by Neal Griffin
The rain fell even harder and the mud sucked at her boots. Each step took her farther from the safety of her truck, not to mention her warm, dry house.
Connor was probably getting off work right about now. If he got to the farmhouse and she wasn’t there, he’d worry. Forget this shit, she thought. Tell the deputy the damn van was parked right where it belonged and be done with it.
Not an option. Tia trudged on, once again admonishing herself for getting caught up in this bullshit assignment.
She made out the black outline of a structure another twenty yards out. She hunched down low and slipped closer. Three low-watt lampposts cast a dull, gray light over a clear space that barely had room for the buildings it held. As she took in the scene, there was no doubt in her mind that this was the home of the lowlife tweaker militia freak, ass bag Jessup Tanner.
The disorganized clearing looked like a poorly managed junkyard. A ten-foot chain-link fence topped off with looping razor wire surrounded the entire area. A half-dozen rusted-out trucks and ancient relics of boxy sedans sat abandoned inside the enclosure, left to die in place. Kitchen appliances, busted-up furniture, and a dozen or so heaps of junk were scattered around, a couple of the piles several feet high. A mountain of wood chopped for a fireplace was tall enough to last several Wisconsin winters. In the middle of it all stood a two-story brick house that was only slightly distinguishable from the trash and rubbish surrounding it. Most of the windows were boarded over and the stone steps leading to the front door appeared to be crumbling away. Dim shapes in the crawl space had her guessing that several large dogs were sleeping under the house. Lording over it all, a tall flagpole rose from the ground like a stubborn middle finger. In the hazy light of the compound Tia could see a soaked and tattered yellow flag tangled in rope and bound against the pole. She could barely make out enough of the image of a snake and a few letters to guess that it was the “Don’t Tread on Me” banner. Away from the house, set off by itself, she saw the dark outline of a low-slung woodshed with a corrugated metal roof.
Tia strained her eyes, staring into the darkness, trying to spot Tanner’s van. Staying low to the ground, she moved closer—way closer than she wanted, but the rain was playing hell with her vision. She looked back at the house, telling herself that if Tanner did happen to glance out and get a glimpse of someone sneaking around his cornfield he was likely to shoot first and ask questions later … and not many Wisconsin farmers would blame him one bit.
A massive lightning bolt ignited the sky like an illumination grenade, giving Tia a short but thorough glimpse of the entire compound. There. Backed up against the entrance of the shed. A van, and it sure as hell looked like the one she remembered so clearly. It was white, gray, or something similar. She couldn’t be sure, but it was good enough. She whispered to herself, “I’m calling it white, Deputy. You owe me big-time.”
Mission accomplished, Tia fought the urge to turn and break into a run. She wanted distance between herself and Tanner’s goddamned Bates Motel of a house. She oriented her compass due west and began retracing her path back to the truck. In her mind she was practically home, and each step brought a growing sense of relief. The sounds of the wind and rain surrounded her. And something else. A voice, quiet but firm, asked her to be calm and listen.
Ella aqui.
Stunned by the sudden presence of another, Tia answered in a frantic whisper, “What? Who? Who’s here?”
Frozen in place, she waited, heart pounding. Nothing. She shook her head, telling herself this was no time to lose it, and took another step. The voice came again.
Escucharla.
Tia listened, holding her breath, concentrating hard, trying to break down each wave of sound into its components. Wind. Rain. Ten thousand rustling cornstalks. The whining engine of a big rig, ten miles away on the interstate. Mixed in with all that, barely discernable, were muffled voices. Then another sound. A clink of metal against metal, it came from the shed.
Damn it, what is that?
She heard it again. Definitely metallic and coming from inside Tanner’s compound. A scraping sound. Another clink. Oddly familiar, but out of place here on this sorry excuse for a farm. Laughter. Men’s voices. Hunched over at the waist, Tia took two steps back toward the fence line, staring at the faint light that came from inside the shed, already regretting what she was about to do.
