Trash Course

by Penny Drake

  The stupid radio didn’t work. It seemed to be on, but the mike was completely unresponsive, no matter how often I pressed the button. I fiddled with frequency dials and poked at switches. Nothing. A small green screen winked at me. It read: ENTER SECURITY CODE. Beneath the screen was a keypad. Shit! How paranoid could Yerin get? I entered a few four-digit numbers at random, praying for a miracle. I didn’t get one. The radio remained stubbornly silent. No way to summon help.

  I looked up at the house, cold and distant on its hill. My heart pounded like it was trying to escape my rib cage. Me. Alone. Facing a houseful of armed thugs. My knees went weak. I couldn’t do it on my own.

  On my own.

  Abruptly I realized that it had always been that way for me. I had never done anything on my own. I had never lived on my own. I had never investigated a case on my own. Hell, I had never even trained for a job on my own—Mrs. Hawk had walked me through everything. Even my fight training, someone else taught me every step. I had spent my life surrounded by people who told me what to do and how to do it. Now Uncle Lawrence needed me, and I had the ultimate chance to show I could do something on my own.

  If I could pull it off without being killed. I swallowed hard. I could just wait, hide in the boat or on the island. Eventually someone would work out where I was.

  And Uncle Lawrence would be dead.

  I straightened. No. I could do this. I would do this. Terry Faye, woman of steel, would not flinch from what needed doing.

  An oddly light-hearted feeling washed over me and a lot of my fear abated. I was a strong, capable woman, and I could handle this. By myself.

  In the end, I left the yacht with only the flashlight and my own two hands. Sure, the latter two were semi-deadly weapons, but Wonder Woman to the contrary, they wouldn’t stop bullets, not even with silver bracelets. I would have given up cheesecake for life in exchange for a Glock.

  I paused. Well, no—if I gave up cheesecake for life, I’d at least have to get a pair of Uzis. Or a tank.

  I made my way up the path in my squishy shoes. Now that I wasn’t soaking wet, the air was pleasantly cool. Crickets chirped below and stars glowed above. It would have been a beautiful night if I had been anywhere else.

  The path curved a bit as it went up the hill. It was lined with scrubby bushes, and I stayed close to them, trying to walk in a crouch like cops do in the movies, except that hurts after a few dozen yards. Stupid TV. I alternated between crouching for safety and running upright for speed. The gravel path crunched underfoot, and I prayed no one would hear. Going through the bushes would give me more cover but would make more noise, so I stuck with the path.

  Eventually I reached an expanse of scruffy lawn. A white, two-story house built with peaks and gables and a wide front porch sat in the center of it, looking out across the water. The place was battered by weather and in need of paint. A couple of the upper windows had been boarded up. Several other windows glowed with light from inside, the panes throwing yellow squares into the yard. No outdoor light, for which I was grateful—the people inside wouldn’t be able to see out.

  I crept up to the house. My heart beat fast again, and adrenaline tingled in my arms and legs. The first story windowsills were a little higher than the top of my head. Zack could probably have stood on tiptoe to peer inside, but I had to chin myself, using the tips of my shoes to gain a little purchase against the side of the house. Splinters dug into my fingers as I pulled myself just high enough to get a peek, hoping I would see Uncle Lawrence. No such luck. I was looking through a kitchen window at four guys sitting around a table, eating and smoking. I could make out their voices. One of the men was Yerin. He turned his head toward the window, and I dropped back down in fear. Had he seen me? I dashed around the corner, flattened myself against the wall, and listened. Crickets, the soft lap of water, a distant boat horn. No slamming doors, running footsteps, or shouting voices. I allowed myself a bit of relief, though my stomach was still tight with tension. The odds against me looked pretty grim.

  A window on this side of the house also had its lights on. Moving carefully, I chinned myself again, hoping for an empty room with a phone sitting on a table placed conveniently under the window. Instead I saw a room with a bed, a couple ladder-back chairs, and Uncle Lawrence. He sat tied to one of the chairs, hands behind him, gray head drooping downward. The dirty red ball cap was gone. My heart twisted. I had never even spoken to the man, but I felt protective of him nonetheless. How could I get him out of here? I had no boat, no gun, and no way off this island.

