The Trade Off

by Frank Zafiro

  But to do that, I’d need to see what I was watching for.

  A plan for the early morning took shape. I could keep an eye on the street until then.

  At that time… well, let’s just say I’d be getting results, one way or another.

  TWENTY

  Gus

  I leaned against an old style radiator, gleaning what little warmth I could from it. It creaked and groaned, ticked and clanked, but put out very little real heat. I wasn’t surprised. This house had probably been up for sale for a while, and not getting much action, either. The place was empty. A fine layer of dust was on the fireplace mantle and all of the window ledges.

  When I forced the side door, I knew I was taking a chance. This was the kind of neighborhood where people kept an eye out for their neighbors, so someone might notice a solitary figure going into a vacant house for sale at two-thirty in the morning. Or the place could be alarmed.

  In the end, neither scenario played out. I got inside, left the lights out but turned on the heat just a notch. Sometimes I forget that Pasco is actually considered desert, and that deserts get cold at night.

  I peered through the back window while I stood next to the radiator.

  The house straight across the backyard seemed mostly dormant, though I’d noticed lights going on and off in different rooms. No cars left, at least not while I was still parked on the street watching. I couldn’t see the front of the garage from my vantage point in the vacant house, but there was a window to the garage. If someone went inside, I’d be able to see the light go on. And with the minimal amount of traffic this time of night, I should be able to spot any headlights.

  In the cold dead of night, my plan was starting to seem more and more…stupid. The problem was, I couldn’t come up with anything better, either.

  I waited, and watched.

  And waited some more.

  The longer I thought about it, the less I could come up with a better idea. I didn’t like that, either. In law enforcement operations, if you don’t have a good plan, you don’t go out on the operation. But I guess this wasn’t a law enforcement operation anymore, was it? At least not completely.

  And any plan was better than none at all.

  By four o’clock in the morning, I figured it wasn’t going to get any darker. In fact, in another hour or so, it’d start to get light. If the men in that house were sleeping tonight, this is when they’d be deepest in that sleep.

  This was my best chance.

  “Fuck,” I muttered.

  I held my hands out to take in the feeble heat from the radiator, rubbed them together, then took out my pistol. I broke the slide open just enough to see the glint of gold in the chamber. Then I took a deep breath and holstered.

  Now or never.

  I left the vacant, for sale house through the same side door I forced open hours before. The gate to the backyard was unlocked, so I slipped inside and made my way to the back fence. The offset wood slats stood six feet high and blocked most of my view of the house. I hopped up on one of the support beams, got up on my tiptoes and peered over the top of the fence.

  The other house stood quietly. No dog in the backyard. A porch light washed a weak light over the grass and small patio. I scanned each window.

  No lights.

  No movement.

  With a heave, I pulled myself upward and threw a leg over the top of the fence. Scrambling over made the entire fence wobble. The handle of my pistol scraped against the wood. I ignored it and dropped clumsily to the ground on the other side.

  I remained in a crouch, scanning the windows again. I had an image of a yet unseen Rottweiler barreling around the side of the house, snarling, foaming at the mouth, and drilling straight into my throat.

  I blinked it away.

  Focus, Gus.

  I took a deep breath and let it out. Usually that helped relieve some tension, but not tonight. My heart pounded loudly in my ears. The sound seemed so loud I worried crazily it would wake someone inside the house.

  Another deep breath. This one bled off a small amount of tension.

  I swallowed and took several more deep breaths. When I figured I’d burned off as much of the tension as I was going to, I rose from my crouch and made my way toward the house.

  The sliding door didn’t have a wooden block in the rails. I knew I could get in that way, but decided not to. The likelihood that someone was in the living room, maybe crashed out on the couch, maybe standing guard, was just too great.

  Instead, I went to the door that I guessed led to the garage. There was no deadbolt, so that was a small victory there. I tried the knob, but my luck didn’t hold. It was locked. Unlike the movie cops, I didn’t know how to pick a lock, so that left me with only one choice, same as with the For Sale house.

  Force.

  But it had to be quiet.

  I pulled out my small folding knife and flicked it open. Most cops I knew carried one, especially on patrol. Some of the guys had blades that looked more like folding swords than knives. The one I kept on me was thinner, more delicate, but also went largely unnoticed by anyone who looked at me. As I stared at the door lock, I wondered if it was large enough for the job.

  Only one way to find out.

  I planted my feet and leaned into door, pushing hard with my shoulder, but driving from the hips. With one hand, I held onto the knob. I held the knife in my other hand, and slid it into the tiny gap between the door and the jamb. Awkwardly, I fished around for the latch.

  After just a few moments, my legs started to shake from the pressure. The snicking sound of my knife against the wood and metal seemed as loud as a drum corps. Sweat popped out on my brow and ran into my eyes.

  I increased the pressure.

  My hand slipped, and the knife snapped downward, gouging into the door.

  Goddamnit.

  I took a deep breath, wiped my brow, and leaned into the door again. This time, I was more forceful with the tip of the blade as I tried to find the latch. After a few moments, the knife slid into the small gap and behind the latch. I levered upward and felt the latch give way.

