Hard Road to Redemption

by Alex Ander

  Jacob inwardly chuckled.

  “...what makes you so sure we’re federal agents?

  “In my line of work, I’ve spoken with many members of law enforcement. And believe me. The,” he coughed twice, “the feds stick out from the rest.”

  The agents swapped glances again.

  “And the way you took me down,” Childress leaned forward and scooted closer to the headboard, “normal cops would’ve shouted at me to raise my hands, get down on my knees...all that jazz. I’ve witnessed it before.” He squinted at each person. “I’m ninety percent sure you two are feds.”

  Jacob eyed a pair of jeans hanging over the back of a chair to his left. He sidestepped in that direction and hauled out the man’s wallet from a back pocket.

  “That’s why I slipped you the note at the diner. I figured you were new in town and hadn’t yet been corrupted.”

  Stockwell stood taller. “What do you mean...corrupted?”

  “I mean, I think law enforcement in this town—maybe even this entire area—is covering up something.”

  Jacob flipped open the bifold and examined a driver’s license: Dexter M. Childress. “Covering what up?” He removed a business card: Dexter M. Childress. Freelance Investigative Reporter. ‘Finding Answers. Uncovering Truth.’

  Childress shook his head. “Don’t know for sure, but my nose is telling me it has something to do with why I’m here in the first place.”

  Jacob handed the wallet to Stockwell. “Which is?”

  “I’m following up on a lead...on the sale and trafficking of illegal arms.” Childress shifted his position on the mattress and relayed the story of the Dodge Sprinter vans, the black cases, the armed men, and a duffle bag changing possession from a gray-haired man to a tall man.

  Jacob and Stockwell added pictures to the reporter’s story via his camera.

  Childress dipped his forehead toward the camera. “That happened a week ago.”

  Stockwell on his right, Jacob arched his eyebrows, glanced at the camera he held, and whispered, “What do you think?”

  “I’ve been,” continued Childress, “asking questions around here ever since, and...”

  She bobbled her head before nodding.

  “...no one knows anything...or no one’s saying anything.”

  Stockwell produced a set of tiny keys from her pocket and walked in front of Jacob. “Let’s see your hands, Mr. Childress.”

  He contorted his body away from her.

  She undid his restraints and laid his bifold on the bed. “We’re truly sorry for this, sir, but from our perspective, we thought you were out to kill us.”

  “Yeah,” rising to his skinny, six-two height, Childress rubbed his wrists, “I get it.”

  Jacob handed over the man’s jeans.

  “Thank you.” The reporter claimed the pants and stepped into them.

  Jacob held the camera a little higher. “Do you mind if we send these photos to our boss? They might help in our investigation.”

  “Be my guest.”

  He handed the device to Stockwell, spun a chair around, sat backward in it, and faced the late twenties man with a round head of black hair buzzed down to a quarter inch. “Tell us more about the illegal arms deal. How’d you come to find out about it?”

  “I received an anonymous tip from someone working at a PMC. She told me that—”

  Jacob flipped up a hand. “PMC? Are you talking about a private military contractor?”

  Childress nodded. “That’s right. My source works in accounts and inventory for one of them. And she told me she had been noticing several shipments to,” he held out his hands and looked around, “Mountain Lion, Georgia...shipments that were not recorded on any logistics schedule.”

  Stockwell leaned against a dresser and crossed her ankles. “Did she say anything about the discrepancies to her bosses?”

  “I don’t know. But she also noticed inventory numbers were off. And income accounts had suddenly gone up without any supporting documentation.”

  Jacob: “What did the inventory—that was off—consist of?”

  Childress scratched his head and studied the carpet. “She mentioned submachine guns, ammunition—some of it incendiary—fifty cals,” he faced his inquirer, “and frags.”

  Stockwell pitched forward. “Fragmentation grenades?”

  The newsman shrugged. “I’m assuming that’s what she meant. And the fifty-cal comment came when we were talking about the ammunition.”

