by R. T. Wolfe
Duncan wasn't sure what he was hoping for exactly. A poker game? Men in black pants and mock turtlenecks? "Let's try blackjack. It will give us a chance to first survey our surroundings."
"Okay, but can't you just say, 'case the joint?'"
"Never."
The looks from the other patrons were telling. He and Andy were not welcome. He ignored the glares and, without speaking, tossed a few Peruvian bills on the table. Andy did the same.
The dealer hesitated, then set chips in front of each of them. The man was twice Duncan's age with a full head of hair dyed black. He twisted the long ends of his mustache before picking up the cards. He, too, scanned the reactions of the men to the presence of the two gringos as he executed a complicated shuffling and fanning of the cards.
As the cards were dealt, a head appeared between Duncan and his brother. "You're not welcome here," the voice said in steeply accented English.
Duncan lifted the corner of his cards. Six of clubs and five of hearts. He motioned for the dealer to hit him with another. "We're not here for the gambling."
Another voice came from the other side of Andy. "Hit me. You gringos can find that at any corner. Out. Side." This man's English was flawless.
Two of clubs. He motioned a hold. "My tastes are more specific than what is found at corners."
Silence ensued before the cards were overturned. He and Andy lost and surrendered their chips. It went on like this for another half hour. The men around them spoke in a Spanish that differed from what was spoken at Nickie's childhood foster home. The men made a point to make it obvious that they spoke of him and Andy. Jeers, stares, pointing. Little did they know, this only helped Duncan with his cause.
A seven of hearts and a four of hearts. He estimated about eighty-five percent of the cards left in the remaining deck of six decks would be tens or face cards. He folded. A large win at the blackjack table would draw the wrong kind of attention.
Roulette, poker. He and Andy shifted through the entire establishment.
As well as the one across the street, down the street and around the corner.
* * *
It looked like a presidential motorcade. Lines of black SUVs staged at staggered off-site intervals. They made Nickie and Eddy take the one farthest from the park. Special Agent Hurst had given her the audio channels for each of the team leaders but not the GPS signals for the corresponding undercover johns. Jimbo only.
Relinquishing control was a bitch, but there was no denying the euphoria that raced through her body. Her knee bounced furiously. Girls would be saved. Girls that right at that moment either shook with fear or lay perfectly still in hopelessness. Some would be tying knots in their hair. Others, rocking back and forth or hugging their knees close to their chests.
By this time tomorrow, they would be free of it all.
Eddy dangled his wrist over the top of the SUV steering wheel. The windows were down as they waited in the first of their assigned four-car motorcade. The breeze helped to both cool her off and keep her mind from spinning in too many directions. Hurst had programmed the built-in screen to Slippery Jimbo's GPS tracer. It blinked at the pre-planned location within the park but didn't move.
He tapped his thumb against the wheel.
"What are you thinking?" Nickie asked.
Sniffing, he said, "I'm thinking this rig cost the feds forty grand stripped. There are twenty-four of them. That's almost a million dollars in cars for this one operation."
"Damn," she said in two syllables. She hadn't thought about it.
He craned his head to look at her. "I could do a lot with a million dollars."
She thought of his apartment, then of the home she and Duncan lived in. Or, lived in before Fu Haizi blew it up. Was the explosion her mother's idea, she wondered, but only for a moment.
Static from the audio attachment interrupted her train of thought. "Bogey at nine o'clock," the plainclothes agent assigned to their detail spoke into the bug.
Eddy grunted. "Did the dude just say, bogey?"
"Oy."
"Did you just say, oy?"
"Oy." She blinked and squinted at the screen. Did Jimbo's trace just move?
Speaking into her assigned channel, she alerted the rest of her team. "This is Savage. Be ready to go."
"Vehicle Three, affirmative."
"Vehicle Two, affirmative."
"Vehicle Four, affirmative."
"That's going to get old real fast," Eddy said, but she wasn't really listening to him.
She sat up straighter and scooted her butt so she could be closer to the screen.
