NYC Short Story Contest 2018 Round 1
The assignment for this contest was to write a story of no more than 2500 words in eight days. I was assigned to write a Thriller that included a waitress as a character and also highlighted an evacuation as key aspect of the plot. Here’s what I entered:
One year, three months, and five days ago death never occupied Ethan’s thoughts. Now the threat of his sister’s death dominated his every thought and action. He would give anything to hear her giggling with her friends or know she was shopping at the mall. Instead, she was a slave, and Ethan was earning her ticket to freedom.
He drummed his fingers on the Café 66 menu. Café’s and hole in the wall restaurants were prime hunting ground: He could chat up multiple girls and evaluate who would be good a mark. Waitresses were always a plus, since it took longer for family members to realize they were missing.
When he met Jules, he knew she was the final mark for redemption with the people who mattered most in his life. He also knew that she could have become one of the people who mattered most in his life.
His phone vibrated.
Unknown number: “The package checks out. Deliver today.”
He watched Jules slender form delivering food to hungry patrons. Her long, blond ponytail bounced while she balanced a tray with plates full of pancakes and eggs.
He responded: “I need more time.”
Vibration. “You have one hour.”
Ethan exhaled and shoved the phone in his pocket. Jules swooped in and set a plate in front of him. The steaming combination of scrambled eggs, bacon, and pancakes smiled back at him.
He quirked an eyebrow at the plate. “Just how I like my breakfast.”
“Hot like me?” She leaned over the table, allowing the v-neck line of her black Café 66 t-shirt to hang loose, exposing the lacey detail of her bra.
His heart stuttered, but he managed to smile, “Happy. Like you.”
She kissed his forehead. “I’ll be off in 15.” She made her way behind the counter, refilling coffee mugs as she went.
He pushed the happy food away feeling disgusted with what he was about to do. She was supposed to be just another mark. Except this time, he wanted to be with her. And that was dangerous—for Sarah, Jules, and him.
Twenty minutes later they were cruising the main thoroughfare of Oceanside. The sunlight illuminated Jules bronze skin as she let her hand flow outside the car window. His heart ached in a way that made him want to puke. He would give anything to save his sister, but Jules was a difficult sacrifice.
“You seem tense.” She placed her hand on his.
He gave it a quick squeeze. “Traffic just sucks.”
He pulled onto the 79, and things started to free up. He couldn’t stall anymore. In the compartment on the door, he palmed a syringe. It didn’t take long for the dread to surface. Just like it did every time. Knowing it would only get worse, he stuck the needle just below the hemline of Jules’ white shorts.
Her blue eyes flashed with a look that practically screamed, “Why?” Her eyelids grew heavy. She slumped forward, only held up right by the seat belt. On autopilot, he continued to follow the familiar road to the Twin Palms Apartment complex.
The white stucco façade rose from around the corner of the hill. He pulled his Tacoma into the open garage and parked. He looked at Jules, hanging forward, limp in her chair. Reaching across the truck, he guided her back against the seat, so she leaned up slightly on the window. She could have been taking a nap, but this wasn’t the innocent date he promised. He traced her cheek with his fingers. He would never see her again, but he would see Sarah. He pushed the truck door open.
Brock’s football physique filled the open door to the apartment. He was recruited to play college ball for SDSU, but he never stepped on the field after a conviction for sexual assault. Scum attracts scum, so he became Surge’s number one lackey.
“Speak of the grooming devil. Got the package?”
Ethan replied, “She’s a human being.”
“The package is a pay day.” Brock pushed past him into the garage. “Surge is waiting.”
Ethan had to stifle the urge to throw him against the wall. Brock always handled the girls when he brought them in, and he was smart enough to keep his hormones in check, but Jules was . . . well, she was Jules. The thought of Brock carrying Jules made his stomach turn, but still he wouldn’t jeopardize Sarah.
He walked into the darkened living room. Through a curtain of smoke, he could see the bald head of a lanky form in a Lazy Boy recliner. “Ethan-boy. Always on time.”
“Where’s Sarah?” Ethan shoved his hands in his jean pockets.
