Watched

by C. J. Lyons

No! She couldn’t go out, couldn’t go past those doors. She struggled, numb, useless fingers clawing at his face and arms, feet tripping as she tried to push him back away from the doors.

  Run, Mom! But his arm tightened, choking the words before she could say them. Her mother didn’t run, didn’t leave her. Instead, she stepped closer, toward the danger.

  Jesse’s uncle pivoted, aiming the gun at Mom, who froze, hands held up, eyes locked on Miranda.

  “Stop it or she dies,” he ordered Miranda.

  She gasped for breath, his words meaningless wisps in the fog of her panic. He cursed, the pressure on her neck growing from his choke hold. She saw her mother, the gun aimed at her face, fought as hard as she could to swallow the terror, to take control, to think of something brave and bold to save her mother, but then everything went from scarlet to black.

  • • •

  Mr. Ryder is back a few minutes later, talking on a phone with one hand and carrying a bag with the other. He tosses the bag to me: the aroma of eggs, sausage, and bacon almost makes me forget why we’re here. As I chew, he’s talking fast, at first looking frustrated then relieved. Finally he looks at me over the tops of his sunglasses and seems doubtful.

  I wipe my face with my sleeve, worried I’ve got crumbs all over myself. It doesn’t seem to help. But he nods and hangs up.

  He gets back into the car and we continue heading down 322. I want to ask about the FBI but restrain myself. Not a whole lot I can do about it, sitting in a speeding vehicle, except trust him. I’m sure he’s just as unhappy about being forced to trust me, a stranger, with his daughter’s life.

  We’re almost to Smithfield when he turns to me and asks, “What is this Griffin business, anyway? Does it stand for anything? It’s not a gang name, is it?”

  “Miranda came up with it. She thought we should have screen names, make it harder for King to track us if he spotted us.” It sounds stupid. Childish. But right now, heading over to the men who want to lock me up for crimes I didn’t commit and then going on to negotiate for the lives of Miranda and her mom, I need all the Griffin I can muster.

  He grunts. “Sounds like something she would come up with. Like her mom, that way. Always with her head in a book. So a griffin, that’s like a winged monkey or something?”

  He’s smiling, sort of, so I know he’s joking. “Something like that. They were mythical beasts who protected the innocent against evil.”

  “I’d say we need all the help we can get in that arena.” He jerks his chin, decision made. We pull into the driveway of a small house just off campus. “The college owns this place, uses it for visiting professors, but it’s vacant right now. And not in range of any security cameras.” There are two black SUVs parked in front of us. It’s a small house, made of fieldstone, with a sloped peaked roof, like something out of “Hansel and Gretel.”

  “These guys—” he starts.

  “They’re FBI?” I’m a little nervous. Regular cops are bad enough but the FBI?

  “No. My friend at the FBI put me in contact with the US Deputy Marshal running the FAST team. I met the guy a few times when I was in Pittsburgh on the warrant squad. He’s a bit of a cowboy, is going to want to test you,” he says. “His butt is on the line here if anything goes wrong, so let him do—”

  “Excuse me, sir,” I interrupt. “But isn’t it Miranda and Mrs. Ryder’s lives on the line? I’m sorry, but I really don’t give a damn about anyone else.”

  “Good man. But we need Oshiro and his team on board—otherwise, they’ll just lock you up and we’re shit out of luck.” His hand is resting on his pistol as he says this, so I’m pretty sure he won’t let it come to that. “Answer his questions honestly, like you have with me, and everything will be okay. Ready?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Because we’re running out of time.”

  39

  When Miranda came to, she was surrounded by darkness. They’d placed a pillowcase or something like it over her head. They hadn’t done it to help her, but she was grateful for it. Because of it, she’d been able to breathe in the extra carbon dioxide she generated while hyperventilating, helping to end her panic attack. Plus, even though she knew she was lying on the floor of a car in motion, in the darkness she could imagine herself still safe inside her room, on her bed, hiding under her covers.

