The Stolen Girl

by Linsey Lanier

  Slowly she crept across the floor with Parker at her side and the rest of the team behind her.

  Sets had been created through the length of the building, forming a sort of grid. They looked as if they could serve a range of productions. In a far corner a large padded blanket hung from some point on the ceiling, stretching all the way down and across a portion of the floor. Some kind of back drop, she guessed, but she couldn’t tell which show it was for.

  An area on the other side of the blanket featured a suspended green screen with an RV parked in front of it. Booms and stands that encircled the RV held microphones and ellipsoidal lights pointed in various angles. In the next section, metal ladders rose to a mesh of scaffolding high overhead where more lighting equipment hung.

  The place was as silent as death.

  All Miranda could hear was the breathing of her team and Olivia’s footsteps as she made her way through the sets, eyeing them as if she were in a grocery aisle.

  At last Olivia stopped.

  She turned to a set that looked like an ordinary apartment. Miranda took in a living room with assorted furniture and a hardwood floor. Looked like a sitcom set to her. Beyond the living room stood an open kitchen. Two stools sat in front of a brown divider that separated the two fake rooms.

  That had to be the island Draco had mentioned.

  She signaled to the team. They scattered out and took cover around the set behind the makeshift walls. Miranda watched Parker’s hard gaze scan the area. Sloan was on alert as well. As were the rest of them.

  Olivia crossed the wooden floor to the phoney kitchen.

  Miranda held her breath as she watched Olivia look around. Finally she set her purse on the counter and took out the grocery bag holding the money she’d withdrawn from Pacific Bank. She pulled out the left-hand drawer, put the bag into it, and closed it again.

  Taking a deep breath, she picked up her purse and stepped out into the aisle again. She turned toward the opposite end of the sound stage, and started walking again, heading away from the team.

  She was looking for the sci-fi set Draco had mentioned.

  “Holloway,” Miranda hissed.

  “Yes, Steele?”

  “You and Becker stay here and see if Draco shows up. You know what to do if he does.”

  “You got it.”

  She was glad Holloway wasn’t arguing for once. Probably was relishing the idea of taking down the kidnapper. She hoped he got to.

  She turned to the rest of the team, nodded in the direction Olivia was heading, and followed her.

  They moved into an area where thin plywood panels made a kind of hallway. On either side, Miranda could see the two-by-fours that made up the back of frames for fake walls.

  After about twenty feet, the passage opened up to another large area. Suspended above more wooden scenery panels hung a hive of wires and cables and ductwork.

  Olivia walked past the section and then stopped again.

  She was looking at a large shape illuminated by muted blue lights.

  The walls looked as if they had been constructed out of some futuristic metal piping. At the far end, a computer screen was wedged into some kind of command center. A spaceship. The pipes formed a hexagon-shaped tube running from the one end of the ship to the command center. An assortment of grates and grab bars and vents made the design more intricate and realistic.

  Sci-fi set. Was this where Draco wanted Olivia to go?

  Something caught Olivia’s attention.

  She hurried over to one of the grates and pulled out a piece of paper that had been tucked into it. She opened it and looked around cautiously.

  Then she took a breath and dared to read the note aloud.

  “Follow this map to the back lot at the end of the studio. In the wreckage set, you’ll find your daughter.”

  Olivia’s face went pale.

  “Imogen,” she whispered.

  Then she turned and hurried into the darkness.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Axel carried his sleeping daughter through the interior roads along the west end of the studio. She was heavy in his arms, out cold from the medicine he’d given her. Draco’s brew.

  As he passed the office buildings, the commissary, the sound stages, he tried not to think. But his mind was whirring and anxiety clawed at his heart.

  Think about the money, he told himself. With what they were going to pay him, he could retire and live like a king for the rest of his life. Or at least a duke.

  He could get that villa in the south of France. He could go anywhere he wanted. He could have a new life. A good life.

  Turning a corner, he came around the side of the last building and saw the grassy meadow behind the stages.

  The studio’s back lot.

  He’d been here at night with Draco a couple of times to cut deals. Draco was fond of the area.

  It was a place no one would think to look.

  The lot spanned over five acres, plenty of room for movie sets. Tall floodlights lit up parts of the area like a football stadium. On the far side there was a set for some wedding flick. In the distance beyond it stood a row of city buildings and roads made to look like someplace in New York. The side closest to him was vacant now, except for the wreckage scene along the far corner.

  The set from some thriller movie they were filming.

  He hoisted Imogen up on his shoulder and made his way across the field, through the make-believe debris to the back of the wreckage. The plywood flats behind the structure supported it, they in turn were held up with large wooden beams, forming a kind of lean-to. A shelter of sorts, but a nasty one.

  Why did Draco want her here? At least he could have told him to bring a blanket.

  He found a level spot, moved a few of the bricks and empty beer cans away, and laid her down on the ground.

  She moaned a little but she didn’t wake up. The medicine was doing its job.

  It was cold out here and she was sick. Cursing Draco under his breath, he took off his leather jacket and covered her with it. He’d get himself another one when he got to France. Though the Browning Hi Power in his belt was exposed to view now.

