by Ryan Schow
“Is this all of you?”
More of them shook their heads, letting him know there were more girls to save. This concerned him. He didn’t want these children suffering anymore, and the best way to prevent that was by not turning them into collateral damage.
“Okay,” he said, thinking about what was next. “Stay here and get under or behind the beds until we tell you it’s okay.”
The girls complied.
Moving through the other rooms, they found three more girls, three more johns. He told them to leave by the front door. Against his better judgment, he let them live. Had he not been tight on ammo, he would have shot them because, in his mind, the only good pedophile was a dead pedophile. Fortunately, they didn’t encounter any more shooters. That left one more room.
Kiera took the girls to the safety of the other room, then joined Atlas outside the master bedroom door.
He looked at Kiera and said, “Are you ready?” She nodded, her upper lip stiff, her grip on the AK-47 flexing. Yeah, she was good to go. “Alright, then, let’s put these chomo pukes in the dirt.”
He tested the doorknob; it was open. This was a keyed lock. If someone wanted them to stay out, they would’ve locked the door. Left open, however, he had to know they were walking into an ambush.
He motioned for Kiera to dig in on the opposite side of the door. She moved with confidence, her position clean, even her feet on point. Again, this little bald nightmare was demonstrating more tactical experience than a girl her age should have. Regardless of how she’d gotten that way, his levels of confidence adjusted up with her on his six.
Ready to breach and secure the room, he nodded, then she nodded, and then he killed the hall lights and waited for his eyes to acclimate. When he was set, he quietly opened the door. Fortunately, neither the knob nor the hinges made noise. In the bedroom, however, all he saw was a perfect inky darkness. That kind of perfect darkness worked both ways—it protected their advance, but it also masked the true threat; in their case, it wasn’t working in their favor. He didn’t know the room’s layout, where the actual corners were, how many shooters were stationed inside.
Holding his breath, he lowered his body into a crouch and crept into the room. Most bad guys would suck up against the walls, so he moved away from them, working inside the room where he prayed to God it was safe. A second later, an eruption of gunfire stitched up the walls and the door behind him. He dropped prone, army-crawled forward, then rolled over on his back and zeroed in on the muzzle flash. From where he lay—which he’d never do alone, and probably wasn’t smart even with Kiera there—he unleashed the Beretta. His first shot tore through meat and bone, as evidenced by the heavy thud of a body falling.
He rolled away from the wall but struck something hard—boots attached to legs. Shit, shit, shit! He tucked himself into the threat, allowing him to bring the shotgun’s barrel up. He was too late. The crushing boom of a gun shooting down at him was damn near deafening. A hot streak ripped down his lower lat as he squeezed the trigger, further deafening himself. A bloody body collapsed on him, the man’s knees digging into Atlas’s wounded side as he crumpled face-first into the carpet. Ignoring the agony, he rolled away as gunfire ate up the floor around him. That was when he struck the end of the bed.
Right then, the lights flicked on, exposing three more shooters. Kiera opened up with the AK-47. Atlas wheeled the Beretta around, blasted one guy up high, the shot tearing through half his face and shoulder. Kiera managed a five-round burst before the damn thing jammed. Considering the bolt and magazine issues with those guns, he wasn’t surprised. But good God, it couldn’t have happened at a worse time!
Kiera dropped the gun, dove to the side to avoid retaliatory fire. Atlas sat up fast, saw the dirty-blond beast that was Dasha Bykov on the other side of the oversized bed. The instant Dasha saw him, Atlas squeezed the trigger. The murderous scumbag dipped to the side, avoiding most of the shot. Part of the load tore through him, though, enough to slow him. By then, Kiera had already recovered. She drove his body into the wall, where he hit with a thud and slid down into a seated position.
The man was wounded, but not out of the fight. With his good arm, he started dropping elbows on Kiera’s shoulder blade and upper back. Atlas was already clambering to his feet. Dasha looked up in time to see Atlas driving a ferocious knee strike right into his face. The man’s head slammed backwards into the wall. He toppled over sideways without grace. Kiera wasted no time on the man. She shoved her blade up into his throat, twisting and routing him out.
