Bitter End

by Patrick Logan

  And this suited Beckett just fine. The last thing he wanted or needed was to get involved in a drug smuggling ring, especially given his recent transgressions.

  I found girls below deck…

  Beckett clenched his jaw as he started to stand. Could he really walk away from this one, though? After a moment of contemplation, he supposed he could, provided he stayed ignorant to any of the details. After all, it wasn’t like he was a caped crusader trying to rid the Virgin Gorda of evildoers.

  Craig Sloan had been an anomaly; the man had murdered four people and was about to escape. If he’d gotten away, there was little question in anyone’s mind that he would strike again.

  Beckett was just doing his due diligence as a contributing member of society by taking out Craig… wasn’t he?

  With a nod, mostly to himself, Beckett turned his back and started to the door. His steps were surprisingly unsteady, though, and it wasn’t from the booze or drugs.

  Something inside of him had awoken when he’d bludgeoned Craig Sloan, something that wouldn’t easily be put to rest.

  “I’m not asking for much, Beckett. You say you want to uphold the Hippocratic Oath? Well here’s your chance… some of my girls… well, they get sick and I need a doctor to help me keep them from getting sick, if you know what I mean.”

  Beckett stopped to think this over.

  An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. If I take out the source of their sickness, then you won’t need my help at all, will you, Donnie.

  Beckett looked over his shoulder at the man, who was still smiling.

  “Thanks for the offer, Donnie. But I think I’ll pass.”

  And there it was again: the shadow passing over Donnie’s face, even though his expression didn’t outwardly change.

  “But you haven’t even heard my terms.”

  Beckett looked around again, taking in the opulence of the room.

  “I may not have a Tony Montana-sized yacht, but I’m doing alright. After all, I’m here in this ultra-exclusive resort, aren’t I?”

  And with that, Beckett offered his own wry smirk and made his way to the door.

  Only to have Donnie’s words draw him back again.

  “You think — heh — you think that I was offering money in exchange for your services?”

  Beckett had already made up his mind not to stop walking no matter what the man said to him, but this comment was so surprising that he faltered midstep.

  And when Donnie chuckled, Beckett couldn’t help but face the man again.

  “No, Beckett, I wasn’t going to offer you a single dollar.”

  The smile slid off Beckett’s face.

  “What then? A hand job? From one of your girls, I hope, and not your hairy mitts.”

  Donnie ignored the comment.

  “I know what you are, Beckett.”

  “Yeah, you said that already — you know I’m a doctor, big whoop. You proud of your googling skills, or something? Must be quite the accomplishment with those chubby fingers.”

  Donnie chuckled.

  “No, Beckett. I know what you are, and I know what you did.”

  Chapter 16

  Screech tried the lock again, but despite being old and rusted, it held fast.

  There was someone in there — no, there were people in there. People locked away in a sweltering room, likely without food or water, running out of air…

  Screech’s mind continued to race as he looked around frantically for something to break the lock.

  I wish Drake was here or even Beckett… they would know what to do.

  “Hold on,” he said quietly. “Just hold on.”

  Off to one side sat a large wooden crate, but that too was locked. Beside the crate, he saw what looked like kindling leaning up against the wall. Screech found a piece that was roughly the size of his arm, and maybe a third of its diameter, and hurried back to the door.

  “Step back,” he said, although he wasn’t sure why; he doubted that the kindling would be strong enough to do any damage, let alone blow the whole damn door open.

  Screech wedged the piece of wood between the lock shackle and body and started to apply pressure. The shackle seemed to rise a fraction of an inch, encouraging him to pull even harder. There was a loud crack as the wood splintered, sending Screech stumbling into the door.

  “Fuck.”

  The response from inside the room was immediate.

  “Help us,” several voices replied in unison. “Please, help us. One of the girls… she’s sick… please. Help.”

  Screech shook his head.

  I’m trying, he thought. Goddammit, I’m trying!

  He glanced around again and ground his teeth in frustration when he found nothing that looked strong enough to break the lock.

  As much as he disliked the idea of leaving the girls alone, Screech knew that he had no other choice. He just wasn’t sure what, exactly, he should do next.

  If he could find his way out of the maze that was the lower level of the yacht, he could pretend like nothing happened and seek out the authorities.

  But that would mean he would have to get past Donnie DiMarco’s goons, and maybe even the man himself, while keeping a straight face. He wasn’t sure he could do that. Besides, it wasn’t even clear that this would be helpful; after all, Donnie had already paid off the cops once. Who’s to say he wouldn’t just do it again?

  The other option was to find Beckett.

  Except that was what he’d been in the process of doing before he’d become lost and stumbled across the holding cell or whatever the hell it was.

  The third, and least appealing option was to search the other rooms for something to break the lock. But even if he was successful, then what? It wasn’t like he could just tuck the girls, however many there were, under his t-shirt and — ho-hum — smuggle them off the boat. What if—

  Screech froze. In addition to the sound of the women behind the door, he thought he heard something else: footsteps approaching.

  Without thinking, he dove behind the crate and tucked himself into as tight a ball as possible. His heart was racing now, and with every beat, his body seemed to rock back and forth. The sound of blood rushing in his ears was like a tsunami crashing down on his forehead.

