Capture: A Crime Thriller (CJ Sheridan Thrillers Book 2)

by M. P. McDonald

  Capture: Book Two

  CJ Sheridan Thrillers

  M.P. McDonald

  MP McDonald

  Contents

  Copyright

  Also by M.P. McDonald

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  From the Author

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  Cover Art by M.P. McDonald

  Copyright © 2016 M.P. McDonald. All Rights Reserved.

  Created with Vellum

  Also by M.P. McDonald

  The Mark Taylor Series

  Mark Taylor: Genesis

  No Good Deed: Book One

  March Into Hell: Book Two

  Deeds of Mercy: Book Three

  March Into Madness: Book Four

  CJ Sheridan Thrillers

  Shoot: Book One

  Capture: Book Two

  Suspense

  Seeking Vengeance

  Chapter One

  CJ Sheridan claimed a parking spot, shrugging off the dirty look he received from the driver of the car behind him when he blasted his horn at CJ. He probably wanted the same spot. It was tempting to throw him a one finger salute, but he just shook his head instead. Sorry, dude—should have been faster. His amusement faltered when he glanced down at his cup holder, which doubled as his change holder. This was a metered spot and he couldn’t afford another parking ticket. In only a few months, he’d received four of them.

  He searched his pockets for loose change. He had to have a quarter or two somewhere. Nothing. Shit. A gleam of silver caught his eye and he leaned over the gear shift, snatching the quarter from where it was almost hidden beneath the floor mat. That would get him about ten minutes. He better make this quick.

  Grabbing the photo from the passenger seat, he exited the car, threw the quarter in the meter, and grinned. Someone had left twenty minutes on the meter so he had a little bonus time. It must be his lucky day. First the open parking spot and now free time.

  He strode down the sidewalk, glancing at the image in his hand. Ignoring the blood covering the victim, he tried to pick out features on the man so he could spot him before he reached the corner. The face was a mess—no way would that help, but the man had been wearing a black t-shirt with a White Sox logo on it. A fleeting worry crossed his mind that he was way too callous about the bloody mess that had been a living, breathing man moments before the image was captured. In the three months or so he’d been using the camera regularly, had he already become inured to death and violence? He was afraid he was—at least when it involved adults. He’d been lucky that he’d only had a few kids appear in images and he’d been able to prevent their deaths. Mark Taylor had told him how the very first time he'd used the camera it had shown a drowned little girl. Mark never had the chance to save her because he hadn't realized the ability of the camera and how it worked. Sometimes, CJ wondered how the other man had remained sane after all he'd gone through.

  CJ approached the intersection he’d seen in his dream. The street signs matched the signs visible in the photo and he noted the same cars parked along the curbs. It was the right place, and soon, it would be the right time. As if on cue, his pulse pounded in his ears. It always happened just before he had a save to make. It reminded him a little bit of waiting in the wings before making his first appearance in a play or musical. It was a heady mix of nerves and excitement, but it was more than that. There was an undercurrent of fear that he couldn’t deny or escape. Making a mistake wasn’t just blowing a line or a cue with the consequences insignificant. A mistake could cost someone their life. It was that knowledge that triggered the fear, but feeling fear had one advantage—it hyper-focused his senses.

  He heard the gunning of an engine down the street. That was the car from his dream, he remembered how it sounded. First, the screech as the car whipped around the corner, then the roar as it accelerated down the moderately busy street. It wasn’t a main thoroughfare, but there was still a good amount of traffic, especially at this time of day. Commuters were using the east-west side streets as shortcuts to the expressway.

  Even with the dream, CJ hadn’t been sure exactly what happened. The end result was the man in the image getting killed when the driver of the car lost control, jumped the curb, and hit the victim. After a brief stop, the driver took off. Why couldn’t the image or the dream have shown him more details?

  He flicked his finger against the print, and shook his head, muttering, “Seriously? Would it kill to include the license plate?” The image didn't morph to show the plate, not that CJ really expected it to. He sighed and searched the sidewalk for the impending victim and spotted him only a few feet away. At least, he'd had a clear view of him in the dream.

  CJ lunged an instant before the car hit the curb with a loud bang. The heat of the car's engine licked the back of his legs as he grabbed the guy by the front of his shirt. With a twist, CJ flung him to the left into an alcove created by a doorway into a mom and pop grocery. The twist took him into the path of the car, but he allowed his momentum to carry him into the alcove as well, the car missing him by inches.

  It hit the corner of the alcove with a crash that shook the building behind CJ's back, sending a few shards of brick slicing into CJ's cheek. The glass from the front window and the one that bordered the alcove, shattered, cascading onto him like sharp confetti. CJ huddled over the man he'd saved, his arms covering his head in case anything larger fell on them. After a few seconds, he looked up at the screech of tires. The glass and bits of brick tumbled from him when he jumped to his feet as the car shot backward, the drivers' side closest to them. The front end had sustained moderate damage, so maybe it hadn't hit as hard as it had felt.

