Detective Damien Drake series Box Set 2

by Patrick Logan

  Dr. Ramsey wasn’t lying… I am in rough shape.

  After the pain subsided, Drake rose to his full height.

  The first thing he noticed was the smell of salt in the air. The second was the sound of waves splashing on the shore not a hundred feet from where he stood. The third was the blue storage container lying between the back of the hangar and the shore.

  Adrenaline flooded his system and Drake readied himself for action. But just like in the hangar, the gravel expanse to the shore appeared deserted. He crouched low and hurried across the gravel before pulling up behind an outcropping of rocks.

  There he waited, once again listening for the sound of anyone following him. But the only things he heard were his own labored breathing and blood coursing through his ears. And maybe his liver crying out. The good news was that he could ignore all of these things—especially the latter, which he’d done for years.

  Drake waited for a thirty count before continuing toward the shipping container. This time when he moved, he pulled the gun from the back of his pants and held it out in front of him. Another thirty count and he found himself leaning against the ass end of the container. This time when he paused, he realized that there were other sounds filling the night. He could hear the ocean, but beneath that, he could also make out something else; a hum of some sort, or a mechanical purr.

  And it was getting louder.

  Brow furrowed, Drake strafed his way along the metal container. He was halfway to the front when the shadows broke and he saw that the container was hanging open.

  A second later, he noticed something in the water.

  What in the fuck?

  With a deep breath, Drake finally stepped out in the moonlight.

  And then he stopped cold.

  The mechanical purr that he’d been hearing was the sound of an outboard motor, which was attached to a large open top boat. Inside, Drake saw a stack of thick black bags that could only be filled with one thing.

  Bodies.

  A man with broad shoulders and gray hair suddenly stepped out into the open, a cigarette dangling from between his lips. He was mumbling something in a language that Drake didn’t recognize and as he watched, the man reached down and wrapped a meaty hand on the corner of one of the bags. With a grunt, he started dragging the body bag across the small stretch of gravel between the opening of the shipping container and the boat.

  Another grunt and the man hoisted the bag onto one shoulder and then tossed it on top of the others. It landed with a sickening thud that sent the boat rocking.

  The man started to turn and Drake leveled the pistol at his chest.

  “I’m thinking you should put your hands in the air,” he said calmly.

  The man, half turned now, froze, but his hands remained at his sides.

  “I said, put your goddamn hands in the air,” Drake repeated.

  The man took a drag of the cigarette between his lips, but still refused to raise his hands. He also looked to be smirking.

  “I said, put your—”

  The man was thick and stocky, but also quick. As he exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, his right hand snaked behind him.

  He was quick, but Drake was quicker.

  He fired a single shot. Drake had been aiming for the man’s knee, but before he squeezed the trigger, his liver revolted and the muscles on the right side of his body clenched.

  The bullet struck the man just below the hip.

  He grunted, but didn’t go down. He did, however, stop reaching for whatever was in the back of his pants and raised his hands. Drake was amazed that the man had taken the bullet with just a grunt, but he didn’t let this distract him.

  “I want you to—”

  “Drake!” Someone shouted behind him. “Drop the fucking gun!”

  Drake’s shoulders sagged. He’d put himself in the worst position possible. The second he took his eyes off the man in front of him—who was, unbelievably, still smirking and smoking—he would either pull his gun or make a run for the boat. But if Drake didn’t do as he was asked, a bullet would find its way between his shoulder blades.

  A smarter man, one more prepared, one who wasn’t still fighting the effects of methanol poisoning, perhaps, would have moved to the front of the open container so that no one could sneak up from behind.

  “Turn around now, Drake, or I swear to god, I’ll put a bullet in your spine.”

  He had no choice; besides, it was better to face death when it came, and not get bumrushed by it.

  Grinding his teeth, Drake dropped his gun and spun around.

  “You? What the fuck are you doing here?”

  PART II – A Business Card, a Scalpel, and an Auction

  Chapter 20

  The cigar smoke was so thick in the room that it was difficult to see the three people sitting beside him, let alone the two across.

  There was a nervous tension in the air as well, something that Ken Smith was not accustomed to. So far, everything had fallen in place exactly the way he’d planned it. Well, not exactly; there had been issues with Ray Reynolds and the Church of Liberation, things that he was still in the process of cleaning up. But once DI Palmer brought Drake in, the loose ends would all be nicely tied up.

  That is, until the issues with the package.

  “I thought that this was under control,” Ken hissed. “And you are sure that all twenty-one of the girls are dead, Bob?”

  The bald man across from him raised his head. He had at least five inches and fifty pounds of solid muscle on Ken, but it was the former who looked terrified.

  “Y-yes, Mayor Smith. All—”

  The man to Ken’s left, a man with a dark beard and bespoke suit, leaned in close to the mayor’s ear and whispered something.

  Ken nodded and turned back to Bob.

  “There were twenty-two girls who boarded the yacht in Riohacha, Bob, not twenty-one. Maybe we need to get someone more competent to take care of the logistics.”

  Bob’s eyes went wide.

