by Kathy Altman
“Or else what?” a male runner asked.
“Or else this.” Adam pulled a Glock 19 from his pocket.
“He has a gun,” someone yelled.
“Run!”
Her fellow joggers scattered.
Kelly tightened her grip on the kid, transferred her weight to her back leg and executed a front snap kick, knocking the gun out of Adam’s hand. She felt more than heard a crack, and knew her contact broke at least one bone.
The man bellowed in pain as the Glock went flying, landing on the grass six feet away.
“Oh, shit,” the brother said, looking as if he wanted to run. Or maybe hurl.
“She broke my wrist,” Adam howled, protecting his right hand with his left. “You bitch.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she noted one of her fellow runners on a cell phone. She wished she could access hers but she didn’t dare shift her attention.
“Get the gun, Caleb,” Adam ordered, his face contorted with obvious pain.
“Just walk away, Caleb,” Kelly said, knowing he wanted to and was the weaker link. “The cops are on their way.”
Caleb’s eyes grew wide and he looked around.
Yeah, you think about that, you scumbag. Kelly backpedaled, keeping an eye on Adam, wanting to put as much distance between them as possible.
Cursing viciously, Adam advanced. She could incapacitate this jerk in two swift maneuvers, but not while she was holding a forty-pound hysterical kid. If she put him down—and that wouldn’t be easy considering his death grip—Caleb could snatch him and haul butt.
So her black belt wasn’t much use. She needed to figure out what was going on here before she released Jason—if that was even his name—to two lowlifes she was now convinced bore no relation to him at all. And if they were family, some type of abuse was obviously taking place.
“Calm down, Adam,” Kelly soothed, continuing to move backward. “Let’s talk about this. More police will be here any second.” Yeah, and where the hell are they?
“Get the gun, Caleb,” Adam shouted.
The harshness of the order apparently decided Caleb, and he moved toward the Glock.
“Think about this, Caleb,” Kelly yelled. “I’m a police officer. You’ll fry if you shoot me.”
“Shut. Up. Bitch,” Adam said.
Kelly wanted to run, but knew turning her back on Adam was a mistake. She scrambled for something to say or do before she stopped a bullet. She could give them the kid to save herself, but damned if she would. This was why she’d become a cop.
Just as Caleb reached for the gun, a siren screeched its warning into the air. Kelly didn’t look, but heard a police vehicle pull up on the street maybe a hundred feet away.
Caleb froze. “Shit. The cops.”
“We need the gun,” Adam said.
“Yeah, well, then you get it.” Caleb sprinted toward the parking lot of the nearby marina.
“Caleb, what the hell,” Adam yelled after him.
Caleb didn’t turn and didn’t answer.
“You’ll regret this, bitch.” With a last threatening glare at Kelly, Adam snatched the Glock with his left hand and ran.
Releasing a breath, she heard the cops approach from behind. But Kelly kept her gaze on Adam until he disappeared behind the marina’s office building.
“What’s going on?”
Still holding Jason, Kelly turned to find two uniformed City of Miami officers, one male and one female. Thank God.
“I’m Kelly Jenkins with Miami-Dade Police Department, badge number 33349. My commanding officer is Lieutenant Thomas Marshall.” She explained what had happened as concisely as possible, aided by interjections from a few of the other joggers who had wandered back to the scene. The officers summoned backup to search the area, but Kelly knew Adam and Caleb would be miles away by the time anyone arrived.
“So you don’t know this child?” the female officer asked. Her badge read L. Rodriguez.
“I never saw him before ten minutes ago,” Kelly told Officer Rodriguez. “I’m not even sure his name is really Jason.”
“What’s your name, kiddo?” Rodriguez asked in that idiotic tone adults use when speaking to a small child. Kelly had used it herself.
Jason burrowed his head deeper into Kelly’s shoulder, tightening his grip on her waist with his legs.
Kelly patted his back. She had no clue how to deal with children. What she really wanted to do was shift his weight to her other arm. The kid was heavy.
