No excuses will be accepted for your failure to send the $25 million. Your failure will result in the disappearance forever of Hallee Lamberth.
It is not my desire to harm the child, believe me. When I verify that the money has been transferred, I will contact you with directions immediately on where to pick up your daughter, healthy and unharmed.
Now, however, he was trying to appease a curiosity that had been growing stronger and stronger during the past couple of days. Who was Al Forte? He had known of the man before but there was something about him that bore closer scrutiny. The man seemed relentless, not easily derailed from what he thought he should do. A trait to be admired for sure, the killer thought, but one that could cause trouble for the operation.
During the previous night, when he had taken Hallee, the killer had made it all the way back to the van before Forte had discovered the girl was missing. He had watched on the monitors as Forte had immediately leaped through the window and onto the roof, scrambling in pursuit. There had been no hesitation. The killer mentally congratulated himself for the detailed planning he had done. Forte’s lightening response could have endangered a more casually-run operation.
Perhaps the man needed another distraction or two to take his attention off the Lamberth case. He picked up his cell phone, called a number, spoke a few words into the phone and hung up. He turned back to the computer.
The killer clicked and scrolled through screen after screen of information about Forte. After an hour or so of reading, he had begun to piece together the background of Al Forte.
Forte was born February 29, 1964 on a Saturday at Keesler Air Force Base Hospital in Biloxi, Mississippi. His dad was not a flyer, however, but was in the Navy Seabees, which had an installation there at the base. Both of his parents were killed in a car accident in the summer of 1971. He went to live with his grandmother, who managed a liquor store in New Orleans. The grandmother died in her sleep six years later and Forte was virtually homeless at age 13.
The information was sketchy about his teen years but it seemed that a friend of the grandmother’s, an old Creole barber, had taken the boy into his home.
The killer stopped scrolling the computer screen, closed his eyes and tried to imagine what that must have been like. He had few points of reference himself, having grown up in an orphanage. He opened his eyes and kept reading.
There were sports stories on Forte’s days as a high school football player. He had played for St. Joseph High School in the parochial league and had been quite effective at the linebacker position. One article referred to him as “Alvin the Anvil” because opposing running backs were “stopped cold” when they ran into him. A few scholarship offers had come his way, but he opted to join the Navy after graduation.
He excelled in the armed services and after a year or so made it into the elite training program for Navy SEALs. The Sea/Air/Land commandos were under the direction of the Naval Special Warfare division and were reputed to be the toughest of the U.S. military’s special forces. Forte had distinguished himself early as a SEAL in Panama as part of Operation Just Cause and again in Desert Strike a couple of years later.
During a furlough trip back to New Orleans, Forte had met a social worker named Ruth Blaise. Within the year, the two married but the relationship was fairly short-lived. The wife was murdered in 1994 by a teenage gang member in a midtown alley. Apparently the eighth-grade boy had been a client of the woman’s and the death was the result of a gang initiation prank gone wrong. Unbeknownst to the boy, someone had loaded bullets in the gun, which was supposed to have been empty.
Forte had tracked down the boy and had, by his own admission, been an inch away from murdering the teenager in an act of cold-blooded vengeance. His own anger terrified him. He caught himself in time, but he was crushed by the loss. For a period of nearly two years following his wife’s death, he came apart at the seams. He tried unsuccessfully to make the pain go away with liquor and after one particular month-long drinking binge, he graduated to cocaine. He drifted through a haze of booze and white powder for months before waking up in a detox unit at Tulane Medical Center. A friend of his, Manning Laird, had found him close to death in his apartment and had rushed him to the hospital.
After a six-month stint in a drug treatment center in Florida, Forte had resolved to use his talents for a good purpose. He had used inheritance money to start The Refuge, a shelter for children in extreme danger. After a year he had turned over the shelter’s day-to-day operations to an independent board and had opened his own company, Forte Security, specializing in the protection and recovery of kidnapped children.
