Snowman

Scott

Introduction

Snowman is the third book in the Morgan Snow series.  The first title in the series is Snowfall, which sets the framework of Snow’s world.  In Snowfall, Snow is pitted against a ruthless corporation that utilizes mind control techniques as well as mercenaries to advance their cause.  Snow Angel followed a few years later, picking up where Snowfall left off.  Snow was cast into a life and death battle to find the men responsible for his friend’s death.  Along the way, he crosses path with a beautiful bartender who is being stalked by the same bizarre cult, that Snow learns are the very men he seeks.

Morgan Snow is a career criminal who seems incapable of staying out of trouble.  His primary means of making a living is through smuggling.  Preferring to work behind the scenes, Snow insulates himself as much as possible.  He is, however, not afraid to get his hands dirty when the need arises.  Besides smuggling, Snow is known for being a man who trades in favors.  If you need something done, someone found or dealt with, something caused to fall off the back of a truck, or something mysteriously make it past Customs, he is your man.

Boston, Massachusetts, and the surrounding communities provide the backdrop for the action in this story.  The tremendous history, geography, and people of Boston make it the perfect location for this story.  As a native son, Snow is immensely proud of his hometown and an avid supporter of the home teams.

Snowman has Snow running from three different powerful factions who all want to see him dead.  Along the way, Snow gets pulled into rescuing a young runaway who left a life of privilege and blundered into a life of sexual depravity.  This book introduces Special Agent Priya Benoit of the DEA into Snow’s life.  An exotic beauty, she captures Snow’s attention and desire.  She too is marked for death, and it is up to Snow to save her.  Snowman is a non-stop story of action and adventure.  It features narrow escapes along with tooth and nail scrambling for survival.  While the dark world of human trafficking and underage prostitution is touched upon, you can always count on Snow’s quick wit and sarcastic sense of humor to lighten the tone.

Please pour yourself a glass of bourbon, find a comfortable chair, and enjoy the ride.

Chapter One -- Boat Ride

The first sensation that Ryan could recall was the throbbing pain in the back of his head.  His hand searched out the origin of the infliction, and instinctively rubbed his aching skull.  When Ryan pulled his hand away, it felt damp, and he could tell, even in the darkness, that it was blood, his blood.  It was just then that he discovered how much his hand hurt.  Ryan stared at it to discover the source of the pain but did so with little chance of success, for he was in complete darkness.  Reaching out, Ryan could feel the sides of a metal container all around him.  Terror swept over him like a frigid shiver.  With all his strength, he tested the container walls, floor, and ceiling.  He tried over and over again in a desperate attempt to gain his freedom.  His efforts were futile.  Ryan Reever was suddenly gripped with fear so tightly that it felt as though someone had reached into his chest, took a firm grasp of his heart, and began to squeeze.  One thing he knew for sure was that whatever he was in, smelled of fish, and was moving.  The distinctive sound of a Cummins diesel engine, and the repetitive thumping up and down of his coffin-like container left little doubt in his mind that it was the hold of a fishing boat of some kind.  He started to pound on the lid, but quickly stopped for fear that he would only be speeding up whatever fate awaited him on the other side.

Ryan forced his pain-wracked brain to recall his last memories of life outside this fish locker.  He remembered walking into his apartment and kicking off his shoes by the door where the other two pairs that he owned lay in a pile.  Now, in his forties, it was not uncommon for his bladder to take control of his movements once Ryan returned home.  His bladder always seemed to know when he walked through his front door, and it decided how desperately that he needed to relieve the pressure.  Sometimes it commanded his attention so forcefully that he barely had time to kick off his shoes and make it down the hall in time.  Right then was one of those times.  As he scurried across the little living room, Ryan noticed the closed bathroom door.  Since he lived alone, this seemed strange to him, but he quickly dismissed it as being a simple matter of forgetfulness.  He did not see the water on the hallway floor as the only illumination came from a feeble lamp sitting on an end table in what passed for the living room.  'Shit' was the first thought that came to his mind as his socks began to soak up the water on the floor.  Fearing that a pipe had broken or the toilet had backed up again, Ryan rushed to the bathroom door.  The last thing he could remember was grabbing the door handle, his body wracked with pain, and then nothing.

Time marched on, but very slowly.  From inside the hold, Ryan could hear the sound of the engine powering down and felt the motion of the boat rocking intensely, albeit briefly, before settling down into its wake.  He strained to hear anything that he could detect that might give him a clue as to who might be outside the hold.  Minutes seemed like hours as he awaited his fate.  Finally, three sharp raps resounded on the lid of his prison.

Hey, Ryan, buddy, how you doing in there?

Ryan remained silent.  His heart was pounding so hard that he was afraid it would burst from his chest.  He tried to discern the man's voice, trying to figure out who his captor might be, but he couldn't.

Ryan, you awake? the man persisted.  I know you're awake; I heard you stirring around in there a while ago.

Who are you?  Why am I here? Ryan's voice seemed to crack as he said it.

So you are awake, good, the man replied.  Listen, buddy; I'm the guy who put you in that box.  As to why you are in there, well, I bet you probably have a pretty good idea.

I don't know what you are talking about, Ryan protested, but he knew.  He knew all too well.  I haven't done anything.  I don't know you.

Ryan, is that any way for us to start our relationship; with you lying to me like that?

I'm not lying.  I haven't done anything.  You've got the wrong guy.

Cut the shit, Ryan!  Let's get you out of that box, shall we?  I prefer talking face to face.

The man walked over to the holding tank and double-tapped the barrel of his gun on the lid.

Did you hear that, Ryan?  That's the barrel of my Sig Sauer 9mm.  I want you to understand that once I flip open the lock on this hold that you need to play nice.  If you decide to pop out like a Jack-In-The-Box and go all badass, I'm going to blow a hole in your kneecap.  So now, are you going to behave yourself?

