by R. T. Wolfe
Duncan jutted his chin forward the fraction of an inch his arms allowed and used the balls of his feet to rotate to the right. It was, indeed, a garage. The Durango sat empty next to a newer Jeep Cherokee. It wasn't the largest structure Duncan had spotted from his boulder vantage point, but it was large enough that it could have fit a half dozen cars if needed.
Wall-to-wall dirt floor. Corrugated metal walls with a single window centered in each. Two on the side with the garage door. Outside of the door opening, the place seemed deserted. The sun was barely over the horizon, but since the horizon was above a mountain, he estimated the time to be maybe 10 a.m.
He scuttled his feet in the opposite direction to the left. A wooden picnic table covered in empty cans and cigarette butts sat in front of three white box trucks. The man from the overturned bucket came back with three other men. Each dressed in black except the one in front. He wore tan linen pants, a white shirt and a tan blazer.
He walked to the spot in front of Duncan and stopped. He stared at him, tilting his head one way, then the other as he slid his cell phone from the outside pocket of the blazer. He spoke something to the men behind him, then lifted the phone and clicked some pictures of him.
Duncan was in a Fu Haizi lair in South America. The magnitude of this brushed the sides of his mind, but his brain was clouded with thoughts of Andy and his Nickie. Their safety and whereabouts.
His eyes must have wandered in his thoughts, because the man reached up and grabbed his face with a thumb on one side of Duncan's mouth and fingers on the other side. He turned his face to the right, then left before tossing it to the right, making his entire body swing in almost a complete circle.
"Who sent you?" the man said in a thick Peruvian accent.
Duncan stared at him through half-opened lids as he noticed a head peer around the opening to the door.
Andy. No, Andy, no.
The man closed his eyes in a long blink as he turned his gaze toward the bucket guy, then gestured a thumb at Duncan.
Bucket guy stepped forward, pulled his arm back and dug his fist into Duncan's gut.
He sucked air as if he'd just come up from three minutes under water, and coughed as he swung from his hands.
"I asked question."
It was hard for Duncan to concentrate. Not from the pain or the threat, but because Andy's head had disappeared. He sucked air and said between gasps, "I wanted... to watch."
"Who sent you?"
Duncan winced at the impending next blow. "I came to watch the kids. I like to watch." His brother was about to be captured and tortured. His Nickie was who knew where. It was all he could come up with.
The man squinted, his eyes black and lifeless. "Alexander say you have friend with. Tell me where is friend."
Bucket guy slipped on a pair of brass knuckles.
"The friend said I was a sick motherfucker," Duncan croaked, then raised his voice. "I told him to go back to his woman." As he spoke, he twisted his fingers, wrapping them around the ropes that held his wrists. "I think he found a whore instead."
The man gestured to Bucket guy and Duncan braced. This punch was metal and it was followed by two more. He heard a crack. Then, came the pain.
Spitting blood, he opened a single eye. The man poked the screen of his phone with his index finger. Andy appeared in the window opening next to the garage door.
No, brother, no.
Duncan's Spanish was sparse, but he understood enough pieces of the next conversation between the man in charge and Bucket guy.
Pit boss. Plane. Early. Then, a slew of expletives.
Pit boss. Duncan remembered this term. It was a Fu Haizi term used for someone higher up.
The man in charge spun on his heels and lifted his phone to his ear as he barked orders to everyone around him. The others scurried behind him like ants. They couldn't have been more than ten steps away when Andy emerged from behind the Durango, a large machete in his hand. Duncan's eyes opened wide, and he shook his head back and forth.
Andy smiled from ear to ear. If they got out of this alive, Duncan was going to kill him. With both hands, he lifted the machete over his head and ran straight for the ceiling joist. Duncan increased the space between the balls of his feet and braced. In one large swipe of his arm, Andy cut the rope that held Duncan's wrists.
With soft knees, Duncan landed and froze. He and Andy turned their gazes toward the backs of the men as they stepped out of the garage door opening. Duncan's shoulders screamed. His wrists were still confined with the zip ties, but there was no time. Andy slipped into the driver's seat of the Hummer painted camo in green and brown.
