Bryce motioned to a room directly in front of him. The two marshals at his back covered the sectors he couldn’t see.
He went through a silent count down using his fingers—three . . . two . . . one—then lifted the latch on the flimsy particleboard door. The black hinges didn’t make a sound when the door came open.
Bryce entered first. Based on Nadine’s description of the floor layout, he and his team had agreed to use the buttonhook method to clear each room.
As soon as he entered, Bryce swept a wide portion of the room’s right side with his M-4 and saw no threats. Frank Dansby moved across the door and cleared the hard corner by taking the opposite area of responsibility. The third man, a six-year vet of the Marshals service named Gary Graves, watched the hallway.
Even though Nadine had told Bryce what to expect, he still found the first room depressing as hell. Light from a flea market lamp resting on a ratty nightstand helped light the room. Next to the lamp was an ashtray full of butts. Nearby, a thin mattress topped a crappy rust-speckled metal bed frame. The wastebasket was full of used tissues and condom wrappers, and there were beer cans aplenty littering the floor. They cleared the room quickly and Bryce was the first back into the hallway.
The second room was a repeat of the first. Sex traffickers weren’t too big on hygiene, it seemed.
From the hallway, Bryce heard Graves shout, “Hey, you! Hold it right there!”
Bryce bolted out the room. He saw Graves pointing his M-4 at a young girl he recognized. Frank Dansby followed Bryce into the hall, and he too had his weapon aimed at Nadine. The girl had her hands up. Her whole body shook violently.
“That’s Nadine!” Bryce shouted. “Stand down. Nadine, you’re safe. You’re okay.”
The girl was sickly pale, and her eyes wide and wild. “Go now!” she cried.
To Bryce’s surprise, Nadine made herself big as possible by spreading out her arms and legs. Her limbs were long enough to touch the particleboard walls on either side of her. She looked to be frozen mid jumping jack. Her shout summoned two men from a doorway behind her. The guy in front was tall and lanky and had to be Ricardo. Bryce thought the one bringing up the rear looked a heck of a lot like Buggy, but it was hard to tell as he was moving so fast.
Graves held his ground to provide cover, while Bryce and Frank charged at the fleeing men.
Desperation blossomed in Nadine’s eyes as realization took hold. Big guys with big guns were coming at her and weren’t going to stop. In a panic, she threw herself to one side, which happened to be in front of Frank Dansby. This left a good-sized gap for Bryce to get by. There was a brief interlude where Frank had to untangle himself from Nadine, who was screaming incoherently.
Frank might have been slowed, but Bryce and Graves went ahead unencumbered. They were the first to reach the room into which the two men had vanished. Bryce unclipped a flash grenade from his battle belt and tossed it into the room before he entered. A loud bang followed, then a puff of white smoke.
Bryce burst into the room with his gun aimed at his zone only. He knew Graves was on his heel and would cover the area to his back. Both men soon had their guns pointed at the only person they could see. Ricardo squirmed on the floor, covering his ears.
“Don’t move! Don’t move!” Graves yelled, while pointing the gun barrel at Ricardo’s head.
It wasn’t clear if Ricardo could even hear, but at least he wasn’t reaching for a weapon. Frank entered the room and Bryce didn’t need to see Nadine to know that she was in the hallway and handcuffed. Unfortunately, the girl they had come to rescue had turned into a potential threat. It happened from time to time.
Bryce figured Nadine was suffering from some form of Stockholm syndrome, identifying with her captor more than her rescuers. The bigger problem was that two had entered the room, but only one was there and the missing guy was the one Bryce had come to retrieve.
A metal door, more like a hatch located in the middle of the floor, was open wide. Bryce peered inside. It looked very dark down there. He groaned. “Aw, crap.”
“What?” Darby said.
“I think Buggy went down in the hole.”
CHAPTER 37
Bryce shone his flashlight into the hole, while Graves secured Ricardo. The beam cut through the darkness, illuminating only a fraction of the space below. Not much height, three feet at most. It was an on-your-belly type crawl space with a dirt floor and scattered debris throughout. Unquestionably, it was a horrible place to spend a few minutes, let alone days. What these animals had done to Tasha put a new stamp on the passport of human depravity, and Bryce had seen a lot of stamps over the years.
