Affliction

by Marilee Brothers

  “I’m going to remove the gag, but you need to be quiet. Nod if you understand.”

  I nod so vigorously, I probably look like a bobble head doll.

  As soon as the gag comes off, I remember my vow to make rapport. I whisper, “Hey, Mick? Do you have family back in Russia? Maybe a sister?”

  He shoots me puzzled glance. “Why do you ask?”

  Strangely, his accent has disappeared. I weigh and measure my response. What’s the worst he can do? Torture me before he kills me? I don’t think that’s going to happen. There seems to be a big rush to get the job done before daylight and it will soon be dawn. Consequently, I choose to keep jabbering. “How does a guy like you become a paid killer anyway?”

  He grunts a non-answer.

  “Remember when I said I can read your soul?”

  He ignores me and gropes around in a grocery sack.

  “Well, anyway,” I continue. “Here’s the thing. I’ve looked into Myron’s soul as well as Eddie’s, Jared Breen’s, the Rockwell’s and your cop friend, Rusty. All of them have the signs of evil stamped on their souls. Their souls all but scream, ‘I’m a bad, bad person.’ Every single one of them. Except for yours. Souls don’t lie. So, what’s the story, Mick? And, by the way, what happened to your accent? I’m thinking you may not be who you say you are.”

  “Hush.” He upends the grocery bag and reaches into his pocket.

  I squint through the darkness. Is that a pocketknife in his hand? Oh, shit. I take a huge breath, ready to scream my lungs out.

  His finger appears in front of my face. He lays it across my lips. “I’m not going to kill you. Do. Not. Bite. This. Finger.”

  Weak with relief, the air gushes out of my lungs. He removes his finger. I feel the blade of a knife saw through the duct tape binding my wrists and ankles. Then, something cold snugs up against my bad arm. “Frozen lima beans,” he says. “It’s the best I can do right now. I’m going to make a sling for your arm.”

  He helps me to a sitting position and uses what looks like a dishtowel to construct a makeshift sling for my throbbing arm. He then lifts me from the trunk and sets me on my feet. The sudden upright position makes my head spin. The ground beneath me seems to shift. My wobbly legs give way. With a cry of alarm, I fall to my knees. If not for Mick’s grip on my uninjured arm, I’d be kissing the asphalt. He picks me up, this time cradling me in his arms. “Did you hit your head when Myron knocked you off the table?”

  Too tired to answer, I nod.

  Once I’m placed on the passenger seat (way better than the trunk) I have a bajillion questions I want to ask Mick. Strangely, the realization I’m no longer a potential murder victim has rendered me speechless. I can’t put my thoughts into words. All I want to do is curl up in a ball and go to sleep.

  Mick guides the big car out of the supermarket parking lot. My eyelids are heavy with fatigue and fall shut.

  Mick’s voice startles me. I awake with a jerk. “I’m taking you to my place. You’ll have to stay there until the mission’s completed.”

  Suddenly, I’m so irritated I want to slap him. He won’t let me sleep and furthermore, he assumes I know exactly who he is and what’s going on. My power of speech returns in a rush. “Who the hell are you? And, what’s your mission? It damn well better include saving that poor girl who just gave birth. And, what about the Rockwells and the baby they supposedly adopted? Guess what? Her asshole father who, by the way, probably killed his wife, who, incidentally, was my best friend, sold Destiny to the Rockwells. And…”

  Mick holds up a hand. “Hold it. As long as we’re getting personal, do you know how much trouble your nosiness caused us?”

  “Who is us?”

  “Homeland Security. In case you haven’t figured it out, I was working the case undercover.”

  “How would I know that?”

  “I didn’t kill you, did I? That should have given you a clue.”

  I’m really ticked now. “What was I supposed to do? Forget about my friend? Forget about her baby? What about the Russian girls getting impregnated without their consent? Not to mention they’re forced to turn tricks after their babies are taken away from them and sold for big bucks. If you think for one minute…”

  “Where’s Aida?”

  I gulp. “Who?”

  “You know damn well who I’m talking about. I saw you last night.”

  “No way.”

