The Stolen Ones

by Owen Laukkanen

  “Go,” he told Dodrescu. “Get us out of here.”

  Dodrescu gunned the engine in reverse as the police returned fire. Volovoi heard glass break, heard the thud as police bullets perforated the Dodge’s sheet metal. Dodrescu slammed his foot down and the truck launched backward, away from the police, deeper into the stacks.

  Outside, Marek had his gun drawn, a MAC-10 automatic, and was crouched behind the box, trying to fend off the cops. As the Durango screamed past him, Volovoi saw the big soldier stumble back, herky-jerky, as the police bullets hit him.

  Dodrescu spun the wheel. The Durango slid on the gravel, careened around sideways. The driver punched the gearshift into drive and was on the gas again, aiming the Dodge through a break in the stacks of containers, away from the police cars and away from the road, a respite, but brief. The whole lot was ringed by heavy-duty fencing, Volovoi knew. Concrete barriers and barbed wire. Even the big Dodge would never make it through.

  “We have to get back to the gate,” he told the driver. “Make it out before they block us in.”

  Dodrescu set his jaw. Turned the Durango down a long corridor of boxes. Volovoi shifted in his seat, looked out the rear window. Could see the first pursuing police car make the same turn.

  “Hurry,” he said. “Drive for your life.”

  The Durango surged forward, the engine roaring. The SUV reached the end of the long corridor, and Dodrescu turned again, back toward the main road. Through gaps in the boxes, Volovoi could see the brown container, the tractor, Marek’s body. A light show of police cars and tactical units.

  Dodrescu sped the Durango through the boxes, slalomed around a patrol car, and kept going. In the background, Volovoi could hear shooting. Saw sparks explode off the boxes as bullets struck them.

  They were at the front of the lot now. The boxes fell back. Twenty yards ahead was the gate, a couple more cruisers waiting. And the cube van. The police were backing it into position, blocking the gate. In thirty seconds there’d be no way out.

  “You see that?” Volovoi asked.

  Dodrescu kept his foot planted. “I see it,” he said.

  Volovoi rolled down his window. Leaned out with his pistol and fired at the van, at the cruisers beside it, at the low-slung Dodge Charger lingering in the background. The police returned fire. The Durango didn’t quit. Dodrescu drove with steel nerves, aiming for the rapidly dwindling hole between the white van and the fence.

  Volovoi emptied his magazine. Then he ducked for cover. Watched the white van approach, watched the gap narrow. Dodrescu didn’t slow down. Didn’t waver. The fence got closer. The hole got smaller. Volovoi gripped his armrest and braced for impact.

  Crash. Sparks. The Durango jolted like it had taken a punch. Metal squealed against metal. The police were still firing. The Durango’s engine revved higher as Dodrescu kept his foot down. The SUV shimmied, struggled, shouldered its way through. Wheels spun. Gravel spat. More bullets, everywhere.

  This is it, Volovoi thought. This is how you die.

  Then the Durango surged forward. Cleared the white van and bounced off a Newark patrol car, sending it spinning backward. Dodrescu fought the wheel, struggled to keep the Durango under control. Aimed the SUV down the service road and kept going.

  > > >

  STEVENS AND WINDERMERE watched the Durango muscle through the gate. Watched the driver wrestle it through a couple patrol cars, point it inland, down the empty service road. The big SUV was riddled with bullet holes, its windows shattered. Windermere couldn’t see how either occupant had survived without injury.

  LePlavy was outside the Charger, hollering on his radio. “One man on the lot,” he told Stevens and Windermere, through the window. “The delivery driver. Dead.”

  One man. Not the Dragon, Windermere thought. No use to us now. “We have to follow that SUV,” she said.

  “I have air support on him,” LePlavy said. “No way he gets far.”

  Windermere shook her head. “Not going to risk it, LePlavy,” she said. She glanced at Stevens. “You ready?”

  “You know it,” Stevens said.

  “Good,” she said. “Hang on. It’s going to be some cowboy shit up in here.”

