SEIZED Part 1: New Adult Romantic Suspense (Seize Me Romance Fiction Series) Read online

  She doesn’t smile. It’s all muscle and business underneath that uniform.

  “Evening, Lieutenant.”

  I’m not in the doghouse but she looks sideways at me. I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t bat an eyelid if I weren’t so new. But she must be trying to get a handle on the late nights.

  “Still on the Lee Case?” Her tone is inquisitive.

  “Yep.” I don’t offer anything further but she leans over the desk to see my files. The photographs of the three boys’ bodies are brutal. Eight-by-ten glossies of pure misery, and they’re not the only ones the Lee ring is suspected of.

  She meets my eyes. “Detective, are you doing all right at 43rd?” I know what she’s trying to say, and fair enough, I guess she has good reason. When I came on board, my psyche files were supplied in full. I’m a cop with a past, and therefore she needs to keep an eye on me regardless of what she thinks.

  “I’m good, Lieutenant.” I meet her eyes to silently communicate that nothing is wrong. She gives me a nod and moves on.

  I can’t help but respect a woman who knows how to boss a group of rogue cops around. I’m glad she’s got a strict policy on station romance, too. The last thing I need is another distraction from police pussy. I’ve already got enough on my plate. My sister’s kid is a handful, and the only commitments on my mind are to care for him, and nail the next case.

  Looking back down at the file, I’m reminded that I’m not the first cop to try and take down Jessup Lee. The guy has a rap sheet that goes back decades, but no one’s even gotten close. Organized crime in New York City is booming, and I can easily imagine the barriers this Lee bunch has put up to stop my predecessors. The tentacles of the mob continue to subtly infiltrate the New York City Police force at every level. That’s the main reason the Trafficking Task Force is remote. We need officers in every jurisdiction to keep an eye on the play. I spend most of my days alone, and I get sick of that sometimes, but the people are there if I want to talk to them. And I don’t, so no real complaints.

  It’s only been three months, but I’ve wanted to join TTF from the moment I made rookie. This shit it real, and the game is long. Some guys devote a career to taking down the key players in a prostitution ring. I need to respect the work they’ve done before me. I need to read everything again, but first of all, I need another cup of coffee.

  Heading over the pot, I’m glad it’s getting late. I’ve had enough for tonight and I just want to work out, hit the showers, and head home. The officer on the booking desk is processing the usual motley crew of hookers and drunks. There are a few token assholes making noise, but I just ignore that shit.

  There’s something about Saturday nights that makes people want to cut loose and end up in a police station. It’s like they forget they’re just gonna wake up in the cells. As if the idea of consequences disappears when you’ve got some booze on hand. If only hindsight came first, I’m sure a bunch of these freaks would straighten their shit out.

  Spotting me through the door, one crummy looking bum starts to stare. This guy must be wasted; he’s so blatant. I don’t engage, and start prepping the coffee pot, but he’s got an appetite for trouble. I can hear him mouthing off in the waiting room. Stupid prick, what does he think he’s gonna do? I must have two feet on him. At six-foot-seven, I’m one of the tallest guys at 43rd. I don’t take that shit for granted, though. I keep it tight. No risks out there, and none of those pretty boy spa and sauna regimes. I keep my nails short, my hair clipped and my weight low. I may be only twenty-five, but I’m a brawler and I’ve got a rep for taking no shit.

  The called me Knuckles in the academy, because sometimes, my temper gets the best of me. I’m not proud of it, but I was born that way. When you’re raised like I was, you need to know how to fight. I box most days, and that helps. Keeps a lid on things. Helps me relax. Makes sure I never show up at home with a temper. My nephew, George, doesn’t need that shit in his life. I know that for real. Had enough experience with my old man to do anything different. The kid’s got no dad, so I gotta look out for him.

  It’s funny—me and the kid—we even look the same, blue eyes, blond hair and stuck with Dad’s jawline. He’s tall already, and I can see he’s gonna be a lady killer one day. My sister Brenda won’t know what the hell to do with him in a few years, so I need to be a good uncle now. Show him the right way to make the world work for him. Show him how to use his brains instead of his fists.