The first major assignment for his new business had been to find and bring back a local boy who had been stolen by a disgruntled New Orleans city employee. The boy was the grandson of long-time city councilman Thomas Christenberry, a man of no small financial and political means. The New Orleans police and FBI had spent a week making no headway on the case. Forte had found the boy in Italy and had brought him home safely within three days. The kidnapper and an accomplice had been killed during the rescue. Old man Christenberry, who died of cancer within six months of the kidnap recovery, had set up and endowed a foundation in his will that reputedly would fund the operation of The Refuge amply for as long as Forte cared to keep it in existence.
Since that time, more high-profile cases had come his way, boosting Forte’s reputation until he was recognized as one of the foremost experts in kidnap recovery in the world. He refused all cases, however, except for those involving children. He said he had decided on that particular refinement of his mission in honor of his late wife.
The killer leaned back in his chair, rubbed his eyes and got up. Television noises, muted by the soundproofing, came from Hallee’s room. He stepped to the bedroom door and knocked. “Everything okay in there?” he asked. The girl did not answer but the volume decreased on the TV set. “Answer me now, Hallee,” he said, louder.
Her voice came back more clearly than he expected. She was apparently standing on the other side of the door. “I’m here,” she said.
“Do you need anything?”
“No. Except to go home.”
“You will see your mom tomorrow.”
There was no response now.
He stood at the door, listening. “Get some rest,” he said. He walked back to the computer desk. He looked at the screen again then walked into the den and stood at the picture window overlooking the sleepy Gretna street in front of the house.
He imagined that happy families lived in all the quaint houses up and down this street and throughout this neighborhood. It had that kind of homey feel to it. Middle class folks with average kids and mediocre dreams of paying off the mortgage and someday collecting that pension so the grandkids could come for a week or two each summer. People not unhappy with the lot they had chosen. People with their heads in the sand. People without a mission in life and most of them unaware of the need for one.
He had a mission. And Forte had one. They were alike in that respect, he mused. They were both dedicated to their goals. In a way, he regretted that Forte had to be his enemy. If the man had seen the things he had seen, he probably would be on his side. But as his second foster-dad had often said, "You gotta play the cards you’re dealt."
He turned away from the window and went back to the computer. He clicked on the Favorites icon and navigated through the World Wide Web to his favorite chat room: StrikeBack. It was devoted to the discussion of using lethal force to protect the unborn. He logged on as KillShine, one of his chat nicknames, and entered the room. Five people were there already and a discussion was in progress, as usual.
Swordsman: Oh, I agree that the guy did a good job taking out the doctor. I just don’t see why he had to kidnap the girl.
Angelfist: I don’t get that either.
BreakMan: Maybe he wants to make a stronger statement. Like an eye for an eye. A child for a child.
Swordsman: Or a child for a million child
ren.
BreakMan: Millions of children since Roe in ’73.
No one typed anything for a few moments. In the house in Gretna, the monitor bathed the darkened room with an eerie light.
Another person joined the online conversation, someone who had been lurking in the chatroom, not saying anything. The killer had not seen him in the room before. His nickname was Rescuer.
Rescuer: That’s not right. An innocent child’s life traded for another innocent child or a million more innocent children. It’s just one more wrong.
Angelfist: Yeah I agree with that.
BreakMan: Maybe he wouldn’t really kill her. Maybe he just wants the money.
Rescuer: So then he’s just a pure capitalist like everyone else. Like the abortion doctors themselves.
The man in the Gretna house frowned at the screen. What does this guy know. He let his fingers clatter over the keyboard and watched his comment come up on the screen.
KillShine: Maybe there are other reasons. More complicated.
Rescuer: REASONS Like what?
KillShine: Like … he thinks the blood money that came from all those dead children can be used…. can be redeemed… to … further the cause.
Rescuer: The cause. Right. Who is this guy?!!
