The Tears of Odessa (An Atlas Hargrove Thriller Book 1)

by Ryan Schow

  The Tears of Odessa

  An Atlas Hargrove Thriller

  Ryan Schow

  Copyright

  The eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy so that you may read it with a clear conscience and not one day end up in hell over a shitty technicality. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  THE TEARS OF ODESSA

  Copyright © 2020 Ryan Schow. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, cloned, stored in or introduced into any information storage or retrieval system, in any form, or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this eBook via the Internet or via any other means without the express written permission of the author or publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Author’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents—and their usage for storytelling purposes—are crafted for the singular purpose of fictional entertainment and no absolute truths shall be derived from the information contained within. Locales, businesses, events, government institutions and private institutions are used for atmospheric, entertainment and fictional purposes only. Furthermore, any resemblance or reference to an actual living person is used solely for atmospheric, entertainment and fictional purposes.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Cover Design by Milo at Deranged Doctor Design

  Visit the Author’s Website: www.RyanSchow.com

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Your Voice Matters

  The Beasts Of Juarez: A Look Ahead…

  Also by Ryan Schow

  About the Author

  “Our children are the rock on which our future will be built, our greatest asset as a nation.” – Nelson Mandela

  Chapter One

  BOOK 1: THE BEGINNING

  ATLAS HARGROVE

  Two years ago. On the fourth anniversary of his nine-year-old daughter’s disappearance, Atlas Hargrove threw his entire life away. It was a regular Tuesday afternoon, not unlike a hundred Tuesdays before it. Atlas had just shut his blackout curtains and was about to climb into bed alone when the call came in. After a ten-hour shift, he wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone. Begrudgingly, he picked up the call anyway.

  “Hargrove,” he said.

  “I’ve got a package for you,” Foster Truitt replied. Truitt was Vacaville PD, a former co-worker. Atlas sat up in bed, his eyes wide open.

  Even though he’d been awaiting the call, Atlas felt his stomach drop. Truitt had been conducting somewhat of an “off-the-books” investigation for Atlas, the nature of which was rather…sensitive, considering it was not about his missing daughter.

  “Talk to me,” he said.

  “I’ve got a package for you,” Truitt said, chewing gum.

  “And?” Atlas asked.

  “I didn’t come up empty-handed.”

  He’d found something.

  “Yeah, okay.”

  He was about to ask a question when Truitt hung up.

  Despite a personality devoid of warmth, Foster Truitt was one of the better detectives at the precinct, one of the guys Atlas not only liked, but respected back when he was one of the department’s two SWAT commanders.

  After he’d left Vacaville PD, Atlas had needed someone on the inside—a contact to keep him apprised of new information, should it present itself. He never thought he’d use the man for purposes other than to keep an eye on his daughter’s case, but that day came and Atlas made the tough decision to reach out to Truitt. When he’d heard what Atlas had to say, Truitt didn’t argue, he’d just set the fee and promised to get back to him. A part of him was scared to see what Truitt had found.

  Half an hour later, Atlas strolled into the precinct’s lobby to meet Truitt; he reconnected with the watch commander, Fred Albanesi, while he waited.

  “How you doing, Hargrove?”

  “Hanging in there,” Atlas said. Just being in the precinct again reminded him of everything that had gone wrong there.

  He and Albanesi went back to their academy days, but apparently they hadn’t been good enough friends to stay in touch after his daughter had gone missing and he’d 5150’d out of the job. Atlas understood. Around the precinct, when a guy burned out and burned up, the best thing you could do was pretend he’d never existed and go on.

  “Whatcha doing for scratch these days?” Albanesi asked.

  “Working private security. The Hollywood celebrity types, a few politicians going to fundraisers, a CEO every so often.”

  “Lowlifes with money,” he said.

  Atlas laughed. “You don’t know the half of it.”

  “Does it pay well?”

  “When I can get the work, yeah,” he said, surprised at the actual weight of his smile. “But I can’t seem to get enough work these days.”

  “They might take you back here. Lots of guys punching out with this whole antipolice agenda dragging on. Jenkins had acid thrown at his face the other day. By a freaking kid no less. Said fried pigs equaled bacon, or something stupid like that.”

  “You catch him?”

  “We will.”

  Foster Truitt appeared moments later. Where Fred Albanesi hadn’t seemed to have changed at all, Truitt had clearly refined his look over the last year. He was already a good-looking black man, but now the haircut looked more expensive, the suits more form-fitting, the wingtip shoes flashy enough on their own to steal the show. If ever there was a man worthy of being the face of Vacaville PD, it was Foster freaking Truitt.

  “Atlas,” Truitt said.

