Orlando: Lyle 3

By Timothy Lee

Lyle's life is now complicated by a number of factors. First and foremost, a kidnapper has emerged on the scene, abducting children. Things really heat up, though, when the bad guy starts signing names to his notes... familiar names. And then there's FBI agent, Orlando Alvarez, with whom Lyle butts antlers at every turn, and yet he finds an unalterable attraction towards the man.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Timothy Lee
• Release date: Aug 19, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452350967

Timothy Lee

Timothy Lee was born in Concord, California, and raised in South Lake Tahoe, California. Eventually he migrated northward and finally settled down in Olympia, Washington, where he now resides with his two cats, Kodora and Koji. Timothy takes his yearly vacation to the Disneyland Resort where he is allowed to wear silly mouse ears hats and act like a 10 year old.

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Orlando

Lyle 3

Timothy Lee

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 Timothy Lee

Published by Smashwords

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

What readers are saying about

Orlando – Lyle 3

Loved every one of these stories in the series

Whoo!!! Talk about an emotional rollercoaster thrill ride!! Thanks TL for a series that I will read again and again!!! Every once in a while you do find a diamond tossed in with the rest of the gems!!

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

About the Author

Other Titles

Chapter 1

Although the breeze was downright cold, it nevertheless felt good against Lyle Bogart’s damp skin. Over the course of the last hour the 28 year old man had done more running than walking, resulting in the considerable sweat now covering his forehead; this in spite of his tremendous physical endurance. The baseball cap he wore cloaked the short black rats nest that surely covered his head by now, what with having to remove the cap periodically in order to wipe his forehead.

Anxiously awaiting the next call, he paced expectantly before the pay phone mounted on the outside wall of the public restrooms near the entrance of the public park. Ironically, this particular building was a known hangout for anonymous gay sex and were this a better day and had Lyle not lost his interest in men altogether, he might have popped in for a quickie. Events and attitudes were what they were, however, so that would not be happening.

Dressed in loose blue jeans, a denim jacket and his favorite comfortable tactical boots, Lyle masqueraded as a civilian who, although it did not appear as such, was actually on the clock. He had forgone his usual police uniform in favor of a mode of dress a little less conspicuous for this day; one that more closely matched the rigors of his task and the undercover nature of the current mission. The briefcase handle had been clenched so tightly for so long now that it felt to be a natural extension of his left hand, and although the initial weight had been a concern Lyle now paid it little attention. He was more worried about the current rat race and how long he would be made to run through the pre-planned maze set forth by the kidnapper.

The overhead sky was gray, bleaching out the usual vibrant colors in the park as well as casting a general drabness over the city itself. Trees surrounded him in all directions, as did the lush lawn that looked more a blanched asparagus color than its usual brilliant green beneath the overhead gloom. The cement path winding lazily through the recreational area was largely vacant, no doubt due to the cool breeze and hazy sky. It was December, after all, so Lyle was not surprised by the overall pallor and lack of occupancy, nor would he have been surprised to see the sky begin to rain at any moment. The clouds looked foreboding; the weatherman had predicted afternoon showers – winter was here.

Movement to his left caught Lyle’s eye and he turned to find his 27 year old partner, Dieter Baldwin, strolling casually along the grass some 25 feet away. Like Lyle, Dieter was also dressed casually in jeans, a light jacket and trainers. In an operation such as this, the usual uniforms were not an option; a requirement allowing for Lyle’s ‘spies’ to blend in with the background, for, indeed, Lyle was being watched; both by his fellow policemen and, assumedly, the kidnapper.

Lyle cast his eyes about in search of any unfamiliar faces in the passing few who might be taking more than a casual interest in him, but none looked to be overly nervous or anxious. In fact, even Dieter appeared to be more preoccupied with personal matters than to be interested in Lyle’s progress or the possible culprit, and this was good. In not appearing to be with Lyle, Dieter could better intermingle with his surroundings, thereby not alerting the kidnapper to the fact that Lyle was not alone.

