Snatched Super Boxset

by Hunt, James

  “Does the means justify the ends?” Grant said. “It’s a question that I’ve asked myself repeatedly over the past four years, and I still don’t know the answer. The easy answer is yes. One dead to let a thousand live? Any rational human would tell you that it makes sense. But the answer is only easy when you don’t know that one individual. But that one person will leave a family without a father, a brother without a sister, a husband without a wife.”

  Lane cleared his throat again, but this time when he spoke there was confidence in his voice. “I don’t know what it’s like to have to make that choice. And I hope I never do. But I do know that you helped a lot of people. And I know that you stopped a lot more from getting hurt. I have a sister. And I can’t imagine her having to go through something as horrific as some of those women did. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.” They turned a corner, and the road ahead straightened, the first little town they were set to check up ahead. “You were a good detective. And there isn’t any amount of guilt that’ll change that.”

  The radio crackled on the dash, and Officer Lane reached for it when dispatch identified his unit number as they passed the local welcome sign of the town of Monroe.

  “Go for unit twenty-seven,” Lane said.

  “I’ve got the lieutenant on the line for you. Patching through now.”

  The radio crackled again, and then Mocks was on the line. “What’s your location?”

  “Heading east-northeast on Highway 522, about to enter the city of Monroe.”

  “Grant, are you with him still, or have you scurried off like you tend to do whenever you’ve got one of your hunches?”

  Lane turned the radio toward Grant and pressed the button for Grant to speak. “Still here, Mocks.”

  “Good. Listen, sounds like you were right about the trip east. They found the perp on the ferry, but the girl he had with her ended up being the girl that we had the call about earlier from the abduction.”

  Grant took the radio from Lane’s hand and then let the officer focus on driving as the landscape changed from trees to buildings, and a correctional institution that they passed on the left. “Casualties?”

  “The girl’s alive and seems to be fine, but the perp was shot on scene. Medics couldn’t resuscitate.”

  “Was it Sambayo?”

  “The one and only.”

  Grant let his thumb off the speaker and then leaned back. “Shit.”

  “Listen, I’ve got somebody on the line with Monroe Police right now. I’ll let them know that you’re on your way.”

  “Copy that,” Grant said. “Keep me posted.” He ended the transmission, and then his pocket buzzed, his phone lighting up with a text. He fished it out and saw that it was from Sam.

  You were right. Stay put. Coming to you.

  Grant locked the screen and then shoved the phone back in his pocket. He wasn’t in the mood to sit still. Out of everyone on the team looking for this girl, he was currently in the best position to help. And that was what he intended to do.

  Grant removed his phone, and when Lane tried pulling over to the Monroe authorities, Grant stopped him. “Stay on 522, and flip the lights. We need to make up time.”

  “But the lieutenant said—”

  “Mocks would agree with me,” Grant said, though he wasn’t sure if that was true anymore. His partner had ascended to the ranks of authority. And despite all those years working the street, she had other things to worry about. She had to look at the whole picture, balance the weight of resources. But that’s why they brought Grant on in the first place, wasn’t it? To help tip the scales.

  Grant dialed Multz, and when the director picked up, he didn’t waste any time. “I need you to call in some favors with whoever you have connections with in the intelligence community and find me any stolen plates that passed through the city of Monroe, Washington, in the past two hours.”

  There was a brief moment of hesitation, and Grant suspected that the only reason he wasn’t completely chewed out on the spot, or even hung up on, was because Multz had learned that Grant was right about the girl.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Multz said.

  Grant hung up as Lane flicked the lights and swerved around a cluster of cars, sirens wailing.

  “You sure about this?” Lane asked as they plowed the highway, passing through Monroe at a breakneck pace.

  “Just keep driving.” Grant’s phone buzzed, and he quickly answered Multz’s call. “What did you find?”

  “A stolen 2008 Chrysler 300 was reported outside of Seattle this morning, and a vehicle matching that same description passed through Monroe less than thirty minutes ago. I’ve already mobilized air support fifty miles east to try and intercept, and I’ve got marshals from our station in Wyoming heading over as well.”

