Sound of a Furious Sky: FBI Agent Domini Walker Book 1

by HN Wake

  The memory slashed at her guts. She felt a tear drop. She should be embarrassed, with all these thousands of eyes staring at her, but it was a real tear for a real horror. It deserved to be. Funny what you learn when you face the unknown.

  “Miguel and Rodrigo wanted to fight. But the coyotes were quiet. Rodrigo moved to one of the coyotes. That’s when it started. Two of the coyotes grabbed him. Rodrigo was on the ground. We were screaming. A third coyote had a machete in his hand.”

  Memories blurred her vision. A thousand eyes stared at her.

  The kind lawyer stepped into her line of sight. “Maria, are you okay?”

  She nodded. “The coyote with the machete hacked at Rodrigo.”

  The young translator never wavered. He must have known the English word for hack because the thousand eyes blinked, and some of the women covered their mouths.

  “We were screaming. In a huddle. Rodrigo was screaming the death screams of an animal. I did not watch. I could not watch. I closed my eyes. Then Rodrigo was silent.”

  The gentle lawyer nodded.

  “Then they took Miguel. I heard him screaming too. Then he was quiet.”

  “What happened next, Maria?”

  “The coyotes scared the children away into the prairie. They told us women to lie down in the dust. The burning all around us. The sky lit up. They raped us.”

  The thousand spectators gasped.

  The lawyer raised his hand gently. “I’m sorry, Maria, but can you explain that to us?”

  “There were ten coyotes. Some held us down while others raped us. They took turns. I fought, but their hands were strong. They held us down.”

  “Okay. Thank you for that. And then what happened?”

  “They left.”

  “Did anyone come? Any medical people or police?”

  “No.”

  "Did anyone come the next morning?"

  "Yes, the next morning, some of the coyotes came back. They brought two foreigners."

  As if in unison, the thousand eyes blinked and the spectators leaned forward.

  The gentle lawyer took a step toward her. "Did you get a good look these foreigners?”

  “No.”

  The gentle lawyer nodded with a finality before giving her a sympathetic look. “One more thing, Maria. Can you explain why you have come all this way to tell this story?”

  The thousand eyes stared.

  She wiped her cheeks. The chair was stiff. “Because I know the difference between right and wrong. I may be poor. My people may be poor. But we know right from wrong. There was no justice for my village, for Miguel or Rodrigo, or for us women. The police did nothing to Phalanx. They coyotes have not been arrested. Not one of them. The foreigners—nothing has happened to them. They came and witnessed what had happened in Rapoosa, and still they walk free, making money. There was no justice. Even if I am a small person in the eyes of the world, even us small people can stand up for what is right. Who would I be if I didn’t teach my Ines right from wrong?”

  The gentle lawyer nodded. “How old are you, Maria?”

  “I am nineteen.”

  “And how old is your daughter Ines?”

  “My daughter is four years old.”

  Across the room, chests held breaths. Ines was a daughter of the night of the howling blood red sky.

  For the first time on this journey, Maria felt strong, righteous, and protective. She held the stares of the thousand eyes. Funny what you become when you face the unknown.

  57

  The brightly lit interview room in the NYC FBI building was tight and stuffy. The walls appeared to be tightening. Two attorneys from the Office of Professional Responsibility, a black man by the name of Aaron Mele and an older white guy named Landon Soble settled into seats across the scarred table.

  Soble opened his notebook, reached to the recorder, and turned it on. “This is the final interview on Office of Professional Responsibility investigation 4577. Attorneys Aaron Mele and Landon Soble to question Special Agent Domini Walker.” He turned to Dom and place his hands flat on the table. “Special Agent Walker, Operation Saint Christopher was a big success, right?”

  Dom’s pulse raced. “I’d say it was successful.” The obvious crack in her voice made her stomach lurch.

  “As you know, we’ve been reviewing the St. Chris files and talking to your fellow agents from that operation.”

  They think I’m guilty. She nodded.

  “In summary, it was a year-long operation in which your team identified a ring of child traffickers in ten cities across the US. You were able to identify thirty-four perpetrators who, combined, held over fifty children in various situations. These children were traded among the ring. They were sex slaves.”

  “Yes.”

  “Your team felt confident they had the locations of those thirty-four perps and you built an operational plan to secure the sites simultaneously at 02:00 on August 1 last year.”

  “Correct.”

  “It was a huge undertaking, this operational plan.”

  “It was.”

  “It required coordination across twenty-five field offices.”

  “Yes.”

  “By all accounts you led a tightly run, buttoned-up operation.”

  As a statement, it did not require her consent. She watched him.

  “Your teams were in place, fully briefed, on time. The order was given. All thirty-four teams broke down doors. We understand within thirty minutes of each other.”

  “We needed the element of surprise. We didn’t want any one safe house to put out a warning.”

  “You were concerned that if word of the raids made it out, some of the perps in other locations would kill the children they held?”

  “That’s correct.”

  Mele smiled sadly. “For the record, we commend you on your investigation and the subsequent rescue operation. You did, by all accounts, a really impressive job.”

