by Roger Hayden
Table of Contents
The Abducted Super Boxset
The Abducted: The Beginning
The Abducted: A Race Against Time
The Abducted: Vengeance
The Abducted: Odessa
The Abducted: Odessa Book One
The Abducted: Odessa - Book Two
The Abducted Super Boxset
Copyright 2017 All rights reserved worldwide. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means without prior written permission, except for brief excerpts in reviews or analysis.
The Abducted: The Beginning
Vanished
Palm Dale, Florida
School was out, and it was a Friday—a double win for the students of Windcrest Elementary. There was no day of the week more exciting. At the sound of the bell, more than five hundred children poured outside their brick-building classrooms at the ringing of the final bell, eager to get home and get ready for the weekend.
A line of vehicles idled along the parent pickup lane, just past the school flagpole and bike rack. At the bus loop, school buses spewed exhaust into the air, waiting with their doors open and drivers at the wheel. Students dispersed into different groups—some toward the bus loop, others toward their parent pickup.
Janitorial staff entered the recently vacated classrooms with loaded pushcarts, ready to get to work. While the majority of students left without looking back, one nine-year-old girl, Jenny Dawson, stayed behind to help her fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Ramsey, clean up for the day. Jenny’s mother was running behind, and she was in no rush to leave. She lived close to the school but was forbidden from riding the bus or walking home. Jenny vented her frustrations to her teacher while wiping a large Dry-Erase board.
“I don’t get it. We only live like a half mile away, and they won’t even let me ride my bike home.”
“They just want to make sure you’re safe,” Mrs. Ramsey said, shutting the vertical blinds. Only moments ago, the classroom had been bustling with twenty-five students. Buses trailed off in the distance as the air became still and quiet.
Jenny’s shoulder-length blond hair flew in her face as she whipped her head around. “It’s ridiculous. They won’t let me do anything.”
Mrs. Ramsey did her best to remain neutral. “Maybe next year they’ll change their mind. Are you ready for fifth grade?”
Jenny went back to the board, spraying Windex on its surface. “Not really.”
“Why not?” Mrs. Ramsey asked, surprised. “With grades like yours, you’re more than ready. I’m not even sure why I asked it.”
“I don’t know,” Jenny said, looking down.
Mrs. Ramsey walked to her desk, the bottom of her long summer dress swaying just above the green carpet. She opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a small paper gift bag. “Here,” she said, walking over to Jenny. “I wanted to give this to you.”
“What’s that?” Jenny asked with suspicion.
Mrs. Ramsey handed her the bag. “Just some goodies to show my appreciation for all of your help this year.”
Jenny rolled her eyes. “Great, now I’m the teacher’s pet.”
Mrs. Ramsey patted her head. “You always have been.”
Jenny laughed, taking the bag. “That’s not a good thing, Mrs. Ramsey. Kids get beat up for less.”
“You’re a good student, Jenny,” Mrs. Ramsey said, still holding the bag out. “And I’m going to miss you.”
Jenny peeked inside the bag. There were cookies wrapped in aluminum foil amid some other treats. “Thank you,” she said with sincerity. “I’m going to miss you too, Mrs. Ramsey.”
The cell phone in her jean pocket vibrated. She took it out and swiped the screen. “It’s my mom. She’s going to be here soon and wants me outside.”
“No problem. We’re all done here,” Mrs. Ramsey said. “Thanks again.”
Jenny grabbed her Hello Kitty backpack and slung it over her shoulders. She waved on her way out.
“Bye, Mrs. Ramsey. Have a good weekend.”
“Goodbye, Jenny. See you on Monday.”
Jenny walked out of the classroom, squinting against the inescapable sunlight. She continued down the sidewalk past mulch-planted bushes and to the parent pickup area. Most of the children had already come and gone, and the lane was mostly empty. The teacher and faculty parking lot was ahead with only a few cars left.
