by Ryan Schow
The shooter racked a third load as Kofi scurried up past them. Kiera pushed off Atlas’s stomach, struggling to get to her feet. The shotgun never fired that third load. Kofi put two rounds in the man. The weapon fell from his grip, fell over the side. Kofi ducked for cover. It struck the wooden stair with the business end, chunking out the finish, but it didn’t go off. Kofi continued up the stairs, looked back to let them know the hallway was clear. Three more shots rang out and he went scrambling right back down the stairs saying, “Not clear, not clear!” like a frantic child.
Kiera finally pushed off Atlas, then crept up the stairs, quiet and low, showing no signs of injury. She snugged her elbow in tight, angled into the field of fire, fired twice. The back-to-back booming of shots fired echoed into the stairwell, followed by the sounds of a soft thud. Kiera turned, gave him that same stiff nod, then moved deeper into the hallway to clear the area. He dragged his sore ass up, favoring his twisted ankle, every freaking bone in his back aching. Rolling his neck, feeling relief in a series of pops, he pushed his pain aside and joined the team.
In the upstairs bedrooms, one shot was fired, followed by the sounds of crying. Kofi cleared a room, shut the door, and dragged the butt of his pistol down the front panel in a slash—his sign for “all clear.”
Atlas opened his own door, Kofi now at his three o’clock, ready to roll. He dug into the corner, watched for signs of a threat as they eased the door open.
“We’re not armed,” came the familiar voice. Ruslana.
He didn’t trust her. The door swung wide open, two corners clear—no sign of the gorgeous brunette. He swept the front, used the hollow door for cover, but not as a shield. If they lit it up, he’d be torn to pieces. Fortunately, when he moved into the other side, he saw Ruslana and Zoya, along with a few other girls, all huddled together.
“You,” Ruslana snarled.
Kiera walked in, saw the girls, along with the two women.
“The brunette isn’t friendly,” Atlas told Kiera.
The young, nearly bald assassin lifted her weapon in response. At the sight of these young girls, knowing what Ruslana and Vanko were putting them through—whoring them out for money—gave rise to that familiar anger. He tried to contain himself, knowing this was but a temporary measure.
“We’re not killing her,” he added. “Not just yet.”
Now Kiera paused and looked at him with a question in her eyes. He felt the mask of rage contorting his features. To the layman, he must look psychotic.
“Please don’t kill me,” Ruslana begged. She carefully moved Zoya behind her and said, “In a weird kind of way, I’m a victim, too. All of us are.”
“No, you are not!” Atlas roared, his hand flexing around the gun’s grip.
“What’s going on?” a good-looking-male-model-type asked from behind them. Kiera and Kofi had guns on him in a heartbeat.
The man was in jeans and a T-shirt, his brown hair brushed to the side and covering his left eye, the hoodie on, but fashionable. He wore neither shoes nor socks, and he looked stoned.
“Who the fuck are you?” Kofi barked.
“Vanko,” he said. “I live here and these are my girls you’re harassing.” His pupils were the size of dinner plates, and he had what looked like drool stains on his shirt.
Atlas turned, pointed the gun at him, and put a round in his forehead. He dropped dead in the doorway. Only Ruslana cried out.
“Why are you here?” he barked at Zoya. He knew she was afraid of Ruslana, but she was not one of the in-house girls. She was more of a hustler.
“I brought her a man,” she said, shaky. “Please don’t hurt us.”
Kiera looked at him, frowned while giving him the barest of nods, then tilted her head sideways, like she could go either way. She raised the gun to Ruslana’s head.
The brunette cowered, hands up over her face to block the bullets. “No, no, no…I have something you will want to see.”
“All I want to see are your brains splattered all over the floor,” he hissed. “But not in front of the kids. Kofi, get them to safety.”
“What I have,” Ruslana spat out, anxious and desperate, “is better than my death. Come with me, I promise.”
To Kofi, Atlas said, “Stay with the girls, make sure nothing funky happens.”
“Define funky,” he said, a rhetorical statement.
