The Doll Read online

  They needed Munroe for something, but that on its own made no sense. Her skills were overkill for the type of operation the Doll Maker ran, and bringing her on against her will meant absorbing an enormous risk. You brought Munroe in when the job required stealth and brains and a chameleonlike quality, a job where a strategist, tactician, and linguistics expert was your safest bet. You didn’t bring her in to do a job your men had been doing on their own for a decade, you brought her in when the stakes were high, when you were moving something that … And then it hit him.

  Neeva Eckridge.

  He saw it now, the bigger picture, how Katherine Breeden the facilitator had offered Vanessa Michael Munroe as a fix to the Doll Maker’s problem of transporting the most sought-after face in the world. Breeden, who, outside of Logan, knew Munroe better than anyone.

  Breeden was no longer afraid because she’d brokered a deal in exchange for her own life. If the Doll Maker should fail, Munroe’s only option would be to destroy him, and Bradford’s blackmail would be useless. If the Doll Maker succeeded, Munroe would die, and because of the brokered deal, Bradford’s blackmail would be useless. No matter the outcome, one of Breeden’s enemies would fall. No matter the outcome, Kate Breeden had already won.

  MILES BRADFORD WALKED through the doors of Capstone Consulting to the sight of Samantha Walker in the middle of the reception area, sorting through a pile of boxes that were part of the steady stream of mail received on behalf of team members stationed abroad. She looked up when he entered, nodded an acknowledgment, and said, “Drove by both places, and everything seems to be normal. For now. Reserves will be here in thirty minutes. Jack’s in the war room. I’ll be there in just a sec.”

  He swiped his key card, the door buzzed open, and he stepped through. Beyond the dividing glass walls, Jahan’s head shifted up from the keyboard toward one of the monitors, which displayed a rapid database scan that paused occasionally to ping information.

  Jahan didn’t turn when Bradford entered the war room, so Bradford let him be and instead stepped to the left side of the whiteboard, which was now heavily marked with fresh diagrams and notes, details his home team had obviously been puzzling over for far too many hours. The Doll Maker documents had been deconstructed and scrutinized, each thread of a potential trail broken down into further paths with dead ends crossed off and possible leads highlighted.

  Names.

  Companies.

  Purchases.

  Vehicles.

  Properties.

  Bradford wasn’t the only one running on lack of sleep.

  With his back still turned, he said to Jahan, “These guys actually own stuff here in Dallas?”

  A long pause and many keystrokes later Jahan answered. “Not sure yet,” he said. “We’re running into dead ends, a few red herrings. Not everything’s as accurate as we’d hoped. We’re still trying to sort the valid from the rest.”

  Considering the original information source, the news wasn’t entirely surprising. “Did the papers exaggerate?” Bradford said.

  Jahan shook his head. “If anything, they undershot by a wide margin.”

  “How wide?”

  Jahan shrugged and returned to the keyboard. Bradford didn’t press. How did one quantify the degrees of horror in human trafficking? Young girls lied to, bullied, bought, or kidnapped; children and teenagers transported and isolated, raped and beaten into submission, and then inducted into a life where the control wasn’t chains but abuse and fear.

  Like Jahan, Bradford wasn’t ignorant on the issue. It was impossible to spend time in shithole locations without being touched by the plight of the victims and the helplessness of it, but until now most of what he’d encountered were child brides and the accepted domestic slavery of the cultures, not this, this barbarianism that took enslaving women one level deeper and preyed on the most basic of human drives.

  Bradford knew what Jahan meant by “a wide margin.” The organization was farther-reaching and more deeply entrenched than they’d believed.

  Bradford drew his finger along the California thread.

  Jahan and Walker had seen it, too: Neeva Eckridge.

  Too many threads, too many possible paths, and no time to trace them all.

  Time.

  How much time did they have? How long would it take Munroe to do the job they’d snatched her for? A day? Two? A week? God, it was impossible to know.

  Time.

