Stop cold, p.3
STOP COLD, page 3
The highway curved, dipping toward the coast, and the marina came into view—a sprawl of docks jutting into the gray-green water, boats bobbing gently under the cloudy sky. Beth eased off the gas, the Suburban rolling past a weathered sign: 'Welcome to Annapolis—Sailing Capital of the World.'
“You ever spend much time on the water, Cole?” she asked, steering them toward the parking lot.
He shrugged, closing the folder. “Not much. Took the girls fishing on the Patapsco once, rented a little skiff. Nearly capsized it trying to reel in a perch. You?”
“Some,” she said, her voice softening. “Mom flew choppers, but she’d take us sailing on Lake Lure when I was a kid—little Sunfish, nothing fancy. I can handle a tiller, but I’m no captain. You’d think a Ranger’d be all over boats, but I stuck to mountains mostly.”
She parked the Suburban near a row of pickup trucks. “Guess we’re about to get a crash course.”
They climbed out, the air sharp with salt and diesel, the wind tugging at Beth’s jacket. Cole stretched, his long frame unfolding as he scanned the docks—white-hulled sailboats and fishing rigs swaying in their slips, masts clinking like wind chimes.
A woman strode toward them—mid-thirties, athletic build, dark blonde hair pulled into a tight ponytail. She wore a navy DEA windbreaker over jeans, her hazel eyes sharp and assessing, a faint smirk playing on her lips.
“You the Nexus agents?” she called, her voice carrying a clipped, no-nonsense edge. “Sarah Martinez, DEA liaison. Glad you’re here—locals are spooked, and I’m tired of babysitting.”
Beth extended a hand, meeting Martinez’s firm grip. “Beth Drake. This is Cole Jackson.” She sized Martinez up—confident, a little brash, the kind of person who thrived on chaos but didn’t suffer fools.
"Welcome to the party," Martinez said, shaking Cole's hand next. "Body's long gone—I hauled it off yesterday—but I'll show you where we found him. Follow me." She turned on her heel, leading them toward the docks, her stride purposeful. "You two sail much? This place is a maze if you don't know your way."
“Not really,” Cole said, falling in step. “More of a dry-land guy.”
“Enough to get by,” Beth added, her boots thumping on the weathered planks as they hit the dock. “What’s the story here?”
Martinez glanced back, her smirk fading. “Tony Mendez, twenty-six, small-time fentanyl pusher. Fisherman spotted him two days ago, tangled in a mooring line off slip twelve. Anchor was still on him—chain wrapped tight, like a damn Christmas present. Fisherman was out crabbing at dawn, nearly had a heart attack when he saw the hand sticking up.”
"Wait a minute," Cole said. "If the anchor was still attached, why wasn't he at the bottom?"
Martinez’s smirk flickered, a mix of amusement and respect for the question. “Good catch. The anchor snagged on the mooring line—kept it from sinking to the bottom."
Beth’s gaze flicked to the dark water, picturing it—the chain catching, the body swaying like a macabre buoy. “And the killer didn't fix it."
"Might've been rushed," Cole said. "Maybe someone was coming."
"Either way, it's sloppy," Beth murmured. She turned to Martinez. "Is that anchor still around?"
"I'll show you."
Martinez led them past rows of boats—sleek yachts and rust-streaked trawlers—stopping at a slip where yellow crime-scene tape fluttered in the breeze. The water lapped dark and cold below, a faint sheen of oil slicking the surface. Martinez pointed to a tarp-covered object on the dock. “There’s your anchor. Take a look.”
Beth crouched, peeling back the tarp. The anchor was smaller than she’d expected—maybe twenty pounds, compact enough for one person to heft. Cast iron, its flukes curved and polished, it gleamed faintly despite a few barnacle scars.
“Antique,” she said, running a finger along its edge. “Restored, too—someone cared for this. Not your average boat junk.”
Cole squatted beside her, frowning. “Weird choice. Cartel’s more about efficiency—concrete blocks, not heirlooms.”
“Exactly,” Beth murmured, standing. Her mind churned, Gabe’s tension fading to the background as the case took hold. The Morales cartel favored brutal pragmatism—dumping bodies with cinderblocks or leaving them public as warnings. An antique anchor didn't seem like their style.
Especially when it hadn't even gone to the bottom of the water.
