The Innocent: A Vanessa Michael Munroe Novel

by Stevens, Taylor

  Up top, through the glass, she could see the shadows of passengers as they gathered and prepared for embarkation, but they held no interest to her. Passports were only as good as their original holder, and as such had the possibility of bringing the bearer unforeseen trouble. Ideally, she would swipe a national identification card; this was all that an Argentine would need to cross into Uruguay. No questions. No suspicions. Simply an open door to the country across the border.

  With emotionless calculation she studied those mingling about the dockside, judging the quality of each, passing them over in turn. This was that dangerous place where the predator overrode empathy, where, like the Russian with his car, solving need and want blurred the boundaries between right and wrong, and the uninvolved suffered on behalf of those to blame.

  Munroe stood and slipped closer to the work area, watching, waiting, searching out opportunity amid the bustle of dockside readiness. Suppliers, dockworkers, and the occasional crew member came and went, and Munroe tracked them with dispassionate interest.

  It took twenty minutes to spot the mark. He was part of the ferry staff, early thirties at best, and both his body language and the menial tasks he performed pointed toward his being low man on the totem pole. Unlike any member of the crew, he wouldn’t be overly missed if he failed to show up for embarkation, and better still, his position as a Buquebus employee would not only solve the issue of documentation but also eliminate the need for ticketing and much of the immigration and border protocol that went with the journey.

  The ferry was in the final stages of preparing to set out, the stream of passengers that had been steadily boarding over the past ten minutes began to ebb slightly, and the target had already made several trips over the service gangplank and back, carrying an assortment of boxes on board.

  Munroe loitered, waiting until he’d moved most of them, timing each trip in and out until, with only one load left, he was swallowed by the interior of the ship.

  Much could be assessed from a person’s walk, from their build, and the level at which they observed their surroundings, but appearances were often deceiving. The sweetest old lady might think nothing of sticking you with a shiv, and as such, taking on an unknown opponent, no matter how docile and defeated he might appear, always carried an element of risk.

  On the man’s return, as he prepared to lift the final box, Munroe casually approached from behind, across the dock, amid the commotion, as if she rightfully belonged there. At the periphery of her awareness remained a counterweight to the savage, the ever present caution that there was no point to eradicating evil if in the end she would only replicate it.

  She took the knife to the side of his lower back, tip pointed upward, far enough through his clothes that he would feel the thrust of it. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she whispered, “and I don’t want to steal from you.”

  He tensed, let go of the box, and straightened. His breathing shifted, and it wasn’t a rapid pant of fear. His were the slow and measured movements of a man who had been down this path before, a man who understood the leverage he held in this crowded area.

  With her free arm wrapped around his waist, she steered him back the way she’d come, under the upper floor, toward the staff door along the outside of the ticket building wall. She wanted him off the wharf and into privacy as quickly as possible.

  “Walk with me and listen to my proposal,” she said.

  The man did as she asked, moved with her for the moment, acquiesced, perhaps to put her off her guard, because several paces forward he drove his elbow into her side so hard that it knocked the knife from her hand.

  Chapter 36

  It was speed that saved her, was always speed that saved her. Munroe drove a responsive fist to his kidney and a boot into the back of his opposite knee. Followed him down when he stumbled. Scooped the knife and pulled him upward, all in the time it would have taken for him to trip and catch his balance.

  Those mingling along the dock were none the wiser.

  He had spoken, and she’d replied, hers the stronger message of the two. She forced calm against anger. There was no reason to fault him for trying, she would have reacted the same way, and the only thing he’d done to deserve this treatment was having been in the right place at the wrong time.

  “I swear I don’t want to hurt you,” she said. “But if you force my hand I’ll have no choice, you understand?”

  He nodded, and at her nudge they continued across the way, to the end of the building and the inconspicuous door from which staff had filtered in, but over the last thirty minutes, mostly out.

