Anne Marie had withdrawn to someplace inside herself, and that left only Kit as the two Muslims' plaything. They looked at her with renewed interest despite the savage resistance they knew she'd put up.
They approached, one carrying a nasty-looking whip and the other a leather device she didn't want to recognize. She gathered her strength and tightened her muscles to resist as long as she could. They wouldn't have an easy time of her, she vowed.
Grinning again, the two drew closer, but not close enough for her jaws to clamp on their hands and arms.
The taller lifted the whip and drew back.
Kit closed her eyes and flinched, waiting for the lashing to come.
Dear God, she prayed, Jesus, don't let this – Christ…
She'd forgotten her atheist leanings.
Her thoughts degenerated into images and she saw a clear portrait of her Uncle Rich and she sensed, hoped, really, they'd connected.
The whip snicked suddenly and agonizingly across her chest, raising tiny welts and punctures along the length of the cut and perpendicular to it.
She screamed in pain and indignation.
The pain blossomed from general to highly specific in two dozen separate places on the tender skin of her breasts and belly.
She opened her eyes wide and blinked, flinching again as he raised his arm to whip her a second time. There were tiny thorns woven into the length of the leather, and each of those thorns would open new wounds.
She screamed again just as the whip seemed about to come slashing down at her face and neck.
A loud bark stopped the arm, and the whip was lowered.
Kit sighed a mumbled Thank you and almost fainted.
She didn't know that Goran had hovered over his phone, considering whether to make the call that would end the Muslims' test drive. He would give them a rain check they'd be more than happy to use in a month or so, when his problem had been resolved to his satisfaction. But he had changed his mind.
Then Goran had stormed out of his office and pointed to two guards, who followed loyally, their guns ready. They weren't sure what their commanding officer might want, but they were so well-trained that it did not occur to them even to ask.
Now Kit watched the lion-haired man, the bastard who was doing this to them, talking urgently to her two tormentors in some language other than what she had heard from them. She couldn't grasp any words, but the message seemed to be that they should stop what they were doing and he would make it up to them – give them something else in return? Money?
The two barely hid their disappointment, but they turned and left reluctantly, escorted by the gunmen. One smelled his fingers and waggled them at her behind his back.
"I hope they kill you!" Kit shouted before she could catch herself.
The bastard slapped her so hard across the face she thought she felt her molars rattle. The pain added to the misery of the wounds across her chest, tiny droplets of blood like bumps in a long, irregular line.
He grinned his yellow tooth and gold smile at her from inches away. "You are going now for a ride. A long ride, and I wish you much pain and hatred in the future."
He turned and barked out more orders, and two more thugs entered the room and began unchaining Anne Marie and Kit, freeing them.
Kit wanted to defy them, but when they unchained her, she collapsed to the concrete floor. Two of the men dragged her unceremoniously toward a table, where generic blue t-shirts and shorts were stacked. With a gun in her face, Kit dressed quickly, wincing as the cloth scraped across her chest. Then she dressed Anne Marie, moving her stiff limbs slowly, one at a time, to slide the clothes onto her thin, shivering frame.
Minutes later, Kit and Anne Marie, who could walk but only as if in a fog, were hustled out a door and into the cold December night. The biting breeze reminded her of the lake and, in fact, she smelled the distinctive winter smell of the Lake Michigan she'd grown up with all her life. The cold wind lanced through her thin clothing. The many wounds where the whip had caught her stung with a determination she could barely comprehend, the clothing rasped across her bleeding skin causing unheard of agony. Tiny sharp lances of agony.
At this point, death seemed a bargain.
Rough hands dragged a musty blindfold over her eyes, nose, and mouth, and then all she could taste was kerosene and motor oil. She allowed herself to be led like a robot, and she could tell Anne Marie was being handled the same way nearby. A high step up into some sort of van, and then they were dumped into a cargo bed still redolent of some kind of smelly substance.
Kit forced herself to take shallow breaths and swallow carefully. Vomiting now could lead to death by drowning.
I won't give them the satisfaction.
I won't!
Kit desperately tried to hold off her nausea.
The van started up.
THIRTY-THREE
The first place on the list was Goran's house. Brant simply shook his head, and they knew he had crossed it off the list in blood.
The second was the same bar Brant had also scouted. It was grotesque, sleazy and illegal, but if Kit had been there he was certain he would have sensed her presence while he danced with Goran's boys. No, she was being held elsewhere. Brant moved the bar down the list. "Worth a second visit if the others fall flat," he said. He recalled the entry card he'd taken off the guy he'd had to execute.
On close inspection, there were businesses on the list that made little sense as dungeons. For instance, Goran was silent partner in a half-dozen auto service stations. He probably gassed up his fleet for free, but none of the places seemed likely to house basements, let alone cells outfitted for long-term prisoners. Two rather popular "theme" restaurants were struck from the list due to the constant traffic that would impede secret business. Several adult bookstores also seemed unlikely, especially one located in a strip mall… not impossible (Brant pointed out) but certainly a long shot.
In total, there were three solid contenders on the list: a storage warehouse, a boat slip, and another warehouse on a pier at the docks.
