The Body Market: A Leine Basso Thriller (16 page)

E
lise’s heart rate
returned to normal as she soaked, grateful to be alone. The water had quickly grown tepid, and she’d kept adding warm water, not wanting the bath to end. The more she soaked, the more bearable the pain became. She leaned her head back on the lip of the tub and closed her eyes.

Moments later, someone knocked on the door. Elise snapped to and sat up, paralyzed with fear. Water lapped at the sides of the tub.

Garcia wouldn’t knock
. She relaxed her shoulders and grabbed a towel she’d draped over the side of the tub.

“Come in.”

The door opened and Sebastian walked in carrying a small first aid kit and what looked like another blue dress, which he placed on the dresser. With a shy smile, he averted his eyes and shuffled over to the bathtub. Keeping his gaze downcast, he set the kit on the floor and turned so that his back was to her.

“I—I’m sorry you fell down and hurt yourself. Master Garcia told me to come here and help you with the bandages.”

“Is that what he told you?”

“Yes, I—” At the sound of her voice, Sebastian turned toward her to answer but quickly realized his mistake. Eyes wide, his cheeks reddened and he spun back around.

“It’s all right, Sebastian. Don’t be embarrassed.”
How sweet,
she thought. He was so different from everyone else.

Elise pulled the plug out of the drain and watched the bloody water disappear. Then she stood and wrapped the towel around herself before stepping out of the tub.

His gaze still on the floor, Sebastian edged down to pick up the first aid kit. He followed her to the bed and she sat down, lifting her hair to the side so he could clean the welts on her shoulders and back.

“You must have fallen a lot. The other girls don’t usually have this many cuts,” he said and opened the kit, revealing rolls of gauze and tape and antibiotic cream. He chose a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a clean cloth and gently swabbed her neck and shoulders.

“Yeah. I fell a lot.” Elise squeezed her eyes closed against the stinging alcohol and thought about her father. She was sure he was going crazy, wondering where she was. At least, she hoped so. She wondered why it was taking them so long to pay the ransom. Were her parents delaying to teach her a lesson? Anger flared in her chest at the thought of her mother suggesting they wait a day or two before paying the money.
Fuck her
.

“How long have you been here, Sebastian?” she asked. So far, he was the only person who had been kind to her during the whole ordeal. Well, except for the doctor, but she didn’t trust him.

“Oh, a very long time,” he said, his voice earnest. “Master Garcia and Doctor Ramirez have been good to me. My job is very important.”

“I’m sure it is. What else do you do besides fix the broken girls?”

“Ha. That’s funny. You’re not
broken
, just clumsy.” He giggled as he carefully applied ointment to the cuts on her neck and back. Then he paused.

Elise turned her head. “Why did you stop?”

“I don’t have a big enough bandage for your shoulder.”

She smiled at the consternation on his face.

“That’s okay. You can put one right next to the other one, if you want.”

Sebastian’s face cleared and he nodded. “Yes. That will work.” He ripped open the packages of sterile bandages and gently applied them to the wounds, taking his time. His fingers brushed her skin, and she heard a sharp intake of breath. A few seconds later he resumed, securing the bandages with first aid tape, and then carefully put everything back in the kit. Elise turned to face him, her eyes searching his.

“Thank you, Sebastian. I feel much better now.”

Sebastian’s face turned a deep shade of pink and he nodded his head and smiled, obviously pleased.

“There is a man outside the door, waiting to take you to the doctor,” he said.

“Why?” Fear returned to Elise like a starved animal, shredding the short window of calm Sebastian had brought.

“All the girls go. I’m not supposed to tell you why,” he answered.

He glanced out the barred window at the brown, dusty yard and smiled. “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

***

E
lise tucked
a
strand of hair behind her ear as she scrubbed the bathroom floor. On hands and knees with a bucket of soapy water beside her, she really did feel like Cinderella. Mindful of the bandage on her forearm, she dunked the sponge into the pail and wrung it out before attacking the next section of the floor. The rough material of her dress scraped across the abrasions on her back, fueling her anger at Garcia.

She and a girl named Celeste had been placed on bathroom duty. Slender with thick, glossy black hair, Celeste was a few years older and, from what Elise could pry out of her, had been taken from her village in Croatia. When she asked Celeste how long she’d been there, she shrugged and said she’d lost track.

Talking to any of the girls proved harder to do than Elise anticipated. They were all afraid of repercussions from either Garcia or the dog man, as he was known. When she’d asked one of the girls if she knew anyone named Fanta, she shook her head and remained silent.

