Retreat

by J. F. Gonzalez

  “Hey!” Shane yelled. “Hey, what the hell’s the meaning of this! Let us out of here!” He tugged at the ropes that bound his arms and legs to the table. They were securely tied down. He felt them barely give. Shane’s breathing came fast and heavy. His heartbeat started to race. They were in a very bad spot.

  A door opened and Shane’s gaze darted to the far side of the room. Chef Munchel and Carl White stepped inside. The minute Shane saw Carl, his eyes narrowed in hatred. “Can’t take a joke, Mr. White? You cheap prick!”

  Carl White said nothing as he approached the stainless steel tables where Shane and Jackie were tied up. He was grinning. Chef Munchel, who was dressed in a red long-sleeved T-shirt and blue jeans, was hiding a grin of his own. Munchel was of medium height, his body pear-shaped, but not overly so, with short graying hair that was balding at the top. He always seemed to be grinning in merriment and it gave his demeanor a joking, happy-go-lucky sense of mischievous. His gray eyes twinkled with some kind of hidden joke.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Shane barked. “Fucking untie me now!”

  The door to the storage room opened again. A woman entered. Late thirties, short, plump but curvy, long dark hair, tan skin, wearing glasses, dressed as if she were about to attend a board meeting. Nice-looking. Shane didn’t recognize her. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “I’m one of the owners of Bent Creek,” the woman said. “Emily Wharton. You’re Shane Daniels, and your bitch is Jackie.”

  Shane gasped. These people were really crossing the line. “Untie me, now!”

  “I plan to,” Emily said. “I just have a few questions to ask you first.”

  “I’m not answering any questions. Your security team barged into my room, assaulted my wife and I, and—”

  “You’ll be well compensated when this is over,” Emily said, overriding him.

  At the mention of being well compensated, Shane shut his trap. He regarded Emily, Chef Munchel, and Carl White. Only Carl seemed overly eager about something. He could hardly contain his grin. “What the hell are they doing here?”

  “They have a purpose here,” Emily said. “When it is time for them to speak, they shall. Until then, forget about them. Your audience is with me.” Emily shot a glance at Jackie, who was watching all of this with bated breath. “That goes for you too, sweetie. Okay, ready for my version of twenty questions?”

  Shane said nothing, his jaw set, eyes glowering. Despite his predicament, he was more angry than scared. Fine. He’ll play their bullshit game. When it was over, he was going to get to the heart of the financial incentive Emily had teased him with. Then, when he and Jackie were free, they were getting the fuck out of here and never setting foot on Bent Creek property again. This is probably just some fucked up, sick revenge fantasy Carl paid them to set up, he thought. Guy’s got so much money falling out of his orifices, I’ve heard he gives some of it away to crack addicts every Christmas. He probably paid Emily to set this all up. Long as Jackie and I get our share.

  “Question Number One,” Emily began, taking a casual stroll around the table out of Shane’s line of vision. “Mr. Parker Goode.”

  Shane waited for the question. Emily moved over to Jackie’s side and paused, standing directly at the head of the table Jackie was secured on. “Yeah?” Jackie asked.

  “Hmmm. Name doesn’t ring a bell, does it?”

  “Should it?”

  “That leads me to question Number Two. Mr. and Mrs. Glen and Olivia Westlake.”

  “Who the fuck are they?” Shane barked.

  Emily was moving down Jackie’s side of the table. She was watching them closely. Shane craned his head around so he could watch her. Emily didn’t react. “What about you, Jackie? Olivia Westlake? Ever meet her?”

  “I...I...no...I don’t think so.” She looked at Shane, confused. She looked back at Emily, who was making her way around the two tables and back to Shane’s left side. “Why? Should I?”

  “Question Number Three,” Emily said, ignoring her. She directed her gaze to both of them. “Cititrade Group Account number 458723, two days ago. Ring any bells now?”

  Now Shane was becoming confused. What kind of game was this? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Neither do I,” Jackie said. Her tone of voice told Shane she was as much in the dark about all this as he was.

  “Hmmm.” Emily stopped. She was at Shane’s left side again. “I was afraid of that.” She turned to Carl White. “Sorry, Mr. White.”

