One Minute Out Page 29

  I’m hoping the tenders take the bait, and by the fact that I can’t hear the outboard motors any longer, I feel certain they have.

  At five feet below the surface I kick as hard and as fast as I can, until my lungs scream in agony, and then I let the other rock drop from my hands. The only things weighing me down now are the few items in my pack, so I rise easily to the surface.

  I don’t take my head out of the water, only blow out through the snorkel and then back in, still kicking but making sure to kick in a way that doesn’t make a splash or allow my long fins to come out of the water.

  God, I love breathing.

  Finally, I raise my mask up to get my bearings. The marina at Rovinj is lit with streetlamps, but no one is in sight this late. It’s straight ahead, less than fifty yards away, and I cover this distance in under two minutes.

  Here I climb ashore, look back out to the bay, and see a pair of little boats racing around, far to my southwest, flashlights whipping in all directions. The near constant voice of a man, shouting what sounds like both orders and admonitions, rolls over the water to me.

  Removing my fins and mask, I adjust my pack on my back and start running for the warren of streets that make up the Old Town district of the small city, ready to disappear in an alleyway till the coast is clear. My plan is to call Talyssa to see where she is, then steal yet another car and pick her up.

  For now, that’s where my plan ends, but I just demonstrated to myself that I’m pretty fucking good on the fly. I accomplished nothing more tonight than finding out the city where the market is being held, but it’s enough to move forward.

  Still, it’s becoming more and more obvious that Talyssa and I aren’t going to be able to pull this off on our own, so my thoughts start drifting to a phone call that I really should make, but one that I really don’t want to make.

  THIRTY-ONE

  The sleek Gulfstream 650 flew thirty-six thousand feet above northern Illinois, heading east from Van Nuys on its way to Venice, Italy. On board Kenneth Cage sat in the center of the cabin facing forward, and he dined on roast duck, sipping a light pinot noir along with it. He was surrounded in the aircraft by other men, seven in all, but his attention during dinner was on a notebook computer on the tray next to him: more specifically, the spreadsheet reporting this fiscal year’s revenue from merchandise trafficked from the East and into Scandinavia. Estonia was producing some excellent product these days, but the real numbers were still coming from Belarus, where the poor economy and difficult conditions made it exponentially easier to dupe young girls into heading west for more opportunity.

  The economy in the Baltic had developed greatly, in contrast, and this made it tougher on an enterprise like Cage’s. The Consortium preyed on the downtrodden, those who wouldn’t be missed or, if they were, would be missed only by those without the means to come looking for them.

  Still, Scandinavia was generating tens of millions of euros in revenue, and Cage was happy enough with the reporting.

  He was just biting into a forkful of saffron orzo when the phone on the table next to him chirped. He picked it up without looking.

  “Yeah?”

  * * *

  • • •

  Across from the Director of the Consortium, his chief protection agent, Sean Hall, sat facing aft, also dining on the roast duck. He regarded his boss as he chewed, then looked around the cabin at his full six-man executive protection detail, here to help him ensure Cage’s safety on this trip.

  Everyone on the team drank either wine or beer, a rare occurrence when around the principal, but for the next ten hours or so they had no duties whatsoever. Once they got where they were going, however, Hall knew they’d be working as hard as any of these men had worked since they’d served in combat or in critical SWAT callouts.

  Hall sipped more wine, taking advantage of the rare opportunity, but his thoughts shifted to the job ahead. They would land at Marco Polo Airport in Venice early afternoon local time, and then Cage would be taken in a motorboat out to La Primarosa, with Hall and his six men surrounding him.

  And then, around eleven p.m., Cage would go to the sale of the women to shake hands with some of his clients, again at the nucleus of a large security operation.

  Everything in Hall’s training told him this was a bad idea. This entire trip was Cage flexing his muscle to him and Jaco to show he wasn’t scared of this Gray Man and wouldn’t be ordered around by his subordinates.

  Hall thought it to be an asinine risk just so his boss could get some tail that was on its way to him anyway.

  The forty-year-old ex–Navy SEAL kept his eyes on the shorter, older American while Cage took the call, only because the two men were facing each other. But when Cage leaned back in his chair with an unmistakable look of exasperation on his face, Hall quickly tried to listen in to the one half of the conversation in his earshot.

  “You’re kidding. Wait. Tell me you are kidding?” Then, “Fuck! This has gotten completely out of hand!” Cage shouted into the receiver, drawing the attention of everyone in the cabin. “What the hell am I paying you bastards for?”

  Sean Hall’s roast duck was forgotten now, as was the wine. From the context of Cage’s words, and the expression on his face, he knew this would be Jaco on the line, and Jaco would be telling him that yet something else had happened somewhere along the Balkan pipeline.

  This had turned into a security emergency, Hall was certain, and as the head of security he told himself he was now officially back on the clock.

  He snapped his fingers at his closest man, who was just bringing his bottle of Stella Artois to his lips. Hall said, “Dude, stop drinking. Pass it along.”

