The bag contained more money than Aiden would ever see in his life. Yet neither he nor his father cared enough to open the zipper to look at it. Money was nothing. Meg was all that mattered.
The drop-off was even tougher than he’d expected. His father was an emotional wreck. “Someday I hope to be able to make this up to you and your sister. I’m finding it hard to believe what’s happened to us — what’s still happening to us.”
“Dad — you can’t blame yourself. You have no control over any of this.”
“That’s right,” John Falconer agreed huskily. “I have no control over anything anymore. How can I call myself a father if there’s nothing I can do to protect my children?”
“Aiden — ” Harris’s voice in the earpiece was so close, so clear, that it sounded like it was being beamed straight into Aiden’s brain. “Please tell your father that this isn’t the time or place.”
It was eerie to have the FBI eavesdropping on every word.
“We’re cool,” he mumbled in reply.
In reality, Aiden was anything but. His body trembled as he got out of the car, and it wasn’t just because of the forty-five pounds of hundred-dollar bills in the duffel hanging off his shoulder.
“I’m starting down Ninth Street,” he whispered.
“We’ve got you,” Harris told him. “There’s a GPS transmitter in the microphone. We’re monitoring your position.”
The agent was in a high-tech vehicle called the MCC — mobile command center. It looked like an ordinary minivan, but he could direct the entire operation from inside, with a communication link to Aiden as well as the undercover people in the field.
Where were they? Aiden scanned the area. The streets were crowded, but he couldn’t tell which of the many pedestrians were Harris’s operatives.
That’s what undercover means, he reminded himself. Nobody’s supposed to know who you are.
He could see the pay phone now, two blocks ahead. His watch read three minutes to two.
It’s happening … it’s really happening….
Hurrying to beat the light, he stepped onto the corner of Ninth Street and University Avenue. Suddenly, standing in front of the pay phone, Aiden Falconer was hit with an almost overwhelming sense that he was being watched.
Of course you’re being watched, he chided himself. Half the FBI’s out here with you!
But real undercover agents were trained to be invisible. This was something different. Could it be the kidnappers, coming for their money?
Maybe there would be no call with instructions. The drop would happen right here, right now! Meg’s captors might be just a few steps away….
The phone rang.
FBI Agent Hank Brajansky cursed the day he’d ever met Emmanuel Harris.
This was the second precious vacation day he’d wasted pounding the cracked pavement of the Quincy district of Alexandria — a grimy neighborhood of ancient factories and warehouses. For reasons he refused to explain, Harris suspected that the kidnapped Falconer girl might be in one of these crumbling structures.
“I never should have borrowed the big man’s coffeepot,” Brajansky complained to his companion, Ernie Hoag.
Hoag laughed. “Borrowing it wasn’t the problem. You never should have busted it.”
“How was I supposed to know it was some kind of imported French press thingamabob?” Brajansky surveyed the cityscape helplessly. “Hundreds of buildings, half of them abandoned. I’m supposed to be home, for Pete’s sake.”
“What would you be doing at home?” Hoag challenged. He had just retired from the FBI last year. He was so bored with golf that he was overjoyed to help with any kind of police work. “Lying on the couch in front of the Weather Channel?”
“Two more weeks of hurricane season. It beats slogging through garbage and old newspapers — ” Brajansky froze. In the windblown litter at his feet, a single white page stood out from the others. The writing was white against a dark gray background.
Brajansky bent down to pick it up. The words leaped at him:
HELP ME.
MY NAME IS MARGARET FALCONER, AND I HAVE BEEN KIDNAPPED …
“What does it say?” asked Hoag eagerly.
“It says Harris isn’t as crazy as he looks!” Brajansky exclaimed. “Come on, we’ve got to find this kid!”
* * *
Breathlessly, Aiden answered the ringing pay phone.
“Hello?”
“Cross the street and keep on walking,” ordered a gruff voice. “There’s an open garbage can with a red shoe-box on top.”
