Abducted: A Jake Badger Mystery Thriller

by Glenn Rogers

  “They were just targets,” I said. “We went to a location and found a spot to shoot from. He identified the target. I completed my mission.”

  “He name the target?”

  “First name only,” I explained. “Kahn, Ali, Abdul. Probably weren’t their real names.”

  “Any idea why those specific targets?”

  “Ranking Taliban leaders. Taking them out was supposed to disrupt the flow of information and planning.”

  Alex's phone rang. He answered and listened, then said, “All right, stay with him and call me back when you’ve got an idea where he's going.” He clicked off and said, “Esposito just left. He's alone. Headed down PCH toward Santa Monica. What say we start in that direction?”

  “I'll drive,” I said.

  We were almost to Santa Monica when Alex got another call.

  “He didn't stop in Santa Monica,” Alex said after he disconnected. “He's in Venice now, on Lincoln.

  I got off the 10 at Lincoln and headed south.

  “Any speculation as to where he might be headed?” I asked.

  “He's got an office in Marina Del Rey and a boat in the marina. Could be going to either.”

  We had just crossed Washington Boulevard when Alex's phone rang for a third time.

  “The marina,” Alex said. “He's going to his boat.”

  Chapter 30

  Saturday Afternoon

  As we pulled into the marina, Alex called his agent.

  “We just pulled into the marina. Where is he? ... Okay. Is he already onboard? ... What slip? ... Does it look like he's getting ready to go out? ... All right. We'll be there in a few minutes.”

  I parked in the front lot and let the windows down so it wouldn't get too hot in the Jeep for Wilson. There was a nice breeze blowing off the ocean to help keep it cool, so I knew he’d be okay. I told him we’d be back in a while and he woofed that he’d be okay. Alex and I made our way to where Alex's agent sat in his car surveilling Esposito's boat. We climbed into the back seat of his plain-looking, cream-colored government sedan—the one with enough antennas on the back so that just about anyone could identify it as some type of law enforcement vehicle.

  Alex introduced us. “Caleb, Jake. Jake, Caleb.”

  We acknowledged each other.

  Caleb handed Alex a pair of binoculars and pointed out Esposito's boat.

  Alex located it. “Nice little yacht,” he said. “Eighty feet, maybe. Green with gold trim, called, the Esmeralda.”

  “The Emerald,” I said to myself.

  “How long has he been below?” Alex asked Caleb, without taking the binoculars from his eyes.

  “Ten minutes,” Caleb said, “maybe eleven.”

  Alex handed the binoculars back to Caleb and looked at me. “Alone on a boat,” he said. “We might not get a better chance.”

  “I agree.”

  Alex took his phone out and to Caleb said, “Call me.”

  Caleb did.

  “Keep the connection open and keep your eye on the boat. We're going aboard. If you notice anything while we're making our way over there, tell me.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “And Caleb, what you just heard, you didn't hear. And whatever you see, you didn't see it.”

  “I understand,” Caleb, said, glancing at me as he spoke. “And if you need assistance with any aspect of whatever it is that isn't going to happen, let me know.”

  It took about a minute to cover the distance from Caleb's car to Esposito's boat. We put on latex gloves and boarded quietly, making our way to the main cabin door. Just as I reached for the polished brass doorknob, the door opened about half way and hit my foot. Esposito had been coming out and was shocked to see us. I yanked the door open, put my hand on his chest and pushed him back into the cabin. We followed him in and quickly closed the door.

  He didn't try to fight or lunge for a gun or anything. He knew we had him. He stood calmly and looked at us. Finally, he said, “There can only be two possible outcomes here. Either you kill me or eventually, I kill both of you. Which is it going to be?”

  “You're not in charge here, Benny,” I said. “Sit down and shut up.” I pointed to the sofa. “Right there. Sit down.”

  He didn't, so I threw a fast hard jab into the middle of his face. His head snapped back and he sat down hard on the floor, blood spurting from his nose.

