by David Stever
Copyright © 2019 by David Anthony Stever
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, titles, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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To Helene, with love.
Contents
Copyright © 2019
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
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Connect with David
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One Last Thing...
Chapter
1
The Blair Trucking Warehouse and Distribution Center was in the industrial section of the city with train tracks on the south side and truck loading docks on the north side. Located on Mechanic Boulevard, I drove by twice before I backed into the driveway of an adjacent construction company that provided a good vantage point for observation. A large structure about the size of a football field, it had truck loading bays every forty feet and security cameras mounted at the corners, but I couldn’t do much about that.
I focused on the girl: twenty-four, five foot eight, blonde hair that fell to the middle of her back. She was being held for ransom, and it was my job to find her and bring her home.
It was midnight, the night warm and quiet, and after an hour of no activity and no security patrol, I drove to the warehouse and parked my car between two large trash bins in the rear of the building. I made my way to the side door on the narrow west side. It was unlocked, just as the note instructed. I slowly turned the handle and the heavy steel door opened without a sound. I slipped inside.
The warehouse was dark; the only light came from night safety lights mounted over each loading door that cast a dim light around the doors but left plenty of dark areas throughout the building. I waited a few moments to allow my eyes to adjust. I wore my black jeans and black leather jacket and stayed in the shadows along the wall. A check of my watch: 1:10 a.m. Doctor Richard Pitts was expected at two o’clock with the ransom money. The wrinkle here was the kidnappers were expecting Pitts and a bag of cash, not me an hour early.
Doctor Pitts hired me two days ago, right after he received the ransom instructions: Five hundred thousand in cash in exchange for his daughter, Katie. Do not call the police. From what we figured, Katie had finished playing tennis at Greenwood Country Club where the doctor and his wife are members. She never showed up at home that evening; her car was still parked at the club.
Pitts found me the next morning through a doctor friend, an Irish urologist named Sullivan, who I helped out of a mistress mess last year. I got his business sorted in less than two weeks, so now Sullivan thought I walked on water and told Pitts that if I could save him a cool million on a divorce settlement, then I could get Pitts’s daughter back. Pitts agreed to my five thousand dollar retainer without hesitation, and I got right to work.
The ransom was to be delivered to the warehouse, and Pitts was to come alone. The whole deal smelled amateur. Pitts said when he received the ransom call, he heard trucks in the background. Did they make the call from the same location as the ransom drop? Not the smartest pigs in the pen.
The plan was to take them by surprise, pull Katie out, call the cops. The cops would have my ass for not calling them first, but that’s the nature of the business. I wanted a peek at Katie, too. The Pitts showed me pictures of their only child but all I saw were the long legs and blonde hair.
Rows and rows of large wooden pallets, loaded with household items, toasters, blenders, and coffeemakers filled the warehouse. Each pallet was eight feet high and six feet square and wrapped in a heavy-duty plastic wrap. The aisles intersecting the rows could fit two forklift trucks side-by-side. I crept along the perimeter wall, my Beretta in my waistband, praying I wouldn’t have to use it.
A man spoke in Spanish. I froze in place. The voice had a tinny sound to it and after a few seconds I realized it came from a radio. I followed the sound and crept another ten yards or so along the wall when Katie Pitts came into view. Lit by a small propane camping lantern, she sat in the center aisle on a metal folding chair with her hands tied behind her. Duct tape secured each of her legs to the legs of the chair and tape covered her mouth. Her long blonde hair hung in a tangled mess and her cheeks were streaked with mascara tears. And the kicker: she had on only a white bra and lacy white panties. I guess our kidnapper figured she wouldn’t run away without her clothes.
Or he wanted to humiliate a rich white girl.
He sat in a chair opposite her. A short, pudgy, greased-up son-of-a-bitch. His black hair was slicked back; he wore dirty blue jeans and a dingy wife-beater and had a plastic straw hanging out of his mouth. He slouched in his metal chair, tapping his foot to the music. The portable radio sat on the floor beside him, surrounded by empty beer cans and candy wrappers.
I moved around two of the pallets and made my way to the center aisle, behind him and facing her. She saw me and her eyes went wide. I put a finger to my lips, hoping she was smart enough not to make noise. As I got closer, I could see her chest heave and her breathing increase. I tapped him on the shoulder; he shot from the chair as if I hit an eject button. He turned toward me, and my fist crashed into his mouth, landing him hard on his back. I thought he was out, but he rolled over and scrambled to all fours. I grabbed the chair, swung and caught him on the side of the head and dropped him back to the floor. Now he was out cold, at least for the time being. I checked his pockets for weapons and found a decent switchblade,
which I pocketed. I went to Katie and gently pulled the tape from her mouth and then untied her hands.