  “Foster.”

  He handed Atlas the sealed manila envelope then said, “Good luck to you.”

  “You want to catch up at all, maybe grab lunch?”

  “Maybe when things calm down,” Truitt said, heading back to where he’d come from. “I’ll call you.”

  Atlas turned and looked at Albanesi, who shrugged. “He’s perfected the art of the dismissal.”

  “I’ll say,” Atlas said, stunned.

  The contents of the envelope felt scant. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? His entire future could be in that envelope, a fact
that wasn’t lost on him. He drew a deep breath, measured its release.

  “Whatcha got?” Albanesi asked.

  “A roadmap to my future,” Atlas replied.

  His former associate didn’t even pretend to hide his curiosity. But Atlas didn’t want to be inside the precinct when he read Truitt’s report, especially if what he was reading turned out to be bad news. Yet there he was—standing out in the open like a man who couldn’t make up his mind.

  “I’ll see you later,” he finally said.

  “Not if I see you first,” Albanesi replied before going back to work.

  Swallowing hard, Atlas tucked the manila envelope under his arm and headed out to the parking lot where his matte black Dodge Challenger sat baking in the hot California sun. He started the engine and relaxed to the burly Detroit rumble. In the background, he tuned out the chatter of an active police scanner he kept with him.

  Taking a deep breath, he stared at the envelope. Eventually, he turned the scanner’s volume down, wiped a bit of perspiration off his neck, then shook his head. Was he really that scared to see what was inside? The temperature gauge on the dash read one hundred and three degrees. You could practically see the heat coming off the blacktop. It wasn’t the heat that was doing him in, though. He really was that scared.

  He turned on the A/C, made sure it was ice cold and blowing hard. “Get ahold of yourself, Hargrove,” he mumbled.

  When he mustered the courage to open the envelope, he was rewarded—or punished as it were—with multiple eight-by-ten photos of his wife, Jade. Based on the lighting, the rake of the shadows, he guessed this was a late lunch, sometime around two o’clock. That was when he saw who she was with. He was a good-looking twenty-something guy Atlas didn’t recognize. She didn’t have male friends that he knew of, nor would she have lunch alone with a stranger without first telling Atlas. He wasn’t insanely jealous, but he was protective of her, and protective of his marriage. Dread curled his insides. A fresh, cold sweat broke over him, and he suddenly felt very sad. He hadn’t expected that. Anger perhaps, or rage, yes. But grief? Not so much.

  There had been an unstoppable distance forming between them since their daughter’s disappearance, one he felt powerless to control. Even though he fought it, she seemed to have accepted it. Somewhere along the way she began to change, her moods lightening—in spite of him, in spite of their circumstances—and for some reason, this spiked his suspicions. Looking at the photos he wondered if this was confirmation of an affair.

  A familiar heat burned behind his eyes, and he found himself hating this guy. Why did he have to be so good looking? He was practically a male model. How was he supposed to compete with that?

  He tossed the photos onto the passenger seat in disgust.

  “Unbelievable,” he growled.

  Staring through the tinted glass window at the parking lot full of cars, he saw everything and nothing. He tried to lower the temperature on the A/C further. Unfortunately, it had reached its coldest setting. Adjusting the vents, he took the full force of the A/C in his face. Then it was back to the envelope. The pictures. Jade.

  You paid for this, he told himself, at least see what you’ve bought.

  Swallowing hard, he picked up the nearest photo, studied the pretty-boy enjoying Jade’s company. He was twenty-five years old at best, shoulder-length curly hair, strong jaw and brilliant eyes. He couldn’t look at this homewrecker for one more second. That was why he turned his attention to Jade. The Belarusian beauty. He studied her face, wondered about her expression. What was she feeling in that exact moment? Was she thinking of him at all? Of their daughter, Alabama? Lately, when it came to Jade, he couldn’t seem to read her right. She’d become wholly unpredictable. He finally recognized the location: the Garden Bar & Café at Farmstead in St. Helena. Sitting under the café’s signature blue spruce, the two of them looked happy.

  Seeing Jade with another man, dressed up and looking so good, he felt his heart squeeze to the point of pain. She wore a black pencil skirt, a sheer white blouse unbuttoned low, black heels and a stack of gold bracelets on her wrist, the solid bangles she used to wear when they first met. Her makeup was bold, her hair pulled back, her eyes sparkling. God, she looks incredible. Atlas fought hard to subdue his thundering heart, but it was no use. When was the last time she’d dressed up like this? When was the last time she’d even cared what he thought of her?

