No doubt, the night manager at the Knights Inn had read the pamphlet. Seeing Lancaster pull in, he had become suspicious when he’d spotted Echo in the passenger seat. She was seventeen, and Lancaster was forty, and that was a red flag.
“Good evening, this is Eric Richmond, the night manager at the Knights Inn at the Sarasota International Airport,” he said into his cell phone. “I have a man named Jon Lancaster wishing to book a room for an underage girl into my hotel. Can you please verify that Lancaster is a member of your organization? Yes, I’ll hold.”
Richmond rested the phone in the crook of his neck. “You better be who you say you are,” he said to his guest.
“I wouldn’t lie to you,” Lancaster replied.
“Do you know how many times customers have said that?”
“Too many, I guess. But I’m not one of them.”
“What is Team Adam? I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s a group of retired law enforcement agents that work missing persons cases. Mostly CIA, Secret Service, FBI, and ex-cops.”
“Which are you?”
“Ex-cop.”
Richmond looked at his guest’s protruding belly and scowled. His call was put through, and he started asking questions. The NCMEC ran a twenty-four-hour hotline, and there was always a knowledgeable person working the phones. Richmond’s attitude changed. Hanging up, he said, “You check out with flying colors. My apologies.”
“Better safe than sorry.”
“There you go. How do you want to pay?”
“All my money’s tied up in cash,” he said.
Richmond laughed and got on his computer. “Do you have a preference on the room?”
“First floor. I’m going to sit outside in my car to make sure she’s safe.”
“Got it. I’ll put your friend in room 16L. It’s at the end of the building. You can park your vehicle right in front of the door.”
“That works. I’m also going to sit in my car with a shotgun in my lap. Just in case these guys who are after her tailed us.”
Richmond blew out his cheeks. “These sound like bad people.”
“That would be an understatement.”
“My brother-in-law is a cop. If I call him, he’ll be here in two minutes.”
“I may take you up on that.”
“How will I recognize these guys if they show up?”
“They’ll be riding motorcycles.”
Lancaster got Echo and her son situated in their room before again asking Echo if she was hungry. She said she was, and he bought bags of chips and nuts from a vending machine, plus a bottled water, and brought them to the room before explaining what came next.
“I’m going to put a call into Team Adam, and request a private jet come to the Sarasota Airport to fly you and your son to Nashville. Depending upon which airline has an available plane, this can take anywhere between three and six hours. In the meantime, I want you to stay in your room, and chill out.”
“I’m not sleepy,” Echo said.
“Then watch a movie on cable. You need to relax, and take your mind off things. I’m going to park my car in front of your room, and stand guard. If you need anything, or just want to talk, open the blinds to your window, and I’ll come running.”
It took a moment for the words to sink in. When they did, she visibly relaxed. He thought he understood. She had expected that he wanted to have sex, because that was what Dexter had done, and probably other men who had offered to help her. Sleep with me, and I’ll help you. That was how the deal went.
But that wasn’t his deal. Never had been, never would be. Echo was pretty and had a great figure, and saying he didn’t find her attractive would have been a lie. But that didn’t mean he was going to take advantage of her during a time of weakness.
She knew this, and it made her feel safe. Standing on her tiptoes, she kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you for saving me and my baby,” she said.
“You’re welcome. Get some rest. You’re going to need it.”
He went outside and moved his vehicle into the parking space in front of her door. Then he got out and opened the trunk and removed the Mossberg 590 Shockwave pump-action shotgun that he kept with his other firearms. With a pistol grip and antijam elevator, the 590 Shockwave was a nasty weapon at close range, and many states prohibited its sale. Luckily, Florida wasn’t one of them.
He got behind the wheel and laid the shotgun across his lap. He left the engine running so he could listen to his Jimmy Buffett playlist on Spotify without draining the car’s battery. Then he called the restricted Team Adam number on his cell phone and heard an operator pick up.
“This is Claudia. Who am I speaking with?” the operator asked.
“This is Jon Lancaster, code name Margaritaville.”
“Good evening, Margaritaville. What can I do for you?”
“I have an emergency transport request for a seventeen-year-old female and her six-month-old baby son, to be transported to the farm in Nashville. They are currently staying at a motel near the Sarasota-Bradenton International Airport. The girl and her son are in imminent danger, and need to be moved tonight.”
“Understood. Hold the line.”
The operator put him on hold, and silence filled his ear. A motorcycle blew past the motel, followed by another, and he got out of his car holding the shotgun to his waist and the cell phone stuck between his shoulder and his neck. The two bikes faded into the night, and only when he felt sure they were gone did he get back in.
The operator returned. “Still there?”
“You bet. What have you got for me?”
“The kind folks at Delta Private Jets have stepped up to the plate. They have a Hawker 800 at the Fort Lauderdale Airport and have called one of their pilots to fly to Sarasota, and transport the girl and her son to Nashville, where a private car will take them to the farm. I’ll text when the plane departs Fort Lauderdale, and give you its estimated landing time in Sarasota.”
“That works. Thanks for the assist.”
He ended the call. Delta Private Jets was a subsidiary of Delta Air Lines, and had a fleet of seventy small jets that were used throughout the Southeast. The company had transported more of his rescues than any other airline, always for free. It was why he tried to fly their parent company whenever possible.
He killed time listening to music. He knew every line to every Jimmy Buffett song, and he sang along while tapping his fingers against the wheel. The light in Echo’s room went off, and he guessed she was trying to get some sleep. Echo was a decent girl, and from what he could tell, not horribly damaged by what life had dealt her. With some help, she and her son just might get their lives back to normal.
Echo was lucky, and had caught a break. But what about the enslaved women he’d seen on the YouTube video in Echo’s apartment? Were they going to be able to one day resume their lives? Or would they forever be locked away, forced to cook and clean, and do their owners’ bidding?
Next to murder, there was no greater crime than human trafficking, and thinking about their situation made him angry. They’d done nothing to deserve such a horrible fate, and had become prey to their captors, who were monsters.
He wanted to help them. If he put his mind to it, he just might be able to figure out where they were being held. He shut off the music, deep in thought.
The video had shown the women in a well-equipped kitchen, with multiple sinks, two refrigerators, and enough pots and pans for a small army. He put the room’s size at two hundred square feet, which made it larger than a kitchen in an ordinary house. It made him think that the women were being held in a building where a large kitchen was necessary.