“Bathroom,” Shaw said again and walked to the second door, and stepped into a business office, which was empty and dark.
“The fuck,” the man said and followed him in.
“Bathroom.” Shaw kept with his preferred line of dialogue.
When the guard’s fist drove forward toward Shaw’s solar plexus, he easily sidestepped and dropped his center of gravity. He executed a fair wrestling takedown, his right arm going between the man’s legs and around to his spine. In college his coach had said, “Can’t be shy in this sport. You queasy about going for the jewels, take up fencing.”
Shaw leveraged up and, gripping the man’s collar with his left hand, he took him off the floor entirely and dropped him hard on the oak. Factories made very hard floors and his head banged with a sound you could hear over the music.
Still he needed to debilitate the man, so he dropped his fist into his gut. Hard but nothing broke.
He got out of the way in time to avoid the vomiting.
It was one hundred percent certain that Colter Shaw had just committed an unprovoked assault (the fear of an attack) and battery (an unwanted touching and, in this case, head banging and gut punching).
The question remained: Was it justifiable?
He believed it was.
Shaw was here because Mack McKenzie had finally traced the gray van into which Tessy Vasquez had possibly disappeared near Ghirardelli Square. Through several layers of offshore corporations, she’d learned that it was ultimately owned by a company controlled by Mladic, a San Francisco club owner. And suspected drug dealer and sex trafficker.
His base of operations was this club, the Steelworks.
If the man presently gasping for breath in front of him was not involved in crimes, Shaw would have some consequences to face. But he’d seen no option.
So he searched the man.
And discovered two things. One was a Glock 17 semiauto pistol, which he slipped into his waistband. The other was some information. His driver’s license indicated he was Gregor Mladic, presumably Dante’s son or nephew.
Make that three things.
In his rear pocket was a packet of zip ties.
Two of which Shaw used to bind his wrists and ankles.
Now, for the door on the right.
He opened it.
Colter Shaw drew his gun and started silently down the stairs descending into the old building’s massive, pungent basement, redolent of mold and heating oil.
52
The pounding feet on the dance floor above them had stopped. Everyone had evacuated. The roar of the flames was the only sound encircling them.
Shaw turned to the hole they broke open in the Sheetrock and said to Nita, “Up the stairs now, fast. There’ll be police.”
“But . . . what about you?”
He smiled to her. “Not yet.”
And turned back, jogging to the far end of the corridor.
It had been twenty minutes since Shaw had descended the stairs from the door on the right down to the cellar of the Steelworks club, and the blaze was growing by the minute—the blaze set by the men in the TV room, under what was surely Dante Mladic’s order to destroy incriminating evidence in the office.
The TV men were gone, Nita was gone.
But Colter Shaw knew that he was not alone down here.
Choking, his mouth covered with his untucked shirt, he made his way down the main corridor, toward the far end.
Shaw believed he heard sirens, though it was hard to say over the raging fire.
At the end of the main corridor he turned down the hallway to the right. He drew his flashlight and hurried forward. Now that the footsteps above were gone and he was around the corner from the flames, he could hear thuds and the muffled cries of “Help” and “Get me out! Please!”
Shaw couldn’t kick the door in—it opened outward—so as quickly as he could, he used the knife trick once more. In thirty seconds it was open.
He lifted his flashlight and played the beam over Tessy Vasquez. She gave a brief scream and huddled away. She was still wearing the outfit that she’d worn in the variety shop security video: the red blouse and gypsy skirt.
“Tessy, it’s all right. Your mother sent me.”
“Mother?”
“I’m going to get you out.”
His knife was still open and with it he cut the restraints around her ankle.
“This way. Come on.”
Heads down, coughing, both of them returned to the corridor.
“There are men, they have guns.”
“They’re gone.”
She staggered along behind him, her legs not used to activity during her imprisonment.
They came to the turn and stepped into the main corridor.
Where Shaw saw that the escape route no longer existed.
The fire now spread from wall to wall. The two of them faced a roiling sheet of flame, floor to ceiling, slowly moving their way.
Soon, they’d be unconscious from lack of oxygen.
Shaw glanced at Tessy, who was crying.
He pointed toward the storeroom that had been Nita’s cell. “Find some cloth or paper towels, soak them with the bottled water and cover your face. Get low.”
Ashton had taught the children that a wet cloth was good protection against smoke, but it was a myth that urine was a better liquid to dampen the cloth. That was only helpful, and marginally, in protecting against chlorine gas.
“We’re going to die!”
“Do what I told you. Now.”
She shuffled into the room, coughing hard.
Shaw got as close as he could to the flames, until he could hardly bear the searing heat. He drew from his waistband the Glock the guard upstairs had been carrying. It was a larger caliber, with a longer barrel, and the magazine contained more rounds.
He squinted into the fire and fired a shot.
A second, third.
Fourth, fifth, sixth.
It was on the seventh that the bullet found its target: the building’s boiler. A stunning explosion rocked the basement accompanied by the banshee cry of escaping steam.