  “Notify Washington, Idaho, and Wyoming authorities,” Grant said, feeling his heart rate quicken and trying to hide the smile on his face. “Put out the APB on the car.”

  “Already done,” Multz said. “You did your job, Grant. Now, why don’t you—”

  Grant hung up, knowing that he couldn’t do what the director wanted him to. He wasn’t going to sit on the sidelines anymore. He was too close to it now.

  The radio in Lane’s car blared the APB that Multz had mentioned, and Grant kept his eyes peeled on the horizon. So long as the bastard stayed on the highway, they might have a chance, but in the meantime, Grant pulled up the map on his phone, searching for any side roads that the suspect might take, and eyeballing his current position based off of the speed and head start that he had coming out of Monroe. “We’re probably only twenty miles away from him, maybe less if he’s trying to stay low profile.” He found a few side roads that could be used as a quick escape and followed the line of thinking that would take the girl deeper into the heart of the States. “We’ve already passed the airfields.”

  “What?” Lane asked.

  “We kept thinking that the parents were already smuggled out of the States,” Grant answered, continuing his train of thought. “But if this guy is taking Anna deeper into the country, then that means the parents are still here too.”

  The radio crackled again, and dispatch broke through. “All units, be advised that the 2008 Chrysler 300 has been spotted heading eastbound on Highway 522, just past mile marker 238. Suspect is considered armed and dangerous. Approach with utmost caution.”

  Grant checked the map. “We’re close.” He slapped the dash. “Let’s punch it!”

  With the roar of the squad car’s engine and the surge of adrenaline pumping through his veins, Grant couldn’t sit still. The radio chatter that came over the speakers only added to the excitement, and when Sam called, Grant ignored it. He didn’t want to put himself in a situation where he would have to defy the people he was trying to help.

  Flashing blue and red lights lit up the horizon as the grey of morning faded into the crystal-clear light of day. It was the caravan of local cops that had marked the Chrysler.

  Lane closed the gap, easily catching up to the huddling masses and joining the chase. Most of the civilian traffic had been cleared, but there were still a few cars pulling off to get out of the way.

  From his view in the passenger seat, Grant could see the taillights of the Chrysler between the cluster of squad cars in pursuit. He felt their speed slow, and when he looked at the speedometer, he saw that they were only going eighty.

  “He doesn’t seem to be in a hurry,” Lane said.

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  The chase lasted until a chopper came into view overhead, and then the Chrysler finally turned off the highway onto one of the small side roads that Grant had looked at earlier. He pulled up the map again, and this time when Lane went to follow, Grant stopped him. “Keep heading east. I’ll tell you when to turn.”

  Lane didn’t argue, and Grant scoured the map, keeping an eye on the bird following the Chrysler. He whispered to himself, “Where are you going?” He zoomed in, expanding the limited back roads, and
found a dirt path that turned north from where they got off the highway that happened to intersect at the next exit.

  Satellite imagery showed that nothing but trees and a few farms were sprinkled on the road. It was the perfect place to ditch and try to hide. “Turn up here!”

  Again, Lane did as he was told, and Grant felt the tug from the seat belt as they careened onto the curving off ramp. He watched the helicopter above, waiting for it to turn, to head up toward them. “C’mon. Turn. Turn. Turn.”

  Finally, the chopper veered, and Grant slapped the dash in triumph. “Yes!” He thrust his hand forward, pointing up ahead. “Take a right on Maywell Road. We’re going to run right into this guy.”

  Maywell Road came quickly, and Lane turned sharply, tossing the pair of them back and forth inside the cabin, the ride immediately bumpier on the gravel road.

  “There he is.” Grant spotted the Chrysler kicking up enough dust to cloud the caravan of cruisers behind him. “Stop here. Block the road.”

  They skidded forward when Lane slammed on his brakes, and then he positioned the cruiser perpendicular to the road. Lane started to get out of the car, but Grant stopped him. “I need a gun.”

