Drug Lord- Part II

by Patrick Logan

“Well, let me ask you something,” Hanna said as she poured herself another drink. “Back when you guys were just the old Triple D, you didn’t happen to have any rich people on your Rolodex, did you?”

  Screech sipped his scotch.

  “No, we didn't. Shit, the only clients we had was some corrupt sex ring smuggler who looked like Dorian Yates, and some old—”

  Screech stopped cold.

  “What?” Leroy asked. “What is it?”

  “Just a second.”

  Screech spun around and started typing on his keyboard. Eventually, a single name appeared on the screen.

  “Mrs. Armatridge?” Hanna asked, leaning over his shoulder. “Who the hell is Mrs. Armatridge?”

  “Our ticket to the ball, that's who,” Screech replied in a phony Southern accent. “And I think that you might just be the debutante that everyone is waiting to see.”

  Chapter 22

  “This is the spot,” Diego said, before indicating for the driver to pull over to the side of the road.

  Drake, who had been dozing during the hour or so car ride, sat bolt upright and immediately tried to soak in his surroundings. He was still a little wary of Diego’s motives—nobody was this helpful without wanting something in return—but he had no one else to rely on in this foreign land. But now, as he stared out at a squat building labeled as Centro Médico followed by the iconic symbol of the two snakes winding around a winged staff, he gave his head a serious shake.

  What the hell are we doing here? What the hell am I doing here?

  Drake had had a lot of time on the boat to think about this, of course, but then he’d been driven by rage and the prospect of revenge. Now, sharing a cab with a man he’d only just met, the reality of how daunting a task he’d embarked on—searching for two gringos in a country roughly twice the size of Texas—hit him like a ton of bricks.

  What in the fuck am I doing here?

  He'd come to Colombia with a handful of extra clothes, a small amount of cash, and that was pretty much it. Shit, he didn’t even speak Spanish. The one thing he did know, however, the one thing he was confident about was that he didn’t usually have to go far to look for trouble.

  In fact, it usually found him.

  “My brother’s here?” Drake asked as he stepped out of the cab. The sun was still high in the sky, and the air was impossibly hot; just breathing was painful. It wasn't all that different from being choked out by Rodney Wise in prison.

  “Jes; this is it,” Diego said, appearing at his side. “Come—I do the talking, jes?”

  Drake shrugged.

  “Jes—look, I'm just here to see my brother. I'm not sure if they have a database of names, or photographs, or…”

  Diego shook his head.

  “This place keeps lots of bodies that haven’t been… claimed. They don’t have names. You have to go in and search for yourself.”

  Drake struggled to catch up with the man. He was short, but he moved like some sort of spider.

  “How… how do you know all this?”

  Even from behind, he could see the man's shoulders slump and knew the answer before Diego spoke.

  “I've been here before,” he said quietly.

  Drake was inclined to ask more, but they were stopped by a security guard just inside the double doors of Centro Médico. Sporting a uniform that was the same shade as the building’s cracked foundation, the man was at least six and a half feet tall, with broad lips, and a shaved head. Drake watched a curious exchange between the two men; despite being nearly a foot taller than Diego, it was the former who seemed intimidated. Eventually, the security guard bowed his head and stepped off to one side.

  Drake made a mental note to ask Diego what he’d said to the guard later. Right now, he had to hustle just to keep up with the man; he was off again, hurrying toward a filthy desk with an enormous woman sitting behind it. They passed maybe a dozen or so people sitting in chairs off to one side, people with sunken eyes and heavy chins, but Diego paid them no heed. He waltzed right up to the desk like he owned the place, and then barked something in Spanish. The woman leaned forward on her perch to get a better look at Drake, her chair squealing in protest. The two of them locked eyes until Drake eventually turned to Diego to make sure that he wasn't supposed to say something, answer a question, perhaps. But then the woman’s scarlet lips twisted into a half-hearted smile, and she aimed a pudgy finger, adorned with a claw-like nail with polish that matched her lip color, down the hall.

