Detective Damien Drake series Box Set 2 Read online

  Chapter 56

  “It’s back online! It’s back online!” Dunbar shouted. “Drake’s cell phone is online!”

  Sgt. Yasiv leaned over the back of the detective’s chair as he punched away on the keyboard.

  “Do you have a lock on it? Do you know where Drake is?”

  “Working on it. It’s somewhere in Hell’s Kitchen, gimme a second,” Dunbar replied, still hammering away at the keys.

  Sgt. Yasiv lifted his head to the driver.

  “Go!” he instructed. “Murray, drive! Take us to Hell’s Kitchen!”

  The mobile command center lurched forward and Yasiv braced himself on the back of Dunbar’s chair.

  I hope you got out of there, Drake, Yasiv thought. I hope to god that you had enough time to get the fuck out of there.

  “Got it!” Detective Dunbar exclaimed, leaning back from his computer. “It’s on West 41st! West 41st and 11th Ave!”

  The van immediately careened to the right.

  “Hold on!” Officer Murray called back.

  They veered around a corner and then Dunbar turned to look at Yasiv with wide eyes.

  “Should I call him now? Should I call DI Palmer?”

  Yasiv chewed the inside of his lip and then nodded.

  If it were up to him, he’d hold out as long as possible before getting Palmer involved. But this was Drake’s operation, not his.

  And Drake wanted the Deputy Inspector to see this.

  “Call him. Call DI Palmer and let him know we’ve found Drake.”

  “ETA Six minutes!” Murray hollered. “Hold on tight, it’s gonna get dicey.”

  Yasiv gripped the back of Dunbar’s chair so hard that his knuckles turned white.

  I hope to God you got out of there, Drake.

  Chapter 57

  As soon as the pain in his calf subsided, Drake started laughing again. He laughed when Boris tripped over the bed as he scrambled toward the door. He laughed at the expression on Raul’s previously unflappable face.

  He laughed at the absurdity, the sheer lunacy of it all.

  When he heard the muted sounds of sirens reach him from within the nearly soundproof room, he continued to laugh.

  He pictured the auction bidders stuck in their stalls, waiting to be rescued.

  Waiting to be arrested.

  And this made him laugh even harder.

  He hadn’t gotten Ken, and both Raul and Boris were more than likely going to get away. But Boris was wrong. What he’d done here, what Drake and his friends had accomplished, meant something. They had put a serious wrench in Ken’s plans. And people would take notice.

  DI Palmer would have no choice but to let Sgt. Yasiv dig deep into the connections between Smith and Brackovich. The public pressure would be too great, the outrage at the idea of auctioning off human lives right here in New York would not go ignored.

  Sure, it meant that Drake would likely be pining away in a prison cell somewhere for what he’d done to Officer Kramer, but it was worth it.

  Eventually, he’d get out. And when he did, he’d continue his pursuit of Ken Smith and the other people behind ANGUIS Holdings.

  The only thing that stopped Drake’s chuckling was the sound of someone groaning.

  Mandy pulled herself to her feet and massaged the side of her head. Other than a welt above her right eye, she looked no worse for wear.

  Veronica was right, this girl had some stones. She could look after herself.

  I just hope you’re okay, too, V.

  At first, when Mandy’s eyes fell on Drake, confusion washed over her. But when she realized that they were alone in the room, that Raul and Boris were gone, she grabbed something off the dresser and hurried over to him.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  The back of his head throbbed from where Raul had struck him, but Drake didn’t think that it was serious. He was more concerned about his leg; he could no longer feel anything below his right knee.

  “I’ll be fine,” he said quietly. “You should get out of here.”

  Mandy took a step back and observed him for a moment.

  “Drake, you’re the one who needs to get out of here. The police are coming, and they’re going to arrest you. They’re going to arrest you for what I did out at the—”

  Drake shook his head.

