Colin massaged his throat and nodded.
“Good,” Egan said. “Now move your ass.”
CHAPTER 20
AGENT HAWKINS scrolled through the laptop computer file labeled ‘Account 1’. The file contained one-hundred-and-twenty split frame pictures of young women, twelve per page. The left side was a glamor shot, the right a full body picture. Each of the women was provocatively dressed in tight fitting club wear, a bikini, or lingerie. The clothing choice had been carefully selected to accentuate both beauty and physical attributes.
“Even looking past the makeup it’s hard to tell the ages of the girls in this file,” Hawkins commented. “I’d put the eldest in her early twenties. All appear to be American and. They’re a pretty even mix of Caucasian, Hispanic, Asian, and African American. Compare these to the pics in Account 2. Same ethnic mix, but older. Again, all stunning.”
“Separate markets,” Jordan speculated.
“For two types of buyers,” Chris added.
Hawkins nodded. “Girls of this caliber would command a lot of money on the black market. This must be a big operation. The age range and quantity alone are impressive.”
“A girl for every taste and budget,” Chris said.
“Budget wouldn’t even be a consideration,” Hawkins replied. “These girls are top shelf all the way. A client would need to pay thousands of dollars to buy play time with these ladies.”
Chris pointed to the number under each picture. “Looks like a file number. Can you search it?”
“Already tried. No luck. It’s just a number, not a hyperlink.” Hawkins paused. “Hmm... I wonder…”
“What are you thinking, Hawk?” Jordan asked.
“Hold on a second.”
Hawkins opened the web browser and entered the first number from Account 1. “Your search – 73962549174 – did not match any documents” appeared on the screen.
“Well, it was worth a shot,” Chris said.
“I’m not finished yet,” Hawkins said. He opened the computers Favorites area and clicked on the History tab. “Let’s see where Dr. Rosenfeld had been spending most of his time online.” From the drop-down menu, he selected ‘Most Recently Visited.’
Four websites appeared in the search. Hawkins clicked on each of the links. The first led to the doctor’s own website, Rosenfeld Advanced Surgical. Hawkins spent a few minutes searching the site.
“Nothing out of the ordinary here,” he said. “Overviews of Rosenfeld’s product line… instructional videos… upcoming course and conference information… blah, blah, blah.”
The second site was FreeSurge International, the Rosenfeld’s global humanitarian aid organization. The site featured numerous pictures of Itzhak and Zahava with recipients of the services donated by the plastic surgery team; before and after pictures of children, living in impoverished war-torn countries, once without hope, now healed, all smiles. The cleft palate of a ten-year-old girl had been corrected. Her beautiful brown face beamed with pride and new-found confidence. The machete-hacked shoulder wound of a twelve-year-old boy was now healed and nearly invisible. The story below his picture told of how he had thrown his body over his infant sister in an effort to protect her against the guerilla forces who had invaded and plundered their small village and how by some miracle he had survived the attack. Now he wanted to become a surgeon when he grew up, just like one of the men and women of FreeSurge who had returned near-complete nerve function to his arm and given him a new lease on life.
The third site asked for the username and password to the members login area of the American Society of Plastic Surgeons.
The fourth website caught Hawkins attention: Verenich Law. He clicked on the link.
Verenich Law was based in San Diego, California. The firm’s primary business was the provision of services for clients wishing to emigrate to America from Russia, Guatemala, Honduras and Argentina. According to the ABOUT section of the website, the firm’s principle, Taras Verenich, was born in Russia but had immigrated to America with his parents when he was just a boy. His personal story told of his family’s struggle to survive the dark days of the Brezhnev regime, how they had lived on the street for a time and the challenges of living day-to-day in a country once stricken with famine, poverty and disease. He described his parent’s distrust of their government, their lack of belief in the politics of the day and their desperate desire to move to America in order to give their son a better life. Verenich went on to state how much his parents had impressed upon him that whatever path he chose to follow in life he should always remember the importance of giving back and paying forward the blessings that had been bestowed upon them by way of their new beginning in America. He found the practice of law to be his calling and honored his parent’s wish for him to help others by specializing in immigration law. Over the years, Verenich Law had assisted hundreds of new families to find a better life in the United States.