Ryan lay silently in the hold, wondering whether he was safer inside or outside of the box.

What? You like it in there or something?

I just don't want to get myself shot once I climb up out of here.

Then don't do anything stupid.  You won't get shot if you do what I say.  I give you my word.  Now, do you want to come out here, or shall I turn on the pump and fill that hold up with some nice, cold, fresh seawater?

Ryan heard the sound of the lock flipped open on the hold.  After a few more seconds of white-knuckle fear, he began to push the lid up a bit and repositioned himself inside the box so that he could peer over the edge.  It was dark outside, and the cloud cover obscured the moon.  Lit only by the overhead lights of the boat's cabin and the rail lights, Ryan saw a large man perched on the edge of the boat railing.  The man motioned for Ryan to come out.  With extreme trepidation, Ryan eased his way up and climbed out of the hold onto the gently swaying deck of the boat.

So, what now? Ryan asked as he summoned up his courage.

Now?  Now we fish.

Fish?

Yeah, you know – fish.  You are on a fishing boat, and where we are right here is just right at the edge of the continental shelf.  Do you know what that means?  That means some good fishing.

You brought me out here to go fishing?

Yeah, you know, we fish, drink a little beer, swap stories, you know, guy shit.

Come on, man; you didn't bring me out here for no fishing.

Sure I did.  See that chest right there?  It's got a bunch of Tiger Beer in it.  Help yourself.  Go on, grab me one too, will ya?

Ryan looked at the man and then at the chest.  He walked over and flipped the lid open.  His eyes opened wide, and he stumbled back in horror at what he saw.  There inside the chest nestled down alongside a dozen or so beers that poked up through the ice was the severed head of a man, whose lifeless eyes stared up at Ryan.

As Ryan fell back against the boat railing, he screamed, What the fuck? What have you done?

What?  I got us some beers.

What about… what about... Ryan said as he pointed at the chest.

What? Oh, you mean Marcus there? Shit, don't let him bother you.  There wasn't that much blood left in his skull by the time I put it in the chest.  It's not like it can get into the beer anyway.  Now, would you grab me one, please?  I worked up a thirst tonight.

Ryan stood frozen to the deck staring in disbelief at the chest and then up at the man holding the gun.

Hey, the man said, I asked you nicely.  Don't make me have to ask you again.

Ryan remained frozen for another minute before he moved carefully across the swaying deck towards the chest.  For a moment, his hand froze in place as he reached for a beer.

As Ryan pulled a beer from the ice, the man with the gun said, Get yourself one too.  The opener is on the side.

Ryan froze as he stared at the man and then slid another beer from the ice.  After slamming the lid shut on the chest, he found the opener on the side and opened each beer.  His hand was shaking with terror as he carefully made his way across the deck, fighting the gentle sway.  Ryan stopped short of the landing, where the man sat resting the gun on his thigh.  The man reached out and took the beer from Ryan.

Cheers, the man said as he took a swig of his beer.

Ryan just stood there and stared at the man.

Aren't you going to have a drink? the man asked.  I said ‘Cheers’ and everything.

I usually like to know the name of the man I am drinking with.

The stranger stared at Ryan for a moment, took another swig, and then said, Fair enough.  My name is Snow.

A look of recognition came across Ryan's face.  Morgan Snow?  Yeah, I…I heard of you.

You have? Well, good, that should save us some time.  If you know about me, then you know I am not a man who likes to fuck around and play games.

I figured that much out from the head in the chest.

Good, so what do you say we get in some fishing? Snow asked with a motion of his hand towards the stern.

Ryan was hesitant to move.  He raised a hand to his head and rubbed his forehead.

Hey, where are my manners? Snow asked.  Do you need any aspirin or anything for that head of yours?  I bet it is pounding like a mother about now.  You're a tough sum-bitch, you are.  I thought wiring your bathroom doorknob up to the electric and you standing in a puddle of water should have knocked you senseless, but not you, boy.  I mean, you did look like you had your bell rung pretty good but still didn't go down, so I had to clobber you on the back of the head with the butt of my gun here.

You electrocuted me?  You could have killed me.

Hey, life's a crapshoot.  I didn't figure it would kill you, but hey everybody is entitled to at least one mistake, am I right?  So what say we get to some fishing?  You see that drum back there? Open it.

What's in it? Ryan asked.

Go and see for yourself.

Oh, crap, man, come on!

Chill out; it's just chum.  There's a ladle back there, and you need to start us a chum slick.

Why are we using chum? What are we fishing for?

Oh, we'll see.  You just never know what might come up in these waters.  Now, how about that chum slick, please? Snow asked as he used his gun to motion towards the aft.

Reluctantly, Ryan made his way across the deck to the drum.  He located the ladle, and as he pulled the lid off the drum, the stench of blood, entrails, and fish oil nearly gagged him.  As Ryan dipped the spoon into the odorous concoction, a collection of oil-rich blood and entrails oozed into the bowl.  Carefully, he lifted the ladle up and over the side of the boat, emptying its contents into the frigid waters of the North Atlantic.

That's good, just keep it going, Snow said as he walked towards the aft and took a position on the opposite side of the deck.  We want to get a good slick going to bring up the big ones.

This shit stinks!

Well, that comes with the territory, don't you know.  Just keep ladling at a nice even pace.

So, at some point, are you going to tell me why I am here?

Come on now, Ryan, old buddy, you know why you are here.

Ryan paused, dipped another ladle full of chum, and considered just how much this Snow character might know.  He knew about Marcus, that was a given.  If Snow knew about their operation, Ryan wondered at this point, why his head was not nestled down in the ice right next to his partner's.

