Black Sunrise

by Brett Godfrey

  The girls stepped closer, better to hear and see the special tools.

  Antonio turned to face them with what appeared to be two garage door openers, one in each hand.

  “No, no! Jackie—” Christie started, seeming to recognize the devices.

  Antonio fired the Tasers at point-blank range, sending pairs of small darts into the belly of each girl, first one and then the other.

  Snap! Snap!

  Five seconds later the girls lay prone at Antonio’s feet, jerking and twitching as more than sixty thousand volts coursed through their bodies. He quickly bundled handfuls of the thin wire that fed current to the darts, stuffing the expended units back into the canvas bag. Then he zipped the bag shut and tossed it into the rear compartment. The rear seats leaned forward to make extra room.

  Beeman sprang from the car and lifted Christie into the back of the Buick.

  As Antonio lifted Jackie in his arms, he was surprised by how light she was. He could feel the weight and shape of her; the shimmering silky feel of her skin electrified him. He set her down in the back of the SUV. Before Antonio expected it, the girls were moaning, beginning to come around.

  “Hush,” Beeman hissed, pointing an aerosol can in their faces and spraying until they went still and for several more seconds for good measure. He pulled a blanket over them, holding his breath and stepping back to remain clear of the vapor.

  Antonio snatched up the shopping bags and purses, tossed them in with the girls and the duffle bag and slammed the hatch. “Let’s move,” he said, looking furtively about for witnesses. Seeing nothing, they climbed into the SUV and pulled away, Beeman gently spiraling around the many corners to reach the ground-level exit.

  “Why so slow?” Antonio asked breathlessly.

  “Why draw attention?” Beeman responded.

  “Think we were seen?”

  “No, but we’ll know soon enough. Once we make it to the storage shed and switch cars, we should be fine. They should stay out long enough to get them into my trunk. Then we hit the road, but remember to ditch their cell phones, or we’ll lead the cops straight to us.”

  “God, you’re right! I almost forgot about that.” Antonio slapped the dashboard as they turned out of the drive and into the street. The sunlight seemed incredibly bright as they merged into the flow of traffic.

  “Five hours, and we’ll be at the cabin,” Beeman announced.

  Chapter 3

  Christie’s eyes fluttered as she fought to reach the surface. She swam as hard as she could through hot volcanic lava. Something very important was waiting at the surface. She had to reach it. But she was running out of breath.

  A blazing red light flared in her mind and then vanished. After a time, it returned again, but only briefly. Would it guide her to the surface like a beacon? She needed to reach the surface, where she could breathe, but currents were throwing her about. With great effort, she pried her eyelids open. A blossoming flare of red light chased away the darkness.

  Then total darkness once again. And extreme heat. A familiar sound, almost like waves breaking on a beach.

  Where was she?

  Her mind slowly began to clear, but she couldn’t breathe properly.

  Oh, my God!

  There was something in her mouth!

  She tried to reach for her face, to clear away whatever was blocking her mouth. Her face tingled with panic when she realized her arms would not respond. Where were her hands?

  Her breath came through her nose in short, urgent sniffs. She tried to turn over, to straighten out her legs, but something was holding her in place.

  She felt movement and vibration.

  Another realization: the red light was a brake light.

  She was bound and gagged—hogtied—in the trunk of a moving car!

  She couldn’t get enough air.

  Her chest heaved as she struggled against whatever was binding her wrists and legs behind her. She tried to scream but gave only a muffled squeal that pushed more mucous into her already clogged nasal passages, making it even more difficult to get any air. Fueled by adrenaline, her body’s demand for oxygen was rapidly exceeding what she could sip in the hot, dank and confined trunk. She gagged again and again on whatever was in her mouth and feared she might drown in her own vomit. Her terror grew to be overwhelming.

  Having reached its apex, her awareness now declined rapidly.

  The red light flashed briefly, and when it vanished, she went with it, sinking into merciful oblivion. Her last conscious thought was that someone was lying next to her in the darkness.

