by Jeff Shelby
“Probably won’t be anything to get away from,” Anchor said. “We’ll just call you when it’s safe to come pick us all up, including your daughter.”
Lauren took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Alright.”
“And our help has worked,” Anchor said. “We are going in without a tail. They intercepted.”
I nodded.
“We’ll be parked in two minutes,” Anchor said, twisting back around in his seat.
I stared out the window, but couldn’t focus on the houses and buildings out there. All I could see was Elizabeth. I felt like we were at the end of the road. Like we were going to finally see her. I still didn’t know what had happened all those years ago or who was responsible, but there was a calm settling over me. The car slowed and Kitting moved to the curb.
I was ready to get my daughter back.
FORTY-ONE
“We’re three blocks away,” Anchor said to Lauren as she settled into the front seat. “You see any reason to leave, do so. We’ll worry about catching up with you after we’ve recovered your daughter. Questions?”
Lauren shook her head.
He pushed a button next to her seat. “Give us just a minute in the trunk.”
He and Kitting headed in that direction and I lingered for a moment.
“You alright with this?” I asked.
“Just get her back, Joe,” she said, her voice drained, her eyes ringed with dark circles. “Get her back and I’ll be fine.”
I nodded and walked to the back of the car.
The floor panel was up, revealing a small arsenal that glistened in the afternoon sun.
“What are you most comfortable with?” Anchor asked.
I peered in closer and put my hands on a handgun that resembled the 9mm Beretta I’d carried as a cop. “This.”
Anchor lifted out a similar looking weapon and Kitting armed himself with something that looked to me like it was semi-automatic. He slung it over his shoulder and it disappeared inside his coat.
Anchor placed the gun at the small of his back and closed the trunk. He walked to the front of the car, spoke a few words to Lauren, then came back to us. “Let’s talk as we walk.”
We were in an industrial area, just outside of the dying residential neighborhoods, most of the warehouse parking lots eerily empty. Either empty or abandoned.
“You’re the one that needs to get to her,” Anchor said to me. “She won’t recognize myself or Ellis. So it’s going to have to be you that gets to her.”
I nodded, stepped over broken concrete and overgrown weeds.
“My guess is this isn’t terribly sophisticated,” Anchor continued. “Based on what we saw online, it’s a small building, not a whole lot of square footage. Maybe a holding or transfer area. Front and rear entrance, one story. Best case, we can go in with minimal fire and everyone walks out healthy.”
“And worst case?” I asked.
Anchor shrugged. “They don’t want worst case.”
We crossed the street in a faded crosswalk. The road was deserted and it reminded me of a post-apocalyptic scene. We could have been the only people on the planet at that moment. But I knew better. I knew Elizabeth was there. Within reach.
“Ellis will go in the back. You and I will take the front. Only goal is to get you to your daughter and then get out and back to the car,” Anchor said. “I’ll take care of communication with Ms. Tyler and direct her as to where to meet us.” He paused. “Any questions?”
“Nope,” Kitting said, staring straight ahead.
I shook my head.
We walked for another few minutes before Kitting peeled off and crossed to the other side of the street. We came to a four-way intersection and he disappeared down the side street, behind a single-story building looking like nothing more than a storage unit to me.
“That’s it,” Anchor said, nodding at the building Kitting disappeared behind. “Not crazy about that glass door.”
The front entrance was a single glass door, no writing or numbers on it.
“Let’s walk past, then come back,” Anchor said.
We walked past it, still on the opposite side of the street and it took everything I had in me to not stare at the building. When we were a block beyond, we crossed the street and headed back.
“Probably work best if you’re first in and I cover you,” Anchor said. “You okay with that?”
“Yeah.”
“Forgive me for saying this, Mr. Tyler,” he said. “I imagine it’s going to be emotional when you get to your daughter. But we should exit as quickly as possible.”
“I know. I’ll get her and we’ll go.”
He nodded.
I took several deep breaths, steadying my nerves and getting my head right. Anchor was right. I didn’t want to get in there and just break down completely when I saw her. There’d be time for breaking down later. I needed to get to her, secure her and get the hell out of there safely.
I took another deep breath as we sidestepped toward the building moving along the wall of the building, maybe thirty feet from the door. Anchor was right in behind me.
“Straight in?” I asked, pulling the gun from my waistband.
“Straight in,” he said. “Ellis will be in position and will move when he needs to.”
I took another breath and pressed up next to the building, the gun heavy in my hand. It had been a long time since I’d held a weapon, much less fired one. I tried to clear my head, to focus.
We paused at the door.
“Ready?” Anchor asked.
I nodded. “Ready.”
“I’ll follow you then,” he said. “On your mark.”
I pressed my ear to the wall, heard nothing.
Took another deep breath.
Reached for the rectangular metal handle on the door, cold to the touch.
“Go,” I said, yanking the door open.
FORTY-TWO
Two teenagers were sitting on a green sofa, staring at their phones.
I aimed at the one on the left. “Don’t move.”
Both sat there, frozen as we moved into the room. Anchor floated off to my left, his gun trained on the sofa.
