Bad Traffick: A Leine Basso Thriller

by D. V. Berkom

  BAD TRAFFICK

  by

  DV Berkom

  BAD TRAFFICK

  Copyright © 2012 by DV Berkom

  Published by

  All rights reserved

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, event or occurrence, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.

  Cover art by Deranged Doctor Design.

  For more works by D.V. Berkom, please visit: http://www.dvberkom.com

  This book is for all the children who don’t make it out alive.

  Table of Contents:

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE GENTLEMAN IN THE IMPECCABLE ARMANI suit watched the images flash by on the screen, a glass of Macallan single malt on the gold inlay table beside him. Two additional men, shrouded in darkness and unknown to each other, were also taking part in the video conference from different areas of the world, watching the same images. Several times one or the other would raise his hand, platinum or gold watch flashing in the darkened rooms, signaling for the Seller to pause the presentation so they could look more closely at the photographs.

  The Seller was visibly sweating in the air conditioned comfort of the massive hotel suite. If he didn't make the sale this time, these clients would look elsewhere for their pleasures. His reputation as the go-to guy in the business was balancing on a knife's edge. Ever since the fiasco with the televangelist two months prior, he'd kept a sharp eye on the operational side of things.

  One of the executives was fidgeting, apparently bored, and the Seller's anxiety level skyrocketed. He didn't have to find a mirror to know his appearance was giving his discomfort away. He could feel the cold sweat flowing down his back and armpits, running between his buttocks. What the hell do these guys want? Am I losing my touch? Usually it wasn't this hard to match the client to the product.

  The Seller was down to his last two photographs when all three men simultaneously motioned for him to stop. The client in Saudi Arabia rose from his chair and walked to the screen, gazing at the delicate visage.

  The Seller's shoulders relaxed. He shouldn't have been worried, should've known the eyes would close the deal: jade green flecked with gold surrounding deep black pupils. Everyone who saw her stopped in their tracks. She'd reminded the Seller of a famous photo he'd seen years before in an issue of National Geographic. She wore the same enigmatic expression. The silence of the buyers signaled it was time for the hard sell.

  “Gentleman. I see you have exquisite taste. Mara is newly acquired and in pristine condition. I guarantee she will delight you with her generous charms. As I'm sure you'll agree, she has no equal. I always save the best for last. Mustn't trot out the most sublime too quickly, eh?”

  There were murmurs of agreement between the men. The Seller's anxiety morphed to excitement as he prepared to set the hook. My God, look at them. They're practically salivating. A bidding war would be a welcome relief.

  The client in the room waved him to his side. His unusual gold pinkie ring flashed, catching the Seller's eye. He'd seen the symbol before, but was unaware of its significance.

  “Her age?” he asked.

  The Seller turned and glanced at the picture of the girl. Her expression still held a trace of innocence, although churning through the American foster care system for two years had taken its toll. The photographer had captured the picture before Mara realized she wasn't going home.

  “Twelve years, sir.”

  “Pure?”

  “Most assuredly.”

  The man nodded his approval. He glanced back at the screen and steepled his fingers, bringing them to his lips to mask his words.

  “Make sure she's mine,” he whispered.

  The quiet statement held the promise of a lucrative payday tinged with strong warning. The Seller's mouth ran dry. He nodded as he straightened and walked to the front of the room. The cameraman panned with him, framing his head and shoulders with Mara's photograph in the background. The other two clients would see only the Seller with the girl's face behind him on screen. Taking a sip of water from a glass nearby, he cleared his throat.

  “Shall we start the bidding at fifty-thousand?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  LEINE BASSO CHECKED HER WATCH ONE more time. How long can a lunch take? She'd followed him to the diner and took up position on the other side of the street, out of sight behind a minivan.

  Waiting had never been her strong suit. When she was in the business working for Eric, she'd learned to pass the time until the target appeared by memorizing every detail in the immediate vicinity. In fact, many times she'd arrive days early in order to scope out the activity of the area where the hit would take place. Bus schedules, vendor movement, deliveries, residents walking their pets. Nothing escaped her notice. Her attention to every facet of the job turned out to be one of the reasons she was still alive.

  But, she was no longer in the business and now her impatience was getting the better of her. Catching a glimpse of him, even if for a moment, would suffice.

  What if he sees you?

  She shrugged off the thought and shifted from one foot to the other. The day was warm, with one of those deceptively clear skies so prized in Los Angeles. If she didn't know better, she'd think the air was safe to breathe.

  Although she hated to admit it, she was getting used to being in L.A. again. Breathtaking pollution aside, the city had a draw she'd always found hard to resist. The residents' laid-back façade masked the frenetic hive-like activity, and everyone who stayed there, rich or poor, had the attitude they were living the dream. Deceptive.

  Like her life.

