Undone, page 13
He hesitated briefly and swallowed. "What?"
She didn't repeat the question but did wave her gun.
"Upstairs," he said hurriedly.
Cora nodded, gesturing at the two women closest to the door. The way they had postured themselves, protectively around the others, she decided these were the ones she wanted to speak with. "Did you hear that? Food, water. Police are going to be on the way. They'll have ways to help you guys. I'm very sorry. If it's any consolation, some of the guys who had a hand in this have already paid."
Then, quickly, though it pained her not to give further instruction, she directed her attention towards the trafficker. "You're going to help me tie up a few of those unconscious soldiers. And then you're coming with me."
"What?" He stammered.
"Not so suave now? What? What? That's going to be my question. For now, you better just do what I say. Clear?"
Then, before he had time to protest or react, she snapped, “Now get moving. Today's going to be a long day for you!”
Caitlin Johnson was not in this warehouse. But this man, this place, everything she'd seen proved one thing. This guy knew where Caitlin was.
And willingly or not, he was going to take Cora to her.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
In the distance, Cora could hear sirens rapidly approaching and thought she heard the sound of helicopter blades against the horizon. She had to hand it to Agent Brady. He'd managed to get tactical to move quick.
But now, she didn't linger to watch. A cloud of dust kicked up behind them as she sped away on the desert road. Tires squealed as she turned sharply, moving at a breakneck pace in the opposite direction of the compound. Having secured the surviving soldiers and liberated the captive women, Cora was now focused on the next task.
But in order to find Caitlin, she was going to need the man in her back seat to start talking. His hands were bound behind him as she hadn't buckled him in.
As she swerved sharply again, tires squealing, he yelled, flying across the seat, his head thumping into the door.
He groaned in pain, trying to speak to protest, but she swerved the other way. In the rearview mirror, she spotted where snakes of black stained the asphalt. Where the dust turned up, rising in a cloud. The sound of sirens in the distance only added to the chaos.
As she sped away from the compound, she could feel her nerves quieting, could feel her mind focusing.
She had to find where Caitlin was.
Before it was too late.
She shouted now, swerving once more, but then straightening out in order to give him a chance to hear the question. "Where is Caitlin Johnson? The girl you took from Westville. Two months ago. Where is she?"
The man in the backseat was groaning. He stammered, "You're going to break my arms."
Every time she veered one way or the other, his hands, bound behind his back, would slam against the seat and the door. Bracing himself, his arms would twist at an odd angle. She wanted to summon compassion but was finding it very difficult.
"That is not an answer to my question!"
"No, no, wait, wait!" His eyes widened as he watched her hands begin to twist the steering wheel again.
She steadied, waiting.
He screeched, "I don't know who you're talking about! No, really, I don't—"
Another squeal of the tires, this time taking a curve with a posted speed limit of 35 mph. She was going 80.
The trafficker screamed but then slammed into the opposite door, thrown across the seats.
Something cracked. For his sake, she hoped it was just the plastic covering on the door, and not one of his bones.
"Stop!" he yelled, his voice pleading. "I'm begging you, stop!"
"Begging now? Is that what they did? And did you stop? No? Didn't think so—now tell me, where is Caitlin?” her eyes flashed in the rearview mirror, and she added, “I can do this all day!"
They continued to tear through the desert road, under the bright sun, leaving a trail of dust and rubber.
The man, shaking badly now, was muttering under his breath.
She straightened again on the road.
Through tight lips, she growled, "Just so we're both on the same page, the next thing I do is slam on the brakes. I want you to consider, for a moment, what's going to happen if I do that. Imagine your body, like a rag doll, flying across the seats. Imagine your head colliding with the windshield, maybe the head rest of the other chair. Do you think your neck will snap? You think something will break?" She spoke conversationally, somewhat channeling the voice he had used back at the police station. The voice of someone who knew they were in control.
He was stammering horribly, shaking his head, his olive skin turning pale as the blood left his cheeks. But then, at last, he blurted out, "Don't-don't do that. I don't know where this woman is. But I know who does!"
"Talk faster!” As she said it, she floored the gas. He started speaking more rapidly. "I work for a man only known as the Merchant. He's Greek. Look, he doesn't tell me where he takes them. I'm just the middleman. I'm a victim too!"
“The Merchant? What's his real name?"
A note of panic, joining the rapid prattle, "I don't know. If I knew, I swear, I would tell you!”
"And what is he going to do with Caitlin?" Cora said, her voice shaking. "Where would he take her?"
Another pained gasp, a shaking head. "I don't know," he moaned like a petulant child. "If I did, I would tell you. But I don't. You have to believe me."
Cora had to do no such thing.
She studied him a moment longer in the rearview mirror and then reached a decision. "Hold on," she said, sardonically. And then, as he shouted in protest, she slammed on the brakes.
The man shot forward, his head slamming into the back of her chair. He tried to absorb the blow on his shoulder, but only ended up twisting his body into an odd shape.
As their car skidded, tires squealing, he collapsed into the back seat, suddenly silent.
