The Circle

1

 

 

 

 

There was something about the wide-open road that filled a person’s heart with a feeling of freedom.  An energy that felt both peaceful and adventurous in the long path that lay ahead in the distance.

Idaho was well known for its extraordinary scenery.  Mountains as majestic as anything he’d seen before, and to the south, green plains that seemed to stretch forever as though they would never end.  And then there was the air.  So clean and crisp in his lungs that he could not get enough.

To him, it felt a little like heaven.

With his window down, Alex Horvath cruised the desolate highway, inhaling the cool air as the turbulent wind whipped around and through his dark hair.  What he was feeling was more than just adventure and freedom.  It was the feeling of opportunity.  He was young.  He was fit.  He was bright.  And with money in his pocket, it felt as though life was carving out a future path just for him.  As though the world was trying to tell him something.

He was far too young to know that the sensation he was experiencing was the feeling of youth.  The feeling of energetic and unbridled ambition, for a future that was sure to one day deliver him all that he dreamed.

 

His reverie continued for another hour until he finally spotted a giant truck stop in the distance and decided to take a break.  It was a welcome sight.  He’d been driving all night, and even at a young age, his legs and back were beginning to stiffen.

Once off the interstate, he slowed to a gradual stop before turning left and driving across the overpass to find a large gravel lot filled with 18-wheeler trucks parked alongside one another, surrounding most of the travel center.

 

Inside, the place was a veritable one-stop shop in the middle of nowhere.  Rows of junk food and snacks took up the main aisles of the store, with glass doors of soda, energy drinks, and alcohol lining the wall behind them.  The right side was dedicated to canned goods, plastics, and paper, along with a selection of essential hardware and automotive items.  And finally, on the far left, was the attached dining room to a fast-food franchise.

With dozens of customers milling about, Horvath casually browsed the snacks before grabbing a bag of chips and heading to the refrigerated glass doors for a six-pack of beer.

The cashier smiled when he approached the counter.  Older than Horvath by several years, her smile lingered on his dark hair and short, neat beard, but he paid no attention.  He merely dropped some bills on the counter and casually glanced around the establishment, waiting for her to bag the items.

It was a short respite, but even a quick stretch felt good.  Climbing back into the large sedan, he then drove to the nearby pumps and refilled his tank while he ate.  When finished, he once again eased in behind the wheel and left the truck stop for the interstate.

 

***

 

He was about twenty miles out when he reached for a second beer.  With the window still down and the wind whistling through the car, he untwisted the bottle top and flicked the cap out into the rushing wind.

The road was still largely empty, with only a single car far behind him, allowing him to relax with a lazy hand on the wheel while enjoying his drink.  His sense of freedom on the open road returned, and he smiled, thinking about adventure, the future, and most of all, money.

 

It was less than ten minutes later when he noticed it.  Something with the car, or rather the steering.  The road was relatively straight, but even through a gradual curve, he could sense a resistance or sluggishness. 

He worked the wheel back and forth, slightly oversteering until he was certain something was wrong.  And it seemed to be getting worse.  It was only then that he noticed the small orange sensor on his dashboard.  Shit.  It was one of his tires.  How long had that been on?

He glanced in the mirror and began pulling over.  The other car was still far behind, allowing him to reduce his speed and continue cruising while looking for an ideal place to stop.  Spotting a large patch of dirt and gravel ahead, he pulled off the highway and into the open area with plenty of room away from the road.

Irritated, he threw the car into park and pushed open his door.  Cursing under his breath, he checked the front tire, then the rear, before circling the other side.  The culprit was the rear tire on the passenger side.  It wasn’t completely flat yet, but it was well on its way.

“Son of a bitch!”  What the hell did he run over?!  Frustrated, he looked around and abruptly kicked the tire in anger. 

With more cursing, Horvath shook his head.  He couldn’t change it, and the last thing he wanted to do was to have to call someone.  His feeling of adventure had dissipated as quickly as the dust cloud kicked up by his car.

Reluctantly, he pulled his phone from his pocket in anger and peered at the screen.  He had one bar of signal.  Great.

He then heard a rumbling sound behind him and turned to find that the car behind him had pulled over to help.  A Good Samaritan.  Something else he didn’t need.