  The door to the diner swung open and a young couple stepped onto the sidewalk. Leine checked at her momentary disappointment and took a deep breath. Give it a rest, Leine. He'll come out eventually.

  Minutes ticked by before the door opened again. Detective Don Putnam emerged onto the sunlit sidewalk and slid on a pair of sunglasses. Santiago Jensen followed seconds later, jacket slung over his arm, dark hair tousled as if he'd only just rolled out of bed.

  Leine's heart rate kicked up a notch as she watched him cross the sidewalk and open the door to the light-colored sedan. The force of her emotions rocked her, unbalancing her equilibrium. She prided herself on iron-fisted control, but when it came to Santiago Jensen the ability to think rationally deserted her without a backward glance. Viewing it as
her body's ultimate betrayal, she knew enough to keep her distance. She'd be damned if she was going to add to the current problems in her life.

  Or his.

  Like an addict trying to kick a habit, she allowed herself the occasional glimpse. Not too close, she reminded herself. She didn't want him to know she was there. She'd done all she could to move the case against her old boss along. Once the murders were solved and Eric was behind bars, the two of them would be free to see where this attraction might take them. Until then, she had to keep her distance or Jensen could lose his detective's rank, or worse, his job.

  Jensen tossed his jacket in the backseat and started to get in the car. At the last minute, he hesitated, and his head snapped up. He straightened his shoulders and slowly pivoted, scanning the block. Leine moved to the shadows as he turned toward her, but was a second too late. His eyes locked on hers.

  Her heart thudded in her chest. She clenched her fists, nails digging into flesh, fighting the urge to go to him. He remained motionless, his expression like a magnet. They watched each other, neither breaking eye contact. Leine could almost hear the electricity snap between them.

  The draw between them was like nothing she'd experienced with Carlos; or any other man, for that matter. It was an addiction and she was at a loss as to how to proceed. The harder she tried to forget, the more the feelings came back with an intensity she could barely endure. She woke up often having dreamt of him.

  She needed to bide her time, wait until they could be together. She had to break contact or she might act on impulse and compromise the case. She wouldn't rest until Eric was behind bars. The death penalty would be too good for her scum-sucking ex-boss.

  In the end, she didn't have to do anything. Putnam reached across the seat and honked the horn to get Jensen's attention. The spell disintegrated. Jensen turned to say something to Putnam.

  Leine disappeared before he turned back.

  CHAPTER THREE

  SANTIAGO JENSEN SAT AT HIS DESK in the Robbery Homicide Division offices in downtown Los Angeles and stared at his phone, fighting the urge to call Leine. Catching sight of her outside the diner brought it all back—he wanted to see her, touch her skin, smell her. He craved her. All the late nights working cases only kept his mind off her so long.

  “Hey, Santa. Know a good security guy who can keep a secret? I got a film star needs protecting.”

  Startled, Jensen looked up as Walter Helmsley leaned against his desk. Helmsley was in his mid-thirties, had a curiously pallid complexion for a resident of southern California, and was on his way to capturing the geek award for most movies watched by a human being.

  “What about Ben?” Jensen asked. An ex-security specialist who'd worked the Iraq war, Ben was usually available for short-term security jobs and everybody in the division knew and trusted him. With budgets stretched thin and personnel even more so, outsourcing security detail was the norm.

  “He's tied up for the next couple of weeks on some rapper's detail,” Walter said. “You know Ben. Likes the gangstas and their ladies.”

  Before Jensen could stop himself he said, “Yeah. I know somebody. She's got plenty of experience and I think she's between jobs at the moment.” He had no idea if Leine would accept working a security gig, but it would give him a chance to contact her.

  “She'll like this one. It's for Miles Fournier.”

  Jensen frowned. “Fournier. Where have I heard that name before?”

  Walter snorted. “He's only the biggest thing since Johnny Depp played an effeminate guy-liner-wearing pirate.” He shook his head. “Where have you been? Ever heard of Jake Dread, Intergalactic Spy? Every female I know wants to meet him, and for mostly carnal reasons. He draws a crowd that's half giggling pre-teen girls, half sex-deprived mommies.”

  Oh. Instantly regretting opening his mouth and suggesting Leine for the job, he realized he couldn’t take it back just because he might be worried about her sleeping with some movie star. Besides, weren't most of them gay? Leine wouldn't fall for some famous pretty boy.

  Would she?

  “I'll give her a call. What are the particulars?” Jensen asked.

  “Three guys rushed him and his friends in the lobby of the Palms.”

  “Not paparazzi?”

  Walter shook his head. “No cameras, and the friends claim they wore guns under their jackets. Some little girl got caught in the middle when she recognized Fournier and ran into the mix. His friend committed Kung Fu or some shit on the face of one of them. Evidently, the suspects hadn't bet on anyone that was with him fighting back, and they scattered.”

