Road Trip

Part 2 - Down the Rabbit Hole

Following a leisure continental breakfast with Alyssa and several of her colleagues, Rachael sat idly enjoying yet another cup of exquisite coffee, the serenity of her surroundings carrying her thoughts like a bird flitting from bush to bush. Did the residents appreciate this European style community as much as she? Or he attorneys now crowding into the conference center, for that matter? Or had they become so jaded by work and travel that aesthetics meant little or nothing. Would she still appreciate the ambiance tonight while ’Lyss was attending a series of debates, or would this become as mundane to her after two short days as with the residents and attendees?

She had traveled extensively during her days of modeling and stock car racing, but despite the demands of her job, had always found time to appreciate each new locale. Even here in Las Vegas where she has spent so much of her time. Whether it was trying new restaurants, unique shops or museums, exploring little-known attractions, her time, her job, the benefits that came with it, were all gifts to appreciate.

The soft clatter of dishes and low conversation of staff lulled her into a light doze. Hot desert air drifting through the open, folding glass wall and caressed her face. Rachael sipped her coffee and let her mind drift back to last night. It was kind of an anticlimax to her premonitions, and she was glad that they resulted in nothing more than hauling a drunk out of a bar. Yeah, it didn’t seem like much, but then a person was not always aware of the impact that a small gesture of kindness had. A feather-light brush of fingers across her cheek. Glancing around, she saw no one within fifty feet of her.

Premonitions. Perhaps this time she was seeing ghosts where only shadows resided.

Rachael thoroughly enjoyed another morning of working out, swimming, and napping under the sharp southwestern sun. After showering and re-dressing into a lighter change of clothes, she joined ’Lyss and several associates for lunch, then contentedly watched them trail off to an afternoon of lectures, debates, and legislative training sessions.

Desiring something sweet, Rachael remembered the vending machines in the lobby of their building. Retrieving her novel, she descended to the building’s small lobby to pass the time. Really no more than an alcove with three wingback chairs and two vending machines that softly hummed.

Having bought a soda, she made herself comfortable in one of the wingbacks under the soft draft of the air conditioner. Everyone was doing fine, Mark assured her on her second phone call. Maybe she was becoming bored after all. As a person who always needing to be doing something, Rachael found inactivity a waste of time and could only be tolerated in small doses.

She tried reading but couldn’t get into it. It was too quiet and she felt isolated. Setting her book aside, she gazed across the sculpted lawn and shrubbery, and the meandering sidewalks leading nowhere in particular. Two men several shades lighter than ’Lyss and dressed in dark three-piece suits approached from the nearby parking lot. Not large men per se, but solid built. The man on the right wore a flattop buzz cut and stood a couple of inches taller than his buddy. The smaller man was more compact, hair styled into a short Afro, and wore gold wire rim glasses that reflected the sun in metallic gold. The larger buzz-cut man had once been muscular but time had filled in his definition with adipose tissue - now that’s a term you don’t hear every day, Rachael thought with a smile. She named them Buzz-Cut and Glasses.

Moving fast with purposeful strides, Rachael’s smile faded when she realized that the lobby was their destination. Although she didn’t sense danger, neither did she want to encounter them. Taking up her novel and fingering her pocket to make sure the keycard was still there, Rachael rose to leave. They picked up the pace.

Alarmed now, she had no more than turned towards the stairs before Glasses was swinging the door open. Buzz-Cut made no pretenses of cutting her off from the stairs. Glasses moved to cut her off from the long hallway leading the other way.

“Please come with us,” Glasses said in a silky voice.

“Oh hell no. Take another step and I’ll scream.”

“That would be bad.”

Buzz-Cut man pulled a Taser from his jacket and sent a miniature lightning bolt between the probes.

Rachael neither backed away nor flinched.

“Now,” he said. “Will you please come with us?”

Rachael snapped, surprising herself as much as Buzz-Cut. With no forewarning, no preliminary tense of muscles, she drove a back fist into his arm, hitting the pressure point as Mark had showed her. The Tazer flew from his hand and bounced across the carpet. Stepping in, she threw a fist towards his face. As explosive as her assault, he recovered even faster, grabbed her arm, wrenched aside. Her second punch however, took him by surprise. Lacking the strength of a man, Rachael nonetheless had smaller fists that concentrated her power. Driving from her hips, her fist found the corner of his mouth and rocked his head back, then she shaved his shin with a stomp. Twisting her wrist, ripping it from his weakened grasp, Rachael whirled.

