Hunted: A Suspense Collection

by J. L. Drake

  It was a hunch. An inkling of an idea. A hypothesis born from his obsession with detail.

  And, right there on the screen, was his proof.

  He marched up to the TV and pointed at the wall behind Malorie.

  “There!”

  His two partners leaned in, squinting their eyes to see what had made him so excited. At first, they didn’t see a thing. The bright digital pixels strained their vision up close. But then, they saw it. Just a tiny black dot in the middle of the white wall.

  “A gunshot,” Jason said. “About five feet up from the floor. Remember, Cheyenne? Ten days ago, back when this started.”

  Her face was blank. He went back to pacing.

  “Hot day. You and I drove from Sinai Hills to 37th Street. We went into an apartment building with Josh Locke, looking for Adam Fischer. As we entered the fourth floor, the whole place shook because of, according to you, an oncoming subway.”

  Her expression lightened as the memories came back slowly, bit by bit. Was ten days such a long time?

  It’s not the years, it’s the mileage.

  “We cautiously entered a dark apartment room. Josh, all of a sudden, started screaming. He had seen his shadowy reflection in a mirror, which was about five feet up from the floor, and, in his fright, shot it.”

  “And there’s the bullet hole,” Cheyenne whispered to herself, amazed beyond belief. “Abel and Malorie are in Adam’s apartment.”

  “220 37th Street,” Jason said.

  A moment of stillness passed as they soaked in everything that had just happened. It was like a brick trying to soak in grape jelly. Everything had moved at breakneck speeds for the past ten days, to think it all might be coming to an end was miraculous. It seemed they finally had Abel in a corner.

  Jason cleared his throat. The moment was over.

  “Pass the info on to Jones. We need to get a move on, immediately. But quietly. This could be the only shot he gives us. I say we go in with stealth, agreed?”

  Nods from his partners. Wide eyes, sweaty hands, raw energy.

  “Move.”

  The three parted ways, each dashing to a different part of the station.

  Jason wove through the desks until he arrived at his own. He clipped his L.A.P.D. badge to his belt, made sure his gun was loaded, and holstered it next to the gold shield. He whipped on his overcoat, smashed the fedora onto his head, and took off.

  Intense, breath-taking adrenaline coursed through Jason’s veins as he raced down a hallway, ripping his pocket inside-out for his phone. He nearly poked a hole through it as he dialed.

  Three rings. “Jason?”

  “Craig! We have a location on Abel.” It felt so good to say out loud.

  “Really?”

  “At long last, I know! Listen, there’s a hostage there, and we’ll need your medical expertise.”

  “Now, Jason, I do post-death crime scenes. You know that.” He paused, hesitation leaking into his voice. “Are you not expecting her to make it?”

  “I don’t know, Doc. I don’t know.”

  Just then, Craig’s words hit him, like a bucket of icy water. He screeched to a stop, almost leaving scuffmarks on the tiled floor. “Craig, how did you know the hostage was a she?”

  Craig sputtered for a moment, and then he sighed. “Jason, it was on TV! Everyone knows. Malorie Daniels, CFO of Moutrin. And they’re all in a panic.”

  Jason felt the weight of the world lift off his chest. He leaned against the wall, so relieved he almost felt like laughing. He was getting too stressed out, too paranoid. The last thing he wanted to do was turn on his friends.

  “All right. Can you be there? 220 37th Street.”

  “Adam Fischer’s building?”

  “Bingo.” He started jogging down the hall again. Grinning at the thought of capturing Abel, he took a look at his watch. 6:30 p.m. “Now, you’ll miss your daily trip to see your wife, Craig, but I think this’ll be worth it!”

  For a few seconds, nothing but silence came through the phone.

  Then Craig spoke with a small voice that broke Jason’s heart.

  “Tracy died two nights ago, Jason.”

  Everything froze. The rain outside the window, the adrenaline in his body, the rush to get to 37th. Jason slowed to a stop.

  “Hell, Craig…” then he faltered. He had no idea what to say. Two nights before. So recent, yet so long ago. “I’m so sorry. But you still looked after Ted?”

