Bellowship was a helicopter pilot, flying both privately and for the forestry service. His skills made it simple to get the abducted women and girls into the deep woods, bringing the tools of their trade along with them. Then Mackie got lost inside her head, doggedly staying at the active killing field to watch her “guests” ever more closely. That had led to the boyfriend reporting her missing.
Maddy had been going back and forth often, caring for their grandfather, ensuring the pot was regularly stirred in regards to Mackie’s “disappearance.” Todd had been her way to keep tabs on what the authorities truly thought.
As Owen talked to Mackie, the medication he’d dosed her with started to wear off, and when he’d seen the bright interest in her gaze turned on him, he’d gotten up and walked out. Alace had captured ample footage to ensure the women would never be released. He shivered. The possibility of the twins one day walking the sidewalks gave him a chill.
That right there? He shook his head and used a short stick to position the fuel cube before he set his pan of water in place. That’s what’s wrong with your shit these days, Marcus.
That hadn’t been the first time Owen had been betrayed during a supposed rescue, and the dreams he’d suffered with since that night continued to underscore how not “over” he was—with everything.
Between old dreams and new nightmares, he’d told Alace he was taking a couple of weeks for himself.
With Alace’s reputation, he could stay as busy as he wanted. Not out of financial consideration, because he’d been set for money years ago with various accounts held in the stereotypical offshore banks. No, the reason he kept working was personal. Something he didn’t think Alace even knew, and his boss lady knew so much more about him than he was comfortable with.
Since closing the books on Bellowship and the Temples, Owen had accepted and completed four more missions.
Each of them had surrounded his personal vendetta, sex trafficking.
Soul cleansing work.
He could eliminate the traffickers with prejudice, but while he’d gone into the secure ward of the hospital expecting to deliver a lethal dose of the drug he’d had with him, in the end he couldn’t. In his mind, Mackie would forever be tied to that tiny girl who’d been so betrayed, and it didn’t feel right to play at being her judge and jury.
So he’d done a one-eighty and dived deep into the underbelly of America instead.
Alace’s darknet identities had vouchered him into a variety of different rings, and while the ease with which he was able to adopt the sick bastards’ language always turned Owen’s stomach, it was how you got in and stayed in.
Alace’s personas were long-established and carried a lot of clout, so when he’d registered one of his deep-cover identities for a new forum dedicated to pedos bidding on sibling pairs, her sponsorship had gotten him into the inner ranks within hours.
Once in, he found he’d missed an auction by a couple of weeks, the winning bids showing underneath the pictures of the children who’d been bought and sold. Digging deeper, he’d uncovered plans for several additional upcoming auctions. The idea of not doing whatever he could to stop them wasn’t something he could stomach.
Each sting had only been allowed around three weeks from inception to culmination, and as he’d walked out of the final riverfront warehouse leaving bloody boot prints behind, he’d told Alace he needed time. The memories of the children and young people locked behind wire fencing, in some cases electrified, made sleep a stranger if he allowed himself to dwell on them too much.
“Mister.” The little boy who’d called out to Owen couldn’t have been more than eight. He sat in the center of a tiny pen, his younger sister cradled in his lap.
“Grok, don’t bother.” That came from a pen across the aisle, just wide enough to move two abreast. “Don’t matter he’s new; he’s shit just like the rest of ’em.” The two boys in that holding pen were slightly older than the other pair, probably twelve and ten years old. It was the younger boy who’d spoken up. His older brother was curled on the cement floor, head resting on the younger sibling’s lap. Fearing the worst, Owen stared hard, unable to tell if the boy’s chest still rose and fell. If he were breathing, it was shallowly. “Don’t look at my brother.”
Owen lifted his gaze to the younger boy’s face. Anger and resignation branded what should have been childish features, giving the child a mature cast to his expression Owen never wanted to see again. Softly he asked, “Is he okay? He looks sick.”
