Missing Person: A Riveting Kidnapping Mystery- Book 2 Page 4

  Grant spoke softly, ashamed of the meaning behind his words. “Sometimes I want to end it, Mocks. Just pull the trigger and—”

  Mocks slapped him hard. “Don’t you dare.” Mocks thrust her finger in his face, those pale, freckled cheeks so red it looked as if she’d been permanently burned. “I swear to god, if you ever have those thoughts, you call me immediately. Do you understand?” She grabbed him by the chin and forced his gaze into hers. “You got it, Detective?”

  It had been the first time since his dismissal that anyone had called him that, and Grant figured it was part of the nostalgia that pulled him out of those dark thoughts. And despite how real they felt during the time, and how close he came, Mocks wasn’t ever convinced that he would have really tried to kill himself.

  But it wasn’t long after he finished his probation and moved to Deville that Mocks started giving him the cold cases to work. Grant figured she thought it would be good for him or, at the very least, keep his mind busy. But in the end, even that wasn’t enough.

  Was he still trying to destroy himself? Was that what all of this had really been about? Some internal desire to push himself until there wasn’t anything left?

  Mocks had tried to tell him before he got himself into this mess that he needed to move on, and he had convinced himself that he had, but here he was, in the same position he found himself in four years ago, without a badge and trying to save his partner’s life. Except Mocks wasn’t his partner anymore, and she held two souls in her body now.

  It seemed that while Grant had always tried to help people, to bring them home to safety and peace, it always came at the cost of the people he cared about. But wasn’t that what Links had told him? Sacrifice one to save a thousand?

  A police siren cast a sudden din, blue and red lights flashing down the alley, and Grant froze in his tracks as he half turned toward the cruiser that had snuck up on him while he was daydreaming.

  “Stay where you are, and keep your hands in the air where I can see them.” The officer’s voice blared through the speaker, and Grant complied but knew the moment those cops got a look at him he was finished.

  The car doors of the cruiser opened, and Grant looked at the stirring homeless that lined the alley, flipping off their blankets, and squinting because of the blinding headlights and spotlight that the officers flicked on.

  “All right, everybody, up!” the officer barked, his boots splashing in the puddles with a violent urgency. “You, buddy, turn around!”

  The decision was quick, and Grant wasn’t sure if it would even work since half of the alley was still asleep under blankets, but it was his only shot. “Cops! Everybody run! Cops!”

  Grant’s voice thundered down the alley, and he sprinted away from the police, kicking a few pairs of feet along the way in hopes of stirring the people awake.

  “Hey! Freeze!” The officers drew their pistols, and Grant knew their sights were lining up on his back. But with the added urgency of the officer’s voices, the homeless people started to wake and then joined in Grant’s retreat from the authorities.

  With a wave of bodies now between Grant and the rest of the homeless, Grant finally dared to turn around.

  The cops had subdued three or four of the people that had nestled themselves in the alley, but the majority had heeded Grant’s call to flee, and dozens of homeless flooded from the alley and into the streets, surprising pedestrians and angering a few drivers as some of them sprinted out into the roads without looking to cross.

  Grant kept north, knowing that it was still the best option for him to make it to the docks. Once again he had passed onto the other side and found himself in a race against time.

  Sam remained on the other side of the one-way glass while Hickem continued his talk with Rick. Aside from Sam, Rick was the only other person that spoke to Grant before he decided to go rogue.

  The first thing she needed to determine was what Grant had accessed on her computer. It had to be something to help Links move the money.

  Rick and Hickem’s conversation turned from interrogation to shouting match, and it ended with Hickem storming out of the room. He slammed the door so hard it rattled the walls, and when he entered the viewing room, the steam was still blowing out of his ears.

  “That guy is a piece of work,” Hickem said, pointing toward the mirror, then paced back and forth in the short space between Sam and the door.

  “His pregnant wife was kidnapped by a sociopath,” Sam replied.