  She stood on the gas pedal. Pulled off the kind of tire-screaming launch she used to dream about trying in her daddy’s Chevelle—the kind she wouldn’t dare to pull now, not with her dad dead and buried—all burning rubber and that howling engine, Stevens pinned back to the passenger seat.

  The tires found traction. The Charger leapt forward, sped down the service road toward the intersection, the shot-up Durango in the distance.

  Beside her, Stevens clung to the armrests. “Jesus, Carla.”

  “Better than sex, Stevens,” she said, her foot to the floor. “Draw your weapon.”

  109

  VOLOVOI SAW THE HELICOPTER overhead and knew he was fucked. He’d known the police would chase him; he could see the black Charger turning off the service road behind them, barreling down the long straightaway. The Charger didn’t worry Volovoi. Dodrescu was a good driver. He could evade a police car.

  A helicopter, though, was another matter.

  “We need to do something,” Volovoi told the driver. “Find a hiding place.”

  To the left was the train yard, flat land, mostly empty. A switch engine shunting cars a few hundred yards down. On the right were more warehouses, vacant lots, a long finger of ocean, and a couple of piers. Ahead was an overpass, an on-ramp to the New Jersey Turnpike.

  “We could hide beneath the overpass,” Dodrescu said. “Change cars.”

  Volovoi couldn’t see another car for miles. Unless they killed the police officers in the Charger, they would have no vehicle to take.

  We could run for it on foot, Volovoi thought. Every man for himself.

  It was not a good idea, either. The police had a whole squad of officers raiding the container lot. They would canvass the area. Nobody could hide for long.

  Then the Durango slowed. Volovoi looked at Dodrescu. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Dodrescu had his hand to his stomach. His fingers were red. He’d been shot, Volovoi realized. Somehow, in the confusion, he’d been shot in the stomach. He’d driven them away from the container yard, but he wouldn’t drive them much farther.

  “Keep going,” Volovoi told him. “I’ll find you help. Just keep driving if you want to live.”

  > > >

  STEVENS REGAINED HIS BEARINGS in the passenger seat as Windermere kept the Charger red-lining. Called LePlavy on his cell phone, gripping his pistol in his free hand.

  “Tell that helicopter to keep on this guy’s tail,” he told the Newark agent. “We can’t lose him.”

  “Helicopter’s got him,” LePlavy said. “I’ll keep you updated.”

  In the distance, the Durango turned toward an on-ramp and the interstate beyond. Stevens pointed through the windshield. “See it?” he asked Windermere.

  In the driver’s seat, Windermere’s brow furrowed. “I see it, Stevens,” she said. “Just wish this damn car would haul a little more ass.”

  > > >

  DODRESCU WAS GETTING PALER. Soon he would go into shock, Volovoi knew. He would stop driving, and then they would need a new plan.

  “Keep going,” Volovoi told him. “We will find someone to help you. Just get us away from here.”

  Dodrescu put his foot to the gas and drove on. Behind the Durango, the Charger was gaining ground. The helicopter still shadowed them, high in the air. The net would close in again. Soon, there would be no escape.

  What now? Volovoi thought. What do we do?

  He studied the overpass ahead, the highway on-ramp, the tops of cars and trucks just visible above. Searched his brain for an answer. Then he saw it.

  A big Boeing airliner roared by overhead, minutes from touchdown at Newark Liberty Airport. The Dur
ango was pointed directly into the flight path. The helicopter wouldn’t be able to follow.

  “The airport,” Volovoi said, pressing a fresh magazine into his pistol. “Take us to the airport. And hurry.”

  110

  LEPLAVY CALLED STEVENS BACK.

  “The helicopter lost him,” he said. “He’s in Newark Liberty airspace. No way they can get a chopper in there without crashing like eight planes.”

  “Shit.” Stevens looked out the window. Saw the lights of an approaching jetliner against the thunderclouds in the distance. “I guess there’s no rerouting the planes, either.”

  “Not on your life,” LePlavy told him. “Can’t even change runways, not with the storm coming. I’ll notify the airport police, though, get their ground units involved.”

  “Do it,” Stevens said. “We’ll try and keep up until they arrive.”