“You’re sick. You’re one of them and you’re all sickos.” The boy’s fingers patted the sleeping boy’s hair, palm coming to rest on his forehead. “Leave us alone.”
Owen swept the warehouse with his gaze, rage bubbling just underneath the surface. This ends tonight, he thought. Six rows wide by nearly thirty cages deep, the building could house more than three hundred children when paired two into an enclosure. It was currently about one-half full.
He was there under the guise of looking over the offerings. The murmuring wave of sound that followed the other men who were strolling around made him sick. Cries of pain and fear, some shouts of anger—it all pounded against the walls in impotent protest. Each of the men, including Owen, had their faces covered by cheap plastic masks, and every breath he exhaled washed back over his face, heating his skin. A precaution, just in case any of the children regained their freedom. A tenuous chance, if things were allowed to progress through the upcoming auction, but a chance nonetheless. These were buyers selecting stock for upcoming transactions.
Owen’s cover was a party ring in Minnesota. Seventeen real men who had paid him exorbitant fees to acquire assets according to their tastes. Half up front, half upon delivery.
He let his lip curl in anger. The deliveries would be happening tomorrow, but instead of children inside the vans, there would be a much different cargo. Significantly hotter, and presented with force. He couldn’t even consider the drivers he’d hired as collateral damage because they were involved with the ring, too, understanding very well what they helped facilitate. Looking the other way for a paycheck would become very expensive for them.
He’d placed the final bomb himself last weekend, and the proximity triggers attached to each of them were the best Alace could buy.
It didn’t matter how good these motherfuckers thought they were.
I’m better.
“Mister.” That was the little boy again, and Owen crouched next to the wire, careful not to touch it with any part of his body. The way the boy huddled in the center of the cage told him all he needed to know.
“Yeah, buddy?” Owen wanted to push up the mask, wanted to pull off the hood covering his hair and neck. Wanted to show the boy not everyone in this building was a monster. Not yet. He had two goals tonight, neither of which would be achieved by tipping his hand too soon. “You need something?”
“Natalie is awful quiet.” The boy’s hand trembled as he stroked his little sister’s hair. “I can’t wake her up.”
“Owen.” He closed his eyes when he heard the pain in Alace’s voice. “He’s just a…she’s so small.”
“Mmhmm.” The boy was staring at him, a single tear tracking down his cheek. Owen leaped to a decision. “I’m going to help your…Natalie?” The boy nodded. He restated the promise, hoping the boy heard the truth in his words. “I’m going to help Natalie.”
“No you won’t.” It was the naysayer from behind him, and Owen tried to ignore that bare thread of hope he heard in the boy’s voice. Hope that he was wrong and maybe Owen wouldn’t turn out to be one of the bad guys after all. “You’re a sicko liar.”
He shifted and stared out at the sea of cages. Color and movement marked the occupied ones. Way too many for what he had planned, and even with changes in the scale of the plan, it was a slim chance of success.
“Plans have changed, boss lady.” He’d gotten better at the subvocal aspect of the com unit Alace preferred. The active mic was woven in the gold thread along the
edge of one pocket of his current costume while the subvocal mic had been placed on his skin, covered by a thin prosthetic to hide it from view. The rest of his jaw and throat were covered by a different set of foam and latex appliances that aged him and provided a scar-riddled disguise. “I need a high hide.”
“It’s a fucking warehouse, Owen.”
He pushed to his feet and stared down at the little boy. “What’s your name?” Natalie’s brother stared at him, bottom lip quivering. “I’m going to do my best, okay?”
“Are you for real?” Owen swung to look down at the other pair of children. The older was still sleeping—or unconscious, he thought—while the younger one was glaring up, his ferocious gaze piercing.
“Yeah. I’m for real.” To prove it, he tipped the mask up, giving the boy a glimpse of his face. He wouldn’t know it wasn’t really Owen’s face, but it might give him the courage to survive the next thirty minutes. “I’m very for real.”