  It even smelled of fabric softener—a tiny detail but powerful enough to ease the panic, enough that she could regain control. Of her body at least. Well, not even that. As feeling returned to her limbs, she realized her hands were duct taped behind her back and that she was lying on top of them. And she was barefoot—couldn’t blame that on Jesse’s uncle, she rarely wore shoes since she never went anywhere. But her feet were cold.

  Not bound, though. She could run if she had the chance.

  Her heart stumbled into a headlong whirl and her breath quickened with panic. She concentrated on slowing it. Right. How the hell could she run when the thought of the world beyond this nice, clean pillowcase was overwhelming?

  She took a few more deep breaths. Finally the cobwebs clouding her brain cleared. Mom! She hauled in a lungful of air, ready to scream when a man’s shoe planted itself on her chest, squeezing all the air out so she couldn’t make a sound.

  “Don’t,” he said. “It gives me a headache, and it won’t do you a damn bit of good. Your mom is safe—as long as you do what I tell you to do. Do you understand, Ariel?”

  She nodded but wasn’t sure he could see with the pillowcase. He eased the pressure on her chest and she was able to gasp, “Yes.”

  Ariel. He’d called her Ariel. Jesse’s uncle didn’t know her by that name. And his voice was different—it was the man on the phone. King.

  Her stomach twisted, and she had to swallow twice to keep from vomiting. She breathed through her nose, slow, deep, gulping in the fake flowers from the fabric softener. Mom. She had to find her mom.

  Miranda swallowed, tasting lint. Fear edged aside, making room for anger. Her mom. They’d hit her mom, pointed a gun at her. They said they’d kill her mother.

  Not. Going. To. Happen.

  That one decision made, her heart slowed to a steady pace. Miranda might die today—a day sooner than she’d planned, but that was okay. As long as her mom was safe.

  “Good girl,” he said dismissively as she stopped struggling beneath his foot. As if she were a trained dog. In a way, she supposed he had trained her—but not the way he thought.

  If he hurt her mom, she was going to kill him.

  “Have you heard from Nina lately?” he asked in a casual tone, his foot still pressed against her chest.

  Nina? That was her friend, the one whose house she was in when…it was Nina’s big sister who’d taken the pictures King found two years ago. The ones that destroyed her life. A giddy drunk girl doing a silly striptease. Fake, for fun, not even taking everything off, but the camera caught enough, more than enough.

  “No.” She decided to stick with simple answers. Like her dad did when he had to testify. Dad? Were he and Jesse coming? Or did King have them as well?

  “Poor, poor Nina.” He sighed dramatically. “She’s not doing so well. Failing school, acting out, fighting with her parents. Don’t you want to know why?”

  “Why?” she said. What did Nina have to do with her and Jesse? Shouldn’t he be asking where Jesse was? What their plan was?

  “Because of me. You see, your photos weren’t the only ones I snagged that night.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut, guilt descending over her. She’d never seen any pictures of Nina, had assumed hers were the only ones, that she was King’s only victim that night.

  “You refused my offer,” King continued. “Tried to fight back. As pitiful as that was, it was amusing. But Nina begged me to not publish her pictures said she’d do anything. So now she belongs to me.”

  He w
ent silent. Lesson over: there was no winning with King.

  Nina. Poor Nina. After Ariel was cybersmashed, her world crumbling around her, she’d been so angry at Nina’s sister that she’d barely spoken to Nina except to yell at her.

  Nina had said nothing. Not during the weeks they were still in school together, before the first time Miranda’s parents transferred her to another school in another part of the city. Nina’s life must have been even more hellish than Ariel’s, but she’d never once asked for help.

  “You used me to threaten Nina,” she said, her anguish muffled by the pillowcase. Anger blossomed into something hard, enduring, tougher than any panic or phobia. She’d let Nina down. Had spent all that time and energy chasing after King’s victims and hadn’t even known her best friend needed help.

  “Of course, dear. That’s what I do. Oh, the money is nice, but the real joy comes from watching people destroy themselves.” His foot jiggled and she could tell he was excited. Sick bastard. “I was going to take her viral—your birthday present, watching your friend’s life come crashing down, all because of you. But this, finally getting to play with you in person, this is so much more fun, don’t you think?”

