The Betrayal of Prague: A Vigilante Justice Thriller

Book 3: Atlas Hargrove

by R.B. Schow

Genres: Pulp Thrillers; Terrorism & Assassination Thrillers

Synopsis

USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR AND AMAZON ALL-STAR AWARD WINNER!

A single, gruesome act of violence...

….in a historic city crawling with the predatory elite.

Have Atlas and the team finally bitten off more than they can chew?

 

As Leopold’s private investigators zero in on Atlas’s missing daughter, a growing network of hunters have dropped their roots in Prague. Here, in this black market of hellish delights, murder equals entertainment and the wicked feast on the souls of innocents…

 

But such loathsome pursuits cannot go on forever, for there are hunters of a different breed taking notice—men and women no longer willing to suffer the mischief of deviants. Leopold Wentworth is one such animal. In his first great hunt, Leopold targets the Czech Republic’s most fearsome network of monstrosities, a group of powerful, untouchable sadists. But by the time he realizes he’s out of his depth, Leopold can’t seem to put his assassins together fast enough.

 

With the belligerent new warden making trouble for Atlas and strict arrangements with Monarch Industries limiting his access to Kiera, Leopold’s only option is to risk everything for the team, for slayers like Atlas and Kiera were never meant for cages as much as they were meant to function as instruments of war.

 

Unbeknownst to Leopold, however, he has attracted the attention of his targets, and he is about to become their prey.

 

If you like Jack Carr, Mark Greaney, Lee Child, Vince Flynn, and Blake Banner, you’re going to love Atlas Hargrove in this no-holds-barred addition to the thrilling new series readers are calling, "Unputdownable" and “Christmas to a reading junkie!"

 

Fire up your kindle, grab some caffeine, and prepare yourself for a roller coaster ride through hell with the beast of NorCal State Prison: the electric, unrepentant Atlas Hargrove.

 

NOTE: This book contains the kind of language, intense violence, and sexual content one might expect to find in a R-rated movie. Grab your copy now, then be sure to pre-order The Devil in Cologne before it arrives on April 7, 2022!

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SELECT PRAISE FOR R.B. SCHOW:

“I laughed, cried, cursed with joy, and had to decompress when it was over. That is why I enjoy reading Ryan’s books. They are not single-emotion books. He pulls back the curtain on the deeply hidden aspects of the human experience and shares with us its dirty 'big' secrets.”

– FWO, Amazon Reviewer ★★★★★

 

"Betrayal of Prague is like a roller coaster ride, it starts off slow as it lifts you ever upwards towards the tipping point - AND THEN GOES NUTS - twists & turns and loops you didnt see coming, and it spits you out at the end thinking 'WTF just happened?'"

– Jacob Groenveld, Amazon Reviewer ★★★★★

 

"By far the best book in the series, and that is saying a lot as the first two books were exceptional. While the author delivers truly brutal action scenes, he consistently gives the reader the 'big picture view' through a well written and meaningful plot, and he speaks well to consequences. These are not a band of mercenaries on a killing spree, they are powerful avengers."

– AML, Amazon Reviewer ★★★★★

 

"This story will trip every one of your emotional buttons, so grab a chair and hang on for a soul-wrenching ride!
Ryan, you have exceeded expectations - Bravo!"

– Teresa, Amazon Reviewer ★★★★★

 

Read more

Release date: December 10, 2021

Publisher: River City Publishing

Print pages: 495

Sample

CHAPTER 1

PAVLINA ISSOVÁ

 

22-year-old Pavlina Issová lived with her mother, Jirina, in a modest home in Prague.  Pavlina worked in a local tourist shop in Wenceslas, but she did not like her job.  Her mother worked for the government and liked her job even less, but the two women had each other after Pavlina’s father left them both for a Russian ballerina who was mesmerized by his good looks and more than willing to steal him from his family. 

As Pavlina grew older, the fresh sting of abandonment began to lessen, prompting her to branch out and make a friend.  Meanwhile, her mother, Jirina, dipped her toes into the online dating world.  Even though both women had been inseparable during the past 4 years, times had changed.  Both women were flourishing, each of them finding new interests outside of their once oppressive mother/daughter relationship.

Pavlina was now friends with a slightly chubby girl her age that had just moved into the neighborhood.  Cenda Liska was a few months younger than Pavlina and was a bright star in Pavlina’s world, a beacon to guide her back to a normal, healthy life.  Cenda wasn’t the best-looking girl anyone had ever seen, and she wasn’t thin or smart, but she wasn’t dumb either, and she had come to be a loyal friend, Pavlina’s best friend. 

Just the other day, Jirina said to Pavlina, “That girl is the best thing to happen to you.  If you are smart, and I know you are, you will protect this friendship.” 

Pavlina needed very little persuasion from her mother, for Cenda was an excellent example of what life could be like when a person found ways to let go of the past and begin taking an interest in others.  Not everyone or everything was as cruel or as selfish as Pavlina’s father, except for fate, of course.  Experience told her that fate could strike a sadistic blow to anyone.  This was true for her, but it proved to be true for Cenda, too.

Cenda’s mother was a large woman with diabetes and a heart condition.  Before COVID, she was taking the right drugs, eating healthier, exercising, and starting to lose weight.  She was walking with a group of women each day, and she had done this for months and was feeling more optimistic in life.  Then COVID struck.  Cenda’s mother contracted the virus, and within a matter of weeks, she was moved to one of the few ventilators available.  Her lungs collapsed shortly afterward, and she promptly died. 

Cenda and her father, Karel Liska, were devastated.  Karel was deeply in love with Cenda’s mother and thrilled with the progress his wife was making.  Fate, however, would take this woman from her family, and Cenda and her father would be left to face a life less joyous. 

Cenda, however, did what her mother would have wanted her to do, and that was to keep her outlook in life high and find ways to laugh.  She managed to do this, proving to Pavlina that one’s trajectory in life could change course at any moment, but also that happiness could be defined by how you handled tragedy, not how much you suffered because of it.

The two had become fast friends.  They even got jobs near each other so that they could take lunches together.

The workweek was over now, and the deep Saturday sun had set on Prague, casting the city in a gorgeous amber glow—the kind of brilliant display that attracted tourists from around the world. 

Given that the Central European city was largely spared destruction from the great wars, people traveled from the farthest reaches of the globe to watch a Prague sunset, or to slip into one of the many cobblestone alleys that these world travelers found so romantic.

In addition to being charming, Prague was known for having some of the best nightclubs in the world.  Now that the dinner hour had passed, Pavlina was anxious to cast off the burdens of the week and make the most of the nightlife.  

“Where did you two decide you’re going?” Jirina asked as she poured herself a glass of merlot and settled in for a quiet night of reading. 

“We’re going to Ankali because they have the best outdoor venue,” Pavlina said.  “When it starts to get too cold, we will go to Karlovy Lázně.” 

Karlovy Lázně was widely considered the largest club in Central Europe.  It was five stories of dancing, drinking, lounging, and fun—all inside of a gorgeous fifteenth-century building.  Jirina had heard of Karlovy Lázně, but she was only vaguely familiar with Ankali.

“Ankali is a techno club that’s part outdoor and part industrial club,” Cenda said. 

“It’s at the old soap factory, right?” Jirina asked.

“That’s the one,” Pavlina answered. 

She was excited to go there after hearing so many good things about it, and the sooner they cut loose of her mother, the sooner they could get to dancing away the troubles of the world.  They might even meet a few boys. 

Pavlina leaned in and kissed her mother on the cheek.  “We won’t be out late.  I mean we will, but not too late.” 

Jirina said, “You are too beautiful for me to let you into the world unattended, which means you must be careful, okay?  Promise me that you will be careful.”

These were the kind of conversations that embarrassed Pavlina, which was why her mother whispered them into her ear. 

“I will, Mother,” she said quietly.  “I love you, but you worry too much.” 

Jirina stood back and folded her arms, looking Pavlina over.  “Have you seen yourself?” Jirina asked. 

She looked at Cenda, who was smiling.  Pavlina didn’t want her mother to question her anymore, but while she lived under her mother’s roof, she was still bound by the woman’s rules, which meant her mother could ask a million questions that she would have to answer, even if she didn’t want to.

“You look incredibly sexy,” Cenda said, making the matter worse.  “Your mother is right to worry.”  With delight in her eyes, Cenda turned to Jirina.  “And for that reason, I promise to keep her safe and get her home alive and well, and without child.”

The three of them laughed, and then Jirina said, “I’ll hold you to that, Cenda.  I know you’re excited that things are open again, but don’t be out too late.”

The two girls climbed into Cenda’s jalopy—a barely functional wreck on wheels—and drove out to Prague 1, away from Wenceslas, away from Old Town, and away from the tourists.  Ankali was farther out of town, and though the setting boasted a tough industrial vibe, they had wanted to go ever since the city lifted the nightclub’s 11 p.m. curfew.

