by Nick Stevens
One bar flickered to life, then disappeared. No service.
Clenching his teeth, he set off for the southwest corner of the camp.
Aaron jabbed the end of the rod into Sal’s chest. “Now, what missing girl?”
The right side of her face pulsed in time with her heartbeat. Sal’s field of vision narrowed as fluids collected in her face, distorting her features.
Attempting a distraction, Sal asked, “Who’s ‘we?’”
“You’ll find out soon enough. Everyone’s here tonight for the big party. If you live long enough, maybe I’ll introduce you.” Aaron leaned back in the chair, legs sprawled in front of him. He tossed the matte black length of steel end over end in his hand like a chopstick. His lips curled in a twisted, ferocious grin.
Fingers of fear gripped Sal’s core, twisting her. A thin thread kept hysteria at bay. She needed to stall, giving Mason a chance to find her.
She tried engaging with him again. “It’s a bad idea, killing a cop, mister..?”
“You can call me Aaron. Your name doesn’t matter. Cop or not, this ends one way for you. We have people everywhere - police, judges, senators - you name it. You’ll just disappear. How quickly this ends for you, however, is up to you.”
Aaron bolted from his chair, sending it rocketing across the room and crashing into a table. Sal jumped at the sudden movement, the tape holding her biting into her skin. He paced in front of her, back and forth. It reminded Sal of the cheetahs she’d seen at the National Zoo when she was a girl, her Gran standing behind her, with her wrinkled, protective hands on Sal’s shoulders.
The face of her grandmother flashed in her mind. She tried pushing it away, behind the walls she’d built over the years as police. The fear that she’d never see her beloved Gran again pushed her closer to hysteria. Her arms spasmed against their restraints.
Aaron stopped pacing.
“Have you ever experienced waterboarding?”
The question left Sal stunned. “What?” Aaron was a blur before her, obscured by her tears.
“I’ll take that as a no. I got waterboarded once, in training. Never got to do it to somebody else, though.” Smiling at her with his animal grin, he said, “Hate to miss an opportunity.” Sal craned her neck as he walked behind her, dread clutching her.
She heard the hollow sound of a wire handle banging against a plastic bucket. The worst she’d experienced was tear gas training at the police academy. She didn’t know what to expect in the hands of this psychopath.
The distinctive sound of water splashing echoed in the room, the pitch changing as the bucket filled. The faucet shut with a squeak.
A hand grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked back. Sal’s reflexes grabbed at the chair legs as it tipped, crushing two fingers on her left hand as it pinched between the chair leg and floor. Her head bounced on the concrete, silencing the scream in her throat.
Aaron dropped a towel on her face, blinding her. Kneeling, he grabbed another handful of hair, pinning her head in place.
“Who are you looking for?”
Frigid water flooded into her mouth and nose as she blurted the name. Coughing as the cold liquid flowed into her sinuses and lungs, drowning her.
“This can end now. Just tell me who you’re here for.”
Aaron’s calm tone terrified her. He sounded bored, like he was ordering at a drive-through. The water stopped and the vise-like grip released.
Between coughing fits, Sal spat out, “Chloe Stewart! Chloe. Stewart.” Sal sobbed into the towel in humiliation.
Aaron paused. “Really?” His voice giving away genuine surprise. “I thought you were here for that Fitzgerald girl. She’s dead. That one was an accident.”
Aaron grabbed her once more. She screamed for him to wait, but her inhale only carried another round of water into her lungs.
“Who’s here with you? Some dumb cop isn’t showing up here by herself. How many more with you?”
Sputtering behind the soaked cloth, she could only endure the torture until it stopped.
Mason finished his search around the cinderblock building. Satisfied there weren’t any video cameras watching him, he sprinted the twenty yards from the tree line to the nearest wall. He paused under a window and collected himself.
He heard a woman’s voice from inside the building. Sal’s voice. He heard her scream Chloe Stewart’s name.
Mason darted from his position, pistol held high. Sweeping outside the nearest corner for a better angle, he maintained his arc around the second corner on the narrow side of the building.
