by C. G. Cooper
The other four guys backed out after hearing the rules and the target. Not me. Something about the guy’s attitude during the first half of the course bugged me. Every Marine unit had a pecking order, and this guy still hadn’t figured out he wasn’t at the top.
I had a week to prepare, and I spent every free minute I had learning how to break into things. Luckily, by then the Internet was already a wealth of information, and I searched for techniques and tools I could use to break in when the time came.
As we gathered for the impending mission, the challenger told us all he’d learned to pick locks from his uncle who used to bust houses for a small crime outfit (read: the Mob) in New York City. He said he wanted to go first so we could see that a) it was possible, and b) there was no way I could beat his time.
I’ll give it to the guy, he was good. He never fumbled and he never cheated. He was in and out of the office in five minutes flat. When he rejoined the group, he was holding a framed picture of the SNCOIC and his wife that he’d snatched from the Gunny’s desk.
“Your turn,” he said to me, handing over the picture frame.
That was the night I found out I was a little bit different. It took me three minutes and thirty-seven seconds to make my silent way in and out. It gave me such a rush, and the other guys were whooping and hollering when I got back. Let’s just say I got the bottle of Johnny Walker along with the tools from a very reluctant Marine sergeant.
So now I could put those skills to use. I’d done it overseas and in covert barracks raids against rival platoons, but this was my first time in the real world.
Out of habit, I counted the seconds as I worked. It took me forty-two to open the door. I was rusty.
The first thing I noticed as the metal door scraped open was the smell. It didn’t smell like an abandoned shed, all dust and mildew. Instead, it smelled of disinfectant and newly washed laundry. I couldn’t sense any human presence within, but my guard was definitely up. Once the glow from outside illuminated the entrance, I found a light switch and flipped it on. A row of fluorescent bulbs flickered on overhead. My chest tightened. All along the concrete walls were chains, each fastened to a secure metal hoop. On the other end of the chains were thick shackles, like something you’d see at a circus or maybe a zoo.
But this wasn’t a place to keep animals. Next to each set of chains, of which I counted at least fifteen, were short wooden cots, the kind you fold and keep in the closet until guests arrive. There were sheets and blankets folded neatly at the head of each bed. Along with the cots came orange work buckets, stained brown on the inside.
I pulled the flask out of my pocket and took a healthy swig. When I was finished, I turned off the lights, reset the lock, and downed the rest of the flask. My blood felt like it was boiling, heating my flesh and burning my eyes.
Pastor Walker had some explaining to do.
Chapter 4
“Turn around, slowly,” came the voice from behind. I was more pissed than concerned. People didn’t usually sneak up on me. He was close, probably ten feet or less by the sound of his voice. Good and bad.
I did as instructed, even putting my hands in the air as a sign of surrender. Pastor Walker’s eyes met mine. He had a shotgun in his hands that was pointed at the ground, and a bulky backpack thrown over one shoulder. More supplies for the bunker.
“What are you hiding, Pastor? Are you into some kinky stuff? Because that doesn’t look like a shelter for recovering addicts.” I took a step closer.
“Stay where you are.” There was concern in his eyes, and by the way he held the shotgun, I knew he was no expert with the firearm. A smart guy, or someone who’d actually seen real violence, never would have dropped his muzzle. Center mass unless the other guy was on the ground, and then he’d better be dead or subdued.
“I’m unarmed, Pastor.” I took another step forward. The barrel came up like it should have already. Good boy.
“I said don’t move.”
I nodded and stared at him.
“Why don’t you tell me what that place is for?”
“It’s none of your business.”
I smiled.
“It is my business now. Do you think I’d leave without knowing what the hell is going on? Do you think I’d let you keep doing whatever you’ve been doing with your daughter still living with you?”
“Leave Anna out of this.”
His eyes burned, but there was no conviction there. He knew he was stuck, couldn’t let me go, couldn’t let me run my mouth to the cops. But he didn’t have the balls to do what really needed doing.
“Okay. Then shoot me,” I said, taking another step closer, and even pointing at my chest. Five feet.
“I’ll do it,” he said, his arms starting to shake.
I shrugged.
“You wouldn’t be the first to try.”
His eyes scrunched in confusion. I didn’t know if it was because of my comment or because he couldn’t fathom my lack of personal concern. Either way, his body relaxed a bit, I saw his trigger finger waver, hesitating. I don’t hesitate.
My right arm swung down diagonally, and I palmed the barrel of shotgun, easily wrenching it from his grasp. I followed that by pivoting on my left foot and delivering a crushing side kick with my right. It blasted him in the chest and he flew back and hit the ground. Before he could try to take a breath, I was on top of him, my left foot planted on his chest and the shotgun aimed at his face.
His eyes were wide as he tried to breathe, and finally the wind came back to his lungs.
“Tell me what it’s for,” I said.
He shook his head and there were tears running off his face.
“Tell me or I will shoot.”
If this sick bastard had done anything to that sweet girl who’d made me breakfast, he deserved it. One less pervert on the streets.
