The Abducted Omnibus

by Roger Hayden

  With the motor humming, Joe heaved and pulled all two hundred and twenty soggy pounds of Phillip into the boat as it tilted and rocked. As they regained their balance, Joe made his way to the stern. Phillip took at seat up front and told him to gun it.

  The boat raced out from its concealed hideout, its bow rising, and traveled further east to where the other fishing boats convened. Waves tossed the boat up and then down into a shallow trough as an unexpectedly strong breeze, beat against their faces. The sound of both the K-9s and the helicopters grew fainter. To Phillip, it began to feel as though they might actually make it.

  “Where are the others?” Joe called out, his hand on the tiller steering the boat toward the other fishers.

  Not answering, Phillip felt his mood lift with relief. They'd blend in soon enough. Joe asked the question again, louder. Phillip grimaced. “Oh,” he said. “Feds got ’em.”

  “Dead or captured?”

  Phillip shrugged. “Dead, I think. A lot was going on. It was an ambush.”

  “You should keep better track of your people,” Joe said. The wind pushed his bushy beard to the side. The ends of the blue bandana tied around his head flapped in the breeze, making a soft tapping sound. His skin was tan and reddened as though he had been on the boat all day.

  Phillip narrowed his eyes. “I'm not in the mood.”

  They sped past the first two boats, approaching others, Joe looking for a spot where they could fit in without intruding. There were no police in sight. The river, it seemed, was theirs. The plan was to head south toward Manatee Bay and then hit Key Largo. From Key Largo, it was to the airport and then—refuge. Joe, however, seemed intent on souring the mood.

  “You know, Phillip, you talked a big game about taking care of us boys. You talked about helping us pay our bills. Making us rich and all that jazz. Now look. Everyone's dead, 'cept me and you. What are we gonna do? Take off to Key West together? Sip margaritas on the beach?”

  Phillip leaned forward, sneering at his snarky underling. “Why don't you shut your trap, Joe?” He leaned against the front railing of the boat and crossed his arms. “That is, if you know what's good for ya?”

  Suddenly, Joe slowed the boat. Its engine downshifted as waves smacked the side. Phillip looked around, confused.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  Not saying a word, Joe stood up as the boat drifted, unmanned. Phillip looked around nervously at the attention they were getting from the other fisherman in the channel.

  “Now’s not the time,” he said, seething.

  Joe reached into his pocket and pulled out a remote control, the size of a brick. “That's where you're wrong,” he said to Phillip. “The timing is perfect. Been waiting for this moment for a while now.”

  Phillip pointed his gun at Joe. “Drive the boat, Joe, or I'll shoot you right in the gut.” He leaned forward, taunting him with the gun. “You ever been shot in the gut before, Joe? It's about the most painful area to be shot in other than yer dick. Now drive.”

  They continued to drift, aimless, as Joe furrowed his brow and stared at Phillip, unwavering. “Your older brother was a good man.”

  “Yeah?” Phillip said, as though it was common knowledge.

  “And we were good friends. Some might even say best friends.”

  “Okay?” Phillip said with a shrug. His pistol remained aimed but he was hesitant to make a scene and draw more attention. On top of everything else, the familiar helicopter sound rumbled through the air.

  “I know you had it in for Greg. We all did. So when Greg came up dead in some car accident, I didn't doubt your involvement for one second.”

  Phillip stood up, infuriated. “Are you out of your mind? We're about to get locked up for the rest of our lives and you're moaning on about the past.” He took a step forward and sat on the middle bench.

  “I didn't come out here to help you, Phillip. I signed up to even the score.” He raised the controller in his hand. “I got about twenty pounds of explosives right under your seat.”

  Phillip's eyes darted toward the decking in a second.

  “So who's in charge of now?” Joe yelled.

  Phillip calmly took a step back, taking his aim off Joe. “Okay. I get it. Greg was your friend. Well, he was my brother. And I loved him. And for you to even suggest—”

  “You killed him!” Joe shouted. “His wife and his kids—”

  Thrump! Thrump! Phillip shot two holes into Joe's chest without a moment’s further hesitation. Joe seized up, clutched the controller, and stumbled back. The second he fell over the railing, Phillip could see his chubby digits going for the button on the controller.