Cenda began talking about Ankali at the end of June.  That was when things started to reopen.  The nightclub had been hosting a huge celebration of local artists, called Antivirus A.  Proceeds from the tickets were meant to help the struggling artists, but they were also meant to help the club stay open after the hard COVID slump.  It had worked, and now the club was doing fine again, and COVID measures were loosening.  The promise of returning to the casual techno scene had them both hoping for the best night ever. 

When they arrived at Ankali, they were happy to find a nightclub that was already pumping out heavy industrial beats and synthesized music, all with that signature hard-rock vibe.  Pavlina and Cenda joined the dancing masses in moving to the music.  Soon enough, Pavlina’s body was attuned to the beats, the rhythm, and the others around her. 

Boys came and went, boys that Pavlina would not consider dating, or kissing, but she didn’t mind dancing with them for a song or two.  And then she noticed a girl nearby.  The way she moved was unlike anything Pavlina had ever seen before.  She glanced at Cenda who was seeing the same thing. 

“Wow,” Pavlina said over the music.

“Right?” Cenda commented, impressed.

This young woman dressed like an Eastern European girl with a slightly slutty, but tempered Goth style.  She might have been German, or perhaps Russian.  It was hard to tell under the heavy makeup.  Her skirt was short, her halter top sheer against the sweeping bright lights (see-through enough to show the dark shadows of her nipples when hit with the lights), and her lipstick was a subtle blend of blood red and black. 

There was something so seductive about the girl that Pavlina felt herself moving on the dance floor in ways she had never moved before.  She wanted to dance the way this girl was dancing, feel the same things she was feeling.  And then she saw the boy dancing with her, and her interest hit an all-new level. 

This boy had pale skin, eyeliner, pouty lips, and an unbuttoned vest boasting nice pecs.  This pallid delight let his eyes wander around the young woman’s body with lazy interest.  But then he grinned seductively and ran his fingers down the sides of her, the suggestion clear: he wanted her; he wanted to be inside of her.  

God, what Pavlina wouldn’t do to be wanted like that!  Watching the young woman, Pavlina could see that she liked the attention.  She certainly responded in kind. 

The boy was grinding the girl from behind, the girl pressing her ass into his pelvis.  But then the girl glanced over to where Pavlina and Cenda were, and she smiled, her eyes teasing them, her attention fleeting. 

To Pavlina’s delight, the boy’s eyes turned to her, watching her as she watched the two of them.  He made soft eyes as he ran a hand over the girl’s right breast more than a few times.  He then pulled one side of the fabric down just enough to reveal the girl’s small brown nipple.  The light hit it and Pavlina saw the skin was pinched tight by the cold.  The girl didn’t seem to mind and the boy wasn’t entirely protective of her nudity, all of which thrilled Pavlina. 

The couple moved ever closer to Pavlina and Cenda, which had them moving closer as well.  And then the four of them were dancing next to each other.  The music changed, the beats were more intense, and the crowd amped things up considerably.  Pavlina hardly noticed.  This was when Pavlina let go of all of her heartaches for the first time since her father had left her and her mother. 

The 22-year-old beauty let the beat have its way with her.  She invited the music into her bones, into her soul, and soon she found herself melding with the mysterious young couple. 

The pale boy’s hands, which had been all over his girl, were now grazing Pavlina’s arms and breasts.  And then the girl’s hands were on her, too, pinching a nipple that had grown stiff from the boy’s lingering touch.  Whatever restraint Pavlina once possessed was gone, for she was now as much a part of these two people as they were a part of each other. 

The boy popped a little white pill onto his tongue, swallowing it like a suggestion.  He did the same for the girl, who grinned and took hers as well.  Soon the boy was grinding on Pavlina the way he had been grinding on the mystery girl earlier, and just like his girl, Pavlina opened her mouth when he presented the pill.  She swallowed it without a question, a word of protest, or a simple thank you. 

The world suddenly became bright colors and seemingly impossible feelings.  She had never experienced something so vivid or all-encompassing in her life.  Whatever was happening to her was both slowing down and speeding up time.  She was floating on clouds, seeing the colors of life swimming all around her, wanting to be naked, to be in the warm ocean waters, to lift off the ground and just fly. 

But then the night started to skip, she lost track of moments, and she was suddenly in one place, then another, and then another.  She did not know how she got there, nor did she care.

And then she was kissing someone, the girl, but the guy as well.  She was kissing him, running her hands down his chest and abs, ripping off his vest, and letting him press the best part of himself against the warmest part of her. 

She tugged at his clothes, and she let him rip off hers.  Had she not been floating so high, she would never have allowed this to happen, but Cenda was there as well, her safety, and reason to let herself be free.  She wanted to be free, to shed her restraints, to bloom into womanhood without the burden of her virginity.  There was nothing fun or sexy about a 22-year-old virgin.  That was why, at that moment, she let this boy take the one thing she had coveted for so long: her virginity. 

The moment was pain, and then pleasure, and then once Pavlina and the boy established a rhythm, she felt like she had found the happiness that Cenda had so often wished for her. 

When she was done, when she was spent, and the boy was pulling up his pants, Pavlina looked over and saw Cenda with the girl.  The girl’s hair was pulled aside, revealing on her neck a huge black widow spider.  Was this real, a tattoo, or part of a dream?  She didn’t know.  Could it be a hallucination?  Pavlina focused hard on the spider, waited for it to move, but it never moved.  If it was a tattoo, how had the artist made it look three-dimensional?

As she lay there naked, exhausted and taken, she wondered where they were.  But then the boy was in front of her, offering her a small red vial. 

“What is this?” she giggled, even though there was nothing funny about anything. 

“Vampire’s Kiss,” the boy said.  “If you think you’re flying now, this will take you straight to heaven.  You’ll be before God and He will ask you if you’ve been a good girl, and your answer will be…”

“No, God, I have not,” she replied with a seductive grin. 

“You take it like a shot, even though there’s not much to drink.”

“Where did you get this?”

“Ukraine,” he said.

She removed the lid, put the vial to her lips, and tossed it back.  The shot was pure blood, warm and coppery-tasting.  Her stomach turned once or twice, but then warmth spread throughout her body and brain, and she felt euphoric like she was traveling through different dimensions.  There were no words to describe the feelings she had, for these weren’t feelings or emotions.  Feelings weren’t this big; emotions were never this profound. 

The next thing she knew, the boy’s face was between her thighs, and she was in that yummy place between reality and heaven.  This was the joyous death of everything bland and mundane in her life.  This was better than heaven if such a place existed. 

She ran her hands through his hair.  This boy was God to look at, and the things he was doing with his tongue… 

“I’ve been really bad,” she heard herself say. 

“Me, too,” she heard Cenda say.

Looking down the center of her body—seeing her breasts, her stomach, her opened legs (with the boy’s head between them), Pavlina felt like her life had changed.  Somehow something had lifted from her—the sadness, the anger, the resentment, the sting of betrayal. 

Then the boy slid his hands up her thighs, and that was when she saw the Celtic symbols tattooed on his fingers.  Not only did the artistry grab her attention, but these tattoos also seemed hypnotic, somehow meaningful.  Mesmerized, she stared at them.  Then she started to lose focus, and her eyelids felt heavy.  But then the boy found that magical place, and all of that delicious energy she thought she had lost rushed to her lower abdomen and exploded with force.  She rocked her first orgasm so hard, she barely felt or knew anything else.  She had just gone multi-dimensional. 

When he came up from between her legs, his eyes were so dark they were nearly black, and his mouth was red all over.

Was she having her period?  Oh, God!  Wait, no, she wasn’t.  That wasn’t for another two weeks.  But then there was the vial, the Vampire’s Kiss, and she wanted it.  She wanted more of it.

“Do you have another vial?” she heard herself ask.

She was cold, her thighs shaky, the high still there—these feelings of euphoria not fucked all the way out of her yet. 

“I want more,” she added.

The boy presented another vial, which she took.  The feelings returned anew, this thing taking hold of her, pulling her into distant lands.  She lay back down and grinned so wide she started to laugh.  The laughter seemed to come from somewhere bottomless, a pool of dirty delight that she did not understand but did not question. 

She had cried so much and sworn so much over the years, but seldom had she laughed.  And then she was crying.  She did not know why or from where these tears had come, but she was suddenly crying.

Somewhere along the way, darkness snuck in and teased her from the waking world, pulling her into a lightless corner, an underwater cave, into the furthest regions of deep space. She fought to stay conscious, but whatever had a hold of her had been trying to shove her down into a place so dark, she could not imagine she would be able to be there and still exist.

The last thing she remembered was looking over at Cenda and then at the mysterious young woman with the spider on the back of her neck.  