  He ended the call. Watched the speeding Durango race across an interstate overpass toward the Newark Liberty terminals. To the left was the airfield. Planes landed. The thunderstorm approached. Stevens could see lightning in the distance. Meanwhile, the Durango didn’t show any sign of slowing down.

  “That didn’t sound good,” Windermere said.

  “It’s not,” Stevens said. “Airport airspace. No helicopter. Unless airport police can scramble some units, we’re on our own, Carla.”

  “‘On our own.’” Windermere narrowed her eyes. “What else is new?”

  > > >

  DODRESCU HELD OUT across the New Jersey Turnpike. Kept driving as the road skirted around the Newark Liberty airfield. To the left now were employee Park and Ride lots, aviation supply warehouses. To the right was the Lincoln Highway, speeding traffic. Soon, Volovoi knew, they’d arrive at the terminal buildings. There would be public parking lots. Chaos. If their luck held, they could ditch the Durango and shake free of the FBI agents in the Charger behind them.

  Just a few minutes longer, Volovoi thought. Hold it together just a few minutes more.

  But Dodrescu didn’t have a few minutes. As the Durango raced through an intersection, he slumped and went unconscious, let his foot slip from the gas pedal. The Durango veered left, toward the oncoming lane. Volovoi glanced over, saw the kid, swore. “Shit.”

  He reached across for the steering wheel. Guided the truck into the correct lane. Felt the truck slowing. Knew the Charger was gaining. Didn’t want to let the cops close any more ground.

  There was a grassy median on both sides of the road. To the right was the Lincoln Highway. To the left was a low office complex, protected by a concrete barrier. Volovoi turned the wheel left. Aimed the truck at the barrier. Held the wheel steady and braced himself for the crash.

  The truck slammed into the barrier. Collided on its front quarter and bounced off. The bumper disintegrated. Concrete crushed metal. Volovoi fought to keep the wheel steady, rode the big Dodge along the barrier as sparks flew, as the concrete slowed the truck. As soon as the truck stopped, he leapt out from his seat. Leaned back in toward Dodrescu, slumped over the wheel, and took aim with his pistol. Shot him twice in the head. Then he ran.

  The Charger was closing distance. It sped toward Volovoi, three hundred yards away. No time to spare. Volovoi ran back to the road. Met a gray Acura coming head-on and stepped out in front of it, waving his gun so the driver could see. The driver slammed on his brakes. The Acura screamed to a stop.

  Volovoi circled to the driver’s side of the car. Pulled the driver from his seat. Barely heard the man’s screaming. Shot him once in the head and climbed behind the wheel. Left the man’s body on the road and drove off.

  > > >

  WHATEVER RELIEF WINDERMERE felt as she watched the Durango slow disappeared as soon as she saw the big thug wave his pistol.

  “Oh, no,” she said, watching him flag down a little gray Acura. “Oh, shit.”

  Beside her, Stevens rolled down his window. Took aim with his pistol, but couldn’t get a clear shot. The thug was dragging the driver from the car. Windermere urged the Charger forward. Swore at it. Cajoled it. Couldn’t close the distance in time.

  The thug shot the driver. Dropped him to the pavement like trash. Climbed inside the Acura and sped away from the body.

  “Fuck,” Windermere said. “God damn it, Stevens.”

  Beside her, Stevens still had his pistol raised. Wasn’t shooting. Couldn’t shoot. Too many bystanders. Too many civilians. She was driving the Charger too fast for a clean shot.

  Windermere watched the Acura speed away. Wanted to follow, knew she couldn’t. Not with a gunshot victim dying on the pavement in front of her.

  She took her foot from the gas. Slammed on the brakes. The Charger slid a little, jolted as the ABS kicked in. Came to a stop fifteen feet from the Acura driver.

  Stevens was out of the car before she’d shifted out of gear. Ran to the man as fast as she’d ever seen him run. By the time she’d climbed from behind the wheel, though, Stevens had slowed. Was looking back at her, shaking his head. Windermere took a few steps, saw what Stevens had seen. The driver had been shot in the head, point-blank. He was dead.

  And she couldn’t see the little gray Acura anywhere.

