The Traffickers

FOUR

York and Hancock Streets, Philadelphia Thursday, September 10, 11:01 P.M.

Matt Payne, Tony Harris, and Jim Byrth were seated in the passenger seats of Paco Esteban’s white Plymouth Voyager minivan. It was parked on the corner, a block shy of the dilapidated row house at 2505 Hancock Street.

Esteban was in the driver’s seat. And that almost had not happened.

At Esteban’s house, a fairly charged discussion ensued as to what to do with the information-not to mention the head-that Esteban had provided.

Chad Nesbitt, seeing where the debate may have been leading, excused himself. He’d said he’d done more than enough putting Paco Esteban together with Matt Payne. And he left, presumably to go home for a bath, clean clothes, and a good mouthwash.

In the basement, Harris had automatically said that he’d call in the information to the Roundhouse. That would get the official wheels turning. And someone farther up the food chain, certainly one in a white shirt, if not a white shirt with one or more stars pinned to its collar points, would decide how many assets to throw at 2505 Hancock Avenue.

“Slow down, Tony,” Payne had said. “Until ten minutes ago, we pretty much did not have a damned thing on where this guy was.”

“Yeah. And?”

“And I think it could blow up on us if suddenly there were a dozen Aviation Unit helos buzzing the rooftop of the place just so they can send video back to the Executive Command Center.”

“You don’t know they’ll do that, Matt.”

Payne nodded.

“True, Tony. But I also don’t know that they won’t do it. Which is what I’d prefer-that they don’t fucking do it.” He paused for a moment. “This guy is bad, and it’s an important bust. I don’t want someone doing it for the glory. I just want the sonofabitch off the streets. Period.” He gestured at the Deepfreeze. “No more little girls losing their heads, for starters.”

Paco Esteban grunted and nodded.

Tony Harris nodded. “Matt, you know I agree. But there are other ways to do this.”

“Yeah, but they involve a whole helluva lot more people, which we don’t need. And more time, which we don’t have.” He paused. “Look, you’re welcome to call it in, if that’s what you feel you have to do. But God knows what this animal is capable of doing next.”

“Tony,” Byrth said, “I’m afraid that I have to agree with Matt.”

Payne looked at Byrth. He wasn’t at all surprised that a Texas Ranger would have no trouble going it alone.

He’d read all about “One Ranger, One Riot.”

Tony Harris looked between them, then held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

“Let the record show that I have dutifully played devil’s advocate and hereby subscribe to whatever operation Marshal Wyatt Earp has in mind.”

Payne smiled. He knew Harris wasn’t mocking him.

“Tell you what, Tony. Call the Roundhouse, give whomever you feel can be trusted the address of this row house and the strict order (a) to say and do nothing with it and”-he glanced at Byrth-“(b) to have the cavalry ready to ride in should you call for it. Give it a code name if you want. Prairie Fire was one that the guys in Special Forces in ’Nam used for when the shit hit the fan. I’m partial to Get Me the Fuck Outta Here! Leaves no room for confusion or misinterpretation.”

Harris grinned. Then he nodded agreeably.

“I can live with that,” he said. “Okay, so what do you propose?”

Sergeant Matthew M. Payne, Philadelphia Police Department, Badge Number 271, turned to Paco Esteban.

“Se?or Paco Esteban, I hereby officially offer to you a position as confidential informant for the Philadelphia Police Department. In this capacity, you agree to assist in any way that (a) you can and (b) you feel is within your capabilities. In return, the department will make monetary payments and certain other tokens of compensation as mutually agreed.”

It was common practice for Philadelphia Police Department ongoing investigations to use confidential informants. And it was entirely within the rules and regulations of the department. For example, the police not only paid confidential informants for tips that led to arrests for illegal guns and drugs, they also provided the funds to make those purchases. It wasn’t unusual for the money to run into the tens of thousands of dollars.

Of course, there were rules governing the use of confidential sources. Among them was that there had to be a professional relationship. Strict procedures and policies were in place to ensure an arm’s length of professionalism between a police officer and an informant.

