by Glen Robins
The spiked one jumped out as the driver slammed on the brakes. Within seconds, the passenger had caught her. She tried again to scream, but the sound didn’t travel far. She tried to fight, but the young man was agile, quick, and experienced. He deftly avoided her jabs and kicks and moved in to overpower her. As he did, he wrapped an arm around her neck, applied the cloth to her nose, and dragged her back toward the van. The inked driver hopped over the duffle bag between the two front seats to open the side cargo door. The younger partner turned to sit on the deck with his prey in his arms. The driver grabbed an arm and helped drag her limp body into the van. The passenger slammed the side door shut as the driver leapt back into his seat. He pulled the shifter down into Drive and sped away before anyone in the area was able to react to the commotion.
As the driver weaved his way through the winding suburban streets of La Jolla toward the freeway, the passenger rolled Emily over, pulled her arms behind her back, wrapped her wrists and ankles in duct tape and plastered a strip of it across her mouth, as well. His eyes ventured over her contours.
“Don’t do anything to her. Not yet,” called the driver as he watched from the rearview mirror.
The passenger sat back on his haunches, licked his lips, and responded. “There has to be some reward for our work.”
“Not now. Wait.”
The younger thug shook his head at the older driver who watched him through the rearview mirror. He dragged his prisoner to the back and fastened a thick nylon strap around her torso and locked it to a metal brace on the sidewall, just as he had done with Mrs. Cook, who sat strapped to the opposite side of the van, slumped over and unconscious.
The passenger took another long look at Emily, licking his lips as his eyes danced. The driver barked again, which got him moving back into the passenger’s seat. The young passenger beamed with pride as he took his seat and buckled in as the van sped up the southbound Interstate 5 onramp. “Instead of one, we deliver both. Surely the boss will be pleased with our next report,” he said with a hiss of satisfaction.
The driver grinned. “Yes, and we will have something a bit more pleasant to look at.”
The two men cackled as they celebrated their great fortune.
****
Mike Zimmerman paced the hallway outside his office. He walked down to Emily’s door, peered inside, and walked back to report his findings to the stranger waiting patiently in one of his chairs.
“She’s still not there,” he repeated for the third time in the ten minutes since the man arrived.
“Maybe she had lunch plans,” said the stranger.
“Oh, I don’t know. That doesn’t happen often. And when it does, at least one of us in the group knows about it.”
“Maybe she’s running late from another appointment,” offered the man, who sat back with one foot resting on the other knee. He was much less anxious than Mike. “Don’t worry about it.”
“But it’s past one o’clock. She never stays out to lunch this long. I’m going to text her.”
Rob Howell, seated comfortably in Mike Zimmerman’s office, watched with amusement as his host fussed about in an agitated, obsessive-compulsive fit to satisfy Rob’s simple request to take Emily out to lunch. Rob was an accomplished man, although barely thirty-one years old. He had been very successful at many of his endeavors. Developing relationships with people of all types and from all backgrounds was his specialty. Today, however, he had failed to do so, finding himself unable to calm Mike Zimmerman down or assure him that everything would be fine. Even his attempts to make small talk fell woefully short of the mark. Instead, the short man with the neatly trimmed beard paced the hallway nervously.
As time ticked on, Mike only grew antsier. Dr. Burns, he said, was not answering her cell phone nor responding to texts. This, Mike noted, was highly unusual. His pacing became more frenetic and his reports more worry-laden. Rob, however, leaned back and just smiled at his inability to make inroads with Emily’s boss. The Asperger’s kids, no matter their age, always gave him trouble.
****
Western Caribbean Sea, 50 miles north of Providencia Island
June 15, 3:46 p.m. Caribbean Time
The four gunmen aboard the Admiral Risty kept watch over their captives, rotating positions periodically. The one Collin had dubbed “Grunter” now sat in the cockpit and kept a keen eye on the Captain and his instruments. The Captain had apprised them all of his intentions to seek safe harbor along the western shore of Providencia Island, one of several small islands clustered due south of the Caymans and due east of Nicaragua. It was the closest land mass that afforded the best protection from the storm.
