Extreme Danger (56 page)

She shrank away. “I would rather die!”

He stepped away from her. “Not an option. That’s what this whole thing is about, Becca. You, not dying.”

She squinted at him. “Oh, come on. You’re protecting me, by chaining me up in a warehouse?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m doing the meeting, Becca. I’m going to let them take me to him. And I’m going to kill that fucker while he’s gloating. That’s my plan. You wait here. Out of harm’s way. You can’t harm me. He can’t harm you. It’s the best I can do for you.”

“But…but you can’t go to him,” she faltered. “He’ll—”

“Kill me? Cut me up? Oh, yeah. That goes without saying.”

She stiffened, lurching towards him, and was brought up sharp by the painful tug of the metal cuffs. “Oh, God, Nick. You can’t.”

“Please don’t pretend you care,” he said. “It makes it that much worse. Now listen closely. I don’t have much time. Truth is, I’m genuinely sorry to leave you here. This place gives me the creeps too. I would rather have used my own house, but it’s too far to drive there and back. There are six big bottles of water. Some food, enough to keep you going for a couple days. But I doubt that you’ll have to wait that long.”

“Nick, don’t. Don’t do this. I can’t let you—”

“You can’t do shit about it. I’ve placed the cuffs low enough so you can sit on the floor. You won’t be comfortable, but you’ll survive. I’ve FedExed your whereabouts to my ex-boss. Should be on her desk tomorrow. You won’t wait more than two days, max. They’ll come for you, and you can do your explaining to them, not to me. Because I don’t want to hear it.”

She turned her back. His footsteps receded. There was nothing more to say.

She looked at the two sets of handcuffs. The one cuffed directly to the scaffolding was placed at a height that enabled her to sit, with her arm fully extended upwards. If she sat, the other cuff that was attached to the long chain had just enough play so she could reach for the water and the bags of food, but not enough play so she could touch her other hand. Well planned, on the fly. But that was Nick for you.

Ironic, that her affair with him should both begin and end with handcuffs. One would think that detail might have given her an inkling of coming disaster, but no. Becca and her problematic taste in men.

She started shaking with something like laughter, but it died away abruptly at the sound of that door, scraping in its rusty gooves with a ponderous groan. The reverberating boom jolted her jittery bones as it slammed shut. The door blocked what light remained.

So the agonized wondering about Carrie and Josh and Nick was going to go on and on. Until someone opened a FedEx package, and took the trouble to come for her. She was all alone in the dark.

Or maybe not completely alone. She heard rustling, skittering, in the darkness. Her flesh crept. The other inhabitants of the warehouse were wondering who’d come to visit.

Chapter
30

N ick leaned on the truck, fighting the clammy faintness that threatened him. His heart thudded. Get out the fucking smelling salts.

He was in his usual place, squarely between a rock and a hard place, and getting whacked. But it had never made him woozy before. He was on the verge of a full-blown anxiety attack.

He tried to do the right thing, but there was no right thing. He’d never had enough information to know what was the right thing.

One thing was for sure, though. This did not feel right. At all.

So fuck it. When he got close to Cedar Mills, he’d call the McClouds. Tell one of them to go collect Becca, and deliver her to the authorities. Fail safe. You never knew with the FBI. She’d last until then. She was tough. She could deal.

That way he could make his appointment with death with a clear conscience. Which reminded him. He had to get in touch with Tam. He needed all the tricks he could fit up his sleeve, and she was the trickiest chick he knew. Aside from Becca, of course. Becca took the prize.

Not here, though. He got into the truck, put it in gear. He had to get some distance between himself and her. He could feel her despair, waves of it spreading out of that place, slopping over him, making him sick and shaky. He relocked the gate and took off with a squeal of tires. He hit the interstate, pulled off at the first rest stop.

First errand, lose the tag. He strolled by an eighteen-wheeler that was hauling livestock, and slid the GPS locator into one of the slots on the container. Let it get eaten by a pig or a sheep. That would lead those fuckers on a fun chase. Second errand. He went back to the truck, put a small battery into the digital voice recorder, and pushed play as he pulled back out onto the highway.

