The Collector

by Scott Wittenburg

Alan stepped off the last step and looked around. Branson’s basement was little more than raw space without a single window. There were very few contents except for a couple of boxes stacked in a corner, an old reclining chair and a freezer. It took him only a moment to realize that there was no way out of here and suddenly felt like a fish in a rain barrel.

  He went over to the freezer and opened the door. It was functional and contained several packages wrapped in freezer paper. If he couldn’t find anything else to defend himself, he could always pick out a frozen strip steak he thought acidly. He slammed the door shut and went over to the boxes. They were covered in thick dust and probably hadn’t been opened in years. He picked one up to gauge its weight then tore off the packing tape. Inside he found nothing but clothes neatly folded in a pile. He checked the other box and found the same.

  Alan walked around the staircase and noticed some items stored under it but it was too dark to make out what they were. He pulled out his mini-mag flashlight and switched it on, realizing at the same time that Branson hadn’t even frisked him before forcing him down here. It was the first time in his life that he wished he carried a gun.

  He saw nothing of consequence stashed under the stairs—an old Scott’s seed spreader and a few empty wine crates. He cursed under his breath and looked down at Pan.

  “Looks like we’ve got ourselves in a real mess, eh girl?”

  Pan’s tail wagged as she looked up at him imploringly. As though she hoped he would somehow get them out of this mess.

  Suddenly Alan thought he heard voices upstairs. He walked over to the foot of the stairway and stood quietly. The floorboards were creaking under the weight of heavy footsteps and they were getting louder. When they suddenly stopped, not far from the top of the stairs, he strained his ears to listen.

  “Down there,” he heard Branson say.

  Another voice said, “You go with Mr. Branson and get ‘em loaded up. I’ll be taking care of this little matter in the meantime.”

  The voice sounded British. He heard another voice further away say something, but he couldn’t make it out.

  The snap of the deadbolt suddenly echoed down the stairway. Then the door flew open.

  Alan tore around to the back of the stairway. He realized it was too late to pick up that steak he’d considered for a weapon. In a panic, he turned on the flashlight again and searched desperately for something, anything to defend himself with that might be lying around under the junk in the stair well. But there was nothing viable.

  He heard the clomping of footsteps as somebody came down the stairs at a determined pace. The sound was almost deafening where Alan was standing, paralyzed. He had never felt as defenseless and fearful of his life than at that very moment. He sensed impending doom and had a vision of someone coming down here just to waste him. One of Popov’s men; the one who did the killing. He stepped behind the seed spreader and crouched down as low as he could, hoping to at least use the thing as a shield if nothing else.

  The footsteps hit the concrete slab and Alan tensed up, aware that the unknown person would figure out in an instant where he was hiding. There was a shuffling sound before the footsteps came toward him.

  What happened next was like a bad dream. Pan’s high-pitched squeals filled the air followed by the scurry of paws upon the concrete floor. Then the blast of a gunshot so loud that Alan thought his ears had split wide open. At the same moment, he heard a blood-curdling cry that didn’t sound human echo throughout the basement.

  Then he heard the sound of something falling to the floor.

  It sounded metallic, thank god—not like the sound of a dog’s body.

  Alan kicked the lawn seeder out of his way and bounded out from under the stairway. Looking to his right, he spotted a tall man clutching his arm just below the elbow, writhing in pain. A thin trail of blood was running down his arm and dripping onto the basement floor. Pan was behind the man pulling at his pant leg firmly set in her jaws. While tending to his wound, the man seemed impervious to Pan’s tugging.

  Alan noticed the gun lying a few yards away on the floor. The man must have dropped it after Pan rushed him and bit his forearm. He ran over and picked up the weapon, pointed it at the man and summoned Pan.

  “Come here, Pan! You are such a good girl!”

  Pan reluctantly let go of the man’s pants and ran over to Alan. He gave her a quick look over and didn’t see any blood. The gunshot must have either hit the ceiling or the floor.

  “And who might you be?” he asked the man, who was around six foot six and built like an ox.