  Lane tilted his head to the side. “I don’t think—”

  “Is the shotgun in the trunk?”

  Lane hesitated for only a second, then he nodded.

  “Open it.” Grant got out of the car, the dust cloud heading toward them growing larger and closer. The trunk popped, and Grant reached for the bag and ran the zipper down quickly, snatching up the twelve-gauge. He checked the chamber and found it loaded then joined Lane by the hood, where they positioned themselves behind the car for cover.

  “What happens if he doesn’t stop?” Lane asked.

  Grant adjusted his aim, bringing the front windshield of the Chrysler into view. “He won’t risk injuring the girl. She’s too valuable.” The engine roared, and the din of sirens echoed through the woods. The car was one hundred yards away, then eighty, then sixty.

  “He’s not slowing down,” Lane said, slowly scooting backward.

  “He will.” Grant remained steady as a rock as he was able to make out the details of the grill from forty yards away, then twenty, the groan of the engine still at its peak.

  “Jesus Christ!” Lane screamed, but he stayed at his post on the hood of the cruiser.

  And just when Grant was about to doubt himself and rush both himself and the boy off to the side, the Chrysler’s engine died, and the driver slammed on the brakes, attempting to careen around the trunk of the cruiser.

  It almost made it, but the loose gravel and soil on the sides of the road were too thick, and the shrubs and trees were too clustered to allow anything larger than a dirt bike to pass. But the momentum of the car pushed it a dozen yards into the forest before it stopped.

  Grant approached first, the stock of the shotgun pressed firmly against his squared shoulders. He only made it three steps before the driver’s-side door opened and the mercenary brandished a pistol, firing randomly and sending Grant and Lane back behind the squad car for cover.

  Lane kept his eyes closed, his face drenched in sweat as they sat on the road. He was hyperventilating.

  “You all right?” Grant asked.

  Lane nodded, and Grant peeked over the hood toward the Chrysler. A figure, carrying something over his shoulder, sprinted into the woods.

  “C’mon!” Grant slapped Lane on the shoulder, and the pair were already in pursuit by the time the next squad car stopped in the road.

  Rocky terrain and ankle-high brush made the tracking slow, but Grant maintained line of sight. The mercenary turned, firing and forcing both Grant and Lane behind the cover of trees, but neither returned fire. They couldn’t risk hitting Anna.

  Chopper blades whirled overhead, the air support blocked by the thick canopy of trees. The shouts and grunts of the officers joining the chase grew closer, but the only thing that Grant focused on was the sound of his own breathing, the twelve-gauge in his hands, and the man carrying Anna Copella deeper into the woods.

  A cramp bit at the left side of Grant’s ribs, but he pushed through it, and he hastened his pace. The back of the suspect’s head grew closer and closer and closer until suddenly Grant’s view was blocked by a cluster of trees.

  Grant’s heart skipped a beat, but when he cleared the blockade of the trees and saw what was behind it, his heart stopped cold altogether, and it wasn’t anything but the years of repetition coming back to him that raised the shotgun and kept his aim steady. “Let her go!”

  The mercenary had Anna on the ground, where she lay unconscious with a gun to her head. The mercenary wore no mask. His face was scarred from years of a life that had known nothing but violence. His eyes were dark, and his face wide and flat. Since it was a man, Grant assumed it was Danny Mullens.

  He didn’t smile. He didn’t move. He just sat there with the gun to Anna’s head.

  “I was told that you wouldn’t be here,” Mullens said. “I was told I had a clear route.”

  Grant frowned, approaching slowly, gun still aimed. “Who told you?”

  The mercenary smiled. “The girl will die before you can pull the trigger.”

  “I’ve played this game before,” Grant said.

  The mercenary shook his head. “You’ve never played this game.” He kept his eyes locked on Grant. “If you know who I am, then you know who hired me. He doesn’t accept failure.”

