Camels and Corpses

by G. K. Parks

  “So you requested the bonds?” Ryan asked, understanding the implication that they couldn’t be traced or questioned. It was a brilliant way to exchange money during illegal endeavors while remaining under the radar.

  “Yep,” Gregson replied.

  “Fine, spell out every location, name, and item you gave to Barlow,” Nick said, placing a pen on top of a blank notepad.

  Gregson listed the safe house, the drug dealers, Elmer Neville, the name of the store that could produce fake passports, and a few other relevant items. No wonder Barlow moved with such ease. Plus, Devereaux had access to everything he needed to carry out his hits: the drugs, the documents, and his signature calling card. The only thing Gregson didn’t divulge was Barlow’s client list. We still didn’t know who else ordered a hit or planned to purchase a stolen car. So obviously, not everything was a slam dunk, but all the important things seemed to be, particularly after Gregson decided to cooperate.

  By the end of the evening, everything was crashing down around Chase Devereaux. Although the man was supposed to be one of Reginald Barlow’s lackeys, he was a hitman for hire. He and Barlow met years ago when Chase was still creating his killing persona. Wanting a unique angle, as if the method of murder and body disposal weren’t unique enough, he began leaving automotive parts as calling cards. This led to an unsteady partnership of sorts forming between the two men.

  Barlow was all about the cars. He was a dealer, sometimes legit and other times not so much. He didn’t care what Devereaux was doing just as long as it never interfered with his business. Devereaux was in and out of the picture for the last year and a half, but when the investigation into the string of murders started to heat up, he stuck around for the protection Barlow offered. I wondered if that was because he was afraid Barlow would turn on him. There wasn’t much loyalty among these thieves.

  Agent Josef Grenauldo wasn’t even close to determining any of this, but he did discover the Camel’s calling card. However, he never had a chance to tell Ryan about it because he let his heart take the lead. He told Wendi his true identity, and after she told Barlow, Mallick killed him. This was the beginning of the internal power struggle. Devereaux was supposed to be the seasoned killer. He wanted the power, prestige, and to one day take over the car ring Barlow was building. But the flaws in his plan became apparent when Mallick took the lead, murdering an Interpol agent.

  After that, Ryan ‘Hoyt’ Donough was kept out of the loop on all things. The internal feuding was kept under the radar. So when Barlow planned the trip to the U.S. and got pinched for the GTAs, Devereaux saw the perfect opportunity to take over, resume his role of killer, become an exotic car broker, and eliminate Hoyt, the other spy within their midst. Devereaux was willing to tolerate Mallick only as long as the muscle-headed snake was willing to follow orders.

  The most amusing aspect was the fact that once solid evidence was gained, Mallick turned into our greatest asset. His voicemail contained damning evidence against Chase, asking if Hoyt had been eliminated and whether or not Alexandra Riley proved to be connected to Interpol or the investigation into the Camel. Someone should have taught Devereaux to keep his mouth shut if he didn’t want to incriminate himself when his business burned to the ground. Mallick also provided bank accounts for Barlow and Devereaux. Like I suspected, the accounts Barlow established for Wendi Hu were initially used to filter the funds to Devereaux for the jobs he was hired to complete, but when he became paranoid that Interpol was closing in, he ceased that activity and set up his own accounting network through numerous international banks, completely separate from Barlow’s business and associates. Part of the reason Chase allowed me to get so close was to determine how much Interpol knew.

  Everything Devereaux did was to cast aspersions. Barlow or Mallick could have easily been blamed for being the Camel. Also, by hiring the sniper, Elmer Neville, Devereaux hoped to paint himself in the clear in case he was ever caught. The greatest flaw in his plan was kidnapping Ryan. His rented vehicle led to the house, and that led to a heaping pile of shit raining down on him. No one plans to murder my friend and gets away with it. I wasn’t wired to let bygones be bygones in those situations.

