by Jarica James
“Where’s the girl’s mom?” I ask as we reach the conference room that the agents secured for our use. They have huge whiteboards and cork boards propped against the walls, already creating case notes for us to follow. It’s nice working with someone competent for a change.
“We have her talking to one of our people, trying to calm her down. The text Charlotte sent said that the van was a red work van with tinted windows. We have another officer scanning traffic cameras to see if they can find the direction they were going. There was an hour and a half difference between her leaving the office and sending the text. Agent Simms is pulling up a map, so we can see where that amount of time could place her. That text may save her life. Smart kid,” Agent Clark praises, pulling out his phone. Hopefully checking the progress of his team.
One of the officers pokes his head in the room. “Counselor is here, are you two interrogating?” I stand up at the same time Agent Clark does.
“Hell yes, we are,” I growl as I hurry to the interrogation room before they can leave me behind. Looking through the small window on the door, I note the older woman’s black eye and swollen nose. “What happened to her face?”
“She claims that she was attacked by the kidnappers while trying to save Charlotte.” His voice doesn’t hide his disbelief. They've all heard about the text too.
“You think they could have sent the text to throw us off?” I ask Clark. It's possible they would have known who Sophia is by the way they stalked Charlotte the first time they tried to take her.
Clark shrugs and opens the door. The counselor’s severe face doesn’t give the reassuring vibe you usually get from someone tasked with guiding our youth.
Before we can even ask, she begins recounting her tale, saying she walked out and saw men dragging Charlotte out toward the maintenance doors. When she tried to pull Charlotte away, they apparently punched her in the face and took off in the van. I don’t buy it for a second, her eyes dilating and her tone robotic, as if reciting a prompt.
If Charlotte sent that text, then I believe her. I worked with this kid for over three years now and I know she isn’t the lying type. Using her phone was risky, and she sent a concise text with the most important information. Yet another nod to her maturity. Nothing ages a kid like extreme trauma.
“Explain to me why we have word from Charlotte that you helped them kidnap her,” Clark says as he slams his hands on the table. The lady flinches, and I see a flicker of shock cross her face telling us all we need to know. She knows something.
“I don’t know why anyone would tell you that. Like I told the officers, there wasn’t anyone around to help us.” Her voice is sharper now, like we’d insulted her. Each moment of silence that passes has her fidgeting more and more in her chair. I guess we rattled her already. That’s always a good sign.
“We have word from Charlotte herself,” I correct her casually. She turns her gaze on me and chuckles.
“Impossible. I saw them pat her down before throwing her in the van. She would have no way to call anyone, and she doesn’t talk anyway.” Her voice is now bordering arrogant. She clearly thought her answers through, but they aren’t genuine and are far too well rehearsed. Not to mention a worried counselor trying to prove her innocence doesn’t fight with the police or FBI.
“Agents!” an officer barks out as he slams the door open. We hurry out and close the door behind us, his tone making it clear something new was happening. “Charlotte called Sophia. She’s in the conference room with Simms. Go!” He ushers us away and stands guard outside of the interrogation room.
When we reach the conference room, Sophia is sobbing and holding the phone out to Simms. I notice another agent nearby that's opening a laptop and pulling other small devices out.
“Flynn. Clark. This facility isn’t good, but that Charlotte is a smart kid. She’s got her phone silenced and hidden with the call still running. I’m trying to connect now.” The new agent is talking and working, which I respect. Right now we need action and no hesitation. It’s the only thing that can save her.
“She said they gave her a patient number, and they are testing on people. That means they will test on her, and we have to get there fast.” Sophia’s voice is shaky and hysterical. An officer comes in escorting the kid’s social worker. She immediately goes over to Sophia to comfort her.
Thank goodness for that, I'm certainly not any good at the comforting side of this job.
“Charlotte’s friends are all in the lobby,” Danielle announces softly. This only makes Sophia start crying harder. I can’t blame her there. I saw how broken Charlotte was when we started the interviews three years ago. She's a completely different person now that she moved to Arcadia Hills.