Strong hands clamped onto her arm and slung her into the wingback, which would have toppled had it not been for the wall. Before she could right herself, Glasses pinned her shoulders. Struggling, kicking wildly, swinging without making contact, Rachael stopped only when he exerted enough pressure to send sharp pains through her chest and shoulders. Gasping, her back popping under his weight, Rachael relented and sat glaring through eyes dilated with rage.

“One more outbreak like that and I’ll fry your ass,” Buzz-Cut said as he ground his Taser into her face.

“Now,” Glasses told her, “you will either come willingly or we’ll carry you out.”

“Somebody’s going to see you.”

“Yes or no.”

“Where you taking me?”

“Somewhere we can talk.”

“Talk here.”

Buzz Cut dug his Taser into her face with even more force.

“Okay, okay. I’ll go,” Rachael said, fighting the rising panic.

Survival Rule number one was not to allow kidnappers to take you from the scene. Once they do, they have total control. Addendum: if they have a Taser, it’s better to go consciously than unconsciously. Rule number two, make yourself valuable to them. There’s no guarantee you won’t be raped and tortured, but a valuable hostage will be kept alive.

So what do you do when all the above fails?

Glasses roughly hoisted her to her feet. Her arm reddened under the iron clamp of his fingers digging into her soft flesh. Buzz-Cut brushed a small trickle of blood from a split lip that was already swelling, and followed with a noticeable limp.

With professional efficiency, Rachael was bundled into the passenger seat of a black Ford Excursion with barely legal window tint. Glasses climbed in behind the wheel while Buzz-Cut strapped her in, then climbed into the seat behind her. Doors locked, tires squealed, the Excursion shot out of the parking lot.

Apparently, they didn’t care if she knew where they were going, and that wasn’t good since it usually meant the victim wasn’t coming back. Rachael sat quiet, stunned. Kidnappings happened to other people, people in the news, people she didn’t know and would never meet. She fought panic rising at the thought of Mark and the kids leading a life without her, and the guilt that would haunt ’Lyss for the rest of her life. Already she felt the public embarrassment of being a victim.

How bad would she be hurt if she threw herself out the door at 85 mph? No, they wouldn’t allow that to happen. The alarm would sound the moment she unbuckled her seatbelt and Buzz-Cut would fry her ass as promised.

After a lengthy and silent drive through the city, Glasses pulled into the parking lot of a large, squat, brick building with no sign or markings. Several cars were parked in the ample lot. Considering that the Mob had run Las Vegas since Bugsy Seigel, hope faded with every passing second. Maybe a bullet to the head and dumped in the desert? An instant death would be best. Maybe they’d take her for a swim in cement shoes, an oldie but goodie. Not the best way to die but at least it was better than being kept for slavery or prostitution.

Rachael allowed herself to be handily escorted inside the building, then into an interrogation room consisting of three chairs and a table. The overhead window was barred. Even so, Rachael could saw that it was one-inch bullet resistant glass. Air conditioners hummed, forcing a chilling draft upon her.

Glasses and Buzz-Cut left her for a period of time. Returning, they settled into the chairs across from her. Both men silently appraised her and Rachael answered with an unwavering glare.

Glasses was first to speak. “This interview is being recorded. This isn’t how I wanted to introduce ourselves, but you gave us no choice.”

“You gave me no choice.”

Presenting their IDs, Rachael saw they were FBI, Undercover and Special Operations Unit. Buzz Cut’s name was Special Agent Booker Unger and Glasses was Special Agent Galen Silla. The fact that she was in custody of the Feds didn’t ease her mind. At least if it was the Mob, then theoretically the police could protect her, or at least look for her body. There was no protection against the Government and her death would be a sanctioned coverup.

“You pack a helluva punch,” Galen said, casting a sarcastic glance at Booker.

“What do you expect? You didn’t identified yourselves.”

