Neighbors and Other Strangers

by Gordon Parker

  When Douglas arrived, Christopher brought him directly to Trent. He asked Christopher to give them a minute alone. The big cop stepped away.

  “Rossi’s men have taken Darcey and Miles,” Trent said bluntly.

  “Oh, no! Please, God,” Douglas said, his eyes closing as he tried to block out what he was hearing.

  “It’s too late for prayer,” Trent said, callously. “If we’re going to get them back alive we have to be more devil than saint.”

  “I don’t know what I can do.” Douglas was completely deflated

  Trent was having none of it. He grabbed Douglas by the shirt, pulling the financier’s face close to his.

  “Listen to me, Douglas,” Trent hissed. “Hear me well. My wife and Miles are in danger of dying because of you. And you’re going to do everything you can to help me save them. If you don’t, then I promise you Jonathan Rossi will be the least of your problems. Do you understand me?”

  “I…I understand,” Scott said. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Have you ever been to Rossi’s home?”

  “Yes, I was there once.”

  “How many security guards does he keep on the property?”

  “Usually six.”

  “He told you he was taking his wife to the theater this evening, didn’t he? Will he take any of the security guards with him?”

  “When I have met with him he has always had two security men with him.”

  “Write down the address for me.”

  “I really can’t tell you much else about the house or neighborhood,” Douglas said, as he wrote the address on a notepad.

  “I just want the address,” Trent said. “I’ll take it from there.”

  “Oh, wait. There is one thing I remember about Rossi’s home, Trent,” Scott said. “It is surrounded by an electric security fence.”

  Trent’s grin bordered on the sinful. “That’s not a problem. Those fences are false security for the people living inside them.”

  He motioned for Christopher to join him again for the next instructions Trent planned to give Douglas.

  “Your job this afternoon, Scott, is to find where they’re holding Darcey and Miles” he said.

  Douglas was stunned. “I have no way to know that.”

  “Don’t make me threaten you again, Scott,” Trent warned. “You know as much about Rossi’s real estate holdings in the Bay area as anyone other than Rossi himself. Go through all your files. Look for likely places. Secluded places. Places where someone screaming wouldn’t attract attention.

  “Warehouses are common. But most any abandoned buildings set away from other properties would be possibilities. Old motels, office buildings. Any place where you would hold someone if you kidnapped them.”

  While Christopher left for Darcey’s office to see if he could find any clues to where she and Miles might have been taken, Trent appropriated a laptop from the team. He spent the next hour looking at old maps and current satellite images of the expensive homes in the hills of Atherton. He hoped to find an old logging or mining road. But before it became an enclave for the extraordinarily wealthy it was ranch land.

  The early mansions were built on very large plots. Some were in the hundreds of acres. In recent decades those land holdings had mostly been subdivided. The lots were still a minimum of an acre. Some were multiple acres, including Rossi’s home. Trent was betting there would be a service road winding among the homes of the privileged. He was right.

  He also studied the trees in the area. Another lucky break. The land around Rossi’s home was studded with large oak trees. Trent was placing another bet. He bet there would be one along the fence with large limbs.

  Christopher came back from the scene of the kidnapping. He reported that one of the officers shot at the scene was dead. The other was clinging to life. Barely.

  “I need a four wheel drive vehicle, Christopher. Preferably an old beater.”

  “Take my truck. Nancy refuses to be seen in it. Is that beater enough for you?”

  He took the keys and gave Christopher the Bentley’s remote.

  “Report your truck stolen before you leave for home today,” Trent told him, “in case I don’t make it back tonight.”

  “What if you do make it back?”

  “Then tomorrow morning tell’em you remembered where you parked it.”

  Trent stopped by a store that sold supplies for construction workers. He took only two of his purchases to the 15th floor with him. The rest he left in the truck when he rode the elevator to the 15th floor. In the condo, he exchanged his jeans for a pair of black work pants. He kicked off his shoes and pulled on a pair of black, knee high work boots with insulated rubber shells and soles. He retrieved two extra magazines for the Desert Eagle.

