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  “So what do we do?” Fong asked. “In case you haven’t noticed, they’ve got ample firearms and manpower to keep us under lock and key. We’re prisoners, my friends. No one knows where we are. We ain’t leaving here.”

  “I find it unlikely that ten cops could disappear without a public reaction. I know that if no one else cares, my partner is looking for me,” Hollis said firmly. “Dan’s the best.”

  “My partner, too,” Cortez whispered, leaning his head back. Harv? Sandburg moaned, and Cortez moved his hand to the young man’s shoulder, squeezing it gently, calming him. “I’m part of a unit,” he added, proudly, “and I know they’re all on this.” Nash Bridges was a miracle worker. Between Nash and Harvey and Joe and Michelle and everyone else, he knew San Francisco was being turned upside down looking for him. Trouble is, I’m not in California.

  McBride shrugged. “I don’t have a partner. I work mainly on my own, but there were witnesses to my abduction, so I’m sure there’s an alert out for me.”

  “Anyone have family?” Fong asked, looking around, then resting his head back against the side of the trailer box. “A girlfriend? I got me one. And right now, I bet she’s half hysterical wondering what happened to me. She hates the fact I’m undercover. Didn’t mind me being a cop, but hated when I transferred to the Port of Tacoma undercover unit.”

  Cortez smiled, one hand still resting on Sandburg’s chest. “My family’s in Chicago, but the SIU is my family, too. We take care of each other. And, yeah, I’ve got a girlfriend.” Images of Cassidy came to his mind, the hot blast of water from the shower descending over their joined bodies. The soap in his hand, fingers trailing down her silky skin. Her laughter, her whispers. The two of them in bed, the covers a jumble of sheets and blankets that they took refuge beneath in the early hours of the morning, when they were too tired to do anything else. Waking up beside her, his hand tangled in her hair, his face next to hers on the pillow.

  The scene was ripped apart by the memory of the previous day, standing blindfolded, naked and leather bound, restrained by some device that linked the collar around his neck to his wrists, pulled tight behind his back. His body then forced into positions he had heard of, and seen pictures of, but never imagined he would endure. Cassidy ���

  She was so young. Too young to hear what had been done to him. Too young to hear about what might yet be done to him. If it happens, will I be the same then? Will I ever be able to look her in the eye? Look at my reflection in the mirror? Despair rushed over him, and he closed his eyes, drowning in the grief of a lost might-have-been, wondering if he’d ever see her again.

  Hollis shifted, listening intently. “Voices again. Listen up. We make a promise, okay? If any of us gets a chance to escape, we do it. I want to know that someone gets word out about this operation. We don’t try and save the next guy. If one of us gets loose, we run for it. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.” McBride raised his hand before him, locking it into a fist.

  Fong and Jack copied the signal, Cortez joining them before turning his attention to Sandburg, who was groggily touching his head, eyes opening.

  “Evan?”

  “Yeah. Can you sit up?” Cortez helped the Cascade prisoner to lean back against the sidewall. Before he could say anything more, a sharp rattle at the end door signaled their day had begun. Six pairs of eyes watched as the doors were unlocked and then swung open.

  *

  6:45 a.m.

  “Jim? For God’s sake, man, what the hell am I supposed to do?” Simon’s voice, hardly more than a whisper, was clear, the first sound his zoned mind had heard in hours.

  Ellison opened his eyes to the foggy realization that he was lying on the floor of Banks’ office, covered with a blanket, a pillow under his head. From the light visible through the slated blinds, it was early morning. He looked to one side to see Banks sitting on the edge of a chair nearby, his face hidden in his hands.

  He tried to force his tongue and mouth to work. “Can you get me a cup of coffee? And some Tylenol?”

  “Jim!” Banks was on his knees beside him. “Are you back? If so, may I say right now, don’t you ever do that to me again! You got that?” The captain helped him up into a chair.

  “I’ll do my best,” he murmured. “At the risk of sounding ungrateful, Simon, I really could use some pain killers, and I suspect we both could use a cup of whatever that coffee is that I smell.” He took a tentative sniff. “What is that? Columbian Dark?”

