Turning back one final time, Yasiv counted down from three with his fingers, then stood and opened the door.
“NYPD, put your hands up,” he ordered as he stepped inside the room.
Fear coursing through his veins, Screech stared up and down the hallway, wondering what the hell he would do if someone actually came through either door.
This is insane… this is absolutely mental. Oh, god, what am I doing… what the fuck am I doing?
Unable to help himself, Screech postured up and looked through the glass.
Yasiv had his pistol trained on a man in a lab coat. The scientist was standing over a bench full of chemicals, his gloved hands out at his sides.
“Hands up,” Yasiv repeated. The man said something, but his voice was muffled by the teal mask that covered his nose and mouth.
When Yasiv motioned with the gun, the scientist finally obliged. But as he brought his hands above his head, Screech saw his foot move, as well. The toe of his running shoe inched ever so slowly toward a bottle of powder on the floor.
“Yasiv,” Screech hissed, but Yasiv didn’t acknowledge him.
“Where’s Horatio?”
Again, more muffled words from behind the mask.
Frustrated, Yasiv ordered him to remove the mask. The man did as he was told, but as he did, his foot shot out.
The bottle of powder toppled, sending a large white cloud into the air. Yasiv immediately backpedaled and swatted the caustic substance away from his face.
“Oh shit!” Screech shouted.
The scientist whipped around to look at him through the glass.
Screech didn’t think; he just reacted.
He raised the gun, aimed it as best he could, and then fired.
Chapter 72
“Where do we go now?” Hanna said from the driver seat.
Drake just stared at the photograph in his hand.
“Drake? I asked where we should go.”
He lifted his eyes to look at her.
For some reason, she trusted him. And what had he done? Made her an accomplice in the escape of a known serial killer.
“Triple D,” he said dryly. “Take me to my office so we can sit down and figure this out. I need to speak to Screech, see if he can bring up whatever is on this card.”
Hanna nodded.
They drove in silence for the next ten minutes, during which time Drake preoccupied himself by staring at the photograph of Jasmine.
He couldn’t explain it. The single brick, that he could rationalize. But not this.
Eventually, Hanna spoke up again.
“This is messed up,” she said absently. “This is royally messed up.”
Drake pressed his lips together, resisting the urge to confirm the obvious.
“I can explain away a lot of things, and a lot of people back at Oak Valley owe me some favors. But this? Dr. Kruk escaping? That’s gonna be a tough sell.” She shook her head. “A real tough sell.”
“I’ll take the blame,” Drake said reflexively.
Hanna chuckled.
“You? Yeah, not gonna happen. Besides, I’m not playing the damsel in distress for anybody. I’ll get through this, Drake, but you owe me. You owe me big time.”
Drake raised an eyebrow. This wasn’t the response he’d expected.
His mind flicked back to the first time he’d met the woman after she claimed that the Download Killer had raped her. Not only had the man not been the killer — it had been his delusional wife — but Hanna had been more than consenting.
“Not like that, you sick fuck,” Hanna said, reading his mind. “I want to work with you. I want to be a part of Triple D.”
Drake scoffed.
“Aim high, huh? I’ll tell you what, if I’m not dead or in jail after this is all over, I’ll make you a damn partner. How does that sound?”
“Peachy,” Hanna replied. She was being sarcastic, but he also saw a hint of a smile form on her lips.
“But you’re gonna have to do something about your sense of direction.”
“What?”
Drake pointed out the window.
“Yeah, you just passed the place. If you’re gonna work at Triple D, you should probably figure out where it is.”
Again, Hanna chuckled.
“Yeah, I’ll work on my directions if you sharpen your PI skills.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You didn’t see the two plainclothed police officers sitting in the Lincoln Town Car in the parking lot?”
Drake wrenched his head around to look at the parking lot. Sure enough, there was a Town Car with heavily tinted windows front and center.
“Touché,” he whispered.
“So where to now, boss?” Hanna asked.
The word ‘boss’ made Drake instinctively cringe. That had been what he called Chase back when they worked together.
Chase… who was now missing.
“The bar,” Drake said, his eyes still focused out the window. “Take me to Barney’s.”
Chapter 73
Having to step over a man with a bleeding head and an assault rifle slung over one shoulder should have sent Leroy running. It would have sent him running if it had happened a month or even a week ago.
But not now.