He approached a door in the middle of the exterior wall. The doorknob turned in his hand. Mason yanked open the door, the harsh lights blinding him for a moment.
The hallway forked a few feet into the building. The soft rasp of a cough echoed around the hard surfaces. Mason couldn’t locate the source of the noise. He advanced down the narrow hallway, pressing his body against the left side while keeping his front sight on the doorway to his right. Another cough. From the left.
Based on the exterior shape of the building and how the lights looked from outside, Mason guessed the interior rooms were large, open spaces, without interior walls.
He shifted right, checking behind him as he did so. He kept the pistol’s front sight trained on the doorway as his feet padded over the concrete.
Nearing the junction where the hallway split, he spotted wet footprints on the painted concrete floor. The wet footprints moved left to right.
Mason couldn’t get cornered in this building. Too much was at stake.
“US Marshal! Throw out your weapons and come out with your hands up!”
Sal’s wavering voice pierced the silence. “Mason! There’s one guy. He has my pistol and shotgun.”
Before Mason could call back to her, a man rushed from the door on the right, a black mass flailing in his hand.
Mason ducked, shifting the pistol from left to right as cement fragments and paint chips rained on him. Falling backwards, Mason pulled the trigger twice as he fell, catching his attacker once in the right hip. The man collapsed sideways, his hip joint and pelvis shattered by the forty-five-caliber round.
On his back, Mason fought to distance himself from the attacker, his shoes pushing against the floor. His legs flailed, the slick mud stopping him from gaining traction.
Mason heard a high-pitched voice through the ringing in his ears. His hearing went after firing the first two rounds in the narrow space.
Mason aimed for the man’s head as a pipe crashed into his left knee, rocketing pain through his leg. His shot went wide, ricocheting off the wall behind the man’s head.
Blinking through pain, the slumped man grabbed Mason’s foot, dragging him closer on the smooth floor. The man swung the pipe at Mason’s pistol and hands, trying to disarm him. Mason kept firing, stitching rounds into the man’s torso until the slide locked back on the empty magazine.
His attacker paused, staring at the small holes in his shirt as they filled with blood. The pipe clattered to the floor.
Mason watched the man’s face. His lips moved, mouthing, “The fucking security guard?” Mason couldn’t hear it.
Ejecting the empty magazine, Mason took a spare from the holster on his belt. He clicked the slide release, chambering a fresh round.
Brain and bone matter joined the blood splattering against the white cinderblock wall as Mason fired a last round into the man’s head.
Bethany tugged her purse tight, tramping through the sand, dirt, and mud as she made a straight line from the brothel to cabin seven. She’d ignored the long path running from the brothel to the various campsites. Taking it meant heading back to the where she started. She hated backtracking.
The simple flashlight on her phone lit the way.
Mud caked the expensive Josefina ballet flats, embedding between her toes and ruining her latest pedicure. Distracted by the ruined shoes, her toes mashed into a rock hidden in the shadow of a clump of grass. The pain kill
ers dulled the pain of the impact. Nothing diminished the pain of ruining a pair of cherished shoes.
“I hope they don’t kill Paul until I get back.”
Clusters of old cabins dotted the compound. Cabin seven, where she headed, was in the farthest group. She’d only visited this part of the compound a handful of times. Paul limited her visits to the first few buildings, where the girls, Paul’s beloved flock, didn’t tread. Seeing Bethany, who’d recruited many of them, may trigger unfortunate memories.
Bethany closed in on her target. Pulling the gun from her purse, she knocked on the rough wooden door, a carved “7” etched into the wood, highlighted in faded yellow paint.
Chapter 23
Ears ringing, Mason limped to his feet. Pulling his injured leg under him, he leaned against the wall as a crutch.
“Sal! He’s dead! My hearing’s gone from the shooting! I’m coming in! Don’t shoot!”
His brain registered muffled sounds in response. He couldn’t distinguish words.
Hauling himself into the room, he swept his pistol back and forth then collapsed against a wall. Sal, taped to the toppled chair, stared back at him. A bright orange bucket and wadded towel sat next to her in a pool of water.
