The Abducted Super Boxset: A Small Town Kidnapping Mystery

by Roger Hayden

  “What did you do that for?” she asked. Her exhausted eyes were livid with fury.

  “They shot at us!” he said defensively.

  She turned from him in disgust. “Come on,” she said running to the front porch. “We have to search the house.”

  She kicked the door open and ran inside, taking cover behind anything she could—a book case, table, and cabinets—making her way forward. As she passed the kitchen, she realized there was no one inside the room and possibly no one inside the cabin. Even Ana. It looked as though it had been abandoned in a hurry, as was clearly the case. Her feet creaked across the floorboards, and she immediately focused on the basement.

  “Miriam, where’d you go?” Lou said over the headset, frantic.

  “She’s here. I know it!” Miriam said. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Any minute her heart would explode. She approached the basement door cautiously, put her hand to the knob, and swung open the door with her pistol drawn. Below was a set of stairs, which was all she could see in the darkness, and nothing more.

  “Ana!” she shouted, wiping her eyes. She then cleared her throat and changed to a more authoritative tone. “Philip Anderson, this is Agent Castillo with the FBI. Come out with your hands up high, or I will shoot you!”

  There was no response. Too fearful to wait any longer, she stormed down the stairs and flew to the ground at the bottom on one knee. The vest weighed heavily on her shoulders, making it harder to aim, and the helmet blocked her side vision. On the mattress, not ten feet away, a girl lay motionless with her back toward Miriam. She leapt up, gasping, and ran to the bed just as footsteps clamored from upstairs.

  “Miriam!” Lou shouted.

  She dropped to the mattress and turned the girl on her side, facing her. Somewhere under the bruises and cuts on her face was Ana. She was unconscious but breathing.

  “Oh my God,” Miriam cried, cradling Ana in her arms. She kissed her face repeatedly as waves of relief rushed through her body. In the midst of her jubilation and fear of Ana’s condition, she suddenly heard a gun click.

  She whipped around and saw Phillip Anderson standing in the shadows. Her mind froze along with her body. She had been taken off guard and had no idea what to do. Her pistol lay on the bed near her knee. Both her arms were around Ana.

  Philip glanced at his watch while holding a pistol with a silencer attached to the muzzle. “Record time. I’m impressed.” He laughed and shook his head. “I really didn’t think you were going to make it.”

  “Where are you going?” she asked, fighting the fear that was consuming her body.

  “Somewhere they’ll never find me. I can assure you that.” He smiled again, and then his face suddenly dropped.

  “Now stand up and get against the wall before I put one in your head and your little girl’s.”

  Miriam released Ana and slowly rose from the bed. Her own pistol was in view. The minute her eyes glanced at it, Phillip spoke.

  “Not happening. One wrong move and you’re fuckin’ history. Understand?”

  Miriam looked away from her pistol and rose up from the mattress, keeping a careful distance from Ana with her safety in mind.

  “We had a deal,” she said.

  Phillip’s eyes remained on her, unblinking. “Tell that to my guys. Some of them had families too, you know. They were strapped for cash and trying to make ends meet. And none of them deserved to die.”

  “They were criminals,” she said. “Now, please. I don’t care what you do to me, just let my daughter go.”

  Phillip smiled. “Maybe I want to take her with me.”

  “Miriam, where are you?” Lou shouted from upstairs. Bravo Team’s footsteps could be heard continuing their search of the cabin.

  In that split second, Miriam lunged for her pistol. “No!” she screamed.

  Phillip shot two shots into her chest without hesitation while his pistol barely made a sound. Miriam hit the ground, smacking hard against the pavement. As she collapsed, Phillip ran to Ana but froze halfway. The footsteps upstairs were close. They’d be down the stairs in second.

  Phillip turned around and ran to the opposite corner of the room where a large bookcase sat. He heaved with all his strength and pushed it to the side, revealing a crawlspace that led to an underground tunnel. Hurried footsteps scrambled down the steps just as Phillip ducked inside. He pulled a rope, sealing the trap door shut, followed by an automatic pulley that moved the bookshelf back against the wall.

