Overbrook Farms

by Neal Goldstein

  “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  Hunter hesitated as he considered how to respond. Should he tell her the depths of despair and isolation he had endured, the cruelty of a system that left so many of the children like him broken? “I became a ward of the state of Maryland,” he began. “I was only eight years old. I had no idea what lay ahead.”

  He told her of the joyless existence of the next ten years of his life. The series of foster homes, the overworked social workers, whose thankless jobs left them burnt out and too often incapable of responding to the needs of the children for whom they were responsible.

  “No one wanted to adopt you?” she asked.

  He smiled, “I was what they referred to as a ‘zebra.’”

  She gave him a questioning look.

  “Not black enough and not white enough for the childless couples looking for families. Eventually, I was too old.”

  He broke eye contact and continued his story. When he finished, he shifted his eyes back to her. She was wiping away her tears. “I’m sorry I upset you,” he said.

  Lena got out of her chair and dropped to her knees in front of him. She placed her hands on his, leaned closer to him and gently kissed him. The kiss had none of the passion of their earlier encounter, but conveyed greater emotion than anything he had ever experienced in his life.

  That began a whirlwind love affair. For six months Lena and Hunter were inseparable. Don Carlos and his wife Stephania were thrilled their daughter had finally found someone with whom she might choose to share her life. A man of integrity and courage, someone worthy of this accomplished, brilliant woman.

  It came to an abrupt end, as all of Hunter’s good times eventually did, when Don Carlos told him that the father of the young thug who Hunter had beaten, had put a contract out on his life. He needed to get out of Caracas immediately, until Don Carlos could resolve the situation. His continued presence posed a threat to Lena. Don Carlos would let him know when it was safe for him to return.

  Lena wanted to accompany him, but both Hunter and Don Carlos believed it would be safer for her to remain.

  4

  June 2015, Caracas, Venezuela,

  “It’s been more than a year since I sent word it was safe for you to return,” Don Carlos said.

  Hunter nodded.

  “I assume you had a good reason for not returning. But your failure to contact Lena…”

  “I know, unforgiveable,” Hunter interrupted, his voice low, his eyes cast down. “How is she?”

  Don Carlos shrugged, “Heartbroken, worried that something had happened to you, confused…mad as hell.”

  The two men held each other’s eyes in silence. The older man spoke first, “So why didn’t you come back?”

  Hunter exhaled heavily, “Violence seems to follow me where ever I turn. I couldn’t stand the thought I could put Lena in danger. I knew if I spoke to her, heard her voice, I would have come running to back.”

  Don Carlos considered Hunter’s response and nodded, “I understand,” he gave Hunter a sympathetic smile and continued, “but I don’t believe Lena will.”

  Hunter exhaled heavily.

  “So, I assume you have returned for some purpose.”

  Hunter told him about the false rescue mission, which was really a wet job, and of the murder of the girl’s mother. “I don’t know who I can trust.”

  Don Carlos took some time to consider what Hunter had disclosed. Of course, he would help him save the innocent child, but the size and scope of the murder mission, the cost involved, the evil intent behind it, all of it had frightening implications.

  “Take the child to the farm. The two of you will stay there until we come up with a plan,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  “You may not be so grateful when Lena finds out you’re back.”

  * * *

  When they arrived at the Dijonari’s’ farm, Lena and her mother were standing on the front porch waiting. Lena briefly glanced in Hunter’s direction and turned her attention to Haley. She smiled at the child and said, “Welcome to our home. I’m Lena; we’re so happy to have you as our guest.”

  From Haley’s reaction, Hunter could tell she instinctively trusted Lena when she ran to her. He watched as the flood of emotions she had fought to hold in check- terror, sadness, loss- suddenly erupted, and the tears streamed down her face.

  Lena held the child in her arms. “It’s all right to cry,” she said in a soothing voice. “We’ll protect you,” she said as she lifted Haley, turned, and carried her inside the farmhouse without saying a word to Hunter.

  Hunter turned to Senora Dijonari, who shook her head and said, “What did you expect?”

  He looked down without uttering a response.

  “Come inside. We have a child to take care of. Lena and you will have to deal with your issues later.”

  5

  June 2015, Louden County, Virginia

  “I understand sir, and I assure you we’re doing everything possible to find your granddaughter,” Pirolli listened silently while the caller continued his rant. “Yes, I agree with you, the outcome was unacceptable. But as I explained going in, the operation was extremely risky. At least we were able to recover the ransom money.”

  When the screaming stopped, Colonel J.R. Pirolli, U.S. Army, Ret., disconnected the call. He took a deep breath, slowly letting it out to calm himself and looked out of his office window at the magnificent view of the Virginia countryside outside of Leesburg. The rolling hills of Loudon County stretching towards the Catoctin Mountains, about 33 miles northwest of Washington, DC gave him a sense of peace and stability, a far cry from the ever-churning, empty chaos of the nation’s capital.

  He thought through the possible outcomes of the failure of the Montgomery mission. Pirolli had been in the business long enough to realize that despite the precise planning of an operation, the thousands of variables- equipment breakdowns, weather, intel, etc.- once the wheels went up, the mission was out of his control. But what had happened in Venezuela had nothing to do with the normal vagaries of war. He had underestimated the extent to which a principled individual would go protect an innocent child.

