Forgive Me (29 page)

“Is Casper upstairs or is he down in the hole?”

“Casper couldn’t fit through the vent. He was going to try and hide. We had just woken up Buggy when you came downstairs. Did anyone get shot because of me?” Nadine’s body slumped forward from an invisible weight resting on her shoulders.

“It’s okay. Honest,” Bryce said, giving her a little hug of encouragement. With her hands cuffed, she couldn’t hug back.

“Frank, radio our command. Tell them to watch the alley.” Bryce said this as he handed Frank his M-4 and Little Pig.

“Where you going?” Frank asked.

“Buggy is our guy. I’m going to get him.” Bryce had a flashlight and his Glock. He figured that would be enough. Just to be safe, he tossed a flashbang into the hole. A loud explosion erupted from down below, somewhat muted on account of the thickness of the concrete. Buggy would have endured the full effect, and the blinding flash may have temporarily disabled him.

Bryce climbed down into the hole. He breathed in steamy, hot, poorly-ventilated, stale air that his lungs couldn’t clean.

Floor to ceiling the space was a tight squeeze. If he arched his back even slightly, he’d scrape it against the rough-hewn cement above. He crawled forward on his hands and knees, shimmying as though he were slipping below razor wire in some Army obstacle course. His dirt-filled mouth acted like a gritty sponge, sucking up all the moisture. The flashbang had kicked up loose soil and contributed, not insignifacntly, to the dirty, smoky mayhem. Removing his Glock from its holster, Bryce’s throat tightened. If he started to cough, he wasn’t sure he could stop. The impenetrable darkness ignited a mild case of claustrophobia. It wasn’t a paralyzing fear, but the unpleasantness stayed with him like a persistent ache.

Bryce’s biggest concern was that Buggy would find the vent, get out, and get himself a hostage. Spinning on his belly, Bryce shone his flashlight in a sweeping circle. No sign of Buggy, but Bryce saw some structural support columns made of cinderblock Buggy could be hiding behind. Bryce inched forward. Clouds of dust billowed off the dirt floor, launching motes that danced lazily in his flashlight’s jouncing beam. Bryce’s throat tightened still more. Dirt and dust continued to seep into his lungs anyway. He held his ground and listened. Was it a breath? It sounded close by. Bryce whirled toward the noise, his flashlight beam trailing.

Nothing.

“Buggy, let’s not do this.” Bryce listened, but the only sound was his heartbeat thundering in his chest.

A bright flash erupted and lit the crawlspace like a bolt of lightning. A simultaneous bang preceded the familiar smell of gunpowder. A bullet whizzed near Bryce’s shoulder and sank into the dark.

Bryce understood his flashlight was the problem. He cut the beam and rolled. Jagged stones dug into his skin. It was worth the pain to distance himself from the hatch opening and the secondary light source. Three more shots rang out. The noise was going to be harder on Buggy than on Bryce, who wore ear protection.

From above Frank called, “Bryce, are you okay?”

Bryce figured Frank didn’t need to go down there and get shot. He chanced giving away his position to respond. “Stay back. I got this,” he yelled as he rolled some more.

Another shot rang out. Had Bryce not been moving, the fourth bullet Buggy fired might have found its target. Instead, the projectile sank into the shadows like the others. But Bryce now had a general idea where to find Buggy, and he crawled in that direction.

In the darkness, Bryce heard movement, sounds of scampering as Buggy took up a new position. Bryce thought he might get lucky, but Buggy was smart enough to move away from the light seeping down from the open hatch. Bryce had to decide if he wanted to go after Buggy or make his way out and wait for reinforcements. Exiting would make him an easy target.

By going down there, Bryce essentially had committed, so he decided to go get his man. He slid forward on his belly. His tactical gear pressed unpleasantly against his chest. Jagged rocks dug into his knees and elbows. He’d been down there all of four minutes and all he wanted to do was get out.

“You’re going to have do things you don’t want to do to get your man,” Bryce’s favorite instructor at the training center had once told him. “Tracking isn’t just following footprints. Any clown can do that. What makes a marshal exceptional is an innate ability to read each clue, to understand the nuances, the essence of the movement, so picture in your mind these movements and imagine them as if they were your own.”

