Mark Gimenez - The Abduction

Abductions of federal judges and prosecutors by drug lords and terrorists are daily occurrences in Colombia and Mexico and other third-world countries. But not in the United States of America. That cannot be allowed to happen here; for if it does and if the government gives in to the abductors’ demands, the rule of law in America will die. And if it happens on the current FBI director’s watch, his dream of living in the White House will surely die as well.

“I won’t do it!”

Director McCoy is back in his office at FBI Headquarters, surrounded by the Assistant Director, the Special Agent in Charge of the Critical Incident Response Group, and the leader of the Hostage Rescue Team.

“Release Walker,” HRT leader Tom Buchanan says. “We’ll plant a transponder in his shoe, we’ll track him until he releases the hostage, and then my snipers will kill him.”

“Like they killed that mother at Ruby Ridge? Shit, Tom, I’ve got two Congressional investigations and a fucking federal lawsuit over your goddamn snipers! And the Majority Leader said to forget a budget increase!”

Larry McCoy turns and stares out the window. He can see the White House in the distance, just city blocks away geographically but close enough to touch politically. And the decision he makes at this moment will determine if Laurence McCoy ever inhabits that house. He turns back.

“Walker stays put.”

Larry McCoy drops the small zip-lock evidence bag.

He didn’t think they’d really do it. If the press gets wind that a federal prosecutor-a young woman, no less-is being held hostage by former black ops soldiers and dismantled and sent to Washington in plastic baggies, his political career is over. On the other hand, if he releases Walker and Walker kills other innocent citizens, his political career is over. The classic Washington lose-lose situation.

“They pulled them out with pliers,” the Assistant Director says.

McCoy looks down at the evidence bag holding Elizabeth Austin’s molars.

Hostage Rescue Team operator Frank Kane is sitting in his idling sedan outside the maximum-security federal prison at Leavenworth, Kansas. For the first time in his ten-year FBI career, he is unarmed. He will drive the prisoner to the release point. Transponders have been placed in Kane’s shoe, in the vehicle, and in the prisoner’s shoe. At that very moment, HRT’s C-130 transport loaded with a dozen operators and enough weapons to overthrow a small country is flying overhead at twenty thousand feet; they will track the prisoner with the transponders, they will land on a goddamn highway if they have to, and they will kill Major Charles Woodrow Walker and his co-conspirators.

After, that is, Elizabeth Austin is released.

“Pull over,” the major says.

They have driven twenty-seven miles west of Leavenworth on various farm-to-market roads per the major’s directions. Kane turns into an abandoned roadside vegetable stand. A late-model black Suburban is parked out front; a young Hispanic male is perched on the hood. They’re switching vehicles.

Kane exits the sedan, unconcerned about abandoning the vehicle and its transponders. They had anticipated the major’s move; the transponders in their shoes will still lead the HRT team above.

They walk over to the Suburban.

“Keys,” the major says, holding his hand out.

Kane tosses the sedan’s keys to the major. The major says something in Spanish to the young man and hands him the keys. The young man jumps down, walks over to the sedan, gets in, and drives back toward Leavenworth.

“Drive,” the major says. Kane nods, opens the driver’s door, and steps up onto the running board. “Naked.”

Kane freezes. “ What? ”

The major rips his shirt off and tosses it to the ground.

“Remove your clothes.”

“You want me to drive naked?”

“I’m pretty sure you didn’t stick a transponder up my ass. Beyond that, I can’t be sure where you planted them. Don’t worry-this vehicle’s got a good heater.”

Kane’s face betrays his thoughts. The major chuckles.

“How do you think we tracked downed pilots in North Vietnam?”

They did not anticipate this move. Kane tries to think of a way out but nothing comes to him. He unzips his jacket.

Frank Kane laughs. Not at the fact of two grown men driving naked through Kansas farm country on a Sunday morning in February but at the major’s sex and war stories from Vietnam.

“Three Viet women at a time?”

The major shrugs. “If you were man enough.”

An hour later and Frank Kane finds himself admiring Major Charles Woodrow Walker more with each mile. The major is a hell of a man. What would make this man turn against his own country? The major reads his mind.

“Betrayal. You know something about that, don’t you, Frank?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Ruby Ridge. You were there, doing your duty for your country, defending your country against all enemies, foreign and domestic. But things went wrong and your country blames you.”

“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.