“Nor are we required to. Moving along, we need to ask you a few questions.”

“Fine. You have my undivided attention.”

“Last night, you met a man in a bar,” Galen said.

“No, I didn’t meet anyone. I helped some nameless drunk out of the bar and waited for the cops to haul him away. That’s all. Period.”

“Unfortunately, that’s not all. Can I get you something to drink? Pop? Water?”

“Trying to sneak some DNA?”

Galen flickered a condescending smile. “Hardly. I know you’re not happy with us, but you did assault a federal officer.”

“Not being happy’s an understatement. I’m infuriated with you and your strong arm tactics, so go ahead, press assault charges. Good luck getting that past a thousand lawyers.”

“Rachael, please,” Galen said leaning on the table. “You have no idea how grave the situation is. Did Kian - the man you met in the bar last night - say anything to you?”

“Yeah, he said a lot and none of it made any sense. He was drunker than shit and passed out, so yeah, he talked.”

“And..?”

“And what? He was pissed off at some cops. He said it’s all about money, and he’s done with it. Washed up. No longer a part of it. Can’t do it anymore.”

“What can’t he do?”

“I have no idea but I got the impression it was the shit-end of a bad deal. I thought he was suicidal, so I stayed with him until the cops hauled him off.”

“And that was all? Nothing more?”

“That was all. Nothing more. Are we done here?”

Galen sat thoughtfully, taking his glasses off to wipe them. Booker sat silent with his eyes locked on her.

“Can you tell us how you happened to be in that particular bar last night?” Galen said, putting his glasses back on.

“My friend is attending the National Lawyers Conference. You know, the thousand lawyers I previously mentioned? She had two tickets to a play. The play was terrible, so we were killing time while waiting for our bus.” She let that sink. “I’ve had a craving for a Bloody Mary since Monday. Not just any Bloody Mary, a specific one, and I saw a waitress with that exact drink. Two seats at the bar were available, one of which was next to Kian, your drunk.”

“So your being there was simply coincidence?”

“Call it that.”

“And all he talked about were cops, and not being able to continue doing whatever it was he was did.”

“That’s all.”

“Is there anything else you can think of? Anything you might have seen or heard, no matter how insignificant it might seem?”

Taking him at his word and hoping that a full disclosure would end their little session, Rachael described as best she could the play, attendees, lounge patrons and staff, the piano band, gamblers who caught her eye, the wandering tourists and shoppers. To their credit, Booker and Galen patiently listened.

“Then there was one guy who came out of the lounge while I was waiting for the cops. He had hard eyes. A hard look. A round but narrow face if that makes any sense, blue collar type man. We made eye contact then he hurried off. There was something odd about the way he acted, but I blew it off.”

“Shotgun?” Booker whispered as he and Galen exchanged looks.

“Get a photo,” Galen told him.

Rachael reclined in her chair, extended her legs under the table to wait. Five minutes later Booker returned with a photo in hand.

“Yeah, that’s him,” Rachael said, taking a quick glance and handing it back.

Galen cursed, removed his glasses and needlessly wiped them.

“Ask if Kian mentioned that place to her,” he told Booker as he put his glasses back on.

“No.”

“We don’t know when or where, and we have nothing to go on.”

“Why not ask this Kian person yourself?” Rachael said.

Galen’s reproachful look was answer enough.

“We don’t have time to screw around,” he said to Booker.

Booker scowled and pulled a scrap of paper from the pocket of his jacket, handed it to Rachael.

“Did Kian mention this place?”

The scribbling was barely legible. “Lugar de Arcilla Blanca,” she read then handed it back. “The Place of White Clay, or White Clay Place. I know where it is. My People have a different name for it, but I know the place.”

“Can you show us on a map? You’ll be doing your government a great service.”

“I don’t give a whit about your government on my best day, and this is far from being my best day. Furthermore, I openly disdain the political mafia you represent. In my opinion, Washington and Hollywood are the cesspool of American society and I trust nothing that comes from either. So no, I don’t give a damn about helping your government.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way. But please, if we show you a map, can you at least point out this white clay place?”

His conciliatory tone accomplished what he had hoped and Rachael answered, “I’ll do that. Then you will take me back to the hotel.”

