by Darrell Case
The radio creaked in Alison Steven's ear. The remnants of last night's rain dripped from the trees soaking her jacket. Moisture from on the brush and weeds penetrated her pants and boots. Other agents around her suffered the same fate. Her boots sunk into the muck. Her feet slid a few inches. Fatigued, she repositioned herself. Thirty-six hours with no rest and little food. As if to affirm the fact her belly growled.
"Everybody on your toes. Here comes the drop," FBI agent in charge Rome Jorgenson barked into her earpiece. She jerked awake.
A green late model green Mercedes rolled to a stop at the end of the Atlanta road's Iron Bridge.
Alex Freeman exited the vehicle carrying a brown leather briefcase. The father of the kidnapped boy appeared to have aged 10 years in the last few days. Per the kidnapper’s instructions, Alex wore nothing but a pair of boxer shorts. From her vantage point, Allison could see the sheen of sweat covering his body, although he shivered in the 90-degree heat trembling like one struck with palsy.
"Don't do anything stupid." Alison whispered to the desperate father. "Just follow directions."
Freeman walked to the opposite end of the bridge. Once there he dropped the briefcase into the dry creek bed. He stood for a few seconds his eyes searching the surrounding forest. He may have been looking for the FBI or the kidnapper. Ten well-concealed agents surrounded the spot. Freeman had to know they were watching his every move.
The heartbroken father returned to the car and laid his head on the steering wheel. His mouth seemed to be moving. With his absence of clothing, Alison knew he was not communicating with law enforcement.
She wondered if he was praying for his six-year-old son. "Better put your faith in the FBI rather than a god who let him be kidnapped in the first place," she murmured.
An self-made multimillionaire Alex Freeman had worked his way through college sweeping floors for the very company he now owned. Small and localized 20 years ago, the software corporation was now an international giant. The two million in the briefcase wouldn't make a dent in Freeman's bank account.
When Alex's son Bobby was kidnapped, he called his old college chum, now President Gerald Robbins. The President had the clout Freeman needed. Within an hour, 40 federal agents converged on the small Pennsylvania village of Becky's Grove.
The New York office brought in a team of 10 agents
D. C. and seven surrounding states supplied the other 30.
The suspect or suspects had chosen a location in the middle of a state forest for the money drop in the middle of a state forest. It was a law officer's nightmare. A dozen escape routes made it impossible to cover. Deep tangled underbrush hid a hundred game trails. Someone familiar with the area could appear and disappear at will. Relying on local law enforcement the FBI agents thought they all were covered. Of course, they were wrong.
After having worked a bank robbery in Texas, Allison was dispatched as a backup agent.
Within three hours of that bank robbery the suspects’ identity and whereabouts were known. Allison and her team had the motel room surrounded and were closing in when the call came. The arrest was completed when the two suspects - one in the shower and the other asleep - gave up with no fight.
She left the others to fill out the reports and boarded the Lear for Pennsylvania.
She arrived at the hotel late for the meeting. Rushing through the lobby and entering the meeting room, she flashed her ID at the agent at the door.
Agent in Charge Rome Jorgenson eyed her with contempt. "Good of you to join us Agent Stevens."
Saying nothing Alison settled into a chair in the back row.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I won't mince words, this is an important case," he continued. "Anyone and I mean anyone,
no matter how well you have performed in the past, anyone who drops the ball on this one had better apply for a job at the local car lot. Do I make myself clear?" His gaze landed on Allison.
There was collection of nods and murmured 'Yes sirs'.
As a raw recruit at Quantico, Rome Jorgenson was one of Allison's first instructors. An old- school toughened veteran, Jorgenson did not mince words. One day after class, he called Allison into his office.
“Stevens,” he said dropping into the chair behind the desk. Allison remained standing. He didn't offer her a seat. “Some women come here and build career on their appearance. Men fall all over themselves to please them. That includes their superiors. They climb the ranks like they’re going up a ladder. You're not one of them. With that face, you could easily be mistaken for a man and since you don't have the looks, you’ll have to make it with skill. Be better be glad I'm not in charge because I'd ship you back to Indiana. I don't like you. I think you're too weak to be a good agent.”
He reached for a stack of papers in front of him. Pulling out a test, Jorgenson began writing. He didn't look up to see Allison's face fall or the hint of tears in her eyes. Her heart sank. He had just dashed her dreams without so much of a hint of compassion.
