The Body Market: A Leine Basso Thriller (23 page)

She scanned the room, searching for shadows. Something caught her eye and she backtracked.
There. Next to the door
.

Leine maneuvered herself into position on the other side of the upended coffee table and waited.

The housekeeper’s shadow wavered on the wall as Teuta fired from behind the door. The bullets chipped at the marble tile and pinged off the corner of the table. Leine tracked her as she moved. She caught a glimpse of sleeve and fired.

The sharp intake of breath told her she’d hit the mark. Leine leaped to her feet and rushed Teuta’s position, firing as she ran. The housekeeper burst from behind the door, gun in her left hand, hugging her right arm by her side.

Leine feinted right as a lamp exploded beside her, recovered and fired, hitting Teuta in the shoulder. Teuta cried out and gripped the wound. The gun clattered to the floor, skipping across the tile. Leine kicked the nine millimeter out of her reach and at the same time grabbed her wrist, twisting it behind her.

With a screech of pain, Teuta went slack and pivoted, but Leine pinned her other hand and wrenched it up between her shoulder blades.

“You’re strong for your age,” Leine said through gritted teeth. Despite being shot twice, Teuta raised her knee and brought the heel of her sensible shoe down, narrowly missing the delicate bones of Leine’s foot.

Leine dragged her toward the sofa and seized a nearby lamp, yanking the cord from the wall socket. Teuta moaned as Leine wrapped it around her wrists and pushed her onto her knees.

Breathing heavily with one hand on her throbbing rib Leine gasped, “Stop it. Just stop, okay? It’s over.”

Teuta scowled at her and spit on the floor near her feet.

“What is it with you guys and spitting?” Leine asked, her irritation flaring. “I get it. You’re pissed.”

“You will regret this, Leine Basso. I swear on my mother’s grave.”

“I’ve never heard that one before,” she said, the sarcasm thick in her voice. “How about something a little more original?”

Unwilling to let go of the feisty older woman, Leine dragged her across the floor toward the fireplace. Ivan had left the roll of duct tape on the mantel. Though the blood loss and trauma from the gunshot wounds was significant, the older woman gave no indication of distress other than ragged breathing, and her struggles made it supremely difficult for Leine to tape her ankles.

Tough woman
,
Leine thought. She found herself wondering about Teuta’s training.

With the housekeeper suitably restrained, Leine hurried back to Belinda to see if she was still alive. Blood poured down the side of her face and torso. A reedy pulse beat weakly against Leine’s fingers.

Leine found her phone and dialed 9-1-1.

S
anta broke away
from the embrace first and picked up her bag. Leine’s stomach growled at the aroma of garlic and spices floating toward her from inside the apartment. “That smells incredible. What is it?”

“Dinner,” Santa said over his shoulder.

Leine followed him through the living room and into the kitchen, taking note of the glass vase filled with a variety of multi-colored tulips—her favorite flower—as well as several lit candles on a table set for two. An open bottle of red wine and two glasses had been placed nearby.

Santa grabbed two hot pads off the counter and opened the oven, waving away the heat as he slid out a deep pan covered in banana leaves and set it on top of the stove. He dropped the pads and, using a fork, lifted one corner. Steam filled the air, and the mouthwatering smell of roasted meat, citrus, and pepper followed.

“
Cochinita Pibil,
” Santa said and stepped aside so Leine could see what was in the pan. She leaned over and inhaled the heady bouquet of the traditional, slow-roasted pork. The orange-red sauce bubbled in the pan.

“Mmm. What’s the occasion? Leine asked. Santa had mentioned how his mother made the
pibil
days ahead by wrapping it in banana leaves and burying it in the ground, allowing the pork to cook slowly, giving the meat its famous, melt-in-your-mouth quality.

Santa shrugged. “I wanted to show you I’m more than just a pretty face.”

Leine leaned over and gave him a proper kiss. “I already knew that.”

“And, I wanted you to feel welcome in your new home.”

Leine smiled. “My new home,” she repeated. It sounded right. Ever since she’d finally decided to take the plunge and move in with Santa, she’d felt more settled. Calm.

Weird.

