In 1981, four young members of a California rock band disappeared during a private flight. Their plane vanished without a trace from radar. The musicians were considered missing for 19 years. Their fate remained a complete mystery, baffling investigators. But then, a deep-sea Navy expedition unearthed something shocking from the ocean floor.
A discovery that would bring to light a dark truth for which no one was prepared. The afternoon light filtered through the lace curtains in Helen Hayes’s modest living room in Crescent Harbor, casting delicate patterns on the worn pages of her book. At 63, Helen had learned to find peace in simple moments like these, her reading glasses perched on her nose as she lost herself in the familiar comfort of a beloved novel.
The small coastal town in Northern California had been her refuge for almost two decades. Ever since that terrible day in 1981 when her 20-year-old son, the singer of the band Crimson Fireline, disappeared. The shrill ringing of the telephone in the kitchen shattered the peace. Helen sighed, carefully marking her page before rising from her armchair.
Her joints protested slightly as she walked into the kitchen, the linoleum cool beneath her slippers.
“Hello Srenia,” she replied, perhaps expecting a telemarketer or a fake number.
The voice on the other end was formal and official: “This is Lieutenant Commander Jackson of the United States Navy. I am calling on behalf of the Crescent Harbor Police Department regarding your son, S. Hayes.”
Helen gasped. After 19 years, she hadn’t expected to receive calls like these anymore.
“What is it about?”
“Ma’am, we have recovered the private plane in which your son and his band disappeared. We ask you to come to the Port Holston naval base.”
The words hit her like a physical blow. Helen clung to the kitchen counter, her ankles white.
“I don’t have time for jokes,” she said sharply. “My son disappeared in a plane crash ten years ago. I don’t believe he’s still alive, and I don’t want my peace disturbed.”
She slammed down the phone before the man could answer. Her hands were trembling. The grief she had so painstakingly suppressed now threatened to break through.
Not only had she lost Zan, but shortly afterward her husband Malcolm was also admitted to a psychiatric hospital, although he was released as healthy after five years. Returning to a quiet, isolated life, he remained distant and withdrew from the rest of the community to live a peaceful existence.
The stress caused by her son’s disappearance had completely changed him. Helen returned to her armchair, but the words on the page were blurry. She couldn’t concentrate. The phone rang again, persistently. She let it ring four, five, six times. Finally, annoyed by its persistence, she answered.
“I told you…”
“Miss Hayes, please don’t hang up.” This time it was a woman’s voice, calm and professional. “I’m FBI Agent Dana Truit. I understand this is hard to believe, but we actually recovered the plane. The Navy wasn’t joking, ma’am, we need you at the base.”
Helen felt tears in her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I thought… I’d come. Thank you, Miss Hayes. Do you need transportation?”
“No, I can do it.”
Helen hung up and mechanically got ready. She chose a simple navy blue dress and comfortable shoes; her movements were automatic. As she left the house and walked towards the train station, a familiar car pulled up beside her.
The window rolled down, revealing the weathered faces of Patricia and Donald Maddox.
“Helen,” Patricia’s voice was thick with emotion. “Are you also on your way to the Port Holston naval base?”
Helen nodded, unable to speak. She recognized them immediately, despite the age difference. They were Trent’s parents.
Her son had been the bassist for Crimson Fireline.
“Come with us,” begged the voice from the back seat.
Helen gratefully accepted and sank into the leather seat. Patricia turned to her.
“The Kleins are also on their way. Derek’s aunt and uncle. His parents died two years ago, and the Morenos, Ricky’s cousins, will be there. His parents have already died of old age.”
The drive lasted several hours, filled with tense silence, broken only by Patricia’s occasional sniffles. Helen stared out the window, watching the California coastline slip by. When they finally arrived at the Port Holston naval base, the security presence was overwhelming.
Naval personnel, FBI agents, local police, forensic teams, and apparently expedition researchers. Agent Dana Truit greeted them at the gate, her badge gleaming. She was younger than Helen had expected, with sharp eyes that missed nothing.
“Thank you all for coming. I know this is difficult.”
She led them across the base to an open field. Helen gasped when she saw it. It was the very private jet from Malcolm’s photographs. Her husband had taken pictures with his film camera before the band’s departure to document what he called their meteoric rise. He developed those photos as a memento and as evidence for the police.
Now the aircraft stood before them, a ghost from the past. Rust covered the once-white skin. Seaweed hung from the wings like mourning veils. The red stripes, once so vibrant, had faded to brown. Dr. Martinez, the lead expedition researcher, stepped forward:
“We were on an ecological deep-sea expedition with NOAA to study hydrothermal vents. Our sonar registered unusual metallic reflections. When our underwater camera confirmed that it was an aircraft at a depth of 12,000 feet, we immediately contacted the authorities.”
He pointed at the airplane.
“The Navy and the FBI worked together to recover it from our research vessel using a heavy-duty crane.”
The wreckage was surprisingly intact, the door sealed, the windows cracked inwards.
“It’s remarkable how well preserved the fuselage is.”
Helen’s gaze fell upon several body bags, respectfully lined up on tarpaulins next to the plane. Her heart clenched.
“Are these…?”
Agent Truit nodded grimly. “That’s why we need you here, for identification.”
Dr. Martinez added: “At extreme depths with little oxygen, cold temperatures and minimal disturbance, bodies decompose much more slowly. It is plausible that they are still identifiable after 19 years underwater.”
Patricia Maddox clung to her husband’s arm. “Please, we need to see.”
The officers exchanged glances before carefully opening the first bag.
Patricia’s scream pierced the air. “Trent, my baby.”