“We need to see the other scenes—Rock Hall, St. Michaels," she said. "See what connections we can make."
Martinez nodded, hands on her hips. "I'll get you the coords. I'll warn you, though: locals are jumpy. Three bodies in a week's got 'em seeing cartel boogeymen everywhere. So, they might not be eager to talk to people carrying badges. They don't want to wind up in the drink, too."
"We'll be discreet," Beth said.
Martinez nodded. "And I suggest watching your backs. These people are dangerous, and if they're desperate enough, no one is off-limits—not even you or me."
CHAPTER THREE
Beth chewed her lip as she and Cole walked away from the St. Michaels Marina, the third crime scene they’d scoured that day. The late afternoon sun hung low, a pale disc bleeding orange into the gray horizon, casting long shadows across the docks. The air was thick with the briny tang of the Chesapeake Bay, undercut by the faint rot of seaweed and fish guts.
Behind them, the water lapped at the pilings, a rhythmic slap that echoed the dull thud in Beth’s chest. Three marinas, three bodies, three anchors—and still, the pieces wouldn’t snap into place.
Cole walked beside her, his broad shoulders hunched against the wind, the manila folder tucked under his arm now bulging with notes and photos from Rock Hall and St. Michaels. His jaw was set, his dark eyes distant, processing the same puzzle she was. They’d spent the day hopping between sites—Annapolis first, where Tony Mendez had surfaced, then Rock Hall, and now here—following the thread of these killings. Thus far, the only certainty was that these three killings were undoubtedly linked.
Beyond that, they were left guessing.
At Rock Hall, the second victim—Darren Hicks, thirty-one, a scrawny guy with a rap sheet for possession and intent—had been found by a salvage crew working a sunken skiff. The crew’s sonar had pinged something odd fifty feet offshore, and when they sent a diver down, they’d found Hicks tangled in the anchor chain, twenty feet below the surface, his body swaying in the current like a grotesque marionette. The anchor—cast iron, polished, no more than twenty-five pounds—had lodged in the muddy bottom, holding him fast until the diver cut him loose.
St. Michaels had been a grim scene, too. Jamal Carter, twenty-eight, another small-timer, discovered by a marina maintenance worker checking submerged pilings after a storm. The worker’s flashlight had caught a glint of metal fifteen feet down—Carter’s chain, wrapped tight around his torso, the anchor sunk into the silt. Unlike Mendez, who’d snagged a mooring line and bobbed up, these two had stayed submerged, their killers’ work only undone by chance and diligence.
“Three antique anchors,” Beth said, stopping by the driver’s door, her breath puffing out in the chilly air. “All small, all restored. Not random junk—someone chose these. But why?” She rubbed her temple, where a headache was brewing. Too much coffee, more than likely.
Cole leaned against the Suburban, crossing his arms. “Beats me. Cartel’s still the logical play—Morales loves a statement."
Beth's gaze drifted back to the marina—to the white-hulled boats rocking gently, their masts skeletal against the fading light. “We need more on the cartel—how they operate here, who they’re targeting. And the fentanyl trade in general.”
"I might be able to help with that."
She raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"I’ve got a guy—Rusty Callahan. Old narcotics cop, worked with me back in the day. He’s out now, runs a bar, but he’s still plugged in. Might know something about the Chesapeake scene.”
Beth nodded, coming to a decision. “Set it up. We need his take—yesterday.” She yanked open the driver’s door, the hinges creaking, and slid inside. Cole climbed in beside her, already pulling out his phone to text Rusty.
The engine roared to life, and Beth peeled out of the lot, gravel spitting under the tires as they headed north toward Baltimore.
* * *
Night had fallen by the time Beth eased the Suburban into a spot across from the bar, the streetlights casting a sodium-yellow glow over cobblestones slick with evening damp. The Patapsco River glinted beyond the buildings, its dark surface rippling under a breeze that carried the sharp bite of salt and diesel.
The Anchor Drop squatted on a narrow street in Fells Point, its weathered brick facade blending into the row of bars and crab shacks lining the waterfront. Neon signs flickered in windows—Budweiser, Live Music—and a knot of locals lingered outside a dive two doors down, their laughter cutting through the hum of traffic.