  The security guard reappeared, following closely behind Diego and Drake as they made their way down a narrow hallway and passed through a set of swinging doors.

  “Diego? Are you sure that—”

  The guard hushed him. Drake frowned but decided that it was in his best interest not to get on the man’s bad side; not here, anyway.

  They continued in silence, passing doors on either side of the hall marked only by large, bold numbers. None of them had any windows.

  Is this some sort of… asylum?

  In a way, Centro Médico reminded Drake a little of Oak Valley Psychiatric Institution. Although this place lacked the level of security of the building he’d called home for a short while, it shared the same suffocating loneliness. Just as this memory threatened to evoke a visceral reaction in Drake, they came to a door that was propped open with a wooden wedge.

  Even though something in the back of his mind warned him against looking in, temptation got the better of Drake.

  “Jesus,” he whispered. The sound echoed off the walls in such a way that Drake felt momentarily dizzy.

  Inside the room were dozens of bodies haphazardly laid atop gurneys, some of which weren’t even covered with sheets. Pale gray skin and grizzly black hair stood out on the faces of the dead.

  Drake swallowed hard and put a hand against the wall in order to steady himself.

  Dane’s here? No… he… he can’t be…

  An odor suddenly filled the hallway, but it wasn’t the scent of blood or decay, as Drake might expect, but the strong, stringent smell of preservatives.

  It made his nose crinkle and his mind swim.

  Diego continued ahead, but Drake couldn’t seem to take his eyes off the bodies in the room. Until a hand came down and gripped his shoulder, that is.

  His first instinct was to whip around, and he did try, but the grip was incredibly strong and held him in place. Drake caught a glimpse of the security guard’s stern face before the man shoved him forward.

  “Fuck,” Drake muttered, barely managing to stay on his feet. “Some welcoming committee you are.”

  Diego, who was oblivious to this interaction, hollered over his shoulder. The sound was so loud that Drake had to resist the urge to cover his ears like a child.

  “Room eleven.”

  Although Drake had since regained his senses, as he passed room eight and nine, his breath started to quicken, and his pace slowed.

  He was no stranger to death, and he wasn’t particularly close with his brother, but Drake couldn't help but think that this was his fault, that he’d somehow dragged Dane into this mess.

  It wasn’t true, of course; Ken had wanted Dane because of his connections in South America, Colombia, even.

  But Ken also wanted me. And he knew that if he recruited me, I could bring in Dane.

  Diego stopped outside door eleven and gestured to the handle with his hand. Drake, moving very slowly now, walked up next to him and took a deep breath.

  I shouldn’t be here. Fuck, I should have never come here. I should be home with Jasmine and Clay and Screech and everyone else. I shouldn’t be here.

  But that didn’t change the fact that he was here.

  Drake ground his teeth and reached for the door handle, only to instinctively pull back.

  It was freezing cold.

  “Door eleven,” Diego repeated, sounding as if he were miles away now.

  “Yeah, I heard you,” Drake mumbled, grabbing the handle again. This time, he ignored the frosty bite
and pulled it wide.

  He sighed in relief when he wasn’t greeted by a valley of corpses. But his relief soon became confusion.

  Not only were there no bodies in the room, but there was nothing in the room.

  It was completely empty.

  “He's not here,” Drake said, stating the obvious. “My brother’s not—”

  He started to turn, but only made it halfway before something thick and heavy was draped over his head and cinched tight.

  Chapter 23

  “House arrest? What are you talking about, house arrest?” Screech nearly shouted into the phone.

  Roger Schneiderman cleared his throat.

  “I can't really discuss anything else, Screech. You know, lawyer-client confidentiality and all that.”

  Screech shook his head.

  This conversation was turning out to be even stranger than Yasiv's visit.

  The only person he knew who had connections with the elite of New York was Mrs. Armatridge. And, given the fact that they’d worked together previously, and that it had been none other than Ken Smith who had referred her to them, Screech figured that he might be able to leverage this ‘relationship.’