Two months had passed since they’d rescued Elise. The early morning raid by the Mexican Marines on
El Rancho del Maestro
made headlines across the Baja and mainland Mexico, as did the safe return of the twelve schoolchildren from La Paz. The disruption of Otero’s operation was lauded as a significant victory in the war on human and organ trafficking. Both Felix Otero and Doctor Raul Ramirez were taken into custody by the marines, and many of the young women being kept at the ranch were released to their grateful families. Those with no friends or relatives in Mexico were taken to a holding facility and given access to a phone and email. The Catholic Church offered to help locate the families of the girls who had no contact information. The church also offered to provide a home for Sebastian and the dog, Max, in exchange for help with serving meals and other chores.

Belinda Bennett had survived her gunshot wounds, but had been in a coma since the shooting. The prognosis wasn’t good. Dick Bennett had made good on his promise to be more involved in his daughter’s life and, as a result, Elise was now researching medical schools to attend. When Leine met with her for coffee the week before, she’d marveled at the change in the young woman’s priorities. Elise had confided that when she went back to hanging out with her old friends she realized Brittany was the only person with whom she had anything left in common. She even changed her blog from
Beverly Hills Blonde—Rich and Loving It!
to
Beverly Hills Backers
—an online community of young adult angel investors based in the Beverly Hills area who were interested in backing socially responsible startups.

Leine had called Vlad to make sure Grigori and his shipment arrived in time and intact, and to inquire about his wife’s health. He assured her all was well and that they were now “square,” but that he’d keep her contact information in his database for future jobs. Immediately after their conversation Leine bought a new phone and changed her number.

Yeah, that is so not going to happen.

She watched as Santa dished up the
cochinita pibil
, her gaze wandering from his hands to his handsome face, to the way his jeans caressed his hips, and sighed contentedly. For the first time in a long time, Leine Basso had found a home.

THE END

(***Keep reading for your exclusive bonus short story,
Privilege
)

Privilege

A short Story

by D.V. Berkom

“
Look, you know
this isn’t exactly legal, right?”

“Yeah. I get that.” Durban nodded at his attorney, Jack, who was sitting in one of the chairs across the desk from him. He inhaled a long, deep breath and let it go as he looked at his watch. He’d forgotten his third round of medication. No wonder he felt like shit.

“The damned wait list is who-knows how long—that’s if a match is even possible. I don’t have a lot of time.”

“Well, let me look into it for you.” Jack started to rise from the chair but thought better of it and sank back into the soft leather. “It’s not that I don’t want to help, it’s just that this guy’s not board certified.”

Durban shrugged. A self-made billionaire, he was used to taking calculated risks. This definitely fit the bill.

“If I don’t, then I die. It’s that simple.” Durban shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Ever since he’d started taking the laundry list of medications his doctor prescribed, he’d found it difficult to focus for longer than fifteen minutes. Sure, the meds masked some of the symptoms, but what he gained in pain relief he lost in productivity.

What I wouldn’t give for a double shot of MacCallan’s right now
. Penchant for expensive whiskey aside, Durban’s life-long obsession with alcohol had put him in this predicament, and now the only way forward was through Jack’s contact. Odds were less than slim that the national donor list would find a match for his rare blood type before his liver gave out. Jack’s contact boasted a ninety-eight percent match rate, or your money back. Durban liked his odds with the uncertified surgeon working below the radar of the entrenched medical establishment. Reminded him of his young, upstart self. He hadn’t paid much attention to the rules back then. He still didn’t.

And, he’d be able to recuperate in Mexico at his vacation home on the Sea of Cortez.

Jack sighed and rose from the chair, snapping his briefcase closed. The ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “In all the years I’ve known you, D, you never gave up, no matter what. You’re a persistent son of a bitch.” He glanced around the well-appointed office, his gaze settling on a rare Picasso hanging on the far wall. Durban had gone after the painting like a Rottweiler, wearing down the previous owner until they grudgingly sold it to the wealthy financier just to get rid of him.

Durban nodded, suddenly exhausted from trying to stay focused during their conversation. It must have showed, because Jack picked up his briefcase and turned to leave.