  “And you’d think he’d be a little more forthcoming with information in trying to help us get her back!” Hickem raised his arms and then flapped them down hard at his sides. “I swear if it wasn’t for having to deal with people, this would be the easiest job in the world.”

  “What’d he say?” Sam asked.

  Hickem leaned his shoulder up against the glass, and Sam could only see Hickem’s reflection. “He said that Grant told him he was sorry, and that he would do whatever was necessary to get her back.” He faced Sam. “And then he told Grant that if he didn’t bring her back alive, he’d kill him.”

  “Strong words.” Sam sat on the edge of the table in the room, arms crossed as she watched Rick pace the room. She couldn’t imagine the hell he was going through at that moment. But from the rage still steaming off of him, she had no doubts about Rick keeping his promise.

  “Has he contacted you?” Hickem asked.

  “What?”

  Hickem shuffled toward her. “If he’s going to ask anyone for help, then it’ll be you. So has he reached out?”

  “No,” Sam answered. “Whatever he’s going to do, he’s dead set on finishing it alone.”

  Hickem regarded her, for once keeping his thoughts to himself, and then finally nodded. “All right, Cohen. But if he does try to reach out, then you should tell me. Or at least tell Multz. Because if you help him, your career is over. There won’t be an agency or department that would be willing to hire you, and you’d be thrown into the treason conversation along with Links and Grant. It’s not worth it.”

  “It’s worth it to him.” Sam gestured toward Rick.

  Hickem’s expression softened. “I admire the hell out of Grant.” He moved close to Sam, and she finally had a sense of his size. As a tall woman, it was rare she felt that way with a man. “But we have a job to do.”

  “So what now?” Sam asked.

  “I’ve got IT running a diagnostic on your computer, so I hope you cleared your porn cookies before it was confiscated. We’ll see what was taken, what it could be used for, and if we can track it.”

  Sam arched her left eyebrow. “It has to be some program to move the money, right? I mean it’s the only thing that Links would want.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Grant said. “But after everything that’s happened, I really can’t be sure of anything these days.”

  Sam forgot how much this had probably affected the big guy. She knew that if she discovered that Multz was somehow a double agent or betraying the agency and country that she cared for so much, she’d be a little wary too.

  Anyone who chose law enforcement as a career, no matter the agency or position, understood very quickly that they were walking into a very big family, and that loyalty had to be earned.

  And once that loyalty was earned, it was coveted more than any other asset in an officer’s repertoire. An officer of the law wore that badge more proudly than any other commendation or medal. It was the ultimate sign of respect and fraternity.

  Nathan Links had been given that trust among his peers and subordinates and even the country. And the moment he decided to get into bed with Anton Joza, that trust and loyalty was shattered. And if there was one cardinal sin in law enforcement, it was to break that loyalty. Because those were bonds that could never be mended.

  “I’m sorry about Links,” Sam said. “Regardless of what he did, I know you worked with him for a long time.”

  “He was the one who pushed for my appointment to deputy director,” Hicke
m said, his expression showing that he was lost in nostalgia. “He could be a hard ass, but he was very good at his job.” He frowned. “I actually looked up to him.” Hickem grimaced with pain.

  “He fooled everyone, Hickem,” Sam said.

  “Yeah, well, we better get to it.” Hickem headed for the door, and when he opened it, he exposed the small viewing room to the noises of the marshals’ building. He paused and turned back to Sam. “Grant will run this till the end if it kills him. You know that, right?”

  “Yeah,” Sam answered. “I know.”

  Hickem nodded then shut the door behind him, leaving Sam alone in the viewing room. She looked through the glass and saw that Rick had finally sat down. The anger had subsided, and he bowed his head, tears streaming from his eyes in buckets, his shoulders bobbing up and down.

  Sam reached for the speaker switch and flipped it on, letting Rick’s sobs echo through to her. Twice, Rick tried to stop himself, and twice he failed. He moaned, cried, and swayed from side to side, still unable to come to terms with his grief.

