Drug Lord- Part I Read online

  Drug Lord: Part I

  Detective Damien Drake Book 6

  Patrick Logan

  Prologue

  PART I – No Way Out

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  PART II - Overdose

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  PART III - Undercover

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Epilogue

  End

  Author’s Note

  In this country, you gotta make the money first.

  Then when you get the money, you get the power.

  – Tony Montana, Scarface

  Drug Lord: Part I

  Detective Damien Drake Book 6

  Patrick Logan

  Prologue

  The man carefully moved the scoopula filled with white powder over top of the beaker of simmering liquid. He’d already weighed it three times to ensure that he had the exact amount necessary to complete the reaction.

  Not a fraction of an ounce too little, not a fraction of an ounce too much.

  After taking a deep breath, he tapped the scoopula on the side of the glass beaker and the powder slid silently into the liquid. It dissolved instantly, which put a smile on the man’s face behind the light blue mask he wore.

  When the timer on the bench chimed, indicating that thirty seconds had passed, the man used a pair of tongs to remove the beaker from the Bunsen burner. Almost immediately, the rolling simmer slowed and then stopped entirely.

  What was once a clear liquid started to condense into an opaque paste.

  The man moved quickly now, using a flat metal spatula to first remove the paste from the beaker and then spread it onto a baking sheet.

  This was the least precise step in the entire process, but the man was pleased to see that he’d created an eighth of an inch-thick layer that was nearly perfectly uniform.

  The smile still on his face, he walked the tray to the other side of the room and slid it inside the pre-heated oven. As soon as he closed the door, he reset the stopwatch for twenty minutes.

  Only then did he dare pull the mask down to his chin and wipe the sweat from his brow.

  The smell of vinegar in the air was pungent enough to make a normal man’s eyes water, but not the lab tech’s.

  Over the past six months, he’d spent so much time in the lab that his olfactory senses had long since become insensitive to the smell.

  And yet, his own body odor was strong enough to crinkle his nose.

  I need a shower, he thought. I need a shower and a drink.

  As he contemplated the appropriate order of these events, a man in a neatly-pressed white dress shirt walked by the bay of windows flanking the lab. A moment later, the door opened.

  “How’s it coming along?” the man with the shaved head and deep tan asked.

  “Twenty minutes and we’ll have enough for all the packages we received last week.”

  “Good. Let me know as soon as it’s ready and I’ll have the guys start mixing.”

  The lab tech nodded and was about to leave it at that, but just before the door closed completely, he spoke up again.

  “Horatio?”

  The man in the doorway turned to look at him, his lips pressed together tightly in a stern expression.

  “What is it?”

  “I just want to make sure you know what you’re adding here. Ohmefentanyl is even more powerful than carfentanyl. Less than—”

  Horatio silenced him with a wave of his hand.

  “Your job is to make the product, something you get paid quite well to do so — just let me know when it’s done. Like I said, our mixers are ready to go, and our distribution network is in place.”

  With that, Horatio closed the door and left the man alone in the lab.

  Less than a microgram is enough to kill a person, the lab tech thought, finishing the sentence that Horatio had cut off. And we’re about to flood the heroin market with enough ohmefentanyl to kill the entire city of New York.

  The man’s brow furrowed as he did some quick mental math.

  No, that’s not right, he thought, his smile vanishing. Not just all of New York; half of the entire United States. I’ve just made one ounce of pure ohmefentanyl — enough to kill more than 150 million people.

  PART I – No Way Out

  Chapter 1

  "Damien Donald Drake, you've been charged with second-degree assault, assaulting a federal officer, and aggravated kidnapping. Has your lawyer explained these charges to you?"

  Drake glanced over at his counsel who gave him an encouraging nod.

  "He has, Your Honor."

  The judge, Hon. Kevin Robinson, pulled his spectacles down to the end of his nose before speaking.

  "And how do you plead?"

  Drake chewed the inside of his lip and cast another glance at his lawyer. This time, the man refused to meet his gaze.

  "Mr. Drake? How do you plead?" the judge repeated.