  “That’s okay,” Carl said. He took a step forward, that grin still on his face. “It’s nice to have Shane and Jackie here anyway, all tied up and helpless. Makes things more spicy!”

  Shane ignored Carl’s comment and addressed him directly. “Look, I don’t know what this is about. If I offended you, I’m sorry. Let’s just get...let’s just cut to the chase here.” He directed his attention back to Emily. “You mentioned a financial incentive to this...this game, or whatever it is. Okay, let’s hear it. What do you want from us?”

  “You can’t be upset at Shane because of that silly argument we had at the lounge,” Jackie said to Carl. She was regarding Carl from her position on the table she was tied to. Her confusion was giving way to a slow dawning. “Is that what this is? Shane embarrassed you that night, so this is your idea of revenge?”

  “How much did he pay you?” Shane asked Emily. “Tell me.”

  Emily chuckled. “Mr. Daniels, Mr. Daniels...Mr. White didn’t pay me a cent.”

  “Then what the hell is this all about?”

  Carl White was looking at Shane with an intense gaze. He looked at Jackie, letting his gaze linger for a moment. “I don’t know. They were pretty quick on all three denials. Of course, they could have rehearsed it all, too.”

  “Rehearsed what?” Shane exclaimed. “What are you accusing us of doing? Just spit it out!”

  “Two nights ago, Mr. White’s investment account with Cititrade was hacked into,” Emily related. Her tone was direct, business-like. “A tad over one million dollars was transferred out of his account, its whereabouts are currently unknown.”

  “And you think I had something to do with it?”

  “Either you or Jackie.” Emily’s eyes darted to Jackie. “I understand you’re quite the techie. You have a pretty good knowledge of financial systems and their databases.”

  “There’s no way I could have broken into Mr. White’s account,” Jackie protested. “Those kind of electronic transactions are...well, they’re extremely difficult to pull off. There’s encryptions to break, network firewalls to get past. Why would I risk something like that?”

  “To embarrass Mr. White?” Emily suggested. “To get back at him for embarrassing your husband? The two of you certainly possess that sense of pettiness that goes hand in hand with schoolyard bullying and general immaturity.”

  It suddenly became clear what this was all about. Shane looked at Carl. “You’re pissed at me because I made you look like an asshole that night at the lounge,” he said. “When we had that discussion about the history of the gold exchange and—”

  “I’m not upset at you about that,” Carl said. “I don’t hold grudges, Mr. Daniels. I took your behavior that night for what it was. A silly and immature attempt by you to play the big dog. You’re nothing but a buffoon, a consummate loser who feels he has to bully others and intimidate everybody around him to get what he wants. And when someone isn’t paying attention?” Carl shook his head, that grin still on his face. “Then widdle Shane throws a widdle temper tantrum. Isn’t that right?”

  “Look, this has gone far enough!” Shane barked. “If I offended you, that’s one thing, but you don’t have to resort to criminal acts to—”

  “I don’t think Shane and Jackie had anything to do with the theft of your money, Mr. White,” Emily said, regarding them with a quick once-over. “And I’m sure Paul would agree with me if he and his staff weren’t tied up with another problem. I’m convinced.” She looked at
Carl. “Sorry.”

  Shane couldn’t believe what he was hearing. This bitch had he and Jackie overpowered by her security goons and taken to this storeroom, which looked like it was near the kitchen, just to confront them in front of Carl White? Did they think they were above the law? These people were so going to need a team of lawyers when he got out of here, it wasn’t even funny. Shane held his anger back, his mind working on overdrive. First, he had to get out of here. “Okay,” he said. “You believe us. Jackie and I didn’t steal your money. And why would I? I have no use for your money. It’s something I wouldn’t do even as a form of petty revenge. Now can you untie us?”

  Emily nodded at Chef Munchel and Carl. “I’ll put in a call to Paul and give him an update. Will you handle them?”

  Chef Munchel nodded back. “Of course.”

