The Traffickers

by Griffin, W. E. B.

  Payne cuffed him and left him on the floor.

  Matt and Jim stood. Jim had the P90 submachine gun slung on his right shoulder.

  “Nice work, Marshal.”

  “You okay?”

  “Yup. No more holes in me than I came with.”

  “Let’s clear the kitchen and the rest. Then you can get this asshole trussed up.”

  They found the kitchen clear but for one person who looked to be a woman. There was a pillowcase over her head, and she was taped to a chair. They immediately deemed her not a threat.

  Payne went to the back door and looked out the window. He just barely saw Tony Harris to the side of the door, waiting for someone to flee.

  “It’s me, Tony!” he called. “Matt Payne!”

  Matt thought he heard the woman whimper.

  He unlocked the door and opened it.

  “C’mon in, and clear the rest of the house with Jim!”

  Tony Harris entered and said, “Jesus, Matt! What’s with all the gunfire?”

  “Just another day at the OK Corral, Tony.”

  Through the open swinging door, Harris saw a stream of blood on the floor. He moved for a better look, then saw the dead body of the Hispanic male on the floor of the next room.

  He raised his eyebrows. Then he raised his pistol and followed Byrth out of the kitchen.

  Matt Payne glanced at the kitchen table and saw a plastic storage box containing a score or more of used cell phones. On the table itself was a battered fancy phone with a big glass touch-screen.

  He slipped his .45 in the small of his back and turned to the woman bound to the chair.

  “It’s going to be okay,” Payne said softly. “I’m a Philadelphia policeman.”

  As he pulled out his folding pocketknife, he thought he heard her start sobbing heavily.

  “I’m going to cut open the top of this pillowcase, okay?”

  Her head bobbed enthusiastically, the pillowcase moving in a rapid manner.

  “Okay, now don’t move your head.”

  Taking great care, he grasped the pillowcase’s seam at the top of her head, pulling it up and away from her head so that if she suddenly did move again, his knife blade would be a safe distance away.

  Very carefully, he slipped the tip of the serrated blade into the fabric. He sawed slightly, and the blade slit the fabric all along the seam.

  Well, she’s a blond, was the first thing that he thought.

  Then he tugged the case down so it fell to her shoulders.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  Payne had to force himself to go slowly while unbinding Amanda Law, first removing the strip of gray duct tape from her beautiful face—the strip literally went from ear to ear—then removing the tape from her wrists and ankles.

  What made it harder was that he was shaking.

  Are my emotions taking over?

  Not good.

  It’d be better if it’s just the adrenaline kicking into overdrive. . . .

  He started by kissing her on the forehead and saying, “This might hurt . . .”

  Then, as gently as possible, he began pulling the tape from her left cheek and, a moment later, her right cheek.

  “Oh, Matt!” Amanda cried out.

  Excitedly, she tried to sit up higher so that she could kiss him, but, still bound to the chair, she collapsed back into it.

  “Slow down, baby!” Matt said, smiling, then leaned down and kissed her softly on the lips.

  He looked her in the eyes. They were all puffy and wet from the crying.

  “Are you okay?” he said in a soft tone. But there was anger in it, too. “Did they . . . do anything to you?”

  Her eyes were big and expressive. She shook her head vigorously.

  “Thank God,” he said, then kissed her again. “Now, let me get the rest of this tape off.”

  She nodded gently.

  He put the knife blade on the tape securing her left wrist.

  “You heard the girl screaming on your voice mail?” Amanda asked.

  Matt paused and looked at her.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head, slightly confused.

  “They left a terrifying message on your voice mail. They were holding me for ransom. But it wasn’t me. On the message, I mean.”

  Matt nodded as he tried to digest that.

  A voice-mail message?

  I wouldn’t have gotten it because my battery is dead.

  He glanced at the box on the table, then went back to cutting the duct tape. He was really worried he might accidentally cut her in his haste. He had to saw slowly through the tape. They had made at least four wraps of each wrist and ankle, and it took more slow sawing than he could believe.

  Paco Esteban came into the kitchen.

  “Sergeant Byrth—he said tell you ‘house clear,’ ” Esteban said.

  “Thank you.”

  Payne reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

  “Paco, would you look in that box of phones and see if you can find a battery that works with this phone? Or maybe a charger, if there’s one in there.”

  “Sí.”

  Jim Byrth walked into the kitchen.

  “Okay, I’ve got El Gato secured in there,” he said, and grinned. “Taped to the chair just like he likes.”

  He handed Payne’s handcuffs back to him.

  Then he said, “The guys in Dallas described that stash house they raided. This place is set up just like it. It’s a damn prison. Actually, our Texas prisons are nicer.”