  Uncle Lawrence wasn’t moving, though I could see him breathing. My forearms burned, and I dropped back down to the ground to think. I might be able to get in through the window and untie him, but then what? We might be able to hide somewhere until daylight, but that wouldn’t get us back to shore. I needed more information.

  I ran around to the rear of the house. The hill was higher back here, and the back door was level with the ground. Beside it were some garbage cans and a lawnmower that looked like it had been left out in the rain for longer than I’d been alive. A little roof jutted out over the back door to protect it from the weather, and above that was a glowing window. I eyed the window speculatively. Zack was—or had been—a second-story man, but he wasn’t here.

  Before I could lose my nerve, I backed up, took a running start, and leaped. I got a good handhold on the roof above the door. The shingles were rough and a little damp with dew. Blessing every moment I had spent in the gym, I swung myself sideways left, then right, until I had enough momentum to get one foot up onto the roof. My foot made a thump when it hit the wood, and I froze. My forearms were burning again and my fingers hurt, but still I didn’t move. My eyes and ears strained to catch something in the darkness. Nothing but the normal night-time sounds I was used to hearing.

  One of my hands was starting to slip. I hauled myself up onto the shingles, half rolling onto the roof. Carefully I duck-walked over to the window, taking each step as slowly and noiselessly as a deer sneaking past a hunter. Once I was close enough, I peered through the glass. What I saw turned my stomach. Bile roiled around my insides, and bitter acid burned the back of my throat.

  A large bedroom lay beyond the window. On the bare wooden floor sat a dozen wire dog kennels, each one barely big enough for the child it contained. Mama Bear roared anger and I kept hold with the barest grip. I counted ten girls and two boys, all dressed in ragged, dirty clothes, all of them under thirteen. Some lay curled up on the floor of their cages, asleep, others sat and stared at nothing. Two of them were crying softly, and a third rocked herself, arms wrapped around her knees. Anger pulsed like a living thing. I wanted to smash the window, destroy the cages, take the children out of there, gun down the thugs who had done this to them. but I had no weapons, and there was only one of me.

  The door to the room opened and a thug strode in. I flattened myself against the wall below the sill. The sound of him stamping about the room came faintly through the glass. I held my breath. The sounds ended. Had he left? No way to know for sure without looking. I counted to ten…twenty…thirty.

  The window above me scraped open. My heart almost stopped. A shadow moved. Without moving any other part of my body, I rolled my eyes upward to look. The thug was peering out the window. I held my breath. Cloth rustled, and the thug pulled a small flashlight from his pocket. He shined it on the ground around the little roof. The smell of stale tobacco clung to his clothes. I could have reached up and flicked his chin. The flashlight beam skittered around the yard below like a beam cast from a miniature lighthouse. Then the thug muttered to himself in Russian and pulled back into the window. He slammed it shut. I exhaled, feeling weak and trembly.

  I waited a few minutes, then peered into the room again. The children continued to huddle in their cages, but the thug was gone. I eased to the edge of the roof and dropped down to the grass near the garbage cans. I was feeling more and more out of my depth, with no idea what my next move should be.


  The clack of a cocking pistol sounded right behind me just as a cold gun muzzle pressed the back of my neck.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “You move,” hissed a voice with a Russian accent, “you die.”

  Hey, who wants to die? I didn’t move.

  “Hands up. Move to house.”

  I obeyed. An odd calm dropped over me, a feeling I recognized. It usually takes over during a terrifying situation like this one. My mind goes into computer mode, gathering data, analyzing, planning. Once the situation is over, I usually have a total freak-out.

  The thug nudged me through the back door and up a short flight of stairs into the kitchen. Thick cigarette smoke hung like gray fog in the air around a simple table littered with the remains of a junk food supper. A hard wooden floor creaked beneath my feet. Leaning against the stove, cigarette in hand, was Stanislav Yerin. He was still built like a wooden block, with skin the color of pale wood. His eyes widened at the sight of me, and the scar that split his eyebrow spread slightly. The thug said something in Russian, and Yerin answered. Then he turned to me. My hands were still raised.

