Scarlet Rendezvous

Turns out Tiffany had told me the truth. Karina was in Florida, working for a start-up adult video production company in Tampa Bay called Scarlet Rendezvous. No one by the name of "Sasha" had turned up, but that was most likely a nickname. My guy hadn't located where Karina was staying either. Still, the production company was real, with a phone number and address. It had taken him about two weeks to gather this information, as he was already tied up with other work.

I called the number, identifying myself as an entrepreneur looking to invest in the new company. The woman who answered the phone seemed interested, although she explained any meaningful conversation on the subject would need to be done in person. She suggested I book a time to come into the office and talk with Mandy, who took care of Scarlet Rendezvous' business operations.

I asked to speak with Sasha, but the woman on the phone -- her name was Carol -- told me Sasha was unavailable.

"When will he be available?" I asked.

"I'm not sure," she told me.

"Is there a number where I can reach him?"

"No."

"Is there any way to get in contact with him?"

"What's your name again?" Carol asked.

"My name is Chad Franklin. Like I said, I'm looking to invest in adult entertainment. No one is really selling DVDs anymore, obviously. It's all about marketing, and building a platform on the internet and social media. I know some people who could help you promote your page. More importantly, I have some real money to invest. Are you sure there is no way for me to speak to Sasha? Maybe send him an email?"

"Unfortunately, Sasha doesn't take calls from new investors. I'm sorry."

"I see. That's unfortunate. I really do like what Scarlet Rendezvous is producing. There was this one video, it was titled 'College Coed Rendezvous,' I believe. I like how you design your videos around the rendezvous theme -- this is a good way to develop your brand. Anyway, there was an actress doing the scene, she was a cute girl-next-door type, had auburn hair, cut into a sexy wedge. She had blue eyes. Do you know who I'm talking about?"

"I'm not sure, sir."

"Well, I think I know the actress who did that scene. If I give you her name, would you be able to put me in contact with her?"

"We don't give out information on our actors or models over the phone. If you're interested in booking or hiring one of them for a shoot, you need to come into our office."

"Fine," I said. "I'll come in then. Can I make an appointment with Mandy, your business manager?"

"Of course. Let me get her schedule."

***

I rented a silver Cadillac Escalade for the drive down to Florida from New York. The last time I made this trip was for Karina's karate championship. I thought of her as a kid in the garage, breaking boards. She was an awesome daughter, who'd made me so proud. We were close once. That seemed like a lifetime ago.

I brought some of my toys with me -- my Glock 17, a taser, a blackjack, a roll of duck-tape, and zip-ties. I wasn't planning on fucking around once I got down there. I would find Karina and bring her back home. Period. I hoped to do it peacefully, without a lot of drama. My toys weren't for my daughter, of course. They were for emergency purposes only, in case this Sasha prick wanted to make trouble.

I left New York after midnight, preferring to drive in the dark. The roads were open and much less busy, especially that long stretch of I-95 from New Jersey to Virginia. I was driving through Richmond when the sun came up. This is when I noticed a black Mercedes following me. For a brief moment I thought I saw someone inside loading an assault rifle.

I kept an eye on the Mercedes in my rearview mirror. There was an exit in two miles, and I needed to get off and get some breakfast and take a quick nap. I entered a construction zone, and the lane narrowed. A dump truck pulled onto the shoulder, revving its engine. My mind flashed back to Afghanistan, to my time my in the desert. The dump truck became a Humvee.

I heard gunfire and ducked down below the dashboard, trying to keep an eye on the road. Someone in the Mercedes was shooting at me with an assault rifle. I could hear the shots: pow, pow, pow, pow, pow. My heart pounded in my chest and my hands shook on the wheel. I couldn't breathe, and felt like I was watching reality in slow motion. The right side of my Escalade scraped against the concrete construction barrier. Orange sparks flew at the window.

I passed the hardhats holding their jackhammers, and suddenly, all at once, things cleared. I could breathe again. There were no shots. It was in my head. The Mercedes behind me kept going straight down the highway. There was a middle age woman driving, a German Shepard in the passenger seat next to her.

