by S. L. Menear
Vanished
A Samantha Starr Thriller, Book 5
S.L. Menear
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Copyright © 2020 by S.L. Menear. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
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Contents
Epigraph
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
Epilogue
Afterword
Before You Go…
Murder on Banyan Isle
Acknowledgments
Also by S.L. Menear
About the Author
For Dorothy Metz Littlefield
MY AUTHOR MOTHER
My mother’s eyes are a deep turquoise-blue
They glisten and sparkle like crisp morning dew
Her face has a beauty that is timeless and bold
She has seen many years, but she’ll never look old
Her mind is a garden of childlike delight
Where magical creatures live and take flight
Iridescent fairies with gossamer wings
Pearlescent unicorns and fanciful things
Inhabit a world filled with fluorescent flowers
Where songbirds serenade pink bunnies for hours
And sweet honey flows from gold combs in the trees
Made for the populace by purple-green bees
Waterfalls rain into luminous streams
Where willow trees weep for a mermaid’s dreams
All of the wonders the author’s mind can see
She records in her stories for you and me.
Soon her fairytales will entrance one and all
And then she will dance at the Fairy Queen’s Ball.
One
June 3, 4:00 p.m.
Adrenaline surged through me, and swirling air whipped my long ponytail into my face as the 1939 biplane corkscrewed inverted ever closer to the ground. The spinning terrain seemed to rush up to meet us. If I didn’t do something fast, the airplane would become a dirt dart, and we’d be splattered across the wreckage like two gallons of spaghetti sauce.
My student, harnessed into the front tandem seat, had frozen with his hands gripping the control stick and his feet locked on full left rudder. A windshield and instrument panel separated us, the back of his head and shoulders visible through the Plexiglas.
Shouting into the intercom hadn’t worked. My heart jackhammered my chest as I tried reaching over the windshield to smack him on the head, but my girly arms were too short. I couldn’t unbuckle the seat harness without falling out of the open cockpit, which was upside down and spinning. The last resort would be reaching through the narrow space along the sidewall and stabbing him in the thigh with my great, great grandmother’s giant hatpin.
But first I tried a less violent solution and belted out a few jarring lyrics from The Phantom of the Opera. My voice-activated microphone blasted the Phantom’s chilling words into his headset as we plunged toward the ground with alarming speed.
Just as I reached for the hatpin, Kent snapped out of his trance, and I remembered to exhale.
“Holy hell, Sam, if that song was supposed to calm my nerves, it didn’t work.” He relinquished the controls and wiped his sweaty hands on his pants.
I neutralized the stick, let the nose fall through, and applied rudder opposite to the spin. Once the rotation had stopped, I gently pulled out of the dive and added power to recover our altitude. The world was right-side up again, and my heart rate had retreated from the terror zone.
As the roaring engine propelled us higher into the clear, late-afternoon sky, the South Florida sun erased my fear-generated goosebumps, and warm wind caressed my face.
“You said you wanted to learn spin entries and recoveries in my Bücker Jungmann.” I throttled back as I leveled off at three thousand feet. “When you froze, I sang gruesome lyrics to jolt you from your death grip on the stick.”
“Your singing was scarier than the inverted flat spin.”
“Funny. The words seemed perfect for the situation.”
“Perfect for dying!”
“Don’t be so dramatic. I had to do something, and it was better than stabbing you with a huge hatpin.”
“So, if plunging into hell wasn’t bad enough, I’d also be gushing blood?”
“Geez, Kent, you sound like a drama queen.”
“I didn’t realize spins would be so terrifying. I’m too young to die.”
“I’d never let that happen, especially since I have a hot date tonight.”
“Ooh, is Mr. Tall, Dark, and Scottish back in town?”
“If he wasn’t sent on an emergency mission, he’ll arrive late tonight for a five-day visit.” I paused. “I’m hoping I’ll get his text soon because I have seven days off until my next airline flight.”
“Lucky you. He’s hot, but he’s not my type—too scary.”
“And too straight. Ross is a captain in the UK’s Special Air Service. That’s why he’s so intense.”
I banked over sugarcane fields and turned us back toward the Atlantic Ocean, sparkling like a sea of blue diamonds in the brilliant sunshine.
“Well, girlfriend, I think we’re done for today. I need to go home and change my underwear.”
“Don’t feel bad. Not everyone is comfortable with aerobatics. Next time, we’ll focus on approaches to stalls and spins and how to avoid them.”
