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  ALSO BY THE AUTHOR

  Novels

  Evil Hours

  Face Blind

  Sweetie’s Diamonds

  A Hard Day’s Death

  Dark Side of the Morgue

  Artifact of Evil

  Torment—A Love Story

  The Secrets on Chicory Lane

  The Black Stiletto Saga

  The Black Stiletto

  The Black Stiletto: Black & White

  The Black Stiletto: Stars & Stripes

  The Black Stiletto: Secrets & Lies

  The Black Stiletto: Endings & Beginnings

  The Black Stiletto: The Complete Saga (anthology)

  James Bond Novels

  Zero Minus Ten

  Tomorrow Never Dies (based on the screenplay)

  The Facts of Death

  High Time to Kill

  The World is Not Enough (based on the screenplay)

  DoubleShot

  Never Dream of Dying

  The Man with the Red Tattoo

  Die Another Day (based on the screenplay)

  The Union Trilogy (anthology)

  Choice of Weapons (anthology)

  Tie-In Novels

  Tom Clancy’s Splinter Cell (as “David Michaels”)

  Tom Clancy’s Splinter Cell—Operation Barracuda (as “David Michaels”)

  Metal Gear Solid (based on the videogame)

  Metal Gear Solid 2—Sons of Liberty (based on the videogame)

  Hunt Through Napoleon’s Web (as “Gabriel Hunt”)

  Homefront—the Voice of Freedom (co-written with John Milius)

  Hitman: Damnation (based on the videogame series)

  Dying Light—Nightmare Row (based on the videogame series)

  Non-Fiction and Miscellany

  The James Bond Bedside Companion

  Jethro Tull—Pocket Essential

  Thrillers—100 Must-Reads (contributor)

  Tied-In: The Business, History, and Craft of Media Tie-In Writing (contributor)

  Mystery Writers of America presents Ice Cold—Tales of Intrigue from the Cold War (co-editor, contributor)

  12+1: Twelve Thrillers and a Play (anthology)

  Copyright © 2018 by Raymond Benson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

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  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Brian Peterson

  Cover photo credit: iStockphoto

  Print ISBN: 978-1-5107-2987-2

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-2989-6

  Printed in the United States of America

  FOR MY FAMILY

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The author wishes to thank the following individuals for their help: Michael A. Black, Susanna Calkins, Herman Graf, Will Graham, Iryna Iakusheva, Kim Lim, Cynthia Manson, and, as always, my wife Randi Frank. Finally, I send a very big “thank you” to the folks at FBI Chicago.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  While most of the locations featured in this story exist, Lakeway, Michigan, is fictional. The organization Safe Haven is inspired by the many real not-for-profits that provide help for victims.

  1

  Early May

  So, you want to go to America?

  The man had a pleasant voice. Rich and deep, with a solid timbre. He reminded her of a nicer version of her father.

  “Yes,” she replied.

  After all, it’s what she’d dreamed of doing someday. At last she had a chance.

  It is an important decision, one you should carefully consider. It will change your life.

  “I know.”

  Yana, what is your family name?

  “Kravec.”

  Oh, that’s right, Borya told me. Forgive me.

  He was dressed sharply. A suit. He was in his forties, perhaps? Fifties? He vaguely resembled the American actor George Clooney. It was easy to talk to him.

  “Borya said you could get me a job.”

  The man nodded. Nikolai was his name. Yana liked him.

  That’s right. A girl like you, yes, I can get you a job in America. Beauty goes a long way in America. You’ll do just fine, believe me.

  They sat in the back of the club, near the rear employee entrance. Yana had only a few minutes left before she had to dance again.

  “What do I have to do?”

  We need to get a photo of you so we can get a passport made and prepare your visa. Everything legal.

  “How long will it take?”

  He shrugged. A week. No more than two.

  Yana wasn’t stupid. She knew gold didn’t grow on trees. She may have been from a small village, but she was pretty sure she could distinguish the swindlers from the honest businessmen. This was a pretty sweet deal. Could she trust him? Should she trust him? He exhibited an appearance that seemed to say he had a lot of money. Many of the Bratva types she had met—the Russian organized crime members—also wore designer clothing and smelled of wealth. Nikolai, however, possessed a softer demeanor. He was different from the toughs who occasionally visited the club.

  “Tell me again about the job. Who will I be working for?”

  At first you’ll be a waitress or a house cleaner in New Jersey, maybe New York. Everyone starts there. But then you’re free to pursue whatever you want. Some of the girls travel west to Chicago or Los Angeles. If you marry a wealthy American man, well, you will be set for life.

  “I’d like to be a fashion model.”

  You certainly have the qualifications, Yana. I say that with respect. You are a very beautiful girl. Our people in America know how to get you seen by members of that industry. It happens all the time.

