by Frank Zafiro
I wrote up my report this morning over coffee. Today’s meeting with Shepard was one of our scheduled events, just to make sure we kept in touch and on the same page. Maybe that’s why he let me go home, figuring we were going to meet today anyway.
Last night wasn’t the first time I’ve had a gun pointed at me. It wasn’t the first time I’ve faced the prospect of my own death, either. I’m not so cavalier as to just say that it comes with the territory, but then again, the reality is that it can. Death waits for us all, but it seems to like to hover around police more than most. For the patrol cop, it can be just a radio call away. For the detective, one door knock away. You never knew.
Undercover work is even worse. At least a patrol officer walks into a situation with all of his tools. Gun, badge, Taser, bullet-resistant vest. A radio. A partner, too, usually. And his role is clearly defined. He’s the uniformed cop. You know what to expect from him, and he’s usually able to figure out what everyone else’s role is pretty quickly, too. Victim, witness, suspect, bystander…it doesn’t take long.
Things get a little blurred when you drop all that regalia and assume another identity. I act like I’m Heather Williams to people like Anton, but I’m really Fergus MacIntyre, Spokane police detective. Only no one can know that, and if someone finds out that shouldn’t, then they know my true role. And that’s dangerous.
The whole operation is dangerous enough already. Being undercover is like being underwater. The whole world looks different. You’re out of your element. And after a while, your lungs begin to ache and you feel a slow rising panic that threatens to send you to the surface. Which is bad, especially if the sharks see you break water.
Maybe that’s why Shepard meets me in person every week, one on one. Doesn’t matter what else happens in our operation, he keeps this meeting. It used to irritate me a little, like he was checking up on me. Like I couldn’t handle it or something. But as time passed, it became a safe place to surface and take another deep breath before plunging undercover again.
I’d arrived early at Manito Park and found the bench up a ways from the duck pond. It was empty, as usual. I sat, closed my eyes, and let the sun do its thing.
Shepard was a little late, but I didn’t mind. I heard his cowboy boots clicking on the asphalt path as he approached. I kept my eyes closed. When he sat down, his lanky frame barely nudged the solid wooden bench. He didn’t say anything right away, and enough time passed for the slightest scent of his aftershave to waft past me. The lieutenant was an Aqua Velva man, just like my Dad. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that, but at the moment, I took comfort in the familiarity of the scent.
“Nice day,” Shepard said.
“Yeah.”
“Supposed to rain later, though.”
I sighed. “Don’t fuck it up for me, El-Tee. I need some good news.”
“Tough night last night?”
Something in the way he said it made me open my eyes to look at him. There was no hint of sarcasm in his expression. It’d been an honest question.
“You didn’t come out on it?” I asked.
His eyes narrowed. “Out on what?”
“Anton. I met him last night.”
He shook his head. “No. Who ran the cover?”
“I don’t know. I assumed it was you.”
“It wasn’t me. And Sergeant Peterson didn’t say a word to me at the office this morning.”
A sick feeling rose in my stomach. “I called you.”
“No,” he said. “You didn’t.”
“Yes, I did,” I insisted.
Instead of arguing, he took out his phone. “What time?”
“Twenty-two thirty.”
He checked his phone dutifully, then shook his head. “No calls at all last night after eighteen hundred. From anyone.” He looked up at me questioningly.
“El-Tee, I called. I know I did.”
“Check your phone.”
I pulled out my phone, determined to show him. I selected Recent Calls, then Dialed. There it was, at 2237 hours.
I held it out for him. “See?”
He peered at the number, squinting slightly. I wondered how soon before he admitted he needed reading glasses. After a moment, he looked back to me and shook his head. “That’s not my number.”
“What?” I turned the phone around and stared at the number. It took a minute to realize I’d transposed two digits. “Shit,” I breathed.
I pushed Send and put the phone to my ear. After three rings, a man answered. “Jerry’s Auto Parts. What can I help you with today?”
I hung up.
Shepard was staring at me intently. I closed my eyes again and took a deep, wavering breath. A cold, hard knot of fear coiled up in my gut.
Fuck.
I’d been all alone last night.
By myself.
No cover.
No back up.
Nothing.
I let the breath out, and opened my eyes.
“What the hell, Gus? Talk to me.”
I handed Shepard the envelope containing my report. He took it from me but didn’t open it. Instead, he waited.
I took another deep breath and told him everything.
When I’d finished, Shepard was quiet for a long time. He had watched me intently throughout my entire account, but once I was finished, he leaned back on the bench and closed his eyes. I waited patiently while he ruminated on what I’d told him.
Truthfully, I thought he’d be angry. Maybe at me, maybe just at the situation. But Shepard was an even keel cowboy, and the only reaction he gave me was quiet contemplation.
After a while, he opened his eyes, and turned his attention back to me.
“I think we should pull the plug,” he said. “It’s getting too dangerous.”
It took a second for his words to sink in.
Pull the –
“No!”
Shepard’s eyebrows shot up.
