The Overseer

by Conlan Brown

  But Nevada’s European counterparts had only really served as a means of hiding illegal trafficking in a forest of legal prostitution. The demand for girls was simply too high, and not enough of them actually wanted to make a living that way. The result was a flood of girls from all over the world, mostly the Ukraine, being bought and sold against their will, into a trade that would ruin their lives.

  The point of the investigation was to see if the same things were happening here in Las Vegas, which was something he could hardly establish in just two days. But it was a publicity stunt. A series of photo ops designed to show people he was a good senator worth reelecting. And there had been something else that had made his associate, Mr. Crest, so interested in coming to this place.

  Warren Foster took a long, deep breath of morning air. He wondered if he could change the time for the press conference, maybe catch an earlier flight back home. He could get some sleep on the plane and be home in time to see his wife.

  “Senator?” someone said from behind him, and he turned.

  “Mr. Crest,” he acknowledged. The man had a first name, but Foster couldn’t bring himself to use it. Crest was tall and very thin with round glasses. Yet there was something commanding about the man. The kind of thing that made first names inappropriate.

  “I’d like you to take a look at the plans for the security,” Crest said, approaching with his briefcase.

  “OK,” the senator said with a resigned nod, telling himself that he just had to get through this and then he could go home.

  Hannah Rice drove the car through the streets, still miles away from the house where Devin had shot Scarza. She wondered if there were police there. Was it a crime scene? There was always the question of justification when killing someone. Devin had feared for his life, they were going to shoot him, but was it selfdefense? It was the kind of question she wasn’t good with.

  She prayed. That was what other people called it, at least. A term that had little to do with the reaching of her soul into an ever-sharpening path toward God. She said nothing.

  The car moved slowly, yet the passing of the neighborhood around her seemed to be a flickering of color. Everything seemed to be going faster than it really was. Her world seemed to blur, her eyes starting to relax. It was the kind of thing that didn’t impair her ability to drive yet let the muscles in her body relax.

  A thought came to her—that these were the same streets the girls had been taken down. The relaxing of her body continued, the trees and houses blurring together in a faster and faster display of color and motion.

  Then she felt it.

  The girls in the truck. Dominik at the wheel.

  She was on the trail. This was where they had gone, and she could follow it to where they were going.

  Her vision became crystal clear. She knew where to go now. She was on the scent, and she would follow after these girls— even into the hell they were being taken to.

  Devin walked down the road, almost marching. Time was slipping by. No matter how fast he tried to reach the future, it was always down to the wire, it seemed.

  He felt the bulk of the FN Five-seveN in his belt, the weight of the magazines in his jacket. He’d been sure to grab the ammunition from the car after he left Scarza’s house. He’d feared that there would be more of them, and maybe they had followed. Luckily his fears had not come to pass.

  Now he was simply glad to have them on his person. Stopping an assassination was not an easy task. He would, of course, do his best to involve the police. But it was always the same—the lesson you learned early as a member of the Firstborn—if you see things that others don’t, then you’ll be seen as crazy. Especially by government organizations like the police. Devin had no problem with the police, but he knew better than to turn to them as a first line of defense, and he certainly knew better than to expect them to understand.

  There hadn’t been any cell phone reception when Hannah had taken off in the car, and now the battery was dead. It made calling for help difficult. But he still had time. Enough to make it.

  He had been walking for miles, and already his feet hurt. His shoes were hardly made for walking, and they were torture to his feet. A fact he would never reveal. But he wasn’t there yet. He had a long way to go—and no idea if he would make it in time.

  Dalton Waters got up and started getting dressed. He picked up a plastic cup from the bathroom counter and put it under the faucet, turning it on. His hand shook as he held it under the stream.

  Whether he lived or died didn’t matter; this was going to be an important day. Respectable white people should have made a stand a long time ago. It wasn’t safe for them anymore in this country. Power was shifting, and those of different races were breeding them out like crazy. And white people were getting less and less representation. Even those who had voted for the current president based on race knew that—because he was bringing representation to his race.

  Dalton took a sip of water and splashed some more on his face.

  The white population of America was giving up. Soon they would be a minority, and the country they had started, that had been great, would wind up just like the countries those other races had come from. America would be no better than Africa or South America or Mexico. Rat-infested places, all.

  He walked to the bag in the corner and opened it, looking at the M14 rifle inside. A beautiful piece of equipment. American made. The design had come about after the Second World War, when the army decided to take all the best features of the Browning assault rifle, the Thompson submachine gun, the “grease gun,” and the M1 Garand and put them all together into one rifle—the M14. Of course it looked like a normal rifle, wood stock with a traditional shotgun grip, so it looked old. As a result, the army had chosen to change to the M16 during Vietnam, and Dalton couldn’t help but think that was the reason the whole thing had gone so badly.