I got off the highway and found a Denny's in Downtown Richmond. Although the gunshots weren't real, the collision with the construction barrier was. The silver paint on the passenger side door was toast. And it was only seven hours into my trip. Good thing I got the renter's insurance.

I ate a monster breakfast -- the Super Slam -- got back into the Escalade, slid the seat all the way back, and slept for an hour. I woke up a new man, totally refreshed. I gassed up the car and got back on the highway. Only 12 more hours until I got to Tampa.

***

When I crossed into North Carolina, I started thinking about Rick Faustino. He was from Greensboro, and after his time in the SEALs, moved back there and started a family with his wife, Cecilia. They had four kids -- first a son, then a daughter, then twin boys. He was a great husband and father. When our security company scored its first big government contract in September of 2019, it was extremely difficult for him to leave his family and go back to Afghanistan.

But like most middle-class American families, he needed the money. Like me, he could no longer run the logistics of our business from home as we'd been doing for more than a decade. Big contracts required big risks, and we were forced to go back into the desert ourselves.

Things got off to a good start, as the U.S. was in peace talks with the Taliban. For the first few months we did weapons transportation, coordinating the shipment and distribution of guns and devices in high-risk areas. We were good at our job. Things got where they were supposed to go in a timely manner. Everyone was happy, and no one got hurt. Safety was our first priority.

It was about eight months in that our work got complicated. We were offered a seven-figure contract to help the U.S. military crackdown on illegal arms dealing, as the U.S. was planning its troop withdrawal. There was a lot of shady shit going down at the time, not only between rebel groups and the United States, but also between these groups and Russian gun runners. There was one group of Russian arms dealers in particular that the U.S. government wanted put out of business, and Rick and I were tasked with leading an offensive to shut this group down.

And we did. Big time. We hit them twice -- once confiscating a batch of Russian weapons worth about $500,000, the second time taking $2 million worth of assault rifles.

Needless to say, they weren't happy. They put a bounty on both our heads, pasting our picture everywhere. Things got really bad, really fast. Rick and I knew it was getting extremely dangerous, and that it was only a matter of time before these guys got to us. Our contract required us to stay in Afghanistan supporting the military for another two months. But we made a pact. This was it. The last job. In two months, we would leave that part of the world and never go back.

A week later, Rick got kidnapped. It was a total sellout move by an Afghan local we trusted and had known for nearly a year. He lured Rick into an alley, pretending to be hit with an IED. The alley seemed to be empty. The Afghan -- his name was Muzafar -- was screaming and calling for help. Rick knew better than to go over to him. It wasn't safe. But he did anyway, I have no idea why. Two trucks came around the corner and started firing. We all took cover. Someone threw a grenade. There was smoke and shrapnel. More machine guns fired. The trucks drove away.

There was a sniper on one of the roofs, pinning us down. By the time we shot our way out the trucks had disappeared out of town and into some mountains.

Rick was gone. I was stunned, uncomprehending. Did that just happen?

It did happen. The next three weeks were the worst of my life. The kidnappers wanted their guns back. They also wanted cash, an additional $3 million in American dollars, as interest. I thought of putting up my share of the money our security company had made to pay the ransom and get him back. It didn't work out. It was now a matter for the U.S. government, and I was told I had to stand down and play by the book. It was political, and there may have been things that the higher ups didn't want coming out. Negotiations failed. The U.S. military couldn't find him. Not the army, not the SEALs. Not my guys in our security outfit.

They ended up killing Rick, cutting off his head and hanging his body off a bridge in a small village in Kunar. They took a video of it, and published it on the internet. I vividly remember getting a notification from the military that there was a video, and that I could see it if I wanted. I refused to watch it. Strangely, this seemed to make things worse. My imagination went into overdrive. I couldn't turn off my brain, or the never-ending flurry of images running through my mind. I drove myself insane picturing different scenarios of Rick dying.

Finally, I gave in and watched it. His kidnappers were standing over him in hoods and ski masks. Rick was sitting on the cement floor in some abandoned building in handcuffs, beat to a pulp but still alive. They were telling him to read a statement, but he refused. Then the guy standing behind him did it, took out a long knife and beheaded him.

The video calmed my imagination -- at first. It enabled me to process what had happened, and move forward. Or at least I thought it did. For a week or two I seemed to be getting better. I could eat and sleep again. Then it was time to go home, back to New York.

