The TAKEN! Series - Books 1-4 (Taken! Box Set)

by Remington Kane

  “What do you think happened to him?”

  The next time she spoke, it was barely a whisper.

  “Did you kill him?”

  For just a second he wondered if perhaps the phone was tapped and if the police were listening, but then he smiled at the thought.

  She wouldn’t dare.

  “No, Carly, I didn’t kill him. I gave him away.”

  “You gave—to who?”

  “To Mr. Johnson, Mr. Rosario and Mr. Stern,”

  It took her a moment, but then she got it.

  “My roommates’ fathers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh my God,”

  “Yes.”

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, Carly?”

  “I like you sir.”

  “I like you too, Carly, goodbye,”

  CHAPTER 8

  Wednesday, August 30, 5:17 P.M.

  Sandra Jenkins tiptoed up the stairs of an ancient fire escape at the back of a five-story building in Jersey City, New Jersey.

  The neighborhood was mostly factories and warehouses, with a scattering of small apartment buildings. This building contained both a warehouse on the ground level and office space on the next three floors. The top floor wasn’t zoned for residential use, but the man living there owned the building and so made his own rules. It was this man that Sandra Jenkins had come to see.

  Raymond Waters, fifty-five, divorced, and the father of two girls.

  Raymond’s name was acquired from a Samuel Tently, now deceased.

  Sandra Jenkins had beat Tently about the head with her gun until he told her all he knew about Martin Smith, which wasn’t much, but it was enough, because he gave her a name, Raymond Water’s name. She was going to leave Tently alive, but as she was leaving, he suffered convulsions. When she checked his pulse, he was gone. She felt no regret. According to the late Michael Escart, Tently was a “huge perv” who had done time for raping little boys.

  Sandra approached the top floor apartment slowly, half from stealth, and half due to injury.

  Michael Escart had proven to be a tough man to reason with. When Sandra had taken him at gunpoint inside his garage, Escart had charged at her. Two bullets to the mid-section barely slowed the man down and he pulled out a knife and tackled Sandra, who fell backwards with Escart on top of her.

  A third shot into the man’s neck halted him and caused him to fall back against the wall, gripping his neck in panic as blood flowed between his fingers.

  Sandra promised to call an ambulance if Escart told her where to find Smith. After she learned all she could from the man, she stood over him and watched him bleed out, and then she pulled Escart’s knife from her thigh and limped out of the garage with her pant leg turning crimson.

  At the top of the fire escape, Sandra looked through a dusty window and saw a kitchen, her eyes soon adjusted to the gloom and then widened in surprise.

  Seated at a small round table was a man, from the brief description that Tently had given her, chubby, balding, with glasses, this was Raymond Waters.

  She fumbled for the gun in her purse and when she had it pointed at Waters, she shouted at him.

  “Don’t move!”

  Water’s gestured toward the window,

  “It’s not locked; I thought you might come in that way.”

  Sandra jerked the window up and climbed inside. That’s when the dog charged her.

  Charged, might be too strong a word however, since the dog was barely the size of a cat.

  The tiny mixed breed wagged his tail and jumped up, hoping to find a hand to lick.

  Water’s called the dog off.

  “Bruiser, mind your manners, come here boy.”

  The dog ran over to Waters and jumped up into his lap.

  Sandra walked over and kept the gun on him.

  “Raymond Waters?”

  He stared at her left leg. “You’re bleeding a great deal.”

  “Never mind that, are you Raymond Waters?”

  “Yes, but I believe the man you really want is Martin Smith, am I right?”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “I don’t know, really, but I do know that he and a man named Ernesto Rivera are in the same business, albeit, on different levels.”

  “Martin Smith owns a string of parking garages, is Ernesto Rivera a partner of his?”

  Waters grinned.

  “Those parking garages are just a way for him to launder his real source of income.”

  “Which is what?”

  “Children, he acquires and sells children, I know that you must be worried that he’s a child molester, but Martin is vanilla when it comes to sex.”

