Drake shook his head.
“You know this to be true, Drake,” Dane said in his strange, flat affect. “You know what happens to a person when they lose someone they love. The suffering is all-encompassing. It is everything.”
Drake lowered his gun and breathed deep.
What Dane was saying was true, of course; it was true of him when he’d lost Clay, and it was true of his brother when he’d lost Ray.
Everyone is suffering.
His eyes fell on Wesley’s head and the pool of blood surrounding it.
And yet Raul’s son was just a young man. He didn’t choose the life he was born into, he didn't choose any of this.
“Let's end this now, Drake. One shot and it’s all over. Painless. No more suffering.”
He didn’t choose this life, it was given to him.
Drake wiped the tears from his eyes and leveled his gun at his brother once more.
“Let him go, Dane.”
Dane shook his head and tightened his grip around the man’s throat. He was struggling to breathe now.
“Please.”
The boy didn’t choose this life, but it wasn’t up to them to choose whether or not he should continue living it.
“Please, Dane, I'm begging you, just let him go.”
If he wanted to come for Drake, so be it; Drake would be ready. That would be his choice.
“Dane…”
Dane just blinked at him with those cold, hard eyes.
At that moment, Drake knew that his brother wouldn't let go—that he would never let go.
There was suffering in this world, Dane was right about that. And this was the end. Just not for Raul’s son.
“Please,” Drake said, tears spilling down his cheeks now. “Please, Dane.”
But even as he uttered those words, Drake was already stepping forward and pulling the trigger.
Chapter 71
Veronica slid silently down the stairs.
The woman with her back to her was staring at the empty chair. She’d since slipped something from her dress and was now holding it in her hand.
A growl drifted up to Veronica, and then the woman hurried over to the open window and peered out.
“Shit!”
She whipped around and for the first time, noticed Veronica standing on the landing. Only in the darkness, she didn’t realize who it was.
“I don’t know how you got out, Hanna, but I'm and enjoy killing you.”
As if to emphasize her point, Steffani strode forward with the knife-life object held out in front of her. That's when Veronica reached into her clutched and pulled a weapon of her own.
“I'm not Hanna,” she said, as she moved to meet her. “And I think you're going to need something bigger than a chopstick to kill me.”
Veronica stepped into the moonlight and Steffani Loomis’ eyes went wide.
“Wh-what? Who are—”
Veronica pressed the button on the side of the Taser and the leads sparked to life. Then she drove the points into Steffani’s sternum.
Chapter 72
“What are you doing here?” Screech shot back.
“I'm… I'm…” Jasmine gave up. There wasn’t much else she could say that she hadn’t already told Hanna. And while she couldn’t know that Screech had been listening in, it was clear that she’d given up with the excuses.
Screech grunted.
Where the fuck are you Drake? Where are you?
Sensing his indecision, Jasmine suddenly found her tongue again.
“I've got information on all them. I can help you put them away, Screech. That's all I never wanted. I only one—”
And that's when Screech noticed a second figure on the lawn behind Jasmine.
“I knew it; Steffani said that she could trust you, that we needed you, but I knew it. I knew that after Clay was murdered, you’d come back to haunt us,” Captain Loomis said as he stepped from the shadows.
Jasmine startled and moved toward Screech, the lesser of two evils.
Captain Loomis’ eyes drifted from Jasmine to Screech.
“You?” he said with a quasi-chuckle. “You’re really turning into being a real pain in the ass, you know that? Drake’s little fuckin’ minion.” The sirens were louder now, which meant that Loomis needed to almost shout to be heard. “I'll be back, I'll come back stronger. You mark my words.”
He started to move away from the Estate toward the edge of the forest when Screech raised his gun.
Captain Loomis stopped.
“What? You’re going to shoot me now? Boy, you don't have the balls to shoot me. I’m a war hero and I’m unarmed. You’re not going to shoot me on my own lawn.”
Screech shook his head and turned his gaze skyward, once again wishing that Drake were here, the Drake would tell him what to do.
“That's what I thought,” Captain Loomis said as he started toward the treeline once more.
It wasn’t the taunts, the threats, or even the insults that got to Screech.
No, it was something else.
It was what Captain Loomis had done to Hanna in the basement. Hanna, who was now probably lying in a pool of her own blood.
That and Screech thought that there was a high probability that the man really would get a way with all of this.
A snake… no, a worm—cut the head off a worm, and it’ll keep living.
“You shouldn’t have hit her,” Screech muttered.
Captain Loomis’ eyes suddenly widened.
“What did you say, boy? What did you—”
And then a new sound joined the cacophony of sirens.
The sound of the gun in Screech’s hand going off.
Chapter 73
Sgt. Henry Yasiv stared at his computer monitor as the video played out. He’d watched it a half-dozen times before, maybe even more. He’d watched alone, he’d watched it with Detective Dunbar, and he’d watched it with the DA.
