Chapter 2 - The Ringing Phone on the Asphalt
Ten minutes later, the State Police tactical unit had locked down the right lane of I-95, diverting traffic onto the cloverleaf exit. Parammedics had arrived, swarming the overpass like bees, placing the twins onto pediatric gurneys, checking their vital signs, and wrapping their raw, zip-tied wrists in sterile gauze.
I stood a few yards away, watching a female paramedic gently wipe the black bird tattoo off the first twin’s arm with an alcohol wipe.
She scrubbed hard. Then harder.
“Wait,” I said, stepping closer. “What is it?”
The paramedic stopped, looking up at me with confusion in her eyes. “It won't come off, Officer. It’s not a temporary stamp or grease paint. It’s... tattooed. Deep. Using professional grade pigment. How old did you say these boys were?”
“Not even two,” I replied, a cold sweat breaking out across the back of my neck. Tattooed. Someone had professionally tattooed an infant black-market inventory code onto a two-year-old child.
My radio crackled. It was Marissa, calling from her position half a mile down the shoulder where she had boxed in the blue van after it crashed into a stalled oil tanker.
“Caleb, get down here. You need to see the inside of this van.”
When I arrived at the scene, the blue Econoline looked like it had gone through a meat grinder. The front passenger quarter-panel was smashed flat against the tanker’s steel undercarriage. The driver’s door hung open at an unnatural angle. The driver was gone—vanished into the dense patch of swampy woods bordering the interstate before backup could establish a perimeter.
Marissa was standing by the open sliding side door of the van, wearing latex gloves, holding a clear evidence bag containing a heavily scratched black burner phone.
The phone was still vibrating against the plastic of the bag. Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzzt.
“Did you answer it?” I asked, stepping over broken glass and crushed soda cans.
“No,” Marissa said, her face pale. “I wanted you here. Look inside the back first.”
I stepped up to the threshold of the van and looked in.
There were no seats in the back. Instead, the interior had been stripped down to bare metal and insulated with cheap acoustic foam. In the center sat two child car seats, secured to the floorboards with heavy-duty metal brackets. Dangling from the roof were three empty leashes—the kind used for large dogs—fitted with Velcro loops.
Scattered across the floor were empty baby formula cans, a discarded diaper bag, and several laminated index cards.
I reached in, picked up one of the index cards, and read it under the harsh glare of the overhead squad car lights.
Lot 44-B: Twin males. Verified blood type O-negative. Clean bill of health. Drop point: Overpass 112, 16:00 hours. Contact frequency: Alpha-Seven.
“It’s a catalog,” I whispered, staring at the card. “They weren't abandoned. They were being delivered. Like cargo.”
“And we intercepted the drop,” Marissa said grimly, her eyes shifting to the burner phone vibrating in her hand. “Which means whoever bought them, or whoever was supposed to pick them up from that bridge, is still waiting. And they think the drop went wrong because of us.”
Before I could answer, the burner phone stopped vibrating. A second later, the screen lit up with an incoming text message.
Marissa carefully pressed the screen to unlock it—the phone had no passcode.
The message read: “Package unverified. Are the markers secured? If law enforcement has interfered, execute Protocol Delta on the secondary assets immediately.”
I stared at the screen, every drop of blood draining from my face.
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“Protocol Delta,” I repeated, tasting ash. “What does that mean?”
Marissa didn't answer. She was already dialing dispatch, her voice shaking as she screamed into the receiver. “All units, this is Walker! We have an amber alert escalation! Check every registered daycare, foster facility, and private clinic within a fifty-mile radius! Secondary assets are in play!”
