by Jack Mars
The unconscious woman’s arm dangled near his face. A pool of blood spread to the doorway of the cabin as steady footfalls sounded in the corridor beyond. There were three of them, he surmised from the sound of their boots. And he was a sitting duck.
“Come out,” one of them called gruffly in Slovak. “And we will not kill you.”
He had no way out; the only point of egress was the narrow window of the cabin, and he wouldn’t be able to get it open and safely climb out before they reached him. Reid stayed on the floor, on his back, the gun aimed at the doorway. If he was lucky, they would aim high, for center mass, and he could get the drop on them—but likely only one, maybe two, before they realized his position.
The footsteps treaded closer as Reid struggled to control his breathing. The epinephrine was wearing off. The pain was returning to his body, accompanied by fresh aches in his ribs where he had leaped down onto the passenger car.
He saw the black muzzle of a machine gun as it twisted around the corner, pointing into the room—upward, as he had suspected—and as the body followed, Reid pulled the trigger and fired four rounds through the Slovakian. The man squeezed his own trigger as he fell, sending bullets uselessly into the ceiling.
The other two shouted angrily and kept their distance. Reid had given away his position. He scrambled to his feet, looking around wildly, but there was nowhere to go that wouldn’t put the unconscious young woman in harm’s way.
His mind raced for an answer when suddenly the entire train jolted, the brakes beneath them shrieking. Reid swayed and grabbed onto the top cot for support; out in the corridor he heard the two men yell, their bodies thumping against the floor as they fell over.
He had his opening. He snatched up the Agram and slid on his knees into the hallway, firing low, at hip level, until the clip was empty. The barrel smoked as the train rolled to a complete stop. The two Slavs were dead.
Maria, he thought. She must have had to fly over the mountain when the train went into the tunnel and blocked its route from the other side.
The Agram was out of ammunition and his Ruger had only a few shots left. He grabbed up one of the dead men’s guns—an Uzi, a gun notorious for poor accuracy at anything other than close range. It was less than ideal for much more than spraying bullets, but it would serve his purposes.
He cleared the other two sleeper cabins in the car. They were both empty. He told the girl hiding under the cot to stay still and quiet, just as he had told the others, and then he hurried to the front of the passenger car. The door was still open, but the entrance to the next car was closed.
Since the passenger cars on this train were intended merely for transport, they were not properly coupled; Reid had to climb over a short railing to reach the next car. He winced as he did, pain shooting in his legs and abdomen. The epinephrine had worn off, veritably wasted, while he still had yet to find his daughters.
But this was not the time to show weakness. He paused yet again with his hand on the door, took a few calming breaths, and threw it open.
Reid pushed into the car with the Uzi leading the way to find the corridor empty. There were no Slavic traffickers, no shouts of surprise, no hail of gunfire. He paused, listening intently. He had killed four Slovakians in the last passenger car; was it possible there were only four on the train?
There was a sound, barely audible in the relative silence of the car. At first he thought it was someone breathing, but it could have been the hissing of some train apparatus, like the cooling brakes beneath him.
His throat was dry but his hands were steady as he reached for the door to the nearest sleeper cabin and threw it open, immediately barging in and clearing the tiny room with the Uzi.
There was no one inside. But if there’s anyone in the other three, they’ll be ready for me.
Nevertheless, he pressed on, his fingers on the latch of the next cabin. He sucked in a breath and wrenched it open.
It too was empty.
Reid just barely heard the quiet click of a latch as a door slid open elsewhere in the passenger car.
He was on his feet in an instant, the Uzi in hand. But he couldn’t tell which direction the sound had come from, if it was an entrance door to the passenger car or if it was a sleeper cabin opening.
He paused at the threshold, listening, trying to determine which way to aim. The wrong choice could mean someone getting a clear shot at him—or several. He could throw himself into the corridor, against the far wall, hopefully diverting their attention and aim enough to get a few shots in himself. It was risky, but it was preferable to sticking his head out or waiting for someone to reach to his position.
