Ransom Holiday

By Paul Carlberg

Short story. Wife and daughter terrorized while on family vacation in Colorado. Violence and graphic language. One sexual situation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Carlberg
• Release date: Nov 2, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301615193

Book preview

RANSOM HOLIDAY

by Paul Carlberg

Copyright 2012, Smashwords edition

Tuesday, Early Evening

All units, 10-14 in progress. I repeat, 10-14 in progress. Three suspects, Caucasian, mid-twenties to mid-forties. Two believed to be wearing blue jeans. All armed and dangerous. I repeat, extremely dangerous. Last known heading east on Lakeshore Drive from Almont. Late model green Thunderbird, Colorado plates, begins with TRG, I repeat TRG. Over.

The voice on the radio was unemotional, matter-of-fact and nondescript. It was as if time and weather had been broadcast over the tinny radio in the squad car. The two uniformed officers in Car 583 listened to the female voice on the radio, but did not overly respond to it. If a car was in the area, it would respond, but none did. Silence followed the broadcast for several seconds. Finally, as if both men in the squad car spoke and thought as one, the passenger picked up the radio microphone and responded to the faceless voice.

5-8-3, we’ll check it out, over.

The stern female voice responded to the reply.

Acknowledged, 5-8-3.

Once the female voice on the radio faded, the squad car lurched, turned around and sped off towards Lakeshore Drive and points beyond.

In Car 583 sat Officers Washington and Green. Both were veterans with over 15 years experience between them. Having been paired together for the past 5 years, both had seen a fair amount of action during their time with the police force with only a few close calls between them. George Green, 43, white, divorced with two kids, was the senior member with a total of 9-1/2 years on the force. Albert Washington, or Daddy-Al, as his three step-kids called him, was black, 35, remarried and slightly junior to George in terms of service with 6 years even. Al stood 6’5" and was head and shoulders taller than George. After years of driving together there wasn’t much to talk about except the extraordinary or the hideously mundane. By and large, both men were serious, silent and all business. As George drove, Al spoke up.

Mid-twenties to mid-forties, wearing blue jeans. I’m glad they were able to narrow it down for us.

Green replied with a look of disgust, but did not take his eyes off the road. No shit. At least we’ve got a partial on the plate.

George Green drove the squad car precisely and hard. He drove it like it was an extension of his body. The wheels of the squad car squealed in resentment often and at each turn. Cruiser 583 whipped around the corner of Lakeshore and Walden like an amusement ride on rails. Once on Walden the car slowed stealthily to less than 20 miles per hour, which was an eternity for George. Hunting, like a cat on the prowl, Al and George peered into the semi-darkness of warehouses that littered Walden. Most of the warehouses in this decrepit part of town could easily swallow a stolen, late model, green Thunderbird. It was a gorgeous mid-summer evening and the retreating sunlight made it evident that darkness was only minutes away. Although it was not needed, Al was about to switch on the cruisers’ exterior floodlight when George touched him gently on the arm.

Check it out.

Up ahead, roughly a hundred yards distant, parked among three other cars, the tail end of an American two-door vehicle sat parked in a small entrance lot of one of the warehouse fronts. To the right of the car, sat a Cadillac, which was easy to make out because it was the outer most car facing the street. On the other side of the suspect car, lay two others, most likely of foreign make judging from their shape and size. As the officers approached, the tension in the cruiser thickened like cement on a hot day. Neither officer spoke. There was nothing to do but creep up and verify.

The cruiser approached the warehouse parking lot at a slightly slower clip than it had coasted down the block. The officers would just make a preliminary pass without taking any overt action. If this encounter were the felons they were looking for, there would be no sense in alarming the clientele inside because capturing these wanted men required an extraordinary amount of caution and an element of surprise. Without it, things could get unnecessarily rough in a hurry. Tougher than either of them wanted.

As the officers approached, they noticed that, indeed, the car in question appeared the be the green T-Bird they were looking for, but the license plate started with XLJ.

Damn, Sam. Albert Washington loved that phrase.

There was a moment of silence as the cruiser passed, both men straining to look.

Just a minute.

The look on George Green’s face was one of inquisition as well as insight. Al could always tell when George had a brainstorm.

What?

Look at the Caddy. Did you notice anything strange?

Al looked back, straining his eyes but couldn’t put the pieces together.

There’s no plate. So what?

George reached the end of the block and rounded the corner as nonchalantly as possible. Stopping the squad car midway down the side street adjacent to the warehouse building, he turned to face Al. As George looked at Al, his idea fermented in his mind.

Exactly. What are the chances that any of these cars have no plates?

Al looked dumbfounded.

Don’t you see? None of them look like a restore job and the Caddy is to new. I think the Caddy’s plates are on the Thunderbird.

Al’s face registered understanding. It was a few moments before he spoke.

Well, it’s a long shot and if we’re wrong, then we’ve just lost them down Lakeshore.

All George could do was smile, and smile big. It was the smile of a gambler. The smile of someone who knew what the cards were before ever picking up. As George slammed the cruiser into park, Al spoke. Let’s get it on.

5-8-3, 5-8-3, do you copy?

A moment passed before the familiar female voice responded.

5-8-3, go ahead.

Investigating a possible 2-18 at the corner of Walden and Harris, southside.

Copy that 5-8-3. Over.

Tuesday, Evening

Both men exited the vehicle, crouching as they went. Unsnapping the strap that secured their weapons, each man cupped his weapon with his hand. Al approached the front while George headed for the rear. This was their standard method of attack.

The warehouses were large, open, airy spaces connected to each other making the entire structure look like an elongated rowhouse. The fronts of the warehouses were each distinguished by the placement of one or two large delivery bay doors, an elevated entrance door, and a window placed on one side or the other depending on the placement of the warehouse as it squared next to its neighbor. A short concrete stairway, protected by iron railing on one side, led from the parking spaces to each warehouse front door. Front doors for the entire lot ran the gamut from steel, glass-in-aluminum frame, or wood. The parking lots consisted of a long slab of weed-infested asphalt adjacent to a street that ran the entire length of the structure. Faded markings made an inefficacious attempt to delineate territory for customer parking. The entire structure was 1930’s brick, worn, weathered, and in places, covered with paint of various markings and history. Most windows in front were covered with iron bars or plywood depending on if entry, at one time or another, had been attempted unscrupulously.

Around back, a concrete alleyway served as a border separating one block from its sister on the other side. Large trash dumpsters sitting on the patched concrete protected elevated back entrances. Smallish windows, mostly broken, sat alongside each rear door. These windows allowed minimal light to enter each structure from the rear. Most windows that were not broken were barred with iron, similar to the front. Otherwise, they were boarded up. If the fronts of the structure tried valiantly to maintain appearances, the backs certainly did not. Broken asphalt from back parking spaces and broken concrete from each pad littered the ground. The back entrances mimicked the front. Rusted iron stairways led from ground to door up a short flight of stairs. An overall sense of neglect permeated the surroundings. Trash overflowed onto