by Jack Mars
“We can’t stop now,” he told her. “And we can’t turn around. They’ll already have seen us coming.” He slowed their approach, creeping toward the bridge as his mind raced for an alternate plan. “Aiya, I want you to stay in the car. I’ll handle this.”
“No,” she said adamantly. “They will know something is wrong if they do not see me.”
“I’ll tell them I want the money first—”
“It will not work,” Aiya argued. “These men do not bargain. You must remember, they are monsters; girls like me are not people to them. We are a resource, a currency to be traded. The trade must be made or there will be no deal.” She paused for a moment before adding, “Metaj was not one of them. He was merely a seller. They would not have hesitated to kill him if a deal did not go their way, and he knew that. Acting any differently would risk your own life.”
Reid held his breath as the front tires of the Jeep rolled onto the bridge and into the darkness of the timber trusses overhead. He eased the car to a stop. Not twenty feet before them were the blaring headlights of the other car. He could hardly see any details, other than the two bright lights; judging by their height, the vehicle was a truck or an SUV.
The headlights flashed once. Reid did the same, flicking them off and then on again. There was movement in the darkness behind the opposing headlights, and then silhouettes as the traffickers got out and stood in front of their car, waiting.
Three of them. At least that I can see. Possibly a fourth still in the car. His heart thumped in his chest, blood rushing in his ears. Ordinarily he would have little doubt about taking on a trio of criminals, even all at once, but his body was beyond sore. Pain had made a seemingly permanent home in his aching limbs. There was still one shot of epinephrine in his jacket pocket, but he did not want to use it. He might need it later, to get the girls out of wherever they were being held.
Though it’ll do you little good if you’re dead.
He turned his head slightly and said to Aiya, “As soon as any shooting starts, I want you to take cover behind the car, okay?”
“Yes,” she said in a whisper. He could tell she was petrified—she had been already, and their rapidly collapsing plan only made matters worse.
“I promise you, Aiya. I will not let them take you again.” He pushed open the door and climbed out of the Jeep, circling around to her side. He yanked open the door and whispered, “I’m sorry.” Then he grabbed her roughly by the upper arm and half-dragged her out of the car.
Aiya cried out. Whether she was acting her part or genuinely surprised, Reid couldn’t tell, but it was hardly the time to wonder. He gripped her firmly as they took a position in front of their car, mere shapes in the headlights.
For a moment, neither side spoke. Reid scrutinized the three silhouettes; the two on either side of the car had dark, oddly shaped protrusions just above their hips. Submachine guns, he realized, hanging from a shoulder strap. The man in the center was tall and broad-shouldered, and had both arms folded across his expansive chest.
“Mirko,” Reid said at last. He did his best to affect a Slovakian accent and the gruff demeanor he’d heard from Metaj.
The large man standing between the headlights unfolded his arms and stepped forward slowly, until Reid could see his dark, deep-set eyes, the angular shadow of a beard on his face.
Mirko flicked something into the air and it landed at Reid’s feet. He stooped to pick it up; it was a silver money clip, and folded within it was eight hundred euros. He nearly scoffed aloud. A young woman’s life is worth less than a thousand dollars to them. He had no remorse about killing the pimp, but he suddenly wished he could have killed him twice.
Still gripping Aiya’s arm with his left hand, Reid took a step toward the Slovakian trafficker. His gaze flitted left and right; neither of the flanking men had their hands on their weapons. If he was fast enough, he could draw the Ruger and gun them each down, and then turn it on Mirko. He would only have to hope that there was no one else waiting inside their vehicle, no ace in the hole…
“That’s far enough,” Mirko announced in a Slovak basso, raising one hand. “Just the girl. I want to see her face.”
Reid glanced over at Aiya, who kept her head ducked low as instructed. Her auburn bangs hung over her eyes, obscuring her features. If she had any reaction to Mirko’s demand, she didn’t show it.
“Why?” Reid demanded. “What does it matter?”
Mirko chuckled mirthlessly. “Because, friend, you are not Metaj. Metaj is dead.”
