The Wrong Girl (John Taylor Book 3)

by Travis Starnes

  Taylor stepped back from Nick and let out a puff of air.

  “Wow,” Taylor said, pacing in a small arc while he let the idea this might be a coincidence sink in, “you have seriously fucked up.”

  “I didn’t know,” Nick said, the tears coming again.

  “Nick,” Taylor said, walking over and sitting on the edge of the coffee table, trying to sound sympathetic. “You are in so far over your head, you can’t even see the top any more. You have just one way out of this. Tell me everything. Right now.”

  Nick was crying as he realized the trouble he was in. Taylor mused how he didn’t even know the half of it yet. Nick only realized that Mary Jane’s mother was a senator, not which senator. Assuming Nick paid enough attention to know who Suzette Caldwell was.

  “I was in debt, man,” he said, through choking sobs. “I owed so much, and Gregor said he had a way I could get my debt wiped away. I just had to find a girl for him. She had to be pretty, young, and most importantly someone who wouldn’t be missed if she disappeared. Mary Jane said she hardly ever talked to her parents, and they didn't get along. She told me about the times she ran away or disappeared for months from them because they’d had a fight. It was so much money.”

  “So you sold your fucking girlfriend,” Taylor said, the faked sympathy gone as his anger threatened to slip out of control.

  “Gregor said he would break my legs. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “Where can I find Gregor,” Taylor said, gritting his teeth.

  “He runs a backroom casino behind a bar,” Nick said.

  Taylor pulled out his notepad and pen and sat them in front of Nick.

  “Address,” Taylor said.

  Nick sat up and wrote Gregor’s name, and the address.

  “Did they ask about Mary Jane specifically? Ever mention her name or give any kind of indication they knew her?”

  “No. He just said they needed girls. He said they’d take a blond or a brunette, but if it was a real redhead, he would give me some money on top of clearing my debt.”

  Taylor reached over and roughly pulled Nick off the couch then marched him to the bathroom, pushing him to its tiled floor. Taylor didn’t feel bad at all that Nick’s head bounced off the side of the toilet bowl.

  Pulling out one of the zip ties he carried in his pocket, he pulled Nick’s arms around the joint that connected the toilet bowl with the rear tank forcing Nick to lay under the tank, looking at the bottom of the toilet, and tied his hands together with the zip ties.

  “I thought you said you would let me go if I told you what I knew?”

  “No, I said you would help yourself, and you did. I’m not kicking the shit out of you, despite really wanting to. Consider that a win.”

  “Wait, how am I going to get out of here?” Nick yelled as Taylor walked out of the bathroom.

  “The FBI will probably release you when they come to pick you up. But Nick, if I find out this address is a bust, I’m going to come back here before they let you loose. You do not want that to happen.”

  Taylor turned and walked out of the bathroom.

  “The FBI?” Nick’s whining voice called from behind him.

  Taylor walked out, shutting the door behind him and headed to his car. He typed out a quick text message to Whitaker, letting her know where to find Nick. He didn’t want to call her. Now he had confirmation Mary Jane was kidnapped, Whitaker would try to pull her FBI shtick and tell him not to go to the casino by himself.

  But he also knew she’d have to pick up Nick and question him to get the probable cause to get a search warrant before going to talk to this Gregor. It had been almost a week since they grabbed Mary Jane and Taylor wasn’t prepared to wait while the wheels of justice plodded their way along.

  Taylor knew the area the bar was in. It was a rundown section of DC with a lot of shady businesses, clubs, and bars. He’d met contacts at bars in the neighborhood once or twice when they didn’t want to go somewhere they’d be noticed. Most of them came out being more afraid of getting mugged than getting seen, but Taylor found it a good place to remain anonymous.

  He pulled up across the street from the address, which turned out to be a bar called Pivo, which Taylor recognized as Russian for beer. He put his head on the steering wheel and cursed.

  ‘Of course, it had to be Russians again,’ he thought. Checking his gun to make sure there was a round in the chamber, Taylor got out of the car and headed for the bar.

  It was unlocked, not a sure thing since it was early afternoon, and empty inside except for the bartender. Taylor walked up to him and leaned on the bar.

  “I’m looking for Gregor,” he said to the man.

  He got a glower in return before the bartender replied in a thick Russian accent, “Don’t know him.”

  As he spoke the man’s hand dipped underneath the bar. Taylor pulled his gun free and pointed it levelly at the man's chest.

  “Move another inch, and they’ll have to find someone else to serve beer here.”

  The bartender didn’t reply but stopped moving.

  “I know there’s a back room being used as a casino. I’d like you to take me back there.”

  The man turned and walked out from behind the bar.

  “Stop,” Taylor said.

