No Good Deed, page 16
part #2 of Lancaster & Daniels Series
“I heard stories about other dancers disappearing. The girls were like Lexi, and didn’t have anyone in their life, so no one reported it.”
It was a common refrain when people went missing. A victim without family or friends would disappear, and soon be forgotten. And the sad part was, it happened every day.
They did not speak for the rest of the way. He went on to Spotify and played a list of favorite Jimmy Buffett songs that he’d compiled and shared with other subscribers. Echo seemed to enjoy the music, and he caught her softly singing along.
Before reaching their destination, they drove across a four-mile-long bridge called the Sunshine Skyway. It was so long that it stretched over three counties, and Echo pressed her face to her window, oohing and aahing at the spectacular view.
The Sarasota-Bradenton International Airport serviced national and international flights. Expedia showed eight nearby hotels, and he chose the Knights Inn because the rooms were accessible from the street. After pulling into the hotel, he parked by the front entrance and killed the engine. He handed her the keys.
“I’m going inside and booking you a room,” he explained. “I want you to lock the doors when I get out. If someone suspicious gets near the car, beep the horn.”
“Okay.” She hesitated. “I don’t have money for a room.”
“I’ve got it covered. Did you eat earlier?”
“No. I brought formula for my son.”
“But nothing for yourself. I’ll get you something. Back in a few.”
He started to get out, and she grabbed his wrist.
“I’m frightened,” she said.
“Don’t be. I’m going to get you and your boy out of here. You’ll get to start your life over, and not worry about the past.”
She flashed a hopeful smile. It quickly faded, the reality of her situation creeping in, and erasing hope. He tousled her son’s hair, then hopped out of the car and closed the door behind him. No sooner was it shut than he heard the doors click.
Inside the hotel’s brightly lit registration office, he found a clean-cut night manager who looked like he’d played football in college and, when the pros hadn’t come calling, decided to go into hospitality management. His eyes were cold and unfriendly.
“Can I help you?” he asked stiffly.
His radar went on full alert. He took a Team Adam card from his wallet and placed it on the counter. With his fingertips, he slid the card across the marble counter, and waited a beat so the night manager could read what it said.
“My name is Jon Lancaster, and I work with Team Adam, which is affiliated with the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children,” he said. “There is a young lady sitting in my car who was nearly a victim of an abduction earlier tonight. There will be a private plane coming to the Sarasota airport to get her out of here. In the meantime, I need to book a room for her. Do you think you can help me out?”
The night manager stared at the card. “Is this legit?”
“Feel free to call the 1-800 number,” he said. “The operator will put you through to a hotline. Whoever answers will verify who I am.”
“Hold on.”
The night manager punched the number into his cell phone. Lancaster stepped back from the counter and waited. Forty million people around the world were victims of human trafficking. Many of the victims were young women, who were sold into slavery. No country was immune to the problem, not even the United States of America.
There were seven global organizations dedicated to stopping this problem. These organizations spent a large portion of their budgets educating the airline and hospitality industry on how to spot traffickers, since hotel and airline people came in contact with traffickers and their victims on a regular basis.
When a person in the airline or hospitality industry spotted a customer they believed was engaged in human trafficking, it was hoped they would call a toll-free number, and report their suspicions. To help facilitate this, the airline industry distributed pamphlets to its employees, as did the hotel industry.
This pamphlet spelled out telltale signs of trafficking. A teenage girl traveling with an older male was one sign. A lack of luggage was another, and the girl’s inability to communicate with the people around her. The male paying in cash for airline tickets or a hotel room was another giveaway.
Not every hotel got these pamphlets. But those hotels situated near airports that serviced international flights always got the pamphlets, because more often than not, traffickers on international flights made layovers with their victims.
No doubt, the night manager at the Knights Inn had read the pamphlet. Seeing Lancaster pull in, he had become suspicious when he’d spotted Echo in the passenger seat. She was seventeen, and Lancaster was forty, and that was a red flag.
“Good evening, this is Eric Richmond, the night manager at the Knights Inn at the Sarasota International Airport,” he said into his cell phone. “I have a man named Jon Lancaster wishing to book a room for an underage girl into my hotel. Can you please verify that Lancaster is a member of your organization? Yes, I’ll hold.”
Richmond rested the phone in the crook of his neck. “You better be who you say you are,” he said to his guest.
“I wouldn’t lie to you,” Lancaster replied.
“Do you know how many times customers have said that?”
“Too many, I guess. But I’m not one of them.”
“What is Team Adam? I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s a group of retired law enforcement agents that work missing persons cases. Mostly CIA, Secret Service, FBI, and ex-cops.”
“Which are you?”
“Ex-cop.”
Richmond looked at his guest’s protruding belly and scowled. His call was put through, and he started asking questions. The NCMEC ran a twenty-four-hour hotline, and there was always a knowledgeable person working the phones. Richmond’s attitude changed. Hanging up, he said, “You check out with flying colors. My apologies.”
“Better safe than sorry.”
“There you go. How do you want to pay?”
“All my money’s tied up in cash,” he said.