  The man didn’t seem the least bit concerned about Alan’s presence or the gun pointed at him. “None of your fuckin’ business, Mate. And you sure as hell better know how to use that thing or I’m going to kill both you and that bloody dog!”

  “Oh, don’t worry—I know how to use it all right. And since I’m the one holding it right now, I think you’d best do as I say. You got that?”

  The man smiled in spite of the pain he was obviously in. “I got it—for now, anyway. But don’t plan on this arrangement lasting much longer. In a few minutes, the posse’s going to come back and take charge of things. You don’t have an ice cube’s chance in hell of getting out of this alive.”

  “Wouldn’t count on that, buddy. Right now, I want you to just stay right where you are.”

  Alan went over and patted the man down. He found a six-inch hunting knife strapped to his leg above the ankle. He pulled the knife out of its sheaf and held it in front of the man’s eyes.

  “One might think you do this sort of thing for a living. I don’t suppose you work for a Mr. Popov, do you?”

  “Have no idea what you’re talking about. And you sure as hell better not lose me knife. It has a lot of sentimental value to me.”

  “I’ll bet,” Alan said.

  He looked around the basement, wishing he had something to tie the guy up with but there wasn’t a thing. He’d just have to lock him up and hope he could locate the girls and split before it was too late.

  He headed toward the stairs, the gun trained on the man still nursing his arm. When Alan reached the top of the stairs, he shut the door and locked it. He ran over to the window and looked out to see where the others might have gone. All that was visible from his vantage point was Branson’s Buick and an older model white panel van parked behind it. The girls’ taxi, he assumed. He ran over to another window where he could see the barn. Its doors were wide open and there was a light on inside. So that’s where they are, he thought. He wondered whose voice he’d heard earlier. Another one of Popov’s henchman no doubt, whose job it was to transport them to wherever.

  He needed help and pronto. The man in the basement was a major threat and brawny enough to bust through the door if he worked at it. He remembered that his bag with his iPhone was in the room where he’d made the bogus Triple-A call. With Pan at his heels, he ran to the room. To his chagrin, the bag was not in sight. He did a quick search but couldn’t find it. Screw it. He ran over to Branson’s landline phone and dialed 911.

  “Yes, I need you to tell Chief Myers of the Wayneston Police that Alan Swansea needs his assistance immediately. I’m at Harold Branson’s farm with one suspect locked up and another one in the process of hauling the girls away.”

  “I’m afraid you need to settle down for a moment, sir. What kind of emergency is this?”

  “A goddamn kidnapping for Christ’s sake! Will you please just contact the chief and tell him to get his ass to Branson’s farm? I don’t have time to play any bureaucratic crap right now. Just call him!”

  He hung up, figuring it would be a miracle if Myers got the message.

  He returned to the kitchen and entered the adjoining utility room. He discovered a door leading to the backyard, brandished the gunman’s 9mm Glock and left the house.

  The outdoor floods were blindingly bright and Alan knew he would be seen if anyone looked out from the barn. He sprinted toward the tree line and took cover
in the shadows. Moving silently, he crept along the perimeter of the yard toward the barn.

  He was only twenty yards away when he heard voices inside. He couldn’t see from this vantage point so he made a beeline over to the nearest side of the barn and stood by.

  “I wonder where Mick is. He’s obviously done his job so what’s keeping him?” he heard the unknown man say. He had a thick east European accent—like Russian. In fact, he sounded like the Russian recruiter’s he’d called a couple of days before—Luka Rusakov or something like that.

  “I don’t know, Mr. Rusakov but my neighbor may have heard that gun fire. You men need to finish your business quickly and leave,” he heard Branson say.

  “Relax, old man. Have you got that key to work yet? This isn’t helping matters any.”

  “I seem to have grabbed the wrong keys, I’m afraid. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Back to the house. The proper key must still be in the kitchen.”

  “Hurry, then! And tell Mick to come out here to help!”

  Alan tore around the barn and stood in the doorway, Mick’s gun drawn. Branson almost ran into him.