  A frail laugh. “What else would I do? Ted is Alex’s friend. Mine too.”

  Tracy Weston had finally caved under her cancer of the brain. For five years, the battle had been fought, and now lost, amidst this whole Abel debacle. Craig must be devastated, but he was also stronger than Jason had ever realized.

  “So, 37th?” Craig said with transparent enthusiasm. “I’ll see you there. I gotta go now.” He hung up without another word.

  Jason pocketed the phone and buried his face in his hands. So much was happening all around him. So much that he couldn’t stop.

  His phone buzzed with another call.

  “Yeah?” he answered, thoughts still with Craig.

  “I’m in a car out front,” Garth said curtly, forcing the intensity to the forefront of Jason’s mind. “There’s a team headed there now. You, me, Cheyenne, a half-dozen officers, and two medics.”

  “And Craig. All stealth, all the way?”

  “Affirmative. I’ll fill you in on tactical approach plans on the way.”

  He began to run again, overcoat flowing behind him. “Gotcha. Coming to you now. How long will it take to get there?”

  “Ten minutes.”

  “Make it six.”

  ***

  Malorie

  Malorie squirmed in the chair. The pieces of cloth that bound her wrists had chaffed away the top layer of her skin after her initial attempts to break free. Soon enough, she would probably draw blood.

  She hated blood. It smelled terrible, made her woozy, and left stains.

  It was a nice apartment she had been dragged to, though. Smaller than her home, but more lush and inviting, as if the walls oozed success. Must belong to a very well-to-do individual, maybe a lawyer or a doctor.

  If she skimmed a bit more than usual next time, maybe she could get an apartment like this…

  The man who had invaded her house waltzed over to her, making the temperature drop about twenty degrees. She nearly started sobbing again right there at the sight of his dark, brooding eyes, but she held it in with all her strength.

  He had been standing in the corner for the past few minutes, speaking intensely into his cell phone. It looked like he had run a marathon. A layer of sweat covered his face, from the physical exertion or maybe just the emotion.

  “Your sins are severe, Malorie.”

  A sniveling cry slipped from her mouth. “I’m sorry…”

  “That doesn’t cut it.” He sat in an easy chair across from her. “A man can’t justify cursing his boss by saying, ‘Oh, it’s all right, God will forgive me,’ if he returns to work the next day just to curse him again.”

  He leaned in, snarling, so she could smell his musky breath. “If one’s heart doesn’t mean it, it doesn’t count.”

  “I am! I’m sorry!” She gulped and hesitated a second, her mind racing. Voice shuddering, she blurted out, “I’ll never do it again!”

  “It…” her captor sighed to himself. “So many sins, so little time.”

  He settled back into the plush chair, setting his fingers like a teepee and leaning his forehead on them. His eyes closed as a slow breath hissed from his nostrils.

  “Stealing is one of the most foul acts on the earth,” he muttered.

  So that was it. Her skimming. Malorie whimpered. Her nerves were on fire, and every brain cell screamed. She needed a hit of her coke. Bad.

  “Stealing one’s possessions is juvenile and insignificant, but that’s just the first peg on the totem pole.” It seemed he had forgotten she was even there. “Steali
ng happiness, satisfaction, life. That’s where it gets foul.”

  His eyes snapped open, staring right at her.

  The next second, he was on his feet, speaking, “Prove yourself.”

  After that, he punched the side of her head, and she was, again, out.

  ***

  Jason

  The apartment building was nearly invisible behind the wall of pelting rain. Even though the night was just beginning in L.A., the sidewalks were clear of pedestrians and only a few cars drove on the streets. Lights from surrounding buildings and lamps reflected off the ground, creating a display of moving colors that would make Disney World proud.

  The car pulled up outside the apartment, along with a few other dark-colored vehicles. Jason and Garth leapt out, immediately getting soaked. Cheyenne, the uniformed cops, and the two medics passed by them, charging for the front door.