  He looked up at me, seething with hatred. He wasn't afraid. Good. That would make what I was going to do easier. I grabbed the front of his shirt and hauled him to his feet.

  “Handcuffs,” I said.

  Alex cuffed his hands behind him and I moved him over to the sofa and sat him down.

  “Do you have Monica Nolan?”

  “Is that what this is about? You think I snatched your girlfriend.”

  I studied him for a moment and then said, “I'm going to ask you one more time. Do you have Monica Nolan?”

  Whether he saw it in my eyes or heard it in my voice I'm not sure, but he said, “No. I did not take Ms. Nolan. I've no idea where she is.”

  “I don't believe you.”

  “Doesn't seem to be much I can do about that,” he said.

  I took out my knife and flipped it open. Esposito looked at the knife and then at me.

  “That supposed to scare me?”

  “I don't care whether you're scared or not. You're going to talk to me or you're going to lose an eye.”

  “I already told you,” he said, a little nervously now, I thought. “I don't have Monica.”

  “Did you send three teams of assassins after me?”

  “No. Why would I send assassins after you?”

  “Because you blame me for your father's death. Which is the same reason why you would kidnap Monica. She's the one who actually shot your father.”

  “I told you, I didn't take Monica.”

  “What about the assassins?”

  “I didn't do that, either.”

  “Yes, you did. Henry told me it was you who sent him and his friend after me in the park yesterday morning.”

  He just looked at me.

  “See,” I said. “You just lied to me. That's why I don't believe you when you say you didn't take Monica.”

  “Okay, look, I did send the shooters after you. I did that, oaky. But I didn’t take Monica. I don't have her.”

  “I don't believe you.”

  He was sitting on the left end of the sofa. I stepped to the end of it and grabbed a handful of his hair with my left hand, pulled his head back and put the point of my knife at the corner of his eye.

  Chapter 31

  Saturday Afternoon

  “I'm going to start applying pressure,” I said. “A little at a time. It's going to hurt.”

  “Please don’t,” he said, his voice was filled with pleading. “I told you, I didn't take Monica.”

  “You also told me you didn't send the assassins.”

  I began applying light pressure to the corner of his right eye.

  “Aaahhh. Please stop. Alex, for Christ's sake.” He began to tremble all over. “Aaahhh. Alex, you're an FBI agent. You can't let him do this. Make him stop,” he cried urgently.

  “Tell him where Monica is,” Alex said, calmly.

  “I don't have Monica. I'm telling the truth.”

  I applied more pressure. The skin broke and a trickle of blood ran down the side of his face.

  “Aaahhh,” he groaned, gritting his teeth against the pain.

  “Where's Monica,” I said.

  “I don't have her.”

  More pressure.

  “Aaahhh.”

  I moved my knife past the corner of his eye to the eyeball itself.

  “Okay,” I said, softly, “this is where it gets real painful.”

  “Oh, please, no. Oh Christ, no,” he begged. “Don't take my eye. Don't take my eye. I'm telling you the truth, man. I didn't take Monica. I don't have her. Do you really think I'd let you blind me? Jesus! If I knew where she was, I'd tell you
!”

  “Would you?”

  “Yes, I would. I would. I would tell you if I knew where she was. But I don't.” He was crying now, his whole body shaking as he sobbed.

  I applied enough pressure to penetrate the cornea just a bit.

  He cried out. “I don't know where she is,” he sobbed pitifully. Please don't take my eye. Please don't,” he begged between sobs.

  I took my knife away and let go of his hair. I looked at Alex and shook my head. “He didn't take her.”

  I took a deep breath, closed my knife, and put it back in my pocket.

  Esposito sat with his head hanging, crying.

  “Benny,” I said, softly.

  He didn't respond.

  “Benny!”

  His head snapped up.

  “Okay,” I said, gently. “I believe that you didn't take Monica. But if I find out later that you did, I'll pop out both of your eyes before I crush your windpipe and watch you suffocate. You understand?”

  He nodded and said, “Yes,” and began sobbing again.

  “Before we go, Benny, I want you to understand something else.”

