ESCAPE FROM AMBERGRIS CAYE (13 page)

Zac
forced an awkward laugh. Leon’s coarse joke wasn't remotely amusing. He wasn't
a prude, but this guy seemed to think the more obscene the story, the funnier.
The man was disgusting. Well, at least the Cuban tasted good. He wiped his
mouth on a paper napkin and pushed his chair back from the table. Hoping to get
away from the man for a few hours, he said, "I'll see you after
awhile
."

"Whoa,
what're you talking about? When you work for me, you don't take off whenever
you feel like it." Leon's harsh glare delivered his message in no
uncertain terms.

"All
right. Whatever." Zac said, surprised by Leon's scolding. Clearing his
throat, he said, "So…it’s like a regular job?"

"Well,
duh. Did you think you'd just come and go whenever?"

"To
be honest I didn't think about it one way or the other," Zac said.
"If I have working hours, what are they?"

"They're
when I
say
they are." Leon's eyes fairly bulged out of their
sockets. "That work for you?"

Zac was
about to say, “Don't get your shorts in a bunch," but knew he'd better
cool it. He had to remember why he'd hooked up with the sonofabitch in the
first place. He’d have to hold his tongue—and his temper—till he figured out
what happened to Izzie.  He knew Jackson wouldn’t be satisfied until he
did—and truthfully, neither would he. So he gave Leon a shit-eating grin and
said, "Whatever you say, Boss."

“That’s
more like it. Now let’s go home and figure out exactly what you’ll be doing.”

****

Back at
the house, Leon gestured for Zac to sit down. “Okay, here’s the deal. Every so
often, I get a shipment that has to be held till the distributor or buyers
come. Could be only a few hours, or even days. In the meantime, it’s our
job—yours now—to keep things under control.”

Zac
nodded, then wrinkled his forehead. “Now, this shipment…what is it exactly? I
mean, is it meth, smack or what?”

“Like I
told you, it’s people—illegal immigrants, that’s what we deal in. People from
poor countries looking for a better life. We help them find that.” He paused as
if to allow Zac a minute to take it in. “So you in? If you’re not, speak up
now.”

Zac knew
what his answer was, what it had to be, that he really had no choice, but he
thought he should appear hesitant—not too eager to get involved in the sordid
business. After a few seconds of silence, during which he looked down at the
floor, he said, “I’m in. What do I need to do to keep our guests happy while
they’re here?”

“Not much
really, mostly keep them quiet. You’ll see what I mean when the next shipment
comes in.”

“Where do
they go after they leave here?”

Leon
shrugged. “Wherever cheap labor’s needed. Could be south Florida, across the country,
most anywhere. Once the distributor picks them up, I’m out of it. The less we
know the better.”

“
Why’s
that?”

Leon
looked a bit agitated. “Let’s just say it can be dangerous to know stuff—if you
get my drift.”

Zac got his
“drift” all right but needed to know more. “So, do you also export?”

Leon
slowly finished the last of his beer. It seemed to Zac he was stalling, maybe
trying to think up an answer. “Not all that much. We mostly act as a middleman
for the imports. Far as exports go, that’s seldom done and then only on a
case-by-case basis.”

“
Why’s
that?”

“You’re
just
full
of questions, aren’t you?”

When Zac
didn’t respond, Leon continued. “The market for our product is in the good
ol
’ U.S. of A. I mean, think about it. Why would poor
countries want to import our people when they have more than enough of their
own to go around? Americans can afford to pay for the services our imports
provide.”

Zac
nodded. “I never thought of it that way, but it makes sense. So, what industries
hire them?”

“You’d be
surprised. Massage parlors, factories, hotels, farms, strip joints, rich
people—you name it.”

Zac
noticed he hadn’t included whorehouses, but he supposed that was a given. He
dreaded what the next few days would bring.

