Twenty minutes into the search Rob said, "This is nuts." He turned the car around.
"What are you doing?"
"Going back to Pauline's. You're going to drive."
"Why?" Tears burned her eyes.
"I feel like we're missing something. I'm going to walk from Pauline's to home. I want you to follow."
Rob wasn't asking; he was telling her this was the way it was going to be. He stopped in the middle of the street, removed a flashlight from the glove compartment, and exited. Stacy moved to the driver's seat and watched as her son started at the Wysocki porch, lowered his gaze, and began to walk slowly toward home. She could see his head moving from side to side as he scanned the area in front of him and shone the light beneath every car parked along the curb or left on a driveway.
One block gave way to the next as Stacy crept along the street, forcing herself to not only focus on Rob, but on where she was directing the car. At times Rob would disappear behind some curbside vehicle, then reappear a moment later. They came to a pickup truck and Rob peered into the cab and then the truck bed. The thought of him finding her daughter hurt or worse, lying in the back of a 1980s Chevy pickup, came as a waking nightmare. Her hands shook as they gripped the steering wheel.
Rob started across an intersection, then paused in the middle of the street. He looked down one street, then the next. Stacy didn't need a conversation to know he was wondering if Gina might have tried a different way home. Possible, but not likely. Gina loved her habits. She rose at the same time every day. When her friends longed to sleep in until the crack of noon, Gina would rise at six on school days and seven on weekends. The ritual never changed.
Just like her father.
Stacy wished with all her might Eric were here. He'd know what to do. He would have found her by now. And if someone . . . She couldn't complete the thought, but God help the person who would harm his little daughter.
Rob stopped suddenly. Stacy pulled forward until she could see him through a gap between parked cars.
He picked up something.
Her heart stuttered. Stacy slammed the car's transmission into park and exited, leaving the vehicle idling in the middle of the street, the driver's door open, the overhead lamp shining in the dimness of the late hour.
"What?" She approached, her stomach so tight and twisted she couldn't stand erect. Rob held a book. "What is it?"
He turned. "I think this is hers." He held up the tome. It was thick with a worn cover and dulled corners, the abuse from a student who had it before Gina. "I've seen it on Gina's desk."
Stacy took it from her son and studied the cover: Basic Speech Communications. Stacy had also seen the book in Gina's room. She wanted to deny it, to consider it a coincidence, to assume the book belonged to someone else's little girl.
She sucked in a lungful of air and opened the front cover. Pasted to the inside cover was a white card with WARDLAW JUNIOR HIGH SCHOOL printed in black ink at the top. The card bore the names of students who had been assigned the book in previous sessions.
"Oh, God. Oh, dear God. Please no." A glint in the light of a streetlamp caught her attention. A small cell phone lay in the gutter—Gina's cell phone.
She started for it, but Rob placed a hand on her shoulder. "No. Let me." He stepped close to the device. Stacy followed just two feet behind. Even in the dim light she could tell the phone was dropped and the scratches in the case suggested it was kicked or thrown to the side.
Stacy stepped around Rob and started to reach for the phone.
"No." He pulled her back. "Don't touch it. Let the police do that."
"But—"
"Mom, leave it alone." His tone was firm but kind. "Give me the book. I want to put it where I found it."
Reluctant to release the textbook, Stacy pulled the book to her breast. Rob eased it from her embrace. It seemed like she had just released her daughter. Her hands shook, then her arms. Gooseflesh covered her skin. Her legs wobbled. She was hot. Emotional pressure built in her like a runaway boiler.
"Gina! GINA." Her screams rolled down the street. "Where are you, baby? It's Mommy. Where are you?"
A pair of hands seized her by the shoulders and pulled her close. "Stop it, Mom. That's not helping."
"But—"
"You know what Dad would say. 'Keep the main thing the main thing. Keep focused on the mission.' We have to keep it together or we will be of no help to Gina. Do you understand me?"
