Chapter 1
Derek van der Haar eyed his empty beer and wondered how he managed to wind up in a seedy strip club in Nowhere, USA. A shitty CD player pumped out an old rap song as a dark-haired stripper with a back tat of a butterfly defied gravity on the chrome pole in the middle of the tiny stage. The stench of spilled beer, mixed with the dozen unwashed, overexcited white boys grabbing their crotches and wolf whistling had come close to pushing him out the door into the frigid North Dakota night.
But first he needed to find Bart.
He waved his glass at a passing waitress. She smiled and headed toward him. The Madonna-worthy breast implants strained her low-cut T-shirt with each perky step. Her nametag read Corrine.
“Another beer?”
“Yeh.” He set the glass on her tray.
“Alaskan Amber?”
“Spot on, Corrine.”
The waitress cocked her head as she replaced the damp cocktail napkin with a dry one. “Where’re you from, darlin’?”
“A little continent called Africa.”
“Really? What are you doing in this godforsaken place?” she said, looking like she meant every word.
“Hunting.”
A piercing whistle broke through the already raucous crowd, coming from a beefy guy in the group of drunk bros near the stage.
“Need some drinks over here,” the guy yelled.
Corrine sighed.
“Be right back with your amber.” She disappeared into the crowd.
Derek settled in to watch the show. The purple and pink lights aimed at the stage didn’t do the dancer any favors. The “well” between her and the drunk bros appeared to be narrowing, as they jostled each other closer to the action. The bouncer, a massive guy named Bruce with tatted arms the size of oil rig pistons, started toward the group. A tight black T-shirt with a green shamrock and the words “Lucky’s Bar” printed on the front stretched across his torso, giving him the gravitas of a wrecking ball.
The bros backed off.
Didn’t have a death wish, apparently.
A tiny back room of the club—more like a closet, really—served as the lap dance emporium. The night before, Derek had stumbled into the room by accident. One bleary-eyed customer continually handed his “private” stripper twenties whenever she stopped moving. She’d slide her dress back on and repeat the same routine of slithering her hips and shoulders like a drowsy Marilyn Monroe. The dance lasted all of two minutes. Then the next twenty would disappear and she’d start over. Like a mechanical doll, Derek thought.
Pretty good wages. Shit working environment.
But Derek didn’t come for the strippers. Sexual fantasy wasn’t the only thing a guy could find at Lucky’s Bar. When he told Corrine he was hunting, he’d meant it in a broader sense. While most who braved January in the northland came looking for work or for the ice fishing, he sought an altogether different prey.
One more drink. If he hasn’t shown by then, I’m gone.
Good to her word, Corrine returned with another beer. He paid in cash, included a generous tip, and she scooted off to take care of the rest of the crowd. Derek sipped his drink and scanned the room, searching for the man he’d met the night before. He studied the business card in his hand.
Bart Grantham Enterprises
Products you can trust! Procurement of the following items:
Beaver
Mink
Fox
Bear Gall Bladders
Mountain Lion
Bobcat
Quick turnaround. Call for quote.
The fourth item on the list had caught Derek’s eye, prompting his return to Lucky’s. Wild black bear gall bladders were hugely popular in Asia as a component of traditional medicine, but possession could get you jail time in North Dakota. He marveled that the man had the balls to include them on his business card. Poachers in Tanzania and Kenya weren’t quite as stupid as good ol’ Bart. Derek figured Fish and Wildlife would be interested in his whereabouts.
He’d make sure Bart’s card displayed properly on the body.
Derek drained his second beer, threw some cash on the table, and rose to leave. Before he had one arm inside his coat, a man appeared at his elbow. Dwarfed by Derek’s six-foot frame and muscular physique, the rail-thin interloper had the distinctive facial scarring and rotted teeth of a chronic methamphetamine user. Derek took a step back to get downwind and shrugged his coat on the rest of the way.
The other man cut his eyes side to side and motioned for Derek to lean in closer. Wary, Derek turned his head so he could hear him.
“You looking for pussy?”
Derek resisted the impulse to walk away and cocked his head.
“That depends. What’s on offer?”
The man raised his chin and replied, “A sweet young thing I know you gonna like.”
“Where?”
Meth Guy nodded toward the door. “Out back. Ain’t part of Lucky’s stable.”
“Lucky know about that?”
Lucky, a bottle blonde in her mid-sixties with a voice like a chainsaw, owned the place and acted as talent manager—at least, that was what one said in polite company.
