But there was none. He reached beneath the sink and tossed out garbage bags, cleaning supplies, barbecue tools and then, there, at the very back, he found a bottle of Scotch. Screech never thought he would be this happy to find a three-quarters full bottle of Ballantine’s in his entire life.
He turned back to Beckett and squatted on all fours. Tossing the cap aside, he started to pour the liquid into Beckett’s open mouth. The first few glugs made Beckett sputter and cough, spilling some of the precious liquid on the floor.
“Drink,” Screech begged. “Drink, goddamnit.”
Beckett’s lips gripped the bottle and he swallowed hungrily.
“We're losing him,” Dane shouted from across the room. “Hurry!”
Screech gave Beckett a final gulp before standing and hurrying across to Drake.
He repeated the process with Drake, pouring small amounts into his mouth and encouraging him to swallow by massaging his throat. In the end, Drake had no problem wolfing down a third of the bottle.
Screech couldn’t be sure, but he thought that Drake’s breathing was starting to regulate, his pulse becoming stronger.
“Sit him up,” Dane ordered, and together they managed to prop Drake up the way he had been when they had entered this room of death.
Screech looked at Dane, seeking further instruction, but the man’s attention was elsewhere.
Dane was staring at Ray Reynolds.
And he was weeping.
Before Screech could fully grasp what was happening, Dane crawled over to Ray and wrapped his arms around him, cradling his head in his lap.
Ray’s eyelids fluttered and his mouth started to move, but Screech heard no words.
There was still at least a quarter of Ballantine’s left in the bottle, Screech saw, and he offered it to Dane.
“I’ll take that,” Beckett said from behind him. At the same time, he snatched the Ballantine’s from his hand.
Beckett’s eyes weren’t fully open, but he seemed to be steadier on his feet now. As Screech watched, he brought the bottle to his lips and took a large swig. But when he was done, he made no move toward either Ray or Dane.
“What are you doing?” Screech demanded, looking up at him. “You can still save him!”
Before Screech realized what Beckett was about to do, the man’s arm was already cocked.
“No!” he screamed, but it was too late.
Beckett launched the bottle of Ballantine’s across the room. A second later, it smashed against the wall in a shower of purple glass and yellow scotch.
Silence fell over them then; even Dane’s crying seemed more subdued. It was just quiet enough for Screech to pick up on Ray’s dying words.
“I feel nothing,” he whispered. “Finally, the suffering is over.”
Epilogue
Screech opened the door to Triple D and like the last time he had been there, the smell of alcohol struck his nose first. And yet, time had muted the smell, making it mostly bearable.
With a sigh, he walked over to the corner of the room and grabbed the broom. Then he swept up the glass from the bottle that Drake had thrown and dumped it in the waste bin.
He went to his desk next and started to tidy up, starting first with the sketch of Ray Reynolds. Then he closed down his computer.
Screech was about to leave again when he saw that the door to Drake’s office was open.
He sauntered over to it and then looked inside. It was empty, as he expected it to be. For some reason, Screech entered the office and then sat in Drake’s chair and put his feet up.
For the next few minutes, he just sat there and ruminated over the events of the past few months, starting with the Virgin Gorda and ending with the mass murder/suicide at the Reynolds farm.
Screech’s phone buzzed and he took it out of his pocket, surprised to see that it wasn’t a message or a call.
It was a notification from the video app indicating that one of the cameras had detected movement.
That’s odd, he thought.
They had removed all the cameras from Mrs. Armatridge’s home and the homes of her octogenarian posse, and as far as he knew, there was only one that was still active.
The one that he had given Drake.
Screech clicked on the icon and was immediately shown a view of the interior of 212 Main St. Aside from a stack of chairs against one wall, the place seemed empty.
Thinking that it might be defective, he was about to close the app when someone stepped into the frame.
Screech squinted hard and it took a few moments before he recognized the tall figure on the screen.
It was Deputy Inspector Lewis Palmer. The man stood in the corner of the room for a moment but then leaned forward as someone else approached. This new man’s back was to the camera, but that didn’t matter.
Screech knew who he was. He could tell by the sloped shoulders, the short but stocky posture.
The tanned arms jutting from shirtsleeves.
It was Raul.
Screech took his feet off Drake’s desk and then pressed the record button as Lewis Palmer first shook hands with Raul, and then they started to chat.
***
Ken Smith finished lighting his cigar and took several puffs in a row.
It was unwise to meet in his condo, he knew, but after the cluster fuck with Ray Reynolds and the media shitstorm that had descended on them afterward, things needed to be sped up.
He sat at the head of the table, while a well-dressed man with a dark beard sat at his right. A woman with long blond hair and high cheekbones occupied the seat to his immediate left. Beside her sat a man with deeply tanned skin and a shaved head.
“When will he be here?” the man with the shaved head asked.
“Soon,” was Mayor Smith’s response. He took another puff of his cigar, and true to his word, the door to the conference room opened shortly after.
