Forgive Me

by Daniel Palmer

  Introductions were made and various roles explained. Angie and Mike’s stakeout had proved useful, providing images of all four suspects.

  “We ran photographs of the suspects through the NCIC, our National Crime Information Computer,” Agent Curtis said. “Ramon Gutierrez, who goes by the alias Buggy, came up wanted on a federal drug offense. We’ve brought the marshals in on our operation as a courtesy.”

  Bryce Taggart made an awkward wave to the agents seated around the table. The Bureau was interested in sex trafficking, not drug offenders. The marshals had a fugitive interest in this operation and he said as much. “We have one dog to put back in the pound, you guys got at least three.” Bryce understood the concern that the marshals might get in the way. Nadine couldn’t care less about roles and responsibilities. She just wanted out.

  Angie’s phone rang. She answered immediately. “Nadine?”

  “It’s me.”

  “You’re on speakerphone,” Angie said. “I can take you off speaker if you want. There are a lot of people here who want to help you.”

  “No, no. Don’t leave me. Just get here soon.”

  “Can we get a room layout from you, Nadine?” Agent Curtis asked. She enunciatied her words as though suggesting each one mattered.

  “Who . . . who was that?” Nadine asked.

  Barbara Curtis rose from her seat, giving Angie a good look at the black suit and grey shirt she wore. She strode to the front of the room, put her hands on the table, and leaned her body over Angie’s phone as if it was an intercom. “Nadine, my name is Special Agent Barbara Curtis and I’m with the FBI’s—”

  Inwardly, Angie cringed. Nadine might not even understand what she was involved in, or what human trafficking meant.

  “I’m with the FBI,” Agent Curtis repeated. “I’m organizing the group that’s going to help get you out of there. We need some information if you can provide it.”

  “I can try. What do you need?”

  For the next several minutes Nadine did her best to describe the layout of various floors. Angie got a good visual of a maze of makeshift rooms in the basement constructed out of cheap particleboard. Her heart broke for Nadine. Getting her out safely was only half the battle. The road to recovery from her ordeal would be a long one, and might last a lifetime.

  Nadine was brave and composed on the phone, providing agents with the location of the entrances and exits, the details of the apartments above, and the location of the hole where Tasha would be found.

  “How many men are involved?” Agent Curtis asked.

  “Ivan is the head,” said Nadine. “Some people call him Stinger. He speaks Russian. A lot of the girls, not all, speak Russian. Then there’s Casper. He’s really big and kind of protects us, and another guy named Buggy.”

  Angie noticed the two marshals whispering to each other at the mention of Buggy’s name. One of the marshals had rugged good looks, dark hair, ice blue eyes and a jaw line that could slice bread. She remembered his name was Bryce Taggart, but heck if she could recall the other guy’s name.

  Mike had pointed Bryce out to her soon as he’d entered the room and said, “Whatever that guy’s flaw is, I bet it’s a doozy.”

  Angie had returned a warning look, but she couldn’t help but notice Bryce. If he were on Tinder, she would have certainly swiped right.

  Agent Curtis asked Nadine, “Are there any other people involved? Names, descriptions, anything you can give us?”

  “Well there’s Ricardo. He’s my . . . was my”—Nadine was having a hard time getting out the words—“he was my boyfriend.” Then she started to cry and everyone, including Angie looked dismayed at the depth of this perp’s cruelty.

  Agent Curtis held up a picture of a tall, thin, good-looking man. “We think this is Ricardo.”

  Nadine began breathing hard into the phone. “Look, I gotta go. Someone is coming.”

  There was a lot of noise and Angie strained to make out some words, but didn’t have much success.

  “Oh. Oh my God. I think they’re letting Tasha out,” Nadine said in a breathless whisper. “Look, I gotta go. Gotta go. I’ll call when I can. But please tell me you’re still coming. Please!”

  “We’re coming,” Angie said, sounding confident. She glanced around the table at representatives from the FBI, State Police, and U.S. Marshals. For a moment she forgot she was the lowest notch on the law enforcement totem pole.

