The Trafficker: A Michael Thomas Thriller

by Gavin Reese

  “Play along, Father. What time is it?”

  Michael glanced at his watch. “5:11.”

  “Good, it’s just about delivery time, then.”

  Michael cocked his head to the right, wondering if the opioid overdose had already dulled his mind.

  knockknockknock

  Michael immediately looked out through the open, hidden bookcase to the main office entrance. A quick glance down at König revealed a broad, evil smile that turned Michael’s stomach.

  “ALTUUUSSS! SCHNELL! HELFEN! HEL--”

  Michael dove on König and used both hands to smother his shouts.

  BOOM

  The outer office door held against whatever force had just been applied to it, but Michael knew he didn’t have the luxury of an easy, second exit or the ability to withstand a prolonged siege from some unknown force. I could probably parkour down the outside ledges, but I’d have to break through the Plexiglas windows first!

  BOOM

  Michael expected the door to have sounded more solid, given its weight and appearance. Fearing he would soon have company, he released König and ran to close the bookcase door.

  BOOMCRCK

  “ALTUUSS! HIER DRIN!! SCHNELL, SCHNELL!!”

  Michael slammed the bookcase door shut, and the sound of books falling to the floor made him swear at himself. Goddammit! No time for stupid mistakes now! The sound of breaking wood penetrated the hidden room’s walls and doorway.

  “Last chance, Father Phony.” König’s laugh had lost some of its enthusiasm. “I hope, you’ve made...your peace, with God!”

  “I’m good, Alfred, worry about yourself.” Michael hurried to the center countertop and retrieved the half-filled syringe of aqueous fentanyl citrate. Goddammit! Just like with Isadore, this asshole won’t have time to repent and reconcile his sins! He took hold of his emotions and deliberately walked across the room. Can’t risk sticking myself with this shit, not now. I don’t have time to deal with an accidental overdose.

  König couldn’t see what he was doing but assumed Michael’s course of action. “No, Father Phony, you’ll just...go to prison.”

  Waiting until he stopped walking to uncap the syringe, Michael didn’t hesitate any further. He plunged the needle hard and deep into König’s left thigh and immediately depressed the plunger. “Not worried about prison, König, I’m looking to avoid meeting you again in Hell.”

  Michael removed the syringe and tried to carefully recap it, just as the concealed frame around the bookcase-door exploded inward and showered Michael with flying debris.

  February 19, 5:12PM

  König’s Office. Vienna, Austria.

  BOOM

  Michael dropped the uncapped fentanyl syringe and brought his hands up to protect his face. Shards of splintered wood and gypsum drywall dust spread across the small room. A tall, powerful-looking African stepped in through the light cloud, and Michael rose to his feet for the imminent fight. Michael recognized him as König’s delivery driver and conspirator.

  Even though he knew the African was not an uninvolved bystander, Michael didn’t want to take violent action against him. Even though he deserves it, I can’t just kick his ass as punishment, and I also can’t offer him a final absolution. I have to get away and hurt him as little as possible. My only exit's behind him, and he gets to dictate my reaction.

  The man paused only long enough to glance around the room. He glanced between König and the guns, money counter, and drugs on the countertop to his left, and, finally, the one unarmed adversary who might prevent him from controlling all of it. Michael saw no mercy in his expression, and he regretted having moved his holstered tranquilizer gun beneath his cassock. Dammit! The thing’s useless now, I can’t get to it fast enough!

  The driver lunged forward with his arms outstretched toward the collar of Michael’s cassock, which allowed Michael to justifiably defend himself. Stepping right just before his opponent contacted him, Michael rotated his body and swung both forearms to his left like baseball bats and deflected the African’s hands away from his garb. The man’s momentum and bodyweight stopped Michael from complete success, however, and the driver grabbed hold of the left shoulder of his cassock. The African stumbled forward, tripping over König. As he fell toward the back corner of the room, he pulled Michael down with him, and they landed together in a heap. Dammit, that fentanyl syringe’s down here on the deck with us somewhere!

  Michael struck his left shoulder hard on the tile. His adversary rolled onto his back, grabbed Michael’s cassock in both hands like a gi, and pulled him onto his back on top of the driver. Shit! Shit! He’s trying to choke me out!