  Jacob spied his partner. “Ammo’s no good without the guns.”

  She nodded. “So, they must have both. We need to find out what’s going on at that compound.”

  “By the way,” Childress went from Jacob to Stockwell, “you never told me. Who are you, anyway...FBI, Homeland Security, U.S. Marshals?”

  Standing, “The first two,” Jacob showed his credentials. “Jacob St. Christopher.”

  Stockwell produced her FBI creds. “Deanna Stockwell.”

  “We need you to,” Jacob stowed his cred pack, “take us to that place, Mr. Childress. Do you think you can find your way back to the area where you watched the exchange?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good.” Jacob faced Stockwell. “What time does it get dark here?”

  “Around eight-thirty,” answered Childress.

  “How long does it take to get to this compound?”

  “Twenty or thirty minutes.”

  Jacob spied his watch. “That gives us plenty of time to get our vehicle back and put together a few things.” He confronted his information source. “One more thing. When you were questioning folks, did anything come up about kidnapped teens...strange vehicles, unfamiliar faces in town, unknown teen girls being spotted...or anything suspicious in that regard?”

  Childress went back to gaping at the carpeting. “I-I don’t think so. Why? Is that why you two are here?”

  “Get ready, sir. We’ll be back at 7:45 to pick you up. And wear dark clothing.”

  *******

  Jacob and Stockwell had left the motel room and were now heading for their own room above the diner. “I think we just got our first big break,” she said, as the twosome reached Main Street.

  After a cursory glance in both directions, they crossed the desolate street and circled around to the back of the diner, to the back staircase that led to their accommodations. She glanced his way. “You’re kind of quiet. What’s going on?”

  He ascended the stairs. “Just tossing around ideas in my head on how we should approach this tonight.” He unlocked the door and let her enter first. “And I was also mulling over the dinner you’re going to cook for me.”

  She halted two paces inside the archway and whirled around. “How do you figure that?”

  Grinning at her, he shut the door behind him. “You heard Childress. He said he was a journalist. So, you owe me the home-cooked meal of my choice.”

  She shook her head. “Perhaps, you didn’t hear him correctly. He said he was an investigative reporter and...”

  Jacob’s eyes grew wider, and his jaw went slack.

  “...not a journalist.”

  “Oh,” he rolled his head and dragged out his next two words, “come on, Stockwell.”

  “And, if memory serves, he was quite emphatic on the matter.”

  “I can’t believe you’re reneging on our bet. This is...”

  “I’m not reneging.”

  “...so unsportsmanlike...maybe even unladylike.”

  She laughed at the last part while making her way down the short hallway. “Rules are rules. You guessed photographer or a journalist. And Mr. Childress said he was an investigative reporter.” She held a shrug. “That makes us both wrong. So, it’s a draw, I suppose.”

  Shaking his head at the floor, he trailed behind her. “I’m seeing a whole new side to you, Stockwell. And it’s rather disconcerting. Do you cheat like this at board games, too?”

  Coming to the door to their quarters, she wheeled on a dime and grabbe
d him by his shirt. “Lighten up, you big baby.” She offered up a lighthearted grin. “I’m only teasing. Of course, I’m going to cook dinner for you.” She looked away, “It might taste awful, but hey...” before facing him and noticing his deadpan expression. “Something wrong?”

  “No.” He made a fist and dragged a knuckle over his chin a few times. “I was just wondering.”

  She pressed her right shoulder to the door, cupped elbows, and crossed ankles.

  “It might be better if we ordered out for the main dish, so,” a pulse, “you could focus on giving me my dessert.”

  Her brows came together. “But the bet was for a home-cooked meal. Why would we—” something about how he had phrased the tail end of his sentence caught her attention. Giving me my dessert.

  A twinkle appeared in his eyes.

  She spotted the glimmer, and a gentle grin washed over her features. “I should’ve known there was something sexual hidden behind that,” with a flat hand, she made a circular motion in front of his nose, “poker face of yours.”

