by Elle Keaton
The far corner of the huge empty space was a wooden storage unit. From what Buck could see, it measured about twenty by fifteen feet and was about eight feet high. There was a door on one end with a gleaming silver padlock hanging from the hasp. The sounds were coming from inside.
Brandon didn’t hesitate; he raced up and yanked on the lock. It held fast. The door’s hinges were mounted on the outside, which didn’t bode well for whoever was inside. Buck tossed the Swiss Army knife he always kept in his pocket to Brandon. “Here, I’ll check the rest of the building. He couldn’t have had time to put Joey in there.”
He didn’t know how he was remaining so calm. Come to think of it, he had stayed calm when he and Micah were running from the Russians on Mt. Baker, too. A skill he hadn’t known he had. Five minutes, tops, was all it took to search the warehouse and determine that neither Joey nor his abductor were anywhere on the premises. Buck did discover another entrance at the back of the building that led to a small parking area with fresh tire tracks in the muddy slush. “Fucking hell.”
Brandon called out to him a few minutes later. “Buck, I need your help here.” His voice was strained.
Brandon had managed to remove the door to the box while Buck was searching for Joey. Buck couldn’t see past his shoulder, so he walked up next to him to lean in and see what Brandon was looking at. For a long moment Buck couldn’t believe his own eyes. He had to blink several times to get his brain to recognize what he was seeing. It was a box of filthy humans. Frightened, dirty, smelly, sniffling, coughing kids. They appeared to range in age from prepubescent to late teen, although it was hard to tell with all the dirt. Even hard to tell if they were boys or girls.
Brandon stepped into the box and crouched down, trying to make himself smaller and less frightening. The guy looked like a teddy bear anyway, so it was kind of funny. Everyone in town knew what a soft touch Brandon was.
“Hi, my name is Brandon.”
No answer. Brandon cleared his throat. Buck could see, even in the darkness, that he was having as difficult a time as Buck controlling his emotions; that the sight of these abused and tortured children was going to haunt both their dreams for a long time to come.
Buck swallowed down his anger and fear. He needed to keep calm. He needed to find Joey. He crouched down, too; his size often intimidated people.
“We are here to help you.” Buck reached out his hand to the closest small person. “My name is Buck.”
Fifteen pairs of wide, staring eyes took him in, looking at him and then at Brandon. One of them spoke up in a language Buck didn’t understand, but was hushed by an older teen. Buck didn’t know what to do. He looked over at Brandon.
Brandon put his hand on Buck’s shoulder. “Will you be okay for just a minute? I think I have something in my van that will help.” Buck nodded, and Brandon stood and left.
He was only gone a few minutes. The silence had not been broken in that time, though there had been a great deal of rustling and hushing. Buck’s thighs were burning from crouching down, but he was afraid to stand up. Brandon returned carrying a sleeve of paper cups, a large thermos, and a grocery bag.
“Hot chocolate?”
Magic words. Brandon leaned over to whisper in Buck’s ear. “I called Micah; Adam Klay and his guys will be here any minute. I told him about Joey, too.”
The hot chocolate caused pandemonium. The grocery bag full of day-old pastries brought the kids shuffling closer. One older girl took charge. In a mix of her native language and English she bossed the younger children into order, calling out names of whose turn it was to approach Brandon and Buck for a warm drink and food. Most of them shoved the pastries in their mouths like they hadn’t eaten in days.
Sadly, Buck thought that might be the case. One of the younger ones, a tiny thing with a shock of black hair and the bluest eyes Buck had ever seen, touched his heart. How were humans so cruel? The boy seemed to be assessing him. After accepting cocoa and a stale bear claw he sidled over to Buck, afraid to get too close, but also seemingly fascinated by him.
The boy said something.
“I’m sorry; I don’t understand,” Buck replied.
“He says you are Thor,” the girl in charge interjected before admonishing the boy in her language. The boy didn’t move away from Buck, instead continuing to gaze at him thoughtfully. The girl made to come and grab him, but Buck motioned her away.
“It’s okay. Let him stay here.”