Why don't you humor me and just tell me, Ryan said as he poured the oily concoction over the side.

Well, here's the deal.  You know who Amber Elizabeth Branson is.

Never heard of her, Ryan said as he persisted in his routine.

Come on, buddy.  Are you seriously telling me that you haven't seen the news lately?  You know, Amber, the rich little daddy's girl who came up missing.

Oh, yeah, yeah, Ryan said as he collected another spoon full.  I remember hearing about her on the news.  Kidnapped, right?

As if you didn't know, Snow said with a laugh.  The story is that she comes up missing, her very wealthy parents shell out for the ransom, but still no Amber.  A week ago, the same day, Amber came up missing, her dad reached out to me through a friend of a friend.  He contracted my services to do a little poking around to see if I can deliver the girl just in case the feds can't.

This is all very interesting, but I don't see what any of this has to do with me.

Don't rush me; you'll spoil the buildup.  Besides, I'm getting to your involvement in this sordid little tale.  You see, the thing is that the feds weren't just working one kidnapping case in Boston, but three.  That just struck me as funny.  I mean, what are the odds of three kidnappings in sleepy old Boston all at the same time?  So, you know what I did?

Ryan dumped another ladleful over the side and said, I suppose this is the part where I say, ‘Do tell’.

I'm glad you asked, Snow continued.  I reached out to this hot little FBI agent I know down in DC, and after a bit of digging, she told me about another group of three kidnappings that happened down in Chicago two years ago.  It seems like three little pretty rich girls get themselves kidnapped, and the family pays the ransom.  The problem is that the girls are never heard from again.  Does this sound familiar to you at all?

No man, but I don't keep up with the news.  I am still not sure how I fit into the picture.

Patience, I'm getting to that part.  I just thought the coincidence was a little too coincidental, I mean three girls in Chicago and now three girls here.  So what happened to the girls in Chicago, I asked myself?  You got to think about this from a business perspective, I tell myself.  Kidnapping is a business.  The kidnapper has a valuable asset on his hands: three beautiful young girls.  A true businessman doesn't squander a valuable asset; that's not good business.  The parents paid, so why not just return the girls? Why not just knock the girls in the head and toss them in a hole?  That's wasteful and doesn't make good business sense.  No, if you're a keen businessman and you have an asset, and you aren't concerned about the fact that you just screwed over the other party in your deal, you look for another way to capitalize on your holdings.  So what do you do with three beautiful young girls I asked myself?  Well, the sex trade comes to mind.

Ryan listened to the tale as he continued to dip chum over the side.  Despite the chill of the night air, a bead of sweat ran from behind his left ear.  His nerves were on edge, and fear was ravaging his insides.

You see, the thing is that I deal with what some might call the underbelly of society in my business, Snow explained.  I will tell you right now that I don't condone human trafficking and think those guys deserve a bullet in the head.  However, not long ago, circumstances dictated that I had to do a little business with some of those guys.  As much as it pained me, I reached out to these fellows, and for a Samsung high-definition television, they told me about a trafficker named Papadopoulos, who didn't care how hot the property was, if they were young and pure he'd move them.

That's all well and good, Ryan persisted, but I don't have anything to do with any of this.

Patience, Bucket Boy, patience, Snow continued.  You keep dipping, and I'll keep explaining.  I caught up with Mr. Papadopoulos down off the Row.  As it turns out, he is a bit of a gambler.  He poorly gambled that he didn’t need to take a little hired muscle with him.  After a brief conversation involving a quarter-inch drill bit through his right kneecap, he told me all about one Marcus Balder and one Ryan Reever.

That's not right, Ryan argued.  That's not right at all.

The proof is in the pudding, now, isn't it? Snow persisted.  Papadopoulos was kind enough to offer up the fact that your buddy Marcus there favored strip joints and the raunchier, the better. 

Snow paused for a moment as though in reflection before adding, Here's an interesting little bit of trivia for you, Ryan, old buddy.  You know you got the internet and the Darknet, but did you know there was such a thing as the stripper-net?  Yeah, sure enough, and it offers every bit as much useful information.  These girls talk to each other, and they all seem to know each other.  Now, I am not trying to take anything away from hooker-net or happy-ending-massage-net, which are both great institutions of information exchange for the discerning clientele. 

Anyway, I sauntered down to the nearest access point for stripper-net, namely a fine establishment which does business under the moniker The Eager Beaver.  Now I know that name sounds somewhat cliché, but I will tell you that it is an excellent example of a gentlemen's club, and they serve a Wednesday lunch buffet that is quite good.  Anyway, a nubile young lass named Candy, who has one of the finest sets of store-bought boobs you ever saw, was kind enough to tell me all about our friend Marcus there.  By the way, if you ever happen to make it down there, buy yourself a private room dance from her.  She does this trick with some ping pong balls that will blow your mind.

Look, I don't know this Marcus guy, Ryan insisted.  I don't know that Papadopoulos guy or no stripper named Candy.  I'm just a regular guy.  I do work as a commercial roofer when I can find work.  That's it!

So anyway, Candy tells me that she met up with Marcus after work in the parking lot and did a little off-the-clock sword swallowing for fifty bucks.  He tells her that he's got a room over at the Belvedere and offers her two hundred bucks to come back to his room.  She takes a pass, but remembers his Buick Regal and the smell of his Aqua Velva cologne.

So, on the word of some whore-stripper, you hack some guy's head off?

No, are you kidding me?  Mr. Marcus Balder possessed the information I wanted.  I would be a poor businessman if I severed our relationship, along with his head, before I was able to complete our transaction.  No, sir, I graciously invited Mr. Balder back to my place for a friendly little chat, and…

Did you invite him the same way that you invited me on this little cruise?

