The Return of Elliott Eastman (3 page)

Chapter Four

The jet-black eighteen-wheeler raced through the night like an orca whale surging toward its victim. Two army drones armed with three stinger missiles each, rested comfortably in the cargo hold awaiting their mission. Eddie Kelley softly whistled an old Beatles tune under his breath as they neared Huntsville, Alabama. Six other two-man teams, similarly armed, neared their destinations as well.

At dawn the following day the big rig pulled off a lonely byway into the shadows beneath a towering stand of cottonwoods. They were about fifteen miles from Huntsville and its sprawling prison yard. At exactly nine a.m., during the prisoners’ morning break, the drones were wheeled from the rear of the rig. Moments later they were whirling on their way. Each of the drones took out a guard tower with rubber bullets. Elliott’s explicit instructions were that there was to be no loss of life. Eddie couldn’t let the guards open fire on the prisoners once the attack was under way so he had to take them out, but do it in bloodless fashion. He smiled in satisfaction as the mini-cameras mounted on the wings of the drones showed the guards falling to the wooden floors of their towers unharmed, but out of the fight. Next, Eddie’s laptop screen showed the drones’ missiles striking the base of the compound walls in several locations. Once the dust settled the cameras revealed gaping eight-foot wide holes in the walls and prisoners streaming through the openings. As the sirens began to wail the drones returned to the big rig and were quickly wheeled inside and the rear doors closed. Eddie drove a mile and a half to an overpass near the freeway, pulled underneath, and with the help of James pulled the thin film of black plastic from the sides of the rig. This exposed the slightly sun-faded lettering which read, ‘Safeway’ with the grocery company logo just below it.

As the two men pulled onto the highway they listened to the local police chatter on a short wave radio. Complete chaos was the only way to describe it. Guesstimates of more than one thousand prisoners escaping were commonplace. When he and his team were thirty miles away they switched the laptop on and turned to CNN. They took in the surreal sight of more than a half dozen of the biggest prisons nationwide, all minimum security with enormous craters where walls had stood and prisoners pouring through them.

“Even though this little trick went off even better than planned, I still have my doubts,” Eddie said.

“How so?” asked James.

“Not all those men are mister Goody Two-Shoes locked up by some miscarriage of justice.”

“Elliott ran the numbers. Almost 78 percent of them are not a threat to society, and the really bad guys are not allowed in the yard with the rest of the convicts,” James explained.

“Still, some of these guys are going to hurt people. We’ll just have to watch it play out.”

Chapter Five

Rick Wheeler tried to suppress a smile as he and his companion, Gordon Harrison, climbed out of the golf cart and dutifully watched Kenny Borel miss his four foot putt and curse soundly. The president and CEO of Sallie Mae walked towards the golf carts with his three golfing buddies following not far behind.

When the golfers neared the carts Rick stepped forward. He was dressed in a black three piece suit and wearing dark glasses. He held one hand in his coat pocket where he gripped a stun gun.

“Mr. Borel?”

“Yes,” replied the short heavy-set man with the shock of graying black hair.

“I’m special agent Rick Wheeler with the Internal Revenue Service. We’d like you to come with us,” Rick said discreetly, so only the CEO could hear.

“I’ll do no such thing,” Kenny replied, his voice laced with alarm.

“Is something wrong,” one of the other golfers asked and stepped forward.

Gordon Harrison, Rick’s partner on this mission, moved three paces forward and slipped his hand towards the inside pocket of his coat. “Stay right there, sir. This is none of your affair.”

The man stopped in his tracks while Rick leaned closer to Sallie Mae’s head man and said, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist.”

“What is this all about?” Kenny asked, his alarm growing.

“Do we really want to discuss this here?” Rick asked nodding in the direction of a growing number of gawkers. “Please just come with us.”

“Show me your license.”

Rick flashed his badge and Kenny said to his friends, “You guys finish the round. A bit of an emergency has developed. I’ll be in touch.”

A few minutes later Kenny climbed into the back seat of the limousine with Gordon right beside him while Rick took the wheel. They drove three miles to a secluded single story ranch house where Kenny was led inside to the darkened living room.