“Jason, you need to go with the nice police officer where you’ll be safe from the mean men,” she said.
“No, Mommy, no,” the child begged. “Please, please don’t leave me.”
Rodriguez narrowed her eyes. “Why is he calling you Mommy?”
“No idea,” Kelly replied. “Maybe he was so terrified of Adam and Caleb he got confused.”
“We’ll take him to the station and let DCF sort this out,” Rodriguez said.
“Good plan,” Kelly agreed. Department of Children and Families was the obvious call in a case like this. They’d locate his mom or find a foster home. But for the fact that Jason was so well dressed, Kelly would assume the mom was a druggie on a bender, Caleb or Adam a boyfriend left in charge. Something just didn’t smell right.
Rodriguez reached out to remove Jason, but the child shrieked and refused to let go of Kelly. “No, no, no!” he wailed.
“Shhh, Jason,” Kelly soothed, rubbing his head. “It’s okay.”
The male officer, standing a few feet away taking statements from bystanders, frowned and joined Kelly and Rodriguez. “What’s wrong with the kid?”
“He doesn’t want to let go of Ms. Jenkins,” Rodriguez said.
“Officer Jenkins,” Kelly said, to the male officer, whose name was P. Nordan.
“Don’t you want to go find your mommy?” Nordan asked.
Jason raised his head and looked at Kelly. She noted he had bright blue eyes and blond hair, the same coloring as hers. Were the officers beginning to doubt her story? She didn’t have anything on her to prove she was a cop.
Jason raised a hand and lightly stroked her cheek. “I found my mommy.”
“I’m not anyone’s mother,” Kelly told Nordan. “Didn’t the other joggers confirm my story?”
At Kelly’s words, Jason began sobbing again, and turned his face into her shoulder.
Nordan released a long breath. “The kid is traumatized. I think the best thing is for all of us to go to the station and notify DCF.”
“I’m on duty in two hours,” Kelly said.
“Better call in,” Nordan said.
Rodriguez placed a hand on Kelly’s shoulder, urging her to move toward the police vehicle. “You can do that on the way to the station.”
* * *
AT THE MIAMI-DADE headquarters of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Trey Wentworth paced. The depressing utilitarian room they’d stashed him in contained everything they thought he might want—chairs, a recliner, coffee, tea, soft drinks, bagels—even a plate of frosted fruit pastry. As if he could eat. Three so-called special agents continuously observed him, trying to pretend otherwise, definitely waiting for him to lose it. Expecting him to.
He wouldn’t give them the pleasure.
Even though everyone in this room knew something had gone very wrong.
He glanced at his watch for the hundredth time in the last fifteen minutes. The ransom exchange should have been completed two hours ago. He should have heard something by now. He should have been assured his son was alive. But Agent Ballard had returned without Jason, saying the kidnappers didn’t show at the drop site. Trey shook his head. He knew the agents had gone to the wrong park in Coconut Grove, but the idiots wouldn’t believe him.
His mist
ake was trusting law enforcement. He shouldn’t have involved the FBI. The kidnappers had instructed him not to, but his attorney had counseled the feds were his best option. He trusted Brian, who’d been a friend longer than he’d been his lawyer, but he sure didn’t trust the yokels sitting in this room watching him slowly disintegrate.
Soon there’d be nothing solid left of him to hug his son when—if he ever saw him again.
The FBI didn’t know what the hell they were doing. He should have insisted on accompanying Ballard on the exchange. He shouldn’t have given in to their vaunted expertise. He shouldn’t have listened to Brian. Of course the kidnappers said not to contact the cops or they’d kill Jason. Wasn’t that what they always said?
Trey shot a glance at Walt Ballard, the thirtyish but already balding agent in charge of Jason’s case. Since returning with the bad news, the man worked his phone in a chair by the door, leaning forward, forearms on his knees, wearing a grim expression. Texting? Checking email? Was he receiving information about Jason from the agents still in the field? Was it bad news?