Paco Esteban shook his head.

“You don’t or you won’t?” Payne said somewhat incredulously.

“I don’t.”

“You don’t?” Payne repeated.

Paco Esteban shook his head again.

“I don’t want one dollar. I want that bastard caught. What do I do?”

“Everybody ready?” Matt Payne said, sliding open the side door of Paco Esteban’s Plymouth van, using his left hand. Payne and Harris were seated in back on the bench seat; Byrth was in the front passenger seat. On the console between the seats was a white paper bag. Printed on it in somewhat Asian-looking lettering was: TAKE OUT TASTY CHINESE. The van reeked of greasy fast-food wontons.

Byrth said, “Yup.”

Harris said, “Uh-huh.”

Esteban said, “S?.”

Everyone but Esteban was armed with a semiautomatic pistol. Payne had his Colt.45 ACP Officer’s Model in his right hand. It was cocked but unlocked, ready to fire. Harris held his Glock Model 17 nine-millimeter between his legs, the muzzle pointed at the floorboard. Byrth’s black Colt Combat Commander.45 ACP, with its inlaid star of the Texas Rangers, was on top of his right thigh, pointed at the dash.

Payne watched as Byrth put his left boot on the dash and pulled up on his cuffed pants leg, then reached to the right of his calf and pulled out a pistol from the boot top.

I’ll be goddamned, Payne thought.

That’s that Officer’s Model he told me he carried as his backup.

Byrth racked the slide back, then reached to the floorboard, where he had an open plastic box of.45-caliber cartridges. He pulled a single round from the box and slipped it into the chamber. Then he let the slide slam forward. With the hammer now back, he set its lock, then fed it a full magazine. Finally, he slipped the pistol back inside his boot top and pulled down his pants cuff.

Byrth caught Payne’s stare and, over his shoulder, said, “I’d rather have my twelve-gauge pump with buckshot for this, but it wouldn’t fit in the boot.”

Payne chuckled.

“Okay, Paco,” Payne said. “Let’s roll.”

The minivan began driving slowly toward 2505 Hancock.

As Esteban approached the row house, he steered to the left side of the street, then up and over the curb. Payne had told him to stop the van there so it could provide them at least a little cover and concealment.

Esteban then got out and reached back in for the bag of fast food.

Esteban was dressed in somewhat ragged khakis and a T-shirt, and on his head wore a big orange ballcap with the logotype TAKE OUT TASTY CHINESE. Payne had actually taken the cap off the head of one of the employees when they’d bought the food. He’d tossed the kid a twenty and smiled. The kid had thought him a fool, but kept the cash nevertheless.

Jim Byrth covered the right side of the front door, Payne the left. Tony Harris had gone around back to cover that possible exit.

Paco Esteban rapped on the wooden door.

No one answered.

He knocked again, harder.

After a few minutes, they heard the sound of shuffling footsteps. Then the door cracked opened.

A short, sleepy Hispanic male with a bad mustache stood there. He wore only boxer shorts and had a bandage around his left thigh.

“Your order,” Esteban said, holding out the bag of Chinese takeout. “It is prepaid.”

“We didn’t-” Jes?s Jim?nez started to say. Then through his sleepy haze he heard the “prepaid” part. The groggy teenager decided he was hungry.

Esteban had been told not to stand too close to the door.

Jim?nez had to reach out of the house in order to grab the bag.

And when he did, Jim Byrth grabbed his arm and spun him. He threw him to the floor and had the surprised kid handcuffed in no time. He stuck the muzzle of his.45 into the kid’s mouth. The kid’s suddenly widened eyes suggested that he’d instantly understood the message.

As Payne moved closer to enter the door, he looked down at the Hispanic male.

That’s the shooter from the hospital!

The sonofabitch who killed Skipper!

And who I shot!

I should just- Bryrth then quickly jerked Jim?nez down to the van, practically carrying the small teenager. He unlocked one of the handcuffs and clipped it to the sliding door handle.

