She tried to flex her hands and feet to alleviate the numbness from the cuffs on her wrists and ankles, but they were so tight that a fierce pain shot through her whole body, making her scream. Her head swam and for a moment bright stars flashed in her head.
“Hello?” Her throat hurt and her voice was so hoarse it was barely audible. She tried once more, “Hello? Is there anybody here?”
Sophia was hungry and thirsty. She was nauseated. She was frightened to her core.
One kidnapping in the family is more than enough. She laughed out loud. Hysteria threatened her for a moment but she clamped it firmly inside. I can’t lose control. I can’t break. Alistair Connor is coming. Soon.
Very slowly and carefully, on her back, she scooted on the ground, until she bumped into a damp wall. Using her back as support, she tried to stand up but her tied ankles wouldn’t allow it.
Resigned, she sat and waited.
Terror, frustration, fury, and boredom dominated her at the same time. But, then again, maybe that was the point of it all.
Minutes turned into hours and she lost track of time.
Atwood House, In the downstairs TV room
4:30 a.m.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. MacCraig. The criminals uploaded their own video feeds to many CCTV cameras throughout the city at exactly the same time during the whole day. Our hackers located a computer server on the outskirts of London. Officers are on their way. However, we have only covered a tiny portion of the CCTV systems.”
“And here I thought we were sleepwalking into a society of surveillance,” he sneered, and dropped heavily on the sofa. “So, they hacked the CCTV cameras and Alberto probably chose the roads that weren’t being recorded.”
“Mr. MacCraig, no one disappears like this. No crime is perfect. They always make a mistake. In terms of distance, eighty percent of missing persons are found within a perimeter of fifty kilometers. She’s most likely to be found very close by. We’re going over all of the 999 calls that have come in since she disappeared, looking for any indication that this is a tiger kidnapping.
“Tiger kidnapping?” asked Alistair.
“A tiger kidnapping usually involves an abduction of a person or thing someone highly values. Instead of asking for money, the criminals demand that a second crime be committed on their behalf. It could be anything from robbery, murder, to planting a bomb or kidnapping your wife. A person or item held hostage is kept by the captors until their demands are met. We have a call from a hysterical mother who was held at gunpoint by masked men who didn’t speak English. All they did was take photos of the woman and her baby, holding guns to their heads. Then they sent the photos by text message to another cell phone.”
Somewhere in Alistair’s confused and tired mind an intuition shimmered, but it disappeared before he could pinpoint what it was that he should remember.
Silently, an officer entered the room and delivered another sheet of paper to Isabel and she grimaced.
“What is it?” Alistair demanded, with his heart drumming so loud in his ears he doubted he would hear her answer.
“A man called John Franklin was found, shot dead in the trunk of a car in the parking lot at Heathrow airport yesterday, with a first class ticket for Dubai hidden in his boxers. He had no ID and no money. He was identified a while ago. No family, no friends, and we found an uncommon amount of computer hardware in his apartment, including a private server, but he worked as a private detective. We’re already working on his computers at our lab to see if we can find evidence that he was behind the blocked CCTV footage.” Isabel’s face showed confidence as she spoke, “Mr. MacCraig, we’re going to get them. They are leaving a trail of blood and dirt. According to the statistics, CCTV cameras have helped in many cases. We have more than a hundred-and-fifty officers and forty detectives involved in the investigation. Eventually, we’ll find them somewhere.”
According to the statistics? Eventually? He was tired of hearing all those numbers and statistics. All the new searches, brilliant ideas, and fantastic plans turned out to be dead ends, so he didn’t know what Isabel meant by eventually.
Tavish sat beside him and tried to soothe him somehow, “Brother, you need some sleep. Come over to my place. The rest of Sophia’s family is arriving in a few hours. Maria’s family is arriving too. You need some rest.”
And what am I supposed to say to Gabriela? Alistair was glad that she was sleeping at Alice’s and that Sophia’s twin sisters, who had arrived an hour ago in his G650, were going to distract and take care of her.
