The Abduction (45 page)

“How do you know this? Our names haven’t been released.”

The major smiles. “Frank, I’ve got men in every branch of the military, active-duty officers waiting for my order, ready to restore order to America. And I’ve got men in law enforcement—how many ex-military are on your Hostage Rescue Team?”

“Most.”

The major nods. “I knew you’d be my escort before you did.”

“You’re plotting a coup?”

“I prefer to call it a regime change. You’re a good man, Frank, taking on this mission to save the hostage. Took guts. There’s room for a good man like you in my administration.”

The thought strikes Frank Kane. He is being blamed for Ruby Ridge. Heads will roll. And his might be one of them. Why not jump teams before he’s cut, like a pro football player who makes a better deal with another team? Why give a damn about loyalty to his country when his country has no loyalty to him?

Frank Kane sighs. He does. He gives a damn. His answer will likely cost him his life, but he says, “No thanks, Major.”

They are now one hundred eighty-seven miles into the heart of Kansas, in the middle of nowhere.

“Pull over,” the major says.

Kane steers to the shoulder of the road and cuts the engine. They are at an intersection of two farm-to-market roads. He can see for miles in each direction and all he can see are snow-covered fields. The major reaches over and removes the keys.

“Un-ass the vehicle,” he says.

Kane opens the door and steps out into the cold. He walks around the vehicle and joins the major, two naked men in Kansas.

“What now?” Kane asks.

“Here comes my slick.”

He’s looking off in the distance, skyward. Kane squints into the blue sky and sees a black dot growing bigger fast. In less than a minute, Kane identifies an Apache helicopter gunship flying low to the ground.

“Flying contour,” the major says. “Under the radar.”

The gunship arrives in a flurry of dust and snow blown up by the rotor blast. Kane notices that the pilot is wearing a military uniform. And that the gunship’s rockets are aimed at the Suburban.

“You might want to step away from the vehicle,” the major says.

“Where’s Austin?” Kane asks.

“We’ll release her.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“How do I know?”

“You have my word, Frank.”

The major steps onto the skid of the gunship. He reaches inside and tosses a green blanket to Kane. Then he salutes him, like the president saluting his crew on the South Lawn as he boards Chopper One. He rises off the ground like a god.

As Frank Kane tries to comprehend the site of a naked Major Charles Woodrow Walker being lifted skyward by an Apache helicopter gunship in the middle of Kansas, a rocket fires from the gunship and blows the Suburban to smithereens.

Elizabeth Austin is locked in a small room in what appears to be a small cabin. Through the tiny window she can see the sand and cacti of a desert. She’s somewhere in the southwest, near Mexico or maybe in Mexico.

The last thing she remembers is stepping into her town house. When she woke, she was lying on the bed in this room and in pain. Two of her teeth have been removed. She spits blood and is working her jaw to relieve the throbbing pain when the door opens and Major Charles Woodrow Walker enters. He shuts and locks the door behind him. She thinks,
He’s not locking me in; he’s locking them out.

“Sorry about the teeth,” the major says. “McCoy wouldn’t listen to reason.” He shakes his head. “A politician.”

Standing there in a long-sleeve black work shirt, jeans, and boots, his blond hair shaggy, his face clean-shaven, with the erect posture of a soldier, Walker seems the embodiment of the man he once was, the chosen one at West Point, the charismatic leader of men, the Green Beret legend; but not the man he is now, the most dangerous man in America.

He stares at her, and she can see the evil come into his eyes. He examines her—she’s still wearing the same blouse and skirt from her suit—as if trying to come to a decision. He decides.

“Take your clothes off.”

“Go to hell.”

He steps to her, grabs her blouse, and rips it off. She swings her fist at his face; he doesn’t bother to block her punch. It has no affect on him.

“Make it easy on yourself,” he says. “But you will do what I want.”

Her bra comes off next and she is standing before him. She does not cower or cry. She will not. He looks at her beauty and his respiration increases; his blue eyes turn dark. He comes close; she knees him in his groin. He backhands her across the face and knocks her onto the bed. Her face and jaw burn with pain; tears fill her eyes. He grabs her skirt and yanks it off with her underwear. His eyes are wide and he’s breathing like a wild animal. He unbuckles his belt; his pants fall to the floor. She does not look at him; she doesn’t have to. He grabs her hips and flips her over and then pulls her hips up. She closes her eyes and clenches her teeth and groans when he pushes into her with sudden force. She is relieved when he does not last long.

But it will not be the last time.

Each time is rough. He always takes her from behind, as if he does not want to see her face when he rapes her or her to see his. He never undresses; he only drops his trousers. He never tries to hold her or caress her or feel her. He just takes her. Like an animal, a wild beast. When he finishes with her, he leaves quickly and without a word, almost as if he’s ashamed of what he has done. But he does it again. And again. And again. She fights him each time but without effect. She cannot beat him with force. He is a force of nature. Her will is weakening. The major controls her life now. His evil is overwhelming.

After the tenth time, she says, “I love you.”

Two weeks later, the major and his men take her across the border into Mexico. They travel to San Jose del Cabo. He says they will live there together and forever.

“He must die! He must die fast and hard or we’ll become another goddamn Colombia!”

FBI Director Laurence McCoy released Walker only to have Walker renege on releasing Elizabeth Austin. Two weeks and no Austin. Major Charles Woodrow Walker must die. McCoy’s dream of the White House is riding on it.

But McCoy doesn’t know where Walker is or whom he can trust. Walker said he had men in the FBI. So McCoy is going outside the Bureau for this job. He says to the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency of the United States of America: “Find him and kill that son of a bitch!”