“Show us where it is, and we will take you back.”

“First things first. I gotta pee. I’ll also take you up on your previous offer. Get me a coffee and make it a good cup, not cheap slop water.”

Galen escorted her to the Women’s room while Booker addressed her request for coffee. From there, she was taken to a large conference room with over a dozen men and women seated around the table. Roughly half were FBI SWAT dressed in black. The others were professional-looking in muted suits and dresses. All sat mutely staring at her.

“Please, have a seat,” Galen said, indicating an empty chair. Belittled in front of those present, Booker gently set her coffee before her.

“This is Rachael Winterhawk,” Galen said, as Booker took his seat. “She is providing us with local Intel. Rachael, this is our SWAT and CIRG team. You’re all fully aware of the situation, so I’ll let Rachael take it from here.”

Nodding curtly, Rachael took a sip. The coffee was very good. Taking a tissue from a nearby box, she dabbed her forehead and neck of nervous perspiration.

With a deep breath, Rachael took stock of her audience, then began by asking Galen to pull up a satellite image of Clark county. Galen brought the projector to life, handed her a laser pointer, then logged onto a laptop which gave her time to collect her thoughts. Moments later a satellite image appeared on the wall.

“Lugar de Arcilla Blanca, the place of white clay. This area,” she said, circling a mountainous region south of I-11 with her pointer. “It’s an arroyo of pure white clay that my ancestors used for face and body painting. We still hold small ceremonies there. There’s a handful of abandoned homesteads and farms scattered around the mountains and desert. This,” she said indicating an abandoned facility, “is an abandoned cement factory.”

“How can you be so sure?” Said a severe-looking woman, one of the CIRG members.

“I grew up in this part of the country,” Rachael said. Indicating a box canyon roughly five miles distant, she continued. “The box canyon ends with a ten-acre meadow where my People hold ceremonies. The main road passes the cement factory but it’s a rough, gravel road, and it’s the only way in or out.”

“I see that the road continues northeast. That’s a way in and out,” said a short, balding man from the CIRG team.

“Only on ATV or smaller, such as dirt bike or horseback. The California earthquake in ’99 sent a lot of rock and boulders down onto the road. Since the road was already abandoned, the debris was never cleared.”

“Maybe it’s been cleared since you were there.”

“Hardly. I was there four years ago. There’s no reason anyone would go to the expense of clearing an abandoned road that leads nowhere. As you can see, the road meanders into the mountains before ending in a series of trails.”

“Any questions?” Galen said.

“I appreciate Ms. Winterhawk’s assistance,” one of the CIRG men said. “But we need to send in a team to verify that what she is telling us is correct. With all due respect, we can’t just take her word for it, and this satellite image is a couple of years old.”

“The road goes nowhere.” Rachael said. “If anyone takes any of the trails, it’s eight or ten miles of rough country before they come to any kind of driveable road. They’ll be more likely to get lost than find their way out.”

“Not to be dismissive, but we’re the experts in these types of operations. If anyone gets into those mountains, there’s probably caves or places to hide.”

“Well, not to be dismissive, but I spent half my childhood running barefoot through these mountains. Sure, they could make it out but it would be tough. Once they do make it to this dirt road here,” she said, indicating with the pointer, “it’s another fifteen miles to pavement. Twenty after that to the first house. But, as you said, you’re the expert. Do what you want.”

“This location makes no sense. I don’t believe Kian was on the level, and he’s not talking,” Booker said.

“It’s the only thing we have to go on,” said the stern looking CIRG woman.

“It’s not enough. We back off and regroup.”

“And potentially lose more children. No. Ms. Winterhawk, what are your thoughts?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Rachael said. “I’m just telling you, this is the place that was written down on the note that was showed to me. There’s an abandoned cement factory that was built solely for the Hoover Dam construction. The mountains are rugged and are only used by off-roaders and hunters. That’s all I can say with what little I know.”

“I think we need to discuss this further,” Galen said. “Rachael, will you come with me?”

Rachael was led to a comfortable office. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to stay for a little bit longer,” Galen said. “Can I get you anything?”

“My cell phone. I need to check in or people are going to start looking for me.”

“Be sure that you don’t divulge any information.”