It was as if she were listening to Eric. "Yes. Yes, I think so."
"Okay, I'm calling the cops."
"They already said she hasn't been missing long enough."
"They don't know about the book and cell phone."
Rob keyed his cell phone, put it on speaker, and waited. Then, "I want to report an abduction."
"You saw an abduction?" A woman's voice, tired and disinterested.
"My sister hasn't come home and we've found one of her textbooks and her cell phone in the street."
"Are you sure she's not at a friend's house?"
"Positive."
Stacy could hear the tension in Rob's voice.
"How old is your sister?"
Rob sighed. "Fourteen. Can you send someone out?" He gave the address.
"How long has she been missing?"
"She was supposed to be home almost two hours ago."
"Sir, two hours is not very long."
"As I said, we found her textbook and cell phone in the street. Are you going to send someone?"
"We prefer that a person be missing longer than a couple of hours."
"I want you to send someone right away." His words had a sword's edge to them.
"Sir, I don't need the attitude."
"Lady, I don't care what you need. It's not your sister who's missing."
"In most cases the person usually shows up on her own."
"And what about the other cases?"
"Sir, I'm just trying to do my job—"
"And I'm trying to make sure my sister is all right. Now are you sending someone or not?"
"Our patrol cars are very busy with crimes—"
"Kidnapping is a crime. Send someone."
"Sir—"
Rob's knuckles whitened as he gripped the phone. "Okay, lady, I'll make a deal with you." He looked at his watch. "It's 12:32. In ten minutes I begin breaking windshields, setting off car alarms, and putting bricks through bedroom windows of every house on the block. Will that get your attention?"
"Sir—"
"You have a little over nine minutes before the first brick goes into someone's living room." Rob hung up.
CHAPTER 16
THREE SQUAD CARS PULLED onto the street and turned toward Rob and his mother. It's about time. Rob crossed his arms and tried to disguise his fear. He was harsh with the dispatcher; no doubt that information was conveyed to the street cops.
"Thank you for coming."
Rob could hear the terror in his mother's voice. Although he felt the same, he used every brain cell and nerve ending to act like he was in control. He had never been so out of control in his life.
"It's my daughter—"
"Who made the call?" A city officer, who stood four inches taller than Rob and weighed a good fifty muscular pounds heavier, approached. The officers in the other patrol cars emerged and stepped forward until they formed a semicircle around the two.
Rob took one step in front of his mother. She stepped to the side and spoke. "I made the first call." Her voice trembled. "Something has happened to my daughter—"
"I made the call." The firmness of his voice surprised Rob. Copzilla took another step closer and dug his thumbs beneath his Sam Browne belt. Rob glanced at the other officers who kept their places but made no attempt to conceal their grins.
"You threatened our dispatcher?"
A fourth police car appeared and pulled to the curb. A stocky man with gray hair slipped from the driver's seat. Rob noticed three stripes on the man's sleeve.
A meta
l name tag over the breast pocket of the big man read: D. SAMPLER. "No, officer, I threatened to break windows. I didn't threaten the dispatcher."
"But you threatened to commit a crime?"
"A small crime compared to ignoring the desperate pleas of one of the people you're sworn to protect."
"What? You think you're smart?" Another step. Two more and Gigantor would be standing in Rob's pocket.
"This isn't about me, officer; it's about my sister . . ."
"You know threatening a dispatcher is pretty much like threatening a cop."
Stacy pushed forward. "Officer. I'm sorry you're angry, but my daughter is missing—"
"Ma'am, I'm going to ask that you shut your mouth and let me take care of this."
Rob glanced at the other officers. Their grins were gone.
"Hey, Don, lighten up," one of the officers said.
"You telling me how to do my job?" Sampler turned on the officer.
"No, but I am." The police sergeant pushed past his other men and approached Officer Sampler.
"Hey, Sarge, I was just trying to get to the bottom of the situation."
"So I see. You can go back on patrol."
"But Sarge, I was just doing my job."
