Rick Mofina - They Disappeared

Until a recent trip to Turkey.

She was writing about Istanbul where she delivered a watch to Yuri, a former reporter with Interfax, the Russian wire service.

“And how is Joost, my old spy friend?”

After reading the shock on Aleena’s face, Yuri, who had obviously been drinking but was not that drunk, took her to a quiet cafe and, while hitting on her, confidentially told her, “reporter to reporter,” that Joost had once worked for Russian intelligence. All of Joost’s spy world friends knew that his magazine was a front for several global smuggling networks, specializing in small, critical items.

“For all you know-” Yuri tapped the watch Aleena had given him before laughing “-you may have just delivered the key to unleashing a biological weapon, or nuclear device.”

Yuri’s laughter haunted Aleena.

Later, when she confronted Joost, he let a long disturbing silence pass.

“Yuri’s weakness will get him killed one day,” Joost said before he confirmed everything: he was a smuggler. Then, very pleasantly, he asked about Aleena’s mother, her father, her older sister and her three little nephews, stating specific addresses and personal information that chilled Aleena.

Joost then subtly suggested how Aleena was implicated and it would be better for her to keep secret things secret. He knew about her bank account in Luxembourg, where she’d been hiding the large payments he’d given her for making deliveries.

The truth was sickening, overwhelming.

She wanted to get out of this business, get away from Joost.

But how?

Now, somewhere over the Irish Sea, Aleena confronted her guilt.

All those items I delivered…what were they? Who was at the other end of the emergency contact numbers? Did anyone ever die because of me? I can’t keep doing this…I just can’t….

She took the ballerina music box from her bag, looked at it. There was nothing unusual about it. What could it be? She opened it and played the most beautiful version of Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake.

Tears streamed down Aleena’s face.

Will I have blood on my hands?

Somewhere in New York City

Cole forced himself not to cry.

That bearded guy just killed the man who wanted to kill me. Just shot him in the head.

Tiny prickles of sensation kept running up and down Cole’s body as he stared at three fat rats across the factory floor. They were licking the fresh blood streaks where the dead guy had been dragged away.

It got all quiet after they got rid of his body.

And the awful burning smell, whatever it was, was nearly gone now, but Cole was afraid, not knowing what the kidnappers were going to do next.

He didn’t want to cry.

His mom held him, rubbing her cheek against his.

“We have to brave, sweetie,” she whispered. “Think of all the fun things we’ll do with Daddy when we get out of here. Okay?”

She kissed the top of his head where they had jabbed him with their guns.

“Okay?”

Cole nodded, keeping his face pressed to his mother.

Cole wouldn’t cry. Not with one of the killers sitting in the chair about ten feet away. The guy kept scratching himself and yawning. Looking at him with disdain, Cole kept twisting the links of his chain; running his fingers along it was calming.

He just wanted this to be over.

When it all started he thought it was a movie or TV show, like some kind of joke. It happened so fast with these strange men showing them guns, shoving them into the car and sliding hoods over their heads.

This can’t be real, Cole had thought.

But it was real.

They drove and drove, bringing them to this scary place that stunk like a broken toilet, and handcuffing them with chains and sticking that goof over there to watch them. Cole had trouble understanding their accents as they demanded a backpack with a toy plane. Mom kept telling them they’d made a mistake, that his bag got mixed up at the airport with a bag that belonged to that weird guy, Hans Beck. She kept telling them that they traded bags back with him.

After that they went crazy.

They took Mom away.

Cole was terrified he would never see her again. But when they came back with her, they were even madder and Mom was really, really scared. Then when they saw Dad on TV with all those cops, and those pictures, the creeps freaked out and one of them was going to shoot him.

Feeling that gun on his head, he was never so scared in his life.

Then the leader with the beard killed the guy and told them that sooner or later we all die.

Cole understood that.

He knew that everyone died one day. He was there when his baby sister died. He knew that Lee Ann had gone to heaven first because God needed her there to help get things ready for him and Mom and Dad.

Cole also knew that it was wrong to kill people.

Good people don’t kill people.

His mom and dad didn’t kill people. They helped people. His dad ran into burning buildings when people were running out. His dad was a hero who saved lives. His dad fixed things and Cole knew in his heart from what he saw on the TV news that his dad was working hard trying to fix this.

Cole shot a vengeful glance beyond the guard who was half-asleep and beyond the blood-licking rats to the tables where the creeps were working. Gritting his teeth, he kept twisting his chain.

My dad’s going to kick your freakin’ butts.

Cole wanted to kick their butts, too, because what they were doing wasn’t right. He hated them for what they did, scaring him, his mom, his dad. Cole sat up, feeling a bit better, while his mom stared off at nothing.

“It’s going to be okay, honey. Don’t worry.”

She said that a lot, like a prayer she was telling herself.

Cole slid his fingers along his chain and looked at his kidnappers. He wished he could fight them, wished he could help, the way he’d sometimes help his dad fix cars.

“Pick up that wrench, son,” his dad used to say on days when he worked on the truck. Dad would lift Cole up over the hood. His big strong hands holding him firm, safe. He’d guide him on where to connect the wrench and how to turn it, waiting patiently while Cole made the adjustment.

As Cole moved to reach for the bottle of water, he noticed something for the first time.

On the ground, near the drowsy guard’s boot.

At that moment a ray of sun lit upon a small metal object, making it glint. Cole softly nudged his mother, drawing her attention to it.

A small ring with two handcuff keys.

Cole’s mom froze, then glanced at Cole.

The keys had fallen from the sleepy guard’s pocket.

Cole’s mom pressed her lips together, eyed the guard until she was certain he had drifted off. She gathered her chain to silence it and a swift, smooth motion swept the keys into her hand.

She passed them to Cole, nodding to the wall. He quickly hid the keys among the countless cracks.

Then he and his mother looked at each other.

Both had to restrain their excited breathing and pray the guard would not notice.

They would wait for the right time.

Brooklyn, New York

“The president of Burundi just canceled the Empire State Building event,” Secret Service Agent Tate Eason said through his headset to the agent in midtown heading the detail protecting the dignitary. “Adjust the schedule-go with the flow, Jim, go with the flow.”

Under the circumstances, we’re all a bit edgy.

Eason took another swallow of his energy drink and continued monitoring his console at “Iron Shield,” code name for the Secret Service security command center for United Nations General Assembly.