The Traffickers

by Griffin, W. E. B.

  The distance had been easier to track only because it had not taken long at all to reach the house. It had been maybe eight, ten minutes at most before the driver had stood heavily on the brakes, then bumped up over a curb.

  Someone—it must have been the skinny dark-skinned one in the T-shirt—had gotten out the front passenger door, and there had been the sound of a chain being pulled from around a metal pole, then of a metal gate dragging across what sounded like rock. The van had eased forward, its tires crunching on the gravel. And the gate was closed and locked.

  One of the men had then picked her out of the back of the van, thrown her over his right shoulder, and carried her into the house. There, in what smelled like the kitchen, she had been put into what felt like an old wooden armchair. There came a tugging at her duct-taped wrists, and she realized after a moment, when the pressure of the wrap began easing, that her hands were being released.

  But only for a moment. As she flexed her fingers and wrists to get the feeling back in them, someone grabbed her left wrist, and there came the sound of more duct tape being torn from a roll. Her left wrist was then taped to the left armrest of the wooden chair, and it was repeated on the right. Then her ankles were taped to the bottom of the chair’s front legs.

  She could hear the sound of someone walking across the room, the door of a refrigerator opening, the clanking of what sounded like beer bottles being removed. Then the door closed and bottles were opened with a pffft sound.

  And then the clanking of glass bottles again.

  They just toasted the success of my kidnapping! Amanda Law thought.

  What the hell is going on?

  What do they want with me?

  Is this . . . is this it?

  “So, Dr. Amanda Law,” a male Hispanic voice said.

  He knows me?

  How the hell does he know who I am?

  That’s the same voice as the driver, who shouted about getting the phone. . . .

  There was the sound of a newspaper being opened.

  The voice then said, “ ‘ The cowards who carried out these killings are despicable’—”

  Despite the tape covering her mouth, she suddenly gasped.

  He’s reading that from the front page of the paper!

  The voice went on: “ ‘ Shooting a helpless patient as he lay unconscious in his hospital bed is a vile act . . . I would personally like to stare these evil people in the eye and see that they suffer real justice.’ ”

  There was a long silence. It ended with the sound of a glass bottle being put heavily on a table.

  “That bastard Skipper wasn’t helpless, Dr. Law. Same with that Jamaican bastard in the market. No, no. And I would think someone as smart as you would know things are never as simple as they appear.” He took a sip of his beer. “So maybe now you do. Too bad it’s too late.”

  These are the killers . . . ?

  Dear God . . .

  Then she heard another male Hispanic voice: “It’s busted a little, but still works.”

  “Give it to me,” the first male said.

  Amanda could hear the click-click-click sounds the computer-phone made when the touch-screen buttons were tapped.

  “Well, look what we have here. Dr. Amanda Law has a new boyfriend sending her texts. Looks like his name is Matt.”

  Oh, no! What happens now?

  Especially if they find out Matt’s a cop . . .

  “Wonder if the boyfriend will pay to get Dr. Amanda Law back. And how much more to get her back safely?”

  The other man grunted.

  “Well, only one way to find out,” the first said.

  Amanda heard a different clicking sound, like the pushing of a button.

  That’s not my phone.

  Then she heard the terrifying sound of the screams of a young girl and the shouts of a young boy.

  That’s a recording!

  Of somebody being—what?—tortured!

  Then there was another click. The recording stopped.

  “Here we go,” the first man’s voice said.

  She heard the familiar clicking sound of her phone.

  Then quiet.

  Then one more click.

  “I’ll be damned! It went into voice mail,” He added bitterly, “What’s the matter, Dr. Law? Doesn’t your boyfriend take your calls? Maybe this bastard Matt won’t pay to get you back! How is that for your justice?”

  Amanda felt a sob welling up. She fought it back.

  “Well, what the hell. We’ll just leave the boyfriend a message.”

  There came the clicks, then she could hear the male breathing heavily.

  He’s getting some sick satisfaction out of this!

