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  The bedroom door was open, and Beau peeked inside. No Chris, purse, or files. The window was broken, and her bed was unmade. Something dark stained her light-yellow sheets. He rushed forward. Blood. And a few more drops had soaked into the carpet near the bed.

  Beau turned to the manager. “Get back to your office right away. Call 911 and report her missing to the city police. Tell them there are signs of violence.”

  She gasped and hustled off. Beau called the only other FBI agent in the area, Frank Costello.

  The man answered, and Beau gave him a short spiel about how Chris seemed to be missing.

  “I agree,” Costello said, “it doesn’t look good, but you should know she has a history of wandering off in the middle of the night. I’ve chased her down a few times.”

  Beau had an aunt in Thibodaux like that—but this was different. “Chris told me about those episodes. She said they ended after her docs tweaked her meds. And today, her purse and work files are gone. Did she used to take her purse or other personal items when she wandered off before?”

  “No,” Costello said. “Okay, we hit the panic button. Any idea where they would’ve gone? I’m forty-five minutes southeast of town now.”

  Beau told him about the property on the northeastern side of the county he’d learned about at the building inspectors’ office.

  “Sounds like an excellent lead,” Costello said. “Go to that property. I should be able to arrive there at about the same time as you. There’s no cell phone coverage once you leave town, so call the Denver Field Office right away. The special agent-in-charge there, Stephen Yang, will have to send more people to help us deal with this nightmare.”

  Beau hurried downstairs to the manager’s office and told her he couldn’t stick around to talk to the city police. He gave her his card and asked her to show them the apartment and the blood on the bed and the carpet.

  -o-o-o-

  Misha’s La Plata Compound

  Athena stood with the other women and girls who’d been rounded up near the house’s back deck. She braced herself against Jackie. Most of them held a trash bag full of clothes and personal items. Athena didn’t have anything to take, so she’d grabbed as many blankets as she could fit into her bag. They always came in handy. Maggie had found Athena an old, white, peasant dress and some other clothes, including underwear, shoes and a coat. So, she left her filthy pajamas inside the dorm.

  Misha strode out onto the deck with nine other men and seven sex slaves. He held a pistol in one hand and a fencing foil in the other.

  “We’re about to go, but one bit of unfinished business. You women—I hold you all responsible—secretly prepared a number of cards asking for help. And you gave one to our newest guest, Christina Nielsen. Look at what’s happened to her, thanks to you. I warned you about this before. This time, blood will flow. It seems to be the only way to get through your thick heads.”

  Athena had been standing next to Jackie, and she moved in front of her new friend. The monster must’ve figured out what’d really happened. If so, Jackie would be his obvious target.

  Misha rushed down the steps but didn’t approach Athena or Jackie. Instead, he ran up to a woman Athena didn’t know and snarled. Without saying anything, the bastard stabbed her in the center of her chest with his foil.

  She screamed and gasped as the weapon pierced her body. Her head dropped forward, and the bloody shaft popped out of her back. After convulsing a couple of times, the woman collapsed to the ground and laid still.

  The rest of the women and girls screamed and recoiled. Everyone tried to get away. But because they were packed so tightly together, they stumbled over each other, knocking many women and girls to the ground.

  Athena gagged, but she had nothing in her stomach. She’d never seen anyone killed in real life. Her shaking began again, as bad as ever.

  Misha yanked out the bloody weapon and held it over his head. “If you don’t want to be next, follow me.”

  He pushed his way through the crowd and led them around the north side of the house to the front.

  The other men herded the women and girls, forcing them to follow Misha. Athena was so shocked she could hardly stand upright much less walk on her injured legs.

  With help from Maggie, though, she circled the house with the others. A woman Athena didn’t know helped Jackie to follow.

  A black sedan, white SUV, and two trucks were parked in the long, semi-circular driveway. The smaller truck was full of furniture, boxes, and kennels for four Dobermans, which were barking like mad inside. The bigger truck was white, and various beer ads were plastered across the side panels. Its back stood open, and a steep, metal ramp only two feet wide led up from the ground.

