Hunt the Jackal

by Don Mann

  That was when the cold reality of her situation hit her and she remembered Sedona and the armed young men in her room. Instinctively, the muscles in her neck and her sphincter tightened, and she realized that she wasn’t coming out of a normal sleep, or even a dream. She’d been drugged and was being transported somewhere. Ripped away from her complex life.

  She’d read a story recently about the hundreds of thousands of women who were captured every year and sold into sexual slavery. Was it possible that they had mistaken her for a much younger woman?

  Struggling not to panic, she willed her mind to focus and slowly became aware that she was bound to a seat, and that a blindfold of some sort covered her eyes. When she turned her head to the right, an orange light filtered through.

  The vehicle she was in was moving very fast, a seeming reflection of the rate at which Lisa felt herself losing control of her life.

  Minutes later she was jolted by the wheels of the plane hitting a tarmac and the jets engines slamming into reverse. Her mind snapped back to the interrupted bath, the young woman pointing the pistol. And in that instant, she remembered the dark eyes and warm-colored skin and started to panic, because she realized that this was her reality and there was no escaping it.

  Remembering her daughter and wondering what had happened to her, she attempted to rip herself out of the seat. She tried to open her mouth to scream and get someone’s attention, but her mouth was taped shut.

  Crocker lay on the mattress on the cement floor of the six-by-eight cell looking up at the Israeli guard’s bald head and thinking back on how he had been arrested the night before, led away by armed Israel Defense Forces (IDF) soldiers while Mancini, Davis, and Akil were held back by more armed soldiers. With his wrists and ankles chained together, he had watched from the back of a truck as Cal was moved from the desert-camouflage-painted Yas’ur helicopter to a white-and-blue ambulance, and the bodies of Ritchie and the SOAR Black Hawk pilot and copilot were carried to a coroner’s black van. Even though he was angry and the muscles in his arms and legs were sore, it was a heavy sadness that dominated and wore him down.

  Part of him seemed lifeless, switched off, even as he performed multiple sets of push-ups and sit-ups and picked through the gray, tasteless meat and couscous that were delivered on a tray through a slot at the bottom of the gray door. He drank the metallic-tasting water, stretched, and remembered the charges that had been read to him by the IDF officer the night before—disobeying orders, aggravated assault, attempted murder, and assault with a deadly weapon.

  He had no argument with any of them. What had happened, had happened. Looking back, he wouldn’t have changed any of it. But if he could, he would alter the order he had given Ritchie and Cal to stay on the Black Hawk. He’d had his reasons then, which he repeated to himself now. But they seemed hollow and stupid in light of what had transpired. And he knew the decision would haunt him the rest of his life.

  He pictured his teammate’s wide, smiling face with the wise-ass look he got just before he made some smart remark. It seemed impossible that Ritchie was dead, because the memory of him seemed so real.

  Crocker sensed Ritchie’s presence in the cell with him and heard him comment on the shitty accommodations and tell Crocker that one of these days he had to learn how to treat himself better.

  He thought he felt a hand on his shoulder, which caused the little hairs on his neck to stand at attention.

  A key rattled in the door; then the door swung open. In the stark fluorescent light stood three men—an IDF officer in uniform, an American navy commander, and an American civilian in a beige suit.

  “You okay, warrant?” the navy commander asked.

  “Sir?”

  Crocker blinked. Realizing he was standing naked, he covered his privates with his hands.

  “You acted recklessly last night.”

  “I wouldn’t characterize it that way, sir.”

  The pale U.S. commander stepped forward, handed him a khaki uniform, and said, “We’re going to ask you to listen to the charges and sign a statement. After that you’ll be released.”

  The civilian moved out of the stark light so his face became visible. “Sometime within the next six weeks you’ll have to return to face charges,” he said. “We don’t know exactly when that will be.”

  Crocker nodded. “Understood.”

