by Frank Zafiro
“We have to move quietly,” I whispered. “And then we have to move fast. Listen to what I tell you to do, and do it right away. If you do that, I’ll get you out of here. I promise.”
Taylor nodded emphatically. I looked at Faina, who nodded too. She might not speak English but I guess some things were universal.
“Follow me.”
Both girls stood.
“When we get to the front door, open it as quickly and as quietly as you can. Then run. Run off the porch and to your left. Halfway up the block is a dark blue Nissan Sentra. That’s my car. Okay?”
Both girls nodded.
I rose to a standing position and motioned to them with my head.
“Let’s go.”
TWENTY-ONE
Bull
The dark lingered longer than my patience could handle. I’d never been so anxious before on a hunt. I’d never had so much at stake either.
No movement all night in the neighborhood. Like after I’d parked a switch had been flipped and no one was allowed out or in. The absolute stillness had an eerie quality. At least in the woods, night animals still stirred.
Honestly I’d dozed a few times, jerking awake when my head had hit the glass of my window – so not longer than a minute or so. But my scratchy eyes needed to stare at something besides the side view mirror.
I needed to take a walk. No one would notice a guy walking in the dark, if they were sleeping. I hoped they were all sleeping.
Plus I needed to take a piss and that wasn’t happening in my truck, no matter how hard core I could do a hunt. Not my truck.
To be safe I tucked my guns into their holsters and patted the handle of my knife. But I didn’t lock the doors. I couldn’t shake the sensation that I was in a very dangerous area, no matter how posh it seemed and I needed to be able to get inside the cab as fast as possible, if the need arose.
Trees lined the street but I needed to find one that gave enough protection from the porch lights along both sides of the road. I headed up from my truck, the opposite direction of my target. I’d be walking by later that morning asking if they’d seen a missing kid, or dog, or whatever, and just in case someone watched from the window, it wouldn’t lend me any credibility if I walked by before knocking in apparent desperation. Nothing spooked prey more than when a hunter studied the area beforehand. More hunters succeed when they arrived to fresh land where they’ve never been.
Unzipping my jeans, I braced an arm on a tree a block and a half up from the truck. Leaning in, I sighed with relief. Thank goodness people couldn’t scent out or smell like animals.
I zipped my pants, glancing up at the sudden appearance of headlights down another four blocks or so from my truck.
The low riding truck crept along the street, like it searched for something. I tucked behind the tree as it passed, watching it roll along and pause beside my truck before continuing on.
What the hell was going on? Was that a scout of some kind? Or just a coincidence? And more importantly, would I be able to save Taylor?
Sticking to the early-early-morning shadows of the trees, I walked toward my truck.
Instead of picking up speed and driving further down the street, the car slowed even further about a block past my vehicle, the blinker indicating a right turn. Everything seemed too coincidental for it not to be headed for my target.
Dropping into a crouch-run, I picked up my pace as I got closer to the cover of my truck. What did I do? They’d most likely be armed. Hell, I was armed and I had nothing to do with the industry they were in.
Climbing into the protection of my truck seemed the only sensible thing to do. Inside, I started the engine, thankful I had kept up on the maintenance and replaced the mufflers with quieter after-market versions. I flipped around, allowing the slow pull of coasting in neutral to deliver me closer to the drive of the house I was staking out.
So much for my cover story.
Between the leaves of the privacy bushes placed intermittently along the three-foot-high fence line, I could just make out the porch light as it glinted on the ghastly green paint of the car as it pulled past the side of the house and further into the driveway, closer to the back.
If Taylor was in there, I’d have to make a move or it’d be too late. But what was that move?
In the space of my thoughts, before I could even pick out possibilities, movement from the front door caught my eye. Blonde hair emerged, then another darker head.
I leaned forward for a better look, pressing my chest into the center of the steering wheel. The horn reacted, beeping into the peaceful night.
Freezing, I waited, counting. Had anyone heard it?
Visibility of the heads I’d seen disappeared, flashes between the slats of the fence gave their position as fleeing for the front gate. The least I could do was help them.
Opening my door and standing on the seat, I anchored myself between the door and the cab hood, pulling my replacement Taurus out and straight-arming it with a solid aim at the open front door.
Sure enough, shouting started after the briefest seconds. A flash of light inside the house followed by a crack. Someone was shooting, but I couldn’t figure out at who.
Petite figures crawled over the gate, two corralled by another.
I couldn’t hold my gaze on them long. A darker haired male burst through the front door and I pulled the trigger. I targeted his upper torso, trying to be careful not to make a kill shot.
He pulled back, grabbing his shoulder. Seeing me, he dropped to the ground. And that’s when the yelling started in a language I didn’t understand.
The girls paused, turning back.
Taylor.
The middle one turned too, watching the house, lifting her arm holding a handgun. She didn’t give me the time of day, but I held my breath. I’d held her naked body in my arms a day ago… a lifetime ago. And she had my niece with her.
“Taylor! Run!” My yell brought all the attention my way. I ducked beneath the onslaught of shots thunking into the side of my truck, cracking the glass. A small part of me prayed for safety and another part wished I’d invested in armored panels when I’d had the chance.