  Heart thudding, Jason jogged behind the group. Thoughts of Abel, Ted, Marge and Max Black, Aarti Rao, Rick Neves, Chris White, and countless others flashed through his head. His mind raced at a thousand miles per hour, wondering if it was all going to end right now.

  They burst through the door. The lobby was empty, thanks to a few phone calls by Jones. No civilians or workers would get in the way. They had a clean shot straight up to room 4-H.

  ***

  Malorie

  What was that light? Wow, who let the sun in the room?

  Malorie’s eyes creaked open, the lamplight seeming bright in the haze her head was shrouded in. She pulled her neck up, groaning at its stiffness until she remembered the deep trouble she was in.

  The intruder. The unfamiliar apartment. Her skimming.

  It all came back in a flash, making her stomach churn like a sick washing machine. She fell out of the chair, scrambling frantically across the carpet to a remote corner. Bile clogged her throat, and vomit spewed everywhere. Everywhere.

  She coughed a bit and sat back. All she wanted was some cocaine. She craved it like a blind man craves to see. Her brain was spiraling into withdrawal, grating her nerves without mercy.

  Wait…She rubbed her chaffed wrists where she had been bound to the chair. Had been.

  The man must have freed her while she was unconscious. Why? She had no idea, but, for whatever reason, she was no longer trapped and the nightmare of a man was nowhere in sight.

  How could this be? There was no logic behind the kidnapper’s plan: take her, then release her? What was the point?

  She didn’t care. She was free from this hostage situation, and she was getting out while she still could.

  On her wobbly feet, moving toward the door. Toward freedom. She couldn’t imagine how people kept their sanity through extended captivity, like the prisoners in Nazi concentration camps or soldiers held by ISIS. Her imprisonment had been less than an hour long, but still.

  She reached for the doorknob, ready to leave this place. But something caught her gaze. Sitting innocently on the expensive coffee table, staring right at her, was the wooden chest from her home.

  The chest with her cache of coke.

  Before she knew what she was doing, she was rushing toward the box, hands extending for it like a little girl reaching for a candy bar.

  The kidnapper must have brought it. She still saw no logic in his actions, but that didn’t matter to her at the moment. All she knew was she desperately needed to snort some of it. Just a bit, barely more than a milligram.

  Even as she told herself this, she knew she was going to take in as much as she could. She threw open the chest’s lid and saw the piles of sweet rapture, seducing her as if it actually had a voice.

  Thank heaven for her years of stealing. She didn’t know what she’d do without this white powder.

  She opened one of the plastic bags and eagerly giggled. Finally. She had been looking forward to this for hours.

  ***

  Jason

  Up the stairs, up the stairs. Jason couldn’t get his legs to move fast enough. He led the pack, Cheyenne at his side. His lungs pumped like iron pistons to keep up with his hammering heart, which was hammering to keep up with his racing feet, which were racing to keep up with his growing sense of dread.

  Were they too late? Was Malorie dead, Abel gone like a phantom?

  Third floor.

  They were almost there. Within a blink of an eye, all of their guns were drawn, held forward, pointed at the floor. Magazines loaded, safeties disengaged, triggers at the ready.

  Jason rushed up the stairs, taking them two, sometimes three at a time. He could see the landing that led to the fourth floor. His feet rocketed ahead, arriving on the level, but he thought there was one more step than there actually was. For a brief, unending moment, he felt sick as his foot dropped through empty air. That horrible sensation of falling, being stranded in midair, gripped his whole body.

  Then, he landed on solid ground. The sick feeling still made his stomach clench, but he didn’t have time to get his bearings back.

  Fourth floor.

  Apartment 4-H was at the far end of the hallway. Major déjà vu made Jason shiver. He’d stood in this exact spot just ten days ago. So much had changed, lives had been lost, secrets had been found, yet he was still right where he started. Abel had created a confounding maze that somehow looped back on itself.

  “Go, go!” Jason said as loud as he dared.

  The uniforms surged forward, acting as one unit. They formed a bubble around the apartment’s door. 4-H, belonging to the late Adam Fischer.

  Behind that door could be anything: death, victory, vengeance, anything. Lightning flashed through a window, illuminating the fear on everyone’s face.