  “I did that,” he said. “I hit Kramer and locked him in the container. Go with Veronica, she’ll take care of you. Please.”

  Mandy bowed her head and walked behind Drake.

  But she didn’t go to the door. Instead, she cut him free of his bindings.

  And then she leaned close to his ear.

  “Thank you,” Mandy said, before kissing him on the cheek.

  Still confused by this sudden turn of events, Drake shook his head and then groaned as he pulled himself to his feet.

  “No, thank you, Mandy.”

  But Mandy was already gone.

  The sirens were louder now and Drake knew he didn’t have much time. But with his leg the way it was, he didn’t know if he was going to make it out of there before the cops arrived.

  But Drake wasn’t one for quitting.

  Chapter 58

  Sgt. Henry Yasiv stared in amazement at the parade of men that were brought handcuffed out of the auction. He counted at least eleven of them, eleven well-dressed men sporting everything from pinstripe suits to a sultan’s robes.

  He could barely contain his disgust. His first instinct after they’d blown through the door to the auction room was to leave again, to let them rot in there.

  But now, seeing them hang their heads in shame as they were led out of the place, he felt a modicum of satisfaction. But it didn’t last long.

  “He’s not here!” somebody shouted. Yasiv turned in the direction of the voice. “Drake’s not fucking here!”

  Yasiv felt his anger bubble over as he stared at DI Palmer. The man was notorious for keeping his cool, but now that the trace had only revealed Drake’s phone and not the man himself, Palmer was irate.

  With Yasiv watching on, Palmer grabbed a uniformed officer by the collar and screamed in his face, demanding to know where Drake was. The young cop was so startled that he could barely produce a full sentence.

  Yasiv grabbed DI Palmer’s arm, and the man let go of the officer and spun around.

  “You knew that he wasn’t going to be here!” Palmer accused. “You knew it, didn’t you!”

  Yasiv said nothing, but couldn’t help the smirk that crossed his lips.

  DI Palmer leveled a finger directly at his nose.

  “If I find out you’ve had something to do with this, that you helped him get away, I swear to God, Yasiv, you won’t just be out of a job, but you’ll be locked away.”

  Yasiv felt oddly calm in the face of such anger and remained mum.

  But inside, he was begging for Palmer to strike him. With all of these other officers and detectives milling about, there was no way that Palmer could talk his way out of that one. Not even Ken Smith would be able to help him.

  “Let me go!” a female voice shouted, drawing both Palmer’s and Yasiv’s attention.

  A petite woman with blond hair was thrashing in the arms of a police officer, struggling to free herself. She was wearing a strange nightgown that seemed two sizes too big for her.

  Yasiv squinted. The woman seemed familiar and the last time he’d seen her she’d also been wearing a nightgown… only that one had been too small, not too big.

  And it had been adorned with Anna from Frozen.

  What the hell is she doing here?

  “Let her go,” Sgt. Yasiv ordered.

  The officer holding her raised an eyebrow.

  “Sorry?”

  “You heard me: let her go,” Yasiv repeated.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Yasiv spotted an officer making his way not toward the scene as most others were, but away from it. He was wearing an NYPD police hat, but the rest of the uniform didn’t match—he was wearing plaincloth
es. And despite the fact that he was walking with a limp, there was something about his gait that Yasiv recognized.

  “And that’s my purse! Give me my fucking purse!” the woman demanded.

  This new officer, like the first, turned to Sgt. Yasiv for advice. It was strange how these trained policemen could deal with the likes of Russian mobsters, drug dealers, and biker gangs, but when they were confronted by a feisty woman, they had no idea how to act.

  “Give her her purse back, Jesus,” Sgt. Yasiv said with a sigh. The officer obliged, and Yasiv turned back to the strange man with the limp.

  DI Palmer must have followed his gaze, because he suddenly spoke up.

  “Where the hell do you think you’re going?

  But the officer didn’t turn; instead, he ducked his head low and hobbled even more quickly away from the scene.

