Special Presentation: "Damaged Goods," A Novelette by Jesse "Heels" Rawlins

Readers who wish to devour this well-paced crime mystery in a single sitting will likely need about an hour. Those who want to read at a slower pace over several sittings will find scene breaks, and can easily return later as if reading a novel. Ms. Rawlins sometimes tells this story in a helter-skelter fashion—and deliberately tosses aside certain historical writing conventions, which may leave readers feeling a bit off kilter—but I think her story works. I hope you’ll enjoy this tale as much as I did.

Editor-In-Chief Jesse Rucilez

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

For your convenience, the author has also provided a .pdf version of this story to download and read at your leisure:

Damaged Goods

By Jesse “Heels” Rawlins

Blood-red nails drummed the drab gun-metal gray table. A naked bulb dangled, flickering overhead…its anemic white light nearly strangled by the darkness. I kept my eyes on her, didn’t bother scanning the cage for high-tech cameras. Knew at least one was recording somewhere.

“Tell me, Ms. Francesca. When did you start hearing voices?”

I glared at the shrink. Assuming she was a shrink. “Dr. Anita Valentine” looked more like a gypsy fortune teller. Lacy white dress. Knee-high leather boots. Wavy raven hair draping slender shoulders. Penciled eyebrows arched, she smirked, four-inch silver hoops sparkling from sun-burned elven ears. Without doubt some law enforcement agent had given her my journals. I’d filled a hundred books in twenty-five years. Launched my first before I turned eleven. How much she’d read in less than twenty-four hours was anybody’s guess. But good luck bitch trying to make sense of them. Most lay filled with random notes and ideas for business models—not a flighty girl or woman’s daily inner musings.

Scratching my bruised right tit took a lot of effort and left a nasty smudge on my once-white tank top. Courtesy of a rude awakening I sat braless beneath the top, unable to get comfortable on the cheap wooden stool. Two more silly attempts at humiliation in a harsh campaign designed to steadily break me down. “What are thoughts?” I said. “And more importantly what generates our thoughts?”

Her blood-red lips curled in disdain. “You don’t seem to grasp the gravity of your situation. I’m not here to answer questions. You’re here to answer mine, Angelica Francesca. Where is Apollo Creed?”

I shrugged, my manacles clanked. “He’s certainly not here. Neither is my lawyer.”

“Why do you need a lawyer?”

“I doubt I’m wearing chains because you’re a dominatrix here for kicks and giggles. Though I’m sure some of your cohorts would love to beat me senseless. What have you done with the children? Are they chained and shackled, too?”

“The children, Ms. Francesca, don’t belong to you. Your concern for their welfare is grossly misplaced right now. And my patience is wearing thin.”

I laughed at her declaration. “Even thinner than your no-star hospitality?” Time had already lost its meaning. Black-clad soldiers hit Creed’s compound Tuesday during predawn hours. They restrained us all with zip ties. Never identified themselves. Stripped every one of their watches and cell phones if they had them. Crammed five hundred of us into three long-haul trailers—slammed and locked the doors. Our transport didn’t take more than three hours. My sixth sense told me we were underground…somewhere still in Arizona or perhaps New Mexico, since we’d ridden south and east. The New Age guru known as Apollo Creed hadn’t been among our ranks and our abductors seethed with rage.

I hadn’t broken any laws in my business dealings or charity endeavors. But our futures loomed uncertain. This covert operation felt like a rendition on American soil—and quite possibly sanctioned by the NSA. Since my arrival? I’d been denied both food and water. One thing I felt for certain? Unlike Osama Ben Laden, our hellbent hosts would never find their quarry, Apollo Creed.

***

Chair tipped against the wall, black combat boots perched on an empty metal desk, Granger smirked at Valentine. “Why so aggressive? I expected you to take a sisterly approach. We didn’t learn shit.”

Valentine plopped her pert ass on the desk. “Au contraire, dumbass. You read her file yet?”

Bronzed hands laced behind his chrome-dome head—biceps bulging from a taut black tee—unruffled Granger nodded. They’d worked five missions together. Had fucked a dozen times. But always after jobs well done. Except during operations and subsequent debriefings? They never saw each other. “Her intel’s certainly scant—”

“To a Neanderthal like you. You’ve worked cult rodeos. What’s your assessment of Francesca?”

Granger leered at her tits. “Aside from the fact she’s smoking hot like you? Obstructive. Confrontational…in a passive-aggressive way. Wisely scared of future torture—but not yet panicked. Brave enough to test boundaries, but that willingness could change if we tighten the right screws. Real compassion for the kids. Reasonably intelligent—based on the glaring fact she doesn’t like you. Not the type to get duped by quasi-religious bullshit. Or narcissistic shrinks.”

Valentine crossed her legs. “You’re overlooking several key facts. Highly similar to a full-fledged cult environment? Angelica was raised by a Spanish devout Roman Catholic mother. Under such conditions? Consciously or not, certain thought patterns get ingrained in childhood and never get washed out. Ideas that you call bullshit may feel as natural to her as rain, wind, and stars. Do you recall what that child did when she was only ten?”

Granger smirked again. A dimple creased the puckered scar that marred his right cheek. “Whacked her drunk-ass father senseless with an iron skillet to keep the douchebag creep from strangling her mother. My kinda gal.”

“Evidence your little Hottie is capable of violence. So keep your dick in your pants. She might bite the sucker off.”

“Ah,” Ganger said. “Now I understand your aggressive tactics. You’re trying to assess how that violent act shaped her. A drunk, abusive father who later abandoned them undoubtedly explains her concern for the kids.”

“See what you can accomplish with the brain above your waist? The skillet incident aside, according to her file, she’s never been arrested. Never had a single speeding or parking ticket. Never been involved in an auto accident. All strong indicators she’s a law-abiding citizen. But I’d bet your left nut Hottie turns aggressive with anyone she deems abusive or physically threatening. So, one of the big questions for us? Does she now view Uncle Sam, aka the U.S. government, like her abusive father? Unlike Apollo Creed, there’s presently no evidence she’s had any dealings with Al Qaeda members or other subversive radicals. But that doesn’t mean she’s ignorant about Creed’s alliances or fucked-up intentions.”

“Leave my privates out of this you darkly-twisted shrink.”

Valentine grinned maniacally. “One thing strikes me as clear: your raid on Creed’s compound stunned Francesca. She’s treading cautiously through quicksand. Her outward bravado is essentially thin veneer. Which suggests Creed’s escape surprised her, too. He sure bamboozled us. But if we’re lucky and he’s been keeping secrets from her? Any trust or loyalty she might feel for Creed could quickly crumble.”

Granger’s eyes hardened. He booted the shrink’s fine ass off his desk. “Speaking of that bastard Creed, it’s time you toured his tunnels.”

***

The Augusta Westland Versace settled on the helipad. The luxury cabin offered comfort for up to seven passengers. But Valentine and Granger sat alone in the gleaming cockpit’s cushy leather seats. She shook her head in consternation. “I can’t believe you filched Apollo Creed’s Italian copter for your personal use.”

Granger powered down the engines. “I didn’t filch, I commandeered in the line of duty.”

Creed’s eighty-acre complex reminded Valentine of a modern medieval fiefdom. A pristine mix of residential, agricultural, and commercial buildings with Creed’s Spanish villa sitting center stage. Home to about five hundred people, mostly Hispanic. Close enough to Sedona—Arizona’s New Age capital—to attract its share of shoppers, spiritual tourists, and curious lookie-loos. A multi-million dollar beneficiary of the so-called craft-food movement, with Angelica Francesca shepherding the group’s financial success. While many Arizonians resented Hispanics? Francesca had finagled friendly business dealings with local white farmers and ranchers in the valley.

“I want to inspect Francesca’s condo before we tour the tunnels. I assume you have her keys,” Valentine said.

“Off course I do,” Granger said. “But we’ll need wheels for that.” He strode across the cobblestones to a six-car garage and motioned her inside. Valentine gawked—

Though not a motorhead like her older brothers, she recognized a Porsche and a Ferrari as well as a Jaguar, a Benz, a ’66 Chevy Malibu and a boring Beemer. She raced for the black Malibu. Hell yeah, a Super Sport. “Commandeer this one in the line of duty. I’m driving,” she said.

“Only if you promise we’ll make out in the back when this job is over. And I choose the radio stations.”

“Promise not to sing and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

“Deal. Key’s in the ignition. Please warm the engine. I need to give my men some orders—like refuel our sexy commandeered bird.”

The Chevy fully-warmed, Valentine swung the rumbling Malibu into the circular drive. Granger climbed in and reeled off directions. The compound’s streets bore celestial names like Big Dipper Drive, Milky Way, and Apollo Avenue. Palms and yuccas lined the roads, flowers filled the medians.