"Used to be a cop hangout," Cole said, nodding at the Anchor Drop. "Narcotics mostly. Rusty took it over when he retired, fixed it up some, but it’s still rough around the edges. Like him.”
"How long you two known each other?"
"Oh, we go back. He was my first partner in Baltimore—taught me how to work a corner, spot a lie."
"Why'd he quit?"
"Took a bullet to the knee during a raid gone bad, cashed out early. He’s solid, though—keeps his ear to the ground.”
"Then let's go see if he can shed any light on what we're dealing with."
Beth stepped out, her boots hitting the pavement with a soft thud. She zipped her jacket against the wind, sizing up the bar. The sign above the door—a rusted anchor silhouette—swung creakily, and the windows glowed dim, fogged with age. It felt like a place secrets went to hide.
Cole led the way across the street. He pushed open the door, and Beth was hit by a gust of warm air thick with the scent of stale beer and fried onions. She stepped inside after Cole and took a beat to look around.
Fishing nets draped the walls, studded with plastic starfish and faded buoys, a half-hearted nod to the nautical theme. The jukebox in the corner crooned Springsteen—“Born to Run,” mid-chorus—and a handful of patrons hunched over the bar, their murmurs low under the music. A TV above the counter flickered with a muted Orioles game, the score ignored by the room.
Rusty Callahan stood behind the bar, wiping a glass with a rag that’d seen better days. Late forties, barrel-chested, with a shock of graying red hair and a face weathered by too many nights on the street. His left leg braced stiffly, a legacy of that old injury, but his blue eyes were sharp, glinting with recognition as Cole approached. Beth clocked him instantly—gruff, steady, the kind of cop who’d seen the worst and kept going. She liked the way he held himself, like he could still throw a punch if he had to.
“Cole Jackson, you son of a bitch,” Rusty said, his voice a deep boom as he set the glass down. He limped around the bar, pulling Cole into a quick, hard hug and clapping his back. “Been too damn long, man. Thought the Feds swallowed you whole.”
Cole grinned, clapping him back. “They tried. How’s the knee?”
“Still creaks like a rusty hinge,” he said, smirking, then nodded at Beth. “Who’s this? Your new babysitter?”
“Beth Drake,” she said, stepping forward and offering her hand. His grip was firm, calloused, and she met his gaze—direct, assessing. “Nexus Task Force. Heard you’re the guy who knows things.”
Rusty's smirk widened a spark of mischief in his eyes. "Depends who's asking. Sit—beer's on me." He waved them to a corner booth, its vinyl seats cracked but clean, and hobbled back to grab three bottles from the cooler.
Beth slid into the booth, Cole beside her. Rusty plunked the beers down, sliding in across from them, his bad leg stretched out. “So, how you holding up, Cole? Feds treatin’ you right?”
“Better than BPD ever did,” Cole said, taking a sip, the bottle sweating in his hand.
"And the family?"
“Girls are growing fast—too fast. You ever gonna start a family of your own?”
“Nah,” Rusty said. “Bar keeps me busy. Got a new pup, though—mutt keeps chewing my shoes, but he’s good company.” He leaned back, his grin fading. “But you ain’t here to catch up, are you? What’s the play?”
Cole set his beer down, his tone shifting to business. “Three dead fentanyl dealers in the past week, Chesapeake Bay—Annapolis, Rock Hall, St. Michaels. All chained to antique anchors, small ones, restored."
Rusty's eyes gleamed with interest. He might be retired, but that didn't mean he'd lost interest in the game.
"Anyone you like for the killings?" he asked.
"We’re thinking Morales cartel. We need to know more about them—what they’re doing here, how the fentanyl’s moving."
"And that's why you came to me." Rusty drummed his fingers on the table, his gaze turning inward, thoughtful. “Been a while since I was in the game, but yeah, I still talk to some old narcs, a few snitches.” He took a long pull from his beer, then leaned in, voice dropping. “Morales cartel—they're big players, out of Sinaloa originally. Started as poppy runners, moved into fentanyl when the market shifted—cheaper, deadlier, easier to ship. They’ve got a rep for ruthless expansion—cut throats to claim turf, burn warehouses to send a message. They’ve been pushing into the Mid-Atlantic for years, using the bay as a back door. Ports, marinas, fishing boats—they’ve got mules everywhere.”