  “I never could have done this alone,” Antonio said as they descended from the western side of the Eisenhower Tunnel toward Silverthorne, driving with the flow of weekend traffic on I-70.

  Beeman gazed out the window, a faint smile on his lips. “Actually, you could,” he said softly. “On your own, eventually, you would have evolved this far. You proved that today.”

  “But you know the path.”

  “History teaches us the path,” Beeman intoned in the hypnotic drone Antonio found so comforting, “For thousands of years, men have risen to positions of greatness by rejecting the bondage of conventionality. Thomas Jefferson took liberties as he saw fit with the slaves on his plantation before becoming a great American president. Alexander conquered the known world—using cruelty, ruthlessness and cunning—as did Genghis Khan. They chose to lead through domination, taking whatever they wanted and cultivating their own power as they tightened their grips on all who came into their worlds. Ruthless men who never held themselves back.”

  Beeman’s voice grew even more electric. The power he radiated comforted Antonio.

  “Their appetites were legendary. Think how fulfilled they were, wielding supreme power. Venting their ruthlessness, like a panther or a lion. This is nature’s way. Those men rose to greatness because they obeyed their primal nature. They allowed great power to flow through them and bent the world to their will.”

  “Today we become gods,” Antonio recited, “by choice and without mercy.”

  Beeman nodded. “Exactly.”

  Antonio heaved a great sigh. “I’ll be glad when we’re there. I could really use a drink.”

  “We’ll take our time getting settled in,’ Beeman said with a relaxed smile. “No point in rushing into things when we’re too tired to enjoy. A good night’s rest is what we need.”

  “You’re right.” Antonio was emotionally and physically drained. His inner doubts and demons were coming back, even though Beeman was right beside him. The power of Beeman’s words was not enough to hold him together, and his hands were beginning to shake.

  “Care for a breath strip?” Beeman offered.

  “Sure. Thanks.” Antonio dropped the minty sheet onto his tongue.

  Within a couple of minutes, he was feeling so much better.

  Chapter 4

  The golden sea welcomed the sun as it dipped into the shimmering waters of the Pacific Ocean. From a hilltop high above the beach, two men on horseback gazed in silence as the bright bands of the western sky dissolved, growing deeper and darker, until the first stars began to appear. A hundred feet below, the surf crashed against the rocks of the southern California coast.

  Mark Jensen shifted comfortably in his saddle, savoring the cool ocean breeze. He could practically feel the joy that emanated from the younger man beside him. I could sit here like this for hours, he thought, but after a while he said, “Better head back. We don’t want to be late.” He twisted the reins in his palm and twitched his heel lightly against his horse’s ribs, guiding the animal back to the path that would take them home. Twenty minutes later as they crested a small butte, he could see his ranch-style home nested in the darkening plateau below. The trail widened on a broad sloping field, cutting diagonally down to the house and stables.

  Rob Davis spurred his mount to come abreast of Jensen now that the path was wide enough. He cleared his throat and shifted in his saddle.

  “This
is kind of hard to say,” he said. “I’m only an employee, and I’m new to the practice, but you’ve done so much for me. I just want to say thank you.”

  “For this ride?”

  “More than that,” Rob said. “The mentoring. For teaching me how to be a trial lawyer.”

  Jensen nodded. “You’re a quick study.”

  Rob had won his first jury verdict the day before, landing $3.6 million for a boy who’d been badly burned when a defective propane stove had exploded in his face. To celebrate his victory, a firm dinner would begin in ninety minutes or so, at Roscoe’s, an upscale Newport Beach restaurant a few miles north of Jensen’s ranch.

  Rob continued. “Here I am, riding horseback with Mark Jensen. Like we’re old cronies, and I’m only two years out. It isn’t lost on me how—”

  “Oh, I see,” Jensen said with a chuckle. “You’re riding with a figure from history. Jesus, I’ve never felt so old.”

  “That’s not what I meant. Shit—forget I said anything.”

  “Okay. Forgotten. Now, what were you saying?”

  “Can’t remember.”

