Her Stolen Son

by Rita Herron

  Yet crime thrived, the waterways providing an escape for drug runners, illegal aliens, and other corrupt business ventures—like trading and selling children.

  Five minutes later, he parked at the Miami-Dade County Police Department (MDPD), and he and Serena went inside. A lean dark-skinned Cuban man, Sergeant Cal Sanchez, escorted them into his office, and Colt caught him up on his investigation.

  “Do you have any leads on a child kidnapping ring?” Colt asked.

  Sergeant Sanchez rubbed a hand over his shaved head. “No, but I’ll talk to my undercover agents and have them dig around. If this bastard is using our city for human trafficking, we have to stop him.”

  “Please post the photos of Rice and Petey Stover for your men. I’ll forward you photos of two missing little girls from Raleigh, North Carolina, who we suspect Rice abducted, too.” Colt paused. “He was casing schools and was last seen driving a plain white van, so he may have more children locked inside.” Colt accessed his email on his phone and forwarded the photos.

  “I’ll have my men check out boating docks, abandoned properties, and put feelers out on the streets.”

  Colt battled disgust. “He approached the mother of the Raleigh child and asked her to show him property. Maybe he’s doing the same here. Or he could be holed up in an empty rental.”

  “With the market tanking, there are dozens of those.” Sergeant Sanchez stood. “But I’ll put some officers on that angle ASAP.”

  Although Colt doubted Rice planned to stick around. He knew the police were onto him, and he’d be looking to run. “The airports, train and bus stations have been alerted, but you could help us by alerting port authorities here in Miami,” Colt said.

  “Of course,” Sanchez agreed.

  Colt thanked him and placed his hand on the small of Serena’s back as they left. As soon as they stepped onto the pavement, the sweltering heat assaulted them, nearly robbing him of breath.

  “Where to now?” Serena asked. “They could be anywhere. Rice could have Petey on a ship by now and be leaving Florida—”

  “Don’t,” Colt said. “Agents and cops nationwide are looking for him.” They climbed back in the rental car and he drove through downtown Miami. “Let me check in with Gage.”

  Serena nodded and folded her arms, visually scanning the streets as tourists and families strolled by, and he realized she was searching for Petey in the crowd.

  Gage answered on the first ring. “Colt, are you in Miami now?”

  “Yes. We just talked with a sergeant at MDPD.”

  “Good. Special Agent Mitchell Metcalf is flying out from Quantico. He’ll meet up with you there.”

  “Fine. Any information from Mansfield?”

  “He denies knowing anything about a major kidnapping ring.”

  Same old song and dance he’d given since Dr. Emery’s arrest.

  “But Ben may have something. I’m putting you on speaker.”

  Colt waited a second and heard Ben murmur something to Gage. “Colt. I did some more digging around on Rice and discovered two things. One of his former cell mates has skipped out on his probation and may be helping him. And two, he has his pilot’s license.”

  Colt tensed. “Dammit. There are several private airports around Miami.”

  “Exactly. And some of the islands have areas large enough for landing a small plane.”

  He hated to voice his fears out loud, but he and Ben were on the same wavelength. Rice might be planning to fly Petey out of the country in a private jet.

  He’d check the ones nearest the city first. “Do you have directions to the private airports nearest Miami?”

  “I’m texting them to you now.”

  Colt thanked Ben and disconnected. When he turned to Serena, her face looked ashen. “Oh, God, Colt. Tell me he hasn’t already left the country with Petey.”

  He wished to hell he could.

  Colt swallowed hard and spun the car around, heading back to 95. The tires screeched on the sedan as he accelerated and sped toward the nearest private airport.

  SERENA CLENCHED the armrest, her pulse racing as she fought the images bombarding her, but she’d seen news stories about human trafficking and the images assaulted her anyway. Petey and other children locked in the back of that van in the oppressive heat. Or Petey tied and bound and tossed on a plane like some kind of cargo that Rice planned to sell.

