Hunting Zero

by Jack Mars

  It should have taken us days to reach Dubrovnik by boat, she thought. Though she was uncertain of how long they had been in the container, it couldn’t have been more than a matter of hours. Where are we?

  Suddenly a chain rattled heavily on the steel ceiling. Maya jumped slightly, startled by the sound, but Sara didn’t move at all. Then there was a groan of creaking metal, and the large steel crate bucked and swayed. They were in the air, being lifted, likely hoisted by a crane, she realized. They were being unloaded from the boat. Putting us on a different boat? she wondered, thinking about the way Rais had switched vehicles to elude the authorities.

  Then they were coming down, being lowered again, and set upon the ground with a heavy, jarring jolt. Maya waited, staying stock-still in the silent darkness. It didn’t feel like another boat; there was no swaying. It felt like solid ground.

  More clinking of metal as someone on the other side removed the padlock. Over the time in the container, Maya had become disoriented; she didn’t realize that she and Sara were sitting mere inches from the door until one entire side of the container swung outward, pulled open by someone outside.

  The sudden flood of daylight blinded her temporarily. She put up a hand, shielding her eyes and squinting until the spots dissolved from her vision. When she lowered her hand again, she sucked in a breath.

  The first thing she saw was the chubby man from the dock standing there, scowling down at her. The second thing she noticed was the barrel of the black submachine gun that he carried in one hand, a strap securing the weapon over his shoulder.

  “Plane,” he said gruffly in accented English. “No talking. Walk. Do not run. Make trouble for me, I make more trouble for you.” He stepped to the side. Behind him, at a distance of no more than fifty feet, was an airplane, its rear hatch opened with a ramp lowered.

  Maya slowly got to her feet, pulling Sara up with her. She peered into her younger sister’s eyes. Sara looked back at her, but her gaze was empty and glassy. It was all too much for her. She appeared to have shut down mentally.

  Maya prodded her to walk as they stepped out of the container. They were immediately met by a blast of cold air as a frigid breeze blew over them. She looked left and right; they were at another cargo terminal, it seemed, but this one was a ghost town in some flat, frozen place. The sky overhead was gray and there was an inch of snow on the ground. She hugged one arm around her sister and the other around herself as they walked, in sandals and thin pajamas, from the container to the waiting plane.

  There were other men, more of them now. Whether they too were on the boat or came from the plane she wasn’t sure, but there were at least five of them that she could see, all dark-featured and dangerous looking. They were spanned every ten to fifteen feet between the container and airplane. There was no way to run. Nowhere to go. To the right was the ocean, the dock, and the boat they had come in on; to the left was practically nothing, a mostly bare cargo terminal with a single concrete building and open, empty space.

  Maya thought about the man at Port Jersey, the one with the white hard hat who had accepted money and looked the other way when they were put on the boat. There were likely people here too that would take bribes to ignore what was happening right in front of them. The thought brought tears to her eyes, but she refused to let them fall in front of these men.

  They reached the airplane and walked up the ramp, into the cargo hold. The plane looked old, barely more than a thick cylinder with a tail and a propeller under each wing. The rear was hollow, with thick canvas harnesses hung from the ceiling and walls, but no cargo.

  There was someone waiting for them, however; a despicably familiar face. Rais sat at the far end of the cargo hold, on the floor, leaning back casually against the curved interior wall. He regarded them with a slight nod as they entered and gestured for them to sit across from him.

  Maya directed Sara into place and then sat beside her. Sara stared at the floor, her mouth open slightly and her breaths shallow. Maya stared at Rais with an undisguised scowl. He stared back passively.

  The other girls were loaded quickly. Those who could walk did so; those who could not, the girls who had been drugged, were half-carried and half-dragged to the waiting plane. Maya couldn’t bring herself to look at them. Instead she kept her gaze forward.

  Someone sat beside her, on the opposite side from Sara, and Maya hazarded a quick glance. The girl was dark-haired, Latina, and at least a few years older than her—she assumed it was the girl she had been referring to in her mind as Jersey. She noticed the girl’s swollen, black-and-blue eye and cheek. Opposite Jersey was a girl with straight blonde hair, her sharp, angular cheeks puffy and red from sobbing. Oklahoma.

