In 1981, four young rock band members from California vanished on a private jet flight.

Their plane disappeared from radar without a trace.

For 19 years, the musicians remained missing.

Their fate a complete mystery that baffled investigators.

But then, a Navy deep sea expedition pulls something shocking from the ocean floor.

A discovery that would expose a dark truth no one was prepared for.

The afternoon light filtered through the lace curtains of Helen Hayes’s modest living room in Crescent Harbor, casting delicate patterns across 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 well-loved novel.

The small coastal town of Northern California had been her refuge for nearly two decades.

Ever since that terrible day in 1981 when her 20-year-old son, who was a vocalist from the band Crimson Fireline, disappeared.

The sharp ring of the kitchen phone shattered the tranquility.

Helen sighed, carefully marking her page before rising from her armchair.

Her joints protested slightly as she made her way to the kitchen.

the lenolium cool beneath her slippered feet.

“Hello,” she answered, expecting perhaps a telemarketer or a wrong number.

“Mrs.Hayes?” The voice was formal, official.

“This is Lieutenant Commander Jackson from the United States Navy.

I’m calling with the Crescent Harbor Police Department regarding your son, Zayn Hayes.

” Helen’s breath caught.

After 19 years, she had stopped expecting these calls.

What is this about? Ma’am, we’ve recovered what we believe to be the private jet your son and his band were on when they disappeared.

We need you to come to Port Holston Naval Base.

The words hit her like a physical blow.

Helen gripped the kitchen counter, her knuckles white.

“I don’t have time for pranks,” she said sharply.

“My son disappeared 19 years ago in a plane crash.

I don’t believe he’s still alive, and I don’t want my peace disturbed.

She slammed the receiver down before the man could respond, her hands shaking.

The grief she had worked so hard to suppress now threatened to break through.

She hadn’t just lost Zayn.

Shortly after, her husband Malcolm had also been taken to a mental ward.

Though he was declared normal and released five years later, returning to a quiet, isolated life, he had remained distant from Helen and withdrawn from the rest of the community to live a quiet life.

The stress of their son’s disappearance had changed him completely.

Helen returned to her chair, but the words on the page blurred.

She couldn’t focus.

The phone rang again, insistent, she let it ring four times, five.

Six.

Finally, bothered by the persistence, she answered, “I told you, Mrs.

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 difficult to believe, but we have indeed recovered the aircraft.

The Navy wasn’t pranking you, ma’am.

We need you at the base.

” Helen felt tears prick her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

I thought I’ll come.

Thank you, Mrs.

Hayes.

Do you need transportation? No, I’ll manage.

Helen hung up and moved mechanically to get ready.

She chose a simple navy dress and comfortable shoes, her movements automatic.

As she walked out of her home toward the train station, a familiar car pulled over.

The window rolled down, revealing the weathered faces of Patricia and Donald Maddox.

Helen.

Patricia’s voice was thick with emotion.

Are you heading to Port Holston Naval Base, too? Helen nodded, unable to speak.

She recognized them immediately, despite the years, trans parentents.

Their son had been the bass guitarist in Crimson Fireline.

“Come with us,” Donald offered, opening the back door.

Helen gratefully accepted, settling into the leather seat.

Patricia turned to face her.

The Kleins are on their way, too.

Derek’s aunt and uncle.

His parents passed 2 years ago.

And the Marinos, Ricky’s cousins, will be there.

His parents died of old age already.

The drive took a few hours, filled with tense silence punctuated by Patricia’s occasional sniffles.

Helen stared out the window, watching the California coastline blur past.

When they finally arrived at Port Holston Naval Base, the security was overwhelming.

Navy personnel, FBI agents, local police, forensics teams, and what appeared to be expedition scientists.

Agent Dana Truit met 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’s breath caught when she saw it.

The exact jet plane from Malcolm’s photographs.

Her husband had taken pictures with their film roll camera before the band took off, wanting to memorialize what he’d called their shooting star career.

He developed those photos for memories and police evidence.

Now the plane sat before them, a ghost from the past.

Rust streaked its once white fuselage.

Seaweed hung from the wings like morning shrouds.

The red stripes that had once been so vibrant were now faded to brown.

Dr.Martinez, the lead expedition scientist, stepped forward.

We were on a deep sea ecological expedition with no AA exploring hydrothermal vents.

Our sonar picked up unusual metallic reflections.

When our submersible camera confirmed it was an aircraft at 12,000 ft deep, we immediately contacted authorities.

He gestured to the plane.

The Navy and FBI collaborated to retrieve it using a heavyduty marine crane from our research vessel.

The wreck was surprisingly intact, door sealed, windows cracked inward.

It’s remarkable how well preserved the vessel body is.

Helen’s eyes found several body bags arranged respectfully on tarps near the plane.

her heart clenched.

“Is that?” Agent Truit nodded grimly.

“That’s why we need you here for identification,” Dr.

Martinez added.

At extreme depths with low oxygen, cold temperatures, and little disturbance, bodies decompose much slower.

“It’s plausible they’re still identifiable after 19 years underwater.

” Patricia Maddox gripped her husband’s arm.

Please, we need to see.

The officials exchanged glances before carefully unzipping the first bag.

Patricia’s whale pierced the air.

Trent, my baby.

Even after 19 years, the red leopard pants were unmistakable.

Trent Maddox, the bass guitarist who’d always dressed flamboyantly, was identified immediately.

The second bag revealed Derek Klene, his leather vest and distinctive belt buckle, confirming his identity.