  Michael tucked his chin down into his chest as his back landed against the driver. The man’s long, right arm flew across Michael’s nose and mouth, and the driver squeezed hard against Michael’s cheekbones. The aggressor’s hairless skin was already slick with sweat. Michael couldn’t see anything, anyway, so he briefly closed his eyes to focus on his other senses. The swift change in his circumstance didn’t allow time for Michael to be angry with himself for underestimating his opponent’s intent. He had to first live long enough to regret his decisions. Forget everything else right now, I’ve gotta keep my airway clear!

  Michael threw both his hands up above his head, formed his fingers into hooks that pointed back toward his opponent, and violently yanked down hard where the driver’s right hand should be, near Michael’s left shoulder.

  The basic Krav Maga technique broke the driver’s grasp and pulled his arm away from Michael’s head for a moment. Like a chess master, Michael thought four-to-five moves ahead and aggressively pushed through his planned series of counters and strikes.

  Michael wrapped both hands around the driver’s right forearm. He twisted his torso and sat up to his right, pushing the man’s arm down in front of him. Michael released his left hand, glanced back over his left shoulder, and identified his target. He swung his left arm backward and delivered a hard elbow to the driver’s nose and forehead. The impact dazed the African and splattered them both with blood from his broken nose.

  Michael sat up again and tried to deliver a second elbow, but the driver leaned forward and bear-hugged Michael across his chest. The man had trapped both of Michael’s arms beneath his, so Michael could only hook his hands over the driver’s forearms to keep him from sliding up to put pressure on Michael’s neck. He tucked his chin back down to keep his airway protected. The man’s blood and sweat mixed on the back of his neck and left shoulder.

  Michael wanted to headbutt his opponent but couldn’t expose the front of his neck to do so. The driver breathed heavily as he squeezed Michael’s chest like a boa constrictor, tightening his grip around the smaller man’s torso each time he exhaled. Michael could smell the man’s body odor, and his breath stunk like a wet ashtray.

  Michael knew he couldn’t stay like this for long, but his main focus was on staying atop the taller African. His adversary floundered from side-to-side to roll and trap Michael facedown beneath him. Michael spread his legs wide to stop the man’s leverage and prevent him from rolling them over. His grip still didn’t lessen, so Michael had to take a risk to gain advantage with his body mechanics and reaction time. He pressed his head to the left and pushed against the right side of his opponent’s face. The driver pushed back and their sweat mixed further with the driver’s sticky blood. Target acquired!

  Michael inhaled hard several times, took in all the air he could, and felt the strain across his chest increase. The African had trapped Michael’s left hand over his right, so, when he’d filled his lungs with all the air they could hold, Michael forcefully emptied his lungs in one quick breath while pressing out with all the strength in his arms.

  “HHuuh!”

  As soon as he felt the slightest space between their limbs, Michael launched his right arm up through the gap, just over his left shoulder and to the left of his own head. He kept his fingers extended and spread wide, and his thumb and ring finger
quickly sunk into the soft wetness of the African’s eye sockets. Michael pressed down into them.

  Reacting instinctively, the driver simultaneously released Michael, screamed in pained terror, and desperately pushed away to escape.

  Michael launched himself forward beyond the man’s grasp and fell down, again onto his left shoulder, before finally getting himself turned around to face his adversary. The driver held his left hand over his face and tried to stand up. Michael knew he had to beat the man to his feet. As much as he’d prefer to disengage and escape, that decision still didn’t belong with him.

  Michael reached his feet just after the driver, who pulled his hands away from his face. Blood streamed down from his left orbital, and Michael couldn’t see that eye. The African’s right hand dove into his pocket as his left swatted at Michael to keep him away. Michael easily deflected the swat. He hammer-fisted the man’s forearm and stepped forward to move back in on him, but the driver produced a weapon from his right pants pocket.

  GUN!!! Michael reacted swiftly from decades of martial arts training, and all his ethical concerns about harming the driver disappeared. He leaped forward, grabbed the semi-auto pistol hard in his left hand, pushed it away from his own body, and struck at the driver’s neck and throat with his right fist. Michael just missed his target and only landed a glancing blow across the front of the man’s face.

