Broken Boys Read online

  Broken Boys, The Extractor

  Copyright © 2017 by L.J. Sellers

  All rights reserved. Except for text references by reviewers, the reproduction of this work in any form is forbidden without permission from the author.

  Cover art by David MacFarlane

  eBook editions by eBooks By Barb

  ISBN: 978-0-9987930-2-3

  Published in the USA by Spellbinder Press

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual people, locations, or events is coincidental or fictionalized.

  Contents

  Novels By L.J. Sellers

  Chapter 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

  Chapter 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 • Chapter 42

  Chapter 43 • Chapter 44

  About the Author

  Detective Jackson Mysteries

  The Sex Club

  Secrets to Die For

  Thrilled to Death

  Passions of the Dead

  Dying for Justice

  Liars, Cheaters & Thieves

  Rules of Crime

  Crimes of Memory

  Deadly Bonds

  Wrongful Death

  Death Deserved

  A Bitter Dying

  Agent Dallas Thrillers

  The Trigger

  The Target

  The Trap

  Extractor Series

  Guilt Game

  Broken Boys

  Standalone Thrillers

  The Gender Experiment

  Point of Control

  The Baby Thief

  The Gauntlet Assassin

  The Lethal Effect

  Chapter 1

  Sunday, June 25, 2:30 a.m., Portland, OR

  Josh opened his eyes, half awake. What was that sound? A door opening? Not likely. His mom was the only other person in the home and she didn’t go out late. He glanced at his cell phone on the nightstand. It was still the middle of the night. He rolled over and closed his eyes again. A moment later, heavy footsteps sounded in the hall outside his bedroom. Josh bolted upright. Someone was in their house!

  The door burst open and two huge guys rushed in.

  His heart missed a beat. Dark clothes and buzzed heads, they looked like military. What the hell was this?

  He opened his mouth to scream, but the intruders came at him so quickly he never had a chance. A callused hand pressed something sticky against his mouth and a cloth bag came down over his head.

  Oh fuck! This was bad. Josh swung wildly, but powerful hands caught his arms and pulled them together. Even knowing it was useless, he tried to kick his way off the bed. The strong hands grabbed his feet and shoved his legs up against his chest. The ripping sound of tape coming off a roll made his stomach heave. With terrifying speed and precision, the thugs bound his hands and feet together and wrapped him in his own sweaty sheet.

  They carried him down the hall, swinging like a trussed animal. Josh called out to his mother, but the words went nowhere. Heart hammering, he scrambled to make sense of what was happening. Some kind of drug-deal payback? His oxy action was small-time and covered only a few friends—all white, middle-class high school juniors just like him—so that didn’t make much sense. Whatever was going on was out of control! Please let it be a mistake.

  They hauled him through the living room and out the open front door. Cool, middle-of-the night air enveloped him. Josh’s panic escalated, and he couldn’t catch his breath. He moved his mouth around, trying to work the tape loose, but got nowhere. His abductors jogged him across the lawn toward the sidewalk. His visual world was black, but his gut told him a van was parked on the quiet, dead-end street. Waiting.

  Frantic, Josh wiggled his jaws, the only move he could make. As the kidnappers’ footsteps hit the concrete of the sidewalk, the left side of the tape slipped off his mouth. He sucked in a quick breath and yelled for help.

  A fist slammed into his face and pain exploded in his brain. He heard the metal click of a vehicle door sliding open, then they tossed him onto a hard floor. A moment later, the vehicle’s engine started, and they rolled forward.

  No! They were taking him somewhere to kill him, and he had no idea why. He would never see his mother again—and the last thing he’d said to her had been pretty crappy. Hot tears pooled in Josh’s eyes.

  Chapter 2

  Sunday, July 2, 8:04 p.m., Southern Idaho

  Red and blue lights flashed in her rearview mirror, and Roxanne MacFarlane’s heart skipped a beat. Damn! The freeway entrance was only a hundred yards away. They’d almost made it! She braked and pulled off the narrow country road. “Stay quiet,” she told the girl lying on the floor in the back seat. Lena, a thirteen-year-old, was hidden under a dark blanket, but if the officer decided to look around with a bright flashlight, Rox might soon be in handcuffs.

  Lena whimpered, “What’s going on? Is it Dad?”

  “No. Just be quiet.” Rox didn’t know why the cop had stopped her, so there was no point in alarming the girl. But Lena’s father and his new girlfriend were survivalists with a deep paranoia and an endless supply of weapons, so the teenager had good reason to be scared about going back to their isolated hideout.

  Rox glanced in the rearview mirror. Even in the dark, she could see the double-white stripe of the state-police vehicle. Rural areas of southern Idaho didn’t have their own police departments, and the man getting out wore a goofy state trooper’s hat.

  As he approached, Rox rolled down her window. “Good evening, officer.”

  “License and registration.”