A man wearing a T-shirt and jeans stepped through the glass door. His shoulders were rolled forward and his chin was tucked.
“Welcome, Dane Drake,” Mayor Smith offered.
Dane raised his head and stared at the members at the table, his eyes lingering on each one of them for a few seconds.
But he said nothing.
“I thought you said—” the man with the beard started, but Ken hushed him by raising a finger.
“I think you know why you’re here, Dane. But first, on behalf of all of us at this table, I would like to express my sincere condolences for what happened to your brother.”
Dane grunted, but still didn’t say anything.
Ken Smith was about to continue when the door to the conference room opened a second time. Dane took a step to his right, and his posture tensed, but only for a moment.
“Raul,” Dane said, but Kent couldn’t be sure if this was a salutation or an accusation.
Either way, it made no difference to Raul; he took up residence in the corner of the room, his hands crossed in front of his body.
Kent took another drag of his cigar, then cleared his throat.
“Your business in South America has peaked our interests, Dane. And we think it’s about time you started to think about expanding.”
END
Human Traffic
Detective Damien Drake Book 5
Patrick Logan
Heav'n hath no rage like love to hatred turn'd, Nor Hell a fury, like a woman scorn'd.
- William Congreve
Human Traffic
Prologue
“There are twenty-one baggies in front of each of you. You are to consume every one of these bags. Failure to consume all of the bags in the allotted time will result in you not getting on the boat. If you burst one of the bags, either on the table or in your mouth, you will not get on the boat. If one of these bags rupture inside you, you will die. Do you understand?”
The girl was blindfolded, but she could somehow sense that everyone around her was nodding. She did the same.
“Good,” the man continue
d. “You have twenty minutes. That’s one baggie per minute, give or take, so I suggest you get started.”
The girl took a deep breath and then cautiously groped the table in front of her. When her hand fell on the first baggie, her heart started to race. It was much larger than she’d expected—about the size of a ping-pong ball, maybe even bigger.
Impossible… I won’t be able to swallow one of these, let alone twenty-one.
And yet, when the man shouted that there were nineteen minutes left, she pinched the ball between thumb and forefinger and placed it in her mouth.
It tasted rubbery and salty, but she didn’t let it rest on her tongue for long. With a heavy gulp, the girl swallowed.
The baggie only made it about an inch down her throat before triggering her gag reflex and she retched.
The baggie rolled back onto her tongue.
“I would like to remind you, that if any of the baggies break, you will not be getting on the boat.”
The girl used two fingers to force the baggie down her throat. When she retched this time, she fought the visceral response by keeping her fingers in place. Her abdomen underwent a series of contractions, all designed to dislodge the bolus, but she persisted.
Eventually, her eyes bulged behind her blindfold and her body switched tactics. Desperate for air, instead of trying to regurgitate the baggie, she somehow managed to swallow it.
The girl could feel the thick wad stretch her esophagus all the way down to her empty stomach.
The second baggie went down easier, as did the third. By the last one, the twenty-first, the process had become second nature; it was as easy as swallowing raisins.
“Very good. I advise you to exercise caution as these bags will rub together in your stomach. If they burst, you will die. Now, stand up; one of my men will guide you to the boat.”
Feeling queasy, the girl stood and someone immediately hooked an arm through hers.
“I’m trying!” someone to her left shouted. “I can do it! I just need more time!”
“Your twenty minutes are up,” the man said in a flat tone.
There was a commotion, a struggle.
“I can—”
A single shot rang out and the room fell into silence.
“Get the baggies out of her,” the man growled after the echo died down.
“How?” a second man asked.
“I don’t give a shit how you do it—tear her open for all I care. Just get them out.”
Trembling now, the girl bowed her head as she was led first down a dirt walk, then onto a floating dock. A few seconds later, she was vaguely aware of the fact that she’d boarded a vessel of some sort.
“You will be on this boat for nearly three days. During this time, you’ll have access to a special drink, but no food. The drink tastes terrible, but it is important to consume as much as you can—this will help keep the bags from breaking. You can piss all you want, but it’s in your best interest not to take a shit.”
The grip on the girl’s arm tightened and someone grumbled in her ear that they were heading down a set of stairs. The others were all around her now; she could smell the reek of their sweat, she could hear their shallow breaths.
When her bare toes eventually touched the landing, she was ushered across an empty space before being forced into a crowded room.
“After three days, you will be transferred to a shipping container for an additional day of travel. If, during this time, you defecate and lose one of the baggies, you will be left at sea. Now, as soon as I close this door, you can remove your blindfolds.”
The girl was shaking now; the promise of a new life in a new land had suddenly lost all appeal.
This is a mistake, she thought. I need to get out of here.
But it was too late to turn back now.
She was not so naive as to think that the man’s claim that they wouldn’t get on the boat meant that she could simply go back to her previous life, as unappealing as the notion was.
Not getting on the boat really meant getting a bullet in the head.
