Frozen Stiff: Volume 1 (A Chase Adams FBI Thriller) Read online

  FROZEN STIFF

  Patrick Logan

  PATHOLOGICAL INK

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PART I - Trying to WalkChapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  PART II - Trying to SwimChapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Part III - Trying to ShootChapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Epilogue

  ENDAuthor’s Note

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  Frozen Stiff

  A Chase Adams FBI Thriller

  Book 1

  Patrick Logan

  PROLOGUE

  “You can’t get away from this, Chase! Why don’t you just come back up here and we can talk about it, face-to-face!”

  Chase Adams winced and scrambled along the side of the hill, pressing her back against the snow-covered surface as she moved.

  The man was standing on the road above, roughly fifteen feet up, and if he saw her, she knew that the next bullet wouldn’t be in her side, but in her skull.

  Talk about it… what a joke.

  Through gritted teeth, she tried to keep her pain at bay while shuffling, grateful for both the cover of darkness and the sound of the wind whistling between bare trees.

  It was a cold night, and the frigid air nipped at her even through the thick red parka that covered her from knees to chin. Wind entered the bullet hole in the left side, causing it to puff up and make her movements even more awkward.

  “Chase! Chaaaaaase!” The voice had a sing song quality to it now.

  The bastard was enjoying this.

  Chase made it to an exposed culvert jutting from the side of the hill, and with a soft grunt, lowered herself beneath it.

  Please don’t look down here… please just get back in your car and leave.

  Somewhere in the distance she heard the chime from a car, an indication that a door had been left ajar. A quick glance in that direction confirmed that it was coming from the battered teal-colored sedan that she had stolen at gunpoint. Based on the way the hood was curled around an ancient oak tree, she was surprised that she had managed to crawl out of it relatively unscathed.

  Chase could see blood on the cracked leather seats even from her vantage point nearly twenty feet away, but that was from before, that was from the bullet embedded in her right side, just above her hip.

  Please… just leave.

  “I’ll tell you what, Chase, come out now, and I’ll make it quick—I promise. It won’t be like the others. But if I have to come down there and find you, which I will—you know I will—then it’ll be bad.”

  So much for talking.

  Chase squeezed her eyes together tightly, and she allowed herself several deep breaths. The pain in her side had dulled considerably since the hotel, and after collecting herself, she finally gathered the nerve to look down at the hand clutching her side.

  Beneath the pale blue spears of moonlight, her small fingers appeared smeared with a thick, purple substance.

  Chase ground her teeth, steeled herself, and then pulled her hand away from the spot just above her right hip.

  Down feather insulation clung to the blood covered hole, and after first trying, and then failing, to clear them completely to allow a clear view of the wound, Chase gave up and slowly unzipped the coat to peer inside.

  The hole in her shirt was ragged, and the shirt itself, a white blouse, was filthy and nearly completely covered in blood.

  The bullet hole itself was rimmed with black, burnt fabric.

  Chase covered the wound with her frigid hand and applied pressure. A hiss exited her mouth, and she froze.

  “Chase… Chaaaaaaaaaase! Come out, come out wherever you are!”

  With all of her prodding, the pain had intensified, but she knew there was still one more thing to check: she had to inspect her back.

  Chase inhaled deeply, and held her breath, before pulling away from the side of the hill. It was risky, but she had to know.

  Just a glance…

  A second later, Chase collapsed against the embankment, breathing heavily, eyes closed once more.

  The bullet had gone completely through.

  Something in the back of her mind, her police training perhaps, her time as first a Seattle PD Narcotics officer, then as an NYPD Detective, told her that this was a good thing. That if the bullet was still lodged inside her, it would continue to do damage until it was removed.

  But this realization did nothing to soothe her pain.

  Through or not, if she didn’t get help soon, Chase would bleed out. Then it wouldn’t matter if the bullet was lodged in her side, her chest, her heart, or her brain.

  She tightened her grip on the gun clutched in her free hand.

  “Agent Adams, I’m getting bored of this,” as if to reinforce the point, the lilt in his voice disappeared. “I’ll tell you what… new deal: you come out right now, and I won’t kill your husband and son.”

  Chase’s eyes snapped open, and her mouth went slack.

  No, he can’t—

  As if reading her thoughts, the man continued, “Oh, that’s right. I know all about little Felix and Brad. You see, Chase, I’ve been at this a long time. A long, long time, and you don’t stick around in this game by not knowing everything… everything about my victims. About what you guys did to her.”

  Chase closed her eyes again, only this time it wasn’t from the pain, but from a realization. She ground her teeth so hard that a fine powder rained down on her tongue.

