Called to Protect Read online

  Within minutes, the trailer was empty, the furniture now sitting on the side of the road in the emergency lane—and anywhere else they could find a spot. Hank was itching to get back inside. “Guys,” Chloe said, “Hank’s not finished in there.”

  “Let him back in,” Vincent said. “The furniture could have been covering more up.”

  Chloe released the agitated dog, and he darted back inside and raced all the way to the front area just behind the cab. She climbed in after him.

  Vincent looked up. “We’ll work this while you see what Hank’s got to say.”

  Derek and Vincent examined the floor. Now assigned to OCN, Derek deployed as SWAT when needed. He’d been needed today. A scraping sound followed by a grunt of discovery had her turning.

  “Well, well,” Vincent said. “Look what we found.”

  He held up several bags similar to the ones that had been found on the road. “There’s a hole in the bottom of the trailer—storage. Someone altered it so they could stuff the bags into this compartment from below. Must have hit something that jarred the latch loose and a couple of the bags slid out.”

  Hank whined and continued his restless behavior.

  “What is it, boy?”

  He pawed at the plywood on the front wall, then raced the width of the trailer, back and forth, nose in the air.

  “Guys? Hank’s on to something else. Might be more drugs back there.”

  “We’ll get back there in a minute,” Derek said.

  And then the pounding started—a frantic beating on the other side of the wood.

  “Hey! Derek, Vincent, come here, now!”

  They joined her. Vincent turned. “Somebody get me a crowbar!”

  Seconds later, an officer slapped one into his hand.

  “Let’s get this wood off,” Chloe said.

  One hard jerk pulled the first piece off and it clattered to the floor.

  Weeping and cries for help reached her. Together, she and Derek and Vincent pulled the rest of the plywood down. In stunned disbelief, Chloe found herself staring into at least a dozen pairs of terrified eyes.

  Deputy US Marshal Blake MacCallum ran a shaky hand through his hair as he read the text for the millionth time.

  You have 24 hours to kill the judge. Make it look like an accident. If you fail, she dies.

  Thirty minutes before his shift started, while he was still munching a bagel and cream cheese, the text had shown up on his phone. That had been five hours ago and had contained a picture.

  A picture of his daughter, seventeen-year-old Rachel, holding a newspaper with today’s date, her pretty green eyes filled with terror. The gun against her temple broke his heart—and sent a fear beyond anything he’d ever known shafting through him. As well as relief because the picture was proof she was alive.

  Does she have her insulin? She’s a type 1 diabetic.

  That was the second time he’d sent that text. And the second time he didn’t get an answer. But the date on the newspaper reassured him. She was getting her insulin from somewhere.

  Rachel had disappeared a little over a week ago, along with her best friend, Lindsey Edgars. The day of the girls’ disappearance—before he’d even realized something was wrong—he’d received the first text with a picture of her that demanded he tell no one she was missing. That if he informed his “cop buddies” or the media got hold of it, she was dead.

  And they would be in touch.

  So, he’d sent the text informing them of her diabetes and waited, breathless, terrified. Desperate to know what they wanted while trying to offer his comfort to her friend’s mother without letting on that Rachel was missing too. Lindsey had a missing persons report filed and was on the evening news. Mrs. Edgars wondered why Rachel wasn’t.

  “Why can’t you find her?” she’d cried just last night. “You find fugitives for a living. Why can’t you find a seventeen-year-old girl!”

  Her questions haunted him. Because part of him wondered the same thing. Instead of letting his guilt and fear get the best of him, he’d worked feverishly behind the scenes. Eating occasionally, snagging a nap here and there while he continued to fulfill his duties with his job so no one would suspect anything was wrong.

  He’d finally exhausted every idea on how to find his daughter by himself and came to the conclusion that he simply couldn’t do it. After three days of continued silence from Rachel’s kidnappers, he’d told his best friend, FBI Special Agent Linc St. John, what was going on and asked for his help. Linc had promised to utilize his resources and do everything he could to find Rachel—without letting anyone know he was looking.