  Jensen grinned. Among the younger associates working at Jensen, Marshall & Minard, Rob Davis was his favorite. His real name was Robin Davis, but he hated being called Robin, and Jensen didn’t want his sidekick to be named Robin because he didn’t want to be called Batman. So Rob it was.

  Jensen chuckled. The million-dollar contingency fee the young associate had generated certainly didn’t hurt his standing, but it wasn’t the primary reason Jensen liked him—nor was it the hero-worship routine. Rob had class, whatever that meant, and a certain charisma that complimented his rugged looks. When he was a little older and wiser, he would have the world at his feet.

  “We’re all really proud of you, Rob,” Jensen told him. “You’re off to a hell of a start.”

  Rob flashed a thousand-watt smile. “Guess I did alright, huh?”

  “I reckon you did.” Jensen leaned over and clapped Davis on the shoulder, remembering how he’d felt at that stage in his own career. “Let’s get on down the trail, pilgrim,” he said in a poor imitation of the Duke, giving his horse a gentle prod with the heel of his boot. The animal was eager to reach the barn and broke into a brisk trot right away.

  Within a few minutes, they reached the ranch house. “There’s Mrs. Jensen,” Davis said, gesturing as he dismounted. “I thought she and Amy were supposed to meet us at the restaurant.”

  Jensen followed his gaze. “That’s what I thought,” he said.

  As they drew closer, Jensen could read on his wife’s face that something was seriously wrong. Still in her jeans, she hadn’t dressed for dinner. Her arms were crossed tightly in front of her chest. As she turned to say something through the open doorway behind her, two uniformed police officers stepped onto the porch.

  Jensen was instantly on guard. He had a deep-seated mistrust of police—a product of working in the criminal justice system for many years. He no longer actively handled criminal cases, but the lessons he’d learned had been hard ones he couldn’t easily forget.

  Was one of his civil clients in trouble? Were they going to serve him with a subpoena? Or was it something worse?

  “Officers,” Jensen said, reaching the porch. “What’s going on?”

  One of the cops glanced at a notepad. “You’re Mark Stader Jensen? Father of Christine Ann Jensen?”

  Oh, dear Lord in heaven. Jensen gripped the reins tightly and swallowed.

  “Yes. What’s going on?”

  “And may I ask who this gentleman is?”

  “This is my associate, Rob Davis. Is Christie okay? What’s this about?”

  “I’m Officer Cisneros and this is Officer Nakayama, Irvine PD. We need to speak with you and your wife, sir.”

  Jensen was growing more worried by the second. “What’s this about? Has something happened?”

  “It might be better if we could go inside,” Nakayama said, glancing conspicuously at Davis, “so we can talk privately.”

  Jensen dismounted and handed his reins to Davis. “Rob, would you mind taking the horses to the barn? Mike will see to them after that. Feel free to grab a shower and head over. I’ll text you when I know if we’re going to make it. Don’t hold things up for us. I’m sure everybody’s hungry.”

  “Sure.” Davis dismounted, took the reins from Jensen’s hand and led both horses away.

  Jensen gestured for the policemen to follow him inside, guiding them to a cavernous sitting room adorned with Navajo rugs and pottery, wood carvings and other Native American artifacts.

  “Okay, officers. What’s going on?”

  “Mr. Jensen,” Cisneros began, “As I’ve explained to your wife, the Denver Police Department contacted us. They’re investigating a complaint from someone who claims to be living with a friend of your daughter.” The officer consulted his pad again. “Do you know Jaqueline Rosalie Dawson?”

  Jensen felt a touch of relief. So this wasn’t about Christie. What was it with cops and the incessant need to use middle names always?

  “Yes, officer, we’ve met Ms. Dawson” said Janet. “Has something happened to her?”

  Rather than answering, Cisneros asked, “Do you know Robert Sand?”

  Janet answered, “We’ve never met him, but Christie’s mentioned him.”