She could hear wheeled trash cans rolling on the sidewalk in the distance. Cars drove past the school on the main road, but none of them matched her mother’s red Jeep Cherokee.
One blue station wagon idled in the middle of the pickup lane. Jenny could see the silhouette of a woman at the wheel but couldn’t make out her features.
The driver lightly tapped her horn as Jenny walked past without making eye contact, still shielding her face from the sun. The woman leaned toward the open passenger-side window.
“Excuse me, sweetie,” she called. Do you know a boy named Greg Clark? He’s in the third grade.”
“Greg Clark?” Jenny said, keeping a careful distance. She could make out the woman’s features. She was big, with a chubby face and masculine voice. Her red blush and blue eyeliner looked overdone. “I don’t know,” she continued. “No… I don’t think so.”
The woman was dissatisfied. “Please,” she pleaded. “I’m starting to get worried. He was supposed to meet me five minutes ago.” She stopped and then dug through her purse as Jenny scanned the area for her mom. “I have a picture of him somewhere.”
Jenny sighed, hoping her mother would arrive, but not a single vehicle was in sight. The woman stuck her arm out then, holding a wallet-sized photo of a young boy.
“Does he look familiar at all?”
Jenny squinted. The short-haired blond boy looked just like any other short-haired blond boy in school. “Not sure…”
The woman extended her arm. “Take a closer look.”
Jenny approached the car and zeroed in on the picture, flapping in the wind. Before she could respond, the door swung open, and the woman lunged forward. Tight, meaty hands gripped Jenny’s shoulders and violently yanked her into the car as the gift bag fell to the ground.
Jenny opened her mouth to scream but was muffled by a thick, moist rag covering her entire face. The air stung her nose and mouth. Then everything went black.
With an unconscious child in the front seat, the woman looked around nervously. She grabbed the passenger door handle and slammed it shut. No one was in sight. She screeched out of the parking lot, leaving a trail of exhaust. The gift bag lay on the empty sidewalk just as a red Jeep Cherokee entered the lot, driving toward the pickup lane.
Routine Patrol
Sergeant Miriam Castillo was behind the wheel of a 2008 Ford police cruiser, with her newly deputized partner in the passenger seat. Deputy Joseph Lang was still a rookie by any stretch, but he was a fast learner and motivated. They had spent most of the day exploring the sunny Florida landscape of swamps, forests, and wildlife to familiarize him with the area. He had recently moved to Palm Dale with his wife and two kids. Miriam had been with the department for five years and had lived in the area for seven. She was thirty-four and had Lang by a couple of years in age and experience.
She had moved through the ranks fast—considered one of the most promising officers, according to her annual review, anyway. With the arrival of a fresh face, she was at the top of the list to show him around.
“The first thing you need to learn about the area is that people like to keep to themselves out here,” she said with a half-full Gatorade resting between her knees.
“Most of them don’t want any trouble. But the ones who do ask for it and then some.”
The dispatch radio crackled as Deputy Lang turned to her. “What type of criminal activity do you deal with the most out here on patrol?”
Miriam took a sip of Gatorade and wiped her mouth. “Domestic calls. Robberies. Bar fights. Nothing too serious.”
They reached the outskirts of town, where there wasn’t a home in sight.
“I have to admit, this change of scenery is quite a shock.”
“Trust me, I know,” Miriam said.
“Angela doesn’t like the heat. We’re a long way from Chicago, that’s for sure,” Lang said.
Ahead, on a two-lane state road, a minivan dragged along, going at least three miles under the posted forty-miles-per-hour speed limit. Miriam shifted into the left lane, passing the van.
“Lots of old folks too,” she said.
Lang turned to look at the driver and saw an old man hunched over the wheel, wearing a camouflaged-net hat.
“It’s not their fault, though. Town started out as more of a retirement community. But you know how that goes,” Miriam added.
“Families move in. Suburban sprawl follows. Yeah, I know the drill,” Lang said. He then turned to her, speaking more casually than before. “So what do you like to do around here? You know, for fun?”
