Behind her, a door opened and somebody stumbled down a step and into a nearby car. Colgrave ducked lower and tried to disappear between a Mustang and a battered van. Headlights suddenly pinned her against the side of the lighter-colored van. She ducked further down and waited for the drunk to leave, his rust-bucket bumping over the curb as he pulled out. When she raised her head again, Brant's Maxima was gone.
There was no sign of it in either direction.
Damn it!
Now what? Heat rose to her face. Unable to perform her duty. Possibly spotted, and now left behind. What more could go wrong, she wondered. But she didn't want to know.
TWENTY-TWO
Goran paced his office like a jungle cat in a zoo exhibit.
The Serb was used to being obeyed and found great pleasure in giving orders. His hand-picked security force, all loyal soldiers – veterans of his elite unit in Kosovo – were similarly used to obeying. They had killed for him and protected him while in uniform, and they had continued to do so even after being forced to flee, never to wear their uniforms again. The hangman's noose awaited any of them who might wish to return openly. Their loyalty was as much based on their former rank, and the Serb's, as on the generous salary he paid them for guarding him and his various legal and illegal activities. Some were paid more for their "hands-on" participation in certain aspects of the operation.
Now Goran was nervous, which was uncharacteristic.
Meeting that aging thug at his club had soured him on the day, but he wasn't sure why. He'd sent Vanos to tail him and execute the American at the first opportunity, and now Vanos hadn't returned. Goran wiped a hand through his thick hair, turned the motion into a scratch and let himself think. The thug had given him a name, he had sent his people off to check on that name, and the word he'd gotten so far was disquieting. A thug, maybe, but with a distinguished soldiering record from Vietnam. How could that guy be so old and look so good, Goran wondered. In any case, the guy was obsessive about this niece of his, and information on Richard Brant was scarce enough to give Goran pause. His sources were a bit dry on the American, and that meant something. But what it meant, he wasn't sure. He had summoned Boris from the kennels and questioned him about the new arrivals. Was one of the new girls this Brant's niece? Boris had given him a roundabout answer. Goran would deal with him later. No one gave Goran roundabout answers. No one in his organization or out. But he needed Boris right now, and he needed to find out more about the chick he was supposed to have kidnapped. He waited for his phone to ring. When it did, he would know a little more about Richard Brant.
He had ordered the new girls brought to him, but first he'd planned to – how did these slang-happy Americans put it? – "break them in" himself. But then he thought better of it and issued a counter-order. There were clients on the premises, and these especially would be fond of a test drive where they could use a little more force than normal.
Goran flicked a key on his computer, and a square camera window opened up, showing his plush waiting room. The clients were reclining, thick Cubans smoldering in their hands and snifters half full of gold liquid nearby, while a recent video catalog played on a plasma television before them. They nodded to each other, clearly enjoying themselves and their upcoming shopping spree. On the flat screen, a young woman's legs were spread and her vagina was being explored with a close-up camera shot. The two men turned to each other and laughed at what one of them said, giggling.
Goran smiled. It was always fun to watch Muslims unwind when they weren't under Allah's close scrutiny. The two would bid quite high for the women they'd have shipped home to their royal compounds. In fact, Goran expected they'd reach a million each, given the quality of the stock he was offering.
His desk phone buzzed. "Speak."
"Still no word from Vanos, sir."
Goran growled. "Anything more about this arrogant American scum who invades our club?"
"We have his address. We are working on more than that. Our contact says there is more, sir, but will only talk with you." The voice was nervous, tentative.
Goran swore in his native tongue. "Pay the American a visit. Make it a last visit. If you can find him, bring him to me if possible. But his head alone will be acceptable. And find Vanos."
He hung up and spoke into the intercom. "Give our clients a free test ride. The thin new one. I think this will help them make up their minds, no?" He grinned without humor. "See if you can find out for sure which of the new girls is related to the American scum, and make sure she is on the block as well."
He leaned back in his chair. Things were becoming difficult. But his connections would handle any problems.
He checked his watch and picked up his safe cell, dialing. When a gruff voice answered, he spoke. "Captain, I will require you to make a schedule change."
TWENTY-THREE
Brant turned off his car and sat in the sudden quiet, letting the adrenaline wash through his system. A sheen of sweat had gathered during his alley attack, and now he shivered even though it wasn't cold.
Reaction, he thought. He forced himself to sit still for one full minute, willing his hands to stop shaking.
Then he dialed a safe cell, a TracFone, and waited for the patch-through. When Kampmann came on, he sounded winded, as if he'd been running.
"Richard, I didn't expect to hear from you so soon." His voice sounded cautious. Circumspect.
"This line is secure. Sorry to rush you, but the clock's moving fast. I've got a situation here, and only a few hours at most before it blows up in my face. When it does, it may blow up in your face, too. Fair warning."
Still cautious, Kampmann sighed. "You were in possession of the element of surprise."
Brant smiled grimly. "I did, but I don't anymore. The locals will get dragged in unless I can have a wipe done with immediate importance attached."
Another sigh, longer this time. "Extent?"
"Right now singular, but you'll need to keep them handy. I'm expecting to need more wiping soon."
