“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” I snarled, spitting out the stick and tossing the still-hot knife onto the ground beside me.
I examined the finger; the wound was gnarly, all red and seared brownish, but it wasn’t bleeding anymore, so I called it done. Well . . . almost. I dumped some more vodka onto the closed wound, biting down on the stick and growling through the burn. Finally, fucking finally, I was as done as I could get.
This time, I took two long swallows of vodka.
“Fuck.” I capped the vodka and levered myself to my feet, woozy from the pain. “That was exciting. Let’s do it again!”
Colbie eyed me as I blinked through the dizziness and the lingering waves of pain. “You gonna make it, tough guy?”
“I dunno. I might need a little mouth to mouth,” I drawled. “I’m feeling a bit faint.”
“Nice try, but no.” She picked up the knife from the ground, opened it, and sliced open the package containing the cell phone. “How did you lose the finger, for real?”
I gestured at the crowd of women, most of whom were crowded around us, sitting, standing, some chatting to others who shared a language, most just staring blankly and trying to keep their shit together. “Long story. Short version is, I was with Lola and Temple, taking them to my cabin to hide out—”
“Hide out from what?”
“From Cain—I’ll explain him in a minute. The bad guys, the same group who snatched you, found us at my cabin, I’m still not sure how. There was a fun little shootout, during which I lost the upper half of my favorite finger, and then they snatched Lola and Temple, and I took off in pursuit. Fortunately for me, they used a small local airfield, which meant while they were looking the other way, I managed to sneak into the baggage compartment of the jet y’all were on.” I wiggled my stump, and then hissed because moving it hurt.
“While I waited for them to load the bags and get ready for takeoff and whatever, I realized my finger was still bleeding pretty heavily. I was on my own, alone, with women I’ve sworn on my life to protect no matter what. They were held captive on the plane, and it was about to take off. I didn’t have any supplies I could use as a tourniquet, there was no chance of medical attention, and I had to be ready to run as soon as the opportunity showed itself. Couldn’t let those assholes get away with my buddies’ girls, right? So I lit my cigar, got it glowing as hot as I could and did my best to sear that fucker closed so I’d at least stop it from bleeding quite as much.
“Yeah, I knew it was stupid, and yeah, I knew it was probably going to give me a really sweet infection, but what the fuck was I supposed to do? I was losing a lot of blood, and I couldn’t just say fuck it and let Lola and Temple and everybody sort themselves out, could I?”
Colbie just blinked at me for a couple seconds. “That’s the short version?”
“What, you wanted the unabridged?”
Layla pointed at me. “You keep an eye out for a minute, yeah? I’m gonna take a look around. We’ve been here awhile, and I’ve got a bad feeling.” She trotted off, pistol in both hands, heading for the opening of the alley.
As Layla walked away I shot a look at Temple, an idea had just occurred to me. “Now that I’ve had a second to think about shit, how did they find us at my cabin? Literally half a dozen people in the whole fucking world know where that place is, and all of them are with A1S.”
Temple frowned. “I’ve been wondering that myself. They kept just . . . showing up, no matter where we went. Duke assumed they were after him, that they had put a tracer bug sort of thing in him while he was unconscious.”
I groaned. “That was the assumption, wasn’t it? The tracker was in Duke, and the whole thing was part of Cain’s vengeance plan.” I rubbed my face with both hands. “Shit, shit, shit. This complicates things.”
Colbie raised a hand. “Wait, I’m confused. Who’s tracking who?”
I pointed at Temple. “We assumed Cain’s guys had put a tracker in Duke when they snatched him out of Denver. But they already had Duke when they showed up at my cabin in Arkansas, which was a secure location that’s nearly impossible to find if you don’t know exactly where you’re going. Yet those fuckers just showed up for a party within minutes of our arrival there. Point here is we all assumed wrong, the reason they snatched Temple was because she was with Duke at the time and Cain doesn’t like loose ends.”
Colbie nodded, understanding dawning. “But the fact that there was an entire airliner full of kidnapped women changes that theory.”
