The Abduction

by Gordon Korman

  The factory windows were broken in sections, boarded up in others. Her sharp eyes spotted it — a single pane of glass broken cleanly across one corner, creating a triangular hole just large enough to pass a tennis ball.

  But how could she get to it? It had to be fourteen feet off the floor. In Dad’s books, Mac Mulvey would have formed the letter into a paper airplane and sailed it right through the hole. That was why Mac Mulvey was fiction, and pretty bad fiction at that. Not even the paper airplane champion of the world — if the title existed — could thread the needle with such a perfect shot.

  Drawing her gaze back from the window, she spied the rolling staircase. The plan emerged full-blown. She made a couple of adjustments to the wing flaps of her plane, reared back, and let fly.

  The first attempt missed the staircase, but the second soared high in the air and came to rest on the third step from the top.

  “Look at that altitude!” She ran to the wheeled structure and jumped aboard. It looked like the most casual thing in the world. But in reality, it was a carefully calculated move. Her forward momentum started the squeaky casters turning. The apparatus rolled the few feet to the wall and stopped with a jolt.

  “Whoa!” Meg exclaimed, making a great show of keeping her balance.

  “Hey!” Mickey began. “What are you — ?”

  But she was already scampering up the stairs to retrieve her plane. As she bent to pick it up, she twisted her back to the window, eased the SOS letter out of her pocket, and dropped it deftly through the hole. Then, cradling her errant aircraft, she danced innocently down the staircase.

  She made it about halfway before the door to the office suites was hurled open, and a raging Spidey exploded onto the scene, howling like a madman.

  “What’s going on? What’s she doing out here?!”

  Mickey was obviously startled. “Nothing,” he whined. “We were just fooling around with paper airplanes.”

  “Do you think this is kindergarten? Are you forgetting what she did two days ago? Can’t we trust you with anything? What’s so hard about sitting outside a locked room, making sure nobody escapes? What is it about what we’re trying to do that you don’t understand?”

  He said a lot more, and at top volume, before mounting the metal stairs and grabbing Meg by the arm and collar. It hurt — a lot. But Meg didn’t make a sound. She refused to give this horrible man the satisfaction of knowing he was getting to her.

  He dragged her back into the office area and heaved her bodily into the storeroom.

  Tiger appeared in the doorway. “Catch,” she said, and tossed something large and flat in Meg’s direction.

  By reflex, Meg reached up and snatched it out of the air.

  “Say cheese.” The female kidnapper produced a small digital camera and snapped a picture.

  Blinking to clear her eyes after the flash, Meg realized what she held in her hands. It was a copy of USA Today. “What — ?”

  “For your parents,” Tiger explained. “So they’ll know you’re okay.”

  She said it encouragingly, but the quiet iciness of her voice made the words more terrifying than the most brutal of threats.

  She slammed the door and turned the lock. In the background, Spidey could still be heard yelling at Mickey.

  Meg dropped the newspaper as if Tiger’s touch had imbued the front page with acid. By sheer force of will, she shut out the unpleasantness that surrounded her, replacing it with a single mental picture. It was the SOS letter, dropping from the hole in the window and fluttering to the street below.

  She wished it a silent Godspeed.

  Crushing, devastating disappointment.

  There was no other way to describe it. Aiden barely had the strength to hold himself upright as he listened to his mother’s sobs and his father’s ineffectual attempts to comfort her. The urge to sink down to the ground was almost irresistible.

  Gradually, the story came out of the girl they’d thought was Meg. It was very simple, actually. She and her father had driven up from Fort Lauderdale in an all-night marathon. Exhausted, she had fallen asleep and had been carried into the house. A “helpful” neighbor had seen her and noticed that she matched the description of the missing Margaret Falconer. He had called the FBI’s tip line.

  Agent Harris was grim when he returned to the SUV. “Sorry to put you through this. We really thought we’d caught a break.”

  “We know it’s not your fault,” said John Falconer in a thready voice. “You have to follow every lead.”

