Black Point

by Sam Cade

  Coming back into her bedroom, she pulled a new Nike tennis outfit out of her closet, still had the tag hanging. It was the same style worn by one of the six-foot Russian blondes at the yearly Family Circle Tournament on Daniel Island. In Hallett’s mind that was how she looked on the court, only five inches shorter. Short skirt, racerback top sexily exposing toned arms and shoulders. Looked in the mirror, trim and tight, loved what she saw.

  Hallett’s company, Low Country Prestige Properties, was a small, efficient boutique firm handling a niche collection of impeccable real estate. She was the face of the company and with good reason. She was blond, trim, and attractive, the classic Charleston poster girl for the forty-eight-looks-thirty-five hot mommy. More than looks, she packed attitude. She was a self-starter, win-at-all-costs power bitch.

  She dialed her Charleston office manager at 7:01 a.m. She followed with Beaufort, Hilton Head, and Savannah. She briefed each of them on the weekly goals and finished with, “You are certainly aware I’ll be leaving for Barcelona in the morning.”

  Lucky was listening to Hallett’s conversation in the attic on the fourth story of the home. He was lying on a yoga mat using his backpack as a pillow. Ear buds were in each ear.

  Yesterday morning, after witnessing all the occupants leaving the home, Lucky disabled the alarm, picked the lock of the garage door facing the alley behind the home, entered and began to get the lay of the land. After studying the floor plan, he installed covert wireless radio frequency bugs in the main living areas of the home. All bugs transmitted to a small receiver next to him in the attic.

  Leaving for Barcelona tomorrow, she said.

  Well, then. Today’s the day.

  King Street, Downtown Charleston, S.C.

  7:03 A.M. “WHATCHA GOT, JERRELS? Let’s crank this thing up,” said Braxton Green into the phone. Jerrels was three minutes late. A junior partner, he was due precisely every morning at seven into Braxton’s office to review the agenda.

  After two hours of meetings, Braxton lost his focus, thinking. Eight days with Hallett in Europe would surely test his sanity. Once his wife started talking, it would be a week of exhaustive droning about listings, undervalued appraisals, and unqualified blowhards trying to purchase real estate outside of their price point.

  He punched a call to his primary executive assistant, Gracie, one of the best hires he ever made. She was hyper-efficient and had an innate feel for productive workflow.

  “Gracie, I’ve cleared your office schedule for the rest of the day. We have a table for a business lunch at Hall’s Chophouse at 12:15. Why don’t you run home to get ready...and wear something appropriate.” Braxton softened his tone. “Oh, and don’t forget that red lipstick I love.”

  Gracie was thirty-four, sixteen years younger than Braxton, very natural with a trim figure, and a single mother of two beautiful boys, eight and ten. Her husband, an untalented free-thinking starving Charleston artist, divorced her three years ago claiming he just didn’t want to be chained down by two kids and an adventure-less wife. Not a penny for the welfare of his children since.

  Gracie wanted the absolute best for her two princes but her gracious $130k salary strained to manage a nice home, private schools, vacations, golf lessons, afternoon sports, the whole gamut, as well as pay someone to shuttle them around.

  So, she would arrive ten minutes early to the steakhouse freshly bathed, smelling of Chanel, wearing a sleeveless black dress, a garter belt, sheer hose, glossy black high heels, and a racy bra and panty set. She would eat a small piece of grilled fish with a salad and a single glass of wine, and then meet Braxton in an intimate pied-a-terre he owned two blocks away.

  She would leave with $500 dollars in tax-free cash.

  Braxton would leave knowing he was living the American Dream.

  8:30 A.M. HALLETT SPED AWAY from the mansion in a black Range Rover singularly focused on trouncing some nice women in a tennis match. Lucky left the home ten minutes later.

  9:30 A.M. LUCKY LEFT THE DOUBLETREE FOR THE LAST TIME. He took the elevator down donning a crisp suit rolling his travel suitcase with a laptop computer bag over his shoulder. He picked up a free USA Today and New York Times off a table by the elevator and walked to the front desk.

  “Dr. Turner, you look as if you may have concluded your business. Are you leaving us?” The clerk had blemish-free black skin and bright eyes. Her accent was from the Islands, pleasant.