  The door burst inward. I leaned back quickly, holding it from swinging wide and slamming into something.

  No internal light came from the garage. I welcomed that. Dark meant safe right now.

  I folded the knife and put it away. Then I drew my gun. A momentary flutter of panic blasted into my gut. I was about to commit an armed burglary. This was unsanctioned, and way out of bounds. What would I tell Shepard when it was all over? What was my justification to go into this house? Where was the legal case for exigency?

  I had none.

  But I didn’t care. It was too late to worry about procedures and repercussions. All that mattered now was getting Faina and Taylor to safety, before they were sold and shipped God knows where.

  I slipped into the dark garage, closing the door behind me.

  A slim bar of light peeked underneath the large roll up door. It had to be coming from the front porch light or a streetlight. The small break let in a weak wash of light that barely penetrated the darkness of the garage. I stood, blinking, for a moment until my vision began to adjust. The garage was spacious but cramped with two vehicles. A sedan on one side and a box style van on the other. I didn’t have to look at the van to know it would have blacked out windows.

  I eased my way past the parked cars toward the door that led to the house. When I reached the door, I had to step up the single stair. The wood creaked faintly under my foot. I stopped and held my breath, not moving, but there was no response from inside. I reached out and gently tried the knob. When it turned in my hand, I almost smiled in relief.

  The door swung inward easily. The hinges barely squeaked. I stood in the doorway, suddenly bathed in all kinds of subdued light from a clock on a stove, and another from a microwave face.

  Every house has its own sounds. But I didn’t know this house’s sounds, so every creak and pop was like a claxon alarm. I was sure the men
holding Faina and Taylor would hear that alarm and I’d be in the middle of a gunfight before I could say “home invasion.”

  This is the choice you’ve made.

  Get moving.

  I stepped as lightly as I could across the linoleum of the kitchen floor, glad for the rubber soles of my tennis shoes. At the corner, I stopped and peered around into what I guessed would be the living room. Wrong. Instead, I saw a plain table and four chairs. A couple of open pizza boxes sat on top of the table, and the odor of crust and sauce filled my nostrils. Why didn’t I smell it before?

  Tunnel vision.

  Under stress, you get tunnel vision.

  They’d taught me that at the academy and reinforced it every time we had reality based scenarios at in-service training. And every time it happens, I’m surprised by it, especially when it affects all my senses, not just my vision.

  I took a deep, silent breath and let it out slowly. Then I slipped through the dining room to the next doorway.

  This one led to the living room. Two still figures sprawled on opposite ends of a long couch. Both big. Too big to be one of the girls.

  I looked closer and my blood froze.

  The unmistakable silhouette of a rifle barrel rose from the chest of one man like a spike next to his head. The tip moved slightly in time with his heavy breathing.

  The pistol in my hand suddenly felt like a squirt gun.

  I gave silent thanks that at least the television was off. No flickering light to give me away.

  Two choices.

  Walk away.

  Or walk through.

  I swallowed. Another slow, quiet, deep breath. Then I raised my gun and pointed it at the center of the shadow with the rifle. It took everything I had to will my foot to take that first step into the living room. The second step wasn’t much easier. I stayed in a slight crouch as I moved across the carpet. I wanted to move fast, even to run, but I knew I couldn’t risk the noise. I had to take it slow. So I kept my gun trained on the greatest threat and I put one trembling foot in front of the other.

  When I reached the center of the room, I had to turn slightly and start walking backward toward the open doorway. I kept my gun pointed at the man with the rifle.

  My nerves were alive with energy, making my skin sing.

  The other man shifted suddenly.

  I swung my aim onto him. My finger snapped to the trigger. I pressed slightly.

  I almost fired.

  But a moment later, I realized that he was only moving in his sleep. Adjusting for comfort. Still asleep.

  My heart pounded in my ears. I tried to swallow but couldn’t.

  Close.

  That was so close.

  Christ, what am I doing?

  I ignored my own doubt. Instead, I kept backing out of the room, through the threshold and into the open area beside the front door. I didn’t lower my gun until I’d stepped to the left, away from the front door and the open threshold to the living room. I was out of their line of sight.

  Turning, I saw another short hallway that turned to the left. I edged my way to that corner and peeked around it. The hallway had two doors on the left and one on the right. The door on my right stood wide open. One on the left was open a crack and the furthest one was closed tight.

  I prayed for some more luck, but I was pretty sure which door I was going to find the girls behind.

  Grateful for the carpet to deaden my steps, I moved down the hallway in that same slight crouch, my gun at the low ready. I felt trapped. If I were discovered now, I’d have to fight my way out of this hallway and through the two men in the living room. And my pistol against an AK-47 or whatever he had was not an even match.

  The first door was open a crack. I nudged it carefully, opening it far enough to see the bathtub inside. No need to go further. I doubted anyone was sleeping in the bathroom.

  The next door was the wide open one on the right. At the threshold, I raised my gun. Then I leaned to my left, taking in as much of the room as I could without exposing my head entirely.