Even after 19 years, the trousers with the red leopard print were unmistakable. Trent Maddox, the bassist who always dressed extravagantly, was instantly identified. The second bag revealed Derek Klein; his leather vest and distinctive belt buckle confirmed his identity.
His aunt and uncle fell into each other’s arms, sobbing. The remaining bags contained men whom neither of them recognized. Not the pilot, not the flight attendants. They wore expensive suits, now damaged, but still suggesting wealth.
“The boys should meet with an international record label and producer,” Helen said quietly. “Some kind of distributor. These men could be part of the company. My husband was the band’s manager, but he rarely shared details with me back then. But I think he told the police everything.”
Officer Rodriguez, who had handled the original missing person case, confirmed her report.
“Malcolm Hayes became violent, and shortly after the disappearance, he was diagnosed with an acute mental illness. He was released five years later and returned to a reclusive life. We tried to contact him, but he refused to come.”
The forensic team arrived, took photographs, and examined the scene. A technician looked sharply at the scene. “Gunshot wounds. All the victims show signs of firearms.”
Agent Truitt’s expression hardened. “Then something very bad happened in the air. They were probably killed instantly. The pilot’s absence suggests the plane was put on autopilot and he parachuted to safety.”
Helen felt a spark of desperate hope. “Sane’s and Ricky’s bodies aren’t here. There’s a chance they’re still alive.”
“It’s possible,” the agent admitted. “No one has seen her, but we are changing this from a missing person case to a criminal investigation.”
The press descended like vultures, cameras and microphones at the ready. One reporter positioned herself in front of the plane and spoke quickly into her camera.
“Crimson Fireline: Zan Hayes as lead singer, Trent Maddox on bass, Derek Klein on rhythm guitar and co-songwriter Ricky Moreno on lead guitar. Many locals knew them from small gigs in bars. They were just starting to find success and sell their music. When they disappeared, the families were interviewed one by one.”
When it was Helen’s turn, she stood before the cameras, her voice steady despite her trembling hands. “I had lost all hope,” she admitted. “But with this new evidence, I pray that the police will find out more about my son.”
She looked directly into the camera. “Zan, if you see this, please come back to me. Come home.”
The other families continued to mourn publicly, but Helen couldn’t. She had learned to shut down her emotions. When the interviews were over, a police officer approached her.
“Miss Hayes, may we accompany you home?”
She nodded gratefully. As they walked to the police car, she cast one last glance at the plane. For years it had lain in the depths of the ocean, guarding its terrible secrets. Now those secrets were coming to light, and Helen wasn’t sure she was ready for what they might reveal.
The journey home was silent. The young official seemed to understand that she needed peace and quiet. When they reached her house, he accompanied her to the door.
“Ma’am, if you need anything…”
“Thank you,” Helen said softly.
She waited until his police car had disappeared around the corner before entering her house.
In her hallway, Helen pressed her back against the closed door and finally let go. The tears came in large, violent sobs. Nineteen years of grief poured out in the safety of her own home. She slid to the floor, her navy dress enveloping her, and wept for her lost son, for the boys who had died, for all the years of uncertainty.
After what felt like an eternity, probably 20 minutes, Helen pulled herself together. She pulled herself up against the wall, her knees protesting, and went into the small study where her ancient computer stood. The machine slowly sprang to life and navigated to her old Usenet forum. She hadn’t posted anything in almost a decade. The support group for families of missing persons had been her lifeline in the early years, but at some point, she stopped participating because she could no longer bear the constant cycle of hope and disappointment.
Now her fingers trembled as she typed. “They found the plane. After 19 years, the Navy pulled it out of the ocean. Two of the boys were shot inside. My Zane wasn’t with them. I don’t know what to think.”
The responses came quickly. Some offered prayers and encouragement. Others, perhaps more realistic after years of dashed hopes, gently cautioned her not to expect too much.
One message read: “Helen, after 19 years… Please protect your heart.”
She lost track of time while reading and replying; the familiar usernames brought back memories. When she finally looked at her watch, she was seized by panic. Her doctor’s appointment was in 45 minutes and the bus ride would take 30.
Helen also wanted to visit Malcolm at his house. He had a right to know about the plane, despite their strained relationship. She grabbed her purse and hurried out as fast as her aging legs would allow. The bus was just pulling away as she reached the stop. She waved frantically, but the driver didn’t see her.
Frustrated, she checked the timetable. Forty minutes until the next one. A man stood at the other end of the waiting shelter, keeping his distance but watching her intently. He was perhaps in his mid-fifties, wearing a faded jacket and jeans. Something about his gaze made her very uneasy.
“Beautiful day,” said Helen, to ease the tension.
The man didn’t smile; his eyes were cold, almost hostile. “I saw you on the news this morning,” he said matter-of-factly. “Your son is probably long dead. He’s likely lying at the bottom of some ditch.”
Helen flinched. “What’s your problem?”
Another bus approached, not hers. The man boarded without another word. He continued to stare at her through the window. His expression was unreadable, but somehow threatening.
Helen tried to calm her racing heart. “Some people are just cruel,” she told herself. “They couldn’t understand the pain of losing a loved one.”
She glanced at her watch to fill a 30-minute gap. The phone booth in front of the local supermarket was three blocks away. She could call her husband and tell him the news.
The walk would help clear her head. The supermarket was busy. Customers came and went with their shopping. Helen found the phone booth and dialed her husband’s familiar number. She told him everything. Malcolm initially refused to say anything about the jet they had found, but Helen finally convinced him to listen.
“I’ll be there at 3 o’clock,” she assured him. “Right after my doctor’s appointment.”
She hung up and turned around. Her blood ran cold. The same man from the bus stop was standing right behind her, as if he’d appeared out of nowhere.
“What…?”
“Zane,” he said roughly as she gasped for air.
