by Amy Waeschle
Turning to the bike, it took her a moment of fumbling to get her bearings. Just getting it off the kickstand took effort, and it was this that forced her to realize the sheer weight and size of the machine she was about to operate. Her hands looked so small on the handlebars. She tested the clutch and brake—both requiring much more force than she remembered—Quinn’s bike only needed a two-finger touch. She started the engine, its thumping vibrating her entire body.
Leaving the alley, she released the clutch too quickly and the huge machine shuttered to a halt. Cursing herself, she put her foot down and it took all her strength to hold it from falling. Slowly, she thought, telling herself to squeeze the throttle while releasing the clutch this time the way Quinn had taught her. She clicked the gear back up to neutral and restarted the engine. She practiced revving it a few times, then rolled the throttle on as she released the clutch. The bike lurched forward again, but this time, she managed to keep the momentum with enough throttle, then carefully turned down the street. She pulled up at the intersection with Market and gingerly rolled the throttle as she held in the clutch and clicked down to first. The light changed and Cassidy released the clutch in a smooth movement. A tingle of exhilaration shivered over her skin as she went through the gears. It’s working! she thought.
After passing under the highway, she coasted through several yellow lights and crossed a bridge. Now the road opened up in a long straightaway heading south that paralleled the Bay and she accelerated, feeling the heavy bike respond. At a curve in the road turn she leaned a little too much, moving to the wrong side of the road. She quickly righted it, returning to her lane, then leaned more gently to pull out of the curve nicely. While not exactly fun, the process of applying knowledge to solve a problem tapped a satisfying chord in her brain. Her heart racing, she relaxed and tried let the bike lead. If only Dutch could see her now, she thought.
Finally, the wide avenue opened up in a straightaway that according to her map program, would deliver her to Bayview. Her feet and hands became more comfortable working together, but Dutch’s bike had so much power that she had to restrain herself not the roll the throttle too much as she decelerated into a turn. The bike felt like a dragon who had no interest in slowing down.
The streets flashed by in a hazy blur, the buzz of the motorcycle’s engine vibrating through her core. She caught a few glimpses of the Bay’s shiny black surface but the wide roadway was lined with apartments and big buildings that gave the route a tunnel-like feel.
Focusing so much on driving the bike made the time pass quickly, and soon she had left the fancy waterfront apartment buildings behind and industrial buildings popped up in their place: loading docks and corrugated siding and a smokestack emitting a white ribbon of steam. She marked the passing streets for the one leading to the coffee roaster, and when she spotted it, her stomach jumped with nerves. Paying careful attention to her shifting and braking, Cassidy cruised smoothly, moving deeper into the warehouse district, the streets quiet.
She parked at the end of the block from the coffee roasters, the smell of burning coffee beans filtering into the air. Cassidy could hear the dull roar of the roasting machine inside as she pulled off Dutch’s helmet. Moving quickly now, she opened the lockbox and was about to dump the helmet inside when she saw the shiny black shape of the gun.
Cassidy didn’t own a gun but growing up in Boise, most everybody did. Her father hunted each fall, and had taught her and Quinn how to hold the gun, then set up a BB gun target practice for them in the backyard. Quinn still had her father’s guns somewhere—a rifle and some kind of ancient pistol. Plus she had received a lengthy training in gun safety years ago for a research trip into bear country. But picking up this gun—Dutch’s—felt different.
I’m not going to use it on anyone, she told herself as her fingers wrapped around the heavy, cold base. But it might come in handy.
She closed the box and pivoted, tucking the gun into the back of her waistband where it poked into her vertebrae. Cassidy set off, searching for a gray building with a band of windows along the second floor, her thoughts getting swallowed by the sudden grinding from a truck’s engine passing several streets away. All of her senses were keenly alert for sounds or other clues that might lead her to the right place.
