Stolen Lives : The Lives Trilogy Book 1 (20 page)

“Yeah . . . Him.”

The fat man nodded.

“Be $500 for an hour.”

Jamie counted out five one hundred dollar bills and handed them to the fat man, who recounted them again and then stuffed them into his back pocket.  He pulled out a set of keys and opened up the door for them.

He led them into a darkened hallway with chipped and dirty industrial green linoleum.  On the right side was a small room with glass windows.  From the little Jamie saw as they walked past, it held what looked like video equipment, about a dozen, dozen and a half small surveillance television screens, and a phone. 

On the left side were metal doors, one after the other like you might find in a prison hallway, but without the bars.  Just past the glass-windowed room were more rooms just like the ones on the opposite side of the hallway.  Each of the doors opened inward.

The fat man stopped at the third door down on the left side, inserted his key and opened it.  Jamie took one last look at either end of the hallway.  No one was there.  No sounds were heard.  He bent down quickly and pulled out a gun clipped to his ankle and shoved it into the man’s neck just behind his ear.

“Inside and get on the floor.  Don’t make any noise, or I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off.  Move . . . now!”

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Tommy Albrecht and Nathan Kaupert timed it so that they had entered their respective target room each at the same time.  The first problem they encountered was that each boy had one arm handcuffed to an old fashioned metal bed frame. 

“Earl . . . Paul, do either of you have a handcuff key?” Albrecht asked in a whisper.

“Ahh, fuck!” Desotel said. “You shittin’ me?”

“I don’t,” Coffey whispered.

“Neither do I,” Gates said quietly.

Albrecht went over to the bed and looked at Cory Rowell, half-hiding under a filthy sheet.

“I’m with the FBI.  We’re going to get you outta here, but I’m gonna need your help.”  He paused and then whispered, “Okay?”

Rowell nodded once.

“How much slack do these have?”

Albrecht gently lifted the boy’s arm and followed the chain to the bed frame.  Not much room to maneuver.

“Can you get down on the floor?”

Rowell got out of bed and went to the side of the bed and was able to lie down awkwardly with his arm up against the bed frame.  Albrecht got him a pillow and a blanket to wrap around him, and as he did so, told Kaupert what to do with his boy, Sean Jarvis, next door.

“Cory, stay wrapped up and on the floor.  One of us will be back to get you.  I promise.”

Rowell, who hadn’t said anything, nodded.

Albrecht met Kaupert outside the next rooms and signaled to Earl Coffey and Paul Gates to watch the guard’s doors.  Then on a three count, Albrecht and Kaupert opened the next two rooms; the ones right next to the rooms where the guards were.

*                                                        *                                                        *

“How many guards?” Jamie asked quietly.

The fat man said nothing, so Jamie squatted down in front of the man and loosened the duct tape covering his mouth.

“I asked a question, and I want an answer.”

The fat man spit at Jamie who answered by slamming his gun into the side of his head and wiping his face off with his sleeve.  Then he replaced the duct tape.

“Seven,” the boy said from the bed.

“Seven?” Jamie was shocked.

He and Pete had figured three or four.  The boy didn’t answer or move.  Jamie grimaced and then spoke into his collar.

“Pete, we have at least seven guards, probably all with weapons.”

“Christ!  Nothing’s easy,” Pete answered.  “Fitz . . . Skip, you copy?”

He received almost simultaneous answers to the affirmative.

“Jamie, we need to get in there and secure the kids,” Pete said.

“Working on it.”

Jamie turned to the brown-haired boy sitting on the bed.

“You’re Brett, right?’

“Who’s askin’?”

“I’m Jamie Graff, a policeman working with the FBI.”

“There’s a cop two doors down fucking Tim.  Is he workin’ with the FBI too?”

Jamie opened his mouth to answer, but shut it without saying anything.  The boy glared at Jamie daring him to say something.

“Look, you don’t have to trust me, but I want to get all of you home today, so I’m going to need your help.”

The boy continued glaring at Jamie.  It was a silent standoff, Jamie hoping for the boy’s help, and the boy, not sure if he could trust Jamie.