Leroy was part of this, whether he wanted to be or not. Perhaps it was because he never really felt like he belonged; he was too smart for his school and too self-aware for other seventeen-almost-eighteen-year-olds.
You can get out… you’re the only one who can get out, Leroy.
He was part of this, whatever this was.
With this realization, Leroy stepped through the first door and then followed the fresh tracks in the dust to a second. He’d just pulled this open when he heard the shot.
The sound was nearly deafening in the narrow hallway and it took him several seconds to catch his bearings and several more to figure what had happened.
Screech was in a partial crouch aiming his pistol at a glass window and, judging by the sneer on his lips and his furrowed brow, it was clear that he had been the one to fire the shot. But the glass… that was the confusing part. The glass hadn’t shattered.
As Leroy started toward his friend, shouting his name as he went, he saw the bullet embedded in the glass and a small spiderweb pattern branching out a few inches from the point of impact.
Screech didn’t turn; either his ears were ringing too loudly to hear Leroy approaching, or he was still in shock.
But when the door at the end of the hallway opened and a man with a shaved head bearing a machine gun stepped through, Leroy leaped. His intention had been to cover Screech, but he fell short and landed hard on his chest and stomach.
This probably saved his life: the burst of automatic gunfire flew overhead instead of punching holes in his torso.
And then, as soon as it started, the barrage of bullets stopped. Leroy lifted his chin to see the man trying to clear the chamber.
The gun had jammed.
In the foreground, Screech was still standing in the middle of the hallway, a confused look on his face. Then he started patting his body, searching for holes. When he didn’t find any, he shrugged. The fact that Screech hadn’t been shot was something of a miracle, but Leroy didn’t stop to thank the Lord Almighty. Instead, he reached for the nearest door and shoved Screech inside.
Leroy heard the sound of another clip being locked into place just as he followed Screech into the room. A second after switching the thick deadbolt to locked, something hard hit him in the ribs and he buckled.
Breathing became impossible and for a desperate twenty seconds he found himself inch-worming along the tiled floor, his arms wrapped protectively around his ribs. Above him a commotion ensured, but Leroy’s sole focus was to draw a full breath.
His diaphragm finally came to, and the kid inhaled deeply, raising his head at the same time.
What the fuck?
Yasiv was standing not three feet from him, clawing at so
me sort of white powder that covered his face. Screech was near the back of the room, locked in hand-to-hand combat with a man wearing a lab coat.
It looked like Dr. Kevorkian was trying to strangle one of his patients who’d changed their mind at the last minute.
Leroy managed to push his back up against a wall and then took three deep breaths, wincing at the pain that shot up his side each time his lungs inflated.
He didn’t know what hit him but assumed that it might have been one of Screech’s flailing limbs. The man was crazed, but he was also inexperienced and clearly outmatched by the scientist.
With a groan, Leroy rose to his feet, and then strode forward with steps that were at first ungainly, but quickly became more coordinated. He scanned the shelves, looking for something solid to use as a weapon. He didn’t find anything; the shelves only contained plastic bottles filled with powders or liquids.
Screech yelled something to Yasiv, something desperate, but the sergeant was still blind. Knowing that there was a man with a machine gun just outside the room, Leroy grabbed the thing closest to him that looked like it had some heft to it and threw it across the room.
He lucked out; it was a Bunsen Burner and it flew straight and true.
Before his mother had convinced him to focus all his efforts on his studies — You’re the only one smart enough to find a way out of here — Leroy had been one hell of a ball player.
The Bunsen Burner whizzed by Screech’s head and struck the scientist right in the face. There was an audible crunch and blood immediately spurted from his nose and mouth, coating the teal mask that had been knocked up to his chin.
He staggered, and Screech shoved. The scientist’s feet slipped out from under him and the back of his head smashed against a row of cabinets beneath the sink. He slid to the ground in slow-motion.
Only now did Leroy look at Screech.
“What the fuck is wrong with Yasiv? What the fuck is—”
But Leroy was cut off by more automatic gunfire and he dropped to the ground, hands wrapped over his head.
Chapter 74
This time, Tweedledee and Tweedledum didn’t even bother stopping Hanna or Drake as they approached the bar. The two men simply stepped aside and allowed them to pass.
Barney’s was busier now, but the crowd still mostly consisted of the old guard; the only person with a partially shaved head and face piercings in the joint was Hanna. The woman immediately headed for the booth that they’d occupied earlier and took up residence, while Drake went to the bar.