When I landed at JFK in the summer of 2020, Karina was there to meet me. I hugged her and we drove back to Queens. She told me about her freshman year in college, and how she gave up doing karate. I wasn't around to train her, and she started to lose interest. But she was meeting new people, and doing new things. College had opened her mind, and she was "exploring." She really enjoyed hanging out with Tiffany, her adventurous roommate. Tiffany was trying to convince Karina to model, and to maybe even try some acting.

I listened and nodded from the passenger seat, not hearing much of what she was saying. I couldn't focus or concentrate. She asked me if there was something wrong, and I said there wasn't.

Things only continued to get worse. That summer I didn't work, and just lived off the money from my latest defense contract. I had a ton of it, though most was hidden in off-shore bank accounts at the advice of my accountant, who suggested I keep it there after the tragedy with Rick. No telling what the future held, and which parties might try to come after it.

I drank too much, trying to self-medicate. The video of Rick kept playing in my mind, the men in masks shouting at him in Russian, and him just sitting on the ground in handcuffs, beaten unrecognizable. I kept thinking I knew the building, that I figured out where they'd taken him after all. Jesus Christ, how could I have missed this? Then I'd go and watch the video in the basement in the dark, playing it over and over again, realizing that what I thought I'd figured out was complete bullshit speculation, that there was no way in hell to know where those mother fuckers were when they cut off his head.

Sometimes Karina would come downstairs, wanting to see me. She would always ask what I was doing, if I was okay. I would turn off the video, mostly in time for her to miss the worst parts. Once she heard Rick screaming, and asked if that was my friend who got killed in Afghanistan. I lied and said no, it wasn't, but she didn't believe me. Karina wasn't stupid. In fact, she was extremely intelligent.

Sometimes she would politely suggest I get counseling, for both my depression and alcoholism. I would shake my head and tell her I was fine, that I didn't need any help. She would then ask why I was down in the basement in the dark so much, watching the same video.

"Your dad just needs some time to himself," I'd tell her. "I'm trying to figure a few things out."

"I'm worried about you dad," she would say, and go upstairs.

Once in a while she would come downstairs and ask me if we could go in the garage and break boards like old times, do some karate moves or maybe even spar with each other.

"Maybe later," I'd tell her, kissing her on the forehead.

Only once did I ever lose my shit on her. I'd been drinking heavily for three straight days, whiskey as well as cans of beer. I was paranoid and unable to sleep. She came down on a Sunday morning and turned on the lights, bringing me a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon.

"Get the fuck down!" I shouted as the lights blinded my eyes. I pulled out my Glock and aimed it at her head. She froze, terrified. I stared at her like a deer in headlights. I started crying then, unable to understand what was happening to me. I apologized but it was too late. Karina ran upstairs, screaming for her mother.

She never came down the basement again. Neither did Natalia, who at this point wanted absolutely nothing to do with me. We were as good as divorced. I wondered how we even made it this long.

My history with Natalia was something out of a bad movie. I'd met her in August of 2000 at the Four Aces, when I was on a two week leave from the SEALs. I was 21. She was 19. She was sexy and seductive -- the most popular stripper in the club by far. I was in the military so she gave me a couch dance for free. Plus, I was six-foot-three, and built like an NFL fullback. People said I looked like Pat Tillman, god rest his soul. I didn't see it. I had the same granite jaw and thick neck, but I had green eyes and a sandy blond crewcut. I was a kid then, clean-shaven and clean cut -- far from the 44-year-old battled-hardened man I am today, with long hair and a gnarly beard.

Two hours later we were at her shithole apartment in Queens, fucking each other's brains out. She was by far the best sex I'd ever had in my short adult life, bar none. We fucked again the next morning, twice. And again that afternoon. She was insatiable. I slept at her place every night for the next 10 days. We exchanged phone numbers and I left, flying back to California for more SEALs training. I was sure I'd never see her again.

I received a phone call from her out of the blue six months later. She was pregnant, she said. Due sometime in May. In June, when Karina was a month old, I flew out to visit my new daughter. The moment got the best of us, and we agreed to get married. On Saturday, August 11th, we tied the knot.

