Chapter Six

Red lights in the warehouse flashed on and off, blinding Val for a moment, and an alarm blared a repeating pattern of obnoxious blasts. Gunfire erupted in every direction. Bullets struck the metal door with loud thuds, and its tiny window exploded, glass flying everywhere. Men screamed, some in English, others unintelligible amid the cacophony.

“Get back!” Grimes shouted, as if anyone needed to be told. Val’s belly hit the floor and she rolled away, bumping into Hodges, clutching his rifle. More lights flickered off and on.

“One shooter down!” Shannon reported over the radio. “Looks like three or four more on Level Two, at least two more on ground level. Let me know when you want in and we’ll provide cover.”

“Ready, Dawes?” Grimes said.

Another deep breath. “Whenever you are.”

Hodges crawled to the door. He held up three fingers, counted down: two, one, then leaned back against the door, pushing it open.

“Now!” Grimes said, and gunfire erupted inside the room again. Hodges rolled backward and then to one side, and Val scrambled in after him on hands and knees. She crawled to the other side, taking cover behind a row of metal shelves filled with cardboard boxes, each large enough to hold an average microwave oven. Grimes and more SWAT team members spilled in after her, each taking similar positions, spread among the dozen or so long, wide aisles. The shelves, metal structures secured with heavy bolts, stretched upward at least twelve feet. The shelves’ contents blocked the light emitting from fluorescent shop lights on the high ceilings—the few that hadn’t burned out.

“We’re in,” Grimes said.

“Cover us, we’re going up,” Shannon said.

The SWAT team members poked their rifles around the corners of the shelves and sprayed cover fire toward the stairs, high enough to avoid hitting any of their fellow cops. Shannon led her team toward the wooden stairs ascending to the next level along the far wall. Extra safety lighting on the stairs, Val realized with horror, made them stand out as targets.

Hodges and his partner ran to join Shannon’s team, firing without aiming as they ran, getting about halfway up the stairs before gunfire rained down upon them from above. A screaming Hodges fell and clutched his leg, a dark wet stain oozing into the fabric of his pants. His partner flattened onto the steps, firing wildly above them. The shooting from above paused, and feet pounded on the wooden floor overhead.

Val turned away from the action for a few seconds, steadying herself. She clutched her .38 pistol with both hands, her heart pounding like a drum corps out of sync. Surely they could hear it and would fire on her position at any moment. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light, and she imagined the shooters on the other side could see her as plain as day. She unclenched her jaw, already aching. Breathe in. Count to three. Exhale. Repeat.

A bullet exploded into the boxes above her, splashing a dark and viscous liquid onto the walls, and onto her and Grimes. It smelled like motor oil. Thankfully, not gasoline or something even more combustible.

“They’re behind us!” Shannon’s panicked voice sounded in her ears. More gunfire, screaming, and pounding feet. Val peeked around the corner of her aisle. Shannon lay on the stairs next to Hodges, sheer terror splashed across her face. Bullets ripped into the wall behind her, above her, missing by inches. Another one struck Hodges in the same leg. He screamed, an agonizing cry.

“We’ve got to do something!” Val hissed into her mic.

“Got any ideas?” Grimes shot back, his voice a hoarse whisper.

Val traced the gunfire raining on Shannon’s position back to its source. Two men crouched behind shelves near the back entrance. Both aimed semi-automatic rifles at the stairs, firing in rapid succession. The slender man in front wore a light-colored T-shirt. The heavier man behind him blended into the dim light in a long-sleeved shirt and jeans. The closer one’s shirt glowed in the fluorescent light. An unfortunate choice of clothing in a dark firefight.

She aimed at the slender man’s torso, steadying her weapon with her free hand. Fired.

He fell back, clutching his left side, his rifle firing one last random shot as he collapsed onto the floor. His partner dove for cover, knocking boxes off the shelves. That kept him in clear view, and the attack on Shannon’s position paused.

“Good shot, Dawes!” Grimes said. “O’Reilly, can you get out of there?”

