by James Hunt
More bullets fired down the stairs, and Grant tucked himself underneath it with Mocks and Rick for cover. The door slammed shut and Grant hurried up the stairs, knowing that if they didn’t move now, then they’d die in the hole they dug for themselves.
Grant shoulder checked the door open and spilled out onto the floor. He immediately spied the first gunman to his left and fired three rounds into his chest.
The second gunman fired from the door, the distance causing him to miss as Grant ducked behind the table with the straps for cover. Once he was outside, Grant screamed down to Mocks. “He’s on the run!”
Grant sprinted to the door, pausing at the exit before he peered outside into the night. Heavy breaths misted in the cold air and his fingers were numb against the pistol.
Still pressed against the wall, Grant craned his head through the open door and watched the gunman fire from the steps outside the trailer.
“Got you,” Grant said. He spun around the cover of the wall and planted his knee and foot on the ground, firing into the door of the trailer that the gunman had just entered.
Grant pushed himself up and sprinted toward the trailer. Glass shattered from the window to the left of the trailer door and a rifle muzzle was thrust outside. It fired blindly as Grant sidled up flush with the trailer wall.
The rifle disappeared back inside, and Grant kept his breathing as quiet as possible. He inched toward the stairs, moving as softly as he could. The goon inside didn’t make any effort to be quiet though, and Grant tried to keep tabs on him by the sound of his feet shuffling across the hardwood floors.
Grant placed his foot on the first step of the staircase, then the second. He could shoot through the flimsy walls, but the projection of the bullet would drastically change once it penetrated the trailer, so there wasn’t even the guarantee that he would hit his target.
Grant threw the door open wide and crouched low in the entrance. He only had three seconds to assess the situation, aim his weapon, and fire the trigger before the goon unloaded on him, but he felt the recoil of the gunshot in his hand just in time.
Blood splattered over the man’s chest and the phone fell from his limp hand. Grant rushed over and picked up the phone. The person on the other end was speaking another language, but Grant didn’t stay on the line long enough to decipher it. He hung up and immediately dialed the precinct.
“This is Detective Chase Grant,” he said, looking down at the man he’d just killed. “I’m with Detective Susan Mullocks, and we’re north in the timberlands off of I-5. We have hostages, minors, up here at an old abandoned sawmill. I’ve taken out two guards, but they have more on the way. We need S.W.A.T., the National Guard, anyone with guns, and we need them up here now.”
“Hold on, Detective, where exactly are you?”
“I don’t have the exact coordinates, but I’m calling you from a landline, so there has to be cables running out here somewhere,” Grant said. “Look for any old lines that run off of I-5 into the timberlands that are around an old mill. If that doesn’t work, I’ll just leave the phone off the hook and you can trace this call. Just hurry.”
Dispatch tried to respond, but Grant had already set the phone down and was halfway out the door when he stopped. He turned back to the goon and patted him down, taking his rifle and ammunition. He spotted the web tattoo on the gangbanger’s neck and wondered how many more of these scumbags existed. But what he wanted to know more than anything was the identity of the man in charge. The master weaver, connecting all of the different threads together.
Grant returned to the cellar where Mocks had managed to get half the girls out of their shackles, all of them clustering near the base of the stairs and cringing when Grant appeared. He imagined it would be a while before they trusted any man that came near them.
“I called for backup, but the gang member managed to call reinforcements as well,” Grant said.
Mocks kept her eyes focused on the locks around the girls’ ankles and wrists. “Did Dispatch give you an ETA?”
“Didn’t stick around for one, but it could be a while,” Grant said. “We need to get these kids out of here before whatever Web reinforcements show up.”
“Here,” Mocks said, tossing the keys to Grant. “Start helping me get them uncuffed.”
Grant and Mocks worked their way around the room, and once the kids were freed, Grant helped Mocks drag Rick to the staircase. “We’ll get him up first,” Grant said. “We can hide the kids in the woods until backup arrives.”