“Dismissed,” he snapped grabbing another paper to grade, red pen flying.
Allison was aware she was not that attractive. Her cheeks were too thin, her nose too pointed, and her lips too large. She stumbled out of his office. In the hallway, every male she passed seemed to be sneering at her. Back in her room, she threw herself on the bed and sobbed, muffling her cries with a blanket. Her roommate was out on a date leaving her alone with her misery.
After two days of self-pity, Allison rallied. Taking Jorgenson’s words to heart; she spent every moment studying for exams. When she wasn't studying she worked out. She concentrated on becoming the best physically and mentally. She would prove him wrong. Her hatred of Jorgenson gave her a purpose.
The hard work paid off, propelling her to the top of the class. Her good standing in the program did not impress Rome Jorgenson. He resented her every move. He made breaking her one of his priorities. If it was the last thing he did on this earth he would rid the agency of one Allison Stevens. When he failed, he became resentful. Eventually Jorgenson's attitude toward female recruits caused him to lose his teaching position and be returned to the field.
Allison never forgave Rome for his cruel remarks. They were branded with hatred in her soul.
The roar of an engine cut Allison's thoughts short. A brown and green ATV exploded from under the bridge. The vehicle skidded to a halt beside the dropped briefcase. Head to in camouflage the masked rider snatched up the leather case.
His eyes wild with fright, Freeman bolted out of the Mercedes. “Where's my son!” he shouted running to the middle of the bridge. Gripping the rail, his knuckles turning white, he leaned over and glared at the kidnapper, his face a mixture of agony and rage.
“You have the money. You said you would give tell me where my son is.” Bobby's father sobbed, gulping in air. “Please, I want my son.”
Even from her vantage point one hundred yards away, Allison could see his tears.
The ski mask shifted on the man's face. His lips curved upward in a smile. His laugher cackled mocking the desperate man. Frantically, Freeman frantically swung his head from side to side looking for the agents.
“Please I'll give you another million.” His voice broke and he began to moan. For a moment Allison thought he was going to leap off the bridge onto the suspect’s back. Just give me my son back.”
Allison's ear bud crackled.
“Easy now, everybody, we don't want to lose him.” Jorgenson's orders were simple; stay out of sight. Let the GPS tracker concealed in one of the stacks of money do its job. The helicopter would follow at a safe distance. Once they had a location, they could draw the net around the captor and child. SWAT would take the
lead with the agents as backup.
Behavioral was convinced the kidnapper was working alone. This was good and bad. If they were right that left only one unsub to deal with. If there was only one kidnapper he alone knew the site of the vault where little Bobby Freeman was buried. Also, if the kidnapper was working alone he would need a live hostage when the FBI showed up at his hideout. With only one more hour of oxygen, it was urgent they find the child quickly. Alison tried to put her feelings for the frightened child aside. If he survived, Bobby Freeman would be traumatized. It would take years of therapy for him to return to a normal life, if ever.
Allison tried to put her feelings for the frightened child aside.
Between the situation in Texas and now this, Alison had been 36 hours without rest. Drained, she just wanted this operation to be over. The lack of sleep and the wet slope were a recipe for disaster. A cramp started in her calf. She tried to ignore it. As a child, this kind of cramp caused her to jump out of bed crying in pain. Her mother would massage her leg until it stopped. This cramp started as a twitch that quickly grew into a knot. She gasped in pain stretching out as best she could without giving away her location. Hidden behind a wild rose bush, Alison rubbed her leg. She moved gingerly, sitting down on the wet ground. She extended the leg flexing the calf. Moisture seeped through the seat of her pants. The spasm finally worked out, she soundlessly repositioned to a crouch. Her eyes never left the confrontation a hundred years away. An inch of rain the night before had left the ground soft. Her feet slipped. She felt herself going.
Mindful of Jorgenson's warning, Allison dug her heels into the sod. Her right foot flew out from under her, then her left. She came down hard landing on her rear. She skid down the steep slope, gaining momentum. Panicked, she grabbed at the rose bush, driving thorns into the palm of her right hand. Ignoring the pain, she tried to hold on. She lost her grip on it and continued to slide down the incline.