  “Hold it right there, Branson—you, too!”

  Luka was standing outside of what appeared to be a recently added storage room in the far corner of the barn. He reached inside his jacket.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Alan warned. “Get those arms up in the air and start moving this way—slowly.”

  The man did as he was told. Alan patted Luka down and found a small caliber pistol in the inside pocket of his coat. He then checked to see if Branson was still packing the Magnum, but he was clean.

  “Where is Mick?” the Russian asked.

  “Detained,” Alan said. Without taking his eyes off of either man, Alan stepped over to the padlocked door of the storage room and said, “Is this where you hid them?”

  “Who do you mean?” Branson said.

  “Let’s not play games, either of you. We all know that the girls are in here.”

  He pounded on the door a couple of times. “Can you hear me in there?”

  He thought he heard a scuffling sound.

  He stared at the men. “If you don’t get this door open in about two minutes, we’re going to have a real problem here. Branson, you lead the way back to the house to get that key. Either of you make one false move and I’ll use this thing.”

  Luka smiled at him like an idiot. “Big tough American, eh? Mick will kill you if you try to harm either of us.”

  “Mick isn’t going to do shit, Rusakov. Now get moving!”

  Branson and Luka led the way out of the barn with Alan and Pan close behind. Alan wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep them both under control and the possibility of Mick breaking out of the basement wasn’t far from his mind. He needed to work fast before this whole thing went to shit, which he knew it very well could. It was three against one—not very good odds no matter who’s holding the gun. He could only hope his bravado would hold out before he slipped up and let his guard down.

  They reached the house and Alan ordered them to enter through the door he had used earlier. In the kitchen Alan said, “Get that key, Branson. And hurry—”

  A loud thud suddenly came from the door leading to the basement. Then another one, much louder. Mick was apparently smashing his body against the door.

  “I’m going to kill you, mate!” he heard Mick’s muffled shout through the door. “But if you open this door right now, I’ll make your death quick and painless. Spare you any torture or suffering!”

  On impulse, Alan aimed the Glock six inches to the left of the doorjamb and fired a round. “The next one’s for you!” he shouted.

  There was a moment of stunned silence and then the sound of feet retreating down the stairs.

  “Get that goddamn key now, Branson!” he snapped at Fowler’s Man Friday.

  The firing of the gun had a sobering effect on both men. Luka had turned a pasty pale white and Branson’s hands shook noticeably as he fumbled around in a drawer. A moment later he pulled out a set of keys.

  “Now, let’s go!” Alan said.

  The men were ordered outside again and Alan suppressed a smile when he noticed how Pan watched his captives like a hawk. She had been one lucky find.

  When they arrived back at the barn, Alan ordered Branson to unlock the padlock. He noticed a bungee cord hanging from a nail in the wall and grabbed it. Keeping an eye on Branson, he quickly wrapped the cord around Luka’s wrists behind his back several times until it was secure.

  “That hurts!” he whined.

  “Not near as much as it’s going to hurt after your new comrades in prison start breaking you in,” Alan said before forcing the Russian down to the ground.

  There was crisp click as Branson freed the lock.

  Alan went over, removed the lock and opened the door. In the light filtering in from the barn he saw the girls sitting on the ground huddled together. They were gagged and bound, their eyes filled with terror. Alan realized why they hadn’t tried to make a sound earlier: they must have thought he was one of the bad guys coming to take them away to their next gig.

  “Do any of you speak English?” he said.

  They looked at one another and hesitated a moment before one of them finally nodded her head.

  He went over to the girl and said, “My name is Alan—I am not going to hurt you. You’re all getting out of this place and going back to your families.”

  There was a stunned silence and then what sounded like muffled sighs of relief. Alan noticed that the girls were all bound together by a thick rope secured to a corner post in the ground that prevented them from standing up.

  He turned to Branson. “Get in there and untie them—now!”

  Branson worked briskly and had the girls freed in a few moments. One by one they got up onto their feet, their legs stiff from the ordeal. Alan walked over and gently removed the gag from the girl who spoke English. She was thin but looked healthy and was probably around thirteen years old.

