Human Traffic (Detective Damien Drake Book 5)

by Patrick Logan

  Beckett started walking again and Screech stayed by the man’s side. For a minute or more, neither of them spoke.

  Screech tried not to let his mind wander, but he kept thinking about the look in Beckett’s eyes. The cold, empty stare that he’d seen after Beckett had bashed Craig Sloan’s head in with a stone and again as Donnie DiMarco struggled for air.

  “I’ll tell you what, you bring a bag with you?” Beckett asked unexpectedly.

  Screech nodded and reached into his pocket to squeeze the baggy within.

  “All right, hand it over. I’ll bring it to the lab and see if I can trace the source, for what it’s worth.”

  Screech looked around to confirm that they were alone before pulling out the baggy. He cupped it in his hand and then awkwardly extended his wrist like a handicapped person attempting their first ever handshake.

  “Okay, Scarface, it’s a couple of grams of heroin, not a fucking kilo of cocaine. Just hand the thing over,” Beckett raised his right hand and wiggled his nub of a middle finger. “Besides, I think my days of the ol’ secret handshake and finger wags are over, don’t you?”

  Screech nodded and quickly handed the bag over. Beckett slipped it into his pocket.

  “You’re not… you’re not going to use it, are you?”

  Beckett frowned.

  “I may have had a bump or two on Donnie’s yacht, but I’m not a goddamn heroin addict, Screech. Keep it together, man.”

  Screech nodded. He didn’t think that Beckett was an addict, of course, but he’d seen stranger things in his time. He’d seen his own brother Larry function normally even after consuming enough Quaaludes to put a grizzly bear in a coma.

  “And you say these girls… you say they all… they all died?” Beckett continued.

  Screech nodded.

  “Mandy said that they were forced to eat the bags of heroin. They were also told to drink this special cocktail… she said that it was terrible… terrible and bitter. Do you think—”

  Beckett grabbed his arm and squeezed.

  “Let it go, Screech,” the man warned. Screech tried to pull away, but Beckett’s grip held fast. “Just let it go. Nothing happened in the Virgin Gorda. Nothing.”

  And then, for a split second, Beckett’s eyes went empty again like they had done with Craig Sloan and Donnie DiMarco.

  “Sorry,” Screech grumbled, and Beckett released him.

  They started walking again.

  “All right,” Beckett said, his tone returning to normal. “I’ll take the H and run it through mass spec, determine its country of origin. I’ll also keep my eye out for any girls that OD’d and come into the morgue. That’s the most I can do for now. IA is still on my ass… making sure that I dot my t’s and cross my i’s, if you know what I mean.”

  Screech nodded. In truth, this was more than he expected from the man. Without any bodies, all they had to go on was a terrified girl’s story.

  And a pound of heroin. There was always that.

  “Thanks, Beckett. Like I said, I had no one else to go to.”

  Beckett nodded and then turned to head back to his office. He only took three or four steps, however, before stopping again.

  “Hey, Screech?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You didn’t happen to take any pictures while you were on vacation, did you?”

  Screech’s heart skipped a beat.

  “No,” he lied. “Why do you ask?”

  Beckett made a face.

  “No reason. No reason at all. You take care yourself now, okay? And look out for that asshole Drake.”

  Chapter 19

  The hangar was empty — really empty this time. There was no one tied up, no Raul lurking in the shadows. There was… nothing. The chair that Ivan had been bound to was gone and the light that Raul had used to disoriented Drake when he’d initially entered the place was also absent.

  In fact, the place looked immaculate, much cleaner than the first time he’d been there.

  And yet, Drake was unconvinced. He stayed close to the wall as he made his way around the interior. It was dark inside, but not pitch; splinters of moonlight eked in through the many windows high above.

  Keeping his ears perked and his eyes peeled, Drake continued to shuffle along, primed to react if Raul or anyone else — a man with a Russian accent, perhaps — leaped from the shadows. Eventually, he made it to the other side without being accosted. There was a corrugated metal door on this side, directly across from the one he’d entered through.

  But while the front had been unlocked, this one appeared secured with a chain and padlock. It wasn’t a tight seal, however; the metal near the bottom was bent just enough for a man about Drake’s size to squeeze through. After peaking out to make sure that there was nobody standing just outside, Drake crouched and forced his way outside.

  He nearly gasped at the pain that ripped up his side, but by some miracle managed to keep his lips pressed firmly together.

  Dr. Ramsay 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 hanger and the shore.

  Adrenaline flooded his system and Drake readied himself for action. But just like in the hanger, 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 side of 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 and sent the boat rocking from side to side.

  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 the 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.

  Both 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 didn’t bother disguising his words.

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

  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.”