Buck pointed to himself, saying “Buck,” and then to the boy, asking his name. The boy looked between Buck and the girl. She seemed to give him the okay. “Konstantin.” Konstantin didn’t return to his blanket; he moved closer until he was leaning against Buck’s side, not speaking any further but silently refusing to be removed. Buck was fine with that.
Adam Klay and Carroll Weir arrived within minutes. As soon as Adam heard Buck’s story of following Joey to the warehouse only to witness him being grabbed by an enormous man, Adam flipped his lid.
“What the ever-loving fuck is going on in Skagit these days? Does everyone think they are suddenly professional investigators? Do none of you realize how dangerous this situation is—”
“Boss.” Weir cut into Adam’s rant.
“What?”
“You’re scaring the kids.”
He was. The little progress Buck and Brandon had made with food and drink had been erased with Adam’s yelling and forbidding countenance. For an average-sized guy, he sure took up a lot of space. The only kid who hadn’t dived back under his filthy blanket was Konstantin, who still seemed to think Buck had superpowers. He continued calmly eating his pastry and watching Adam attempt to get himself under control. Buck dug a paper towel out of Brandon’s bag and took a swipe at the kid’s runny nose. That thing was nasty.
Phone calls were made. As pissed as Adam seemed to be, he took care of business. The first order of which was to figure out what to do with fifteen underage illegal kids. Most likely all of whom were witnesses to, and victims of, a slew of federal and international crimes. Slavery, prostitution, or both, was where they had been headed.
Buck thought he might be sick from worry about Joey. He couldn’t help but think that the next time, if there was a next time, he saw Joey, Joey could be in a body bag. The story the older girl was telling Adam and the translator who had shown up didn’t reassure Buck at all.
Buck knew the translator from somewhere, but couldn’t place him until Weir called him Ira. As far as Buck knew, Ira was a barista at the Booking Room. Apparently he was also fluent in Russian and comfortable with a bunch of scared kids. Buck was kind of amazed. The guy was normally taciturn and standoffish; this was a side he’d never seen. Likely Weir had never seen it either, because he was watching Ira with a strange expression.
The head girl told Ira that Joey had been there a few days ago with one of the men who held them captive. Many of the kids were sick due to cold, damp, malnutrition, and general poor conditions. The other man had ordered Joey to do what he could to keep them from getting sicker. Joey had stayed for several hours helping them clean up as much as possible and giving out cold medication and food. He had the other man bring them oranges; he was kind to them.
Of course he was. Joey was, without a doubt, the kindest person Buck had ever known. Of course he would help these kids and then continue to worry about them even if it put his life in danger. Joey would never forgive himself if something bad happened and he could have prevented it. So, what had that kindhearted soul done? He’d come to the warehouse to check on them but instead been goddamned abducted by a violent, murderous asshole.
A small hand tentatively tugged the tool loop on his cargo pants. Konstantin was looking up at him with concern in his big blue eyes. The boy refused to leave his side despite their language barrier. Buck smiled down at him, pushing past the fear choking his throat. He put his hand on the boy’s skinny shoulder, towing him closer. Joey had to be okay.
Twenty-Seven
This first day of the new year h
ad officially strayed into sucktastic. One minute Joey had been checking to see if he’d found the building he’d been to days earlier; the next thing he knew he’d been grabbed, tossed over a shoulder the size of a mountain, and dragged inside with the door slamming shut behind them. It could have been acceptable if that was the end of it, if he could have put up some kind of fight, if the guy ever put him down. But almost immediately Joey had heard someone else pounding on the door, and whoever had him kept moving out the back of the building where he was unceremoniously shoved into the back of a car, but not before a blindfold covered his eyes.
“You remove that and I will kill you.”
Sacha. Of course it was.
“What part of my instructions did you not understand? Was it the part where I said follow my instructions? Or the part where I said no fucking questions. Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
Joey had been asking himself that same question, but now a different one popped into his head. “Who are you, anyway?”
“Jesus fucking Christ.” The man sounded like he was at the end of his rope. He kind of reminded Joey of …wait. Couldn’t be.