Mickey sidled over to him, even though there were several customers who were still waiting to be served.
“I didn’t expect to see you back so soon,” Mickey said, his eyebrows knitted in concern.
Drake frowned.
“Me neither.”
“You look like shit… more like shit. What’s going on?”
Drake shook his head.
“Same… long story. Listen, I have this SD card and I was wondering if you had something back there that might be able to read it.”
Mickey raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask the obvious question.
He was a good man, Drake realized. A good man who, although he had changed his bar to reflect the times, still clung to old-school morals and ethics. Mickey’s word still meant something, and his handshake was as good as pen on paper.
Drake had done many a favor for the man in his NYPD days, and Mickey hadn’t forgotten.
“I’ve got an old laptop in the back you could use. Let me fix you and the girl a drink first then I’ll grab it.”
Drake waited for Mickey to pour him two glassed of scotch, then thanked the man and headed for the booth. Hanna graciously took her beverage and sipped quietly.
Drake felt guilt start to creep into his thoughts again but shunned them. It wasn’t time to be overwhelmed by emotions. It was time to think, to figure this out, to plan.
Those who fail to plan, plan to fail.
It was Clay’s voice in his head, something that he hadn’t heard in some time.
Did he know about Jasmine? Had he seen the full picture or just the folded part? What did Clay know?
Drake shook his head.
“Look, I’m sorry—” he began, taking a sip of his scotch.
“I’m a big girl,” Hanna interrupted. “You didn’t force me to do anything.”
Strong women…
Drake wasn’t sure what it was, but lately, he’d been surrounding himself with strong women: first Chase, then Veronica, now Hanna.
And Jasmine… don’t forget Jasmine.
“How could I?” he said glumly.
Hanna blinked.
“What?”
Drake shook his head.
“Nothing.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the SD card, frowning when the photograph came out with it.
“What’s that?” Hanna asked, clearly indicating the photo.
“Nothing,” he grumbled again, hastily shoving it back into his pocket.
Hanna looked as if she might inquire further, when Mickey appeared at the booth, a laptop in hand.
“It’s old, slow as shit, but it’s got an SD slot,” he informed them.
“Thanks,” Drake said taking the computer.
He waited for Mickey to head back to the bar before booting it up. After searching for the SD slot and not finding it, Hanna graciously took over.
“One file on here,” she informed him. “A video.”
Drake took a deep breath.
This is it… if Ken Smith is on the video, it’ll be all the evidence we need. If not, then we just let a serial killer loose on the streets of New York for nothing.
“Play it,” he said. “Play the damn video.”
Unlike back in the garage, what appeared on screen wasn’t a low-quality VHS recording; this one was pristine.
The video was shaky at first, as whoever was holding a camera made their way down a long hallway. After turning a corner, the image stabilized. Moments later, two people came into focus.
Ken Smith and Raul Mendes.
Drake must have growled then, because Hanna said, “Easy, big fella.”
She reached out and gently peeled his fingers away from the scotch glass before he shattered it.
“Can you turn it up a little?” he asked.
Hanna nodded and increased the volume.
At first, it was difficult to understand what the men were saying, but then the camera zoomed in and everything became clear.
“Your contacts in Colombia are still in place? The Church of Liberation is still up and running?” Ken said.
Raul nodded.
“Everything is set up,” he replied in his thick Spanish accent. “All you have to do is transfer the funds and you’ll be the largest single supplier in New York.”
Ken nodded.
“Good. And the product is pharmaceutical grade?”
“Jes. The heroin is almost a hundred percent pure.”
“Good. We’ll provide a better product at a cheaper price than the competition. That should drive everyone else out of the market.”
Raul frowned.
“What?” Ken asked, concern creeping into his voice.
“It’s jes… I know from experience that sometimes these men… sometimes better business practices are not enough.”
“We have the distribution network in place and several street level dealers have already agreed to only sell our product. What else do we need?”
“It’s not just the halcones, Mr. Smith. It’s the lugartenientes y capos… they might need some persuasion.”
Ken appeared to mull this over for a second. When he spoke again, his voice had taken on a hard edge.
“We have people in place for that, too. People you call sicarios. If anybody gives us problems, we’ll just knock off the existing guys and put one of our men in their place.”
Drake swallowed hard.
And there it was, just like Thomas said.
He couldn’t believe that the man was speaking so candidly about the heroin business, about knocking off other dealers.
Drug Lord- Part I Page 22
