First Love

Story 1

Seized: A Romantic Suspense Crime Thriller

(Part 1 of the Seize Me Crime Fiction Series)

JC Coulton

Seized, Part 1:

A Romantic Suspense Crime Thriller

Seize Me Crime Fiction Series

By

JC Coulton

To stay alive she needs to learn to let go.

JOIN MY EXCLUSIVE READER list! You are just one click away.

Follow the link below and enter your email address to get notified of free days, updates and upcoming JC Coulton titles once they are off the press.

>>>Click here for FRESH JC Coulton freebies and updates<<<

Thanks for reading Seized Part 1!

Sincerely,

JC Coulton

Website: http://jccoulton.com/

Like me on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/JCCoulton

What would you do to have a second chance with the one that got away?

PROLOGUE

1972: Cedar Rapids

The boy sits cross-legged in the dirt of the driveway, watching her mount peg after peg on the rusty clothesline. It’s hot, he’s hungry and the flies are buzzing around his head, evading his swipes. The dripping fabric is her only focus. She’s not singing or smiling or looking perky like any of the mothers on TV look. There’s no tray of lemonade. Her face is grim above fingers that work to hang clothes that didn’t need washing, and he knows she’s somewhere far from reality.

Watching her, he feels nothing so he imitates his father’s disinterest. In this family nothing is said, and he likes that way. If only the cicadas would be quiet, too, he’d be happy. The boy knows she won’t do a thing to stop his plan, but he keeps watch anyway. He enjoys the stealth of going under cover. It makes life exciting.

As expected, she doesn’t even notice when he starts slipping the sharpest stones from the walkway into his pockets. The sun is punishing on the artfully rocky driveway, and it hurts his neck so he hurries, filling each pocket to the brim. The boy enjoys the heat of the hot stones through his clothes, against his legs, nearly burning but not. He waits there for the right moment to duck away.

He may be seven, but he’s small for his age. It feels like the world never lets him forget how small. He’s not allowed on the roller coaster, he doesn’t get picked for sports, and he doesn’t fit in. It doesn’t matter, though. His father’s words are a mantra: In our world size doesn’t matter. His father is also short, so the phrase is familiar and it echoes through his dark-haired head now. If there was ever a day to prove it, this is it.

The boy’s pockets are heavy with weapons now, and he’s ready. He has replayed this moment in his mind a million times. Breathing deeply, he warms up, dancing with his shadow, boxing with an invisible opponent. The crowd goes wild in his head and he’s unstoppable. Swiping the air with uppercuts and hooks. Telling himself that size doesn’t matter as he begins to make a move. Glancing back, he sees his mother’s vacant face and scoffs. Then he makes his way through the rose garden and the manicured hedge to the boundary of the school. They live next door. His house looms over all the kids in in the schoolyard but he’s not so lucky.

The grounds are almost empty. A bunch of giggling girls jumping rope in the square. A gang of boys stand nearby, feigning disinterest, chewing gum, throwing fire crackers, and teasing them like vulnerable puppies. He can hear the jeers as Joe, the head bully, laughs nastily at something. Joe is his physical opposite, his nemesis. Big-boned and blond with height but not much in the way of brains.

Just then, one of the girls jumping rope trips and falls. Joe delights as he mocks her, ignoring her tears. Pack aggression reigns as they cackle amongst themselves, humiliating her further. The boy watches as a flush creeps up the young girl’s neck, but she gets up and keeps jumping. Her pigtails are hitting her collar in steady bumps. The girls around her are silent now, but she doesn’t lose a beat. Her small precise jumps are still in time to the rhythm of the rope. The counting song that had filled the air just seconds ago has gone, but she’s not going to drop a beat. He admires that.

The bullies are relentless now. She’s trying not to listen to their catcalls and cruelty, but he knows it won’t work. They will never give up. Jaw gritted, he steels himself. It’s time. He readies the stones in his pockets. His hands feel weak, but he doesn’t care. Someone has to do something, or nothing will ever change.

He winds up his arm like the baseball pros he’s seen on TV, grunts, and lets loose the first of a hailstorm of sharp rocks at Joe’s face. The sound is what tells him he has hit his mark. A wet thunk and then silence as a small body falls to the courtyard. Then everyone is shouting. He can’t see past the group standing around Joe.

The freckly girl who’d been jumping rope separates from the circle. All of a sudden she abandons her friends and runs at him. She’s yelling words he can’t hear. The air is thick and hot. He’s confused and forgets to move out of the way as her red-faced and wide-eyed little body leaps at him. Small fists pound his head and chest, striking him again and again. You stupid shit, dumb, stupid, weak, I hate you, I hate you, stupid, and you’re nothing, nothing.

The boy is frozen, unable to move, watching her frenzy from afar. It’s as if she’s attacking someone else. She’s vicious, hissing and spitting, but his eyes are still on the bigger group, their faces pale. They’ve formed a circle around the bully’s prone figure. Finally, Joe gets to meet his match, the boy thinks with satisfaction. It’s about time size stopped mattering around here.

Then the little’s girl’s attack dies off. She’s breathless with crying, and he pushes her aside to see the action. From here, the boy can smell the blood that’s shining on the courtyard. He can see his tormentor’s awkward position. Joe is lying on the ground. Finally bested. The boy grins and moves in for a better look. He’s proud of himself. His father would be proud, too.