  “Yes. And the work has been very productive.” His tone exuded happy cheer.

  “Headed to Maryland this morning?” she asked, looking at the address on his receipt.

  “Yes, this afternoon, actually. In three weeks, I leave for Japan for a two month stay. Looking forward to that.”

  “Thank you again for selecting Doubletree. We hope your travels are safe.”

  45

  LUCKY STEPPED OUT OF a crisp white Ford cargo van with a vinyl lettered logo on each side.

  Michal Lazarus Collectibles

  Charleston’s Finest Antiques and Rugs

  Established 1975

  He parallel parked the van on Water Street, a short two-block walk to the Green mansion. Lucky wore his summer-weight tropical tan suit accompanied by an ivory colored Stetson straw fedora on his head. Except for the heavy duffel in his right hand he looked every bit the bon vivant strolling Calle Obispo in Havana.

  Entering the home, he went straight to the second-floor den. He pulled the contents of the duffel out onto the floor. He then undressed out of his slacks and sport coat, placed them neatly in a chair, and dressed in a black body-hugging outfit. With the balaclava mask on covering his head with only openings for his eyes and mouth, he now presented a sinister appearance.

  The oddball stash of equipment on the floor included rolls of gray duct tape, plastic flex cuffs, a primeval tomahawk, a stainless-steel barber’s straight razor, garden pruning shears, two Canon Mk IV high definition cameras. And one fifty- amp reciprocating Sawzall that was a raging beast with a handle grip on one end and a fierce shark-toothed blade on the other.

  11:30 A.M. HALLETT WAKED INTO THE TENNIS PRO SHOP. Armend Baehler, the thirty-three-year-old Danish tennis pro was focused on the racket he was stringing.

  “How’d you do?” he asked.

  “Won big. What else could happen?”

  “Excellent.” Armend nodded, didn’t look up, kept manipulating the strings.

  “Going to be in Europe all the way through next week and the stress is through the roof. Any ideas how to manage that?”

  Armend didn’t so much as move his head as glance his eyes in her direction. Impish grin. “I just might. Thirty minutes?”

  “Works perfectly. If you see steam coming from the bathroom, I just might be embarrassingly naked in a nice hot shower.”

  11:50. HALLETT WALKED INTO HER BEDROOM SUITE, glanced at her Rolex as she slipped it off. Good. She had a solid two hours of playtime. Her husband texted earlier that he had a long afternoon business meeting. Lovely.

  She kicked off her tennis shoes, peeled up her top, dropped her skirt and panties to the floor. She reveled in her nakedness.

  Lucky was mostly hidden behind a chair in the corner, sitting with his knees pulled tight to his chest. He had a full vantage point to the room. Ops trained him to be motionless and silent for hours awaiting an ambush.

  Hallett opened a bottom drawer to her dresser. She pushed some folded flannel pajamas to the side and pulled out what she was looking for. Sex lube, four straps covered in black velvet, and a mask. She tossed them on the king size bed. She walked out of the bedroom and across the hall to her oversize bathroom.

  Ten minutes into her shower, Lucky heard her playful female voice. “Well, looky who’s here.” Good, Braxton’s home.

  Armend dropped his tennis whites to the bathroom floor. Hallett opened the glass door. “Welcome, sir.”

  Ten minutes later, Hallett and Armend dried each other with two white, resort-grade towels. She grabbed his hand, walked him to the bedroom
.

  “Today, I give the lesson. You’re the student,” she said.

  Major complication, Lucky thought. Not Braxton.

  Hallett cinched Armend’s wrists and ankles to the bed. She kissed him on the mouth, then slipped the mask on him. “No peeking, mister. Today is about me. I almost couldn’t sleep last night thinking about what I wanted to do with you.” Her words came out with a sultry southern sway.

  She squirted a little sex lube on her hand and applied it to herself. “Here, how about a little on you. Oh my...is all of that for me?”

  Armend was young. He needed no foreplay. Hallett took control and started her ride. She came out of the gate like she was running a 100-meter dash.

  Lucky was surprised at the mouth on the woman. Plenty of naughty talk. A live cougar porno film was taking place right next to him. While he found the whole scene erotic, he was on a mission. He stood from his position.