Granger fiddled with the radio. Couldn’t find a decent station. Stabbed the power off. “Why’d you ask Francesca when she started hearing voices?”

“After she whacked her father with that cast iron skillet? A court mandated that she see a shrink. The therapist suggested she might want to start a journal. Francesca’s mother bought her one, and she started writing. I’ve only had time to skim her early and latest entries. But not once in the first few months did she mention her father—never mind a word about that night’s violence. Nor did she express any feelings, such as fear or relief. When she turned twelve, however, Francesca described an experience she called her Epiphany: the girl believed she was destined to accomplish great things. She doesn’t say she ‘heard voices.’ Yet the ‘voices’ are implied.”

Valentine rolled the Malibu into a parking lot for residents at Pleiades Place. Two-story stucco red-roofed structures boasted balconies on top; garages, storage units, and intricate flagstone patios tucked underneath.

“That’s her condo there,” said Granger. “Number 2010. You think she’s schizophrenic?”

“Not likely,” said the shrink. “But many stressors and medical disorders can cause auditory verbal hallucinations. Sleep deprivation for example. Though the entry sparked my interest? My primary purpose was to start tearing her down and try to punch some buttons: Breaking news, sugar—your privacy has been invaded. We own your ass now.”

Francesca’s front door opened to a spacious kitchen with a center island and an open floor plan. Granger kept silent, let the shrink explore alone. Thirty minutes passed. Valentine joined her colleague on the living room balcony. “How would you describe her digs?”

Granger pursed his lips. “Sterile—almost Spartan—except for a few things like the expensive bathroom towels, the gourmet coffee bar, and the Boze Wave bookshelf radio. All the walls completely bare, no magnets on the fridge. Not a single photo of her dead mother anywhere. No evidence of plants or pets—not even a fucking rock. Nothing to suggest sexual activity like toys, condoms, spermicides or any form of birth control. Two fully-stocked book cases in the master bedroom. But I’ve seen shoebox college dorms with more furniture than this place. Hard to imagine she’s lived here six years—or rarely if ever entertains company.”

“All suggesting what?” Valentine said.

“Fear of attachment?”

“Highly probable,” said the shrink. “But not an absolute. I’m guessing you’ve heard the expression ‘Don’t shit where you eat?’”

Granger nodded. On Monday night before the raid? Francesca hadn’t been at home. Didn’t return till 2 a.m.—roughly a full hour before they stormed Creed’s palace. “You thinking that Francesca has been fucking Creed over at his villa?”

“Can’t rule that out,” said the shrink. “If not him? Maybe someone else. That could also explain why her condo’s so sterile—she may spend most of her time at somebody else’s place. And if Francesca’s into women? That would explain the absence of birth control products. Although raised Roman Catholic? She’s divorced herself from that shit. My mother bore eight kids cuz the fucking pope proclaimed birth control is a sin. Instead of buried in a cemetery? Your Hottie stashed her mama’s ashes in that urn above the fireplace—a heinous act of desecration to a good old school Catholic.”

“Dead is dead. But my Hottie into women? God, I hope not,” Granger groaned. “Unless of course, she’s blessedly bisexual—”

Valentine kicked him squarely in the nuts. “You sound determined to use your dick before this mission’s over. Time to hit Creed’s villa and those god damn tunnels. Call home base while I drive. Order some of your thugs to round up Francesca’s closest neighbors, including any kids more than six years old—and question them individually about boyfriends or girlfriends in your Hottie’s life. Sometimes kids make connections that adults overlook. Have Sgt. Holly Baker interview the kids. I also want a list of all the books and authors in Francesca’s condo—that includes her Kindle. And if Hottie has a library card? I wanna know all the books that she’s checked out.”

Granger wagged a middle finger. “Been there, done that with her books. Check your email inbox. Her taste in fiction looks more fun than her online browsing history—or the cookbooks filling her shelves.”

“Speaking of books, how’s her office search going?”

“I swung by the office earlier, took an extensive look around. The accountants are keeping busy. Prissy little bastards with a don’t call us—we’ll call you attitude.” But his trip to the office hadn’t been a waste of time. And after he left? He’d enjoyed driving Ms. Francesca’s van to Happy Valley Farm.

The shrink shook her head. “Bad attitude,” she said. “How’d you handle that?”

“I stole their coffee machine. And padlocked them in the office. I hope by now they’ve pissed their pants.”

***

I woke with a sweat-soaked pillow draped across my head. Since the guards removed my chains after the lovely meet-n-greet with the gypsy shrink? I deftly rubbed sand from my crusty eyes. Empty stomach grumbling, I craved a decent cup of coffee. To my surprise I spied a plastic water bottle on the concrete floor.

Swinging from the cot I greedily snatched the bottle and stretched my aching limbs. Sleep had failed to refresh me. Fragments of a bad dream scuttled across my groggy mind. Fuck off, I ordered them, twisting the bottle’s cap.

I took three small sips of water. Moistened the tank top’s hem, thoroughly scrubbed my face and sticky underarms. Felt better afterwards. Though of course I still stank.

Jogging in place struck me as a good idea—I needed to stay sharp. To make my workout easier and sweat less? I peeled off my jeans and Nikes. Rather than stare at my depressing 8 x 10 cell—which grandly featured a solid metal door with an oversized pseudo mail slot, the sagging cot I’d slept on, and a stainless steel chemical toilet bolted to the opposite wall—I kept my eyes shut. The unexpected camping pillow proved my only luxury. But at least the joint was cockroach- and varmint-free. I also relished having the cell to myself. Dealing with a bunk mate would’ve taxed my patience, and smashed the solitude I needed to think clearly.

I wondered how the government was spinning our abduction. U.S. agents couldn’t seize five hundred people and pretend nothing happened. We weren’t crazed militants threatening succession and we had a few neighbors. Surely someone saw or heard something suspicious, and word had spread by now. Any business calls we got were going unanswered. But callers would either leave a message or hang up annoyed and move on with their day.

Far as I knew, no one in our community owned a firearm. Some residents like me had spent the past decade living peacefully—and succeeding monetarily—while paying all due taxes on time without complaint. Despite Creed’s growing reputation as a New Age guru? Our community wasn’t founded on religious dogma. Creed simply owned the land. Though he’d placed all the dwellings in a charitable trust. The Trustees vetted all potential tenants, who agreed to follow specified conditions—or lose their coveted luxury rent-free housing. I had written the housing contracts and hand-selected all the Trustees with Creed’s blessing. Every resident was a confirmed American citizen who legally worked for me—and also did community service for one of my charities.

But like gated housing communities all across America? Residents left and returned whenever the hell they pleased. And most had relatives who lived outside the compound, including Mexico. I paid hard workers well and rent-free housing kept them motivated. If new employees proved themselves? I let them use company vehicles for their personal use. We had our own health clinic located on site. And they also got huge discounts on food-related items. Everyone worked 32 hours a week and performed 10 hours of community service. During their time off, some residents attended churches in the valley. Others didn’t go to any church at all—and didn’t give a rat’s ass about Apollo Creed’s New Age philosophies.

Until Monday afternoon? I didn’t have a clue Creed harbored dark secrets. And I still wrestled the fresh reality I’d stepped in his shit.

I owed the bastard nothing. But I might wind up schlepping certain secrets to my grave.

Otherwise I’d be fucked.

More problematic? If one of these incensed government nitwits obsessed with finding Creed considered me guilty purely by association? I was likewise fucked.

My cell door barked—hammer blows raining from a rifle butt. “Yo, Francesca!”

“Whadya want?” I countered, tugging on my jeans and tank top.

“Move to the back of your cell. Face and chest against the wall, hands clasped behind your head.”

I sighed and complied. Maybe twenty seconds passed. Keys clanged against the door. Two pairs of boots echoed on the concrete floor.

“Sit Francesca. We need blood samples from you. And you need a Covid test.”

Well, surprise, surprise. Two female guards. One white, one Hispanic. The Hispanic clutched a satchel. Whitey cradled a rifle. I sunk on the sagging cot. Nurse Ratched scrubbed one arm with isopropyl alcohol.

Stationed eight feet away, Whitey crinkled her dew-drop nose. “You reek like rank pussy.”

“Whose fault is that?” I said.

“Apollo Creed’s of course,” she said. “All our lives would be easier if you knew where to find him. Did you enjoy your jog? Some of the guys sure did.”

I should’ve realized these creeps had a camera in my cell. But why had she spilled the beans? Playing the Good Cop role? “I love the flowering dogwoods at this time of year. Though I didn’t bump into Creed. But kindly return my cell phone? I’d be happy to call him and ask where he is.”

“Sadly for all of us, Creed left his phone behind.”

“Which cell phone did he leave? Creed’s got three,” I said.