  It sounds almost sexual!

  Oh, God help me!

  Then she heard, after enough time had passed for Matt’s phone to answer and roll the call into voice mail, the man shout: “We have your girlfriend, Matt!”

  Then came the audio recording of the teenage boy’s terrified shouts of “Stop! No!” and the girl begging, “No! Don’t!”

  That went on for maybe five seconds.

  Then the man shouted: “Do as I say, and you get your Dr. Law back alive! No cops!”

  Then there was the sound of more clicks.

  And then the kitchen was terribly quiet.

  Except for the soft sobbing of Amanda Law.

  [FOUR]

  York and Hancock Streets, Philadelphia Thursday, September 10, 11:01 P.M.

  Matt Payne, Tony Harris, and Jim Byrth were seated in the passenger seats of Paco Esteban’s white Plymouth Voyager minivan. It was parked on the corner, a block shy of the dilapidated row house at 2505 Hancock Street.

  Esteban was in the driver’s seat. And that almost had not happened.

  At Esteban’s house, a fairly charged discussion ensued as to what to do with the information—not to mention the head—that Esteban had provided.

  Chad Nesbitt, seeing where the debate may have been leading, excused himself. He’d said he’d done more than enough putting Paco Esteban together with Matt Payne. And he left, presumably to go home for a bath, clean clothes, and a good mouthwash.

  In the basement, Harris had automatically said that he’d call in the information to the Roundhouse. That would get the official wheels turning. And someone farther up the food chain, certainly one in a white shirt, if not a white shirt with one or more stars pinned to its collar points, would decide how many assets to throw at 2505 Hancock Avenue.

  “Slow down, Tony,” Payne had said. “Until ten minutes ago, we pretty much did not have a damned thing on where this guy was.”

  “Yeah. And?”

  “And I think it could blow up on us if suddenly there were a dozen Aviation Unit helos buzzing the rooftop of the place just so they can send video back to the Executive Command Center.”

  “You don’t know they’ll do that, Matt.”

  Payne nodded.

  “True, Tony. But I also don’t know that they won’t do it. Which is what I’d prefer—that they don’t fucking do it.” He paused for a moment. “This guy is bad, and it’s an important bust. I don’t want someone doing it for the glory. I just want the sonofabitch off the streets. Period.” He gestured at the Deepfreeze. “No more little girls losing their heads, for starters.”

  Paco Esteban grunted and nodded.

  Tony Harris nodded. “Matt, you know I agree. But there are other ways to do this.”

  “Yeah, but they involve a whole helluva lot more people, which we don’t need. And more time, which we don’t have.” He paused. “Look, you’re welcome to call it in, if that’s what you feel you have to do. But God knows what this animal is capable of doing next.”

  “Tony,” Byrth said, “I’m afraid that I have to agree with Matt.”

  Payne looked at Byrth. He wasn’t at all surprised that a Texas Ranger would have no trouble going it alone.

  He’d read all about “One Ranger, One Riot.”

  Tony Harris looked between the
m, then held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

  “Let the record show that I have dutifully played devil’s advocate and hereby subscribe to whatever operation Marshal Wyatt Earp has in mind.”

  Payne smiled. He knew Harris wasn’t mocking him.

  “Tell you what, Tony. Call the Roundhouse, give whomever you feel can be trusted the address of this row house and the strict order (a) to say and do nothing with it and”—he glanced at Byrth—“(b) to have the cavalry ready to ride in should you call for it. Give it a code name if you want. Prairie Fire was one that the guys in Special Forces in ’Nam used for when the shit hit the fan. I’m partial to Get Me the Fuck Outta Here! Leaves no room for confusion or misinterpretation.”

  Harris grinned. Then he nodded agreeably.

  “I can live with that,” he said. “Okay, so what do you propose?”

  Sergeant Matthew M. Payne, Philadelphia Police Department, Badge Number 271, turned to Paco Esteban.

