Cold City (Repairman Jack - the Early Years Trilogy) (24 page)

“You got something against them?”

“Just the slavers.  It’s part of Arab tradition.”

“Didn’t know that.”

He knew Arabs had developed a thing for suicide bombings and blowing up innocent civilians in planes and street markets, but slaves?

“Their religion – and that’s
Islam
, not Mohammedism – is okay with it.  A big part of the slave trade in North and West Africa was either run or brokered by Arabs for centuries.  The Barbary pirates raided ships and towns and carried off people to be sold as slaves.  Big business.  Still a business.  But though the misery isn’t as widespread, it’s more concentrated in each of these kids who gets sold.”

“Sold…jeez, I don’t mean to sound naïve, and I can see people getting away with it in Third World countries, but how does this go on in this day and age in the US?”

“Welcome to the wonderful world of human trafficking.  A ten-billion-dollar business.”

Ten
billion
?  Jack shook his head within the mask. 

The truck slowed and Jack got the impression the brother was paying a toll.  Bridge?  Tunnel?  He couldn’t say.  That huge dollar amount was dominating his thoughts.

“You said ten billion dollars.  What does one of these little girls go for?”

“Depends where they are on the supply chain.  The limo’s trunk contained a duffel bag holding three million cash. A hundred grand apiece.  That’s the wholesale price.  The Arabs were going to hold an auction.  Some of the prettier girls could easily go for a quarter mill, three hundred, even more.  None go for less than two.”

“But who can afford that?”

“Lotta rich pervs out there.  Or you get a pedophile ring where they each chip in and pass her around.  Then there’s those that’ll put her straight to work earning back her price by servicing pervs.  When they get a little too old for the creeps who like them prepubescent, they’re sold again, to those that like teens.  And when they get too old for that, the survivors – who are all junkies and crackheads by now – they’re put to work out on the street.”

“How…?”  Jack felt numb.  “How do you do that to a little girl?”

“They do it to little boys too.  They’re not people to the pervs, they’re
things
.  They’re property.  They’re–”

“Product,” Jack said.

“Yeah.  ‘Product.’” 

“Sounds like the two who didn’t make it would have been the lucky ones.”

“Didn’t make it?”

“I overheard the boat captain say one got sick and another hurt trying to escape.”

“What happened to them?”

“Tossed overboard.”

A lengthy silence followed, during which Jack thought about Tony.  He’d been half hoping they might not be up to killing him, but now he remembered how casual Tim had been about the two dead kids. 

Poor Tony…didn’t have a chance…

Finally the brother said, “So only twenty-eight made it?”

“That’s what I heard.”

He banged the heel of his hand against the steering wheel.  “Fuckers.”

“They told me I’d be shipping ‘hooch.’  Moonshine.  I didn’t want to do that, but I’d have preferred it like all hell to little girls.”

“I hear ya.  This is the largest one-time shipment of kids I’ve ever seen.  Half a dozen at once has been the top so far.  Usually it’s one or two at a time.”

“But–”

“We’re here.  Stay down.”

10

When Jack was finally allowed to remove his mask – after big rolling overhead doors had closed behind the trucks – he found himself in a wide-open space that could have been a small warehouse or a big garage.  He had no idea whether he was still on Staten Island or in one of the other boroughs, or even back in Jersey.  But whoever the benefactress was, she’d seen to everything.

Four Port-a-potties lined the left wall; portable showers waited behind a curtained-off area at the rear.  Tables piled high with pizza boxes and bottled water and soft drinks stood to the right.

Three uniformed nurses helped the girls from the backs of the trucks.  The kids were dirty and weak and scared but the nurses all spoke Spanish and began to check them over immediately.  Some of the girls headed straight for the potties – more than a few looked like they hadn’t been able to wait – and some for the food.

Jack looked around for Bonita but couldn’t pick her out among the milling crowd.  He’d seen her in the moonlight and didn’t have a good sense of what she looked like beyond her large brown eyes.  But they all had brown eyes.

The first brother had taken off his mask.  His hair was as brown as his eyes.

