Diversion 2 - Collusion (16 page)

Lucky arrived at Sammy’s Toyota ten minutes early, allowing enough time to slip a tracker under the front fender unobserved. He fussed with the St. Christopher medallion hanging from his neck, one of Keith’s less obvious listening devices. No telling where the evening would lead. He took a picture of the car and tag, texting them to Walter.

Across the parking lot Keith’s Hyundai Sonata pulled away, two distinct shapes inside. Lucky replayed his and Bo’s last few conversations. What would he find when he returned to Atlanta? Had Bo had enough, or would he cool down once he’d seen the big picture? Time enough for worry later. Right now Lucky had a job to do.

Sammy trotted out the door at exactly five P.M. He nodded once to Lucky and unlocked the vehicle. It took a few moments for him to arrange himself under the steering wheel.

“What’s this about?” Lucky asked, crawling into the passenger seat. He hated the passenger seat. While other people might have passed a test and earned driving privileges, if Lucky ruled the Department of Motor Vehicles, half the assholes behind wheels would find themselves walking.

“What’s your real name?” Sammy asked, ignoring Lucky’s question.
“Does it matter?”
Sammy shrugged. “What am I supposed to call you?”
“Simon will do,” he said, determined to keep conversation to a minimum unless it included a confession, since every word out of his mouth would be recorded. With Keith heading back to Atlanta, he wondered who monitored his transmission. “Where are we going?”
“You gotta wait ’til we get there.” Sammy didn’t say much while navigating through traffic and out to I-85, a well-known corridor to drug traffickers. Lucky’d spent his time on that long stretch of blacktop.
They headed north, Sammy alternately biting his lip, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, or running his free hand through his close-cropped hair. After a while he finally voiced his agitation. “I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong. In fact, he told me I was doing the center a favor.”
The words interrupted Lucky’s private fantasies of spotlights, a chair-bound suspect, and
We haveways…
“Who told you?”
“Grayson.”
Sammy mumbled low enough to worry Lucky about him not being heard by the right people. He added, a bit louder than Sammy, “Grayson? As in Dr. Stanley Grayson?”
“That’d be him. He didn’t like Danvers much. Said he was moreconcerned with himself than the kids.” Sammy pulled off the interstate a few miles north of the North Carolina state line, turning down a twolane county road. “Dr. Grayson took matters into his own hands.”
They pulled up at a run-down brick building that might once have been a mill. Many such relics dotted the southern landscape, a testament to a bygone era. Grass pushed through broken asphalt, and kudzu climbed up one wall, nearly obscuring the aging brick from view. When they rounded the building, a white Chevy van came into view by the loading docks.
Sammy pulled in, parking a few car lengths away. “Wait right here.”
It took every ounce of Lucky’s normally nonexistent self- control not to follow Sammy. He strained his ears, hearing only birds chirping and the occasional roar of vehicles passing on I-85. As discreetly as possible, he snapped a few pictures of the van, the loading docks, and the van’s tag. He texted them all to Walter, then made a call.
“Boss,” he murmured quietly, “I’m gonna need a car around exit 100. As quick as you can get one there. And get the local boys to pull over the car I sent pictures of earlier. Search it, and get the contents to the lab ASAP.”
Waiting proved sheer agony but also allowed time for Walter to put Lucky’s requests into action. Sammy reappeared, carrying an unmarked case in his hands. Without a word, he secured the box in the backseat. “That case is worth more than my house and car combined,” he said, angling back under the wheel.
“Grayson sends you here?”
“Yup.” Sammy kept his eyes straight ahead, navigating the neglected parking lot out to the two-lane road.
“How many times?”
“Ten, so far.”
Ten? And no one noticed? “Always one box?”
