Forgotten

by J. Robert Kennedy

  “They already know.”

  58 |

  Todd Residence Queens, New York City, New York

  The doorbell rang and Bobby Todd leaped to his feet, rushing for the door. They hadn’t left the apartment in over a week, at least not all of them. His father had been given a few days grace from his job, but that was over with, he soaking his swollen feet in Epsom salts at this very moment. His mother was a basket case, having not left their home for a second, terrified to miss a call about her baby.

  And he wasn’t much better.

  He blamed himself. He had helped tip the balance, helping his sister go to Syria, thinking he’d play the hero, and if he couldn’t save her from herself, help her rescue her friends then return to admiration and accolades.

  Instead, he had probably gotten her killed.

  Or worse.

  They had all been glued to the news, for any sign, any word, yet there was nothing. He had called Aynslee Kai on several occasions, but never had his call returned. She had promised him that the right people were looking into it, yet there had been nothing, no word at all.

  Though maybe that was about to change.

  He peered through the peephole and smiled, two men in suits, clearly government, standing there. He opened the door. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Todd?”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  A hand was extended. “I’m Special Agent Jefferson, Homeland Security. This is Agent Lawrence. May we come in?”

  “Of course.” Bobby stepped back, letting them in, then closed the door as his mother rushed into the hallway, his father, barefoot with his pants rolled up to his knees, hobbling behind her, trailing water.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Todd, I’m Special Agent Jefferson, this is Agent Lawrence. Is there some place we can talk?”

  “Y-yes, of course.” His mother was shaking like a leaf, and he didn’t blame her. There had obviously been some sort of progress on the case, this the first contact they had had with the government beyond the brush-off on the phone. Within moments, they were all sitting around the small kitchen table, there barely enough room for the family of four, let alone five adults.

  “You have news about our daughter?”

  Jefferson pulled several file folders from a briefcase, opening one of them. He pushed a black and white photo toward Bobby’s father. “Is this your daughter?”

  His mother gasped, her hand darting out, her finger tracing Mary’s hair, his sister staring up at something. Bobby’s eyes narrowed. It was an overhead shot and appeared an awful lot like a surveillance photo. He looked at Jefferson. “You know where she is.”

  Jefferson nodded. “Yes. Your sister was spotted in al-Raqqah, Syria, several days ago.”

  “Wh-where’s that?” asked his mother, but Bobby already knew.

  “It’s in ISIS held territory, ma’am. In fact, it’s their capital.”

  His father drew a quick breath. “Are you going to rescue her?”

  Jefferson shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir, even if we were inclined to, it’s simply too dangerous.”

  “But, but she’s an American!” cried his mother. “It’s your duty to rescue her!”

  “If she had been kidnapped, then perhaps, yes. But she went there voluntarily. We examined her accounts and were able to trace the money she received for the ticket to a known ISIS account, and according to the messages between her and her contacts there, she knew exactly who she was dealing with. We will attempt to keep track of her, and should the opportunity arise, we’ll extract her, though the chances of that are slim.”

  His mother sniffed. “Wh-what will happen to her?”

  Jefferson exchanged a glance with his partner, it clear he didn’t want to answer the question. “We believe she’s to be sold as a sex slave in the coming days.”

  “Oh my God!” cried his mother as she leaped to her feet and charged down the hallway toward the bedroom. His father followed moments later as her wails grew in intensity.

  Bobby looked at the agents. “Is there nothing you can do?”

  Jefferson frowned. “I’m afraid, sir, that your sister’s fate was sealed the moment she crossed the border.”

  59 |

  Maggie Harris Residence Lake in the Pines Apartments, Fayetteville, North Carolina

  “I don’t know why I love that movie so much.”

  Dawson grunted. “Neither do I.”

  Maggie twisted around, staring up at him. “Oh, give me a break, you love it too.”

