Hostage

11

With a flashlight in one hand and his pistol in the other, Retro had checked every inch of the meat processing plant. Every hallway, every staircase, every nook and every cranny. A crumpled cigarette pack and a condom wrapper and a few dirty insulin syringes were the only indications that anyone had recently occupied the spaces.

Like a lot of small towns across the country, illegal drug use had found its way to Hope, Colorado, and apparently some of the users had found their way inside the plant.

Maybe they’d been the ones who’d cut the lock on the gate.

Retro walked back out to his cruiser and called Ashton on his cell.

“There’s nobody here,” he said.

“You checked the whole place?”

“Yeah. Looks like some addicts have been using the ham boning room for a shooting gallery. We’ll need to make sure the lock gets replaced, and we’ll have to start keeping a better eye on this part of town.”

“Vacant buildings are always a problem,” Ashton said. “Did anyone ever come to help you out?”

“No.”

“I called the state police, but there was a big accident on the interstate earlier, and they said it might be a while. Anyway, two detectives showed up here a few minutes ago, along with a sketch artist and a forensics guy. They’re talking to Commander Bailey in his office right now.”

“Good. Make sure they know I already checked the plant. I’ll stop at the hardware store and buy a lock for the gate, and I’ll tag it with a strip of crime scene tape. Maybe the addicts will leave it alone, at least for a while.”

“Maybe.”

“I’m going to keep driving around town. Vaughan’s cruiser has to be here somewhere. I don’t think the perp could have taken it very far without being noticed.”

“You think he transferred her to another vehicle?”

“That’s what I’m thinking. If we can find the cruiser, maybe we can lift some fingerprints and get an ID on this guy.”

“Assuming his prints are in the FBI database.”

“Yeah. Not a sure thing.”

“We put an alert out to the local TV and radio stations,” Ashton said. “And the detectives from the state police said there’s a helicopter on the way. If the car’s still around here anywhere, we’ll find it.”

“Yeah. We’ll find it.”

Retro disconnected.

He and Ashton had avoided talking about the obvious, that Vaughan might still be with the car, that the perpetrator might have gotten away and left her incapacitated.

Or dead.

As Retro reached for the handle to open the driver’s side door of his cruiser, something that felt like a baseball bat came down hard on his left shoulder, just below his neck. He blacked out momentarily, dropping to one knee, balancing himself with his left palm against the gravel to keep from going down completely. He reached for his pistol, but the holster was empty.

“Looking for this?”

Retro turned and glanced up and saw a tall skinny man yanking the magazine out of the 9mm semi-automatic. The man tapped the cartridges loose and flicked them away one at a time like cigarette butts, and then he whizzed the gun out onto the street and tossed the empty magazine toward the gate. There were two other guys standing beside him, one to his left and the other to his right. They all wore jeans and dirty t-shirts and grimy ball caps. Like some kind of uniform.

“You’re trespassing,” the one on the left said.

He was holding a rusty old length of pipe or something, probably the weapon he’d used to put Retro on the ground, slapping it against his palm in an effort to look menacing. It was about fourteen inches long with a rounded end that gradually tapered down toward the handle.

Retro’s vision was blurry, and it took him a few seconds to focus and recognize the tool. It was a wrench designed to tighten and loosen the bungs on fifty-five gallon drums. Retro had used one many times when he’d worked at the plant.

“You guys are the ones who are trespassing,” Retro said. “I have a strong feeling that some of the discarded drug paraphernalia in there belongs to you, and now you’ve added assault on a police officer to the list of charges. You’re under arrest.”

The three men started laughing.

“How are we under arrest?” the one on the right said. “You think you can take all three of us with your bare hands?”

At forty-two, Retro still wore the same size uniform as he did when he graduated from the academy. He ran three miles before breakfast every day, and he’d been working out with free weights since he was a teenager. He was strong and quick and agile, and he was an expert at exploiting the most vulnerable areas of the human anatomy. These guys were a lot younger than him, but they were thin and pale and weak. They’d ruined themselves with drugs and alcohol and bad eating habits.

He stood and faced the men, locking eyes with the one in the middle. “Not a problem,” he said. “In about thirty seconds, you’re going to wish you’d let me take you to jail.”

The man with the drum wrench rushed forward and swung at Retro’s face like he was trying to hit a homerun. Retro ducked, heard the heavy tool whisper by over his head, and then he whipped around and delivered a fast and crushing uppercut that probably broke a couple of the man’s ribs.

Retro expected the guy to double over in pain and call it quits at that point. But he didn’t. He was tougher than he looked. He grunted, but he didn’t fall to the ground, and he didn’t walk away. If anything, he seemed more determined than ever. There was fire in his eyes. He was angry. Whatever drug he’d been injecting into his veins was keeping him charged up and going strong, but before he could regain his balance and go for another swing with the wrench, Retro tenderized his left knee with a ferocious side kick, forcing the joint inward at an outrageous angle. The man shouted out in agony as he collapsed to the pavement, his weapon slipping from his hand and clanging away harmlessly under the police car.

Retro was ready for the other guys, but they never came. They just stood there with their mouths open for a few seconds, and then the one who’d taken Retro’s pistol slapped the other one on the arm and the two of them took off running.

Retro brushed himself off, retrieved the pistol and the magazine and the bullets, reassembled everything and slid the gun into his holster. He handcuffed the drum wrench guy, climbed into his police car and radioed for an ambulance, got back out and crouched down and pulled a wallet out of the assailant’s back pocket.

“How long have you and your friends been squatting at the plant?” Retro said.

The man was writhing in agony, tears streaming down his face, his left lower extremity crunched and mangled and pointing inward like a toppled V.

“You broke my leg,” he said.

“I didn’t break your leg. I tore all the tendons and ligaments in your knee. There’s a difference.”

“It hurts. Can’t you see that I’m in pain?”

“I gave you a chance to surrender peacefully, and you came at me with that skull buster you were holding. Not very smart. But then it looks like you’ve been making bad decisions for a long time.”

“I need a doctor.”

“Help is on the way, but it’s going to be a few minutes. Right now would be a good time for you to start cooperating.”

“I need something for pain. You hear me? I need something for pain!”

Retro stood and looked at the man’s ID card, which was clearly a fake.

“What’s your real name?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Did you see another police car stop here earlier today? This morning between seven-thirty and eight?”

The man went into a laughing fit that terminated with a wet gurgling cough.

“I don’t know what time it was,” he said. “But yeah. There was a lady cop out here. It was pretty funny.”

“What happened?”

“I’ll tell you all about it when I get some medicine.”

“I don’t have any medicine to give you,” Retro said. “Tell me now.”

The man started laughing again.

Retro couldn’t stand it anymore. This guy had seen Vaughan being attacked, and now he was treating it like some kind of joke.

Wrong answer.

Retro stepped forward and pressed the toe of his shiny black shoe against the man’s injured knee.

The man screamed. His face turned purple.

“Stop! You’re hurting me!”

“I’m going to hurt you a lot more if you don’t start talking. My friend’s in trouble and I don’t have time for any of your-”

“All right! Just get your foot off my leg and I’ll tell you everything I know.”

Retro took his foot off the man’s leg.

And the man told Retro everything he knew.