JC had hoped this day would never come.
His leaving the employ of The Mexican had been messy. Gutierrez had been angling for control of a bank in the United States or at least a high ranking bank officer he could influence and possibly control. He decided that the age-old practice of kidnapping would achieve the desired result faster than anything else and plotted to kidnap the grandson of a banker in Boston. Although JC had done some questionable things for The Mexican, this was going too far and loudly told his boss so. Gutierrez had excluded him from the planning and execution of the plot, so JC flew to Boston himself to warn the banker. He had arrived too late. The man’s grandson was already gone and the kidnappers were asking for five million dollars or a lifetime of favors. Arthur Phillips had chosen the money. JC knew the man would end up having to pay both. He offered to get the boy back. Phillips agreed and JC had done so, killing the men Gutierrez had sent to collect the ransom. JC, in a moment of weakness, kept the ransom money and told Arthur Phillips the kidnappers had taken it and escaped. The banker had no reason to ever doubt him. His kidnapping insurance covered the loss. With The Mexican in jail, hopefully forever, JC hoped he would never have to face this day.
His hope was dwindling.
“Listen, I can get you the money,” JC said. “It will take some time, but it can be done.” He had no intention of paying the man anything. He was simply trying to buy some time.
Gutierrez said something in Spanish. Rodrigo wheezed a few words in reply. Motioned with his thin hands. Had two men hold JC as he returned to his bag. Came back with a plastic bottle of Coca-Cola. The classic soda wash.
JC had experienced this more than once before. It was painful. It produced a sensation akin to drowning. Similar, in some ways, to water-boarding. He’d endured both water-boarding and the soda wash as part of his advanced training in the military. And occasionally, during his time in Bolivia, he would bet money against people who thought no American could withstand a soda wash. It was unpleasant. Painful. But it produced no lasting damage. Usually.
Rodrigo opened the plastic twenty-ounce bottle. Threw the cap away. Covered the opening entirely with his thumb. Started shaking. One of the men held JC’s shoulders while the other clamped JC’s head between his massive hands. There was nowhere to go. Rodrigo put the bottle right under JC’s nose and then moved his thumb slightly off the opening. A plume of warm bubbling liquid shot up into his naval cavity, fizzing and burning as it went. JC tried to close off the opening to his throat but it worked for only a second. Soon the liquid was running down his airways, into his throat, mouth and neck. He started kicking and coughing, bucking and shaking his head from side to side. Rodrigo backed away as much to avoid the kicks as to get out of the way of the cascading soda.
The men released JC and he continued to cough and spit and kick. He wanted to get them away from him for a moment, so he overplayed his reaction to the torture. Kept coughing. Finally stopped.
“Come on, Carlos? That’s it?” JC managed to say between coughs and spits. “Coca-Cola? A little clichéd, don’t you think? Couldn’t you have gotten some diet cola?” Looked at Humberto. “Perhaps some Fresca?”
Humberto moved to punch JC, but Rodrigo stopped him. Set down the cola and returned to his bag of tricks. JC looked at the tablet still propped on the chair. “Aren’t you bored of this yet?”
“No, not yet,” The Mexican said slowly. “I’ve been in prison for the past seven years thinking about this day. So, no. I’m enjoying it.”
“That’s it? Just going to torture me? For kicks?”
“Isn’t ‘for kicks’ purpose enough?” The man paused. “I am still waiting for you to convince me that you are going to pay me the thirty million.”
The Mexican stopped talking. JC could hear the closing of a box. Knew it to be the humidor the man kept on his desk. Waited for the snick as he snipped the end of the Cohiba cigars he liked to smoke when he was relaxed and at peace. Typically at the end of the day. Heard the distinctive sound of The Mexican’s Zippo lighter opening. Waited for the man to puff-puff his cigar into life. Heard the exhale.
“I don’t think you’re properly motivated just yet,” Gutierrez said.
Before JC could answer, Rodrigo stepped forward with a cattle prod attached to a car battery he carried by its plastic handle. He started on JC’s left calf, then thigh, then ribs. Moved around to his right side and repeated the same. Moved to his back and shoulders. Each time letting the prod shock him for only a second or so. Enough to cause pain and convulsions, but not enough to burn or permanently contract the muscles.