  That was unexpected. “Thank you.”

  “But you know why we’re here today?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because of your own actions during the raid on the Cleveland safe house.”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you explain to us in your own words what happened in Cleveland?”

  Her heart clamored. For months, Fontaine had been telling her to lie. She took a sip of water and slowly set the glass on the table. “We were in the van outside the Cleveland location. There were only two of us, me and Agent Arturro. We were short an agent. We had to assign one of my guys to the situation room at the last minute, so there were only two of us outside the Cleveland location. At 02:00 we went in.”

  “Can you explain that for us?”

  “We had a battering ram. We knocked down the door. Agent Arturro and I moved in, guns drawn. We announced ourselves. Two men were inside the house. One took off out the back. Arturro pursued. One took off down the stairs into the basement. I followed the perp into the basement.”

  “Is this the perp named Winston Jackson, aka Jacker?”

  She nodded.

  “Explain what happened next.”

  She closed her eyes, remembering the basement. “Dark, strong smells. Plywood walls. In weird places. As if they had built a maze. No noise. Oddly silent. Like a bunker. I pursued Jacker. He was moving quickly around corners. I was running. I yelled freeze four times. Exactly four times. Jacker kept running around corners through the maze. He was at the end of a long hallway. There was one lightbulb. No other light. He hooked into the room just under the lightbulb. He disappeared into that door. I slowed, then I cornered into that room, Glock drawn.”

  “What did you see in the room?”

  “Another bare bulb. From the center ceiling. Under. A girl. A young black girl. Staring. Unmoving. On a bed. A filthy bed.” She breathed in through her nose.

  “Was the victim Darlin Montgomery?”

  “Yes. It was Darlin. She was naked. Skinny. Ankles tied to the bed. Rope. Dirty rope. As if it had been
there around her a long time.”

  “Did Darlin see you?”

  “No. She was staring. She was disassociated. My assumption in that moment was that she was disassociated. From what I could see.” She closed her eyes against the image.

  “Was Jacker there?”

  She kept her eyes closed. “Yes. He was to my left. Against the wall. I heard him breathing.”

  They waited.

  “I turned to him. His gun was drawn on me. Spotting at my head. I looked down the barrel.”

  “He was pointing the gun at you?”

  “Yes.” She cracked her neck. “I looked down the barrel.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I stared at him.”

  “You what?”

  “I stared him down.”

  “Did you say anything?”

  “No. I wanted to use his fear against himself. He got squirrelly, started shaking. He was afraid of me. He was afraid to shoot me. He took a step back into the wall. He was afraid. That step back, it was defensive. He must have had some sense, inside all that meth, inside all that rot.”

  “And then?”

  “His arm moved. He trained the gun on Darlin.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I trained my Glock at his head.” She opened her eyes. In the interview room, her voice took on a sterile, robotic tone. “I said, ‘This is how this is going to go down. You are going to drop your weapon. You are going to get down on the floor. This is going to go nice and easy. Because I know something you don’t know.’ Jacker jerked his eyes to me. Shaky. His gun was shaking. Probably meth. I said, ‘I am a very good shot. I will nail a single bullet through the middle of your right eye, through your brain stem mass, out the back of your skull, and into that wall behind you. Unless you drop that gun now, I will take that shot. Just like that.’ I snapped my fingers—”

  “You snapped your fingers?” Mele asked.

  “Yes. With my left hand.”

  “You took your left hand off your weapon?”

  “I’m a solid shot with either hand. I don’t need both.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He blinked. I knew I had him. I said, ‘Lie on the floor.’” She shrugged. “He did.”

  Mele asked, “So what happened next, Special Agent Walker?”

  “I kicked his gun under the bed. I leaned down to make sure Darlin Montgomery was okay.”

  “Jacker was on the floor behind you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?” Soble asked.

  She imagined Fontaine watching from behind the two-way glass of the interrogation room. He had advised her to lie about the next part of the story, to say everything went according to the rule book. It was her word against Jacker’s. They would believe an agent over a convicted pedophile.

  She thought about the last week. About how Hettie and Micah had gone to Honduras to find the truth, how Micah had been killed to protect that truth. Dom thought about Mila, how she had persisted in her research, how she had told the truth to the NYPD precinct about the Filthy Five because it was the ‘right thing to do.’ All of them telling the truth, letting the chips land as they may.

  She didn’t want to lie. “I felt his hand on my ankle. I looked down. He had a razor in his hand. He was going for my ankle.”

  “There was no razor found at the site,” Mele said.

  “I believed, I saw, that Jacker had a razor.”

  Soble asked, “So what did you do then?”

  It was as if the silence in the interrogation room emanated through the walls, through the neighboring witness room, and down the long florescent hallways of the Javitz building like a seismic shift daring these bureaucrats to understand the reality of the streets. Into this silence, Stewart Walker whispered, “You don’t have to lie, my Dom. You and your truth are enough.”

  Dom straightened her shoulders and pulled down on the navy FBI jacket. “I kicked him in the face. A solid connect. His nose crunched flat, his cheeks took a hit. I heard the bones snap.”

