by Judy Jarvie
“Trust me, chica. Nothing’s gonna take me down. Count on it.”
* * * *
Kate
I hang out with Warbie long enough to eat a last meal with him. Then we visit Havana, who’s looking amazing, considering what she went through the day before.
“I can’t believe I’m missing all the action,” she grumbles. She’s about as happy as a dog booked into a cattery for a vacation stay.
Meanwhile Rocco is arranging flowers—where did he get them? Why is he on nurse and florist’s duty?
“Rocco’s on ops tonight—mission take Katsaros down. I’m here reading chick books. Me? Chick books? I mean it’s so bad it kills me.”
I shake my head at her. Once an action-ass, always an action-ass.
“I’m sure if you ask Warbie he’ll magic you up some warfare titles.”
All Havana does is grunt. But there’s life in her. I’d rather she was angry and grumping, than pale and lifeless as previously. Her eye make-up really is rockin’ the now vibe.
“Katie. You helped save my life. Thanks.”
“Didn’t. I just dabbed his brow and handed him stuff. Sterile stuff. I didn’t look at blood. There was a lot of it. I found whistling a tune in your head helps with that.”
“You done good, girl.”
“Hav, so did you, and Rocco is more in love with you than ever.” I reach out and lay a hand on hers. “I’m sorry that you didn’t like me and we got off to a bad start. I apologize for being a brat around you. Dan thinks you’re an amazing agent, by the way, though he’d never tell you that himself. So I am. You rock it. I hope you recover well, and when you’re back out there doing action stuff—stay safe.”
“Thanks,” she says. “I’ll see you later. Don’t go giving me last epic monologues like you’re not comin’ back—you so are. Gonzales is the best in the business—besides Rocco, Dan and me.” She grins. Actually, properly grins.
I nod. That’s as much of an emotional blood-letting as we’ll ever do. So I’m surprised when she hunkers up in bed for a brief hug. Wow. Havana loves me and I think I dig her back. Life is getting strange.
“Get off me. People will talk. Rocco is already staring like he’s had a stroke. Get off me,” she says quickly. I’m smiling despite shitting myself to the moon and back about what’s ahead.
* * * *
I have to put my arm up his back, but I force Warbie to give me a last request. He doesn’t agree lightly.
I let my bewildered eyes adjust to the darkness of this subterranean command deck where Warbie’s taken me. This one is real deal crisis checkpoint. Smaller than the first room I visited, when I met Rich, with its sea of screens and operators. This one is silent and there are ten screens, tops. It’s the gruesome gallery of spy cop edits. Pentagon hot desk lookalikey.
There are three people in headsets with monitors before them, and I know one is Dan. The man I’ve come to see. I spy Rocco too—all clad in black and I’m guessing he’s prepping men in the field with instructions.
The lasting image is CCTV, via a hidden cam—and there is a room full of women. Several are crying. One looks sick. They’re huddled together like cattle, all sitting on a mattress. They’re talking a language I don’t understand, but I can pick up the tone to know their fear, loathing and sorrow.
Shit. Maybe I shouldn’t have come here after all. I’m an outsider who can bring little value and I’m overstepping.
Shoulda listened to Warbs.
But I just want to watch. I’d love to interview each one of them and find out exactly what they’re doing. Dan’s true crucial role zooms to ultra-impressive in my mental ranking and I stay silent.
I struggle to comprehend that scenes like these do happen in real world law enforcement. That the sinister underbelly of this idyllic island should reveal such menace.
“Okay?” Rocco asks, taking me by surprise.
Just then one of the women shouts in the filmed room and a strong male smacks her so hard she falls back.
Dan is on his feet. “What are you doing here?”
“Is this what my dad is doing?”
“Maybe now you get an idea of what we’re dealing with. Sorry you had to see.”
I nod solemnly. But don’t have other words to say.
“You fully packed and ready to go under nightfall?” He steers me to the door. I’m not wanted. Over-stepping. So naïve and unprepared for the hard-core coal face of this job. So much for seasoned reporter.