His aunt and uncle collapsed against each other, sobbing.

The remaining bags contained men none of them recognized.

Not the pilot, not flight attendants.

They were dressed in expensive suits, now deteriorated, but still suggesting wealth.

The boys were supposed to meet with an international record label and producer, Helen said quietly.

Some distributor.

These men might be part of their company.

My husband was the band’s manager, but he rarely shared details with me back then, but I believe he had shared everything to the police.

Officer Rodriguez, who had handled the original missing person’s case, confirmed her account.

Malcolm Hayes became violent and was diagnosed with acute mental illness shortly after the disappearance.

He was released 5 years later and returned to a life of seclusion.

We tried reaching out to him but he refused to come.

The forensics team moved in photographing and examining.

One technician looked up sharply.

Gunshot wounds.

All victims show evidence of gunfire.

Agent Truit’s expression hardened.

Then something very bad happened in the air.

They were most likely killed up front.

The absence of the pilot suggests the plane was set to autopilot, and he parachuted out.

Helen felt a spark of desperate hope.

Zayn and Ricky’s bodies aren’t here.

Maybe there’s a chance they’re still alive.

It’s possible, the agent conceded.

No one has seen them, but we’re changing this from a missing person’s case to a criminal investigation.

The press arrived like vultures.

Cameras and microphones thrust forward.

A reporter positioned herself before the plane, speaking rapidly to her camera.

Crimson Fire Line.

Zayn Hayes on lead vocals.

Trent Maddox on bass.

Derek Klene on rhythm guitar and coowwriting.

Ricky Moreno on lead guitar.

Many locals remember them from small bar shows.

They were beginning to find success selling their music when they vanished.

The families were interviewed one by one.

When Helen’s turn came, 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 the police will find something more about my son.

She looked directly into the camera.

Zayn, if you’re watching this, please come back to me.

Come home.

The other families continued grieving publicly, but Helen couldn’t.

She’d learned to lock her emotions away.

When the interviews concluded, a police officer approached.

“Mrs.Hayes, can we escort you home?” She nodded gratefully.

As they walked to the patrol car, she caught sight of the plane one last time.

19 years it had lain in the ocean’s depths, keeping its terrible secrets.

Now those secrets were surfacing, and Helen wasn’t sure she was ready for what they might reveal.

The drive home was silent.

The young officer seemed to understand she needed quiet.

When they reached her house, he walked her to the door.

“Ma’am, if you need anything.

” “Thank you,” Helen said softly.

She waited until his patrol car disappeared around the corner before entering her home.

Inside her hallway, Helen pressed her back against the closed door and finally let go.

The tears came in great heaving sobs.

19 years of grief pouring out in the safety of her own home.

She slid down to the floor, her navy dress pooling around her, and wept for her lost son, for the boys who’ died for all the years of not knowing.

After what felt like hours, but was probably 20 minutes, Helen pulled herself together.

She used the wall to stand, her knees protesting, and made her way to the small study where her ancient computer sat.

The machine hummed to life slowly, and she navigated to her old Usenet forum.

She hadn’t posted in nearly a decade.

The support group for families of missing persons had been her lifeline in the early years, but eventually she’d stopped, unable to 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 from the ocean.

Two of the boys were inside, shot dead.

My Zay wasn’t there.

I don’t know what to think.

Responses came quickly.

Some offered prayers and encouragement.

Others, perhaps more realistic after years of dashed hopes, cautioned her gently not to expect too much.

One message read, “Helen, after 19 years, please protect your heart.

” She lost track of time reading and responding, the familiar usernames bringing back memories.

When she finally glanced at the clock, panic shot through her.

Her doctor appointment was in 45 minutes and the bus ride took 30.

Helen also wanted to visit Malcolm at his home.

He deserved to know about the plane regardless of their strained relationship.

She grabbed her purse and hurried out, walking as quickly as her aging legs would allow.

The bus was pulling away just as she reached the stop.

She waved frantically, but the driver didn’t see her.

Frustrated, she checked the schedule.

40 minutes until the next one.

A man stood at the far end of the bus shelter, keeping his distance, but watching her intently.

He was perhaps 50, wearing a faded jacket and jeans.

Something about his stare made her deeply uncomfortable.

“Nice day,” Helen offered, attempting to diffuse the tension.

The man didn’t smile.

His eyes were cold, almost hostile.

“Saw you on the news this morning,” he said flatly.

Your son thought he’d be dead by now, probably sinking at the bottom of some trench.

Helen recoiled.

What’s your problem? Another bus approached, not hers.

The man climbed aboard without another word.

Through the window, he continued to stare at her, his expression unreadable, but somehow menacing.

Helen tried to calm her racing heart.

“Some people were just cruel,” she told herself.

They couldn’t understand the pain of losing family.

She checked her watch, 30 minutes to kill.

The pay phone outside the local supermarket was three blocks away.

She could call her husband, let them know about the news.

The walk would help clear her head.

The supermarket was busy.

Shoppers moving in and out with their groceries.

Helen located the pay phone and dialed her husband’s familiar number.

She told him everything.

Malcolm had initially refused to acknowledge anything about the jet plane that had been found, but Helen eventually persuaded him to listen.

I’ll be there at 3, she assured him, right after my doctor’s appointment.

She hung up and turned to leave.

Her blood ran cold.

The same man from the bus stop stood directly behind her, having appeared silently.

“What?” he said rudely when she gasped.

Helen didn’t answer.

She walked away quickly, her sensible shoes clicking on the pavement.

She cast nervous glances over her shoulder.