The sound of air being expelled filled Brant's ear. "I'll see what I can do, Richard. But you should know that I ran into several obstacles in my research. I dead-ended here and there, and found some gaps – recent gaps – in databases you just can't make deletions from without... without a certain level of expertise or authority. I'm betting on authority. Had the DHS stamp all over it."
"Something stinks here, too. The locals have a similar blockage. I think you and I both know who's being twisted into doing it, but not why."
"A certain ex-Rat on your end, I take it?" Kampmann's voice sounded weary.
"Yeah, I think so. I have some back-up from the old days. But the blockage is fucking up my search. My niece is getting closer to dying every minute."
"If she's not already dead."
"She's not. I'm sure."
Kampmann sighed. "Your – your instincts were always good."
"Right. But things are tightening. I'm going to give you an address. I need a wipe from the alley behind it right now. Then I'll give you a second address. I'll probably need a wipe there in the next couple hours. Just keep them on standby."
"I'll see what I can do."
Brant recited the addresses, then waited for more from Kampmann, but there was only wary silence. "Thanks," he said.
Another sigh. Kampmann was sighing a lot these days. "Be careful, Richard. I may not be in a position to be of assistance under certain circumstances. I'm afraid those days are just about over."
"Understood. Thanks for what you can do."
"I'll be in touch."
Brant hit End and tossed the phone onto the seat next to him. There was something underlying Kampmann's tone, something that set off Brant's radar. Kampmann was Brant's ace in the hole, but the sighing seemed to indicate that the old man was feeling pressure from somewhere. But pressure to do what? To control Brant? To redirect or muzzle him?
To betray him?
No. Not betrayal. Kampmann was old school. But he wasn'
t above using Brant if there was some end he wished to achieve.
Well, good luck to him. This was one time Brant decided he might not mind being used. At least he'd keep an open mind. Kampmann might well be in a delicate position, and Brant was potentially the loose cannon on the deck. Still, one never knew what good or bad damage one of those might do once unlimbered.
You just checked it out after the storm was past.
KIT
The door opened after they had counted footsteps in the hall and given each other a quick 'Okay.' Again there was only one, wearing a Bugs Bunny mask, and it wasn't the ape or the one with the melted mask – it was the tall thin man, the one Kit thought was from the mall: Pervy Man, who had tripped her while she was trying to keep up with that idiot Irina.
The thin Bugs approached Anne Marie first, chuckling as she cowered against the wall. He held a gun in one hand and a key in the other, and he aimed the gun at the shivering girl while undoing the manacle lock.
"Come on, you're next on the block," he said, pulling her roughly by the arm and off the cot. She struggled out of his grasp and cowered as far from him as she could go.
Surprised, he backed up slightly toward Kit's cot, and the seeds of their planning bore fruit.
The girls had measured their chains, learning that their captors had miscalculated. By alternately cowering and struggling, Anne Marie forced the thin man to reach further for her. Her resistance caused him to back up closer to Kit than he realized when attempting to yank the younger girl off her cot.
Driven by the tantalizing tingle of success, Kit leaped up and looped her chain around his neck, tugging tightly. She cut off his shout and it turned into a liquid gurgle.
The surprise attack helped Anne Marie escape his grip, and in a second she also wrapped her dangling chain around his neck in the opposite direction, the two of them exploiting their athletic bodies, shredding the soft skin of his neck with sudden opposite jerks.
He dropped the pistol and fell to his knees, blood and skin gouged from his neck spilling to the floor. His eyes wide with shock and pain, he was therefore unprepared for Anne Marie's roundhouse punch to the temple. He went down like a sack of rotted vegetables. Kit snatched the pistol from the floor and desperately hunted for the key.
Certainly there must be a camera trained on them, but Kit made a desperate bet it wasn't monitored. In the web room, she had seen banks of monitors with no one watching. With the pistol, they could fight off anyone who came to the thin man's aid.
But she had to get free first.
She scrabbled around on the floor and couldn't find the key.
Damn it, where had the thing bounced?
Panicked, her hands patted the floor, still wet with her vomit.
Nothing but grossness.
"Got it!" Anne Marie said, as she rolled the man's twitching body off the key. "It was under him!"
"Quick, get me loose," Kit said. She aimed the gun at the open door.
Anne Marie fumbled at the tiny lock, but in a few seconds it clicked and both girls were free.
They turned toward Marissa, who sat watching through tear-streaked eyes.
"Are you coming? We're busting out of here."
Marissa shook her head. "You'll never make it."
"Then we're gonna die trying," said Anne Marie.
Kit wanted to leap through the door and flee, but she forced herself to smile at Marissa in encouragement. "Come on, we can make it if we stick together."
"There are other girls, you know."
Kit nodded. She'd suspected that was the case. "They can come, too."
"No!" Marissa lowered her head and pouted.
"Forget her!" Anne Marie made for the door. "We gotta get going."
Kit nodded. "Good luck," she spit at Marissa, who turned away. Her mutilated foot had come unwrapped and Kit saw that a bloody stump was all that remained of her little toe.
She shook her head and followed Anne Marie into the long, empty hall.
TWENTY-FOUR
She made the coded phone call to Lynn, hung up, and waited almost a half hour for a call back.
"Sorry to rush you like that, but I had an emergency and I need whatever else you might have for me."
"Here goes," Lynn said. And then she had gone on at length.
Colgrave was huddled in her car, the heater on, looking for warmth she couldn't find. The evening air wasn't cold, but a dampness seemed to have spread through her bones since she'd witnessed Brant wasting the thug. That he was a thug wasn't in doubt, and Colgrave wasn't mourning him. In fact, she'd bet he had amassed a record a mile long and wouldn't be missed by anyone at all. But the cold settled into her bones and veins when she realized that – for some reason she couldn't determine – she'd completely short-circuited her training and hadn't apprehended a murderer.
There was no doubt that Brant was a murderer. Sure, one could look at his attack as self-defense. Someone biased. Certainly the thug had meant to do harm with that pistol. But a preemptive strike... well, down that road lay illegality, unconstitutional activity, and ultimately murder. And she'd allowed it to happen. Hadn't acted once it had happened, compounding her complicity.
She could hardly have prevented it, she reasoned. The whole incident took less than ten seconds from when she'd hidden herself. She'd been completely shocked by the unexpected action, but was that enough excuse? And then she had allowed the murderer to walk free without attempting to apprehend him. Why no call for back-up? Why nothing done since?
She shivered. Damn it, she was really cold now. It was the cold of isolation. Knowing she had just removed herself from the list of the lawful, the law enforcers, the good guys. And placed herself on the other list, the bad one. Or maybe a third list, a grey area list? She wondered if there was any solace there. She shivered again.
No solace.
Even after Lynn's call back, there was no solace. She hadn't liked what she heard. Not at all. And as she started her car and thought about pointing it in the direction of the address Lynn had given her, she saw a nondescript gray box truck nose gingerly into the alley where she'd witnessed the murder.
Colgrave's instincts had always been good. Her rough youth had developed in her a sensitivity to events that allowed her to make connections and see answers where none were obvious. These instincts had helped her rocket to the top of her academy class, later had made her a better cop, and now made her an outstanding sergeant. At this time, her instinct told her to wait, not pull away from the curb, and see what the strangely unmarked truck was doing in the very same alley where an anonymous thug had met his end at the hands of an enigma.
Slowly she reached out and turned the ignition key to off. Torn between her options, she made her decision within thirty seconds. The truck was probably related to Goran's business – maybe delivering supplies for the club. Or people.
Kidnapped girls?
She knew she had to get a look at what the truck was bringing, or removing. Moments later she was out in the evening chill again, heading past the parking lot and slipping into the alley mouth but keeping to the deepening shadows. Fortunately the days were short and it was now full December darkness, so there were more shadows to hug. Colgrave moved from Dumpster to Dumpster, from doorway to doorway, keeping the truck's tail lights in view as much as possible. It was pulled up a few dozen yards into the alley, not far from where she'd hidden during the shooting.
It was the sort of truck used by FedEx or U-Haul, an oblong box built over and around a smaller, van-like snout. But there were no colorful markings, logos, or company stencils. The very way it was meant to attract no attention had attracted hers, especially showing up here after what she knew had happened, but on a freeway it wouldn't elicit a second glance.
She backed into deeper shadows when the lights blinked and the driver pulled a few yards further along. There must have been two people, and one was signaling the driver onward. Colgrave wondered what they were looking for, but only academically, because sudden
ly she knew. Her suspicion was confirmed when the brake lights blinked and the truck stopped, next to the Dumpster in which Brant had tumbled the dead thug.
The next few minutes gave Colgrave a clear view of the operation. There were three men in nondescript jumpsuits. One opened the rear doors and handed out armloads of equipment to the other two, one presumably being the driver, and then two disappeared while the third man drew a silenced semi-automatic pistol from under his jumpsuit and simply paced the perimeter.
Colgrave hardly dared breathe. She had no illusions what would happen if they spotted her lurking about.
Within minutes, the other two returned with a black body-bag slung between them on what appeared to be a light-weight stretcher. They slid the body and stretcher into the rear of the truck, then disappeared again, this time holding portable tanks and spray guns. Two more minutes and they stowed the gear in the truck's rear box, disappeared again, and the truck began to slowly back out of the alley.
Colgrave managed to squeeze herself between a brick wall and her Dumpster, breathing through her nose and twitchily wishing she could draw her Glock. Her fears were realized when the truck backed past her and, a half-minute later, the third man followed, his eyes roving the alley they were leaving. If he sensed her presence, he didn't show it.
Colgrave knew that if he sensed her presence, she'd be joining their cargo in the truck's box.
Truck and guard drew further away and finally reached the street, where the third man hoisted himself into the cab and the driver pulled away to disappear out of her vision.
Finally she was able to breathe normally.
Colgrave waited a full five minutes, feeling the rough brick behind her and the wetness of the evening seeping into her bones. She'd just witnessed a well-practiced procedure, clearly set in motion by Richard Brant. She checked the Dumpster in question and its vicinity. Clean, except for the garbage. She smelled a faint trace of ammonia and other chemicals quickly diluting in the drizzle.
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