  Colt veered off 95 and they traveled another ten miles, the more populated area turning to marshland. A private jet zoomed overhead and she stared up at it, wondering if that very plane might be carrying her son away.

  Colt turned down the long drive to the airport, bypassing palm trees and grassland, and ahead she spotted the airport. A long rectangular building looked as if it served as the terminal, a parking lot held a handful of vehicles, and several hangars were spread out behind the main terminal.

  No white van.

  Although a small black cargo van sporting a logo for pool supplies sat near one of the hangars.

  Colt pulled up in front of the airport and parked, and they walked up to the entrance, both of them scanning the perimeter in case Rice or his accomplice was there, but the place seemed virtually deserted.

  Colt squeezed her arm. “You okay?”

  Serena frowned. “I won’t be okay until we find my son.”

  Colt nodded, his eyes worried, then pushed open the door. The inside of the airport resembled a commercial terminal but on a much smaller scale. Seating areas were scattered throughout, along with restrooms; there was a small store, which had a closed sign on it, and an information desk had been carved in the center.

  A thin gray-haired man wearing a dark blue security uniform sat at the desk, his boots on the top, his head lolled back, his mouth slack, snoring.

  Colt strode toward him and rapped his knuckles on the desk. Serena read his name tag—Homer.

  “Hey, Homer,” Colt said. “We need your help.”

  The old man jerked awake, then rubbed his blurry eyes. “What? You need to charter a plane?”

  “No,” Colt said. “We need information.”

  Serena removed the photos of Rice and Petey from her purse and laid them on the desk while Colt explained about their search.

  “The man we’re looking for, Lyle Rice, has a pilot’s license,” Colt said. “We think he may be planning to transport Ms. Stover’s son and possibly other kidnapped children out of the country. Have you seen him?”

  The man leaned forward, his frown deepening the grooves around his mouth and eyes. “No, can’t say as I have.”

  “He was last seen driving a white van,” Colt said. “Have you seen it parked here?”

  Homer scratched his chin. “Hmm, no, sure haven’t. But I’ve been inside all day and my eyes ain’t what they used to be.”

  “Show me your flight log,” Colt demanded.

  Homer shoved a clipboard toward him, and Colt studied the manifest. Nothing there except for one scheduled plane belonging to a woman.

  “Who was flying that plane that took off a few minutes ago?” Serena asked.

  Homer grinned toothily. “Ansley Freeworth. She just got her pilot’s license and wanted to take out her bird.”

  “Did she have anyone with her?”

  “Just her current boy wonder,” Homer’s tone turned derisive. “She’s a rich daddy’s girl and has a new one every time she comes.”

  “So she wasn’t transporting any cargo or other passengers?” Colt asked.

  “No passengers. Probably a bottle of vodka for her picnic when she lands though.”

  Serena’s chest clenched. She’d hoped Homer could tell them more.

  Colt cleared his throat. “Do you mind if we look around outside?”

  Homer shrugged his bony shoulders. “Suit yourself.”

  Colt laid a business card on the desk. “Call me if Rice shows up.”

  Homer nodded, and Colt led Serena outside. Colt gestured toward the hangars. “Let’s check them out. Just because H
omer didn’t see anything doesn’t mean Rice or his accomplice didn’t stop by.”

  Colt headed toward the black van, and Serena rushed to keep up with him. The sun was fading now, night falling, although the heat still felt oppressive. The scent of machine oil and dirt rose to greet her as they approached the van near the hangar.

  Colt peered inside the front, and Serena scanned the interior, as well. Nothing. Colt opened the door, and the strong odor of pool chemicals filled the air.

  Then suddenly a gunshot rang out.

  Serena screamed, and Colt shoved her down behind the van. “Keep low,” Colt shouted.

  Another shot pinged off the top of the van, then the sound of gravel crunching as footsteps raced across the lot. Serena peered around the van and spotted a chunky man with tattoos up and down his arms running toward a black sedan.

  Colt must have seen him, too. He removed his weapon and discharged a bullet, then the man spun around and fired back. The bullet skimmed the top of the front of the van and whizzed over Serena’s head.

