Jack told him about his place, and they commiserated about the amount of time and effort that went into a quality renovation. Both agreed it was well worth it.
“Are you married?” Jack asked.
“Nah. Never met the right one, I guess. What about you? Did you marry that Irish lass you were always mooning over?”
“Aye.”
“Kids?”
“Seven sons.”
Charlie whistled. “Seven! You’ve been a right rutting bastard, haven’t you? All black-haired, blue-eyed, big lads like their father, I suppose?”
Jack grinned, the proud answer evident in his features.
“Eight Callaghans. I’m not sure the world is quite ready for that. You’ll be able to start your own team someday.”
Jack wasn’t sure how he felt about that, so he said nothing. From the moment Kane was born, he’d often wondered how he’d feel if his boys wanted to follow in his footsteps. Proud, certainly, but worried, too. The world was an ugly place, run by greedy, power hungry men. All he’d wanted to do when he got out was forget all that. To return to his sleepy little hometown and live whatever time he had left with Kathleen in an isolated bubble of his own making. For more than twelve years, that was exactly what he’d done.
Now here was that outside world again, looking for a way to poke holes in that bubble and demand his attention. He didn’t like it.
They talked more about land and bars and family. Once the plates had been cleared away, Charlie’s expression turned serious.
“Before I begin, I have to ask. Are you in?”
Knowing Charlie was involved made the decision easier. Charlie was a hell of a planner. He left nothing to chance. If shite went sideways, it would not be for lack of preparation on Charlie’s part.
Jack nodded. He saw both relief and approval in the other man’s face.
“It’s a hell of a thing, Jack,” Charlie said, his voice automatically lowering as he leaned forward to be heard over the din of the busy diner. “A human trafficking operation.”
“Tell me.”
“We’ve been after these guys for years. They’re smart. Too smart to be your run of the mill smuggler. We’ve identified a few as former immigration agents, agents who have chosen to leave the government pension behind in exchange for a spot on the payrolls of some very powerful family organizations.” He looked pointedly at Jack. “Family organizations based in Chicago and Vegas, but also with a strong presence on the east coast.”
Jack nodded in acknowledgement, hearing the words Charlie didn’t say.
“They operate under the guise of a completely legal, professional escort service. We’re not talking your run of the mill flesh peddlers here. The clients are billionaire businessmen and foreign dignitaries. And it goes beyond the public appearances and a couple of nights in the penthouse suite. These guys are leasing with the option to buy, if you know what I mean.”
“It’s a custom order type of job, too. These bastards, they fill out a fucking profile—– gender, age, height, weight, hair color, build—– then pay mega bucks to have those orders filled, packaged, and delivered right to their doorstep.” Charlie shook his head. “We’re not talking just runaways, either. They snatch girls with deep roots, then threaten to harm their family and loved ones unless they comply.”
Disgust permeated Charlie’s words as he laid it out, and Jack felt pretty much the same.
“But surely if these girls have family, someone is noticing they’ve gone missing.”
“Seen a milk carton lately?” Charlie grunted. “Every one of them is sporting the picture of a missing child. Like I said, these guys are smart and they’ve got money. It’s easy enough to fake a death or rig an accident. One burned corpse looks much like another, especially when you’ve got medical examiners in your pocket. And consider this: a grieving family doesn’t keep looking, not when they believe they know exactly where their kid is, sitting six feet below a slab of marble.”
It was horrifying, and yet Jack knew that every word Charlie spoke was true.
“They’re networked all over the US, ensuring no one area draws undo attention, but they tend to concentrate around colleges and universities, especially the private and Ivy League schools. Blue bloods want blue bloods, not street rats. Brian was working with a known cell around Princeton when he dropped off the radar.”
“Jesus.”
Charlie sat back and poured them each another cup of coffee. “Not what you thought, huh?”
“No.” That was an understatement. When Brian said he was taking on covert ops, he was picturing something a hell of a lot more... self-serving. He said as much to Charlie.