  Athena collected her thoughts, despite her frazzled nerves, and realized they needed to slow the loading process as much as possible. It was their only chance to give the FBI time to show up. She whispered her thought to Maggie, and she passed on the message to several others.

  A group of pregnant women held back, and the men behind them raised their voices to urge them forward. But they didn’t use physical force. Jackie had told Athena that the guards were much more careful around the surrogates because there was something very unusual about their babies.

  Up ahead, a couple of pregnant girls struggled to the ramp. One of them, who couldn’t have been older than sixteen, slipped and tumbled sideways. Thankfully, Misha happened to be standing close with his back to her. She fell against him, knocking both of them onto the gravel driveway.

  He swore at her but didn’t hit her. And when she tried to climb in the truck again, one of the guards walked behind her to hold her steady.

  Too soon, only three women remained outside the truck, Jackie, Maggie, and Athena. When Jackie started up the ramp, Maggie walked behind her, guiding her slowly. Then, their Fearless Leader came back down and helped Athena. That was critical because her legs couldn’t seem to remember how to move anymore. A guard walked behind them and dropped their three bags at their feet. Then he sat down along a side wall with three of his asshole buddies.

  A couple of guards outside raised the ramp and slid it into a slot under the truck’s deck.

  Misha yelled, “Ladies, sit or lay down, please. It’s going to be a bumpy ride at first. We don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

  Athena almost screamed at him. How could he dare pretend to care about them so soon after he’d slaughtered that poor woman in cold blood?

  Jackie sat on the metal floor and breathed hard. “Can’t take much more of this.”

  Realizing what a horrible place this would be to deliver a baby, Athena pulled a couple of blankets out of her bag and spread them out for Jackie. “Lie on these,” she whispered. “You have to calm down.”

  The woman shifted onto the blankets and laid on her back. “Thanks. You lie down too. We both need to get a hold of ourselves. The way we are now, we’re no good to anybody.”

  They lay together on the blankets, two terrified women facing the unknown.

  The back tailgate closed. Total darkness surrounded everyone inside, along with the stink from spilled beer and wine.

  With a jerk, the truck began to move. Each pothole they hit knocked them around. Worse, nobody seemed to know where they were going. For all Athena knew, they could be headed to some execution site. Misha might be ready to bolt, and he wasn’t going to want to leave forty witnesses to his monstrous acts behind.

  Some of the women began to moan and cry, and the awful sounds echoed inside the metal sides of the trailer.

  Instead of joining in, Athena focused on comforting her new friend. She searched her memory then whispered a song from church back when she was a kid. “Amazing grace! how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch; like me! I once was lost, but now am found, was blind, but now I see…”

  Chapter 11

  Both trucks left the compound and headed north toward US 160. One of Langer’s RRT members drove the smaller truc
k to the new compound. Misha gave the driver of the larger truck, Leo, directions using back roads to a small town called Oxford. That was where they planned to meet the bus Langer had chartered.

  Misha remained behind with Rico and the other two members of the RRT. Time to tie up one more loose end.

  Misha said to his guard, “We need to check inside, make sure we didn’t leave any incriminating evidence. Then, you will follow the sedan in the pickup.”

  The moron looked nervous but nodded. With good reason. As soon as the two of them entered the living room, Misha pulled his gun. “Too many mistakes, amigo.”

  Rico put up a hand and began to beg, but Misha put two bullets into the center of his forehead. Now, the house held two corpses. It would become a crematorium.

  Misha ran to the kitchen and splashed a gallon jug full of cooking oil around then lit it. The fire spread quickly.

  After a final look around, he ran out the front to the other two men in the RRT. “I’ll ride with you and show you where we’ll meet the bus. You’ll have to tell me where we are going after the rendezvous.”