“Where’s my sis — ?”
Click. The line went dead.
“Did you hear?” Aiden breathed to Harris over the wire. “He said I should — ”
“We got it,” Harris acknowledged. “Follow instructions unless I tell you different.”
I’m playing the kidnappers’ game, Aiden thought, stepping into the road. A game I can’t control.
Who knew what trap might lie ahead? His eyes darted from face to face, scanning passersby, trying to identify FBI agents.
What if Harris is lying? What if I’m all alone?
Yet the feeling that he was being watched was even stronger than before.
He had never felt so exposed.
There it was! He could see the red shoe-box, sitting on top of a green lawn bag in an overstuffed steel can. With trembling hands, he picked it up.
Empty?
No, not empty. Something was rattling around in there.
“What is it, Aiden?” Harris asked in his ear. “What’s in the box?”
His heart a pile driver, Aiden lifted the lid. “A pager,” he whispered.
“Turn it on,” the agent instructed.
Aiden flicked the switch. A high-pitched beeping exploded out of the device. Aiden was so startled that he nearly fumbled it down a sewer grating. But he held on, watching the tiny screen as the message came in.
I SEE YOUR FACE …
He looked up suddenly, half expecting to find one of Meg’s kidnappers standing right in front of him. But the scene had not changed.
More words marched across the small display.
Harris: “What does it say?”
NO TALKING OR SHE DIES …
The reply was partway out of Aiden’s mouth when those chilling words hit home. He clenched his jaw and bit down hard. Of course, he had no way of knowing he was really under surveillance.
But how can I take that risk?
“Aiden?” the agent prompted.
Lips sealed, he brought his mouth down to his chest and grunted, “Uh-uh.”
“What’s that? Say again?”
But Aiden was already reading the rest of the kidnappers’ instructions: GO EAST ON NINTH TO FREDERICK DOUGLASS BLVD. YOU HAVE FOUR MINUTES …
Aiden flew. The strap of the duffel cut into his shoulder as the weight of the bag turned every step into an agonizing squat-thrust.
Harris was yelling in his ear now, demanding to know what was happening. But all Aiden could think was: Baltimore’s a big place. Frederick Douglass Boulevard could be far! What if I don’t make it in time? What’ll they do to Meg?
He could see a major intersection coming up. He scanned for a street sign. Thornbury. He blasted across the road, earning himself a chorus of squealing tires, honking horns, and angry shouts. He barely noticed the clamor.
Four minutes! That’s so short! Who knows how much time I’ve got left?
For extra speed, he snatched up the forty-five-pound bag and hugged it to his chest. It doubled as a battering ram to scatter a group of teenage girls blocking the far corner.
In the earpiece, he vaguely noted Harris alerting his people in the field: “Can anybody see the kid? I think he’s running … no, don’t get too close! The operation’s still on….”
Another intersection. Please be Douglass! Please be Douglass …
Douglass! His relief almost knocked him over as he sprinted to the corner. He’d made it — but was he
in time?
His answer came in the form of the electronic screech of the pager.
GET ON THE NUMBER 11 BUS HEADING SOUTH …
“Bus?” he exclaimed, and almost bit his tongue off. Keep your mouth shut! he ordered himself. Remember what you’re doing here!
He was so flustered that he almost missed it — a line of passengers boarding a Baltimore city bus. He dashed for it, arriving just as the doors began to close with a hydraulic hiss. Out of sheer desperation, he thrust the duffel into the opening. The folding doors stopped dead, pressed against two million dollars.
The driver looked at him in disgust. “Yeah, okay. Get on.”
Aiden stared in dismay at the coin box. He was carrying more money than he’d ever dreamed of, but did he have a dollar sixty for the fare? He dug in both pockets, coming up with quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies.
Half a block behind, a yellow taxi darted into traffic. Its lone passenger leaned anxiously forward, eyes on the back of the bus.
