The Man I Hate

by Hildreth, Scott

  She stepped aside. “Absolutely.”

  I removed two protective Tyvek booties and slipped them over my shoes. Pratt did the same.

  “That isn’t necessary.” She gestured toward the living room. “Come in.”

  We followed her inside the expansive home. Other than furnishings, it appeared no differently than it did in the photos from the home’s previous real estate listing we’d reviewed thirty minutes prior.

  The open floorplan allowed the rear of the home to be viewed from where we stood. A group of scantily clad women—one of which I recognized as Weinberg’s daughter—were poolside, drinking margaritas and lounging in the sun.

  Mica being surrounded by women who were giggling at each other’s stories was far different than being pumped full of drugs by a sex-crazed member of the Sinaloa Cartel. Luring her away from the pool party without raising eyebrows wasn’t going to be a simple task.

  Before I did anything, I needed to find out where the true homeowner was, and what his ties to Mica were.

  “We have a few documents that will need to be signed after completing the survey,” I explained. “The system is registered to Samuel Santos. If it won’t be too much trouble, we’d like to get him to sign the work order once we’re finished.”

  “Sam’s my brother,” she replied. “He’s upstairs.”

  Pratt tapped his index finger against the clipboard. “Let’s get him to sign this while Jake is checking the main panel.”

  “Sure,” Sophia said. She turned toward the staircase. “Follow me.”

  The last place Pratt needed to be was upstairs with the braless Brazilian beauty. While they laughed and joked their way up the stairs, I turned toward the garage. “I’ll check the serial number on the panel.”

  Getting Mica away from the pool without someone recording the incident on their phone would be a challenge. I walked toward the garage, surveying each room for security cameras as I passed. Upon reaching the panel, I opened the cover and mulled over potential scenarios to lure Mica into the home.

  Two minutes later, Sophia’s screams caused my sphincter to pucker.

  “Jake!” Pratt bellowed. “Get up here!”

  If I learned one thing in my thirty years in the Marine Corps, it was to expect the unexpected. Even so, when I reached the room where Pratt was located, I stared in disbelief.

  Sophia and Samuel were seated on the floor between the desk and where I stood. Their wrists and ankles were bound with tie straps, and their mouths were covered with tape.

  Samuel, a lean man with olive-colored skin, was wearing dark gray slacks and a pressed white shirt that was splattered with fresh blood stains. The source appeared to be a two-inch gash beneath his left eye, on the upper portion of his cheek.

  I scanned the room. Obviously used as an office or study, there were matching bookshelves on two opposing walls. Each were filled with hardbound books from top to bottom. Situated in front of a picturesque window, a large wooden desk was free of clutter. In one corner, there was a two-inch stack of neatly situated paperwork. In the center, a cell phone. Those two items were all that littered the surface.

  I looked at Pratt. Clutching his pistol in his right hand, he shook his head in clear disbelief of the situation.

  I shifted my gaze from Pratt to the bound siblings. “What the fuck happened, Jared?”

  He holstered his pistol. “I told dumbfuck that we were going to be taking Mica. He didn’t seem to give a fuck. His sister, on the other hand, started screaming like I was pulling off her fingernails with a pair of pliers. She wouldn’t shut up, so I smacked her in the throat. He got all pissed off because I hit her. Fucker charged at me like a raging bull. I had to bust him in the face before he spider monkeyed me.”

  Our option pool was shallow when we arrived. It seemed all but non-existent now. Having Samuel lure Mica in from the pool party was the only scenario that originally came to mind. If she saw him with a two-inch gash on his cheek, it would only be a matter of minutes before everyone at the pool had their cell phones out, filming the event as it unfolded. In Samuel’s absence, getting Mica away from the pool without arching the eyebrows of her scantily clad poolside friends would be difficult, if even possible.

  Frustrated, I shot Pratt a glare. “What’s your plan for getting her away from the pool?”

