by Susan Mann
“I love it when you talk library,” James said and stood. “There’s nothing here. Let’s go.”
Quinn went to the window and waited while James peeked through a crack in the door. “Clear,” he said. Quinn flung open the curtains and sprinted across room. They were out the door and sauntering down the hallway again in seconds flat. If anyone noticed them, James and Quinn Anderson appeared to be leisurely touring the house.
Outside and part of the party again, Quinn asked, “Now where to?”
“That bungalow,” he said with a dip of his head. He offered her his elbow. “Shall we?”
She hooked her hand into the crook of his arm and walked toward the smaller house to the east of the main one. A wall of heavy metal music blasting through the open front door greeted them. Quinn gritted her teeth and crossed the threshold.
At the center of the room was a pool table, around which Gibson and some of his dude-bro friends were clustered. The three women who had been at the restaurant with Gibson and Rhys now stood together at a bar and drank from red Solo cups. An unappetizing sludge of spilled alcohol and soggy tortilla chips coated the top of the counter. That explained the smell. Two guys spun the handles of their foosball players while the Ping-Pong and air hockey tables remained unused. With a baseball game playing on one huge TV and a basketball game on the other, it was like they’d entered Gibson’s private sports bar.
Pool cue in hand, Gibson leaned over the green felt table and lined up his shot. He sent the cue ball smashing into the nine ball with a sharp clack. It missed the pocket by a mile, which didn’t surprise Quinn, considering Gibson’s drunken haze. The ball bounced off the bumper, hit two others, and came to a rest next to a third.
“Looks like we’ve stumbled onto a frat party,” Quinn said into James’s ear.
He shook his head. “Not enough puke on the floor.”
Quinn stuck her tongue out between her teeth in disgust. “Gross.”
As they watched the game, Quinn felt the stares of most of the men in the room fall on her. While it made her slightly uncomfortable, she wasn’t about to cower. She’d already worked out in her mind how she’d use a pool cue like a kendo stick and lay out every last one of them if she needed to.
Gibson acknowledged Quinn and James’s presence by jutting his chin in a silent “S’up.”
James likewise responded.
“And thus the male greeting ritual is concluded,” Quinn said in a sonorous, documentarian tone.
His side-eyed stare drilled into her, attempting to appear aggrieved. The tiny smile quirking on his lips told her he was anything but. He relented and took her hand. “Come on,” he said, tugging her down the hall.
During their further exploration of the bungalow, they encountered a fully equipped fitness room and a small movie theater.
“What, no bowling alley?” Quinn asked as they left.
“Maybe the bowling pins are on back order.”
Outside again, Quinn rested her hands on her hips and glanced around. A small, glowing orange dot in the distance caught her eye. She watched for a moment and noted when a second identical light arced up, brightened for a few seconds, and then lowered to its original position. The burning tips of lit cigarettes. “Remember the satellite photos? You can’t see it very well, but there’s a cottage on the other side of this big lawn.” She indicated the general direction with the tip of her head.
James’s eyes cut that way. “Maybe it’s the servants’ quarters.”
“There are a couple of guys hanging out outside it. And all the lights are off.”
“Maybe it’s the valets having a smoke.”
“No. That’s them over there by the fountain,” she said, squinting at the darkness. “Is it worth checking out?”
“I think so. We need to check out everything while we have the chance.”
“Do we go up and start talking to them?”
“No.” James took out his phone and turned it on. It cast a blue glow on his face as he pulled up the satellite image of the property. “Since it appears to be off-limits, we need to be stealthier in our approach.” He swiped his thumb and finger across the screen and zoomed in on the cottage. “Here’s what we’re gonna do.”
Chapter Ten
James and Quinn stayed in the shadows as they skirted along the security fence on the western edge of the Honeycutt property. Her sundress of navy blue had been a prescient color choice. Too bad she didn’t have something to cover her blond hair, aglow in the moonlight.
They stopped fifteen yards from the cottage and hunkered down behind a hedge of shrubs.
