by Dan Alatorre
She closed her eyes and clenched her teeth, throwing her hand back again. She smacked the wall a second time. Pain shot up her fingers, making them throb.
His sweat dripped onto her cheek. “That’s a good lass. I like a bit of a fight, if you must know.”
Trinn’s eyesight turned red, then faded to black. Her forehead throbbed, her pulse drumming in her ears.
I’m dying. Do something. Anything.
He swung her side to side again, her feet brushing ground.
Lift! Use your body weight to knock him off balance!
She grabbed the wrist of her roped hand, putting all of her weight on it. Red blotches splattered across her closed eyes. Throwing her legs upward, she kicked out, arching her back.
The motion brought them both forward. Her feet touched the ground again. Holding tight to her wrist, Trinn heaved her legs up again. The rope dug into her fingers as she leaned back and kicked her legs and torso outward.
Her stomach jolted like she was falling. They both fell forward. She turned her head as the asphalt rushed toward her. Her body jolted with the impact as Nigel landed on top of her.
“No, you don’t.” He was back on his feet before she was, lifting her by the neck again.
Trinn shoved her feet into the ground, forcing herself into him and knocking them both over backward. They slammed into the wall.
She could barely see. Nigel grunted, heaving her to the side. Her head crashed into the wall. Rearing back, he rammed her head into it again.
She put her hand out to stop the impact. As he slammed her forward again, her hand went through glass. She forced her eyes open.
A window.
As Nigel swung her at the wall again, Trinn leaned toward the glass, hitting the window frame with her forehead. Pain surged through her temples.
When he jerked her back, she didn’t fight.
“Oh, yes?” he shouted. “Giving up, are we, love?”
He shoved her toward the glass. Trinn bent forward and lowered her head into it. The window shattered, sending a shower of glass over her head and neck. Heaving herself left and right, she dropped her weight into the broken glass, then shoved herself forward as hard as she could. The glass scraped across her collarbone, dragging her attacker’s hands into its sharp edges.
Nigel howled, loosening his grip on the rope.
Trinn forced herself sideways, driving her head into his teeth. She jerked backwards and rammed him again, spattering blood over his face, then launched herself into his nose.
The crunch filled her ears, and the rope loosened again. This time, her bound hand was able to pull some slack from her throat. She sucked air into her lungs.
Nigel pulled the rope, dragging her along the side of the building. She grabbed her bound wrist and lunged forward, then side to side, left and right, front and back—anything to keep him from regaining his leverage.
“No, lassie. That’s not how this ends.” He jerked her off her feet. “You die. I walk away.”
Trinn grabbed her wrist one last time, summoning the last bits of her waning strength. She dropped her weight onto her wrist. Nigel leaned back, counterbalancing and taking her off her feet. As she lifted, she brought her knees to her chest and then thrust her legs over her head, landing her knees alongside her attacker’s ears. Upside down, she wrapped her ankles tight and jerked her thighs to the side as hard as she could.
Nigel’s breath caught in his throat. The rope loosened. He put his hands on her hips, pushing her away.
Trinn clenched her legs harder, slamming them to the side again and again. Nigel dropped the rope, clutching her legs as they went over backwards.
She slammed into the ground but maintained her grip on his head, forcing her weight back and forth.
Nigel screamed, clawing at her. With a final push, she twisted and jerked, a massive crunch emanating from the attacker’s neck.
His hands fell to the ground. A slow hiss escaped his lips, his jaw hanging open.
Trinn pulled the rope from her neck, gasping for air. The cord was covered in blood.
Gasping, she rolled away and got to her knees. Nigel stared out into the night, unblinking and unmoving, his head at an odd angle from his body.
Trinn sagged into the wall and massaged her throat. “That’s . . . how this ends,” she rasped. “You die . . . and I walk away.”
Putting her hand on the wall, she forced herself to her feet and staggered down the alley.
Beams of light illuminated the wall and everything around her.
“You, there! Hold it!”
Flashlights shined into her eyes. Racing footsteps came closer.