“Are you shot?” Atlas asked too loud, his ears still ringing.
To his relief, she nodded, solemn.
Despite being shot, nothing was broken and nothing felt punctured. Kiera pulled out her blade, cleaned it on the top of Dasha’s blond head. When she was done, she just sat there with the man’s blood all over her.
Atlas looked around the room. It was clear. Feeling the flat muscle that stretched around his side and under his arm—his lat, or latissimus dorsi—he realized he’d been grazed rather than shot clean. More good news. Had he not rolled over in time, had the lights been on when all of this had gone down, the outcome of the conflict might have been different. He probably wouldn’t even be alive. But he was. Was this a sign that he was killing for the right side? Was God giving him the cover he needed? He prayed this was the case.
Taking out his cell phone, he checked to make sure it was still operational. It was. Opening his contacts list, he touched the number for Bronya Kotova in Saint Petersburg. The phone dialed the number; he waited as the line rang through.
“Hello?” Bronya finally answered in Russian. He was having a hard time hearing her over the ringing in his ears, so he stuck his finger in his other ear.
“It’s me, Atlas,” he replied, a bit too loud. Lowering his voice on purpose, he added, “From the rescue in Saint Petersburg?”
“The man with the missing girl.”
“Yes,” he replied with a weary smile.
“I did not expect to hear from you,” she said, “so I’m hoping it is with some good news?”
“I hope so,” he said, still talking low. “I’m in Odessa and we’ve managed to pull a dozen or so young girls to safety. Do you have someone within your organization, or a sister organization, that is in or near Odessa?”
“I do,” she said. She paused a moment, making him wonder if the line had gone dead. It hadn’t. She spoke a moment later. “You tried to tell me you were not a good person, yet you are calling me again after saving more lives. I am beginning to think you are an unlikely angel.”
He laughed and said, “I might have found that perfect balance between good and bad, that yin and yang that makes my more difficult efforts seem angelic. But I am not alone. There are good people with me, people who have kept me alive, whom I’ve kept alive. Those are the ones worthy of your praise, Bronya. Not me.”
“Let me make a couple of calls,” she finally said. “Text me the address, in case I can send someone right away. That way they will already be en route when I talk to you next.”
“That sounds good,” he said. “I’ll send it right away.”
Right then, Kofi appeared in the room, gun drawn, his eyes wide as he took in the carnage.
“Good God,” he said, lowering his weapon.
When he and Bronya hung up, Atlas texted her Dasha’s address, then he went through the house and the property one last time with Kiera and Kofi. Having been surprised before, they were extra cautious this time—far more thorough than they’d been at Oleg’s estate.
When Bronya called back a few minutes later, Atlas answered, saying, “Tell me you have good news.”
“I have a team en route. They will be there inside of twenty minutes.”
“How many cars do you have?”
“A van and a car.”
“Good.”
Releasing an exhausted sigh, his body really starting to hurt with the adrenaline burn-off, he said, “There is a blond gi
rl here named Galina who will be watching the girls and waiting for your associates. She is one of the girls we saved. There is an iron gate she will open when your people get here. You just need to have your driver honk three times.”
“I will relay the message. Again, thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I may be calling you again in the next hour.”
“For what, exactly?”
“Another pick-up of girls.”
“I’m relieved to hear that, and I will wait by the phone for your call.”
“God willing,” he replied.
“God willing.”
When they hung up, he turned to Kiera and said, “You ready for round two?”
Her answer was her trademark stiff upper lip, and a short, sharp nod. Hell yeah, she was ready. But was he? A small bloodstained grin overtook his face. Damn right he was! He wanted to see the fiendish yet enchanting Ruslana once more, but this time on his terms. And if he could meet Vanko and send his foul soul back to hell where he came from, well, that would be a bonus. Either way, when he took down Vanko’s establishment, his work in Ukraine would be a wrap, and maybe he would finally get some good news on Alabama. If there was anything that would reinvigorate him, it would be knowing she was still alive.
