Proportionate Response

by Dave Buschi

  Rats. Fitting choice of pets for these animals, but he doubted that was why they were here. What were they doing with them?

  He tapped his ear mike. “They got ‘em in cages,” Marks said. “I’m gonna check the rest of the floor.”

  The second floor was well lit. There were floor lamps and lighting was rigged up on the ceiling. Nothing like upstairs at all. First pass, the place appeared empty. Didn’t mean much—there were plenty of places to hide. Closed rooms were down towards the end. Rest of the space was laid out like some industrial open loft conversion you’d find in a big city. Just a larger footprint with lots more open areas. Could toss a football around here.

  He saw a kitchen island with counters, refrigerator, sink and cabinets—just floating in the middle. Another island area looked to be a lounge with a big screen TV and comfortable seating—La-Z-Boys and couches. This floor was decked out.

  Gol’yanovskaya 2.0.

  A regular bachelor pad.

  Marks moved across the floor. There were Oriental rugs in areas, a pool table, another TV area that had an X-box game console and a bunch of controllers on a sofa. There was a coffee table with a pile of thumbed-through magazines. Game cartridges were haphazardly spread on a rug. Call of Duty, Modern Warfare, Dead Rising… Guys had a thematic going. Bunch of wannabe bangers.

  Should have practiced more, chumps.

  Marks spied a dehumidifier on the floor. It was cranking big time trying to keep the dampness out of the air. Lost cause.

  Marks moved towards the kitchen. Instead of mustiness and rat stench, the air here smelled of stale cigarettes. Bunch of stubbed butts in ashtrays everywhere. Crumpled packs of Marlboros and Davidoff Classics on the counter and in the trash. Sink was overflowing with dirty dishes. He passed some columns. The doors were ahead, three of ‘em. All three were closed.

  Come on down and place your bets, gents.

  What’s behind door number one? Two? Three? Is it a trip to Maui? Or is it a cracker with a widow maker?

  Only one way to find out. He went to the door on the far left and examined it from the outside, looking for anything funny. Like a bomb.

  Not that he’d be able to tell, if it was done well. Sometimes though, you gotta just take the chance. He reached for the handle.

  “I got something,” Lip said.

  Marks stopped. Tapped back. “Give it to me.”

  68

  LIP was very particular with his weapons. There was no such thing as ‘one size fits all’ when it came to the appropriate piece for a job. A close quarter’s sweep like this wasn’t a job for Bertha. Instead he was going with Cheryl.

  Cheryl was a SIG Sauer P226 semi-automatic pistol. The type that was favored by SEALS and specialist units like the 22 SAS. In fact, the piece Lip had in his hand now had been given to him by a member of the 22 SAS. That’d be British Army, Special Forces. Good chaps, even better accents.

  Subconsciously, Lip had a habit when it came to bestowing names to his weapons. He never realized his penchant for doing so till later. Cheryl probably came from Cheryl Boggs. She was a blast from the past for him. He remembered her fondly. She’d been a senior when he was in tenth grade.

  She used to wear rainbow eye shadow and had peroxide blonde hair that was teased back in a big bouffant style. Ridiculous today, but back then that was hot, the bomb, foxy and sweetness put together. She wore these great tight acid-washed jeans with fuzzy purple leg warmers. She’d had great legs and a fantastic heart-shaped ass.

  At the time he’d had a humongous crush on her. She used to come to all his baseball games. Granted, she was a cheerleader, so it wasn’t just him she was coming to see. But fate shined on him. The moon and sun aligned. It was against the Crossville Titans. He hit three homers that game and ended up catching her eye. Not long afterwards, Hanukkah came early for him when they started dating. Two weeks later, in the backseat of her car, he lost his virginity to her.

  Mazel fuckin’ Tov and Shalom wrapped in a Tootsie Roll. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t Jewish (not that he cared about that—he didn’t do the kosher thing either) or that she’d slept with half the baseball team by the time they started dating (he found that out afterwards). Both those details were irrelevant.

