The Abduction

by Mark Gimenez

  John ran on.

  The suspect was crouched behind an old truck and loading a goddamned grenade launcher! On the ground beside him was an MP-5 fully automatic machine gun! And FBI Special Agent Pete O’Brien was betting that truck didn’t have an up-to-date vehicle registration on file with the Idaho DMV!

  Pete was standing twenty meters behind the suspect. His adrenaline was pumping double-time; his rifle was aimed at the suspect’s back. Just as he was about the squeeze the trigger, the voices of his Academy instructors came screaming back to him:

  “An FBI agent may not shoot a citizen in the back!”

  “FBI rules of engagement require that the suspect be given the opportunity to surrender!”

  “Suspects have constitutional rights!”

  “You must shout, ‘FBI! Drop your weapon! Yes, that grenade launcher!’ ”

  Of course, ordering this suspect to drop his weapon would give him an opportunity to shoot Pete first. But that’s what the “arresting agent” had done in every training exercise at the Academy; and every “suspect” had surrendered. But this wasn’t some bullshit hypothetical training exercise staged in Hogan’s Alley at the Academy with fake bad guys and fake bullets, where no one actually died when someone screwed up. This was the real fucking thing, a fucking shoot-out on a fucking mountain in fucking Idaho with a bunch of armed-to-the-fucking-teeth terrorists holding a little girl hostage and plotting to assassinate the President of the United States of America! At the Academy, they said 99 percent of all FBI agents would retire without ever having discharged their duty weapon at a suspect, much less ever having killed a suspect. Pete O’Brien sighed; he wasn’t going to be one of those agents.

  He shot the suspect in the back. Twice, to make sure he didn’t file a civil rights complaint.

  Ben heard two gunshots from west of the camp. Agent O’Brien’s position.

  He had to get around behind the camp. He ran north, deeper into the woods, then he turned west. He came upon the first cabin. He worked his way from tree to tree until he was at the east side of the cabin. He put his back to the exterior wall of the cabin then moved around to the backside and to a small window. Ben could see a man huddled inside in the rear corner; he was wearing yellowed long johns and pointing a sawed-off shotgun at the door.

  Ben stepped back, pulled the pins on the two frag grenades, and threw them through the window. He heard a shotgun blast as he ran for cover and hit the deck. After the explosion, he looked back.

  “Cripes!”

  John had almost stepped on the man laid out in the snow. His arms and legs were splayed, like he was trying to make a snow angel and stopped in mid-angel; his head was cocked in a grotesque manner, as if he were trying to look behind him. This is what Ben knows. Ben was still alive.

  John carefully stepped around the body and ran deeper into the woods, toward the cabins.

  Ben figured four men remained to be killed, maybe three if O’Brien had killed one on the west side. One was Captain Jack O. Smith. Another was the blond man hiding behind the woodpile out back of the main cabin fifty meters from Ben’s location and holding a large caliber handgun. Ben needed him alive, at least until they found Gracie. Ben dropped the cross hairs from the man’s head to his hand, the one holding the gun, and squeezed the trigger.

  Junior had never been in a real firefight before. He naturally figured he’d be a fearless son of a bitch because the major was. He figured wrong. He was shaking all over, and he was worried he might piss his pants.

  Charles Woodrow Walker, Jr., was a coward.

  As soon as the shooting started, he had run out back and hidden behind the woodpile, hoping Jacko and the others would take out the Feds. He was holding his .357-Magnum a foot from his face when it disappeared, along with his middle finger.

  “Get up, you're not hurt,” Ben said, kicking the blond man curled up in a fetal position on the ground; the man was holding his bloody right hand and groaning like a draftee after the first day of boot camp.

  “Where is she?”

  Before the man’s response—“Fuck you”—was out of his mouth, Ben’s boot was in it. When the man looked back up, his mouth was bleeding.

  He spat blood and said, “You ain’t FBI.”

  “And you're not your daddy, Junior.”

  “Ben Brice. You betrayed the major.”

  “He betrayed himself. Where’s Gracie?”

  “You ain’t never gonna find her.”

  Ben grabbed Junior by the collar and yanked him to his feet, then pushed him to the back door of the cabin.