  Mary Copella had cried like that when Sam told her what happened to Charles. She had screamed and cursed and called her every name under the sun. Sam couldn’t imagine the words exchanged between Rick and Grant. Those two had history. And history always muddied the water.

  6

  Mocks couldn’t see her feet, but she knew by the bloated feeling in her toes that they were swollen, but nine months into her pregnancy, she’d grown used to it. It helped that she could walk around the room, but there was only so much waddling she could do before she grew tired and was forced to sit.

  The video camera in the corner prevented her from trying anything funny, not that there was much she could do to escape. The door was steel and locked from the outside.

  But what was worse than solitary confinement was the anxiety of not knowing what was happening beyond that closed door, which had caused the baby to stir into a frenzy. So she entertained herself the best way she knew how, by being a nuisance.

  “Hey!” Mocks’s voice echoed off the walls, only the hum of the halogen lights providing an answer. “You’re really going to let a pregnant woman piss her pants?”

  Silence lingered a little bit longer, and then footsteps echoed on the other side of the door, the noise reaching a crescendo as the door quickly swung open and Links entered, still flanked by the Neanderthals.

  “Stop screaming,” Links said, rubbing his temples. “It’s distracting.”

  “Then let me go to the bathroom,” Mocks said, her tone petulant and defiant.

  Links leaned forward. “So what’s stopping you?”

  “Why don’t you get a little closer, and then maybe I’ll think about it?”

  Links smiled smugly. “Not really my thing.” He turned to leave, and Mocks felt the desperation and pain override her pride.

  “Wait, please.” Mocks jerked forward, praying she could at least keep the tears at bay. “I won’t cause any trouble.”

  “And how do I know that?” Links quickly spun on his heel, those green eyes regarding her with a mockingly accusing tone. “How do I know that the moment I have these men let you out of this room, you won’t try something stupid that’ll get you killed before Grant gives me what I want?”

  “I’m not going to do anything to risk the life of my child,” Mocks said.

  Links walked toward her, the heels of his expensive leather shoes clacking against the concrete in the same arrogant tone as their first encounter. He stopped at the chair and bent down into Mocks’s face close enough for her to smell the wretched sourness of his breath. “Prove it.”

  A chill ran down Mocks’s spine, her skin suddenly clammy and cold. She retreated from Links’s face, but he remained intimately close, refusing to lower his gaze. “How?”

  Links smiled. “The burden of proof is on the prosecution, correct? You’re accusing me of not providing basic humanitarian needs. It’s up to—”

  “Links!”

  The booming voice preceded the man that entered. He was flanked by six more Eastern European thugs, and Mocks immediately recognized him. The bald head, the suit, the ugly grimace. It was Anton Joza.

  And judging by the way Links’s face flushed white, Mocks thought that he might be the one to soil his pants.

  “I didn’t realize that you had arrived.” Links smacked his lips together dryly. “How was the fli—”

  “You said you wanted to negotiate face-to-face. Talk.”

  “I told you when I have the money I will give it to you in exchange for my freedom.” Links cleared his throat, stepping behind Mocks for safety. “And then once I have my freedom, I’ll tell you where they’re holding your son.”

  There was no playfulness on Joza’s face. No hint of arrogance. Mocks had seen men like him dealing drugs when she was using. She saw it on the faces of pimps when their women got out of line. She saw it on the faces of those mean drunks who never went home without blood on their shirts. Anton Joza cared nothing for words. He was a man of action.

  “You will tell me where he is being held now,” Joza said. “And then I will decide whether to kill you.”

  “I have tapes!” Links blurted out. “Records of our conversations are with an attorney. If you kill me, then all of that information will be sent to the authorities.”

  Joza laughed and stepped closer. “And what information is that? Some dirt you found on one of my propped-up politicians? A deal I made with an unrecognized government? Someone I killed and you know where the body is buried?” Joza stopped just short of Mocks’s chair, close enough to choke her. “You think that other people don’t know what you know? You don’t think that someone tries to kill Anton Joza every day?” Joza’s men circled Links like a wolf pack.

