Terminal Rage (4 page)

Carter nodded.

“Go on. How
’
s the abduction connected to this whole situation?”

Carter explained there had been no word of what happened to Julia Price until this morning. Then at around ten thirty, an Arab man pretending to be a Gulf Prince living in London walked into Exertify for a scheduled meeting with the senator
’
s brother, Mark Price. But instead of talking business, he announced to Price he had abducted his niece Julia and offered credible proof of life. He evacuated the rest of the building and kept about twenty-five Exertify staff as hostages. Then he made one call to the FBI and asked for Blackwell by name, threatening to kill Julia Price if the Bureau didn
’
t comply.

Carter shook his head with disapproval.

“Then all hell broke loose. He hasn
’
t made any demands, and we don
’
t know why he
’
s taken hostages, if he
’
s already kidnapped a senator
’
s daughter. You and I know that alone will have a lot of people in Washington soiling their pants.”

Blackwell thought about this narrative and the cast of characters Carter had presented. Senator Price and his kidnapped daughter Julia. His younger brother Mark and his company Exertify. A hostage-taker pretending to be Arab royalty. And Deputy Director Marino fending for his friends. Politicians and businessmen are always fraternizing with the wrong people. This smelled like payday for someone they
’
d pissed off. They probably got what they deserved.

“There
’
s just one more thing you need to know, Alex.”

“And what would that be?”

Carter turned his head to the sea, unable to maintain eye contact.

“Monica
’
s leading the investigation.”

Shit.

Monica Vlasic was the lead investigator on the case that ended Blackwell
’
s career. The last person he cared to see, let alone work with.

“Carter?”

“Yeah?”

“Next time I
’
ll shoot you first and then come by for a friendly chat. Stay the fuck off my island.”

Blackwell turned and started striding away from the Seahawk. He pulled his phone out to call Leron, but there was no reception. Not that the day could be any crappier. He could be marooned on this island for God knows how long. The migraine was no longer coy or tentative. He felt a dull throbbing deep in his head.

“Former Special Agent Blackwell!” Carter yelled.

Blackwell continued on, ignoring him. It had been a long time since any one had called him that. And preceding it with
‘
former
’
added insult to injury. Like all the other young men and women who join the FBI, Blackwell was given the title on the first day of the new agents class at the FBI Academy at Quantico, Virginia, when he was sworn in. He would have retained the title of special agent throughout his career if he hadn
’
t quit. He may have even made supervisory special agent if he had stayed long enough to lead a squad. Was Carter trying to provoke something in him? A sense of loyalty to the organization that may have still been lurking inside of him, even though he wasn
’
t really a special anything anymore.

“There
’
s something else you need to know before you turn your back on this.”

He stopped and turned. “Don
’
t ever call me that again. I
’
ve heard enough for today, Carter.” A gnawing pang of emptiness erupted within him. Skipping breakfast was never a
problem for him, but the swim to the island had sucked up a big chunk of his reserves.

“He
’
s threatening to kill children.”

Blackwell instinctively glanced at the single tattoo in Cyrillic on his left bicep. It read
Невинные поднимутся
. The innocent will rise
.

“I
’
m not trying to twist your arm, that
’
s why I didn
’
t want to lead with this. But it
’
s a threat the Bureau
’
s taking seriously. Going back without you is not an option.”

Blackwell couldn
’
t tell if this was a threat or a desperate plea. What he did know was that Carter was an honest guy who wouldn
’
t make up shit just to get his way. And whoever this hostage-taker was, he knew exactly how to bring Blackwell to his knees, before he even entered the ring or put his gloves on.

Even after four years away, two of which he was no more than a puddle of mush, he still had the primary instinct that had compelled him to work for the FBI in the first place—to stand up for the innocent. Now that Carter had sprung this on him, he didn
’
t have the luxury of time to think hard about the decision he was about to make.

The demons from his past that the mere mention of Monica Vlasic had reawakened. The feelings of insecurity about negotiating another hostage situation. And the long list of “never again” promises he
’
d made to himself when he was desperate to heal. All of that had to be neatly packed in an airtight box to be dealt with later. For now, the lives of children were at stake. And he was physically incapable of turning his back on that.

Blackwell glanced at the terracotta warrior who still hadn
’
t moved or changed his facial expression. He reached out to him and took the change of clothes and the towel.

FOUR

Two days earlier, Thursday, November 3, 2011—6:30 p.m.
Valley Village, CA

A
fter leaving Bone in Studio City, Seth had to make one last stop before his work in Los Angeles was concluded.

He dug his face into the massage table and listened to the sound of oil squirting and Mai
’
s soft hands rubbing against one another. She started on his shoulders, spreading the warm oil on his back with her tiny hands, and then gently kneading his naked body.

Mai gasped when she touched his firm muscles, maybe thinking, “Why on earth would someone with a body like yours come to a joint like this?” Certainly not for the quality of the massage. Halfway through this charade, he knew she would turn him around and pretend to be surprised at the sight of his erection. Then she
’
d offer an upgrade to the next level of service. A blow job, or a handjob. Or even the works if he seemed loaded.

