by Lex Lander
I spun the cylinder, tested the ejector, dumping the cartridges into the empty trunk. As I reloaded with slow precision, the distant stammer of a helicopter breached the stillness. It was scarcely above treetop height when a minute or so later it passed directly overhead, the downdraft setting the foliage thrashing and pine needles tumbling like rain. I glimpsed a black fuselage and whirling rotor then it was gone. I expected the clamour to fade gradually to nothing. It didn’t. As I closed the trunk lid the engine note slowed, as if preparing for touchdown. Unless the wood was smaller than it looked on my GPS the chopper was setting down in the middle of it.
Quiet fell once more. A far off croak, raven or rook, otherwise I might have been a hundred kilometres from civilization. Except for the chopper. Curious that. Dwelling on it wouldn’t get me any nearer to Lizzy. Back behind the wheel. A touch on the accelerator, the mufflers crackling, hungry for action. Six litres of raw power on tap. I hoped I wouldn’t need it, either for pursuit or escape.
Some two kilometres into the wood I reached my journey’s end. Through the trees, as I approached a bend, I saw the road terminate at a wrought iron gate, painted a dark colour. On either side of the gate a wall, about three meters high, maybe two hundred long from corner to corner. In wonderful, beautiful, glorious brick. Behind it, the upper floor of a substantial house, more of a mansion really. Single octagonal tower like a turret. All in brick too. If this wasn’t the place described by Lizzy, it was its twin. I pulled over. From here on, I would proceed on foot.
The trees were too densely packed to allow parking the Aston off the trail. I had passed a rough track branching off at right angles, less than a half kilometre back. I reversed cautiously down the trail and swung into it. It wasn’t much more than a double line of tyre ruts, but I found just enough space to park without blocking it. From the trail it would be hard to spot.
At a lope I headed back along the dirt road towards the house. It wasn’t yet ten o’clock but the clouds that had shut off the sun were darkening the sky early. Raindrops spattered my face. Here in Belgium, rain was part of the scenery.
Behind me the noise of a vehicle. I ducked into the trees, shielding myself behind a trunk, and thanking God I had had the foresight to park the Aston off the trail. Underfoot was springy from shed pine needles. The smell of resin tickled my nostrils. The air was as damp as a sauna and a sight chillier.
The vehicle passed, going at a crawl, bouncing over some serious potholes: a Toyota SUV, metallic grey, with two occupants. The driver was male with sculpted blond hair and the kind of profile calculated to transform a respectable woman into a wanton. Name of Christiaan, alias the beefcake boy. How was that for serendipity? It confirmed I was in the right place. Thinking back to his starring role in Lizzy’s abduction, I had a special score to settle with him.
As the Toyota approached the gate I paced it through the trees on a parallel course. Where the tree line ended, only meters short of the wall, I paused, my next step undecided. The gate slid back, operated remotely. I hesitated. If I broke cover, tried to enter by using the Toyota as a shield, I was sure to be spotted. Or maybe not. The gloom would work in my favour, and I was dressed in dark colours. Casting hesitation aside, I quit the protection of the forest and, hoping that Christiaan wouldn’t choose that precise instant to check his door mirror, I tucked in behind the SUV. It was moving at about ten mph. At an awkward running crouch, keeping below the level of the rear window, I went through the gateway in its slipstream. Gravel replaced dirt, the crunch of my footsteps blending with that of the Toyota’s tyres. Behind me the gate slid shut, squealing a little.
The sky was beginning to dump rain as if it meant it. As I ran I cast around for a refuge from my enemies. Scraggy lawns, bushes, empty flower beds, met my eyes. I decided to stick with the Toyota, though bent double I was struggling to keep up the pace.
‘Hey, Christo!’ A hail, English of sorts. The hailer was hidden from me by the bulk of the Toyota. To the relief of my spine it rolled to a halt.
‘Are the kids ready?’ The question came from inside the SUV. Christiaan’s voice. I flopped against the rear hatch, wheezing, keeping my head down.
‘Sure. The chopper she arrive ten minutes before. All the kids going, yes?’
‘That’s right, all of them.’
Doors slammed, gravel squished. More dialogue, a third voice joining in, female, rather shrill.
