Chapter 7 - THE ABDUCTION
Police moved fast.
Faster than I expected.
Inspector Márquez treated the message as evidence of parental abduction.
Road cameras were checked.
Airport alerts issued.
Ports notified.
I stood inside the operations room feeling useless.
That was unbearable.
I could buy buildings.
Move millions.
Call ministers.
None of it helped me find one terrified eight-year-old girl.
Then Mateo entered.
“We found the SUV.”
“Where?”
“Security footage from a gas station.”
He showed me the image.
Alejandro was driving.
Beatriz sat beside him.
Isabella was in the back.
My daughter’s face was pressed against the window.
She was crying.
I almost broke the phone in my hand.
“Where were they going?”
“South.”
“Airport?”
“Maybe Algeciras.”
The port.
From there, Morocco.
Inspector Márquez started issuing orders.
I looked at Mateo.
“There’s another route.”
He understood.
“Private marina.”
Beatriz knew people.
So did Alejandro.
And rich criminals did not wait in passport lines.
We drove toward Puerto Banús with two police vehicles behind us.
Halfway there, my phone rang.
Beatriz.
Inspector Márquez signaled me to answer.
I put it on speaker.
“Where is Isabella?”
Beatriz sighed.
“You sound angry.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s with me.”
“She’s terrified.”
“She’ll adjust.”
“Bring her back.”
“No.”
“Beatriz.”
“You humiliated me.”
“You abused my daughter.”
“Our daughter.”
“She never became yours just because you married me.”
Silence.
Then her voice turned cold.
“You think you’re some perfect father?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Because you weren’t there.”
“I know.”
“You left her with me.”
“I trusted you.”
“That was your mistake.”
I closed my eyes.
“Put Isabella on.”
“No.”
“Please.”
The word tasted like blood.
Beatriz paused.
Then I heard movement.
“Dad?”
Isabella.
My knees nearly gave out.
“I’m here.”
“Dad, I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I shouldn’t have told you.”
“No.”
My voice cracked.
“You did exactly the right thing.”
Beatriz grabbed the phone.
“Enough.”
I shouted, “Isabella!”
Then I heard my daughter scream.
A man cursed.
Tires squealed.
The call cut.
Inspector Márquez immediately contacted dispatch.
“What happened?” I demanded.
She stared at the phone trace.
“They stopped.”
“Where?”
She turned the screen toward me.
An industrial road outside Estepona.
We changed direction.
Eleven minutes later, we found the SUV abandoned.
Driver door open.
Blood on the pavement.
No Beatriz.
No Alejandro.
No Isabella.
Then one officer shouted.
“Here!”
Behind the vehicle lay Alejandro.
Alive.
Bleeding from the head.
Inspector Márquez knelt beside him.
“Where is the girl?”
He laughed weakly.
“Your wife is crazy.”
I grabbed his shirt.
“Where is Isabella?”
Police pulled me back.
Alejandro coughed.
Then whispered, “She took her.”
“Where?”
May you like
His eyes met mine.
“To the place where this started.”
