“I saw clothes!” I exclaimed, and sprinted hard to the other side of the warehouse where I remembered there had been shelves full of clothes as well as other provisions. As I ran I tried to keep my mind on the immediate necessity of helping these women, because if I focused too much on the situation I was going to go back over to the kitchen, grab that frying pan, and bash in the skull of every one of these men.
The clothes turned out to be several piles of the same gray shapeless dresses, but laundered and folded. I grabbed as many as my arms could hold—I was sure they could all use fresh clothing—and was starting back across the warehouse when I heard sirens. A lot of them, coming from several directions.
“Selena!”
“I hear them.”
I reached the women and dropped the dresses in a heap, quickly handing one to each of the naked women.
“Thank God,” I said. “I was afraid it was going to be more of Negron’s men.”
Selena stopped and looked quickly around at the warehouse: seven men incapacitated or dead. Eleven shell-shocked women, standing confused or leaning against the wall for support. “We can’t be found here,” she said flatly. “We’ll be caught up in legalities forever, and Negron will know where we are. He’ll know I’m after my sister.”
“I don’t think we have much choice,” I said. The sirens had stopped now, but in my head I figured at least five squad cars, which meant there were probably some detectives in unmarked cruisers as well. We were surrounded.
We looked at each other for a moment, and I could see the wheels turning in her head. Suddenly, the silence was broken by a bullhorn.
“Come out immediately, we have you surrounded.” I know, I just said that. I looked back at Selena for guidance.
“Lose the holster, quick,” she commanded.
I unbuckled the strap and shrugged out of the empty holster. I turned and looked around the room, spotting the first guard that I had tased. He was still lying on the floor, but was starting to stir. I windmilled my arm a couple times and launched the holster in his direction. It hit the floor and skidded up against his back.
When I turned back to Selena, I was shocked to see that she had unzipped her Lycra bodysuit and was peeling it down off her shoulders and arms, exposing the white jogging bra she wore underneath.
“What the...?”
She kicked off her boots and pulled the bodysuit down over her hips. She wasn’t wearing any underpants.
“Are you crazy?” I sputtered.
She pulled off her bra, scooped up the suit and boots, and shoved them into my arms. “Get rid of these, quickly.”
I was still in shock. “I am not doing that!”
Selena grabbed the clothes back from me and stepped quickly to the wall where she shoved them into a metal garbage can.
“No, Red,” she said, without slowing down. She squatted on the ground and wiped her palms across the filthy floor. She stood and began wiping the dirt over her face and arms. “You would stand out like a sore thumb.” She grabbed one of the clean dresses from the floor and pulled it over her head just as the front door was smashed open. “Just hang tight and I will pick you up in an hour.”
“What the hell am I supposed to do? There’s no place to hide.”
Selena Salerno reached up and removed the elastic that held her pony tail in place. She threw it into a corner and used both hands to muss her hair. From near the doorway a man’s voice shouted “Clear!” and a second later a second voice shouted “Go, go!”
“Just do what you always do, Red,” she said with a smile.
“What’s that?”
“Talk bullshit.”
I was about to protest, when several uniformed men burst into the room, automatic rifles sweeping in front of them.
“Freeze!” yelled several of them at once.
We froze.
Five
From my time as a police officer, I knew that no one was going to listen to a word I said until they had me, and the scene, completely secured. So, without fanfare, I did everything they commanded: on the floor, hands behind my back, face down.
All around me, people moved. There was very little talking. Radios blasted short bits of information, hard to hear through the static. After about ten minutes, the fever pitch subsided as the officers realized that the scene was safe, and no one was going to jump out and try to kill them.
For the next thirty minutes I laid on the uncomfortable floor, hands behind my back. Two officers, in full tactical gear, stood next to me. Finally, they were approached by the long, quick footsteps of someone in dress shoes instead of boots. Someone in charge.
“Transport’s two minutes out,” he said. His voice was deep, but sounded youthful. “Move the women to the front door, HSI will meet them at Windsor Regional. They’ll try to begin IDing them there.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Griggs, gently, okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
One of the men moved away, and I took the opportunity to raise my head.
“Excuse me?”
The remaining officer put a boot lightly on my back.
“I’ll deal with you in a minute,” said the man in the nice shoes. I caught a quick glimpse of him: short black hair, clean-shaven, strong jaw. Over his dark suit he wore a black windbreaker that said FBI over the pocket.
I took a quick glance around the warehouse before putting my head back down on the filthy floor. The women were being guided down the hall to the front door. From this distance, I couldn’t tell which one was Selena. As they disappeared from view, one of them screamed.
A mixture of FBI and Canadian police were milling about.
The men we had fought were all gone, apart from the cook, who lay, still dead, on the floor. Ugh. I turned my thoughts to the others, who had woken up groggily to find they were surround by police. Did they notice me lying here, and point the finger at me? Or did they just keep their mouths shut? Would you want to admit to being beaten by an unarmed woman dressed in tights and fleece like a soccer mom?
