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  He was right. Shredding the papers probably wasn’t enough. “I’ll find someone.”

  Everything seemed under control, but Misha had one last bit of justice to dole out to the preggers. According to what Rico had told Misha the day before, Jackie must’ve given the card to Chris at the gas station. Despite what Chris had told him, he knew Rico had long been more suspicious of Mia. He would’ve kept Mia in sight the whole time. And that meant his attention had been diverted from Jackie long enough for her to pass the card off to Chris. It was the only scenario that made sense.

  Misha couldn’t kill Jackie until she delivered, so another woman or girl needed to die in her place. The only ones who weren’t pregnant were the sex slaves and the nurses. The sex slaves were too valuable, so one of the nurses had to go. If Misha didn’t hand out punishment soon, he’d lose control of the women.

  -o-o-o-

  Jackie sat at the foot of Chris Nielsen’s bed, wracked with guilt. Despite what Jackie had told everyone, Chris had risked her life for them. And as thanks, she’d been brutally beaten by the Russian bastard.

  Jackie didn’t disturb Chris, who seemed to be in a daze. The poor woman had to come to grips with the horrible life she’d been dragged into. By Jackie.

  Chris kept shifting around, couldn’t seem to get comfortable. Not surprising. It would be days before her body healed, and God only knew how much anguish she was going to endure in her new life.

  At six a.m., Rico brought the food for breakfast, as usual, and most of the sex slaves followed him, also as usual. But this breakfast consisted of fruit and snacks. That wouldn’t sustain pregnant women for long, but their guard wouldn’t say any more than they’d have to leave soon.

  Most of the women and girls headed to the kitchen but Jackie stayed with Chris.

  “Can’t eat,” the wounded woman said with a raw voice. Instead, she laid in bed on her stomach. Her vacant eyes stared sideways.

  Jackie wasn’t hungry either. “Listen, I’m incredibly sorry for what’s happened to you. We’re so, so grateful that you tried to help us. And I feel guilty. I told the other women that you probably weren’t going to do anything. Oh, I’m a nasty one. Can’t tell you how much I hate myself for bad-mouthing—”

  “F-forget it,” Chris said. “I’m not surprised that you figured out I’m not playing with a full deck. Naturally, you warned your friends. You were just being honest, trying to keep them from getting their hopes up. To tell you the truth, I had to throw a hissy fit to get the FBI interested in you guys. All your cynicism was justified. Now, they can look for me at the same time they’re looking for you.”

  Jackie burst into tears. “I can already tell that you and I are going to become great friends.”

  Chris smiled at her and squeezed her hand. “You betcha.”

  A few minutes later, Rico stuck his head into the main room and grinned at them.

  The son of a bitch. Jackie didn’t respond, but if she had her way, he’d suffer a slow and agonizing death soon.

  Chris continued to toss and turn, and slept for short spurts. If she was awake when women wandered by, they waved at her or said hello but didn’t linger. Like Jackie, they knew Chris needed a little peace and quiet. They’d all suffered from Misha’s perverted brutality.

  Chapter 9

  After breakfast, Maggie came over and sat on the edge of Athena’s bed, opposite Jackie. The other women and girls were trying to be quiet, but Athena had rested as much as she could.

  Maggie said, “Ladies, can we get a little private time here?”

  The others nodded and left. Jackie stood, but Maggie shook her head. “Stick around.”

  Then she looked at Athena and smiled. “For better or worse, I’ve been elected the leader of our beleaguered ya-ya sisterhood. I also manage the rescue committee that decided we should hand out index cards to ask for help. So, to the extent there’s somebody here to blame for what happened to you, it’s me. All I can say in my defense is that the cards were the best idea any of us came up with. Needless to say, we’re fucking desperate.”

  “No apologies,” Athena said and meant it. “If I’d been in your shoes, I would’ve done the same. You’ve—we’ve—got to take every chance we get to save ourselves. Actually, I’m sorry for falling apart in front of the bastard. I get overwhelmed too easily.”

