by Joan Mauch
“So, you took him onboard what? A cruise ship?”
“No, it was a trawler yacht. A friend of Seymour’s handles these kinda shipments from time to time.”
“Really?” Now they were getting someplace. “And where did he generally take his special cargo?”
“To Belize.”
Chapter 90
It was hot—ungodly hot, and there was a constant line at the faucet to get a drink of tepid water. Zac had gone inside to relieve himself and for the moment lost sight of Jackson and Charlie. When he came out, Charlie was in line but Jackson was nowhere to be seen.
“Charlie, where’s Jackson?” Zac tapped him on the shoulder.
“I thought he was with you.” Charlie looked startled, as if awakened from a dream.
Fearing his worst nightmare—his brother attacked by the gang of vicious thugs that populated the place—may be coming true, Zac frantically eyeballed the courtyard. Oh God, where was he?
Numerous groups of orange-clad inmates mulled about, making it nearly impossible to distinguish one from another. Charlie joined him. As they began to search, going from one group to the other, they were more often than not greeted with taunts and hostile stares.
What if Jackson had been cornered in an isolated area of the complex and was fighting for his life. It wasn’t unheard of for inmates to be murdered in this place; one had been found beaten to death in the few days they’d been there.
Zac was in full panic mode. Where the hell was he? Doubling his fists, his adrenalin pumping, he charged about the yard like a man half-crazed. If they harmed his brother they’d pay for it, that was for damned sure. He’d find out who was responsible and … and… was that Jackson? Over there, in the corner of the yard surrounded by a dozen or so men? Were they threatening him? Or about to beat him up? He’d witnessed more than one smack down of that type since they’d been here and shuddered to think of Jackson being on the receiving end.
The closer he got the more befuddled he became. The men were laughing up a storm, almost howling in merriment. What was so damned funny? Were they forcing Jackson to do something obscene? Had they taken his clothes or made him impersonate a woman?
He was close enough now to hear some of the remarks, which only confused him more.
“That’s a good one. Tell us another.” One voice said. He didn’t sound angry or threatening. What the hell was going on?
Zac elbowed his way through the tight little group and was astonished at what he saw. Standing there surrounded by some of the toughest men in the yard, Jackson not only didn’t appear frightened or under any kind of duress, he seemed to actually be enjoying himself.
“Another time I covered a story about a lady whose legs were cut off in a lawn-mower accident. That was gruesome. Blood everywhere,” he said, then noticing Zac, he paused, “This here’s my brother. He can tell you a lot of good stories, can’t you, Zac?”
Before Zac could respond, the group’s reaction left no doubt who they preferred to hear from.
“Tell us how somebody gets to be a news photographer.”
“Do you have to have your own camera?”
“Do they provide a car?”
As the questions kept flying, Zac slipped away from the throng. It was obvious Jackson didn’t need his help. He was doing just fine on his own.
Chapter 91
It was true Jackson had succeeded in gaining the admiration of the toughest inmates on the yard—unfortunately Zac had no such luck. Despite being the golden boy’s brother, for some reason the gang leader had it in for him and lost no opportunity to let him know it. So far, he’d been able to escape with only threats, insults, a few kicks and smacks to the back of the head, but that was all about to change.
The afternoon was one that made the inmates especially surly. The sun beat down unmercifully and the only shade was taken up by the yard’s toughest bullies. Zac was fed up with all the bowing and scraping he’d been doing to avoid trouble. Seemed like he’d kissed every ass in the place and was beginning to wonder if it was worth it.
In school he’d stood up to the toughs who roamed the halls intimidating weaker kids, taking their money and knocking armloads of books to the floor. Sure, he’d taken a few beatings in his quest to assert himself, resulting in more than a few suspensions, but in the end he’d earned their grudging respect and they left him—and his brother alone.