Footsteps approached the rear of the Toyota. I dragged the Korth from my belt. I was ready in that sense, not in another. In my vaguest of plans I had hoped to remain undercover a while longer. The dilemma now was whether to stay put and blast whoever was coming, leading to open warfare, or nip around the other side of the car.
The decision was taken out of my hands by the woman. An imperious ‘Christiaan!’ was followed a terse few words in Dutch. The footsteps halted, went into reverse. Christiaan unknowingly gained a few more heartbeats of life.
More talk, more footsteps. A door banged shut, house not car. I peeked around the Toyota. All clear. Before moving into the open I scanned the windows, oblongs of reflected grey cloud. If anyone was looking out it wasn’t apparent. I made a dash for the nearest corner of the building, some ten meters and a lifetime away. No shouts, no shots. More windows around the corner, along the side of the building, all with lowered roller blinds. Good. If I couldn’t see in, they couldn’t see out.
The rain was intensifying, soaking my hair, coursing down my face. It was also freezing cold. I hadn’t dressed for it. Plenty of sweat potential in what I was doing though.
A strip of grass ran down the side of the house to the next corner. This deadened my tread as I scuttled along it. I peeped around the corner at a vast yard in sore need of green fingers and a blank cheque. A paved circular area, scrawled with weeds, was linked to the house by a paved isthmus. Squatting there, an ugly fat bug, was the helicopter I had seen earlier. Black paintwork, no fuselage markings except the registration number, F-GH then two more letters that were partly defaced, probably on purpose. All the Perspex surfaces were heavily tinted. A guy in jeans and a waterproof jacket with a hood was bent over the left skid, whistling. I heard the chink of metal against metal.
The expanse of gravel between him and me ruled out a surprise attack. My back against the wall, I considered the options. To shoot him would alert the rest of the gang. The only course was to get up close and lay him out. I was preparing to move when a call came from inside the house.
‘You want coffee, Rafe?’ The pidgin-English speaker again.
‘Coffee, yeah, that’d be good.’ The man called Rafe straightened up, wrench in hand, and I ducked back behind the corner. He spoke with a Transatlantic cadence, maybe Canadian. I heard him clumping along the paved pathway to the house, whistling anew.
I allowed a minute or so for him and his colleague to get settled with their coffees while I holstered the Korth and reviewed my plan. So far I had only thought in terms of entering the house, knocking off everyone in sight, and freeing Lizzy. Now an alternative was taking shape inside my head. The chopper was here for a reason. The brief exchange between Christian and the other guy had referred to ‘all the kids’ being ready. It added up to the imminent removal of Lizzy and, presumably, other juvenile victims. An idea was germinating: stow away on the chopper. If nothing else it would reduce the number of adversaries from at least four to at most two. The machine looked to be a six-seater, so it was unlikely a bunch of kids would be accompanied by more than one guard plus the pilot. The idea firmed up, became an intent.
By detouring through the wilderness of the yard I was able to approach the chopper from the other side, using it to screen me from the house. I opened the little door to the passenger section. Besides the two crew positions there was seating for five: a row of three at the rear, and two facing them, back to back with the crew. Between the rear seats and the bulkhead was a narrow area for storage. Enough room at a pinch for a normal sized person. With my foot poised on the door sill, I was
hit by a rush of uncertainty. I froze, half in, half out of the chopper. A shouted ‘See you tomorrow’ put an end to the wavering. I launched myself into the passenger compartment and dived head first into the storage space. My shoulders jammed leaving me helpless, arms pinned. Panic flared. I wriggled frantically and managed to free one arm, and twist sideways to unjam the rest of me. In an untidy slither I subsided to the floor of my sanctuary.
A few moments later someone – Rafe, I guessed– climbed in, humming. He was a great whistler and hummer. A man who enjoyed his work. No qualms about trafficking kids around the world for sex. Hey, it’s just a fucking job. If he didn’t do it, somebody else would. I could imagine the self-justification tripping off his scumbag tongue.
‘Come on, move it.’ A curt command from outside. Christiaan again. Subdued voices, young, frightened, a mixture of tongues, drifted through the open hatchway. Sounds of feet coming aboard. A child’s nervous laugh cut into another’s weeping.