"And doing it badly. Do you really want another complaint in your jacket? Pretty soon they're going to need a file cabinet just to hold all the complaint forms filed against you."
"Look, Sarge, I know you're a short timer and all, but—"
"Watch it." The field sergeant raised a finger. The two mute officers took a step back. Apparently they knew something. Another glance at Sampler showed a crack in his armor. "I may only have two weeks left on this job, but it only takes me two minutes to ruin your career. Would you like to test me on that?"
"No, Sarge, but I don't know what the big deal is."
"That's because you don't have a daughter. Beat it. You're embarrassing me and the uniform."
Sampler retreated to his patrol car, slamming the door so hard Rob expected the light bar to fall from the vehicle's roof. The engine roared to life and Sampler drove away.
The sergeant turned to the other men. "Am I going to have a problem with you too?"
They shook their heads and one said, "No, sir, we're with you."
The sergeant turned to Rob and Stacy. "I'm Sergeant Tony Crivello. I apologize for Officer Simple . . . I mean, Sampler. Please don't judge us by him. We have a good department with good people."
"My daughter is missing."
Rob put his arm around his mother. "Her name is Gina; she's fourteen and she's not the kind to be late without calling." He pointed to the cell phone. "That's hers. We haven't touched it." He motioned to the book. "That's hers too. We did pick it up."
"I see. Do you have a picture of her?"
"I do," Stacy said. "In my purse. It's in the car."
"Go ahead and get it, ma'am." Crivello studied Rob; Rob let him. "You the guy who gave our dispatcher trouble?"
He stiffened his spine, ready for whatever onslaught the officer would unleash. "Yeah, that's me. I didn't know any other way to get you guys out here."
Crivello smiled. "It was a good one. I was in dispatch when you called. I was listening in. How old are you?"
"Just turned eighteen."
"I figured it was something like that. When this is all over, I may have a little talk with you, but for now, let's focus on your sister. What do you think happened?"
"I think someone took her." Rob stuffed his emotions to appear strong for his mother, but cracks were developing. A tear ran free. "I'm sorry. I've never been through anything like this."
"Never apologize for love, boy."
Stacy reappeared and handed a photo to Crivello. He turned to one of the officers. "Get this out. Tell 'em we have an abduction. I want every man not dealing with a violent crime combing the streets. Got that?"
"Got it, Sarge." The man moved to his car.
Crivello pointed at the other officer. "I want you to canvass every house that can see this spot. Wake 'em up and if they have any complaints, give them my name."
Crivello returned his attention to Stacy and Rob. "Okay, we've got the ball rolling. Now tell me everything. Start from the beginning."
THE MI-17V7 HELICOPTER MADE the two-hundred-mile trip in short order. Peng watched the sun begin its daily crawl up the sky's dome. Golden light fell on farm fields and industrial buildings spread throughout the many small towns. A new day had begun, as it had for countless years. What would the sun see today? He hoped it would be witness to his team's success.
He looked at a dark sky turning blue and thought about the large satellite due to plunge through the atmosphere. When he first heard his assignment, he wondered if there would be anything worth salvaging after such a high-speed plunge. Peng kept the question to himself. It was enough for him his superiors believed so. What he thought didn't matter. He was a highly trained machine of flesh and blood. It was his job to do as he was told without question.
The Mi-17 slowed, drawing Peng's attention from the heavens above to the earth below. The pilot led them next to a long, wide strip of concrete. The Jiamusi Airport sat just south of National Road and was a minor destination for several airlines from the larger cities to the southwest. It also served a dual role with the military.
The moment the craft's wheels touched the tarmac and its two BK2500 engines began to power down, Peng popped his safety belts and stood. His men followed his example. The aircraft could hold thirty-six passengers or twenty-four fully equipped troops. At the moment it held only five soldiers and three crewmen. The flight mechanic opened the side door and cool air, propelled by the still-beating rotors, pushed into the cabin. Peng started forward but the flight mechanic, a thin but hard-looking man, stopped him.