“Sometimes more. I never thought nothing of it. He’s a doctor, right? He wouldn’t do anything shady. But when those kids died…” Sammy braked at a stop sign, turning toward Lucky. “Since I’m helping you, you won’t arrest me, will you? I mean, I’m innocent, a flunky.”
Lucky ignored the question. He needed more information before he could make any kind of educated guesses as to what might happen to Sammy. “How much did he pay you?”
“What?”
“How much are you making for this?”
“Not much. A hundred bucks a trip, to pay for my gas and time.”
“Can you prove it?”
“Hey! It’s not like he writes me checks or nothing.”
And that, boy and girls, is how gullible people wind up doing others’ dirty work.
“I’m guessing what’s in the box isn’t legal. You’re hauling it across state lines. That makes you a drug trafficker.”
“What?” The color fled Sammy’s face. He gunned up the ramp to I-85, hands trembling on the wheel. The car tires jolted off the pavement. Sammy jerked the steering hard, fishtailing until regaining control. Lucky grabbed the “oh shit!” handle. He wanted out of the car. Now.
The kid kept to the slow lane, bracing both hands on the wheel when an eighteen wheeler in a hurry blew past. “I’m helping you. That’s supposed to get me immunity, right?”
Ah, the saps of the world. Always in plentiful supply. “I’ll put in a good word for you with the boss.”
Sammy jumped at the
rrrrrrrr
and flashing lights shortly after they’d crossed the state line. “Crap!” he exclaimed, eyes riveted to the rearview mirror. “It’s the cops! What’ll I do?”
And about fucking time, too. “Pull over.”
“What? But…”
“Pull over. This is where I get off.”
Lucky checked the side mirror, spotting the distinct markings of a South Carolina State Trooper’s car, and an unmarked Ford pulling up behind them. “Tell ’em the truth. You’re in this neck deep. You can swim or drown, it’s up to you. But a word to the wise. When questioned by a man named Walter Smith, you’d do best to tell him everything you know.”
He left Sammy sputtering and casually got out, nodding his head at the approaching troopers on his way to the unmarked vehicle.
“Where to?” a plainclothesman asked when Lucky crawled inside the car. A plainclothesman who didn’t look old enough to vote.
“Take us north.” Lucky bit off the “junior” he wanted to add. For some reason, young ’uns didn’t like being reminded of their youth any more than Lucky wanted reminding of his age. Thirtysix wasn’t old, damn it!
“Yessir, Agent Harrison.” The guy pulled out on the highway, cutting through the grass median to head north. “I can’t tell you how excited I am to be helping—”
“Can it, I’m wearing a wire.” Ah, the sweet sound of silence. Lucky called Walter, wishing to high heavens for a good old cup of Starbucks. “What ya got for me, boss?”
Walter’s smug tones oozed over the phone. “Very good work. The van belongs to a Luther Calhoun of Charlotte. Art’s in the area. I’ve sent him to watch the house. I take it you’re following the van?”
“I will. But first, I want a peek inside the mill.”
“I’m en route. I’ll be present when they question Samuel Haskins.”
“Samuel who?”
“The shipping supervisor at Rosario. Better known as Sammy, I believe.”
“Oh. Him. Has Grayson been brought in?”
“Not yet, but he will be, once located.” Walter’s voice took on a scary note, reminding Lucky of his reputation as a real terror during his time with the DEA, not that Lucky’d dealt with him personally back then—thank heavens.
Lucky hung up the phone and directed the driver back to the abandoned mill. He mentally chanted,
Pull the fuck over and let me drive,
like a mantra. Having been on the receiving end of too many lectures from Walter on professional courtesy kept him from mouthing off. He settled for, “Find a place to pull over, and keep your eyes open for a white van. Got a flashlight?”
They parked on a logging road a quarter mile from the mill. The guy dug into a pile of gear on the backseat and pulled out a government issue flashlight. “I got this one,” he said, before digging some more and extracting a huge QBeam, like Lucky’s daddy used to use for illegal spotlighting during deer season. Lucky took the Q-Beam, which likely outshone the flashlight four to one.