  BOOM

  The gunshot was deafening inside the enclosed space, and Michael now heard only an overwhelming, constant ringing.

  EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

  The confined concussion wave briefly stunned Michael, even though he knew to expect that first shot. He kept a firm grip on the gun and the driver’s right hand. He can’t fire another shot if I don’t let go! Michael didn’t have the luxury of checking himself for new holes, he had to keep fighting until he won or bled out. Only winners get to check for wounds!

  Unaffected by the glancing strike, the African tried to reach his left arm around Michael’s torso, just as Michael pushed the gun farther away to his left and swung a right elbow back into the man’s already-broken nose. Blood splattered from the widened injury and the driver stepped back, but still didn’t release the gun.

  thud

  The driver’s back struck the exterior wall only inches behind them. He rage-screamed and pushed off toward Michael before he could launch another strike.

  “AAAUUUUUGHHHH!!”

  As the African pushed him backward, Michael could barely hear his scream over the still-constant ringing. Michael grabbed the left sleeve of the man’s uniform shirt to prevent an attack as he stepped backward and focused on keeping control of the opponent’s gun with his left hand. He misstepped and fell, so the driver tripped and landed on top of Michael as his back struck the tile floor and his head landed against the cabinets in the center of the room.

  Briefly dazed by the head strike, Michael stayed committed to controlling the gun. He looked up just as the African came down hard with a left strike aimed at his exposed head and face. With his left hand locked on the gun, Michael brought his right hand up to defend himself, but he only succeeded in slowing the series of frantic, incoming blows. As the fight continued, Michael’s head, right arm, and shoulder repeatedly collided with the cabinet, and the driver landed several hits against Michael’s face and chest.

  smack

  Michael quickly glanced to his right, to the sound, and saw König’s antidote kit had fallen off the countertop above them. Shit! Gotta move! The fentanyl bag!!

  The African leaned back and brought his left hand up high to deliver a devastating blow, so Michael sent a quick right jab into the front of his exposed throat. He struck the soft tissue with all his available might, reached past the man’s throat, and hooked the driver’s neck with his right hand. He consciously locked the African’s gun hand to his left hip, pushed up off his left leg, and bucked his hips as he pulled the opponent’s neck and head down and to his right. With all the man’s weight that far above his hips and Michael’s upward force, the African easily flew forward and rolled onto his back next to the cabinet and countertop. Michael used his own momentum to chase the man and landed on top of him in a mount.

  With all his previous Brazilian Jujitsu and ground fighting experience, Michael spread his hips and feet out wide and lowered his center of gravity to prevent the driver from using the same technique to roll him back over. With his base secured and the contested gun still held tight in his left hand, Michael rained down hard right hammer-fists onto the driver’s sternum, neck, face, and throat, some of which landed, others were deflected by the man’s flailing left arm.

  Amid the frantic chaos, Michael’s left hand slipped on the driver’s sweaty skin, but stayed clutched on his wrist. His opponent immediately acted on the advantage and pulled the gun down to his pocket.

  Michael understood the driver wanted to use his clothes to rack the slide and chamber a fresh bullet. No! No! He had to push the gun out to his left, away from the driver’s stout uniform pants and belt, maintain a broad base to keep himself from getting rolled, and launch distracting blows with his right hand. All while somehow recovering his grip on the accessible and now-dangerous gun. Panic crept into Michael’s psyche as the driver grew stronger and more determined beneath him. Their relative body mechanics benefitted his opponent, and Michael couldn’t stay in that position much longer. He looked at the gun and saw his adversary had almost brought it back to his pocket. All he’s gotta do is catch the back sights—

  chckchck

  As soon as Michael felt the slide rack, he pulled the gunman’s wrist to his left ribcage, firmly held it against himself, and dropped his head and chest down tight against the man who desperately wished to murder him.