To him, it clearly looked like Captain Brandon Loomis implicated his daughter; multiple times, in fact. But with the revered Army Captain now buried on the Loomis plot and Hanna staying out of the media spotlight, there was no way to corroborate what he’d said. And with no audio, a defense attorney would shred each and every lip-reading expert they put on the stand.
For all the DA’s bravado, for all his claims about wanting to put and end to the corruption, he was still afraid to lose.
The reality was, Loomis wasn’t like Raul, or Palmer, or even Ken Smith; he was a war hero, and the people of New York took this seriously.
As they should.
But that didn’t change the fact that his entire family was corrupt and heavily involved in the importing of heroin into the city, amongst other things.
Yasiv knew that past deeds did not make up for present failures, as past failures didn’t abolish present deeds. Case in point Damien Drake. Yasiv had done all he legally could to try and convince others that he deserved a second chance, a clean slate.
After all, Drake and his team were the ones to bring the drug kingpins of New York to their knees.
Only Yasiv couldn’t deliver the death blow.
Fuck,” he grumbled, rubbing his eyes. He needed a cigarette and badly.
“I'm going for a smoke,” he told Dunbar as he backed away from his computer.
Yasiv made his way outside and lit up. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the way that the smoke filled his lungs and the nicotine rushed into his bloodstream and then onto his brain.
It had been a long, long six weeks. And something told him that this wasn’t quite over yet.
“Sgt. Yasiv?” A female voice said.
Yasiv turned took another drag and turned the voices. It belonged to a woman with long dark hair and large sunglasses that covered most of her face. It was dusk, and the lighting was poor, but he she looked familiar to him somehow.
“Yeah?” Yasiv asked, his hand slipping inadvertently to the butt of his gun. He didn't sense danger from the woman, but something was amiss.
<
br /> “I was told you could be trusted. This is for you,” she said handing over a large envelope that was bursting at the seam. Yasiv looked at the package without taking it, then stared intently at the woman.
It took him a full ten seconds before he put a name to the face.
“Jasmine? Jasmine Cuthbert?”
The woman's expression didn't change.
“Take it. It'll help.”
As soon as Yasiv took the package, she spun and started to move quickly away from 62nd precinct.
“Jasmine! Wait!”
The woman didn’t turn.
“Wait! I—”
Jasmine walked around to the driver’s side of a black Volkswagen and got behind the wheel.
“Shit,” Yasiv swore. He flicked his cigarette and ran after her. Even while he knocked loudly on the passenger window, Jasmine just stared straight ahead, hands on the wheel, clearly debating whether she should just leave. In the end, she succumbed to his persistence and rolled down the window. “Jasmine, I can… I can help you. Whatever’s going on, let me help you. Please.”
Jasmine shook her head.
“You can’t help me,” she said. “You won’t see me again, Sgt. Yasiv. Just know this; whatever you read in that file, whatever you think about me, know that I did it for him; for them.”
Yasiv scrunched his nose.
“For who? Jasmine what are you talking about. You did what for who?”
But the woman had already rolled up the window and had put the car into drive. As she pulled away from the curb, Yasiv found himself staring through the rear windshield.
Tucked into a rear facing baby seat was a boy with bright blue eyes.
It was Drake’s son. Sadness welled in Yasiv, and he stayed in that same spot until the car had long since blended in with the others.
What the hell was that all about?
As he made his way back inside the precinct, Yasiv started to open the folder, more confused than when he’d left for a smoke.
The first image was of Jasmine. She was younger in the photo with flushed cheeks and red lips. In her hand was a brick of heroin. Beside her was skid full of brown packages wrapped in red tape.
“What’s that?” Dunbar hollered.
Yasiv swallowed hard and quickly tucked the picture into his pocket. Then he reached inside the envelope and pulled a handful of the photographs.
The first was of Steffani Loomis shaking Horatio Dupont’s hand. The next also included Steffani, only this time she was alone, her index finger aimed at a giant barrel of white powder.
“Jesus,” he whispered.
“What? Yasiv, what is that? Love letter?”
Yasiv ignored Dunbar and went to the round table in the center of the room. There were several documents piled on top of it, but he swept these onto the floor without even looking at them.
“Hey! What the hell—”
But when Dunbar saw the contents of the folder—the hundreds of implicating photographs—he fell silent.
“This is… this it.” Dunbar raised his head to look at him, a huge smile on his face. “Yasiv, this is it, man. This is what we need to put that bitch away! Fuck… this is it!”
And then, for the first time in a long time, Yasiv found himself smiling along with Detective Dunbar.
Yeah, he thought. This is it.
While Dunbar started to peruse the photos, Yasiv pulled a worn sheet of paper out of his pocket. He scooped a pen off the table and then drew a line through the final name on the list.
This is the end of ANGUIS Holdings.
Epilogue
“I'll get it,” Screech announced, rising to his feet.
“Are you sure that isn’t the butler’s job?” Leroy asked with a grin.
Screech shook his head and pulled the door open.