  Jason let out a breath he had been holding for a week. He stood behind the officers, facing the wooden door. There was no time left for emotion, no matter how much he wanted it.

  He held up three fingers.

  The cops tensed.

  Lowered to two.

  Silent thoughts and prayers ran through the eleven minds that were packed into the cramped hallway. Jason reached out for Keri’s gentle touch, hoping it was enough.

  One.

  Ignition.

  The foremost cop clenched his jaw and kicked his heel against the center of the door. It swung in, smashing and splintering against the wall.

  “Los Angeles Police!” the officer roared as he charged into the room, firearm extended. As if the door was a crushed dam, the cops swarmed through the frame, making as much disorienting noise as possible. From stealth to shock and awe in a matter of seconds.

  The apartment was exactly as Jason remembered: chic, high-priced furniture, colorful decor, hardwood floors polished and gleaming, a bullet hole piercing the plastered wall where a huge mirror had once hung.

  There was one chief difference: Malorie Daniels.

  “What the—” Garth screamed, nearly collapsing to his knees.

  The female hostage—whose face had filled every Los Angelian TV screen a mere half-hour before—was sprawled on the floor, convulsing like a marionette with tangled strings. Her comatose eyes stared at nothingness, wide and bloodshot. She hardly looked human.

  The uniforms were dumbstruck by the sight, completely paralyzed. Cheyenne caught her breath and called out to the men.

  “Move!” She and the corps of half-dozen officers swiftly spread out across the apartment in a net-like formation. If Abel was here, they would find him.

  Jason felt a cold sweat form across his brow. Things were derailing. He forced himself to slow his breathing, to shift his focus from Malorie to the room itself.

  Garth and the medics fell beside the body, quickly taking in the situation.

  “What’s happening to her? Get her stable,” Garth barked to the medics as he supported her trembling head. “She’s seen Abel’s face! Save her now!”

  The two men began to unload their equipment from their bags, nearly as frantic as Malorie.

  “Garth,” Jason called out, still standing in the doorway. “Check that!” H
e pointed at a small wooden trunk, reminiscent of a treasure chest, toppled over next to the trembling body. A few plastic bags were piled inside.

  He had a guess as to what was in the box. He’d seen too many suicides over the years to be naïve. A trail of milky white mucus from Malorie’s nostrils confirmed his hypothesis.

  Garth peeked in the box, then looked back at Jason. His eyes solemn, lips tightened. “Hydrochloride cocaine. Pure, high-grade coke. Lots of it.”

  Jason spotted an open bag of the powdery stuff a few inches from Malorie’s fingers and nodded toward it. “Did she overdose?”

  “No, there’s not enough missing. It must be spiked with some form of poison.” He got to his feet, punching the air. “You bastard!” he bellowed, and Jason knew whom to.

  A gurgling sound came from deep in Malorie’s throat. The medics leapt into overdrive, setting up an oxygen mask over her mouth and feverishly pumping her chest. She flopped up and down, showing signs of life, but her eyes remained glassy and unmoving.

  “C’mon!” Garth growled like a wounded lion at the men. “Get her back!”

  An officer jogged in from the bedroom, gasping and sweating with his gun at his side. Not a good sign. “Sir, no one else is here.”

  Garth pulled at his hair. “No, no…”

  Jason felt his heart drop. He numbly stumbled back into the hall, wiping the heavy rainwater from his face. Or was it sweat?

  He adjusted his fedora and necktie, needing to occupy his hands. His back was to apartment 4-H, but he could still hear everything: the medics panting, Malorie groaning and flailing, Garth screaming for her to live, and Malorie saying nothing in reply.

  He knew how this was going to turn out—with an occupied body bag and growing hopelessness—and he didn’t feel like watching.

  No sign of Abel, slim chance of Malorie making it…This mission had resulted in overwhelming failure, and they were, once again, forced to return to square one.

  The rain pounding on the thin walls sounded like Jason felt: heavy, dreary, and overwhelmed. He began to pace slowly down the hall, back to the stairs.