Duncan's eyes burned. His brothers. His platoon.
He yanked at the zip ties on his wrist as he braced. Bogies in the doorway. One of his platoon in the Hummer on the sand. He spotted the table of enemy weapons and ran to it. Keeping his eyes on the insurgents, he used his restrained hands and grabbed a bloody blade. He stuck it between his teeth, then bit hard and cut the zip ties with the steel of the blade.
He picked up the mallet and rushed the men. The sand beneath his feet muffled the sound of his approach. The soldier in the Hummer waved his arms and shook his head like a mad man, but Duncan only had this one chance. The insurgents sensed him as he jumped with one knee and kicked with the other, but it was too late for them. He handed a solid roundhouse to the side of Bucket's head. As the adversary dropped, Duncan swung the mallet at the bodies that came at him. The man in charge stepped back as Duncan connected the hard, rubber head of the weapon with the shoulder of the taller one, then the head of the shorter one.
The tires of the Hummer spun behind him. The man in charge stepped next to the building, and Duncan to the other side of the moving vehicle. "Holy shit, brother. Get in," the solider yelled as he skidded to a stop.
Duncan opened the passenger door and spotted an enemy plane approaching as he dove in and the vehicle sped away. A trail of glass followed them as bullets shot out the taillights and back window of the Hummer.
His chest pounded and his breathing came in long, deep gasps.
"It's okay, it's okay," the driver said in a panic. The voice didn't sound like anyone in his platoon. He looked down at his hand. Lines of deep red circled the outsides of Duncan's wrists. He remembered the zip ties. He remembered looking up at them when he hung from the ceiling joist. He remembered the man who sat on the bucket. The men in black pants and mock turtlenecks. Not from the Middle East.
Andy.
"Brother," Duncan croaked. A quick rush of agony stabbed Duncan's shoulders, his ribs, his head. Ignoring the pain, he forced his head to the side to look at his brother.
Andy's hands clasped the steering wheel of the Durango as he darted his eyes from the rearview mirror to the side mirror and back again.
"Brother," Duncan repeated.
"I know, I know. It's okay, man. They're coming."
Andy swerved around barrels and vehicles. Andy would never speak of Duncan's flashback. Not this one or the ones in the past. Duncan twisted and sat; his head nearly hit the roof of the car as they bumped over the primitive road. Craning his head around, he spotted the dust from about a half-dozen vehicles as well as a small plane that came in low toward the south side of the village.
"I need a gun," Duncan said under his breath.
Regardless of the noise of the ride, Andy shouted, "And add using an unregistered firearm to trespassing and grand theft?"
"Is that why you came at me with the machete?"
Andy didn't answer. It had been dark when they arrived the night before, but Duncan remembered well the turns and distance of the path they'd taken. "The highway is at the end of this road."
Duncan patted his pockets. His local phone was on the table in the garage. If he hadn't had a flashback, he would have been coherent enough to take it and slip out in the Durango instead of attacking with the rubber mallet. Fu Haizi scum. If not for Andy, it would have been worth it.
He spotted the corner
of Andy's local cell phone from his front jeans pocket and took it. Dialing Jess Larsen's cell from memory, he pushed send as Fu Haizi men rushed the plane.
"This is Jess."
"Jess, this is Duncan."
"Duncan! You never showed last night, man. It's good to hear from you. I was worried about you."
"Yes, well, we are, indeed, in a bit of trouble. Can you pick us up?"
"Samuel is here with me, yes. Where are you? Is everything okay?"
The Durango was old, dirty and sounded like it was choking on something. He glanced at the rearview mirror at the variety of vehicles that were gaining on them. "Everything is well. Let's plan on the same place he dropped us off. How about in fifteen?"
Duncan could hear Samuel's voice from the background. "Let me finish my coffee and I'll be on my way."