Static. "Three men. Black pants. Black shirts. Black suit jackets. The five undercovers are standing behind the civilian." The civilian as in Jimbo. "One of the men in black is stepping to the civilian. It's like a posturing of the clan leaders in the Lord of the Rings."
Nickie ground her teeth together. Children's lives were at stake. She was in no mood for this. Her breath picked up. She checked the volume on the audio for the tenth time. All the way up.
Static. "And we have a launch."
She bent her nose closer to the screen. "Jimbo is on the move."
Eddy turned over the ignition.
"This keeping us in the dark to the rest of the plainclothes audios and undercover GPS trackers is bullshit."
"Hell, yes," Eddy said and shifted into drive.
She didn't realize she'd said that last part out loud.
The damn blink moved in slow motion. Her jaw ached from the pressure of her grinding teeth by the time Jimbo's trace moved fast enough to be in a car. Was he alone in the unmarked they gave him? With the other johns? In a car alone with the transports? Had he been made?
Static. "James is alone and headed north away from the park." She wanted to know about the others.
Eddy pulled out on the highway.
"Not too close."
"I know."
"Not too far."
"I know."
"This sucks."
"I'm—"
"Don't say you know."
"I was going to say I'm sorry. I know this sucks."
Buckling her seat belt, she inhaled, lifted her chin and rolled up her window.
It didn't take long before the oncoming traffic became scarce. "Two, Three and Four. Increase distance with us and each other."
"Vehicle Three, affirmative."
"Vehicle Four, affirmative."
"Vehicle Two, affirmative."
Eddy moaned. "Shoot me now."
Since she couldn't see a taillight, not even in the few straightaways, she kept her eyes glued to the screen. Her head shook. It's been too long. "Hurst, do you copy?" she said into her audio. No answer.
The blinking slowed and turned. Eddy backed off. The blinking stopped.
"Over near those bushes," she said and pointed off the shoulder. It was one of the few miles of road that wasn't lined with a white picket fence. Trees, bushes and shrubs almost completely concealed the entrance road that was more of a gravel driveway.
He did as she said, then turned off the engine. The search engine map said there was no back way for the perps to escape, but she found it hard to believe that they would be that stupid.
She spoke into the channel. "Two, Three and Four. Fifteen minutes. Check your watches. Numbers three and four, stage north a hundred yards from the next turn. I will text you the coordinates of our immediate rendezvous. Get your asses down here now."
"Vehicle Four, affirmative."
"Vehicle Three, affirmative."
Nickie's left eyelid twitched. She spoke into the police channel. "Hurst, do you copy?"
Nothing.
She rechecked the channel. "Hurst, we're going in fifteen."
Sighing, she blinked and shook her head. "Suit up," she said and pulled a dark cap around her head and face. "Let's do this, Lynx."
Before she could open her car door, he grabbed her hand. She looked at his fingers, and noticed he was fooling with the controls to his le
ft.
"Don't open the door. I can't find the switch to turn off the inside lights in this damned vehicle."
She didn't have time for this and, focusing on her breathing, closed her eyes. He released her arm, and she opened her door to the humid night. The scent of fresh-cut grass filled her nose. The sound of the door clicking as she pressed it shut was quickly followed by Eddy's. With soft knees, they shuffled through noisy crickets and the brilliant starlight.
It was hot as hell. The long sleeves and pants weren't so bad, but the face mask was a bitch.
Three minutes in. While they waited for the rest of the team, she tried texting Hurst this time. "You there? Are the others safe? Are they in?" Were captive children saved?
She checked that her phone was on silent, turned the brightness down and stuffed it back in her pocket. The sound of soft feet came from in front of her.
"Vehicle Two approaching on foot, sir."
Because they might have driven through the bushes and trees?
Four minutes. More feet.
"Vehicle Three approaching on foot."
"Vehicle Four approaching on foot."