“Nod if you’re okay.” The ringing in his ears began fading. His experience told him he needed another twenty minutes, at least, before he’d be able to hear again.
Sal nodded back at him. She managed a brief smile before her mouth turned to anguish. Shutting her eyes tight, she sobbed in relief as Mason crawled over to her.
Unclipping the folding knife from his belt, he snapped the open the blade and sliced through the tape binding Sal to the chair. Climbing to her feet, her left hand trembled as she examined her two crushed fingers. A loose fingernail hung off her pinky. She braced, then yanked it away. A single scarlet drip splashed into the pooled water, dissolving in a pink swirl.
“He did that?”
Holding up the injured hand, Sal replied, “No, not directly. Happened when he tipped over the chair for the waterboarding portion of the evening.”
Mason opened his backpack and took out a small first aid kit. He’d crafted this one himself. The store-bought kits always included fluff nobody needed. Handing her an alcohol wipe, she tore it open with her teeth as he unrolled tape. Looking around the room, he said, “This place looks like a…”
“A drug house. That’s what he said. Whoever these guys are, they’re repacking dope. I imagine for distribution all over the Atlantic coast, up into New England.”
“What’d you tell him?”
Sal stared back, still coming back from the shock of what happened to her. Mason saw the swelling forming on the side of her face. He thought better than to ask about it. Instead, he pulled an instant ice pack from his aid kit and handed it to her.
Mason stepped closer. “Look,” he said, “everybody breaks. That guy knew what he was doing and wanted information quickly. You give away what you have to, hoping you buy enough time for rescue or for your team to get away. That’s how it works. It’s not like in the movies.” Mason’s own painful experience as a Ranger taught him that.
Drowning in this room, she’d told Aaron everything she could to make it stop. Mason nodded as Sal recounted her ordeal, but he refrained from judgement. She coughed as she finished, her throat thick with shame over how she’d broken.
“He killed those boys they found in Rock Creek. Killed Laurel Fitzgerald too. Said that one was an accident.”
“Nothing on Chloe?”
“I would’ve told you,” she snapped back. Frayed nerves and shattered fingers left her defensive.
Mason shrugged it off. “Okay, point taken. I overheard Bethany Kaine talking to someone about Chloe. She’s here, somewhere in this camp.”
“Let’s find her and get out of here.”
Chloe dabbed at Diana’s swollen lip with a wet washcloth. The long gash on her lip needed stitches, but Chloe didn’t have the tools to sew it. Not that she could. The familiar taint of withdrawal symptoms gnawed at her, making her hands shake with chills. The swelling around Diana’s eye began fading, replaced with a large, angry bruise of purple and blue. Diana let out a moan every couple of minutes, a hollow, terrible sound filling the cramped space.
A sharp rap on the door startled Chloe and she dropped the washcloth. Diana clutched at Chloe’s wrist, fear building about what waited on the other side.
“It’ll be okay,” Chloe lied, hoping to comfort the beaten girl. It was Chloe’s fault Diana had been punished. She’d snuck out the previous night while Diana slept. Paul punished Diana for her carelessness.
Standing, her bare feet shuffled across the dirty floor to the door. Pressing the thumb latch, Chloe stared at Bethany, eyes wide, her mouth hanging open. Bethany blinked, not recognizing the woman she delivered to Paul only two weeks ago. Chloe’s eyes and cheeks had sunken into her skull. Dirt caked her feet and ankles, while her simple cotton dress hung off of her shoulders.
Bethany motioned for Chloe to follow, waving the gun like a flashlight. “Let’s go. You have important places to be.”
“Beth? Bethany?” Chloe stammered. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m taking you out of here.”
“Am I going home?”
Bethany sneered back at a clueless Chloe. “You still don’t get it, do you? You’re never going home. You’re property. Bought, sold, and traded.” She pointed the gun into the cabin, her sights fixing on a curious Diana, who’d eavesdropped on the conversation. “Like her. Just a pawn in a game you can’t understand. Now come with me.”