As Byrth returned, Payne wordlessly signaled Paco Esteban to go to the van. Esteban shook his head, then very reluctantly did as ordered. When Jes?s Jim?nez started to shout a warning, Esteban surprised both Payne and Byrth by punching the teenager in the face, knocking him out cold.

Well, that just earned him monetary payments and certain other tokens…

Payne and Byrth looked each other in the eye. Byrth nodded for Payne to take the lead.

Even with the front door open, it was dark inside because of the front windows being covered.

They walked in a crouch, staying close to the walls. There was almost no furniture.

Payne heard voices coming from the back of the house.

They entered a room that appeared to be the dining room, and which held only a couple of wooden armchairs. On the far wall was a swinging door, with light from the far room leaking around its edges.

Payne moved fluidly toward it, Byrth on his heels. As they approached the swinging door, the voices became louder and more clear.

Payne could distinguish at least two-both males, both with Hispanic accents.

They listened for another minute. There was no additional voice.

Then one of them yelled, “Jes?s! You okay? Who was at the door?”

Matt looked at Jim. They were both half-lit by the dim light bleeding around the door. Jim signaled for them each to take a side of the door.

Matt moved to the left, Jim to the right.

Matt could see the rusty gold-colored hinge by his head. He tried to peer into the kitchen, but the gap between the door and its frame wasn’t large enough and there was a piece of painted wooden trim on the far side.

Then they heard the first voice again. He barked: “Go look!”

And a second later, the door swung into the dining room, as Omar Quintanilla sauntered through, absently holding a pistol along his right leg.

When the door had opened, light momentarily flashed into the dark dining room, almost blinding Matt and Jim.

Then the door swung shut. Jim, his eyes not quite adjusted from the sudden light, instinctively jumped in Omar’s direction. He hit him square, getting his left arm around Omar’s throat.

They then went to the floor, making a helluva noise.

“Omar!” the male inside the kitchen yelled. “What the hell’d you just do?”

As Jim punched Omar in the face, Omar’s pistol went off. The round went into the ceiling.

Matt had his pistol aimed at the pair, but could not see well enough in the dark to get a good aim.

Then he heard Jim mutter, “You sonofabitch.”

The pistol went off again. This time, the round found Omar, who suddenly stopped fighing. He moaned and clutched at his chest.

Then Payne suddenly heard and saw the swinging door get kicked open-and he saw and felt it hit him, pushing him back against the wall.

He instinctively kicked the door back.

And there he saw the other Hispanic male. He was bringing up the muzzle of a bullpup-style weapon, about to get an aim on Jim Byrth.

Matt Payne followed Jim Byrth’s lead-and jumped at the man, wrapping his left arm over the man’s left shoulder and grabbing the forearm of the weapon. As he pulled it upward, the gun went off, the muzzle spraying a stream of lead up a wall and across the ceiling.

Payne began pummeling the man’s head with his pistol, and threw him to the ground. And then he felt another pair of hands on the man’s body-Jim Byrth was stripping him of the bullpup weapon.

Payne hit him in the head again. And the man went limp.

Payne cuffed him and left him on the floor.

Matt and Jim stood. Jim had the P90 submachine gun slung on his right shoulder.

“Nice work, Marshal.”

“You okay?”

“Yup. No more holes in me than I came with.”

“Let’s clear the kitchen and the rest. Then you can get this asshole trussed up.”

They found the kitchen clear but for one person who looked to be a woman. There was a pillowcase over her head, and she was taped to a chair. They immediately deemed her not a threat.

Payne went to the back door and looked out the window. He just barely saw Tony Harris to the side of the door, waiting for someone to flee.

“It’s me, Tony!” he called. “Matt Payne!”

Matt thought he heard the woman whimper.

He unlocked the door and opened it.

“C’mon in, and clear the rest of the house with Jim!”

Tony Harris entered and said, “Jesus, Matt! What’s with all the gunfire?”

“Just another day at the OK Corral, Tony.”

