

The

Children

of

the

Wolf

by

Karl Tutt

Smashwords Edition

Copyright Karl Tutt 2015

All rights reserved without limiting the copyright reserved above. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, brands, characters, places, media and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction which might have been used without permission. The publication use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Thanks to Carolyn, my patient reader, and Sue, an editor who is generous with her time and attention.

Chapter One

Bartolomieu was a strange name for a Mexican guy -\-- his mother, long gone, God bless her --- her had been Portuguese. Anyway, Bart's Bebida Mexicano was a good name for the bar he owned --- or at least what the thugs allowed him to own. He'd been lucky. On Tuesdays, the gang bangers came around. He paid them the going rate for protection, and mostly kept the junkies and the hookers out of his place. A few of the regulars even felt comfortable bringing their kids in to play Foosball or pool while the adults soaked up cold cerveza, or the shots of Cuervo Gold, watched soccer, and sometimes sang along with the Hispanic tunes that filled the jukebox.

That didn't mean that Pepe and Maria Elena were allowed near the place. He was simply afraid. In his mind, kids and booze just didn't mix --- not anytime, anyplace. Both of them had barely survived a tough time after their mother's death. She was darkly beautiful, intelligent, but the thing that defined her was her devotion and unqualified love for her children.

Pepe had just turned ten. He was confused, but soccer, baseball, and a budding awareness of young girls on the edge of blossoming, dominated his young consciousness. Maria Elena was a different story.

At twelve, she had just started her period. Her breasts were quietly exploding and the hips were taking a feminine shape that earned sly looks from the older boys at school.

They'd all watched while Estrella, Bart's very own star, his wife of fifteen years, had faded --- the TB ravaging her body and finally her mind. She shrank, and they all shrank with her. He heard the death rattle in her throat, watched the blood bubble from her lips while the doctors simply shook their heads, and the nurses made the sign of the cross over their breasts.

He didn't realize all that was happening at the time. He was consumed with grief, guilt, and a paralyzing fear that he tried to keep below the surface. He simply couldn't face a life without Estrella. He cursed himself for his ignorance. The real victim was his girl, Maria Elena. A light in her life had become a shadow, lost in the black clouds that he hoped were not her future. The child, the one who needed her even more, had adored her mother. And now that love ---- that salvation and deliverance --- was gone . . . buried in a cold metal box beneath six feet of gray, moldy, sand.

Maria Elena had disappeared before --- a day or two --- but he'd found her at the home of friends, seeking some sort of solace and comfort in families that were still whole. They'd been kind. One even volunteered to take her in until she had healed. But there was no balm in Gilead . . . . nothing that could close up the black hole in her being. It had now been four days. Bart had searched, but now he was frantic. He didn't expect help in Tijuana, from the police or anyone else. The corruption was rampant, and it was simply that he often felt nobody cared. He decided to make the call.

Chapter Two

Big Mig liked what he saw. The one on the left. The black hair cascading over her shoulders, the round hips, the sexuality lurking just below the soft olive skin. She was young and ripe. It meant big bucks. Lobo would be proud. His clients would stand in line, fists full of cash, for this one.

Miguel wasn't just big. He was huge. 6'7", probably 270 lbs. after a good day at the gym. Hands like blushing meat hooks. Solid, burnished muscle, and plenty of it. He could inspire terror. He didn't mind. In this business, it was a good thing to have a reputation like his. Still, even with the dark uni-brow and eyes that danced with violence, some had called him handsome. He didn't believe it. He believed in Lobo, terror, and maybe money. That was it. But he tried on his least threatening smile and nodded to the budding Mexican beauties as they passed within an arm's length. He mumbled a soft greeting. They giggled and went on. Maybe he was a bit handsome after all. He made mental notes . . . time, place. These girls were to be remembered . . . perhaps even marked.

Lobo had taken Miguel off the streets of Tijuana not long after both his parents and his baby sister had found eternal rest --- that's the way he liked to think of it --- in a barren stretch of desert just to the south. Drugs --- it was always drugs --- and after Lobo had heard the whole story, he helped Mig settle the score. His family was gone, but so were the four mangy jackals. Lobo had smiled as Miguel had crushed the larynx of two of them with his bare hands. He could still hear the gurgle of death, watch as the dogs' eyes bulged, listen to their feeble cries for mercy. The other two accomplices joined them, a well-placed 9 mm slug in the backs of each of their skulls.

Since then, Mig had done whatever Lobo had commanded --- no questions. Mig guessed his final destination was hell, but Lobo treated him like a son. And the money, the girls, and the cocaine were all good. At least he was part of something, maybe even a twisted family bound for perdition. Life on earth was its own personal brand of torture. And to put it simply \--- when you got nothing, you got nothing to lose.

\-------------------------

Priss was short for Priscilla. It was an old-fashioned name. She knew that, but she kind of liked it. It didn't define who she was. Other things had done that very thoroughly in a hollow, sick, sort of way. She had a job --- if not a life --- but most of the time, it suited her. She was busy. She was involved. And the demons were at bay --- at least most of the time. Her father had abandoned mother and child when she was only six. She'd quietly had plenty of therapy. Abandonment syndrome --- that's what the shrinks had called it. Prozac had helped some, and the occasional Xanax washed down with a shot of bourbon put her to sleep when there was no alternative. But she hated drugs. She'd seen too many lives drown in addiction. And still there were days when everything turned to shit. She tried to ignore them. She'd learned that from her mother, a brave and intelligent woman who, nevertheless, was damaged in her own private way. Sometimes the quiet in their house was like a shroud that dropped over every word or action, blanketing their existence like a gray storm that just wouldn't pass . . . a curse that would haunt her endlessly.

Mostly Priss managed. She got along, did her job, and suppressed the loneliness.

But she could still hear the words . . . the ones from her latest term in hell.

"Shut up, bitch. Or you're dead."

The sheets looked clean, but when he threw her down, the damp, clammy cotton stuck to her skin. Her shoes flew off her feet and she sunk into the middle of the worn mattress.

She could still smell the garlic on his filthy hand as he covered her mouth . . . as she gasped for breath and tried to find an opening. There was none. He was heavy and strong. The glittering blade at her throat kept her motionless and silent. His body smothered hers as he pressed her down onto the bed. The hideous ripping sound of her blouse, her bra, and then her panties.

"You're gonna like this," he said. "All you bitches do."

She looked into his blood-tinged eyes. The rage seethed.

"Please," she begged.

"Please?" he taunted, "Honey . . . don't give me that shit. It's long, thick, and hard. I'll fill you up. You can't ask for more than that, can you? I make you a promise. This'll be the best fuck you ever had. So shut up and enjoy it."

She wasn't sure why she had passed out, but when she woke, she realized she was in a cheap motel room. She was naked and cold. She inhaled his stale sweat, still clinging to her body. Her feet fell onto the gritty carpet. The sand and dirt abraded her bare soles. She covered herself in what was left of her clothes. Was he gone? Was he waiting for another turn at the fetid flesh he just defiled? She cracked the door and peered out. A light breeze chilled her, but the darkness was welcome. Her car was still there. She got in and drove mindlessly.

At least he hadn't killed her. She had thought for a moment that those convoluted breaths would be her last. But now that it was over, she made a silent vow that, sooner or later, she'd stuff that filthy dick in his mouth. He'd choke on his own blood and flesh. He'd be the one to breathe his last.

She told no one. She wasn't sure why. In her line of work, femininity was often equated with weakness. She couldn't afford that. So she kept her brown hair cut in a short bob and disguised her ample breasts with a stream of shapeless garments that screamed professional and impersonal, if not "keep the hell away from me". Actually she'd killed at least two men. That had earned her a grudging respect and even a tinge of fear among her associates. She wasn't proud of it, but it worked. They called her Detective Maybry to her face and Miss Hard-Ass behind her back. That was okay, too. She needed that veneer, that façade of invincibility. If she reported the rape, it would all vanish like so much smoke caught in a willful breeze. No one could know that the thing she feared most was herself.

There was a torrent of shame. She wondered if somehow she had brought it on. He'd hurt her. Blood flowed between her legs when she got in the shower at her apartment. But other than a couple of bruises, she was almost all right. Maybe she hadn't resisted enough --- and maybe the prick was right on the money. Maybe it was the best fuck she'd ever had. The feeling of his massive cock shoving into her had made her gasp. She didn't want to admit it, but she was wet, maybe even eager. Excitement, passion, a sheer horror of the ultimate transgression, the profanity of it all --- maybe some hellish combination. She didn't know, but nothing could make the shame subside. It clung to her every waking minute like the scum on a stagnant pond . . . infected, green, almost ghoulish.

Nevertheless, Priss was very good at putting things aside, at least for a time. She considered it a sick, malignant, gift of neglect, a numbness she effected, a shade, a mask, or maybe just a wall of emotional brick and mortar so thick it couldn't be penetrated. She'd learned it from her mother --- that ability to shunt the ugly and the intolerable from her consciousness and lastly from the abyss that was sometimes her mind. Still there were nights that became unbearably cold --- when she shivered and whimpered in and out of tormented sleep. When it happened, she comforted herself with the obsession that someday, somehow, she would find him --- and that would be the last time that anyone did.

Chapter Three

Lobo was a business man. There was nothing personal in any of it. At the University of Florida, he'd studied economics and best practices of capitalism, not to mention Darwin's ON THE ORIGIN OF THE SPECIES. It all made perfect sense. Survival of the fittest --- and he was one of them. The weak were crushed. It was their destiny, self-wrought and deeply deserved. Morality was an academic concept, not even a part of the equation. The path of right and wrong was a road for fools . . . and he knew what happened to them.

His real name was Juan Carlos Perez, but few people knew it. He had an office in downtown Miami not too far from South Beach. It was small and fashionable without being ostentatious. He did have the private elevator hidden in an alcove behind his desk. It was concealed by what looked like a closet door. Just a precaution. Not many knew it, and he'd only used it a couple of times, and not in an emergency. Still something about the small shaft gave him a sense of comfort, if not total safety. After all, his business was wrought with risks . . . some of them very final. Irate clients, crazed junkies, and, of course, the cops. What the hell? Hazards of the trade, but mostly easily managed . . . sometimes with their own brand of finality. He was protected.

His secretary was plain, but competent and loyal. Of course, she knew instinctively what happened to those who weren't. And he paid her quite well for her selective ignorance. The name of the corporation was Hispanic Family Enterprises, LLC. Business was thriving. He had a 2800 sq. ft. condo on the eighth floor at the beach, a 65 foot Princess luxury yacht at the Miami Beach Marina, a full-time captain and three paid crew. He rarely drove. His assistant served as the chauffer of his shiny black BMW 750. Yes, business was thriving and he'd made damned sure that his clients had too much to lose if things were discovered. His only worry was a constant supply of his product, but then there was plenty of it. Mig and his lieutenants all over the Caribbean saw to that. They were quick, attentive, and the goods they delivered were fresh and tempting.

Sometimes it was Guatemala, sometimes Mexico, even a white girl if that was what business demanded, and of course trade with other Central and South American contacts. Actually, Lobo sometimes took special orders if the price was right. After all, with the product he supplied, and the billions his clients had hidden in numbered bank accounts, cost was no object. Europeans, Chinese, Arabs, dictators of all nationalities. Their lackeys came to his door, their smiles leering, and he delivered, sometimes in the dead of night, or in some cases, in God's own daylight. He didn't care as long as the wire transfers had reached his accounts. He kept very copious and detailed records . . . names, dates, amounts. I guess you could call it insurance, in case one of his clients got a sudden attack of conscience. He didn't think it would happen, but a good businessman always considered his down-side risks. And Lobo was a good businessman.

\------------------------------------

Bartolomeu made the call. A friend of a friend who had phone numbers he didn't. From Ricky's Cuban uncle to Diabla, his contact in Fort Lauderdale. Then a P.I. in Miami, and finally to Priss Maybry's desk. It was her specialty. A missing girl. Thirteen years old, probably abducted. Mother deceased and father frantic.