JC wanted to talk, wanted to discuss the question at hand with The Mexican. But his jaw was clenched in agony and his body seemed to be on fire.
Rodrigo was just warming up.
JC heard the doors behind him splinter and explode into pieces as a vehicle rammed them. The first shot hit Rodrigo in the head, forming a neat hole on his forehead but spraying gray matter, blood and chunks of bone, skin and hair behind him onto the tablet propped against the chair. JC slouched forward, both from relief at his rescue and in order to present as small of a target as possible. Humberto’s men had grabbed whatever weapons they could get their hands on and were making a last grand stand against JC’s team. He had no idea how many people were behind him, but he could tell by the weapons there were at least three shooters. He heard and saw the results of Duke’s shotgun, someone using an AK-47 because of its distinctive sound and another assault rifle. He thought he heard a handgun as well, but it was hard to tell.
Humberto grabbed one of his soldiers and was hiding behind him, his short-barreled shotgun poking out from the man’s right side, waiting to fire. Shuffling towards the back of the warehouse, the chest of Humberto’s human shield exploded in two three-shot bursts of bullets. Each landing inside an area the size of a coffee cup. All fatal. Humberto continued to hold the man upright, protecting himself as he made it to the back door. In the smoke and dust and haze inside the building, JC was just able to see him drop the dead body and escape through a door on the east side of the warehouse.
As soon as it had started it was over. All the kidnappers, save for Humberto, were dead or dying. If JC was right, his team was alive. He heard someone yelling, “Cease fire, cease fire!” Female. Not Joan. Karen?
JC allowed himself to pass out.
*****
He didn’t know how long he was out, but he realized it hadn’t been long. He could still smell the firefight in the air. Smell the broken wood of the doors. His hands had been cut loose. Someone was holding his head. He looked up.
Joan.
“Jackie? You back? Come on Jackie. Say something.” She caressed his blood soaked face. Rubbed his forehead. His cheek.
JC knew how terrible he looked. He didn’t care. Right now, looking up at Joan’s concerned face, he felt he had never seen another creature on Earth half as beautiful as she.
He smiled. “You’re beautiful, baby,” he said.
Joan laughed. Her voice, even through its laughter, broke as she cried for less than five seconds.
Theo lumbered over as Joan laughed. “Yeah, baby. You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
Joan rolled her eyes. JC knew it was her default reaction to whatever Theo said. He looked up at Theo. “You’re beautiful, Theo.” Trying to diffuse what he had said to Joan after having it overheard.
Joan gently placed his head on the ground. “Theo, check him. Make sure he’s not going to die.”
She stood. Theo squatted down next to him. “I love you, man.” JC started to laugh, but it hurt so much he had to stop. Theo’s face became serious, his combat medical training taking over. “Just lay still, buddy. I’m gonna see if you’ve got any leaks.” Started feeling over his body, probing for bullet holes.
JC lay there. In pain, but at peace. He was safe. For a while.
“I thought I told you I wanted these men alive!” Karen barked at Joan.
“I’m sorry,” Joan said. “Would i
t have helped if one of us had gotten shot and killed?”
JC looked at Theo. His former nurse looked at him, widened his eyes, shook his head back and forth a few millimeters, then suppressed a smile. JC smiled back. He knew Duke and Theo would fill him in on the details later.
“Come on,” Duke said to Karen, “let’s talk about this outside.”
JC heard them talking as they walked outside. Heard Joan walking around. She would be checking the kidnappers for a pulse. He knew if she found anyone still alive she would kill them where they lay. Heard her push dagger clear its holster hidden in her boot. Knew she had found someone still breathing and had cut their throat.
“Hold on!” Karen yelled. “What are you doing?”
“Ahhh, hell. Sit me up,” JC said to Theo.
Theo helped him into a sitting position. Picked him up and moved him to the chair.
“Listen, Karen,” Joan said, “I’m sorry you got mixed up in this, but there is no way any of these guys is going to be left alive after this. No way.”
“You just killed him. In front of me.”
“No,” Joan said, “he killed himself when he decided to go against us. It was a suicide mission. If his boss didn’t explain it, well, that’s on his boss.”
