Unholy Code (A Lana Elkins Thriller)

by Thomas Waite

  “I’m guessing they’ll be there pretty quick. Half hour at the most.”

  “A half hour?” Emma knew she sounded panicky.

  “That’s right,” the dispatcher said. “Hang tight.”

  “Turn it over,” the big guy outside her window said.

  Emma looked at him, unsure what he meant.

  “The car key, or the button. Whatever you got in there to make it go.”

  Emma pushed the ignition switch. Dead.

  “Let me try it,” the guy said. “Open the door.”

  Push was coming to shove. Sometimes you just have to put your faith in people. Which felt like the thinnest of reeds. She unlocked the door.

  “Now get your skinny ass out of there and let me check it out.”

  My butt or the car?

  The car, apparently. He exchanged positions with Emma with nary a glance.

  “The key?” he asked.

  “They’re in my bag.” Which was on the passenger seat next to him, home to her wallet, credit cards, ID, money. “It’ll start with it over there.” She didn’t want him to touch her bag.

  He grabbed it anyway and put it on his lap, trying the ignition button again. Still nothing.

  “You seeing anything up there?” he asked his friend, who was still under the hood.

  “Nothing. Everything looks cool.”

  “I’m seeing something,” one of the hangers-on said. He had his eyes all over Emma. “You wanna party with us? Come on.” He grabbed her arm.

  “Hey, Beast, leave her be,” the guy in the car said.

  “Why? You think you got reservations? You don’t have shit, man.” His grip tightened on Emma.

  “I’d suggest you let her go right now.”

  A woman had walked up behind them. Tall as Em’s mom.

  “Go fuck yourself, bitch. You don’t come into my hood and tell me shit.”

  The woman nodded. Maybe agreeably. Emma hoped not. She wanted this guy to let her go. His fingers felt like steel cables.

  “Fuck it, you’re coming, too,” the guy holding Emma said to the woman. “We’ll make it a big fucking party.”

  “Beast, cut that shit out.” The big guy climbed out of the car.

  “Stay right where you are,” the woman said. She had straight dark hair and blue eyes like Emma’s. Wearing jeans, sweater, heavy boots.

  Combat boots. Em’s mom had a pair. Dust colored. Didn’t fit the woman’s outfit at all.

  “Now that was your mistake,” the big guy said. “’Cause I’m on her side, but you’re pissing me off.”

  He stepped toward her. The woman drew a semi-automatic from the back of her jeans, racking and raising it in a blink. Aimed it at his face.

  “Freeze. And you,” she eyed the guy holding Emma, “let her go or I will blow your balls off.”

  The shorter guy slammed the hood down. “You people are shit. I was trying to help her.”

  “He,” the woman nodded at Beast, “put his hands on her. Game over.”

  “Beast, you’re a motherfucker,” said the big guy. “Let her go.”

  Emma stepped away, rubbing her arm.

  Then the big guy tossed Em her bag. “Don’t be leaving that here.”

  “Lock it,” the woman told Em, who complied without question, using the key fob. “Now we’re leaving,” she said to the seven men. “Nobody gets hurt if nobody moves.”

  The woman kept her gun on the young men as she and Emma retreated to a utility van about fifty feet away. The front passenger door was unlocked. Emma climbed in, finding an open laptop resting on a metal stand next to the driver’s seat, like the ones she’d seen in some delivery trucks.

  The woman backed up, executed a crisp three-point turn, then sped off within seconds.

  “Thank you so much,” Emma said. “I didn’t know what was going to happen.”

  “You’re more than welcome.”

  “I’m Emma.”

  “Emma Elkins. I know who you are.”

  Emma figured she was one of her mother’s friends in some super-secret intelligence service who’d been ordered to track her down. “Who are you?”

  The woman smiled, then hit the childproof locks. She still hadn’t put aside her gun. “I’m your guardian angel. But some people call me Golden Voice.”

  LANA LEFT CAIRO IN the Charger and hobbled as fast as she could into Planned Parenthood, but her best efforts got her nowhere. The youthful receptionist wouldn’t even acknowledge that Emma had been in the clinic.

  “That is confidential information between a woman and her doctor. And we’re closing for the day,” she added crisply.

  “Look, I don’t have a problem with your confidentiality. I respect it. But my daughter called and told me she’d been here.” Lana leaned forward. “Her life is in danger. My house was bombed this morning.” She indicated the crutches supporting her. “It’s been all over the news.” Lana glanced over her shoulder where the waiting room television was tuned to CNN.

  “You’re—”

  “That’s right,” Lana said.

