by Elle Keaton
Beto squirmed until he was sitting next to him. “Carsten.” He placed his hands gently on Carsten’s face. “Breathe, focus on me. What did you see back there?”
Carsten breathed in and back out a few times, allowing Beto’s touch to seep into his skin, to calm him enough that he could speak clearly.
“A truck. A pickup.” Beto’s calm gaze bored into his own. “It’s the same one I saw when they came and burned the cabin. It’s that truck.”
“Are you sure?” Beto was serious, not truly questioning what Carsten had seen, just making certain.
“Yes, it’s the same truck. I’ll never forget what it looks like. One side has a big dent in it like it sideswiped a tree or something a long time ago. Plus, that shade of blue is unusual.”
Beto sat back in the seat but kept a hand on Carsten’s thigh, a heavy reassuring weight. The driver, Ferreira, had turned around in his seat and was watching them.
“Ferreira, head back there. That could be the shooter’s truck. Or at least an associate’s.”
“Hernández, we have a witness in the car. Protocol says getting him to safety is the priority.” They’d been heading to Beto’s real office, not SkPD, where Carsten was supposed to wait while Beto and the other agents searched for the shooter.
Beto exploded. “Dios, Ferreira, I don’t want to put him in danger any more than you do, but we can’t miss this opportunity. That cabrón shot my partner and is a key to this whole trafficking investigation. Turn the car around, now.”
Ferreira shook his head but complied with Beto’s order, turning the SUV around and heading back to the church. This time they approached at a slower speed, but if Carsten hadn’t already seen the truck when they’d been coming the other way, he would have missed it. He’d seen it from the other direction because he’d been staring out the window half listening to Beto and Ferreira talk.
The building was one of those huge modern megachurches with an electronic reader board announcing services and which pastor would be delivering the sermon. It was set back a bit from the street to allow for hundreds of cars to park on Sundays, but the rest of the week the lot would be empty.
Except for the older blue truck tucked around the side with a three-foot-long gash in one panel. It was rustier than the last time Carsten had seen it, but it was the same truck.
Beto glanced at him. He nodded.
“Okay, Sammy, we need the license plate at least. I suppose we could run a search off the make and model, but it’ll be easier if we can get a plate. If we can verify a connection to Stjepan Petyr or, dios, anyone else we suspect has connections to this, with the witnesses from last night we should have enough for an arrest.”
“We stick out like a sore thumb here,” Ferreira complained, but he pulled into the parking lot and drove slowly toward the church building.
“Park. There’s bound to be someone in the office or at reception. I’ll go in and ask a few questions, be a distraction while you grab the plate number. Carsten, you stay in the car. Hunch down so if anyone does come out they can’t see you.”
“Aren’t these windows tinted?”
“Look, just do as I say.”
Carsten nodded, and Ferreira pulled the SUV to a stop in the first row across from the church. Beto opened the passenger door on his side and slid gracefully out of the car, taking a moment to straighten his tie and suit jacket—and, Carsten was sure, his shoulder holster—before heading toward the front door.
The interior of the car was silent. Ferreira waited until Beto had been inside for a few minutes before slipping out himself and making his way around toward where the truck was parked.
Carsten couldn’t say what it was that warned him, maybe he was just expecting the worst, but not more than two minutes could have passed before there was a rumble and the blue truck appeared. Carsten ducked, realizing he hadn’t obeyed Beto’s order to stay hidden.
Against his survival instinct, he lifted his head again and memorized the license plate as the truck made a right turn onto the road. He’d gotten a glimpse of the men inside the cab too. One had his head bent down, so Carsten could only see the top of the green camo cap he wore, but the other one he recognized as the man who’d laughed as he watched the cabin become fully engulfed in flame.
Heedless of his bare feet, Carsten pushed the car door open and leapt out. Pushing his panic down, he raced around to where the truck had been parked, afraid of what he would find and scared for Beto, who was still inside the church.
Ferreira—Sammy—lay sprawled in the mud and gravel. Carsten rushed to him, kneeling by his side. There was blood mixed in with the mud, too much blood.
