Chapter 5 - Station NineRain hammered the highway as Olivia’s convoy raced toward Joliet.
Emily.
Sixteen years old.
Smart, stubborn, sarcastic, and currently supposed to be sitting in second-period chemistry at Roosevelt Academy.
Olivia called the school before the recording finished rewinding.
No answer.
She called again.
Then Emily’s phone.
Voicemail.
Olivia’s hands began shaking.
Marcus saw it.
“Go.”
“I’m staying.”
“Olivia.”
“This is the case.”
“This is your child.”
She turned on him.
“And there are eleven other children missing.”
Marcus stepped closer.
“You are not abandoning them by making sure yours isn’t number thirteen.”
That sentence broke through.
Olivia drove faster than she ever had with lights and sirens.
Roosevelt Academy appeared ahead.
She ran through the main doors.
Security recognized her.
“Detective Reed?”
“My daughter.”
The administrator checked.
“Emily Reed is in chemistry.”
“Take me there.”
“She signed in—”
“Now.”
They reached Room 214.
The teacher looked confused.
“Emily?”
Every seat turned.
Emily was not there.
Olivia’s heartbeat disappeared.
“Where is she?”
The teacher frowned.
“She went to the nurse ten minutes ago.”
Olivia ran.
The nurse’s office was empty.
“She left,” the nurse said.
“With who?”
“Nobody.”
“Why?”
“She received a message from you.”
Olivia stared.
“What message?”
The nurse showed her.
MOM IN ACCIDENT. COME TO FRONT OFFICE.
“I never sent that.”
The nurse’s face drained.
Olivia sprinted toward the front entrance.
Emily stood outside.
Beside a black sedan.
A man in a dark coat held the rear door open.
“EMILY!”
Emily turned.
The man ran.
Olivia drew her weapon.
“Police! Stop!”
He disappeared between parked cars.
Marcus’s units arrived minutes later but found nothing.
Emily was shaken.
“Mom, what’s happening?”
Olivia hugged her.
Hard.
Too hard.
Emily whispered, “Mom?”
Olivia released her.
“There are people involved in my case who tried to lure you away.”
“Why?”
“To scare me.”
“Did it work?”
Olivia looked at her.
“Yes.”
That evening, Emily was placed under protection at Marcus Hale’s home outside the city.
Olivia hated it.
But she hated the alternative more.
Back at headquarters, analysts examined the basement evidence.
Fingerprints belonged mostly to Frank.
DNA from several children had been recovered.
Three matched missing-person cases.
The others were still being processed.
The most important evidence came from the recorder.
Not the voice.
Background noise.
A faint mechanical hum.
An analyst isolated it.
“Industrial refrigeration compressor.”
Marcus frowned.
“Warehouse?”
“Possibly.”
Then another sound.
A horn.
Three low blasts.
Olivia recognized it.
“Freight rail.”
The analyst nodded.
“And there’s something else.”
He played the tape.
Beneath the voice was faint music.
Bells.
Olivia stared.
Church bells.
The recording had likely been made near the house.
Maybe even before the girls were moved.
“Could identify the church schedule,” Marcus said.
St. Cardinal rang hourly from seven in the morning to seven at night.
The bells on the recording sounded five times.
5 p.m.
Olivia looked at the metadata.
The tape itself was old.
But the recording appeared fresh.
“Someone stood inside that house yesterday at five.”
Marcus nodded.
“Then moved the girls overnight.”
Olivia examined the property records.
The house belonged to an LLC.
Red Crown Holdings.
There it was.
They traced the company.
Shell after shell.
Eventually they reached a legitimate corporation.
Crownwell Logistics.
A national freight and cold-storage company.
CEO: Daniel Crownwell.
Olivia stared at his photograph.
Fifty-two.
Philanthropist.
Major donor to children’s hospitals.
Chairman of a charitable foundation focused on missing youth.
Marcus swore.
“Mr. Crown.”
