Anselm’s eyes meet mine. “I understand your decision to accompany us. I do not say it is the most responsible or logical one, but I do understand it.”
Duke takes his own seat and fastens himself in. “She’s a Roth. Once they get something into their heads, there’s no stopping ’em.” He glances at me. “This is gonna be a hell of a bumpy ride, darlin’. We got a lead on Rasmussen’s whereabouts, so we gotta make best possible time across the pond.”
“What’s the lead?” I ask, excited.
“He was spotted crossing the border into Portugal. Disguised and with a fake passport, but Lear’s recognition software made him. We just heard this from Lear while you were landing.” Duke tugs the straps of his buckles, lets out a breath. “Shit, I hate high-G takeoffs.”
I frown as I feel us begin to taxi. “What do you mean? Why?”
Duke just grins at me. “Never done a full power takeoff in one of these have you?”
I shake my head. “Uncle Harris took me up in his vintage Phantom once when I was younger, but Mom made him go easy. I don’t think he touched the throttle any more than he had to.”
Duke shakes his head. “Well, this ain’t no Phantom, baby girl. This thing has more raw thrust than four Phantoms, and our boy Merritt up there is about to hit us with every bit of it. Hold on to your ass, doll, because you’re about to—”
He cuts off with a whoop as the whining of the engines picks up until it’s deafening, despite the sound-baffling technology built into the cabin. And then…
Pressure like I’ve never felt before in my life crushes me against the seat, which cocoons me—and I suddenly understand the design of the high-G seat, as it absorbs the pressure and keeps me from being smashed against an immovable force.
“Breathe!” Duke yells, grunting past clenched teeth.
I realize I’m not breathing, then, that I’m barely able to move, barely able to swallow or blink or breathe. The pressure is endless, enormous. I feel like I’m being pulverized into jelly. I snarl and grunt like a feral animal, forcing oxygen into my lungs, forced to work hard for each lungful.
The noise fades, and the pressure slowly lessens.
I’m dizzy.
Nauseous.
“Holy shit,” I mumble.
“High-G takeoffs, baby,” Duke says, and then groans. “Fuck me, I hate that.”
“Please remain buckled for the duration of the trip,” a voice from overhead says. “At this velocity, turbulence can be rather violent. We should touch down in Barcelona in…two hours and forty-five minutes.”
“What would Rasmussen be doing in Portugal?” I ask.
Anselm answers. “Passing through, most likely. Although, there have been rumors of Spaulding setting up operations in Morocco, now that the government of Czechia has made it clear they are not going to tolerate his operations much longer.”
“So…he could be going to Morocco, or he could be going back into Central Europe? Seems like a convoluted route, going through Portugal via Spain.” I try to figure out the benefit of that.
Anselm withdraws a laptop from a compartment in the armrest of his seat. “Either he is trying to take a circuitous route to throw off suspicion, or he’s not going back to Central Europe. My best theory is that Spaulding suffered some detriment to his operations when Apollo and his compatriot went on the warpath. Human trafficking cells all over the globe felt the repercussions of that, and many who would have preferred to stay unknown found themselves in the global news cycle. I have searched news reports from that period and have found no specific mention of Spaulding, Rasmussen, or Djakovic, but there are reports of imprisoned traffickers refusing to put a name to their benefactor, their primary employer. Some merely referred to him as The Vanisher, or local dialectic versions of that name. Rather melodramatic a name, I should think. But this Vanisher specializes in making people, well, vanish. Primarily pretty young girls from otherwise safe little villages in the Baltic States and Northern Africa. But if you talk about him, he will makeyouvanish. Sounds like our friend Spaulding, ja? He likes to make an impression. He likes fear.”
“What a tool,” Duke grumbles, and then switches to a mocking voice. “TheVanisher. Wooo. Fuck-nugget.”
I snicker. “He’s a dangerous man, Uncle Duke. You shouldn’t mock.”
“Yeah, he’s dangerous, that’s why you mock him. You know who else is dangerous? Me, motherfucker. I’ll cut his goddamn thumbs off with a pair of nail clippers. AndthenI’ll start hurting him.” He’s seething. “Kidnap little girls, will you? Vanish innocent people? I don’t think so. I’m coming for you, motherfucker.”
“Calm yourself, Duke,” Anselm murmurs. “My larger point in all this is that what little could be gleaned about this Vanisher character is that he works out of Morocco, Egypt, and sometimes Albania. Which would track with Rasmussen leaving Poland, being seen in Spain and then Portugal. A boat from Lisbon could take him around Gibraltar and to any one of those places. And once he’s on a boat, avoiding border spottings becomes a far more simple task.”
“So, where do we go first?” I ask.
“Lisbon. I have people there keeping watch on the port.” Anselm taps laptop keys. “And other people listening who might hear things regarding a sudden resurgence of the sex-trafficking trade, which I think is what we are facing. Spaulding is probably short on cash, and plans to try to get it out of Apollo, by virtue of threatening this innocent child, Yelena Konstantin.”
Duke snarls. “She’s a fuckin’ baby. What kind of a monster is this guy?”
Anselm’s voice is grave. “The stories I have been told would curdle even your stomach, my old friend. I know I have not slept well since I began digging into Mr. Richard Isaac Spaulding.”