“Who the fuck are you?” said the one on the left. He was eighteen or nineteen. Thin, Hispanic, shaved head, a gold crucifix dangling from his neck.
“Shut up,” I said. “Keep your mouth closed.”
“Room’s clear,” Anchor said.
“On the ground,” I said. “Both of you. Now.”
They looked at each other, then slowly moved to the floor, staring at us.
But not scared.
“Flat,” I said, as they both rested on their hands and knees.
They both flattened themselves to the floor.
I took a quick look around the room. It was an office area. The sofa they were on. A desk off to the left. A couple of generic metal cabinets. A clock on the wall near an empty bulletin board. An open doorway in the back left corner.
“Clear them,” Anchor said. “I’ve got the door.”
I patted down the one closest to me. He was thicker and younger than the one with the crucifix. I ran my hands over his flannel shirt and baggy jeans, checked his ankles near the top of his stark white sneakers. Removed a handgun from his waist and a knife from the ankle. I threw both on the sofa behind me.
“Clear,” I said.
I moved behind them to the one wearing the crucifix. As soon as I bent down to check him, he rolled and tried to back hand me. His hand caught my arm and I drove the butt of the gun into his head, just above his ear. His head fell to the floor, unconscious. I checked him the same way I had the first. I pulled a nearly identical handgun from his jeans and tossed it on the sofa with the others.
“Clear,” I said.
I stepped in front of them and squatted down next to the one who was awake. “A girl was brought here earlier. Where is she?”
“Fuck you, asshole.”
“Take the door,” Anchor said qu
ickly.
I stood and switched positions with him, covering the door at the back of the room.
“Spread your hands on the floor,” Anchor said to him. “Out in front of you.”
The guy hesitated, then did as he was told.
Anchor bent down, pressed the barrel of his gun into the center of the guy’s hand and covered his mouth with his free hand. “One more chance. You fail this one, I will put a hole right in your hand. Then I’ll do the other.” The guy squirmed as Anchor drove the gun harder into his hand. “We clear?”
The guy grimaced and managed a nod.
Anchor pulled his hand away from the guy’s mouth.
“In the back,” he said. “There’s a room at the back of the warehouse.”
“How many others in the building?” Anchor asked.
He hesitated and Anchor twitched like he was about to pull the trigger.
But the guy was just counting in his head. “Six, I think. Plus the girl.”
“Guns?”
The guy nodded.
“Thanks,” Anchor said, then hit him with his gun the same way I’d done the first guy.
The guy’s head dropped to the floor with a thud.
Anchor took the two guns on the sofa and put one in his waistband. He tossed me the other and I did the same with that one. He took the knife and dropped it in his pocket.
I edged toward the door at the back of the room. I pressed up against the wall and took a quick look into the warehouse.
About a dozen rows of floor-to-ceiling metal racks. It was quiet. I didn’t see anyone.
I turned to Anchor and shook my head.
He nodded, pointed at me and held up one finger, pointed at himself and held up two fingers.
I nodded, took a deep breath and stepped into the warehouse, low, my eyes cutting to the right. Anchor stepped in behind me and took the left side. The racks were mostly empty, save for a few boxes. There was a middle aisle about five-feet wide, dividing the room in half.
Anchor and I each kept to our sides, staying low and next to the end racks.
I still didn’t hear anything.
We reached the back of the warehouse and the back wall.
We listened.
Voices toward the far left side.
I pointed in that direction and Anchor nodded.
I went past him and he stayed behind me. A few more steps and I could make out distinct voices. We came to the end of the back wall, but the far side of the building extended back. I stopped at the corner and ducked my head around the corner.
There was a large rectangular office, a room within a room, with a large window, pulled dark with blinds. In front of the office, I counted five people. One female, four males. All in chairs, all in various stages of lounging, save for one guy on the end, a tall, lanky kid in a white T-shirt and black jeans with short black hair and a hard scowl.
The female was without a doubt Netty.
I pulled my head back. “Five in front. Another room behind them.”
Anchor nodded.
A cell phone rang back in the direction of where they were all sitting. I craned my neck as close to the corner as I could get without exposing myself.
“Fuck,” a voice said. “Someone’s here. Jay saw them come in.”
Feet scurried on the ground.
I looked at Anchor.
“Let’s go,” Anchor said. “You take the right. I’ve got the left.”
I spun into the open area and they were all on their feet, maybe a hundred feet away.
I locked eyes with the kid with the hard scowl. “Nobody move.”
For a moment, they froze, staring back at us.
And then they unfroze.
Guns flashed as they all moved and I took a deep breath. I squeezed the trigger and the one kid to the left of the hard scowl dropped. Another one on the other side dropped thanks to Anchor. They all scattered in opposite directions. We held where we were.
Then we heard rapid fire from somewhere behind the room at the back of the warehouse.
“Go,” Anchor said. “Ellis is in. I’m behind you and will cover. Go.”
I stayed low and moved as quickly as I could toward the door, moving my eyes back and forth. I saw a quick flash out to my right and as I turned, felt a burning sensation as a bullet pierced my shoulder. I stumbled, but continued moving forward, a hail of bullets from behind me in the direction of my shooter. The hard scowl fell to the ground, his back soaked in red.