“Cover me!” Shannon headed up the stairs.

The man in back checked on his partner. Val fired at him. The round lodged into the metal garage-door-style wall behind him, almost as loud as the report from her weapon. He dove back behind the shelves, then crept forward again.

Val guessed that he wanted to get into position to shoot at Shannon and her team again, sitting ducks while pinned down on the stairs. The shelves and their contents screened Val’s view of him, but she calculated his position and fired. A loud grunt and clattering of wood and metal on concrete told her he’d dived to the floor. Scrambling footsteps told her she hadn’t hit him—at least not anywhere vital.

Moments later, a door opened inward. Not the exit, though. From her memory of the building’s schematic, Val guessed: the stairs to the basement, used for cold storage.

A blur moved through the door. The rifleman.

Val sprinted after him, reaching top speed in seconds. A bullet ricocheted off the concrete floor next to her into a box on the shelf. She ran on, faster. She reached the door and gazed into the dark basement. Nobody visible. Weapon drawn, she crept down the stairs. A musty odor pinched at her nose, along with the stink of urine and feces. Like a backed-up sewer pipe.

In the distance, footsteps sounded, along with muffled cries. Female. Probably behind the doors off to one side of the cavernous space. Captives? She started toward the sound.

Movement in the dim light stopped her. Another door opened and closed. Val ran toward it, pulled it open. An even darker space—no, a tunnel, missing from the schematic. At least a hundred yards long, its only light came from the basement area behind her.

Footsteps pounded on the tunnel floor ahead of her. She could just make out the shape of a tall, heavy-set man, holding what looked like a rifle, running away from her.

She lodged her pocket notebook in the crack of the door, propping it open, then turned to follow him. The rifle exploded ahead of her, bullet whizzing by her torso. Had she not turned…

She fired back, and footsteps echoed in the space once more. She ran after him, shot again. The bullet ricocheted off the concrete floor and walls. The man’s labored breathing gave away his position as much as his heavy tread. She gained on him with every step. She’d last competed at a track meet over a year before, but she could still outrun garden-variety thugs carrying rifles.

The man reached the end of the tunnel, with Val about forty yards behind him. She expected him to turn and fire, but he surprised her by throwing the rifle to the ground and grabbing something metallic on the wall. A ladder. He hurried up the rungs, pushing a trap door open over his head. He reached up as if to pull himself up and out—

Val, approaching the ladder, readied herself for the leap. As if jumping the highest hurdle of her life, she lunged forward and upward, her right hand holding her weapon, the left stretching toward him. He lifted himself up, his feet dangling from the opening. Val grabbed the man’s ankle, but her hand slipped to his shoe, and she feared it would slip off. Her fingers found purchase on his laces, and she yanked them hard, even as her body slammed into the ladder. She bounced off, still holding his foot. He grunted, screamed, kicked at her. Her grip loosened, but her feet found one rung of the ladder. Still, she’d lose her grip if he kicked long and hard enough.

He kicked again. She held on, somehow.

She’d have to use her weapon. But not in the usual way. She wanted him alive and talking.

Careful not to pull the trigger, she lunged upward and drove the barrel of her pistol into the man’s groin. He screamed, and his considerable weight landed on Val’s shoulders, knocking her off the ladder. He landed on the floor next to her, on his backside. His head smacked hard on the floor. A moment later, his eyes closed, and his body relaxed.

Val checked his pulse. Alive and breathing, but unconscious. She cuffed him to the ladder and leaned against the wall to catch her breath.

***

Val’s earbuds exploded with noise moments later, snapping her back to the present.

“Dawes! Where the hell are you?” Grimes’s voice shouted in her ear.

“Detained a suspect downstairs,” Val said, breathing hard. “I heard women’s voices down here. Should I come back up or—”

“Check out the voices. The pansies in charge of this gang surrendered without firing a shot. I’ll send backup.”

“Copy.” Val checked one last time to make sure her suspect couldn’t escape, then jogged back down the tunnel.