Carsten laid a hand across Sammy’s cheek, and his eyes fluttered open. Sammy had eyes like Beto’s, a deep, dark brown and full of nothing but kindness. He opened his lips and blood dribbled from them. In Carsten’s limited experience, based mostly on TV and movies, this was not a good thing.
He wanted to call out for Beto, but he was afraid it would only bring more people with guns, and then they would all be dead. He was not going to let Sammy die, and he was not going to let these murderers get away with, well, murder. He let out a half-panicked giggle at his thoughts.
“Sammy, we need to get you back to the car.”
Sammy groaned in response but didn’t move. Carsten tugged at his body, pulling him into a sitting position.
“Jesus shit bricks fuck me.” Ripping his sweatshirt off, Carsten tied it around the smaller man so the hood was smashed against him, acting as a bandage. Then, with strength he hadn’t known he possessed, he dragged Sammy to the SUV. He’d read somewhere that the best thing for a wound like this wasn’t pressure but a plastic bag, but there was not a shred of trash in the SUV and no sign of Beto. As he maneuvered the nearly dead weight of Sammy into the back seat, Carsten kept hoping that Beto would appear and help him make the right decision.
Sammy groaned and seemed to regain more awareness. He was tugging at his suit jacket. Carsten unbuttoned it to see Sammy’s gun tucked into a similar holster as Beto’s.
“I’ve never shot a gun in my life.”
“It’s not hard.” Breath. “If you’re close enough …” breath “… you can’t miss.” He took another shallow breath. There was more blood on his lips. “My phone … backup … redial. Keys—” His eyes shut again before he finished his sentence.
Desperately, Carsten felt around in Sammy’s coat for the keys and the phone. Propping him in the passenger seat, Carsten raced around to the driver’s side and slid behind the wheel. He’d never driven a car like this one; luckily it was an automatic.
The engine roared to life. Carsten pressed down on the gas pedal, which felt odd under his bare foot, and left the parking lot. It began to rain harder, much to his dismay. About fifty yards from the parking lot there was a driveway, overgrown with blackberries and hawthorn. He pulled into it, trying to hide the SUV from prying eyes.
“Sammy, I need you to unlock your phone.”
Slowly, painfully the wounded agent lifted a hand. Carsten held the phone and his trembling arm. It felt like hours, but finally the screen lit up. As quickly as he could, Carsten hit redial.
A deep male voice Carsten recognized from the night before answered. “Ferreira, what’s your status?”
24
Beto
* * *
The interior of the church reminded him of a hospital; it had that same antiseptic odor. The lobby stretched the width and height of the building and was painted entirely white. Beto found it disturbing. There was a small, boxlike reception area off to one side, although no one was there at the moment.
As he walked toward it, a phone rang. Not his; it sounded as if it came from behind a closed door behind the desk. The ringing stopped, and then he heard a muffled voice speaking. He moved closer but couldn’t hear the words.
The voice stopped. Beto was trying to decide if he should call out or not when the door opened. A large man in shirtsleeves and dress pants stood in
the threshold. He was corpulent and red-faced, with bright, almost orange hair. He came all the way out, shutting the door behind him.
Beto immediately wanted to know who or what was in that room.
“Welcome to our Sanctuary. How may I help you?”
He spoke in a way that gave the word sanctuary a capital letter. Sanctuary. Was that what they called themselves? Was that how they lured the helpless and homeless into their web? Beto had to stomp down the surge of rage.
“Pastor Bakker?” Beto fished in his suit packet for his SkPD badge. “I have some news that may be upsetting. Your son has been in an accident; he’s at St. Joseph’s in Skagit.”
An expression of disgust crossed the pastor’s piglike face. “I have no son.”
Beto moved closer, displaying his badge so the other man could take a good look at it. “You are Michael Bakker?” Beto had never seen a picture of the man, and he looked nothing like Troy.
“Yes, this is my church.” He swept an arm out.
