Choke Point

The lat/long saved as “3” on the stolen GPS is due north, across the river. There is no easy or quick way to reach the remote waterfront location.

He knows the knot shop girls who have served out their usefulness are resold through Kreiger to Asian markets. Connecting the information they have, he assumes there are three rendezvous locations for the girls’ transfer. On this night, according to the message Kreiger received, it’s to be number 3.

Knox rides the motorcycle he left near the Keizersgracht houseboat several nights before. It feels much longer than that. He doesn’t dare go within half a kilometer of the desolate spit of industrialized waterfront for fear of forcing an abort. The roads become unpredictable once he’s off the major thoroughfare. Interrupted by water and bridges, dead-ending at piers and docks, Knox hangs a U-turn and seeks an observation point.

He finds it thirty minutes later: the Noorderlicht Café, a bizarre greenhouse affair on a dock in the middle of nowhere. It specializes in organic, farm-raised meats and vegetables that cater to the platinum-card set despite its docklands location. It couldn’t be better situated for Knox’s needs: it sits on the western bank of a man-made inlet across from the spit of sand and cranes indicated by the GPS’s coordinates. A five-minute swim, but at least a ten-minute motorcycle ride. The rendezvous location is so well chosen as to madden him. No way in or out without being spotted, and a long way from anywhere.

To make matters worse: the restaurant closes in an hour, leaving him with time to kill. One hundred meters inland, the canal is lined with trees on both sides.

His mind made up, he orders the skate with creamy polenta and a stein of lager.

The last supper.

—

THE NOORDERLICHT CLOSES AT TEN, an hour before the rendezvous. A kind waitress serves him a beer beneath an outside umbrella as the restaurant lights go out and the last of the kitchen staff heads home. The sky is broken cloud and light from a half moon. The flashing lights of jet aircraft play hide-and-seek up there.

Knox wasn’t made for stakeouts. Once he might have had the capacity for such boredom, but roadside IEDs and Tommy’s condition have advanced his path down the time line. He can handle watching the occasional football game with friends. But most television leaves him antsy and with the feeling he’s wasting his life. There are probably meds he should be taking. For now, the beer will have to do.

Worried about the outcome of the next hour, Knox checks the time difference and calls Tommy.

“I always know it’s you because how long the number is,” Tommy says, answering.

Knox doesn’t need to ask “How’s it going?” because the tone and focus tell him the new meds are working better.

“Just called to say hi.”

“Hi.”

“Miss you.”

“And how,” Tommy says. “Hey, we’re up six percent for the month over last year.”

Maybe it’s the fatigue, maybe that they’re carrying on a real conversation, but Knox chokes up. Wipes his eyes as a sky full of lights blurs.

“Remember that trip to the Wisconsin lakes?”

“Boy, do I. With Mom and Dad.”

“Yeah,” Knox says. “I’m looking out on water like that, only there are lights and stuff, but it reminds me of you and me sitting out there on the dock.”

“The mosquitos.”

“No shit.”

Tommy laughs. “Website traffic is up nearly twenty percent. The Google ads.”

“Good deal.”

“I was thinking . . . You think I could maybe get a Segway? You don’t need a driver’s license and it’s not like I’m going to use one of those sit-down things the fat people drive.”

“Worth looking into.” Knox can’t believe the progress. It’s like he was never diagnosed. A bigger part of him knows it won’t last and he hates himself for not just thinking it but knowing it.

“You remember the girls across the lake?”

“If we’d been caught, we’d have been locked up as pervs.” Knox has to hold the phone away, and he gags himself with his free hand and thinks of all the bum luck. That his kid brother had to go off the rails. That the world is an unfair place. That he can’t bring himself to be Tommy’s caretaker and how he knows that’s wrong and how it’s never going to change. His selfishness creates this debt between them that cannot be bridged.

“Are you crying?”

“Windy here, is all. I should probably go. Just wanted to hear your voice.”

“This is my voice.”

“I like hearing it.”

“You must be tired.”

