I watched from an unmarked car. My team hid in the surrounding area disguised as joggers, gardeners, tourists. “Target in view,” a voice whispered through the radio.
“Heading toward the gate. Calm. Controlled.”
Betsy Higgins moved slowly, pushing her pink stroller, humming softly. She paused to pet a dog. She waved to a passing couple.
It was terrifying how normal she looked. “Hold,” I ordered. “Wait for the vehicle.”
Minutes later, a white van rolled to a stop.
No markings. The engine idled. The side door slid open slightly.
This was the exchange. Higgins scanned the area. She wasn’t looking for patrol cars.
She checked for ordinary people watching. Then she nudged the stroller toward the van. “Move!” I roared into the radio.
“Go, go, go!”
I bolted from the car, sprinting across the grass. Higgins heard the movement. Her eyes widened.
He slammed the door shut, peeling away, leaving her behind. Higgins abandoned the stroller and ran. Her speed shocked me.
But adrenaline beat age, and I caught up to her. I tackled her onto the pavement. She clawed and spat like a feral animal, screaming curses.
“Betsy Higgins,” I shouted, cuffing her hands. “You’re under arrest.”
My partner Silva reached the stroller. Then everything stopped.
“Mike!” Silva shouted. “The seat! It’s locked!
I can’t open it!”
Higgins laughed—a horrible, dry laugh. “You’ll never open it in time,” she hissed. “It’s airtight.”
Silva was shredding the seat fabric in panic. No baby. “The bottom,” I muttered.
“It’s fake.”
I drew my tactical knife. “Move!”
I ripped through the pink material, slicing foam and cloth. Underneath was a hard shell.
A concealed compartment. I found the hidden latch near the wheel and pulled. A hiss escaped.
Inside was Janie. Three years old. Curled up in a tiny, suffocating compartment.
Tape over her mouth. Zip-ties cutting into her wrists. Her eyes unfocused, bloodshot, her skin drenched in sweat.
“She’s not breathing!” Silva yelled. “Medic!”
I cut the ties and pulled her out. Her body was limp.
“Come on, sweetheart,” I whispered, laying her on the grass. I started CPR, pressing carefully on her tiny ribs. “One, two, three… breathe.
One, two, three… breathe.”
The only thing that mattered was this child. Then—
A gasp. A tiny cough.
A wheeze. And finally—a piercing scream. She was alive.
A month later, I visited Leo’s home. He was in the yard with a soccer ball. I opened the trunk and pulled out a brand-new, bright red bike.
“Hey, hero,” I called. Leo ran over, eyes shining. “Sergeant Mike!”
“You helped save your sister,” I told him.
“This is for you.”
His mother came out holding Janie. Safe. Happy.
Whole. As I watched them, I took a breath. “You know,” I said to Silva, “we warn kids about dark alleys and scary strangers.”
“Yeah?” he replied.
“But we forget the hardest truth,” I said, watching Leo pedal away, laughing. “Sometimes the monster looks harmless. Sometimes the monster smiles.”
I put on my sunglasses.
“Let’s get that coffee.”