  "I would first like to take a moment to—"

  The judge shook his head.

  "This is not the time for commentary, Mr. Drake. You need to respond in the form of a plea."

  "I get that, but I need to—"

  The judge rapped his gavel once, effectively silencing Drake.

  "Mr. Drake, do you need a moment to confer with your lawyer? You have been charged with several very serious offences and in order to continue, you must enter a plea."

  There was some grumbling from the audience behind him, but Drake ignored it.

  "My lawyer has explained the charges to me."

  "Very good. Then I'll ask you one more time to enter a plea. If the following words out of your mouth are not either guilty o
r not guilty, I will hold you in contempt of court."

  Drake took a deep breath.

  "Just answer the question," his lawyer said out of the corner of his mouth.

  Drake closed his eyes and as he did, images of Veronica and Mandy came flooding back. Images of the two of them standing naked in black boxes, cattle prods extending from holes in the one-way glass.

  And then he thought of Jasmine and the way she’d smiled in the photograph — the photograph of her holding a brick of heroin.

  The judge banged his gavel once more, bringing Drake out of his own head.

  "Mr. Drake, how do you plead to the charges that I've read to you?"

  It was clear that he wasn’t amused by this charade.

  But a charade it was, and Drake wasn’t amused either. He wasn't amused about being shot in the leg nor was he amused about being arrested by that prick DI Palmer moments after his son Clay was born. He wasn’t amused that his brother had been murdered, and he certainly wasn’t amused by the fact that there was more heroin on the streets now than there had ever been.

  And the worst of it? The worst part was that the mayor of New York City was behind the entire charade.

  Drake cleared his throat and then finally replied.

  "I plead that Mayor Ken Smith will pay for what he's done. I plead that when I get through with him and all of ANGUIS—"

  Judge Robinson slammed his gavel down three times in an attempt to silence both Drake and the audience who had erupted behind him.

  “That’s enough!”

  It didn’t work.

  "—holdings — Raul, Horatio, Steffani, and Ken Smith — they’re gonna wish they never fucked with Damien Drake. They’re gonna—"

  "Damien Drake, you are in contempt of court. Bailiff, please remand him into custody."

  Drake's eyes shifted to the large man in the khaki-colored shirt who stepped forward at the judge’s request. Drake knew that he only had a few minutes before the bailiff cuffed and led him out of there.

  "—wish they never met me. When I'm done with that asshole—"

  Again, more gavel banging and shouts from the audience.

  "Mr. Drake, that's enough!"

  The bailiff was on him now and Drake didn't resist. In fact, he didn't do much of anything. He allowed the man to force him onto the table, sending his lawyer’s notes spilling to the floor. He even put his hands behind his back to make cuffing him easier.

  "—he’ll either be behind bars or beneath dirt. Mark my words."

  The bailiff hoisted Drake upright by his wrists and then spun him around. For the first time since entering the court, he got a good look at the audience who had filed in behind him.

  There were maybe two-dozen people present, and perhaps a quarter of that number standing at the back with camera equipment, but Drake only saw one of them.

  Drake scowled, and his anger finally got the best of him. He tried to lunge at the Deputy Inspector, but the bailiff anticipated this and held fast.

  "You’re going down, Palmer. You all are. You wait and see, you wait—"

  The judge banged his gavel once more, but this time, the echo that sounded after wood met wood seemed to continue on forever.

  It was a terribly confusing sound, one that didn't make sense to Drake. He tried to turn and look at the judge, to see how he was making that impossible noise, but his vision suddenly swirled. It was as if he was on a carnival teacup ride, going round and round and round.

  The feeling was so strange and nauseating that Drake felt bile rise in his throat. He heard someone ask if he was all right, but when he tried to speak, the only thing that came out of his mouth was a thin stream of vomit.

  What the fuck is going on? He thought moments before he collapsed to the floor and his entire body started to seize.

  Chapter 2

  "Give me a hit of that," Leroy said, reaching for the joint in his brother's hand.