Getting closer now, he’s confused. It’s not Joe who’s down at all. It’s the girl’s brother who’s collapsed on the ground, her harmless brother all twisted and broken. Dismay spears his gut, quickly followed by embarrassment. He missed his shot. The brother’s head is half impaled on the sharp edge of the steel drinking fountain. His body is twitching and jerking. Yellow fluid is dribbling from both of his ears. No one says a word and they all stare in shock.

Then the girl really begins to scream.

CHAPTER ONE

Carrie

A surge of raw power fills my body.

I feel so alive. It’s beautiful. I love to dance. Getting lost in the music makes me forget everything bad. It reminds me of who I am, and who I’m so close to becoming.

The bass is pounding. My hips are fluid, and April and I are owning the dance floor. Lights flash on the writhing bodies around us. The nightclub is crowded, but through the sweat and the lights I see that my friend is finally starting to loosen up.

We’re officially on vacation, dancing and drinking the night away. This hip Times Square club in New York, Caliber, belongs to April’s uncle, and the staff has been treating us like queens. I’ve sensed more than one set of eyes on us since we got here, but tonight is not supposed to be about guys, so I block out everything else to concentrate on the beat.

The DJ takes the crowd into another frenzy and all around me sweaty bodies raise their arms in the air. I’m cheering along with them. It’s addictive. I can’t get enough of this night. April is dancing beside me, eyes closed, her white dress hugging her slim body in the strobe lights. Then, a heavily muscled guy in a blue shirt starts to edge in behind her.

He’s looking cocky, pressing himself closer and making bottle to mouth motions to see if she wants a drink. Shaking her head, she pulls away quickly. I think he gets the message, but April signals to me that she’s had enough.

Carrie, let’s go! she screams to me through the music and the noise.  I follow her off the floor. She obviously needs some distance from hotty over there, and I’m keen for a breather after what’s become an epic night.

My name is Carrie James, and I can honestly say that my life is good. These days, anyway. I have a career and a loving family. But my friend April is in another place entirely. April’s been super dark lately, and understandably. It’s been a hell of a year. Sometimes I don’t know how she’s coped with it all. But then I remember. Humans are resilient. We can heal from anything.

A rush of love overtakes me, and I grab her arm. Together, we wheel toward the bar of the busy nightclub. This is the girl I grew up with, and we’ve shared everything. She’s the one I told about my first kiss. We had sleepovers in the tree hut her dad built. We even got our drivers’ licenses on the same day. I couldn’t have made it through tenth grade without her, and it’s great to see her finally beginning to look happy.

We take our place in the throng of party people waiting for drinks at the bar. I watch as three hot bartenders work the crowd. The combination of slicked back hair and Japanese tattoos is paired with stylish white shirts and aprons. It makes them look delectable. I can see the club is all about aesthetics, and it’s hot in more ways than one. Everyone is sweating. Even behind the bar, Mr. Barman has a sheen of sweat on his skin. For a second, I imagine what it’d be like to have him press his chest against mine. Giving nothing away, I smile at him and motion for service. I know I’m safe in my thoughts and my fantasies. They’re all I allow myself these days. Men can’t be trusted. It’s better to just enjoy myself, and walk away. I know the barman has been told to look out for us tonight, but I flutter my lashes anyway. No harm done.

Just as he begins to make his way over, I feel April let go of my hand and start to pull away from the bar behind me. I lean in close to put in my order, and catch an alluring scent of aftershave as he smiles back at me. He must be just twenty-one, all boyish good looks and clean white teeth. It’s not like I’m over the hill or anything—far from it at twenty-three years old—but this puppy seems a little young, despite his sexy exterior.

I turn to see what April wants—our drinks are on the house of course—but she’s got her phone in her hand and is furiously scrolling. Damn! She’s gone right back to looking tense and worried. Something must be wrong, again. Grrrr! I don’t want to be mean about it, but she’s not the only one trying to escape tonight.

These dramatics and big reactions she has to every little thing are starting to wear me down. I wish she’d just let go a little and stop stressing so much about the details. April is a professional worrier. She carries the world on her shoulders. She has a right to be sad, but the truth is this has been going on for years.

What are you drinking! I yell through the loud beats. April just shakes her head, her chin wrinkling in thought. Jeez, that girl is stubborn. I know she’s not going to tell me what’s happening. We used to be one hundred percent connected. We used to share everything. It makes me sad to see the changes. She’s really pulled away, but I guess that’s what grief does to a person.

When her parents died in January, it was devastating. It shocked our whole community and put a massive barrier between us. It’s like she kind of disappeared. She got caught in the details of life, and almost stopped living when her parents did. That said, I can’t imagine how she must be feeling to have lost them. April’s family was close. She always knew her mom and dad had her back. I remember when she called to tell me they had died. She could hardly talk. Road deaths are so sudden and violent. It was tragic.

I know I have to quit complaining about our relationship. She’d never admit it, but she needs me more than ever. I have to put my frustration aside in short order, so I try not to be too demanding as I prompt her again for her drink order.

Hon, do you know what you want? We’re holding up the line here.

I’m getting a dirty look from the girl next to me. But I ignore her and the barman as I look closely at April through the flashing light.

She really doesn’t look well. People jostle against her, competing for bar space, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Her eyes are fixed on her phone and it’s like I’m not even here. Whatever is going on has cast a pale sheen on her face and a tense line to her jaw. At just under five-foot-nine, April has curves to boot and honey blond hair. She’s most short girls’ worst idea of a best friend, but right now, there’s no room for jealousy. All I feel is worry.

It must be a message from some creepy guy. They can’t keep their hands to themselves around April, and she’s had plenty of practice dealing with unwanted attention. The guys back in Cedar Rapids have been after her for as long as I can remember. It started with notes from Tommy Ross in grade school, and never stopped. She’s had a couple of boyfriends, but most of the time she’s learned to fend off those advances.