The man had picked up the pay phone receiver, but his eyes followed her as she walked.

Something was very wrong.

This wasn’t coincidence.

Helen quickened her pace, suddenly very aware of how vulnerable she was, a 63-year-old woman alone on the street.

The familiar shops of Crescent Harbor suddenly seemed less comforting.

She needed to get somewhere safe, somewhere with people.

Helen pushed through the supermarket’s automatic doors, immediately feeling safer among the weekend shoppers.

The familiar sounds of cartwheels squeaking and cashier scanners beeping helped calm her nerves.

She noticed a bus stop sign through the window near the supermarket entrance, closer than walking back to the original stop.

The store was well stocked with fresh produce displays and grocery aisles occupying the first floor.

Helen had often shopped here over the years, finding comfort in routine.

The escalator to the second floor hummed quietly.

She gripped the rail and ascended, thinking about Malcolm.

He’d always loved National Geographic magazines, even in his current state.

The photos seemed to calm him.

The second floor opened into the electronics section.

Rows of bulky CRT televisions displayed the same image.

Her own face speaking to reporters just hours ago.

The news had already picked up the story.

She paused, transfixed by the surreal sight of herself multiplied across 20 screens.

Asking her son to come home after 19 years.

the reporter was saying.

The footage showed the recovered plane, its rustcovered hull, dripping seawater.

A woman with a shopping basket stopped beside her.

“Oh my god, that’s you, isn’t it?” “You’re the mother.

” Before Helen could respond, others began gathering.

An elderly man touched her shoulder gently.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, dear.

” My nephew loved Crimson Fire Line.

A younger woman said they played at Mickey’s Bar every Thursday.

The crowd pressed closer, voices overlapping with questions and condolences.

Helen felt her chest tightening, overwhelmed by the sudden attention.

She tried to step back, but found herself hemmed in.

“Please give the lady some space,” a firm voice commanded.

Helen looked up hopefully, expecting store security.

Instead, the man from the bus stop pushed through the crowd.

Before she could protest, he gripped her wrist and pulled her away.

His hold was iron strong, despite her attempts to resist.

“What are you doing?” she gasped.

He didn’t answer, steering her toward an emergency stairwell.

The door was marked authorized personnel only, but hung slightly a jar.

He pushed it open and pulled her inside.

The stairwell was dimly lit.

concrete walls echoing their footsteps.

Helen wrenched her hand free.

Why are you following me? The man’s expression was cold, professional.

I’m not your savior, lady.

I’m here to watch you and deliver a message.

He stepped closer and Helen backed against the wall.

If you talk to anyone about this, police, FBI, anyone, it’ll be the end of everything.

In one swift motion, he pulled her close and pressed something hard against her stomach.

Helen looked down and saw the black metal of a gun.

Terror flooded through her.

“Please,” she whispered.

“If you know where my son is, if he’s alive.

” “You talk, you can wave that chance goodbye,” he hissed.

“Better sink yourself in the ocean before they find you.

The man who sent me isn’t gracious.

” Helen’s mind raced.

How do I know you really know anything about Zayn? The man studied her, then spoke quietly.

The lighthouse keeper’s daughter waits by the shore, counting stars that fell before.

Helen’s blood turned to ice.

Those were lyrics from a song Zayn had been writing just before he disappeared.

He’d never finished it, never performed it.

only she had heard those words late one night when he’d played the melody on his acoustic guitar.

“We know everything,” the man continued.

“Your doctor appointments every 2 weeks, your Tuesday grocery runs, your husband at Sunset Hills.

We’ve been watching for years.

” “My son is really alive.

” Helen’s voice cracked.

The man stepped back, patting his concealed weapon.

“Keep your mouth shut.

We’ll talk again, but if you’re reckless, if you breathe a word about this to anyone, I won’t hesitate.

Bad things will happen to you and your boy.

” He turned and descended the stairs, his footsteps echoing until they faded.

Helen stood frozen, then collapsed against the wall.

Tears streamed down her face as she trembled violently.

Her heart pounded so hard she feared it might give out.

The emergency door suddenly opened.

A young store employee peered in, concern etched on his face.

“Ma’am, are you okay? You shouldn’t be here.

Do you need me to call a medic?” Helen forced herself to stand straighter.

“No, I’m fine.

Just needed a moment.

” Recognition dawned in his eyes.

“You’re the lady from the news.

I’m so sorry about your son.

” Thank you, Helen managed, pushing past him.

She’d completely forgotten about the National Geographic magazine.

All that mattered now was getting away.

She found the escalator and descended quickly, gripping the rail with white knuckles.

The supermarket exit seemed miles away.

Through the glass doors, she spotted her bus approaching.

Helen burst outside and half ran, half stumbled toward the stop.

The doors had already closed, but the elderly driver saw her desperate waving.

“Please,” she panted.

The driver, a kind-faced man who looked to be in his 70s, reopened the doors.

“Take your time, dear.

” Helen climbed aboard, fumbling for her bus pass with shaking hands.

“Thank you so much.

” She made her way to the special seating area reserved for the elderly, and collapsed into a seat.

As the bus pulled away, she glanced back at the supermarket.

No sign of the man, but his words echoed in her mind.

We’ve been watching for years.

If Zayn was truly alive, what had he become? Who was that man? And what price would she have to pay to see him again? Helen stepped off the bus at the hospital complex, her legs still shaky from the encounter at the supermarket.

The familiar medical building loomed before her.

Its beige walls and tinted windows a testament to years of routine visits.

