Dangerous Company (Detective Damien Drake Book 11)
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Dangerous Company
Detective Damien Drake Book 11
Patrick Logan
Prologue
PART I – Confessions
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
PART II – Occam’s Razor
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
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
Part III — Hickam's Dictum
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Bad company ruins good morals.
–The Bible
Almost Infamous
Detective Damien Drake Book 9
Patrick Logan
Prologue
“Did you count it?” the young man asked. He spoke English, but he had a thick Spanish accent. As he inspected the skid full of brown packages, he rubbed his chin. His fingers made a scratching sound as they brushed against the sparse hairs.
A worker in a reflective vest and white hard hat surveyed the skid just like the young man, his lips moving slightly with the mental math.
“Yes, Andres,” he replied quickly in Spanish. “One hundred.”
The younger man wasn’t satisfied. He counted the packages himself, confirmed that there were one-hundred bricks, all weighing a kilogram each, then took five paces through the overgrown brush. In the clearing, there were three more skids, all identical to the first. There were more workers, too; eight of them in total, all sporting reflective vests and white helmets. They watched Andres with interest but were careful not to make direct eye contact.
“And here?”
“Yes, Andres,” the worker who had followed him to these skids answered. Andres picked up one of the bricks from the top of the nearest skid and weighed it in his hand. “I made sure—”
A simple finger in the air was sufficient to silence the worker. Andres moved from skid to skid, picking up the occasional package to ensure that it felt right.
Four hundred kilograms… four hundred kilos of grade A heroin.
Andres nodded and allowed himself a small smile.
Finally done. Finally ready.
It was an impressive amount of product, no doubt, but it wasn’t record-breaking. But he’d done it all himself. Andres had taken over his father’s operation and increased production, while also increasing yield and efficiency. And this was without the influence of the West.
And that was something that his late father couldn’t say. Thoughts of the deceased man threatened to sour Andres’ mood, but he failed to let it.
This was a good day, a happy day.
“It's all here,” Andres said, mostly to himself. “Wrap it up, get it ready to move.” He indicated the industrial cellophane wrap and the blue waterproof bags by the edge of the clearing. “Two hours. It moves in two hours.”
The worker from earlier exchanged a look with the other men standing in a line behind the heroin. He adjusted his hat, then shifted his feet uncomfortably.
“Andres, you have not told us where it is being shipped.”
Andres didn’t take his eyes off the product.
“You speak English to me. I’ve told you before.”
The worker cleared his throat.
“Jes, I’m sorry. Where is it going?” There was a nervous timbre to his voice that even his accent couldn’t hide. “Where we ship to?”
“Don't worry about that.”
But the man was worried. Andres knew that all the workers were worried. It had been a long time since any of them had gotten paid. All the money that Andres’ father had managed to procure over the years had long since dried up. Before them was the culmination of years of hard work and they had everything riding on this shipment. If it didn’t make it Stateside, there would not be another.
And if that was the case, Andres knew that his time on this Earth, short as it was, would be up. Others would come for him. Those affiliated with cartels, or maybe someone new, someone hungrier, younger, with deeper pockets would come along.
But this didn’t give the trabajador común the right to question him.
“I'm sorry,” the man continued in his broken English. “I don’t want to make mad, but we,” he gestured toward the other workers, but they suddenly seemed disinterested in this discussion. Moments ago they were encouraging, but now they were, at best, indifferent. “Andres, how you plan on getting it into America?” The man removed his helmet and held it against his chest as a sign of respect. Then he wiped some of the sweat induced from his brow. “Where is it going? We—we just want—”
This time, it wasn't fear that clipped his sentence. It was the sight of the knife that Andres pulled from his pocket.
“Mr. Mendes—”
Andres moved quickly. So quickly, that the worker managed only a single step back before he was upon him.
The blade was short, no more than four inches, but razor-sharp. It slid easily into the soft skin beneath the man's chin, piercing trachea and esophagus with little effort.
Blood gushed from the wound, soaking both of them. Andres retreated, and the man fell to his knees, grabbing at his throat as if strangling himself, desperate to keep his blood in.
No one went to help the man. The spokesperson who had likely been nominated or even forced by the other trabajadores to ask Andres about the shipment died alone on the ground.
When the man’s blood had stopped pumping, Andres moved forward again, intent on wiping the blade on his vest. He got within a foot of the worker before changing his mind. Andres turned and walked over to one of the skids. Using the tip of the knife, he drew on one of the packages with the man’s blood.
It was crude, rough, and barely legible. And yet, every single one of the workers knew exactly what it was: a snake devouring an eyeball.