  “Not every lead!” Aiden’s dashed hopes morphed suddenly into anger. “What about Alexandria?”

  “I’ve got it covered,” Harris told him.

  Aiden was taken aback. He had been under the impression that Harris was ignoring his flagpole theory. Even Mom and Dad, desperate for hope, had found it far-fetched.

  But before Aiden could ask for more information, an ABC news mobile unit pulled up to the house at number 63, and a crew hopped out.

  Agent Ortiz groaned. “How did the press get wind of this?” It was the last thing the FBI wanted — national coverage of a false alarm.

  Harris shrugged. “How do they ever? Anonymous tips, local police radio, tarot cards. I’ll talk to them. Maybe I can convince them to keep a lid on it.”

  Soon though, it became apparent that no lid would be large enough to contain this story. Within half an hour, news vans from CNN and other networks were on the scene. The newspaper reporters came soon after, along with the wire services. The Falconers were stuck there because Harris’s Trailblazer was too boxed-in to move.

  The agent himself was embroiled in countless interviews, explaining over and over why the FBI had raided the house of completely innocent people. On Harris’s orders, no one was given access to the Falconers. The closest the media got to them was by zoom lens.

  The impromptu news conference broke up just before noon. Most of the reporters had left the street, and Harris was folding his six-foot-seven-inch frame behind the steering wheel when one final member of the press arrived on the scene, burning rubber in his Toyota Prius.

  Aiden recognized the car immediately. “That’s the Blog Hog!”

  The tiny vehicle screeched to a halt behind them and out jumped Rufus Sehorn, his inevitable laptop tucked under his arm.

  Harris gunned the SUV’s engine. “You’re not talking to that bottom-feeder.” He rolled down the window and called to Ortiz. “That guy gets no access, you hear me? Not a comment, not a word, not a grunt.”

  “What have you got against Rufus?” Aiden complained. “Of all the media, he’s the only guy who’s trying to help us.”

  Harris put the car in gear and stepped on the gas. Sehorn stepped right out in front of the grill, waving the laptop urgently.

  Don’t tempt me, little man, the agent muttered to himself. But he braked. “You’re too late, pal. I’ve got nothing for you.”

  The Blog Hog was beside himself, his wide hobbit eyes shining with excitement. “But I’ve got something for you! It came on my Web site!”

  “What is it?” Harris sneered. “Cheap flights to places I don’t want to go?”

  “No,” the blogger told him. “A ransom note.”

  Doctors J. & L. Falconer —

  We have your daughter. These instructions must be followed to the letter if you want her back.

  Place two million dollars in unmarked bills in a duffel bag. The money is to be carried by your son, Aiden. Tomorrow afternoon, he will bring it to the phone booth at the corner of Ninth Street and University Avenue in Baltimore. At exactly two P.M., the phone will ring, and he will receive further instructions.

  If he is watched by police, there will be CONSEQUENCES. If he is not alone, there will be CONSEQUENCES. If the courier is anyone other than Aiden, there will be CONSEQUENCES.

  Do not underestimate us. We do not wish to harm your daughter, but we are deadly serious.

  Harris’s laptop computer sat on the Falconers’ kitchen table, displaying t
he ransom demand that had been sent to www.bloghog.usa. The agent scrolled past the message to reveal a digital photograph. A high-pitched gasp escaped the Doctors Falconer. It was their daughter, Meg, frightened and miserable, in a darkened room, holding up a copy of USA Today. She had never seemed younger.

  “It’s today’s paper,” Harris confirmed. “We’ve got no choice but to treat this as genuine.”

  “Of course it’s genuine!” Louise Falconer snapped impatiently. “Look at her — the poor child is scared half to death!”

  “Can you trace the e-mail?” her husband put in.