“Thank God. Are you the cops?” Tears spilled down and she wiped them with the back of her hands, which only smeared the mascara across her cheeks like war paint.
“Not quite. Is he the only one?”
“No. There’s two. The other guy is around here somewhere.”
“They have weapons?”
“I didn’t see any.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Your clothes?”
“They took them.”
I got the last bit of tape off her legs and she jumped up. I took off my jacket and she slipped it on. Something about her wearing my leather jacket with the lacy panties almost made me lose my focus. Almost. “Stay beside me. I’ll get you out of here.”
“Wait.” She picked up the chair and lifted it to smash it down on his head but I grabbed it from her.
“I don’t blame you, but we got to go. Too much noise. Come on.” I reached out my hand and she took it, squeezing as if she would never let go. We only made it a few yards when a voice came from behind a pallet.
“Nice try, amigo.” The second kidnapper—a skinny version of the first guy—stepped out of a shadow with a pistol in one hand, pointed at us, and a bag from a carry-out taco joint in the other. “Back up.”
“You might want to reconsider,” I said. “Police are surrounding the building as we speak.”
“You’re lying. We both know it. You bring the money?”
“Not happening this way, señor.”
“Nobody is leaving here until we get the money.”
I had to make quick work of this. The last thing I needed was a true Mexican standoff. “Fine, we’ll stay here all night.” I nodded to the bag in his hand. “I hope you know your guacamole’s spilling.”
He fell for it. His eyes flicked over to the bag, and in one swift motion I scooped up the propane lantern and threw it at his chest. He yelled and stepped back and I launched myself at him. I got both my hands around his gun hand and my shoulder jammed against his chest. We both went down, with me on top, landing on him with all my weight.
I wrestled his gun away and kicked it to Katie as I pulled my Beretta from my waistband. With one hand around his neck and him gasping for air, I held my gun three inches from his face. “Nice try, amigo.” I stood. “Now get up.”
There was a long spool of plastic wrap leaning against a wall nearby. It was five feet wide—the self-sticking stuff they wrap around the pallets to secure the products. I had Katie pull off a long stretch of the plastic and lay it in the middle of the aisle.
“Seńor?” His eyes went wide. He knew what was coming. He shook so bad his keys rattled.
“Shut up. Lay down on the plastic.”
“Seńor, please.”
“Make him take off his clothes,” said Katie.
“What?” I said.
“What?” he said.
She took a step closer to him. “Take off your clothes, you bastard.”
I guess she deserved a little vengeance. “You heard her. Strip.”
“Seńor, please. I can’t,” he pleaded.
“Take off your clothes, you son-of-a-bitch,” Katie screamed. It scared me, and I know it scared him. He stripped off his clothes in seconds. “Yeah, now who’s the big man? What is that, two inches?”
And just like that, I was into Katie Pitts. Leather jacket, blonde hair, black streaks across her face, the bra and panties—a cross between an underwear model and an Amazon.
“Lay down,” I said. He did but still had his hands outstretched. “Put your hands to your sides. You’re about to be a human burrito.” I rolled him in the plastic while he cursed me in Spanish. The naked, plastic-wrapped man floundering around on the warehouse floor put a smile on Katie’s face. “Can we go?”
She went to our plastic-wrapped kidnapper and smashed her heel into his ribs a few times. A muffled scream came from the plastic roll. “Now we can go.”
We got outside and made our way to my BMW. I opened the trunk and pulled out a sweatshirt. “Put this on. Give me my jacket.” Even though she looked good in my leather jacket and her underwear, it was still my leather jacket. She complied. I had bottled water in a cooler and handed her one. She gulped it down. “Sure you’re not hurt?”
“No. I’m okay,” she said.
I handed her my phone. “Call your parents, and let’s get you home.”
“Wait. What’s your name?”
“Delarosa. Get in.”
It took twenty minutes to drive to her parents’ large colonial in the affluent Wood Grove section of town. Katie filled in the details of the past two days with her abductors. She recognized one guy as a maintenance worker from the club, said the other must work at Blair Trucking because he had keys to the place. They held her in their apartment and didn’t mistreat her; only sat and stared at her for a day and a half. I used one of my throw-away phones to call the police emergency line and anonymously reported a break-in at the warehouse. I doubt the morons would cop to a kidnapping. The police would check their immigration status, and with any luck, they’d be deported.