The young American woman is sitting at the outdoor coffee shop, sipping her coffee, so serene and beautiful in her wispy white dress and white sun hat and dark sunglasses. Perhaps she is a movie star. Yes, Juan decides, she is a movie star. Many a movie star has sipped coffee in his shop in Baja California, but surely she is the most beautiful of them all.

Juan takes her a fresh cup of his best coffee. She is radiant. He can only dream of having a beautiful woman like her. He sighs. Just having her in his coffee shop these last few weeks will have to suffice. She is alone today; the big blond American man is nowhere in sight. Nor are their bodyguards. Juan wants desperately to talk with her, but he cannot bring himself to do so. He places the cup of coffee on the table in front of her.

“
Gracias
,” she says, and then she faints.

Jorge Hernandez, M.D., earned his medical degree at the University of Guadalajara in 1965, back when abortion was illegal in the States. From 1965 until 1973, Jorge specialized in abortions for Americans. He opened abortion clinics in border towns from Matamoras to Tijuana.
Roe v. Wade
ended his abortion career.

He closed his clinics and moved to San Jose del Cabo for the fishing. His last abortion procedure for an American was over thirty years ago. Certainly that is why this American woman is here. Jorge sees no wedding ring. He is patting her hand when she opens her eyes.

“Where am I?”

“Hospital,” Jorge says. “You are here for an abortion?”

“What? No!”

“But you are pregnant, you know this?”

From her face, Jorge sees that she does not know this.

She says, “I need a phone.”

Major Charles Woodrow Walker stops the Jeep at the secluded beach house outside San Jose del Cabo. He enters the house. He has been gone two days; he traveled to the border, only to learn that his face was still on the front page of every newspaper in the U.S. So he sent the men north. He will remain in Mexico for another month, then he will reunite with his men in Idaho. And they will wage war on America.

Until then he will enjoy sex with Elizabeth.

Charles Woodrow Walker was born for war and sex. He possessed the mental toughness to kill and the physical tools for sex, a combination that afforded him a great power over both sexes. Men would die for him and women would lie down for him. He has never tired of sex or killing. And there would be more of both for Charles Woodrow Walker.

Before he leaves, he will kill Elizabeth. She loves him, just as all his women eventually loved him, but she is a security risk. Women are always security risks. Charles Woodrow Walker loved war and sex but never a woman.

“Elizabeth!”

No answer. He walks through the house to the back deck. He scans the beach from north to south. It’s vacant, except for one woman at the water’s edge. He walks to the beach.

Elizabeth feels his presence and turns.

The major is walking toward her. From his face, she knows what he will do to her. He is smiling, but he suddenly stops and cocks his head, as if catching a distant sound. And they are here. Three black helicopters rise over the trees and surround the major, hovering just off the beach; three snipers’ rifles are pointed at Major Charles Woodrow Walker. He glances at each helicopter then back at Elizabeth.

“You betrayed me.”

“You raped me.”

She had called FBI Director McCoy from her hospital bed and set a trap for Major Charles Woodrow Walker. She told McCoy where she was and where the major would be. “I owe you, Elizabeth,” McCoy had
said. “You just made me president.”

“You said you loved me,” the major says.

“I lied.”

“No, you didn’t lie. I own you, Elizabeth. I will always own you—your mind, your soul, your life. You will never be free of me. And one day I’ll come for you. But I won’t kill you. I’ll hurt you more. I’ll take what you love most. I guarangoddamntee it.”

He glances up at the helicopters again and shrugs with disdain. “They can arrest me again, but they can’t hold me. I’ll still come for you, Elizabeth. One day I will come.”

He grins and it is Satan’s grin. But the grin falls off his face when she says, “They’re not here to arrest you.”

She turns away and three shots ring out.

Elizabeth Austin walks off without looking back but knowing her life is forever changed. Evil took her for its own. Evil embraced her and violated her and planted its seed in her. That evil is now dead. But should the child she carries also die?

She has considered killing the life within her each day since Dr. Hernandez told her she was pregnant. She has also considered killing herself—but she had to kill Walker first. Now he is dead and she is free to kill herself and the child with her. She wants desperately to die.

But she cannot take the life within her. She cannot kill the child. The child deserves to live, and so Elizabeth must live to give the child life. The child is all that stands between her and suicide. The child saves her life. The child is her saving grace.

Her Grace.

She now hears the child’s cries. They become whimpers. Then they stop all together. The child is in the dark again, just as when she was inside Elizabeth. But she cannot save the child’s life now and the child cannot save Elizabeth’s life. Only one man can save them both.

She hears a voice, that familiar voice of evil: “I have taken what you love most, as I promised I would. Now I will own her as I have owned you.”

Elizabeth woke, sat up in bed, and screamed, “No!”

Ben’s eyes snapped open. He looked around. He thought he had heard a scream.

He checked his watch: 0400. He stood and went over to John, still snug in his sleeping bag, and squatted next to his son. He recalled those late nights after the war when he had sat on the edge of his son’s bed and watched his son sleeping and listened to his breathing and thought how much he loved him but knowing he was failing him as a father. John’s life had taken him on a different path, a path Ben had thought would never again intersect with his. But their paths were one now. Ben put his hand over his son’s mouth to prevent him from screaming. John jerked awake, startled; he realized it was Ben and relaxed.

“It’s time,” Ben whispered.

FBI Agent O’Brien lay duct-taped and asleep.

“The hell you mean you know all this?” FBI Special Agent Eugene Devereaux shouted into the phone.

FBI agents, even veteran ones like himself, were not supposed to cuss at the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, even a political asshole like Stanley White—the director always had one finger in the air gauging the political winds and another finger up his ass. But Devereaux had no patience for protocol, not after having spent the better part of an hour tracking the director down—he was at Chicago Midway Airport aboard the Bureau jet, about to fly back to D.C.—to tell him everything Agent Jorgenson knew and now having the director tell him he already knew everything.