Protect (14 page)

Sharon gave him her best, reassuring smile.
“Don’t mention it, Tex. Any questions?”

“We’re going in armed, right?” Greene
said.

“Of course. Be careful in there. These guys
are dangerous, and if they left a few strung out stewards behind to
watch over whatever might be in there, you never know what might
happen.”

She turned and headed to the door, hearing
the clanging of the locksmith’s toolbox as he scrambled after her.
It was unlikely, but she would love to find some illegal material
inside, keep these bastards from returning if they knew the law was
onto them and had not only
seen
their shit but taken it.
Guns, drugs, any of it would be a windfall. And with the landlord
giving his blessing and requesting the squatters be removed there
was no worry about not having a warrant. This wasn’t
their
property; it belonged to Texas Murphy and they had no rental
agreement.

It took no time at all for the locksmith to
get the door lock and deadbolt open. He set his toolbox down to
hold the door open then stepped out of the way, like he knew the
drill.

Smith took point leading them inside, Colt at
the ready, pointed high. Sharon followed, flanking the opposite
way.

The first thing that hit her was the smell.
There was the stink of stale beer, some
used
beer, and a
musty building that had been shut up on a hot day. But underneath
was a foul odor of rot and shit that she could taste at the back of
her throat.

“What the fuck is that?” Smith asked, mostly
to himself. It was the only thing she could hear, she realized just
as he said it.

They circled the room, checking the coat
check, kitchen and small room behind a beat-up bar. There was
furniture left here; some sofas, low tables, a pool table that she
didn’t look at for too long because of bad memories of Gertie. A
hallway led to what she assumed were dorms but there was absolutely
no light down there.

“You got your Maglite?” she asked, not sure
why she was nearly whispering. It just didn’t
feel
like
anyone was here.

“Yeah, I got it.” Smith was already sliding
the flashlight out and shining it down the dim corridor, overhand
with his Colt leading in the opposite hand. All the doors on both
sides of the hall were shut tight, not even a crack of light
underneath. There were no windows at all and the place was all the
more soulless because of it. One by one Smith opened all the doors,
finding unmade beds that had been at the ready for who knew how
long.

It was like a home where people had vanished
in the middle of the night. Of course, Sharon had a
better-than-educated guess as to what had happened to the Gypsys
but it didn’t matter in the least to her if it ever came out.

“I’ll go get Greene and Tex,” she said once
the last room was found to be eerily abandoned, like the
others.

Smith nodded. “I’ll do an official search
now.”

“Watch for needles,” she instructed
unnecessarily then made her way back to the front door where the
locksmith had set to work. A peek outside showed her that Bev had
arrived and her and Finch were dutifully minding the gate, which
they’d pulled nearly closed, only allowing a single-person gap.
Tyson gave her a nod and she motioned Greene and Tex inside. “It
stinks,” she warned them. “I didn’t look at the johns too closely
but you might want a cleaning service and a plumber.”

Tex just shrugged, following Greene inside.
“I’m just surprised they didn’t burn it down.”

They started wandering around, Tex mumbling
to Greene about how much it would cost to get all the furniture
taken to the dump, and it was as Smith was joining them again
something echoed up under their feet.

“What was that?” she asked, perfectly in
unison with Greene.

“Someone’s downstairs,” Texas said, sounding
terrified again.

“There’s a basement?” Smith asked. “Where’s
the door?”

It was a good question. They’d searched every
foot of this disgusting place.

“Storm cellar by the back door.” Texas looked
chagrined. “I forgot about that.”

Sharon jerked her head to the back door and
Smith led the way again. With a shove the room was lit with more
sunshine, making it seem all the more grim. Right next to the door
on the concrete walkway was a storm cellar door, just like Texas
said. Smith kicked the lock off the hook-and-eye contraption and
the weathered wood gave was easily. There was a loud groan as she
helped lift the plywood slab up, leaning it against the building.
“I got this one,” she offered, readying her service weapon and
stepping carefully down the steep stairs.

“Right behind you Sheriff.”

