Extreme Danger

by Shannon McKenna

  First errand, lose the tag. He strolled by an eighteen-wheeler that was hauling livestock, and slid the GPS locator into one of the slots on the container. Let it get eaten by a pig or a sheep. That would lead those fuckers on a fun chase. Second errand. He went back to the truck, put a small battery into the digital voice recorder, and pushed play as he pulled back out onto the highway.

  “…subject number 100023, BD 021697,” said a low female voice, presumably Diana Evans. “The subject is an eleven-year-old male, poorly nourished. Pulse rate 81, blood pressure 65 over 115, temperature 98.2. Listless and vacant in appearance…”

  The recorded voice droned, recording vital signs, noting bruises that suggested abuse and/or vitamin deficiency. An untreated rash, a slightly enlarged liver. She spoke of tissue typing, a buccal swab. She recommended blood screening to rule out viral infections, a urine culture to rule out bladder and kidney infections. In a detached way, she noted the subject’s hygiene and state of emaciation. She recommended reevaluation before harvest of this subject was considered.

  Harvest? What the fuck? She wanted to fatten this kid up for—

  Oh, sweet holy Jesus. Realization clicked, like a round being chambered. Mathes was a cardiologist. Thoracic surgeon. Transplants.

  Harvest. Organs. Lab tests, blood and urine samples. They were killing kids for their organs. Those filthy, ice-hearted sons of bitches.

  Evans’s voice went on. Another numbered subject, ten years old. Same shit. Vital signs, dispassionate, doctorly observations about how scrawny and miserable he looked, but this kid had more spunk than the other, and didn’t like being poked and prodded and stuck with needles. He started to cry for his mama. In Ukrainian.

  Evans persevered stubbornly, but her voice took on an edge, and finally, she said “shit,” fiercely. Click. The recording resumed, presumably some time later. The kid was whimpering more quietly now.

  “Shut up and stop bothering the doctor, you piece of dogshit, or I’ll make you squeal like a stuck pig,” snarled an evil male voice. Ukrainian, also. The kid choked off his sniffles, and Evans’s voice continued with her report. But her voice had now begun to shake.

  On and on. Child after child, number after number. The kids kept getting younger. All protested the needle. Some wept, some whimpered, some shrieked. Evans was breaking down. Her voice trembled, she stuttered, repeated herself, transposed words, got confused, had to run the tape back and start again. And if there was any ruckus, that voice was ready to intervene with his evil threats. It would have made Nick slit-his-wrists miserable even if he had not already been so.

  Every last trace of sympathy he might have had for Diana Evans drained away. If she hadn’t been evil and cold enough to suit those murdering pricks, it sure as shit wasn’t from lack of trying.

  For some reason, the fact that she’d tried made it worse. A psychopath couldn’t help what he was. But why would a person who actually possessed a functioning conscience deliberately try to deactivate it? It made him so angry, so bewildered. He blew out air, tried to breathe. For money? Meaningless stupid money? How could they value it so highly? He just didn’t get it. He never had.

  But fortunately, puzzling that mystery out was not his job.

  “Subject 100089, BD 121396. Well-developed, poorly nourished adolescent female…”

  He snapped to attention, pulled off at the exit and pulled over to listen more closely.

  “…pulse rate 79, blood pressure 70 over 120, temperature 97.9. What appeared to be a severe skin eruption on her neck now appears to be a port wine birthmark…”

  He sucked in air, electrified. Sveti. Oh, God. Alive. Holy fucking shit. Alive. As of forty-eight hours ago, she was alive.

  And in the hands of organ pirates.

  “…priority rush on these lab tests, as Subject 100089 is scheduled for harvest on Sunday the twenty-seventh…”

  That was today. That was fucking today.

  His lungs were locked and his throat burned. Christ, he couldn’t stop breathing now. He might still have a chance to save her.

  Sveti was speaking on the recorder. He recognized her soft voice, pleading for help from that worthless Evans bitch in the pidgen English that Nick had taught her. Being completely ignored.

  She abandoned the English in favor of a babbling flood of high-pitched Ukrainian, but he couldn’t make out most of it because Evans was screaming. Damn it—shut up, you stupid cow, let me hear her—

  The recording cut off abruptly. His body shook. He wiped his eyes and nose on his sleeve. No time for feelings. No time for tears.

