warm. Sleep.
“A federal agent,” I said calmly, “never surrenders her weapon.”
“I will shoot her!” he shouted, looking desperate. Desperate wasn’t good. Desperate people do stupid things. Desperate people pull triggers.
“No, you won’t. Because your body drops one second after hers does. Something you should know: I took top score in my marksmanship classes at Quantico. If you’re thinking I’ll miss? Don’t. The best, smartest thing you can do for yourself is surrender.”
Jessie sagged in his arms, out cold. I could hear my blood pounding in my veins, pumping to the tune of Victoria’s chant. Down on his knees, Emmanuel laughed.
“Quite a dilemma, Agent. If you don’t shoot my friend Victoria, you’ll fall prey to her enchantment in short order. But if you do turn your gun to aim at her, well, my other friend will shoot your partner, then you. What to do, what to do?”
“Last chance,” I said, even as my vision started to blur. It felt like the sights on my gun were swinging slowly, rocking like a cradle, swimming away from me. I had once chance: shoot the gunman, hope he didn’t reflex pull his own trigger, then spin and take out Victoria.
In other words, no chance at all. Too much risk, too easy for Jessie to catch a bullet. I could save myself, sure, but not at that price. We’d both survive this, or neither of us would.
That was the last thought that passed through my mind as my pistol slipped from my numb, slack fingers and I crashed to the concrete floor.
Iwoke to pain. My arms burned, wrists ached, shoulders pulled taut. As my vision slowly swam back, images unblurring and becoming one, I understood why.
They’d hung us from the old conveyor belt. Scratchy, stiff rope coiled around my wrists, tossed up and over the curve of an old, rusty meat hook. I dangled, helpless, my toes draping about an inch over the stained concrete floor. Jessie faced me, about ten feet away and hanging from her own hook, her head shaking as she slowly came to.
They’d taken our jackets, our guns and holsters, everything in our pockets, piling it all on the plastic picnic table. Emmanuel looked over at us and smacked his lips.
“Ah, look who’s awake. Well, Agents”—he glanced down at the Bureau ID cards in his hand—“Temple and Black, I’m going to have to ask your patience. We have a very important customer about to arrive, and dealing with you will have to wait. You’ll get your turn, no worries. Fredo, get the door, please?”
Fredo—the surviving gunman—ambled out of sight. I took a deep breath, as deep as I could manage.
“Clever scam,” I said. “You put the word out that you offer fix-up services for criminals, totally off the books. They show up here, desperate for help, only to discover your real business: selling bootleg organs. This is a chop shop for human beings.”
Victoria smiled, beyond pleased with herself. “We’re performing a community service. We take beautiful, healthy organs from human garbage and bequeath them to needy people. Deserving people. Wealthy people.”
“And not all of our patients end up on the chopping block,” Emmanuel added. “Our connection to the Detroit Partnership is quite real. Can’t go carving up mafiosi, after all. They have powerful friends. I suppose you could say that made men get our white-glove treatment, while un -made men get . . . un-made .”
“We’ve got powerful friends, too, fucker,” Jessie grunted.
He shook his head, gloating. “I’m afraid the FBI is quite incapable of understanding us, let alone pursuing us. Do you even know why you fell asleep? I imagine you must think it was some sort of gas, or a toxin. But what if . . . what if, my dears, I told you it was a magical spell?”
I caught Jessie’s look and snorted. “Magic? You’re crazy. No such thing.”
“Poor, poor dears.” He sounded genuinely regretful. “I’m afraid you’ve stumbled into a world you know nothing about and cannot
“A federal agent,” I said calmly, “never surrenders her weapon.”
“I will shoot her!” he shouted, looking desperate. Desperate wasn’t good. Desperate people do stupid things. Desperate people pull triggers.
“No, you won’t. Because your body drops one second after hers does. Something you should know: I took top score in my marksmanship classes at Quantico. If you’re thinking I’ll miss? Don’t. The best, smartest thing you can do for yourself is surrender.”
Jessie sagged in his arms, out cold. I could hear my blood pounding in my veins, pumping to the tune of Victoria’s chant. Down on his knees, Emmanuel laughed.
“Quite a dilemma, Agent. If you don’t shoot my friend Victoria, you’ll fall prey to her enchantment in short order. But if you do turn your gun to aim at her, well, my other friend will shoot your partner, then you. What to do, what to do?”
“Last chance,” I said, even as my vision started to blur. It felt like the sights on my gun were swinging slowly, rocking like a cradle, swimming away from me. I had once chance: shoot the gunman, hope he didn’t reflex pull his own trigger, then spin and take out Victoria.
In other words, no chance at all. Too much risk, too easy for Jessie to catch a bullet. I could save myself, sure, but not at that price. We’d both survive this, or neither of us would.
That was the last thought that passed through my mind as my pistol slipped from my numb, slack fingers and I crashed to the concrete floor.
Iwoke to pain. My arms burned, wrists ached, shoulders pulled taut. As my vision slowly swam back, images unblurring and becoming one, I understood why.
They’d hung us from the old conveyor belt. Scratchy, stiff rope coiled around my wrists, tossed up and over the curve of an old, rusty meat hook. I dangled, helpless, my toes draping about an inch over the stained concrete floor. Jessie faced me, about ten feet away and hanging from her own hook, her head shaking as she slowly came to.
They’d taken our jackets, our guns and holsters, everything in our pockets, piling it all on the plastic picnic table. Emmanuel looked over at us and smacked his lips.
“Ah, look who’s awake. Well, Agents”—he glanced down at the Bureau ID cards in his hand—“Temple and Black, I’m going to have to ask your patience. We have a very important customer about to arrive, and dealing with you will have to wait. You’ll get your turn, no worries. Fredo, get the door, please?”
Fredo—the surviving gunman—ambled out of sight. I took a deep breath, as deep as I could manage.
“Clever scam,” I said. “You put the word out that you offer fix-up services for criminals, totally off the books. They show up here, desperate for help, only to discover your real business: selling bootleg organs. This is a chop shop for human beings.”
Victoria smiled, beyond pleased with herself. “We’re performing a community service. We take beautiful, healthy organs from human garbage and bequeath them to needy people. Deserving people. Wealthy people.”
“And not all of our patients end up on the chopping block,” Emmanuel added. “Our connection to the Detroit Partnership is quite real. Can’t go carving up mafiosi, after all. They have powerful friends. I suppose you could say that made men get our white-glove treatment, while un -made men get . . . un-made .”
“We’ve got powerful friends, too, fucker,” Jessie grunted.
He shook his head, gloating. “I’m afraid the FBI is quite incapable of understanding us, let alone pursuing us. Do you even know why you fell asleep? I imagine you must think it was some sort of gas, or a toxin. But what if . . . what if, my dears, I told you it was a magical spell?”
I caught Jessie’s look and snorted. “Magic? You’re crazy. No such thing.”
“Poor, poor dears.” He sounded genuinely regretful. “I’m afraid you’ve stumbled into a world you know nothing about and cannot
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