The Missing Daughter Caper

The SAIC motioned Charlie out of earshot to speak.

"Who are these people?" the SAIC asked.

Pointing toward Arlene, "That nice innocent young lady is the future ex-receptionist for Markham," Charlie said. "I can assure you she has nothing to do with Markham other than answering his phone and paying the office bills. She just found out about Markham's activities, and if you say anything about her being involved, you and I will have words. Markham's journal is on that computer over there, and it details his every move, including the innocence of his receptionist. She had no idea who she is working for, or should I say, WAS working for. Helms, when you question her, be gentle and remember she is innocent."

"Who's the guy?" Helms asked.

"That's Briggs," is all Charlie said and walked away.

Agent Helms walked over to me and shook my hand.

"Briggs, it's a pleasure to meet you," he said. "I know you don't like to hear people say it, but you are a legend at Quantico."

*****

I shuddered at his praise but smiled politely at the SAIC. My mind flashed back to my days as a field agent for the FBI. My therapist says that it's good for me to accept praise now and then. Damn, has it been five years already since I kicked the cheating slut out?

The place was Yazoo City, Mississippi. The date was seven years ago, come this November. Back then, I was FBI Agent Harris Jackson, who had been working on a case for over 18 months about an endangered animal capture and sale ring based in Mississippi. I was frustrated from only getting tidbits of intelligence for the case I was building. My SAIC told me to either turn something in they could use or move on to the next case. I thought I was getting close, but not close enough for an arrest, let alone a trial with a conviction. I needed hard evidence. The big break came both figuratively and literally when it dropped into my lap. Kelly Walls was the break.

I was enjoying a late afternoon beer on the patio of Lou's Crab Shack in Biloxi, watching the shrimp boats return from their day in the Gulf of Mexico. The restaurant has picnic tables covered with red and white checkerboard plastic covers where customers spread buckets of seafood on the tabletop. I had finished eating and sat on the picnic table bench backward so my back was leaning against the tabletop. About 20 feet away, a group of two men and women were well on their way to being over the limit for alcohol consumption and were arguing loudly. I was trying to listen surreptitiously when one woman stood, slapped the shit out of the man she was with, and darted away from the table toward where I was sitting. The others at the table cursed her and stormed out of the restaurant. The woman was unsteady and tripped as she tried to walk briskly away from the others. She literally fell into my lap as I sat watching the boats.

Our chance of meeting turned into a smoldering relationship that eventually led to marriage. Kelly Walls and I were happily married for two years before she cheated on me with a crack dealer. I was spending so much time in the field chasing leads about the exotic animal trade that I never knew or suspected that Kelly was a crackhead. Before we married, her background check was clean. There was no indication of anything illegal. Hell, she never even had a traffic ticket.

Kelly's erratic behavior was often timed with her menstrual cycle, so I ignored it. When I discovered my wife's addiction, I also discovered she was a cheating whore. My company car had broken down, and I arrived home early to find a strange car in the driveway. My training at the Bureau kicked in, and I quietly entered my home with my weapon drawn. Hearing the sounds of sexual activity emanating from the master bedroom, it finally dawned on me the reason for Kelly's erratic behavior. I stood at the entrance to the master suite, silently taking a video while seeing Kelly getting fucked ass deep by her drug dealer. I knew I had to cut her loose and walked out the door. I didn't need the problem of kicking her lover's ass in my bedroom. Kelly's addiction and subsequent criminal trial for the use and possession of illegal drugs would put my career at the FBI in jeopardy.

Kelly refused to acknowledge she had a drug problem and ultimately succumbed to her addiction. After spending 30 days in jail, she turned to prostitution to cover her drug habit. Within six months of her release, Kelly was eventually found face down, floating in the Pascagoula River with a bullet in her brain.

I had loved Kelly with all my heart and vowed to avenge her addiction and death. It took eight months following her death before I finally had a full night's sleep. When I first saw Kelly with her dealer, I was determined to know everything I could about Kelly's illicit behavior. I still loved her. Every night, I would track and record Kelly's and her drug dealer's activities. I sometimes cried as I watched my beautiful ex-wife prostitute herself, but I was determined to get the asshole dealer and his supplier. I finally learned who the supplier was and where the drugs originated from. Although some of the evidence I collected might not have been legally obtained, you see, torture is somewhat frowned upon by the courts, but intel is intel, right?

I went Maverick. Throughout the Deep South, from Texas to Florida, I tracked, watched, and recorded evidence. My SAIC was unaware, but my long, sleepless nights eventually paid off. The detailed accounts and legally obtained photographic evidence that I had compiled eventually led to the arrest and convictions of life without parole for two warring Mexican Cartel leaders and several of their higher-up associates. When the dust settled, the Bureau credited me with the largest drug bust in American history and the taking of two billion dollars worth of illegal drugs off the market. The irony of the case was the Cartel leaders were also dabbling in exotic animal trade. Kelly Walls' tumble into my lap saved many lives that fateful afternoon.

