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.
Knox is on foot on the streets of the city center, his stomach full, his mind alert. He’s on the hunt—he feels exceptionally good. Time is against him, but he understands the value of patience. This can’t be rushed.
Without the girls who fled the van, he has nothing to trade Brower for the release of Grace and Dulwich. By now the constables have taken the injured delivery team into custody; without hostages, the police may lack enough evidence to hold them for long. Knox has this one night at most.
He is presented with a choice: turn everything over to Brower and hope to win favor, or deliver the prize no cop could resist: Fahiz. The knot shop ringleader.
Grace’s work has been unable to specify a source location for the incoming messages to Kreiger, and has explained that an outgoing data stream would improve their chances. He needs Kreiger to contact Fahiz directly. It would allow him to track the e-mail through an ISP server to a particular router, to identify a city district, possibly narrow it down to a few blocks.
Knox walks the length of Kreupelsteeg, the alley that contains the entrance to Kreiger’s Natuurhonig. Circles fully around a long block, canal to canal, and back to the alley’s southern entrance, a fifteen-minute walk. It’s growing dark. The sex tourists are out in droves. The red-light district is hopping.
The pale, scantily clad girls stand in the windows like mannequins, smoking cigarettes, talking on cell phones, credit card processors on a table, ready to go. It’s the Gap of prostitution. It all reflects in the black water of a canal, doubling his distaste.
He crosses the canal in order to look back and get a wider view of the block that houses Natuurhonig. He’s taking into account every drain pipe, every intersection of architecture. It doesn’t look promising. Old Amsterdam is a warren of abutting, narrow brownstones without logic or reason. Many of the blocks contain courtyards common to all the buildings. He assumes there must be fire egress from upper floors of commercial buildings like Natuurhonig, but there’s little evidence from the outside, and he saw nothing while inside. He would have liked to leave by the front door. He’s not so sure about that anymore.
He buys a souvenir, an expandable duffel bag with a gold marijuana leaf emblazoned on it. He takes up position on a bench and makes a call. He gets an automated answering voice that repeats the number called but no indication of the owner’s identity.
“If this reaches you,” he says, “I forgive you. Berna is safe. But I need you if we’re to save the rest.” He names a restaurant/bar a half block away and a time: an hour from now. “Alone, or I can’t help the remaining girls.”
The time passes agonizingly slowly. He switches SIM cards, checking for messages: nothing. The dinner crowd flows into the red-light district; a few windows are lit, scantily clad girls reflecting green neon. Many more stand dark, awaiting a later hour. Knox has not moved. He measures the body language and the look of every new face. He looks to see if she has compromised him. He has four routes of egress available and a handgun tucked into the small of his back. Warmed by the adrenaline pumping through him, he rides it like a drug. He feels exceptionally right and good. This is where he thrives. Dulwich now owns him.