  “Please, Angie. Please come.”

  The call ended and a heavy silence filled the room.

  “Look,” Agent Curtis said, “this isn’t going to be a shoot ’em up breach and clear. I don’t want any of those girls leaving in body bags.”

  Amen, Angie thought.

  CHAPTER 35

  Exhibit D: Excerpts from the journal of Nadine Jessup, pages 58-60

  I knew they were coming to get us. I just had to wait it out. But first Tasha. She climbed out of the hole looking like a coal miner. Her arms and face were caked with dust and dirt like she was an oversized earthworm or something. I felt so so sorry for her. And I mean not just about the vacant look in her eyes, but everything. How she went down there for me. How she suffered because of me. Went into the hole to protect me. When she climbed out, she looked really confused, like she didn’t know who any of us were anymore. Ricardo took her upstairs. I had to stay downstairs with the other girls. There was more work to do. Work as in $46, you know? We usually get upstairs around three in morning, or when the guys stop showing up, whichever comes first.

  When I got back to the apartment, I found Tasha sitting on the edge of her bed. She had showered. Her hair was all tangled. She had a towel wrapped around her, but her skin was dry. I wondered how long she’d been sitting there like that. Looking at nothing. Doing nothing. Barely moving. I sat down next to her and told her about Angie and the phone call with FBI people and how they were coming to rescue us. Tasha didn’t even react. It made me nervous so I just kept talking, saying all these stupid things about what I would do once I got home. How I missed my own bed and my friends. How I was never going to have sex again, like I was going to become a nun or something. How I was going to do things differently. But it felt so empty to say those things because the words were meaningless to me. Basically, I was trying to make Tasha feel better, when really what I was doing was justifying what I had done by making that phone call. Deep down I’m honestly scared to leave. Like I don’t know what will happen to me. Will Ricardo come after me? Screwed up, right? But scared as I was about Ricardo, I was more so scared for Tasha. If she hadn’t gone into the hole I probably would have just stayed here. This is my normal now.

  Tasha had a spark once, but now it’s gone. She is gone. Extinguished like a flame. Blown out like a wish on a birthday candle that will never come true. Why us? That’s what I want to know. Why were we chosen to live a life so absent of joy? What did we do to deserve this?

  Now that Tasha’s here—well, here but not here, not really here, now that she’s out of the hole, now I’m questioning what I’ve done. Before, it seemed urgent we get out of here. Now that they’re coming it all just seems so unreal.

  I have no home. Let’s be honest about it, my mom and dad won’t want me. Not after what I’ve done, what I’ve become. I’m like Tasha after she got out of the hole. Vacant and gone. And they’re still coming. The FBI will be here any minute now. Tasha is asleep. I can hear her breathing in the room next to mine. Angie tells me everything is going to be fine, but I don’t believe her. I told her I was scared about fitting in back home, and worried how people would judge me. People like Tasha wouldn’t judge me. People who knew from experience. My poor sweet friend still hasn’t said a word. Not a single word. I got a comb from the bathroom and I brushed Tasha’s long hair for thirty minutes straight. Tasha has such amazing hair. I wish my hair was like hers, but it’s not even close. The only thing similar about us is that we’re both completely screwed up.

  I can see the first bit of sunrise out Tasha’s window. I
haven’t slept a wink. Tasha is asleep, though. My stomach is knotted. I feel so empty, utterly lost. I’m terrified of staying here and just as scared to leave. I thought about jumping up and down when the police show up. Pretending I have a gun or something. Imagining that they’ll shoot me and this will all be over. All the pain, my dark emptiness.

  I just got a text message from Angie.

  They’re coming.

  Ricardo is going to blame me. I know he is.

  I’m sorry, Angie.

  I’m so so sorry.

  But I’ve got to undo what I’ve done.

