Protect & Serve(45)

He’s cutting the lines…

“My loyalty? How much did your soul cost, Captain?” I asked, looking at him with all the vile hatred I could muster.

“You don’t understand, do you, Sandra? You could have let that squad car go, and we’d never be standing here. Sometimes, you break a few eggs for the greater good.”

“Nathaniel Hale would be dead if I did that. Is that your greater good?”

“Nathaniel Hale is dead anyway, and the world won’t miss him” the Captain replied coolly. “I need to think about the rest of my city and I need to think about my own safety. Did you seriously think four walls and some iron bars would keep anyone safe from Mr. Wallace? Half the prison guards this side of the Mason Dixon line are named ‘Mick’ and ‘O’Reilly,’ for Christ sakes. I’ve got a wife, and a child, and I’ll be fucking damned if I let you get them killed for some self-centered billionaire asshole.”

I grunted as he jabbed me in the ribs with the gun, pressing me on toward the door. “Open it,” he said angrily, forcing me inside as I pulled it open. Two of the phony cops followed us through, guns drawn.

“Point them to the laptop,” the captain demanded. I raised a hand, pointing toward the kitchen.

“In there, past the cabinets on the right. It’s open.”

As they followed my directions, I turned to the captain once more. I knew there was no swaying him, but maybe I could stall for a little more time, time that might reveal a way out of this mess.

“Captain Pierce, please… You can’t do this,” I said, trying desperately not to glance toward the decadent chairs that sat across from us. I knew full well the t22 would be transmitting this whole conversation. Just up the road, everything going on inside here was being recorded. Video, audio—it would all be in the undercover car I’d parked just on the edge of radio range. I just hoped I’d live long enough to see this bastard behind bars.

“Shut up, you stupid cunt,” one of the Irishmen said, turning and flashing me a vicious smirk. “The good captain here knows what happens to assholes who get on Mr. Wallace’s bad side. You’ll find out too, soon enough.”

I stared back at Pierce. The fire in his eyes was gone. “Is that true?” I asked, tears filling my eyes despite my attempt to control my emotions. I wondered what I saw in the man staring back. Was it regret? Fear?

He didn’t give me the pleasure of knowing. Before I could say a word he swung up the butt of the gun and smashed it over my head.





15





Darkness. Pain. Movement.

I woke to the feeling of being bounced around the roomy interior of a trunk, but the main reason I had been shaken from my slumber was the nearly destroyed spare tire that had landed on my leg. Judging from the space and the tire floating around back here, it was probably my own detective-issued Crown Vic, and that wasn’t a good thing. I’d replaced that tire just three weeks ago, never bothering to put the stupid spare back where it belonged. They’d been putting me off at the motor pool ever since…

I took a moment to think about my situation. The captain would have taken his own car, so it stood to reason there was an Irishman at the wheel. I fumbled around in the dark for a moment, trying desperately to get my bearings.

The shotgun…

My hands flashed to the roof of the trunk, feeling around for the shortened tactical shotgun that was normally strapped to the underside of the lid. Unsurprisingly, it was missing. Just one more thing to worry about. I slapped my hands up against the edges, looking for some kind of handle or release to get myself out of here, but the car was too old for such silly little safety features.

I’d very quickly started to develop a hatred of the budget cutbacks that had been imposed on the force lately. In the span of only a few moments, they’d moved up the ladder from “mildly annoying” to full-blown “rage-inducing.”

What the hell was I supposed to do? Wherever we were going the ground was definitely not paved. That meant a kill site. If I knew anything about the Irish, I was about to be buried so far out they’d find Jimmy Hoffa before they found my body. If I was going to survive, I needed to get the hell out of here.

Think, Sandra. Think!

I clawed at the edges of the carpeted interior, desperately trying to inch along through the cavernous trunk. There had to be something I could do.

My fingertips hit the edge of a small compartment along the side of the space. I wrenched it open, my hands feeling around inside.

The jack!

I unscrewed the small wing nut holding it in place, pulling it out and wedging it against the floor, aiming the upper face toward the trunk latch as I began to spin the scissoring mechanism with the tire iron. It expanded, pressing the edge against the trunk and tightening even as the car accelerated. We must have been doing fifty miles per hour or more down this dirt road.