That spider…

 

* * *

When she awakened, her brain was so fuzzy, she was not sure when the sex had begun nor when it ended, only that she might have been fucked into a coma.  The graininess in her eyes was an irritable feeling, an annoyance she felt between her lenses and the insides of the eyelids.  Each blink was painful, though, painful and unnatural.  Were her eyelids actually swollen?  Dear God, they were. 

What is happening to me?  

She tried blinking back the sleep, but everything ached, especially her back, her butt, and her heels.  Shades of consciousness began to tip-toe in, little corners of light appearing, a sort of special awareness she had not had before.  

Wherever she was smelled like damp stone and small bursts of mildew, and somewhere in the distance, she thought she heard the trickling of water—a drain, not a fountain. 

Beneath these more subtle sounds, Pavlina heard the faintest whispers, like small people speaking in even smaller tones.  She worked hard to open her eyes, but the second her eyeballs were exposed to the elements, they snapped shut, and they started to sting. 

It took a minute to blink past the irritation, and when she finally got her eyes open, all she saw were pools of darkness amid the dusting of light.  In her bumpy ascent to consciousness, she wondered: Am I blindfolded?  She tried to lift her hands, but they were heavy, wooden, her knuckles pressed into rock, concrete, cement…something.  And it was so dark.  Where the hell was she? 

She glanced up and saw a string of bare bulbs lining the ceiling of what looked like a long, rock-lined tunnel.  A mousy whimper escaped her.  And then a violent chill shot up her back.  That was when she realized that she was naked.  But what was this pain in her back and butt?  She felt around and realized it was the hard ground, the rocky wall, the endless cold.  Even the backs of her heels were starting to hurt where they pressed into stone. 

How long had she been there?

All of those little whispers she had been hearing grew in volume, some words clearer than others.  These were the sounds of girls just like her, all of them lined up along the same damp wall in this same narrow tunnel. 

More and more, her eyes adjusted to the lack of light.  The things she saw, however, pumped her full of fear.

They were in some kind of old, unused tunnel where a very narrow road or walkway stretched out before them.  She could not quite tell.  With her eyes squinted, she wondered: Is this a street or some underground passage?

She did not feel a breeze, the air was stuffy and still, and she did not hear the chirping or chittering of insects.  

Panic rose inside of her, her throat starting to close, tears beginning to gather in her eyes.  The air was thick and stale, breathable, but lacking in oxygen.  She sat up and drew a deep breath.  Her chest hurt. 

Wide awake now and shivering, fear crept in.  She pulled her heels to her butt, circled her arms around her shins, and tucked her chin between her knees.  Tears were leaking from her eyes, and her knuckles felt cold.  Her toes were numb, the tips of them feeling altogether dead. 

As more of the scene came into focus, she found she was desperate to know where she was and to start asking questions.  There were other girls like her sitting there.  Some of them looked like they were the same age as she, but many of them were younger—much younger.  Were they all feeling like this?  Were they all as afraid as she was? 

A girl sitting on the other side of the tunnel was sniffling, her anguish barely suppressed.  A couple of girls to her right were whispering, but she could not understand everything they were saying, only that they were trying to figure out how they got there and if they could make a run for it.  But how could they leave there and go for help?  None of them had any clothes.

Farther down the tunnel, in the pitch-black walkway, a light appeared.  The light was bright, and it was dancing back and forth, like the person holding it was walking their way.  The brilliance of the light grew in size, casting shadows on the walls, revealing the many faces of the captured girls.  It was a horrible, terrifying sight to behold. 

Then the light suddenly stopped moving, a man cleared his throat, and in Czech, he said, “Stand up.” 

Most of the girls understood the language, and they stood accordingly.  Those who didn’t were slow to follow, but they got on their feet as well. 

Outside, Pavlina heard a vehicle approach.  It came to a stop just outside, and then the driver shut off the engine.  That same debilitating hush fell over the group once more. 

A second light appeared at the end of the tunnel, this person moving faster than the first, his light not bobbing at all.

The mystery man approached the group.  He shined the light on every single girl, appraising their bodies and their faces.  He asked some of them to turn around, and they did. 

A twisting, aching knot formed in her stomach like the worst period cramps ever.  These pains were not fueled by the monthly changes in her body.  This was a sickness borne of fear, a charge of anger, a profound loathing for the ill manners of men and all the ways they found to hurt the people they wished to control.

Her disgust for these creatures prevailed, bending the corners of her mouth and pulling her eyes into harsh, narrow slits.  She looked straight ahead, dreaming of gouging out the eyes of any man who dared stare at her naked body.  And then that light hit her and she froze. 

“Ah, yes,” the familiar voice said, “I remember this one.” 

She looked at what she could see of this abhorrent creature with the light cast on her.  All she saw were legs, a torso, and one hand.  That was when she saw the Celtic symbols tattooed on his fingers and she knew that this monster was the pale boy who took her virginity, let her drink magic blood, and then showed her his version of heaven and God and a good time on a Saturday night. 

Was Cenda there as well?  Had she been taken, too? 

The pale monster moved on, appraising the women quickly and with a stern eye.  There was not even a hint of arousal.  This, of all things, offended her most.  To these men, she and the other girls might as well be sides of beef, prized hogs, or stew rabbits.  What made her so angry and so sick to her stomach was that she had gone from being a budding young woman to now being stolen property to be violated, demoralized, sold, or worse, but for what purposes? 

Another man joined them, the third man.  His light burned brighter than the other lights.  He walked past the girls quickly, the light so bright it forced most of the girls to hide their eyes, and then he stopped before one particular girl. 

Pavlina glanced over and saw that four girls down, Cenda, like she, had indeed been taken.  Pavlina drew a sharp breath.  She wanted to cry out to her friend, to somehow run and strike the light from the man’s hand and stop everyone from seeing her friend. 

Cenda was naked as well, her big breasts lying flat on a stomach that was pushing out and slightly rolled under the belly button.  She had a puff of pubic hair, meaty thighs with a rippling of texture, and knobby knees over formless calves, and a pair of wide feet. 

Cenda didn’t look like the other girls, and for that reason, Pavlina felt sorry for her.  This was the first time Pavlina felt that way, which, in itself, was quite painful. 

The man reached out, grabbed Cenda’s nipples, then rudely lifted her breasts and appraised the skin beneath.  Then he let go, and the breasts slapped down against her stomach.  She covered herself with folded arms, her chin squished in and trembling, the poor girl on the verge of tears.  The man stood back and appraised her once more.

“Yes, this one,” he finally said. 

The fear that consumed her immediately doubled and then doubled again.  From deep in the tunnel came forth the scared mewling sounds of a woman in jeopardy, and they were coming from the back of Cenda’s throat. 

Pavlina had heard her friend speak in sad tones, playful tones, and breathless tones in those times where she was overcome with excitement or delight.  But she had never heard Cenda make these sounds before—these subconscious protestations, these routed avowals of fear. 

The offending man withdrew a black canvas bag from his pocket, shook it to open it, and then he punched Cenda in the gut, bending her at the waist.  The second she leaned forward and gasped for air, he jammed the bag over her head, then grabbed her under her arm and walked her back from where he had come.  Pavlina watched her go.  Each step Cenda was forced to take looked uncertain, her movements unbalanced and forced, her white naked body barely visible in the darkness. 

When Cenda was gone, Pavlina fought back the tears.  As she stood there, shaking, trying to harness all that rage, she wondered if there was anything she could do. 

The van outside started, but then she heard the sounds of two more vehicles approaching.  Instantly, she froze. 

“Single-file!” one of the men barked at her. 

This was not the man who had taken her and ruined her.  This was the first man to arrive, the one who had ordered them to stand.

The girls did as they were told, and then their wrists were bound with plastic ties zipped so tight they dug into their delicate skin.  When the girls’ wrists were sufficiently bound, the group was marched like prisoners through the ink-black tunnel and into the ice-cold night. 

The surrounding grounds smelled marshy, rich with the scents of earth, standing water, wet reeds, and mossy rocks.  She looked for some familiar sight.  There were visible landmarks but they were shadows against the sky, formless at night and largely unmemorable.  All around her were forests of trees and heavy underbrush.  Prague had always boasted a great abundance of greenery but never before had she seen the trees and shrubbery so thick or encroaching.

The men divided them into three groups and then herded them toward the vans that served as veritable cattle cars.  Before being shoved into one of the three vans, Pavlina caught a glimpse of a Mercedes-Benz and the girl in the backseat.  She had a fur coat draped around her shoulders and a black bag covering her face. 

Cenda. 

Pavlina tried to see where the sedan was going but was finally pushed into her assigned van and warned to stay with the group. 

The large panel van had bench seats and heavily-tinted windows.  It was exposed metal, save for the plastic seating, and so cold the girls were all shivering.  Looking around, she felt her chances of escape diminishing.  Even if they drove in broad daylight through the busiest streets rather than empty streets in the dead of night, no one would see them, and no one would rescue them.