“I’m Brett . . . McGovern,” the boy finally said.  He pointed at the fat man groaning on the floor and said, “That fat piece of shit is Butch.  Right now, he’s the only one awake.  What time is it?”

Jamie looked at his watch and said, “About twenty to six.”

“We have about thirty . . . maybe forty-five minutes tops, and the others will wake up.  The cop should be finished with Tim about the same time.  We better hurry.”

Naked, he jumped off the bed, and stepped over to the fat man so that he knelt in front of him.

“Hey, Fuckhead,” he whispered.  He grabbed the fat man by his ears, lifted his head up as far as the fat man’s neck would allow and slammed his face into the floor twice in rapid succession.  “That should keep you quiet . . . Fuckhead!”

He stood and smiled at Jamie.

“Um, do you have anything you can wear?”

He shook his head.

“None of us do.  They don’t want us to wear anything at night.  We don’t get clean boxers until after we shower each morning.  Problem is, we’re not in ‘em all that much.”

Jamie was disgusted, angry and sickened at the way the boys were treated, but frankly, he hadn’t known what to expect.  It was more than horrible and more than a crime.  It was beyond anything he had ever worked on or would ever want to work on. 

Ever. 

Nothing, absolutely nothing could take this memory away.  He longed to hold his wife, Kelly, and to hold his son, Garrett.  Once he had them in his arms, he vowed to himself right then and there he’d never let go.

“You okay?” Brett asked.

Jamie wiped his eyes and said, “We have to get my men into the building, and we have to get the rest of the kids safe.”

“Come on,” the boy said he went to the doorway.

He looked both ways and then sprinted quietly to the room with the windows.  Jamie caught up with him, and together, searched for the control to the door on the street. 

Not finding any, Jamie said, “Go back to your room and wait.  I’ll go down and open the door.”

“No,” Brett said.  “You stay here and protect the guys.  I’ll open the door, but you’ll have to open it for us because they lock it from the inside.”

“Move quickly and silently,” Jamie said, not liking the plan at all. “You’ve got to be careful.”

Brett nodded, stuck his head out the doorway, looked both ways and then ran silently to the door, opening it and then shutting it quietly without making any noise.

“Pete, get to the door.  Now!”

*                                                        *                                                        *

Albrecht and Kaupert went into their respective rooms and did the same thing with the second set of boys as they had done with the first set.  Albrecht helped Greg Montgomery to the floor just as he had with Corey Rowell next door.  Kaupert helped Mike Faustino in the last room.  The four officers huddled quietly outside of Rowell’s room. 

“We don’t use the key because it’ll tip them off,” Albrecht said.

“We’ll have to smash the door on the first try, or we’re toast,” Coffey said.

Albrecht was a bit smaller than Coffey who was broad, strong and compact.  Kaupert was bigger than Gates, who was tall and slender.  It would be Coffey on one door and Kaupert on the other.  Albrecht teamed with Earl Coffey, while Kaupert teamed with Paul Gates.

“On my count,” Albrecht said.

They moved to their respective doors with Albrecht and Gates standing just off to the side, crouched, on first positive safety: gun safety off, with trigger finger on the side of the barrel.  Albrecht nodded,
one
. . .
two
. . .  and both men broke through their doors at the same time, splintering the doors as if they were made of plywood.  Albrecht and Gates were on the guards before they had a chance to move out of bed.  Handguns were in reach on the nightstands, but neither had a chance.

“FBI!  On the floor, Asshole!” Gates said.

Albrecht echoed it in his room.

Both guards were on the floor, hands bound behind their back, feet bound together, duct tape over their mouth.

“Nathan, any problem with your two guards?”

There wasn’t a response right away, but then Gates said, “Only one guard here.  We thought you had two in your room.”

Coffey and Albrecht looked at each other and then Albrecht said, “Guys, we’re missing a guard.”

*                                                        *                                                        *

The door opened, and Pete came in, followed by Skip Dahlke who had race-walked back up the alley, so he could enter the front door.  Fitz, still in the guise of a street person, took his position in the alley opposite the metal garage door.  Brett put his finger to his lips to keep them quiet and motioned to the two men to follow him.  Pete reached out and gently held the boy’s shoulder.