“I’ll let you know when I hear something. Apparently the guy’s pretty good with rare blood types.”

“I’m betting on it.”

***

“Mr. McNamara, your grandson is here to see you,” Durban’s assistant said over the intercom.

“Sure, send him in.”

Durban smiled at the welcome intrusion. Now there was a bright spot in an otherwise shitty day. His grandson, Joshua, was smart, articulate, and, after his imminent graduation from high school, well on his way to a bright future as a stockbroker. 

“Hey, Grandad.”

Durban had to resist the urge to offer his grandson a comb. Joshua’s tousled, streaked-blond hair, though apparently a hit with the women, set the older man’s teeth on edge. Whatever happened to a nice, clean, crew cut? The fact that he went to a colorist at a salon instead of a good, old-fashioned barbershop was a bone of good-humored contention between the two.

“Hey, kiddo. ‘Sup?” Durban’s attempts to “speak the lingo” always teased a smile from his eighteen-year-old grandson, and this time was no different.

“Nothing much. Did you see the sick ride Dad got me for graduation?” Joshua nodded toward the window behind Durban.

Durban swiveled his chair and looked down onto the circular drive. A gleaming red Porsche fairly shimmered in the bright California sun. The thing looked alive, ferocious even. He whistled and turned back.

“Now
that’s
a car,” he said. “Fast?”

A lazy smile spread across his grandson’s handsome face. “Oh, yeah. Wanna go for a ride?”

Durban glanced at the pile of paperwork on his desk.

“Hell yes. What are we waiting for?”

***

That evening, as Durban and his wife, Jean, were in the media room watching the latest Denzel Washington movie, Durban’s cell went off. It was Jack.

“Keep watching—I’ll catch up.” Durban walked into the hallway to answer the call.

“Well, he says it’s a go.”

“Who?” Durban asked, unsure which “he” his attorney was talking about. They had so many deals going, it was hard to keep track. And, with all the meds his memory wasn’t so great anymore.

“The man we spoke about this afternoon?”

“The man—” Then it came back to him. The doctor. “Ah. Did you get a quote?”

“One-hundred and seventy-five thousand.”

“Jesus. Do I get follow up for that?”

“For one year. After that, it’s case-by-case.”

Durban inhaled deeply and let it go. One-hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars for another chance at life. Cheap at twice the price, really.

“And he guarantees a match?”

“That’s what he said.”

“I want you to check out the facilities, you know, make sure this guy’s not a fly-by-night operation.”

“I told him you’d probably insist. He didn’t have a problem with it.”

“Good. Set it up.”

***

Tuesday dawned with gray clouds scudding across the normally turquoise sky. Durban rose quickly and put on his clothes for the drive to the private surgery center. Jean slept in another room two doors down the hall. It was early, so he didn’t wake her. They said their goodbyes the night before, with Jean telling him she understood why he was going through with it, but that she still didn’t think it was a good idea.

“Where does this doctor procure the organs?” she’d asked.

“He doesn’t say, but I’m sure it’s ethical. He’s a doctor, for chrissakes. Doctors take an oath to do no harm, right? Don’t worry.” Durban had kissed her cheek. He wasn’t about to add to her worries by telling her he didn’t know, or at this point, care. “Besides. Do you know how long I would have to wait for a match on the national donor list?”

She sighed and shook her head. He smiled, attempting to put her at ease.

“Probably forever. This way, you’ll get to push me around a little while longer.”

Jack was waiting for him in front of the peach and white stucco vacation home in the town car. He got out and opened the door for him.

“Thanks for driving me, Jack. I don’t think Jean would have been able to.”

“I take it she’s not thrilled with your decision to go through with it.”

Durban gave him a wry smile. “You could say that.”

As soon as they arrived at the gleaming glass and steel surgery center, an efficient nurse whisked Durban away to prep him for surgery. Jack promised to stick around until he woke up in recovery. As Durban slid into the cottony, no-man’s land of opioid heaven, Jean’s worries about the source of his liver floated through his mind.

