In the Hush of the Night

by Raymond Benson

  She wanted to die.

  One night, the call came. The black man, Alexander, answered his cell. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah?” Then his eyes went to Yana.

  Immediately she knew this was about her.

  “Right. One hour. Right.” He hung up and addressed her. “Get your things ready. Pack up. You’re leaving in an hour.”

  “I’ve …” She had to clear her throat. “I’ve been sold?”

  “Nah. Just a rental. A few days, that’s all.”

  “A … rental?”

  Alexander looked at her coldly. “You’ve been deemed rental material on the website.”

  “What?”

  “The Bear—he decided to open up the business and allow rentals as well as permanent sales.” Alexander shrugged.

  “Where am I going?”

  “Nice place. You’ll love it. Nice cabin in the woods. Beautiful.”

  The threat of isolation somewhere remote scared Yana even more.

  She did as she was told. She packed and exchanged a tearful goodbye with Mira. They had become close in the past month.

  The other captor, Freddie, came by her room. He was a British guy with multiple tattoos, and Yana couldn’t stand him. He had made numerous comments about how he would have had her if she hadn’t been off-limits.

  “Well, some lucky guy hit the jackpot with this one,” he said in his East London accent.

  “Fuck you,” she murmured.

  Freddie tensed and straightened. His right hand balled into a fist.

  Yana suddenly felt emboldened. “You can’t hit me, especially now, asshole,” she said to his face.

  He struggled to restrain himself. Finally, he walked out of the room.

  Yana’s heart was beating furiously. How had she summoned the courage to confront him like that? He could have killed her. But what would it matter? She was off to her eventual death in a matter of minutes anyway.

  She sat on her bed and waited.

  Over the past few weeks she had learned a great deal about the organization that was luring women into a trap and selling them as slaves to sadistic customers.

  The Bear was the big boss, but Yana had never seen him. She had heard his name mentioned a few times and was told he was in charge. From what she understood, The Bear was based in Russia. He employed recruiters all around St. Petersburg, and even in areas deeper into Russia and across the border in Ukraine. Recruiters made up the bulk of the Russian end of the operation. From a logistical point of view, it was relatively easy to get the women aboard a cooperative container ship. Only one accomplice was needed to oversee them during the journey across the ocean. At the ports, Customs men were most likely bribed to get the women through.

  The American end of the operation was much more complex. The first house in New Jersey, where the wretched woman Nadine and her thugs resided, was where the serious assaults took place. Bobby was actually in charge there, and Yana knew now that he took his orders from someone in Chicago.

  There were three houses she knew about in the Chicago area. Men who ran local strip clubs were in charge of “distribution.” Women were kept locked up in the houses until a sale came through. A driver then transported the “merchandise” to the buyer. Full service. Kind of like free delivery and installation. What Alexander had just told her confirmed the financial options for customers. Women who were sold to “keep” cost a lot more money—fifteen thousand dollars or more, depending on their age and looks. A “rental” was less, a low four figures.

  There were more members of the organization in the US than in Russia, and they seemed to be based in Illinois. She couldn’t be certain, though. Ivan, the man at the strip club, was a kind of mid-level manager, she figured, having only met him once. Yana could tell he was just a subordinate. She had never met the one called “Fyodor,” but from what she had gathered, he might be the boss of the US side of the network. She had overhead Freddie and Alexander talking one night about how Fyodor had fled to Russia because the “heat” was on him and The Bear wasn’t happy about it. He’d been “recalled.”

  Yana had to remember all of it, every detail. She would tell the world what had happened to her when she got out.

  For that was what she decided, then and there. To get out. Escape. In whatever way she could.

  Right on cue, the one called Makar arrived. She had met him once before when he had driven her to the house from the club. She didn’t like him one bit; he was the one who had struck her when she failed to say her name was “Nadia.”