Lyle glanced to the phone. Why did it not ring? Had he not arrived at this checkpoint at the allotted time? Had the whole deal been sabotaged by his need to wade through traffic at the signal a block back; traffic that was quick to express their disapproval of his presence on their horns but less inclined to step on the brakes? What if the entire ransom payoff had failed because of Lyle’s inability to leap over cars in a single bound or precisely navigate around and through the endless line of rapidly passing traffic on the four lane road without being killed? Would Lyle be solely to blame for his having arrived at the intersection at a time when the signal light was green instead of red?

These fears continued to plague him until a few moments later when the phone did ring, startling Lyle. He made a mad lunge for the receiver. Yeah? he asked anxiously.

You’re running out of time, dude, the electronically altered male voice on the other end of the line said angrily.

And you’re wasting it, Lyle retorted.

I’ll decide who’s wasting time. Not you, he said bluntly. You don’t call the shots here. I do, and don’t forget it. Now, listen up; there’s a mailbox on the corner of 14th and Craig with graffiti written on it in blue spray paint. Underneath it is further instructions. If you’re not there in two minutes, she dies. At this the line went dead.

Mailbox at 14th and Craig, Lyle muttered to the microphone taped to his chest, and dropping the phone he took off running, leaving the receiver to dangle on its own coiled metal cord.

14th and Craig, came the confirmation through the small receiver in his left ear.

Knowing that the distance he was needing to travel would require more than the allotted time, Lyle poured on even more speed. It would be a close call. A very close call. Unfortunately, the extra exertion resulted in a reminder being sent to his brain about exactly how sore and tired his legs were becoming, but Lyle could not afford to slow down or rest. The consequences would be far too severe. A human life was at stake and every passing second brought that life one second closer to ending.

He wound down the cement path beneath large oak and sycamore trees, the briefcase methodically bouncing against his left leg, causing it to hurt even more than before. As he rounded a particular curve in the path, Lyle deemed it necessary to change course and, turning abruptly, he bolted off across the lawn in the interest of shaving off precious seconds. His eyes continued to scan the areas ahead and beside him, looking for trouble, but other than a couple in the distance who appeared to be oblivious to his presence, Lyle saw nothing out of the ordinary, and certainly nothing of which he might become suspicious. Just the same, he could not afford to let even the slightest detail slip by unnoticed. The heavy burden, worry and urgency were, by themselves, enough to make a person crack, but with all three piled solely upon Lyle’s shoulders it was all he could do to concentrate on the task at hand.

Through the trees Lyle spotted 14th street and the line of tall buildings on the opposite side. Craig would be two blocks down to his left, and in his frantic opinion, well out of reach given the narrow time constraint. Nevertheless, once he cleared the edge of the park Lyle bolted to the left; the briefcase inadvertently winging a pedestrian, drawing a string of cuss words. There was no time for apologies, though.

Lyle spotted a convenient break in the traffic and flew across the street, hitting the first intersection right as the signal turned green, allowing him to cross unobstructed. At least one traffic light was with him at a time when delay was not allowed. Realizing that he had not looked at his watch when receiving the last call, Lyle silently reprimanded himself as he now knew nothing of his time frame – and more importantly, how little he really had.

Weaving around the few scattered pedestrians who dared to venture out on this chilly day, Lyle made his way to Craig Street and stopped at the corner where his eyes then traveled about frantically in search of the mailbox that contained the next clue. At that moment a panic began to set in when realizing that no such box was visible anywhere and this got him to worrying that he had somehow misunderstood the message given him by the kidnapper. No, he clearly remembered the man saying that there would be a mailbox on the corner… so where was it?

Again he scanned the two corners and even the sidewalk bordering the park on the opposite side of 14th street, but there was no standing mailbox in sight. This prompted Lyle to suspect that he had been led on a wild goose chase for the sheer sport of it. The bastard already had the eight-year-old girl – that had been confirmed – so why run Lyle ragged? During this marathon, the five previous phone calls on varying pay phones had been accurate in leading Lyle to the next point, so a dead end was inconsistent and therefore, confusing.

Lyle’s eyes again searched, this time concentrating on the sides of the buildings, and it was at that moment that he spotted a red, white and blue letterbox mounted on the wall of the office across Craig Street. As stated, the box did have blue graffiti on the front and the sight of this eased Lyle’s mind some as he tore across the street, again disrupting traffic as he ran.