  Lou was the first to reach the bottom, with Detective Jade behind him.

  “Miriam!” he shouted.

  He rushed to her as Jade went to Ana.

  Lou crouched down and picked Miriam up, holding her. Her face was pale and she wasn’t breathing.

  “Talk to me, Miriam.”

  He shook her as her head bobbed and her eyes closed.

  “Miriam, come back!”

  The Abducted: Vengeance

  Escape

  An intricate underground tunnel stretched a mile beyond the cabin, leading to a riverbank, then past the sawgrass prairie and into the tropical wetlands of the Southern Glades. The challenge was much harder than Phillip Anderson had anticipated. On his belly, he inched forward. With each movement, one elbow dug into the unforgiving cement and thrust him forward, followed by the other.

  His body was sore and exhausted. He crawled for over half a mile before stopping to catch his breath in the tightly confined cement tunnel. In one hand he held a flashlight, in the other, his radio.

  Everything else he had to leave behind. His bodyguards had been killed—his hideout cabin exposed—and he was on the run again. And through it all, he didn't have Miriam to accompany him, as he had planned. She would pay, soon enough, more than she already had.

  The darkened tunnel was cramped and stuffy—a nightmare to wade and crawl through. With each tiring push forward, Phillip was on the verge of collapse. At six feet, two inches, and two hundred and twenty pounds, he was a big man and could barely fit through.

  If not for Miriam, he wouldn't be desperately seeking escape from the feds. With about a quarter-mile left to go, he stopped, sweaty and gasping for breath. Somehow, he had to escape. They were undoubtedly closing in on him now from all directions.

  His hiking boots scarped against the hard surface, pushing him forward. The sandy concrete tore against his faded Levis. He dragged along a satchel with some emergency cash and his silencer pistol tied to his ankle by a rope. His beige Anderson Auto Salvage T-shirt was drenched in sweat. He had never felt so afraid, and yet there was a certain exhilaration to it. But there were also no guarantees that his escape plan was going to work.

  Phillip was a man who seldom liked to take chances. In addition to the escape tunnel, he had a boat waiting for him—a small, unassuming fishing boat. He had a guy keeping watch, patrolling the waters, and ready to take off as soon as Phillip resurfaced—a welder named Joe who used to work at the salvage yard. Phillip could very well operate the boat on his own, but he needed someone there and ready in the wait.

  Phillip had recruited Joe, like many of the others, at a hefty price. The others—Ed, Dusty, Mike, Chuck, Ken, Dale—were either captured by the feds or dead. Phillip was on his own.

  He stopped for a moment, panting. The journey ahead seemed impossible. At thirty-nine, he couldn't move like he used to. Down here in the tunnel, he could barely see straight from exhaustion and dizziness. He dropped his flashlight as its beam paused and flickered and grunted. Awkwardly, he reached into his side pocket and pulled out a handheld radio.

  “I'm almost at the end!” he spat into the radio between breaths, clutching it. “You ready yet?”

  Nothing came through the speaker but some static and a few crackles. He kept the radio close and held up his flashlight. The end of the tunnel was close. He could feel it. He pushed himself forward, gaining momentum as the tunnel curved slightly to the right. He shined the flashlight ahead, breathing rapidly, and looked ahead as stinging sweat dripped into
his eyes.

  Twenty feet ahead, there was a crawlspace which led out of the tunnel—an exit hidden within a thick, shaded patch of sawgrass near the riverbank, surrounded by trees. Even if the authorities had found the tunnel and crawled through it, the hatch would be locked and Phillip had the only key dangling around his neck.

  He clenched his teeth, dug his elbows in, and pushed himself forward, reaching the escape hatch with barely an ounce of energy left. He climbed up and unlocked the padlock holding it shut. Frantic, he pushed up on the hatch as fresh air blew inside, providing instant relief. Phillip climbed out and fell to the side, rolling onto the grass and looking up into the trees.

  Beyond the needled branches of the pine trees, he could see a clear, blue sky above. For a moment, everything seemed peaceful and reassuring in the shade. He pulled his satchel to him and took out his silencer, ready to move. His head pounded from heat exhaustion. His throat was sandpaper dry. He pulled a one-quart canteen from his satchel and downed the entire bit as water ran down his stubbled cheeks.