  Now he would have to deal with the consequences of his mistake. Unfortunately, he would have to rely on others if he were to survive. Had he covered himself sufficiently to assure a good outcome, he wondered?

  Pirolli drummed his fingers on the surface of his ten-thousand-dollar replica of the “Resolute Desk,” the same desk at which Ronald Reagan and six other presidents sat in the oval office. The replica was so perfect, the only difference between Pirolli’s desk and the real one was that it had not been fashioned with timbers from the British exploration ship the HMS Resolute.

  Had it not been for the politics in the Defense Department, he would have been promoted to General and eventually appointed Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Well, they could all go fuck themselves! Since he had been passed over, he had amassed a fortune and welded more power than he could ever have hoped to possess had he remained in his country’s service, and all of that without any bullshit from the weak-ass politicians.

  At 68 years old he was still in great physical condition. He could hold his own against men many years younger than him, including the sycophants who remained in the ranks who kissed the president’s ass to keep their jobs.

  It had now been 12 hours since the rogue operator disappeared with the child. He picked up the thin file that lay on his desk and leafed through it again. ‘Charles Hunter, age 34; Negro; Orphan; no known living relatives.’ He read through the circumstances of the man’s discharge from the Marine Corps, his complete military record, and the post action reports of the handful of Global operations to which he had been assigned.

  From what he read Pirolli knew that Hunter was a warrior with a well-defined sense of right and wrong and little to no regard or allegiance to chain of command, especially those he considered to be incompetent leaders. He was smart, fearle
ss, and skilled in the art of war. There was nothing in any of these documents that provided a clue as to where he could have taken the girl.

  Hunter’s psychological evaluation revealed his penchant for empathetic behavior. In this mission, McMurray, the operations leader, had vouched for the man’s skill. The former SAS commando was a man short, and his assessment of the remaining mercenaries required a replacement of Hunter’s ability in case something went off the rails. Pirolli reluctantly agreed to the assignment on the condition that Hunter be kept in the dark regarding the actual objective of the mission.

  “You have another call sir,” his secretary said over the intercom.

  He looked at the caller ID, exhaled heavily and picked up the phone. He listened in silence. When the call ended Pirolli hit the switch for his secretary. “Please ask Mr. Jarvis to come in.”

  Jarvis was his chief of staff. A few minutes later there was a soft knock on the door.

  “Enter,” he said and Jarvis walked in.

  “Mr. Jarvis, we need to find out where Hunter took the girl and take corrective measures. Give the assignment to Sinclair.” When his assistant hesitated, he asked, “Is there a problem Mr. Jarvis?”

  “Colonel, why would you use Sinclair for a rescue mission?”

  Pirolli’s eyes narrowed in recognition of his near misstep. Knowing the man was soft and would balk at killing the hostages he had not read in Jarvis on the real nature of the job. “Are you questioning my judgment?” he asked condescendingly.

  Jarvis stood silent apparently thinking through the implications of the Colonel’s order.

  Pirolli took a calming breath, “Perhaps you’re right,” he said breaking the silence. “Maybe there’s someone better suited for the assignment. Even though Sinclair’s our best tracker. Where’s Mr. Coslen?” he asked changing the subject.

  “At rehab, Colonel.”

  “Please ask him to see me when he returns.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When he left Pirolli turned his chair and looked out his window. Jarvis? Really? How dare that impertinent twit question his judgment, he thought. For now, he’d have Coslen handle it. He’d deal with Jarvis later.

  6

  June, 2015,The Dijonari Farm, Caracas, Venezuela

  At 6 am that morning, Hunter was sitting on the porch deep in thought with a cup of steaming hot black coffee in his hand. The ankle he had tweaked in the fall from the helicopter during the mission, prevented him from his full morning workout and five-mile run. He felt jittery; he realized the caffeine was not helping. Hunter understood that his disquietude was in anticipation of the inevitable confrontation with Lena. What could he say? How could he defend his failure to contact her, the woman he loved? Conduct even he considered to be indefensible?

  The front door opened and she stepped out onto the porch. She looked radiant in the morning sun light. Her lustrous dark hair framed her face, accentuating her features. Her dark eyes bore into him. He held his breath, waiting for a verbal assault. Lena said nothing as she sat down in the rocking chair to his left and looked directly in his eyes.

  “Haley’s a remarkable child. I cannot imagine how someone that young could survive watching her mother being slaughtered right in front of her. She knows that you saved her life,” Lena said in a soft voice. “Thank God you were there.”

  Hunter remained silent, not knowing how to respond.

  “You realize there will be a profound psychological reaction to what she witnessed. Something like PTSD. You’ll have to be very vigilant, and get some professional advice.”

  He nodded.

  “Have you given any thought to how you’re going to handle all of this?”

  He exhaled deeply and replied, “I don’t think I’m equipped to deal with the aftermath of what happened.”

