Free Closer by Sarah Greyson Page B

My guess is he is not a stupid man. He’s desperate, but not stupid. So he wouldn’t take her to some place he owns,” Steve answered calmly from the kitchen table, tapping his fingers against its glass top.
    “Let’s go through his bank and credit card statements, maybe we will get lucky,” Steve interjected. God, Michael hoped so. They had gotten lucky in the past. Still it wouldn’t hurt to say a little prayer. So, for the first time since he left Afghanistan, he prayed.
    “I found something,” Steve exclaimed.
    “What is it?” Rob asked.
    “Ingrams rented a cabin on his Visa card. He rented it for six nights and those six nights began yesterday,” Steve explained, waving the piece of printer paper in his hand.
    They had been at it for a good two hours printing all of his statements for the last eight months. They had been searching for anything that might lead them in his direction. Now they had it.
    “Where is it?” Michael insisted as he got up from his chair and came to stand behind Steve’s shoulder.
    “Wells, Maine. We’re going to Wells,” Steve stated.
    “We got damn lucky, that’s only an hour drive at the most,” Steve said.
    “Grab the gear,” Michael commanded. While Tony had been searching the internet, the rest of the men had been packing, packing as much weaponry and ammunition as they could carry. Each man picked up a bag and made his way out the front door, down the front walk to the street. There were going to have to take two cars and find a cargo van later. Each man threw a gear bag in the trunk of the two cars.
    “Guys, follow me down the street. I have to ditch this car,” Michael requested.
    They hopped in the cars, started the engines, and followed Michael into town. Michael pulled into an abandoned alleyway and wiped his fingerprints from the car. He got out and shut the door, carefully wiping his fingerprints from the door handle. He jumped into the passenger side of Rob’s car. The caravan of men started rolling down highway I95 to Wells…to Emma.
    “I’m coming, Emma. Hold on,” Michael thought.

 
     
     
« Chapter Nine »
     
     
    A damp, musty smell assaulted her senses. She couldn’t see because of the single bare light bulb hanging in front of her, glaring into her eyes, while she imagined dark, damp corners. Emma tried to peer around the room. Next to the bulb was a metal, beaded string. Against the far wall sat an old green couch. The stairs were behind her. There were laundry hook-ups sticking out of the wall above the couch. The floor was concrete. She was in a cellar of a house, her hands tied to one of the exposed old, wooden beams that ran the length of the ceiling. When she looked up, she could see the wiring and cables stapled to and running atop the beams. Did he live here?
    “Don’t you touch me, you freak,” Emma screamed, as she dangled by her bound hands from the ceiling of the cottage’s basement.
    “You are going to tell me everything I want to know about your boyfriend before I kill you,” Ingrams commanded as he ran his finger between her breasts.
    Emma wiggled and tossed her body away from Ingram’s hand.
    “Who is he, Ms. Welby?” Ingrams demanded.
    “Go to hell,” Emma exclaimed as she spat in his direction.
    He didn’t take kindly to the insult. Ingrams raised his right hand and backhanded her hard across her face. Her lip busted open and she sucked in the familiar metallic taste of blood.
    “We can play this game all night. In fact, we can play this game for the next four nights. But I guarantee you, you will tell me what I want to know. The question is, Ms. Welby, how quickly do you want to die?” Ingrams jeered as he wiped the line of blood trickling from Emma’s lip down her chin. Ingrams moved his face closer to Emma’s and licked at the blood removing it from her chin.
    “You’ve obviously suffered some kind of psychotic break, you sick man. You said you worked for the CIA. I don’t know anybody that works for