Chasing the Lost Page 2

  Chase stripped off his shirt and took off his shoes, the sand cool under the soles of his feet. He began to work the bag, slowly and with little power at first, getting the muscles, not used to the movement after the days of driving, back into the flow. Warmed up, he started the timer on his watch and went into a routine he’d been using for years. He pummeled the duct tape/canvas, interspersing the punches with snap kicks, side kicks, and turn kicks. No Hollywood spinning high kicks; those had left the repertoire years ago, when he’d stopped taking the time to warm up and stretch his hamstrings out. Plus, anything above the waist with a kick was a wasted movement in a real encounter.

  Chelsea lay down on the grass above the metal sea wall to watch him, curious what tomfoolery he was up to now.

  Chase was breathing hard after thirty seconds. He’d tried quitting smoking when he left Boulder, but apparently a week wasn’t enough to clear the lungs out. He kept at it though. He began to slow down, his arms feeling like he was punching through water and his legs growing heavy.

  “Fuck it,” Chase muttered. He checked his watch. Two minutes and forty seconds to go. He hadn’t even made it halfway. He turned the timer off and stopped, leaning over to catch his breath.

  He’d get back in shape, he promised himself. Then he wondered about the promise; what did he have to get in shape for?

  He was retired.

  Chase straightened and went over to the two by four. He hit it at half speed and power. Knuckles, knife edge, open palm. All the striking surfaces. The calluses he’d built up over the years had sustained better than his wind. His hands tingled, but he didn’t break skin.

  When he started coughing, he surrendered. Sweat was running down his bare chest in rivulets and steam rose off his body. He noticed that Chelsea was gone. He hopped up over the sea wall and headed for the sliding door he’d left open. As he entered, Chelsea began barking; not at him, but at the front door, hackles raised.

  Chase figured the doorbell was broken, along with a lot of other things here. He paused to pick up a small rubber ball, a hand cruncher, and he began absently working it with one hand as he went to the door. He pushed a knee against Chelsea, trying to edge her out of the way, not an easy task.

  As Chelsea continued to bark, Chase opened the door. He tossed the cruncher aside as he held on to Chelsea’s collar with that hand. Two men. One in a khaki uniform, Smoky the Bear hat, aviator sunglasses, and a belt festooned with pistol, taser, pepper spray, cuffs, baton, extra ammo clips; enough crap that Chase figured the guy was compensating for something. The other, older man was wearing a lightweight white sports coat and slacks, with a pale blue silk shirt underneath. He was a whip-thin, wiry man, and his graying flat-top haircut screamed former military service. He had a badge on his belt, and an automatic in a supple leather holster clipped on his right hip. There were two cars behind them. A patrol car with Spanish Wells Security stenciled on the side, and an un-marked, obvious cop car.

  “Yes?” Chase asked.

  The plainclothes spoke, his voice carrying the slow rhythm and accent of the low-country. “Good day, sir. Sorry to interrupt. Were you in the middle of something?” he added, taking in the lack of shirt and abundance of sweat.

  “Just doing a workout.”

  “Always good to keep one’s self fit,” the plainclothes said, with enough lack of enthusiasm to indicate what he really thought of working out. “I’m Lieutenant Parsons from the Beaufort Sheriff’s office. This here is Officer Graves from Spanish Wells Security. We have a report that a man living hereabouts pointed a gun at his neighbor.”

  “You received bad information,” Chase corrected. “The man living there”—he pointed with his free hand to the neighbor’s mansion—“pointed a gun at me.”

  “That’s most strange, sir,” Parsons said with a frown, “because Mister Rollins, who lives yonder, he be the one who called in the report. Y’all mind if we come in?” He was already moving forward, but Chase didn’t yield his position, Chelsea at his side.

  “Yes.”

  Parsons stopped, raised an eyebrow, and glanced at Graves, then back at Chase. “You be new to the island, ain’t you, son?”

  Chase figured Parsons had less than a decade on him, and didn’t appreciate the ‘son’ comment. “I’ve been here before.”

  “Do you know who Mister Rollins is?” Parsons asked.

  “The man who pointed a gun at me.”