  They nodded and strode toward the sedan.

  Misha walked behind them and watched for either of them to make a move, particularly the guy in charge of the RRT, a huge Greek named Nicholas Sabin. If they had orders to take Misha out, they’d do it now.

  But neither of them confronted Misha. Langer had apparently decided that he deserved a chance to oversee the new location.

  Once the sedan was headed in the right direction, Misha considered his options. If he wanted to try for an escape, he’d have to do it before he learned where they were going.

  But even if Misha quit before hearing anything more, his odds of survival weren’t good. He knew too much about Langer in general and the Über-Baby Project in particular. Hiding would be a bitch. Some of the best assassins in the world worked for the billionaire.

  -o-o-o-

  US 160, Eastern La Plata County

  Beau turned onto a rough gravel road. Smoke billowed to the south. As he got closer to the property the building inspector had mentioned, his throat tightened. The prison compound appeared to be burning.

  But there was nothing he could do to warn the local authorities. As Costello had told him earlier, Beau’s cell phone had no service.

  He quickly found the property he was looking for. Sure enough, the north side of the house was a raging inferno, including the open garage. The only vehicle visible inside was a white pickup. A hundred feet away, a white SUV was parked in the semi-circular driveway.

  Beau hopped out of his SUV and ran inside the front door to look for trapped victims. That part of the house wasn’t burning yet. He yelled, “FBI! Anybody here?”

  No answer.

  The kitchen was fully involved, as the firefighters liked to say, and thick smoke filled the rest of the house, stinging his nostrils. He held a handkerchief over his mouth and nose, but it didn’t help much. Beau ran up a set of stairs to the top floor. Luckily, the upper rooms were empty.

  After racing back downstairs, he checked the living room. A man’s body was spread out on the carpet, his head surrounded by a pool of blood. A closer look confirmed it was the guy from the gas station video. Chris had called him Rico. He’d taken two to the brain.

  Beau left him there and searched the rest of the first floor to see whether anyone remained alive. One empty room looked like a former nursery or playroom, and another dead body lay crumpled on the carpet. This man wore a deputy sheriff’s uniform, but he wasn’t Jackson, the deputy he and Chris had seen yesterday. This one’s name tag read Chief Deputy Steve Maddox.

  “Merde!” That sure complicated things. What the fuck was he doing here, and why had he come in a private vehicle? That didn’t look good, particularly when Jackie’s card claimed at least some of the county deputies were dirty.

  Beau dragged the deputy out of the house through the thickening smoke and intense heat to the front driveway. Then he pulled burly Rico out, too.

  That done, Beau leaned over and coughed, trying to get the poisonous smoke out of his lungs.

  A cloud of dust approached on the county road. It was an FBI SUV, and it skidded to a halt in the driveway. The driver jumped out. He was an older, beefy guy. “What a fucking disaster. I’m Frank Costello, FBI. Who’re you?”

  Beau stuck out his hand. “I’m Boudreau. Just got here. Found the two stiffs inside. Haven’t seen anyone alive but haven’t been around back yet.”

  Costello nodded. “Let’s check it out. Already used my satellite phone to call in the fire.”

  They ran to the north side of the house and found an open gate in an eight-foot-high chain-link fence that surrounded the property. The fire kept growing in intensity. Most of the land was pasture, but no animals were visible. A two-story, galvanized structure with a tan asphalt shingle roof stood a hundred feet behind the house.

  A door to the building was open. Both men pulled their pistols out and entered quietly. The door opened into a large kitchen. Cookware, boxes, and food were scattered across the counters.

  An open archway led into a large room that contained several long cafeteria-style tables with benches and four rows of beds. They called out but no reply. Clothing and personal items were strewn everywhere. At the far end of the building, a stairway led to the second floor. They hurried up, but the upper floor was an empty open room filled with more beds.

  “Looks like they left in a damned awful hurry,” Beau said. “The bastards probably tortured the shit out of Chris until she told them about us. If so, they know we’re hot on their heels.”