  A game… that’s all this is to him, a sick, twisted game of revenge. But for what? What the hell did we do?

  “Last chance, Chase. Come out now, hands up, or Felix and Brad die before you do. Last… chance…”

  PART I - TRYING TO WALK

  ~

  TWO WEEKS AGO

  CHAPTER 1

  CHASE EYED THE MAN IN the driver seat sporting aviator sunglasses that were too big even for his large features. His elbow was hanging casually out the window, and cold air wafted to them from inside the van.

  “You girls need a ride?” he said with a slight grin.

  Chase turned to her sister, at the sheen covering her button nose, the soft skin beneath her eyes. It was hot, too hot, and they still had at least two miles to cover before they got home.

  “We’re fine,” Chase said forcefully. She grabbed her sister’s hand and tugged her along.

  To her dismay, the man in the van kept pace.

  “You sure? It’s awfully hot out here.”

  Chase looked over at the driver, and was surprised to see that his smile had widened.

  A sudden buzzing, a thick, droning sound, bombarded Chase’s ears and she felt momentarily dizzy.

  He’s right. It’s so hot out here. When’s the last time we had something to drink? Was it the water? No, it was… oh, it was the syrupy Snocone… that was it. And mama said that those drinks will only make you more thirsty.

  “I said, we’re fine,” she snapped.

  The man opened his mouth to reply, but the only sound he made was more of that strange buzzing. It seemed to be inside her skull now, as if her brain had been replaced by a wasp hive.

  To her right, her sister was saying something and tugging her hand, probably telling her that they should, please, just take the ride, but Chase didn’t hear any words. All she heard was that damn buzzing, that incessant—

  ~

  Chase’s eyes snapped open, her mouth open in a gasp. Her body was covered in sweat, an uncomfortable stickiness that coated her arms, her chest, her legs.

  Finally managing a full breath, she saw fog form in front of her face. Despite the sweat, she shivered, her gaze moving to the open window.

  It was frigid inside her small apartment and—

  Bzzzzz

  Chase’s eyes wen
t from the window to her phone on the bedside table. As she stared at it, it buzzed again, the vibrations moving it toward the edge.

  Chase grabbed it before it fell.

  The number was unlisted, but she answered anyway.

  “Hello?” she asked, then cleared her throat when her voice came out hoarse and cracking.

  What time is it?

  “Alaska,” the male voice on the other end of the line said. Unlike her own, it was clear, distinct, not groggy with sleep.

  “What?”

  “Alaska. Head to the airport—flight leaves in two hours. Tickets are at the desk under your name. Bring the badge and gun that Agent Stitts gave you. Don’t be late.”

  Chase sat bolt upright.

  This was the call she was waiting for. She hadn’t expected it to be so obtuse, cryptic and informal, but that didn’t matter. It was the call.

  “I’m up, sir,” she said, but the other end of the line had already gone dead.

  Chase put the phone back on the bedside table and rubbed the last vestiges of sleep from her eyes.

  Then, when her vision was completely clear, she turned to the clock.

  It was four-fifteen in the morning.

  Her eyes naturally moved to the photograph beside the clock next, the one of Brad resting on a knee, a smile on his bearded face. His hand was wrapped around Felix’s shoulders, resting on his brightly-colored backpack.

  The photo had been taken three years ago on little Felix’s first day of school.

  Chase reached out with two fingers and pressed them gently on the glass.

  Then she rose, grabbed the bag that she had packed months ago from the foot of her bed, confirmed that her pistol and FBI badge rested on top, and started to dress.

  CHAPTER 2

  “There are no direct flights from JFK to Anchorage,” the sulking woman at the flight desk informed Chase, “Your connection is in Seattle, and you best be hurrying, the flight is boarding real soon.”

  Chase nodded and hurried to the security desk. She flashed her FBI badge, and then informed the TSA agent that she had a pistol to check.

  “Yeah, we’re going to have to take you and your gun to security to check it over,” the man in the uniform informed her in a slow drawl. He was going on sixty and had thin, coppery hair. Chase considered that his hair might have been dyed to match his nicotine stained mustache.

  “I’ve got a flight to catch,” she said with a frown. “Can we just hurry it up?”

  The man eyed her up and down, taking in the full length of her black suit, the white blouse beneath. He did so in the creepiest way possible, and Chase bit back a scathing retort.

  The man’s leer suddenly broke into a grin.

  “Hey, aren’t you that Police Sergeant that told the woman of New York to be bitches?”

  Chase’s scowl became a sneer.

  Just my luck, I get the only asshole who remembers that.