“It’s not what you think,” he said, his voice cracking.
“So tell me.”
Our eyes met and he saw that whatever compassion or lack of decisiveness he’d had was not how I was wired.
“Okay,” he said.
I removed my boot from his chest and motioned for him to sit up. My aim never wavered.
“They made me do it,” he said.
“Who made you do what?”
Walker looked past me at the shelter and shook his head sadly.
“It’s a long story.”
“I’ve got time,” I said.
He wrapped his arms around his knees and hugged his chest to his thighs like kids do.
“I didn’t have any money to start the church. I tried doing fundraisers, but everything flopped. We were living day to day on handouts from a handful of parishioners, but I knew we wouldn’t last long. Then I heard about a boutique savings and loan in Boston. Their website looked promising, so I drove down for a meeting. They were pretty nice and seemed to understand my predicament. About an hour later, and after doing the necessary credit checks on me, they made me an offer. It wasn’t great, the interest rate was high, but I was desperate. I knew I could make the church a success, and their faith in me seemed to prove it.
“I came back north and put the money to work. We rented a property on a month-to-month basis, nothing extravagant, just what we needed. But just like the first time, the money kept going out and none was coming in. I won’t lie, I didn’t know exactly what I was getting into when I spent my life savings, and all of Anna’s college fund, on my dream. I really thought I could make it work. My payments to the guys in Boston got later and later. The bills were piling up and the stress of keeping everything together almost ruined me.”
He stopped for a minute. I waited. He started again.
“One day a car full of guys showed up at my door. One of them was the owner of the savings and loan. He politely asked if Anna could go somewhere, so I told her to ride into town and come back in an hour. No sooner had she rounded the corner on her bike than I got pinned up against the wall, my feet dangling in the air. The nice guy I
met in Boston was gone, replaced by the boss. His cultured accent disappeared too. He laid it out for me. Either I help them or else he’d kill me and take Anna.”
Of course I felt for the guy, but I didn’t let it show. I knew there were plenty of assholes out there willing to take advantage of innocent chumps like the pastor, but that never made it right.
“What did they want you to do?” I asked.
“He told me there was a guy who would contact me the next day. The guy was going to make a generous donation to my church.”
“This land,” I guessed. He nodded.
“He said I would have limited contact with the wealthy donor, and that everything regarding the land and the buildings on it would be above board, all legal. Then came the catch. He said that once we got settled in the new house, I would get a call. There would be a delivery and that I was to follow the instructions exactly or the deal was off.”
Pastor Walker’s eyes clouded again. He continued.
“The first call told me about the shelter and what I would do to get it ready. It took me a week to get everything I needed. Once I told them the place was ready, they sent a guy out to inspect it. All I got was a punch in the stomach as thanks, a friendly reminder of what they’d do if I messed up.” He inhaled and then exhaled slowly. “The first delivery was three teenage girls, the same age Anna is now. When I got them out of the rented van, it was pretty obvious they were drugged. They always are. It’s safer that way and there’s no struggle.” He was talking mechanically now, like he was rattling off the inner working of an automobile factory. No emotion. “I keep them here for a couple days, sometimes a week, and then I either take them close to the Canadian border where someone else takes the van, or I do the same down in Boston.”
Now the pain returned to his voice and I stared at him down the length of the shotgun.
“I’ve thought of a thousand ways to get out of it, I really have. But it’s no use. I know they’d find us.”
“Why didn’t you run away, disappear?” I asked. That would’ve been the easy solution. Hell, I did it every other day. Surely a guy as smart as he was could figure out how to live off the grid. But then I saw the weakness in him. Just like when he couldn’t shoot me, he sure as hell wasn’t going to run. As long as he kept up appearances and ran the scam for the Boston thugs, the pastor really thought God would deliver him from evil.
“I wanted to run, find some land out west and hide out until I knew they’d stopped looking, but I just—”
“Didn’t have the balls to do it,” I finished for him.
He nodded. There was no embarrassment there, only the resigned look of someone who thought the solution was no longer within reach. He’d given up, gone along with the trafficking. Well, that was about to stop.
“Please don’t tell Anna,” he said. “She doesn’t know and I can’t imagine what she’d think of me if she did.”
That’s when I smiled.
“I won’t have to tell her, Pastor.”
He looked up at me, confusion smeared on his tear-stained face.
“So you’ll keep the secret?” There was actually hope in his eyes. A flicker of pity crept into my chest, but I forced it away.
“Oh no, Pastor, I’m not gonna help you keep your secret.”
“But, Anna. Are you going to tell Anna?”
“Like I said, I won’t have to.”
Alarm in his eyes. Panic.
“But you said—”
“I won’t tell her because you just did.”
No sooner had the words come out of my mouth, than a shadow bolted from behind a tree, running away from our confrontation. I’d seen her as soon as the pastor told me to turn around. Anna had heard the whole thing, and all her father could do was stare at her running form in disbelieving shock.
Chapter 5
I let him get up, but grabbed his arm when he tried to run after Anna.