After completing a full circle around the coffee roaster, she designed a grid search in her mind, using the roaster as the base, and set off south, her feet crunching on broken glass, detritus gathered by the wind, and fine-grained dust. Her ears strained for any sound that seemed out of place, but the area felt still and quiet and the busy roadway only a few blocks from her location provided plenty of noise. Passing warehouses, a storage facility, a fenced yard full of cars, two broken-down motorhomes parked end-to-end, and concrete buildings protected by high chain-link fences, she began to lose hope. Following the two-block perimeter she’d imagined, she turned a corner and swept her gaze left to right, looking for the building the waitress had described.
Immediately, she jumped back into the shadows. Halfway down the street, someone was smoking a cigarette, the red glow of the tip punctuating the darkness. Behind him stood a large metal-sided building. In its second-story corner, Cassidy saw a row of small square windows connected in a row.
Parked near a door stood a black Mercedes—she couldn’t read the plate from this far away, but Cassidy knew it in her bones that it was the same car that had transported Izzy. Cassidy looked again at the second-story windows, unable to detect light from inside them. A crop of butterflies dive-bombed her stomach, their wings scraping past her insides.
The man extinguished his cigarette and returned to the building, entering through the doorway. He’s waiting for someone, Cassidy realized as a chill tingled through her spine.
Cassidy discretely checked the clock on her phone: almost midnight. She imagined a gang of bikers standing guard around the warehouse. How was she going to get inside? How was she going to get to Izzy?
Walking one block further, she turned right, hoping to find the back of the building unguarded. She passed several smaller buildings until she reached the building’s loading dock and roll-down door. High above it, a large, square window had been propped open several inches.
Not seeing any guards, Cassidy hurried closer, stepping carefully over the gritty pavement so as not to make any sound. She climbed the steps to the loading dock and carefully tugged on the bottom of the dented roll-down door. It didn’t budge.
Looking up, Cassidy noticed how the windowpane extended outward from a top hinge, meaning it might be possible to pry it open further. Cassidy scanned the area for something she could climb in order to get high enough to get through it, taking in every detail, until she came across a stack of pallets leaning against the building behind her.
When in the field, equipment broke all the time, or the supplies you needed weren’t available, especially in places like Costa Rica or even Sicily, so Cassidy had become a master improviser. Though Héctor took this to an art level, Cassidy knew that if she could find some way to attach the rungs of the pallet, it might work as a ladder. She crossed the street and picked up two pallets, then carried them back to the loading dock. She returned for a third, scanning the gutters for anything she might use to tie the pallets together, and came across a broken tie-down and further on, a half-used roll of packing tape, flattened and dirty from being run over.
Returning to the back of the building, her mind narrowed to her purpose and the ladder took shape. She peeled open the tape roll to attach two rungs, cringing when it screeched loudly. She slowed, unrolling the tape inch by inch, tuning in for sounds of footsteps or noises from inside. Once everything was secure, she rotated the giant ladder upright.
Cassidy gave the ladder a shake for good measure, then kicked off her flip flops and began to climb.
Twenty-Nine
The pallet jiggled and squeaked as the wood flexed with her shifting weight, but it held. The pallet ladder extended several feet higher than the b
ase of the window, which meant that Cassidy had to lean sideways to get her hands on the bottom ledge of the window. Once there, she paused, her hands gripping the sharp metal edge, her feet still on the pallet ladder, and listened. A fan hummed from the darkness, but otherwise she heard no distinct sounds of occupancy. Peering into the space, she made out rows of floor-to-ceiling metal shelving. A forklift stood at the head of the central row, its basket extended.
Peering inside the window, she noticed she was over an office, the open walls extending to several feet below her Across the warehouse floor Cassidy noticed a set of stairs leading the second floor. Cassidy tried to construct a 3D map of the building in her mind. Izzy was obviously not at the warehouse level but maybe the stairs led to a loft, or more offices. Had everyone gone upstairs by now? Had whomever they were waiting for arrived?