Helen didn’t answer. She walked away quickly. Her sensible shoes clacked on the pavement.
She nervously glanced over her shoulder. The man had picked up the phone booth receiver, but his eyes followed her as she walked. Something was definitely wrong. This wasn’t a coincidence. Helen suddenly quickened her pace, acutely aware of her vulnerability. A 63-year-old woman, alone on the street. The familiar shops of Crescent Harbor suddenly seemed less reassuring.
She needed to get to a safe place where there were people. Helen pushed her way through the supermarket’s automatic doors and immediately felt safer among the weekend shoppers. The familiar sounds of squeaking shopping carts and beeping checkout scanners helped calm her nerves. Through the window near the supermarket entrance, she noticed a bus stop sign that was closer than walking back to the original bus stop.
The store was well-stocked, with fresh fruit and vegetable displays and grocery aisles on the ground floor. Helen had shopped here often over the years and found comfort in the routine. The escalator to the first floor hummed softly. She held onto the railing and rode up, thinking of Malcolm. He had always loved National Geographic magazine, even in his current condition.
The photos seemed to calm him. The first floor opened onto the electronics department. Rows of bulky CRT televisions displayed the same image: her own face, as she had spoken to reporters just a few hours earlier. The news agency had already picked up the story. She paused, fascinated by the surreal sight of seeing herself multiplied across 20 screens.
“Mother asks son to come home after 19 years,” the reporter said.
The footage showed the recovered aircraft, water dripping from its rusty fuselage. A woman with a shopping basket stood beside it.
“Oh my God, that’s you, isn’t it? You’re the mother.”
Before Helen could answer, others began to gather.
An older man gently touched her shoulder. “My deepest condolences for your loss, my love.”
“My nephew loved Crimson Fireline,” said a younger woman. “They played every Thursday at Mickey’s Bar.”
The crowd pressed closer. Voices overlapped, mingling with questions and condolences. Helen felt her chest tighten, overwhelmed by the sudden attention.
She tried to retreat, but was trapped.
“Please give the lady some space,” demanded a firm voice.
Helen looked up hopefully, expecting the store’s security guards. Instead, the man from the bus stop pushed his way through the crowd. Before she could protest, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her away.
His grip was iron, despite her attempts to resist.
“What are you doing? Let me go!”
He didn’t answer, but steered her toward an emergency exit. The door was marked “Authorized Personnel Only,” but it stood slightly ajar. He pushed her through and pulled her inside. The stairwell was dimly lit. Concrete walls echoed her footsteps.
Helen freed her hand. “Why are you following me?”
The man’s expression was cold, professional. “I am not your savior, lady. I am here to observe you and deliver a message.”
He stepped closer and Helen backed away from the wall.
“If you talk to anyone about it, the police, the FBI, anyone, it’s all over.”
In one fluid motion, he pulled her closer and pressed something hard into her stomach. Helen looked down at herself and saw the black metal of a pistol. Panic washed over her.
“Please,” she whispered, “if you know where my son is, if he is still alive…”
“Stop talking, or you’ll blow this chance!” he hissed. “It would be better for you to sink in the ocean before you find her.”
“The man who sent me is not merciful.”
Helen’s thoughts raced. “How do I know that you actually know something about Zane?”
The man looked her up and down and then spoke softly: “The lighthouse keeper’s daughter is waiting on the beach, counting the stars that have fallen earlier.”
Helen’s blood froze to ice. These were lines from a song Zan had been working on shortly before his disappearance.
He never finished it, never performed it. She was the only one who had heard those words, late at night, as he played the melody on his acoustic guitar.
“We know everything,” the man continued. “Your doctor’s appointments every two weeks, your shopping trips on Tuesdays, your husband in Sunset Hills. We’ve been watching you for years.”
“So my son really is alive.” Srenia Helen’s voice broke.
The man stepped back, rattling his concealed weapon. “Shut your mouth, we won’t reach an agreement. But if you’re reckless, if you so much as mention a word about this to anyone, I won’t hesitate. Terrible things will happen to you and your boy.”
He turned and went down the stairs, his footsteps echoing until they faded away. Helen stood frozen, then slumped against the wall. Tears streamed down her face as she trembled all over. Her heart was pounding so hard she feared it might give out. The emergency exit door suddenly opened. A young salesman peered inside, his face etched with concern.
“Ma’am, are you all right? You shouldn’t be here. Should I call an ambulance?”
Helen forced herself to sit up. “No, I’m fine. I just needed a moment.”
A recognition dawned in his eyes. “You’re the lady from the news. I feel so sorry for your son.”
“Thank you,” Helen managed to say, pushing past him.
She had completely forgotten about National Geographic magazine.
All that mattered now was getting away. She found the escalator and rode down quickly, clinging to the railing with white knuckles. The supermarket exit seemed miles away. Through the glass doors, she saw her bus approaching. Helen rushed out and half-ran, half-stumbled to the bus stop. The doors were already closed, but the elderly driver saw her desperate waving.
“Please!”
The driver, a friendly-looking man around 70, reopened the doors. “Take your time, my dear.”
Helen boarded the bus and rummaged for her monthly pass with trembling hands. “Thank you very much.”
She went to the seats reserved specifically for elderly people and plopped down. As the bus pulled away, she glanced back at the supermarket.
There was no sign of the man. But his words stuck in her mind. “We’ve been watching you for years.”
If Zan was really alive, what had become of him? Who was this man, and what price would she have to pay to see her son again? Helen got off the bus at the hospital complex, her legs still trembling from the encounter in the supermarket.