"Do you have the bullhorn?" she asked the vehicle three driver. The agent nodded as headlights came from the highway. The nine of them hit the grass and lay still. It slowed down and turned onto the road leading back to Jimbo. As it passed, she spoke into the microphone device attached to her vest. "Audio check. Number off if you can hear me in your earpiece.
"Group one takes the north, two the east, three south and four west. Stick to the plan, but be flexible. We have ten minutes. Let's go." She checked her phone one more time for a response from Hurst, and this time hoped he wasn't hurt.
Chapter 8
Nickie's group scattered low and quiet. The trees were thick, but she spotted the cars around the brown trunks. Bimmers Jags and Vettes were parked in a circle. It was a lot of cars. Sweat ran down her back, and she motioned for Eddy that they were going to go wide. A warehouse. Considering the clientele, the place was ghetto. Dirty white. The packed gravel surrounding the place could hold a few dozen cars easily. This place was used regularly.
"No more," she muttered under her breath.
No windows. This was a good thing. Johns and perps would have few escape routes. It was a huge structure. This was bad. There were less than a dozen on their rescue team.
She paused at the site of the white box truck. "Really?" she said mostly to herself. "They use those things all over the country?"
Eddy didn't question her rambling but elbowed her rib cage as they got close enough to hear. The metal walls seemed to amplify the cries. Screams echoed.
Nickie couldn't get her feet to move. Her knees gave out, and Eddy caught her left armpit before she fell to the ground completely. Ducking her chin to her neck, she tried to shake away the memory of the inside. The metallic odor of blood mixed with stale cigar breath, alcohol and the body odor of old men.
Eddy tugged on her arm. "You can do this," he whispered.
As if she had a choice. She could. She would. She willed her legs to stand and pointed to the back door. It was wide enough to fit a small vehicle. A single guard stood leaning against the side of the open frame. He wore black pants and a mock turtleneck. A white cigarette dangled from his coffee brown lips, and he grasped his rifle with two hands.
Fu Haizi scum.
Her breath quickened. She thrust four fingers in front of Eddy, signaling the number of minutes they had before they rushed the place. He nodded. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark and could see the structure from the dim light coming from the stars.
She whispered to the others in her audio device. "Other than the white box truck, I don't see any other vehicles to the east or west that seem like they could belong to the perps."
Static sounded in her ear. "This is Vehicle Three. We don't see the unmarked that transported your friend. There are two burgundy SUVs that could belong to the perps."
"When the perps use the same cars as the feds," Eddy whispered to only her, "it should be a considered a red flag for Langley."
Light talk was not going to help, but Eddy didn't know that. Instead of responding, she held up two fingers.
Taking her gun off safety, she reached down and made sure her spare was secure under her pant leg. "I have visual on a guard standing in the door in the back," she said into the audio. "Group two, you are clear to approach."
* * *
It was nearing midnight in a foreign country. Duncan had taken his little brother through a total of seven smoke-filled, questionable establishments in this third world country, threatening their safety at every moment. Andy should be home with his wife and baby, and Duncan should be curled up behind Nickie in a hotel in Kentucky, not twelve hours away, sweating in casino after casino.
They headed down the center of a dirty floral carpet toward the exit of one of the more high-class establishments in the line of bars, strip clubs and casinos.
"They're all beginning to look the same, brother," Andy said.
Not to someone with an eidetic memory, but Duncan nodded anyway. Roulette and craps to the left. Slot machines to the right. He had to persevere. Children were being used. His Nickie would never rest until she dismantled Fu Haizi. Duncan's need was nearing his wife's.
A man dressed in designer jeans and a cotton shirt with rhinestone-covered buttons stepped in front of them. "Guys, hey," he said and held out his hand. "Let me pay for cab fare back to your hotel. You do have a hotel, don't you?"
He was definitely a local. His accent was steep, but his English fluent. A thief? Scam? Child trafficker feeling them out as potential johns?
"No thanks, man," Duncan said. "We haven't found what we're looking for yet."
"You may think you can come to our country and exploit it for your bad habits. That no one will do anything about it. But you're wrong." He pulled his shoulders back and stepped within inches of Duncan's face. "We don't need your kind."