Through the open swinging door, Harris saw a stream of blood on the floor. He moved for a better look, then saw the dead body of the Hispanic male on the floor of the next room.

He raised his eyebrows. Then he raised his pistol and followed Byrth out of the kitchen.

Matt Payne glanced at the kitchen table and saw a plastic storage box containing a score or more of used cell phones. On the table itself was a battered fancy phone with a big glass touch-screen.

He slipped his.45 in the small of his back and turned to the woman bound to the chair.

“It’s going to be okay,” Payne said softly. “I’m a Philadelphia policeman.”

As he pulled out his folding pocketknife, he thought he heard her start sobbing heavily.

“I’m going to cut open the top of this pillowcase, okay?”

Her head bobbed enthusiastically, the pillowcase moving in a rapid manner.

“Okay, now don’t move your head.”

Taking great care, he grasped the pillowcase’s seam at the top of her head, pulling it up and away from her head so that if she suddenly did move again, his knife blade would be a safe distance away.

Very carefully, he slipped the tip of the serrated blade into the fabric. He sawed slightly, and the blade slit the fabric all along the seam.

Well, she’s a blond, was the first thing that he thought.

Then he tugged the case down so it fell to her shoulders.

“Jesus Christ!”

Payne had to force himself to go slowly while unbinding Amanda Law, first removing the strip of gray duct tape from her beautiful face-the strip literally went from ear to ear-then removing the tape from her wrists and ankles.

What made it harder was that he was shaking.

Are my emotions taking over?

Not good.

It’d be better if it’s just the adrenaline kicking into overdrive…

He started by kissing her on the forehead and saying, “This might hurt…”

Then, as gently as possible, he began pulling the tape from her left cheek and, a moment later, her right cheek.

“Oh, Matt!” Amanda cried out.

Excitedly, she tried to sit up higher so that she could kiss him, but, still bound to the chair, she collapsed back into it.

“Slow down, baby!” Matt said, smiling, then leaned down and kissed her softly on the lips.

He looked her in the eyes. They were all puffy and wet from the crying.

“Are you okay?” he said in a soft tone. But there was anger in it, too. “Did they… do anything to you?”

Her eyes were big and expressive. She shook her head vigorously.

“Thank God,” he said, then kissed her again. “Now, let me get the rest of this tape off.”

She nodded gently.

He put the knife blade on the tape securing her left wrist.

“You heard the girl screaming on your voice mail?” Amanda asked.

Matt paused and looked at her.

“No,” he said, shaking his head, slightly confused.

“They left a terrifying message on your voice mail. They were holding me for ransom. But it wasn’t me. On the message, I mean.”

Matt nodded as he tried to digest that.

A voice-mail message?

I wouldn’t have gotten it because my battery is dead.

He glanced at the box on the table, then went back to cutting the duct tape. He was really worried he might accidentally cut her in his haste. He had to saw slowly through the tape. They had made at least four wraps of each wrist and ankle, and it took more slow sawing than he could believe.

Paco Esteban came into the kitchen.

“Sergeant Byrth-he said tell you ‘house clear,’ ” Esteban said.

“Thank you.”

Payne reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

“Paco, would you look in that box of phones and see if you can find a battery that works with this phone? Or maybe a charger, if there’s one in there.”

“S?.”

Jim Byrth walked into the kitchen.

“Okay, I’ve got El Gato secured in there,” he said, and grinned. “Taped to the chair just like he likes.”

He handed Payne’s handcuffs back to him.

Then he said, “The guys in Dallas described that stash house they raided. This place is set up just like it. It’s a damn prison. Actually, our Texas prisons are nicer.”

Byrth then tossed a nice tan leather wallet on the kitchen table. And two State of Texas driver’s licenses.

“El Gato is one Juan Paulo Delgado, aka Edgar Cisneros. I called it in to the office. He’s got a few priors, but nothing serious like this. Born at Parkland in Dallas at taxpayer expense-both parents undocumented Mexican nationals, later given amnesty in that law President Reagan signed-and educated in Dallas at taxpayer expense. Too bad he learned all the wrong lessons.”