While we’ve both been getting attention tonight, I can’t help comparing my own curves and dark coloring to her classic beauty. And that’s not to mention her brains. April may be quiet, but she’s super smart. She’s a veterinary nurse now, and is studying to become an equine specialist. Men have never mattered to April as much as they have to me. All she seems to focus on is studying, her family, and Benny, the damned Golden Retriever. I swear that dog has owned her heart since we were ten years old. None of her boyfriends or would-be love interests has gotten close.

But I can see this is something different. April’s face is almost frozen in the light of the phone. Whoever it is that’s texting has totally killed the moment, and I feel a rush of anger at them for spoiling our night. This was supposed to be a girls’ night out. We badly need to forget about men and work. Both of us have been on a knife-edge this last year, and we’re past overdue for a night of letting loose.

Granted, my parents are still alive and well. Compared to April, I don’t have much to worry about. She not only works full-time, she studies. All I have to moan about is my job in all its torturous glory. The truth is, my boss is a real control freak. He never assigns me with the work I want. It goes to everyone else on the team, and I’m starting to wonder if journalism is even right for me.

I’m just a researcher right now for KCRG, the local network in Cedar Rapids. But journalism is my passion. Uncovering the truth and educating the public is something I was born to do, but it’s hard to get a foothold with the network. They keep sidelining me with boring research projects. It’s even harder to keep my cool when I see my classmates making solid headway into their careers. I feel so unsure of myself. I’m starting to think I’ve got some grandiose idea of my abilities, and everyone at work is just waiting for me to realize and quit.

Right now though, it’s time to forget about all that work crap, and focus on the here and now. I need to find out what’s making my friend look so sick. I know April can hold her liquor, but how many have we actually had? I’ll always admit to being the wild one, but it’s not like she’s an angel. We’ve been downing shots since midnight, so maybe it’s just too much for her.

She didn’t even want to come here. It’s her Uncle’s club and her family is a little difficult. But I wanted us to have a good time. On my researcher’s salary, I needed to take advantage of the free drinks. So I made the decision to come here and it looks like it was the wrong one. I see her tense mouth and pale face, and a sliver of guilt penetrates my tequila-fueled brain. I tell myself off sternly. Carrie James you are NOT being a good friend. Grabbing April’s hand again, I leave the cute bartender and our forgotten orders behind and begin to lead us through the crowd toward the exit. There’s nothing better for tequila brain than fresh air, and I can see April needs to get out of here.

The hipster coat check girl waves to us as we head up the stairs from the happening lower level. Caliber is packed with drunken revelers this late on a Saturday night, but the staff are impressive. Not snobby at all, even though this place gets great reviews and they are well within the scope of exclusive when it comes to the New York scene. Jackets in hand, we make it to the top and the security guy lifts the red rope for us. I start to lead April away from the noise. It must be three in the morning, but Times Square is still rocking. Yellow cabs and cars full of laughing people cruise past. Their blaring horns remind me to put my coat on. I don’t like drawing attention to myself in public, and the pressure of my hemline aside, I’d kill to snuggle up with a burger and shake right now.

Despite our quick exit, April still looks tense. She’s silent as we make our way along the street so I decide to just be straight up. Look, I say, I can see you don’t want to talk about it. But I’m worried.

I’m fine, she says, just stupid family stuff.

I see something change in her eyes, and my reporter’s instinct sets off alarm bells in my head. She’s about to tell me something that will pique my interest more than just boy drama.

Fresh Hawtdoogs, get ’em fresh.

We’re interrupted by a vendor who’s out selling dogs way too late. April actually jumps at his grating call, and I’m reminded of a scared kitten when I see her. She’s really nervous about something, and I need to get her back to the hotel, like yesterday.

Well, you know my uncle? she says. I nod, remembering the creeper from the funeral who looked like a slimy version of April’s mom. Ever since the accident, things have been weird with him.

Now I’m listening.

What sort of weird? I ask, wondering why she doesn’t just spit it out.

He just keeps showing up at the house acting like the man, trying to give me money and buy me food and stuff.

I only just hold back my scoff. Anyone else would be stoked to have a generous uncle, but of course April is totally stuck in her head about it.

Sensing the dismissal in my eyes, she doesn’t say anything further, and nothing about the message on her phone, so I decide not to pry. I love her but I don’t want to be part of this drama.

Here, hold this will you? April gives me her purse as she reaches down to adjust the shoe strap on her heel. I can see it’s been rubbing. It’s red as hell, and I wince in empathy. Standing up again, she mutters, It’s not like I don’t need the money, but Mom never even used to talk to Uncle Jessup.

April’s -, near-fake laugh doesn’t buoy me one bit. She sees the serious look on my face and lapses into silence again. The sounds of the street fill our ears for a second.

Then she adds, It’s kind of why I didn’t want to come here tonight.

Nodding my head, I realize this is a dead-end conversation and decide to change the subject. I’m convinced she’s hiding something, but who am I to stop her from having a private life. All that should matter is her happiness.

April sways a bit on her heels, and although I want to ask more questions, now is not the time. We’re supposed to be having fun tonight, and I don’t want to bring us down any further. We may be two girls from Iowa, but we know how to party, and we’ve given it a good run tonight. Now it’s clearly time to go back to the hotel.

