Lost(49)

I moved a little closer to the ship in case there was trouble. I was really doing this for the benefit of the young security officer on the boat. If he did something stupid, I didn’t want Steph or Chill to break one of his legs and toss him in the water.

Chill made a little show of wandering around like he was lost. I liked how he stooped over slightly to give the impression he was older than he was.

He stopped by the gangplank and called up to get the security guard’s attention. The guard looked down at Chill, who said something in a quiet voice.

The guard yelled back, “What was that? I can’t hear you.”

Chill leaned against the gangplank handrail and coughed like he’d been a lifelong pack-a-day smoker.

I was impressed. He sold me on the coughing fit even though I knew he was a runner.

Chill hacked a little louder and motioned to the young security guard to come close.

The man didn’t hesitate. He scurried down the gangplank like a lab rat waiting to eat cancer-laced candy.

Chill looked over at us with a sly smile. There really wasn’t any substitution for experience.

Once the guard was next to him, Chill composed himself and mumbled thanks. He straightened up a bit and said, “I’m okay now. Thanks for coming to help.”

The young man beamed. “No problem. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Now Chill began a subtle but effective interrogation of the security agent. First there was the usual stuff, like “What’s your name? Where are you from?” Then he got to the real question: “How many people are on the ship right now?”

The young man did a double take and said, “Wait, what?”

It was like Chill had changed from a caterpillar to a butterfly. He slipped the badge he wore on a chain out from under his shirt and grasped the young man tightly by the upper arm. Chill changed his tone and said, “How many people are on board?”

“I—I—I don’t really know.”

Now Rick Morris, the Customs supervisor, stepped up to the young man and said, “Answer the question, jack-off.”

Chill looked at him sharply and said, “I got this, Rick. Back off.” He turned his attention back to the suddenly terrified security man. Chill put his hand on the young guard’s shoulder and said, “Tell me who you think is on board.”

The young man stuttered again and finally was able to blurt out, “The Customs inspector just came on, and the first mate is on board. I think a lot of the crew already slipped off for the evening.”

Now our entire group gathered around the security guard. Chill slid the young man’s radio out of its harness and said, “I’ll give this back when we’re done.”

I stood in front of the young man and looked down at him. “You’re gonna need to sit right here and not talk to anyone or call anyone until we come off the ship. Is this clearly understood?”

The young man nodded and sat down on the concrete bench near the ship.

We all carefully stepped onto the rickety gangplank, trying to limit the noise. Sounds echoed in the still night. I could hear a car horn out on Biscayne Boulevard. We fanned out near the bridge. I got a weird vibe from the almost empty ship, which reminded me of something from The Walking Dead.

The first thing Rick said was “That’s weird. If there’s a Customs inspector on board, there should be a Customs person at the gangplank and a couple in the wheelhouse. Something’s not right.”

Steph gave him a flat stare and said, “No shit.”





CHAPTER 72





I WASTED NO time once we were on board. Every minute was vital; we had to get to the people in the storage container. I’d worry about arrests and charges afterward. If this Customs inspector, Vacile, was helping human traffickers, he was about to have the worst night of his life.

I just started marching toward the bow, cutting between the towering storage containers on the metal deck that showed signs of rust and wear. I felt like I was in Monument Valley.

It was spooky. I didn’t even hear anyone else on board. Stepping carefully, I minimized any sound. Everyone behind me was just as careful. My heart raced as I considered all the things that could go wrong. That’s what I always did before any kind of operation, whether it was a search warrant, an interview, or something as important as this.

I heard muffled voices as we approached the front. A tall, older sailor, probably the first mate, was talking amiably with Vacile. The Customs inspector was about forty-five years old; he had a potbelly, and his blue uniform didn’t complement his shape. The two men stood in front of a single container. There were air vents along the top. It was obvious what we were looking at.

I stepped out of the shadows and came in full view of the two men.

The sailor barked at me, “No one is allowed on board.”

I immediately recognized his accent as Dutch.

Marie stepped forward and spoke sharply to the man in Dutch, which caught him by surprise. It also tipped off Vacile that it was probably time to go.

He backed away slowly and bumped into Rick, our own Customs contact, who was clearly not happy.

Rick grabbed Vacile by the shoulders and said, “I’m Rick Morris. I’m an honest Customs supervisor, and you’re not gonna move another inch until we’ve sorted this out.” He calmly reached down and removed the inspector’s service weapon from its holster.