  Harris shook his head. “The sender knew what he was doing. According to our tech center, the message was bounced all over the world before it came to the Blog Hog. It could be months before we know the source. By then — ” The agent thought better of finishing that sentence and took a sip of coffee. “Obviously, we don’t have that kind of time. We’ve got till tomorrow to make our move, and that calls for a decision from you.”

  “What decision?” Louise was close to panic. “Where are we going to get two million dollars?”

  “The Bureau has access to emergency funds for situations like this,” Harris explained.

  “To pay ransom demands?” John Falconer was amazed. No criminologist could envision the U.S. government using taxpayer money to reward kidnappers. His eyes narrowed. “You’re talking about setting a trap, aren’t you? With our daughter’s life in danger!”

  “No!” his wife exclaimed vehemently. “If the kidnappers find out, they’ll kill her!”

  “We’ll take steps to make sure that doesn’t happen,” Harris vowed. “We’ll get it right. You have my word.”

  “We spent fourteen months in prison precisely because you got it wrong!” John raged. “Your guarantees mean less than nothing in this house! How can we be sure that your surveillance team won’t be spotted? Or that the agent you send with the money won’t make a mistake?”

  “The money won’t be with an agent,” Harris told them gravely. “The instructions are very clear. Aiden has to deliver the ransom, nobody else.”

  “Absolutely not,” snapped Louise. “These people tried to take him when they took Meg. Why would we serve him up on a silver platter?”

  “He’ll be protected,” Harris assured them.

  “He can’t be protected,” John insisted. “If your agents have to rescue Aiden, that exposes the trap. And where does that leave Meg?”

  The truth was plain on Harris’s face. John Falconer’s concerns were well founded. The FBI could control this operation only so much. At best, it would be a calculated risk.

  Louise was adamant. “I won’t gamble one of my children in the hope of saving the other, and chance losing them both.”

  Another voice spoke, quiet but bedrock steady. “I’m doing it.”

  The three wheeled to find Aiden standing behind them. His chin was out, his posture ramrod straight, the picture of defiance. “Don’t talk about this like we have a choice. We may never get another shot at bringing Meg back alive.”

  The Falconers regarded their son. He was still the gangly fifteen-year-old they knew. But weeks as a fugitive had added a toughness and courage they had never seen before. Whether or not to deliver the ransom was no longer their choice.

  It was his.

  Pressure.

  Aiden was aware of it as a physical force, crushing down on him, pinning him to his bed.

  He couldn’t explain it, but somehow he had always known that the quest to bring Meg home would ultimately fall upon him. It felt right, almost comfortable —

  Except for the fear.

  No amount of time as a fugitive could ever prepare him for that. The stakes were too high — Meg’s life.

  The mere thought of it made him tremble.

  A knock at the door interrupted his uneasy reverie. Aiden sat up to find Agent Ortiz leaning in from the hall.

  “Hope I’m not disturbing you. Your buddy’s downstairs — the kid with the baseball hat.” The FBI man smiled slightly. “Don’t worry, nobody tackled him this time.”

  Richie. Talk about perfect timing. The night before ransom day, and he was here to try again. Aiden should have known he’d be back. Such was the stubbornness of the Greenville Cubs’ number-one fan.

  Aiden gave the agent an uncomfortable look. “Couldn’t you kind of — you know — get rid of him?”

  “He’s not a bad kid,” said Ortiz. “Kind of persistent …”

  “I’ll deal with him eventually,” Aiden promised. “Just not now. Okay?”

  “Got it.”

  He listened to the agent’s footsteps on the stairs. This time, he felt none of his usual guilt for blowing off Richie. Tomorrow was just too important.

  He couldn’t cloud his mind with anything else.

  * * *

  “Nothing personal, kid, but you’re going to have to lay off until things quiet down.”

  Ortiz’s words rang in Richie’s ears as he trudged across the lawn.

  Why doesn’t Aiden get it? Of course, I know this is a tough time!

  That was the whole point — friends sticking together.

  Can’t he see that I’m just trying to help?