Hawkins read Verenich’ bio and scrolled the site. “This doesn’t make sense,” he said.
“What doesn’t?” Jordan asked.
“Why would this guy’s website be one of Rosenfeld’s most visited sites? I can understand the others because there’s a logical medical connection to his work. But immigration law? I mean, just look at this site. It doesn’t ’seem to warrant being one of Rosenfeld’s most visited sites. It’s your typical, cookie-cutter legal website: standard Home and About pages, Client Testimonials, FAQ’s, Contact Us… nothing about it says that Rosenfeld should have shown more than a passing interest in it. I don’t get it.”
“Maybe they’re working together,” Jordan asked. “Perhaps Verenich refers prospective patients from the countries he works with who are in need of FreeSurge’s help.”
“That’s a possibility,” Hawkins agreed. He scrolled each page of the website again. “But something isn’t passing the sniff test. I can’t put my finger on it, but my gut is telling me that one and one don’t add up to two here.”
He returned to the Home page. Taras Verenich stood in the center of a group photo, surrounded by his support staff, flanked by the American flag on his left and State of California flag on his right. Hawkins scrolled down the page. Links to many articles written by the San Diego Union-Tribune and San Jose Mercury-News promoted the good work of the lawyer and his team along with a KUSI San Diego News Channel video clip. By all accounts the firm enjoyed a favorable reputation and had worked hard to promote a favorable public image within the community.
Hawkins scrolled down to the site map located at the bottom of the page. All the links were properly referenced. “Everything looks to be in order. But like I said, something just doesn’t feel right. Shit!”
Frustrated, Hawkins poked the laptop’s mouse pad with his finger. The cursor slid to the bottom of the screen and came to rest on the sites Notification of Copyright line. The last three words of the line read All Rights Reserved. The last letter of the word Reserved featured an underlined lower-case letter ‘d.’
“Son of a gun,” Hawkins said, smiling. “You were there all along. I almost missed you.” He turned to Jordan and Chris. “See this? The d in Reserved?” He ran the cursor back and forth over the letter. He shook his head. “It’s a hyperlink. Slick... very slick.”
He clicked on the letter.
The screen turned black. In the middle, a cursor flashed.
He shifted in his chair, looked up at Jordan and Chris, then rubbed his hands and said, “Here we go…”
Hawkins entered one of numeric codes he had written down from the Account 1 file then pressed ENTER.
The picture of the girl from the file appeared onscreen. The three agents read her profile:
Name: Torina
Age: 19
Skin: White
Hair: Blond
Eyes: Blue
Weight: 110 lb
Height: 5’ 4”
Piercing/tattoos: None
Languages: English, Spanish
Services: Full
Hourly (minimum): $3000
Purchase: $800,000
Offer: Pending
“Gotcha,” Hawkins said.
“Verenich is into prostitution,” Jordan said.
“And human trafficking,” Hawkins added.
“Which means Rosenfeld probably is too,” Chris replied.
“It would certainly explain why someone sent a professional to kill him,” Jordan said.
Hawkins pointed to the last line. “Verenich plans to sell this girl. An offer’s been submitted.”
Jordan instructed Agent Hawkins. “Run her picture through facial recognition and the National Crime Information Center. See if she’s in the system. Great work, Hawk.”
As Jordan and Chris stood to leave two orderlies from the Coroner’s office exited the bedroom. The murder scene had been processed and cleared. The bodies of Itzhak and Zahava Rosenfeld, now been officially released to the custody of the Los Angeles Coroner, rolled past them on steel gurneys.
“Think they were both involved?” Chris asked.
