Mallory's Hunt

by Jory Strong

  He paused at the puzzle on the table. He scanned the collection of games. He stopped in front of the family portrait.

  This was the life she wanted. Family. Kids.

  It was what he wanted, what had brought him back to the States and what was pushing him to give up the adrenaline-charged life that came with being undercover.

  He pictured his parents and Grace. They'd be heading to the dog show in a little while and he wouldn't be there with them.

  Next time.

  Always next time.

  This'll be wrapped up soon.

  Ache speared through his chest at imagining Mallory in cuffs, behind bars.

  She hasn't gone too far yet.

  Liar.

  His chest constricted, his heart banged his ribs as if jailed.

  She hadn't killed last night, but she'd be charged with murder all the same.

  The prosecutor wouldn't need to put a deal on the table for the first person who talked, not with him as a witness. Not that any of them would take the offer.

  He rubbed his chest, trying to massage the ache away.

  The men who'd died last night deserved death. He wasn't sure he'd have done anything differently if he'd been the one to peek around the corner instead of Mikhail.

  He could leave the assault and rescue out of his report. Mikhail's was the only face the girl or the women had seen and he doubted they'd go to the authorities and betray the man who'd helped them escape hell.

  Not that there would be bodies to find.

  A shudder swept through Caleb.

  He allowed himself to remember Mikhail crouched in the alley next to the dead Russian, to remember the chant-like cadence of the junkie's words and the flash of red in Dane's eyes, and later, the unnatural ash left behind.

  That's what he'd find if he went to the warehouse. Ash. He knew it by the sudden waking of his hindbrain that always urged the same thing: Run!

  He tried to shake it off. Couldn't.

  If they were capable of making a body completely disappear, why leave one where it dropped? Why leave one with a bullet that could be linked to other murders? Why bother taking someone into the desert or woods and hunting them down?

  Initiation rite? Bonding ritual?

  The signal went dead.

  She'd entered the Brass Ring.

  You can't stick with me today didn't mean he couldn't swing by with an offering of food.

  They were closing in on their target. That was the real reason he was here and Mallory was gone. Hayden had to be close to cracking the ledger's code.

  Talk to me, Mallory.

  Look up Hellhounds.

  The brand?

  My sire's. He pressed the iron to my arm himself before letting me return.

  Caleb shut down the tracker app. Opened the browser.

  A chill swept over him. He lowered the phone, rubbed it against his thigh.

  Did he really want to do this?

  He took a deep breath, gaze moving, taking in the games and puzzles, the portrait.

  Yeah. Yeah, I do.

  He searched on Hellhound.

  Read.

  Mind snagging.

  Denial surging even as the pieces of myth were burned into memory.

  Black fur.

  Glowing red eyes.

  Sometimes glowing amber eyes.

  Fire-based abilities.

  Duties connected to the afterlife, the supernatural. The hunting of lost souls.

  A shiver took him, remembering the encounter with the cobra. The impression captured in the shiny edging of a terrarium—hastily suppressed—of the woman's braids transformed into a hundred golden snakes, the triangular beads at their ends the heads of a hundred vipers.

  The strange conversation that had followed the woman's sudden appearance.

  You need nothing of hers.

  You'll take nothing of hers.

  Our dead are protected, as you have discovered.

  His thoughts spun to the wooden box surrounded by the things Mallory had gathered, like valued possessions around a coffin. Watch and zebra and horse, velvet-dressed doll and Raggedy Ann. The conversation as they'd returned to the Jeep after talking to Amy Edson.

  Are you going to tell me you're the psychic?

  Would you believe me if I said yes?

  Fuck, I don't know what I believe anymore.

  Well, you don't have to believe I'm a psychic. I'm not that.

  A subtle distinction. I'm not that.

  He read on, heart thundering in his ears at finding myth designated them The Bearers of Death, claimed they were created by ancient demons.

  We've got killing in our blood. He's nightmare and torment and damnation.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  Caleb shut the browser, scrambled for the rational. A fist clamped fast and hard and tight on his heart because the only one that made any sense was that she was playing him.

  Fuck.

  Had he been wrong about her? He rubbed his chest, glanced through the open bedroom door then down at the hand above his heart, suddenly seeing himself reaching out the night he met her, feeling the jump of her pulse and smooth, warm skin against his palm as he brushed his thumb beneath angry bruises and twin puncture marks.

  Last night, this morning, he'd been too caught up in her to think about the dog bite being completely healed or that now she bore scars like slash-marked tallies on the arm with the brand.

  Focus. Focus on the important.

  He launched the app.

  The signal was still dead.

  Without eyes on the Brass Ring, he couldn't be sure Mallory hadn't ditched the tracker, that they weren't already going after their prey. If he could figure out who their target was, he could make the call to Zack and have the guy brought in for questioning. But he couldn't work both angles at once.

  He pulled the driver's license he'd taken off Korotkin's body from a pocket. Looking at the address, he went with his gut, betting there'd be other leads there.

  * * * * *

  Linden tapped the steering wheel. He didn't like leaving the carcasses for later.

