Stolen Lives : The Lives Trilogy Book 1 (22 page)

“Or, I could aim one glancing shot just in front of your left temple and take out your frontal lobe.  That way, you might live, but you’ll be a veg.  You’ll piss in a tube and shit in a bag, and you’ll eat Gerber Baby Food the rest of your life.  But, hey, you won’t care because you’ll be a veg.”

He paused again.

“You wanna try me, Fuck Head?  I’ve been hoping for a chance like this for two years.  So go ahead and try me!” Brett said.

The man’s smirk disappeared from his face, and Pete used the plastic ties on his hands and feet and duct taped the man’s face.  But instead of using one short strip across the man’s mouth, Pete wound it three times around the man’s head.

He stood up huffing and puffing and put both hands behind his head breathing deeply.  Then he bent at the waist, breathing some more.  Brett gently depressed the hammer, slipped it into safety, and held it out to Pete for him to take.

“You guys have it under control?” Jamie asked from the doorway.

He stood in a shooter’s crouch, the same crouch Brett had been in.  The only difference is that Brett had relaxed, while Jamie still had the gun trained on the red-haired man on the floor.

“This fuck head’s name is Shawn.  He was one of the guys who brought in Stephen and Mike.”

Pete stood up-right, buttoned his shirt and tucked it in, then zipped up.  It was only then he took the gun from Brett.  He and Jamie exchanged a look that anyone could have read as, ‘
WHAT THE FUCK!’

“Mike, I’m Brett.  These guys are cops.  We’re all going home today.”

CHAPTER FORTY

Mike Erickson crawled as far into the corner as he could have, trying desperately to get away from Brett and the two men.  His left eye was swollen shut and was dark blue-black, the color of a Midwestern thunder cloud.  There was blood around his nose, and he had a badly swollen lip, cracked with dried blood around it.  Pete thought he saw at least two teeth missing, but because the boy wasn’t smiling, Pete wasn’t sure.

“Could one of you go get Stephen . . . fast?  We don’t have much time,” Brett said to Pete and Jamie while not taking his eyes from Mike.

He reached towards the boy with both hands slowly, palms up, speaking softly and slowly.

“Mike, we have to get out outta here.  Jamie went to get Stephen.  You’re not going to be hurt again . . . ever again.  I promise.”

Stephen came into the room on a run but stopped as soon as he saw Mike.  His mouth opened and closed, opened and closed.

“Oh Mike . . . I’m sorry . . . Mike . . .” in a whisper that was barely audible.

“Mike, Stephen’s here,” Brett said, motioning to Stephen to come closer without taking his eyes off Mike.  “Can you walk?”

Mike watched Stephen step forward cautiously, hanging back a bit, and then looked back at Brett.  He shook his head.

“I’m going to take a couple of wipes and clean you up a little, okay?” He repeated, “That okay?”

Reaching very slowly for the wipes on the nightstand, he took a handful, showed them to Mike, then gently, oh so gently, touched them to Mike’s face, dabbing at the dried blood around his nose and mouth.

He did the best he could, which wasn’t much at all, and said, “Mike, can you roll over a little?  I want to get your legs, okay?”

Mike stared at Brett, then at Stephen who stood a little behind Brett crying silently, then back at Brett.  He reached for the wipes in Brett’s hand, and Brett gave them to him.  He knelt and wiped himself off.

“Do you want me to help?” Brett said.

A tear fell from Mike’s eye, the one that wasn’t swollen, and then more tears fell.  He nodded and turned around.  Brett took a couple more wipes and helped Mike clean himself off.  To Pete and Jamie, it seemed like a lifetime, but in reality, took only five or ten minutes.

“Okay, Mike . . . Stephen and I are going to help you walk to the end of the hallway where the other guys are.  We’re going home today, okay?”

Mike nodded and tried to get out of bed.  Brett was right there, putting Mike’s arm around his shoulder, while Stephen came up on the other side.  With both of his arms around their shoulders, and both Brett and Stephen holding him around the waist, they walked as quickly as they could to the end of the hallway.

They opened the door to the room where the other boys were gathered, and the three of them entered awkwardly trying to fit themselves in the doorway.

“Give him to me,” Tim said, holding out his arms. “You’re Mike?”

Mike didn’t answer, nor did he acknowledge that anyone had spoken to him.  The two boys lowered Mike into Tim’s arms, just as Johnny was lowered into his arms earlier.  Johnny had moved, so that Tim could hold Mike in his lap, cradling Mike’s head on his chest.  Stephen sat down on the other side of Mike.  He hadn’t stopped crying.