Emmanuel Harris’s ever-present cup of coffee had spilled all over the floor and was soaking into the carpet of the FBI’s Mobile Command Center.
“Help me out, people!” he barked into the microphone. “Tell me somebody’s still got a fix on my kid!”
There was a chorus of “Negative” and “Lost him,” until Agent Ortiz finally spoke up, his voice a series of gasps, the pounding sound his running footsteps. “He’s on a bus, heading south on Douglass! They’re pulling away from me!”
“Get a car over there!” Harris bawled.
“We can have a chopper in the air in two minutes,” came the voice of the controller from Central Dispatch.
“No!” Harris said sharply. “I don’t want to spook the kidnappers. I think they already suspect the kid’s wired. That’s why he’s clammed up.”
“We’ve got two million bucks on the line,” the controller reminded him.
“We’ve got two children on the line,” Harris amended. “Nobody does anything until I give the word.”
* * *
“Hank — look at this!”
Ernie Hoag’s voice was subdued, but there was no mistaking his excitement.
Brajansky peered around the corner of the old brick warehouse. Instantly, he spotted what the retired agent had seen. A wire had been strung from the transformer box on the street through a first floor window — exactly what the kidnapped girl’s note had described.
This was the place.
“I’ll call Harris for backup,” Brajansky decided.
Hoag elbowed him hard. “What are you talking about? I’m your backup. We don’t leave that girl in there for one minute longer than she has to be!”
Against his better judgment, Brajansky agreed. The two followed along the side of the building until they came to a steel door. Brajansky tried the knob. It wouldn’t budge. From his pocket, he produced a lock pick and carefully selected the right size tool.
It was the work of perhaps ten seconds. Weapons in hand, they entered the warehouse. Soundlessly, the two surveyed their surroundings by the filtered light coming in the dirty windows. The place was long abandoned, but this seemed to have been some kind of packaging center. Dusty cartons and corrugated boxes were piled around the remains of a conveyor belt.
“Heck of a big place,” Hoag whispered. “Let’s split up.”
Brajansky nodded. With silent hand gestures, the two divided up the building. Hoag headed through the arch to the main manufacturing floor. Brajansky’s eyes fell on a back hall clogged with stacked chairs. The note came back to him: … a windowless storeroom in an office area …
Chairs, he thought. Offices?
There was only one way to find out.
* * *
Aiden struggled into the seat with his two-million-dollar burden.
He was pretty sure he was on his own now. No way had the FBI managed to tail him onto the bus. In his earpiece, he could hear Harris haranguing his agents, exhorting them to stay in range. That meant they were out of range, didn’t it? They hadn’t lost him — they could track his position by GPS —
But a GPS transmitter won’t stop bullets if the kidnappers decide they want me out of the way.
Meg’s captors had played this perfectly. They obviously knew what they were doing. It was not an encouraging thought.
Did he dare sneak a word to Harris? Surely the kidnappers couldn’t see him now. No, it was still too risky. The vehicle was crowded to the point of discomfort. There could be a spy on board — although it seemed as if most of his fellow passengers were children, and young children at that.
He’d been riding for about ten minutes when the pager came to life again.
GET OFF WHERE THE KIDS GET OFF. FOLLOW THEM….
The words chilled him to the bone. How could the kidnappers know about all the children? Or what stop they’d be going to?
Yet, at the corner of Douglass and Delancey, every single kid on the bus, accompanied by a throng of parents, rose and lined up at the exit. It was astonishing … and very scary.
Hefting his duffel, Aiden got off with the others. En masse, the parents and children crossed the street and oozed down the next block. It was obvious they had a destination in mind. But what? And what could it possibly have to do with Meg?
In the distance, he could hear music and, yes, drums.
As Aiden surged along with the crowd, the yellow cab pulled up to the corner of Douglass and Delancey. The lone passenger got out.
He followed at a distance, ducking into doorways and alleys.
His gaze never left the back of Aiden Falconer’s head.