  This was it. She’d be back with her mother soon. He bent down and kissed her cheek.

  “Good-bye, sweetheart. Be a good girl. Don’t grow up to be like your old man.”

  He straightened, but he couldn’t tear himself away.

  He looked around the space again, his vision getting used to the darkness.

  And then he saw it.

  The equipment strategically placed. Crow’s work.

  So that was the plan.

  Axel’s heart sank. Anger burned inside him. He’d been duped.

  Draco had never intended to give his daughter back to Olivia. For an instant, he wanted to find the sonofabitch and demand to know what the hell he was doing. But he’d said some of the Skulls would be here tonight. The image of being beaten to death at their hands ran through his mind.

  He had to get out of here.

  Still stunned at his discovery, he forced himself to hurry away from the scene, leaving Imogen on the ground, leaving her to the fate Draco had planned for her.

  He had to do this. He had to go through with it.

  It was orders.

  Think about that villa in France, he told himself. A little chateaux overlooking the Mediterranean. Sunny days and warm nights. Actually, he didn’t know what the weather was like, but he’d find out when he got there. When he started his new life. He’d be on his own with no one to answer to for the first time ever. He could make his own course. Make his own decisions. He’d have the rest of his days to figure out who he really was.

  And he’d be all alone.

  Suddenly he stopped walking. What would the rest of his life really be like?

  They wouldn’t let him go. He knew too much. They’d come after him. Hunt him down over the globe. They had people everywhere. Still, he could stay on the run. Be one step ahead of them. Maybe.

&n
bsp; But even so—he might escape the organization, but he’d never escape the memory of this night.

  It would stay with him.

  What was about to happen would haunt him forever. And so would the memory of these past few days with his daughter.

  Slowly he turned around and eyed the set where he’d left her, sick and drugged. She wouldn’t feel much pain when it happened.

  But he would.

  And then it hit him. If he didn’t get the money for tonight, he might not be able to buy a villa in France, but he had enough in his Swiss bank account to build a decent enough life. He could change his identity and hers, too. The organization might not find them if he did it right.

  They could go to Europe, just the two of them. He would find her a good school, a good house. If they were found, they could move, change identities again. They could make it together.

  He made up his mind.

  He would do it. Raise his daughter on his own. All he had to do was get her out of here in time.

  He started back to the set, running as fast as he could.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Damn. Why hadn’t Olivia waited for them? Miranda was out of breath from jogging between the sound stages, trying to find the distraught mother.

  She could have at least shown them the map. Where was she going?

  A few minutes ago, she’d radioed Becker. He’d told her there was no sign of Draco yet at the sit com set. That didn’t sound right, but it meant she couldn’t pull him and Holloway away from their post.

  “There.” Parker pointed between the two buildings where they’d been hunting.

  “She must have gotten lost,” Sloan said.

  Miranda jogged over to the two men and pointed her maglite down the corridor, a narrower passage than most. She spotted Olivia marching alongside the metal wall of a sound stage across the road between them. She was looking straight ahead, as if she knew exactly where she was going.

  She must have figured out where she was.

  “Olivia,” Wesson hissed and dashed through the alleyway toward her.

  “Let’s go.” Miranda ran after Wesson with Parker, Sloan, and O’Cleary right behind her.

  “What are you doing?” Wesson said when she reached her sister.

  Robot like, Olivia pointed ahead of her. “I’m going there.” She handed the paper in her hand to Wesson and started in the direction she’d indicated.

  They followed her and suddenly the maze of sound stages opened up to a large piece of vacant land. The strip of pavement along the back of the buildings formed a wide curve. On the other side lay what looked like a meadow.

  Miranda stood at the edge of the grass and stared at the spacious field. This place had to be used for shooting outdoor scenes. She felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

  The back lot.

  Floodlights provided enough illumination to make out the wide grassy hill rising to larger ones in the distance. Far away near a grove of trees, cloth-covered tables had been set up with a white archway at one end of them. A set that might be used to film a wedding scene. On a rise a couple hundred feet beyond the nuptial area stood the silhouette of what looked like a small city. A large patch of ground lay between the city and the other side of the field.

  But in the distance at the foot of hills rising at the far edge of the grassland, she saw a large wide-body jet. It lay on its side in shambles, as if it had fallen out of the sky and crashed there.

  The set for some disaster film.

  “That’s it,” Olivia breathed. “That’s the wreckage set.”

  And she started for it.

  “Hold on, Olivia,” Miranda hissed, hurrying after her. “You need backup.”

  “I need my baby.” She broke into a trot.

  Miranda and the team hurried after her over the rising ground.

  As they got nearer, they had to slow down. There was rubble everywhere.

  Under the floodlights Miranda could see the roof of the plane had been ripped off like a cereal box, exposing the empty rows of seats along the twin-aisles. The fuselage lay in huge scattered chunks, broken like a pretzel, and surrounded by pieces of the mangled wings and large mounds of unidentifiable debris.