  BOOMBOOM BOOM BOOM BOOMBOOM

  EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

  The shots further deafened Michael and escalated the ringing to intolerable heights. He couldn’t hear anything else and prayed the driver had run the gun dry. Fearing he’d been hit by the small caliber rounds and might soon bleed out, Michael released the driver’s right hand. He used both his arms to rain down a desperate, rage-fueled flurry of strikes targeted at his adversary’s head, face, and throat with all the repeated and skull-crushing blows he could muster.

  “AAAAAUUUUUGGGGHHH!!!!!!!”

  Even though he screamed with all his rage as he pummeled the driver, Michael could barely hear himself over the high-pitched ringing. He didn’t stop his counterattack until the African lay motionless beneath him. Michael looked down at the blood-covered, unconscious man and dropped his hands. Getting up to his feet required more effort than ever before in his life. He stumbled backward several steps, away from the felled opponent and bent over at his waist, hands on his knees, exhausted. A quick check confirmed the tranquilizer gun, miraculously, was still under his cassock. Now that I can get to it, I don’t need the damned thing…

  Grateful to be alive, Michael knew he shouldn’t be. He’d committed three critical errors from the very beginning of the fight. I assumed the driver wasn’t willing to kill me, I wanted to avoid harming him, and, then I brought fists to a gunfight. I oughta be D-R-T…Dead Right There, right next to König. Michael silently swore at his mistakes and tried to catch his breath. A thin white plume fell through the air before him and captivated his focus. He looked up to see dozens of white trails slowly descending to the floor like baby powder. Goddammit, König might get two more O-D victims outta this…

  February 19, 5:19PM

  König’s Office. Vienna, Austria.

  Panic replaced Michael’s momentary relief at surviving his own attempted murder and, for the moment, having apparently won the fight. As plumes of white powder fell through the air all around him, Michael stumbled back away from the center cabinets. He looked at the narcotics bags and the bullet holes that punctured them. All three of them. His dark blue coveralls, the ones he’d worn to conceal his cassock and hung on the countertop when König revived, were now heavily contaminated and unus
able. The toxic, unknown mix of powdered narcotics might still take his life, and Michael felt greater terror than when he’d just been shot at. Not gonna die here, not like this, and now I’ve gotta escape in a bloody, drug-soiled mass garb without drawing too much attention.

  He staggered away and fell over backward near the remnants of the bookcase door. Michael held his breath for a moment and got up on all fours, but he was still winded from the life-or-death struggle and couldn’t stop himself from taking in the contaminated air. He kept his face low and scanned the room for his messenger bag, the one he’d brought from the hotel earlier that afternoon. Michael realized he actually felt the tile floor, and he looked at his hands. The medical exam gloves he’d started the fight in had been shredded. Several pieces of their nitrile material were missing, cast somewhere about the room and collecting a deadly toxic mix at that very moment. I can’t leave them here, they’re covered in my prints and D-N-A, but they’re probably also contaminated with dope. He took the useless remnants off, and again scanned for his bag.

  The all-out fight had wrecked the once-pristine room. Wood shards and splinters lay strewn across the floor. Several money bags had fallen from the cabinet shelves behind him and spilled banded ten-thousand-euro stacks on the floor, which now collected a growing layer of drug powder. That damned syringe is still laying around here somewhere. König's corpse had somehow been pushed onto its left side with his back propped up against the glass wall. He still wore Michael’s soft restraints and was obviously dead. König’s head unnaturally hung to the left, and a frothy white foam leaked from his open mouth onto the tile floor. No spark remained in the artificially blue eyes.

  There! Michael lurched forward on his hands and knees, grabbed the bag from just above König’s head, and urgently inventoried its content. I still have two Naloxone kits. Might not be enough, but it’s a start to get out of here. I might have five minutes to get help, maybe less if that shit was pure. Michael looked at König and realized he had to take the restraints with him. That’s the best piece of forensic evidence in here. If the coroners get their hands on one of those, they can use that to tie all the absolutions together all across the globe. Even though he used far less care in taking the straps off than he had in putting them on, he still lost a precious minute retrieving his evidence and stuffing it into his bag. Afraid to breathe inside the room, he recited a final portion of the Rites of the Dead inside his head, as much for himself as for König. A porta inferi enue, Domine, animam meam. From the gates of Hell, deliver my soul, O Lord...