She checked in at the reception desk, went through the usual blood pressure checks, and sat in the waiting room until her name was called.

Dr.

Peterson was efficient as always, reviewing her heart medication and writing new prescriptions.

Helen barely heard his reminders about avoiding stress.

Her mind kept returning to the man’s threat and those impossible song lyrics.

When she finally emerged from the appointment, prescription bag in hand, the afternoon sun was already declining.

She stood at the bus stop outside the hospital, torn, the man had warned her explicitly not to talk to anyone, but Malcolm deserved to know about the plane.

He was still her husband despite everything.

She couldn’t simply abandon him.

A car horn broke through her thoughts.

Across the street, a dark sedan idled.

The man from earlier sat behind the wheel, gesturing her over with a curt nod.

Helen’s stomach clenched.

She considered running back into the hospital, but his earlier words echoed.

“Bad things will happen to you and your boy.

” She crossed the road slowly, each step feeling like a betrayal of her better judgment.

The man rolled down his window.

Get in the back, he ordered.

Helen hesitated.

I don’t even know who you are.

Back seat now.

His tone left no room for argument.

Against every instinct, Helen opened the rear door and slid inside.

The locks clicked immediately.

“I know you were planning to visit your husband.

You’re waiting for the bus to head that way, not back home,” the man said, pulling into traffic.

“Can’t let that happen.

I won’t say anything about you, Helen protested.

I just need to tell him about the plane.

He has a right to know.

No, you can’t just put these on.

He tossed a pair of handcuffs onto the back seat.

Helen stared at them in disbelief.

Number 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 and grabbed her wrists, snapping the cuffs on despite her struggles.

“Make a sound and I’ll kill you right here.

” Terror paralyzed Helen as he resumed driving.

They left Crescent Harbor behind, the familiar streets giving way to highway, then narrow roads lined with towering pines.

After what felt like hours, but was probably 40 minutes, he turned onto a dirt track barely wide enough for the car.

A cabin appeared through the trees, small, isolated, windows dark.

The man parked and hauled her out, his grip firm on her arm.

Inside, the cabin smelled of mildew and old smoke, sparse furniture, a stone fireplace, little else.

Why are you doing this? Helen demanded.

The police will look for me.

When I don’t show up, they’ll search.

You can’t keep me here forever.

I can and I will.

Now you need to be quiet for your own good.

He produced a roll of black duct tape and wrapped it around her mouth despite her muffled protests.

He stepped outside, pulling out a cigarette and cell phone.

Through the window, Helen watched him pace while talking.

When he noticed her staring, he moved further away out of earshot.

Helen tested the handcuffs, but they were professional grade.

Impossible for her arthritic hands to slip.

Panic rose in her throat.

She was 63 years old with a heart condition.

Kidnapped by a stranger who claimed to know about her missing son.

The man returned, crushing his cigarette under his boot.

He moved to the far wall and pressed on what looked like ordinary wood paneling.

A section swung inward, revealing a hidden compartment.

He extracted several small packages wrapped in plastic, each containing white powder.

Helen’s eyes widened.

She knew exactly what those were.

He ripped the tape from her mouth.

She gasped.

What is that? You need to swallow these.

Those are drugs.

Helen shook her head violently.

Number I won’t.

Kill me if you must, but I won’t do this.

Why are you doing this to me? I’m just a grieving old woman who will die soon anyway.

The man set the packages on the table.

My name is Edric Canvo.

I have business with your son.

If you ever want to see him, you’ll do exactly what I say.

Please, Helen begged.

I have a heart condition.

This could kill me.

If you’re any kind of decent man, there must be another way.

Edric drew his gun, pressing it to her temple.

I’m not a good man.

You swallow these packages or I pull this trigger.

3 seconds.

One dot dot.

Please.

Two.

With shaking hands, Helen picked up one of the packages.

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 gun and produced a pill bottle.

Take these.

They’ll help keep the packages intact inside you.

Helen swallowed the pills dry, tears streaming down her face.

Don’t ask questions, Hedrik said.

It’s better for everyone, especially you, if you don’t know much.

This won’t kill you.

You’re just transportation.

He recuffed her hands and tied her to a wooden chair with rough rope.

Someone will come for you soon.

Keep quiet and you’ll see your boy.

Helen sat bound in the dim cabin, packages of drugs sitting like lead in her stomach, wondering what her son had become, that this nightmare was the path to him.

A few moments passed in the dim cabin.

Helen felt the medication taking effect, a heavy drowsiness washing over her.

Her thoughts became sluggish, disconnected.

She prayed it was just the pills Edric had given her, not the packages themselves leaking their contents into her system.

The room began to blur at the edges.

She felt weightless, as if floating above the chair.

Time lost meaning.

Was it minutes or hours before she heard the rumble of an approaching vehicle? Through her haze, she saw headlights sweep across the window.

A large truck, its outline swirling in her drugged vision.

Edric’s face appeared before her, his features rippling like water.

Time to go, his voice seemed to echo from far away.

She felt his hands unlocking the handcuffs, untying the rope.

Her legs barely supported her as he pulled her upright.

The world tilted and swayed with each step toward the door.

Outside, the night air hit her face like cold silk.

Men stood by the truck, dark-haired, speaking rapid Spanish.

They looked Mexican, their faces hard and weathered.

One grabbed her roughly, pushing her toward the vehicle’s rear.

Inside, Viejo, he grunted.

The truck’s cargo area was larger than she’d expected, but the man didn’t leave her in the main space.

