Captured (13 page)

Zack doesn’t pause for the elevator. He heads for the stairs. “NCAVC has a team close by. They just wrapped up a situation in Savannah. This has become really high profile.”

I race down the stairs behind him. “And they don’t want two field agents messing it up.”

We’ve reached the bottom. He pauses, hand on the door and turns to look at me. “We’re not going to mess this up. You were fucking brilliant in there. You called it exactly right. He needed a softer touch.”

A softer touch and a dose of Siren magic.

Zack’s still speaking. “Cooper’s still alive. I can feel it. You ready?”

I nod. “Let’s bring him home.”

CHAPTER 11

Day Five: Friday, March 25

The estate on Devereaux is impressive. It backs up along the Ashley River and is surrounded by a large wall with a secure entry. Clearly, Mrs. Mason comes from money. Old money. I give the gate a tug. It doesn’t budge. A camera, mounted on a pole to the left however does. It springs to life with a buzz, then turns to face us.

“I’m afraid we’ve lost the element of surprise,” I say.

Zack checks his cell. “HRT is less than five minutes out.”

The sun has yet to rise. The neighborhood is so still, we could hear a pin drop.

Or a boat engine as it turns over.

The rev of a motor cuts through the silence.

“Shit!” Zack grabs hold of the gate and gives is a good yank. Metal grinds against metal, the mechanism buckles and bends. “Help me!”

Like he needs the help.

I step in and offer a perfunctory hand. I’m saving most of my energy for the run I anticipate is ahead. I’m not wrong.

As soon as the gate pulls open, Zack is off. The shadows swallow him as he dashes ahead.

I run to stay fit. I’m in great shape and my times are good. But they’re on par with a human’s, not a Were’s. I’m going as fast as I can, arms pumping, feet slapping soundlessly against the dewy morning grass. I race across the expanse of lawn, heading around the south side to the back. Dawn breaks. The hint of early morning light reveals the outline of a dock ahead. I hear footfalls on the worn boards. A boat speeding off into the distance.

I don’t stop.

Instead, I pick up the pace.

Now the footfalls, coming impossibly fast, seem to be getting closer. I come to a dead stop. Not of my own accord. Zack’s grabbed me mid-run. He swings me around, sets me on my feet.

“She’s taken a boat. She’s heading down river. There’s another dock, another boat. I’m going ahead. If you catch up by the time I get it started… Well, catch up by the time I get it started.”

He doesn’t wait for me to answer. He’s off.

I follow.

At least I can see him now. And I can dimly see the dock he’s heading for up ahead. I sprint toward it, grateful for my training, discipline, and sensible shoes. By the time I reach the beginning of the long dock, he’s in the boat. I can only hope it’s comparable or faster than the one that took off minutes ago. I hear the engine turn over.

“I’m here!” I shout out.

“Get in!”

I climb inside and suddenly we’re flying, speeding down river.

Zack’s eyes are focused on the boat ahead of us. Try as I might, I can’t make it out.

“Get HRT on the line. Tell them we’re in pursuit. See if they can light up the boat for us,” he says.

I look around. I remember how all of the other victims died. “We need to be careful, Zack. The last thing we want to do is antagonize the woman. She’s unstable. She’s already killed two boys. What’s to stop her from tossing Cooper into the river?”

He spares me a quick glance. Says nothing. The river is wider in some parts then others, he’s pushing the motor to its maximum.

“Can you tell if they’re both on board?” I ask him as I dial.

“No. Not unless I can get closer. Ask HRT to verify and then hang back.”

I do and they agree. But I can tell they aren’t happy. The guys on the Hostage Rescue Team aren’t used to taking orders, they’re used to taking charge, being in control.

The Blackhawk helicopter carrying the team of agents who make up one of the United States’ three national-level Tier 1 assets passes overhead. The Navy has SEAL Team Six. The Army has their Delta Force. The FBI has its Hostage Rescue Team. Highly qualified and highly trained agents who operate on American soil, saving the lives of fellow American civilians.

“Jastrzemski here. I have eyes on the suspect.”

“And the boy?”

I hold my breath.

“There’s a body on the deck. Size is consistent with a four-year-old. Not moving. I can’t confirm the child is Cooper Anderson or alive without getting closer and…wait…” There’s a long pause before he continues, “The suspect is armed with a handgun.”

“Zack?”