I’ve got the mailbox. I’m almost there, he said quietly, revealing his actions to those tuned into the police frequency upon which he was broadcasting via the small radio stuffed into the inside pocket of his jacket; the microphone of which was clamped beneath his shirt collar.

Reaching the metal mailbox, Lyle immediately dropped to his knees and inspected the bottom to find a folded-up sheet of paper taped to the base. This was quickly removed and unfolded to reveal instructions printed in a computer generated font identical to that used in the original ransom note. Reading through the single line of instructions, Lyle rapidly stood, glanced at his watch and then headed at full speed down 14th street.

I’m supposed to catch the 6:18 light rail at Market Square and get off at the Riverton Street Station, he announced breathlessly with another quick glance at his watch. I’ve got two minutes to make it.

Understood. We’ll have somebody there, the voice in his ear assured him.

Frantic over the lack of time afforded him, Lyle felt himself to be on the heels of a full blown panic. He certainly did not need this kind of aggravation, and yet he had nobody but himself to blame. In spite of knowing the inherent risk involved in such a dangerous task, he had volunteered to take this mission on. The FBI had thought otherwise, insisting that one of their own handle the ransom drop, but in the end Lyle (and his boss, Sgt. Matt Anderson) had managed to convince them to let the local force handle this. His volunteering was a logical choice for and by Lyle who knew himself to be the only policeman to have the least to lose if something were to go wrong. Most of the other cops in the department were married or partnered, and having lost the only two men that he had ever loved, Lyle now considered himself to be the most expendable. This was not to say that Lyle did not value life. It was just that, following the unexpected death of his last lover, Bucky, six months ago, Lyle valued his own life a little bit less than before.

Glancing both ways before crossing at the next intersection, he headed out into the street that was surprisingly clear of traffic at the moment. This was actually one of the very few breaks afforded him since the chase had begun earlier. Most of the time, though, everything seemed to be stacked against him; traffic, pedestrians, and time. To the left he spotted the Market Square Light Rail Station in the center of the block, and to the right the train itself which was approaching at a good speed. He would make it, that was not a problem, but he would definitely have to hurry. Reaching the sidewalk across the tracks, Lyle was quickly overcome by the train, its bell clanging in anticipation of its arrival at the station. Lyle dodged several pedestrians, offering no apologies as he cut in front of them and rushed toward the slowing train.

Glancing to his right, Lyle noted Market Square to be oddly empty. This cemented block-square section of the city featured a sizeable round fountain directly in the center and offered varying levels of space that graduated two steps at a time, both up and down from street level. On the weekends, every available inch of the large area would be peopled with shoppers who would browse about the multiple canvas-covered booths that offered homemade crafts and other items of local interest. This evening, however, the square was mostly empty, save for the teenaged kids who normally hung out, apparently lacking anything better to do.

Lyle watched the doors on the train open ahead of him and gauged, by the many passengers waiting to step aboard, how much time he had left before the train would take off. Again Lyle poured on the energy necessary to make it in time… which he did, but only barely. Lyle was in great shape, and yet all this running was definitely taking its toll on his heart, lungs and muscles. The usual daily workout in the gym at the station had built up his stamina, body and strength, and yet such a strenuous workout as this could not be trained for unless he were to run for ten miles a day. In spite of the fatigue, Lyle rushed up to the rear of the second car and stuck out a hand to block the closing of the folding door. He then hopped up onto the first step as quickly as possible, and seconds later the train was in motion.

The car was quite crowded, this being right in the middle of rush hour so Lyle was forced to grab hold of a vertical railing and stand in place while he caught his breath. A seat would have been nice but none were available. Still breathing heavily, he allowed his eyes to travel around the car, scrutinizing each and every passenger to see if any looked nervous or to be conspicuously ignoring him. One such man was ignoring him but to him Lyle smiled, but only to himself. At the far end of the car sat a large, muscular man who was seated facing Lyle though purposely not looking at him. This was Lyle’s other partner and best friend, Darren Michaels, who had also been tracking Lyle’s movements throughout the entire ordeal.