“Where are we going?” a terrified young girl asked, the last girl to be put into Pavlina’s van.

“You are going to the pen!” the man barked with laughter in his voice.  The pen: a place for pigs, cows, or sheep, or, in this case, abducted girls. 

The door to the van opened once more, and the familiar-looking boy climbed inside.  She remembered him by his tattooed fingers and his pale face.  A name floated into awareness: Petr.  He came and sat beside her, pushing her into the girl beside her. 

“What is this?” Pavlina asked quietly.

“Shhh,” he said.

“What’s happening, Petr?  Why are you doing this to us?” 

The man who had been sitting in the front passenger seat stood to half his height.  His back was rounded forward so as not to hit his head on the roof, but she knew he was not only tall but big-boned and mean-looking.  He walked back to Pavlina and promptly struck her face, the unexpected blow landing with such force, she blacked out. 

When she finally awakened, she realized that someone was carrying her over their shoulder.  She was outside, and her privates were being hit with a breeze so cool it seemed to have a numbing, drying-out effect on her.  She was not concerned with protecting her modesty as much as she was terrified of where she was being taken. 

Judging by the smell of the cologne, it was Petr carrying her through the night.  The cologne had been sexy and very masculine when she was high and when he was making love to her.  But now, it was utterly repulsive, an insult to her olfactory senses. 

She did not know where she was going, only that she felt shaky and disoriented.  Had she been drugged?  Or was this the effect of a knocked-out woman returning to consciousness? 

She was carried into an abandoned building that was obscenely large and that echoed their sounds from deep within the assembly.  There were beaten pillars, dusty concrete floors, and the shadows of garbage strewn about.  Above them, from what Pavlina could see when she craned her head upward, was corrugated-metal roofing with hundreds of dime and quarter-sized holes.  Parts of the night sky shone through.  In some places, she saw the muted glow of moonlight. 

Before Petr sat her down, Pavlina began to suffer the smells of the derelict space.  These were the sharp industrial odors of old concrete and metal and the greasy, rotting smell of fast food and animal carcasses.  There was also the smell of dirt and dried blood and the sour stench of body odor.  She fought back the revulsion but, so far, that had been a losing battle.

When Petr sat her down, she pretended to be out cold.  Fortunately, he just left her there and walked away.  But all around her, she heard the shuffling sounds of little girls walking and of bodies being seated. 

One of the men spoke to the group.  He said, “Sit down and be quiet.  Anyone who tries to run will be shot, but we will also shoot one of your friends.”

Everyone seemed to comply without the need for further explanation. 

The emptiness and neglect of the building left her feeling claustrophobic, and then a door shut, which left things as quiet as a tomb.  Had they been abandoned?  Sold?  Was this a drop-off, or were they only gone for a moment?  And if the girls were being sold, would someone pick them up and take them someplace else?  There were so many questions swirling around inside of her head.  The most important question of them all burned bright in her mind, the fear spreading through her like cancer. 

What will happen to me?

No one spoke, but a few of the girls were sniffling until the man opened a door and screamed for them to shut up. 

The cold ate at them, as did the fear of the unknown, and then came the light tittering sounds of claws walking across the large expanse of the concrete floor.  Her skin broke into gooseflesh.  Rats.  Had the vermin smelled them?  And what were these rats used to eating?

Farther into the darkness, they heard the sudden sounds of crying followed by the sounds of spraying water and scrubbing. Then something fell to the ground, something wooden and sharp, something that sounded like a stand-up scrub brush, or a push broom, falling over. 

Rows of lights suddenly illuminated the abandoned space, showing them graffiti and garbage, broken concrete floors, and rats, lots of rats.  The light chased them back to their holes, and one of the men shot at a few of them, sending a few of the girls into fits of shaking.  Something as harsh as the echo of a gunshot had a way of pushing people over the edge.  The minds of two girls beside her were suddenly gone, their awareness abandoned, some other construct of a personality arriving to suffer the hell that lay ahead.  It was strange to see this unnatural transformation take place and to know that you were also on the verge of disappearing yourself.  It was even eerier to watch it happen before your eyes.

And then, from the room where the crying had taken place, two people emerged: Petr and Cenda. 

Cenda’s skin was bright pink and streaked with scratches she must have gotten from Petr’s incessant scrubbing, and her wet hair was hanging before her face.  Petr escorted the slightly chubby girl to a dark hallway that led to someplace far darker than this.  The last thing Pavlina heard were Cenda’s bare feet padding along the cold concrete floor away from her. 

Just then, behind them, the main door opened, and a rather large man in a black leather vest with black leather underwear walked inside.  The girls gasped, some of them making tiny, scared sounds.

He was wearing a black leather mask that covered his entire head and zipped up from behind.  There were small cutouts for eyes and silver studs on the surface of the leather itself.  His arms were large but not well-defined, and there were tufts of black hair on his shoulders and down the backs of his triceps.  Adding to his hulking size was a big, hairy belly that held more than its fair share of food.  His legs were pale and slightly hairy, and his knees were solid but splotchy and raw-looking.  He wore leather sandals, and he had woodchips for toenails, almost like the nails had battled a corrosive form of fungus and lost.  Everything about his appearance was mean and nightmarish, and the chainsaw he carried beside him was a sight far worse than she could imagine. 

Her heart almost stopped beating, and time slowed to a crawl as he walked by.  He casually glanced over at her, that hideous gaze of his hitting her like a punch.  She only saw his eyes for a moment before breaking contact.  They were empty, soulless spheres devoid of life, a soul, any trace of humanity. 

Her gaze fell from his face to the chainsaw.  The sight of it was paralyzing.  She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t blink, and could not turn away.  All she could do was helplessly stare at this foul instrument of death.

Blood crusted the harshest edges of the chainsaw’s teeth, and spatter marks dotted the long, flat surface of the blade.  Stuck in the teeth were strands of hair—some of it blonde, some of it brown.  All along the motor were rust spots, the kind that came from repeated exposure to copious amounts of blood. 

That something inside of her that was hanging onto some hope of survival split, cracked, and broke.  Despair flooded in, hopelessness crashing into her like waves beating against a rocky shoreline.  Her breathing became labored, her nostrils flared, and her cold, thin body shook with a bout of tremors she couldn’t stop.  Tears gathered in her eyes, then spilled over onto her cheeks, and what began as an uncontrolled whimper became fits of crying she couldn’t control. 

She was not the only one suffering this reaction.  More than a few of the girls in the group saw this hellish creature and his loathsome instrument, and like her, they fell into fits of sobbing that soon became a riot of screaming girls. 

The gunshot startled the hysterical masses.  The girl next to her fell over dead, her body collapsing on the dirty concrete floor.  Pavlina stared at the dead girl in shock, mesmerized by the blood as it pooled around her head.

“Shut up!” Petr bellowed, the barrel of his silver revolver smoking. 

Seeing him in the harsh light—the angular face, the sharp nose, the hateful eyes—had her stomach roiling.  She hated the reddish-yellow in his hair and how it contrasted with his pale skin and thick eyebrows.  It made her violently ill thinking of him kissing her, him inside of her, him eating her out not knowing what he had in store for her.  This was not a beautiful boy’s face anymore.  To her, it was the face of the damn devil. 

“This will be an orderly event,” Petr said in a loud, authoritative voice, “or the chances of any of you getting out of here alive fall to zero, am I clear?” 

Everyone nodded even though Pavlina suspected that not all of them understood.  The big man had disappeared down the hallway, taking his leathers and his chainsaw with him.  Aside from the horror of first seeing him, that hard electric edge that cut through her moments ago began to soften.  Even the other girls seemed less agitated now that he was gone. 

One girl who might be losing her mind stood to run, but then she stopped, almost like she was considering this tactic for the first time.  Or, perhaps she was weighing the consequences the others would have to face if she left.

“SIT DOWN!” Petr suddenly roared, jarring her nerves.  She spun around, terror contorting her face, and then she sat and lowered her head, hoping not to get shot.  Satisfied, Petr stepped out of the room to talk to another man. 

Pavlina tried chasing the worst thoughts out of her head, but the cold continued to nag at her, working its way into her skin, seeping into her bones.  Bad thoughts and misery, along with physical cold and humiliation, put a fine point on the terror she now felt.  That was when she noticed the black and gray cables snaking down the hallway.  They seemed to be going where both Cenda and the beast with the chainsaw had gone moments earlier.

Her uncle was a Hollywood producer that she had visited every summer for the last four summers.  She had been invited to his movie sets enough times to know what wires like that in a building like this meant: someone was filming something. 

And then there was screaming echoing from down the hallway.  Startled, Pavlina jumped.  The shrieks of terror were coming from close by or maybe far away.  The reverberating sounds in the open building were confusing, deceptive.  But then the screams were interrupted by a shotgun blast, and finally, the sounds of a chainsaw starting. 

