Sleeper Cell Super Boxset Page 2

  Tank’s face flushed red as snot and tears dribbled down his face. “Captain, please. Please, I don’t want to die.” He pressed his forehead against the boat deck, collapsing within himself.

  Tank couldn’t have been older than nineteen. All Dylan could think about when he looked at him was his own son. Tank had a father somewhere, a mother, friends, people who loved and cared about him.

  Dylan slowly disengaged the revolver’s hammer and released the man. He placed the gun on the ground, keeping his hands in the air. “No one needs to die. Take the boat, take whatever you need, and just go.” He kicked the revolver away, and it skidded across the slick boat deck until it landed by the man still holding a gun to the back of Tank’s skull.

  The man Dylan held rubbed his neck gently, which was flushed red. He walked to his comrade and picked up the revolver. He tossed it over in his hands, opened the chamber, closed it, and gripped the handle. “Three-eighty special. A detective gun. Growing up, did you play cowboys and Indians, Captain?”

  Dylan looked down to Tank, still reeling on deck. “Tank, you’re going to be fine, okay? It’s going to be all right.”

  “I am sure you did,” the man said. “I bet you ran around your yard, green with grass, wearing your cowboy hat and your sheriff’s badge, hunting down the bad guys and throwing them in jail. I bet you liked that, being the hero. The good guy.” He cocked the hammer back on the revolver and twisted his face, the thin line of his beard forming a grimace. “There are no good men or bad men. There are only those that are willing to do what it takes to get what they want.” He pushed his comrade aside and placed the revolver’s barrel on the back of Tank’s skull, and Tank broke out in another fit of cries.

  “Please.” Dylan took a step forward then stopped when the rest of the pistols were aimed at him. “I was wrong. Okay?” It took everything in him to keep his voice steady. “If you’re going to hurt someone, hurt me.”

  “I am.” The man pulled the trigger, and the piece of lead entered the back of Tank’s skull and exited his left cheek. Both Mark and Dylan lunged at the pirates the moment the shot was fired but were pistol-whipped to the deck, joining Tank on the ground, where a stream of blood poured out of Tank’s face and mixed with the salt water puddled on the floor.

  Dylan collapsed to the deck, looking to Tank, whose eyes were still open and his body motionless. He reached out and lowered the boy’s eyelids. Then, two of the pirates picked Tank’s body up and tossed it overboard.

  “Even if you would have killed me, the boy would have died,” the man said, tossing the revolver over the side of the ship along with the body. “At least you’re alive. For now.”

  Chapter 2 - Saturday 1:00 a.m.

  The tires of a 1985 Oldsmobile with its headlights off pulled onto the graveled pavement that was the makeshift parking lot for the small harbor and docks that sat alongside the Atlantic. The only light that the harbor provided was a few lampposts along the docks and one flickering bulb encased in broken plastic against the harbormaster’s building.

  Adila Cooper checked the clock on the Oldsmobile’s dash as it flashed 1:00 a.m. She cut the engine and leaned back in her seat, which creaked. She drummed her fingers on the wheel. “C’mon, you bastards. Don’t get cold feet on me now.” A pair of headlights flashed in her rearview mirror, and a surge of relief and adrenaline kicked in. “Here we go.” Cooper pushed herself out of the car and leaned against the back of the trunk, her arms crossed in an annoyed stance. “You’re late, Demetri.”

  The doors of the black Mercedes seemed to shut in unison as the four figures exited the car. All of them dressed in long black overcoats with the same short black haircut and broad faces that accompanied their Russian heritage.

  “Relax,” Demetri replied. “Good business takes time.” He was a second-generation son of a Russian mob boss that worked the Northeast. He spoke both English and Russian but never had the accent that his father and uncles had yet to shed.

  “Good business happens when people agree to the terms,” Cooper retorted. “You talk with your father?”

  “I did. Both he and I are in agreement. Three shipments a week. Twenty kilos per shipment, at six hundred thousand upon delivery.”

  Cooper frowned and cocked her head to the side. “The agreement was for six fifty a shipment. Don’t try and lowball me on this, Demetri.”