The driver climbed out of his old truck and ambled toward Horvath.  He was thin and wiry, with tanned skin that seemed to wrinkle his entire face when he grinned and waved.  “Howdy.  Need help?”

Horvath went from fuming to flustered.  “Uh… no.  I’m fine,” he waved back.  “Thanks for asking.”

“Ah, no problem,” the old man plodded forward over the barren ground.  “Bad place to break down.  Flat tire?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, it’s better than a busted radiator,” the old man quipped, “or a cracked engine.  Trust me, I know.”  When he reached Horvath, he gave him a once-over before looking down at the tire.  “Yep.  She’ll be flat in no time.  You got a spare?”

“Yeah.  I can do it,” replied Horvath.  “I’m fine, really, but thanks for stopping.  No idea what the hell I ran over.”

The old man nodded.  Dressed in loose, worn jeans and a plaid shirt, he frowned and examined the tire. 

When he stepped closer, Horvath moved forward with him.  “I’m fine, really.”

The old man continued examining.  “Ran over something, huh?”  He reached down and touched a small slit on the sidewall of the tire.  “I think this is your problem.  I can feel the air coming out.”

Surprised, Horvath bent down and also touched the slit.  He could feel it too.  “What the hell?”

The old man looked back at him.  “Looks like a side puncture.”

“Jesus!  Did I scrape something?”

“Maybe.  Or maybe something scraped you.”

“What do you mean?”

“This ain’t a scrape,” said the man with a shake of his head.  “Nothing you could hit at that truck stop would have done this.”

Horvath frowned.  “You were at the truck stop?”

“Yeah.  Didn’t you see me?”

“No.”

The old man smirked.

Horvath was confused.  “What?”

The man motioned back down at the tire.  “That’s not a scrape.  It was done with a knife.”  He then reached for his side and unclipped a small nylon sheath, withdrawing a large blade.  “Like this one.”

Horvath still wasn’t following.

His Good Samaritan was now grinning through a set of coffee-stained teeth.  “Not too quick on the uptake, are ya?”

What the young Horvath hadn’t realized was the subtle positioning of the old man.  Standing, looking down, taking a few steps, peering down again, shuffling a few more steps.  All a series of subtle movements that gradually influenced Horvath to rotate his stance and attention, while at the same time, the old man checked to see if the kid was carrying a gun.

Horvath also never noticed, nor heard, the second person who had climbed out of the truck’s open bed and quietly approached while the two talked and discussed the tire.  When Horvath did finally realize something was wrong, like the old man gripping his knife in front of him, it was too late.

In an instant, he was struck from behind.  From something big and hard, smashing directly into the back of his legs and dropping him straight to the ground in an explosion of pain.

 

Horvath cried out and lay writhing on the ground, clutching the backs of both legs with his hands.  He rolled in agony and looked up, searching for and finding his attacker standing directly over him.  “What the f—?!” he yelled.

He was quickly interrupted when the much larger man raised his boot and pressed it down onto Horvath’s neck, causing him to suddenly choke and gasp for air.  The stranger watched the young man struggle under the pressure, trying desperately to free himself.

Without saying a word, the attacker raised his thick metal baton and brought it down hard against Horvath’s thigh.

The choking muffled the scream, while Horvath’s eyes widened and he instinctively tried to reach for his leg.

The large man bent a knee and leaned down, staring into Horvath’s young, bulging eyes.  “Hello, Aleksandr.”

 

2

 

 

 

 

The feeling was utter terror.  Not knowing what was happening and unable to make sense of the thrashing outside.  There were several words spoken, and it was clear there was some kind of fight going on, but it was all muffled from inside the car’s pitch-black interior.

There was screaming mixed with what sounded like choking, followed by whimpering.  Before heavy footsteps could be heard coming closer, and after a brief pause, the trunk was unlocked and lifted open.

 

The light was blinding.  From total darkness to staring up at the sun in an instant, she quickly forced her eyes shut in pain.  She was frightened and felt something tugging at her.  Not at her, at her wrists.  Then her feet.  When she tried to open again, she saw a large silhouette towering over her.  What were they going to do now?

 

To her surprise, the figure stepped back and waited.  She could see some of his face now.  A heavy brow, a prominent nose, and a long hanging beard.  And when he spoke, his voice was deep and strong.