Meth Guy’s gaze flickered around the bar, as though Lucky herself might materialize right then and there. “Yeah, you know, maybe I’ll just move along here—”
Derek put his hand up. “Hang on a minute, brah. I didn’t mean anything. Just curious. She runs a tight ship.”
Meth Guy bobbed his head. “Don’t I know it.” His shoulders inched down. “You interested?”
“I might be. Can I get a preview?”
The other man nodded, then started for the entrance, looking back twice to make sure Derek followed. Derek readjusted the forty-five concealed in his waistband and followed him out the door.
He sure as hell didn’t intend to get rolled.
The icy air hit his lungs like death itself. Didn’t matter how long he stayed, he could not get used to what he dubbed the “North Dakota Freeze.” He missed the hot savannah of Africa, missed the hazy mirages that morphed into a pride of lions resting in the shade of a tree, or a giraffe nibbling on the tender leaves of an acacia.
But his calling had brought him to North Dakota oil country, and he had a job to do. He actually hoped Meth Guy would try to rob him. He’d been on good behavior for over a week and could use the adrenaline kick.
He followed the other man around to the back of the bar and across the dirt parking lot. Apparently, there’d been a sale on T-111 siding and gray-blue exterior paint, and everyone decided to stock up. He’d seen the same exact color on a shit-ton of other buildings in town.
No surprise there. North Dakotans were nothing if not frugal.
Meth Guy stopped at the side door of an older model cargo van idling in the lot. The lone security light missed the dented white vehicle by a good six feet, and there were several dark places an accomplice could hide. Derek scanned the area but didn’t detect any threats.
“Inside.” Meth Guy stood next to the idling van, his hand on the door. “Forty dollars and she’ll suck your dick clean off. You want something else, you gotta pay.”
“I wanna see the goods first, yeh?”
Meth Guy slid the door open. He flicked on his phone light, illuminating the interior.
A metal screen separated the cargo area from the front seats. Huddled against the back wall of the van on a bare mattress sat a girl that couldn’t have been more than fourteen years old. Dressed in a skimpy baby doll outfit, her dark hair hung limply around her face. Multicolored bruises peppered her arms and legs, and dark bags accentuated her fearful eyes. Bile rose in Derek’s throat, but he tamped down the anger.
For now.
“Well?” Meth Guy shoved the door closed.
“She’s not what I’m used to.”
“You want younger? I got you covered, bro. Just say the word.”
“She looks like a junkie.”
Meth Guy shook his head emphatically. “She ain’t no junkie. And her slot’s pristine, I guarantee it. Check her out if you want. That squaw’s clean as a whistle.”
“Just like you, right? You runnin’ her?”
Wary, Meth Guy took a step backward. “Yeah, I’m runnin’ her. What’s the problem?”
“Think about cuttin’ a guy in, maybe?”
“I don’t need no partner, if that’s what you’re gettin’ at.”
Derek pulled out the forty-five and aimed it at the other man. The whites of Meth Guy’s eyes gleamed as he raised his hands in the air.
“Afraid that isn’t what I’m getting at. I just needed to know if you had someone else hanging around, waitin’ to take my money.”
Meth Guy shook his head so fast Derek thought it might spin off his neck. “No, sir. I’m a sole proprietor. We can hammer out a deal, if that’s what you’re lookin’ for.”
Derek pulled out a pair of Flex-cuffs and secured the other man’s hands behind his back.
“The fuck you doin’?”
“Call it a public service, asshole.” Derek opened the side door of the van and shoved him inside. The young girl winced as the pimp landed on his face. She glanced at Derek and then back at the floor of the van. In that one short moment, confusion and fear and an unfathomable bleakness met his gaze. An anvil landed in his gut.
So damned young.
Meth Guy struggled to his knees and threw himself head first toward the open door. Derek caught him by the shoulders and heaved him back into the van. He stuffed the forty-five back in his waistband, then cold-cocked him. The skinny man’s jaw made a cracking sound and he slumped to the mattress.
Derek took off his coat and held it out to the girl. After a moment’s hesitation, she accepted and put it on.
“You want to ride up front?” he asked.
She nodded. Derek stepped aside as she gingerly made her way out of the van and into the passenger seat. He slid the door closed and climbed in the driver’s side. He gave her what he hoped would be interpreted as a kind smile. She stared at the floorboards, not meeting his eyes.