Grant scooped Rick up under his arms and heaved him up the first couple steps while Mocks clumsily grabbed his legs. Both were careful not to damage what was already broken on him, but it was difficult with the random cuts and spotty bandage work.
Rick groaned, and his lifeless head and limbs flopped around on the way up the stairs, but they managed to set him by the door without any major incident. When they returned downstairs, the kids that were awake had huddled in the corner, some of them dragging the unconscious ones with them.
“I know you’re scared,” Grant said. “But I’m a detective, and I’m going to help you.” He gestured to Mocks. “So will my partner.” Mocks gave a friendly wave, and Grant approached Annie, slowly reaching out his hand. She recoiled slightly, but Grant didn’t give up. “Trust me.”
Annie switched her glance from Grant’s hand to his face, the exchange going back and forth a few times until she finally clasped onto Grant’s pointer finger.
“All right then,” Grant said, smiling. “Let’s go.”
With the first girl separating herself from the pack, the others followed. Grant led those that could walk up the stairs and out of the side entrance of the sawmill and into the woods. He led them deep into the brush until they couldn’t even see the mill anymore. Grant marked the spot with some large branches but made sure nothing stood out.
The girls and boy huddled close to one another, and Grant knelt down to whisper at them. “Don’t move, okay?” He held up his hands. “I’ll come back, but you have to stay.” He slowly backtracked through the woods and prayed that their backup arrived before the rest of the goons did.
Grant helped Mocks carry the four kids that were unconscious out of the mill, leaving Rick for last. Grant was glad to see that the kids were still huddled exactly where he’d left them, and also by the fact that he was able to find them again.
Mocks lay her kids down, and when she turned, Grant stopped her. “Stay here,” he said. “I’ll go and make the last trip.”
“I don’t think so,” Mocks said, taking a step forward, but Grant stopped her once again, this time with more force. “I’m not letting you go back in there alone.”
“And I’m not leaving these kids out here in the woods alone,” Grant said.
Mocks forcefully removed her arm from his grip, and she gave him an adolescent snarl. “Then I’ll go back and you stay with the kids.”
“You didn’t want me to bullshit you, remember?” Grant asked, his temper flaring. “Fine. The chances of Rick surviving are slim. The chances of these kids surviving as long as they have someone to protect them is high. You can’t carry Rick by yourself. If things turn south before I can get back, I’ll ditch him in the woods and cause a distraction.” His anger calmed. “I’ll bring him back. I promise.”
“All right, Grant,” Mocks said, her voice shaking. “Don’t let me down.”
Grant sprinted away and made sure Mocks didn’t follow. Lights flashed to Grant’s left the moment he reached the tree line, and he ducked behind a large pine and craned his neck around the side. They were cars. And they weren’t police.
Gang members exited the vehicles, all armed with automatic rifles, and each one of them looking as though they wanted to blow something off the face of the earth. He watched the gang walk toward the other side of the mill where the trailer was located. There were at least ten, more than enough to mow down Mocks and the kids. Grant drew his pistol, his body scraping the bottom of the adrenaline wel
l to push him just a little further, then sprinted toward the mill door.
Voices bounced off the old machinery, but they came from the other end of the mill. When he found Rick, the wounds on his legs and arms were bleeding again. It oozed from the bandages when Grant picked him up and dripped on the floor. A trail wasn’t something Grant wanted to leave, but he didn’t have time to clean up after himself.
All that mattered now was getting Rick out and making sure the thugs didn’t find Mocks and the kids.
The dead weight wore Grant down, but when he heard the angered shouts inside the sawmill, another shot of adrenaline kept the fatigue of his muscles at bay. He burst into the woods as the thugs exited the mill.
With an added two hundred pounds of dead weight, Grant couldn’t be as quiet as he wanted, pulling Rick through the forest, and so he decided to go with the flow. He reached for his pistol and fired into one of the trees.