  Then the man dove into the sedan and cranked the engine.

  “Stay here. I’m going after him,” Colt yelled. Without waiting for a response, he jogged to their rental car, jumped in and sped off after the car.

  Serena’s heart raced, her breathing turning raspy as she watched them disappear. She glanced at the airport expecting Homer to appear but his hearing must have been as bad as his eyesight.

  Pushing to her feet, she surveyed the area just in case Rice had been with the shooter and stayed behind. But the runway, the property surrounding the hangars, the parking lot—there was nothing except a strained silence. Not even the wind blowing to stir the hot air. Not a car engine or the motor of a plane.

  But a low keening sound broke the silence. Serena froze, stiffening, straining to hear. Had she imagined the sound?

  No. The muffled cry rose from the distance. A child’s cry.

  Her pulse clamored and she ran to the first hangar and rapped on the metal door. “Hello, is someone in there?”

  Nothing.

  Another sound, something banging against metal, rent the air, and she raced to the second hangar and tried to open the door, but it was chained and locked. “Is someone in there?”

  Suddenly the rattling grew louder as if someone was pounding on one of the doors.

  Serena raced down the row of hangars, banging on each one, frantic. By the time she reached the fifth one, she was sweating and shaking.

  But she knew without a doubt that someone was trapped inside. Maybe her son.

  “Petey!” She banged on the door. “If you’re in there, make some noise.”

  Another low wail, then a sob, low and anguished.

  Like the other door, this one was locked and chained. She tried to wrench it open, but it wouldn’t budge. Panic threatened, but she tamped it down and tried to think.

  She spotted a tool shed a few feet from the first hangar and ran to it. Inside various mechanic tools were stacked in tool chests, others mounted on the wall. She grabbed a pair of bolt cutters, ran back to the hangar, hoisted them and snapped the chain in two.

  The chain rattled as she yanked it from the door and tossed it to the ground. It was heavy, but adrenaline kicked in, and she shoved open the door and peered inside. Darkness bathed the interior, the scent of grease and dirt mingling with sweat.

  “Is someone here?” she said, inching slowly into the dark space.

  Movement stirred from the corner, then a low whimper. She slowly moved toward it. “Please don’t be scared. I’m here to help you.”

  Her shoes squeaked on the concrete floor as she inched her way toward the sound. A sliver of moonlight wormed its way through the opened door and cast a slight shimmer across her path.

  Two little children were huddled in the corner, clinging to each other, their muffled sobs reverberating through the darkness and tearing at her heart.

  “Petey, is that you? Are you all right?”

  She reached out and stroked one of the child’s backs, and a little girl looked up at her with tear-stained cheeks. The other child was sobbing harder, and Serena realized it was another little girl.

  The two girls Colt had said were kidnapped from Raleigh?

  Emotions overcame her and tears filled her eyes. These poor little girls had been left in this hot deserted building with no food or water, and another scorching day to face.

  “Shh, come here, you’re safe now. We’ll call your families and tell them to come and get you.” She gathered them against her, and both the children collapsed in her arms, sobbing and clinging to her for dear life.

  Her heart ached for them and their families, and the trauma they would have to overcome from their ordeal.

  But anguish wrenched her heart. Rice had left the girls behind.

  So where was her son?

  “LET ME GO!” Petey slammed his fists at the big man’s shoulders, kicking and screaming with all his might. “I want my mommy!”

  “Shut up, kid!” The man threw him to the floor, then ripped a piece of duct tape from the roll at his waist and shoved it over Petey’s mouth. He tried to scream again, but the sound died. Still he beat at the man as he jerked his hands and tied them with rope, then his feet.

  Then the mean man dragged some kind of sack over his head and Petey fought harder, hating the darkness. He couldn’t see. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t tell where the man was carrying him.

  Then he heard the sound of water. Ocean waves. A boat’s motor rumbling. The man’s feet pounded on something that sounded like wood.

  A boat dock.

  Fear clogged his throat. The man had left the girls in that nasty hot building at the airport. What was he going to do with him?