Cassidy had to get inside. Bracing with one hand gripping the side of the window frame, she tried to pry the window open further. The thick glass and metal felt stiff and heavy, but she was able to gain a few more inches before her feet started to wobble on the shaky pallet. Cassidy tucked under the window, her heart racing, not daring to look down, and pushed off the pallet. The metal window ledge bit into her palms and hips as she lifted a shaky leg and swung it over the window, carefully moving her hand to make room. The top of the open window pressed down on her shoulders and head, forcing her to duck in an uncomfortable position. Plus, the metal window ledge now pressed painfully into her crotch. She tried to use her bare feet to grip the metal siding, but it was too slippery.
Below her several feet, the top of the office walls circled the office space—easy to lower onto but they were only eight or so inches wide. She would have to land onto it perfectly, then balance as she lowered the rest of her body, and then somehow get down without falling on her head. The hard metal of the gun dug into her skin and for a moment, she wondered if it might eject from its location during her maneuvers. She imagined it tumbling into space, its black metal flashing, then landing with a loud clatter, or worse, a bang as it accidentally went off.
As a child, she had been a fairly serious dancer, but those skills seemed very far away as she thought through the maneuvers that would take her to the ground inside the building. A deep breath later, she slowly swung her leg over the window ledge, folding her body over as she did so, then lowering so that she was hanging by her hands. Panic trembled through her as she released her hold on the window ledge.
Her bare feet hit, and instantly her arches tensed, her muscles flexing around the wall’s edges. Her left arm shot straight from her side, the right one bracing again the wall. Knees bent, she wobbled, fighting gravity’s pull. Finally, the rocking subsided, and Cassidy breathed a sigh of relief. She repositioned herself to be hanging once more, her feet brushing the top of a filing cabinet. From there, it was an easy scramble down to the desk and floor.
Cassidy hurried out of the office and across the warehouse floor, past the towering shelves . An unfamiliar sound broke the steady hum of the warehouse fan—voices coming from upstairs. She listened again and thought she could hear movement above, and stared at the ceiling, wondering if it was footsteps.
How many people were up there? For the first time, she wondered if there could be other girls here besides Izzy. A private club. For kinky stuff, the waitress had said. She remembered the history Bruce had shared about Saxon and gritted her teeth. Could there be children here, locked away in rooms upstairs? The image of the boy selling sunglasses popped into her head. Who was he working for?
Cassidy reached the stairway and gazed upwards, wondering what would happen once she made it through its dark tunnel. Her hand slid up the cold, metal railing, which released a sharp scent of iron. The air seemed to grow warmer as she ascended. She wondered if the front end of the building had a direct entrance to the second floor. If not, she knew that at any time, the door ahead of her could bust open, exposing her.
At the top of the stairs, Cassidy paused, her breath loud in her throat. Across from her, she stood eye-level with the top of the shelves and the various pipes running along the ceiling. She pressed her ear against the door, straining to detect any sound. Muted voices carried through the metal, but they were far off. Somewhere a door closed and the vibration passed through her frame. Was there a guard posted on the other side of this door?
She closed her eyes and waited for her courage to surface. Izzy needs me, she thought, imagining Mel dragging a struggling Izzy into a room. A shudder trembled through her limbs. Her eyes popped open. After a tight breath, Cassidy gripped the knob and turned, bracing herself for the possibility that the door would get ripped from her hands by some menacing character. But the door opened to a long, empty hallway lined with doors, illuminated by the light from the windows at the far end.
Cassidy paused to listen—where were the sounds she’d heard from the other side of the door coming from? Halfway down the hall, a red light from a smoke detector on the ceiling blinked. Her pulse pumped into her tightened throat. She forced down a hard swallow then closed the door carefully behind her.
Her bare feet making no sound, her senses on high alert, she stopped at the first door and carefully pressed her ear to it. Soft sounds filtered through the metal—was it someone breathing? Or sheets rustling? She stepped back, unsure what to do. Was Izzy inside? She listened at the next door, even getting on her knees to peer under the crack. This time she distinctly heard a man’s soft grunts.
Down the hallway, a door opened. Panicked, Cassidy dove into the next room. Across from her, a person sat on a bare mattress, hugging her knees. Her angry eyes locked with Cassidy’s.