  “Yeah.” Banks moved from his side over to the credenza behind his desk. “I made a pot about ten minutes ago. Had I known you could be lured out of a zoneout with coffee, I would have made it three hours ago.”

  “Three hours? I was zoned that long?” Ellison rubbed the back of his neck, amazed at the knots and tension there. “I’ll have to mention to Sandburg about the coffee angle.”

  “What the hell happened, Jim? One minute I was on the phone talking to Brown at the hospital, and suddenly I see you move your head like you’re doing that senses-listening thing you do, then you’re taking a swan dive.” Banks handed him a cup of black coffee, then dropped some pain tablets into his palm. “Has the kid okayed those pills?” The captain looked startled at his words, adding immediately, “Sorry, Jim. I shouldn’t have mentioned—”

  “It’s okay. He’s missing, not dead. Understand?” Ellison popped the pills in his mouth, swallowing a mouthful of too-hot coffee. “I heard him last night, Simon.”

  “Heard who?” Banks sat down at his desk, cradling his own cup of coffee.

  “Sandburg.”

  “What?” Bloodshot eyes widened. “How? What kind of a range do you have with your hearing, anyway?”

  “I’ve no idea. Sandburg seems to think that it will continue to extend as I get control of my senses. But I heard him. I heard his heartbeat.”

  “Then he was in the building somewhere?”

  “No. I think he was a distance away. Simon ���” Ellison trailed off, staring at a spot on the floor. “Simon, I don’t think I was using my sense of hearing this time.”

  “You’re not making sense, Jim — If you’ll pardon the pun. What are you saying? That you heard his heartbeat with your eyesight?”

  “No. But it was internal, rather than external. It wasn’t with any of my five senses. It was beyond that. I ���” Ellison shrugged, shaking his head. “I don’t have the vocabulary for this.” He rubbed his neck and tried again. “For lack of a better way of saying it, I experienced his heartbeat. A different level of sensory awareness, maybe—”

  Banks interrupted. “Hold it right there. Just stop a minute. What are you talking about? A sixth sense?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe a seventh or eighth sense.” Ellison met the captain’s disbelieving stare. “I don’t know, Simon. I don’t know what it was. But it was real, as real as I can hear your heart right now.”

  Banks grimaced. “I’d rather not know that you can hear my heartbeat. It quite frankly gives me the willies.” He took a sip of his coffee, giving himself a moment to compose his thoughts. “Jim, I’m no expert at this stuff, but maybe you just hooked onto a memory of him or something. We’d been talking about him for twelve hours straight when this happened. It’s possible, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t know what it was, but it was real. Immediate. Almost like I was there with him for a moment.”

  “So where is he, Jim?”

  Ellison shook his head slowly, his eyes closed. “I don’t know. But he was alive and he was frightened.”

  *

  7:00 a.m.

  Holding his breath, Sandburg watched as the key slid into the lock at his feet. The chain was kicked free of the post, the noise jarring his raw nerves. Three men had stormed into the semi-trailer ten minutes before and had begun to remove their prisoners one at a time. Sandburg was the last of the group to be released, except for two men who hadn’t moved since Blair had woken up. The anthropologist was also careful to keep his eyes a
way from the two bodies now visible at the back of the semi-trailer. It was bad enough knowing they were there; he didn’t want to see them. Every time he heard a fly buzzing, his stomach rebelled.

  “Get up.” The tall man with arms like a wrestler snarled at him, and Sandburg scrambled to his feet, weaving as dizziness hit. He was turned around and pushed face-first against the side of the trailer. “Don’t move.” His arms were drawn back, leather cuffs were strapped to each wrist, then somehow fastened together. The man finished, then hooked his arm and sent him stumbling toward the door.

  A sharp rapping sound got his attention, and as the police observer raised his head, he saw the one of the other men, this one with a scar above his eye and a very large gun, at the entrance of the semi-trailer, motioning for him to leave. “Well, little ugly duckling,” the scar man growled, “let’s see if you can keep yourself alive a few more hours.”