  The swish of the tides against the dock thrashed, and tears ran down Petey’s cheeks. Was he going to throw him into the ocean and leave him to die?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Colt chased the car to 95, then followed him a few miles until the man veered off onto a side road that ran along the coast. The man was flying, hitting one hundred miles an hour, weaving around traffic and nearly sideswiping cars as he passed on the wrong side.

  Colt could barely keep up in the rental car, and cursed as a stream of teenagers flooded the streets, jaywalking, others honking horns as they waved to friends.

  Traffic thickened, tourists and locals maneuvering toward the nightspots, and he dodged an oncoming Corvette then bore down on the shooter’s car.

  But the shooter accelerated again, forcing Colt to do the same. He raced across a bridge over the inlet, but an oncoming vehicle decided to pass on the bridge, and slammed into the shooter. The shooter’s car skidded and spun, hit the guardrail, slid to the end of the bridge and plunged into the water below.

  The oncoming car sped past, two drunken young men screaming out the window and shouting it was party time.

  Colt swung the sedan to the side of the road, screeched to a stop, threw the sedan into Park then jumped out. He jogged to the side of the waterway and peered down, but the shooter’s car sank into the churning water. He ran to the edge, searching to see if the man made it out, but he didn’t spot him.

  Furious that his only lead might be drowning, he tucked his gun and phone into a drain nearby, threw off his shoes and dove into the water. Sirens wailed in the distance, two other cars had stopped, curious spectators peering at the scene.

  He swam toward the car, then ducked beneath the water and dove toward the driver’s side. The doors were shut, the windows up, water slowly seeping inside.

  Colt grimaced. The man from the photo Ben had sent was inside. His head was slumped against the steering wheel, blood swirling around his face, his eyes staring wide open.

  Colt tried the door anyway, but it was jammed. He jerked and tugged, but it wouldn’t budge. He balled his hand into a fist and tried to break the window, but the force of the water made it harder, and he couldn’t crack the glass.

  His own lungs ached for air, but
he swam to the opposite side and tried the passenger door and window but no luck. Dammit.

  Swimming back to the driver’s side, he rapped on the glass but the river of blood was so thick now all he saw was the whites of the man’s eyes bulging.

  He was dead.

  Colt silently cursed as he swam to the surface of the water. By the time he reached the bank, two police officers and an ambulance were rushing toward him, and a group of rubberneckers had collected along with a news van and a photographer already snapping shots.

  Colt knotted his hands into fists as one of the officers approached.

  “Detective Walter Riley, MDPD. Sir, what happened here?”

  Colt shook water from his hair, removed his ID from his pocket and explained about his investigation. “You can call Sergeant Sanchez. Ms. Stover and I spoke with him earlier about her son’s kidnapping and Lyle Rice, the man who abducted him.”

  “Was he the man in the car?”

  “No. That was James Ladden, Rice’s former cell mate. We believe Ladden was Rice’s accomplice. He tried to kill me and Ms. Stover at the private airport nearby. I was in pursuit when he careened into the waterway.” Colt glanced back at the water. “I tried to rescue him but couldn’t open the door. He was dead. Looks like a head injury.”

  The detective angled his head toward the other cop. “Call a crew to tow the car, and make sure the ME and crime techs are here when he does.”

  “Copy that.” The officer walked away to make the calls.

  The detective turned back to Colt. “Stay here while I call Sanchez.”

  “Sure.” While the cops had turned away, he retrieved his weapon and phone. It buzzed the minute he picked it up, and he checked the number. Serena. He connected the call. “Serena?”

  “Colt, are you okay?”

  “Yes, I chased the shooter but he crashed into the inlet. I’m at the scene with the cops.”

  “Does he know where Petey is?”

  Colt ran a hand through his soggy hair. “I’m sorry, Serena, but he didn’t make it.”

  A heartbeat of strained silence passed.

  “Serena?”

  “Yes, I’m here,” she whispered hoarsely. “After you left, I heard a noise and started checking the hangars.”