  Puppy love makes you blind. She was his first real girlfriend, and like jelly donuts and Baby Ruths, Cheryl would always have a special place in his heart.

  I’m sorry you have to see this, Cheryl.

  Lip panned his flashlight over the extent of the space, and tapped his mike. “I’ve got several buckets of chicken here, but they’re not chicken.”

  It was not a pretty sight. In fact, Lip felt physically ill.

  He was in a furnace room. It was hot. He was sweating. On the concrete floor were seven buckets. Big ole ones, like painters used when buying in bulk. Five of those buckets were full of body parts.

  69

  MARKS paused. He moved away from the door he’d been about to open.

  “What are we talking?” Marks said.

  “Five buckets. It’s hard to tell, but looks like just one body. There’s a head.”

  “A kid?”

  “Hard to say. Don’t think so. Looks older, maybe twenties. Asian… possibly Chinese. Male.”

  “Where are you?”

  “It’s some sort of furnace room. I’m in the building that was where the guards were stationed. Front one. I picked the lock to get in. Not much here. Furnace in a space like this doesn’t make much sense. Furnace is way too big. Wait. Place has a trap door. I’m going to check it out.”

  Marks frowned. Another trap door? What was with this place? Like a friggin’ rabbit warren.

  “Keep in contact.”

  “Will do.”

  Marks decided to check out the other two doors. Do the visual on all of them first. See if he could see anything that was out of sorts.

  Doors to the left and middle were close together. The door to the far right was down a ways. Probably for a larger room. There was the hint of light around the cracks, barely perceptible. Nothing else; didn’t look rigged. Alright. Time to see what he had here.

  He crouched and touched the handle, keeping his body away from the door. He opened the handle and pulled the door. Let it swing open by itself.

  Voices, faint. Adrenaline spiked, until he realized it was a TV. He gripped his weapon and went inside. Room was dark, but not completely. The faint glow of a TV emanated from the back.

  Looked to be some sort of office.

  70

  LIP raised the trap door, using the rope handle. It was just a piece of plywood with hinges on it. There were metal rungs that went down.

  Just fuckin’ wonderful. They appeared to lead to some sort of tunnel. This definitely was not his deal. Lip hated tight enclosed spaces. Granted, he hated lots of things. Bad breath, typos in newspapers, pubes in his food. Being told “don’t worry, that’s just a regular hair” by the waiter. True story. All of those he had a beef with, but tight spaces took the cake. If he had to list his phobias, he’d put claustrophobia at top three. Easy. He hated flying for that very reason. That and the fact his ass never seemed to fit in the seats.

  Shit.

  Least he had Cheryl.

  “Trap door leads to a tunnel. I’m going down. May lose contact.”

  No response. Just three clicks. Marks had heard him, but wanted to stay silent.

  Lip started down the rungs. He went down gingerly. Last thing he needed was to bust his ass. Rungs looked old, might not be secure. But they held his weight. Lip got down to the bottom. He swung his flashlight around. Tunnel went only one direction. Big pipes were overhead. Looked like steam pipes.

  Man, this had horror flick all over it. He realized if a fugly something jumped out and yelled “Boo” there was an eighty percent chance he’d shit himself.

  Why do I sign up for these jobs?

  Lip headed down the tunnel.

  71

  MARKS took his hand from his ear and entered the office.
There was furniture arranged in the space and a big massive desk at the end, near which was a TV mounted on the wall.

  Boss man’s office. Rudnitsky’s.

  Marks’s eyes passed over the artwork on the walls. What the…? It took him a second to realize what the pictures were showing. They were close-ups, photos. Man had a real sick sense of what constituted as art. Faces writhing in pain; others were clearly of people that were already dead, some with grotesque wounds. This guy is one sick bitch. His eyes raked the bookcases behind the desk, settling on the desk itself.

  There we go. Computer monitor. On the desk. He walked over. Desk had some metal figurines on it, strangely disturbing ones. Guy was keeping with the sicko program.

