Джеймс Паттерсон - Lost

The sailor said, “I don’t have a key.”

Acting on impulse, I reached over and banged the side of the container. There was a commotion from inside. I could hear shouting and people moving around.

Rick sprang forward with a passkey but couldn’t get the container open. This was taking too long.

I looked around in desperation and saw another tool like the one on the ship with the smuggled parrots. I pulled it off the wall and shouted for Rick to move out of the way.

I swung the tool like a knight slaying a dragon, starting above my head and using my full 240 pounds to bring it down. The sound of the captive people yelling gave me strength.

I hit the lock perfectly on the first swing. The impact ran up my arm, but the door creaked open.

This time, I recognized the smell that hit me immediately. It was human waste. And something else.

Chapter 73

HANNA AND ALBERT glided along with Billy and his crew of tough-looking Russians. Hanna tried to speak to the lone female, the tall thirty-something woman with straight dark hair, but either the woman didn’t speak English or she didn’t want to engage with Hanna. Which was a bad sign for what might happen later.

Hanna glanced at her brother. Her concern was obvious to him; he was the person who had always looked after her. He smiled and nodded in an effort to calm her down. It was like when they were children; no matter what was going on, Albert would always say, “It’ll all work out.”

She wished she had his confidence. All she could think about was what would happen if they lost this load too.

Billy, the friendly Russian, looked over his shoulder at Hanna and said, “See, a nice quiet evening at the port. We’ll walk out of here with everyone and no one will ever notice. You can’t put a price on that kind of security.”

Hanna sensed new fees coming her way. She cut her eyes over to Albert again. He had his hand near where his newly acquired pistol was concealed under his shirt. At least the Russians hadn’t guessed that he was armed.

Hanna didn’t like the wobbly gangplank or the loud noise their hard shoes made when they walked up the metal ramp. She was surprised no one came to investigate. The first mate she’d hired had done a good job.

Hanna realized the Russians had subtly changed positions to surround them; now she and Albert were in the middle of their group.

Thank God Albert was with her, Hanna thought.

Not even Billy was speaking anymore as they worked their way forward on the ship.

As she stepped between two shipping containers, Hanna saw a group of people standing around a familiar shape: the specially built container she’d bought.

Her heart stopped. She recognized Marie Meijer.

Before she could say anything, the tallest of the Russians drew a pistol from the back of his pants. Billy slipped away from the front and eased between other containers.

Albert inched to the rear of the group and drew his own pistol. No one but Hanna saw it in his hand.

Chapter 74

I STOOD BY the shipping container’s open door and stared at the group of twenty or so pitiful people inside. Several girls were weeping. A couple of people darted out of the fetid container and onto the ship.

The scene inside the container shocked me, and that’s saying something for a veteran of the Miami Police Department. Almost all cops reach a point when they think they’ve seen it all and can no longer be surprised by people’s behavior or scenes of violence.

I’d witnessed children shot in the streets. I’d once held pressure on a wound in the abdomen of a nine-year-old girl in Liberty City, desperate to stop the blood that was pumping out. She had unwittingly stepped into a gunfight between two local gangs and caught a nine-millimeter round just below her rib cage.

I’d picked her up and carried her like a doll, keeping one hand pressed down hard on the wound in her abdomen. I ran till I thought my heart might burst to where the paramedics said they’d meet me, a block away from the gunfire.

I rode with her in the ambulance because she didn’t want me to leave her.

I stayed with her until she was taken into surgery, and then I waited at the hospital to explain to her stepfather what had happened.

I sat with my uniform covered in the little girl’s blood. I could barely keep it together. Nurses offered me coffee and tried to talk to me as I waited.

Her stepfather finally showed up and asked me what the hell was going on.

I explained what had happened and told him that the surgeon was hopeful he could save the little girl.

All the man said to that was “This ain’t gonna cost me nothing, is it?”

That whole situation had shocked and bothered me for weeks after. And it didn’t touch what I was looking at now.

The stench of human waste and vomit coming from the shipping container made my eyes water. A rat scurried out of it. Before I could tell the people inside they were safe, I heard movement behind me. It caught everyone’s attention.

I looked around to see a group of people I didn’t know. I focused on a blued semiautomatic pistol in the hand of a tall guy wearing a dark sports coat.

Lorena Perez shouted, “Police, don’t move!” and drew her department-issued Glock. But it had no effect on the man with the handgun. She let loose three quick rounds.

The sound of the gunfire among the containers was deafening and disorienting, like thunder inside a small room. The noise was everywhere, swarming my senses. I stumbled forward and tried to pull the container door shut to protect the people inside.

But that wasn’t going to happen. There was no way those prisoners would let the door shut on them again, not even if people were shooting right in front of them. A mass of the people still inside the container slammed the door open.

I backed to the side of the container and drew my service pistol. People from the unknown group had guns up and were firing. Steph and Rick Morris were returning fire.

I needed to know Marie was safe. She was unarmed. What had I been thinking, bringing her here? I raised my pistol. There were no obvious targets, but a few shots crossed between the two groups.

My heart was pounding in my chest from the adrenaline rush and the shock of being shot at. I looked over my shoulder. There were a few people cowering inside the storage container and several others lying still on its nasty, garbage-covered floor.

Marie leaped forward and slammed her body into a man trying to get to the container. She knocked him back, but he quickly regained his balance and swung the butt of his pistol into Marie’s face.

Her head snapped and twisted.

I needed to help her.

Two things happened quickly: three rounds pinged off the vent I was using for cover, forcing me back down, and Marie took another blow, this one a punch from the man’s other hand.

I stared in horror as he brought his pistol up and pointed it at Marie. I raised my pistol for a tricky shot, hoping to at least distract the man.

But Marie was quicker. She kicked and darted to one side. Her foot connected with the man’s knee and he fell, and she followed that up with a kick to the man’s head.

Teeth flew and blood painted a pattern on the side of the container.

A tall woman scooped up the injured man, and the two of them disappeared into the maze of containers.

There was one more rush of fire, then, like the aftermath of most gunfights, an eerie, all-encompassing quiet. Part of it had to do with my ears ringing from the sudden loud noises. Part of it was the fact that there was very little activity at this time of the evening in the port of Miami.

And part of it, I knew, was that there were people down on both sides of the fight.

Chapter 75