by Jack Mars
“No,” Reid said candidly. Then he added, “But whatever we have to work out can wait. I don’t trust you, but… I believe you want to help.” Whatever her motivations were for coming this far with him, for defying the CIA and Interpol and joining him in his hunt, would become clear eventually. What mattered was rescuing his girls, regardless of the incentive behind it.
If Maria had anything to say about it, she held her tongue. “I ditched my phone so the agency can’t track it,” she told him instead. “But that also means I can’t contact Mitch.”
“So we’re going to need to find something faster than this,” Reid posited.
Maria nodded. “So we’re going to need to steal a helicopter.”
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE
The light burned her eyes as Maya regained consciousness slowly, squinting through the slushy haze that was her brain as the drugs she’d been shot with began to wear off. Sensory perceptions came to her slowly, as if in a single-file line, waiting their turn to be recognized.
She was aware that she was rocking slightly. A steady sound resonated beneath her—cha-chunk, cha-chunk, cha-chunk… The train. She was still on the train. But there were lights. It had been dark in the freight car when she had been closed within it.
She was lying on something soft. A bed? She dared to open her eyes, slowly, as she sat up and groaned. A headache pounded in her skull as she examined her surroundings in astonishment.
She had been moved, that much was clear; she was in a tiny room, lying on a cot with a low ceiling. A bunk bed. Beside her was a window, the shade pulled down. On the other side was a sliding door, a second shade over the glass.
A sleeper car, Maya realized. She had never been in one before, but she had seen them in movies. This one was modern and plain, white-walled, clean, with bright white bulbs in the sockets. Somehow she had gone from the freight train to a passenger car. But what does that mean?
She flexed the numbness from her fingers and toes before trying to stand. Her legs were shaky, her knees like jelly. Maya steadied herself on the railing of the top bunk for a moment as she regained her composure.
Pain prickled in her left calf as normal blood flow returned, rising to a burning sensation. A small amount of dark blood stained the leg of her flannel pajama pants.
Sara, she remembered urgently. She was put on a different train. Maya yanked the drawstring for the shade over the window. It was still dark outside, impossibly so; she could not see more than a few feet beyond the glass, only the silhouettes of trees flying by as the train wound its way through what appeared to be countryside.
She tried the latch, but the window wouldn’t budge.
Maya pushed as hard as she could, groaning in frustration at the stubborn frame. She looked around desperately for something to break the glass. She had to get off this train, to find help, to get to Sara—
The door to the compartment slid open behind her.
Maya spun, flattening her back against the far wall and window as a man entered the cabin. He pulled the door closed again behind him before he turned to her.
The man smiled. He was short, no taller than five-six, with a bald head and silver-rimmed glasses. He wore a tweed jacket and a tie, and in his hand he held a Styrofoam cup.
He smiled with his thin lips as he said, “Ah, good. You are awake.”
Maya said nothing in return, breathing rapidly through her nose. The man spoke English, but he had an acute accent—German, she thought. Maybe Austrian.
“I wanted to wait for you,” he continued. His smile never waned, but to her it was not the least bit friendly. “How is your head?”
“Who are you?” Maya asked. Her tongue felt thick and dry, the words malformed.
“I think it is better if you do not know my name. I certainly do not want to know yours.” The man chuckled as if he had told a joke. “I suppose if you must call me something, you may call me… Klaus.” He held out the white Styrofoam cup. “Here. For you.”
Maya shook her head quickly. She was not drinking anything from any stranger, no matter how nonthreatening he attempted to be.
“It is just water,” he promised. Still she did not move. This man, the alleged Klaus, set the cup down on a small table near the door. “I will put it here, whenever you are ready.” He loosened the tie knotted at his throat. “Before we begin, I want to ask you a few questions.”
Begin? Maya’s pulse raced. Begin what? She already knew the answer, but her mind refused to acknowledge it.
