The man who entered made it a grand total of three feet before spotting Drake. Then he started back the way he’d come.
Drake rose to his feet.
“Ivan! Ivan, I need to talk to you!” he shouted, oblivious to the looks from the diner’s other patrons.
“No fucking way,” Ivan shot back as he hurried into the night.
“Fuck,” Drake grumbled as he hobbled after the man.
When they were both outside, Ivan turned and gave Drake the finger as he continued to back up away from him. The man had cut his blond hair short, and there was something about his nose that wasn’t quite right, that wasn’t quite true anymore.
“I knew it was you, Drake. I knew it the moment the girl on the phone told me that she wanted to meet here. I knew that it was you, you slimy piece of shit. I don’t know how you got out, if you’re on bail or—”
“Ivan, please,” Drake pleaded. He tried to keep his voice down, tried not to attract too much attention.
He was, after all, an escaped mental patient. Ivan, however, had no such hang-ups.
“No, no, no way; the last time I spoke to you I ended up with a broken nose and half-blind in one eye. I’m not going through that again.”
“Ivan, please. I’ve got something that—”
“No way, Drake. Fuck you.”
The man started to turn, and Drake knew that he was losing him.
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath. “Ivan! Ivan! I’ve got video of the mayor talking about importing heroin into the city.”
Ivan Meitzer stopped midstep and slowly craned his neck around.
Even though he was furious, even though he hated Drake with every inch of his soul, he was a reporter at heart. And no reporter could turn down a story this juicy.
This story had Pulitzer Prize written all over it.
“You’re fucking with me,” Ivan said, lowering his voice. Now that he had the man’s attention, Drake strode calmly over to him and held out the SD card.
“It’s on here—the entire video. I need to put it out, Ivan. I know what he did to you, I know what happened in the hangar. I know that he cost you your job. But this can get it back, Ivan. This will be the biggest story since—”
Ivan reached out and snatched the SD card so quickly that Drake barely realized that it was gone.
“I don’t believe you,” he said, but the fact that he’d taken the card suggested otherwise.
“It’s my only copy, Ivan,” Drake lied. He wasn’t that stupid; he made a copy on the laptop that Mickey had given him. But this was the only copy that he’d given to anyone in the media.
“Ken’s really on here talking about heroin?” Ivan asked, nearly whispering the final word.
Drake nodded and started to walk away.
“If it has what you say on it, I can get it live in an hour. If it doesn’t, I’m reporting your ass to the police. Harassment, sexual assault, indecent exposure… you name it.”
Drake tilted his head to one side and watched the man go.
“That’s fair,” he said to himself. “That’s more than fair.”
Chapter 81
Drake wasn’t going back to the psychiatric institution and he wasn’t going to wait for the video to air, either.
He was going to confront Ken Smith once and for all. But this time, it was going to be on his terms.
“You sure you can do this?” Drake asked Hanna as they sat in her parked car outside Ken Smith’s apartment complex.
Hanna smiled.
“Really? Now you’re just insulting me. I was born for this, Drake. The real question is, can you do your part?”
Drake didn’t answer, he just made sure that his pistol was tucked in the back of his belt.
“Let’s do this then,” he said and stepped from the car.
Instead of heading directly for the front doors, Drake went to the side of the building and pressed his back against the wall.
He took a deep breath and then leaned around the corner. Hanna stepped from her car and shook her body out. Then she started to walk. With every step, her movements became more erratic, and by the time she got within several feet of the glass doors, she was barely able to keep herself upright. There was something clutched in one of her hands, but Drake couldn’t make out what it was.
Okay, Hanna, don’t lay it on too thick.
He cringed when she didn’t walk up to the doors, but directly into them. The glass bowed slightly as she rebounded off it. This didn’t faze her; Hanna walked into the doors again, this time giving her head a hard rap.
A few seconds later, a security guard that Drake recognized appeared at the window.
“Go away,” the man with the oak-colored mustache shouted. “Go away.”
But Hanna didn’t go away. Instead, the item slipped from her hand and fell to the ground.
A syringe? Where the hell did she get a syringe from?
And then she staggered three feet to her left and fell, not even bothering to bring her arms up to brace herself.
Drake winced when Hanna’s shoulder struck the ground with an organic thump.
And yet, the security guard still didn’t open the door.
Come on, you asshole, go help her, Drake willed.
It wasn’t until Hanna started seizing on the ground, her legs and arms flailing rapidly, that the guard opened the door and stepped out.
Drake was instantly reminded of when he’d been checked into Oak Valley, when Hanna had joked with Max and Twig about giving him electroshock treatment.
This was like that, only more violent.
The guard hovered over Hanna’s body and shouted at her, trying desperately to keep her conscious. The man even slapped her once, though it wasn’t forceful enough to leave a mark.
The second the guard knelt, Drake bolted from the corner, heading straight for the man. As he neared, he spotted the electronic keycard on the guard’s hip, just where it had been on every other occasion he’d come to see Ken.
Without hesitating, he reached down and slipped the card from the man’s waist. As he did, the guard started to turn, but Hanna reached up and grabbed him by the back of the neck.