  He dialed up a mischievous grin. “What? Me?”

  “I know.” She opened the door. “Shocking, isn’t it?”

  His facade transformed into an all-out smile while he followed her into their room.

  ∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞

  .

  Chapter 14

  A Better View

  8:14 P.M.

  Wearing black tactical clothing, custom-made bulletproof vests underneath, Jacob and Stockwell stood at the rear of their Suburban, which was parked where the forest swallowed up the narrow lane that had brought them to this point. They checked the status of their pistols and slid them into thigh holsters. He closed the SUV’s tailgate while she piled her hair into a bun at the back of her head.

  Dressed all in black himself, Childress eyeballed the others. “You aren’t like any feds I’ve ever met.” He motioned toward the out-of-sight cases inside the cargo area. “That’s a lot of military gear for two people investigating a kidnapping, if...in fact, that’s what you’re doing here. You still haven’t told me.”

  Jacob double-checked a night vision monocle before stashing the optic in a pocket on his tactical vest. “Better to have it and not need it than...” He let Childress fill in the rest of the statement. “Now,” he swung out an arm, “lead on, sir. And remember to stay low and walk quietly. It’ll be dark soon, but not while we’re making our approach.”

  *******

  8:47 P.M.

  The sun had set twenty minutes ago, and the rays from a half moon overhead were having a hard time penetrating the forest’s congested umbrella of leaves and branches. Nocturnal creatures were sounding off and disturbing the tranquility of the surrounding atmosphere.

  Fifty feet away from the position where Childress had encountered the sentry and guard dog a week ago, Jacob, Stockwell, and the reporter now knelt, hidden among thick bushes.

  “Right up there,” Childress pointed, “is where I was when I came across the guard dog.”

  In unison, Jacob and Stockwell lowered their night vision monocles and whipped their heads toward their guide, both whisper-shouting to him, “Guard dog?”

  Jacob clenched his sighting device harder. “You never said anything about guard dogs.”

  “Didn’t I? I thought for sure I mentioned that. Sorry. There was only one that I could see. A man with a gun was walking it on a leash.”

  Jacob went back to scanning the compound. “Well, that changes things. We’re not going to be able to get any closer than this,” he looked up, “unless,” and examined the trees near the fence line.

  Stockwell cast a sideways glance in his direction. “Unless what?”

  He inserted a communication device into one ear and motioned for her to do the same. “You two stay here.”

  She tucked an identical bud into her ear.

  He activated a transmitter/receiver attached to his vest.

  She followed suit.

  “You copy?”

  She nodded. “Copy.”

  “Stay here and keep an eye out for movement near the fence.” He went to a low crouch.

  “Where are you going?”

  He pointed to his right, toward the corner of the fenced-in perimeter. “Over there...to get a better view of what this place looks like. Let me know if you spot trouble.” He hurried off and disappeared into the night.

  Through her night vision, Stockwell kept tabs on him while surveying the territory ahead of him and watching for movement coming from inside the fence.

  *******

  TEN MINUTES LATER...

  Having climbed a pine tree, ventured out on a limb, and leaped onto a branch from another tree, Jacob went prone, shimmied out to the end of the heavy limb, and glanced down.

  Five feet below, a spotlight cast a wide downward beam. Further down, one leg of the barbed-wire-topped fence went off to his two o’clock while a second leg stretched out to his ten o’clock.

  Perfect. He hauled out his NV monocle. Even if they’re looking right at me, that light will hide me. He panned the entire compound from left to right and reversed course before zeroing in on specific areas he had been unable to see from the ground.

  For the next thirty minutes, he watched men and women move about the grounds. He studied each building, each dark corner, each potential concealment area, burning the entire picture into his brain for future reference.

  Movement.

  He jerked the NV monocle right and centered it on two girls walking away from him.