  The pot is dripping nicely now, and I start looking for a cup. The wastebasket is overflowing with plastic and spoons everywhere. Our cleaners won’t be here until five in the morning, so I tidy up a bit as a token gesture. After wiping down the break table, I find some milk in the fridge. Order needs to be maintained in a busy station like this.

  That asshole bum is still mouthing off. I can hear the officer on the desk warning him. He’s a rookie, though. Not much clout yet, and the loser on the bench doesn’t pause for a second. I wander over to booking, and check out his paperwork. He’s in for theft. It’s a misdemeanor compared to the shit I see every day, but I don’t like the sound of his mouth and my look tells him so. Slumped and handcuffed in his seat, he sees I mean business and finally starts to quiet down.

  The guy on desk duty looks at me. “Thanks, Detective Anderson.”

  It’s nothing. I’ve always had some pull with the thugs. Maybe they can see some similarities. Whatever it is, I don’t care. I give the desk sergeant my coffee, as if that was the point of my visit the whole time. I don’t want that asshole to think I give a shit, and the rookie needs building up if he’s gonna get anywhere on this job.

  Heading back to my desk, I start reading again. The case I’m on involves three young boys. These kids were taken from a middle school in Brooklyn, drugged and forced to service the local spiders. Twelve years old. Jesus, it makes me sick. When I took over this caseload I spoke to each of the mothers. They were angry that I called. The case has been open for four years. No doubt they’ve seen a line of cops full of big words who were unable to deliver. If they were alive they’d be off to the prom this year, but they’re not. All three were found dead.

  The first, Danny Lombardi, had scarring on his rectum suggesting the abuse came in multiple daily doses. He was found in a dumpster with a bull gag still tied to his lipstick smudged face. The kid was carrying every STD known to man, but his final wounds were a slit neck, a torn asshole and a cigarette burn to the forehead. They were marking him as all used up. The second kid, Billy Frankton, had cut himself so bad they had to dump him. The medical examiner’s report says he used a broken light bulb to puncture his wrists, then dragged it up, making enough vertical cuts in one arm to bleed out without the help of a pimp. The third’s a mystery. Raymond Fisher was burnt so badly they needed his dental records to make the ID. He was found in a sack, ditched from the bridge like a piece of nasty ass trash. By then, his worth would have dropped enough to make him used goods. The younger and less experienced they are, the better.

  The task force hasn’t been able to land a decent arrest in Jessup Lee’s ring in years. We’re a squad of fifty scattered in stations throughout the city. We come together for weekly briefings, and this year we’re gonna be expanding. I prefer working alone, but the need for more help is urgent. I’m swamped with my caseload and it’s not like trafficking will stop anytime soon. A good pimp will make two hundred thou a year from one girl. There’s always a demand and no reason to shut down such a lucrative game by choice.

  New York is one of the worst trafficking jurisdictions in the country. I hear that girls as young as thirteen are being sent to work. It makes me sick, and the scent of Jessup Lee floats insidiously at every turn. He’s careful though. The bastard never gets caught on site, and never has girls of his own. Maintains the ‘family man’ persona and even has a few legit businesses for cover. No one knows how to link him to the racket; we just know his family’s been at the heart of it for years.

  I pull up a recent picture. It was taken
at some charity gig. I gotta give it to him. This guy has balls, wining and dining in Des Moines society. He makes out like he’s a pillar of the community. Donating to charity and schmoozing with local government. He’s just hiding down there, making himself scarce. The reality is that his network extends right across New York, and well beyond state lines. Jessup’s got minions everywhere. Doing his dirty work and running the operation. Christ, it makes me angry. This guy’s just scum of the earth; all shiny and fresh on the outside, and rotten all the way to his core.

  I wonder if his wife and family even know the extent of his business. I guarantee they’ll say nothing even if they do know. That’s the way it happens with these guys. The wives are aware of what they’re getting into. They also know not to ask. Most of them marry young, have kids, and then they’re trapped. So, even if they did want to leave, they couldn’t. The family makes it hell. Looking at a picture of Jessup and Donna, I can’t see any trace of resentment. They seem happy, but who knows what’s under the surface. I think back to those nights when my own father would get home late, stinking of booze. My mother would be screeching at him, trying to find out where he’d been.