“I must insist that you are honest with me,” Klaus said. He slowly moved to the bunk bed and sat on the cot. Maya shrank away into the far corner of the compartment. “You are quite timid. Like a little mouse.” He smiled again at that. “What was I saying? Oh, yes. This is quite an expensive train ride for me, and I must ensure that what I am paying for is accurate. First question: You are American?”
Maya bit her lower lip, saying nothing.
Klaus sighed disappointedly. “My dear, just outside this compartment is a man with pockets. And in one of those pockets is another syringe, waiting there just for you. Personally, I would very much prefer that it not come to that. Do you agree?”
She gulped, feeling as if she might choke. She certainly did not want to be drugged again—especially not now, trapped in this compartment with this horrible man.
“Yes,” she said quietly. Her voice cracked as she said, “I am American.”
“Good.” He smiled wide at that. “Second question: What is your age?”
A sob threatened to bubble up in her throat, but she held it back. “Six… sixteen,” she told him.
The man’s eyes gleamed. His seemingly disarming demeanor, his casual attitude, and worst of all, his intentions were downright horrifying—perhaps more so than the murderous Slovakians.
“Very good. My final question: You are a virgin, yes?”
Maya gasped instinctively. She had no idea how the traffickers would even know that—unless they were making an assumption, or otherwise just telling this man, clearly their client, that she was.
Tears formed in her eyes. If she refused to tell him, she would get drugged again, and she did not want to think about what might happen to her if she was unconscious. If she told him, this monster would likely be getting what he wanted.
But, she realized, there was a third option—one that just might get her out of this situation.
Maya mustered as clear a voice as she could. “No,” she lied. “I’m not.”
Klaus clucked his tongue as he shook his head. “Well,” he said, “then I will have to ask you to excuse me for a moment.” He rose from the cot and slid the door to the compartment aside.
Maya stayed in her corner, pressed hard against the white wall, wishing she could disappear into it. She heard the man speaking to someone out in the corridor in the harsh Eastern European tongue of the traffickers. A gruff voice responded.
He won’t want me now, she told herself. He’ll leave me alone. I’m not what he wants.
The voices outside crescendoed into an argument.
He’ll leave me alone.
Then they calmed, and the man in the spectacles returned to the compartment. He slid the door closed behind him. Every muscle in Maya’s body went taut.
“I apologize,” he said as he shrugged out of his tweed jacket. “I needed to renegotiate my price.” Klaus tugged off the tie around his neck.
Maya’s breath came in ragged gulps. No, she thought. I’m not going to let this happen.
“I’ll fight,” she promised. Her voice cracked as she said it. “I’ll scream. I won’t let you.”
Klaus grinned wide as he took off his silver-rimmed glasses and set them beside the cup of water. “My dear… I am counting on it.”
He lurched forward, his hands outstretched. Maya shrieked and put both arms up defensively. The man grabbed onto her forearms and yanked her from the corner, spinning her and throwing her onto her back on the small cot.
She flailed her arms
and legs, her eyes closed tightly, as Klaus clambered atop her. Some of her blows connected, but her limbs were still weak from the drugs and they bounced off harmlessly. Klaus pressed his body weight upon her, forcing her legs still. His hands scrambled to keep hers steady.
“Yes,” he hissed. “Struggle. Fight…”
Maya opened her eyes to see the man leering down at her, a maniacal glint in his eyes. A pit of horror solidified in her stomach; he was enjoying this. He wanted her to fight him off. He wanted her to try, and he wanted to dominate.
She pulled a hand loose from his grip and swung it up again, slapping him solidly across the face. He grunted with the blow. His lips peeled back in a malicious grin as he licked a bead of blood from the corner of his mouth.
Then he struck back, slapping Maya’s cheek hard enough to force her head to the side. She winced. Despite his relatively small stature, he was stronger than she was. He forced her arms above her head, crossed at the wrists, and held them with one hand.
Maya struggled against his grip, trying hard to pull a hand free, to get a leg out from beneath him.