Priss was a Detective, Second Grade, on the Miami P.D. This was her beat. Human Trafficking, sexual slavery, any type of crime that smacked of the trade in human flesh, and unfortunately, that flesh clung mostly to young girls and adolescent boys. Priss actually had two guys assigned to her. One was Dontravious Campbell, a handsome young black man, sharp and clever, destined, she thought, for quick advancement. The other was Pedro Ramirez. They called him Pete. He was older than Priss, but he did a commendable job of being respectful and cooperative. She liked both of them, and, more importantly, she trusted them. As far as she knew, neither was 'bent" like some of the scum in the department. But it was a tough job. The pay was lousy and these people had families. There was constant danger, especially since all of the trouble in Ferguson, Chicago and multiple other cities. It was easy to be judgmental, if you didn't walk in their shoes, and she concentrated on being part of the team. If the cops couldn't stick together, the human predators would be running the city. Don and Pete at least pretended it didn't matter that she was a woman, just as long as she was fearless and good at what she did. She was.

She looked at the note and shuddered. They'd been working on one particular case for months. It involved a figure who had no name, and for all practical purposes didn't even exist. She had taken to calling him El Hombre Invisible, Spanish for the invisible man. Clues --- there were none. Trails, evidence, informants . . . none. It had been an exercise in futility, a dog chasing his own tail. The bastard was there. She knew that. But anyone who had even a hint of information was too frightened to breathe, much less speak. They'd had a call a few months back, but the tipster ended up hanging from a fire escape in an alley, his body suspended by a large meat hook that had entered his body through his back and exited through his heart. His family had refused to identify the corpse and no one ever claimed the body. The perfect definition of a dead end.

Chapter Four

When Priss missed her period, she didn't think much about it. It had happened before, especially when she was stressed --- and she was. They'd found two bodies in the last three weeks. The tipster and a Hispanic girl --- maybe twelve, but no ID, no missing persons' reports, no physical evidence except signs that she'd been gang-raped. Her throat had been sliced with a sharp instrument, probably a razor blade. She'd bled out in a dirty alley on the edge of Little Havana. Priss had seen the body, the hollow eyes, the golden skin turned the color of bile, the gray lips gaping in astonishment. Then she walked a few steps into the shadows of the discolored bricks and threw up. Oh, one other thing . . . her liver had been removed, and according to the ME, with surgical precision. A small rectangular imprint could be lightly traced in the asphalt. A box of some sort had sat next to the body. There were traces of moisture, as though the sides had sweat because of something colder inside. Stolen organs for transplants, she figured. That was relatively rare in Miami, but something that the department took very seriously, and added to her beat.

Don and Pete pounded the pavement in the immediate neighborhood, knocking on doors, asking questions, showing a few mug shots --- nothing. Nothing. She was tired of nothing.

\---------------------

Liam O'Malley had been indicted. His license was suspended in the state of New York. Questionable practices . . . that's what they called it. He was a plastic surgeon and a damned good one . . . lines of wealthy clients who weren't quite satisfied with the way they looked at the cocktail parties and the opera. But his wife went through money like corn flakes. He could survive that, but his own taste for copious amounts of white powder and illicit female companionship had finally done him in. He never thought it would happen to him, the star of the Big Apple society pages and an honor graduate of Johns Hopkins, but some people just couldn't get enough. He and Heather were two of them.

He honestly thought that he ought not to be worried. He was too valuable, but in his gut, the one known as Lobo scared him. The man had long arms and very sharp claws. Nevertheless, they spent several weeks in Miami each year, being wined and dined by their charming host. Liam told himself that it wouldn't be all bad. Maybe it was time to consider becoming a permanent resident. He could certainly prove his worth in that setting. The last he'd heard, Lobo had already made all the arrangements. New identity, false papers. He and Heather could easily alter their appearances a little. He had plenty of cash hidden in four different banks in the Caribbean, all numbered accounts, of course. He'd been careful and now it would pay off. Hell, they might even buy an island. In a twisted way, he even looked at it as an adventure. After all, he was an undisputed master with a scalpel. He just needed to be able practice his considerable skills away from the light of day. No dumb-ass medical boards and restrictions on procedures. Lobo would see to that. The need was great, and the client list was growing exponentially. He could smell the money.

O'Malley followed the instructions to a tee. No luggage, no jewelry . . . they would buy new clothes when they arrived. All of his papers packed away in one black leather suitcase. No cell phones, no goodbyes, even to those they were intimate with. The limo would pick them up at precisely eleven P.M. and take them to the small private airport across the state line in western New Jersey. He was flattered that Lobo was sending the Lear Jet. It would be swift and comfortable. He had seen it the last time he and Heather were in Miami. Lobo even let him sit in the cockpit and steer for a while. Very cool. Everything according to plan.

Liam went up the silver steps and entered the main cabin, Heather trailing behind. It was truly opulent, just as he remembered. Now he really felt honored. Lobo, himself, nattily attired in a cream silk suit, pulled Liam to him and gave him a fond hug. The same for Heather. Then they settled into the plush reclining seats and strapped in for takeoff. A beautiful blond attendant in a tailored blue suit served the drinks. For him, a Gray Goose martini with just a taste of dry vermouth, and three plump Greek olives. Actually, he preferred the Kalamatas. He smiled. The attendant had remembered. Heather favored a good rich Manhattan with George Dickel rye and a touch of sweet L'Afrique. She eyed it greedily, the fat maraschino cherry lolling in the crystal glass. Lobo was sipping an oily tequila on the rocks. The cocktails were perfect and the conversation light and entertaining.

Lobo put down his tumbler, smiled warmly, and leaned over to Liam.

"You have done quite well, Doctor, and I have paid you generously. But unfortunately you were not careful. Your habits have betrayed you and your lack of discipline has caused me great concern. I am first and foremost a businessman. I must be cautious where I invest my money . . . as well as my trust."

Lobo's eyes were like shards of black ice.

Liam felt Heather shudder slightly beside him. He placed his hand on her forearm and put his drink down warily on the table. He had heard tales of those who had crossed The Wolf, but he always figured a man of his skill was essential, and anyway he'd chosen not to believe them. Who was better than he? No one, but the naked fear creeping up his spine told him perhaps he had been more than a bit naïve.

"I need something," the Patron said.

"Absolutely. Name it. Heather and I are most excited about our new life and our chance to make your business even more successful."

He tried to sound confident and assured by the man's friendship. And after all, it was all about simple capitalism. Supply and demand. He'd covered Lobo's ass and made him lots of money. That was the bottom line.

"I need the numbers of the private accounts you hold in the Caribbean. All of them. I need them now."

Liam looked over at Heather. The light in the cabin made her seem very pale. He reached into the inside pocket of his Brooks Brothers sport coat and pulled out a small address book. He hesitated a moment, then handed it to The Wolf. The Patron fondled the black leather between his fingers, shuffled the pages lightly, then lifted his arm, and waited. The blond attendant came forward and took it. Lobo nodded. She went to the captain's cabin and returned momentarily.

"They are confirmed. The transfers are underway as we speak," she whispered in Spanish.

Liam bit his tongue and sat very still. Suddenly he felt a huge paw on his right shoulder. Mig snapped his neck and the physician's head dropped to his chest before his wife could scream. She was next. Her glass tumbled onto the carpet leaving a dark puddle with a tint of golden brown. The attendant was ready with a towel soaked in cold water. The stain was gone in an instant.

The bodies were stuffed into black garbage bags. Lobo knew they would vanish quickly once they hit the water. The gods of the inky depths would see to that. The dark lumps were shifted into the cargo hold and the pressurized door was secured. The jet was at least fifty miles out over the dark Atlantic near the center of the mighty Gulf Stream. The cargo door dropped and Liam and Heather went for their final swim. The water was warm and swift, but they didn't know it.

Lobo finished his tequila and considered puffing on a pungent Cohiba, but he just wasn't in the mood. He decided on a nap instead, but not before reminding Miguel that he loved him like a son.
Chapter Five

He watched her from the shade of the doorway of an abandoned pawn shop. The lurid images flashed through his mind. The lady cop was good. He hadn't really expected a natural blond, but when he ripped her panties off, he was met with a nice surprise. He liked nice surprises. And was she wet . . . holy shit . . . the silk was flooding down her pink thighs even before he poked her. She'd kept quiet . . . before, during, and after. That surprised him, too. It might be risky . . . hell, he knew it was . . . but he'd love to hit that again. The throbbing in his jeans was insistent. In the meantime, he'd be patient. Now he was searching for another target, youngish, sexy, maybe even willing, but then again . . . that would take all of the fun out it.m

\----------------------

Priss wasn't sure, but she suspected the worst. The extra weight was only a couple of pounds, but she wasn't eating anything different and the nausea in mornings was something new and unexpected. It had only been two months, but something was different. Her body spoke, and she had no choice but to listen.

She picked up the test at the Walgreen's, along with a new tooth brush, some mouthwash, and a couple of tubes of lip gloss she found on sale. She knew the tests were much more accurate than they used to be. She went back to the apartment and into the bathroom. She looked at herself in the full-length mirror and turned for a view from the side. She unfastened her jeans and let them fall to the floor. Then she put her palm to her belly. There was a slight bulge. She almost wished it had been there before, but she knew it wasn't. She went to the bathroom, slid her panties over her knees and sat down. She waited for full stream, then placed the strip beneath it. She set it on the Formica basin and waited. The three minutes seemed like three days, but the color began to appear. It started out a pale yellow and began to take on a bluish tint. She'd followed the instructions, done everything right. She was . . . it was hard to whisper the word even with no one listening. That word was "pregnant". She wished there'd been others, but that fucking monster was the only one who could have left his seed inside her. She collapsed on her bed, made herself as small as she could. She shook and wept like the lost child she was.

\-----------------------

Maria Elena could smell herself. Her skin crawled with grit. She thought it was a warehouse. It was drafty, and permeated with a stale, moldy scent. The few rags she found on the stained floor of the cubicle would do little to staunch the warm red flow she knew was soon to come from between her legs. The cramps told her it wouldn't be long. The small portable toilet stunk from the moment he brought it in. At first she gagged, but in a sick sort of way, her nostrils had become numb.

She tried to shake the wire of the cage loose, rattled the lock until her fingers swelled and her hands ached. No luck, no escape. At least they had fed her. It was an endless series of soggy Big Macs, cold fries, and sometimes burritos that probably came from a nearby Taco Bell, but it was food. The small window high up on the wall had announced day and night, but she had no real sense of time. She thought she had been there for four or five days, but after the hallucinations came, she lost track. It all became a gauzy gray mist. Her keeper almost had a kindness about him, and there were no threats . . . no indication that she would be beaten, much less raped. She almost longed for his short visits, just to hear another human voice. Still, in her muddled state, there was a sense of dread . . . a fear that an awful thing was stalking her.

She longed to stand in a hot shower and scrub herself raw. Surely someone would come, but who would that someone be . . . and what would he want? There were no tears left. She ran her grimy fingers through her long black hair. It was oily and it had taken on the scent of despair. If there had been any instrument or tool that could have ended this agony, she would have used it yesterday, but there was nothing. She balled herself up on the concrete floor, trembling and whimpering in quiet, hopeless, waves.

\-------------------------

Bart thought about closing the bar, but it was his only source of income and he knew finding his daughter would cost money, and perhaps much more. The obvious thing to do was give up, accept the reality that he would probably never see her again . . . at least alive. People in this border hell-hole did it all the time. But if that was in the cards, the only solace he would ever find was in a personal pledge to do whatever it took to find her. If he didn't, Maria Elena's dead mother would creep out of the grave and haunt him for all eternity.

He finally decided to leave the Bebida Mexicano in the hands of his assistant. Pedro would probably steal him blind, but it was the only choice Bart had. When the money ran out . . . it ran out. He prepared a little speech about trust and honor, but when he met with Pedro, it all sifted away. The man grinned at him like he'd just hit the lotto . . . all the time promising loyalty and announcing his deep affection for the owner who had dreadful business that absolutely must be attended to.