  Keeping his gun trained on the man, Taylor walked around the bar, motioning for the bartender to take a step back. Reaching with his off hand, Taylor pulled out a revolver

  “Come on,” Taylor said as he backed up, now pointing both guns

  They walked to a door on the side of the bar that said, ‘Employees’. The man punched in a code above the door handle, and the lock clicked open. Taylor gestured for the man to continue. He pulled open the door, preceding Taylor into the room.

  “Narushitel,” the bartender screamed as soon as he was through the door, jumping to one side.

  Taylor stepped through the door, speed being his only hope for still surprising anyone armed on the other side. One man was standing next to the door, the bartender having made his dive across where the man had been standing.

  Coming through the door with the gun in his right hand already moving to take aim at the bartender, Taylor readjusted when the man by the door who was already pulling his own weapon, came into view. Taylor fired, shooting the man through the side of the chest before he could get his gun out of its holster. Even as he pulled the trigger, Taylor swiveled his head, looking for additional threats.

  A second gunman was standing next to a row of slot machines, a pistol already clear of its holster. The man slowed in surprise as Taylor came through the door; a fatal mistake.

  Or rather, it would have been a fatal mistake if Taylor hadn’t been firing from his off hand with a gun he wasn’t familiar with. The shot went wide left, hitting the bottom of the man’s right collar bone. Luckily for Taylor that was also the hand the man was drawing his weapon with. The impact caused the gunman to lose his grip on the gun which slid underneath one of the two tables in the center of the room where three stunned men sat, playing cards.

  “Put your hands flat on the table,” Taylor said in a calm but serious voice.

  When no one moved, he fired a second shot from the pistol into the spot where a fourth person would have sat. All three men dropped their cards and placed their hands flat on the table

  “What do—”

  “Shut up,” Taylor said, aiming the revolver at him for emphasis.

  Taylor kept one gun pointed at the bartender and levelled the revolver at the men playing cards. Sliding his automatic into the holster at his back, Taylor moved clockwise toward the right corner of the room, allowing him to see everyone, without swiveling his head.

  Reaching into his pocket, Taylor pulled out several more sets of the zip ties he carried on him for occasions such as this.

  Lobbing them to the ground in front of the bartender, Taylor said, “Pick those up and tie their hands behind the chairs.”

  The bartender paused until Taylor freed th
e gun from his holster, again pointing it at the bartender. The man pulled himself across the floor to retrieve them, blanching when he looked into the sightless eyes of the guard by the door, before standing and going to the card table. Stopping at each person around the table, the bartender took their hands, much more gently than Taylor would have, and fastened them together with a zip tie.

  “Those better be tight, and they better be secure, or I’m going to shoot you next.”

  The bartender went back and tightened one man’s restraints, his face pinched with worry. Whether it was because he was worried he had to tighten the restraints on this one man or because he had tried to pull a fast one on Taylor and didn’t want to get shot, Taylor couldn’t tell.

  “Go against that wall,” Taylor said, indicating the wall opposite the injured but still breathing guard, “and lie on your stomach.”

  When the man did as he said, Taylor holstered his weapon again and retrieved the dead guard's gun, dropping the clip before tossing it in the corner of the room.

  Switching the revolver to his right hand, he patted down each seated man, keeping his gun hand away from them at all times, just in case the bartender was less craven than he appeared. His search was rewarded with two more firearms, receiving the same treatment as the dead guard's gun.

  The room more or less secured, Taylor pulled out his phone and texted his location to Whitaker, mentioning there was one man injured and one dead. As he did this, he spent a moment taking in the room. When Nick had said underground casino, Taylor’s expectations were low. Somehow, Gregor’s establishment sank below them.

  The room was small, with one wall containing boxes of beer and booze, presumably for the bar out front. The wall opposite the door had three slot machines with small stools in front of them. Two card tables sat in the room, each with four chairs, although one table was unoccupied at the moment. And that was it. Taylor had seen dorm rooms better outfitted than this. OK, without the slot machines, but they didn’t particularly class the joint up.

  Taylor moved to stand by the man sitting in the rightmost chair. The man with the tattoo on the side of his face.

  “It’s Gregor, right?” Taylor said, leaning down level with Gregor, although with enough room to take a possible head butt off the table.

  The man spat at Taylor, the warm liquid smacking into Taylor’s cheek. Standing, Taylor wiped the offending liquid off, and the smacked the revolver into the side of Gregor’s head. Not hard enough to crack the skull, but enough to serve as a proper reprimand.

  Gregor let out a brief grunt which morphed into a growl as he looked back at Taylor with hatred in his eyes.

  “That wasn’t very friendly. Let's start over. I know you’re Gregor. I’ve seen that tattoo of yours on a video recently. One where you were carrying out a redhead from a club. Sound familiar?”

  “Go to Hell,” Gregor said in Russian.

  “You first,” Taylor said in the same language, then pointed the revolver at Gregor's foot and fired.