Klaus’s other hand forced her shirt up, exposing her stomach. “I think you were lying,” he rasped. “I think you are exactly what I am looking for. We will find out, won’t we?” He hooked a thumb into the waistline of her pajama pants.
Stop! Maya shouted internally. But it was not an order directed at the rapist. Every instinct was driving her to fight, to struggle, to pry herself loose from him—but her mind was telling her body to stop.
Don’t fight. That’s what he wants. That’s why he waited for you to wake up. That’s why he didn’t want you drugged.
Klaus adjusted his body weight, struggling to keep her still and push her pants down past her waist. The terror and panic of the moment demanded that she be combative, but she forced herself to slacken her muscles. She let the tension run from her shoulders, her arms, her wrists. She stopped trying to kick her legs out. Her head lolled to one side on the pillow, staring at the white wall.
The man held her wrists roughly, but he paused, glaring down at her. “What is this?” he growled. “What are you doing?”
“My name is Maya Lawson,” she said, rapidly and quietly. “I was born in Fairfax, Virginia—”
“Shut up!” Klaus hissed. “You are ruining everything!”
“My parents are Reid and Katherine Lawson. I have a younger sister, Sara, fourteen years old—”
Her assailant slapped her across the face, hard, but Maya bit her tongue to keep from crying out. She would give him no satisfaction.
“Fight back!” he screamed in her face. He struck her again with an open palm. The side of her face stung. She felt warm blood on her lips. But she refused to struggle, refused to give in to anything this savage wanted.
Maya turned her head to look up at him. “I am someone’s daughter,” she told him, unblinking. “Someone’s sister. A child…”
Klaus grunted in fury as he drove a closed fist across her cheek. She gasped in pain, but did not yelp or cry out. He rolled off of her angrily and threw open the compartment door, stomping indignantly into the hallway.
Maya quickly sat up and drew her knees to her chest. She touched the side of her face; it was tender and sore, but nothing seemed broken.
She wiped the blood from her lips as a dark-featured Slav suddenly filled the doorway. Like the others he had a submachine gun on a strap over one shoulder. Maya froze; she could not help but remember the story of Anita from the cargo ship container. The girl who had tried to fight back and failed. She remembered Jersey, killed in the gravel of a foreign country thousands of miles from home.
If that was to be her fate, so be it, she decided. She would not succumb to someone like her attempted rapist.
The Slav shouted at her, his words foreign, as he advanced into the compartment. He grabbed her by an arm and yanked her to her feet, bellowing all the while.
Maya saw a chance and took it. She surged forward and got both hands on the submachine gun, wrenching it away from the Slav. The strap went taut around his shoulder.
The man put out both hands and shoved her violently. Maya reeled backward. Her head struck the window hard and she fell to the floor of the compartment. Stars swam in her vision.
She felt the distinct prick of a needle sinking into her arm. She was being drugged again.
Then the compartment door slid closed. She was alone. She had eluded Klaus, at least for now, but she had no idea what might happen while she was unconscious. She might be moved again. Or perhaps something far worse, something more sinister—someone else, someone who did not care if she was awake or not.
Maya scrambled to her feet before the drugs took hold. Her head throbbed painfully and she nearly stumbled as she pulled the shade up again over the window. The glass had cracked where her head had struck it. She pounded on the pane with a fist, hoping that it would give, that she could break it open and escape. Broken glass and a leap from a moving train was preferable to the relative unknown of what might await her in the sleeper car.
The glass would not give, and the strength drained from her arms. She fell to her knees.
Before losing consciousness, she thought she heard shouting from outside her compartment. Then a strange sound, muffled, as if from a distance… A drum roll? she thought. No, of course not. It sounded like gunfire. But before she could discern it, Maya fell to her side and slipped back into the darkness.
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
Reid scrambled up the chain-link fence and slung his jacket over the barbed wire at the top. Maria followed suit, tossing the jacket back down to him before dropping to her feet in the Bratislava impound lot.