The boat slip was located at the marina, but all boats should have been taken out of the water for the cold Midwestern winter. But that winter hadn't materialized yet, so there was an outside chance Goran had left his vessel in the water. Brant automatically dismissed it, given the nearby yacht club and how a boat would stand out among rows of empty slips. Had it been summer, then maybe. But the St. Lawrence Seaway hadn't frozen yet this winter, in fact it hadn't frozen all that much in recent years, so the docks were open for business later than usual. This made the marina almost irrelevant. Which warehouse would be best for Goran's business? One was in an industrial park on the southwest side of town. The nearest was located on the pier itself.
Sarge and Smitty slipped into their vests and laced up, picked out and checked their weapons, then shook hands with everyone and headed for the industrial park. Brant watched them leave, feeling some kind of unquantifiable dread. But it was too late, the wheels were rolling. They had all donned the Kevlar except for Brant, who lied and said he was wearing a vest under his clothes so that Colgrave would have one. He'd doubted Sarge could have got his hands on another vest at this late hour though the well-prepared old veteran had disappeared into a back room, rummaged through his stash for another HK, and given it to Colgrave. The greatest need was to get moving, find Kit, hit hard and get out. When they were ready, armed and primed, Brant showed Digger and Colgrave to his car. The plan was to head for the bar. If they found nothing, then the next stop would be the docks. He turned to them before starting the engine.
"Need to check out my place first," he said.
"I'm not that kind of girl," Colgrave muttered from the rear seat.
"More's the pity." He glanced at her in the mirror. Was she smiling slightly?
He swung the car's nose into the light traffic. The tension had increased since their briefing, as Brant had called it, and now they drove in a charged silence until he slowed with a curse.
"What's going on?" Colgrave leaned forward between Brant and Digger.
"Not sure," Brant said, "but there's a million cops and at least two fire companies here."
"Can't you go around?" Digger said. He might have been nervous about the duffel bags that lay at his feet brimming with weapons and ammunition.
"Nope." Brant pointed out the windshield. They were turning onto a street clogged by firefighters and coiled hoses, and flashing lights turned the evening into red and blue colored strobing bars of night. "That's my building."
Flames shot from second and third story windows, and one of the side walls had already collapsed. Scores of firefighters struggled with hoses or huddled near three parked ambulances. Uniformed police marked a perimeter and waved onlookers past, and Brant edged his way along the street.
"Jesus, Brant. They found you, didn't they?"
"I made the mistake of telling them my name."
"I hope nobody else was home."
"Yeah." Brant felt the ice draining down his back and into his chest. If any of his neighbors had been home... If anybody had been hurt...
They made a Y-turn before Colgrave would be forced to use her badge to get them past barricades.
He wanted to wipe his forehead, but he kept both hands on the wheel and drove away.
His belongings could be replaced, but his memories of Abby would forevermore be only locked in his head.
Yet another score to settle.
KIT
In the dark – blindfolded.
This was all Kit knew, or had known, for at least a half hour. The van had come to a stop only minutes after departing. Had something gone wrong? Had the engine died? Had they been stopped by the police? She could only hope something had happened to their plans. She heard them talking amongst themselves, not laughing like they had been before. It was safe to say that something had changed in their demeanor. They were quieter, more thoughtful. Even the bastard in charge, whatever his name was, he had been quieter. Was there an edge of fear in the tone of their voices? Fear of what?
Uncle Rich, she thought. It's got to be him. He's looking for me. Getting close.
In moments when she herself felt less fear of the future, or less pain from the whipping, she thought of seeing Irina mutilate her father. She'd almost managed to block the image, but it kept resurrecting itself on the back of her retinas. She knew she would always see his face and her face and the great fountain of blood and the scalpel in Irina's hand, and-
She stopped herself from thinking about it. She had to. The nausea was still there, hovering just out of her reach.
Focus on the now. This is now.
The van door slid open suddenly, and they were hustled out into the cold, one at a time. In less than two minutes she was climbing a long, slightly angled ramp. She heard water splash softly below, smelled the fishy, oily, harbor smells, and felt the cutting wind again.
She wanted to call out to Anne Marie, but the cloth over her face kept her effectively muffled as well as blindfolded.
Jesus, it's a ship.
Her nausea threatened to overwhelm her and she swallowed hard, keeping things down but only barely.
There was no roadblock, no police, no rescue.
No Uncle Rich.
No, there was just a fucking ship.
A deep, low throb she could feel through her feet and legs told her there wasn't much time before this ship would sail. And with it, Kit's last chance at freedom.
THIRTY-FOUR
He parked under the Hoen Bridge within sight of the main port entrance. The Hoen was the original "bridge to nowhere," as it was known locally before the freeway was finally completed years later. Now it connected the city's downtown with he southern suburbs, encompassing several of the old industrial wards that were slowly becoming gentrified by new construction and mostly judicious remodeling of old factory buildings. Not far away the glitzy new permanent buildings of Summerfest huddled on the reshaped coastline, but here the look was more reminiscent of the mid-Fifties and rust-streaked. The port facilities had not seen major upgrading in decades.