Olivia felt sick.
Crownwell’s company controlled warehouses near freight lines across Illinois, Indiana, Wisconsin, and Michigan.
Perfect for moving people unseen.
They obtained emergency warrants.
Financial investigators discovered payments from a Crownwell subsidiary to Frank’s bakery.
Consulting fees.
Twenty thousand dollars every three months.
Frank had never consulted on anything.
At 10 p.m., Olivia sat across from Frank in his hospital room.
He had burns along one arm.
A police officer stood outside.
Olivia placed Daniel Crownwell’s photograph on the blanket.
Frank looked away.
“That him?”
Silence.
“Daniel Crownwell?”
Frank swallowed.
“You don’t know what he can do.”
“I know he tried to kill you.”
Frank laughed bitterly.
“You think that changes anything?”
“He left you to die.”
“He can reach anyone.”
“Not from prison.”
Frank looked at Olivia.
“You really believe prison stops men like him?”
“Help me put him there.”
Frank stared at the ceiling.
Olivia leaned closer.
“There are eleven girls.”
“Maybe.”
“You know where they are.”
“No.”
“You know how the network works.”
Frank closed his eyes.
“Some.”
“Talk.”
Frank shook his head.
Olivia stood.
“Then I’ll leave.”
He opened his eyes.
“You don’t understand.”
“Then explain.”
Frank’s voice cracked.
“He took my son.”
Olivia stopped.
“What?”
“Six years ago.”
Frank’s son Tyler had been twenty-two.
Drug problems.
Debt.
According to Frank, Tyler stole money from one of Crownwell’s warehouses.
Crownwell offered a bargain.
Work for him.
Or Tyler disappeared.
Frank began identifying vulnerable children.
Runaways.
Foster kids.
Children whose families were struggling.
At first Frank convinced himself they were being sent to wealthy adoptive families.
Then he learned the truth.
“Where do they go?”
Frank began crying.
“I never asked.”
“You knew enough.”
“Yes.”
Olivia’s anger burned.
“Where are the eleven?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think.”
Frank stared toward the hospital window.
“When Crownwell needs to move several at once, he uses cold-storage trucks.”
“Which facility?”
“There are dozens.”
“Which one?”
Frank whispered, “The one they call Station Nine.”
Olivia’s breath caught.
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Frank.”
“I swear.”
He hesitated.
“But every driver knows a code.”
“What code?”
Frank looked terrified even saying it.
“Blackbird.”
Olivia immediately texted Marcus.
SEARCH CROWNWELL ROUTES / STATION NINE / BLACKBIRD.
Frank grabbed Olivia’s wrist.
“You need to understand something.”
“What?”
“If Crownwell knows I talked, he won’t just kill me.”
Olivia looked at him.
Frank whispered, “He’ll kill Tyler.”
“Where is Tyler?”
Frank’s face collapsed.
“I haven’t seen my son in six years.”
Olivia realized the truth.
Frank had spent six years helping a monster because he believed his son was alive.
“What proof do you have he’s alive?”
Frank looked at her.
Every few months, Crownwell sent a photograph.
Olivia asked for the latest.
Frank gave her access to a hidden email account.
The photograph showed Tyler standing against a concrete wall holding that day’s newspaper.
Olivia stared.
Something looked wrong.
She zoomed in.
Tyler’s face had aged.
Hair longer.
Beard.
But the newspaper—
The shadows—
The background—
Marcus called.
“We found Station Nine.”
Olivia stood.
“Where?”
“Crownwell owns nine cold-storage depots in the Midwest. Number nine is officially decommissioned.”
“Location?”
“Outside Joliet.”
Olivia headed for the door.
Then Marcus added, “There’s more.”
“What?”
“Blackbird is a scheduled freight departure.”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
Olivia’s blood turned cold.
“What time?”
“Midnight.”
She looked at the clock.
May you like
10:47.
Seventy-three minutes.
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