  He followed the threads down into Texas. Mentally cut off ninety percent of the diagram. Turned to find Jahan staring at him.

  “Texas,” Bradford said. “They had Michael out of here within an hour of take-down. They didn’t pull Logan—and he’s in no condition for them to move far. He’s still here. In Texas. Probably still in Dallas. We need to find him.”

  “Before Michael?”

  Bradford drew a deep breath and stared at the ceiling. There was far more behind Jahan’s question than a matter of logistics. After a long exhale, he turned his eyes to Jahan. “Yes,” he said. “Before Michael.”

  ZAGREB, CROATIA

  Munroe sat on the mattress, back to the wall, eyes closed, forearms resting against her knees. To wait in darkness was familiar from long ago, to allow the night to swallow her and take with it the fear of helplessness and the impatience for action.

  One breath followed another while inside her head countermove played against counterstrategy, and she ordered and reordered, ended and started over in an attempt to see past the ruin, until noise in the hallway pulled her from her trance back to the madness.

  The door slid open. She opened her eyes.

  Arben filled the space, his body a silhouette against the hallway light, and he didn’t say anything, as if his presence was all the order she would need. Beyond him was another shadow—most probably the nameless guy, Arben Two. Neither man entered the cell, and this time the big man didn’t flinch when she stood and walked toward him.

  Munroe followed Arben down the narrow hall, up the stairs, and through the gold-working room, which was now dark and deserted. Artificial light from the outside filtered in through the windows, casting just enough of an ambient glow on empty workstations that flashlights weren’t needed, and up ahead yellow light and muted conversation filtered out of the Doll Maker’s office.

  Arben rapped on the door and opened it without waiting. Nodded Munroe inside, and for the third time that day she found herself in the presence of the crazy man. This time he sat on the edge of his desk, assessing a life-size doll seated on a chair in the middle of the room. Lumani was to the right, standing military at-ease. He turned toward her only long enough to acknowledge her presence and then, expressionless, returned focus to his uncle.

  Munroe stepped into the room and the creases in the Doll Maker’s forehead relaxed. He smiled and motioned her closer. “Come, come,” he said. “She’s here for you to see, your package.”

  Munroe moved to the center of the room and circled the chair, speechless, tempted to reach out to touch the soiled, matted blond hair that had been transformed into perfect silky ringlets.

  Hair, makeup, clothes, Mary Jane shoes—Neeva was an exact replica of a doll, every aspect perfect and convincing down to the bright blue eyes, which were glazed, heavy-lidded, and staring straight ahead in a drugged stupor.

  The Doll Maker said, “She’s beautiful, yes?” and Munroe nodded, because in truth Neeva took her breath away. Here it was obvious why the screen came to life when Neeva was on it, why the world raced to find her, and most important, why it would be impossible to hide her in transport.

  The Doll Maker straightened, and while Munroe continued to study the girl, he passed to the shelves behind her. “My client has rules,” he said.

  Munroe turned to face him.

  He pulled down a smaller version of Neeva, who, like the living girl, was dressed in green velvet. “No bruises,” he said. “No scars. No drugs. She must remain perfect and undamaged, and any deviation is considered failure.”

 
He cradled the doll. “Rules,” he said. “How to control an animal with such handcuffs, I don’t know, but she’s your problem now.” He looked up and smiled. “This one comes from Italy. Not custom-made, but beautiful nonetheless.” And then, as if there had never been an interruption or a derailed train of thought: “My customer grows impatient, especially considering the news and the attention. The price is good, but nothing is worth the scrutiny this brings on us.”

  Munroe turned from him back to Neeva, whose eyelids drooped and opened again. To the Doll Maker she said, “You said no drugs.”

  He shrugged. “It couldn’t be helped. It was the only way we could get her cleaned up, but it will be out of her system soon and no one will know. It’s our secret and we can’t repeat it. You’ll have to find another way to control her.”