“A little over two weeks ago, a young man identified as Troy Bakker was found beaten and left for dead. He’s been in ICU and only recently was able to tell us his identity. He said a man named Michael Bakker is his father.” None of what Beto was saying about Troy had a grain of truth to it, except the part where Troy had regained consciousness.
Bakker frowned, his nostrils flaring as if he smelled something rancid. “The person you are referring to has chosen a lifestyle that goes against God’s Word.” There were those capitals again. Beto gritted his teeth against saying something that would make the man stop talking to him. He got a perverse enjoyment out of knowing how Bakker would feel if he knew Beto was gay. “So you’re going to leave your son to languish alone in the hospital?”
“I have no son,” Bakker repeated.
Beto needed to keep him talking; he wanted to get into the office. He wanted to be invited in. As the thought crossed his mind, the phone he’d heard rang again.
“I need to answer that. My desk girl called in sick today.”
It seemed he expected Beto to wait obediently as he turned and headed back to the closed door. Instead, Beto followed, slipping in behind him.
He had no idea what to expect in the office: slave girls with palm fronds, someone tied up in a sex swing? At first glance Beto didn’t see anything out of place, but Bakker was definitely hiding something. Bakker headed for the enormous desk that took up an entire corner of the large room.
“Bakker here.” As Bakker picked up the phone, he realized Beto was in the office with him. He quickly covered the mouthpiece, whispering, “I need to take this.”
Beto nodded, ignoring the dismissal, instead sticking his hands in his pockets and pretending to admire the artwork hanging on the walls.
“I have a visitor in the office … Yes … Oh dear.”
The artwork displayed was a mix of mediums: some paintings, some photographs. Beto wandered closer, pretending to be enthralled by an unfortunate modern representation of Jesus on the cross. Next to the painting was one of those collage photo frames. This one had eight pictures in it.
Each one showed Michael Bakker with a group of laughing, smiling children. The photos were obviously taken in foreign countries. Dios, in each one he had a child on his knee or tucked up under his arm. The children appeared to be mostly girls, although with a few it was hard to tell. Beto’s skin crawled.
The sound of the phone clicking into the receiver returned his attention to the very dangerous and powerful man behind him. The space between his shoulder blades twitched. He turned to find Bakker at his back.
“Ah, yes, our mission work. We help children all over the world.”
“I’m sure you do,” Beto replied, because that was all he could say. Behind the desk was a window. It wasn’t open, but the blinds were turned a bit to let what daylight there was inside. A shadowy form knelt or bent down. Beto saw what had to be Carsten’s hair. His heart skipped a beat. The truck had been parked there, and it was gone.
Something very bad was happening. He focused on Bakker.
Bakker grinned. Beto had been prepared for his mask to slip, but Bakker’s expression was so full of malice and pure foulness it still shocked him. The phone call had to have been from the owner of the blue truck. As much as he wanted to, Beto couldn’t think about Carsten or Ferreira or what Carsten was doing outside of the car.
He needed to get back to Carsten but feared the window for a simple departure had already passed.
Beto was in better shape, but Bakker had at least eighty pounds on him. There was no chance to reach for his weapon or his phone; Bakker came at him like a steam engine, throwing him against the wall. Beto revised his assessment. Bakker was in fine shape. And he knew how to fight; Beto wasn’t going to be able to trick him.
The air whooshed out of his lungs, and one of the picture frames broke. The glass or wood dug into him, ripping his jacket across the back. Goddammit. Dropping to the floor, he lunged forward with as much power as he could, grabbing Bakker at the knees and shoving. He succeeded in knocking the man against the desk. Beto heard his head smack the hard wood.
Bakker rolled off the desk to the floor, landing on his hands and knees, panting. “It’s too late. Your friend is dead.”
Friend, singular. That could only mean that they didn’t know about Carsten, that he’d been a witness now three times—and a very good witness. Carsten had an artist’s eye; he remembered and described everything. When he testified, these men would head to hell, where they would burn for eternity.