  She lay at his feet, tied up, blind, and she smiled. He thought he had Ariel—weak, meek Ariel—here. He thought he’d already won.

  Wrong. She’d left Ariel far, far behind. She wasn’t weak or meek. She wasn’t about to lose; in fact, she had nothing left to lose. Her only choice was to win.

  She was Miranda.

  • • •

  As soon as we step out of Mr. Ryder’s car, there are two men with big, black machine guns, aiming at us from the doorway of the house. Another from beside the garage, putting us in a cross fire. Mr. Ryder doesn’t seem to notice—or he pretends not to, because I see he’s keeping his hands out to the side, away from his gun, as he walks up the front steps.

  “Oshiro is expecting us,” he says to the two guys at the door, nudging their machine guns aside as he walks past them. They’re dressed all in black: cargo pants with holsters and small bags strapped to their thighs, gun belts, bulletproof vests under black Windbreakers. They glare at me as if expecting me to quiver and melt into a pool of jelly.

  It feels good, disappointing them, following Mr. Ryder’s nonchalant lead.

  “Morning,” is all I say as I pass through them.

  Mr. Ryder leads the way into the front room, a dining room with a map spread out on the table and two more men bent over it. Their polos say U.S. Marshal above an embroidered star. There’s another skinny guy wearing jeans and a polo shirt under a Windbreaker that has ATF stenciled on the back. He’s the youngest of the group and doesn’t seem to quite fit in with the rest.

  And finally there’s the leader, who must be Oshiro. The guy isn’t tall, yet he’s massive. Think sumo wrestler without the beer belly. Broad shoulders, no neck, big hands.

  His glare stops me in my tracks. “This the kid? Where were you at 0620?”

  “With me,” Ryder answers, not at all taken back by Oshiro’s abrupt question. “Why?”

  “Because according to his life-support monitors, that’s when someone killed Leonard Kerstater, the brother of the guy you said was one of our subjects.” Oshiro planted both palms on the table. I swear the heavy oak groaned as he leaned forward. “So either you did it together, or—”

  “I’m innocent.” I can’t believe I said it like that, daring him to not believe me, but I don’t back down. Every instinct is telling me that showing fear or weakness to this man will get me eaten alive. “So can we stop wasting time?”

  He jerks his head, dismissing me, and focuses on Mr. Ryder.

  Mr. Ryder gives him a quick summary of everything that’s happened.

  “You disabled your cells? Both of you?” Oshiro frowns. “Good way to alert our subjects that you might be working together, get them suspicious.”

  I’m surprised at his tone. Like Mr. Ryder’s an idiot or something. But Mr. Ryder shrugs it off, handing Oshiro his cell. “Didn’t have much choice. This place would be on my patrol route, so if you want to put the battery back in and set it outside—”

  “Got a better idea. Hey, junior G-man,” he calls to the ATF agent, using the same dismissive tone. “Take this phone for a walk around campus. Do not speak to anyone, do not answer your own cell, turn your radio to mute.”

  He tosses the agent Mr. Ryder’s phone. The agent catches it but looks confused. “For how long, sir?”

  “Until I tell you to stop. Go.” The younger agent leaves, and Oshiro turns to stare at me. Without saying a word, I hand him my cell and the battery. “This the phone our subject called on? Your not-so-dead, according to you, uncle?”

  “I heard him as well,” Mr. Ryder puts in.

  “Yes, sir,” I answer. “He called from Miranda’s cell, so I’m not sure if it will help you—you’re already tracing her number, right?”

  “As soon as Ryder filled us in on what was going on. No help there. Seems our subject is also smart enough to remove a cell battery. Got any other bright ideas?”

  Suddenly they’re all staring at me like I have all the answers. I’m just a kid; they’re the experts. But maybe this is the test.

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  He chuckles and raises an eyebrow in surprise. “Okay, then. Tell us, Mr. Jesse Alexander, how do we save our two damsels in distress without getting anyone killed?”

  40

  My plan is simple. Hopefully so simple nothing will go wrong and no one will get hurt.