Captain Sewell pointed out the mounting storm to the east and its projected course. Grunter, his gun trained on the Captain, leaned forward and followed the trace of the Captain’s finger. A plume of swirling white lay at the far-left edge of the navigation screen, it being oriented to their southerly course. The Admiral was a blinking speck on the far right. Grunter grunted and nodded his head.
The crew was now battling increasing head winds, so they remained busy on the deck gybing as the Admiral tacked at high speed through the blustery conditions. The mighty vessel was racing against time, the Captain and his crew aware of the perils that lay ahead.
Sensing Grunter’s uneasiness, the Captain pointed at the screen and shouted above the noise of the wind and the sails, “That storm is sixty miles to our east, moving this way at ten to fifteen miles per hour.” His finger traced a line going east to west across the screen. “The Island of Providencia is fifty miles southwest.” The Captain pointed to a spot beyond the screen. “We are traveling at nineteen knots per hour,” he explained, pointing at the speed indicator on the GPS. “We’ll be okay.” He caught Jaime’s eye as he said this, arching his eyebrow slightly as he did. Jaime’s nearly imperceptible acknowledgment was a longer-than-normal blink and nod of the head. What Grunter didn’t realize and what the Captain wanted only his crew to know was that they were not going to make it. The storm would be on top of them an hour before they reached the island. The GPS showed their speed, but with the zigzagging they were doing, their course was not a straight line. Therefore, they were not making nineteen knots per hour toward their goal. No, maybe eleven or twelve.
Jaime called over to Rojas in their colloquial, dialectic Spanish to make sure he heard. Rojas signaled with a thumbs-up and relayed the message to Miguel, who also signaled his understanding. Everyone except Collin, who hadn’t seen the sun since he came on board, understood the peril they faced.
****
Below decks, Collin’s body was slowly recovering from the excessive abuse heaped upon it during the previous day and Mr. Green’s assault during his failed uprising in the night. His head was clearing, the swelling around his eyes had gone down, and the lacerations in his mouth were mending. However, his hands were still zip-tied behind his back. The skin around his wrists was shredded, raw, and puffy. The muscles of his arms and shoulders were stiff and ached from lack of movement and from trying to hold as still as possible to avoid more damage to his wrists. A fresh bruise had formed on his cheek from the blow Mr. Green had inflicted and his ribs still ached from the initial kick that he never saw coming.
Lack of food had made him weak, but the lack of water was placing him in dire straits. Stinky and his gang only allowed him a few sips at a time and only when they fed him a crust of bread, a bite of fruit, or a slice of cheese. His mouth was parched, and his skin was clammy. Collin had stopped sweating, despite the stuffy, ninety-five-degree temperatures inside the cabin. Stinky had made sure all windows remained closed. He wanted Collin to suffer. The lack of perspiration was a bad sign, and Collin knew it. Plus, his head was pounding—another bad sign—making it difficult to think.
Collin lay on the same lower bunk he had been on since this ordeal began, straining to hear what was going on above him. He heard the Captain yelling about the coming storm, but the details were literally lost in the wind. T
here was too much noise from the slapping of water against the hull, the pounding of feet on the deck, and the clanking of lines and riggings against the masts for him to make out all of the words. But he had heard “storm now moving toward us,” “safe harbor,” and “islands to our south” and felt comforted that the Captain, who knew the Caribbean like a well-used diary, had everything in hand. Nonetheless, sleep was not forthcoming. Thoughts of water made it impossible and blocked out everything else from his mind. His craving for moisture was now all-consuming.