Ruslana turned and walked, the look on her face clear: she was hoping to God he didn’t shoot her. He didn’t want to because she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, but sometimes those kinds of women were the worst, this one worse than them all.
They followed Ruslana out of the room, leaving Zoya standing there with a tear-streaked face and none of her former confidence. She looked lost, scared, unsure of what to do next. He had nothing to say to her. She might be a victim in all this, but she was also profiting off the bodies of children, which in his mind was unforgivable. Then again, she might be trapped, manipulated into all this with the help of some lingering threat. Who really knew anymore?
The shapely brunette walked them back to the master bedroom, ignored Vanko’s perverted style of décor, then walked right to a large mirror with a decorative eight-inch frame. Hand to the frame, she pressed the mirror in. It unlatched, springing out a good two inches.
When Atlas was there last, she hadn’t shown him the hidden room. She glanced back and said, “You just remember I showed you this.”
He held the gun at his side; Kiera had his seven. They waited for whatever it was Ruslana wanted to show them. Would it be enough to save her life? He didn’t think so. Nevertheless, she’d piqued his curiosity.
She stepped inside the room, revealing a large bed and a display wall. The wall behind the bed was painted blood red and boasting all kinds of black leather bondage gear. He felt his stomach churn as he imagined the horrors that must have taken place there. But then he saw the cages. Built into each side and sitting flush with the wall were two custom cages. They looked like oversized dog cages, the bars thick enough to hold the prey inside captive.
Ruslana stepped inside, folded her arms, got out of the way. Atlas couldn’t take his eyes off the girls in the cages. There were two cages to the right and two to the left. Inside the ones on the right were two girls, both stuffed inside like mutts. Seeing their little bent bodies, the curved ladder of vertebrae on their bare backs, he felt his eyes prickle with tears. The first girl who looked at him was maybe eight years old. A puff of air escaped him. The girl in the other cage was older, prettier, a little bigger. Her eyes were blackened, as if she’d been beaten up.
“Get them out of there,” he said, turning to Ruslana.
“They open from this side.”
Looking past her, he saw one of the cages was empty, but the other contained a third girl. He walked up to her, not sure if she was even alive. Her knees were pulled to her chest, her dirty brown hair draped over her features. She was naked, but her nudity was covered, her arms bone-thin and circled around her shins.
“Sweetheart,” he said, wiping his eyes. He saw her stir, which was encouraging. “You’re safe now. We’re going to get you out of here.”
Just then her bean-pole of an arm moved, her bird’s-claw hand reaching up to part the drape of her hair. He saw a single eye buried in the cave she made of her hair.
“This is all over now,” he whispered through damp eyes. That single eye studied him, saw him wipe his own eyes again. She sat up slowly, still covering herself. That was when the girl’s hair parted and his heart all but stopped. Choking back a sob, strange sounds falling from his mouth, he found himself looking right into the eyes of Kaylee Barnes.
“Kaylee?” he heard himself say.
She sat up a bit straighter, a ripple of emotion pulsing through her features. He dug the picture from his pocket, showed it to her.
“Your father sent me,” he said. “I…we…we thought you were dead.”
Slowly, she shook her head.
“This is the girl you wanted,
yes?” Ruslana asked before he could open her cage.
“Yes,” Atlas whispered.
She must have known the murderous thoughts he was thinking, which was why she spoke first and quickly. “I can tell you who sold her to Vanko.”
“Who?” he turned and growled.
She gave him a name, one he knew well. “Mother of God,” he muttered. Then: “Call him. NOW!”
Startled, Ruslana pulled out her phone and began scrolling through the contacts. Meanwhile, Kiera opened Kaylee’s cage, helped the girl out. Atlas averted his eyes, unwilling to compromise her privacy any more than completely necessary.
“It’s here,” Ruslana said.
“Dial the number.”
Her face went slack for a moment, her finger hovering over the CALL button. The former secretary of state was no stranger to headlines, or controversy: Russell Lumley.
“Are you sure you want me to do that?” she asked. “He is not a nice man.”