“Yeah, like I know what’s going on.”

Rachael’s first call went to ’Lyss, where she left a message that she wouldn’t be back until tonight. Her next call went to Mark. He wasn’t so easily convinced, but she eventually persuaded him that she was enjoying herself and no need to worry.

Rachael sat staring out the window in boredom when Booker stepped into the office.

“Ms. Winterhawk?” He said, closing the door behind him. “We’ve already asked too much of you, but... Kian’s cell phone received a text not long ago. He has a meeting with Shotgun - the man you saw last night - at five o’clock this afternoon to arrange the next transfer.”

“The next transfer..?”

“Children. Abducted children.”

Rachael locked eyes onto him with growing apprehension.

“The team has already discussed this. Shotgun has seen you and knows that you are somehow associated with Kian. Certainly not in the way he imagines, but we have no other options. There is no way we can introduce him to a complete stranger this late in the game. We would like you to meet with him. It’s a risk, but we will have people in place to ensure your safety. You’ll be wearing a wire.”

She licked her lips nervously.

“We don’t ask this of civilians, but we’re in a very bad place right now.”

“Informants are civilians, aren’t they?”

“This is different. We don’t pull civilians off the street and put them in harm’s way.”

“So what am I supposed to do?”

“We’ll give you a script and new identity. All you need to do is find out when and where it’s taking place.”

“How simple,” she said sarcastically.

“As I said, we’ll have people in place. You don’t have to do anything that you’re uncomfortable with.”

“I’ve been uncomfortable ever since you kidnapped me.”

His eyes were hard, yet pleading.

“If I do this, I need to know what’s going on.”

“He won’t have questions that you can’t answer from the script. This is a quick and dirty meeting that’s likely to catch him off guard, and Shotgun is the type of person who follows orders and absolves himself of all responsibility. Meaning, he’s not going to take ownership of this meeting.”

“Meaning, he won’t be questioning me extensively?”

“That’s correct. I can’t tell you any more at this time, but once he sees you in person, he’s not going to care who and what you are.”

“I don’t like it,” Rachael said. “But okay, I’ll do it.”

He regarded her for a moment before asking, “I thought you'd put up more of a fight. Why are you so willing to put yourself at risk?”

“You seem surprised. No, I’m not willing and it’s the last thing I want to do. But it’s something I have to do.”

“Are sure you’re okay with this? It will take a little bit of acting on your part.”

“Naturally.”

He heaved a sigh. “I’ll get your script. Your name is now Chloe Moon.”

It took some time to braid the wire into her hair and Rachael - Chloe - was given a Dutch side braid that allowed the mic to hang close to her mouth. After thoroughly testing the device, Galen drove her and two SWAT members to the mall where the meeting was to occur. Rachael estimated that the two women, a blonde and a brunette both heavily armored and armed, to be in their late 20s or early 30s.

Staring out the window as Galen drove through seemingly endless neighborhoods of pale, beige stucco and adobe homes, all with barred doors and windows, Rachael recited the script, putting herself in the mindset of Chloe Moon. Chloe Moon, Kian’s sometimes-girlfriend and heavily involved in other illicit activities that didn’t - yet, anyway - involve human trafficking. According to the script, California got too hot for her and she had to leave the state for a period of time, and coincidentally, just happened to run into Kian last night. Ready to rekindle their on-again-off-again relationship, as it were.

But if that was the case, how could she explain hauling Kian out of the bar and waiting for the cops? After all, Shotgun sitting inside was watching the whole thing. And why didn’t they arrest her - Chloe - when they took down her contact information?

The more she embraced the character Chloe Moon, the more trite it seemed. Undoubtedly they had altered the script at the last moment to explain last night and in her mind, the Feds hadn’t thought it out thoroughly. Rachael didn’t see how she could pull it off.

Eventually businesses began appearing sporadically, all, as with the homes, were barred with iron grating. The area improved as businesses became more plentiful. Their destination was a business park that Galen circled twice before letting Rachael out of the car, half a mile away.

“We already have men in position, and I’m here to pick you up if there’s a problem. Ready?”

