Titan Trilogy 3.5-Black Soul

by T. J. Brearton

  Mateo slammed on the brakes and William hopped out. Funi made gagging noises. She was burning up, hot to the touch as William carried her inside.

  Cohen met them at the back of a kitchen. Mateo had called him from the road and Cohen had enlisted help. William grabbed a wooden spoon from a tray and turned to the silver-haired man standing near.

  “You’re a doctor?”

  “Retired, yes. I was a pediatrician . . .”

  “She’s having febrile convulsions. She’s got chronic blood loss, methemoglobin possibly present; the blood was dark brown last night.”

  They moved quickly up a flight of stairs and down a narrow service hallway. A housekeeper had to press against the wall to let them pass.

  Too many people were getting an eyeful, William thought, mainly the guests and staff of Cohen’s resort. Sausa might have spies. They couldn’t stay long.

  The service corridor led to the conference room where William and Hanna had first met with Cohen upon their arrival.

  They laid Funi on the floor and William knelt beside her. He opened her mouth and stuck in the wooden spoon. She bit down as her body tensed with another convulsion, her eyelids fluttering.

  “Did you bring it?”

  The doctor nodded. “On the table.”

  William located the transfusion field kit and dumped it. He took the swab stick and wiped his arm over the vein. His mind flashed to the Ativan and THC still in his system, but he went on anyway, tossing the IV catheter to the doctor.

  He’d been a second-year medical student the last time he’d done an emergency blood transfusion. That was over a decade ago. But his hands moved with a rhythm as if he’d been doing it every day since. He separated out the contents further from the donor and recipient modules. He placed the blood transfer device, the vacutainer, the latex-free tourniquet on one side, and the second tourniquet on the other.

  Once the doctor had disinfected Funi’s arm with another swab, William handed over the second tourniquet.

  The kit contained all the elements to collect and transfuse fresh, whole blood in a compact, vacuum-sealed package, but it would all be for nothing if they had mismatched blood types. William felt the sweat break on his forehead as he knelt to the ground and stuck the sterile syringe into Funi’s arm.

  He extracted just enough blood for the paper diagnostic tool and carefully squirted the blood into the vial. Within a few seconds, the color of the dipstick would indicate Funi’s blood type. It seemed like everyone was holding their breath, no one spoke.

  William was O positive. That meant he could donate blood to anyone with his type, plus A positive, B positive, or AB positive. Improper transfusion could be fatal.

  He waited for the antigen and antibody interaction to trigger the blood agglutination. After a nerve-wracking twenty-seconds, the dipstick turned purple. Funi was a rare blood type, AB positive, just four percent of the population, but she was compatible with him.

  He flashed the group a weary smile. “We’re good.”

  The young woman continued to convulse on the ground, the doctor and Mateo holding her down. William drew his own blood, filling the attached bag. His vision spotted as he watched the dark red liquid filling up.

  “What about Rh immunization?” The doctor asked.

  “Saving her life takes precedence,” William said. He’d already been thinking it. If Funi ever got pregnant again, an Rh seroconversion could be problematic for the baby, depending on its own Rh type. Chronic hemolytic disease of the newborn could result, fatal to the fetus in fifty percent of pregnancies without modern treatments. But Funi had already been pregnant, by her own admission. She was damaged, and likelihood of pregnancy in the future was low. It was worth the risk. She needed oxygen; she needed William’s blood, or she was going to die.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  He lay on the floor of the conference room afterward, breathing shallowly, watching the thin, gauzy clouds over the ocean. The sounds of children drifted up from the pool.

  Funi lay beside him, eyes closed, covered in a blanket with a pillow supporting her head. She looked healthy again and was sleeping off the trauma.

  William rolled over and got onto his hands and knees. His limbs trembled from the effort. He let his head hang for a moment, then slowly rose to his feet.

  Nicole and Emma were on the other side of the room. Emma slept, Nicole held her knees, gazing out over the water.

  William checked his watch. It was going on one in the afternoon. He’d lost an hour, passed out on the floor.