“If I wanted your opinion on the matter,” Atlas said, “I’d have my associate beat it out of you.”
Glancing at Kiera, seeing the lithe, dangerous woman freeing the other kids, she pressed the CALL button and waited for it to ring through. Atlas snapped his fingers, made the universal “give it to me” sign, then took the phone when Ruslana handed it to him. This was right about the time the grouchy old asshole answered.
“We don’t have a call scheduled,” Lumley grunted, drowsy sounding, like he was still asleep. Considering the time in the States, Atlas imagined he was.
He pushed the button to activate the speakerphone feature, held the cell phone where everyone could hear it clearly. “That’s correct, Mr. Secretary,” Atlas replied, “we don’t have an appointment.”
“You’re not Ruslana,” he snarled. It sounded like he was sitting up in bed, or trying. He wasn’t in that good of shape anymore.
“I will be handling all of her accounts from this point forward,” Atlas said calmly.
“Who the hell is this?”
He turned the phone to Ruslana and said, “Tell him.”
“Hello, Mr. Secretary, this is Ruslana,” she said, speaking directly into the phone. She glanced up at Atlas, not sure what else he wanted her to say. “His name is Aleksander Tarletski and he’ll be handling all the accounts from this point forward.”
“Are you retiring or something?”
“Or something,” she replied, the start of tears in her eyes.
“Good luck, then,” he said before clearing his throat. When he was done, he said, “Put Tarletski on.”
“I’m here,” Atlas said.
Behind him, Kaylee wrapped herself in one of the throw blankets on the bed, while Kiera covered the smaller girls with the pillowcases she’d taken off the king-sized pillows.
“In light of these new circumstances, it’s nice to meet you, Mr. Tarletski,” the former secretary said, “and tell Ruslana never to contact me again.”
“You’re on speakerphone, Mr. Secretary,” he said. “So technically you told her yourself. But even if you hadn’t, her body will be in a steel drum in about ten minutes, never to be seen or heard from again. As for our arrangements—”
Ruslana drew a sharp breath, froze when Kiera stood like a sentry between her and the exit.
“Our arrangements will stay the same,” the secretary clarified. “I’ll let you know what they are when the time comes.”
“One thing before you go,” Atlas said. “Kaylee Barnes.”
“What about her?”
“Did you handle that matter personally?”
“Of course. Barnes is a problem we’ve already dealt with.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
“Is there anything else?” the old man groused.
“No.”
With that, the old crank grumbled something, then hung up.
“See?” Ruslana said, scared now, her body trembling. “Better than seeing my brains on the floor.”
“Not by much,” Kiera said as she whipped out her handgun and shot Ruslana in the forehead.
The brunette’s head snapped back, blood and gray matter washing the wall in gore. Ruslana dropped dead on the bed, her eyes almost as vacant in death as they had been in life.
“Now you’re a victim,” Atlas said.
Before he could fully marvel at Ruslana’s death, or Kaylee being alive—or even more shocking, Kiera actually speaking—another gun went off behind them both. Kiera’s head bucked forward and slightly sideways. The spray of her blood hit Atlas immediately.
He dropped down and fired three shots at the shooter, the cleanest one striking his target right above the right eyebrow.
Zoya.
“Fuck!” he roared.
Before him, Kiera dropped to her knees, touched her bleeding head, rolled onto her side, and lay down. He felt gut-punched. Kaylee was alive, but Kiera was down, her head bloody, her eyes losing focus. He screamed for Kofi at the top of his lungs. The Ukrainian arrived a moment later, startling at the scene.
By then, Atlas had put direct pressure on Kiera’s wound. He didn’t know what he was dealing with, only that he was trying to plug whatever hole she had in her head. Looking down, he could see she was scared, but not as scared as she should be.
“Get me something to stop the bleeding, a wet towel, something I can use as a compress.” Kofi nodded, then hurried off. “And get me a cup of warm water!”
He heard Kofi acknowledge him, then took a deep breath and told himself to calm down. Turning to the two younger girls, in Belarusian, he said, “Are you going to be okay?”