  Maggie snorted. “Girl, cut yourself some slack. This is every woman’s worst nightmare.” After a short pause, she said, “Anyway, there’s six of us on the rescue committee at the moment. Jackie is a member, and so is Erica. Your news about the Feebs has thrilled all of us.”

  That made Athena feel a little better. “I was just telling Jackie that I understood her worries about me. Unfortunately, the FBI has no idea yet where we are. It could take days for them to figure out what I did last night. The only agent familiar with this area is a Grade A asshole.”

  “We don’t have days,” Maggie said. “A couple of the sex slaves just told me Misha and his fucking guard are bugging out. Everybody’s loading the big truck. Getting ready to take off. And it seems very likely they’re going to take us with them.”

  That was a giant downer. Athena had probably made a mistake in pushing the FBI angle. She’d warned Misha in time for him to take everyone away. “I fucked up. I shouldn’t have mentioned the FBI to them.”

  The older woman shook her head. “Chris, don’t worry about that. You took a chance to help us, and it might not work out like we all hoped. We know how that goes, a hundred times over.”

  Jackie nodded her approval.

  “Everything is happening so fast,” Athena said in a low murmur. “One thing I am sure about is that the longer we stay here, the better. I didn’t have time to share this location with the FBI last night, but they know exactly what I was looking for. The guy working with me, Beau Boudreau, seems sharp. Just don’t know how quickly he can hone in on us without my help.”

  “What if we started a fire?” Jackie asked. “Wouldn’t that draw plenty of attention?”

  A zing of excitement flashed through Athena. “Sure as hell would. All the forests around here are tinder-dry. Your neighbors would go nuts, call every fire department within a hundred miles.”

  Maggie rocked her head from side to side, as though considering the possibility. “We don’t have much to lose, but we also don’t have matches or lighters. The easiest place to start a fire would be at the stove, but Misha has video cameras recording there. Let me think this through. If we get a little time, maybe we can pull it off.”

  -o-o-o-

  Misha paced in his now-empty office. Where the hell was Leo? They’d worked together for a decade in the Ukraine, the Middle East, and Africa. Leo had called forty-five minutes ago from Durango with good news. He’d stolen a truck. But he should’ve arrived back fifteen minutes ago. Every second that passed now increased the odds that they’d all spend the rest of their lives in an American prison or perhaps Guantánamo Bay.

  Stan knocked on his open door. “Steve’s here.”

  Misha forced himself to calm down. If he looked panicked, the cop would become suspicious. Probably already was because the truck outside was already being filled.

  It’s showtime. Misha put on a windbreaker and stuffed a small .22 pistol in one of the jacket’s pockets. The barrel was shorter than his index finger. The gun was horribly inaccurate at any distance, but that wouldn’t matter at point-blank range. It was perfect for executions, and he could muffle the report by pressing the barrel against Steve’s head.

  Misha walked to the front door and grinned at the deputy. “Thanks for coming so quickly. Looks like we need to move on, and I didn’t want to leave you without a final thank you present. You’ve been a wonderful help.”

  The man laughed. “Happy to keep our local businesses thriving.”

  Misha waved him back to his office, led him inside, and closed the door.

  This was no time to get cute or to drag out the inevitable.
Misha pulled the gun from his pocket and aimed it at Steve. “Freeze.”

  The deputy started to put his hands up but stopped. Misha stepped forward, pressed the barrel against the man’s forehead, and pulled the trigger. The bang was surprisingly loud in the small, empty room, but Misha doubted anyone outside the house had heard anything.

  The cop collapsed with his mouth still forming a big O. Blood flowed from the small entry wound. No exit. That was the beauty of a head shot with a small-bore pistol. The bullet disintegrated inside the skull and turned someone’s brain to mush. No brains or blood splattered all over.