TWENTY-FIVE
In the darkness she heard water seeping through the roof and walls above her head, making new puddles on the muddy floor. A cool breeze from somewhere above blew against her face. She closed her eyes, trying to return to her mother’s arms. To see the adobe house again. I saw it, she thought. I know I did.
She felt a spirit of hope and a voice from somewhere inside.
No se rinden, Angelica. No se rinden.
I don’t want to give up, she thought. I want to go home.
She heard muffled thunder and other noises. Voices. She couldn’t make out the words, but she was certain the voices belonged to men. Then another voice. Different. The sounds grew louder. Shouts. The crack of a gun. A scream.
Angelica pulled herself to her knees and crawled into a corner, her heart pounding. She covered her mouth so as to not cry out loud. Looking into the blackness above her, she began to pray. Pray that the men would not come for her. That God would protect her from whatever was happening above. Terrified, Angelica pulled her knees against chest, doing her best to not make a sound.
TWENTY-SIX
Tia walked along the fence line, staying a few rows back in the cornfield for cover. Lightning flashed and for a millisecond the sky was lit up as if it were noontime, and Tia was able to see the shed, about twenty yards in front of her. From this angle she could that see the back doors of the van had been left open a few feet in front of the entrance.
The lightning subsided and the area went black, but Tia kept her eyes trained on where she’d seen the shed. She saw a wavering light, coming and going as the wind whipped through the fields. A lantern maybe?
Crouching, she approached the fence, her boots heavy with mud. She was close enough to be able to determine that there were at least four men inside the shed. Under their voices she heard another, more muffled sound. Something told Tia a woman was making that suppressed sound. Could it be her?
The fence that rose a good four feet overhead was topped with tight loops of concertina wire. No way to clear it by going over. She looked down and tested the mud, which easily gave way to her boot heel. She moved ten yards down the fence line, to a spot blocked from view by the van, then dropped to her knees and scooped mud away from the bottom of the fence. It was cold, heavy, and wet. Her hands and arms were immediately coated in thick mud.
Using all her strength, Tia pulled up hard on the bottom of the fence with both hands, slowly bending the wire. After several pulling sessions and more mud scooping, she’d made an opening she figured she could squeeze through. Preparing to do that, she stopped, full of doubt.
She knew better. At this point she was breaking the law and Tanner would have every right to shoot her full of holes. With one last admonishment mixed with self-loathing, she decided to go in headfirst and on her back.
Tia’s heart hammered against her rib cage. With a shaking hand, she pulled her gun from the waistband of her jeans. She lay on her back, hands above her head, and began to shimmy under the fence, being careful to keep her weapon clear of the mud. In a matter of seconds she was mud covered and soaked through. Rocks, pebbles, and clumps of dirt mixed into her hair and fell into her ears. Muddy rainwater flowed like a stream down the collar of her jacket and she cursed herself for having such a stupid idea. The rain fell so heavily against her face she experienced the same sense of panic as she had during waterboard training.
Halfway through she got stuck—something sharp poked at her waist. She pushed hard against the mud but got nowhere. She tried to go back the way she came, no luck. The stabbing feeling continued and she knew her jeans were hung up on the fence
. She dug in her boot heels but could gain no purchase. The voices of the men sounded closer and she suddenly remembered the sleeping dogs and wondered if they’d been awakened by the storm. Fear overtook her and she began to wildly scissor-kick her legs, splashing mud everywhere. Nothing.
You’re stuck, dumb ass.
Tia transferred her pistol to her weak hand, then reached down to fumble at her jeans, feeling her way around the waistband until she found the problem and was able to unhook herself from the fence. Pushing off with both boots, she slid a good six inches. Elated to be moving, she gave one final shove and slid clear. Scrambling to her hands and knees, Tia quick-crawled to the van. Exhausted, she sat in the pelting rain, leaning against the wheel well. She took a moment to consider what she had just done and the predicament she was now in, all because of a voice in her head.