Tired, Elise dropped her sponge into the bucket and absently ran her fingers over her arm. Celeste didn’t look up, continuing to scrub. After Sebastian delivered Elise to the doctor she’d been given anesthesia and woke up with her arm bandaged. Under the gauze she’d found a small incision, stitched shut.  Elise noticed the same-sized scar on all the other girls. She assumed he’d taken a tissue sample. It made sense, since they’d already drawn her blood.

But for what?

She cleared her throat. Celeste ignored her. She did it again.

“What do you think they’re going to do to us?” she asked, keeping her voice low. Celeste paused for a second before she lowered her head and began scouring the floor with renewed ferocity. Elise sat forward, glad for the response.

“You know something, don’t you?”

Celeste didn’t answer, but her hand slowed.

“Nobody’s going to hear you, Celeste.” Elise scooted closer. “And I promise I won’t say anything. What’s going on here?”

Celeste stopped cleaning and stared at the floor. Seconds passed before she glanced at Elise. The look in her eyes sent a shiver down her spine.

“Terrible things,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

Elise’s heart beat faster. “What do you mean?”

She shook her head and resumed scrubbing. “I—cannot speak of these.”

Elise grabbed her arm.

Celeste stared at her hand. Paused again. “They—they make you do things. With men.”

“You mean sex?”

Celeste nodded, the misery obvious on her face.

There it was. Celeste’s admission wasn’t a huge revelation—she thought that might be what this place was—but having her suspicions confirmed filled her with urgency.

I have to get out of here.

“That is not all.”

Her mind racing, Elise almost missed Celeste’s last statement.

“There’s more?” The muscles in her stomach tensed.

Crying softly, Celeste nodded.

“When the men who come to this place no longer ask for you, either because they are bored or you have become unattractive, the doctor cuts you open and… takes your insides.”

Elise’s mind blanked for a second before the information clicked. She sucked in a breath. “No.”

Celeste put the sponge down and climbed to her knees. She grabbed the hem of her dress and raised it enough to reveal an angry red scar running across her lower back.

Nausea rising in her throat, Elise tried sucking in air but only managed shallow breaths.
I can’t breathe.
She stared at Celeste, who was looking at her with such pity it made her want to vomit.

Elise struggled to get her emotions under control. Panicking wouldn’t help her escape. “If that’s true, then what happens after? They can’t take both of your kidneys. You’d die.”

Without a word, Celeste let the hem of her dress fall. She picked up the sponge, dipped it in her water bucket, and began to scrub the floor.

Elise had her answer.

***

Less than half an hour later, Elise stood in line behind Celeste, waiting for lunch to be served. The incision on her forearm had bled through the dressing, but Elise was afraid to go to the doctor and ask for a new bandage. If she kept her head down, maybe they wouldn’t notice her, giving her time to figure out a way to escape.

The ranch didn’t appear to have a fence to keep them all in, but guards with guns walked the grounds at various intervals around the yard, and she’d seen cameras on the front of the barracks and on the main house.

The night she arrived—two nights before? Three?—the drive had been long. She wasn’t even sure where she was. If she did manage to run away without alerting the guards, which way should she go? Elise knew enough about the desert to know she wasn’t equipped to survive for long without water, and if she picked the wrong direction, she could be out there for days.

And what about the dog man? He’d probably trained the muscular canine to track runaways. Elise shuddered at the thought of being torn apart by the pit bull’s sharp teeth.

There had to be a way to escape.

The lunch line began to move. Elise snapped back to the present and picked up a plastic plate from a stack. Plastic utensils were provided, ostensibly so no one could make a weapon from the metal kind. She glanced around her, wondering why Garcia bothered. Many of the girls appeared despondent, resigned to their fate, and it wasn’t because of drugs. When Elise spoke of her suspicions to Celeste she’d informed her that the new girls who were found to be substance abusers were forced to get clean. Otero insisted. For whatever reason, the girls didn’t create any trouble.

Elise refused to give in. Her anger helped keep her defiance alive.

Lunch turned out to be the same as the day before: a flour tortilla topped with refried beans and cheese, with a couple of cherry tomatoes on the side. The drink choice was limited to milk, juice, and water.

“A can of Fanta, please,” the voice behind Elise said.

Elise turned to see who had spoken. A striking redhead about her age stood behind her with a congenial smile on her face.

“The answer is still no,” growled the man behind the counter. Squat and dark with a thick neck, Elise figured the man’s oily hair could have easily been tapped as a natural resource.

