James Grippando - The Abduction

Allison watched discreetly from behind her sunglasses. She wasn’t sure which of the riders she might need to remember. She made it her job to remember them all, noting for each a distinguishing feature-the cleft on the chin, the wart on the hand. In the end, however, her eyes drifted back to the far end of the car, toward the homeless guy wearing a tattered army coat, asleep in the seats reserved for the handicapped.

She figured by now the FBI was somewhere on the train, definitely all over the Forest Glen Station. The two-way radio, however, had been out since boarding. Too far underground, she guessed. Or maybe Harley had just stopped trying, fearful that if he kept changing frequencies he might hit one the kidnappers could easily intercept.

The speeding train was somewhere between stations in the long, dark tunnel. She checked the subway map posted above the window. Forest Glen was the next stop. The deepest station in the Metro system, according to Harley. They were going down. She could actually feel the descent. Twenty-one stories beneath the surface. Seventy meters of earth and cement. A million-dollar ransom in the suitcase beside her. A kidnapper waiting at the station ahead. A killer maybe in the seat beside her.

They killed Reggie Miles, she reminded herself. She clutched the suitcase and quietly held her breath.

One of the teenage boys rose from his seat. The pant legs of his baggy jeans dragged around the expensive Nike high-top shoes. The long sleeves of his bulky jacket covered his hands. A Georgetown Hoyas cap was backwards on his head. He strutted down the aisle, eyeing Allison as he approached.

She watched cautiously, avoiding eye contact, hoping he’d pass. A scraggly mustache, she noted, the kind worn by teenage boys who had never shaved in their life.

He stopped beside her. Her pulse quickened. Big for his age, thought Allison. Like a basketball player.

“You’re in my seat,” he said.

She didn’t look up, stared straight ahead.

“Lady,” he said, this time leaning forward, staring down at her. “I said, you’re in my seat.”

“You’re in my face,” she said. “Get out.”

He scoffed, gyrating with some rhythmic motion that, with a little more animation, could have passed for dancing. “You think I’m in your face? This ain’t nothin’, bitch.” He arched his back, raising his crotch toward her. “How about you open real wide and I stick it right in your face. I bet you’d like that, huh?”

“Leave her alone.” It was the businessman seated across the aisle.

The punk glared. “This ain’t about you, asshole.”

“Just leave us alone,” he said, though with slightly less conviction.

Another punk strutted down the aisle, backing up his buddy. He wore exactly the same outfit. Gang attire. “What’s this?” he scoffed, towering over the man. “The accountant cops an attitude?”

“Look,” said Allison. “Everybody just calm down, okay?”

The punk raised his voice. “Calm down, you say? You want me to calm down? Just get the fuck outta my seat, I’ll calm down.”

Allison went rigid. The car was silent, no one moving. The homeless guy in the handicap seat was mumbling in his sleep. Allison moved slowly and said, “All right, I’ll move.” She rose, taking the suitcase firmly in her hand. Halfway across the aisle, the punk grabbed it.

“Hey!” she shrieked, fighting him off.

“Leave her!” said the accountant as he intervened.

A third punk raced down the aisle. The homeless guy leaped to his feet, shouting something, no longer mumbling. “Now!” he cried.

The train screeched on the rails, sliding to a halt. Passengers flew into the backs of the seats in front of them. Allison tumbled hard to the floor. The suitcase flew straight up the aisle, halfway up the car. One of the gang members rolled after it, grabbed it.

“My bag!” cried Allison.

The homeless guy braced himself on a pole and pulled out a pistol. Allison gasped. Passengers screamed and scurried for cover.

“FBI!” he shouted. “Freeze!”

The punk hurled the suitcase at him. His buddy pulled out a gun. The homeless guy fired, hitting him in the chest. Blood splashed onto Allison’s coat as he fell in the aisle beside her. She dove toward him and pried the gun from his fingers. She looked up. The disguised FBI agent had the other two under control, pinning them on the floor at gunpoint.

The wounded one looked up at her, choking for his life. Just a kid, she thought. But her pity waned as she suddenly thought of Kristen, the plan gone awry, and the kidnappers turning violent when they didn’t get their money.

“You screwed everything up!” she shouted, wishing she could help him and kill him at the same time. “You idiot! What the hell were you doing?”

His body trembled. His eyes were rolling back into his head. She shook him, reviving him. “Who are you?”

He didn’t respond.

“Who are you?”

He was breathing loudly, sucking for air. His eyes briefly seemed to focus. He was struggling to speak, nearly strangling on his words. “Shit, lady. Just wanted the fucking suitcase.”

“Who? Who wanted it?”

His lips quivered. His eyes began to drift.

“Damn it, tell me! Who sent you? Who wanted the suitcase!”

His head rolled to one side.

Her grip tightened on his jacket, but his body was dead weight. A sick feeling swelled inside her, a rising bitterness in her throat. She rose slowly from her knees, oblivious to the hot blood staining her hands and clothes. She turned toward the FBI agent guarding the other two punks. Her eyes filled with rage.

“I want to talk to those boys,” she said through clenched teeth.

It took nearly twenty minutes for the FBI to bring the two surviving gang members up from the subway. That the train had stopped midway in the tunnel between stations only made the task more difficult. Forest Glen station had been closed and roped off as a crime scene, which forced the media and other onlookers to wait outside the chain-link fence surrounding the parking lot. Allison was hoping to rush to the FBI van without being recognized, but other passengers on the train had already confirmed her involvement. The media erupted as she emerged from the station, zooming in with their camcorders from thirty yards away and snapping her picture through telephoto lenses. Reporters shouted an endless string of questions, but it was pure cacophony.

Allison quickly disappeared into the lead FBI van. A second carried the suspects and arresting agents. A team of police motorcycles with sirens blaring led the entourage back into the district toward FBI headquarters. Allison watched on a portable TV set in the back of the van as aerial shots of the speeding motorcade flashed live across the country. Her heart sank as the coverage shifted to the just-recorded footage of her exit from the station. Her hair was a mess. Splattered blood was clearly visible on her coat. She looked like a refugee from an air raid. The television camera froze on that image as the anchorman announced a station break.

“When we return, more of our continuing coverage of the Kristen Howe kidnapping and the failed rescue effort that has resulted in the unconfirmed death of at least one teenage boy. Stay tuned.”

The network switched to a commercial. Allison closed her eyes in despair. They might as well have said that she had personally put a gun to the head of a Boy Scout and pulled the trigger. She turned off the set and removed her bloody coat, passing it to the agent in the front.

“Here,” she scoffed. “Exhibit A at my congressional lynching.”

She grabbed the phone and called Peter back at the Justice Building basement just to assure him she was unhurt. As she’d expected, he’d watched it all unfold on television.