  “Oh, yeah. Threw you off your game when she came out with the baby, didn’t it?’

  Busted. “Where were you? Hiding in the bushes with camo paint on your face?”

  “Let’s just say I’ve been keeping an eye on the Rockwells. So, where’s the girl?”

  “In a safe place. I didn’t want her arrested when I went to the authorities. I had it all planned out.”

  He stays quiet for a minute. I’m still steaming.

  Finally, he says, “If not for our little interlude with you, the whole crew would be locked up right now. The go signal was set for two a.m. I had to abort when Rusty insisted we pick you up.”

  He glances at his watch. “It’s three-fifteen now, but hopefully, we can still surprise them at five a.m.”

  “If you’re waiting for me to apologize, forget it. Just go get them, okay?”

  “That’s exactly what’s going to happen as soon as I stash you in a safe place.”

  “I want to go with you.”

  His eyes widen and he shakes his head. “Are you serious? No. You can’t.”

  “Well, that’s a mistake. I could be a big help to your operation.”

  The brakes squeal as he takes a quick left into the parking lot of an apartment complex whose name, according to the sign at the entrance, is High Desert Pines. He pulls up next to one of the units and helps me out of the car.

  I’m still woozy, walking like a drunken sailor. He slips an arm around my waist and guides me into a dark, recessed entryway. He props me up against an outer wall, bracing me with his body while he unlocks the door to number 110. Once inside, he flicks on a light and guides me to a couch. “Sit. Stay.”

  Before I can voice my objections to the canine commands, he pivots and disappears into another room, presumably, the bedroom. A scant moment later, he returns with a glass of water, a prescription bottle and a mini mag light. He tilts my chin back and shines the flashlight directly into my eyes. The sudden brightness makes me squint. “Look at me,” he commands. I force my eyes open.

  “Pupils not dilated. Probably no concussion.” He turns the light off and probes the knot on my head. “I’m going to give you a vicodin for the pain in your arm. When this is over, I’ll take you to the hospital.”

  He thrusts the water glass into my hand and orders, “Open your mouth.”

  His bossiness is annoying, but I sense he’s trying to help. I scorch him with my best dirty look but, dutifully, open my mouth. He places a pill on my tongue and I slurp up the water like I’m stranded in the Sahara Desert.

  He vanishes again and returns with a blanket and a wife-beater undershirt. He rips the undershirt in half. “Here’s the deal. The vicodin will probably make you drowsy. Take a little nap. Okay?’

  “Or, you could take me home so I can sleep in my own bed.”

  “Not gonna happen.”

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t risk you running around like the Lone Ranger while we’re busting our asses making arrests. When it’s over, I’ll be back.”

  “I insist you take me home.”

  He grins at me. “You insist? You’re not exactly in a bargaining position.”

  “You’re overstepping your bounds. I’ll speak to your supervisor. Maybe even get you fired.”

  His grin gets bigger. “Did you forget I’m Homeland Security? Undercover? I have no boundaries.”

  “That sucks!” I screech, trying to get to my feet.

  He pushes me down, whips a piece of the undershirt around my ankles and ties them together with a complicated knot. He then pulls my uninjured
arm flat against my body and ties my wrist to my left thigh.

  “What are you doing? Did you decide to kill me after all? Since you have no boundaries?”

  He stands and stares down at me. “No, but I can’t risk you screwing up this operation.”

  Helpless, I glare up at him. “I really, really hate you.”

  He chuckles. “But, you really, really love my soul. At least, that’s what you told me.”

  I close my eyes, regretting I’ve commented on the contents of his soul.

  A moment ticks by. He says, “Do you plan to scream? If so, I’ll have to duct tape your mouth shut.”

  I have great difficulty prying my eyes open. Apparently, the vicodin is working its magic. “Screw that. Go catch the bad guys.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The pain in my arm begins to ease and I struggle to stay awake after he leaves. Maybe I’m not thinking clearly, but I have a point to prove. Why should I lie here and take a little nap. Who does he think he is? My nanny?

