Capture: A Crime Thriller (CJ Sheridan Thrillers Book 2) Page 9

  “No problem, Jim. Come on, Blanche. I'll drop you off.”

  * * *

  CJ managed to doze, finding that if he rested on his right side, his shackled arm didn't pull too much, but the bench wasn't long enough to stretch his legs out and they hung awkwardly off the corner. He felt bruised and battered, but he didn't think anything was broken or damaged.

  The pain reminded him of how he felt after last year's pick-up tackle football game he'd been in with a group of his buddies on Thanksgiving morning. Only then, he'd had a great time, and afterward, they had gone out for a few beers before going to one of the guy's houses as a guest. It was one of the first times he hadn't spent Thanksgiving with his mom, but she had gone to her new husband's family's house, and CJ didn't feel comfortable there. His step-dad, Bob, was okay, but going to eat with a bunch of strangers wasn't CJ's idea of a great time, so he'd begged off. Mentioning his father around Bob was practically taboo. The guy never said anything outright hostile, but when CJ mentioned his dad, the guy would lift his upper lip as if CJ had broken wind in his face.

  Once CJ had overheard him talking crap about the CIA, and CJ had confronted him, almost telling Bob about his own plan to apply to the agency after graduation, but he held his tongue. Not out of respect for Bob, but because he knew if he actually made it through all the screening, he might end up with a position that required total secrecy. He didn't want to ruin his chances by spouting a stupid remark made in anger.

  However, right now, despite what CJ perceived as his many shortcomings, even Bob would be welcome if he walked through the door and let him out. It could have been a possibility if CJ was back in the D.C. area since Bob was a lawyer there, but here, the guy would be worse than no help. CJ wondered what he would think of his step-son locked up like a criminal.

  He shifted on the bench, flexing the fingers of his left hand. The cuff wasn't as tight as it had been earlier, but the joint had swollen from the prior abuse. By now, Mark should be wondering where he was, but maybe not. It wouldn't be the first time that he'd had early morning saves and left messages for Mark. The fact that there was no message for Mark to listen to might not even be noticed since Mark tended to assume any time CJ was late, it was due to the camera. Besides, sometimes CJ would find out later that Mark hadn't listened to the messages anyway. They were both so busy, it happened occasionally that they both had things to do at the same time. Luckily, Mark never became angry. He was the one boss CJ would ever find who completely understood the situation. However, when he got out of this, he was going to suggest that they check in with each other more often. Maybe do this as a team or something. At least arrange back-up for each other.

  CJ licked his lips, or tried to. He'd kill for something to drink. Other than a quick gulp of water after brushing his teeth, he hadn't had anything liquid since he'd gone to sleep last night. The thought of food didn't set well though, and he guessed he could thank the blows to his stomach for his lack of appetite even though he hadn't eaten since dinner last night, and that had been just a sandwich.

  The doorknob clicked, and CJ straightened on the bench, instinctually tugging on his shackled hand as if he could free it. He rose, but the chain connected to the bolt was too short and it left him feeling even more vulnerable. While he'd paid the price for using karate on Tom, at least he hadn't felt completely helpless before. Now, with his feet shackled together, and his left arm useless, he had only his right arm to protect himself.

  The light behind the figure in the doorway cast the face in shadow and it took CJ a few blinks before he was able to identify his visitor.

  Tom.

  CJ steeled himself, straightening as much as possible despite the uncomfortable tension it created in his left shoulder.

  “You've had time to think. Have you changed your story yet?”

  “I don't have a story. I only have my reality. I want to speak to a lawyer. I want the phone call I'm entitled to.”

  “Oh, that's cute. You've been watching too much TV.” Tom affected a high-pitched, mocking tone as he said, “I am entitled to one phone call.”

  Ignoring him, CJ repeated his request.

  “The only thing you're going to get is a knuckle sandwich.”

  CJ stared at him. “Really? Did you hear that line in an old gangster movie? Seriously, you need some new material.”

  Tom's eyes narrowed as he moved closer. “Feeling brave, huh?” His breath stank of garlic.

