Special Forces - 8. Chapter 8

Sam Kozitsky was a happy man. He’d just sold a quarter million dollar boat earning him a commission of five grand. His husband, Nick Poulos, would be pleased. Nick had enthusiastically supported his decision to leave his old paramilitary unit and become a boat salesman. Commissions like this didn’t come every day, so when they did it was cause for celebration. Sam hoped that the celebration included sex. Sex with Nick was always hot. The thought was getting him hard as he navigated his truck homeward.

He thought about the first time he and Nick had made love. When Nick dropped to his knees Sam thought he was going to get a wham-bam blowjob, but instead Nick took his time just looking at, and feeling, Sam’s cock. That was 50 times more erotic than some of the quickie blowjobs he’d had from hookups before. It was the first time anyone had truly paid attention to Sam in a way that transcended just the physical. He knew—felt—for the first time in his life he was loved.

Nick looked like a runway model. The way he wore perfectly fitted clothes, his dark complexion and his slicked back, collar-length hair would have made him a fixture at any Milan fashion show. But the most endearing thing about Nick was that he didn’t realized how drop-dead gorgeous he was. There was a certain vulnerability about Nick that sent Sam’s horno-meter soaring.

And since their four year old son, Jorge, had entered their lives Sam was part of a real family for the first time in his life. He’d thought he’d found family in the military—certainly the guys and gals looked out for each other—but that was nothing like the real thing.

Jorge hadn’t been with them long since they’d rescued him from the street after his mother died. But he was quickly becoming a big part of Sam’s life. He loved the little guy to death. And he was so smart. He could already understand three languages. English, Spanish and French. And he was such a loving kid. Sam reveled in Jorge’s adoration.

Yes, life was damn good.

Nick was a saint and had taken over the primary care for Jorge. He juggled his art career and caregiver duties like a pro. After a bad field op experience in Montreal, Nick had reassessed his priorities and left his bank job to pursue his love of art. And it was paying off. Nick, who was selling a few paintings and pieces of pottery every month, brought home a nice monthly paycheck. He also had a part-time job with the SDPD as a sketch artist that brought in good money.

And they were just negotiating the purchase of a house in the Point Loma Heights area of San Diego. A real house! Some old girl was trading her house for Nick’s apartment, and Sam was selling his apartment. It was a pretty complex real estate transaction but they had a good legal beagle working on it. Of course he and Nick were a little down about giving up their view apartments, but the new house was a real charmer. They had plans to do a little fix up—update the kitchens and bathrooms—and convert the detached garage into a studio for Nick. And it was close to Jorge’s new school.

If pushed, Sam would admit that he missed the excitement of working with his old unit. They did hostage rescue, which could get a little tense, but the real bonus work was in black ops. They were tasked by the US government to do ‘off the books’ dirty work. Sam had been on a few missions where they’d taken out drug kingpins and dictators. Man, that kind of work got the adrenaline pumping. But the Montreal job, which was supposed to be just a simple money recovery job, went sour. Nick, who’d come on the team because he could help out with the French, got kidnapped and beaten up. That was a real wakeup call for Sam. The work he did was dangerous, and he was getting too old for that shit. He didn’t want to put Nick through the worry either.

Sam, Sam, the family man.

Certainly a better family man than his miserable drunk of a father had been. That bastard had been all too quick to use the belt or his fists on Sam. Until Sam turned the tables and beat the shit out of him. He and Nick vowed never to lay a hand on Jorge.

Sam’s phone rang and he was pleased to see the call was from best friend, and former SEAL Drill Instructor, Juan Santiago, nickname Sandy. He answered it on speaker.

“Hey you miserable prick, wat up?”

Called to take you up on that blow job you offered.

“Ha ha. In your dreams. Besides there’s only one guy whose dick I’m gonna suck and that definitely ain’t you.”

Listen up you little pussy whipped, sorry make that willy whipped, grunt. I’ve got a proposition for you. Real man’s work. Not that candy-ass boat selling shit.

“Oh man, I can’t be doin’ that shit. I got family responsibilities now.”

Just hear me out okay? Can’t talk about it over the phone, but how’s about you bring your husband and that great little kid over for dinner on the weekend. You and me can talk mano-a-mano in the den.

So that’s how the Poulos-Kozitsky family came to be at the Santiago residence the following Saturday.

Sandy’s wife Maria was a great cook and Jorge was in his element with Spanish speakers and two pre-teen girls doting on him.

Instead of retreating to Sandy’s den after dinner the two macho guys sauntered to the end of the garden and lit up genuine Romeo y Julietas.

“Here’s the deal, Sam. Somebody’s been killing illegal girls. Christ, the fucking coyotes bring these poor girls in by the truckload and sell them out as indentured labor. They work as cleaners or babysitters for next to nothing, and most of their meager wages go to pay back the smugglers. I’d like to strangle all those cheap bastards who hire those poor girls. It’s like slavery redux. Anyway, in the last couple of months three bodies have turned up. Four if you count Jorge’s mother. Some sick fuck is killing these girls. Nameless girls that nobody misses.

“Now my fuckin’ loot (lieutenant) won’t open up a task force to work on these murders. The higher ups don’t want acknowledge there’s a serial killer loose in their fare city. It’s all political ass-covering, and it makes me sick. So far no leads have turned up on the individual cases either.

“Without a task force or solid evidence no judge is gonna issue wiretap warrants. Get it? I have a feeling that it’s somebody connected to the smuggling ring, but I need to troll for evidence to catch them.”

“Ah, a little covert ops. Is that what you’re saying, Sandy?”

“Yup, and I hear Bugs just happens to have some old equipment around that he’s willing to lend us. Sharon has okayed it, if you and me work it, but we’re strictly off the books. This job doesn’t pay nothin,’ but you’ll have the satisfaction of bringing little Jorge’s mother’s killer to justice.”

