by T. M. Smith
The Survivor series Box set
Amazon Kindle Unlimited exclusive
Book 1 Survivor
Est. Length 55,590 words
Book 2 Lover
Est. Length 68,942 words
Book 3 Fighter
Est. Length 55,418 words
Box set Est. Length 179,691 words
Copyright © 2018 TTC Publishing
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author and/or publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages for review purposes only. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact TTC Publishing at www.ttcbooksandmore.com or at [email protected]
DO NOT DISTRIBUTE, COPY OR SHARE
Cover art for series: Rhys Ethan of Ethereal Ealain
Website: https://www.facebook.com/etherealealain/
Editing: Flat Earth Editing
Survivor (Book 1)
Taylor Langford’s world is torn apart when he is only thirteen years old—his parents killed, leaving him alone and orphaned. With no living relatives, he’d certainly be another statistic if not for the intervention of the policeman who found Taylor in the crawl space where his mother hid him that fateful night. Despite the tragedy and resulting anguish in his life, Taylor knows how lucky he is.
Frank Moore is a rookie with the Dallas Police Department when he and his partner answer a call in Devonshire, one of the city’s more affluent neighborhoods. They think the young boy in various pictures throughout the home has been kidnapped until they find him, shaken but alive. Officer Moore recognizes the pain in the kid’s eyes, having lost his own mother to cancer when he was just a boy. He steps in, making sure Taylor is placed with a loving foster family. Over the years, Frank becomes a permanent fixture in Taylor’s life.
A decade later, the case remains unsolved and the once gangly, uncertain teenager is now a college graduate who knows exactly what he wants. He’s coming home to the man that helped mold and shape his life, the man he’s loved for as long as he can remember, Frank Moore. But Taylor isn’t the only person returning to Dallas, and while Frank is distracted by his own conflicting feelings and the new bond growing between the two, the past creeps up on them, determined to finish what was started ten years earlier.
A note from the author…
I hope you enjoy Frank and Taylor’s story. It’s been a long road to get them settled, but I’m happy with where this story has taken them. When I started this book, the intent was to write a stand-alone story, but that has changed. Characters continually evolve throughout the writing process, and there are several characters in the book that want to tell their story. I’ve grown especially fond of Rory and I can’t wait to write his book, which will take us back to when he first joined the Bureau, and continue on to his happy ever after.
Please be advised: This is a May/December romance, and as in life, there are sexual situations that take place prior to the main characters finding their way to one another. This is not gratuitous; it is meant to show character growth and self-realization. There is absolutely no cheating.
Note: Survivor is a work of Fiction. While there may be names of people, places and things that you have seen or heard before, nothing you are fixing to read is factual.
© Copyright acknowledgments
Dallas Morning News iPod FBI Homeland Security Mustang (Ford motor company) Amazon Facebook Lucky Charms (General Mills) King's Hawaiian Bakery Grindr Sao Paulo's, Austin TX University of Texas at Austin Dallas Woody’s, Dallas, Tx Patrón Tequila Sprite Nerf “Sweet Home Alabama” (Lynyrd Skynyrd/MCA Records) Uber Prius (Toyota) Temazepam Where the Wild Things Are (Maurice Sendak/Harper & Rowe) Blue Dahlia Bistro, Austin Tx InterContinental Stephen F., Austin, Tx Dallas Love Field Honda CR-V Jeep (FCA US LLC/Chrysler Corp/American Motors) The Port Hunter, Edgartown, MA “Finally” (CeCe Peniston/A&M Records) Target Jason's Deli Pyrex In-N-Out Burger “Any Man of Mine” (Shania Twain/PolyGram Mercury Nashville) “Like a Virgin” (Madonna/Sire Records) Jack Evans Police Headquarters, Dallas, Tx Dallas Police Department Dallas Independent School District Windex Dawn Corona CVS Pharmacy Bath & Body Works/Wallflowers Catalina 380 (Catalina Yachts) Bangor Daily News Hannaford Supermarket Resource Center, Dallas, Tx Dallas North Tollway US Marshals Service
Terms and abbreviations:
HOV Lane: High Occupancy Vehicle Lane, also known as a carpool lane in some states
FBI: Federal Bureau of Investigation
CCS: Cold Case Squad
Dedication…
For all the survivors
Prologue
The Stranger
Summer 2005
He stumbled into the kitchen, heading straight for the sink. Careful not to touch anything, he used his forearm to lift the lever and turn the water on. His eyes were fixated on the swirl of crimson that circled the drain as he ran his hands under the faucet. After several long minutes, his arms and hands were still stained pink, so he reached for the bottle of dish soap and turned it up, covering both arms with the slippery, blue liquid. One more thing he’d have to take with him rather than risk leaving behind DNA or prints the cops could trace back to him.