  “Eta zhenshchina. Vsegda so spetsifikoy,” Demetri said, turning to the crew behind him. “You and I both know you’ll make up the difference in the volume. There isn’t anyone on the east coast that can handle the kilos you’re bringing in. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.” He reached out and gently rubbed one of the dark-black locks of her hair that rested on her shoulder.

  Cooper reached up and gently rubbed the top of his hand with her thumb then squeezed her fingers and twisted Demetri’s wrist, causing him to howl in pain. “It’s not that beneficial, sweetheart.” She shoved his hand away, and he took a few steps back, rubbing his wrist and chuckling.

  “I always thought you’d like it rough.”

  “It’s best not to mix business and pleasure.” Cooper led them down the docks, past rows of boats floating silently in the night air. They boarded the second-to-last boat on the dock, and Cooper ripped off a tarp that covered a massive cooler with a lock. She reached into her pocket and tossed Demetri the key. “Take a look. Make sure everything’s in order. And then I’ll be taking my six fifty, and be on my way.”

  Demetri laughed, shaking his head. He handed the key to one of his men, who opened the cooler, stacked the wrapped bricks of cocaine into his arms, and passed it to the others. Another one of Demetri’s henchmen gave him a small bag, then he extended it to Cooper. “Just have enough respect to wait and count it until after I’m gone.”

  “Just make sure I don’t have to come looking for you after I do.” Cooper opened the bag and thumbed the thick stacks of hundreds inside. Money always had a distinct smell, like a crisp piece of paper that had been baked in the sun for too long and left out to dry. She zipped the bag back up and headed over to her car, with Demetri and his crew in tow.

  “I look forward to working with you in the future,” Demetri said, his crew piling the cocaine into his trunk. “We’re going to make a lot of money together.”

  The graveled parking lot came alive with sirens, lights, and police vehicles as they were surrounded with at least thirty officers. Cooper, Demetri, and his men removed their pistols, firing into the police, retreating to the docks.

  Cooper’s feet smacked against the wooden planks of the boat dock. The water echoed the gunshots across the bay. She aimed her pistol into the clustered group of officers bottlenecking themselves at the front of the dock. Gunshots fired back and forth, and one of Demetri’s men caught a bullet in the back and collapsed to the dock before they made it to the boat that had stored the cocaine. The vessel rocked as the four of them climbed on board.

  “What the hell did you do?” Demetri roared, gripping Cooper’s neck and squeezing.

  Cooper ripped Demtri’s hands off her and shoved him back. “You told me the feds weren’t watching you anymore!” She fired down the long dock, her bullets splintering the wooden pillars the officers tried hiding behind. The pistol’s slide rocked back, signaling the magazine was empty. She ducked back into the cover of the boat and reloaded.

  Demetri’s henchmen fired while their boss hung back, close to the boat’s console. He searched frantically, trying to figure out how to start the engine. “Where are the keys?”

  Cooper padded her pockets. “Shit! I left them at the car.”

  Demetri turned on her as gunfire blasted their eardrums. “How the hell are we supposed to get out of here, then?”

  “I don’t suppose you can swim, can you?” Cooper peeked above the edge of the hull’s wall and saw that the officers had marched more than halfway down the dock. They were overrun, outgunned, and running out of time. “I’m not going to jail.” She jumped from the boat and ont
o the dock, firing wildly into the authorities.

  A bullet connected to her stomach, and a gush of blood erupted from her shirt. She stumbled to her knee and continued to fire, clutching her abdomen. The pistol’s magazine emptied, and another bullet impacted her chest, triggering another spat of blood, and she collapsed to her back. She lay there, her arms and legs twisted as she watched the faces of the officers circle above her then march their way down the rest of the dock.

  Cooper lay there, motionless on the splintered docks, her eyes closed, listening to the battle between the police and Demetri’s men. She lost track of time as she lay there, and wasn’t exactly sure when the gunfire stopped, but she was suddenly aware of being lifted up and onto a stretcher and carried down the dock.

  The paramedics slid her inside the ambulance, where she was greeted by two officers in DEA jackets. The medics closed the doors, and she felt the ambulance lurch forward.

  “You got a lot of balls,” the DEA agent said.

