With the light from the now-open door opposite, I could make out more of the interior. Alena was searching Mesick's
body, and Bridgett had some tool of her own in her hands, was moving to her side. I turned from the door Arzu and I had just perforated, made for the other one along the same side, the one Alena had locked. Everything was down to speed now, the same as it had been for Tiasa.
I threw the bolt back and opened the door, exiting hard and twisting to my left, the Sterling ready, thinking that planting four or five rounds in Arzu's chest would end this once and for all. I would've been right about that, too, except for one small thing.
He wasn't there.
I'd started to turn when I felt the muzzle press into my right shoulder from behind, and I lost the sound of the shot as a bullet exploded out of me from in front. I dropped the Sterling and found myself following it to the ground. My right arm absolutely failed to support me, and I went face-first into mud. I couldn't get my breath, tried to raise my head, thinking that it would be better if the last thing I saw in this life was the sky. The muzzle returned, the metal hot, jammed into the back of my neck, but the shot didn't come.
“I
told you,”
Arzu shouted at me, rage and glee commingled. “You should have taken care of your women!”
I managed to lift my head enough to look around and up at him, and he was leaning over me, the barrel of his Sterling still digging into my neck. I saw him, and I saw beyond him, and despite his gun and the bullet and the mud and pain, I had to laugh.
“The women can take care of themselves,” I told him.
Then Bridgett Logan buried a pitchfork into his back.
CHAPTER
Thirty-eight
In mid-August, Alena told me that she wanted to visit
Tiasa. We had resettled in Vancouver, Canada, and she was well into her second trimester. She was in New York a week, leaving Miata and me alone to continue our respective convalescences and to pursue our slow search for a more permanent home.
The night she returned, Alena said, “She wants to come live with us. She doesn't want to go back to Georgia.”
“What do you think?”
“I think it's a good idea.”
“You talk to Cashel about it?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“She thinks that Tiasa will need counseling, therapy, for a long time to come. That she needs stability. Safety. Love. She wonders if we can give her all of these things.”
“We can,” I said.
“Yes,” Alena agreed. “We can.”
In early October, Cashel and Bridgett brought Tiasa out from New York, to the house we'd purchased in Victoria. Alena and I met them at the airport. Tiasa hugged me when she saw me, and my right arm had recovered enough strength and mobility that I was able to hug her in return. She looked like a different person than when I'd last seen her in July. Somewhere along the way, somehow, she'd rediscovered her ability to smile.
Bridgett and Alena kept their mutual hostility almost cordial, more for Tiasa's benefit than mine. Bridgett stayed with us for only two days, but Cashel was with us a week. With her assistance, we were able to set up counseling and further treatment for Tiasa.
None of us had any illusions.
On the last day of the year, at thirty-six minutes past three in the morning, Alena gave birth to a healthy baby girl.
We named her Natalya, in memory of another lost friend.
All the while, even into the new year, I'd been following the news, trying to keep an eye on the various outlets I'd sent my FedEx packs to.
Some ran further with the story than others, and some ran with it not at all. Of the European outlets,
Der Spiegel
did the most with the material I'd sent, followed by
The Guardian
. In the U.S., as I'd seen,
The New York Times
took the lead, but in early October,
The Washington Post
began its own series.
It was, I knew, a drop in the bucket.
All I had to do was look at Tiasa, holding her baby sister as she sang Natalya to sleep, to see the memories still fresh in her eyes, to know the truth.
Acknowledgments
The research for this novel was some of the most painful I've undertaken, and the efforts of everyone who assisted me is greatly and sincerely appreciated. Of the many who offered their time, observations, knowledge, and assistance, the following are but a handful.
My thanks to both Eric Trautmann and Timothy O'Brien for research assistance. For an insight into the world of engineers, Andrew Greenberg—who really
is
a rocket scientist—was invaluable.
As he has done on almost every novel I've written, Jerry Hennelly provided firsthand tactical experience, professional know-how, and a deeper understanding of everything from
surveillance technology to firearm techniques. I remain, as ever, in his debt.
My agents, David Hale Smith and Angela Cheng-Caplan, continue to supply moral and creative support, and consistently provide that most crucial of aid: they know how to listen, and they do so exceptionally well.
Christina Weir took time from a busy schedule and an insanely difficult year to read the manuscript in progress and offer comment, constructive criticism, and encouragement. Mine's finished; where's yours?
A special note of gratitude to E. Benjamin Skinner, a man I've never met, but whose book,
A Crime So Monstrous: Face-to-Face with Modern Day Slavery
, reveals one of the greatest evils of our time, and our failings in combating it. In combination with H. Richard Friman and Simon Reich's
Human Trafficking, Human Security, and the Balkans
, as well as Kevin Bales's remarkable book,
Disposable People: New Slavery in the Global Economy
, these works formed the foundation for this novel. Not a single scenario as presented herein was fabricated from whole cloth: everything is based in fact to a greater or lesser extent, gleaned from publications, testimonials, interviews, and documentaries.
Finally, to Jennifer, who listened when she would rather not have done, and who lived with me as I went once more to the dark places; thank you, again, for being there when I came back into the light.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
GREG RUCKA resides in Portland, Oregon, with his wife and two children, where he is at work on his next thriller, which Bantam will publish in 2010. He is the author of nine previous thrillers, as well as numerous graphic novels, including the Eisner Award-winning
Whiteout
series, now a major motion picture starring Kate Beckinsale.
WALKING DEAD
A Bantam Book / May 2009
Published by
Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2009 by Greg Rucka
Bantam Books is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Rucka, Greg.
Walking dead / Greg Rucka.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-553-90648-6
1. Bodyguards—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3568.U2968W36 2009
8132.54—dc22 2008049507
www.bantamdell.com [http://www.bantamdell.com]
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