  After extensive questioning by the police, Neville said he was hired to show up, take a few shots, and disappear. He was in his early twenties, dishonorably discharged from the army, but still wanting to play soldier. He didn’t understand his role in any of this, but he was still facing numerous charges. Originally, Neville helped move merchandise for Gregson, and the same day Chase and Virgil bought the drug cocktail, they stopped by Gregson’s and found the kid there. They struck a deal, and the next time Neville surfaced was to blow out the windows of the hotel suite.

  Now that everyone was arrested, Gregson offered up whatever corroborating testimony he could, but there wasn’t much to it aside from a few additional bank accounts to investigate. By the time O’Connell and Ryan finished their paperwork for the evening, the PD had basically closed the Camel and GTA cases.

  “D’accord,” Ryan replied and hung up his phone. “Interpol has finished their case, and I’m escorting Devereaux back to the EU tomorrow.”

  “What?” That was fast. Too fast. “What about the double homicide he committed here?”

  “I don’t know, but I have my orders.”

  “Are you going alone?” I was glad it was over, and Ryan could return home. But this felt so sudden, and truth be told, I would miss him.

  “No. There will be many agents accompanying us.” He took a deep breath, smiling. “It’s over.”

  * * *

  The next morning, I went down the stairs and found Martin and Ryan in the kitchen, prattling on in French. Completely confused as to how Ryan appeared at Martin’s, and even more confused why they weren’t speaking English, I narrowed my eyes and concentrated on determining a few of the words. Quickly, it became apparent I was the topic of discussion. Pouring a cup of coffee, I sat at the table and waited for the conversation to die down.

  “What did I tell you about speaking English?” I teased.

  “Pardon,” Ryan replied, grinning. “I wanted to say goodbye. Jablonsky dropped me off on his way to fill out the paperwork and finalize everything for Devereaux’s transfer.”

  “I’m sure you’re ready to get home.”

  “It’s about bloody time.” I saw the briefest glance exchanged between him and Martin. “Thank you, Alex.”

  “Don’t mention it. Let’s just say it’s a debt repaid.” The garage door opened, and Mark arrived to collect Ryan. “Promise me the next time you visit, it’s just a visit and not another undercover assignment.”

  “Okay. Although, I think it’s your turn to make the overseas trip.” He stood, and I hugged him. He kept his hands on my shoulders so as not to hurt my back.

  “I think I’m getting too old for these undercover assignments. After spending the last few days at the precinct, I’m starting to remember why I wanted to be a cop in the first place.”

  “Good. I’m glad I could help.” I spotted Mark lingering near the stairs. “Your ride is anxious to go.”

  “Donough,” Martin extended his hand, and the two exchanged a few more words, not in English, before Ryan went to the stairs, “thanks for keeping her safe.” Ryan smiled, and he and Mark went down the steps.

  “What were the two of you talking about?” I asked, turning to Martin. “And remember, even if I’m not fluent, I do speak some French.”

  “What do you think we were talking about?”

  “Me.”

  He smirked. “Guilty as charged. We needed to clear the air and exchange some Alex is awesome stories,” he teased. “I’m glad Ryan’s alive. You saved him. You do that a lot.” He started clearing the breakfast dishes, and I realized Ryan must have been there for at least an hour. Someone should have woken me sooner. “Sweetheart, you’ve made a life for yourself by consulting. Are you sure you want to give it up to carry a badge and deal with agencies that are more concerned with
covering their own asses than finding the truth?” Wow, Ryan must have said a lot more about the case than I imagined.

  “I don’t know yet.” I absently spun the coffee mug in a circle. “There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t miss Michael. He was my partner, my best friend, and a huge pain in the ass. It’s time I come to grips with what happened.” I ground my teeth and took a breath.

  “That doesn’t mean you have to destroy the life you forged in the aftermath.” Martin sat down. “If this is something you want to face, then I’m here for you.” He scooted his chair closer, kissing my temple. “Why don’t you tell me about him?”

  After discussing things, I found myself parked at the cemetery. I never came here. The last time I was here was the funeral. Dropping off some flowers on Sam Boyle’s grave, I swallowed and continued to the grey tombstone. Michael Carver, beloved son, hero, he will be missed. No shit.