  Byrth then tossed a nice tan leather wallet on the kitchen table. And two State of Texas driver’s licenses.

  “El Gato is one Juan Paulo Delgado, aka Edgar Cisneros. I called it in to the office. He’s got a few priors, but nothing serious like this. Born at Parkland in Dallas at taxpayer expense—both parents undocumented Mexican nationals, later given amnesty in that law President Reagan signed—and educated in Dallas at taxpayer expense. Too bad he learned all the wrong lessons.”

  Payne raised his eyebrows at that.

  So he is a U.S. citizen, and preying on illegals, ones like his parents. Unbe lieveable.

  But an animal’s an animal, no matter the circumstances.

  “Here, Sergeant Payne,” Paco Esteban said, holding out Payne’s cell phone.

  Payne took it and saw that Esteban had already pressed the 0/1 button. The phone was coming to life.

  It vibrated three, then four times. Its small screen announced that he had five missed calls, including two voice-mail messages and two text messages from Amanda Law.

  Payne hit the speakerphone key. He played the first voice mail; it had been blank.

  The second voice mail was El Gato’s threat, with the screaming boy and girl recording and the threat to kill Amanda.

  Payne saw Amanda start to shake visibly.

  He knelt and held her as he turned off the telephone.

  When she’d stopped, he stood. He looked at the beers on the table.

  He walked over to the refrigerator, opened it, and found it packed with bottles of beers. He grabbed three and brought them back to the table. When he opened one, it made the sound of gas escaping. He thought he saw Amanda recoil at it. But when he handed her the open bottle, she quickly grabbed it and took a big swallow.

  He opened another and offered it to Byrth.

  “Maybe in a minute. Thanks.”

  He offered the bottle to Esteban, who took it.

  Then he opened the third. He put it to his lips and turned it upside down, drinking at least the first third.

  He then kissed Amanda again on her forehead.

  “I’ll be right back, baby.”

  Juan Paulo Delgado looked up when he heard Matt Payne enter the dining room. Byrth had taped his wrists palm-up, and Matt saw the “D” tattoo. Payne felt a level of anger he did not know was possible.

  “So now what?” Juan Paulo Delgado, his head bruised and bloody, said with an odd smile.

  His tone did not reveal any fear.
In fact, it sounded taunting.

  With the beer bottle in his left hand, Payne pulled his Colt from the small of his back with his right hand.

  He took another healthy drink of the beer, then looked the animal in the eyes.

  What did Amy say about psychopaths?

  You can’t rehabilitate them. They’ll kill again and again.

  And in prison they’ll be thrown in solitary.

  So why not just fucking kill him now?

  He probably was going to do that to Amanda . . . after doing God knows what.

  The image of the girl’s head in Paco Esteban’s freezer flashed in his mind.

  Sonofabitch!

  No one will miss you, Delgado.

  No one will give a rat’s ass you’re dead and gone and burning to a crisp in hell.

  Payne raised his pistol, pointing the muzzle at Delgado’s forehead. He thumbed back the hammer.

  He saw him flinch, if only slightly.

  And shits like you get killed every day in drug deals gone bad.

  Payne held the gun there for what seemed like five minutes.

  But I can’t do it.

  Even as badly as he deserves it.

  It would make me little better than him.

  I am not judge and jury.

  Stanley Whatshisname is wrong.

  We can’t just shoot ’em all and let the Lord sort ’em out.

  Payne brought down his pistol. He locked it.

  “This is your lucky day, you sonofabitch.”

  El Gato grinned defiantly at him.

  Payne added, “You really must be a goddamn cat. But you just burned one of your nine lives. Eventually, you’ll run out.”

  Payne looked down a moment. At Delgado’s feet he noticed there was a bean, similar to the one Jim Byrth tumbled across his fingers. But this one was black. He shook his head.

  Payne turned.

  Byrth and Esteban were standing there, backlit in the open doorway to the kitchen. Both now wore the tan-colored surgical gloves the crime-scene technicians used.

  Nice and professional of Jim.

  And what the hell . . . time to move this case to the next phase.

  Payne looked between them, then wordlessly walked back into the kitchen.

  Payne saw that Tony Harris was handing his handkerchief to Amanda Law. She was standing, leaning against the counter by the sink.

  She ran toward Matt. He went to her, his arms open, and wrapped them around her. She sobbed uncontrollably.

  Payne then heard Jim Byrth enter the room.

  Payne whispered to her, “It’s okay, baby. It’s all over.”

  And then there was the sound of a gun going off in the dining room.

  [FIVE]

  Terminal D Philadelphia International Airport Thursday, September 10, 5:21 P.M.