  I’ll bet Donna doesn’t even bother to stay awake when he’s out late. Three wise monkeys, and all that. As far as the case, she’s a dead-end. Wives never rat on husbands so I might as well focus on his associates instead. If anything’s gonna bring him down it’s greed. No one’s immune. All I have to do is catch one of his guys doing something, and then get them to talk. I look closely at Jessup’s face in the shot. The well-cut brown hair frames his wide, high forehead and there’s nothing that screams pimp at all. Even his shirt and tie are classy. He has a mole on the side of his nose. I wonder if he cuts it shaving. I wonder what he says to his kids at the breakfast table.

  Someone as deep in the organization as Lee must have an institutional ability to shut off and separate the compartments of his life. Denial this powerful is built over generations. Humanity’s ability to normalize atrocious acts under the label of business, and then head home for dinner, shocks me. There’s something so carelessly brutal, killing for satisfaction like cats, killing for fun and profit.

  I pull out photos of the top guys in his organization; they’re a mixture of white, black and Latino, a ruthless line-up of murderers and pimps. This is my way in. One of these faces will crack and spill the goods. All I’ve gotta do is get them at the right time and place.

  These are the guys who do his dirty work. The Italians won’t have a part in this, but every other unit in town is connected to one of these men. I know I’ll find them in the parlors or at the gym. There’s a reason for cliché and these guys are it. White or black, they’re all over the Brooklyn gangsta look. Chains and knuckle-dusters, caps and face tattoos, it’s like a fashion show of criminal accessories.

  Who does he trust the most? I need to get inside his head. I need to think like he thinks in order to pull this off. With a groan, I look again at the clock. Nearly four in the morning, and time to quit work and hit the weights. After shutting down my computer and locking the file cabinet, I grab my gym bag and head downstairs to change. The locker rooms are empty just before shift changeover, and I’m glad to be alone.

  I strip out of my jeans and dress shirt. Detectives are in plain clothes, but I still like to pull myself together. Brenda even ironed my shirt this morning. She’s a good sister, generous with her time and a great mom. I’ve been sharing the rent at their place for a few months now. It makes me feel good to give back. She didn’t have the sweetest childhood, either. Life is tougher for women, I think.

  Swinging the gym door open, I see I’m alone in here, too. Good. Just the way I like it. Not many freaks will be up early enough to work out before the start of the next shift, so the gym is mine to try and forget the day. I need to get those kids out of mind. It’ll be too easy to lose perspective and sleep if I don’t. I head over to the treadmill to warm up. Programing in a tough course, I put my head down. Within minutes I’m sweating. This is what I’ve needed. A release. I up the incline and go faster, pushing my body to the limits. The steady pound of my feet falls in time with my heartbeat and I find the rhythm.

  A few years ago you wouldn’t catch me working out, but I’ve changed a lot. The force gave me some discipline. The structure keeps me together. There’s no time to lie around thinking. No time to feel guilty. It’s getting hot now, so I take off my shirt and use it to wipe the sweat from the keypad. Seeing myself in the reflection of the doors, I grin. Anyone who knew me back then wouldn’t recognize me now. Life is good.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Carrie

  I want to scream, but nothing comes out. April looks terrified, and rightly so. Her attacker is huge and he’s not alone. The hulks are dressed in black, wielding dirty guns. Her pale cheek has a dark grease mark where he’s pressing the weapon. I know I need to do something but all my training doesn’t touch the sides of this fear.

  It’s like I’m paralyzed. Everything I’ve learned in the Dojo deserts me. My mind is blank and my stomach seizes. Time slows down. The men say nothing to each other, but I can see they’re working together. One signals the other to ease up on her face. April’s captive doesn’t look willing, though he grunts and lowers the weapon. In the streetlight I see the mangled burns on his hands. Now he’s got her by the neck and she’s starting to choke, her eyes bulging.

  She makes eye contact with me for a second and her moan reminds me of a wild cat. She’s twisting and trying to breathe. He laughs at her attempt and shakes her body like a wet towel. A scream slips from her mouth but he silences her with two fast bashes to the temple. Her head tips back. Blood is already gushing from the wound as he holsters the weapon. I’m sickened at her limp form, draped almost suggestively against him. There’s one breast exposed from her halter top, and it’s the sight of that pink nipple that snaps me out of my trance.

