Reunited in Danger (14 page)

Chapter Thirteen

Keely skulked into the nightclub, glad to have something to do other than missing
Logan. She spotted Nevaeh at the bar and headed over, pulling herself up onto a stool,
and ordering a merlot. “Thanks for inviting me out for a glass of wine,” she said,
leaning an elbow on the bar and forcing a smile at her friend and coworker.

“I figured after the day you’ve had, you’d earned it.” Nevaeh took a sip of her wine.

“An emergency call just as we were heading to my house? Not fair.”

“
So
not fair,” Nevaeh agreed.

“At least Margaret’s condition is improving. I just got off phone with my dad.” That’s
a bright spot in this day.”

“Thank God. After that crack house experience, I was ready to call it a week. I could
live the rest of my life without having to see that shit again.”

The bartender delivered her wine and she lifted her glass to Nevaeh’s. “Here’s hoping.”
They both knew they’d seen worse and would probably see it many times in the future.
Maybe denial and hope would get them out of bed to do their jobs, though.

But protecting other people’s children—when she couldn’t even protect her own baby—had
caused a crack in her soul perhaps too big to fill. Not that she knew what to do with
her life besides social work. Logan had decided to take a desk job—maybe she should
take a management course.

But then she’d rarely be able to see the kids. And she loved being with kids.

“How’s your dad doing?”

“Good.” Her dad had sounded so happy when she’d talked with him earlier. “Margaret’s
out of her coma. She can’t talk yet because of a breathing tube, but her condition
keeps improving. Seems to improve Dad’s health every time she gets better, too.” Keely
smiled, glad she’d agreed to this outing because she felt more cheerful already.

“So your dad has his romance on track. How about you?” Nevaeh glanced at her over
her tilted wine glass.

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s time to face facts. I’m a twenty-eight-year-old woman who
wants a man who doesn’t want the same things I do.”

“Kids?”

Keely nodded. “But I’m sure of one thing, at least. Being with Logan last night wasn’t
a mistake.” Her heart squeezed at the memory of his gentle caresses and possessive
kisses. He’d let down his defenses more than he ever had before.

When Nevaeh had called to check on her, she’d shared her earlier SUV conversation
with Logan. “Today, when I told him about the miscarriage, he held me. Just as I’d
wanted him to do all those years ago when I lost our baby.” Tears stung her eyes.
“Why can’t he see that the good in him overcomes his sucky childhood?”

“Lots of people overcome horrible upbringings. Logan carries his around like a suitcase.
Or maybe a shield that keeps him from taking a chance on love,” Nevaeh said thoughtfully.

“You’re right. Maybe there is a chance our relationship could work, if only he could
get over himself.”

“Damn straight,” Nevaeh said.

Tingles shimmied up her arms. She just had to make Logan see he wasn’t like his father.
In fact, he was the opposite. Everyone else saw that. Why couldn’t he see it, too?

“What about the job in Texas?” she reminded her friend. “It’s a great opportunity.”

“There are social worker jobs in Texas, too.”

Ben was Keely’s reason to stay in Baltimore. She’d stuck by her adoptive father, had
cared for him for as long as she could remember.

And yet he’d encourage her to follow her heart. If things worked out with Logan, she
could visualize herself in Texas. His new job wouldn’t be a reason to keep them apart.

Talking things out had helped her see the possibilities. Now one question remained:
how could she show them to Logan?

…

Logan eased his SUV into the police department parking lot. Quinn flagged him down
with a wave, then opened the door and slid in. Time to follow up on Jacko’s tip and
pray it panned out.

“Got your Kevlar on?”

Logan pulled open his jacket to flash his vest as he pulled out into the late-evening
traffic.

“Jacko’s information better be good.” Quinn yanked the seatbelt over his ample stomach
and snapped it.

“This tip is specific.”

“You better hope it is. If SWAT shows up for nothing, they’re gonna have our asses.”

“It’s time for one of his tips to pay off. What about Ben’s case, though? Did you
hear if Dunnigan got patrol to check out the alibis for the church members who have
briefcases?” Logan asked.

“Craig Bittinger’s got a record. Nothing on his rap sheet in ten years, though.”