The girls started to cry again.  Was this to be their fate?  Was this to be her fate as well? 

She was scared of many things, like getting robbed or raped or maybe even being homeless.  She was even scared that her mother would suddenly die.  But through all of this, she would have never known that something this vile could be her end. 

Deeper inside the mammoth structure, she heard Cenda cry out, and then she listened to her friend break into a fit of frantic cursing.  There was a mania to her voice that was fueled by hysteria.  Then, what made it worse was that a new set of screams emerged—screams that sounded like Cenda. 

“No,” she heard her trembling mouth say.  Tears skipped off of her cheeks, dripping onto her bare breasts and thighs. 

The screaming stopped, as did the swearing, but then it sounded like someone was trying to choke the girl to death, and then there was the buzzing sound of the chainsaw.

Pavlina felt her bowels loosen, her urine pooling all around her, warming the spots where her body was pressed into the concrete.  Inside, she felt such heavy pressure, like her soul was trying to detach from her body.  This cold, dreadful evil was unfathomable and so suffocating.   How could something of this magnitude exist?  It does not matter how it exists, she told herself, only that it most certainly does exist. 

Pavlina started to shake again and then cry, and that was when—for the first time in her adult life—she began to pray to a God in whom she had just recently started to believe.  She only hoped that He did exist and that, somehow, He would spare her from this hell and the hell that was to come.

 

 

CHAPTER 2

JIRINA ISSOVÁ

 

When Pavlina didn’t come home on time, Jirina began to worry.  When she failed to check-in by 2 a.m., her worry doubled.  She called Pavlina’s phone several more times, but each time her call went to voicemail.  She was starting to get upset.  She left multiple messages, and each time, she tried to mask the worry in her voice.  Finally, she started calling Cenda’s cell phone.  To her dismay, she received the same response.  At that point, there was no hiding the concern in her voice, for it found its way into the messages she left the girl.

With no place left to turn, she called Karel, Cenda’s father.  She had to talk with him.  He had to be worried, for he was a widower as well.  But was he handling things better than she was?  Because it was all she could do to keep from throwing up!  He didn’t answer his phone either.  She tried again, getting the same result.  She left a message, then hung up and tried to figure out how to offload all of her anxiety.  This wasn’t easy with her being a chronic worrier. 

Her anxiety had started when Pavlina’s father left and she was forced to navigate this world as a single parent.  Her neurosis got worse when she saw what a lovely young woman Pavlina had become.  At that point, older men started to look at her as a woman, even though she was still a child to Jirina. 

Two a.m. came and went, which put Jirina into a fit of tears, and then 3:00, 3:30, and 4:00, and still no word from either girl or Karel. 

Sometime before sunrise, exhaustion took over, her body gave out, and—against her will—she drifted off to sleep. 

Dark, early morning turned to day, then the day turned to night, and still, Jirina hadn’t heard from Pavlina.  She called all of her daughter’s associates, her boss from her work, even Karel more than a few times.  No one had seen the girls, and Karel still wasn’t returning her calls.

But then the phone rang, she recognized the number, and she picked it up right away. 

“Karel,” she said.

“Jirina, hello,” he replied.  He sounded weary as well.  “I ran my battery out trying to reach the girls.  I only now got your messages.”

“Are they with you?” she asked, frenzied, chewing her fingers.

“Dear God, I was hoping they were with you.”

She started to cry and he was gentleman enough to try to soothe her even though it had to be hell on him as well. 

“Did the girls tell you where they were going last night?” he asked.

“Ankali and then Karlovy Lázně.” 

“We should start looking there,” he said.  “Can I come and pick you up or do you want to meet me here?” 

“You can pick me up,” she said.  “I’ll try calling everyone again.” 

Jirina made the round of calls again, trying to be polite, but worry had flooded her voice and she was no longer trying to hide her panic.  She was already imagining that the most horrible things were happening to her only child, a habit that sent her into yet another crushing fit of tears and hysteria. 

When she heard the knock at the door, she tried to pull herself together but it was already too late for that.  Her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed, her nose was bright and runny, and her cheeks were stained with the tracks of way too many tears. 

When she opened the door to Karel he looked at her and said, “They’ll be okay.”  But she didn’t believe him.  He stepped in and hugged her, and she held onto him like a survival float in turbulent seas, and then she got embarrassed and stepped back.

“I’m so sorry to burden you, I’m just scared,” she said.  “Our girls are not this irresponsible, which is why I fear something terrible has happened to them.” 

“We’ll find them,” Karel said again, reassuring her. 

When they left, Jirina locked the door and followed Karel to his car.  The inside of the vehicle smelled like cigarettes and cheap air freshener, and though the car was clean, time and use had done it no favors. 

They drove out to Prague 10, heading for Ankali.  When they arrived, several of the employees setting up for the night said they had seen the girls.  No one knew where they went, which only seemed to amplify their fears. 

“Did you see them leave with anyone?” Karel asked. 

Heads shook. 

With every single question, the heads shook. 

No one seemed to know anything, but at least they had a starting point. 

Together, Jirina and Karel began constructing a timeline in the hopes that they could get a clear picture of the evening.

After speaking with the employees, they questioned the club’s early arrivers.  With them, however, they hit a dead-end.

Having had no luck at Ankali, the two of them headed to Karlovy Lázně.  When Jirina saw the imposing size of the fifteenth-century building and the club within, she fought back nausea and tried not to get too overwhelmed.  They worked their way through the staff, showing them photos of their girls, but no one claimed to have seen them.  Finally, they spoke with the manager, who said they could watch video footage from the prior evening.  They wanted to see the front door surveillance footage first, just to make sure the girls even showed up there. 

With the club manager’s permission, Jirina and Karel watched the footage in silence.  The time rolled by too quickly with no sign of the girls.  When they reached the closing hour with no leads to speak of, Jirina could not help feeling more hopeless by the minute. 

"They never came here," Karel said.

“We have to go back to Ankali,” Jirina replied.

They returned to the first club and started questioning the new wave of patrons.  The manager was kind enough to let Jirina and Karel look for answers, but he intervened after a guest complained.

“Ten more minutes, no more,” the man said.

“Thank you,” Jirina said. 

Karel asked a young boy if he’d seen their daughters.  The kid looked at the photo of Pavlina and Cenda, and he said, “Yeah, I saw them.  They left with a girl and a guy.”

“Do you know this couple they left with?” Karel asked.

The boy shook his head.  But then he said, “They were…things were kind of…I don’t know how to say it with you being their parents.”

“Just say it,” Jirina said, on the verge of tears. 

“I’ve seen the couple before, so they’re locals, but there are a lot of locals here.  Well, maybe not a lot, but more than you would expect for a place that can sometimes stand in complete contradiction to everything that Prague represents.” 

 “Is that what you were worried about telling us?” Karel asked.

The boy shook his head.  “No, it was the way the couple was with them.  It’s the way they were with your daughters.”

Jirina was about to scream. 

“They were sexual, you know?  Like maybe they were high or something?  Everyone was watching them dance, but that’s because the girl with the guy…she wasn’t afraid that her tits were being pulled out in front of everyone.” 

“Dear God,” Karel muttered.

The kid’s face reddened as he said this, and that was when Jirina tried but failed to stifle her tears.  She wiped her face angrily then said, “I need the best description of these two that you can manage.” 

The boy told her everything he could remember.  After that, the manager politely said, “I think it’s time to go.  People come here to have fun, not talk about a possible kidnapping.” 

Jirina and Karel thanked the man and then returned to the car.  Instead of starting the engine, Karel looked over at her and said, “Our daughters are missing.  We need to call the police.” 

She wiped her eyes again, nodding in agreement. 

They went to the nearest police station, but by then, Jirina was in a fog.  All she kept thinking was: This can’t be happening. 

But it was.

“Excuse me,” someone said, in her face. 

Her eyes cleared, and she realized she was speaking with a policeman.  He started asking her questions, and though her answers were precise, Jirina was cold and emotionless.  It was as if she were disconnected from herself and spinning out of control.  For a second, she couldn’t even feel her face. 

“We don’t have crimes like this happen in Prague,” the policeman was saying. 

“You don’t until you do,” she replied.

“Statistically, this is one of the safest cities in all of Europe,” the policeman said, his eyes kind and reassuring. 

“I don’t want your assurances,” she said, snapping out of her haze.  “I want my daughter.” 

“Again, Prague as a city, even Czechia as a country, is one of the safest places in the world for locals and tourists alike.  People who disappear always emerge.  They are probably just nursing hangovers.” 

“What about that girl who was cut up and left in bags outside the US Embassy?” Jirina said, her emotions suddenly flaring.  “Did you say the same thing to her parents that you’re saying to me?”

“That was an international incident and a political matter,” he said, the warmth leaving his eyes.  “One cannot pin the blemish of another country upon our backs.”