  “No, sir. E-e-everything went according to plan. The girls were loaded onto the yacht, and then—”

  Ken slammed his fist down on the table, and the two men across from him jumped.

  “Everything went according to plan? Seriously? Bob, you imbecile, we’ve got an auction coming up and not only do I not have any product, but I’ve got the police snooping around. What part of the plan was that?”

  “I thought the police—”

  Ken slammed his fist down on the table again, this time so hard that his cigar fell out of the ashtray.

  “Don’t think! I don’t pay you to think!” he bellowed. Behind Bob, Ken saw a flicker of movement; Raul had stepped from the shadows, just in case. He waved him off and turned to the man beside Bob. “What about my drugs? Could they be salvaged from the girls?”

  This man raised his head, but unlike Bob who was gripped by fear, he only looked loathsome.

  “I have no idea. I got you both the girls and the dope. That was my part of the bargain—I told you that the baggies weren’t designed for such a long journey. I warned you. But you didn’t listen. Now, I’ve fulfilled my end of the bargain. The rest… the dead girls… that’s on you and Bob, not me.”

  Bob growled, but Raul made his presence known and cooler heads prevailed.

  Warned me? Nobody warns me.

  Ken picked his cigar off the table and took several puffs.

  “I need you to get me a dozen more girls and more heroin. That’s what I paid you for, and you failed to deliver. Don’t you forget what I can do to your brother, Dane.”

  Dane scowled.

  “I upheld my part of the bargain. As for Damien, he’s all over the news. You’ve already ruined whatever reputation he’s got left,” the man fired back.

  Ken cursed under his breath. DI Palmer was supposed to wait until he got confirmation that the shipment had arrived safe and sound before going after Drake. But that asshole had become Chatty Kathy in front of the camera.

  Bot
h Drake brothers had proved valuable, but Ken was beginning to think that they were more trouble than they were worth.

  He would be happy when they were finally gone.

  “It’s not just Drake you need to worry about,” Ken said, taking another puff of his cigar.

  Dane Drake smiled.

  “Me? You think that I have anything left to lose? If so, you’re sorely—”

  Ken shook his head.

  “It appears as if your brother’s girlfriend is expecting,” he said calmly.

  Something in Dane’s face broke, and now it was Ken’s turn to smile.

  “I’ll get you another shipment,” Dane hissed. “But this is the last one.”

  More insolence.

  You will do what I ask until I am done with you.

  “This time you are taking someone with you.”

  Dane Drake shook his head.

  “That’s not part of the deal. They’re my contacts in Colombia and I’ll keep it that way.”

  “Two dozen dead Colombian girls and fifty keys of missing heroin wasn’t part of the deal, either. Bob will take whoever I say with you to Colombia. And this time when you return, I want my girls alive and my drugs in bags, not in their bloodstream. There will be no third time.”

  Again, Dane looked as if he were going to protest, but bit his tongue.

  “Now get the fuck out of my sight,” Ken barked.

  The two men rose and exited the room. When they were gone, Ken brought the cigar to his lips and took a puff. It suddenly tasted bitter to him, and he butted it out.

  When the man to his left spoke again, this time he didn’t bother disguising his words.

  “I’ve got my men cleaning up the mess at the hangar.”

  Ken nodded.

  “What about the auction? Do we have enough product?”

  The man hesitated before answering.

  “I can scrap something together for the time being. It won’t be the same, but…”

  “…it’s the best we can do for now,” Ken finished for him. Then he turned to the sharply dressed woman to his left and the tanned man with the shaved head on her other side. “Anything you’d like to add?”

  They both shook their heads, but Ken could see the displeasure on their faces.

  “Good,” he said, before looking at Raul. “Go get Wesley. Tell him to go with Dane, find out who his connections are in Colombia. And then, after the girls and drugs have been loaded into the container, have him shoot Dane in the head.”

  Raul nodded and Ken pulled a new cigar from his suit jacket pocket.

  After Dane was gone, that would only leave one Drake left. But Damien, Ken knew, would most likely prove more difficult to snuff out.

  Chapter 21

  “He’s loading bodies in the boat! You need to—”

  The man in the NYPD uniform aimed the pistol a little higher.

  “Drake, I swear to God, if you say another word, I’m gonna blow your head off.”

  Drake bit his lip. He wanted nothing more than to tell this little prick off, but he didn’t like the way the man’s hand was trembling.

  “Good. Now, I want you to walk slowly towards me. Keep your hands in the air.”

  Drake had no choice but to obey. Even though he had bested the man in their previous altercation, he was still game. There was no question in Drake’s mind that if he decided to do anything but as instructed, his penance would be lead.

  “Good,” the man said. “Now I want you to—”

  A shadow suddenly appeared behind the officer and Drake cringed. Sensing that something was up, the officer’s brow furrowed and he started to turn.

  “No! Wait!” Drake shouted, but it was too late.

  The much smaller figure swung something heavy in a wide arc. It struck the officer across the cheek and smashed into his nose. He grunted, then collapsed to the gravel in a heap.

  Drake immediately whipped around, his eyes desperately seeking the man who was filling the boat with bodies.

  “Shit!”