  Hall called the attractive flight attendant over, handed her his glass of wine, and told her to clean up the glasses and plates on his men’s trays. Hall had a bottle of vodka in his kit bag, but right now his alcoholism wasn’t a problem because he was more concerned with keeping himself and his principal alive for the next several hours.

  He climbed out of his cabin chair and sat down next to his boss, who was still talking on the phone.

  Cage said, “You’re damn right, I will! Just because you can’t do your job doesn’t mean I’m not going to do mine. I swear to God, Jaco, you need to get this shit handled or I’ll bring people in who can. Am I clear?”

  There was another minute of talk, seemingly about one of the girls in the process of being trafficked, and then Cage slammed the phone down, thumped his head back into the leather headrest again, and closed his eyes.

  Hall knew better than to speak up right now. He’d only get his head bitten off by the mercurial fifty-four-year-old.

  Finally, the Director of the Consortium turned to look at his director of security. “Kostopoulos is dead. Strangled to death on his own yacht.”

  “What?”

  “It was the Gray Man.”

  Sean’s heart began to pound. “Verdoorn was on the yacht, wasn’t he?”

  With a quick nod Cage said, “Jaco says he shot at the fucker as he was making his getaway. Apparently without effect.”

  “Christ, Ken. If he was on the boat and he got away, then that boat is compromised.”

  Cage shrugged at this. “Jaco says the girls are going to be moved to shore as soon as they get to Venice. They’re already on the way and will arrive in less than three hours. They’ll put them up at a private house, and we’ll take them to market from there.”

  Hall took a slow breath, steeling himself for the fight that he knew was to come, then said, “This was already an extremely difficult security equation when you were protected by the yacht and the water around it. We were going to take you to market via a skiff, and you wouldn’t have to walk through those narrow pedestrian streets while an assassin targeted you. But now you are telling me that’s just exactly what we’re doing. No offense, Ken, but that’s crazy. We need to tur
n this jet around right now and call it a day.”

  Cage looked off into space a few seconds. Hall knew all his men were watching this interaction between their boss and their protectee.

  Finally the Director of the Consortium said, “Jaco says his men will check out the route, and they’ll position themselves accordingly. All you and your boys have to do is catch any bullets that come my way. That doesn’t sound too hard, does it, Sean?”

  Hall tried another approach. “How about we take you to this private residence, you spend the afternoon and evening there? Meet all the girls. Spend all night with the special-handling merchandise. But don’t go to the market. It’s just too dangerous.”

  “Sean, let me explain to you a few things about the responsibilities of being in charge. People will know I’m in Venice, and they will expect me to come for the festivities.”

  “Not if there is a world-class gunman out there hunting for—”

  “I’m going! You and these other guys, Jaco and his shock troops, the local mob who administrates the market . . . all of you just do what I pay you to do and there will be nothing to worry about.”

  Hall knew that changing his employer’s mind was going to be a long shot, and like he’d anticipated, his long shot had failed, so he nodded without speaking and moved to the front bulkhead. Here he called his men up with him, and they sat, stood, or knelt close while their team leader talked about updates to their plans.

  And while Hall spoke, he fumed. The ire he felt was not directed towards Cage, or at least the majority of it was not. He was, instead, furious at Jaco Verdoorn, because apparently Jaco had just told his boss that, despite all evidence to the contrary, the situation was under control and it was safe to come to Venice.

  But Sean Hall knew something Ken Cage did not. He knew Jaco Verdoorn was as giddy as a schoolgirl at the prospect of going up against the uber assassin Gentry, and he wasn’t above using his employer as bait to draw his prey in.

  Hall wasn’t going to tell Cage his concerns; he knew he didn’t have the juice to get into an interoffice political war with Jaco Verdoorn. The South African was higher in the food chain than Hall, and Hall knew Verdoorn would simply turn Cage against him if this morphed into a real fight between them.

  No, even though Hall had nothing but misgivings about this operation in Venice, he would do what all good military men and women are taught to do when they don’t like an order—salute and draw fire.

  He’d do what was asked of him, and he’d find a way to get his employer through the next twenty-four hours.

  He thought of his bottle of vodka in his kit bag and wondered if he’d be able to sneak a few swigs before landing.

  * * *

  • • •

  Roxana Vaduva lay on the bed in her stateroom on the lower deck, locked in with an armed Greek security man standing right outside the door.

  Dr. Claudia sat on the edge of the bed next to her, an ice pack in her hand, and she held it to the young Romanian woman’s right temple.

  “You are going to be okay, young lady. You are very lucky.”

  “Lucky? The old man raped me, and then some man in a mask killed him right in front of me, then beat me up. Why don’t I feel lucky?”

  The truth was Roxana had not, in fact, been raped by Kostopoulos, but she wasn’t going to reveal that to the American psychologist.

  Claudia said, “Lucky to be alive.” She pulled the ice away. “And lucky to be still considered a friend. By me, at least.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “John doesn’t believe your story. He finds it suspicious you were only knocked out, and he thinks you might have spoken with the assassin. He thinks the man was here to help you.”