“To be honest, there is some of that,” Charlie admitted. “Which is exactly why Sammy and I will be parting ways as soon as this is resolved. He’s taking it upon himself to branch out into areas in which I refuse to tread.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Jack followed Charlie to a gun range just over the Pennsylvania/New York border. The place was privately owned and operated by a Marine named Ryan Duffy. Charlie told him Duffy was a “good friend”, but Jack quickly learned that “good friend” was a euphemism for a highly-useful, contributing member of Charlie’s network.
The place was unimpressive on the outside, a large, squat, square building that looked as if it might have been a warehouse at one time. It sat alone on a couple of cleared acres, surrounded beyond that with forested land. Jack didn’t fail to notice the security cameras mounted along the long driveway to the asphalt lot in the back, swiveling to follow their progress. Clearly, Duffy liked to see his customers coming. Smart man.
They parked and walked up to the wide, reinforced steel doors. A small white sign bearing the name “Duffy’s” stenciled in black was the only adornment.
“Look up,” Charlie commanded quietly.
Jack did, right into the lens of yet another security camera. “This guy takes his security seriously, doesn’t he?” he muttered under his breath.
Charlie chuckled as a slight buzzing noise was followed by the snick of the door unlocking. They walked into was what obviously the public section. The small room was done in dark paneling, and was decorated with framed pictures of service men from all branches. Behind the simple counter, an American flag.
“Charlie, good to see you.”
“Duffy,” Charlie nodded. “This is my good friend, Jack Callaghan.”
Duffy was a few inches shorter than Jack, but what he lacked in height he made up for in breadth; the guy was roughly the size of a small tank. He shook Jack’s hand with a vise-like grip, leveling him with an assessing, if curious, gaze.
“Jack Callaghan,” Duffy grunted in a rough, broken-glass kind of voice. “Heard a lot about you. I hope you’re half as good as Charlie says you are.”
Unsure of exactly how “good” Charlie said he was, Jack returned the strong handshake with a firm squeeze of his own and said nothing.
“I like him,” the big Marine commented to Charlie. “Knows when to keep his mouth shut and his eyes open.”
Duffy swiped his card in the reader mounted beside an inner door. “Members only,” he said by way of explanation.
This took them into another room, this one far more spacious. To the right, an impressive display of firearms and ammunitions. To the left, a dozen or so soundproofed firing alleys, half of which were occupied.
“Nice setup,” Jack commented.
The human tank grinned. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”
Duffy walked briskly down the center to another door. This time, in addition to swiping his card, he stabbed out a series of numbers onto the keypad with beefy fingers.
“Good friends only,” Charlie explained with the ghost of a smile.
Another room, another door, then they were single-filing it down a narrow set of steps. The final door required a thumbprint scan. Jack held his breath, sensing that whatever was behind that one, was big.
He was right. He entered into another
cavernous room, easily as big as the one on the floor above, if not bigger. Another series of firing alleys on the left. And a weapons specialist’s wet dream everywhere else.
Air burst grenade launchers. M24 sniper rifles. Glocks.
“What the hell is that?” Jack asked, pointing to a small, rectangular black device that looked positively innocent among the high-grade arsenal.
“He has good taste,” quipped Duffy. “That, my friend, is the latest in FMGs—– folding machine guns.” Duffy picked it up, gave it a flip, and it went from non-threatening to badass. “A selective-fire weapon, less than five pounds. Fires at the rate of nearly one thousand rounds per minute.” With another simple hand movement, it folded back up.
“Got some chemical based stuff, too, but you won’t need it for this. Come on, let’s get you suited up.”
A familiar energy hummed through Jack’s veins as he prepared. He’d forgotten what it felt like. The rush of adrenaline. The bite of excitement. The knowledge, deep in your soul, that you were doing something good. Something that was going to make the world a better place.
In mission mode, the sequence felt almost comforting as he stripped down the lightweight, waterproof sniper rifle and tested the telescopic sights along with gear specifically made for night ops. He made an appreciative sound as he fired off a few rounds, testing both the single-shot and automatic burst capabilities.