Surge pushed off the recliner. He didn’t look like much, in fact, a gust of wind could blow him over, but Surge’s power didn’t come from brute strength; he had Brock for that. Ethan shoved his hands in his jean pockets. Surge blew a stream of smoke out of the corner of his mouth, jammed the cigarette in an ash tray sitting on an end table, and said, “I am a man of my word. Sarah’s here. As promised.”
Ethan shifted his weight from side-to-side. Brock carried Jules in and placed her on the worn sofa. Surge placed his hand on Jules cheeks and turned her head from side to side. He stepped back and evaluated the length of her body. “Leave it to you to find a gold mine again, Ethan-boy. Did you sample the goods or is she unsullied merchandise?”
“Where is Sarah?” Ethan felt like he was stuck on repeat, but he just wanted out.
Surge smirked and snapped his fingers. Brock disappeared down the hall and came back with a Burnette mop of hair wrapped in a grey blanket. Brock pushed, and she stumbled into Ethan’s arms.
“Sarah,” Ethan whispered, while pushing hair away from her face. The groggy chocolate eyes that met his didn’t belong to his sister. The poor, thin girl he held up from collapsing wasn’t the girl who blew bubbles in his face or tried to hit on his friends. “Where. Is. Sarah?”
Surge pointed to the girl in Ethan’s arms. “Right there.”
“This isn’t Sarah.”
Surge shrugged. “Oh, sorry. It’s hard for Brock to tell the difference. To him, all girls look the same.”
Brock’s smile stretched over his face like the Grinch when he ruined Christmas.
“Come back another day, with another package, and we’ll see if Brock can get it right, huh?”
Ethan sat the girl on the sofa just below Jules feet. “I thought you were a man of your word.”
“My words don’t make money.” Surge motioned with a nod for Brock to bring the girl back down the hall.
Cold realization settled over Ethan. “You’re not letting me take Sarah.”
Surge shook his head. “But I will keep her close. No more outside jobs.” He winked. “There’s plenty she can do here.”
Seeing red didn’t even come close to describing Ethan’s rage. He flexed his hands and imagined repeatedly bashing Surge’s head into the wall. The cock of a loaded gun brought him back to the reality of Brock aiming for his heart.
Surge lit another cigarette. “Deliver the packages, Sarah lives.”
Just as quickly as the rage swelled, it ebbed leaving Ethan numb, drained even. What kind of life was this? Without glancing back, he walked to the door. Got in his truck and waited for the vibration of the garage to indicate the open door. All those girls he brought into Surge’s web of torture. For nothing. It would never end. He pushed the gas pedal to the floor and backed out. He was stupid to believe Surge would ever let them go.
For one year, three months, and six days, Ethan had been an unwillingly participant in human trafficking, but not blind. He had acquired knowledge and skills he was ready to forget, and hopefully he would someday.
Crouching behind a blue Prius in the parking lot of the Twin Palms complex, Ethan pulled his beanie down over his unruly black hair to cover his ears. The evening costal breeze was wet, but he couldn’t tell if he felt a chill from the air or from what he was about to do.
Surge had developed a series of rules for his network: groomers never knew one another, texts were always from burner phones, and you only communicate through a code. There was a contingency plan for every eventuality. Fortunately for Surge, his method of control usually guaranteed that these systems were never abused. And they weren’t, until now.
The girls move from the apartment within twenty-four hours of delivery. Ethan wasted a couple hours talking himself down from busting into Surge’s apartment and pulling Sarah and Jules out. When his head finally cleared, he met with a pharmacy tech, the only other contact he knew in Surge’s network. After threatening to inject the tech with lethal dose of the drug they use to knock out the girls, Ethan got the name of another groomer. When Ethan cornered and choked out the betrayed groomer, he acquired a burner phone and a Glock that wouldn’t identify him.
Now crouched in the parking lot, he dialed Brock’s number, and texted “Coast Guard reports storm. Evacuation recommended.” He paused over the Send button. This would mean an end, either him or Surge. Hopefully the latter. He pressed Send, and adjusted his stance, so he had a clear view of the apartment door.