  More important than just their physical appearance was their demeanor—their heads hung low, avoiding eye contact with any of the rough-looking traffickers among them, who stood over the cowering girls while holding onto the canvas straps hanging from the ceiling. The young women had seen and experienced awful things, that much was clear. Things beyond Maya’s comprehension despite what she herself had experienced in the last twenty-four hours.

  In that moment, she made two realizations. The first was that they had traveled north by boat, likely beyond the US border; the cold weather told her that much. It was hot inside the cargo plane and stank of fuel, but at least she wouldn’t freeze to death in her tank top and pajama bottoms.

  The second thing she came to realize, hesitant as she was to admit it even to herself, was that she was helpless in this situation. Any attempt to flee or get Sara to safety would result in atrocities the likes of which she hadn’t even imagined only hours earlier. They had only one hope now, the hope that Jersey had told her to cling to for as long as she could.

  Her father had to come for them. Or else they were already dead.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The shift supervisor’s office at Port Jersey was a white trailer on cinder blocks—likely so it could be easily moved by crane if need be, Reid thought. The man with the white hard hat led the way up three wooden stairs and pushed the door open, closing it again behind them. It was not at all lost on him that the supervisor twisted the locking mechanism in the knob.

  Reid had agreed to come with him under the pretense of coffee and a few phone calls, but those were far from his mind at the moment. This man knew something, and Reid was going to find out what it was.

  “How do you take it?” the supervisor asked. He crossed the short span to a narrow table set up with a coffee machine, paper cups, and powdered creamer.

  “Black is fine. Thanks.” Reid quickly surveyed the office from end to end. There were two desks, one on each side, and four chairs. The whole trailer was about forty feet long, twelve feet wide. There was a small bathroom and another point of egress at the rear—undoubtedly locked as well—and the primary entrance was to Reid’s back.

  Not ideal, he thought, but private enough for questioning.

  “Here you go.” The supervisor set two paper cups on the steel desk nearer to them and then took a seat in a gray swivel chair behind it. “I’m very sorry you have to go through this. Hell of a thing, I imagine. How long did you say since your girls have gone missing, Mr.…?”

  “Townsend,” Reid told him. “But you can call me Frank.” He took a seat in the metal chair across the desk and sipped the coffee. It was lukewarm and tasted awful.

  “Well, Frank, I’m Bill,” the supervisor replied warmly. “You wanna… talk about it at all?”

  “They were taken yesterday from their home in New York,” Reid lied.

  “And what makes you think they ended up here?” Bill asked.

  Reid shrugged one shoulder. “Just a hunch.”

  “A hunch,” Bill repeated, folding his hands on the desk. “There wasn’t like a, uh, tip? Or some kind of evidence?”

  He’s fishing, Reid thought. He was asking questions to see just how much Reid knew, trying hard to sound blasé.

  “No tips,” he told Bill. “No evidenc
e. I just thought that this would be a likely place to take them out of the country.”

  Bill raised an eyebrow. It didn’t look like he was quite buying it. “Did you, uh, tell the police about this hunch of yours?”

  “No. I didn’t think they’d believe me.”

  “I see.” Bill took a cell phone out of his pocket and typed out a message. “Sorry, just replying to a text from the wife. So, Mr. Townsend, nobody knows you’re here?”

  “Besides the guys I talked to outside? No.” A text from the wife. Sure.

  Bill stuffed the phone back into his pocket. “Well. Like I said, I’m sorry this happened, but I’m afraid we just can’t help you. Now, if you felt inclined to get the police involved, we’d be happy to show them whatever they want to see. They could open every container, search every boat. But you have my word, they’re not going to find any girls.”

  Reid nodded. At least that answered one question—Maria had been right. The girls were already gone from this place. He kept his voice as calm and even as he could as he said, “I understand. I don’t think police intervention will be necessary.” He reached into his jacket and took out the folded photo of them. “But just in case, this is them here.” He turned the picture.

