Frostitute 2: Dead Reckoning: A Twisted Tale of Extreme Horror

by Glen Frost

  The connection terminated with a click before Vasily could respond. Gazing blankly at the phone for several seconds, the human trafficker fought to keep a lid on his anger. The blood was pounding in his ears, a dull roar that threatened to shut out his surroundings.

  Jamming the phone back into his pocket, he turned to face Vlad, who had been waiting patiently in the corner for him to finish the call. The enforcer raised a questioning eyebrow.

  "That was a physical threat from a woman who claims to have murdered Blinov's muscle and crippled Blinov himself last night," Vasily explained, breaking out into a sweat despite the coldness of the stone chamber. "Do you know anything of this?"

  Vlad shook his head solemnly.

  "Find out," his boss demanded. "But first, make some phone calls. The crazy slut says that she is on the way over here. I want as many of our men back here as you can possibly manage inside of an hour. If she's telling the truth, then I want to have plenty of firepower available if she decides to bring some friends along for the ride."

  "Da," Vlad nodded.

  "And make sure that all of the boys here are armed and ready for trouble. Now."

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  In the hundred years since its inception, the Colorado Department of Transportation had gotten pretty good at dealing with snowstorms. CDOT trucks had been out on the roads for seventy-two hours straight, plowing, salting, and gritting, doing their damnedest to keep up with the storm. Although the snow was still falling, the rate was slackening off; according to the latest weather reports, the front was now on its way out of state.

  The two Agency men were expecting the roads to be in a hellish state, but westbound Highway 470 was surprisingly clear. Alvers kept the speed down to a cautious twenty when they hit the city limits of Evergreen. It seemed that most of the residents had sensibly chosen to spend the day indoors and out of the cold.

  Padilla had his phone to his ear, coordinating operations back at Cheyenne Mountain. "Two Black Hawks are on standby, ready five," he explained when the conversation was over. "A full capture squad, plus support. If we can just convince Guskov to play ball..."

  "That's a big if, sir."

  "Not necessarily. Think about it, Alvers. If he realizes that his life is threatened, he'd be an idiot to turn us down. And even if he does, we still have an ace in the hole."

  "What's that, sir?"

  "His criminal activities. We tell him that unless we get what we want, the FBI and DEA are going to take a more active interest in his business affairs. If that doesn't make him see sense, then nothing will...in which case, we call in the birds anyway and arrest the son of a bitch there and then."

  "So either way, we get what we want."

  "Absolutely."

  Alvers kept one eye on the sat nav. They were getting close now, just four more miles to go. The houses and stores were getting thinner on the ground, until finally they gave way to empty hillsides that were dotted with snow-covered trees.

  "In four hundred feet, turn right," the sat nav instructed. Alvers braked gently, bringing the car to a halt outside a metal gate. The junior agent got out to inspect it. At first glance it had appeared to be locked, but on closer inspection Alvers saw that the padlock was just hanging from the chain. He pushed the gate all the way open and went back to the car.

  "According to this thing," Padilla patted the sat nav, "Guskov's place should be at the end of this road."

  Calling it a road was probably being overly generous, the Supervisory Agent had to admit. It was more of a dirt track, one car-width wide and bordered on both sides by trees that cast the track itself in heavy shadow.

  Alvers took the turn slowly, taking care not to over-rev the engine and lose traction on the snow. He didn't bother to get out again and close the gate behind them, figuring that they would be coming back this way soon enough.

  Neither agent saw the hidden security camera mounted high up on a branch as it swiveled to follow their passage.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  "Mr. Guskov, we have a visitor."

  Vlad was sitting in a chair and hunched forward over the desk in what Guskov's personal protection team referred to as the security center. It was a small, windowless home office adjoining the kitchen, two walls of which were lined with computer monitors that showed the output from the many CCTV cameras that surrounded the property.

  The old man shuffled across to join him.

  "Is it her?" he demanded, heart racing.

  "Hard to say. If it is, she drives an SUV. And not a cheap one." Vlad peered at the camera, trying to see past the countless blurs of falling snowflakes. From this angle, it wasn't even possible for him to see how many people were in the car. "This is the gate camera. Whoever it is, they will be here in just a few minutes. Were you expecting any other visitors today, sir?"

  Guskov shook his head. "She has some balls, coming in through the front door. We cannot assume that she came alone. Have the boys go out to meet her."

  "Of course, Mr. Guskov."

  "You called for more men?"

  "Just as you asked," Vlad nodded. "Ten of them are coming in. The first of them should be arriving any time now. The rest we need to manage our Denver operation."

  Vasily considered that for a moment. "Ten should be perfectly adequate," he admitted grudgingly. "Call those that are on the road. See if they can catch up with our guest and bring her to heel..."

  The taxi cab fare came in at under a hundred bucks. Anya tipped the driver handsomely when he dropped her off at the same gate that the two Agency men had driven through just ten minutes prior. It was still wide open. She noted the fresh set of tire tracks that hadn't been filled in with snow yet.