  They made their way between two buildings. Reaching a corner, they turned left and passed under a lower-intensity light affixed to a short pole.

  Jacob drew back, took the monocle away from his eye, and squinted at where the girls had been a second ago. Deep creases emerging on his forehead, he looked away and scowled before bringing up the eyepiece and searching the area to find the females again.

  Three minutes later, unsuccessful in locating them, he lowered the NV monocle and slammed shut his eyes. In the following instant, he shook his head and scooted back toward the tree trunk.

  *******

  9:41 P.M.

  “I’m coming up on your three o’clock, Stockwell.”

  “Copy that. I’ve got you in sight.”

  Jacob took a knee alongside his partner.

  Frowning at him, she saw something on his face she had never seen in all their time together. “Is everything okay? You look,” she wavered, “rattled.”

  He gave the whole compound another peek through his NV monocle, “I’m fine,” and rose to a low crouch. “Let’s get back to the SUV. I’ve seen enough.” He crept deeper into the woods.

  Watching him leave, her mind envisioning the look on his face, she bobbed her eyebrows at his ‘I’m fine’ answer, If you say so, while bringing her own monocle up to her eye. To Childress: “Keep your fingers tucked into my waistband and don’t let go. We’ll lead you out of here.”

  *******

  9:54 P.M.

  “You know,” sitting behind the Suburban’s steering wheel, Jacob made a fist, “for a journalist, you sure do suck at remembering things, Childress.”

  “I told you. I’m not a jour—”

  “And I,” Jacob whirled around and drove a finger into the backseat area, “don’t really give a damn.”

  In the passenger seat, Stockwell noted the over-the-top reaction from her man. “Easy, Jake. He forgot. It happens.”

  The driver glared at her for a half second before taking a breath, letting out the air slowly, and showing the man behind them a palm. “I’m sorry.” He faced forward. “Just...tell us what you saw that night.”

  “Well...the two big vans were on their way out, and a minivan was on its way in. The minivan stopped. Two men got out and escorted a girl from the side door of the van to the big house at the back of the property. Each man had a hold of one of her arms. They all went inside, and I left.”

  “Did you get any pictures of the girl?”<
br />
  “The memory card on my camera was already full.”

  Gritting his teeth, Jacob sighed heavily. “What did she look like?”

  “She was thin...kind of tall, especially if she was a teenager.” Childress held a shrug. “She stumbled at one point.” He shook his head. “That’s all I really saw before they took her inside.”

  Jacob made another fist.

  Stockwell saw him. “What is it, Jake?”

  He faced her. “I think I may have seen her when I was up in that tree back there.” He turned away. “But I’m not sure, though.”

  “Is that what’s been bothering you the last half hour?”

  Coming back to her, Jacob paused, Not exactly, before nodding. “Yes. It would be nice if we had some proof that Chrissy Toberman was actually,” he jerked a thumb over his shoulder, “in there before we contemplated a raid on the place.” He started the Chevy and ran the gearshift to ‘drive.’ “As it stands, all we have are two people who think...that they may have...seen someone...who looks somewhat...like Chrissy Toberman.” He stepped on the gas pedal. “Not a whole hell of a lot to go on.”

  ∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞

  .

  Chapter 15

  Creak

  AUGUST 17th; 12:58 A.M.

  Having dropped off Childress at his motel room, Jacob and Stockwell had gone back to Paw Prints Diner. And with a little lobbying from Marci on their behalf, they had secured some food from the kitchen even though the diner stopped serving customers at ten-thirty.

  After finishing their meal, the agents had spent the next ninety minutes strategizing in the upper-level bed-and-breakfast room. Twenty of those minutes had included a phone call with Higs who had reported nothing new regarding Childress’ camera photos that Stockwell had forwarded to Higs, other than a name to go with one of the men from the Dodge Sprinter vans.

  “John Hunter,” Higs had said, “owns a private military company operating out of Washington, D.C. From what I’ve been able to determine, he has close ties to several members of congress.”