  And now this.

  Kill the judge.

  So that’s why they’d taken her. Leverage.

  Twenty-four hours. Minus the five that had passed since the text.

  When he’d first received the message, he’d immediately contacted Linc with the new information.

  I have 24 hours to kill the judge I’m protecting. If I don’t, Rachel dies.

  Linc

  WHAT?

  Need to meet with you.

  When and where?

  He’d set up the meeting and met with Linc, who’d ordered him to continue as though nothing was wrong while Linc utilized his bureau resources to trace the text. That had been five hours ago.

  Blake was still waiting while he guarded the man he was supposed to kill.

  His phone buzzed again and he glanced at it with a mixture of irritation and fear. When he saw who it was, the irritation won out.

  Frank

  Are you coming to visit?

  His brother just wouldn’t give up, badgering Blake to visit their father.

  No. I’m in the middle of something and couldn’t get away even if I wanted to.

  Okay. Might do you good to say goodbye.

  I said goodbye years ago. You should have, too.

  He’s our father.

  He was our abuser. He was no father and we don’t owe him anything.

  The texts stopped.

  Blake swept away the bitterness that memories of his childhood always brought with them and focused on his priorities.

  This shouldn’t have to be a priority because it shouldn’t be happening. Rachel was supposed to be at swim practice. She was supposed to be hanging out with her best friend. She was supposed to be safe, not being used as a pawn to manipulate her father into committing murder.

  Blake watched the man who was sitting on the sofa in his luxury home, reading through a stack of files. US District Court Judge Benjamin Worthington. A stern man, known for his harsh rulings for those who appeared before him in court and his rabid stance against human trafficking, he, nevertheless, had been perfectly hospitable to Blake and his partner, JoAnn Talmadge.

  The death threats had started three weeks ago when the judge went before the Senate. The same Senate who had confirmed his presidential appointment. He’d presented his support for a bill that, if passed into a law, would make prison terms much more strict for those convicted of human trafficking—even offering up the possibility of the death penalty. Blake and Jo were just one pair of marshals assigned to protect the man after the vicious threats began.

  But someone had found a weak link.

  Blake was the only one with a teenage daughter.

  Who was now in the hands of the people who wanted Ben Worthington dead.

  The judge stood. “I’m going to change and work out. By the way, Stan, Paula, and Miles are coming to dinner later.”

  The home gym on the lower floor was as well-equipped as any club and the man used it regularly.

  And his grown children often stopped by. The daughter and her fiancé, Miles Childs, more so than the son. Their meals were often simply heat and serve, thanks to the cook who prepared them weekly for the family.

  Blake nodded. “Let me know when you’re ready to go down and I’ll sweep it for you. I’ll also let the marshals coming in for the next shift know to expect Paula and Miles tonight.” Paula Wo
rthington was a prosecutor with a reputation that rivaled her father’s when it came to putting criminals behind bars. Her brother, Stan, worked as a parole officer while taking night classes toward his PhD in criminal justice.

  “I’ll be about ten minutes, thanks.” Ben disappeared down the hall to the master bedroom. His wife, Lucy, had yet to make an appearance today. She often chose to stay squirreled away in her home office, working on her latest novel.

  “You okay?” JoAnn asked. She stood in the doorway of the kitchen, having just completed her perimeter check of the grounds. JoAnn’s short blonde hair curled around her cheeks in an attractive wind-swept style. With blue eyes and high cheekbones, she could have graced the cover of any magazine, yet had chosen to go into law enforcement. And while she’d made it clear she’d be fine with taking their partnership to a more intimate level, Blake found himself not interested. Right now, his only concern lay in finding his daughter without having to commit murder to do so.

  He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Why?”

  “You had a look on your face that I’ve never seen before.”

  He nodded. “Just got a disturbing text. It’s nothing, though.”

  She frowned. “Want to share?”

  “No, but thanks.”