Duncan squinted in the side mirror at the people who climbed from the plane. The man in charge held the hand of a large woman dressed in a coral pantsuit, helping her from the plane. Ivanna Monticello.
Chapter 11
Nickie sat in the break room of the Louisville Police Department. Yesterday's donuts sat next to her in a white grease-stained box. The smell of burnt coffee came from somewhere on the counter behind her. She glanced at the pop machine, then tapped her fingers on the table.
An old tube television hung from the ceiling in the corner near the door. The sound was off, so she couldn't hear what the anchors said, but the breaking news scrolled along the bottom.
LOUISVILLE, KY... FBI RESCUES 63 CHILDREN FROM HUMAN TRAFFICKING...
She let her eyelids close. The voice of Special Agent Hurst came from somewhere outside of the break room. It had been like this for hours. She didn't have the energy to find him. What good would it have done? Everyone was going through debriefing. Everyone except her.
She stood and grabbed a hard donut on her way to the television in the corner. Even at 5'10" with two-inch heels, it was just out of her reach, so she sat back down in the chair on the other side of the table so her back was to the screen. She shut her eyes anyway.
She wanted to get home.
Home.
She didn't have a home. Not that brick and mortar was what made a home, but everyone needed some form of shelter. The sixty-three girls booked in juvie may never have a home again.
Her partner was due to escort former Officer Dale Parker to his next witness protection location. Now that Nickie wasn't in Peru with her husband, he would have to wait for both Eddy and her to get him there.
Eddy.
She had no idea where they kept him. They took her phone, her keys, her ID. She had nothing to keep her eyelids open except silent television and stale donuts. She took a bite.
The feet of the chair across from her scraped along the floor, so she opened her eyes.
Hurst slouched as he sank into the chair. He looked terrible. The top two buttons of his shirt were open, exposing the dirty inside of his collar. Five o'clock shadow. She was certain she didn't look any better. They had a complete conversation without speaking a word. It's funny how rescuing sixty-three captive children only to take them in and book them could do that to two people.
"Am I in custody?" she finally asked.
"None of the guys would press charges against a fellow..." His voice drained away.
Fellow what? Agent? She wasn't one.
"I'm sorry."
"Yeah, you said that. Am I free to go?"
"Yes, but I need you."
He'd never come right out and said it like that before, but she didn't care anymore. "Thanks for your help with the mole at the station and all that, but we're done here. I'm out." And thanks for taking away the captured men so she couldn't interrogate them. And for booking sixty-three trafficking victims.
"I don't know what to do." His eyes were doing that pink thing again.
Leaning back in her chair, she slung a boot over her knee and stuffed the rest of the donut in her mouth. She knew she was frowning, but didn't care about that either.
Running her hands over the top of her hair, she grabbed the back of her neck. "You're the one who dropped Jess Larsen's name to me. He's the only one I can think of who can help you with this."
"Jess Larsen of Child Rescue? He has retired FBI and Special Forces who help out with local emergencies. He takes them to third world countries to do rescues. Things are different in the U.S."
And there lies the problem.
"Right now, there are sixty-three children in a detention center instead of safe houses that could help them learn to be human again. You have no idea what's it like. They've been brainwashed." Her voice got louder and louder, and she didn't care about that either. "It's like a cult. These kids are made to believe they are bad. That no one will want them. Including their parents. Mostly their parents. What about the ones who don't have parents?" She pushed herself away from the table and stood.
"They're going to end up in foster care or a group home. They'll escape and end up right back in the arms of their captors." She paced, dragging her exhausted feet along the tile floor. "Or else they'll go home before they're ready. Their parents won't have the training to handle them, and they'll end up back in the system. That—" She leaned her head close to his, pointed to the television as it scrolled the news about the bust. "—is bullshit."
He dipped his chin and nodded.
She paced. "Jess has people who can come in and conduct trainings." She spun to face him. "You think feds are going to listen to a nonprofit trainer on how to do their jobs?"
"I'll call him, Nick. Condoms and Pokémon cards. I have to try."