Joan turned and started moving to check on the other men lying in the warehouse. Karen drew her gun. Pointed it at Joan. “Don’t move a muscle,” she commanded.
Joan stopped. Turned back to her. “How do you know these guys aren’t booby-trapped? Waiting for someone to roll them over and check on them. Then the grenade they’ve got wedged under their body goes off. Little bit of payback from the grave.”
“You watch too many movies,” Karen said. “Nobody does that.”
Theo and Duke said in unison, “Yeah, they do.”
“I’ve seen it done more than a few times. I’ve set up dead bodies with booby traps myself on occasion,” Joan said. “Do it to gain time from pursuers. Once in Denmark and once in Nigeria. Worked very well.”
Duke was nodding. “Riyadh.”
“Bogota,” Theo said. “Buenos Ares. Mazatlán. Toronto. Chicago. Worked every time.”
Duke and Joan turned their heads slowly. Looked at him, surprised. Theo shrugged. “Don’t judge. I’m fat. Not stupid. I know I can’t outrun people chasing me so I take every advantage I can get.”
Karen looked around. “You people are insane.” She holstered her weapon and walked out of the warehouse. Duke followed her. Joan finished with her check of the bodies, dispatching two more of the surviving kidnappers. Came over to JC.
“Theo, how is he?”
“Beat all to hell but no leaks and nothing broken except his nose. He’ll be fine after a week or so of rest.”
“Good, get us a car,” Joan said.
“Right, boss,” Theo said and moved towards the door of the warehouse.
JC looked at Joan and did his best to raise his eyebrows. His right one went up half an inch. “Boss?” he said. Joan smiled. Looked at her fingernails. Breathed on them and rubbed them against her blouse. JC laughed. Joan squatted down in front of him. Put one hand on his thigh.
“Who did this?” she said softly. “The Mexican?”
He nodded. Moved his head in the direction of the chair, indicating the blood-soaked tablet. The feed was still live. The image had not changed. Joan looked over her shoulder. Stood. Walked over to it. Looked around to make sure nobody could hear. Squatted down.
“Can you see me?” she said.
No response.
“Hey, you shriveled up old bastard. Can you see me?”
“Yes,” the answer came, deliberately.
“Good. Listen carefully, you son of a bitch. My name is Joan Green. I was born Siobhan McLoughlin in Kilkeel on the Down coast of Northern Ireland.” Joan smiled. Viciously. “I am going to be the one to kill you.”
A man’s face came into view. Slowly. Old. Likely seventies. Handsome in his old age but with the pockmarks of an acne-filled youth. Worn, wrinkled skin. The skin of a worker, an outdoorsman, not the skin of a pampered elite partisan. White hair, cut short but not military short. Blue eyes, uncommon but not unheard of in Latin America. He inhaled on his cigar. Withdrew it from his mouth, allowing the smoke to roll from his mouth, into his nose, then back out like a bull.
“Come down to La Paz, Siobhan,” he said. “You’re welcome anytime. I’m sure you could try to kill me. I imagine, though, I’d end up having quite a bit of fun with you. Before I cut your body into pieces.”
Joan stood. Withdrew her pistol from its holster. “We’ll see,” she said. Shot the screen, killing the feed.
*****
JC was passed out in Theo’s stolen van before they had driven five minutes away from the abandoned and death-filled warehouse. The team had used Detective Garcia’s vehicle to drive from Hollywood over to the valley, leaving their own vehicle at the Highland Center where they had used her laptop to track down JC. Garcia had told them to take her laptop and get rid of it somewhere. She was planning on reporting it stolen to help insulate from any traces that could be wound back to her. She knew an investigation would be coming. She told the team she would stay at the warehouse. Wait for the police to show up. Do her best to get in front of the investigation. Gain as much credit as she could.
They had debated about burning the warehouse to the ground before they left. JC’s blood and DNA were everywhere and Joan had wanted to try and obscure that fact. Karen told them if they tried to destroy the crime scene she would shoot all of them herself. Duke had shaken his head at her naiveté but her stand had convinced the team it was a bad idea. Duke did his best to drive home the point to Karen that she needed to call in the bomb squad just in case Joan’s warnings about hand grenades under dead bodies turned out to be true. She agreed to it but her face betrayed the lack of respect she had for Duke and his team.