“Fuck!” he cursed, kicking the kitchen cabinet. The door opened and a box of trash bags fell onto the mat at his feet. Well, that was convenient. Kneeling, he tore a bag from the box, twisting it around his hand before pulling the cabinet open, careful to keep the plastic between his skin and the wood. Windex, another bottle of Dawn, and oh yes, bleach. Grabbing the bottle, he was pleasantly surprised to see a box of nitrile gloves sitting pretty beside the oven cleaner. It took a couple of tries to get the first glove on with the trash bag still wrapped around his hand, but he had to be careful not to leave any evidence that he’d been in the house.
He poured the Windex down the sink first, filling the empty bottle with bleach before using the rest of the pungent liquid to clean the blood-splattered stainless steel sink and countertops. Using the drawstrings of the trash bag, he threaded the red ribbon through a belt loop to tie the bag to his jeans, then wrapped the large kitchen knife in the towel he’d dried his hands with and stuffed it into the trash bag. Backing out of the kitchen, he made sure there was nothing left that could be used to link the two bodies upstairs back to him.
A gray metal organizer with the word MAIL etched into it was mounted on the wall, with several envelopes in it, one of them catching his eye. “Well, well, well. What do we have here?” The return address on the envelope read DISD in large print, then beneath the letters in smaller print, Dallas Independent School District. Tearing the letter open, he unfolded the paper and grinned. Right there, in black and white, was the name he needed to know.…Taylor Langford. Smiling, he slid the paper back into the envelope, folding it and tucking it into his back pocket.
Now he knew the kid’s full name, but where was the little shit? Climbing the stairs to the second floor, he closed his eyes and strained to listen, hoping to hear some sound or noise alerting him to where they’d stashed the boy. Crickets chirped outside and a train horn blew in the distance, but inside the house—nerve-wracking silence. He’d searched from top to bottom, every nook and cranny, the attic, the shed in the backyard. Hell, he’d even opened both large trash bins and dumped them out on the floor of the garage looking for the child. Sighing, he did one more sweep of the second floor just to be safe then made his way back to the master bedroom where the bodies of mommy and daddy lay on the floor, still and lifeless. Kneeling beside the woman, he gently wiped a stray hair off her forehead. “It didn’t have to be this way.�
�
He stood and turned to leave the room, careful not to step in the pool of blood that was still spreading out along the carpet from the man that now lay beside his wife, eyes open but dark and vacant. There was a crimson-colored scarf hanging on a hook by the bedroom door and he grabbed it, wrapped it around his hands a couple of times, and used the material to wipe the handrail and banisters as he went back downstairs. Leaving through the back door, he kept walking through the field behind the house and followed the dark, narrow highway until he came to the gas station where he’d left his truck behind the dumpster earlier in the day. He dug out a large black trash bag from the dumpster and tore it open. Pulling the letter from his back pocket, he committed the name to memory before putting it in, tying the bag into a knot, and tossing it back into the dumpster. It was the best way to dispose of evidence: leave it right under everyone’s noses.
Once on the highway, he started turning ideas over in his head. He needed a new plan, one that didn’t include two dead bodies, not securing his target, or the flashing lights now illuminating his rearview mirror.
