Titan Trilogy 3.5-Black Soul

by T. J. Brearton

  “You think that guy down there, the one you just shot and killed, you think he works for me? For Alex?”

  “They work for Sausa. Sausa tells you what to do. Why? Because otherwise your business would be in the tank?”

  Penninger said nothing. He kept the speed at thirty knots, as William ordered. There was a little chop to the water, and the boat bucked a bit as they cruised. “Slow it down,” William said.

  Penninger eased back on the throttle. “You broke my fucking nose.”

  “Good.”

  Mateo was waiting for them at Flowers Bay, standing on the end of a narrow dock. Penninger kept complaining how the coral heads could destroy the boat. William realized Penninger could sabotage things by purposefully running them aground.

  He stepped close and breathed in Penninger’s ear: “We stop, you die.” The words were just coming, things he never would’ve thought he’d say.

  Maybe things he’d always wanted to.

  Penninger navigated to the center of the bay. Beneath the dark surface were the suggestions of coral. Despite Penninger’s efforts, the Banzai bumped into some. He swore under his breath. “That was an accident. An accident.”

  The only other vessels in the small bay were fishing skiffs and row boats. They putted dead slow and came upon the dock. “I don’t know how I’m going to turn around . . .”

  William left the pilot house and climbed down the ladder as the boat drifted in. The angle wasn’t quite right, and Mateo, standing with several large five gallon cans of diesel, could only hold out his arm from a distance.

  The boat scraped against more coral, the impact jarring. William almost fell from the ladder. His muscles felt like jerky, unresponsive. He reached for Mateo who was able to grab his hand. The men pulled on one another and Mateo planted his feet wide to keep balanced. They were able to bridge the gap a bit. It was enough for Mateo to hand up the first gas can. Christ, it was heavy. There was no way William was going to be able to lob it up onto the deck.

  Another man appeared, walking down from the dark shore. William froze. Holding the ladder with one hand he scrabbled at the AK. No good. He started climbing back into the boat.

  “It’s Julio,” Mateo said.

  Julio neared, and grabbed up a can of diesel, hefted it onto his shoulder. Big as he was, he half-stepped, half-leapt to the ladder like a gymnast and hoisted up the can so William could grab it.

  Between the three of them they were able to get all six cans aboard. Then Julio made the climb himself. He stood in front of William and put a hand on William’s shoulder. “I’ll drive now.”

  * * *

  Mateo faded into the night as they drifted away. He raised a hand, this tall, skinny man at the edge of the jungle, and William waved in return. Then Julio got the boat up to speed and Mateo was gone from sight.

  William went below decks and used Penninger’s key to unlock the storage room. Relieved, exhausted, scared, the women filed out. One of them was crying, and she flung herself at William, and beat her arms against his chest. He held her as she kicked at him and hit him and sobbed, speaking in Spanish. William looked at the young woman with the short hair who’d been translating.

  “You left us in there with Angela,” she said, her expression somber. “The dead girl.”

  William held the upset girl until she relented. The others milled around, dirty and dejected, still only in their underclothes. On a hunch, he opened the duffel on the table. He dumped the contents on the floor and the women went through them.

  The clothing was mostly negligees and skimpy dresses, but it was something.

  The women then rummaged around in the suite, going through the cabinets and refrigerator in search of food. One — the translator — poured herself a drink from the small bar in the corner.

  The duffel looked just like one of the bags the Rastafarians had gotten off the ferry with. They’d thrown them into the back of a pickup truck. For all William knew, they’d driven them right around the corner for delivery to Penninger. Sexy garments for the young women. If William had stayed put that day, he might’ve discovered Penninger’s involvement sooner.

  But there was no use in second-guessing.

  In the storage room, he bent and scooped up Angela, who seemed to weigh nothing, even in death. He carried her up to the weather deck.

  Penninger sat alone near the bow, tied up. William asked him for blankets. Penninger explained where the supplies were, his punished face slack as he stared at the limp body in William’s arms.

