Page 37 of Puck

Ivar laughed. “He was being modest. It would be an unnerving thing indeed to be on Anselm’s bad side.”

“No shit.” I stood up, chuckling. “Three to one. Guess I owe you a bottle of Pappy.”

“I will take you up on that. I have a taste for American whiskey.”

“Ever have Pappy?”

“Nein, I have not. Surprisingly difficult to get in Europe.”

“Hell, that shit is hard to get in America.”

“The truck is arriving. Load the first group onto it, the larger group of women. The driver will greet you by name. If he does not, shoot him.”

“Roger that,” I said.

“I will be with the second truck, arriving in five minutes.”

“See you in five, in that case,” I said, as the truck squealed to a halt at the curb.

“Jawohl.”

The truck was a huge, two-ton, ex-military transport truck, painted black. I jogged over, pistol still in hand, halting a couple feet away as the driver threw open the door and hopped down.

“Puck Lawson,” the driver said, extending his hand toward me.

“That’s me,” I answered, shaking his hand.

“Lars.” He eyed the group of women sitting in the park, huddled in separate groups, looking scared and worried. “Let’s load them,ja?”

I waved them over, and slowly, gradually, hesitantly, they approached me in twos and threes. I glanced at Colbie, gestured for her to join me. I addressed the gathering group. “How many of you speak English?”

Only three women raised their hands.

“Can you communicate with any of the others?” I asked.

One of them nodded, pointing at another cluster of four women. “They speak Portuguese,” she said, in a thick Spanish accent, “and I know a little.”

“Okay, here’s the deal. This guy is a friend. He’s going to take all of you somewhere safe.”

“Where?” the one who’d spoken up asked.

I shrugged. “Dunno.”

“Then how do we know is he a friend?” she pressed.

“Because he works for someone I trust.”

“What is happen to us?” she asked.

“They’re going to help you in any way they can,” I said. “If possible, they’ll help you go back home, or if that’s not possible, they’ll help make you as safe and comfortable as possible.”

Colbie repeated it in Chinese and Russian, but there were still two groups who didn’t seem to understand any of it, a trio of women who looked to my admittedly inexpert eyes to be from India, and another two from the Middle East somewhere. The two groups watched as the other women voluntarily climbed into the back of the truck, which seemed to communicate well enough that whatever was happening, it wasn’t something bad.

There were sirens off in the distance, which weren’t necessarily about us, but considering the number of dead bodies in the immediate vicinity, I felt it safe to assume they were headed toward our location.

The women were all aboard the truck, and the driver lowered the flaps, fastened them, and climbed into the cab. The diesel engine groaned and rattled, and the truck pulled away, and then it was just the five women and me.

An older model Range Rover halted at the curb where the truck had been, and a man exited from the driver’s side. He was not what I was expecting—I’d been expecting a younger guy, based on his voice. This man was past forty, had blond-brown hair parted to one side, wore a drab, ill-fitting brown suit without a tie, thick, round glasses, and had an unkempt goatee. He was the kind of man absolutely no one would give a second glance to or thought about. Which, I supposed, watching him approach me, would serve his purposes well.