“I think I’ve got them! It looks like it’s in a cluster of warehouses an hour and 45 minutes from here. Address is sent to your phone, Clark. What kind of backup are we anticipating?” the tech expert asks while typing away.
“If she is patient 634, then it isn’t a small operation. Get in contact with the local PD for backup, and get us several squads of agents for more. Then let the director know the plan so she can handle the other steps while we get in route. Look into the owner of the buildings, he might be our guy. And get us a warrant... now!” Clark barks out orders as he grabs what he needs and ushers us on our way. Now that we have a location, nothing can stop us.
This has to end.
Tonight.
Charlie
The scientist growls in frustration as he tries again to stick the IV in my arm again. It’s his third attempt since he’s not as strong as me. Unfortunately, my fight is draining. But I'm still not going to give up. I'm doubting they will kill me if they need me for this experiment, but if they do, it would be better than being a lab rat for the rest of my life. I'm also betting on his ultra-skinny arms tiring out before I do again. I have muscle and age on my side. He growls once more before stomping off to the intercom on the wall.
“Bring the boss down here, 634 thinks this is a game.” He stomps out of the room through the sliding door. I can’t help but smile at his child-like behavior. This grown scientist is disrupted by a moody teenager.
My humor is short lived as he stalks back in the room with a snide smile on his face. He's accompanied by Dominic. Oh look, he had to tattle to his daddy.
“Now 634, do we really need to give you more bruises before you cooperate? Timmins isn’t our only scientist. I promise they will outlast you. He wants you awake for this experiment, but that doesn’t mean we don’t have other means of getting you to listen,” he explains, still using his fake pleasant voice, even as he's threatening me. I just blink at him, like I have every other time. I refuse to let them see they faze me at all. I can handle pain… I hope.
Before I realize what's happening, my head is whipped to the side as he smacks me with whatever is in his hand. My ear is ringing now, and I can feel the warm blood running down my cheek. My vision is still working, so I purposefully blink up at him as I straighten my head and brace my shoulders.
“Just leave the abdomen clear, so we can carry out the tests there,” Timmins says as he heads over to grab his IV needle. He walks back to me and shows the boss where to hold me down, and he does so, using both hands to hold my upper arm and shoulder in place. I continue to fight, but I'm yet again overpowered. Timmins manages to get the IV in this time, but not without bruising and pain. Generally I wouldn’t choose to move around when there's a needle coming at me, but this situation is not your average hospital visit.
“There now, all done,” the boss says with a pat on my head. He raises his hand again, but this time I see it coming. I square my shoulders and await the impact of his closed fist this time. He clearly doesn’t use as much power as before, but it still jolts my head as he makes contact with my eye. I meet his gaze with a determined one of my own. I probably look like I'm the loser in an MMA match, but I don’t care.
My fight isn’t gone and part of me wants to push him into knocking me
out. Letting my mouth fill with saliva, I spit on him as my only form of retaliation. The bloody saliva drips down his face and the look of shock written on it is almost comical. Dominic snarls and winds up for another blow, but the scientist holds up a hand to stop him from hitting me again.
“Lucky you, you get to feel the pain of your insubordination while the saline goes through. Then you get to be distracted by the awful stinging of the vitamin mix. Then the real fun begins.” Timmins laughs to himself as he hooks the IV to the stand nearby before leaving the room with the boss. He isn’t wrong, I can feel my pulse in my cheek and eye with each beat of my heart. I sit there in pain, trying to fight the hopelessness that's sinking in.
Please God, let me die before letting them experiment. Haven’t I suffered enough?
Unknown
Unknown
Charlie
I’m not sure how long it takes for an IV drip, but it feels like hours before Timmins stalks back in. He doesn’t bother acknowledging me this time. Instead, he switches out the IV with a creepy chuckle before he stalks out of the room again. My head lulls to the side and I try to squint through my swollen eye to see but outside of the vibrant yellow, I can’t tell what’s in the room.
