Thursday evening
February 20, 2014 “She’s dropped off the grid. All our efforts to reacquire have failed.” The man on the other end of the line blows out his breath disgustedly. “One of the other interested parties?” “Yessir, must be. She couldn’t have disappeared so completely on her own.” “But you don’t know who took her?” “Her trail ends at the Vegas airport. Surely that means—” “I don’t pay you to make guesses, I pay you to surveil. You lost her.” The caller pauses, face burning. “Yessir.” A sigh of surrender is barely audible over their connection. “Whoever took her, it means it’s starting.” “Yessir.” “Fine—move on the others, and do it quick.” “I’m already in position. What about the code?” Another snort of disgust. “It’s too late. Everyone and their brother has it by now.” The caller feels a sinking sensation in his belly. “I’m sorry, sir.” The apology is ignored. “Have your people keep an eye out for her. If she surfaces, I want to know immediately.” “Yessir.” The line goes dead, and the man slaps shut the clamshell phone. Gazing through the windshield of his parked car, he makes another thorough scan of the darkened street. There are no streetlights, but with a foot of snow and a full moon, visibility is no worse than twilight. A light comes on above the front door of the Lawson house, a small one-story. Finally. The man watches as a woman and teenage girl emerge, the girl with tied ice skates slung over one shoulder. The woman calls something back into the house before pulling the door closed. Scrunching down in his seat, the observer waits until the sound of their car has faded before sitting up again. He scans the street once more, checks the clip on his Beretta 9mm, then steps purposefully from the car.
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