  “Babe, Hugh Grant and Drew Barrymore aren’t my cup of tea. If I’m going to watch a Hugh Grant movie, I want to see him and Tom Arnold kicking the shit out of a purple dinosaur—”

  “It was green.”

  “—and if it’s Drew Barrymore, I want Lucy Liu beside her sporting leather pants.” He threw her a bone. “Though I do have to admit that Pop Goes My Heart song is pretty catchy.”

  “Told you! You loved it. Your foot was tapping the whole time.”

  “Nervous twitch.”

  “You’re a softy. Want to watch another one?”

  “Sure, but this time I get to pick.”

  “Fine, but it has to be a comedy. I want to laugh.”

  “No problem. How about Zero Dark Thirty?”

  She gave him the eye. “There’s no way I’m watching a military movie so you can point out everything they got wrong. Only you get a laugh out of that.”

  “You’re no fun. Hot Shots? It’s military and they’re trying to get it wrong.”

  “Ugh, I’m not in a Charlie Sheen mood.”

  “Really? Hey, his tiger blood routine was gold.”

  Maggie eyed him. “That wasn’t a routine, that was a mental breakdown. And you’re starting to sound a little too much like Niner.”

  Dawson recoiled in mock horror. “How could you say such a thing? I’ve never said anything mean to you in the entire time we’ve known each other.”

  “Haw haw.”

  “Umm, how about Rock of Ages?” It was her favorite, and it always put her in a good mood.

  She grinned, and demanded the condition he feared. “Only if you agree to sing with me.”

  His head dropped back on the couch and he groaned. “Fine. But you keep your damned cellphone turned off. I don’t want any video of me belting out Def Leppard going on the Internet.”

  “You’re no fun.”

  “Babe, I’m tons of fun if you’ll let me.” He grabbed her and tickled her, she giggling uncontrollably, begging him to stop, which he did after a few seconds, not wanting to wear her out. He spun around, straddling her, holding himself up over her as if he were doing a pushup, his mouth inches from hers. He gazed into her eyes and saw a desire there for the first time in weeks.

  She closed her eyes.

  Green light.

  He lowered slowly. Her breath was hot on his face, her breathing more rapid with anticipation as he neared, the movie forgotten, their troubles forgotten, if only for a short while.

  60 |

  Operations Center 2, CIA Headquarters Langley, Virginia

  “Thank God we live when we do.”

  Chris Leroux glanced over at Randy Child. “Why’s that?”

  Child gestured toward the screen. “We couldn’t do this twenty years ago.”

  Leroux nodded, returning his attention to the display. “You’re right. We would have had to put a man on the ground.”

  Director Morrison cleared his throat. “Far more exciting.”

  “Exciting, yes. Safer, no.”

  Morrison delivered a gentle elbow. “Hey, I’m the old guy here, not you.” He pointed at the screen. “You younguns have it easy. And with some of the gear the techs are working on, eventually we might not need anybody in the field.”

  “Dylan won’t be happy about that.”

  Morrison agreed. “Our generation will find it the hardest.” Morrison glanced at the much younger Leroux. “Well, my generation, at least.”

  “It’s there.”

  Leroux looked
up as Sonya Tong pointed at the screen, the image sending his heart racing faster. A UAV had dropped a much smaller mini-drone about five minutes ago, its tiny camera sending back video of its journey from several thousand feet to inches above the ground.

  “That’s his house on the right.” Tong pointed to one of the houses on the outskirts of al-Raqqah.

  “Excellent,” said Morrison, stepping closer. “Which room?”

  “Last window on the north side.”

  As if the operator, nestled safely somewhere in the continental United States, had heard them, the tiny drone, less than the size of a clenched fist, darted to the right, skirting along the side of the house, coming to rest below the window.

  It slowly rose.

  Leroux held his breath. If the drone were spotted, then ISIS would know they were on to them and move her immediately. But if they could get an image of her, and extract the drone undetected, they might be able to launch a rescue mission due to the home’s location on the edge of the city.