“Lieutenant-Colonel, that’s a good idea,” said Isabel to Tavish. “We need you back here in a few hours to go through any new leads, Mr. MacCraig.”
I can’t sleep! I haven’t heard from Sophia for more than twelve hours! “And while we sleep? What happens to Sophia?”
“We will continue to search and to monitor the CCTV cameras. In two-thousand-nine, ninety-nine percent of Scotland Yard murder cases used CCTV footage as evidence.”
Murder cases! Oh, fuck. Alistair’s lips thinned in a harsh line and he fisted his hands. He stood up to his full height and looked down at the small woman. A lock of his ink-black hair slashed his forehead and left eye, contrasting with the blinding rage shining inside the depths of his forest-green stare.
Isabel thought that if looks could kill she would’ve dropped dead. “Mr. Mac—”
In an even voice, loaded with rage, Alistair interrupted her, “Tell me, Detective Martins, will you locate my pregnant wife before, or after she is dead?”
Chapter 2
Somewhere in the United Kingdom
In a dark, cold, and humid place
9:00 a.m.
Sophia woke up with a clear head. She was not confused as she was when she had first awakened, yet her body protested the mistreatment.
They’ve probably been throwing me on the ground like a burlap sack. She breathed, testing her whole body, and judged that the damage was worse on her left shoulder and the left side of her face.
Her cuffed hands encompassed her stomach. She swore to herself that she would be with Alistair and Gabriela again. Their connection was too ingrained, too deep, and now she had to be strong for the little life growing inside her.
Sophia was living such a rare love story that she wouldn’t allow it to be thrown away like tea leaves at the bottom of a cup.
Breathing shallowly to keep the nausea away, she took inventory of her surroundings as her eyes adapted to the darkness.
She was in a humid room, with stone walls and heavy chains. She could not place it at first, then a shock went through her as she understood she was in a dungeon. Goosebumps rose on her arms as she thought she had been entombed and left alone to die with moths, bats, and rodents.
“Hello? Is there anybody there?” she shouted, hysterically. “Hello! HELLOO! HELP ME! SOMEONE!”
A door somewhere creaked open, exactly like doors did in scary movies and many stomping footsteps sounded on the stairs.
This is no rescue. On the verge of tears, Sophia knew there was no sense fooling herself about it. Be calm. You’re alive, your little warrior is alive, Gabriela is well and waiting for you. And Alistair Connor is coming.
Sophia closed her eyes tightly when bright lights invaded the dungeon. The sound of the men’s boots scraping on the rough floor echoed loudly as they approached her.
Six criminals stopped a couple of feet away from her.
She heard one man approach a few more steps and stop.
The silence stretched on.
They know what they are doing. They’re used to it. Finally, terrified, Sophia opened her eyes to see masked faces in front of her. Even though the fear was paralyzing, she felt compelled to speak. “Why are you doing this? I’m very wealthy, I can pay you more than anyone is paying.” Her voice shook and she hated that. I sound so weak.
The man nearest to her cackled and replied in his uncultured Portuguese, “Cunt, I haven’t understood a word of what you said, but I�
�m fucking sure you can understand me.”
At first, Sophia didn’t work it out as she didn’t recognize the voice and couldn’t see his face under the mask.
But then, he pulled the mask off, throwing it on the ground.
Looking at his four-fingered left hand, turning it slowly from one side to another as if appraising it, Uó said, “You have something that’s mine.”
Mayfair
Tavish MacCraig’s Apartment
11:00 a.m.
Her scent was all around him, soothing him as he drew each deep breath.
He curled closer into her soft and supple body, as if they could become one, but he couldn’t get a firm grasp on her.
Frantic, he struggled, desperate to lock his body to hers, but it was no use. Panic rushed in as Sophia began to fade as fast as Alistair’s mind rushed to consciousness.
The reality that it had been only a dream tore his wounds open again, fresh pain oozing from every pore of his body.
The soft knock sounded again. It was that sound which had taken Sophia away from him. He looked at his watch and sat on the bed, rubbing his stiff neck. Fuck! Ten o’clock. “Come in.”