“…subject number 100023, BD 021697,” said a low female voice, presumably Diana Evans. “The subject is an eleven-year-old male, poorly nourished. Pulse rate 81, blood pressure 65 over 115, temperature 98.2. Listless and vacant in appearance…”

The recorded voice droned, recording vital signs, noting bruises that suggested abuse and/or vitamin deficiency. An untreated rash, a slightly enlarged liver. She spoke of tissue typing, a buccal swab. She recommended blood screening to rule out viral infections, a urine culture to rule out bladder and kidney infections. In a detached way, she noted the subject’s hygiene and state of emaciation. She recommended reevaluation before harvest of this subject was considered.

Harvest? What the fuck? She wanted to fatten this kid up for—

Oh, sweet holy Jesus. Realization clicked, like a round being chambered. Mathes was a cardiologist. Thoracic surgeon. Transplants.

Harvest. Organs. Lab tests, blood and urine samples. They were killing kids for their organs. Those filthy, ice-hearted sons of bitches.

Evans’s voice went on. Another numbered subject, ten years old. Same shit. Vital signs, dispassionate, doctorly observations about how scrawny and miserable he looked, but this kid had more spunk than the other, and didn’t like being poked and prodded and stuck with needles. He started to cry for his mama. In Ukrainian.

Evans persevered stubbornly, but her voice took on an edge, and finally, she said “shit,” fiercely. Click. The recording resumed, presumably some time later. The kid was whimpering more quietly now.

“Shut up and stop bothering the doctor, you piece of dogshit, or I’ll make you squeal like a stuck pig,” snarled an evil male voice. Ukrainian, also. The kid choked off his sniffles, and Evans’s voice continued with her report. But her voice had now begun to shake.

On and on. Child after child, number after number. The kids kept getting younger. All protested the needle. Some wept, some whimpered, some shrieked. Evans was breaking down. Her voice trembled, she stuttered, repeated herself, transposed words, got confused, had to run the tape back and start again. And if there was any ruckus, that voice was ready to intervene with his evil threats. It would have made Nick slit-his-wrists miserable even if he had not already been so.

Every last trace of sympathy he might have had for Diana Evans drained away. If she hadn’t been evil and cold enough to suit those murdering pricks, it sure as shit wasn’t from lack of trying.

For some reason, the fact that she’d tried made it worse. A psychopath couldn’t help what he was. But why would a person who actually possessed a functioning conscience deliberately try to deactivate it? It made him so angry, so bewildered. He blew out air, tried to breathe. For money? Meaningless stupid money? How could they value it so highly? He just didn’t get it. He never had.

But fortunately, puzzling that mystery out was not his job.

“Subject 100089, BD 121396. Well-developed, poorly nourished adolescent female…”

He snapped to attention, pulled off at the exit and pulled over to listen more closely.

“…pulse rate 79, blood pressure 70 over 120, temperature 97.9. What appeared to be a severe skin eruption on her neck now appears to be a port wine birthmark…”

He sucked in air, electrified. Sveti. Oh, God. Alive. Holy fucking shit. Alive. As of forty-eight hours ago, she was alive.

And in the hands of organ pirates.

“…priority rush on these lab tests, as Subject 100089 is scheduled for harvest on Sunday the twenty-seventh…”

That was today. That was fucking today.

His lungs were locked and his throat burned. Christ, he couldn’t stop breathing now. He might still have a chance to save her.

Sveti was speaking on the recorder. He recognized her soft voice, pleading for help from that worthless Evans bitch in the pidgen English that Nick had taught her. Being completely ignored.

She abandoned the English in favor of a babbling flood of high-pitched Ukrainian, but he couldn’t make out most of it because Evans was screaming. Damn it—shut up, you stupid cow, let me hear her—

The recording cut off abruptly. His body shook. He wiped his eyes and nose on his sleeve. No time for feelings. No time for tears.

He wished he could call the Cave for back-up, but he didn’t dare. He had no idea who in that crowd had sold Sergei out.

He put down the digital recorder, dragged out his phone and pulled up Tam’s number.