As the drip starts making its way through my body, I can barely breathe. The solution is like lava in my veins, the pain so intense I nearly black out and it just began. When he said awful sting, I wouldn’t even have imagined it being anything close to this. This time, I know the drip will feel like days before it's done.
If I could scream without pain, I’d do it. But the thought of any more is unbearable. Each passing second has me praying for death, anything to make it just stop.
When I'm to the point I don’t think I can handle any more, the pain subsides, and the IV bag hangs empty on the stand. I let out a sigh of relief, nearly crying as my body relaxes into the chair.
Timmins walks back in with a smile on his face. Where the hell did they find these guys? What kind of grown man enjoys the torture of others, especially a kid? I hope that Flynn manages to find these psychos even if I don’t make it out alive. Especially since not making it out alive is seeming more and more like a real possibility.
Timmins makes his way to the back of the chair I'm strapped in and presses a button on the side. The chair moves under me, laying me flat, and I stare at the ceiling so I can maintain my composure, but this is the point where I start to lose my calm exterior. I let out a whimper when I see the glint of polished silver as he pulls over a cart full of surgical tools. He merely chuckles and sets an array of scalpels and other equally horrific sharp tools out for me to see. I start to thrash again as he pushes my scrub top up to expose my stomach.
No, god no.
Please don’t reach for the scalpel.
Much to my horror he went straight for what looked like a shiny, sterile hunting knife.
“I would hold still, these aren’t exactly tiny blades, and you surely don’t want me to cut deeper than I mean too,” he says with mock concern. At his warning, I whimper again but go still. There’s truth to what he’s saying and if I want to hold any hope, I have to survive.
Forcing myself to not pay attention, I bring up every image of my friends and Sophia that I can. Losing myself in the feel of Cole’s hand in mine, of Adam’s lips, of Abby’s hugs. Tears track down my cheeks as I think of each of them in turn, wishing their faces alone could drown out this torture.
I’m snapped back to reality as the scalpel presses into the skin on my stomach. The scream that tears from my throat is raspy and animalistic as he slices away at my flesh. I have never felt such pain. Unconsciousness grips at me and I try to embrace it.
After several swipes with the blade, he picks up a tool resembling a hammer. I don’t even react, which gets a sneer from Timmins. He slams the hammer into my side, and I feel a few ribs snap. At this point, I no longer have the energy to scream or cry. I've been through so much, that it doesn’t take long before I welcome the darkness that finally takes me home.
Detective Flynn
We're about five minutes from the warehouses. The phone trace is still going, and the location hasn’t moved, which is a good sign.
They have to be here somewhere.
When a minor is kidnapped, it tends to motivate the judges and officers. We have a warrant on the way and several teams of agents ready to go in.
We park outside of the main gates to regroup. Everyone puts on their bulletproof vests and readies their comms and weapons. Clark is the lead agent, so we are to follow his cues. I'm not one for giving up control, but I trust him to handle this, and he's letting me be right here with them in return, so I won’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
“Flynn, follow this tracker,” he orders and hands me his cell phone. It will hopefully narrow down the search. I keep an eye on the flashing GPS signal that represents Charlotte’s phone. I have my gun ready in my other hand as we make our way through the maze of warehouses.
Shipping containers, broken vehicles, and piles of scrap metal make our journey tough, but we manage to do it with a skilled precision. My senses are on high alert, every breath, every sound, nearly intensified in my hypervigilant state.
Clark holds up his hand for us to stop a few minutes later. I listen intently, but the only sounds I hear are cars driving in the distance. He motions half of the team to the left and the rest of us to the right with him. It takes another fifteen minutes of walking around before we start to close in on the signal.