Within five minutes, Brock was leading the evacuation of three women out the door. Surge followed at the rear, slamming the door and cursing in Russian. Ethan shifted, and the Glock dug deep into his thigh. He inhaled counting to 4 and exhaled counting to 4, grabbed the gun from his pocket, and jumped out from behind the car, aiming for Brock.
The element of surprise was all he had, so he fired a shot into Brock’s right arm. The girls squealed and coward together against the white stucco building. Brock rolled on the cement clasping his arm and hissing like the snake he was.
Ethan shifted his aim to Surge, who put his hands up while opening and closing his mouth like a fish. Ethan positioned the gun back on Brock.
“Please. Don’t.” Brock mumbled. “Take the girl. Shit, take’em all.”
Ethan held the Glock up to Brock’s temple. He watched Brock’s pupils dilate in fear. Feeling empowered for the first time in over a year, Ethan pressed the Glock harder. Brock whimpered. Ethan hesitated over the trigger, giving Brock just enough time to sweep his legs out from under him.
He hit the ground and watched the Glock spiral out of his hand, landing with a loud crack on the pavement. The two dark haired girls fell to the ground. Ethan’s heart plummeted. Jules was still pressed against the building scanning the distance like she was waiting for something.
He had to make sure Sarah was alright. He tried to run to the crumpled women. Instead of the sprint he intended, he fell to one knee. An inferno of pain spread from his right side all the way to his lungs. He placed his hand below his ribs and pulled it back revealing a syrupy layer of crimson.
One of the girls peeked out from a sea of dark hair. Her hazel eyes clouded with tears. She screamed, “Ethan!” It was Sarah. Ethan fell to his hands and tried to crawl to her.
Another shot sounded beside him. He turned to see Jules holding his Glock, and Surge crumpled in a heap with a Ruger LC9 in his limp hand. Footsteps thundered, and black figures closed in like living shadows leeching from the parking lot. One figure dropped to a knee and pressed his fingers to Surge’s neck. Ethan could just make out the word, “Ambulance.”
Jules dropped to Ethan’s side, and pressed her hand against his exit wound. He winced.
“I’m sorry.” He mumbled.
“Shhh, Shhh.” She guided his head to her lap, while putting more pressure on his side. His vision wavered.
“Sarah?”
With her free hand, she pulled of his beanie and pushed dark strands of hair from his forehead. “She’s safe. We have her.”
Sarah was safe. She’s safe. She’s safe. The thought echoed in his mind as he relaxed into the welcome calm of darkness.
Death always occupied Jules thoughts. In fact, it was the death of her older sister that motivated her to go undercover to infiltrate sex trafficking rings. Even with the grisly reality of her job, she was never prepared for the weight of grief.
She stood at the outskirts of the cemetery, watching a bereft Philippine woman sink deep into the arms of a Caucasian man. Sarah and another girl, no more than fifteen, stood next to the couple, eyes red and puffy, clasping each other like they might be wrenched apart at any moment. One life just isn’t enough; Ethan didn’t deserve the one he got.
This sting hadn’t been like any other. Usually there was a clear line: they were bad, she was good. Ethan blurred that line. In fact, she even gave him her real name when they met for the first time at the café. His easy smile had disarmed her. There were times she wished it could have been real. Just a boy and a girl getting to know one another.
“McCombs.”
“Morely.” Jules said.
James Morely, a man of distinguished age, was the height of fashion in a full suite and dark sunglasses. At six foot five, she literally looked up to her handler every time they met. He adjusted his collar. “Thought I’d find you here.”
She slipped her hands into the pockets of her cardigan. “He sent the evacuation code.”
Morely’s gaze drifted toward the wilting group surrounding the open grave. He cleared his throat, and his features softened when he looked back at Jules. “His death will save more than his sister.”
She nodded.
“Brock caved. How do you feel about Peru for Spring Break?”
A burst of adrenaline sent her heart into overdrive. One life may not be enough to end human trafficking, but if her life could save one more girl like Sarah or a man like Ethan, it would be enough for her.
Linne Elizabeth 