Chloe reached for the door, slamming it closed. Bethany wedged a muddy foot between the door and the frame, holding it open. Chloe, back pressed against the door, drove her heel into Bethany’s exposed foot over and over. “Help!” She shouted to a dumbstruck Diana.
Wailing against the other side of the sturdy wood door, Bethany launched into the timber with her shoulder, propelled by her free foot. The door gave an inch. A second strike pushed Chloe away from the door, launching her onto Diana’s bed.
Bethany fell into the cabin, panting. The oxycodone dulled the pain in her ribs, and she’d forgotten about them. Until now. Ramming the door sent pain threading through her body. Her vision blurred by flashing lights as spasms tightened across her chest.
The sickness slowed her, but Chloe forced herself to act. Clutching at the knife she’d hidden in her dress days ago, she jumped onto Bethany. She wrapped a thin arm around Bethany’s neck as the other stabbed at anything in reach.
Bethany wailed and shot an elbow backwards, catching Chloe along the jaw. Chloe rolled off Bethany’s back and onto the floor.
As she crawled to her feet, Bethany kicked Chloe’s prone figure and picked up the knife. Blood from the small knife ran down her leg, staining her designer jumpsuit.
From behind Bethany, a haggard Diana wrapped a loop of bed sheet around Bethany’s neck and squeezed, but Bethany shoved the weak girl away. Enraged, Bethany spun and stabbed the stunned girl in the neck multiple times, blood spraying inside the small cabin. Diana’s body slumped to the floor in shock as she bled out.
“No!” Chloe wailed from the floor. Gasping for breath, Chloe crawled past Bethany to her lifeless friend. Blood pooled on the floorboards, leaking through the cracks and onto the ground. “Diana!”
Pointing the gun at Chloe, Bethany ordered, “Get up, you bitch!”
Chloe’s head spun, eyes alight with rage. “You killed her! She-”
“She what? What, huh? She’s dead. Just another dead pawn.” Bethany pointed the gun at Chloe’s arm. “I don’t need her alive. Just you, but a few holes in unimportant parts won’t matter where you’re going.”
Bethany limped to the door, making sure the gun stayed on Chloe. “Now, get moving.”
Chloe pulled another sheet from her own bed and draped it over Diana’s corpse. With a last look at the stained sheet covering Diana, Chloe turned an icy glare to Bethany.
>
“Move it. Your new owners are waiting.”
Chloe took shambling steps to the door, pushing aside the trembling and nausea as much as she could. Clearing the door, she dashed to her left. Hearing Bethany shout at her, she kept moving around the building. Bethany limped after, gun pointing in front of her.
Following Chloe, Bethany rounded the corner, expecting to find her prey cowering before her. Instead, she found an empty, dark field. Nerves frayed by the fight in the cabin, she heard the footsteps behind her a moment too late.
Glass shattered against the back of her head as heavy metal crashed into her shoulder. Heat, a nuisance at first, enveloped her as kerosene from the gas lantern ran down her body. Flames licked at her hair and face as panic overtook her. She slapped at her face and hair, hoping to extinguish the flames. Flailing in desperation, the hand with the gun slammed into Chloe, knocking her to the ground.
As flames jumped from Bethany’s face to her hands, she ran deeper into the camp as the combustible liquid, already soaked into her clothes, kept burning.
Chloe lifted herself from the ground, pressing a hand to the gash on her cheek where the pistol’s front sight cut her cheek. She watched Bethany run into the night, flames trailing behind her.
Captain Khang Bon-Hwa lounged in the king-size bed twenty minutes later, covers and sheets tangled around his body. Maya and Lydia, the two members of Paul’s cult he’d chosen, shivered at the foot of the bed, their backs to him. He had no more use for them.
“Leave.”
The girls, coming down from their heroin-fueled high, snatched their dresses from the floor and padded from the room.
Bon-Hwa’s anger with Paul’s betrayal escalated over the course of the night. He’d taken it out on the two girls unfortunate enough to draw his interest. He suspected Paul had customers other than his own, but the string of failures made Paul’s continued existence an ongoing risk. This was the last night for Paul and his twisted flock of drug addicts. Although lucrative, Bon-Hwa was finished with this business.