by Jeff Orton
He came out and tossed something black towards me. I snatched it out of the air, then turned it over in my hands, staring in astonishment. I couldn’t believe I was holding an UZI.
The long clip was missing from its handle, making it feel a little top-heavy. It had a side-folding stock you could flip open and place against your shoulder if you wanted to use it more like a rifle.
Like a true salesman, he said, “Price is three-thousand,” as if there was no room for haggling. After only a few minutes of debate, I struck a deal at fifteen hundred. And I even got two clips of ammo thrown in. The gun was surprisingly easy to use, and load.
“Be careful first time you use that thing though. Got a lot more of a kick than you’d think. If your hand’s not steady, the damn thing’ll try to move around on you like a fire-hose,” he warned, “The bullets for it you can buy anywhere though. Nine by nineteens. And your safety’s there on the left side of the receiver.”
Satisfied with my purchase, I was getting all my stuff together when Mark’s dad mumbled something I didn’t quite catch.
“What?” I asked.
“Awful sorry to hear about your dad.” Though he said it with a mild sincerity, there was also a cautious playfulness behind his voice.
My heart locked up and my whole body went cold. He knew.
Motherfucker.
I was in the middle of tying my tennis shoes and my hands had frozen in mid-loop. Missing only a single beat, I finished tying the last shoe and responded, “Well, thank you, but that was years ago, there’s—“
“Me and Mark had some discussions about you after our last... transaction. Seemed only a few days later your dad got popped out at some tittie bar.”
Paralyzed once again, I fought just to breathe.
“Mark doesn’t think you’re capable of such an act of... Shit, what’s the word? Hell, I don’t know, but he doesn’t think you’re capable of killing anyone, especially your own dad. But I know different. Mark hasn’t seen how the world works yet; that’s just cuz he’s young. All I gotta do is take one look at you and I know your dad was one of those piece of shits who likes to fuck his kids.”
“What do you want?” I asked with a small crack in my voice.
“Don’t worry,” he chuckled, “I ain’t gonna blackmail you, kid. Hell, I sold you the gun. I just wanna know for myself. They said the kid that did your dad was some crackhead, some junkie. But I think I know better. I think you planned it all out. I think you even dressed like a junkie in case there were any witnesses. You made it look like a mugging gone bad.”
I now know what the deer must feel like when it looks up to see those headlights bearing down on it. The wrong bodily movement, or none at all, could condemn me to hell.
“So, was it you?” he finally asked.
I didn’t want to say it out loud, but I was afraid he would know if I lied. I slowly nodded my head, instantly ashamed of myself. I should have lied my skinny ass off. Denied it nonchalantly, played dumb. But as I’ve thought about it over the years, I don’t think it would have mattered. Not one little bit. He had put two and two together when Mark had first told him about Jack’s untimely passing more than four years ago.
“Don’t worry about it, kid. I’m sure he deserved it. Now get the hell outta here.”
Eager to oblige, I got up, grabbed my stuff and headed for the door.
“What’n the hell do you think you’re doin’?” he asked, voice slightly elevated.
And I could understand why he was upset. I was so rattled by our conversation, I was about to walk outside at four in the afternoon into a large trailer park with an extremely visible UZI in one hand and two clips (albeit empty) in the other.
In the spirit of good customer service, Mark’s dad put my merchandise in a paper grocery sack for me, then said, “Don’t ever scare me like that again.”
“No offense,” I replied, “But hopefully after this, I won’t ever have to see you again.”
He nodded as he closed the door behind me. He understood completely.
* * *
It wasn’t long before I’d purchased some bullets and was out in the country (I made damn sure to drive out to as secluded of an area as I could find) shooting up some empty soda cans I’d lined up. The kick wasn’t as bad as Mark’s dad said it would be, but it did try to move around on me a couple of times, like a small leashed dog that’s spotted a squirrel. It was nothing like a fire hose, though. Though I never sensed it at the time, I think he exaggerated to make me respect the weapon more so I didn’t blow my foot off or kill a friend because I thought this UZI worked just like my toy watergun.
In about two minutes of sporadic fire, I had spent both clips. It was fun. I wasn’t thinking abut Halloween night. I was just having a fucking blast firing a fully-automatic weapon for the first time in my life. I understood then why so many men appreciate guns. They give you such an intoxicating feeling of empowerment.
Chapter 11
I was out as far on the limb as I felt I could go without snapping it with my weight. My apparel consisted of solid black, much like my Waiting Room Germany costume; I even painted the silver buckle of my belt black so it wouldn’t shine if a light fell upon it. My garb was complimented by a black duffel bag which was currently strapped to my back and contained all the necessary party supplies for the night.
I could feel the wood groaning in protest as my arms and legs worked their way along the branch. The back of my mind was objecting wildly at the idea of this invasion into someone else’s home, while my good sense was ranting that I shouldn’t try to stand up on this already over-strained tree limb.
But I did stand up. Miraculously. My hands reached a sturdier branch above my head. I knew I had just one real shot at this. This one attempt would likely break the only limb stretching this close to the retaining wall. If this didn’t work, I was fucked.