I flexed my aching arms, glad that I was still wearing my gloves. In the cold weather, they weren’t out of place, and two missing fingers would certainly attract unwanted attention.
The man from the FBI crouched down next to me.
“American or Canadian?”
“American.”
“Who are you?”
“Innocent bystander,” I said.
Without standing, he looked away from me and glanced around the big warehouse, perhaps deciding if it was possible that I had anything to do with brutally defeating seven armed guards. Another good thing about the gloves: no fingerprints.
“You don’t have any ID,” he said flatly, looking back down at me.
“Sure I do,” I said, “it’s back at the hotel. Are those women going to be all right?”
“They’re being taken directly to a hospital. It’s Canada. They’ll get better health care then we do.”
“Don’t be a dick,” I said, without looking at him.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. We’ll do our best for them, I assure you.” He looked off into the distance again, probably thinking about how much this part of his job sucked. I know that’s what I’d be thinking about. I was thrilled that we had rescued these women, but it also just made me think about how much the world was broken. And what, twelve women? How many thousands more were out there in the same situation.?
“What hotel?” he asked.
“Huh?” I replied, lost in my own thoughts.
“What hotel?”
“The Windsor Something.”
He snorted and stood up. “Put her in the back of my car. We’ll take her to the office in Detroit.”
Well, that was good news/bad news. I wanted to get out of the building before they found Selena’s jumpsuit and started asking questions. On the other hand, once we crossed the bridge and went through security checkpoints, Selena would have a much harder time rescuing me, or whatever it was she was
planning to do. I’ll pick you up in an hour, she said. Like it was a date.
They each hooked a hand under my upper arms and hoisted me to my feet. Speaking of feet, that’s when the FBI man looked down and realized I was barefoot.
“Why?” he asked, pointing.
“Easier to sneak around,” I said, truthfully. I jerked my head toward the back stairway. “My boots are in the stairwell.”
“You gonna tell me who you are?” he asked.
“Sure, but can we get out of here? I just saw a man get killed and women kept in cages. It’s been quite a day.”
“I’m afraid to tell you it’s not going to get any better.”
“Yeah, well,” I said, “I’ll take my chances. Just get me out of here.”
He nodded to the officer, who took a pair of handcuff keys out of his pocket. Relieved, I turned around to give him easy access to the cuffs, which he removed.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Don’t make me regret it,” he said, and gestured with his hand toward the front door.
“Boots?”
“Officer Grant will get them and bring them to the car, yes?” he added, looking at the officer.
“Yes, sir,” said Grant, and hurried toward the back of the building.
Now that I was on my feet, I could see that the FBI man was very tall and fit, maybe six foot two (though since we were in Canada, I guess that made him around two meters). He put his right hand around my left bicep, and I involuntarily jerked my arm away.
He raised his eyebrows. “You can have the cuffs back on.”
I sighed and held my arm back out. He took it and began to steer me toward the hallway that led to the front door. I kept my eyes averted from the body of the cook, but gasped in shock when we entered the front hallway: one wall was covered with bloodstains, as was a section of the floor. Jesus, Selena, what did you do to those guys?
I turned away from the blood, just as Grant approached with my boots, my socks still tucked neatly inside. I took the socks and handed them back to Grant, then slipped the boots on my bare feet. I just wanted to get out of there, quickly.
The FBI agent swung me toward the door as Grant looked down at my green fleece socks, the ones with little polar bears on them, wondering what he was supposed to do with them.
We pushed through the doors and out into the chilly air. I was surprised to find that it was still light out, though the sun was setting. I felt like I had been in there for a week, but it was probably only about ninety minutes.
“I’m Agent Caleb Carter of the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” he said as a black sedan with tinted windows rolled up in front of us. He opened the rear door of the car and motioned me to enter. “I’m transporting you back to U.S. soil where you will be taken into custody. So, enough fooling around, Miss. What is your name.”
“Patricia,” I said. “Patricia Callahan.” And I climbed into the back seat.
Six
We sat side by side in the back seat. There were two men in the front seat, one driving and one looking at his phone. At least I think he was; they both wore dark glasses. I turned to look at Caleb Carter.
“Where are your mysterious dark glasses?” I asked.
“I don’t need to be mysterious,” he said flatly, “I’m in charge. Now talk.”
So I did.
“I’m an investigative reporter for the Chicago Tribune, I’ve been following leads on drugs and human trafficking from both Mexico and Canada. A man named Antonio Negron. The southern border has gotten more difficult, I think he is flying private cargo planes to Canada and bringing things in from the north. I followed a lead here, and snuck in through a second floor window. Do you have anything to eat?”
“No,” he said, and reached forward to lightly tap the man in front of him on the shoulder.
“Fine. Anyway, I’m up on the balcony, spying, when this cargo door suddenly rolls open like a garage door, though I don’t understand how that works, being on the second floor, but anyway, these guys come pouring in, ten, twelve guys. They’re wearing fatigues and carrying automatic weapons and they shout at me to get down, so I do, of course. They took over the place, I couldn’t see what was happening. There were a few gunshots, some yelling, then they loaded a bunch of boxes out the cargo door and left.”
