Bad Traffick: A Leine Basso Thriller

by D. V. Berkom

  There were other, more deadly concerns to take into consideration, as well.

  “You're pretty quiet,” Santa whispered in her ear. His warm breath skated across her skin. She settled deeper in his arms.

  “Am I? This feels so good. I don't want to leave.”

  “Yeah. We fit, don't we?”

  Leine turned to face him. “We need to talk.”

  “Uh-oh. Is this where you tell me it's been fun, but you need to move on?” The smile on his face faltered.

  Leine ran her finger over his lips and along his jawline, trying to memorize his face. “You know this isn't going to work, right? That it's too dangerous?”

  Santa closed his eyes and rolled onto his back; the absence of his warmth sent a shiver up her spine.

  “No. I don't know that, Leine. What I know is I've never been in love, not before I met you.” He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. “What I also know is you feel the same way about me, but for some reason you think it can't be. Is it so alien to you to be in love with a cop? Believe me, I've gone back and forth about your old job, and you know what my conclusion was? It's in the past and it doesn't matter.”

  “But your job—”

  “I'm not gonna get canned for falling in love. Not unless you did those three cold cases and get popped, and I'm not willing to believe you're guilty. Now, maybe that's foolish and I'm looking at you through rose-colored glasses, but I think I'm more cool-headed than all that and can make a decision with my big head.”

  “Sounds like a speech you've had to deliver before. What does Putnam think?”

  Santa shook his head. “It doesn't matter what he thinks. But for the record—” he sat up and slid against the headboard. “Putz has my back, no matter what. Always.”

  Leine moved over beside him. “They're making their play, darling. Let's say if, in a perfect world, Eric's boss gets the folder I'm going to give you. Let's also say that he crosschecks the information and believes it, then brings Eric up on charges. I might as well have a target tattooed onto my chest, because that's what I'll be, even if he doesn't go to ground and they wind up putting him in prison. And if I know Eric, and I do, you'll be in danger too, as well as my daughter. I can't let that happen. You both mean too much to me.” She watched him, hoping he'd see the logic, but also hoping that he'd realize how much leaving him was going to cost her.

  “I can take care of myself, Leine. And I can take care of you and April. Trust me.”

  “Let's not talk about this now.” Leine ran her hand down his chest and along his stomach, then under the sheet bunched at his hips. He grabbed her arm, his gaze holding hers. A subtle shift occurred in the depths of his eyes before he pushed her back onto the mattress with her wrists above her head and covered her mouth with his.

  ***

  Jensen woke to the morning traffic report blaring from his clock radio. Disoriented, he reached for Leine but found only sheets and a blanket. He looked over at the chair where she'd tossed her clothing and purse the night before. They were gone.

  He pushed the sheet away and rose to get dressed as the reality of what happened the night before hit him. According to Leine, there could be no other choice. She'd send a courier to his house with the documents implicating Eric, but they wouldn't meet again. It was too dangerous.

  Jensen dropped his jeans to the floor and sank onto the bed. He couldn't breathe. It felt like a battering ram had lodged itself in his solar plexus.

  Leine was gone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  LEINE LOGGED INTO EMAIL ON her tablet, clicked open the message from DNAsty Labs and scanned the test results. Jean wasn't a match. She hit print and pulled the hard copy off the printer on the desk. Then she logged out and powered off the computer.

  She stood and walked over to her bed. A spacious leather bag lay on the floor. She bent over and tapped the wall near the headboard with the side of her fist. A spring-loaded door opened to reveal a mini Uzi—an Israeli-made submachine gun—and several other weapons secreted inside the wall. Once she had everything in the bag, she closed the door and returned to the living room.

  She'd paid cash up front for several months' rent, and the manager of the apartment complex hadn't asked for personal details like her name or occupation. The little bungalow she'd originally rented when she first came to L.A. had been a good size and location, but the memories were too fresh, so she'd found the apartment.

  The place was average sized and unremarkable, with two bedrooms in case April wanted to spend the night. No art hung on the walls, no mail littered the countertops. There was nothing unusual in the apartment that might be traced back to Leine save for the tablet, and she kept that with her. Not even the dishes in the cupboard; all nondescript, white dinnerware from Ikea.

  Old habits died hard.

  Once she made sure the windows and slider were secure, she turned off the lights and walked out the door, locking it behind her. Then she took the stairs to the sublevel garage and got in her non-descript tan, four-door sedan. She wouldn't be coming back. If the files made it to Eric's boss, it wouldn't be long before Eric came after her. She wouldn't be safe.

  As she drove to the Krav Maga studio in west Los Angeles, she ran through possible scenarios involving the DNA test results in her mind. The first, best possibility involved Miles reading the email and realizing if Jean had lied about her being his sister, then she might also be lying about everything else. Miles would then banish her from his life and take out a restraining order against her.

  The next best possibility involved him confronting Jean and her coming up with a good explanation. The report from DNAsty Labs left no doubt in Leine's mind she was conning him. Why, or for what, Leine wasn't sure, but she sure as hell wasn't going to let her take advantage of Miles’ trusting nature. Let her come up with a solid reason, Leine mused. She'd be interested to hear it.