He pressed on what looked like the interior wall, and a section swung inward.

A hidden compartment.

Get in.

Stay quiet.

Helen ducked through the opening.

Her drugged eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness.

Shapes became people.

Women, all of them young.

Some looked barely 18.

They sat pressed against the walls, silent and holloweyed.

She was the only one over 30, let alone over 60.

The realization hit her even through the medication fog.

She’d seen this in movies, read about it in newspapers, human trafficking, drug smuggling.

She was part of it now, willingly or not.

The secret door closed, plunging them into complete darkness.

The truck’s engine roared to life, and they began moving.

Helen found a spot against the wall and sank down, her knees drawn up.

Time became meaningless in the dark.

The truck stopped occasionally.

She could hear muffled voices, sometimes the main cargo door opening, but their hidden compartment remained sealed.

The younger women stayed silent, clearly experienced in this horrible routine.

Helen dozed fitfully, waking when the truck hit bumps.

Gradually, the medication’s effects began to fade.

Her mind cleared, bringing with it the full horror of her situation.

She was being smuggled across unknown borders with drugs inside her body, surrounded by trafficked women.

After what felt like days, but was probably many hours, the truck finally stopped for good.

Different voices now, harsh, guttural, speaking accented English and what sounded like Russian.

The secret panel opened.

Bright lights flooded in, making everyone squint.

A massive man stood silhouetted in the opening.

Out.

All of you move.

They stumbled into what appeared to be a warehouse.

Concrete floors, metal rafters, the smell of motor oil, and something else, something chemical.

More men waited, all with Slavic features, all armed.

They were ushered into a side room and ordered to form a line.

Adjacent to it was a smaller room marked with a radiation warning.

Helen’s legs shook, partly from the long confinement, partly from the dread of watching one by one as the women were called in.

Each time the low hum of the X-ray machine echoed ominously.

When her turn came, she trailed the man who shoved her forward and barked at her to press against the cold metal wall.

Moments later, another man entered.

The left side of his face was grotesqually disfigured, crushed and badly healed, forming a permanent sneer.

He carried a tray of small cups filled with liquid.

“Drink,” he commanded, “to pass packages.

” The younger women complied immediately.

Helen hesitated, her hand shaking as she reached for a cup.

The man with the broken face noticed and studied her with disgust.

“Why, they send us, old woman?” he asked his companion in heavily accented English.

“She can barely stand and only had four packages inside her.

Don’t know, the other replied.

Need to ask boss.

The broken-faced man leaned close to Helen, his breath rank.

Drink, babushka, or I make you drink.

Helen swallowed the bitter liquid.

In her mind, she cursed herself for trusting Edric.

She should have let him shoot her in that cabin.

At least it would have been quick.

Now she was alone at the mercy of these monsters.

I take old woman to Bruno, the broken-faced man announced.

He deal with her.

Maybe we send message to suppliers.

Next time, no ransacked granny who can’t even stand straight.

This one’s a faulty product.

The other women stared at Helen with empty eyes.

They’d seen too much to feel sympathy.

The man grabbed her upper arm, his fingers digging deep.

Her thin muscles offered no protection.

She felt his grip grinding against bone.

Move,” he ordered, dragging her toward the door.

Helen stumbled along, wondering if she’d ever see daylight again, if this nightmare journey would truly lead to Zayn, or if she’d simply disappear like so many others who crossed these men.

They exited the room and walked through a series of corridors, each one dimmer than the last.

The broken-faced man’s grip never loosened on Helen’s arm.

Finally, he stopped at a black door, its paint peeling like diseased skin.

He yanked it open, revealing a staircase descending into darkness.

The temperature dropped with each step down.

At the bottom, another black door waited.

The man pushed it open and shoved Helen through.

She stumbled, nearly falling, but he caught her arm again and jerked her upright.

The room that greeted her was a nightmare made real.

Red walls, red floor.

Then she realized with horror when the smell hit her like a physical blow.

Raw meat and human waste.

The stench of a slaughter house mixed with a septic tank.

In the room center, three women knelt in a line, blindfolded, gagged, hands bound behind their backs.

They trembled but made no sound.

A man stood with his back to them, gun raised, aimed at the first woman’s head.

Gerald, wait.

Where’s Bruno? The broken-faced man called out.

I need him to deal with this.

Supplier sent us old woman for mole.

The man called Gerald turned and Helen’s world tilted.

Despite 19 years, despite the different context, she knew that face instantly.

Ricky Mareno, her son’s friend, the lead guitarist of Crimson Fireline.

His baby face had barely aged, still boyish even now.

Their eyes met.

Recognition flashed in his, followed immediately by alarm.

I think you are, Helen began.

Ricky cleared his throat loudly, cutting her off.

Get me, gag, blindfold, zip ties.

He barked at the broken-faced man.

Now, the items were produced quickly.

Ricky moved with practiced efficiency, gagging Helen first, then blindfolding her, finally securing her wrists with plastic ties.

His hands were steady, professional, nothing like the gentle boy who’d played guitar in her garage.

“I’ll take her to Bruno,” Ricky said.

“Let him deal with this.

” He pressed the gun into the broken-faced man’s hand.

“You finish with these three.

” Even through the blindfold, Helen sensed the man’s pleasure.

“Duh, I finish.

” Ricky’s hand closed around Helen’s arm, gentler than the previous man, but still firm.

He guided her toward what she assumed was the door.

Behind them, she heard footsteps, a woman’s muffled whimper.

They were climbing the stairs when the first shot rang out, then the second, then the third.

