by Herron, Rita
Where Axelrod took him from the Ellingtons under the guise of placing him in a loving home. “And the third?”
“Bailey Samuels was in foster care because his mother was a drug addict. She overdosed three years ago.”
“What about his father?”
“Not in the picture. I found a grandmother. She’s on her way.”
He thanked her and disconnected. Another agent knocked on the office door, then poked his head in. “Mrs. Bluster is here to see you.”
John stood. “Show her in.”
The agent disappeared down the hall. Seconds later, John heard crying, and frowned as the woman rushed in.
“Agent Strong, I got a call. You found my son . . . ”
John nodded and coaxed her to sit down. “Yes, ma’am, we believe so.”
“Where is he? I need to see him.” She brushed away tears with a tissue, a hysterical sob escaping her. “It’s been so long . . . My god, I thought he was dead . . . I’d given up . . . ”
John squeezed her hand. “Mrs. Bluster, I know this is a shock, but we really need to talk.”
“What’s wrong?” She sniffled, worrying the zipper of her jacket with her fingers. “Is he all right? Where has he been all this time?”
“We’re still trying to determine that,” John said. “Now, I need you to stay calm.”
“Oh God, he’s hurt, isn’t he?” She lurched up from the chair. “Take me to him.”
“I can’t, not yet.” John urged her to sit back down and began to explain.
Her reaction was just as he expected. Shock mingled with anger and grief.
“You say he was going to set off a bomb?”
“Yes. We believe a group has kidnapped boys for years. They’re training the victims to become suicide bombers to make a statement about the sad state of families these days,” John said. “We caught three of them, your son included, at a protest rally, where they were wired with explosives.”
She dropped her head into her hands on a sob. “Oh Lord . . . no.”
“I’m sorry.” John’s heart ached for the woman. “Your son is here, but he won’t talk to the police. Unfortunately, there are more kids missing who we haven’t located yet.” John hesitated, letting his words sink in. “We will get your son therapy, Mrs. Bluster, but we also need to find this group’s base camp. Other lives depend on it.”
Turmoil strained her features as she lifted her head, and she ripped at the tissue in her hands. “And you want my help to find them?”
“Yes. But I have to warn you—your son has been brainwashed and may not remember you at this point. But I need you to try to talk to him anyway.”
“You’re going to put him in jail after all he’s suffered?” she cried.
John adopted a neutral expression. He needed her cooperation, even if he had to lie to get it. “He will be evaluated by a therapist and most likely be held in a facility where he can receive psychological treatment to help him reorient to society and to life in general. It may take some time to undo the damage done to him.”
Sorrow wrenched the woman’s face, making John hurt for her. She’d obviously suffered all these years her son had been missing.
“I’m so sorry, but it’s important we convince him to talk. The sooner we track down where he was kept, and the people who held him, the sooner he can start healing and we can reunite the others with their families.”
She nodded miserably.
“We have to work fast,” John said. “This group may be planning another attack any minute.”
“John tried to save you and the baby.”
Shock rolled through Amelia. “What? But he helped guard me.”
“At first, yes, but when he realized what was going on, he tried to save you and get you out of the hospital. Arthur fought with him. He had him subdued and threatened to kill him if either of us went to the police.”
“John tried to save me?”
“Yes. He told me to take the baby. He was adamant I get him away from Arthur. So I took the baby to a church and dropped him off. I thought they’d find him a good home. I knew they worked with The Gateway House. That’s the reason I was looking into them when I started at the agency.”
“You left the rosary beads?” Amelia asked.
Helen nodded. “It was the saddest day of my life, but I thought I was doing the right thing.”
Confusion clouded Amelia’s head as she tried to comprehend the string of events Helen was describing. “Did Commander Blackwood find him?”
“I . . . don’t know. All these years, I’d hoped he was adopted. But Arthur had far-reaching contacts and was ruthless. I wanted to follow up and find where the baby was placed, but he was watching me, and I didn’t want to lead him to your son.” She rubbed her hands together. “When the story broke about the project, I thought it was time to come out of hiding.”
A knock sounded at the door, and Helen paused. Amelia pushed her teacup away, and stood, half expecting John to be on the other side. But when she opened the door, shock immobilized her.
A man stood on the other side with a gun in his hand. Dear God . . . it wasn’t possible . . .
Helen rushed up behind her, and he fired the gun. Amelia gasped as Helen collapsed, blood gushing from her chest.
Amelia turned to run for her papaw’s shotgun, but suddenly the butt of the gun slammed against her head and she collapsed, the world fading.
Helen’s cries echoed in her ears as she lost consciousness.
John studied the teen’s face for a reaction as his mother entered the room. His sandy brown hair was cropped short, the tattoo of the string of connected B’s marring his wrist stark beneath the fluorescent light.
But it was the dead, flat look in his eyes that was haunting.
“Jim, it’s me, your mother,” Mrs. Bluster said as she slid into the chair across the table from the boy. She reached out to touch his hands, which were handcuffed to the table, but he jerked back, the handcuffs rattling.