  The room came into view, nobody in sight.

  The drone moved forward, the window open, the camera adjusting to the lower light level inside. The room was sparsely furnished, definitely a bedroom, with several human touches that surprised him considering it was a prison cell. The bed they knew was there from earlier surveillance sat in the far corner, someone under a pile of blankets.

  Child muttered a curse. “What’s the temperature there? Man, she must be hotter than hell!”

  The Kiss tune filled Leroux’s head as the drone inched closer to their target.

  Only to find blankets covering her head.

  “Are you kidding me?” cried Child. “Now what?”

  Leroux snapped his fingers. “Get me whoever’s controlling that drone.”

  Tong tapped some keys. “You’re on with Echo-Four.”

  “Echo-Four, this is Control Actual. Wake her up.”

  There was a pause before a squelch. “Control Actual, Echo-Four. Exactly how do you propose I do that, sir?”

  Morrison leaned in and whispered, “I’ve got the same question.”

  “Echo-Four, drop the drone on her head.”

  “Ahh, Control, can you repeat your last transmission?”

  Leroux stepped closer to the screen, the drone less than two feet from whoever was under those blankets, someone that might be Alia Monroe.

  They had to know.

  “Echo-Four, position the drone over her head, cut engine power, then power back up and move off.”

  “Umm, Roger that, Control, stand by.”

  “Is that going to work?” asked Morrison, now standing beside him.

  Leroux shrugged. “You’ve got a better idea?”

  Morrison didn’t answer as the drone moved toward the bed, the camera panning down so they had a bird’s-eye view of the outline of their target’s head under the blanket. The view changed rapidly, the massive display they were watching making it feel like they had gone over the drop on a roller coaster.

  The image went almost black, the lens covered for a moment as it hit the blanket. The drone rose as it powered back up and Leroux smiled as an arm emerged, the blanket tossed aside.

  Revealing an extremely elderly woman who screamed at the camera as the drone backed away.

  Leroux cursed. “Echo-Four, get the hell out of there, now!”

  “Roger that.”

  The drone rotated 180 degrees and darted out the window, racing along the barren terrain, the woman’s protests quickly lost. Leroux sighed, turning to Morrison. “Okay, that didn’t go as expected.”

  Morrison agreed. “Yes, but at least we know she’s not there.”

  Leroux nodded. “Which means she’s probably in the building she was originally taken to, but we have no way of confirming that.” He frowned. “We need to see inside that building.”

  61 |

  ISIS Held Territory Al-Raqqah, Syria

  Mary Todd stared at her handiwork. Pete looked great. She had cleaned him up from head to toe, dressed his wounds, and hopefully set his fingers properly, only four of them broken, the rest dislocated. He had said little in the day she had been there, and none of what he had said included a name.

  So to her, he was Pete.

  And with the work, the only worthwhile thing she had done in some time, she was beginning to feel human again. She had partaken of the food and water, it essential to keep her strength up, and had dribbled several glasses worth of water into Pete’s mouth, he already showing improvement, though he had yet to eat anything.

  He groaned and she was at his side. “Are you awake?”

  His eyes fluttered slightly then opened, staring blankly before blinking several times. “Wh-who are you?”

  “I’m Mary. And you are?”

  “Where am I?”

  She shrugged. “I was hoping you could tell me. All I know is I’m a prisoner of ISIS, and so are you.” He tried to push up but was too weak. “Here, let me help you.” She pushed him up by the back and propped the two pillows he had behind him, laying him back gently.

  “Water.”

  She held a glass to his lips and he downed it, his Adam’s apple greedily bobbing.

  “More.”

  This was repeated several times, it a good sign.

  “You’ve got to eat.” She took a bowl and filled it with rice, handing it to him.

  He devoured it with his fingers.

  She smiled, sitting on the edge of the bed. “When’s the last time you ate?”

  He shrugged. “Dunno. Feels like a year.”

