Human Traffic

by Patrick Logan

  “You fucking asshole!” Veronica suddenly shouted. “You bastard!”

  Yasiv looked back in time to see a squat Russian man with gray hair being dragged in handcuffs through the hole in the wall. He was snarling and barking something in Russian to the two police officer who held him. As he watched, Veronica reached into her purse and pulled out a Taser.

  Oh, shit.

  “Fuck you!” Veronica screamed as she ran at the man.

  There was a crackle as she drove the Taser into the man’s midsection. Yasiv saw his eyes rolled back and his body tense. But Veronica wasn’t done yet. She pulled the Taser back, only to thrust it forward again, this time aiming for the man’s crotch.

  The noise of the Taser and the shriek that followed was so loud that it drew nearly everyone’s attention.

  Yasiv started toward the woman, anticipating that Palmer would follow.

  And he did.

  When they reached Veronica, it took both of them to pull her off the Russian man who had since started to drool.

  Yasiv relaxed and Veronica broke free. This time, she kicked the man in the crotch.

  “That’s for Nancy!” she kicked again. “That’s for Mandy! And this one…” she reared back and delivered a kick so vicious that the man’s knees buckled and he collapsed to the ground, nearly taking the two officers down with him. “And that’s for me, you piece of shit.”

  Veronica held her hands up and stepped back.

  Grinning now, Yasiv looked over his shoulder for the plainclothed officer in the hat, but he couldn’t find him anywhere.

  Yasiv’s grin became a full-fledged smile.

  Drake was gone.

  Chapter 59

  “Hurry! We need to get the fuck out of here!” Boris shouted at Raul as they sprinted down the hallway.

  Carnage was all around them; his men were lying on the floor moaning, blood leaking from various wounds.

  One person did this?

  But when he saw the van halfway inside the goddamn building, he shook his head.

  Impossible.

  Boris managed to slide through the opening and then squeezed himself between the brick wall and the side of the cargo van.

  As he moved, the sirens got louder. They were coming from the east, so when he cleared the alley, he pointed in that direction.

  “Raul, you run that way! Go find Ken… tell him what happened here. Tell him what Drake did!”

  The impish man stared at Boris for a moment and for a split second he thought that Raul would ignore his request. But without saying a word, the man started running east.

  Boris hurried the other way, passing in front of a Chinese restaurant. People were staring at him, he realized, and it was mostly due to the fact that he was wearing a button-shirt and suit pants.

  I need to change; I need to change, find a car, and get the fuck out here.

  Resisting the urge to run and draw more attention to himself, Boris walked briskly toward the next alley. He slid into the shadows, thankful to no longer be out in the open.

  Halfway to the conjoining street, he spotted a bum curled up beneath an over-sized NYU sweatshirt.

  The idea of wearing the sweatshirt made him cringe — God only knew what it was infested with — but he had no choice.

  People had seen him leave the auction, they’d seen him in his button-down and suit bottoms.

  Heart racing, Boris reached down and yanked the sweatshirt off the bum.

  He felt resistance as he started to walk away, and he shot a leg out without even bothering to look where he kicked.

  “Fuck off,” he snapped.

  He’d just managed to put his head and one arm through when the bum spoke and he stopped cold.

  “Boris? Boris Brackovich? Is that really you?”

  Boris, eyes wide, turned to face the voice.

  It had come from the bum, only the man wasn’t a bum anymore — probably never was.

  It was a handsome man with short, bleached-blond hair.

  And he was smiling.

  “You’ve been a bad boy, Boris. And now it’s time to pay.”

  When Boris saw the glint of the blade in the man’s hand, it was already too late.

  All he could do was scream.

  ***

  Beckett used the NYU sweatshirt to clean the blood off his hands as he made his way back to his car.

  There were sirens all around him now, but this time he wasn’t going to hang around. He needed to get out of there and fast.

  Parked just one block over, Beckett made it to his car without being spotted. Two squad cars had driven by, their sirens blazing, but they paid him no heed.

  He balled up the sweatshirt and took his keys out of his pocket to unlock the trunk. Only when he got closer, he realized that it was slightly ajar.

  His heart started to thud in his chest even harder than it had when he’d killed Boris Brackovich.

  With trembling fingers, Beckett opened the trunk.

  “No,” he moaned. “No.”

  It was gone; the bag of bloody clothes and balaclava from Bob Bumacher’s house were missing.

  Beckett heard a grunt from behind him and whipped around, slipping the scalpel blade from beneath the sweatshirt.

  It appeared to be a police officer, but he was in rough shape. The man was shuffling along, his left shoulder rubbing up against the buildings as he moved at a snail’s pace.

