Drug Lord- Part II

by Patrick Logan

  On the ridiculous War on Drugs.

  And then what? In a week, Weathers would be forgotten again, and Ken would be without a job. Nobody liked a whistleblower, a troublemaker.

  Nobody.

  Ken's eyes drifted from the horizon back to the interior of the church. The door was wide open, and he could see the little boy he'd saved sleeping on a cot surrounded by what was likely a few million dollars’ worth of heroin.

  Weathers died for this? For a fucking powder? A powder, a commodity, that people wanted?

  Ken shook his head.

  It made no sense.

  None of it made any sense.

  “When they come back, I'll be ready,” the man at his right said.

  Ken turned his attention to the shirtless man. It was clear that he too was damaged. After all, his father had been murdered and his decapitated head placed on a spike as a warning to him and his family.

  But this man was not a pushover. He’d done what he had to do to protect his family—the rest of his family. But now that he had weapons at his disposal, Ken suspected that he would take a proactive approach.

  That he would grab his newfound power and wield it.

  An idea suddenly occurred to Ken. Sure, he could go back to New York, fall in line like a good little soldier.

  His eyes fell on the sign with the snake eating the eyeball and the words Iglesia de Liberacion written across the top.

  Or he could do something else… he could turn Weathers’ death from a tragedy into something positive. He could spin it, make him a hero for liberating the three generations of captives.

  Ken reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was exhausted, more so even than those days when he’d gone seventy-two hours without sleep.

  He wasn't sure what to do.

  But he knew what he didn't want to do. He didn't want to be taken advantage of. He no longer wanted to be the hired hand; he wanted to be the person who hired others to do his bidding for him.

  Never again did Ken want to feel as helpless as he had today.

  “We can work together,” the man said suddenly.

  Ken once again looked at the impish man with a deeply tanned skin and the bristly mustache.

  Work together?

  “I know a way to get the product into the US. I know things.”

  He whistled shrilly, and, in his periphery, Ken saw the boy in the church rise from his slumber. He looked at his father, nodded, and then hurried out of view.

  A few seconds later, the boy returned with two packages in his hands. They were wrapped in brown paper and taped together using red tape with the snake eating the eyeball symbol on it.

  “Take them,” the man said. Ken just stared at the packages for a moment. “It's a reward for saving him. For saving us.”

  Ken’s initial instinct was to decline the offer, to shake his head and say, No thanks.

  But why shouldn't he take them? Why shouldn't he take them back to New York and give the money to Weathers’ family? The man had children, for Christ's sake. Just one of these packages would be enough to put his daughters through college when the time came.

  Ken glanced back into the church.

  Imagine what I could do with more?

  Ken then looked at himself and sighed.

  Even if he had the gall to smuggle the drugs, where would he put them? It’s not like you could hide a few kilos of heroin in your pockets and nobody would notice.

  He started to shake his head when the man suddenly grabbed his arm.

  “The helicopter is coming,” he said. “And I think they bring a box for your friend?”

  A box for my friend? What the—

  And then he realized what the man was saying.

  They would indeed bring a box—a coffin—to transport Weathers’ body first back to Bogotá, before being flown to the United States. And Ken would be with that box at all times.

  Ken smirked.

  Yeah, this man had it all figured out. He may have been held captive for three years, but he had clearly put some thought into what would happen if the tables were ever turned.

  Ken scooped the tobacco out of his mouth with his finger and flung it to the dirt.

  Why shouldn't he be the one to import the drugs? They were going to get into the country with or without him.

  The sound of helicopter blades chuffing finally reached Ken's ears. It was time to shoot a flare, let Loomis or whoever the man had sent know exactly where he was.

  Which meant that it was also time to make a decision.

  Without thinking, Ken pulled a camera out of his pocket and handed it to the young boy who set down the bricks before accepting it. He looked to his father, who said something quickly in Spanish, to which the boy nodded.

  Turn this from a tragedy into something positive.

  Ken and the man walked over to the sign for the Church of Liberation and stood in front of it. With a deep breath, Ken put his arm around the man’s shoulder and motioned for the boy to raise the camera. When the kid started counting down in Spanish from three, Ken surprised himself by managing a fairly genuine-looking smile.

  As the helicopter neared and Ken set off the flare, the man approached him again and stared him directly in the eyes.

  “Ken Smith, you saved my son—I am grateful for what you did.”

  Ken nodded and shook the man's hand.

  “I think… I think maybe we should work together,” he continued. “I think we could do very good things, make a lot of money.”

  Ken tried to pull his hand away, but the man held fast. He was surprised by how much strength the stocky man possessed.

  With a curt nod, the man finally released him.

  “I never even got your name,” Ken said in a soft voice.

  It was difficult to hear himself think over the sound of the approaching helicopter, but for some reason, Ken heard the words from the man’s mouth loud and clear.

  It was as if he knew him already.

  “My name is Raul; Raul Mendes. When you're ready, come back for me, Ken Smith. When you're ready, we will do great business together.”

  PART II – The Jungle

  PRESENT DAY

  Chapter 12

  “Wake up. Wake up, gringo.”