“I heard. He’s alive. She wouldn’t have brought him with her if he weren’t. More likely she sedated him. We assume he’s alive.”

I nod.

The mouth of the river is in front of us. We spill out into the Charleston Harbor. I look back at the city and try to get my bearings. The sea here is rougher than the river. Our boat bounces as it cuts through the waves. I can see the one we’re following in the distance. Past that is a outcropping of coast. Stephanie Mason seems to be heading right for it.

“What is she doing?” I ask as she gets closer.

“Looks like she’s heading for Fort Sumter,” comes the voice of Jastrzemski.

We’re approaching a dock and a large ferry boat ahead. But Stephanie shows no sign of slowing down. The gap between us is closing, but not fast enough.

“She’s going to ram the dock,” says Jastrzemski.

But as the words are spoken, the boat veers northeast, heading for open water.

“Hold on,” he says. “We’re getting some intel coming in from NCAVC.”

The Blackhawk is hovering above us now. I look up. I see some men in Multicam camouflage, regulation HK416 assault rifles across their laps. I can’t tell which one of them is the agent I’ve been speaking to.

Jastrzemski’s voice comes back. “The suspect’s father owns a private ferry service in the area that runs coastal exhibitions to Bulls Island. The suspect worked for him in high school. They think she’s heading to the landing there. That she’s hoping to lose us in the island’s interior. Most of the place is uninhabited. Some of it only accessible by foot. I think this is where we part ways, Agent Monroe. Once we get confirmation that’s where she’s heading, we’ll drop our men in and initiate pursuit.”

“God damn it!” growls Zack, looking up as the Blackhawk breaks away and flies ahead of us. We slow down. Come to dead stop.

“Why are we stopping?” I ask.

“We’re not going to catch her. They’re in position. It’s their mission, not ours,” he says.

I shake my head. “You’re wrong. It’s always been ours. It’s still ours. You heard what he said, much of that island is only accessible on foot and she knows the place like the back of her hand. They don’t. If it comes to that, we might be of help. Right?”

He looks off in the distance.

I reach for his arm, give it a squeeze. “Right, partner?”

He smiles. “Right, partner. Get Taft on the line. There’s a maze of waterways surrounding this area and I haven’t been to Bulls Island since I was a kid. We’re going to need him to guide us to that landing.”

When we reach the landing, there’s no one in sight. But there is another boat docked there, presumably the one Stephanie Mason had been in. I peer inside. See nothing. Zack climbs on board. Crouches down. He appears to be examining the deck. His nostrils flare. I know what he’s searching for is a trace of Cooper’s scent. Before he climbs out, he pulls a wire loose from the motor.

“Taft sent us a map,” I hold up my phone. “By my estimate, she probably has a head start of seven or eight minutes.”

The sound of the helicopter can be heard circling in the distance.

“Call Jastrzemski.”

I dial. He picks up on the second ring. “We’re here, fanning out and doing a grid search. There’s no place for her to go. It may take some time, but we’re going to get her.”

Zack tosses the wire into the water. “Tell him the boat has been disabled.”

I relay the message then, “Agent Armstrong and I are on the island. We’re more concerned with Cooper than the woman. How can we help?”

“Right now, just let us do our job. I promise I’ll keep you informed,” he says shortly before signing off.

I resist the urge to throw my phone into the Atlantic.

Zack climbs out of the boat takes my cell from me and looks at the map. “Let me guess. We’re not invited to the party?”

“Jastrzemski sucks. So help me, if he screws this up—”

His eyes meet mine. “I have a gift for tracking. Something I picked up from my father.”

I’m sure. “Explains how you found Stuart Mason. Think you can use your gift to find Stephanie and Cooper?”

He casually scents the air. “Yes. And I bet I can find them before Jastrzemski and his team. But HRT might not like it.”

“It could piss Jastrzemski off,” I add.

Zack shrugs. “So, you with me? Or do you want me to tell you all about it later?”

I smile. “I’ll do my best to keep up, hotdog. Go!”

Zack takes off at a run, down the narrow dirt road that leads away from the docking area. This time I manage to keep up, which tells me he’s holding back. Stephanie may know the lay of the land, but having Cooper in tow is bound to slow her down. If we can maintain this pace, we can catch them. Up ahead, the road turns to the right. Zack doesn’t. Instead he continues off trail. The vegetation is thick and lush, the ground soft, uneven. Moss hangs from trees. The forest feels otherworldly. We surprise a bird. It takes off, wings fluttering. I see a trail up ahead. Zack veers onto it. We’re making good time now. The sun is higher in the sky. The terrain on the worn path makes the run easier. We push onward.

