Kozak looked at Carillo; his jawline had tightened.
Becker lowered his phone.
“Jake Griffin went missing moments ago near his home in Trailside Grove.”
“What?” Kozak’s eyes widened.
“They’re issuing an Amber,” Becker said. “Greg Griffin’s called us and sent us drone video of the suspect’s vehicle—don’t ask me how they got it. You should now have it with a summary.”
Her keyboard clicking, Kozak studied the drone video, showing the white roof of a van pulled to the shoulder of Wild Orchid Lane. Blinking at a quick thought, she got back on the line with the tech working on the subject’s phone. Kozak gave her the location and time of Jake Griffin’s recent abduction.
“We have new information,” Kozak said. “Does the phone track to this location in Trailside?”
“Hang on,” the tech said, working at her end. “Hang on. Yes. It was in the area at the time. And I’ve got the current vicinity coming up. Your target is moving.”
Kozak relayed the information to Becker, who punched a number on his phone.
“I’m getting air support. Keep tracking. You guys get going!”
As they trotted to their unmarked Taurus, Kozak’s thoughts whirled.
How did we miss this? It was there all this time.
Ninety-Two
Buffalo, New York, Trailside Grove
Houses blurred by Greg’s passenger window as Nate Wiley’s Dodge Ram pickup rocketed through Trailside.
“Get us on Wild Orchid,” Greg said, studying the drone video showing the white van pulled over on the westbound lane. There was a barrier dividing it from the eastbound lane, so they reasoned that the van had gone west on Orchid.
Tires squealing, Nate turned onto Wild Orchid, the Ram’s V-8 Hemi engine pushing the truck over the speed limit, coming to the spot that was behind the Wiley house.
As they expected, the white van was gone.
They continued roaring down the long street, passing slower cars.
Nate slammed his palms on the wheel, shaking his head.
“It happened so fast. Jake just ran into the woods. I’m so damn sorry, Greg.”
“Now’s not the time. We’ve got to find him.”
Panic numbing him, Greg knew the odds.
What chance do I have? How much of a lead did the van get?
His thoughts were jolted to voices crackling on Nate’s radio scanner.
“All units, ten-forty in progress in Charlie Sector...standby...”
“A ten-forty’s an abduction.” Nate reached for his scanner, adjusting it. “I think that’s us.”
Their phones clanged with the Amber Alert for Jake. That was fast, Greg thought, his hopes rising.
“All units, this from investigators: The ten-forty is related to a previous ten-twenty-two—”
Greg looked at Nate who knew all the codes from his role in neighborhood watch.
“That’s a missing person,” Nate said. “They’re saying it’s tied to Jennifer!”
“What?”
The radio dispatch continued: “—suspect vehicle tag, New York Romeo Foxtrot Delta Nine Quebec One One Four, a late model white van—approach with caution...”
Nate repeated the plate number to Greg to note while blasting around slower cars. As they rolled farther along Wild Orchid past a Sunoco station, Greg glimpsed an Excelsior food truck, one of Brooke Bollman’s people. The driver leaning on the fender talking on a phone was not Brooke.
That’s weird, Greg thought, his mind flashing to Brooke, trying to recall if she still had her van, wondering if seeing the food truck meant anything. He was trying to remember when new dispatches burst over the scanner.
“All units, the subject in the ten-forty, ten-twenty-two, tracking showing last known vicinity at Chestnut Shade Avenue and Moss Creek Road. Standby...”
“Hey—” Nate tightened his grip on the wheel “—that’s four or five miles due west. We’re heading in the right direction.”
The Ram accelerated.
Greg took deep, controlled breaths and prayed.
Ninety-Three
Erie County, New York
Vibrating with adrenaline, turning in a slow circle, Jenn surveyed the property.
There was the dilapidated barn that was her prison.
There was a collapsed house, the remains of its roof atop fingers of decayed wood, jutting from rubble overgrown with weeds.
No signs of life in this abandoned property.
Where am I?
Her chest heaving, tears and sweat trickled down her face, her arms, to her hands, mixing with blood from the scrapes, splinters, and skin-piercing wounds she’d received in breaking free.
Jenn looked around for anyone who might help—or threaten—her.
How long had it been since her captor was here?
After the last time she saw eyes at the door’s portal, she realized that her captor hadn’t discovered her work to escape. But from the notes left for her, Jenn feared the time on her life was running out.
She had clawed nonstop at the hinges, pulling and digging, until finally, they began to loosen. She grabbed and twisted the metal hinges and bolts until her fingers were raw and her muscles were on fire. She took up her tool, gouged and kicked. The door loosened then shifted slightly.
Unrelenting, she kicked and pulled, creating a gap, wedging her fingers and hands, tugging at the door, leveraging it with her foot, her shoulder against the locked side, the wood frame cracking and splintering until the gap widened, and with a half cry, she squeezed through it.
No trace of another person.
She stood in the narrow, low-ceilinged walkway, gagging, the air stinking of bird guano, the dim light leading to the stairs. But the door above was sealed. Jenn climbed up and found it was locked.
It rattled with loose boards. Positioning her back against it, using all her strength, she pushed the door, growling and thrusting until the wood cracked, splitting and giving way.
Yanking at broken pieces, she wedged herself through the hole, painfully scraping her skin in her birth to freedom.
Now, she stood on the abandoned property, stunned and bleeding, her body aching, her clothes torn and soiled.
Drinking in the fresh air, wiping at her face, she spotted the lane and began limping through the dead orchard, thinking of her family.
Jake. Greg. I love you. I’m alive.