Pretty much.  I mean, the invitation was delivered differently, but the result was pretty much the same.  Anyway, as I was saying, we hadn't gotten very far before it became apparent that the conversation was going nowhere.  I was going to have to do something to encourage young Marcus to participate in our discussion more fully and to be more forthcoming.

You mean, you tortured him.

I will say that I strongly encouraged him.  I want you to understand I expressed to Marcus that it was in his best interest to get into the spirit of our discussion.  Everything was moving along rather swimmingly after a fashion and, of course, the initial period of foul language, tormented screams, and pleading.  He had just told me about your involvement and…

That's bullshit! Ryan interrupted.  I don't know him, and I don't know anything about anything.  He couldn't have told you anything about me because he didn't know anything about me.

That's funny, because, for someone who doesn't know you, he knew where you lived, the layout of your place, what bar you hung out in, and gave me an excellent description of you.  Anyway, we had just finished discussing what your favorite haunts were when my phone rang.  I stepped out to answer it and to take a whiz.  Kudos, by the way, to your buddy Marcus on his ability to slip out of a rope.  I mean that.  I really do, because I've had a lot of practice and tie a damn good knot.  Anyway, he's running through my place like a madman trying to find his way out.  The thing is that my place is not what you would call a typical domestic situation.  It's an old factory building, and there is a lot of old equipment and materials left behind.  Now, I'll admit that what came next was probably not one of my finest ideas.  There was a case lying there on my desk that had a pair of night-vision goggles in it that I had just gotten back from the repair shop.  I put them on and cut the breakers to the overhead lights.  I figured he would stop running and hide up somewhere, and I could come along and scoop him up.  Nope, he keeps zigging and zagging through all the old abandoned equipment, and then I hear this crash and a scream.  By the time I got to your boy, he had turned himself into a human shish kabob on a couple of old jagged pipes that stuck up out of the floor where a piece of equipment had been.  He must have tripped over an uneven section of the concrete floor, and where he landed was where he died.

Ryan felt sick to his stomach and not just because of the foul stench of the chum that he was ladling over the side.  He could taste bile and forced himself to swallow.  It wasn't that he was particularly tight with Marcus, but they were about as close to being friends as Ryan had known for a long time.

Yeah, what a pisser, Snow remarked.  I was hoping that Marcus would tell me where to find the girls.  I know you guys hadn't turned them over to Papadopoulos yet since you were hanging on to them until after the ransoms were all paid, just in case you needed to have a little proof of life for the parents.  Papadopoulos and Marcus both confirmed that for me.  All I want to know is where the girls are and where you stashed the ransoms that you got so far.  So if you would be a good little first mate and tell your captain what he needs to know, this doesn't have to get messy.

Look, I know Marcus, okay? Ryan admitted.  We know each other from a bar I go to sometimes, but that's it.  That's all I know.  I don't know anything about any kidnappings or ransom or where those girls are.  Marcus lied to you, man.  You were pushing him for answers, and he fingered me rather than giving up his real partner.  Did you ever think of that?  You were in my place.  Did you see any girls or any money?  If I had money, do you think I would be living like that?

Those are all excellent points, Snow answered.  There's just one thing, though.

Snow fished a cheap little cell phone out of his jacket pocket and held it up for Ryan to see.  Ryan's heart sank a little in his chest.  Snow retrieved another and held it up.

Cheap burners, Snow said.  This one is yours, and this one is your buddy's.  The call logs confirm that you two have been just as chatty with each other like a couple of high school girls.  Unfortunately, these cheap ones don't offer GPS. Otherwise, I got a friend who might have been able to tell me the origin of the calls.  So you see, I'm going to need you to fill in the blanks.

If I tell you what I know, Ryan shouted as he stood up, then you'll just kill me too.

I give you my word; I won't kill you.  Papadopoulos is alive.  He's going to have a limp for the rest of his life, but he's alive.  Marcus was just a horrible accident.

Oh, like I would ever trust you.  Marcus is dead because of you.  You cut his freaking head off, stuck it in an ice chest, and now his body is probably rotting in some ditch somewhere.

That's just ridiculous, Snow said with a laugh.  Why would I dump him in a ditch when I have a perfectly good ocean-going vehicle?  I cut his head off for two reasons; one was to provide you a little wake-up call when you found it in the ice chest, and the other was because skulls are kind of hard on the chipper shredder.

You chopped his body up, Ryan said with disgust.  You're one sick fuck!

Hey, careful – words can hurt you know.  Look, chopping Marcus up served a couple of purposes; I needed to get rid of the body, and besides, I needed more filler for the chum barrel.

What the shit? Ryan shouted as he tossed the ladle down on the deck.  You mean this shit is Marcus?

Well, not all of it.  There are fish guts and other junk in there too.

God damn it! Ryan screamed.  I'm not telling you shit until you get my ass back to shore.  You take me to shore, and I'll tell you whatever the hell you want to know.

How about this?  You tell me what I want to know right now, we'll finish up our fishing, and then I'll point this boat towards shore.

No way, man.  I tell you where the girls are, and then you kill me and dump me over the side just like Marcus.

First of all, don't forget the money.  I want to know where the ransom money is too.  Secondly, I already gave you my word that I wouldn't kill you.

How the fuck am I supposed to believe you, man?  No way.  You take me in, get me someplace with people, and then I'll tell you.  I'll blow town, and you'll never hear from me again.

Well, it appears that we are at somewhat of an impasse, Snow said as he stood up and took a step towards Ryan.  You won't take my word that I won't kill you, and I don't believe that once we are back on shore that you will tell me what I need to know.

Look, I promise, I'll tell you everything, but not here.  You get me on dry land and surrounded by people, and I'll tell you everything that you need to know.