  Trent assumed the curtain would go up to open the show the Rossi family was attending at eight o’clock. Assuming the show would run two to three hours, the Rossi family would be returning home sometime after midnight.

  Trent wanted to be inside the Rossi compound at ten o’clock. Half an hour should give him plenty of time to do what he planned. Plotting the route by his phone’s GPS, he figured it would take him two hours to make the drive. Giving himself an extra 15 minutes for an unexpected contingency, he would plan on leaving at a quarter to eight. He looked at his watch. It was half past seven.

  He took a couple of minutes to make a sandwich. It wouldn’t do to have a lapse in energy. He ate the sandwich on the ride down to the garage.

  Another minute to scoop up some dirt from the garage floor to rub across the truck’s license plates. He didn’t want Christopher’s truck to be identified if he could avoid it.

  Two hours later Trent was guiding the truck along the unpaved service road that wound among the mansions in the hills of Atherton. He had printed out a satellite image of Rossi’s house. It lay beside him to consult as he steered the truck among the trees. The house he was seeking would be on his left.

  He saw the fence that looked like the one in the satellite image. This was it. He drove slowly along the fence. When he had reached what he judged to be halfway down the property, he braked the truck to a stop. Luck was with him. There was a large oak tree standing between the dirt road and the fence. A thick limb extended from the trunk over the fence. Trent thought Rossi and his security people put way too much faith in their fancy fence and not near enough thought into staying alive.

  He pulled on a pair of surgical gloves before exiting the truck. Once outside the truck’s cab, he stepped to the edge of the service road. The dirt there was soft and black. He scooped some up and rubbed it over his face. Satisfied that his light skin wouldn’t give him away in the moonlight, he strapped a set of climbing poles to his boots.

  He wrapped a cloth around the hammer he had purchased and used it to pound a metal stake into the ground near the electric security fence. Placing the hammer into the small knapsack that was among his purchases, he wrapped a piece of copper wire around first the metal stake, then a length of the charged wire, effectively shorting it out.

  Strapping the knapsack onto his back, he doubled the rope, then redoubled it. With his climbing poles gripping the sides of the tree, he used the rope like a lineman’s belt to move rapidly up the large tree trunk. Once he was straddling the large limb, he visually surveyed the compound. He saw no one moving about. Draping the rope over the limb, he used it to lower himself softly to the ground inside the fence.

  Trent removed the climbing poles and laid them with the knapsack under a small pile of oak leaves. He had been quiet so far. He wanted quiet for a while longer. Then he planned on chaos.

  The Rossi home had just become an infernal region.

  Trent judged it to be two hundred fifty yards to the large main house. There was a smaller house, a guest house he assumed, a hundred yards closer. Staying low, the Desert Eagle in his hand, he sprinted as best he could in the work boots, to the rear of the guest house. He paused there leaning against the wall with the corner of the b
uilding on his right, to catch his breath.

  He heard the guard coming down the side of the building. Trent’s respect for Rossi and his security, in fact for his entire operation, was declining rapidly. He had to guard against that. They were still very dangerous people.

  That was confirmed when the guard came into view. Though the armed man blithely walked right past him without noticing, Trent was impressed with what he saw. He was carrying a short submachine gun, which Trent thought was a German-made Heckler & Koch, one of the most effective automatic weapons in the world. There was a long magazine protruding below the weapon. Trent thought it probably held thirty rounds that, if the man saw him and fired first, would come at Trent at a rate of nine hundred rounds per minute. It wouldn’t take anywhere near thirty rounds to kill Trent. He didn’t intend to let that happen.

  Trent didn’t want to kill anyone if he could avoid it. He wanted to put them out of action. Painfully out of action.

  He tapped lightly on the side of the building with the Desert Eagle. The guard turned lazily in his direction. Not expecting to see an unauthorized, armed man in the compound, the guard was slow to react. Before he could raise his weapon, Trent fired one .50 caliber round that smashed into his opponent’s left shoulder.