  Sandra pulled out a chair and took a seat across from Waters. The climb up the rickety metal stairs had caused her bad leg not only to bleed, but also, to hum in pain.

  “Ernesto Rivera, where can I find him?”

  “You’ll have to travel, Rivera lives in Atlanta, Georgia. Martin Smith hails from there also; it’s most likely where he’s headed.”

  Sandra hung her head.

  “Atlanta? Do you have a car? I need a car.”

  Waters said, “No, I don’t,” and then pointed to a folded slip of paper lying atop the table. “It’s all right there, address, description, known haunts, and please take note that Ernesto Rivera is a huge man.”

  Sandra unfolded the paper and glanced at it.

  “There are four names here.”

  “They all know Martin Smith, but only Rivera knows him well; I was trying to be thorough.”

  “How did you know I was coming?”

  “Osgood often did... diversionary work for Martin; there are people who know that I know Martin, and so, it was simply a matter of time before you came looking for me.”

  Sandra stared at him, thinking that the man looked like a kindly uncle, particularly while holding a cute dog in his lap. It was probably this trait that led so many innocent children to trust him.

  “How many children have you molested over the years?”

  “I honestly don’t remember, but it was more than a hundred. At one time, I was a camp counselor. Those days are behind me now; I haven’t touched a child in years.”

  “Right,” Sandra said, as her grip tightened on the gun. She then got up and limped around the table until she was standing directly behind Waters, her gun pointed at the back of his head.

  “May I ask you a favor?” he said.

  “What would that be?”

  “Afterwards... my dog, please find someone to take care of him.”

  Long seconds passed, and then Sandra put the gun away.

  “Take care of your own damn dog.”

  She walked off through the apartment and out the front door. As she was about to leave the vestibule that opened to the street, her leg gave out and she fell to the floor, as black specks floated across her field of vision.

  She fumbled in her pocket for the disposable phone she bought, just in case.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me. Do you recognize my voice?”

  “Oh my God, Sandy yes, oh God I’ve been going out of my mind wonder—”

  “Have the police been by to see you?”

  “No.”

  “Good, good, but listen, Kari, I’ve been injured. I need help. Will you help me?”

  “You know I will, just tell me where you are.”

  ***

  Wednesday, August 30, 6:08 P.M. somewhere near Atlanta, Georgia

  Martin Smith pulled his black Cadillac up to a pair of wrought iron gates and pushed the call button on the intercom. In the passenger seat beside him, Chrissie Jenkins sat holding a doll while staring straight ahead.

  A few seconds later, a female voice came over the intercom.

  “Yes? How may I help you?”

  “Hello,” Smith says. “I’m here to see a Mr. Hof.”

  “I see, and what is your name?”

  “Nabokov,”

  “Are you alone, Mr. Nabokov?”<
br />
  “No, I’m with my daughter, Lolita.”

  “We’ve been expecting you, Mr. Nabokov. When the gates open, please follow the road until you get to the studio. When you get there, Mr. Hof will be waiting to greet you.”

  “Thank you,” Smith said.

  When he arrived at the studio, which was a square, one-story building, Smith found Hof and a woman waiting outside for him. The woman was young, beautiful, and curvaceous, a stark contrast to Hof, who was old, homely, and stick figure thin. Standing to either side of them were armed men, all with weapons drawn and ready. Smith parked the car a dozen feet away and got out of the vehicle slowly, with his hands held high.

  “Hello, Hof,”

  “Martin, it’s good to see you again. However, you seem to be on the verge of becoming quite well known. You do realize of course that in our business, notoriety is not a good thing?”

  Smith sighed.

  “Even if the girl’s mother names me to the cops, she’s destroyed her credibility. I’m going to take care of that bitch as soon as I drop off the package.”

  “Yes, the package, let’s get a look at it.”

  Smith leaned back into the car. “Get out here, now.”

  Chrissie didn’t move, didn’t even acknowledge that he spoke.

