Greg Rucka - Walking dead

Bridgett's expression turned to incredulity, the fatigue dissipating in a new wave of outrage.

"Fuck you."

"She needs help."

"Fuck you!" Bridgett appealed to her sister. "You know who he's talking about? You know who this woman he's talking about is? Even if you believe what he's telling us about himself, he can't say the same about her-"

"She's pregnant," I interrupted.

Over coffee, when I'd told Cashel that Alena was pregnant, her response had been one of genuine pleasure.

Bridgett, not so much. I might as well have punched her, the reaction was so immediate and so physical. Her head snapped back, came around to stare at me. Her mouth opened, lower lip working, and then she closed it again. She backed up, bumping into the kitchen counter, put a hand on one of the barstools there. After a second, she took the seat.

"Yours?" she asked, finally.

"Yeah."

"She's having your baby?"

"Yeah."

She shook her head once more, muttering, before she said, "You don't need my help. That woman, pregnant? Anyone fucks with her they'd be dead twice before they hit the ground."

"I need someone with her I can trust. Someone who can back her up if it comes to that."

"And is it going to come to that?"

"I don't know. There's a chance. I've made some people very angry lately."

"Not including myself."

"More recently."

"Why can't it be you?" There was the edge of new suspicion in the question. "She's having your baby, after all."

"Because I have to find someone first," I said. Most of what I told Bridgett about Tiasa Lagidze I'd already told her sister when we'd met for coffee in the Bronx that morning. After arriving at Kennedy the night before, I'd checked into a hotel near the airport, traveling under the Anthony Shephard ID. Jet lag had me up before five, and I'd used my laptop to find a phone number for Cashel Logan, a Sister of Incarnate Love. It hadn't taken long, but I'd waited until after seven before putting in the call, asking to meet her.

Bridgett listened without comment, but with visible emotion. When I described the women I'd seen in Turkey, the girls I'd found in the brothel in Dubai, the fury writ itself large on her face.

"I've done some counseling with victims of trafficking," Cashel said. "It's increased substantially in the last couple of years, as more and more cases have come to light, as law enforcement has become more aware of the crime."

"There was that case in New Jersey," Bridgett said. "Last year, it made the Times."

"Yes. And the arrests in Kansas and Florida."

"This girl could be anywhere in the world," Bridgett told me.

"Maybe. Some places more likely than others. I've got a lead I need to chase down."

"The experience is uniformly brutal, but it is survivable," Cashel said. "You can recover from it, make a life again. But the longer the slavery, the harder the recovery. And the younger the victim, the more damage that has to be undone."

"So you're going to rescue the girl, and you want me to protect the little lady?" Bridgett asked. "That's why you're here?"

"If you want to put it like that," I said.

"Once upon a time, you knew a lot of bodyguards," Bridgett said. "I'm not a bodyguard, I'm a private investigator. Why haven't you asked them? Or did you do that already and they all told you what I'm inclined to tell you?"

"I thought about it," I answered. "But I can't trust them the way I can trust you."

"You son of a bitch."

"I've got nobody else."

"And whose fault is that, Atticus?"

"No one's but my own."

"You would say that." She glared at me for a long time, then slid off the barstool. "Fuck it. I've always wanted to visit Ukraine. I'll go pack."

We watched her disappear back into her bedroom.

"This girl, Tiasa," Cashel said. "I may be able to help her, or at least put you in contact with people who can, wherever you find her. If you find her."

"I'm going to find her, Sister."

Sister Cashel Logan gave me a small smile.

"I'll pray that you do, Atticus."

Twenty-two When we were waiting in the security line at Kennedy for our flight the next morning, Bridgett leaned in over my shoulder, whispering, "So what happens if I tell them Anthony Shephard is a guy named Atticus Kodiak?"

I gave it a second's thought. "I don't know. Want to try it?"

She snorted the exact same way Alena would've done had I said the same thing to her.

We cleared security without a problem. In keeping with my newly established tradition, I used Vladek's BlackBerry, with a new SIM I'd purchased the previous day, to call the Londonskaya as we were waiting at the gate to board. Bridgett had gone off in search of a Starbucks, leaving me alone for the time being; at least, she'd claimed to be searching for a Starbucks. She might've been serious about ratting me out to the TSA, but that didn't seem very likely.

Alena answered before the second ring, and I told her where I was, and what the plan was, and who I was sending to back her up. When I gave the name, Alena swore in Russian.

"She hates me."

"She talks a good game."

"Logan hates me, Atticus. How can I trust her?"

"So maybe she hates you. At least you know where you stand with her. I trust her. She'd never have agreed if she wasn't willing to see this through."

"Perhaps." She went silent. It stretched long enough I began to wonder if the call had dropped. Then Alena said, "Did you tell her?"

"Yeah. She was overjoyed for us."

"You are lying."

"Yeah, I am," I said, catching sight of Bridgett returning to the gate, a frighteningly large paper cup in one hand. "I'm gonna go. I'll call you from London, give you her ETA."

"You're not coming with her?"

"No. Trabzon."

"Of course. I will wait to hear from you."

She hung up, and I stowed the phone back in my pocket as Bridgett resumed the seat next to me. She popped the top off the cup, releasing a cloud of steam, took a sip, then sighed.

"Black bean of life," Bridgett said. "Never used to like coffee, now I drink it all the time."

"You're off the Altoids?" I asked. When I'd known her, she was always popping one sort of candy or another, always carrying a roll of Life Savers or a tin of some flavor of mint in a pocket. She took them the way smokers took cigarettes, but instead of feeding an addiction, it had been her way of fighting one.

"Couple years ago."

"No kidding?"

"I went to the dentist, he took one look at my molars and started pricing new cars. I had fractures in three of them, had to get crowns made. That pretty much put an end to that."

"Ah," I said.

"Was that her? On the phone?"

"Yeah."

"She knows I'm coming."

"She does now."

"And?"

"She was overjoyed," I said.

"You're a fucking liar."

I grinned.

"What's so fucking funny?"

"Nothing. Never mind."

She glared at me, but I wasn't going to add anything more. After a couple seconds, she gave it up, and went back to savoring her coffee. Somewhere about halfway across the Atlantic, Bridgett woke me with a not-so-gentle punch to my shoulder. The cabin lights had been dimmed, and everyone else in business class was either dozing or hiding behind their sleep masks and noise-canceling headsets. I fumbled my glasses into place, focused on Bridgett, staring at me.

"What?" I asked.

"Nothing," she said. "I just wanted to hit you."

I took my glasses off, readjusted the inadequate pillow beneath my cheek. "Fine."

"Dick."

I nodded, pretended to go back to sleep. She let me maintain the charade for about a minute.

"You know what pisses me off most?" she asked.

"That I'm still breathing," I said.

"That I missed you."

I rolled my head to look at her, blurry without my corrective lenses. She had the aisle seat, taken for the slight advantage in leg room she could eke out of it.