“You mind if I mention that to my commanding officer?”

Definitely playing Good Cop. She didn’t need my permission. “Sure, go ahead. Win yourself some brownie points. Though I wouldn’t be surprised if Valentine knows.”

Whitey waved dismissively. “Thanks,” she said. “Valentine’s a civilian—I don’t work for her.”

“Lucky you,” I said. “That woman’s a nasty bitch. You’ll find Creed’s numbers in my Contacts—under MC1, MC2, and ME.”

Unlike the cocksure shrink, duplicity’s not my style. I almost fucked up big time and referred to Creed as douchebag.

***

Sgt. Holly Baker promptly texted Granger: U free to talk in private?

Her CO responded: Yes. Although he didn’t answer until the sixth ring.

“We’ve drawn blood from all our guests, finished the Covid tests and also interviewed Francesca’s neighbors, sir. No one’s aware of any romance or sexual liaisons in her private life. The consensus is she’s friendly but highly self-contained. As you instructed, I made contact with Francesca while we took her blood. She knows my role is Good Cop. But at least for the moment, she’s willing to play along. She expressed dislike for Valentine, and also volunteered that Creed owns three known cell phones. They’re listed in her Conacts under MC1, MC2, and ME.”

“Good work Sergeant—that third phone is news to me.”

“Thank you, sir. We also have a wrinkle that requires your attention. Turns out one of our new guests is not a compound resident. He’s a heart surgeon who’s happily been shagging one of the resident nurses—and was in bed with her at the time of our raid.”

“Shit,” Granger said. “Why didn’t we learn that earlier?”

“Cuz he’s not a whiny wanker. His name is Raphael Palermo. He’s cool, calm, and collected like a good surgeon. Advised me of his status while we drew his blood and did his Covid test. Palermo struck me as amused and mildly curious—but didn’t ask a single question. He left me to do the math: people will be looking for him. He’s got two surgeries scheduled Thursday at Verde Valley Medical.”

“Well, he won’t be cutting Thursday. Valentine will manage that. Meanwhile, prep Francesca for copter transport here. That includes a shower and K-rations before you leave. Give her one of our uniforms—and keep her hooded on the ride over. Tell Cruz he’s the pilot. You and five others will accompany Francesca. Pick your crew,” Granger said, “but you remain in back with her throughout the trip.”

“Copy that,” Baker said.

Granger rang his lead techie. “That bastard Creed has a third cell phone. The number’s under ME in Francesca’s Contacts. Track that fucker down and send me his activity Logs.” Granger didn’t feel compelled to share this news with Valentine. Maybe later he’d change his mind.

***

Boots back on terra firma, my new pal Whitey slid the hot ridiculous hood from my sweat-drenched head. Gripping my left elbow she and her minions led me to Creed’s villa, where Gypsy Valentine looked tense: “What can you tell us about Creed’s tunnels?”

“Not much,” I said. “Michael showed me an entrance in the southeast quadrant three years before I moved here. He discovered the tunnels when he was a kid. Said there were four others. Expressed disappointment they didn’t lead anywhere and that only three connected. We were drunk off our asses. So I declined his offer to take the grand tour.”

Valentine nodded. Her thug feigned nonchalance but his shoulders twitched. “When and where did you first meet Michael Clayton?”

“Surely you know that, Doc.”

“I never trust second-hand information. That’s why I’m asking you, Angelica.”

I chaffed at hearing my first name on her tongue. “Nearly thirteen years ago, back in New Orleans. The same summer I graduated from Delgado College’s culinary program. I catered a late-June wedding in the French Quarter. Michael was a guest. Told me he worked as a venture capitalist—gave me his business card. I called the next morning and we met for brunch. Our tête-à-tête shaped my life going forward. He helped me launch my first café in nearby Metairie. I did the baking. My mother handled the Creole cooking. On the other hand? His investments in me have paid off handsomely. Since you’re dying to know,” I added, “Michael and I have never fucked.”

Valentine shrugged. “If I wanna know somethin’ honey? Bet your sweet ass I will ask.”

“In case you’re wondering?” I smirked. “I wouldn’t fuck you either.”

“No worries,” said the shrink. “I wouldn’t dream of fucking you—not even with Granger’s dick—unless I ball-gagged you first. Meanwhile duty calls and our chariot awaits. Us two foxes will ride in back. Please provide directions to the entrance Creed showed you, and buckle up,” she added.

So the thug’s name was Granger. Which meant jack shit at the moment. And Granger might be a nickname or an alias. Everything about him screamed Hollywood special ops.

The Chevy’s engine was running, the AC already cranking. I twisted left to find my seatbelt. “Wow, no hood or handcuffs? You losing your sense of romance?”

The kind doctor slammed a fist into my back—just above my kidneys. “Not at all,” she said.

I counted silently to ten, fought to blink away the pain. “Now tell me,” she said. “When did Michael Clayton change his name to Apollo Creed? And why choose that moniker?”

“Hook a right,” I ordered Granger, leaning against his seat. “We’re going to the kilns. When we reach that black obelisk? Bang another right.”

Glancing out the window, I wished I had sunglasses. “Far as I know? He never legally changed his name. But you’d know better than me. What you may not know? Some New Age floozy over in Sedona bestowed the name on Michael about five years ago. Claimed he was the incarnation of a celestial spirit from the Tenth Dimension.”

“And he believed her?” Granger said. Our eyes connected in the rearview mirror. “He’s got the IQ of a Mensa. What did she do? Fuck his brains out first?”

“Not likely on either count. At least I fucking hope not—although I wasn’t there that crazy bitch is in her seventies. Michael struck me as amused when he shared the news. And roughly three years lapsed before he used the name in public.”

“When he launched his New Age podcasts?” Valentine interrupted.

“That sounds about right. But why the hell would I know? I certainly didn’t make a note in one of my journals. But feel free to check.” I leaned forward once again, tapped Granger’s shoulder. “Swing left into that lot. Unless you wanna walk, pick a parking place in the far southeast corner.”

Granger nodded. “What do you use the kilns for?”

“Most are reserved for baking breads. But we also make pottery and ceramics—and perform glass blowing for an array of artisan items like jewelry and lamps, both new product lines that are selling like hotcakes.”

The Chevy rolled to a stop. Valentine’s cell phone chirped. She glanced at the screen. “You two skedaddle. I need to take this call.”

I led Granger to a greenhouse, strode the center aisle—pointed at the manhole cover, its edges sitting flush with the earthen floor. This particular cover lacked a center hole. “Your hidden tunnel entrance. If my recall’s right? This passage doesn’t connect with any of the others.”

Granger stomped the metal plate. “Thanks, Francesca. I don’t have time to fuck with this right now. We’ve found three tunnels—and none of them led here. The fifth passage that you mentioned remains a mystery. We’re using ground penetrating radar to try and solve the tunnel puzzle, but there’s a lot of land to scour. I’ll order a scout team here while we drive to Creed’s villa.”

“I don’t mean to be a pain, but I need to pee,” I said. “Your dance partner socked me with a kidney punch. That blue door leads to a stairwell and a bathroom by my office.”

“Valentine’s still yacking. But let’s make this quick,” he said.

Squirreled on the upper catwalk inside the black obelisk, the trespassing sniper peered through his scope and blinked. Dr. Fucking Anita Valentine leaning against the Chevy? His heart skipped a beat…and he squashed the urge to blow her fucking head off.

Another time perhaps. Right now he wanted answers.

Like where were his missing neighbors? And why was Francesca dressed like a special ops commando? Sure, she looked hot. But nowhere near as hot as he felt in this sunbaked tower.

At least ten of his compound cameras had been discovered: half of them pinhole units—four at Francesca’s condo and the six that he’d installed in and around her office—and all the precious footage scrubbed. So no answers there. He grabbed his satellite phone—dialed Francesca’s cell. Shit. Five full rings and she made no move to answer while striding to Creed’s Malibu. He stabbed the call dead before voice mail intruded.

He’d been playing mouse for an hour now. GI Joes kept popping up all over Clayton’s compound. But he knew this place, they didn’t. And these GI Joes weren’t expecting company—

Glory hallelujah. With diligence and luck? Heads were going to roll. Asses would be canned. Praise be to god and pass the ammunition.

He tracked and filmed the speeding Malibu back to Clayton’s villa as the evil shrink drove. Francesca looked tense as the trio walked and entered through the main doors. Fucking Anita Valentine. She had that effect on people. He flicked the camera off, snatched his gear and scampered mouse-like down the spiral stairwell.

Well, Mr. Frost. These steps are dark and steep. But I have promises to keep. And miles to go before I sleep.