  “Go to the bathroom one more time,” said Alexander. “It’s going to be a long ride.” She obeyed. Then, Makar and Alexander ordered her to get in the trunk of Makar’s car, which was parked in the garage. There was nothing she could do to resist.

  She climbed into the trunk, and Makar shut the lid.

  21

  “Is this SA O’Horgan?”

  “Yes?”

  “Hi, this is SA Annie Marino over in Civil Rights—Human Trafficking.”

  “Uh huh?”

  “I just sent you an email with a file attachment. It’s a case I’m working on.”

  Melanie O’Horgan worked in the Cyber Division of the FBI. During her twenty-one months so far as a Special Agent, Annie had not yet worked with anyone from Cyber.

  “I see it, it just popped up. Hey, I know John Gladden, he’s your SSA?”

  “Yep. He’s the one.”

  “We were at Quantico together. How can I help you?”

  Annie gave O’Horgan a quick rundown of the case and explained the need to hack into some websites on the darknet. “I have the URLs to the various pages that the killer in Milwaukee viewed on his computer. I have his emails. I’m hoping it won’t be too awfully difficult to try and find out who’s behind them and where the bastards are located.”

  “I can’t imagine what those women are going through. It’s awful. Let me take a look at all this and get back to you on whether or not I think we can get into those sites. Is that all right?”

  “Sure. Like I said in the email, if this trafficking operation is as big as I think it is, then we need to expedite stopping it. Like you said, those women are surely suffering. I’ve come across some pretty disgusting trafficking cases so far—and it hasn’t even been two years since I became an SA—but the misogyny of these traffickers is inhuman, if you ask me.”

  “I hear you. I promise to get back to you as soon as I can.”

  “Thanks.”

  Annie phoned Harris next. He had resumed watching the Den on his own, but he had recently been recalled to Detroit. There just wasn’t enough for him to do in Chicago, and he would be leaving soon.

  “How’s it going?” she asked.

  “Snoresville. Ivan’s at the club, but no one else is. It’s pretty dead in the middle of the day since the place isn’t even open. I’m calling it quits. Want to have lunch before I head back?”

  “Sure.”

  They sat in the Rosebud Restaurant on Taylor Street, relishing old-school Italian food. Annie insisted on treating, and they ended up ordering dishes that were much too heavy for lunchtime. It was certainly satisfying.

  “God, that was great. Too bad we couldn’t have had some wine with that,” she said, noting the time. “I guess you have to take off, huh?”

  “Yeah, probably should. But, hey, I’ll be back as soon as something else breaks. You’re making progress, Annie.”

  “Not fast enough. I keep thinking about those women—” Her cell phone rang, and she recognized the caller ID. “Hold on, it’s Tiffany, the bartender at the Den.” She answered. “Anne Marino.”

  “Annie, I have some photos you need to see!” the bartender whispered with urgency. “I found them in Ivan’s office.”

  “What are they, exactly?”

  “Pictures of girls who have come and gone, you know, actor-dancer headshots. You have to see them. I think one of the girls you showed me is there.”

  “Really? Where are you?”

&n
bsp; “At home.”

  “Okay, wait there. I’ll be right over. What’s the address?” Tiffany told her. “Okay, give me a half hour.” She hung up and told Harris what was going on. “You want to accompany me?”

  “Sure.”

  Annie paid the bill and gave Harris the address. “Follow me. We’ll park on the street in front of her residence.”

  Tiffany Vombrack lived east of Oak Park in the area of West Chicago known as Austin. Not a particularly upscale area, it was a neighborhood of closed businesses, homes that were boarded up, and housing for lower-income families. Tiffany lived in the upstairs space of a two-story house divided into two apartments. Directly across the street was an empty three-story brick building that was surrounded by construction equipment. It looked as if the city was going to take the structure down soon.

  Annie and Harris got out of the car. It was a sunny, hot day. The street was deserted.

  “You sure she’s home?”