  William set Angela down and went for the blankets. He wrapped her gently, and left her beside Penninger.

  Let the man lay there and see what he’d done.

  He took the body of the security guard and dragged him into the stern. Grunting with the effort, wrenching his back, his fatigued muscles quivering, he hefted the man over the transom and let the body fall into the frothy wake. He found a bucket in the supply closet and used it to rinse away the blood. Finally, he tossed the gun over the side where it disappeared into the churning black.

  The young women ascended to the weather deck where they spread out and found places to sit. It was a surreal sight, these girls standing beneath the starry night sky in sensual clothes.

  William returned to the pilothouse and sat down in the captain’s chair where Julio was driving.

  “Should take about an hour,” Julio said.

  William had nothing left. He lay the rifle across his legs, leaned his head back.

  The moon hung low near the horizon.

  “You know what they say about San Pedro Sula?” Julio asked.

  “What?”

  “They say Satan himself lives in San Pedro.”

  PART THREE

  San Pedro Sula, Honduras

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  The national police were waiting. Julio piloted the boat into the harbor where half a dozen police vehicles were parked, lights flashing and reflecting on the water. Officers stood on the docks, wearing the black flak jackets with “DNIC” in white letters.

  The harbor was surrounded by the industrial landscape of Empresa Nacional Portuaria. Metal shipping containers were stacked like bricks, watchtowers and smokestacks towered amid the prehistoric silhouettes of gantry cranes. Up on the access road near the shipping containers, a dark car pulled to a stop.

  As soon as Julio steered close enough, he and William threw off the lines. Harbor workers tethered the boat while the DNIC watched.

  A man stepped out of the dark car, a woman on the other side.

  Hanna.

  Once the Banzai was secure, an officer blasted up at them with a megaphone.

  “Permanecer en el barco. Estamos llegando el bordo.” They wanted everyone to remain where they were because the boat was a crime scene.

  William stood against the gunwale as the police climb the ladder, followed by emergency medical responders.

  The DNIC swarmed aboard, ordering William, Julio, and Penninger to put their hands on their heads, to get down on their knees.

  Penninger started babbling. “They stole my boat. I don’t know anything about these girls . . .”

  An officer told him to shut up.

  The emergency medical team diverged, some assessing the young women on the weather deck, others venturing below.

  A cop in black military fatigues patted Julio down, then moved on to William.

  William gazed across the distance at Hanna. She looked back, and he thought he saw her smile.

  * * *

  They took a route over a bridge and past a Honduran Naval Base. The DNIC had conceded that William and Julio travel with Hanna and the older man. The older man was Detective Catarino.

  Through Barrio Pueblo Nuevo was a freeway — CA13 — and they got moving fast. Hanna faced William and Julio. “It’s twenty miles to San Pedro Sula. You guys alright until then?”

  They agreed they could make the trip. The women were not far behind, escorted by DNIC motorcade and three ambulances, sirens
silent, lights spinning and flashing. “We’re going to take them to Hospital Nacional Nor-occidental. Detective Catarino’s office is nearby in Potosi.”

  The detective’s eyes found William in the rear view mirror. “DNIC is going to take a hard look at you.” He spoke with a thick accent, a matter-of-fact tone.

  “I’m a missionary,” William said.

  Catarino glanced at Hanna and William looked out the window. The national port behind, they careened passed dark jungle, broken by slums. Campana was just a few shacks alongside the road, Baracoa the same. The DNIC convoy continued to trail them, the sets of headlamps like glowing eyes.

  A fog of light began to grow on the horizon as they closed in on the city.

  “I think you may need to modify your story, my friend,” Catarino said. “Samaritan’s Purse will deny any affiliation with you. You and your actions are not part of its charter.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you?” He met William’s gaze again in the mirror. “Because, you are, at this point, persona non grata. Your passport says you are Canadian. And you have traveled all over the world. You arrive in Honduras, to the Bay Islands, you and Ms. Becket. They are going to question you, Mr. Chase. You have killed people in this country, yes?”

  “Is there any evidence of that?”