  He wished he could call the Cave for back-up, but he didn’t dare. He had no idea who in that crowd had sold Sergei out.

  He put down the digital recorder, dragged out his phone and pulled up Tam’s number.

  “Nikolai. I’m surprised to hear from you,” she cooed. “I heard the angel betrayed you. I thought you’d be licking your mortal wounds under a bush someplace. To think I got into it with one of Zhoglo’s lackeys, and at Sean’s wedding, too.”

  “Shut up, Tam.” His voice cracked with emotion. “Remember Sergei’s daughter? The one you said was dead, or worse?”

  “Yes. Calm down. You sound like you’re about to have a stroke.”

  “She’s alive, Tam! As of two days ago, she was alive! But she’s on the slab. They’re going to break her down for parts. Today!”

  “Break her down for parts? What the hell are you—”

  “Organs!” he yelled. “They’re fucking organ thieves!”

  Tam was startled into total silence.

  He waited, till he couldn’t stand it anymore. “So?” he prompted. “Will you help me? She’s alone in the dark. Gonna help me save her?”

  Tam blew out a breath. “Oh, fuck, yes.” Her voice was low and savage. “Where do you want me?”

  “Stand ready. I’ll call Davy. I’ll call you back in a few, and we’ll come up with a plan.” He hit end and dialed Davy’s number.

  Davy answered on the first ring.

  “Got some bad news for you,” Nick said. “We lost Zhoglo.”

  That threw him for a second. “Huh?”

  “They shook us. They loaded some shit into a couple of SUVs, and the whole pack piled in and took off. Marcus followed them to a parking garage, but a car stalled out at the entrance. By the time he got inside, they’d switched vehicles and were out of there. Which means they made us, probably a while ago. So consider that when you calculate your—”

  “Never mind that,” Nick cut in impatiently. “Fuck Zhoglo. Where’s Mathes?”

  Davy hesitated for a second, nonplussed. “Uh…”

  “Hey. Where the fuck is Mathes’s icon?” he demanded. “And where the fuck is Mathes?” Nick roared.

  “All over the place,” Davy said. “Left his house at three, went to his office suite, then a stop at a private medical lab in Bellevue, and then he got on the highway and went to a place called Kimble—”

  “Kimble?” Alarm jangled every nerve. “Fuck! That’s where they’ve got the kids! Why didn’t you tell me he was moving? How long has he been there?”

  “About an hour and a half,” Davy said, his voice guarded. “What kids? You didn’t tell us to tell you whenever Mathes moved. Granted, you were pretty distracted the last time you were here—”

  “Never mind that. That filthy shithead Mathes is killing kids and harvesting their organs. You guys want to help me stop him?”

  There were about two seconds of shocked silence. “I’m with you,” Davy said. “I’ll tell the others.”

  “Get all the firepower you can carry. Whatever you’ve got. Get on the road for Kimble. You got someone to spot us on the Specs monitor, in case the fucker moves?”

  “Raine can—”

  “Good. Call the FBI. Get their rapid response team moving. I’d be glad for the help. I’ll tell Tamara to meet us in Kimble. Move. Go. Now.”

  The boy named Josh was so beautiful. Even with blood streaking his face from that
lump on his forehead, even vomiting his guts out, he was the most beautiful thing Sveti had ever seen. Those green eyes, like leaves, like grass, like life. All things she hadn’t seen in so long.

  She couldn’t stop staring at him. She knew it was rude, but her eyes stayed on him. The other children sat around him and stared too, silent and owl-eyed.

  And when he smiled at her, oh. Her heart bumped. No one had smiled at her in months, unless she counted Yuri’s yellow-toothed leer.

  She wondered if the girl on the bed was his girlfriend. She thought she’d understood the word “sister,” but she couldn’t be sure.

  She was going to get a beating from Yuri for untying the boy. He’d told her not to touch those two or she would regret it. But it was worth it, just to talk to someone with a kind face.