Balancing on the balls of her feet, Quinn rose up only enough to peer over the top of the bush. Now that they were closer, she caught a better glimpse of the two men. Both were big. One was bald.
She sat back on her heels and whispered, “The slightly bigger guy was at The Grove the other night. I think he’s a bodyguard.” After a pause, she asked, “Why isn’t he at the party guarding Gibson?”
“Maybe he’s guarding something else.” James cocked his head. “Listen. They’re talking.”
The music from the party made it difficult to hear the voices. Quinn dropped her gaze and stared, unseeing, at the dirt beneath her sandals and worked to filter out the noise. Frustrated that she still couldn’t understand what they were saying, she squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated. When she finally heard their words, her head snapped up. Wide-eyed, she stared at James and whispered, “Russian.”
He nodded. Like a prairie dog, James popped up, looked around, and dropped down again. “There’s light coming through an open window we couldn’t see before.”
“We need to see what’s in there.”
“We do. And we need a diversion to do it.” He pointed toward the tennis court awash in fluorescent light. “I’ll go over there a little ways and make some noise, see if I can draw them away from the bungalow. I’m thinking belligerent drunk dude will do it. When they come after me, you go to the window and peek in.”
“Why not just tranq them?”
“It throws up a red flag that something nefarious is going on. I mean, I will if I have to. I hope leading them on a wild goose chase will do the trick instead.”
“And once I text you I’m clear, your diversion ends and they go back to their post none the wiser.”
“That’s the plan. You got your Glock?”
She slid the hem of her skirt up her thigh to reveal the pistol held snugly in a lacy black holster.
“Sweet Moses, that’s hot,” he whispered.
Smiling, she flipped the skirt back in place. She sobered and ran her fingertips through his thick hair. “You be careful.”
“I will. You too. If something goes sideways and you can’t talk your way out of it, run like hell and find a place to hide. I’ll find you,” he said and wiggled his phone.
“The exact same goes for you.” She leaned forward and kissed him, pouring into it the nerves and stress and emotions roiling in her gut. “I love you.”
An internal light gleamed in his eyes when he looked into hers. “I love you, too.” He squeezed her hand and gave her one more kiss. “See you soon.” Still in a crouch, he duck walked to the end of the hedge and stopped. He peered around the edge toward the cottage and then sprinted toward the closest palm tree.
From her secreted position, she watched James’s progress until he was swallowed by the darkness. Now all she could do was wait.
A bright yellow tennis ball arced through the air and bounced on the tennis court several times before coming to a rest against the net.
Both guards snapped to attention. Like bird dogs pointing at a quail, they stood stock-still and stared in the direction of the court.
Another ball sailed along the same trajectory as the first.
The bigger guy, the one Quinn had encountered at the restaurant, pointed toward the darkened area from where the ball had been launched. From his body language and tone of voice, Quinn deduced he’d ordered th
e other man to go investigate.
He dropped his cigarette to the ground, crushed it under his shoe, and trotted off in James’s direction.
Quinn muttered a curse through clenched teeth. With the bigger guard staying behind, she still couldn’t approach the house. Seconds passed. She rubbed her palms, now slick with perspiration, over her the fabric of her skirt. How would James force the bigger man to abandon his post?
A man’s voice barked, sharp and demanding. A second voice, which Quinn recognized as her husband’s, responded in a calm, conciliatory tone. That fired up the guard even more. James’s response was more forceful. The volume and level of anger increased for both until they were engaged in a roaring, verbal brawl.
Quinn stared at the man left behind, silently willing him to join his comrade. She pumped a fist in silent celebration when he stalked off toward the ruckus.
The second he was out of sight, Quinn leapt up and hurdled the hedge. On the lookout for any new threats, her eyes darted left and right as she ran full steam toward the cottage. Hands outstretched, she crashed into the exterior wall next to the window, spun around, and pressed her back against it. The rough stucco scratched the skin of her exposed back and shoulders. Despite the residual cigarette smoke infiltrating her lungs, she drew deep breaths in through her nose to slow her galloping pulse.