No surprise his instructor’s words came back to him at that particular moment. Without his flashlight, without light from the hatch, Bryce’s only option was to imagine Buggy’s movements. What would he do in a similar situation? How would he think?

Fear.

It was the first word that came to Bryce’s mind. Buggy would be utterly terrified. He wasn’t a killer. He was a dealer. So why did he shoot? Fear. A cornered animal was a most dangerous one.

He’ll move toward the wall,
Bryce thought.
Search for that vent.

But where was the wall?
Damn this darkness
. Bryce held a breath and gave a listen. A scraping noise sounded not too far away. Bryce guessed fifty feet, but it was hard to gauge distance by sound alone.

Imagine their movements as if they were your own.

Bryce took the advice to heart as he played out a scenario in his mind. For a moment, he became Buggy down in the hole with his back against the wall, both figuratively and literally.

Bryce had only a general idea of Buggy’s location, but he came up with a way to pinpoint it exactly. In one hand, Bryce held his Glock, and his flashlight in the other. He rocked his body and rolled onto his back, then onto his stomach, then onto his back once more. His momentum began to pick up. Rocks bit at his flesh, then released, then bit again. As he rolled, Bryce powered on his flashlight and sent it spinning in the opposite direction.

The rolling flashlight was bait, nothing more. Bryce stopped rolling, but the world kept spinning. In the dark it was hard to regain equilibrium. Hopefully, Buggy’s addled brain would think Bryce was still on the move.

Sure enough a shot rang out, aimed at the rolling flashlight. Bryce did not hesitate. He fired where he saw the flash of gunfire. A groaning sound told Bryce his aim had been true.

“Are you done shooting, Buggy?”

A second groan.

“I’m not taking chances. You toss that gun where I can see it.”

Bryce rolled toward the flashlight. He heard a noise, a thud.
A gun, perhaps?

Bryce retrieved the flashlight and directed the beam where he heard that thud. The outline was distinct enough for Bryce to make out the shape of a gun. He trained his beam on Buggy. His back, indeed, was against the wall, clutching his leg, taking in short and shallow breaths. Buggy’s face was smeared with dirt turned muddy from his sweat. Bryce crawled toward Buggy, flashlight in one hand, gun in the other, his finger never leaving the trigger of his Glock. Buggy’s face was filled with panic. The bleeding was brisk.

“I need a doctor,” Buggy said, clutching his wound.

“Better that than a mortician,” Bryce said. In the cramped quarters, Bryce managed to take out a pair of TUFF-TIES, the best nylon restraints on the market. Buggy cried out when Bryce yanked his arms to get the restraints in place. He secured another set of ties around the leg wound to form a tourniquet, and then flashed his light in Buggy’s eyes.

“Ramon Gutierrez, on behalf of the United States Marshals Service, I am pleased to inform that you are under arrest.”

CHAPTER 38

A
ngie took the elevator to the third floor of the Mercy Medical Center where Nadine Jessup was being kept overnight for observation. Nadine’s parents were en route to Baltimore and Angie wanted a few minutes alone with Nadine before they arrived. She’d also wanted Mike to come up with her. Without him, they might never have found Nadine.

Mike, being Mike, saw right away how his presence could be a negative. Even though he’d played no part in Nadine’s suffering, he was still a male, and might bring back memories of all she had endured. He was headed home, back to his kids, eager to hug them extra tight.

A nurse stopped Angie in the hallway to let her know Nadine was sleeping.

“I won’t wake her,” Angie said, masking her disappointment. “I just want to see her.”

“She’s heavily sedated. I doubt she’ll wake up until morning.”

Angie last spoke with Nadine by phone minutes before she inexplicably interfered with the mission. In the aftermath, Nadine was rushed off to the hospital, taken by ambulance and escorted by a cadre of FBI agents. Angie hadn’t had a moment to connect with her in person, but was told she was doing fine and in relatively good health.

It was important for Angie to see for herself. Peering into the room, she looked at Nadine sleeping peacefully. She wore a hospital gown and had an IV in her arm, probably to provide electrolytes for dehydration. She looked perfect, a perfect person. But beneath her flawless skin were wounds so deep they might never heal.
What had happened to her down in that basement,
Angie wondered.
Why did she turn against the people who had come to her rescue? What twisted mind games did her traffickers play?