  Declan Walker pulled away, bringing the joint to his lips at the same time. He inhaled deeply, held the smoke in his lungs for several seconds, then expelled a massive cloud. Again, Leroy tried to grab the joint, but Declan held it just out of his reach.

  "Come on, man, gimme me a hit of that," Leroy pleaded. “Don’t be a dick.”

  His brother smirked.

  "You shouldn't be smoking this shit. Fucks up your mind.”

  Leroy sucked his teeth.

  "What are you talking about? You started smokin’ when you were eleven.”

  "Yeah, and look at me now — I’m a dumbass," Declan said, sucking in another huge toke. This time he exhaled the smoke in Leroy's direction.

  Leroy swatted at the air.

  "Just give me the—"

  Declan chuckled and finally handed the joint over, which Leroy was disappointed to see was already half gone. He quickly took several short tokes in a row without exhaling in between, and then he kicked at a stone as they continued along the sidewalk.

  "You should be studying," Declan said. “Not gettin’ high.”

  Leroy followed his brother's gaze as he turned to look up at the housing projects that they were walking through.

  "Otherwise you’ll stay in this shithole for the rest of your life."

  It was in an unexpectedly poignant comment from Declan, who generally only liked to talk about one of three things: his weed, his women, or the gold chain that he wore around his neck.

  Leroy took another toke.

  "What's wrong with that?"

  Declan stopped so suddenly that Leroy almost bowled him over.

  "What the fuck, Declan?"

  His brother reached out and gripped him tightly by the shoulders.

  "Don't say that shit. Don't ever say that shit."

  Leroy tried to shake Declan off, but the man’s grip was too strong.

  "What's your problem, man?"

  Declan glanced over his shoulder at the high-rise and then lowered his gaze to the three hood rats sitting in the park in front, brown bags of liquor in their hands.

  "That’s what you want? You want to be like them? Huh? You really want to live here for the rest of your life?”

  Leroy shrugged, and his brother tightened his grip.

  "Man, you’re fucking hurting my arms,” Leroy protested, but Declan didn’t ease up.

  "That's what they want you to do, that’s what they want you to think. They just want to keep a nigga in the hood. They don’t want you to break out, get a real job, a nice house. All that shit. They just want us to stay right here, in one place, where they can monitor and control us."

  Declan finally let go of his arms and Leroy shook them out. He had no idea what his brother was talking about or what had brought about this wholly unexpected diatribe.

  "Shit, you just high. I don't—"

  Declan reached for him again, but this time Leroy was ready and avoided his brother’s grasp.

  "Yeah, I'm high, and that's what they want, too; they want you to get high and keep on gettin’ high. Anything to keep you here, in this shithole. Speaking of which, gimme that shit back."

  This time when Declan tried to grab the joint, it was Leroy’s turn to pull it back. He was smiling as he did this, but Declan wasn’t.

  “Whatever,” Leroy grumbled, handing the joint over.

  “No, not whatever, Little L. You need to focus on your schoolwork; you’re smart, man. Fuck, you know more about chemistry than half the teachers at our school. With that brain of yours, you could go to college. Imagine that shit, huh? A Robinson in college? What would mom—”

  A police siren blipped behind them and Leroy whipped around in time to see an NYPD cruiser pull up to the curb. The window was open, and a man straight out of the 80s leaned out.

  "Shit," Leroy swore. He adjusted the straps on his backpack and prepared to run. “Flick that shit and let’s get the fuck out of here, D.”

  Leroy had already broken into a slow jog by the time he realized his brother wasn’t by his side.

  “What the fuck?”

/>   Declan hadn’t heeded either of his suggestions; in fact, he was still smoking the joint and appeared to actually be going toward the police cruiser.

  "What the fuck are you doing?" Leroy hissed. "Let's get the fuck outta here."

  Behind Declan, Leroy saw the cop with the blond brush cut and aviator sunglasses start to strum his fingers on the car door.

  "You always were such a pussy," Declan said over his shoulder.

  Leroy, getting anxious now, turned his head to look for an escape route. The gang bangers who had been sitting in the park had long since left, leaving a straight path between the two high-rise apartment buildings.