Fight back! Michael's brain went from sleep to extreme, annihilating panic in an instant. He arched his back with all his strength, bucking himself off the floor. At the same time he tried yanking his hands and feet apart as hard as he could, only to find they wouldn't budge.
His scream was muffled by the duct tape. He heaved himself around, trying to knock into someone or break something to make some noise, but Macy and Dylan were on the beds and Adam was on the other side of the hotel room. Maybe there was something wrong with them...
A big, dark figure leaned over him, trying to gather him up, but Michael struggled against him with all his might. He managed to knee the abductor in the stomach, but it didn't do much. Wild-eyed, he sucked in air through his nose, already feeling like he was suffocating.
All thought fled his brain - he struggled for his life, willing to kill his captor, to do anything to stay alive.
He was hyperventilating, screaming silently, gouging ridges in his ankles and wrists where they were bound with plastic ties.
Still unable to stop the black hood from coming over his head, Michael struggled fiercely and at the last second before his eyes were completely covered he saw a second person standing tall over him - and for a split second Michael thought he was staring in a mirror only to find out that he was staring at his impersonator.
And he was pretty sure the fake Michael stayed with his friends.
Michael weighed 140 pounds but the abductor, who Michael automatically assumed was Don Rafael, was rushing down the slippery pavement as though he was weightless.
He felt his shoulders hit against something cold, metallic. A car. He tried to inhale deeply though his nostrils; to adjust his eyes to the darkness. He must clear his head; stop panicking, think.
The grating sound of a door being opened. Michael felt himself falling. His head glanced against an open ashtray. His elbows and ankles took the force of the jolt as he hit the musty smelling floor. He was in the back of a car.
A door closed. Footsteps scurried around the car. The driver's door opened, clicked shut. The shadows moved. He heard harsh breathing. Don Rafael was leaning down, looking at him.
Michael felt something fall on him, something that scratched his cheek...a blanket or a coat. He moved his head trying to free his face from the choking, acrid smell of stale perspiration.
The engine started. The car began to move.
Concentrate on directions. Remember every detail. Later the police would want to know. The car was turning left onto the street. It was cold, so cold. Michael shivered and the tremulous movement tightened the knots, causing the cords to dig tighter into his legs and arms and wrists. His limbs shrieked a protest.
Snow. If it was still snowing, there might be tracks for a while. But no. There was too much sleet mixed with the snow. He could hear it on the windows.
The car picked up speed. Where was he taking him?
"I want a list of all the wireless locations in Dover, New Jersey," Leanne Boyle told Detective Tom Mason the next morning. "Whoever contacted me through the internet had to have been using a wireless laptop. He said, and I quote, 'I am watching them eat lunch now.'"
Detective Mason shook his head. "Cheeky bastard. You don't think he would actually hurt the kids, do you?"
Boyle arched her eyebrows and asked him the same question. "Do you believe he would?"
"Let's just say I wouldn't put it pass him. So the question is: Who is he? And why does he care about the kids?"
"My guess would be that he saw the news bulletin, recognized the kids, and is just some twisted-minded person. I wouldn't be surprise if we get a ransom letter in the mail soon. Shades of a case we worked one before, no?"
Mason sunk into a chair across from Boyle just as the office door opened. It was their long time civil secretary Jennifer Cruz, behind her was a woman neither Boyle nor Mason ever saw before. Jennifer apologized for her rude intrusion. "This here is Mrs. Jensen," Jennifer indicated to the elder woman.
Both Boyle and Mason exchanged looks of confusion. Noticing their baffled looks, Jennifer continued, "Mrs. Jensen lives across the hall from Michael Douglas, you know one of the kids trekking across the east."
Almost instantly Boyle perked up in her seat, extending her hand. "Please, come in Mrs. Jensen. Tell me what brings you here today?"
Mrs. Jensen, a clearly shaken elder woman, smiled feebly at Mason and sat down next to him. "Well, I have information that might be of help to you for this case. Now, I promised Michael I wouldn't give away where they are going to anybody - so I can't tell you that, but I will say there is one thing that you don't know about his care takers," she paused and looked at Boyle, saying, "you might want to relax Prosecutor, it makes me uncomfortable when you look ready to rush me and this is a long explanation. First off, I never anticipated that their journey would get out of hand and I could almost guarantee you they didn't either."
After Don Rafael had taken the inferior Michael away from the motel, the new and improved Michael, whose name was actually Paul, lay down in his spot and pulled the blanket over him. He closed his eyes, positive he wouldn't sleep a wink.
He was so hyped up - it was all finally happening. No way would he sleep...after this plan ended he would be filthy rich, just for taking some dumb kids spot. What was so important about him anyway? That Carlos fellow seemed destined to get him back. There was no way Michael was his son. They looked nothing alike.
"Ugh!" Paul woke up flailing, dreaming that he was being thrown from tree to towering pine tree.
He blinked slowly and looked around. The sleazy motel room looked even worse in the daylight than it had in the middle of the night.
"Michael?" He looked up to see the bleached-hair kid - Adam something or other - leaning over him. His shirt was dangling from his hand.
"Uh, what?" Paul said.
"You slept about five hundred hours past the time you said you would get up."
Paul sat up. Showtime. Now he would see how well he could play Michael Alan Douglas. "Right," he said, getting to his feet. He was sore and stiff from sleeping on the floor.
The other two were still in the room, not that he really expected them to go anywhere. That Macy girl was studying the map and the annoyingly-buff Dylan was struggling to pull on a pair of jeans. Their eyes met in the mirror. Dylan smiled. Paul gave a weak smile back, wondering why on earth Michael bothered to stay with these goons.
Fifteen minutes, after having showered and checked out, the four of them were walking along the road, Paul had no earthly clue where they were heading, so he allowed that Macy girl to lead, which she seemed to enjoy.
"So," Paul called out to the group, "how far do we plan to walk today?"
"Funny, Michael, real funny," Dylan said, brushing by him.
Suddenly they were walking away from the road and heading towards a thicket of bushes. Paul caught a glimmer of a new SUV tucked away. Well, Paul thought, who the hell would have guessed that they've been traveling in style.
Once they reached the car all of them stopped and looked at Paul. Paul looked back. "Well," Adam prompted. "Where are the car keys?"
"You do have them, don't you, Michael?" Macy asked in an annoying tone. Jesus Christ, Paul thought, did Michael always carry this group? Or was he just a sucker for being bossed around?
Paul patted the pocket of his jeans and was surprised to find a lump in his back pocket. Acting stupidly bashful, Paul said, "Oops! Here they are!" He pulled out the dangling keys. Michael would have acted that way, right?
Paul decided it didn't matter, because he was Michael now.