The reunion at the Pitts house was tearful. Theirs, not mine. I stood next to my car in their driveway and thought Mrs. Pitts would never let go of her daughter. Katie’s father walked over and handed me a check for twenty grand and couldn’t stop thanking me. I slipped the check into my jacket pocket right before he threw his arms around me in a giant bear hug. I gave him one more chance to report this as a kidnapping, but he wanted it quiet. He explained if word got out about this kidnapping, then people like him—wealthy folks, I guessed—would become targets. He didn’t want to give anyone any ideas. I thought he sounded paranoid, but that didn’t matter. I figured he could afford to be paranoid.
Katie broke free of her mother, ran over and threw her arms around me. This hug I didn’t mind. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“I’m glad you’re okay.”
“She let go and I shook the doctor’s hand again. Mrs. Pitts came over and hugged me. I got into my car as the three of them headed into their house, arm in arm. As they got to the front door, Katie turned back and gave me a wave. A wave I felt in my gut. I waved back, glad for the happy ending and even happier for the nice payday. I put the Z4 in gear and headed home.
It was three in the morning when I got back to my condo, but I was too keyed-up to sleep, so I put on a Miles Davis CD and stripped off my clothes. With the shower as hot as I could stand it, I allowed the water to boil my skin for a good five minutes, and then stepped out and wrapped a towel around my waist.
I pulled a seven-year-old Chianti from my wine rack and opened it, grabbed a glass and went to my balcony to stretch out on the lounge. The music and the wine were just what I needed to come down from the night’s job. My condo was on the fourth and top floor of the building, providing me with a panoramic view of Port City. Straight out from the balcony looking north are the lights of downtown and the suburban sprawl beyond. To the right and east, a view of the harbor. From this vantage point, sometimes I felt like an overseer or a protector, looking down on my city from on high. Especially when my jobs went well—like tonight.
The eastern sky was turning a light gray as I filled my glass a second time. The red wine felt good going down, and before long I had a buzz going. I kept going back to Katie. Her little wave she gave me as I left her house…it stuck with me. I had this feeling, and after twenty years in the department and six out on my own, I always trusted my gut, my instinct, my sixth sense. And I knew one thing:
I had not seen the last of Katie Pitts.
Chapter
2
I got to my office at eleven. Mike had called to say I had a client waiting. Mike is Mike McNally, and my office is the back corner booth of McN
ally’s Irish Pub. The bar is on the ground floor of my apartment building, so I don’t have a long commute. Mike—large, barrel-chested, red-haired, and Irish—was my partner for twelve years in the department. If ever two guys were soulmates, Mike and I were. We saved each other’s ass more times than I could count.
He retired after twenty-five years and bought himself this joint. It became a known cop bar in no time, and after a few years business was good enough that Mike decided to bring on another bartender. Shelly Colamanti filled the bill—and the uniform. Being half-Irish and half-Italian, she was either mad or holding a grudge at all times. The regulars loved her, though. With her low-cut tops that revealed just enough cleavage to keep the guys hanging around buying drinks, she had the perfect mix of sass and class to work a place like this. She and Mike made a fun team. That lasted a good year, and everything was working smooth until Mike’s wife Janice showed up one night after closing time. She found Mike and Shelly, both naked, with Shelly on a table with her legs pointed toward the ceiling and Mike banging away like she was the last lover he’d ever have.
That’s how I became half-owner of McNally’s. I bought half of the business so Mike could pay off Janice in the divorce. We never saw Shelly again, either.
Two of our regulars were on their usual stools, working on an early liquid lunch. Mike had poured two fingers of bourbon and had it waiting for me. “Be careful.” He nodded toward the back.
“Thanks.” I took the drink and got a fix on at the last booth in the back. All I could see were long, slender legs. “I see what you mean.”
The woman sat at an angle, with her back toward the front of the bar. Her legs extended out into the aisle, with a white skirt riding halfway up her long, tan thighs. Auburn hair cascaded down her back against the sharp contrast of her white suit jacket. I got to the booth and moved around to face her. She was movie-star gorgeous, with vivid green eyes that fixed me like spotlights when I slid into the booth.
“Looking for me?” I asked.
“I am. I’m sorry I didn’t call ahead.”
“No problem.” I folded my hands on the table between us. “How do you know me? I don’t exactly advertise.”