Through half-shut eyes, Collin watched his new guard across the cabin. This was the long-haired one he’d only seen once before. Long Hair paid Collin little attention since Tog’s death. The constant jostling of the ship kept him looking pensive and uneasy. With one hand, Long Hair held his semi-automatic Uzi. The other hand braced the bulkhead. As the sea grew rougher, Long Hair’s attention to Collin grew lighter. The man looked out the small windows above the galley or behind him, shaking his head periodically.
Collin knew there was an opportunity opening up. He just didn’t know how to take advantage of it in his weakened and battered state. The failure of his previous attempt and its repercussions lingered but didn’t deter him from trying again. Forcing himself to concentrate, he closed his eyes and tried to reformulate his earlier plan, then add to it. Putting thoughts together and keeping them from straying toward his need for water proved even more difficult than he had expected. His ability to move was restricted. His coordination, balance, and strength were impaired even more so than before. Everything that could be used as a tool or a weapon was out of reach because his hands were tied behind him.
The planning effort was exhausting. There were so many ifs and contingencies to consider. Plus, the potential for additional violence against him loomed in his mind. Within minutes, Collin’s strength gave out and he closed his eyes in defeat. There were four gunmen. He could only see one, but he felt another one was somewhere below-decks, either asleep or standing guard. Collin realized that even if he could close the distance between himself and Long Hair fast enough to catch him off-guard while keeping his balance, the only thing he would be able to do is kick him. Could he kick him hard enough and in the right place to incapacitate him? Even if he could, chances are the other guard would once again beat him senseless. What then? In his current state, this was the best plan he could come up with and it was doomed to fail.
Collin’s eyes closed and his head sank into the mattress. The boat was being buffeted by wind and waves, rocking him vigorously from side to side as he tried to lay still and think. The movement caused the tight plastic band around his wrists to cut deeper into the worn skin, drawing fresh blood. He tried to steady himself by pushing his legs into the bulkhead at the end of the bed, but that did little to prevent his upper body from rolling back and forth.
The storm he had heard referenced by the Captain had arrived. Looking around, Collin realized he and Long Hair were alone. Everyone else had escaped topside for fresh air. Collin’s legs shook and his head rolled from side to side with nervous energy. This restlessness came from the claustrophobia. He had been trapped below deck for more than thirty-six hours and the confinement was killing him, making him crazy and willing to do anything to get out.
Across the cabin, Long Hair struggled to endure the increasing tidal action and constant movement of the boat. Each tumble over a swell and each sideways turn through the surf as the boat tacked against the headwind drained more and more color from his face. His muted, involuntary moans gave away his physical suffering. Collin sat himself up and double checked his surroundings. He weighed his options and reviewed his plan of attack, realizing he was willing to risk the threat of physical pain in order to escape the dreads of confinement.
Now seemed like a perfect time to launch into Long Hair if he could just keep his balance.
Chapter Thirteen
La Jolla, California, Scripps Cancer Research Center
June 15 1:22 p.m. Pacific Time
In the midst of amusedly watching Mike Zimmerman pace and shuffle, Rob’s cell phone buzzed. He checked the screen; not sure he should allow the distraction. Seeing that it was Lukas and knowing it hadn’t yet been twenty-four hours since they spoke last, he answered. “Lukas? What’s up?”
“Didn’t I tell you not to use my name?”
“Sorry, I forgot.”
“Are you alone?” asked Lukas.
“No, I’m here with Emily’s boss, Mike. We’re waiting for her to show up so I can take her to lunch.”
“You need to politely excuse yourself. Your lunch date is not going to happen.”
“What are you talking about?” said Rob, as he rose from the chair, dread spreading through his gut and across his face.
“I’ll tell you in a minute. Just get out to your car,” said Lukas.
Holding the phone to his chest and gesturing that it was important, Rob shook Mike’s hand, thanked him for his hospitality, excused himself, and told him not to worry about Emily. He would catch up with her another time.
“Rob,” Lukas called.
“Yeah, I’m here, just exiting the building,” Rob said as he returned the phone to his ear.