"I have your back, Amigo."

Those were Pedro's words as Bart walked out the door, offering a sad wave to a few of his regulars as they rocked on the shabby stools lining the bar. He tucked a box cutter into his pocket, grabbed a bottle of Cuervo Gold, and walked home. Pepe was with his grandmother. The lady was kind and patient. The boy would be safe. It had to work for a while.

Bart reached up to the back corner of the shelf in his bedroom closet. He grasped the shoebox. It felt leaden and lifeless in his hand. He placed it on the bed, the same bed where he had lay with his beloved Estrella . . . the same bed where they had whispered, caressed, mingled their sweat, and made the love that produced Pepe and Maria Elena, the most beautiful things in his life. The one was gone. Only God knew to where and for how long. He fought back a tear, but it continued to struggle until it ran down his cheek in one crystal stream.

He lifted the top from the cardboard. The thing was wrapped in an old t-shirt yellowed with oil. The cloth fell aside as he gripped it. It was hard and heavy, but the rosewood grip and the weight felt good in his hand . . . a sense of something steady ... and deadly. It had been so long. He'd never even fired it. Bought it from one of his bar patrons whose tab was large, and luck had gone bad. Only for protection. That's what he'd told himself and Estrella. It was a Kimber SIS Custom II .45 caliber. He'd read somewhere that the LAPD SWAT Team used them, but he didn't care. He'd never killed a man. He didn't want to. He was strong and quick, both of which helped when a rowdy customer got out of hand at the bar. But this hunk of metal was the extra ace. It would do what he needed it to.

Bart shuddered. The Kimber would talk, but only he could be the one to translate its deadly message. He shook his head and laughed to himself. He remembered an old American expression, "going to see a man about a dog." But he was going to see a dog about a man. He popped the magazine and slid the seven brass slugs in place. Then he patted the box cutter. He wasn't sure he was ready, but then again, did he really have a choice?

\---------------------------

Lobo was feeling good. Big Mig and his lieutenants had done an admirable job. He sipped a hot cup of Columbian laced with just a touch of Captain Morgan's 100 proof spiced rum. It gave the dark liquid a sweet bite that soothed his throat and eased into his gut. He looked up at the huge Mexican and spoke.

"Mig, you have done well. This cadre will serve us quite nicely. Now we need photos. Get them ready. Feed them. Make sure they are clean. A touch of sweet ecstasy in their beverages. It will make them more compliant. Be sure to dress them well. Revealing, but not overtly sexy. Maintain a bit of the girlishness. You know the drill. Their assumed innocence is always a big selling point. I want to display the merchandise immediately. Several of our wealthiest clients are sending their representatives for the show. They should be able to see it in the flesh on Friday. It will be a wonderful party . . . champagne, delightful hors d'oeuvres, a solo violinist, and, of course, the most beautiful young things a man could ever desire. It will be a bonanza."

Mig nodded dutifully. He knew how it all worked. The girls must be pristine. He just had to make sure no one touched them. Men with exotic tastes and big bank accounts did not like their purchases compromised, especially when the price was very high . . . and there was, of course, a definite no-returns policy.

Chapter Six

So what the hell did Priss do now? She scheduled an appointment with Dr. Page. The woman knew how to be discreet, and, Priss hoped, sympathetic. She didn't tell her everything, just admitted that she hadn't been careful enough. A mistake . . . now that was more than the damned truth. Her worst guess was confirmed. Eight weeks and counting. She was showing slightly, but it wasn't that noticeable. Soon it would be. Suddenly he appeared in her mind . . . taunting, leering, still stinking of stale garlic . . . a face and a presence that would go to her grave with her. She knew she would kill him. It was just a matter of time. She hoped not too long, but the killing would be the easy part.

There was a child. Priss forced that into her mind. She stood before the full length mirror in her bedroom. She lifted the loose-fitting blouse and placed her hand on her warm belly. She thought she felt a pulsing, but she didn't trust her senses enough to believe it. She cradled her small breasts. They had begun to swell a bit. She could tell by the newfound tightness in her bra. She sighed. It was within her, growing . . . perhaps even blossoming into something that needed a chance to see the light . . . maybe even create its own special luminance. Dr. Page had told her it was a healthy fetus and encouraged her to be mindful of what she ate and drank. Get plenty of exercise. On the way out, the nurse handed a print-out of do's and don'ts for the expectant mother. She wanted to crush it in her hand and leave it with the dirt on the wind-blown street. Instead, she clenched her teeth and stuffed it into her pocketbook. The muscles in her face throbbed with an oppressive rhythm.

Priss didn't want the damned printouts . . . or the baby. Especially not from the seed of a monster. But what now? She'd always believed in a right to life even though she had been instrumental in depriving a few of it. But those were the miscreants, the depraved, the criminals, the killers who didn't deserve the honor of being compared to animals. She harbored no guilt for that. It wasn't that she condemned abortion. It was a woman's right to control her own body. But a child --- the word rebounded in her head like a violent pinball in a game played by a madman. She went into the kitchen and poured a shot of bourbon.

She knew the options, but two of them meant she carried the child to term. That would probably mean the end of her career, at least the one she'd followed and nurtured for the past ten years . . . the one she was somewhat sheepishly proud of. She wished there was someone she could trust, talk to, ask for advice . . . whatever that was. But there was no one. She was alone and the idea of any kind of motherhood seemed a heresy, a vile hypocrisy, a thing that she could not fathom or accept. But the third option? Abortion. Was it actually a sort of murder --- a vicious choir of sharp voices would have us believe it --- the murder of an innocent, a horrendous act that no God could ever forgive? She didn't know, but she did know the decision, no matter how abominable it might be, had to be made soon. She stared at the golden liquid, lifted the glass and sniffed it. Her stomach rebelled. She flung the tumbler into the sink. It shattered with a shrill, piercing sound. She shuddered. Then she cried.

\--------------------------

Maria Elena heard the slap of the sandals on the bare concrete floor. She backed into the dingy corner, her hands flexing, trying to clutch some imaginary weapon. Her heart thudded in her chest and a bead of thick saliva surfaced at the corner of her cracked lips.

He was huge, and vaguely familiar. She tilted her head and raked her memory as he slid the key into the lock. She'd seen him, but when and where? The door opened with a slight creak. He stood like a giant in the entrance to the cubicle.

"You must be easy, little one. No one will hurt you. You are going to a party. It is in your honor, and we must prepare you for your special guests. Drink this. It will comfort you."

He handed her a plastic cup with a caramel liquid. She hesitated, then grasped it. There was no harm in his eyes, but his body rose above her like the hideous Golem of Jewish legend. The coolness felt good on her throat despite a slight hint of something bitter. A sip at first, then it was gone.

"Ah, good. Now you will be fed and our attendants will bathe you and comb out your beautiful ebony hair. You will have a new dress and fine perfumes. No one has touched you. You are safe. You will be a princess, and your knight in shining armor will charge forth on his white steed. Salvation is within your reach. Simply trust me."

Mig's voice was soft and soothing. She wanted to believe him, and even in her damaged state, she knew there was no choice. Her extended his meaty hand to her and smiled. Her mind raced and her body shook, but again . . . there was no choice. She stepped timidly forward and placed her hand in his. His grip was gentle, but firm.

"Yes . . . come, my pretty," he whispered, "you will be well taken care of. You have my word, and Miguel does not lie."

His voice almost seemed to caress her. She began to drift and the darkness came on. Mig scooped her up in his thick arms like a breathing rag doll. That was all she remembered.

\--------------------

Bart was looking for an old friend. He wasn't sure where he'd find him, but he knew the filthy, poverty stricken neighborhoods --- the tiny tenements and shacks, the back alleys, the abandoned structures where a man might disappear, lost in a drug induced coma, or simply too drunk on cheap wine to move. He carried the bottle of Cuervo and tucked the Kimber into his belt. A guayabera emblazoned with colorful parrots covered the bulge quite nicely. The box cutter was still in his pocket. He figured it was all he'd need.

The old friend was Luis Gonzales. Actually, at one time they'd run the streets together, but Bart learned quickly that the final result of that was a quick, early, and probably violent death. Besides, he had no taste for the opioids, the coke, or any of the other shit that left you wondering who you were, where you were, and exactly what you had done the night before. But Luis didn't get it. Booze, dope, and petty crime were his specialties. He did, nevertheless, have one peculiar talent. People simply liked him. He listened, gauzy eyes honed in on their facial expressions, the tones in their voices, and they'd talk. Drunks and junkies don't remember shit. At least that's what they'd tell themselves. But despite his constantly addled state, Luis rarely forgot any information that mattered to him, or might make him a buck for his next sad retreat into his own sick brand of nirvana.

This time it was an alley behind a whore house. When Luis had a little extra cash, he'd hang out there until the bouncer unceremoniously escorted him out the back door. Broke, smashed, or maybe worse. They never hurt him. He was a good customer when he had the pesos. The girls liked him despite the smell. Generous tips . . . no threat of violence, and most of the time, he couldn't get it up anyway. After it all, they'd toss him. He'd sleep it off in the alley and stumble somewhere else after the sun was high and merciless.

The stench of rotting food and excrement assaulted Bart's nostrils as he padded over the stained dirt. Luis was snoring, his head lying on a black garbage bag. His breathing was even. He wore a filthy t-shirt with Led Zeppelin screaming off the front. Bart was glad Jimmy Page or Robert Plant couldn't see how far they had fallen.

Bart poked Luis with the bottle. Then he twisted the cap and ran the scent under the man's nose. His eyes opened slowly. He blinked twice and tried to focus. When he saw the bottle, he was suddenly alert.

"Aw, Bartolomeu, you have bring Luis a present. It is good. A leetle hair of de dog be jus' what Luis need."

He reached for the bottle, but Bart snatched it away, waving it back and forth like an infected sort of Holy Grail.

Luis grinned through yellowed teeth.

"What is this? No drink for an old muchacho? You have grown hard . . . or perhaps there is something you want?"

"Yes, Luis. I need information. Then the sweet nectar is yours. My daughter, Maria Elena, is missing. I need to know who has taken her, and where."

Luis's face grew very dark. He hesitated, then shook his head.

"I don't know, amigo. Don't know nothing about no missing girls."

"Come on Luis. You know a lot about a lot of things."

Bart shook the bottle in his face, but Luis stared at the dirt and continued to shake his head. Bart pulled the Kimber and from his belt and racked the slide in one smooth motion. Then he shoved the barrel up against the stinking man's nose.

"I will kill you, Luis. No more whores, no more tequila, no more of the fine powder you are so fond of. I am sorry, old friend. It will trouble me, but do not doubt that I mean to do it."

Luis propped himself up on one elbow and looked sorrowfully at his old playmate.

"It is no matter. You kill me? If I tell you anything, they will kill me. Lobo got razor talons and they reach long ways. His people are everywhere. Speak to the priest. Have a service for your child. Honor her and miss her, but do not try to find that which will only lead to your own death. Do not leave Pepe without el padre to raise him . . . to warn him not to fall like Luis."

Bart removed the box cutter from his pocket. He stared at Luis. Could he do this?

Yes.

He slashed a cheek below one bloodshot eye. The blood trickled, then began to gush. Luis tried to staunch the flow with a grimy hand, but the crimson pumped between his fingers. He moaned slightly and stared at Bart. Naked fear pulsated in his eyes. Bart pointed the box cutter.

"I will cut your eyes out . . . one at a time . . . and leave you to die in this filthy alley. The dogs will lick your blood and the rats will finish your body. If that is what you want, tell me now so I can search for one who may be more cooperative."

Luis began to cry. He shook his head slowly and looked at Bart with eyes that implored. Bart waved the box cutter and gritted his teeth. His lips quivered while he waited. Luis spoke with sad and quiet resignation.

"It was Big Mig, el monstruo. He gathers them for Lobo. The girls, the young boys. Maria Elena has probably already been sold. They take them to Miami for display. That is all I know. I beg you to let me live."

