See Them Run (Lucy Kendall Thriller Series #2): A Lucy Kendall Mystery Thriller (The Lucy Kendall Series)
See Them Run
A Novel
Stacy Green
See Them Run
Copyright © 2014 Stacy Green.
Kindle Edition
All rights reserved.
Published by: Twisted Minds Press
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without express written permission from the publisher. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
ISBN 978-0-9891379-8-0
Cover artwork by Melinda Van Lone at Book Cover Corner
Content Editing by Annetta Ribken
Copy Editing by Kristine Kelly
Proofreading by Heather Cathrall
First Printing, 2014
Green, Stacy.
See Them Run/ Stacy Green.—1st ed.
Visit the author website:
www.stacygreen.net
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“Stacy Green writes suspense like a pro. You’ll be captivated from the first page to the end of this harrowing story. Don’t forget to breathe!”
Diane Capri, New York Times Bestselling Author of The Justice Series and The Hunt For Reacher Series.
Other Books by Stacy Green
TIN GOD
(Book One in the Delta Crossroads Trilogy)
2013 Kindle Book Review Best Indie Book Award Finalist for Best Mystery/Thriller
SKELETON’S KEY
(Book Two in the Delta Crossroads Trilogy)
ASHES and BONE
(Book Three in the Delta Crossroads Trilogy)
LIVING VICTIM
(Book One in the Delta Detectives Series)
DEAD WRONG
(Book Two in the Delta Detectives Series)
NIGHT TERROR
(Book Three in the Delta Detectives Series)
LAST WORDS
(Book Four in the Delta Detectives Series)
SHOTS FIRED
(Book Five in the Delta Detectives Series)
HEAR NO LIES
(Prequel to the Lucy Kendall Series)
ALL GOOD DEEDS
(Book One in the Lucy Kendall Series)
GONE TO DIE
(Book Three in the Lucy Kendall Series)
ALL FALL DOWN
(Book Four in the Lucy Kendall Series)
INTO THE DEVIL’S UNDERGROUND
WELCOME TO LAS VEGAS
TWISTED MINDS
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Praise for Stacy Green
Other Books by Stacy Green
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Excerpt from Gone to Die
Books by Stacy
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Three blind mice, three blind mice,
See how they run, see how they run,
They all ran after the farmer’s wife,
Who cut off their tails with a carving knife,
Did you ever see such a thing in your life,
As three blind mice?
1
Blowing snow blinded me as I careened down Interstate 81. My jaw muscles throbbed from clenching my teeth for the past five hazardous hours, and the truck stop was still four miles away. The icy roads made me late–the exchange was planned for 9:15 p.m., exactly eight minutes ago. Unless my luck had been blessed with a major traffic accident, I wouldn’t be catching the seller. But maybe saving the child and interrogating the buyer were still within reach.
“If I don’t die before I get there, it’ll be a miracle.” My tires hit yet another packed down section of snow and sent the car sliding. I wrenched the steering wheel into the skid, my stomach burning as if I’d lit it on fire. Gently pumping the brakes and cursing the Polar Vortex, I saved the car from skidding onto the shoulder. The kid I was trying to save couldn’t afford my slowing down.
Pain burned my bottom lip; I dug my teeth out of the tender flesh. Two hazardous miles to go. The windshield wipers were on high, their annoying swish-swash giving me another reason to cuss.
After discovering Kailey Richardson had nearly been sold into an online sex trafficking ring, I’d decided to take my operation beyond old case files. Child sex trafficking was running rampant in this country, and law enforcement often found its hands tied by our legal system.
I didn’t.
Kelly and I spent weeks searching online classified ads, learning the code words for selling sex. There were thousands of readily accessible ads, and most of the sites had IP addresses that simply bounced back to a server in another country, making law enforcement’s job nearly impossible. Kelly created our ad, posing as a twelve-year-old girl. We read through the hundreds of replies very carefully. We needed a weak opponent, not a pimp looking for another child to destroy.
Our choice was the right one. The guy cried when I showed up instead of a little girl, and he begged for his life when I gave him the overdose of ketamine. Not before he bargained away a few online accounts and passwords, however.
It didn’t take long before Kelly found deeply embedded groups selling kids. Tonight was the first verified hit–our first chance to save a kid and glean some new information in the process.
I couldn’t erase the memory of the video. A little boy with dark brown skin, a little skinny but overall healthy looking, stood naked in the middle of a nondescript room. A disembodied voice ordered him to turn in a circle, to raise his arms over his head, to bend over. He obeyed with a glazed look in his eyes and tears running down his cheeks. A price was named just before the video ended.