Mrs. Bluster startled, hurt, but she recovered quickly. “I know you’ve been gone a long time, Jim, but I never gave up looking for you. I called the police every week to see if they had any leads.”
He adopted a sullen look, anger radiating from him.
“They told me you might not remember me. That you’ve had a rough time.” Her voice faltered. “But I don’t care what you’ve done or where you’ve been, you’re my son and I love you. I always will.”
The boy’s eyes twitched as he stared at the woman. But he showed no other reaction.
She dragged out a photo album and turned it so he could see. “I thought you might like to see some pictures of when you were little, when you lived with me and your father, before he died.”
The boy glanced at the book, then crossed his arms. “You’ve got the wrong guy, lady. My parents didn’t love me. They didn’t want me.”
“That’s not true,” she said softly. “You have your father’s eyes, Jim. And that mole on your neck. It was there when you were born.” She flipped several pages of the album, describing the story behind each photograph. The first time his father had taken him fishing at age five at a stocked pond.
A camping trip they’d taken where the tent had washed away. One Christmas when they’d gone skiing, the birthdays they’d celebrated.
The last of which the father was missing from.
“We lost your father that summer,” she said, grief making her voice quiver. “He died of a heart attack. It was sudden and the doctors said he didn’t suffer, but you and I did. I didn’t handle it very well, and you cried every night.”
The pictures stopped after that birthday party.
“I let you down back then,” Mrs. Bluster said. “I was lost in my grief, and started drinking too much. That’s when social services intervened. The day you disappeared I was devast
ated.” She wiped at more tears. “The police searched everywhere, and they put out an Amber Alert, and . . . and I straightened up then. I joined AA and started looking for you myself . . . looking for you was all that kept me going. All these years . . . ”
Jim swallowed hard as he studied the pictures, his face stricken with grief and confusion and the realization that he’d been lied to by his abductor. Somehow her love had gotten through to him.
“Honey, I know you’ve suffered, and you have a right to blame me.” She pushed her hair from her eyes. “But you’re here now, and I want to help you. I want you to come home.”
He folded his hands into fists, obviously still torn, troubled.
“I understand you’re loyal to the people where you’ve been, but your father would want you to talk to the police. He didn’t believe in violence, honey, he’d want you to stop anyone else from getting hurt.”
A single tear rolled down his cheek, then he gave a quiet nod.
John cleared his throat. “There are other boys who’ve been brought into the group, boys stolen from their homes.” John paused to let that register. “You can save these kids from suffering like you did.”
Mrs. Bluster laid her hand over Jim’s, and he started to pull away, but she stroked his hand with her fingers, and this time he squeezed hers in return.
“Please, Jim, tell them where to find them.”
The boy gulped, then reached for the pad and pen John had laid on the table.
John, Coulter, and Nick Blackwood led the attack team to the location Jim Bluster had given them. He’d drawn a detailed map of the site of the group’s new compound. Apparently the group had caught wind of John’s investigation from the Internet and moved earlier, but hopefully this time John’s team would surprise them.
Jim said the place was primitive, but they’d been trained as soldiers, ready to die for the Brotherhood, and the accommodations didn’t matter.
John and Coulter called on all their resources. Helicopters flew in, dropping a tactical team along with SWAT, and John and Coulter geared up and hiked in on foot.
At first glance, there was no sign of the boys. Dammit, had someone heard about the arrests and moved them again?
But as they approached the main building, he heard noise.
They swarmed the camp, police charging in, catching the group off guard. According to Jim Bluster, the group held a nightly meeting. John and the team strategically timed their attack, so most of the group would be contained in one area.
Protective gear saved the front team as they shot three grown men dressed in camouflage guarding the compound while the meeting took place. Others charged through the door and windows, taking the group by surprise.
The team moved quickly and efficiently, storming the main camp.
Rayner, the man left in charge and Axelrod’s second-in-command, was tall and imposing, the look of a psychopath in his eyes.
John jammed his gun in the man’s face. “You son of a bitch.”
“You may have me,” Rayner said in a stone-cold voice. “But there are others who will take my place. Others who follow the Commander and Axelrod. Others who believe in what we’re doing.”
“You’re nothing but a coward,” John said between clenched teeth. “Killing innocents for no reason. Forcing children to do your dirty work so you can make a name for yourself.”
“I’ll be famous just like Commander Blackwood and Axelrod,” Rayner said.
John wanted to pull the trigger bad. “Not if I have anything to do with it.”
The man spit at him. “Go to hell.”
“That’s where you’re going.” He raked the barrel of the gun across the man’s forehead.
“Go ahead. Shoot. I’m not afraid to die.”
John hissed. “That would be too easy for you. You’re going to suffer in prison for the rest of your sorry life.”
He whipped the man around and handcuffed him. “Where are the boys?”
Instead of answering, the man simply laughed, a sinister sound that made John’s skin crawl.