  Yana was well aware that she was attractive to men. Twenty years old, tall, slender, brunette, and quite pretty. By the time she had gone through puberty, she knew how to use her looks to get what she wanted. Unfortunately, in the tiny village of Chudovo, there weren’t many opportunities in life other than getting married to a rustic, uneducated laborer and working on a farm for the rest of her years. Yana couldn’t stomach the selection of eligible bachelors in Chudovo. She wasn’t about to throw away her dreams for one of them. As soon as she summoned the courage, Yana left home, went to the big city of St. Petersburg, and found a room in a boardinghouse on the southern side of the dark Neva River, complete with a view of the stately dome of St. Isaac’s Cathedral. The most Westernized city in Russia was a vast onslaught of culture, art, fashion, and excitement, a metropolis that, for centuries, had yearned to be a part of the West.

  The fight with her parents had been the prime motivator. They couldn’t understand that she had ambitions beyond the dead end of her rural village. Her mother had argued nonstop when Yana announced she was leaving. Her father had said nothing. He was drunk. She hadn’t bothered to contact them since arriving in St. Petersburg. They could stew in their juices. Father with his daily vodka, Mother with her constant criticism. Just because Yana had been the f
irstborn of four children didn’t mean she always had to play surrogate parent. Would they even miss her? No. She believed her parents would only regret the loss of a servant who waited on them hand and foot.

  Wouldn’t they be surprised when they received a letter from America?

  Nikolai Babikov opened a folder containing illustrated brochures and an American women’s magazine, which he removed. He turned to a marked page and revealed photos of a gorgeous model in an advertisement.

  This is Tania. She is from Kiev. I go to Ukraine and help girls there, too. Tania got a job with the Ford Model Agency. I helped her cross the Atlantic just fourteen months ago. I told you, I’ve arranged for many girls to move to the United States. You’re not the only one who wants to leave Russia. I don’t blame you. There are no prospects for young people here.

  Yana had met Borya not long after her arrival in St. Petersburg. He was a handsome, burly bouncer at the cigarette smoke–filled Spy Bar, the trendy nightclub on Nevsky Prospect, just west of the Moyka River. As it was on the city’s main drag, not far from the Dumskaya Ulitsa area that was populated by students, the place attracted a young crowd that liked to dance. Bikini-clad girls employed by the club served as incentives for the customers by gyrating on tables in the style of 1960s Western spy movies. Go-go girls. The design of the Spy Bar was very retro, to match. More important, the booze was cheap.

  She had secured a position as a go-go girl within minutes. She was tempted to phone her parents and rub it in. Yana was working on the most cosmopolitan boulevard in all of St. Petersburg, where the road was lined with more chic American shops than any other street in Russia. Sadly, it was also populated by a higher number of homeless people.

  Frankly, the job paid rather poorly, but the earnings were consistent, and Yana did get to keep her own tips. It was all right. After a month on the job, though, she had mentioned to Borya that she wished she could run away to America. He told her about his friend Nikolai and the service he did for people who wanted to inexpensively emigrate to the US. Borya had said Nikolai was very good and had a one hundred percent success rate. Yana told him to set up the meeting.

  And here they were.

  “When do you want to take my picture?”

  How about right now? He removed a cell phone from his inside jacket pocket. Stand up, your back against the wall.

  “Is there enough light?”

  Yes.

  He took several shots.

  What nights do you work here?

  “Every night but Sunday.”

  I will return when I have the papers. You can leave at the drop of a hat? It’s not like making a reservation on United Airlines. The exit window is tiny. Big Port is a busy place. It’s the busiest port in the country. You have to be in the right place at the right time. You’ll be saving a lot of money by doing this. If you tried to leave the country the normal way, there would be all kinds of problems. This way, you’ll have a work visa. It’s called H-2B. You can look it up on the Internet.

  Her break was over. Yana stood and held out a hand. “All right. Let’s do it.”

  Nikolai grasped her hand. I will be in touch. Remember—

  He held a finger to his lips.

  —don’t talk about it to anyone. We could get in trouble.

  “I won’t.”

  The man nodded, smiled, and bowed slightly. Then he said Do svidaniya and left.

  Yana, her insides tingling with a sudden nervousness, went back to the club floor, climbed on her table, and began to dance to the Beatles’ recording of “Twist and Shout.”

  The world was about to change for Yana Kravec. Everything would be better in America.

  2

  Late May

  There goes the free weekend, Annie thought as the phone on the desk rang at six, the Friday before Memorial Day. It happened just as she had risen from her cluttered desk at the FBI Chicago field office, ready to shut down her computer, call it a day, and enjoy a full, long weekend ahead with no cases to work. A vacation of sorts.

  The caller ID indicated it was the SSA.

  “Hey, John,” she answered.

  “Is this Special Agent Annie Marino?”

  She smiled. “No, she’s left for the day. She’s going to be gone all weekend. Completely out of touch. She’s shutting off her cell phone and won’t look at it again until Tuesday morning. But if you want to leave a message, I’ll see that she gets it.”

