In This Together

“What else do we know about him?”

“Travis Brandon Riggs. Thirty-three years old. He and his brother, Eric, were raised by a single mother, now deceased. Father unknown. He did a short stint in foster care when he was ten. Dropped out of high school when he was sixteen. Since then he’s worked in construction on and off. Three years in the army. Honorable discharge. Married to a Judith Evans, divorced a year later. Did a stint at the Harris County Jail for assault. Haven’t found out the particulars yet, but I’m working on it.”

So, he did have violent tendencies. That was bad news.

“No trouble since he got out—that was almost ten years ago. Currently he owns a small construction company doing home repairs, remodeling and renovation.”

“Home address?”

“It’s a one-bedroom apartment in Westridge, nothing special.” Mitch brought up a picture of a blocky, 1970s-era building on the video screen. It was small but tidy—neatly trimmed lawn, freshly painted, freshly raked. “We’ve already got it under surveillance,” Mitch continued. “He hasn’t been there.”

And he probably wouldn’t be dumb enough to show his face there, either. He’d made no attempt to hide his identity, and he had to know there was a good chance the authorities or Project Justice people would come looking for him.

“Mitch. What’s the word from Reynolds?” David Reynolds was Daniel’s contact at Riggs’s cell phone provider. For a hefty fee, he would check the GPS data and report back.

Daniel had already sent another investigator to check out the first location, the place from which Riggs had made his first call, but it hadn’t looked promising and had probably been only a temporary stopping point. Daniel was counting on Elena’s call yielding more fruitful information.

“Reynolds is still working on it.”

“Griffin,” Daniel said, addressing another of his best, a former investigative reporter who had become one of his most skilled operatives, especially when it came to working undercover. “As soon as you have a location nailed down, I want you and Jillian to go there. Take the fake utility truck—uniforms should be inside it. Once you confirm it’s the right place, we’ll figure out our next move.

“Raleigh,” he asked another senior investigator, who was also his top-dog lawyer, “are you ready to brief me on the Eric Riggs case? You know what I’m looking for—a piece of jewelry missing from the victim, a detail never released to the public.” He needed something to appease Travis Riggs, to lull him into believing Daniel was knuckling under the pressure.

“It was a necklace,” Raleigh said. “A gold locket.”

Obviously Travis hadn’t done his homework, or he’d know that Daniel did not knuckle under to anyone. He would do whatever it took to keep Elena safe, of course. But she said she didn’t think she was in any danger. Daniel was banking on that being true. He just had to keep stringing Travis along until he made a mistake. And he would. When he did, his ass was Daniel’s.

Mitch murmured something into his headset and then turned to Daniel. “We have the location nailed down to three houses in a subdivision in Timbergrove.”

“Let’s roll.”

* * *

FORD HYATT, DRESSED in full SWAT-like gear, showed Daniel a satellite map on his phone. “It’s these three houses, at the end of the cul-de-sac.”

Daniel spoke into a radio. “Anyone have eyes on those houses?” Jillian and Griffin were already inside the complex in their fake utility truck.

“Affirmative,” came Jillian’s response. “We can rule two of them out. I’ve seen people going in and out, no kidnapper types. The third one appears unoccupied.”

“That’s our target, then. Hyatt, Kinkaid and I are right behind you.”

Daniel and his two operatives were in a taxi with tinted windows. Daniel, behind the wheel, was dressed as your average cabdriver. Hyatt and Kinkaid were in back. Taxis seemed to have no trouble getting in and out of gated communities. Mitch simply faked a call from a resident to the guardhouse requesting a cab. Five minutes later, Daniel and his party were inside. The guard barely looked at them as they passed through. They would be on camera, if a question ever came up, but with shades and a hat, Daniel wasn’t recognizable, and the taxi’s license plates wouldn’t trace back to anything.

Moments later, he pulled up behind the utility truck and spoke into the radio again. “Griffin and Jillian, make entry at the rear.” He didn’t bother using code names; their communications were encrypted. “Hyatt and Kinkaid will come through the front. On my signal.”

He watched as the utility truck slid into the driveway of the house in question, which did not appear lived in. That was good news. Less chance that they were breaking into the home of an innocent family.

Daniel gave Griffin and Jillian a few seconds to get situated and then signaled Hyatt and Kinkaid. They exited the taxi and ran noiselessly to the home’s front porch. Daniel hoped to hell the neighbors didn’t see; this was the sort of highly illegal maneuver that he and his people could get arrested for. He’d considered letting the police make the extraction, but no cops could mobilize as fast as Project Justice could. And this was Elena they were talking about.