“New York,” Andres Mendes said in English. He turned to face his men, now wiping the blade clean. “This is all going to New York City. We’re going to pick up where my father left off.”
PART I – Confessions
Chapter 1
“One more,” Damien Drake slurred. “Jus’ one more cold one.”
To punctuate his request, Drake tapped his glass with the splint that kept the first two fingers on his right hand permanently straight. He misjudged the effort needed to get his point across and it nearly slid off the bar.
The bartender, a woman with heavy eyes and a pronounced forehead grabbed the glass before it fell.
“Sure, but my shift is almost up. Do you mind settling before I go?”
If Drake had been sober, he would have recognized this as the telltale sign that the bartender thought that he’d had enough, and she was worried that he couldn’t afford what he’d already imbibed.
He wouldn’t have taken offense, either. Behind the bottles lining the wall was a mirror. And every once in a while, Drake had accidentally glimpsed his reflection.
The first time, he’d been shocked. The second, angry.
Like the glass, when Drake put his credit card on the table, the bartender grabbed it before it fell.
“M-make shhur you put that beer on there, too,” he reminded her.
The woman smiled as she turned and waddled to the cash machine.
Barney’s had gone through more face-lifts than Nicole Kidman. Once an Irish pub, then a millennial neon nightmare and a hipster joint, it had since returned to more humble roots. Draft beer, of the like Drake consumed now, rail liquor, average-at-best food, and a quiet, comfortable ambiance.
But perhaps Barney’s most endearing quality was that it was nearly empty. Truthfully, very few places that suited Drake would be packed at just before one PM on a Tuesday, but that was irrelevant.
Deliberately avoiding his reflection, Drake performed a dramatic head turn to try and figure out why his pint was taking so long.
“Hey, you brewin’ that beer yersel’?” Drake spotted the bartender whispering something to a man with a large black mustache and cursed. “Mickey! Mickey! I need my beer.”
Mickey finished his conversation with the woman and then started over
to him. Even though his mustache covered the entirety of the man’s upper lip, it was clear that he was not pleased.
Not at all.
Before Mickey said anything, Drake changed his tactics.
“Naw, not that drun’,” he said defensively. “Mickey, I ain’t that drun’.”
He threw up his hands and then grunted when his splinted fingers smacked the underside of the bar.
“You know the rule. When consonants become hard, it’s time to go,” Mickey said flatly.
“Consenessss, what is a consensesss?”
“Come on, Drake. You’ve been here for nearly two weeks. It’s time—”
“One more,” Drake begged, doing his best to annunciate every syllable.
“No such thing.” Mickey leaned in close. “You smell like shit, and I don’t think you’ve changed your clothes since last week. Go home, sleep it off.”
Now, Drake knew why the bartender who had been serving him had deferred to Mickey—if it had been her speaking to him this way he would have lashed out.
Not physically—probably not physically—but definitely verbally.
Drake clenched his jaw and stood.
“I’m fine. I just want a beer.”
Mickey tossed his credit card on the bar.
“Go home.”
The light in the room seemed to darken and Drake realized that two large figures were now standing about ten feet behind him.
“Oh, you think Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-whatever are gonna—”
“Please, Drake,” Mickey said. Whether it was the fact that the man’s massive bouncers had appeared or that Drake himself recognized how pathetic he sounded, the man no longer appeared hard. “Your card was declined. I’m not giving you another drop.”
Confused, Drake went to pick up his card. It took three tries with his wounded right hand before he gave up and used his left.
It was a card that Screech had set up—the DSLH business card.
“Don't worry about the bill—I know you’re good for it. But you need to go.”
Drake scowled.
“Fuck.”
He turned a little too quickly and stumbled. When one of the Tweedles moved to help him, Drake shot the man an icy glare.
“Watch where you’re going,” he muttered.
Drake shoved the wooden door to Barney’s open with his good hand and stepped forward. The sun shocked him—he didn’t expect it to be this bright.
Instantly blinded, he tried to both stop and back up at the same time, a movement that would have been awkward for a sober person.
His knee locked when it came down mid-stride and Drake careened to his left. If it hadn’t been for the small step up from the sidewalk to Barney’s front door, he might have caught his balance.
Maybe.
But Drake wasn’t sober—hadn’t been since the press conference following the death of the Straw Man and Hanna’s subsequent disappearance.
It was all that bastard Mackenzie Hart’s fault. He with his videos and blackmail and unrelenting vendetta.