Colgrave insisted port security had been tightened after 9/11, but the guard house appeared deserted. Lights shone through grimy windows, but there was no presence at the gate. Digger opened it with a suspicious device and climbed back into Brant's well-worn Nissan. Colgrave fingered her shield on its lanyard in case they were challenged, but they rolled easily through the gap in the fence without seeing anyone. She sighed with relief. Someone might memorize her badge number and then the jig would truly be up.
Brant doused the lights. A trade-off – they'd look suspicious, but maybe they'd retain surprise if this was the location they sought. High-set, angled streetlights provided more than enough of a glow to navigate the dock area.
"Number 7-B." Colgrave's whisper spurred Brant to drive past the first piers that jutted out into a dark Lake Michigan, and the warehouses, which were arranged alphabetically but on both sides of the street below the overpass. Cars rumbled over high above them, rattling the supports like castanets.
The approaching holiday had reduced the area to a graveyard of piled equipment, covered vehicles, and freezing mud where the on-again off-again snow flurries melted and refroze in this stunted winter cycle.
He pulled up to 7-A slowly and let the engine die. The silence unnerved him. He cast about with his mind, seeking a long-shot contact with Kit – even just a flash of intuition or partial vision, but there was nothing. Maybe inside, if she's been here. Maybe inside the warehouse he'd sense it.
Quietly they opened their doors and crossed the mud-tracked street, approaching the Goran warehouse with hands under their coats. Brant still gripped the silenced Woodsman. Colgrave and Digger had opted for HK firepower. The bulky suppressors on the 4.6mm machine pistols wouldn't reduce their reports completely, but would flatten and keep them from echoing under the concrete spans of the bridge above.
A quick survey showed that loading dock doors were shut and padlocked, but Brant spotted a judas gate in one. The others spread out and approached from the flanks, Digger heading for the rear while Colgrave crouched below the small window next to the door, even though the window glass seemed to be blocked by stacked boxes.
Huddling in his coat to look like a chilled stevedore, Brant knocked on the door. He waited, then knocked again, but there was only silence and the rumbling of cars on the bridge. He took a police lock tool from his pocket, inserted the tip, and manipulated the door open in seconds. Colgrave frowned. Brant shrugged – they were well past niceties like warrants and legalities. There was no going back.
Colgrave went in low, Brant high.
The tiny office was empty except for scratched metal file cabinets, a couple desks, tilting stacks of boxes, a rusty refrigerator, and some crooked shelving. Another door led into the warehouse proper. They entered and found an approximation of a conference room, with a long table and comfortable but mismatched chairs around it. Next door there was a bed, a stained leather couch, and a pair of armchairs.
Colgrave's nostrils flared. "Jesus."
The smell was a mixture of sweat, cologne, sex, and blood.
And fear.
Brant closed his eyes. It was a replay of the mansion, with one key difference.
Kit had been here.
He felt her presence, felt her calling out to him, felt her fear and anger. He realized now that he'd not felt that at the mansion. She must have been stashed here from the beginning. How often had he driven over this warehouse in the last forty-eight hours, on the bridge that hovered overhead?
"We're too late," he whispered, stricken. "She was here, but now there's nothing."
"No, there's a lot of building yet."
He nodded. Colgrave was right. He looked at her, but her face was turned away. He felt a sudden surprising wash of affection, but brushed it aside for now. Maybe forever.
Next door was another more sizable conference room, but this one had two ranks of chairs s
et up in a semi-circle around a portable stage riser. Large metal hooks were screwed into the floor of the riser at regular intervals. It didn't take much imagination to summon up an image.
"Fucking slave auctions?" Brant said, choking on his words. He'd seen most everything, but this was too much, too sickening even for him.
"Looks that way. Jesus Christ."
Guns ready, they opened the next connecting door. Here comfortable chairs were set up facing a bare white wall, studded with manacles drilled into the cinderblocks. The way the manacles were spaced, anyone secured to the wall would have been uncomfortably spread-eagled. Here and there, dark brown stains had set into cracks in the wall.
"Brant, look at this."
A set of three identical medical tables that allowed for tilting was lined up along one side of the large room. Each was equipped with professionally-mounted gynecologist's stirrups.
"Christ, like examining animals, or testing them out before buying."
Without warning, Colgrave turned and spewed a thin stream of bile onto the bare concrete floor, waving him off before he could move closer. When she straightened again, her eyes were feverish. Her hands shook. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve.
"Tell me we can just execute these fucks," she whispered.
Brant raised a hand, almost touched her arm, then lowered it. "Okay by me. But first we have to find my niece. I don't care what happens to them after that."
She nodded. "Let's get this over with. I think they're gone, and we're wasting time. They could be miles away, at one of his other places."
She kicked down the next door in two tries and suddenly Brant felt transported to the dungeon beneath Goran's mansion, except this was on a larger scale. A long hallway lay ahead of them with a series of doors set along both sides. Before they could start pulling them open one by one, the door facing them at the far end of the hall flew open. The guy who stood in shock, framed in the doorway, wore a Warner Brothers cartoon mask on top of his head like a beret.
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