Richmond laughed and got on his computer. “Do you have a preference on the room?”
“First floor. I’m going to sit outside in my car to make sure she’s safe.”
“Got it. I’ll put your friend in room 16L. It’s at the end of the building. You can park your vehicle right in front of the door.”
“That works. I’m also going to sit in my car with a shotgun in my lap. Just in case these guys who are after her tailed us.”
Richmond blew out his cheeks. “These sound like bad people.”
“That would be an understatement.”
“My brother-in-law is a cop. If I call him, he’ll be here in two minutes.”
“I may take you up on that.”
“How will I recognize these guys if they show up?”
“They’ll be riding motorcycles.”
Lancaster got Echo and her son situated in their room before again asking Echo if she was hungry. She said she was, and he bought bags of chips and nuts from a vending machine, plus a bottled water, and brought them to the room before explaining what came next.
“I’m going to put a call into Team Adam, and request a private jet come to the Sarasota Airport to fly you and your son to Nashville. Depending upon which airline has an available plane, this can take anywhere between three and six hours. In the meantime, I want you to stay in your room, and chill out.”
“I’m not sleepy,” Echo said.
“Then watch a movie on cable. You need to relax, and take your mind off things. I’m going to park my car in front of your room, and stand guard. If you need anything, or just want to talk, open the blinds to your window, and I’ll come running.”
It took a moment for the words to sink in. When they did, she visibly relaxed. He thought he understood. She had expected that he wanted to have sex, because that was what Dexter had done, and probably other men who had offered to help her. Sleep with me, and I’ll help you. That was how the deal went.
But that wasn’t his deal. Never had been, never would be. Echo was pretty and had a great figure, and saying he didn’t find her attractive would have been a lie. But that didn’t mean he was going to take advantage of her during a time of weakness.
She knew this, and it made her feel safe. Standing on her tiptoes, she kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you for saving me and my baby,” she said.
“You’re welcome. Get some rest. You’re going to need it.”
He went outside and moved his vehicle into the parking space in front of her door. Then he got out and opened the trunk and removed the Mossberg 590 Shockwave pump-action shotgun that he kept with his other firearms. With a pistol grip and antijam elevator, the 590 Shockwave was a nasty weapon at close range, and many states prohibited its sale. Luckily, Florida wasn’t one of them.
He got behind the wheel and laid the shotgun across his lap. He left the engine running so he could listen to his Jimmy Buffett playlist on Spotify without draining the car’s battery. Then he called the restricted Team Adam number on his cell phone and heard an operator pick up.
“This is Claudia. Who am I speaking with?” the operator asked.
“This is Jon Lancaster, code name Margaritaville.”
“Good evening, Margaritaville. What can I do for you?”
“I have an emergency transport request for a seventeen-year-old female and her six-month-old baby son, to be transported to the farm in Nashville. They are currently staying at a motel near the Sarasota-Bradenton International Airport. The girl and her son are in imminent danger, and need to be moved tonight.”
“Understood. Hold the line.”
The operator put him on hold, and silence filled his ear. A motorcycle blew past the motel, followed by another, and he got out of his car holding the shotgun to his waist and the cell phone stuck between his shoulder and his neck. The two bikes faded into the night, and only when he felt sure they were gone did he get back in.
The operator returned. “Still there?”
“You bet. What have you got for me?”
“The kind folks at Delta Private Jets have stepped up to the plate. They have a Hawker 800 at the Fort Lauderdale Airport and have called one of their pilots to fly to Sarasota, and transport the girl and her son to Nashville, where a private car will take them to the farm. I’ll text when the plane departs Fort Lauderdale, and give you its estimated landing time in Sarasota.”
“That works. Thanks for the assist.”
He ended the call. Delta Private Jets was a subsidiary of Delta Air Lines, and had a fleet of seventy small jets that were used throughout the Southeast. The company had transported more of his rescues than any other airline, always for free. It was why he tried to fly their parent company whenever possible.
He killed time listening to music. He knew every line to every Jimmy Buffett song, and he sang along while tapping his fingers against the wheel. The light in Echo’s room went off, and he guessed she was trying to get some sleep. Echo was a decent girl, and from what he could tell, not horribly damaged by what life had dealt her. With some help, she and her son just might get their lives back to normal.
Echo was lucky, and had caught a break. But what about the enslaved women he’d seen on the YouTube video in Echo’s apartment? Were they going to be able to one day resume their lives? Or would they forever be locked away, forced to cook and clean, and do their owners’ bidding?
Next to murder, there was no greater crime than human trafficking, and thinking about their situation made him angry. They’d done nothing to deserve such a horrible fate, and had become prey to their captors, who were monsters.
He wanted to help them. If he put his mind to it, he just might be able to figure out where they were being held. He shut off the music, deep in thought.
The video had shown the women in a well-equipped kitchen, with multiple sinks, two refrigerators, and enough pots and pans for a small army. He put the room’s size at two hundred square feet, which made it larger than a kitchen in an ordinary house. It made him think that the women were being held in a building where a large kitchen was necessary.