KillShine: Yes, the cause of defending innocent children from murderers.
Rescuer: So the life of this child can be sacrificed then, in the name of the cause.
KillShine: She won’t be …
The killer reached to hit the delete key but hit the Enter key from force of habit. He stared at his words on the screen. The person named Rescuer questioned the statement immediately.
Rescuer: She won’t be? SHE WON’T BE WHAT??
The killer slammed his hands on the table, making the keyboard jump. He logged off.
* * *
At his office, Forte sat and stared at his computer screen. What had happened?
Who was KillShine?
He drummed his fingers on the desk and waited for him to log back into the chat room. Finally he leaned forward and typed two words. His words appeared on the screen:
Rescuer: Logging off.
He reached over and clicked off his desk light.
Chapter 21
Sunday, 9 p.m.
Jackie Shaw maneuvered the van through the narrow streets of the Quarter, being careful to keep her turns slow so the grocery bags behind her seat wouldn’t tip over. On the radio, a Janet Jackson tune blared out. Something about nasty boys. Jackie was paying little attention. Nasty boys? Popular music has become so enlightening these days.
She was being careful to watch for anyone tailing her on her way back and forth from the shelter to the grocery store. Everything seemed normal for a Sunday evening in New Orleans. Some of the residents of the area strolling back from a walk in the park. A few joggers and cyclists grabbing some exercise before the next morning’s return to the weekly grind. No bad guys in sight. A quiet night.
She had been secretly glad that the regular grocery delivery had been cancelled. She didn’t even care to know why the grocer had dropped the ball. She was just glad to get out for a few minutes. As much as she loved her new job at the Refuge, she had gone too long without taking the free time that was due her. It was her fault. She had felt a special bond with the little girl Kyra. No one should have to deal with the murder of her own father by being locked away.
It made Jackie’s throat constrict to think about what that must feel like.
The grocery trip had been therapeutic. Squeezing the tomatoes, shaking the melons, sniffing the flowers. She had stretched her shopping time out a little longer than planned but they could give her a break. The Refuge was locked up tighter than Dick’s hat band with two burly guards on duty, a closet full of automatic weapons, and cameras everywhere. Dick’s hat band? One of her Dad’s favorite expressions.
Now, she was delivering the goods safely back home. She smiled to herself. Home. She already thought of if that way. Most people would hesitate to consider this unnatural setting a "home." But she was accustomed to unusual circumstances. Maybe that’s why she was drawn to the job. She had not felt such a sense of purpose in anything she had done before.
Jackie slowed the van for the final turn onto the street that ran behind the shelter. As she approached the garage door she scanned both sides of the street. Nothing was moving. She reached for the remote to open the garage door.
Boom! Crash! The rear window of the van exploded.
Jackie ducked as the shower of Plexiglas pebbles ricocheted against the metal walls inside the van.
Boom! Another shotgun blast hit the back door of the van.
An alarm went off next to the garage door. Everything seemed to slow down and come into sharp focus now for Jackie.
She jammed her hand into her purse and brought out a compact nine-millimeter automatic. She quickly checked the rearview mirror for anyone approaching her side of the van. Nothing.
She rammed the door with her shoulder at the same instant she pulled the door latch and rolled out on the pavement next to the van. Across the street in a doorway stood a man with a shotgun. Jackie leveled her gun at him and squeezed off two rapid shots.
The man scrambled backward out of sight.
Lying flat on her stomach, Jackie spun to her left. She looked under the van, between the tires for movement. She could only see a man's legs and they were edging toward the van.
Cha-chunk. The sound of another shell being shucked into the chamber. Boom! The person on the other side of the van blasted away at the vehicle.
Jackie carefully put the sights of her gun on the approaching man’s right foot. Crack! Her handgun bucked slightly in her hand but the bullet found the attacker’s foot. The man screamed and fell to the pavement. His shotgun clattered away from him on the street. Jackie could see the man’s face, a mask of pain, as he writhed on the street surface just a few feet away from her.