  She sat cross-legged on the mattress, rocking Rachel and crooning a lullaby. Peeking from behind her hair, like a lovesick cow. If the girl was his sister, she wondered if he had a girlfriend. Probably all the girls wanted him. Not that it mattered. She was thirteen, and he had to be at least eighteen. She was a plucked crow of a girl, skinny as a skeleton. Her hair was snarled, and she probably stank, though she was too used to bad smells to notice now. He had a nice body, too. Long and graceful, like a runner, with muscular legs. She liked nice legs.

  Josh. What a beautiful name. It felt exotic. So nice, the way he was petting Carrie’s hair. She was so thirsty to see any expression of kindness, even if it wasn’t directed at herself. Her eyes just drank it in.

  The rattle at the door made her belly sink. The door opened.

  Yuri marched in, followed by Marina. He saw Josh sitting up, then turned his evil glare on Sveti. She put Rachel down hastily. Stumbled back, putting a safe distance between herself and the toddler.

  “You stupid brat. I told you not to touch them.” His hand flashed out with blinding quickness, a backhand slap that spun Sveti around in midair before the floor swooped up to deal her another huge smack.

  Voices, yelling. Yuri, and another voice. Marina, too. Stephan and Mikhail joined the chorus, and Rachel shrieked.

  She rolled over, her nose streaming blood. Josh was shouting at Yuri, words she didn’t understand. His fist flashed up, a swift uppercut. Yuri stumbled backwards with a grunt. Josh dove for him again.

  Ka-chunk. Marina leveled a black, squared-off gun at him.

  “Back, pig,” she spat out in English.

  Josh stopped himself in mid-lunge, reeling for balance. He held up his hands, eyes wide. “Don’t shoot,” he said. “I’ll stop.”

  Yuri yanked his own gun out of his pants, and pointed it at Josh with a shaking hand as he came on, swearing viciously.

  “Don’t,” Marina snapped. “The boss wants to play with this one. Do not touch him. We’ve already had trouble for your stupid stunts.”

  Yuri spat a big, yellow glob on the floor, and smashed the big pistol into Josh’s face. It made a bone-breaking sound.

  Josh toppled like a tree falling, and lay horribly still. She could see wet, bright red blood on his face, from where she lay. A sound came out of her, the despairing cry of a tormented animal.

  Yuri heard it and spun around, the bloodshot whites of his eyes showing clear around the muddy dots of his irises. He seized her by the upper arm, and wrenched her to her feet. “You little bitch,” he raged. “You come here. Your time has come.”

  He dragged her towards the door. She kicked and scrabbled, bruising her feet against the concrete floor. Sobbing helplessly over what Josh had just done for her, that sweet, kind, brave, stupid thing—

  “Careful with her, dickhead.” Marina’s voice was flat as a robot’s. “They won’t be happy with us if you damage her. How many times do I have to tell you?”

  The little ones were all crying. Rachel wailed the loudest. Even after the door slammed shut and was triple locked and bolted, the baby’s piercing screeches followed her down the corridor.

  Sveti didn’t stop fighting. A desperate jabber of thoughts buzzed through her mind; what would Rachel do without her? Would she sleep, or would she just cry? Would Sasha remember not to give her that nasty fruit slop with canned apricots that gave her hives? Had Yuri’s blow split Josh’s skull? What were they going to do to her? And was it going to hurt?

  And oh, God, oh Mother. Mother. Please.

  They shoved her into a big room she’d never seen before. A shower, surprisingly clean and antiseptic-smelling. Marina turned the water on, and wrenched the shirt off Sveti’s head, shoving it against her bleeding nose. “Press that there until you stop leaking. And you,” she directed the words at Yuri. “Outside. I don’t trust you.”

  “Don’t be a cunt.” Yuri leered at Sveti’s chest, which she covered with shaking, crisscrossed arms. “I want to see her clean and pretty, at least once. Before…you know.” He smirked.

  “Out.” Marina’s voice was adamant. “You bloodied her nose, asshole. They won’t like that. It doesn’t look good.”

  “I never hit the parts they care about,” Yuri said, his voice sulky. “Just arms and legs.”

  “And faces? Jerkoff. Out.” Martina gestured with her big, protruding chin towards the door. Yuri stomped out, muttering.