  She blinked. “Okay.” And dropped it.

  Guilt pierced him. JoAnn was a good woman and an excellent partner. And it was quite possible, the longer he kept his mouth shut, the more danger Rachel was in.

  “Sorry, Jo. I just need to think for now. I may want to talk about it a little later.”

  “No problem. All’s clear outside.” She walked into the den and crossed her arms. “There have been no more threats since the third one.” The judge had received three specific threats to his life over a period of seven days. It had scared him bad enough that he’d called in the marshals. “Everything’s been quiet for two weeks,” Jo said. “You think we’re still necessary?”

  He met her gaze. “Yeah. I do.”

  She frowned. “All right, then.”

  Judge Worthington, who’d insisted they call him Ben, came from his room, decked out in his pricey workout attire. “I’m ready, but I’ll need to head to the courthouse in about an hour and a half.”

  “That’s fine.” Blake stood, his mind still on his daughter.

  JoAnn touched his arm. “Stay here. I’ll clear it.”

  His partner had read him like a book. He was distracted, and while he could hide it from most of the world, JoAnn had learned to pick up on his moods. He nodded. “I’ll stay with Mrs. Worthington.”

  And he’d stay alert although there’d been no attempt to harm the judge at home—or anywhere else. But they couldn’t ignore the threats. Especially now.

  His phone buzzed and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to look at it or not. With a sigh, he turned the screen toward him and relief zipped through him.

  Relief it wasn’t a text with a picture of Rachel dead or another threat. The name still brought a grimace. Another text from Rachel’s swim coach.

  I don’t know what’s going on, but Rachel’s missed four practices. If she misses another one, she’s off the team.

  Blake curled his fingers into a fist, then relaxed them and pressed them to eyes that burned from lack of sleep. It’s not his fault. He doesn’t know. Rachel getting kicked off the swim team was the least of his worries right now.

  The judge and Jo had disappeared into the basement and Blake drew in a steadying breath.His phone buzzed again.

  Linc

  No way to trace the texts or the number. All texts were sent from different locations. Some miles apart. Still pulling on resources. Hang tight.

  Blake rose. He checked the doors and windows, looked in on Mrs. Worthington who didn’t even notice him peeking in the door of her office, then dropped onto the couch. Lowering his head into his hands, his mind spun.

  He couldn’t allow anything to happen to an innocent person because of his lack of focus. And yet his thoughts went to “what if . . .”

  It wouldn’t be hard to kill the man. A simple attack while he slept and he could break his neck before he knew what hit him.

  The fact that he played out the scene in his mind from start to finish horrified him.

  No, he couldn’t do it.

  But Rachel—

  Not even for Rachel.

  But—

  He looked at his phone again. Her eyes pleaded with him, her sheer terror jumped from the screen to wrap around his throat.

  Blake didn’t have murder in him.

  But he might have to if he wanted to see Rachel alive again.

  3

  One by one, they’d coaxed the girls from the back of the trailer and passed them off to social workers, counselors, and paramedics. “Seventeen girls,” Chloe said. She leaned against her Chevy Tahoe while Hank lay at her feet chewing on the end of his toy rope—his favorite reward for a job well done. “One can’t be older than twelve.”

  Derek stood beside her while the young women were given bottles of water and reassured that they were safe. They were also encouraged to talk to the victim advocates who would be arriving at the hospital to offer additional support.

  Some of the girls would cooperate. Others wouldn’t. Those who told their stories would heal faster than those who stuffed their emotions down. Chloe took the rope from a happy Hank and tucked it into her belt.

  “Sometimes I hate people,” Derek said. “Are there any good ones left?”

  She raised a brow at him. “Yes. Us. And we’re not supposed to hate anyone—even the bad ones. We’re just supposed to catch them and put them out of business. Leave your emotions out of it.”

  “You sound like Mom.”

  “Thanks. She’s pretty smart.”

  He huffed a short laugh. “Because that’s what you do, right? Leave your emotions out of it?”