“What the fuck?” the guard blurted, trying to pull his head back. But Hanna, who had somehow manufactured foam at the corners of her mouth like some sort of rabid animal, wouldn’t let go.
She wasn’t joking, Drake thought as he stared at her eyes, which were still rolled back in her head. She really can handle this.
If a career as a PI didn’t work out, he had no doubt that she had a job in acting somewhere.
Drake opened the door and slid inside, just as the guard reached for his walkie-talkie and started shouting that he needed an ambulance.
Drake scampered across the hall and scanned the keycard at the private elevator.
In the last second before the doors closed, he looked back and saw Hanna shove the guard off her and rise to her feet.
Chapter 82
Drake brought the cigar to his lips and took a puff just as the elevator doors pinged and started to open. All the lights were off in the apartment, and when the man stepped out, he immediately reached for the switch. But even after flicking it up and down several times, the penthouse apartment remained dark.
Drake had removed all but one of the bulbs.
“Welcome home, Ken,” Drake said, rolling the cigar between thumb and forefinger.
The figure in the entrance froze.
“What? Surprised to see me? Oh, yeah, almost forgot: you thought you’d taken me out. Well, you tried. And I get it, I really do. You thought that you could just use me to do your bidding and then dispose of me like you’ve done with countless others. Like Ray Reynolds, like Officer Pontiac, like Detective Simmons, like your own son. But let me tell you something, Ken; in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not like other people,” Drake said, switching the cigar from his right to his left hand and using the former to pick up the pistol on his lap. “I don’t give up; I never give u
p. But now I need a break. Tonight, for once in, oh, I dunno, six months, a year? I might curl up in front of the TV. I never really liked the news, but tonight I might just give it a chance, see what the talking heads are rambling on about. I wonder what the lead story is tonight, Ken. Have any ideas?”
The figure still hadn’t moved, but Drake was in no rush. He took another drag of the cigar.
“I’ve got to give it to you, though; you almost made me do all of your dirty work. Shit, you planned this out to T. Everything almost worked perfectly… except—except—you didn’t account for a young black kid from the ghetto who just wanted to get out, an incorruptible police sergeant, a girl with weird fucking hair who, quite honestly, is better suited as a patient than an employee at the psych ward, and a man with more loyalty than brains inside his head. In short, you never counted on me and my crew, Ken. And that was your fatal mistake.”
The figure took a small step forward and Drake raised the gun just to let him know it was there.
“You thought you could outsmart all of us, but you didn’t.”
The figure took two or three more steps and Drake realized with a sinking heart that something was wrong with this scene.
The outline of the man was far too short to be Ken Smith.
“You thought—”
“I’m sorry to burst your bubble, Drake, but Ken is already gone. Ken is going to a place that you will never find him. I guess… I guess he outsmarted you after all.”
The man’s Spanish accent surprised Drake and he nearly dropped the cigar in his lap. He grabbed it and rammed it into the ashtray before fumbling to turn on the lamp, the only light in the apartment that still had a bulb.
Then he swore.
“You,” he spat, rising to his feet. “Where the fuck is Ken?”
Raul Mendes grinned, the corners of his mustache turning upward. It was perhaps the first expression he’d ever seen on the man’s face that wasn’t apathy.
“He’s gone, Drake. You see, Ken always had an exit plan in case things didn’t work out. He’s gone somewhere where even you can’t get to him. But one day he shall return. This will all blow over one day and he’ll come back—he’ll come back stronger, richer, and more powerful than ever.”
Drake ground his teeth in frustration and strode forward, aiming the gun straight ahead. His finger tensed on the trigger, but at the last second, he lowered the gun.
Drake had a lot of morally questionable things over the years, but he wouldn’t kill an unarmed man in cold blood.
Not even if the man in question was Raul.
“Tell me where he is, Raul,” Drake hissed.
“He’s gone,” the impish man replied, still grinning. “An aparición.”
“If you don’t—”
Drake should’ve known better; he shouldn’t have let his emotions overwhelm him and gotten so close.
Raul’s elbow shot out and struck Drake in the wrist of the hand holding the gun. It fell to the floor, and when he instinctively bent to pick it up, Raul’s fist collided with his ribs.
Thankfully the man was right handed, and his knuckles impacted his kidney and not his liver. If the blow had hit him in the liver, Drake would have dropped to the ground, likely never to rise again.
He groaned and bent protectively over his injured side.
That’s when the next punch came, only this one struck him in the throat. Drake staggered backwards gasping for air and Raul leaped at him.
And this is how it ends, Drake thought. After everything I’ve been through, it all ends at the hands of this man; of fucking Raul of all people.
But just as Raul descended on him, the elevator doors pinged again, catching them both by surprise. Raul’s head whipped around and somehow Drake managed to fire his knees into the man’s chest and launch him several feet in the air.
The police stormed the apartment, grabbing Raul who was now kicking and punching indiscriminately like some sort of feral animal.
“NYPD,” one or several of the officers shouted in unison. “Put your hands up.”