  “You need me!” Links had grown hysterical. “The codes! Your son!”

  Joza held up his hand, and his men lowered their weapon. “Perhaps. But I don’t need all of you.” He gave a quick nod, and then one of the men lunged toward Links.

  “No! Please!”

  But Links’s cries were cut short with a fist, which was rammed repeatedly into his face, his pleas for mercy akin to a little girl’s cries.

  While Links was beaten, Joza lowered his gaze to Mocks and stared at her exposed and protruding stomach. Without a word, Joza placed his hand on her belly, and Mocks squirmed as if a roach had crawled over her.

  “Detka,” Joza said, the word rolling off his tongue as he dropped to one knee and pressed his ear to her stomach.

  The light, thumping rhythm of Mocks’s heart rate suddenly skyrocketed.

  Joza peeled his ear off her stomach, no longer smiling, and then squinted. “You are the woman.”

  Panic had blocked her ability to think, and Mocks only shook her head in confusion. “What?”

  “The man that Links tried to kill, the one who has made my life difficult. You are his woman, no?”

  Mocks shook her head. “Grant isn’t my husband. My husband is somewhere else.” She struggled to find any spit in her mouth. “Let me go. Please. I don’t have a part to play here.”

  But the more Mocks spoke, the more Joza frowned.

  Links finally ended his moaning, and there was only the thud of fist against meat.

  “Dostatochno,” Joza said then extended his arm. “Day mne nozh.”

  One of the thugs walked over, removing a large hunting blade from his belt. The steel shone beneath the lights, and the gangster handed it to Joza with the handled end.

  Joza turned the knife over in his hands. “Do you know how many babies die in my country every day?”

  Mocks squirmed in her seat. Every instinct told her to flee, but there was nowhere to run.

  “Thousands,” Joza answered. “They die from cold, from hunger, from murder. But of all those ways for a child to die, do you know what is the worst of them all? Neglect.” He flicked the wrist of the hand that held the knife, the move careless and violent. “Mothers toss their children like trash on the si
de of the street.” He tapped the side of the blade against his cheek. “I was one of those trash children. My mother didn’t want me, and I don’t believe my father ever knew I existed. But as my wealth and power grew, do you know what happened?”

  As the pause lingered, Mocks realized that he was waiting for her to answer, so she shook her head, the motion hurried and frantic.

  “They found me,” Joza replied. “Both my mother and my father. They came to me, saying how sorry they were, saying how much they missed me. But I knew what they really wanted. They wanted my money, my influence. I had been looking for them for years. And after all of those dead ends, they decided to land right in my lap.”

  The smile that spread over Joza’s face was a mixture of deviancy and awe, his tone magnanimous as he lifted the blade to Mocks’s throat.

  “I slit their throats myself.” The blade trembled in Joza’s hand as the man shook with a mixture of rage and adrenaline. “Because I am the man who does my own killing. I don’t shy away from it. No matter how gruesome, no matter how”—he lowered the blade to Mocks’s stomach, the tip barely touching her navel—“cruel.”

  “Please, don’t.” Mocks couldn’t stop the tears now. They flowed freely, unabashedly.

  Joza kept the blade’s edge on her stomach. “Are you going to be a good mother? Or are you going to throw your baby away in the trash like my mother did to me?”

  “I’ll be a good mother,” Mocks said, hyperventilating. “I’ll be a good mother. I swear.” She scrunched her face tight, turning away as she placed her hands on her stomach. It was the one feeble attempt to protect her child’s life that she possessed.

  “Good.”

  And just like that, Joza removed the blade, handed it back to the thug he stole it from, and stood.

  Mocks gasped, sucking air as if she had been holding her breath, and then broke down in tears again.

  “I hope you can keep your promise.” Joza turned to his men and barked something in Russian, and then his thugs filed out of the room. One of them returned with a chair, which was placed next to her where Links’s bloody body was tied down.