“It’s okay, Stephen,” Tim said.  “We’re all going home today.”

*                                                        *                                                        *

Albrecht and Kaupert circled around the back unit where they thought Desotel had run, moving slowly, cautiously.

“Nathan . . . anything?”

“Not yet.”

“Earl . . . anything?”

“No movement,” he said from his position in the motel.

“Ronnie, you okay?” Albrecht asked hopefully.

“Fuckin’ hurts,” came the answer.  “Shit!”

If he was swearing, it was a good sign.  Albrecht moved a bit quicker and saw a pair of legs.  They weren’t moving.

“Throw your gun and raise your hands!” he commanded.

There wasn’t any movement.

“Nathan, anything?”

“I see Ronnie.  Leg wound.  Looks like it’s in and out.”

“It’s fucking on fire!” Ronnie answered.

“I said, ‘Throw your gun out and raise your hands!’” Albrecht repeated.

He aimed and put a shot into the near foot that was visible.  Other than jumping from the gunshot, it didn’t move.  Tom stood cautiously and moved towards the body on the ground, gun at the ready out in front of him.  He rounded a stone bench and found the man lying on his back spread-eagle, gun still in his right hand.  Albrecht kicked the gun away and felt for a pulse at the man’s carotid artery.  It wasn’t really necessary to check since Ronnie put a hole into the man’s chest at the location of his heart.  Nothing.  He was gone.

“Nathan, we’re clear.  Get to Ronnie,” Albrecht yelled.  “Earl, take care of the kids.  One of the guards must have a cuff key.  Find it and put the kids in one room and cover them.”

Kaupert reached Desotel, took off his belt and used it as a tourniquet over the wound in spite of Ronnie’s colorful objections.  In the distance, there were sirens.  The cavalry was on the way.

*                                                        *                                                        *

“Where did you learn about guns?” Pete asked.

“My fuckin’ uncle’s a cop,” Brett said.  “He used to take me shooting with him.”

“
Fucking
uncle?” Jamie asked.

“Yeah . . .
fucking
uncle,” Brett answered defiantly.

Pure hate boiled up and out of the boy.

“He’s the reason I’m here.”

Pete and Jamie stared at him, then at each other.

“Explain,” Jamie said.

About two weeks after he was taken, his uncle visited him and used him the same way as the Dark Man had.

“I thought he had come to take me away,” Brett said quietly.  “But he came to use me just like all the other men who came in my room.  He said that he had wanted me for a long time.”

Brett wiped tears from his eyes.

“One time, when he had taken me shooting, he kissed me.  I thought it was weird, but I figured, ‘Okay, no big deal.’  Then he stood behind me as I took aim, and he was like coaching me, telling me to concentrate on the Campbell’s Soup can on the rock by the river.  He had his hands around my waist.  Then he . . . he . . .  I told him not to.  He kept . . . he did . . . I didn’t know what to do.  When he was done, I threw the gun down and ran.  I ran and ran.

“I never told anyone.  I was afraid.  After Ron and Frank took me, about a week or two later, he came.  He told me it was all my fault.  That if I just let him do stuff with me, I’d still be home.”

Jamie had his hands over his eyes.  Pete stared at the boy not comprehending the brutality and coldness of it.

“The other boys . . .” Pete said.  “Did someone . . .”

Brett nodded. 

“Yeah, all of us.  We’re here because somebody wanted us here.”

“What’s your fucking uncle’s name?” Pete asked.

“Detective Anthony Dominico,” Brett answered.  “He’s in Indianapolis.”

Pete’s hunch was correct.  Each of the boys was targeted by someone and then they were snatched and abducted.  He walked over to Skip, explained the situation and what he wanted and told him to send it to Chet as soon as he was finished.  He told Skip to tell Chet to get it out to the rest of the teams.  Dahlke pulled out his cell and went into the room with the boys. 

One by one, each boy gave the name of the man responsible for his being there.  The only two that didn’t know who was responsible were Stephen and Mike.

“They wouldn’t know yet,” Tim explained.

What he didn’t say was that they might never know.

*                                                        *                                                        *

Pete shook his head in exasperation, nervous and perhaps fearful for the first time in his life.  He had three partners to worry about, plus thirteen kids locked in a room.  It was beginning to take on the appearance of a runaway train, and he felt like he was trying to stop it by hanging onto the caboose and dragging his feet.  Pete knew that the only thing that would accomplish would be a pair of broken legs, or maybe death; his and others.