But this is not what he had come for.

She flipped him over and seemed baffled, even offended, that he was still soft.

“Finish you with my han
’
, baby?”

He shook his head.

“Suck you hard?”

Negative.

She purred in his ears and ran her fingernails on his chest, from one nipple to the other.

Don
’
t touch the damn scar, please
.

“You like fuck men better?”

He shook his head.

“Sure? We have a lady boy, if you want.” She said like it was the vegetarian option at a steak house.

Seth got up and slipped his naked body in his jeans. Her hopeful eyes were burning a hole in the back of his head. This was the moment he was expected to tip her, and given how short-lived the whole affair was, she was likely concerned he was about to complain to the grisly Mamasan parked outside, who ran the place.

“Jasmine tea? Help relax?”

“Okay.”

She put on a pearl-white robe and left the room. Seth sat on the chair with his torso naked and stared at the mirror. The emptiness inside him was jarring. The outline of his face against the candlelight was forlorn and reminded him of what he had come here to do.

He had spent the last six years searching for her.

Mai wasn
’
t her real name, just the one assigned to her by her current Mamasan, and would probably change the next time they moved her.

Orapan. That
’
s her real name. He whispered it to himself a few times.

Many years ago, he had made a promise to someone that he would find Orapan and set her free. But it was a near-impossible endeavor. All he had to go on was her picture and a story. Every time he
’
d gotten close to finding her, it was always too late.

She was born in the slums of Pataya in Thailand and was sold by her stepfather to the Moldovan mafia when she was barely fifteen. Her journey to Los Angeles was long and harrowing. Seth had hired an investigator who specialized in human trafficking to help him find her.

They found out she had been taken straight to Shanghai where she spent a few years. Eye witnesses who knew her there said she was raped every day by her owners while she worked the back rooms changing sheets and wiping semen off the floor. Breaking her in, so when the time came for her to fuck for money, she would see it as a promotion and never complain or try to run away.

From China, she was moved to Bulgaria, then Turkey, after which Seth lost track of her for a few years. But he never stopped looking.

A year ago, she arrived in America and her trail became warm again. They chased her across the West Coast until a month ago they had a break and found her in Newport Beach, right before she was moved to Los Angeles.

Orapan came back with an elegant white ceramic teapot and a matching cup, which she placed on a small table in front of him.

Seth got up and put his shirt on abruptly, then moved close to her and grabbed her body. She closed her eyes and moved her mouth near his, waiting for a kiss that never came. Instead, he placed his hard gun inside her soft palm, pulled her closer yet, and said one word in her ear.

“Orapan.”

Her eyes widened like it was the first time since she was sold to hear her real name uttered. Silent tears ran down her face, streaking her mascara.

“I want to take you away from here. I want to set you free.”

No words left her lips but her eyes did the talking. She could never leave this place alive. They had branded into her consciousness that captivity and prostitution were the only constants in her miserable life.

He wanted to tell her everything—who he was and why he had spent all these years looking for her. But every minute was precious. Every second counted. They needed to act fast.

Whispering in her ears, Seth gave her two options. Both involved the gun. But he wanted her to make the decision on her own. Her road to salvation had to start with free will. Either way, he told her, he had disabled the security cameras and whatever option she picked, no one would ever find out.

He walked out to the reception and smiled at the Mamasan. She wore a tight red dress and had a firm body for her age. She was browsing on an iPad, perhaps reading customer reviews of her joint, and seemed oblivious to her defunct security cameras.

“Happy ending?”

He nodded, smiled and winked at her.

She peered up and tilted her head to one side. “Why you ask for this girl by name?”

“Word of mouth.”

“She pleasure you okay?”

“More than you can imagine.”

She erupted in loud cackles.

“I have the best girls here. But old is gold. Maybe nes time you try Mamasan pussy?” She reached out to fondle his crotch and he let her.

He sat in his running car in front of the brothel and dialed a number.

“We
’
ve got three minutes. Be quick, the old lady checks in with her offsite security every fifteen.”

Like the recurring dream that had started his day, all he could hear was a ticking sound. In front of him, the San Fernando Valley sun was setting in a glorious explosion of purple and blood orange against a lacquered blue sky. A great day for freedom.

A police car drove by and he avoided eye contact with the officer driving it. The ticking in his head was getting louder.

The closed door of the Eternal Bliss massage parlor looked peaceful. There was no way from the external façade to discern all the human misery it took to keep a place like this in business.

He closed his eyes and heard his heart beating in his mouth in sync with the ticking sound in his head.

Even though the gun he had given Orapan was silenced, he felt the vibration of the three bullets exiting the muzzle and ripping through the air.

The door flew open and Orapan ran out with his Beretta in one hand and Mamasan’s iPad in the other. Her pearl-white robe was splattered with brain and blood and skull splinters.

She jumped into the passenger seat, and he drove away with her to somewhere safe in North Hollywood. There he would remove the GPS tracking device on her ankle so they would never find her again.

Right behind them, two men in a white van had less than five minutes to rescue the other twelve girls in the brothel, before the blood-curdling wrath of the Moldovan mafia rained on them.