  The small interior was limited to a narrow hall and two small rooms branching off on either side. The clutter of papers and the smell of stale coffee and food spilled beyond the open doors into the walkway. The hallway continued to a closed door that could be only a bathroom or a utility closet, and from there turned a sharp right toward the remainder of the building. Munroe walked him to the dead-end door.

  “Open it,” she said, and then followed close behind into the one-stall bathroom, locked the door, and motioned him to the toilet. It had no lid, no seat, and in order to keep from sliding into the water, he had to straddle it, legs held wide.

  “I need your jacket and identification,” she said. “I can either take what I want by force, which will be painful for you and messy for me, or you can give them to me in exchange for what money I have on me—not a lot, but more than what it will take to replace your ID. Either way I’m going to tie you up and leave you here. If you fight me, I’ll do it because I have no choice. If you give me what I want, it will be so that when you are found, your story, whatever you decide to tell, will be believable.”

  The man stared at her, his jaw working back and forth in what she read as anger or deep thought, probably both.

  “How much money?” he said finally.

  Blade in her right hand, eyes always on him, guarding against any movement, she reached with her left into a pocket and pulled out two-thirds of what she’d taken from Logan. She dropped it into his outstretched hand, and in response he reached for his back pocket.

  She said, “Stop.”

  He put both hands up. “My wallet,” he said, and she nodded.

  The man pulled out his ID card and held it toward her.

  “Drop it on the floor,” she said. He did as she asked, then shrugged out of his overshirt and theatrically dropped it on top of the ID. He raised his eyebrows in a look of “Now what?”

  She wanted his T-shirt, and he peeled it off to reveal a well-toned torso underneath. She placed a boot on his groin, shoved dangerously downward, and reached for the shirt.

  “Don’t move,” she said.

  With the knife, she slit the material, one ribbon after the next, then pushed his head between his knees. Boot to his neck, she secured his wrists behind his back, then tied a gag between his lips. Certain he couldn’t easily free himself, she ordered him to stand.

  She loosened the buckle of his pants. A look of horror crossed his face and he began to crawfish backward, a blinded, crazed attempt to escape when there was no escape.

  Munroe’s laugh was spontaneous and she shook her head. “Calm down,” she said, “I’m just making sure you remain secure.” Never mind the explanation that she was female.

  His eyes remained wide, but he stopped struggling. Hands to his shoulders, she moved him back into a seated position, and with his pants around his ankles, she secured his feet, one to the other, with strips she’d taken from his shirt, the improvised bonds running behind the toilet from one foot, back again to the other. Once she was gone, he would struggle, but the restraints would hold until after the ferry departed, and that was all she needed.

  She slipped into his work shirt. Picked up the ID. Slid out of the bathroom and shut the door.

  Munroe moved back onto the dock and next to the ship, shouldered the remaining box still there on the ground and, five minutes from start to finish, carried it into the belly of the ship.


  Only after she was on board, out of the light and out of the fight, did she realize the severity of her shaking. She’d gone from adrenaline rush to adrenaline dump, to adrenaline rush twice over, and was beyond spent. She needed food. Needed a place where she could lay low for the length of the trip.

  She was on the ship’s lower level, the hollow space where vehicles were stowed for the duration of the trip and where the air was foul with fumes and machinery. The last of the luggage trolleys had returned to the dock, passengers who’d driven the vehicles on board were sent upstairs, and only a few crew members remained below.

  Munroe slipped between the cars. On a ledge, next to life vests, was a small container, like a lunch box, temporarily set aside, and without breaking stride or letting go of the load she carried, Munroe picked it up and continued on, beside the vehicles to a windowless door.

  The interior was dark and small, an empty storage area.

  She slipped inside, dumped the box onto the floor, sat on it, and shoveled food from the lunch container into her mouth faster than she could chew, gorging on it as if she were starving, craving protein when there were only vegetables and potatoes and a flavor that said meat, although there was none to be had.