  Without a backward glance, Emily exited the room. Chef Munchel and Carl approached the table. Carl’s grin grew wider. “I am so looking forward to this,” he said. His fingers lingered over the ropes that bound Shane’s right wrist to the steel table.

  Shane felt his stomach plunge; it felt like that time-honored cliché of plunging down an elevator shaft. His skin felt warm, tingly. His mouth was suddenly bone dry. “Listen, Carl,” he stammered. “I’m sorry for those things I said and how I made you the laughing stock of the lounge that night, but—”

  “You didn’t make me the laughing stock,” Carl said. He turned to Chef Munchel. “Should I untie his hands first?”

  “Yes,” Chef Munchel said. He was out of Shane’s range of vision. Shane could hear him rustling with some tools in the background. “But first, let’s wheel him in to the other room.”

  “Okay.” Carl moved to Shane’s head and Shane saw that Munchel had already commandeered Jackie’s table. He noticed for the first time that both tables were on wheels, like rolling gurneys. His pulse began to pound as he felt the table he was on being pushed out of the room, after Jackie, which was being pushed by Chef Munchel.

  “Where are you taking us?” Jackie asked. There was a hint of fear in her voice.

  “This will only take a moment,” Chef Munchel said. They stopped in the center of the room and Shane tried to get a good look at it. It was completely bare. The walls and floor were solid concrete. The floor had a very large stain and what appeared to be a drain in the center of the room. Directly over them was a large overhead light powered by a high-wattage bulb. Dangling from the ceiling were two heavy chains with large hooks at the end. Chef Munchel picked up the rope that bound Jackie’s ankles together; the end of it had been turned into a granny knot. Chef Munchel slipped it through one of the hooks.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” Shane barked.

  “Like this?” Carl asked Chef Munchel, completely ignoring Shane and Jackie. He grabbed the end of the rope that bound Shane’s ankles together and slipped the granny knot through the second hook.

  Chef Munchel nodded.

  “Look, Shane said he was sorry for insulting you,” Jackie said, and Shane could really hear the fear in her voice now. Her voice quavered, crackling in its intense fear. “We’ve learned our lesson, really...”

  She sounds like a goddamn wuss, Shane thought briefly. This whole escapade, to be reduced to sniveling and begging to not be strung up upside down, which is what it appeared Chef Munchel and Carl White were going to do, was making him angry. “Okay, I get it,” Shane said. “I insulted you and now you want to insult me by stringing me upside down. You’ll probably bring a few people in here that I’ve insulted this week and you’ll all have a grand old time calling me names, maybe you’ll even whip out your wankers and pee on us. That’ll make you feel better, right?”

  Chef Munchel had moved to the far wall where there was a hand crank. He began working the crank. Jackie’s legs began to rise up. She started to protest. “Hey! No, please don’t do this!”

  As Chef Munchel continued with the crank, raising Jackie up, her body becoming more vertical by the moment until she was finally upside down and completely suspended over the table she’d lain on. Carl leaned over Shane. Something about that smile...

  “This isn’t about revenge, Shane,” Carl said.

  Shane’s eyes darted from Jackie, dangling upside down and sobbing, to Chef Munchel, who began working the second crank. Shane felt the pull on the chain as it dragged his legs up. Shane turned to Carl, not caring how desperate he looked or sounded. “Then if it isn’t about revenge, let us go!”

  Chef Munchel grinned as he worked the crank, drawing Shane’s body up, higher and higher.

  “Please! Don’t do this!” Now Shane’s body was completely vertical. The weight and suspension of his body made his arms fall below his head. He was upside down, dangling over the metal table. Both tables were pushed away and for a moment Shane saw another drain in the floor, surrounded by another large stain. Is that blood? That looks like blood! Holy fucking Christ—

  And as the realization that he was going to die flitted through Shane’s brain, Chef Munchel stepped in front of him. Shane saw the huge butcher knife gripped in the chef’s right hand. He opened his mouth to scream, but the knife flashed below his field of vision and a line of pain erupted across his throat. His face was bathed in warm blood and he couldn’t speak. He could only hear air escaping amid a wet open wound. And as Shane Daniels watched his life’s blood spill onto the floor to pool down the drain, he tried to think of something, anything, to fight back, but darkness quickly came upon him, and he heard Jackie scream, and then darkness claimed him.