Tear her open for all I care.
They weren’t people anymore. They were simply a means of transportation—they were expendable, organic vessels containing something far more valuable than their lives.
“The next time you see the sun, you’ll be standing on the shores of the greatest country in the world.”
The pressure in the room suddenly changed as the door was slammed closed. This was quickly followed by a click that could only be one thing—a padlock being snapped shut.
With trembling hands, the girl reached up and lifted her blindfold.
Only she still couldn’t see anything.
The room was bathed in darkness.
“Bon voyage,” the man said from the other side of the door with a chuckle.
PART I – The Wrong Side of the Law
Chapter 1
Drake’s eyes snapped open and he sucked in a deep breath.
His initial instinct was to sit up, but he found himself unable. His muscles simply refused to obey his commands.
“Where—where am I?” he croaked. “Where the fuck am I?”
Blinking rapidly, the scene before him eventually started to become clear. Drake was in a small room of some sort, with annoyingly bright incandescent lighting embedded in the ceiling above. Off to one side, he noted an archaic-looking computer that beeped intermittently.
“He’s back,” a voice said, drawing Drake’s attention. He turned his head in the direction of the voice, but this action sent his world into a tailspin and he was forced to close his eyes again. He retched and a thin fluid spilled from his mouth and coated his chin and cheeks. The vomit was sour and hot; just the idea of it brought more of it up from the pit of his stomach.
He was vaguely aware that someone was cleaning his mouth and face with a gloved hand. Confused, Drake opened his eyes again and found himself staring at the face of a man he’d never seen before. He was young with blond hair that was closely cropped to his head. There was a stethoscope dangling around his neck.
“Damien? Damien Drake?” The man asked, raising a penlight.
Drake squinted and tried to turn his face away from the offending light, but the man wouldn’t let him. His gloved hand firmly gripped his chin as he waved the light back and forth. Drake tried to bring his right hand up to swat the man away, only he couldn’t. And yet, unlike before, this was not the result of disobedient muscles.
Something sharp bit into his wrist, followed by the familiar sound of metal on metal when he relaxed.
He was handcuffed to the bed.
“Where am I?” Drake demanded.
“You’re—” the man with a stethoscope didn’t manage to complete the sentence; Drake was suddenly jostled, and for a split-second, he was airborne.
I’m not in a room, he realized. I’m in the back of an ambulance.
And the archaic computer to his left wasn’t a Commodore 64, but a heart rate monitor.
Gritting his teeth against the nausea that returned with every bump, Drake pressed his brain into remembering what happened.
He recalled bits and pieces of his chase after Beckett’s kidnappers, his journey to the farm. He also remembered speaking with someone… someone with dark hair and darker eyes.
Tears suddenly spilled down Drake’s cheeks and he closed his eyes again.
I was too late… Beckett was already dead when I got there. And I should be, too.
“Is all this really necessary?” a new voice asked. Drake opened his eyes and looked around, trying to find the source, but he couldn’t; the man was somewhere above his head.
“It’s for his own safety,” the paramedic said as he squeezed a clear IV bag.
“Bullshit,” the second man replied. “It’s because that douchebag inspector told you to cuff him. Don’t lie to me. And if you keep squeezing a fucking bag like that, you’re going to give him a goddamn emboli.”
The voice was familiar, but Drake cou
ldn’t place it. The annoying ringing in his ears that was punctuated by the ping of the cardiopulmonary monitor on the rare occasion that his heart decided to pump was making it difficult to concentrate.
“I’m just doing—”
“Your job? Wow, that’s a fucking new one. Why does everyone say that like it’s an excuse for everything? I’m just doing my job. Oh, you know that SS soldier? You know the one… he killed millions of Jews because Hitler told him to—hell, he was just doing his job. What about the ISIS member? The one with the beard? Oh, he’s a nice guy, really loves chess, long walks on the beach. It’s just that Allah told him to blow up some Jesus lovers. And—” the man grunted in pain. “—shit, if you’re so set on doing your job, why don’t you give me something a little more powerful for my fucking finger? It hurts like a midget giving birth to triplets.”
Beckett?
There was only one person he knew that spoke like this… but that man was dead. Wasn’t he?
“Beckett,” Drake croaked.
How is this possible? I saw Beckett’s body on the ground with the disciples of the Church of Liberation.
A pale face suddenly hovered into view, and Drake had to blink several times to make sure that what he was seeing was actually there.
It was Beckett… the man looked tired, older, even, but there was no denying that smirk.
“What a fucking night, Drake. I mean, I had some doozies in the past—in college—but this one… this one definitely takes the cake.”
Chapter 2
“Well, you gave your liver quite a jolt,” the doctor with the round spectacles said. His demeanor was strangely jovial, given the circumstances. “And you very nearly died.”
Drake grunted.
“No shit,” he said. “But I’ve been training my liver for some time, now.”
Detective Damien Drake series Box Set 2 Page 20
