“If they come for me in the morning, they will come for you in the night.” ― Angela Y. Davis
THIS QUOTE WAS AT THE top of Sasha’s story. According to her sources, the mayor was raking in stupendous campaign contributions from shell companies run by King, whose full name was Kraig Kristopher King, Jr.
It all made sense. Sasha was supposed to meet King that night. KKK.
He owned dozens of companies under two business names: Kraig King Industries and Kraig King Jr. All the shell companies I had seen in the mayor’s campaign contributions all had either KKI or KKJ in them.
In return for the financial payoff, King had promised to “help” the mayor “clean up” the Tenderloin, as the mayor promised in his campaign platform. Sasha had an off-the-record source confirming this. In other words, King’s men were murdering the downtrodden people of color in the Tenderloin.
While Sasha’s story stated there was no proof that the mayor about the methods used to clean up “aka ethnic cleansing,” she had other people saying there was no way the mayor hadn’t known. I agreed.
King had targeted the down-and-out people in the Tenderloin. The homeless. The poor. But only if they were people of color. It was so evil it didn’t seem real. But I knew it was.
A warrior’s rage must always be directed toward fighting for that which is right and just and not as a reaction to a personal battle.
My blood was boiling.
These fuckers were targeting the weakest and most vulnerable people in our city. Many of the homeless people I knew ended up on the streets because something stood in the way of their access to resources for addiction and mental illness. Sure, there were a few who made choices that led them there and were the bad eggs, but they were the minority on the streets.
Darling was holding her heart when we finished reading the story.
I turned toward her computer again. “Do you mind?”
She just nodded.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll just be a few minutes. I’m going to send out a few emails about what we found.”
After I was done, I told Darling I had to run, but would be back in touch soon.
“You bring back my grandbaby.” She was furious. Her patience was spent. I didn’t blame her. Time was running out.
Outside the salon, I called James. The street sounds, the trains, the cars, the people, made it hard to hear, but I welcomed the distraction. It would make my story believable.
“We found her. Thanks for all your help. I’m so sorry to bother you. It was all a big misunderstanding. I’m about to step into the BART station, so I might lose you. You know how college kids are. She was off with a boy.
I cringed at my lie and for making Sasha seem so flaky. But it was necessary.
After rambling, I waited. It was silent.
“James?”
“I don’t believe you.” He didn’t sound angry, but his voice was firm.
“That’s crazy. You have to believe me.” I shot a frantic look around. I could grab that homeless woman and pay her to talk. “Want me to put her on the phone?” It would be a huge gamble. The homeless woman probably sounded like she was one hundred years old and might even go off script. I held my breath.
“I’ve got a better idea.” He sounded so smug. I closed my eyes.
“Why don’t you send me a picture, a selfie of you guys together. Maybe even do a Facetime with me ...”
I cut him off. “James? The BART train is coming. I’m having a hard time hearing you. James?” I rubbed my sweater across the phone. “Are you there? If you can hear me, here’s the plan: I’ll meet you at my apartment at eight. If you can hear me still, plan on being there—we’re having a celebratory dinner and you can meet her yourself.”
Without waiting for an answer, I clicked off. I stared at the fog rolling into the Forgotten Island in the distance. I was going to need every second to find Sasha. If James believed me—in other words if I was really, really lucky—I’d just bought myself an extra two hours.
But I’d never been lucky.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Even though somewhere in San Francisco the sun had risen, the Tenderloin remained dark and gray, saturated in a thick, low-lying fog that obscured any structure more than a block away.
I pulled up the collar of my leather jacket and suddenly my lack of sleep from the night before hit me. My head swam and I felt dizzy with fatigue. I stumbled a little over a crack in the sidewalk and caught myself. A woman with a briefcase gave me an odd look. Finally, I stepped into the Forgotten Island neighborhood. The building loomed before me like an ominous specter. The misty fog drifted before me. Every few seconds, an eerie breeze would part the fog, momentarily revealing the building.