“Now we’re talking. If I’m not back in thirty, you holler good and loud.” Lucky tucked his wallet into the glove compartment, taking only his badge, gun, work cell phone, and the flashlight. He hiked through a dense stand oftrees to reach the building’s loading docks. The van still sat parked outside.
Two men stepped out of an open loading bay access, one stopping to lower the metal door behind him. A few minutes later they drove away. Lucky made a quick circuit around the building before venturing up the stairs to the docks. A padlock secured the loading door. He found the other entrances similarly secured. While no lock stopped Lucky for long, he didn’t want to leave evidence that’d he’d been there.
Giving up on an easy entry, he slithered up the gnarled kudzu vine, wider around than his wrist in some places. It would have been one hell of a lot easier to climb with tennis shoes, instead of the lace-up business shoes mandated for the uniform, and once or twice he clung to the vine to keep from falling. He peered through a broken window on the third floor. With the sun shining on the other side of the building, and an overhanging roof and the kudzu providing shade, the space appeared dark, even hours before sunset.
He wriggled through the window. His feet connected with the floor, slipped and
Wham!
He landed flat on his back, breath whooshing out. S
creek, screek, screek!
Lucky rolled to his feet, snapping the borrowed Q-Beam on and aiming it at the ceiling. Wings fanned up a breeze as two dozen or more upside down bodies screeched in protest.
Bats! He wrinkled his nose in disgust at the bat shit now smeared on his arms and pants. What a fucking smell! Using the wall for handholds, he rose and gingerly picked his way across the slippery wooden floorboards, breathing a sigh of relief once he’d cleared the exit.
Down rickety stairs he climbed, clutching a rusted iron railing. Outside the sun shone, but the mostly boarded up windows let in little light. For a moment Lucky wondered what the place had looked like in its heyday, back when textile mills provided the lifeblood for sleepy little towns. His grandfather once worked in a similar place. Lucky shuddered. How in the hell had the man worked indoors eight hours at a time, doing the same ole, same ole, day in, day out?
Thick grime spoke of long disuse, until he reached the bottom level. A ray of sunlight shone through a crack in the wall, dust particles dancing in the beam. The scent of decay hung heavy in the air, along with grease and oil smells from years ago.
At the base of the stairs he found an office, old metal desk overturned and graffiti spattering the walls. A file cabinet stood empty and open. He tiptoed down the hall on plank flooring, gritting his teeth at the creak and grind of rotting wood. The kudzu vine grew on the far left, with the loading docks around the back. That meant… This way! He turned left at the next hallway. “What th—” He shrank back, biting off a shout. A rat scuttled out of the way of his QBeam’s glow.
“You leave me alone, I’ll return the favor,” he muttered under his breath. Eerie, creepy silence. No traffic noises, no voices, no electrical hum of machinery. Prickles rose on Lucky’s arms. Walter in lecture mode; the honks, beeps, and squealing brakes of downtown Atlanta at rush hour; hell, even his neighbor’s never- ending rap music beat the total absence of sound.
After passing a men’s bathroom and what might have once been an employee break area, he stepped out into a cavernous room with soaring ceilings and unboarded windows. A bird took wing, flitting among the rafters overhead.
Wood and metal racks that probably once held raw cotton or finished fabric appeared cleaned and somewhat patched, the floor less filthy than the rest of the building. Cases upon cases sat piled in a corner. Lucky set the Q-Beam down and ripped the top from one of the cartons. Roughly two dozen glass vials stared back at him. He held one up to the light. Unless he missed his guess, the vial matched the one he’d held in his hand in the conference room at Rosario.
He reached into his pocket for his cell phone to call Walter while slipping two vials into the waistband of his pants. His blood ran cold at a low, “Hold it right there.”