  Palmer took a step toward the man.

  “I’m talking to you! Hey, officer! Don’t you walk away from me.”

  Yasiv’s eyes flicked back to the woman who had since gotten her purse and they exchanged a knowing glance. The woman’s wide eyes then darted three times over to the man whom Palmer was addressing.

  And that’s when Yasiv finally understood; he knew where he’d seen this woman before, and he knew who the man with the limp was.

  He reached for Palmer’s arm and tried to turn him around, but the DI just shook him off.

  “You fucking asshole!” Veronica suddenly shouted. “You bastard!”

  Yasiv looked back in time to see a squat Russian man with gray hair being dragged in handcuffs through the hole in the wall. He was snarling and barking something in Russian to the two police officers who held him. As he watched, Veronica reached into her purse and pulled out a Taser.

  Oh, shit.

  “Fuck you!” Veronica screamed as she ran at the man.

  There was a crackle as she drove the Taser into the man’s midsection. Yasiv saw his eyes roll back and his body tense. But Veronica wasn’t done yet. She pulled the Taser back, only to thrust it forward again, this time aiming for the man’s crotch.

  The noise of the Taser and the shriek that followed was so loud that it drew nearly everyone’s attention.

  Yasiv started toward the woman, anticipating that Palmer would follow.

  And he did.

  When they reached Veronica, it took both of them to pull her off the Russian man who had since started to drool.

  Yasiv relaxed and Veronica broke free. This time, she kicked the man in the crotch.

  “That’s for Nancy!” she kicked again. “That’s for Mandy! And this one…” she reared back and delivered a kick so vicious that the man’s knees buckled and he collapsed to the ground, nearly taking the two officers down with him. “And that’s for me, you piece of shit.”

  Veronica held her hands up and stepped back.

  Grinning now, Yasiv looked over his shoulder for the plainclothed officer in the hat, but he couldn’t find him anywhere.

  Yasiv’s grin became a full-fledged smile.

  Drake was gone.

  Chapter 59

  “Hurry! We need to get the fuck out of here!” Boris shouted at Raul as they sprinted down the hallway.

  Carnage was all around them; his men were lying on the floor moaning, blood leaking from various wounds.

  One person did this?

  But when he saw the van halfway inside the goddamn building, he shook his head.

  Impossible.

  Boris managed to slide through the opening and then squeezed himself between the brick wall and the side of the cargo van.

  As he moved, the sirens got louder. They were coming from the east, so when he cleared the alley, he pointed in that direction.

  “Raul, you run that way! Go find Ken… tell him what happened here. Tell him what Drake did!”

  The impish man stared at Boris for a moment and for a split second he thought that Raul would ignore his request. But without saying a word, the man started running east.

  Boris hurried the other way, passing in front of a Chinese restaurant. People were staring at him, he realized, and it was mostly due to the fact that he was wearing a button-down shirt and suit pants.

  I need to change; I need to change, find a car, and get the fuck out here.

  Resisting the urge to run and draw more attention to himself, Boris walked briskly toward the next alley. He slid into the shadows, thankful to no longer be out in the open.

  Halfway to the conjoining street, he spotted a bum curled up beneath an over-sized NYU sweatshirt.

  The idea of wearing the sweatshirt made him cringe—God only knew what it was infested with—but he had no choice.

  People had seen him leave the auction, they’d seen him in his button-down and suit bottoms.

  Heart racing, Boris reached down and yanked the sweatshirt off the bum.

  He felt resistance as he started to walk away, and he shot a leg out without even bothering to look where he kicked.

  “Fuck off,” he snapped.

  He’d just managed to put his head and one arm through when the bum spoke and he stopped cold.

  “Boris? Boris Brackovich? Is that really you?”

  Boris, eyes wide, turned to face the voice.

  It had come from the bum, only the man wasn’t a bum anymore—probably never was.