Charlie’s high-tech weaponry was a far cry from the standard-issue crap he’d been given all those years ago. As were the superlight black cargo pants, bullet-resistant black long sleeve shirt, and flak jacket.
Jack carefully packed up the plastic C4 packs, timers, and other demolition gear, along with a few old-fashioned grenades, and strapped them strategically around his body.
“In and out,” Charlie said, suiting up beside him. “Piece of cake.”
It was hard not to share Charlie’s confidence. Thanks to a tiny, integrated circuit device (Charlie called it a “microchip”) surgically implanted beneath Brian’s skin, they knew exactly where he was. It was like something right out of the movies. They had global satellite imagery of the location that was almost as clear as a sunny day photograph, and digital scanners capable of picking up the heat signatures of any warm-blooded creature with a given range.
It left Jack with only one question.
“If you have all this, why did you need me?”
Charlie looked at him. “I like my toys, Jack, but they are no match for a highly-trained SEAL with your kind of experience. Besides, I’ve an ulterior motive.” Jack raised an eyebrow in question. “I’m hoping that you’ll decide to stay on.”
Jack grunted. He’d been out of the action for fifteen years, a hell of a long time for that kind of thing. “I’m just here to get Brian out, then I’m done.”
Grinning, Charlie slapped a hand on his shoulder. “Sure, Jack. Whatever you say.”
Sufficiently armed, Charlie led Jack through a series of tunnels (why was he not surprised), emerging into a garage several hundred yards away from the Range, where an unusual looking vehicle awaited them.
“What the hell do you call this monster?” Jack asked, taking in the matte black vehicle that looked like a cross between an Army Jeep and a tank.
“One of my new toys,” Charlie chuckled. “That, my friend, is a High Mobility Multi-Purpose Wheeled Vehicle, or a HUMVEE, for short. Been around since eighty-two or so, but they’re not easy to get. Can go anywhere, do anything, with both style and extreme prejudice.”
“You’re going to let me drive that, right?”
“Jack, sign on with me and you’ll be able to buy your own.”
The inside of the vehicle was far more impressive than the outside; the dashboard was a mass of gadgetry worthy of a cockpit. Jack couldn’t help but think how his son Sean’s eyes would light up. The boy loved vehicles of all kinds. He was the only kid Jack knew who dismantled his toys and put them back together instead of playing with them.
“Now this here,” Charlie said, waving his hand, “is all custom. Designed and built by a computer specialist in the NSA.”
“Another good friend?” Jack guessed, wondering just how far Charlie’s network extended.
“Aye,” Charlie winked. “Can never have too many good friends, I always say.”
It had been a while, but Jack slipped easily into SEAL mode. At least mentally. Physically, it was a bit of a challenge. He’d thought he’d kept in fairly decent shape with a strict regimen of push-ups, sit-ups, and calisthenics, but he was breathing heavily by the time he hit his position.
Mind cleared, he sought that concentrated inner focus that carried him through more missions than he could count.
The fancy, mansion-like house and surrounding estate in an affluent suburb of northern New Jersey was about as far away as one could get from the Mekong Delta, but the underlying principles were the same: Get in, get it done, and get out intact.
Charlie reviewed the plan one more time, his voice ringing crystal-clear through the tiny earpiece. The front gate was locked, manned by a single guard. They wouldn’t be going in that way, but the distraction team would.
Jack would take the wall on the eastern perimeter, the one closest to the ten bay garage. From there, they would ghost their way past the security cameras mounted every hundred feet or so, avoiding the two guards who patrolled the grounds with canines. Then slip into the hidden service entrance around the back, descend into the underground area where they believed Brian was being held. Grab him and get out much the same way they went it.
Simple enough, in theory. Reality was almost always a different story.