He let out a silent breath and then launched his body into the corridor, raising the Uzi at the same time toward the figure standing in the aisle of the passenger car. His shoulder hit the opposite wall painfully. His index finger was heavy on the trigger—
Reid’s breath caught in his throat as he got visual on his assailant. The Slovak trafficker was armed with an Agram, but it was not pointed at Reid. It was pressed to the temple of his hostage.
Her eyes were half-closed. Her skin was chalk-white and she could barely stand on her own, held up mostly by the thick Slavic arm around her neck.
He had found her. He had finally found her—looking barely conscious and with a gun pressed to her skull.
“Maya,” he said in a whisper.
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
“Put down the gun,” the trafficker said in Slovakian, “or I kill this girl.”
Reid dropped the Uzi as if it were on fire. “Okay,” he said quickly. “Just let her go. It’s me you want, right?” He doesn’t know who she is. He doesn’t know she’s why I’ve come, he thought desperately.
“On your knees,” the Slovak demanded.
Reid held up one hand, palm out. Don’t hurt her. Please don’t hurt her. “First, let the girl go. Then I’ll do whatever you ask.”
The trafficker’s grip tightened around Maya’s neck. Reid gasped as she let out a weak choking sound.
“Please…” he implored as he lowered himself to one knee. The Uzi was within arm’s reach. But it might as well have been a mile away for all the good it would do him.
Maya’s eyelids fluttered slightly. Her lips parted and she murmured a single word: “Dad?”
Tears stung at Reid’s eyes. “Yes,” he said in English. “I’m here.”
The trafficker furrowed his brow; it was doubtful that he understood their words, but he recognized the emotion behind the exchange. “You know her?” he asked in Slovak. His mouth curled into a wicked grin. “You came here for this one?”
Reid said nothing. If he admitted the truth, the man might pull the trigger. But if I don’t, he’ll hurt her anyway. If he kills me, he’ll hurt her anyway. There wasn’t an angle on the situation that Reid could see ending with anything other than him failing to have saved his daughter.
“I came for her,” he said quietly in Slovak. “I’m her father.”
For a moment the trafficker looked quite surprised. Then his malicious grin returned. “Then for what you have done to my friends, you will watch her die.”
“No—”
The trafficker let go of his grip on Maya. She tried to stand on her own, but her legs gave out from beneath her and she collapsed to the floor of the passenger car. The Slovak aimed his Agram downward…
Reid scrambled forward, reaching for the Uzi, desperate to grab it up in time.
It was barely in his grip as a blast of gunfire tore the air. He winced at the deafening report; his eyes squeezed shut and refused to ever open again as his heart seized.
No.
Beyond his eyelids, someone grunted and fell.
What?
Reid opened his eyes. The Slovakian was splayed out on the floor of the train car, a pool of blood widening around him. Beside him was Maya, lying still—too still. Beyond them both was the open door at the front of the passenger car.
Maria stood in it, h
er submachine gun barrel smoking.
“Maya.” Reid dropped the Uzi and scrambled on his hands and knees to her side. She was on her back, her eyes barely open, like two crescent moons on her too-white skin.
He quickly checked her over; she wasn’t hit. Tears flooded his eyes when he saw the purple and blue bruises across the side of her face. “Maya, baby, say something.” His trembling fingers touched her neck. She had a pulse; weak, but steady. “Maya. I found you. Talk to me… please… I came for you. I’m here. I found you.” The words spilled from his lips as if they would wake her, but she did not move, did not respond in any way.
He hugged her to his chest and rocked gently, his tears spilling down his cheeks and onto her forehead.
Maria knelt beside them and checked Maya’s pupils. “It looks like she’s been drugged.” Maria set about checking the girl’s body for any other wounds. “I don’t think anything is broken…”
Maya moaned softly. Reid released his grip on her, holding her up by her shoulders. “Maya?”