  It was a handsome man with short, bleached-blond hair.

  And he was smiling.

  “You’ve been a bad boy, Boris. And now it’s time to pay.”

  When Boris saw the glint of the blade in the man’s hand, it was already too late.

  All he could do was scream.

  ***

  Beckett used the NYU sweatshirt to clean the blood off his hands as he made his way back to his car.

  There were sirens all around him now, but this time he wasn’t going to hang around. He needed to get out of there and fast.

  Parked just one block over, Beckett made it to his car without being spotted. Two squad cars had driven by, their sirens blazing, but they paid him no heed.

  He balled up the sweatshirt and took his keys out of his pocket to unlock the trunk. Only when he got closer, he realized that it was slightly ajar.

  His heart started to thud in his chest even harder than it had when he’d killed Boris Brackovich.

  With trembling fingers, Beckett opened the trunk.

  “No,” he moaned. “No.”

  It was gone; the bag of bloody clothes and balaclava from Bob Bumacher’s house were missing.

  Beckett heard a grunt from behind him and whipped around, slipping the scalpel blade from beneath the sweatshirt.

  It appeared to be a police officer, but he was in rough shape. The man was shuffling along, his left shoulder rubbing up against the buildings as he moved at a snail’s pace.

  Beckett swallowed hard and his eyes flicked down to the blade in his hand.

  Did he see me? Do I have to… could I even…

  But then the man lifted his head and peered at Beckett from beneath the brim of his NYPD hat.

  Beckett gasped, then tossed both the sweatshirt and scalpel into the trunk and slammed it closed. Then he ran over to the man and wrapped his arm around his waist.

  “It looks like you could use a ride, Drake. Come on, let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  Epilogue

  Two Months Later

  All eyes were on the TV screen, including Sgt. Yasiv’s. Deputy Inspector Lewis Palmer stood at the podium, his face pale, his eyes downcast. It was a recording of the first official news conference after the events that had transpired in Hell’s Kitchen.

  “First of all, myself and Mayor Smith would like to send our greatest admiration and congratulations to the hard-working men of the 62nd precinct, as well as the other precincts that helped solve one of the largest sex trafficking scandals in the history of New York. To date, we have indicted twenty-three individuals for crimes that vary from human trafficking, solicitation, unlawful and forceful confinement, among oth
ers. We also seized more than one hundred kilos of heroin in a related bust.”

  When DI Palmer paused to catch his breath, a woman in the audience spoke up.

  “Can you tell us about Boris Brackovich’s death?”

  Palmer’s brow furrowed.

  “We can confirm that real estate magnate Boris Brackovich was found deceased in the vicinity of the crime scene.”

  “But can you confirm that he was involved in the sex auction?”

  DI Palmer shook his head.

  “At this time, all we know is that Boris was found dead with multiple stab wounds to his neck and chest. As the investigation is ongoing, we—”

  “Are you telling me that that *bleep* *bleep* *bleep* Boris wasn’t buying young Colombian girls so that he could *bleep* *bleep* *bleep* them?”

  The string of profanities that followed was so lengthy that Sgt. Yasiv couldn’t even make out the context of the sentence.

  The camera panned to the audience and the woman who had been addressing Palmer appeared on screen.

  “There,” DI Palmer said, leaning forward. “Pause it right there.”

  He tapped the screen.

  “That woman, she was there that night. She was the one who tased the Russian. I swear it.”

  Yasiv stared at the still image.

  “It could be, but it’s hard to tell. It was a crazy time and—”

  Palmer shook his head.

  “No, that’s her. I know it. I know—”

  Yasiv turned his back to the man and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a well-worn piece of paper and unfolded it.

  ANGUIS Holdings, the title read. Below that were four names: Boris Brackovich, Steffani Loomis, Horatio Dupont, and Mendes Corporation. Boris’s name had been crossed out.

  At the bottom of the page, there was a fifth: Ken Smith.