As soon as we’re right outside of it, I motion for Clark to stop. He looks at the signal and glances around to what I hope is assessing the best approach. The first team is closing in from the side, and he motions to the back of the building. From the outside it looks like any other warehouse. Clark counts down once he approaches the door, then swings it open. It's dark and mostly empty inside, the door letting out a soft creak that echoes through the vacant warehouse. We do a quick sweep of the building but only find settled dust and some empty shelves.
“If the signal is underground a bit, then it could be a surrounding building,” I suggest.
“Clear. Team one, split in half and check the other warehouses,” Clark speaks into his comm. “Stay with me, Flynn, and Simms. You four head to the other building. Do not enter alone, comm for a regroup if you find signs of anything suspicious,” he quietly orders and leads us to the warehouse next to our current one.
“Clear,” the other teams inform us one by one and I curse under my breath. We enter this warehouse, and it seems to be clear as well except for some older ATVs. We do our own sweep of this building and almost call clear when I notice the tire tracks are new, dust disturbed enough to make it visible.
“Fresh tracks, Agent Clark,” I point out. It doesn’t seem to lead to anything, though. The warehouse has a few shelves against a nearby wall covered in car parts and that’s about it.
“Sir, we need to regroup in our location. We have a locked door and footprints. We are in the warehouse to the east of yours,” the other half of our team announces. We rush out and make our way to them with the other two teams right on our heels.
Clark leads the teams to the locked door. It's a digital key code lock and Clark curses in frustration before pushing on his comm.
“Gonzalez, we’ve got a digital keypad lock,” Clark says into his comm.
“Sir, take the front panel off, then tell me what colors the wires are and which brand,” the tech agent replies in our ears. Clark does as he asks and waits for the reply. “Cut the purple and blue wire at the same exact time, or you will set off their alarm system. That should unlock it. Good luck.”
Another agent hands over a small set of wire-cutters and Clark pulls the purple and blue wires together and snips them at the exact same moment while we all hold our breath. There's a loud click as the lock disengages and I breathe a sigh of relief at the lack of blaring sirens. We don’t stop to celebrate though. He eases open the door, his gun at the ready.
&nbs
p; Beyond the door it's like a different world. It goes from dusty, grimy warehouse to pristine, white facility. I guess we found our place. We make our way as a group down the white hallway before coming to a front desk and a set of stairs. The guard behind the desk shouts in alarm as Clark slides over the top of it and pins him against the wall before he can set off any sort of alarm. Once the agents have him in cuffs, two of them lead him out into the main warehouse for questioning. Clark's ready to move forward when I signal him to stop. There has to be something to gain from this location and I rush forward. Papers and drawers fly as I scour for a morsel of help.
Eventually, I find a guard logbook with a map clipped to the back. It looks like the facility is really expansive, running under the warehouses like an anthill. It's made up of offices and conference rooms on the top, then rows of rooms, before leading downstairs. It marks dormitories for youth and elderly on this floor as well. Another floor below is titled labs. There are four long labs. The floor below that is one giant room that's labeled storage and incinerator. My stomach drops as I read that, and I rip the map from the clip and rejoin Clark.
“How do you want to do this?” I inquire. He hesitates and looks a bit overwhelmed as he studies the map. This facility is bigger than either of us expected.
“We need all available units and agents here for backup. Send medical help as well, we don’t know the condition of the victims. My team is heading in now,” Clark announces into his comm before motioning us forward. The office doors do not look like they are secured, like the door at the entrance. One by one we clear the office spaces. Not surprising that they're all empty since it's after midnight. They probably have minimal guards and staff at this hour.
The next floor is the dormitories. As we round the corner into the first hallway, we're met with a yell and gunfire. We quickly fall back for cover before returning fire. Bullets whip past my head as I peek around and fire at the assholes shooting at us. Thankfully there are only two guards up ahead. Clark and I take turns returning the shots while the others watch our backs. One last round from Clark, and the guards are down, a bullet to each of their foreheads. I’m impressed by his shot but don’t stop to congratulate him. We have bigger fish to fry.