Taylor’s eyes grew wide when she saw me. She tugged on the other girl’s arm and pulled toward me, crying out. But Gus-Goose grabbed their shoulders and yelled, “Run!” In the semi-dark, the flash from her gun as she shot behind her had a surreal effect. She was focused and sure.
I don’t know if it was her bullet or the one from a different guy as he ran toward me from the driveway that struck me in the forearm. It honestly didn’t matter. That woman had taken my niece when I’d been so close to saving her.
Ignoring the pain in my arm, I squeezed off some cover rounds to get me a few seconds to get out of there. Maybe find the girls. Fortunately, the thud as another one of the men took a shot I’d just randomly tossed their way carried to me just short of the end of the drive.
I couldn’t see the girls anymore by the time I jumped into my seat and shifted into drive. I drove slow, trying to see in the darkness where they’d gone, where they hid.
From behind me, through the broken glass of my truck, the revving of another engine, an engine more souped up than my own reliable rig sent a chill up my spine.
Okay, now I was the prey. Me and the girls.
At the stop sign, I looked to my right. The next street over, a car screeched around the corner, like hell chased its tires and for some reason, I didn’t want to lead the men that way.
I didn’t know what game Gus-Goose was playing, but she couldn’t rape the girls and, while I had no idea where she stood in the scheme of things, I had to hold faith, at least for a moment, that she wouldn’t sell them. At least not there in Pasco.
I could play the injured bird role, act like I was something worth chasing, like maybe I had the prize and give them a little bit of a head start. Because they wouldn’t get far in that Podunk place, especially if I led them right to her.
All animals
return to their watering holes, what they know. And whether that woman was a predator or prey, I’d figure out where she’d taken my niece and I’d get her back.
Behind me headlights careened onto the street. More shots tinged my tailgate. I pressed the pedal to the floor. They might have more power in that small block engine, but my truck had a solid, sturdy strength that I relied on. I’d lose them, but not before I needed to.
Hopefully.
Oh, shit, what had I gotten myself into?
Two miles outside of Pasco, I finally breathed deep enough to relax my shoulders. I still hadn’t turned on my headlights and had avoided no less than seven wrecks while turning, parking, speeding away from the horror in that damn green vehicle.
But I finally lost them. The decision to return to Spokane didn’t take more than a second’s hesitation. She wouldn’t go somewhere she didn’t know, not with cargo like the girls. And the vulnerability of their night together wasn’t something a woman like Gus-Goose would allow in a place she didn’t at least know how to maneuver in case of danger.
No. She’d head toward Spokane. Even if the town was a spot to leave from, she’d start there.
The freeway wasn’t packed. Two miles turned into three, into four, and after ten, I leaned my head back and pressed my fingers tight into the tender mass of my arm. Metal grated on bone and I cried out, almost losing consciousness with the pain. Shit. I grasped the steering wheel with my good hand, allowing my injured one to fall to my side.
Applying pressure to stop the bleeding wasn’t going to be enough. I needed bandages and a quick glance at the fuel gauge revealed I needed gas, too.
Once I got patched up, a little food wouldn’t hurt either. I passed a sign for gas and food just up ahead.
Good, because I was sick of bleeding all over my damn truck.
TWENTY-TWO
Gus
We were nearly outside Pasco and fifteen minutes removed from the gunshots before my heart stopped pounding like a trip-hammer. I kept glancing back at Faina and Taylor, but they followed my directions and remained crouched on the floor of the backseat.
When I thought I could talk, I told them they could sit up. My voice came out raspy and dry. I licked my lips and swallowed thickly.
Faina settled into her seat and said nothing, her eyes straight ahead. Either she felt safe with me or looked upon me as just another captor. I couldn’t tell which.
Taylor sat directly behind me, and I caught her eye in the rear-view mirror. A confused and frightened expression met my gaze. She looked like she was trying to make sense of everything that had happened, which was understandable. When I’d brought women into the reception center to be debriefed and set up with social services, many of them bore the same unsure, untrusting look on their faces, especially at first.
I couldn’t blame them.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” I told them both, but looking at Taylor.
Taylor bit her lip, and looked away.
I considered whether to tell them the truth of it all. I even opened my mouth, the words poised on my lips. But something stopped me.
So I drove.
About a minute later, a light dinging caught my attention. I scanned the dash readouts and saw that I was desperately low on gas.
“Great planning,” I muttered, and started searching for a gas station.
While I searched, I nibbled at the question. Why didn’t I just tell them I was a cop? It would set them at ease. They’d likely be more cooperative, especially if I told them where we were headed. So why did the words stick in my throat?
The urban density of the Tri-Cities thinned. A sign for Highway 395 North told me I was about two miles away. From there, it was a straight shot to I-90 at Ritzville, then straight on ninety to Spokane.
And then what?
That’s when I figured out the answer to my first question.
A large Exxon sign rose up on my left, and I pulled in. It was an older gas station, which suited me fine. Less likely to have surveillance cameras. And that was starting to be more important to me.