“Um?”
Sacha growled at him. Even with a blindfold on, Joey would bet the man’s teeth were actually bared.
“Wondering…are you, like, undercover?”
The car came to a shuddering halt. Joey slammed against the back of the passenger seat, banging his already painful black eye. Joey felt the wicked glare he was on the receiving end of. Good thing the man didn’t have actual laser beams for eyes.
“Ow, crud, that hurt. What the hell?”
“I really have no idea what to do with you.”
“I’m good with you not killing me.”
“What is with this attitude change? How come you were pissing your pants the other day, yet today you’re a fucking comedian?”
“Well, obviously, the other day I didn’t know you were a cop.”
“I am not a fucking cop.”
“Huh.” Wait for it, Joey thought.
“US Marshal.”
“So, not a cop? I thought you guys were all about fugitives and witness-protection stuff. Why are you undercover?”
“I don’t have to answer these questions.”
“No, but I bet you will. For me.”
Joey blinked when the blindfold was ripped from his head. Sacha leaned back across the driver’s seat with his number-one glare firmly set on his face. “You are a fucking menace.”
“Before you kill me, can I make a phone call and let someone know I’m okay?”
“There is so much wrong with that sentence.”
They stared at each other for a few heartbeats, until Joey saw a slight softening of Sacha’s expression. “Can I use your phone?” Glare. “I, uh, mine must have fallen out somewhere, in our rush to leave.”
Silently, Sacha handed Joey his cell phone. Joey hoped he could remember Buck’s number; he’d only called it a few times, but he was afraid asking Sacha if he could search for the number on Google would set him off again. Good guy or not, Sacha didn’t seem to have a wealth of patience. The first number he called went to an unfamiliar voice mail; he got it right on the second try.
“Hello? Who is this?” Buck’s voice sounded rough and harsh.
“It’s me. Joey.”
“Where the hell are you? I saw you get grabbed by that guy and I almost lost it.”
“Wait, you followed me.” Joey couldn’t believe it; did no one think he was capable?
“Hell yeah, I followed you. I may not have known you very long, but even I can tell you’ve been acting weird. Where the hell are you? How do I know you aren’t being coerced or something? What?” There were weird noises and then a different voice came on the line.
“Joey, this is Adam Klay. Remember me? Federal investigator? What the fuck is going on?”
“Still such a great bedside manner, Adam.”
Sacha reverted to his number-five scowl, reached back, and snatched the phone from him. This should be interesting.
“I’ll drop this character off at the strip mall behind Bellini Faire Market. No questions. I’m five minutes away.” He clicked off without waiting for a reply.
The sad little strip mall had long been abandoned by sensible retailers. Two empty storefronts flanked a single pawnshop with numerous flashing signs in the window: We Buy Gold; Best Prices In Town. A disturbing mechanized mannequin rocked back and forth, dressed in pajamas and a Santa hat. Okaaay.
A battered Subaru pulled up at the same time as they did, and Sacha ground out what had to be a foul curse in Russian. Adam emerged from the passenger side; Weir got out from behind the wheel.
Adam was still recovering from being shot. Joey wondered if he had been officially cleared by his doctors. He suspected not, but it was not a subject Joey was going to bring up right at that exact moment. Nope, nope, nope. He hadn’t noticed Adam moving slowly at Buck’s party, but Adam had been sitting with Micah most of the time, not racing around crime scenes.
Joey and Sacha met them next to their car.
“Explain,” Adam ground out.
“This fuckwit here couldn’t follow basic instructions and has pretty much blown my cover. Years of my life wasted because he didn’t understand three little words,” Sacha spat.
“Whoa, Nelly.” Weir held his hands up. “We don’t have a lot of time; is there a short version we can run with for now? You,” he pointed at Joey, “get in the back of the car.” Weir wasn’t much nicer than Adam or Sacha when he was pissed off. Great. Joey stood his ground; he deserved to know what was going on after the past week that had blown his life to pieces. All three men tried to stare him into submission.