The vehemence of my words surprised even me. “We can’t do that. Not yet. We don’t have Anton’s bosses. We haven’t nailed down the origin of most of these women yet. We can’t quit, El-Tee.”
“You don’t need to summarize this operation for me,” Shepard said. “I know where things lie. I know this op backwards and forwards.” He hesitated. “Or I thought I did. That’s the problem.”
“It was a simple mistake,” I said. “No big deal.”
“No big deal? Gus, you could have died last night.”
“Cops can die every night. It’s the nature of the—”
“Don’t give me that shit,” Shepard interrupted. “This isn’t my first rodeo. I’ve been doing this since you were in goddamn pig tails. I’ve been right where you are. I know how dangerous this work is. It’s my job to mitigate that danger. To control the risk.”
“That’s an illusion,” I said. “You can’t control it.”
“I can. And one of the ways is to know when an operation has exceeded acceptable safety thresholds. Like this one has.”
“I misdialed. That’s it.”
He shook his head. “You could have been killed.”
“It was a mistake.”
“And mistakes get people killed.” He considered me for a second before he spoke again. “Once an undercover starts making mistakes, it’s time to call the ball.”
I stared at him in disbelief. “I fucking dialed wrong.”
“I know. And almost got killed as a result.”
“But I didn’t. I didn’t get killed.”
“That was luck. And we’re not going to push it any further.”
Tears of anger prickled my eyes. I struggled to hold them in. The last thing I wanted to do was sit here and cry. “Please, Mark,” I said quietly. “Don’t give up on me. We can finish this. If we do, think of how many women and children we’ll be saving.”
He didn’t reply, but I saw a sliver of doubt appear.
I pushed on. “I’ll be more careful, that’s all. Let’s push forward. I know we can get past Anton to his
bosses. If we can figure out who they are, we can blow this operation up all the way back to Russia or wherever else they’re stealing these people from.”
“No operation is worth the life of one of my detectives,” Shepard said, but his voice didn’t have the same edge to it as just a few moments earlier.
“It’s not going to cost anyone’s life,” I told him. “It’s going to save some lives.”
He stared at me for a long time. Finally, he said, “Do you know how sappy that sounds?”
I laughed, the first genuine laugh I’d had in days. “I’m a walking cliché, El-Tee.”
“You’re trying to be, at least.”
“You know what they say about clichés? They say they became clichés for a reason.”
“Because they’re sappy?”
I shook my head. “Because they’re true.”
Shepard didn’t answer. Instead, he reached out and squeezed my shoulder. His hand was warm and rough even through my shirt. After a minute, he stood and walked away without another word.
NINE
Bull
Stumbling out of the makeshift whore-house, I ignored the yelling man behind me and the significantly absent shrieks of the women.
They didn’t react when I’d spun the girl in the red dress around. Her dull eyes hadn’t even focused on me as she’d reached for the front of my jeans with listless hands. Small breasts splotched with bruises protruded over shadowy rib lines.
I pushed her away. Dirty blonde hair and a similar build to Taylor’s had scared me. The skirt had beckoned like a red flag to a bull – me.
Falling backward, I had shaken my head. “I’m so sorry. No.” I held up my hand and pushed away from the wall where I’d landed. I turned to the dark-eyed man who watched every move, every breath.
I ripped the still lingering bills from his grasp and rushed from the building the way I entered. When the fresh air hit me, I rounded the corner and gasped to cleanse myself of the rot I’d smelled for mere minutes.
But I couldn’t stop. Taylor had been there. The skirt had a white Chevron design along the bottom hem – just as Rick had described.
Where did I go? What did I do? I wanted to run after someone and beat the crap out of them, help me drown the anger building into a tsunami about to carry me away. Breathe the anger away. No way in hell would knitting help me in that moment. Only someone else’s pain.
I pounded the street, arms pumping as I thundered toward my truck. Go. Go. Go.
Yanking open the driver’s door, I climbed in and slammed the door. Arms braced on the steering wheel, I could only gasp and gasp. And then without knowing it, I was yelling loud enough to rattle the windows and crashing the dash with my fists.
The cracking of the plastic window to my instrument cluster pulled me from my tantrum. But I felt better. And I could withdraw from the emotional aspect of the situation and think.
Logically.
Yeah, right.
Pulling from park, I crept the rig into a side parking lot to watch the strip. The sight of the skirt reassured me that I was close, she’d been there, and I was just steps behind her.
I had to be.
Two hours of useless self-recriminations and finger-tapping on the head of the gear-shift passed. I’d been so close and I’d run, like a damn pussy. The pimp had to know something about Taylor, or her whereabouts. I debated returning to the whorehouse for more information, but experience told me an operation like that would have more men there to protect the investment – crude as it was. Desperation had a cloying effect and I couldn’t get the missed opportunity from my mind. About to give up and go back in to beat the crap out of the in-house pimp for information – regardless of any potential help he might have - I looked to my left and froze.
The low, green Impala passed the lot I’d commandeered as my own. Bass bumped from its trunk and the driver hid behind a deeply shaded window.
I didn’t move, afraid I’d draw attention to myself. The last thing I needed was to be spotted so early in my hunt.