Leaving April’s side for a moment, I step out to hail a cab. The street is nearly empty, but I can still hear that annoying hotdog guy harping on with his street meat mantra a couple of blocks back. I wave at a passing taxi, and then another one, but they’re both busy. My feet start to ache and I know it’s well past time for something to eat. Another cluster of cabs pass me by and I’m starting to feel the return of reality.

I look back to complain about the pain my new heels are causing, but April is staring in shock at the road behind me. Car doors slam in unison and someone shoves roughly past me. I swear, no one knows how to be polite these days. Then I see that four big guys in masks have stormed the pavement. My stomach drops when one takes hold of April’s arm. He’s got a gun and he’s holding it to the back of her neck. All of a sudden bad manners have become the least of my worries.

CHAPTER TWO

Blake

Another late shift on 43rd Street, and it’s not so bad. I’ve got my coffee. The station is quiet, and shit here could be a lot worse. This gig has improved tenfold since I made Detective. No more Saturday nights pounding the pavement. No more drunken losers messing with me for the sake of it. It’s funny how everyone hates cops until the day they need them.

At five years on the force, I’m no longer a newcomer and I like it. I’ve been through more than half the punk cops ahead of me, but age matters around here. It’s all about hierarchy and toeing the line. I’m making my way up slowly regardless. Schmoozing and office politics are not my greatest talents. The brass pisses me off too much to spend any amount of meaningful time with them.

The truth is, this job is not what I dreamed of, but it’s what I’ve got and that’s good enough. There’s no point to life if you’re miserable all the time. I’d be no damn good to anyone as a crying mess in the corner. I can’t stand those fools. Bitching and moaning about every little thing. It’s better to be grateful.

Soon, I’ll take a break and hit the weight room. 43rd was refurbished a while back. Some government fund to tidy up Times Square, but it’d be a good station even without the flashy technology. I’m more at home here than anywhere else. There’s great food nearby and enough machines and weights downstairs to float the boat of any macho cop we get through the doors.

At least that makes it easy to stay lean. There’s no way I’m gonna turn into one of those donut-eating fat boys. No way. Something about those assholes bugs the crap out of me. They give the NYPD a bad name. People see them and think we’re all stuck in the past with big, fat guts and curly moustaches. The department is a different beast these days but some things will always stay the same.

Lieutenant Jacobs walks past. Hey, Blake.

She doesn’t smile. It’s all muscle and business underneath that uniform.

Evening, Lieutenant.

I’m not in the doghouse but she looks sideways at me. I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t bat an eyelid if I weren’t so new. But she must be trying to get a handle on the late nights.

Still on the Lee Case? Her tone is inquisitive.

Yep. I don’t offer anything further but she leans over the desk to see my files. The photographs of the three boys’ bodies are brutal. Eight-by-ten glossies of pure misery, and they’re not the only ones the Lee ring is suspected of.

She meets my eyes. Detective, are you doing all right at 43rd? I know what she’s trying to say, and fair enough, I guess she has good reason. When I came on board, my psyche files were supplied in full. I’m a cop with a past, and therefore she needs to keep an eye on me regardless of what she thinks.

I’m good, Lieutenant. I meet her eyes to silently communicate that nothing is wrong. She gives me a nod and moves on.

I can’t help but respect a woman who knows how to boss a group of rogue cops around. I’m glad she’s got a strict policy on station romance, too. The last thing I need is another distraction from police pussy. I’ve already got enough on my plate. My sister’s kid is a handful, and the only commitments on my mind are to care for him, and nail the next case.

Looking back down at the file, I’m reminded that I’m not the first cop to try and take down Jessup Lee. The guy has a rap sheet that goes back decades, but no one’s even gotten close. Organized crime in New York City is booming, and I can easily imagine the barriers this Lee bunch has put up to stop my predecessors. The tentacles of the mob continue to subtly infiltrate the New York City Police force at every level. That’s the main reason the Trafficking Task Force is remote. We need officers in every jurisdiction to keep an eye on the play. I spend most of my days alone, and I get sick of that sometimes, but the people are there if I want to talk to them. And I don’t, so no real complaints.

It’s only been three months, but I’ve wanted to join TTF from the moment I made rookie. This shit it real, and the game is long. Some guys devote a career to taking down the key players in a prostitution ring. I need to respect the work they’ve done before me. I need to read everything again, but first of all, I need another cup of coffee.

Heading over the pot, I’m glad it’s getting late. I’ve had enough for tonight and I just want to work out, hit the showers, and head home. The officer on the booking desk is processing the usual motley crew of hookers and drunks. There are a few token assholes making noise, but I just ignore that shit.

There’s something about Saturday nights that makes people want to cut loose and end up in a police station. It’s like they forget they’re just gonna wake up in the cells. As if the idea of consequences disappears when you’ve got some booze on hand. If only hindsight came first, I’m sure a bunch of these freaks would straighten their shit out.

Spotting me through the door, one crummy looking bum starts to stare. This guy must be wasted; he’s so blatant. I don’t engage, and start prepping the coffee pot, but he’s got an appetite for trouble. I can hear him mouthing off in the waiting room. Stupid prick, what does he think he’s gonna do? I must have two feet on him. At six-foot-seven, I’m one of the tallest guys at 43rd. I don’t take that shit for granted, though. I keep it tight. No risks out there, and none of those pretty boy spa and sauna regimes. I keep my nails short, my hair clipped and my weight low. I may be only twenty-five, but I’m a brawler and I’ve got a rep for taking no shit.