  “My uncle is expecting me to meet him at the arena’s fire department control center. It’s in the subbasement, room B28, right below the main arena entrance. I’ll get him to tell me where Miranda is, then keep him there while you guys rescue Miranda and her mom.”

  Oshiro exchanges a look with Mr. Ryder. To my surprise, Mr. Ryder is leaning back on his heels, shoulders back, chest out. Like he’s proud of me or something. My dad used to look at me like that.

  “Kid’s got cojones,” Oshiro says. “It’s a good start. I think we can improve on it.”

  “King controls the security system all over the campus,” I protest. “We can’t risk him seeing your men or any other cops.”

  “So we won’t let him. The car show opens its doors at eight thirty. We go in with the crowd, plainclothes, fan out, cover the exits. The only trick will be getting backup downstairs to you—the subbasement isn’t exactly open to the public.”

  “I can get down there,” Mr. Ryder says. “I know all the camera blind spots. I’ll dress like a janitor, push a mop. If I get in position before Jesse arrives, King will never see me.”

  Oshiro frowns again, a scowl that shifts his entire face into a grimace that would scare little kids into eating their broccoli. “Just one problem. How do we know he won’t just kill Mr. Alexander here on the spot?”

  I don’t really care. But another thought occurs to me. “Make that two problems. How do we know he’ll actually bring Miranda at all?”

  “We need to make it worth their while to keep Jesse alive and set my daughter and wife free.”

  “You know they won’t,” Oshiro says.

  “Of course. But they think Jesse’s a naïve kid. All they need to do is convince him that they plan to free Miranda.”

  “If he has something to bargain with.”

  “How about a tape of my uncle confessing everything and implicating King?” I suggest. “Miranda has one ready to go live all over the web at nine o’clock when the flash mob hits.” I leave out the part where the video also shows me beating my uncle bloody. Although I have a niggling suspicion Oshiro wouldn’t have a problem with that. “I know my uncle would do anything to stop it getting out—so would King.”

  He nods slowly. “That’ll work. They release Miranda and her mom, you stop the video from going live.”

  �
�You’re going to wire him and give him a vest,” Miranda’s dad says.

  “No vest,” I tell them. “Nothing my uncle could find.”

  “No problem,” Oshiro says. He beckons to the marshal he gave my phone to. The man hands me another phone. “Even if they turn this off or take the regular battery out, it will still record and broadcast to us. Every word within twenty feet, give or take.”

  I pocket the phone. “I won’t be able to hear you?”

  “Ryder will. You just keep your uncle talking and we’ll take care of the rest.” He snaps his finger as if he’s forgotten something. “Almost forgot.” He pushes a stack of papers across the table at me. “Jesse Alexander, I’m taking you into custody.”

  I bristle—the other agents, the guys with the guns, pick up on it, and suddenly all eyes are on me. I keep my hands out just like Mr. Ryder had earlier and focus on Oshiro. He’s smiling—not a pretty sight, much more frightening than his frown—and holding a pen out to me.

  “Just a formality. Sign here, here, and here. Says I read you your rights, you understand them, and waive them.”

  I glance at Mr. Ryder. He nods. I sign the papers.

  “Good. Now you’re official property of the U.S. Marshals.” Oshiro beams at me. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Alexander.”

  “Enough, let’s get started,” I snap, irritated that this is just another job to them. I want them to care as much about Miranda and her mother as her dad and I do. I want them to leave nothing to chance and be willing to risk their lives to save them.

  All I can hope is that it will be enough.

  • • •

  King went silent, leaving Miranda to her own thoughts, frightening territory that they were. Turned out Miranda was angrier than Ariel but still just as terrified and helpless. Who wouldn’t be? You don’t need to be agoraphobic to be frightened when you’re tied up, blindfolded, being held at gunpoint by men who’d already killed and who would kill your mother if you made a single wrong move.

  Dr. Patterson’s voice infiltrated the storm of emotions threatening to overwhelm Miranda. Think it through, she’d say when they worked on her agoraphobia and OCD. What’s the absolute worst thing that would happen if you took action? What’s the worst thing that would happen if you don’t? Which path do you choose? You’re in control, not your fears, she’d say.