  Hallett sensed movement in her left peripheral vision. She glanced to the side. What? Blackness. Then she saw white around Lucky’s two pupils.

  Hallett’s scream lasted six seconds. It was visceral, scorching. Her body shook. She flew off Armend. Lucky walked to the bed. Hallett screamed again as she swatted at him with both hands.

  “What! What! What!” Said Armend. “What’s the matter, Hallett?”

  She didn’t answer him. Hallett hopped off the bed on the side away from Lucky, began grabbing at her clothes.

  “Don’t put your clothes on.” Lucky’s tone was even and soft, without menace.

  Hearing a man’s voice, Armend began thrashing madly. He flung his head side to side trying to release the mask. A waste of energy.

  Hallett screamed again as Lucky walked around the bed. Her face flushed deep red as she went down into a fighter’s crouch. Jugular veins bulged. Her hands drew into fists. Her heart squeezed harder. Time slowed. Adrenaline seared through every cell.

  She grabbed her cell phone off the dresser. Lucky grabbed it and smashed it on the floor with his heel. He had a pistol holstered low on his right thigh and a taser on his left waist.

  He backed up several steps and slid the Sig P226 out of the holster. He extended his right arm with the barrel four feet from Hallett’s chest. She covered her breasts with her arms.

  “I promise you I won’t miss. So if you don’t mind, I’d like to do this the easy way.”

  Hallett’s whole body shuddered. Her head nodded up and down.

  “Good.”

  Lucky went to the bed, leaned down to whisper in Armend’s ear. Armend sensed his proximity and went still as a statue. “Do exactly as I say and you will get through this. Stay the fuck still and do not say one word. Not one.”

  Armend figured Hallett’s husband found out about his wife’s sexual proclivities and wanted to send a strong message to them.

  The dreadful truth was far more dire.

  46

  AT 3:37 P.M., HALLETT’S SON, BRAX, DROVE HIS JEEP into the back alley, parked close to the house, grabbed his backpack and hustled into the back door.

  In the kitchen he grabbed a Coke and a couple of cookies. “I’m home,” he hollered. He heard nothing. He saw his mother’s car in the garage.

  He bounded up the main staircase to the second-floor, lost in thought of what he needed to pack. Three steps down the second-floor hallway he came to a dead stop.

  There was a figure in front of him dressed in black shrink-wrap, totally silent.

  “Whoa!” Brax froze. “What the hell’s going on?” he said.

  Standing eighteen feet away from Brax, the black silhouette tossed two pairs of double restraint high-tensile nylon flex cuffs at the boy’s feet.

  “Sit down on the floor, please. Take your shoes off and place the first pair on your ankles and cinch them tight. Then put your arms behind your back and slide the other pair over your hands until they reach your wrists.” It was a gentle instruction.

  Brax was tall like his father and had four inches on this guy. Probably outweighed Lucky by twenty-five pounds. “Fuck you.” Suddenly grew a set of balls. Brax dropped his Coke can and charged Lucky.

  A nine-millimeter round shattered Brax’s right knee before he could reach Lucky. The boy went down hard on the oak floor, howling like the wounded animal he was.

  Lucky walked over to the flex cuffs and kicked them back to Brax. “Your right shoulder is next. So let’s start over. Ankles first, then your wrists.”

  This time the teenager complied. Lucky had Brax squirm to his bedroom and into his bathroom. He grabbed some rolled up socks from Brax’s drawers, stuffed a sock in the kid’s mouth and secured it with duct tape. Then he squatted next to the boy. “Not a single word and you will be alright. If I hear a peep from you, I will be back in to put bullets in both of your shoulders. You will be fucked up for life. That’s a promise. Do you understand?”

  Brax nodded.

  LUCKY WALKED OUT OF THE BATHROOM AND CLOSED THE DOOR. Needed to think. He sat in a comfortable armchair in Brax’s bedroom. He reminisced back to his training days, day after day after day of intensity. Everything geared to break him mentally, physically, and emotionally, only to make him stronger. He thought about ambush techniques. Then exfiltration. Lucky lived through many situations that evoked cold, stark fear. Coming into this lily-white tableau, he didn’t want to muff it up with absentminded carelessness.