“I am.”
“You need to go. Warbie, take Kate to her room. Try and get some rest if you can. It’ll fortify you.” Dan nods. Then lowers his voice to a whisper, “I want this over so I can get you where I can be sure you’re safe.”
“And I thought my working conditions were tough,” I remark, gesturing to the pitch-black and cramped conditions, and immediately feel pathetic for joking. No idea. Given the women’s faces on the screen ahead.
Dan pulls me into his arms and puts his lips to mine briefly. It’s a short but a searing kiss that answers all my questions and promises desires untold. I feel him—I feel his need. “See you soon. We’re all behind you.”
He hands me a large file from on his desk. “You’ll want info—being a journo. Work out all about the nasty guys we’re up against. Then realize you’re doing the right thing.”
The file reads Confidential–Operation Mountain Goat. My heart sinks and tension cranks before the file is even browsed, before atrocities are even explored. I suspect it will change everything. Or maybe everything is already altered? I know the answer already in my heart. My life will never be the same again because it can’t be.
Chapter Seventeen
“Hey, Kate, you look like a duchess,” says Gonzales. He’s pretty damn hot in his tux suit too. As arm candy I’ve a great date and this one’s tooled-up for trouble. Standing here in finery, I feel so far removed from the dire facts I’ve seen laid bare in black and white, in the mission file. Women and girls shipped like products for pimps, kept on tight leashes and in abject poverty. Lured by promises of a better life, money and security for their families. They’ve fallen for the lies, and into sex slavery, with no benefits beyond bed and meagre board. Some young women have disappeared, suspected murdered without qualms. It’s so appalling my stomach still churns with the horror.
Gonzales watches me, and I try to shake off the scattered dark thoughts that must show on my face.
“I may feel like a clanking bag of nerves, but looking hot is half the deal. You’re not so bad yourself. Shall we head downstairs to our doom?”
“Don’t say that, Princesa. Never bring negatives to the table you intend to dine at.”
“Just not sure what’s going to greet me,” I answer softly. “Or should I say who.”
Gonzales may outdo me on the philosopher quotes, but I find I’m delighted that I’ve made him blush scarlet at the compliments. “I’m by your side every step of the way.”
I’m decked out pretty good, dressed in my cobalt silk finery, with my hair dry shampooed back into life. Considering I’ve been secretly transported through Santorini under a blanket, it’s pretty impressive that I’ve salvaged any passable style. The suite here is five-star VIP finest. I’m not even sure I’ll ever see it again.
If this goes to plan, Grey Donaldson will be cuffed, and I’ll be out the door before you can say boom-shakalak.
Gonzales takes my hand and places it on the top of his arm, like a true gent. It reassures nerves that jangle like wind-chimes in a spooky weirdo’s garden.
The hubbub of the art show throng in the main hall off the lobby grows louder as we near. The clink of glasses accompanies soft music and the hum of a mingling art crowd.
“You like this stuff?” asks Gonzales.
“Prefer photo prints from the bargain store, then you can change them when you hate them,” I say, and he winks at my answer, then leads me to the far side of the main hall. There’s a display set up on boards of four large-scale painting
s—landscapes, sea views mostly. A symphony of color created by a genius is graced by my name hanging ludicrously above. As if I ever could.
“Clever girl,” says Gonzales.
“I wish,” I add, then notice the price cards. Four figure sums apiece make my eyes widen.
“Goatherd spotted at twelve o’clock.”
I say nothing. I don’t even move.
Gonzales continues, “Charcoal suit, drinking champagne. Wearing steel-rimmed specs. Do not look over. Repeat, do not.” Gonzales says the words so smoothly, and without seeming to do so, that a ventriloquist could go to him for smooth show tips.
Goatherd. Code word for Donaldson.
“He’s seen me?”
Gonzales doesn’t make eye contact with me, but I know by the slow way he blinks, it’s a yes. Call me super-psychic but I discern that’s the subtle cop’s signal for heads up, he’s coming this way. The bastard’s in the building and seeking me out. Just hope I remember to continue breathing.