  “Hey, Michael,” I said, feeling stupid for talking to a slab of granite over a decaying corpse. Why did people do this? It’s not like their loved ones were still around. Then again, I spoke to inanimate objects frequently, so this shouldn’t be that much different. “I miss you.” Swallowing, I glanced around, but the place was pretty much dead. Snorting at the cheesy pun, I tried to figure out what I thought this would accomplish. “This is such a waste of time.”

  Turning to leave, I couldn’t help but feel like this was another epic fail in the long list of failures and disappointment that had become my life. Spinning, I realized more than anything that I was angry. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. You and I were the top of our class at Quantico. We should both be at work, driving each other crazy with your goddamn competitive, arrogant streak.” I bit my lip, fighting back the tears. “How could you leave me? And why the hell did you say it was okay. Nothing has ever been okay since you flatlined in that ambulance two seconds later.”

  I kicked at a pebble on the ground. “This isn’t supposed to be my life. You and I made fun of consultants and P.I.s and now look at me. I’m a fucking consultant. Nothing has gone the way it was supposed to. Everything that’s happened in the last couple of years,” I shook my head, “it never should have been.”

  Sudden realization hit me like a ton of bricks. Martin. I wasn’t one to believe things happened for a reason, nor did I believe that somehow the world was better without Michael Carver because it wasn’t, but there was no way of predicting how things would have turned out. Maybe Michael still would have left the OIO. Maybe I’d be dead by now. Maybe Martin would have died if I wasn’t his bodyguard, then again, maybe he would have never been shot in the first place. “How could you leave me?” I asked again. It was the one question that was never answered. I blamed myself, but he should have fought to make sure it was okay. “It’s not fair.” I shut my eyes and rested my hand on his headstone. “Wherever the hell you are, I hope it’s peaceful because nothing here ever is.”

  * * *

  When Martin came home from work that night, he found me sprawled on the sofa. Since he knew my plans, he would have checked on me if I returned to my apartment, so instead, I decided to share the misery with him. There were ice packs underneath my back, and a glass of bourbon suspended from my fingertips. The bottle was on the ottoman, and this was either my third or fourth. On the plus side, my broken ribs and bruised spine no longer hurt. At this point, pretty much nothing hurt anymore.

  “I didn’t think you liked bourbon,” he said, scrutinizing me with a level of concern.

  “I don’t.” I set the glass on the floor before it could slide out of my grasp. “Michael did.” I looked up at him. “I went to his grave like you suggested, and that was a pretty dumb idea. Your lunatic girlfriend spent twenty minutes screaming at a gravestone.”

  “Did it yell back?”

  “No. Instead, I realized that there are so many things completely beyond my control. It’s all just a roll of the fucking dice, isn’t it?” I scoffed. “No wonder Barlow has a tattoo of dice on his wrist. He probably has life completely figured out. You steal cars, hook up with some assassin for hire, and then it’s just a tossup to see if you get killed, or arrested, or stabbed in the back, or whatever.”

  “Sweetheart,” he sat on the edge of the couch, “what happened?”

  “Nothing. What did you think was going to happen? He would pop out of the ground like a zombie in some horror film? He’s dead, and I still have no earthly idea what to do to fix it.”

  “You can’t,” he stroked my cheek, “I’m sorry.”

  The alcohol made my thoughts more haphazard than usual. “If Ryan had gotten killed, I don’t know what I would have done. It seems that chances are better from the outside looking in that more shit like that will happen.” He raised an eyebrow, and I knew I wasn’t making much sense. “The reason I want to go back to the OIO is because that always seemed like the best way to make a difference, but it isn’t. Not really. I don’t need the badge to do what I do. In fact, it can be a hindrance, but it also comes with rules to keep me in line.”

  “Alexis, you don’t have to make any decisions right now.”

  “Do you want to know what the scariest thought was?” I challenged. He gave a curt nod, waiting for the answer. “I don’t know if you’d even be alive if Michael still was.”