“Sacha Bolic, on loan from the US Marshal’s Office. Supposed to be short-term but it’s been a couple of years. Trying to find the financial source of a child-trafficking ring with its roots up here, but harvesting out of Eastern Europe. I speak fluent Russian and a couple other languages, so I was tapped. I’m damn sick of this assignment, and if Boy Wonder here has fucked it all to hell I am going to—” He broke off, clenching his jaw.
Joey had so many questions. He started to open his mouth and all three of them glared at him again. Getting into the car seemed like a great idea. Sacha and Adam’s heated discussion lasted only two or three more minutes before Sacha slammed back into his sedan. Joey felt a twinge of worry. If the guy was undercover, how would today’s events go over with Andre? There was no way Andre was undercover; that guy was teetering on the edge of insanity.
Sacha’s tires spat loose gravel as he took a hard left out of the parking lot, heading east toward the county. Adam and Weir decided to take Joey back to the warehouse, against Adam’s advice, but Weir pointed out that Joey would just find his way back there again and that Buck was worried about him.
“Don’t even think about doing anything stupid. Keep your mouth shut. Do not talk to anyone but Weir, me, or Buck. Do not make any phone calls. And for fuck’s sake don’t wander off anywhere.” Adam was glaring at him over his shoulder while he listed his demands.
“I—”
“Just be quiet,” Adam growled again. Joey could hear him muttering under his breath the entire drive back to the warehouse, about half-cocked civilians who should know better sticking their noses in investigations and fucking up crime scenes. There was more, but Joey couldn’t quite catch all of it. Weir, on the other hand, was snickering.
Buck was waiting in front of the warehouse, as was Brandon Campbell. A young boy was standing next to Buck, his head coming up to somewhere around his elbow. The sight was both ludicrous and sweet.
Both men had tried to come to his rescue, Joey was grateful, yet felt unworthy. He had just been trying to help. Anyone would have done the same thing he had. And maybe could have pulled it off without jeopardizing their lives or the lives of others. What was Sacha going to do? Adam let him out of the car with strict instructions not to go anywhere or do anything stupid—if he could possibl
y help it. Man, the guy was a serious grumpypants.
“Hey,” Joey said as he approached the two men waiting by the building.
The main warehouse door was open now and they could see that inside was controlled chaos. A white van had been driven into the space and was being used as a sort of triage center; kids were being escorted out of the box and into the van, where someone was checking them over. When they emerged, they went to stand in a little group at the back of the van where a woman was handing out clean blankets. Another guy was handing out more food and bottled water.
As they watched, a second van pulled in and several more people hopped out, heading toward Adam to check in.
“I was in the area checking on the people I know who won’t go to shelters,” Brandon told Joey. “Saw you being hauled into the building and kind of lost it; tried to kick the door down. Next thing I know, Thor here,” he gestured at Buck, “appears like the superhero he is, and we managed to break in. The rest is, as they say, history.”
Buck was being awfully quiet. He hadn’t even said hi. The boy inched closer to him, if that was possible. Joey thought he looked about ten years old.
“Hey, I’m Joey. Remember me?”
The boy looked up at Buck and Buck nodded at him. The boy nodded at Joey. “Konstantin.” His voice was hoarse, and his nose was runny although someone had attempted to clean it a little. “You come before,” Konstantin said.
“I did, and I was coming back today to see if you were doing okay. But I ran into some trouble.”
Konstantin didn’t answer.
“It is okay to call you Kon? Do you have a nickname?”
Neither Konstantin nor Buck said anything. Joey was at a loss; he was normally excellent at putting people at ease, but he didn’t know what to do with all this silence. Brandon was trying to fill it by babbling, which was not helping at all.
Joey sidled over to Buck and knelt in front of Konstantin, not caring that the cement floor was freezing and his knees complained. “Do you mind if I talk to Buck for a minute?” The boy peered at him without comprehension. Damn. Language barrier. All around them swirled the other kids and members of Adam’s team who had been called to help contain the scene. For some reason Ira, from the Booking Room, was there, too. It took Joey a second to realize he was acting as a translator for the kids. The man spoke Russian. Who knew?