  “Let me check with someone,” the receptionist said. But as she reached for the phone, a bearded man in a white coat walked toward them from the back of the clinic.

  “Carly, let me talk to Ms. Elkins.” He turned to Lana. “Come on back here,” he said, holding open a gate for her. “I’m Dr. Abbas.”

  He led her to his office, Lana crutching noisily down the hall behind him.

  “Have a seat,” he said, although he remained standing, leaning against a cabinet with his clipboard held to his chest. “You say your daughter called you? Did I hear that correctly?”

  “Yes, she did.”

  “What did she say?”

  “That she wanted to see me,” Lana lied. “She knows she can call me any- time, any place, for any reason, no questions asked and no recriminations.”

  “We ought to have that painted on the bedroom of every parent we deal with,” he replied with a smile. “We helped her find a place to stay. Did she tell you about that?”

  “No,” Lana replied, glad that Emma had found a place for the night. “Can you tell me?”

  “Why don’t you call her?”

  “To be honest, I’ve tried, but her phone must be out of service.” Lana rued saying “to be honest.” A bad habit; even when she wasn’t lying it made her sound as though she were.

  Dr. Abbas raised an eyebrow.

  “There are service problems across the country,” Lana insisted, trying to make her story plausible. Emma simply hadn’t returned her calls or texts.

  “I asked her to call you.” The doctor looked straight into Lana’s eyes, then put his clipboard down and wrote on a prescription pad. “I’ve never violated a woman’s confidentiality, but I’ve also never faced these circumstances. I saw the video of your home. I also know who you are, and I can understand your concern for your daughter’s safety.” He handed her the paper. “Your daughter should be at this address. A friend of the clinic rents rooms or provides them for nothing, if someone doesn’t have money. Her name’s Anna Hendrix. She’s a good person. She’s handled all types of situations. Abusive boyfriends, batterers, that kind of thing. Emma will be safe there. Anna knows there could be trouble.”

  “Is Anna armed?”

  Dr. Abbas paused. “She … ah … finds that advisable. I can’t disagree. Our opponents can be brutal.”

  Lana thanked him and was out the door as fast as she could manage. She read the address into her phone and followed the directions. They led her to the Fusion, which was getting loaded onto a flatbed tow truck.

  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.

  There’s our airport. Crop dusters and small planes only, if all you do is look in the hangars. Only pilots might notice the runway is long enough to accommodate much more substantial craft. But nobody ever sees those planes and jets. They’re in and out in the dark of night, loaded with all kinds of contraband, while the farmers and their families are fast asleep.

  “No lights, not even on the runway,” I tell Art.

  “Don’t need ’em.”

  While I know his history, he has only a skeletal outline of mine. But he does know who Emma is. He mentioned that as soon as he had her bagged. Now he’s circling back to that subject as I expected he would. I’m guessing a warning is on the way. And, of course, I’m correct.

  “You better
know what you’re doing. Her mother knows a ton of people.”

  A statement that doesn’t bear comment, as far as I’m concerned. “Just get us on that plane and in the air.”

  “Turn at the fueling station. To the right.”

  As soon as I come around the pumps I see a twin-engine Beechcraft, white on top, butterscotch on the bottom.

  “Was that the best you could get?”

  “You wanted anonymity.”

  “It’ll take all night. Are we going to need to refuel?”

  “Once. Don’t worry, this is the plane you want to be in these days. Jets and anything fancy get the wrong attention.”

  I know he’s right but I still wish we had a Lear or Gulfstream.

  • • •

  Emma heard the van’s cargo door open, then felt herself being dragged toward it. The two of them carried her. Not for long. Ten steps—she counted—before lifting her onto another hard surface.

  She heard one of them climbing up next to her, guessing it was the masked guy. He dragged her a few feet farther.

  The bag was unzipped. Up till then she’d managed to contain her claustrophobia. But now with the bag open—so close to being able to see again—she could hardly stand the tape across her eyes and mouth, or the cuffs—the unyielding sense of confinement.

  Just take it off my eyes. Please.

  She knew her urgency amounted to nothing more than groans.

  Then Em felt someone close to her. Him, definitely him. But his breath had soured.

  “Easy,” he told her. “No need to panic.”

  A door closed. The floor shook. She heard propellers start up. They weren’t taking off the tape or cuffs.

  Oh, God. I can’t stand it. I really can’t.

  Like a miracle, he was leaning over her again, slowly unpeeling the tape from her mouth.

  Yes, thank you.

  Now her eyes, but so slowly.

  The plane was lifting off.

  Mom’s never going to find me.