“Everyone knows about this incident,” she snapped.  Then, she tried to calm down.  It wasn’t working.  “Do you think they could be related?”

“I’m sorry, but you are taking a missing person, maybe, and trying to turn it into a murder,” he said genially.  “These are large leaps.”

Gently, Karel asked, “What if this is the start of something new?  Crime is slowly rising, and criminals prey on the weak and unsuspecting.  We are unsuspecting.” 

“If your daughters do not return in the next couple of days, then we’ll make it official.  Until then, we will not taint our reputation with these unproven fears.” 

Jirina shot out of her chair.  “They’re substantiated!  My daughter is missing!  She was seen leaving with locals!” 

“Locals have no reason to do this,” the policeman said calmly.  “And what do you think anyone would want with your daughters anyway?” 

“How do I know?” she cried.  “But I can list off my worries if that’s what you want to hear.” 

“I understand.” 

“Do you?” Jirina cried.

“How many kids do you have?” Karel asked. 

“I chose not to have children,” the policeman said, color flooding his cheeks.

The frown on Jirina’s face deepened, and she knew she was getting nowhere.  “That explains a lot,” she said, her words cold and judgmental.  “Until you have a child of your own, you can’t understand a mother’s worry.” 

“I’m sure they’ll turn up,” the policeman said as if the matter was final.  “But if in two days they don’t show, I will be on shift, and I will file the paperwork myself.” 

Karel finally got upset.  “I don’t want paperwork filed.  I want my daughter found!  Her daughter too.  These are two responsible young women!” 

“You’ll need to leave until you can calm down,” the policeman finally said, standing up and putting a hand on his Taser.  Beside them, another policeman reached for his Taser, sending a clear message to Jirina and Karel. 

Undeterred, Karel stood in the cop’s face and said, “Until my daughter is found, I will not calm down!”    

“If you do not leave, I will have you arrested for disturbing the peace,” the policeman said quietly.

“Well, we can’t have that,” Jirina replied.  “How would your crime statistics look then?”

“That was a cheap shot,” the policeman said, genuinely hurt.

“Let’s go, Karel,” Jirina finally said, touching his arm to calm him.  “This is a waste of our time.”

 

 

CHAPTER 3

CIRA KINGSLEY

 

Single-minded focus was what she needed.  What got her arrested in the first place, just before Leopold found her, were her short temper and her carelessness.  Now that she was settling into this new career, she had adopted a new mission: be smart, be badass, don’t get killed.  That was her mantra.  The same mantra she took with her to the gym and Krav Maga every day.

Be smart.  Be badass.  Don’t get killed.

As she was working out, hustling harder than these little gym broads with their cute butts, athletic titties, and flat tummies, she was sweating out weakness, fear, and pain.  If she failed this time around, it would not be like blowing a first date or not getting laid.  Losing for Cira was being raped, cut into pieces, and stuffed into a dumpster. 

This was a tough life, but she had asked for it, and Leopold had given it to her.  Saving kids, rescuing families, killing bad guys…it all came at a price.  Never before had she known such highs, but good Lord, the lows were abysmally brutal!  She learned this fact from Atlas.  The man had it far worse than any of them, except maybe Kiera, but Kiera was the sharpest blade in the box, a flat-out killing machine.  The girl felt nothing, and she was super-hardcore.  But even super-hardcore was not hardcore enough for her.

That was why Cira wanted to be like Kiera.  So she worked out two times a day in the gym and did Krav four times a week.  She needed to know how to handle skilled men with knives and guns.  That meant she needed to know how to cut someone with animal efficiency and how to confiscate a loaded gun should one ever be pulled on her.

Both acts required skill, strength, and confidence.  That took time and hard work.  And though you could practice killing someone without hesitation in mock battle, it was envisioning it in the mind that helped make one’s actions happen automatically in the real world.  Most importantly, Cira needed to know how to move quickly from one target to the next, not missing a beat, not botching a kill.  This was where so many weekend warriors got trapped.  This was also what Atlas told her in Juárez: to stay alive in a life-or-death situation, you had to kill quickly, escalate through your targets, and have eyes everywhere. 

Yeah, this was her life.  She loved it, feared it, and owned it.

“There’s something about your workout ethic that blows doors on all of these other girls,” one of the gym rats said as he stood beside her.  She cast him a weak glance, raised an eyebrow.  He was cute, ripped, not sweating too hard, but hard enough to let her know that he came to the gym to work out and not chase tail.  And yet, there he was…

“Fuck off,” she said. 

“Jeez,” he replied, backing off.  “I was just—”

“Well, don’t,” she replied, grabbing the weights.  “Thank you, but don’t.”

He walked off, embarrassed.  Cira’s little outburst caused a scene, but it was for the best.  She was no gym bunny, and the sooner the dicks in the club knew this, the sooner she could get on to being her most lethal self.  If she aspired to be at Kiera’s level one day, she could not fall for anyone’s charm.  That much was clear.  These gym rats fronted all the time, pretending to be someone they weren’t.  Case in point: involving herself with a civilian while living this life could be hazardous to everyone's health.  Everyone was a potential threat and a potential target.  Why?  This was not the white-collar world of corporate finance or even the cloak-and-dagger world of espionage.  She was in the murder business, the setting-an-example-for-others business, the getting-back-at-motherfuckers business. 

While lying in bed with Atlas after that brutal run in Juárez he had told her these things and more.  He let her know that working in the field meant unleashing that dark, cold, calculating side within.  It meant knowing how to go operational in a hot second because your and every other person’s life depended on you not fucking things up royally. 

In Juárez, she got her hands dirty.  She killed that crooked Fed, the guy whose bowel obstruction she cleared by running over him at the border.  That was how she knew that Atlas was right about the things he was saying.  When the adrenaline had worn off, she found she had so many questions about the man she had killed.  Was he married?  Did he have kids?  Was he a good person pushed to do bad things to survive? 

She quickly found out the answers because she needed to, and some of them bothered her immensely.  Agent Otis Fykes was a single father with a special needs daughter.  This uncomfortable reality had hit her hard.  Cira had managed to get in touch with the woman caring for the child only to learn she went into CPS as a temporary ward of the state.  That had happened overnight. 

As a quiet favor to her, Cira asked Codrin to keep track of the man’s daughter, to make sure she was cared for.  He promised to keep tabs on her.  This helped assuage some of Cira’s guilt, but beyond feeling bad for the little girl, there wasn’t much to feel guilty about.  Fykes had been a piece of shit and a corrupt Fed.  After Sydney Fox and her girls were kidnapped, he had helped move them over the border into Juárez.

Cira was on her third set of dumbbell curls when she saw Warden Fabian Dicampli’s photo on the national news.  The caption read: “NorCal State Prison warden, Fabian Dicampli, found murdered in his home.” 

She set down the dumbbells and looked up at the TV. 

“Nice ass,” someone said behind her. 

“I’m into girls,” she said, not even looking at him.

“See, we already have something in common.  What are you looking at?”

“Ten to life in a supermax prison for what I do to you if you don’t piss off,” she said.  She was busy following the news story.  In her peripheral vision, she saw her admirer walk away.  He looked dejected but unbroken.   Whoever had complimented her butt sounded like he was put up to it by his buddies which was the reason she rebuffed him.  She knew an honest compliment when she heard it, and this was not it. 

When she was done with her workout, she went to the women’s lockers, wiped the sweat from her face, then took a quick shower and changed clothes.  Wasting no time, she grabbed her things and left the gym. 

On the way out, she heard a couple of guys talking to her.  She was already amped up from the workout, her veins overloaded with adrenaline, and now worried about other things, specifically, her and Leopold’s ability to compromise another warden now that Dicampli was dead.  If they couldn’t turn the new warden, they would never get Atlas out of prison.  This could jeopardize future operations, which had her ready to spin.  All she wanted was to call Leopold and see what he knew of the murder. 

Then she heard the snide comment: “What a bitch.” 

She stopped, turned around, and made a beeline for a pack of three guys who were too good-looking to like. 

“Who said it?” she asked.

“I did,” the tallest of the guys said. 

“You the one who commented on my ass, too?” she asked.

“You bet I am,” he replied, proud of it.

“Thanks for noticing,” she told him.  Leaning forward fast, she flicked her wrist and snapped two fingers off his junk, causing the smartass to lean forward and groan.  Quick as lightning, she grabbed his face, smiled, and then kissed him on the mouth like a boss. 

She shoved his face away and said, “See you pussies next time.”

The laughing and whistling put a much-needed smile on her face, but reality set back in, and she knew she needed to contact Leopold.  Whoever killed the warden just made life very difficult for her and Atlas in the future.

In the car, she dialed Leopold.  He answered on the fourth ring.  She thought her call was being sent to voice mail which pissed her off, but then he answered, and she found she could breathe again.