  “Open it,” Ben said, pushing Junior in front of the door.

  Junior slowly opened the door. Holding Junior in front of him with his left hand and his rifle in his right, Ben entered the cabin. The main room was vacant. Two doors were at one end.

  “Gracie!”

  “She ain’t here.”

  Dragging Junior in tow, Ben checked the two small bedrooms at one end of the cabin. No sign of Gracie. Ben looked around the main room. Army ordnance containers were stacked high against one long wall: machine guns, mortars, grenade launchers, LAWS rockets, C-4 explosive, detonators, and napalm. Maps and charts and an aerial photograph of Camp David were on one wall.

  “What’s Gracie got to do with the president?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why’d you take her?”

  “Because she’s my sister.”

  Ben jerked around at Junior’s words. If he had not moved his head those few inches, the high-caliber bullet would have split his skull like a machete through a watermelon. As it was, the bullet creased the side of his head and felt as if someone had hit him with a two by four. He went to the ground. He felt warm blood streaming down his face. A big boot kicked Ben’s rifle away; a big hand yanked the Bowie knife from the sheath strapped to his thigh and snatched the knit cap off his head.

  “I should’ve killed you thirty-eight years ago.”

  Captain Jack O. Smith stood over Ben. He struggled to his feet.

  “How?” Ben said to Junior.

  Junior nodded to the captain. “Show him.”

  Captain Smith pushed Ben toward a closed door by the kitchen. “Open it.”

  Ben turned the knob and pushed on the door. It swung open, into a dark room. Junior moved by him and lit a kerosene lamp. He was standing next to a bed; he held the lamp up over the bed. And Ben saw him.

  Major Charles Woodrow Walker.

  His form under the blanket was frail, his face gaunt, and his blond hair thin. His eyes were closed. His body made no movement, as if he were—

  “Paralyzed,” Junior said. “What McCoy did to him.”

  “I thought he was dead.”

  “After we took the woman and got the major released,” the captain said, “we went down to Mexico. The major sent us back up here, said he’d be here in a month. Two months later, he ain’t back, so me and Junior drive down to Mexico. Locals was still talking about the black helicopters and finding the big blond man on the beach. Said he was taken to the hospital. That’s where we found him, like this. They put three bullets in him, one in the neck, cut his spinal cord. Been in that bed for ten years.”

  The major’s eyes flickered opened, found their focus, and looked at each of his visitors, finally coming to rest on Ben. After the recognition came into his eyes, Ben thought the major’s mouth moved. Junior leaned over the bed.

  “He wants to say something to you.”

  Ben stepped to the bed. The skin on the major’s face sagged now and the fullness was gone. But his blue eyes could still look into a man’s soul. He tried to say something. Ben leaned over and put his ear by the major’s mouth. The major’s words came out in a whisper and with great effort.

  “Junior showed me … picture … magazine … Elizabeth … the girl … blonde … mine … she belongs … to me … I will own … her life … as I’ve … owned yours … and her … mother’s.”

  “You raped Elizabeth.”

  A
thin smile. “Same as … those Viet gals … Difference is … I didn’t put a bullet … in her brain after …”

  And now Ben understood. The major was his connection to Gracie and hers to him. He couldn’t save the china doll. Thirty-eight years later, God was giving him a second chance.

  Ben stood tall.

  “You’ve owned my life, Major, that’s a fact, and maybe Elizabeth’s, too. But you won’t own Gracie’s. I guarangoddamntee it.”

  The major’s blue eyes flashed dark. They moved off Ben and onto the captain. Ben turned to face him. The captain advanced on Ben with the Bowie knife.

  John moved around behind the cabin, hugging the exterior wall, looking both ways, his heart pounding hard enough to hear. He came to a window. He peeked in.

  He pulled back quickly.

  Inside, Ben was standing next to a bed; an old pale man was lying in it. Next to Ben was a young blond man holding a gun; across the room from Ben was a big man with a tattoo. The two men from the soccer game. The men who took Gracie. The big man was holding a big knife.