‘It’s all right, don’t cry, we’re going on a holiday.’ Female, husky timbre. Lizzy? I began to wonder if my stowaway scheme was really so smart after all. The kids would complicate things. In such a confined space, with nowhere to hide, a single stray bullet might hit more than one small body.
‘Où est-ce que nous allons?’ Where are we going? A boy, voice tremulous. A reminder that the de Bruin organization catered for both sides of the perversion spectrum.
‘Someplace sunny,’ from Rafe, in familiar French-Quebecois.
‘Shut up,’ from Christiaan, still outside the chopper.
I hoped the Dutch Adonis was booked to ride with us. A bullet would be too easy an exit for him, though even a bullet can be placed where it will guarantee a lingering, agonizing death.
The kids sorted out their seats. A girl with long black hair, very straight, tied back with a blue ribbon, chose the one on the far right of the row of three. Then a boy with blond hair plunked down in the middle seat. I could see the backs of their heads and the sides of their faces. The girl had an uptilted nose with a diamond stud.
Cramp was beginning to attack my left calf. I tried to stretch my leg and gently exercise it. The general bustle as the kids got settled drowned any grunts of pain.
‘Don’t be late for the rendezvous.’ The woman again. ‘They won’t wait.’
‘Quit worrying,’ Rafe said, and Christiaan pitched in with a few lines of Dutch.
‘See you both on the yacht,’ the woman said.
Doors closed on both sides. Desultory chatter among the youngsters was overlaid by the whirr of the main rotor winding up.
‘You got the coordinates?’ I heard Rafe say.
‘Right here.’ So Christian was riding co-pilot. Good. ‘We’re cleared as far as Lille Airport, the rendezvous is about thirty Ks north east of the airport. You want the figures now?’
‘It’ll wait. Strap yourself in.’ On a louder note: ‘You kids, fasten your seat belts, if you’ve got one.’
Some scuffling and clinking ensued. More kids than belts by the sound of it.
‘Let me help you.’ The girl with the husky voice, playing mother hen. I was sure it was Lizzy. She was likely to be the oldest of the bunch.
Above me the blond head twisted round and an inquisitive young face peered down. A mouth dropped open. I nipped his exclamation in the bud by crossing my lips with a finger. He caught on fast, especially when I followed up with a wink and a raised thumb that were meant to reassure him that I was here with the cavalry. Correction, I was the cavalry.
He nodded vigorously. His face withdrew. The rotor was wop-wopping at speed now, the fuselage vibrating. Christiaan and Rafe were talking, but their words were inaudible. A momentary shudder and we unstuck from the ground. This was it. The pilot would be at maximum preoccupation with the take-off, leaving only Christiaan to deal with. I heaved myself out of my hiding place like a missile leaving the launching pad. I did the finger-crossing-lips thing again for the benefit of the seven youngsters in the cabin that was made for five. Lizzy was opposite, in a rear-facing seat with a small girl on her lap, a lanky boy of about twelve beside her. Their expressions, and those of the four who were squashed into the other three seats as they twisted round to goggle at me, were mixtures of shock, disbelief, and – in Lizzy’s case – pure joy. Her smile, wide and white, was like a homecoming. Something about her face was different. It was almost haggard. Most of all she looked years older. I very much wanted to hug her. Nothing sexual, just a giving of comfort. But she was out of reach and this wasn’t the time.
The chopper was hovering at rooftop height, pivoting on its axis to point away from the house. The rain had developed into a steady drizzle, easily cleared from the screen by the big wipers flopping back and forth. I signalled the black-haired girl and the blond boy to vacate their seats. They responded with alacrity, and I did a sort of flop over the seat backs to finish up on the floor, with my fellow passengers stifling their giggles. I felt like the hired entertainer at a kids’ birthday bash.
The helicopter was starting to accelerate, throwing me off balance as I struggled to my feet. Then Christiaan’s head turned.
‘Hey!’ he yelled, and his hand reached into his parka.
His reactions were fast, but he was no gunslinger. I had the Korth lined up on him while he was still groping in the folds of his clothing. The pilot, Rafe, glanced at his companion, then over his shoulder at me. When he saw the gun he was visibly jolted, and momentarily forgot he was piloting a helicopter which suddenly swooped, prompting squeals from some of the kids. Rafe recovered at once and orderly flight was resumed.