Thank you, Dad, for making me take all that target practice, Jackie thought. She knew help would show up soon. Only seconds had passed. She must keep the other gunman away.
Boom! Jackie felt something sting her leg. The attacker across the street had opened fire again. She scrambled under the van on her stomach. Boom! Another blast hit the van. Blam! The front tire closest to her blew out.
She peeked from behind the back tire of the van and leveled her gun at the man with the shotgun. Crack! Crack! Crack! She sent three rounds at the doorway across the street. The barrel of the shotgun pulled back quickly.
The alarm on the wall next to the garage door was deafening now.
Her leg was stinging. She put her hand on her thigh and felt a spot of wet the size of her palm. It didn’t feel serious. Yet.
Boom! Boom! She cringed. These shotgun blasts came from her left. But they didn’t hit the van. They were directed at the man across the street.
She felt a twinge in her leg as she scooted forward for a better look at the action. The man across the street stuck his barrel out and fired without looking where his blast went. Three quick blasts came back at him. He poked his head out quickly and looked toward the left of the opposite corner diagonally. The attacker dashed for the corner on his side of the street. Boom! A blast followed him. He took another wild shot from the corner.
A long black car shot through the intersection at the corner and screeched to a halt. From her vantage point, Jackie could see the man turn to look at the car. He looked confused. Two large men jumped out of the car and grabbed the gunman, who struggled but did not try to shoot them. They threw him into the back seat of the car. It screeched away.
Jackie laid her head on her arm, which was stretched in front of her under the van. To her left, she heard the sound of footsteps.
Then Forte yelling “Stay down or you are dead!” The injured gunman Jackie had shot lay on the ground clutching his foot, moaning and muttering in Spanish. He made no sudden moves.
More footsteps approached on the run. Someone sh
outed, “Any more of them?” She recognized the voice of one of the shelter’s security guards.
“Looks like all of them,” Forte shouted back. “Jackie?”
She suddenly felt very tired. And dirty. Street grime covered the front of her shirt and jeans. The van’s radio sounded other-worldly from underneath the vehicle. “Under here,” she said.
Hands reached and pulled her out as gently as possible. She was placed on the sidewalk. On her thigh she could see a large dark blotch of scarlet. “Sit back,” Forte said. His hands probed along her leg. She winced. He took out a knife and cut away the denim around the blood-soaked spot. He dabbed at the wound and she jerked again. “Sorry,” he said. “The wound is going to annoy you but it’s not bad. A stray pellet got you.”
She nodded. Her eyes had been squeezed together. She opened them and saw the look on Forte’s face. She was startled. A chill ran down the back of her neck. His face looked calm but his eyes … those yellow eyes. Behind them boiled a storm of anger, controlled for the moment but needing release. Soon.
Jackie closed her eyes again. An ambulance siren sounded somewhere in the distance. She turned to ask Forte if she really needed to go to the hospital. She opened her eyes.
He was gone.
Chapter 22
Sunday, 10:30 p.m.
Forte walked along the opposite side of the street staying in the shadows of the oak trees as he circled the mansion for the second time. It took a while to completely circumnavigate the estate. The house was twice as big as the Lamberth house. The wall was higher and thicker and topped with razor wire. The mansion occupied an entire block.
A palace fit for a Colombian drug lord.
As he had sped through the black streets of Metairie on the way to the house, his rage had mounted. The attacks must stop. He had imagined blasting through the gate and riding his motorcycle up the stairs to pin Ricardo Aguilar to the wall. That fantasy balloon had burst quickly when he saw the house. Now that he had calmed down, he knew that a platoon of Marines would incur many casualties getting into Aguilar’s home. He had to assume that several guards armed with submachine guns patrolled the grounds and that more guards would be on duty inside the house. The drug lord was also sure to have plenty of high-scale surveillance equipment everywhere on the property too.
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