***

Granger marched us through a bedroom with a master bath larger than my condo. But you need that kinda space if you’ve got a pool designed for Olympic contests—and a Jacuzzi that can accommodate a herd of fifty heifers. Or a modest harem. But surprise, surprise. The Jacuzzi held no water.

“Can you swim?” Granger asked me.

“Like a fish, Granger.”

He pointed at three wetsuits dangling from a shower rod and three pairs of rafting booties parked on the marble floor. “Best I can offer since you don’t have bikinis. I’ll change around the corner. You two can use these shower stalls. Times a wasting ladies, so please be quick.”

I could sense the twisted shrink studying my reactions. Her lack of trust bristled like a paranoid porcupine. I’d never set foot in Michael’s bedroom, had never seen the pool. But no need to mention that. We changed duds in silence. And rejoined lurking Granger by the drained Jacuzzi, our booties slapping marble, me wishing every footfall was my fist pounding her face.

“Down we go,” Granger announced thumping brass handrails. “Forty rungs to the bottom. The descent’s brightly-lit courtesy of solar power. While time is of the essence, haste makes waste ladies, until we clear the ladder. Doc, you go first. I will play caboose.”

“Why don’t you go first?” Valentine said.

“Because I’d get distracted ogling your asses. Probably slip and break my neck.”

“Fuck,” Valentine muttered. “I walked straight into that ambush.”

Halfway down the ladder, Granger started singing: “This train is bound for glory, this train.”

“Stop singing, Granger,” Valentine commanded. “Or I will shoot your sorry ass.”

“If you had a gun, I’ve got no doubts that you would. Oh, this train is bound for glory, this train.”

“I’m warning you, soldier. What makes you think I don’t have a gun?”

“My acute powers of observation—that wetsuit is skintight.”

“You’d be amazed where I can hide a pistol.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Granger countered. “Therefore I’ll stop singing.”

“Are you shitting me?” I said, our trio now huddled on the cavern floor. “What kind of fucking moron keeps a submarine in their Arizona basement?”

Granger snorted. “My sentiments exactly. But like I said, this sonuvabitch Creed has the IQ of a Mensa. And most basements lack an underground spring.” He locked eyes with me. “Are you familiar with the Hassayampa River?”

“Vaguely.” I shrugged. “Mostly fishing stories from farmers and ranchers.”

“Okay,” Granger said. “Quick geography lesson. The river originates in the Hassayampa basin, about 60 miles northeast of Phoenix, and flows roughly south for 100 miles across highly rural areas. Wickenberg is the largest river town—and the closest to this villa—yet the town barely boasts 10,000 people. But,” Granger paused, waving at the cavern tunnel. “What most folks don’t know? Sections of the Hassayampa flow underground. My Apache friends call it the ‘upside down river.’”

Valentine scowled. “You think Creed connected one or more of his tunnels with the Hassayampa River?”

Granger led us round a bend. “The Hassayampa system is a critical source of water in Arizona. There’s no proof yet, but we’re checking out that theory. Rich kids like their toys. But that two-man sub’s in perfect working condition—and shows some signs of use. So I doubt it’s dry-docked here just for decoration. During winter and spring the water level’s surely higher. And a sub that small can handle some fairly tight spaces. All we know for sure? Creed didn’t use this sub when he escaped our raid. We can’t rule out Creed owning a second submarine. But for reasons I won’t get into? We don’t think that’s likely. Meanwhile, either of you ladies ever used a sea scooter? Or gone snorkeling?”

“Of course,” Valentine said.

“I’ve snorkeled,” I said.

“Good,” Granger said, “You’ll be fine, fish girl.” He led us to a work bench. “I’ve made this trip already. Should take us thirty minutes. Everyone gets a vest simply for safety’s sake. Then fit yourselves with masks, snorkels, flippers—everything’s been sanitized.”

Four sea scooters also sat lined up on the benchtop. “Using these is tit,” Granger told me. “Think of this device like your car’s steering wheel. Grip here and here with your arms extended. These are your throttles—”

“I’ve driven jet skis,” I said. “Though it’s obvious we don’t actually ride these scooters.”

“Obviously not.” Granger smirked. “Civilians call them scooters. The military calls them SDVs—Swimmer Delivery Vehicles. Since we’re not doing scuba, we’ll keep close to the surface. The water level’s low, so we won’t bang our heads on the cavern ceiling. This time I will lead, Dr. Valentine. We’ll travel in a V with the two of you flanking me—but keep six feet behind me. You ladies need to keep an eye on each other: we won’t be wearing tethers linking us together. These scooters float—”

He tossed two red ones in the water. And the scooters promptly surfaced. “See? No need to panic if you have to let yours go. When you disengage the throttles? The scooter’s motor stops. Hypothetically speaking, if you got knocked unconscious, you won’t sink either. Your vests will float you to the surface just like your scooters. Please note my scooter is the bright yellow one since it’s easiest to spot. The entire passage is lit like you see here. We won’t be in the dark. I’ll start out slow so you can get acclimated—then we’ll maintain 6 mph. Anyone have questions?”

“Since your goons drew my blood, let me guess,” I said. “You think Apollo Creed poisoned the local water supply?”

“Did Creed tell you that?” he said.

“Fuck. No he didn’t. And I sure hope he hasn’t. I live here for Christ sake.”

Valentine sighed. “Amen to that Ms. Francesca. But you’re starting to understand why we need your help.”

“I don’t understand a thing. You want my help? Let me talk to my lawyer.”

“Jesus,” Valentine snapped. “Why are you obsessed with your fucking lawyer?”

“Why are you obsessed with Apollo Creed?”

Granger rolled his eyes—and shoved us both in the water.

Hunkered in the bunker beneath the helipad, the tower sniper nodded in satisfaction. What a relief. Despite the uniform? Francesca wasn’t Valentine’s willing lapdog ally. Video and audio from Clayton’s villa cavern were both crystal clear. He traced the scar on Granger’s cheek before the GI Joe dove into the spring. He knew their destination well. Far more isolated. Most likely lightly guarded. Trying to snatch Francesca when their small party emerged from the tunnel sure felt tempting—but also premature, if not long-term detrimental. Moving in V-formation, Valentine’s crew disappeared from view. Another camera would pick them up when they reached the tunnel’s exit. The GI Joes hadn’t yet discovered that this tunnel indeed continued to the Hassayampa River. But to reach that cavern channel? You had to dive much deeper. And the entrance was tough to spot unless you knew where to look. Or had the right equipment.

Also on the plus side? He’d collected enough Intel to drop his first bomb. But waiting till evening struck him as wiser and more effective. Time to attempt attaching GPS trackers to the whirlybirds.

Without getting captured—

Fuck, fuck no. No not that.

He drew a combat knife. Better to slit his throat. After triggering the bomb.

***

“Voila,” Granger announced, swiping water from his chrome-dome.

I stared in disbelief. Pinto beans and chili peppers filled the closest fields. Lemons and grapefruit ripened in surrounding orchards. Creed’s tunnel exit took us to our old county warehouse four miles outside the compound. We could’ve driven here in about fifteen minutes.

Heatwaves shimmered from the blacktop on Service Rd. 301. A white utility truck, its cherry picker raised, blocked the wide dirt lane leading to our warehouse. Orange cones and workmen draped in yellow vests littered the silent roadway on both sides of the truck. Granger’s goons no doubt, acting civilized but genuinely bored, slumped against their traffic signs. Two gleaming Silverados sat on opposite shoulders, hugging three-foot deep gullies.

One of our neighboring farmers now leased the land around the warehouse in exchange for discount crops that we used in our food products. Cilantro, dill and parsley were harvested last month. I hadn’t been here since.

“Ah, shit,” I said. “The crop duster’s gone—”

“What crop duster?” Granger said.

“A two-seater WWI-era plane. Once upon a time Michael flew and used the relic to spray these fields with herbicides. Michael said the plane was his cousin Gary’s. But Gary died, maybe two years back. Hunting accident out in Alaska. But the plane’s always here—except when Michael takes her for a spin.”

Granger whirled away from us, stabbed his waterproof phone.

I glared at the shrink. “I don’t know what Michael’s done. But hell’s bells he got the jump on your crew. First the tunnels, then the plane. Probably left the country. Mexico to wherever. I bet he’s hidden money that you couldn’t freeze.”

“Irrelevant,” she said. “You’re his closest confidant. Worry about yourself. We froze your assets, too—both personal and business.”

I snagged a nearby two-by-four, roughly five feet long—whacked the crook in gypsy’s leg squarely behind her kneecap. Watched her crumple to the ground. “I don’t take orders from you. And you had no right to punch me. Worry about yourself.” I tossed the lumber aside. Spurred by the crunch of Granger’s advancing footsteps I raised my hands in surrender—

The behemoth looked amused. Wrenched both wrists behind my waist. Cinched them fast with a zip tie. Flung me over his shoulder. Snagged the keys from the ignition in a new Impala that sat idle by the warehouse…tossed and locked me in the trunk.