Bart wiped the box cutter on Luis's shirt, slid the blade back into place, and stuffed it back into his pocket. He eased the hammer down on the Kimber and placed the bottle at Luis's side. Then he took a clean handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to the bleeding man's check. Luis snatched the bottle and parted his lips. He took a deep breath and coughed. The stink of his breath hung in the air like a foul cloud. He took a long slug. There was agony emanating beneath the terror, and an unspoken look of farewell.

"Vaya con dios, amigo . . . and buena suerte. You will need it."

Chapter Seven

Lobo smiled. Maria Elena kept her head down, but she watched. It was a curious thing . . . the look he gave her . . . seeming benevolence, but with a hint of ruthlessness, and a threat buried deep within his feral eyes. The final result turned her blood to ice.

Still, she felt much better. She had just been bathed by a Hispanic woman. Her cheeks and hips were wide, but her smile was gentle and welcoming. Maria Elena had sat in a warm tub full of bubbles while the soapy rag gently scrubbed her skin free of the residue of sweat and grime. Her raven hair had been pulled back in a small bun. She thought of her mother, the music in her voice and the love in her almond eyes.

"I am Selena," the woman said, "and you are exquisite. I will christen your beauty, make you a creature of honor, to be desired and celebrated. You must trust me."

Her quiet voice soothed the child. She fell into a type of swoon. This woman would not hurt her.

As Selena scrubbed Maria's back, she whispered things in her ear. Gentle, caring, reassuring . . . the kinds of things that a child longs to hear. Things that make her feel safe and valued. Her hair was washed with a shampoo that smelled like blossoms of Jasmine. A sweet, creamy conditioner. Delicate fingers smoothed it into her hair. The result was soft black silk. Selena sprayed a bit of light color in her locks. It gave her hair a subtle tint of auburn. A dab of blush on her cheeks and a bit of lip gloss --- nothing excessive --- just a touch that accentuated her innocent femininity. Then a dress . . . a bit juvenile, but comfortable. It made her feel like a girl, innocent, free, and untouched. She was a bit surprised that she remembered it at all, considering the heavy mist that shrouded her brain, but she smiled to herself. Everything would be all right.

Mig had appeared. He led her into the room, his hand gently squeezing hers. There were four others. One also Hispanic . . . young, but already strikingly beautiful, eyes like two orbs of mahogany, a wave of brown-black hair cascading down her back. The next was pale, blond, and even a bit skinny, but she had a glow that filled the room. The others were both Eurasian. One of them had breasts that strained for release from the tighter black dress that clung to her hips. The fourth was definitely a child, no more than ten or twelve, but with a girlish innocence that almost begged to be protected . . . even treasured . . . or defiled.

"Welcome, my children . . . Gentlemen . . . all virgins, I assure you. Just as usual."

Six men sat on the overstuffed leather sofa. Each held a glass filled with rich wine or a golden liquid that swirled in the crystal. They smiled, laughed, and eyed the merchandise coyly, none eager to appear oversold or enamored of a particular product. After all, this was to be a negotiation. The violinist played a quiet piece from Bach.

Maria Elena had palmed the last pill that Mig had offered. She scanned the other candidates. They stared into a void, no doubt happy just to be clean and even desirable. None of them seemed to know, or to care, what was coming.

A man who appeared Chinese got off the sofa and approached the girls. Maria was third in line. He moved slowly, stopping in front of each one. He eyed the large breasts of the Eurasian girl and leaned forward to admire the cleavage. The girl stepped back for a moment, but the force of a huge hand held her fast. The Chinese reached for her breast.

"Esteemed one," Lobo almost shouted, "no one handles my jewels until our transaction is completed. When you choose, delivery will be swift. Then she is yours to do your bidding."

The man stopped abruptly, took a step back, turned, and bowed slightly in Lobo's direction. Then he raised his glass and tipped it toward the Wolf. The Chinese spent what seemed like hours in front of Maria. His smile sent something slithering down her spine. She tried to remain motionless, and stare at the floor, wishing desperately for some type of invisibility. He stood before the other two, but only for a moment. Then it was back to Maria.

"Dis wan," he muttered with a musical lilt in his voice, and returned to the sofa.

She had been chosen.

Mig took her arm gently and pulled her out of the line. He pointed to a chair. She sat and tried not to cry.

The process went on. The young one was the last. She tried to focus on the eyes of the Arab, then fell to her knees. She wrapped her arms around his legs and begged.

"My mother waits. I must go home to tend my brothers. Please, take another. I am not worthy."

Mig grabbed her by the hair as she wailed. He snatched her up to her feet.

"Best to be respectful," he growled, "it will go better for you."

Then he tugged her toward the door. In an instant she was gone, but the howls continued. The men on the sofa laughed. "She will learn," one of them snapped.

Chapter Eight

Priss sat at her desk shuffling paperwork, filling out arrest reports, and generally trying to get organized. Don and Pete were on the street checking out a liquor store robbery near South Beach, and a reported assault. Hey . . . the city never sleeps, especially when the thugs are as thick as they are in a place like Miami. The office was nearly empty.

The woman came in. Priss guessed her to be in her early thirties. She was pale and thin, but Priss could imagine her quite attractive with a bit of attention and some decent clothes. A threadbare dress hung on her hips like a much used sack, faded, even dirty. The hair was like dried straw. There were trails of mascara below her eyes. Her movements were like those of a cornered doe, quick and wary. Priss stood and pointed. The woman fell into the metal chair and clutched bony hands in her lap. They shook in spastic waves.

"I'm Detective Maybry, can I help you?"

"It's probably too late," she uttered, "I've been raped."

Priss picked up the phone and dialed quickly. She got a recorded message. Elaine Merit, the head of the rape squad, was not in the office at the moment. The soulless voice requested a brief message and a call-back number. She did as instructed, then turned to the damaged victim.

"Can I get you some coffee or a soft drink?" The scarecrow shook her head. Priss reached slowly to pat a trembling hand.

"Okay, I need to ask you some questions."

She got the name, Madison "Maddy" Elson, the address, the account of the sexual assault, a brief description that could have been any one of a hundred guys in the neighborhood, and a bunch of subjective . . . and probably worthless information. She ordered a rape test and tried to keep the woman as calm as possible.

"I've never seen him before. He was big and strong and he held a knife to my throat. The kids were at school. It was in my apartment. I don't know why the hell I let him in. He talked . . . told me he'd kill little Joey and Jill if I didn't let him do what he wanted. I guess he'd seen them . . . had probably been watching."

"Maddy, did he say anything at all that might give us a link?"

"No, not really. He just scared the shit out of me. I didn't want him to hurt me, or the kids. Something crazy in his eyes. Talked quiet, but mean and dirty . . . told me that it was long, thick, and hard. Said he'd fill me up. Said I'd like it. Told me it would be the best fuck I'd ever had. Maybe I should have fought, but I couldn't. I felt so helpless. I did what he told me."

Priss dropped the pen. It clattered to the floor, hollow and lifeless. Her body froze for a moment. A steel rod ran up her back. She'd heard those words before. She put her quaking hand on her belly. It was still growing . . . and so was the hatred, the sense of shame, and the infamy of the violation. But Priss commanded herself to slow down . . . be rational . . . tune her mind, and her instincts. At least now there was a thread. She promised herself she would find some sort of path that would lead her to this monster.

Elaine Merit came into the office and sat beside the woman. She introduced herself, smiled, and tenderly patted the frightened creature on the knee.

"We are going to the Counseling Center, Maddy. You've done nothing wrong. I assure you that you are safe. No intimidation. No accusations. It's not your fault. It is our job to understand, and to help identify this individual so he cannot do this again. You can trust us."

Priss liked Elaine. She was damned good, her voice quiet and comforting. The detectives lifted the victim out of the chair. Elaine moved her hand onto the victim's, then clutched it and led her down the hall.

Priss sat and tried to clear her mind. The bastard had been in the woman's apartment. That meant forensics, DNA, possibly even fingerprints. It couldn't have happened without him leaving something. And if he did, they would find it. It wasn't her usual territory, but now she was involved . . . much deeper than anyone else knew. She'd attend the sweep, make sure nothing was missed. Her hand shook on the desk. She stared at it for a moment, then hid it in her lap. Now she heard Don and Pete as they entered the office. Their voices were low. Pete shook his head as they approached Priss's desk.

"Nobody saw nothing," he said dejectedly.

"It's okay. We've got a priority item. Just came in. A rape. The scene is fresh and the victim is cooperating. I suspect it's a serial perp. Drop everything else . . . at least for now . . . and let's hit this sonovabitch while the trail is hot."

"Yeah," Don said, "but isn't that Elaine's beat?"

"I said drop everything. What don't you understand about the word priority?"

She knew she'd snapped. She regretted it instantly, but it was a fight to keep the rage out of her voice . . . and the fear. She just hoped it was working. Pete and Don glanced at each other. Pete gave a slight shake of his head. This wasn't the time to question the boss-lady. Neither of her partners has seen her like this since the shooting death of that child in the drive-by a few months ago. Don made a quick copy of the info Priss had gathered. Then he called Forensics. Within fifteen minutes, they were on their way to the apartment.

Chapter Nine

Bart's plane touched down at the Miami airport right on time. No problems. He knew to leave the Kimber and the box cutter at the house in T.J. That's all he needed . . . to be flagged and arrested by the T.S.A. It was another thirty minutes before he exited with his carry-on and made his way to the Enterprise rental booth. The agent was a fresh-smelling blond who should have made tooth-paste commercials. He paid cash in advance for a week. She gave him a map.

The car was a Ford Focus, royal blue with matching velour seats. Clean, but nothing fancy . . . all he'd need to skirt through the city. He found a convenience store nearby and purchased a throw away cell with three hours of pre-paid time. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled Post-It note with two numbers on it. He called the one at the top first. This was something he needed, and he wanted it now.

He had a few minutes. He punched in the address on the GPS and drove. On the way to the coffee shop, he stopped by an Ace Hardware and bought a retractable razor knife, a small beige canvas bag, and a can of WD 40. Nothing that would attract any attention.

The coffee shop was in Little Havana, tucked into a space not much bigger than a master bedroom in one of those palatial condos on the beach. There was a choice of tables . . . mostly because he was the only customer. He took a seat near the back. The place was dusty and he figured his forearm would stick to the tabletop if he left it in place too long. He didn't care. Bart wasn't there because of the sanitation rating. He ordered a cup of black Cuban, and a pastelito from a tired woman wearing a stained apron. After a few minutes, he caught the ruffle of a curtain in a dark corner. A man came out and sat across from him. He looked like a walking cliché . . . a Pancho Villa moustache drooping over his lips, full black eyebrows, olive skin, and fleshy lips. He could have been the Mexican villain from "The Magnificent Seven".

"I think we have mutual friends," he said quietly.

Bart nodded three times and held up two fingers. It was the sign.

"You have money?"

Bart retrieved eight crisp one hundred dollar bills from the back pocket of his jeans. He snapped them one by one, and laid them on the sticky table. Pancho reached to his back and pulled a Sig Sauer .40 from his belt. He placed it next to the cash, then maybe 50 rounds of ammo in a plastic baggie. Bart picked up the Sig and popped the magazine. The serial numbers had been ground off. The scent of sweet gun oil filled his nostrils. He held it for a moment, turned it over in his hands, eyed it carefully, checked to see that the chamber was empty. He racked it once, then pulled the trigger. There was a reassuring click. Smooth, clean, and lethal. It would do nicely. Pancho picked up the bills and went back through the curtain.

"Enjoy your coffee," he said over his shoulder as he disappeared.

Bart eyed the pistol, and ran his hand over the razor knife in his pocket. He had left Luis, a degenerate and a thief, but nevertheless, a one-time friend, with scars that would never vanish. But then the thought of a frightened, probably violated, child flashed in his mind. His child, his Maria Elena. He would act. Would God forgive him? At this point it didn't matter.

The first call had rendered very satisfactory results, but the second call was the one he worried about. He didn't know these people. How could he trust them? Sure, they were highly recommended . . . friends of friends . . . but he knew all too well that there wasn't really any honor among thieves. He'd known too many of them . . . and sometimes there wasn't much difference between them and the federales. Still it was his best shot, and besides, it was the only one he had.