Three precise executions.

Helen’s stomach heaved, but the gag prevented her from vomiting.

Tears soaked into the blindfold.

Ricky kept pulling her upward through the black door back into the upper corridor.

His pace was quick but not panicked.

This was routine for him, Helen realized.

Her son’s friend, the shy boy who’d blushed when girls spoke to him, had become this.

They walked in silence down another corridor.

Helen counted her steps, trying to maintain some sense of direction, but the blindfold made everything disorienting.

Finally, Ricky stopped.

She heard a door open, and he guided her inside what felt like a smaller space, an office perhaps, away from the warehouse’s main floor.

The horror of what she’d witnessed, combined with the shock of seeing Ricky, made her legs weak.

If Ricky was here, alive, working for these monsters, then maybe Zayn was, too.

They entered the room, and Gerald stopped.

He knocked on an inner door, three sharp wraps, a pause, then two more.

Helen heard locks turning from inside.

The door opened and she was pushed through.

“Sit,” Ricky commanded.

Helen lowered herself carefully into what felt like a leather chair, still blinded and bound.

She heard the door close and lock again.

Then hands were at her face, removing the gag.

She gasped for clean air.

The zip ties were cut next, freeing her wrists.

Finally, cold fingers lifted the blindfold.

Helen blinked in the fluorescent light and her heart stopped.

Zayn knelt before her.

Her son, after 19 years, her son.

The same long wavy hair, though now stre with premature gray.

The same pale skin that strangers had often mistaken for albinism.

The same full lips and deep set eyes.

Older, harder, but unmistakably Zane.

Zane? Helen’s voice cracked.

Is that really you? She turned to look at Ricky, confirming what she’d suspected.

You’re Ricky, aren’t you? Edric kept his promise, Zayn said quietly.

Ricky scoffed.

That man’s no less evil than Alex Okalof.

Helen’s eyes swept the office.

A name plate on the desk read, “Manager.

” Her stomach sank.

What? What happened? You both work for these people.

No time to explain, Zayn said urgently.

And no one can know we’re related.

Understand? Before Helen could respond, chaos erupted outside.

Men shouting in Russian and English.

The sharp crack of gunfire.

Screams.

Ricky moved instantly, throwing the deadbolt on the office door.

Zayn went to a filing cabinet, yanked open a drawer, and pulled out two handguns.

There’s a phone.

Helen spotted it on the desk.

We should call the police.

They’ll rescue us.

We can return to our lives.

No, mother.

Zayn’s voice was hard.

This is our lives now.

What? Edric’s men are taking this place.

He promised to reunite me with you if I took his side.

He’ll protect us.

No.

Helen stood, reaching for the phone.

It doesn’t have to be this way.

Zayn stepped between her and the desk, blocking her path.

His eyes were cold, unfamiliar.

You don’t understand.

I didn’t expect to be reunited with my son like this.

Tears streamed down Helen’s face.

You’re not a criminal.

You’re a victim of a plane crash.

Sometimes there’s a thin line between victim and criminal, Zayn replied.

We’ve got to do what it takes to stay alive.

Heavy fists pounded on the door.

Bruno, a thick Russian accent called, “Open door.

” “We got attacked.

Alec, gone.

We need to secure office.

” Zayn and Ricky exchanged glances, but remained silent.

More pounding, more demands in Russian, then gunshots right outside the door.

The Russian voices cut off mid-sentence.

Helen heard bodies hitting the floor.

A different knock came, lighter, almost casual.

“It’s me.

” A Mexican accented voice said.

“Eddric.

” Ricky looked to Zayn, who nodded.

Helen watched her son grip his gun with practiced ease.

Whatever innocence he’d once possessed had been stripped away by 19 years in this hell.

Ricky unlocked the door cautiously.

Edric Canvo entered quickly, blood splattered on his shirt, the acurid smell of gunpowder clinging to him.

He closed the door behind him and threw the locks.

“It’s done,” Edric announced, wiping sweat from his brow.

“I and my men held our side of the deal.

This empire is mine now.

” And he looked directly at Zayn.

I want your loyalty, both of you.

I dealt with Alec real good in his office.

put three peanuts in his head.

Alex Sulof promised us fame, Edric continued.

Said if we trafficked drugs and laundered money through tours, he’d make us stars.

But he never fulfilled that promise.

Kept me here as his manager while he lay with girls and counted money.

Edric’s eyes gleamed.

I’m not like Alec.

As we’ve 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 funnel the stinky money for me.

That’s your end of the bargain.

As we discussed, Ricky stepped forward.

You didn’t bring my parents.

They’re both dead.

Hedrickk said bluntly.

Died years ago, but I fulfilled my promise to Zayn.

I brought Helen.

I didn’t like what you did to my mother.

Using her as a mule, making her swallow packages.

What the hell were you thinking? Your mother was about to visit your father.

Edric snapped.

What did you expect me to do? If she’d told him anything, he would have called Alec and blown the whole operation.

Our entire plan would have unraveled.

He glanced at Helen, his tone sharp.

And if I hadn’t made her swallow those packages, she wouldn’t have ended up here in your office.

Might go straight down to the incinerator.

His gaze lingered on her before shifting to Zayn.

She was just so difficult to convince.

Reminds me of someone else I know.

He narrowed his eyes.

I’m guessing none of you realized the police already found the jet this morning.

They did? Ricky asked, shocked.

News hasn’t reached us inside yet.

Helen spoke up, her voice trembling.

Yes, I saw it myself.