She sat in the car, idling on the desert road, her chest throbbing from where the seatbelt had squeezed at the sudden stop.
She glanced back, breathing heavily, extended a hand and felt no pulse.
Adrenaline coursed through her system. She checked more closely, turning so she could extend her arm fully. She found a pulse.
She wasn't sure if this should be a relief or a disappointment.
But for now, the trafficker was unconscious. She would have to place another call to Saul.
Because she certainly wasn't going to carry him any further. A couple of hours on the side of the road in the desert heat might give the man a new perspective on jamming women into shipping containers like sardines.
But as she kicked open her door, slipping around the side to busy herself with pulling him out of the back, she placed a call.
It took a few moments, but then, the call connected.
"Haven't fallen in love with me again, have you?" came the cheeky reply.
She scowled, and in normal situations might have hung up at just that offense. But this wasn't a normal predicament. "Johnny," she snapped, "I don't have time for your lip. What do you know about a trafficker named the Merchant? Apparently, he's Greek."
"Wait, shit, for real, the Merchant?"
"You know him?" She said, excited.
"No. Just playing. Look, Cora, I can't be your guy in the chair. I have my own job to do."
"At least this time I don't hear gunshots in the background."
"No, true. I suspect if I had called you a couple of hours ago, I very well might have."
She frowned, wrinkling her nose, "Are you tracking my phone?"
"No. But I did have a couple of feelers out on that warehouse you asked about last night. Doesn't sound like it had a very good morning."
"No, I suppose they didn't."
She reached the back seat, inhaling the warm, dusty air. She pulled open the door, and then dragged the trafficker out of the seat, depositing him onto the side of the road, pushing him, with her foot, off the asphalt. If she had been in a particularly vindictive mood, she might have just left him in the middle-of-the-road.
"I need you to place a call to the police about one of the traffickers. I think I found him."
"Found him, right. He still have his fingernails?"
"He's fine. Getting some beauty sleep."
"I take it you're not just calling to brag about clunking some scumbag."
"The day I call you to brag," Cora said, her voice a growl, "is the day you can take me out back and shoot me."
"Are you asking me to take you out?"
"Johnny, this is something I wish I'd said when we were dating. You're not funny."
"Now, see, Cora, your memory is failing you. You did tell me that when we were dating. Multiple times.”
She inhaled shakily, again, resisting the urge to hang up; sometimes, one couldn't choose their allies. And now, things were urgent. "The Merchant, Johnny, I need you to—"
"Just did. Give me a second, I'm tracking his yacht."
"His what?"
"The guy has a yacht," Johnny said, with a grunt. "Also, he is Turkish. He says he is Greek, for business reasons, kind of like that yogurt guy."
"What?"
"Right, he's right below Florida. Looks like he's been there a couple of days, going back and forth between some ports. Listed as a pleasure trip. He has clearance. What do you expect to find on that yacht?"
"I didn't know there was going to be a yacht. Crap. Johnny, in that case, I have another favor to ask you."
"Should I be keeping a running tally or just consider this a charitable donation?"
"Consider it what you want, but a woman's life is on the line. That guy who used to charter planes out of here for drug smugglers—you still have his number?"
"I wouldn't lose a number like that. Skyler is a character. Why?"
Cora sighed. She didn't like the way he had said character. But she pressed on, "I'm going to need a flight. Tonight. And I need you to keep me up-to-date on that yacht; tell me if it goes to port."
"Cora, now hang on one moment. I'm not working for you. A couple of favors doesn't mean you can—"
Now she hung up. And boy, it felt satisfying.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Cora sprinted across the tarmac, holding a hand to her face, one arm braced against the wind churned by the helicopter blades. Blinking red and green lights, beneath the body of the black machine illuminated the helicopter pad. The private airfield was motionless in the dead of night.
Cora had to hand it to Johnny's contact. The man was punctual, at the very least. The spray-painted cartoon of a woman clad in a skimpy bikini staining the side of the helicopter, though, was somewhat less impressive.
She reached the side of the helicopter, holding up three fingers the way Johnny had told her to. She then cleared her voice and shouted the passcode Johnny had given, "The sailor sobs at noon!"
The door to the helicopter kicked open. A man was sitting there. A man she hadn't quite been expecting. For one, he wore a straw bonnet, with headphones perched over it. For another, he was completely tan, but unnaturally so, and, judging by some of the patches of pale skin, he had used a spray.
And the reason she knew he was tan was because he was wearing nothing except for bright, pink underwear. The rest of his clothing, by the looks of it, was drying in the backseat. She stared at the half naked man in the sun bonnet and wondered exactly what she had gotten herself into.
But the man was beaming at her, gesturing.
She paused, and stared at her hand, holding three fingers, and then stared at the headphones accompanying the wild whooping sound of the helicopter blades. There was no way he had heard what she'd said.
Slowly, she lowered her hand, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. The password she'd been given by Johnny had seemed a bit much. And now, she was starting to suspect that had been more for her ex-boyfriend's amusement than anything the pilot had requested.
For all he knew, she was a federal agent coming to arrest him. But he greeted her with a grin and a wave.