“What’s your name?” he asked, his tone gentle. She reminded him of a baby dik-dik he’d found in the bush the year before, after its mother had been killed by a pride of lions. He’d bottle fed the thing like it was his own kid and had been rewarded with a strong young antelope that took joyfully to the wild. He’d been sad to see it go, but happy to give it back to the wilderness.
“Mimi.”
He barely heard her tiny voice, but it was enough.
“You got family, Mimi? Someone I can call?”
Her eyes brimmed with tears as she shook her head. “No.” She cut a look at Meth Guy and shivered before turning back to stare out the windshield.
“Don’t worry about him. He won’t hurt you again.”
Derek shoved the van in gear and drove out of Lucky’s parking lot. Just great, Derek. Now what?
Locating Ol’ Bart the Gall Bladder Trafficker had just taken a backseat to bottle feeding another dik-dik.
Chapter 2
Leine Basso stepped off the plane in Williston, North Dakota, looking for a bar.
She needed antifreeze. She got vending machines. When she asked one of the employees where she could get a drink, the woman shook her head.
“Closest place is town. Too bad you didn’t wait to come when the new airport’s up and running. I hear there’s gonna be a restaurant with a bar.”
“Thanks.” Leine walked to the entrance and pulled out her phone. A text from Derek told her he’d be there soon, that he’d been held up in traffic. Traffic? In a town with a population of thirty thousand? She dropped her bag on the floor and stared through the window at the drifting snow. A brilliant blue sky capped the frosty white landscape, stark in its simplicity.
Deer traffic, maybe.
She’d met Derek in the hold of a cargo ship destined for Tanzania. He’d been a poacher back then, trafficking ivory and rhino horn. During the course of their brief partnership, he’d had a “come-to-Jesus” moment and decided to turn his life around by tracking other poachers.
By the looks of the macabre necklace he’d sent her, he didn’t just track them.
Landing in Williston had been a first. She’d never had a reason to travel to North Dakota—land of endless prairie, bitter cold, and, she’d heard, bison. Oil rigs dotted the landscape like alien birds digging for food. If not for Derek’s phone call she’d be back in LA, putting the final touches on the first graduating class of the SHEN Academy. She smiled at the thought of Jinn proudly holding up the certificate of excellence she earned during her training. She’d certainly come a long way from her days as a poor street kid in Tripoli.
And it appeared that her daughter, April, had finally found her niche. The twenty-five-year-old had gone from a traveling vagabond to an aspiring novelist studying at NYU to one of the best mentors at the academy. A fierce pride filled Leine whenever she thought about “her girls.”
But Derek had found Leine’s weak spot and talked her into making the trip.
The Bakken formation, known simply as “The Bakken,” was a geological anomaly which caused the current oil rush plaguing Williston. The good citizens of Williston were now characterizing their home as a hotbed of the seven deadly sins. The area had been a magnet for roughnecks and unsavory types since the first oil boom in 1951, and again with the latest, which started in the early 2000s. The influx of money and men with nothing to do but work, drink, fuck, and fight had brought a Wild West lawlessness to the small towns ringing the Bakken with an emphasis on greed, lust, pride, and envy. Prostitution soon blossomed, followed close behind by sex trafficking.
Leine understood Derek’s reticence to hand over Mimi. Traumatized by what she’d been through, she had understandably clammed up, refusing to answer his questions. He didn’t feel comfortable delivering her to the lone anti-trafficking agency located in Williston, and insisted Leine fly in to question both the girl and the man who’d been acting as her pimp.
At least Derek hadn’t killed him. Yet. Although he had made some comment about not being a fan of catch and release.
Ten minutes later, she and Derek were on a two-lane highway in his white Ford Super Duty pickup, headed for the town of Hansen, population 1,500. The endless traffic gave her the first taste of the boom—Leine lost count of the number of oil trucks on the road.
“Thanks for coming,” Derek said. “Not exactly Africa, right?” He gave her the once-over and added, “You haven’t changed.”
“You have.” The skin around his eyes had started to sag, and he wore jaded like an old coat. The cocky, ex-poacher ladies’ man she knew in Tanzania had left the building. “How are Alma and Hattie?” Alma and Hattie ran Rafiki, a wildlife rescue camp in Tanzania.
“They were good the last time I saw them. I haven’t been back in a few months.”
“And Zara?”
Derek stared straight ahead. A muscle twitched in his cheek. “According to Hattie, she’s doing all right.”
“You don’t keep in touch?” Derek and Zara had been an item at one point. Leine wondered what had happened.
“She doesn’t approve of my lifestyle.”