Looks like it is time for the tiebreaker, Snow said as he quickly raised his gun and fired off a single round.  The bullet barely grazed Ryan's upper left arm.

Shit! Ryan exclaimed as he grabbed his injured arm.  What the fuck did you do that for?

Bait, Snow said flatly and then spun around, landing his size thirteen deck boot soundly in the middle of Ryan's chest, knocking the man back, over the railing of the boat, splashing down into the icy waters of the North Atlantic.

Ryan struggled to the surface and bobbed up and down in the waves.  The water around him was covered with the oily chum slick, while the waters below were cold and dark.

God damn it, you shot me!  You said you wouldn’t shoot me.

No, I said I wouldn’t shoot you if you didn’t do anything stupid, and not answering the questions of a man holding a gun on you in the middle of nowhere is pretty high up on the list of stupid shit.

Snow disappeared from Ryan’s sight only to return a few moments later, holding up the head of Ryan’s partner by the greasy black hair.

Here, Marcus wants to play too! Snow said as he tossed the severed head down to Ryan.

Ryan batted the head away.  It splashed down into the waters beside him, disappearing down into the depths.  Meanwhile, Snow swigged down the last of his beer and tossed the bottle over the side.  He took a live mackerel from a small live well, baited a hook with it, and used the heavy-duty fishing rod to cast the bait far out into the dark waters.

Climbing up into the fighting chair, Snow said, So, I wonder which will get you first.  Will it be the cold water or the sharks?

Sharks! Ryan screamed.  What fucking sharks?

Oh, there are plenty of them out here.

You're full of shit.  There aren't any damn sharks out here.

It's the ocean, dumbass.  The ocean is where they live.  That chum slick that you are swimming around in is like ringing the dinner bell to them.

I don't see any damn sharks.  You're just trying to scare me.  It won't work.  If I die, you'll never find those girls, and they'll die.  They'll starve to death, and their deaths will be on your hands because you could have saved them.

Of course you don't see them.  You never do.  You'll feel a little bump, then a tug, and next thing you know – glug, glug, glug – you're working your way through a shark's intestinal tract.

Ryan looked around him.  He listened for any noise, but all he could hear was the sound of the water gently lapping against the boat and that of his labored breathing.

"Yeah, we get a lot of blues, some threshers, and the occasional Mako out here off the edge of the shelf.  You see, they like to come up over the shelf wall.  Out here at the edge and during this time of year, we get hammerheads, a few tigers, and just like in that movie Jaws, a great white or two."

Bullshit!  Ryan shouted.  You wouldn't risk those girls' lives like this.

Look, Skippy, Snow explained as he bobbed the rod up and down slowly, I would like to find the girls, sure, but I receive my fee whether the girls turn up or not.  I mean, of course, I would rather find the girls and the ransom money, which would then find its way into my bank account, but if they don't turn up, then such is life, or in this case, death.  I'll see to it that the police get the details about you and Marcus in an anonymous way.  They'll put out a warrant for your arrest, but it won't do any good.  I'll settle for my fee and go on down the road, whereas you will go on down some tiger shark's gullet.

Get me out of this water right now! Ryan screamed.

Snow placed the rod into the holder.  After climbing down out of the chair, he picked the ladle up off the deck.  He dipped a spoon full of the stinking concoction and dumped it over the side right where Ryan was treading water.

Fuck you! Ryan shouted.

I figure you might last an hour in this cold-ass water before you lose consciousness and begin a slow descent down into the cold darkness.  However, with the nice chum slick you, along with the notable contributions of Marcus, have created, I would wager that your time on Earth will be far shorter.  That wound on your shoulder should help attract those sharks to you like a homing beacon.

That's right, you said you weren't going to shoot me, but you did.  How am I supposed to believe that once I tell you where the girls are, you won't just shoot me in the head and dump my body right back off in the ocean?

You're right, I did shoot you, but as I said a minute ago, refusing to answer my questions is about as stupid as it gets.  Intelligence and stupidity both have their rewards, but nowhere near the same.  Besides, it is just a tiny, little flesh wound.  I just needed to get you bleeding a little bit to give those sharks down there a taste of what was to come.

Snow dipped another ladleful over the side.  Ryan looked up at Snow with contempt and hatred in his eyes.  A minute or so passed, and neither man said a word.  The only sounds were of the waves lapping up against the side of the boat, Ryan's labored struggle to tread water, and the splash of the chum into the water as Snow continued to ladle it over the side.

It's not going to work, you know, Ryan protested.  You can't let me and those girls die like this.  If I die, they die.  Think about those girls.  They'll never get out.  They'll starve, and they'll…

Ryan stopped his rant when something brushed against his leg.

What the fuck? Ryan shouted and began treading round and round in the water, trying to see what might have brushed him.  God damn it!  Get me out of this water!  Get me out right now!

Tell me what I want to know, Snow said as he ladled another spoonful over the side.

Damn it!  Get me out of here!

It was probably just a blue, Snow said with a smile and then dipped the ladle into the drum for another spoonful.  They're fast, so they'll probably be the first ones to arrive.  I wouldn't worry too much about them, though.  They're more of a scavenger than a predator.  You need to concern yourself with the whites and the tigers, or especially the bulls.  They'll give you a little brush or maybe a quick chomp to see how tasty you are.

Man, this shit ain't funny!  Now put a ladder over the side and get me the fuck out of here.

I can't make this any clearer.  All you got to do is tell me what I want to know.  That's all I want.  Just tell me, and we can do some fishing if you want.  Have you ever hooked a shark?  It's a lot of fun.

Fuck you, you son of a bitch!

Snow ladled another spoonful over the side. 

Fine, fine, get me out of this water, and I'll tell you.  I'll tell you everything.