Exactly one month later, Al-Qaeda flew two planes into the World Trade Center. I was deployed to Afghanistan that October. I did four consecutive tours in the Middle East, hunting for Osama bin Laden and Saddam Hussein.

I left the SEALs at the end of 2005. I wanted to come home for Karina's sake, who never even knew her own father. That's when Rick Faustino, who'd also left the SEALs to start a family in North Carolina, launched his defense contracting business, and asked if I wanted to come in with him. I told him absolutely, and put up $30,000 of my own money. I also co-signed a business loan with him. It was the perfect situation: we could run the company from our homes in New York and North Carolina. Together, we had enough experience in Afghanistan and Iraq to delegate the real work in the desert to those ex-military guys on our payroll.

For the next 14 years, we grew our business, little by little. We made enough money to support our families and live relatively comfortably.

Then came the big score in the summer of 2019 -- the offer to do weapons transportation in high combat zones. The only problem was, we had to do this in person. It was hard for Rick to leave his family, as he had four kids, his twin boys only six years old. I had it a bit easier. Karina was leaving for college in the fall, and Natalia was busy managing the Four Aces.

So we both packed up and left.

Then Rick got kidnapped and killed.

And I couldn't save him.

I continued to watch the video in the basement for another week, my wife and daughter afraid to come near me. Finally, I knew what I had to do: I would go back to Afghanistan and look for Rick's killers.

In August of 2020, I joined my old security outfit and got back to work transporting weapons. I kept telling myself I would head into Kunar and find those animals who got Rick, but I never did. I was depressed and tired. Going back to the desert was a big mistake. I wanted to go home.

I flew back to New York eight months later -- in April of 2021. Our contract was terminated, as the U.S. had ordered a troop withdrawal. That's when I found out Karina was stripping at the Four Aces, and lost my shit and trashed the place.

I got arrested and was court mandated to get counseling for my PTSD and alcoholism, and take anger management classes. I took this very seriously and made it my fulltime job. I slowly made amends with Karina, although it was too late to patch things up with Natalia. We signed divorce papers in 2021.

Over the next two years, I started working out and getting back in shape. Although I had plenty of money in the bank, I took a job at a local gun shop in Queens to fill my time. I was a great salesman, and even ran gun safety classes. Karina and I were starting to get close again. We would even go out for runs through the neighborhood.

It was the two-year anniversary of Rick's kidnapping that knocked me off the path. My PTSD started again, and the counseling only did so much. I slipped up and started drinking. Nothing too crazy -- just some beers and weed -- but every so often I'd get trashed and black out, wondering how I drove myself home to my apartment from the bar.

Then came the fling with Tiffany, Karina's college roommate.

That was the nail in my coffin, indeed.

I'd let my baby girl down. Again.

But I would find her, oh yes. Find her and bring her home.

***

I had an appointment to see Mandy, Scarlet Rendezvous' business manager, Friday at 1:00 p.m. Their office was on E. Tyler St. in downtown Tampa. It was very low key, the top floor of a modest two-story building. The business below cashed checks and sold auto tags.

I walked into a small reception area, and sat down. A sign on the desk stated that Carol, the office manager, was out to lunch. I waited 10 minutes and was considering coming back later, when a woman came down the hall from a room in the back.

"Mr. Franklin?" she said in a raspy voice that was organically sexy.

I stood up. "Yes. Hi. Are you Mandy?"

"I'm Mandella Fagin, business manager of Scarlet Rendezvous." She extended her hand, and I shook it. We both held on an extra second. She was smiling flirtatiously. Was she flirting? Maybe. It suddenly stuck me that I was in the offices of a video production company that produced hardcore pornography. There was something titillating about this.

I wondered if this woman acted in any of the videos they made. Her age was hard to pin down -- late 30s, perhaps? She was wearing a tight white blouse strategically unbuttoned to show cleavage, and a black skirt short enough to reveal her sexy tan legs. Her long black hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Her flawless olive complex, which highlighted her sensual white teeth, made her seem more Mediterranean than American -- like one of the those incredibly gorgeous women out of a Rocco Siffredi porn film. There definitely seemed to be a adult actress hiding under the whole businesswoman persona.