  “No bruises.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said. “It’s tedious, but the merchandise must remain undamaged, those are the instructions.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  The Doll Maker shrugged. “Who can say, and who cares? For a good customer that pays, we do what we do and ask no questions.”

  “So this is not the first?”

  The Doll Maker cooed slightly, fingers resting on brunette curls, lifeless eyes to lifeless eyes. “Not the first,” he said. “And if you succeed, not the last.”

  Munroe continued her way around Neeva, one in a line of stolen lives.

  She said, “And if I fail?”

  “No failure.”

  “Ever?”

  “Not without a price.”

  Completing another circle, focus always on the girl, she said, “It’s a lot that you expect of me. You with your guns and your men have had to drug her to control her. I’m but one person and you want me to do what you can’t.”

  “It’s not my problem anymore,” he said. “You do it. You fix it. You follow the rules. If you break them, if you fail, the innocent suffer. When you’ve delivered and I’m paid my money, I let your friend go.”

  “And me,” Munroe said. “Let’s not forget that I’m also your prisoner.”

  “I let you go, too,” he said. He still stared at the doll in his arms, and Munroe’s eyes left his face, for the walls, for the ceiling, for the reason that not one blink or blush, not one muscle in his body had betrayed his lie.

  “I’ll need your plan,” she said.

  “Through Italy and into France,” he said. “The two days to allow for any possible delays. One day straight if the package behaves.”

  Not highly likely.

  “The easiest way to deliver would be to fly her,” Munroe said. “The same way that you got me here, probably the way you got her here, and you really don’t need me for that.”

  “You can transport her any way you wish,” he said. “She’s your problem and your responsibility. But you will have to provide your own jet and pilots.”

  Munroe walked yet another slow circle around the chair, analysis disguised as interest in Neeva’s doll-perfect clothing. Inside her head the permutations of getting airborne played against the odds of making a break with Neeva and rescuing Logan before the crazy man and his minions caught on and killed him first.

  No matter which way the pieces moved, Logan was always too far away.

  She needed time. Needed to drag this out as long as possible. To the Doll Maker she said, “If I drive?”

  “I’ll provide a car.”

  “Is it a stolen car?”

  “The plates are good,” he said as if that was all that mattered, and then added, with a toying smile, “and I will pay for gas.”

  “Tomorrow, so that the drugs have time to flush out of her system?”

  The Doll Maker nodded.

  Munroe pointed to Neeva. “Are you taking her back to the cell?”

  “Yes, of course,” he said. “Until we are ready for transport.”

  “She’ll get dirty again.”

  “The mattress has been changed,” he said, “but still, such a waste.” He took the doll from his arms to rest her on the desk, then walked to Neeva. Ran his fingers through her curls and along the outer seam of the lace and velvet dress. “It would be so much more pleasant if we could keep her like this. She is a true doll. Made to order. A collector’s item. It’s no wonder she fetches such a high price.”

  The Doll Maker nodded toward Lumani, who called the Arbens inside. Together, they lifted Neeva by her elbows and instead of dragging her out the door they worked her nearly useless legs forward.

  Upright, Neeva was even more childlike than she’d appeared while seated. Tiny and slender, she stood five foot two at the most, probably closer to five flat—everything opposite to the larger-than-life personality, the image on the big screen that created something much greater out of this little person.

  “What will they do with her?” Munroe said.

  “Undress her and put her to bed.”

  His words and the nonchalance with which he spoke them sent blood rushing to her head. Munroe took a step in Neeva’s direction, to block the way. An involuntary movement, an urge to protect and intervene so strong that it overcame reason and took her by surprise nearly as much as it did the Arbens, who paused in their exit. She took another step, this time deliberate, and another until she was solidly between Neeva and the door.

  The Doll Maker smiled as if reproving a young child. “It won’t do to become attached to the merchandise,” he said, and when Munroe didn’t move, he added, “She is worth more to me whole than whatever temporary use the men might make of her.”

