Collateral Damage - Marc Cerasini [6]
In itself, this wasn't unusual. At four that morning, a truck had departed the factory, full of flattened cardboard boxes. One had left at five as well, also packed with paper. Adhan came next — the call to prayer — sung from the mosque's metal-frame minaret by a young African-American man in denims and a Yankees T-shirt.
The truck leaving now looked like the others Holman had seen: a Mac sleeper cab hauling a steel trailer, the logo for Dreizehn Trucking painted on its side. But when Holman glimpsed the interior of the cargo bay, he didn't see flat stacks of cardboard boxes. Instead, Holman saw bunks. Six of them lined the walls. He spied movement. There were men inside that trailer; he counted at least eight. One had an AK-47 resting across his knees.
Before Holman could get a picture, an arm inside the truck slammed closed the steel doors. The truck continued rumbling toward the compound's gate, sped through and toward the rural route beyond.
Holman cursed, rising quickly, and left his hiding place, creeping through the tall grass, back to his van.
That's when he heard a woman scream.
* * *
7:55:46 A.M. EDT
Kurmastan, New Jersey
Yesterday evening. That's when they'd grabbed Janice Baker. Around six-thirty P.M., they'd put a hood over her head before dragging her away. She had a clue where she was because the men hadn't taken her far, and they'd traveled by foot.
It sounded like her abductors had carried her into their compound, then down a flight of stairs. There they'd tied her up, ignoring her muffled demands to release her, to turn her over to the sheriff for trespassing.
Gasping for breath under the thick material, Janice had struggled against the ropes that bound her to the hard chair. Finally, she'd heard a door slam and was left alone. The place was damp and quiet. Like a grave. When the forty-year-old stay-at-home mother had first smelled the scent of freshly turned earth, she'd gasped, her panic rising.
Did they lock me in a cellar? Or toss me into a hole? Are they planning to bury me alive?
With effort, she'd tamped down her fear. Why put me in a hole? she'd wondered. Why not just call the sheriff and have me arrested?
Janice had been cross-country jogging for years along the same rural trails, long before Kurmastan existed. The men of the town had complained several times to her about trespassing. The first time they caught her, she hadn't even realized she'd strayed onto private property. They cursed her out, but let her go.
The second, third, and fourth times were just like today — she'd chosen to disregard the NO TRESPASSING signs and jog where she pleased. Men of the town saw her, yelled from a distance, cursed at her, but she ignored them. If they caught her, what could they do? Call the sheriff? Fine her fifty dollars tops?
When she'd been spotted the evening before, however, she was stunned by what had happened next. Soon after a few men yelled at her, two of them had set a trap. They'd jumped out of the brush and dragged her to the ground.
They didn't find her easy prey. Janice had managed to kick one man in the groin. He was a big African American who looked like a football player, but her blow slowed him down. She'd also managed to rake her fingernails across the other man's face, right before he'd put the hood over her head.
They'd left her tied up for hours and hours. She'd lost track of time, hadn't slept much, and now she was hungry and thirsty. When she heard a door open, she felt a mixture of terror and relief.
"Who's there," she demanded. She tried, and failed, to sound fearless. "I demand you let me go!"
Janice heard footsteps, felt strong hands fumbling with the knot around her neck. Someone was untying the hood. Good. Maybe they've finally called the sheriff. Maybe now they're going to let me go!
The hood was ripped off her head. Still tied to the chair, Janice was dazzled by harsh light from a naked light bulb that dangled from