  Bill tried. He tried very hard not to show a reaction, and very nearly succeeded. But Kent Steele was a trained CIA agent with years of field and interrogation experience. He saw the tiny twitch of Bill’s eyebrows as his eyes impulsively widened slightly. He saw the irrepressible dilation of his pupils—a sure sign of deception.

  “I’ll certainly keep an eye out,” Bill promised.

  “Thank you.” Reid folded the photo again. “Do you have kids, Bill?”

  The supervisor shook his head. “Nope. Just never happened for us.”

  “But you know them.”

  Bill blinked at Reid, a confused but polite smile on his lips. “Sorry?”

  Reid tucked the photo back into his jacket, and at the same time his hand found the grip of his Glock 22. He pulled it out, not aiming, but showing it. “You know them,” he said again.

  “Whoa, whoa…” Bill said uneasily as he started to rise.

  “Stay seated,” Reid commanded as he pointed the Glock. Bill sank again into his chair, eyes wide and afraid. “You’ve seen them, these two girls. I can tell.”

  “No, never, I swear it…”

  “Outside, you said none of your boats go to Dubrovnik. I didn’t mention Dubrovnik.”

  “What?” Bill’s face contorted into a frown. “Well, s-sure you did…”

  “I didn’t.” He racked the slide on the Glock to put a round in the chamber. “Tell me what you know, Bill.”

  The supervisor gulped and placed his hands flat on the desk in front of him. “Listen, Frank, pal, we can talk. Okay? But not with a gun in my face.”

  “I find it helps people be honest.”

  “Yeah, okay, but think about this,” Bill implored. “You fire that thing in here and there are thirty guys out there that are going to hear it. They’ll all come running. Most of them are good guys, innocent guys, family men. You going to shoot them? You got enough bullets for that? Because if not, you’re still the one holding the gun, and they will kick your damn skull in.”

  Reid nodded slowly. “You’ve got a good point, Bill.” He holstered the Glock. “That’s not the way to go about this.”

  “Right,” Bill agreed with a sigh of relief. “Let’s just talk, and—”

  Reid lurched forward suddenly, reaching across the desk and grabbing Bill by two handfuls of collar. He hefted the man up, out of his chair, and yanked him clear over the desk. Coffee spilled to the floor and paperwork flew as he brought the hapless supervisor crashing to the floor.

  Before Bill could recover, let alone shout for help, Reid pressed his knee into the man’s throat, cutting off not only his ability to speak but his air supply as well.

  He leaned over, close to the supervisor’s face. “Listen to me, Bill, and listen well.” He spoke quickly, his voice edged with a growl. “Those two girls in that picture are my children. My daughters. My family. My life. They mean everything to me. You mean nothing to me. I would just as soon leave you bleeding out on this floor if it means getting even one step closer to them. If you think help is coming, you’re wrong. I’ve got two guns, twenty-seven rounds, and two hands, and I’m pretty confident that I can get through you and anyone else that wants to try to stand in my way.”

  Bill’s face turned dark red, his circulation cut off, as a wet choking sound escaped his lips. But Reid did not relent. Not yet.

  “There is nothing I won’t do to get to them. And trust me, I’ve done some pretty horrible things. You know something. I think you saw them. When I let my knee off your throat, you’re going to tell me everything. You’re not going to shout for help or try to draw attention, because then it will be even worse for you. Case in point.”

  Reid grabbed Bill’s right hand and, without hesitation, without thinking twice, turned the man’s index finger sideways. It broke easily with a dull thock, like snapping a chicken bone, sticking out at a ninety-degree angle from the rest of his hand.

  Bill tried to scream, but with Reid’s knee firmly on his neck all he could do was gag as his face turned purple.

  Reid relieved the pressure, only a bit, just enough so that Bill could suck in some air. The man’s mouth gasped open like a fish, and when he exhaled it came out as a moan of pain. “You… you son of a bitch…” he wheezed.