He dialed up Chet and said, “Send the cavalry now.  We’re running out of time, and we’re undermanned.  The kids are secure . . . for now.  There are more bad guys than good guys, and they have more guns than we do.  Hurry!” Pete said.

“Will do.”

Pete rang off and found Brett in the hallway outside the room with the cop.

“Hey, Brett,” he said quietly.  “Can we talk?”

He never got the chance.  Fitz got his attention.

“Um, guys . . . we have company.”

The hairs on the back of Jamie’s neck stood at attention.  He went to the door, put his ear to it, turned back to Pete and shook his head.

“A rusted out Camaro, red on white, Illinois tags 479GCE is rolling up the alley.  Door going up.  Two men.”

“Fitz, any way you can get in after them without being seen or getting shot?”

“Yes on the first . . . I’ll try real, real hard on the second.”

“Skip, did you get the kid info to Chet?”

“Done.”

“You gave him the names of the kids and where they were from-”

“-everything!”

“Good.  I want you in the room down the end of the hall with me.  You do as I say, when I tell you.  Keep your head, stay calm.  Jamie, take the front door.”

Brett entered Ian’s room and whispered to Tim what was happening, as much as he had heard anyway.  Listening to one conversation, he had to guess at the rest.  Tim nodded solemnly and gripped Brett’s forearm.  Their eyes sent each other a message.  The bond between the two of them and Johnny was incredibly strong. 

“Brett, stay with us,” Patrick pleaded.  “Please!”

Brett hugged Patrick, kissed his forehead, and said, “You have to trust me, okay?”

“Brett, please!”

“I’ll be okay.  I promise.”

He took one last look at the boys and locked them in.

He looked both ways to make sure none of the cops were watching.  Earlier, after he had left Mike’s room and after he had deposited him in other room with the boys, he had taken the .45 lying in the hallway, the one taken from the red-haired man, and hid it.  Slowly, he backed into the room next to where the rest of the boys were.  Quickly, quietly, he built himself a barricade to hide behind, yet be able to see down the hall in either direction.

Breathing easily and calmly, he waited.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

When Tommy Albrecht moved his team forward in KC, and when Jamie put his gun to the fat man’s head in Chicago, it was only 3:30 AM PCT in Los Angeles.

The building in Los Angeles that Gavin Reilly had monitored was dissimilar to the building in Chicago in that it was newer.  It was in a lousy part of Long Beach near the water front just off the industrial corridor.  Its colors were a dirty gray on the outside with a very plain tan or beige color scheme on the inside.  It was similar in that men had to be buzzed in from the outside, walk up three stories to a computer kiosk of sorts, where the
customer
would then browse through a series of pictures to select the boy he wanted, just as Graff had done. 

Once inside the third floor, the set up was the same, though O’Connor didn’t know it.  A long hallway with doors on either side opened to what O’Connor thought to be bedrooms.  A similar control room like the one in Chicago was on the right near the third floor landing. 

There were some customers in the building, and two of the three guards were sound asleep when Pat O’Connor pulled his gun out and forced the sleepy guard, a short, squat balding man, to the floor in Colin Chapple’s room.

Colin sat up in bed and watched in fascination, not quite believing it was happening.  Rather, he thought the whole thing was staged as some sort of sex game before he was raped by the man with the gun.

After O’Connor had Jack Andrews on the floor in similar plastic ties that Desotel had used in Kansas City and like Graff had used in Chicago, and after he had duct taped Andrews’ mouth shut, he pulled off his jacket revealing a navy t-shirt.  He pulled a Velcro patch off his left breast that revealed an FBI logo and removed a similar Velcro patch off his back shoulders that revealed FBI in even bigger, brighter yellow letters.

“Kid, I need your help,” O’Conner said.  “I’m a Sheriff Deputy working with the FBI.  My team is outside waiting for me, and I have to get them inside and secure the guards and get all you boys home safely.  Will you help me?”

Very leery, nervous, and still not quite believing what was happening, yet ever so slightly hopeful, Colin nodded but didn’t move from his bed.

“Do you know how the front door works to let people in?”

Colin nodded again, but didn’t move.

“Well . . .” O’Connor started. “Kid, we have to move.  Right now, I’m assuming the other guards are asleep.  I don’t know how many other men are in the building, but I think our spotter said two, maybe three.  So, will you help me or not?”