Priss had been to Maddy' apartment with forensics. She'd seen all she needed to, and the horror of the place coupled with her own tortured nightmares made her want to run . . . and to kill. She'd left Pete and Don there with the forensics team. When the phone on Pete's desk rang, she answered. The man asked for Pedro, by name.

"This is Detective Maybry, his supervisor. May I help you?"

The voice on the other end of the line hesitated. It was male and she noted a definite Hispanic accent. Nothing unusual. Half of the damned city was from Cuba or someplace south. Those people liked to deal with their own, even though most of them were American citizens. She certainly couldn't blame them. She spoke again.

"Can I take a number? I assure you he'll get the message."

Bart was unsure. He just didn't trust any cop, but the cell was untraceable and easy to replace. He spit out the digits and hung up. He'd just have to wait. He found a cheap motel just to the north, off I-95. Close by. Good rates. The room was clean. Again, he paid cash for a week in advance. By then, he prayed he'd have the child. If not, he'd settle his debts, or they'd find him face-down in an alley somewhere.

Chapter Ten

Pete didn't recognize the number, but then he rarely did. He didn't recognize the voice either.  
"I think we have mutual friends," it said, "and I am holding up two fingers."

"Go on," Pete replied.

"My daughter is missing. I have been led to believe that she was taken by a man known as Big Mig and that another called Lobo is involved."

Pete took a deep breath and turned in his chair, his back to his Don and to Priss. His put his hand to his mouth, pretended to cough, and kept his voice low.

"I do not know you, amigo, but I do know you have friends. No doubt they value you or they would not get involved in this matter. This Lobo you mentioned. He is a very bad hombre. Not someone you want to know. Big Mig is his first lieutenant, very dangerous. These men are violent and treacherous. You must not take this lightly. They have killed many times, and they will add you to their list without hesitation."

"These are things that I know, but they have taken my Maria Elena. I fear for what will happen. I must get her back . . . or at least try. If I don't, her dead mother will haunt me to my grave and beyond. I am expendable. She is not. You must help me. My friends are your friends and this Lobo is the most despicable of the beasts."

The sadness and determination glared in Bart's voice. Pete clicked his teeth and hesitated, but instinct kicked in. This man, whoever he was, would not be denied, despite the fact that his resolve might well result in his death . . . and maybe an eternity in hell. But perhaps he was already there. Pete thought of his own daughter, just a bit younger than Maria Elena. In the back of his mind a tape played. What would he do if his angel had been taken? If she was disrespected, profaned in some way. He knew instantly. He would search for as long as it took . . . then he would kill. There would be no remorse. Leave it to God . . . or the Devil . . . to sort out. Someone would pay.

"Then we must meet," Pete said.

They agreed on a time and a place. For Bart it could not be too soon.

Chapter Eleven

Damned, it had been good . . . having the straw girl in her own apartment. Not as tasty as the detective, but the look of helplessness mixed with horror in Maddy's sunken eyes had made it all worthwhile. Sure, it was risky, but just the thought of it made him smile. It was her space, a place she felt protected . . . even safe. He had snatched it from her. She would never find a haven again . . . within her body or her mind. He relished the thought. His spine tingled, and he grinned like a death's head.

Stuart looked in the mirror, or maybe it was more of a grimace. He'd have to work on that. After all, that appearance of sweetness and light was what made his success. Fooling them was one more part of the fun. It crossed his mind that he should have killed her, but that was one step he hadn't taken. At least not yet. Even he didn't like the idea of leaving two kids orphaned. Maybe fatherless kids were a part of what was wrong with this damned world. He knew that, it was at least a part of the darkness that screamed within him. His father leaving, then his mother with the overdose. He and his sisters farmed out like stray dogs. It was no way to raise a family, or maybe the operative word was "destroy".

He sat on the chair and hit the remote. It was time for Jerry Springer. That show always made him laugh out loud and sometimes he got an idea for his next "excursion". He'd watch the contestants yell at each other and circle the stage, stalking, waiting for an opening. The hair pulling, the tangle of arms and legs. Then the inevitable wild punches. The bouncers were the real artists, letting the bozos get just enough of each other without having to call an ambulance. It was so damned stupid, but it had an insidious delicacy about it, almost like some twisted ballet. Actually, if you wanted serious damage, a razor-sharp blade was much more effective . . . and he was very good with the steel.

Suddenly there she was in his consciousness. "Please," she had sobbed . . . and she the so-called "tough detective". He laughed quietly to himself. Yeah . . . he'd softened her up quite a bit. The silk between her legs had run like thick honey. He promised the best fuck she'd ever had . . . then delivered like a jackhammer. Oh . . . she couldn't say shit . . . she liked it. He knew that. Then he realized she'd like it that much more again, especially in her own apartment. He'd watched. He knew where it was, knew her comings and goings, even though her schedule jumped around a lot. He still had the notes he'd made.

He muted the TV and went to the table. Enough of Jerry's sad opera. He had his own to create. The mini spiral notebook was already open. He thumbed back a few pages and read. Before he knew it, his hand was at his crotch. The thing was growing in his pants. He thought about dropping his zipper, hitting a few strokes for some quick release . . . but why not save it . . . spit the creamy white cum where it was supposed to go? To fill a waiting, willing void with something hot and slippery. The thought exploded within him. Hell, yes. An encore was precisely in order. But he needed a plan.

\----------------------------

Priss smiled a little. There are some givens about criminals. They always think they're smarter than you, but really, more often than not, they were just damned stupid. And even if they weren't, they got over-confident, arrogant, and took ridiculous risks. It was almost like they had a death wish . . . and some of them did. Our boy --- he of the long, thick one --- had left prints all over Madison Elson's apartment. Despite her devastation, she'd been smart enough not to wash after the assault. There was DNA from sperm he left inside her, even a few stray hairs. Don had run the prints through the local records, and the national data base. Mr. Stuart Macelli had been arrested on a DUI just last year. A sharp attorney had gotten him off, but the records had not been expunged. He even had an address. It was an apartment in North Miami not far from the interstate.

He handed the report to Priss. She pored over it for only seconds.

"We need to act fast. Get a couple of uniforms for backup. I don't think we need S.W.A.T., but a show of force might be advantageous. We'll hit the apartment. I got a friendly judge on speed dial. He'll get us the warrant. Let's be ready to go within the hour."

Dontravious nodded and picked up the phone. Priss did the same and put her hand to her hip. Standard issue for the Miami P.D. was the Glock 9 mil, but she liked the S&W .38 Special. Only five rounds, but reliable, up close and personal. She always carried a loaded extra cylinder, but she'd never had to use it. Besides, her scores on the range almost always exceeded the men in the department. She slid it into the holster at her belt. She and Don hustled down the steps. Her unmarked was at the curb, flanked by two squad cars, a couple of uniforms in the front seat of each. Don rode with her. She specified no sirens or lights. If they were lucky, they might still have an element of surprise. She parked in front of Mr. Macelli's building, and she and Don went to the elevator. A sign on the door was written in a crude hand. "Temperarilly out of order".

She unholstered the .38 and placed her finger to the side just above the trigger guard. There was a tightness in her belly, followed by what might be movement. She'd recognize him. Maybe just put a slug in his gut. After all, it was self-defense . . . even if it was after the fact. She locked her teeth together, then took the steps one at a time. Don, Glock at his side, stayed behind her and the uniforms followed. The unit was on the third floor. So far they had encountered no one.

She stood to the side of # 301 and rapped on the door.

"Police. Open the door and step away. Keep your hands where we can see them."

No response. No sound coming from the unit. Priss tried the door. It was locked, but it rattled just a bit. She signaled to Don. He stepped in front of her and pumped a size twelve boot next to the bolt. It shattered like cheap glass. The door swung open and crashed into a chair behind it.

"Police," she shouted again.

Nothing. It was an efficiency, small kitchen to the left with a folding card table and an ancient wooden chair. There was an empty coffee cup and a plate crusted with the residue of an egg, probably sunny side up. A dirty fork and a wadded up paper towel lay beside them. The living area was dusty and empty, except for a fat old TV that must have weighed 60 lbs., and a stained green recliner with stuffing erupting from it.

Don eased up to the bedroom door, careful to stay out of the line of fire. He pushed gently at the edge. The door swung easily on the hinges. He scanned the room. The bathroom door was open. There was simply nobody home.

It didn't take long to search the place. It had obviously been lived in. All of the signs were there . . . an open box of corn flakes, fresh milk in the fridge, Ibuprofen in the medicine cabinet, but very little in the way of furniture and not many places to hide anything. Priss thanked the uniforms and sent one car back to cover their beat. She instructed the others to stand off, but remain in a secluded place for surveillance. She and Don rummaged a bit. She did bag a few items that might have fingerprints . . . a glass, the fork, the pill bottle, and anything with potential traces of DNA. They'd had no luck locating a building super or a landlord, but it would happen. They put strips of yellow Crime Scene tape over the door in a crisscross, and left.

Stuart Macelli stood in an alley across the street and watched them enter the building. They must have thought he was stupid. He wasn't. He knew they were coming. Hoped they liked his little touch with the elevator. Even the crappy spelling on the sign. His first grade teacher, Miss Evans, had taught him much better than that. He grinned as he watched the female detective cross the sidewalk and open the car door. He already knew she was Maybry. Her lackey carried a bag and followed like the faithful dog that he was.

He thought it was funny how careful Miss Priss was to conceal all those sweet goodies she had bundled inside the dowdy clothes. He knew better. He had seen every inch of that body in all its glory. The soft supple skin, those luxurious tits with nipples like silver dollars, that tasty little tuft of blond just below her flat belly. Yes, he had seen it, felt it, penetrated it, and baptized it with his hot seed. . . and hell, it was a damned nice package. He felt his pants tighten against a slight swelling. Soon . . . he promised himself. Soon.

Chapter Twelve

Lobo asked his secretary to send Mig in. The giant walked into the office and stood in front of the desk.

"Ah, hijo, you have not disappointed me. The girls were good and the prices were even better. The young one --- the one who asked for her mother --- she didn't sell. It is a pity, and her little display put off my esteemed clients."

"I am sorry, Patron. I did not know."

"Surely, you are forgiven, but I think she is of little value to us. I make a gift of her --- a gift to a beloved son who is loyal and efficient."

Mig bowed at the waist and promised fervently that he would not make that mistake again.

"Muchas gracias, Patron," he growled through clenched teeth, "I will teach the child some manners."

"Of course, you will. Just make sure she is not seen again . . . not here or anywhere else. You understand. The others . . . I trust all of the papers are in order, passports, ID's. Make sure the mix of Flexeril and the other ingredients is properly combined. The ninas must be conscious and ambulatory, but compliant. When they arrive at their new habitats, they are no longer our worry. Their masters shall determine their fates. Oh . . . and the next time, I need some chicos . . . boys. You know the type. Fresh-faced and shy, but energetic and cooperative."

"It will be done, Patron."

Lobo turned in his chair and looked out over the Miami skyline. The sun was magnificent and the blue water of the Atlantic shimmered in the distance. Yes . . . life was good.

\---------------------------

Pete answered the phone, and pointed to Priss. It hadn't been one of her better days. The paperwork was piling up on her desk, and the nausea had returned. The decision, and with it, all the hellish consequences, had to made soon.

"Miami Coast Guard," he said.

"Detective Maybry, this is Captain James. Some fishermen hooked a rather unusual catch offshore yesterday. I think it is something you might be interested in."

Priss picked up the Bic and positioned her notebook in front of her on the desk.

"Please go on, Captain."

"Two garbage bags . . . nothing unusual about that, but each one held a body, a man and a woman. Neither had drowned. Our M.E. says that their injuries are consistent with falling from a great height. Both had broken necks. They were retrieved approximately fifty miles offshore in the Gulf Stream. The only thing of great height out there is an airplane. We don't have solid IDs yet, but I don't think it will be a problem. The bodies were somewhat bloated, but we should be able to get good prints. F.Y.I. I thought you'd want to know."