I can hear you from here just fine.  Now, tell me where to find the girls and where you stashed the money.

As he struggled against the relentless waves, Ryan wondered whether he would ever get out of this alive.  He heard a nearby splash and spun around to look off in the distance, to the edge of the illumination coming from the boat lights, where he thought he saw the tip of a dorsal fin.  He spun back towards the boat and pleaded with Snow to get him out of the water, but Snow just sat silently, ladling chum over the side.

Fine, fine! Ryan shouted and proceeded to tell Snow in detail about the location of an abandoned old meat processing plant, the area of the girls inside the plant, and lastly, which wall of the plant office housed the ransom money.  Now, get me out of this water.

Not till I get your story checked out, Snow said as he pulled out a satellite phone, flipped the antenna up, and began dialing.

I could be dead by the time they get there!

Keep your panties on, and I wouldn't splash around too much, that only attracts them faster.

Get me out now!

Calm down; your buddy Marcus was giving me directions earlier before he lost his head and wound up dead, Snow replied.  He paused and then said, Or was it the other way around?  Anyway, I got a guy in the general area of that plant waiting for my call.  We didn't have it narrowed down to exactly which old building, because there is a lot of decay in that part of town, and searching them all would take forever.

Snow talked to someone on the phone and then ended the call.  Today's your lucky day, Ryan.  My guy was nearby the plant.  He should be calling me back any minute.  I sure as hell hope for your sake that you told me the truth.

Minutes passed in silence while Ryan treads water, deathly afraid that each moment would be his last.  Finally, the phone rang, and Snow spoke to the man on the other end of the line.

Good news, Ryan, Snow said as he ended the call.  My buddy found the girls, and more importantly, he also found the money tucked up inside that wall just like you said it would be.  He got the money out of there, called the cops, and they should be picking the girls up any time now.

I told you; now get me the fuck out of here!

Snow smiled, and with a degree of effort, he tipped the drum of chum over on the aft landing deck.  The blood, entrails, and bits of crushed bone poured through the rear water ports into the ocean surrounding where Ryan was treading water.

God damn it! Ryan screamed.  What the fuck are you doing?

Well, I don't need that stuff anymore, and there is no sense taking that Marcus stew back into port.

Snow reeled in his fishing line.  He hefted the drum, with the all the remaining chum, up and over the side of the boat.  It splashed down and sent a wave of blood and entrails up and over Ryan's head.  Snow pulled a water hose from the reel and began spraying down the deck, washing the bloody chum through the scuppers into the ocean.  Ryan tried to swim around the side of the boat to get away from the oil slick.  He struggled to no avail to grasp hold of something and pull himself aboard.  Once Snow had finished washing off the deck, he returned the hose to the reel and then peered over the side of the boat at Ryan.

Well, Ryan, I got to be going now.

I told you what you wanted to know, now get me out of here.

Sorry, old buddy, but I can't do that.

Come on, man, I'm sorry about the girls, but I needed the money, and once you take a contract with those guys, you've got to deliver the goods.  Those guys don't mess around.  A contract is a contract with those people.  You understand, right?

Oh, I understand the business very well.  You're right; a contract is a contract.

I told you the location of the girls and the money.  You've got them; you won; now help me for God's sake.

Wish I could, but you see, getting the girls back was only part of my contract.  The other part was making sure that you never did anything like this again.  Just like you so elegantly stated a moment ago, a contract is a contract.

But you gave me your word that you wouldn't kill me if I told you what you wanted.

You are correct, and I am nothing if not a man of my word.  I won't kill you, Snow said as he walked over to the helm and fired the engine up.  I'm going to leave that little task to the sharks.

Please, man, I'm begging you.  Don't do this.  Please, for the love of God, don't do this!

Sorry, Ryan, but a contract is a contract.  You understand, right?

Snow eased the drive of the boat forward.  Ryan grasped desperately at the side of the ship as it slipped away.  He shouted and pleaded at Snow, begging for mercy.  To drown out the sound of the man's pleadings, Snow thumbed through the music library on his phone.  Over the boat's Bluetooth speakers, the last sounds Ryan heard coming from the ship as it slowly moved off into the approaching fog was the sound of the engine and that of Bobby Darin singing ‘Mack the Knife'.

Oh, that shark, babe, has such teeth, dear, and it shows them pearly white.

Chapter Two -- Frosty Lives

Earlier that same day, the bad weather had moved out to sea, but the skies remained overcast.  It had been snowing in Boston the last few days, and the snow was starting to pile up.  Street crews were busy clearing the major thoroughfares.

You have got to be shitting me? Detective David ‘Mess' Messenger asked in a tone of complete disbelief over the phone as he turned his unmarked car onto Vallaro Road.  His vehicle bogged down in the heavy snow and spun a little before regaining traction.  You're serious, and the thing is outpatient?

Messenger, or ‘Mess' as he is known around the force, is a twenty-year veteran of the Boston Police Department.  ‘Mess' is not just a short form of his name, but pretty much describes every aspect of his life.  He was twice divorced from the same ex-stripper, a fiery redhead named Brenda.  When Brenda's stripping days were over, and after her marriages to Mess, she became a ‘massage’ therapist and Herbalife salesperson.  They have one daughter together, Courtney, who following in her mother's footprints now wriggles around a pole, stripping five nights a week.  Courtney hates Mess, and when she is not giving private lap dances in the back room of the strip club, she helps her boyfriend, Booger, sells a little meth and pot.  Mess has another daughter, Bridget, who also doesn't talk to him either.  Bridget was quite a surprise.  In between marriages to Brenda, Mess sought comfort in the arms of Brenda's sister, Donna.  Brenda only became aware of the dalliances with Donna, when Donna showed up at the courthouse right after the ‘I do' part of Mess and Brenda's second marriage, to inform Mess of the miracle which was growing inside her.