  “He has Polina!” she cried in a thick accent.

  “What’s this? Who has Polina?”

  “Master! He wouldn’t let her go with us!”

  Alan quickly removed the gags from the remaining girls. They all started jabbering in Russian.

  “Please, tell me about Polina. Are you saying that she is still with Fowler?”

  “Yes! And he is going to kill her! He said that he was going to pour hot wax all over her so he could make a sculpture—please, you must save Polina before it’s too late!”

  “Shit!” Alan hissed. This couldn’t be happening. “Okay girls, come on out of there.”

  The five girls filed out and stood together in the barn. One of them suddenly marched over to Luka and kicked him hard in the groin.

  “That’s for what you have done to us!” she cried.

  Luka cringed and howled in pain before doubling over in a heap on the floor. Alan went over the pathetic Russian and helped get him back up to a sitting position.

  He looked over at the girl who had just kicked him and said, “Is this the man who forced you out of your country and brought you here?”

  Her face was set in utter defiance. “Yes, that’s the pig!”

  Alan regarded the little group of young girls and felt a rage surface from his very core. He spun around, glared at Luka defiantly and smacked the Russian with the handle of the pistol so hard that he fell sideways onto the floor. Blood ran down Luka’s cheek and Alan savored the sight. He wished at that moment the man would bleed to death.

  He wrestled Luka onto his feet and looked over at Branson. “Both of you get inside.”

  After escorting the men over to the storage room, he pushed them inside, closed the door and locked it.

  “Come with me girls, we’ve got to get moving.”

  “What a cute dog!” one of them said, kneeling down to pat Pan on the head. Apparently they
all spoke English, he realized.

  “That’s Pan, and I’m certain that she is just as glad to see you as I am.”

  As he led them out of the barn at a run, it suddenly struck Alan how surreal this all seemed—five girls in tow, all from a world he’d never seen, taken against their will and brought to this country to be used and abused, their young lives already ruined, perhaps. He allowed himself a fleeting glance over his shoulder and saw their cherubic faces flushed with excitement and relief that their nightmare was about to end. It was at that moment he knew why he had taken this case—

  To be a part of this.

  But along with their joy was grave concern for their missing friend. His heart sank. Polina was still a prisoner—the one he had sought in the first place. The irony was inescapable.

  He had to find her.

  They were almost at the house when the backdoor suddenly swung open and Mick leaped out into the lit backyard. Even from this distance, Alan saw murder in his eyes as the Brit raised Branson’s Magnum and fired. He heard the bullet whizz past his ear and he turned in horror to see if anyone was hit. No, thank God. “Girls, get down! Don’t shoot, Mick!” he cried.

  The girls hit the ground as Alan stopped dead in his tracks. Mick had shot on the run and was now only a few yards away. Pan was growling fiercely and ready to rush Mick yet again but Alan managed to grab her collar and restrain her.

  “Drop that fuckin’ piece, Swansea or I’ll let you have it in the nuts! And if that fucking dog knows what’s good for it, she’ll stay right where she is.”

  Alan dropped the Glock. Mick picked it up, examined it briefly then tucked Branson’s Magnum into his waistband. He pointed his own gun at Alan. Pan continued to growl.

  “Now my knife and anything else you’re packing,” Mick commanded.

  Alan pulled Luka’s pistol out of his pocket, dropped it to the ground then handed over Mick’s knife. Mick grabbed his knife and thrust the barrel of his Glock into Alan’s gut so far it hurt.

  “Thanks, Mate. I hope you now see why you don’t fuck with me—it just makes me angry. I’ve got big plans for you and your mutt but I’m also a gentleman. The last thing I want is for these young ladies to have to witness your execution. So let’s do this in a dignified way. Girls, I want you to get up and start walking around the house to the van. Swansea, you go first with the girls following along.”

