Chapter One
Feenix Blaylock
Ican hear the crying grow louder the deeper I get into the port’s container yard. Nevermind the waves just beyond, never mind the wind that pushes across from the Hudson River’s surface, or the sound of ships’ horns as they dock further away. As I weave between the shipping containers to get to the one where I’m meeting Andre Seager, I quietly rap my fingers against the metal sides that reflect in tonight’s half-moon and the meager lights lighting my way.
The muffled sobbing continues even as calmer baritone voices drift my way. I’d recognize Andre’s voice anywhere, even if it’s nothing but a murmur at this distance. He has one of those voices that annoy the shit out of me. To anyone else, it’d be smooth and somewhat deep, but to me . . . well, his entire existence only serves to piss me off.
My Converse shoes scuff against the cracked path, but my leather jacket is silent as I drop my arm back to my sideand follow Andre’s voice. The closer I get, the louder he is, which is idiotic, considering why we’re meeting here. What we’re doing requires whispers. Most of what we do requires whispers, and he’s a fool to think he’s untouchable.
Me? I’m more discrete. Always have been. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t kill him for his side of our job. Make it messy. Make it look like it’s one of his minions who’d off him while I step in, impress the boss, and climb the ladder in this business. Certain circumstances are stopping me though.
Glaring, I round the corner to find those exact minions leaning against the outer wall of a red shipping container while Andre chatters on the phone. His back to me. One of the men – I don’t bother learning their names – clears his throat, causing Andre to turn around and face me.
Andre isn’t as handsome as his voice would suggest. His hair is dyed a shade so black that it rivals the night sky above us. He’s thick around the belt and thin around the chest, but his face doesn’t have an ounce of fat: weak jaw, short stubby nose, a smattering of graying eyebrows above dull brown eyes. He may have been attractive in his youth, but for someone two decades older than me, the years and maybe the job haven’t been kind to him.
Our line of business isn’t for the faint of heart. And once you’re in, the only way out is to die and your corpse be used for our purposes. Or Andre’s purposes, anyway. Whereas I control the porn side of the boss’s business, Andre controls the trafficking and the clients who pay big bucks to indulge in their necrophilia fetishes. I’ve never seen the appeal of fucking a corpse, but there are many who do, and they have the money to do so.
Which brings us here this evening: the next shipment.
I look at the shipping container where crying filtersthrough and then lift an eyebrow at Andre until he rolls his eyes and hangs up the phone. Once the phone is pocketed inside his designer business suit, he gives me a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“That took you forever. I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show,” he says.
“It’s my job to show up,” I quip in a threatening tone. He always likes to imply that my heart is too kind for this kind of job, but little does he know that, just because I’m quiet, it doesn’t mean I’m a soft man. He doesn’t know me well enough, though. No one does except for one person, and I keep him, my childhood friend, far away from this life. No, he doesn’t know me; none of these pricks do, and I keep it that way on purpose.
My business is my own, and my motives are mine alone.
He holds up a finger. “No, it’s only my job to show up. I invite you because I’m a nice guy.”
Nice guy my ass. More like a snake.“No, you invite me to show off.”
He shrugs his shoulders. “That too.”
I pivot to fully face the container I’m here for, and his men push off their wall and move to stand beside Andre. “This them?” I ask, even though I know it is. I’m just trying to move this conversation along. Otherwise, Andre will start talking about himself. He likes to do that. I don’t give a rat's ass about him. To me, he’d be better off dead, and like I said, I’d do it myself. The only thing stopping me is that I have never talked to the boss myself, which wouldn’t ensure my spot to replace him.
“Open it up,” Andre orders one of his guys.
A man steps forward and unlatches the shipping container while the other men draw guns to point at the people undoubtedly inside. It wouldn’t go over well to havethem overtake us, and I can tell they could by the amount of heavy breathing that filters our way as soon as the container’s door squeals open a few feet.
I squint inside as the stench curls up my nose and burns my eyes; urine, vomit, body odor. I should be used to the smell by now, but it’s hard not to cover my nose with my jacket’s sleeve.
“How many?” I ask because they’re squeezed toward the back and I only see the first few outlines.
“Give the man a light,” Andre demands, and the next thing I know, I have a flashlight in my outstretched palm.
I press the button on the light and shine it inside. “How many?” I ask again.
“I was told a dozen, but you know who we work with in Russia.”
“It’s more than a dozen,” I say, giving a short count as Andre comes up behind me to peer inside himself.
“So it would seem.”
There are men and women who are shielding their eyes from my light, ranging from young adults to at least mid-thirties. Any older and they don’t sell, be it corpses or porn.
Some came at their own free will, promised to have their poverty-stricken families paid handsomely before they realized what they were getting into. A few were likely stolen off the streets in some dark alley they were sleeping in. I’d bet my last dollar that the ones who traded their dignity for income didn’t realize that they’d die to get it. They probably didn’t even realize they’d be shipped like cattle, treated like slaves.
It doesn’t matter. They have a purpose, and both Andre and I have money to make and someone to impress.