Tavish entered the bedroom with a steaming cup of coffee. “‘Morning, Brother. Sorry to disturb your sleep, but I brought news.”
“Sophia?” he asked, knowing that Tavish would have another look on his face if they had found Sophia.
Tavish shook his head, handing him the cup and sitting at the foot of the bed. “A few minutes after you slept, they found Maria in Chalfont St. Peter—”
What? “Is she okay? And the Jaguar? Why didn’t you—”
“Easy, easy. You needed rest. Maria is okay. She was blindfolded and left in the woodlands there. She’s not sure when they left her, but it was very cold so she thinks it was dark out. Eventually she managed to take the blindfold off but got lost. She was thirsty, hungry, and very nervous but other than that she was fine. They took her to the hospital and Detective Martins is already with her.”
“How did they find her?”
“They set the Jaguar on fire. In fact, this was their first mistake. The fire was set from the inside. Isabel said that as the car is bulletproofed, it burned so there is practically nothing left to be analyzed. The windows didn’t break as they would in a normal car and the armor held on until the car exploded like a bomb. Many people called the police complaining about an attack and other bullshit in the area and one curious pervert sent a video to BBC. It was the Jaguar blowing up on a walkway under the M25. It even cracked the asphalt. As soon as they realized it was Sophia’s Jaguar they started looking for Sophia and found Maria.”
Alistair could see that Tavish was hesitating. He washed the dread down with hot coffee. Putting the cup on the bedside table, he thundered in frustration, “Say it, for Christ’s sake!”
Heaving a sigh, Tavish looked at Alistair. “Maria said Sophia was never in the Jaguar. The woman who we thought was Sophia in the backseat was one of the criminals. In Maria’s jacket pocket, there was a message with a telephone number, instructions, and a Polaroid of Sophia, unconscious, taken at two-oh-seven, still in Atwood House. They’re asking for fifty-million pounds, in cash. You have two days, well, technically until Monday, two o’clock,” Tavish swallowed audibly, “but all our personal family accounts, including the bank’s, and Leibowitz Oil’s, have been frozen by the prime-minister’s direct order. We still have access to the other one. The one you changed recently after the Brazilian politician’s blackmail. I checked it already. However, Isabel has already informed me she has orders not to allow us to negotiate and they have expanded the search for Sophia, involving National Crime Agency and Organized Crime Command.”
“Christ!” Alistair bent forward at the waist, his arms hugging his stomach, gasping for air as a great pain slashed through him. He knew how difficult it would be to get around the government’s actions to prevent any ransom from being paid.
The deep, eviscerating ache he felt at that moment told him two things, both equally tragic: despite being the major shareholder of one of the most important banks in the world, it was legally impossible to withdraw or transfer that amount of money, much less in cash, without it being known by the government and he had no deed or agreement to justify it; Sophia’s life was in grave danger, and all of his wealth could do nothing to change that.
Walton-on-Thames
Scott’s Mother’s House
11:30 a.m.
“The police have confirmed that the car found burning under the M25 belonged to the Marchioness of Ells, Lady Sophia Leibowitz MacCraig, the owner of Leibowitz Oil. The police said the family hasn’t contacted them yet, so they are still waiting to initiate a search. Lady Ell’s family is not available for comments. We have exclusive mobile footage of the car.”
Scott froze in the middle of the small living room and not believing his eyes as the image of Sophia’s burning Jaguar appeared on the screen.
He dropped the remote control as if it had burned his hand with the same tall flames that engulfed the car and his throat closed up as if suffocating from the black smoke that came off it in great waves.
“Oh, my God!” He sat on the sofa, frightened and shocked. He chided himself, “I should have known better.”
His mother sat beside him, watching as Sophia’s smiling face appeared on the screen. The reporter continued talking about her disappearance and a spokesperson for the Missing Persons Bureau made a statement, explaining they couldn’t search for a person who wasn’t reported missing. “Isn’t this the lady that you talked about so fondly? The one with a charity foundation?”