  The food was sufficient to slow the shaking, but not nearly enough to satiate the craving for sustenance. Munroe slit open the box, found it filled with an assortment of packaged desserts, and although she knew that she would later pay the price for dumping sugar into a system that badly needed nutrition, she opened and ate several.

  In the wake of ebbing hunger, the full weight of exhaustion descended, and in the dark, warm cocoon of the closet, Munroe fought to stay alert, to stay awake. She didn’t need a nightmare now. Not on top of everything else, and if she slept, completely fatigued as she was, it was also possible she might sink so fully that she missed port call on the other side.

  The rumble of the ship played melody to the beat of its rocking, and against Munroe’s mental protest, her body, drowsy, weak, and demanding that its needs be met, was lulled into a complete shutdown.

  The night was black, the sky starless, and from across the length of sand came the rhythmic wash of waves upon the shore. It was deserted here, no light of civilization, no intrusion of humanity into this quiet. Alone, with only the smell of fish, salt, the subtle fragrance of jasmine, and the warm ocean breeze kissing her skin, Munroe rocked in the hammock.

  It mattered not that she couldn’t see or that the cadence of the water completely muted all other sound, because she could feel. In this space of complete darkness there was only tranquillity. Here was a haven of nothing, nothing that could go on, and on, and on …

  The voice of rhythm shifted to a low grumble, Munroe’s eyes blinked open, and she drew in air as if she’d been long without it. Her surroundings were still dark but no longer tranquil. Disoriented, she struggled to give place and meaning to the confines of this space and then calmed, remembering where she was and realizing that the shift had come from the ship’s engines reversing.

  The ferry was pulling into port. She’d no idea how long she’d been under, and at which port was anyone’s guess.

  She felt through the darkness, and with relief, her fingertips returned an uneventful story. The knife was still in her pocket, the container on top of the box where she’d left it. There were no fragments of clothing, no shards of destroyed property. Uncomfortable as it was, shoulder propped against the wall for a pillow, she’d slept soundly and, for the first time in three months, had slept without dreaming violence.

  Footsteps and voices filtered in from beyond the door, and the sounds of car engines coming to life indicated that passengers were disembarking. Munroe stood, smoothed down the wrinkles that would inevitably be on her clothes, ran her fingers across her head, and cracked the door a sliver.

  Munroe waited for an opening, drew back the door, and as if she had every right to be there, stepped alongside traffic. Without looking back, and ignoring the occasional stare in her direction, she made for the dock and strode down the gangplank.

  Montevideo.

  From the wharf, the cityscape poked above commercial transport containers stacked three and four high, and in the cool of the lengthening afternoon, Munroe paused to take in the air of the place. The city was so much smaller than its sister capital three hours west, but still nearly two million strong, and had she not at least an idea of how to begin searching for Bradford, her path would have been one more needle in a very large, very time-consuming haystack.

  The Buquebus terminal in Montevideo shared space with commercial shipping, although the passengers disembarked on the second floor, as they had in Buenos Aires. Munroe bypassed immigration and customs controls by wandering directly off the dock, deeper into the containers, eventually moving on foot beyond a cursory security checkpoint and into the streets of the oldest part of the city where buildings, centuries old, were arrayed in a matrix on a peninsula of sorts.

  Munroe hailed a taxi, the same bumblebee black and yellow of Buenos Aires, and with nearly the last of her money caught a ride to the central post office. There was but a mile to travel, a short jaunt between the ferry and the center of the old town, but she was short on energy and short on time; she wanted this over, and even with the ride, she stepped through the doors dangerously close to quitting time.

  Montevideo’s primary post office was small compared to the stately building that housed it: one large room lined corner to corner with antique mailboxes, and in the center was a counter that made a smaller square. Behind it, three postal workers went about their business.

  From the nearest woman, Munroe asked for poste restante, and she directed Munroe to the side and asked her to wait.