Zac
didn’t have to wait long. That night there was a tapping on the back door. It
just so happened that he and Leon were in the living room watching television.
Tiny alerted them by his sudden barking and the aggressive dance in which he
threw himself at the door.

“Tiny.”
Leon yelled. “Shut the hell up. Sit.” His command was so forceful Zac had all
he could do not to slink off into a corner himself.

“Who do
you think it is?” Zac said.

“It’s a
delivery. You’re about to get your first taste of our import business.” Leon
grinned.

Zac
shuddered.
How could any woman be attracted to a man like that?
He
supposed some found the guy appealing with his rugged good looks and bad boy
personality. He remembered that Jackson said Izzie was pursuing a story that would
catapult her to the top of the news media, so the attraction must have all been
in Leon’s mind.

“Now let
me do the talking. I’ll let you know if I want help. ”

There was
a second knock. It sounded like some kind of a signal. There were two short
knocks followed by a pause then another knock. With a pistol held behind his
back, Leon opened the door a crack, then pulled it back. “Hey Sam, you
sonofagun
. How
ya
’
doin
?”

Sam was a
stocky, muscular man of about six feet. He wasn’t someone Zac would care to tangle
with—he’d get the short end of the stick or more likely no stick at all.

“Got
somethin
’ for me?”

“Sure
do.” The man nodded and pulled out some kind of document. “Just sign here and
we’ll get them inside.”

As Leon
took the paper and signed his name, Zac was reminded of how much their exchange
mimicked a business transaction. Of course, in their minds that’s precisely
what it was.

“Let’s
get ’
em
inside and I’ll be on my way.” He shook hands
with Leon and nodded at Zac. “Seymour finally sent you a helper, I see. About
time.”

For a
second Leon seemed at a loss for words. “Yeah, this here’s Zac. He came onboard
yesterday.”

Zac
nodded.

“Well, I
gotta go. Catch
ya
’ next time.”

Zac stayed
inside as the two men went out to the alley where a van was parked. A moment
later, he heard a shuffling of feet on the back steps. The screen door opened
and he came face to face with a group of young women. It was worse than he
imagined. The only sound as the bedraggled group filed into the room past him
was feet hitting the linoleum, and an occasional cough or clearing of the
throat. Even Tiny knew better than to make a ruckus.

“All
right, now,” Leon directed his comment at Zac. “Take our guests upstairs to the
back bedroom. Show them the bathroom and let them use it one at a time. I’ll
fix some food and bring it up. Don’t talk to them and if they talk to each
other, let them know to keep still. Got it?”

With his
eye on the women, Zac nodded, then gestured for them to follow him.

After
they were settled on cots in what Zac assumed had been the master bedroom, he
indicated the attached bath, pointed at the nearest girl and gestured. It took
a few seconds, then she understood. One by one the women relieved themselves as
he stood guard.

In their
early- to mid-teens, the women were slim, with long dark hair and olive skin.
They wore blue jeans, jogging shoes and low-cut tops with exposed cleavage. Zac
wondered exactly what they’d been told to make them so cooperative. None seemed
frightened. Actually it was the opposite; their eyes sparkled in anticipation
of what Zac assumed they thought was the beginning of a new life. It’d be a new
life, all right, only one far different than they dreamed it would be.

It wasn’t
long before Leon poked his face in, holding a large tray of sandwiches, chips
and soft drinks. He set it on a side table and watched as one by one the girls
helped themselves and began to eat.

“This’ll
hold’em for the time being. Buyer’s stopping by in about an hour, so we’ll get
them out of here in no time. Just the way I like it—no fuss, no muss”

That
night Zac had a hard time getting to sleep. He kept seeing the trusting eyes
and shy smiles of the young women who were destined for a miserable life. They,
no doubt, came from some Third World country. The traffickers most likely had
promised their parents they’d go to college or get good jobs and send money
home. Whatever lie they’d been fed, these girls were obviously not aware of
what was about to happen.