  “What happened to the girl?”

  “Disappeared.”

  “So Fournier came to you for security recommendations?”

  Helmsley nodded. “The dude's spooked. Figures someone's out to kidnap him. Doesn't trust outside security companies, for some reason. He'll only accept a referral from LAPD. He wants one main person twenty-four-seven that he can rely on, get to know. I suggested he have someone review security around his home, maybe hire a couple of private security guards to patrol the place. He said he'd think about it. Wants our referral to do the security assessment.”

  “I'll see if she's interested.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  YURI DREADED THE IMMINENT MEETING with his boss. Beads of sweat lined his face as he huffed his way up the six flights of stairs. He viewed elevators as death traps and refused to put himself in a compromising position. Besides, no one ever took the stairs. He could come and go like a ghost.

  He reached the last step, pushed open the metal fire door and stepped into the plush hallway. Expensive artwork lined the walls. A large mirror and Louis XIV side table stood at the end of the corridor. Yuri retrieved a handkerchief from his pants pocket and wiped his forehead as he made his way along the hall, careful to avoid the bruise by his right eye. He paused at the door, unsure of his reception. With a deep sigh, he pressed the buzzer.

  “It's Yuri,” he announced into the speaker next to the door.

  The mechanism clicked and the door opened. His footsteps fell silently on the deep carpet as he walked into the suite of offices.

  “Yuri. Great to see you. Come in, come in.” The voice called to him from the interior of a large conference room. Yuri stuck his head inside. His boss, Greg, sat at the head of the long table, his smile fading when he saw his employee. “What the fuck happened to your face?”

  “Nothing. Walked into a door. What you got there?”

  Greg turned the computer tablet so Yuri could see the digital photo.

  “Meet Amy—our latest acquisition.”

  “Very nice. She looks familiar. A little young. What is she, ten?”

  “Nine, actually. Her sister works for us. You remember Selena? She was one of yours, I believe. We snapped this little hottie up as soon as we knew she was available.”

  Available. Interesting way to justify drugging and kidnapping the girl and forcing her to work. To Yuri, it didn't matter. He knew the way things were, and took the money his boss offered as a finder's fee. He still wasn't sure how to tell him about what happened at the hotel.

  “Something wrong?” Greg asked. His light brown hair had been gelled to spike every which way—a hairstyle Yuri loathed. It made him look like some pretty boy reality show host. Still, he couldn't argue with the man's entrepreneurial abilities. Greg Kirchner had taken a fledgling career as a small time street hustler and parlayed himself into a global player on the astonishingly lucrative human trafficking market.

  Yuri cleared his throat. Fuck it. “You know I have always been up front with you, right?”

  Greg nodded, wariness crossing his features. Yuri pinched himself in the leg to give him some balls.

  “We lost Mara.” There. He'd said it. He watched Greg's expression, unsure how he was going to take this news. Not well, if Yuri was a betting man. The buyer was a big fish. Huge.

  Greg's look morphed from shock to panic to anger in a matter of seconds. He wa
s on his feet and across the room before Yuri knew what was happening. There was no time to protect himself as Greg's arm came down behind his head and smashed his face into the table.

  “You. What?” The words exited his mouth like the crack of a rifle.

  Blood trickled down Yuri's face from his broken nose, making it hard to talk. When he didn't answer, Greg let up on the pressure and Yuri slowly raised his head, leaning back to stem the flow of blood.

  “We were bringing her to Mr. X's suite at the Palms when this asshole actor and his entourage entered the lobby.” Yuri sneered when he said the word. Stupid actors in Hollywood couldn't take a shit without their entourage.

  “And?” Greg prompted, his jaw clenched so hard Yuri swore he heard the man's teeth crack.

  “She slipped free and ran toward the guy, screaming his name. We started after her, but one of the actor's guys covered him, like we were going for him, not the girl. The other guy gave me this.” He pointed to his black eye. “We couldn't use the guns, would have drawn too much attention. In the confusion, she got away.” Yuri's tone was earnest. “We tried, boss. I followed her, but lost her in the crowd. “

  Greg took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He cracked his neck first to one side, then the other. Opening his eyes, he stared directly at Yuri. Yuri wasn't fooled by his sudden calm. Vicious eruptions were frequent with his younger boss. He didn't dare wipe the blood from his face, afraid anything he did would incite the savagery that roiled just below the surface.

  “You're going to find her, Yuri. I'm holding you responsible.”

  “Where do you want me to start?” Yuri knew better than to argue.

  “How the fuck do I know? She's twelve, for chrissakes. She's in a strange city and doesn't have any family back in Nevada she can call. I know for a fact she doesn't trust cops, thanks to her last foster family. Put yourself in her shoes. Starting near the hotel is probably a safe bet.”