Now that she had collected herself, she turned her attention to the room on the other side of the wall. She edged her head as close to the open window as she could, straining to hear any sound. Her head cocked to one side when she heard the beeps and burbles of a video game.
Quinn peeked around the edge of the window.
Atop one of two twin beds, a brown-haired boy in his early teens lay on his stomach, propped on his elbows. Brow furrowed in concentration, his thumbs furiously punched the buttons on the front of an ancient Game Boy.
A blond girl, about the same age as the boy, sat on the other reading a tattered paperback. She glanced up and froze in shock when her ice-blue eyes locked with Quinn’s.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Quinn said. “I just want to talk. Can I come in and do that for a few minutes?”
The girl nodded.
Quinn dropped her purse onto the floor under the window and put her palms on the windowsill. With a jump, she pushed herself up, sat on the ledge, and swung her legs around. She slid down and snagged her purse. “Hi,” she said with a smile. The last thing she wanted was to appear threatening, so she sat on the floor in front of them.
Before anything else happened, she had to warn James she would need a few minutes. She took her phone from her purse and held it up. “I need to let my husband know where I am.” She sent him a message that read, Found something. Need more time.
The boy gave Quinn a curious look and then returned his attention to the Game Boy.
Her phone buzzed in her hand. James’s reply text read, Copy. Bogies down. She wondered what that meant exactly. He’d have to fill her in on his adventures later. She looked up and said again, “I’m Quinn. I’d like to know your names.”
The girl with the ice-blue eyes said in a perfect American accent, “I’m Mila. He’s Pyotr.” Quinn noted the many small, round scars marring Pyotr’s bare arms.
“Such beautiful names,” Quinn said. “Are they Russian?”
“Yes,” Mila replied. Wariness sparked in those astounding blue eyes.
“I’m named after an American president.” When Mila looked at her in confusion, Quinn clarified. “Quinn is short for Quincy. John Quincy Adams.”
“Mila is short for Ludmila,” she offered. “And I know about John Quincy Adams. He was the sixth president.”
“I’m impressed,” Quinn said. She was pleased Mila was engaging with her.
Mila shrugged. “I’m American, too.”
“You are?” Quinn said. She couldn’t hide her surprise. “Where are you from?”
“Washington, near the Canadian border. My parents moved there from Russia before I was born.”
“Is Pyotr American, too? Is he your brother?”
“No, not my brother. He’s Russian. His English isn’t as good as mine. But it’s getting better all the time. I’m teaching him.”
Quinn took a deep breath. This was it. “If you don’t mind telling me, how did you come to be here?”
“The big men fly Pyotr and me on a private airplane to different places to work at rich people’s houses. We do laundry, clean the house, wash the cars, help in the kitchen, work in the yard. Tomorrow we’ll clean up after the party. We run errands for them too. They give us packages to deliver to shops. Then people at the shops give us packages to take back.”
“Who gives you the packages to take to the shops?”
“The people we come to work for. This time, it’s Mr. Gibson and the man with the very white teeth, Mr. Rhys. They keep one of the packages we bring back from the shops. We take the rest back to Russia.”
“Have you seen what’s inside those packages you get?”
“Drugs,” she said, without hesitation.
Quinn’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you sure?”
Mila nodded. “Sometimes it’s pills. Mostly, like from here, it’s a white powder. When we get back to Russia, Pyotr and me and the other kids put it into smaller packages. And I saw Mr. Rhys snort some up his nose.”
Quinn clenched her jaw to bite back an angry growl. Given Colombia’s close proximity to the Caribbean, and by extension Turks and Caicos, it appeared Gibson and Rhys were part of a pipeline to smuggle cocaine into Russia. And they were using innocent children as drug mules. Vile bastards.
“Because Pyotr and I are the oldest, we’re the ones who go all the places to bring whatever kinds of drugs back.”