  Smith straightened again and looked over at Hof.

  “She can be difficult.”

  Hof grinned. “Not unlike her mother, eh?” He then spoke to the woman standing beside him. “Bridgette, please take the package inside and see to it. Examine it carefully and let me know if there has been any damage acquired during transport.”

  Smith walked over to him, passing Bridgette as she headed towards the car.

  “Wait until you see her, Hof, she’s perfect.”

  It took nearly a minute of coaxing, but Bridgette persuaded Chrissie to leave the car. When she got out, she gazed at the men with eyes full of fear.

  Chrissie was blond with huge blue eyes and prominent dimples, the essence of innocence.

  Hof stared at her. “How old is it?”

  “She’s six,” Smith said.

  Hof smiled like a man discovering gold.

  “I’m doubling the opening bid.”

  “And my fee?” Smith said.

  “Follow me,” Hof said, and then he headed for the main house, which was a short walk away. The bodyguards followed, along with Smith. Once inside, Hof had Smith frisked for weapons, and when none were found, he dismissed the guards and escorted Smith into a book-lined study. He then settled himself behind a desk, as Smith took a seat in front of it.

  “You can pay me now, Hof, and then I’ll be on my way.”

  Hof spread his lips and showed his teeth; some might have mistaken it as a smile, Smith did not.

  “You’re going to cheat me? Why, after all the business we’ve done over the years?”

  “You are becoming a liability. Tell me, how close is this Sandra Jenkins to tracking you down?”

  Smith started to lie and then realized it wouldn’t do any good.

  “Sooner or later someone will give her Bob Hunt’s or Ernesto Rivera’s name, and, well, Hunt and Rivera know that I sometimes supply you with... product.”

  “So, once we hear that she’s disposed of Hunt or Rivera we can expect her here, hmm?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry, Hof, but who knew the crazy bitch would go off the deep end and start killing people to find me?”

  “People have great affection for children; it’s how I’ve made my fortune. Now, Smith, the way I see it, I have two options: One, Kill you and the package you brought me, and then leave your bodies somewhere where they will be discovered quickly. With her daughter dead, Sandra Jenkins may lose any interest in you and consequently, never hear of me. Option two, I let you and the package both live and we wait for Sandra Jenkins to follow you here, then, I let my men take care of her and I’m free to auction off the package. Which option do you prefer, hmm?”

  “Number two, it leaves me alive, and you with more money in your pocket, and ah, I would of course waive my finder’s fee to cover any expense this may cost you and I’ll bring you more free product, although I can’t promise it will be as high grade as what I’ve brought you today.”

  Hof reached behind him and grabbed a decanter and two crystal glasses.

  “Well said, Smith, you avoided groveling for your life and gave me an incentive to choose the second option. Very well, let the bitch come, who knows, maybe my men will take her alive. If they do, perhaps I’ll let them have her as a bonus.”

  Smith smiled. “With any luck, she’ll go after Rivera instead of Hunt. Rivera is one deadly bastard.”

  Hof began pouring wine. “Let’s hope you’re right.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Friday, September 1, 12:38 P.M.

  After seeing to her leg wound and getting some much needed sleep, Sandra and her friend Kari took turns driving to Atlanta, Georgia.

  Kari, was Kari Shaw, an old acquaintance of Sandra and her late husband, Gerald. Kari had helped Sandra once before when she needed it, and the younger woman had come through for her once again.

  Kari was a natural redhead with bluish-green eyes and a petite figure. After arriving in Atlanta, Kari rented a motel room. She sat on one of a pair of twin beds and watched in fascination as Sandra cleaned and reloaded the gun.

  “How come you know about guns?”

  “I grew up hunting with my dad,” Sandra said.

  “I couldn’t do what you’re doing, you know?”

  “I’m just doing what I have to, to get Chrissie back.”

  “And then what? The police are going to want to put you in jail.”