The thugs in the clearing immediately honed in on Grant’s location and fired their automatic rifles into the woods, hoping to get a lucky shot, but they came up short. He pulled Rick a few more feet and then tucked him behind a cluster of rocks and shrubs.
More gunshots stole his attention toward the entrance of the forest as Grant covered Rick with branches and leaves. He maneuvered away from Rick, firing into the woods to draw the thugs toward him. He trekked northeast, as far away from Mocks and the kids as he could manage.
Bullets and gunfire filled the night, splintering tree trunks and pounding eardrums. Flashlight beams penetrated the darkness and forced Grant to zigzag through the forest.
After a few minutes, Grant found a large oak that he hid behind and kept quiet. There were two thugs that were close. Grant crouched low at the tree’s base, his knees pressed against his chest. He took quick, shallow breaths as they neared him. Grant’s ears pricked up at the sound of crunching leaves on his left. He aimed the pistol, ready for the thug to walk right by him.
Ellen and Annie filled his thoughts, and Grant knew he’d see them soon. He felt the cold metal of his wedding band, and when he saw the thug’s boot step into his line of sight, he made his move.
Grant jammed the end of his pistol into the thug’s gut and squeezed the trigger. The thug coughed blood over Grant’s face and then collapsed. When Grant saw the lifeless body beneath him, he experienced an emotion associated with death that he never would have said aloud. He felt good.
Gunfire from the thug’s partner forced Grant back behind the tree, and Grant stole the dead thug’s assault rifle. Vibrations from the bullets on the opposite side of the tree trunk hit in rapid succession, and he curled himself into a tight ball to avoid getting hit.
A break in the gunfire allowed Grant to spin from cover and pump four rounds into the goon’s chest. The rifle thumped quickly against Grant’s shoulder. The shells dispensed onto the forest floor, covering his feet until the magazine had emptied. Grant tossed the rifle aside and then reached for his pistol, firing into the night. Someone was screaming now. It was him.
Grant’s throat grew raw from the bloodcurdling cry, and when the gunshots ended and nothing but his voice remained, he collapsed to his knees. Bullets entered the tree and ground next to him, but Grant didn’t move.
He let the gunfire surround him, the inevitable fate of death circling. He saw Ellen and Annie as clear as day. They were calling out to him, beckoning him to come and join them in the abyss. He was so close.
But then the faint wail of sirens pulled Grant back and ended the barrage of gunfire. It sounded far away at first but grew louder.
The flashlights from the thugs turned off, and through the thicket of trees and shrubs, Grant saw red and blue lights flashing. He planted one foot in front of him and went to push himself up when a sharp pain bloomed from the back of his head and planted him face first into the dirt.
The ground felt uneven and the world spun. He couldn’t feel his legs or arms anymore. His vision went in and out, but just before it went completely black, he saw a pair of shoes. And then another sharp pain in the back of his head. And then black.
Chapter 13
Throbbing, aching, numbing pain. It started in the very back of Grant’s skull, spread down his back, and went straight through to his heels. His hands and feet tingled with pins and needles. It was dark. Pitch black.
Grant lolled his head back and forth a few times, disoriented and unsure if he was sitting down or standing up. He wasn’t sure if it even mattered anymore. Had he died? And if he had, where was he now?
It’d been a long time since those Sunday church and family days, and Grant wasn’t sure if salvation was in his cards. He thought of the women in the back of that truck who were gunned down by the mindless thugs that stole them from their homes. Dead because Grant pulled the trigger.
A door opened, and a blinding white light accompanied it. Grant turned his head away, his eyes shut tight.
“Don’t look so melancholy, Detective. Brooding doesn’t suit you. You don’t have the stature for it.”
The voice echoed, like it was at the end of a tunnel. But it was loud, closer than Grant would have liked. He tried to speak but fumbled with his tongue. It was heavy, like a piece of metal or concrete.