  “Mister . . . Penninger? Yes? Penninger? Mr. Penninger claims you shot and killed a man on his boat.”

  “It’s my word against his. Penninger should be more concerned with the dead girl in his storage container.”

  “And on the island? Four dead men. One an American. Three Hondurans. One was found floating in the water by the dock at Royal Playa.”

  “How was he killed?”

  Catarino alternately watched the road and William. “By an AK-47, most likely.”

  “I’m not worried about the DNIC.” It was partly true.

  He’d tampered with evidence at Sterling’s bungalow and taken a weapon. The DNIC might find his prints in there, if they had the forensics to accomplish it. His prints would also be on the assassin’s gun stashed near Penninger’s diving school, but he wouldn’t be in their system and the prints would remain latents.

  On the other hand, witnesses could be rounded up. He doubted the barflies from La Cueva would say much, but besides Penninger, Marcotti could speak out against William and Hanna. Cohen, too, could be pressured to disclose how he and Sterling had hired them to look for Rene. It could all come back around to William, certainly — he ran that risk and he knew it.

  But he just didn’t care anymore.

  “No,” said Catarino. “Mostly you are worried about your own State Department. You’re worried because you are a fugitive, yes? With a false identity.”

  William sensed Julio giving him a long look.

  “You’d go back to the United States and could spend the rest of your life in prison,” Catarino said.

  They rode in silence. The haze of lights spread as the city enveloped them. A cluster of buildings, the tallest with a blinking red light on top formed Altia Business Park. The jungle gave way to parking lots, shopping malls, until finally they pulled into the hospital, the convoy on their heels.

  Catarino left the vehicle, meeting with the DNIC as they brought the women into the emergency room. Catarino was a thin, balding man, pointing and gesturing with his hands as he spoke. He hurried back to the vehicle and jumped in. “I’ll leave you at my office while I oversee the care of the women and initial gathering of the evidence.”

  He stared at William and at last offered some words of encouragement.

  “You’re going to be safe with me, Mr. Chase.”

  William doubted it.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  The detective’s office was a bit of a mess, the chairs at his desk old and battered. Everywhere was paperwork, piled high on tables, filing cabinets, even the chairs.

  Julio had offered to go out and get food for everyone and Catarino had suggested a few places still open at the late hour — baleada with refried beans, roasted meat and avocado was the specialty at a nearby restaurant.

  Hanna and William sat on the floor against opposite walls while they waited. They kept the lights off, preferring the gloom.

  “Where’s Nicole, Funi, Emma?” William asked.

  “At a shelter. There’s a few PJP shelters in the city. We’re going stay at Isabella’s home in the barrio tonight. Rene is going to meet us there in the morning and Nicole and Funi will be along shortly after.”

  “And Penninger?”

  “DNIC took him to their headquarters.”

  He lowered his head, wishing he had a cigarette. Julio had promised some of those, too.

  “You must be exhausted,” Hanna said.

  He lifted his head and looked across the room at her. “Any ideas on Sausa?”

  Her face betrayed the answer. “It doesn’t look good. We’re pretty sure he took a flight out of Coxen Hole today at five in the afternoon. Right about when I boarded the ferry.”

  The words hung there in the darkness. Sausa had gotten away, Hanna had left William. Two facts that felt like weights on him.

  “So what do we do? What’s the plan?”

  “Catarino has placed the women you rescued in the best hands he’s got. They’re giving their statements, they’re cooperating with forensics, if they want. They’re going to need a lot of care.”

  He nodded. “I think most of them — maybe all of them — have been drugged. It makes sense, you know? You get the girls fucked up, make them pliable. If they get hooked, so what? After a few years they lose their shelf-life anyway.”

  He stood up, agitated, and walked to the window. He stood looking out at a fresh rain, droplets bejeweled in the lights of the complex.

  “Not these women,” Hanna said. “These women have a second chance.”

  “Not Angela. Not the girl I found dead on that boat.”

  Hanna was quiet for a moment. “We’ll see what an autopsy shows.”