“He decided to kill several birds with one stone,” I said. “He had Duke, he had a good-lookin’, high-profile celebrity . . . why not grab you and Kyrie while he’s at it, right? What better way to really rattle Harris’s cage than to literally hurt everyone connected to him?”
“Who the hell is Cain?” Colbie demanded. “You still haven’t answered that question.”
“A bad guy. If it’s illegal and unpleasant, he deals in it. Drugs, guns, prostitution and human trafficking, smuggling, extortion . . . you name it, he has a hand in it somewhere on the globe. Nasty fucker. Once again, I’m just giving you SparkNotes version, here.”
“Layla’s husband, Harris, my boss—we provide personal security for Valentine Roth, which is why Kyrie is involved. We also hire our services out as . . . arbiters of hazardous situations, you might say, as well as routine celebrity security. One of the jobs we contracted for was to go after a kid who had gotten kidnapped for ransom, the daughter of Jon Lonigan and Callie MacPhereson. We did the job, brought the kid back, but the mission went sideways. See, Cain and Harris have what you might call a standing grudge, and Cain was the guy who had kidnapped the kid. Well, when he cottoned on to the fact that Harris was coming after the Lonigan kid, he decided to use the opportunity to get even. The rescue op turned into an ambush, which did not go well for Cain’s crew. We decimated those sloppy fuckers like shooting fish in a barrel. On top of it all, we got the kid, and kept the ransom cash, and killed a bunch of Cain’s mercs. This turn of events pissed him off but good, understandably enough.”
I ripped open the package of cigars with my teeth, tugged one free, bit the end off and spat it out, lit it, and puffed till it was chugging nicely.
“God, this cigar is shitty.” I spat out a shred of tobacco and shrugged. “Still, a shitty cigar is better than no cigar.”
“Glad you’re happy.” Colbie rolled a hand in circles. “So . . . what? Cain was pissed off . . . and then what?”
“For a solid year, we all thought that was that, hoped he’d let it go. Then all of a sudden, we all started having our days go to hell all at the same time. Thresh picked up a tail, which turned into a gunfight down in the Everglades. Duke vanished right around the same time, and I picked up a tail of my own. I don’t take kindly to being followed, so I left the dumb fuck in a dumpster in Las Vegas, missing most of his head. Right about that same time, I got a call from Thresh and then Harris and then Lear all within about sixty seconds, so I met up with Harris and the boys just in time to see the end of a truly epic gun battle courtesy of Duke and Cain.” I gestured at the group of women. “Which brings us to Duke being snatched by Cain’s guys all over again, and Lola and Temple getting run off with, and our presence here in merry ol’ Kiev.”
Colbie frowned. “And your newest theory is that the tracker was in Temple the whole time?”
I nodded and shrugged at the same time. “Pretty much the only thing that fits.”
“Maybe this is a stupid question, but . . . did the tracker ever get removed?” Colbie asked.
I glanced at Temple, who paled.
“Oh my god,” she breathed. “So they can still track me? Right now? Here?”
“Well fuck,” I growled, clamping the cigar between my molars, “that complicates things somewhat.”
Just then we heard two shots close together—BANGBANG!—and then a brief pause, and two more quick shots—BANGBANG!
“Shit,” I growled. “That’s probably Layla having fun without m
e.”
I took off like a rocket toward the alley’s mouth, skidding to a halt as I hit the road. Glancing to my right, I discovered Layla standing beside a nondescript white panel van. A man’s body was on the ground at her feet, his lower half still partially inside the passenger seat of the van. As I arrived, she was hauling him out and dragging him toward the alley. I jogged toward her and grabbed the dead guy’s leg, and we carried him into the alley and deposited him behind a dumpster.
“Thanks,” Layla said. “Found these assholes watching the alley.” She gestured at the van. “Still gotta get rid of the driver.”
Layla had been smart about the way she’d taken the two guys out. One in the passenger seat, one in the driver’s seat—she’d taken out the passenger first, so the blood spray and mess hit the driver rather than bathing the whole interior of the van, and then she’d shot the driver second, so the mess from him went mostly out the open window. A car passed, slowed down, the occupants rubbernecking as they sidled past, eyeing the van and the blood on the sidewalk and the obviously dead dude in the driver’s seat. They took one look at me and my handgun and Layla and her weapon, both right out in the open, and the driver floored it, tires barking as they peeled out and vanished down the road.