  Phillip spun around, placed one foot on the front of the boat, and leapt off just as a loud explosion blew against his eardrums, followed by a searing heat engulfing him in flames.

  Breathe

  Miriam lay on the ground after being shot in the chest by two slugs from a silenced Glock 9mm. Her bulletproof vest absorbed most of the shock, but the impact had launched her against the wall and onto the floor, where she lay gasping. Her head had smacked against the cold pavement. One intense, brief flash, followed by the gradual loss of consciousness and then Detective Lou’s muffled voice calling to her as he shook her in his arms.

  “Miriam, come back!”

  Footsteps hammered down the stairs leading to the basement, many more lawmen than before. Lou swung Miriam onto the bed and eased her down. Her eyes flickered open as blurred faces surrounded her.

  “Where is he?” Detective Clark shouted as newly arrived police officers poured into the basement. “Search the room. He couldn’t have gotten far.”

  “We’ve got an officer down,” Lou said, turning to face them. “Need immediate medevac.” It was the last thing she remembered before everything went black.

  Several agents dispersed throughout the basement, tearing it apart for signs of Phillip. They tossed chairs. They pushed over a bookcase. They moved aside box after box underneath the staircase. They felt along the walls. They searched every last inch of the basement, coming up short—save for two empty 9mm shells.

  Clark tended the unconscious and badly beaten girl on the bed, presumed to be Miriam’s daughter, Ana.

  “What’s her condition?” Lou asked.

  Clark felt her pulse and put his ear close to her face. “She’s breathing,” he answered. “Has a steady pulse.” He then pointed at Miriam as she lay back, knocked out, with a nasty cut on her forehead. “What the hell happened to her?”

  “She’s been shot,” Lou said, surprised that Clark would even ask. There were two holes in her shirt—one in the stomach and one by her upper rib—but no blood. Lou lifted her black overshirt, exposing a bulletproof vest. “Thank God,” he said. Her vest was torn and punctured, but it had done its job.

  Miriam’s eyes suddenly opened and she swung up with a panicked gasp. Lou gripped her shoulders and tried to calm her as her eyes darted around the room in confusion.

  “Miriam, listen to me. Everything is going to be okay.” One of the agents handed Lou a wet cloth which he gently pressed against the cut on Miriam’s head.

  She flinched and squirmed back. “Ana? Where’s Ana?” she asked, too disoriented to see that her daughter was lying next to her. There were maybe ten other people in the room, flipping it in a desperate search for the culprit. When it became clear he was nowhere to be found, several of the agents ran upstairs to resume the hunt.

  “Ana is going to be okay,” Lou said, holding Miriam at arm’s length by her shoulders. “You have to tell me what happened. Where did he go?”

  Miriam held the warm cloth against her head, hesitating. Nothing was going to come easy.

  “Please, Miriam. Time is critical here.”

  “I don’t know,” she said, drifting off. The bump on her head had done a number. She sat up from the mattress, pushing against it and trying to stand. “Where is she?”

  Agent Landis stood up, holding Ana in his arms. “She’s ok
ay, Ms. Castillo.”

  One look at her daughter’s battered face, and Miriam jumped into high gear, charging past Lou and toward Clark in a fury. But so much heightened emotion, coming so fast had its effects. Miriam stopped inches from her daughter, and held her head as dizziness consumed her. She collapsed to the floor as Lou ran to her aid.

  “We need to get both of them to the nearest hospital immediately!” Throughout all the commotion, there was no sign of Phillip Anderson. The Snatcher had vanished again, leaving a few of the agents on the ground to wonder if he even existed.

  A second helicopter landed outside the cabin, with Agent Nettles and his team rushing out. They had just cleared the other hideout cabin—vacant and most likely a decoy—and rushed to the scene to assist in the raid of the second cabin. Nettles’s partner, Agent Willis, hopped out from the helicopter as its circling blades blew gusts of wind across the tall grass, flattening all the vegetation within the area.