I would kill someone for that little boy tonight.
“Stupid snow.” My eyes watered just looking at the cascading white flakes. I glanced at my bag. Injection loaded and ready. Cash for the kid. Pepper spray just in case. Kelly discovered the sale so suddenly I’d resorted to running aroun
d my apartment, throwing things in a bag and hoping I had what I needed. I promised the cat I’d be home to feed him in the morning, and I didn’t intend to let him down.
I peered through the sheet of snow to see Hagerstown 81 Truck Stop’s bright red sign.
“Please God, don’t let me be too late.” As I turned to take the icy exit, I felt the tires lose traction. “Give me a break!” Blood pounded in my temples as I half slid onto the iced over exit. For one blinding second, I saw nothing but the snow-covered metal guardrail and braced myself for impact. Beyond the rail appeared a snowy abyss with a drop sharp enough to break my neck. Not ready to face the brain-numbing fear of death, I rapidly tapped on the brakes, pulled the steering wheel to the left. The tires had nothing but snow to grip, and my small car careened down the exit ramp. All I could do was follow the curve until somehow I bottomed out and hit the next patch of clearish pavement.
Back in control, my head damp with sweat and my fingers cramped, I turned into the truck stop.
A few short months ago, this moment was unimaginable. Watching a man die by my own hand–not the first time I’d administered death, but the first I’d witnessed–left me cold and guilty and shattered. The man I’d killed deserved to die. He was the worst kind of monster, but he was still human. I wasn’t sure I realized that until I saw the life fade from his frightened eyes. Someone would grieve him, and that was my shame to bear. My brand of justice needed to be re-evaluated. I couldn’t take another life.
And then I found out about little Kailey Richardson being sold for sex. The part of me I’d started to think of as evil rose from the secret corner I’d buried it in and screamed for vengeance. I probably should have been nervous, but instead I felt as if I’d rediscovered my favorite pair of jeans. A match made in the blackest of heavens.
I used to think I was special, that I had a calling. That only I could deliver much needed justice. A martyr, to be honest: risking my own freedom for the greater good.
Those were just my first round of lies.
With the seller likely long gone, I’d go after the buyer. Spun from the same cloth, anyway. Kelly discovered he would be driving a lime green Freightliner with a flatbed trailer. Code name Sand. No other information. We’d assumed the traffickers had a private CB channel. I didn’t have time to run out and buy a radio to pick up the signal.
“He said go to the west side of the truck stop,” was the last information I had from Kelly. Since Hagerstown 81 was the largest truck stop in the state and one of the biggest in the country, the west side meant several acres and more semis than I could count.
The parking lot was partially cleared, and I managed to drive the Prius between drifts and not get stuck. Bringing my own car was a risk, but everything happened too last minute for me to get a rental. On this terrible night, the massive parking lot was loaded with semis, and most of them were at least half covered with snow. With so little to go on, I’d have to rely on instincts.
Fortunately my instincts were as incessant as an aggressive tumor. Always there, never quiet.
Privacy would be essential. Even in a truck stop with a lot of comings and goings, kids attracted attention. A psychologically damaged, physically abused kid would probably obey, but the seller wouldn’t want to stand out. With the increase in human trafficking, truck drivers were becoming more perceptive and forming their own groups to help protect children. Extreme caution was needed to accomplish the trade.
I stayed on the outskirts of the west lot, gaze panning for the truck I so desperately needed to find.
The buyer came early, excited and prepared. Eager to test out the merchandise.
The winter storm could have held him up, so he’d plan his day accordingly, and snow provided a great cover. If he had any smarts, he would have let the snow pile on and then cleared only a small portion of his cab so the seller could see the color. I needed to look for a flatbed semi whose cab had mismatched snow covering.
I found it in the far west corner. I parked twenty feet away, shut off the lights, and watched. The rig didn’t move. But inside the cab, a pinpoint of light flashed.
Whatever racing nerves I’d been battling now smoothed into calm. The malignancy extended its veiny fingers, shuttering my heart and wrapping itself around my nerves until they were snuffed out. I didn’t think about what the seller was likely doing to the boy. Doing so would only invite my locked up emotions to take control. That caused mistakes.
I slipped my bag over my head, settling it across my thick coat. Double checked to make sure my tools were inside. Opened the door, shut it. Keys in pocket. Squinted my eyes against the stinging snow. I didn’t feel the cold.