“Me?” Miriam asked, rotating her slender neck. Her long, black hair was tied in a bun. Her gray eyes, shaded behind dark Oakley lenses, remained ahead on the empty road. “I work.”
Deputy Lang laughed. “Come on, Sergeant. There’s got to be more.”
“Between this job and my daughter, that’s enough for me.”
“I have a family too, but you still have to make time to do things. Fun stuff. How close is Disney World from here?”
“Not close,” Miriam responded. She hadn’t been one for theme parks and family outings for some time. Freddy, her ex-husband, had managed to drain a lot of fun from her life over the years.
“How old is your daughter, Sergeant?” Lang asked.
Miriam thought to herself then answered. “She’s eleven now.”
“Wow. They grow up so fast. My two boys are four and six. How do you like that?”
“They’ll be in high school before you know it,” Miriam said. “Blows my mind that Ana will be in seventh grade next year.”
“Good schools here?” Lang asked.
“Not bad,” Miriam responded. “Helps when you have a good kid.”
“You must be proud of her.”
Miriam smiled. “Well, she’s not a teenager yet, and I don’t want to speak too soon.”
They shared a laugh as the dispatch radio crackled on with cross-chatter.
Surrounding palm trees moved gently in the breeze. They passed the first couple of homes they had seen in miles. A gate blocking a long dirt driveway led to a mobile home. A two-story house raced by, slightly dilapidated, surrounded by an old-fashioned rail fence. Then they came to fields on both sides, thick with underbrush.
“It’s kind of peaceful out here,” Lang said, looking around.
“About time to head back in. I just wanted to give you the lay of the land.”
A dispatch call came over the radio, requesting assistance. Miriam naturally went for the hand mic, not thinking to let the rookie have a chance at it.
“This is Bravo Twelve. Go ahead, dispatch.”
“Complaint at the Anderson Auto. Suspects on ground accused of bringing in stolen copper to sell. Owner made the call.”
Deputy Lang turned to the radio, carefully listening.
“Copy that,” Miriam responded. “Have owner stand by. We’re en route, code three.”
In the middle console sat a Toughbook laptop on a flat, extended platform. The dispatch radio hung above it, directly below the dashboard. A shotgun rested upright behind Miriam’s seat, held in place by a bracket. A cage divided the front and back seats, as in any normal police car. She placed the radio back on its clip and gunned it.
“We get a lot of calls about copper theft at the Anderson Auto Salvage,” she said to Lang. “I know a shortcut up here.”
Lang nodded, silent. Miriam took notice and felt a tad contrite. “Sorry, I should have let you take the call. Force of habit.”
Lang raised his hand in a reassuring gesture. “No, no. Don’t worry about it. I’m fine observing for now, Sergeant.”
The cruiser sped through a long curve, flanked by palmetto bushes on both sides, and came up suddenly on a slow-moving blue station wagon, right in their path. The double-yellow lines said enough: don’t pass. Not wanting to act reckless around the rookie, Miriam slowed as they got closer to the Buick’s wood-paneled hatchback.
“Sometimes you just have to turn your lights on to get them out of the way,” she said with a laugh.
Deputy Lang took off his sunglasses and squinted ahead. Something wasn’t right. “Looks like they have a taillight out.”
Miriam sighed under her breath. The station wagon wasn’t going a mile over forty-five—usually the case on the open road. On closer inspection, Lang was right. The Buick’s left taillight was out.
“What do you say, Deputy?” Miriam asked. “It’s your call.”
Lang cleared his throat. “I know we’re wanted at the salvage yard, but we could take a moment just to let the driver know.” He waited silently for Miriam’s approval. She found it endearing.