  What he hadn’t expected was for his call to be forwarded to the very same lawyer Screech had used to represent both Leroy and Drake. And the icing on the cake was that Mrs. Armatridge wasn’t able to use the phone right now because she was on house arrest and had already used up her privileges for the day.

  Could it be possible that she was involved in ANGUIS Holdings as well? Was she part of the fallout from the Ken Smith saga?

  Screech didn’t think so—he didn’t remember hearing her name mentioned—but he couldn’t be certain; Yasiv had told them that more than a hundred indictments had been passed down since Ken fled the country.

  He covered the bottom of the phone with his hand.

  “Leroy, see if you can find out anything about Mrs. Armatridge’s current legal issues online.”

  The man nodded and turned to his computer.

  “All right, thanks, Roger,” Screech said after pulling his hand away from the phone. He waited several seconds for a sign-off that never came. “Roger? You still there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here; listen, it's about the retainer, Screech. As you know, Drake's legal troubles are, umm, ongoing. If you want to keep me on retainer, I'm going to need another payment shortly.”

  Screech massaged his temples. While what he’d said to Yasiv wasn’t completely true—they hadn’t blown all their capital renting and modifying their new offices—money was indeed tight. His money man, Banksy, had done an exceptional job turning the cash he’d received for recovering B-Yacht’ch into a princely sum. But what with bailing out Drake, and then paying for Leroy’s court fees… they were spread fairly thin.

  “All right, I'll look into it.”

  “Yeah, well it’s just that you’re already a month in arrears and I have—”

  “I said, I’d look into it. Look, I’ve got a lot on my plate right now. I’ll get back to you. Promise.”

  Before the man could argue further, Screech hung up the phone. Then he tapped it absently in his palm.

  Why are you paying for Drake’s legal bills, Screech? he asked himself. He received half of the money for the yacht job, and yet you’re shelling out all the cash for the company. Shit, you even had to lend him money for him to sneak his ass out of the US and into Colombia. Why can’t he—

  “Screech? You alright?”

  Screech looked up.

  “Hmm?”

  “I asked if you were okay,” Leroy said with a frown. “You just looked a little—”

  “Fine. I’m fine. Did you find out anything about Mrs. Armatridge?”

  Leroy just stared at him for a moment longer, one eyebrow raised.

  Screech clapped his hands and the man snapped out of it.

  “Yeah, I… I think? If this is the same person… well, you’re not gonna believe this, but your lady friend has been indicted.”

  In his mind, he pictured the blue-haired woman with the upturned nose and pearls around her neck. Sure, she'd been bossy and ornery, but indicted?

  “Really? For what?”

  Leroy swallowed hard and when he finally answered, Screech nearly fell out of his chair.

  “For murder.”

  Chapter 24

  “Try to stay calm,” Diego instructed.

  But that was like telling an ant to remain still in a rainstorm.

  Drake had some sort of bag over his head and his hands were bound behind him. He thrashed violently and kicked at whoever was holding him, which, given the sheer strength of the grip was likely the massive security guard. Before he knew what was happening, there were more hands on him now, and he was hoisted off the ground and flipped so that he was perpendicular to the cracked ceramic floor that he could no longer see. But this didn’t deter Drake’s struggles; if anything, he redoubled his efforts. He managed to drive his right foot into something soft and he heard someone grunt. For a moment, there was more room for him to move freely, and he entertained the idea of planting his feet and running away from this nightmare.

  But the hands returned, squeezing him even tighter now. The next thing he knew, his ankles were zip-tied like his hands, and Drake found himself tightly wrapped like meat in a casing.

  “Stay calm,” Diego repeated. The man's voice was muffled, but it was impossible to tell if this was because he had also been captured, or if the bag on his head was just filtering the sound.

  “Let me fucking go,” he shouted back, continuing to thrash.