  “Said she was.” Annie opened the common front door, which revealed a short hallway with an entrance to the bottom residence on the left, and a stairway straight ahead leading up to Tiffany’s door. There was no mechanism for ringing a bell. “Come on,” she said to Harris. “You getting a buzz that something’s not right?”

  “As a matter of fact …”

  They climbed the stairs and drew their weapons. Annie approached the door and started to knock on it—but it was ajar. Annie pushed it open slowly. “Tiffany?” She stood a few seconds and listened. “Tiffany, you in there?” she called louder.

  Annie turned to Harris and whispered, “Shit.” She raised the Glock 27, assumed a Weaver stance, and pushed the door open the rest of the way with her foot. Harris, his weapon high as well, followed her into a small living room and kitchen. The ash tray on a small Formica dining table was full of butts, the place was smoky, and there was an unmistakable burnt odor to the apartment. Dirty dishes lined the small counter next to the sink. There was no stove, only a hot pad and a microwave oven.

  She went to the bedroom door, which was wide open. Annie’s sharp intake of breath was audible. “Search the bathroom, Harris.”

  He moved past her, registering the shocking scene that lay before them.

  Tiffany Vombrack was lying on her back on a blood-soaked bed. Someone had shot her in the right temple, and the splatter decorated the headboard and part of the wall behind it.

  “Clear. No one else is in the apartment,” Harris said, emerging from the bathroom.

  The room was small, but it had a large window that faced the street. It was open, and a warm breeze wafted in.

  Annie looked under the bed and all around it. “No weapon. She didn’t kill herself. I’m calling it in.”

  She stood in the middle of the room, looking out the window, as she put in the call to 9-1-1. Annie relayed her credentials and said that she and another agent would remain on the scene until the cops arrived.

  “Christ, she just called you, what, a half hour ago?” Harris asked.

  “Yeah. She was shot right before we got here. But I bet the killer is long gone.” She stood by the window. “And it doesn’t look like there’s anyone around who might have heard the gunshot.” Annie scanned the street below and then looked at the face of the abandoned building across the road. The windows were boarded up. The front door had a city notice pasted on it, and on the roof … a figure was crouched low, holding something in his hands—

  “Get down!” she cried, shoving Harris away.

  The loud report outside was accompanied by a zzzzt! that abruptly ended in Harris Caruthers’s torso. He grunted loudly and fell to the floor, blood seeping over his three-piece suit. Annie crouched, making sure she was out of the sightline.

  “Harris!”

  The wound was below his right ribcage, right in the gut. He growled in pain, gritted his teeth, and said, “Go … get … him!”

  “I’m not leaving you.”

  “No! … Go … !”

  “You’re going to bleed out.” She placed her hands over the hole in his clothing and pressed hard.

  “Annie … !” Harris gasped and cursed. “Go … get … the bastard!” He placed his own hands over his abdomen. “Ambulance will be here … soon. Go!”

  She knew he was right. Annie turned, crouched by the window, and peeked. The figure was gone from the rooftop.

  “All right, I’m going. Hold on, Harris.”

  She bolted out of the room, redialing 9-1-1 as she ran down the stairs. Reaching the ground floor, she halted at the door, opened it a crack, and peered out. The street was empty. Quiet. No sign of someone running from the building across the street. Was the sniper still inside?

  The emergency operator answered and Annie delivered an update to her previous call—an agent was down and she was in pursuit of the suspect, although there was still a possible sniper situation. She hung up and stepped outside, carefully scanning the roofs and windows of all the buildings across the road. Nothing stuck out, so Annie took off, running through the tiny front yard, past their Bucars and across the road, then up to the front door of the abandoned building. She flattened her back against it and listened. The street was dead silent. She thought she heard sirens in the distance. Annie slowly moved along the exterior to the right side of the building, her weapon pointed in front of her. She reached the back and looked up and down the alley. Nothing. No moving vehicles. A back door was completely off its hinges, revealing a gaping entrance.