Priss wrote down his name and number for future reference.

"Thanks, Captain. Please keep me informed. IDs . . . anything else you can come up with, give me a call."

Priss had too much on her mind right now to worry about a couple of stiffs floating in the Gulf Stream. Probably drug casualties, not really her beat. Maybe another deal gone bad. She dismissed it and shoved the info into a file marked "Pending". Then she placed it in her top right drawer.

\-------------------------

Pete was wary, but he'd decided to meet with Bart even if it might be a dead end. He'd come in to the station at six A.M. and figured he'd earned the right to leave by four. He'd sit at the out-of-the-way bar on the edge of Little Havana, have a cold Modelo Especial and listen. It wouldn't take long to figure out if this guy was legit or just another psycho who liked to yank the cops' chains. Then he'd go home to a nice, quiet, dinner with his wife and kids . . . the first one in a couple of weeks.

Not many people in the bar, but two guys he recognized at a table in the front. He spotted an unfamiliar face at a table in the back. He was cutting his eyes toward the door and fidgeting on a pock-marked vinyl stool. He figured it was Bart.

Pete approached slowly and gave the two fingered sign. Bart nodded three times and Pete settled on the stool across from him. He raised his hand and mouthed Modelo Especial to the bartender. It was on the table in an instant. Pete trained a casual, but thorough, eye on the man. He was sweating slightly despite the blast of the AC. His mouth was taut and his brow knit in a half scowl. He clutched a damp bottle of Carta Blanca a bit too tightly. He wore a loose fitting blue nylon jacket that didn't quite hide the bulge at his hip.

"Thank you for meeting me," Bart said quietly as he scanned the room one more time.

"It is because we have mutual friends."

Bart measured his words carefully. "You know most of what I know. It's my daughter, my Maria Elena. I have only two names . . . Lobo and Big Mig. I need to know who they are, where I can find them, and if, or how I can get my baby back."

"I told you, Amigo. These people are very dangerous. The truth is that your daughter is probably already out of the country . . . or worse. These girls come and go so quickly that tracing them is often nearly impossible. This Lobo . . . his real name is Juan Carlos Perez. He runs his operations out of an office downtown. Hispanic Family Services . . . that is what he calls it. The irony is almost laughable. Drugs, prostitution, human trafficking, anything that makes a buck. Lobo is indeed a jack of all trades, and the master of most of them. We've had him on our radar for about three years, but he is very clever and very slippery. His lieutenants are loyal, tight-lipped, and quite frightened. The last one suspected of conveying information was found skinned alive in an alley. He was still breathing when we found him, but his last words were 'protect my family'. He knew all too well what Lobo was capable of."

Bart fingered the butt of the Sig and raised the beer to his lips. It had grown bitter.

"Slow down, Amigo. That hard thing on your hip will not protect you. There are too many of them. I tell you again. Go home. Have a service with a priest and many flowers. Let him speak the words of God, and bury her memory as best you can."

"That can't happen." There was a long silence, then, "tell me about this Big Mig."

"Better than that . . . you see for yourself."

Pete nodded toward the table near the grimy window. There were two of them, but it was easy to know which was Mig. He leaned over the table and blocked out the rays of a setting sun that struggled to make it past the hulk of his presence. A sneer that might have been tattooed lay on his full lips. He and his companion talked quietly and laughed with looks that shared secrets. His hand completely engulfed the bottle and alternated between gulps of Dos Equis and a glass of white liquid, probably tequila.

Bart watched. "Let him drink," he thought. Perhaps it would slow him down when they officially met. He hoped it would be soon.

"I know what you are thinking, Amigo. But let us handle it. It is police business. No vigilante justice will bring your girl home."

Bart nodded and pretended to shudder. He wanted Pete to think he was afraid, but he was past that. He looked into Pete's eyes and spoke with a hint of dejection in his voice.

"You are right, my friend. You have helped me greatly. I must accept the truth. I will take your advice. I must not leave my son to be raised without a father. It only compounds the sin . . . a sin that has already consigned me to hell. Leave me, and pray to the Madonna that I can carry on a life which might find redemption."

Pete wanted to believe him. He wanted to go on home and have that quiet dinner with his family, then a peaceful night wrapped in the arms of a loving wife. He bit his lip and nodded. He raised his bottle and tipped it in the direction of the grieving man. A futile, but he hoped not final, salute. Then he got up and headed for the door.

Chapter Thirteen

Even through the haze, Maria Elena determined that she felt quite well. The woman who had bathed and dressed her before the meeting had been with her almost constantly. She was actually very kind. She seemed to know the child needed reassurance, even a hint of affection. Motherly . . . that was the word that surfaced in the girl's troubled consciousness.

She looked at herself in the full-length mirror. The dress had been pressed nicely. It hung just off the shoulders and was about knee-length. A touch of frill, and even a bit of lace. Her makeup was light, but the hint of pink in her cheeks and the lip gloss gave her an understated glow. She decided she looked pretty. She shook her head slightly and determined that it was good.

She knew she was clean, and she had been fed well. No one had touched her in those places her mother told her should be sacred. Her senses still swirled. She had taken the pills as instructed, but she had a premonition. She was being prepared. Every so often the image of the leering Chinese man would flash in her mind. Each time it made her shiver, but it didn't last. Maybe things would be okay. That's what the woman had told her. "You will be nicely taken care of, perhaps even honored." She had repeated those words until Maria Elena had begun to believe them, or at least tried to. She ran a brush through her dark hair. Suddenly she had the impulse to cry.

Just then she heard a light knock on the door. Selena, her keeper, put a hand to the knob and peered through the peephole. She pulled the door aside and bowed deeply.

It was Lobo. He was dressed in Armani from head to toe, a silk tweed jacket, open collared linen shirt, tailored black slacks, and two-tone loafers that shone in the light from the window. A gold medallion hung over his bronze chest. His hair was slicked back to a dark sheen. He smiled and sauntered in.

"Turn, my little one. Let me look at you," he commanded.

She hesitated.

The woman trilled softly in her ear, "Do as Lobo has instructed. It will go better for you."

Maria Elena turned slowly, her head at her chest. She raised her eyes in a sickly combination of awe and fear.

"Do not be afraid, my child. You look innocent, but completely ravishing."

His smile seemed sincere, but there was something feral in his eyes. He wore his name, the Wolf, like his perfectly cut sport coat.

He turned to the keeper. "You have done well. You will be amply rewarded."

Then he walked out the door. The sound of the lock clicked loudly and chilled her. Something was coming. She wasn't sure what, and she wasn't sure she wanted to know.

Lobo stood outside the door for a moment. His people had checked. There was a quarter of a million dollars in his offshore account that hadn't been there just this morning. Certainly he could be generous with a few bonuses to those who made it happen. The keeper, Mig . . . perhaps a few others. He patted his chest and took a deep breath. Ah . . . business was good.

\---------------------

Bart followed Mig. The companion had gone his own way and the big one was alone. He walked like a man who owned the city. The few people on the sidewalk skittered around him. The teens on the stoops continued their banter, and postured like the gang members do, but they avoided his eyes. Bart knew why.

It was only a few blocks. The dark giant turned into a dirty brick walk up, entered, and made for the stairs. Bart could smell the stench of urine and rotting garbage in the hallways as he followed. The hulk was careless. He knew no one would follow, much less threaten a behemoth who was connected to one of the most powerful lords of the city. And Lobo was just that. Those who defied him met a cruel and timely end. Often at Mig's very own hands. This thing was well known to the parasites who plied and corrupted the streets of Miami.

Bart waited on the bottom step, his eye watching the shadow as Mig went to the third landing. The sentinel heard Mig's key scratching at the lock, and the definitive click of the metal. He waited for a moment. He wanted to move quickly, to be sure, but he wasn't sure of anything. Perhaps Pete's advice had been wise. It was not too late to book a flight back to Tijuana and resume his role as a humble bar owner and father to his son. He thought of his beloved wife, Estrella. Would she forgive him from her grave if he did not try to save her daughter from a fate that screamed the ultimate violation? He didn't know, but he was about to find out.

He figured it was probably stupid, but it just might work. He pulled the Sig from his belt and racked the magazine. Then he crept up the steps and went to the door. He put his hand over his mouth and took a short breath. He knocked.

"Mig. It's me. Let me in."

The big man thought he recognized the voice. He pulled back the dead bolt and opened the door. The barrel of a very large pistol greeted him. It was pointed directly at his face. Mig smiled.

"Amigo, perhaps you have the wrong apartment."

"I don't think so," Bart replied. He jiggled the barrel slightly and motioned Mig back into the small living space.

"Sit down, my friend."

Mig scanned the apartment, looking for a weapon . . . or at least a diversion which might allow him to snap this intruder's neck like a cheap pencil. He could sense the fear clinging to Bart like a cancer. But he knew a terrified man was unpredictable. Especially when he clutched a gun. Mig looked again, but there was nothing close. He eased onto the stained sofa and smiled.

"Amigo . . . I do not know you, but there are things you do not understand. I am not a person you want to offend. There are others who are allies, confederates of a man who is very powerful . . . and very dangerous. To disrespect them could be fatal to you . . . and to others you may hold dear."

"I would not be here if I did not understand these things."

Bart squeezed the Sig fiercely.

"Maria Elena. Do you know that name?"

"No. She is someone to you?"

"My daughter. A child who knows no man, who grieves for her mother, who deserves no desecration at the hands of swine like you. You know her, and you probably know where she is. You must tell me, but only if you intend to live. If not, you make my task easy."

Bart leveled the barrel of the semi-automatic directly at Mig's face.

"Indeed, Amigo. You are hasty. Put the gun down and we will talk. I know very little, but I will tell you what I do know. Then you can go on your way and find these infidels who have taken your daughter."

"Obviously you think me a fool," Bart said.

He picked up a stray pillow, pressed the end of the Sig into it, then aimed at Mig's kneecap. The explosion was muted, but the blood was not. It spattered onto the couch and ran in a flood. Mig grabbed the leg and mewled like a whipped dog. Thick crimson flowed onto the cheap carpet.

"The next one will shatter your head like a ripe melon."

"Please, Amigo. I will bleed out. I will tell you all of it. I can help. We will return your daughter to you."

Bart heard the whine erupting from the man's lips. He stepped toward the giant and slammed the .38 into his temple. Mig slumped into the worn fabric. His eyes seemed to roll back into his head. Bart took a step closer. He realized quickly he had made a mistake that would probably prove fatal. A huge paw slammed into his gun hand. The Sig slid across the floor. Mig's other hand clutched Bart's neck. He could feel the giant's sweaty body pressing him into the floor.

"You missed . . . . and you misjudge me, fool. Now you will die."

Bart struggled and choked, but it was no use. The savage had him in a grip that meant his death. He was losing consciousness quickly. As he faced the end, he thought of Estrella and his daughter, the one who was now surely doomed to a hell he couldn't quite imagine. Then the sound of a voice.

"Ease up, motherfucker . . . or your brains will be decorating this filthy carpet."

Mig's eyes cut to the side, and he sucked a burst of air through grinding teeth. His grip began to loosen. Bart gasped as the giant lifted himself off of Bart's heaving chest. He looked up and tried to focus. Pete punched the barrel of the heavy Glock into the back of Mig's head. Specks of blood spattered on Bart's shirt as Mig moved away from him.

"Back on the sofa, Compadre," Pete commanded, "I never miss, especially with a stinking coyote like you."

Just then they heard the sobbing. It became a low moan, like the cry of a wounded animal. Pete picked up Bart's Sig and handed it to him.

"If the sonovabitch moves, send him to Satan's graveyard. Quickly." Bart coughed and nodded. He gripped the .38, his finger firmly on the trigger, and leveled it at Mig. The next one would be square in his belly. Then he'd whimper and beg while his life's blood poured onto the floor.