  Something struck him in the stomach then, blasting the air from him and crushing his lungs.

  He gaped and gasped furiously, but his body wouldn’t respond, wouldn’t suck in a fresh breath. Blood roared in his ears and his eyes bulged so far from his head that he could have sworn he felt the coarse fabric brush against his corneas.

  What the fuck is going on? his mind screamed.

  “Drake, if you want to live, you'll be calm.”

  And that was when he knew that it was a setup. Somehow, Raul or Ken must have gotten wind of his trip to Colombia and had put someone on the boat to keep him in line.

  And that someone just happened to be the friendly Colombian who went by the name of Diego.

  Once again, Drake’s lack of planning had come back to haunt him.

  At long last, just moments before he thought he might pass out, he managed to reinflate his lungs.

  The sound was horrible, like the death throes of an asphyxiating bullfrog. But in moments, his mind started to clear, and then he immediately set about trying to count the number of men who were holding him.

  He felt at least four sets of hands, two of which could have only belonged to the security guard. Two others were smaller than the rest, likely belonging to Diego.

  Four men… I’ve had worse odds.

  Except he usually wasn’t zip-tied and blindfolded.

  He heard someone shout in Spanish before a door was thrown wide. The hot Colombian sun beat down on him, causing sweat to immediately break out on his forehead. There was a squeal of tires and he smelled diesel fuel in the air.

  “Dentro! Dentro!”

  Diego’s voice.

  Drake was suddenly airborne.

  “What the—”

  He landed hard on his right arm, and that side of his body clenched; his liver, sensitive as it was, decided that right about now was the time to revolt.

  The pain Drake felt was so intense that he gagged and almost threw up. He knew, however, that if he gave in to this urge, he’d likely drown on his own puke.

  By some miracle, he managed to swallow the bile back down.

  The door slammed closed somewhere at his feet, and the truck or van or whatever it was that he was in, peeled off again.

  Gritting his teeth against the pain, Drake tried to sit up but found that the best he could do was roll onto his left side. Gasping for air, he listened, trying to gain
some insight into the men who had kidnapped him.

  But all he could make out was the roar of the engine.

  “Where are you taking me?” he demanded.

  A hand came down on his shoulder, sparking new pain, and Drake ineffectively tried to roll away from his assailant.

  “Drake, be calm. You need to be calm. Calma.”

  Drake did the opposite; he thrust his feet back so far that they whacked against the wall. When he felt this resistance, he kicked again and again, generating a metallic drum roll.

  “Calma!”

  In addition to Diego’s voice, others were shouting now, too, yelling things in Spanish that Drake didn’t comprehend.

  “Drake, please, you must—”

  Another hand on his shoulder, only this time the grip was nearly crushing. Drake continued to kick as even more hands desperately tried to hold him still.

  Something sharp pierced his right bicep, and he cried out.

  “Let go! Let me fucking go! Let me—”

  Someone grabbed the cord fastening the bag to his head and pulled tight. Drake’s head was yanked back, and he had no choice but to finally stop kicking.

  A cord of some sort dug deep into his throat, cutting off his air supply. He gasped, once, twice, then everything went dark.

  Chapter 25

  Screech was surprised when Mrs. Armatridge’s door was opened not by herself or by Roger Schneiderman, but by a man he’d never seen before.

  A man who looked none too happy to see him.

  “Yes?” he said, a frown on his heavy-lined face.

  “Yes, uh, hi,” Screech began, shoving his hands deep into his pockets as he spoke. It was all he could do to keep his eyes on the man and not look down at his toes. “I'm here to see Mrs. Armatridge?”

  The man's brow furrowed, his overgrown eyebrows becoming a single caterpillar snaking across his leathery forehead.

  “Mrs. Armatridge isn’t taking visitors at this time.”

  Screech tried to peer over the man's shoulder, but Lurch shifted his thin frame to block his view.

  “Can you just give her a message then? Tell her that Screech came by?”