  Gregor screamed and let out a string of curses in Russian.

  “Here’s how it’s going to work,” Taylor said, switching back to English. “I’m going to ask you questions. Don’t answer, and I put holes in you. Answer, and you get to keep all the bits you were born with.”

  Taylor pointed the revolver at the other two men, “For the studio audience. If you know any answers to these questions, feel free to speak up. When I finish with Gregor, or when he loses enough blood to pass out, I’m going to switch to you.”

  “Are we all clear?” Taylor said.

  Gregor let loose another string of curses in Russian, centered on suggestions of inappropriate activities Taylor should engage in with his mother. Taylor circled the table, looked into Gregor’s eyes, then shot him in the other foot.

  “I feel like you aren’t getting this Gregor. Just so you’re aware of where we go from here, next one’s in the knee. After both knees are gone, we do elbows. I’ll tell you, reconstructive surgery on all four joints will be a massive pain in the ass.”

  “We put her on a truck,” one of the other two said, sweat rolling down the side of his face as he watched.

  “Shut up,” Gregor said in Russian through clenched teeth.

  Taylor smashed the side of the revolver into the tattoo on Gregor’s face, sending the chair toppling over sideways, with Gregor still tied to it. Had he been awake when the other side of his face smacked into the concrete floor, Taylor was certain it would have knocked Gregor out. Thankfully for him at least, the tattooed man was already out before he finished crashing to the ground.

  If Gregor woke up, he would have a massive headache. Although the force of the impact against the floor made his waking up not a certainty.

  “Ignore him,” Taylor said, sparing a single glance in Gregor’s direction. “You were saying?”

  “That night. We put the redhead girl on a truck with three other girls.”

  “Where’d they go?”

  “Florida. I don’t know where in Florida, I swear.”

  “Tell me about the truck.”

  “I don’t know, it was for some hardware company I’d never heard of. It was just a truck.”

  A thump could be heard from the main room of the bar, as the front door slammed opened and someone yelled ‘FBI.'

  “Back here,” Taylor called out.

  Whitaker came through the door a moment later, gun drawn, followed by three other guys, all wearing bulletproof vests, with FBI emblazoned across the front.

  “That guy over there’s going to need an ambulance. Gregor over here,” Taylor said, sliding the revolver into his belt, “took some rounds in the feet during the struggle, so he’ll need a doctor too, probably.”

  Whitaker stopped and looked around the room, her frown growing as she looked at Taylor’s handiwork.

  “They put her on a truck belonging to a hardware company last Sunday, headed to Florida.”

  Whitaker turned to one of the other agents and said, “Simon, go see if there are any cameras along the street and see if you can get footage from last Sunday.”

  Whitaker turned from the man as he headed to follow his orders and crooked a finger at Taylor, “You, come with me.”

  She stomped out of the back room while the remaining agents freed the uninjured men and cuffed them, sorting out the mess Taylor had left behind.

  Whitaker went to one side of the empty bar and stopped, turning to glare at Taylor with her arms folded across her chest. The look on her face was one Taylor recognized.

  “Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

  “Your job,” Taylor said, not giving an inch.

  “Excuse me?”

  Whitaker's voice had gone ice cold.

  “You’re pissed because I didn’t call you before I busted in here. You know what, Princess? I knew you would be pissed before I did it, and I did it anyway. You and I both know every hour that girl is in the wind, the harder it’s going to be to find her, and the less likely she’ll be alive when we do. I didn’t have time for an FBI clusterfuck.”

  “We have laws for a reason. Do you realize most of these guys will walk? A half-drunk public defender could find a dozen examples where we violated these guys’ rights and get a judge to toss out anything we get on them. Do you honestly expect anyone to believe the guy tied to the chair just got in the way of two stray bullets? And let's not even get started on that kid you left bleeding, tied to a toilet. Oh yeah, we know what you did to him.”

  “Of course you know what I did, I told you where he was. And look how long it took you to get there. You were an hour behind me. And how long would it have taken you to question him? How long to find out about this bar? How long to observe and follow the guys here? It would have been four more days before we found out Mary Jane wasn’t even in DC anymore!”

  “I get you want to find this girl. I do, too. But I also want these guys to go to jail and stay there. Nearly every person you leave in your wake is going to
go free.”

  “So you would have sent them to prison, and they would have done, what, two years before getting out on good behavior? I’m not going to stand by and play hall monitor. I was hired to do a job, and I’m going to do it.”

  “Fuck you, John,” Whitaker said.

  She knew his opinion of the Bureau, but they normally avoided the subject, since it always led to a fight.

  “And what about shooting people?” she said, after getting her anger under control. “Do you just expect us to sweep up your messes every time?”

  “You don’t have to do anything. Those two were both armed, and both planned on shooting me. I defended myself, simple as that.”