Seemed like this was a similar situation, only Jackson wasn’t part of the equation. They liked him. Apparently he’d convinced them that if they treated him well, when they got out he’d find them jobs as news cameramen. Zac laughed. Sure he would. Well, whatever works. You got to respect him for coming up with the idea. It kept him alive for the time being. Too bad he hadn’t been able to include his brother in the deal. That would have been nice. He shrugged. Apparently he’d tried but they weren’t buying it. Zac was on his own.
He was about to go outside to get a breath of air when he was hit in the middle of the back with some kind of object. It hurt like a sonofabitch. As he went down, he stole a brief glance at his attacker. It was the same guy who’d baited him from the moment they arrived. Name was Khan, least that’s what everyone called him—as in Genghis Khan, the fearsome Mongolian warrior of the 13th century. Zac didn’t have a clue what the real Khan looked like, but if this dude resembled him in any way, he was pug ugly and fearsome as hell.
He rolled across the floor escaping a second blow then sprang to his feet. Turning slightly sideways he karate-kicked the man, catching him across the jaw. Khan screamed in pain and fell down, holding his face as blood spurted from a split lip.
Thinking he was home-free, that the man got the message and would leave him alone, Zac began to feel good about himself despite the pain in his back. Then he saw them: Khan’s henchmen had been standing in the shadows, waiting their turn.
That’s when Zac realized he didn’t have a chance. There were simply too many of them. He bent over and rolled into a fetal position as blows rained down on him.
The beating seemed to go on forever. On the verge of losing consciousness, his body a mass of pain, Zac was a helpless rag of a man with not an ounce of strength to buoy him. The likelihood of his impending death not only didn’t frighten him, he looked forward to it.
Then he heard familiar voices he never thought he’d welcome: it was the prison guards. Zac viewed those guys as toads and bullies, but never saw them beat an inmate—that is, not unless said inmate asked for it. Come to think of it, that’s precisely what he had routinely done. Oh God, he just wanted to die—not prolong the agony by getting another whipping courtesy of the guards.
“Go on, get outta here,” the guard Zac had mentally named Bulldog yelled at the thugs. As he was pulled to his feet, Zac steeled himself for the next round of pain.
Chapter 92
Bulldog and another guard dragged Zac away from the inmates’ quarters to an area of the prison he’d never seen before. It was actually kind of nice, at least compared with where he, Jackson and Charlie were housed.
Having forced him into a bathroom, the guards propped him against a sink and began to clean him up. Zac’s brain went on instant alert. He couldn’t imagine what they had in mind. Maybe they were going to sell him back to Mo or some other trafficker. Considering that prospect likely, Zac preferred getting beaten to death instead.
A few minutes later, the blood wiped from his face, they gave him a clean jumpsuit and ordered him to put it on.
“What’s happening?” Zac couldn’t believe he was about to beg these guys to leave him in this hellhole.
“Shut up and do as you’re told.” The second guard said. “And be quick about it.”
“Where’s my brother? Is he going with me?”
The guard pulled out his nightstick. “Shut your mouth. I’m not saying it again.”
Zac was in so much pain he complied. He changed clothes, leaving the bloody garment on the floor.
“Throw it in the trash, fool. This ain’t no pigsty.” The gua
rd gestured to the well-kept facility. “We keep it clean in here.”
Zac bent over to pick up his old clothing, fully expecting a kick in the rear, but to his surprise that didn’t happen.
“Let’s go,” Bulldog said.
His heart sinking along with any hope for the future, Zac walked alongside his jailers to meet his slave master. They went down a well-lit corridor and stopped before a door labeled “Office of the Warden”.
So the warden’s in on this. Bet he gets a cut of the sale. It made sense when you thought about it. If Belize was a hotbed of human trafficking, what better place to buy slaves than from an overcrowded prison? Arrest people—then sell them. Who’s going to stop it, especially if officials are on the take?
As the door opened, Zac didn’t think his future prospects could possibly be worse. There was no hope for rescue, no where to turn and apparently he would be leaving his brother, Charlie and Izzie behind. They would, no doubt, assume he’d been beaten to death by the inmates.