  Screech squeezed his eyes closed and tried, with limited success, to control his breathing.

  “Did the boss tell you how long you to be in port?” he heard one man ask. “We gotta get the cargo moving — we need to make the exchange soon.”

  This was followed by the sound of sloshing liquid, like someone pouring water into a bucket.

  “No idea. Last time we stopped here, Donnie wanted to stay a week before moving on. All I know is that the shipping crate is waiting and that Mendes is none too happy with Donnie’s… uh… extra-curriculars.”

  “Ungh, Mendes. That guy creeps me the fuck out.”

  “Yeah, no kidding. Just finishing mixing the drink and then let's get the hell out of here.”

  Mendes? Who the hell is Mendes?

  This was followed by an inaudible exchange.

  “What’s with the girls up top, anyway?” the first man asked. “I mean, I ain’t complaining or nothing, but are they… you know… part of the, uh, cargo?”

  “Better not to ask so many questions. Like I said, rumor has it that Mendes isn’t pleased. I think it’s best if we just do our job. Speaking of which, is the drink ready?”

  “Yeah, ready to go. Just open the—wait. What the fuck’s that?”

  Oh, shit! The wood!

  Screech stopped breathing entirely now. He looked down at his hand and realized that while he still clutched the piece of wood tightly between his fingers, he’d left the broken shards on the ground when he had tried to open the lock.

  “There’s someone else here,” the first man said in a low voice.

  At that very moment, the phone inside Screech’s pocket started to buzz.

  Chapter 17

  Beckett stumbled. His f
irst thought was that he’d consumed too much, that the alcohol and coke were messing with his head. After all, there was no way that Donnie knew about… about Craig Sloan. About what he’d done.

  Then, as if reading his mind, Donnie’s smile widened.

  “Oh, don’t worry; I hear that the tribunal has cleared you of any wrongdoing. And that’s the end of it, right? I mean, it’s not as if someone has pictures.”

  Beckett stared at Donnie in disbelief. When he’d agreed to follow the man below deck, he knew that Donnie was of questionable character. And yet, he’d given the man a pass. It wasn’t his job to intervene with a drug smuggler, especially one who was connected. But now, after what Chloe had told him, and what Donnie himself had just said, Beckett was having a hard time finding a reason not to kill the man.

  He took a deep breath.

  Control yourself, Beckett. This is not who you are.

  Except that wasn’t quite true; a previously self-assured man, all of a sudden, Beckett found himself questioning exactly who he was.

  Before Craig Sloan, the most violent thing he’d done was getting into a bar fight when he was still in his teens. And even then, Beckett had just been coming to the defense of one of his friends who had been double-teamed.

  Craig Sloan had changed all that.

  Beckett felt a familiar tingling in his fingertips and he instinctively balled his fists to force the sensation away.

  This was what Donnie wanted; for whatever reason, he was trying to provoke Beckett.

  Not yet; a drug smuggler doesn’t deserve what happened to Craig Sloan. Only murderers deserved that.

  Beckett refused to bite.

  “I don’t know—”

  Once again, Donnie DiMarco dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

  “Not to worry, my good doctor. Your secret is safe with me,” he gestured to the pile of cocaine on the table. “Enjoy your time off. And feel free to help yourself to more cocaine, drinks, or a lady or two. I’m sure you’ll find a way to repay me… later.”

  Beckett squeezed his fists so tightly that his knuckles started to ache. He wanted nothing more at that moment than to pummel Donnie until his smile was rendered a bloody smear.

  But he couldn’t do that — not yet, anyway. In the back of his mind, however, Beckett had a sneaking suspicion that he would repay the man later, only not in the way Donnie thought.

  He took another deep breath and relaxed his hands.

  “So generous of you,” he muttered as he backed out of the room.

  So much for an uneventful trip to the Virgin Gorda. So much for staying out of trouble.

  Beckett made his way down a narrow hallway and up the stairs in a daze, his mind jumping all over the place as it was apt to do when he was high.

  He had barely reached the top landing before he saw Chloe and one of her friends looking over at him. As confused as he was, as buzzed as he was, as upset as he was, Beckett was still beholden to his more primal urges. And when Chloe walked over and draped an arm over his shoulder, still clutching one of the coconut drinks, her breath reeking of alcohol and her body swaying to the music, he leaned into her.

  “Hey doctor boy, you want to have a good time?” she asked. Apparently, her concern from an hour ago about finding other girls below deck had diminished to the point of nonexistence. As Chloe hugged him tightly, one of her friends, a woman with long dark hair who was completely topless, approached. She was pretty, not as pretty as Chloe, but gorgeous nevertheless.

  “I’m thinking that’s a great idea, Chlo,” the new girl said.

  His mouth suddenly incredibly dry, Beckett leaned over and took a sip from the straw that protruded from Chloe’s coconut drink.

  His attempt to moisten his mouth and throat failed miserably; the drink was so bitter that it was nearly impossible to swallow. Beckett had had his share of alcohol in his day, including some barely palatable hundred and twenty proof Mexican tequila in his younger years, but this… this was worse. It had the same sting of alcohol, but was bitter on the front. Impossibly bitter even.

