Chapter 12 #2
He rounded the corner of the house and crouched behind the shrubs for cover. The front porch beckoned to him. A quick look would prepare him for when it was time to enter the house. He glanced around to make sure no nosy neighbors had noticed him skulking around and ran toward the porch.
The stairs creaked from his weight and he stopped and sucked in a breath.
Against the backdrop of crickets and rain, the quiet creak was loud.
He hurried into the safety of the shadows and the splintered wood of the doorframe caught his eye.
His fingers itched to run along the broken wood, but he kept one hand in the pocket of his pants and the other tightly wrapped around the phone.
He couldn’t afford to contaminate the scene, and he hadn’t had the forethought to bring a pair of gloves with him from the car.
The leaves rustled along with a gust of wind.
The sudden breeze swirled onto the porch, kicking around some trash and causing the door to swing open an inch.
Graham pressed his back against the worn paint of the wall beside the door.
He slid his phone into his pocket and placed his palm on the butt of his gun.
If someone was coming outside, he’d be ready.
Nothing happened.
A whoosh of air left his lungs and he sagged against the wall. He peered around the door and his gaze landed on the broken latch.
Well that’s interesting.
He crouched in front of the door and studied the busted latch. Someone had wanted to get inside pretty badly. Or someone had wanted out.
“Oh my God! Help!” A woman’s shrill shrieks of panic erupted through the narrow opening of the door.
Graham shot to his feet. Removing his hand from his gun, he grabbed his phone and called 911.
“This is Special Agent Graham Grassi. I need backup at 7225 Cleveland Avenue. Distressing calls for help were heard from inside a suspected crime scene. I’m going in.”
He hung up, plunged his phone back in his pocket, and grabbed his gun from the holster at his side. The familiar weight of the weapon brought a sense of calm to his frayed nerves. He pushed the front door open with his foot and entered the house with the gun pointed in front of him.
“Special Agent Graham Grassi entering the house. If anyone’s in here, please come out with your hands up.”
He waited a beat and listened. The subtle groans and shifts of the floorboards were all that answered his announcement.
He took a step further into the house and swung his gun into a room at his side.
No one was there. Shafts of moonlight bounced inside from the open door and illuminated the living room.
Or what he assumed was a living room. Two folding chairs and a rusted metal table sat to one side of the room, a small tube television sat on the other side.
He slowly put one foot in front of the other as he pressed farther into the room.
Dammit, he’d heard a call for help. He was certain. Where the hell had it come from?
Thump, thump, crash!
He whirled around and faced the way he’d entered the room.
He quickened his pace and retraced his steps to the hall.
He kept his gun trained in front of him and stepped into a thick wall of stale air in the kitchen.
The urge to cover his nose and mouth were overpowering, but he concentrated on the open door on the far side of the kitchen.
He surveyed the kitchen and gave a brief thanks to God for not having to spend another second in there. A dim light lifted toward him from the bottom of the stairs. He pointed his gun down the darkened stairway. “I’m coming down and I’m armed. If you have any weapons, drop them to the floor.”
Graham groaned at how stupid he sounded.
If someone had set a trap for him, they wouldn’t willingly lay down their weapons because he told them to—especially when they had the advantage.
The light in the basement was small, but it was better than the dark pit he looked into. Maybe he should wait for backup.
“Graham? Is that you?” The fear and pain in Mickey’s voice carried to him. He’d have recognized her voice anywhere. He hadn’t been able to get it—or her whiskey eyes—out of his head since they’d met.
Shit. What the hell is she doing here?
“Mickey? Are you okay?” He turned slightly so his back wasn’t exposed to an unexpected assailant.
“The light went out when I was coming downstairs. I tripped and fell. I hurt my ankle a little and I think a bat flew into my hair.”
If he wasn’t so pissed she was here, and on edge about entering a suspected crime scene without backup, he would have laughed. “Is anyone else down there with you?”
The light he’d trained his eyes on twisted, leaving only darkness in his sight for a moment. “No.” The word came out on a rush of disappointment.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
He could barely make out the word over her tears.
“I saw Becca’s backpack through a window. I thought she’d be down here.”
“Calm down. I’m coming downstairs now. Lift your light so I can see where the hell I’m going.”
The light lifted and illuminated the rotting stairs he wished like hell he didn’t have to step on. He lowered one foot at a time, taking care not to place too much weight on one step. He didn’t need to end up in a heap at the bottom of the steps with Mickey.
He tightened his grip on the gun. His suspicions had died down over Mickey’s involvement with the sex-trafficking ring, but that didn’t mean he was right. If his gut was wrong, the outcome would be a lot worse than it had been in Austin.
This time, he’d be the one dead.