“I have to talk to her,” he said, trying to pull away.
“You’ve done enough,” I said.
He looked at me for a long moment and then nodded. I let go of his arm and handed back the shotgun.
“The next time you aim that thing at someone, don’t let them take it away.”
I could feel him staring at me as I started back toward the house. Maybe I should’ve walked the other way instead.
+++
I ignored the first round of knocking. It was the pastor. I could see him from the bedroom where I was trying to take a nap and figure out my next move. It would be easy to leave. The pastor’s problems weren’t my problems. I’d stuck my neck out for strangers before, and the only thing I’d left was a trail of destruction.
The second round of knocking was more urgent.
“She won’t open her door,” Pastor Walker said.
“Then leave her alone,” I said loud enough for him to hear. Silence again and my eyes closed.
The third round of knocking was more polite. I almost didn’t hear it. I rolled off the bed with a groan, padded to the door and opened the door.
“What?”
He had a polite look on his face, like he was sorry to disturb me.
“She wants to talk to you,” he said.
“Anna?”
He nodded.
“Look, Pastor, I understand the shit hand you’ve been dealt, but I don’t have the time to get involved. I still say you disappear and take Anna with you. I won’t say a word, I promise.” The words tasted bitter as they left my mouth. Part of me wanted to help Anna, but avoidance felt like the better path.
“Please,” he begged. “I’m not asking you to help. Just talk to her. I’ll take you to the train station myself after you do. Just help her understand that I’m not the bad guy in all this.”
My eyes must have flashed because he took a tentative step back.
“You might not be the bad guy in this, Pastor, but you sure as shit are a bad guy for going along with it. Now give me a minute to get cleaned up. I’ll be over in a few, but no promises about what I’ll say to her.”
He nodded again, this time like a sheep doing a shepherd’s bidding, and walked back to his house. I watched him go, still not knowing why I’d agreed to talk to Anna. Maybe it was the sliver of humanity I’d locked away that kept trying to get out. Maybe it was the fact that Anna fascinated me, like a rare bird you only see once in your life. Whatever it was, it kicked me back to the bathroom where I rinsed off my face, brushed my teeth, and tried to make myself look presentable. It wasn’t much, but I figured that Anna deserved it more than her dad.
“Anna, Daniel’s here,” Pastor Walker said after knocking on Anna’s bedroom door. There was a black stenciled ANNA in the middle of it, and all around it were translations of her name. I recognized Spanish, Japanese, Arabic and even Sanskrit.
“He can come in,” she answered from behind the door. I saw the disappointment on her father’s face. Ten bucks said he was going to try to listen. It didn’t matter to me. His eavesdropping wouldn’t keep me from telling the truth.
I stepped inside, and closed the door behind me. Painted on the walls of her room was a swirling tapestry of pinks, grays and blacks. The Tower of London. The Leaning Tower of Pisa. The Eiffel Tower. Then there were the ocean scenes, beaches, dolphins and killer whales. It was like a mixture of Van Gogh and Michelangelo, abstract meets classical. There was even artwork on the ceiling, all centered on an ornate crucifix with the lifeless body of Jesus hanging in the middle.
“Your work?” I asked, pointing to the cascade of color.
Anna nodded from where she was sitting on her bed. The room was mostly bare except for the bed, a chest of drawers and a sturdy wooden desk in the corner. The motifs on the walls were what set the space apart.
“Impressive,” I said, turning around in circles so I could see it all. I wasn’t lying. It was impressive. Another notch for a fascinating young woman.
“Thank you,” she said, scooting to the edge of the bed. Her eyes were swollen, and her
left hand held some balled tissues.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Not really.”
I nodded my understanding, not really wanting to get into the feelings of the whole thing.
“Why did you want to see me?” I asked, already planning my exit.
“I had some…questions for you.” There was that curiosity in her voice again, like I’d heard in the kitchen at breakfast.
“Is it about what you heard?”
She nodded.
“I’m not sure you’ll like my answers,” I said. “The lying gene skipped a generation with me.”
A hint of a smile appeared on her face.
“That’s what I was hoping,” she said. “I just…I don’t understand. Why would he do something like this?”
I didn’t know if she was asking it rhetorically, but I didn’t have the answer to that one so I shrugged instead.
She pressed. “Why wouldn’t he fight back? Why would he let those people make him do such a disgusting thing?” There were fresh tears in her eyes, a desperation to understand the breadth of the situation.
I walked over to the desk and pulled out the chair, moving it over by the bed. I sat down and looked at her.
“Some people don’t fight back,” I said.
“You fight back. Why can’t my dad?”
“Maybe it’s training. Maybe it’s something you’re born with. I don’t know.” The answer brought back memories. Marines running toward the sound of gunfire instead of away from it. SEALs rushing to the aid of a downed team member. Huey pilots flashing into a hot LZ.
“Were you trained to fight back?”
“I was.”
“Who trained you?” she asked.
“The Marine Corps.”
“Was it hard?”
“Sometimes.”
“Did you like it?”