  “I'm tired of being illegally detained.” What was wrong with him? Did he have a death wish? Only a fool teased a rabid dog when the fool was tethered like a sacrificial lamb. CJ swallowed hard as Tom's eyes narrowed. That was the only warning he had.

  The cop lashed out with his right fist. CJ ducked, catching the blow on the back of his head behind his ear instead of full in the face. He went to one knee, but had the satisfaction of watching Tom clutch his hand.

  CJ struggled to his feet. “I hope you broke it, you motherf—”

  The next punch landed in the pit of CJ's stomach, and this time, Tom was the one sneering.

  After retching through three more blows, CJ tried to curl over, protecting his abdomen, retreating against the bench, finally falling back and sitting down hard when Tom shoved him.

  The door opened and Tom backed off, looking over his shoulder.

  CJ followed his gaze, clenching his jaw as he sucked his breath through his teeth. Hamilton. Just great.

  “I think he's ready for you.”

  Ready? For a moment, he was confused, then CJ recognized the tactic. They were softening him up, trying to make him say whatever they wanted him to say out of fear that if he didn't comply, he'd get more of the rough treatment. He'd read about it while researching his career possibilities in the CIA. He wondered if his dad had ever employed a tactic like this. The thought made his aching stomach churn. He liked to think his father was above this kind of thing.

  “I hope Tom didn't go crazy on you. I meant to come in sooner, but nature called. Sorry about that.”

  CJ narrowed his eyes. “Like hell you are.”

  Hamilton smiled. “Oh, but I am. I wish we didn't have to do any of this, but we caught you practically red-handed, CJ. Confessing is your only option when you think about it.”

  “I'm not confessing to something I didn't do. I've asked for a lawyer repeatedly and you've ignored my requests. No matter what else happens, that right there would be grounds for a re-trial if it comes down to it.”

  Hamilton opened his arms and threw a glance around the room. “This place doesn't exist. I'm not even here. This is my day off. In fact, I'm running a few errands for my wife.” He motioned to Tom. “He's at home working on his motorcycle, isn't that right, Tom?”

  Tom grinned and nodded. “That's right. Putting on those new shocks I told you I needed.”

  Lifting one foot on the bench beside CJ, Hamilton rested one arm across his thigh and patted CJ's shoulder with his other hand. “You aren't here either. There's no record of it. You have no proof any of this took place so it would just be your word against ours. Combine that with the fact that we have a gun suspected of being used to murder one of Chicago's finest—and guess what? It has your prints on it.”

  Glaring, CJ didn't say anything for a moment, then nodded and said, “True, I don't have proof, but none of this will matter when you have no confession. I'll take my chances at trial if you want to go that route. I'm a pretty smart guy and when my background is brought up at trial, and it would be, I think jurors would find it likely that I would ask for a lawyer. There would definitely be some doubt cast on my guilt and how the confession came about.”

  Hamilton's genial façade dropped as he straightened. “You're sure you have this all figured out don't you? You think your father can get you out of this, but he's just some outsider sitting at a desk. I know this city. I know the courts and the judges. You would do well to remember that.” He motioned for Tom to stand beside him. “Why don't you give him a few special treatments t
o help him remember why he killed poor Cruz?”

  Cruz must have been the name of the detective he'd tried to save. CJ looked between the two men searching for signs that they were bluffing. Could he believe them? Was Cruz really dead? CJ had seen them use a stun gun on the man, but that shouldn't have killed the detective. Regret and guilt flared as CJ questioned how he'd handled this situation. Where were the gut instincts he was supposed to be listening to? Was he lacking in them? How come he hadn't gone right to the police station and warned Cruz? Granted, he didn't have a name until now. Questions raced through his mind, one replaced by the other as he kept a wary eye on Tom. Had they really used his gun to murder Cruz? The stun gun they'd used on the guy—would that leave a mark? He filed that away as evidence he might need for his own defense.

  As if his mind had conjured up the device, Tom pulled one from a holster. “Ever been zapped?”