  The short bastard with the gray hair that Drake had winged must have bolted the second his back was to him. He was already halfway across the bay and even weighed down with the bodies, the boat was putting more distance between them with every second that passed.

  Drake swore again then turned to see what had happened to Officer Paul Kramer.

  “Is he alive?” he asked as he strode toward the downed officer. Mandy, who looked as terrified as she’d been when Drake had first met her at Screech’s apartment, dropped the tire iron as he approached.

  Paul Kramer was an asshole, but Drake still felt some responsibility for him, considering that he had been a part of Clay’s life. A quick inspection answered his initial query: he had a broken nose and maybe even a fractured cheek, but Paul Kramer was very much alive.

  Drake raised his eyes and stared at Mandy.

  “I told you to stay in the fucking car.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mandy said softly, and Drake instantly regretted yelling at her. She was just scared… and she might have just saved his life.

  “It’s okay,” he replied, looking around. There were no police sirens or lights filling the night. However Kramer had found him, he’d done so alone.

  That was good.

  Confident that they were alone for the time being, Drake turned his attention to the shipping container that the Russian was in the process of cleaning when he’d arrived.

  Even illuminated by only the weak light from his flashlight, what Drake saw almost made him sick. It wasn’t the blood that coated the floor of the container, nor the congealed pools of vomit in the corners. No, it was the knowledge that less than 24 hours ago there were nearly two dozen living and breathing Colombian girls locked in the dark. All they wanted was a better life for themselves, and what did they get for their efforts? Unintentional overdose, followed by a watery grave.

  Drake looked away—he couldn’t stare at the mess any longer.

  Without saying a word to Mandy—who looked legitimately terrified now—Drake grabbed Officer Kramer by the ankles and started to drag him across the gravel. Kramer was on the smaller size, but Drake’s body protested even the smallest of physical movement now. With a pained grunt, he somehow managed to hoist the officer into the shipping container. Kramer’s head bounced off the metal and his eyes rolled forward.

  “Wha-wha-what? What happened?” he muttered.

  Drake didn’t answer; instead, he slammed the doors closed and then used the tire iron that Mandy had struck Kramer with to lock them.

  “Did I do something wrong?” Mandy asked quietly. “I thought he was going to kill you, Drake.”

  Drake sighed.

  “No, you didn’t do anything wrong,” he replied. But you most definitely put us in a jam, he thought, but didn’t say.

  Any bullshit that DI Palmer might have on him for what happened at the Reynolds farm, or any of the shit he’d done during Smith’s campaign, Drake thought he might be able to weasel his way out of.

  But this… this was going to prove difficult, maybe even impossible, to get away from unscathed.

  He needed to call someone, someone who had some sway in the police department. Someone he could fully trust.

  Only he didn’t know anyone like that. All the people he knew were ifs, ands, buts.

  Maybes.

  Sometimes.

  But given the situation, Drake had no choice but to take the leap.

  He took his cellphone out of his pocket and with a heavy sigh, started to dial.

  Chapter 22

  Screech stared blankly at his computer screen until his eyes started to defocus. He knew that he should be trying to trace the money that was moving in and out of ANGUIS Holdings as Drake had suggested, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

  Not yet, anyway.

  Instead, he found himself staring at familiar photographs.

  There was the photo of Beckett standing over Donnie DiMarco as he drowned, the picture of
the bricks of heroin in the yacht. And then there was the photograph of Beckett holding the stone covered in blood moments after he’d brained Craig Sloan.

  He’d taken all of these.

  The second set of photographs were taken by someone else: Drake in an election office, Drake holding a finger bone, Drake in the 62nd precinct evidence room. There was even a photograph taken outside of Peter Kellington’s house moments before Clay had been killed. And then there was the photo of Drake on his knees, weeping, his mouth wide, Clay’s bloody body in his arms.

  But perhaps the most disturbing image wasn’t of Drake at all. It was of a younger, smiling Jasmine holding what Screech now knew to be a key of heroin.

  A photo that he was never supposed to see. In fact, all of these new images were meant for select eyes only. But Screech had his means.

  It wasn’t easy, even with the backdoor rootkit he’d installed on his cell phone before Ken and Raul had seized it. In fact, he’d been at a dead end until someone had plugged his phone directly into the USB drive instead of just transferring the images over Wi-Fi.

  Screech rubbed his eyes. He was exhausted, but knew that he wouldn’t be able to sleep. Sleep had become an adversary ever since he’d started at Triple D, and now, after what had transpired in the Virgin Gorda, it had become his archnemesis.

  He sighed and then minimized the folders with the images. He would figure out what to do with them later. Right now, he had to help Drake. And, while the man was a dinosaur, it quickly became apparent that he was onto something: with the Church of Liberation’s financials frozen, there might very well be a traceable money trail out there somewhere.

  And, with remote access to Ken Smith’s computer, it didn’t take Screech long to find it.

  He had to give the man credit; Ken had been careful. ANGUIS had made dozens of transfers since the events at the Reynolds farm, but all had been of moderate sums, sums that wouldn’t raise eyebrows. But as Screech dug deeper, he discovered that after being routed through several international banks, they eventually found their way into just four accounts.