  There was a dock station, but no laptop. Shit. He walked around and checked under the desk. Nothing, except for a power strip and some wires. Sorry, Lip, no banana here. But there was a printer, and it had something on it. He picked up the piece of paper. Used his moon beam.

  It was a recipe for Fried Chicken Livers?

  72

  THEY finished sweeping the buildings. Good news was they didn’t find any more kids. Bad news was they didn’t find what they were hoping to find. Marks and Lip reconvened by the warehouse and compared notes.

  Didn’t take long. Kids were waiting and they needed to skate this joint. Lip wrapped it, broke it down.

  “Pretty measly, but I’ve got some stuff to work with.” Lip’s haul was laid at his feet. He’d taken it off the men. It made a small pile, most of which Lip had already put in baggies. “The phones are the most promising. They weren’t using disposable ones. There’s some plastic in the wallets. I got the GPS devices from the trucks. I’ll run it all down once we get back—we may get something.”

  There were three hefty stacks of cash. Lip had bound the stacks with rubber bands. “Four of the guys were loaded,” Lip said. “Mostly Benjamins. There’s a little over twenty-two thousand there. I found this down in the tunnel.” He handed Marks a pamphlet. The paper was cardboard stock. It was water stained and looked old. Had the same ‘CD’ insignia that Marks had seen down in the concrete dungeon. “You recognize it?” Lip said.

  “I saw the same thing. What is it?”

  “Civil Defense,” Lip said. “This place was some sort of Fallout Shelter. Might have been used on the federal level. Who knows?”

  Marks nodded. Explained the blast door and the rest of it. Lip described the tunnel network he’d checked out. There were a bunch of steam tunnels that connected some of the buildings. Marks realized they’d gotten lucky. These guys could have hidden easily, if they’d had the opportunity. Could have used the tunnels, come up anywhere.

  “What do you think happened?” Marks said.

  Lip shrugged. “Best I can figure, those three I saw from the hill must have noticed that the blast door was locked when they checked out the warehouse. They went and got the rest of the crew. Probably figured something was going on with the kids. Maybe they had a deal where that door was always supposed to remain open. Whatever it was—I don’t think they figured breach. These guys weren’t exactly swift in the security department. Frankly, I’m still not getting it.”

  “Getting what?” Marks said.

  Lip shook his head. “One laptop? If that’s all they had, it just doesn’t add up. And look at their security? Aside from the infrared sensors… they’ve got no cameras on site? One guard? No monitors? They’re using cell phones—not disposable ones? It’s like they had nothing to fear. Or were just too stupid to know better. Taking those cameras offline at Starbucks and altering those federal databases? That’s not these guys. These guys were the muscle, not the brains.”

  “So where does that put us?” Marks said.

  “Shit out of luck. So much for taking down the whole structure. We didn’t get a Google squad of techies, we got a goon squad.”

  Marks grimaced. A sour taste crept in his mouth. He knew what this meant. Without the brains, they hadn’t shut this thing down. These guys had been doing something bad here, and until they took down the head it wasn’t going to stop.

  There was a mess here: the body parts in the buckets, the severed hand next to the operating table, the rigged trucks to transport live cargo, the kids, the cages, the medieval looking contraption down in the dungeon, the tripod for the camera, the rats…

  They weren’t getting the full picture. Couldn’t connect all the dots. Marks had several theories, but he wanted concrete answers.

  Lip brought things into perspective. “Good news is the kids. That’s what matters. You ready to radio this in?”

  Marks nodded and handed Lip the keys to the vehicles. He’d found them on the second floor, on the kitchen counter. “My vote’s for the Suburban. But it’s your call, you’re driving.”

  They carried the duffels to the vehicles. They were heavier this time, and in addition to the duffels, Lip had filled up two large trash bags. Lip’s haul wasn’t just small stuff. He’d thrown in weapons he’d exploited from the site. Partner was a regular klepto. Either that, or he was working on becoming an arms dealer as a second career.