Granger watched Valentine easily gain her feet, black wetsuit smeared like a Cubic abstract canvas painted with dust and dirt clods. He fished an Igloo cooler in the back seat, grabbed two Evians—wagged the dripping bottles at the warehouse office door.

“You sure know how to push her buttons.” He commandeered an office chair, propped bootied feet on the scarred wooden desktop.

Valentine shrugged and parked her ass on a battered leather sofa. “Just a bit of girl talk. Theories must be tested, otherwise they’re useless.”

“Well, you got lucky this time. Her response was measured, her target carefully chosen. She wasn’t trying to hurt you—or she’d have caved your head in.”

The shrink’s eyes hardened: she cracked her Evian. “I can handle myself, soldier. Any other observations about my violence theory?”

“Yeah. She’s not a knee-jerk hothead. She didn’t retaliate after your sucker punch in the Malibu. Nevertheless, Francesca didn’t forgive or forget.”

“Exactly,” said the shrink. “Just like Muslim radicals. I want to spend the night in her condo. Get me the names of her TV providers, both past and present. And a list of all known movies and shows that she’s watched, going back as far as possible—including the dates she watched them. I want to compare the content viewing dates with any corresponding dates in some of her journal entries.”

“Okay, I’ll stay with you. I haven’t had much sleep. You can take the couch, I’ll take her bed.”

“We’ll play rock, paper, scissors to see who wins the bed. What about Francesca?”

“She’s going back to her cell, shackled once again. Sergeants Baker, Cruz and Rogers will escort her in Creed’s copter. We’ll drive the Impala back to Creed’s villa. Francesca stays in the trunk till then—she can contemplate her sins. So be careful what you say during our ride back.”

He waved at the warehouse. “Between this place and the compound our lab techs are swamped. Bags and canisters everywhere. Mostly food and farm products—which include herbicides, cleaning chemicals and fertilizers. Impossible to take samples of every bag labeled flour. But nothing so far to suggest anyone’s been making bombs. Meanwhile, we’re still busy collecting water samples. Knock on wood: no signs yet of contamination. What’s your assessment of this afternoon?”

“Her pupils indicated she’d never seen that master bathroom. Likewise the villa cavern and Creed’s submarine.” She glanced at the clock six inches from Granger’s feet. “Meanwhile, Operation Retch launched at 3 o’clock. A compound nurse, six children and four adults should show symptoms soon. They represent Phase I. All eleven subjects will be quarantined in the medical ward.

“Phase 2 will begin with the heart surgeon Palermo. He’s bunking comfortably in one of our best suites with that compound nurse and will witness her turn ill. Since our good but unwitting doctor was given a lower dose? His symptoms will advance more slowly. Before Palermo reaches the stage where vomiting begins? Operation Veil will launch. The ailing surgeon will get a phone call—from one of our star Atlanta operatives at the renowned Centers for Disease Control. The surgeon I assure you will be totally enamored by our bullshit spin concerns for public health safety—and our crusade to thwart another global pandemic. He’ll undoubtedly sing our praises during TV interviews and on social media. We’ll put him on Zoom from his med ward bed with most of the major players—including Oprah Winfrey. Too many people are sick of Fauci, so he ain’t on our list. It’s too bad Larry King isn’t with us anymore.”

“Copy that,” Granger said. “Does Phase 3 still involve dosing Ms. Francesca?”

“Indeed,” said the shrink. “Her and Sgt. Holly Baker.”

A car horn honked. Granger strode to the window…just a passing car acknowledging his men. He turned to speak with Valentine: wetsuit unzipped, she waved a pistol at his crotch.

“You can have the bed if you promise not to sing.”

***

Alarmed by this conversation, the tower sniper seethed. Fucking U.S. Government. More corrupt than ever. But wily as a fox. Drugging innocent Americans with god knows what to cover their shitty asses. Fuck, fuck, fuck. The trio would return in maybe fifteen minutes—

After the dual punches of Operations Retch and Veil? His bomb wouldn’t pack the power that he needed. The impact would deliver a diversion at best—and spark some paranoia while destroying a few careers. They didn’t know his name. But once his bomb exploded? They’d hunt this little mouse with hell-bent bloodlust fury. He set the timer anyway. He might not survive this next step in his mission. Yet any damage he inflicted was better than nothing. Quitting wasn’t an option. Not in his book. Not with Valentine involved. Kudos to his gal for clubbing that cold bitch. If he found the time? He’d add that clip to his Favorites.

At least he knew which chopper would transport Francesca. His GPS trackers were in place on both birds. And hoping to cover all his bases, he’d made half-a-dozen additional preparations.

All he needed to drop his second bomb was the location of the military base where they’d stashed his neighbors. But learning that these bastards would poison Francesca? He couldn’t just sit here killing time till nightfall.

Meanwhile, all his gear sat packed. One last essential task before he tried to board fucking Michael Clayton’s chopper. He’d already attached his edited video file. He double-checked the lawyer’s email address on the firm’s website—

And stabbed the send button.

He’d learned his lesson years ago in the Afghan mountains. Rodent infestation caused a Hantavirus outbreak that wiped out a local village.

Never underestimate the power of a mouse.

Hang in there Francesca. You’ll be out of that trunk soon—

A New Miserable Experience. Can’t say I’d ever been locked in a trunk. I must live a boring life. At least Granger hadn’t stuffed me in a Volkswagen Beetle. And I wasn’t dead on my way to swim with fishes. That really would’ve sucked.

I took solace in the thrill that still surged from whacking Valentine. And smirked in satisfaction knowing I’d sent Granger on a wild goose chase: dead cousin Gary Clayton’s WWI plane hadn’t been around for months. I had no idea why the plane was gone. But my lie had stung. They had to conclude that Creed had likely crossed into Mexico—in as little as three hours after they breached his villa.

Maybe I’m more duplicitous than I thought. Or fucking Valentine was rubbing off on me.

Well yippie ki-ya—we were going for a ride. The Chevy’s tires bounced and jounced down the dirt lane…but the tires leveled when we hit the service road and the noise levels dropped. I couldn’t tell for sure. But I thought a cell phone chirped—

Eyes half-closed, passenger seat reclined, Granger took the call. Bit back the urge to curse. He listened for three minutes. “Thanks,” he finally said.

His involvement in this mission should’ve been simple—and his job already over. Surround and contain the compound: apprehend Michael Clayton aka Apollo Creed.

Despite its size, the compound offered one lone road that allowed vehicles access in and out of the complex. Intel given Granger prior to the raid repeatedly reported that Creed was on the premises. But Creed’s villa sat empty when a discreet twelve-man unit stormed and searched the house.

Granger advised the brass—who brazenly ordered him to restrain and relocate everyone inside the compound—and continue the search for Creed. If they’d caught the bastard? Granger would be busy fucking Valentine by now. Or home drinking beer. Interrogating Creed would have fallen to someone else. And not on U.S. soil.

His involvement here continued for one key reason. The brass needed a fall guy: and he would be anointed.

Although this mission had become a clusterfuck? Granger saw some opportunities for good things ahead if the brass fired his ass. He needed to stay positive. Raising his seat, Granger glanced out the window. “Park over there, Doc. Francesca will take a beating if you cross those cobblestones.”

Both hands on the wheel, Valentine floored the gas—stomped the brake—and spun three donuts across the bumpy stones. “Thanks for the heads-up, Granger. Would’ve been more fun though with the Super Sport.”

***

Still sporting a death-head grin, and dressed in street clothes once again, the twisted gypsy shrink commandeered the Malibu—and drove solo to Francesca’s condo. Pilots Cruz and Rogers refueled Creed’s copter and started their preflight checks. Blindfold strapped around her head, Francesca sat shackled to a cabin table—a Band-Aid on her forehead, another cross her chin.

Pulling the pilots aside, Granger handed them written orders. “Once this bird has landed, escort Ms. Francesca to the medical ward. While you’re in the air? Sgt. Baker will serve dinner. After you’ve eaten, Sgt. Baker will interrogate Francesca. This interrogation will be Classified. Therefore before she starts? Baker will order you to close the soundproof panel between the cockpit and the cabin. She will offer you a chance to hit the head first. Once that panel closes? It stays closed until she orders otherwise. Understood Sergeants?”

“Understood, sir!” the pair replied in unison.

Granger summoned Sgt. Baker. They hopped in the Impala, Granger behind the wheel. “We need to make a pit stop at Francesca’s condo. I’ll remain there. You’ll drive back to the helipad and accompany Francesca to home base.”

“Copy that,” she said.

“We have no evidence that indicates Angelica Francesca has any knowledge of—nor has she engaged in—any terrorist activities against the United States, or any other country, at this time.”