The called me Knuckles in the academy, because sometimes, my temper gets the best of me. I’m not proud of it, but I was born that way. When you’re raised like I was, you need to know how to fight. I box most days, and that helps. Keeps a lid on things. Helps me relax. Makes sure I never show up at home with a temper. My nephew, George, doesn’t need that shit in his life. I know that for real. Had enough experience with my old man to do anything different. The kid’s got no dad, so I gotta look out for him.

It’s funny—me and the kid—we even look the same, blue eyes, blond hair and stuck with Dad’s jawline. He’s tall already, and I can see he’s gonna be a lady killer one day. My sister Brenda won’t know what the hell to do with him in a few years, so I need to be a good uncle now. Show him the right way to make the world work for him. Show him how to use his brains instead of his fists.

The pot is dripping nicely now, and I start looking for a cup. The wastebasket is overflowing with plastic and spoons everywhere. Our cleaners won’t be here until five in the morning, so I tidy up a bit as a token gesture. After wiping down the break table, I find some milk in the fridge. Order needs to be maintained in a busy station like this.

That asshole bum is still mouthing off. I can hear the officer on the desk warning him. He’s a rookie, though. Not much clout yet, and the loser on the bench doesn’t pause for a second. I wander over to booking, and check out his paperwork. He’s in for theft. It’s a misdemeanor compared to the shit I see every day, but I don’t like the sound of his mouth and my look tells him so. Slumped and handcuffed in his seat, he sees I mean business and finally starts to quiet down.

The guy on desk duty looks at me. Thanks, Detective Anderson.

It’s nothing. I’ve always had some pull with the thugs. Maybe they can see some similarities. Whatever it is, I don’t care. I give the desk sergeant my coffee, as if that was the point of my visit the whole time. I don’t want that asshole to think I give a shit, and the rookie needs building up if he’s gonna get anywhere on this job.

Heading back to my desk, I start reading again. The case I’m on involves three young boys. These kids were taken from a middle school in Brooklyn, drugged and forced to service the local spiders. Twelve years old. Jesus, it makes me sick. When I took over this caseload I spoke to each of the mothers. They were angry that I called. The case has been open for four years. No doubt they’ve seen a line of cops full of big words who were unable to deliver. If they were alive they’d be off to the prom this year, but they’re not. All three were found dead.

The first, Danny Lombardi, had scarring on his rectum suggesting the abuse came in multiple daily doses. He was found in a dumpster with a bull gag still tied to his lipstick smudged face. The kid was carrying every STD known to man, but his final wounds were a slit neck, a torn asshole and a cigarette burn to the forehead. They were marking him as all used up. The second kid, Billy Frankton, had cut himself so bad they had to dump him. The medical examiner’s report says he used a broken light bulb to puncture his wrists, then dragged it up, making enough vertical cuts in one arm to bleed out without the help of a pimp. The third’s a mystery. Raymond Fisher was burnt so badly they needed his dental records to make the ID. He was found in a sack, ditched from the bridge like a piece of nasty ass trash. By then, his worth would have dropped enough to make him used goods. The younger and less experienced they are, the better.

The task force hasn’t been able to land a decent arrest in Jessup Lee’s ring in years. We’re a squad of fifty scattered in stations throughout the city. We come together for weekly briefings, and this year we’re gonna be expanding. I prefer working alone, but the need for more help is urgent. I’m swamped with my caseload and it’s not like trafficking will stop anytime soon. A good pimp will make two hundred thou a year from one girl. There’s always a demand and no reason to shut down such a lucrative game by choice.

New York is one of the worst trafficking jurisdictions in the country. I hear that girls as young as thirteen are being sent to work. It makes me sick, and the scent of Jessup Lee floats insidiously at every turn. He’s careful though. The bastard never gets caught on site, and never has girls of his own. Maintains the ‘family man’ persona and even has a few legit businesses for cover. No one knows how to link him to the racket; we just know his family’s been at the heart of it for years.

I pull up a recent picture. It was taken at some charity gig. I gotta give it to him. This guy has balls, wining and dining in Des Moines society. He makes out like he’s a pillar of the community. Donating to charity and schmoozing with local government. He’s just hiding down there, making himself scarce. The reality is that his network extends right across New York, and well beyond state lines. Jessup’s got minions everywhere. Doing his dirty work and running the operation. Christ, it makes me angry. This guy’s just scum of the earth; all shiny and fresh on the outside, and rotten all the way to his core.

I wonder if his wife and family even know the extent of his business. I guarantee they’ll say nothing even if they do know. That’s the way it happens with these guys. The wives are aware of what they’re getting into. They also know not to ask. Most of them marry young, have kids, and then they’re trapped. So, even if they did want to leave, they couldn’t. The family makes it hell. Looking at a picture of Jessup and Donna, I can’t see any trace of resentment. They seem happy, but who knows what’s under the surface. I think back to those nights when my own father would get home late, stinking of booze. My mother would be screeching at him, trying to find out where he’d been.

I’ll bet Donna doesn’t even bother to stay awake when he’s out late. Three wise monkeys, and all that. As far as the case, she’s a dead-end. Wives never rat on husbands so I might as well focus on his associates instead. If anything’s gonna bring him down it’s greed. No one’s immune. All I have to do is catch one of his guys doing something, and then get them to talk. I look closely at Jessup’s face in the shot. The well-cut brown hair frames his wide, high forehead and there’s nothing that screams pimp at all. Even his shirt and tie are classy. He has a mole on the side of his nose. I wonder if he cuts it shaving. I wonder what he says to his kids at the breakfast table.

