Human Traffic

by Patrick Logan

  “Aaaaand done,” he said.

  He leaned back in his chair and interlaced his fingers behind his head, a proud smile on his face.

  His pleasure was short-lived.

  Mandy’s face flashed in his mind, not the way she’d looked when she had stepped into his living room completely nude, but when she’d first knocked on the door of Triple D.

  Screech saw the greasy hair hanging in front of her face, her tear-filled eyes.

  “Shit,” he muttered.

  Just as he was going to call Drake and let him know that his part was done, an email notification popped up.

  Even though Screech didn’t recognize the sender, the headline caught his attention: Russia.

  Screech opened the email and scanned the contents. The main body was dominated by some sort of rap sheet from Russia. In the upper left-hand corner, there was a picture of Boris Brackovich, as well as his name.

  The rest was in Russian, but thankfully the sender had made annotations in the margin. They were just point form notes, but they were more than enough.

  It appeared as if Boris had been arrested twice for running a prostitution ring in Chechnya. Further down, there as an accusation of murder against his first wife, a woman named Ivanka Brackovich.

  Screech whistled.

  Beneath the scanned, annotated image were several lines of typed text.

  Had to dig deep to get this — every other record seems to have disappeared. None of the charges stuck. My contact informed me that Boris is wanted for questioning in the deaths of three prostitutes, but he moved to New York eleven years ago before they could get to him.

  Hope this helps.

  D.

  PS. If you see Drake, tell him he needs lay low. He needs to get out of the city and stay out.

  “Thanks, Dunbar,” Screech whispered.

  He scrolled back up and stared at Boris’s face, a scowl on his own.

  You killed those girls, you sick fuck. You killed Mandy’s friends.

  There was no question in his mind that this man was the one behind the sick auction. The only problem was, Screech had no idea what to do with this information.

  Going to the police with it made no sense given that they were likely involved and it had come from them in the first place. And while his first instinct was to reach out to Drake, he decided against it. The man had enough on his plate, enough problems and issues to deal with.

  Screech buried his head in his hands and took several deep breaths.

  He saw Mandy’s face again.

  There was only one person he could call, one person who could make a difference. And even though every strand of his moral fiber told him not to do it, something had to be done about this sick bastard.

  Screech picked up his phone and quickly dialed a number before he changed his mind.

  On the second ring, a hoarse voice answered.

  “Beckett? It’s Screech. I’ve got… I’ve got something for you.”

  Chapter 46

  The gray van twisted and turned through Manhattan, clearly trying to lose any tails that the girls might’ve had. If he’d been in his Crown Vic, Drake was certain he would have lost them. But his Crown Vic was long gone and Veronica’s Tesla was an engineering marvel.

  Drake eventually caught up to them in Hell’s Kitchen when they backed down an alley between a Chinese restaurant and a massage parlor. This proved problematic; the alley was only slightly wider than the van itself, making it next to impossible to see down the side, let alone squeeze down.

  He parked across the street and hurried into the Chinese restaurant. He took a seat at a table near the windows, which were conveniently aimed toward the alley. From this vantage point, he could make out half of the van and the back of it.

  His perspective was distorted by the thin glass, but he could still make out Veronica and Mandy’s silhouettes, both hooded now, as they were led from the vehicle and down the alley. From his vantage point, Drake could see the driver of the van, the two men in the back, and two others standing on either side of a red door at the end of the alley. They were wearing heavy overcoats, which, given the weather, someone only wore if they were hiding something beneath.

  The men from the van handed the girls off and after a series of exchanges, they were ushered inside the building. A moment later, the two men reappeared at their posts outside the door. They looked like Eastern Block fuckers, with huge shoulders and square heads, and Drake was having a hard time figuring out a way by them without getting his ass shot.

  The waiter, a bald Chinese man came over to take his order. Drake initially only asked for a beer, but then an idea occurred to him.

  “Soup,” he said quickly.

  “What kind of soup, Sir? We have over fourteen—”

  Drake didn’t take his eyes off the van.

  “Any kind; spicy, real spicy. And I need it quick.”

  In his periphery, he saw the waiter frown and walk away.

  In the alley, the driver with the gold incisor went back to the front seat of the van, while the other two climbed in the back. Drake was hoping that they would drive off, maybe go collect some other girls, but they seemed quite content in just sitting there.

  “Please, just leave,” he whispered.

  “But I bring your beer,” the waiter said, plunking a beer down on the table.

  Drake shook his head.

  “No, not you. Bring the soup is good as quick as you can.”