  Graves finally spoke, his broad face red and a vein throbbing in his forehead. “That’s not what Mister Rollins says.” Chelsea growled and Graves glared down at her, his hand hovering over the automatic strapped to his belt. “You better control your dog.”

  Chase hadn’t seen this many trigger-happy people since Afghanistan. He checked that thought: Colorado had been pretty damn bloody. “I am controlling her, and you are not welcome in my home.” It was the first time he’d said those last two words, and he liked the way it sounded, too.

  Parsons shook his head. “Son, we can do this easy or we can do this hard. Seems like you want hard. May I please see some identification? And perhaps you might want to put a shirt on?”

  Chase realized that both cops were taken aback by the messages of violence etched into his torso. A dozen pockmarked scars on the right side, arcing from waist to just below his armpit, the result of a Taliban grenade. A round, puckered mark on his stomach, left of center, where his body had welcomed in the bullet that had caused him to be medevaced out of Afghanistan.

  “One minute.” Chase shut the door with Chelsea inside, found his shirt, and tugged it on. Then he grabbed his money clip. His federal ID card was in the center. He pulled it out and opened the door, shutting it on an unhappy Chelsea. As he came back out, he spotted Sarah walking up his driveway once more, still in workout clothes, looking none-too-happy about something.

  Parsons noticed her, too, and frowned, the lines on his face etched deep, then went back to looking at the card. “Horace Chase? You’re retired military?”

  “That’s what the card says.”

  Parsons gave a wry smile. “Thank you for that there observation.” He was reading it as Sarah came up. Chase nodded at her as Parsons spoke. “Retired just a couple of months ago. Lieutenant Colonel. Army. What you do in the Army, Cuhnel?” He said the last word slow and drawn out. At least he had dropped the ‘son’, Chase observed.

  “It’s Mister Chase, now. I was in Special Operations.”

  The two cops exchanged a glance. Chase could tell from the question on Graves’ face that he was clueless, but from the way Parsons quickly gave the card back, he knew what that meant.

  “What exactly are ya doing here, Cuhnel?” Parsons asked. Chase sensed no slight in the last word, so he let it go.

  “Not really any of your business, Lieutenant,” Chase said. He was watching the vein in the deputy’s forehead pulse, expecting at any moment to see it explode and shower them with blood.

  “What do you want, ma’am?” Parsons said to Sarah. “Do you live here with Cuhnel Chase?”

  “No, I don’t,” Sarah answered. “Is this about the gun?” she asked. “I saw it all. Mister Chase did nothing wrong.”

  “Why don’t you mind your business, lady,” Graves said, making it an order, not a suggestion or question.

  “Why don’t you go harass the man next door?” She looked at Chase. “I’ll testify for you, if you need it.”

  “I don’t want any trouble,” Chase said. “Not for me, not for anyone else.”

  “We can enter anyone’s house in the Plantation,” Graves said, “if we feel there’s a safety threat.”

  “You think I’m a threat?” Chase stared at him, but it was Parsons who answered as the vein pulsed even harder in Graves’ forehead.

  “Actually, I think you are indeed, Cuhnel, but let’s just sit it at this: leave Mister Rollins alone. Best for everyone all around. Is that all right with you?” He didn’t wait for an answer as he shifted his gaze to Sarah. “And it is indeed best if you leave n
ow, miss.”

  Chase watched the blood rise on Sarah’s face, but she nodded and strode off down the driveway. The rent-a-cop was watching her, eyes raking up and down her body, but Parsons’ attention was back on Chase. “Lay low, Cuhnel. This isn’t a military post.” He paused, then added in a low voice so that Graves, still ogling Sarah’s rear, couldn’t hear: “Semper Fi.” Then he turned and walked toward the un-marked car.

  The rent-a-cop looked slightly surprised at the abrupt ending, glared at Chase for a few seconds longer than needed, then stomped off to his car and followed Parsons around the loop and down the driveway, taking the turn a little too hard and spitting gravel from underneath his tires.

  Chase went back into the house and stared at the two battered footlockers resting in the middle of the living room for a few moments. A couple of footlockers, a couple of duffel bags, and a handful of medals were his inheritance from the military and his brief stint in Boulder, Colorado as a Federal counter-terrorism liaison to the local police department.