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
Reid froze, though his heart doubled its pace. Aiya did not look up or even move; then he remembered that she did not speak the traffickers’ language. She had no idea what had been said.
“Do you think us stupid?” Mirko asked. The two Slovakian men behind him hefted their weapons in a casual, hip-height grip, the barrels aimed at Reid. “How would an operation like ours survive if we did not keep our eyes and ears open? We know about the murders at Macicka. We know that three of our girls escaped from the District.”
As much as he wanted to reach for his weapon, Reid did not dare move. A single blast from either of the machine guns trained on them would cut both him and Aiya down instantly.
“At first we thought you might have been police,” Mirko continued. “We were not going to come. But then a mutual ‘friend’ called.”
Varga, Reid realized bitterly. The corrupt politician must have tipped off the traffickers about the lone American who attacked him in the penthouse.
“You are the one who killed our men at Tkanina?” Mirko asked.
“Yes.” Reid held his head high and admitted it loudly. “I did.”
“And the other American? The one from Amun? Does he live?”
Reid narrowed his eyes. He recalled what Rais had told him about the traffickers; they had helped the assassin get across the ocean with the girls because they hoped to become Amun themselves.
Mirko must have been among those who helped Rais… which meant the Slovakian had aided in the kidnapping of his daughters.
“No,” Reid told him. “I killed him and threw his body into the sea.”
Mirko nodded slowly. “That is unfortunate news for us.” He sighed. “We are going to kill you both. This can be quickly or this can be slowly. We can kill you first, or we can kill the girl in front of your eyes. This all depends on you.” The large Slovakian took a step closer and said, “I want to know who you are, and I need to know who else knows what you know.”
Reid stepped instinctively in front of Aiya. “No one else knows. It’s only me.”
Mirko scoffed. “I don’t believe you. You have come too far to have done all of this on your own.” He turned to his two compatriots. “Take them both. We’ll get our answers somewhere a little more private.”
The two armed Slovakians advanced, the submachine guns raised.
Reid felt a pressure at the small of his back. Aiya was reaching for the LC9 he had stowed there.
“Don’t,” he hissed. She did not respond, other than to tug the small pistol loose from his pants. He couldn’t blame her for wanting to protect herself; he had promised to protect her, to keep her out of the hands of these men, and he appeared to be failing. Even so, he had to think fast, or the brash actions of the girl could mean the end for both of them.
“Wait!” he called to Mirko. “I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
Mirko put up a hand and the two men paused.
“My name is Agent Kent Steele,” Reid said quickly in Slovak, “of the American Central Intelligence Agency. Everything that has happened has been part of a sting operation between Interpol and the CIA to bring your organization down. I didn’t come here alone; you are surrounded. And if you make a move against us, my people will open fire.”
Mirko narrowed his eyes at Reid. Then the large Slovakian’s face twisted into a wide grin. “That is a good story,” he said. “But it is not true. They would not have waited this long to move a
gainst us.”
“Are you sure about that?” Reid pointed at Mirko with two fingers, his index and middle, his thumb straight up in the air like the shape of a gun.
The signal.
“I am quite sure—”
A sharp crack echoed in the covered bridge as the Slovakian on the left jerked once and fell forward, a neat hole in the back of his head. The other Slovak spun, cursing, and sprayed a fusillade of bullets past their vehicle and out into the night.
Reid spun to the right as Aiya raised the Ruger and fired off several deafening rounds from the tiny weapon, shooting the second gunman dead.
Mirko crouched in front of the truck, bewildered as he yanked a heavy pistol loose from his jacket. Reid charged forward, closing the small gap in seconds—but not before the Slovakian fired off a single thunderous shot. Reid skirted to the right and it missed him by a few feet. He led with a knee aimed for Mirko’s face and it hit home. The trafficker’s head snapped back and struck the grille of the SUV.
Reid grabbed at the pistol in an attempt to twist it from Mirko’s grip, but the bigger man held tight, pushing against the resistance. Reid grabbed it with his second hand, intent on getting the gun away from him. Mirko’s large fist swung up and slammed into the side of his head. Reid grunted and fell to the side. As he did, he kicked one foot upward and into the Slovakian’s wrist. The gun flew from his grip.