Chapter Thirty-Four
ATLAS HARGROVE
The drive to Vanko’s estate was short and uneventful. His thoughts, however, were a bit erratic. He was certain he’d find Ruslana, but the bigger part of him was hoping to cut the head off the snake that was Vanko. If he could shut down this horrible sex-trafficking and prostitution ring, that would go a long way towards his redemption. More important, it might help save a few innocent souls from further corruption.
Fadey interrupted Atlas’s thoughts. “My car smells like blood and sweat.”
“A little,” Atlas replied.
“A lot,” Cira said.
“You’re not helping,” Atlas said to her, measuring his tone.
“How are people to trust me as their driver when my car smells like blood?” Fadey said, glancing back at Atlas. “How do I clean the smell of a dead body out of my trunk if I have to take their luggage out?”
“Well, it sort of smelled like mildewed socks before this,” Atlas said.
Kofi mumbled, “Blood is an improvement.”
Fadey fell into stunned silence, then shook his head, focusing once more on the roads ahead. “I’m just saying—”
“I’m going to personally compensate you for this inconvenience, Fadey,” Atlas interrupted. “I understand the risks you’re taking and the state of your vehicle. So trust me when I tell you that I will take care of you.”
“It will take more than a steak to appease me.”
“If it didn’t,” Atlas said, “I’d be worried. But you know what? I’m not worried.”
“Well, I’m crapping my pants up here,” he said in Ukrainian. Then he looked over at Cira and, in his native tongue, said, “Do you understand me?”
“Why is he trying to speak to me?” Cira asked. She turned back to him and enunciated her next words. “I don’t speak whatever language you’re speaking to me.”
“He said he likes your breasts,” Atlas said in English.
“I say nothing of sort!” Fadey replied in broken English, embarrassed, animated. Everyone started laughing at his reaction, but then Atlas came in and made it right.
“Actually, I think maybe that was me thinking that,” he told Cira. “What Fadey wanted to know, what he really asked, was if you could understand him.”
“He knows I don’t speak Russian,” she said.
“It is Ukrainian,” Fadey replied, still hot under the collar. “Our language is a mix of Russian and Belarusian.”
“Well, I don’t speak any of those languages, so no, I didn’t understand you.”
He nodded, then said, “Your friend and I are coming to a financial arrangement regarding my role in this…whatever this madness is.”
“It’s a cleansing,” Kofi said.
Cira nodded in agreement. “I hope my associate has only promised what he can personally deliver.”
“I have,” Atlas said, knowing it was not up to him to hand out Leopold’s money.
“Can we find a place to pull over and patch you two up?” Cira asked Atlas while looking back and forth between him and Kiera. “Because Atlas…your face.”
“No can do, sugar britches. If we get any more adrenaline burn-off, it’s seriously going to jeopardize the mission. Plus this eye is swelling shut, and so time isn’t on my side.”
Cira looked at Kiera, who had a few cuts and some swelling around her cheekbone. The ferocious, nearly bald assassin nodded in agreement with Atlas.
“If you say so,” Cira said, turning back around. “But don’t blame me if you two get AIDS when bad guys’ blood gets in your cuts.”
“We won’t,” Atlas said. “But thank you for your concern, and the offer.”
When they arrived in Vanko’s neighborhood, they checked their weapons—the ones they acquired from Dasha’s estate.
“Compared to the guns Kofi brought us,” Atlas said, “these babies are top shelf.”
Now that they had better weapons, if they chose to go in loaded for bear, moving with all that gear would slow them down. That was why they selected just what they needed, favoring speed and stealth over sheer firepower. Who knew how many potential shooters they would find? He didn’t. Cira didn’t. Kiera didn’t.
“That’s his house up on the right,” Kofi said, having tracked the addresses.