The familiar medical building loomed before her, its weathered walls and tinted windows a testament to years of routine visits. She checked in at reception, had her blood pressure taken as usual, and sat in the waiting room until her name was called. Dr. Peterson was as efficient as ever, reviewing her heart medications and writing new prescriptions.
Helen barely registered his warnings to avoid stress. Her thoughts kept returning to the man’s threat and those awful song lyrics. By the time she finally left the doctor’s office with the prescription bag in her hand, the afternoon sun was already beginning to set. She stood at the bus stop in front of the hospital, torn between two options.
The man had explicitly warned her not to speak to anyone, especially not about the plane and Malcolm. He was still her husband, after all. She couldn’t just abandon him. A car horn pulled her from her thoughts. A dark sedan was waiting on the other side of the street, its engine running. The man from before was behind the wheel and, with a curt nod, gestured for her to come over.
Helen’s stomach clenched. She considered running back to the hospital, but his earlier words echoed in her head: “Terrible things will happen to you and your boy.”
She crossed the street slowly. Each step felt like a betrayal of her better judgment. The man rolled down the window.
“Get in at the back,” he ordered.
Helen hesitated. “I don’t even know who you are.”
“Get in the back seat. Now.”
His tone brooked no argument. Against all her instincts, Helen opened the back door and slid inside. The locks clicked shut immediately.
“I know you’re planning to visit your husband. You’re waiting for the bus there, not home,” the man said, merging into the traffic.
“I cannot allow that.”
“I won’t tell him anything about you,” Helen protested. “I only need to tell him about the plane. He has a right to know.”
“No, you can’t. Put this on.”
He threw a pair of handcuffs onto the back seat. Helen stared at them in disbelief.
“No, I don’t know you. I don’t trust you.”
“I should have called the police.”
“Now you’re testing my patience.”
In one fluid motion, the man turned around, grabbed her wrists, and snapped the handcuffs shut despite her resistance.
“Make a sound and I’ll kill you on the spot.”
Panic paralyzed Helen as he drove on. They left Crescent Harbor behind, the familiar streets giving way to the highway, then to narrow roads lined with tall pine trees.
After what felt like an eternity, probably 40 minutes, he turned onto a dirt track that was barely wide enough for the car. A small, isolated cabin with dark windows appeared among the trees. The man parked and dragged her out, his grip tight around her arm. Inside, the cabin smelled of mold and stale smoke.
Sparse furniture, a stone fireplace, and hardly anything else.
“Why are you doing this?” Helen demanded. “The police will come looking for me. If I don’t show up, they will. They can’t keep me here forever.”
“I can do that and I will do it. Now, for your own good, you must remain silent.”
He produced a roll of black duct tape and, despite her muffled protests, wrapped it around her mouth. He went outside, took out a cigarette and a cell phone. Through the window, Helen watched him pace back and forth while talking on the phone. When he noticed her staring, he moved further away, out of earshot. Helen tested the handcuffs, but they were professionally made, and escape was impossible for her arthritic hands.
Panic rose within her. She was 63 years old, suffered from heart disease, and had been kidnapped by a stranger who claimed to know something about her missing son. The man returned. He stubbed out his cigarette under his boot. He walked to the back wall and pushed against what looked like ordinary wooden paneling. A section swung inward, revealing a secret compartment.
He took out several small packets wrapped in plastic. Each contained white powder. Helen’s eyes widened. She knew exactly what it was. He ripped the tape off her mouth. She gasped.
“What is that?”
“You have to swallow them. They’re drugs.”
Helen shook her head vigorously. “No, I won’t.”
“Kill me if you have to. But I won’t. Why are you doing this to me? I’m just a grieving old woman who’s going to die soon anyway.”
The man placed the packages on the table. “My name is Edric Canvo. I have business ties to your son. If you ever want to see him again, you will do exactly as I say.”
“Please,” Helen begged.
“I have a heart condition. This could kill me. If you have any decency at all, there must be another way.”
Edric pulled out his pistol and pressed it against her temple. “I’m not a good person. You swallow these packets or I’ll pull the trigger. Three seconds. One.”
“Please.”
“Two.”
Helen took one of the packets with trembling hands. It was small, tightly wrapped. She placed it on her tongue and forced herself to swallow. Then another, and another. Four in total.
“Good.”
Edric lowered the pistol and took out a tube of pills.
“Take these; they will help keep the packages inside you intact.”
Helen swallowed the tablets dry.
Tears streamed down her face. “Don’t ask any questions,” Edrick said. “It’s better for everyone, especially for you, if you don’t know too much. It won’t kill you; you’re just the carrier.”
He handcuffed her again and tied her to a wooden chair with a thick rope.
“Someone will come soon. Stay calm and you will see your boy.”
Helen sat bound in the dimly lit cabin, the packets of drugs like lead in her stomach, wondering what had become of her son, that this nightmare was the way to him. Several moments passed in the dimly lit cabin. Helen felt the drugs begin to take effect. A strong feeling of drowsiness washed over her. Her thoughts became sluggish and incoherent.
She prayed that it was only the pills Edric had given her, and not the packets themselves, releasing their contents into her body. The room began to blur at the edges. She felt weightless, as if floating above the chair. Time lost its meaning. Was it minutes or hours before she heard the rumble of an approaching vehicle? Through the fog, she could see headlights sweeping across the window.
A large truck, its outline blurred in her hazy vision. Edric’s face appeared before her, his features intertwined as if in water.
“Time to go.”
His voice seemed to echo from a great distance. She felt his hands unlock the handcuffs. They untied the rope. Her legs could barely support her as he pulled her up.
The world tilted and swayed with every step toward the door. Outside, the night air touched her face like cold silk. Dark-haired men stood by the truck, speaking rapid Spanish. They looked Mexican, their faces hard and weathered. One of them grabbed her roughly and shoved her toward the back of the vehicle.
