The Vault of Hercules

Chapter 18

Three hours later Sam cruised into the night, his driving skills on autopilot as the street lights rapidly flashed by over his hands on the wheel. He didn’t even see the road, only what he was planning to do once he got to the seedy club. Inside, his body was tense. Butterflies in his belly were a sensation he hadn’t felt in a very long time, not since he was much younger. Getting accustomed to violence had its perks: it took the edge off the natural fear of dying. But Sam realized that having no fear was just as perilous in situations like these. The lack of fear easily caused carelessness and could ultimately spell disaster. Sam would have to play his cards really well.

When he turned into the lower lit area just west of the ill-reputed club, Sam started feeling calm. Dangerously calm. The narrow backstreets, overpopulated with parked cars and litter, already prepared him for the kind of place he was deliberately visiting. His plan was simple — find Hastings, ask where Valdi is, and when met with any obstacles, do what is necessary and get out.

Sam parked his old BMW two blocks from the establishment, keeping his presence there inconspicuous so that if things went crooked, they wouldn’t vandalize or destroy his wheels and foil his escape.

“Time to be someone else,” he announced to himself in the rear view mirror. Before he got out of his car he retrieved some hair gel from the glove compartment. From the trunk he took out a tracksuit jacket, something he would never be caught dead wearing. At the small Chinese shop in Livingston he’d purchased some trinkets to help him blend in. It wasn’t hard to do, as long as he looked like someone with too much money and too little taste.

Sam slicked back his hair and zipped the tracksuit jacket over his concealed gun. Gilded, cheap jewelry completed his look, adorning his chest and fingers in excess. Over the tracksuit jacket Sam wore his usual leather jacket because, quite frankly, he was freezing his ass off. He reckoned wearing a leather jacket with a tracksuit around here would not even be worthy of a frown.

“God, I hope Nina never sees me like this,” he whispered as he combed down the last of the stubborn shorter hair strands over his ears. He was impressed at his transformation, though. From the dark, little street where his car was parked he walked two blocks over to Eastern Block. At the door he was frisked by a giant Armenian ape who looked like he’d been smashed in the face a few times too many.

“You have a gun,” the bouncer announced when his fat fingers felt the hardness under Sam's clothing on his left short rib.

“Da, I’m from Romanian Bratva. For to protect my boss,” Sam answered in a hideous accent he construed as Romanian Gypsy.

“Bratva? They’re all here already,” the bouncer shrugged.

“I’m late. Call Papa Hastings here, now. He’ll know me — I’m Victor,” Sam insisted, playing his best Russian-villain-from-Romania character. God, I hope there is a Victor somewhere in their ranks, he thought behind his ruse of confidence. And I hope the others don't all know each other. I really don't want to die in Glasgow.

The big thug looked Sam up and down before deciding. “You go in, but you leave the gun.”

“I am protector. Must have gun! My boss not happy for protector with no gun,” Sam said imploringly.

“Give the gun or go home,” the ape persisted, pressing hard against Sam's chest, holding out the other hand.

Give him the fucking gun, his inner voice urged. At least you'd be able to get inside.

“By the way,” the bouncer laughed as he took the gun. “Your accent is terrible, my friend!”

After Sam relinquished his gun he was escorted by one of Hastings' men to join the supposed Bratva he was part of. The tension was nerve-wracking, yet delightful to the journalist who’d not gone undercover for over a decade. It was like the old days when he spied on drug cartels and arms smugglers. It turned out that this was a meeting between Valdi's alleged puppet master and Sam's supposed crew, which meant he’d walked into some form of negotiation. Once he knew who the other party was, he could effectively infiltrate the whole operation.

“This is Victor,” the escort announced. “He is late for meeting.”

The Bratva gathered in the small, smoky room gave Sam a long, suspicious leer. Having traveled together after meeting up with the Edinburgh arm of their organization, they all knew one another by now.

“He’s not one of us,” one of the lieutenants grunted, provoking a tense air of distrust where all the men clutched at their guns, just in case. Sam said nothing, because he had nothing in his arsenal. Now unarmed and compromised, there was no way out. He had properly stepped in it with the worst sort he could have pissed off. From opposite Papa Hastings, the leader of the Edinburgh faction rose from his chair. “It's okay, boys. I sent for him.”

Most of the men immediately stood back, while others took a bit longer to trust the word of the Edinburgh faction. “No problem,” he reiterated. “This is Victor. My personal security. Relax.”

Sam couldn’t believe his ears. Not that he was going to deny the godsend that just saved his balls by some surreal miracle, but it left him flabbergasted.

“Lower your weapons, lads,” Papa Hastings ordered. “You heard Mr. Krakow. Let's not spoil the evening, huh? We have some choice business to do here tonight.”