Someone as deep in the organization as Lee must have an institutional ability to shut off and separate the compartments of his life. Denial this powerful is built over generations. Humanity’s ability to normalize atrocious acts under the label of business, and then head home for dinner, shocks me. There’s something so carelessly brutal, killing for satisfaction like cats, killing for fun and profit.

I pull out photos of the top guys in his organization; they’re a mixture of white, black and Latino, a ruthless line-up of murderers and pimps. This is my way in. One of these faces will crack and spill the goods. All I’ve gotta do is get them at the right time and place.

These are the guys who do his dirty work. The Italians won’t have a part in this, but every other unit in town is connected to one of these men. I know I’ll find them in the parlors or at the gym. There’s a reason for cliché and these guys are it. White or black, they’re all over the Brooklyn gangsta look. Chains and knuckle-dusters, caps and face tattoos, it’s like a fashion show of criminal accessories.

Who does he trust the most? I need to get inside his head. I need to think like he thinks in order to pull this off. With a groan, I look again at the clock. Nearly four in the morning, and time to quit work and hit the weights. After shutting down my computer and locking the file cabinet, I grab my gym bag and head downstairs to change. The locker rooms are empty just before shift changeover, and I’m glad to be alone.

I strip out of my jeans and dress shirt. Detectives are in plain clothes, but I still like to pull myself together. Brenda even ironed my shirt this morning. She’s a good sister, generous with her time and a great mom. I’ve been sharing the rent at their place for a few months now. It makes me feel good to give back. She didn’t have the sweetest childhood, either. Life is tougher for women, I think.

Swinging the gym door open, I see I’m alone in here, too. Good. Just the way I like it. Not many freaks will be up early enough to work out before the start of the next shift, so the gym is mine to try and forget the day. I need to get those kids out of mind. It’ll be too easy to lose perspective and sleep if I don’t. I head over to the treadmill to warm up. Programing in a tough course, I put my head down. Within minutes I’m sweating. This is what I’ve needed. A release. I up the incline and go faster, pushing my body to the limits. The steady pound of my feet falls in time with my heartbeat and I find the rhythm.

A few years ago you wouldn’t catch me working out, but I’ve changed a lot. The force gave me some discipline. The structure keeps me together. There’s no time to lie around thinking. No time to feel guilty. It’s getting hot now, so I take off my shirt and use it to wipe the sweat from the keypad. Seeing myself in the reflection of the doors, I grin. Anyone who knew me back then wouldn’t recognize me now. Life is good.

CHAPTER THREE

Carrie

I want to scream, but nothing comes out. April looks terrified, and rightly so. Her attacker is huge and he’s not alone. The hulks are dressed in black, wielding dirty guns. Her pale cheek has a dark grease mark where he’s pressing the weapon. I know I need to do something but all my training doesn’t touch the sides of this fear.

It’s like I’m paralyzed. Everything I’ve learned in the Dojo deserts me. My mind is blank and my stomach seizes. Time slows down. The men say nothing to each other, but I can see they’re working together. One signals the other to ease up on her face. April’s captive doesn’t look willing, though he grunts and lowers the weapon. In the streetlight I see the mangled burns on his hands. Now he’s got her by the neck and she’s starting to choke, her eyes bulging.

She makes eye contact with me for a second and her moan reminds me of a wild cat. She’s twisting and trying to breathe. He laughs at her attempt and shakes her body like a wet towel. A scream slips from her mouth but he silences her with two fast bashes to the temple. Her head tips back. Blood is already gushing from the wound as he holsters the weapon. I’m sickened at her limp form, draped almost suggestively against him. There’s one breast exposed from her halter top, and it’s the sight of that pink nipple that snaps me out of my trance.

I look around and notice the street is quiet. It must be close to four in the morning, but the only cars on the road are those parked in lines along the pavement. There’s a trash can close by, and I wonder if there are any bottles inside. I silently edge toward it, moving slowly to avoid their attention. So far they seem focused solely on April, so I keep inching over. My heart is pounding, but I know have to do something to help my best friend.

April’s the only one who really understands me. She annoys me, but I love her, and I know she’s not strong enough for this. They’ll kill her and she won’t fight. The girl spends her life in vet clinics and horseback riding. She’s never learned to protect herself. She never had any need, and couldn’t understand why I was so devoted to Judo. I rummage in the trash with one hand, going by touch and trying not to make a sound as the nightmare plays out like a movie in front of my eyes. This can’t be real, but it is. I can see the blood on her dress and the pain in her face as she starts to come to.

My hand finally settles around the neck of a wine bottle, but before I can do a thing they’re dragging her toward the car. April is struggling again, her feet kicking uselessly at the two thugs who have her. They wrestle her toward the vehicle with almost no effort.

Smashing the bottle against the steel trash can, it shatters, and I’m armed. The noise spurs her on but riles them up.

Carrie! she screams through the chokehold on her neck, and by then they’ve seen me standing there staring with my broken bottle and my short skirt. There’s a sense of urgency in the air as they begin to move quickly into an attack formation. I see these guys are trained, but they’re not the only ones, and my vision clears as I look down at my jagged glass stake.

Hurrying now, they crunch April’s slender form violently into the trunk of the black sedan. One slams the door down and begins to talk into an earpiece while the other two run at me. Ice freezes each vertebrae of my spine, and I’m locked in place for a second, watching their black clad forms advance.

It’s all happening so fast, but so slowly. I can hear the heavy breathing and see the pockets in their shirts rise and fall. My vision is crystal clear as my training kicks in, and I know what to do. I take a vital second to plant my feet in a fighter’s stance.