  CHAPTER 25

  Nine Months Ago

  They were having dinner at the Pinnacle in Newport Beach, California, at the tip of Balboa Island. Their table seated four—Joe Taylor, George Spector, and the two men George had promised Joe he would meet: John Lansdale, and Earl Sanders. Lansdale and Sanders sat on several corporate boards together, among them Motorola, Valuemax Metals, and Cases Unlimited. Joe could tell that the three men were tight; they had that casual air about them that, as an outsider, was hard to penetrate. The three of them were languid around each other, relaxed, but when it came to business they were also very straight up with each other, and with him. Joe was trying to penetrate their veneer under the Bob Garrison alias. He’d been in contact with George Spector since their dinner meeting at the Crescent, in Kansas City, a month ago.

  Upon arrival at the Pinnacle, Earl had given the maitre’d his name. The maitre’d nodded, and escorted them to a table in a private alcove, completely separate from the rest of the dining area. It was like a private room. Once ushered through the alcove’s door, the maitre’d closed it off with a sliding door Joe hadn’t noticed. At the other end of the alcove was another door that probably led to the kitchen. Private banquet room, he thought. Nice. Being that this is the type of place Nina would dine at, I hope she doesn’t show up when we’re leaving. That could spell trouble.

  “I’m friends with the owner and head chef here,” Earl had told Joe once they were seated. “He owns another restaurant in New York.”

  “He gives us five-star treatment all the way!” John Lansdale said.

  And five star treatment they got. They had a private waiter and server who took and delivered drink and appetizer orders. Joe found the menu completely tantalizing. There were no prices listed on the menu, but that was okay. Earl Sanders was picking up the tab on behalf of the other three partners. It was Joe’s hope that the evening’s dinner meeting would be successful and would lead to him being taken very seriously as a potential investor in their start-up venture—Price Mutual Funds, Ltd.

  After some serious deliberation, Joe made his dinner selection. For the first course he ordered Sautéed Nantucket Bay Scallops which were served over Asian Cabbage Salad, crispy rice sticks, pea tendrils and pickled ginger vinaigrette. For his second course he ordered the wood-oven roasted devil’s gulch ranch rabbit loin which was served with herb brioche and golden raisins stuffing, bacon, black trumpet mushrooms confit shoulder pastilla, chestnuts and natur
al juice. Earl ordered the wine, two bottles of Nun, Xarel-lo, 2006, from Spain. For dessert, Joe ordered a cup of French Vanilla coffee and a chocolate soufflé.

  During the various courses of the meal, business was discussed. Because mutual fund investing was Joe’s area of expertise, he had a deep knowledge and understanding of the entire spectrum of this particular field of finance. As Earl Sanders and John Lansdale distributed two comb-bound reports, Joe put his reading glasses on and read through them. Impressive. He asked the right questions. Listened with great interest. He had his own business plan at the forefront of his brain and could retrieve and quote from it at length, which he did as he crunched the numbers in his head during the discussion. As the various courses of the meal commenced, Joe participated in the discussion: what was his opinion of the plan? Did he see a strong market value in the various funds they were trying to package together? What was Joe’s (rather, Bob’s) long-term financial and business goals with his own company? What were his short-term goals? What kind of connections did he have with various brokerage and high-level banking institutions? Joe had already provided George Spector with a list of his references, which had been carefully selected by Dean Campbell and included no less than half a dozen names, all of them close friends and business associates of Joe’s who had been vetted and prepped by Dean and Joe for months and who had shared Joe’s anguish and pain when Carla had gone missing. All of them had pledged their own private equity and resources in helping to bring his daughter home safe. They were all on board with this plan. One of them, Lyle Henderson, had even volunteered to go undercover with Joe in this clandestine effort to locate Carla Taylor. Joe had politely turned him down. “I love you like a brother, Lyle,” he’d said. “But if this is as big as I think it is, I don’t want you in any danger. You’re providing a tremendous help to Dean and I by providing the kind of backup I need, and I thank you for that.”