  CHAPTER 36

  The tactical attack truck carrying Bryce Taggart bounded down rutted streets in a part of Baltimore he knew well. Plenty of fugitives wanted by the federal court system hid out in this part of the city, and it was Bryce’s job to track them down. The high profile cases—the ones Wolf Blitzer would cover incessantly—merited the Marshals Special Operations Group. But nabbing pedestrian d-bags like Ramon Gutierrez, aka Buggy, was the purview of local task forces led by guys like Bryce.

  Through a rectangular window made of bulletproof glass, Bryce took in the glorious sunrise that speckled an otherwise bleak cityscape with bands of color. Early in the morning and he was dressed like Baltimore was Fallujah. He was not alone. Nine other guys were in the back of the BearCat, dressed similarly, but only three had body armor and tactical helmets marked with the U.S. Marshals stencil. For weaponry, Bryce had his M-4 long gun and Glock pistol snapped securely in its holster.

  Based on Nadine’s information, they’d decided to hit the building at six in the morning. Tasha was out of immediate danger and Special Agent Curtis wanted to go in with a bit of daylight. At that hour, most everyone in the house would still be sleeping and the fewest civilians would be exposed to risk. Bryce agreed with the decision.

  The multistory structure made entry a bit tricky, but again thanks to Nadine, Bryce knew where to look for Buggy. Ricardo and Casper shared an apartment on the first floor. When Buggy stayed over, which happened frequently, he preferred to crash in one of the makeshift rooms in the basement. Evidently Casper snored.

  The plan was to breach the front entrance with overwhelming force, with local police assigned to watch the front and rear alley. If anyone tried to escape out back, they’d enjoy a short sprint at most before the manacles came on.

  Two mobile command posts had been set up, one for the Marshals and one for the FBI. The law enforcement organizations could pretend to swim in the same pool, but it didn’t mean each wouldn’t try to piss in the other’s lane.

  Glancing down the row of guys from the FBI dressed in tactical gear, Bryce smirked as he made eye contact with an agent seated on the bench across from him. “I’m surprised you guys didn’t bring a second BearCat to this shindig. Heck, I expected the whole fleet.” The FBI’s penchant for excessive personnel deployment was good fodder for the Marshals.

  “Ha-ha,” the agent answered without smiling. “Very funny, Taggart.”

  Bryce tightened the straps on his Kevlar vest and winked. Bryce had two guys from the Marshals with him, as well as two local cops whose loyalty was to the USMS. But it was still one fewer than the FBI had brought, so ribbing was allowed.

  The agent Bryce had antagonized leaned forward in his seat. “Taggart, tell me. How does it feel to spend your career snatching low-hanging fruit like Buggy Gutierrez? I bet it gets pretty boring. If you ever grow a bigger pair, give us a call. I’m sure we can find an opening for you somewhere.” The special agent grabbed his crotch.

  Bryce gave it some thought, but not for long. “Aren’t you guys the Blue Team?”

  “Yeah, Red Team is taking down Markovich in DC.”

  “Blue team, now that’s appropriate,” Bryce said.

  The agent squinted. “Why’s that?”

  “Because you got big blue balls, of course.” Bryce followed another wink with a rakish grin, then checked the time on his Casio watch. By now the Red Team had probably stormed into Ivan “Stinger” Markovich’s stylish DC residence, cuffed him, and read him his rights. His arrest was scheduled to go down around the same time as this one.

  Red Team’s raid would be a bit blind because they didn’t have an inside source like Nadine feeding them information. She was a brave girl and proving to be a critical mission asset, which meant Angie and Mike were useful, too. Those two were parked safely inside the FBI’s mobile command post, tasked with getting intel from Nadine to send back to the tactical teams.

  Bryce thought about checking in with Angie just because he wanted to hear her voice again. She intrigued him. She seemed smart, ambitious, and supremely capable, and he couldn’t help but notice her good looks and absence of a wedding ring. But his curiosity would have to wait until the after-bust party, which hopefully would take place at McSorley’s in eight or so hours.

  The truck came to a hard stop.

  “Let’s try to keep all our bullets in their respective guns,” Bryce said.

  The crotch-grabbing FBI agent said, “We’ll go in first. You Marshal boys can follow.”