“What’s your name?”

“Brett.”

He started back up the stairs, and the two men followed closely behind.

At the second floor landing, Brett stopped and put his finger to his mouth again, then whispered to Pete and Skip, “We think the guards sleep on this floor.  We don’t have much time.  They’ll be awake soon.”

He ran up the next flight and Brett motioned to Pete and said, “Tell the detective we’re here.”

Pete spoke into his collar, “Jamie, we’re here.  Open up.”

The door cracked open, and the three of them slipped through.

“There’s a cop with one of the boys,” Jamie said.  “Brett said there are at least seven guards.”

The three men looked at Brett and Pete asked, “You sure he’s a cop?”

“Positive,” Brett said.

Pete wanted to know how he knew, but he didn’t have to ask because deep down, he knew the answer.

“What room is he in?” Pete asked.

Brett pointed to the fifth door on the left.

“You have a key?” Pete asked Jamie.

“Yeah . . . a master, I think.”

“I’ll go in and tell him Butch is giving him me on the house,” Brett suggested.

“No,” Pete said gently. “Let us handle him.”

“The guy’s a pig.  He’ll want me.”

Pete, Jamie and Skip looked at each other, then back at Brett.

Jamie took hold of Brett’s shoulder and said, “Brett, listen . . .”

“I’ll be ok.  I’ve done it before with this asshole.”

“Jesus!” Pete said.

“
I
don’t like it,
Asshole
!” Brett said through clenched teeth.

Pete shook his head.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said quietly.

“Whatever,” Brett said.  “Gimme the key,” he said holding out his hand to Jamie.  “You be ready to move when I get in.”

Jamie didn’t like the decision but gave the key to Brett and followed him to the door, as did Pete.  Skip stood behind Pete on the other side of the door.  Jamie took Brett’s shoulder and bent low to whisper into his ear.

“What side is the bed on?”

Brett poked his thumb to the right.

“When you get in, move to the right as close as you can to the wall.  I’ll come in on your left.  My gun will be out and pointed with the safety off.”  He paused and asked, “You know what that means?”

Brett nodded and said, “You better tell these two guys to watch the hall doors.  It’s getting late.”

Pete nodded and motioned Skip to move back to the front entrance.  Pete moved to the other end.

“Skip, stay against the wall and stay low.”

Brett waited until Pete and Jamie were in position, then he looked back at Jamie and nodded.  He inserted the key and heard a voice on the other side.

“Hey . . . what the . . . it’s not time yet.”

Brett pushed open the door, entered and said, “Butch thought you might want me.”

Jamie heard the man say, “Oh, you!  Okay!”

Brett moved to the foot of the bed, close to the wall, and just like that, Jamie rushed into the room and shoved his gun into the man’s neck.

“Get off the kid . . . now!” 

The man didn’t move.

“I said, NOW!” 

Jamie grabbed the man by the hair, pushing his gun further into the man’s face.  The man climbed off, hunched low and moved to the floor.

“You know the drill . . . hands behind your head and lace your fingers.”  Then he said, “Pete, need your help.”

Pete came on a run, gun out and ready.

“Keep your gun on him,” Jamie said. 

When the man turned to look at Pete, Jamie slammed the butt of his gun into the side of the man’s head.

“Keep your eyes straight ahead, Fucker!”

Quickly, just as he had done with the fat man, he cuffed the cop’s hands and feet and duct taped his mouth shut while he Mirandized him.

Pete went through the cop’s clothes, taking the wallet out of the man’s pants and opened it to find the driver’s license.  He shoved the gun into his belt at the small of his back and kicked the tazer, handcuffs, and nightstick to the side away from the man.

“Robert Manville . . . Cop,” Pete said with disgust.

Tim hadn’t moved off his stomach, but watched the two men suspiciously.

“Timmy, you’re bleeding,” Brett said.

He took a handful of moist wipes and began cleaning Tim off.