  “Well, Matt,” Jim Byrth said. He wore clean slacks and shirt, his white Stetson atop his head. “I’d say Juan Paulo Delgado got his wish.”

  Payne looked at him a long moment. “I don’t follow you.”

  “ ‘Death before dishonor’?”

  “Oh.” He shrugged. “I dunno, Jim. He looked pretty dishonored in that chair.”

  Byrth grinned. “My granddaddy had an expression. He told me, ‘Jimmy, in life you’ll find three kinds of men. There’re the ones who can learn by reading. And there’re the ones who can learn by observation.’”

  He paused to let that sink in.

  “And?” Payne said.

  “ ‘And then there’s the rest of them who have to pee on the electric fence to find out for themselves.’ ”

  Payne laughed aloud. “Sounds like one of Ron White’s lines.”

  Bryth and Payne looked at each other. “ ‘ You can’t fix stupid,’ ” they said, simultaneously quoting the Texas comedian.

  “And thankfully, most bad guys are stupid,” Byrth said.

  “That .45 Officer’s Model had the serial number ground off,” Payne said, but it was more of a question.

  “What .45?” Byrth said with a straight face. After a long moment, he added: “Oh, the one a certain informant carried?”

  Payne nodded.

  “No idea what you’re talking about, Marshal.”

  After a moment, Payne said, “So, what’s with the beans?”

  “Beans?”

  “The ones you tumbled on your hand.”

  Byrth nodded. The Hat accentuated the act.

  “John Coffee Hayes?”

  Payne shook his head.

  Byrth explained: “He became a captain in the Rangers round about 1840. Helluva reputation for dealing with lawless Mexicans and marauding Indians. A couple years later, one of his men, who guessed he was as good as his boss, got involved with a bunch of other Texans who were planning an invasion of Mexico. The Mier Expedition?”

  Payne shook his head again.

  “Well, they failed miserably. The Mexicans captured them, including Samuel H. Walker—that was Hayes’s man—and a fellow named Big Foot Wallace. The order came down to execute every tenth man.”

  Payne was nodding. “Then they let the rest loose to take the message back to Texas. ‘Don’t mess with Mexico.’ ”

  “Exactly. You know, Texas actually uses that in an antilitter campaign. But that’s another story.”

  “But what about the beans?”

  “To decide who died, they had a drawing. The prisoner who drew a white bean lived. A black bean meant death for the poor bastard. Both Walker and Wallace drew white ones, and that’s how the story got back to Texas.”

  Payne had a mental image of the black bean at Delgado’s feet.

  Byrth looked in his eyes and sensed it.

  “Look, Matt, the way I see it, our informant friend just saved the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania and the Lone Star State countless dollars in the housing, feeding, and prosecution of the deceased gangbanger. Plus, my favorite part—no more paperwork.”

  Payne did not look convinced.

  “Prosecuting a capital murder charge,” Byrth went on earnestly, “costs from two hundred thousand to three hundred thousand bucks. If you get a conviction and a long jail sentence, then it’s about thirty grand a year per inmate. That’s another three hundred grand every ten years.” He looked at him. “The way I figure it, El Gato getting shot when he attacked the Philly PD’s confidential informant saved the lawful taxpayers a million bucks. At least. You ought to factor that in when you compensate Paco. It was self-defense.”

  Payne shook his head.

  “Matt, you really don’t think that I came here planning on taking that piece of shit back to Texas?”

  Payne said nothing.

  Byrth grinned, and quoted, “ ‘All warfare is based on deception.’ ”

  Payne nodded. “Sun Tzu.”

  “Yup. So you do know this has been going on for millennia.”

  Byrth held out his hand. As Matt shook it, Byrth said, “Come visit us in Texas, Marshal. We could use someone like you. We’ve got plenty more bad guys like Delgado. And it’s only going to get worse.”

  Texas Rangers Sergeant James O. Byrth then affectionately patted Philadelphia Homicide Sergeant Matthew M. Payne on the shoulder. He turned and joined a crowd walking down the concourse.

  And then The Hat was gone.

  As he was driving out of the airport, Matt Payne thought about what Jim Byrth had said. He couldn’t quite reconcile all of it. At least not yet. But he already was seeing there was some truth to it.

  Cops have held the line between civilized society and the barbarians forever.

  And that’s not going to change as long as there’re bad guys.

  Even Amanda said she understood that.

  He felt his cell phone vibrate. And the Pavlovian response was triggered.

  As he looked to the screen, his pulse quickened.

  He read:

  -no number -

  Dinner gets delivered at 7 oʹclock.

  Just found this cute cottage on the Internet.

  To he
ll with lunch. . . . -A