“Come on! Old lady!” he growled.
The truck’s cargo space was larger than expected, but the man didn’t let them into the main area. He pushed on what looked like an inner wall, and a section swung inward. A secret compartment.
“Get in. Stay calm.”
Helen ducked through the opening. Her dazed eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness.
Outlines became people, women, all young. Some looked barely 18. They sat pressed against the walls, silent, their eyes hollow. She was the only one over 30, let alone over 60. The realization hit her through the drug-induced haze. She had seen it in films, read about it in newspapers: human trafficking, drug smuggling.
She was now a part of it, whether she liked it or not. The secret door closed, plunging her into total darkness. The truck’s engine roared to life, and they drove off. Helen found a spot against the wall and slumped, her knees drawn up. Time became meaningless in the darkness. The truck stopped occasionally.
She could hear muffled voices. Sometimes the main loading hatch opened, but her secret compartment remained locked. The younger women remained silent, clearly experienced in this terrible routine. Helen dozed restlessly, waking whenever the truck drove over bumps. Gradually, the effects of the medication began to wear off.
Her mind cleared, revealing the full horror of her situation. She was being smuggled across unknown borders, with drugs in her system, surrounded by trafficked women. After what felt like an eternity, probably many hours, the truck finally stopped. Now there were different voices, harsh, guttural, speaking accented English and something that sounded like Russian.
The secret hatch opened. Bright light streamed in, making everyone blink. The silhouette of a massive man stood in the opening.
“Out! Everyone out.”
They stumbled into what looked like a warehouse. Concrete floors, metal beams, the smell of motor oil and something else, something chemical. More men were waiting, all with Slavic features, all armed.
They were led into a side room and told to line up. Next to it was a smaller room with a radiation warning sign. Helen’s legs trembled, partly from her long captivity, partly from fear, as she watched the women being called in one by one. Each time, the deep hum of the X-ray machine returned ominously. When it was her turn, she followed the man who shoved her forward and yelled at her to press herself against the cold metal wall.
Moments later, another man entered the room. The left side of his face was grotesquely disfigured, crushed, and poorly healed, resulting in a permanent grin. He carried a tray with small cups filled with liquid. He ordered them to drink it to expel the packets. The younger women obeyed immediately.
Helen hesitated, her hand trembling as she reached for a cup. The man with the disfigured face noticed and looked at her with disgust.
“Why did you send us an old woman?” he asked his companion in heavily accented English. “She could barely stand and only had four packages with her.”
“I don’t know,” the other replied.
“We need to ask the boss.”
The man with the disfigured face bent down close to Helen. His breath smelled rancid.
“Drink, Babushka, or I’ll force you.”
Helen swallowed the bitter liquid. In her mind, she cursed herself for trusting Edric. She should have had him shot in the cabin.
At least it would have been quick. Now she was alone, at the mercy of these monsters.
“I’m taking the old woman to Bruno,” announced the man with the disfigured face. “He’ll sort it out with her.”
“Perhaps we should send the supplier a message. Next time, no discarded old lady who can’t even stand up straight. This is reject stock.”
The other women stared at Helen with blank eyes. They had seen too much to feel pity. The man grabbed her upper arm. His fingers dug deep. Her thin muscles offered no protection. She felt his grip chafe against the bone.
“Go!” he commanded, dragging her towards the door.
Helen stumbled along, wondering if she would ever see daylight again, if this nightmarish journey would truly lead to a reunion, or if she would simply disappear like so many others who had encountered these men.
They left the room and walked through a series of corridors, each darker than the last. The man with the disfigured face never loosened his grip on Helen’s arm. Finally, he stopped in front of a black door, its paint peeling like diseased skin. He flung it open, revealing a staircase that plunged into darkness. The temperature dropped with every step.
Downstairs, another black door awaited. The man pushed it open and shoved Helen through. She stumbled, almost fell, but he caught her by the arm and pulled her upright. The room that greeted her was a nightmare come true. Red walls, red floor, then she realized with horror, as the smell hit her like a physical blow…
Raw meat and human excrement, the stench of a slaughterhouse mixed with a septic tank. In the middle of the room, three women knelt in a row, blindfolded, gagged, their hands tied behind their backs. They trembled but made no sound. A man stood with his back to them, his gun raised, pointed at the head of the first woman.
“Gerald, wait, where’s Bruno?” shouted the man with the disfigured face. “I need him to take care of this.”
“The supplier sent us an old woman as a courier.”
The man, named Gerald, turned around, and Helen’s world shifted. Despite the years, despite the different context, she recognized the face immediately. Ricky Moreno, her son’s friend, the lead guitarist of Crimson Fireline.
His baby face had barely aged, still youthful, even now. Their eyes met. A flash of recognition, immediately followed by alarm.
“I believe you are Srenia.”
“Natalia Hen.”
Ricky cleared his throat loudly and interrupted her.
“Get me a gag, a blindfold, cable ties,” he barked at the man with the disfigured face. “Now.”
The items were brought quickly. Ricky moved with practiced efficiency, first gagging Helen and then blindfolding her. Finally, he secured her wrists with plastic ties. His hands were steady, professional; nothing about him was reminiscent of the gentle boy who had played guitar in her garage.
“I’ll take her to Bruno,” said Ricky. “Let him take care of it.”
He pressed the pistol into the hand of the man with the disfigured face.
“You’ll finish these three.”
Even through the blindfold, Helen could feel the man’s pleasure.
“Okay, I’ll take care of it.”
Ricky’s hand closed around Helen’s arm, more gently than the previous man’s, but still firmly. He led her to what she took to be the door.