Scott almost gagged. He suspected it was not a simple case of a missing person. He wondered who was involved in her disappearance, what they wanted, and how he could help.
He was repulsed by his own inconsequential actions; Sophia hadn’t done anything to him. Or to Ethan. He should not have helped Ethan stalk Sophia, giving Ghost the directions to set the surveillance, and the final move, discovering Devon’s needs and sending them to Ghost, so he could be bribed to be the mole inside her house.
In fact, he could bet Ethan hadn’t thought things could get so out of control.
“Poor girl,” said Scott’s mother. “I’ll pray for her.”
With an idea in mind, Scott stood up. He knew prayers alone wouldn’t help Sophia now. “Pray, Mother. Do pray. Meanwhile, I’m going to Ashford Steel to finish some important work I need to do. I don’t know what time I’ll be back.”
London, Broadway, Scotland Yard
1:30 p.m.
“Closer, please,” Isabel requested. The video operator zoomed in and made the image clearer. “So, try again, Mr. MacCraig. If this is not your wife, do you have any idea who it could be?”
“Nae,” Alistair mused, running two fingers over his jaw. “I can’t distinguish the face in the shadows.”
While he was having breakfast, he remembered Devon’s story and his desperate need of money to help his baby son. He called Isabel, telling her that Devon had probably driven the Jaguar under coercion.
She informed him that all the airports and roads out of the UK were on high alert, but so far, Alberto was still at large. Since one o’clock they had been watching and re-watching the video with the hope of identifying the dark-haired woman.
“Shall we start it again from the beginning?” Isabel asked, noticing Alistair’s tired body slumped in the chair.
Of course! He straightened. “As many times as needed.”
2:00 p.m.
“This is what we have so far: these are Sophia’s sunglasses and bag; the woman is wearing one of Sophia’s dresses that was at the laundry; her hair color is the same, but slightly shorter, probably a wig.”
“Also, detective, Sophia doesn’t cross her legs like that,” Tavish pointed out the moment the woman uncrossed and crossed her legs.
“How does Sophia cross her legs?” Alistair was surprised by the remark. Sexily?
“Detective,
can you play that again, please?” Tavish asked.
Isabel signaled for the video operator to rewind the video a bit and start it from the point just before the woman uncrossed her legs.
Tavish tilted his head to the side fixing his gaze on the screen, wondering how he would explain what he was seeing. “Hmm. I canna exactly picture how Sophia crosses her legs, but she would never do it like that; or sit like that. It’s feminine and sexy, aye, but too…unpolished. This woman…this woman is—” He snapped his fingers in the air as he found the right way to put it. “She has no sexual inhibitions at all.”
No sexual— “Fucking bitch!” Alistair exploded out of the chair, the fury making him fist his hands by his sides. He paced the small room, muttering, “That fucking bitch!”
Tavish watched his brother curiously for a moment, then hissed, “Emma Miller.”
“Aye. Emma Miller,” Alistair splayed his big hands on the table and pinned Isabel with his glare. “How did she enter my house?” My sacred home.
“We still don’t know. Either she is the one who was sitting beside the driver with a cap and gloves or she was in the back of the van. Its big rear doors, when opened, blocked the kitchen door camera. They knew what they were doing Mr. MacCraig.”
“Arrest her. If the prosecutor makes a deal with her—any deal, detective Martins—you’ll have a murder case on your hands, because I’ll kill her myself.”
Tavish didn’t say a word, but he swore to himself in that moment, Emma would pay for what she had done. Inside a prison or not, he would find a way to see her life made into a living hell, as he had promised her the night he went to her apartment.
Tavish MacCraig’s Apartment
Monday, March 27, 2011
7:00 a.m.
Even though Tavish had prescribed Alistair a sleeping pill, he barely closed his eyes at night. Every time he did, Sophia appeared in his dreams.
When, in his last nightmare, he found her dead, pierced by the spikes on Nathalie’s grave, he gave up on sleep.