  Supervisory Special Agent John Gladden replied, “She’s gone? Why, it’s only six o’clock! Special Agents work until at least ten on Fridays before a three-day weekend. I guess I’ll just have to demote her. Make sure she never has a tap dance class ever again. Have her shuffle paper for a week or something.”

  “Ha. That’s what I’ve been doing for two full days. And I’ll quit the FBI before I stop going to tap class. What do you want, John?”

  “No big deal. At least I don’t think so. Maybe. You need to get in touch with Police Chief Bill Daniel in Lakeway, Michigan.”

  “Michigan?”

  “Yeah, Newaygo County. I know it’s not our territory, being Chicago and all, but I think they’ve got something there that will interest you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A body. White female, unidentified as of yet, early twenties. Not sure of the details, but the chief alerted the Bureau when he came to the conclusion that she was probably trafficked.”

  “Why doesn’t Detroit handle it?”

  “They are. A Special Agent Harris Caruthers in VC-2 in the Detroit office is advising on the case.” Violent Crime-2 was the same unit Annie was in. Her squad, Civil Rights, fell under VC-2. “Turns out the vic has one of your tattoos.”

  That got her attention. “The bear claws?”

  “Yep. On the neck, below the right ear. Just like before.”

  “Huh. I was wondering when we’d see another one. What do you want me to do?”

  “Call Caruthers.” The SSA gave her the agent’s cell number. “See if this is related to those other cases you were working on.”

  “I will. Thanks.”

  “It’s probably not pressing enough that it’ll ruin your weekend.”

  “That remains to be seen. I’ll call him. You have a good weekend.”

  “Thanks, you too.” He hung up.

  Annie stared at the number she’d scrawled on the notepad. Should she call now or wait until Tuesday morning?

  The vic has one of your tattoos.

  Nope. It couldn’t wait. She dialed the number.

  “Agent Caruthers.”

  “Hi, this is SA Annie Marino in the Chicago FO. I’m in the Civil Rights Squad. I understand you have a human trafficking case there in Michigan?”

  “Yeah, thanks for calling. I know Rick Perrin, he’s in your squad, isn’t he?”

  “No, Rick’s in VC-1, but I know him.” Violent Crime-1 was the most populous unit in the Bureau. Those folks handled serial murder, rape, theft, kidnapping, and other examples of the “hard stuff.” VC-2 often worked with VC-1, as well as with the three Residential Agencies in the north, south, and west suburbs of Chicago.

  “I was talking to Rick earlier today, and he suggested I get in touch with you. He and I have worked together a lot on cases that cross the state line.”

  “How can I help you?”

  “I’m here in the police station in Lakeway, Michigan. Rick told me about that thing you’re—I saw your request in the database to contact you if we ever came across someone with a tattoo of bear claws.”

  “That’s right. You’ve got something?”

  “The Bureau was called in by the chief of police to help the locals with what looks like a kidnapping and murder here, and I was the guy who drew the lucky number. A white female who appears to have been kidnapped and held against her will was subsequently killed in a car crash. She may have been already dead when the accident happened, because she was in the trunk of the car.”

  “Jesus, when was this?”

  “Two
days ago. The body’s still in the morgue. She had no identification. About nineteen or twenty years old.”

  “Who was driving the car?”

  “A guy named Vladimir Markov, with a Chicago address. He was killed in the accident, too.”

  “What happened?”

  “It was the middle of the night and it was raining hard. Markov was driving a 2010 Chrysler Sebring on Highway 82, not too far from Lakeway, but outside the city limits. It’s a county case, but it was caught by the police in Lakeway. It seems the car was headed for Chicago, but from where we don’t know. A bakery truck barreled toward them, and Markov skidded on the wet road. The truck plowed into the sedan. It was Markov’s fault, though, he was straddling the center line. Had a high blood alcohol level. The driver of the truck is all right.”

  “So the fact that she was in the trunk—”

  “—led the chief to believe she’d been kidnapped. I happen to think she was a victim of human trafficking. Chicago PD checked out Markov’s address. His ex lives there but claims not to have seen Markov in two years. I called Rick about it, and he told me I should talk to you, that it’s your squad. Anyway, she’s got the tattoo on her neck, just like you described.”

  Annie noted the time and said, “I’d like to see the body. You say she’s in the morgue in Lakeway?”

  “Actually the morgue’s in another town, but it’s close. I was planning to go back to Detroit on Sunday. Can you drive up tomorrow? It’s about three and a half hours from Chicago. I realize it’s Memorial Day weekend.”

  As she’d figured. It was the nature of the job, not relegated to Monday through Friday, nine to five. Sometimes she worked impossible hours. Luckily, the endless office paperwork contrasted with the field work, which was terribly interesting and, for Annie, something that had become a personal cause. Since this had something to do with the tattoo, the vision of a three-day vacation vanished with no remorse.

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll drive up in the morning. I can be there by, what, eleven, is that okay?”

  “Sure. I’ll meet you at the police station. I have your email, I’ll send you the details and the case file right now, and you can have a look at it this evening.”