  Damien Drake groaned and opened his eyes. His head was foggy, his muscles ached, and there was a foul taste in his mouth.

  “Are we there?” he grumbled into the darkness.

  “No, we ain't there yet. Pit stop. Y'all got one hour. Do whatever you want, but don’t miss the boat. We leave in one hour,” the captain’s familiar voice informed him.

  With a great effort, Drake managed to pull himself into a seated position. The cot in which he slept was about as comfortable as a sheet of nails, which contributed to his general soreness instead of alleviating it.

  But beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  A flickering light bulb suddenly illuminated the darkness, and Drake shielded his eyes. He could sense others rising from their slumber around him, muttering in Spanish and grunting and groaning much as he had moments ago.

  After a series of tentative blinks, he became accustomed to the lighting and reached into his bag for a fresh pair of underwear. It was the last clean item of clothing that he had. He slipped them on, then got dressed in his jeans and T-shirt. Both smelled of sweat, but that was par for the course below deck.

  Following a quick, and ineffective stretch, Drake slipped his trusty bag over one shoulder and looked around.

  The Colombians were all busy packing up their things as well, all focused on their own paltry set of belongings. All but one, that is; the man, who had called him el phantasmo the night before and shared his horrible liquor, was looking right at him.

  They’d spoken quite a bit last night, but Drake could only remember bits and pieces. Something about how the man had to flee the country after a drug deal gone bad. Something about having to leave to protect his family.

  What Drake couldn’t remember for the lif
e of him, was why the man was going back.

  After their mutual stare bordered on uncomfortable, Drake nodded, and the man looked away.

  Forcing his stiff legs into action, Drake slowly made his way topside.

  And what he saw took his breath away.

  Based on the condition of the fishing vessel and its occupants, he’d suspected that their pit stop would take place at some toothless hillbilly’s rotting dock.

  This couldn’t have been further from reality.

  The captain had pulled up to an island cut straight out of a travel magazine. The water surrounding them was a crystal blue, the sky a pleasant tangerine as the sun awoke with the rest of them, and the foliage lush and verdant.

  Drake was so taken aback by this unexpected beauty that even though his intentions had been to use a real toilet for once and maybe score something to eat, he did neither; instead, he simply stood on the deck, his hands clenching the rusted metal railing.

  “You can stay here if you want,” a gruff voice from behind him stated. Drake looked over at the captain, who somehow looked worse than the stowaways below deck. “You could just stay here.”

  Drake stared at the man for a moment before turning his attention back to the island.

  This wasn’t his destination, and he knew better than to be wooed by shiny objects. He had one mission, one objective: to find Ken Smith and make the man pay for the lives he’d ruined in his insatiable quest for power.

  But that didn’t mean he had to suffer intentionally along the way. After all, he wasn’t some sort of sadist, was he?

  Instead of answering, Drake patted the man on the shoulder and then started towards the dock.

  When the captain hollered after him, his tone had changed; no longer was it sympathetic, caring.

  It was harsh, the way the voice of a captain should be.

  “One hour. If you ain't back in one hour, yous gonna stay here.”

  Drake nodded.

  It could be worse, he supposed. There were definitely worse places to be stranded on this earth than this beautiful island.

  Chapter 13

  “Close your eyes; seriously, Leroy, Hanna, close your damn eyes,” Screech said as he placed a hand on the small of each of their backs and gently guided them forward.

  “I swear to God, if this is some sort of weird sex game…”

  Screech shoved Hanna forward a little more forcefully.

  “Just play along, I swear you’ll like it.”

  “Hmmm, that's what my last boyfriend said, and he ended up in the ‘merge,” Hanna grumbled.

  Screech ignored her.

  “All right, all right, slow… slow… okay, stop.”

  “Can I open my eyes now?” Leroy asked.

  “No, not yet.” Screech quickly moved in front of the duo, making sure that his body was blocking their view of the door behind him. “Now, open your eyes.”

  He was beaming, and he expected this expression to be reflected on Hanna’s and Leroy’s faces.

  He was disappointed.

  Leroy had something akin to a sneer on his lips while Hanna looked about as pleased as someone finding porcupine quills in their tomato soup.

  “What the hell is this? Some sort of barbershop?” Hanna asked.

  Screech looked skyward.

  “A barbershop? No… no, it's…”

  Instead of finishing the sentence, Screech stepped to one side and waved a hand dramatically in front of the frosted door.

  “Oh! I know! An eye exam clinic!” Leroy chimed in. “It’s an eye exam clinic.”

  Screech scowled.

  “No, it's not a fucking optometrist’s office or barbershop or abortion clinic. It's our new headquarters.”

  Leroy raised an eyebrow and Hanna chewed her bottom lip. The latter leaned in close to the lettering on the door, and then suddenly pulled back, eyes wide.

  “Is that… is that…”

  Screech’s smile returned, and he nodded, turning his attention to the fancy decal that he’d stuck to the door just a few hours ago.

  “Yep, it's—”

  “You were right, Leroy,” Hanna continued. “It is some sort of eye test.”