Mirko growled and rolled over onto him, wrapping both meaty hands around Reid’s throat.
Why isn’t anyone shooting?! he thought desperately. The large Slovakian was strong—stronger than he was, especially with his injuries—and had a significant weight advantage too. Reid would have to rely on tactics if he was going to survive.
Instead of trying to pry Mirko’s hands away from his throat, he curled his middle fingers inward, pressing hard on the soft fleshy patch between the Slovakian’s thumb and index finger of each hand. There was a pressure point there, an intensely painful one that forced open the hands.
Mirko gritted his teeth as his grip weakened, trying in vain to strangle the American to death. Reid pulled the feeble fingers from his neck and released them. One hand shot up and hooked a finger into the suprasternal notch, the shallow depression where the collarbones meet. He pressed hard, inward and downward; the skin there was pliant, flexible, and his finger hooked around cartilage as he pulled.
Mirko yelped in pain; Reid knew firsthand that it was an extremely unpleasant sensation, sending nerve endings firing throughout the ribs and back. As the Slovakian’s body came forward, Reid’s elbow came up and landed a solid blow across the bridge of his nose and between the eyes. He rolled his body over, sending Mirko onto his back as Reid staggered to his feet, searching around for the lost pistol.
Mirko reeled, clawing at the air and finding purchase on the grille of the SUV. Reid spotted the gun and surged for it, but Mirko leapt up and snaked a heavy arm around his neck, capturing Reid in a chokehold. He tried to tuck his chin, to get an arm up in time, but he couldn’t seem to move fast enough. Mirko hissed in his ear as he clenched, cutting off his air supply. Reid went limp, hoping to drag the Slovakian to the ground with him, but Mirko had no problem holding him aloft as he slowly squeezed the life out of him.
Another single shot erupted; high-pitched and cracking. A twenty-two, Reid knew. Mirko’s grip tightened for a moment as he groaned, and then slackened. They both fell to the bridge—Mirko on his side, gasping, and Reid on his hands and knees, panting for breath.
“You okay?” Maria knelt in a firing position beside the traffickers’ SUV, the black tactical rifle still to her shoulder.
“Yeah…” Reid said breathlessly. “Did you clear the car?”
She nodded and stood. “There’s no one else…” Her gaze lifted and her face fell. “Oh, no. Kent.”
He followed her gaze and a deflating breath escaped his lungs. Aiya was on her back, awash in the headlights of the Jeep, legs writhing as if trying to kick away an invisible assailant.
Reid got to his feet and staggered to her, sliding to his knees at her side. Her heart was still beating, but every pulse pumped blood from the hole in her chest. Mirko’s single shot had missed him, or so he had thought. But it hadn’t been intended for him at all. The Slovakian was aiming for the bigger threat, the girl with the gun.
“Aiya? Aiya!” Reid pressed both hands over the wound to stanch the blood flow. “Just hang on, okay? We’re going to get you to a hospital. You’ll be fine…” Blood pooled around his hands as he said it. He didn’t even realize he was speaking English; the girl had no idea what he was saying.
Her fingers found the sleeves of his jacket, clinging to him as if it might save her life. “Find them,” Aiya said in Ukrainian, her voice quavering. “Keep them safe.”
“I will, I promise I will, just hang on…” The blood wasn’t stopping. Part of him knew it wouldn’t. “Maria!” he called out. “I need help! Maria…”
Aiya’s hands fell away from his jacket. A final breath hissed from her throat. Reid’s head fell forward, his chin nearly touching his chest. He hadn’t protected her from them at all. He had failed, just like he had failed to find his own girls. All he saw was the blood—blood on his hands, blood staining her shirt. Blood on the bridge, the pool of it slowly inching toward the silver and black Lorcin nine-mil pistol he had taken from Mirko.
He snatched it up and stood.
“Kent…” Maria warned as he stalked over to the Slovakian.
Reid flipped the gun around. Shooting him was too good for him; he was going to bash Mirko’s skull in.
Mirko lay on his side, eyes closed and teeth gritted, grimacing from the bullet Maria had lodged in his back.