He reached for his weapon. Fuck, the holster was tangled in the fabric of his torn jacket. Never before had Beto regretted wearing a suit. His phone had fallen out of his pocket during the struggle, and Bakker got to it first, swiping at it and sending it across the room where it hit the wall with an unfortunate crunch.
Bakker was going to lunge at him again; he knew it. Never a fan of burpees or any of the other military exercises he’d been forced to learn, repeat, and regurgitate while he trained, Beto was thankful he had the muscle memory to jump straight up and then to the side as Bakker came at him. He felt his knee give as he landed, and dios that was going to hurt, but if he escaped with no worse than a sprained knee, well, he’d take that.
Bakker let out a roar and managed to grab Beto’s calf. Struggling—Beto to escape his grip and Bakker in a pure, mindless rage—they crashed into the wall, bringing another set of pictures down and shaking the door open.
That hurt. Somewhere along the way he’d hit his head; Beto could feel a trickle of blood along his eyebrow. Somehow he got to his feet, backing away from Bakker, but he tripped on a chair they’d knocked over and fell again. This time Bakker landed on him, forcing the air out of his lungs. He straddled Beto, wrapping his meaty hands around Beto’s neck and squeezing. Beto gasped for air. He’d never imagined he’d be choked to death by a berserk pastor. His vision swam, black dots obscuring the image of Bakker’s triumphant sneer.
“Let him go, or I will shoot you like the pig dog you are.”
Bakker didn’t seem to hear; he kept squeezing.
Carsten didn’t waste any more time—there was none left. Beto heard the report of a firearm and Bakker released him, screaming and grabbing for his leg.
With Bakker collapsed next to Beto on the floor, Beto mustered what oxygen he could and rolled in the other direction. Bakker could scream all he wanted; Beto wasn’t about to offer him a Band-Aid for whatever injury Carsten’d inflicted.
“You fucking shot me? You actually shot me!” He was grabbing at his calf, shrieking and moaning.
“If you don’t shut up, I’ll do it again. I’ve never shot a gun before; I hit your leg by accident. Maybe next time I’ll have better aim.”
Carsten looked like some kind of modern-day Hercules. His torso and feet were bare, his pale skin streaked with mud, and his hair a wild tangle. He kept the pistol aimed at Bakker, but Beto saw his hands begin to tremble.
“Carsten, baby.” B
eto rolled to his knees and then clambered to his feet. He stayed upright by resting most of his weight on his left leg. There was going to be a lot of Advil in his future.
“Yeah.” Carsten didn’t look at him; he kept his eyes on Bakker. Good.
Bakker still writhed on the floor. Beto was tempted to shoot him. The satisfaction wouldn’t be worth the paperwork, though.
“I need you to keep the weapon on Bakker while I draw mine.” Beto dredged it from under his ripped clothing. “See?” He made sure that Carsten could see Beto had his own weapon out.
Carsten nodded, shaky but fierce.
“Good.” Beto unlocked the safety and pointed his weapon at Bakker. “Now, put yours down, okay? Is that Ferreira’s weapon?”
Carsten nodded, backing away and lowering the Glock but not setting it down.
In the distance, finally, Beto heard sirens screaming. It seemed like hours since he’d entered the church, but it’d been less than thirty minutes. He hoped Bakker had been lying about Sammy. Beto’d downplayed the danger they’d all been in and now, dios, if Sammy paid the price … Sammy’d only had time to tell him there was a lot of chatter that something was going down before Carsten spied the truck. People they’d had their eye on, like Dickson and Stan Getty, were not in their usual haunts.
“Ferreira?” Beto’s voice cut across the sound of Bakker’s moans. Neither of them moved to offer him any sort of first aid. Beto didn’t care if the man bled out—although, as he looked closer, it appeared Carsten had only managed to hit the fleshy part of the man’s calf.
Carsten understood what Beto was asking. “They shot him. I got him to the car. He was still breathing … there’s a lot of blood.”
“You’re going to pay for this, faggots.” Spittle sprayed out of Bakker’s mouth.
“Don’t tempt me,” Carsten said. “I already talked myself out of shooting you again for good measure. Shut your mouth.”