  Lip opened the Suburban’s tailgate and they loaded it up. That done, Lip hopped in the driver seat. “Just tell me when.”

  “Ten four.” Marks walked away.

  They both knew it was best that Lip stay out of sight. With Marks’s blackened face, his identity was safe. At least as safe as it was going to be. It was better that the kids just had one guy to describe to the PD. Not two. Particularly not two with Lip’s and Marks’s descriptions.

  As Marks walked back to the warehouse, he grimaced again. He could feel the years catching up to him. His knees were stiff and his body was worn out. It felt like he’d gone ten rounds, but he hadn’t even taken a punch.

  Times had changed. This little exercise, back in the day, wouldn’t have made him break a sweat. Wasn’t the case anymore. Adrenaline might equalize things out for a while—keep him jacked up and feeling invincible—but once that buzz wore off, the ‘S’ on his chest stood for Sorry-ass. He was one Sad Sack. Superman was up and gone like he’d never even existed.

  He needed some Advil and ice, and some plain R&R. But that still was a ways off. They weren’t done. They were no closer to figuring out what Johnny Two-cakes had stumbled on, than they were at the Starbucks. They were going to have to approach this thing from a different angle. Needed to do what they should have done at the beginning.

  That’d be the next order of business. Right now, however, Marks had some kids to liberate. That thought almost shooed away the hurt. The good stuff. The cherry on top. What made all this ugliness worth the effort.

  Ooh-rah!

  Good guys do win.

  MARKS entered the warehouse and hobbled down the stairs. Blast door was still locked. Had to have been hell for them. Everything… all of the nightmarish horrors they endured. Time to set things right. Give them a better life.

  He rapped on the door with the butt of his rifle. One time. Metal clunking on metal. He waited a two-beat pause and then did three more quick raps. The same pattern he’d told them to expect when he came back.

  Moments later, he heard the sound of bolts disengaging. The door swung out. Marks was greeted with the barrel end of a pistol.

  73

  IT wasn’t really a surprise. Not that he was a Head Doc, but Marks would argue it was a good sign. Kid was a fighter not a victim.

  “Easy,” Marks said.

  It was the boy, Owen. He was holding the pistol in both hands. He’d gotten it off one of the dead, obviously. Behind him were the other kids.

  “You came back,” Maria said.

  “Told you I would. Think you can lower that, son?”

  The boy hesitated. There was fear and indecision on his face. His hands, Marks could see, were already struggling with the pistol’s weight. Those things were heavier than they looked, particularly when the wrists and hands holding it were no bigger than a child’s.

  “Owen, those thing
s can be dangerous. I wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt. Just lower and hand it over. Nice and easy, son. We’re going to get you home now.”

  The boy was struggling with it. For him it wasn’t a simple decision. Releasing the pistol would mean becoming vulnerable again. At another man’s mercy. Boy had already been there and had seen what that had gotten him.

  On the flip side, Marks knew what it would have taken for the kid to retrieve that pistol. To do so, he would have had to go back into that room with the cages. Where the bodies of his jailers were. That couldn’t have been easy. Would have taken courage. The boy had confronted his fears. That was a big step forward. Next step was just as big.

  Marks waited him out. Didn’t want to rush it. Wanted the kid to do this on his own time. Owen’s arms wilted, his shoulders sagged. He handed the pistol over.

  “I’m proud of you Owen,” Marks said, taking it. “You did good.”

  The boy returned a minced smile. Marks looked at the scene. Picture was a keeper. All six of them were looking at him, wide eyed and hopeful. Didn’t get much better than this.

  “Are we going home now?” said Ivana. It was the girl with red hair. She had what sounded like a Russian accent. Real cutey pie.

  “Absolutely, Ivana. That’s the plan. First order of business, though, is I’m going to call the Police and Fire Department. They’ll get you guys checked out, make sure you’re okay, and then they’ll get you home. I wish I could be with you. But its best I let those guys do the honors.”

  The hope on the kids’ faces just went up and vanished. Like light bulbs winking out. Not the reaction he expected. What was going on here?