  But Misha had to be sure. He’d never seen someone survive a straight-on slug to the forehead until Chris showed up. To be sure Steve didn’t become born again, Misha put the pistol’s barrel against the cop’s left temple and fired once more. Cheap insurance.

  Ordinarily, Misha would’ve told the guys to drag the body out back and toss it in the pit, but no time for that today.

  He started to call Leo to find out where the hell he was but then remembered. All their electronic gear was in the truck, including the satellite dish. They had no Wi-Fi or phone connections. Were completely cut off from the rest of the world. All he could do was to stew.

  -o-o-o-

  La Plata County Community Development Services Department

  At seven-thirty a.m., Beau Boudreau stood waiting outside the door. It’s an incredibly bureaucratic way of saying a building department.

  According to their website, they reviewed all building permits for rural areas in the county. Although the people running a surrogates’ private prison would no doubt be happy to ignore the law, they’d have a helluva hard time finding a contractor to construct a large dormitory built without the contractor insisting on pulling a permit. Sneaking around could easily cost them their business. And Beau doubted that the thugs he was chasing had the skills needed to build a dorm on their own.

  Being first in line meant Beau was able to corner the head building inspector. But the guy wouldn’t say much about individual projects, citing state privacy provisions.

  Beau had no choice but to play things straight. He whipped out his badge. “This is an official criminal investigation of organized crime operating within your county. The Bureau expects your full cooperation.”

  The guy stood up behind his desk. “This department is as clean as driven snow. Do I need to call the county attorney?”

  Beau shook his head. “Sit down, sir. This isn’t about you or this department. We’re investigating a business that’s operating remotely in the northeast part of La Plata County. They’re providing housing for at least forty individuals, and we suspect they built their main residential unit in the last year or two. Shiny metal walls and a tan asphalt roof. We know they’ve been operating for nine months, so far. Ring any bells?”

  The guy leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. “Maybe. Two projects could fit that description. The first was a dorm built to provide temporary housing for at-risk youths from the Southern Ute rez. I never understood why they didn’t build the facility there, and I haven’t heard of it operating. It has galvanized steel walls, but the inspector doesn’t remember the roof.”

  Beau’s ears perked up. “Sure sounds close. What’s the other one?”

  “The state forestry department wanted a work center for housing and training fire crews. The building was completed last spring. But I’m skeptical that they’re dirty because over the summer, I saw something in the paper about the staff there getting an award from the US Forest Service for their training procedures. A bunch of local politicos visited the property for a photo op and ceremony, and they’re always running school groups through that facility.”

  “Right, a secret prison isn’t going to look for publicity. The second project is probably legit. Let’s focus on the first. Where’s it at?”

  The head inspector called somebody and asked. Then he pulled out a map showing the eastern part of the county. “It’s on this county road here,” he said, pointing at the map near the Archuleta County line.

  Beau and Chris had driven through the area yesterday but hadn’t been down the particular road the inspector pointed at.

  “I’m going to need an exact location for a warrant,” Beau said.

  The guy wrote down an address and handed it over. “The site’s about a half-mile south of US 160, on the east side of the road. I haven’t been out there myself, but the inspector says it’s visible from the road.”

  Beau couldn’t hide a grin. “Thanks so much for your help. Please keep this inquiry to yourself for now, although you’re welcome to speak with your county attorney if you need to.”

  Chris was going to be tickled pink. As he left the building, he checked his watch. Still had over an hour before meeting her. That would give him a chance to visit a couple of the wholesale food distributors in town.

  -o-o-o-

  Misha’s La Plata Compound

  Misha had certainly faced difficult situations before, but he’d never felt so trapped and isolated. He was ready to leave now…but no way out.

  Then, something big rumbled outside. Through a front window, he spotted a large delivery truck backing up to the house. Thank you, Leo. You just might get us out of this fucking place in time.

  He hurried outside. “What took so long?”