"Johnny told you I was coming, right?" She called out.
The man tapped his headphones and shook his head. He gestured again for her to get in.
"You know where we're headed, yeah?"
Another big grin and adjustment.
She sighed faintly.
Then, the man extended a second pair of headphones.
The wild churning of the helicopter blades was making it nearly impossible to hear anything. So, reluctantly, she slipped into the front seat, heart pounding. She shot a look over her shoulder at the rest of the airfield; no sign that anyone was coming towards them. No sign that the police had managed to catch up with her. At this point, she didn't doubt that people were starting to look for her.
A few phone calls from Agent Brady, but she had put her device on silent.
Part of her was wondering if she ought to just block his number. Then again, she was going to need him for what came next.
She slipped into the helicopter, put on the headphones, slammed the door, and said, "Are you Skyler?"
"What?" He said, and then held up a finger. He flipped the switch on the dashboard. Then said, "Are you Cobra?"
She glared. "That's right. Skyler Brodrick?"
He chuckled. "I guess so. I forgot I changed it."
She wasn't at all sure what that meant.
Then, still cheerful, his voice echoing in the way it might over a recording device, he said, "I hear you need some help,"
"Johnny sent the coordinates?"
"Some yacht, out at sea. That right?"
She nodded again. But he wasn't watching, flipping more buttons. And then, his hand moved to what she could only describe as a joystick between them. They began to rise and she tensed.
"You know how to land wet?" He asked.
Cora realized Johnny must have not told him much about her. Otherwise, he would have known the question was somewhat offensive to a branch of the military that describes themselves as frogs. Jumping out of a helicopter to infiltrate a moving yacht wasn't exactly kosher. But it would have to do for now.
"I also have some toys in the back for you, if you want," he said playfully.
She glanced back at his clothing, but then, beneath it, she spotted a black duffel bag.
"Johnny paid for it," the pilot called out. "He must really like you. That guy is stingy as all hell."
And now they were moving, cutting through the night sky, heading across the chain link fence below and circling the airfield.
As they moved, she reached into the backseat, snatched the duffel bag, and felt a bout of gratitude towards her ex-boyfriend. She didn't allow the emotion to last too long as she still remembered how things ended. Then again, maybe this was his way of making it up to her.
As she opened the bag, she nodded slowly.
"Night vision?"
"Check."
"Flash bang?"
"Also there."
"Is that a grappling hook?"
"Will help you secure to the rail of the boat. I tinkered with it a bit myself. Mechanism will be water resistant for a couple of hours at least."
"An M-16?"
"Set to burst fire. You can change it if you want, though." The pilot nodded a few times, his bonnet shifting up and down. "I should add there's a few extra magazines. The water will mess with the gear. So, the bag is lightweight and fully waterproof. You just have to zip it up, and then use that plastic seal on the end, see it there?"
Cora nodded and pressed.
"Well, thanks. How long until we reach the coordinates?"
"I'll plug them in once we get out over the water. Right now, flight control thinks I'm heading to Florida to pick up produce."
Cora nodded. She tensed, shifting uncomfortably.
She wondered what sort of hell Caitlin Johnson had been going through for the last two months.
With a horrible realization, Cora thought that, most likely, Caitlin didn't know what had happened to her mother.
At this thought, all she felt was a rising sense of sheer rage.
The thumping of the helicopter blades accompanied the pounding of her heart. Her hand tensed on the bag of gear, and she waited, quiet, staring through the windshield at the terrain below. The houses looked small. The lights dull.
Sometimes, the dark was just too much. It swallowed everything that seamed bright.
Then again, Cora had never seen an explosion that couldn't light up the horizon.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Cora watched dark clouds blot out the moon.
Pitchforks of lightning cut through the sky. Below them, the ocean roiled, the waves splashing against the body of water where curling white met briny blue.
Cora stared through the windshield, shivering.
Even the lackadaisical pilot was shifting nervously at the controls.
The storm had been developing. Already, they had been flying for hours.
A small, red blip on a GPS system built into the dash was chirping now.
"I'm not sure how close I want to get to that storm," he said, uneasily.
The skies rumbled, rattling the glass from the thunder. Cora shifted uncomfortably, nodding as she did. "Anyway to get closer?" She paused, peering through the windshield. "If you can get me in front of the yacht, along its trajectory, I can take it from there."
A risky proposition, especially if the yacht was moving quickly and she missed her first grapple.
Then again, she trusted herself in the water; she had once spent three days on the open ocean.
She shot a look towards the half-naked pilot. "Just," she said hesitantly, "if you don't hear from me by tomorrow, come back on a pass. I'll use the glass from the night vision to reflect the sun."
He nodded, gripping the controls of the helicopter with tight hands.
Then, he seemed to reach a decision and veered forward, moving towards the storm.
The lightning continued to skewer the horizon. The roar of thunder continued to rattle the windows. Anyone besides a man like this, who Johnny had often bragged about based on his sheer recklessness, might have turned the helicopter around. But already, Cora knew she was running out of time.
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