The Navy pulled it from the ocean.

She turned to Zayn, comprehension dawning.

Your father knew about all this all along? Zayn sighed.

It’s a long story.

I’ll explain everything later.

You remember dad was our band manager.

His eyes flicked to Edric’s hand as it hovered near his gun once more.

I I’ll keep my promise.

As we agreed, I’ll hold up my part.

Edric extended his hand and Zayn took it, their grips firm but tense.

I’m sorry, Mom, Zayn said, his voice low.

But this way, we can be together again and safe.

Helen clutched her mouth as the weight of the betrayal crashed over her.

Her knees gave way, and she caught herself against the table.

All these years, she’d believed Malcolm had been broken by grief.

But now she realized his time in the mental facility had been a calculated escape.

Once released, he’d quietly returned home, dodging 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 was losing her son as well.

The three men began discussing logistics, body disposal, cleaning crews, which of Alex’s men could be turned and which needed elimination.

They spoke casually about murder as if planning a business merger.

Helen’s eyes found the phone on the table just behind her.

Agent Dana Truit’s number was burned into her memory.

While the men plotted, she moved slowly toward the desk.

Her fingers closed around the receiver.

She lifted it silently and began dialing.

No.

Edric spotted her and drew his gun.

Zayn lunged for the phone, trying to pull it from Helen’s hands.

Mother, don’t.

But Helen held on desperately.

She heard the line connect.

Heard Agent Truit’s voice.

FBI.

Truit speaking.

Edric’s finger tightened on the trigger.

Everything happened in slow motion.

Ricky charged toward Edric.

The gun fired.

Zayn threw himself between his mother and the bullet.

The impact spun Zayn around.

Blood bloomed across his chest.

He collapsed into Helen’s arms.

“Help!” Helen screamed into the phone, “Help us!” Ricky slammed into Edric, sending the gun skittering across the floor.

In one fluid motion, Ricky scooped it up and fired.

Once, twice, three times, four, five.

The shots were precise, grouped tightly in Edric’s chest and head.

Edric crumpled, blood pooling beneath him.

Ricky grabbed the phone from Helen’s shaking hand.

This is Ricky Moreno, he said rapidly.

I’m one of the missing band members, the lead guitarist from Crimson Fireline.

I’m here with Zayn Hayes, our lead vocalist, and his mother, Helen.

He gave their location quickly.

Zayn’s been shot.

He’s bleeding badly.

Alex Sakalof’s dead, but there are still Edric’s men here.

Send a tactical team now.

Units are on route.

Agent Truit said, “Find somewhere safe and barricade yourselves in.

” Ricky hung up and immediately began reinforcing the door, dragging a heavy filing cabinet in front of it.

Helen cradled Zayn on the floor, pressing her hands against the wound.

Blood seeped between her fingers, warm and terrifying.

“Stay with me,” she begged.

“Please, baby, stay with me.

” Zayn’s eyes fluttered.

His breathing was shallow.

labored.

The blood was soaking through his shirt, pooling on the floor.

Outside, they heard sirens approaching, not just a few, but what sounded like an entire fleet.

The warehouse erupted in gunfire as the tactical teams engaged the remaining criminals.

Helen kept pressure on the wound, her hands slick with her son’s blood.

She prayed harder than she’d ever prayed, begging God to spare her child.

The gunfire outside intensified, then gradually died away.

Minutes that felt like hours passed.

Finally, a voice called through the door.

FBI tactical team.

The building is secure.

Ricky moved the filing cabinet and unlocked the door.

Tactical officers in full gear flooded in.

“We need medics,” one shouted, seeing the blood.

“Did you check the underground red room?” Ricky asked urgently.

The incinerator all clear, an officer confirmed.

Whole facility is secure.

Paramedics rushed in with stretchers.

They gently but quickly moved Helen aside and began working on Zayn.

Another team checked Edric, but it was clear he was beyond help.

He’s deceased, one paramedic announced.

Multiple gunshot wounds to the head and torso.

Massive blood loss.

An officer approached Ricky.

“Who shot him?” “I did,” Ricky said steadily.

“He was going to kill us all.

” They lifted Zayn onto the stretcher.

Helen followed, her bloodstained hands trembling.

As they moved through the warehouse, she saw the aftermath of the battle.

Bodies covered with sheets, evidence markers, FBI agents documenting everything.

After 19 years of wondering, she’d found her son.

But at what cost? They were led out of the warehouse into the cool night air.

Emergency vehicles filled the parking area, ambulances, police cars, FBI vans.

Red and blue lights painted everything in shifting colors.

Paramedics loaded Zayn stretcher into one ambulance while another team placed Edric’s body bag into a separate vehicle.

Helen saw agent Dana Truit stepping out of a black SUV having just arrived.

The FBI field office was clearly further away than the local tactical team’s base.

“Mrs.

Hayes,” a paramedic called urgently.

“We need to leave now.

Every minute counts.

” Dana jogged over.

“Go,” she said firmly.

“I’ll meet you at the hospital.

We’ll take Ricky’s statement here.

” Helen turned to where Ricky stood with officers, his hands uncuffed, but his posture defeated.

“I’ll see you later, Ricky.

We’ll talk.

I’ll do the right thing, Ricky promised, his voice thick.

I swear.

Thank you, Helen whispered.

She climbed into the ambulance.

The doors slammed shut and they raced through the streets, siren wailing.

A paramedic worked over Zayn, checking vitals, adjusting IV lines.

Helen gripped the bench seat, watching her son’s pale face.