  But it was a quality rifle. So good that navy SEALs were dusting them off by the boxload and taking them into the deserts of Iraq, refusing to let such a good service rifle die. Dalton liked that. The understanding that some things will just always be better than others—and that the truth of the inequity will always be made evident. Lucky for him, the people who had approached him and asked him to do this job knew where he could get a whole crate of the Korean War–era rifles.

  His phone rang. “Yes?” he asked, snapping it open.

  “We’re ready. Everything is a go.”

  Dalton closed his eyes and let his shaking stop. Today they were going to make a point. A profound one. White men weren’t going to take orders from less-advanced races. Not in this country.

  A beautiful view, Clay Goldstein thought as he sat on his balcony.

  His mansion was a place he always felt safe. Security was tight and maintained. There were enough cameras on the grounds to film Ben-Hur twice, enough personnel to fight a small war, and enough fence that he sometimes joked that it could be seen from space.

  He breathed deeply and took in the view. The Napa Valley never ceased to amaze him for its beauty. Rolling hills, vineyards, greenery, and sun.

  “Nessun Dorma”—the famous aria from Puccini’s Turandot— played on a small MP3 device nearby. He reached for his bottle of wine and poured himself a glass. The wine was from a local vineyard he owned. It always pleased him to think that he was the owner of a vineyard, even if he did none of the work himself.

  He held the glass up to the sunlight. The red liquid swirled at an angle, its residue gliding down the sides in a perfectly measured pace indicative of its sugar content. A quick swirl under his nostrils, breathing in the dry bouquet of the merlot—then a sip.

  A staggering moment of epicurean completion. Wine, music, and scenery blending together as the aria’s hero, Calaf, declared his victory in love, over and over in climactic, soul-tugging glory through the timeless language of opera.

  Clay leaned back breathing in the clean air. Taking another sip of wine, he held it on his tongue before swallowing the
dry nectar. It was good to be alive—even if only for a while longer. The Parkinson’s would be fatal, they had told him, but he would probably have a heart attack first—a common finish to the disease. But the wine was good for his heart, he told himself, and drank happily.

  The music faded to silence, and for a moment there was nothing to listen to but his thoughts. Thoughts of things that were far away. It was strange the way his ability to feel the present had grown keener since the first symptoms of Parkinson’s set in. He hadn’t started shaking or freezing up, but the effects on his mind were starting to slip insidiously into his life. Simple things that he never would have forgotten before were suddenly starting to evaporate. Concepts that would have once been simple were now impossible to decipher. Not all the time, of course, but every once in a while. The doctors said it was the early onset of dementia—something that came along with his type of Parkinson’s. And while his ability to reason in the real world had suffered, his ability to see what others could not had only grown. And his gifts as a member of the Ora were considerable to begin with.

  Then something changed—the feelings of things far away. The indulgence of the moment was replaced with a different sensation. He could feel them all:

  Hannah Rice, weary from driving, nearing her destination. Devin—striving toward his own objective. John and Trista— kept in place by Vincent.

  He heaved a sigh. Peace and quiet might have to wait. It was time to make the call.

  Hannah watched the signs as she drove through the desert. She’d gone south into Arizona. Hours had gone by, but she knew what she was following, and the time had evaporated.

  The area was like a hideous lunar landscape with light brown dirt and flat ground that stretched out in perpetuity. Dark patches of desert shrubs dotted the flat landscape and were the only things that really appeared to pass by at all out here. A road sign approached as she accelerated. Besides the road itself, it was the only sign of human life out here that she could find. Hannah slowed the car slightly and read the sign.

  Apparently she was somewhere in the vicinity of Yuma, Arizona. She knew that name, something about an army or air force base in Yuma. Or was it in that Nat King Cole song about Route 66? She continued looking over the sign; she was less than thirty miles from the Mexican border. If they were planning on moving the girls across national lines, then she needed to act fast.

  The trail shifted, and she turned right, down a dirt road. There were shallow ruts in the road, meaning that someone still used it, but there were no signs of life. Hannah focused, silencing her mind, making certain she wasn’t just imagining it all. No, this was the direction.

  Another five minutes of tense driving, worrying that she had gotten off track and that she was following some kind of wild goose chase. There were warning signs declaring the place private property, but there was nothing to protect it as far as she could tell.

  And then she saw it. A church, old and brown, all its paint rotted off. It wasn’t the old Spanish mission-style church she would have expected in this part of the United States. Instead it was the decaying remains of a traditional American church building. A tall steeple with a bell, steep roof, and dirty broken stained glass. It was little more than an outline in the distance.

  Hannah stopped the car a quarter of a mile away, pulling off the dirt road into a slight dip, hoping the car would be slightly less obvious there. She reached for the handgun Devin had given her; what had he called it? A sour? Regardless, the pistol looked lethal in its tightly packed structure of dark gunmetal. She double-checked the magazine and pulled back the slide just enough to check the action.

  She stepped out of the car and waited for a moment, checking her surroundings before moving forward, staying low. If she was going to call Devin, she had to have something to say. And she wasn’t even absolutely certain this was the right place. Scouting the area was what made the most sense.