  He showered, dressed, and stood at attention in a hot little room as the charges were read. Then he made a statement into a digital tape recorder in which he recounted the incident with the Israeli pilot and copilot moment by moment. He sensed Ritchie’s presence with him the whole time.

  An hour later, he was escorted onto a military jet bound for Andrews Air Force Base just outside D.C. Another short flight, and nineteen hours after he’d departed from Tel Aviv, he walked into his house in Virginia Beach. Holly was sitting with her legs curled under her watching Late Night when he entered and set down his gear.

  “Tom, you okay?” she asked as she hugged him.

  “I’m back,” he answered, noticing the red around her eyes. “How about you?”

  “I spent the last two hours on the phone with Monica.”

  “Bad?” he asked, leaning over and kissing her.

  “She just can’t accept it.”

  “Neither can I,” Crocker said.

  They sat on the sofa and held hands as he talked about the irony of Cal’s death—the apparent result of a simple mechanical problem, even though they had been operating in dangerous enemy territory. In a low voice, he confessed that he had ordered Cal and Ritchie to stay on the doomed helo.

  “But you had good reasons for doing that, didn’t you, Tom?”

  “They feel real stupid now.”

  “Don’t blame yourself.”

  He couldn’t help it, because part of him demanded an explanation. Which was why he needed two Ambiens and a couple of glasses of bourbon to fall asleep.

  The next morning, feeling tired and numb, he put on his navy dress blues, which he had grown to hate, drove to a local funeral parlor, and entered with Holly by his side. He moved among mourners like a ghost. They were talking in hushed tones and crying.

  “Glad you could make it,” Mancini whispered as they took seats next to him and his wife, Teresa.

  “Me, too.”

  “I’m still pissed at those fucking Israelis.”

  Crocker nodded. He looked at the SEALs and their wives sitting around them, all thinking that one day this could happen to them. It was something they lived with and that bound them together into a tight community. Death, injury, mental breakdown, and divorce were always present, even as they raised their kids and tried to plan for the future.

  Friends and family took turns getting to their feet and walking to the front of the room, where a dark wooden coffin sat against a backdrop of thousands of white and red roses. To the right, resting on an easel, sat a large framed picture of Ritchie smiling in his navy dress uniform, looking full of mischief like he always did.

  The whole scene felt sad and unreal, like a strange pantomime or a bad dream.

  Crocker knew Ritchie wouldn’t approve. He hated ceremonies, particularly funerals. He’d always been a casual, fun-loving guy with an unquenchable appetite for action and danger who understood the risks he was taking.

  His death’s coming two weeks before he was to be married seemed wrong.

  Crocker shifted his weight on the cushioned seat and said to himself: If only I had let Cal and Ritchie fast-rope with us, all of this could have been avoided.

  In his head, for the umpteenth time, he repeated the reasons he’d told them to stay on the helo. The packs Ritchie and Cal were carrying were too heavy. It was safer to land the helo first.

  Safer. Yeah, right. The guilt and irony hit hard.

  “How’s Cal?” he whispered to Mancini, trying to change the subject in his own head.

  “He was moved out of the ICU in Tel Aviv last night.”

  “Good,” Crocker said, nodd
ing.

  He spotted Monica across the aisle, looking like someone had kicked her repeatedly in the head. Her eyes were swollen and her mouth twisted into a painful grimace.

  Holly leaned into him and whispered, “They’re going to close the casket now. We should pay our last respects.”

  “Last respects?”

  “Yes.”

  That phrase didn’t make sense. First of all, Ritchie wasn’t there, either physically or spiritually. Secondly, Crocker had always respected him, and forever would. Thirdly, the bond between them transcended respect or even friendship, which was something most people couldn’t understand. They had picked up girls together, gotten drunk and into bar fights, hazed each other mercilessly on birthdays, fought, bled, cried, and laughed together. They had even spent two full days together in a little water-filled hole on a beach in Somalia.

