Rick Mofina - They Disappeared

Jeff’s heart stood still.

They’re making a video-a demand or ultimatum for maybe an attack on the UN!

Realizing what was unfolding, he had to do something fast.

He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, knowing that he was exhausted, not thinking clearly. He couldn’t leave until he found Sarah and Cole.

He grabbed his phone and in several quick texts to Cordelli, Jeff alerted him that he couldn’t talk. He’d found the killers in a factory in Purgatory Point in the Bronx. It was extremely urgent that Cordelli give him a number by which he could relay live critical one-way information.

Jeff’s last text ended with:

It’s life and death. Time is running out!

Tremont, the Bronx, New York City

“He’s in a warehouse in Purgatory Point,” Cordelli told Brewer.

Brewer was driving.

“That’s five miles from here, we’ll take Major Deegan.” Brewer checked his mirrors, then rolled his unmarked Crown Victoria west out of Tremont, a section of the Bronx once known as a neighborhood of lost causes.

Brewer and Cordelli had come to Tremont to follow Brewer’s lead that a foreign crew was making a film without permits in the Bronx. Brewer’s source, the film location manager, was able to narrow his information to a factory in Tremont but the detectives had found nothing, even after a call to the Forty-sixth Precinct for help. Nothing had surfaced.

Their frustration underscored Brewer’s simmering resentment.

As he knifed through traffic on the expressway, he could not stop considering it punishment that he had been ordered to partner with Cordelli for the rest of this investigation.

Klaver had been assigned to work with Ortiz to help teams completing the canvass of restaurants and various outlets based on Jeff’s recalled details from the van.

Nothing had come out of that aspect of the investigation, either.

Until now, with Jeff’s call, no major breaks had surfaced for anyone, not the Joint Terrorism Task Force, NYPD, Homeland, FBI, Secret Service and the thirty agencies that were going full tilt on the case.

With a threat looming, the fear of being powerless to stop it intensified.

Brewer had to get his anger off of his chest.

“I don’t understand how you could just lose Griffin,” he said. “The last time that happened he made contact with the suspects.”

“The FBI had him. Nobody ‘lost’ him, Larry. He was never in custody.”

“Did they triangulate his phone?”

“They had him leaving Battery Park, then northbound near the Queensborough Bridge. Then they lost his roaming signal.”

“I would have never let him out of my sight.”

“No one can hold a candle to your police work, Larry. Look, we’ve got him again so why don’t you push this ‘my way’ crap aside so we can take Griffin’s lead and work this thing through.”

Brewer swallowed the remnants of his bitterness.

“Call the Fortieth,” Brewer said. “Request some help to meet us at this Vaketa Kitchen, or whatever it’s called, so we can find the warehouse. Better get ESU on standby.”

Cordelli was staring at his phone. Something had come in.

“It’s a text from Griffin,” Cordelli said. “Give me your phone, I’ve got to make a call.”

“What’s he saying?” Brewer passed Cordelli his cell phone and, while reading Jeff’s message, Cordelli called the NYPD’s Real Time Crime Center. His call was answered on the second ring.

“This is Detective Cordelli with an urgent request. Is this Renee?”

“That’s right, Renee Abbott, Detective. How can I help?”

“You’re going to get a call from Jeff Griffin. He will leave his phone on for a one-way transmission of critical information, originating from the suspects. Do not respond. Mute your line and patch it through to the task force for processing. Alert them now. Are you ready for Griffin’s number?”

“Ten-four.”

“Okay, it’s 646–555…”

Purgatory Point, the Bronx, New York City

Jeff called the number Cordelli had texted him.

No one spoke at the other end but the display window showed that his call had connected.

Good.

Jeff activated his cell phone’s speaker and set the phone on the floor on his side of the wall. Then with the utmost care to be quiet he slid the phone under the gap. It picked up the sound just as the man on the other side resumed making his statement.

“‘Greetings from God’s slave to the United Nations. You did not start this tragic war but if you are people with courage, determination and humanity, you will acknowledge our action today as the final call…’”

Jeff’s heart hammered against his chest with such force he feared the men would surely hear it. He worked on controlling his breathing while praying that Sarah and Cole were near.

God, please let them be alive.

Jeff drew back when the statement suddenly ended with a burst of activity.

“Let’s go! This is it! You know your jobs!”

From that point on, orders were shouted in a foreign language over the movements of people rushing, equipment cases being loaded and snapped shut, zippers being closed, computers shutting down, tables and chairs shoved.

Jeff grabbed his phone, then lay flat on the floor, pressing his face to the gap to see what was happening. His view was restricted to the boots of men hurrying, moving out. How many were there-twenty, two dozen? Then he heard the ring-clink of chains and held his breath.

Then he saw small white sneakers contrasted against the large military boots.

Those are Sarah’s shoes!

She was wearing them when they’d left the hotel to visit Times Square.

Jeff then saw a set of smaller khaki canvas sneakers.

Those belong to Cole!

His wife and son were right there, so close. Jeff’s stomach twisted. He wanted to bust through the wall but was helpless. There were too many opponents. He’d be overpowered, captured, killed. He drew his fingers into fists; his agony turned to rage.

Vehicle doors opened and closed, engines started, revved, and within seconds they were gone.

Manhattan, New York City

Underwater.

Aleena Visser was below the surface.

She could not open her eyes. The roar of the pressure throbbing in her brain and her ears was deafening.

I’m awake. I’m not awake. I’m dreaming .

Remembering and not remembering.

A story in New York.

“We need a special edition on New York…. Would you to please deliver this for me…?” A gift, a pretty music box. “Would you please deliver this for me in Manhattan?”

Joost insisted.

Joost was dead. No! No, it’s not true! It can’t be true!

“Would you please deliver this for me in Manhattan?”

The newspaper headline on the plane: Murder-Kidnap Case Stirs Terror Fears at UN Meeting in New York.

She delivered the music box.

The strangers. My contact. It’s true. All true. Being chased by two strangers. I am guilty.

What’s in the music box?

The strangers. They’re chasing me. They’ll kill me.

No!

Aleena was swimming, swimming hard underwater. The forces chasing her were faster. Open your eyes! No! Open your eyes, you must see! The water is dark. I can’t see!

Swimming up with powerful save-your-life strokes, kicking up.

Breaking the surface to see, she gasped at the horror enveloping her.

Blood!

Aleena was swimming in blood and the screams pierced her ears.

No!

Thrashing, she felt the tubes on her face, the IV fastened to her arm, and she smelled the antiseptic tape, the disinfectant in the air, the starch of laundered sheets, her hospital bed.