  Feeling better in the fresh air, he spun around, crawled back to the hatch exit, and slammed it shut. He locked it with the same padlock and then crawled to the base of a nearby tree, peeking around in the direction of his cabin. In the distance, he could see a line of federal agents moving through the weeds, combing the area. The rumble of helicopters was getting louder. He had even less time to escape than he had imagined.

  Phillip looked inside his satchel just to ensure that his passport and two thousand dollars cash money were still there. It was enough, he hoped, to buy his way out of the country for good. He looked up in a panic upon hearing dogs bark. The K-9s were loose.

  He stood up hunched over as the shouts of the feds grew. He held his radio close and spoke. “I'm out now. Meet me at the east bank!” he said with urgency.

  A voice finally came over the radio, much to Phillip's relief. “I'm already there. Hurry up. They got helicopters out now!” Joe said back.

  Phillip wasted no time answering. He sprinted off, zigzag style, through the woods, steadily approaching the riverbank. Even with the helicopters deployed, he wasn't too worried. There were plenty of other boats along the Southern Glade trail, but his small window of escape was narrowly closing.

  As he ran alongside palmetto bushes and heavy vines hanging from cypress trees, he felt cautiously optimistic. He reached the riverbank at the edge of the calm, green everglades and headed east where his boat awaited. On the boat were a variety of emergency items: food kits, weapons and ammo, and some disguises for good measure. His boots dug into the ground with each hurried step, and he called into his handheld once again.

  “Where the hell are you? I don't see anything.”

  “I'm right where I said I am. East bank right over the divider,” Joe said, referring to a four-foot wired fence separating Phillip's property from the other land.

  “Damn it,” Phillip said, frustrated. “They’re right on my tail. Move it up.”

  “I’m not moving from here. Hurry up!” Joe argued back.

  Phillip wanted to kill him for the insolence. Maybe he would later. After all, Joe was just a welder. Nothing special. Phillip continued his frantic journey, sloshing along the riverbank, when he stopped dead in his tracks. There was a man standing under a tree, fishing. He looked to be in his fifties, wearing a fisherman's hat, glasses, and a pair of overalls. He turned his head to Phillip and waved.

  “Howdy, there.”

  Phillip stood frozen, covered in dirt and sweat.

  The man lowered his arm slowly as his smile faded. “Everything all right?” he asked, concerned.

  Phillip didn't answer. Instead he got right to the point. “You do know this is private property, right?”

  The man blinked, confused. “Uh. Not entirely, no. I was just following the bank. You know, I never did care for that fishing port off the state road. This is much better.”

  Phillip turned slightly toward the faint barking behind him. The man seemed to take a sudden interest in the approaching noise.

  “Hell of a commotion going on over there, don't ya think?” Without waiting for a response, he grabbed his bucket and pole and waved at Phillip. “Sorry I wandered on your property. You have a nice day.”

  “Wait!” Phillip said nervously.

  Startled, the man turned around.

  Phillip approached him immediately with his hand out. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to chase you off. Let me introduce myself.

  Phillip suddenly drew his pistol, placed it against the man's forehead, and fired. With a muffled thump, the back of his brains sprayed into the grass. The man collapsed on his back like a rag doll, with a stunned, wide-eyed expression that showed he hadn't seen it coming.

  Phillip jammed the barrel back into his jeans pocket, crouched down, and pushed the man's body toward the water's edge. The body rolled into a pond, disturbing calm waters while floating on the surface. The man was covered by enough weeds and lily pads to keep him out of sight for the time being.

  The dividing fence was ten short feet ahead. A large cypress tree branch stretched over the water, covered in hanging moss. The boat was directly below it. Ecstatic, Philip ran to the fence and hopped over—awkwardly—but with fervent urgency. The ground was spongy, and the sawgrass went up to his waist. The sound of the helicopters was dangerously close.

  “I'm right around the corner. Start the fucking boat!” he said into the handheld.