  Beckett swallowed hard and his eyes flicked down to the blade in his hand.

  Did he see me? Do I have to… could I even…

  But then the man lifted his head and peered at Beckett from beneath the brim of his NYPD hat.

  Beckett gasped, then tossed both the sweatshirt and scalpel into the trunk and slammed it closed. Then he ran over to the man and wrapped his arm around his waist.

  “It looks like you could use a ride, Drake. Come on, let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  Epilogue

  Two Months Later

  All eyes were on the TV screen, including Sgt. Yasiv’s. Deputy Inspector Lewis Palmer stood at the podium, his face pale, his eyes downcast. It was a recording of the first official news conference after the events that had transpired in Hell’s Kitchen.

  “First of all, myself and Mayor Smith would like to send our greatest admiration and congratulations to the hard-working men of the 62nd precinct, as well as the other precincts that helped solve one of the largest sex trafficking scandals in the history of New York. To date, we have indicted twenty-three individuals for crimes that vary from human trafficking, solicitation, unlawful and forceful confinement, among others. We also seized more than one hundred kilos of heroin in a related bust.”

  When DI Palmer paused to catch his breath, a woman in the audience spoke up.

  “Can you tell us about Boris Brackovich’s death?”

  Palmer’s brow furrowed.

  “We can confirm that real estate magnate Boris Brackovich was found deceased in the vicinity of the crime scene.”

  “But can you confirm that he was involved in the sex auction?”

  DI Palmer shook his head.

  “At this time, all we know is that Boris was found dead with multiple stab wounds to his neck and chest. As the investigation is ongoing, we—”

  “Are you telling me that that *bleep* *bleep* *bleep* Boris wasn’t buying young Colombian girls so that he could *bleep* *bleep* *bleep* them?”

  The string of profanities that followed was so lengthy that Sgt. Yasiv couldn’t even make out the context of the sentence.

  The camera panned to the audience and the woman who had been addressing Palmer appeared on screen.

  “There,” DI Palmer said, leaning forward. “Pause it right there.”

  He tapped the screen.

  “That woman, she was there that night. She was the one who tased the Russian. I swear it.”

  Yasiv stared at the still image.

  “It could be, but it’s hard to tell. It was a crazy time and—”

&nbs
p; Palmer shook his head.

  “No, that’s her. I know it. I know—”

  Yasiv turned his back to the man and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a well-worn piece of paper and unfolded it.

  ANGUIS Holdings, the title read. Below that were four names: Boris Brackovich, Steffani Loomis, Horatio Dupont, and Mendes Corporation. Boris’s name had been crossed out.

  At the bottom of the page, there was a fifth: Ken Smith.

  “One down, four to go,” Yasiv said under his breath.

  An arm tugged on his sleeve and Yasiv quickly folded the paper and slid into his pocket.

  “What’s up?”

  Detective Dunbar stared back, a frightened expression on his round face.

  “Come with me,” he said quickly. “I need to show you something”

  Yasiv, his concern growing, followed Dunbar out of the room. The detective led him to his office and then indicated his computer screen.

  Yasiv swallowed hard as he took a seat behind the desk.

  Onscreen was a photocopy of a newspaper article written in Spanish. In the center, surrounded by text, was a full-color image of a burning boat. Even though the stern was partly obscured by flames, Yasiv saw enough to recognize the name: B-Yacht’ch.

  “It gets worse,” Dunbar whispered. He leaned over and clicked a few buttons and another image popped up.

  Yasiv felt his chest implode.

  It was another image of the boat from a different angle, but inlaid on this one was a black and white headshot of a person who looked nearly identical to Damien Drake.

  Suddenly feeling dizzy, Yasiv reached into his pocket and pulled out a cheap flip phone.

  “Should we tell him?” Dunbar asked, his eyes to lock on the screen.

  Yasiv nodded; he had already started to dial the number.

  ***

  “Congratulations, you two are the proud parents of a beautiful baby boy. Have you thought of a name?” the nurse said as she handed the bundle of screaming child over to Jasmine.

  Drake stared at the baby, his eyes brimming with tears. Then he looked at Jasmine and saw that she was crying, too.

  They hadn’t discussed the name, but when their eyes met, something unspoken passed between them.

  “Clay,” Jasmine said softly, and Drake found himself nodding. “I think we’re going to call him Clay.”

  The nurse rested a hand on Jasmine’s shoulder and offered her a smile.

  “I think that’s a great name,” she said. “I’ll let you two alone. If you need anything, just press the button red button by your head.”

  “Can you tell Suzan to come in here, please?” Drake asked, and the nurse nodded.