The short drive to their hotel in Glendale was quiet. Once there, the team carried JC as discretely as possible up to the hotel room and let him sleep. Theo checked him out. Made sure he was going to be okay through the night. Went out and came back later with an IV drip to keep him hydrated and sleeping well. After a quick planning session, Duke and Theo went to bed. Joan stayed with JC to watch over him during the night. She made two phone calls. First was to Meier to advise him of JC’s rescue and recovery. The second was to Kowalski. He questioned if they would still be able to carry out the targeting of Senator Marcus, given their recent troubles. Joan assured him they were going to finish the contract as agreed upon. Told him they were going out in the morning to scout locations for the assassination based on Marcus’s schedule and the equipment they would be using. Kowalski hung up, seemingly satisfied. Joan hung up with a smile. Rolled over in her mind the thought of Kowalski getting screwed after their plan for the senator and the aftermath of her shooting.
The next day was going to be a busy one. They needed to get the location scouted, get the remaining Secret Service M4 from the library in Arlington fitted with a sniper barrel that would make the shot they needed it to make. Take it to a range somewhere and get it sighted and zeroed in so the shot would hit Senator Marcus in the shoulder and not kill her. Needed to get rid of Karen’s laptop safely and believably. Needed to retrieve the .50 caliber sniper rifle from Kowalski and get it sighted in and zeroed as well. Finish planning for the assassination. Get their exit strategy in place. Get a backup in place as well as a backup for the backup just in case the first two exit plans failed or fell through. Probably get some rush false identification worked up.
It was going to be a busy twenty-four hours. So she slept. As she drifted off, the image of The Mexican came back into her mind. She slept deeply. Her dreams were ones of satisfying, blood-thirsty revenge.
Chapter 43
We Regret to Inform You
“The hell I am!” JC yelled. “I’m not staying here while you guys go out and plan this op yourselves!”
They had moved hotels again. The senator was giving two
speeches, one today and the other the following day, both in the morning hours and both in the Wilshire Boulevard area. The second speech would be her last. They decided it would be better to have their base of operations closer to the location of the shooting so they checked into the Wilshire Crest Hotel on Orange and South Crescent Heights, just off of Wilshire Boulevard. Although a fine hotel, it was a few notches below The Peninsula in Beverly Hills. At this point, the team knew they would have little sleep until the job was finished. They just needed a place to sleep when they could and hold their belongings.
Theo had told JC he needed to rest. Duke had tried to convince him that they could handle it. It wasn’t until Joan told him she would shoot him if he didn’t shut up that JC actually began to listen.
“Besides,” Joan said with a grim smile. “Kowalski will be coming by to drop off the .50 cal. It’ll give you two a chance to catch up on old times.”
JC agreed. Joan, Duke and Theo set out with the M4 that needed a sniper barrel installed and Karen’s laptop. Both projects would be taken care of by Theo’s connections. The M4 was going to an Armenian-run gun shop off the Sunset Strip while the laptop was going to a Russian owned pawn shop in the Los Feliz neighborhood of Los Angeles owned by an associate of Theo’s.
“They’re just going to sell it off to someone else?” Duke asked, concerned.
“No, they’ll destroy it,” Theo answered.
“With a hammer? That won’t cut it.”
Theo smiled. “Vat of acid. Any metal left over gets melted with a blowtorch into slag. We can watch if that will make you any happier.”
Satisfied, Duke led the way while Theo and Joan followed. JC lay down on the sofa, resting. Turned the TV on. Started flipping through the channels.
It wasn’t five minutes before there was a knock at the door. JC looked at his watch. Kowalski wasn’t scheduled to drop off the sniper rifle until eleven o’clock. It was only eight thirty. He thought about not answering the door, but the team had checked in under one of Theo’s false IDs. There was no way anyone would have been able to track him there. JC’s biggest concern at this point was The Mexican. With Humberto and his team dead, another action by his old boss was unlikely this soon.
[JC Bannister 01.0] The Fixer, Season 1 Page 24