“Hello, good looking,” he said, being uncharacteristically charming.

“Did you see the news about Warden Dicampli?” she asked.  “Someone flat-lined his ass.” 

“Oh,” he said like he couldn’t give less of a shit, “That’s interesting.  Well, he wasn’t a very good warden in the first place.” 

“Are you drunk?” she asked.

            “Should I be?”

            “Fabian Dicampli is dead,” she said slowly, enunciating the last two words as if her employer and friend were suffering cognitive impairment.

            “I heard you the first time,” he said.

            She stopped, thought about his odd behavior, and then something started to click inside.  Was this…did he…?

            She pulled to a stop at a major intersection, then prepared to wait an eternity for the red light to turn green.

            “You sound like you’re about to lose your cool,” Leopold said.

            “Just got done at the gym.”

            “Impressive,” he said.

            “No one is impressed if a hot girl goes to the gym,” she replied.  “But you wanted me to take this seriously, so I am.  You said I should get my hands dirty, so I did.  After the shit that went down in Juárez, I know I need to up my game.  I know that time is working against me and that going operational means building a framework of proven, repeatable methods of violence I can use for many different situations and scenarios.”

            “Again,” he said.  “I’m impressed.”

“Do you know what happened to the warden?” she asked. 

“Not really,” he said casually. 

Sitting at the red light, still waiting for it to turn green, she started tapping the steering wheel, her aggression building. 

A guy with a handmade “Help Needed” sign had a look of tough times all over his face and body.  He was walking the line of cars looking for help, for a handout.   Cira rolled down the window, smiled, then gave him a $20 bill.  This simple act of kindness seemed to settle her nerves some. 

“Maybe we should meet in person,” Leopold said. 

“What did you have in mind?” she teased.

“Not that,” he laughed.

“You suck, Leopold, you know that, right?”

“Pack an overnight bag,” he said.  “I’ll make up the guest room.”   

“I can’t stay long.  I have a life, you know.” 

“Same here,” he said.

“Why am I coming?” she asked.

“We’re going to Callie Fox’s funeral.  Would you like to accompany me?  You can go your own way from there if that’s what you want.” 

“I was going to ask about that,” Cira said, more of her aggression waning. 

She thought about Callie a lot, about what went wrong in Juárez.  She was still trying to imagine a scenario where they could have saved the girl. 

“Sydney was kind enough to extend the invitation to both of us,” Leopold said.

“I was wondering about that,” Cira said.

“I had a dream,” he said. 

“You and Martin Luther King, Jr.” 

“Stop playing, Cira,” he replied.  “Let me tell you about it.” 

The light turned green, and the cars began to move.  Cira breathed a sigh of relief, not sure when she had become so uptight or if there was a way to mitigate it during regular life.  Yoga, meditation, acupuncture, massage therapy?

“Fine,” she said.  “Go ahead.” 

Leopold told her that he had a bad dream about Callie, about her body being cut into steak-sized pieces and how her face was white and lifeless.  These were all matters of fact, not just dreams spun out of fiction.  But then, he said that Callie’s right eye wouldn’t quit looking at him.  It was as if her death was his fault; as if she had been slaughtered because of him. 

“That’s messed up,” Cira said.

“Yeah,” Leopold replied, his voice soft, his mind still half-dragged into the memory of that dream.  She had been having nightmares as well, but hers were different altogether. 

“What are you thinking?” Cira asked.  Meaning, why are you telling me this?

He cleared his throat but didn’t speak right away.  He measured his words, which could mean their conversation was likely being recorded in some NSA database.  Then again, it could be as simple as him trying to gather his thoughts.

“I can’t let this go,” he said.  “I’ve been in a state of inebriation since Juárez, and I’ll probably stay like this until I do the right thing.”

“Which is?” she asked.

“This job in Juárez, those motherfuckers who took Callie, we have to find them.”

“And then?”

“You know what,” he said.

She knew just fine.  Callie’s murder had bothered her, too.  Sydney Fox hadn’t just lost her husband and daughter.  Congressman Camden Fox had betrayed the family by staging a kidnapping he couldn’t control.  This resulted in insufferable horrors, the worst of which was finding their daughter cut into pieces in Prague.  The girl had been stuffed like garbage into black plastic bags then dumped on the street in front of the US Embassy. 

“Are we freelancing now?” she asked.

“Let’s talk when you get here,” he replied.  “I have quite a bit of drinking to do.”

“I’ll start packing when I get home.  I’m looking forward to seeing you, Leopold, and I miss being with the team.”

“That’s the right feeling,” he said. 

 

* * *

The nice thing about working for a nine-figure millionaire was the perks.  God, there were so many!  In the case of her employment with Leopold, having a Gulfstream G650 at your disposal only to be picked up in a brand new Bentley was beyond dreamy.  The flight was cozy, but the drive to the Wentworth estate was a step above.  And when Cira arrived at her destination, Leopold greeted her with open arms, a drink, and a whiskey kiss.  Meaning he kissed her cheek and the whiskey fumes burned her eyes and tickled her nostrils.  Aside from the boozy missed kiss, that level of pampering was enough to make her smile.

“You need to try this,” he said, handing her a tumbler with amber liquid.

She took the glass, smelled it, then said, “This smells like peanut butter.”

“It’s peanut butter whiskey,” he said.  “It’s divine.”

She took a swallow, let the warmth travel the length of her throat, and then she smiled as the peanut butter flavor followed. 

“My God,” she said. 

“Right?”

She followed him into the kitchen where there was a meal spread out before them. 

“Are we having a party tonight?” she asked.

“I ordered a larger meal so the staff could join us,” he said.  “You should meet them, they’re great!” 

“Am I part of the staff?” she asked.

“Of course not,” he replied.  He filled her glass with more whiskey, then smiled and said, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Leopold was a 53-year-old multi-millionaire playboy and the worst kind: handsome, fit, well-spoken when he wanted to be, a smartass on the side, and single. 

Very single. 

She only had one problem with Leopold, and that was her attraction to him.  Ever since he found her, bailed her out of jail, and had Codrin fix her record, she felt a fierce loyalty to him.  But she also thought she understood him.  Favors like the one Leopold did for her were not done without the expectation of returned favors.  She thought she would be his mistress, or his girlfriend, or even his fuck-buddy, but she could not have been more wrong.

“I found you after looking at thousands of women like you,” he had said to her.  “And do you know what?”

She had been burning with curiosity.

“I’m going to give your life meaning and purpose, and as a result, you will never want for anything again.”

She thought he was talking about sex and being spoiled, so she let herself dream of a grand romance with him: the breakfasts in bed, the expensive dinners, and Broadway plays.  But none of this came to fruition, and her silly dreams died hard.   Only when Atlas gave her what she needed most—sex, a voice, and then adoration—did she come to accept that she would not be Leopold’s girlfriend, his fiancée, or his wife.  

When he had asked her to come to his home earlier that day, she assumed their visit would be platonic.  After all, this was how he had been with her since the beginning of their working relationship.  But then he sent the plane, sent the car, and then he filled her glass with whiskey.  This was all very charming, and it reminded her of her early dreams, but she knew that it was naïve to think there would be more, so she tempered her excitement. 

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” she asked, taking another delightful sip.

He leaned her way—his breath dusted with peanut butter but stinking of whiskey—and he tried to whisper to her.  To her dismay, his voice sounded just as shaky and embarrassing as any sorority girl who couldn’t handle her first fill of wine coolers.

“I want someone to cry with,” he said.  “Someone who understands Juárez the way I understand it.”

“Jesus, Leo,” she said, using Atlas’ nickname for him, “grow a sack.” 

He sputtered out a rip of laughter, but then he invited the staff in for dinner, and he managed to compose himself. 

They ate, Leopold stopped drinking, and everyone talked and laughed together.  The staff and the over-the-top meal provided a wonderful distraction from reality.  It could be exhausting thinking about the horrors of the job and all the little things that haunted her and Leopold.

“I just want you to know how much I love you,” Leopold told the staff, “and that I am so grateful to have you that I wanted Cira to share you with me.” 

Their warm reaction told Cira that Leopold was good to his people, which was what she had already come to suspect.  Despite the cold manner in which he wanted to deliver justice to the deeply corrupt, Leopold Wentworth had a bright, generous side.  She liked that about him.  It was one of his more charming qualities. 

When dinner was over, she and Leopold retreated to the back patio for drinks and cigars.  Cira drank half of what Leopold drank and smoked only half of her cigar.  She could not and would not ruin her diet for these petty indulgences, tempting as they were. 

“I think I’m ready to turn in for the night,” he finally said. 

“Same,” she replied, exhausted.  “Before we go, I need to know something.”

Leopold only smiled.  Even in the low light, she could see his wet, bloodshot eyes.

“Did you do it?” she asked.