“Nikolai. I’m surprised to hear from you,” she cooed. “I heard the angel betrayed you. I thought you’d be licking your mortal wounds under a bush someplace. To think I got into it with one of Zhoglo’s lackeys, and at Sean’s wedding, too.”

“Shut up, Tam.” His voice cracked with emotion. “Remember Sergei’s daughter? The one you said was dead, or worse?”

“Yes. Calm down. You sound like you’re about to have a stroke.”

“She’s alive, Tam! As of two days ago, she was alive! But she’s on the slab. They’re going to break her down for parts. Today!”

“Break her down for parts? What the hell are you—”

“Organs!” he yelled. “They’re fucking organ thieves!”

Tam was startled into total silence.

He waited, till he couldn’t stand it anymore. “So?” he prompted. “Will you help me? She’s alone in the dark. Gonna help me save her?”

Tam blew out a breath. “Oh, fuck, yes.” Her voice was low and savage. “Where do you want me?”

“Stand ready. I’ll call Davy. I’ll call you back in a few, and we’ll come up with a plan.” He hit end and dialed Davy’s number.

Davy answered on the first ring.

“Got some bad news for you,” Nick said. “We lost Zhoglo.”

That threw him for a second. “Huh?”

“They shook us. They loaded some shit into a couple of SUVs, and the whole pack piled in and took off. Marcus followed them to a parking garage, but a car stalled out at the entrance. By the time he got inside, they’d switched vehicles and were out of there. Which means they made us, probably a while ago. So consider that when you calculate your—”

“Never mind that,” Nick cut in impatiently. “Fuck Zhoglo. Where’s Mathes?”

Davy hesitated for a second, nonplussed. “Uh…”

“Hey. Where the fuck is Mathes’s icon?” he demanded. “And where the fuck is Mathes?” Nick roared.

“All over the place,” Davy said. “Left his house at three, went to his office suite, then a stop at a private medical lab in Bellevue, and then he got on the highway and went to a place called Kimble—”

“Kimble?” Alarm jangled every nerve. “Fuck! That’s where they’ve got the kids! Why didn’t you tell me he was moving? How long has he been there?”

“About an hour and a half,” Davy said, his voice guarded. “What kids? You didn’t tell us to tell you whenever Mathes moved. Granted, you were pretty distracted the last time you were here—”

“Never mind that. That filthy shithead Mathes is killing kids and harvesting their organs. You guys want to help me stop him?”

There were about two seconds of shocked silence. “I’m with you,” Davy said. “I’ll tell the others.”

“Get all the firepower you can carry. Whatever you’ve got. Get on the road for Kimble. You got someone to spot us on the Specs monitor, in case the fucker moves?”

“Raine can—”

“Good. Call the FBI. Get their rapid response team moving. I’d be glad for the help. I’ll tell Tamara to meet us in Kimble. Move. Go. Now.”

The boy named Josh was so beautiful. Even with blood streaking his face from that lump on his forehead, even vomiting his guts out, he was the most beautiful thing Sveti had ever seen. Those green eyes, like leaves, like grass, like life. All things she hadn’t seen in so long.

She couldn’t stop staring at him. She knew it was rude, but her eyes stayed on him. The other children sat around him and stared too, silent and owl-eyed.

And when he smiled at her, oh. Her heart bumped. No one had smiled at her in months, unless she counted Yuri’s yellow-toothed leer.

She wondered if the girl on the bed was his girlfriend. She thought she’d understood the word “sister,” but she couldn’t be sure.

She was going to get a beating from Yuri for untying the boy. He’d told her not to touch those two or she would regret it. But it was worth it, just to talk to someone with a kind face.

She sat cross-legged on the mattress, rocking Rachel and crooning a lullaby. Peeking from behind her hair, like a lovesick cow. If the girl was his sister, she wondered if he had a girlfriend. Probably all the girls wanted him. Not that it mattered. She was thirteen, and he had to be at least eighteen. She was a plucked crow of a girl, skinny as a skeleton. Her hair was snarled, and she probably stank, though she was too used to bad smells to notice now. He had a nice body, too. Long and graceful, like a runner, with muscular legs. She liked nice legs.