Anyone watching would assume I was meeting the driver for a good time. Maybe a local girlfriend ready to warm him up. My inner voice hushed, my conscience shrank into its corner cage as I approached the large truck. I kept an even pace as I crossed the front of the semi to the partially hidden passenger door, each movement with precise purpose. The bright green cab shuddered. Movement inside.
This is the time most people would step back, afraid of what they were interrupting. Afraid of what they might see, what could damage them for life or even worse, embarrass their delicate sensitivities. I stayed on autopilot, my actions as familiar as breathing. I reached into my bag, feeling the cold of the metal emanating through my thin gloves.
I slipped the magazine into the receiver, then pulled the slide into place.
I hated guns. They weren’t my weapon of choice. Too messy and loud. But I didn’t intend to use this one. Controlling a person is all about showmanship.
And the metal made a nice sound when I slammed it against the cab door.
The cylinder of light inside the truck–probably from a small beam flashlight–blinked out. I banged the Glock on the door again and then hid it in the folds of my coat.
Only part of me heard the howling wind or felt the miserable cold that had plagued us for weeks. My eyes and ears lasered in on the truck door. The handle clicked; I brought the gun around.
The door opened slowly. Stepping my left foot back, I reinforced my footing and moved my finger to the trigger. Chris had only taken me to the range twice, but I figured I could hit a man from five feet away no matter how lousy of a shot I was.
A narrow-faced white man peeked out of the slightly open door. His cheeks were hollowed out and flushed red, his irises dilated from either fear or arousal or drugs. Maybe all three. Despite the cab’s engine not running, the guy’s collarbone was soaked with sweat that stained the collar of his already dingy white T-shirt.
With the speed of light and the force of all my unanswered anger, the pictures of the scared, naked boy Kelly discovered this afternoon flashed through my mind. I leveled the gun at the man.
“I’m here for the boy.”
His eyes popped open. His body shifted. I caught sight of a bare knee.
“If you’re going for a gun, rest assured I’ll put a bullet in your head before you reach it. Show me your hands.”
“Who are you?” He didn’t deny the boy.
With my left hand, I showed him the FBI badge I’d painstakingly crafted. “FBI, Human Trafficking Division. I know you’re holding a nine-year-old African American boy purchased less than half an hour ago from a seller out of Ohio. The transaction took place here, and you’re under arrest.”
Lying came naturally to me, even easier than breathing.
“Please.” A tear formed in the man’s eye. “I was just trying to save him.”
My finger twitched. Liar. We can spot our own kind, and men like him all have the very same sob story. Trying to save the child, bringing him home to a frantic family. All lies. “Is that why you’re sweating and half dressed in this cold?”
“My truck’s real warm.”
“The engine isn’t running.”
He shifted again, backwards as if he wanted to slam the door, but I was too quick, and the ice-caked snow worked in my favor. I stepped forward and slipped right t
o the door. Shoved the Glock under his chin. “Show me your hands.”
Shaking, he stuck out first one hand, and then the other. The fingers of his right hand were bloody.
“Having a problem?”
He didn’t say anything.
“Open the door, slowly.”
The man did as he was told. He was down to the T-shirt, blue paid boxers, and dirty socks.
“Step down onto that top step.” I retrieved the handcuffs from my messenger bag.
Shocked by the cold and my presence and the gleaming Glock, he obeyed. Confidence is everything. And the fear of others–fear caused by the power of one’s own actions–can be as exhilarating as the best narcotic. “Turn around.”
“What about my rights?”
“I’ll read them after I secure you.”
Snotty and shivering, he stumbled on the step, nearly sliding off. He jammed his hands behind his back, and I quickly snapped the cuffs on him.
“Inside the truck.”
He craned his neck over his shoulder. “My rights?”
“Inside. Too cold.” I pressed the Glock against his flaccid penis. “You know how easily I could shoot off your dick from this angle? Guarantee you the review board would say I was justified.”
“My hands are behind my back. I’m freezing!”
“Make like the snake you are and move.”
He pitched forward, his chest thudding against the interior of the cab. Using his right knee and then his left, he wriggled inside and into the driver’s seat. He flopped around to face me. Gun in front of me and overloaded on the power that came from his compliance, I hefted myself into the cab and slammed the passenger door shut.
“Aron?” I kept my voice soft and kind, a feat considering the rush surging through me.
A shuffling came from behind the curtain of the cab’s sleeper bed.
I kept the gun low but ready. The thought occurred the seller might still be here, or another accomplice, but I’d already entered the lion’s den. “My name’s Agent Rex with the FBI. I’m here to take you to safety. Are you alone back there?”