Trinn broke into a run.
Half a dozen people in blue uniforms swarmed around her. They pushed her to the wall and put handcuffs on her wrists. Trinn gazed at the uniform of a Bahamian Defense Force soldier.
“You’re coming with us,” he said.
An ensign placed two fingers on Nigel’s throat. “Not this one.” He shook his head. “He’s dead.”
“You!” The soldier jerked Trinn’s arm. “What’s your name?”
She turned her face away.
“Never mind that.” An officer stepped forward. He pushed Trinn’s matted hair from her forehead, his gaze moving over her blood-streaked face and neck. He faced his soldiers. “Take her to the infirmary.” As his men picked Trinn up, the officer turned and peered toward the water. “We’ve got a boat coming in any minute now, with a prisoner on board. We don’t need any kind of distraction.”
Chapter 22
On the second ring, Magistrate McCullough pried open one eye and glared at his phone. Next to him in the bed, his wife groaned, rolling over and pulling a pillow over her head. The Magistrate sighed, picking the phone up from the nightstand and holding it to his ear. “This had better be good,” he mumbled. “Do you know how late it is?”
Armen Twa chuckled. “Oh, I think you will like what I have to say, your Honor. I have just had a most interesting phone call. From a Mr. Hollings—I believe you know him.”
“The fat old sot.” McCullough snorted. “What does he want?”
“He wished to inquire about certain . . . packages.”
“Oh?” The Magistrate yawned, closing his eyes and snuggling into his pillows again. “We move a lot of merchandise around here. What packages would these be?”
“A small, medium and large one, shall we say. Two that you sent to be . . . disposed of, and one that is in my possession.”
“Well, too bad for your friend. I’m sure both of those packages are well gone.”
“Mr. Hollings is no friend of mine, Charles, but allow me to shed some light on the situation regarding the packages. The one from Florida is being returned to you as we speak, and the one from New York is in custody of your man at the base. So it seems a deal may be in order.”
Magistrate McCullough groaned, rolling onto his back and putting his forearm over his eyes. “We’ve been through that. Your people want the small package, exclusively. So unless your friend Mr. Hollings is willing to part with several billion dollars in cash, I don’t see—”
“That is exactly what he proposed. In fact, he asked me to name my price.”
Charles snorted again. “He’s not the negotiator his master was, is he? What did you tell him?”
“Five billion. American.”
“Did you?” The magistrate shook his head, smiling. “I bet that had the git hopping mad.”
“I thought it would as well. But as it stands, he agreed.”
“He what!” McCullough bolted upright in his bed, his heart racing. “Did you just say Hollings agreed to pay five billion American dollars?”
“Yes,” Armen said. “He is actually on his way to you now, to perform the transaction for the two larger packages as soon as possible. Can you arrange that?”
“Arrange?” The magistrate threw the sheets back, bounding out of bed. “I bloody well don’t even know where they are!” He raced to the bathroom, fl
ipping the light switch and turning on the cold water faucet. His bloodshot eyes stared back at him, his jaw hanging open.
Five billion dollars! And I’ve ordered them both to be killed!
I need to get to the base and stop that order.
Breathing hard, he glanced around the room, looking for his clothes.
“Charles, I can hear you panicking. Please, calm down. As I stated, one of the packages is on the way to you.” Armen Twa’s tone was calm and measured, as always. “It is scheduled to arrive at the dock momentarily, if it is not there already. The other package, I believe, is at the base infirmary.”
When the sink filled with cold water, McCullough took a deep breath and plunged his face in. The chill sent shivers down his spine, but he was awake. He lifted his head and grabbed a towel from the rack, drying himself as he rushed back to the bedroom. “How—how do you know all this?” McCullough asked.
“You are not the only one with Defense Force people on your payroll, Charles.”
The Magistrate threw open his dresser drawer and dug for some pants. “The New York package. She’s in the infirmary?”
“Yes. It seems she had a run in with your man Nigel. As a result, he will no longer be reporting for work.”