  Blood still covered her chest and stomach. Agent Cooper propped herself up on her elbows and eyeballed the two of them. “Had to make it convincing.” She slid her hand down her shirt and yanked out two small pouches of torn blood packs and slung them on the floor. She gently pressed down where the rubber bullets had bruised her flesh. “Damn, those things hurt.”

  Agent Diaz tossed her a jacket, and she took off her bloody shirt and exchanged it for the jumpsuit. “Worth it, though. There’s enough cocaine to put Demetri away for a long time.”

  Cooper zipped up her jacket and pinned her badge on the belt of her pants. “Good to finally have that back. Hey!” She shouted up toward the driver. “Take us back around to the surveillance vans. I want to see the bastards in cuffs.”

  “Coop, that’s probably not a good idea,” Diaz said as the ambulance made a wide-sweeping turn. “You want to keep your distance for a while, and the boss wants a debrief ASAP.”

  “I’m not going to get out and talk to them,” Cooper answered. “I just want to see the reward of four months’ worth of work.” She positioned herself just next to the window as the ambulance pulled back onto the harbor. Only Demetri and one of his henchmen walked out alive. She couldn’t help but grin as the officer pushed Demetri’s head down and locked him up in the vehicle. Cooper leaned back against the ambulance’s wall. “He was never anything more than a wannabe.”

  “His father will do whatever he can to break him out,” Diaz said. “Despite their prickly relationship.”

  “Well, tell him good luck. The Shoscovs don’t have the power they used to. We’re slowly cutting off their money, and without that, they won’t be able to hide behind their expensive lawyers or their concrete walls and security systems.”

  “They won’t be able to weasel their way out of this one. It’s cut-and-dry. The coke was real, you’re dead, and they exchanged hands. This was foolproof.”

  “A lot of things are supposed to be foolproof.” Cooper rubbed the tender flesh on her chest where the blood packs had detonated, and once the officers carrying Demetri and his henchmen disappeared, she climbed out of the van and joined the remaining DEA agents tagging evidence.

  Glances and hushed whispers followed Cooper as she made her way through the crime scene. She felt each eye drill into the back of her head like a laser. She rolled her shoulders, uncomfortable from the attention. She made her way down the dock, passing the bloodstains on the wood where she’d been hit. Two coroners were wrapping up one of the dead henchmen by the boat, but Cooper kept walking until she ran out of dock.

  The horizon was nothing but black and water. Waves lapped against the dock pillars, and Cooper closed her eyes to smell the salt air, but the only scent that grazed her nostrils was bird shit. When Diaz walked up behind her, he offered a light smile, which Cooper didn’t return. “Somebody know something I don’t?”

  Diaz let out a sigh. “You’ve been undercover for a long time, Coop. When you go under that long, rumors start. It’ll blow over in a couple of weeks, once you get back into the routine.”

  Cooper scoffed. “Seven years with the department, and they think I’m dirty? Why? Because some prick dropped a tip that I was dealing on the side. It’s bullshit.”

  “And the bullshit will clear,” Diaz replied. “I know you’re not dirty.”

  “Yeah, well, you might be the only one.” It wasn’t a secret that Cooper had been in more undercover operations than any other DEA agent in history, and along with those long stints came a reputation. A reputation that maybe she’d sunk herself too deep, let herself go in too much. Even she had to admit, it was a rush, living in the underworld that most people never see. Never knowing what would hit you. Maybe she had been under too long.

  ***

  The office was small but adequate space for Homeland Deputy Director Richard Perry’s needs. The stapler, pens, and computer monitor on his desk were lined up in an organized grid, everything in its proper place. The walls and shelves were bare of any personal effects. No pictures of family or friends. Nothing.

  Despite the small collar and tie, Perry’s thin neck wiggled loosely against the stiff collar. His jacket hung on the back of his chair, the American flag pinned to the lapel. His bony fingers typed along the keyboard, crawling like an insect over a larger foe. The cuffs of his long-sleeved shirt had crept up his forearms, exposing flesh that looked cracked and flaky. He quickly pulled them back down to his wrists.

  The only light in the hallway was emitted from his office. The rest of the staff had gone home long ago, leaving Perry alone to burn the midnight oil. He finished up a few details on his report, spell-checked it, then sent it to his superior. He checked his watch and waited, looking at the phone on his desk. A few seconds later, and it rang. “Director, what can I help you with?”