  It troubled him that in the last few days he'd had to leave one corpse after another for later, when always before, death and disposal had been meticulously planned and executed. He did so now because he wanted to scout Grace North's neighborhood earlier rather than later.

  He checked his watch. He'd gotten used to seeing black skin beneath it, a black face when his reflection was caught in windows and mirrors and the shiny silver of big rigs on the freeway.

  That would change, not completely, but after this acquisition, he'd alter the tone to brown so even a half-blind bigot couldn't mistake one black man for another. The car would have to go too, just to be on the safe side.

  He smoothed a hand over the console between driver and passenger seat. A cursory inspection of the contents and it'd look like any other—vehicle registration, proof of insurance along with assorted pens and accumulated junk. It'd pass a routine traffic stop, the odds of one increased by the color of his skin. Without concerted effort, the compartment containing the tranquilizer pistol wouldn't be discovered.

  Not that he actually believed he'd get lucky today. What were the odds?

  And yet, time after time, just when he needed a replacement, one had dropped into his lap.

  The cop's stepdaughter, who should have known better than to get in a stranger's car, delivered to him via her friend. Practically gift wrapped in exchange for drug money. They'd erred in believing there was safety in numbers.

  And after that one, the girl who'd actually managed to make him uneasy with her talk of demon lords and hellhounds, she'd practically forced her way into his car when he'd slowed for a better look.

  And that latest—before the Russian's Trojan horse—like the very first, the one the news media relished calling Jane Doe, she'd been standing on a corner, his for the taking.

  He turned onto the street where Grace lived, passed the ranch-style brick house
that she called home.

  A white Suburban sat in the driveway, dog jumps visible through rear windows. It made him smile, thinking of the mountains of stuff purchased for Zeus, the steady outflow of cash to cover trips to the groomers and acting classes, those coming after classes for puppy socialization and obedience.

  At the end of the block he turned to the right. Circling. Widening that circle. Guided by instinct, by luck, by fate.

  And there she was, on a skateboard, leash in hand, the terrier pulling her along.

  Perfect. So very perfect.

  His nerves jangled. They always did.

  He rolled down the windows on both sides, slowed to a crawl and removed the pistol from the hide. He didn't need to check the dart. It was chambered and ready, the tranquilizer fresh, mixed before he left the house because deep down he'd believed after the trauma of the last couple of days, luck would favor him today, that when he returned to deal with the carcasses, he'd be exchanging them for a new guest.

  Grace neared a corner.

  Grace.

  Already the name resonated for him.

  He sped up.

  Caught up.

  Fired.

  The dart struck her mid-back, shock and dosage and the force of it toppled her—thankfully onto soft lawn instead of hard curb and street.

  He was out of the car and lifting her in an instant.

  The terrier darted in, yapping and dancing away. Yapping and dancing away, very nearly plunging him into panic.

  Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!

  The dog was drawing too much attention. More than he'd counted on. And he couldn't afford to be bitten and leave DNA traces.

  He shoved Grace into the back seat and sped away. Heart pounding and breath heaving in and out. Nerves vibrating and stomach churning when the dog began chasing.

  A block.

  A second.

  He sped through an intersection.

  Heard the squeal of brakes and watched as a car swerved, barely missing the dog.

  Another block.

  The terrier slowed.

  Stopped.

  Turned and raced toward home.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 32

  Caleb studied Korotkin's house. The Russian had skimped on the security at the Brides' office and the warehouse, but not his home. There were conspicuous cameras, not top of the line, or the latest-and-greatest, but a high enough quality to make getting in a challenge.

  Not that he couldn't do it, but it'd take time when he couldn't afford the delay. And going in without taking that time would be risky.

  Had they wiped out all of the Russian's crew? Seven in the warehouse, not counting the photographer, plus the one in the alley, plus the one that had disappeared from the secure room.

  Jesus, thinking about the last two took him right back where he didn't want to go, where he didn't want to be—caught between believing what he'd always believed or what he'd seen and learned since walking into the Brass Ring that first time.

  Shut it down.

  Too late for that.

  He checked the cell.

  She was either still at the Brass Ring or she'd ditched the tracker and he was shit out of luck.

  He'd sit on the Russian's house for a little while. He'd made the drive upward into expensive-view territory. Might as well.

  Caleb settled in to wait. Tried to keep from circling back to the weird but the weird had been with him from the start. And Mallory—

  That'd been a lost battle from go. If he wasn't careful, he'd be pinging bullets off the asphalt saying, She loves me. She loves me not.

  He rubbed his chest. Caught himself doing it.

  What a fucking mess.

  Around and around his thoughts went, until getting on the freeway and dealing with idiots, the insane and the angry, started looking good in comparison.

  His hand went to the ignition key, stalled there when he caught sight of a small white car approaching in the rearview mirror. Give it another few.

  A gut call, but it paid off when the car got close enough to see the driver.

  He recognized the brunette immediately, from one of the files in the Brides' office.

  He waited until she'd pulled into Korotkin's driveway and the garage door was rolling up before getting out of the car.