  Forty-eight minutes later Lucky heard the heavy-duty electric garage door opener fire into action. Not even thirty seconds later he heard the rumble again, the door lowering with a slight bump as it hit the floor.

  A door slammed on the first floor. It was the man of the hour.

  Braxton, Senior, ambled up the stairs with some mail in one hand, his suit jacket in the other. He ascended slowly as he started flipping through envelopes he grabbed from the outside mailbox.

  “Where is everybody? We have a big trip, people.” He was still on a high of masculine superiority after a vigorous romp with Gracie.

  Lucky had moved from Brax’s bedroom to the den with Hallett. He verified the positions on the two tripod-mounted Canon’s and started the video on both.

  Braxton turned to walk down the hall to his bedroom. “Where is everybody?” Talking to air. Looking at mail.

  It was a single moan at first. Braxton stopped, listened. The sound was from the end of the hall. Dead silence otherwise.

  The sound came again, but it was louder. Braxton dropped the mail, made a quick dash down the length of the hall, stopped right outside the door of the den. He looked in. Hallett was splayed out before him, naked, and trussed down on the couch with duct tape.

  “Jesus Dear God!” Braxton burst into the room aimed in her direction. “What in the hell, Hallett?” He stepped to the couch to free his wife from the tape that covered her mouth and the other bonds that secured her to the couch. Hallett’s eyes were filled with fear and tears. She nodded her head several times in the direction of Lucky who was sitting in a chair with a pistol in his right hand and a taser in his left.

  Braxton turned, saw Lucky, and the weapons in his hands. “What the fuck!”

  Braxton froze in fear.

  Lucky tossed him two pairs of flex cuffs, exactly like the ones binding his son.

  “Take your clothes off, counselor. Place the first pair on your ankles and cinch them. Then place your hands behind your back and slide the second pair to your wrists.”

  “I will not. I absolutely will not. Do you know who the fuck I am, mister?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact I do know who you are. You are one very accomplished attorney.” Lucky made a show of looking at the taser. Then he swiveled his neck so he could examine his pistol. “But your reluctance to follow simple directions, Mr. Green, places me into a decision-making mode. Which one of the tools I’m holding might best help you understand the serious nature of our meeting? In ten seconds, I will have my decision.”

  Well, there it is right there, Braxton thought. It’s about money. He’s successful and t
his guy isn’t. How surprising.

  Braxton followed orders. He stripped, sat next to his wife, and placed the flex cuffs on.

  “Very good, Braxton. See, that wasn’t hard.”

  Lucky reached the point of negotiation that Green preferred, settlement talks. The man had used his first name, Braxton. It was always preferable to have a dignified discussion amongst civil colleagues. Braxton wanted to tell the man in black that he always enjoyed concluding proceedings having made new friends, but he let Lucky talk. He knew to shut up, let the adversary make the first offer.

  “People have a certain admiration for you, Braxton. Wrong choice of words. Not admiration but astonishment. I believe people are astounded by your boldness and tenacity. You display a complete lack of emotion and empathy as you damage hordes of people. I can tell you beyond any doubt that you astound me. I’m stupefied by the things I’ve read about you.

  What in the world is this man saying, Braxton mused? He was certain he was an empathetic man.

  Lucky continued. “Reading the enlightening articles about you, evaluating some deeper research of your endeavors, I’m left with a somewhat more thorough description. Calculating, treacherous, deceitful, and scheming. Do any of these words seem adequate?”

  “Oh, one more comes to mind, Braxton. Avaricious. Avarice pressurizes your skull. Side to side, top to bottom, and front to back. Aaaa-VA-risss. Do you know that word? Of course you do. Words are your ammunition.”

  “Completely inaccurate,” burst in Braxton, “or at any rate, incomplete. I completely disagree with avarice. Completely.”

  Green knew this was about money because everything is about money. He wanted to get on with the process. He was ready to deal, take the short end of the stick, and let this pirate be on his way.

  Braxton continued. “I think you are about to change your tune on me, mister. Once you just lay out your terms, I believe you will see me in an entirely different light. Perhaps open, honest, straightforward, gracious, and beneficent. I think a large sum of money would clear up this matter immediately.”