Hard Road to Redemption Read online

  *******

  Wearing a white, short-sleeve, below-the-knee dress, her bare feet in brown sandals, Miranda stood outside her cabin staring down at a tall and thin girl with dark matted hair that hung down to her shoulders.

  The newcomer’s bulging eyes went from the two men flanking her to Miranda.

  The man who had awakened Miranda turned to his companion and said, “Let’s go. She’s got it from here. She knows the routine.” He offered Miranda a parting smile.

  Miranda hunched shoulders, hugged herself, and looked away.

  “Bye, Miranda.”

  The men spun on their heels and hurried off.

  Miranda watched them cross the compound and disappear between two buildings. She shuddered and rubbed her upper arms. The warm, sticky night air did nothing to quash the cold welling up inside her.

  “What is this place? Why am I here? Who are you? What do they want from me?”

  The fresh recruit’s barrage of questions broke Miranda’s trance. She blinked twice and faced the girl, who was standing in a pose like Miranda’s. She stepped off the porch and found herself still a couple inches taller than the other teen. She tilted her head to one side. “How old are you?”

  “S-sixteen. Why?”

  Miranda closed her eyes for a beat, Dear God, then mustered the best smile she had to offer, took the scared girl’s hand, “Come with me,” and led her toward a nearby building.

  They passed two men smoking cigarettes.

  The men gave the new girl long looks.

  The new girl noticed. “W-why am I here? What’s—”

  Miranda ushered her into a small hut and turned on a light.

  “What’s going to happen to me?”

  Inside the hut, storage shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling. Shirts, shoes, dresses, sandals, underwear, and other clothing articles rested on the wooden planks anchored to the walls.

  “Listen to—” Miranda noticed that the two men were now standing directly across from the shack and staring through the doorway. She pulled the girl further inside and closed the door. “What’s your name?”

  “Chris...Chrissy, actually.”

  Miranda spun around, clamped hands around Chrissy’s upper arms, and sent a death stare toward her. “Listen to me, Chrissy. Whatever happened to you...whatever incident brought you here, you need to forget about it. It’s over and done with. You can’t change any of it. Whatever dumb thing you did, or smart thing you should’ve done but didn’t do...whatever it was that exposed you to being taken,” she lingered, “that’s in the past now. Dwelling on it won’t help you one bit.”

  Chrissy stood taller, her ample chest for a teen protruding outward.

  Observing the big bumps under the girl’s t-shirt, while recalling Chrissy’s age, Miranda shivered inwardly, her heart going out to the kid. “To survive this place, you’re going to need to do what they tell you to do, say what they tell you to say, and believe the,” she cursed, “they tell you to believe. Got it?”

  Chrissy said nothing.

  Miranda shook her head. “That won’t work here. You need to respond when spoken to. Do...you...understand me?”

  She nodded. “Yes. I understand.”

  Miranda gave Chrissy a once-over, “And there’s one more thing,” before making a pass around the outbuilding and dragging clothing items from the shelves. She piled the folded garments onto a long table in the middle of the space.

  “What’s that?”

  Miranda added a pair of brown sandals to the stack and faced Chrissy. “This is the most important thing you need to remember. But don’t you ever tell anyone about it. You hear me?”

  Chrissy nodded several times.

  “Pick someone in your life who loves you very much, someone who will never stop trying to find you. For most people, that’s their parents. But, whoever you choose, make sure you never...ever forget them.” Miranda gave the room a quick look, her mind seeing the camp beyond the four walls. “This place is going to try to strip everything from you...erase who you are and replace you with what,” she jerked her head toward the door, “they want you to be.”

  Chrissy grabbed a deep breath.

  “But don’t let them take what’s in,” Miranda drew near to her pupil and laid a flat hand over the girl’s chest, “here,” before holding Chrissy’s head in both her hands, “and in here.” She locked eyes with Chrissy. “Remember the ones who love you the most,” she paused, “and cling to the hope that they’ll one day find you.”

  Water filled Chrissy’s eyes.