  “Señor Paco Esteban, I hereby officially offer to you a position as confidential informant for the Philadelphia Police Department. In this capacity, you agree to assist in any way that (a) you can and (b) you feel is within your capabilities. In return, the department will make monetary payments and certain other tokens of compensation as mutually agreed.”

  It was common practice for Philadelphia Police Department ongoing investigations to use confidential informants. And it was entirely within the rules and regulations of the department. For example, the police not only paid confidential informants for tips that led to arrests for illegal guns and drugs, they also provided the funds to make those purchases. It wasn’t unusual for the money to run into the tens of thousands of dollars.

  Of course, there were rules governing the use of confidential sources. Among them was that there had to be a professional relationship. Strict procedures and policies were in place to ensure an arm’s length of professionalism between a police officer and an informant.

  Paco Esteban shook his head.

  “You don’t or you won’t?” Payne said somewhat incredulously.

  “I don’t.”

  “You don’t?” Payne repeated.

  Paco Esteban shook his head again.

  “I don’t want one dollar. I want that bastard caught. What do I do?”

  “Everybody ready?” Matt Payne said, sliding open the side door of Paco Esteban’s Plymouth van, using his left hand. Payne and Harris were seated in back on the bench seat; Byrth was in the front passenger seat. On the console between the seats was a white paper bag. Printed on it in somewhat Asian-looking lettering was: TAKE OUT TASTY CHINESE. The van reeked of greasy fast-food wontons.

  Byrth said, “Yup.”

  Harris said, “Uh-huh.”

  Esteban said, “Sí.”

  Everyone but Esteban was armed with a semiautomatic pistol. Payne had his Colt .45 ACP Officer’s Model in his right hand. It was cocked but unlocked, ready to fire. Harris held his Glock Model 17 nine-millimeter between his legs, the muzzle pointed at the floorboard. Byrth’s black Colt Combat Commander .45 ACP, with its inlaid star of the Texas Rangers, was on top of his right thigh, pointed at the dash.

  Payne watched as Byrth put his left boot on the dash and pulled up on his cuffed pants leg, then reached to the right of his calf and pulled out a pistol from the boot top.

  I’ll be goddamned, Payne thought.

  That’s that Officer’s Model he told me he carried as his backup.

  Byrth racked the slide back, then reached to the floorboard, where he had an open plastic box of .45-caliber cartridges. He pulled a single round from the box and slipped it into the chamber. Then he let the slide slam forward. With the hammer now back, he set its lock, then fed it a full magazine. Finally, he slipped the pistol back inside his boot top and pulled down his pants cuff.

  Byrth caught Payne’s stare and, over his shoulder, said, “I’d rather have my twelve-gauge pump with buckshot for this, but it wouldn’t fit in the boot.”

  Payne chuckled.

  “Okay, Paco,” Payne said. “Let’s roll.”

  The minivan began driving slowly toward 2505 Hancock.

  As Esteban approached the row house, he steered to the left side of the street, then up and over the curb. Payne had told him to stop the van there so it could provide them at least a little cover and concealment.

  Esteban then got out and reached back in for the bag of fast food.

  Esteban was dressed in somewhat ragged khakis and a T-shirt, and on his head wore a big orange ballcap with the logotype TAKE OUT TASTY CHINESE. Payne had actually taken the cap off the head of one of the employees when they’d bought the food. He’d tossed the kid a twenty and smiled. The kid had thought him a fool, but kept the cash nevertheless.

  Jim Byrth covered the right side of the front door, Payne the left. Tony Harris had gone around back to cover that possible exit.

  Paco Esteban rapped on the wooden door.

  No one answered.

  He knocked again, harder.

  After a few minutes, they heard the sound of shuffling footsteps. Then the door cracked opened.

  A short, sleepy Hispanic male with a bad mustache stood there. He wore only boxer shorts and had a bandage around his left thigh.

  “Your order,” Esteban said, holding out the bag of Chinese takeout. “It is prepaid.”