“Avoiding death sounds good to me. Sign me up.”
“Good. Now take the controls and fly us home.”
The moment he took the stick, the airplane shook.
His voice tightened. “Where did that turbulence come from?”
“The flight controls on the Jungmann are so sensitive that if your hands are trembling, the airplane will vibrate. Try to relax.”
“Well, that’s not going to happen until I’ve downed half a bottle of chardonnay. Be
tter take the airplane, Sam.”
“Okay, I’ve got it.”
As we neared the uncontrolled airport, I announced my intentions over the UNICOM radio frequency and entered the empty traffic pattern for a landing to the east. After cutting the power, I side-slipped down the final approach to keep the runway in sight. The soft whisper of air flowing over the wings was music to my ears as I eased the swept-wing biplane onto the pavement and turned off onto the broad ramp. Soon my baby was safe inside its hangar.
“Same time next week?”
“If I don’t lose my nerve. I’ll text you the day before.” Kent waved and climbed into his silver Lexus sedan.
Straddling my red Ducati Diavel, I pulled on the full-visor helmet. Wearing it was hot in the blazing sun, but it was better than becoming an organ donor. I cranked up the almost-silent engine and zipped out of the parking lot.
Ten minutes later, I crossed the Southern Boulevard bridge to Palm Beach, turned left past Trump’s Mar-a-Lago estate, and cruised up A1A to my beachfront condo. I had several hours before I needed to pick up Ross at Palm Beach International Airport around midnight.
I breezed into the top-floor apartment, stripped, and stepped into the shower stall. Warm water from the nozzle massaged my shoulders and back, relaxing the muscles. My mind went blank as I enjoyed the shower’s caress.
That feeling changed in an instant.
The room darkened, and I experienced a vivid vision of muscular, dark-skinned men punching and kicking Ross’s four-man SAS team, helpless with their wrists and ankles tied. Blood covered my handsome boyfriend’s face as he lay on muddy ground in what looked like a jungle at night.
As I watched the brutal beatings, bile rose in my throat, and my stomach twisted into a knot.
I heard screams.
Mine.
I sucked in a deep breath and tried not to cry.
The violent vision vanished in an instant.
Somalia, Eight Hours Ahead of Florida Time
Captain Ross Sinclair gathered his black parachute and stuffed it under a bush. Soaking wet, he crouched behind thick jungle foliage and waited for his three Special Air Service teammates to join him. They had done a high-altitude-low-open jump at midnight and landed two miles west of a brutal warlord’s encampment in Somalia.
His best friend and second-in-command, Lt. Derek Dunbar, and Chris MacDonald and Ian McShane joined him. A sudden downpour from the final month of Gu, the season of long rains, drenched them.
“Nothing like diving through a rainstorm to add excitement to our HALO jump.” Derek wiped his night-vision lens.
Ross squinted through NV-binoculars. “Satellite infrared reported one hundred people in the camp.”
“Let’s hope the men are asleep so we can rescue the kidnapped schoolgirls,” Chris said as he checked his rifle.
Ian glanced at his waterproof watch. “Ready.”
“On me, lads.” Ross slogged through muddy ground and heavy vegetation, his approach to the enemy camp masked by pounding rain.
His SAS predecessors, the feared Shadow Warriors, had been the first Special Forces in the world. Ross’s elite soldiers, like Tier-One SEALs, were sent on the most dangerous missions, and this one was no exception.
Fifty yards from the target, he held up a fist, the signal to halt. They crouched behind a derelict truck overgrown by vegetation and scanned the camp.
“The children are probably in there.” Ross pointed at a square tent in the camp’s center surrounded by many smaller ones. Guards were stationed on every side of the canvas structure.
Derek focused his infrared scope. “Lots of warm bodies lying on the floor. Could be the fifteen girls, but no way to be certain with them so close together.”
Ross studied the scene. “They could be guarding the girls or some corporate prisoners.”
“Or maybe they’re protecting Axmed Khalif and his lieutenants.” Chris surveyed the camp.
Derek turned to Ross. “What’s the plan?”
“Take out the sentries simultaneously with silenced head shots. Then we’ll slip inside.”
“Sounds good.” Derek rechecked his rifle’s magazine. “I’ll take the east guard.”
“I’ll take the one on this side, and Chris and Ian will go north and south.” Ross glanced at his men. “Call me when you’re in position.”