A lump formed in Angie’s throat. The intensity of her emotions took her by surprise. She had found hundreds of runaways, but something about Nadine was special.

This was more than a job. It was a calling. The mission was over for Angie, while Nadine’s road to recovery was just beginning. Angie couldn’t walk that path for her.

Angie felt utterly relieved and weirdly empty now that she had nothing more to do. She wasn’t Nadine’s caseworker from social services or a victim-witness coordinator from the FBI. She was a retrieval specialist. Her job was to track down runaway kids and take them home. Mission accomplished. Mission over.

When Nadine’s parents showed up, she would debrief them and then go home. Of course, she would be available for Nadine if she ever wanted to meet in person, if she wanted to shake hands with the woman who’d reunited her with an alcoholic mother and an absentee father. Some parts of Angie’s job were hard to swallow, but that was the gig. She wasn’t in the business of putting broken lives back together again.

Angie’s gaze lingered on the IV in Nadine’s arm. It was the second time she had set foot inside a hospital since her mother’s death and the reminders continued to be painful and sad. Time would lessen her grief, but would it heal Nadine?

Angie jumped when she felt a gentle tap on her shoulder. She whirled and saw a handsome face smiling at her. It took a moment for recall to kick in.

Bryce Taggart wore jeans, a tan blazer, and a white dress shirt underneath. He looked extremely relaxed for someone who had just gotten into a gun battle inside a crawlspace. Among law enforcement, word of his actions had spread like a California brush fire.

“Is she sleeping?” He leaned his body against the doorframe and craned his neck to take a peek inside Nadine’s hospital room.

“Yes,” Angie said, backing away from the door. “Soundly, thanks to whatever sedative they gave her.”

Bryce extended his hand and introduced himself. “We met at the FBI briefing before the mission, but weren’t formally introduced. You did great work, Angie. Top notch.”

“Thanks, though word is you did pretty good yourself. I heard all about your exploits down under with Buggy.”

“Yeah, well, he’s where he belongs. Scratch that. He’s at the Baltimore Medical Center, but soon he’ll be where he belongs.”

“What are you doing here?” Angie asked.

“I’ve got to write my report and I needed Nadine’s statement. I can get it later.”

“She’s been through a lot. Take it easy on her, okay? She’s not going to face charges for what she did?”

Bryce shook his head. “The Feds are pretty good about viewing juveniles who are trafficked as victims. She’ll be fine. You got my word.”

“Glad to hear.”

“Say, there’s a little gathering down at McSorley’s to celebrate a job well done. Care to join?”

Angie didn’t have to think long. She was whole-body exhausted and eager to check on her dad. She was also eager to return to her routine, stop farming out jobs, and maybe, just maybe, help Bao crack the code on the back the photograph. She had a lot on her mind. Drinks with a rowdy crowd at McSorley’s didn’t fit into the picture. “No thanks,” she said, second-guessing her decision after a flash of his gleaming smile.

“How about I buy you a cup of coffee in the cafeteria?” he suggested.

That was an offer Angie couldn’t refuse.

The cafeteria, except for the seating area, was closed, but the hospital offered free coffee as a courtesy. Bryce drank his black. Angie made a green tea. She expected Bryce to make some comment, but it was Mike who would have said something, a yoga joke perhaps.

She had plenty of questions for Bryce, and he didn’t seem in any hurry to get to McSorley’s.

“Where are the other girls?”

“We took them to different hospitals for observation. Most checked out okay, I heard. A couple were being kept overnight, but I don’t know why.”

“What’s going to happen to them?”

“You mean after?”

“Yes, after.”

Bryce leaned forward and Angie felt a little jump of excitement. He smelled a bit like mint. There was a reason minty toothpaste was so popular. Bryce had a lot of attractive features—his smile, for one; the short hair; a perfect amount of scruff; and a jaw line even Mike couldn’t help commenting on. But it was Bryce’s eyes Angie found most alluring. It wasn’t just the color, though his shade of blue was indeed striking. It was more how his eyes sparkled with a sense of adventure, but conveyed wisdom and compassion at the same time.

Something about Bryce Taggart wasn’t typical of the law enforcement types she had encountered over the years. She was curious about him.

“Well, the Americans will be treated differently from undocumented foreigners. That’s for starters.”