Lucky froze, hands out in front of him. He listened for breathing, footsteps, or any other clue of how many assholes he’d let slip up on him, but his heart beat loudly enough to drown out everything else.
Stupid, stupid, stupid!
He glanced at his wristwatch. He’d told the plainclothesman thirty minutes. He needed to stall ten more before help arrived. Without an earpiece, Lucky’s escort wouldn’t pick up his signal, and who knew how close Walter might be?

“Before you get any ideas about the cavalry coming, we dealt with the lookout you posted up the dirt road.” The rumbling growl plunged a lead weight into Lucky’s belly. Maybe he’d need more than ten minutes, after all. Lucky hoped like hell “dealt” meant temporary. The voice emanated from directly behind him, a shuffling sounded to his left. Two of them, at least. Probably a third guarding the cop.

The shuffling grew closer. Lucky waited, betting his experience against theirs. Surely they weren’t idiot enough not to try to take his gun from him.

Never had Lucky wished so hard to be surrounded by idiots. He eased the .38 out of its holster and reached down to place the firearm on the box in front of him. Adding a little more motion than necessary, he attempted a peek over his shoulder.

“Uh, uh, uh. Keep facing the wall. What we look like don’t matter to you.”
If they didn’t want him to be able to identify them, then his chances improved for making it out of here alive. If they planned a bullet in his brain, who cared if he saw them? Maybe the kid in the unmarked car might make it home for supper, too.
“Good. Now put your hands on top of your head.”
Though a dozen cocky retorts fought to escape, with God knew what aimed at his back, Lucky complied.
The shuffling grew closer and a pair of none-too-gentle hands patted him down. Fingers wiping against his back followed a muffled “Eww…” Maybe the bat shit would deter the frisking. No such luck. The hands returned, spending more time than necessary near his crotch, in his opinion. With any luck they’d bypass the vials.
Of course, in his past experience, the crotch made a good hiding spot simply because of others’ reluctance to go there. More than once he’d cramped his cock with a bottle or two of smuggled goods down the front of a pair of briefs.
“Touch my prick again and I’m gonna charge you fifty bucks,” he snapped. If he went down, he’d be swinging.
Instead of stopping, the hand frisking him locked down on his dick—hard.
“Hey!” he bellowed.
“That’s enough!” the man behind him shouted. The groper backed off and snatched the gun off the box, without finding the vials tucked into the top of Lucky’s pants. The faceless thug made off with Lucky’s badge and cell phone.
A female voice asked, “What’s SNB? I ain’t never heard of them before.”
A woman? Fondled by a woman? Oh the horrors!
“Southeastern Narcotics Bureau,” the man behind Lucky explained. “A bunch of useless wannabes if you ask me. Whatcha sniffing round here for, SNB man? We’re not dealing with narcotics. This isn’t your concern.”
Lucky debated how much to say. Volunteer too much and they might run. Then again, he needed them off-kilter. He decided on the truth. “Kids died because of you.” He bobbed his head toward the boxes. “Those cartons contain pure poison.”
The woman gasped. “You told me—”
“Shut up, Annie. He’s lying to get us to do something stupid.”
Oh goodie, a name.
“Back the truck up,” the leader ordered. “Mr. SNB here is the first ant at the picnic. More are coming, I guarantee. We’ll be long gone before they arrive. You three get the cases loaded and be ready to go when I get back.”
Ah, four of them. And maybe another with the cop. “And what do you plan to do with me?” Lucky asked.
Boss, you’d better be listening.
“Drop you off somewhere it’ll take you a while to get back from. Nice and easy now, pick up the flashlight and leave the way you came. Show me where you entered.” Pointing out security weaknesses—Lucky’s strong suit. Only now, he wasn’t being paid for the hard-learned lesson.
Shit. Not the bats again, with their wide-open, screeching maws, their flapping wings, their…
Oh, yes, the bats!
And Lucky alone against a single man. The sun shining through the boarded up windows had dimmed, sunset approaching. What time did bats normally get up? Time for a wakeup call.
Lucky dragged his heels, slowing his progress to leave his boss an “I went this way” trail through the dust. Together he and his unwanted escort wandered down the hallway, the man’s footsteps heavy behind Lucky’s. A big man. His voice already gave away his height, coming from in back and above Lucky. Lucky clutched the iron railing on the way up the stairs, leaving plenty of fingerprints. Once he’d have carefully avoided leaving evidence. Not now.
Behind him his captor wheezed. Hmmm…grunts and groans sounded promising. Lucky wasn’t even winded. An out of shape man couldn’t match Lucky for speed or agility.
“Kids really did die,” he taunted the soon-to-be-convicted drug trafficker.
“Annie doesn’t need to hear that. She can be one of those bleeding heart liberals on occasion. Can’t get her to understand we’re simply the middlemen. We buy and sell. It’s not our problem what’s in it. Damned nurses probably gave ’em too much.”
For this man’s conviction, Lucky would gladly wear a suit to court. Eventually they came to the room where Lucky’d sneaked in. He took a deep breath, flung open the dilapidated door, and aimed the Q-Beam at the ceiling.