I was grateful for the Forgotten Island’s permanent layer of fog. It would provide cover. I eyed the fence, walking along it and looking up. The corner was my spot. There was a thick metal pole there. In addition, the fence dropped down a little there before it disappeared into the wall of the building. I shrugged off my jacket and started to climb.
When I neared the top where the coiled barbed wire fence bent toward me, I wrapped my arm in my thick leather jacket and tried to swat at it. It bent a little but sprung back. Grabbing my multi-purpose tool with one hand out of my jacket pocket, I unfolded the needle nose plier attachment, which was supposed to work as a wire cutter. I pressed as hard as I could and basically put a little crimp in the barbed wire. Then I took out my serrated knife and hacked at it. It merely scratched the wire. That’s when I realized I wasn’t dealing with your ordinary run of the mill barbed wire. Time for Plan B.
Unwrapping my arm, I shook out my jacket, and, holding on with one hand, swung it up and over the barbed wire. It stuck. Perfect.
Pulling myself up above the fence, I swung my leg over onto my jacket and straddled the barbed wire. As I shifted to swing my other leg over, tiny needles poked through my jacket into my flesh. Pain shot down my leg and I jumped, nearly flying off the fence. I managed to get both legs to the other side and still hold on. I clutched at my jacket and the barbs pierced my palms. Getting a firm grip on a piece of fence at the level of my torso, I tugged on my jacket trying to free it from the barb wire. It didn’t budge.
I yanked on it again, clinging to the fence with one hand, my knuckles and fingers aching. I heard ripping. Just a little more. I jerked it one last time and the jacket broke free, but it sent me plunging to the ground. At the last minute, I tucked and rolled on the cement, landing on my shoulder. My arm was screaming in pain. I closed my eyes, biting back tears and pressing it to my side. With my other hand, I gingerly probed the skin, tendons, and bones with my fingers. I gasped from the pain, but was relieved. It had taken the brunt of my fall, but it didn’t feel broken. The gun at the holster in my back had most likely left a gun-shaped bruise on my skin, but I’d survive that too. Good thing I had on a thick sweatshirt under my leather jacket. Tugging on my jacket, my first stab at getting my arm through the armhole was excruciating as my sore arm got tangled in the tattered and shredded remnants of the lining. The second time it slid through. Even so, the effort hurt like hell.
Then I remembered my phone. I reached into my pocket. It was shattered. I tried to hit the home button and nothing happened.
I darted toward the garage door. I had no idea how I was going to get in from there. As I sprinted, I realized my ankle was jacked up from the fall, as well, so I hobbled at a fast walk. The wind kicked up swirling dried leaves around my feet in mini whirlwinds, lifting them eerily so they became eye level. I swatted at the leaves as I ran and swore under my breath.
This place gave me the creeps. The wind whistled around a corner and I nearly screamed. I pressed myself against the cold building and looked for a way in. Then I spotted it. The plywood on the nearest window was screwed on. I took out my multi-purpose tool again and flicked open the screwdriver attachment and plucked the screws out one by one. Then I pried the board off and set it to one side. Beneath it was a hal
f-broken window, jagged with glass. I reached down and lifted the glass out of the sill and set it aside. Kneeling, I peered into the building. The darkness stretched forever and made me want to turn and run.
I wiggled on my butt through the window, stretching with my legs to feel the floor. Nothing but air. Twisting, I propped my chest on the window and dropped, hoping there was floor below and that I wasn’t dropping into the center of the earth. But it was only a few feet down and my feet landed with a soft thud.
I froze listening. For a second I imagined a heavy breathing, like how a bear or hell hound would sound, but I knew it was all in my mind, that there was nothing there. In the distance, I heard the ding of pipes. Then a rhythmic dripping sound. And beyond that, a very low, nearly inaudible sound that sent shivers down my spine. It sounded like moaning. I knew it wasn’t and that my imagination was playing tricks on me, but my mouth instantly dried up and I found it difficult to swallow.