Nick strode toward him, his jaw set in rage. “I’ll take him. Go look for the boys.”
John was glad to leave him with Blackwood. Blackwood had his own brand of justice. Maybe he’d beat the truth out of the bastard.
Wind and the cold bit at him as he and Coulter split up to search the compound.
John shined his flashlight across the property, finally spotting a pile of brush. Too neatly stacked for it to have been from the storm.
Someone had put it there. To hide an opening?
He yanked away the brush, twigs and limbs scraping his hands. When he lifted the last piece, he spotted a wooden lid. He pried it open and shined his light down into the hall.
“Coulter, over here!”
His partner ran over, and John led the way down the steps, shining his flashlight to illuminate the darkness. The sound of banging and cries for help echoed from below, and he took off running through the tunnel.
Several hundred feet in, he and Coulter found an underground cell.
Chaos erupted, the boys shouting all at once.
“Help!”
“Get us out of here!”
“Where is he?”
John shined his flashlight inside the cell. He recognized little Mark Bayler and Danny Kritz from the pictures he’d seen. The others were probably on the missing children list. Maybe nine kids altogether, ranging in age from six to thirteen.
Most of the kids were dirty and scared, and some looked malnourished. His flashlight shined just enough to reveal bruises and scars. Three were chained to a pipe at the back. Probably the ones who’d fought back.
“Hang on, guys,” John said. “We’ll get you out of here.”
He waited with them while Coulter ran back through the tunnel for tools and backup. Two officers returned with them, one carrying an ax to break the lock on the cell.
Over the next few hours, John and Coulter oversaw moving the kids to a secure facility, where they were evaluated by doctors for physical and psychological trauma.
Some were treated for burns and other minor injuries, but thankfully there was no evidence of sexual abuse.
Rayner was locked up as well, although he wasn’t talking. But the younger kids who hadn’t been brainwashed yet revealed everything.
Apparently Rayner worked for Axelrod. He’d beaten them into submission because he’d been beaten himself. Beating was the only thing that made him strong, Rayner had told them.
He had maps drawn up of future areas to target, and had already picked his next heroes, suicide bombers, for the mission.
Each boy had his own horror story of how he was abducted, where he was kept, and the mind games Rayner had played with him.
“I want DNA samples taken from each of the victims,” John said. Maybe one of them was Amelia’s son. And he needed to learn the identity of the others to reunite them with family.
John’s phone buzzed as he was about to sit in on the interview with Mark Bayler. It was Amelia’s number. “Amelia . . . ”
“Help . . . ” a woman cried. “He has Amelia.”
John’s blood ran cold. “Who is this?”
“Helen Gray. Hurry. I’ve been shot.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
John clenched the phone. Helen Gray had been shot? Amelia was missing . . .
“I’ll be right there.” John disconnected, told Coulter where he was going, and called an ambulance to meet him at Amelia’s as he raced outside to his SUV.
The sleet had stopped, but the wind beat at the trees as if a tornado might be coming. A car turned in front of him, and he slammed the brakes and hit his horn as he swerved to avoid it. He righted his SUV and raced on, his heart hammering.
Who had taken Amelia?
He had just arrested the lea
der of the Brotherhood and his second-in-command.
Of course, her missing son might have nothing to do with this Brotherhood group . . .
Ominous clouds rumbled above, icy patches slowing him down, but he drove as fast as he could up the mountain. Fear gnawed at him as he swung onto the road leading to Amelia’s. He spotted a black sedan in her drive and Amelia’s Mini Cooper.
The ambulance hadn’t arrived yet.
He threw the SUV into park, pulled out his Sig, and scanned the area in case he was walking into a trap. Nothing evident, but he remained on guard as he approached the front door. When he checked the door, it screeched open.
Instincts on alert, he inched inside, then spotted Helen lying on the floor. Blood soaked her abdomen and shirt, seeping around her.
She was unconscious.
He ran to the kitchen and grabbed some towels, knelt beside her, and pressed the towels to her wound with one hand to stem the blood flow.
The wind chimes clanged in the background. Cold air swept through the house from the front door. He took her hand in his free one. Her fingers felt icy and frail, but she slowly opened her eyes. “Helen?”
A weak nod. “John, he has Amelia. You have to save her.”
“Who has her?” John asked.
“He . . . he must have followed me here,” she cried. “I saw her on the news, pleading for information about her son. And I had to come.”
Sweat beaded on John’s forehead. “You know where her son is?”
“No . . . ”
She was fading again, and he gently shook her. “Helen, where is she?”
“I don’t know,” Helen murmured. “But you need to know the truth. The accident you had, your amnesia.”
John’s heart thundered. How would Helen know about that? “What about it?”
“You challenged him and tried to save Amelia, and he couldn’t have that. I heard him give orders to subdue you, to make it look like you had an accident, to brainwash you so you wouldn’t remember Amelia.”
Confusion swirled in John’s head as he tried to remember the events she described. “I tried to save her?”