  Cohen sat against the back wall, with Mateo. His face betrayed a strange mixture of guilt and admiration. “There he is,” he said softly. “Welcome back.”

  “Where’s the doctor?”

  “He went back to his family.” Cohen raised his arms as William neared, as if to ward off an attack. “He understands the discretion. He’s a doctor and is used to keeping confidences . . .”

  William’s legs buckled before reaching Cohen. Mateo moved beside him and helped.

  “You got up too fast. Lie back down,” Mateo said.

  William lunged and grabbed Cohen by his shirt. Cohen’s arms flew out in surrender. “Hey,” he said, “hey, hey . . .”

  “You knew about Sausa . . .”

  “No, no, we didn’t know anything for sure. Mateo has just been filling me in . . .”

  “Why did you bring me here? Huh? Tell me what’s going on.”

  “Listen to me, Mr. Chase. We needed someone from the outside. I called Reznikov. He’s my friend, okay? We attended University together.”

  “I know all that.”

  Spinning dots, like confetti, danced around the edges of his vision; he was close to passing out.

  “Reznikov told me about what you did in Russia,” Cohen said. “He said you were the man for the job. That you wouldn’t stop.”

  The door to the room opened. William reached for his weapon, but it wasn’t there. Someone had taken his gun, or he’d lost it. He tensed, ready to fight, as the person came inside. She rotated the wheels of her chair with muscular arms.

  Isabella.

  She looked at Funi, sleeping, and the two women by the windows. Then she stared up at William.

  “Hello, Mr. Chase.”

  Pleasantries were long past. William moved to the table, removed Arnold Sterling’s phone and wallet from his pockets and set them down. He pointed at the dead phone. “Sterling works with David Sausa.” He glared at Isabella and Cohen. “And you knew, didn’t you? Sterling was afraid of you, that you didn’t trust him.”

  “Yes,” Isabella said, point blank. “I had my suspicions.”

  William cut Cohen a look. Cohen dropped his gaze.

  Isabella continued, “I realize it looks bad. Let me explain. But, sit down. You look like you’re going to fall over.”

  Reluctant, he found a chair at the long conference table. Mateo had packed away most of the transfusion kit, but a bag sat out, emptied of William’s blood.

  “There’s something else you need to know now,” Isabella said.

  William looked at Sterling’s wallet, his phone, beside the transfusion kit. He thought about how Sterling acted at dinner the night before. Then later at his bungalow, the argument between him and Sausa.

  Before Isabella could explain, William asked, “Do you know where she is? Have you found her already?”

  “Rene sought me out,” Isabella said quickly. “Please understand that. She’s a strong young woman, very intelligent. She came here to meet me while I was in preparation for the benefit dinner . . .”

  He cut her off, angry. “You had Sterling’s daughter and you kept it from him?” He felt himself coming to boil and stood up, still shaky on his feet, enraged. “I don’t care who Sterling is. I don’t care if he’s a piece of shit. That’s his daughter.”

  “She didn’t want to tell her family what she was doing because she knew they would only try to stop her . . .”

  “I don’t buy it. She just decided
to work with you? Give up her life? She was in the photo with Nicole’s boyfriend, Korey . . .”

  “Is that so strange? She saw something that was happening here, and she wanted to help? Even if it meant leaving a normal life behind — isn’t that what you’ve done, Mr. Chase?”

  “Where is she?”

  “I’ve devoted my life to something. Somedays I find myself watching everyday people, wishing I had a normal life. But we don’t, do we? We may be everyday people, but it’s different for us.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Right now Rene is in San Pedro Sula. I just spoke to her this morning.”

  “Is she in danger?”

  Isabella shook her head, something danced in her eyes. When she smiled, William could see the young woman she’d once been, the one who’d fled violence for a better world, only to be thrust back into it.

  But he was still furious. He felt bad for Sterling, and he felt like he and Hanna had been cut out of a very important loop. Chasing their tails, put at risk — and for what?