"Forgive me, sir, but I have been asked to give you a message. You are to proceed without hesitation to the aircraft on the taxiway."
"Which aircraft?" Peng had to shout to be heard.
"There's only one, sir. It is waiting for you."
"Then what?"
The flight mechanic shrugged. "I'm sorry, sir, but that is all I know."
Peng nodded, patted the man on the shoulder, and exited the craft, his head low to keep the rotor blast from his face. He carried a large bag over his shoulder as did each of his men.
A dozen steps later, the pressure from the spinning blades lessened and he stood erect, letting his eyes trace his surroundings: a large building loomed on the other side of the taxiway, its doors shut; its windows blacked out. At the distant end of the runway waited a China Express MD-90 jet. A covered airstairs mounted to a truck bridged the distance from runway to doorway. A man in a white shirt and dark pants, typical of commercial pilots worldwide, stood at the base of the stairs.
Peng marched his direction. He didn't bother checking on his men. He knew them well enough to know they would follow a few feet behind.
The morning air brightened as the sun continued its climb. Light glinted off the unpainted areas of the cargo plane. Often used as a passenger plane, several of China's air-cargo companies used them for package delivery around the world. Blue and green paint ran the length of the plane's skin meeting at the tail and sweeping up the rear fin, forming a stylized dragon's head.
"Nıˇ haˇo," the pilot said as Peng approached, bowed, and extended his hand. Peng acknowledged the greeting. "Please." The air captain motioned up the stairs. Peng jogged up the metal steps.
The air inside was warmer than he expected and the cabin different in configuration. What Peng thought he'd see was an open space filled with boxes of cargo or fuselage-shaped metal cargo containers. Instead there were six rows of seats, three rows to a side. Behind the last row of seats, running from the midpoint of the cabin and along the centerline of the craft were three large objects, each covered with a white tarpaulin.
"Unexpected." Hsu Li set his bag in one of the seats.
Li Peng's second captured his first impression. Then it came to him. "I
know what this is." Peng moved deeper into the plane, making room for the others.
"Then you know more than me, Captain."
"I believe we will know in a moment if I am right."
The pilot entered the space last, pulled a microphone from a mount by the open door, and said something. Seconds later, the motorized airstair backed away from the opening. The captain closed the door hatch and locked it down.
"Welcome aboard, gentlemen." The pilot's smile seemed genuine. "Do you know where you are?"
"Qīpiàn," Peng said.
"Yes, Captain, you are right. You are aboard the Deception."
CHAPTER 17
SCOTT MASTERS FELT FEVERISH. He couldn't see the growing perspiration on his forehead but he could feel it. He could also feel the wet spot his body created between his shoulder blades and the small of his back—puddles of sweat slowly oozed into the dirty mattress. The smell of urine intensified.
He groaned. He tried not to. Signs of pain encouraged his captors and he wanted to withhold anything that might be useful to them, no matter how small.
Still, the moans, the groans came more frequently. His guts were baking in his body, his skin aflame. The fever made thinking difficult. He tried to focus on the problem, running escape scenarios through his mind, but he couldn't come up with a viable first step: getting out of the restraints binding him to the bed frame.
Behind him the IV pump continued to beep, reminding him lifesaving antibiotics were just three feet away. Bound and infected, his weakening thoughts of cooperating percolated to the top of his mind. Each time, he stuffed them into a mental vault. In his training, he was taught the mind could rationalize almost anything—even murder. When captured, when tortured, the first thing the brain wants to do is give in. Humans—all humans—have a threshold of tolerable pain. Masters had not reached his. Yet.
An hour ago, a thickly built man with three days' growth of beard entered the room, a tool kit in one hand, a box in the other. He set the kit down, left, and returned with a ladder. He didn't speak, didn't look at Masters for more than a moment. It was as if Masters faded to invisible over the last few hours.
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