  CJ nodded. In college, he'd been shocked in a fraternity dare. It had hurt like a son of a bitch, but after thirty seconds or so, the pain faded and he and the guys had laughed their asses off. One dart had stuck in flesh of his upper back and he still had a scar from his roommate ripping it out. The pain of that had been numbed somewhat by the alcohol he'd consumed prior to the stupid stunt. Eying the device in Tom's hand, CJ edged away as far as the chain would allow. This was no stupid stunt, and he had a feeling no amount of alcohol would save him from feeling a jolt from this gun. It looked different from any stun gun CJ had ever seen.

  Tom's lips stretched into a smile. “Really? I bet it wasn't with one like this. This is a special stun gun. I made some modifications.”

  Without any other warning, Tom pulled the trigger, hitting CJ in the chest.

  CJ crashed to the floor, every muscle in his body clenched in agony. His left shoulder was almost wrenched out of its socket as CJ writhed on the cement, his jaw locked, biting his tongue but unable to stop. The pain went on for what seemed like an eternity. Far longer than what he'd experienced in the frat dare. Air hunger set in as his diaphragm refused to function and his vision dimmed. Only a pinpoint of vision remained when the current cut off. CJ gasped.

  Tom laughed. “Damn. I think I smell something cooking. Smells like bacon.”

  Completely spent, CJ could only lie on floor like a fish out of water, his muscles still twitching as he gulped in air. Sweat stung his eyes, but he didn't have the energy to reach up and wipe them. His mouth filled with blood, and he lifted his head enough to spit it out.

  Kneeling beside him, Tom's nose wrinkled. “Gross. Now you're messing up my room.” Then his expression turned thoughtful. “I guess I'll take the blame for that. I should have used a bite block. We get them from some of the paramedics. I don't give a rat's ass what happens to your tongue, but I suppose it'll be impossible for you to talk if you bite your tongue off.”

  The guy was certifiable. A total psychopath. CJ was convinced of it. This was the kind of sicko who drew pleasure from incinerating ants with a magnifying glass, or tying firecrackers to cats' tails. There was no pleading with someone like him, and so CJ didn't acknowledge Tom's observation. Instead, he took deep, measured breaths, closed his eyes and pretended to be unconscious. It wasn't far from the truth. His heart pounded in his chest, threatening to blast right through his ribcage. He couldn't control Tom, but he could control his reactions. Emptying his mind of everything, he focused only on his breathing. Slow, deep breathing would slow his heart and settle his muscles. He'd had one sensei who had stressed that martial arts were more about the mind than the body. It was about self-control, and awareness.

  “You ready for another one?”

  CJ ignored him. Breathe in. Breathe out.

  Tom prodded him in the chest with something. CJ guessed it was the stun gun.

  Breathe in. Breathe out.

  “Ready to write that confession? That's all you have to do.” Another prod.

  Breathe in. Breathe out.

  CJ's heart rate slowed, his mind cleared. His muscles still jumped, but as he slit his eyes to see Tom crouched over him, he knew he could use the muscle spasms to his advantage. Tom was ignoring them. That meant his reaction would be slow if CJ made a move.

  Eyes still slit, he watched as Tom examined the stun gun, fiddling with something on it. He was preparing to use it again. CJ knew it in his gut. And if he did, CJ wasn't sure he'd live through another jolt. He pictured ripping the gun from Tom's hands. He pictured scrambling to his feet and holding Tom at bay. He pictured pulling the trigger and finding the key to the shackles.

  Then he acted. As Tom shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his attention still fixed on the device. CJ grabbed it from him and curled, slamming his feet into Tom's chest a second later. Tom fell backward. Using the chain to his advantage, CJ pulled on it, gaining leverage to scramble to his feet. He pointed the gun at Tom, who rubbed the back of his head where it had cracked against the floor.

  “Give me the keys to this!” CJ jangled the shackles on his left arm.

  Tom scooted on his butt, before standing. “Or what? You're going to zap me?” He chuckled.

  “Damn straight I am.” He darted a look at the door. No alarm had been raised as far as he could tell. Was there a camera in here? He didn't remember seeing one, and didn't dare take his eyes from Tom in order to check.