  Alan watched as the girls got to their feet, the exhilaration so evident only a moment ago now replaced by utter dread. Mick gave Alan an extra poke with his gun before gesturing for the girls to join him, When they arrived at the older model Ford van, Mick swung open the door and motioned for the girls to get inside. After the last one was in, he slammed the door shut, made sure it was locked and looked at Alan.

  “Head back around the house, Swansea. I am going to assume you have the Russian and Fowler locked up in the barn, correct?”

  “Yeah,” Alan replied weakly. He had avoided being assassinated earlier when Pan saved the day but his luck had run out. As much as he didn’t want to die, his thoughts were more on the girls’ fate than his own at the moment.

  “It won’t hurt them to stay there a bit longer—I’m not particularly crazy about either of the blokes, actually. I do want you to know that I’m going to enjoy this, Swansea. There is hell to pay. Take a look at me fuckin’ arm where your mutt bit me! Still hurts like the devil!”

  “Good, maybe it’ll fall off. Then you’ll have to start killing left-handed.”

  The last word was no sooner out of his mouth than Alan felt the smack of cold hard steel against his jaw as Mick pistol-whipped him. Pan squealed and started to lunge but Alan managed to keep his grip on her collar.

  “Smartass, eh?” Mick said, “I should think you would be begging for me to spare your life instead of getting’ me more riled up, Mate! So shut the fuck up, ya got it?”

  Alan held his broken jaw and nodded.

  They rounded the house and Mick pushed Alan through the back door. “Back to the cellar, mate—it’s time to take up where we left off earlier.”

  Alan saw the splintered doorjamb where Mick had managed to smash the door down. After forcing him and Pan downstairs, Mick said, “Have ya got any last words?”

  Alan turned around, stood and faced him. “I just want you to answer one thing, Mick. Does it ever bother you what Popov does to all of these innocent women and children?”

  He smiled. “No, not at all. What he does is his business and what I do is mine. It’s all just a business, ya see.”

  “You have any kids?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “I was just wondering. Because if you had a young daughter, I wonder what you would do if someone like Yuri Popov or that idiotic Russian got their hands on her and forced her into a life of servicing any man who wanted it. Being forced to waste her life away while Popov and the pimps take the money, laughing all the way to the bank. I’m wondering how that would make you feel, Mick.”

  “Don’t know and don’t care since I don’t have a daughter. Is that all you have to say?”

  “One final question: do you ever feel bad about murdering innocent people? I mean, I’m sure the money is great but do you ever have trouble sleeping at night?”

  “Nope, can’t say that I have. As I told you before, it’s just a business to me.” He thought for a moment, smiled and said, “Now if you asked me how I feel about some of the things I’ve done just before snuffing someone out, that would be a different thing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Let’s just say that sometimes I get a bit carried away. Take this woman I blanked just a few days ago. She was a real looker and tried every trick in the book to sweet-talk me out of wasting her. Stripped off her clothes, offered to blow me, shit like that. I mean, this is the kind of stuff a man lives for—to have a woman like that on her knees, literally, at his fuckin’ mercy! So I gave it some thought and figured, what the hell, might as well let her suck me off if she wants to do it that bad. So I let her do it. And after I blew me wad, I told her to get on her hands and knees. I think she figured I was gonna do it to her doggy style and obliged me. I stuck this gun up inside her and pulled the trigger instead. Gotta admit I felt a bit bad later on—leading her on like that. But that’s the way it goes some time. You do what you gotta do.”

  Alan felt a chill as he realized what he was dealing with here—a sociopath clearly not capable of any kind of compassion or remorse. Prime criteria for the cold-blooded assassin he was.

  Mick seemed to read his mind and said, “It’s over, Swansea. You’ve spent your final moments worrying about this and that and trying to analyze me—what a bloody waste! Now it’s time to get down to business. The first thing I want you to do is remove your belt.”

  Alan stared at him incredulously. What was he planning on doing?

  Mick brought the barrel of the Glock up to his face and pressed it against his sore cheek. “Do it now!”

  Alan removed his belt.

  “Now, loop it around your dog’s collar like a leash.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “You’ll find out in a minute. Just do as I say!”