She grasped wildly at saplings, roots, anything to slow her descent. Nothing worked, the incline was too sharp. Mercifully, Allison’s ear bud flew out halfway down sparing her from hearing Jorgenson's screaming curses. Their cover blown the other agents converged on the suspect.
Allison dropped into the dry creek bed three feet in front of the hooded figure. All options gone, she drew her weapon, pointing it at the man's head. Thankfully her Glock had stayed in its holster.
“Freeze, FBI!”she shouted her voice shaky and hoarse.
Others were yelling the same. Racing through the creek bed, they surrounded the ATV. Quiet seconds before, the area now became a scene of chaos. Ten agents surrounded the ATV with more coming fast. There seemed to be no way out.
“Hands in the air! Don't make a move,” Jorgenson shouted.
Whether the man heard or not was never clear. Perhaps the sight of the federal agents in full body armor terrified him.
The kidnapper twisted the steering bar and swung the ATV around. He gunned it, almost running over Jorgenson. Rome jumped out of the way, firing his pistol into the air. Other agents with guns pointed at the man charged after him. Alison chased the vehicle, coming within inches. She reached out to grasp the kidnapper's jacket. Ten yards down the creek, the man made a fatal mistake. He attempted to climb the opposite bank. The wheels dug into the bed showering Allison with wet sand. It quickly became apparent he wouldn’t make it up the steep bank. Shooting straight up, the machine hung in the air, all four wheels off the ground. For what seemed like an eternity; the vehicle hung suspended above the earth then it careened back down, its rear wheels striking the edge of the bank. The machine tumbled end over end. The kidnapper clung to the ATV, flopping up and down like a rag doll.
It tumbled past Alison, grazing her shoulder. The kidnapper's head hit a large boulder stopping his screams. Agents circled the suspect with weapons trained on him. Jorgenson knelt beside the hooded figure, tentatively feeling for a pulse. Finding none, he pulled the ski mask up, revealing the man's face. Mickey Sanders a penny-ante thief died had died of a broken neck.
Freeman leaped into the dry creek bed twisting his left ankle so hard it broke. Sobbing, he crawled to the dead kidnapper. Grabbing Mickey by the front of his jacket, he shook him. The kidnapper's head bobbled back and forth.
“Where's my son?” Freeman cried his tears landing on the abductor's chest. His lifeless eyes seemed to mock those around him waiting for an answer. An answer that would never come.
It was apparent Mickey would never answer to anyone other than God. Painfully Bobby Freeman's father rose to his feet. Jorgenson laid his hand on the man's shoulder. He turned a tear- stained face to the agent. Balling his fist, he struck the man at the point of his chin. Jorgenson's head snapped back. He staggered backward and landed in a sitting position.
“You said you would protect my baby, you said it would be all right.” Freeman moaned. “You killed my son. You killed my Bobby.”
Two agents grabbed and restrained him. They led the sobbing father away.
Another agent radioed for an ambulance for Freeman and the coroner for the dead man. Alison stood awkwardly at the side of the wrecked ATV.
Jorgenson got to his feet and faced her.
“Stevens, you killed our only link to that child.” Jorgenson said his voice a low growl. “You might as well have held a gun to the kid's head and pulled the trigger.”
The bruise on his chin made Rome's scarlet face more intimidating.
“I want you on the next plane to Washington, Allison. You will never work with me again. You're through with my team. If I have my way, with the agency.”
Allison rubbed her bleeding hand on her pant leg. She winced at the pain. Several thorns were still embedded in her palm. Not attempting to pick them out, she swallowed the lump in her throat.
The rest of the team backed off, leaving the two facing each other.
“Rome I slipped, if you haven't noticed, it rained last night.” Instinct told Allison she should keep quiet. Nothing she could say would help. From the first time, she sat in his classroom she could feel his disdain for her. It was rooted in his past, not hers. Impulse broke her silence. “If you're such a brilliant supervisor you should have allow for the soil conditions, and put me in a better position.”
“So you're going to try to lay your incompetence at my door?” Rome shot back, balling his hands into fists.
“I'm saying the position you assigned to me was on too much of an incline.”
Rome held up his hand like a traffic cop. In a voice low and menacing, he said, “I make it a policy never to hit a woman, much less a fellow agent. But, I swear Allison, if you say another word I'll make an exception.”
Chapter 5