Behind them she heard footsteps, the muffled whimper of a woman. They were just climbing the stairs when the first shot rang out, then the second, then the third. Three precise executions. Helen’s stomach churned, but the gag prevented her from vomiting. Tears soaked the blindfold.
Ricky pulled her further upstairs, through the black door back into the upper corridor. His pace was fast, but not frantic. This was routine for him, Helen realized. Her son’s friend, the shy boy who blushed when girls spoke to him, had become this. They walked silently down another corridor. Helen counted her steps to maintain some sense of direction, but the blindfold made everything disorienting.
Finally, Ricky stopped. She heard a door open, and he led her into a smaller room, perhaps an office, separate from the main warehouse space. The horror of what she had experienced, combined with the shock of seeing Ricky, made her legs weak. If Ricky was here, alive, and working for these monsters, then perhaps Zan was too.
They entered the room and Gerald stopped. He knocked on an interior door, three sharp knocks, a pause, then two more. Helen heard locks turning from the inside, the door opened, and she was pushed through.
“Sit down!” Ricky ordered.
Helen carefully sat down in what felt like a leather armchair, still blindfolded and bound.
She heard the door close and lock again. Then hands touched her face and removed the gag. She gasped for fresh air. Next, the cable ties were cut and her wrists freed. Finally, cold fingers lifted the blindfold. Helen blinked in the neon light and her heart stopped. Zan was kneeling before her. Her son, after 19 years. Her son.
The same long, wavy hair, now streaked with premature gray. The same pale skin, which strangers often mistook for albinism. The same full lips and deep-set eyes. Older, tougher, but unmistakably Zan.
“Zan…” Srenia Helen’s voice broke. “Is that really you?”
She turned around and looked at Ricky, which confirmed her suspicion.
“You’re Ricky, aren’t you?”
“Edric kept his promise,” Sane said quietly.
Ricky mocked. “This man is no less evil than Alex Sokolov.”
Helen’s eyes scanned the office. A nameplate on the desk read “Manager.” Her stomach clenched.
“What? What happened?”
“You both work for these people.”
“No time for explanations,” Zan said emphatically. “And nobody must know we’re related. Understand?”
Before Helen could answer, chaos erupted outside. Men were shouting in Russian and English. The sharp crack of gunshots. Screams! Ricky reacted instantly, bolting the office door shut. Zan went to a filing cabinet, yanked open a drawer, and pulled out two handguns.
“There is a telephone.”
Helen discovered it on the desk.
“We should call the police. They will save us. We can return to our lives.”
“No, Mother.” Zane’s voice was harsh. “This is our life now.”
“What?”
“Edric’s men are taking over this place. He promised to reunite me with you if I switch sides. He will protect us.”
“No.”
Helen stood up and reached for the phone.
“It doesn’t have to end like this.”
San positioned himself between her and the desk, blocking her path. His eyes were cold, unfamiliar.
“You don’t understand.”
“I didn’t expect that at the reunion with my son…”
Tears streamed down Helen’s face.
“You are not a criminal, you are the victim of a plane crash.”
“Sometimes the line between victim and perpetrator is thin…,” Zane replied, “We have to do what is necessary to stay alive.”
Heavy fists pounded on the door. Bruno shouted with a strong Russian accent: “Open the door, we’re being attacked! Alec, get out of here! We have to secure the office!”
Zan and Ricky exchanged glances but remained silent.
More banging, more demands in Russian, then shots right outside the door. The Russian voices trailed off mid-sentence. Helen heard bodies fall to the floor. Another knock followed, lighter, almost casual.
“It’s me,” said a voice with a Mexican accent.
Edric. Ricky looked at Zan, who nodded. Helen watched as her son gripped his weapon with practiced ease.
Whatever innocence he might once have possessed, it had been taken from him by 19 years in this hell. Ricky opened the door cautiously. Edric Canvo stepped quickly inside, blood spattering onto his shirt. The acrid smell of gunpowder clung to him. He closed the door behind him and let the locks click shut.
“It is done,” Edrick announced, wiping the sweat from his brow. “My men and I have kept our end of the bargain. This empire is now mine.”
He looked directly at San. “I want your loyalty. I took good care of Alec in his office. I put three bullets in his head.”
“Alex Sokolov promised us fame,” Edrick continued. “He said if we smuggled drug money and laundered money through tours, he would make us stars.”
“But he never kept that promise. He kept me here as his manager while he slept with girls and counted money.”
Edrick’s eyes lit up. “I’m not like Alec. As we discussed, I’ll continue this empire. But I’ll also make you a real band again, give you the fame you deserve. Don’t worry about the drugs.”
“Just wash the stinking money for me. That’s your part of the deal. As agreed.”
Ricky stepped forward. “You didn’t bring my parents.”
“They’re both dead,” Edric said bluntly. “They died years ago, but I kept my promise to Zan. I brought Helen with me.”
“I don’t like what you did to my mother, using her like a mule, forcing her to swallow packets.”
“What the hell were you thinking?”
“Your mother wanted to visit your father,” Edrick snapped. “What did you expect me to do? If she had told him anything, he would have called Alec and blown the whole operation. Our entire plan would have failed.”
He looked at Helen, his tone sharp. “And if I hadn’t made her swallow those packets, she wouldn’t have ended up here in your office.”
“She might have ended up straight in the incinerator.”
His gaze lingered on her before returning to Zane. “She was just so hard to convince. Reminds me of someone else I know.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I assume none of you are aware that the police already found the plane this morning.”
“Really, Srenie?” Ricky asked, shocked.
“We haven’t received any news from inside yet.”
Helen spoke up. Her voice trembled. “Yes, I saw it myself. The Navy pulled it out of the ocean.”