  Slow and hesitant, she stepped aside and the Doll Maker smiled, triumphant, wordless in his gloating, while the Arbens walked Neeva out the door and Munroe stared after them.

  When the door had shut, the Doll Maker said, “You will stay in the holding area. We’ll leave your door open, but if you attempt to climb the stairs, we will take measures against your collateral. You understand this?”

  Munroe nodded, still moving with the trancelike tempo of the conversation, navigating around the chair so that this time her path took her in Lumani’s direction.

  Throughout this entire exchange the young man had remained silent and motionless, his gaze following his uncle like that of a loyal dog waiting for approval, waiting for orders. Each measured step brought her closer to him, though her attention remained entirely on the Doll Maker, who continued in his smugness.

  In a movement both sudden and violent, Munroe turned midstep and in the heartbeat of Lumani’s delayed reaction, she punched fingers to his trachea and grabbed his wrist.

  She jerked his arm behind his back and shoved him, gagging, to his knees. Lumani’s free hand flexed and reached for his shin, and she, knowing that in his moment of panic he would attempt to access any weapon he carried, moved faster than he did, finding and unsheathing his knife.

  The handle connected with her palm like a creation returning to its mold, metal against skin, familiar and soothing, calling out to be used, begging to shed blood. She pressed the flat of the blade to Lumani’s throat and held it there.

  At the desk, the Doll Maker picked up his doll and, ignoring Munroe and Lumani, cradled her again. In his indifference, as in his lies, no tell of betrayal marked his face, no body language spoke his hidden thoughts. The Doll Maker smiled at the porcelain face that stared lifelessly at him. Without looking up, he said, “You’ll pay for this failure.”

  Lumani twitched and Munroe drew the flat of the blade across his neck to prevent instinct from slitting his throat. “Is it worth the price of this one?” she said. “Or the destruction of the package?”

  “I’ll get what I need with or without you,” the Doll Maker said.

  Munroe pulled Lumani to his feet and stepped back from him.

  Slid the knife along the floor in his direction. “I also have a choice, and I think we’ve both made our points,” she said. “I want to see Logan, video streamed live so I can confirm his current condition.”

  “I can arrange that,” the Doll M
aker said.

  “By tonight?”

  “It’ll be done,” he said. “Tomorrow.”

  “I’m going downstairs,” she said. “You don’t need to guard me. Leave me alone and let me know when the girl is awake.”

  DALLAS, TEXAS

  Miles Bradford stood in the middle of the war room and dumped two Kevlar vests on the floor. Jahan and Walker stared at him, both silent and sullen. “Fight it out between you,” he said. “I’ll be in my office.”

  More specifically, he’d be on the floor in his office, beneath the desk, grabbing a moment of sleep before heading out again. He turned from the room, and the heated whispered exchange started once more behind his back. Someone had to stay behind and there were no volunteers.

  It was nearly one in the morning, technically into day three of the hunt for a trace on Munroe and Logan, and they were running on empty: nerves strung a little tighter, edges a little sharper. Bradford’s body couldn’t handle this lack of sleep crap the way it could eighteen years ago when he was twenty and king of the world. He needed five minutes, ten, if he was lucky.

  For a full day they’d stalked information, putting aspects of running Capstone on temporary hold to pore over gigabytes of data, tracking leads and cutting off dead ends—tedious brain work, numerous phone calls, and the occasional in-person visit to pull records—until what they had now was a short list of four valid possibilities, four locations where if Logan was being kept in Texas, they might actually find him: a residential home, an office condo, a warehouse, and a transport company, all within the Dallas metro area.

  Might find him.

  At this juncture, everything was a crapshoot, and this was the best they had.

  Bradford threw a bedroll under the desk. Lay feet to the window, head to the darkness, and before closing his eyes, he checked his phone, the same flick of the wrist he’d been making at ten-minute intervals throughout the day, hoping against hope that either Munroe or Logan might have gained access to a phone, might have called, texted, or emailed, and somehow he’d missed the alert.