“He’s Tony.” The boy tipped his head towards the still little boy seated with his sister. “I’m Nate and this is Walt, my brother.”
“Nate, Walt, Tony, Natalie.” He was glad the subvocal utility recognized each of the names, a downfall of the software which he and Alace had tried to train out of it. As they’d gone through and added words to the database, the incidents of “translation not available” had virtually dried up.
“Got it.” Alace huffed out a sigh, the sound she made when she’d found something that pleased her. Hopefully it meant she had a place for him to get to where he could familiarize himself with the weaponry he’d be taking off a guard in about two minutes. “Hallway to the south of the entrance you used coming in, there’s a set of stairs that leads to what’s probably an observation area.”
Owen kept his attention focused on Nate, not looking for the viewing ports that had to be located above him. “Hang in there, buddy.” He settled the mask back into place and reminded him, “I’m for real.”
Turning on his heel, he stalked back along the aisle, chin angled down as if studying the floor while his eyes tracked up.
“I can’t see anything.” Alace’s complaint wasn’t rhetorical. The camera they’d selected was built into the prosthetics overlying the shell of one of his ears. With his hood up and head down, she probably had a very limited field of view. “I’m going to have to take out their drones so I can put mine in place. I think you need to know how many people are upstairs.”
“Body heat from the prisoners will mask everything. Do not do anything to alert them yet.” He reached the end of the aisle and turned towards the front of the building, coming to an abrupt halt when a beefy man stepped in front of him. “Get out of my way.” He’d found the men wealthy enough to be able to afford to pander to their depravity were not the kind who would tolerate being stymied, by anything. He stepped to the side and shoved past the man, ignoring the grasping fingers that plucked at his clothing. Another three strides and he was through the door. He heard the rustling movement of the guard he’d brushed off and knew he would have to deal with the threat before moving towards his destination. “Positive note,” he added via the subvocal, “he has what I need.” The man had been armed with what looked to be standard issue semiautomatic weaponry.
“Small favors.” Alace gave another of those tiny huffs. “Found their subnet and I am in.” That was good news, because when he’d made it past the initial wand sweep and pat-down area into the warehouse itself, she’d been still trying to determine if what they’d found earlier encompassed their entire computer network. She already controlled their cameras and alarms, but this would probably give her access to the data behind the group. “Downloading everything I find. They don’t have even the most basic of safeguards in place.”
“Stupid bad guys.” He swung left into the partially hidden hallway and stepped into the first doorway he found. He reached behind himself and groped for the doorknob, gripping and turning it to push the door ajar. The guard bustled through the entryway and put on a burst of speed upon spying the apparently empty hall. It was the work of moments to grab him as he was running past and use the momentum to dent the man’s temple against the doorframe. Owen altered the falling man’s trajectory towards the open door, catching him under the shoulders to drag the body into the darkened room. He glanced at the closed head wound and used his thumb to peel up first one eyelid then the other. The satisfaction he felt at the unevenly dilating pupils would bother him later. The trauma would be enough to guarantee this guard was eliminated from any upcoming fight, and without medical intervention, probably wouldn’t survive. Efficiently stripping the man of the weapon he’d been cradling, as well as a heavy revolver strapped to his waist, Owen ducked out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him.
“You’re quick.” Owen allowed himself a tiny grin at the honest praise from Alace. “I’ve got their drone cams now, too. I don’t have to disable them after all, looks like they’ve got pretty decent thermal. I can count three guards in that whole upper room, which looks to span the length of the building. There are internal walls, though, so someone could be masked by something as stupid as a furnace vent, Owen. I can’t give you specifics, not enough. Not like I want to.”
“We got this, boss lady.” He took the steps two at a time, pausing at the top of the stairs. “Anyone close?”