  Screech threw up his hands.

  “For fuck’s sake guys, this isn’t an eye test; they’re our initials and this is our new office,” he moved a finger across the decal as he spoke. “DSLH Investigations.”

  Leroy suddenly burst out laughing and clapped him on the back.

  “We’re just fucking with you, Screech. It looks amazing.”

  Screech looked at Leroy, trying to figure out if he was being serious. Then he glanced over at Hanna who was smiling now. She ran a hand through her dark hair, which had since grown in.

  “Well, aside from the fact that my name is last, and that Drake gets his last name on the door and we get our first names…” She let the sentence trail off before suddenly embracing Screech in a tight hug. “Just kiddin’. Leroy’s right; it looks amazing.”

  After disengaging from Hanna, Screech took a step back to inspect his handiwork.

  It wasn’t just a new door, of course, it was a new office, as well.

  But it was also more than that. It was a new beginning.

  Drake should be here with us, he thought unexpectedly. After all, you started all this. Without you, I—

  Hanna, clearly sensing that the mood was about to change, reached past Screech and grabbed the door handle.

  “Come on, show us the inside. I can’t wait to see my corner office and meet my sexy secretary,” she said with a grin.

  Chapter 14

  The island, which Drake had since discovered was the Virgin Gorda, wasn't exactly what he’d expected. He was hoping for some basic amenities, like a coffee shop or somewhere he could grab a bite to eat and maybe restock for the last leg of the journey to Colombia. But it appeared that they’d docked on some sort of private resort, which only added to the confusion. How the foul-smelling captain had arranged this locale for refueling was a mystery that might never be solved.

  Drake ended up walking around several villas before finally coming upon what appeared to be a main reception hall of sorts.

  The good news was that it appeared to be the off-season and the place was almost deserted. He wasn’t one for designer clothes and fancy watches during the best of times, but boy did he stink right now.

  Still, he had more important things to expend mental energy on.

  Drake walked slowly to the front desk, trying his best not to look like either a vagrant or a potential armed robber. Halfway across the lavish foyer, however, he changed his mind. Sneaking up on the man behind the desk who was hammering away at his keyboard likely wasn’t a good idea, either.

  To announce his presence, he cleared his throat and the maître d' raised his eyes from his computer. They went wide for a moment, then he actually stumbled backward.

  “El phantasmo,” the man breathed.

  Drake showed the man his palms.

  “No, I’m sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. I just wondered if there was somewhere around here that I could get a cup of coffee. I have money.”

  The man blinked several times, and then took a deep breath and collected himself.

  “No, I'm sorry. I thought you were someone else. Are you with the… with the fishing vessel? Just stopping in for a short while?” the man asked, raising an eyebrow. He was young, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, and his dark hair was coiffed to one side.

  “Just an hour,” Drake replied hesitantly.

  At least he knows about the fishing vessel.

  “Can I get a coffee? Maybe a shower?”

  The man stared at him for a moment too long.

  “Look, I—”

  The man smiled uncomfortably.

  “No, I’m sorry. It’s just… well, never mind. Would you like to freshen up in the same villa that your friend had?”

  Confusion washed over Drake and he rubbed his eyes, wishing that he hadn't drunk so much of t
he horrible swill that the man on the boat had handed him.

  “I'm sorry? My friend?”

  Drake took a deep breath and then looked around, thinking that the entire time the man might have been speaking to someone else, that he really was just el phantasmo.

  But he was the only one here.

  “The man with the blond hair and the tattoos? He's not your friend?”

  Once again, Drake shook his head.

  “I don’t know who—wait, blond guy, you said? Kinda annoying, likes to make inappropriate jokes?”

  The maître d’s smile widened.

  “Yes, yes, Dr. Campbell. He was here not too long ago. He helped us—” the man’s smile faltered, “Well, he helped us take care of some unruly guests.”

  Drake’s brow furrowed.

  “Yeah, I know Beckett. But how did you… shit, what did he do, exactly?”

  The maître d’ waved a hand dismissively.

  “Oh, nothing—nothing, really. But any friend of Beckett is a friend of ours. I will let you freshen up in one of the villas. And if you want to stay…”

  Drake started to shake his head and the man nodded curtly.

  “Sure, I get it. You’re on a voyage. But if at any point you want to return, you will be well taken care of.”

  “Uh, thanks,” Drake said hesitantly. This entire interaction had him confused and bewildered.

  The maître d’ reached below the counter and then handed Drake a set of keys.

  “Oh, and not to worry, the sheets have been changed since your friend’s visit.”

  “Amen to that,” Drake said with a grimace. “Amen to that.”

  Chapter 15

  “Holy shit,” Leroy gasped, “this is triple D investigations?”

  Screech shook his head.

  “No, this is DSLH Investigations,” he corrected.

  Leroy didn't appear to hear him. Instead, he simply looked about the room as if stepping onto a strange planet.

  “Kinda stupid name,” Hanna grumbled, and Screech smiled; he couldn't agree more. But at least it didn't sound like a strip club—Triple D Investigations. “Where's the boss man's desk?”