  Bryce picked up a scaled-down pump action Remington shotgun he called Little Pig, as in the nursery rhyme “Little pig, little pig, let me come in.” He grinned. “You may have the bigger pair, but I got the gun.” He pushed opened the rear doors.

  A rush of warm wind swept into the back of the truck. First out was Bryce. He jumped to the street and headed to the target building, followed closely by a processional of armed guys all dressed in black, wearing ear protection of some sort. Not that there was any noise to block out—not yet, anyway. Everyone kept silent as they got into position at the front door.

  Bryce set the barrel of Little Pig against the door lock. His pulse hammered as his blood heated up. Anyone who said they didn’t get nervous before a job like this, who didn’t feel a tickle of fear, was either a psychopath or a liar, and not welcome on Bryce’s team. The jump in his heart was something he had come to accept. He used it as a reminder to put his training into practice.

  Bryce glanced behind him. Eleven to take down three, plus round up all the girls. Should be more than enough. Everyone looked ready to strike, so he pulled the trigger on Little Pig.

  The bang echoed off into the distance as the lock shot inward at high velocity. Bryce holstered Little Pig, and used the steel toe of his boot to kick the door open. He rushed inside with his M-4 ready to spit fire. He covered the corner to his right and the nearby vicinity. His back was exposed to threats down the hallway, but he wasn’t concerned. Frank Dansby, the barrel-chested marshal who came in behind him, was responsible for that sector. Trust was everything.

  Bryce moved only as fast he could accurately shoot. The stack stayed tight as his team of three headed for the basement door at the rear of the hallway. There were plenty of wrong ways to clear a building, and only one way to do it right. The right way usually kept people alive. As the lead man, it was Bryce’s job to provide security to the front. The number two and three men covered Bryce’s left and right sides respectively. A single doorway stood at the end of the hall, just as Nadine had described.

  The adrenaline rush Bryce felt couldn’t fully compensate for his reduced dexterity. It seemed counterintuitive, but increased blood pressure and heart rate meant less blood flow to his extremities. His visual tracking deteriorated as his peripheral field narrowed, but he wasn’t alarmed. He noticed the changes to his body, had come to expect them. The best way to control fear was to have confidence in his ability. For that reason, he trained until his response to a threat situation became a reflex.

  At the door to the basement, Bryce paused. Little Pig might have awoken Buggy.

  Behind him, Bryce heard the sound of a mission in progress. The first floor apartment was being cleared. Banging on doors, lots of shouting, lots of screaming.

  “Open up! Open up!”

  Another bang.

  The agents spoke in a clipped manner—“mission-ese,” Bryce called it.

 
; “In!”

  “Clear! Clear!”

  “All secure!”

  “On the ground, now!”

  They’d found someone. The roundup was underway.

  Bryce opened the basement door slowly. He kept to the strong side of the door. His numbers two and three were there to shoot anyone who might be behind it. Nobody was there. Light from a source below leaked up to illuminate a set of concrete stairs descending to a concrete landing. Stairwells were always a tactical disadvantage. Stairwells of concrete came with the added complexity of ricochet problems.

  Bryce didn’t have any blindside reconnaissance devices, such as thermal imagery or infrared viewers. If Buggy were waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs, it would be a situation of who shot first and best. In that event, Bryce liked his chances. At the gun range, few were better.

  On the way down, he kept close to the right wall. Clearing from top to bottom played in his favor. He had smoke and flash grenades with him, but what went down also came up, and such diversions were best avoided. When he reached the landing, he took up position toward the center of the stairs and slightly forward. Buggy wasn’t waiting for them at the bottom either, but that didn’t mean he was still asleep.

  The two follow-on team members quickly took up positions for rear security and cover. Bryce bounded down the stairs and stepped into a narrow hallway composed of particleboard.

  The Baltimore fire marshals would have a field day with this place, he thought.

  Overhead fluorescents lit the dank space and a pervasive moldy smell filled the air. A few of the ceiling mounted lights blinked to create a strobe effect down the hall.