  Cisneros nodded and then consulted his pad once more. “Yes. An older man. We know virtually nothing about him, other than he appears to be affluent and claims to be retired. He filed a missing persons report with DPD—the Denver police. He claims Dawson moved in with him recently and is now a missing person. He reported that she and your daughter took his car to go shopping at two in the afternoon, and never returned. Dawson doesn’t answer her cell. Apparently, they told Sand they were going to a mall not far from his home and would be back in time to go out for dinner. Whey they hadn’t returned by midnight, the DPD sent a cruiser to troll the parking garages. They found Sand’s car there, unlocked, with the key in the door.”

  Cisneros looked up from his pad. “Do you know where your daughter is now?”

  Jensen looked at his watch. It was 9:45 in Denver. This didn’t make sense. “Midnight? What time were they supposed to be back?”

  “By eighteen hundred at the latest,” Nakayama answered. “Yesterday, that is.”

  “They’ve been missing more than twenty-four hours?”

  “According to Sand.”

  “Have they checked Christie’s apartment?”

  “Yes. No response to their knock. They didn’t enter the unit.”

  “Have they checked with Jackie’s foster parents?”

  Nakayama nodded. “Scott and Anne Dawson. They haven’t spoken to Jaqueline or Christine for several days.”

  “Have they checked to see if Christie’s car is parked at her apartment? She drives a red Toyota Highlander.”

  “Her vehicle is still parked in front of Sand’s house,” Cisneros said. “You obviously have a lot of useful information and ideas. Will you and your wife come to the station and give us recorded statements?”

  “Hang on a second.” Jensen pulled out his iPhone and tapped the screen several times, putting the call on speaker. Christie’s voice mail greeting echoed through the tinny speakers. Jensen left a short message, telling her to call him.

  “She has an iPhone,” Jensen said, tapping the screen of his phone some more. “We can use Find My Friends to find out where she is.”

  “Please go ahead.” Nakayama said. “Very helpful, sir. Thank you.”

  After a several seconds, Jensen looked up. “Not finding it,” he said, glancing at Janet. Her face was ashen. He felt his own heartbeat picking up. When he’d been a young pilot in the Air Force, flying combat missions in the First Gulf War, he’d lost friends he thought were invincible, immortal. In his law practice, he’d seen families shattered by unexpected disasters. Catastrophe strikes where and when it will, he’d learned, and survivors were always slow to recognize it when it appeare
d, cushioned as they were by warm cocoons of faith and belief from undeniable realities, the fragility of life and the dangers of the world.

  Now, at this very unexpected moment, were he and his wife next in line?

  “Let’s head in,” Nakayama said.

  “I’d like to talk to the Denver police directly,” Jensen said.

  “We’ll arrange that,” Cisneros replied.

  Chapter 5

  The ancient Super Otter clawed the air as it lumbered ever upward, eleven thousand feet above the Arizona desert. At this altitude the air was mercifully cool; the desert below baked in the late afternoon sun. An endless quilted patchwork of agricultural land spread beneath them from horizon to horizon, scarred and torn by roads and irrigation canals. To the southeast, rocky spires erupted sharply from the desert—otherworldly remnants of the volcanic age.

  A pocket of turbulence rocked the high-winged jump-ship as it turned, confining its climb within a block of airspace west of the town of Eloy, Arizona. Two Pratt & Whitney PT-6 turboprop engines churned out more than a thousand horsepower, so most of the plane’s twenty-three jumpers had foam earplugs stuffed in their ears to soften the grinding roar within the cramped cabin.

  Roady Kenehan sat on the floor at the rear of the plane, next to a clear plexiglass door. His long hair was braided and tucked down the back of his jumpsuit, and his week-old beard was beginning to darken and fill out. He glanced at the altimeter strapped to his leg strap—another thousand feet to go.

  Jump-run in about two minutes.

  He pulled his visor down, tugged his chin strap snug, checked that his visor was snapped and then zipped his jump suit all the way up to his throat.

  The plane made one more turn and leveled off.

  Kenehan rocked forward onto his knees and extended his hand, winding his gloved fingers with three other jumpers, pumping slowly down then up then down again before snapping the communal fist apart in silent rehearsal of the rhythm of their exit count, the way they would signal one another for a perfect simultaneous departure from the outside of the airplane.