Jack realized he was starving so he wolfed down a slice of sausage pizza and opened a Pepsi.  He was reaching for a second when a body slammed against his right side and a pair of arms wrapped around his waist. 

He looked down at the little girl who had a death grip on him.  Tears streamed from her eyes as she looked up at him and sobbed.

“Bonita?”

She nodded and rattled off something he couldn’t understand through the sobs.  But he did catch “
asustada
” – scared. 

“Hey-hey, Archie,” said the second brother, approaching.  “You know this girl?”

“We met last night.”

His eyes narrowed.  “Met how?  What’s going on here?” 

The brother knelt beside Bonita and asked in Spanish how she knew him.  Bonita told him he’d saved her from a “
bestia
” by hitting him on the head.

The brother was smiling when he rose and faced Jack.  “That wouldn’t have been a curved tire iron, would it?”

“It would.”

The grin broadened.  “Weapon of choice.  Now you’re going to have two of them to watch out for.”

Jack shook his head.  “No.  Only one.”

It didn’t take the brother long to catch the meaning.  He looked puzzled.  “Then why all the agonizing with the other driver?”

“Different circumstances.  Her
bestia
was in the process of unzipping his fly at the time.  I just wanted to stop him.”

“I guess you did, Archie.”  He slapped Jack on the shoulder.  “Stopped him for good.”

He signaled to one of the nurses to come over.  She spoke to Bonita in soothing tones and started to lead her away.  Bonita looked at him with pleading eyes.

“
Vaya con ella
,” he told her.  “
Ella le ayudará
.”

Bonita left with the nurse as the first brother wandered over.  He had a good-size backpack slung over a shoulder.

Jack looked from one to the other.  He was tired of thinking of them as first and second brother. 

“What do I call you guys?”

“Don’t,” said the first.

“Ever,” said the second.

“Seriously.”

“Okay,” said the first.  “Call me Deacon Blue.”

The second laughed.  “If that’s the way we’re playing it, call me the Reverend Mister Black.”

“Black and Blue,” Jack said.  “Got it.”

“Grab another slice and find a place to sack out for a while.  We’ve got cots for the girls.  Get one for yourself.”

“What are you two going to do?”

“Pretty much the same,” Black said.  “We work the night shift and we’ve got ten, twelve hours to kill.”

“Oh, and this is for you,” Blue said, slipping the backpack off his shoulder and handing it to Jack.

Jack hefted it.  “What is it?”

“Your cut.”

“Cut of what?”

“The three mill we confiscated.”

“You guys keep the money?”

“Well, we sure as shit ain’t handing it back to the pervs.  You saved half these girls from going into the drink.  You deserve at least a ten percent finder’s fee.”

Three hundred thousand?

“I can’t.”

Black looked baffled.  “Why the hell not?”

Good question.  Why indeed not?  That kind of nut meant a nicer place, and no more driving for Bertel.  It would set him up pretty for a long, long time.  With his low-rent lifestyle, damn near indefinitely. 

But no…

He shoved the backpack at Black.  “Give it to the girls.”

Black reached inside and pulled out a neat, half-inch stack of hundred-dollar bills, labeled
$10,000
.  It had a hole through it. 

“Look we even gave you some of the shot-up bills.  They’re still good but we thought you’d like a little memento.”

Jack shook his head.  “Give it to the–” 

Black shoved it back.  “Don’t worry.  They’ll each be going home with cash.”

“Well, then, send them home with more.”  He tossed it to Blue this time.  “They need it more than I do.”

They both stared at him.

Finally Blue said, “What planet are you from, man?”

Probably the planet Stupid, Jack thought, but he couldn’t help it: The money didn’t feel like his.

11

Al-Thani’s call had been cryptic at best:

“We have big trouble.” 

The Arab hadn’t wanted to say anything more over the phone, so Roman had given him his present address and waited.

Mid-morning now.  The deal should have been completed.  He had a bad feeling something had gone wrong between the Outer Banks and Staten Island.  The big question:
How
wrong?

One look at al-Thani’s face as he stepped through the door told Roman things had gone
very
wrong.

“Are you alone?” the Arab said as the door closed behind him.  He sounded breathless.