* * * *
Dan
The team are down in the speedboat bay, readying to leave. I almost can’t believe I’m stuck in a swivel seat, eyes on monitor, plugged into every comms device possible, but with no gun.
This is so not me. But as project team head the buck puck landed in my responsibility zone so I have to defend it with all I have.
“Buddy,” says a familiar voice behind me. If I didn’t know better I’d think Redman was back at base. But he’s gone. To witness his baby’s birth. Maybe I’m delusional and that’s so not a good sign.
“Draven—I’m back.” It is Rich. I swivel on this damn squeaky chair—how does he bear sitting on this?—to take it in.
“What the hell are you doin’ back here?”
“Baby’s a healthy girl. Nine pounds fourteen ounces. Chloe Rose. Now I’m back doing my job. Didn’t think I could miss out on this take down, did ya? Worked my butt off to get here.”
I shake my head. “And how did Jenny take that decision? You’ll be in serious trouble.”
Rich is already claiming the chair and the desk, and yanking off my earpiece. “She bloody told me to go. I’m no use to her when I’m only half in the room. She and the baby are doin’ just fine.” He flips open his phone to show off an evidence pic. I see his radiating pride, even in the dim light.
“She’s perfect.”
“Course. With me for a Dad why wouldn’t that be so?”
A quick debrief and he’s back sitting in the chair—it doesn’t squeak much under him, I notice. Great. Not only am I totally action-denied, now I’m a spare part to my superior.
“So what you waiting for?” he asks. “Get down there fast.”
“Too late. They’ve just gone.”
Redman faces me, his eyes bright. “You think I didn’t think to call ahead to order they wait up? You’ve ten minutes to get tooled-up and down there.”
It’s like Christmas early. This is what I wanted. This is what counts.
Even though a tiny voice in my head wonders if I’d’ve picked Katie’s assignment over the mansion siege. Too late to wonder.
“Keep an eye on the Kate sitch, won’t you?” I mutter as I’m leaving to go, moving fast to catch my ops bus to business.
“You telling me how to do my job? I’m top dog, remember?”
“You’re the daddy,” I answer. “You definitely are tonight, bro.”
Redman mimics my accent so badly it’s wince-worthy. “Go move yo ass, fella. Move yo ass.”
* * * *
I’m in the action zone, ready for kick-off. Rich’s voice in my ear sounds as hyped as I am.
The evening air is muggy, and deep night falls swiftly around us. The environs of the Mone Dunamis—the gang’s hideout-cum-fortress is barren, isolated and has little ground cover for camouflage.
Its looks belie its purpose—a summer holiday home, but with the benefit of high security fences and regular ninja style patrollers. The pool at the rear and planters on the terrace are incongruous with the gun in the current guard’s hands.
Behind this façade lies a labyrinth of criminal activity. Storerooms for weapons and a cellar layout of holding cells below ground. I guesstimate right now there are at least fourteen girls being held captive prior to moving—France, the UK, Germany, Spain. They’ll be working hard—Katsaros’ girls can end up having sex with ten to twelve men a day.
The thought sickens me to my stomach, and I spit on the dry, dusty earth to rid the taste of fucking outrage and injustice from my palette.
The mansion has a control room, we’re reliably informed by Andreas will be key to taking the place down. By all accounts, almost as well equipped as Interpol’s base. Mone Dunamis, however, has more sinister intent. Trafficking for big money—blackmailing petrified parents in some cases, and warning them if they go to police they’ll never see their daughters again. Using poverty, in other cases, as carte blanche to wreck young lives.
I scan the wall high above me and glimpse Timo peering over the rim of the roof in signal. I’m itching to get physical in Spiderman-climb mode. Signal received, I begin the ascent. I’ll make entry on the second floor, and speed and glitch-free are our watchwords here. I see the guard slump and be dragged off by Dockery.