“Take a seat,” Rick said, indicating a single wooden chair in the center of the room.

“Now see here. This is enough. I demand to know what this is about or I’ll be forced to call my attorney,” Kenny said indignantly.

Rick spun around and savagely backhanded the CEO across the mouth, sending him to the floor. “Now sit in the damn chair and shut your face.”

Kenny didn’t say a word. Dabbing at his bleeding lips he sat down heavily in the chair.

“Upload ready?”

“Yep, pull down the Hi Def screen.”

Gordon ran a cable from his computer to the four-foot by five-foot high definition television screen attached to the wall.

A moment later the first You Tube video sprang onto the screen. “My name is Rachel Ramirez. If you’re seeing this it means I’m dead already.”

The young face on the screen began to crumble into tears. “I don’t want to die, but I feel like I’m dead already. I’ve got $90,000 in student loans and I’ve worked to pay them off. I’ve worked two jobs for almost three years. I’ve worked really hard, but I missed some payments and there are fines and late fees and the loans have gotten bigger. I’ve talked to the lender, but they won’t listen to me. I can’t go on. I’m living for these loans.”

Again the woman started to sob. Finally all that could be seen was the top of her head and the shaking of her shoulders as she broke down completely. The screen went dark.

“Oh my god,” Kenny said.

“Shut the hell up,” Rick hurled the words like a dagger at the cowering CEO. The next video popped up on the screen. Together the three men watched two hours of people in distress because of student loans. One young man even slit his wrists on screen. To his credit, Kenny recoiled in horror at the scene. The final video was a group of cheerleaders all wearing Yale sweaters. The camera zoomed in and stopped on a man sitting in the bleachers. The man waved. It was Rick.

“Is that you in the stands?” Kenny almost shouted and started to stand up.

Rick shoved him back down, almost upsetting the chair. “Yes, it’s me in the stands. Your daughter Amanda is a cheerleader at Yale, correct?”

Kenney nodded.

“I’ll bet she doesn’t have any student loans.”

“You wouldn’t,” Kenny whispered.

“I’ll stop at nothing,” Rick replied. “You want to see more? I’ll show you a video of me crossing the street right behind her. One jab with a needle and she’s gone. Not dead mind you, but a vegetable for the next fifty years. A constant reminder of the choice you didn’t make.”

Kenny slumped in the chair. “What do you want?”

“You will lower the rates on all student loans to 7% effective tomorrow. You will make the announcement outside Sallie Mae’s offices with local news crews at hand. You will become a spokesperson against the level of personal debt in this country. You’re the one who is going to step up and make a difference.”

“I’ve got investors to answer to.”

“You’ve got a nation of students to answer to. How do you justify owning a private golf course on the backs of starving students? What do you want to say to people who are killing themselves because of your lending policies?”

“I don’t know what to say,” the CEO said in barely audible tones.

“You say it stops here and it stops now.”

The room fell into a deep silence and then Rick concluded. “We’re going to leave here now. You’ll never know who we are but know this, we’ll be watching, and if anything happens to us there will be others. You control your daughter’s life, yours, and your wife’s too if it comes to that. Do the right thing.”

Kenny looked up. Rick swung a right upper cut that came from the floor and lifted the chubby CEO out of the chair. He fell in a crumpled heap on the floor.

“Sorry about that last bit,” Rick said to Gordon. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”

“Not a problem. Let’s load up our gear, wipe everything down and clear out,” Gordon responded.

“Do you think we got to him?” Rick asked.

“Oh yeah, we got to him big time.”

Chapter Six

Halfway around the world, about the time that Kenney Borel was being lifted out of the chair by Rick’s mighty blow, another team was at work.