Trey stopped moving and took a deep breath. Not here. He’d fall apart later, away from the public eye. That was the Wentworth way. Trey heard his father’s clipped voice inside his head and pushed away the sound. The bastard couldn’t be bothered to fly in even though his only grandson had been abducted.
Where was his attorney? Shit. Why hadn’t they heard something?
Trey glanced at his watch. How much longer? Jason had been through so much in the last year. Would he ever see his son again? Would they even find Jason’s body?
Kids disappeared without a trace all the time.
Ballard’s phone rang, the sound startling in the quiet of the room. Everyone turned.
“Ballard,” the agent barked into the phone. A few beats of silence. “What?”
The shock in Ballard’s voice forced Trey into a chair. Oh, God. No. Jason.
“Where?” Ballard demanded. Then, “Got it. We’re on our way.”
Ballard disconnected and looked directly at Trey. “We’ve got him. We’ve got your boy.”
“Alive?” Trey stood on shaky legs, not trusting his hearing. “Is he hurt?”
“He’s fine. He’s in the custody of the City of Miami Police.”
“No mistake this time?” he demanded.
“No mistake,” Ballard said.
Choking back a sob, Trey sagged into the chair again, unable to formulate a response.
“City of Miami arrested the kidnappers?” This question came from another agent, a female. Trey couldn’t remember her name. All he could focus on was the knowledge that Jason was alive and unharmed.
“No,” Ballard said. “Apparently the kidnappers remain at large.”
“What the hell happened?” asked another agent.
Ballard shook his head. “I don’t have all the details yet, and they can wait.” He nodded at Trey and grinned. “Let’s go get your son.”
* * *
INSIDE A FRIGID interview room at the Coconut Grove police substation, Kelly couldn’t remember when she’d ever been so cold. The AC had to be set at about forty degrees, and she might as well be naked since all she had on was flimsy nylon running shorts and a cotton jog bra. Making things worse, her flesh and her clothing were sweaty.
Officer Rodriguez had wrapped a towel around the shivering Jason, and that helped, but Kelly’s legs were freezing. They’d given her a cup of vile lukewarm coffee, but that had cooled and was of no help.
There was a reason for the chill of course. The police didn’t want their suspects or interviewees comfortable. She had a bad feeling they considered her a suspect—of what she wasn’t sure, but something. She’d heard chatter of a statewide BOLO as they’d snapped photos of the kid, so maybe they knew who he was. For his sake, she hoped so. The misunderstanding would all be straightened out eventually, but she was going to be late for her shift.
She’d called her sergeant on the way in to explain, but he hadn’t sounded happy. Shit. She’d been number one in her rookie class and intended to be the highest-performing rookie that had ever entered the Miami-Dade County PD. Missing roll call this soon wouldn’t help with that goal.
So where was a social worker? DCF was notoriously inefficient, but this delay was ridiculous.
She needed to contact her lieutenant, but the kid remained glued to her, his legs hooked around her waist. If she shifted his weight to her other side, she could access her phone in her jog pouch. At least she was getting his body heat. He still insisted on calling her Mommy, which was beyond weird, but the kid was confused. Definitely traumatized.
Maybe Caleb and Adam had drugged him. The kid hadn’t so much as twitched since she’d sat on this hard chair. His breathing sounded ragged, but he was stuffed up from crying. Maybe he’d fallen asleep.
“Jason,” she whispered.
He snuggled deeper into her shoulder and twisted her halter straps tighter. Not asleep.
“Hey. I’m going to move you to the other side, okay? My arm is really tired.”
He raised his head to look at her. “You won’t let go?”
The fear and longing in his voice made Kelly’s breath catch. She had no experience with children.
“No, I won’t let go,” she told him. As if I could. She rubbed his back reassuringly, the way she’d seen mothers do. “I just need to make a phone call. Okay?”