“They just left you there?”
“Yeah, I guess they were really focused on what was in those boxes. Not Samsung flat screens, I’m guessing. Anyway, I took some keys from one of the unconscious men and opened the doors to the cells. Then you arrived. And!” I slapped my palm on my thigh. “I just remembered, the way they spoke, their accent. I think it was Hungarian.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Hungarian?”
“I think so.”
“That’s pretty specific.”
“My Gammi was from Hungary, on my mother’s side. All Irish on my dad’s side.”
The man in the front passenger’s seat turned and handed his smartphone to Carter. Carter glanced at it and laughed a little. It was the first time I had seen any hint of a smile. He turned the screen to me so I could see: a head shot of Patricia Callahan from the Tribune website. We were both redheads, but after that it was a stretch.
“Nice try,” said Carter.
“You know,” I said, “if this were a seventies movie that story totally would have worked. I hate technology.”
“Who the hell are you?” asked Carter, and that was exactly the moment we were broadsided by an ambulance.
Seven
The ambulance, which had come up behind us with its lights flashing, pulled even with us when the agent driving the car moved into the right lane to let it pass. It edged slightly ahead and then turned into us sharp and fast, slamming into the driver’s side of the car.
I didn’t see any of this, because I was turned toward Carter in the back seat. I knew instantly, however, at the force of the impact, that this was no accident. Selena was coming to “pick me up.”
The government car careened off the side of the road and into the guard rail at about 70 kilometers per hour. I unclipped my seatbelt and threw myself screaming on to Carter, as if from the impact of the accident, flailing my arms in his face.
The vehicles continued forward, metal screeching against metal, until we reached a gap in the guard rail. The government car, suddenly free from pressure on one side, hurtled down the embankment head first. The angle of the gully at the bottom was too steep to accommodate the low nose of the sedan, which caught in the rocky turf and stopped all forward motion. The front airbags exploded into being, there was a sound of shattering glass, and the rear end of the car kept going, forced by momentum and angle up, up, until the entire car teetered on its nose for a brief moment before losing its balance, and coming to land, with a crunch, upside down.
I was fine. As the car had rushed down the hill I had reached both arms around Carter’s waist and clung tight. When we hit the ground and came to a stop upside down, I let go of Carter and dropped to the roof of the car, holding his gun in my left hand.
I looked quickly at Carter; his eyes were open but he seemed stunned as he hung upside down in his seatbelt harness. I think he might have hit his head on the roof. I turned my head toward the front of the car. The two agents were also upside down, wedged against their seats by the airbags. One was struggling, the other wasn’t moving.
Carter groaned and started to move, so I slithered out the broken window onto the grass. The sun had set but there was still some light as I looked back into the car at Carter’s inverted face. A light caught my eye and I saw the smartphone he had been showing me, the one that belonged to the agent in the front of the car, lying among the broken glass.
I reached in and grabbed it with my left hand, surprised when Carter reached out with blinding speed and grabbed my wrist with an iron grip. I tried to pull away, but instead, he pulled me closer. Kneeling on the ground, I had poor leverage and fell over, landing on my side.
“Let go!” I grunted at
him, getting my right arm out from under myself and pointing the gun at his face.
He looked at me with his piercing green eyes, calculating, then made a grab with his left hand for the gun. He was quick, but I was ready this time, and jabbed my right hand forward quick and hard, striking him in the throat with the tip of the gun barrel. Right in the Adam’s apple. His grip slackened for a moment and I jerked my left arm hard, my hand slipping through his grip, but losing my glove along the way.
I rolled out of his reach and jumped to my feet just as the ambulance tooted its horn loudly and repeatedly. Time to go.
I made my way quickly around the back of the car and clambered up the incline to the ambulance. To my left, I heard sirens and looked to see red and blue lights flashing in the distance. Were they headed our way? I jumped into the front of the ambulance. Of course they were heading our way. I’m the noisiest secret agent in the history of secret agents.
I buckled my seatbelt and Selena stomped on the gas and turned on some sirens of our own. We pulled out of the breakdown lane and into the falling night.
Eight
“Hi Mike,” I said wearily as I entered the reception area of Technology Acquired.
The mountainous man half-rose from behind his desk, surprised that someone had wandered in without his foreknowledge. He reversed himself quickly and sat back down.
“Ms. McKay,” he said in his deep voice, his Adam’s apple jumping above his tight collar. He was breathing heavily. “How did you get in here?”
“Marty gave me the codes,” I answered, and watched a spasm of annoyance cross his face; nobody was supposed to have the codes. Mike was Marty’s executive assistant, but he was also point man on security, and he took the job seriously. Marty was going to get a talking to.
Mike’s expression softened. “What happened to you, are you bleeding?” He gestured toward the side of my face. I touched my cheek with my free hand and the glove came away with red liquid on it. In my other hand, I was holding a black trash bag. My hair was disheveled and my puffy winter coat had a tear on one shoulder. I wore black jeans tucked into my favorite boots, which were covered with slush and mud. If I wore make-up, it would have been smudged.
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