Michaels, as he was referred to throughout the force, was dressed all in black; a dark shade that very closely matched that of his skin. From the knitted cap on his head to his sweatshirt, jeans and sneakers, the man gave the appearance of being either a religious figure or a middle-aged hoodlum. Having seen his partner in this casual attire on their days off, however, Lyle was not surprised by the getup. In fact, it worked very well in an undercover operation such as this in that absolutely nobody would suspect the 28 year old man of being a cop. Michaels, seated at the front of the car, continued his glance out the left window, watching the passing scenery of tall buildings and slower automobile traffic while Lyle diverted his own gaze to again scan the faces around him.

Any one of these people could be the kidnapper of the little girl, Lyle though; from the short businessman in the three-piece suit to the rough-looking teenager whose ragged blue jeans and ripped t-shirt with a skull on the chest seemed to be held together by mere threads. Absolutely nobody was beyond suspicion, and, therefore, had to be carefully analyzed by Lyle who had been taught what to look for. Of course, it was not beyond the realm of possibility that, like Lyle and his undercover friends, the kidnapper had his own spies out to follow Lyle’s every movement, depending on how big and organized an operation this was.

Certainly, the $1,000,000 cash locked within Lyle’s briefcase would indicate a smaller, possibly singular operative, as any organization of two or more would surely have demanded a higher sum. Still, a cool million could easily be shared by three or four, leaving each with a handy profit, so anything was possible. Only one voice had been heard throughout the demand and drop-off instruction process, but that was no indication as to the size of those behind the crime. The FBI thought it to be the work of one man. Anderson and Lyle, however, refused to close the door on the prospect of there being others.

The kidnapping, itself, was pretty routine and appeared to be nothing more than a random act. Stacy, the 10 year old victim, had been playing in a neighborhood playground two days ago with her mother nearby. The mother claimed to have looked away for only a moment, and when she looked back her daughter was gone. Oddly, the family was not one of great wealth; another indication of the randomness of this desperate act, and were it not for the combined efforts of the city and the FBI, the current ransom would not have been possible. Surely a more affluent family would have resulted in a larger settlement, a sign that this had not been well planned or thought out.

Regardless of the who and why, the fact remained that a human child was being held against their will and threatened with death. The ransom had to be paid, in spite of the fact that it might not be recovered. Lyle figured the million to be a write-off, anyway, and a small price to pay for a frightened child.

The train slowed down and banked slightly into a sharp left turn, requiring Lyle to tighten his grip on the steel rail. Once gaining speed again, it traveled straight ahead for another block before slowing for passengers at the next station. This was not Lyle’s stop so he moved aside so as to allow those exiting the train to slip past him. Michaels was one of those exiting, and with a covert wink to Lyle, he stepped off the train just before a slew of more packed themselves into the already-over-populated vehicle.

The doors closed behind those stuck in the stairwells and the train was set into motion with Lyle again scanning the crowd, this time spotting 28 year old Claude Jackson, another cop in his precinct, standing nearby. Claude was clad in a brown suit, looking very much the typical businessman who was exhausted after having spent a long day in one of the many downtime high rise office buildings. His fatigue, however, was authentic. Claude had been following this case with great interest around the clock so that, like a sponge, he could soak up every aspect of the crime and the steps taken in his quest for more experience and knowledge. He was an eager learner who, being one of the newer members to the force, was seeming to fit in as perfectly as ones fingers would fit into a glove. Lyle watched Claude glance around the car, spying Lyle for only a second before continuing his gaze about the crowd without reaction.

Picking up speed, the train veered away from the road and entered a tunnel that carried passengers beneath the freeway. There were no lights in the tunnel although the interior lights of the rail car kept the darkness at bay, if only internally. Emerging into the sunlight on the other side, the train hit a straight stretch of track and picked up even more speed. The next station, Lyle knew, would be his although he did not know what he was supposed to do once he arrived. The previous instructions lacked this information, leaving him to assume that the next step in his journey would be apparent.

The train began to decelerate as it approached the Riverton Street Station, causing Lyle to once again find the need to tighten his grip on the bar. This was a heavily used stopping point along the line, as was evidenced by the considerable number of people exiting the train along with Lyle. Claude had also gotten off the train but he immediately headed away toward the large parking garage down the street along with most everybody else.

