Chapter Eight

 

Sergeant Ruiz

After a lifetime of shitty luck and being dealt every bad hand, I was beginning to doubt my faith. I thought God hated me.

Rosa and Valentina were sweet and innocent and kind, my reason for waking up in the morning, and they were both taken from me. I fought to bring their killers to justice. I believed in the system, and the system spat in my face.

I threw myself into work, and I busted kiddy-diddlers and drug-dealers, just to watch them go dancing out of the courtroom, high-fiving their lawyers when they beat the rap.

I prayed and prayed to see justice done, only to have my prayers fall on deaf ears.

But finally, today, the angels are smiling on me.

Yesterday afternoon, that creepy bastard Joshua Smith gave me some information that he swore up and down came from someone who’d been at Micah’s house. He said Micah was in Tehama County and he described a bridge, a farm that smelled like manure that was half an hour from the house, and a bunch of other markers that would help narrow down the location. He refused to tell me where he got the information, but for now, that’s not important.

What’s important is that Micah made a mistake. I bet he thought he was being smart getting a house out in the country. Lots of privacy, no neighbors close enough to hear the screams. But actually it was pretty stupid, because there aren’t that many parcels of land here, and to make it even easier, I only had to look at places that were rented or purchased in the last five or six months.

I narrowed it down to five possibilities. I have an old army buddy who’s working for the Feds now, stationed in San Francisco. I’ve hinted to him a little, telling him that I’m working a private case trying to track down a kidnap victim, but he knows I’m not doing anything official.

He did a search on the utilities for all five properties. And bingo. This morning he called to tell me that one of the utility accounts was opened under a fake name, a ghost who only exists on the lease, and who used fake ID to rent the property.

This afternoon, I drove out here to do some scouting. I’m not bringing Joshua with me, or any of his security team. I don’t trust that motherfucker any farther than I could throw him. And as I drive down a narrow rural road that passes the suspicious address, I see a woman and three girls running toward me, waving their hands frantically.

Yes.

Finally.

I pull up closer, window rolled down, and I don’t see Tamara, but these chicks look as scared as shit, and they’re screaming at me to stop.

“Tamara Bennett?” I call out to them. “You know where she is?”

“She’s back at the house! He’s got her!” the woman cries out, waving her skinny arm, pointing at the road behind her. “Micah’s got her. He’ll kill her!”

That’s the alias that Joshua’s brother is using. Joshua told me that.

There’s no cell phone reception out here—probably part of the appeal for Charlemagne—but I came prepared. I park the truck, climb out, and place a quick call to my FBI buddy using a satellite phone he lent me, and I tell him that kidnap victim Tamara Bennett is being held against her will at the address he gave me. And I tell him I’m going in. He tries to yell at me to wait for backup, but I hang up.

The girls are pawing at me, howling at me to hurry up and go, go, he’s going to kill Tamara!

I make a quick decision. These girls have got to get the hell out of here.

“How far off the road is the house?” I ask them.

“A quarter mile! Go!” the woman cries out.

I hand the woman my keys and my cell phone. “Get in the car and drive until you get to a place where you can make a call. About ten miles due south and you’ll come to a crossroads with a store. There’ll be reception there.”

They’re all crying as they scramble into the truck. I hear the screech of tires as I run, faster than I’ve ever run before. Thank God I hit the StairMaster every day. I may look like a fat, out-of-shape fuck, but I can run a mile in six minutes.

The trees are flying by me, but every second feels like an hour. Is he killing her right now? After all this time, am I too late?

The driveway is hidden from the road by trees, and it curves. I’m sick at the thought of what might be waiting for me around that corner.

Tamara Bennett can’t be dead. She can’t.

Please, God. Can you throw me a fucking bone? Do you hear me at all?

When I get halfway down the driveway, I see a squat, ugly brick house. In front of the house there’s a dark-haired man who has his arms wrapped around a woman. She’s got her back to him and she’s crushed against his chest, and her legs are flailing. The man has a knife sticking out of his leg and his pants are drenched in blood. He looks so much like Joshua it’s freaky. In fact, the only way I can tell the difference is that Joshua has fading bruises under his eyes and a recently broken nose, and this guy doesn’t.

The woman is skinny and bruised and her dark hair is matted, but I can tell it’s Tamara Bennett.

My heart’s pounding in my chest. I can’t believe it. I can’t fucking believe it. I thought she’d been chopped up and fed through a wood chipper somewhere.

In one smooth motion, I pull the Smith & Wesson M&P from my holster and point it at his head. I pray I don’t have to shoot him.

“Drop her!” I shout. Charlemagne freezes, and his pretty-boy face bunches up into something out of a fucking horror movie. He’s got that crazy look in his eyes, the look that says he won’t be taken alive if he can help it.

“I’ll snap her neck!” he yells at me. “Get the fuck off my property, or I’ll kill her!”

“Charlemagne,” I spit the word out like a curse. “You sick piece of shit. I’m not going anywhere. You kill her, and I’ll shoot your dick off and leave you to bleed out. Let her go, and you live another day! Come on, asshole, you can always try to bust out of prison and take another whack at—”

While I’m talking, Tamara suddenly hooks both her feet behind his knees and pulls them forward, sending him crashing to the ground. He screeches in pain, clutching at the knife.

I run toward them as she rolls away. Crying, she starts to crawl off slowly. She’s so weak, so beat up, she can barely move. What the hell has this animal done to her?

Motherfucking piece of shit.

I should shoot him. It would be a righteous kill. Why the fuck am I still so tied up by the rules?

I walk closer until I’m standing right next to him, the gun pointed at his head. He suddenly rolls and lashes out with his good leg, and my gun goes off, hitting him in the left arm. He doesn’t even seem to notice. Doesn’t even flinch. Is he on PCP or is he just that fucking crazy?

He pulls something from his pocket, and as it’s slashing toward me. I realize it’s a hypodermic needle. Before I can get away from him, it jabs into my calf. Suddenly my vision goes blurry and my body goes numb. My hand is a thick, clumsy paw, and the gun falls from my fingers and hits the ground with a thud.

Panic boils up inside me. He’ll kill me. He’ll kill Tamara. I was so close…so close…

I can hear him laughing, but everything has turned to a red haze. I try to make my legs move.

“My brother sent you, right? You have any idea what I’m going to do to you?” His voice is hoarse and raspy. “How long I’m going to make it last?”

Then I hear Joshua’s voice. I think it’s coming from the thick bushes that hem in the driveway.

“Tamara!” he cries out. “Hold on, baby!” His voice is very far away.

How the hell did he get here? Am I hearing things?

Am I going to die? And when I do, will I see my Rosa and Valentina again, or for my sins, am I going to the hot place?

Their faces swim through my head as I pass out.