  Her mind flicked back to the day that she had stood atop the podium, then acting as NYPD Sergeant of the 62nd precinct. Her goal had been to prevent more women from being murdered, from their lips being painted red with blood.

  FBI Agent Jeremy Stitts had been in the crowd then, looking up at her. And with all eyes on her, she had gone ahead and said pretty much exactly what the TSA douchebag before her had just repeated.

  Use your gut, your instincts, Agent Stitts had instructed her, and her gut told her to inform New York, especially the women, to look out for themselves.

  That had been more than six months ago; more than half a year had passed since she was the active Sergeant of 62nd precinct, and she had thought that it was all behind her.

  Just my luck to meet the one man in New York who remembers…

  The TSA Agent’s eyes flicked to the FBI badge that Chase still held open in one hand.

  “Didn’t work out that good for ya, did it?” there was a twinkle in the man’s eyes that made Chase want to punch him. But that was what he wanted, too, she realized.

  Instead, she put on her most patronizing expression.

  “I’ll be sure to put a good word in for you when Walmart comes looking for a new security guard.”

  The man stopped smiling.

  “Off to the right,” he barked. “Cops, FBI, POTUS. Don’t matter. All guns must be inspected prior to boarding.”

  Chase followed the man’s nicotine stained fingers toward a door marked SECURITY CHECK. Her only chance of making the flight now was if she was the only one in there.

  ~

  Huffing, her lungs and legs burning, Chase made it to the gate just as the agent was announcing last call over the loud speaker.

  “Wait!” she hollered as she approached. “I’m here! Wait!”

  The gate attendant turned her back to her as if she didn’t hear, and started toward the door, pulling a keycard from her hip as she did.

  You’ve got to be kidding me.

  The security check hadn’t been empty; it had been packed. Her only saving grace was that she knew one of the inspectors, a cousin of Detective Simmons whom she had worked with back in 62nd precinct, and he had fast-laned her.

  And yet, even after all of this bureaucratic bullshit, the woman was still going to close the door on her.

  She was going to miss her flight.

  Chase sprinted and somehow managed to slip a foot in the door before the gate attendant could close it completely.

  The woman, who at this point, Chase was convinced was some sort of android, continued to shut the door despite the presence of her foot.

  It was heavy, and she winced when it pinched her Jimmy Choos.

  “I’m here,” she huffed, holding the ticket out for the woman to see. The woman’s eyes moved from the ticket to Chase’s foot, then back to her face.

  “Only this time,” she said sternly, as if she were offering parole to a two-time offender in a three-strike state. She snatched the ticket from Chase’s hand, and then scanned the barcode with the handheld reader.

  Chase wanted to come back with something witty, snarky, but she was too out of breath to say anything.

  Which was probably for the best.

  The woman pulled the door open just wide enough for Chase to slip through, and she hurried down the runway, a slight limp to her gait until the pain in her foot subsided.

  Just when she thought her day couldn’t get any worse, Chase discovered that her ticket had her sandwiched between two men who looked like long lost relatives of Jabba the Hut.

  Even at a hair over a hundred pounds, coming in at a generous five-foot four, Chase’s shoulders were so tightly squeezed between them that her breathing was restricted.

  Thankfully, it was six am, and she was exhausted from her interrupted sleep and the run to and throughout JFK, and Chase managed to pass out even before the plane left the ground.

  ~

  “Suit yourself, but it’s awfully hot out there. And in here—” the man gestured toward the interior of the minivan. As he did, a blast of cold air struck Chase in the face, even though she was standing more than three feet away. “—it’s nice.”

  And there it was again, the charming smile, the comfortable, unassuming pose with his arm dangling out the window.

  Chase wanted to get in the car, really wanted to, and she could tell by the way that her sister kept tugging on her hand, that she wanted to get in too.

  Chase turned her eyes to the sun, squinting at the near impossible brightness.

  “Suit yourself,” the man repeated.

  Chase looked back just in time to see the man’s tinted window close before he sped off, tires squealing.

  “C’mon, Chase, it’s soooo hot,” her sister whined. “Why can’t we take the ride? He looks nice.”

  Chase stopped and then squatted so that she was at eye level with her sister. Chase was only two years older, but Georgina was a good foot shorter than she was.

  She grasped her sister’s shoulders tightly.

  “Not everyone who offers you a ride is a good person, Georgie. There are some people out there…”

  Her sentence trailed off as her mind began to wander.

  “You’re hurting me,” Georgina whined, as she squirmed beneath Chase’s grip.

  Chase let go of her and stood.

  “Sorry,” she grumbled. “Let’s go. It’s hot, and I’m thirsty.”