Payne raised his eyebrows at that.

So he is a U.S. citizen, and preying on illegals, ones like his parents. Unbe lieveable.

But an animal’s an animal, no matter the circumstances.

“Here, Sergeant Payne,” Paco Esteban said, holding out Payne’s cell phone.

Payne took it and saw that Esteban had already pressed the 0/1 button. The phone was coming to life.

It vibrated three, then four times. Its small screen announced that he had five missed calls, including two voice-mail messages and two text messages from Amanda Law.

Payne hit the speakerphone key. He played the first voice mail; it had been blank.

The second voice mail was El Gato’s threat, with the screaming boy and girl recording and the threat to kill Amanda.

Payne saw Amanda start to shake visibly.

He knelt and held her as he turned off the telephone.

When she’d stopped, he stood. He looked at the beers on the table.

He walked over to the refrigerator, opened it, and found it packed with bottles of beers. He grabbed three and brought them back to the table. When he opened one, it made the sound of gas escaping. He thought he saw Amanda recoil at it. But when he handed her the open bottle, she quickly grabbed it and took a big swallow.

He opened another and offered it to Byrth.

“Maybe in a minute. Thanks.”

He offered the bottle to Esteban, who took it.

Then he opened the third. He put it to his lips and turned it upside down, drinking at least the first third.

He then kissed Amanda again on her forehead.

“I’ll be right back, baby.”

Juan Paulo Delgado looked up when he heard Matt Payne enter the dining room. Byrth had taped his wrists palm-up, and Matt saw the “D” tattoo. Payne felt a level of anger he did not know was possible.

“So now what?” Juan Paulo Delgado, his head bruised and bloody, said with an odd smile.

His tone did not reveal any fear. In fact, it sounded taunting.

With the beer bottle in his left hand, Payne pulled his Colt from the small of his back with his right hand.

He took another healthy drink of the beer, then looked the animal in the eyes.

What did Amy say about psychopaths?

You can’t rehabilitate them. They’ll kill again and again.

And in prison they’ll be thrown in solitary.

So why not just fucking kill him now?

He probably was going to do that to Amanda… after doing God knows what.

The image of the girl’s head in Paco Esteban’s freezer flashed in his mind.

Sonofabitch!

No one will miss you, Delgado.

No one will give a rat’s ass you’re dead and gone and burning to a crisp in hell.

Payne raised his pistol, pointing the muzzle at Delgado’s forehead. He thumbed back the hammer.

He saw him flinch, if only slightly.

And shits like you get killed every day in drug deals gone bad.

Payne held the gun there for what seemed like five minutes.

But I can’t do it.

Even as badly as he deserves it.

It would make me little better than him.

I am not judge and jury.

Stanley Whatshisname is wrong.

We can’t just shoot ’em all and let the Lord sort ’em out.

Payne brought down his pistol. He locked it.

“This is your lucky day, you sonofabitch.”

El Gato grinned defiantly at him.

Payne added, “You really must be a goddamn cat. But you just burned one of your nine lives. Eventually, you’ll run out.”

Payne looked down a moment. At Delgado’s feet he noticed there was a bean, similar to the one Jim Byrth tumbled across his fingers. But this one was black. He shook his head.

Payne turned.

Byrth and Esteban were standing there, backlit in the open doorway to the kitchen. Both now wore the tan-colored surgical gloves the crime-scene technicians used.

Nice and professional of Jim.

And what the hell… time to move this case to the next phase.

Payne looked between them, then wordlessly walked back into the kitchen.

Payne saw that Tony Harris was handing his handkerchief to Amanda Law. She was standing, leaning against the counter by the sink.

She ran toward Matt. He went to her, his arms open, and wrapped them around her. She sobbed uncontrollably.

Payne then heard Jim Byrth enter the room.

Payne whispered to her, “It’s okay, baby. It’s all over.”

And then there was the sound of a gun going off in the dining room.