  Miranda barely shook her head. “Tears will only weaken you. Mourn on the inside, but don’t ever let them see you crying.”

  Chrissy dried her eyes with a flick of each hand and nodded once.

  Miranda flashed a warm smile. “Come on. Let’s get you a nice shower. It’s one of the few things you can do here that actually makes you feel human...for a time, anyway.”

  Chrissy gathered up her clothing.

  The two strolled toward the door.

  Miranda grabbed the knob.

  “What about you?”

  Miranda looked back. “What about me?”

  “What, you know...what person do you cling to?”

  Miranda gawked at the wooden floorboards while she mentally revisited the last birthday she had celebrated before being taken. That’s just how I roll...No way...Thanks Mom...Thanks Dad. She spied her questioner. “My parents.”

  ∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞

  .

  Chapter 3

  Skip the Foreplay

  ONE WEEK LATER...

  AUGUST 15th; 5:16 P.M.

  CLARKSTOWN, NEW YORK

  “If this truly is for my benefit, Jake, you need to go deeper, harder.”

  Jacob St. Christopher regarded his girlfriend. “I’m trying to be gentle here. This is my first time doing this...with you, I mean.”

  Thirty-one-year-old FBI Special Agent Deanna Stockwell smiled. “Your intentions are sweet. But you can skip the foreplay and really get in there. You won’t break me.”

  The thirty-five-year-old former FBI Hostage Rescue Team leader used more of his six-two, two-hundred-pound frame to fulfill his woman’s request.

  “Oh,” Stockwell groaned, “yes. That’s it.” Seated on a couch, she pushed her shirt collar over her shoulder, “Can you,” then tapped the right side of her neck, “hit that spot? I always get a knot right there after a long day at work.”

  Standing behind her, his fingers wandering a few inches up her anatomy, Jacob leaned into his work and kneaded the muscle she had pointed out to him.

  Her head lolling to the left, she shut her eyes and moaned while her left arm went limp, sliding off her thigh and landing on the sofa cushion a second later. “Ooh. Wow.”

  He squeezed harder.

  “You’re,” her jaw slackened while her brain registered the prickly sensations speeding up her neck, “you’re turning me into a...”

  He pressed his thumbs into her skin.

  “...a,” her upper body swayed left, “into a bowl of jelly. You know that?”

  “And, judging from the sounds you’re making...setting the bar a little too high, I might add.”

  She opened her eyes. “What do you mean by that?”

  “For,” he hesitated, “other physical contact we might one day enjoy?”

  She frowned before her brows reversed course, and her mood lightened. She let her head hang backward over the couch. “You have...”

  Her long blonde hair dangled closer to the floor.

  “...nothing to,” lost in his gray eyes, which appeared silver in this light, she dithered then re-focused her thoughts, “you have nothing to fear on that front, Mr. St. Christopher. When...” she coiled an index finger toward herself a few times.

  His pants pocket vibrating, Jacob bent over.

  “...when that day comes, I’ll be,” after running a thumb over the subtle cleft chin on his broad face, Stockwell weaved her fingers through h
is jet-black hair, swept to the side, and gave him a long upside-down kiss on the lips, “mmm...”

  He returned the affection, pulled away, and regarded her smiling face while retrieving his cell phone.

  “...equally satisfied, I’m sure.”

  “I’m going to hold you to that.” He eyeballed the screen, “It’s Higs,” then tapped the ‘speakerphone’ icon. “You’re on speaker, Higs. Stockwell’s here, too.”

  She raised her voice. “Hi, Higs.”

  “Greetings Ms. Stockwell, Mr. St. Christopher. I’m pleased you’re together. A matter of some importance has come to my attention...a matter that requires both of you, I’m afraid.”

  Jacob walked around the sofa, sunk his butt into the cushion on his woman’s starboard side, and curled his left arm around her shoulders. “What can we do for you, Higs?”

  She hugged his belly and nestled the side of her face into his chest while rolling onto her right hip and crossing her naked left leg over his left knee.

  Admiring the shapely leg, he smiled while recalling how she had stripped down to nothing but her underwear and her blouse the moment she had entered his house five minutes ago.