I slowly began to crouch while still holding the branch above my head. I estimated the edge of the wall was about eight feet away and three feet down. And with that thought, I jumped.
The air was knocked out of my lungs as my chest hit the sharp angular edge of the wall’s cap. My arms went over it and I latched on. One of my long sleeves was riding up, and the concrete was rubbing my wrist raw. The cap was almost as thick as the length of my arms, making it very difficult for my gloved fingers to retain their clutch on the edge of it.
I threw my right leg over and brought my left up and I stayed where I was for awhile, laid out on the top of the wall. There was plenty of shade from the bluish moonlight courtesy of the large oak tree. I scanned the area and found no one present outside; everyone was inside the house. I didn’t think there were any guard dogs either.
I aimed my focus at the house, receiving several disturbing sensations. There were definitely some young kids in this house. Some were scared and tired and some felt sick and hungry. They had no idea where they were. All they knew was why they were there.
I surveyed the property with a careful eye, strategizing the best route to the house. The lights were still on, but I was too far away to hear any party noises. I figured Milton’s property consisted of fifty acres, maybe more. It was mostly flat, but the house itself sat upon a slight hill. The closest structure to my current position was the large hay barn, about forty or so yards away. After I got there and caught my breath, I’d make an insane one hundred and twenty yard dash to a smaller shed, which would be my closest refuge from the mansion.
The risk I would be exposed to, though, was that I could be easily seen by anyone who just happened to stroll out of Milton’s front door. The house and the perimeter surrounding it were well-adorned with hanging lights; fluorescent white globes hung up on thin wires that appeared to reside at their current locations year-round.
Even with a black stocking cap to cover my blonde hair and black Halloween face-paint to hide my pale complexion, I didn’t feel confident in my chances of staying invisible so close to all that soft white light.
&nb
sp; I swung my legs over the other side and dropped onto a thick, plush lawn which appeared to be bluish-gray under the bright moonlight. I made my sprint over to the large barn and unzipped my duffel bag, pulling out one of the supplies I’d purchased at an Army-Navy store: a good pair of binoculars.
I decided to watch the windows of the front foyer until I was certain there was no one close enough to exit the door. I was looking for anyone who might be getting their coat off the rack and saying goodbye to the host.
I glanced back at the ten foot wall and knew I’d already passed the point of no return. And I surprised myself a little when I realized I felt no regret. None. There were kids in there (smaller kids amongst older ones, that was all I could tell from here) kids about to be hurt, humiliated and forever traumatized.
I waited for the most opportune moment... but then I waited some more. Gut instinct was holding me back. Something inside was speaking to me just then. It had to be. Ten seconds later about twenty or so middle-aged urban professionals began filing out the door, sounding off their “Goodnight!” and “See you Monday!” farewells. I couldn’t help but feel there was some benign force at work on my behalf, though my atheistic nature quickly shunted the idea out of my head.
After waiting twenty minutes or so for everyone to finish saying their goodbyes and drive away, I saw someone (pretty sure it was Milton—yes, yes it is) lock the front door. I cursed under my breath with disappointment. I had really hoped he wouldn’t do that. Now I could only hope he would choose to wait until the rest of his guests left to turn on his security system.
I closed my eyes and broadscanned the place with every last scrap of strength I could gather. There were thirteen men in the house (and one woman? ...maybe) two of which were working security for this little event. One worked for Milton, the other worked for the supplier. The latter of which was only there to insure his boss’s property wasn’t damaged too badly while it was in use.
I focused on him to see if I could extract any info about his employer, but he wasn’t much help. All he kept thinking about was how much money he was getting paid just to guard these little shits. I did get one interesting bit of intel from him, though. Seems no one who works in this child/teenager sex slave ring goes by his real name. Everyone has a code name, and no one (out of fear for their lives) dares to speak a person’s real name while on a job, even if they happen to be close buds.
This particular low-life had been dubbed “Troll” by his superiors. He would have preferred something snake-related, something like Rattler or Cobra, but his direct superior (someone named Ogre) told him he wasn’t playin’ fuckin’ G.I. Joe, he was fuckin’ babysittin’ some very valuable kids. There was a system set up and the code names meant something to the chain of command.
I wish I could have delved into his thoughts further, but he was too far away and there were too many walls between us. I had to focus on a way in, preferably before someone turned on the security system the feminine voice of the virtual tour guide had boasted about.
With the front door locked, I decided to creep along the perimeter with my binoculars dangling from my neck, checking out anything that looked like a possibility. After almost a full lap around the house, careful to stay out of sight, I spotted my most promising chance.
There was a pair of cellar doors that didn’t really appear to fit with the house. They had been painted white to match the walls, but they still looked out of place against the modern architecture of the mansion. They seemed almost rickety, like the cellar doors a rural family would flee into when an F4 tornado threatened their small one-story home. It occurred to me then this property had once supported a more humble house, one that had been razed so this white monstrosity could be erected.
But apparently it had only been leveled to the foundation. No reason to get rid of a perfectly good cellar. Might even have a secret passageway built from the cellar to the house.