And she appreciated that, she really did. As
she hit the dirt floor the smell of shit became stronger, and the
wooden door in front of her, like the storm cellar door, was just a
piece of plywood on homemade hinges. A Master Craft lock held it
closed.

She looked over her shoulder, and Ian was two
steps up still. He nodded and brought his Colt up to his
shoulder.

With the butt of her pistol she knocked the
lock from the door, pulled the lock contraption free, then took a
steadying breath before yanking the door open.

Nothing could have prepared her for the
smell, concentrated as it was in that dark, dirt-floored room. It
was piss and shit and sweat and fear rolled into one heady,
intolerable stench. She made a sound of disgust and covered her
mouth, then felt Ian move closer.

She didn’t want to enter. Something about the
despair wafting from the dark beyond the threshold was telling her
to run, but she couldn’t. When a beam of light cut through the dark
she nearly fired on it, then realized it was Ian.

“What the fuck?” he breathed as she stepped
forward.

There was breathing inside this room. It was
the opposite of silence. She could hear and feel people everywhere,
but until her eyes adjusted she couldn’t see for shit. There was
just the sniffling and coughing and moaning of the forgotten.

The first time the light hit a person she
wanted to weep along with them. It was a child in just a T-shirt,
emaciated to the point where the bones of his knees were twice as
wide as his legs, and he was lying on the floor. She thought he
must be dead but when his eyes moved it took everything she had not
to scream.

And there were more. Boys, girls, young men
and women, all spaced out along the wall. There was nothing more
she wanted than to not see anything; not see the ropes that were
around their necks or the way their eyes were vacant, staring back
at her as she passed by, not scared. Not relieved. Nothing. Just
empty.

Every second space had a bucket and it was
obvious that was their only concession to human biology. The smell
was all the evidence she had, she didn’t want to look to see if she
was right. There were also refillable water bottles here and there;
some half empty, some completely empty.

Her brain didn’t dwell on the fact that no
one had pants on and what that likely meant. Not a one of them
tried to cover up, either. That was the despair she could smell;
they were so beyond hope none of it mattered.

“Fuck, oh fuck me.”

It took a minute for her to realize Ian was
still with her, and it was his flashlight making all of this even
visible.

“Sheriff, what the fuck do we do?”

She didn’t know. She had no fucking idea.

“We have to call for medical help,” she said,
hearing the shock in her voice. “I need to call for more officers
from Markham. I ...” she avoided taking a deep breath even though
she needed the air. “I need to call someone higher up. This is ...
we can’t deal with this on our own.”

“Okay. I’ll get on the radio. I’ll leave this
door open. There’s a work light in the cruiser. And maybe we can
get sheets off the beds upstairs so we can get these people covered
up.”

She was nodding. “Yeah, that’s a good idea.
I’ll get on the sheet thing.” Even though the thought of ripping
the sheets off a biker’s bed made her queasy, there was no doubt it
was needed. She couldn’t drag these people out into the light only
half dressed.

As they moved to the door the moans actually
got louder, more desperate. She turned to the room, not even sure
if this was an English-speaking audience. She had her doubts. “I’m
coming back. We’re not leaving you. I promise.”

Brain still numb, she followed Ian up the
steps and into the fresh air. She took a few deep gulps, willing
her heart to mellow the fuck out.

Then, as suddenly as it had fogged up, her
head cleared. Back inside she pulled her phone out, walking while
placing a call to a number she hadn’t expected to ever use, even
back when she was programming it into her phone.

Agent Terrance Hogan of the DEA.

Just a question of allegiances. If the Rats
had ties to anyone involved in human trafficking he’d know—

She nearly stopped in her tracks. Human
trafficking. Holy shit.

Yeah, that was how slowly her brain was
functioning. Mazaris, it
had
to be.

Hogan wouldn’t give a fuck about human
trafficking. She was about to hang up when he finally answered.

“Hogan.”

“Uh, hi.”

There was a pause.

“Sorry. This is Sheriff Sharon Downey,
Markham Sheriff’s Office.”

“Sheriff Downey.” Recognition flooded his
voice.