  She shot him a sideways glower and he smirked, knowing full well her emotions sometimes got entangled in a case. They fell silent. She finally sighed. “That was good shooting, Derek. Stop questioning yourself.”

  His troubled gaze met hers. “It’s scary how you can read me.” He swiped a hand across his face. “I didn’t have a choice. It was either them or innocents.”

  “I know that and you know that. The question is, why do you feel guilty about it?” Every single time he had to make the choice to take a life, he grieved the loss until he finally accepted he’d done what he had to do to save lives.

  He gave a subtle shrug. “I don’t. Not really. I just regret the abrupt ending for those two. There are no more opportunities for them to do the right thing.”

  “True. But you saved many who now have that option. One of them shot Ralph. And a kid. No one died—at least because of a shooter—and that’s thanks to you.”

  He relaxed a fraction. “Yeah, I know.” He hugged her one-armed. “Thanks, Sis. You can always make me feel better.”

  “That’s what sisters are for. Especially favorite ones, right?” They both knew Izzy was his favorite. And rightly so as his twin. Chloe didn’t hold it against him.

  “Exactly.” He rolled his eyes, then his shoulders. “Guess I’ll have a couple of days off. Come see me so I don’t get too bored.”

  “Right.”

  It was standard procedure after a shooting to be on leave while the incident was investigated. It was a clean shoot. Derek would be fine.

  One lane of the bridge had been reopened and traffic crawled at a snail’s pace. The two men Derek had killed had already been removed from the scene. The screens that had been put up to prevent gawkers from seeing the gruesome sight had also been taken away.

  Chloe found her attention drawn back to one of the girls. She’d been the last one off the truck and she’d looked familiar for some reason.

  They’d be transported back to the police station, their identities sorted out, and then reunited with their families. As long as everything went according to plan.

  But Chloe couldn’t take her eyes
off the one girl with the pink-and-black off-the-shoulder shirt. Why did she look so familiar?

  Chloe moved closer so she could study her. She was pretty, with strawberry-blonde hair, blue eyes, and a spattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Cute. Young. Victimized.

  And then it hit her. It wasn’t the girl, it was the shirt.

  She grabbed Derek’s arm. “That’s Penny’s shirt.”

  “What?”

  “The one she was wearing when she disappeared.” Chloe pulled up her cousin’s Instagram account and found the last picture posted. “Here, look.”

  He studied the picture, then lifted his gaze to look at the girl with the shirt Chloe was so interested in. “Whoa. That’s freaky. But Penny disappeared six months ago. There’s no way that’s hers.”

  “Stranger things have happened. I want to talk to her.”

  She started toward the group of girls huddling together on the side of the road. A bus had been called to transport them to the hospital.

  Derek’s hand fell on her upper arm, halting her. “Let’s wait and follow them to the hospital,” he said. “They’re going to be there for a while.”

  Chloe stayed still, but chafed at the restraint. However, he was right. They needed to get the girls off the road and away from the scene. Help them feel safe.

  The bus arrived and the officers helped the girls onto it. They shuffled along, heads down, eyes averted. All but two. The girl with the shirt like Penny’s and another dark-headed young woman who looked to be about sixteen or seventeen. The two of them huddled together, whispering words Chloe would give her right arm to be able to hear. One of the girls stumbled and pressed a hand to her side. The girl wearing Penny’s shirt held her upright.

  Chloe frowned and made her way over to the one who appeared hurt. “Are you all right?”

  Without looking up, she nodded. “I’m fine.”

  “I don’t think so. Let’s get you taken care of.”

  “No, I—”

  “Hey, Stephanie,” Chloe called to the nearest female paramedic, “come here, will you?”

  “No! I’m fine!” She backed away from Chloe. Hank stepped forward with a whine and the girl froze.

  Chloe placed a hand on Hank’s head. “Don’t be scared of him. He won’t hurt you, he’s just concerned like I am.”