
But he was improving.
Resting in such a position, her thoughts well into the future, Amber didn’t hear her phone. She barely even registered as Josh looked up from the bed and turned her direction.
Not until he spoke did she actually hear it, his voice bringing her back to the surface.
“Hon! Your phone.”
Snapping herself awake, Amber used her shoulders to lever herself up from the wall. Patting down her torso, she passed her splayed fingertips against her blazer and thighs before reaching behind her and extracting the phone from her back pocket.
Holding it up before her, she saw a string of digits staring back at her, recognizing the number in an instant.
“Hawk,” she said, turning toward the door. In her wake, she heard Josh mumble something, his words falling away as she stepped out into the hallway.
Glancing to her right, she looked down the length of the intensive care ward, most activity having slowed f
or the night. Along either side, many of the lights had been extinguished, a single orderly pushing a cart and an elderly couple leaning against each other, deep in sleep, the only people around.
Turning to the left, Amber strode for the window spread the length of the hall, walking directly up to it, her own reflection staring back at her as she pressed the phone to her ear.
“Hawk.”
“Have the police contacted you yet?”
No preamble of any kind. No greeting or introduction in the slightest.
Cutting straight to it, Amber felt her breath catch, a hand rising to her throat. “Oh, Jesus.”
“No,” Hawk replied, jumping in before her fears could go any further. “No no no. She hasn’t been found, it’s nothing like that.”
Letting the air slide from her lungs, Amber felt her body rock forward at the waist. Her shoulders slouched, her free hand falling from her neck to her knee, bracing her upper body.
“Jesus Christ, Hawk. You scared the shit out of me.”
On the other end, there was no response. No offer of apology. No attempt to redirect.
Instead, he merely waited, the sounds of the road providing the backdrop, easily heard over the speakerphone.
“No,” she said, making no effort to hide the agitation she felt. “They haven’t called me. Why? Should they?”
“They might,” Hawk said. “Depends on how desperate they are for some good news.”
Amber’s lips moved imperceptibly as she repeated what had been said. On the second listen, the meaning behind it clicked into place, her eyebrows rising.
“So there was nothing there.”
“No sign of Elyse,” Hawk replied. “Whether she’d been there or not, I can’t speculate.”
Folding an arm over her torso, Amber turned her back to the window. She rested her weight against it, feeling the cool press through her clothes, her mouth drawing into a tight line.
Too many times she’d heard about the dangers of letting the forty-eight-hour window pass, a figure they were now square up against. All afternoon she’d been reading accounts online of how child abduction cases worked, about the process that law enforcement followed in bringing them home.
In almost every one that ended successfully, there was a request for ransom. Or at least a viable reason the person had been grabbed.
Money. Revenge. Political sway. Something that would provide context, giving responders a place to start looking.
None of that was the case here. The detective had stood in the room two halls over and basically said that they were unlikely targets. That the nabbing of their daughter made little sense.
They offered precious little that anybody might actually want.
Raising her foot, she snapped it back, mashing her heel into the hall. Flakes of drywall chipped away under the contact, speckling the floor around her.
Extending it a second time, she brought it back again, feeling a divot begin to form.
“Son of a bitch,” she whispered. Shaking her head, she cast aside the thoughts she’d been having, asking, “Did you...?”
“No,” Hawk replied, “but I didn’t have to.”
Her eyes narrowing, Amber asked, “Meaning?”
“Meaning, they were taking care of it for us when I arrived. That’s how I was able to slip in and out unnoticed.”
Not quite sure what that meant, Amber decided against pressing it. Her chief concern right now was on finding Elyse.
If that hadn’t yet happened, there was no need to linger on extraneous details.
“Where are you now?” she asked.
“South of the city, not far from Vanderbilt,” he said. “On the way out, I snatched the S-2 leader’s cell phone. My guy is now running down all the numbers to see who he talked to.”
It wasn’t a lot, but it was something. “And then?”
“And once I have a location, I’m going to go pay them a visit,” Hawk replied, his voice so quiet it was barely audible.
In his voice was a hint of a steel, the sound matching the feeling Amber had been carrying around for most of the afternoon.
“I hope when you get there you do a hell of a lot more than that.”
Almost a full minute passed, the only sound the tires of his SUV rolling along the highway.
“I’ll keep you posted.”
Chapter Sixty-Four
Of everything John Kuntzman did, this was the part he hated the most.
The career path he had chosen was unconventional, to say the least. Priding himself as a self-aware man, he knew that. Was certain that many probably considered what he did and the manner in which he did it immoral, if not a thousand other adjectives, all worse than the one before it.
