Black Flag Rising: A James Jackson Thriller

by Jesse Russell

  How he loved those kids. He knew he still loved Sam, too. He got to see them for an hour or two each week when he schlepped them to sporting events. They got in a few words as he drove, when he could get them to look up from their phones or video games. Also, every thirty days, he got one weekend day with no overnights. So he was in their lives a bit. But they had grown more distant over the last three years, and he did not blame them.

  He might have been able to survive everything, had he stayed and fought for his family and job, but he had lost the will. The horrific taunting on social media and the letters to the editor had been so over the top that he had decided to spare everyone the misery, and simply disappear.

  Having to start over from scratch at age forty-two really sucked.

  All of it had led him to get his job at Scottsdale Luxury. A friend had suggested that he should give car sales a try. He was good at reading people, and he had heard that you could make decent money at the right place. His prospects had been very limited, but he’d figured, what the hell?

  After seeing an online ad promising six-figure potential, he had applied, and Paul Bishop, the manager, had hired him immediately. Paul had taken his time with Jackson and had groomed him well. The two had grown close over the months, and Jackson considered him a good friend.

  The name of the place sounded exotic to the uninformed. In reality, it was a glorified roach lot - a high-end money machine for the owners, a buy here, pay here affair that catered mostly to gangster/hip-hop types and drug dealers. Located on the far south end of Scottsdale Road, all it had going for it was its name and address.

  The Eastern European owners made a nice profit, selling high-mile German and Japanese imports to The Valley’s wannabes. He had learned that new car dealerships usually let these high-milers go because they didn’t want to deal with future problems.

  To the untrained eye, they looked great, and to most of their customers, that was all that mattered. Sales were so good that, some months, they moved more units than many of the top-line, full-service dealerships. These guys had this thing figured out.

  Jackson rarely saw the owners. They mostly stayed over at their office in downtown Phoenix, and let him and Paul conduct business. What he did know about them was murky. He had heard that they hailed from one of the former Soviet states. They seemed industrious enough, and they were big on family. They usually hung together in a pretty tight group. He knew they had an aging mother and grandmother in a condo up on Shea, and they were always taking cars in and out to help out other friends and family members.

  Most of them didn’t speak much English, though he knew they had been here for more than a decade. The oldest brother was the one who did all of the talking whenever he stopped in. He spoke acceptable English and seemed to be a pretty good dude.

  One time last year, around the holidays, they had even dropped off some food for him and Paul that Mama and Grandma had cooked. They’d bragged that the two mamas still cooked for everyone almost every night, and that they would all go up there and eat. They were very proud of the food.

  It was some sort of strange-sounding thing. It looked like scrambled monkey brains and smelled like a dead rat.

  They’d thanked them, then promptly tossed it in the dumpster out back once they had left. It’d taken two days to get the smell out of the office, even with the doors open.

  Didn’t they know they were in Scottsdale and that you could get some of the best grub in the country on nearly every corner?

  For those customers who ‘forgot’ to make their payments, the owners kept a couple of repo goons on retainer. Good repo-men were essential to any in-house finance operation. But these were dudes were hardcore Russians to the max and in a class of their own. They had a penchant for being ‘convincing’ when snatching cars back. Nobody dared mess with them. It was amazing how accommodating the toughest of the tough became when faced with a pair of tatted up, 275 pound, skinhead Slavs. They meant business, and their results proved it.

  The Arizona State Patrol had one of the largest intelligence units in the country because it was a border state. He’d had more than fifty people working under him when he had gotten canned and he was sure it was bigger by now, considering that the idiot politicians were letting in every miscreant in the world, free and clear. God only knew what they had their hands on now.

  He had become director of the Unit when his senior officer had retired. Due to his all-American good looks and his public speaking abilities, he’d been the toast of the town. His kids respected him, and his wife loved being on his arm at all the social events. He truly loved busting bad guys and his great gig.

  Jackson had been responsible for taking down multiple Mexican gang threats and putting more than three hundred bad guys, some of whom were the worst of the worst, in the slammer. He was well-known in law enforcement circles all over the country and had become somewhat of a legend.

  It was no secret that the cartels were working hand-in-glove with Middle Eastern terrorists these days, and they were flowing in and out of the state freely. The terrorists taught the cartels harrowing techniques for maximum population control - things like beheadings and burning little kids alive.

  The fact that there were ISIS and Al-Qaeda operatives in the Valley and in the surrounding areas was well-known. They were known to everyone in local law enforcement, but the Feds seemed incapable or unwilling to do a damn thing about it.

  Everyone knew that some day, it would certainly end in disaster. But that wasn’t his concern any more. He had metal to push and ex-family bills to pay.

  3

  Dumitru started coming around as his boss was shouting and waving a cloth over his face.

  “Dumitru! Wake up! Are you ok?”

  He nodded and pulled himself up on his elbows. “Yeah… yeah. I'm OK. I don't know what happened.”

  “Here, let me help you stand up. Maybe you are getting sick or something,” his boss said.

  “Funny… I haven't felt sick at all. In fact, I have been feeling very good.”

  “Well, maybe you need to rest a little. Come over here.” His boss helped him up.

