Mary Sullivan and the security guard checked every inch of the gift shop.
There was no sign of Camille or the boy.
“Maybe they headed somewhere else,” suggested the security guard. “Kids get distracted and wander off.”
Mary stood in the middle of an aisle and looked around. She knew that the security guard was trying to be helpful, but something was wrong. This was not like Camille.
“Can you go ahead and alert the security guards at the exits?” she asked. Her voice was calm. Her heart was no longer pounding in her chest. She needed to be focused. She needed to find her child.
“Of course,” replied the security guard. “And don’t worry—we always find them.”
Mary nodded politely but was not the least bit assured.
New car smell.
It was the first thought that went through Art’s mind as he slid across the back seat of the SUV. They were being kidnapped in the middle of one of the busiest cities in the world, and as strange as it may have seemed, the smell of the car was the first thing the boy had noticed.
Camille followed him into the SUV and settled in next to him. The door shut behind them, and the lock clicked loudly into place. Art tried the handle, but he knew the door wouldn’t open.
Camille pulled her seat belt across her body and locked it into place. This act struck Art as somewhat ridiculous under the circumstances.
She glanced over at him but said nothing. He could see the anxiety in her eyes. He buckled his seat belt into place. He didn’t know what else to do, and it seemed like a small act of solidarity.
The driver opened the door and dropped his huge frame into the front seat. He pulled his door shut with a thud, then glanced back at the kids in the rearview mirror, his eyes magnified by the thick glasses. Art wondered if he ever blinked.
The front passenger-side door opened and the detective took his seat.
“Let’s go,” he said as he pulled his door closed. The overhead light blinked off and the interior of the car went dark.
The driver wasted no time. There was a slight click as he turned the key in the ignition and the engine hummed to life. Art was amazed at how quiet it was for such a big vehicle. The SUV pulled onto Seventh Street and headed north.
Detective Wasberger—Art didn’t know how else to think of him, although he was pretty sure now the man wasn’t a detective and wasn’t named Wasberger—turned in his seat and faced the two kids. “Don’t even think about trying anything,” he said. “It’s useless. This vehicle was designed for diplomats. The windows are heavily tinted, so you can wave all you want—no one will see you. Pound on the windows for all I care—the glass is at least an inch thick—bulletproof. You’ll break your hand before anyone outside the car hears you.”
He paused. Then he looked directly at Art.
“The best thing you can do is sit back and be quiet,” the man finally said. “It’s a short ride. Be good kids and everything will be fine.”
Art knew he was lying. The men, posing as a police officer and a detective, had just kidnapped two kids from the National Gallery of Art. They had not worn masks or made any effort to conceal their identities in any way. The museum had all sorts of security video of Art and Camille talking with this guy, but Detective Wasberger didn’t seem the least bit concerned. There was no way the men were simply going to let the kids go. The boy glanced over at Camille. He could see in her face that she understood the dangers as well.
Dorchek Palmer watched on his iPad as the black SUV carrying the boy and the girl turned onto Seventh Street and headed north. Kidnapping the girl had complicated things, but what choice did they have?
The car moved swiftly from his view on the iPad. He checked the other museum video feeds to make sure there was no sign of the vehicle.
Everything was clear.
The National Gallery’s security feed ran on a twenty-four-hour loop. Once the alarm was raised about the disappearance of the boy and the girl—and that would happen any moment—the video would be the first place security and the police would go. Palmer did not intend to allow the feed to reveal anything. He reset the date in the security system for forty-eight hours into the future. Every bit of video taken at the National Gallery over the past twenty-four hours vanished in an instant. He then reset the video feed for the current time and date. Palmer knew that whoever was manning the video panel in the security room would immediately notice that something had happened—a slight blip on the screen. But that didn’t matter. There was no way to trace it back to him, and besides, the National Gallery’s tech team would probably blame it on some sort of system glitch. The only thing that mattered now was that there was no longer any video evidence that the boy, Palmer, or his team had been at the museum that day.
Palmer smiled. Everything was finally falling into place.
Camille Sullivan had no intention of remaining quiet.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked. Art could hear the anxiety in her voice. She was clearly scared—as was he, but she was still willing to confront the men who had just kidnapped them. Art was impressed.
Neither of the men responded to her question.
The car continued north on Seventh Street.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked again, but with significantly more volume.
Again, she was ignored. The SUV came to a stop at an intersection.
“WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?” she screamed.
The reaction was immediate. Detective Wasberger snapped around in his seat and faced Camille and Art. He held the stun gun in his right hand, the trigger depressed and blue sparks jumping from the sharp metal points. Art glanced over at Camille. The light from the sparks flickered across her face. The back seat was bathed in a strange blue glow.
“Scream again,” he said menacingly to Camille, “and you won’t remember the rest of the ride.”
Art put his hand on Camille’s knee. “It’ll be okay,” he said.
“Listen to the boy,” the detective said. He took his finger off the trigger, and the sparks instantly disappeared. The rear seat of the car went dark once more, and Camille’s face retreated into the deep shadows. A faint electrical odor hung in the air—metallic and slightly pungent.