“Dad,” she murmured softly.
“Yes, it’s me. I’m here…”
“Sara,” she said in a whisper.
“Sara? What about Sara?” Reid turned desperately to Maria. “You cleared the first half of the train, right?”
Maria turned toward him, but she didn’t look him in the eye. “I did. But Kent… there were no other American girls aboard.”
“No.” Reid shook his head. He didn’t believe it—he couldn’t believe it. “No, no. She’s here. She has to be here. Sara is here.” He sniffed once and wiped his eyes. “There’s a… there’s one car I didn’t clear, a freight car. But I can’t get to it if we’re in the tunnel. We need to move the helicopter off the tracks, get the train out, and then I can check it. She’s in there…” He was rambling, speaking a mile a minute. His other daughter had to be on the train. All of the traffickers aboard were dead; there was no one left to give them a lead, to tell them where she was.
“Kent. Look at this.” Maria, still kneeling beside Maya, pointed out the thin, dark blood stain on Maya’s pant leg. Maria gently peeled back the fabric, small threads sticking to the still-healing wound.
Reid’s hand flew over his mouth when he saw the source of the blood.
There on Maya’s calf were thin letters, a message carved into her skin. The very sight of it made bile rise in his throat, but he forced himself to lean in and see what it said.
RED
23
POLA
Those were the three lines etched into her leg.
“What do you think this means?” Maria asked in a near-whisper.
“I don’t know.” Reid put both hands over his mouth and breathed into them as his mind raced. Was this done to her? Or did she do it to herself? If she did it, why? “Maya, can you hear me?”
“Sara,” the girl said again.
“Reid, she’s barely responsive,” said Maria. “We need to get her to a hospital…”
“Train,” Maya murmured. “On a train.”
“Yes, we’re on the train,” said Reid quickly. “But where is Sara? Maya, do you know where she is?” He looked down again at the scars cut into her leg. On a train. Maya was incredibly smart; if she had been separated from her younger sister but could not do anything about it physically, then she would have found another way. Like leaving hairs behind for forensics to find. Like hiding a message in a toilet tank.
Or carving a message into her own skin, if nothing else was available.
“Is she…” he started. “Maya, is she on a different train?”
His daughter nodded weakly, just once, her chin bobbing only slightly.
Maria sighed. “They put them on two different trains.”
“And Maya did this to herself,” Reid realized aloud, “to leave a clue.” Pola? Pola. What is Pola? “Poland,” he murmured. “One to Poland.”
“But ‘red twenty-three’… what is that?” Maria asked.
A color and a number. A train. Train cars. Boxcars…
His mind suddenly flashed onto a memory, one that had happened only a day prior—though now it felt like a lifetime ago. He had stood in Port Jersey, desperately looking for his daughters, surrounded by towering stacks of cargo containers in various colors.
Each one emblazoned with a stenciled number.
“It’s a boxcar,” he blurted out. “Maya gave us a destination and a location on the train. We have to go. We have to find it.”
“What about her?” Maria protested, gesturing at Maya. “We can’t take her with us, Kent. Not like this.”
“We can,” he argued, even though he knew she was right. “We take the chopper, put her in the back…”
“We can’t,” Maria argued. “I’ll stay.”
“What?” Reid shook his head. “No, you can’t stay. Strickland is on his way, with the Czech police—”
“And probably Interpol,” Maria added. “I know. I’ll keep her safe until they arrive. I’ll make sure she gets to a hospital and that she’s taken care of. You go. Get Sara.”
“Maria, they’ll arrest you.”
“Yeah,” she said with a small shrug. “They probably will. But if it means that one of your girls is safe and in the right hands…” She rose from her kneeling position and looked him in the eye. “Then it’s worth it.”
“I won’t ask you to do that—”
“You’re not. I’m volunteering.”
