W.E.B Griffin - The Traffickers

Taking your pick, are you?

Your pick of one?

Or of which one first?

Three of the four were about fifteen and somewhat attractive. The third was maybe eighteen and, Delgado thought, not exactly unattractive. But she was a bit pudgy, and had badly bleached streaks in her hair. There were tattoos on her arms. They were not gang symbols, as far as he could tell.

Delgado looked back inside the van. He decided he wouldn’t have trouble with the other male. He looked to be about seventeen, and sat on the last bench, up against the window. He naturally would be the last off. Sitting next to him was a very attractive girl wearing a pink lace blouse. She looked a little younger than the boy, maybe sixteen. By their body language, they appeared to be more than just seatmates.

He motioned for Aguilar to come over.

“When you get them in there, collect all their phones and whatever address books or papers they have. Strip them of everything, especially any weapons or anything that could be used as a weapon. If they’re difficult, use that TEC-9 if necessary. Then let me know when it’s done.”

Delgado waited until Aguilar had herded all the women into the house before he let the two males in the van even move.

They had of course protested. But Delgado quelled that by raising his pistol. He said in Spanish, “I can use this now, or you can do as I say-and find out if I let you live later. Right now, I don’t need either of you or this van.”

Then Delgado said, “What you’re going to do to stay alive is step out of the van one at a time.” He pointed the pistol at the teenage boy in back. “You first.”

The boy slowly worked his way from the back of the van to the open sliding door.

“Okay,” Delgado said, “now step out and lean against the van’s hood, hands on your neck.”

Delgado had had some experience with this series of motions. However, he’d been the one taking orders from the police.

Delgado then pulled one of the zip ties from his pocket. He looked at Miguel Guilar and said, “Get my back.”

Guilar nodded, and aimed the shotgun at the van, the muzzle pointing between the boy on the hood and the man inside.

Delgado then decocked his Beretta and put it in his waistband. He stepped over to the teenager and with his right hand grabbed the boy’s right wrist. He brought it down to the small of the boy’s back and held it there. Then he started to do the same with the left. But when he grabbed the teenager’s left wrist, the kid spun on him, striking Delgado in the cheekbone with his elbow.

“Motherfucker!” Delgado yelled in pain, and wrestled the teenager to the ground.

Guilar stepped in closer, swinging the muzzle of the shotgun toward the two, trying to get an aim that didn’t include Delgado.

Then he saw the man in the van start to move. Guilar quickly pointed the shotgun at him, and the man cowered back in his seat.

Guilar looked back down at Delgado.

He saw that Delgado now had the teenager on his belly, a knee on the back of his neck that forced his face into the grass. Delgado’s other knee pinned the teenager’s right arm against his back. With some effort, he got the boy’s wrists crossed. He pulled out the other zip tie from his pocket and looped it around the wrists. He threaded the tag end of the tie into the box end and pulled tight. The kid screamed as the plastic banding cut into his flesh.

Delgado stood-and kicked the kid in the face.

The teenager’s nose began bleeding profusely.

“Pendejo!” Delgado said, gently touching his injured cheek. He spat on the boy’s back. “Try that again and you’re dead!”

Delgado then turned to the man in the van. His eyes were wide, and he had his hands up, palms out, in surrender.

Delgado went to the mirror on the door of the van and tried to inspect his injury. In the dim light, he could not see anything obvious. But it hurt like hell.

He looked at the teenager, who was trying to sit up.

“I’m not through with you,” Delgado said.

The teenager glared back defiantly.

El Cheque then stuck his head out the back door of the house.

“Done!” he called to Delgado.

After the older male had been zip-tied without incident, Delgado looked at Guilar.

“Okay,” he said, “now put the van in the garage, then get some chain and locks off the lawn trailers and bring them inside.”

When Delgado approached the back door of the house, he held the two zip-tied males by the back of their shirt collars. He pushed them through the open doorway and into the kitchen.

The women and children were sitting in mismatched chairs, some old broken ones made of wood, but the majority white molded plastic.

The girl in the pink lace shirt saw the teenage boy’s bloodied face and began screaming. She ran to the boy.

She looked back at El Gato, her eyes wide with fear.

“Why did you do this?” she wailed.

“He is a very lucky boy,” Delgado said in Spanish. “He could be dead right now.”

Guilar came in with the chains and locks that normally were used to secure the lawn mowers and other tools to the trailers.

“Okay,” Delgado said in English, looking between Guilar and El Cheque, “you know what to do next.” He nodded at the teenage boy and the girl in the pink lace shirt. “I’ll handle these two.”

[THREE] 140 South Broad Street, Philadelphia Wednesday, September 9, 8:58 P.M.

It was only a little more than a mile from the Medical Examiner’s Office on University Avenue to South Broad Street. Payne got on Chestnut Street, and planned on taking it the whole way, passing within a couple blocks of his place on Rittenhouse Square.

After Payne had explained what Hollaran had said, Byrth had said, “What’s a Union League? Texas is a right-to-work state; not many unions.”

Payne had then clarified. He gave him the organization’s background, ending with, “It’s still a strong supporter of our military services, and it’s played host forever to world leaders, business chieftains, celebrities. Nothing like a union hall at all. It drips with Old World Philadelphia of 1862.”

“Another thirty years, it’d be as old as the Rangers,” Byrth said.

That caused Payne to look at him curiously. But he saw that Byrth wasn’t bragging. He was, instead, making a statement that showed his appreciation of the long history of both institutions.

Payne said, “It also solves the problem of your lodging. My family’s been members for generations. I’ll sponsor you so you can stay in The Inn at the League. The room will not only cost less than any lousy Marriott or Hilton you’ll find, it’ll be a helluva lot better.”

Byrth shrugged. “When in Rome…”

Payne then explained the background of the function they were about to attend. And the reasoning behind why the second-highest-ranking officer in the Philadelphia Police Department held it.

Payne pulled to the curb on Broad Street in front of the Union League property.

Byrth observed that the building, with its brick and brownstone fa?ade, was very well-preserved for being some 150 years old. Its design certainly stood out from the modern surroundings, all the tall shiny office buildings around it. At the front, two dramatic circular staircases led up to the main entrance on the second level. Bronze statues stood dramatically beside each of the staircases. And Old Glory, spectacularly lit by a bright floodlight, slowly flapped atop a twenty-foot-tall flagpole mounted to the fore of the flat roof.

Inside, Byrth found that Payne was right. The Union League did indeed drip with Old World Philadelphia.

The ambience oozed old school luxury-polished marble floors with exotic rugs, rich wood paneling, magnificent leather-upholstered furniture that you could actually smell. On the walls hung handsome works of art, from old warships sailing far out at sea to portraits of presidents of the United States of America. Along the walls were distinguished displays featuring bronze and marble busts and sculptures.