  Sandburg kept his gaze averted, trying not to meet the man’s dark, flashing eyes. He walked unsteadily to the end of the box, then turned and clamored awkwardly down from the edge, landing with difficulty on his feet, then falling to his knees in a mud puddle, the cold water soaking his jean legs. A harsh yell brought him to his feet again and he stared down at his bare toes, only then noticing that his sandals were missing. Come on, Sandburg. Wake up. Pay attention.

  It was early morning. The sky was gray and overcast. He stood motionless, waiting to be told what to do next. He could hear the wrestler man still inside the trailer ordering the injured Santa Cruz cop to get up.

  The rain had stopped, but it was windy. A shot sounded and Blair stumbled forward, almost losing his balance as the chain between his ankles tripped him up. The sound echoed again in the semi-trailer, and the huge wrestler jumped down from the back, walking past him as though he didn’t exist.

  “Through the door.”

  Blair looked up to see a broad-shouldered Hispanic man at the entrance to what was probably a warehouse. A quick peak around showed a deserted field with a thick growth of trees at the far end. The semi-trailer, as well as a large, older house, hid most of the view.

  “Inside,” the scar man ordered.

  He walked into the building, feeling the cement floor beneath his bare feet. It was a new building, smelling still of lumber and sawdust and fresh paint. The sounds echoed as he walked across the floor. A hammer. A power saw. From the entrance, it was easy to see that the ceiling was twice as high as any of the rooms within, and he wondered if it looked like a mouse’s maze from the rafters above. He could hear voices, a man was shouting somewhere, but he could see no sign of the other men who had been held prisoner with him in the semi-trailer.

  “What’s this?”

  Sandburg flinched at the sound of disgust in the newcomer’s voice and turned his head to look at the lean man who had just emerged from an office. A black, long-sleeved, skintight T-shirt was tucked into low-rise black jeans, equally tight. His belt was studded leather, the buckle huge and polished silver. He wore a leather band on each wrist, diamond studded. He had short, platinum-blond hair. For all his youthful attire, the man was in his mid-forties and in excellent physique, his choice of clothing flaunting his body. Still, Blair thought, this is not how he normally dressed. This was a camouflage of sorts. An act.

  The man stood now to one side, his hands on his hips, scowling at Sandburg as though he were a pile of excrement. “This is not what I wanted.” The venom in the voice was deadly. The man spun around, reached to the wall by his office door and took down a clipboard, running his finger down a list. “Cascade? Did you go there? I thought I was quite explicit about what and who I needed.” At six feet, four inches, the man had a few inches on the three men who obviously worked for him, but his domineering personality would have made him intimidating whatever his height.

  “The guy you wanted was shot, Jurgen. We grabbed this one. Figured he was better than nothing.” The Hispanic gunman slipped his weapon back in his shoulder holster, feet planted solidly as he held his ground. “If you don’t want him, we’ll get rid of him.”

  “I don’t want him. I was quite clear that my standards were to be matched exactly. I don’t have time for sub-standard material.”

  “Then we’ll deal with him ourselves. Put him in the back room.” The Hispanic man gestured for the scar-faced man to take him, and Sandburg found himself lifted by the back of his shirt, his legs barely touching the ground. Whoever had a grip on him moved through the building, through the maze of corridors and rooms. The walls they passed were unfinished on the corridor side, the joints and wiring uncovered. Several of the doors were open, and Sandburg glanced quickly, noting that there were no ceilings. The rooms were dark, so he couldn’t see what was inside, but he had the impression they were empty. A power saw buzzed again from somewhere, echoing above him. Beneath that sound, a highspeed electric drill. This place was still in construction, he thought, dully, as he was dragged across a painter’s drop sheet down the corridor.

  The scar man opened a door, and Blair was released abruptly, wavering for his balance. He looked up, startled to meet Evan’s eyes. They were in a room filled with boxes, and the scar man was rummaging through one of them. Blair stared at Evan, silently questioning what was happening, but Evan only looked away. The San Francisco cop was naked, arms tied behind his back, still chained at his ankles. The wrestler gunman was fastening a lock through the chain.

