“Good,” she whispered. “Good.” Thank you, God.
Within minutes, the trailer was empty, the furniture now sitting on the side of the road in the emergency lane—and anywhere else they could find a spot. Hank was itching to get back inside. “Guys,” Chloe said, “Hank’s not finished in there.”
“Let him back in,” Vincent said. “The furniture could have been covering more up.”
Chloe released the agitated dog, and he darted back inside and raced all the way to the front area just behind the cab. She climbed in after him.
Vincent looked up. “We’ll work this while you see what Hank’s got to say.”
Derek and Vincent examined the floor. Now assigned to OCN, Derek deployed as SWAT when needed. He’d been needed today. A scraping sound followed by a grunt of discovery had her turning.
“Well, well,” Vincent said. “Look what we found.”
He held up several bags similar to the ones that had been found on the road. “There’s a hole in the bottom of the trailer—storage. Someone altered it so they could stuff the bags into this compartment from below. Must have hit something that jarred the latch loose and a couple of the bags slid out.”
Hank whined and continued his restless behavior.
“What is it, boy?”
He pawed at the plywood on the front wall, then raced the width of the trailer, back and forth, nose in the air.
“Guys? Hank’s on to something else. Might be more drugs back there.”
“We’ll get back there in a minute,” Derek said.
And then the pounding started—a frantic beating on the other side of the wood.
“Hey! Derek, Vincent, come here, now!”
They joined her. Vincent turned. “Somebody get me a crowbar!”
Seconds later, an officer slapped one into his hand.
“Let’s get this wood off,” Chloe said.
One hard jerk pulled the first piece off and it clattered to the floor.
Weeping and cries for help reached her. Together, she and Derek and Vincent pulled the rest of the plywood down. In stunned disbelief, Chloe found herself staring into at least a dozen pairs of terrified eyes.
Deputy US Marshal Blake MacCallum ran a shaky hand through his hair as he read the text for the millionth time.
You have 24 hours to kill the judge. Make it look like an accident. If you fail, she dies.
Thirty minutes before his shift started, while he was still munching a bagel and cream cheese, the text had shown up on his phone. That had been five hours ago and had contained a picture.
A picture of his daughter, seventeen-year-old Rachel, holding a newspaper with today’s date, her pretty green eyes filled with terror. The gun against her temple broke his heart—and sent a fear beyond anything he’d ever known shafting through him. As well as relief because the picture was proof she was alive.
Does she have her insulin? She’s a type 1 diabetic.
That was the second time he’d sent that text. And the second time he didn’t get an answer. But the date on the newspaper reassured him. She was getting her insulin from somewhere.
Rachel had disappeared a little over a week ago, along with her best friend, Lindsey Edgars. The day of the girls’ disappearance—before he’d even realized something was wrong—he’d received the first text with a picture of her that demanded he tell no one she was missing. That if he informed his “cop buddies” or the media got hold of it, she was dead.
And they would be in touch.
So, he’d sent the text informing them of her diabetes and waited, breathless, terrified. Desperate to know what they wanted while trying to offer his comfort to her friend’s mother without letting on that Rachel was missing too. Lindsey had a missing persons report filed and was on the evening news. Mrs. Edgars wondered why Rachel wasn’t.
“Why can’t you find her?” she’d cried just last night. “You find fugitives for a living. Why can’t you find a seventeen-year-old girl!”
Her questions haunted him. Because part of him wondered the same thing. Instead of letting his guilt and fear get the best of him, he’d worked feverishly behind the scenes. Eating occasionally, snagging a nap here and there while he continued to fulfill his duties with his job so no one would suspect anything was wrong.
He’d finally exhausted every idea on how to find his daughter by himself and came to the conclusion that he simply couldn’t do it. After three days of continued silence from Rachel’s kidnappers, he’d told his best friend, FBI Special Agent Linc St. John, what was going on and asked for his help. Linc had promised to utilize his resources and do everything he could to find Rachel—without letting anyone know he was looking.
And now this.
Kill the judge.
So that’s why they’d taken her. Leverage.
Twenty-four hours. Minus the five that had passed since the text.
When he’d first received the message, he’d immediately contacted Linc with the new information.
I have 24 hours to kill the judge I’m protecting. If I don’t, Rachel dies.
Linc
WHAT?
Need to meet with you.
When and where?
He’d set up the meeting and met with Linc, who’d ordered him to continue as though nothing was wrong while Linc utilized his bureau resources to trace the text. That had been five hours ago.
Blake was still waiting while he guarded the man he was supposed to kill.
His phone buzzed again and he glanced at it with a mixture of irritation and fear. When he saw who it was, the irritation won out.
Frank
Are you coming to visit?
His brother just wouldn’t give up, badgering Blake to visit their father.
No. I’m in the middle of something and couldn’t get away even if I wanted to.
Okay. Might do you good to say goodbye.
I said goodbye years ago. You should have, too.
He’s our father.
He was our abuser. He was no father and we don’t owe him anything.
The texts stopped.
Blake swept away the bitterness that memories of his childhood always brought with them and focused on his priorities.
This shouldn’t have to be a priority because it shouldn’t be happening. Rachel was supposed to be at swim practice. She was supposed to be hanging out with her best friend. She was supposed to be safe, not being used as a pawn to manipulate her father into committing murder.
Blake watched the man who was sitting on the sofa in his luxury home, reading through a stack of files. US District Court Judge Benjamin Worthington. A stern man, known for his harsh rulings for those who appeared before him in court and his rabid stance against human trafficking, he, nevertheless, had been perfectly hospitable to Blake and his partner, JoAnn Talmadge.
The death threats had started three weeks ago when the judge went before the Senate. The same Senate who had confirmed his presidential appointment. He’d presented his support for a bill that, if passed into a law, would make prison terms much more strict for those convicted of human trafficking—even offering up the possibility of the death penalty. Blake and Jo were just one pair of marshals assigned to protect the man after the vicious threats began.
But someone had found a weak link.
Blake was the only one with a teenage daughter.
Who was now in the hands of the people who wanted Ben Worthington dead.
The judge stood. “I’m going to change and work out. By the way, Stan, Paula, and Miles are coming to dinner later.”
The home gym on the lower floor was as well-equipped as any club and the man used it regularly.
And his grown children often stopped by. The daughter and her fiancé, Miles Childs, more so than the son. Their meals were often simply heat and serve, thanks to the cook who prepared them weekly for the family.