  Even she could tell his tone wasn’t friendly. Not a good sign. Had Lena’s father discovered his daughter was missing already and called the police? That would be surprising. Research into the prepper group indicated they were anti-establishment and more likely to carry out their own justice. Yet maybe the deputy was one of them. Rox’s gut tightened as she reached for her glovebox. Her actions weren’t technically kidnapping. Lena had come with her willingly, and Rox was taking the girl to her mother, who had joint custody. Worried that her estranged husband was off his meds and that his new girlfriend was abusive, Lena’s mother had hired Rox to find the preppers’ compound and get her daughter out.

  Rox handed her license to the officer, forcing herself to smile and speak casually. “Can I ask why you stopped me?”

  The heavyset trooper grabbed her documentation and grunted. Moonlight glinted off his sweaty face as he scrutinized her photo with a penlight. “You were driving too fast on a quiet rural road. What are you up to?” His accusation had a slight accent she didn’t recognize.

  Rox had prepared for this. “I’m just passing through. I got off the freeway to let my dog out to pee, and he disappeared.” Lying was the hardest part of this work. Her atypical brain leaned toward compulsive honesty. But she’d trained herself to think of the necessary fabrications as stories she had to tell.

  “What’s his name?”

  Who? Oh right, the make-believe dog. “
Marty.” Her stepdad would be amused. He’d been working this case with her until his knee gave out and his doctor ordered him to stay off his feet for a few days. She’d left without telling Marty she was doing the extraction alone.

  “Huh.” The cop shifted his weight. “We’ve had some break-ins around here, and your car matches the description. I need to search it.”

  Rox’s pulse escalated again. “As you can see from my license, I’m from Oregon and just passing through. I also used to be a police officer and a CIA agent.” Both true. Rox paused to let him digest that information. “I know my rights. You have no cause to search this vehicle.”

  “Step out of the car!” His voice was no longer deadpan, and he apparently didn’t believe her.

  Oh hell. Rox was torn. If she complied, he might not shine his flashlight into the back and discover her hidden passenger. But if she got out, the belligerent trooper might feel compelled to handcuff her and search the car anyway. Then Lena would end up back with her crazy father and his extremist girlfriend. Rox couldn’t let that happen. “This is harassment. What’s your name and badge number?”

  “Get out of the car!” He grabbed a heavy flashlight from his belt loop and slammed it against the metal door, startling her.

  The prick! With shaky hands, Rox picked up her phone from the seat next to her.

  The trooper yanked out his weapon and aimed it at her head. “Let me see your hands!”

  Shit! This guy was a loose cannon. “It’s just a phone! I’m calling your supervisor to report this harassment.” She hit the button to roll up her window, then pressed 911.

  The cop kept yelling, his face distorted with anger and his voice booming through the glass. Would she get shot and killed here today, beside the road in a bleak area of Idaho? Rox thought about Marty, the only real family she had left, and felt guilty about not telling him her plans. He would be so upset if she died! Marty had already lost his biological daughter. Jolene, her younger half-sister, had been murdered a few years earlier by a polygamous cult leader she’d been duped into marrying. And Rox had failed to get her out. Another stab of guilt seized her.

  From the back seat, Lena started to cry. Rox tried to calm her. “It’ll be okay.” But she wasn’t sure she believed it. Like most ex-cops, she kept a Glock in her vehicle, but in this situation it would only get her killed.

  A dispatcher’s voice suddenly sounded in the phone. “What is your emergency?”

  Before Rox could respond, an SUV similar to hers blew past them, screaming down the road at a high speed. The trooper spun in the direction of the disappearing vehicle. “Holy hell!” He grabbed the radio on his collar and ran back to his cruiser. Over her shoulder, Rox watched him jump into his patrol car, pull onto the road, and chase after the red taillights.

  She let out a laugh of relief and told the dispatcher she was fine. Rox started her engine and headed for the freeway. She was only five hours away from home—and safety—for both her and the girl. Another successful extraction!

  Chapter 3

  Tuesday, July 4, 9:40 a.m., Portland, Oregon

  An intense pulse charged through Rox’s brain. Forty-seven. Only three more to go. The magnetic stimulation therapy rippled through a coil attached to her head while the doctor standing next to her patiently administered it. This was the fifth session in her second round of treatments, each delivering fifty pulses. Rox did the math automatically in her head, glad that the magnets hadn’t diminished that part of her brain. The pulses triggered her neurons to connect and fire in new pathways with the purpose of changing her thinking and emotional patterns. So far they had. She now experienced music in a deeper, more emotional way, and she’d slowly gotten better at reading people’s expressions and understanding what they were thinking and feeling.

  Rox counted the last three brain pulses and heaved a sigh of relief. Halfway through this course of therapy. The headaches, a common side effect, were getting to her, and her hearing had suffered as well.

  Dr. Benton, an older woman with a gray granny bun, smiled. “I’ll bet you’ll be glad when we’re done.”

  “Oh yes. I’m starting to feel like my head’s been pried open and hammered.”

  “Ouch.” The neurologist scowled. “You’ve never complained or reported side effects.” The doctor detached the coil and pulled the apparatus away.