Screech, screech, screech!
Flapping wings fanned the breezed, bats diving and soaring. Lucky threw himself to floor, ignoring the squish of bat shit. He kicked with all his might, toppling his captor. The guy fell to his knees with a heavy
thud.
The gun clattered to a landing a few feet away. Whirling and on his feet in an instant, Lucky lunged for the weapon. The plus-sized felon gave him a glassyeyed stare and keeled over…right on the gun. Sprawled on his back like a turtle. Damn! He had to be bigger than Walter. Shamu the killer whale came to mind.
Lucky stooped beside the man and jammed two fingers into his neck. He counted out the pulse-beats, watched the rise and fall of a massive chest. The guy must have fainted. He grabbed a handful of shoulder and hip, like he’d been taught for first responder training, and heaved. The plus-sized felon rolled an inch and flopped back.
A truck engine rumbled in the area of the docks. Lucky jerked upright. Should he stay here with his former captor, already down for the count, or go after the others? He patted his belt loops. Why the fucking hell hadn’t he brought cuffs?
“Hey! You up there?” someone shouted up the stairs.
No time to think. Lucky tossed the Q-Beam out the window and then hurled himself through. He grabbed at the kudzu vine with one hand.
His hand closed on open air. Molten lava shot through his arm, the vine gouging a deep gash. Leaves and tendrils ripped at his skin as he grasped desperately for a handhold. Lucky juddered down the vine, snapping branches slowing his fall.
Wham!
He hit the ground—hard. Fire exploded in his left ankle, and a dagger jabbed through his left hand. Holy great mother of God! He shoved his palm into his mouth to stifle a scream.
Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit! He moaned and rolled on the ground, clutching his injuries. If anyone came, they’d have him. Gradually the flames faded to glowing coals. Lucky ground his teeth together, huffing through his nose.
He poked at his wrist with a fingertip. Bruised, maybe, but not too bad. Thank God he hadn’t reinjured it. With a bit more caution he assessed his leg, running his hand down his ankle to his foot. “Oh my God!” White hot pokers jammed into his foot clear up to his knee. Blackness gathered at the edge of his vision, and he tucked his head low, fighting for consciousness. Broken, for sure. His belly gurgled, giving a five second warning. He turned to the side, guts heaving.
Fuck! Could his life get any damned worse? He breathed slowly, clearing his head. His leg throbbed.
Don’t think about it. Put it out of your mind. Think about getting your sorry ass out of here.
Five minutes! Five minutes he’d wasted. Why hadn’t they captured him by now?
How long would it take them to find their fallen leader? Had Lucky already used up his precious head start? Grabbing the vine, he managed to pull himself upright, clenching his teeth when he moved his ankle.
Damn it! That hurt!
Teeth gritted, he hobbled away from the mill, grasping handholds on the rough brick walls. He wouldn’t get far, but maybe far enough to buy him some time.
Setting off in the direction he’d left the cop, Lucky hopped one-footed from tree to tree, and chanced a backward glance. An eight-wheeled tandem truck sat backed up to the loading dock. An occasional echo reverberated through the trailer, the bams and slams of cargo being loaded.
Latching onto trees to help pull himself along, Lucky shambled through the woods. Damn! He shot an angry glare at the sapling that dared catch on his injured leg. He’d been roughed up enough in the past to recognize a broken ankle, and possibly the foot, too, the bones grinding if he put his weight down. Another wave of nausea burned his throat. Nope, not going there. He spat a mouthful of bile and kept on moving.
His knee wobbled. “Don’t fail me now,” he begged. Two steps later he stumbled, the knee giving way. A handy tree stopped his fall. He took more weight on his arm, swinging from low-hanging limbs. If Keith somehow managed to film this…
“I hear him! He’s over that way.”
Oh shit!
Lucky crab-scuttled, using his good hand, an elbow and his unbroken leg. He dived for a heavy thicket of huckleberry bushes and dragged himself beneath their sheltering branches. His leg pulsed a steady beat, matching the heartbeat in his ears. Breathing slowly in and out through his mouth, he waited, heart sinking as running footsteps grew closer and closer. Where the hell was Walter?
Step by step he tracked his wouldbe assailant. “Make it easy on both of us, mister. Come on out.” Lucky recognized the voice of the woman called Annie, the one who’d been shocked by the kids’ death. She might listen to reason.
“Right now you’re looking at some pretty serious charges,” he ventured. “The decisions you make in the next few minutes will affect the rest of your life.”
The footsteps stopped. “How many kids died?”
“Two, last I heard.”
“I never meant to hurt anybody. This is strictly business,” she said, sounding more like her partner in crime now.
“Then why don’t you make a business deal with me? Why don’t you walk back down to the mill, pretend you didn’t find me, and I’ll disappear.”
More rustling sounded in the bushes directly behind him.
Voice more assured now, the woman replied, “I’m sorry but I can’t.”
A tree branch descended.