At the hospital, everything moved in controlled chaos.

Zayn was whisked to the emergency room while Edric’s body went to the morg.

Helen found herself in a waiting area, fluorescent lights harsh overhead.

Her heart was racing dangerously.

Dr.

Peterson had warned her repeatedly about stress with her condition.

She forced herself to breathe slowly, evenly.

She had to stay strong for Zane.

A sudden cramping in her abdomen made her gasp.

The medicine from the warehouse was working.

She flagged down a nurse.

“I swallowed drug packages,” she said urgently.

“I need to pass them.

” The nurse’s eyes widened.

“Come with me immediately.

” They rushed Helen to a specialized room.

The nurse put on gloves and gathered supplies, a bed pan, evidence bags, and medical tools.

“We need to retrieve these safely,” she explained.

“The packages could rupture if not handled properly.

Helen was positioned over the bedpan.

The nurse monitored her closely as her body expelled the packages one by one.

Each was carefully retrieved with forceps, inspected for damage, and placed in evidence bags.

The process was humiliating but necessary.

Four packages recovered, the nurse documented, all intact.

Afterward, Helen was admitted for observation.

She explained her earlystage congestive heart failure to the medical team.

They ran EKGs, took blood, monitored her carefully.

The stress had indeed strained her heart, but she was stable.

Hours later, as Helen lay in her hospital bed, Agent Dana Truit arrived with her partner.

“The doctors updated us,” Dana said gently.

Edric Canvo died from massive blood loss, multiple gunshot wounds, and Zayn.

Dana’s expression was grave.

He’s alive, but in a coma.

He flatlined twice during surgery, but they brought him back.

He’s critical, but stable.

He lost tremendous amounts of blood.

Helen closed her eyes.

Thank God he’s alive.

Ricky told us everything, Dana continued.

He’s been completely cooperative.

Do you want to know what happened in 1981? Helen nodded.

My son never got the chance to explain.

Dana pulled out her notes.

According to Ricky, your husband Malcolm was their manager.

He invited the band on what he called a celebration trip on a private jet.

Promised them a deal with an international distributor.

She paused.

But on board, they met Alex Sulofov.

Malcolm revealed the true agenda.

The band would launder drug money through tours, funneling cartel cash through ticket sales and merchandise.

Helen felt sick.

Malcolm planned this.

When Zayn and Trent refused, Malcolm and two cartel enforcers pulled weapons.

A fight broke out.

Trent was shot trying to fight back.

Derek was executed for attempting to radio air traffic control.

But Zayn spared because he was Malcolm’s son.

Ricky agreed to cooperate if they protected his family.

He mentioned he was always the cute one, a crowd favorite.

Alec saw value in that for the laundering operation.

Dana continued, “Your husband convinced Zayn to work for Alec, threatening that they’d kill you if he refused.

” After the murders, Alec needed to dispose of the evidence.

The pilot, one of Alec’s men, set autopilot toward the Wanda Fuca Ridge.

They parachuted out where Alex’s crew waited with transportation.

Why wasn’t it found for 19 years? The plane flew low, avoiding most radar.

Coverage over the Pacific in 1981 had gaps.

The emergency beacon was removed, and the crash site was too deep for recovery technology of that era.

Helen wept openly.

My son worked for Monsters for 19 years.

I heard them talking about him taking lives, using women and children as mules.

Alec and Edric are dead, but Zayn and Ricky were just boys caught in my husband’s evil.

What happens to them now? Dana sighed.

Malcolm is being processed.

The years he spent avoiding questioning under the guise of mental instability won’t protect him anymore.

We’ll pursue charges.

As for Zayn and Ricky, it’s complex.

Prosecutors could frame them as willing criminals, but we’re emphasizing they were coerced victims.

The court will consider they were teenagers threatened with family deaths.

Ricky’s cooperation helps immensely.

With good representation, they might receive reduced sentences or even immunity for testifying against the organization.

Ricky’s parents died years ago, Helen said softly.

He might not have known, isolated as he was.

He’s at the station now giving a full statement.

I want to talk to him when I’m better.

That can be arranged, Dana stood.

We’ll update you as things develop.

After the agents left, Helen called for the nurse.

I need to see my son.

They brought a wheelchair, helping her transfer from bed to seat.

The nurse pushed her through quiet corridors to the ICU.

Through glass doors, she saw him.

Zayn lay motionless, connected to multiple 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 and gave her privacy.

Helen reached out with trembling fingers, touching Zayn’s hand.

It was warm but unresponsive.

“My baby,” she whispered.

“My sweet boy.

” Tears fell freely as she held his hand.

19 years of separation, of not knowing, of grief, all leading to this moment.

Her son was alive but broken, shaped by circumstances no child should endure.

I’m so sorry, she wept.

Sorry I couldn’t protect you.

Sorry your father did this.

But you saved me, Zayn.

You took that bullet for me.

She prayed then, pouring out her heart.

God, please heal my son.

I know he’s done terrible things, but you know his heart.

You know he was just a boy trying to survive.

Please be merciful.

Let him wake up.

Let him have a chance at redemption.

Helen squeezed Zayn’s hand gently.

“I’ll 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 time.

Zayn remained still, locked in his coma.

But Helen stayed, holding his hand, finally reunited with her son.

After 19 years of questions, she had answers.

After 19 years of absence, she had presence.

It wasn’t the reunion she dreamed of, but it was real.

She would sit here as long as they let her, watching over the child she’d lost and found again, praying for one more miracle, that he would open his eyes and call her mother once more.