“How many times have you been here at Gibson Honeycutt’s house?”
“Five or six?” Mila said with a shrug.
“Do you do these things because you want to? Do you get paid?” Not that it mattered to Quinn if they were paid or not. They were just kids.
“They say we’re paid with food and clothes.”
Clearly not enough since both were rail thin and their clothes were faded and threadbare. She wanted to punch Gibson Honeycutt IV, Rhys Townsend, and whoever else was involved in this drug ring in their throats.
“And anyway, we have no choice.”
Quinn’s next question filled her with dread, but she had to ask. “Do the men, um, ever hurt you or do things to you they shouldn’t?”
“I was hit and yelled at once when I accidentally dropped some drugs on the floor. That’s the only time. I’m more careful now. They do the same to the others.”
Pyotr spoke up for the first time. “I am hit more. Sometimes I am caught eating cookies from kitchen.” He shot Quinn a sly smile. “I am not sorry.”
Quinn chuckled, more than a little proud of Pyotr and his act of rebellion. It also relieved her to know their abuse wasn’t as severe as she’d feared it might have been.
Mila sat up straighter. “Why are you here?”
“I’m here to help you escape. Both of you,” Quinn said, her tone growing urgent. “Right now.” She didn’t care about catching ringleaders.
Quinn’s head snapped toward the door when she heard footsteps in the hall.
Someone was coming.
Chapter Eleven
A burst of adrenaline had Quinn scrambling to her feet. She tiptoed to the closet and slid the door open. “Please don’t tell them I’m here,” she said as she stepped in amongst clothes hanging from the rod. Her eyes pleaded with Mila’s. “Please. I only want to help you.”
The interloper was right outside the door. Quinn had no choice but to slide the closet closed without knowing if she was about to be exposed. In the inky blackness, she withdrew her Glock from her thigh holster and held it at the ready.
She felt the blood drain from her face when she realized she’d left her phone and purse right in the middle of the floor.
Her grip on the pistol tightened when she h
eard the bedroom door open. A woman began to speak in a brusque, accusatory tone. The Russian Quinn had learned at the Farm was of little help. They spoke too low and too fast for her to catch any of the conversation.
Mila received what sounded like a terse admonition and then responded in a conciliatory tone. The bedroom door closed with a click and the footsteps faded down the hall. Quinn sagged against the back wall in relief.
“You can come out,” Mila said softly.
Quinn stashed her pistol, slid open the door, and stepped out of the closet. She blinked against the light and looked at the empty spot where she’d left her belongings.
Mila twisted around, withdrew the purse and phone from under a pillow, and held them out toward Quinn.
“Quick thinking,” Quinn said, taking them. She sat down again. “Thanks for covering for me.”
“You’re welcome.” Mila’s ice-blue stare froze Quinn in place. “Can you really help us?”
“Yes. Absolutely,” Quinn said emphatically. “Climb out that window and go with me right now. We’ll take both of you somewhere safe.”
“We can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I have a younger sister and brother still in Russia. If I don’t go back, they’ll beat them. Pyotr’s father abused him so he ran away. He has no family to return to.”
“I’m sorry,” Quinn whispered. As much as she wanted to rescue them right then and there, it couldn’t happen. “I so much want to talk to you some more, but I don’t dare stay much longer. Can you tell me the names of your minders? The people who take you places? Where you’re kept in Russia? Anything at all that will help us find you again?”
“They don’t think I know, but I do. It’s Saint Petersburg,” she said. “But I don’t know which building. They make us stay inside and work.”
How could she just leave them without a way to track them down? “I’ve got it,” she said when inspiration hit. “Take my phone. It has a tracker that works all the time, even when the battery runs down.” She sent a quick text to James telling him to meet her at the spot behind the shrubs. When she received his reply saying he would be there, she opened the Emergency Red Button app on her phone and tapped in her security code. The screen went gray and then an ominous black. Every byte of data had just been wiped from her phone.