“Ten feet to your left. Not distinct enough to tell what direction they’re facing. Maybe my drones would have been better.” He grinned at her tech-disparaging sigh. He suspected that while Alace would have rather had her own tools, she could have taken a paper towel roll and some tinfoil and made something happen.
Easing the door open a crack gave him a decent enough view of the dimly lit room. As Alace had already noted, it was long and narrow, with a low ledge running along the wall that faced the main floor. Openings appeared at intervals, disguised from the outside by fabric that waved gently in the breeze from the climate control. He saw three guards, all facing away from him, which accounted for the bodies Alace had seen.
Creeping along the edge of the room, he took advantage of a deeply shadowed angle of the wall to handle his first target. The man went down without a sound, the heavy thud of pistol butt against skull a quiet, hollow noise, bones just behind his ear fragmenting and piercing the brain matter easily. Owen folded him into a nearby chair, hoping if one of the other guards turned around the man would simply appear to be taking a break.
Neither of the two remaining men moved, which allowed Owen to slip up behind the second guard unseen. Thinner and shorter, he was a good candidate for a rear chokehold, which was what Owen did. Applying downward pressure to the top of the man’s head, he held the guard’s feet off the ground until the kicking stopped. Knowing he’d been incapacitated for only a brief time, he settled that man’s back against the outer wall as he kept his gaze on the third man.
It wasn’t until he was right upon him that Owen realized what had so distracted the men. A computer monitor showed live video of a small room with a handful of armchairs scattered across the floor. There was a slim platform at one end of the room, and upon that stood the man Owen had identified as the mastermind behind the entire organization. Shit. The bidding had begun. That was why the guard downstairs had tried to stop Owen from leaving and why the warehouse had become so unexpectedly quiet. Each chair shown in the broadcast held a man with a differently colored paddle, a way to identify the identically masked individuals. His breath caught when he realized there were children chained to the leg of each chair. Owen’s heart dropped as he saw the way the men were using what was intended as the entertainment. His cover identity was expected to be in that room, but none of the chairs stood empty, which could mean only one of two things. Either they only seated the buyers anticipating bidding on the next few lots, or they’d pulled a chair, which would mean they knew he was missing.
Alone in this room with the single guard, he no longer had to worry about making noise, so he shoved the pistol against the back o
f the man’s neck. The guy froze at the touch, which was the reaction Owen had hoped for.
“Wanna live?” The question earned him a silent nod, and he wondered how the people who ran this organization couldn’t see that money alone didn’t earn loyalty. “How many guards total?”
“Twelve on each shift.” That number matched what Owen knew, which was good. Meant the guy wasn’t lying in an effort to lull him into a sense of complacency. “Nerds have their own guard.” He made an aborted move to jerk his head back towards the stairs, stopping when it pressed the muzzle deeper into his flesh. “Just one needed there. Three up here. Four for the floor and four for the events.”
“Cool.” Owen plucked a wide-bladed knife from a sheath at the man’s hip. “You get that, boss lady?” He grunted with the effort as, using a smooth motion of thrust-and-twist, he severed the man’s spinal cord, allowing the weight of the body to drag it off the knife.
“Roger. Are you headed down now?”
“Gotta clean up after myself first.” Retracing his steps, he used the knife to end the other two guards, the slick sound of the wet blade sliding through flesh loud in the quiet room.
“Anything else on this level I need to know about, boss lady?” Owen pushed the mask on top of his head and reached out to brush the fabric covering one of the slit windows slightly aside. From here he could see the entire warehouse floor. “Four on the floor, that’s stupid.” Alace snort-laughed in his ear. “Stop it, boss lady. Tell me what I need to worry about.”
“Nothing up there. The nerds, as he so elegantly put it, have been isolated, and I’ve disabled the lock on their door. They don’t know it yet, of course.” Silence on the open line was interrupted by her keyboard clacking and clicking. “Owen, I found schematics for what looks like a secondary suppression system, but it’s not rated for the kind of water pressure a building that size would need.”
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