  “Perry, is this some sort of joke?”

  Perry rose from his chair. Even when he stood, his body seemed twisted, and his legs and arms seemed too long for the rest of his body. He stepped around the desk, walking to the window to shut the blinds, a habit he went through even when no one was around. “No, sir, I’m afraid it’s not.”

  “If this gets out, and we’re wrong... Christ, if we’re right, this could cause a national emergency.”

  Perry nodded his head, making his way back to his desk. “Yes, sir. That’s why I wanted to bring it to you directly. Keeping this out of the public eye will be important.”

  “We’ll need to bring in the Secretary of the Navy on this, make sure the West Coast is prepared.”

  “I already have a proposal in your inbox, sir.”

  The director gave a light laugh on the other end of the line. “I’ve never met anyone that made my job so easy and hard at the same time. I’ve set up a meeting for first thing this morning at 8:00 a.m. It’ll be on the second-floor conference room.”

  “I’ll be there, sir.” The call clicked dead, and Perry set the phone down. He checked the time on the wall and pulled out a cell phone. He dialed a contact labeled “unknown” and waited as it rang. A few seconds later, an older voice picked up, and Perry spoke in a calm whisper. “Is it done?”

  “Landing will happen before sunrise.”

  Perry snapped the cell shut then stuffed it into his pocket. He grabbed his forearm. Even under the cloth of his shirt, he felt the bumps and grooves that tattooed his skin. Soon.

  Chapter 3 – Saturday 2:00 a.m.

  With the bandana tied around his eyes, blocking his vision, all Dylan had to rely on was what he heard and felt. The pirate’s gibberish and the heavy clunk of crates and boots across the ship’s deck. The side of his face still felt tender from the hit, and the temperature of the air had dropped dramatically, letting him know the sun had long since sunk beneath the horizon. His shoulders felt tight, and his back was rigid. The restraints around his ankles and wrists were bound together, and his knees had gone numb from sitting on them for the past few hours.

  The adrenaline had long run out of him, along with the mixture of grief, f
ear, and anger that went with it. All he could do was sit there while the image of Tank’s face plagued his thoughts until his mind was soaked with the blood that had poured out of his crewman. He’d only known the boy for a few weeks, but despite Mark’s flogging that he was worthless, Tank caught on quick.

  When Dylan watched Tank from the wheelhouse, he would catch a smile creep up the side of his face when he was chumming bait or stowing a line. The boy loved the water. But when the images replayed in his mind, a hole would appear in Tank’s left cheek, and blood would spout from it and onto the deck, and his body was tossed overboard. His family and friends couldn’t even bury him.

  Mark, Billy, and Dylan had remained silent during their imprisonment. None of them were willing to risk the beating or bullet they knew would come if they spoke. Even Mark’s mouth yielded after a round of thrashing from the pirates.

  The dialogue between their captors suddenly turned heated. While they still spoke in their foreign tongue, Dylan knew something was wrong. The words reached a crescendo when a hand yanked off the blindfold. Dylan blinked repeatedly, his eyes adjusting to the moonlight. He looked to his left and saw that Mark and Billy were both still tied up and blindfolded. The pirate who had taken the blindfold off him dropped a map in front of him with scribbling all over it.

  Dylan unfurled the map in his hands, and under moonlight he saw a circle around a small stretch of land just south of Boston on the coast. Dylan tossed the map back at the feet of the pirate. “I’m not taking you anywhere.” A right cross connected to Dylan’s face, and he stumbled from his knees to his side, bumping into Mark, who fell with him. The pirate fisted a clump of Dylan’s hair and yanked his head back, exposing his neck to the blade in his hand. Dylan felt the cold steel just below his Adam’s apple. “Go ahead. Do it.”

  The head pirate looked at him and smiled. “Captain Dylan, it seems like you’re finally understanding what we’re trying to do.” He crouched down and met him at eye level. “It’s a place here.” The pirate pressed his forefinger into Dylan’s chest, hard, until it pulsed in and out with the beat of Dylan’s heart. “The mind makes us believe that it’s the one in control, but it’s the heart that fuels our desires, our fantasies, and our revenge.”