  “Rene is working with us,” Isabella said. “We help to take care of some women — and even some men — who’ve survived trafficking. We help keep them safe, get them what they need . . . Rene is a natural.”

  “Then why? Why all of this? Why lie to Sterling about his own daughter? Why lie to us?”

  But he thought he was coming understand that, too.

  Isabella gestured to Nicole, who was watching, listening. “Because of what you’ve already done,” Isabella said. “You’ve saved three women.” She glanced at the transfusion kit on the table. “You’ve given your blood.”

  He shook his head. “You could have told Sterling his daughter was safe. You could’ve still used me, told me. He died thinking she was still missing.”

  Isabella showed remorse. Apparently, she didn’t know Sterling was dead. She turned to Cohen, who nodded. Cohen knew; Mateo had told him. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “We didn’t know for sure, about David Sausa. Or Sterling. We don’t have the same . . . capabilities as you, Mr. Chase.”

  He still felt like an unwitting subject in an experiment.

  “You suspected Sterling was involved in something,” he said. “He showed up at your benefit dinner, caused a commotion, and you thought he was some self-important American. But, he was still a father who loves his daughter. And she has a mother somewhere, too . . .”

  William grabbed one of the bottles of water and drank. He still felt edgy, dehydrated, but his anger was simmering. Isabella had lied to him because she’d suspected Arnold Sterling’s complicity in the trafficking. They’d had to work around him.

  “You’re right,” Isabella said. “We did something terrible. But please believe me when I tell you it has been for the greater good. You’ve done something we haven’t been able to. Mateo tells us you’ve seen a private militia, and that you met and spoke with Laron Booth — that he admitted offering women to the militia group Sausa has installed.”

  William set the bottle down and wiped his mouth. “That doesn’t mean anything. That’s not something you can prove in court.”

  The spark was back in her eyes. “You remember seeing the DNIC when you first got here? The men in helmets, black vests?”

  “They were making a drug bust.”

  She nodded. “Yes. The police had inside information.”

  “From you?” He pointed.

  “No. Probably Sausa. Looking to hurt the competition. Sausa, or, one of the others.”

  “Others?”

  “Sausa isn’t alone. Men like him rarely are. He’s a pack animal. He may think he’s the alpha, but he needs the others.”

  William stared off. “Marcotti . . .”

  Isabella sat up straighter, her hands gripping the wheelchair. “You’ve met Marcotti?”

  William got to his feet and turned to Mateo. “Where is my gun?” Suddenly he looked around the room. “And where is Julio?”

  Cohen rose and cautiously approached. “Julio is a skilled seafarer. He’s preparing my own private catamaran to take the women, and Isabella, to Laru Beya. When it’s safe, we’ll be taking them to the mainland.”

  “I need my gun.”

  Mateo pulled it out from a bag by his feet and handed it over. William checked the chamber and the magazine. The two rounds were still there. Julio still had the other weapon, from Corina. If Julio was taking the three women, he’d need to keep it.

  “I need more ammo,” William said.

  But all three of them — Isabella, Cohen, Mateo — only looked at him, unmoving.

  Isabella spoke for them, “Mr. Chase, you need to rest. This part is over. I’m working with Detective Catarino in San Pedro Sula. He’s on his way here. Everything that’s happened to you — the terrible shooting at the Royal Playa, the evidence you’ve gathered, along with these three women and their stories — you’ve provided enough for us to make strong moves now. The local police are investigating Royal Playa. They’ve called in the national police who will arrive soon.”

  “When?”

  “Maybe later today. Maybe they already have.”

  “You don’t trust the national police. The DNIC lack the technology and the funds to carry out investigations. They’re given twenty percent of reported crimes and solve about one percent of the homicides. What are they going to do at Royal Playa resort? Take pictures? Arrest everyone? It’s already a day late.”

  “I’m not interested in the crime scene there. I trust Detective Catarino.”

  “He’s a missing persons’ investigator . . .”

  “He’s a member of the national police anti-human trafficking unit.”

