Lana climbed out of her car, bracing herself against the door of the Charger. “Do you know where the driver is?” she called to the tow-truck operator. “She’s my daughter.”
He got out of the cab and walked toward her. “Cops just told me to clear the street. That’s all I know.”
A tall, muscular man sporting chains and dropped jeans sauntered over. “Was that your kid?”
“Yeah, did you see her?”
The tow-truck operator stayed close, as though he expected trouble.
“Yeah, I saw her. Friend and I tried to help her. Car just stopped dead. Then some dude grabbed her arm and a chick comes out of nowhere. She looked kinda like you, and pulls out a big barrel like she means business, and your kid left with her.”
“In a car?”
“Big white van. Chevy Express. Kind without windows. You’re not hearing from your girl?”
Lana eyed him carefully. “No, and there’s a lot of money in finding her.”
“Shit, I’m not looking for your goddamn money. I’m telling you ’cause I got a kid about her age and none of this shit makes any sense. Her car just stops for no reason. My buddy’s good, and he was under the hood and everything looked fine to him. Then some chick with a Glock comes up at just the right second, aims it right in my face. So I hope you find your kid, and fuck over that bitch. She would’ve killed me. I could see it in her eyes.”
“Thanks. I appreciate your help.”
Lana was slipping back into the Charger, the tow-truck driver his cab. She called Baltimore police and reported her missing daughter and the description of the van. Ditto after dialing the FBI. Then she glanced at the car as she started backing up, thinking about what the big man had just told her: Stopped for no reason. Could have been a malfunction that wouldn’t have been apparent to the naked eye, like a blocked fuel line. Or the vehicle’s computer could have been hacked. She’d specifically avoided the Cherokee, which had become notorious for this vulnerability. Now she was doing an Internet search to see if the Fusion…
Oh shit.
Her stomach churned as she found the Ford among a recent list of cars that conceivably could be hacked.
Regardless of the cause — mechanical failure or computer hack — it all added up to the worst type of trouble: the kind that claims your daughter.
Emma shrieked. Some guy had just risen from behind her seat in the van and grabbed her. And he was dragging her into the dark cargo area.
“Don’t fight me or I’ll break you into pieces,” he said.
The thought of fighting him hadn’t even entered Emma’s mind. The man was so strong and fast, he’d overwhelmed her.
“And don’t move,” he said in a softer voice, the city streets passing swiftly beneath them.
He threw a black curtain that closed off the cargo space from the cab, then switched on a light. He wore a Barack Obama mask.
“Put your hands out.”
“What for?”
He grabbed them and jammed her wrists up behind her back, then cinched them tightly together with plastic cuffs.
“Lie down.”
“Please stop. Please. Don’t let him do this to me,” she yelled to the female driver.
The armed woman didn’t even acknowledge her.
“Next time I’ll belt you in the face,” the masked man said. “Get down.”
She lay on her side. He cuffed her ankles together. Then he ran duct tape around her head, sealing her mouth and eyes. He left only her nose exposed.
Emma was so panicky she could hardly catch her breath. He leaned close. She smelled his mouthwash and felt the heat of his breath. “Calm the fuck down. Focus on breathing. The worst is over.”
No, it wasn’t. He rolled her onto thick plastic, then ran a zipper from her feet past the top of her head, sealing her in a body bag.
Lana followed her phone’s directions to Anna Hendrix’s house. She had little hope she’d find Emma there, but had to check.
Hendrix looked formidable at a glance. She stood at least a few inches taller than Lana, and though lean appeared strong as a braided whip.
The strength of experience were the words that came to mind as Lana took in the woman’s curly hair, graying now in what appeared to be her forties, though she had the smooth skin of so many people of African descent.
“I’m so sorry,” Anna Hendrix said, after establishing who had called at her door in the early evening.
“If my daughter shows up or you hear anything that could be helpful, here’s my number.”
Anna opened the door to take it but appeared no more hopeful than Lana felt.
“What are you going to do?” she asked Lana.
“I’m not sure.”
Where do you go and what do you do when your daughter vanishes into the shadows of a big city? A detective had called Lana back saying they’d interview the witnesses, assuming they could actually round them up. Lana wasn’t optimistic, knowing the BPD was looked upon with considerable cynicism in those precincts.
“How about if I take Emma’s room, if that’s okay with you?” Lana said.
“Of course, come in.”
Lana set up her laptop on the bed in the spartan room. Knowing the abductor’s van was a Chevy, she went to work on the Maryland motor vehicle database.
She’d hacked this sort of system before so it didn’t take long to slip past its paltry security — she’d have given it a -1 on a scale of 10—and saw quickly that a lot of Chevy Expresses were owned by rental companies. It could take awhile to uncover recent activity, so she called the detective with this new info. But at heart Lana had little hope that whoever had grabbed Emma had been unprofessional enough to leave a trail with a rental company. And, no doubt, they wanted more than Em.
They want you, so let them come to you.
She was the perfect bait: wounded and just bloody enough to attract the biggest predators.
Emma felt cold sweat dripping off her. The kind that oozes from your pores when you’re nauseated and scared so senseless you shiver with fear.
Her stomach roiled repeatedly, and she worried that with her mouth taped up she’d vomit and choke to death.
She could hear the murmur of conversation above the road noise. The two were up in the cab now. Only the murmur, though. No words that she could make out, other than the ones racing around her own head:
They came for you with a body bag. They’re not fooling around.
I have her all zipped up back there, a body bag every bit as black as the sites Art’s flown in and out of in the most remote regions of Central America and North Africa. We’ve worked together on and off for almost six years. He was cashiered by the CIA for making too much on the side. I know his history. He’s a freelancer now. As soon as the agency gave him his walking papers, I got in touch. You see, I think greed keeps some men honest. It’s clear what motivates them: money. And if that’s all that moves them — if they’re not hot for power or glory — then your contracts are direct and unencumbered. That’s how it works with Art.
I’m fortunate to have his services, the loyalty he feels toward my money. The world changes all the time but the needs of people like me remain the same. Move the bodies. Use some as lures. Dump them when you’re done.
As for Emma, she had no idea when I told her I was Golden Voice what that meant. Here I am, a figure of renown, known to many millions, and my prize catch is oblivious. My name will certainly ring bells for her mother, when the time comes for those revelations. And it is coming, Lana. It’s coming very, very soon.