I pulled up to the pump and shut off the engine. Then I turned to the girls in the back seat. “I’m going to gas up. Is anyone thirsty?”
Taylor gave her head a short shake. Faina continued to stare straight ahead.
I shrugged. “I’ll get some water, just in case. After I fill the tank, I’m taking you both home. Back to Spokane, where you’ll be safe. So can I trust you to stay in this car while I go inside to pay for the gas?”
Taylor nodded briefly. Faina didn’t respond.
“Faina?” I put just a little bit of force into my voice. I hated to do it, but I needed to make sure she wasn’t going to bolt.
The Russian girl turned her head toward me. Her gaze flicked to mine, then away again. She nodded once.
“Good,” I said, more softly.
I opened the door and started to get out. Then I hesitated, and looked at both girls again. “I’ll be watching from inside,” I warned. “Remember, you’re safer with me than those other guys.”
Neither girl responded.
I walked briskly into the small convenience store. The young man behind the counter had Middle Eastern features and an angry expression. He fixed me with a suspicious stare and followed my movements as I grabbed several bottles of water and some beef jerky. An older man, this one wearing a turban and a collared business shirt, stood off to the side. He smiled at me.
“Thirty in gas,” I said, plunking the items onto the counter. “And these.”
The cashier scowled as he rang up my things. All the while, the older guy to the side of the counter kept smiling at me. “Did you find everything you need?” he asked, his tone polite.
“Yeah.”
The cashier muttered a total. I didn’t catch what he said, but saw the digital readout, so I slid the cash across the counter to him. He acted like making change was akin to cleaning a toilet, finally pushing my money back to me without a word.
“Please come again,” the older man off to the side said pleasantly.
It clicked all of the sudden as I looked between the two, and saw the similar features. He was the cashier’s father. This was the family business. And the cash register was being manned by a reluctant son.
Oh, well. Not my problem.
I grabbed my water and jerky and headed out the doors, striding toward my car as quickly as I could without appearing suspicious. I glanced around for security cameras and didn’t see any. That was a break.
As I approached the car, I was relieved to see both girls still in the back seat. I knew I’d get them to Spokane safely, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized that it had to be off the books. I had to drop them off at a fire station or something, and tell them to forget what I looked like. There was no other way this would end well for me. It wasn’t just my career at stake. For what I’d done, I could easily end up in prison. I knew what I did was the right thing, but the law wouldn’t see it that way. And they were almost roasting cops alive these days for fuck ups on the job. I didn’t want to be the next football for the media, politicians, and bloggers to kick back and forth.
That should have occurred to me immediately, but the rush of adrenaline and the immediacy of the gun fight clouded my thought process. When the bullets fly, we tend to drop to our lower, survival-oriented brain. I guess I wasn’t any different in that respect than anyone else out there.
I reached the car, and opened my door, tossing the water and jerky onto the passenger seat. Then I popped the gas lid. The gas pump was the old style with a latch that dropped across the cradle where the nozzle went. I removed the nozzle and flipped it down. It took a full second, but I was rewarded with the hum of pressure. I inserted the nozzle into the gas tank and squeezed the large trigger.
I had a flash of memory to when I was just a kid and my Dad made a big deal out of teaching me to pump gas. It was like a secret ritual that he was passing on. Insert the nozzle. Set the flow. On s
ome nozzles, I had to hold it the entire time because the notches slipped, or the flow was too fast and it clicked off repeatedly. Once the tank was full, Dad always had me slowly round it up to the next whole dollar. There a certain pride in hitting those zeroes exactly.
A revving engine and the screech of braking tires tore me from my reverie. My head snapped toward the sound. A green sedan was stopped just twenty yards away. Men spilled out, shouting words I didn’t understand in guttural tones.
Then the guns came out.
I flung the gas nozzle aside and drew my gun in the same motion. As the first shots buzzed past me, I answered with three quick blasts from my own weapon. The men dropped behind their car for cover. I continued to fire, rotating my shots from left to right as I stepped backward. My rounds stood little chance of hitting the men as they hunkered close to the car, but the shots kept them pinned down. I purposefully put two in the front grill, hoping to hit the radiator and disable the vehicle. When one of the men popped up on the passenger side, I fired in his direction but aimed for the front tire. The car shifted noticeably, settling forward and to the left.
My slide locked to the rear.
Everything seemed to drop into slow motion.
I reached for another magazine, watching the men at the car through the white smoke spilling out of the empty gun chamber.
As if on cue, heads popped up and they started peppering me with shots. A sharp pain lashed across my cheek and ear. I cried out but didn’t stop fighting. Instead, I slammed the magazine into the empty gun, dropped the slide forward, and returned fire.
The men ducked behind the car again.
The cool, chemical smell of gasoline filled my nostrils. I tore my gaze away from the enemy and saw a rush of liquid spreading across the ground from the furthest pump. The fingers of gasoline reached and stretched toward my feet.
Distant yelling erupted off to my right, and I snapped my gun toward the new threat. The man in the turban screamed in panic at us and ran toward the side of the building. My eyes followed his path to his destination.