  I look around and notice the street is quiet. It must be close to four in the morning, but the only cars on the road are those parked in lines along the pavement. There’s a trash can close by, and I wonder if there are any bottles inside. I silently edge toward it, moving slowly to avoid their attention. So far they seem focused solely on April, so I keep inching over. My heart is pounding, but I know have to do something to help my best friend.

  April’s the only one who really understands me. She annoys me, but I love her, and I know she’s not strong enough for this. They’ll kill her and she won’t fight. The girl spends her life in vet clinics and horseback riding. She’s never learned to protect herself. She never had any need, and couldn’t understand why I was so devoted to Judo. I rummage in the trash with one hand, going by touch and trying not to make a sound as the nightmare plays out like a movie in front of my eyes. This can’t be real, but it is. I can see the blood on her dress and the pain in her face as she starts to come to.

  My hand finally settles around the neck of a wine bottle, but before I can do a thing they’re dragging her toward the car. April is struggling again, her feet kicking uselessly at the two thugs who have her. They wrestle her toward the vehicle with almost no effort.

  Smashing the bottle against the steel trash can, it shatters, and I’m armed. The noise spurs her on but riles them up.

  “Carrie!” she screams through the chokehold on her neck, and by then they’ve seen me standing there staring with my broken bottle and my short skirt. There’s a sense of urgency in the air as they begin to move quickly into an attack formation. I see these guys are trained, but they’re not the only ones, and my vision clears as I look down at my jagged glass stake.

  Hurrying now, they crunch April’s slender form violently into the trunk of the black sedan. One slams the door down and begins to talk into an earpiece while the other two run at me. Ice freezes each vertebrae of my spine, and I’m locked in place for a second, watching their black clad forms advance.

  It’s all happening so fast, but so slowly. I can hear the heavy breathing and see the
pockets in their shirts rise and fall. My vision is crystal clear as my training kicks in, and I know what to do. I take a vital second to plant my feet in a fighter’s stance.

  It’s all I can do to get stable before they tackle me. We go down hard but I’m good on the floor and scramble away as one gets hold of my foot. Kicking back hard my heel connects with his eye, and I hear a grunt. He rolls away from me toward the wall, blood spatters, and my confidence returns.

  Just then I’m stunned by a slap to the back of head. My face bounces off the concrete, and I feel pressure in my ears. Tears pour from my eyes and I see a piece of ancient bubble gum on the pavement next to my face. I’m stunned by the pain shooting down my neck, but I make sure not to move, needing to trick them into thinking I’m down.

  I lie there for a second, ignoring the pain. Their guns must be in the car; I’d be dead otherwise. My mind clears as I calculate the best course of action. One of the thugs is lying nearby, still holding his head. There’s blood pouring out the eyehole of his ski mask. Another’s in the driver’s seat, revving the engine and yelling. There’s one to my left and one near the car door.

  Adrenaline pumps through my veins and fuels a primal anger. Wild rage has me up and off the pavement. Baring my teeth, I run headfirst at the guy on my left, bottle extended. He’s busy focusing on the car, trying to hear what the driver is saying. The bottle, then my body, slams into his chest. I may not be tall, but I’m no lightweight, and I hear the wind go out of him. He’s off balance so I plunge my knee once and then twice into his groin for extra measure.

  He goes down, and I feel a rush of pride. Yeah, boy! Then, two strong hands are around my neck and I drop the bottle. The pressure shocks me. My throat feels like it’s going to implode, and my lungs heave for air. I twist my pelvis and elbow him in the side. I know I’ve hit his liver when he falters and I use that second to twist away and run. His hands grab at my hair, and I feel a chunk of it rip out as I struggle like a delinquent puppet trying to escape. If the other guy gets up, this is over. The only plan is to run. I’m tiny compared to them, but I’m fast. I ran track in high school. Endless hours pounding the oval helped me process everything and escape. Running saved me back then, and I need it to save me now. If only I had proper shoes. With a grunt, I break free, and he loses his grip on my hair. I know I’ll have a bald patch, but I only have seconds to put some distance between us. April’s purse bumps at my hip as I bolt. It nearly catches on the trashcan and my stomach drops, certain it’s over, but then I’m free and the air feels wet on my face.