  He led him over to a ratty couch in the corner of the warehouse. He sat down and the boss brought him over a glass of water.

  “Here. Drink, drink! Maybe you are dehydrated.” He made an up gesture with his hands.

  Dumitru drank the rank river water down and noticed his throat was getting sore. His head was also starting to pound.

  “Maybe I need to go home. Get some rest.”

  “Yes, you go home. We handle things here.” His boss patted him on the back.

  He sat for a minute gathering his faculties. Then he stood up slowly, got his stuff from his locker, and slowly walked out to his old Russian Lada. It was a wreck, but it was considered a luxury around here.

  He sat in the car and shook his head, making sure he was clear enough to drive. He started up the old rig and slowly drove off towards his one room apartment. Another luxury in Chisinau. He was feeling woozy as he drove. Every turn was making him dizzy. He hoped he would not black out while driving in traffic.

  Making it home somehow, he trudged slowly up the three flights of stairs to his tiny flat. When he got to the top, he was very winded and very, very dizzy. He got his key in the door, walked into the room, and headed straight to his little couch, falling face first into it. He was out cold.

  He came to from someone shaking his leg. “Dumitru! Wake up! Dumitru!”

  It was his neighbor from down the hall, Mrs. Drazov. She was a poor widow, barely making it, and Dumitru would help her out with food and money from time to time. He would also fix things for her and run errands when she couldn't get out.

  “Wake up!” she said shaking his leg again.

  He slowly started to sit up and looked around his place, unsure of where he was.

  He rolled over and saw the clock on the wall. It was 9:00 p.m. He had been out for eleven hours.

  He tried to speak. “Mrs…
Drazov,” he said weakly. His throat felt like it was on fire. He motioned towards the sink.

  “I need… drink,” Dumitru croaked.

  She ran over to the sink and poured him a glass of smelly river water.

  She brought it over and sat down next to him. He took the glass and drank. It felt like razor blades going down.

  “What on earth is wrong with me?” he thought.

  “Are you OK, Dumitru? What is wrong? I walk by and your door is wide open!” Mrs Drazov asked, panicked.

  “I… don't know,” he replied.

  “You are sick! Let me get my sister to come look at you,” she said.

  Her sister was a local health ‘provider’. A cross between a folk witch doctor and a chiropractor. Being as it was nearly impossible to get real medical help in this country, she made a living out of seeing people and prescribing this or that folk remedy. She usually took barter for payment, as almost no one had any real money. It was crude, but people had to do what they could do. Her sister was the last person he wanted to see right now.

  “No, Mrs. Drazov. I'll be…uh…OK,” he croaked out.

  He bent down and vomited all over the floor.

  4

  Jackson sat at his desk, after limping back to the dealership and answering the cop’s questions, and remembered the call from his former partner.

  “What the hell? Maybe he just wants to get together and talk about old times,” thought Jackson. He assumed he was being paranoid.

  Just as he started to hit the recall button, a nondescript, older Ford Taurus pulled into the lot. It was an ugly brown. Who would ever buy that color?

  He never understood people’s tastes in vehicles. He had enough experience to know that if the color was wrong, he couldn’t sell a car, no matter how good the deal was. Color was everything, especially for women.

  Two guys in suits got out and started walking around. People wearing suits in Arizona always looked weird. Nothing said “I’m not from here” like wearing a suit in the desert. What were they looking for?

  Never being one to “Jump an Up”, as the saying went, he let them stroll around and peruse the inventory as he observed from inside. He’d had some luck selling to some of these guys in the past. They often had ample funds and bought their kids cars when they came to ASU. Had to make sure Junior looked the part, you know.

  After a couple of minutes, he had just started for the door when the suits got into their car and drove away. He had seen some fast dashes, but this one was almost a record. Poof. They disappeared.

  “Must not have had what they were looking for,” he muttered and went about his business.

  He was disappointed. Whenever Paul had the day off, Jackson wanted to show him up and get a dart on the board. Hopefully, the next one would bite.

  Jackson moved back to his desk and took a deep breath. He thought about deleting his former partner’s message. After all, everyone had blown him off. What did he owe them?

  He decided he was being childish and picked up the phone.

  He paused for a second, hit the redial button, and listened as the phone on the other end rang.

  “Captain Brunell,” Adam said curtly.

  “Adam, it’s Jackson. How the hell are ya?” Jackson responded.

  “Jackson! It’s good to hear your voice. Thanks for calling me back. Listen... uh… I can’t really talk right now. Can we get together… like today?” Brunell’s voice was soft. He seemed to be talking quietly and into his jacket or something.

  “Adam, I’m running the place by myself today. Can it wait ‘til tonight?” Jackson came back.

  “I’d rather not. How about lunch? Somewhere off the grid. You’re close to Papago, aren’t you?” He was referring to Papago Park and the Desert Botanical Gardens that were just down the street.

  “Yeah. I suppose I could close shop for an hour, but the powers that be won’t be happy,” Jackson responded.

  “Good, I’ll see you at the outdoor café at 12:30.” He hung up.