The redhead pretended to pout, and then winked at Elise. Elise wondered if she might be the mysterious Fanta who had given her encouragement when she was locked inside the shed.

Elise selected a can of orange juice and found a seat at a table next to Celeste. The redhead walked over with her plate.

“May I join you?” she asked in Spanish.

“Sure,” Elise said.

She set her plate on the table and took the chair next to Elise. She placed her napkin in her lap and said, “You’re new here, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Elise checked to make sure none of the guards in the room were looking their way. “Are you Fanta?” she asked, her eyes on her food.

“What do you think?” the redhead replied.

Elise glanced at her to see if she smiled. She did. Relief swam through her. Just knowing another person had tried to be helpful filled her with hope.

“We need to meet,” Fanta said in a low voice.

Elise noticed a guard walking toward them and stiffened. Fanta followed her gaze.

“Where?” Elise asked, barely moving her lips.

“There’s a large tree in the wash behind our building. Meet me there right before dinner, when it’s dark.” Fanta rolled up her tortilla and took a bite, watching the guard walk by.

Her heart fluttering in her chest, Elise did the same.

G
rigori was waiting
for Leine at the airport, holding a sign that said
Basso
. Over six feet tall and powerfully built, he oozed confidence. His army green khakis and black T-shirt fit perfectly, leaving little to the imagination. A dirty-blond buzz cut and a pair of serious combat boots completed the outfit.
Add an AK-47 and a bottle of Stoli
, Leine thought,
and you’ve got yourself a Russian action hero
.

“You must be Grigori,” Leine said, letting her pack slide from her shoulder onto the floor.

Grigori gave her a nod, scooped up her bag, and started for the entrance.

“
Da.
We go now.”

So much for small talk,
Leine mused
.
She liked that in an operative.

They walked through the parking lot to a dull-yellow Humvee. The sun had set but the asphalt still radiated heat. Leine removed her light jacket and stowed it in the back seat, next to her pack. The lightweight, long-sleeved shirt, fitted T-shirt, and cargo pants she wore turned out to be the perfect choice, although forecasts called for scorching hot the next afternoon. With any luck, she’d be on her way home by then.

They pulled out of the airport and headed for the coast, both preferring silence. The closer they got to the beach, the thicker the briny air became, bringing back memories of jobs she’d taken in France and Italy. She’d always schedule a little extra down time for “debriefing” as she called it, and the sea had worked well as a calming antidote to the violence of her job.

A short time later, Grigori pulled into a hotel parking lot, parked the Hummer, and tossed her a room key. They were booked into separate rooms at a nondescript waterfront hotel with an on-premises bar and restaurant so they wouldn’t have to go into town.

“Third floor. I am second, below you,” he said, pointing to a pair of balconies overlooking the bay.

“And the weapons?”

“I put in closet. I will show.”

Grigori locked the Hummer and accompanied her up to her room, still silent. Leine figured his English was limited. She could have sparked a conversation in his native tongue but decided against it. That would open up a whole new narrative she didn’t feel like pursuing.

They entered the hotel room, and Leine did a quick inventory as she walked in. The space was typical to tourist destinations—a mini fridge under a utilitarian desk, a wall-mounted television, a queen-sized bed next to a pair of sliding glass doors leading to the balcony.

Grigori walked to the closet, slid the door open, and pulled out a hard-sided case, which he deposited onto the bed. He stepped back, gesturing for her to open it.

Inside was an MP-5 with a 50-round ammo drum and a couple of 30-round magazines, a heavily used, 9mm pistol with extra ammunition, and a half-dozen hand grenades. Leine nodded and closed the case.

“Looks good.”

Grigori appeared pleased. He stayed where he was, obviously on the verge of saying something, but Leine could tell he struggled.

With a sigh, she switched to Russian and asked, “Is there something else?”

A look of immense relief washed over his face and he nodded. “Yes. Nicholas told me you are the assassin who killed the Frenchman. I would like to know if this is true.”

Several years back, the Frenchman—so-called because of a tattoo of a guillotine on his right biceps—had been the scourge of Russian arms dealers everywhere. A dealer himself, he would find out where a shipment was to be delivered through his network of spies, wait until money changed hands, and then disappear after relieving both parties of weapons, cash, and the occasional life. Tensions escalated between the Russians and their buyers, with each side blaming the other for the breach of faith. The conflict spread and soon the United States became embroiled in an arms scandal involving a Russian diplomat, which the media pursued like a coyote on the trail of wounded prey.