“Kent!” Maria barked. She dropped the sniper rifle and jumped to her feet as he brought the Lorcin up overhead, ready to smash it down into Mirko’s forehead. She stopped his arm and stepped between him and the downed Slovakian. “No!” she told him harshly. “We need information! That was the whole point of this!”
He tried to pull out of her grip, but she was strong. “Let me go!”
“Think of your girls,” Maria said, one hand holding his arm back and the other on his chest. “Sara and Maya. They are still out there. This man might know where they’re going. Let me handle this.” She touched his chin and forced him to look into her gray eyes. “I’ll talk to him. Go take care of Aiya and the Jeep.”
Reid slowly lowered his hand and the pistol. “Fine,” he murmured. “But when you’re done, I’m going to kill him.”
“Go,” Maria ordered again. She lowered her hand from his chest and pulled out a silver butterfly knife.
Reid tucked the Lorcin into the back of his jeans and turned away, walking slowly back over to Aiya’s body and the Jeep. Behind him, Maria made demands in Slovak. Mirko screamed. But it barely registered with him.
What had transpired over the last two days had certainly been a horrific ordeal for his daughters—one that was ongoing at that very moment. He couldn’t imagine what might be happening to them. The very thought of it made his blood boil and sent shivers down his spine at the same time. But for a girl like Aiya, the horror had been most of her life. It happened every day, in every corner of the world, even in the sort of places that no one ever believed such things could happen.
It wasn’t right and it wasn’t fair. She deserved the chance she would now never get.
Mirko’s screams rose an octave as Reid bent and gingerly lifted her body. He slid her gently into the backseat of the Jeep. In the trunk was an orange nylon bag, a roadside kit, and inside were three flares. He popped one, the potassium perchlorate and magnesium igniting in a hissing red flame. He watched it for a moment, the intense light dancing in his eyes and the scent filling his nostrils.
Then he dropped it into the backseat of the Jeep. The clumps of hair that Aiya had cut from his head lit first, and then the carpet. The vinyl of the seats melted and the foam beneath it caught fire.
He closed the door to the Jeep
before the fire reached Aiya’s body. His makeshift funeral pyre was far less than she deserved, but he wasn’t about to leave her body lying on the bridge for the authorities to find.
Mirko’s pained, primal shrieks had become little more than background noise by then, as Reid stooped to retrieve the LC9 from where Aiya had dropped it. He checked the clip; four shots left in the nine-round magazine. She had fired five of them at the Slovakians.
For good measure, he retrieved the two submachine guns from the fallen Slavs. They were both Agram 2000 models, a Croatian-made gun based on the Beretta M12. One-point-eight kilograms. Twenty-two-round feed system with nine-millimeter Parabellum rounds.
Maria stood, her chest heaving and hands matching his—stained red. Mirko writhed on the ground, whimpering like a wounded animal. Reid didn’t even look at him, much less feel any kind of remorse or sense of regret.
“Done?” he asked.
She nodded. “Got it.”
He fired two shots from the Lorcin into Mirko. The Slovakian’s whimpers immediately fell silent. “You drive.” He climbed into the passenger seat of the traffickers’ SUV as Maria stowed the black sniper rifle and got behind the wheel. He was exhausted, aching, bloody, angry—but his resolve had not changed one iota. If anything, Aiya’s death gave him a renewed sense of duty.
Baraf’s words spun through his mind. You are not judge or jury, the Interpol agent had said. Just an indiscriminate executioner.
But Baraf was wrong. He was discriminate, relentlessly so. He would not only find his girls. He would find every perpetrator of their capture, and he would kill every single one of them if he had to.
The SUV was a newer model, with GPS in the dashboard. Maria jabbed at the touchscreen for a moment as she told him, “The girls are alive. They landed in Slovakia and were taken north, across the border.”
“North?” Reid frowned. “Into Poland?”
Maria shook her head as she backed the SUV out from under the covered bridge. The Jeep beyond them was fully ablaze, the flames licking the windows. “Czechia,” she corrected. She straightened the vehicle and accelerated, the powerful engine roaring under the hood. “Do you trust me yet?”