Chapter One
Frank
Summer 2005
“Thanks, Mack.” Frank took the sack from the cashier at his and Caleb’s favorite sandwich shop, backing into the door to push it open, hands full with the bag and two Styrofoam cups of sweet tea. Caleb laid on the horn, sticking his head out the window and hollering for Frank to hurry the fuck up before he shriveled up like a raisin from sheer starvation. He’d roll his eyes at the man-child behind the steering wheel of the Dodge Charger police cruiser they drove, but it would be a waste. He was wearing aviators, so the visual would be lost on his partner anyway.
He was thankful Caleb took the initiative to lean across the front seat and shove the passenger’s side door open for him to climb in. Trying to juggle a bag of sandwiches and two cups and open the door, something was likely to get dropped and that something would be Caleb’s, not his. His partner took both cups, waiting for Frank to climb in and close his door before handing one back to him. “Smells wonderful. Now give, I’m dying over here.” Caleb snapped his fingers and Frank fought the urge to smack his hand.
He settled for a verbal backlash instead. “Man, chill the fuck out. Seriously, Caleb, I know Justine feeds you.” He pulled the sandwiches out and shoved the one with a C written on it at Caleb. “Besides, you’re getting a little spare tire around the middle there, partner. Maybe you should get a salad next time, cut back on the carbs,” Frank teased.
“Fuck off,” Caleb responded, the words sounding garbled around a mouth full of Philly cheesesteak with extra cheese and extra steak. Frank unwrapped the top half of his meatball sub and took a bite, groaning at how good the mixture of sauce and spices tasted. “Mack said to remind you that there is no such thing as extra meat and extra cheese; next time he’s charging you for two sandwiches.”
Caleb scoffed, taking a drink of his tea before giving Frank the side eye. “And you can tell Mack that if he even thinks about charging me double, I’ll have the health inspector in there so fast, his head will spin.”
Frank laughed, shaking his head and concentrating on the sandwich in his hand. This was their usual routine when they were on nights. They’d get dinner at Mack’s sandwich shop, same sandwiches every time, and Mack generally had the food prepared and in the bag when Frank arrived to place their order.
“You done?” Caleb asked and Frank nodded. He stuffed the empty wrappers and wadded up napkins into the bag before rolling down his window and dropping it into the trash can on the curb as they left the restaurant parking lot and merged into traffic on Preston road.
The evening was pretty uneventful: a dozen or so traffic stops, issuing citations, and helping a young pregnant woman change a flat tire. Just two hours shy of their shift ending, dispatch came on the radio and asked if any units were in the vicinity of Devonshire. Caleb and Frank exchanged a glance before Frank responded with their current location and said they’d take the call. “I thought they rolled up the sidewalks at night in Devonshire,” Frank said flatly, wondering what could possibly be considered suspicious activity in the affluent, upscale neighborhood.
Arriving at the address dispatch provided, they exited the cruiser and walked toward the front door. Frank took in his surroundings, noticing that while few houses had lights on inside—it was two in the morning—most had some type of outside lighting, whether it was the porch, over-the-garage, or motion sensors. The house they were there to check out though, was pitch black inside and out. Something about it felt off to Frank, and his instincts had never been wrong before. “Heads up, Moore, nosy neighbor at three o’clock,” Caleb told him, his voice low but clear.
Turning, Frank saw a woman that looked to be about fifty, wearing a long, pink robe and a pair of Ugg slippers, her graying black hair up in a bun. The only reason he knew that useless bit of information was because Caleb’s wife, Justine, had the exact same pair. “Officers, please!” The woman waved them toward her frantically.
Caleb stayed on the grass just a few steps from the front door while Frank made his way over to the woman, hand resting on his gun. “I’m Officer Frank Moore of the Dallas Police Department; are you the person that called 911?”
“Yes.” The woman wrung her hands together, eyes darting to the house behind Frank. She seemed rattled, concerned.