The men slipped away while Ross waited.
Minutes later, each man reported via radio, “Ready.”
Ross took aim. “Three, two, one, fire,” he commanded via his throat mike.
All four guards collapsed at the same instant.
Ross whispered, “I’m going in. Meet me at the target.”
He crept up to the large tent’s entrance. Crouching, he pulled aside the flap and peeked inside. Even with night-vision gear, Ross couldn’t see the occupants. Their heads and bodies were covered with sheets.
He waited until his team joined him outside. Ross motioned for Chris to guard the entrance while he eased inside with Derek and Ian. He lifted a corner of the nearest linen.
A wide-eyed young girl about twelve years old lay atop a burly man. He held a blade to her neck and clamped his other hand over her mouth. The brute yelled, “Now!”
The sheets were thrown back, revealing men holding knives to the girls’ throats.
Khalif, the militia leader, sat up. “Surrender or we slit throats.”
The terror in the children’s eyes made Ross’s gut churn.
“If you hurt them, I’ll put a bullet in your head.” He aimed his weapon at Khalif. “Order your men to drop their knives and let the girls go.”
Derek and Ian aimed at two men nearby.
“It only takes a second to slit throats.” Khalif tightened his grip on the girl. “If you shoot me, my men will kill all the girls, and their shouts will alert my army. Give up. You have ten seconds before we start cutting.”
Ross hesitated. He and his men had risked their lives many times, but he wouldn’t be responsible for the deaths of fifteen young girls. There was no way they could kill all the captors before some of the girls were murdered.
Chris yelled from outside, “They’ve got us surrounded.”
Khalif grinned, showing three missing teeth. “If they hear us yell, they’ll fill this tent with lead. Time’s up.”
Ross clenched his jaw and dropped his weapons. “We surrender.”
Derek and Ian followed his lead.
Ross called to Chris, “Stand down and surrender your weapons.”
Khalif stood, a gold lion medallion hanging on a heavy chain around his neck. “Outside.”
The Brits joined their teammate, and Khalif’s soldiers bound their wrists and ankles.
“Time for football practice.” The six-foot muscular leader sported a shaved head and a bushy beard. He grinned, shoved Ross onto the ground, and kicked him in the head.
Pain shot through him, and his vision blurred, but he kept silent.
The soldiers took turns kicking and stomping on him and his teammates, who were helpless with their wrists and ankles bound.
Bruised and bloodied, Ross gasped for air when he felt his ribs crack. Blackness replaced consciousness and brought him relief from the intense pain.
In seconds, the pain returned and doubled when militiamen doused his team with buckets of water, waking them and rinsing off their blood. He knew what was coming and was powerless to stop it. If his men resisted, the girls would be slaughtered.
Filled with regret, Ross glanced at his comrades. He’d failed his team. What had he missed? How had they been set up? And Sam—his heart ached at the thought of never seeing her again.
Militia thugs roughly rubbed towels over their wet, wounded heads.
“Must have clean faces for videos.” A soldier holding a long, curved blade sneered at Ross.
Palm Beach
I took a deep breath, trying not to hyperventilate, and grabbed my cell phone. My twin brothers were two years older and serving in the US Navy. Matt
was a fighter pilot, and Mike was a Tier-One SEAL. I called Mike.
He answered on the first ring. That never happened.
“Sam, I was about to call you.” He hesitated. “Are you sitting down?”
I bit my lip so I wouldn’t cry and launched into a high-speed recap. “I just had a vision of Ross. It was horrible. Please tell me you know where he is.”
“He was on an emergency mission in Somalia when all contact was lost.” He paused. “Tell me what you saw.”
I took a moment to replay the vision in my head. “They were in a jungle at night, and it was raining. Ross’s wrists and ankles were bound, and dark-skinned soldiers in shabby fatigues were punching and kicking him.”
“Can you give me more details on the attackers?”
“I only saw one face clearly—a bald black man with a bushy beard and bulging muscles. He was missing three front teeth.” I thought hard. “He had a gold lion medallion on a heavy gold chain around his neck. Could’ve been the leader.”
“The Somali warlord. Makes sense. He’s the guy who kidnapped fifteen schoolgirls.”
I paced across the tiled bathroom floor. “Have the Brits launched a rescue mission?”
“An assault group deployed soon after contact was lost. My team is on standby to assist the UK forces. We’re waiting to hear—hold on.”
