Rick Mofina - Whirlwind

“Holly Lawrence. Jen’s sister. I got in from Atlanta last night.”

“What’ve you heard on Caleb?” Jenna’s voice was raw and quivered. “Have you been to the flea market today? We’ve heard nothing this morning. They’ve restricted access. Now family can’t get in, only officials and media. For safety, they said. We’re going to wait at the line this morning. I need to be as close as possible. Tell me what you know, please!”

“I was just there. I’m sorry, there’s no news. They’re still searching the site, the entire flea market, still getting people out.”

All the pain bubbling under Jenna’s skin was in her eyes. Here was a shell-shocked woman battling to hang on to hope, any hope. And, as sickening as it was, Kate was going to intrude at her most vulnerable time.

It was a part of being a reporter that she hated.

“Forgive me, Jenna,” Kate started, “but I wanted to follow up on your situation. Maybe you could tell me more about the strangers who helped you.”

“Did they find them? Is there new information?”

“No, no, nothing like that, but can you tell me, or remember anything more about them?”

“Okay.”

Kate switched on her small digital recorder. She held it in view as she prepared to take notes, as well. Jenna thought, then with her voice shaking, she gave Kate an inventory of the few details she could recall. The woman was white, had a good figure, a pretty smile and was in her twenties, short spiky red hair, jeans and a low-cut top.

“And wait, maybe a tattoo.” Jenna touched the top of her chest. “Here, a butterfly, or bird, something with wings.”

Kate noted it.

“The man with her was white, the same age, about six feet, muscular build. He had jeans and a T-shirt with a motorcycle or a dog, I think. Lots of tattoos on his arms, maybe flames, I don’t know. He had stubble on his face and he never spoke.”

“Anything else?”

“They’re complete strangers. I never saw them before in my life, but the woman seemed kind of forward, kind of infatuated with Caleb.”

“Infatuated?” Kate noted the word and put an asterisk next to it.

“She got all sweet on him at the table where I bought some clothes. Then we saw them in the center, I mean they were just there in all the craziness, and so quick to help us when the storm hit. I had these terrible feelings that they may have taken Caleb somewhere, got confused and everything, or-oh, God- maybe they just took him! ”

“Did you tell anyone about your feelings?”

“Yes. I talked to some officials, and some police officers. They’re so overwhelmed, but they said a kidnapping couldn’t be ruled out as a possibility. But it was highly unlikely because no evidence of a kidnapping has surfaced, and so many people are still missing that anything may have happened. Their theory is that Caleb’s case is related to the storm.”

Kate made a note: Kidnapping a possibility but no evidence .

Kate began weighing the additional details in a new light. The word Jenna had used, infatuated, got her thinking, but her thoughts were cut short when the cell phone Jenna was holding rang.

“Hello?” She repeated it louder. “Hello, Blake?”

Tears rolled down her face.

“Blake, wait, I can’t hear, I need to-” Jenna stared at the phone helplessly. Wendy took it, increased the volume and handed it back. It was now loud enough for their conversation to be heard by everyone.

“What’s going on, Jen? I’ve been out of reach. I saw the news in the motel about the tornadoes in Dallas. Jen, are you and the kids okay?”

“No!” Jenna broke down. “We’re at a shelter. I can’t go home yet.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Caleb’s gone!”

“What? He’s what? I don’t- Jen?”

“The house might be gone, too! Oh, God!”

Great gulping sobs exploded from her. Wendy was rubbing her shoulders. Cassie had buried her little face into her teddy bear and nuzzled against her mother. Jenna was holding her tight.

Kate took a picture with her phone, fighting a surge of guilt.

“We were at the flea market when it happened,” Jenna said, relaying the story to her husband. “We can’t find him! He’s so small and I should’ve been holding him! I should’ve held him with Cassie. It’s my fault. I’m so sorry, Blake. We need you here. Cassie and I need you, Blake!”

Jenna was trembling and a great groan that evolved into a wail erupted from the pit of her stomach and she lost her grip on the phone. Kate stared at it on the floor, lights blinking as Blake’s voice, now tiny, remote, pleaded from it.

“Jen? Jen? I’m coming home. I’ll tell Arnie, I’ll get on a plane. I’m coming home!”

Kate picked up the phone, placed it in Jenna’s hand and gently raised it to her ear.

“He’s coming home,” Kate said softly.

“Hurry!” Jenna wept into the phone. “We need you.”

Kate turned away, blinking back her own tears as images of her own life-losing her sister, Grace’s sparkly little fingers, her fight for a job-burned by at the speed of light. Listening to Jenna’s agony and standing amid the sea of suffering storm survivors, Kate asked one question over and over.

What happened to Caleb Cooper?

Moscow, Russia

A world away from the devastation in Texas, Pavel Gromov waited in his black Mercedes on the western side of the megacity.

He was at the edge of Filevsky Park, a glorious stretch of nature along the Moskva River favored by Catherine the Great. Parked across the street from the Palatial Elite Hotel, Gromov held a device with a small screen showing live video of a wedding reception taking place on the top floor. The images flowed from a camera his men had covertly installed in the luxury banquet suite.

He waited with the patience of a predator.

Gromov was in his mid-sixties and had the small, piercing eyes of a king cobra. They never betrayed his sadness at all he’d lost through the disintegration of the Brotherhood, the vory v zakone . They were a special class of Russian criminals who abided by old rules. But over the years the Brotherhood had fractured, the codes were ignored. Gang turned against gang in territorial wars.

Even Gromov, a powerful old vor -or mobster-and respected businessman with enterprises around the world, who’d implored the others to return to the organization’s harmony, had paid an unbearable price.

He opened the image on his cell phone and met the happy faces of three men in their twenties, smiling and shirtless during a holiday at the Black Sea. Two of the three displayed their tattoos with pride.

There was Anton, his firstborn, a rock-hard, smart, calculating warrior, partial to Italian tailored suits. Gromov was eager for Anton to assume his mantle until the night two years ago when his body was found on a meat hook in the cooler of a side street butcher shop in Volkhonka.

Dmitri, the middle son, was tightly wound but fiercely loyal and poised to hurt anyone who failed to show Gromov respect. He sought vengeance on his own. Six months after they’d buried Anton, Dmitri was shot fifty times at a traffic stop in Central Moscow.

Six months later to the day, Gromov received a delivery of a gift cake. When he opened the box in his kitchen he found the head of Fyodor, his youngest. Once more, pain penetrated Gromov to the core of his being.

Why Fyodor?

Fyodor had never been involved in the business. Everyone knew. Fyodor never bore a tattoo, never wanted to be part of the vory life. Fyodor was a librarian, a writer who loved the arts. His “soft son,” who was very secretive and so shy he didn’t even have a girl.