Yes, you do, he thought but dipped his head and maneuvered around him. He and Andy made it nearly out the door before another local stepped in front of them.
"You don't fit in here, Gringo."
This time, Duncan absorbed the extent of this statement. Hope died with each step. They hadn't gotten a single lead. He shrugged and looked at the man. He had salt and pepper hair that curled over his ears and a beard that matched in color. His clothes were similar to what Duncan wore. Pressed pants, casual dress shoes and a button-down shirt. No black or mock turtleneck, but Duncan responded to him regardless. "What we're looking for does not include fitting in."
The man stuck his hand in his front pocket and, legal or not, Duncan regretted his decision to go unarmed. The local didn't pull out a gun but his phone. It was opened to an app with a picture of a young girl. She was without clothing. Duncan clenched his jaws until his teeth nearly chipped.
He blinked slowly, then glanced up at the man. The silence should have given him away yet he found himself speechless regardless.
"Close, but no cigar," Andy said as he held the door for the man.
It was hard to argue with anyone as muscle clad as Andy, yet the man nodded and swiped the pic away only to retrieve a new one. This was of a boy. Andy had a son waiting for him at home, and Duncan noticed as he clenched his fists.
Duncan found his voice. "How much?"
The man nodded and lifted a corner of his mouth. Five hundred American.
Duncan halted and craned his head away from both of them. He grabbed his jaw and massaged his five o'clock shadow. "That's steep, and your English is good. How do we know you're not a cop?"
"I look like a fucking pig?"
"Suit yourself," Duncan said and tugged Andy's sleeve before walking away.
"No. Gringo, I—"
Duncan lifted a hand over his head and waved once as he and Andy walked down the sidewalk. He bumped his brother into the doorway of the next casino, then put his arms on Andy's shoulders and turned him so they faced each ot
her. Andy would be able to see where the man went.
"He watched where we went. Now, he's stuffing his hands in his pockets and rocking back and forth on his heels and balls of his feet." Andy knew what Duncan was after.
"How will we follow him?" Duncan asked. "We have no car. A taxi won't work."
"Got it, brother," Andy said.
His eyes fixated on something behind Duncan.
"Don't turn around," Andy said. "He's talking to a local."
People passed them in the doorway. Mostly men, but some had women with them. A larger man who smelled ripe with liquor shoulder checked Duncan on the way in. "Gringo. House."
Duncan didn't need the English to get the message. With the way he and Andy behaved and were dressed, it was the theme of the evening.
Andy grabbed his upper arm. "He's getting in a car. Follow my lead."
It killed Duncan not to turn and look. What the hell were they doing? Andy was completely reckless. It had always been his worst fault.
"Come on."
"Where are we going?" Duncan whispered. "How are we going?"
He soon found out as Andy gestured to a moped.
"A moped?" Duncan asked. "A moped with a lock." It was an ancient model and may be able to go twenty-five mph downhill.
"And you're a lock and explosives expert. Hurry up. This is a good spot. No one can see us. The dude is pulling away."
Duncan dug in his pocket and pulled out his key chain. Attached were miniature picks and files. He had the lock off in seconds, but the car was already out of sight. Andy jumped on and kick-started the bike anyway. "Get on."
The weight of the two of them kept the machine even under twenty-five miles per hour. They crawled down the road as they scanned in front and the side roads for the vehicle. Duncan had it memorized. It was a blue Durango with red duct tape covering the right brake light. He estimated it was about a 2001 model. Fu Haizi didn't drive shit cars, but this wasn't the U.S.
Andy slowed at a red light and hadn't even stopped before a man jogged over. The streetlight reflected against the knife in his hand.
"Wallet. Phone," the man ordered. The English was broken, but Duncan understood.
It came out of nowhere. Andy twisted on the seat and landed a left-handed hook to the side of the man's head. It wasn't enough to flatten him but worked well enough to deter his plans of the smash-and-grab Samuel had described.