It’s all I can do to get stable before they tackle me. We go down hard but I’m good on the floor and scramble away as one gets hold of my foot. Kicking back hard my heel connects with his eye, and I hear a grunt. He rolls away from me toward the wall, blood spatters, and my confidence returns.

Just then I’m stunned by a slap to the back of head. My face bounces off the concrete, and I feel pressure in my ears. Tears pour from my eyes and I see a piece of ancient bubble gum on the pavement next to my face. I’m stunned by the pain shooting down my neck, but I make sure not to move, needing to trick them into thinking I’m down.

I lie there for a second, ignoring the pain. Their guns must be in the car; I’d be dead otherwise. My mind clears as I calculate the best course of action. One of the thugs is lying nearby, still holding his head. There’s blood pouring out the eyehole of his ski mask. Another’s in the driver’s seat, revving the engine and yelling. There’s one to my left and one near the car door.

Adrenaline pumps through my veins and fuels a primal anger. Wild rage has me up and off the pavement. Baring my teeth, I run headfirst at the guy on my left, bottle extended. He’s busy focusing on the car, trying to hear what the driver is saying. The bottle, then my body, slams into his chest. I may not be tall, but I’m no lightweight, and I hear the wind go out of him. He’s off balance so I plunge my knee once and then twice into his groin for extra measure.

He goes down, and I feel a rush of pride. Yeah, boy! Then, two strong hands are around my neck and I drop the bottle. The pressure shocks me. My throat feels like it’s going to implode, and my lungs heave for air. I twist my pelvis and elbow him in the side. I know I’ve hit his liver when he falters and I use that second to twist away and run. His hands grab at my hair, and I feel a chunk of it rip out as I struggle like a delinquent puppet trying to escape. If the other guy gets up, this is over. The only plan is to run. I’m tiny compared to them, but I’m fast. I ran track in high school. Endless hours pounding the oval helped me process everything and escape. Running saved me back then, and I need it to save me now. If only I had proper shoes. With a grunt, I break free, and he loses his grip on my hair. I know I’ll have a bald patch, but I only have seconds to put some distance between us. April’s purse bumps at my hip as I bolt. It nearly catches on the trashcan and my stomach drops, certain it’s over, but then I’m free and the air feels wet on my face.

I’m halfway away across the road before I even know what’s happening. My lungs hurt, my head hurts, and my breath hitches with every step. I’m gasping in panic and fear. The sound is so loud; I’ll never be able to hide like this. I pump my arms desperately, speeding up, frantic to escape, but I’m sure they’re behind me. My stocking clad feet seem clumsy. I’m not fast enough to make it. I nearly trip and I cut myself, but the pain is secondary to the panic that’s surging through me. The anger is gone now, smacked out of me by that cold concrete. All there is is fear and cold sweat between my breasts.

They’ve got April and I’m next. I’m next; the words are looping in my brain as I clear another block and dart toward a mini mart. My skirt is nearly up around my waist but I don’t care. I’m scared, adrenaline pounding as I look frantically through the cashier’s window. The store is lit but no one can see me.

I swear I can hear them coming up behind me, so I run toward a row of parked cars, throwing myself at the back wheels of one. I manage to roll underneath before the impact of the fall really hits me. Blood is still pouring from my forehead and my head swims. I know I need to hide, so I try not to breathe or make a sound. Two pairs of black boots pass right by my head, and I nearly vomit in fear. I’m holding myself, starting to shake and praying for a miracle as they track backward and forward on both sides of the car.

They’re not giving up. The search for me is thorough enough that I know this isn’t some random crime. The pain in my head begins to detach me from my body. I’m lying there bleeding and holding in the sobs as I start to realize that this is it. I’m going to die. They need to find me and eliminate me. I’m a witness, and it’s only a matter of time.

The sound of the approaching hot dog cart is sweet music to my ears. I hear a muffled conversation followed by the sound of running, and then three car doors slamming. The sedan guns its powerful motor, and the tires screech as those bastards take off and I’m left alone. Shit. They’ve got April. My friend is going to die. The sobs finally come, wracking my body. I crumple against the dirty wheel of the car. I can smell the rubber and feel the pain. I need to sleep. I need to get away.

The hot dog guys sees me as he stops for a smoke and his shocked expression makes me realize I’ve got to get up. Every second counts. I can’t let April down. I need cops now. There’s no time to wait around. Those bastards have her. Scrambling out from underneath the car, I ignore his plea to sit down. Now is not the time for sitting. I start running again. I’ve no idea where I’m going, but I don’t care. I can hardly see the pavement ahead of me. My mind is full of the past. Images I haven’t seen in years start to flash in front of my eyes. It’s a horror show in my head. Every second is worse but I just clutch myself and run faster.

The nerves in my back send a sharp pain down my legs. Something feels broken. I stop, trying to get a sense of where I am. I must have run twenty blocks by now. Barefoot and bleeding, I know I look like a madwoman, but someone has to be awake. Anyone! Up ahead, I see an off-duty patrol car turn into a driveway. They’ve already disappeared behind a fence, but I start shrieking for their attention anyway. I run, tripping and nearly falling toward the gate just as it’s closing.

The barbed wire on top rattles with the impact and I see it’s a car park full of police cars. I throw my body against the metal of the fence.

I need some help, I cry out, before sinking to the pavement. My voice comes out strangled, I know my hair is matted with blood, and my face is a mess. They must have seen me approach as within seconds the gates start to slide open again.