“Don’t be afraid, Cheyenne.  You’re safe now.”

She blinked and said nothing, trembling uncontrollably.

“We’ve been looking for you,” the man said.

Cheyenne was thirteen, filthy, sore, and peering up at him nervously.

“Are you alright?”

Leery, she slowly pushed herself up from the floor of the trunk and leaned forward.  She could see someone’s feet on the ground from where the weeping was coming.

“Don’t worry.  No one’s gonna hurt you anymore,” said the man in front of her.  He then reached down and held out a giant paw to help her out of the trunk, which she nervously accepted.

 

3

 

 

 

 

Now standing, Cheyenne tried to understand what had happened and what was still happening.  The car she was in was parked in the middle of a large patch of dirt, and the man who had been driving it was now on the ground, crying and holding his legs.

The man who had opened the trunk remained beside her, while another, older man stood over the weeping driver with a giant knife in his hand.

To her right was a long, empty stretch of road and an old truck parked on its shoulder.  She had no idea where she was.

“It’s okay,” reassured Mansfield, “you’re safe.”

The girl then noticed something in the distance.  Another vehicle on the road, approaching.  When it reached them, it slowed and pulled over in front of the truck.

“Don’t worry, they’re with me,” said Mansfield.

She glanced up at him, then back at the road, and watched as two women climbed out of the car.  The passenger was older and plump, with shoulder-length gray hair and a smile that reminded her of her grandmother.

 

***

 

“So,” said Mansfield.  “How you feeling?”

He was squatting down and facing Aleksandr Horvath, who they had yanked off the ground and leaned against the car, where he remained out of sight from any passing vehicles.

“Go to hell!” spat Horvath.

Mansfield calmly looked down at his pant leg where the kid’s bloody spittle had landed, then back, as if considering the statement.  “Maybe,” he shrugged, “maybe not.  We’ll have to see.”  He then held up a gun and dangled it out of reach from his captive.  “You should have had this on you, instead of the seat next to you.”  With his right hand, Mansfield reached back and pulled out his own gun.  “See?  Like this.  Much more accessible.”

Horvath did not reply.

Mansfield nodded thoughtfully. “Not feeling conversational.  I understand.”  He rose back up and placed Horvath’s gun on the roof of the sedan.  He then picked up his baton lying beside it while simultaneously returning his own gun to his holster.  Then, without warning, slammed the thick rod down against Horvath’s other leg.

The young man screamed in pain and now grabbed for his opposite leg.  His mouth fell open and his eyes rolled up into his head with agony.

“Does that help break the ice?” asked Mansfield.

Horvath could barely breathe, let alone speak. His body now shuddering from the anguish in both legs.

Mansfield studied the young man’s face.  “I can see you’re not used to this sort of thing.  You’re usually the one on the other end, aren’t you?”  Not waiting for a response, he knelt in front of Horvath with the baton still gripped firmly in his hand.  “I’ll give you a minute to get it together before I break something else.  We have a lot to talk about, beginning with where you were headed.”

 

***

 

Eventually, Mansfield approached the second car where Autumn Munn, their resident psychiatrist, was consoling Cheyenne.  Next to them, Kelly McClay, their newest recruited invisible, was armed and watching both directions of the road.

Upon seeing Mansfield, Autumn gently patted Cheyenne’s leg in the front open seat before stepping away to meet him in the middle.

“How is she?”

“Good.  Better than normal, I’d say.  Thankfully, they didn’t have her for long.  I think she’ll be fine with a little time.”

Mansfield gave an approving nod.  “Charlie will be waiting for all of you back at the truck stop.  Are you up for the two-day drive back to her parents?”

“Of course,” smiled Autumn.  “It’s all part of the job.”  She glanced past him in the direction of Horvath and his sedan.

As if reading her mind, Mansfield answered, “It’s got a spare.  The kid just didn’t want to have to take Cheyenne out of the trunk to get to it.  Ed also has one of his tow trucks on standby just in case.”

“And what about him?”

“Don’t worry about that.  Just get her home.”

 

 

When Mansfield returned to the other side of the sedan, Horvath was exactly where he left him, still shaking and whimpering.