‘You can’t do anything up here,’ Christiaan snarled, teeth bared. ‘Shoot us, and who flies the chopper?’
‘Suppose I just shoot you?’
Lizzy tugged at my sleeve. ‘Kill him, Alan!’
Kill? Was that really Lizzy talking? It didn’t bear thinking about what had been done to her to transform the girl who literally wouldn’t hurt a fly into an advocate of murder.
‘Yes, kill him!’ the lanky boy echoed. Christiaan wasn’t popular.
I had a better idea than killing him.
To the pilot, I said, ‘You, circle around the house.’ To Christian: ‘Open the door.’ I gestured with the gun in case he didn’t feel like co-operating.
He was no pussy. ‘Fuck you!’
I sighed and shot him in the shoulder. The magnum round flung him against his door, where he slumped, groaning and clutching his upper arm. Blood oozed between his figures. Rafe flicked another glance at me, his expression scared. He hadn’t signed up for gunplay. For now he was behaving himself. The helicopter was circling the house. Down on the makeshift landing pad two people, a blonde woman and a burly guy in a red baseball cap, were watching us. Though the woman’s features were indistinct, I could guess her identity. With de Bruin gone, who else but his grieving widow would be holding the organization together?
‘Now, Christian,’ I said. ‘Unfasten the belt, open the door, and take a jump, or the next bullet will be in your head.’
‘Aren’t you going to count to three?’ he sneered. The guy had balls, it has to be said.
Lizzy was clutching at my arm. ‘Don’t let him go, Alan, shoot him.’
Was this the same Lizzy who believed all life was precious, even low life?
To Christiaan I said, ‘No, you fuck, you don’t deserve three seconds.’
Maybe the look in my eyes made him a believer. In less time than it would have taken me to put another bullet in him, he unbuckled the belt, flung open the door, and with a last insult to my mother, the beefcake boy was airborne. Taking his chances with the trees rather than the certainty of a bullet. I didn’t see him fall. If he got lucky the trees might have let him down lightly. I’d prefer to think the Gods of Justice directed his tumbling body straight into the good frozen earth of Belgium.
‘Okay, kids,’ I said. The blond boy who had spotted me first was crying, probably as scared of me as he was of his captors. ‘D
on’t worry, I’m one of the good guys. Our friend here -’ I indicated Rafe, ‘- is going to put us down someplace safe and you can all go home.’
At this point Rafe ceased behaving. A thrown wrench glanced off my left temple, sending me staggering back into the rear seats, on top of the blond boy, who protested volubly. I lost my grip on the Korth. Semi-stunned, I tried to rise. The boy helped by pushing me. Lizzy meanwhile had wrapped her arms around the pilot’s neck, and was doing a good job of throttling him. In his struggles his legs thrashed about in the vicinity of the control stick. The chopper lurched and tilted sharply to the right. Those of us who weren’t strapped to seats were thrown across the cabin. The engine was howling. Lizzy’s arms stayed locked around the pilot’s neck; strapped in he was unable to get at her. Dials spun crazily on the control panel.
‘Let him go!’ I shouted at her. ‘We’re going to crash!’
By then though it was too late.
Thirty-Two
The chopper was heading earthwards on its side, the treetops coming at us fast like a green wall. Rafe finally succeed in detaching Lizzy, shoving her into the lap of the black-haired girl. Even as he grasped the stick the chopper’s rotor chewed into the treetops and stalled the engine. A loud bang sent a convulsion through the fuselage. We plunged into the greenery to a fusillade of cracking and snapping, accompanied by shrieks of terror from most of the kids. I was yelling a bit myself. The right hand door flew open and the older boy toppled through it. I grabbed his ankle. He was no lightweight, and almost took me with him, but happily my frame was too large for the aperture and by getting wedged I saved both of us. The chopper came to a precarious rest, still on its side, forming a bridge between two fir trees. The wipers quit wiping. All went quiet as the squeals subsided. I felt blood trickling down my cheek. I was still hanging on to the upside-down boy, who was smart enough not to wriggle.