  Soble blinked.

  Mele leaned over the table. “You had him down. The perp was down. The gun was under the bed, out of reach. There was no razor at the scene. And you’re telling us, the Office of Professional Responsibility, that you kicked a civilian in the face? You crushed his face?”

  Dom leaned back and crossed her arms. Fidelity, bravery, and integrity. And truth. “Yes.”

  Soble closed his notebook and clicked off the recorder. “Okay, Special Agent Walker. That’s all we’ll need for today.”

  58

  Toronto, Ontario

  The courtroom was smaller than Hettie had expected and oddly outdated. Three of the four walls were wood paneled, the fourth was a checkered brick montage from the 1970s. The female judge, an imposing woman in her fifties with tight hair, a handsome countenance, and a black robe with a red sash, listened to the morning’s introductory remarks from Mr. Davidson, the lawyer for the plaintiffs. Five suited businessmen and lawyers crowded the defendants table. The crowded room was quiet.

  Mr. Davidson, a medium build man in a blue suit and a pink tie, spoke directly to the jury with gentle calming voice. “This morning we heard of the severe human rights abuses rained down by security personnel of Phalanx Limited on the villagers of Rapoosa, the plaintiff’s in this case, my clients. As we prepare to hear our second round of testimony, let me briefly revisit the facts as we know them. Five years ago, Rapoosa had the misfortune of being the planned site of a Phalanx nickel mine. The villagers spent months protesting the planned mine. They built roadblocks and went to Tegucigalpa to carry signs outside Phalanx offices. On March 25, the day before the ground was to be broken on the mine, Phalanx security arrived in the middle of the night and committed heinous crimes against the villagers. We have come to know that during this time period, Rittenhouse was in the processing of selling their equity in Phalanx to Orion Extractives. No police report was ever filed. Not a single person was punished. These are the facts.” Davidson’s posture was ramrod straight. “We contend that Orion Extractives must assume all liabilities of its subsidiaries. In particular, our suit alleges that Phalanx, Rittenhouse and Orion, one, failed to establish a code of conduct, two, failed to put in place rules of engagement, and three, had no policy to protect human rights.” Davidson hung his head, letting a pause hover in the courtroom. “It is our contention that above and beyond the failure to enact these basic codes of conduct, in fact, Rittenhouse and Orion were very much aware of the abuses that took place March 25th—despite their vociferous claims of innocence. We will prove that today.” Davidson looked to the judge. “Your Honor, I call our next witness, Miss Henrietta Honor Van Buren.”

  Hettie’s heart clanged in her chest. She rose slowly and made her way to the witness chair.

  Davidson used a gentle voice. “Please tell the court your name, Miss.”

  Her throat was tight and dry. “Henrietta Honor Van Buren.” The mic crackled.

  He nodded. “But you go by Hettie?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I call you Hettie?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you do, Hettie?”

  “I am an ornithologist at the American Museum of Natural History.”

  “You study birds.”

  “I do. My specialty is the Eskimo curlew.”

  “It sounds like a commendable career at a prestigious institution.”

  “It is.”

  “Thank you for your work on behalf of our planet, Hettie.”

  She nodded.

  “Recently, you’ve had a very traumatic experience.”

  She clasped her hands tightly as cold sweat crept up her neck. “Yes.”

  “According to the police report, you were held captive by your mother using a cocktail of immobilizing drugs. Is that right?”

  All eyes in the room were glued on her face.

  “Yes,” she said softly.

  “And you were rescued in a nighttime FBI raid four days
ago, is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you doing okay?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Do you know why your mother kidnapped you, Hettie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell the court?”

  She breathed deeply. “To prevent me from coming here. Today.”

  “And why is that?”

  “She believed my testimony would destroy my father’s firm.”

  Davidson let the moment lengthen. “What is the name of your father’s firm?”

  “Rittenhouse Equity.”

  “The same Rittenhouse Equity that held majority investments in Phalanx Limited that were sold to Orion Extractives?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hettie, can you tell us why you are here?”

  “To explain what we found.”

  “And who is we?”

  Talons pierced organs. “My boyfriend, Micah Zapata, and I.”

  “Where is Micah?”

  When she closed her eyes, Micah smiled at her. She threw her lids open. “He’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She swallowed.

  “So Hettie, can you tell us what you found?”

  “Four months ago, I learned about what had happened in Rapoosa. An environmental nonprofit in New York City, CAN, told me what happened. CAN told me that they believed my father’s firm was an investor during that period of time. They suspected my father knew about the crimes. They told me this trial was going to take place.”

  “And what did you think when you heard this from CAN?”

  “I found it hard to believe. I didn’t want to believe my father would be involved in something like that.”

  “Did you confront him?”

  “Yes. I told him what CAN had told me.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He denied it. Said it was all a big sham, that they were trying to muckrake ahead of this trial. We got in a fight.”

  “Is it normal for you and your father to fight?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Why is that?”

  “My father is a belligerent man. I do not fight him.”

  “Okay. I understand. After this fight, did you believe him?”