“Good call. That’s what we’re here for.” She raised her hand to the ceiling console and flipped on the flashing lights, absent the siren. Through the window of the hatchback, they could see the silhouetted driver look into her rearview mirror. It looked like a woman. The car slowed and drifted to a halt on the shoulder as they followed, stopping. Deputy Lang grabbed his handle to open the door. Miriam stopped him. “Hold on, now. Let’s run the plates first.”
“Right, of course,” Lang said, embarrassed. “Sorry, I didn’t want to hold us up.”
“Good policing takes time,” Miriam said. “Don’t worry about it.”
Lang nodded and waited as Miriam checked the license plate database on the laptop. Green text appeared on the screen listing the owner’s registration information, not far from where she lived herself. “Car is registered to Betsy Judith Cole. Fifty-four years old. Lives on 2438 Woodshire Drive. About ten miles from here.”
“So she’s local?” Lang asked.
“Sure is,” Miriam said. “So that’s good. Go ahead and take care of it.”
Lang placed his sunglasses on, smiling. “Will do.” He opened his door and stepped out as Miriam sent the vehicle information back to headquarters. She looked up and called out to Lang before he shut the door. He stopped and turned around. “Yes, Sergeant?”
“Nothing fancy. Get her license and registration. We’ll run another check, tell her about the taillight, and drive on.”
“Unless we find multiple warrants on her,” Lang said, smiling.
Miriam shrugged. “Never know around here.”
Lang closed the door and walked around to the front of the cruiser as blue and red siren lights continued to flash. Miriam watched with a smile as Deputy Lang approached the Buick’s driver’s side. He was young. Twenty-five, she believed. He was polite and eager to learn. His attitude made her feel good about her job—a job largely responsible for the decline of her marriage. Deputy Lang walked with a confident stride in his black short-sleeved uniform. His gun and radio were at his hips. He was thin and fit. His short dirty-blond hair freshly trimmed—a model rookie officer. Miriam had to admit, she liked him. As a colleague of the law, of course.
She watched carefully as he made his way to the window, instructing the driver to roll it down. Suddenly, her iPhone vibrated on the dashboard. She grabbed it and typed her PIN. There was a text from Ana asking when she was going to get home. It was Friday, and Ana wanted to order pizza. The req
uest warmed Miriam’s heart. It had been a while since her daughter asked to hang out with her. She feared by high school, it would only get worse.
Wanted 2 have some friends over & watch a movie, Ana said in her text.
Miriam felt deflated. Oh. I’ll be home soon and we’ll order it then, she typed.
Just as she pressed send, a gunshot blasted. Her head jolted up. Deputy Lang collapsed onto the pavement. The Buick engine roared and jerked into motion, peeling out. Miriam was in complete shock, but somehow her mind and body kicked into motion. She grabbed the hand mic, shouting into it.
“Code eight! Code eight! We have an officer down on Route Forty-four! I repeat, officer down!”
She tossed the mic to the side and jumped out, reaching for the pistol at her waist. The Buick spewed exhaust as it sped off, pebbles flying in the air. She raised her pistol and fired three steady shots, traveling straight through the back window. The Buick was undeterred and continued on, too far out of firing range. Lang lay motionless on his back two feet from where Miriam stood. Her face was pale with sickness. She fell to her knees by his side and looked at him as tears streamed from her eyes.
“Deputy Lang! Speak to me!” She could see the hole in his left cheek and the blood pouring from his nose.
She grabbed his wrist, trying to control her own breathing, and felt for a pulse. There was nothing. No breathing. No pulse. Not the slightest sign of life. It was impossible. There was no way.
Her mind raced as the stench of the Buick’s exhaust settled over her like dust. She placed a hand over Lang’s chest as more tears flowed from her eyes. Lang’s face was already turning blue. She wiped her face as her mind kicked into high gear. There was only one thing left to do, and it didn’t involve waiting for backup.
She stood and sprinted to her patrol car, pistol in hand, as the lights continued flashing. She swung the door open and threw herself inside. She turned the ignition, put the car in drive, and floored it as the door flung closed.