Two electronic tones were then heard from inside the railcar, indicating the closing of the doors, after which the train pulled out of the station with a soft whirring noise. After that, Lyle found himself to be alone. He busily cast his eyes about for anything that might be obvious; some sign of the next step on his journey. This adventure had been meticulously plotted out by the kidnapper up to this point so the fact that his next task had not been pre-instructed rather bothered Lyle, and this caused him to begin worrying about the safety of the kidnap victim.

Had he been given the runaround as a mere show of theatrics, Lyle wondered? That was possible, although it stood to reason that, with $1,000,000 at stake, the kidnapper would be hard pressed to pass up such a stash for the sole purpose of simply making Lyle dance. No, he silently reasoned, the next step had to be here somewhere. He just had to be patient, alert and observant.

A noisy bird flying overhead drew Lyle’s attention to the bare power lines paralleling the railroad tracks for a moment. They hung motionless in the light breeze, the sight of this instantly reminding Lyle of a time in his life that he had tried so desperately to forget. Thick wires such as those above the tracks were a determined distraction utilized by Lyle to keep him from having to gaze down upon the polished coffin draped with flowers that awful day six months ago.

This reminder sent him briefly back to the funeral when Lyle cemented his determination never again to fall in love. His heart had turned to ice over having lost the second man ever to have captured Lyle’s affections. Twice Lyle had loved and lost. Twice he had felt his very soul being torn apart. Twice he had fallen victim to a force more powerful than all others; Lyle had lost to fate. His unhappiness had been assured and two times proven by the unexpected, and in his opinion unnecessary, deaths of both Keon and Bucky. This shadow of doom now loomed as a darkness over his life, following him at every step, allowing him to taste happiness before ripping it out of his hands. In that shadowy past Lyle remembered staring up at the power lines on one of the darkest days of his life, and at that chilling moment he had felt a strange calm come over him as the doors to his heart closed shut, locked tight and the key was thrown away forever.

All at once his concentration was broken by a tapping on his shoulder, causing Lyle to turn around abruptly, the swinging briefcase narrowly missing a young man standing behind him.

Excuse me, the clean-shaven boy of about sixteen said. He was dressed in baggy jeans, a hooded sweatshirt and baseball cap Some guy told me to give you this, he instructed, raising his hand.

Lyle first took the note being offered, then quickly cast his eyes about the immediate area in search of the ‘man’ who had employed the boy as his courier. Only one other person was in sight, that being Dieter who was now sitting on a brick wall bordering the sidewalk on the far side of the street across the tracks and looking on with great interest, obviously intrigued with Lyle and his new friend.

Who gave this to you? Lyle asked the boy hurriedly.

I don’t know, he replied without emotion.

What did he look like?

A clown.

Excuse me? Lyle asked, immediately peeved with the kid’s vague and vulgar description of a key player in the drama.

Yeah, some guy in a clown costume, the boy said indifferently.

Realizing that he had been mistaken in the boy’s portrayal of the kidnapper – or the man assumed to have been such – Lyle felt his anger lowering while his sense of urgency elevated.

Where did he give it to you?

Over there in the garage, the teenager explained, extending his arm to point out the parking garage down the street.

Lyle immediately tilted his head down to better speak into the mic hidden beneath his shirt. Our guy is dressed in a clown outfit in the parking garage on Riverton and 37th, he said.

Riverton and 37th garage, the voice in his ear repeated, adding quickly, We’re on it.

Lyle thanked the teen who nonchalantly ambled off to the ticket kiosk toward the center of the loading platform. Quickly unfolding the note, Lyle glanced through the familiar printing, the letters being slightly uneven due to the note having been run off on a dot matrix printer.

Same print, he told the microphone on his chest. Deet, he said with a glance across the tracks to his partner, I need you to question the boy. See if you can get a better description of our man. Seeing Dieter hop down from the wall and head across the street, Lyle again rapidly scanned the note which informed him of his next step.

A squealing of tires alerted Lyle to the fact that the police and FBI were now converging on the parking garage, and with this he turned and flew off down the tracks. I’m supposed to drop the briefcase off in the light rail tunnel before the next train comes through, he spoke to his chest. Knowing that the rail ran every 15 minutes, Lyle knew that he had very little time to reach his destination. The thing that confused him was that, if the kidnapper was waiting inside the tunnel, he could easily be captured by police monitoring both ends of the tunnel.