  111

  VOLOVOI DROVE THE ACURA away from the airport. Took surface roads into Newark, hearing sirens everywhere. The police would be looking for the car, he knew. They’d know the plates as soon as they identified the driver.

  This was as bad as he’d expected. The FBI had traced him to the New Jersey yard. If appearances were correct, they had followed the box. They had helicopter support, multiple police agencies. They had planned a sting. They knew a lot.

  They had the box. They had the container yard. They had his latest supply of women, the Dragon’s women. The New York women. And now they had Sladjan Dodrescu and his Durango, too.

  Volovoi parked the Acura behind a liquor store, hiding it behind a dumpster and an old Chevy stripped bare. Made a call on his cell phone to one of his soldiers. The soldier answered, laughing. It sounded like he was having a party.

  “Meet me on Adams Street,” he told the soldier. “Right now.”

  The soldier agreed. He wasn’t laughing anymore. Volovoi ended the call and settled into the shadows to wait.

  The wind picked up while he waited. Rain began to fall, little drops here and there that foreshadowed the chaos to come. Volovoi took shelter under an awning and stared out at the street, watched the daylight disappear as though someone had switched off the lights. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Lightning flashed. Volovoi ducked away and waited for the soldier.

  The soldier arrived in a black BMW. Flashed his lights at Volovoi and pulled over. Volovoi crossed to the driver’s side, opened the door.

  “There is an Acura in the alley,” he said. “Keys in the ignition. Dispose of it for me.”

  The soldier was a young man. There was a tattoo of a tiger on his neck. He looked at Volovoi, then back at his car, ready to complain. Volovoi fixed his eyes on him.

  “Dispose of it now,” he told the soldier. “Dispose of it properly. I will take care of your car.”

  The soldier scowled, but he vacated the driver’s seat. Volovoi climbed inside. Closed the door. Turned off the shitty rap music the soldier had blaring, and pulled out his cell phone again and called the Dragon.

  “My last shipment is compromised,” he said when the Dragon answered. “I am compromised. If we want to sell our women, we need to move quickly. Tell your buyer to meet me tonight.”

  112

  IRINA WATCHED the convenience store for fifteen minutes before she crossed the street. Cars came and went from the tiny parking lot. Pedestrians wandered by, men and women, mostly black. Irina watched them, weighing her dwindling courage. Finally, she crossed the road.

  The parking lot was empty when she reached it. A woman and a little girl walked out of the store. The woman carried a shopping
bag. The girl held a slushy drink. She held the door for Irina, who ducked her head and hurried inside. She would steal food and water. Then she would find a car.

  The man behind the counter had brown skin and a turban. He was watching a soccer game on a crummy little TV. His counter was protected by a box of thick plexiglass, most of it smeared, smudged, or scratched. Irina avoided the man’s eyes, walked quickly to the back of the store and the long line of drink coolers. Found a cooler with eight different brands of water, slid open the door and let the cool air waft over her until goose pimples appeared on her forearms. She chose a large bottle of water, fought the urge to drink it then and there. Slid the cooler door closed and walked to the candy bar aisle, feeling the clerk’s eyes follow her.

  She would have to run, she knew. He would not take kindly to her thievery. There was no telling what he would do to her if he caught her.

  The store’s aisles were filled with food: candy, potato chips, crackers, and canned goods. Irina grabbed at random, took a couple of chocolate bars and a package of beef jerky. Hesitated in the aisle, hoping another customer would appear, someone to take the man’s attention away from her.

  No customers came in. She was alone in the store. The man watched her like he could read her mind.

  There was a row of newspapers on a rack by the door. As casually as she could, Irina walked over. Examined the headlines, though she couldn’t read a word of them. Flipped the paper over and was startled to see her own face. It was a picture the police had taken, shortly after she’d been captured in that muddy parking lot in the woods. She was surprised at how gaunt she appeared, how afraid. Hardly a woman anymore, and certainly not sexy. She wondered what man would have paid for her in that condition. What man would let her lure him away from his car.

  The clerk was still staring at her. She could feel his eyes boring into her back like laser beams. Slowly, she turned the newspaper back over, hiding her face. Then, her heart thudding in her chest, she stepped toward the door.