  “You got it,” Joe said.

  A few yanks on the cord and the engine started—not nearly as loud as Phillip had feared. It had a low hum, noticeable but low-key enough to buy them some time. He ran the rest of the way to the boat, right into the water, splashing everywhere, his clothes soaking wet. The K-9s seemed as though they were right at his heels. Standing in the four-passenger boat, Joe looked down at Phillip and seemed about to make a comment, but then decided against it.

  “How about a hand here?” Phillip said with his hand out, waist-deep in swamp water.

  With the motor humming, Joe heaved and pulled all two hundred and twenty soggy pounds of Phillip into the boat as it tilted and rocked. As they regained their balance, Joe made his way to the stern. Phillip took at seat up front and told him to gun it.

  The boat raced out from its concealed hideout, its bow rising, and traveled further east to where the other fishing boats convened. Waves tossed the boat up and then down into a shallow trough as an unexpectedly strong breeze, beat against their faces. The sound of both the K-9s and the helicopters grew fainter. To Phillip, it began to feel as though they might actually make it.

  “Where are the others?” Joe called out, his hand on the tiller steering the boat toward the other fishers.

  Not answering, Phillip felt his mood lift with relief. They'd blend in soon enough. Joe asked the question again, louder. Phillip grimaced. “Oh,” he said. “Feds got ’em.”

  “Dead or captured?”

  Phillip shrugged. “Dead, I think. A lot was going on. It was an ambush.”

  “You should keep better track of your people,” Joe said. The wind pushed his bushy beard to the side. The ends of the blue bandana tied around his head flapped in the breeze, making a soft tapping sound. His skin was tan and reddened as though he had been on the boat all day.

  Phillip narrowed his eyes. “I'm not in the mood.”

  They sped past the first two boats, approaching others, Joe looking for a spot where they could fit in without intruding. There were no police in sight. The river, it seemed, was theirs. The plan was to head south toward Manatee Bay and then hit Key Largo. From Key Largo, it was to the airport and then—refuge. Joe, however, seemed intent on souring the mood.

  “You know, Phillip, you talked a big game about taking care of us boys. You talked about helping us pay our bills. Making us rich and all that jazz. Now look. Everyone's dead, 'cept me and you. What are we gonna do? Take off to Key West together? Sip margaritas on the beach?”

  Phillip leaned forward
, sneering at his snarky underling. “Why don't you shut your trap, Joe?” He leaned against the front railing of the boat and crossed his arms. “That is, if you know what's good for ya?”

  Suddenly, Joe slowed the boat. Its engine downshifted as waves smacked the side. Phillip looked around, confused.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  Not saying a word, Joe stood up as the boat drifted, unmanned. Phillip looked around nervously at the attention they were getting from the other fisherman in the channel.

  “Now’s not the time,” he said, seething.

  Joe reached into his pocket and pulled out a remote control, the size of a brick. “That's where you're wrong,” he said to Phillip. “The timing is perfect. Been waiting for this moment for a while now.”

  Phillip pointed his gun at Joe. “Drive the boat, Joe, or I'll shoot you right in the gut.” He leaned forward, taunting him with the gun. “You ever been shot in the gut before, Joe? It's about the most painful area to be shot in other than yer dick. Now drive.”

  They continued to drift, aimless, as Joe furrowed his brow and stared at Phillip, unwavering. “Your older brother was a good man.”

  “Yeah?” Phillip said, as though it was common knowledge.

  “And we were good friends. Some might even say best friends.”

  “Okay?” Phillip said with a shrug. His pistol remained aimed but he was hesitant to make a scene and draw more attention. On top of everything else, the familiar helicopter sound rumbled through the air.

  “I know you had it in for Greg. We all did. So when Greg came up dead in some car accident, I didn't doubt your involvement for one second.”

  Phillip stood up, infuriated. “Are you out of your mind? We're about to get locked up for the rest of our lives and you're moaning on about the past.” He took a step forward and sat on the middle bench.

  “I didn't come out here to help you, Phillip. I signed up to even the score.” He raised the controller in his hand. “I got about twenty pounds of explosives right under your seat.”