Page 15 of Puck
“Jesus, dude, call me Puck. Mr. Lawson was my old man, and he’s twenty years dead.” I cleared my throat. “This is deeper and more complicated than we originally thought, boys. It’s not just about that Lonigan op that went sideways. Never really was, I don’t think. Cain is heavily involved in human trafficking. Might even be his primary stream of income, if this situation I’m in now is any indication.”
“Puck, brother, glad to hear your voice, man,” I heard Duke say.
“Hey, pretty boy. Listen, it was never you they were tracking, it was Temple.”
“Yeah, I figured that out.”
“Well thanks for sharing, dick.”
Duke laughed. “You were already AWOL by the time I figured it out. When Cain’s mercs nabbed me at Harris’s compound, they took me to . . . a stock pen, you might say, but for people. I woke up in a room full of women, all young, all pretty, and all destined for a trading block over in your current neck of the woods.”
“Yeah, that’s the situation, buddy. I chased Temple and Lola for a good hundred miles and ended up in the belly of a 727, which just happened to be full of exactly what you just mentioned, a bunch of pretty young things from all over the globe. We landed in Kiev, I busted some skulls, and got the women away. That’s the short of it. The less fun part is that Temple is still being tracked, or at least that is the assumption I’m working under. I’ve got our four girls plus another dozen or so. Tricky part is, I’m short on resources. Two pistols with one spare mag for each, a handful of cash, no IDs, a bunch of women in tow, most of whom don’t speak a lick of English, and we’re in the shitty end of motherfucking Kiev. So if any of you smart bitches have good ideas for me, I’m all ears.”
Anselm cut in, then in his quiet, German-accented voice. “I have an idea, I think. I have a connection in that part of the world who may be able to help you.” He paused a moment, then continued. “He operates . . . in somewhat of a gray area of the laws, if you take my meaning. I have done some work with him in the past, and in this situation I think he might be willing to help. Rather eagerly so, unless I am very greatly mistaken.”
“Meaning what?” I asked.
Anselm let out a slow breath. “I know very little about him, only what I needed to know for the operation we cooperated on. It was a human trafficking sting, a venture that joined intelligence and law enforcement operatives from many E-U countries. My . . . associate, shall we call him . . . was the inside man, an undercover agent. It was personal for him, however. He was searching for his sister, who had been sold into prostitution. We found her—well,hefound her, during the sting. It was not a pleasant situation.”
“He got made?” I ventured.
“Ja.Very bad for her.” Anselm’s accent seemed thicker, which I took to mean he’d been there and had seen the messy fallout. I could imagine it all too well, having been in on several such stings myself during my time with the FBI. “So, I will contact my associate, provide him with this mobile number, and he will call you.”
“Sounds good,” I said. “And hey, Anselm?”
“Ja?”
“Is your buddy as scary as you?”
Anselm’s answering laugh sent goosebumps down my spine. “Mein freund, in comparison to Ivar, I am only a cute little puppy dog.”
“Well, doesn’t that just make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside,” I joked. “Just do me one favor when you talk to him, will you?”
“Was ist?”
“Make sure Ivar knows I’m one of the good guys, huh?”
Anselm laughed again, less creepily this time. “Not a problem.”
I heard Thresh’s deep, rumbling bass voice. “Yo, Puck. Lola there?”
I handed the phone to Lola, who smiled her appreciation at me. “Thresh, sweetheart, hi.”
I turned away for that conversation, and Temple’s with Duke.
After the conversations were finished, I slipped the phone into my pocket. I drove in a random pattern for another thirty minutes or so, circling the same block a few times, and then another one, killing time and hoping to stay off anyone’s radar.
“Um, Puck?” This was Lola. “Maybe not the best timing, but I kind of have to pee. Is there anywhere we can stop?”
“We might as well find somewhere to stock up on some snacks and shit anyway,” I said. “And I’m sure you’re not the only one who needs to piss.”
I kept my eyes open as I navigated around the suburban neighborhood, and it wasn’t long before I found a decent-looking gas station with a full quick mart. I pulled in and parked in as inconspicuous a spot as I could find, and the women all took turns heading inside for a potty break. Colbie, after her turn inside, came back with several white plastic bags full of bottles of water and some Ukrainian-brand granola/protein bars, some not exactly fresh but still edible fruit, and a bunch of premade gas station sandwiches. Most of the women seemed content to sit in the van out of sight and eat, while Layla and I stood outside the vehicle, keeping watch while we refueled our bellies—the van’s tank was still full, thankfully.
I finished my sandwich and a banana, downed a bottle of water, and headed inside to hit the bathroom myself. I exited the quick mart and quickly walked back to the van, pausing to wipe my hands on my pants, since the gas station’s men’s room had been out of paper towel.
The gas station was situated on a corner of a major thoroughfare and a smaller side street, with an alley running parallel to the side street behind the gas station and the other business next to it. I glanced up at the alley as I climbed into the van . . .
Just in time to see a white panel van—identical to the one we were in—slowly drive down the alley, two men in the front seat, both of whom watched us with hard, cold eyes. My skin crawled, and my danger hackles prickled.