“Ah, the ruddy witch. Nigel was a good man.” Charles sat on the bed, holding the phone to his head with his shoulder and sliding a leg into his trousers. He leaned over and lifted the window shade, peeking out toward the base. Several sailors were tying a Defense Force boat to the dock. The rest of what he could see appeared to be quiet.
“We all get tempted to go past our prime, dear fellow. Last night, Nigel did. This morning, see that you do not.” Twa’s phone line crackled with static. “It is my understanding the packages are in rough shape. If it is not too much trouble, you may wish to have them cleaned up. I expect this to be a somewhat emotional transaction. Presentation will matter.”
Charles zipped his fly and grabbed his shoes, heading for the door. “And then what?”
“You will wire the cash to me,” Twa said. “Then, give your guests the location of the third package and send them to finalize the last part of the deal.”
The Magistrate stopped walking, his heart in his throat.
If DeShear were to somehow survive, he’d be a rich man who might come looking for revenge.
I’ll need a plan for that.
But right now, I’d better see this deal gets arranged the way Armen Twa and his partners want it.
“You . . .” McCullough rubbed his chin. “You aren’t seriously considering giving Const—uh, the little girl to Hollings, are you?”
“I am seriously considering the fact that if Mr. Hollings will offer five billion American dollars for this trio of misfits and freaks, they must be worth ten. When he arrives, I will kill him and his people before they can leave the airport. We will sort out everything else after that.”
In the middle of his dark living room, Charles chewed his lip. “He’ll be expecting that, Armen.”
“Of course he will,” Twa said. “That is why he has demanded to have an insurance policy—so he feels safe. And I have agreed.”
“Oh?” Grabbing his car keys and suit coat, Magistrate McCullough opened his front door and sprinted toward his old, rusty Mercedes. “And what insurance policy would that be?”
“You, your Honor.”
Chapter 23
Kitt knocked on the door, pulling her jacket collar up. She glanced up and down the hallway, heart pulse throbbing.
Every minute on the trains, every transfer that seemed to take an eternity, she’d been paranoid.
She didn’t even know who might be after her, but she believed Helena and she’d seen enough to know someone was after her.
And if Gretchen let Kitt inside her apartment, Kitt had the hardest decision yet.
“Jaden Trinn is an agent for the United States government. You must contact her boss.”
Standing in the second-floor hallway of her college friend’s apartment building, Kitt groaned.
She’ll never believe my story.
I certainly wouldn’t.
What should someone make of such a story? Two calls to a generic U.S. government information site—one from the train station and one at a transfer depot— had yielded nothing.
What exactly was I supposed to do with such vague information?
But Berlin would be a safe harbor for a day or two, and that’s what mattered now, while she deliberated on Helena’s cryptic message.
She knocked on the door again.
Please be home, Gretchen. Please, please, please . . .
Kitt shivered in the hallway, brushing melted snowflakes from her shoulders. Berlin in February was as cold as Paris, maybe colder. Dark before dinner and often overcast all day, the city had a bleak feel outside. Inside, she knew, German hearts kept a warm house.
New York had been that way. She loved New York winters as a child, but hated them as an adult. Ten inches of new snow was a day off for schoolkids to play with friends. For adults, it was slow traffic and car wrecks on icy streets—if the car started in the first place. Walks to campus became long, cold and miserable, especially the walk home in the dark.
Kitt leaned to the door, listening. It seemed as if a TV was on inside. Some sort of sports match, but she didn’t understand enough German to know for sure.
She knocked again.
If Gretchen isn’t here, I’m not sure what I’ll do.
The door opened, revealing a tall, handsome blond man with messy hair. “Ja?”
Warm air radiated outward from the tiny residence. Clasping her hands in front of herself, Kitt tried to remember her basic German. “Hallo. Ist Gretchen da? Ich bin ein Freund aus der Schule.”
That more or less sounded correct. Is Gretchen here? I’m a friend from school.