  That left the question of Mara. Was she really her mother? Leine had become even more vested in finding her, knowing Jean lied. Now that she was between jobs, she had more free time to devote to locating her. Jensen had assured her he'd make sure they flagged the report from Bauer.

  Leine inhaled sharply. The thought of never seeing him again tore at her with such force it stole her breath. She shoved the feelings deep and tried to focus on Mara. The more people they had out looking for her, the better. Jean's subterfuge voided any consideration Leine may have had regarding her decision to keep things quiet. Besides, she was no longer on Miles’ payroll and felt no loyalty toward the woman.

  She pulled to the curb in front of the studio and parked. Tucking the email into her purse, she walked through the large glass doors and down the hall to where Miles and Rico were practicing. April had wanted to join, but Leine told her she'd teach her more in-depth techniques herself and she'd agreed. She still wasn't excited about the burgeoning romance between Miles and her daughter and didn't want her anywhere near Rico Pallini.

  Leine stood in the doorway and watched Miles and Rico spar as the instructor coached them. What Miles possessed in athleticism and agility, Rico more than made up for in determination and strength. Leine's initial decision to refer them to another venue had been astute, especially in light of her being canned. A blond man with a crew-cut dressed in black with a well-defined physique leaned against a nearby wall with his arms crossed. He straightened when he saw Leine. Must be the new bodyguard.

  Rico caught sight of her first.

  “What're you stopping for?” Miles asked. Rico cocked his head at Leine. Miles turned and lifted his chin in acknowledgement. “Leine.”

  “Did Mara show up last night?” Leine asked.

  “No. But we're going again tonight.” His eyebrows came together in a frown. “What do you want? We're busy.”

  “I'm only here to deliver the DNA results.” Leine unfolded the paper with the email and held it out to him. “Jean's not your sister.”

  Miles shook his head. “Don't care.” He turned back to his instructor
and nodded for him to continue.

  “What do you mean, you don't care? Jean's been lying to you all along. Miles. She's using you. I'm not sure why, but whatever the reason, this changes things.”

  Miles stopped sparring with the instructor and walked over to where Leine stood. He grabbed a bottle of water off the table next to her and took a drink, then wiped the sweat off his forehead with a towel that was sitting next to the water.

  “It doesn't matter. Don't you get it? I don't care that she's not my sister. I've gotten to know her and I care about her. She lied. So what? She's got her reasons. Haven't you ever lied?” He dropped the towel on the table. “She's lost her little girl and she's desperate. If I thought lying about whether I was related to someone would help me find my daughter, I'd damn well do it, too.”

  “What if she's not Mara's mother?”

  Miles shook his head. “I don't buy it. She's too concerned. She's never not been concerned the entire time she's lived in my house. If she was helping the men who were trying to kidnap me, like you initially thought, they'd have already done it—there were plenty of times someone could have grabbed me. She knew my schedule, had the floor plan of my house. That's because the only thing she's interested in is getting her daughter back. It's been her overriding concern from day one.”

  “Leave him alone, Leine,” Rico added, coming to stand next to Miles. “He's right. No matter how you play it, she's scared for her daughter and wants to get her back. If Miles can help her do that, he will.” He looked at her with what appeared to be disdain. “You don't work for him anymore. Let it go. This won't get your job back.” Rico's tone dripped with scorn, as though having a job working for Miles was something Leine cared about. She almost laughed.

  “I don't want my job back, Rico. I only care what's best for Mara.” She turned to Miles. “It's your call. I'm just the messenger.” She leaned forward and slid the folded email into the chest pocket of his t-shirt. “You need to think long and hard about this, Miles.” Then she turned and walked out the door.

  ***

  Santiago Jensen entered the dimly lit bar and took a seat facing the door. He laid the manila envelope on the table and ordered a club soda with lime from the bartender. It was early in the day and there were few customers and no other wait staff.

  The envelope contained a copy of the damning information Leine had attempted to send to Eric's boss. Jensen had read the documents and been floored by the implications. There were transcripts of calls to illegal arms dealers, extreme Islamic regimes, a notorious African warlord, and the leader of a ruthless Mexican drug cartel with whom Eric had non-Agency sanctioned dealings. In addition, the information included detailed reports of contract hits he ordered using Agency personnel and resources that were purportedly kept off the books. Whoever possessed the information would be in grave danger.

  Jensen sipped his club soda and stared at the envelope. If everything in it could be verified, then not only was Leine telling the truth about her old boss, but she was in deeper than he had realized.

  Sunlight streamed into the bar as the front door opened, illuminating the stained carpeting and well-worn tables and chairs. His FBI contact, Daniel Babcock, spotted him and walked over to the table.

  “Danny. Good to see you.” Jensen extended his hand.

  “Always a pleasure to meet with L.A.'s finest. How you been, Santa?” Daniel shook his hand, a smile on his face. The chair scraped across the floor as he pulled it out and sat down on the other side of the table. “To what do I owe this occasion? You were pretty vague in your message.”