The clown was setting himself up as a sitting duck by having chosen this place for Lyle to make the drop and that offered further proof to him that kidnappers were not known for their smarts. It was, therefore, assumed by Lyle that the plan had probably been hastily drawn to emphasize a destination of least visibility without taking into consideration a foolproof means of escape. This was good, and bad. Good, that he could be easily caught. Bad in that Lyle lay himself open to the chance of becoming a hostage inside the tunnel; a hostage that could be used to assure the kidnapper’s safe retreat.

Lyle crossed the street against the light, the lack of immediate traffic being a welcomed sight. He had two more long blocks to cover before reaching the tunnel so he again demanded more from his tiring and aching legs and lungs. According to the note now stuffed in his front jeans pocket, he was to enter the tunnel and proceed about 20 yards in to a door. The briefcase was then to be dropped in front of the door, after which Lyle was to cross over to the opposite side of the tracks and wait for the next train to pass before finally exiting the tunnel. The logistics behind this plan was a mystery but obviously necessary for its successful completion, therefore Lyle paid it little attention.

That is, until it struck him that the note had mentioned a door. This, he now reasoned, had to be the door that he had seen inside the tunnel as his train was passing through. It was dark in there but he now clearly remembered the interior lights of the train playing across the tunnel wall as it passed and the unexpected but quick distraction of a green metal door breaking up the monotony of the cement barrier. This, then, he reasoned, would be the kidnapper’s obvious means of escape. Unfortunately, not having previously known of the door or to where it would lead, Lyle could only assume it to be either for a maintenance or utility room, or to be used as an emergency exit. In the event of the door leading to a room with only a single entrance and exit, it would prove to be a prison for the kidnapper while the latter could easily be monitored for his escape where it opened to the street. Thus, the plan’s vulnerabilities were becoming glaringly obvious, making Lyle question the kidnapper’s thoroughness in conceiving this plan.

He relayed his thoughts and suspicions softly to the microphone as he flew down the sidewalk, receiving a brief acknowledgement in his ear. At the next crossing he was met with again more honking as he weaved in and out of the traffic, this once more confirming his contention that people were too locked into their hurried routine, leaving little room for deviation. Reaching the opposite sidewalk, he spotted the brick-framed tunnel opening about half a block down; its internal darkness now concerning him. The seclusion of this space could be anything but beneficial in that, not only would Lyle be alone and unwatched, but chances were that his radio communications would be cut off. This would leave him completely vulnerable and without immediate assistance if it were necessary.

Still, he had been apprised of the risks going into this thing - and had even welcomed it - so if things did not turn out well then Lyle could throw the blame no farther than himself. Rapidly he followed the tracks into the tunnel opening, his footsteps upon the cement floor echoing back to him as he progressed into the increasing darkness that he found to be more unnerving than he had first imagined it might be.

He carried no gun with which to defend himself; a stipulation emphatically demanded by the kidnapper early on. Lyle had been cautioned by his boss, Anderson, to wear the ankle holster that generally accompanied Lyle on certain dangerous cases, but he thought it unwise. In the event that his weapon were somehow discovered Lyle feared that the consequences might directly affect the kidnap victim. Besides, considering the amount of backup following his every step, Lyle had felt it wholly unnecessary to arm himself. Still, as the darkness continued to grow he began seriously questioning the decision to allow himself to be unarmed, but as that was now a moot point he forced himself not to think about the consequences. Besides, he told himself as a source of comfort, the sooner his life ended the sooner he would be reunited with both Keon and Bucky in the next life.

The tunnel took a gradual left until neither end was visible and through what little outside light was available Lyle could see that he was alone. This did not guarantee the continuation of his solitude, of course, but for the moment it was a welcomed relief. A few more steps and he spotted the metal door along the left wall, noting with some confusion the padlock barring unauthorized personnel from entering. This pretty much blew a hole in Lyle’s ‘kidnapper behind the door’ theory, so, obeying the instructions as he remembered them, he set the case down before the door and then crossed over to the opposite side of the tunnel. He then relayed his actions to the microphone on his chest, although receiving no response. This was not unexpected so it was of no great concern.