The jury is in, Suarez. You’re nuts.
Once she’d caught her breath, she was again able to hear the metallic clinking sound, now clearly coming from the shed, which was no more than eight feet away from her. Below the men’s voices Tia heard a higher-pitched voice that seemed to be moaning or crying or both.
Standing up, Tia stripped off her sopping windbreaker—at this point the wet fabric did little other than cling to her arms and chest and restrict her movement. Her short-sleeved T-shirt was soaked through but fit tight, like another layer of skin. Her detective shield, on the chain around her neck, was buried under a clump of mud. She brushed off enough of the muck to show the metal, then swiped her face with the palm of her hand, clearing mud away from her eyes, nose, and mouth.
Ready, she moved toward the entrance of the shed, her raised gun leading the way.
The wood planks of the shed’s walls were riddled with gaps and knotholes that allowed beams of light to shine through. Tia spotted a gap in the rough siding that she hoped would provide her a sneak peak without being far enough apart to give away her position. She raised her gun up alongside her cheek and moved her eye to the seam and stole a look inside. A sudden surge of adrenaline flushed her skin and poured through her body.
Mother of God … this can’t be.
A woman stood on a small raised wooden platform, her arms pulled above her head, cuffed by the wrists to a metal pipe that stretched from wall to wall, a foot beneath the low roof. Whenever the woman shifted, trying without success to find a comfortable position, the handcuffs clinked against the pole with the now-familiar sound. Skimpy clothing sat on the platform in a neatly folded pile, as if things had started out a bit more cordially. She was naked and her pale skin was near translucent in the low light. Blond hair spilled across her face and her bare but ample chest rose and fell in panic. The reason Tia hadn’t heard her screaming was now obvious—a ball gag was stuffed into her mouth, held in place by a leather strap.
Clustered around the makeshift stage, four men sat in a half circle of theater-style chairs that looked out of place in the rough setting. It wasn’t until he spoke that Tia even became aware of a fifth who stood alongside the woman on the stage: Jessup Tanner. He seemed to be in charge. Tia stood and listened.
“All right, boys, you got your look.” Tanner scanned his audience as he went on. “A smoking-hot piece, no doubt. And like I said, she’s been working under a strict no-touch policy. We’re talking fresh meat.”
Tanner moved in close to the captive and cupped his hand around her butt. “For the right price, she’s yours. Gotta warn ya, though. She’s used to being a bit pampered and she’s got a bit of an uppity streak. You can either abide by that or knock her down a peg or two. That’ll be up to you. But no marking her up. She’s gotta come back in one piece, ready to get back on the pole.”
Tanner looked at the young woman and moved his hand up her body. She pulled away from him and Tia again heard the now-identified sound of the cuffs scraping against the metal pipe. The woman gave a strong kick that caught Tanner off guard, landing on the seat of his pants. A round of catcalls rose from the men, praising the woman’s feisty nature. Tia saw a look of embarrassment flash across Tanner’s face. He grabbed a handful of blond hair and yanked back on the young woman’s head. She glared at Tanner, her eyes full of hate and contempt. Another round of laughter came from the men, clearly entertained by the exchange.
His voice was harsh when he spoke. Tia knew he’d want to regain status with the audience and feared what he might do next. “Like I said, she’s a handful. Transportation arrangements are your responsibility, but I’ve got a little something that will knock her out until you get her settled somewhere.”
The watching men nodded in silent approval. Tanner released the woman’s hair and stepped a pace to the side. He concluded, “Bidding opens at three thousand dollars.”
The response was immediate.
“Three thousand.” The man who had spoken stared at the woman onstage, practically salivating. In his mid- to late sixties, with badly dyed greasy black hair, he was big enough that his girth flowed over the sides of his chair. His heavy accent struck Tia as Asian, but she couldn’t be sure beyond that.
