“A lot of vitamin B—and coffee,” Jackson said lightly.
In the back of the car, he quickly found Angela’s bag and handed it to Jordan. She found stretch pants and a T-shirt and even a pair of sneakers. The sneakers were a little big.
But she was grateful for whatever she could get, realizing her feet were burning from the barefoot running she’d been doing.
Jackson lifted the lid of a compartment in the back and then keyed in the code to the iron box there.
He had a Glock 19 and he handed her the gun and extra ammunition, then dug into another compartment for a vest.
Jordan donned everything quickly and met his eyes. “Let’s go.”
As they headed toward the building, the scene became chaos with women running from the hallways, directed by officers from the SWAT team. They were all clad in white sheath-like garments, like dolls in matching gowns.
Like prison garments. The captives appeared to be clean and healthy—but then again, if you were selling human beings, you’d want them to be in pristine condition.
Some were screaming, some were crying, some were laughing and choking at the same time, running into the arms of whomever they could find.
But amid the throng leaving, Jordan noted a woman who stood out. She was attractive but at least fortysomething—older than the others.
She was not wearing a sheath. She wasn’t running toward any of the EMTs or rescue vehicles, but rather looking to the end of the alley. And she was looking furtively over her shoulder, trying to be casual but moving quickly.
Was the woman one of the captors? Not technically a captor, but a warden of sorts perhaps? Maybe the person who dressed the girls up in simple shifts, saw that they were clean and hygienic, ensuring the quality of the product they were reduced to being?
“Jackson!” Jordan called, pointing and turning to take off in pursuit.
The woman stopped, turned back, realized she had been spotted, and started to run. She was fast.
Jordan was faster. She hadn’t trained for a marathon for nothing.
Still, the woman made it to the end of the alley and swung around at the edge of the building, heading toward another warehouse.
But by then, Jordan was on her.
She tackled the woman, and they went down hard on the pavement near large dumpsters just around the building’s edge.
The woman screamed and thrashed wildly.
“I thought you were helping! I thought you were rescuing me. What is the matter with you? Let me up! I will sue! Police brutality!” the woman screamed.
She had neatly coiffed blond hair, and much of it was now sticking up in the air. Her makeup was perfection. She was furious, spitting as she spoke.
“I’m not a cop, so no police brutality,” Jordan said. “And I’m afraid we’ll have questions for you all. Grateful to be rescued? Oh, I don’t think so; grateful people say thank you. They don’t run.”
Jackson reached her side. “Well, well,” he muttered, hunkering down to leave Jordan free to rise as he took the woman into his custody, rolling her over to cuff her with her wrists behind her back. “Look who we have here.”
“You know her?” Jordan asked, surprised.
“Marie Donnell. She did a few years in a federal lockup. Back at it, Marie? Only you’re not renting out your wares these days—you’re selling them,” Jackson said.
“No!” the woman raged. “I was a prisoner this time. How dare you? You can’t use past crimes in court. Besides, I was taken by these awful people. I was a prisoner.”
“A prisoner in a thousand-dollar suit while the others are in linen gowns, huh?” Jackson said. “Ah, Marie, come on. Detective Flannery is here—I’m going to give him the pleasure of dealing with you.”
Jordan didn’t know Detective Flannery. He was apparently with the local police, and she assumed that Marie Donnell knew him from years before.
Whatever. Jackson had the situation covered.
“I’m going in,” Jordan said.
Jackson nodded.
“Good eye,” he told her, leading Marie Donnell away.
As she headed back toward the building at a sprint, she could hear the woman cursing Jackson with one breath and swearing her innocence with the next.
Jordan headed into the building. One of the SWAT officers was directing law enforcement the best he could amid the fleeing women. He motioned Jordan to the right, reminding her, “We need the captors alive. Do your best.”
She nodded. Do your best.
That meant she should try to take the captors and caretakers here under arrest; but if they were shooting at her, hell yes, she’d have to shoot back.
She took the direction he had indicated. Officers were breaking in doors along the way.
Many of the rooms were empty.
But ahead of her, a door was ajar; she slid against the wall and looked in.
There was a woman wearing a shift on the bed, but she wasn’t alone. Patrick was with her. He had ripped up a sheet and was creating a tourniquet for the woman’s leg. It appeared she had been shot.
He must’ve heard Jordan because he looked up. “We need an EMT in here, pronto!”
She turned and shouted to one of the officers in the hallway. Jackson had supplied her well, but she didn’t have a phone or a radio on her.
She hurried back into the room and saw there was a man down on the floor. Patrick had shot him and kicked his gun into the far corners of the room.
“Can I help?” she asked.
“I think I’ve got it until we can get an EMT. He nicked an artery, I think. We need someone in here fast. This hall should be clear. I’m afraid to carry her out and start the bleeding up again,” he said.
His attention was on the victim until he suddenly swung around, warning, “He’s conscious!”
Jordan turned quickly. The man on the floor had bled heavily, but his fingers were twitching, and he was reaching down to his ankle.
She saw he carried a second weapon. One he was trying to reach.
He just might have the strength to pull it out.
When his fingers curled around the butt of the small gun and shakily brought it up to aim straight at her, she got off a shot removing a few of his fingers.
He roared in pain and stretched out, convulsed, then lay still.
Jordan hurried to his side.
They were going to need more than one EMT.
* * *
The operation stretched into the night. In all, there had been forty-four captives in the warehouse, mostly attractive young women, but a few teenage boys had been held captive as well. A few of the captors had been taken alive, but they’d fought so furiously that most were in the hospital. The captives had all been questioned. Many had been runaways or sex workers, but one young woman was a hairdresser on vacation in the Capitol. And Jordan’s so-called “Valley girl” friends had been college students, enjoying a break.