He was surprised to find a delivery man struggling to hold onto a large, rectangular package on the other side.
“What's this?”
The man popped his bubble-gum.
“Delivery for DSLH?”
It sounded like a question, but Screech was fairly certain that it was a statement.
“Yeah, but what is it?”
The man shrugged and cracked his gum again.
“No idea. You gotta sign here, and here, and here. You can sign for DSLH, right?”
Screech looked down at the lettering on the frosted glass.
He nodded.
“Sure can.”
He scribbled his initials on the electronic pad that the delivery man thrust at him from his hip, and then took the package.
“What the hell is that?” Leroy asked as he brought it inside.
“Ask the butler,” Screech replied.
He grabbed an X-Acto knife from his desk drawer and then carefully cut away the brown paper.
“It’s a painting,” Screech said.
Leroy hovered over his right shoulder.
“Looks like a bunch of dots to me.”
“Yep, to me too.”
“Is there a note? Who is it from?”
Screech found a small square of paper buried tucked into the frame. He read it out loud.
“Consider this your payment – Greta Armatridge.”
Screech rolled his eyes and crumpled up the note into a ball.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means that Hanna just got her bonus, that’s what it means.”
“What? What—”
Screech’s phone started to ring, and he held a finger up to Leroy while he answered it.
“Hello?”
“Stephen? Stephen, it’s Roger.”
Leroy mouthed the words who is it, and Screech shrugged.
“Who?”
“Roger Schneiderman.”
Shit.
With everything that had happened, Screech had forgotten all about the lawyer.
“Sorry Roger I was—”
“So, I, uhh, I haven’t received payment for the retainer. It’s been a while since we last spoke.”
Screech dipped his head to one side.
“Yeah, I’m sorry about that. I’ll write a check—”
“It’s been a good two months, Stephen.”
Screech was about to apologize again when his wandering gaze fell on the lettering he’d put on the office door.
DSLH Investigations. Drake, Screech, Hanna, and Leroy Investigations.
“You know what, Roger? I don’t think I’m going to make that payment.”
“Wh-what? Stephen, I know that Drake isn’t there now, but if he ever comes back, you’re going to need—”
“Naw, I don’t think he will. Thanks for your help, Roger, but I don’t think I’m going to need you anymore.”
Screech hung up before the man could argue his way out of it. He tapped the dull side of the knife on his hand a few times while he continued to stare at the lettering on the door.
“Umm… you gonna elaborate on that call?”
“Nope.”
Screech walked over to the door and opened it. Then he lowered himself and sat cross-legged on the floor.
He knew that Leroy was watching him, but Screech didn’t care. He had to do this.
Drake had left them, and he wasn’t coming back. It was about time that they took his name off the door.
Screech was in the process of removing the D from DSLH when a hand came down on his shoulder and he jumped.
His first thought was that it was Drake, that the man was going to be frowning at him, telling him to pour him a drink and stop wrecking his door, but it wasn’t him. It was a man that he didn't recognize, a handsome man with dark hair and a strong jaw covered with the beginnings of a beard.
“Can I help you?” Screech asked, tightening his grip on the X-Acto blade.
“Can I help you? No, I’m pretty sure that it’s the other way around.”
The man started to reach into his pocket and Screech tensed. When he pulled out a business card, Screech relaxed.
“What the
hell is this?” he asked, taking the card.
Hart Investigator, the card read, then beneath that, Mackenzie Hart, PI.
“Drake's gone, Screech, and you can’t do this on your own. You need my help. Why don’t you and your team come work for me?”
Screech rose to his feet, but the man held his ground.
“Who are you? And how the hell do you know my name?”
The man shrugged and tucked his hands into his pockets.
“Like I said, you can't do this on this on your own. It's a dangerous place out there and when people know things about you, they can use it against you. Think about it. Come work for me.”
With that, the man turned and headed down the hallway.
“Hey? Hey!”
The man just kept on walking.
“You’ve got my card. I'll be in touch.”
Screech was looking down at the card when Hanna emerged from the bathroom and made her way over to him.
“Who was that? Tell me it was a client. Please tell me that was a client.”
Her voice was still little off due to the stitches in her tongue, and her face was bruised, but she her sarcasm hadn’t faded.
Screech took one final look down the hall before he slipped the business card into his pocket.
“Nobody; that was nobody,” he said dully. “By the way, a package arrived for you. It's on my desk.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.”
Hanna glanced down at the mess that Screech was making of the door. He thought she was going to say something about it, but instead, she just continued inside.
Before making it to her desk, however, she turned back to face him.
“Hey, Screech, I’ve got a question for you.”
“Yeah, what is it?”
“What do you do if you step on a land mine?”
Screech made a face.
“Hanna, I don’t have time for—”
“Standard procedure is to jump fifty feet and spread over a large area.”
Screech stared at her for a moment, blinked once, twice, then broke into laughter.
***
Drug Lord- Part II Page 19