No Apologies and No Regrets

by Roddy Wix

She felt a rough pair of hands dragging her out of bed. She fought back but her attacker proved stronger and had her on the floor in a heartbeat. The show of strength terrified her. Then his hand wrapped around her throat as the other tore away at her shirt. It lay in shreds while his free hand pawed at her naked breasts. She screamed, but no one heard and no one came to help. Somebody help! Please, somebody help me!

  The dream started again, now even more real than the last time. His hands are all over me. No, wait. There’s more than one. Two? Did Buzzy bring his idiot brother? What’s the screeching sound?

  The men in Joey’s bedroom weren’t unimpressed by the physical beauty of her nude body spread out in front of them, but their orders were clear. If they harmed the woman in any way they forfeited the million dollars not to mention the two added bonuses only GraveRobber knew about.

  The screaming alarm was starting to awaken her and they had to be quick. One of them drew a loaded syringe from his jacket pocket, plunged the shining needle into her left buttock and rammed the plunger home. See if it works as fast as it did with the guy on the boat.

  Jesus! Fuck. That burns. This isn’t a dream! What the hell is going on? Frank!

  The anger boiled up and Joey snapped wide-awake realizing too late that her situation was very real. Before she could reach for her trusted baseball bat the powerful drug began to take effect and she drifted into a semi-conscious state, but not without catching a glimpse of one of her attacker’s faces. Do I know him? That’s not my damned step-father. Couldn’t be. I killed him. Who the hell? What’s the god awful smell? Then it was darkness.

  Without a wasted moment the assailants wrapped her in a blanket. One of them slung her over his broad shoulder as they ran outside and headed toward the dock where their black speedboat idled quietly, ready to make a speedy getaway. From the time they smashed the glass door into they spent less than four minutes inside. At a run they took ninety seconds to get back to the boat and were pulling away before the flashing lights on the police and rescue vehicles could be seen illuminating the palm trees in front of the house. A screaming fire truck arrived moments later.

  At every step of the mission the abduction had been exceptionally well coordinated, expensive, and perfectly executed. The speedboat traveled about three miles from the Beretta’s dock up the Intracoastal Waterway to a point north of Peanut Island where a big luxury yacht cruised slowly south awaiting their arrival. The two men and their comatose victim spent very little time on board. A helicopter sat on the stern deck, its turbines whining in anticipation of an immediate departure. GraveRobber handed a thick envelope to the pilot who stepped down from the aircraft and relinquished the controls to the former SEAL. As the Jet Ranger lifted off and headed east the flames engulfing the house became clearly visible near the north end of Palm Beach. Fortunately, Joey’s drugged state spared her the sight of her love nest burning to the ground.

  GraveRobber’s accomplice looked at him and asked, “What was the point of torching the house?”

  “Personal satisfaction for the man who pays our salary.” And an extra half million for me.

  “Doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

  “Doesn’t have to. Look at it this way. Tomorrow, you’re a half million richer. Five hundred grand for a day’s work and a free ride to Italy. Nothing to complain about, is it?”

  “You’re right. House don't mean shit to me, Tommy.” The man looked out the window and into the dark night sky.

  “You’re right, my friend, it doesn’t.” GraveRobber pulled a second hypodermic from his pocket and jammed the needle into his hapless friend’s neck. He lurched against his restraints, but had just moments to register a look of fatal understanding as the potent drugs took effect. In an elegantly choreographed move Tommy unhitched the man’s harness, raised the door latch, and shoved him out into the blackness a thousand feet over the ocean. And another half a million for me, the killer thought.

  The Beretta’s house fast became a circus of frantic activity as valiant efforts were made to save the structure. Two special ops people from S3 arrived moments before the police. Mac Larsen pulled up minutes later. Mac didn't relish the prospect of breaking this news to the boss, but he'd erased the word 'easy' from his vocabulary long ago. He identified himself to the officer in charge.

  “Mac Larsen, S3 Security.”

  “Mr. Larsen.” The officer nodded his head in recognition.

  “Any signs of anyone in the house.”

  The man gave a frustrated look at the inferno. “Pretty hard to tell at this point. So far no indication anyone got out, assuming they were home.”

  The garage sat nearly a hundred feet from the main structure and seemed to be in no immediate danger. Without a word Mac strode assertively up to the side window and looked in. He found himself choking back emotion when he counted three cars inside including the black Porsche. He rounded the building and checked the dock. Une Belle Femme pulled gently against its mooring lines.

  As he collected his thoughts in anticipation of calling Frank the only witnesses to the crime drove down a side street in their blue Jaguar. One used a headset to speak to his boss in Langley, Virginia. The men had grim looks of satisfaction as they disappeared into the night.

  Mac withdrew his cell phone and speed dialed a number.

  “Frank, this is Mac. We have a situation in progress.”

  “Go ahead.” Frank’s sounded tired, but he was alert and fully engaged.

  “Your house is on fire.”

  A moment passed in silence before a calm steady voice responded.

  “Casualties?”

  “Uncertain. I just arrived and the fire department is at work now.”

  “Cause?”

  “Also uncertain. Frank, I did look in the garage and counted three cars inside plus a Pilot in the drive. The boat is at the dock.”

  “You need to go down and check for Billy as soon as you can.”

  “Will do.”

  “10-4. Your thoughts on Joey’s condition?”

  “Just a guess at this point, Frank. I think Joey was abducted.”

  “A better option than burned to death. Theory?” Frank sounded cold but Mac knew he was using every bit of his training and self control to stay professionally focused on the facts. That was his best chance of helping Joey and staying sane himself.

  “An alarm registered on our system, but it was an intrusion, not fire. It took five minutes before the fire alarm triggered.”

  “Maybe. Devil’s advocate says the first alarm was tripped by an incendiary device being tossed through a window.”

  “Maybe, but the infrared sensors in multiple rooms were triggered. Two people entered through the library, one of them went into the living room. Then the sensors picked up three people in the bedroom.”

  “We won’t know until somebody actually gets inside to confirm.” Frank could hear the lack of optimism in his own voice, but without knowing Joey was safe his world would collapse.

  “Fair enough. All we can do is wait, but my gut tells me I’m right. I’ll pull a special investigation team together immediately and keep you up to date on what’s happening at the house.”

  “Understood. Let me know as soon as you have anything.”

  “Roger.”

  Mac signed off abruptly, but Frank knew how difficult the call had been for his friend and colleague. Nevertheless, deep in his soul he was sure Serge Malroff had a hand in this. His first inclination was to retaliate immediately against his best target, the villa. Frank rarely allowed emotion to cloud his judgment for even a moment. Fortunately, the hardened warrior quickly regained control and hunkered down to wait for more precise intel.

  Beretta dropped a couple of ice cubes into a small glass and covered them with scotch. There would be no more sleep, with or without the liquor so he pulled on a pair of running shorts and an old sweatshirt and sat in the room’s only armchair with his
feet on a flimsy old table. Burning his house had to be directly connected to his last encounter with the Russian sonofabitch.

  “Little pig, little pig. I’m going to blow your house down.”

  It was Frank who made the threat. Now he hoped he hadn’t lived to regret it.

  56.