  “I know. I want to get the full number of treatments and experience the ultimate results.” Rox massaged her fingers into her scalp, not worried about messing up her short dark hair.

  “And?” Dr. Benton raised an eyebrow. “Anything new or different from the last time we talked?”

  “Not really. But I bought a purple dress, in case I ever date again, so that’s some progress.” She normally wore nothing but shades of blue, preferring the simplicity of choice. Plus cobalt matched her eyes and toned down her reddish skin color.

  “Good to hear.”

  Rox stood up from the padded chair.

  Her tiny doctor looked up at her. “I forget how tall you are when you’re sitting.”

  Rox nodded. “I love being six foot, but it definitely limits the number of matches and dates I get.” So did being forty. Listing her occupation as a private investigator and her religion as none worked against her too. But the screening process in online dating services was still better than wasting her time on relationships that were doomed to fail.

  “I think it’s brave to keep putting yourself out there.” Dr. Benton moved toward the door and Rox followed. She didn’t know what to say. Social situations could be awkward because of her limited ability to chitchat, but she refused to stay home alone and become a recluse. Thank goodness the treatments had helped. Despite her new awareness of other people’s emotions, she still had some quirks.

  “What happens after the next few treatments?” Rox asked as they walked up the hall.

  “We don’t know.” The doctor touched her shoulder. “For many patients, the effects fade over time, but we’ve had a few who experienced more lasting changes.”

  They stopped at the clinic lobby.

  “How many times can I repeat the treatment?” Rox asked.

  “As many as you and your body will tolerate.” Dr. Benton tipped her head sideways.

  Was that skepticism?

  The doctor continued, “You’ll have to decide if the results you get are worth the pain and hassle of the treatment.” Benton gave a gentle shrug. “There’s also the cost to consider. Your insurance company may not pay for more than two rounds.”

  “Oh, right.” Rox shook the doctor’s hand. “Thanks.”

  “Happy Fourth of July.”

  “Uh, you too.” Rox didn’t celebrate most holidays, except for cooking a turkey for Marty on Thanksgiving. She walked out, hoping the treatments she’d undergone would be permanent, and after her next five, she would never have to set foot in the neurology clinic again. On the drive home, she put in her earbuds and grooved to Stevie Wonder, a new pleasure. She didn’t trust listening to the radio, afraid she would hear a song that was too dramatic while she was driving.

  Twenty minutes later, when Rox approached the duplex she shared with her stepdad in southeast Portland, she clicked off the music—and heard her work phone ringing in her purse. She grabbed it up, not wanting to miss a business call. “Karina Jones. How can I help you?” Because her actions for clients weren’t always legal, she used the alias. It made her interactions—and getting paid—more complicated, but she didn’t want to risk seven years in prison for a kidnapping charge.

  “Are you the woman who does extractions?”

  “Yes.” She also offered traditional private-investigator services, but she’d been kept busy with rescue work lately. “What’s your situation?” Rox pulled into her driveway and shut off her Nissan Cube, a vehicle she’d chosen for its quirkiness and now regretted.

  “You have to find my son.”

  Rox climbed out and spotted Marty, her stepdad, standing in their shared driveway. His scowl mad
e him look like a cranky old man. Shorter than her, with silver-blond hair and blue eyes, they made an odd pair. She headed into her house and motioned for him to follow. She focused on her caller. “Tell me your name.”

  “Isaac Lovejoy.”

  Rox smiled at its oddness. “What’s happening with your son? Why can’t the police help you?” Most of her extraction clients were referred to her by police officers she and Marty had worked with. They understood that families sometimes needed a different kind of help so they kept her name confidential. She trusted her buddies in blue to never betray her.

  Inside, Rox kicked off her shoes and put the phone on speaker so Marty could hear.

  “While I was out of town for the weekend, my ex sent him to one of those wilderness correctional schools.” The man muttered an expletive about his former wife. “She won’t tell me anything about the program and has stopped taking my calls.”

  Oh boy. Rox hadn’t dealt with this particular scenario yet, and it made her nervous. “I’m sure it’s a temporary situation.”

  “Those camps are dangerous!” His deep voice caught on the last word. “Josh is an addict. He needs drug treatment, not some testosterone-fueled asshole making him do pushups until he pukes.”

  Rox sympathized. Her own brain-chemistry-driven behavior as a teenager had gotten her into trouble too. The school counselor had been clueless about how to help her. But she couldn’t convince herself that the boy was in serious danger. “I know you’re worried, but Josh’s life probably isn’t at risk.”

  Isaac Lovejoy started to argue loudly, then stopped and calmed himself. “I disagree. Josh has been using opioids, and withdrawal can be painful and dangerous. He’s also been depressed and anxious lately, and he even mentioned killing himself once. So I’m worried he’s at risk for suicide.” The man paused to collect himself. “My son is probably not going to cooperate, so they’re probably beating or starving him as punishment.”

  Repulsive images popped into her head and Rox’s stomach tightened. The reaction surprised her. She normally didn’t visualize other people’s pain. She glanced at Marty, and he nodded vigorously.