Drake tried to brace his fall with his hands, to gracefully land in a push-up position and protect his face. But his still mending fingers barked in pain when they struck the sidewalk, and he only partially cushioned his descent. His neck whipped forward upon impact and his nose smashed against the solid ground and exploded in a shower of red.
Chapter 2
“You cut him off?” Leroy balked. “What do you mean, you cut Drake off?”
Screech was expecting this sort of reaction, but what he hadn't counted on was Leroy making hammers out of his hands. Still, he didn’t back down.
“Really? You're really asking me why?”
Leroy just stared at him blankly. The man was an intimidating presence, especially now that his boxing training had kicked into high gear. He had a thick chest, vascular arms, and tightly wound core, but it was Leroy’s shoulders that were his most impressive feature. They were round and heavy, bulging outward nearly as far as his pecs.
Screech would have been lying if he said he wasn’t intimidated, as was evident in the apparent need to answer his own query, but not so much that he was willing to reverse his decision.
“Okay, okay, let's go over this, shall we? Drake almost cost us our PI licenses, and nearly sent us all to prison for the sting operation with Lucas Lionelle or whatever the fuck his name is. Not only that, but because of his decisions, which, I might add, he failed to consult with any of us on, we’ve already blown through all the cash that we got from Brock Page. And when we finally catch a break with the Straw Man case—finally have an opportunity to get a shout out from Mark Trumbo and push our workload through the roof, Drake pulls the plug.” Screech paused to take a deep breath. He could feel that his face had reddened, and his forehead was now slick with sweat. “The worst part? The worst part is that Drake doesn’t tell us anything… he doesn’t even hint at why he lied and had our business shipped to that prick, Mackenzie Hart.”
Leroy's expression softened, but only a little.
“But there has to be a reason, right? I refuse to believe that he is somehow working for Mackenzie Hart.”
Screech shook his head. He was about to say that Drake was no traitor, but his recent decisions certainly appeared suspicious.
“Naw,” he concluded. “It’s not that—can’t be that. But do you have any idea why he would do it? Why would Drake tell the DA to promote Hart Investigator and not us?”
Again, Leroy just stared.
“Me neither,” Screech said. “And I’m guessing that until he feels the need to enlighten us, we’re not gonna know. Fuck, I haven’t seen him since the presser.”
Leroy crossed his arms over his chest but not in anger—this was a clear indication that he regretted opening this line of conversation. But for Screech, once the floodgates were open, they were impossible to close.
“What about Hanna? What about her? Have you heard from her? Has anyone heard from her?”
“No, but we both know—”
“Know what?” Screech felt his body temperature rise a few more degrees. He was simmering now. “Eccentric? Yeah, Hanna’s eccentric, sure. But it's not like her to just leave, to abandon us and run away. She's as loyal as they come, which is more than I can say for Drake. That, you can’t deny.”
“Well, she's—”
Once again, Screech refused to let the man finish. He was on a roll.
“She was there for us, Leroy, Hanna was there for Drake, too! If not for her, Drake would probably still be locked away in that horrible psych facility. So, yeah, Drake's initial might still be on that door, but there are two of us and one of him. And he's not contributing in any way, shape, or form to the bottom line here at DSLH. Which means I don’t want him blowing what little cash we have at the bar. If you have a problem with that…” Screech let his sentence trail off, not as a threat but as an invitation for a challenge.
In the end, Leroy was the one who backed down.
“I’m just worried about him,” he said softly.
And this was the true reason why Leroy was so angry at Screech for pulling Drake’s financial lifeline. It wasn’t like he had an NYPD pension to fall back on—like them, DLSH was all Drake had. But unlike them, he had a self-destructive streak that cut deep. Despite his anger, Screech was worried about Drake. Two weeks… he couldn’t remember the last time that fourteen days had gone by, and he hadn’t seen the curmudgeonly bastard.
Screech’s eyes drifted toward the frosted glass door. From inside the office, it read snoitagitsevnI HSLD but while the first part sounded like an Eastern European dish, it was the last part that made him cringe.
DSLH—Drake, Screech, Leroy, Hanna.
The name felt dishonest. There was no more D and no more H. SL Investigations, however, didn’t have the same ring to it.
Nor did it have the prestige, because even though Drake was a pain in the ass, a drunk, and hated by most, if not all, of the NYPD, he was the anchor that held them all together. And there was a reason why the D came first—when people came to DSLH, it was Drake they were seeking.
The real question might not be if they could survive with Drake, but whether or not they could survive without him.
“I'm sure he'll—” come back, Screech meant to say, but he was interrupted by a knock on the door. He’d been so focused on the name, that he hadn’t noticed the shadow appear.