  Little Johnny Brice’s hands were shaking. The urge to turn tail and run was building when he heard the big man say: “I’m gonna gut you just like the VC gutted your buddy Dalton.”

  John touched his father’s dog tags hanging around his neck, and it was at that moment, he would realize later, that Little Johnny Brice finally found his manhood on a mountain in Idaho. His mind and body calmed. All fear left him. He was no longer afraid: not of failing, not of the bullies, not of dying. There was manly in his genes, and he had found it, or it had found him.

  John raised his arms, holding the gun with both hands like Ben had showed him, then stepped in front of the window and fired. The glass shattered. John pulled the trigger as fast as he could until everything went dark.

  Jacko felt a bullet impact his shoulder. Next thing he knew, Brice leg-whipped him at the ankles, knocking his feet out from under him. Jacko hit the wood floor hard. Before he could react, Brice kicked him in the mouth, bringing blood. But Jacko always liked the taste of his own blood.

  Still, he didn’t remember Brice being this good.

  But he wasn’t good enough. Jacko rolled with the kick and come up quickly, the Bowie in his hand.

  Damn, this brought back some good memories!

  He moved toward Brice, excited at the thought of disemboweling the unarmed traitor he had cornered. He glanced over at the major. His eyes were alive and he was smiling.

  This is my destiny!

  When he looked back at Brice, he saw the major’s bedpan flying through the air at his face. And Jacko thought, Fuck, hope to hell Junior emptied it! He hadn’t. Jacko blocked the bedpan with his arms—urine and shit splattered on the floor and on him—only to realize too late that it was a fake, that Brice’s boot was coming at him hard and he couldn’t block it. The heel of the boot caught Jacko right in the center of his chest and drove his two hundred sixty-five pounds back hard against the opposite cabin wall. Shit! Jacko was surprised at the severity of the pain that suddenly grabbed at his chest. He had been kicked and punched in the chest many times and had never experienced such pain. Shit! He figured it would go away, but it didn’t. Instead it got worse and shot down his left arm; his right hand released the knife and grabbed at his chest. Shit! And at that moment he understood: he was having a goddamned heart attack! What a time to have a fucking heart attack! And he realized the truth: Ben Brice wasn’t his destiny; he was Ben Brice’s destiny.

  He dropped to his knees, sucking hard for air. He looked up at Brice and wanted to say fuck you, but he didn’t have the breath to get the words out. He took one last glance at the major; his eyes were wide, not believing what he was seeing. Jacko’s head felt light and he was suddenly dizzy. The light dimmed. For the first time in his life, Jacko didn’t have any strength, not even enough to hold himself up. He fell face down onto the wood floor. His eyes made out a boot just inches away. And he heard Ben Brice’s voice.

  “Who says old soldiers never die?”

  And his last thought before all life drained out of him on the floor in a cabin in northern Idaho and Captain Jack Odell Smith from Henryetta, Oklahoma, met his Maker was:

  Oh, that’s real fucking funny.

  Outside, John struggled to get up. He winced. He felt like someone had hit him in the head with a frying pan. He rolled over to get to his feet and—Cripes!—came face to face with another man lying beside him, his vacant eyes wide open. John was struck by the pure ugliness of the man’s face—and the ax embedded in his head.

  “You okay?”

  John looked up to see Agent O’Brien.

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  “Where’s the colonel?”

  “Inside … shit!”

  John pushed himself up and stumbled into the cabin and into the bedroom; Agent O’Brien was right behind him. The big man was lying face down on the floor. Ben was bent over him, hands on his knees.

  “Ben, you okay?”

  Ben straightened up slowly, like it hurt.

  “Yeah. You boys hurt?”

  “No,” John said. He gestured at the bed. “Who’s that?”

  “Major Charles Woodrow Walker,” Ben said.

  “I thought he was dead.”

  “He will be.”

  Ben turned to Agent O’Brien: “How many did you get?”

  “Two.”

  Ben nodded. “It’s just Junior now.”

  “Blond guy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He took off in a white truck,” Agent O’Brien said. “I put four rounds in it, guess I missed him.”

  “He said we’ll never find her.”

  “You go after him,” O’Brien said. “I’ll look for your girl.”