  Another frown, but the man left him alone.

  Drake chugged half the beer, tilted it to one side, and then retained the rest for later.

  As he waited for his soup, Drake debated his options. They were limited, to say the least. He could go around the other side of the building or maybe go through the Chinese restaurant to see if there was a passageway from this building to the next.

  But something told him that Ken Smith and his comrades wouldn’t be so stupid as to overlook something like that.

  The other option was to try to get on the roof, but this seemed equally as implausible and would take too long. Veronica and Mandy had already been inside for five minutes.

  God only knew what could happen to them in that time.

  Drake’s eyes drifted down to his beer. There was only one option left.

  He sighed and reached into the inside pocket of his worn tartan sports coat and pulled out his mickey of Scotch.

  He waited for the waiter to return with his soup, a giant steaming bowl that made Drake’s eyes water even from three feet away, before he sipped his Scotch.

  “No, no, no,” the man said, shaking his head back and forth. “No alcohol — you must buy from me!”

  Sorry about this, buddy.

  “Fuck you,” Drake slurred.

  Then he took another swig.

  The waiter placed the bowl down on the table and reached for the bottle of Scotch. Drake pulled away and drank some more. As he did, he swept his elbow across the table, knocking the beer bottle onto his lap.

  Drake leaped to his feet.

  “You spilled beer all over me!” He yelled. “What the fuck?”

  He had to give the Chinese waiter credit. Even though the guy was about a buck ten soaking wet, he didn’t back down from an apparent drunk was at least twice his size.

  “Get out” the man screamed.

  “You get out!” Drake shot back, sipping his mickey again.

  “No, you get out! Get out or I call the police on you!”

  Yeah, and I bet they’d take their sweet ass time coming down here. If they ever showed up, that is.

  Drake took a deep breath and then took an aggressive step toward the waiter. As he did, he deliberately brought his knee up and banged the underside of the table.

  Whereas the beer had been cold on his crotch, the soup was scalding.

  The waiter’s eyes went wide.

  “Now you spilled the soup on me!” Drake shouted.

  The waiter shook his head again and followed Drake as he staggered
toward the door.

  “You did! You spill everything!”

  Drake, aware that his stomach was probably scalded from the soup and that he reeked like a Taiwanese fishing barge, took another swig of Scotch.

  Then he opened the door and stepped into the night, shouting loud enough for everybody in the vicinity to overhear.

  “Fuck you! You spilled shit all over me!”

  The waiter followed him halfway out the door.

  “Get out of here you fucking drunk!” he screamed, and Drake couldn’t help but smile.

  Chapter 48

  “Let me out of here!” Veronica screamed. She hammered on the glass and this time it seemed to flex a little. Or maybe it didn’t; she couldn’t be sure. “Let me the fuck out of here!”

  The charade was over; she was veritably terrified now. For her, and for Mandy, wherever she was.

  A booming voice suddenly filled the room.

  “Step away from the glass,” it instructed. Veronica turned her gaze upward and caught sight of a small intercom beside the red bulb.

  “Fuck you!” she shouted back.

  When there was no response, she went back to smacking the glass with open palms.

  “Step away from the glass,” the voice repeated.

  This only encouraged her to bang harder.

  “Step away from the glass,” the voice ordered a third time. Only this time, it was accompanied by the sound of a small motor turning on.

  Unlike the intercom, this time she couldn’t find the source. That is until she heard a familiar crackle.

  Pain shot up her left calf and caused her entire body to vibrate, from her toes to her molars. She yelped and jumped away from the wall, just in time to see what looked at her like a cattle prod retreating into the small hole in the Plexiglas.

  Instead of moving away again, Veronica lunged for the hole, trying to grab either the opening or the cattle prod and yank it free.

  But she was too slow, and the opening closed before she could grab anything.

  She swore loudly and then stood in the middle the room, her hands up.

  “I’m away from the fucking glass,” she shouted. “You happy now?”

  The light above her blinked once.

  “Oh, so we don’t speak anymore? Now we’re doing some sort of Morse code? One blink for yes, two for no? Is that it?”

  Silence fell over the room, one so deep that she could hear own heart beating in her ears.

  She stood completely still, unsure of what to do next.

  “Now what?” she said at last.

  The voice that replied surprised her. It was loud like the previous one, but this time it had an accent that she couldn’t quite place. It was a different person.

  “Turn around and bend over.”

  Veronica almost laughed.

  “Why don’t you come in here and bend over,” she yelled back. “Then I’ll show you where to stick that cattle prod.”