Roman almost smiled.  It had been too busy a night for the company of one of his ladies, but even if he’d had the time, no one stayed over.  Ever.  Not even the wonderful Danaë.

“Yes.  Quite.”

“The jihadists are dead and the money’s gone!”

Roman liked to use al-Thani because he was smart and resourceful and unusually direct for an Arab, but this was almost too direct.  The words were like a slap.

“What?  How?”

“I don’t know!”  He pressed his hands against the sides of his head as he paced the suite’s front room.  “They were ambushed at the exchange point. An inside job!  Had to be!”

“But only you and I and one of the jihadists knew the location on this end.”

Al-Thani lowered his hands.  “Tachus was a true believer.  He would not betray jihad.”

“Don’t be so sure.  Three million is a lot–”

“He is among the dead.”

Well, that eliminated that possibility.

“What of the auction and its participants?  This Tachus… he arranged it?”

“Yes.  He let it be known to a certain circle of interested parties.  They use computers now, so word spread like lightning.  In no time he had more than enough bidders, so he set it up.  But the prospective bidders knew only of the location of tomorrow night’s auction, no details of the delivery.”

“You’re so sure?”

“Tachus himself didn’t know until the last minute – I made sure of that.  It has to be someone on the shipping end.”

Roman couldn’t argue against that.  But who…?

“The delivery drivers were killed too?”

Al-Thani shook his head.  “Both gone, along with their trucks.  It has to be them.  You arranged that end.”

It wasn’t an accusation, not yet, but Roman could see it escalating to that once the High Council heard. 

He chose his words carefully.  “There were last-minute complications down there.  They had to use a new driver.”

“It must be him.”

“No…not him.” He felt a burst of fury as he realized who it had to be.  “I learned that one of the Outer Banks men named Moose, who has been with the operation for many shipments, disappeared shortly before the trucks departed.  It has to be him.”

Al-Thani stopped pacing.  “You think the money was too much to pass up?”

“What else can I think?”

“But wouldn’t the drivers have to be involved as well?”

“Perhaps, perhaps not.” 

Roman could not imagine why, if involved, they wouldn’t abandon the trucks and the girls and simply run with the money.  But one of the drivers had been pressed into service; and the other, Reggie, had not been scheduled to drive. 

“We found no trace of them.”

“What if they were marked for the same fate as the Arabs and managed to escape?”

Al-Thani stopped pacing.  “Then we must find them!  They may know something.” 

“They certainly would have seen something.”  He jabbed a finger toward the Arab.  “You get out to Staten Island and start asking around.  I’ll provide you with the makes and models of the trucks.  Meanwhile, I’ll start looking for Moose.”

“You’re going down to the Outer Banks?”

He shook his head.  That had been his first instinct, but he’d discarded it immediately.  He’d imagined himself as Moose – not his real name, of course, but that hadn’t mattered until now – and tried to think like a piece of human slime.  He’d deserted the Outer Banks house for… where?  Where else?  He’d raced to where the money would be.

“No.  If he’s anyplace, he’s up here.”

“Do you have any idea where?”

“No, but I intend to start looking for him… as soon as I inform the High Council.”

Al-Thani straightened.  “I handed the money to the jihadists.  I will take full responsibility.”

A noble gesture on the surface, but Roman dismissed it for what it was: empty.  The betrayal hadn’t originated with the jihadists, it had come from the Americans Roman had dealt with.  He was the actuator and he’d made a miscalculation, therefore he would have to face the music.

But the heat he would feel for losing – even temporarily – three million dollars from the Order’s coffers would be nothing compared to the suffering that would befall Moose when Roman found him.

12

Kadir opened his eyes and cried out in shock at sight of the man from Qatar standing over him.

He had a moment of disorientation until he realized he was back in his Jersey City apartment.  He remembered his trek through Staten Island to the ferry, the ride to lower Manhattan with all the commuters casting sidelong glances at his blood-sprinkled, gasoline-reeking clothes.  Then taking the Path to the Jersey side of the Hudson.  He’d collapsed with mental and physical exhaustion when he’d reached his apartment.

But how had the man from Qatar found him?

“You were supposed to go with Tachus,” he said in Arabic.  “Did you?”