  Like a scolded dog, his gaze fell to the floor. He scratched the sides of his head for a moment before looking up. “Not sure.”

  Regardless of the manner in which we coerced Mica away from the pool, Samuel needed to be made aware that her departure would be permanent. I stepped in front of him and crossed my arms over my chest.

  “We’re taking Mica Weinberg with us,” I said in a stern tone. “Under no circumstances will she be permitted to return to this residence. Regardless of the reasoning behind it, if she’s allowed into this home at any time in the future, my friend Jared will come back. If you speak to the police about our visit, he’ll come back. If he comes back, neither of you will live to tell the story of what happened. Is that understood?”

  His eyes darted to his sister. Mine followed. After the two of them shared an awkward look, she met my gaze. Her brown eyes were filled with worry.

  She nodded.

  Somewhat confused as to why she was acknowledging my request instead of her brother, I alternated glances between Samuel and Sophia. They both returned worried looks. Sophia’s won the award for the most theatrical presentation.

  I shifted my eyes from her to Pratt. “What the fuck’s going on here?”

  He chuckled. “Looks like Sophia and Mica are bumping uglies.”

  I glanced at Sophia and raised my brows. “Are you intimate with Mica?”

  Her eyes shot to her brother.

  “Don’t look at him,” I said in a demanding tone. “I asked you a question.”

  With some hesitation, she nodded.

  I didn’t care which one of them was in a relationship with Mica. All that mattered was that they understood the repercussions associated with continuing the relationship.

  “In the future, if she calls, you won’t answer,” I explained. “If she sends you a text, don’t respond. In fact, blocking her number would be in your best interest.”

  Repeating myself was a pet peeve. Nevertheless, making sure Sophia fully understood the severity of the punishment for any continued relationship involving Mica was critical. “Just to make sure you fully understand, I’ll repeat what I’ve already told your brother. We’re taking Mica with us. Under no circumstances will she be permitted to return. Regardless of the reasoning behind it, if you let her in this home, Jared will come back here. If you talk to the cops about our visit, he’ll come back. If he comes back, he’ll likely kill you, your brother, and anyone else that’s here. Is that understood?”

  She nodded again.

  I was taught to never raise my hand to a woman. After seeing the damage first-hand that a woman was willing to inflict on a US Marine, I realized in matters of my work that both sexes must receive equal treatment. Ghosts of my past often prevented me from physically coercing women to comply with our desires. Through the course of completing a mission, Pratt had no qualms treating a woman no differently than a man.

  I fixed my eyes on Sophia and sharpened my gaze. “I’m going to take the tape off your mouth. If you do anything other than speak softly, you’ll regret it,” I warned. “Understood?”

  She gave an eager nod.

  I pulled the tape away from her mouth with a yank. “Where’s your cell phone?”

  “Downstairs,” she said, her voice cracking as she spoke. “In the…I think it’s in the kitchen.”

  “Describe it.”

  “It’s an iPhone 10,” she replied. “It has a gold jeweled case.”

  Assuming she had pictures and video footage of Mica, securing her phone and eliminating all necessary data would be an essential step in assuring neither Mica nor her father would be compromised—or blackmailed—in the future.

 
; I motioned toward the door with my eyes. “Go get the phone, Jared.”

  He returned in a moment with Sophia’s bedazzled iPhone. He tossed it to me no differently than if he was throwing me a piece of his beloved candy.

  I cut the strap from Sophia’s wrists and handed her the phone. “Unlock it and delete your cloud storage,” I demanded. “Is it backed up to your laptop?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  I narrowed my gaze. “If it is—”

  “It’s not,” she insisted, nearly coming to tears. “I swear.”

  Being located by the police “pinging” a stolen cell phone led to the downfall of many low-level criminals. Removing the battery was the only way to assure a phone couldn’t be traced. Performing the task with any phone other than the iPhone was simple.