  Atlas was more than aware that things had changed between them, but he didn’t know the divide had grown so vast. Seeing the pictures, sharpening his suspicions, he wondered if the bottom had finally dropped out of their marriage. When he realized she wasn’t wearing her wedding ring, he knew it had.

  His cell phone rang, startling him. Jade. He stared at her photo on the screen, felt nothing but antipathy. He listened to it ring three more times before sending the call to voicemail. The minute he did that, the police scanner came to life, jolting him out of a deep, self-loathing trance.

  From the scanner, the female officer’s words alone hadn’t caused him to sit up fast. The intensity in her voice was what piqued his interest.

  “Reports of a 10-71 at the corner of Merchant and Mason,” she said, her tone clipped, sharp with hints of anxiety. Multiple gunshots.

  “What’s your 10-20?” the dispatcher asked, her voice calm, measured.

  “We’re outside 401 Merchant Street,” the officer replied. “City Gas and Food. Multiple unsubs leaving now.”

  “Sending additional units.”

  “Copy that,” the young officer said, her voice severe. “We’ve got eyes on three unsubs, all white males, ranging from five-eight to six feet tall, medium builds, shaggy hair. They’re getting into a late-model Ford Mustang GT. Bright yellow, hood scoop, early nineties.”

  She sounded new. He recognized her voice, couldn’t quite put a name to it. A moment later, the officer read off the license plate.

  “Copy that,” the dispatcher said.

  “Pursuing the Mustang now,” she said. In the background, a siren began to wail. “Looks like you’ll need to send an ambulance to Merchant.”

  “Copy that. All units we have a Code 3,” the dispatcher’s voice came back. “Requesting 10-88 on Unit 12A, heading east on Mason Street.”

  Atlas let off the brake, smashed the gas and fishtailed out of the precinct parking lot in a smoking, barking roar. He shouldn’t even be considering this course of action, but he was desperate for a distraction. Glancing down at the photos on the seat next to him, he swallowed his revulsion. No, he wasn’t looking for a distraction. That was a lie. He needed an outlet for the rage boiling up from deep inside him.

  “Heading south on Peabody,” the officer said.

  Atlas took a right on Merchant, slowed for traffic. Seeing his opening ahead, he dumped the clutch, roasted the rear tires, powered up into third gear. Three blocks later, he tapped the brakes, downshifted to second, swung the wheel hard and carved his way through traffic. The road ahead opened into a straightaway. Instead of punching it, he tapped the brakes and took a hard left onto Alamo.

  “Calm down,” he mumbled, the familiar urges returning.

  Private security was an overpaid babysitting job at best, but the rush of a chase? He missed those days. At his core, he was an adrenaline junkie. After surrendering the badge, he resigned himself to a “has-been,” a “bird-with-clipped-wings.” But now he was flying again, and the mad charge into danger was every bit as euphoric as he remembered it to be.

  As he approached Butcher Road, the threat of slowing traffic sent his anxieties soaring. He swerved into the bike lane, rode the brakes, then eased up onto the sidewalk, cringing as he scraped the undercarriage. Straddling the sidewalk and the bike path, he cut around the traffic that had stopped for the red light. He had to keep going, though. Gritting his teeth and gunning it, he roared through the red light, dodged a rancher’s pickup that braked for him, ignored the cacophony of honking horns.

  “Unsubs just clipped a late model Priu
s,” the young woman who sounded a lot like Officer Julie Holloway relayed to dispatch.

  If he was remembering correctly, this would be the same young woman who was two years on the job. She was bright and tenacious, but she was also far too pretty for law enforcement.

  “Unsubs just sideswiped a Nissan Sentra. Dammit, they just clipped a girl on her bike. Requesting an ambulance to Peabody and Hume in front of Will C. Wood High School.”

  “Copy that,” the dispatcher said.

  At the 7-Eleven, Atlas saw the elbow curve ahead. He stayed on the gas, navigated the turn in a controlled drift. Once he hit the straightaway, he crushed the accelerator and cut a clean line through traffic. Blowing past several stopped cars, he caused a slight fender bender, but nothing noteworthy. Easing off the gas, he noticed the tremors in his hands. Too much adrenaline too quickly.

  “C’mon, Atlas,” he mumbled.

  The voice in his head, the voice of reason, told him he wasn’t a cop anymore, that he wasn’t some dog chasing a bone. He was a civilian. Nothing more. That same insistent voice reminded him that real-world actions had real-world consequences. He couldn’t hide behind the badge anymore.

  When he shot onto Peabody, he missed the Mustang and the pursuing patrol car by a good thirty feet. The Mustang swung left at California Drive, then fishtailed right onto Madison Avenue. Atlas kept going straight, looking to use speed and the straightaway to his advantage.