  He shuddered and took the coconut from Chloe despite her protests. Then he turned to face the bartender who was staring at him with his wide eyes. As he did, the topless lady sidled up beside him and rubbed her breasts against his arm.

  Beckett freed his arm and tossed the nearly empty coconut at Kevin. It struck the bartender in the chest, and he managed to catch it awkwardly with both hands.

  “This is the worst drink I’ve ever had,” Beckett said with a grimace. “So goddamn bitter… the end, it’s bitter as all hell.”

  Chapter 18

  Fight or flight or freeze are the three instinctive reactions that all mammals share when confronted with a stressful or dangerous situation.

  More often than not, Screech enacted one of the latter two. But in this case, whether it was the alcohol, the realization that Donnie was keeping hostages locked in a cell, or just plain exhaustion, he opted for the former.

  He burst out of the fetal position and swung the piece of kindling at the closest man’s shoulders. When it simply bounced off, Screech realized that he’d made a mistake.

  But there was no turning back now. He raised the stick again, but this time the burly man grabbed his wrist before he could swing it. The man squeezed hard and Screech had no choice but to drop the useless piece of wood.

  He winced and cried out in pain.

  Screech never even saw the man’s fist before it connected with his forehead. The blow was so powerful that if it weren’t for the fact that his arm was being gripped so tightly, he most definitely would have gone down. Stars peppered his vision and for several horrifying seconds, Screech thought that he was going to black out. When it became clear he wasn’t going to lose consciousness, part of him wished he had: the man was pulling his fist back again, his knuckles red from the previous impact.

  But before he could deliver another blow, a commotion behind them served as a distraction.

  Screech’s eyes darted in that direction in time to see the metal door swing open violently. From the dark interior, a handful of women burst forth. Unlike those that Screech had seen on the main deck, however, these women weren’t wearing string bikinis. On the contrary, they appeared to be wearing filthy rags. Some of them even had what appeared to be blindfolds hanging loosely around their necks.

  “Get them!” the man still gripping Screech’s arm shouted. “Don’t let them get upstairs!”

  The other man, the one who had unlocked the door, tried to grab the women, but there were simply too many of them, and they were too desperate for his clumsy hands to find purchase.

  The man holding Screech swore and finally released his wrist.

  “Get them!” he hollered, his voice rising an octave. “Jesus Christ, get them!”

  Even though Screech was still reeling from the punch, he had enough wits about him to know that his opportunity for escape was limited. He shoved one of the men out of the way and joined the women’s ranks as they bolted down the hallway.

  “Get them!”

  The bellow was so loud that Screech found himself turning, despite the urgency of the situation. And what he saw made his breath catch in his throat.

  Between the shoulders of the goons that were lumbering after them, he saw something that would stay with him forever.

  Lying on the floor of the cell, were two women, their eyes open in an empty stare, their mouths and lips covered in a pale white foam.

  One of the freed girls bumped his arm and spun Screech around. Horrified by what he’d seen, but knowing that he would soon share their fate if he didn’t get moving, he started to pump his legs. His limbs felt like warm Jell-O, but Screech somehow managed to keep up with the malnourished and foul-smelling captives. As he ran, he realized that he’d passed the room with the two women who had tried to seduce him.

  I should have just stayed with them, he thought incoherently. If I’d stayed with them, none of this would have happened.

 
But then the girls would still be locked in the dungeon.

  Fearful that he would get lost again, Screech stayed close to a woman with long, greasy red hair. Less than a minute later, he found himself at the bottom of a staircase, looking up.

  “Hurry, hurry, hurry,” Screech cried as he stepped aside, gesturing for the women to climb. The first handful of captives quickly mounted the stairs, and he found himself cringing at the pungent odor of day-old sweat mixed with human feces that they left in their wake.

  The next two were slower and the third fell at Screech’s feet.

  A quick glance behind the fallen woman showed that the two men were nearly upon them. Screech turned his gaze to the stairs and debated just leaving her there and sprinting topside. He hesitated for a full second before making up his mind.

  “Get up,” he grumbled as he reached down and helped the woman to her feet. She was rail thin beneath her rags, except for her stomach; that was hard and distended. But Screech had no time to think about what this meant. With a gentle shove, he helped her onto the first step.

  She regained her strength and did the rest, offering him a quick glance with doughy eyes before ascending out of sight.

  “I’m gonna make you—”

  Screech didn’t even look behind him; his leg simply shot out like a piston. There was a whoosh like a deflating air mattress when his foot connected with something hard.

  This time, he didn’t look back.

  B-yacht’ch’s upper deck was sheer chaos. The liberated captives mingled with the drunk, bikini-clad girls, all of whom appeared confused and disoriented. The security guards from the ramp had come onto the boat in response to the commotion, but they didn’t appear to know what to do, either.

  Screech scanned the crowd for Beckett, but couldn’t see him anywhere.

  “I hope you got out of here, Beckett,” he whispered through gritted teeth.

  His first instinct was to head toward the ramp that had just been vacated, but when he saw the militia hurrying down the dock, he quickly changed his mind.