Colin got up off the bed, walked over to the guard bound up and lying on the floor, and slammed his foot down on the back of his head driving his face into the floor.  Then he went to the doorway, looked both ways, and ran to the control room with O’Connor following and pushed the buzzer, allowing Charlie Chan and Paul Eiselmann into the building.  Then he and O’Connor went to the door that opened to the third floor hallway and let the two men in to join O’Connor.

“How did you know where the buzzer was?” O’Connor asked him.

Embarrassed, Colin turned red and said, “Jack brought me in there a couple of times for, you know.  I watched him buzz guys in.”

Chan went to work filming and collecting evidence as Dahlke had done in Chicago, downloading the contents of the computer kiosk and the various electronic gadgets in the control room to Chet at the Sheraton.  He checked in with Chet letting him know what he had found, so he could pass it on to Dahlke in Chicago so they could trade their intel.  Eiselmann and O’Connor huddled.

“We think the other two guards are still sleeping.  You could start on one end, while I start on the other.  We get the guards squared away and free the kids.”

“What about any assholes who might be with the kids?”

O’Connor thought about it for a minute and then said, “You and I get the assholes first, then the guards.  Start on that side of the hallway at that end,” pointing to the end farthest from the control room, “and I’ll start on this end.”

“Can’t,” the boy said.

“Why?” Eiselmann asked.

“Only one key.”

O’Connor sighed and revised the plan once again.  He would enter the room with Eiselmann standing guard just outside the door and ready to help if O’Connor needed it.

“We let the kids stay in their rooms?” Eiselmann asked.

“Um . . .” Colin said.

“What?” O’Connor asked.

“I’ll get the kids and move them to one or two rooms.  That way, we’re together and ready.”

“Ready for what?” Eiselmann asked.

Puzzled, Colin looked first at Eiselmann, then at O’Connor and said, “To go home.”

Paul Eiselmann nodded and smiled at the boy and said, “Right you are, Kid.  Everyone goes home.”

The three of them set to work quietly and efficiently.  Inserting the key; opening the door.  If there was just a boy, Colin would wake him gently, whispering into the boy’s ear and then move him to a room towards the end.  If a
customer
was with the boy, then O’Connor would bind and gag him with plastic ties and duct tape, while Colin took the boy to the end of the hallway. 

In less than twenty minutes, the boys were in two rooms, and four men were bound up and gagged and locked in the rooms they were found in.  With Chan watching the third floor and with the master key taken from Jack Andrews in hand, O’Connor and Eiselmann went down the back stairs to the second floor to take care of the guards.

*                                                        *                                                        *

Fitz rapidly went through various scenarios and possibilities and finally settled on a bull rush.  As the Camaro slowed to enter the garage, Fitz got up from his sitting position and stripped off his scraggily wig and green military coat and left them in the middle of the alley revealing the FBI T-shirt he had worn underneath it.  He ran across to the garage door at an angle so as not to be seen by either man.  He waited by the entrance and as the door started down, sneaked himself around the corner behind a white van that sat in the right side parking slot.

The garage was dark, dirty and dusty with oil stains on the cement floor.  It was also bigger than he had originally thought, taking up what seemed to be most of the first floor of the building.  A couple of cheap frame and drywall unused offices faced each other.  The glass in the windows was either broken or removed, and neither had doors.  There were stairs on either end of the garage that Fitz assumed went up to the second and third floors.  The outside door that he knew to be unused stood closed and padlocked behind a pile of old tires, oil drums and other accumulated debris.  Two other vehicles, a ’98 dark blue Grand Prix, and a ’94 silver Chevy Lumina were also in the garage.  Fitz loved cars, especially fast ones, but these were nothing to admire, and he didn’t have the time to admire anything at the moment. Basically, he recognized these as pieces of shit he wouldn’t be caught dead in.

He slid along the back of the van and waited until the door rolled down completely and until he heard the car doors open and the two men shuffle out of the vehicle.  One man laughed at something the other man had said. 

Fitz allowed his eyes to adjust to the darkness and then he stepped out and yelled, “FBI, hands where I can see ‘em.”

Neither man moved except to turn around at the sound of his voice.

“I said-” he never got to finish.

A tall, skinny guy who was on the passenger side reached for his gun but was blown backwards by the shotgun blast to his chest.  As Fitz jacked another shell into the chamber, the driver pulled out his gun and fired two shots.  Fitz ducked, but not soon enough.  He was hit in the shoulder and was spun around and down behind the passenger side of the car.  Lying down where he could see the other man’s legs and feet, Fitz fired.