There were cameras, he knew, and likely alarms. But he was far beyond worrying about his face being seen.
They sprinted across the lot, past cars and trucks and motorcycles, toward the red and white medevac chopper, the same one Reid had landed on the fairway near the District hotel.
“You can fly this, right?” he asked.
“Of course,” Maria said. She pulled open the door and climbed up into the cockpit. Reid remained on the ground, the Lorcin pistol in one hand and an Agram SMG in the other.
There was a shout from nearby and the sweep of a flashlight beam as a Bratislava police officer spoke quickly into his radio. Reid fired off two shots from the pistol, deliberately missing, and the officer leapt for cover.
The impound lot was just across the street from the precinct. He knew others would be coming soon.
The rotors of the chopper whirred to life, spinning slowly and gaining speed as several officers poured from the precinct doors, running toward the lot. Reid sprayed several rounds from the Agram through the fence, over their heads. They ducked and covered or clambered behind cars.
He slid open the side door of the AW109 helicopter and climbed up, securing the Lorcin in his jeans and hanging onto a white looped strap in the ceiling. As the skids rose from the asphalt, he fired again, intentionally pulling his aim. Then he yanked the door closed as rounds from service pistols smacked the side of the chopper.
Maria maneuvered the stick and banked to the right, gaining altitude as she directed the helicopter behind a building and away from the line of fire of the police. Reid climbed over the seat and joined her in the cockpit with a painful groan. He pulled a headset over his ears.
“You okay?” Maria asked.
He nodded. “Are we? Any damage?”
“Doesn’t appear to be.” She pulled back on the stick and the chopper rose above the Bratislava skyline. She kept the nav lights and strobes off, flying dark as they headed northwest.
“You know…” He paused, not sure how to articulate what he was feeling. “Those cameras at the impound lot would have likely caught your face.”
“I know.”
Reid didn’t say anything more about it. Maria had already shown him, more than once, that she was not necessarily on the side of the CIA, but by blatantly breaking into the lot a
nd stealing the chopper, she was tipping her hand to them as well.
“How long?” he asked.
“At max airspeed, less than an hour to get to Sněžka,” she replied. The trafficker Mirko, under extreme duress from Maria’s butterfly knife, had told her that the American girls in question had been put on a nine-car freight train heading into the Czech Republic, on a remote set of tracks that wound through the Krkonoŝe mountain range and passed by the tallest peak, Sněžka. But Reid knew that even with that intel…
“We’ll need a way to find a more precise location,” Maria said. “Otherwise, we’ll just be flying over a mountain, looking for trains.”
“I know.” Reid nodded. He didn’t like it, but there was a way. “I have an idea about that.”
*
“You sure you want to do this?” Maria asked.
“Do you have a better way?” he asked. They were over the northwest border, out of Slovakia and headed for the mountain region of the Czech Republic. Shortly after crossing into new airspace a voice had come over the radio, first asking them to identify themselves and then threatening to force them to land. Maria had turned the radio off; they knew that shooting down the chopper would be a last resort, and by the time it was seriously considered they’d have reached their destination.
But first, they needed a destination.
Maria shook her head. She did not have any better ideas for locating the train that had Reid’s girls on it. She switched the radio back on and said in Slovak, “My name is Agent Maria Johansson of the American Central Intelligence Agency. Over.”
There was a pregnant pause before the radio controller on the other side said anything. The man spoke in Czech, but the two languages were mutually intelligible enough for each to understand the other. “Agent Johansson, you will land the helicopter at the next available site. I will relay the coordinates—”
“Negative,” Maria interrupted. “This flight is part of an operation sanctioned by Interpol and the CIA. If you want me to put down this chopper, you will first put me through to my deputy director in Langley, Virginia.” She gave the number, the one she and Reid both knew by heart, to the controller. “This is an emergency situation. He’ll give you the clearance you need. Over.”