James Grippando - The Abduction

Snipers readied themselves in trees and on rooftops surrounding the house. SWAT members lay in the grassy ditch across the street and in the back, behind the hedge. Harley picked up the microphone and switched on the loudspeaker.

“This is the FBI,” he said, his voicing blaring at the brightly lit house. “You are surrounded. Come out with your hands up.”

Trigger fingers twitched in the edgy silence. Generators hummed with power for the lights, the only sound in the neighborhood. Fog swirled up from the ground in slow motion, making the wait seem even longer.

Harley reached for the microphone, then stopped. The front door opened. Harley announced, “Keep your hands above your head.”

A man came out first. He stepped tentatively onto the porch, nervously thrusting his arms in the air. A woman followed with a young girl at her side.

The SWAT team raced across the lawn, pointing their automated rifles. “Down, down, everybody down!” they ordered. The petrified family fell to their knees, then flat on their stomachs in the dew-covered grass. The SWAT leader put a gun to the man’s head and another grabbed the girl. Five others burst through the front door and into the house. Another team raced in the back. Harley ran to the suspect in the lawn. Up close, it was plain to see the man wasn’t white.

“Where’s the white guy?” the SWAT leader demanded.

The man was shaking. “There ain’t no white guy.”

“Where is he?!”

Another man in SWAT gear rushed from the house, bounding down the front steps. “House is clear. No suspect.”

Harley glanced at the young girl. She was African American and probably twelve or thirteen. But she definitely wasn’t Kristen Howe. He took a closer look at the man in the grass. He, too, was African American, but his skin was lighter than his wife’s and daughter’s. The deputy sheriff had obviously mistaken him for white.

“It’s not them. We’ve got the wrong place.”

The man lifted his face from the lawn and looked up angrily. “Damn straight you got the wrong house. I’m gonna sue your Nazi asses.”

Harley looked away, running a hand through his hair with exasperation. “Just what I need,” he said, groaning.

Vincent Gambrelli stood directly over Repo, watching him wallow in pain. “Hurts, doesn’t it?” he said flatly. “It’s the price you pay for killing my favorite nephew.”

Repo was still on his back, his blood pooling around him. “Johnny Delgado was a moron.”

“Oh, really? That’s quite an indictment from a guy who’s stupid enough to let the girl call her mother. Did it not occur to you that I might be monitoring a cellular phone that I fucking cloned myself?”

Repo grimaced, saying nothing.

“I guess not,” said Gambrelli. “But what can I expect from a guy who leads me right to his door? Those auto security tracking chips are really so easy to follow. You should have at least ditched the car, dumb shit.”

“The cops,” he coughed. “They traced the call. They’ll be here any minute.”

“Not a chance. That phone was preprogrammed to make the FBI think the call came from Nashville. So don’t expect the cavalry to come charging through the door to save your sorry ass.”

Tony Delgado suddenly emerged in the doorway, wheezing, as if he’d been running. His belly protruded from his tight-fitting black pants and sweater, and he had a pistol in his hand. “She ain’t here. I checked everywhere.”

Gambrelli calmly reloaded his gun. “Looks like we have a little situation here, Repo. Not to state the obvious, but there are just two possibilities. This can be bad for you. Or it can be awful. It’s your choice. So tell me. Where’s the girl?”

Repo breathed hard, reeling from his wounds.

Gambrelli pointed the gun at his good knee. “Three seconds, Repo.”

His lips bubbled with blood and saliva. “She went to spit,” his voice faded, “on Johnny’s grave.”

Gambrelli snarled as he pulled the trigger, shattering Repo’s knee. His body jackknifed, energized for a moment with sheer pain. Then he sprawled across the floor, almost limp, barely clinging to life.

Gambrelli said, “With all those noisy gunshots you fired, I can’t wait around here all night. But the short time you have left can be made to feel like hours. I promise.”

“You’ll never find her,” he said in a weak, raspy voice. “I sent her back to her mother.”

Gambrelli scoffed. “We both know that’s total bullshit. I was listening to the phone call, remember? You said you were keeping her until after the election.” His smirk faded. Slowly he stepped on Repo’s bloody hand, crushing the shattered bones beneath his heel.

Repo winced, trying not to give him the satisfaction of a scream.

Suddenly a loud clatter emerged from outside the apartment, like trash cans overturning in the alley-like someone trying to make a run for it.

Gambrelli looked up, flashing a knowing smile. Tony ran to the kitchen and peered out the window. “It’s the kid!”

Repo cringed-not for himself, but for Kristen.

Gambrelli wiped his bloody shoe on Repo’s shirt, using him like a doormat. “I pity you, Repo. You died a useless man.” He fired a bullet into his face.

“Let’s go,” he said, leading his nephew out the back door.

Kristen ran at full speed through the backyard, past the dilapidated garage that faced the alley. Like Spiderman she scaled the chain-link fence, but her jacket sleeve caught on the jagged post. Momentum carried her over the top, but her arm was snagged. She tumbled into the dark alley on the other side, landing awkwardly on one leg and twisting her knee. She rolled to the ground but bounced up immediately, sprinting and then hobbling another fifteen yards before the pain slowed her to little more than a brisk walk.

She checked over her shoulder. Still no Repo. She’d waited for him by the garage, even though he’d told her not to. Gotta keep going now.

Behind her, the chain-link fence shook and rattled. She glanced back again, hoping it was Repo. The sight of two men ripped her with panic. Repo was dead, she knew it. They were coming for her.

The alley fed into a side street fifty feet ahead, but with her throbbing leg she knew she’d never make it. She ducked behind some trash cans and buried herself in hiding. She tried to be still, but her body trembled. Her breathing was uncontrollably rapid, like the beat of her racing heart. The darkness frightened her, but it could be her strongest ally. If she could just keep still, they might pass right by her.

She tucked herself into a tight ball and cowered beneath the trash pile. She pushed aside a stinky bag of coffee grinds to open a narrow line of vision, just enough to let one eye see down the alley, back toward the garage. The men were just twenty yards away, coming toward her. Both were dressed in black. The tall, scary-looking guy she’d never seen before. The other man seemed vaguely familiar.

“Come on out, Kristen,” he said. “We’re not going to hurt you. We’re with the police.”

She shuddered-it was the voice of the other kidnapper, Johnny’s brother. She’d never seen his face, but she’d never forget the voice-and she knew he was no cop. She burrowed deeper beneath the trash, still watching with one eye as they approached. The scary guy sidestepped a puddle and peered over the fence into the neighbor’s yard. Johnny’s brother checked the trash cans on the other side of the alley, probing the bulging plastic bags with a metal pipe he’d found in the pile. He turned and was looking right at her-or at least at her hiding spot. He kicked the trash can, then poked at the bags. She had to make a move.