  Sandra shook her head, while shoving the gun into a purse; she then grabbed the car keys off the dresser.

  “Where are you going?” Kari said.

  “Out, to follow the next lead; if... if I don’t come back by noon tomorrow, then go to the police and tell them everything you know, maybe it will help them find Chrissie.”

  “Good luck, Sandy,”

  Sandra put on a pair of dark glasses and walked out the door. As she went by a newspaper dispenser, she saw her picture, along with the headline: VIGILANTE MOM.

  She went to Ernesto Rivera’s apartment, and found that the security in the high priced building was tight. After an hour of waiting for Rivera to emerge, she decided to try another name on her list.

  This one was named Bob Hunt, and according to Raymond Water’s handwritten note, Hunt was a child pornographer. When she arrived at his house in the suburbs, she knew that she would never get a chance to talk to him.

  The police were there, as well as an ambulance, and if Hunt was the man being treated by the paramedics, then someone had beaten her to him.

  Even from yards away, Sandra could tell that Hunt’s face was a puffy, bloody mess. She gave a shrug. Hunt’s beating was probably unrelated to her daughter’s abduction, and so she went to another name on the list.

  Carl Herman, a drug smuggler. Herman was black and walked with a limp. She spotted him as he left a neighborhood diner and headed east, toward his apartment.

  Sandra parked the car and began following Herman with her own limping leg. Kari had closed the wound with a sterile sewing needle, but her leg still throbbed and she had forgotten to take any pain medication before leaving the motel.

  As Herman reached the staircase of his apartment house, Sandra confronted him with the gun. His eyes went wide and he sank to his knees.

  “You’re her, aren’t you, the chick looking for Smith?”

  Sandra was about to ask him where Smith was, when the apartment house door opened and a man stepped out. He looked like a biker, with full-sleeve tattoos covering his bare arms, and as he spotted the gun, he reached behind and brought out his own.

  Sandra fired a shot that caught the man just under his scruffy chin and exited through his skull; he was dead before he fell, tumbling down the stairs to land in front of Herman.

  Herman covered
his head with his arms while cowering.

  “Don’t kill me, please don’t kill me. I don’t know where Smith is, but I know he’s planning on selling your daughter, that’s what he does, he used to smuggle drugs, but he says kids are better, more money, less trouble.”

  Sandra placed the gun to Herman’s temple.

  “Do I look like less trouble to you?”

  Herman didn’t answer her; he was too busy fainting.

  Sandra looked up from his collapsed form and saw five sets of eyes peering at her from various windows in the apartment house. She let out a weary sigh and walked back to the car.

  ***

  Hours later, Sandra followed Ernesto Rivera as he finally left his apartment. He was on foot and apparently headed somewhere in a great hurry. She cursed her injured leg as she struggled to keep up with him.

  Rivera was six-foot-seven and two-hundred and sixty pounds. The weight was muscle, not fat, and as Sandra Jenkins watched him move along like a jungle cat, the gun in her purse suddenly seemed inadequate to the task.

  The other people on the street parted before him as if he was contagious and a few turned and stared after him as he passed them by. Over a dozen blocks later, in a seedy neighborhood, Rivera sauntered into a bar.

  The sun was just beginning to set and although the bar was dimly lit, Sandra could make out Rivera sitting on a barstool. A beer was placed before him and he downed half of it in one gulp, before looking up at the ball game playing on the television.

  Sandra reached into her jeans pocket and pulled out a disposable cell phone.

  “It’s me. I think I’ll need help with this one.”

  “Sandy... I can’t—”

  “You won’t have to hurt him, but I need you to distract him. Will you do it?”

  There was a moment of silence on the other end before Sandra heard the words.

  “Tell me where you are. I’ll be right there.”

  “Thank you, oh, one more thing... dress slutty.”

  ***

  Rivera left the bar four hours later with Kari on his arm. Her small frame was petite, but shapely, a fact displayed for all to see, thanks to a short skirt and a revealing blouse.