Ch. 2 – A Staged Kidnapping, and What It's Like Working With Fools
The next part of the job was easy, if not a little fun even. It had all been mapped out carefully in the basement underneath a large banquet hall in downtown L. A. The car McCadden was driving was placed in direct view of one of the lot's many security cameras. McCadden had now begun going by the name of "Knox" and he was upstairs attending some charity ball with his business partner, a smug woman by the name of Wood. He patiently waited below, in the shadows of the cavernous lot, listening for his cue.
McCadden, Knox, whatever, the guy sure was taking a long time. Taking long enough to make even the most patient kidnapper glance again at his watch, strain to see the time with what dim light the moon afforded him, and shake his head in disgust. The guy was probably preening in the bathroom.
Footsteps sounded from a distance. He tensed, listening, and pulled out a cigarette and lit up. If it were anyone else he'd need to look like he had a reason to be skulking around in the dark corners of a basement. Not that it would really matter anyway, people usually never even noticed him, but one could never be too careful. There were two pairs of footsteps and pretty soon McCadden's voice could be heard in low tones. It sounded apprehensive. He quickly ground out his cigarette and dropped it as he began to stealthily trail the two as they made their way to McCadden's BMW. All three of them were still some distance away from the car. So absolutely silent was he as he followed them, matching their footsteps, that he could tell that McCadden, even knowing of the imminent attack, was thoroughly spooked. Ms. Wood walked stiffly beside her "date" responding to everything he said with an abrupt nod. The tension rolled off her in waves.
They were nearly at the car now, and they began to move apart as they each went for their respective side, but he held back, waiting and listening. Couldn't jump the gun now. Finally he heard it, the faint screeching of tires coming from below, near the entrance of the lot. That was his cue – they were coming. He ran in, coming up behind McCadden and hit him hard in the back of the head, rendering the man unconscious. Ms. Wood let out a shriek as the first car arrived, a black Cadillac. One of McCadden's thugs jumped out and helped him quickly throw the downed man into the backseat. The other car, a blue jeep, was close on their heels. The passenger in the jeep got out and roughed Ms. Wood up a little, yelled some threatening things into her face, and knocked her to the ground, before leaving her there and jumping quickly back into the jeep.
His part being done, he got into the Cadillac sitting in the front seat, and both vehicles peeled out, leaving black tire marks on the pavement. They left the parking lot and made their way through the streets, heading for the freeway. After a few minutes McCadden came to. Hearing the movements coming from the backseat, he looked into the rearview mirror only to be greeted with an angry scowl from his employer, who was groggily rubbing the back of his head.
"What the hell? You didn't have to hit me so hard you know. Shit…" he said, glaring balefully.
He nodded once in a supposed agreement, thinking about what to say. The driver, sitting next to him, saved him the trouble. "You know boss, it hadda look authentic and all."
"Yeah, whatever," was McCadden's sullen reply.
"This guy," the driver continued, poking at him with his elbow in a friendly manner, "he knows what he's doin'. Not one to do things half-assed if you know what I mean. Huh, kid – you know what's goes on, don't ya?"
He looked at the driver, bit back a disdainful sneer, and instead gave a very small (and in his mind very long-suffering) smile and then looked out the window.
The problem with these other thugs was, they were just that – common thugs. There was no meaning in it all for them. They just ran around like a bunch of drunken apes, shooting their mouths off as often as they shot their guns. They didn't know when it was time to hold back and when to give it everything you had. They'd never understand the most important thing about this line of work – that in everything, even in killing, there had to be beauty. To him, aesthetics were everything. Balance, meaning and even an ounce of irony meant a job well done. Anything less and he'd be blaming himself for weeks. This was his art and he was a very demanding artist when it came to his work.
Example: he always kept a gun on hand in case he needed to get himself out of a pinch. But his weapon of choice was a very long, very thin, very sharp sword. It was cleverly disguised inside of a classic looking black and silver cane. He loved its simplicity, its silence. He handled it so well now that he considered it to be an extension of himself. Dark, easily unnoticeable and very deadly.
One had to find beauty in simple things such as this. Otherwise bitterness could all too easily set in. One could quickly become jaded and as a result unpredictable and that could only lead to disaster. But these guys, they'd never understand something like this and that is why they'd never become much, never make it very far. How he'd even become part of a class such as this – a class of people whose main concern was getting high, and making a fast buck, was beyond him. It hadn't always been this way. Believe it or not, his motives, starting out, had actually been somewhat good. He'd needed to help someone out. A kid – a sort of "lost soul" similar to what he'd once been.
He knew about her because she'd run away from the very same orphanage he'd once lived at. It had been about four years since he himself had left and even though he'd never contacted the Mother Superior or any of the other nuns who'd cared for him he often found himself wandering around the old buildings, keeping to the shadows as he vainly tried to work up the nerve to go in and visit. It was one such day, he'd been skulking around, when he saw the missing person poster. Examining it, he knew he had to do something. He'd always wanted to help this place out since they'd taken him in all those years ago, when he'd had no place else to go. It was going under financially but he didn't really have any money or anything. But here – here was something he could do. He didn't bother telling anyone of his plans, just ripped the poster from the wall and took it with him.