  That had not ended well, and thus the forced retirement from Federal service.

  Chelsea was his gift from one of his few friends there, but given only after his friend had to go to the pound and get a replacement for her own dog, which had been decapitated by a Russian drug dealer Chase had been after. That pretty much summed up his Boulder and police experience.

  This house was the inheritance from his mother. The sum total of his new life from his old.

  He knelt next to one of the lockers—the one with a padlock—and spun the combination and opened it. Resting inside was his military/cop gear. Body armor. Guns. Knives. Night vision goggles. MOLLE vest. Camouflage fatigues and more. The tools of his previous trade.

  He reached in and pulled out the MK23 Special Operations Mod O semi-automatic pistol, encased in a well-worn leather holster. He clipped the holster on the back of his jeans, underneath his black T-shirt, along with a plastic ammo case holding two spare magazines. The bullets were all hollow-points, designed to stop whatever they hit.

  This was turning out just dandy.

  First day, and strapped already.

  Then he looked up at the tree limbs poking through the ceiling, then at the fireplace. At least he’d have firewood when the tree died.

  * * * * *

  She came back just after dark. Pounding on the door. Chelsea barked at the first thud, and didn’t stop.

  Chase knew it was Sarah by her profile, which he could see through the broken blinds on the window next to it. He cracked the door open. Her face was flushed, her eyes wide with fear.

  “They’re coming! I need your help.”

  “Who is—” Chase began as he opened the door wide, but then Chelsea shoved her way past him, growling and barking, racing off into the darkness of the front yard. Chase spotted movement among the trees, shadowy figures coming toward the house. There was a muzzle flash—but no sound of the shot—and Chase grabbed Sarah and pulled her to the ground as he heard Chelsea’s yelp of pain. Whoever had fired was using a suppressor, which meant they might have more of an idea what they were doing than the golfers earlier.

  “Stay down.” Chase pulled the MK23. He low-crawled forward, along the line of unkempt bushes adjacent to the walk, trying to get a visual on the intruders. Reaching the end of the bushes, he rolled right to the angled tree trunk, using it as cover. He heard something moving to his left front and he aimed, finger resting lightly on the trigger, the only safety a true shooter used, as he’d been taught in the killing house at Fort Bragg.

  There was another muzzle flash directly ahead. Chase sensed the bullet flying by overhead, and heard the dull smack as it hit the house. He fired, four quick shots in the direction of the flash, the sharp crack of his pistol splitting the night’s quiet.

  There was a muffled curse, harsh whispers. Whatever was to Chase’s left front was coming closer, and he aimed that way, almost firing, then relaxing his finger when he realized it was Chelsea, dragging herself back. He felt a brief rush of relief that she was alive. He shifted back toward the front. He heard a car door open, and saw the interior lights of an SUV parked on the street, and a dark figure helping another one in.

  Chase got to one knee and steadied the pistol in a sure, two-handed grip. As he was about to fire, Chelsea was at his side, panting in pain. And someone was right behind him.

  He rolled, bringing the gun up, and once more relaxed his finger when he saw Sarah standing there.

  “Don’t sneak up—” Chase began, but Sarah knelt next to Chelsea and cradled her as she whimpered in pain. The SUV’s engine started and it raced away, peeling rubber.

  Chase slowly got to his feet, the adrenaline rush of the action still jazzing his nerves. Welcome to Spanish Wells, he thought.

  “Oh, my God,” Sarah said and Chase could see the blood covering her front.

  “You hit?” Chase asked.

  “No,” Sarah replied.

  Chase knelt next to Chelsea, and saw the blood bubbling out of her chest amidst the thick fur.

  “Damn it,” he cursed, bringing the gun up in the direction of the vehicle speeding away. He almost fired, but at the last second remembered all the homes lining the street, and what a ricochet round might do.

  Chase put a fresh, full magazine in the gun, and shoved the pistol back in the holster. He probed the wound with his fingers. The blood was frothy, meaning it was mixed with air. Sucking chest wound—the round had gone through one, if not both, lungs.