“Hey Buggy, we know you’re down there. Come on up. Let’s make this easy, all right?” Bryce’s voice echoed.
He didn’t expect a reply. He didn’t get one.
Bryce turned to Frank Dansby. “Go get Nadine, will you.”
Frank returned a nod.
Bryce hesitated to put his head in the hole again just in case Buggy decided to take a shot. But he did it anyway and scanned the crawl space a second time with the help of his flashlight. It appeared the area below the basement was the size of the apartment building’s foundation. Buggy could be anywhere.
Frank brought Nadine into the room. Poor girl looked utterly terrified. Nothing about Frank’s manner was hostile. He was gentle with her, but her crying still bordered on hyperventilation. They’d get her medical attention soon enough.
“Is there a way out of the crawl space?” Bryce asked.
Nadine shook her head.
Bryce put a hand on her shoulder. She shrank from his touch.
“Nadine, you’re not in trouble,” he said, looking her in the eyes. “I promise. I’ll watch after you, but I’ve got to know. Is there a way out?”
Ricardo, who was handcuffed on the floor, perked up. “Shut up! Don’t say a word. You guys go screw yourselves.”
Bryce rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I’m trembling here, amigo. Graves, get Mr. Congeniality out of here, please. Have someone from upstairs help you. I want two guys on this P-O-S.”
Nadine let out a few shaky breaths. Graves radioed for help.
Ricardo glared at Nadine with hate in his eyes. “Puta.”
Bryce could see him getting ready to spit, so he slammed the butt end of his rifle into Ricardo’s mid-section. The only thing Ricardo spit on after that was his shoe.
“He can’t hurt you anymore, Nadine,” Bryce said while Graves dragged Ricardo out of the room.
Nadine spoke only when she felt safe to do so. “Ricardo said there’s a vent he could use to get out.”
It made sense. There had to be an air supply, otherwise Tasha would have suffocated. Bryce figured the light source was blocked—it was so damn dark down there. “Which way is that vent? Do you know?”
“I don’t know,” Nadine said. Her tears were flowing freely. “Ricardo had the only flashlight. I shouldn’t have gotten in your way. I just panicked. I’m sorry. I screwed everything up.”
“Is Casper upstairs or is he down in the hole?”
“Casper couldn’t fit through the vent. He was going to try and hide. We had just woken up Buggy when you came downstairs. Did anyone get shot because of me?” Nadine’s body slumped forward from an invisible weight resting on her shoulders.
“It’s okay. Honest,” Bryce said, giving her a little hug of encouragement. With her hands cuffed, she couldn’t hug back.
“Frank, radio our command. Tell them to watch the alley.” Bryce said this as he handed Frank his M-4 and Little Pig.
“Where you going?” Frank asked.
“Buggy is our guy. I’m going to get him.” Bryce had a flashlight and his Glock. He figured that would be enough. Just to be safe, he tossed a flashbang into the hole. A loud explosion erupted from down below, somewhat muted on account of the thickness of the concrete. Buggy would have endured the full effect, and the blinding flash may have temporarily disabled him.
Bryce climbed dow
n into the hole. He breathed in steamy, hot, poorly-ventilated, stale air that his lungs couldn’t clean.
Floor to ceiling the space was a tight squeeze. If he arched his back even slightly, he’d scrape it against the rough-hewn cement above. He crawled forward on his hands and knees, shimmying as though he were slipping below razor wire in some Army obstacle course. His dirt-filled mouth acted like a gritty sponge, sucking up all the moisture. The flashbang had kicked up loose soil and contributed, not insignifacntly, to the dirty, smoky mayhem. Removing his Glock from its holster, Bryce’s throat tightened. If he started to cough, he wasn’t sure he could stop. The impenetrable darkness ignited a mild case of claustrophobia. It wasn’t a paralyzing fear, but the unpleasantness stayed with him like a persistent ache.
