Джеффри Дивер - The Final Twist

His base of operations was this club, the Steelworks.

If the man presently gasping for breath in front of him was not involved in crimes, Shaw would have some consequences to face. But he’d seen no option.

So he searched the man.

And discovered two things. One was a Glock 17 semiauto pistol, which he slipped into his waistband. The other was some information. His driver’s license indicated he was Gregor Mladic, presumably Dante’s son or nephew.

Make that three things.

In his rear pocket was a packet of zip ties.

Two of which Shaw used to bind his wrists and ankles.

Now, for the door on the right.

He opened it.

Colter Shaw drew his gun and started silently down the stairs descending into the old building’s massive, pungent basement, redolent of mold and heating oil.

The pounding feet on the dance floor above them had stopped. Everyone had evacuated. The roar of the flames was the only sound encircling them.

Shaw turned to the hole they broke open in the Sheetrock and said to Nita, “Up the stairs now, fast. There’ll be police.”

“But... what about you?”

He smiled to her. “Not yet.”

And turned back, jogging to the far end of the corridor.

It had been twenty minutes since Shaw had descended the stairs from the door on the right down to the cellar of the Steelworks club, and the blaze was growing by the minute — the blaze set by the men in the TV room, under what was surely Dante Mladic’s order to destroy incriminating evidence in the office.

The TV men were gone, Nita was gone.

But Colter Shaw knew that he was not alone down here.

Choking, his mouth covered with his untucked shirt, he made his way down the main corridor, toward the far end.

Shaw believed he heard sirens, though it was hard to say over the raging fire.

At the end of the main corridor he turned down the hallway to the right. He drew his flashlight and hurried forward. Now that the footsteps above were gone and he was around the corner from the flames, he could hear thuds and the muffled cries of “Help” and “Get me out! Please!”

Shaw couldn’t kick the door in — it opened outward — so as quickly as he could, he used the knife trick once more. In thirty seconds it was open.

He lifted his flashlight and played the beam over Tessy Vasquez. She gave a brief scream and huddled away. She was still wearing the outfit that she’d worn in the variety shop security video: the red blouse and gypsy skirt.

“Tessy, it’s all right. Your mother sent me.”

“Mother?”

“I’m going to get you out.”

His knife was still open and with it he cut the restraints around her ankle.

“This way. Come on.”

Heads down, coughing, both of them returned to the corridor.

“There are men, they have guns.”

“They’re gone.”

She staggered along behind him, her legs not used to activity during her imprisonment.

They came to the turn and stepped into the main corridor.

Where Shaw saw that the escape route no longer existed.

The fire now spread from wall to wall. The two of them faced a roiling sheet of flame, floor to ceiling, slowly moving their way.

Soon, they’d be unconscious from lack of oxygen.

Shaw glanced at Tessy, who was crying.

He pointed toward the storeroom that had been Nita’s cell. “Find some cloth or paper towels, soak them with the bottled water and cover your face. Get low.”

Ashton had taught the children that a wet cloth was good protection against smoke, but it was a myth that urine was a better liquid to dampen the cloth. That was only helpful, and marginally, in protecting against chlorine gas.

“We’re going to die!”

“Do what I told you. Now.”

She shuffled into the room, coughing hard.

Shaw got as close as he could to the flames, until he could hardly bear the searing heat. He drew from his waistband the Glock the guard upstairs had been carrying. It was a larger caliber, with a longer barrel, and the magazine contained more rounds.

He squinted into the fire and fired a shot.

A second, third.

Fourth, fifth, sixth.

It was on the seventh that the bullet found its target: the building’s boiler. A stunning explosion rocked the basement accompanied by the banshee cry of escaping steam.

Shaw dove for cover in Nita’s cell. They were some distance from the explosion, but still were hit with a blast of the moist heat that shot into the corridor and filled the rooms. Superheated steam, in a closed container, can reach extraordinarily high temperatures — 900 degrees Fahrenheit. Had that been the case the steam could have melted the Sheetrock like newsprint and Shaw and Tessy might have been scalded to death. But he was ninety percent sure that a boiler this age was probably heated only to the standard 212.

Shaw rose and looked into the corridor. Some flames still flickered, but the path was clear.

“Let’s go,” he told Tessy and helped her to her feet. He went in lead, having replaced the guard’s gun with his own, in case the traffickers returned, which he doubted would happen. The police and firemen would be there soon if they weren’t already present.

Shaw glanced in the office and noted that not everything was destroyed. Crime Scene should probably find enough evidence to convict Mladic.

As they got to the stairs, they stopped. Footsteps were coming down. Shaw lifted his gun.

His tear-filled eyes peered through the smoke.

The heavy steps came closer.

Shaw got the gun into his pocket just before firemen arrived. The large men, fitted with their bulky equipment, plodded down the stairs.

One pulled his oxygen mask off. “Anyone else down here?”

“No. There’s still some fire in the office. First door on your right.”

Another fireman surveyed the scene. “What happened?”

“Boiler blew. Put out the flames.”

“Lucky you.”

As they started past, Shaw said, “Save the files and computers. The district attorney’ll want to see them.”

Shaw felt a fireman’s head turn his way, then he and the young woman were climbing the stairs.

They sat on the couch of the Pacific Heights safe house.

Shaw and Tessy were alone. Russell was presently conducting surveillance at the Alvarez Street safe house, trying to spot and identify the blonde in the green Honda. He’d reported seeing nothing. Shaw texted his brother that he’d found and rescued the young woman.

The two had taken respective turns in the bathroom, scrubbing away sweat and soot, though the aroma of smoke was embedded in hair and clothing.

Tessy was sipping tea. Ashton was a big tea drinker, he recalled, and apparently so was his older son. The house had come with a supply of staples, including English breakfast and some herbals. Tessy had picked chamomile. Shaw didn’t believe he’d had a cup of tea in five or six years.

The young woman’s eyes were hollow as she explained what had happened. As Shaw and Russell had deduced, the men in the gray van had grabbed her.

“Was Roman involved?”

Her face screwed up with disgust. “Yes, he was behind it. He was so angry I told him I wasn’t going out with him unless he got sober. I didn’t want to be with him, but I thought maybe he’d stop using and become a better person. But he was just a psycho. He likes to hurt people.”

“He was involved in the human trafficking himself?”

“I’m sure he was. He and the owner, Dante, hung out together.”

There’d be records about Roman, probably, in the Steelworks. But to make sure the authorities learned of him, Shaw would also get his full name and particulars from Tessy and send them to his former FBI agent friend, Tom Pepper. He, in turn, would relay the information to SFPD and the Bureau field office here. That way Tessy would remain anonymous and wouldn’t have to worry about Immigration and Customs.