Pete went to the door of the bedroom and rocked it back on its hinges. The blond child was handcuffed to the bedpost. The oily hair hung over her face, and the cuts and bruises covered her body like the ravages of a plague. She shook in violent waves.

"Don't hurt me," she pleaded, "I am yours. I will do whatever you wish. I beg you, don't hurt me again."

She looked up through bloodshot eyes, rimmed with tears, and nodded her head like a broken puppet. Pete stepped toward her slowly and silently. He holstered the pistol and placed a hand gently on her shoulder.

"You are safe, now," he whispered.

He pulled the blanket off the bed and wrapped it around her. Then he pulled his cell phone from his coat pocket and hit some familiar numbers. He handed the cell to Bart. He'd already told him what to say.

Chapter Fourteen

The Coast Guard guy had called and left a message. Priss pulled the pending file with his phone number out of her drawer. He answered on the first ring. She identified herself, and he began.

"This one was easy, Detective. No ID on them, but their prints came up almost immediately. He was Liam O'Malley, the wife Heather. They were bail jumpers, both from New York. The guy was a well-known plastic surgeon, lots of money, but some very bad habits. They were up to their eyeballs in debt, the Riviera, a chalet in Switzerland, cars, boats . . . you name it. The New York cops and the feds think he was tied in with some criminal organization. He had been arrested, made bail, and disappeared. They were reputed to have connections in Miami. My guess is they were running south, maybe headed for Mexico or South America. They made an unscheduled stop in the Atlantic Ocean. Good thing the fishermen got the bodies before they sank or the sea scavengers got to them. Could have been dumped from boat, but based on the injuries, more likely shoved out of a private plane. The locals are checking all of the small airports . . . anyone who might have filed flight plans around the date of their fall from grace. That's what I have right now. I'm faxing photos and all of the info to you at your office. Check it out and let me know if anything meshes."

"Thanks, Captain James. We'll do what we can and I'll get back to you."

Priss thumped the eraser of a chewed-up pencil on her desk. Okay . . . a crooked doc, his wife, connections in Miami. Both quite dead. Someone obviously thought the man might talk, and that person was probably in Miami. She thought about the major cases they'd been investigating. It wasn't some cheap thug with a nasty habit. They were barely worth the trouble. Private planes meant big money, and ruthless murder was a specialty of the excrement at the top of the criminal chain.

Priss had experienced hunches before and she knew better that to ignore them. El Hombre Invisible. They still didn't know who he was, but a man like him had juice, and big cojones. Private planes, murder . . . no problemo.

\----------------------

Stuart was ready. It had already been too long. He was tired of waiting, tired of planning, and tired of jerking off into a dirty napkin. He needed the real thing, and he would have it. He wiped the blade of his knife on a used paper towel. The stainless steel glimmered in the yellow light. He turned it in his hand and eyed it like an old friend. Then he grinned and nodded to himself. It was a coiled snake, "like me," he thought . . . quick, true, and deadly. This time there would be no witnesses. The cops were too close. He would finish it, and move on to new hunting grounds. Maybe a cooler climate next time where he could enjoy the change of seasons. He loved the fall.

\--------------------

She was about to leave for the day. Priss was exhausted. Every theory she'd come up with ended in a dead end. Pete and Don had already left for the day. The office was quiet. "The calm before the storm," she whispered to herself. Everything changed after dark. That's when the bad guys came out to play. But tonight they'd have to play by themselves. She'd already determined that this was her night. She'd go home, have a glass of cabernet, lounge in a hot tub, and decide.

She looked at the phone on her desk. The sound blared and lights were blinking. It was a transfer. She stared at it for a moment, then picked it up. All she really wanted was that steamy bath and that glass of ruby cab. Sorry, Babe . . . not tonight. She hurried for her unmarked.

The EMTs had already arrived. She flashed her badge and pushed past a pair of uniforms. The stairs felt like mountains. Her legs hurt and her breath came in flashes. She entered the apartment and another uniform tipped his hat and pointed. She noticed the pools of blood on the sofa and the carpet as she moved toward the back bedroom. A forensics guy was on his knees poking at the fresh stains with a silvery probe. Others were already combing the apartment. Prints, bits of hair, anything that might provide DNA.

A woman in light blue was kneeling over the girl. She spoke in quiet, reassuring tones, while the child moaned and shook. Priss stood very still, waiting for the emaciated blond to notice her presence. She didn't need to be frightened any more that she already was. If the kid went into shock, all of the equations were scrambled. Priss needed her conscious, aware, as rational as possible . . . to assess, to question . . . to find out who had assaulted her . . . . . who had carved crimson scars into that pale flesh, and into a tortured soul that might never find peace on her scorched earth.

\-------------------------

Mig knew he was in a car. Every pothole sledged a spike of pain through his knee. His mind screamed, but still he was drifting. He'd bled before, but not this much. The muscles in his arms felt flabby, useless, and his head bobbled forward and back with every stop at a light or turn at an intersection. He wasn't sure what he had told them, but if it wasn't enough, he was certain they would kill him. He could feel the steely barrel of the .40 burrowing into his ribs. Maybe it wasn't too late for Lobo to come to his rescue, but what then? Would he end up in an oil can, weighted and drilled so it would sink quickly into the blue depths? He'd always tried to see the Patron as a figure of authority, but also a man who valued him. After all, Lobo often referred to Mig as a son. But the big man knew it was a fantasy. He had embraced it because of his need. He was expendable, only a breathing mass of flesh as long as he was useful. If Lobo knew he had led them to him, Mig would join a long line of those who had become liabilities, just like the New York surgeon and his wife. His head fell to his chest. There was the slight trace of comfort in the darkness.

Chapter Fifteen

The Hispanic woman had helped her into the car. It was a relief to get out of the room, but a sense of fear invaded what was left of her awareness. She was cold, and the trembling came from inside her. The van negotiated the traffic smoothly, and she even fell asleep for a moment. The man beside her had held her arm gently, whispering Spanish words in her ear that she couldn't quite make out. It almost felt good, but the trembling remained. She knew that soon it would all be over. She thought of the Virgin . . . mouthed a silent prayer for mercy. Still, she was on her way . . . but to where . . . and to what. Maybe it was better to sleep, perhaps even to dream of a release . . . a type of salvation that she knew would be less than that.

\------------------------

Lobo's secretary had gone to a wedding. A niece she actually didn't know that well. Lobo hadn't been invited. He was glad. The pomp . . . the circumstance . . . the vows that would be broken as soon as a better deal came along. It all disgusted him. Better that he should attend the divorce. Maybe he'd even take a gift.

He picked up the phone. He recognized the voice immediately, but something wasn't right. He'd always relied on instincts that rivaled those of a hunted animal. After all, that's what he was, and he hadn't become the king of the beasts without a prescience that bordered on the supernatural. Mig wanted to come up on the private elevator. But why? That was unusual, and mostly unnecessary. Lobo stared at nothing for a moment and reluctantly gave his okay. Then he slid the bottom drawer open. The Beretta 9 mm lay on an oiled rag. He knew it was loaded. It always was. He picked it up gingerly. He'd never liked handguns. After all, he had legions of lackeys to do the killing, and he really didn't do well with the smell and taste of blood. It was simply repugnant to him, and besides, it left nasty stains on the clothes and the carpets. He killed, but only when there was no other choice. He considered himself a businessman, plain and simple. Killing was merely a function . . . an expedient, but one he really didn't like to perform himself.

The Wolf heard the familiar tone announcing the elevator as it arrived. He turned the knob, and pulled at the handle of the faux closet. Then he racked the slide of the pistol with a reassuring click. The door eased open on greased tracks. He balanced on both feet, stood with his finger on the trigger and the barrel aimed at gut level.

There, before him, Mig was perched on wobbly legs. His eyes were glassy, his cheek running red, and the fabric of his jeans saturated in thick, dark, crimson. His lips moved, but there was no sound. Behind him were two shadowy figures.

Pete planted his hand on Mig's back. Suddenly the giant bounded forward from a massive push. He staggered and Lobo fired a 9 mm slug directly into his belly. He collapsed in a thud at Lobo's feet. His body shuddered and Lobo paused for just a moment to watch the man die. That was his mistake. The two figures bounded out of the small box and stood on either side. Lobo knew he couldn't get both of them. He turned to the one on the right. Pete had already pulled the trigger of the Glock. His aim was true. Lobo dropped the Beretta and clutched his shoulder. The blood exploded. He fell to the carpet and writhed like dog that that been hit on the highway. Bart straddled his chest and bored the barrel of the Sig into his forehead.

"So you are the great Lobo. Sorry my friend. I hope you will find this a good day to die. For it may be your time. You took my daughter. If she is still alive, you will tell me where she is. If not, you will join the angels, or perhaps rot in the clutch of the demons of hell. That choice is simple. It is not mine, but do understand, it is I who determine whether you will take one more miserable breath."

Bart pressed the steel, and the flesh around the barrel swelled, then grew a sickly yellow. Lobo swallowed a mouth topped with bile and spoke between halting breaths.

"She is gone. I suspect the plane has left. Believe me, she will be well cared for . . . a life of leisure awaits her. Your child will be a princess."

Bart withdrew the pistol and smiled. Lobo let out a quick sigh of relief just before the warm metal crushed his cheek. His eyes bulged and his mouth hung open.

"Now you may tell me the truth. Who has her? Which airport? Another lie and the pain will surge through your body before you beg me to kill you."

Pete stepped over, and hovered over the crying man. Lobo glanced at him, his eyes reflecting a horror and agony that pulsated and throbbed with every contorted gesture.

"Kill him," Pete said, "but if you have a problem, I will gladly embrace that pleasure."

He kicked Lobo in the bleeding shoulder. It splattered like mud from the boot of a child splashing after a spring rain.

Lobo spit out a few words. Bart could hardly make them out, but Pete nodded. He knew the place. If they left immediately, they could be there in forty-five minutes.

"Let's go," Pete said, "it may be the only chance for Maria Elena."

Bart crawled off the pitiful creature.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Mig's bowels had released and the stink of blood and shit hung in the already fetid air in the office. Bart gasped for breath. One man was dead, his pathetic throes now silenced, but prescient, weighted by the curse of Cain, the brother-killer of the Bible. Nevertheless, he had been a man . . . a bad one . . . the spawn of hell, but a man. Should another follow?

Bart fingered the trigger and gritted his teeth. His stomach shot acid up into his throat. For a moment he thought he would vomit, but he swallowed hard, and the vile liquid burned back down his throat. He stared at the Wolf, then at Pete. He nodded. Then Bart fired a leaden slug into Lobo's gut. One would be enough. Now there was a flood below his waist like the Red Sea crashing down on the cursed Egyptians. The beast would not last long. They scrambled back into the elevator and made for the car.

\-----------------------

He wasn't sure it would work, but he had to admit he looked rather spiffy in the brown work clothes. He clutched the cardboard box. It was empty, too light, but he didn't think she'd notice. The knife was in his pocket. He fingered its hard, cold outline along his thigh. A simple delivery. Happened all the time. What the hell? He'd kick the door in if he had to. Who knows? She might even be glad to see him. She'd damned sure enjoyed that last visit. His mind flashed to that blond natural and the sheen of the silk on her thighs. Yes . . . he was ready, whether she was or not.

Priss got home in time for the wine and the bath. Then she did it, the thing that had haunted her. She made the decision. She would keep the baby. Her career be damned. After all, they couldn't fire her or even lower her pay. Maybe they could find her a nice safe desk job with regular hours. She would become a mother with all of the love, devotion, and sense of right she could offer. The monster would be submerged in the deep folds of her memory. It wasn't the monster that mattered. It was her child. She said it out loud. Her Child. The words were beautiful. She even thought about names . . . Angelina . . . after her grandmother, if it was a girl, and if it was a boy . . . well, she hadn't gotten that far yet.

She inhaled the scent of jasmine on her skin and in her hair. She smoothed the velvet skin on her belly. It was getting round and more firm. A living thing, she thought . . . growing, gaining the will to breathe the blessed air, feel the heat of the sun, and bathe in its own starlight. She smiled.