“Who the hell are you?” she hissed. It was then Cassidy realized how young she was.
Cassidy heard footsteps approach, and then the door popped open. A man dressed in khaki chinos and a black V-neck sweater stepped through. Cassidy froze. He raised an eyebrow as he took in the person on the mattress and then Cassidy standing in the middle of the room.
“On the bed, now,” he said in a commanding voice.
“I’m…not supposed to be here,” Cassidy said but stopped because the man’s look had turned predatory. “There’s someone else I’m . . . meeting,” she added, trying to keep from screaming.
“Then get out,” the man said. Cassidy slipped past him, not daring to breathe. As she closed the door behind her, she heard the man’s strong voice give more orders.
In the hallway, Cassidy shuddered so hard she had to grip the wall for support. What was this place? A wave of guilt washed over her at the idea of abandoning the girl she’d seen on the bed. But she wasn’t Izzy.
Cassidy moved to the next door, pressing her ear to the metal but hearing no sounds. A sudden creak from down the hallway startled her. Quickly she turned the knob and hurried inside, closing it swiftly behind her just as she heard the door at the front end of the hall open.
Inside, the room was completely empty except for two lumps of something she couldn’t make out on the floor and a closet which she ducked into, making herself small in the corner. Footsteps vibrated the floor outside, and then she heard a door across the hallway open and shut.
Cassidy exhaled a shaky breath. From the wall of the closet, she could hear the muffled sound of voices: a man’s, and the softer pitch of a female’s. While it was impossible to know what was said, the pitch matched Izzy’s. Cassidy lurched for the exit and hurried into the hallway. Her lungs felt spasmic, jilting her of a full breath as she moved to the door adjacent to hers.
Go back! A voice inside her head screamed. You’ll be caught!
Her fingers shook as she turned the knob but her body was alive with purpose, pulling the heavy door open just wide enough to step inside.
Inside, a dim overhead bulb illuminated the sparse, cramped room.Cassidy tried to take all of it in at once: the wood plank floor, the wrought-iron bed with black satin sheets, a sagging couch, a square table lined with items she couldn’t identify, video equipment, and a blonde woman s
itting sideways on the bed in a set of red lingerie, a frozen look on her face.
Izzy.
Relief poured into her.
“Dr. Kincaid?” Izzy said, her look quickly darkening.
“Let’s get you out of here,” Cassidy urged, hurrying to Izzy’s side.
Izzy retreated from Cassidy’s outstretched hand.
“Come on,” Cassidy said. “There’s no time.”
“No,” Izzy said, her pretty face twisting in agony. “You have to go,” she added. Her eyes darted towards the door.
Cassidy tried to make sense of what was happening. “No, Izzy, it’s over. I can get you out of here. You don’t have to do this.”
Izzy shook her head. “You don’t understand,” she said, looking desperate. “Please,” she pleaded.
“Did they threaten you?” Cassidy asked. “Because—”
“No,” Izzy interrupted. “I made a deal, okay? Now go,” she added, her lips curling back in a grimace.
“A deal for what?” Cassidy asked, feeling exasperated. “I’ve been chasing you for two whole days, Izzy and I’m taking you out of here.” Her eyes slid to the table of carefully arranged instruments.
“I’m the only one who can save her,” Izzy said.
“Save who?” Cassidy asked. “Dominique?”
A look of confusion crossed her face, but then it was gone. “Leave, or I’ll start screaming,” Izzy said, her eyes turning hard. “They’ll stuff you in a hole and you’ll never get out.”
Cassidy felt like she’d been slapped. “Your jumping ship in Biggs may have ruined Martin’s career, you know that? All for what, so you can have some kind of twisted . . . adventure?” she spat out the last word, flustered.
“Call it whatever you want, but I’m not leaving.”
Cassidy felt the air leave her lungs. She looked around the room, unable to focus. Then, she heard a car approach from outside, its wheels grinding softly on the pavement.