  Your experience of someone was your experience. There was no way to sum it up in a few words, explain it, or fit it into a pretty little Hallmark homily. It was what it was—the laughs, misunderstandings, highs, lows, annoyances, pleasures, and all.

  Crocker felt Holly pulling him up. “Come with me,” she whispered.

  They walked stiffly arm in arm to the front of the room. He saw people turn to them and nod solemnly—including Ritchie’s half brother, Mitch, his ex-girlfriend Tiffany, his mother.

  When they passed Monica sitting on the aisle, Crocker leaned over to her and whispered, “Ritchie loved you very much.”

  She squeezed his hand and whispered back, “Thank you.”

  They knelt before the open coffin, and a strange chemical-masked-with-perfume smell oozed out, tickling Crocker’s nostrils and making him want to sneeze. Holly squeezed his forearm. The thing lying in the coffin looked like a ceramic doll dressed in a black suit.

  Holly whispered, “They did a good job, didn’t they?”

  Crocker almost said, “No, not at all!” But bit his tongue instead.

  She was trying. They all were. And the discomfort they felt only seemed to make it worse.

  He wanted badly to get out of there, take off the uncomfortable uniform, and go for a run in the woods. Maybe he’d stop at Stumpy Lake, where he and Ritchie sometimes went kayaking together. He’d sit and remember his friend, whom he now saw in his mind’s eye riding his Indian Chief, wearing sunglasses and with the sun highlighting his proud Cherokee cheekbones and the wind blowing his shiny black hair back.

  If he sensed him there, amid the buttonbush and cordgrass, Crocker would tell him that he admired him and missed him, and that would never change.

  Lisa Clark sat on a veranda overlooking a garden and pool feeling like she was trapped in a strange dream and didn’t know how to make it end. There wasn’t much to see—a high ocher-colored wall, semitropical flowers and foliage like hibiscus, orchids, and bougainvillea, an Olympic-sized pool with a dolphin statue spitting water into it at the far end, the yellow-and-white-striped awning she sat under, high cumulus clouds and a light-blue sky in the distance.

  Everything seemed oddly still and ordinary, except for the young man with the automatic weapon who watched her and the other armed men in khaki who patrolled the grounds.

  She stared at a salad of grilled tuna, tomatoes, and avocado, and the glass of iced tea, but didn’t want to eat or drink because she suspected her captors were drugging her.

  What she wanted most from herself was to think clearly so she could ascertain where she was, who was holding her, and what she could do. But she was finding that hard because of the fear, drugs, and sense of dislocation. In her sleep she was haunted by dreams of being chased by animals and strangers. And when awake, her mind seemed to fixate on strange things like her husband’s schedule, or household budgets, or unpleasant experiences from her past.

  Despite her hunger, she pushed the salad away. Then, glancing up at the good-looking young man with the nasty-looking submachine gun and a silver crucifix around his neck, she said politely, “Excuse me, but I need to use the bathroom.”

  There was no reason not to maintain her dignity and appear polite.

  “Of course, Señora,” the young man answered. “You are not hungry today?”

  “No. My stomach is bothering me.”

  “It’s upset, Señora? I will call someone.”

  “Thank you.”

  She had to wait for a female guard to accompany her. As the young, oval-faced woman looked on, Lisa did her business, washed her hands, and drank heartily from the bathroom tap. Somewhere she had read that a person could live for two weeks or more without food, but only a couple of days without water.

  The last day and a half had been weird, disorienting, and frightening, but not unpleasant as far as her physical comfort was concerned. Aside from the fact that she was being held prisoner; had been drugged; wasn’t allowed access to a phone or computer, books, newspapers, or news of any sort; and was watched 24/7 (even by a female guard as she took a shower), she had been treated relatively well.

  Her current surroundings reminded of her of a very upscale resort, not unlike the one in Sedona, which felt like it was a million miles and many years removed.