“That’s what we’re going to find out,” Jordan said.
“I want to have a chat with Verenich.”
“Me too.”
“Real bad.”
“Ditto.”
“I’m talking about a leave-your-gun-and-badge-in-the-car kind of chat.”
“We still don’t know exactly what Verenich’ role is in all of this,” Jordan said. “He may not be the key player.”
“Maybe not, but there’s a damn good chance he knows who is.”
The agents watched the orderlies wheel the dead couple out of the room.
“Remember what I said earlier?” Jordan said.
“What’s that?”
“That maybe I should have gone to med school... chosen it over joining the Bureau.”
“Yeah?”
Jordan rested her hand on her gun. “I take it back.”
CHAPTER 21
THE FOOTFALLS of the gang reverberated off the concrete walls, metal ceiling and brittle glass panes of the old factory. The building sounded cavernous.
Once-tough Lenny began to cry. “It was just a joke, man. We only wanted to scare ‘em. It was supposed to be a joke.”
Colin looked over his shoulder as the group walked across the factory floor toward the wood drying kiln. “Shut up, Lenny,” he said.
Egan shoved him from behind. The gang leader tripped but didn’t fall.
“How’d you do that, freak?” Colin asked.
Egan didn’t respond.
Colin pressed. “Let me guess. Somewhere there’s a circus missing its main attraction.”
Jacob turned to Lauren and Kevin. “It wasn’t a joke, like Lenny said. It was Curt Thackery.”
“Colin’s brother?” Lauren replied. “But he’s in prison.”
Jacob nodded. “He told Colin that if he wanted in with the Sons of Satan he’d have to make a blood sacrifice just like everybody else. Curt said he’d know when it was done ‘cause he’d hear about it through the prison grapevine. He knows all about your family. You were targeted.”
“Targeted? What are you talking about?”
“Because of what your old man did to their family.”
Kevin interjected. “Our family never had anything to do with the Thackery’s, least of all our dad.”
“Oh yes, he did. Five years ago. The trial. Remember?”
“Yeah, I remember,” Kevin said. “Some drug dealers sold meth to an undercover cop, then shot her.”
“Your father was the jury foreman.”
“So?”
“The drug dealers were members of the Sons of Satan and the guy who pulled the trigger was Colin’s brother, Curt. Every one of those jurors, except your old man, is dead now. S.O.S took out a contract on them. The Bandidos bike club out of Santa Fe agreed to take out the jurors in exchange for S.O.S. giving them the manufacturing and distribution rights to their meth operation. They agreed. But by the time the cops caught wind of the hits it was too late. The Bandidos had fulfilled the contract. Eleven separate hits, all taking place the same night. They got everyone except your old man. You got lucky, that’s all.”
“Lucky?”
“Your parents were hosting a party that night. One of the hit men recognized Chief Kenton and called it off. Said their contract didn’t involve taking out anyone but your father, least of all the Chief of Police. Besides, the Banditos were given orders to make an example out of your dad.”
“Why?”
“Because Curt knew your father hated him,” Jacob said, “hated all the Thackery’s. Your father lied when he accepted the position on that jury. The selection committee asked if he knew anything about the recent activities of a motorcycle gang operating in the state. He said he didn't. But everyone had heard about the shooting of the cop and the drug bust that went wrong, and that it was probably biker-related. It was all over the news, for Christ’s sake. He knew Curt was a member of S.O.S. and figured he was involved. He saw it as an opportunity to put him away for good. As it turned out, he was right.”
Colin said coldly, “You’re done, Jacob. When Curt hears about this you’re as good as dead.”
Egan herded the group through the open door and into the wood drying room.
“Get in.”
“Not happening, my friend,” Colin said. Having readied himself for a second confrontation with the stranger, he spun around and attempted to drive a side kick into Egan’s chest. Egan saw the attack coming and stepped back. As the kick brushed past he caught the punk’s foot in mid-flight and twisted it hard. Colin heard his ankle snap. He screamed and fell to the factory floor.