  “We didn’t—” Jesús Jiménez started to say. Then through his sleepy haze he heard the “prepaid” part. The groggy teenager decided he was hungry.

  Esteban had been told not to stand too close to the door.

  Jiménez had to reach out of the house in order to grab the bag.

  And when he did, Jim Byrth grabbed his arm and spun him. He threw him to the floor and had the surprised kid handcuffed in no time. He stuck the muzzle of his .45 into the kid’s mouth. The kid’s suddenly widened eyes suggested that he’d instantly understood the message.

  As Payne moved closer to enter the door, he looked down at the Hispanic male.

  That’s the shooter from the hospital!

  The sonofabitch who killed Skipper!

  And who I shot!

  I should just—

  Bryrth then quickly jerked Jiménez down to the van, practically carrying the small teenager. He unlocked one of the handcuffs and clipped it to the sliding door handle.

  As Byrth returned, Payne wordlessly signaled Paco Esteban to go to the van. Esteban shook his head, then very reluctantly did as ordered. When Jesús Jiménez started to shout a warning, Esteban surprised both Payne and Byrth by punching the teenager in the face, knocking him out cold.

  Well, that just earned him monetary payments and certain other tokens. . . .

  Payne and Byrth looked each other in the eye. Byrth nodded for Payne to take the lead.

  Even with the front door open, it was dark inside because of the front windows being covered.

  They walked in a crouch, staying close to the walls. There was almost no furniture.

  Payne heard voices coming from the back of the house.

  They entered a room that appeared to be the dining room, and which held only a couple of wooden armchairs. On the far wall was a swinging door, with light from the far room leaking around its edges.

  Payne moved fluidly toward it, Byrth on his heels. As they approached the swinging door, the voices became louder and more clear.

  Payne could distinguish at least two—both males, both with Hispanic accents.

  They listened for another minute. There was no additional voice.

  Then one of them yelled, “Jesús! You okay? Who was at the door?”

  Matt looked at Jim. They were both half-lit by the dim light bleeding around the door. Jim signaled for them each to take a side of the door.

  Matt moved to the left, Jim to the right.

  Matt could see the rusty gold-colored hinge by his head. He tried to peer into the kitchen, but the gap between the door and its frame wasn’t large enough and there was a piece of painted wooden tr
im on the far side.

  Then they heard the first voice again. He barked: “Go look!”

  And a second later, the door swung into the dining room, as Omar Quintanilla sauntered through, absently holding a pistol along his right leg.

  When the door had opened, light momentarily flashed into the dark dining room, almost blinding Matt and Jim.

  Then the door swung shut. Jim, his eyes not quite adjusted from the sudden light, instinctively jumped in Omar’s direction. He hit him square, getting his left arm around Omar’s throat.

  They then went to the floor, making a helluva noise.

  “Omar!” the male inside the kitchen yelled. “What the hell’d you just do?”

  As Jim punched Omar in the face, Omar’s pistol went off. The round went into the ceiling.

  Matt had his pistol aimed at the pair, but could not see well enough in the dark to get a good aim.

  Then he heard Jim mutter, “You sonofabitch.”

  The pistol went off again. This time, the round found Omar, who suddenly stopped fighing. He moaned and clutched at his chest.

  Then Payne suddenly heard and saw the swinging door get kicked open—and he saw and felt it hit him, pushing him back against the wall.

  He instinctively kicked the door back.

  And there he saw the other Hispanic male. He was bringing up the muzzle of a bullpup-style weapon, about to get an aim on Jim Byrth.

  Matt Payne followed Jim Byrth’s lead—and jumped at the man, wrapping his left arm over the man’s left shoulder and grabbing the forearm of the weapon. As he pulled it upward, the gun went off, the muzzle spraying a stream of lead up a wall and across the ceiling.

  Payne began pummeling the man’s head with his pistol, and threw him to the ground. And then he felt another pair of hands on the man’s body—Jim Byrth was stripping him of the bullpup weapon.

  Payne hit him in the head again. And the man went limp.