Granger wagged an eight-inch MP4 player. “What you’re about to watch is ‘For-Your-Eyes-Only.’ No one else has seen this—not even Valentine. Her methods sometimes scare me. And she’s far from convinced Francesca is innocent of treason. I don’t know who the girl is in the first clip. So don’t ask me any questions. But I think we’ve been misled—at least partially—about the reasons for this mission. I suspect this girl’s father is incredibly influential—and he’s hungry for revenge. I could be mistaken, but I think the girl’s Korean. My instincts tell me the girl and her father are not American citizens. I can’t investigate her further without raising red flags. You’re the only one I trust.

“These clips lack audio and some of the video’s poor. I compiled the footage from six different hidden cameras at Francesca’s home and office—all with different angles. While I don’t have absolute proof? I believe the events that transpire in the second segment took place as a result of the heinous crime committed in the first. I did some heavy editing: events in the second segment occurred over a four-hour span where almost nothing new happened. But you can see the timestamps. The third clip is self-explanatory. It’s the timestamp that’s important. Understood Sergeant?”

Baker snapped a crisp salute. “Yes, sir! Understood!”

Granger swung to the curb—and returned her salute. “At ease, Sargent.”

Baker’s eyes grew wide watching the first clip—and looked about to pop during the second segment. She sighed during the third.

“Makes sense, sir, why you’ve been calling Creed a bastard.”

Granger unclenched his fists. “We’ll talk about this more when proper time allows. I wish you hadn’t volunteered for Operation Retch.”

“I know that, sir,” Baker said, avoiding eye contact.

Granger fished a pocket, placed three ampules in her palm. “These are color-coded, Sergeant—based on dosages. Think of them this way: Blue for Baker; Red for Rogers; French’s Mustard for Francesca. At the condo I’ll give you packets of Francesca’s gourmet coffees, a quart of half-and-half, and some frozen dinner meal kits that she masterfully created. I’ve tried them—they’re exceptional. Creed’s copter sports a kitchen with everything else you’ll need.

“This drug is odorless and tasteless. Once you’re in the air? Offer everyone coffee. I doubt anyone will say no. But if Rogers or Francesca against all odds decline? Spike their meal instead. Do not take your dose until they’ve finished theirs. At some point, Rogers should pass out. Unlike the others, his dose contains a mild sedative. But Cruz is flying the bird, so Rogers is redundant. Understood, Sgt. Baker?”

“Understood, sir.”

“Take this player with you. The installed movie file is the only existing copy—I’ve scrubbed all data from the cameras I discovered. Make Francesca watch the footage. I’m hoping she knows the girl. Then destroy this mother fucker. Don a pair of latex gloves. Grab a pair of tongs. Douse the player with this acid over the cabin sink. Go to the head—and individually flush both the empty acid bottle and the mangled player. Make sure they’ve been dispensed. They will land somewhere in the god-forsaken dessert. Understood, Sgt. Baker?”

“Understood, sir.”

“Here’s a copy of the orders I gave to Cruz and Rogers. They pertain to you as well. Read them thoroughly before you leave the helipad. Remember: we are soldiers. Not cops or lawyers. My primary orders include determining if Francesca has committed treasonous acts. I have obeyed—and will continue to obey those orders. Meanwhile? My fate was determined almost at the outset when we didn’t capture Creed. I didn’t sign up to conduct illegal renditions involving innocent Americans on U.S. soil. But I guarantee the desk jocks will hang me out to dry. It’s just a matter of time. Any questions, Sgt. Baker?”

“No questions, sir. I appreciate your trust and your confidence. I won’t let you down, sir.”

“Do your best to convince Francesca I’m on her side. Her favorite coffee is the only comfort I can offer at the moment. But tell Francesca I delivered her last batch to Happy Valley Farm. Once you arrive at base camp? Follow your script for Retch. I may get called to Washington. If that happens? Hang tight till you hear from me.”

Fifteen miles from Creed’s helipad a chartered plane touched down in a private airfield. Two cars waited for the lone passenger: a classic Lincoln town car and a County Sherriff’s vehicle.

The sheriff tipped his hat. “Don’t waste your time goin’ to the compound—’less you’re lookin’ to get shot. You won’t get no closer than five miles from the place.”

“Official explanation?”

“Public Health concerns.”

The lawyer displayed an iPhone. Played the cryptic email video.

The sheriff merely shrugged. “I retire in three months. Ain’t lookin’ to make waves. Only reason I’m here? Reckoned I owe you one.”

“No.” The lawyer laughed. “You owe me way more than that.”

***

Valentine lit into Granger the second he entered the condo—

He closed the door on Baker. Hoped she’d stay put in the foyer.

“What took you so long soldier? Been busy jerking off? Look at these book titles: A Violent Gospel by Mark Westmoreland; With the Right Enemies by Rob Pierce; More Devils than Hell Can Hold by Morgan Boyd; Bloodshot and Bruised by Travis Richardson. You Must Have a Death Wish by Matt Phillips. But this one really takes the cake: A Better Kind of Hate by Beau Johnson. Who the hell is Beau Johnson?”

Granger flinched at the grinning psychopath on the back cover. “Some Canadian dude.”

“I thought Canadians were pacifists?”

“Apparently not,” Granger said. He found a box and tossed in coffee. “I dug reading the first five chapters in her copy of Le Club du Mal by Jesse Rucilez. A female porn star overcomes her childhood tragedies and takes control of her life.”

Valentine ignored this praise—and waved another book. “How can you trust this violent twisted woman? To top things off Francesca owns every Jack Reacher novel.”

Granger looked alarmed. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. “What’s wrong with Reacher?”

“Besides the fact Reacher suffers from a major case of arrested development? Nothing whatsoever. Unlike you? He doesn’t think with his dick.”

“My dick is quite intelligent. It’s never led me wrong.” He snagged the half-and-half, and three Francesca Farms frozen dinner kits.

“What about that time in Thailand? When you caught the clap?”

“Bitch,” Granger said. “I was only sixteen—and I’d wiped that from my memory. Now I’m feeling itchy.” He ventured to the foyer.

The door stood ajar. Baker looked mortified. “You caught the clap in Thailand?”

“That’s Classified information—way above your pay grade. Now bugger off, Baker.”

“Classified, huh? Understood, sir.”

***

Craving a smoke before he lost the chance? Rogers navigated to the head on his left; the one to his right bore an Out of Order sign. His skin felt hot—like he had a fever. He smoked half the butt; splashed cold water on his face. Strolling to the cockpit, he paused alongside the blindfolded chef. “That’s the best meal I’ve had in a long time.” To his surprise she blushed—and said thanks. Rogers slid into his seat. Cruz sealed the cabin, and buzzed Baker on her Bluetooth headset: “Good hunting, Sergeant.”

“Copy that,” she said. Alone at last. “You want another coffee?”

“Please,” Francesca said. She still looked rankled by the blindfold and her only dinner option: a peanut butter sandwich made with pasty white bread and a bowl of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup. More penance for bashing Valentine. If Baker had been there? She might’ve screwed up and applauded.

“If you can keep a secret? I brought you dessert. Granger doesn’t know.”

Baker removed my blindfold—

“Yes!” A Super-Duper Oooie-Gooey Chocolate Chip Cookie the size of a 10-inch pizza. My favorite comfort food. “Can you toss this in the microwave for fifty seconds?”

“Maybe. You gonna let me have a slice?”

“You’ll have to fight me for it.”

Sgt. Baker smirked. “Haven’t you learned your lesson yet?

“Probably not,” I said. “Sometimes fighting isn’t about winning or losing.”

“Tell me about it. I’ve got two older brothers who constantly kicked my ass but I got my licks in.” The microwave beeped. Baker cut herself a sliver. Slid me the plate. “This is what you call a preemptive strike.”

“Well played, Sergeant. Save Uncle Sam some Band-Aids.”

“Brace yourself,” she said when I’d gorged half the pie—like two-fisted Joey Chestnut during a hotdog-eating contest. “Sadly this next surprise is anything but sweet.”

Baker flipped a stand on an MP4 player, set the box on the table and pressed play. Less than ninety seconds in? I stabbed the stop button. “I’m not into porn—especially shit like this.”

“Who’s the girl?” Baker said.

“I don’t have a clue. As you can see in the clip? I found a DVD spewing this filth on a computer in my office.”

Baker took the player: hit fast forward, then stop. Slid the MP4 to me. “What comes next I guarantee you haven’t seen.”

My stomach turned queasy. A red status bar at the bottom of the screen showed ten more minutes left. But I pressed stop once again.