  The shower was ice cold. The liquid disinfectant soap stank, burned her eyes, stung in all her scrapes and sores. She was shaking too hard when it was done to towel herself off. Marina had to dry her, while Sveti shuddered, teeth chattering, struggling to stay on her feet.

  The older woman ripped a lightweight cotton thing out of a plastic package. Baggy green pants, the creases from the fold still sharp. A matching shirt, huge and floppy, that reached halfway to her knees. Her hair dripped down her back. Marina wrung it out, and wrenched a comb through it, dragging it straight back off her face.

  Sveti found herself, barefoot and naked beneath the green thing, still shivering, her raked scalp stinging, the cold cotton fabric clinging to her wet back. She shuffled down the corridor, through the locked door at the end, out into another corridor. One she’d never seen.

  It was wider, brighter. Much cleaner than the one she knew.

  Marina dragged her down the cold gray concrete floor, and elbowed her into a metal elevator. She was horrified at her own reflection. She was so white, so skinny, so small. Those big eyes, that tiny face. She barely existed, next to Marina’s imposing blond bulk. They ground slowly up. The moving chamber shuddered to a stop.

  The doors sighed open into a new world. The walls were soft green. Everything glittered. It dazzled her. Lights flashed and twinkled on walls full of gleaming equipment.

  Marina shoved her between the shoulder blades, sending her stumbling into the room. It was filled with people dressed in green, like herself. Their heads were capped, their mouths masked. Only eyes showed. So many eyes, looking at her. She shrank from their regard, retreating towards the elevator. Marina pushed her forward again.

  A very tall masked ghost stepped forward, his cold gaze boring into her face. “Get her prepped,” he said. “Fast. We’re already late.”

  Becca counted her breaths. Tried to keep them slow, deep and steady. One. Two. Three. Four. All the way up to ten.

  Then she slowly counted back down again. If she kept doing this, the night would end. It was finite. The world was turning, hurtling her through space into an unknown future. Day would come. Someone would come. And they would tell her what had happened out there.

  She was not going nuts. She would not break down. She wasn’t afraid of the dark, or of whatever creatures were rustling and skittering over the concrete floor around her. Rats, bats, roaches, no big deal. She was a grown-up. She could handle it. Not afraid. No, and no, and no.

  She wondered if three hours had passed yet. Could have been six hours, it could have been ten minutes. Maybe Nick had already gone to meet Zhoglo. Maybe it was all over. Maybe Carrie and Josh…no.

  Stop. She couldn’t think about it. She’d start screaming.

  One. Two. Three. Four…

  Th
e sound of a vehicle outside made her heart practically stop in her chest. Nick? It had to be Nick. He was the only one on earth who knew where she was, at least until tomorrow when the FedEx package was delivered. Maybe he’d had a change of heart. Maybe he’d realized that she couldn’t have done what he thought she’d done.

  Yeah. Hah. The cynical, grown-up realist deep inside her laughed.

  She had to toughen up. She knew life was dangerous. Caring about people was the most dangerous thing of all. She’d known that brutal fact since she was twelve and nothing she’d learned since then had convinced her any different. But she’d never let herself think about how bottomless that dark pit truly was. She kept herself too busy.

  The only real bottom was death. Death would stop the suffering. Death would break her fall.

  She’d never understood the reasoning her mother must have gone through, as she sat on her bed staring at that pill bottle. Falling, constantly, endlessly through inner space, into the dark.

  Becca understood it now. And for the first time, she could almost forgive Mom for leaving them alone. Almost.

  There was a rattling groan as the heavy door slid open on the rusty runners. Light flooded in, from the headlights of the vehicle rumbling outside. Fresh air moved her hair, chilled the sheen of cold sweat on her face.

  Footsteps. Thud, thud, thud. She strained to see who it was, but the complex bulk of scaffolding was in the way, blocking her line of vision. She couldn’t see the whole silhouette. Just disconnected slices, and a halo of blinding, blurring headlights behind it.

  Thud, thud. Closer.

  She sucked in air, forced herself to call out, in a thin, quavering voice. “Nick? Is that you?”

  A flashlight flicked on, moved over her body, and settled directly in her face. Blinding her even more than the headlights had done.

  Thud, thud. Not Nick. Nick would never do something like that. Even angry, he would not deliberately terrify her.