  Alan held onto Pan’s collar and slipped the free end of his belt under her collar and threaded it through the ring, tightened it up until it encircled her collar. The sudden realization that had he used his belt to tie up this madman earlier this would not be happening made him want to vomit.

  “Very good. Now walk her over to that stair rail and tie her to it. Tie her good and tight.”

  He led Pan over to the railing and tied her to it, trying to think of a way out of this. Nothing came to mind.

  “Nice job. Now listen closely to what I want you to do. I’m going to hand you this gun—” He brandished Fowler’s Magnum tucked in his waistband. “But first I want you to stand right over there with your back to me and face the stairway like this.”

  He stood about four feet from the foot of t
he stairs. “Right here,” he ordered, grabbing Alan’s shoulders and positioning him.

  “After I hand you this gun, you’re going to take aim at your dog and fire. Make it a good clean shot in the head and she won’t suffer any. Short and sweet. You got it?”

  “Are you crazy? I am not going to shoot my dog! Just go ahead and shoot me instead!”

  Mick’s eyes were cold and calculating—his voice rose as he spoke. “But yes you are going to shoot her, Swansea! You know how I know that? Because you have no fucking choice, that’s how! You gave up your rights the moment you fucked with Yuri Popov and now you’ve fucked with me, too, which makes you fucked but royally! So trust me here, you will indeed do as I say!”

  “I’m not going to do it.”

  He smiled. “Fine, then. We’ll do this a different way. I will shoot your dog for you. I will start with her front paws and blow them off one by one. Then I’ll blow off her rear paws, making sure not to miss and somehow hasten her death or lessen her suffering. I’ll let her thrash about on the floor, wallowing in her spilt blood, crying for mercy. Let her suffer a horrible, slow excruciating death while you look on. Is that what you would prefer, Swansea?”

  Alan didn’t know how he did it, but the next thing he knew he had kicked the gun out of Mick’s hand. Then he lowered his head and rammed the Brit’s gut so hard that he thought he’d broken his neck from the impact against his rock hard abs. Mick simply smiled cooly, unfazed, pulled out Fowler’s Magnum and stuck it in Alan’s face. Pan was barking furiously, straining against the improvised leash to get at Mick.

  “Not very smart of you, Swansea, trying that kinda shit. Not smart at all.”

  He took a few steps backward, learned over and picked up the Glock, came back over to Alan, turned him around so he was facing Pan, stuck the barrel of the Glock into his back and said, “Take this fucking gun and shoot your dog. If you don’t, I’m gonna make her suffer more than you can you ever imagine, and you’re gonna watch. Then, I’m going to make you suffer before I kill you. You have no choice Swansea. Just fucking do it—I’m losing my bloody patience here!”

  Alan felt the cold steel of the gun as Mick placed it in his hand from behind. He already knew what he was going to do, and that did not include shooting Pan. He could only hope that he could move quick enough to get a shot off before Mick pulled the trigger and killed him—

  A shot suddenly rang out before he could follow through with his plan. He could feel the bullet rip through his back, burn a path through his rib cage and explode in his heart—

  Or so he thought he could.

  Then he realized that he wasn’t hit at all; he felt nothing! He turned around just in time to see Mick raise his hand like he was waving at somebody, his gun falling to the floor with a clatter. He saw a small patch of blood a few inches below the assassin’s left shoulder as the force of the shot caused him to fall flat on his back onto the concrete floor with a hard thud, all in slow motion. Pan was barking wildly now like she had also been shot. But when he turned to look, Alan saw that she was still standing on her rear legs, straining to get to her master.

  The next thing he saw was a man bolt down the stairs, two at a time, gun drawn. Alan didn’t recognize him at first. He had half-expected to see either the Russian or Fowler.

  But instead, he saw Chief Myers.

  The chief nodded briefly then brushed past him. He stood over Mick and examined the wound, then brought his walkie-talkie to his ear. “Get an ambulance out here pronto, Barnes. The suspect’s down and bleeding pretty bad.”