Frank looked back over his shoulder, eyes meeting Caleb’s as he made a circular motion with one finger alerting his partner to the fact that they might not be the only three people in the area. Caleb nodded once, lifting his hand to rest on his holstered weapon. Turning his attention back to the woman, Frank was ready to find out who she was and what had her looking as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. “Can you tell me why you placed a call to 911 Mrs.…” He trailed off.
“Waters, Thelma Waters. I called because I think someone broke into the Langford house.” She pointed toward the house behind him.
Frank turned to Caleb who was shaking his head, apparently not seeing anything that would be a threat or give him cause to think something was amiss in the home. Before he could say anything else to Mrs. Waters, she grabbed him by the arm and dragged him around the side of the Langford home, talking about a mile a minute. “Not there; it’s back here. I was in the living room watching I Love Lucy because my husband hates the show, won’t watch it with me, so I have to wait until he’s asleep. So I was in my living room.” Mrs. Waters paused briefly, pointing at the house to the right of the Langford home where Frank could see the soft glow of a television lighting up the empty room through the large bay windows. “And I thought I heard raised voices, a man and a woman arguing, which was odd—Emily and Sean never argue. They are just the cutest, sweetest couple, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard a harsh word from either one of them.”
“Mrs. Waters,” Frank tried to interject as they came around the side of the house, stepping onto the large, concrete patio. That’s when he saw it: the screen had been removed from a window, and the glass was broken. Thelma had started babbling again but Frank tuned her out and reached for the two-way radio on his shoulder. “Caleb, we’ve got a possible point of entry at the back of the house. Call it in and get us some backup.”
Caleb’s voice traveled through the radio. “10-4, partner.”
“Mrs. Waters, I’m going to need you to go back inside your house and lock all the doors. We don’t know who or what is inside the home or in the immediate area.” She looked uncertain and opened her mouth to speak, but seemed to think better of it. “Thank you, ma’am. Now you say the owners of the home are Emily and Sean Langford, is that correct?”
“Yes.” She gave him a jerky head nod. “Emily, Sean, and Taylor.”
Frank froze. “Taylor?”
Her head was still bobbing up and down from the last question. “Their son, adorable little thing. I think I saw him playing in the yard yesterday, but I can’t remember for certain.”
Frank g
ave the woman a gentle shove toward her home, reiterating the need for her to stay inside. Drawing his weapon, he walked the perimeter of the backyard, checking the other side of the house and behind the shed, making sure everything was clear outside before he entered the large, metal structure and slowly made his way through. It wouldn’t be the first time Frank had flushed out a perp attempting to hide in a workshop or storage space, which is what he seemed to be looking at. There were tools, boxes, miscellaneous junk, and three bikes hanging from the ceiling. Stepping back out onto the grass, Frank closed the door and checked his watch: eighteen minutes since he asked Caleb to call for backup, which meant they should be arriving at any moment.
He heard footsteps approaching and turned just as Caleb came around the corner, and the night sky over the top of the house lit up with the faint glow of flashing lights. Pulling his gun from the holster, Caleb nodded toward the back door. “I’ll cover you.”
Frank approached the back door cautiously, twisting the knob and cursing internally when it opened. They entered the home and checked each room, looked behind every door they passed as they slowly made their way to the front door, which was locked, to let the two officers sent as backup inside the home.
Frank sent one officer to the back of the house where the broken window was, advising him to step carefully and not touch anything, to be careful not to contaminate the crime scene. The second officer stayed put at the front door. From the two vantage points, they could see each other and while neither of them could watch every square inch downstairs, they would notice any movement. Caleb had closed the doors to the rooms and closets they’d already cleared downstairs, so it was highly unlikely anyone was in that part of the home. Upstairs though, was an entirely different story. Flashlights and weapons in hand, Frank and Caleb climbed the stairs and split off at the top of the second-floor landing, one going to either side of the square-shaped hallway that framed the staircase.