Logan nodded. “Yeah, I saw that on Maryland Case Search. How about alibis for the
day of Ben’s attack?” Quinn was working on the case off-the-clock, too. After their
conversation at the diner, he’d asked to be involved. Said it helped keep his mind
off his family problems. Dunnigan didn’t seem to mind the extra help.

Quinn shrugged, pulled out a pack of gum and folded a piece before putting it in his
mouth. He offered the pack to Logan. “Strange bird, that Bittinger woman. I stopped
by to talk, but she had us stay outside on the stoop. Claimed her kids were napping.”

“Huh. I had to talk to her on the stoop because her damned dog didn’t like strangers.”

“Odd. But she did say her husband was with her when Ben was attacked.”

“Not at work?” Logan asked. “The attack had happened in the middle of the afternoon.
Wouldn’t he need to prepare for the dinner rush?”

Quinn dropped his hands to his lap “Said something about helping her interview nannies.”

“Damn.” Every lead they got brought them to a brick wall. “Who would gain the most
if something bad happened to Ben? Because if Margaret Beyer hadn’t called the police
and gone into Ben’s house, Ben could have been killed.”

“I’ve been wracking my brain over that one.”

“Yeah. Me, too.” Logan couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing something right
in front of him.

“So what time’s this yacht supposedly showing up?” Quinn asked as Logan pulled the
SUV into a spot at the edge of the parking lot.

“Some time after nine.” Logan shifted into park and stared through the windshield
at the piers and the lights of the city reflected on the surface of the water. He
scanned the deserted repair yard. The lot was dotted with various sized boats resting
on trailers and wooden cradles that tossed long shadows over the gravel. Two piers
jutted out into the Inner Harbor. A mobile boat lift hung over the water, waiting
for its next job.

“Gotta say, this is as good a spot as any to do something illegal,” Quinn said. Shifting
in his seat, he jiggled his leg, making the SUV shake.

“Christ. This bust better go down soon,” Logan said. He looked back out over the harbor,
still sparkling with colored lights—hues of blue, green, yellow, and red—reflecting
off the various waterfront businesses. SWAT blended in so well with the buildings
and the cars around the parking lot that even their shadows weren’t visible. The uniforms
sat waiting in vans by the street, ready to rush the scene.

SWAT would be taking the lead. Specifically, Hank Ferland, the Commanding Officer.
Logan had worked with Hank on take-downs before. The man knew his stuff. Hank would
have his SWAT team surround the boat from land and water to be sure none of the passengers
or crew could flee.

Logan grabbed a pair of infrared binoculars from his backseat. The binoculars enabled
him to make out some of the boats more clearly. Including a thirty-footer with a dolphin
on the side like Jacko had said. His heart raced. “Shit. There. It’s already docked.”

Next to him, Quinn leaned forward and squinted through the windshield, glancing around
the vacant lot. “If they’ve got twenty people aboard, who’s here to receive ’em?”

“If that’s the boat and the girls are on it, somebody has to show up soon.” Logan
turned to scan the area behind them. In spite of the lights from the harbor, the inky
darkness hid everything except shadows. And none of the shadows were moving. He couldn’t
break radio silence because a scanner could intercept their operation.

Willing himself to be patient and hoping that Hank spotted the boat, too, he blew
out a breath and his pulse returned to normal.

Headlights arrowed into the parking lot. Tires crunched slowly across the lot. A long
white van pulled next to the docked boat and three men got out and climbed onboard.
Logan held his breath, waiting for SWAT to move. The only sound was the water lapping
against the pier.

Like ghosts from a mist, a stack of SWAT team members carrying rifles materialized
out of the shadows, quietly swarming the boat. Logan’s pulse raced even faster and
adrenaline coursed through his body.

Hank raised his hand in a silent order, and the yacht repair yard was suddenly illuminated
with thousand-watt spotlights. SWAT members aimed their rifles at the boat.

Three men standing on the deck whipped around to stare at the lights.

“Freeze! Baltimore City Police.” Hank’s voice came out loud, magnified by the loudspeaker.

Two of the men scrambled to the lower cabin and the third one jumped overboard. A
quiet thud and a hissing sound reverberated around the lot.

“Tear gas,” Quinn said.

Logan nodded and fisted one hand on his leg. In the other, he held his gas mask.
Damn
. He wanted to be part of the action but was under orders to wait.