  “I am happy to see you, Miss Faye,” Yerin said. His accent was more British than Russian.

  “You and your partner cost me quite a lot of business when you shut us down in Moscow.”

  Mama Bear rumbled inside me at the thought of all the children this man had sold into sexual slavery, and anger edged over my enforced calm. “Glad to hear it,” I said.

  He blew out a long stream of smoke. “You made a mistake when you came here. Sergei has very keen ears, and when he said he heard something, we started looking. This island is quite small, Miss Faye, so it is not hard to search. And speaking of searching…” He drew a pistol and spoke sharply to Sergei, who holstered his own pistol and patted me down. Yes, he copped a generous feel. Yerin watched without comment.

  “Now that you know my tits aren’t armed,” I growled, “what happens next?”

  Another stream of smoke jetted into the already choking air. “I don’t know. You made me very angry, Miss Faye, and it will take time to settle on something appropriate. Sergei here is ex-KGB and he knows many interesting ways to cause pain. I am sure the rest of my men would be pleased to assist him.”

  As if on cue, the back door opened and three more thugs boiled into the house. The casual way he said this ate away some of my crisis composure. A cold spike pierced my chest and I instinctively shot Sergei a glance over my shoulder. He was smiling, and his eyes brimmed with eagerness, as if he were a child looking at the tree on Christmas morning. His expression turned my stomach.

  “In the process,” Yerin continued, “you will also tell us how much you know about our current operation, despite the changes we made.” He flicked his cigarette butt into a wastebasket. “You and Mr. Peale both.”

  He barked another order in Russian, and Sergei shoved me forward. I stumbled across the dirty floor and down a short hallway to the bare bedroom where I had seen Uncle Lawrence tied to a chair. He was still there, hands tied behind him, though now he was awake. He stared at me with silent, bleary eyes. Sergei shoved me into a second chair and tied me up with swift efficiency. The ropes cut into my wrists and ankles, but I didn’t give Yerin the satisfaction of hearing me cry out in pain.

  Sergei smelled like fried sausage and his breath had onions on it. He stroked my ear with a cool fingertip. I glared hard at him, though I was starting to shake inside. I was in the deepest shit since…since ever. Zack and Ms. Hawk had no idea where I was or even how to look for me. It was me, myself, and I, and right now the three of us were tied up tight with no weapons and no way to get off this fucking island.

  Just as Sergei was finishing up, a man with salt-and-pepper hair rushed into the room. He was lean and his eyes were hard. “You found the little bitch?” he snapped.

  Yerin was lighting another cigarette. “My men are efficient, Mr. Peale.”

  My mind fished around and came up with the name Jackie Gold, the detective in Chicago, had given me. “Quentin Peale?” I said.

  In answer, he backhanded me across the face. Pain crashed through my head.

  “Don’t injure her, Mr. Peale,” Yerin said. “It will make her interrogation harder if she is only half-conscious.”

  “Aliens.”

  Everyone turned, though in my case it only involved my aching head. Uncle Lawrence was the one who had spoken.

  “What’s that, old man?” Quentin demanded.

  “Aliens,” Uncle Lawrence repeated. “You’re all aliens. I lost my hat, and you were able to read my thoughts. That’s how you found me.”

  “Oh God.” Quentin spat on the floor. “Not this bullshit again.”

  “It’s true!” Uncle Lawrence grew more agitated. “You can’t fool me. I know you’re in disguise! The government let you land on Earth so you could take my treasure, but you’ll never find it! Never!”

  Quentin drew back his hand again, then apparently thought the better of it. “Sure, old man. We’re aliens.” He leaned in until he was almost touching Uncle Lawrence’s nose. “And if you don’t tell me where the treasure is, we’re going to probe you.”