She turned to Zane. The realization dawned on her. “Your father knew about this all along.”
Sanne sighed. “It’s a long story. I’ll explain everything to you later.”
“Do you remember? Dad was our band manager.”
His gaze flickered to Edric’s hand, which was still hovering near his weapon. “I will keep my promise. As agreed, I will do my part.”
Edric held out his hand and Zan grasped it firmly, but tensely.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” Zane said in a low voice.
“But this way we can be together again and live in safety.”
Helen clapped her hands over her mouth as the weight of the betrayal crashed down upon her. Her knees buckled and she braced herself against the table. All these years she had believed Malcolm had been broken by grief, but now she realized his time in the psychiatric institution had been a calculated escape.
After his release, he had quietly returned home, avoiding the police and their questions. The man she had married, the father of her child, had been the architect of this nightmare, and now she had lost her son as well. The three men began discussing logistics, body disposal, cleanup crews, which of Alex’s men could be turned and which had to be eliminated.
They spoke casually about murder, as if they were planning a corporate merger. Helen’s eyes found the telephone on the table directly behind her. Agent Dana Truitt’s number was etched in her memory. While the men plotted, she moved slowly toward the desk. Her fingers closed around the receiver. She quietly lifted it and began dialing.
“No!”
Edric spotted her and drew his weapon. Zan lunged for the phone and tried to snatch it from Helen’s hands.
“Mother, no!”
But Helen clung on desperately. She heard the line being established, heard Agent Truit’s voice.
“FBI, Truitt speaking.”
Edrick’s finger tightened on the trigger. Everything happened in slow motion.
Ricky lunged at Edrick. The gun fired. San threw himself between his mother and the bullet. The gust of wind spun San around. Blood pooled on his chest. He collapsed in Helen’s arms.
“Help!” Helen cried into the phone. “Help us!”
Ricky collided with Edrick and dropped the weapon across the floor.
In one fluid motion, Ricky picked it up and fired. Once, twice, three times, four times, five times. The shots were precise, tightly grouped in Edric’s chest and head. Edric collapsed. Blood pooled beneath him. Ricky took the phone from Helen’s trembling hand.
“This is Ricky Moreno,” he said quickly. “I’m one of the missing band members, the lead guitarist of Crimson Fireline.”
“I’m here with Zane Hayes, our lead singer, and his mother Helen.”
He quickly relayed their location.
“Zan has been shot. He is bleeding heavily. Alex Sokolov is dead, but Edric’s men are still here. Send in a SWAT team immediately.”
“Units are en route,” said Agent Truitt. “Find a safe place and barricade yourself in.”
Ricky hung up and immediately began securing the door by pulling a heavy filing cabinet in front of it.
Helen held Zan on the floor in her arms and pressed her hands against the wound. Blood seeped between her fingers, warm and frightening.
“Stay with me,” she pleaded. “Please, baby, stay with me.”
See’s eyes flickered. His breathing was shallow and labored. Blood soaked through his shirt and pooled on the floor. Outside, they heard sirens approaching.
Not just a few, but what sounded like an entire fleet. The warehouse transformed into a battlefield as the SWAT teams fought off the remaining criminals. Helen continued to press on the wound, her hands slick with her son’s blood. She prayed more fervently than ever, begging God to spare her child.
The gunfire outside intensified, then gradually subsided. Minutes that felt like hours passed. Finally, a voice called through the door: “FBI SWAT team. The building is secure.”
Ricky pushed the filing cabinet aside and opened the door. Heavily armed officers streamed in.
“We need paramedics!”
Someone shouted when they saw the blood.
“Did you check the underground red room, sir?” Ricky asked intently. “The incinerator?”
“Everything is in order,” confirmed an official. “The entire facility is secure.”
Paramedics rushed over with stretchers. They gently but firmly moved Helen to the side and began to attend to Zane.
Another team took care of Edrick, but it was obvious that he could no longer be helped.
“He is dead,” announced a paramedic. “Multiple gunshot wounds to the head and torso. Massive blood loss.”
An officer approached Ricky. “Who shot him?”
“I did,” Ricky said calmly. “He wanted to kill us all.”
They lifted Sean onto the stretcher. Helen followed.
Her blood-stained hands trembled. As they walked through the warehouse, she saw the aftermath of the struggle: bodies covered with sheets, evidence markers, FBI agents documenting everything. After 19 years of waiting, she had found her son. But at what cost? They were led out of the warehouse into the cool night air.
Emergency vehicles filled the parking lot: ambulances, police cars, FBI vans. Red and blue lights bathed everything in changing colors. Paramedics carried him into an ambulance, while another team loaded Edric’s body bag into a separate vehicle. Helen saw Agent Dana Truitt get out of a black SUV that had just arrived.
The FBI office was obviously farther away than the base of the local task force.
“Ms. Hayes…” a paramedic called out urgently. “We have to go now. Every minute counts.”
Dana jogged over. “Go,” she said firmly. “I’ll meet you at the hospital. We’re taking Ricky’s statement here.”
Helen turned to Ricky, who was standing with the officers, his hands untied, but with a broken posture.
“See you later, Ricky. We’ll talk.”
“I will do the right thing,” Ricky promised in a deep voice. “I swear it.”
“Thank you,” whispered Helen.
She got into the ambulance; the doors slammed shut and they sped through the streets with sirens blaring. A paramedic leaned over Zan, checked her vital signs, and adjusted her IV fluids.
Helen clung to the seat, watching her son’s pale face. Inside the hospital, everything moved in controlled chaos. Zan was rushed to the emergency room, while Edric’s body was taken to the morgue. Helen found herself in a waiting area, harsh light shining from above. Her heart was racing dangerously fast. Dr. Peterson had repeatedly warned her against putting herself under stress because of her condition.