The only other time I’d been made before I was ready for my shot had been during a tundra hunt. The caribou had spotted me, alerting the ram I’d been tracking for half a day. We’d stared each other down and as I’d reached for my rifle, he’d lifted his head and disappeared with a regal speed I’d never match, even if I had wings.
This hunt held more importance than a damn sheep. Nothing would make me move. I held my breath and allowed only my eyes to follow the old Chevy out of view.
I didn’t waste time shifting into drive and carefully following them further downtown.
I followed the car up Division, farther than the Y and into a neighborhood where I wouldn’t set a stray dog loose. I rounded the turn, letting the car go into the cul de sac unmolested. For now.
Parking half a block down from the street they’d turned into, I patted the gun tucked in my ankle holster and grabbed my favorite knife. I deduced two passengers in the car as I’d hung back and watched their every move. Two. One more than me and who knows how many in whichever damn house they’d gone into.
Without knowing what was ahead of me, I left the truck door unlocked and closed it softly.
The sun began to set. Oranges and pinks dusted the sky, giving a dim perception of the yards and houses I walked by.
A green street sign dangled from its height above the chipped stop sign. I paused beside the landmark, glancing up and down, searching for the house I’d need. The Impala hid well. Maybe in a garage? Behind a house?
I didn’t tuck the knife away. The weight comforted me as I trod forward, careful to watch for signs of my prey.
I’d get the information I needed, even if I had to carve it out of them.
A loud bang from the most northern curve of the cul de sac startled me. I ducked behind a poorly maintained lilac bush, reaching for the piece at my ankle. Two men – Asian and white – sauntered from the back of a two-story clapboard house, slapping and laughing.
Laughing.
My anger returned from its simmer to a boil.
Both men entered the house, the door partially closing on the cool night air, leaving a yellow sliver of light shafting onto the street like a beacon.
The door would be too easy. I’d have to come at it from the rear.
Circling to the back, under cover of the neighboring brush and trees, I claimed a spot under a window of what could be the kitchen. My plan was to get to the front and then wait until the bastards fell asleep before entering. I still didn’t know how many people were inside. At least two. Confusion from lingering sleep would help even out the field.
I rolled to all fours and started to crawl to the front door, stopping beside the cemented patio up a few feet from the splotchy grass. I could get comfortable, maybe hear something if I stayed really quiet.
The door opened and a man’s voice found me over the side of the porch. “Look, I don’t care if you spotted the merchandise first. I get the bigger cut, dip shit. You know that.”
“The hell you do.” A higher nasally voice answered, then the solid sound of flesh on flesh and muted grunts joined the subdued night sounds of the street. A woman’s short shriek cut off on a garble.
I couldn’t be sure, but if there was a woman inside, she couldn’t be there voluntarily. I had to save her. She could be Taylor. Or someone who could help me find her.
I cracked my knuckles. Things were about to get fun.
A shot rang out.
Real fun.
TEN
Gus
“Joe Albi Stadium,” Anton said over the phone. “The parking lot there, on the same side as the funeral home.”
I didn’t like the sound of that in about three different ways.
“What do you have for me?” I asked, stalling until I could think of a way to object to the location.
“What I always got, girl? Half an hour.” He hung up.
I pressed Cancel, then dialed Shepard immediately.
He answered on t
he second ring. “Your dialing skills have improved.”
“I don’t make any mistake twice.”
“What’s up?”
I told him.
“Damn,” he muttered. “Not a lot of time.”
I waited, thinking that if he told me to stand down, I was going on this meet anyway. It would piss Shepard off royally, but no way would he pull me for it. I was too deep into this operation and it was too big.
“Park in the middle of the lot,” he finally said. “That’ll give you a good view of the whole ten acres. And you’ll know if he came alone or not.”
“That was my plan already.”
“You get a gold star, then,” he said. “Meanwhile, I’ll get a set of eyes in the wooded area to the northwest. Along with a sniper. You remember the emergency shoot signal?”
“A salute.”
“Right. And if there’s more than one potential target, be sure to point.”
“That’s not obvious or anything.”
“If it comes to that, it’s no longer about op-sec. It’s about safety.”
“It won’t come to that. But thanks for the coverage.”
“I’ll have Mason and Mather staged at the fire station on Assembly. It’s maybe a quarter-mile away. I’ll wait there, too. I’ll be on the phone with the tech, who will be monitoring your streaming audio.” He shrugged. “It’s thrown together, but it’s the best I can do on short notice.”
“You want me to be late? Give you more time to set up?”
“No. The opposite. Get there as fast as you can and get into position. We’ll do the rest.”
“Copy that.”
“Go now.” Shepard hung up.
I grabbed my things and headed out.
As it turned out, Anton was late. I sat in my car for a little while. I double-checked that both the audio and video were working in my magic spy purse. Then I waited some more.
After fifteen minutes, I muttered to my invisible audience, “At least everyone had a chance to get set up, right?”
I rolled down the windows, got out and leaned against the car near the front tire. If Anton stood near to me, he would be center frame on the surveillance cam.