“My ankle!” he cried. “You broke my fucking ankle!”
Egan pointed to Jacob. “Get him up.”
Jacob stepped forward, grabbed Colin by the arm and tried to help him to his feet. Colin knocked his hand away. “Get the fuck away from me, coward!”
“Get in the room,” Egan said.
Colin hobbled across the threshold and into the large room with the rest of his gang.
“Move to the back.”
From the darkness the men stared at Egan. They had come to the factory to kill the girl and her brother. Colin’s plan had been to blood-bond them and seal their silence. As Egan closed the heavy steel door they rushed toward it. Too late, the lock bar found the latch. The muted screams of the men were barely audible outside the massive kiln.
“You can’t leave them in there,” Lauren protested. “They’ll die!”
“She’s right,” Kevin said. “There’s no air. They’ll suffocate.”
“No loss,” Egan said. “The world will get over it.”
“No!” Lauren pleaded. “They have families, people who still need them.”
Egan double-checked the latch. It was secure. He turned to Lauren and her brother. “They came here with the intention to kill you both. You know that, right?”
“That doesn’t mean that we have to kill them,” Lauren said.
Egan stared at the siblings.
“Look, mister,” Kevin said. “My sister and I appreciate your help. We really do. But we can’t do this. You have to let them out of there. We won’t tell anyone about this. Not our parents, the cops… nobody. You saved our lives, so we owe you. But please, let them go.”
“The situation is a little more complicated than that,” Egan said. “I shouldn’t have intervened. All of you have seen things you shouldn’t have. That was my fault.”
Lauren stepped in front of her brother. “I don’t know what you’re doing here mister,” she said, “but I do know that if you hadn’t helped us when you did we might not be alive right now. Let us help you. Whatever you need, we’ll get it. Food, clothes, a place to stay, we’ll take care of it. But you can’t let them die in there. You just can’t.”
The beating on the drying room door had stopped. Silence prevailed. Perhaps the men inside were coming to terms with their fate.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Ega
n conceded, having lost the staring contest with the teary-eyed girl. “All right, we’ll compromise. Get behind me.”
Lauren and Kevin ran behind Egan as he walked to the side wall of the kiln and watched as he spread his arms wide above his head and placed his palms flat against the wooden wall. The metal band on his wrist began to glow, the sections of the wall beneath his hands to smoke. Two explosions rocked the kiln room. Egan had blown holes in the upper part of the wooden wall. Screams came from inside the room. The banging on the steel door resumed.
“Whoa!” Kevin yelled. “How friggin’ cool was that!”
Egan stepped back and turned to Lauren. “There. They can breathe now. Happy?”
Lauren crossed her arms and stared defiantly at Egan, as if the incredible feat of controlled telekinetic destruction she had just witnessed had done nothing to impress her. “It’s a start,” she said.
Egan smiled. “You’re a stubborn young lady, aren’t you?”
Lauren puffed her chest, stood straight and tall and replied confidently. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Kevin said. “Try living with her.”
Egan listened at the wall of the wood kiln. Colin continued to yell at Jacob and Lenny, blaming them for getting him into their current predicament, threatening that ‘none of this was over’ and that all of them, as well as the asshole were yet to incur the wrath of his older brother, Curt, and the Sons of Satan. What Colin had neglected to share with his gang was that the only remaining member of the defunct motorcycle club was Curt himself, and that he would be remaining safely locked away for many years to come. Lenny continued to weep.
“I have to leave,” Egan said. “It’s not safe here for me anymore.” He gestured to the locked kiln door. “You two will be fine. Those jokers aren’t going anywhere. Give me an hour, then go to the police.” He looked at Kevin. “Tell them they tried to hurt your sister, but you got the better of them.”
Lauren made a sour face. “Kevin? Going all Bruce Lee on… them? Like anyone’s going to believe that!”
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