  Two mattresses on the floor. One was bare. The other had a sleeping form sprawled across it.

  And leaning against the wall, another rifle. This one had the unmistakable shape of a curved, thirty round mag extending from the bottom.

  That made at least three.

  And only one room left.

  I let go of my gun with my right hand and wiped my sweaty palm across the leg of my jeans. Then I switched hands and did the same with my left. I tried to keep my breathing even, but I could feel the little nervous hitches in every breath.

  Just two more steps.

  That’s all.

  Two more.

  I tried to take a deep breath, but my chest was trembling too much.

  I took the first step anyway.

  Then the second.

  I reached out with my left hand and grasped the knob. I gave it a slow turn. There was no resistance. I pushed the door open gradually.

  The hinges squeaked.

  I stopped.

  Sweat rolled down my face. I felt a drop reach my chin and hover there while I listened for any movement in the house. When that drop finally reached critical mass and fell off my chin, I decided enough time had passed without a response. It was safe.

  I moved the door further in.

  The hinges squeaked. The wood of the door creaked.

  I kept opening. It was too late now. If it was going to make a sound every two inches, I’d never get it open and I’d be giving those bastards too many chances to hear something in their sleep.

  When I had it all the way open, I took in the room.

  No guards, first of all. That was lucky. I felt a surge of relief at that.

  No mattresses in this room. But I saw two smaller forms on the ground. It was still too shadowy to make out their faces, but I knew it had to be Faina and Taylor.

  Then I saw why there were no guards. Both girls were bound hand and foot. When I knelt next to the nearest one, I could make out Taylor’s All-American features. A piece of duct tape covered her mouth. Her eyes were closed and her breath even with sleep.

  I glanced over at the form next to her. Faina’s eyes were open and staring at me. Even in the shadows of that room, I could see both fear and resignation in those eyes.

  I tried to swallow again. Then I whispered as quietly as I could.

  “I’m here to help you. Do you understand?”

  She blinked at me and only stared back.

  I moved next to her and put my gun to my left hand again. I pressed my finger to my lips and let out an almost inaudible shushing sound. Then I nodded to Faina, my eyebrows arching questioningly.

  She nodded back.

  I took out my knife. The metallic click seemed to echo throughout the silence of the small house. I felt my way down her legs to her ankles, inserted the knife and sawed away the tape. Thank God my blade was still sharp after levering the garage door. It slid through the tape with hardly a sound. But when I started to pull it away, the tearing noise reverberated through the room.

  Too loud.

  I stopped.

  Listened.

  The thudding of my own heart seemed too loud to hear over. I strained my ears for any movement across the hall or from the living room.

  Nothing.

  I hesitated, thinking. Then I realized what I had to do. Instead of tearing off the tape, I cut through the back side, too. We could get rid of the tape later. For now, she could walk or run without impediment.

  Faina sat up and held her bound hands out to me. I stared into her eyes again, then put the blade to my own lips.

  “Shhhh,” I said.

  Faina nodded.

  I slipped the knife through the tape on both sides. Her hands came free. She immediately reached for her mouth.

  “No!” I said it as sharply as I dared.

  Her hands stopped. I pointed vaguely toward the outside of the house, then gave her an open palm gesture.

  Wait.r />
  Faina nodded.

  I leaned down, putting my face near Taylor’s. I gave her a gentle nudge. “Taylor, honey. Wake up.”

  I felt the change in her body, in her energy, as she woke up. Her eyes fluttered open.

  “Don’t make a sound,” I whispered near her ear. “I’m going to get you out of here.”

  She pulled away then, turning her head to look up. Her eyes were confused and frantic.

  Faina put her hands on Taylor’s arm, comforting her. Taylor’s gaze shot toward the older girl, then back to me.

  “It’s all right,” I whispered.

  Slowly, realization settled in. Tears rose in her eyes and flowed down her cheeks. I leaned in close again.

  “You’ve got to stay very quiet,” I told her. “And listen to everything I say. Do you understand?”

  She nodded vigorously.

  “Don’t peel any tape off. It’s too loud.”

  She nodded again.

  I cut through the tape at her ankles and her hands. Like Faina, she immediately reached for her mouth.

  “No,” I said, and she stopped.

  I closed the knife, putting it back in my pocket. Then I moved to the bedroom window and examined it. It was more than big enough to fit any of us through. I didn’t know how quiet we’d be, but it was a better option than going past three armed men. I’d need to close the bedroom door to help minimize the sound carrying, but…

  My heart sank when I saw the screws.

  Huge wood screws were driven through the window frame and into stout wooden braces, holding the window shut at both corners and in the center. Another brace was screwed into the window slide. This was obviously where they always kept their prisoners. No one was opening this window.

  Fuck.

  I almost said it out loud.

  My mind raced through my remaining options. Really, there were only two. The front door or the garage door. I had to risk the noise of opening the front door or sneaking all three of us past the men on the couch.

  Fuck.

  I could feel the desperate gaze of both girls burning into me. I gave them a quick look, then crouched next to them.