  “I’ve been waiting to do this for the last three hours,” Stockwell had said, as she hopped across the wood flooring while peeling off her second sock.

  Jacob put the mobile on his left thigh, “You have our undivided attention,” then cupped her bare knee before he trailed his fingers up her leg. Well...mostly.

  Higs: “Last week...”

  She touched her man’s right cheek, tipped back her head, and pecked the left side of his neck.

  Her lips sent a rush of blood down his body and a wave of tingles upward.

  “...a teenage girl was...”

  Stockwell’s kisses went north.

  “...kidnapped.”

  She uncoiled her legs from Jacob’s, planted both feet on the floor, and leaned forward.

  He looked down at the cell. “Talk to us. What have you got?”

  “Chrissy Toberman, age sixteen, disappeared on her way home...after spending time with some friends at a movie theater. Her car was found abandoned approximately halfway between the theater and the missing girl’s home.”

  Jacob sat upright, interlaced his fingers, and rested forearms on his knees. “A week ago, huh? Do we have a starting point?”

  “We do indeed. And that starting point intersects with four other reported kidnappings over the last twelve months. All of those incidents involved teenage girls—ages thirteen to sixteen—being abducted from different parts of the country. The patterns are almost identical.”

  Stockwell frowned. “Are we thinking this is some sort of serial kidnapping spree?”

  “I believe so. I’ve written an algorithm and cross-referenced the known data from police reports, eyewitness statements, video surveillance feeds from gas stations, fast-food restaurants,” Higs drew a breath, “the usual procedures. From there, I plotted those data points and was able to discern a pattern.”

  Jacob: “Which is?”

  “My algorithms are giving me a seventy-nine percent probability that, after the victims were abducted, the kidnappers drove them to Georgia.”

  “Where in Georgia?”

  “I’m not entirely sure, Mr. St. Christopher. As I said, utilizing sightings of the girls, from witnesses and store security cameras, I plotted straight lines,” a pause, “roughly straight lines that overlap at a heavily forested area in the Blue Ridge Mountains in Northern Georgia.”

  “What’s there?”

  “Beyond an abundance of trees, nothing within a ten-mile radius, except a peculiar-shaped lake and a small town named Mountain Lion.”

  “Okay,” Jacob grabbed Stockwell’s nearest thigh and pushed himself to his feet, “that’s where we’ll start. Send us the coordinates.”

  She pulled her pants off the back of the couch, stood, and shoved a foot into a pant leg.

  “Coordinates will be forthcoming. In addition, I’m securing a private jet for you both. I’m told the aircraft will be ready for departure by nine this evening.”

  “We’ll stop by the Keep,” Jacob’s nickname for the fortified office building that served as the team’s headquarters, “to pick up what we’ll need for the trip.”

  “Very well, Mr. St. Christopher. Until your arrival, I’ll bid you adieu.”

  Jacob clicked off, faced Stockwell, and glimpsed the last few inches of her thighs disappearing beneath her navy-blue slacks.

  Zipping and buttoning her pants, she noticed his demeanor turning sour. “Trust me. This is only temporary. As soon as this assignment is over, you’ll see them again.”

  His spirits brightened as he took in her blue eyes, heart-shaped face, and pointed chin. “That can’t come quick enough.” His smile left, and stoicism took its place. “So, are you ready to go?”

  “Actually,” she stepped into black flats and attached her holstered Glock 19M and a dual magazine pouch to her belt, “I need to tie up a few loose ends at the office and get this time-off approved by my boss. Can you,” she donned a navy-blue blazer and flipped out her hair, “get what we need without me?”

  “Sure.”

  Stockwell half grinned. “You know what I like, right?”

  He flung a similar expression back at her. “Sound-suppressed MP5 and lots of extra mags on the chest rig.”

  “You know me so well.” A beat. “And don’t forget my bulletproof vest. You know, the one you had made special for me? The one that accommodates my,” she held cupped hands in front of her breasts, “how’d you put that again? Oh, that’s right. The one that accommodates my...unique assets.”

