Note to readers: While there's not a lot of sex in this chapter, it sets the scene for Chapter 26, which is the last chapter of the story.
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Spy Games
Chapter 25
Downtown Atlanta traffic delayed our arrival at the Russian's hotel by almost an hour. It took us another thirty minutes to reconnoiter the area, plan our ingress route and plot two emergency egress paths.
Even though this was something Flanagan and I had done numerous times, we usually knew the exact location of our targets. In this case, all we had were five room numbers ... two on the first floor and three on the fourth floor. We were fairly sure that there were only two Russians left, having already killed Popov and two of his bodyguards, but we didn't know which rooms they were in. And most importantly, since they only booked five rooms, where were the five Russian women? Had each Russian man paired up with one of the girls or had they already turned the girls over to the white slavers?
I left Janis and Raven in the Suburban. Janis was armed with a stun gun and a tranquilizer dart. Raven was still sleeping, although not for much longer. The pills we gave her were designed to knock her out for six hours and we were almost at that point. Sixty-nine, Flanagan and I would handle the two Russians.
Since busting down five hotel room doors was a non-starter, and not wanting to risk knocking and have the Russian's ID us through the peep hole, I spent my first ten minutes in the hotel trying to locate a maid. A pleasantly plump Latino lady was pushing a cart of linen down the third-floor hallway when I assumed the role of a slightly inebriated guest who had not only lost his room key but also forgot his room number. Addressing her in my best drunken Spanish, I explained my predicament. After consulting with the front desk, she confirmed I was in the wrong hotel. To thank her for her trouble, I slipped a hundred-dollar bill into her pocket, kissed her hand and stole her master key.
Armed with the master key, Sixty-nine gave a quick knock on the first possible door, said "housekeeping" and moved aside as Flanagan and I stormed into an empty room. We repeated the drill until we found both Russian pilots drinking vodka and watching "The Dukes of Hazard" in the third room we entered.
"Call out and you die," I told them in Russian while we pointed silenced 9 mm pistols at their foreheads.
"We're not here to hurt you," I continued. "If I wanted to, you'd already be dead. Cooperate and you fly home tomorrow morning. Resist and you'll never taste another drop of vodka."
"What is it that you want?"
"The girls. The five Russian women you were traveling with."
"You are too late. They are already gone."
"Gone where?" I asked.
"We don't know," he shrugged. "We take them to designated spot, lock them in truck and leave."
"You don't know who picks them up?"
"We don't see them. They don't see us. Very convenient. Very secure. It's good business practice."
"When did you do this? When did you lock the girls in the truck?"
"Not long ago. Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. They tell us to put girls in truck after 8:30."
"It's 9:00 now. What do you think?" I asked Flanagan.
"It's worth a try," he said, reading my mind.
"Listen up you two. Here's how this is going to work. The five of us are going to walk out of here like we're old buddies going to a bar. Once we're in the parking lot we'll get in my vehicle, and you will direct me to this truck. If you haven't already figured it out, Alek Popov and your two friends are dead. Think about it. If the three of them couldn't take us when they were armed with two AK's and a nine mil, the two of you unarmed don't stand a chance. The only way you get out of this alive is to do exactly what we say."
The two men looked at each other, shrugged -- like getting kidnapped was an everyday occurrence -- and walked towards the door.
We had purposely parked our vehicles in a dark rear corner of a rather expansive lot. Once out of view from the street and hotel, I covered the two Russians with my pistol while Flanagan secured their hands behind their backs with zip ties. We put one Russian in the front passenger seat and the second in the seat directly behind his buddy. I climbed into the driver's seat and Flanagan rode in the seat behind me, giving him a clear view and field of fire of both our Russian guests. Sixty-nine joined the other two girls in the Suburban. Janis drove while Sixty-nine kept an eye on Raven as they followed us.
"Truck is in park on other side of airport," the Russian said. I think his name was Leonid, not that I gave a damn. "Park closed at dark. We use dirt road to get in."
He directed me to a barely discernable access road which wound around a couple of deserted picnic areas until we came to a small clearing by a lake. It was a beautiful view; a full moon was just peaking above the tree line casting a sliver of light across the still water. But there was no truck in sight.
"Shit. We're too late."
"No," Leonid said. "It is there, in those trees." He pointed to a stand of pines off to our right and, after my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw just a glint of moonlight reflecting off a shiny surface. It was the windshield of a medium sized truck. The type thousands of people rented every day to move furniture around town, baked goods to restaurants or -- hopefully not too often -- kidnapped women to a living hell.
"You assholes stay put while we check out the truck," I told the Russians.
There were three possible scenarios. The white slave traders could have already taken the girls and left the truck behind, they could still be enroute or -- the worst prospect -- they could be watching us from either the cab of the truck or a hidden vantage point in the trees.
Knowing the drill, Flanagan got out of the van first, holstered his pistol, hefted his AR-18 assault rifle and took a position that allowed him to cover our van, the truck and the girl's SUV (which had followed us into the clearing). Using our standard com link, he signaled when ready and then I cautiously approached the truck.
The cab was empty but there was a small key prominently placed on the driver's seat. Picking up the key, I made a cursory search around the truck and, not seeing anything suspicious, went to the rear door. As I expected, the key fit the padlock which secured the roll up door to the cargo bay.
The muffled cries and pounding of feet against the floor as I unlatched the door gave me hope. What I saw when I rolled the door open and turned on my flashlight both cheered and disgusted me.
Five girls were sitting on the floor of the truck with their backs against the steel walls. Two on the right, two on the left, one leaning against the front. Their arms were stretched over their heads and secured with tie wraps to rings normally used to tie off cargo. Each girl's ankles were connected to their adjacent neighbors', spreading their legs wide apart in an exaggerated V. They wore simple scoop necked dresses which failed to hide their naked bottoms. Cloth bags covered their heads so I couldn't immediately confirm they were the Russians, but their slender bodies and lily-white skin made me 99% sure.
