He turned the key in the ignition, and the ‘big block’ engine roared to life. Shifting into first, he drove out of the parking lot and headed for his apartment. With the current traffic, it was going to take at least twenty-minutes. He reached for the radio dial, then put his hand back on the steering wheel, with the day’s events creeping back into his mind.
Twenty minutes later he pulled in front of the apartment garage gate, punched in a code on the box, then waited for the gate to lift. Parking was also available to non-residents, but they were required to deposit dollar bills into a slot, then park on the second level and above. Once parked, they had to leave through the entrance or back exit door. The elevator to the apartments required a code.
He drove slowly to the end slot, his assigned space, then turned in next to a Ford wagon, belonging to a family on the third floor. In his rearview mirror he saw the elevator doors closing.
Getting out, he stretched his arms high overhead, then reached for his gym bag. Slinging it over his shoulder, he walked to the elevator, and punched in the code. The elevator light showed floor number seven.
He heard footsteps and turned seeing a man hurrying toward the elevator. The man was middle aged, brown short hair, with streaks of gray.
“Evening,” Grant said.
“How are ya?”
“I’m good, thanks. How ’bout yourself?”
“Fine. Fine.” He glanced up at the lighted number, then turned again to Grant. “I’m visiting my daughter and grandkids. Got here from Ohio this morning.”
“Sounds like you’re going to have a busy stay. Hope you have a good visit,” Grant smiled. He looked up. The light showed “six.”
“Say, you don’t think my daughter will get in trouble for giving me the code to this place, do you?”
“It shouldn’t be a problem, sir.”
As Grant looked up at the lighted numbers, a blow to the back of his head knocked him unconscious. The “visitor” grabbed him before he hit the deck. Lifting Grant’s arm over a shoulder, he struggled walking to the exit door, as “Primex” held it open, carrying Grant’s gym bag. Keeping in the shadow of the alley, he backed up near the brick wall, trying to keep Grant upright, who was a good six inches taller.
“Primex” ran to the next street. Within a minute, he’d started the engine, then turned a corner, driving toward the alley. He threw the gearshift into park, then rushed to open the back passenger door, throwing the gym bag on the floor. Suddenly, a glare of headlights, and a sound of an engine made him duck. The other car kept moving toward Virginia Avenue.
When it was clear, he ran back to the alley, helping to get Grant to the car. They shoved him in the back seat, and working quickly, “Primex” removed a syringe from inside his jacket pocket, and took off the protective plastic cover. Pushing up Grant’s sleeve, he injected the solution.
“Let’s go!”
Doors slammed, and they drove away.
Adler punched in the code numbers, shoved the heavy glass door open, then walked through the brightly lit lobby, going directly to the elevator. It was already on ground level, but his impatience was obvious, as he stepped in then constantly kept pressing the button for the fifth floor. Keeping his eyes on the lighted numbers, he worried. He’d tried repeatedly to call Grant’s apartment and his car phone. Then, deciding enough was enough, he drove to the apartment building.
When the doors parted, he cautiously stepped into the hallway, glancing in both directions. Somewhere down the hall, he heard voices. Only a TV, he thought, letting out a breath.
As he went toward Grant’s door, he pulled a key from his pocket. Looking around one more time, he inserted the key in the lock, then turned it slowly, feeling the deadbolt beginning to give. Grabbing hold of the doorknob with one hand, he pulled his weapon from the holster, then he opened the door just wide enough to slide around. He immediately closed it. Just enough light filtered through slats in the blinds, but still, he waited as a precaution.
The apartment was eerily quiet. The only sound came from the steady drone of the refrigerator in the galley-style kitchen. Holding his weapon close, he began walking toward the living room, then stopped, turning his head to peer down a hallway leading to the only bedroom and bath. He went just beyond it, swiveling his head, trying to see any telltale signs of a struggle — or body. Nothing. Nobody. His mind was telling him Grant wasn’t here, but he needed to check the bedroom anyway. Again, nothing. He put the weapon back in the holster, then flipped on the hall overhead light.
Standing near the front door, he scanned the room again. Nothing was out of place, but there was definitely something wrong. “Goddammit,” he said through clenched teeth.
He shut off the light, locked the door, then took the elevator to the garage. Pulling his jacket down over his holster, he kept watching the lighted floor numbers above the doors. The elevator lurched to a stop. “C’mon!” he said, impatiently waiting for the doors to open. He rushed off, taking a quick look around. Nobody was in sight, no engines running. He spotted the Vette, parked in its usual space. “Oh fuck!” he said quietly. In a way he’d hoped the car hadn’t been there, but this reinforced the fact — something had happened to Grant.
He made a visual inspection around the car. No signs of forced entry. He rubbed a hand over his head. “Maybe his keys, or maybe he dropped something,” he said quietly. Getting on his hands and knees, he started crawling on filthy concrete, looking around the tires, feeling behind them. Nothing. He rolled on his back, frustrated and extremely worried. A sound of a car coming into the garage made him scoot sideways under the Vette. Tires screeched as the unknown vehicle rounded the curve going to the second level. It grew quiet again.
Suddenly, a thought hit him. “Can’t be!” He squirmed under the frame, then began reaching, feeling along and behind door sills. His fingers touched something just behind the passenger door sill. He yanked it off. A homing device. He sat up, staring at the small black box. “What the fuck?”
It didn’t answer the question where Grant was, but now it confirmed the fact that whatever happened to him, he didn’t go voluntarily. It also brought up another disturbing question? Who and why was someone following him? The Russians were a real possibility. But why?
He got up slowly, checked it was clear, then he ran down the ramp, heading for the Mustang. Tires squealed as he pulled away from the curb. He had to get to his apartment and contact the whole Team, maybe even Mullins. There wasn’t any use to call the cops. They’d just tell him he’d have to wait twenty-four hours to report Grant missing. He wasn’t about to wait. But where the hell would he start?
“C’mon, Adler, get your fuckin’ brain working!”
A traffic light turned red, and he hit the brakes. The car skidded on the blacktop, coming to a stop in the crosswalk. He squeezed the steering wheel, then started talking to himself. “Is it possible?! Did ‘Primex’ have something to do with it?” No matter who was involved, there wasn’t a fucking clue to go on. Grant was out there somewhere. How the hell were they going to find him?
The light turned green. He stomped on the gas. The Mustang’s tires smoked and screeched, before grabbing hold of blacktop, leaving a black trail of rubber.
He hadn’t experienced it often, but the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach was not a good sign.