  They never learn the first time. “Let me tell you something, Bill,” Reid hissed, leaning down close to Bill’s face. “In every interrogation, bar none, it always seems that the subject thinks they’re going to be the nut that doesn’t crack. But they all crack eventually.” Reid pressed his knee down again, and then he broke Bill’s pinky finger.

  The supervisor clenched his eyes shut tightly as his mouth yawned in a silent scream.

  “You’ve got eight more, Bill. I’m a patient man, but I don’t have much time.”

  He let up slightly and Bill whimpered, spittle dripping from his puffy, purple lips. “They were here,” he said hoarsely. He retched and then said, “They were here, this morning. Around four. On a boat…”

  “The man who was with them,” Reid said, “he was American, right? Green eyes? Dark hair?” He had to confirm that it was Rais. At least then maybe he and Maria could convince the agency of the truth. “Answer me, Bill.”

  “One of them was…”

  “One of them?” Reid frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “The others were… the Slavs…” Bill panted.

  “The Slavs? Who are the Slavs?”

  “I don’t know… who they are. Slovak, or m-maybe Czech. They have a b-boat, a small one, with con… containers. They’re empty. All except one or, or two.”

  Panic seized Reid’s chest like a heart attack. In nearly a whisper he asked, “What’s in the containers, Bill?”

  A sob escaped the supervisor’s throat. “God help me…”

  “He’s not here, Bill. I am.” Reid grabbed an unbroken finger and gripped it tightly. “What’s in the containers?!”

  “…P-people.”

  “Children?”

  Bill sniffled. “Girls. Always girls.”

  Reid’s face slackened like a stroke. Eastern European men had taken his little girls away, across the ocean, and this man—this monster—helped them. The ball of rage in his chest exploded and he forgot himself again. He pressed on Bill’s throat with a knee almost hard enough to crush the man’s windpipe and grabbed his middle finger.

  “You let traffickers…”

  He snapped the finger.

  “…take my children?”

  He broke another.

  “For what? For money, Bill?”

  He gripped the supervisor’s thumb and jerked it back until it touched his forearm. The bone popped and muscle tore. Already the mangled hand was swollen to nearly double its normal size. Blue-black contusions stained
the skin at the break points.

  Bill’s eyes were wide enough to fall out of his head, bloodshot and unblinking. But he could not make a sound, not with Reid’s knee on his throat.

  Just kill him. It would be easy. Just don’t move for another thirty seconds and he’ll be dead. He deserves nothing less.

  No. I can’t. Not yet.

  He eased off of Bill’s throat and the man sucked in a rattling breath. Every exhalation came with a hoarse moan. “Hnngh… hnngh… hnngh…”

  “Where did they go?” Reid positioned himself so that Bill was forced to look in his eyes. “You knew about Dubrovnik, but you said none of your ships go there. So where did they go? Bill, where did they take my daughters?”

  “They…” His words were little more than croaking whimpers. “They’ll kill me.”

  “Maybe so. But I won’t. I’ll leave you alive. I’m going to break the rest of your fingers, Bill. And if I still don’t have the information I want, I’ll break your arms and legs. But I’ll leave you alive to live with what you’ve done. To look down at your own mangled, disfigured limbs and be reminded of what you really are.” He grabbed Bill’s other hand to demonstrate that he was not bluffing—and he wasn’t. “Where did they go?”

  “N-north.” The supervisor sobbed again, which caught in his throat as a cough. “There’s a, an island, just off the—ack—coast of Nova Scotia. Th-there’s a depot there…”

  “A cargo depot?” Reid asked impatiently. “And they do the same thing you do? They look the other way for these men? Take money while they abduct girls? Young women?”

  Bill squeezed his eyes shut, tears streaming down his face as he nodded.

  Nova Scotia. It wouldn’t make sense, going north just to go east; that would take much longer than eight days. Unless…

  “At this cargo depot, they get put on a plane.” Reid worked the thought out aloud. “Is that it? They leave here on a boat, get on a plane, and go to Dubrovnik?”