“I’ll think about it. And run it by Nick. I ain’t doing nothin’ behind his back.”

“Fair enough. But you know what we do is never gonna make it to the courts, so we may have to dispense a little capital punishment on our own. How do you feel about that?”

“If these sick fucks are killing innocent girls then I’m okay with that. I mean we’ve taken out a few drug kingpins and dictators for Uncle Sam; this wouldn’t be that much different. Maybe even more justified if we can save some innocent lives by ridding the world of this scum.”

“Thanks, man. I know I rag on you and talk shit and stuff, but you know I think you’re the best of the best, right?”

“Trying to win me with flattery you sick fuck? But back at ya, man, nobody was ever better than you, Sandy.”

When Sam explained the job to Nick and essentially asked his permission to help Sandy, Nick’s only concern was Sam’s safety. But Sam assured him that this would be nothing compared to clandestine operations in Africa. One of the things Sam loved about Nick was his acceptance of the nature of Sam’s work. Nick was perfectly aware that part of Sam’s previous job was carrying out assassinations. Nick just accepted that with alacrity. He didn’t get all tree-hugger judgemental about it; he acknowledged it and respected Sam for doing a job that took cojones that few others had.

“Go do your job, Tiger,” said Nick.

The human smuggling system worked pretty much like the drug system. The fieldwork was done by the lower ranks while the bosses lived in mansions and pulled the strings from a safe distance. But make no mistake, these ‘jefes’ were ruthless and thought nothing of eliminating the competition or workers who fucked up. But they were well insulated from the law. They paid off prosecutors and judges. Sometimes they paid, or forced, underlings to take the fall if the heat was too intense. It was common knowledge in the police world who these guys were, but they were untouchable. A snowball would melt in hell before a judge would authorize a wiretap on their communications.

But Sam and Sandy didn’t give a shit about that. Bugs helped them set up the equipment in an unused storefront down in Chula Vista. It seemed like sophisticated stuff to Sam, but Bugs said it was pretty out of date—basically hand-me-down junk—but it would do the job that Sam and Sandy needed it to.

Like Sandy had said, the first part of the job was just tolling for information. Zeroing in on, and listening to, phone conversations to find out who was up to what. They figured they knew how the jefes were living. Probably in multi-million dollar homes up in La Jolla and driving Bentleys. But looks could be deceiving. For all they knew, the jefes could be lying low, living in hovels and driving beaters. So the first order was to clarify who these sons-of-bitches were and where they were living. After that they’d go lower on the food chain and eventually establish who was most likely to be murdering the girls.

The first part of the job was simple and boring. The equipment was set to digitally record a random sample of phone conversations from three specific cell towers in the greater San Diego area. Then Sam and Sandy had to listen to the recordings and try and pick some relevant chatter. It was a bit like searching for a needle in a haystack. Unfortunately, sifting through the calls using a computer like NSA did—keying in on certain words—was not an option for this op. That took super computers which, of course, the guys didn’t have. But the military had developed a statistical sampling model that was more portable and could be used in the field. The listening equipment was set to record X percent of calls. Then Sam and Sandy would listen to those calls and use the super computing power of their brains to evaluate what they were hearing. It is well known that the human brain can pick up patterns or anomalies far faster than any computer. For instance, if they heard something like, “Jennifer is, like, the totally biggest bitch at school....” they could skip that call. But if they heard something like, “The delivery is set for 10 tonight....” they might have something. It was all judgement and split second decision making.

Sam and Sandy alternated nights for sifting through the recorded calls. They worked from midnight to six am three nights per week each. With having full-time jobs and families this was a doable schedule, although not optimal. Sam liked it though, because it allowed him some morning snuggle time with Nick before Jorge woke up. Damn, it felt so good to shuck his clothes and cozy up to Nick’s warm back and wrap his arms around that toned body. Most mornings Nick would reach around and aim Sam’s cock towards his ass and they’d have a quiet morning fuck. Man, it was like having a honeymoon every morning!

For over two weeks the guys scrolled through thousands of calls with no success. Then one night Sandy picked up something he thought might be relevant. One of the calls recorded from the previous day had words that implied human trafficking. He phoned Sam in the wee hours of the morning. Sam reluctantly kissed Nick goodbye and headed for the Chula Vista storefront.

The recorded phone call was pure gold. They were able to triangulate the location of the receiving call and get a trace on the phone number. A real registered cell phone and not a burner.

Sam and Sandy were so engrossed in research that Sam barely had time to race home for a quick shower before having to head out to his ‘real’ job at the marina.

When he came through the door he was totally pumped with the night’s progress and in a buoyant mood. But one look at Nick and Jorge’s expressions killed that real quick. Nick looked thoroughly distraught and Jorge was royally pissed off. In fact Jorge stiffened and yelled “NO!” when Sam tried to hug him. He used every ounce of his little boy strength to try and push Sam away.

“Fu...!” What’s wrong, baby? Nick, what’s wrong?”

“When Jorge woke up this morning and you weren’t here he asked if you were sleeping?”

“Fu...! Does that mean what I think it means?”

“Yeah, I think so. And he didn’t seem to believe me when I told him you were at work. He just kept asking, “Is Papa sleeping?” He was really stressed. I think he relies on you more than we realized. And your not being here scared the sh... out of him. Nothing I said seemed to reassure him. Then when he saw you that fear turned into anger.”

Sam felt his eyes burning with tears. He and Jorge had been best buddies since they first met on the street. Jorge had immediately trusted the big ex-SEAL. It was clear he relied on Sam more than either he or Nick realized. Now that trust was broken and Sam’s big heart was shredded.