  “Then what? I don't have keys to the door. I knock to get let out, and they sure as hell aren't going to let you out. I could just holler and someone will come in to check on me.”

  “You could,” CJ conceded, “but they'll find you flopping around on the floor with a couple of pins hanging from you.” CJ glanced at the pins still stuck in his chest. They throbbed, but he knew the wounds were minor. Still, he'd have to take them out so Tom couldn't yank on the wires attached. He'd seen him eyeballing them already.

  “Now, give me the key. I'll worry about the door later.”

  Sighing, Tom reached into his pocket.

  “Slowly! If see even a hint of a gun, I'm firing. I'm still pretty twitchy from when you zapped me. You better hope my finger doesn't spasm when you're reaching into your pocket.”

  That got Tom's attention and he watched CJ's hand, his brow furrowed as he inched the key from his pocket.

  “Now, toss it. And if I can't reach it. I'll shoot you, and then make you get it anyway.” How many times could he fire this thing? Tom's response gave CJ his answer that there were at least two more rounds in the gun as he tossed the key at CJ's feet.

  CJ didn't want to take his eyes from the cop while he unlocked the cuffs. It would create the opening Tom was no doubt looking for. “Get your ass down on the floor. Face down!”

  Tom hesitated, glancing at the door, then back to CJ.

  “Even if someone entered right now, I'd still nail you with this before they could stop me.” CJ motioned again. “I'm not going to ask you again. Even if they come in here and beat the shit out of me, it'll be worth it to see you go through what I did.” Then CJ smiled. “It would totally make my day.” It wasn't quite the Clint Eastwood quote he'd always wanted to use, but close enough.

  Throwing CJ a hate-filled glare, Tom eased down to the floor. But then he just sat watching CJ.

  “Uh-uh. Turn onto your belly.” CJ motioned with the stun gun. “Arms stretched out to the sides.”

  Once Tom complied, CJ unlocked the shackle from his wrist, keeping Tom in his vision as much as possible. Getting his feet free was going to be trickier. He'd need to sit and look down. It would leave him vulnerable. He looked at the empty wrist shackle still in his hand. Then shuffled several feet away from it, praying he wouldn't trip in the process.

  “Crawl over to the bench and put that shackle on your wrist.”

  Tom looked over his shoulder. “Seriously?”

  CJ didn't reply, just motioned with the gun.

  Tom crawled over and clamped the shackle.

  CJ heard it click, but didn't trust that Tom had made it tight enough. “Yank your wrist as though you're trying to
get it off.”

  “It's tight. I promise.”

  “Do it!”

  Just as CJ had feared, Tom had left plenty of room to squeeze his hand through. “Tighten it. Then hold your hand up. The cuff better not slip down your arm like a cheap bangle.”

  Satisfied that it was finally tight enough, CJ sat on the floor and removed the ankle shackles. He thought about putting them on Tom, but didn't want to get close enough to do it, and the cop wouldn't be able to do it himself with his arm attached to the wall chain.

  Tom sat on the bench. “Now what?”

  “I'm getting out of here.” He headed to the door and knocked on it. He stood at the ready, stun gun pointed at the door. And waited. Maybe they didn't hear him. He rapped again.

  After a few moments, Tom chuckled.

  “What are you laughing at?”

  “I have a signature knock. That, and you didn't identify yourself. Both things I do when I leave. That means they're pretty sure of the situation in here.”

  CJ searched his face for deception, but didn't see any signs of it, plus his explanation made sense. Shit. “Well, I guess we'll just wait.” Eventually someone would have to come in or at least inquire as to what was going on.

  “Fine.” Tom promptly laid on the bench, and closed his eyes.

  CJ wished he could do the same. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, he was exhausted. Between the beatings and the jolt, every bit of energy had been sapped from him. He was also pretty sure he was on his way to being dehydrated. Worried he'd fall asleep and they'd be in the door before he could recover, CJ began a slow pace of the room.

  Chapter Ten

  It had been at least thirty minutes since CJ had taken control of the room, but he wondered how long he was going to hold out. Tom didn't seem at all concerned that CJ had taken the stun gun. In fact, the man looked completely comfortable on the bench, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle.