Savage Nights

by W. D. Gagliani

  He stared at his two clients on the screen. His two wonderful clients and their endless bank accounts … damn that bastard American, he was making Goran's life a living hell. He watched as they caressed and fondled the two young women and allowed himself a smile. He would not enjoy ruining their fun. No, but he had no choice right now. He would owe them something for the trouble, and he would make sure they would remain clients. He had ways to keep men happy. Very happy indeed.

  He stretched his hand and caressed the phone, almost picking it up. But no, he thought. Not yet. He stared at his door, picturing Irina and her toys. Irina and her friends, who worked for him.

  Then Goran paced again and brought his many thoughts into focus. He had made a mistake, maybe two, in his life that he now regretted. Goran paced and smoked and waited to see what the next few minutes would bring. His tendency to indigestion was working overtime, and he thought he could feel the sour liquid in his stomach corrode the lining like battery acid.

  He grimaced and reached for the phone again.

  THIRTY

  Sarge opened his door wide. He shook hands with his former Rats much like Brant had done, the greetings brief and to the point. Tunnel Rats were men of few words and meaningful glances.

  "Got some stuff ready for you," he said with no further ado.

  He had been all business, Sarge had, even on the bad days. Brant remembered all too well. Some bad days never left his memory.

  He blinked a few times, finding himself almost back there, six clicks from Cu Chi, or on the sampan, one of those bad days, and then he was back in Sarge's loft, beer in hand, warm because he didn't want it.

  Impatient. Desperation crawling into he pit of his stomach. He swallowed the lump that grew in his throat and it burned all the way down. His chest had settled down a bit, at least when he ignored its clamor. His head throbbed, but that kept him connected, somehow.

  Head pounding, he thought he could see Kit always just beyond his peripheral vision.

  Sarge was giving his old squad the cheap tour, ending at the kitchen counter, which was covered by a lumpy tablecloth. He whipped it off magician-style and Smitty whistled.

  The lumps were formed by a group of 4.6mm HK MP7A1s outfitted with laser sights and suppressor-silencers, .40-caliber Glocks, and a small stack of commando-style stilettos in webbed sheaths, along with a row of stun grenades. Ranks of full magazines took up the rest of the counter. On the floor, a duffel bag disgorged Kevlar vests.

  "Not the absolute best vest I can get," Sarge confessed, "but the best in this time frame. The HKs are super-new, high-velocity 4.6mm submachine guns. I guarantee even our own TAC Squad would drool over them. Fact is, they'd reduce our vests to shreds, no shit. They're not for sale in the US yet, but I have contacts in Germany and clients always like a little road test, ya know? Everybody okay with everything?" He smiled proudly, as if he'd laid out a barbeque feast for hungry guests.

  "Impressive," said Smitty. He picked up a stubby HK and hefted it. "Weighs nothin'."

  "Yeah, and it's loaded," warned Sarge. "Don't dry-fire it here." He chuckled. "Here, let me unload it and I'll show you how it works."

  "I guess this hardware means you think these other guys are serious," said Digger. He looked at Brant.

  "As a heart attack. I had to, uh, sanction a bunch of them already, so they know I'm coming. They're gonna be ready. Funny thing, I don't think the Serb knows who I am."

  "You mean, that you're Kit's kin?"

  "Yeah. He's on the fucking moon he's so untouchable. Not that he doesn't deserve what he gets..."

  They checked out the weapons, making sure they understood the ambidextrous levers and cocking mechanisms. For a few minutes, they might have been in a Cu Chi clearing, checking out their M16s before a mission.

  Weapons set aside, Brant laid out descriptions of Goran's club by memory, sketching on a pad and passing it around. Then he sketched the mansion's dungeon level for them.

  Digger whistled. "This is some serious shit. What'd you do while you were in there?"

  "This kind of thing is like fucking Nam. No boundaries. No clear targets. I made a target out of everybody I saw. No second chances."

  The words sank in, slowly, and the others nodded.

  "So all kinds of shit goes on down there, right? Can't the locals handle him?"

  "Yeah, there's a lot of shit going down in that dungeon. He's not afraid. That's why I think he's untouchable. He's golden for somebody, somewhere."

  Smitty tapped his cigarette pack like a drummer doing a miniature fill. "Money, guns, or info?"

  "We're an information society. That's my guess. He's probably got contacts back in Kosovo who pass him info he can sell. He swaps them girls fresh-faced American girls and whoever else gets caught in his gill-nets."

  Brant stopped. He made a fist, showing them his anger for the first time. This was no normal mission. "If that's the meat grinder Kit fell into, it might be too late. Then I just want to take him down because somebody has to."

  They drank in silence for a minute, digesting.

  "No offense, but we'll need some expense money afterwards. And insurance is expensive these days."

  "No offense, Digger. I have cash on hand to send you home happy. Fifty grand each, no matter the outcome. Maybe a bonus if we survive."

  "Happy if alive." Smitty grinned.

  "As ever."

  Brant outlined his financial arrangements until they were satisfied.

  "Okay ladies, the hugging's over." Sarge separated the gear into four piles. "Not much time to plan, am I right? We need to move fast – the Loot killed the element of surprise for us."

  "Yeah, he probably knows I'm coming for him, but he doesn't know where or that I'm not alone."

  "You had some intel, right? How'd you get it?"

  "Friendly LEO."

  "Since when are Law Enforcement Officers friendly to the likes of you?"

  Smitty laughed and punched Digger.

  "Since she's a chick," Sarge said. "Loot's always had a way with women."

  Digger and Smitty began recounting opposing stories on that topic.

  The door buzzer interrupted them.

  All eyes turned to Sarge, eyebrows raised.

  "Not expecting anyone," Sarge mumbled, heading for the wall console. A screen lit up, and he raised the volume until a tinny voice came from the speaker. He mumbled back, pressed a switch, and the screen disappeared.

  "Trouble, maybe." Sarge grinned crookedly and hastily tossed the tablecloth over the laid out gear.

  Brant stood, one hand near his belt holster.

  A minute later, Sergeant Colgrave knocked and warily opened the door. She stood in the darkened entrance, staring at them.

  KIT

  Kit was hollowed out by fear. And maybe anger.

  But the fear trumped her anger as she saw the sparkling eyes of the two men who stood before where the thug had chained her. She was spread-eagled standing against a cinderblock wall, her hands bound with short lengths of chain to hooks set deeply into the wall. Brownish stains around her reminded her that there was always something worse around the corner in the nightmare her life had become. Seeing her father killed so callously by her roommate had traumatized her, surely, but even now the men who were touching her breasts and below had earned the potential to drive her completely mad. Their fingers poked at her tentatively as they grinned and muttered to each other in their own language. She growled at them and swore that if they came within range of her teeth, she would rip their arms to shreds and not stop until they bled to death.

  They stepped back and grinned nervously at each other. Maybe this one was just too dangerous to approach. They turned to the table where Anne Marie had been strapped down, naked and open to their sadistic probing and prodding.

  Kit saw that Anne Marie was unconscious, perhaps catatonic, and she thought it was probably for the best.

  "Leave her alone. Touch her and I'll kill you."

  For a second, Kit did
n't realize the words had come from her.

  The two hesitated, looked at Kit with crooked smiles, and seemed to be asking just how she could kill them while chained to a wall.

  She answered as if she had read their minds. "Don't worry, I'll find a way. I mean it, I'll kill you if you lay a hand on her."

  The taller of the two smiled disarmingly. "We will see how well your passion translates to sexual intercourse. But first you will need training and conditioning." He stopped and let the pause turn pregnant. "But you will have all the time in the world for retraining when you reach my country. We have many who will want to help train you."

  Kit sobbed. "No." Her voice was a tiny little whisper, the bravado sucked out of her as easily as that.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Brant stared back at Colgrave, transfixed. She wore black on black – leather over dyed jeans, a turtleneck, and black combat boots. Brant saw – and he knew the others could see – the bulge on her hip where her Glock rode close to her skin. No make-up, and her hair was pulled back in a youngish pony tail.

  She broke the silence by muttering, "Well, I didn't expect a class reunion."

  Sarge shot Brant a hard look. "What in fucking hell did you-"

  "Not Brant." Colgrave stared him down. "My sources came up with your name, Sergeant. I must say, I was impressed." She noticed the covered weapons on the counter and her eyes clicked like shutters. "We've been wondering where the exotic guns were coming from, and nobody thought to ask you. You, a former cop with old-school military connections and a lucrative side business, and-" She swiveled her head to make the point. "- no food preparation space rented or on the premises. What were we thinking?"

  Sarge made a fist.

  Hands twitched.

  Colgrave stared at him until he looked away. "I'm not here to serve a warrant."

  "What are you here for?" he inquired, his voice low and threatening.

  "To help bring down the Serb."

  There was complete silence for a full minute as everyone digested the words.

  "How do we know you're not lying, to infiltrate?"

  "Sergeant – you were a sergeant as a cop, too, right? – there is only one way I could infiltrate. I'd have to be wired."

  "Are you wearing a wire?"

  "No. Want to see?" She started to unzip her jacket.

  "Never mind," Brant growled, staring at Sarge first, then Colgrave. "I'm sure she's not wearing a wire. But I'm not sure what she really is doing here." He turned his full gaze on her.

  "I've had an inkling on this Goran character since the disappearance of that one informant who came forward and then vanished. What I haven't had is a single chance to investigate the rumors. And there have been enough rumors to make someone like me pissed as hell about not being able to do anything about it." She glared at Sarge, her eyes hard and unyielding. "If your group here has a solution, I may want to be a part of it. Off the record." Her voice faltered a little.

  She's gambling her career. Her future. Maybe her freedom. Brant felt his head spin for a moment. Had he misjudged her?

  He looked at her and saw her in a slightly different light. It seemed that Sarge did, too.

  "Well then," Sarge said, recovering some of his bravado. "Meet the gang."

  Brant sighed as tensions loosened and introductions circled the room. She sat on the leather sofa between Digger and Smitty. This was as close to a nightmare as he could possibly come. And rather cheeky, too, Brant thought.

  "So this is your friendly LEO, huh?" Smitty's toothy grin changed his face and returned a measure of youth.

  Brant said, "Yeah, but she's not staying."

  Colgrave smiled without humor. "I am staying, and here's why. I have a list of your Serb's holdings. You don't, because several of them are not held by his own company, even though he's in charge. Even your contacts haven't given you some of this information, Brant."

  "Brant's already capped a bunch of Goran's goons, so they know he's gunning." Sarge shook his head. "We don't have many choices."

  "We have a couple choices." Smitty lit a cigarette by holding it too long in a lighter flame.

  "Yeah, go in blazing, or go in blazing," Digger said.

  "He blazed already. Wasted his tail outside one of Goran's clubs." Colgrave bristled. "He committed murder and I haven't done anything about it." She watched him shift uncomfortably.

  Shit, he should have paid some attention to his feeling.

  "And he shot the hell out of Goran's Lake Drive mansion."

  "Oh yeah?" Colgrave's eyes widened.

  Brant explained, "You won't hear of this home invasion on the news. Goran's got a fucking dungeon under there with individual cells. I'm sure our friends in blue would be able to make something stick if they could see his set-up, do DNA tests, question his guards – those still alive, anyway."

  Colgrave made a pained face. "Jesus, Brant, you can't be judge, jury and executioner..."

  "Can't I?" Brant's voice was hushed, but charged with danger. "You know how many cells I found? On a good week, who knows how many young girls are held against their will, raped, trained, filmed, tortured, whatever, then shipped off to serve some crazy master in some foreign land where women are traded like cattle. Or worse. There's a back room with a fucking freezer." He paused. "There's a killing chamber in there, Colgrave. They store hacked-up human body parts. If you'd seen it, you wouldn't have left anyone alive."

  Colgrave shuddered with anger. At him or the Serb? Maybe both. "But you didn't care before Kit. You weren't even aware of it. They were just runaways and missing teenagers to you. Now you turn into a demented Charles Bronson-type vigilante…" Her voice faded as she realized what she'd said.

  Brant was as close to exploding as he had ever been. The events of the day were catching up, stacking up in his mind, his conscience, his guts. "That's right," he sneered. "Now I'm aware. They're killing for fun down there. And they're going to pay. For her and for the others." Some of the rage boiled over and faded, his breathing slowed, and his hands unfisted.

  "How do you know she was there?"

  "She might not have been. I may have guessed wrong."

  "How do you know she's still alive?"

  Digger, Smitty, and Sarge all exchanged looks.

  "What?" Seeing them share a glance, Colgrave leaned forward, annoyed.

  Sarge handed her a beer from the kitchen without asking. She took it. Milwaukee roots run deep. "Loot – excuse me, Lieutenant Brant has an extra somethin'…" His voice faded.

  "Like a sixth sense," Smitty added, nodding.

  "Kept us alive and kicking longer than most while we was in country and down in the tunnels." Digger's eyes unfocused at the memory.

  "You expect me to believe...?" Colgrave's eyes shifted from one to the other, then fixed Brant's. "No shit? You're, what, psychic?" She seemed to be trying to hide her amusement.

  "Call it that if it works for you," he said, softly. "It's like a shot of extra insight. I just know Kit's alive. In trouble, but alive."

  "Figure you'll know if she buys it?" Digger asked. There was silence in the room. "Well, sorry, somebody's gotta say it."

  Brant ground his teeth and let the moment pass. "She's not likely to buy it as long as she's a commodity, only worth something alive. Real snuff films would require too much turnover, and the number of people who can pay the price tag is always limited. No, she's either being groomed for the camera or for some foreign harem. Maybe both, to maximize her value."

  "Shit. But look, assuming I buy this whole psychic thing and your niece is still alive, don't you think it's best to let us handle it?"

  Brant barked a laugh. He ticked off his fingers, one after the other. "First, you guys have nothing on him but bad feelings. You said so yourself. Then, my connections don't come through, meaning this guy's ass is covered six ways from Sunday. Then it may be technically circumstantial, but his club and his house indicate to me that he's guilty of a lot more than being a bad boy. What else you do with a dungeon b
ut hold people against their will? And I'm telling you, girls are being killed and dismembered down there. Last, look where he's from – Serbia and Croatia are the cradle of the European sex slave market. It's in this guy's blood."

  "They usually send their girls to the west. That's how the route works."

  Brant leaned forward. He'd been thinking about this very subject. "That's what's so brilliant about this guy. He's swimming upstream. American girls are probably more valued than we know, especially the way the world still tends to hate us a little bit. That case in Aruba, at one point somebody suggested the girl'd been sold into slavery. Plus, everybody's looking at the wrong lane. It's even possible they're returned here, rerouted back after they've been broken-in and trained. Like a money laundering operation, he might sell them here to American clients after they've been turned into sex slaves. You're looking for our kind of logic, but forgetting that all it has to do is look logical to them, whatever end they're at."

  "What the hell's in it for you? Why aren't you busting us all, right here and now? You could be wired."

  Everyone seemed to stop breathing. Sarge's eyes bored into hers.

  She laughed harshly and started to strip.

  Brant held up a hand. "Stop it. I know you're not wired."

  She sat back, rebuttoning, but the look she gave them was scathing. "You guys got disillusioned after your war, right?" She stared at them all, one at a time. No one answered. No one denied it. She went on. "You got cynical. You dropped out. Tuned out. Whatever they called it. But the anti-war folks, cynical as they were, they didn't want you either, did they? You were tainted. Some of you managed to get into politics, the whole Winter Soldier thing. You saw where that went. I figure you guys, you went back and decided you'd learned enough about things as they are to make it pay."