“Okay,” he said, and went willingly when she transferred his weight to her left shoulder, which of course now made her right side cold. He placed his hot cheek against her neck and stuck his thumb in his mouth.
Thinking the kid was too old for thumb-sucking, Kelly unzipped the pouch around her waist and withdrew her cell phone. A quick glance told her she didn’t have service. Likely the signal had been blocked.
“Damn,” she muttered and stuffed the phone back inside.
She was a rookie. How much trouble would she be in for missing a shift? She glanced at her watch. Roll call was in thirty minutes.
Maybe it was time to make some noise, attract some attention. She and the kid had been slowly turning into ice for close to an hour. She knew the drill, and someone watched her through the one-way glass on the far wall. She’d never been good at waiting, but had been extremely patient this morning. She was tempted to give her observers the finger, but knew that wouldn’t help anything. And her lieutenant would definitely hear about it.
“How old are you, Jason?” she asked to pass the time.
“Four,” he stated, as if she were very stupid. But of course his mother would know his age.
“Who were those guys you were with?” she asked.
He closed his eyes.
“Did they hurt you?”
“They hit Maria,” he whispered.
“Why did they do that?” Kelly asked, encouraged by his response. Who was Maria? Maybe the kid had recovered enough to give her some answers.
Jason shivered and turned his warm face into her neck.
“Did you know those men, Jason?”
He released a giant sigh, but didn’t say another word.
“Okay, okay,” Kelly said, patting his back. “We don’t have to talk about them.”
The door burst open and four men entered the room. None of them were in uniform. Short hair. Jackets and ties. Feds. DEA? FBI?
“Jason,” someone shouted in a relieved tone.
Kelly focused on the speaker as he rushed toward her, and wondered if her mouth fell open. She stared at a man so impossibly good-looking he belonged on a movie screen or in a magazine. Dark hair, intense dark eyes. His jacket, his slacks—everything about him reeked of money and sophistication. The gold watch on his wrist belonged in a museum.
This god-come-to-earth squatted before Kelly and held out his arms to the k
id. “Jason,” he said in a choked voice.
The kid lifted his head but didn’t release his hold on her. If anything, he tightened his grip and glared at the man.
“Jason?” The man shifted his gaze to Kelly, and she felt as if she’d been assaulted by an unseen force. Raw power flowed off him in waves. And arrogance mixed with anger. He didn’t like being denied anything. And who would want to refuse him?
“Who the hell are you?” the god demanded.
“Kelly Jenkins. Who the hell are you?”
His eyes widened in surprise as if she was supposed to know who he was. Maybe he was some big-deal movie star. Maybe she had seen him before, now that she thought about it, but she never had time for movies or TV. His nails were manicured; his leather shoes buffed. His skin was smooth, unlined, as if he’d never experienced a worry in his life.
“Officer Jenkins, this is Trey Wentworth and you’re holding his son, Jason,” one of the suits said.
“Thank goodness,” Kelly said, thinking, yeah, the name rang some bell, one associated with stacks of cash. She attempted to pass the kid to Wentworth.
“No, Mommy,” Jason wailed, and turned his face from his dad.
Wentworth flinched as if the kid had struck him, and rose in a smooth athletic movement.
The feds all exchanged alarmed glances.
Coming to her feet, Kelly asked softly, “Don’t you want to go to your daddy, Jason?”
“No. I want to stay with you, Mommy.”
“But you know I’m not your mommy,” Kelly said.
Jason began to cry again.
Kelly tried to pry his fingers from her clothing and hand Jason over. This kid had a problem far beyond her limited expertise as a rookie cop. He needed serious help, likely a shrink. She felt for the poor little guy. She’d had plenty of experience with shrink stuff.
“Jason, come on,” she said. “Let go.”
“Stop it,” Wentworth ordered.
The force of Wentworth’s command caused everyone in the room to look at him.
Kelly met his furious gaze, and again that strange sensation of raw power flowed over her.
“You’re upsetting him,” Wentworth said. “Leave him alone.”