“You speak perfect English,” said Mansfield, peering down.  “So, it’s really up to you on how this goes.  And how generous you want to be.”

“I have friends!” sputtered Horvath.

Mansfield smiled in response.  “It’s good to have friends.”

 

4

 

 

 

 

Estes Park was an extraordinary place.  A small but popular town and summer resort located in northern Colorado that also served as the headquarters for the Rocky Mountain National Park.  Frequented for generations by early Arapaho Indians, the entire area was a marvel of nature.  A place of utter beauty, nestled amongst some of the Rockies’ highest peaks, and looking as though it could have been handcrafted by Mother Nature herself.

With pristine blue rivers and glowing meadows set against the backdrop of majestic mountains, the Rocky Mountain National Park, and Estes as its gateway, received over four million visitors a year from around the world.  And it was a place that only seemed to grow more beautiful every time Mansfield visited.

The mountain air, with its subtle hint of fresh pine, wafted through the cabin of Mansfield’s Suburban as he sat in the passenger seat with his window down.  However, as beautiful as Estes was, it did not come without a rather solemn mood.  Not the place, but the circumstance.

“This is weird,” mumbled Mansfield.

“I know.”

Wanda Rutlidge was sitting next to him in the driver’s seat.  Her short, trim frame appeared smaller than usual behind the giant truck’s steering wheel.  But what she lacked in size, she more than made up for in attitude.  The woman was not just tough; she could be downright ferocious when necessary.  It was one of Mansfield’s favorite things about her.

For the moment, though, the two remained quiet and contemplative where they were parked across the road watching a nearby lodge and storefront.  It was not as popular as many of the park’s other attractions, but instead an out-of-the-way location receiving only a moderate amount of traffic from park visitors on their way to the next big landmark.  The smallish building was, however, popular enough for a bus stop.

This was Horvath’s supposed drop-off point.  And according to him, selected due to the large, daily influx of international visitors to the park.  A location that was both remote and easy for him and his accomplices to blend in.

The camouflage angle made sense to Mansfield, to an extent.  But there were other aspects that didn’t.  For starters, it was a hell of a long way to go to traffic a single person, and that made Mansfield nervous.

Both his and Wanda’s attention shifted when a silver-colored park shuttle suddenly appeared around a corner and came to a careful stop in front of the lodge.  Mansfield glanced at his watch while the shuttle paused, before its side doors finally opened and visitors began streaming out onto the asphalt curb.

Eight people in total.  Four women, two men, and two children.  A few remained together while the rest split up and ambled away in different directions.

To their surprise, it was a woman who crossed the street and headed for the nearby parking lot directly in sight of Mansfield and Rutlidge.

The place and time were right, but there was still a chance she was not their person.  They’d been expecting a man, but it was the woman who reached the parking lot and made a beeline for Horvath’s parked sedan.  The woman was close to Wanda’s size, with long, dark hair, and dressed in simple jeans and a T-shirt. And when she reached the car, she used her own remote to unlock the driver’s door and climb in.  Without hesitation, as if it were her own car, she started the engine and began backing up.

Wanda turned to Mansfield while starting the Suburban.  “She didn’t even check the trunk.”

“It’s not hot out,” he noted, “and Horvath was only to leave it unattended for a few minutes.”

Wanda checked the shuttle still idling across the street.  “Wasn’t he supposed to get on?”

“Yep.”

From the Suburban, the two watched as the sedan smoothly wound its way out of the small parking lot where it turned onto the main road and accelerated past them.

“She didn’t even look to see if he was on the shuttle,” observed Wanda.

“Maybe she doesn’t know what he looks like.”

Wanda made a U-turn and followed the sedan.  “This whole thing is weird,” she stated.  “This far for a drop-off?  It doesn’t make sense.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“When do we make our move?”

“When she finds a safe place to stop and check the trunk,” answered Mansfield.

 

The whole thing was weird, thought Mansfield.  Very weird.  What did they want Cheyenne for that would justify driving so far?  Who was the woman that picked up the sedan, and where did she come from?  His guess was somewhere even farther away, which told Mansfield that there was much more going on here.  Horvath was merely the driver and only knew what he was told.  But this woman most likely knew more, and he had an inkling of what that might be.  He genuinely hoped he was wrong.