“Listen, there are a couple of FBI guys on protective duty for Emily. I don’t want them to see you, you hear?”
“I hear you. Where are they?”
“In a gray Taurus, parked near Emily’s white BMW. Do you see them?”
“Should’ve guessed.” Rob stopped short at the large glass doors leading to the parking lot, searching for both the BMW and the Taurus. “I don’t see either car, but the parking lot is pretty full. I parked around the side, near the street, so I should be able to get out quickly and without being seen.”
“Good. Keep your eye out for them. They’re supposed to be on protective detail, but apparently Emily objected to them following her around all day―felt they would interfere―so they agreed to stay outside the building during the workday. I’m afraid that was a bad decision, though I can understand the reasoning.”
“What do you mean a bad decision?”
“Are you in your car yet?” asked Lukas.
“I’m just about there,” said Rob, as the car chirped. Once inside, he continued. “Tell me what’s going on, Lukas.”
“Don’t use my name,” Lukas chided again. “I have two bits of bad news to share with you.”
“Sounds like one of them might have something to do with Emily and will explain why she’s not here to have lunch with me.”
“Very perceptive, my friend. The local police have taken witness statements from two people who watched a young woman matching Emily’s description get hauled away in a large white van not far from where you’re parked right now,” Lukas said solemnly.
“You’ve got to be kidding. Must’ve happened right before I got here. I can’t believe it,” Rob barked as he punched the seat next to him. His breathing resembled that of an angry bull.
“Look, Rob, it’s not your fault. Don’t blame yourself.”
“I knew I should have called first to let her know I was coming.”
“But I told you not to, remember? I didn’t want her worried and I certainly didn’t want the FBI listening to your conversation with her. You need to stay disentangled.”
“Are you sure it was her that was abducted?” asked Rob, trying to keep a hopeful tone.
“To confirm, I pinged her phone. If the GPS coordinates are accurate and if she has her phone with her, she’s sitting on the median of the 5 Freeway about three miles south of your location. So, I decided to try the cell phone Collin gave her and found that she is heading south on Interstate 805 and my FBI liaison assures me that their guys and her BMW are still in the parking lot at Scripps. I’ll keep a watch on that and figure something out.”
“This is just great. I come out here to help keep her safe and this happens before I even have a chance,” Rob said, still snorting angrily.
“Actually, you’re supposed to get
information from her and protect Sarah and Henry, but things are happening way too fast for any of that to matter now,” said Lukas.
“What do you mean? Is that the other piece of bad news?”
“You’re going to like this even less,” Lukas said grimly. “They’ve taken Sarah Cook, as well.”
“Those sick bastards,” Rob yelled as he once again punched the passenger’s seat.
“Yeah, they roughed up Henry, too. He called it in around eleven this morning after the nurse he’d hired to help Sarah found him tied up and gagged on the floor of his garage.”
“Is he all right?”
“You know Henry. He’s a tough old guy. But he’s worried sick about his wife,” said Lukas. “Apparently, the cancer treatments are really wiping her out, so she’s weak and frail to begin with.”
Rob sucked in a breath between his teeth and held it for several seconds. “First, what do you know about Henry’s condition?”
“I haven’t got the details yet. I’m hoping you can get over to the hospital to find out and be with him.”
“Yes, I’ll head up there right away, but I have to tell you this makes me sick. No, it makes me mad, real mad. If I find these guys―”
“Look, Rob. I understand your anger. It’s natural in situations like these, but you have to put it aside for the time being. Anger causes one to make mistakes and act rashly. We can’t afford that right now. We have to stay sharp and focused.”
“I’m with you,” said Rob, forcing calmness upon himself. “Just tell me where to go and what to do to help. I want to get to these guys before they do anything to hurt either one of those ladies.”
“I know, me too. I’m making arrangements as we speak,” said Lukas. Rob could hear the clicking of a keyboard in the background.