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Chapter 39
ANDERSON
This isn’t happening. This cannot be happening.
But the security guard plays the tape again for me, because I am beside myself. It shows June on the street after I leave her there. She looks so small by herself that it guts me. A black sprinter van pulls up, and a man in all black comes along, keeping his face turned. He knew where the camera was to avoid it. The amount of planning … how did they know she would be there alone?
Or worse—were they watching us the whole time?
When he reaches for her, my fists clench. She fights. God, she fights, and a surge of pride shoots through me. But it’s no use. This was too well-executed.
He pulls out a knife, and I want to scream. I want to kill him myself. The back of the van opens, and he manhandles her into it. Another person inside pulls her in, and the knife guy hops in after her, closing the door. No license plate. No nothing.
I’ve watched the video over a dozen times, trying to figure out what to do next. My first instinct is to call the police, but I know better. If this is a simple kidnapping for money, then calling the police is the last thing I should do. Most kidnappings fare better without their involvement. But I want them involved.
I want the damned army involved.
The Pentagon. Anyone who can get her back for me. I want to rain hell on these people.
The scent of stale coffee and staler donuts permeates the security office of the building. It’s a dreary little room with some of the best trained people in the field. A table, monitors with live feeds, recording equipment, everything to keep the wealthy of Boston safe.
A lot of good it did June.
I force myself to ask, “Who knows?”
“Just me and Mike,” George says. He feels guilty—he should—but these people are professionals. They knew when George took his break, and they knew when Mike called his wife. It was the perfect time to grab June, and it just so happened to be when I lost my fucking phone.
Yeah. They are definitely watching us. Maybe even now.
“Any cameras in here?”
“No. That’s against protocol.”
Doesn’t mean they’re not watching. But if they’re piped into the system, it’ll make it harder to see into here. “What other rooms don’t have cameras?”
“The residences, the bathrooms, and this room. That’s all.”
Mike jumps in, “But some of the residences have their own systems. They have their own personal security.”
I’m familiar with that. Mom and Dad have their own private system. Huh. I’d forgotten that in the library. Doesn’t matter. Not now. “Could someone tap into the private systems?”
They both shrug and George says, “Depends on the system, but yeah. I’d think so. If someone were motivated enough.”
“Clearly, they are.”
“Mr. West, how can we help?”
How can anyone? “I’m not sure. I’ve texted them back over a dozen times. No answer. Why send a picture and no ransom request? It makes no fucking sense!” I slam my fist into the wall, and thankfully, I picked the drywall and not the brick right next to it, or I’d have more than bloodied knuckles right now. But I don’t even feel it. Just the trickle of blood down my fingers. “Sorry.”
“Understandable,” Mike says, probably thinking of his wife.
George suggests, “I know you said no cops, but have you thought of telling your father? He has a lot of friends in high?—"
“Yeah. I have. But I keep thinking that the fewer people who know about this, the fewer people who can screw this up.”
Mike nods. “True. But that’s also the fewer people who can help.”
“I know, but … I can’t risk her. This is damn near the worst thing that could happen, and every move I make could be the wrong one.” It’s not just that. It feels like all my luck has turned to shit.