  Apple’s phones were sealed with adhesive, making their disassembly nothing short of impossible without proper tools. I had a specially designed kit that would dislodge the screen—allowing removal of the battery—in a matter of minutes.

  I looked at Pratt. “Grab the iPhone kit.”

  I watched Sophia delete the saved data from her cloud. When she was done, I held out my hand. She extended hers, offering me the phone, and then hesitated. “Will I get it back?”

  “Afraid not,” I said.

  I tucked her phone into my inner jacket pocket and reached for my wallet. I removed two thousand dollars in cash and tossed it on the desk behind her.

  “There’s two thousand bucks.” The 100-dollar bills fluttered onto the desk’s surface like dry leaves. “You can each buy a new one.”

  Tool kit in hand, Pratt hustled into the room. The first thing he noticed was the money. He nodded toward the desk. “What’s with the cash?”

  “I’m paying her for her phone.”

  “Fuck her,” he said. “She screamed.”

  “You probably startled her.”

  “She could have got us busted.”

  “He scared me,” Sophia offered.

  Pratt’s eyes darted in her direction. “Who the fuck asked you?” He looked at me. “Why’s the tape off her mouth?”

  “I had to ask her questions,” I responded.

  He gave me a look. “You done?”

  “I suppose.”

  He removed the roll of duct tape from his utility belt and tore off a six-inch strip. After stretching it over Sophia’s mouth he glared at me. “Last thing we need is for her to start screaming again. Or spitting the virus on us.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ve been here five minutes too long as it is. We need to get.”

  “Enough about that fucking virus.” I tossed him the phone. “Here. Get to work.”

  I grabbed the other phone from the desk and gave it to Samuel. “Same thing for you. Delete your cloud storage.”

  He complied with my demands without question. I gave Pratt the phone. After splitting the phone cases and removing both batteries, he pocketed the phones.

  “What now?” he asked.

  In my opinion, we had only one option. Sophia was going to have to lure Mica away from the pool.

  “She’s going to get Mica to come up here,” I responded. “Alone.”

  “I don’t like it,” Pratt responded. “She could pull some stupid shit.” He gestured to her with his eyes. “She’s not above it, she already proved it.”

  “Got a better idea?” I asked.

  “What about the Olympic soccer chick? Do it like that?”

  It wasn’t a bad idea at all. Disappointed that I hadn’t thought of it, I gave Pratt a reassuring look.

  “I like it,” I said. “One of us will need to stay in here.” I gestured to the doorway. “Grab the masks. Let’s get it done.”

  Two years prior, we were faced with the necessity to extract a client from a Brentwood house party. After a few hours of surveillance and much consideration, we opted to raid the residence wearing Halloween masks. Since then, we’d kept the masks in our arsenal of tools.

  Pratt returned with two masks. He tossed the Brian Cranston “Heisenberg” mask to me. He quickly donned the realistic-looking Jennifer Anniston mask and adjusted the eyeholes into place.

  “Be back in a minute,” he said in a muffled tone.

  In a few moments, the sound of women screaming caused Sophia to wince. Illegible demands from Pratt followed. More screaming. A muffled conversation. The sliding door slammed closed. The whimpering from the pool area fell silent.

  “Let’s go, Jake,” Pratt shouted from below.

  I pulled on the mask and gave the room’s two occupants a nod. “Don’t forget what I said. You don’t want him to come back here, believe me.”

  I bounded down the steps two at a time and met Pratt at the vehicle. He opened the back door and tossed a bulging pillowcase inside. Wearing an orange bikini and sandals, Mica stood at his side with an annoyed look on her face. A neon green leather bag was draped over one shoulder. Her bikini top was barely large enough to cover the nipples of her DD-cup breasts. The bottom was wedged between her butt cheeks, leaving ninety-nine percent of her youthful ass exposed. Half-naked and obviously annoyed, she had no apparent idea what was going on. The look on her face made it clear she didn’t care to hear any details of why she was being dragged away from the home.

