home. The officers moved swiftly and silently into position. Natalie might be inside, so every precaution had to be taken to keep her safe. The house was quiet. No outward signs of activity.
Standing to the side of the doorframe, Alex looked over at Jackson. His partner was ready, tense lines etched deep into his face, gun pulled. A Kevlar vest tightly encased his barrel chest. He tipped Alex a tersenod. The go signal. An SPD squad car pulled up, announcing their presence. Stretching out his hand, he rapped on the wooden surface of the door. Flecks of white paint stuck to his knuckles. They waited.
Inclining his head, Alex held his breath. No sound came from inside the house as he raised his hand once more. The second knock echoed in the still morning air. No one moved. No one even breathed.
No answer. Alex nodded, then glanced back at the other officers standing at the ready before lifting his foot and kicking the flimsy front door. Rotting wood gave way easily. The sound of splintering timber shattered the heavy silence.
“Seattle Police,” he called in the darkened interior. There was no response. Was Natalie in here? No pounding of feet or answering voices. Dead quiet.
Cautiously, Alex swept his way through the living room. More officers followed. The air was stagnant, smelling of cat litter and rotting garbage. Dusty drapes covered dirty windows, and in the dim light he could make out the bulky outline of a battered sofa and chair. A computer desk sat in the corner of the room, the flat-screen monitor dominating its cluttered surface, pizza box balanced on its top, while a bulky CPU tower hulked beneath.
A sudden crash to their right trained all guns toward the kitchen amid a dry cacophony of chambering rounds. A gray cat landed with a soft thud on the countertop, its yellow eyes wary.
Alex let out a rush of breath. Drops of sweat slid down his neck as he turned away, continuing to search the house, leading with his Glock. Natalie could still be here, he thought as he moved down the hall with smooth, athletic grace. In one of the back bedrooms?
The creak of the floorboards seemed to echo all the way up the walls as he made his way slowly down the narrow hall. Bathroom clear. First bedroom on the right. Twin bed. Stacked boxes. Motorcycle parts. Clear. One more door on the left. Jackson followed Alex down the hall toward the bedroom.
The door was closed, and Alex moved to the far side. His eyes locked with Jackson’s for a heartbeat before he threw the door open. Double bed unmade. Light filtering in through the cracked window.
Empty.
Fuck.
The smell was different in here. Stale sweat soaked into bed sheets. An image sprung unbidden into Alex’s mind. A girl tied up on the bed, mouth gagged, fear glittering in her pleading eyes. He blinked hard, dismissing it.
A search of the bedroom turned up no obvious signs of Natalie. Despite the unmade bed, there was no indication that the occupant had spent the night. Apparently, cleanliness was not next to godliness for Jerry Honeywell.
“Where the hell
is
she?” Alex said, lowering his gun and glancing over his shoulder at Jackson. “Let’s get forensics in here and do a thorough search. Maybe they’ll find something.”
Alex led the way back to the living area while Jackson checked out the kitchen.
“Not much in the fridge except leftover takeout containers and some sour milk. The boy doesn’t like to cook for himself, that’s for damn sure. No cat food in the dish,” Jackson said.
“No cleaning lady, either. Lucky for us.” If there was some trace of Natalie here, they would find it.
The small team conducted a slow crawl through the house. Bed sheets were bagged, surfaces examined, furniture moved, kitty litter sifted in a search for any DNA evidence that might tie Natalie to this location. As the team made their way through from room to room, Alex shuffled through the papers on the desk, finding the usual bills, flyers, and credit-card offers.
Standing to the side of the doorframe, Alex looked over at Jackson. His partner was ready, tense lines etched deep into his face, gun pulled. A Kevlar vest tightly encased his barrel chest. He tipped Alex a tersenod. The go signal. An SPD squad car pulled up, announcing their presence. Stretching out his hand, he rapped on the wooden surface of the door. Flecks of white paint stuck to his knuckles. They waited.
Inclining his head, Alex held his breath. No sound came from inside the house as he raised his hand once more. The second knock echoed in the still morning air. No one moved. No one even breathed.
No answer. Alex nodded, then glanced back at the other officers standing at the ready before lifting his foot and kicking the flimsy front door. Rotting wood gave way easily. The sound of splintering timber shattered the heavy silence.
“Seattle Police,” he called in the darkened interior. There was no response. Was Natalie in here? No pounding of feet or answering voices. Dead quiet.
Cautiously, Alex swept his way through the living room. More officers followed. The air was stagnant, smelling of cat litter and rotting garbage. Dusty drapes covered dirty windows, and in the dim light he could make out the bulky outline of a battered sofa and chair. A computer desk sat in the corner of the room, the flat-screen monitor dominating its cluttered surface, pizza box balanced on its top, while a bulky CPU tower hulked beneath.
A sudden crash to their right trained all guns toward the kitchen amid a dry cacophony of chambering rounds. A gray cat landed with a soft thud on the countertop, its yellow eyes wary.
Alex let out a rush of breath. Drops of sweat slid down his neck as he turned away, continuing to search the house, leading with his Glock. Natalie could still be here, he thought as he moved down the hall with smooth, athletic grace. In one of the back bedrooms?
The creak of the floorboards seemed to echo all the way up the walls as he made his way slowly down the narrow hall. Bathroom clear. First bedroom on the right. Twin bed. Stacked boxes. Motorcycle parts. Clear. One more door on the left. Jackson followed Alex down the hall toward the bedroom.
The door was closed, and Alex moved to the far side. His eyes locked with Jackson’s for a heartbeat before he threw the door open. Double bed unmade. Light filtering in through the cracked window.
Empty.
Fuck.
The smell was different in here. Stale sweat soaked into bed sheets. An image sprung unbidden into Alex’s mind. A girl tied up on the bed, mouth gagged, fear glittering in her pleading eyes. He blinked hard, dismissing it.
A search of the bedroom turned up no obvious signs of Natalie. Despite the unmade bed, there was no indication that the occupant had spent the night. Apparently, cleanliness was not next to godliness for Jerry Honeywell.
“Where the hell
is
she?” Alex said, lowering his gun and glancing over his shoulder at Jackson. “Let’s get forensics in here and do a thorough search. Maybe they’ll find something.”
Alex led the way back to the living area while Jackson checked out the kitchen.
“Not much in the fridge except leftover takeout containers and some sour milk. The boy doesn’t like to cook for himself, that’s for damn sure. No cat food in the dish,” Jackson said.
“No cleaning lady, either. Lucky for us.” If there was some trace of Natalie here, they would find it.
The small team conducted a slow crawl through the house. Bed sheets were bagged, surfaces examined, furniture moved, kitty litter sifted in a search for any DNA evidence that might tie Natalie to this location. As the team made their way through from room to room, Alex shuffled through the papers on the desk, finding the usual bills, flyers, and credit-card offers.
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