  Jensen slid the envelope toward him. “It's all inside. There's information regarding a high-ranking official in a shadow organization used by the United States referred to simply as the Agency.” Daniel's expression remained neutral but Jensen sensed him stiffen. He continued. “There's currently an investigation underway in my department of three unsolved murders. I believe if this information is given to the appropriate party, the suspect they're investigating will be exonerated and the real shooter be brought to justice.”

  “Why come to me? Why not go to your CO?”

  The bartender appeared and asked Daniel if he'd like anything. He shook his head no and the bartender went back to polishing glasses. Jensen waited until he was out of earshot before continuing.

  “Because the same information was sent once before and the individual identified in the documents allegedly intercepted the copies. We believe he's manipulating evidence to pin the murders on an innocent fall-guy.” Calling Leine innocent may have ordinarily been a stretch, but in Jensen's line of work, as well as the FBI's, lines drawn between the innocent and the guilty were frequently faint.

  “That's a pretty serious charge. Are you absolutely sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Daniel pulled the contents out of the envelope and scanned them. After a few moments, he returned the papers and leaned back in his chair, a wary expression on his face. “Santa, if I'm going to do what I think you're asking me to do, then I'll need more than your assurance this information is accurate.”

  “Tell me what you want and I'll get it.”

  ***

  Leine pressed the end button on her phone as she sat in the coffee shop, a double espresso and an untouched Rice Krispy bar on the table in front of her.

  The person she'd just spoken to was a last resort contact from her old life, and it turned out to be a dead end. No one had useful information for finding Mara. They assured her they would keep her in their databases and contact Leine if something came up. Trafficking organizations were a dime a dozen, she was told, and it was next to impossible to track them. Leine had one of her friends run the black BMW's license plate, but it was registered to a shell corporation and the security surrounding it was labyrinthine. It would take too long to unravel the convoluted paper trail to find the original owner. Mara would be long gone, or dead.

  Leine took a drink of her coffee, considering her next move. There was one last option, but she wanted to exhaust all resources before she pursued that avenue. The theme from the Godfather broke through her thoughts and she answered her phone on the second ring.

  “Leine? Lou Stokes here.”

  Leine's heart rate picked up. “Hi Lou. What's going on?”

  “I found out some more information on that twelve-year-old runaway.”

  “Great. What have you got?”

  “Not so great. Word on the street is she was bought by some rich dirt bag here in town who likes fresh talent for his own private cinematic experience. He's putting massive pressure on whoever sold her to him to find her.”

  “Any names?”

  Lou sighed. “None. The guy's identity is well protected. The only reason I received this much info is because some thug, probably one of the trafficker's minions, let it slip to a source after a night of carousing.”

  “That's more than we had before. Do you by any chance have the thug's name?”

  “Yuri something. Sorry I can't be of more help.”

  “That's more help than you know, Lou.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  NADJA IMPORTS LOOKED LESS SINISTER in daylight. The West Hollywood import store was buzzing with customers and deliveries as Leine pulled into the parking lot across the street. The last time she visited had been late at night and she'd barely escaped with her life. The weight of the nine millimeter under her shirt reassured her. The Russians would be more circumspect in daylight.

  Too many witnesses.

  Leine crossed the busy street and entered through the glass double doors. Inside, the front section was stuffed floor-to-ceiling with Russian icons, gold-leafed crèches, hand-carved furniture, nesting dolls, and lacquer boxes, as well as other merchandise from the Eastern Bloc. A fine layer of dust had settled on most of the items, suggesting walk-in buyers weren't the owner's main consideration. Leine assumed the illegal arms and drugs they distributed were hidden in the back warehouse.

  A compact, dark-haired man mate
rialized from the back, wiping his hands on a towel. The smile on his ruddy face disappeared and his step faltered when he caught sight of his visitor. After a beat, another smile spread across his face. She had to hand it to him, he recovered quickly.

  “What have we here? An honored guest has come to visit.” He stretched his arms wide, palms open. “To what do I owe this immense pleasure?” The coldness in his brown eyes belied the friendly tone. Leine remembered he had the same look when he pointed a gun at her on her last visit.

  She raised her hands, careful to keep them within range of her gun. “I come in peace, Vladimir. I need information, that's all.”

  Vladimir chuckled and shook his head. “And why do you think I would give to you that information, assuming I have what you want? If I remember correctly, the last time you were here, you took valuable item from me.”

  “True, but my daughter was in danger. I did what I had to.” Leine watched him closely as she lowered her arms. She wasn't here to fight. She had no advantage other than the gun in her shoulder holster, and that would vaporize as soon as the first shot was fired. Leine counted at least a half-dozen of his people near the back loading bays, and that didn't include the rest of the neighborhood.

  The bell on the door tinkled as a hipster couple entered the store. Leine turned back to Vladimir. “Is there somewhere more private?”

  Valdimir nodded and swept his hand toward the back. Leine walked past him and headed to the office. “Someone will be right with you,” he said to the couple, and followed Leine.