The Traffickers (Badge of Honor 9)

Payne took a seat so that he had a clear view of the area. He sighed audibly, then realized he was somewhat tired.

And that caused him to begin thinking about all he’d been through in the course of the day.

It’s been surreal… and I’m far from being done.

He looked at his watch. It showed it was quarter after three.

Jesus! In the course of-what?

Chad called me at quarter of five this morning. So that makes it right at eight and a half hours.

And in that time I’ve gone from being on nearly thirty days’ R amp; R and shopping for a Porsche to being back on the cops to a shoot-out with a critter to being put back on ice.

And, now, to whatever happens with this guy from Texas.

Liz Justice-wearing the hat of Houston Chief of Police Justice-said he was tracking some critter who cut off girls’ heads?

He shook his head.

Un-fucking-believable.

Talk about an animal. That’s inhuman…

He watched a clump of people flowing out of Concourse D. He had no idea which flight they had come in on, but not one of them looked like his idea of a Texan, let alone of a Texas Ranger law-enforcement officer. There were only two males in the group, neither close to resembling an active LEO. One wasn’t old enough to shave. The other, in a crouch, walked with a cane.

His mind went on:

And in the course of those same eight and a half hours, five people in Philly-three of whom I more or less crossed paths with-are no longer among the living.

And the fate of another is not looking damn good at all.

An image of a laughing, full-of-life Becca Benjamin flashed in his memory.

Godspeed, Becca…

And what about those two Hispanics killed in the motel?

I’d hoped Skipper would’ve told us something about how that one guy got his throat slit.

But now all the witnesses are dead.

Unless Becca knows something… but that’s a long shot, both (a) on the chance that she knew what was going on in the motel room and (b) if she actually survives and can tell us that she does.

Or doesn’t. Then we’re back to square one.

And that crazy sonofabitch coming into the hospital and pumping thirteen nine-millimeter rounds into Skipper.

What if he came back?

Thank God we beefed up the cops sitting on her.

Jesus! What next?

A big group of air travelers, easily thirty of them, came out from Concourse D. They were mostly teenagers. They had a handful of chaperones. All wore the same bright blue style of T-shirt. Payne could read some part of what had been silk-screened on the shirts, something about a church mission trip.

I do know what I’d like to happen next.

I’d like another shot at that sonofabitch who popped Skipper.