  The sirens grew louder. Good, she thought, help is on the way.

  Confident that she would have seen or heard the sniper if he’d left the building, Annie went inside, commando style. It was an empty foyer with a powerful stench—the place had been used for squatters and was littered with garbage and food remains. The structure was an old office building with a stairwell connecting the three floors and the roof, where the shooter might have left some crucial evidence.

  Annie ascended the stairs, her weapon leading the way. She continually looked behind her as she went, in case the sniper showed up below her. When she reached the second floor she paused, opened the door, and peered into the hallway. Nothing but darkness, with some dim illumination coming from office windows. She continued climbing, repeating the procedure at the third floor. Finally, she reached the roof and stepped out. She moved to the edge where the sniper had hunkered down. Across the street, Tiffany’s bedroom window was in the perfect position for a marksman who had some training.

  She’d been wrong. The guy had left the building. She sensed it now. He wasn’t there.

  How the hell did he get away so quietly?

  Furthermore, Annie wondered if the whole thing had been a trap. Was it a coincidence that Tiffany’s killer would strike just minutes after the bartender phoned her? Or did Tiffany have a gun to her head? Could she have been forced to call and persuade the FBI agent to come to her house?

  It couldn’t have been happenstance, she thought. Otherwise the killer would have just left—instead, he had parked himself across the street and waited. He’d known she would be in Tiffany’s bedroom.

  Two police cars roared onto the street, lights blazing and sirens blaring. Annie needed to go down and meet them, but first she examined the area around her.

  A shell casing lay next to the short brick wall that surrounded the roof. Annie took a photo of it with her cell phone but left it for the uniforms to retrieve.

  By the time she emerged outside again, the ambulance had arrived. Annie held up her badge, holstered her weapon, and went to talk to the officers.

  22

  The shooting of an FBI agent sent shock waves throughout the organization nationwide. Now the Bureau’s director was interested in Annie’s case. The order came down from on high that the sniper must be caught—and if the human trafficking ring could be dismantled in the process, even better.

  Harris Caruthers had been transported to Rush Oak Park Hospital, which luckily was only minutes away from the site of the shooting. The
agent was in critical condition. Forensics analysis determined that the round had been a 7.62x51mm M118 Match Grade that caused a tremendous amount of damage to the agent’s large intestine. It was a through-and-through, and the bullet was recovered from being embedded in the floor of Tiffany’s bedroom. The shell casing Annie had found on the roof was a match. Thus, the weapon was most likely a bolt-action sniper rifle used by the military. Harris was in surgery for nearly twelve hours. Annie waited at the hospital the entire time, despite admonitions from her SSA to go home. The doctors proclaimed that the agent would live, but that he would be out of action for months. Harris had been extremely lucky. If Annie hadn’t pushed him out of the way as she had done, he would have been gone.

  And he could have been her.

  The local police were handling the shooting, per protocol. Preliminary investigation revealed that there were footprints other than Annie’s in the dirt alley behind the old office building. They led across the alley and into the backyard of the house directly behind the structure; there was no fence. From there, the prints were lost. It was speculated that the sniper had taken the shot and then immediately run down the stairs and into the alley. He kept going, through the yard and around that house to the street parallel with Tiffany’s. Perhaps he had continued through the yards and alleys—there was very little in the way of fences around properties—to a parked car. Maybe he’d had an accomplice with a waiting automobile. Surveillance cameras in the area were being checked, but unfortunately it was not a community where many such devices were installed.

  As for Tiffany Vombrack, she had been killed with a handgun. She had been standing by the bed and shot at close range. The round had tunneled through her brain and made a hole in the wall above the headboard amid the splatter. Where the bullet had gone from there was anyone’s guess. Because of the massive exit wound, investigators thought it was a 9x19mm Parabellum, which prompted an initial conjecture that the weapon was possibly a Beretta 92 F, but no shell casing was found at the scene. The killer could have scooped it up after performing the dirty deed.