  He should have taken me with him. Does he know all the players? I do. Plus, I know what will happen when they bust the Rockwells. Destiny will be put into the foster care system and it will be hellishly hard to get her out. True, I’ve been sidetracked with Aida and the others, but this whole thing started with Destiny. I promised Dani I’d fix it. I can’t give up now.

  I want out of here and I have two choices. I can scream my head off and wait for someone to call 911. Or, I can take the bull by the horns, get to the phone on the kitchen counter and make it happen. Since a 911 call will bring the police and I don’t know the whereabouts of the evil Rusty, I choose the second option.

  True, my good arm is taped to my leg, which puts it out of commission. The injured arm is in a sling but I can still use my fingers if I can get to the phone. Yes, it’s a big if. But, what else do I have to do? Sit around and wait until someone hears my cries for help? Or, hang around until Mr. Homeland Security gets back? No way.

  When (not if) I get to the phone, I’ll call Uncle Paco. I know Billy will be pissed, but when it comes to shadowy, covert activities, Paco is my go-to guy.

  I struggle to a sitting position, place my bound feet on the floor. Taking a deep breath, I slide off the couch until my butt hits the carpet and begin inching my way across a living room that seems as vast as a football field. Reach out with the feet. Dig the heels in and pull. Scoot on the butt. Try not to fall backward. Slow and steady wins the race. Eye on the prize. Beads of sweat form on my forehead, drip down my face and sting the gash on my cheek.

  I’m breathing hard and have no idea how much time has passed when I reach the kitchen counter upon which the phone rests. Now for my next challenge: getting to my feet so I can reach the phone. There’s only one way I can accomplish this feat. I squirm around until I can press my back against the cupboard beneath the counter top. I’ll have to get my feet under me and push to a stand. I don’t realize how weak I am until I try to do just that. The muscles in my thighs are quivering with fatigue. I’m woozy from the vicodin and long to curl up and take the little nap suggested by Mick. Grunting with effort, I press and push. Once upright, bright stars flash across my vision and I sag back against the counter. My empty stomach seizes up in a vicious cramp. Deep breathing helps. My vision clears.

  Now, for the next step. Turn body toward the counter top without falling on my face. Use useless arm to reach for the phone. Hope and pray Paco has his cell phone turned on. I count to three, take another deep breath and pivot my body toward the counter. I brace my legs against the cupboard and flop my injured arm, sling and all, atop the counter. I’m howling with pain, but grit my teeth and somehow stay upright.

  The clock on the kitchen stove tells me it’s a few minutes before four a.m. If all goes according to plan, Mick’s team will be busting down doors in an hour. I want—no—I need to be at the Rockwells when that happens. Do I have a plan beyond that? Sort of.

  Whimpering in pain, I slide my injured arm across the counter, hook my fingers around the base and pull it toward me. The handset falls from the base, numbers down. I’m shaking so hard I can barely flip it over. I duck my head and wipe the sweat from my eyes on the dishtowel sling.

  Praying the phone works, I hit the green button. The sound of a dial tone makes me weep with joy. I punch in Paco’s number thinking, please, please, have your phone on.”

  It goes to voice mail and I yell, “Damn it, Paco. I need you. I’m at the High Desert Pines apartment complex. Number 110. You might have to bust down the door. Bring Aida. Please, help me.”

  Though I know it’s futile. I call three more times, leaving increasingly hysterical messages. I have second thoughts about leaving Billy out of the loop and call him too. He doesn’t answer. Finally, out of options, I sink to the floor, curl up in a ball and weep. Nothing to do now but wait. I try desperately to stay awake, but fall into a fitful sleep.

  Bam. Bam. Crash.

  Startled awake, I peer across the living room and see a large hand reach through a brand new hole in the front door, groping for the deadbolt lock. So much for shadowy, covert action. Paco has arrived.

  A moment later, he bulls through the door, followed by Aida. He crosses the room and kneels next to me, tears streaming from his eyes “Oh, chicka, what has happened? It’s my fault. I should have been with you.”

  “No worries, Unc. You’re here now. That’s what counts.”

  Aida leans close, touches the gash on my cheek and points at my injured arm. “Who has done these awful things to you? What is this place?”

  “I’ll explain later. Right now, we need to get to the Rockwells. I don’t have a good feeling about Destiny.”