  “An accident, boss, where they’re working on the road. Closed the whole damned highway for half an hour. Cops are everywhere but were too busy to pay attention to me. Listen, more bad news. When someone figures out this rig is missing, they can probably track it. Every truck I spotted in town had an antenna on the top of the tractor’s cab.”

  “Dammit!” Misha said. “We’ll have to move fast. Get the women ready and stand them near the back deck. We can’t take off without one last round of punishment.”

  The sex slaves and other guards had finished loading the smaller truck, the one that would travel all the way to the new compound. Which raised a confounding question. Why hadn’t Langer told him where they were going? Maybe because Misha wasn’t invited to share the ride after all.

  Before he could figure out that puzzle, a black sedan with three men inside drove up the driveway. Not sure who they were, Misha fingered the pistol still in his jacket’s pocket and approached.

  The men were big and muscular. None wore uniforms. FBI undercover?

  The driver rolled down his window and stuck his hand out, palm forward. “Easy, Misha. Mr. Langer sent us. We tried to call but no answer. We were held up by a highway accident.”

  Relief flowed through Misha. Things were finally working out, after all. “We’re off the grid because everything is packed. Wonderful to see you. Time is short.”

  Chapter 10

  Chris’s Apartment, Durango

  Beau arrived a few minutes before nine a.m. Over the last hour, he’d talked to three food wholesalers and had probably found the one supplying the secret prison. Unfortunately, the wholesaler didn’t know where his customer was located. Misha was his first name, but he always sent one of his underlings to pick up their supplies in Durango. Used their own truck. The men who brought a small, white truck about twenty-five feet long were tough, maybe even ex-cons. They weren’t the kind of men ordinary workers preferred to hang around.

  Chris’s apartment was on the third floor. It was a bland older building on a quiet street. The perfect place for an inconspicuous person to hide.

  Beau knocked on the door, but no response. Chris’s pickup was in the parking lot, so he figured she couldn’t have gotten far. Maybe she was in the bathroom.

  After a minute, he knocked harder. Still no answer. The third time, he pounded on the door with the heel of his fist and yelled her name. Still nothing.

  His skin began to crawl. Maybe she happened to be taking out the garbage or visiting one of the common areas. The hallway in front of her unit was open on one side. He looked down on several dumpsters across the parki
ng lot. Nobody over there.

  He dashed down the stairs to the lounge area. This wasn’t a good start to the morning. This early, lounge was empty. So was the exercise room.

  Beau strode over to the manager’s office, hoping Chris might be there whining about some problem with her apartment.

  A middle-aged woman sat behind the only desk in the office. She was on the phone chatting with somebody about her daughter’s boyfriend. Beau tried to get her attention, but she waved him off.

  By then, his spine was tingling. After waiting another minute, he pulled out his badge. “No time for this. I’m Special Agent Beauregard Boudreau, FBI. We need to perform an immediate welfare check on Christina Nielson, apartment 3F.”

  The woman scowled at him. “Do you have a warrant? We value our tenants’ privacy.”

  “You’re not listening. I’m worried about her personal safety. Either open the door now, or I’ll kick it in.”

  “Oh, why didn’t you say so?” The manager quickly grabbed a key from a cabinet behind her desk and rushed out of the office.

  When they reached Chris’s apartment, the manager rapped on the door with the key. “Chris, are you in there? Some FBI guy is worried about you.”

  No response.

  “Chris? It’s Teresa. Are you okay?”

  All the while, Beau bounced from one foot to the other. When the manager didn’t get a response the second time, he said, “Enough. Open it!”

  The woman unlocked the door and stuck her head in. “Chris! I’m coming in.”

  “You stay here,” the manager said to Beau, “until I know she’s decent.”

  He pushed past her. “Not a chance.”

  There was no obvious sign of trouble in the living room or the dining room. But her purse wasn’t on the table, where she’d told him she always kept it so she wouldn’t forget to take it as she left. And all of the files Chris had so meticulously prepared were missing. But maybe she’d been working on them in the bedroom.