My abs are superglued to the side of the house as my feet and fingers move swiftly. I ignore a fly buzzing close to my ear, and sanction not a single twitch. Nothing will blow this. I’ve memorized my moves until I’m position pristine like a pro dance routine.
Counting to three, I climb higher with silent care—three steps, my foot on the ledge below the window, and I’m ready for entry after three swift slides of a wire defeat the lock deftly. Nice.
Downstairs, the boys will be taking care of the cellar’s weakened door.
One step, two and slide—through the glass door. All in less than ten seconds. Level-headed and careful and thorough are my mantra. This isn’t about bragging. Lives count. I pride myself on tight ops.
Barely taking breaths, I circle the empty room, my back peeling along the wall as if magnetized. The fun will blast off soon when I get to the door—I check my watch and—boom.
Our planted explosives go off in perfect sync. I’m through the door and covering mansion ground with sharp and clean speed. My pistol is ready for everything—earpiece instruction from Rich at precise periods.
Too easy, says a voice in my head.
Much too easy—no hitches. No bodies, no blocking. No opposition. No man with a gun or guards to take out on the way.
Quiet. Still.
Shit.
What do I want—a corral fight? Flamethrowers and tanks and bodies flying through the air? Instinct screams this is off—not right. But I school it to silence and stick to the plan. Convictions must be achieved tonight, come Hell or high water. The women must be safely evacuated, with absolutely no margin for error. On a smooth, silent sigh, I put my hand on the door handle across the hall, aim my gun at the ready and pull open…
Bang almighty. Bullets. Rapid fire exchange. I’m rolling across the floor like a well-armed and bulletproofed cannonball out for whirl-kicks.
And tonight—Katsaros is going down.
On my watch.
* * * *
Kate
Sweat trickles down my back, and my hands and forehead are clammy, as every nerve ending inside me is the definition of antsy day on an anthill.
I’d never have been any good in the police. Nor a police call center. The pressure is beyond belief. I long to just turn and run.
It makes me realize that the talking part of my job helps me cope with the uncertainties and unfolding drama. But standing, waiting for him to reveal himself is torture. I’m staring at these paintings like a crazed art-obsessed psycho. I flick my gaze to Gonzales, and in only a glance I can tell he’s urging me to stay calm. He can sense my fear.
It’s like watching a bomb disposal expert at work in the room next to you—nerves are frayed to frustration’s edge, and my stomach is i
n numerous Mensa puzzle knots. Worst of all, my underwear is sticking to every inch of where it covers me, in this cloying heat. Not in a good way.
This makes me more jittery and I yearn to breathe easy. I chastise my own pathetic petty complaints, given what’s likely unfolding at Mone Dunamis, and what the team are being put through.
The Greek night is oppressively hot, despite the many ceiling fans and air con in the hotel. I sense him before I see him. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t turn to look at me. He simply walks up and stares hard at my fake paintings display.
I’m side-glancing like crazy. Charcoal suit and champagne glass as warned, plus an even, deep tan and silver fox hair. Nothing like I’d expected. He’s so much smaller in the flesh, now I’m fully grown.
“Your paintings?” he asks. That Cockney twang still evident in his accent.
“Yes.”
“Impressive. Joseph—not a name I’m familiar with. I know quite a bit about art. I’m something of a collector.”
And that comment stalls me.
Is it an innocent observation, or a stab at my changed name? The identity changed option we chose as a family when we disappeared. I also know he collects—the trouble is he collects things that really should never be taken in the first place.
I turn. I’m absolutely bricking it and every sense inside me screams to flee, but I force myself to be professional and detached.
Two can play at this double meaning comments game and blow it out of the water.
“And what are your usual tastes, Sir?” I ask him, and stare at the man who really is so very unlike the crime boss thug I was expecting. Or the father who sired me, but didn’t take any of the other fatherly duties to heart.
I’m yearning to say, “Young, vulnerable girls to exploit and terrorize? Blood money as a pimp middle man lowlife?” But I don’t. I just stare, refusing to look away first.