  “Alex,” he wrapped his arms around me, “don’t think like that. This isn’t a tradeoff. I don’t want you to resent me because of insanity like that. This is the bourbon talking. Not you.”

  “It’s not the liquor, and I don’t resent you. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, minus the parts we’d both rather forget. I’ve never been able to find balance or stable ground. Hell, you pointed it out not that long ago. I believe you called me an addict.” Resolve dawned, and I pulled away from him. “I know I tried returning to the OIO temporarily, just to see. And I’ve consulted a few times, but it’s time I do this for real.” The sadness in his eyes was hard to stomach, but I soldiered on. This wasn’t about him. This was about me and maybe a little bit about Michael and Sam too. “I need closure, and I don’t know how else to get it.”

  “Where does that leave us?”

  “It doesn’t change us. I won’t let it.”

  Thirty-eight

  Over the course of the next two weeks, there were a few loose ends that Interpol and the PD needed tied up concerning the GTAs and the Camel. Donough phoned a few times since he was back at work. Except, for once, he seemed relieved to be behind a desk. Even though he mostly worked undercover, maybe he could change. Maybe so could I.

  Ryan was instrumental in working to ensure Wendi Hu was granted temporary asylum until the authorities could determine her exact level of involvement with Barlow and Devereaux. From the way it sounded, she would most likely be allowed to remain as a refugee since she had been coerced, threatened, and beaten by the men that supposedly rescued her from the same type of torment elsewhere.

  “It’s what Josef would have wanted,” Ryan said quietly. “I can’t deny his dying wish.”

  “How involved do you think Wendi really was?” I asked, knowing she was more than likely responsible for Josef’s murder, even if it was unintentional.

  There was a long silence before Ryan finally spoke. “Does it matter? He asked me to protect her. It’s the only way I can make peace with failing to protect him.”

  “We aren’t supposed to live for the dead. We’re supposed to live for ourselves,” I whispered.

  He snorted. “Let me know when you plan to follow that advice. Martin said you were reapplying to the OIO. That’s not about you, Alex. That’s about Michael.”

  “Maybe it’s about me too. Maybe leaving was about him and returning is about me.”

  “Do you really want to go back?”

  “Honestly, I have absolutely no idea.”

  * * *

  When it was all said and done and the contract killer was behind us, I spoke with Director Kendall at the OIO. Since it had been two years since I quit my job, a
nd a year since my first consulting attempt, there were still numerous hoops to jump through. There was no guarantee I would get my old job back, but Kendall was willing to go to the mat for me if I could pass the physical and mental requirements. As usual, I worried about the mandatory psych evals more than the physical tests. This time, my concerns were inaccurate.

  After wrapping my torso in an elastic bandage, I popped a few OTC pain relievers and sunk onto the couch. You can’t win for losing, Parker. After spending almost two hours struggling to get into a comfortable position, there was a knock at my front door. “Who is it?” I called, really not wanting to get up.

  “It’s me,” Martin replied. “Are you screening your guests in addition to your calls?”

  “It’s locked, but if you can let yourself in, I won’t stop you.” He opened the door and cocked his head to the side, confused by the position I was in. One leg was thrown over the back of the couch, the other was curled underneath me, and I was tilted sideways, balancing my weight on a couple of pillows underneath my hips and shoulders. “What?”

  “Are you auditioning for Cirque du Soleil?”

  “No, but for some reason, this is comfortable.” He sat down on the adjacent loveseat. “Nothing else helped.” I shut my eyes and shook my head, knowing why he was really here. “I failed my physical and my drug test. On the plus side, I didn’t make it far enough to fail the psych eval too.”

  “What happened this afternoon?”

  “The damn cocktail I drank that night apparently has properties that linger for at least thirty days. That was strike one, especially when the federal government frowns on any and all illegal drug use, regardless of if it’s intentional. Then to make matters worse, after suffering through a mile and a half around the track, I collapsed on the first round of push-ups.”