The Powers That Be. Cliff Ryder
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come with him to the back of the truck.
They unlocked the doors and opened them to reveal about two dozen women from the ages of fourteen to midtwenties, all dressed in filthy T-shirts and underwear and suffering from dehydration and heat stroke. The cargo area stank of sweat and feces, and Damason spotted a five-gallon bucket in the corner with a hole cut in the top. The majority seemed to be Cuban or Latin American, although there were a few Asian girls, and Damason saw a flash of red hair in the back, which meant at least one European or, heaven forbid, American was inside. They were all huddled together, staring dully at the fatigue-clothed men.
“Get water for these women,” he ordered. Two of his men trotted off. Damason turned to his second in command, a smart black sergeant named Elian Garcia Lopez. “Sergeant, make sure these women are given water and treated respectfully. Above all, they are not to be transported from here without my approval.”
“Sí, Major, it will be done.” Elian assigned one man to go in to talk to the women, leading them out one at a time, then began doling out water, cautioning the dazed women to drink slowly.
Another soldier ran up to Damason and saluted. “Major, Sergeant Lopez-Famosa y Fernandez wishes to see you inside.”
Damason stifled a sigh as he walked to the building. The police sergeant’s name wasn’t the only flowery thing about him. He was a preening cock of the walk perfumed with aromatic hair oil and aftershave at all times. The scent drifted around the room in a sickly-smelling cloud. That’s probably what gave them away—the smugglers smelled him coming, Damason thought.
He spied Fernandez standing with three other police officers near a prone form that immediately drew his attention. The sergeant prattled on about the good work, but Damason hardly heard him as he knelt next to the body.
The man who had volunteered to act as the buyer for the sting operation had been a quick-witted, genial young man. Santiago Cantara had seen his mandatory army service as a way to learn business skills that would help his family start their own venture someday. In the meantime, he had been the joker of the unit, and morale had soared when he had joined the men. Damason had to talk to him about becoming an officer, as he had possessed all of the skills the army was looking for. Now he was lying on the floor, dead.
Damason put his hand on the man’s chest, feeling the stillness of the body, knowing the heart inside would never beat again. He closed his eyes, trying to tamp down the rage coursing through him at this senseless tragedy. He swept the staring eyes shut and muttered a brief prayer over the body, not caring if anyone heard him. Then he stood and turned on his heel, fighting the urge to plant his fist in the oily sergeant’s face.
“An excellent job. Everyone will be commended in my report.” Sergeant Fernandez nodded with satisfaction.
“What happened to your man?” Damason’s voice was low and calm. Cantara had been paired with a veteran undercover police officer, who was nowhere to be found.
“Ah, Officer Garcia was wounded in the leg during the heroic struggle. He was taken to the nearest hospital and is being cared for now. Unfortunately, there was nothing that could be done for your man,” the police officer said.
Unfortunately? It should be you lying there in a pool of your own blood, you arrogant bastard! Damason fought to keep his thoughts to himself. He took a step toward the police sergeant, staring at him with his cold blue eyes, knowing his intense stare often unnerved those who weren’t used to it. “Why did you order your men to come in before my soldiers were in place?”
The slender, immaculately dressed sergeant didn’t quiver, but flicked an imaginary bit of dirt off his uniform lapel and shrugged. “We thought we heard a struggle, so we came hoping to stop these criminals before anyone was hurt.” He glanced down at the body and shook his head in feigned sympathy. “Alas, we were too late. When they saw us, they started shooting, and we had to defend ourselves. By the time it was over, I’m afraid your man was already dead.”
Damason knew the man was lying—whether it was for glory, or just, as he suspected, simple stupidity, the officer had bungled the raid, and one of his best men had paid the price.
“You did stop the truck, correct?” Fernandez asked, as if the reason for their mission had just occurred to him.
“Correct, and we captured the driver alive.” No thanks to you. “With a bit of persuasion, he should lead us to the group that supplies him with the women,” Damason said coldly.
“Excellent work, Major! I shall note your men’s bravery in my report, as well.” He strode to the door. “All that remains is to collect the women and make sure they are secure until preparations can be made to return them to their homes.” He turned to walk out of the room.
“My soldiers will help escort the women to a safehouse,” Damason said.
Sergeant Fernandez halted in the doorway. “Pardon?”
Damason slowly walked toward the sergeant. “I said my men will assist with escorting the women to a safehouse. There is a large number of them, and they have been through a terrible experience. We want them to feel safe now.”
Fernandez half turned, so that his profile was visible in the moonlight. “Major, although I appreciate your offer, it is not necessary. The presence of soldiers has no doubt already confused and frightened these poor women. It will be best for all concerned if we handle them from here.” He turned to exit the building.
“Sergeant!” Damason enjoyed putting the steel tone of command in the title.
Fernandez stopped again.
“I must insist, I’m afraid. As this is a joint operation between the police and the military, we all must do our duty and see it through.” Besides, if I leave those girls in your hands, they’ll likely end up raped or resold, and that isn’t going to happen, Damason thought. “I would hate to have to report to my superior that you were not cooperative in this simple matter. We must all do our part in the struggle against crime, you know.”
The police sergeant’s handsome features twisted in an ugly scowl. “Very well. Your men will accompany us during transport.”
“Good.” Damason pushed past the police sergeant to his men. “You four will accompany the police and escort these women to their safehouse.” He lowered his voice. “Sergeant?”
Elian patted a small notebook in his breast pocket. “Names and nationalities have been recorded. A couple had even memorized their passport numbers.”
“Excellent.” In the morning, he would make sure that the various consulates had been contacted, so representatives could help the girls get proper identification and travel home safely. He glanced back at Fernandez, who was glowering with his two stooges a few yards away. “Soldiers, make sure that nothing happens to these women during transport or after their arrival, and I will give each of you an extra day’s leave.”
Brightening at the carrot included in their boring guard duty, the men saluted with pride and returned to the truck. Damason pointed at the building. “Elian, get a detail in there. Cantara didn’t make it. I will visit his family later this morning.”
His sergeant’s shoulders slumped. “Sí, Mayor.” He headed inside to collect the private’s body.
Another truck arrived to take the women. As Damason watched them go, he couldn’t stop thinking of the lives that had been lost to free them. Cantara would have said it was right, that it was just, he thought. But if I had known what would have happened beforehand, would I have sacrificed him to save them?
Although he knew what his answer should have been, it brought him no comfort as his men brought the sheet-wrapped body outside.
7
Kate paused in her review of after-mission reports and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Even with all of the red tape we can cut through, the paperwork never ends. I don’t know how any of the normal agencies ever get anything done, she thought.
“You