  It wasn’t a killing wound but was enough to make it impossible for him to use the H&K. As Trent expected, the guard tried to fire his submachine gun. He did fire it, but being unable to hold it steady with the neck of the humerus, the upper arm bone, in his left shoulder shattered, three rounds went wild into the air. Trent took two quick steps forward, pulled the weapon from the man’s one good hand, and brought the heavy Desert Eagle down on his head. The guard collapsed, dazed, clutching his left arm, which would never be the same. Trent doubted if he had much of a medical retirement plan with his job.

  “Gideon? What’s all the shooting about?”

  Trent heard the call from the same direction. This could wind up being something like a carnival shooting gallery, he thought. He might get lucky and stand here shooting them down one by one.

  The second man saw his companion lying on the ground. This guard was even more foolish than the first. He looked right and left but never looked behind him. Instead of becoming more alert, he knelt beside his colleague, laying his own Heckler & Koch the ground. Commendable friendship. Foolish security.

  The second guard knelt on his knee, exposing the sole of his left foot. A foot was an even better target for a non-lethal takedown than was a shoulder, Trent thought. He fired three rounds from the commandeered H&K into the man’s left foot, sending metatarsal bones in all directions and bringing a howl from the target as he rolled to his side, again being foolish. He couldn’t reach his own submachine gun. Trent could.

  He used the Desert Eagle as a club again. Two down.

  Trent didn’t think he’d be so lucky a third time. He holstered the Desert Eagle, slung the weapon taken from the second guard over his shoulder, and held the first in combat position as he jogged toward the opposite corner of the building’s back wall.

  Trent thought the first Heckler & Koch he had taken had twenty-four rounds remaining in the magazine. Should be enough, he thought.

  It was darker on this corner of the house. It was the darkness that saved him. The third guard was smarter than the first two. As Trent approached the corner, the man leaped into view, weapon in a two-handed firing position. No submachine gun for this guy. Trent was staring at a semiautomatic handgun.

  Trent saw the muzzle flash as he fell and rolled to his right. The first and second shots both went over his head. Trent didn’t think he’d be lucky with the man’s third shot. He held up the H&K he had taken from the first guard and fired off another three round burst.

  The small but powerful submachine gun shredded the guard’s lower right leg. Trent had no doubt both the man’s tibia and fibula would be found to be beyond repair. He leaped to his feet before his target could recover and took the weapon from his opponent’s hand. It was a Sig Sauer, a very effective .40 caliber weapon developed for the army and favored by the Seals and Texas Rangers as well as other military and police units. Trent stuck it in his belt.

  He didn’t think it necessary to use the Desert Eagle as a club again. The man lay on the ground, crying, clutching his destroyed leg.

  Trent edged his way around the corner and down the wall toward the front of the building. Before he reached the front of the building he saw the fourth man through a window. The last guard had heard one loud, booming shot, followed by three separate three round bursts from the automatic weapons two of his colleagues carried, two shots from a .40 caliber handgun, then another three round burst from a Heckler & Koch.

  He didn’t know what was going on. He had switched off the lights inside the guest house and was crouched in the darkened room, using both hands to steady his own semiautomatic handgun, which he had aimed at the front door.

  Trent tapped on the window with the barrel of the H&K. The man turned, panic in his eyes as he saw Trent in the window behind him. He turned, already firing but wildly so. Trent triggered another three round burst from the submachine gun.

  He hurried the last round of firing. His shots went high. He was sorry to see blood gushing from the last guard’s face. Trent sincerely hoped he had not killed the man.

  Moving quickly now, he jogged back to where the third man lay, still crying and clutching his useless leg. Grabbing him by the shirt, he dragged him to the front of the building. A swimming pool separated the guest house from the main building. He made the wounded man as comfortable as he could on a chaise lounge.