* * *
For Meg, it was an omen. When the fluorescent fixture in her storeroom prison sizzled and began a dim flickering, the diminished light matched her diminished hopes.
What an idiot she’d been to think anyone would find her letter. Thirty seconds of rain would have reduced it to gray-stained pulp. The wind could have put it two counties away — or up a fifty-foot tree.
No one was coming for her. No one but the kidnappers themselves, the Three Animals. Their plans for her were uncertain.
But I’ve seen their faces.
Even if, by some miracle, ransom was paid with money the Falconers didn’t have, how could they let her go?
Ever since she’d been chased out of the bathroom by Tiger and her white makeup, Meg had known that something was about to happen. Now she knew another thing, too. Whatever was coming, she’d have to face it alone.
The next time that door opened, she could not meekly obey her captors’ orders. The time had come to fight for her life.
Her hands tightened on her weapon of choice — the heavy glass ashtray she’d used to mix the “ink” for her ill-fated SOS note. Not exactly firepower, but it was heavy and hard and portable.
There she sat in the flickering gloom, nerves at the breaking point. Yet when the doorknob began to jiggle, she was taken completely by surprise, lulled by the silence outside her cell. She had not heard her captors for close to an hour.
Now one of them was coming for her.
Moving like a cat, she sprang silently up onto a metal shelving unit. The knob slowly turned. Meg tensed, ready to pounce.
There was a click, and the door swung wide, spilling a shaft of outside light across the floor. She timed her leap just as her quarry stepped into the storeroom. With all her might, she slammed her ashtray down on the crown of his head. The glass shattered, tinkling to the floor around the crumpled body of —
Who — ?
Meg bent low over the unconscious man, who was middle-aged, with gray hair and a bald spot in the back. He was not one of her three kidnappers.
Oh, God, who did I hit?
She snaked her arm around his inert form and pulled an ID wallet from his breast pocket. She flipped it open.
It was an FBI badge.
They had found her! She was rescued! At least, she had been before she’d brained the cavalry.
“Please, mister, wa
ke up! Please — ” She checked the ID. “Agent Brajansky?”
Brajansky groaned but did not come to.
Meg whimpered, crushed by the sheer irony of this. Days in captivity — finally, a chance to fight back —
And I conked the wrong guy.
She wrestled the regret out of her mind. A decision had to be made. As badly as she felt about leaving Brajansky here injured, she could not waste this opportunity to escape. Then, once she was out and away, she could send help.
She stepped across the prone agent and dashed down the hall. There was a door around here somewhere, she was sure. But Meg didn’t intend to waste time searching for it. She was heading for her escape window. Next stop: freedom.
She turned the corner and spied the office straight ahead. The desk was still under the window, but a piece of plywood had been nailed across the opening. She leaped up onto the blotter, wrapped her fingers around the board, and pulled. The nails grated and released a little but did not come free. She tried again, yanking until her palms were full of splinters. But she could not move the plywood more than an inch from the molding.
In frenzied haste, she snatched up a metal floor lamp and bashed the glass shade off the top. Then she jammed the pole behind the board and put her whole weight into prying the wood from the frame.
With a crunch, the obstruction came away, revealing the opening to the street. Leaving blood smears from her torn palms, she scrambled over the sash and dropped to the sidewalk.
I did it! I’m out!
The thought had barely crossed her mind when a black Buick sedan wheeled around the corner and parked at the curb.
Meg stared in shock and horror. Spidey was at the wheel. His passenger was Mickey.
The moment was a lightning strike. Meg had not expected them, and they were astonished to see her.
With a gasp, she spun around and fled.
Mickey reached for his door handle to give chase, but Spidey ordered, “No!” He drove the big car right up onto the sidewalk, closing the gap with Meg in seconds, dogging her heels.
Meg heard the roar of the engine and felt its heat radiating toward her.
They’re going to run me over!
“Stop!” shouted Mickey. “You’ll kill her!”
The Abduction Page 7