President and CEO of Bank of America, Wilfred Blankenship, was enjoying a cool drink surrounded by family and friends in the grand ball room of his private yacht moored at a plush resort on the French Riviera. Little did he know, despite extensive security measures including two armed body guards, two divers were at that moment hovering weightless beneath his magnificent yacht. As bedtime arrived he begged off his guests, and he and the wife retired to his private stateroom. The ‘sweet suite’, as his wife called it, was all of nine hundred square feet complete with luxury bath, sitting room, wet bar and private balcony. It was the balcony that proved to be its weak point. With the guards located three floors up, bored and fearing nothing, the divers, using suction cup devices climbed the side of the ship and slipped over the railing to land softly on Mr. Blankenship’s private balcony. It took but a moment to jimmy the French doors and step inside where they froze for a moment and listened to the sound of calm, even breathing. Jim Buckner and Michael Conrad padded softly across the room, their strategy refined step by step over several nights of planning, and placed a hand carefully over the mouths of husband and wife simultaneously. The pen lights clicked on and revealed frightened eyes.

“We’re not going to hurt you,” each man said in a soft voice designed to quell their fears. “We just want to talk.”

Blankenship nodded.

“When I remove my hand from your mouth, if you or your wife shout or scream, I’ll be forced to silence you which will not be pleasant. Do you understand?”

Husband and wife nodded.

As soon as he was free to speak, the CEO started in with a tirade. “Now see here. What is the meaning of this? Do you know who I am?”

Jim slapped him squarely across the mouth and spoke in a harsh whisper, “Shut up. We know exactly who you are.”

Michael pulled a laptop computer from the Dry Pak on his back and set it on the bed. He fired it up and whispered, “Watch the video.”

The short movies, provided by a private firm employed by Elliott Eastman, were similar to those that Kenny Borel had witnessed. Testimonials by people who’d lost their homes, lost their livelihoods and been driven into poverty by Bank of America. People questioning the right of Bank of America and the interest rates on their credit cards of 24% plus. The clincher was a manager at a Bank of America branch in Los Angeles who testified regarding mortgage origination practices. “The orders from on high were to push our home buyers into adjustable loans, even though mortgage rates were the lowest they’d been in almost forty years, because we would make more money on adjustable loans than on a fixed rate. Then if we could slip in a high margin between the starting rate and the index, say maybe three or four percent over the index, we could be paid a bonus of upwards of ten thousand dollars per loan. We were paid to cheat our clients.”

“You know this to be true, don’t you?” Jim asked.

Blankenship nodded.

“Do you believe this is right?”

Blankenship shook his head no.

“What should you do to make this right? I’ll tell you. You’re going to go before the American people and tell them that temporarily, just for the next three years, you’re going to reduce interest rates on your credit cards to 7% across the board. This will stimulate spending and reduce the amount of pain you’ve inflicted on your fellow citizens. Now understand that we found you, entered your inner sanctum, and could have killed you. Do you agree to go before the American people and make this proposal? And don’t, lie because we will find you again.”

Michael hit another button and the screen filled with a scene from a party showing Blankenship dancing with his wife. Another showed husband and wife walking on the beach hand in hand. The last one depicted shadows moving against a thin set of sheers. It was the Blankenship’s bedroom window.

Blankenship’s eyes widened in recognition of the locations.

“I can’t, our stock price will fall like a rock. Our stock holders will scream.”

“My friend here is an expert marksman and obviously, based on the video, we can find you almost anywhere. But think about it for a moment. With all the extra spending power produced by reducing the rates the economy will sky rocket and most people will run their balances up.”

This statement gave the CEO reason to pause for a moment as he contemplated this possibility.

“I’ll need to think about this,” Blankenship replied.

“No time. And part of our agreement is that you convince your cronies at JP Morgan, Goldman Sachs, Morgan Stanley, Wells Fargo and all the other credit companies to drop their rates as well.”

“I can’t guarantee their agreement!” Blankenship almost shouted.

Jim back handed him across the mouth knocking out a tooth. He seethed between gritted teeth, “Keep your voice down scum and give me a straight ‘yes’ or ‘no’!”

“The other banks might follow our lead. I’ll do the best I can,” Blankenship mumbled through bleeding lips.

“I said ‘yes’ or ‘no’,” Jim hissed, his face just inches from the cowering CEO.

Blankenship whispered, “Yes.”