***

Durban’s eyes fluttered open and he glanced blearily around the room. Jean stood next to the hospital bed, holding his hand. He didn’t understand why she looked so worried—eyebrows drawn together in a frown, circles under her lovely eyes, lips set in a firm line—he was out of surgery, wasn’t he? He tried to console her, tell her he was fine, but the painkillers they’d given him pulled him back into the soft, gray world of the heavily medicated.

He awoke several hours later, feeling as though he’d been hit by a truck, although the lingering anesthesia kept him from the full impact of the surgery. Durban searched the room for Jean, but didn’t see her or Jack. He closed his eyes as weariness overcame him.

“Durban. Honey, wake up.”

There was an insistent tug on his pajama sleeve. He opened his eyes to see Jean leaning over him, concern evident in her eyes.

Worry started low in his gut at Jean’s pinched expression. Her red-rimmed eyes told him she’d been crying. Had the surgery gone okay?

Durban managed a smile. It tasted like someone had stuffed a pair of socks inside his mouth. “Hey. Looks like I came out of things all right.”

Jean cleared her throat and glanced at the other side of the bed. Durban turned his head to see Jack standing next to him. He too, had a concerned expression.

“What? I’m going to live, right?”

Jack nodded at Jean and she squeezed Durban’s hand. He turned to focus on his wife of thirty-seven years.

“Joshua’s missing.” She stated it flatly, as though she were talking about the weather.

“What do you mean, missing? He told me he was going to Tijuana for the weekend with his girlfriend.”

Tears glistened in Jean’s eyes. “They found his cell phone. There was blood—” Jean turned away, wiping at her tears.

“The police found evidence of what they believe is a possible carjacking outside of Tijuana. His phone was near the suspected location.” Jack’s tight expression belied his calm voice.

“I’m sorry to spring this on you so soon after your surgery, but we’re all very concerned. I didn’t think I’d be able to keep it from you.” Jean had managed to get control of herself and was no longer in tears.

“The Porsche—”

“All that’s left is some glass shards and a side mirror. Police suspect it’s already been stripped down and parted out.” Jack shifted his stance. “There’s no sign of either him or his girlfriend.”

“But if it’s a carjacking, then they should show up eventually, right?” Durban winced as he tried to sit up. Jack sprang forward to help, but he waved him away. “What are we doing about this? Have you called the FBI? The police are one thing, but we need to involve anybody and everybody.”

“Your daughter filed a report with the police, and ICE is working it from their angle. The girl’s parents went to SHEN on the advice of their attorney.”

“SHEN? They suspect trafficking?” Durban’s head pounded. He refused to believe his boy, Josh, had been sold into the sex trade. Not when his future was so bright. His heart monitor blipped faster as his blood pressure skyrocketed at the thought.

“They’re looking at all possibilities.” Jack came around to Jean’s side of the bed. “Don’t worry. I’m sure they’ll find him.”

“Goddamned right they’re going to find him.”

A nurse hurried into the room and proceeded to inject something into Durban’s IV.

“This will help to calm you,” she said.

Durban lay back on his pillow and took a deep breath.

This was not a good time to be laid up and recuperating from surgery. His grandson needed him. Durban curled his hands into fists as the sedative took effect.

***

The nurse had just finished giving Durban a sponge bath in his room at the house on the beach when Jack walked in. The skin on his face had a gray cast and dark circles ringed his eyes. A lead weight lodged itself in Durban’s gut and he steeled himself for what was coming.

Jack paused for a moment as though to collect himself.

“They found Josh.” His voice was quiet, too quiet for the gaily decorated room filled with colorful Mexican art. Despair climbed out of Durban’s gut and rose to his chest.

“Is he—is he alive?” Durban asked.

Jack slowly shook his head.

“They found him in the trunk of his car at the bottom of a ravine.”

“Ah, God.” Durban squeezed his eyes tight, willing the news to somehow leave his life, to not be real. Tears pricked his eyelids.
God, the kid was only eighteen. He had his whole life to live.

“There’s more.” Jack sat down on the bed, glancing at the ceiling before his gaze came to rest on Durban’s.

“Tell me.”

“Someone had removed both his kidneys…” Jack closed his eyes. “And his liver.”

End