  Costello glanced around. “You said you first ran into a La Plata County deputy about four o’clock yesterday afternoon? It doesn’t seem possible that these assholes could’ve packed up and moved dozens of people so quickly. Even as slapdash as they obviously did. How could anyone charter a bus for so many people on short notice out in the middle of nowhere between Durango or Pagosa Springs?”

  None of this surreal scene made sense. “Good question, and here’s another one. What the hell happened to Chris?”

  A siren screamed in the distance. The two agents returned outside and checked the rear of the house. Beau found another victim near the back deck, a woman in clothes had been stabbed. They moved the body to the front to keep the firefighters from contaminating any evidence on it.

  Then, Beau noticed a set of large tire tracks in the driveway. At least one big rig had driven in recently.

  “Do you see how the tires cut across the inside curve?” he asked. “Had to be a large delivery truck or a bus. As you wondered, how did they get it here so quickly?”

  Costello nodded. “It occurs to me they might’ve stolen it. I’ll call Durango PD and the La Plata County Sheriff to check for theft. If not, there aren’t many truck rental or bus charter outfits in town. We can check them when we get back to town.”

  Beau had investigated thefts of large commercial vehicles before. “Hey, if the scumbags grabbed a big rig off the street, there’s a good chance it’s got a GPS tracking device. That should help.”

  Costello worked the satellite phone. Beau met the first firetruck to show up. By now, half the house was aflame, and burning embers were landing on everything nearby, including him. The smoke also made it harder to stand anywhere near the house.

  The fire captain introduced himself and looked at the two corpses. “Jesus, that cop’s Maddox. What happened?”

  “Not sure,” Beau said. “Someone from the sheriff’s department will hopefully show up soon and explain.”

  He returned to his truck and helped three other firemen deal with the blaze.

  Costello was covered with ash and soot by the time he strode over to Beau. “We caught a break. The driver for a beer and wine distribution company out of Grand Junction just reported his truck stolen. I talked to him. His rig does have a GPS unit, and his boss in Grand Junction is already tracking it. It’s currently on
La Plata County Road 516 heading south. That’s about ten miles southwest of here. We need to catch up with it.”

  Beau told the fire captain they had an emergency and gave him his card. He left his rental SUV at the house and rode with Costello.

  The man flew down the rough road, swerving back and forth to avoid the worst potholes and rocks. Fortunately, the SUV had lights and a siren, but God help anyone deaf who was up ahead.

  Beau used the sat phone to update Yang, the Denver FBI office’s head honcho. He was bringing a team of agents from Denver on a plane.

  Next, Beau called the liquor distribution company’s manager. His stolen truck was now heading west on the same county road as before.

  When they reached the highway, Beau glanced at the speedometer. Costello was barreling down US 160 at ninety miles-per-hour, but they were about to reach the construction zone. Would have to slow down.

  He did but caught a break because the traffic on their side started moving as they pulled up to the end of the line.

  In the middle of Bayfield, they turned south and soon were flying again. Unfortunately, according to the manager on the phone, his truck was speeding, too. All Beau could do was pray that Costello was an outstanding Grand Prix racecar driver.

  “Hey,” the manager said on the phone, “the truck stopped in a small town called Oxford. It hasn’t moved for a couple of minutes now, despite the fact there are no traffic lights there.”

  Beau relayed the info to Costello.

  “Yeah,” he said, “It’s just a wide spot in the road. Only a few houses scattered about. If the dirtbags are switching vehicles there, pray they take their time. It has to take a while to transfer dozens of people from one ride to another.”

  Chapter 12

  CO 172, Oxford, Colorado

  Although the big truck filled with women had driven mostly on paved roads, Athena had felt every bump through the truck’s metal deck. She laid on her stomach to minimize the pain to her butt and thighs. But the fear surrounding her inside the truck was so pervasive that it seemed difficult to breathe.