Beth listened, her mind filing details, the beer untouched in her hand. “What makes them so dangerous?” she asked, leaning forward. “What sets them apart?”
“They don’t blink,” Rusty said, his eyes hard. “No hesitation—cross ‘em, you’re gone. Family, kids, doesn’t matter. Couple years back, they wiped out a rival crew in Norfolk—twenty bodies, slaughtered in a warehouse. Cops found pieces, not people. That’s Morales. Control’s everything—supply, price, loyalty.”
Cole nodded, grim. “Fits the profile. Fentanyl’s their cash cow—flooding Baltimore, D.C., all the way up to Philly.”
“Where’s it coming from?” Beth asked.
"Most of it's shipped from Mexico," Rusty said. "Labs in Sinaloa or Guerrero, cut with whatever crap they've got handy. Comes up through Texas, then east. But lately there's something worse—a synthetic called Phantom."
Beth's pulse quickened. "Phantom? Here in the bay?"
"You've come across it before?" Rusty asked.
"Been chasing it in D.C. for months," Beth said, voice tight. "Forty-eight deaths in two months. Standard Narcan barely touches it. Users who shouldn't OD—experienced ones who know their limits, people in recovery, even first-timers—they all drop the same way." She didn't mention the black Tesla, the mysterious supplier dubbed "the Doctor," the case board still pinned above her desk at Nexus with a partial license plate circled in red. Every trail had gone cold.
Rusty nodded grimly. "Well, it's here alright. Word is Morales is pushing it through a new distribution system—texts, dead drops, no face-to-face. Some chemistry genius they call 'the Doctor' supposedly cooked up the formula."
"What do you know about him?" Beth asked.
"Only what I just told you. He's more mystery than man. Might not even be real, for all I know."
Beth frowned, thinking. She wanted to—needed to—track down this Doctor figure. But that would have to wait.
Cole cleared his throat. "So, what does this have to do with our vics?"
Rusty nodded, acknowledging the shift back to the original topic. "My guess? Small-timers like your victims might be trying to muscle into the bay, grab a piece of the action for themselves. It would certainly explain their deaths. Piss off the cartel, you’re chum. And three bodies in a week’s their speed—clean house, scare the rest straight.”
“But the anchors,” Cole said, frowning. “Antique, polished—doesn’t scream cartel. They’d use bricks, rebar, something quick.”
Rusty shrugged, draining his beer. “Maybe it’s a signature—some enforcer with a flair. Or maybe it ain’t Morales at all. I don’t know the anchors, but I’ll ask around—see if anyone’s heard of a player with a thing for old iron.”
Before Beth could press, a crash echoed from the bar—a tray hitting the floor, a slurred curse following. Rusty sighed, glancing over. “Damn it, Jimmy’s at it again. Hold on—gotta toss him before he breaks something else.” He heaved himself up, limping toward the commotion, leaving them with their beers and the hum of the jukebox.
Beth leaned back, exhaling. “He’s good—knows his stuff.”
“Told you,” Cole said, smirking. “Rusty’s a lifeline.”
They finished their drinks and stepped outside, the night air cool against Beth’s skin. The street was quieter now, the neon dimmer, the river a black mirror beyond the buildings. “Cartel’s still our best lead,” she said, hands in her pockets. “Morales fits the motive—fentanyl, turf, payback. But those anchors… we’re missing something.”
“Agreed,” Cole said, unlocking the Suburban. “Next move?”
“Martinez,” Beth said, decisive. “She’s DEA—knows the players. We set up surveillance on Morales’ operations—boats, drop points, whatever she’s got. See if they’re moving, who they’re hitting. Maybe we catch ‘em in the act.”
Cole nodded, sliding into the passenger seat. “Let’s roll.”
Beth climbed in, the engine growling awake, and pulled onto the cobblestones, the case burning bright in her mind. Morales or not, those anchors were a riddle—and one way or another, she’d solve it.
CHAPTER FOUR
The night pressed in cold and heavy as Beth Drake crouched behind a stack of crab traps at Rock Hall Marina, the damp wood rough against her palms. The Chesapeake Bay stretched dark beyond the docks, its waves slapping against hulls with a restless rhythm that matched the pulse in her ears. Overhead, the sky was a thick shroud of clouds, blotting out the stars, leaving only the faint glow of a distant sodium light to carve shadows across the gravel lot.