Two female officers pull me to my feet. Their voices cut through the tinnitus and fear in my head. Finally, I know I’m safe. I stumble past rows of cars and wait for the roller door. We make our way up the ramp and into the back caverns of the station. My eyesight fades in and out. I can hear them asking me questions but the voices are a blur. I’m clutching April’s handbag and tugging at my skirt. Blood is still dribbling from my forehead. The lights are too bright I need to eat. The alcohol and the pain have left me shaking.

I’m ushered into a small room with a table. I’m left alone. The cup of water they give me is gone in a second. Are they watching me now through the pane? I feel desperation start to claw at the surface again.

I need to see someone now! I’m up at the glass, leaving smudges on it with my demands and starting to panic. I can’t be alone right now.

The door opens, and a nerdy looking young officer walks in. He’s asking me what’s happened, but all I can do is babble.

April, they took her, she’s gone.

He’s trying to find out who hit me. Are you married, ma’am? I realize if I don’t calm down, no one’s going to listen, so I say, No, I’m not married, I was out with my friend and someone attacked us. The sobs come, as everything that’s happened in the last hour hits me at once and I choke up.

Who were you with when it happened, ma’am? he asks, his kind brown eyes showing nervousness, and I can tell he’s new. Sobbing, I finally manage to get out my story while he takes notes. I tell him about April, about the club. I tell him how I got away, and I show him my injuries. He takes notes and seems sympathetic but nothing more.

Another officer with a camera comes in. She’s from the sexual abuse team, but I don’t need a rape kit, I just need someone who will find April. I know from watching TV that the first twenty-four hours of a kidnapping are the most important. If they don’t find her now, they may never find her. The female officer is firm as she leads me into another room. There’s a bed covered in plastic, and I lie there as a nurse looks over my injuries. Each is photographed as I describe again and again what happened. I’m tired and the tears are close. My throat hurts where his hands bruised me, and suddenly I don’t feel so tough at all. Sobbing, I cover my face. I don’t want her to see me cry, but she just lays a gloved hand on my back and lets me sob.

CHAPTER FOUR

Blake

I’m finishing my workout when my cell rings, interrupting the hip-hop that’s pounding through the ear buds. It’s the officer at the front desk. My mind immediately jumps to the bum thief we were dealing with before, but it’s not that he’s calling about.

I’ve had a case come in with your name pretty much etched on it, he says, sounding chuffed and not apologetic at all.

I sigh. It’s the end of my shift. I’m tired, I’m sweaty, and all I can think about is heading home to crash on my pillow.

What is it? I swipe at the sweat running down my neck, and try to keep the irritation out of my voice. His reply is more cautious now. He knows I’m on edge, but continues anyway.

It’s a kidnapping on Times Square. One female victim was out with a friend for the night. One was injured, but escaped. She ran here, the other was taken. They’re both good-looking girls. I think it’s a task force case, if you want the jump. He sounds like a puppy that’s brought me a stick. I know the kid’s just trying to be a good cop, but I’m about done with looking at the faces of victims for now. Sucking up my negative shit, I tell him I’ll just finish my workout, and hit the showers. Put her in room two to wait. I won’t be long.

The beats flood my ears again, and I decide to do one more set of dead lifts. The weights feel good. I’m working my back. Checking my form in the mirror, I lift and steel myself for another few hours on the job. My stomach growls for protein, so I drop the weight bar and wipe down the bench press.

Towel in hand, I grab my water bottle and take a long chug before flicking off a text to Brenda. I tell her I’ll pick George up from school if she can drop him off. She works near the school so it shouldn’t be an issue. Her boss is more flexible than mine. I’m hoping sometime today I can catch some sleep but for now, I need to hit the showers.

Cops are starting to trickle in now. They come into the locker rooms to change for shift, in groups of two or three. The laughter is raucous. I grin at a few jokes, and mock salute one of the others but my mind is already on the case waiting upstairs. It’s a gutsy move to make a grab in Midtown. The chances of being seen are too high for most. This has to be professional ransom job.

I grimace at the thought of dealing with another little rich girl’s daddy. Kidnappings are more common than most people know. Everyone is extorting everyone else for something these days. There’s even an option in most of the elite’s insurance policies that parents can tick to cover the cost of the cash if their little darling gets taken.

New York is so ‘old money’. There are families here that have more wealth than I’ve ever seen. Some flash it around, some give it away. There’s a whole sector of society living the kinds of lives people make movies about. This all goes on, while in other parts of the city, single moms like Brenda are working in coffee shops to make ends meet.

It’s not that I don’t like rich people. I just don’t like the way they behave. Flashy daddies handing out black Amex cards to daughters who’ve never worked a day in their lives. These are the girls who usually get taken in Midtown. I can predict the end of the story now. Soon we’ll receive a crying video where she’ll hold up a newspaper and claim they’re going to kill her if they don’t get their money.

Daddy will storm into the station, practically with guns a-blazing and the checkbook ready, demanding the best of everything and threatening our jobs if we don’t find his little girl. It’s a story that’s so worn out it makes me yawn. All he has to do is pay the money, and she’ll be restored to her former life. And, of course, there will be years of expensive therapy to help her deal with the two traumatic days she went without food.

Then, after picking up on the story, the media will have a field day. She’ll probably hire a ghostwriter to tell her horrifying tale and further glorify her own wealth. Most of the media will stupidly wish they were taken along with her, and TV producers will recreate a ‘based on a true story’ movie just so a hero could carry them home. Midtown girls don’t know the true horrors of kidnapping, not to mention child slavery, but listening to them talk to Oprah or Barbara Walters, you’d think they’ve been through some sort of Armageddon.

And what happens to these girls once the spotlight fades? Do they go