  “Whatever they paid you, whatever they told you, it doesn’t have to stay that way,” Grant said, struggling to keep his voice calm and the shotgun steady. “Just put the gun down, and step toward me.”

  Silence lingered, and then the mercenary looked past Grant toward the approaching officers. He looked up at the sky at the sound of the chopper. When he lowered his face, he nodded. “All right, then.” He took the pistol off of Anna’s head, and just when Grant was about to exhale in relief, he placed the barrel of the gun against his own head and squeezed the trigger.

  6

  FBI Director Nathan Links sat slouched in his chair, fingers interlaced and both hands resting on top of his stomach. He lolled his head lazily to the left and checked the time. The conference call had been rambling on for the past twenty minutes, which was nineteen minutes longer than it needed to be.

  These discussions were always a formality, a faux “sharing” of information that was nothing more than a circle jerk. He raised his hand, working his mouth and hand at the same time as though he had a puppet, as the CIA director discussed some jihadist stuck in a hole five thousand miles away.

  “Nathan,” the Homeland director said, “do you have any updates?”

  “Not yet,” Links answered. “Still waiting to hear back on the situation with the girl in the Joza case.” He picked at his index fingernail, trying to flick out a lone piece of dirt wedged inside. “Should have an update on that soon.”

  “All right, I don’t have anything else. Jim?”

  “Good here,” the CIA director replied.

  “All right, till next week, gentlemen.”

  The call ended, and Links raised his middle finger to hit the end call button on his phone. He leaned back in his seat. He’d been in this position for two years. And he finally had something big ready. Something that would secure his position for the rest of his life.

  A cell phone on the desk buzzed, the name “Hickem” illuminated on the screen. Links reached for it quickly. “What is it?”

  “We’ve got her, sir,” Hickem said. “The Copella girl. We’re taking her to a secure facility now.”

  “Good.” The word came out practiced but devoid of any excitement. Color had drained from his cheeks, and his lip curled in a snarl. “What about the mercenary?”

  “Shot himself,” Hickem answered. “But we still have Gusto Debrov in custody at the US Marshal building. Though he hasn’t given us much to go on save for what we already know. But, um, sir, there is something else.”

  “What?�
� Links didn’t try to hide his displeasure with that. He didn’t need any more surprises.

  “The kidnapper was heading east,” Hickem said, his tone confused. “It doesn’t match the intelligence we were given that the mercenaries and Joza were trying to smuggle the Copellas out of the country.”

  “No,” Links answered. “It doesn’t.”

  “Sir, I was wondering if I could come to DC,” Hickem said. “I’d like the opportunity to speak to Agent Kover myself, see what caused him to—”

  “The mole that was inside your unit is no longer your concern,” Links said. “I’ll be handling the interrogation process personally. I think you’ve done enough in that regard, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let me know as soon as the Copella girl is in a secure location, and let’s try and keep the media coverage to a minimum. The less we have to deal with battling that front, the quicker we can get this resolved.” Links hung up and then tossed the phone on the desk. He leaned back in his chair, a quiet rage growing inside of him, fanned by his quickened breath.

  He shot up and out of his chair and paced the room, doing his best to quell the scream that was building up inside of him, begging to be let out. He raked his fingers through his hair and caught the shimmer of the gold nameplate on his desk.

  The phone buzzed again, the number blocked this time. “What?” His tone was short, and he was breathless.

  “Asset is secure. Location alpha two.”

  The call ended, and Links closed his eyes, trying to get control of his breathing, and then pocketed the phone. Once his heart rate slowed and he fixed his hair in the mirror, he donned his jacket and then stepped out of the office, only one thing on his mind as he walked through the halls of the J. Edgar Hoover building, where he had spent most of his adult career.

  It was a call he’d been expecting since Hickem informed him of the mole. And it was a conversation that he had replayed over and over in his head, traveling down different paths and toying with a variety of outcomes. It was a game that he liked to play to keep himself from growing bored. It was also the main reason he joined the FBI and had been promoted to his current rank. He was good at asset management and risk diversion.