“Come out with your hands above your heads,” Hank shouted through the loudspeaker.

A tall, burly man climbed out from below deck, raised one hand and staggered from
the boat onto the dock, coughing and rubbing his eyes with his other hand. A smaller,
dark-haired man followed behind him.

“Freeze,” Hank bellowed. The men stood still with their hands in the air.

“All units, go,” Hank said into the radio.

Logan and Quinn’s cue. They bolted from the SUV, raced to the boat.

When they arrived, the third man was standing handcuffed and dripping wet with a police
diver next to him.

“Anybody else onboard?” Hank asked the coughing man, who was now secured against a
piling on the dock with a rifle pointing at his chest.

The guy at the barrel-end of the gun glared at Hank through watery, tear-gassed eyes
and didn’t answer. A split second later, he spit at Hank.

Hank didn’t even blink. One of SWAT guys trained his gun on the men and the other
read them their Miranda rights. The SWAT team leader whipped around to face Logan
and Quinn. “Come on down, but put your gas masks on.”

Logan shoved his gas mask on, made sure Quinn was behind him, ready to follow Hank
into the lower cabin of the yacht.

He had a good idea of what they’d find. He’d been part of three other take-downs of
human trafficking. Human beings pushed like cargo into an area no bigger than fifteen
or twenty square feet. Looking into their eyes was the worst part. They had a haunted
look Logan couldn’t quite describe.

Not terror, not fear…something more. Worse.

Something that reminded him of history class and photographs of POW camps.

“Foster.” Hank’s muffled voice rang out. He pulled a young, fully outfitted SWAT member
forward. “You go first. Keep your rifle ready. Calm them down.”

Foster spoke several languages, Logan knew from working with him before.

In spite of a cool night breeze on the water and the mask covering his face, thick
air sweltered up at them from below deck.

Ten or twelve SWAT members surrounded the deck, weapons drawn. No matter how many
times Logan had walked in front of armed men itching to pull the trigger, he still
felt like a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. But a guy had to trust.

Logan and Quinn pulled their guns at the same time. Kidnappers didn’t usually hide
in the salon area—they wouldn’t lower themselves to mix with their captives—but it
wouldn’t be the first time an armed attacker was flushed out of the lower deck. They
might have all the perps out on the dock. But some might still be onboard.

Foster’s voice, low and steady, added to the chatter from down below—women talking
at once, crying, screaming. Begging. Logan’s gut stirred.

“They’re zipcuffed to a pole along the floor. I need scissors. Don’t want to scare
them with my knife,” Foster said.

Hank barked an order. Seconds later, he passed the tool to Foster.

Logan stepped to the side and holstered his gun as the two SWAT members moved the
first group of women up the steps. He held out his hand to help each of them.

“Christ, North,” Quinn muttered. “At least put latex gloves on.”

Often these people had traveled hundreds of miles from home, lived in horrible conditions,
all in hopes of a job. Survival.

They deserved a human touch.

He lost count of how many women stepped up from the ladder. At last count it’d been
twenty-one, and still more rose from the belly of the small boat. Logan glanced at
the parking lot where red and blue lights reflected off the white cinder-block building
and the freed captives who sat huddled on the gravel parking lot. A uniformed police
officer handed out water bottles.

When Logan had helped the last woman out, he backed up a step and started a head count.

“One more,” Foster said from down below. “Well, actually two more, but they’re connected.”

Logan stepped forward and shined his flashlight into the lower cabin area. Foster
tried to nudge an older woman into giving up the limp body of the younger woman she
carried. The woman cried and kept saying the same phrase repeatedly.

“She’s speaking Thai. Says she doesn’t want to let go of her,” Foster said.

Logan threw down his flashlight and braced himself on the metal edge. “Take my hand,”
he said to the woman. “Push her from behind when she starts climbing, Foster. No time
for modesty. If she wants to carry the girl, she’s going to have her butt pushed to
get her up here.”

The woman frowned and shifted the younger woman so most of her slim weight was over
her right shoulder. Foster said something in what Logan assumed was Thai, and she
grunted and took a step up, grabbing Logan’s hand. Within seconds, she was on the
deck, her words panicky and hurried.