The shotgun sent a blast of pellets in a cluster the size of a softball shattering the man’s lower shin, and in the process, blowing his foot off leaving only a bloody stump.  The man landed in a thud screaming, but another shotgun blast to the side of the man’s head ended his screams as quickly as they had started.

Fitz’s ears were ringing.  Sound was muffled like he was under water and had cotton packed in both ears.  If anyone had come to his or to the two asshole’s rescue, he’d never know it.  His left arm was useless, which was sort of okay since he was right handed.  Yet, he was bleeding badly.

He picked himself up off the floor, moved first to the passenger, felt for a pulse, and not finding any, picked up the man’s gun and shoved it into his belt.  He moved to the other man but didn’t even bother with the pulse because most of the man’s head had disintegrated into a gooey mass of bone, blood and brain matter.  He picked up that man’s gun, too.

Both Jamie and Pete had heard the gunfire and knew that if they could hear it on the third floor, there was little doubt the guards on the second floor could also.  If they weren’t awake before, they would be now.

“Fitz, what’s happening?” Jamie asked.

“Two down, but I’m hit.  Shoulder,” he shouted in answer.

“How bad?”

“Trouble hearing you . . . my ears are all fucked up,” Fitz yelled.  “My left arm is bad.  Bleeding.”

“
Fuck!
” Pete muttered more to himself than to Jamie.

“Pete, I gotta go . . .”

“Be careful.  Those guards . . .”

“Yeah, I know,” but Jamie was already moving through the door leading down to the rest of the building.

“Skip, I need you in the front.  No one, and I mean no one, comes through that door.  If he, she or it doesn’t identify themselves as FBI, you shoot first and ask questions later.  You understand?”

Dahlke licked his lips and nodded solemnly.

Pete placed a hand on his shoulder and said, “You’ll be fine.  You breath nice and easy, short, shallow breaths.  Aim waist high.”

Dahlke nodded again then ran back up the hallway to the front door.  He stood ten feet from the door and looked around, feeling exposed.  Brett came out of the bedroom carrying a chair and set it on its side where Skip stood.

“Get down and use this to steady your rifle.  It isn’t much protection, but it might help you aim.”

He ran back into his bedroom and pulled the pillow off the bed and brought it back to Dahlke.

“Don’t know if this will help or not.  Up to you.”

He ran back to the room once more, picked up the .45 and ran down the hallway where Pete stood half in, half out of the bedroom where the red-haired man lay bound and gagged on the floor.

“What the fuck are you doing out here?  Give me that gun!”

“No.  I’m keeping it for protection,” Brett answered calmly, coolly.

“You’re a kid.  They see you with a gun, you become a target,” Pete yelled through clenched teeth.

“I’m a target one way or the other.  At least I’ll be a target with a gun,” Brett answered.

“Fuck!” Pete said pounding the wall.

“Those guards are awake, and they’ll either be coming this way or going down to where Jamie went.  He’s going to need help.”

“Don’t tell me my job, Kid!”

“Just sayin’ . . . this door is locked, and anyone coming through it has to unlock it.  I’ll shoot first, just like that guy,” Brett said, jerking his head in the direction of Dahlke. “But, that other cop is going to have a shit storm coming down on him, so you better get moving.”

Pete started to say something with his finger pointing at Brett, but thought better of it.  Quickly, he ran through the options and came to realize there weren’t any.  Two guns on the backside of the building were good, and the fact that the door locked behind him was even better.  The kid could handle a gun, but still, Campbell’s soup cans were a hell of a lot different than men with guns.  But the door was locked, and both Jamie and he would be armed.

He frowned at the boy, turned and said to Dahlke, “Skip, I’m going to help Graff.  You have the front door. 
I’ll
have the back door,” he said as much to Skip as he did for the benefit of the boy with the gun, “but I’ll be on the first or second floor.  Got it?”

“Yup, just go!”

Seething, Pete shook his head once and cautiously opened the door, listening for any sound or footfalls.  He looked back at Brett, then moved onto the third floor landing and shut the door quietly behind him.

*                                                        *                                                        *

In their years together in SWAT, O’Connor and Eiselmann had developed a silent hand-signal system they had modified into a kind of shorthand, bred by their close friendship.  They entered the second floor assault style, one behind the other, with Eiselmann leading low to the right, and O’Connor entering high to the left.  Pat kept his hand on the door, so he could shut it softly behind them.

No one other than Pat O’Connor and Paul Eiselmann were in the hallway.  Listening for any sounds out of the ordinary, Pat signaled Paul to move ahead and to the left side, while he would trail slightly to the right.