  That stopped William only for a second. “And he’s definitely coming? With a squad? To arrest Sausa? To take down however many men paid to protect him? Because his gun dealer, this Laron Booth, is the mayor’s cousin. Because Arnold Sterling’s body is long gone. It will take days — weeks — to assess and determine that Sausa was involved at Royal Playa, if at all. So? Catarino is all set to prosecute then, huh?”

  Isabella traded looks with Cohen.

  “That’s what I thought.” William tucked the gun away and walked past Isabella.

  She grabbed him. “You witnessed it.”

  “I didn’t see it. I only heard it.”

  “I know it can be frustrating, but this is how it is done . . .”

  “Isabella, what happened to you is terrible. And how you’ve devoted your life is admirable. So I say this with respect: you ought to be interested in that crime scene, because the murder is all you’ve got. Trafficking is illegal here only for the purpose of commercial sexual exploitation. The government doesn’t prohibit trafficking for labor exploitation.”

  She took her hand away but kept watch on him.

  “That’s a huge loophole,” he said. “Honduras is a source and transit country for sex trafficking — you know it firsthand. And you know that victims are often recruited with false offers of employment and later subjected to sex trafficking in urban and tourist centers like Tegucigalpa, San Pedro Sula, and here in the Bay Islands. That’s the point. These people are promised jobs, and many go willingly — like Nicole and her boyfriend Korey.”

  He saw Nicole looking at him from across the room.

  “But you have to prove sexual activity. That means those women need to be thoroughly examined by a specialist, and they’re not equipped on this island. We would need forensics on the mainland to—”

  “And that’s what Catarino will see to.”

  “Fine. Let Catarino take care of them. Collect the evidence if you want and then force the victims to endure trial. You know? For what? So the bad guys take a short nap in jail? Because the maximum sentence is thirteen years, and gets knocked down all the time. Rapists, traffickers do a couple years and then they’re out. You telling me it’s sufficient? It’s a joke.”

  Isabella looked away and William hurtled on, “And if we think Sausa isn’t going to run immediately to the Consul
ate, we’re crazy.”

  “He wouldn’t. He’d be detained.”

  “He would. If and when Catarino decided there was enough evidence to arrest him for sex crimes, Sausa’s got plenty of money. He’d buy his way out and be long gone from Honduras. Those women won’t be in danger if they’re given completely safe, anonymous relocations. If they can go home, all the better. If not, they need to be protected.”

  “That’s what we do . . .”

  “I’m not gambling with their lives. I want to take Sausa down.” William continued to the door. “Hanna, my partner, is with Marcotti right now. They’re going to attend the planned wreck today. Mateo, we need to—”

  Isabella shook her head. “It’s too dangerous now. You can’t go back there. If you’re apprehended by local police, the Policia Militar or maybe worse — taken by Sausa’s militia, then it only sets us back.”

  “I won’t get caught,” he said, and left the room.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  William found Julio’s pick-up truck. The keys were still hanging in the ignition.

  As he fired up the engine, he thought of how life moved in cycles. This was Alkaev all over again. A man clearly in violation of human rights. A sick soul using other human beings to achieve his perverted aims. Alkaev may have slipped through his fingers, lost to the bureaucracy. Sausa wouldn’t.

  William was done being manipulated, he was done letting anyone stand in his way.

  He hit the brakes as a group of tourists walked across the parking lot. They stared at him. A waiter followed, holding a tray of champagne and flutes. Not even two in the afternoon, and it was time to celebrate. Hey, why not.

  He ripped out of the parking lot after that, the Mitsubishi light and nimble. He considered a quick hunt along the darker streets of Coxen Hole for a new gun; he knew the signs to look for, where he might find one. But he made a different decision, and cranked the wheel.

  The truck tumbled down Thicket Mouth Road. It was about the same time of day he’d been here on Thursday, walking the coastal route with Mateo, talking about Deon. If Officer Conchella had the same shift today, and hadn’t been deployed either to Royal Playa or Calabash Bay for the planned wreck, she might be there. Despite all his mistrust and dissatisfaction, he felt an alliance with her. Like she understood something, and she could help him.