He walked in behind the guards whose bodies effectively blocked him from seeing who occupied the room. Not that he cared. Whether it was the warden, Mo or some new slaver, it was all the same to Zac. Why bother giving whoever it was the courtesy of a glance.
“Zac Taylor.” An unfamiliar voice said. “Join us at the table.”
Zac refused to budge. He just stood there his eyes glued to the floor. They might have possession of his body, could beat him until he could no longer stand, but he’d be damned if he’d be respectful. He’d ignore them—his way of saying, “Go to hell”.
“Zac.” Who was that? It sounded like Jackson. Had they managed to co-opt him? Why? He’d made a place for himself in prison. Sure, they were starving, but he could hang on for a month until they saw the judge. There was no reason for him to go along with this shit.
“Zac,” he said again.
He heard footsteps and felt arms encircle him. He glanced up to see his brother staring at him, his eyes blinking back tears. “It’s going to be all right. We’ve been rescued.”
Thinking he’d finally lost his mind and that Jackson was a hallucination, he managed a quick look around. The room was fairly well appointed with a large desk and several guest chairs. A ceiling fan spun slowly overhead. Several potted palms squatted next to windows which overlooked the front of the building. A room-size area rug and inspirational wall posters completed the décor.
Zac’s brain was so befuddled he couldn’t put the sight before him together. There were several men he didn’t recognize along with a woman… no—that was Izzie and Charlie. What the hell was going on? Were they finally getting to see a judge? Is this how they did it in Belize? No courtroom, just an informal meeting before a judge in the warden’s office where he declared they were guilty?
“Zac, did you hear what I said?” Jackson repeated. “Detective Anders came to get us. We’re going home.”
Jackson’s words confused Zac. Could it possibly be true? Was their nightmare finally over? Detective Anders here? Pain from the beating he’d taken engulfed his body making it difficult to breathe. The room began to spin.
“Whoa, get him to a chair. He’s about to pass out.” The warden, who’d been watching the brothers from behind his desk stood as the guards complied with his order.
Zac recovered quickly but remained baffled as to what was going on. He glanced uncertainly from one person to the next.
“Now that we’re all here, let’s get started,” the warden said. “Zac, of course you know the ones you were with when the coast guard caught you stealing that boat.”
Detective Anders objected. “That was all a misunderstanding. They didn’t…”
The warden put up his hand. “We’ll get to that in a moment, Detective. Let me finish.” His stern expression told Anders it was his prison and he was in charge. “So, now, Zac, I believe you also know Captain Tom, the owner of said boat?”
Zac’s head was pounding. Let’s get this over with. The son of a bitch was simply going through the motions. He was going to throw them right back in that poor excuse of a prison where they’d either starve, die of some god-awful tropical disease or get beaten to death. The sad thing was that by the look on Jackson’s face the poor sap really believed Anders was about to spring them. Sure he is.
He tuned back in to hear the warden saying, “And this is Detective Richard Anders from the Tampa Florida Police Department. I believe you know him as well?”
Zac nodded. Why was the man going through this charade when he had no intention of letting them go?
“So, now, Detective, explain to these good folks exactly what it is you want. And,” he tapped his watch, “let’s not take all day.”
Detective Anders nodded. “Okay. Zac here has been working undercover with the Tampa PD on a human trafficking case back in the States after Jackson and Izzie discovered the operation and got themselves in too deep. The trafficker, rather than kill them, used his connection—in the person of Captain Tom and his trawler yacht—to hold them captive and ship them to Ambergris Caye where they were sold as slaves.
“Zac managed to free them, somehow or other and with the help of the captain’s first mate, Charlie, was trying to rescue them by getting them out of Belize. He was in the process of doing that when the coast guard arrested them and accused them of stealing the captain’s boat. Now the captain here says it was all a big misunderstanding.
“So, Warden, we’re asking that you drop the charges and release my friends immediately.”