  6:19 A.M. PACIFIC TIME, BONNERS FERRY

  Ben put the old pickup in neutral and he and John rode it down the mountain to the Land Rover parked on the side of the road to town. Ben knew where they would find Junior. A white truck, minus the back window—Agent O’Brien hadn’t missed by much—was parked in front of the Boundary County Courthouse between the sheriff’s cruiser and a black Lexus SUV with new paper plates.

  They ran up the front steps into the courthouse and down the corridor to the sheriff’s office. The receptionist took one look at them—the black overalls, the face paint, and the blood—and picked up the phone. Sheriff Johnson appeared before she had hung up.

  “Colonel, you okay?”

  Ben nodded and wiped blood from his face. “Where’s Junior?”

  “In a cell. He confessed.”

  “Did he say what he did with Gracie?”

  The sheriff shook his head. “He’s done lawyered up. Wants immunity.”

  The sheriff motioned for them to follow and led them through a door. Behind the door were four cells. Three were empty. In the fourth, Junior sat on a bunk; his right hand was bandaged. A fat man in a sweat suit who looked as if he had just gotten out of bed sat in a chair next to Junior, a briefcase in his lap. He looked up at Ben and said, “Who the hell are you, Rambo?”

  The sheriff unlocked the cell door. The fat man said, “My client will disclose the girl’s location for complete immunity.”

  “Norman, only the D.A. can grant immunity from prosecution, you know that. And he won’t be back till tomorrow.”

  “Then we’ll deal tomorrow,” Norman the lawyer said, slamming his briefcase shut. He stood. To Junior: “Keep your mouth shut and you’ll walk out a free man tomorrow.”

  Norman turned to leave, but Ben blocked the cell door.

  “My granddaughter’s on that mountain. She’ll die before tomorrow.”

  Norman shrugged. “Just doing my job.”

  “Not much of a job.”

  “Pays good.” Norman smiled. “Sorry about your girl, but she’s not my concern.”

  “She is mine,” Ben said. Then he punched Norman the lawyer in his mouth. Norman went down like a sack of potatoes.

  From the floor: “I’ll sue! Sheriff, I wa
nt to press assault charges! You witnessed it!”

  “You fell and hit your face on the floor.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me, Norman. Now get your butt outta my jail.”

  Norman scrambled up and stormed out. “You haven’t heard the last of this!”

  After the door shut behind Norman, the sheriff turned to Ben. “I hate lawyers. Had a cousin once, become a lawyer. Whole family disowned him.”

  “Let him go,” Ben said.

  The sheriff recoiled. “What? Colonel, why the hell would I let him go, he’s done confessed and—”

  It hit him. The sheriff eyed Ben curiously; he smiled slightly. He nodded slowly.

  “All right, Colonel. Sometimes the rules just don’t work.”

  Junior glanced from the sheriff to Ben and back, his eyes suddenly wide. “The hell you mean, you can’t let me go! I confessed! I’m guilty! I kidnapped her!”

  The sheriff turned his hands up. “Junior, there’s no girl so I got no evidence to hold you. Son, you got constitutional rights. This is America.”

  The sheriff grabbed Junior and yanked him out of the cell. He then pushed Junior through the office and out the front door. They stood on the steps of the courthouse.

  “Good luck, Colonel. But you better move fast, FBI’s coming. Fella over at the airstrip called, said the director himself is flying in.”

  7:12 A.M. PACIFIC TIME, BONNERS FERRY

  Junior was silent on the trip back up the mountain. When they arrived, Agent O’Brien ran up to the vehicle.

  “I couldn’t find her. She’s not in any of the cabins or the vehicles. I searched a fifty-meter perimeter—nothing.”

  Ben pulled Junior from the vehicle. “Where’s she at?”

  “Fuck you,” Junior said.

  Ben punched Junior in the face. He fell to the ground. Ben yanked Junior up and felt a sharp pain in his gut.

  “Junior, I don’t have time to play games. If you want to live, tell me where she is.”

  “You kill me, you ain’t never gonna find her.”

  “Listen to me, son, you’re not tough enough to handle what I’m gonna do to you. Now where is she?”