She forced herself to breathe slowly and evenly. She had to stay strong for Sane. A sudden cramp in her lower abdomen made her gasp. The medication from the warehouse was taking effect. She waved to a nurse.
“I swallowed packets of drugs,” she said urgently. “I have to get them out.”
The nurse’s eyes widened. “Come with me immediately.”
They hurriedly took Helen to a special room. The nurse put on gloves and prepared the necessary items: a bedpan, evidence bags, and medical instruments.
“We need to get them out safely,” she explained. “The packages could burst if they are not handled properly.”
Helen was positioned over the bedpan. The nurse watched her closely as her body expelled the packets one after the other.
Each packet was carefully removed with tweezers, examined for damage, and placed in evidence bags. The procedure was humiliating, but necessary. Four packets recovered, the nurse documented. All intact. Helen was then admitted for observation. She explained to the medical team that she was suffering from early-stage heart failure.
They performed EKGs, drew blood, and monitored her closely. The stress had indeed put a strain on her heart, but she was stable. Hours later, as Helen lay in her hospital bed, Agent Dana Truitt arrived with her partner.
“The doctors informed us,” Dana said gently. “Edric Canvo died from massive blood loss due to multiple gunshot wounds.”
“And Z?” Dana’s facial expression was serious.
“He is alive, but in a coma. His heart stopped twice during the operation. But they brought him back. He is critically ill, but stable. He lost enormous amounts of blood.”
Helen closed her eyes. “Thank God, he’s alive.”
“Ricky told us everything,” Dana continued. “He fully cooperated. Would you like to know what happened in 1981?”
Helen nodded.
Her son hadn’t had a chance to explain. Dana took out her notes.
“According to Ricky, her husband Malcolm was her manager. He was also the one who lured the band on what he described as a celebratory trip in a private jet and promised them a contract with an international distributor.”
She paused. “But on board they met Alex Sokolov.”
“Malcolm revealed the true intentions. The band was supposed to launder drug money through tours, and cartel money through ticket sales and merchandising.”
Helen felt sick. “Malcolm planned this.”
“When Zane and Trent refused, Malcolm and two cartel members drew their weapons. A fight ensued. Trent was shot dead while trying to defend himself. Derek was executed for attempting to contact air traffic control.”
“But Zan was spared because he was Malcolm’s son. Ricky agreed to cooperate if they protected his family. He mentioned he’d always been the cute one, a crowd favorite. Alec saw value in that for the money laundering operation.”
Dana continued, “Her husband convinced Zan to work for Alec and threatened to kill you if he refused.”
“After the murders, Alec had to destroy the evidence. The pilot, one of Alex’s men, set the autopilot towards the Juan de Fuca ridge. They parachuted to safety, where Alex’s crew was waiting with a transport.”
“Why wasn’t it found for 19 years?”
“The aircraft flew low and thus evaded most radar devices. There were gaps in radar coverage over the Pacific in 1981.”
“The distress signal was removed and the crash site was too deep for the recovery technology available at the time.”
Helen wept uncontrollably. “My son worked for Monster for 19 years. I heard them talk about how they took lives, how they used women and children as drug mules. Alec and Edric are dead, but Zan and Ricky were just boys, trapped in my husband’s evil.”
“What will happen to them now?”
Dana sighed. “Malcolm will face trial. The years he spent feigning mental instability won’t protect him anymore. We will press charges. As for Zan and Ricky, it’s complex. The prosecution could portray them as willing criminals, but we emphasize that they were forced victims.”
“The court will take into account that they were teenagers who were threatened with the deaths of their families. Ricky’s cooperation is immensely helpful. With good representation, they could receive reduced sentences or even immunity if they testify against the organization.”
“Ricky’s parents died years ago,” Helen said quietly. “He might not have known, being as isolated as he was.”
“He is now at the police station and is giving a full statement.”
“I want to talk to him when I feel better.”
“That can be arranged.”
Dana stood up. “We will keep you updated on all developments.”
After the agents left, Helen called for the nurse. “I need to see my son.”
They brought a wheelchair and helped her from the bed to the seat. The nurse pushed her through quiet corridors to the intensive care unit.
Through the glass doors, she saw him. Her son lay motionless, connected to several machines. A ventilator breathed for him. Monitors tracked his vital signs. Bandages covered his chest. He looked so young, so vulnerable. The nurse wheeled her inside, giving her privacy. Helen reached out, her fingers trembling. She touched his hand.
She was warm, but didn’t respond. “My baby,” she whispered, “my sweet boy.”
Tears streamed down her face as she held his hand. Nineteen years of separation, uncertainty, and grief. All of it led to this moment. Her son was alive, but broken, scarred by circumstances no child should have to endure.
“I’m so sorry,” she cried.
“I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you. I’m sorry your father did what he did, but you saved me, San. You took that bullet for me.”
She prayed and poured out her heart. “God, please heal my son. I know he did terrible things, but you know his heart. You know he was just a boy trying to survive. Please be merciful. Let him wake up.”
“Give him a chance at redemption.”
Helen squeezed Zane’s hand gently. “I will fight for you,” she promised. “Your father should pay for his crimes, not you. You were a victim, my darling. My brave, lost boy who did what he had to do.”
The machines beeped steadily, marking the time. Zan remained silent, trapped in his coma.
But Helen stayed, held his hand, finally reunited with her son. After ten years of questions, she had answers. After ten years of absence, she had a presence. It wasn’t the reunion she had dreamed of, but it was real. She would sit there, as long as they allowed, watching over the child she had lost and found, and pray for another miracle, that he would open his eyes and call her “Mother” once more. All right.