More likely, Zara didn’t approve of Derek’s deadly vocation. Leine could relate. Santiago Jensen, the love of her life, was a homicide detective for the Los Angeles Police Department. Needless to say, he didn’t agree with her particular brand of justice.
Understandable, but not something she was willing to change.
“Tell me about Mimi,” she said, changing the subject.
“Says she was born on a reservation in Montana, but got taken away from her biological parents.”
“Did she say why?”
Derek shook his head. “She landed in a foster home, but that didn’t work out, so she ran away and hitched a ride to the Bakken to get a job. She’d heard restaurant owners looked the other way when it came to underage hires.”
“And she found out otherwise.”
Derek nodded. “Pretty fast, too. Some woman offered her a place to stay, but it came with strings attached.” He shook his head. “The girl clammed up after a few questions. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”
“What about her handler?”
He scowled. “A waste of space. All I could get out of him is that he talked Mimi into working for him. Outright lied to her. Said he’d get her a legit job, that the money would be insane. And it was, for him. I’ll wager most of his ill-gotten gains went up the proverbial crack pipe.”
“An addict? You haven’t given him access to any drugs, have you?”
“Wouldn’t think of it. He can rot in hell, far as I’m concerned.”
“So he’s in withdrawal?” she asked.
Derek nodded.
“Getting him to talk shouldn’t be too difficult as long as psychosis isn’t an issue. How long do you think he’s been using?”
“Fuck, I don’t know. Forever? He looks pretty rough, yeh? You can find out yourself.”
They drove through town, which boasted three bars, a strip club, a Wagon Wheel Café, and a tiny grocery, and continued into farm country for a few miles. He took a right off the highway and followed a gravel road for a quarter mile before turning down a dirt driveway. They pulled into the expansive front yard of a modest white farmhouse with a screened-in porch. A towering silver and red silo with an attached barn loomed in the backyard.
Leine glanced at Derek. “You live here by yourself?”
Derek nodded.
“I thought housing was tough to find in these parts.”
He shrugged. “Right place, right time, I guess. Used to be a dairy farm. Some oil company swooped in and offered the owners fuck-you money for their mineral rights.” He gestured at a series of distant oil rigs in the field behind the house, lazily pumping away. “The family left for the tropics. No one’s seen them since.”
“That happen a lot?”
Derek shook his head. “Most folks lease their land. It can be great money, but not earth-shattering. You do see a lot of new pickups, though. It’s mainly the oil companies that make the big bucks now.”
“How much oil is produced here?”
“I’ve heard different numbers. Depending on the source, somewhere around one-and-a-quarter million barrels a day down the pipeline. Reserves are guesstimated to be over a hundred billion barrels, along with a massive amount of natural gas.”
Leine whistled. “That’s a lot of cabbage.” She grabbed her bag and followed Derek to the enclosed back porch and into the house.
The Formica countertops and white metal cupboards gave the kitchen a 1950s vibe, as did the diner-style metal table and chairs. Ruffled curtains with little bees and flowers hand-stitched on them graced the window over the deep ceramic sink, reminding her of a photograph in a country home magazine.
“Nice curtains. Make them yourself?”
He shrugged. “I got bored.”
“Seriously?”
“Fuck no. What do you think?”
Leine smiled. “Just checking.”
Derek rolled his eyes. “Your room’s upstairs.”
He led her up the steep, carpeted stairs to the second floor and pointed to one of three small bedrooms.
“That one’s yours. I’d avoid the one next to the stairs.”
“Yours?”
“Let’s just say it contains a welcome gift for unwanted guests.”
“Got it.”
A full-sized bed with a handmade quilt, a six-drawer dresser, and a nightstand made for a cozy if crowded room. A shallow closet took up one wall. Wood paneling from the seventies covered the rest, with an occasional framed print to break up the space. A small bathroom could be seen down the hall.
Leine dropped her bag on the bed. “Where’s Mimi?”
“Probably out for a walk.”
“And the pimp?”
“In the barn.”
“Show me.”
“First, I have a surprise for you in the nightstand.”
Leine went over to the bed and pulled out the drawer. Inside she found a six-inch tactical knife, a waistband holster, and a new-looking Glock 19 with a suppressor and three extra magazines.
“Aw. You remembered. How sweet.” She donned the holster and slid the Glock inside. The knife and extra magazines went into a side pocket.
Derek gave her another grin and nodded at the stairs. “Let’s go get some intel.”
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2024 All Rights Reserved
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