  Nettles and Willis charged toward the cabin with their pistols out as the rest of their team followed—five men in all. The helicopter wound down as more could be heard approaching from a far distance.

  They advanced from the rear of the cabin, and as they got closer, they could see Detective Landis from Bravo Team, sitting against a tree with his left leg wrapped in red-stained bandages. His face was pale and drenched and sweaty. He looked up at them warily with a sigh and held up his badge.

  “I know who you are, Landis,” Agent Nettles said. “Now what the hell happened here?”

  Exhausted, Landis leaned slightly to his side and pointed beyond the house. The agents looked up and could see all the back windows shattered. Shards of glass and bullet shells littered the ground. “They… they started shooting. The rest of Bravo… they went inside. I think they got him.”

  Agent Willis pointed to his injured leg. “What happened? You get shot?”

  “Sure did.” Landis stopped talking and winced in agony. “Did this little bandage job myself.” He tried to laugh but was in too much pain.

  Agent Nettles turned to face two men from his team. “Patski. Roberson. Evacuate Detective Landis to the helicopter and get him to the medical ASAP.”

  The two detectives nodded and ran toward the helicopter to grab a stretcher. Nettles slapped Willis on the shoulder and signaled ahead. “Let’s move.”

  They pushed forward, past the side of the small cabin, carefully concealed by a camouflaged tarp that stretched above the cabin from two parallel trees on one side, to two parallel trees on the other. As they reached the side of the cabin, moving quickly but quietly, Nettles signaled the men to halt.

  He backed against the house and held his pistol up, glancing out, around the corner. A large pickup truck not fifty feet away had its smashed front end lodged in a tree.

  Two bodies lay on the ground outside the truck, riddled with bullets, their muscles and organs and blood clearly visible. One man was on his back, the other on his stomach. The driver’s face was buried in the steering wheel, covered in blood with a hole in the side of his head. He and his friends were dead. They all matched in their blue jeans and camouflaged jackets.

  Faint smoke rose from the obstructed front end of the pickup. The woods beyond the carnage were undisturbed and quiet. Nettles could see a body of water far ahead past cypresses, palm trees, hanging vines, and thick underbrush. Bird calls rang out. A second county police helicopter had arrived and landed next to Bravo Team’s FBI helicopter. It was quickly becoming a very busy crime scene.

  Agent Nettles stayed low, proceeding to the front door with Willis covering his back. Both agents stopped at the steps leading to the front deck and listened for sounds of movement. When the coast looked clear, Nettles signaled Willis to cover him as he ran up the stairs.

  Nettles swung his leg back and, with one powerful thrust, kicked the front door open with the split of its frame. Nettles stormed into the room with Willis close behind. They stopped for a moment to survey the broken glass and tossed furniture all around them in the living room. They could hear movement in the basement—footsteps coming up the stairs fast.

  Detective Clark suddenly entered the room with an unconscious young girl in his arms. Nettles lowered his gun, sighing in frustration.

  “Holy shit, Clark. Where’s everyone else?”

  “Yeah,” Willis added. “We’ve been calling you on the radio for the past five minutes.”

  Not responding, Clark carried Ana to the living room and set her down. He then turned to the two agents, with a slightly rattled. “Castillo’s been hit.”

  “What?” Nettles said. “Where is she?”

  “They’re bringing her up,” Clark said, pointing down to the basement.

  Nettles heard more footsteps. Lou entered the room, holding a barely conscious Miriam at his side with help from another officer. “She’s going to be okay,” he announced to the room. “Anderson shot her in the vest.”

  “Where is that sorry sack of shit?” Nettles asked, stepping forward.

  More FBI agents entered the house—new arrivals on the scene. Pretty soon the place would be crawling with feds. Lou continued past Nettles, searching for a place where Miriam could lie down.

  “Let’s go ahead and get them out of there,” Nettles said.

  “I’m on it,” Lou said. He then pointed to Ana as Agent Clark picked her up. “I’m more concerned about her daughter, but they both need immediate medical attention.”