The basement’s main section housed the typical utility appliances of a large building: furnace, water heater, electric panel, and an array of pipes running amid metal joists overhead. Off to her right, unpainted gypsum board with four factory-white three-panel doors created separation for what appeared to be small bedrooms or closets. No light shone from the cracks around any of the doors.

But whimpering sounds came from behind one—no, two of the doors. The two in the center. Val approached the nearer door, jiggled the handle. Locked. But it was a cheap lock, a keyed door handle, no deadbolt. She guessed the opposite handle lacked a keyhole, or had no knob at all. She knocked on both doors.

“Help!” replied a female voice, young—perhaps no older than fourteen or fifteen, from the closer door. Moaning and crying emanated from the other. Weak, sad, and desperate.

Val fished a thin wire out of her belt, already bent into a hook shape for this purpose. She slid it into the crack between the door and frame below the handle, jimmied it to find the latch, and found the right spot.

Seconds later, the first door swung open, exposing a closet about six by eight feet, also with concrete floors and unpainted wallboard. The dim light from the basement shined on a huddled figure, a female of Asian descent, shivering against the wall. Dressed only in her underwear and a camisole, the girl was filthy, with long black hair tangled around her neck and shoulders. The girl, or the room—or both—reeked of urine, feces, and blood. She couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen.

The girl’s eyes widened at seeing Val, and she curled into a tighter ball. “Don’t hurt me,” she said. “Please.”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Val said. The girl winced, and Val guessed that her captors told her the same thing, countless times each day. “I’m Officer Valorie Dawes from the Clayton Police Department. Are you hurt?”

The girl sniffled, shook her head, then nodded. Only then did Val notice the blood splotch between her legs. Poor girl had her period—maybe her first—in this room.

Or… Val shuddered at what the men might have done to her to cause her bleeding. She stepped closer and crouched next to the girl, resting her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Would you like to get out of here?”

She nodded. Val helped the girl to her feet and placed her police jacket over her shoulders. It hung to her thighs, thankfully covering her stained underwear.

“What’s your name?” Val asked.

“Vanessa.”

“Vanessa, I’m Val. You’re safe now,” Val said in a low, soothing voice. “We’ve arrested the men who did this to you.” Or killed them, but no need to shock her with that. “I’m going to check the next room over, okay?”

The girl nodded. “Britney’s in there. Maybe another girl. I don’t know her name.”

Footsteps echoed on the staircase. Val led Vanessa out of her tiny prison and greeted Damari Price, entering the basement. “Help me with the other rooms. Vanessa, hang tight a moment, okay?”

Price nodded and ran to the door nearest him, at the last moment leaping and kicking the doorknob. The force of his blow loosened the knob and sent splinters of wood flying. Price howled in pain, holding his foot and swearing.

Val shook her head and held up her wire jimmy. “This is easier,” she said.

Price scowled. “Do I look like a fucking burglar to you? Where’d you get that, anyway? Damn, that hurts.”

“I made it. Comes in handy in times like these.” Val jimmied open the door next to Vanessa’s, where she’d heard moaning a few minutes before. Vanessa’s prediction rang true: two girls, also about twelve or thirteen, lay huddled together against the back wall. It stank even worse than Vanessa’s room.

“Which one of you is Britney?” Val asked.

A white blonde wearing a plain white T-shirt and panties jumped to her feet. “About fucking time. I heard shooting. You kill those motherfuckers?”

Val blinked, exchanging a wary glance with Price. “Let’s just say it’s safe to come out now.” She turned to the other girl. “How about you, young lady? What’s your name?”

“T-T-Tasha.” She rubbed her legs for a few seconds, then stood. Val nearly vomited. A Black girl with tangled dreadlocks halfway down her back, Tasha couldn’t have been older than ten. She wore a white chiffon ballet dress, stained with urine and feces, that barely covered her privates and hung like draperies on her skeletal form. “C-can w-we leave n-now?”

Val nodded, choking back tears. “Yes, you can go home now, Tasha,” Val said. “You’re free.”