More gunfire behind the room, some yelling off to my left.
I focused on the door.
I got to it, reached for it—ignoring the burning in my shoulder—yanked it open and slid inside.
A thick Hispanic man, early twenties, was standing next to a cot, trying to get his pants up. His black T-shirt was wrinkled across his massive chest and his hair was disheveled, two angry red stripes on one of his cheeks.
Elizabeth was on the cot, on her back, staring at me, eyes wide, her mouth frozen in an oval.
The guy stiffened when he saw me, slowly getting his hands up. “Yo. We’re cool.”
“Don’t fucking move,” I said. “Don’t fucking move.”
“Yo, I got you. I’m not movin’, dude.”
More gunfire exploded outside the room. Elizabeth jerked on the bed, startled by the noise.
I rose out of my crouch slowly, looking at her. “Are you…”
The guy’s foot crashed into my gun hand and the gun clattered to the floor. I stumbled backward against the wall, pain searing through my shoulder as it hit. The guy came at me, snarling, his fists coming fast at my face.
I ducked under the blows, grabbed him around the waist and took him to the floor, dumping him on his back. We hit the ground hard and white heat burned through my shoulder. He was flailing at me with his fists. I found his neck with my hands and squeezed as hard as I could, pushing myself off of him.
Elizabeth was still on the cot, watching us, apparently unable to move, and I had no idea if it was because of me or the man I was fighting with or the gunshots or everything.
The guy clawed at my arms, then started banging away at my shoulder, each strike feeling like a spear into my back. But I kept my hands on his neck and leaned down, his face growing redder.
Elizabeth finally pushed herself up. I could see that her jeans were undone at the waist and her shirt was pushed up.
I looked down at the man beneath me and squeezed harder, the muscles in his neck pulsating against my hands as I cut off his air supply.
No one was going to hurt my daughter again.
Elizabeth scrambled on the bed, fixing her jeans and pulling down her shirt, tears running down her face. “He was going to…”
I tuned her out, focused on the son of a bitch I was choking to death.
His arms started to fall, his hands sliding down my arms, gagging, his eyes fluttering.
The door slammed open behind me.
Anchor stood in the doorway. “We’re clear.”
I squeezed harder.
“If you want him dead, he’s almost there,” Anchor said softly.
Elizabeth was crying, her hands covering her nose and mouth, shaking her head.
Anchor touched my good shoulder. “It’s over, Mr. Tyler. You don’t have to do it.”
My body shook, my hands cramping around the man’s neck. He symbolized everything that had gone wrong for so long. Everyone and everything that had taken part in keeping my daughter from me. I wanted to extinguish it, make it go away forever.
His body started to go limp beneath me.
Anchor put his hand on my wrists. “Let go, Mr. Tyler. You don’t want your daughter to see this.”
Sweat dripped down the back of my neck and I looked at Elizabeth. She was crying, shaking, watching me.
I loosened my grip on his throat, then moved my hands off of him, sitting back.
The room tilted a little.
I reached out to Elizabeth.
“I’m sorry,” I
said, the words fat and heavy on my tongue.
She hesitated for a moment, then reached out, her own hand quivering as it touched mine.
I wrapped my fingers around hers.
“I’m sorry,” I said again. “No one will ever hurt you again, Elizabeth.”
She nodded, tears streaming down her face.
“I’m so sorry,” I said one more time before the room tilted to the side and everything went black.
FORTY-THREE
“The question, then, Elizabeth is…what would you like to do?”
We were sitting in a conference room on the fourth floor of the FBI field office, a four-story rectangular building in an office park near Montgomery Field and Kearney Mesa. Lauren and I were on one side of a large glass-covered oak table and Elizabeth was sitting on the other. Special Agent Dorothy Blundell was at the end of the table, smiling sympathetically at my daughter.
Anchor and Kitting had gotten us out of the warehouse. I came to in the parking lot and by that time, there were sirens and lights and all kinds of noise around us. I’d lost a fair amount of blood, but the wound in my shoulder was nothing more than a pretty deep cut. I’d refused transportation to a hospital and they’d patched me up as well as they could on the scene.
As I sat on the curb near the ambulance, I watched everything. Cops brought out the people in the warehouse. Lasko, the officer who’d stopped us, seemed to be running the scene and he gave me a nod at some point. I nodded back.
Anchor apparently called Lauren because she was there, next to Elizabeth, her arm around her, on the opposite side of the lot. Elizabeth looked scared, unsure, completely confused by everything around here.
I didn’t blame her.
Mike Lorenzo showed up, checked to make sure I was okay, then went about calling the people that needed to be called, including federal agents. Technically, abducted children fell under their jurisdiction and he knew that he had to involve them in order to get Elizabeth back to us. So he’d made the calls and got them to the scene.
I saw Bazer momentarily and wondered why he was there. Then realized that because he was tied to the AMBER Alert, he’d come to the scene. Or maybe Mike had called him. I didn’t know.