Not five seconds later came the distant rumble of the next light rail train as it entered the tunnel to his left and to this he flattened himself against the wall in the confined space, hoping that there was enough room in there for both himself and the train. A yellow light grew on the wall as the rumble increased, the electric engine becoming audible with a high-pitched whir, and with the train’s approach came a heightened awareness of Lyle’s surroundings. Specifically, he kept his eyes glued to the door on the other side of the rails for any signs of occupation or movement, although, logically, that would not happen.

If the kidnapper were to emerge from behind the door then he would have to be do it quickly, for even though the train was two cars long it would be passing very rapidly. And with the added delay of having to break through a padlock, this would be an impossible task to accomplish in such a short period of time. Distracting Lyle’s eyes was the direct appearance of the headlights on the front of the train as they rounded the curve, highlighting him. He pressed himself more tightly against the cool wall and watched the approaching train while silently calculating his chances of being struck by the vehicle and dragged to his death. To his mind the tunnel appeared to be wide enough but the proof had yet to be revealed.

The first thing Lyle saw above the headlights was the driver who was obvious in his blue uniform with yellow trim and gold chest insignia. Beside him, however, stood another man that, as the train roared past, Lyle recognized as being Matt Anderson, his boss. The friendly face was of great relief, although the close proximity of the passing train quickly brushed that comfort away.

Well-defined squares of light from the train’s internal illumination played across the tunnel wall, matching the speed of the vehicle as it passed and for the moment Lyle found himself greatly comforted by the disruption in the darkness. He scanned the interior of the cars as they flew by, noting the abundance of passengers, although recognizing nobody other than Anderson.

With a final gust of air the train passed, its light rapidly diminishing until the tunnel was once again dark. In his solitude, Lyle waited while his eyes again adjusted to the darkness before moving, all the while his ears being attuned to even the slightest irregularity. So far, though, everything was quiet. Stepping away from the wall he cautiously crossed over the tracks and approached the closed door, the briefcase now miraculously missing. Lyle immediately tried the door handle but found it to be tightly locked and the padlock looking undisturbed.

This then raised the question; how had the money been taken? Had somebody been hanging out of the train and scooped the case up as they passed? That seemed highly unlikely seeing as how any open door would signal the driver, which in turn would alert Anderson and sent him back into the main passenger area to catch the culprit.

Lyle considered this for a few moments before turning and heading out of the tunnel. Once exposed to the sunlight again, he relayed the information of the successful pickup to his chest, receiving an immediate response asking about his welfare. Answering that he was fine, and that he had not seen or heard anybody inside the tunnel, Lyle then asked if any information had come across concerning the release of the hostage. This was answered with the news that, yes, they had been told where to find the little girl and two units were on their way to pick her up.

A happy ending, Lyle thought, and with a sigh he forced his sore legs to carry him up the slight incline following the tracks amidst the militia of police, S.W.A.T. and FBI agents swarming past him into the tunnel. He was exhausted, and although still energized from the whole exciting ordeal, he was anxious to return home to a hot shower and an early bedtime. Because of his involvement in this case, Lyle had been given the previous night off from his usual 4pm to 2am shift. Making matters even better was the fact that this was Sunday, which was Lyle’s Friday, which meant that he now had the next three days off to recover from the day of constant running.

After a brief jaunt back inside the tunnel to explain his every move in detail to the many swarming around, Lyle was met at the light rail station by his partner, Dieter, who then drove the two of them back to the department where paperwork was taken care of and a final meeting on the situation held. By the time Lyle returned home there had still been no word on the little girl having been picked up, which was certainly a concern, but with the drop-off having succeeded according to plan Lyle had no reason to believe that the hostage release would somehow go wrong.

As expected, back home the shower felt wonderful; the hot water streaming down his body washing away a day’s worth of anxiety and sweat. Following a lengthy soaking he slipped into some sweats and ambled down to the kitchen to figure out something to eat. While everything sounded good, absolutely nothing looked like it wanted to be cooked. More appropriately, Lyle really did not want to take the time to prepare anything. Therefore, he called out for a pizza delivery and then stretched out on the couch to