  Roxana drew on her acting background now. “Then where is the help?”

  “We watched the playbacks of cameras around the boat. The assassin was in Kostas’s room for almost five minutes before he appeared on the main deck and jumped into the water. Plenty of time for you to talk to him.”

  “He knocked me out. I don’t know what he did in the room while I was unconscious. He didn’t kill me, because I wasn’t what he was after. It’s pretty obvious, even to me, that he came to kill the old man.”

  Claudia regarded her closely, but Roxana didn’t waver.

  Finally, the doctor said, “I am inclined to believe you. But John . . . I warned you about him. He will follow the Director’s orders, but I’d keep my eyes open if I were you.”

  “Did you tell the old man to do what he did?”

  “Of course not. But these are powerful men with powerful desires. I can’t control what they do, and neither can you. Honestly, though, I think what happened to you is for the best.”

  “For the . . . best?”

  “You needed to learn your place in all this. You have to give to get in this world, and you will be getting a lot of good things the moment you do your part.

  “I hope this difficult lesson was . . . was beneficial.”

  Roxana knew she needed to be the best actress she could be now. “I . . . I understand. I don’t want that to happen again.” She looked down at the floor, then lifted her eyes back to the American woman. “If the Director can protect me, then I will behave.”

  Claudia smiled. “Very good. I am so pleased the program has helped educate you in all this. And just in time, too. The Director will be here this evening, and he wants to see you.”

  The young Romanian fought tears until Claudia dabbed her face once more with the ice and then handed it to her. Then the American left the stateroom, and when the door closed, Roxana closed her eyes, holding the ice there on her temple where it throbbed.

  Tom was coming here. Her entire objective in staying on the boat had been to learn who he was, where he was, and what was at the end of this entire pipeline. This information she’d have to get to her sister someway, but now that she knew the American Director was coming to her, she wondered how the hell she was supposed to contact her once she had what she needed.

  She fought more tears and told herself to be strong. Her resolve had gotten her this far through this mess, and all she could do now was do her best.

  * * *

  • • •

  I pull off the road less than ten kilometers south of Rovinj. My stolen Ford Focus rolls slowly along the rough shoulder as I peer into the darkness, but soon I see what I’m looking for. Talyssa comes out of the brush, waves at me, and then climbs into the passenger seat. She’d taken the boat along the shore, following La Primarosa with me on board, until her engine began to sputter, and then she’d beached the little craft and begun walking to the north.

  She looks as exhausted as I feel, but her alert, hopeful, and expectant eyes belie all she’s been through.

  “Are you okay?” she asks as we pull back on the road.

  “Yeah.” I start to say more, but then I hesitate. I don’t know how to tell her what I need to tell her.

  “You got on board, obviously.”

  “I did.”

  “Well . . . what did you see?”

  Looking forward through the windshield as I drive through the morning, I say, “Your sister is alive.”

  Glancing her way, I see her bring both hands to her mouth, and I can see her face redden, even here in the darkened car.

  Finally, she asks, “You saw her?”

  “I spoke with her.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “She is okay.” For now, I think, all but certain that things are only going to get worse for Roxana.

  “But . . . where is she? I need to see her.”

  “She’s . . . actually, she’s still on the yacht.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I see her lower her hands to her lap. Her tone changes, becoming angry and challenging. “I don’t understand. Why didn’t you rescue her?”

  “I tried. S
he wouldn’t go. They’ve told her she’s being taken to the Director of the Consortium, and she sees this as the best chance to blow the doors wide open on this entire trafficking ring.” I add, “She’s doing it for you.”

  This is hard for the Romanian woman to accept; she argues with me for a minute, insinuates that I should have popped her sister on the head and hauled her off the yacht. I don’t mention that I did, in fact, pop her on the head, and then I left her right there in the clutches of the murderous sex trafficking ring.

  Not my finest hour, I’ll admit.

  She’s furious at first, but as I drive north I calm her down, and it’s clear Talyssa knows what I know, that Roxana’s desire to live up to her sister’s expectations was what put her on that boat, not me, and it’s also what’s keeping her on that boat now.

  She asks, “What was she like? Her condition . . . mentally.”

  “She doesn’t blame you for anything. She is as strong as I’ve seen from someone in this situation.”

  Talyssa turns to me. “You have seen people in this situation?”

  “Similar situations, yes. The trauma bonds can be built quickly, and they can be very powerful. She’s a trouper for fighting back the way she is.”

  “How do you know about trauma bonds?”

  With only a little hesitation I say, “I have some training.”

  “In kidnapping people for slavery?”

  “No. In being held hostage. There is a school for it. You learn survival, evasion, resistance, and escape.”

  “Where is this school?”

  “Can’t say.”

  “Of course you can’t.”

  “The point is, you can be taught how to resist your captors, and you can build up a lot of defenses to their techniques. But these young people, snatched off the street, out of nightclubs, picked up through modeling agencies, thrown into this world . . . I can’t imagine what they are going through psychologically. Whatever it is, they don’t stand a chance.