I approached the wooden doors and noticed the absence of a padlock. I almost opened the doors just then, but caught myself. I scanned the area and my stomach rolled over when I found out the children were being held near the cellar until showtime. They were in a different part of the basement, however. It had been added onto when this house was built and was now quite extensive, like a miniature underground maze. These doors were unlocked because there was another heavier door where they were to prevent their escape.
There was a quick flash of headlights as a vehicle entered the driveway and turned down a side road that headed towards the back of the mansion. I had to hide somewhere now or I’d be seen. Do I go into the cellar and risk someone hearing me or do I make a lightning sprint to the outer perimeter away from the lights or do I just drop onto my stomach and pray I’m not noticed and that whoever’s coming won’t be headed for the cellar? And do I also pray that my black face paint doesn’t reflect the light of its headlamps?
I had about a second and a half to think it over, but my body reflexed and made the decision for me before my brain could even comprehend the consequences of what might happen if I was discovered on this property. My hand groped for the door handle of the cellar while my eyes were still transfixed by the oncoming headlights. My left arm was opening the left door while my right arm braced against the right door and my legs seemed to be picked up by some will other than my own and I was dropped into the damp dungeon of Jebediah Milton’s residence, letting the door fall shut behind me.
I stayed put for a moment, allowing my eyes to adjust to the darkness, which did little good since there was absolutely no light to see by. I stretched out my arms, feeling for anything I might bump into as I made my way further into the basement.
My fingers happened upon a wooden plank, which I discovered to be the end of a shelf. I had to fight back a vicious urge to sneeze as I disturbed the dust on what I guessed were some aging bottles of wine.
I knew there was a way from the wine cellar to the interior of the house, but how was I supposed to find it when the room was so pitch black that I might as well be perfectly blind? Although I knew I was alone in this room, I still didn’t feel comfortable pulling out the heavy commercial flashlight from my duffel bag.
I decided to find a wall and see if I could feel my way towards a door. The underground walls were cold; I could feel the chill even through my thick gloves. My mind stretched out and I located Troll and the kids. The entrance to their chamber was only a short distance away. I was grateful they hadn’t heard the sudden entrance I’d been forced to make.
I found a passageway that led out of the wine cellar, but I got confused when I found a staircase that led downward. It reminded me so much of the recording studio, I actually jumped slightly because I thought I felt Galen’s hot breath against the nape of my neck.
There was a sliver of light seeping from a crack at the bottom of a door. I knew they were all in there. There was a man standing next to the door on the other side. He was armed, but his gun was in a shoulder holster beneath the blazer of his suit, an outfit that made him feel uncomfortable and itchy. This man hated suits, but his boss had insisted he wear one tonight. He preferred to wear his gun right above his ass, tucked into his jeans.
I knew this was Troll (he was currently thinking about how he felt like an overdressed babysitter) what I didn’t know was whether or not this door was locked. I quickly formulated a gameplan: I would thrust open the door and grab the handgun out of his jacket before he had a chance to react. I didn’t really want to kill him in front of those kids, but I knew I’d have to if he made me.
I’d have to take a big gamble this time. If the door was locked, I’d lose the advantage of surprise and there would likely be a gunfight, of which I stood a decent chance of not surviving.
I extracted a long hunter’s knife from my duffel bag, another Army-Navy purchase, then put it back. I would need both hands free if this was going to work. I took a few deep breaths, psyching myself up, trying to force myself not to surrender to the growing cowardice that was wrenching
my stomach like a dishrag. With my right side against the door, I grabbed the knob and turned it...
I felt it give and turn, then I pushed the door open and shot my left arm through the air and into Troll’s jacket.
“—the fuck!” I heard him yelp.
My fingers found the handle of his gun and I yanked it upwards. The gun itself came out easily, but the barrel seemed exceptionally long and it caught in part of the holster.
Troll reached up and took hold of my wrist, trying to retain possession of his weapon, but when he hit my wrist and forced it upward, it dislodged the gun. My index finger felt for the trigger as my hand positioned the end of the long barrel against his white button-down shirt.
The gun went off with an airy, zipping sound. Blood seeped through a small hole in Troll’s shirt and the red stain began to spread rapidly. His grip loosened as he stared into my eyes. His final thoughts revealed that he never expected to get killed by a cop; he always thought it would be by someone he’d fucked over in the business. Maybe it was all the black I was wearing, maybe the face paint. Personally, I thought I looked more like a Navy SEAL than a raid cop.
Troll’s feet went out from under him as he tried to step forward. He went down face first as his mind slipped into unconsciousness from the sudden loss of blood. I figured he’d be dead in another minute or so.
I gazed down at the gun in my hand and noticed the lengthy barrel was actually a silencer, the forward half now crimson-coated.
With quick glances, I visually assessed the room (it was more like a tunnel) and realized there were no children in here. Thinking they must be in the next room (or corridor or antechamber of whatever) I proceeded into the darkness of what appeared to be a medieval dungeon. The walls were made out of stones that varied greatly in size, like the masonry of an ancient castle. It had a gothic feel, enhanced by a wrought iron torch holder sticking diagonally out from a wall coated with a very thin layer of scum. The flickering light of the torch it held cast a ghostly luminescence through the lurid passageway, which curved around and opened up into a doorless room.