“Shall I pull past it?” Fadey asked.
“Yeah,” Atlas confirmed. In Belarusian, he added, “Go two or three houses. Find the dead space in between the neighbors’ potential fields of view.”
“I remember,” Fadey replied.
“We’re trying to avoid crossing into someone’s surveillance.”
“We don’t do much of the alarm systems,” Fadey said. “They will be dummy systems.”
“And you know that how?” Atlas challenged. “Because you don’t sound like you live on the same block as these people. Otherwise, you and I wouldn’t even know each other, let alone be having this conversation.”
“He’s just nervous,” Cira told Atlas when Fadey frowned.
“Well, I am too,” Atlas said.
“Are you okay?” she asked, softer this time. “For real?”
Atlas’s face was blood-spattered (mostly blood from the bad guys), his left eye was swelling shut, his arms and forearms had been pounded right down to the bones, and his back felt bruised all along the shoulder blades and spine. At least his hearing had returned, despite a persistent ringing in his ear.
“Honestly, I feel fifteen again.”
She huffed out a short laugh, then turned around as Fadey pulled into a bank of shadows.
“One more time,” Atlas said, looking across the back seat to Kiera and Kofi. Kofi was already getting out.
Handguns out, knives at their sides, the three of them moved up the street at a cautious trot. When they got to the imposing estate, they found it to be less guarded than Dasha’s villa, but much larger. Vanko was a playboy, according to Ruslana. Which meant there was a chance he would take his security less seriously than Dasha. That wasn’t confirmed, but based on the conversation with Ruslana, this guy had an ego that needed stroking. And he loved his women. Guys like that didn’t tend to forge their reputations based on fear as much as they tried to be what every woman wanted. He prayed he was right in his assessment.
The house was lit from the front, and the walls were easy to scale. Moving around back, they saw two large pools with people inside one of them, men and women. The back patio was lit like a stadium, loud party music coming from inside the house. In the pool, the girls looked like they were trying to have fun, but they also looked like they were twelve, thirteen, and fourteen years old with guys who were pushing fifty. Even worse, they were topless, one of them not even with her breasts yet. Atlas boiled wit
h rage, his adrenaline instantly surging. He fired four rounds into the skulls of the four guys in the pool, each shot finding its mark.
“What the hell, Atlas?” Kofi hissed over the sounds of the screaming girls.
Kiera was already moving through the glass pocket doors that stood wide open. He’d completely ruined the element of surprise. Refusing to dwell on past mistakes, he caught up with Kiera, who was leading the team with more gunfire. He had her six; Kofi had his five. Two guys were already dead on the living room floor, multiple people scrambling.
The ten-room house was loud and busy, like Dasha’s place, but with more of a party vibe than a brothel vibe. Kiera cleared the downstairs bedrooms, shot two men who were in some very intimate, very compromising positions.
He saw a number of girls hiding behind the couches in the more formal living room, kept moving. But when Kofi passed by the same large room, gunfire broke out and he dove for cover. Looking up the stairs, he saw someone from the second floor barking out lead from on high. Atlas edged around the side, saw his target, fired twice. The first shot hit the man in the gut, bending him over. The second shot caught him in the face as he staggered backwards.
Kiera moved around him wordlessly, focused, and starting up the stairs at an impressive pace. A shotgun blast pumped a hot load of buckshot into the wall in front of Kiera, causing her to overreact. She stopped too quickly, reversing course on unsteady feet. At the clack-clack sound of the shotgun racking a second load, Kiera’s foot slipped completely, jarring her entire body. The shotgun blast in the stairwell produced not only a deafening noise, it blew drywall shrapnel and dust out in front of Kiera. She lost her footing altogether, falling backwards into Atlas. The impact cost him his footing as well; they tumbled backwards as one. Reaching out to grab the railing (but missing it), he went down hard, landing on his back, his spine grinding down the edge of the stairs all the way to the bottom. He lost his shotgun, but he also lost his breath.