A glossy black sedan with tinted windows drove up to the gate, which was their signal. “Go,” Charlie whispered through the earpiece, but it came across loud and clear. Just another shadow in the night, Jack made quick work of the wall, scaling the stone (not as easily as he once had, but not too bad for a thirty-eight year old bartender, either). His back and shoulders protested only slightly, probably because of all the hefting of kegs and cases he did around the Pub. He made a mental note to work on his finger strength, too, then shook that thought off. This was a one-time thing only, right?
He dropped down to the ground on the other side, silently landing in a crouch. And there was reality, ready and eager to bite him on the ass in the form of a slightly deranged-looking, Buick-sized Rottweiler in the process of relieving himself.
“Good boy,” Jack murmured. The dog tilted its massive head as if it couldn’t believe Jack had actually spoken to it, then let out a low, menacing growl.
“Hamburger with tranquilizer, left ankle pocket,” Charlie’s voice said in his ear. “Keep it close and ice it.”
Ice it, Charlie’s term for freezing, or staying unnaturally still.
Very slowly, Jack extracted the meat and tossed it in front of the dog’s nose. Keeping his eyes on Jack, the beast lowered his head and sniffed, then gulped it down in one bite. In less than a minute the dog wavered and sidestepped, then went down.
Things like that were exactly why he liked working with Charlie.
“Fang! Come,” a voice commanded from near the garage.
Jack looked down at the now-sleeping dog. “Fang? Really?”
A guard came around the corner and stopped under one of the spotlights, peering out into the darkness as he lit a cigarette. “Fang!”
From his position in the shadows, Jack did a quick analysis. Big guy, but not very smart if he was standing there in a pool of light. Probably armed, though whatever he was packing under that black jacket wouldn’t compare to the beauties Duffy had provided. Clearly, the owner of the mansion wasn’t overly concerned about his security. As the personal residence of one of the traffickers, they probably didn’t expect anyone to come looking for Brian here. But, according to Charlie, microchips didn’t lie.
Still covered by darkness, Jack reached out and shook the nearest bush, drawing the guard’s attention.
“Come on, you stupid m
utt.”
Jack rattled the shrub again. The guard drew a weapon—– what looked like one of the newer SIG Sauer models –—and took a step forward.
“Fang!”
Come on, come on, Jack silently urged. He needed the guy away from the light and the cameras before disabling him, and time was wasting. Thankfully, the guard complied. The moment he was within reach, Jack sprang up from behind the bush, took him down with one swift shot to the head with the butt of the gun, then dragged him behind the bush next to Fang.
“I’m in.”
Damn it, Charlie was already inside and here he was playing footsie with Muttley and some Scarface wannabe. He was tempted to skip the zip-ties and duct tape, but opted for the ounce of prevention just in case things didn’t go exactly as planned. If he could eliminate another possible obstacle later, he would. After ensuring those two wouldn’t be causing any more problems, Jack high-tailed it around the garage, staying low as he slipped past a red Maserati and a black Lincoln Towne Car.
With the theme song from Mission Impossible inexplicably going through his head, he made a beeline for the back, where Charlie’s blueprints had indicated a door leading to the lower levels. Crouching behind the front end of a Bentley, Jack raised the small gun and pointed at the security camera above the entrance. With a deep calming breath, he lined the sights and pulled the trigger. According to Charlie, the fingernail-sized scrambler would freeze the feed for ten seconds, giving him the opportunity to slip in unnoticed. Jack figured it worked when he stepped up to the door, disabled the lock with another new-age-looking contraption, and entered without a gun in his face.
“I’m in,” he whispered.
“About fucking time. What kept you?”
Jack ignored Charlie’s ribbing and focused. Eight minutes. That’s how long he had to find Brian and get the hell out before the next guard came around the house and discovered the first guard missing.
He crept down the stairs noiselessly, moving quickly and on full-alert. When he hit the bottom, he waved the high-tech gadget again and heard the telltale snick of the lock disengaging on the door there. Charlie had some very cool toys.
Forever Mine: Callaghan Brothers, Book 9 Page 21