Reid stared at the floor. He looked at his daughter, lying semi-conscious before them. He didn’t know what to say; there was nothing he could say that would come close to expressing the gratitude he was feeling.
Maria stepped into the corridor and patted down the dead trafficker’s pockets, coming up with a cell phone. “Here,” she said as she punched in a number. “I know you don’t like it, but this is my contact at FIS. Tell them who you are and what’s happened. They’ll help you.”
Reid took the phone. She was right; he did not like the idea of working with her Ukrainians—but if it meant finding his daughter, he would do whatever was necessary.
“Maria, I…”
She took his face in both hands and kissed him. “What did I tell you before? We don’t say goodbyes.”
“I was just going to say thank you.”
She smirked. “I’ll take that. Now go. Take the chopper. Make the call. You don’t have time to waste.”
Reid nodded and grabbed the Uzi. He knelt and kissed Maya’s forehead. The sense of gratitude he felt to hold her, to look into her face, was beyond anything he could express.
He felt his eyes well up. And he vowed to never let her out of his sight again.
“I’ll be back for you, I promise,” he whispered, and kissed her again.
Then he hurried to the door of the passenger car, climbed over the railing into the third and final sleeper car, and pushed the door open.
He staggered to a stop, stunned by what he found. There were four more dead Slavs in the third car, as well as two johns. Maria had cleared the car, and she had done it without the personal investment that he had in this.
She had done it for him, or for his girls, or maybe for both.
Reid stepped over the bodies and exited through the passenger car, hastening toward the waiting chopper. His limbs still ached and the stab wound in his abdomen throbbed, but the pain hardly mattered anymore; he had found Maya, and nothing, not anyone, was going to stand in the way of finding Sara.
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE
Reid piloted the medevac helicopter over the border between the Czech Republic and Poland, heading northeast in the general direction of Warsaw. He kept the lights off and his altitude low, around fifteen hundred feet, maintaining an air speed of about a hundred sixty miles an hour. The radio was off; the last thing he needed was more threats to shoot him out of the sky.
He plugged the cell phone that Maria had given him into the headset interface, but hesitated to press the call button. It was not for fear of betraying the CIA,
or his country; US and Ukrainian relations were cordial. Besides, he had been disavowed. He had no one to betray. His hesitation was based on a feeling, the notion that these Ukrainians—if they were really FIS at all—wanted something from him. They had collected information on the traffickers, but done nothing, reported nothing. They had referred to Reid as an “asset.”
He hesitated because he did not know their position, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to be in their pocket.
Maria’s words from earlier, in the black muscle car, flashed through his mind. A lot of the things you know, or used to know, I also know. If this was about the conspiracy that he had only begun to uncover, he didn’t want their help. And he certainly didn’t want to be in anyone’s pocket—not the CIA’s, not the Ukrainians’… not even Maria’s.
He just wanted his girls back. He wanted them to be safe at home with him. As much as you don’t like it, he told himself, you have no one else to turn to.
Reid made the call. The line toned several times. No one answered and no voicemail picked up. Instead, the call simply ended.
Of course they didn’t answer. He was calling from an unknown Slovakian phone number.
He continued northeast, frustrated and growing desperate. He considered calling Cartwright again, but he doubted the deputy director would help him a second time. Just putting in the call could tip off the higher-ups that he’d aided them…
The cell phone chimed as a call from an unknown number came through. Reid answered it, but said nothing. Whoever was on the other line was equally silent.
Finally Reid spoke. “This is Kent Steele.”
“Ah. Agent Zero.” The man’s voice was deep and even. He spoke in English, but his accent was heavy. “Is Calendula with you?”
Maria’s Ukrainian codename. “No. She’s being…” By now Strickland and Czech authorities had surely reached the stopped train. “She’s been apprehended.”
“I see.” There was little remorse in the man’s voice; he said it as if Reid had stated a simple fact. “She gave you this number? Told you to inform us?”