  Jacob grinned.

  “My girls have come to appreciate the comfort.”

  His grin blossomed while he envisioned someday being introduced to her ‘girls.’

  Stockwell gave him a quick smooch, snatched up her cell phone, and hurried across the living room. “This shouldn’t take long.” She opened the front door. “Meet you at the airport?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Oh,” she snapped her fingers, “and can you also pack me a bag...clothes for two, three, four days? I won’t have the time.”

  Jacob fired off a quick salute. “Will do.”

  “Thanks.” She closed the door and was gone.

  *******

  STATEN ISLAND, NEW YORK

  ST. GEORGE NEIGHBORHOOD

  NONDESCRIPT OFFICE BUILDING

  (THE “KEEP”)

  Having made his third pass around the conference room table since ending the call with Jacob and Stockwell, Alfred “Higs” Higginbottom stood near his high-back leather chair, hands folded behind his back, head down, eyes boring a hole into the carpeting two inches ahead of his shiny black dress shoes.

  The fifty-three-year-old, five-eight, one-fifty man stripped his gold, wire-rimmed spectacles from his face with one hand. Letting them dangle in his grasp, he massaged the bridge of his nose with the thumb and forefinger of the same hand.

  On the conference table, a laptop computer displayed the photos of six teenage girls.

  The salt-and-pepper-haired Higs glanced at the images out of the corner of his eye while recalling his phone conversation with Jacob. You had no other alternative, Alfred. It was imperative that you refrain from divulging too much information.

  He donned his eyewear, removed his black suit coat, and draped the garment over the back of his chair. After loosening his navy-blue tie, and undoing his white shirt’s topmost button, he leaned forward, Operational integrity, to tap the computer’s touchpad.

  The teenagers disappeared from the screen.

  Operational integrity. Higs booted up an algorithm and checked his watch before doing a one-eighty and heading for the coffee machine. He must be at peak performance for this assignment.

  Pouring a cup of coffee, he spotted hot chocolate packets next to the machine—Jacob’s hot beverage of choice. His stomach knotting, Higs scowled while mixing creamer
into his drink. He took a sip and pondered the decision he had made. He swallowed the coffee and slowly nodded. In the end, he finished his thoughts aloud, “the ultimate good outweighs the potential for harm.”

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  .

  Chapter 4

  Just Lucky, I Guess

  7:23 P.M.

  JACOB K. JAVITS FEDERAL BUILDING

  FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION

  NEW YORK CITY

  Stockwell knocked on her boss’s door and poked her head inside his office. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  Seated behind his desk, Assistant Director in Charge of the New York Field Office Edgar Brolin glanced up. “Come in, Agent Stockwell.” He scribbled his signature onto a form and set the pen aside. Motioning toward the two chairs facing his desk, “Please,” the forty-year-old African American, sporting a short goatee, black eyeglasses, manicured fingernails, pin-striped three-piece gray suit, white shirt, and an eye-catching red tie, stood and made his way to the opposite side of his workspace.

  Stockwell claimed the straight-back, leather-trimmed chair on her right, crossed her legs, and placed folded hands on her lap.

  “I wanted to,” he perched on the edge of his dark oak desk, “let you know that I’ve approved your vacation request.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He cocked his head at her. “You’ve been taking quite a bit of time off these last couple of months. Is everything okay? Is there anything going on that I should know about?”

  She pursed her lips and shook her head. “Not at all, sir. I’ve just accumulated a lot of days and figured I’d,” she lifted a shoulder, “use a few of them.”

  Brolin studied her for a few moments before reaching behind him and plucking a sheet of paper from a stack. “You’ve also been on a,” he paused while eyeballing the report, “hot streak over that same time period.”

  She frowned. “Sir?”

  “Cracking some big cases, I mean,” he made eye contact, “while on vacation.”

  Stockwell fought the urge to swallow. I was wondering when this was going to come back and bite me. She maintained eye contact with her supervisor. “Just lucky, I guess. I was in the right place at the right time.”