  Uncle Lawrence whimpered, his face pale as pizza dough. I felt so sorry for him—and for myself. It was clear Uncle Lawrence had a few leaks in his submarine, and I had no idea how to get myself out of this, let alone a lunatic old man and a room full of little kids.

  A wave of anger washed over me. Where the hell was Zack? Why had the creep left me alone to handle this? Intellectually I knew it wasn’t his fault, that he’d be here in a pico-second if he could, but I wasn’t thinking all that rationally right then. I pulled at the ropes, but they remained stiff and unyielding.

  “So you just want the treasure,” I said. “This has nothing to do with selling children?”

  Quentin shot me a look filled with acid. “It has everything to with the goods,” he snarled. “Both paper and people.” Then his expression changed. His eyes became hungry, predatory. He stepped closer to my chair, a wolf edging up to the flock. “You’ve been through my cousin’s house. My boys took pictures.” He leaned in. His breath oozed warmth across my face. “What did you find?”

  He clamped my earlobe between two fingernails and squeezed. Hot pain lanced my ear. I cried out and struggled to get away, but the ropes didn’t budge. Behind Quentin, Sergei and Yerin watched the show with mild interest. Quentin kept up the squeezing for several long seconds, then released me. The pain of release was almost as intense as the initial grab, and I cried out again.

  “Jesus,” I yelled. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  This time he slapped me. “Watch your language! I won’t put up with blasphemy from a woman.”

  Okay, this guy was beyond help. My computer-like calm had returned, and my mind was moving fast. Amazing how quick you can think when survival depends on it.

  “I’m sorry,” I said instantly, casting my eyes down. Meek, submissive little woman. No need to slap. You fuckhead.

  Quentin grabbed a chair, reversed it, and sat facing me over the back. “Better,” he said. “Now. Let’s set some ground rules. You are going to die. That’s a given. The only question is how slowly and in how much pain. You can make it less painful by talking. First—where are the papers?”

  In a way, his little speech was helpful. He thought I had information he needed, and that meant I could stall. The longer I stalled, the more likely some kind of help might arrive or a chance to escape would present itself. The hard part—and here I had to swallow—would be convincing him not to kill me or cause me permanent damage. Maybe it was a good thing my hands were tied—no one could see them shaking.

  “I don’t know where the papers are,” I said, forcing my voice to remain even. “But I might be able to figure it out if you tell me about them. Like you said, I’ve been through that house more than anyone, and I know where stuff is.”

  “This is idiotic,” Yerin said abruptly. “We need to learn how much she knows abou
t the trafficking routes, and who she might have told. That is far more important that a bunch of old papers.”

  “Shut up,” Quentin snapped. “You’ll get your turn.” He fixed his attention back on me. “Nice try, Hawkgirl. You tell me what you know about the treasure.”

  “No!” Uncle Lawrence vibrated with agitation in his bonds and the chair legs banged against the floor. His eyes were wide with a mixture of fear and horror. “No! The papers are mine! You can’t take them back to Mercury with you. They’ll burn up!”

  “One more word, old man, and Sergei will slice your tongue in half,” Quentin hissed. Uncle Lawrence went still, though his expression was terror personified. Quentin looked at me again. “Well? Spill your guts, girl, unless you want me to cut them out of you.”

  “I don’t know much,” I said as slowly as I dared. “Uncle Lawr—I mean, Mr. Peale here has a huge collection of U.S. history books in his bedroom. Several of them have bindings that break open at sections dealing with the Constitution, so I’m guessing the papers have something to do with that.”

  “Good guess,” Quentin said. “What else?”

  “Mr. Peale’s leaf collection is also pretty important to him,” I said. “Though I’m not sure exactly why.”

  “After the invasion from Mercury destroys the forests,” Uncle Lawrence blurted out, “we’ll be able to use them to clone new trees. I saved leaves and seeds.”

  “Shut up!” Quentin’s fist clipped Uncle Lawrence. Uncle Lawrence’s head snapped back and he gave a harsh grunt.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” I said hotly. “He’s not hurting you.”

  “It’s fun,” Quentin said. “He’s been hiding my family papers in that fucking house of his for decades. They belong to me.”