Understanding the answer would be a different story. She could read a little German, but listening to and understanding other languages always gave her trouble. Everyone spoke too fast.
She could have asked for Gretchen in English—most Germans under the age of forty spoke English fluently—but trying to speak in the man’s mother tongue was a way of appearing . . . sympathetic.
The blond man wiped his hand on his thick sweater, turning and calling over his shoulder. “Gretchen, einer Ihrer Freunde ist hier.”
Kitt didn’t catch any of that—except “Gretchen.”
So, Gretchen must be here.
Her friend’s voice came from a back room. “Ich komme gleich raus.”
The man nodded, opening the door wider. “Sie kommt gleich raus. Möchten Sie sich setzen?” He gestured to the couch.
Kitt entered the apartment. “Oui, merci—I mean, danke schoen.”
“Ich bitte Sie,” he said, scratching his side and walking to the back room. There, a few words were exchanged with Gretchen—and not pleasant-sounding ones.
Kitt sat, listening to their exchange. The man was upset about something; the woman wasn’t having any of it.
I’ve come at a bad time.
This was such a stupid plan! Why did I think showing up unannounced was a good idea? Gretchen and I haven’t spoken in weeks.
What do I do if they kick me out? I have about ten euros left and no place to stay, no means of getting anywhere . . .
“Kitt!” Gretchen burst into the room, a beautiful, buxom ray of sunshine. Her smile melted the layer of frost Berlin’s chilly weather had etched onto Kitt’s exterior. She ran across the room, throwing her arms around her friend. “How are you? Are you in town for a seminar or something?”
Gretchen’s words were thick with her accent, grown thicker since leaving school and returning home.
“I’m here because . . .” Kitt sat with her mouth hanging open. She’d rehearsed it on the train, but now it seemed too absurd to explain out loud. She looked down, shrugging. “I’m here because I’m in trouble. I need a place to stay for a day or two.”
“Trouble! Oh, no. Of course you
can stay here. What has happened?”
The blond man came out of the back room, putting on a heavy coat and heading for the door. “Auf Wiedersehen. Ich rufe Sie am Ende meiner Schicht an.”
Gretchen patted Kitt’s arm. “Hold on just one moment.” Jumping up from the couch, she grabbed the man and turned him around, kissing him passionately.
Kitt looked away, shifting on her seat.
As the kiss ended, Gretchen ran her hand through the man’s hair. Her voice was soft and sultry as she gazed into his eyes. “Vergeben Sie mir?”
“Ja.” He blushed. “Ja, natürlich.”
She watched him go, then returned to the couch. “Now that my boyfriend has gone, you must tell me all your troubles. Are you hungry? Thirsty?”
“Oh, I’m starving,” Kitt said. “I haven’t eaten since—I don’t know when. Last night, I think.” She rubbed her eyes. “I don’t even know what day it is anymore.”
“Do you need to rest?” Gretchen massaged Kitt’s arm. “You look very tired.”
“Yes, but we need to talk first.” Kitt glanced around. “And we probably can’t talk here in case I was followed.”
“Then we must feed you. We can talk while we eat.” She stood, walking to a small table where a coat laid over the back of a chair. “There’s a small tavern on the corner called Der Beagle. It has good food, a big fireplace, and a very good-looking bartender.”
“But isn’t . . .” Kitt got to her feet, pointing to the door. “Didn’t you . . . who was that guy you were just—did I miss something?”
“That was Karl.” Gretchen put her coat on, digging in her purse until she pulled out her keys. “He is in law school for one more semester, and he tends bar at night. At Der Beagle.”
Shaking her head, Kitt went to her friend and put her hands on her shoulders, looking into her eyes. “Gretch, you need to listen very carefully to what I have to tell you before you say I can stay here.”
“You can stay here. Your problems are my problems.”
Kitt winced, looking at the door. “I appreciate that, but—”
“How bad can it be?”
Pursing her lips, Kitt dropped her hands to her sides. “I’m . . . fleeing from kidnappers and I need to call the United States government about one of their agents.”