There was a small square of dim light that was coming in from the open window. I’d been so careful to cover my tracks, but leaving the plywood off the window would alert anyone who pulled up—anyone who was paying attention that is–that someone was inside.
I kicked my shoe around to see if there was anything I could stand on to try to at least pull the plywood over the window to look as if it were still intact, but my foot struck empty air. I scooted to the side so I was out of the dim square of light and in the shadows. I reached for my gun and unsnapped my holster with a loud click accompanied by a squeak from the holster’s leather. I pressed my back to the wall and listened, waiting for my eyes to adjust.
The first floor was dark and felt about thirty degrees colder than the chill outside. I didn’t hear anything unusual, but I couldn’t help the tangible feeling of malevolence in the air. My rational mind told me that the room was empty. Of people. But my gut told me something was in the room.
Dread crawled up my spine and over my scalp as if someone had run a long pointy finger across my body. Somewhere deep in the depths of the building there was that sound again—a low murmur, nearly a moaning, that I decided must be the wind seeping in through cracks in the old building.
My eyes focused and darker shadows became distinguishable from lighter shadows. When I had been spying from the doorway across the street, I thought I’d caught a glimpse of what looked like a staircase inside the garage. I headed that way, keeping my gun in front of me and my back to the wall. When the wall disappeared behind me and I touched the garage wall, I knew the stairs were in front of me. But that meant leaving the safety of the wall and walking into the open dark, dank space. I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths.
When I opened my eyes again, it seemed as if I could see a tiny bit better. Clutching my gun with both hands, I walked into the darkness, every nerve of my body on edge waiting for the gun to be yanked out of my hands or for it to smack into a solid body waiting for me in the dark. In the back of my mind, I vividly imagined every scary movie where the victim is stumbling along in the dark while some form of evil is watching her calmly and patiently with night vision goggles. I froze and listened. No heavy breathing. No shuffling of zombie-type feet toward me. So far so good.
And then that goddamn moaning started up again somewhere in the building. Okay. It was far away. I could handle anything as long as it wasn’t here with me right now. I decided to take ten steps and then pause to listen. I counted the steps and then stopped.
Nothing. Not a sound. The building was enormous, so I had no idea how close I was to the stairs. I took five more steps. Nothing. I listened but only heard a weird metal clanking noise that sounded like it was coming from outside and not anywhere in the building. A murmur of voices outside and the growl of a motor vehicle sent my heart beating up into my throat right when the garage door squeaked loudly and began to rise. The light filtering in illuminated a metal staircase in front of me and I ran for it as if my life depended on it. Which it probably did.
Scaling the metal stairs, which creaked loudly at each step, I was up three stories where the stairs dead-ended before the garage door fully opened. Two doors lay before me. I tried the handle of the first one. It was locked. The second one opened onto an enclosed stairway. With lights. Flickering horror movie lights. But lights.
Behind me, the garage door shut with a bang. I stepped inside the inner staircase. It seemed to go up several stories. I had no choice but to head to the next floor. Except there wasn’t one. It wasn’t until two flights later that there was a door. It looked like solid steel. I tried the handle. It pushed open.
Slowly, I eased my foot into the space and listened. I heard a humming noise. I waited and when nothing happened, I pushed the door open a little more and then, crouching, stuck one eye to the opening. It was dark, but not as pitch black as the first floor. This time light from outside filtered in to a big cavern of a space. I slipped my body through the crack in the door and then carefully closed it behind me so it wouldn’t make any noise.
Huge sheets of thick plastic were hung between giant pillars, sectioning the floor off into smaller spaces.
Grasping my gun, I headed toward the first area. If I didn’t find Sasha here, I’d try the next floor and the next until I’d searched the entire building. And if she wasn’t here? I glanced at my watch. It was now six in the morning. Twelve hours left.