Daniel remained in the taxi. He didn’t have the same training as the others, and if he tried to play macho cop he could put himself and others in danger. But as soon as they had the kidnapper subdued, he would be there.

“On my signal,” he said. “One, two, three, go.”

Without hesitation, Hyatt broke the glass in the front door, reached in and opened the door, yelling out a warning to anyone who might be inside to get on the floor. They looked like cops and sounded like cops, but they never identified themselves as such. Posing as a cop brought additional criminal charges.

Daniel counted off the seconds as he listened to the shouting and banging door on the open channel of his radio. No sounds of gunfire, thank God. More good news.

“Clear... Clear... Clear...” That single word came through over and over again. Twenty seconds in, Daniel heard, “All clear.” That meant he could go in. But he had a bad feeling as he sprinted across the front lawn and into the house.

Hyatt met him. “There’s no one here. It appears the house is being renovated.”

“Found something!” Jillian shouted from another part of the house. All eyes looked toward the hallway where she appeared, holding a blue piece of clothing.

“Elena’s jacket. Damn.” How close were they? By how many minutes had they missed rescuing Elena and taking Travis Riggs down? Ten? Five?

“There was also a small amount of blood in the bathroom,” Jillian said, her eyes downcast. “And some blood-soaked tissues in the trash.”

“Damn it! How much blood?”

“Enough to be concerned,” Jillian replied.

Daniel sighed. “I hate to say it, but we’re going to have to call in the authorities. What they lack in speed and precision, they make up for in sheer numbers. At this point, we have no idea where he might have taken her. The cops can get choppers in the air, monitor phones, bank accounts, credit cards.” Project Justice could do all of those things, but they didn’t have the number of people required to monitor it all. “Come on. Let’s clear out of here before the real cops arrive.”

CHAPTER FIVE

TRAVIS COULDN’T BELIEVE she’d gotten hold of his phone. Not once but twice! She must be a magician or a witch or something.

He hated it that he had to find a new safe house. That Bellaire McMansion had been perfect.

Travis sifted through various other possible locations, rejecting each one. Most of his recent job sites were occupied. He’d have to take to the country, find a place to camp. He had little food except the few cans and whatnot he’d grabbed from the kitchen and chucked into his backpack before putting Elena in the truck and heading out. He always carried a sleeping bag and a few essentials with him, but it was going to be rough. Although the climate in south Texas was almost always mild, it would get down into the fifties tonight—cool enough to be uncomfortable without a jacket.

He hadn’t allowed Elena to retrieve her jacket, he realized. She’d taken it off and draped it over the side of the tub at some point.

Several camping spots came to mind, isolated places where you didn’t have to register or reserve a space. A friend of Eric’s had a hunting lease they’d used once, a few years ago. If they were lucky, they wouldn’t run into anyone else. Elena wasn’t likely to try to run away, not in her bare feet. The heels she’d been carrying when he’d kidnapped her were probably still in the truck, but she couldn’t get far in those, either.

That was good. He hadn’t wanted to tie her up. When he went to trial for this crime—and he would—he wanted Elena to testify that he’d shown some concern for her welfare. Photos of bruises and rope burns would make for damning evidence in court.

It took him more than an hour and a half to get to the hunting lease, north of Lake Conroe. He’d left the freeway long ago, following a series of increasingly smaller roads. At one point he’d pulled over and waited, scanning the horizon behind him for the telltale plume of dust rising from the road signaling the passage of a vehicle. But he wasn’t being followed. For the time being, he was safe.

He hoped he remembered the turnoff. The sun was going down; in the dark, he’d never find it.

Wait, there was the dead tree, a black skeleton against sky the color of faded blue ink. Another five minutes and he’d have missed it in the dark.

He swung the truck onto the narrow dirt road. Though he’d slowed to five miles an hour, the bumps and ruts challenged the old vehicle’s suspension. He shuddered to think of how uncomfortable Elena must be. What if one of his tools rolled into her and injured her?

If he had stopped to consider the consequences of his actions, he wouldn’t be in this mess right now and neither would Elena. He’d thought he had mastered his troublesome impulsive streak years ago, but apparently he’d only temporarily stifled it.

It seemed he bumped along the dirt road for hours, but it was only a few minutes before the road widened to a turnaround spot. He was now on the hunting lease, and all appeared quiet—no signs of a campfire or recent tire tracks. He opened the window and stuck his head out to look up. The tree canopy was still pretty thick even though it was full-on autumn. No one would spot his truck from a helicopter. He couldn’t smell any campfire smoke in the air.