  Chase scooped up Chelsea in both arms. “Open the door,” he ordered as he carried her into the house. He laid her down next to the footlocker and threw open the lid. He pulled out his combat vest, and ripped open one of the pockets containing a HALO chest seal. He slapped it on the wound, then took out a packet of QuickClot Combat Gauze. He tore it open and pressed that over the chest seal, maintaining the pressure with one hand as he checked for an exit wound with the other.

  None that he could find, but he couldn’t be certain.

  Then he realized Sarah was standing there, her shirt soaked in Chelsea’s blood. She was staring down at the both of them in a daze.

  “What about your son?” he asked Sarah, remembering the boy on the bike.

  She blinked, as if coming back into the nightmare of the evening. Her eyes went wide. “They grabbed him. They’ve got Cole.”

  Chapter Two

  “What the hell is going on?” Chase demanded as he checked Chelsea once more. The bandage and seal were working; bleeding and losing air through the wound was stopped. That was good. Still no sign of an exit wound. That was bad.

  “They kidnapped Cole,” Sarah said once more. She had her arms wrapped around her body, shaking. “I couldn’t stop them.”

  “Who kidnapped him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Call the cops,” Chase ordered. On Sarah’s face, he could see shock setting in.

  “They’ve got Cole.” She said it as if she didn’t believe it. She blinked. “We need to get your dog to a vet.”

  Chase looked up from checking Chelsea’s wound and spoke distinctly, combat mode when trying to get through to someone in shock. “Call. Nine. One. One.”

  She shook her head slowly. “We can’t go to the police, and we especially can’t go to Spanish Wells Security. You saw them today.”

  “This is kidnapping. Not some dispute over a dog.”

  She seemed adamant. “We can’t call the police.”

  “The guys in the SUV have him?” Chase asked.

  Sarah had not stopped shaking her head. “Two men in a boat snatched him off the dock where he was crabbing.” She nodded over her shoulder. “The house is on the other side of the street. Backs onto Broad Creek.”

  Chase knew that boat was gone into the dark, up Broad Creek, into the Intracoastal and gone among the thousands of barrier islands and miles of wetlands. “I still think you should call the police and—” He stopped as Chelsea whined loudly, struggling in his arms. He grabbed some
disinfectant, and gingerly poured it into Chelsea’s wound as he pulled back the bandage. She whined once more, but didn’t fight him as he pressed the bandage back on the wound.

  With a shaking hand, Sarah pulled her cell phone out of her pocket. Using an ACE wrap, Chase secured the bandage and seal to Chelsea. She whined in pain, but didn’t try to pull away.

  “Good girl.”

  “Closest veterinarian!” Sarah shouted into the phone.

  “Searching your location,” the phone replied. There was a pause, then the mechanical female voice continued. “I found three veterinarians. One of them is fairly close to you.”

  Sarah did something on the screen of her phone and put it to her ear. There was a pause, then Sarah spoke rapidly. “We have a dog that’s been shot. She’s hurt badly.”

  Another pause, then Sarah looked at Chase. “The vet will meet us at her office. Twelve-forty Palmetto Road. Do you know where that is?”

  “Yeah.”

  Once more, Chase scooped Chelsea up and carried her out to the Jeep, Sarah following. He laid the dog down in the back, then jumped in the driver’s seat as he tugged on a black pullover that had been draped over the steering wheel. As soon as Sarah slid into the passenger seat, he threw the Jeep in gear and raced down the driveway, spitting out gravel and taking the turn onto the hardtop too fast.

  With the wind whistling past them and his focus on the road, there was no more conversation as Chase raced out of Brams Point and onto the Island’s main drag. He tried to remember if he’d seen a Vet’s office on his way to his new home in the morning, an event that seemed very long ago now.

  “Eleven-ten,” Sarah called out, pointing to the right as she spotted an address. “It will be on that side. Soon.”

  Chase saw a light go on in a window ahead and turned the wheel, skidding to a halt in front of the building. It was an old service station, painted bright green. Chase jumped out, picking up Chelsea and carrying her to the door. Sarah was ahead, opening it.