Holding my breath, I stepped around the first sheet of thick plastic. Nothing. I moved onto the next. It wasn’t until the fourth section that I found something. At first I stared, not sure what I was looking at in the dim light. Two long rows of giant plastic barrels. The ones closest to me didn’t have lids on them and were empty. But there were about nine with lids tightly sealed. And then nearby, there were enormous containers stacked on top of one another. They contained clear liquid and had spigots.
Squinting in the dusty light I tried to read the label but it was too dark.
A bone-rattling rumble made me freeze. When I heard the distinct ding of an elevator, I jerked my head and saw a small light across the room from me. A freight elevator. I ducked into the furthest corner of the room behind the barrels with the lids on them. I pulled my legs in and made myself as small as possible as the elevator doors open with a whoosh. A series of lights overhead flickered on. A man grunted. “This guy has got to be at least 250 pounds.” He sounded out of breath.
“That’s what pisses me off,” another voice said. “This guy begging for my hard-earned cash and he probably eats better than me. Probably getting all sorts of money from the government to sit around and drink all day.”
“Yep. Total bullshit.”
“I’m glad he decided to ... uh, take us up on our offer.”
The other man laughed. “Dumb ass. Didn’t his mama ever teach him there ain’t nothing for free?”
“Are you kidding me? They don’t teach them nothing but how to get one over on the system.”
“Not for long. Not with King in charge. All that shit is going to change. Can’t happen soon enough.”
My heart stopped. These were King’s henchmen. Killing the homeless. Here was proof. If only my phone wasn’t out of commission I could have evidence. Or call for the police to come interrupt them in the act. But that wouldn’t lead me to King. He was the big fish.
“This is good right here.”
I heard a squishy thud and crack. I closed my eyes. I didn’t have to have x-ray vision to know that they’d dropped this man’s body on the cement floor, cracking the guy’s head like an egg. If he wasn’t already dead, he’d surely be dead now.
“Grab that one.”
More grunting. “The dolly’s over there.”
I heard the squeak of wheels and more grunting.
Then the sound of liquid rushing into a container.
“Dude! Put on your mask.” The voice was muffled.
“I got gloves on. Besides, they didn’t wear masks in Breaking Bad.”
“Okay, fuckwad, don’t put on your mask. See if I give a shit.”
I heard swearing and muffled voices.
After a few more minutes the sound of liquid stopped and I heard a snap that was probably the lid being pressed onto the plastic container.
“Let’s get out of here,” one man said. “This place gives me the creeps.”
The other man laughed and shortly after I heard the sound of the elevator ding.
After the lights were flicked off and I heard the whoosh of doors opening and closing and the rumble of the elevator grew fainter, I dared to stand.
The liquid in the containers had to be hydrofluoric acid. I’d watched Breaking Bad. Binge watched it a few times, actually. Hydrofluoric acid liquefied bodies.
Walking past the barrels with plastic lids, which now numbered ten, I felt sick.
These men were treating people like slabs of meat.
And what was possibly even worse is that there were another few dozen barrels empty. Waiting.
I paused.
Bile filled my throat. What if Sasha was in one of these barrels. I looked around. I would need a tool to pry them open and even then, I would also need gloves and a mask or something to protect me if the liquid splashed out or I inhaled it.
I tried to remember how many people Darling and Kato had said were missing.
Not ten.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I ducked back into the stairway, feeling safe again for the first time in twenty minutes. It was apparent I was the only person using the stairs in this hell hole. Probably why the flickering lights had never been fixed. I hurried up two more flights to get to the next floor. This door was locked. I pushed and pulled and it didn’t budge. The door handle on the next floor turned easily. I cracked the door half an inch, waiting. And then an inch. And then two inches. This floor was lit up. Afraid somebody was inside, I got my gun out and holding it close poked my head around the door. Something smelled bad. Like sweat and human waste.
Gia and the Forgotten Island (Gia Santella Crime Thriller Book 2) Page 12