  Wondering if being kidnapped was on her wish list, I took off my mask. Upon recognizing me, she smirked.

  “I thought I was being kidnapped for ransom,” she said, seeming disappointed. “I should have known I couldn’t be so lucky. He’ll never let me grow up.” She looked at Pratt and then at me. “How much is he paying you?”

  Trying to maintain a professional posture, I cleared my throat. “That’s confidential.”

  She cocked her hip. “I’ll give you more.” She eyed me up and down before I could respond. “A lot more.”

  “Sorry,” I replied. “We’ve got an agreement.”

  Pratt guided her into the back of the vehicle and climbed in at her side. I took the driver’s seat and locked the doors.

  “Are you taking me to that creepy attorney?” she asked. “To his office?”

  I glanced at her reflection in the rearview mirror. “That’s the plan.”

  “Oh, hell no,” she snapped back. “Take me to your house. Or some random 7-Eleven. Have my dad pick me up somewhere or meet you, or whatever. Anything. That attorney’s a fucking creep.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because,” she replied. “He’s gross.”

  “Our instructions were to deliver you to his—”

  “He creeps me out,” she whined.

  “Sorry,” I replied.

  “He wants you to take me there so he can stare at my tits and make suggestive comments about sex,” she complained. “He’s nasty.”

  Her boobs were clearly intended to be the focal point of her sparse wardrobe. I had no idea how she expected someone to look elsewhere.

  “Nasty or not,” I replied. “He’s the one who hired us.”

  “He. Tries. To. Fuck. Me,” she interjected snidely. “He always rubbing his dick when he talks to me. If I go in there wearing this, he’ll probably try to rape me. Do you want that to happen?” She glared at me through the rearview mirror. “Are you into that kind of crap?”

  Despite his instructions to do so, taking her to Crenshaw’s office now seemed like a terrible idea. Being creepy in a twenty-year-old’s eyes was one thing. Forcing oneself upon them sexually was another. While I mulled over my options, Mica continued.

  “Take me to your house,” she said, appearing perturbed that I’d consider anything else. “Or just take me to my dad’s.”

  Pratt rolled down the window and tossed the pillowcase and its contents onto the side of the road. “You can drop her off at my house,” he said, fighting not to laugh. “I’ll look after her.”

  I adjusted the rearview mirror and shot Pratt a glare. If she went with him, he’d be fucking her before I backed out of the driveway.

  In my opinion, I had only o
ne option. “I’ll take you home with me,” I said. “You’ll be safe there.”

  “Safe?” She smirked. “Too bad I can’t say the same about you.”

  Anna

  Giselle Rinke worked for one of LA’s most prestigious realtors. Beyond her naturally pouty lips and oversized breasts, she was tall, blonde, and irresistibly sultry. She may have been a real estate agent by trade, but she could easily pass for a movie star.

  While she and I walked through my parents’ home, I told the tale of the parking lot fling with a silver-haired hunk who earned a living rubbing elbows with Hollywood’s upper crust. Although I hadn’t mentioned Braxton specifically, I’d thrown out a few names of people he’d met and described his line of work in detail.

  Having seen all there was to see, we walked back to the starting point, the living room. She lowered herself into the loveseat and crossed her legs.

  “His name isn’t Braxton Rourke, is it?” she asked.

  I was halfway to the couch. I stopped in my tracks. “This just got awkward.” I looked at her. “You know him?”

  “Everyone knows Braxton.” She flattened her skirt against her thighs before looking up. “He’s a local legend, of sorts.”

  Hoping to seem disinterested in discussing the matter further, I took a seat and scanned the living room. “I guess you can use that as a selling point for this home.”

  She laughed. “You want me to tell potential buyers that the homeowner had sex with Braxton Rourke?”

  “No.” I tilted my head toward the front door. “You can tell them that he lives next door. If he’s a local legend, that could be enough to get them to make an offer.”

  “He lives next door?” she asked, obviously surprised by my announcement.