None of that really bothered him. Growing up in a doublewide on a dusty swath of ground no larger than a postage stamp in west Texas, Kuntzman had watched his parents struggle for everything they had. He’d seen his father rise before dawn each morning and drive out to the biggest ranch in the area, working the fields like a common Mexican hand, returning after dark with barely a few dollars to show for it.
Decades before, he had vowed that he would rise above that. He would be like the man that handed his father that pittance, riding around in a fancy truck, dressing like he was about to enter a board meeting.
And now, so much time later, he was. He owned a sweeping corner penthouse suite overlooking Nashville. He had a small fleet of automobiles. Enough money that he could retire today and be just fine.
People in town knew his name. They called and asked him to donate to charitable causes, invited him to attend public functions.
Of course, none of them really knew what he did, but that was hardly the point. He had made it. He had arrived, and he was enjoying all the trappings that came with it.
But he still despised moments like this. Instances where he had to get a little closer than he would like. Had to share the same space, breathe the same air with those that made it possible.
According to the file Big Man had sent over, the girl sitting beside him was sixteen, but up close, she looked even younger. Her skin was smooth, almost porcelain, not a single wrinkle or line on it. Her eyes were wide, unable to hide the fear she felt.
Every so often she would emit a sound – a sniffle, an involuntary tremor, a quick intake of air – that relayed how terrified she was.
Not that she didn’t have reason to be.
But that still didn’t mean he wanted to sit and hear it.
The small airstrip he was parked beside resembled the fairway on a golf course, a single stretch of grass clipped close, extended out in a straight line, more than a hundred yards in length. Along either side was a handful of small orange lights, the glowing dots the only thing to demarcate the place for what it was.
Otherwise, the spot looked just like a million others in the area, a grassy meadow sitting a few miles beyond the reach of the city sprawl.
Parked with the front grille just off the edge of the strip, Kuntzman waited, flicking his gaze from the clock on the dash to the sky above, watching for the telltale flicker of a craft coming in on approach.
In his hand was a Wilson Tactical Carry, the barrel resting on his thigh, aimed directly at the young girl pressed to the opposite window. Beside him sat the remains of a fast food dinner that neither of them had touched, the meal doing little beyond permeate the air with the smells of salt and grease.
The sound of his phone buzzing punctured the uneasy silence of the cab. Responding only by sliding his gaze from the sky to the device balanced atop the dash, Kuntzman looked at the faceplate, seeing the name that flashed on the screen.
A feeling of dread rippled through his stomach, a small sigh crossing his lips as he extended his free hand and snatched up the phone.
“Yeah?”
Answering in front of the girl wasn’t ideal, but right now it was the best he could do. No chance would he step out and leave her inside.
And it wasn’t like anything she might
now hear would change her position in the slightest.
“Where are you?” Detective Ben Russo asked, his voice lower than usual, almost a hiss.
“At the airstrip,” Kuntzman replied, annoyance spiking in him at the question, and the insinuation underlying it. “Why? Where are you?”
For a moment, there was no response, the pause no doubt meant to relay a message.
“West Nashville,” Russo replied. He let it sit there for an instant, adding nothing else, leaving it long enough for Kuntzman to compute what he was saying.
“How bad?” Kuntzman asked.
“Very,” Russo replied. “Squad cars arrived half an hour ago to find your boys had been having some sort of initiation ritual. They went too far. Three men were killed.”
Feeling his eyes slide shut for a moment, Kuntzman squeezed the phone in his hand.
No matter what Russo claimed, the S-2 wasn’t his boys, though he had worked with them enough to respect what they did. And to trust them when they called with something like the girl now sitting beside him.
Finding an able replacement would take time.
And that was after considering the more obvious question.
“Are they on to us?”
“No,” Russo said. “The place is pretty well scrubbed, but like I told you before, the girl needs to disappear.”
“Like I said, we’re at the airstrip now,” Kuntzman said. “Any moment now.”
“Good.”
Considering things for a moment, Kuntzman asked, “How they handling it?”
“How do you think?” Russo scoffed. “Officers rushed in and found eighteen shirtless men standing over three dead boys. Every single one has been placed into custody. Prosecutors are being in called in as we speak.”
Shoving a loud breath out through his nose, Kuntzman muttered, “Shit.”
Prosecutors meant charges. They meant threats being lobbed and deals being struck.
Big Man would never roll on him. Same with Peanut. That much he knew. The others, he couldn’t be so sure of.
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