Rachael gave a curt nod and climbed out of the vehicle’s controlled climate, into the dry desert air stuffy with the thick odor of exhaust and humanity. Mentally, she was quick on her feet, but what if this Shotgun person started pumping her for information? They said he wouldn’t. Chloe Moon was a one-dimensional story that wouldn’t bear scrutiny and she feared it would lead to questions that she couldn’t credibly answer.

Crossing the street, Rachael veered to an empty back lot where the meeting was to occur. She swept the empty lot nervously. Maybe Shotgun was suspicious and decided not to show, she hoped. Maybe she wouldn’t have to go through with this after all. On the other hand, what about the kids? What if those kids died, or worse, because someone screwed up? Because she screwed up? Traffickers were merciless. They had to be in order to do this to children. Not children, a commodity.

Rachael glanced nervously at her watch. Two minutes to go.

Her wait didn’t last long. A silver Escalade slowly rounded the corner of a distant building and cruised across the parking lot. Shotgun was expecting Kian, not her. Maybe they would gun her down and drive off. Was the FBI really protecting her? After all, she was the government’s commodity just as the children were the traffickers’ and neither special agents Booker or Galen would lose any sleep over her demise. They already had contingencies in place for that.

The car crawled to a stop before her. Shotgun stepped out and brushed his shirt aside to reveal a .45 Auto tucked in his waistband.

“Unbutton your shirt.”

Rachael hesitated. She never saw the head slap that knocked her against the vehicle. Her shoulders hit the molding, sending a jarring pain down her back. Pain flared across her face and lights danced in her eyes.

“I won’t ask again,” he said. Digging his hand into her pocket, he pulled out her wallet.

Rachael unbuttoned her shirt and spread it open.

“Chloe Moon, huh?” He said as he inspected her body. “Kian never mentioned you.”

“He never mentioned you either. My wallet?” She said extending her hand, trying hard to ignore the slap-burn on her face and sharp pain running down her back.

Shotgun grabbed her arm and spun her against the vehicle, pinning her against the vehicle’s hot exterior with one hand and pulled the back of her shirt up past her shoulders.

“Okay. I guess you’re clean. Get in.”

She quickly complied to avoid further abuse. Shotgun dropped into the seat beside her and tossed her walled onto her lap, then ground the muzzle of his .45 Auto into her temple.

“What’s your thing with Kian?”

“We have a complex relationship.” One slip of the finger, one twitch of anger and her brains would paint the car window red. Would it hurt? Or would she be gone in a moment of shock? She’d heard that people who’ve been beheaded were still conscious for moments afterwards, did the same happen when your brains were blown out?

“We were supposed to meet," Rachael said without thinking. "Maybe he was going to introduce us.”

“Hardly. What’d he say?”

“Nothing, really. You saw the condition he was in, nothing made sense. All he did was name where...”

“Shut up! You never know whose listening, stupid bitch!”

“It’s a big area and I need to know exactly where!”

“There’s only one place and if you ain’t smart enough to figure it out, then you ain’t smart enough to drive for us. So why’d you turned Kian over to the cops, and you’d damn well better be straight with me.”

“Yeah, I tuned him over,” Rachael fired back. “The bartender had already called the cops and they were on their way. What do you think would happen if they went in and dragged him out? Maybe Kian sees you and yells something he shouldn’t. Maybe a cop recognizes you sitting there with your thumb up your ass. I did you a favor by getting him out and it didn’t change anything that wasn’t already going to happen. Capisce?”

He stared into her eyes, digesting what she had said, looking for an excuse to knock her around some more.

“Kian lost it. He cracked.” Rachael continued. “That means you deal with me or find someone else.”

“I don’t even know you.”

“And I don’t know you and that’s how it needs to be. Or you do you call it off?”

“We got a schedule to keep, you know that.”

“Fine. Then give me some details.”

“Kian didn’t tell you?”

“Of course not! Shit, buddy, ain’t you been listening to me?”

“Don’t get smart with me, bitch. You’re gonna be driving sixteen.”

“Where?”

“We’ll tell you when you need to know. Ten o’clock tonight, and don’t be late.”

“Then look for me in a conversion van.”

“Whatever. If you’re not driving it - alone - a lot of people will have the worst day of their short little lives including you. Get my drift?”