  There was the cackle of static followed by a tinny voice. “Ten-four, Chief. Swansea okay?”

  The chief glance back at Alan. “Seems to be. Call in again for some backup. We’re definitely gonna need it now.”

  “Ten-four.”

  Alan went over and stood beside the chief. Mick was grimacing in pain and barely conscious as Myers took out a handkerchief from his back pocket, wadded it up and pressed it firmly over the wound in Mick’s chest.

  “Looks like this fellow was trying to kill you.”

  “Yeah, but he was waiting until I killed my dog first. You made it here just in the nick of time, Chief.”

  “I was probably here a bit sooner than you think but it took us a while to get a fix on what was happening.”

  “Did you find the girls?”

  “Yup, they’re fine. They showed us where you locked up Branson and the Russian—good work, by the way. We’ll arrest them as soon as we get them out of that room. I assume you have the key?”

  Alan pulled it out from his pocket. “Here it is.”

  “Great.”

  Mick was coming around and glared at the Chief. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Right now, I’m your worse nightmare, buddy. And if I were you I’d save my strength and not yap my trap—you’ve lost a lot of blood.”

  “Fuck you, Mate.”

  “I’m not your mate, trust me.”

  Mick glared once more at the chief, winced in pain and shut his eyes.

  “How were you able to get a bead on this bastard, Chief? That was one hell of a shot!”

  “After I came inside the back and saw the basement door practically busted off its hinges, I figured the two of you might be down here. I stood at the top of the stairs for a good minute or so, just waiting for this guy to come into my line of fire. After he handed you the gun, I finally got my chance.”

  “All I can say is thanks, Chief.”

  “Don’t mention it, Alan. I’m just sorry I didn’t do my job before like I should have. I—”

  “Polina! She’s still with Fowler!” Alan said.

  “I know, the girls already told us. I radioed Jacobs and Carter five minutes ago and ordered them to get up to Fowler’s place on the double.”

  “Did the girls tell you about his plan to kill her?”

  “Yup. That sick son of a bitch had me fooled, I can tell you that.”

  “We need to get up there, Chief. It’s obvious he has her hiding somewhere that you missed when you were up there before. We’ve got to find her!”

  “Hold your horses, man! I’ve got three felons, five young foreign girls and only myself and Barnes to handle all of this. Nobody is going anywhere until backup arrives.”

  “But you’ll let me tag along, right?”

  He nodded slowly. “I reckon that’s the least I can do. For now, I need you to take that key out to Barnes while I keep an eye on this suspect, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  The chief got back on the radio. “Barnes?”

  “Yeah, Chief.”

  “Swansea is bringing the key to the storage room out to you. Think you can handle placing them in custody?”

  “No problem. It would make my day.”

  “Okay, then. Hear any sirens yet?”

  “I think I hear the emergency squad heading this way as a matter of fact.”

  “Good. Tell them where I am, Jeff.”

  “Ten-four.”

  Myers looked at the blood soaked handkerchief. “Go get me a clean towel if you can find one. This guy’s going to bleed to death if the medic doesn’t get here quick enough.”

  “Wouldn’t break my heart if that happened.”

  “I don’t expect it would. Not a very pleasant fellow for sure.”

  Alan went over and untied Pan. “You have been one brave girl, Pan.”

  Pan responded by jumping up and smothering him with kisses.

  Alan slipped his belt on as he ascended the stairs. He found a clean dishtowel in the kitchen and took it back down to the chief before leaving the house. He spotted Barnes and the rescued girls standing outside of the barn and ran over to them.

  “Here’s the key,” he told the officer.

  “Thanks. It sounds like the emergency squad should be here any minute.”

  Alan turned to the girls. “So what are your names?”

  “I’m Nina. That’s Katya . . .”

  After all of the girls
introduced themselves Nina said, “Have they heard anything about Polina, yet?”

  “I only know that the police chief has sent two officers out to Fowlers’ and he expects to hear back from them soon. Do any of you have any idea where he might be hiding her?”

