Марк Грини - One Minute Out

“You got on board, obviously.”

“I did.”

“Well . . . what did you see?”

Looking forward through the windshield as I drive through the morning, I say, “Your sister is alive.”

Glancing her way, I see her bring both hands to her mouth, and I can see her face redden, even here in the darkened car.

Finally, she asks, “You saw her?”

“I spoke with her.”

“Oh my God.”

“She is okay.” For now, I think, all but certain that things are only going to get worse for Roxana.

“But . . . where is she? I need to see her.”

“She’s . . . actually, she’s still on the yacht.”

Out of the corner of my eye I see her lower her hands to her lap. Her tone changes, becoming angry and challenging. “I don’t understand. Why didn’t you rescue her?”

“I tried. She wouldn’t go. They’ve told her she’s being taken to the Director of the Consortium, and she sees this as the best chance to blow the doors wide open on this entire trafficking ring.” I add, “She’s doing it for you.”

This is hard for the Romanian woman to accept; she argues with me for a minute, insinuates that I should have popped her sister on the head and hauled her off the yacht. I don’t mention that I did , in fact, pop her on the head, and then I left her right there in the clutches of the murderous sex trafficking ring.

Not my finest hour, I’ll admit.

She’s furious at first, but as I drive north I calm her down, and it’s clear Talyssa knows what I know, that Roxana’s desire to live up to her sister’s expectations was what put her on that boat, not me, and it’s also what’s keeping her on that boat now.

She asks, “What was she like? Her condition . . . mentally.”

“She doesn’t blame you for anything. She is as strong as I’ve seen from someone in this situation.”

Talyssa turns to me. “You have seen people in this situation?”

“Similar situations, yes. The trauma bonds can be built quickly, and they can be very powerful. She’s a trouper for fighting back the way she is.”

“How do you know about trauma bonds?”

With only a little hesitation I say, “I have some training.”

“In kidnapping people for slavery?”

“No. In being held hostage. There is a school for it. You learn survival, evasion, resistance, and escape.”

“Where is this school?”

“Can’t say.”

“Of course you can’t.”

“The point is, you can be taught how to resist your captors, and you can build up a lot of defenses to their techniques. But these young people, snatched off the street, out of nightclubs, picked up through modeling agencies, thrown into this world . . . I can’t imagine what they are going through psychologically. Whatever it is, they don’t stand a chance.

“But Roxana’s tough. She’s really tough.”

“So . . . what is our plan now, Harry? We just leave Roxana with them and wait to hear from her?”

“No. We’re going to Venice. They will be there tonight, unless me showing up on La Primarosa changed their entire agenda.” I can’t rule out that possibility, but so far the pipeline seems to have continued on despite my harassment, with only a few diversions.

Talyssa asks, “And when we get to Venice? What will we do there?”

“The other girls will be sold off, and they’ll all go to different groups, different countries. If I can’t stop it tonight, I’ll never get another chance to save those victims I saw in Bosnia.”

But I sure as hell can’t save those women by myself. I’ve been trying and failing at this since that night in Mostar when my actions made their awful predicament even more awful.

I know now that I need a hand, and I also know where to go for it.

Maybe.

“This has gotten too big,” I say. “We’re going to have to try to bring in some help.”

“But . . . the police are corrupt.”

“I’m not talking about the police.”

“Who, then?”

I sigh and then drive in silence for a moment. Only when she asks me a second time do I reply. “Some acquaintances. But you need to understand one thing. They will either make the situation better, or they will make the situation worse. It’s only out of desperation that I’m reaching out to them.”

“But who are they?”

“I can’t tell you,” I say, and then I turn back to her. “Trust me.”

She nods and looks out the window. Soon she starts to sniff back tears, no doubt thinking about Roxana, somewhere out to sea.

• • •

An hour later we’re in the Italian town of Villa Opicina as the sun rises onto a clear morning. Talyssa is sitting on a stone bench in front of a church, and I’m walking around the grounds with my earpiece in. No one is in sight this early save for a couple of nuns who passed me by a minute ago, and they didn’t exactly trigger my threat radar, so I feel secure enough for now.

I place a call that I’ve been considering, but dreading, for days and days now.

It’s two a.m. in D.C., which means I’ll be waking up someone on the eastern seaboard, but I honestly don’t give a shit.

After five rings the call is answered with a sleepy female voice. “Brewer?”

“Hey. It’s me.”

Suzanne Brewer is my handler at CIA. To say our relationship is difficult would be underselling it significantly. She is not my biggest fan, which is also an understatement. In fact, it is entirely possible, perhaps even probable, that she tried to kill me a couple months ago.

I don’t trust her, but right now, I’m out of options.

“Me, who ?” She’s just being difficult. It’s par for the course from her.

“It’s Violator.”

She takes a few more seconds to wake up; I can hear her climbing out of her bed and walking, probably over to a computer in her house.

She says, “Iden code?”

I groan to myself and want to tell her, For fuck’s sake, you know who this is! But I don’t. Not because I’m above that sort of talk, but because I need something from her now.

I answer with a clipped, “Iden to follow: Whiskey, Hotel, Quebec, fiver, two, three, India.”

The pause is brief. The voice is annoyed. “Iden confirmed.”

I lay on the charm now, as thick as I can. “How’s it goin’?”

“It would be ‘goin’’ better if you were working instead of on another one of your vacations.”

I think about the past week and realize how much I wish I could take a vacation from this vacation. But I say, “I’ll be back soon. Sooner, actually, if you give me a little help. It’s really important.”

“You wouldn’t be calling if you didn’t need help. You wouldn’t be calling at this hour if it weren’t important. What do you want?”

This is going well, so far. I decide to add to my charm offensive to reel her in.

“You feeling better?”

Suzanne Brewer had been shot a couple of months earlier; she fell into my arms, in fact, and I guess I probably saved her life. That’s how I remember it, anyway, although my recollection of the incident is a bit fuzzy.

I hope that’s how she remembers it, as well, to earn me a little more respect in her eyes so she’ll give me what I need.

But she barks back at me. “I asked you what you wanted.”

Nope, the ice queen is as frosty as ever, despite the fact that I stopped her from bleeding out back in the UK.

I reply with, “I need whatever the Agency knows about a sex trafficking ring referred to as the Consortium.”

“Perhaps you are confused.”

“Confused about what?”

“Let me explain how this is all supposed to function. You work for this intelligence agency, Violator. This intelligence agency does not work for you .”