  She shook her head, her eyes narrowed slightly, “I was afraid you’d say that. The problem is you’re the only person in the world that child trusts. You saved her.” Lena’ eyes flashed with the fire of her disappointment. “I will not allow you to abandon the girl. It would crush her.”

  His eyes cast downward for a beat. He looked up and locked his stare with hers. “I promise you I will never abandon Haley.”

  “All right then,” she said and started to stand up.

  He gently touched her arm.

  “What?” she asked, her tone a shade softer than before.

  “You were wrong when you said I was the only person Haley trusts. I saw how the girl ran to you, how you reacted. There was an immediate connection. You felt it. You know that’s true,” he said.

  Hunter saw a tear fall down her cheek.

  “You have no right to involve me in this.”

  He nodded, “I know, but the thing is, someone murdered her parents. And that same individual wants Haley dead, too. I don’t know who it is. I don’t know who I can trust,” he took a breath letting the full force of his words take hold. “You and your family are the only people in this world I trust… I’m sorry, so sorry I let you down. I thought it would be…better…safer for you and your family if I didn’t come back.”

  They sat in silence. The sound of the screen door opening broke the stillness. Hunter turned and saw Senora Dijonari step out with the little girl holding her hand. Haley ran to Lena who took the child in her arms. She turned to Hunter and smiled. It was the first time he saw that smile. He felt the tears well up behind his eyes.

  “Good morning sweetheart,” he said.

  * * *

  Later that morning Don Carlos found Hunter at the computer in his daughter’s office. “I understand you and Lena have come to an understanding of sorts.”

  Hunter nodded, “Something like that. I’d call it a temporary truce. More for the child’s benefit.”

  The older man’s eyes crinkled and he smiled, “If I were you, I’d watch my back. I don’t think she’s going to let you off the hook so easily.”

  “I know.”

  “Have you given thought to what you’re going to do with the child?”

  Hunter told him that for the past two hours he researched everything he could find in the public record about the Montgomery family, the Triple M corporation, including the gossip websites, the published reports of Haley’s father’s fatal accident, and the kidnapping.

  “I know Haley’s grandfather hired Global to rescue his daughter-in-law and the child.”

  “But you told me the mission was really a wet job,” Don Carlos replied.

  Hunter nodded.

  “And you think Montgomery wanted to kill them?”

  “I don’t know, but I don’t believe in coincidences, and the timing of the accident and the kidnapping, the sham rescue mission,” he shrugged.

  Don Carlos nodded, “If it wasn’t the grandfather, who would want to eliminate the entire family. Who would benefit?”

  Hunter switched the view on the computer monitor to a picture of a little boy and an attractive Korean woman.

  “Roger Montgomery and his mother, Hanna Chao-Montgomery, Michael S Jr’s ex-wife and current Director of International Operations of Triple M. Besides Haley, Roger is the senior Montgomery’s only other living heir.”

  “So, momma clears the deck for little Roger to inherit the family business?”

  “I know it sounds too obvious,” Hunter replied. “But you know Occam’s razor-the simplest solution tends to be the right one.”

  Don Carlos studied Hunter’s face, “But something tells me you’re not quite ready to buy Occam’s solution.”

  7

  Pyongyang, North Korea, 25 years earlier

  Kim Hak-Won, the youngest daughter of General Kim Hak-Sun, lived the privileged life only a select few in the Republic enjoyed. Her father was a member of the Supreme Leader Kim Jun Ill’s inner circle. As such the general’s family were akin to the oligarchy in Russia - rich, powerful, and totally insulated from the deprivation and poverty of the masses.

  The teen-aged Hak-Won’s beauty, her exotic features, a mixture
of her Vietnamese mother and Korean father, and her intellect set her apart from her peers. She had caught the Supreme Leader’s eye and had been singled out for special privileges normally only lavished upon his direct heirs.

  She was sent abroad to study in Switzerland and France. Her talent for math and science, and her fluency in both English and French, gave her an even greater advantage over the other children of the privileged class. Her brilliance and unquestioned loyalty to the DPRK assured her a bright future in an otherwise desolate and hopeless society.

  When she was twenty years old, all of this came to an abrupt end. She was suddenly called home and learned that her father had been accused of treason and summarily executed. She and her four siblings were imprisoned in the Yodok prison camp in central North Korea, one of the so-called reeducation facilities run by the State Security Department at which political prisoners and members of their families were segregated from the rest of the prison population. There the prisoners were forced to perform especially brutal and dangerous work. Over 40 percent of them were never released, many died from malnutrition and starvation or injuries sustained in what their captors referred to as, “service of the Republic,” but was actually slave labor.

  Within four months of their incarceration, her two brothers were killed in a mining accident. Hak-Won knew she would also perish unless she could somehow use her natural attributes, her brains and beauty, to survive. Even though it had been relatively easy for her to become a favorite of the guards, who gave her extra rations, the inhuman conditions of the camp, the filth, infestation and sub-freezing temperatures, and the overwhelming hopelessness of captivity, she realized she had to find a way to attract the interest of the higher-ups if she was to make it out alive.

  Her opportunity came when an official of the State Security Department visited the camp while Hak-Won was showing one of the guards how to fix a pump on one of the wells the camp prisoners used to irrigate the fields.