Kitchens were expensive, and he estimated that the one in the video had cost $100,000 or more to build. Were the women in an abandoned hotel, or an empty school? He didn’t know the answer, but he did know this: the size of the kitchen indicated that it was a large facility, which he guessed had extensive sleeping quarters for the women, and probably their captors.
To keep such a facility going cost money. Money to pay the rent, the taxes, the power, and the grocery bill. It was an expensive proposition, and he wondered where the funds were coming from.
Not Dexter Hudson. Dexter was fresh out of prison, and was alternating between living in the back room of a strip club and shacking up with Echo. The rest of Dexter’s gang was also recently released from prison, and didn’t have the means to support such an enterprise. Which meant someone else was funding it.
He thought he knew who that was, but needed to be certain. He climbed out of his car and laid the shotgun on his seat. Going to the door to Echo’s room, he rapped gently. He saw the lights come on through the window, and the door cracked an inch.
“Sorry to bother you,” he said, “but I need to ask you a question.”
Her eyes were half-closed, and her hair was a sleepy mess.
“Sure,” she said.
“You said that other dancers at the club have disappeared. When did they disappear? Was this in the past few weeks, months, or years?”
“Last couple of years,” she said.
“You’re sure about this.”
“Yeah.”
“Thank you. The private jet will be here in a few hours. Go back to sleep.”
She closed the door, and he got back into his vehicle. Echo had answered his question and solved the riddle. Dancers at Echo’s club had been disappearing long before Dexter and his fellow ex-cons had gotten released from prison, and he had to believe that the Outlaws motorcycle gang was behind it. The Outlaws had the financial means to fund such an operation, and were also the types of soulless individuals who would kidnap women and later sell them into slavery. The kitchen he’d seen in the YouTube video was part of their operation, and Dexter was using it to house his victims.
It was a joint operation between the bikers and Dexter’s gang of ex-cons.
The door to the front office opened, and Richmond came outside. In his hand was a steaming Styrofoam cup. Lancaster lowered his window.
“I thought you might need this,” the night manager said.
It was coffee, strong and black. He took a sip and smiled.
“You have no idea how good that tastes,” he said.
PART THREE
WHOEVER FIGHTS MONSTERS
CHAPTER 25
The noise was short and persistent. Three long buzzes, then silence, followed by three more long buzzes. It came over and over again, refusing to die.
Daniels pulled a pillow over her head, and tried to block the noise out. She was exhausted, and had crashed on the bed in her room at the Marriott still fully dressed. Sleep had come instantly, and her thoughts had drifted far, far away.
Then the noise had started. It was still pitch dark, and she’d refused to fully awaken, but had forced herself back to sleep. She wasn’t like Jon, who could run on five cylinders without sleep for days at a time. Her body needed rest; without it, she was nothing more than a zombie.
The noise didn’t care. It invaded her dreams, first posing as a yellow jacket banging against a screen door, and then as a dentist’s drill bit. She was allergic to bee stings and hated going to the dentist, and the dreams had felt like punishment.
At six a.m. she caved, and opened her eyes. Her hotel room was dark, the blinds tightly shut, the digital clock’s face the room’s only light. The sound was gone, and she tried to gather her thoughts, and figure out where it had come from. It wasn’t a fire alarm, nor was it emanating from her laptop. What the hell.
She heard it again. This time, it was accompanied by vibration. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and she shifted her head on her pillow. Her cell phone was doing a little dance on the night table. She’d muted the volume, but not the vibrator. Someone had been texting her, and when she hadn’t responded, had kept at it. This was the sound that had plagued her all night.
She fumbled to turn on the bedside light. The only messages that were delivered at night were bad ones. Something horrible had happened while she’d been sleeping, and she could only guess what it was.
She wasn’t ready to deal with bad news just yet, and fixed a pot of coffee in the machine supplied by the hotel. While it brewed, she stood in front of the bathroom sink, brushed her teeth, and then ran a wet washcloth over her face, the water good and cold. Only when she felt connected to the real world did she sit down on the bed, and sip the scalding brew.
The coffee brought her around. When the cup was empty, she picked up her cell phone and had a look. She’d gotten sixteen text messages during the night. No wonder she’d had such a hard time sleeping.
She punched the “Message” icon with her finger, and entered the area where the messages were displayed. They’d all come from her boss, J. T.
“Jesus Christ,” she said aloud.
She started with the first message, which had come in right after she’d gone to bed. J. T. was asking if she’d seen the news, and for her to call him right away. J. T. had always been good about respecting her privacy, and she guessed that something truly horrific had taken place last night.
She scrolled through the rest of the texts. The messages were similar to the first, with J. T. asking her to call immediately.
This had disaster written all over it. It would have helped if J. T. had sent her a link to the news story that had prompted his first message, instead of leaving her in the dark. She had no idea what she was stepping into, and that was never good.
She pulled up the blinds, and let the early-morning sunlight wash over her. It gave her strength, and she pulled up her boss’s private number and placed the call while staring at the parking lot. It rang four times before being patched into voice mail.