  She hardly noticed the cab pull away. All of her attention was on the dead man's iPhone. After making her phone call to Guskov, the first thing she'd done was to change the security passcode to 1234. The damned thing refused to accept her own thumbprint for some reason. Now she was glued to the mapping app. Brushing a few snowflakes away from the screen, Anya zeroed in on her current location, then swiped across to find Guskov's address. It was a couple of miles away on the map, somewhere off to the northwest at the end of the dirt track she was standing alongside.

  From somewhere off to her right, below the crest of the hill, she could hear the sound of an approaching engine. Running through the open gateway, Anya ducked into the cover of the woods on the left side of the track, concealing herself behind the trunk of a large tree.

  The Porsche 911 was bright yellow. At the wheel was a dark-complexioned man that she estimated was somewhere in his mid-twenties, based on the brief glimpse she managed to get of him. Somebody was riding shotgun, and it looked as if there were also a couple of passengers in the back.

  Right behind the 911 came a Humvee. It definitely wasn't a military vehicle, the type she had seen in a bunch of Hollywood movies; this was the civilian model, which cost a lot less but was still worth a pretty penny. It was also fully loaded with passengers from the look of things. Both vehicles hung a sharp right, kicking up snow and ice as they fought for traction, and powered on down the dirt track with their engines revving hard.

  Apparently Guskov was bringing in reinforcements. The merest ghost of a smile twitched at the corner of Anya's mouth. He could bring in an army, so far as she was concerned. It wouldn't make any difference. She would kill as many as dared to stand in her way. Her body felt insanely strong and energized, ready to go through a hundred of Guskov's scum if that was what it took to bring her Darya to America.

  Keeping roughly fifty yards back from the track, she began to parallel it, making her way silently and carefully through the trees. Anya ghosted from one pool of shadow to the next, keeping all of her senses on high alert.

  "We're being tailed, sir."

  Alvers sounded concerned, and justifiably so, Padilla thought to himself as he glanced into the rear-view mirror. They'd both seen the set of headlights appear out of the falling snow at
the same time. Now they were joined by a second set, both of which were closing in on them at high speed.

  "Do you want me to put my foot down?" the junior agent asked. His supervisor shook his head.

  "No. They're probably Guskov's men. Last thing we want to do is spook them."

  Padilla reached inside his jacket and loosened his service pistol up a little inside its holster, just in case shit was about to go down. Catching sight of the move, Alvers took one hand off the wheel and did the same.

  "This is Rico on the phone, Mr. Guskov. He's right behind that SUV and says it looks like there are two people inside. Wants to know what you want him to do next, sir."

  Vasily didn't hesitate.

  "Run the bitch off the road and bring her to me. If she and her friend put up any kind of fight, kill them both."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The sports car had stepped it up from tailing them to full-on tailgating the two agents now. All that either of them could see behind them was glare. Then something nudged the back of their SUV. The impact was light, but even at thirty miles per hour on a dirt track, the going was slick; patches of ice still lay underneath the snow.

  As the SUV threatened to fishtail out of control, Alvers fought frantically to prevent oversteer. He failed. The Porsche 911 thudded into their rear fender, hitting them harder this time. Their car spun out of control, careening off into the trees and flipping around in a one-eighty that only ended when they hit the trunk of a spruce. Both airbags deployed, saving Alvers and Padilla from at least a few broken bones. Fortunately, both men had also been wearing their seat belts.

  White powder filled the interior of the SUV, residue from the propellant that had fired the airbags, which were already deflating. Padilla looked over the dash. The hood was crumpled, and steam was rising from underneath it.

  Padilla slipped his phone out and hit the last number dialed. It was a direct line to the comm center at Cheyenne Mountain. The instant that the connection was made at the other end he said, "This is Padilla. We're code ten. I repeat, code ten at the target's location."

  "Copy your code ten," a female voice replied. "Sit tight, sir. The cavalry is on the way."

  Satisfied, Padilla muted the phone but left the line open, slipping it into his waist pocket. The SA hit the release and shrugged his way out of the seatbelt, then slid the Sig-Sauer out of its holster and popped the car door open just a crack.

  "You OK, Dennis?"

  The junior man nodded, drawing his Glock and releasing his own seatbelt. "On three?"

  "We go on three."

  "One. Two. Three."

  Both doors were thrown open. The agents darted out, hugging the sides of the SUV to take advantage of what limited cover they provided. Padilla had his Sig up and pointing toward the track, where a Porsche 911 and a Humvee sat parked with their engines idling.

  "Guns down! Put 'em on the fuckin' floor and show us your hands!" barked a man's voice from somewhere behind one of the cars. Peeking around the corner of the SUV's chassis, Padilla could see a whole bunch of guns were pointed in their direction, their wielders taking cover behind the two vehicles. It didn't take an expert to figure out that he and Alvers were seriously outgunned.

  "Sir, what are your orders?"

  Padilla paused for a moment. If it were anybody else, Alvers would have suspected that they had fallen victim to analysis paralysis, but Padilla was damn near a legend inside The Agency. He was simply running through what few options they had in his mind.

  Finally, the senior agent tossed his Sig-Sauer out into the snow. He followed it with his hands high in the air. Shaking his head, Alvers followed suit, rising to his feet and trudging out into the open. At any moment, the two agents expected to feel a storm of bullets slamming into their bodies. When none came, they began to breathe a little easier.