Shaw dove for cover in Nita’s cell. They were some distance from the explosion, but still were hit with a blast of the moist heat that shot into the corridor and filled the rooms. Superheated steam, in a closed container, can reach extraordinarily high temperatures—900 degrees Fahrenheit. Had that been the case the steam could have melted the Sheetrock like newsprint and Shaw and Tessy might have been scalded to death. But he was ninety percent sure that a boiler this age was probably heated only to the standard 212.
Shaw rose and looked into the corridor. Some flames still flickered, but the path was clear.
“Let’s go,” he told Tessy and helped her to her feet. He went in lead, having replaced the guard’s gun with his own, in case the traffickers returned, which he doubted would happen. The police and firemen would be there soon if they weren’t already present.
Shaw glanced in the office and noted that not everything was destroyed. Crime Scene should probably find enough evidence to convict Mladic.
As they got to the stairs, they stopped. Footsteps were coming down. Shaw lifted his gun.
His tear-filled eyes peered through the smoke.
The heavy steps came closer.
Shaw got the gun into his pocket just before firemen arrived. The large men, fitted with their bulky equipment, plodded down the stairs.
One pulled his oxygen mask off. “Anyone else down here?”
“No. There’s still some fire in the office. First door on your right.”
Another fireman surveyed the scene. “What happened?”
“Boiler blew. Put out the flames.”
“Lucky you.”
As they started past, Shaw said, “Save the
files and computers. The district attorney’ll want to see them.”
Shaw felt a fireman’s head turn his way, then he and the young woman were climbing the stairs.
53
They sat on the couch of the Pacific Heights safe house.
Shaw and Tessy were alone. Russell was presently conducting surveillance at the Alvarez Street safe house, trying to spot and identify the blonde in the green Honda. He’d reported seeing nothing. Shaw texted his brother that he’d found and rescued the young woman.
The two had taken respective turns in the bathroom, scrubbing away sweat and soot, though the aroma of smoke was embedded in hair and clothing.
Tessy was sipping tea. Ashton was a big tea drinker, he recalled, and apparently so was his older son. The house had come with a supply of staples, including English breakfast and some herbals. Tessy had picked chamomile. Shaw didn’t believe he’d had a cup of tea in five or six years.
The young woman’s eyes were hollow as she explained what had happened. As Shaw and Russell had deduced, the men in the gray van had grabbed her.
“Was Roman involved?”
Her face screwed up with disgust. “Yes, he was behind it. He was so angry I told him I wasn’t going out with him unless he got sober. I didn’t want to be with him, but I thought maybe he’d stop using and become a better person. But he was just a psycho. He likes to hurt people.”
“He was involved in the human trafficking himself?”
“I’m sure he was. He and the owner, Dante, hung out together.”
There’d be records about Roman, probably, in the Steelworks. But to make sure the authorities learned of him, Shaw would also get his full name and particulars from Tessy and send them to his former FBI agent friend, Tom Pepper. He, in turn, would relay the information to SFPD and the Bureau field office here. That way Tessy would remain anonymous and wouldn’t have to worry about Immigration and Customs.
“I . . . thank you for what you did. It was terrible. So terrible. There were some men who came to look at me. Like they were buying cattle or hogs at market. I would have died first.”
He nodded. Colter Shaw had never been comfortable with gratitude. He didn’t discount his contribution, but in most rewards jobs, he was merely returning life to the status quo.
After a minute, Tessy asked, “You have a girlfriend?”
Do I? he wondered. He nodded. A good way to end whatever she was thinking of.
“Good. I’m happy for you.”
The doorbell rang. He went to the intercom, spoke with Maria Vasquez and buzzed her in.
She flung her arms around her daughter.
“Ay, all the smoke.”
“He saved me, Mama. These men kidnapped me.”
“It was that club? On TV?”
Shaw nodded. He asked, “Any casualties? I haven’t seen the news.”
“Some people were hurt. Nobody got killed. The police arrested people there, the owner. Human trafficking. Drugs.” She began to sob. Her daughter held her tightly.
When he’d called 911 he’d mentioned he’d seen somebody in an office in the back of the club. “He seemed to be tied up. I don’t know what that’s about.” He hoped Mladic’s son was one of those who’d been collared.
Shaw said, “I got her out of there fast. We didn’t talk to the police. They don’t know your name.”
He didn’t tell her that he was no more eager to get the police involved than they were.
“I don’t have the money with me now.”
Shaw said, “Keep it. You can pay me when times are better for you.”
“Bless you, bless you.” She hugged him hard. Tessy did as well.
After they left, Shaw took his typical hot-then-cold shower and, when he’d dressed again, he drank down a whole bottle of mineral water, then opened a beer.
He caught a whiff of smoke, arising from the pile of clothes he stripped off. Into the trash. No time for dry cleaning.
He lifted his Android off the table and loaded the browser. At the website he sought, he had to scroll through a dozen numbers until he found one he thought might be helpful. He dialed and, despite the late hour, someone answered, a pleasant woman. He gave the name of the person he wanted to speak to and then his own.
It took no more than ten seconds to be connected.