  A rubber ball was stuffed in Blair’s mouth, tied in place by a gag. Struggling only brought a sharp clout on the side of his head. He was lifted again by the back of his shirt, and the trip through the warehouse continued. It wasn’t that large, but it had a maze of rooms.

  Another door was opened. A room with a bed. And a ceiling. He was pushed down to the mattress, his feet then lifted by the chain. A lock fastened the chain to the bottom frame of the bed. Without being spoken to, the man turned and left the windowless room, closing the door behind him. The small area smelled musty, and Blair let his breath out slowly through his nostrils, trying to calm his frantic nerves. Fleetingly he wondered when the sheets were changed last and if there would be mice. The building seemed new enough, but that didn’t mean that mice — or worse yet, rats — hadn’t made the place their home.

  After a moment of lying paralyzed, he shook himself alert and struggled to get his arms from where they were bound. Several minutes later, he knew he had no chance of escaping. He was bound securely. He was going to have to wait and discover what happened next.

  With the gag in his mouth, he couldn’t even scream for help, so he did the next best thing.

  JIM!!!

  *

  7:15 a.m.

  JIM!!!

  Ellison put down his coffee mug slowly, but the hot liquid still sloshed over the edges when the ceramic mug hit the table.

  He was vaguely aware of Simon Banks looking up from his phone call, then immediately excusing himself and hanging up. “Jim?”

  Ellison turned to stare at him, eyes wide.

  “Jim? What’s happening?”

  “I heard him again.”

  “Sandburg?”

  He nodded, swallowing. Listening.

  “What did he say?” Banks asked, his voice no more than a whisper.

  “Just my name. He screamed my name.”

  “Shit.” The captain moved slowly from his desk, approaching Ellison as though he were trying not to spook him. “Are you sure it was him?”

  He nodded again, his mouth suddenly dry. “Same as last time. I heard him. But not with my hearing. I felt his fear.”

  “This is because of what happened in Mexico, right? Your senses heightened?”

  “Maybe. We thought the effects had mostly faded.” Ellison met Banks’ worried frown. At least the captain believed him, and he knew how difficult it was for Simon to have to deal with anything to do with his Sentinel abilities.

  “Can you tell anything else? Where he is? Who has him?”

  “He’s alive, Simon. Right now, that’s a
ll I know for sure.”

  Chapter Three

  *

  “SIU. Joe Dominguez. Can I help you?”

  “Joe. It’s Nash.”

  “Nashman. What’s up?”

  “I’ve got something else for Harvey to work on.”

  “Do you want me to get him on the line?”

  “No, just ask him about this. The week before Evan was abducted ��� Did anything unusual happen? Was he approached by anyone about having his picture taken for a magazine or a calendar?”

  “That sounds pretty specific. Good lead?”

  “Maybe, Bubba. Worth looking into, anyway. The FBI profiler here mentioned that the missing men all looked as though they could be models. When the point came up again, Bill Franklin of the Santa Barbara PD made the comment that his detective who disappeared had been approached two weeks earlier by a man who wanted to know if he would be willing to pose for a picture for a national magazine article on police detectives. He had thanked the man for the offer, but said he had to turn him down, since he still occasionally worked undercover. The guys at the station teased him about it for a few days. When that incident was related, the Tacoma chief said his detective had been approached in the lobby of the police station three days before he was abducted, asking if he would pose for a national calendar of police officers, the proceeds which would go to charity. His man was flattered by the offer, but said he had to turn it down due to his current assignment.”

  “So you’re wondering if anyone approached Evan? I don’t remember him saying anything about that.”

  “Do you honestly think he would have told you, Bubba?”

  “Yeah. I guess I would have teased him about that, huh?”

  “Well, Woodward suggested we all take a break to make a few calls and see if this lead goes anywhere. Check with Harvey. Evan may have said something to him. They talk.”

  “What about Cassidy? Do you want me to call her?”

  “No, I’ll do that later. Just talk to Harvey first. See if he remembers anything.”