  She had her own beautifully appointed room and bath with sixty-four-inch plasma TV equipped with Netflix, the finest bath and spa products, and a closetful of resort attire and shoes in her size. Anytime she wanted anything from the kitchen, all she had to do was ask one of the young guards—all of whom were well groomed and polite—and it was served to her by a servant dressed in white.

  Her primary worry had been her daughter, whom she loved more deeply than she had even realized. But as the hours and days passed and she didn’t see or hear her, she became more and more convinced that Olivia had managed to escape or had been spared.

  She held on to that belief because the alternative was too awful.

  Every time she asked why she was being held and who was in charge, she was told that the jefe would arrive soon and explain. But she was given no indication who the jefe was.

  Since jefe was a Spanish word that meant “boss” and the people guarding and attending to her spoke Spanish, Lisa concluded that she was somewhere south of the border—maybe Mexico or Costa Rica, two places she had visited in the past.

  Turning to the young woman who was sitting with her now, she asked again politely in English, “Can you please tell me when this is likely to end?”

  The young woman shook her head. “I’m sorry, Señora. I don’t know.”

  “Does the jefe want something specifically?”

  The young woman smiled. “We all want something, Señora.”

  “Do you know the jefe personally?”

  “Of course. He’s like my father.”

  Lisa tried not to reveal anything about herself, or what she was feeling, or to offend her captors. The room was elegant, with ornate Moorish-style plaster flourishes in the cornices and on the walls, but didn’t say much about the people who owned it, or ran it, because there were no personal or unusual items in it, except for a large framed picture of a skeleton in black nun’s robes holding a scythe on the wall beside the bed.

  She thought it looked vaguely Mexican and might have something to do with a Catholic sect or cult.

  “Who’s that?” she asked, pointing at the picture and feeling relatively clearheaded for the first time since her abduction.

  “La Santísima Muerte,” the woman answered.

  “La Santísima Muerte.”

  “Yes.”

  “Doesn’t muerte mean death?”

  “Yes.”

  Lisa, who had been raised Catholic but had rarely gone to church before she was married, had never heard of La Santísima Muerte. Her husband studied and regularly quoted the Bible, but she had never heard him mention anything like this.

  “Who is she?” she asked.

  “La Santa is a very powerful force,” the young woman answered. “Some say she’s an incarnation of the Aztec goddess Mictecacíhuatl, who is the wife of the death god Mictlantecuhtli.”


  Lisa wasn’t familiar with Mictecacíhuatl and knew very little about Aztec culture and worship, except that the Aztecs had devised an elaborate sun calendar and believed in human sacrifice.

  “Others say she is the spirit of the Virgin Mother, who still haunts the earth.”

  Lisa shivered, then asked, “What does she represent?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “What does she do?”

  “She’s very powerful and grants special favors to people in need,” the guard answered. “If you pray to her, she can protect you from all kinds of violence.”

  “Violence?” The word frightened her.

  “Yes, Señora. For the magic to work for you, you have to give up your conscience first. Because the black arts demand this.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “La Santísima Muerte knows the reality,” the young woman explained. “This is a dark world, Señora. We didn’t create this world of violence, obstacles, and enemies, but we are not naive. We know that love and kindness don’t work.”

  “Who are we?” Lisa asked.

  “The people, Señora. The ones who understand the power.”

  Pushed by the same wild, relentless energy he’d had since he was a kid, Crocker rode his Harley south, winding through country roads, not really aware of where he was going or why, just enjoying the rural scenery, the sunshine, smells of nature, and fresh air. There was something liberating about being on the open road with no real destination. Edenton, Tarboro, Rocky Mount, Smithfield, Clinton, Whiteville, Marion, Lake City. Towns flew by, schools, churches, golf courses, junkyards filled with rusting cars and buses, lakes.

  He was searching for an answer or direction. Was it time to retire, leave the teams, and start something new? Had his string of narrow escapes from tragedy run out?

  As he rode, he thought about his mother and father, and the cycle of life and death.