Layla and I hauled the second corpse into the alley and tossed him on top of the other one, behind the dumpster and out of immediate view from the main road.
Layla indicated the van. “Figured the van might be a good way to move around less conspicuously,” she said.
“Good thinking.” I hopped behind the wheel and started the engine. We drove the short distance to our hideout, and I pulled into the alley.
Layla hopped out and opened the rear doors to hustle in the crowd of uneasy, bored, and scared women, making sure Lola, Kyrie, Temple, and Colbie were nearest the front. Once everyone was loaded into the open space—squashed and crowded and uncomfortable, by the looks of it, but out of view, I pulled away from the alley, where we’d been sitting for too long anyway. Not having any idea where to go, I just kind of drove at random while Colbie fiddled with the phone, setting it up.
Finally, she handed it to me. “It’s ready. Call whoever you have to call.”
One of the few advantages of not being reliant on a cell phone is that I still memorize phone numbers; I dialed Harris. It rang exactly twice before he answered.
“Puck. Thank fuck.”
I pulled the phone away from my ear and glared at it. “How the hell’d you know it was me?”
“Because there are exactly eight people on the planet who have this phone number: Roth, Kyrie, Layla, Duke, Thresh, Anselm, Lear . . . and you.” He paused, and I heard a number of familiar voices in the background. “All of those people are currently sitting around me except Kyrie, Layla, and you, and Cain’s soon-to-be-dead fuckers have the girls, so I assumed it was you.”
“Well, boss, I got good news and I got bad news.”
“Hit me,” Harris said.
I held out the phone toward Kyrie and Layla. “Say hi to Harris, girls.”
Layla took the phone from me. “BABY!” she shrieked. “I swear to Christ, Nicholas Harris, if you don’t get your ass over here and take me home, I won’t suck your cock for an entire month . . . yes, I’m fine, they barely touched me . . . I think Puck said Kiev . . . I love you too, Nicky baby. Okay, yeah—Valentine, hi—okay, yeah. Here she is.”
Kyrie took the phone from Layla. “Hey, honey. I’m fine too.” She sniffled hard. “How’s—how’s my baby girl? Sasha and Alexei are both with her? Good. No, they just . . . it happened so fast, I couldn’t do anything. You know I like you to stay out of things, but this time, honey, I think you need to get personally involved. Whoever this Cain asshole is, he needs to pay. My daughter saw me get kidnapped.” Kyrie’s voice, normally warm and even and soft, went hard and cold and sharp as a razor. “He pays, Valentine.”
She handed the phone off to me, and I took it. “Mr. Roth?” I asked.
I heard his distinct voice on the other side, vaguely English, deep, smooth, cultured. “Mr. Lawson. You have the situation in hand, I hope?”
“Getting there, sir. You have my personal guarantee of Kyrie’s safety, that much I can say.”
“What will you need?”
I thought for a moment. “Well, sir, the situation is a little complicated, tactically speaking. It’s not just Kyrie and Layla—”
“Miss Kennedy and Dr. Reed,” he cut in, “yes, I’ve been informed.”
“Right, but there’s more.”
“More what, Mr. Lawson?”
“People, sir. Women.”
A significant, pregnant pause. “Explain, please.” There was a muffled sound, and then his voice more distant. “You’re on speakerphone, Mr. Lawson.”
“Jesus, dude, call me Puck. Mr. Lawson was my old man, and he’s twenty years dead.” I cleared my throat. “This is deeper and more complicated than we originally thought, boys. It’s not just about that Lonigan op that went sideways. Never really was, I don’t think. Cain is heavily involved in human trafficking. Might even be his primary stream of income, if this situation I’m in now is any indication.”
“Puck, brother, glad to hear your voice, man,” I heard Duke say.
“Hey, pretty boy. Listen, it was never you they were tracking, it was Temple.”