To Sam’s relief, Hastings' men complied. Thank God for that! he thought as he looked through the bunch to see if he could find Valdi among them. His mind hissed with suspense as he examined every shadowed face one by one to compare their features with that of the beast he’d seen in Norris' folders.

I’ve no clue how I got in here with all that bullshit about Bratvas and Romania. Christ, I really literally fluked my way in. How could they not call me on any of the shit I was talking? Sam wondered.

“How many can you bring us by November?” Hastings asked the Krakow character.

“Only thirteen so far. It’s difficult when we take them all in one country. Once we’re done in Scotland, I can give you more,” Krakow said. “But they’re all good quality, all under eighteen years old.”

Sam flinched inadvertently, recovering quickly before his fury was noticed. Clenching his fists in rage, he had to hold his tongue while he listened to ex-military men negotiating the abduction and sale of young women into prostitution, auctioning them off to fund their gun-smuggling organizations. It was especially repulsive to hear how they spoke of human beings as livestock and merchandise.

As he ran out of faces Sam became distraught. If Valdi could not be found here, all of Sam's efforts would have been in vain. To exacerbate matters, he was now on the radar of the people he intended to burn to the ground, leaving him in great peril. How would he explain himself to the group he was now associated with? The last face he examined looked nothing like Valdi, even without much scrutiny, so Sam's eyes kept wandering.

At once he looked right into the face of Krakow while the man was still negotiating. Sam's heart stopped. At first he thought the lighting in the room was playing on his perception, but he couldn’t deny that he knew the man seated opposite Hastings.

Oh my God! Sam exclaimed in his head. Paddy?

The thought was absurd, a play of ludicrous trickery so far-fetched that Sam almost thought he was legitimately hallucinating because of his guilt about indirectly causing Paddy's latest despair. Yet there he was in plain sight, talking about horrid things as if it were second nature.

Could he have had something to do with Amber's abduction? Sam dared wonder. Jesus, could he really be that twisted? I refuse to believe that he would allow his own daughter to get involved in his dealings, whether they were this vile or not.

Suddenly the fire alarm went off, causing a stampede in the disco and bar areas. The staff had their hands full trying to divert people while at the same time making sure that none of the patrons were from their competition, out to set the place on fire.

Around Sam, twenty-eight men simultaneously drew their weapons on one another.

“Wait!” Hastings shouted. He stood up. “Mario! Check if there is an actual fire or if someone just tripped the alarm! The rest of you, calm the fuck down!”

The lackey rushed out the door while an awkward suspense filled the atmosphere inside the small room where the meeting was taking place. Sam's heart slammed hard, but he was glad that he had at least one ally here — sort of. Bracing himself for a shoot-out, Sam's well-trained eye canvassed the immediate area for exits, windows with bars, trapdoors, and human obstacles.

He looked at Paddy, but his old friend did not stir or speak while they waited to ascertain the legitimacy of the fire alarm. It was as if every man held his breath to steady his barrel all at once. Mario came running back in, out of breath.

“The club is on fire! A huge fire! For real, Mr. Hastings!” he yelled, while billows of smoke enveloped him and rolled into the room.

“Close the fucking door!” Hastings shouted, but Mario stood fast a moment too long. His boss planted a bullet between his eyes and he dropped lifelessly to the floor. “I said, close the fucking door!”

Three men darted to remove the corpse and shut the door. Hastings gathered up his coat and his guns.

“We’ll have to carry on this meeting somewhere else, Mr. Krakow,” he announced with obvious regret in his voice.” I was really in a hurry to close this deal tonight. I need more girls by Friday and we’re already behind for the order to Amsterdam.”

That was all Paddy needed on his wire. He turned his head toward the men in the room and shouted, “Sam! Get down!” Sam caught his breath and collapsed immediately, listening to the chaos ensuing. Gunshots rang all around him, men fell on him as the bullets of the Task Force ripped through them. Sam felt the sting of shattering glass cut his hands and face as a mighty explosion thundered to his left.

Only when he felt Paddy's hand grasp him, did he open his eyes and look up. “Come Sam! Hurry!”

“Holy shit!” Sam growled at the sights around him. In a matter of seconds the small and lavish smoky room had been transformed into a war zone. Dead bodies, blood spatter, and smoke filled the room from wall to wall. On his left where he’d heard the explosion, Sam realized that the task force had ripped the entire wall down with an armored vehicle, demolishing it completely to gain access and get Paddy out. Sam ran after his friend, stumbling wildly over the debris and electrical wires to get out of the burning building.

In his wake he heard the final exchange of bullets before the last gang members were gunned down. Only two men had surrendered to MI6, and Hastings had been arrested. Sam's plan had failed and he was no closer to locating Valdi or the girls, but he decided to use this chance to relay all the information he had on the kidnappings to Special Agent Patrick Smith, the man he simply called Paddy.