Suddenly, Zack comes to a stop. “They went off trail here and headed that way.” He points east. “Let’s have a look at the map.”

I pull out my phone.

“It looks like they started off going parallel to Beach Road and now they’re following fairly close to this one,” he says.

I’m winded. My breathing is heavy. “This looks like a body of water. Could she be heading here to Moccasin Pond?”

“Maybe. There’s another trail that goes down to the beach in about half a mile. Could be she’s heading there. Could be she has no idea where she’s going.” He eyes me. “Are you all right?”

I nod. “Absolutely. Let’s go.”

The next twenty minutes are hard going. The ground is wet and marshy. At one point I stumble and fall, sliding into mud and algae.

“You okay?” asks Zack.

I unzip my jacket and tie it around my waist. “The only thing wounded is my pride.”

We’re at the edge of the pond. I turn just in time to see a gator taking an early morning sunbath slide slowly into the water.

I hear a low whistle. When I turn, Zack is not looking at the gator.

“That’s some tatt,” he says.

I hadn’t anticipated having to rid myself of the windbreaker. The sleeveless top I have on underneath reveals the edges of a pair of wings that covers most of my back. “This is what happens when you date someone who’s into ink, go to Tijuana, and drink way too much tequila,” I tell him. “You should see what he ended up with.”

In truth, there was no boyfriend who was into ink, no Tijuana, no tequila. The tattoo on my back isn’t one I chose. Like so much else, Demeter chose it for me. I was marked the day I was stripped of my real wings, the day I was sent here. Because I don’t see them every day, you might think I’d forget.

I never forget.

Zack lets his eyes drop. “They went this way, toward the beach,” he says, walking ahead and clearing a path.

The Blackhawk is close.

“So, you and this guy still an item?”

“A world of no.” My cell phone rings. The display says it’s Jastrzemski.

“Our pilot’s spotted the suspect. She’s on the beach. The boy is with her. He’s alive. We have agents just east of the Big Pond heading in her direction.”

“We’re closer,” I tell him.

“What?” Jastrzemski’s voice is shrill. “ I thought I told you—”

Zack takes my phone and tosses it into a nearby puddle.

“Oops.”

“Oops?”

He picks it up, tries to turn it on. The screen remains dark. “Water damage is a bitch. Come on, it sounds like she’s on Boneyard Beach.”

I snatch it from him and stuff it in my back pocket. “God damn it!”

I’d say more to express my dissatisfaction, but Zack’s on the move again and unless I want to be left behind, I need to run and catch up.

As soon as we reach the clearing, I understand why they call it Boneyard Beach. Hundreds of downed oaks, cedars and pines are strewn along the beach. Victims of erosion, bleached by the sun and worn smooth by the salt and sand, the place resembles a bone yard. But it’s not the trees that hold my attention. Or the plethora of birds—wood storks, blue herons, egrets, pelicans. Or the tide pools teaming with conchs and crabs. Rather I’m focused on the little boy, being dragged, kicking and screaming into the Atlantic.

“Stephanie!”

I run toward them, into the water. The ocean is rough, the waves high. Dark clouds are rolling in. There’s a strong gust of wind and Cooper stumbles.

Stephanie Mason scoops him up, one arm around his waist, then she turns to face me. “Stay back. You won’t take my son from me!”

Cooper is clearly terrified. I can’t imagine what the child has been through over the last several days, and now this. I remember his mother had just begun swimming lessons for him but could he handle the rough ocean?

The water is up to Stephanie’s thighs, almost over Cooper’s head. A wave hits the two of them and for a moment Stephanie loses her footing.

The boy clings to her, tears streaming down his cheeks, his screams are shrill. “No!”

She reaches back with one arm and pulls what looks like a SIG semi-automatic pistol from the back of her jeans. Her eyes are wild with desperation turned to madness. I’m reminded of another mother, Demeter.

“Stephanie, please don’t go out any farther. You can see how big the waves are today. There are rip currents. You don’t have to do this. We understand. Stuart explained everything. We just want the boy to be safe. We just want you to be safe,” I tell her.