* * *
Duncan took a deep breath. "The driver is going to finish his coffee before he leaves to pick us up."
"I heard," Andy said as he fishtailed onto the highway.
Duncan placed one hand on the dash and grabbed the passenger door with the other. They bumped and sped for several minutes, both checking their mirrors, before either spoke of the elephant in the room.
"I failed you, brother," Duncan said.
"Stop it," Andy answered as he took the first right into the city center. "Did you notice who came out of the plane?"
"I did." Duncan pointed to the left. "There is an alley in the middle of the next block on your left. Take it. To the public, Nickie's parents run an international import and export service. Lima is one of the locations on the map you created." Duncan checked the mirrors. No sign of the vehicles that chased them. "Take it. You're clear."
Andy slammed on his brakes and spun the steering wheel to the left. The car rocked back and forth twice before slowing down inside the alley. It was short and populated. People smacked the hood of the car as the two white tourists crawled through their territory. They were soon swallowed by passersby.
Duncan turned and watched over the heads of the locals. "I discovered mention of a mariposa joven in the files we stole from the IEM building. Young butterfly. It makes far too much sense that Ivanna arrived at the location."
He spotted the tops of two of the vehicles that had followed them. One was a conversion van and the other an old-model SUV. They passed the alley without slowing down. He hoped they'd shaken them. "Left out of the alley," he said to Andy. "The casino Samuel dropped us off at will be on the right side of the street. Let's get out of here."
Andy pulled the car to the curb a few blocks before reaching the casino where it had all started the night before. "We are a moving bull's eye in this car. Let's ditch it."
Duncan checked his mirror and spotted the conversion van as it turned onto their street. "We've got company, little brother. Move."
He and Andy ducked from the Durango and rushed down the sidewalk. At the sound of an accelerating engine, Duncan pulled Andy into the first store available. It was more of a small room and held shirts handmade by locals. Duncan and Andy stepped behind a rack. "I can't believe I let you come with," he said.
"Be glad, big brother. Wait 'til I show you what I got."
"What did yo
u get?"
"Duck," Andy said.
Watching between shirts, Duncan spotted the man in charge of his interrogation. He spoke with locals on the street who pointed inside the store. Duncan grabbed Andy's arm and pushed his way to the back.
Peruvians sat at rows of manual sewing machines. Two supervisors carrying clipboards yelled and shook their fingers at them. One at the end of the rows reached beneath a desk.
"Here," Andy yelled and yanked Duncan out a screen door.
Duncan looked down the street to the left, then the right. He spotted Samuel's car and stepped into the middle of the street. At the sight of them, the driver jerked to a stop. Duncan and Andy jumped in and ducked low as Duncan said, "Go, go, go."
Samuel pulled out into traffic. "Good morning, men. I'd rather not know."
That was good since Duncan would rather not tell him.
"Look," Andy whispered from behind the front seats. Duncan watched as Andy scrolled through his cell phone. The notes feature of his phone contained lists of names, dates and locations. He forgot all about the fact that he was crouched down in the back of Jess Larsen's car in the middle of Lima, Peru, with a half-dozen Fu Haizi vehicles searching for him.
Several of the locations listed July 2nd next to them. Locations from Ontario to Vegas to L.A. to Daytona. "Are these what I think they are?"
"Yep," Andy said and peered over the back of the seat. Sitting up tall, he leaned close to Duncan and whispered, "I tapped into the electrical box while I waited for the village to go to sleep. Which it never did," he added as a second thought and shook his head. "When the scary dude showed up and made his way to the garage they had you in, I had to cut off my file copy program and save your ass."
Duncan continued his scrolling. There were numbers, estimates and names. Leaders of the sub groups?
"Wait," Duncan said and took the phone altogether. He scrolled back and found a name he recognized. Goodrich. His name was next to July 2nd, Daytona Beach Resort and Casino Poker Tournament. Duncan guessed Fu Haizi would need to find a replacement since the crooked FBI agent lay in a morgue with a bullet in the back.