  “Hey!” CJ bolted forward as it appeared the car was moving into drive. “Dude! You almost killed us!”

  The driver's window rolled down. CJ expected to face a contrite and apologetic driver, but instead, the driver glared at him, then shifted his attention to the almost-victim who still crouched in the alcove. The driver extended a gun. Three shots went into the victim before CJ could react. Next, the driver aimed the gun at CJ. Acting on pure instinct, CJ dove head first through the opening where the window had been. He hit the linoleum floor, flinching as slivers of glass sliced into his palms but he barely noticed the pain as bullets hit glass juice bottles on the shelves above his head. A purple haze clouded his vision and he realized it was grape juice. A bottle had released its contents right over his head. He wiped his eyes and found the driver of the car staring at him through dark sunglasses. He swore at CJ, and aimed his weapon again, but the whoop of a police car must have distracted him and he turned around to look at them. CJ didn't wait to see what would happen and scurried around the shelving into the next aisle, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The driver swore again, his vo
ice harsh and deep, then took off with a deafening squeal of tires.

  * * *

  Shocked, CJ huddled in the aisle, his left hand clutched in his right. Blood mingled with the purple juice, and he stared as it dripped onto the floor, creating a deep violet swirl on the dingy black and white squares of linoleum. Bile burned at the back of his throat and he swallowed as his mouth flooded with saliva. What the hell had just happened? There was only one explanation that made sense, but he didn't want to accept it.

  What he'd been shown in his dream and image had been no accident, but murder intended to look like an accident. And he'd failed. The victim was still dead. He clenched his hands into fists, his elbows jammed against his thighs as he hunched forward to quell his shaking. More tires squealed and doors slammed outside. Voices, shocked, scared and angry, carried through the broken window. A couple of customers, a man and an older woman, were picking themselves up from the floor where they had taken cover when the shooting had begun. The woman stifled a scream when she looked at him, and then scuttled out of his sight, and from the sound of her steps, fled to the back of the store. The man glanced at him, but followed the woman.

  “Are you okay?”

  CJ jolted away from the voice. Had the driver come back to finish him off? Sirens were close, but not yet there.

  “Whoa! It's okay. This is my store.” A man crouched beside CJ, a ring of dark hair circling his bald head, his bushy eyebrows raised in concern.

  “Oh.” CJ blinked and struggled to his feet, grasping the offered hand up with his uninjured hand.

  “Are you hurt?” The store owner's gaze swept CJ from head to toe, assessing for injuries. He pointed to his own cheek but looked at CJ’s. “There's blood on your face.” Then he looked at his hand, bloodied from clutching CJ's, and swiped it on the apron he wore. “And your hand.”

  Shaking his head, CJ said, “Not really. Just a few cuts, I think.” Glass fell from his clothes, and when he tried to brush more off, he sucked in a sharp breath as he snagged a few slivers.

  “Wait. Let me.” The man darted off but returned a few seconds later with a small hand-held broom meant to be used to sweep debris into a dustpan. He brushed CJ's shirt, down his arms and legs, then motioned for CJ to turn around, using it on his back as well. “There, I think I got it all. Might still be some in your hair, though.”

  “Thanks. I'll be careful.”

  The sirens halted outside the store and CJ followed the store owner around the aisle to stand in the broken window. It wasn't just one car, but three police cars stopped at angles. Two officers carefully opened their doors, their weapons drawn. “Freeze! Hands on your head!”

  Surprised, CJ did as he was told, as did the store owner.

  Two other officers exited their vehicles and entered the store, frisking them both, the one patting down CJ cursed suddenly and shook his hand. CJ tensed as well, and bit back a yelp of pain when the pat down pushed some glass inside his shirt, against his skin. The cop stood back and said, “He's clean.” Then he examined his hand and plucked out a tiny sliver of glass.

  A third cop, plainclothed this time, approached, his gun in hand, but pointed in the air. He made a quick tour of the store, glancing down the aisles, checking the security mirrors in the corners, and behind a large display of soft drinks. He returned, his weapon out of sight. “It's all clear.” The other cop relaxed, holstering his gun.

  CJ caught the plain-clothed cop's eye. “Can I put my hands down? I have ID in my back pocket.”

  “Stay as you are, I'll get it.” The cop reached into CJ's pocket and snagged his wallet.

  “Christopher J. Sheridan.” He then looked from the ID to CJ. He then handed CJ's license to first officer and told him to run it. CJ sighed. Just great. Now he'd have a ton of questions to answer regarding his recent activity. While charges against him for his actions against the terrorists had been dropped after investigations, he had a history now that wouldn't just go away. The plain-clothed cop eyed CJ, then almost as an afterthought, pulled a radio from his pocket and asked someone if the paramedics had arrived. CJ felt a surge of hope. Maybe the guy outside wasn't dead after all?

  “I'm Detective Cruz. I'd like to take statements from both of you.” Then Cruz listened to something on his radio and said, “Direct them inside when they get here. Also, we got a guy with what appears to be minor injuries.”