  He was looking at me, tears streaming down his face.

  “Calling the police about this little exchange would be a waste of time. Do you agree?”

  “Yes. I'm not going to call the police.”

  “Good. Do you know what I did when I was a marine?”

  “You were a sniper.”

  “Very good, Benny. You’ve done your homework. Yes, I was a sniper. I was a very good sniper. One of the best, in fact. One hundred twenty-eight kills. At a thousand yards, Benny, in a wind, I can put a .308 slug through a quarter. A thousand yards. That's ten football fields, Benny. A thousand yards. Do you know what that means to you?”

  He was starting to look sick.

  “It means that you would not see me or hear me or even hear the shot. It means that you would just be standing or sitting or lying down, and all of the sudden your head would explode.”

  His chest started to heave. His breathing was rapid and ragged.

  “I know where you live, Benny. I know where your office is and where your boat is. You can't hide from me and you can't defend yourself from me. No matter how many thugs you hire to protect you, you will always be vulnerable to me. I can kill you from a thousand yards away. Your head will explode and that will be the end of little Benny Esposito. Is that what you want, Benny?”

  He shook his head vigorously. “No. I don't want you to shoot me.”

  “If any more assassins come after me or Alex, I will blow your head off. I won't come to ask if you sent them. I'll just assume you did, and I'll kill you. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Am I going to have to kill you, Benny?”

  “No. I won't send any more people. I swear, I won't send anyone.”

  He hadn't been frightened when I'd started on him, but he was frightened now. “Okay, Benny. We'll be going now. Stand up.”

  Benny stood and Alex took the handcuffs off him.

  “One more thing, Benny,” I said, before turning to leave.

  He looked at me.

  “You should get out of the drug business.”

  He swallowed and nodded.

  We went back to Caleb's car where Alex told Caleb to stick with Esposito and to call in when he left the boat and when he arrived at wherever he went next.

  Once we were out of the marina, I asked Alex, “So, what was your take on that?”

  “I agree with you ... I don't think he took her. Either that or he's so profoundly psychotic that he can lie better than most people can tell the truth.”

  “Always a possibility, isn't it?” I said.

  Alex nodded absently and then said, “So what's next, kemosabe?”

  “How about lunch?” I asked.

  “There's an El Pollo Loco about half a mile straight ahead on the right.”

  It was not quite two, and we were almost finished eating our flame-broiled chicken when Alex's phone rang.

  “Yeah,” Alex said, “now is good ... Okay, I'll let him know.”

  Alex clicked off and said, “My CIA buddy. He said Cornford will meet with you.”

  “Great. Where?”

  “Vegas. Mandalay Bay Hotel. Red Square Bar. Tomorrow night, nine p.m.”

  I smiled. “You're kidding, right?”

  He shook his head. “It's those CIA guys. The whole thing messes with their head. They forget how to be normal people.”

  “Maybe they just watch too many spy movies,” I said.

  “Maybe,” Alex said. “Anyway, tomorrow night. Nine o'clock.”

  I dropped Alex off at his office, and Wilson and I headed back to ours. Technically, it's my office, but I'm pretty sure Wilson thinks of it as ours. And in a way, I do, too. Because if I'm there and for some reason he's not, it feels lonely. Same as being at home without Wilson being there, it just doesn't feel right without him.

  I put myself a cup of tea in the microwave and gave Wilson a cookie and sat down to go through the mail. In the stack, there was another small white envelope. Same kind as before. Same handwriting and postmark. I opened it. Same large block printing. There was only one word:

  AFGHANISTAN

  I called Alex. When he answered, I said, “Got another note. One word. Afghanistan.”

  “Afghanistan. So we were right.”

  “Looks like it.”

  “So tomorrow night with Cornford might give us just what we need.”