Bryce’s biggest concern was that Buggy would find the vent, get out, and get himself a hostage. Spinning on his belly, Bryce shone his flashlight in a sweeping circle. No sign of Buggy, but Bryce saw some structural support columns made of cinderblock Buggy could be hiding behind. Bryce inched forward. Clouds of dust billowed off the dirt floor, launching motes that danced lazily in his flashlight’s jouncing beam. Bryce’s throat tightened still more. Dirt and dust continued to seep into his lungs anyway. He held his ground and listened. Was it a breath? It sounded close by. Bryce whirled toward the noise, his flashlight beam trailing.
Nothing.
“Buggy, let’s not do this.” Bryce listened, but the only sound was his heartbeat thundering in his chest.
A bright flash erupted and lit the crawlspace like a bolt of lightning. A simultaneous bang preceded the familiar smell of gunpowder. A bullet whizzed near Bryce’s shoulder and sank into the dark.
Bryce understood his flashlight was the problem. He cut the beam and rolled. Jagged stones dug into his skin. It was worth the pain to distance himself from the hatch opening and the secondary light source. Three more shots rang out. The noise was going to be harder on Buggy than on Bryce, who wore ear protection.
From above Frank called, “Bryce, are you okay?”
Bryce figured Frank didn’t need to go down there and get shot. He chanced giving away his position to respond. “Stay back. I got this,” he yelled as he rolled some more.
Another shot rang out. Had Bryce not been moving, the fourth bullet Buggy fired might have found its target. Instead, the projectile sank into the shadows like the others. But Bryce now had a general idea where to find Buggy, and he crawled in that direction.
In the darkness, Bryce heard movement, sounds of scampering as Buggy took up a new position. Bryce thought he might get lucky, but Buggy was smart enough to move away from the light seeping down from the open hatch. Bryce had to decide if he wanted to go after Buggy or make his way out and wait for reinforcements. Exiting would make him an easy target.
By going down there, Bryce essentially had committed, so he decided to go get his man. He slid forward on his belly. His tactical gear pressed unpleasantly against his chest. Jagged rocks dug into his knees and elbows. He’d been down there all of four minutes and all he wanted to do was get out.
“You’re going to have do things you don’t want to do to get your man,” Bryce’s favorite instructor at the training center had once told him. “Tracking isn’t just following footprints. Any clown can do that. What makes a marshal exceptional is an innate ability to read each clue, to understand the nuances, the essence of the movement, so picture in your mind these movements and imagine them as if they were your own.”
No surprise his instructor’s words came back to him at that particular moment. Without his flashlight, without light from the hatch, Bryce’s only option was to imagine Buggy’s movements. What would he do in a similar situation? How would he think?
Fear.
It was the first word that came to Bryce’s mind. Buggy would be utterly terrified. He wasn’t a killer. He was a dealer. So why did he shoot? Fear. A cornered animal was a most dangerous one.
He’ll move toward the wall, Bryce thought. Search for that vent.
But where was the wall? Damn this darkness. Bryce held a breath and gave a listen. A scraping noise sounded not too far away. Bryce guessed fifty feet, but it was hard to gauge distance by sound alone.
Imagine their movements as if they were your own.
Bryce took the advice to heart as he played out a scenario in his mind. For a moment, he became Buggy down in the hole with his back against the wall, both figuratively and literally.
Bryce had only a general idea of Buggy’s location, but he came up with a way to pinpoint it exactly. In one hand, Bryce held his Glock, and his flashlight in the other. He rocked his body and rolled onto his back, then onto his stomach, then onto his back once more. His momentum began to pick up. Rocks bit at his flesh, then released, then bit again. As he rolled, Bryce powered on his flashlight and sent it spinning in the opposite direction.
The rolling flashlight was bait, nothing more. Bryce stopped rolling, but the world kept spinning. In the dark it was hard to regain equilibrium. Hopefully, Buggy’s addled brain would think Bryce was still on the move.
Sure enough a shot rang out, aimed at the rolling flashlight. Bryce did not hesitate. He fired where he saw the flash of gunfire. A groaning sound told Bryce his aim had been true.
“Are you done shooting, Buggy?”
A second groan.
“I’m not taking chances. You toss that gun where I can see it.”