  It looked so real, she half-expected to see bodies on the ground. The wreckage suggested the smell of smoke in the air, but there was only the scent of normal outdoor LA.

  It’s only a set, Miranda reminded herself. But the tingling on the back of her neck warned her of danger that seemed very real.

  Olivia led the way to the plane.

  With their maglites guiding them, the team picked their way through the debris. Slowly they moved through the dusty tubing and wires. Parker went in front of her, kicking aside pipes and sticks to make a pathway. Miranda saw Sloan looking grim as he booted away an empty cardboard box. A few feet away Wesson side-stepped twisted pieces from the plane that looked like metal but were really only Styrofoam. O’Cleary plodded through the mounds of dirt, shoving away fake boulders.

  At last they reached the front of the jet.

  Olivia made her way around a dislodged control panel and disappeared behind the plane’s nose.

  “Hurry,” Miranda whispered, using her foot to knock away a mound of gray stuff blocking her way.

  “I don’t like this,” Parker murmured in her ear as they made the turn at the spot where Olivia had gone.

  She didn’t either, but they had no choice now.

  She stepped around the tip of the jet and saw what she already knew. It was all fake.

  In the back, long two-by-fours wedged at the bottom with sandbags and bricks abutted wooden framework to support the imaginary plane wreck on the other side.

  There was more debris here, but it looked like stuff left by the film crew. Candy wrappers, empty beer cans, scraps of wood and nails, a few paint cans.

  Miranda ran her maglite over the ground. The others did the same. All she saw was trash and rubble.

  “There’s no one here.” Wesson’s voice was tinged with anger.

  Olivia walked the length of the back area. “Imogen. Where are you, baby? Are you here?”

  Miranda’s heart broke for her. And then she looked at Parker and her heart stopped.

  He was staring down at a shape tucked under the boards. Several shapes. A row of dark gray tubes about three inches in diameter.

  “What is that?” she dared to ask.

  His quiet reply rang with an ominous tone. “It looks like some sort of pyrotechnic device.”

  She tried to make sense of it. Were they preparing to shoot a scene where the plane wreck blows up?

  “Look at that.” O’Cleary pointed to something on one of the support planks.

  It was a white box about the size of a bar of soap. Wires running from it were attached to the row of tubes.

  Sloan studied it a moment. “Looks like a radio receiver.”

  “Yes.” Parker raised his maglite to illuminate the thick wooden beam over their heads. “Look at this.”

  Miranda squinted at it, hardly able to believe her eyes. Suddenly she felt dizzy. Her nerves were tingling like a hundred bees were stinging her.

  Tucked under the top brace so she could barely see it, was a bundle of red sticks bound with black tape. A cord hung down from the center of the pack.

  Her breath caught. “Is that what I think it is?”

  Sloan pointed down at the row of gray cylinders. “If these pyros went off, they would light that fuse. Is this a prop?”

  It wasn’t a prop. Suddenly it all made sense. This was the trap.

  “No,” Parker said darkly. “It’s real. And it’s about to blow. Run.”

  Miranda spun around and caught a glimpse of Wesson dragging Olivia around the far end of the plane. She watched Olivia break free and head off in the opposite direction. She felt Parker’s hand on hers as he pulled her out of the set.

  All at once they were running through the rubble, through the darkness, running for their lives. But would th
ey be in time?

  No.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw a terrific flash of light behind her. She heard a blast. A crack. Then an ear-splitting ka-boom!

  The earth beneath her shook. The debris at her feet shivered. Her body was forced up into the air, suspending her there for what seemed like minutes. All around her dirt and shrapnel flew through the air like it was snowing crap. Something sharp stabbed through her shoulder blade and she cried out in pain.

  Then the force hurled her down again, slamming her against the ground.

  She hit her head against something. She couldn’t see anything now. But she could smell the thick smoke. And behind her she heard whizzing and whirring and popping. Snap. Snap. Snap.

  The pyros. Fireworks. Like the Fourth of July.

  But they weren’t celebrating freedom now. This was death.

  Where was Olivia? Where was her team? Where was her husband?

  “Parker,” she cried. But her words were only in her mind.

  She’d already passed out.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Janelle Wesson rolled over on the ground and groaned.

  Her ears were ringing and her upper arm throbbed like the dickens. She raised her arm and saw she was bleeding. She’d been hit by a piece of flying wood or something. She wasn’t sure.

  She sat up and looked around.

  The air was thick with smoke. It was hard to see. Hard to breath. And to hear.

  But she must have survived that horrible blast.

  Had it gone off five minutes ago? Or five hours?

  Where was Olivia? Had she lost her beloved sister as well as her niece? Why hadn’t Olivia listened to her when she told her to run? She was so stubborn. No, she was desperate.

  Janelle thought she heard a sound. A voice. Someone talking to her. She turned her head and saw Sloan sitting on a pile of rubble next to her, his suit jacket torn and singed, his dark hair disheveled.

  His jaw was moving, but she couldn’t tell what he was saying.

  “We have to find Olivia,” she shouted at him.

  He shook his head.

  No? What the hell did he mean? The man was infuriating.