  Chapter 32

  Saturday Afternoon and Evening

  It was three thirty when Wilson and I got home. I took Wilson for a walk and then went to the gym to lift weights and work out on the heavy bag. I thought about Monica the whole time. I thought about her knitting baby blankets and donating them to unwed mothers. I thought about the first time she and I went shooting together. Of course, we competed against each other. She matched me shot for shot until the very last three shots. Then, she hit two that I didn’t. She’s one of the best shots I’ve ever encountered. I also remembered the first time we sparred together. She’d had plenty of training and was very good. Strong and fast. She’d gotten in a couple of good shots. When I was cage fighting, I didn’t actually get hit very much. But Monica was able to land some shots. She was good. She could shoot. She could fight. And she liked to knit baby blankets. The thought made me smile. I’d find her. I had to find her.

  I got back home at five thirty, showered, and thought about what to eat for dinner. I decided to go to Suzanne's Country Deli on Ventura Boulevard for a couple of pastrami sandwiches. I got coleslaw to go with the sandwiches.

  When I got home with the sandwiches, Wilson was very interested. I gave him one of the sandwiches and I ate the other one and the coleslaw. Tasty.

  I tried to read Plato's Charmides, his discussion on the meaning of self-control. But memories of the Cornford missions in Afghanistan kept intruding. Finally, I gave in and focused on the memories.

  The first mission where I was involved with Cornford came later in my deployment. I'd already had over a hundred confirmed kills. The mission had to do with a poppy farmer/heroin producer who sold his heroin to distributors in the US to finance the Taliban in Afghanistan. Cornford and I traveled in a Humvee to a remote mountainous region overlooking a wide, flat, peaceful valley where hundreds of acres of poppies grew. Below the shooting location Cornford had selected was a compound where the poppies were processed into heroin. He had me set up and sight in on the front entrance. The shot would be just under a thousand yards. Cornford showed me a photo of the target and we began our wait. He had a scope similar to the one on my rifle. We waited and watched for nearly five hours before two vehicles came toward the compound from the far end of the valley. They stopped in front of the compound. Two men got out of the lead vehicle, a Kelly green Range Rover, and two got out of the second vehicle, a silver Mercedes G-Class.

  “Older guy getting out of the Mercedes,” Cornford had said.

/>   I sighted in. “Got him,” I said.

  “Take the shot,” Cornford said.

  I took the shot. The target's head snapped back and he collapsed to the ground.

  “Confirmed hit,” Cornford said, still looking through his scope. “Good shot. Let's go.”

  In less than a minute we were back in the Humvee, headed out of the hills and away from the peaceful little valley.

  The second mission where Cornford was involved was kill number one hundred eighteen. Once again, Cornford and I went off by ourselves, two days out this time, to a remote village in a mountainous region that reminded me of the high desert out beyond Barstow, California. Again, we were in the hills above the village, set up for a shot. This one was a little over a thousand yards. Cornford showed me a photo of my target, a handsome young man in his twenties, a Taliban operative. Cornford watched in his scope as I watched in mine. That time we waited for almost six hours.

  After the long wait, we saw the dust in the distance, vehicles coming across the desert. There were four of them. Two were old pickups with fifty caliber guns mounted on top of the cabs. A gunner stood in the bed of the pickup ready to shoot. One of the pickups led the little caravan, one brought up the rear. The second car was an old Toyota Land Cruiser. The third vehicle was new Chevy Tahoe. The caravan pulled into the village and stopped in the front of one of the homes. As the men climbed out of the vehicles, men from the village came to greet them. The women and children who had been out and about earlier had disappeared indoors.

  The target emerged from the Tahoe, stretched, and stood for a moment, surveying the hills around the village. He was tall and wore western style clothes. He was clean-shaven and looked more like a grad student than a Taliban operative. From the way he was being greeted, he was clearly an honored visitor.

  Cornford asked, “You got him?”

  “Got him.”

  “Take the shot.”

  I fired and the young man's head blew apart, his body collapsing into the dirt.

  “Confirmed kill,” Cornford said. “Good shot.”

  We were out of there in less than a minute and I did not think of the mission again until yesterday.

  The third mission that involved Cornford was four months later. We traveled for three days to the most remote spot we'd visited thus far, a camp hidden high in the mountains.