  The old church looked completely abandoned at first, but as she got closer she realized that it was surrounded by tire tracks and modern amenities. There was a shed with a shiny new latch and padlock that someone was maintaining. There was a bright red air compressor and even a satellite dish, presumably for getting cable television. As she continued her circuitous approach, she saw a collection of vehicles parked at the back door of the old church.

  This was it. This was the place.

  Devin had been specific that she was supposed to call, not to do anything without him. Hannah crouched in the dirt near some kind of dry shrub, sharp rocks and desert plants jabbing at her knees. She took the cell phone out of her pocket and opened it.

  —No signal—

  Hannah lifted the phone into the air, watching the reception bars fluctuate from few to none. She looked back at the car, realizing how poorly hidden it was, then back to the church. Perhaps the best thing to do was to get in the car and drive fast toward someplace civilized where there was cell phone reception or a pay phone. She could call for Devin and wait for him to arrive. It had taken her the better part of four hours to get here, so it would probably take Devin as long. She would have to wait. Get a cup of coffee or take a nap.

  But this was the place.

  She could contact the local police. Get them to come out here. Working with the authorities as one of the Firstborn was a dicey thing at best, she knew, but maybe this time it would work out.

  Either way, it was a terrible idea to go in there alone, without any hope of backup. Especially as a young woman. It was the worst thing she could possibly do, and Devin had known that.

  She stood to go. Something else would have to be figured out.

  Hannah waited a moment, then as she was turning to leave she heard something. It was faint, coming from the church. The sound of something human.

  —screaming.

  The stillness in Hannah’s mind shattered, and her thoughts were filled with the ravings of a madhouse.

  She tried to tell herself to listen to what Devin had said. To do the wise and sensible thing. To do the calm and realistic thing. But all that filled her heart and mind were passion. Anger. Fear. The thought that those screams were coming from a human being.

  Another scream. Louder. A woman. Pain.

  Hannah held her pistol tight and charged, racing toward the church in a frenzy of steps, plowing through the dirt.

  Around a shrub, over a sagging barbed-wire fence, past the shed, up the steps, to the door—throwing it open.

  Gun raised, she stepped in, door closing behind her. Hannah stopped.

  A collection of five or so people in folding chairs sat in the sanctuary around a television, backs to her, watching a game show. They turned, almost in unison, staring at Hannah.

  Two very attractive women and an older woman with white hair were among them. Their expressions were confused, like someone who had accidentally stumbled into the break room at a local super market.

  The older woman, mid to late sixties, with short white hair, frowned. “Who are you?” she asked with a thick eastern European accent.

  Hannah stood, holding the handgun, feeling more embarrassed than anything. Had she heard the television?

  The scream came again. Louder. More immediate.

  Hannah turned her attention to a door to her right, throwing it open to see a set of very steep stairs disappearing into the basement.

  “Stop!” was the word she heard the female voice cry.

  Hannah rushed down the stairs, smelling heavy mildew and perspiration. The stairs took a sharp turn, then stopped.

  The basement. Dark with no windows and only a single overhead light bulb. A cement floor covered in mattresses and filthy blankets. Nearly a dozen girls and a couple of little boys stared back at her from a far corner. To her right was a woman, fully clothed, pressed against the cement wall, arm trapped in a hammerlock, screaming in pain. Her captor barked in her ear in another language—Russian, maybe.

  Hannah recognized the man.

  The dragon tattoo.

  Domi
nik.

  She stopped, staring at him.

  Hurried footsteps came down the steps behind her, coming to a stop.

  “What is this?” the older woman jabbered, hands gesturing emphatically as Hannah turned around. “This is private property! You cannot just be here!”

  Hannah tried to think of something to say. Something strong that would guarantee that she was understood, that would make them all realize that she had a gun and that she was in control of the situation. All of that was overridden by the absurd urge to apologize.

  She lifted the gun, pointing it at the older woman. The woman’s expression soured, looking offended. The woman said something in her native language, including one word that Hannah understood.

  “…Dominik…”

  Hannah looked behind her where Dominik had been, turning just in time to see his fist.

  Chapter 19

  THE LAS VEGAS city bus rolled along the streets, off the Strip, near some of the seedier portions of the city. Faux skylines of New York and Paris were somewhere ahead in the distance.

  The mammoth vehicle stopped, its doors opening. A handful of passengers got up and made their way to the exit while several climbed aboard.

  Devin glanced out the window, then at the bus map he’d found crumpled on a nearby seat.

  Almost there.

  He checked his watch. Not much time.

  Almost there.

  Those getting on the bus found their places. A passenger sat across the aisle from Devin. He caught a passing glance in his peripherals as he looked out the window, then did a double-take.

  “Mr. Bathurst,” Angelo said, currently lucid.

  Devin looked up, preparing himself mentally for a fight. “Angelo,” he replied.