Today was not going to be a good day.  He had just gotten off the phone with his doctor.  The doctor informed Mess that his prostate needed to be ‘shaved’ back.  As horrible as the idea of having his prostate ‘shaved’ sounded to Mess, it was the idea of them going through his penis to do it that sent Mess over the top.  Add to this great news; his captain had summoned Mess to the house of Assistant District Attorney Anthony Donnelly.

ADA Donnelly's wife had called and reported that Tony had not come home the night before, and a feeling of dread consumed her over what had become of her husband. Usually, the police pay no attention to a missing person call until the adult in question is AWOL for forty-eight hours. Still, it is an entirely different story when an Assistant District Attorney comes up missing, especially when the request comes from the DA himself.

By the time Mess turned down Donnelly's street, it had the appearance of a police convention going on outside the Donnelly home.  The house was a Victorian style and sat at the end of a cul-de-sac.  Mess parked and started searching through the collection of fast-food sacks and old newspapers for his portfolio.  ‘Mess' wasn't a name given to him by his co-workers purely for his personal life.  Mess's car, his desk at the station, and even his appearance all were a testament to his namesake.

Hey Mess, a patrolman said as he opened Mess's car door.

Hey McBride, you catch that game last night?

Oh, damn sure did!  Those boys were robbed.  That damn ref needs to be hung up by his nuts.

So, what's going on here?

Shit! Beats me.  I'm just standing out here freezing my ass off and being eye candy for the neighborhood ladies.

Who's inside?

Martin, Blackwood, and Kimber.

Shit on a shingle, Mess said as he climbed out of the car.  He straightened his suit jacket and brushed off his overcoat.  How do I look?  Okay?

Like the dirty clothes basket in my house on laundry day, McBride said with a grin.

Fuck you so much, Mess replied.  You know what a tight-ass Blackwood is.  Fucker probably irons his underwear.

With starch, which probably explains his pissed off attitude most of the time.

Mess grinned and said, I knew when he became Assistant Chief, it was going to be one great big butt pucker, but I didn't even get close to imagining just what a giant hemorrhoid he is.

Well, you better not keep the sphincter waiting. 

Mess nodded his agreement and tramped across the snow-covered sidewalk towards the house.  It had snowed for the last few days, and the entire neighborhood was a blanket of white.  The weather had been colder than usual for this time of year, and the snow piles were getting higher every day.  Mess rang the doorbell and stamped his feet on the mat.  Captain Martin opened the door and motioned for Mess to come in.

Captain, Mess said in greeting as he came through the door, closing it behind him.  Mess and his captain stood in the entry, out of earshot of the others.  So, what's the story?

Damn Mess, did you sleep in those clothes or what?

Been really busy, Cap.  I haven't exactly had time to make it to the cleaners.

Since when, the nineties?

Come on, Cap, you know how things are.

Well, straighten yourself up a little.

Mess tried again to make himself look more presentable and only managed to move the wrinkles around a bit.

Captain Martin looked at Mess, shook his head, and said, ADA Donnelly didn't make it home last night, and his wife, Trish, is totally about to lose it.  She called her husband's boss, Kimber, and he turned around and called the chief.  The chief got hold of Blackwood, and the shit continues to roll down the hill.

Guess that puts me eyeballs deep in it, huh?

Look, it's probably nothing, but the ADA has been out all night, and he isn't answering his phone.

Mess scratched his head and said, Well, I'll call Tech Services and get them to run a trace on his phone.

Already done, Captain Martin replied. His phone must be off because it's not pinging off any towers.  His car is still in the secure parking lot at work.

I'm assuming the guy is the Dudley Doright type, home by six every night, always calls the wife to let her know his every move?

You nailed it.

Any chance the guy finally just lost it, got drunk, and is just shacked up with a hooker in a cheap motel somewhere?

Doubtful, but who knows.

As Mess attempted to straighten his tie, he asked, So anything that this guy is working on that might have got him disappeared?

A couple of cases involving basic B&E's, but the majority of his time is spent working in conjunction with the feds in building a RICO case against Hector Lopez.

Hector Lopez? Mess asked in a startled tone.  That can certainly earn a guy a toe tag at the morgue.

Yeah, but DA Kimber says it was all very hush-hush, very need to know.  So, you make damn sure no one gets that bit of intel from you.

The feds start poking their noses into any local boy, especially when that local boy is one, Hector Lopez, no way that isn’t getting out.  You know as well as I do that there is no way that Hector doesn't have some feds and probably a few brother blues on his payroll that give him the 4-1-1 on what Donnelly is up to with this Rico case.  Hell, the feds have more leaks than a submarine with a screen door.

That may be the case, but Kimber says security has been airtight and strictly on a need to know basis.

I hate to say this, but I sure hope this Donnelly guy is banging the hell out of a hooker right now because if Lopez has got him, we're going to be picking up pieces of him all over the city.

Well, stow that kind of talk for now.  Come on in and meet the wife.  Just remember, that every guy in that room can end your career in a heartbeat, so mind your mouth.

Mess followed the captain into the living room, where Mrs. Donnelly sat on one end of the sofa with District Attorney Kimber at the other.  Chief Blackwood rose from an armchair and shook Mess's hand when he entered the room.  The chief looked Mess over, and by the look on his face, Mess could tell that the big boss was not happy about what he saw.

Blackwood turned and said to his hostess, Mrs. Donnelly, District Attorney Kimber, this is Detective Messenger, he will be handling your husband's case.  Ah… you're going to have to forgive the detective’s appearance.  Detective Messenger just pulled an all-nighter wrapping up another case.

It was a lie.  Mess had spent the evening watching the Bruins at Mickey Finn’s Pub, but the fib seemed to appease the others.