“Very.”

“So come home.”

There’s the word. “Working on it.”

“Work harder.”

“Later.”

“Later.”

The red and white lines of taillights and headlights streak across a bridge in the far distance. Container ships and canal boats jump into frame and disappear. Directly across from him, nothing. The lumberyard—or is it concrete beams or steel?—sits as the spindle on a phonograph; the world spins around it. Knox enters a meditative state, part coffee, part beer, part full belly, part winsome recollection of what he’s left behind in the red-light district café.

He swallows deeply, fearful he’s left the import/export business behind as well; that, like a drug dealer, Dulwich has dared him to sample the product and now he can’t quit. As a man who eschewed “causes,” he’s frightfully close to caring. This final chapter isn’t about justice or Fahiz or Kreiger. It’s about Maja.

At 10:35, he removes the Scottevest along with his shoes, his wallet and the change from his pocket. He wraps it all in a ball and stashes it near the motorcycle. He leaves his watch on, empties the plastic takeaway bag holding his leftovers, and wraps the mobile and the handgun. All of it automatic, like a painter laying out his tubes and preparing his palette.

The water is colder than he expected. He’s allowed himself enough time to swim slowly, holding the wrapped phone and gun at head height, soundless and serpentine. He’s chosen a crossing deep into the inlet, away from the yard’s extended docks. He arrives at a stand of trees clinging to a muddy bank, beyond which rise stacks of logs and concrete light poles. He shivers in the copse, awaiting warmth, then steals among the stacks, crouching and moving stealthily, looking for the best spot to light. His feet are tender against the splintered wood and chunks of bark, an unexpected liability.

The yard holds three massive rows of timbers running north/south with two wide dirt aisles between them; these lead to two more shorter piles running east/west and a wider dirt area that feeds a one-lane bridge wide enough for a tug. The bridge connects to a barren man-made island twenty meters square, off of which are tied several empty barges. Knox assumes the boarding will take place off the island; it’s a location well chosen for its exposure. Having returned to the cover of the trees, Knox looks for opportunity. Any vehicles or boats headed toward the yard will be spotted well in advance of their arrival, giving the human smugglers time to kill the girls and sink their bodies. Anyone trying to cross the bridge in an attack is defenseless and vulnerable—a sitting duck.

And what if they don’t use the island? Another two empty barges are secured in the inlet between the island and the yard. Loading from these barges would be more difficult to see from the café side of the canal.

His watch’s hands glow green in the dark: 10:45. He conducts additional reconnaissance, realizing his mistake. He can hear Dulwich schooling him, can feel the choking heat of the desert: “Watch for the choke point, or it’ll be the last thing you see.”

It is only with leverage he’s able to budge a stray timber from the swollen grass that cradles it. Once it’s out onto the asphalt, it rolls easily as he applies an iron pipe to its side. The log waddles left, then right, refusing to go straight and consuming unnecessary time to keep it on track.

He phones Brower, waking him. Recites the lat/long, having no idea of the street names or how to explain the area.

“Wait for us,” Brower says.

“If you don’t make this public, I can deliver the ringleader.” He ends the call; he knows better than to trust the police’s handling of hostage situations. It’s why a company like Rutherford Risk is kept so busy. Has no idea if he can deliver what he’s promised, but it was all he could think to say.

Knox gets the log rolling with his arms, still battling its wandering.

A blink of white light to his right through the trees. One last push of the log; it partially blocks the entrance, angling in, pointing toward the open yard. Knox moves to the hidden side of a warehouse office building. Is finally able to look at his work.

It’s pathetic. He might as well have written a sign declaring his intentions. With no time to correct it, he hurries around the far side of the warehouse and into the lee of a storage trailer. He’d like to make the stand of trees by the gate, but there’s no time.

The approaching vehicle slows. It’s a dark minivan, the kind that looks like it’s come out of a metal crusher, forcing it high and narrow. On the water, Knox sees a boat slowing toward the yard’s canal. They have this timed to the minute, suggesting radio or cell phone communication.