  Aida gasps. “What you mean? Is baby in danger?”

  I can’t explain the urgency I’m feeling, so I shrug and change the subject. “What time is it?”

  “Four forty-five,” Paco says, scooping me up in his arms. I bite back a yip of pain and mutter, “Actually, I can walk.”

  “Faster this way.” He kicks the door open and charges toward the parking lot. He huffs out the story as he trots. “Had to wake up Kendra…needed the van…can’t put three people on the bike…of course, she wanted to come along…luckily, Craig wouldn’t let her.”

  We pile into the van. Paco cranks the motor and we speed through the mostly empty streets toward Broken Top. I relate an edited story of my capture, the certainty that I wouldn’t live to see morning and the surprising turn of events when Mick revealed his true identity.

  “I knew Myron was an asshole,” Paco mutters. “Is he the one who hurt you?”

  “Yeah. Mick tried to patch me up.”

  “What we do when we get to the Mister’s house?” Aida says.

  Good question. “Not sure. I just don’t want them calling in social services for Destiny. Since you’re her nanny, maybe they’ll let us take Destiny.”

  Paco frowns. “Don’t want to burst your bubble, kiddo, but that might not work. You know how the feds work. Everything by the book.”

  “I’m not sure that’s true for Homeland Security. I’m hoping Mick will be there. He might listen to me.”

  It’s a little past five when we cruise into the Rockwell’s ritzy neighborhood. Dawn is breaking, but the sun has yet to appear over the mountains to the east. The expansive homes appear ghostly in the dim, gray light.

  “How do you think the bust will go down?” I ask Paco.

  “They’ll have people covering all the exits and break down the door if they have to.”

  As we approach the Rockwell house, I see a black Suburban and a tan crew-cab pick-up parked in the shadows next to my favorite tree. No sign of the Impala. Not good. If Mick’s not here, our chances of getting Destiny are zero to none.

  Paco parks the minivan well away from the other vehicles and we walk back toward the Rockwell property just in time to see the lights come on inside the house. Standing beneath a massive pine tree, we watch as the front door flies open. Two men dressed in black march
a handcuffed Ethan Rockwell onto the front lawn. He’s struggling and yelling things that make me smile. “Do you know who I am? I’ll have your badge.”

  “Oh,” Aida breathes, “Police have the mister. What about missus and baby?”

  Shortly after, two more guys burst through the door and join the others. One of them is lugging a fat briefcase and the laptop computer from Rockwell’s study. The other man is talking a mile a minute, gesticulating wildly and pointing back toward the house. I can’t make out what he’s saying, but the tension in his voice and body tells me something has gone wrong. No sign of Nina Rockwell or Destiny.

  “You and Aida stay here,” I whisper to Paco. “I need to get closer so I can hear what’s going on.”

  Paco says, “I’ll come too.”

  “No, they’ll see you. I’ll stay behind the bushes like I did before.” I stand on my tiptoes and whisper in his ear. “Aida’s scared. You need to stay with her.”

  He grudgingly agrees. I lower my body to a crouch and slink behind the living wall of tall arborvitaes. As I close the gap between the men and myself, I start to pick up snatches of their conversation. “…in the diaper bag…detonator…baby’s in the crib…she wants…”

  His voice drops before I can hear what she—probably Nina Rockwell—wants. One of the men gripping Rockwell’s arm explodes in anger and I hear every word clearly. “Why the hell did you let her go into the kid’s room?”

  The other guy mumbles something I don’t catch.

  “Jesus Christ. Now we need a hostage negotiator. Did she say what she wants?”

  “She wants a written statement, a guarantee, she’ll be granted immunity if she narcs out the husband. She says he’s the one running the show.”

  “That’s a goddamn lie.” Ethan Rockwell shouts. “It’s her. It’s always been her. There’s never been enough of anything to suit her. Money. Things. Even the baby. She’s the one who saw Eddie’s kid and had to have her. I didn’t want the baby. She did. And, believe me, she paid a bunch of money for her. And, she’s the one bringing the girls over from Kazakhstan. It’s her, not me.”