“Yeah, I figured that out.”
“Well thanks for sharing, dick.”
Duke laughed. “You were already AWOL by the time I figured it out. When Cain’s mercs nabbed me at Harris’s compound, they took me to . . . a stock pen, you might say, but for people. I woke up in a room full of women, all young, all pretty, and all destined for a trading block over in your current neck of the woods.”
“Yeah, that’s the situation, buddy. I chased Temple and Lola for a good hundred miles and ended up in the belly of a 727, which just happened to be full of exactly what you just mentioned, a bunch of pretty young things from all over the globe. We landed in Kiev, I busted some skulls, and got the women away. That’s the short of it. The less fun part is that Temple is still being tracked, or at least that is the assumption I’m working under. I’ve got our four girls plus another dozen or so. Tricky part is, I’m short on resources. Two pistols with one spare mag for each, a handful of cash, no IDs, a bunch of women in tow, most of whom don’t speak a lick of English, and we’re in the shitty end of motherfucking Kiev. So if any of you smart bitches have good ideas for me, I’m all ears.”
Anselm cut in, then in his quiet, German-accented voice. “I have an idea, I think. I have a connection in that part of the world who may be able to help you.” He paused a moment, then continued. “He operates . . . in somewhat of a gray area of the laws, if you take my meaning. I have done some work with him in the past, and in this situation I think he might be willing to help. Rather eagerly so, unless I am very greatly mistaken.”
“Meaning what?” I asked.
Anselm let out a slow breath. “I know very little about him, only what I needed to know for the operation we cooperated on. It was a human trafficking sting, a venture that joined intelligence and law enforcement operatives from many E-U countries. My . . . associate, shall we call him . . . was the inside man, an undercover agent. It was personal for him, however. He was searching for his sister, who had been sold into prostitution. We found her—well, he found her, during the sting. It was not a pleasant situation.”
“He got made?” I ventured.
“Ja. Very bad for her.” Anselm’s accent seemed thicker, which I took to mean he’d been there and had seen the messy fallout. I could imagine it all too well, having been in on several such stings myself during my time with the FBI. “So, I will contact my associate, provide him with this mobile number, and he will call you.”
“Sounds good,” I said. “And hey, Anselm?”
“Ja?”
“Is your buddy as scary as you?”
Anselm’s answering laugh sent goosebumps down my spine. “Mein freund, in co
mparison to Ivar, I am only a cute little puppy dog.”
“Well, doesn’t that just make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside,” I joked. “Just do me one favor when you talk to him, will you?”
“Was ist?”
“Make sure Ivar knows I’m one of the good guys, huh?”
Anselm laughed again, less creepily this time. “Not a problem.”
I heard Thresh’s deep, rumbling bass voice. “Yo, Puck. Lola there?”
I handed the phone to Lola, who smiled her appreciation at me. “Thresh, sweetheart, hi.”
I turned away for that conversation, and Temple’s with Duke.
After the conversations were finished, I slipped the phone into my pocket. I drove in a random pattern for another thirty minutes or so, circling the same block a few times, and then another one, killing time and hoping to stay off anyone’s radar.
“Um, Puck?” This was Lola. “Maybe not the best timing, but I kind of have to pee. Is there anywhere we can stop?”
“We might as well find somewhere to stock up on some snacks and shit anyway,” I said. “And I’m sure you’re not the only one who needs to piss.”
I kept my eyes open as I navigated around the suburban neighborhood, and it wasn’t long before I found a decent-looking gas station with a full quick mart. I pulled in and parked in as inconspicuous a spot as I could find, and the women all took turns heading inside for a potty break. Colbie, after her turn inside, came back with several white plastic bags full of bottles of water and some Ukrainian-brand granola/protein bars, some not exactly fresh but still edible fruit, and a bunch of premade gas station sandwiches. Most of the women seemed content to sit in the van out of sight and eat, while Layla and I stood outside the vehicle, keeping watch while we refueled our bellies—the van’s tank was still full, thankfully.
Puck: Alpha One Security Book 4 Page 5