The agency she worked for sent her to kill him, the belief being that his death would return the world of arms dealing to normal and the media would move on to the next news cycle, allowing the US to concentrate on more pressing concerns. In the process, she’d almost lost her life and developed a deep hatred of tattoos. Years later, she’d met Vladimir Petrovich when the Frenchman’s psychotic spawn blackmailed her into liberating a family heirloom from Nadja Imports, where it hung behind Vlad’s desk.

“You know I can’t answer that, Grigori.”

Grigori’s face fell. 

“What do you say we check out the restaurant? I hear they make a mean
camarones al
mojo de ajo
.”

Grigori gave her a puzzled look.

“Garlic shrimp—like scampi.”

Grigori brightened, nodding his head enthusiastically. “Oh, yes, I like garlic. And the shrimps.”

Ah
, Leine thought.
The language of food
.

***

Grigori hadn’t been kidding about his love of garlic shrimp. He ordered the large platter and followed it up with a second. Leine watched, fascinated, as he inhaled shrimp after shrimp, washing the crustaceans down with several shots of cheap tequila.

The Russian capacity for alcohol had always intrigued her, along with the incomprehensible ability of a trained shooter to hit a target after drinking a full liter of vodka. When she mentioned this to Grigori, he laughed and said that most of his family had been weaned on vodka and trained to hit what they were shooting at no matter how much they’d been drinking.

Grigori regaled her with stories of his life growing up in a small village in Russia, and how he knew Nicholas, who was his uncle on his mother’s side. Grigori had finished the second platter of
camarones
and most of a liter of tequila when he leaned toward her, a serious expression on his face.

“What is your stand on pockets?”

“I’m sorry?” Leine cocked her head to the side, wondering what the hell was going through the Russian’s tequila-fueled mind.

“Pockets. What do you think of pockets? Yes? No? Will you buy clothing that does not have them?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have a position on the subject, although I am quite fond of cargo pants. The side pockets are practical.”

“
Da.
You see? You have position. I do not buy clothes without pockets,” he declared, shaking his head. “A man must be able to carry things.” He proceeded to show her the various compartments in his shirt and pants. He even had a small pouch sewn into the bottom of each sock where he kept cash and important papers. Leine wondered how far he took this obsession and if it extended to his tightie whities.

After dinner, they’d both retired to their rooms, knowing the next day would come early. Leine sat on her balcony, listening to the waves lapping the shore below her, wondering what to expect from Zamir and his group. She’d checked satellite images of the meeting place and found a dozen or so nondescript warehouses in a rundown section of Ensenada. There were two ways in and out, with the main highway a few kilometers to the north.

When an hour had passed, Leine called the front desk and requested a taxi. She took the stairs to the second floor and quietly padded to Grigori’s room. Loud snores could be heard from inside. Satisfied he wouldn’t be interested in following her, she continued down the stairs to the street to wait. She could have brought the big Russian with her, but he’d had too much to drink and Leine preferred to work alone.

Ten minutes later, the cab pulled up. She got in and gave the driver the address to the warehouse, instructing him to drive by slowly.

“But señora, this is only an industrial area. There are no clubs or restaurants.”

“That’s fine. Just circle the block. My husband is considering purchasing one of the properties, and he asked me to take a look for him.”

The cab driver shrugged and did as she asked.

After a drive by, Leine instructed him to wait for her at the end of the block while she investigated further. The cab driver objected, going on about the crime rate in that section of town until Leine gave him some money to shut him up.

She crept behind the warehouses, keeping to the shadows until she reached the address indicated on the map Nicholas had given her. Situated halfway down one of the rows of warehouses, the building had definitely seen better days. Constructed primarily of crumbling block, it boasted a rusty, corrugated steel door secured with a shiny new padlock. Graffiti decorated the walls and the area smelled like stale beer and piss.

Charming.

Leine scanned the roof. On the satellite map, she’d noticed three box-shaped images on the side of the building. She saw now that they were individual air conditioners spaced a few feet apart, probably leading to second-floor offices.

She spotted a pipe running up the building and cursed her injury. There was no way she’d be able to climb onto the roof quickly. Leine continued around to the front of the warehouse, taking note of the condition of the street, where the lights were, and the proximity of other businesses. The other warehouses looked empty, with most of the doors unsecured.

The cabbie gave her a brief honk from where he had parked at the end of the street and Leine waved, indicating she’d be there in a minute. She started to head back to the car when something glittery in the middle of the pavement caught her eye. She crouched down to get a better look.

It was a tiny, pear-shaped crystal.