  Nettles nodded as other agents swarmed the room. “We’ve got one of yours in the helicopter already. Landis. Just load them up and get them to the nearest hospital. Whatever it takes.”

  “Sound like a plan,” Lou said, walking out.

  Not long after the helicopter flew off with its three injured, the FBI continued their search for South Florida’s most wanted man. Nettles was confident they would find Anderson. He was hiding somewhere, and they would find him soon as they brought the other half of the Bureau out to conduct a search, Anderson would run out of places to hide.

  “You find out what she knows!” he shouted to Lou as they loaded Miriam and her daughter into the chopper. The blades began to turn, picking up steam while tossing debris in the air. Pine trees swayed and arched as the helicopter rose with steady precision and then flew off, back toward civilization.

  The day continued without any sign of Phillip Anderson. Agent Nettles took charge as roughly twenty FBI agents descended on the area, ready to conduct an extensive search. A K-9 unit had also arrived in two armored trucks, ready to go to work. The county and the feds worked in conjunction, determined to do whatever they could to find the man who had plagued South Florida for so long.

  Willis’s team emerged from the cabin, ten men in all, coming up short, while three separate search teams had begun their excursion through the ten-acre river of grass that made up Anderson’s secret compound. Leading one of the foot teams, Nettles listened closely to the helicopter transmissions from the two that circled the area overhead. He pressed against the ear piece trying to hear a status. “Nothing sighted yet,” they said.

  “Damn it,” Nettles said, shaking his head. “He’s not far. He must have had some kind of hidden escape out of the cabin basement. You see anything that looks like a door or passageway out, you let me know.”

  “Roger,” one of the pilots said.

  Nettles looked up into the sky, where the two FBI helicopters had just crossed paths. It was late afternoon and the sun was rapidly sinking below the clouds. He could hear the sounds of airboats in the distance—loud and abrasive—and immediately had a thought. He signaled to the K-9 team nearby and shouted to them, waving an arm in the air. “Trail the river!”

  The handlers released the dogs—five in all—as they bolted off in an instant along the river. Nettles then called his team to pick up the pace. “He’s down here, I know it!”

  The teams got into gear and assembled behind the cabin in one mass movement toward the wetlands, where the channel flowed all the way to Key Largo
. The sense of urgency and danger heightened the closer they got.

  “Just found some rope!” an agent yelled out as they reached a shaded area, drastically different from the open plains that comprised most of Anderson’s compound. Nettles sprinted toward the agent, who held a piece of rope—at least six feet long—examining it.

  Ahead, the dogs barked in the distance with fierce intensity. Nettles turned. They were closing in. He could feel it in his gut. The team advanced, readying to strike, when a loud explosion rocked the area, sending out tremors for at least a mile. Nettles could see flames bursting up from behind the trees. Boaters nearby screamed. The ground shook. Black smoke billowed in the air. And then, for one moment, silence.

  Painful Reunion

  Miriam sat beside Ana’s hospital bed, finally reunited. The soft-hued pastel walls of the Miami-Dade hospital were familiar to Miriam. It was her second visit in the past two days. Allison, the young girl she had rescued from Anderson’s men, had been checked out and gone home with her parents. Now it was Ana’s turn.

  She lay in bed, sleeping, with an IV needle inserted into her right wrist. Her shoulder-length black hair was tied back and her face was covered in gauze patches from forehead to chin on one side of her face.

  Phillip Anderson had done a number on her. And her injuries extended to a pair of bruised ribs. She also had a ruptured disc and a sprained ankle. Her medical assessment disclosed that she had endured relentless physical trauma at the hands of her captor. She had been punched, slapped, and thrown against the walls. For Miriam, anyone capable of such abuse wasn’t human. Anderson was a monster. Something, she believed, akin to the lowest evil.

  The sight of Ana’s face devastated her. She couldn’t take her eyes away from it. In the dimly-lit, one-bed hospital room, she watched her daughter sleep, without a care for whatever else was going on in the world. Her own forehead had been bandaged as well. The knock to her head had left a mark. She held an icepack to her chest, which still ached from being shot twice by Phillip. The vest had saved her. She was lucky.