  “Then you better take it easy. I read somewhere that starving people can get sick if they eat too quickly.”

  He nodded, continuing to shovel rice into his mouth. “It hasn’t been that long, and I don’t know when they’ll let me eat again.” He looked about their cell then at her. “Why are you here?”

  She shrugged. “They told me to keep you alive.”

  He paused. “Or?”

  “Or they’d kill me.”

  “Huh.” He resumed eating then stopped, staring down at himself, noticing for the first time he was buck-naked. “Umm, did you clean me up?”

  She blushed, turning away. “Sorry, but you were covered in so much blood, I had to find all the wounds so I could stop the bleeding.”

  “Much obliged.” He returned to his rice, apparently unconcerned he was still on full display. He paused, leaning his head back for a moment as he moaned in apparent ecstasy. “That was sooo good, and I don’t even like rice.”

  She smiled as he flipped over the bowl, placing it strategically over Pete Jr.

  “Okay, tell me everything you know.”

  And she did.

  She felt connected to this man for some reason. Perhaps it was the Florence Nightingale effect she had heard about in her nursing course, though she thought it was too soon for that. Or was it? He was handsome, friendly, and American.

  And he reminded her of her brother.

  She told him everything. How she had converted to Islam, how she had been sent the money to buy the ticket, how she had come here to join the cause, and how she had been betrayed. She told him how she now realized it was all a terrible mistake, how she had been so wrong, and how she just wanted to get back home and be with her family, and to never think of ISIS, the Caliphate or even Islam, ever again.

  “Pete, do you think they’ll kill me if I convert back to Christianity?”

  “Who?”

  “Huh?”

  “You called me Pete.”

  Her eyes popped wide. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t know your name, so I just started thinking of you as Pete.”

  He chuckled. “As good a name as any. I like it. And the less you know about me, the better.”

  “What are you? A soldier? Reporter?”

  “Reporter. They captured me in Aleppo. Not sure when. What date is it?”

  She shrugged. “I have no idea. I arrived on the third.”

  Pete grunted. “Last thing I remember it
was a few days after that. No idea how long ago that was, all I know is that they’ve been torturing me for at least a week, I figure.” He ran his hand through what was developing into a beard. “Maybe ten days.”

  She never minded beards until she came here, and now she hated them. Everyone she saw here with a beard was evil. Except Pete. “Why are they torturing you?”

  He shrugged, wincing. “Why does ISIS do anything? I’m an infidel, they think I’m a spy, it’s Wednesday. Who knows?”

  There was a sound at the door and Mary leaped to her feet, retreating to the far corner as the door opened.

  Marwan entered, two others staying in the hall. “Good, you’re awake.” He waved to the others and they quickly surged forward, grabbing Pete and hauling him from the bed.

  “No!” she cried, rushing forward only to be shoved viciously back against the wall, her head smacking painfully into the unforgiving concrete.

  “You, stay here. I’m thinking he’ll need your help when he gets back.”

  The door slammed shut and she dropped to the floor, hugging her knees as tears rolled down her cheeks.

  What kind of animals are these people? Why did I ever want to join them? What was I thinking?

  She eyed the bloodstained bed and pushed to her feet, dropping onto the most comfortable surface she had experienced in what felt like years, her nostrils filling with the tortured scent of Pete.

  62 |

  Maggie Harris Residence Lake in the Pines Apartments, Fayetteville, North Carolina

  “Thanks for an amazing night.”

  Dawson leaned over and gave Maggie a peck on the cheek. “I should be thanking you.”

  “Ha! I just laid there, you did all the work.” She stretched an arm. “But in all seriousness, some of those moves really helped stretch out my body. I think I might get Deacon to do them to me.”

  Dawson shook his head, frowning. “Now look what you did. Now I have to kill him, and I like him.”

  Maggie giggled then sighed, putting down her fork. “I’ve been a bitch.”