  While six men covered their every move, two others patted them down. One man, who appeared to be the group's leader, stood to one side and simply watched. When the searchers removed the backup pieces which each agent wore in an ankle holster, they pronounced the Agency men clean, apart from their cell phones, which the thugs didn't seem to be concerned with.

  Their leader looked them both up and down. He was a Hispanic male of medium height and build, wearing a sports jacket and cargo pants: hardly the stereotypical street thug, Padilla caught himself thinking. There was a definite intelligence lurking behind those dark brown eyes, which were constantly in motion.

  "You two don't exactly look like bitches," he said, before adding, "Not the female kind, anyway."

  Padilla's head snapped up. "Were you expecting one?"

  Realizing that he might have said too much, the leader clammed up.

  "We're federal agents," Alvers put in. "You guys are already in some pretty deep shit. The smart thing to do is to put down your guns, before things really get out of hand."

  "Is that right?" the leader sneered.

  "It is. We have ID to prove it." When Alvers made to reach for his jacket pocket, a shot rang out. The junior agent staggered backward, clutching at his chest with both hands. Blood was soaking through the front of his shirt, spreading outward like a bright red flower in full bloom.

  "Who the fuck did that!" the leader demanded, whirling angrily to face his followers. He zeroed in on a pale-skinned kid who looked young enough to be his son. A wisp of smoke rose from the barrel of his pistol. "Dmitri, what the fuck!"

  The kid appeared chagrined. "I thought he was going for a gun, Rico."

  "He doesn't have a fucking gun!" Rico screamed. "If they're telling the truth, you just shot a motherfucking fed!"

  Alvers lay on his back, unmoving. Blood stained the snow around him. A dark circle spread across his crotch, the dead man's bladder voiding itself one last time.

  "You son of a bitch!" Padilla's hands bunched into fists. "He was unarmed!"

  Rico eyed him coldly. "Looks like we killed one cop today. Don't make us go for a second."

  Anya stopped dead when the shot rang out, freezing in place behind a tree trunk. She had heard a growling engine, followed by the sound of a car crashing into something, coming from somewhere up ahead. After the gunshot came the sound of raised voices. She quickly determined that the bullet wasn't meant for her.

  Picking up the pace, she glided over a small rise and picked her way carefully down the other side, treading lightly in order to minimize the crunch of her boots in the glistening snow. She could see the bright yellow Porsche and the Humvee pulled over on the track at her one o'clock, close to an SUV that had gone head-first into a tree. One man stood with his hands in the air next to the crashed vehicle. Next to him lay a dead man, judging from the amount of blood that had flooded from his chest.

  Harsh words were exchanged. Then the apparent prisoner was thrown in the back of the Humvee, and both cars drove off along the track. All was still and quiet once more. Anya made her way across to the dead man, standing over his body and just looking at it. He was a relatively young man, and had been shot once in the chest, directly above the heart.

  Anya went through his pockets, coming out with a wallet that contained no drivers' license, just three credit cards and thirty-seven dollars, which she added to her cleavage roll. After all, she reasoned, it wasn't as if the dead man was going to need it where he was going. He also had an FBI photo ID, which listed his name and rank as Special Agent Daniel Miller. After putting it back, she reached out and gently closed his eyes before the snow completely covered them. Despite her membership of the world's oldest profession, she had always had a healthy respect for law enforcement, seeing them as the sheepdogs that kept the wolves at bay...at least, the honest cops were.

  More engine sounds suddenly emerged in the distance, rapidly growing louder. She bolted for the cover of the trees again. A bright red pickup truck crested a hilly part of the track, racing along at breakneck speed in the direction of Guskov's house. It blew past the dead body without stopping, though wheth
er the driver failed to notice it or simply didn't give a shit, she really couldn't say.

  She waited five minutes just for safety's sake and then got back underway. The ground sloped steeply upward. When she finally reached the top of the hill, Anya got her first look at the human trafficker's house. She had to admit that it was a beautiful place: the very best that blood money could buy. It was three stories high, with the front overhang resting on a pair of very tall stilts. The house looked as if it was emerging from the side of the valley's steep hillside. A cement driveway peeled off from the dirt track and led directly to the house, which had a three-door garage standing directly alongside it.

  The pickup, Porsche, and Humvee were all parked outside the house. On the third floor roofed balcony, three men prowled backward and forward. Each held a weapon of some kind, and although Anya didn't know much about firearms, she recognized the general shape of a shotgun and a pair of assault rifles.

  Standing perfectly still amongst the shadows, she scrutinized every inch of the structure carefully. It looked very much as though the big garage abutted the house itself.

  That might make for a good point of entry, she pondered. There was an access door in the side of the garage that was out of the line of sight of Guskov's guards. She broke cover at a dead run and made a bee-line straight for it.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Padilla had been escorted to the kitchen, up on the second floor of the house. Two men, one in his seventies and the other considerably younger, eyed him stonily.

  "Yes, I am Vasily Guskov," the old man acknowledged, eyeing his uninvited visitor with disdain. "Who might you be?"