“I’m in Hazeldale, standing in the Mad Gypsys
former clubhouse right now. We just found people in the basement
I’m willing to bet are here illegally and against their will. I was
calling to ask if the Dirty Rats had any human trafficking
connections but I think I just pieced it together. I’m sorry.” She
was rambling with no idea why.

“It’s no worry, Sheriff. The Rats are known
to traffic narcotics, that’s no secret. If the Thebaine pipeline
needed a new piece I’d put money on them being behind it. Taking
over the clubhouse is interesting. But bringing in another group to
store cargo, that’s a bit out of the ordinary.”

“I have to go,” she said, trying to sound
apologetic. “I need to call Immigration and get more officers here.
I have no idea what to do with these people.”

“Sharon?”

That calmed her; hearing her own name usually
did. “Yeah?”

“I know for a fact there’s someone from the
Department of Immigration in Bakersfield right now. I’m going to
call him for you. Is it okay if I give him your number?”

“Um, sure. Yeah.”

“Do you have any idea where these people are
from? Might help him to know what kind of translator to bring.”

She took a deep breath. “Umm, I’m thinking
this has to do with the Mazaris. Do you know them?” Of course he
did, but she had to ask.

“Oh yes, I do. Shit. Okay, I’ll let him know
who we’re dealing with. Watch that building carefully while you get
those people out of there. These guys are crazy enough to try
something even with the law standing there.”

“I will. Thanks, Agent Hogan.”

“Call me Terry, please. I’ll let you know
when I get hold of my buddy.”

“Thank you,” she repeated and ended the call,
then set about stripping the beds. She carried all the musty fabric
to the basement, where Ian had returned with Bev, which was likely
smart. He was on the door, Bev had a knife and was cutting the
ropes from these kids’ throats.

As they were freed Sharon wrapped sheets
around their waists and helped them up the stairs then into the
clubhouse, getting them comfortable on the chairs and sofas. She
tried to talk to them, introduce herself, but all she got were
vacant blinks from wide, dark eyes.

Swallowing against rage, she tried her best
to ignore the fact that they all had blood caked on their
thighs.

Tyson had run to a nearby gas station and was
handing out bottles of clean, cold water. He also told her he’d
called the Department of Family Services, which was smart. She was
glad he’d thought of it.

Car doors were closing outside. She greeted
Markham County EMTs at the door, softly explaining the situation.
There were two male and three female paramedics, and two ambulances
waiting outside.

She dispatched the officers already on the
way from Markham to Hazeldale’s St. David’s Hospital. They started
shipping the kids in small groups to the hospital for medical
assessment and rape kits. One of the paramedics spoke a little
Farsi, which a couple of the kids understood and translated to the
others.

The locksmith was done changing the locks
just around three in the afternoon. She got Greene’s word that
they’d watch the clubhouse the next few days very closely. They
suggested that Tex maybe take a little holiday in case anyone had
it out for him as retribution. He was happy to agree.

She waited for a call from Hogan’s friend at
Immigration. Once that call had been received she felt a little bit
better. Agents would be sent the next day for interviews, hopefully
they could make leeway into finding whose children these all were.
DFS had found a few people to take in some of the kids for a few
days. The rest would be housed in suites at a local hotel so they
could stay together, with a few volunteer councilors looking out
for them.

As she returned to the Sheriff’s department
and began her paperwork there were more details nagging her about
this situation. Without the shock of how horrible people could be
too each other, the disgusting smell and evidence of the human
condition fading from her nose and throat, the details were there
to be noted again.

Ten children, boys and girls from about eight
to fifteen by her guess. Thin, malnourished, but not overly abused
other than the apparent sexual assaults. No broken limbs, excessive
bruising, broken teeth or black eyes. But more than that, they were
all ... funny-looking.

She hated thinking that, she really did, but
without exception there was something to mark them as different and
it wasn’t striking beauty. There were overbites, under bites,
wide-set eyes, bug eyes, large ears, one child with evidence of a
repaired cleft palette. When they raided the trailer where one boy
had been held just months ago there had been photos of children
available for purchase, and
those
children were all
round-faced, wide-eyed, and beautiful.