PART THREE
JUNE 26
THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING
Time until the family dies: eight hours.
54
The water was a chameleon.
Back on the Embarcadero, Colter Shaw was looking over the Bay. One thing he recalled from living here ages ago: the hue of the rocking waves would change from day to day. A riveting blue, rich as an empress’s sapphire. Then a matte gray. Sometimes tropical green.
Today, under yet another June gloom overcast, the Bay was dun, the color—he couldn’t help but think—of a newly turned grave in a cemetery rich with clay.
He kept his eye on the street, the traffic. Russell hadn’t seen the green Honda or its blond driver recently but Shaw decided that she was too persistent to have given up.
He also suspected she’d rented a new car, now that he’d made her. It’s what he would’ve done.
But that sedan wasn’t the only vehicle he was interested in. There was another one he kept looking for.
And it happened to pull up to the curb now near him.
You didn’t see many Rolls-Royces in the Bay Area. Of course, there was plenty of money to buy everything from Teslas to Ferraris to Bugattis, but the Rolls—and sibling Bentley—marque was not the sort that appealed to the Silicon Valley crowd, it seemed. Maybe the recent designs—you could mistake them for a Dodge at a distance—were not showy or distinctive enough. Maybe they signified old money, which Google, Facebook and YouTube decidedly were not.
Slinging his backpack over his shoulder, Shaw stood and walked to the ruddy-colored vehicle.
The driver, who’d exited the car, was the same man he and his brother had seen at the Tenderloin UIP meeting and the safe house. He was armed, a large 1911 Colt automatic on his hip.
Shaw walked around the car to the driver’s side. The man said, “Mr. Shaw. I’m wearing a recording device, which will be running throughout this meeting.” He spoke in unaccented American English.
“Are you now?”
“So the record will show that there’s been no coercion. I’m inviting you into the car. And you’re free to get in or not.”
This was curious, since Shaw himself had arranged the get-together. There perhaps was a history of people being “encouraged” to get into Devereux’s car when they were not wholly inclined to do so.
“Fair enough. And since we’re setting ground rules, I’ll tell you that I just texted my associate a photo of your car and its license tag. If I don’t text her again in thirty minutes, she’ll alert the police that there’s been a kidnapping.”
Shaw heard a high-pitched chuckle from inside. When the driver looked into the back, apparently getting the okay sign, he opened the door.
Sitting in the driver’s side backseat was a gorgeous blonde with teased-up and sprayed-down hair. She was beautiful, no doubt, but would have been more so had she lost the heavy makeup, which favored purples and blues. She was not the woman Shaw and Russell had seen accompanying Devereux in the safe house on Alvarez, though in line with the dress code her skirt was just as short and her blouse just as low.
Devereux slipped his hand into a pocket and extracted several hundred dollar bills. “Get yourself some coffee or a glass of wine. Have some lunch. There’s a good girl.” The condescension dripped.
“Girl.” She huffed but took the money. “Can’t I come with?”
“Cassie, please.”
“It’s Carrie.”
“I do beg forgiveness. I was distracted.” His eyes scanned her figure.
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Did men really get away with this crap? Shaw wondered.
She offered a forced smile to Shaw and climbed out, walking away on clattering heels.
He called after her, “If you get lunch, no garlic.”
Shaw bent down and looked at Jonathan Stuart Devereux. “Droon and Braxton? Anyone from BlackBridge?”
“They don’t even know I’m here, do they? I’m adhering to your requirements, Mr. Shaw. You’ve set the agenda.”
Shaw got into the seat Carrie had occupied. He was enveloped in the cloud of her perfume. He dropped his backpack on the spacious floor before him. He glanced around. Bird’s-eye maple, luxurious carpet, polished chrome. This really was a marvelous vehicle. There was a control on the door for what seemed to be a back massager.
The Rolls pulled away from the curb and moved silently and smoothly through the streets. It had to be one hell of a suspension system; some roads in the Embarcadero were cobblestoned.
Shaw had seen Devereux from a distance, in the Tenderloin and through Russell’s security camera at the safe house. Up close, observing the man clearly, Shaw decided he could be an ambassador. This suit was gray with darker gray stripes. Maybe he felt the vertical lines made him look thinner. Today’s explosive handkerchief was pale blue. Shaw caught a glimpse of a Ferragamo label inside his jacket. Did he keep it unbuttoned to show off the name? How much wealthier would he be if his corporation began holding office in the state? He suspected after a certain decimal place, you begin to focus on power, not gold.
“Mr. Shaw. I was, as you can imagine, surprised when I got your message.”
Before they got to business, though, Devereux’s phone hummed. He looked at the screen. “Yes?” Upon listening to a caller Shaw could not hear, Devereux grew motionless, his face stilled. “That will hardly work, now, will it?” His face was the epitome of calm but the voice was filled with ice. “Mais, non.” And launched into what Shaw assumed was perfect French. Shaw had known a number of people from the UK who were multilingual. It was only a fifty-dollar BudgetAir ticket from London to any number of exotic locales. Very different in faraway America.
The Final Twist Page 22
