Page 24 of Cruel Captor

They turn and run for their lives, legs churning.

He clenches my ankle, and I kick at his face with my bare foot, but he twists away and pulls me down to the ground with a thud.

A shockwave of pain rolls over my bruised, battered body, and I shriek.

But they’re safe. They’re safe.

Tears pour out of my eyes as I watch them disappear around the corner, past the tree line.

It’s over.

“You better cry, you fucking bitch,” Micah pants. “You have any idea what I’m going to do with you?”

He doesn’t understand why I’m crying, because he can’t comprehend caring about someone else more than you care for yourself.

Run, girls, run.

CHAPTEREIGHT

SERGEANT CARTER

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

Molly 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.

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