  Oh. It was for him. CJ started to refuse it, but the cop shook his head and held up a hand as he listened to a string of police jargon. CJ turned his attention to the store owner and the other officer as he gave a cursory look at the owner's identification, before handing it back. “Thank you, Mr. Gonzalez. Did you see what happened?”

  Mr. Gonzalez shook his head. “No. There was a crash—it shook the building! Broke my front window.” He gestured toward the empty window frame, his lip curled in disgust, then pantomimed a gun with his finger. “Then it was just bang! Bang! Bang! And I hit the floor.”

  Cruz nodded, then turned to CJ. “How about you?”

  The event replayed in CJ’s mind and he cleared his throat. “Yeah. I saw it. I was outside and noticed a car speeding towards the sidewalk. I dove to the side, ending up near the door there,” CJ pointed in the general direction of where he'd been, “and I guess I pushed another guy out of the way because we fell to the ground and the car slammed into the corner a few feet away.” CJ's acting background had come in handy on more than one occasion and once again, proved useful as he made the intended save sound as if it had just been incidental as he saved himself. “The driver backed the car away. I thought he was going to get out and make sure everyone was okay, but instead, he rolled down the window and shot the guy I'd pushed down. Just shot him! Like it was nothing.” CJ took a moment, swallowing hard as he shook off the image in his head of the shooting, but it stayed there in the back of his mind on a replay loop. “Then he pointed the gun at me, and I dove into this place. I barely even remember doing it, it happened so fast.” As he spoke, he tried to separate all the actions, but it was already becoming a blur.

  “Then what happened?”

  “I…uh…I looked up and the driver had pulled the car up alongside the window and shot at me.” He gestured to his purple-stained shirt. “Glass and juice sprayed all over me and I somehow ended up on the other side of the aisle. Then I heard the car drive away.”

  CJ tried his best to give a description of the driver and the car, but the driver had been in the shadow of the car, and CJ's focus had been on the gun, not the man's face. He closed his eyes, trying to summon up the face in his mind. “He had a medium complexion. I can't even say if he was white, black or something else because the interior of his car was so dark. He wore a hoodie, so I didn't see his hair and sunglasses. He must have had tinted windows. I'd say he was in his mid-thirties, but it's just a guess.”

  “Eye color?”

  “Sorry. Sunglasses. Remember?” CJ didn't mean to be short with the officer, but his nerves were frayed.

  “Scars? Birthmarks?”

  “Not that I saw. It happened so fast…” He felt stupid for not remembering more. Maybe it was a good thing he hadn't joined the CIA because he'd probably make a terrible spy. Was he relying too much on the camera and the images, and ignoring details in real life? And now, someone could be dead because of his mistake. Cruz was asking him some other question, but CJ couldn't focus. Over and over, he saw the victim's body falling limp as blood sprayed the bricks. “The guy outside…the one who was shot…is he…?”

  Cruz glanced up from his notes, his eyes sliding to where the man would be lying outside, and gave a short nod. “Died instantly.”

  He said it as if it was supposed to make it better but CJ felt the bile rise again and closed his eyes, taking a few deep breaths. “I just thought…I mean, I saw all the blood, but they say head wounds bleed a lot.” The spray of blood flashed again. He hadn't been conscious of it at the time, but now as the scene replayed his head, the blood was there. The way the man had fa
llen in a boneless heap had signaled CJ the truth even then, but he had refused to believe. He'd never forget the image of the gun pointing straight at him. It wasn't as if the shooter even tried to hide the weapon. He'd thrust his arm right out of the window, only feet from him and the victim. CJ would have the image etched into his memory for a lifetime. He blinked. “Wait…I remember something. The shooter had some tattoos on his knuckles.”

  “What kind? Can you describe them?”

  CJ circled his finger over his own hand. “They were round and blue. A symbol, I think. That's how I know his skin color, now that I think about it. His hands were dark brown.”

  Cruz held up his own hand. “Like mine? Hispanic?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe a white guy who spends a lot of time in the sun.” CJ looked at his own hands, tanned from the summer. Beneath the blood and grape juice, they were just a shade or two lighter than the hands he'd seen.

  “Anything else you can remember about the tattoos? Were they an image of an animal or name?” Detective Cruz jotted down some notes on a small pad of paper.

  “No. Not that I could tell.” He visualized the hand again, seeing the gun extended, but tried to ignore the dark hole pointing straight at him, and instead closed in on the hand clutching the weapon. “I remember one of the knuckles had a red symbol in the middle of the blue circle. I thought it was blood at first, but thinking back, it wasn't. It was an X.”

  The detective stopped writing as his head shot up. “A red X? Are you sure?”

  CJ nodded. “Positive.”

  Cruz blinked and then nodded. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

  “Uh. Yeah. Sure. Is…is the red X important?”

  “Nah. Pretty standard around here.” Cruz gestured to a paramedic entering the store, waving him over. “Come on. Let's get you checked out.”