“Thirty-five hundred.” This offer came from a much younger man who wore dark glasses and a ball cap pulled down low on his head. He looked like the sort of guy you’d walk by in a Walmart and not think twice about.
“Four thousand.” A third bid, from the tallest man in the group. Tia saw he carried a forty-five semi-auto in plain view on his hip.
“Five thousand.” The fat man with the accent was back in the mix and there was an excitement in his voice.
“Five thousand is the bid.” Tanner pointed to the man who was now working to loosen himself from the chair.
“Seventy-five hundred.” The man with the sidearm.
The Asian countered with ten thousand and Tia saw Tanner’s mouth sag open for an instant.
She did some quick calculations. Five of them, and at least one was armed. She had thirteen in the magazine and one in the chamber. She reached down to take the second clip from her boot and stick it in the waist of her jeans for easier access. If I need that, she thought, things will have really gone to shit.
Shifting to a two-hand grip, she brought the forty cal to a low ready. The door was three feet to her left. She moved as noiselessly as possible, knowing her shadow might be visible to the occupants but hoping they would remain preoccupied with the action onstage. She made it to the doorway undetected. She stood in front of the closed door and took two deep breaths. A small, familiar voice came from inside her.
Cuidado, Tia.
Tia reared back and kicked with all her strength, hitting the door just above the lock. Though she’d executed the kick perfectly, striking with the heel of her boot, a bone-deep pain shot up her leg as the wood splintered and the door swung wide. She stepped inside, the barrel of her gun leading the way. The sudden absence of rain felt like someone had turned off a spigot, but the noise against the metal roof seemed louder than ever. Every eyeball snapped her way and Tia knew she’d caught the group completely unaware. She had their undivided attention and she spoke with absolute confidence in her ability to control the situation. She shouted to be heard over the rain.
“If a hair on the head of any one of you sick bastards so much as twitches…!”
She figured the tall guy would go for it—he had that cowboy look. But she had to give credit where credit was due. He got to his feet and had his gun out of its holster in very short order. Tia was faster. She squeezed off a round and he fell to the ground as if all the bones had been removed from his body in a single instant. His right eye socket was a gaping red hole with a pool of bubbling blood.
The naked woman on the stage pulled hard at her bonds and kicked out at Tanner, screaming into the ball gag. Not wanting the distraction, Tia called out, “Shut up and let me work.” The victim continued to whimper, but the screaming stopped.
Tia turned back to the men, who at this point might as well have been mannequins propped up in their chairs. “Anyone else?” She paused as if actually wait
ing for an answer. The men remained stone still, so she moved on to giving instructions.
“You three. Off your asses and down on the floor. Flat on your stomach.”
All three men scrambled to their feet, the fat Asian to her surprise the first one out and down. Tanner came out from behind the woman, moving as if he, too, was ready to surrender. Tia called out, “Not you, fuckwad. You stay right there.”
Tia walked toward Tanner. She stepped over the body of the man who stared up with one eye, and jumped onto the wooden stage.
“You’re Jessup Tanner?”
The only response was a nervous nod of his head.
Tia smiled. “We didn’t get a chance to properly meet last time. You know, the parking lot in Milwaukee? You were in such a big hurry to leave. But we’re going to get acquainted now. We most definitely are.”
“Hang on,” Tanner said, his voice conveying desperation. “You can’t hurt me.”
Tia looked at the woman cuffed to the pole, whose eyes remained wide with terror as if she wasn’t sure yet if she was actually being rescued or just handed over to another insane captor.
Tia turned back to Tanner. “Hurt you?” She rested the barrel of her gun against the bone of his cheek, holding it there, gangster-style. “Dude, either you tell me where the other girl is or I’m seriously thinking about saving everybody a lot of trouble and executing your ass right here.”
“No, let me explain—” Tanner raised his hands out in front of him.
“Shut up, Tanner.” Tia closed in until she was shouting in his ear. “Now you’ve got five seconds or—”
