Ridley Pearson - Choke Point

“I want to say: Jefferson,” Knox says.

“Martin Luther King.”

Dulwich’s phone purrs and he reads the text. “Grace. An SOS.”

The two take another long look at the mess they face. No time.

“We give it to Brower,” Knox says, proposing the next step for the dormitory girls.

“He’ll come after you for the kill.”

“No choice.”

Dulwich’s face is a knot of concentration. “We move the girls in the van,” he suggests, “dump it, and call in its location. We leave this guy in the passenger seat. It works out to a tidy little bundle for Brower. The guy’s prints have to be all over the van.”

“The other one?” Knox asks, wondering about the man he’s killed.

“Our friend at the dentist may need an organ donor. That keeps him off Brower’s radar.”

“We’ll have to raid the knot shop by morning. When the girls don’t show in the morning—”

“We can do that,” Dulwich says.

“What keeps Brower quiet?”

“My relationship with him is different than yours. He will work with us as long as there’s some carrot left out in front.”

Knox recalls Sonia’s mention of Brower’s ambition.

Dulwich doesn’t await Knox’s further agreement; his mind made up, he taps his screen and brings his phone to his ear, stepping outside. The call is to Brower.

Knox says to the girls, “Does anyone speak English?”

All ten hands raise at once, trembling to be chosen.

—

“I NEED A HUNDRED THOUSAND EUROS,”Knox says from the backseat.

“Who doesn’t?”

Knox marvels at Dulwich’s driving. They are flying down streets without the slightest sensation they’re even moving.

“Cash. Before noon tomorrow.”

“Dream on.”

“They can fly it in, for all I care, but I need it.”

“We’re in an abort, Knox. We won’t get a dime. Free airfare. Peanuts and drinks. Get a clue.”

“You’ve got to get me the money. I pay Kreiger for the rugs, he’s going to deliver the money. That leads directly to Fahiz. No question.”

“Follow the money? Never going to happen. There is no money. We’re supposed to be buttoning up.” Dulwich pulls over a block from the hostel. It’s like they’ve ridden a time machine.

“Tomorrow morning, at the latest, they find out about the dorm. After that, they’re in the wind.”

“And whose decision was that?”

Knox’s face burns. “Is that all you’ve got?”

“You don’t want all I’ve got.” Dulwich uses the remote to lock up. The car’s lights flash and it’s like a starting gun for both men.

“I take the stairs. I’ll enter from the back. Open phones,” Knox says, slipping his mobile into its interior pocket and connecting a wire.

They hook earbuds into their left ears. Knox’s wire is concealed in the windbreaker’s collar. Dulwich feeds his from his suit coat pocket. They test the connection while Dulwich works the weapon gained in the raid and tucks it into the small of his back.

“Ready,” Dulwich says.

Knox mutes his phone in order to hear Dulwich without interruption. He nods.

“No heroics,” Dulwich says. “If she’s compromised—”

“We shoot anyone, including the messenger.”

“Copy that.”

—

KNOX STEALS UP THE STAIRSlike a jungle cat. The Slovak semi-automatic is nearly concealed in his right hand, only an inch of muzzle showing. If he swings a fist while holding the gun, it will take his opponent’s jaw off his skull at both mandible joints. A ventriloquist’s doll.

He reaches the first floor in seconds, with no interference. Tests the hallway. Empty. Twenty minutes have passed since the 7-6-7, an eternity. He senses they’ve let her down; his stomach’s in a knot. First Maja. Then Sonia. Now Grace. Attrition is an anticipated part of any of Dulwich’s operations. People like Brian Primer speak of “reasonable loss,” “erosion” and “attrition through enforcement.” Knox is visibly angry as he approaches the room where they last left Grace. He’s frustrated to have to wait for Dulwich, who has the room’s other key card.

Dulwich disembarks the elevator. He seems to take forever reaching the door. He keys it open.

Empty.

Knox’s stomach drops.

“Shit,” Dulwich says.

“Someone close the door,” says a female voice through the ceiling’s acoustic tile.

—

GRACE HAS STRUNG CO-AX CABLEbetween sprinkler pipes as a makeshift hammock. The two men help her down. Dulwich can’t stop mentioning all the blood. Knox wipes her hair back off her face as Grace materializes from her cocoon. It’s a touching, loving gesture. She squeezes his upper arm, amazed at the iron feel of it.

“Jesus!” Dulwich can’t get over the blood.

“I broke some stitches. Some tape, I am fine.”

“The hallway,” Knox says.

Dulwich has no idea what he’s talking about, whereas Grace looks impressed.

“Fahiz’s people or—”

“Police.” She explains the coming and going. The returning. “I knew they’d search every room, and they did.” Looking down at Dulwich from the top bunk, she says, “Under the mattress?”

“It’s here,” Dulwich says, her laptop in hand.

They help her to the floor and lay her out on the bed.

“Pants off,” Knox says.

“I’d rather do this myself.”

“Tough. Warm water,” Knox tells Dulwich, “and hand me the gauze and tape.”

The cop has dumped the bag of supplies out on the floor in disgust, having found the bloodied bedsheets. Dulwich collects them for Knox as the water runs.

“Quid pro quo,” Knox tells her, helping her out of the surgical pants. They are both thinking back to Shanghai when Grace tended to him.

She opens the laptop and places it to cover her lap. Knox nudges the computer up slightly and pushes her underwear leg seam higher.

“Easy,” she cautions.

She’s right about the busted stitches. He leaves them in. Cleans and dresses the wound. Tests his work and wins a wince and a small yelp. No blood.

“You can’t wear those,” Knox says.

“To hell I cannot!”

“We’ll buy you something,” Dulwich says.

Knox helps him to lift her, and together they wrap a towel around her waist.

“Here,” she says, spinning her laptop for the two men to see. “This is where I was . . . what I was working on before the police. You see the dead zone in Demir’s usage? It is basically all of the Oud-West district; a good part, if not all, of De Baarsjes; and the south half of De Krommerdt, from Jan Evertsenstraat to the canal.” She pauses, drawing the area with her bloodied finger. Knox rinses the towel and she cleans herself up, but the reminder of her injuries burdens them all.

“I conducted a fly-over using satellite mapping. My first thought was this blue area, here.” She leans to look at the screen and indicates an area on the satellite image she closes in on. “Turns out it is a tennis court at a school.”

“You’re looking for . . . ?” Dulwich asks.

“A water source.”

“Berna’s pant legs,” Knox reminds Dulwich. “The photo taken in the ER. Wet to the knees.”

“But that’s—”

“Significant,” Grace says, cutting off Dulwich’s dismissive tone. “The girl escapes. She finds her way to a clinic, arriving in bad condition. At some point she got her legs wet. Wet enough, recently enough, that they show up that way in her admittance photo.”

“During her escape,” Knox says.

“So, a water source,” Grace explains.

“For the record, I’m not buying this,” Dulwich says. “You want water? For the record, Amsterdam has a few hundred miles of canals.” He’s pushing Grace to show off her knowledge of the centuries-old Dutch battle against the flooding of low-level lands, the Wonders of the World system of dikes that holds seawater at bay, the adoption of Archimedes’ screw in flood control and irrigation. Offhanded remarks like Dulwich’s provoke her, but she keeps her cool and stays on point.