“Drink,” the voice said. “You’ve had quite the past few days.”
A straw was thrust into Grant’s mouth and he sucked down the liquid greedily, draining it until nothing but air sprayed his tongue. He licked his lips and his vision cleared. He blinked rapidly and when he moved his legs, he realized he was bound.
Rope cut into his ankles and wrists, and the chair he was tied to rocked as he tried to wiggle free. And as he did so, one of the chair legs bumped into something. Grant looked down, his eyes unsure of what he’d just seen. It was another leg. But it wasn’t his.
Grant examined the rest of the floor. More legs. More arms. More bodies. Dozens of bodies. They were naked and covered in lime. Decomposing, bits of flesh rotting from the bones and atrophying muscles. Their mouths were agape and their eyes open. He was sitting in the middle of a graveyard.
“I hope you don’t mind the company,” the voice said, but this time the voice had a body attached to it. It stood in front of the large white light that cast his entire body into shadow.
And that was when Grant noticed the walls around him and the steep slope on which the voice stood. The grave he was in had already been dug, and he was willing to bet that he’d be joining the bodies soon enough.
Grant had been stripped of his clothes, his badge, and his gun. He sat naked and bound, shivering and sweating in a pile of death, waiting for his turn to die.
But slowly, the thoughts of how he arrived came together. Grant remembered the thugs he was with in the woods; he remembered the gunshots, and then the police sirens. But he had never heard that voice before. It was well spoken, older, and very American.
Did Rick and Mocks make it out okay? Did the kids that he had pulled from that cellar make it out alive? Did Annie? He glanced back up to the voice as the man moved closer.
“Who—” Grant’s voice cut out, and he lowered his head. He sounded so weak, so tired. He cleared his throat and lifted his head to try again. “Where is my partner?”
“Oh, we’ll get to her in a minute,” the voice said, making his way down the slope into the pit. “But first I just want to take a minute to congratulate you. It’s not every day someone is able to disrupt my plans so vehemently. This was supposed to be a special day for me, but I’m afraid you’ve ruined it.” The closer he moved, the larger he grew. Well over six feet, with quite a bit of girth around his mid-section.
“Half of the city’s police officers will be looking for me,” Grant said. “Even if you kill me, they won’t stop until they’ve caught you, and after what I found in that sawmill, you’re going to be in jail for a very long time.”
The man stepped around to Grant’s back and chuckled. “If the police ever found me, the kids at the sawmill would be the least of my worries.”
“Quite the body on you,” the voice said, and then leaned down and whispered into Grant’s ear. “I don’t usually go for something so seasoned, but it would be a shame to waste you.”
Grant rolled his head away and the voice laughed, slapping his shoulders hard.
“Just poking a little fun,” the voice said, circling Grant, who continued to shiver. “You are quite too old for me. Though I understand I’m in no position to talk.”
And then, when the man turned and stopped where the light caught his face, Grant got his first good look. He was old, to be sure, but nothing like he would have imagined. The man was preserved, like the dead bodies around him. The decay was slow, and the old man had done what he could to delay it, but in those efforts he only accentuated what he had tried to hide.
The old man did have hair, but it was slicked back. And he wore a wife beater and a fine gold watch on his wrist, with a few rings on his fingers. His pants and shoes were expensive, and he looked down at Grant like a piece of property.
“Some of these are men that you killed, and others…” The old man circled his hands in the air. “Well, occupational hazards.”
The questions made Grant’s head hurt, and he shut his eyes to try and focus on the matter at hand. And that was trying to get out of this alive.
The old man smiled and then walked back up the slope. “You have two options, Detective. The first is to rot in this pit with the rest of the dead. The second is to accompany me to dinner. I have quite a few questions to ask you, and I was hoping to get the answers from you personally. What do you say?”
Grant shook his head. “You think you will get away with this, but you’re wrong. I’ve gotten this close, and my partner will too. You’re going to lose.”