Zac
turned over in the uncomfortable bed and punched the lumpy pillow. A glance at
the bedside clock said it was three-thirty. If he’d been able to, he would have
led those girls right back out and taken them to a shelter. It was too late
now. They were on the next leg of their journey and Zac had no doubt this stop
would look like Paradise compared with their final destination.

He wasn’t
sure how long he could keep up the charade of being an accomplice to Leon’s
disgusting business—or what the consequences might be when he decided he’d had
enough and wanted out, Izzie or no Izzie. With that thought in mind, he fell
into a troubled sleep populated by young women screaming for help.

On his
way back from the police station, Jackson couldn’t get his brother out of his
mind. If he hadn’t gone back to Iowa and wasn’t a police informant, then where
was he? The detective hadn’t said one way or the other, and Zac had bragged
that he was, as he put it, “a snitch”. Was it safe to assume he’d told the
truth for a change?

He didn’t
know what to think, but couldn’t lose the uneasy feeling his brother was in
danger. Should he take Detective Anders’ advice and let it alone? Zac was a
grown man and apparently wanted to do this. The detective had said he wasn’t in
it alone, that if Zac was working for them, he’d stay in touch. That he
wouldn’t be in any real danger. Still, Jackson had a sick feeling in the pit of
his stomach, the kind he got when something was seriously wrong.

He took
out his cellphone and pressed the number “three”. That was Zac’s number on his
speed dial. It rang once, twice, three times. Then his brother’s familiar voice
came through loud and clear.

“Yep,
it’s me, Zac. You know what to do.”

At the
sound of the tone, Jackson said, “Hey, where the hell are you? I know you
didn’t go home cause I talked to Mom. Don’t worry about the other night. You
were drunk and probably don’t remember what you said. Come back to the
apartment, okay? Talk to you later.”

Yeah,
like maybe
he
didn’t remember the things he’d said or didn’t mean them.
Problem was, Jackson remembered and they still stung. He didn’t know what to
think. Was Zac jealous, as the detective had suggested, or was his spiteful
revelation true? Jackson sighed. Eventually he’d learn the truth, but for now
he had to find his brother and make sure he was safe—whether Detective Anders
liked it or not.

 Unwilling
to return to his apartment without answers, he headed to Ybor City and the
house with the balcony. He didn’t have a clue what he’d do when he got there,
but he’d figure something out.

Fifteen
minutes later, Jackson parked the car and approached the house, trying to think
of an excuse for knocking, when the front door opened and two men walked out.
One of them was Zac.

Gingerly
stretching her arms out as far as she could, Izzie began to feel her way around
whatever it was that held her captive. Was it a casket? It didn’t feel like one.
No, it wasn’t oblong and it wasn’t lined in soft material designed to convince
people their loved one merely slept.

No, this
felt more like a crate of some kind. She sat up halfway, surprised to find it
was tall enough for even that. It didn’t seem like she was buried alive since
she didn’t gasp for air. She took a deep breath to be sure. Whatever Leon had
done, it wasn’t with an eye toward killing her or she’d already be dead. So,
then, where was she? Had he locked her in a container and stashed her somewhere
in the house?

She put
her ear against the side to see if she could hear voices. There was nothing.

“Help.
Get me out of here,” she called, hoping someone would hear. She didn’t really
expect a response. As far as she knew, Leon and that young girl were the only
two in the house and he’d probably sent the girl on her way by now.

She
punched her fist against the enclosure. That’s when she realized it was lined
in some kind of packing material.  Of course, that would serve a double
purpose: it’d protect her from injury if it was moved and muffle any sound she
made. She could scream her head off and no one would hear.

She felt
around the space and found a small box containing chips, energy bars, beef
jerky and bottles she assumed contained soda or water. No, Leon didn’t want her
dead. He just wanted her gone. She opened a bottle and swallowed, easing her
parched throat while trying to tamp down growing panic. If she was to survive,
she’d have to remain calm—somehow.