Bryce rolled toward the flashlight. He heard a noise, a thud. A gun, perhaps?
Bryce retrieved the flashlight and directed the beam where he heard that thud. The outline was distinct enough for Bryce to make out the shape of a gun. He trained his beam on Buggy. His back, indeed, was against the wall, clutching his leg, taking in short and shallow breaths. Buggy’s face was smeared with dirt turned muddy from his sweat. Bryce crawled toward Buggy, flashlight in one hand, gun in the other, his finger never leaving the trigger of his Glock. Buggy’s face was filled with panic. The bleeding was brisk.
“I need a doctor,” Buggy said, clutching his wound.
“Better that than a mortician,” Bryce said. In the cramped quarters, Bryce managed to take out a pair of TUFF-TIES, the best nylon restraints on the market. Buggy cried out when Bryce yanked his arms to get the restraints in place. He secured another set of ties around the leg wound to form a tourniquet, and then flashed his light in Buggy’s eyes.
“Ramon Gutierrez, on behalf of the United States Marshals Service, I am pleased to inform that you are under arrest.”
CHAPTER 38
Angie took the elevator to the third floor of the Mercy Medical Center where Nadine Jessup was being kept overnight for observation. Nadine’s parents were en route to Baltimore and Angie wanted a few minutes alone with Nadine before they arrived. She’d also wanted Mike to come up with her. Without him, they might never have found Nadine.
Mike, being Mike, saw right away how his presence could be a negative. Even though he’d played no part in Nadine’s suffering, he was still a male, and might bring back memories of all she had endured. He was headed home, back to his kids, eager to hug them extra tight.
A nurse stopped Angie in the hallway to let her know Nadine was sleeping.
“I won’t wake her,” Angie said, masking her disappointment. “I just want to see her.”
“She’s heavily sedated. I doubt she’ll wake up until morning.”
Angie last spoke with Nadine by phone minutes before she inexplicably interfered with the mission. In the aftermath, Nadine was rushed off to the hospital, taken by ambulance and escorted by a cadre of FBI agents. Angie hadn’t had a moment to connect with her in person, but was told she was doing fine and in relatively good health.
It was important for Angie to see for herself. Peering into the room, she looked at Nadine sleeping peacefully. She wore a hospital gown and had an IV in her arm, probably to provide electrolytes for dehydration. She looked perfect, a perfect person. But beneath her flawless skin were wounds so deep t
hey might never heal. What had happened to her down in that basement, Angie wondered. Why did she turn against the people who had come to her rescue? What twisted mind games did her traffickers play?
A lump formed in Angie’s throat. The intensity of her emotions took her by surprise. She had found hundreds of runaways, but something about Nadine was special.
This was more than a job. It was a calling. The mission was over for Angie, while Nadine’s road to recovery was just beginning. Angie couldn’t walk that path for her.
Angie felt utterly relieved and weirdly empty now that she had nothing more to do. She wasn’t Nadine’s caseworker from social services or a victim-witness coordinator from the FBI. She was a retrieval specialist. Her job was to track down runaway kids and take them home. Mission accomplished. Mission over.
When Nadine’s parents showed up, she would debrief them and then go home. Of course, she would be available for Nadine if she ever wanted to meet in person, if she wanted to shake hands with the woman who’d reunited her with an alcoholic mother and an absentee father. Some parts of Angie’s job were hard to swallow, but that was the gig. She wasn’t in the business of putting broken lives back together again.
Angie’s gaze lingered on the IV in Nadine’s arm. It was the second time she had set foot inside a hospital since her mother’s death and the reminders continued to be painful and sad. Time would lessen her grief, but would it heal Nadine?
Angie jumped when she felt a gentle tap on her shoulder. She whirled and saw a handsome face smiling at her. It took a moment for recall to kick in.
Bryce Taggart wore jeans, a tan blazer, and a white dress shirt underneath. He looked extremely relaxed for someone who had just gotten into a gun battle inside a crawlspace. Among law enforcement, word of his actions had spread like a California brush fire.
“Is she sleeping?” He leaned his body against the doorframe and craned his neck to take a peek inside Nadine’s hospital room.
Forgive Me Page 22