He ended the call. Pearl twisted the knob on the front door.
“If I do a search on Google, will I find out why you use bloodhounds to find living people?” Pearl asked. “I thought dogs were only used to find the dead. Or is that just something I saw on forensic crime shows on television?”
“You won’t find it on Google. It’s something new,” he said.
“My loss. Goodbye, Jon.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to think this over?”
“I already have. You’re the wrong person for the job. Have a nice day.”
“Talk to your daughter, Dr. Pearl. She knows what’s going on.”
“You think my daughter’s not trustworthy?”
“Your words, not mine.”
Pearl’s lips trembled in anger. Lancaster had gotten under his skin, and he hoped Pearl would accept that Nicki was somehow involved with the men who were stalking her. As he started to say goodbye, his words were interrupted by a piercing scream.
Chapter 2
Sneakin’ and Peekin’
Certain sounds set off chemical reactions in the body that turn normal men into heroes. A child’s scream is one of those sounds. Pearl sprinted through the house like an Olympic runner chasing the gold while Lancaster struggled to keep up.
“Your daughter?” Lancaster asked.
“Yes,” Pearl said over his shoulder.
They passed through the kitchen — where a small TV was tuned to a cooking show — into a laundry room that led to a door opening to the backyard. Coming outside, Lancaster did a quick sweep and saw everything that he needed to know. Nicki was gone, while the German shepherd purchased to protect her was snoozing in the grass, courtesy of the tranquilizer dart sticking out of its side.
“They’re getting away,” Pearl said.
“You see them?” Lancaster asked.
“Yes, I see them.”
A Donzi classic was moored at the dock. Pearl got behind the wheel and searched his key chain for the key, which he jammed into the ignition. Lancaster untied the boat and hopped in, and they sped down the waterway. Two hundred yards ahead, a black cigarette boat was churning up the water. Lancaster shielded his eyes from the blinding sun to get a better look. Two men in shorts and long-sleeve T-shirts. Both wearing ball caps and shades. Their body language reminded him of the kidnappers from the Galleria. They worked in tandem, without having to resort to time-wasting verbal commands. They’d been doing bad shit for so long that it was second nature. The smaller one was at the wheel while his partner wrestled with Nicki, who was putting up one hell of a fight, kicking and screaming as she tried to break free.
“Hit your horn,” Lancaster said.
“But they’ll know we’re following them,” Pearl protested.
“That’s the idea. Do it.”
The Donzi’s horn was electric and sounded like a fire siren. Both kidnappers’ heads snapped to the sound, letting Lancaster get a good look at them. Late forties, deep tans, no visible tattoos or piercings, they looked like a couple of ordinary guys out for a day on the water. What wasn’t ordinary was how they reacted to being spotted. Their boat sped up.
“They’re getting away!” Pearl said.
Once they hit open water, the Donzi would be no match for the cigarette boat, and the kidnappers would disappear into the wind. Lancaster had learned long ago that when it came to emergency situations, he who hesitated was lost, and he drew the M2.0 from behind his belt buckle. Holding the gun with both hands, he went into a crouch. He had dealt with kidnappers before. As criminals went, they were cowardly and predictable. Rather than getting caught and going to prison, a smart kidnapper would dump his victim if being chased, knowing there were other victims down the road.
Not here. These kidnappers were hell-bent on keeping their victim, despite being seen. Nicki was the prize, and he felt certain there would be no ransom note or late-night phone call demanding that Pearl drop a suitcase stuffed with unmarked hundred-dollar bills at a specified location. These boys had something else in mind, and didn’t care that they’d been seen. That wasn’t normal. Lancaster cocked one eye.
“What are you doing?” Pearl shouted.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” he shouted back.
“You could kill my daughter!”
“Do you want to see her again?”
“Yes!”
“Then shut the hell up.”
What Lancaster liked most about the M2.0 was its aggressive grip texture. Once a target was in his sights, he had no fear of the gun slipping out of his hands. It was as simple as point, aim, and fire. Which is what he did, three times.
He’d learned to shoot in the military and was a crack marksman. Pressure did not faze him, nor was he afraid of hitting an innocent victim, which he’d never done, despite having shot over a dozen very bad men as a cop and in the military. All three bullets found their mark and tore through the back of the smaller kidnapper’s shirt, causing him to pitch forward onto the wheel. The cigarette boat slowed down. Seeing her chance, Nicki kicked his partner in the groin and broke free. There was no greater instinct than survival, and she took a heroic leap off the back of the boat and dove into the water.
“Go girl!” her father yelled.
Pearl pulled back on the throttle in order not to run his daughter over. The second kidnapper made a rifle appear and pointed it at the Donzi.
“Get down,” Lancaster said.
Pearl killed the engine, and they both hit the deck. Instead of the rifle’s blast, Lancaster heard a roar and lifted his head to watch the cigarette boat race away. The smaller kidnapper was at the wheel, no worse for wear. He must be wearing a bulletproof vest, Lancaster thought. There was no doubt in his mind it was the same two bastards from the Galleria mall.
“I could use some help,” Pearl said.
Nicki had swum over to the side of the boat, and they grabbed her arms and hoisted her from the water. The poor kid was scared out of her mind. She sobbed as her father tried to comfort her.
Pearl motored back to the house. Nicki’s mother stood on the dock, choking on her tears. She was ten years younger than her husband and not hard on the eyes. Nicki came off the boat into her mother’s arms, and they shared a good cry. Lancaster tossed the M2.0 into the water, where it made a large plop.
Shooting a suspect had been no fun when he was a cop. Each time he’d shot a suspect, he’d been assigned to a desk while an internal investigation was conducted. The investigation included psychological testing and hours of questions, and was as much fun as having a colonoscopy. The shootings captured by the YouTube video had been worse, and the investigation had dragged on for months. He’d finally had enough and turned in his badge. Since then, he’d shot two people, and discovered the drill was different. If there were no witnesses or incriminating videos, the shooting came down to a he said/she said. This was an advantage for the shooter, especially if the victim died. The shooter could make up a believable story, and there would be no one to dispute it. Better yet, the shooter could ditch the gun, and make the whole thing go away.
“I can’t believe you just did that,” Pearl said.
“Pretend you didn’t see anything,” he said.
“Look, I plan to call the police, and file a report.”
“You do that.”
“Will you corroborate my story?”
“No, I’m leaving. There are two detectives with the sheriff’s office named Vargas and Gibbons who hate me. It would be my luck if they responded to your call.”
“We need the police to hear what happened.”
“You tell them. Leave me out of it.”
“But we need the police’s help.”
“Have they helped you so far?”
“They’re conducting an investigation. What else can they do?”