Well, perhaps, DA Kimber interjected, we need to get a fresh mind on this.  Tony needs to be found and found right now.

Oh, don't you worry, Blackwood continued, Detective Messenger here is our very best detective in handling missing person cases.  Isn't that right, Captain Martin?

Oh yes, most definitely, Martin responded in as earnest of a tone as he could muster.

Ah… if I may say something, Mess interrupted and proceeded to add to the yarn that Chief Blackwood had spun,  I'm fresh as a daisy, really I am.  It was an all-nighter, but we took turns grabbing some Z's, so no worries here.  So, ah… may I start with a few basic questions?

Mrs. Donnelly and DA Kimber nodded their approval.

So, Mrs. Donnelly, Mess began, has this ever happened before?  Has your husband ever stayed out all night, maybe working on a case, or playing a little poker with the boys or anything?

"No, never, that is not MY Tony.  He would never take off and not tell me.  He wouldn't just leave his family like this and not come home.  Something has happened to him; I know it."

When was the last time you spoke to your husband?

Yesterday, a little after three, and he said nothing about having to work late or anything.  We talked about what to have for dinner and made plans for decorating the house for Christmas this weekend.

When you talked to him, how did he sound?  Was he short with you or seem anxious, nervous, maybe?

No, nothing like that.  Tony sounded like Tony.  He was a little upset about some work thing over some judge who denied some motion or something, but other than that, he was just fine.

Do you know of anyone who your husband might have been having trouble with?

I don't know what you mean, she replied.

I think what the detective is asking, DA Kimber interrupted, is there was anyone at work or maybe in his personal life who Tony might be having trouble with, someone who is upsetting Tony?

She thought for a moment and then answered, No, not that I know of, but Tony doesn’t let people get to him.  I mean Tony is a DA, so there are lots of people, criminal people, who aren't too happy with him, but nothing other than that.

Is there anyone in particular, Mess continued.  Is there anyone that Tony seems upset or concerned about?  It doesn't have to be work.  It could be a neighbor who has gotten crossways with your husband.

"Well, no, certainly not.  We get along wonderfully with all our neighbors.  Our kids all play together, going from one yard to another.

What about work?  Is there anyone in his office, or maybe someone that your husband has put away that he is worried about?

I really couldn't say.  Tony doesn't bring his work home with him like that. He brings papers home to work on, but we have a strict rule in this house.  Work talk stays at work.  Home is about the family.

How has your husband been acting around you and the children as of late? Mess asked.  Has he seemed any different?  Is he acting nervous or been short-tempered with you or the kids?

No, I keep telling you.  Tony is just fine.  Nothing is going on with him.  If there were something wrong, I would know.  Why do you keep asking me that?

Trish, DA Kimber interrupted again, Detective Messenger is just doing his job.  He is trying to ascertain if there might be something or someone who has been troubling Tony lately, and that's it. Turning his attention to the detective, Kimber said, Detective, I can assure that Tony has been acting quite normally.  I poked my head into his office yesterday to check on things, and he was the same old Tony.

Mrs. Donnelly, DA Kimber is right.  I don't mean to upset you with these questions.  I truly don't, but I have to turn over every rock, you understand?

Yes, yes, she replied, but you can ask from now until the spring, and the answer will still be the same.  If Tony was having a problem with anyone or anything, he hasn't said anything to me about it.

Well, Mess began his next round of questions, uncertain how to proceed, I can't tell you how much I hate to ask this and believe me, I really don't want to upset you, but can you tell me if there were any issues here at home?  Were you and your husband having any difficulty?

No! Mrs. Donnelly snapped.  We certainly are not.  I mean, all married couples have issues from time to time, but nothing was going on, other than the usual stuff that all married couples with two young children face.

This stuff, Mess pressed on as he stole a glance towards DA Kimber for reassurance that his next question wasn't about to end his career, that you say the two of you were facing, is any of it to the extent that might cause Tony to need a little cooling-off period?

No, no!  These questions are just ridiculous, Mrs. Donnelly snapped.  Turning to DA Kimber again, she said, Mike is all this really necessary?  You people need to be out finding Tony right now, not sitting here asking me a bunch of stupid questions.

Trish, this is just part of the process, Kimber responded.  Believe me; the captain here already has people out beating the bushes for Tony.  He's going to turn up, you'll see.

Mrs. Donnelly, Mess interrupted.  If I may, I only have a couple more questions.

Fine, let's get on with it, she responded, and before you ask, neither Tony nor I are seeing anyone on the side.  We are both very committed to our marriage and our family.

Well, Mess began cautiously, sometimes wives…

I said the answer is NO.  If my husband was having an affair, I would know it.  We do everything together, and he doesn't have any little side activities that take him away.  He doesn't play golf and doesn't play poker with the boys.  We do everything together, or as a family, so you see he doesn't have time for anything like that.  Not that he would do that sort of thing anyway.

Conceding defeat on the point, Mess asked, I am assuming that you have already been on the phone to family and friends, but is there anyone else that you can think of that Tony might have called or gone to see?

No, no one.  I've been through all the family, or at least, all the ones in New England.  As far as friends, I've called all his buddies, and no one has heard a word from him.

We are going to need to get a list of all those names and numbers, nonetheless, so that…

Fine, fine, anything you need, Mrs. Donnelly interrupted.  I'll get you anything if it will move the whole thing along.

We're almost done here, Mrs. Donnelly, Mess persisted.  I was wondering, have you noticed any strange cars in the neighborhood, vehicles that don't belong.

"No, but we live at the end of a long cul-de-sac, so strange cars seldom make it down to this end.  That is one of the things we loved about this house was the long dead-end road.  It makes it great for the