It took Drake a moment to realize that they were speaking to him; they had to be speaking to him, because Raul was the only other person here, and he was already in the process of being cuffed.
Drake threw his hands up just as a police officer grabbed him and wrenched his hands behind his back.
The last man to step from the elevator carried himself with an air of authority. He strode forward deliberately and stepped into the glow from the lamp.
And then he froze.
“What the—Drake?” Sergeant Yasiv said.
Drake stared at the man, realizing that the video must’ve gone live and he’d succeeded in getting an arrest warrant.
“He’s gone,” Drake said between gritted teeth. “Ken’s gone, Yasiv. He must have gotten word from someone… from Palmer maybe, or someone else. The bastard’s gone.”
Yasiv swore, stomped his foot, and instructed the officer who was busy trying to handcuff Drake to let him go.
When he hesitated, Yasiv repeated the order.
“You need to get the fuck out here, Drake,” Yasiv said under his breath. “You need to go back to Oak Valley, pretend this never happened. Please.”
Drake nodded and hurried toward the elevator.
“We’ll find him, Drake. I swear, we’ll find them. Now just get the hell out of here.”
As Drake descended to the lobby, Yasiv’s words repeated in his mind.
We’ll find him, Drake… we’ll find him.
He shook his head.
No, we won’t—I will. I will find Ken Smith.
Chapter 83
Drake wasn’t sure how long he stayed outside Jasmine’s house, but he knew that if his boat wasn’t leaving in less than an hour, he would’ve stayed there forever.
With a heavy sigh, he stepped out of Hanna’s VW and slowly made his way to the front door.
When he was almost there, Drake made a slight detour and stared into the bay windows instead. He knew that this was dangerous, that there were people out there looking for him now, that the news of his escape had been made public. But he had to do this before he left, before he hunted down Ken Smith.
Everything had fallen into place, absolutely everything, except for one: Jasmine.
Part of him still tried to convince himself that this was all a misunderstanding, that she wasn’t involved. But that was just his rational mind trying to make sense of an irrational situation.
He peered through the window and caught sight of Jasmine in the kitchen stirring something on the stove. He watched her for a moment, staring at the way her hips moved, and the way her hair flicked from side to side as she swayed.
She might’ve been listening to music, or just remembering a happier time.
Drake wanted nothing more than to go to her then and hold her tight. But he couldn’t do that, not after what he’d seen.
He lowered his eyes and was surprised to see that baby Clay was lying on a blanket just inside the window. The boy was lying on a play mat, batting at several objects that hung just out of reach.
He was beautiful, with dark hair and matching eyes. Clay had his mother’s lips and his father’s strong jaw.
Just then, the boy’s eyes lifted to meet Drake’s.
That’s my son, Drake thought, tears spilling down his cheeks. That’s my boy.
That’s Clay.
And then Drake reached out and pressed his palm against the cool glass. He knew that what happened next wasn’t real, that it was just a coincidence.
After all, Clay was only four or five months old; it was unlikely that he could even see Drake, let alone wave at him.
But Drake let himself have this one—he deserved it. After everything he’d been through, he deserved this.
The last time he saw his son, the boy waved at him.
“I’m sorry,” Drake whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
And then, as if hearing his voice, Jasmine turned towards the window,
but Drake was already gone.
***
Jasmine dropped the wooden spoon into the pot and hurried to the door. Her heart was racing even though she wasn’t sure if she’d seen what she thought she had, or if it was just her eyes playing tricks on her.
She pulled the door wide and stepped out into the night, looking up and down the street for any trace of him.
But there was nobody there; the street was empty.
“Drake!” she shouted into the night. “Drake!”
But the only reply was the buzzing of a failing street lamp.
Just wishful thinking, Jasmine. It wasn’t him, he wasn’t here.
She was about to turn and go inside when she noticed something on her front step and bent down to pick it up.
Walking beneath the light over the door, she held the photograph up and stared at it.
It showed a younger version of herself holding a brick of heroin. Jasmine slowly unfolded the other side.
There, not three feet from where she stood, was an entire skid of heroin, each of the individual packets marked with the symbol for ANGUIS Holdings.
Shaking her head, Jasmine flipped the photo over and saw that there was writing on the other side.
Two simple words written in Drake’s hand.
I know.
Jasmine slipped the photograph into her pocket and once again looked up and down the deserted street.
“No, Drake,” she whispered. “You don’t know; you don’t understand. This isn’t what it looks like.”
Epilogue
“Ten grand will get you there, but I am not responsible for getting you back,” the barrel-chested captain said, gnashing a wad of chewing tobacco between crooked teeth. He leaned over the side of the boat and spat a stream of brown fluid into the water below.
Drake adjusted the bag on his shoulder and nodded. When he took a step forward, the man’s meaty hand extended outward and blocked his path.
“Ten grand,” he repeated.
Drake reached into his pocket and pulled out the yellow envelope that Screech had given them. He tapped it on his palm once, twice, then handed over.
Detective Damien Drake series Box Set 2 Page 59