Some clever research back in town turned up some answers. She had in fact run away, and then found herself in the wrong place at the wrong time and gotten herself kidnapped. He made his way from one location where she'd been seen to the next, ending up at some noisy bar in a rough part of town. He showed her picture to the bartender. Yeah, he'd seen her, she'd dressed herself up to look older than she really was but he'd seen through the disguise and hadn't let her order anything more than a soda. She sat by the window and these two sleazy guys started talking to her. At first they were making her laugh and she seemed to enjoy the attention, but then one of them whispered something to her that she didn't seem to like. When she shook her head and got up to walk away, they grabbed her and took off. They'd called the cops but they didn't know yet where she was from so they didn't really have anything to go on. After hearing a brief description of the guys, who'd been seen around those parts before, and a few suggestions on where they might be heading, he got to work.
He found them within a few days – they were camped out in some seedy motel just off the freeway. She was sitting on the floor, handcuffed to the blaring television set. The window facing the street was partway open to let in a little breeze, and he listened there, to the guys talk about how they were going to get her real high and then pimp her out on the street. But first they were going to get high themselves. Around the corner of the building was a tiny window. Cat-like, he slipped in, finding himself in the bathroom. There was a gun lying on the back of the toilet, forgotten. He quietly grabbed it, and then stood there in the dark, wondering how he was going to proceed. After a few minutes he heard their voices pick up and he crept to the slightly cracked open door, listening.
"Hey, pretty," one said, walking over to the girl. "You want some of this?" He offered her his lit joint.
"Go to hell," she muttered through gritted teeth, face hidden by her long tangling hair.
"Heh," the guy chuckled, "Funny. You know, you ought to have more respect for me. That's no way to talk to your future employer," he said, stroking her shoulder suggestively.
"Get your hands off of me," was her quiet reply.
"Dude," the other guy said from the bed, "don't get her all riled up again. The last thing we need is her squawking and making all the other tenants complain. Just lay off, alright?"
"You know how these girls are man. They just play hard to get because they think it's what they're supposed to do. Huh pretty? You know you like it. Let's show him, he don't know nothing. Come here, give me a kiss." He leaned in.
She turned and spit directly into his face. "Leave me alone!"
"Bitch!" he screamed, and stood, kicking her hard in the ribs. She cried out in pain and that was it.
Before he'd even thought about it, he was standing in the middle of the room and two shots were fired. Both men were dead before they'd even had a chance to ask him who the hell he was. He quickly found the key and uncuffed the girl. She was stunned at what had happened. He grabbed her by the arm and hauled her out of the room, just barely making it to the shadows before anybody saw them. Within seconds there were people everywhere, standing out in front of the open doorway, most in bathrobes and slippers, demanding an explanation from the equally dumbfounded management. They made their way through the brush, keeping out of sight. The sirens were getting near. About a half block away he found his motorcycle, which had been stashed away, awaiting his return. He offered her his helmet, and got on, helping her climb on behind him. He didn't answer any of her questions, only pausing long enough to cryptically tell her that they came from the same place, before starting the engine and making his way back to the orphanage. When he dropped her off at the gates he merely nodded at her words of thanks and told her not to tell anyone who he was. Then he sped off.
He was worried after that night, that someone would be after him now and for one terrifying moment, thought his fears were confirmed when a very rich looking man in the back of a Mercedes pulled up next to him, as he made his way down a quiet alley, and told him he'd been seen by one of his men outside the motel where the two dead guys had been found. Then a surprising thing happened. The rich guy thanked him. Apparently those two guys had just been some low-life hoodlums who owed this guy a substantial amount of money. They'd been on the run on account of a price he'd put on their heads, and this man mistakenly thought he'd gone after them for the money. The rich man tossed him a thick roll of cash and in the band securing it was a card with a number on it.
"If you ever want to do some work for me just call that," he said, motioning to his driver, who then drove away.
Later he marveled to himself about how quickly and efficiently he'd reacted in that motel room. Until that night, he'd never really known he'd had it in him. It had been the anger – that he knew. Hearing that poor kid scream, seeing her crumple after being kicked like that, something had gone off in him. Suddenly it all came back – every insult, every jeer that he'd ever received since he was a child came back. Growing up he'd been teased for being different, for his shy nature and odd look. For his refusal to talk. He'd wasted precious little time feeling hurt and confused over these little barbs, instead listening fully and storing them away, a growing supply of hatred and anger to feed off of. They found it odd, in those days, that he never fought back, never cried, that he just stood there with slit eyes, taking in everything they said, almost as if he couldn't get enough. They didn't know he was secretly storing it all up to use against them later. Who knew when it might come in handy? Well, it looked like he'd certainly found an outlet for all this untapped anger. It took him less than a week to call the number.
Raucous laughter brought him back to the present. "You should 'a seen that broad's face when Mitch knocked her on her ass!"
They were gassing up and McCadden was inside the liquor store next door, walking up and down the aisles like a kid in a candy store on Christmas Day.
"She's the bosses girlfriend," the driver told him, pointing in at McCadden. "Man, though, what a bitch!"