They were scared, but they both nodded anyway.
“Kaylee, are you alright?” he asked in English.
She just looked at him.
Kofi returned a moment later with a wet hand towel and a small glass of warm water.
“We need to get Kaylee and Kiera out of here,” Atlas said. “Move the girls somewhere more comfortable, then call Cira and tell her to bring up some clothes.”
“I’m on it,” Kofi said.
Atlas lifted his bloody hand off Kiera’s wound, poured water directly on it, saw her head had been grazed, not penetrated. He let out a huge sigh. Although the bullet had skipped off her skull, it had cut a relatively deep channel through the bony surface.
“You must have a really hard head,” Atlas said, not expecting a reply but wanting one anyway. When she offered him perpetual silence, he knelt down and looked her in the eyes. “If I help you stand, do you think you can walk?”
Without a reply, she grabbed hold of the bed frame, pulled herself toward it, then slowly managed to get to her feet. He pressed the wet compress into her head, the water mixing with blood as it ran behind her ear, down her neck and soaked her shirt. When he took the compress off her wound and looked at it, she tapped his arm, nodded. She didn’t need his help anymore. Was she actually dismissing him? Before he could make heads or tails of her, she reached out for Atlas, completely confusing him.
“You need my help?” he asked, perplexed.
She slowly shook her head. Opening her arms wider, she stepped toward Atlas. He didn’t know what was happening when she folded him into her body. Was she actually hugging him? He wasn’t sure, but he went with it anyway.
He slowly wrapped his arms around her, surprised at how tightly she was holding him. When he was sure she wasn’t trying to boa constrictor him to death, he relaxed, thinking it was seriously the best hug he’d ever had.
When she pulled back, he said, “Do you want to lie down on the bed or wait outside to wait for the nurse?”
She held up two fingers.
Outside.
Out front, Atlas sat Kiera down, then wiped his bloody hands on his pants. A few of the neighbors were in the streets, watching, talking among each other. All the girls out front, though…that had to say something about what was going on there. The fact that no one had called the police was also unsettling. Were the police that bad? Would they cause more pr
oblems than Vanko had already created? Perhaps. He didn’t know. He might never know.
He dug his phone from his pocket and called Bronya, ignoring the resurgence of pain in his back and shoulders, as well as his head. His eye was now swollen shut completely.
“I have another location with more girls,” Atlas said, more tired than ever. “Ten at least.”
Breathless, she said, “You are a godsend.”
“I’d still disagree with you, but my slate is a little cleaner after today. I also found the girl I was looking for.”
“Is she alive?” Bronya asked.
“Yes.”
“That’s great news!”
“Did your contact get the other girls to safety?”
“She did, thank you.”
“I’ll text you the address,” he said. “Oh, and, Bronya?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you for everything,” he said warmly.
“Don’t forget what I said about you,” she added.
He smiled, then said good-bye. A moment later, he texted her Vanko’s address.
One of the neighbors finally came forward, nervous, walking up to Cira. “I’m a nurse,” she said in Ukrainian. Kofi translated. “Perhaps I can help?”
“Can you look at those two?” she asked, pointing to the steps where Kiera and Kaylee were sitting. Kofi translated, and the woman nodded, grateful to help, or so it seemed.
The nurse looked first at Kiera, then at Kaylee. She hurried back to her house, returned with some medical supplies, bandaged up Kiera’s head.
“You really need stitches,” she said. “But this will do.”
Kiera nodded in response.
The woman glued the wound shut, then said, “This will peel off in five to seven days, and you’ll have a scar for about six months.”
Again, Kiera nodded.
The woman then turned her attention to Kaylee, who was dressed but still hadn’t spoken. Emotionally she was in bad shape. Like she was still in that nightmare, or stuck in a dream within a dream.
Kaylee was in an unfamiliar world, stuck in yet another situation she didn’t understand. Atlas didn’t blame her. All this child had known for the last month was violence and abuse. He considered it a miracle that he’d been able to even find her at all, let alone alive.