  Jackson sat staring at the phone before gently putting it back in the cradle. “What the hell was that about?” he thought.

  His radar was on. It was his legendary sixth sense.

  He was dreading the meeting for the rest of the morning, as he watched the latest world chaos on Fox News. He sucked down the bitter black coffee and thought of all the ‘what ifs’.

  “What if he chews me out for leaving them in the lurch? What if he thinks I screwed them all over?”

  He finally came to his senses. “Just stop it. Go meet the guy. What’s the worst that could happen?”

  He stood up at 12:20, flipped the open sign to closed, and locked the front door. After setting the phone on voice mail, Jackson went out the back door and tested the knob to make sure it was locked. He pulled out and turned down McDowell toward the Papago’s.

  The Papago’s were a pair of copper-colored, prehistoric-looking mounds jutting up in the middle of town. The area around them was home to the Phoenix Zoo, Papago Golf Course, and the Desert Botanical Gardens. The garden was a spectacular display of the plants from all over the Sonoran Desert. It was world class and had hundreds of thousands of visitors every year. It was a special place to him.

  The city had leased space to a high-end eatery in the middle of the Gardens, and he and Sam used to take the kids there on Sundays after church. They had an awesome brunch on weekends, and the kids loved to watch the hummingbirds fly around the tables as everyone giggled and stuffed themselves with waffles and crepes.

  Jackson pulled into the parking lot and walked down the path to the entrance. He told the attendant he was meeting a friend at the café, and they let him pass through without paying the park fee. As he walked up to the patio eating area, he spotted Adam and waved. Adam waved back and motioned him in.

  Jackson shook hands and greeted his former partner as he sat down at the table. A waiter came over and handed him the lunch menu and poured cold water with lemon and lime into his glass. He glanced over the menu and ordered a Reuben. He could use the grease and kraut right now.

  “So, Adam. How’s tricks?” He knew it sounded stupid, but what else was he going to say to the guy he hadn’t seen in three years?

  “Jim, I don’t really have time for small talk. I would like to catch up at some point, but right now, I need to talk to you about something.”

  Jackson’s eyebrows rose. Brunell seemed really nervous. He looked like he was going to either puke or sweat right through his crisp uniform shirt.

  “Sure, Adam. Can I take a sip of water at least?”

  Brunell breathed out. “Sorry. Listen, there’s just been a lot on my plate lately and I—”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s not a problem,” Jackson said.

  Memories of the crushing stress he had been under back in the day came flooding back. These guys literally had the weight of the world on their shoulders, and they couldn’t tell anyone about anything - not the cops, not the Feds, and certainly not your wife or family. That’s why they all hung so tightly together, and why most had serious drinking problems.

  “Whenever you’re ready, I’m an open book, Adam. Fire away,” Jackson said, trying to reassure him.

  “Listen, Jackson. This seems weird, and everything with me not calling or seeing you for more than… three years, and I apologize. But something’s come up, and you’re the only one I can talk to about it.”

  “OK,” Jackson said slowly.

  “A few days ago, we busted a guy in Goodyear over in Southwest Phoenix. Turns out he was a coyote for the Sinaloa cartel. You know how we were always breaking up these group hostage homes and throwing the coyotes in the slammer.”

  Jackson remembered well. People from Mexico and other central and South American countries paid five to ten grand to get over the border, only to be kidnapped and held for ransom once they got here. It was not unusual to find kids missing ears, women missing fingers and worse, as these bastards would cut off body parts and mail them back
to the family to get them to come up with more money. Phoenix was the number two kidnapping capital of the world, second only to Mexico City.

  The corruption and violence two hundred miles to the south was that of a third-world hellhole. It made Iraq looked peaceful by comparison. The entire government was under cartel rule, from the president all the way down to the local beat cop.

  Businesses big and small had to pay tax to the little dictators. There were two main families that owned everything, lock, stock, and barrel. It was foolish to think it would not eventually creep into this country, considering the clueless politicians and the phony media that ran perpetual sob stories about border jumpers; never the stories about MS-13 gangsters and other assorted terrorists, murderers, and thugs.

  The women and girls were almost always raped. The cartel would video it on their phones and text it to distraught loved ones back home, along with their demands. They would keep the youngest and prettiest women for themselves or sell them into sex slavery around the world. And in the last few years, they’d started seeing more young boys being sold into sex slavery, too.

  Walking into these hostage homes was both heartbreaking and infuriating. He could not believe how cruel people could be to others, and he’d had to wade into that sick and twisted world every day. He was glad he was out of it.

  “This time, it was different,” Adam continued.

  “When we busted this particular coyote, he wasn’t working exclusively for Sinaloa. He was also working for some Arab groups, too. At first, we thought he was bullshitting us to get some leniency, but he insisted I listen to him and give him protection,” Adam said hesitantly.

  “So, what does this have to do with me?” Jackson asked. “I don’t understand.”

  “Remember a few years back, when you followed a link from that group of OTMs we busted in West Phoenix? The ones from Yemen that were in a holding house waiting for a pickup? You smelled that thing out, even when everyone told you that you were crazy. Remember how the powers that be weren’t happy?” Adam asked.