  The sudden voices startled him. Two agents stood smoking cigarettes in front of a pine tree. One of them, he was pretty sure, was the man who had pulled a gun on him during his last visit.

  “… for a family of traitors, these people sure get their fair share from the government. Every time I come back, there are a few more guys assigned to this place.”

  “Traitors or not,” the other agent replied, “that’s one tough kid. When I was fifteen, I didn’t have the guts to ride the subway by myself, let alone carry two mil into the middle of Baltimore to ransom my kidnapped sister.”

  “So that’s on?” asked the first man.

  “Two o’clock,” his partner confirmed. “It’s going down at the pay phone at Ninth and University. Minimum surveillance — the big man’s taking no chances we’ll get rumbled. He’s treating this like it’s his own family.”

  Richie was astounded. Aiden never talked about his fugitive days. Was this the kind of James Bond stuff that had gone on? Huge money, mysterious meetings, FBI surveillance — it was like something out of a movie!

  The kind of ordeal no one should ever have to go through alone.

  Meg had never been a newspaper person, but she devoured USA Today from cover to cover, savoring every word. After being locked up for days, something to read — something to do — was almost as welcome as rescue. It could not soothe her fear, but at least it relieved some of the bottomless boredom of life in the storeroom.

  She pored over stories from Tulsa and Tokyo, the opinion pages, the TV listings, the crossword puzzle.

  You never appreciate a weather forecast until you’re stuck in a place where you can’t see the sky.

  At first, she had just been looking for news about her own case. All she found was a tiny piece on page 7A — NO LEADS IN FALCONER KIDNAPPING. It stated simply that the authorities were still waiting to hear from her captors.

  That was confusing. What about the ransom? The kidnappers wanted money. Mickey had admitted it. Why was nothing happening?

  She received the answer to that question when Mickey came to take her for a bathroom break. He seemed even jumpier than usual. When she asked him, “What’s up?” he carefully avoided her gaze and made no reply.

  She pushed open the bathroom door and stepped inside.

  “Get her out of here!” shrieked Tiger. “Now!”

  As Mickey pulled her backward by the collar, Meg caught a glimpse of the female kidnapper. The woman was standing in front of the mirror, painting her face stark white.

  What’s up with that?

  Meg couldn’t begin to guess. But one conclusion could be drawn: Something big was about to go down — and soon.

  She had to be ready.

  * * *

  The transmitter was small — about the size of a th
imble. It disappeared easily under Aiden’s sweatshirt, taped to his skin. Harris and the FBI would be able to hear everything Aiden heard. The device would also serve as a panic button — he could sound the alarm if he found himself in danger.

  Aiden was more worried about the receiver plugged into his left ear. Yes, it was made of clear plastic, but what if the kidnappers spotted it? The word “consequences” had been haunting him ever since the ransom e-mail.

  Harris tried to be reassuring. “I know it seems like you’re walking into the lion’s den. But this is a controlled situation. My people will be all around you, even though you won’t see them.”

  “I’m not worried about Aiden seeing them,” John Falconer said anxiously. “I’m worried about Meg’s captors seeing them.”

  As nerve-racking as this was for Aiden, it was even worse for his parents. Mom and Dad didn’t know who to worry about first — their child who was already kidnapped, or the one who was being dangled like a worm on a hook.

  Dad drove Aiden into Baltimore in the family car. No Bureau vehicle followed behind it. Harris was determined to give the impression that the kidnappers’ instructions were being followed exactly — no FBI; just Aiden alone, taken to the rendezvous by his father.

  Aiden had been to Baltimore dozens of times before. Now he looked at the city streets as if observing an alien planet. The feeling of unreality was magnified by the burden he carried in his lap — a duffel containing two million dollars in cash. The bag bore the logo of a local high school athletic department. Harris’s idea: “You’re a football player bringing your gear home from practice.”

  “I’m a mathlete,” Aiden had told him, and almost smiled. Meg, the athlete in the family, teased him relentlessly about his two left feet.