Somehow he knew she was asking about Warden Dicampli.  He nodded his response, a smile on his face, his eyes softening to the point of looking relaxed.

“For the love of God,” she said.  “And here I was all bothered about it.”

“He stopped playing ball,” Leopold said.  “So I shot him.  Twice in the heart and once in the head.  The Wentworth Triple.”

“There will be a new warden,” she said.

“We’ll break him the same way we broke Dicampli.”

“Only if he’s dirty.”

“Have I taught you nothing, Cira?” he asked in a booze-addled voice.  “Nearly everyone in power is dirty.  They only get to the highest positions if someone has both dirt and leverage on them.  So we’ll find that dirt and we’ll find that leverage, and then we will exploit them the same way someone else exploited them.”

“That’s a pretty jaded outlook on life.”

“Call it what you want,” he said, his eyelids bobbing.  “These are just matters of life.”

“So what are we going to do about Callie Fox’s murder?” she asked.

“I’m going to Prague.”

She sat upright, her eyes clearing.  “You are?  When?”

“When I’ve got all my ducks in a row.”

“Are you taking the team?”

He thought about it, then smiled, and that smile became laughter.  He held up his hand and said, “Sorry, I’m sorry.”

“You’re fine,” she said.

“I’m going in alone, and if I need a team, you’ll be on standby to round them up.”

“You can’t go into this world half-cocked,” she warned.  “Look at Esty and Yergha.  They were almost killed in Juárez.  And the first job…I mean, for God’s sake…Yergha ended up in the hospital for how long?”

He waved it off and said, “I’m in the game now, Cira.  Just like you.  Don’t you see that?  We’re not like Yergha, Esty, Atlas, or Kiera.  We’re normal people wanting an abnormal adventure, and we’re getting it.”

“I just thought I was going to be your wife,” she said.  “I didn’t think I’d be the second chair to an assassination squad.”

He sputtered out another laugh, then threw up his hands and said, “Surprise!” 

She got up to go to her room.  The day was long enough without him making fun of her. 

“Wait, Cira, please.  Just wait!”

She stopped but refused to turn around.  She did not want to see him, not after such a painful confession.  And not after he had so flippantly laughed at her.

“I’ve got Codrin digging into Callie’s death.  He’s going to gather a list of names and maybe see if we can find the people involved in this.  We will need human intelligence to work those leads if he can’t be more helpful.  I don’t need the team for that.  Not right away.” 

“Don’t you think we should figure out who the new warden of NorCal is so I can find a way back in?” 

“Well, sure,” he said like it was nothing.

She shook her head, her eyes closing on their own.  She opened them and put a hand on the pillar beside her.  The whiskey and cigar buzz was more potent than she had anticipated. 

“You didn’t do your due diligence on the new warden already?” she asked. 

“I’m consumed with the bachelor’s life and trying to shrug off this shittiness I feel.  This thing about Callie…”

“I get that,” she said, turning around to face him.  She folded her arms, started to tip over, then put her hand on the pillar once more for stability. 

“It’s the dreams, Cira.  I keep seeing Callie and the warden—both of them dying, both sobbing, both just staring at me with that awful death rattle.  It’s like I’m haunted by them, by all of these memories we never even made.” 

“I know,” she said. 

“It doesn’t feel like I thought it would.” 

“Atlas says you need more of it to get used to it, and even then, he says you will never really get used to it.  I felt the same thing.” 

“I need you to keep a secret,” he said. 

“Okay.” 

“You need to keep it from Atlas when we see him next.” 

She paused, frowning, “It better not be a big one.” 

“It is.” 

“Is this how you will be operating with all of us?” she asked, disappointed.  “You telling the secrets of one team member to another?”

“No, just you, about just him.” 

“Fine.” 

“I have a sinking suspicion—or is that a sneaking suspicion?—anyway, I think Scotty and Jackson might have found Atlas’ daughter, Alabama.” 

Her heart started pumping, but she restrained herself, playing it cool even though this was not the kind of secret you keep from a person like Atlas. 

“I know her name,” Cira said. 

“I’m not sure what to do about Atlas when Alabama is back with her mother, Jade.” 

“I know her name, too,” Cira said, her heart beating like crazy now.  “What if Alabama is being hurt or abused right now?” 

“I trust Scotty enough to think he’ll do the right thing with or without my permission.  But that is if he has found her and if she is in trouble.” 

“Do you think she’s still with Apple White?” Cira asked.

He shrugged his shoulders and said, “I already told you I think Scotty is keeping this information to himself.” 

“So, he might not even be looking for her?” 

“When we were in Juárez, I offered Scotty a performance bonus, a carrot to chase, and I think this time he wants that bonus.  So, I suspect that if he’s not working another case, he and Jackson still have their feet on the gas.” 

“What was the carrot?”

Leopold drained the remainder of his whisky in a single swallow.  “A shit ton of extra money if he found Alabama while we were in Mexico.”

“But that is your only leverage over Atlas.”

“I know, but it’s his daughter.”

Hearing him say this, knowing he was putting the child before his desires, was encouraging.  Then again, if he hadn’t put children first over everything, this group might not even exist. 

“If they’ve found her,” Cira said, “if Scotty knows where Alabama is and we’re just waiting for another job to spring her from this…hell she’s endured…”

“I’m hoping he found her,” Leopold said. 

“Atlas is going to want to kill her, this Apple White broad.  You know that, don’t you?” 

“Not kill,” he said, his tone darkening.  “Slaughter.” 

“I can’t see him doing that, killing a woman,” Cira said.  But she wasn’t sure.  “Can you see him doing that?” 

He nodded with confidence.  “I believe he’s full of equal-opportunity vengeance.  This woman and her son stole his child and ruined his entire life.” 

Changing the subject, she said, “Do you think Scotty is qualified to judge this situation?” 

“He’s more than qualified.” 

“Is he on retainer?” 

“Yes,” Leopold said, stumbling slightly at the door.  He caught himself, but he didn’t seem to even notice.  “He hasn’t been tasked with anything right now.” 

“If you’ve got him on retainer, why isn’t he tasked with anything?” 

“It’s that performance bonus,” Leopold said.  “He went after it last time, but he missed it.  He needs the money.  His wife…she’s not good for him, and he’s not good for her.  Money will likely free them of each other, or their money problems, or both.”

“Money is good like that,” she said.  “The great problem solver.”

“I like Scotty and want him full-time if I can get the work to justify this.  If not, I’ll still keep him on retainer.” 

“What makes you think he found her?” 

“I think if he hasn’t found her, he’s about to.  I don’t think he’s stopped looking, not since Juárez.  When the man wants to solve a mystery, he hates having his leash yanked.  This is what makes him so good.  He can’t sleep until he’s come to the end of his mystery.”

“What have you been doing since we returned?” 

“Fucking and drinking,” he said. 

“Sadly, I’ve never made it to your sex party, drinking or otherwise,” she teased. 

Looking at him, she still wanted him, but not like she used to.  The potency was wearing off.  And all of this drinking, what was that about?  The joys of inebriation, or was he trying to take the edge off of what he had done?  The man wasn’t stable.  That had her thinking about him going to Prague alone.  What the hell was he thinking? 

“We talked about sex between us,” Leopold warned. 

“Of course,” she replied.  Leopold told her he didn’t want to ruin a great working relationship by muddying the waters with sex.  “I don’t recall being satisfied with that conversation, but that’s neither here nor there.” 

“Did you sleep with Atlas?” he asked. 

“You know I did.” 

“Yeah, well, jealousy goes both ways.” 

“Now you’re jealous?” 

“A bit.” 

She grinned then said, “Switching topics again, you’d better start training if you want to stay in the game.  And Prague?  I mean, these are monsters of a different caliber.” 

“I’ll have Atlas and Kiera as backup, same with Yergha and Esty if they’re ready to go.” 

“When was the last time you spoke with Kiera?” she asked.

“Isabelle said she’s out on loan right now.” 

“Really?” she asked. 

“Part of my deal,” he replied, waving a hand like the idea of not having control bothered him, but he wasn’t ready to talk about it. 

“Why would you negotiate such a jacked-up deal?” 

Leopold took a long moment to frown at her.  And when he started to sway, she caught him, stood him up, then told him to focus on not falling over like an embarrassing drunk.

Ignoring her jab, he said, “It was me taking advantage of the former administration’s stance on world peace.  I am a little tiny fish in a world full of sharks and whales.  The fact that we can even get Kiera at all is freaking amazing.” 

“I’ll take your word for it.  I’m going to settle into my room.  Oh, and by the way”—she said, leaving him on the patio—“I’m amazing in bed.  Atlas will attest to that.” 

“I trust you,” he said.  He had an amusing look on his face, like a kid who missed out on a shit ton of candy.

“Looks like the man who has everything can’t have everything,” she mused.  And with a playful wink, she left him standing there, slack-jawed and swaying.