“Only Granger and I have seen this,” Baker said softly. “And this is the only copy. Granger was hoping you could tell us who the girl is. Since you don’t know? And now that you’re aware of these hidden cameras? I’ve been ordered to destroy these files. I know you’ve been through a lot in less than forty-eight hours, but I trust Granger with my life.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re both soldiers.”

“He understands your doubts,” Baker said. She tugged on latex gloves. Grabbed the MP player with a pair of nearby tongs. Strolled to the sink and poured liquid that bubbled like acid when the stuff hit the player. “He gave me this message: Tell Francesca I delivered her last batch to Happy Valley Farm—

“He didn’t tell me what that means,” Sgt. Baker said. “But sorry,” she added. “Now that you’ve watched me destroy this stuff? Your blindfold goes back on.”

Stepping from the head—empty acid bottle and melted MP4 both successfully flushed—Sgt. Baker blanched like she’d seen a ghost. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Likewise,” he said, pistol pointed at her neck. “I stowed away onboard to rescue Ms. Francesca. No, she’s not my girlfriend. She doesn’t even know me. But don’t worry—do as I say? And I’ll save you, too.”

“Thanks for caring,” Baker said. “But I don’t need saving.”

“I’m not here to argue, babe. Unless you have a Death Wish? Release Francesca now.”

Baker peeled her gloves and untied the blindfold—

“Meet my dead husband, Donnie. I haven’t seen him in a year. But it’s obvious he’s got one helluva crush on you.”

“Donnie’s dead,” he said as Baker dropped to her knees and unlocked my shackles. “You two can call me Mouse. That fucking evil cunt Valentine plans to poison both of you—then blame Apollo Creed. She’s poisoned twelve already, including six poor kids. This weapon in my hand? It’s a tranquilizer gun. Since I can fly this bird? I’m gonna shoot the pilots and get us outta here.”

Knees still planted on the cabin floor, Baker raised her hands in mock surrender, upturned lips nearly brushing Mouse’s crotch. “Please don’t shoot the pilots. You need to trust me, Mouse. I’ve never lied to you,” she lied. But all her lies were white—and the size of Moby Dick. Baker sure as hell hoped this one didn’t bite her in the ass. “We’ve been poisoned already, Mouse. My CO Granger found out—and ordered us back to base camp. It’s the only place that has the antidote. If we don’t get there in time? Both of us will die.”

Mouse glanced at the cabin clock. Praise be to God and pass more ammunition! His first bomb had exploded—

***

"About fucking time," Francesca’s lawyer muttered.

The email he received from admin2@francescafarms.org had urged him to keep silent until details about the raid went viral internationally. So he’d quietly worked backchannels rather than do nothing—

He could’ve accomplished just as much standing on a corner with his thumb stuck up his ass. Either ignorant or outright liars, none of his contacts in the House or Senate told him jack shit about Michael Clayton’s compound or his client’s welfare. All Francesca’s phones, both personal and business, remained out of service. At least the sheriff had confirmed something was amiss.

Anyone taken from the compound must feel scared shitless…especially the kids. Hell, he felt scared just sitting in his office. He and his team of trusted paralegals had frenetically scrolled news feeds for nearly three hours.

A news outlet in Moscow was the first to break the story. Agencies in China, North Korea and the Middle East quickly followed suit. Unlike American journalists, reporters in these countries didn’t feel compelled to verify the gifted video’s claims—or its authenticity—nor did they bother to seek comment from qualified American sources. England’s BBC America was the first U.S. ally to dip its feet in the growing fray.

His small squad of thirteen had set up a dozen TVs in the conference room—all equipped with DVRs and set to different channels. But not one broadcast told them anything that hadn’t been said or shown in the unsigned email. The lawyer poured a scotch…

Where are you, Francesca?

I writhed on the cabin floor and puked a second time inside my plastic bucket. Sgt. Holly Baker now sat shackled to my old table, minus her Bluetooth headset—and her service pistol, as well as her iPhone. “Sorry,” Mouse said. “But since my country killed me? I’ve suffered major trust and abandonment issues. What’s our ETA to base camp?”

“Ballpark? Twelve minutes. I can help you, Mouse—if you’ll let me contact Granger. Base camp is underground. You won’t get past the elevators. If you stay onboard? It’s just a matter of time before you get caught: a cleanup squad will come to sanitize this bird. And once we land? There’s no place for you to hide. Nor will you find any vehicles on the surface.” Another white lie. But this one orca-sized: and potentially more dangerous. “You’ll be stuck in the dessert—a hundred miles from civilization—without enough water. You could try Uber, but good luck with that. Flagging down a UFO strikes me as more likely.” She decided not to add, “But with your social skills I wouldn’t recommend that.”

“Is Granger also your boyfriend?”

“No. But maybe soon. Now I know that you are dead. And have a wandering eye. Ah, fuck me,” she said—and puked into her bucket.

Mouse pinched his nose and sighed. Even dead he had a way of making women nauseous. Stalking them worked much better. He tapped Baker’s iPhone. Nope it wasn’t locked. He found Granger in her Contacts. “You talk, I’ll type and edit.”

“Yeah, this’ll work,” he told her sixty seconds later. “Clear, concise and kinda sweet.” Mouse stabbed send: Sick as a dog. ETA in 10. Unexpected events. 2 sick to Xplain. Putting my faith in You. Please order Cruz back to Creed’s villa STAT once our boots hit the ground. Respectfully yours, Holly Baker, SFC.

Mouse rummaged his magic backpack: laid items on the table.

Baker’s iPhone barked like an M16. Mouse read the text out loud: Cruz’s new orders confirmed. Med Evac team in place. Cockpit to STAY sealed. You owe me one Holly Baker, First Class Sergeant indeed. Payable on Demand. Stay alert: Granger Danger.

Mouse looked satisfied. “For a guy who thinks with his dick? This Granger’s pretty smart. Quickly,” he told Baker. “I need your fingerprints and a photo of your retina. Don’t flinch but say cheese. Good. Yeah, baby. Work those lovely fingers. Now extend your right arm. Excellent ex-wife. You’ve now been micro-chipped. If anything bad happens to Francesca? I’m going to hunt and kill you—and a slew of others. Starting with fucking Anita Valentine.”

Baker stared at Mouse. Revelation dawned. Sonovabitch. Her batshit dead husband planted the hidden cameras in Francesca’s home and office. If he wasn’t legally dead? She would divorce his sorry ass.

The bird banked sharply, swooping in descent. Mouse checked his GPS. He snapped photos of Francesca and his former wife puking in their buckets. And hastily started filming out the cabin windows. Before the copter landed, he emailed Francesca’s lawyer—and triggered his second bomb. Praise be to god. Don’t just stand there—pass more ammunition!

After sending his last text? Granger sat snoring on Francesca’s couch—Valentine’s bare feet planted in his lap. His cell phone chirped. Engrossed with her iPad Valentine raised one foot. Then used her heel to hammer Granger’s crotch. “What the fuck?” he shouted.

“Answer your phone,” said Valentine, muting the TV.

“Look at your email inbox stat and watch the attachment,” Granger’s lead techie told him.

Movie time over, Granger shouted again. “What the fuck?”

“Don’t worry,” said the shrink. “I saved your ass with the brass—at least for the moment.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“Because Retch and Veil are my operations. And you needed to get some sleep.” She turned the TV volume on and they watched the news feeds.

Granger snapped his fingers. “I know where the unsub shooter took most of these shots.”

“Me, too,” said Valentine. “He or she was hiding in the compound—at the top of the black obelisk. Oh, hey, there’s me,” she added. “Don’t I look so goddamn fuckable driving that Malibu?”

***

Strapped to a gurney that raced down a hall, striking boot heels ringing on the concrete floor, my fever burned hot—

Which turned my thoughts to ovens…

Crematorium ovens typically burn at temps between 1,400 and 1,800 degrees Fahrenheit. My pottery kilns kick their ass. They quickly reach 1,800 and max out at 24k. At times my anger seems to burn just as hot. When I asked Creed who the girl was? The bastard laughed at me. Called me damaged goods. Said I knew the joy of cooking. But thanks to my drunk-ass father? I would never know the true joy of sex.

I’d read The Joy of Sex. Nowhere did it mention an adult man having anal sex with a prepubescent girl. Instinct told me the girl was 10 years old—the same age as me when I beat my father senseless with an iron skillet while the asshole choked my mother. Routinely but gently, I had turned aside Michael’s sexual advances…which hadn’t fully stopped till about a year ago. Consumed with my endeavors, I failed to realize how drastically he’d changed during that time. And that poor girl became my proxy.

After zapping Creed unconscious with a modified cattle prod and sewing his mouth shut like a holiday turkey’s butt, I roasted that bastard for nearly three hours—at a toasty temperature of 2,000 degrees. Unlike what you might imagine? Cremation doesn’t turn a corpse into a pile of ash. Muscles and organs evaporate and teeth disintegrate. All that remains? Shards of splintered bones.