  Katya and Daniela looked at one another and Katya said, “The time-out room—I’ll bet that’s where she is!”

  “Where is that?” Alan asked.

  “It’s in the cellar—Master always put us in there if we ever acted out.”

  “What does it look like?”

  “Like where you would put crazy people! It’s got thick rubber over all of the walls and it’s very stuffy. I was in there for an hour one day and I thought I was going to suffocate! There are no windows or vents and it’s very tiny – just room enough for one or two people to stand in.”

  “So it’s soundproof?”

  “Oh, yes. Nobody could hear if you screamed bloody murder!”

  “How often did Fowler put you in there?”

  “Quite a lot, at least when we were first taken to his home. He had no patience with us and got angry often. We didn’t understand what we were supposed to do for him and had much to learn.”

  “Did he ever hurt any of you—I mean, physically?”

  “No, not really. He was nice to us most of the time.”

  Alan was relieved to hear this. Elena would be, too. “So where in the basement is this room located?”

  Daniela said, “It’s not very far from where the furnace is. You can’t see it unless you know where to look. There is no entrance you can see; there is just a wall. Master did something to open up part of the wall.”

  “It’s like a hidden door?”

  “Yes, that’s it—the door would open up after he went into the furnace room and did something. There must be some kind of switch there, I guess.”

  Officer Barnes had removed Branson and Luka from the storage room and was handcuffing them. After reading their rights, he led then out of the barn toward the patrol car that was parked behind the panel van. Harold Branson had lost most of his dignified demeanor and Luka Rusakov looked like a dead man walking. The girls leered at him as he went by.

  “He is the man who tricked us into leaving our country. I hate him!”

  Alan said, “I don’t blame you for that. What was it like coming over here?”

  “Very bad,” Nina replied. “We had to wear the same clothes and never got to take a bath.”

  “And they hardly gave us anything to eat! They kept us in the most disgusting places and treated us like animals!”

  “Did they ever hurt you—like beat you or anything like that?”

  “You mean did they rape us?”

  Alan was stunned by the girl’s bluntness. “Well, yes—that or anything else physically harmful.”

  “They were pretty rough and pushed us around a lot. But they never raped any of us.”

  “Because they wanted us to remain virgins, is the only reason!” Olga said. “Once in a while one of the men would try to make us to do something but then somebody else would warn them not to. They knew that we would be worth much more if we were virgins so everyone involved must have been told not to abuse us in that way.”

  How thoughtful, Alan thought. Damaged goods equals less profit.

  The wail of the sirens suddenly grew louder and everybody turned to see an emergency squad vehicle pull up the driveway followed by another police car. Barnes was standing beside the patrol car talking on his radio, perhaps to the chief. Alan saw him turn and motion for him and the girls to head back.

  “Let’s go, girls,” Alan said.

  The paramedics had already rushed into the house by the time they met Barnes, who was now talking to the other officer. He said to Alan, “We just got a call from Jacobs—they’re going to have to bust through Fowler’s gate. The chief will be out here in a bit.”

  “You mean they haven’t even reached his house yet?”

  “No. They said that the gate is like cast iron and won’t budge. So they had to radio in for a wrecker with a winch to pull the thing down They’re waiting for it to show up.”

  The officer who had just arrived said, “I’m going to take you girls into the station. We’ll get you something to eat and keep you comfortable while we sort everything out. This way, please.”

  The girls started following the cop over to his car. Suddenly Nina turned to Alan. “Thanks for saving us, Mr. Swansea. Please find Polina before Master hurts her!”

  “We’ll do everything we can, Nina. My hope is that Fowler has planned on letting things settle down a bit before doing anything else. If we can get in there and locate that room soon enough, she should be fine.”

  She ran over and kissed Alan on the cheek. “I hope so. Well, then—good-bye,” she said, blushing.

  Alan watched the girls climb into the police car, aware that he had just lied to Nina. Fowler wouldn’t spare Polina any longer than he had to. The man was unpredictable and compulsive—and would waste no time dealing with Polina.