Priss was a bit surprised when she heard the knock on the door. She had been expecting a package from Amazon, a couple of books and an old Steely Dan CD she hadn't found at the mall. She slipped into her robe, pulled it tight around her, and shook out her hair. Her bare feet padded on the carpet as she approached the peephole. It was almost 8:00, but these guys worked until the job was done. Brown uniform, a package. UPS . . . at your service, ma'am.

At the last minute, something told her to wait. She reached for the chain lock, hesitated and looked though the peephole one more time. "UPS," she heard through the door. "Okay, Miss Tough Cop," she thought to herself, and laughed into her fist.

Priss had only cracked it when he slammed his shoulder into the wood. There was a splintering sound. The brass chain hung on its mount and swung morbidly. The force knocked her onto her back on the carpet, her robe askew. He flashed the blade.

"Now you just be real quiet and ol' Stuart won't have to hurt you."

He greedily eyed her almost naked body, focusing on the tuft between her legs.

"Oh, baby, I love a natural blond. It's just like I remember. Trust me honey, it'll be long, hard, and sweet. You may even want to taste it. That stuff will seep out of you just like the last time. I'll take it slow. You'll be waiting . . . begging, for that thing to be shoved way up inside of you. When it's over, you'll know you've been fucked by the best."

Priss quickly scanned the room. Her .38 was on the dresser in the bedroom. It might as well be in another country. No way she could get to it in time. Nothing else she could snatch. Was it going to happen again? The awful penetration, the violation, the destruction of what was left of her as a woman?

"I'm thinking," he grinned, "the table might be nice. Just like we were having a quiet, intimate little dinner. Think of it as a party. I see you've already chilled the wine."

"Stand up, bitch," he snarled.

She snatched the folds of the robe together and tried to cover herself.

"Aw, honey. That ain't necessary. You're gonna be slipping out of it anyway."

With one hand he reached for his zipper. The acrid sound was quick, but it drilled into her brain, and she began to shake. She struggled for control. She tried to steal a moment, but this would be all she'd get. "Okay," she thought. Then she smiled and dropped the cotton fabric over her shoulders. Her nipples were taut.

"That's more like it," he taunted, "sit on the table and spread those beautiful legs. Daddy's comin' up in you."

It was an ugly strategy, one that made her crawl, but she had a baby inside her. She told herself, "Just fuck him." Let him leave his filthy cum in me one more time. Coo and moan like it's the greatest show on earth. What the hell? Maybe she could use a good fucking. Let him do it. Invite him back and promise him more. Then maybe he'll pull out and leave. Just keep the baby safe. Give in . . . and hope.

"See . . . you didn't need that robe," he said softly, "trust me Honey. . . just enjoy it. Remember? You did the last time."

She smiled through her teeth and nodded. He lowered the knife to his side, but the rigid tendons in his hands told her he was still ready. Priss backed up to the table. She sat on the edge and opened her legs. Goddamit. She was wet. For a moment she hated her body. It had betrayed her. Maybe there was a wanton slut within her waiting to emerge . . . needy, eager, silently pleading for a hard dick and a hot load. She wasn't sure she knew, but if it was so, she'd deal with that later.

He leered again, and took a deep breath. It was as if he smelled her sex and her willingness. He brandished the knife in an unspoken threat, and approached her like a jackal stalking wounded prey. He got closer, flashed the knife one more time, and slapped her across the mouth. The blood came quickly. Then he did it again. She sucked the blood off her lips and managed a sickly grin.

"Makes it a little more fun, don't it?" he said.

He took his left hand and fondled himself, pointing the pulsating flesh directly at its target.

"One last warning, pussy cat," he said, "no noise, no fight. You just shut up and let ol'Stuart put that good stuff in you. Then I'll go and you can get to your dreams. Dreams of a real man. One who knows what he wants . . . and takes it."

His eyes were hollows of madness. He was a lying bastard. She knew it. This time she would die.

She took one more breath and steeled herself. She wiped the blood on the back of her hand and smiled. She even managed to beckon to him, although she knew it was grotesque. She could feel the head of his monster prick kneading her waiting, slippery pink. Her fingers pulled the lips of her vagina apart and she felt the first thrust. His knife hand dropped to his side, and his eyes rolled. He was mesmerized. It was time. She grabbed the green bottle and slammed it into his temple. He staggered and shook his head. The bottom rim of the cylinder cracked, then bounced onto the floor. The last of the red wine splashed onto the tile. He was stunned for a moment, his eyes trying to focus. He still held the knife. He tried to wave it, but the arc was shaky and uncertain. His lips had grown pale. They moved, but no sound came from them.

She took the jagged edge of the glass and drove it into his belly. The brown fabric of the uniform ripped and she felt the sharp edges grind into his stinking flesh. She withdrew it and hammered it back home. Stuart dropped the knife. He fell back onto the floor and clutched the gore. It ran in rivers between his fingers. She stared for a moment. His penis was still almost hard. She drove the broken bottle into his crotch. She gave it a final push, then twisted it until his horrid thing hung by a shred of bloody, mutilated skin.

So much blood. He would die . . . maybe ten minutes . . . and she was glad. She picked up her robe and wrapped around her trembling body. Then she went into the back and collapsed on the bed. It was several minutes before felt the warm stream and realized there was a puddle of red flushing from between her legs, soaking into the mattress.

Chapter Sixteen

The lights flashed their warning, alternating circles of electric blue and red. Pete hadn't hit the siren. He didn't want panic. Bart sat in the passenger seat, his hands clutching the console as Pete ran the reds that screamed stop. He even pulled onto the sidewalk a couple of times to streak past the endless traffic. Pedestrians scrambled for their lives as the unmarked forged relentlessly on. Time . . . the thing was time . . . and they had little of it. He wanted to believe Maria Elena was alive, damaged . . . maybe forever . . . but he told himself she was alive . . . at least if Lobo was to be believed. And there was no one alive to dispute that now.

The glow of the small airport was close on the horizon. Pete silently prayed it was the one. They squealed up to the gate. There was a guard, but Bart's mouth hung open as Pete crashed the unmarked through the barrier and swerved toward a private jet on the runway. A limo was parked nearby, the driver's door open. As the distance closed, Bart saw two men get out. One of them opened a rear door and a small figure emerged. It was a woman, or maybe a girl . . . but which girl? His beloved Maria Elena or another . . . perhaps a willing guest, or a child about to enter her own private hell. The lights of the police cruiser still screamed their threat, and the tires screeched to a halt just in front of the silvery aircraft.

Pete was out in an instant, his badge held chest high, and his Glock drawn, locked at his side with purpose. Bart followed, the Sig racked and ready. It was a still life for a moment. The two men, the girl . . . motionless like granite statues in a park in the Sunday twilight.

Both men raised their hands over their heads. One clutched a fist full of papers that fluttered in the light breeze.

"A mistake," he said, "we are diplomats from your friends in China. A trade mission. Please observe."

He shook the papers, then lowered them slowly and pointed toward Pete.

"Observe," he said again, "no need for weapons.

Pete was silent and still.

Bart stepped cautiously toward the girl, the Sig pointed in the direction of the guards. He spoke her name. She raised her head and looked at him, still with eyes of glass. She mouthed the word, but there was no sound.

He watched her lips. The word was "Daddy".

The two men stood rigid, but ready, awaiting instructions. One looked toward the plane. A small Chinese stood in the arc at the entrance to the jet. He bowed, smiled, and spoke just loud enough for all to hear.

"You make a grave error, gentlemen. We are your friends. We have no quarrel. But if you want the girl . . . only, of course, as a gesture of our good intentions . . . she is yours. No worry. We will seek recompense."

He bowed again, gave a quick wave of dismissal to the guards, and he was gone. The door closed behind him and the jet revved it engines. The plane wove its way around the car and began a smooth taxi toward the runway. The two attendants were in the limo quickly. It pulled back toward the ingress, accelerating slowly.

Bart held the child to his chest. He spoke in Spanish.

"You are safe. No one will hurt you again. Your padre is here. Let your tears sink into my breast."

\---------------------

Priss went to the bathroom, the blood trailing down her legs. She knew, but she didn't want to admit it. She tried to breathe, but it came in gasps, more like a woman choking on something vile and unfathomable. The baby . . . it was lost. She staunched the sanguine flow with a towel, went to her dresser and reached for the cell. She had Don's private cell number. It was late, but he'd answer.

"I need you . . . Now . . . I'm at the apartment."

"Twenty minutes," he said.

He knew Priss too well. She didn't usually panic, but this time her voice was strained and urgent. He was in the car and at her apartment quickly. He knocked three times and spoke her name. The door was cracked open. When he entered, the sight of Stuart's lifeless body leaped out at him. He drew his weapon, stepped over to it cautiously and put his fingers to the carotid. The man was very dead. The pool of gore on the carpet framed him in a misshapen and malevolent circle. She stood at the door to the bedroom, her face a mask, yellow and waxen. Broken glass was everywhere and the wine bottle lay on the floor, the blood already crusty in places. Then he did something he never thought he'd have to do. He put his arm around her shoulders and held her while she shook.

"I gotta know what happened," he said quietly, "then we need to get you somewhere safe, and clean this shit up."

She began the story. The brown uniform, her lousy judgement, and the violence that followed. Don didn't ask any questions. He could guess the parts she'd left out. He looked into her eyes and took her again by the shoulders.

"Clear case of self-defense," he whispered. Then he palmed his cell and dialed quickly. Before the homicide dicks got there, she cleaned her thighs, secured a Kotex, and slipped on a pair of jeans with a green Dolphins t-shirt. They asked a few questions, but Don had already told them what was obvious. In a half-hour, she was in his car. He took her to his place and gave her a Xanax, which she washed down with a shot of bourbon. Then he tucked her into his bed and got a blanket from the closet. He settled onto the couch, and listened for a while. She sobbed for few minutes, then made no more sound. But even in the silence, he didn't sleep much.

\--------------------------------

Macelli's DNA was a perfect match for the physical evidence recovered from Madison Elson's apartment. Exactly six cops had seen his body at Priss's apartment, and the autopsy report filtered down to way too many on the force. There were whispers at the water cooler, and in the locker room, but no one said a word to Detective Priss Maybry. The newspapers got part of the tale, but important details were left out. Most cops knew enough to honor an unwritten code. After all, they were a team, and these days a lot of them felt they patrolled with targets on their backs. If they didn't stick together, they were all fucked. Besides, this wasn't the kind of publicity that anyone needed. If you wanted to keep your job, you'd better understand that.

Macelli was linked to at least three other sexual assaults that had occurred over the past year. Two of them were able to give positive identifications after viewing the grisly photos of the corpse. The M.O. in all of the cases matched. It was a win. The bastard was dead and the women of Miami were safe, at least until the next pervert crawled out from under his own filthy rock.

Dr. Page had examined Priss. She knew . . . but patient privilege was a vow she took very seriously. Fortunately, Priss wasn't damaged . . . at least not physically. The rest was beyond the Doctor's control. She suggested counseling, but she didn't think Priss was listening.

\------------------

Kids are tough, and Maria Elena wasn't an exception. Bart went back to the Bebida Mexicano. Pedro hadn't skimmed that much and the regulars were glad to see their old compadre. Pepe had indeed been safe with his grandmother. There were still nights when Bart heard his girl child toss and moan in the night, but her body was still sacred, just as her mother would have wished.

In the daylight, she laughed, and bathed in the distractions of a young teenaged girl working her way toward womanhood. The nuns at her Catholic school cherished her, and the boys were all at attention. She was healing.

Lobo's chair wasn't vacant for long. Mig was good, but wasn't missed. There was a replacement all too quick and all too easily. Business went on, and it thrived. Meanwhile Priss, Pete, and Don kept their mouths shut and their eyes open. Maybe next time their luck would be just a little more timely . . . and a little better.

"One tough bitch . . ." that was the take on the force. Maybe so, but in the dark pit of the night . . . when the sweats began, and the nightmares rolled on endless reels, Priss wasn't so sure.