The van rounds the turn into the yard and the driver brakes immediately upon seeing the log.

Knox hears the driver going for reverse. It’s too far away—ten meters or more—forcing Knox out into the open, into the headlights. No choice. If the driver gets the van turned around, Knox will be shooting into the back of the vehicle—and into the hostages.

He braces his hands against the corner of the building, sights the pistol and pops off two rounds through the driver’s side of the windshield. The angle is wrong for the passenger side, exposing too much of the van’s interior, should Knox miss.

The van continues backing up, but at idle speed, indicating that the driver is impaired or dead.

Knox rounds the corner in a squat. He moves to his left to get a better angle as an arm protrudes from the passenger side. The telltale white muzzle flash commands Knox to go limp. His right shoulder flashes hot and his fingers release the handgun.

He starts rolling before he ever hits the ground. Hears three more reports, all evenly timed, the product of a cool and collected shooter. Rolls toward the van, requiring the shooter to come up out of his seat to acquire a shot. If the man isn’t wearing a seat belt, Knox is dead. But he hears the restraint engage, a man curse in Dutch, and before the gun discharges at close range, Knox stands behind the open window, his hand on the man’s throat, crushing his windpipe.

The weapon appears, forcing Knox to release the man’s throat and go for his wrist. As it discharges into the sky, the door behind Knox slides open and Knox spins—one hand battling against the weapon, his left grabbing for the sliding door’s handle and pulling the door shut. The sliding door thumps, not closing fully, and a man screams from inside, his forearm crushed.

A semi-automatic holds eight to ten rounds. This weapon has fired five. Six, as another flies high. Knox creeps his hand up the man’s wrist. The shooter mistakes this for an effort to angle the gun away; he pushes against Knox, who allows it to move, shortening his reach to the trigger guard. Knox pulls the man’s index finger twice—two shots out through the windshield. Then swings his fist, crushing the man’s nose.

His left arm is not as strong as his right. The man in the back is winning the tug-of-war with the sliding door. Knox applies the same strategy: he runs to his left, pulling the door open, assisting his opponent. He reaches in, grabs for clothing and pulls.

He throws a small girl onto the asphalt. The mistake stuns him. Freezes him, half turned in her direction.

A gunshot from behind. Knox spins and drops as a body falls on top of him. The driver was not killed. He’s fired a round into his own man who was moving to jump Knox. The jumper has a golf-ball-sized hole in his upper chest. The exit wound of a hollow point. Holding the jumper as a shield, knowing the hollow points won’t pass through him with killing velocity, Knox carries him into the van, pushing him toward the wounded driver, who fires two more rounds into his colleague.

The passenger turns in his seat, sticks the barrel of his weapon to Knox’s temple and pulls the trigger. It clicks. Knox pounds a fist into the man’s face, flattening his nose for a second time, delivering the man unconscious. He heaves the dying man forward into the driver like a stuffed doll and the two wrestle with the wounded man between them. The van’s horn sounds as Knox dislodges the weapon, the driver weak from taking one of Knox’s two rounds.

The girls flee the van behind Knox.

“Wait!” Knox calls out in Dutch.

The driver is stubborn. The now-dead man between them sinks out of the way and the two pummel each other, Knox pounding the sticky wet area in the man’s chest until at last he goes limp.

Knox collects the weapons and tosses them out of the van.

The boat has turned and is heading away. Knox slumps down onto the asphalt, knowing he must make the swim before the police arrive. He calls out, but the girls have fled. Screams Maja’s name, implores her to come back. But the girls have scattered into the dark, putting as much distance behind them as possible. They are left to find their way back into the city and be reabsorbed into another sweatshop or brothel. The lucky ones like Maja will find their way home; though what, if any, promise that holds remains uncertain. Marta, and recruiters just like her, litter every street corner.

Exhausted, limping, he makes his way to the water as police cars close in, slips into the blackness like a crocodile and swims quietly for the far bank.