  “You know, I wish you’d shave that beard off your face. Can you imagine that being the first thing you see of your dad? A ratty, salt-and-pepper beard?” Jasmine said as she pressed the child against her bare chest.

  Drake chuckled and wiped more tears from his eyes.

  Jasmine’s expression softened.

  “You want to hold him?”

  Drake couldn’t remember the last time he’d held a baby.

  “Where’s Suzan? She should be in here.”

  “Don’t worry about her, she’ll be back — probably just went for a coffee. Here, hold your son, Drake.”

  He reached for Clay, but as he did, something in his pocket vibrated.

  Jasmine’s brow furled.

  “What is it?”

  Drake pulled the burner phone out of his pocket and stared at it before answering. There were only a handful people who had the number, and since he’d gotten in about two months it had never rung.

  Swallowing hard, Drake stepped away from the hospital bed and answered the phone.

  “Drake, it’s Yasiv. I’m afraid… I’m afraid something happened to your brother.”

  Drake listened carefully to what the man had to say, but even before Yasiv was done speaking, the phone slipped from his hand and crashed to the floor.

  “What’s wrong? Drake, what’s wrong?” Jasmine asked, concern in her voice.

  Drake could barely speak his throat was so constricted.

  “It’s my brother… I think have to go… I think you have to go to Colombia.”

  Jasmine’s eyes went wide.

  “Now? What—”

  There was a commotion outside the door a second before it burst open.

  “You can’t go in there!” Suzan Cuthbert exclaimed.

  “I can do whatever I want,” a familiar voice said.

  Drake turned and looked at DI Palmer as the man approached, a beaming smile plastered on his face.

  There was nothing Drake could do. He had nowhere left to hide, nowhere to run.

  “I knew that if I followed Suzan for long enough, she’d lead me to you,” he said.

  Suzan swore and reached for Palmer, but one of the uniformed officers that followed the DI into the room grabbed her.

  “I wouldn’t make any vacation plans just yet,” Palmer continued as he hooked a handcuff around one of Drake’s wrists, and the other to the chair. “You have a pending date with a 4 x 6 first.”

  “Leave him alone!” Jasmine shouted. Clay started to cry and the nurse suddenly appeared out of nowhere. She scooped up the child and held it protectively against her bosom. “Why can’t you just leave us alone?”

  DI Palmer raised an eyebrow and stared at Jasmine.

  “Leave you alone? No, I’m sorry, not when you and I are just becoming acquainted. I’m thinking that you might want to start looking for a babysitter, though. If you want some recommendations, I’d be happy to help.”

  “Get out of here!” Jasmine screamed. “Get the hell out of here!”

  Drake finally realized what was happening and he felt his heart drop into the pit of his stomach.

  “No!”

  DI Palmer nodded.

  “Yes, Drake, yes,” then, as he slapped a new set of handcuffs on Jasmine, Palmer leaned in close and whispered in Drake’s ear. “Ken told you not to fuck with him, so did Raul. This is your fault, Drake. Everyone would’ve been better off if you just stayed dead at the Reynolds’s farm.”

  The End

  Author’s Note

  I’ll be the first to admit it: when I first started writing about Damien Drake a little over a year ago, I knew very little about him. I knew that he had a troubled past, likes his Scotch, and really, really wants to do good.

  But that’s about it.

  Now, five books in, I know more about Drake than nearly any of the other characters I have ever written about. He still tries his best to do what he thinks is right, but more often than not, he stumbles. I think that his friends, the few that he still has anyway, recognize this in him, which is why they continue to put up with his shit.

  That being said, I don’t have a clue how Drake will be as a father or how the hell he’s going to get out of his current jam.

  But that’s the fun, isn’t it? Just as the excitement for you, dear reader, is at least partly derived from the mystery of what’s going to happen next, I have a similar experience in writing the books.

  I learn along with the characters, share in their adventures, their fears, their pain, and their pleasure. Maybe not as viscerally as them, but…

  And this makes my job as a writer the best job ever. Creativity is a uniquely human endeavor, one that feeds the spirit and nurtures the soul. The fact that I can write books and make a living doing it is something that I often marvel at. And I have you to thank for that.

  So, you want to know what happens to Drake next? Welcome to the club. If you’re into that whole pre-order thang, which I most definitely am, look for DRUG LORD: PART I – the 6th book in the Drake Series on Amazon– which is up right… now.

  And, finally, here comes the annoying part when I ask you for a review. Look, I get it, you’re busy reading books. But if you have a spare moment, direct your browser to Amazon and leave a review for HUMAN TRAFFIC.

  If you do, I might just let Drake l
ive ??.

  You keep reading, and I’ll keep writing.