  Even before Veronica finished the sentence, however, she heard the whirring sound again. Only, instead of coming from in front of her this time, it came from behind. Veronica smirked and moved away from the hole as another cattle prod extended toward her. The room was small, but it was large enough that whoever it was holding the prod have to stick their entire arm in to zap her this time. And when it did, she was prepared to tear it from the socket.

  “Come on, come on,” she muttered. The cattle prod continued to extend, but when only six inches of it was in the room it suddenly stopped.

  Veronica didn’t even see what happened next.

  There was another blinding flash of pain, this time originating just below her right butt cheek, which sent her into convulsions.

  The first zap had been painful, but this one was sheer agony. She didn’t even see the prod, but knew that it must have come from behind her.

  She screamed and her back arched. She almost collapsed when the prod unexpectedly retracted.

  Somewhere in the back of her mind, she recognized that the red light had blinked twice during this attack.

  “Turn around and bend over,” the second voice repeated.

  Veronica clenched her jaw and reluctantly obeyed.

  “Now spread your ass cheeks,” another voice, this one with a neutral accent, demanded.

  Veronica shook her head. She wasn’t squeamish, but this exploitation was too much even for her.

  “No, I won’t, no matter how many times—”

  She heard the whir again and this time she saw four small squares in the Plexiglass open, one on each wall, all filled with the blinding light of a cattle prod. The first touched her ankle and she screamed, but still managed to stay upright. But when the second stung her left ass cheek, she collapsed to the ground in convulsions.

  Veronica’s face was suddenly wet with tears.

  Where are you, Drake?

  The red light above blinked three times, followed by a short pause and then another blink.

  Okay,” she sobbed. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

  When she finally coerced her trembling body to rise, she did as the voice demanded. Only then did she realize that the blinking light wasn’t Morse code. They were bids. And now that she’d spread her ass cheeks, the light blinked six or seven times in rapid succession.

  The auction, it appeared, had already begun.

  Chapter 49

  “Fuck you, too,” Drake said as he stumbled toward the alley. As he crossed in front of the van, he finished the mickey and then tossed it. It struck the bumper and exploded in a shower of glass.

  As expected, the driver started out the door with a sneer on his face.

  “Get the fuck out of here you bum,” the Russian said, half in and half out of the van.

  Drake gave him the finger and told the fuck off.

  “You say one more word…”

  Drake stumbled toward the half-open door, his movements so uncoordinated that they almost set him off balance for real.

  “Yeah, and what are you going to do?”

  From the back of the van, someone barked something in Russian.

  “Is just a fucking drunk. If he comes any closer, I’ll knock his teeth down his throat,” the driver hollered back.

  “Oh, yeah?” Drake said. “I bet you couldn’t even knock out your mother’s dentures.”

  The Russian, who had been smirking up to this point, suddenly went deadpan.

  “You fucking—”

  Drake charged.

  His act had been so compelling that the Russian never even saw it coming.

  Drake’s shoulder collided with the half-open door, catching the man partway out. The door crushed his midsection, knocking the wind out of him.

  Before the Russian could recover, Drake yanked the door wide and the man slipped to the ground floor with a grunt. Then he reached inside his coat pulled out his pistol. In a blink, he smashed the butt against the man’s temple. His eyes rolled back in his head and he went limp.

  Two more barks in Russian from behind him, set Drake moving again.

  He jumped into the van and smiled when he realized that it was still running. Then he jammed it into reverse and gunned it.

  Glancing in the rearview, he saw that one of the men in the back was trying to get out, but got smoked by the open van door. Drake was lifted nearly a foot off the ground as the tires ran over his body. The second man had been leaning forward when Drake started to drive and was flung between the two front seats.

  He tried to get up, but with his free hand, Drake grabbed the back of his head and forced it into the open ashtray. The man struggled to breathe, sending puffs of grey smoke and ash into the air.

  The two men who had been standing guard by the red door tried to get out of the way, but there simply wasn’t enough room. A moment before Drake felt that crunch of the van striking the brick wall, he released his grip on the back of the Russian’s head. The man almost flew out of the back of the van, but his head cracked off the sidewall and he went still.

 
Drake immediately followed him, stepping over his limp body and examining the two guards at the door.

  One was pinned between the bumper and the only part of the brick wall that had failed to blow inward, the other lay motionless on the ground, his head resting almost comfortably on the bed of the van. Drake looked at the only man who was still conscious, and then reached inside the Russian’s jacket and pulled out the gun that was tucked beneath his thick overcoat.