  “How long will that take? Last I heard the medical examiners were utterly backlogged.”

  “Catarino will make sure it happens.”

  “Can we get Laron Booth on the guns?”

  “That’s tough. Only thirty percent of the eight hundred and fifty thousand-plus guns in Honduras are registered. The black market is huge.”

  And I threw the AK-47 in the Caribbean, he thought. Still, “DNIC found the weapons at Royal Playa?”

  “Yes. Serial numbers ground away. Untraceable, generic guns. They said they’ll try acid tests to raise the numbers, but I doubt they’ll really commit to it. They have warehouses of seized, unidentifiable weapons.”

  “Any luck with Sterling’s phone yet? I’m assuming Isabella brought it to Catarino.”

  “She did. They’re working on pulling the data, but it was definitely damaged.”

  “And what about Alexandra? I left her phone at La Cueva. I know I should have taken it . . .”

  “I was in the car with Catarino, waiting for you and the boat, and he talked to Officer Conchella. They found Alexandra half a mile from La Cueva, dragging the chair. They found drugs in the bar, hidden in the walls. Heroin, ecstasy, fentanyl, OxyContin, and some oddballs like xylocaine and septocaine.”

  He remembered the black bag of drugs from the hideout on Camp Beach. “Xylocaine is lidocaine. It’s a topical anesthetic. Blocks the nerves.”

  A silence developed as they considered the implications of Alex or Sausa administering the different pain-numbing drugs to the girls. Rendering them virtually lifeless, like dolls.

  “What about Korey?”

  She shook her head. “No sign of him at La Cueva. But, DNIC is still on the Island. They had three officers there when—”

  “Three?” He left the window and started pacing the room. This was exactly what he had feared would happen: Nothing. A man with a private police force who abused women for pleasure. A couple who helped traffic drugs and women to the island — a diving instructor using his o
wn boat. Booth helping to supply the weapons, using kids like Deon. It was its own functioning economy. And no one could touch it. Just like Alkaev’s school in Russia, an operation right under everyone’s nose.

  He felt Hanna watching him as he roamed the tight space.

  “Honduras is a cowboy culture of self-justice,” he muttered. “With such a low conviction rate, who can blame anyone? If you shoot someone in the U.S. you’ll probably at least go to trial.”

  “Well that’s working in your favor right now, isn’t it?”

  The remark stopped him in his tracks. He stared at her as she rose to her feet.

  “Will, Honduras is right in the path of the flow of drugs shipped by sea and air from Columbia. This country has been ravaged. The massive criminal organizations, violence, trafficking, and government instability — they’re all part of the drug war.”

  “What happened to the woman who jumped at the opportunity to take on the biggest case of corruption in U.S. history?”

  “She’s still here. But it’s different.”

  He had no response. He turned away. He wanted out of the room. He wanted out of Honduras. He wanted to find Sausa and end him.

  “Let’s not do this again,” she said softly. “Okay? We’re going to work this the best we can. Catarino is in charge. We can focus on the sex crimes, but the best way to nail Penninger will be through the drugs. If the autopsy on the girl shows drugs, and we can connect him to Alexandra and the drugs at La Cueva, then we have something. Maybe a murder charge. And that’s something.”

  “We can’t get Sausa, is what you’re saying. Fuck, this is just what I told Isabella. That he would run.”

  “Well, when Isabella asked you to help her, you insisted on going after Sausa yourself . . .”

  He squared his shoulders with her. “You’re saying this is my fault. I can’t believe you are actually saying this is my fault.”

  “Of course I’m not saying that, Will. None of this is your fault. What I’m saying is . . .”

  But, she didn’t have to. And she stopped because she knew no matter what she said, it would insult him. Because of his brash actions at the planned wreck, Sausa had flown the coop. It only made sense. William had stirred everything up, rather than let things settle. Sausa fled, and Hanna left for the mainland. He was lucky to have caught the connection between Penninger and Alexandra. Damn lucky to find the women on that boat. He needed to count it as a victory. He needed to let Sausa go.