After Creed’s bones had cooled? I grabbed tongs and fed the shards into a hammer mill grinder—that produced six pounds of human bone flour which most of us call ashes. And since Creed was a fucking turd? I mixed his bone flour with bran flour and baked two hundred muffins. Although I added extra baking powder and doubled the lemon juice? The muffins didn’t rise to their proper height. But no worries. I paper-bagged those fuckers. Marked that shit as “Damaged Goods.” Tossed the bagged misshapen turds into three plastic totes. Carted them to my van. And spent the next hour bleaching my equipment.

I didn’t regret killing the fucker. He’d never abuse a girl again. Because the community’s buildings belong to the Trust? Residents wouldn’t lose their homes. And we could carry on our business without Apollo Creed.

But my reasons for killing weren’t totally altruistic. Despite my anger? I’d murdered Creed in cold blood: each step I took was premeditated. I wanted to keep his sins a secret.

Creed spent a lot time in foreign countries, including Indochina. And the girl looked Asian. Impoverished parents in such places often sell their kids—both boys and girls—and many become sex slaves for wealthy foreigners. Sometimes for a night. Sometimes for a lifetime if the price is right. Despite the depravities Creed inflicted on the girl? She showed no signs of distress…and I suspected the poor child had long ago been sold into sexual slavery.

But if debauched Creed also had sex with underaged American girls? Especially the girls who lived in our community—and his crimes became public? Every good thing I’d built in the last ten yours would burn like wildfires…and eventually turn to ash. Too many people already considered us a cult.

These speculations fueled my anger when I decided to kill him. I pondered Granger’s message—

And hoped he wasn’t lying as we flew down the hall.

Creed’s whirlybird drew closer to the enemy-riddled compound. Mouse pulled Baker’s iPhone, and tapped Granger a text: AOK in sick bay. Need new orders for Cruz. Land and leave bird at 34°14'42 N and 112°39'47 W. Blue Civic on site. Key under mat. Cruz can drive to villa. I will owe you 2. Always eager to pay my debts. HBSFC

Granger answered pronto: New rendezvous confirmed. Panel will stay closed. Get some rest SILF. You’ll need your energy.

Mouse’s plan unfurled like falling well-placed dominoes. Creed’s chopper landed at the private airfield: the pilot drove away in the stolen Civic. Chilling for an hour in a private hanger Mouse copied Baker’s Contacts, read her recent texts and emails—then burned her phone and SIM card. He took a shower, scarfed some grub. Stashed the needed gear in dead Gary Clayton’s plane.

Dead Gary had become his closest living friend. They ran a preflight check together and warmed the engine. Flying low below the radar, they zig-zagged west for an hour—then banked south for Mexico—

Chatting all the way. Dead Gary’s wife had kept the house they owned in Mexico. A decent dirt runway skirted the house’s eastern flank, so they’d stay overnight. Neither had a key. But, hey, they didn’t need one. Tucked in the garage sat dead Gary’s old Jeep—and the key for that hung from a yellow pegboard.

Mouse didn’t tell dead Gary he once slept with his former wife before she moved to San Francisco. Before lovely Sarah left? She started puking every morning.

Watching her on hidden cameras? He’d almost puked himself.

***

Propped against the wall in a Sugarcult tee and tattered black Levis, Sgt. Holly Baker smirked. “Get dressed, you’re going home—under house arrest. Your pit bull lawyer brokered you a deal. I’m your new security chief 24-7 so I brought some of your clothes.”

What the fuck? House arrest? No idea what that meant. But home sounded heavenly. “What day is it?” I said. “No one here will tell me.”

“Saturday,” she said. “We’re at Verde Valley Medical. You got transferred here—after one of Granger’s units found Gary Clayton’s plane down in Mexico on Thursday. Telling us about the plane was a big chip in your favor.” She handed me my phone. “You’ve also got a text from Granger. You might wanna read that now.”

May as well, right? Your assets and accounts have all been released. Check your email inbox for a Thank You note from Hidden Valley Farm. If you want to confirm the delivery date and time? Hey, give them a call. Later fish girl. Granger

I’m a multi-millionaire. I have no relatives, no friends that I could talk to. Did Granger and Baker plan to blackmail me? They might’ve hacked or tapped my phone. I postponed reading the email—or calling Helen at Hidden Valley—until I was alone and could use another phone. Or better yet? Maybe my lawyer could handle that.

If my house arrest got lifted? Taking a vacation—in a foreign country that wouldn’t extradite me—seemed like a good idea till I could get my head straight and see how life unfolded.

“Thank you, Sgt. Baker. Please thank Granger for me.”

“Nope. Thank him yourself. We need to do some work at your home and office.” She touched a finger to her lips, pointed to her arm. “I’m sure you understand.”

I reckoned she’d already had that microchip removed. “Indeed, I do,” I said. Mouse’s fucking hidden cameras. I’m no rocket scientist, but I’d worked that math. Baker’s dramatic MP4 slaying aside? Copies of my murderous actions still might exist.

Over the past five years? I sent all my food scraps and expired goods to Helen—and she fed them to her pigs. I’d planned to bring her the Creed Turd muffins late Tuesday morning. Even if Granger made the delivery for me? I had no reason to trust him or Holly Baker. He could’ve kept some of the muffins—and sent them to a lab for DNA analysis. Hell. I still didn’t know his full or real name.

Baker wheeled me to the entrance in a needless wheelchair. A car screeched to a halt. Dr. Fucking Anita Valentine sat behind the wheel.

“No hard feelings, I hope?” she called out the open window.

I couldn’t help snorting. “Certainly no soft ones.”

“I suppose that’s fair,” she said. “I’ve been ordered to drive you home.”

“So you stole Creed’s Malibu?”

“I didn’t steal, I confiscated—it’s more fun than commandeering.”

Baker and I both hopped in back. We drove five blocks—and the twisted shrink swung curbside outside a Pollo Loco. Clad in black street clothes, Granger wedged inside beside me, so I got sandwiched in the middle. He tossed the shrink a paper sack. “That’s your crazy chicken burrito.”

“What am I?” Valentine snapped. “A goddam fucking pariah or an overpaid chauffeur?”

“Home, bitch,” I ordered. She screeched from the curb, fished out her crazy chicken.

Granger handed me a Barnes & Noble bag. “Homecoming present. Reacher’s latest novel.”

I whacked his knee with the book. “Thanks,” I said. “But scoot against your door. I need some room to breathe.”

We drove in silence till zipping past my community’s Spanish Mission gates, and Granger started singing: “There was a farmer had a dog—”

Valentine cocked a pistol at his head.

“Hey,” Granger said. “I’ve got first amendment rights.”

“So what?” said the shrink. “I’ve got a license to kill.”

Granger changed his tune…“Anita’s got a gun—”

Anita fishtailed to a stop outside my condo. Fired a warning shot that shattered Granger’s window. And our startled ear drums. “Enough bullshit,” she said. “The three of you have been keeping secrets from me. It’s time to spill your guts—or I will spill them for you.”

Pleiades Place looked deserted and much truth is said in jest. A license to kill? Maybe Valentine was a black op agent, not a civilian shrink. Before we could say a word? The crazy bitch’s head exploded—

“Jesus,” Granger muttered fumbling for his door handle. “Malibu or not? You don’t look so goddam fuckable.”

Two more rifle shots slammed Granger and Baker. Fatal headshots once again.

It’s freaky knowing Mouse is watching out for me. That poor soul is damaged goods.

*****

About The Author

Jesse “Heels” Rawlins pens crime, mysteries and humor. Whether online or in print books, you’ll usually find her stories on the wrong side of the tracks. Her yarns have kindly been published in England, Canada, Poland and the USA. At the time of this writing, Damaged Goods is her longest published work. Ms. Rawlins hopes to present the novelette Tainted Goods (Book 2 in the Sick Psycho Carousel series) during 2023. Meanwhile, care to read some of her debauched published stories absolutely free without annoying advertisements? You can easily find them at the links below.

“Who’s Afraid of the Big, Bad Wolf?” (Short Story)

https://ryethewhiskeyreview.blogspot.com/2018/08/whos-afraid-of-big-bad-wolf-by-jesse.html

“Skin Flicks” (Short Story)

https://savapress.blogspot.com/2022/01/skin-flicks-by-jesse-heels-rawlins.html

“The Ensenada Incident” (Flash Fiction)

https://ryethewhiskeyreview.blogspot.com/2018/09/the-ensenada-incident-by-jesse-rawlins.html

“The Jimmy Choo Blues” (Flash Fiction)

https://www.redfez.net/fiction/loneliness-the-jimmy-choo-blues-846