  He went through the unlocked door into the guest house. The fourth man was still alive but seriously wounded. If he lived he would probably lose at least one eye.

  Another Sig Sauer lay beside him. Trent stuck it in his belt along with the first one. He would leave here with a boost to his personal armory.

  He pushed himself to move faster now as he returned to where the first two guards lay moaning. He forced Gideon, the first guard whose shoulder he had ruined with a single .50 caliber cartridge, to drag the second guard, whose left foot was shattered, to the front, placing each in his own chaise.

  Moving quickly back into the guest house, he dragged the unconscious man out to where his three colleagues lay, placing him on a fourth chaise.

  He spoke to the first man, the one with the wounded shoulder. “Is anyone else here?”

  The man shook his head in the negative. Trent pointed the man’s own weapon at him.

  “No,” the man said, panic in his voice. “I swear there’s no one else here. Don Rossi gave the house servants the night off.”

  “Come with me,” Trent ordered. He motioned for the man to walk in front of him. The guard still had one good arm. Trent was taking no chance that he had a hideout weapon. He pushed him around the corner of the building, out of sight of his comrades, far enough away that they could hear the two of them talking but not make out what they were saying.

  “Where is Rossi holding Miles Diaz-Douglas and Darcey Anderson Marshall?”

  “I don’t know,” Gideon whined. “I swear I don’t.”

  Trent again pointed the Heckler & Koch at him.

  “Some place on the water. South of the city. That’s all I know, mister. I swear.” The guard was crying, whether from fear or pain Trent didn’t know. He didn’t care. He motioned for the man to join his three friends.

  Gideon sat on the edge of the chaise lounge. Trent handed him a small notepad and pen.

  “Write what I tell you,” he directed.

  The man took the pen in his still usable right hand, held it poised over the notepad.

  “Rossi,” Trent dictated, remembering the words used to threaten Scott, “it’s good to do things pleasing to your spouse. Think about your spouse tonight, Rossi. Think about her tomorrow as you do everything in your power to be sure Darcey Anderson Marshall and Miles Diaz-Douglas are alive when I get there to take them home. Your men have bee
n very helpful.”

  The long, black Mercedes Pullman Deluxe limousine idled in front of the gate. Rossi lowered the privacy window.

  “What’s the problem? Why isn’t the gate open?”

  “It’s not responding to the remote, Don Rossi,” the driver replied.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. The remote works off the car battery so it’s not that. Maybe the fence got short-circuited somehow.”

  You pay a small fortune for an electric security fence and it doesn’t work because it short-circuited itself, he thought. At the moment, his thought continued, it’s nothing but a very expensive boundary marker.

  “Well, get out and see if there’s any juice in it,” he directed. “If not, open the gate manually.”

  The driver stared straight ahead. The man in the passenger seat looked at him. The driver made no move to get out of the vehicle. The man in the passenger seat swallowed hard. He hated this. He knew he would have to touch the fence. If it wasn’t short-circuited, it wouldn’t kill him but it would hurt.

  He got out of the limo and approached the fence. He tentatively extended his hand toward the fence. Closing his eyes, he touched the wire. The man sighed with relief. Nothing.

  “It’s short-circuited, Don Rossi,” he called out as he started to pull the gate open.

  While his wife and children went upstairs to bed on entering their home, Rossi went to the bar. He mixed a martini, planning to sit at his desk and fantasize about what he might do to Miles Diaz-Douglas and Darcey Anderson Marshall if Scott Douglas remained recalcitrant.

  Rossi enjoyed playing God. He enjoyed the power of deciding whether another human would live or die. He didn’t often get the chance. Now he had two. He sipped his martini, contented.

  Until his driver burst into the office.

  “Don Rossi, I think you need to come outside. You need to see this,” the man said, sounding out of breath. If Rossi didn’t know better he would think the man was frightened.

  “Whatever it is can wait until morning,” Rossi said, taking another sip of his martini.

  “No, sir, I don’t think so,” his driver insisted.