  The instant she was inside the garage, the engine off, he sprinted toward it, sliding under before the door could close.

  She was still in the car.

  He stopped next to her window.

  Guilt cut through him at being the cause of her trembling, at adding to the hopelessness and dread in her eyes.

  He crouched rather than tower, noticed the maid's costume and tight clench of her hands in her lap. Slavery had a lot of forms, abroad and here at home, though the majority of Americans never wondered if the wait staff or hotel employees or the people producing the goods they bought lived free.

  "Don't be afraid. I'm not going to hurt you."

  She edged away. Looked away then back, eyes lowered, shoulders curved forward.

  "I can help you, if you'll let me. Korotkin is holding your passport? You came here thinking you would marry an American man?"

  "Who are you?"

  "Matthew. But it doesn't matter. Last night there was a raid on a warehouse Vadim Korotkin owned. Passports kept in the safe were recovered and the women he was holding freed."

  The brunette swayed, gaze lifting to meet his. "All of them? How many women? Was Ellena Gavikov among them?"

  "There were eleven women and a girl. I don't know any names. I didn't see all of the women or handle the passports, but I can get you somewhere safe and we'll figure out the rest from there."

  She hugged herself, rocked, as if she could barely believe freedom was possible and close.

  "What's your name?"

  "Bela. I am Bela."

  "Bela, before we go, I need to search this house. Is there anyone inside?"

  "No."

  "Do you expect anyone to show up?"

  "His men do not come here unless invited. His lawyer Vassily comes, but it is the same, he is invited. His mother will come tomorrow night for dinner."

  Hatred flared in her eyes along with renewed fear.

  "She works at the Brides From Russia office?"

  "Yes." Bela spat the word, hugged herself more tightly.

  "Will you let me into the house so I can search? Will you let me take you somewhere safe afterward?"

  "He will come back here?"

  "Korotkin is dead."

  He saw the jolt go through Bela.

  Her eyes remained steady on his. "He is dead? You are sure?"

  "Positive."

  Trembling, she unlocked the car and got out. She led him to the door into the house and disarmed the system.

  They stepped inside. Caleb said, "He had an office here?"

  "Yes. I will show you."

  The door was locked.

  "It is the only room in the house he locks," Bela said.

  "I can get in. Gather your things. Change clothes if you've got others so you won't be so noticeable."

  "I will hurry."

  The picks got him into Korotkin's office. There was a wall safe. There was a bank of screens tied to the security feeds—not just the cameras visible externally, but covering every room in the house.

  Caleb searched the desk, found nothing of interest except for Korotkin's personal cell. He'd get Bela somewhere safe then he'd contact Zack. He'd have to risk a handoff. He couldn't sit on the phone.

  Bela walked in, her meager possessions filling a grocery bag. She shuddered, paled at seeing the screens and he could only guess what she'd been forced to do, at the torment she'd experienced in this prison.

  He checked the security feeds. The recorded material started from the time Korotkin left the house the night before.

  Caleb erased all the footage then turned off the cameras, made a cursory pass through the house before escorting her to his car.

  He found
a decent motel, parked, caught the slide of resignation in Bela's eyes, the acceptance that she'd pay for his help on her back.

  "The people who raided the warehouse, they aren't the police. The one who took the other women somewhere safe and returned their passports will come for you. He'll tell you if he knows anything about Ellena. It may take an hour for him to come here, or a day even."

  He hesitated then touched the arm clutching the grocery sack. "Trust me just a little while longer. Don't run. Give me the chance to help you."

  She remained silent, rigid, but he preferred that to false assurances.

  He left the car, wondered as he rented a room if she'd bolt.

  She was there when he returned.

  He opened the passenger door, caught Bela's flinch, but said only, "The woman who works in the Brides' office with Korotkin's mother, does she know about the human trafficking?"

  "She is his mistress now but before that, she enjoyed making the porn movies. She knew some of the women in them had no choice."

  He opened the motel door, allowing Bela to precede him. Inside he found a writing pad and pen. He scribbled his cell number then pulled his wallet, emptying it of forty-seven dollars in cash and placing it on the pad along with the key card.

  "No one knows to look for you here. There shouldn't be any trouble, but call me if there is."

  The slightest nod gave him hope that she'd wait for Mikhail, that she'd be able to take the first steps away from this nightmare.

  He left.

  A block from the motel his heart stopped.

  Grace's face lit an electronic billboard.

  Amber alert!

  Missing child!

  Stranger abduction!

  He jerked the car to the right, out of traffic. Foot slamming the brake. Adrenaline flooded his system so he shook with it in a way he hadn't when he'd come under fire on that first tour of duty.

  His cell was in his hand, his parents' number a digit away from going through before he realized what he was about to do and wrestled down instinct, fought the dictates of his heart, walled himself off from emotion—or tried to.

  He couldn't call them, couldn't go to them, couldn't be there for them, not in person, not while he was still under.

  Next time…

  His throat tightened.

  He cleared the phone number from the cell.