Zac’s mouth was so dry he could scarcely swallow as the warden considered the detective’s request. Could it really be true? Would Captain Tom go along with the detective’s account of what happened? But why should he? Wouldn’t he be subject to prosecution once he got back to the U.S.?
Everyone waited as the warden made a phone call, his voice the only sound in the room aside from the ticking of a wall clock and an occasional outburst from the prison yard. Finally, after what seemed more like years than a few moments, the warden put the receiver back in its cradle.
“I just talked to the prosecutor and he agrees the charges should be dropped.”
At first Zac, whose heart drummed in his ears, couldn’t understand what he said. Then, seeing Jackson’s face break into a smile as he hugged Izzie, he realized what just transpired. Anders’ request had been granted. They were going home.
Chapter 93
A gentle breeze wafted over the foursome nursing their drinks on the deck of Crabby Bill's Beach Club. For a few moments they sat quietly taking in the beauty of Old Tampa Bay and watching several dolphins play. Seagulls made a racket as they landed on the railing hoping for a handout.
"Well, that was interesting," Detective Anders said, clearing his throat.
"What? The dolphins?" Izzie said
"No, silly. I'm talking about those people at the cemetery. On the one hand it was sad for them to find out their daughter was dead, but on the other hand, thanks to Zac here—and Leon—they finally have some closure. Now they won't go the rest of their lives wondering. I'm glad you guys showed up. I know they appreciated meeting you and hearing about what you went through."
When no one said anything, he added, "Zac, that number you found on the windowsill made all the difference. Turns out it was part of a phone number. We combined that with the information from Leon's notebook and put two and two together. Now thanks to your tip, Hester's parents can give her a proper burial. Good job."
Zac nodded. "Thanks."
"You're going to make a great detective one day."
"If I make it through the academy."
"Don't sweat it. If you could get away from traffickers and survive the Belize prison, police academy'll be a breeze."
"How long will it be till I get to go after traffickers? That's what I really want to do."
"You have to pay your dues first, of course, become a beat cop for awhile. I'll push for you to get transferred to the Human Trafficking Unit as soon as I think you're ready
. You just have to be sure to keep your nose clean in the meantime. No screw-ups," he looked at Izzie, "Excuse me, well, you know what I mean."
Izzie laughed. "That's all right, Detective. I’ve heard worse, especially in the past few weeks." She took a sip of her gin and tonic then glanced at the sparkling waters of the Bay. “Say, what happened to Charlie?”
Anders looked at her for a second. “Oh, that’s right, I never told you.”
“Told us what?” Jackson perked up, his old news-gathering habit still engrained inside.
“Charlie was working undercover for the FBI. Unbeknownst to the Tampa PD, they’d had Captain Tom under surveillance for some time. They planted Charlie aboard as his first mate to keep an eye on him. He managed to maintain his cover after things went sideways with you guys, but if we hadn’t caught that last shipment and arrested Leon, I hate to think how things would’ve turned out.”
"What about Captain Tom? He going to jail?" Zac said.
"No. We gave him immunity in exchange for dropping the complaint against you."
"How'd you manage that?" Jackson chimed in. "I mean he struck me as pretty hardnosed where that boat's concerned."
Detective Anders laughed. "Man, you’ve got that right. We told him we'd let him keep the boat and wouldn't file charges against him in exchange for telling us everything he knew about Donatello and Cottingham and dropping the complaint against you guys. Luckily he went for it."
"Cottingham? Who's that?" Izzie said.
"Leon's old boss?" Zac said, surreptiously tossing part of a french fry to a seagull trolling for scraps beneath the table.
"Yes, but he was also running for mayor of Chicago," Anders said.
"And the reason for the media frenzy when we got back, right?" Jackson said.
"Sure is. When his connection to organized crime and human trafficking hit the wires, they went bonkers. Add that to the publicity your old boss, Morris Stone, drummed up about your experience and, well I don't need to tell you what happened."