  Here was where letters written to those without an address could be sent and held for a month or more, though what Munroe hoped to find would have arrived today at the earliest, hand delivered. Palms to counter, she waited for service. Her nerves were still raw, but food and three hours of sleep had worked their magic, and now only patience would buy her what she wanted.

  Against the urge toward motion, she forced her body to stillness and brought placid indifference to her face. The clerk was a plump woman in her mid-forties who returned in no hurry. Munroe requested mail held in her name, and the woman searched through several boxes sorted alphabetically. She finally pulled one lone envelope.

  At the sight of the white rectangle the weight of the last twenty-four hours and all of its unknowns slid off Munroe’s shoulders.

  The woman asked for identification, and Munroe had none.

  Bradford wasn’t an idiot, he’d taken her ID, knew she’d need it to retrieve any message he’d left, and would have compensated. With what little charm Munroe could muster, and with a heavy dose of flattery, she requested to see the envelope first. The woman raised an eyebrow in mock reproach and, not letting go of the corners, held it address forward.

  Munroe stared for a moment and then sighed in dejection. “It’s not for me,” she said, and leaving the confused woman standing, Munroe turned and walked away.

  Outside the post office, she flagged another taxi, and to the driver gave the address that had been written as the return on the envelope.

  The Palladium hotel.

  She’d find Bradford and Hannah on the eleventh floor, in the presidential suite.

  Like in the heart of Buenos Aires, Montevideo was a city of tree-lined boulevards and European architecture, a smaller, calmer, cleaner version of its sister to the west, and in spite of its size and the belching buses that flew down otherwise quiet streets, it still held an Old World sleepy-town charm.

  They continued east, outside the old town and into the new. Blocks from the coast, the Palladium was modern and sleek with rounded lines and inlaid glass, one of several of the relatively higher-end hotels the city had to offer. Munroe took the elevator up and followed carpet and sconce lighting in Bradford’s direction.

  With the same prescience that he’d always displayed
when they were together, Bradford opened the door before she reached it. His expression read relief and happiness, and there, subtly, under the initial layers of natural caution, something more.

  Munroe paused at the door’s threshold, and Bradford reached for her, pulled her toward him, and wrapped his arms around her, tightly. She understood the desperation: She’d frightened him badly, but in the moment he said not a word of reproof, and there was relief in his acceptance of her entirety, personal risk and bodily damage included.

  Munroe leaned into him, put her head on his shoulder.

  Bradford smelled of joy and pleasure and belonging, and the tension, the anger, and all of the rage of the past days dissipated.

  Bradford released her, stepped back a foot, and put hands to her face. “What the hell did they do to you?” he said.

  “You should see the other guys,” she said.

  He pulled her to him again and kissed her forehead. “Logan told me about the other guys.”

  Head still on his shoulder, still standing at the door’s threshold, Munroe said, “Logan made it to the warehouse? Is he okay?”

  Bradford nodded, his whisper soothing against her skin. “He and Gideon got into town a couple of hours ago,” he said.

  That Bradford had sent them after her remained an unspoken understanding.

  “They tracked you from the hotel to the warehouse, and considering the state of things, figured you were alive and moving in this direction.” He wrapped a hand around the back of her neck, kept the other around her body, pressed his cheek against the side of her head, and then shifted.

  One arm behind her knees, he picked her up, brought her into the foyer, and knocked the door closed with his foot.

  She laughed, hooked an arm around his neck for support, and said, “What are you doing?”

  “Depositing you in the bathtub,” he said. “You need it.” And he carried her forward.

  The suite had two rooms, separated by a solid wall and a series of doors that provided a division of space and a sense of privacy. Bradford would have wanted it that way, as much for himself as for Hannah, who was in the bedroom, sedated and asleep, still in the same night-clothes she’d been wearing when they’d taken her from the third-floor room. He was a grown man with a kidnapped and drugged thirteen-year-old girl in his possession and no official authority to have her; it couldn’t have been a comfortable situation.