Because of my media exposure during the trials of the Cartel leaders, my cover had been blown, and I needed to disappear. I changed from Harris Jackson to Briggs. The Bureau paid for facial reconstruction surgery and provided me with a new identification. I left Virginia and traveled west toward California, where I found work with Simmons, and despite my depression from the loss of my wife, Kelly, I somehow continued to soldier on with life.

*****

SAIC Helms and the two other agents combed through Markham's file cabinets and office, looking for evidence. The office was clean because Markham kept everything on his desktop computer. Helms interviewed Arlene and told her that Markham would be picked up along with Helen and Stanley Singer later that day. In the meantime, I started looking for Cora Singer.

A few days later, Charlie Watters told me that when the feds went to the address where Cora was supposed to have been kept, the house was clean. There weren't any traces of Cora there, and the search for Cora by the Bureau ended. They had the culprits they wanted and were pressing forward with their human trafficking case. I continued my search, but all leads failed to produce. It was only by happenstance that I got a break. The front door camera system of the neighbor across the street from the house where Cora was kept had recorded the extrication of Cora along with the subsequent cleaning activities. After chatting with the neighbor and five C-notes, I had a copy of the video uploaded to the cloud.

Later that evening, after a dinner of Mexican food at El Indio café, the best hole-in-the-wall restaurant in San Diego, I watched the video I purchased. The camera clearly showed Cora being led by two bruisers into a Chevrolet Suburban and driving away. The vehicle's license plate was easy to read from the video feed. Although the distance was about 100 feet, my facial recognition software link to the Bureau found the identities of the bruisers. They were Luis and Armando Resendiz, known muscle for the Norte de Muerta Cartel, based in Mexicali, Mexico. Their nickname was the Twin Towers. Both men stood well over six feet tall and were proportionally built. I could see in the video feed that Cora had been drugged and was unable to fend for herself. The Department of Motor Vehicles registration gave the name of the Suburban's owner as Rafael Gonzales, of Chula Vista, California, a border town in the southwest corner of California. Across the border sits Tijuana, Mexico.

The next morning, I drove my rental car to the residence listed on the Suburban's DMV record. As luck would have it, the Suburban was parked in the driveway of the home. It was a nondescript neighborhood like any other housing tract built in the late 1980s. There was only one way in or out of the small collection of homes. Fortunately, the house I was casing abutted an open field of rolling hills, too steep for anything less than a four-wheel-drive vehicle. Even then, that 4WD vehicle would need specialty equipment to negotiate the steep and slippery hillsides. A good street-legal dirt bike would laugh at the hills and anyone trying to follow with a lesser vehicle.

In my my motel room, I looked for and found a motorcycle big enough to carry me and a passenger. I bought the bike with cash, and the seller delivered it to my motel. He even included the two helmets he and his wife used when they rode together on their Harley. I was ready to recon the Chula Vista house.

The hills behind the suspect home offered a clear view of the home but also of the blue Pacific Ocean. The duck blind I set up in the few Cottonwood trees concealed my presence, and I was able to observe the house with an unobstructed view. When it was completely dark, I approached the house and placed micro-transducers on the corners of each window. These tiny piezoelectric transducers detect the minute vibrations in the windows as sound waves strike the window panes. These vibrations are then converted to electric signals that transmit to my receiving unit on the hillside about 50 meters above. I could clearly hear everything said in the home without detection.

The house was quiet, but I could hear a woman crying in one of the bedrooms. I guessed that the crying woman would likely have been Cora, but from what I learned from Markham's computer files, the woman could be any of 15 different women. I hoped that it was Cora. The crying had stopped around 8:30 PM when I heard the bedroom door open and a commanding voice barked at the woman.

"Come on, slut," the male voice bellowed. "It's time to make us some money."

"Yes, sir," the woman said.

The footsteps left the bedroom and were next heard in the kitchen. I heard a wooden chair scrape its legs across the hard floor and the grunt of a man as he sat in the chair. My telephoto camera lens showed one of the two twin towers sitting in a chair with the woman kneeling on the floor beside him. It took a moment for the woman to look up enough to identify that it was Cora Singer. She was naked except for a black collar around her neck and restraining cuffs on her wrists and ankles. I could not determine whether the man sitting in the chair was Luis or Armando as they looked so much alike.

The man told Cora there would be several people coming to a party later that night and that she was the party favor. She didn't flinch when Cora learned that there would be several couples attending the party. The man told her that he would lock her in the bedroom until it was time to party and that he would be leaving soon to get alcohol and party trays of food. I stopped watching the video recording as Cora gave the man a blowjob.

Cora was led back into the bedroom, and I heard the door close and the distinct sound of a keyed lock cylinder securing the door shut. My transducers confirmed that the man had left, as the only sound in the home was the groan of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the soft crying of Cora in the bedroom. I gathered my portable duck blind and surveillance gear in preparation to head back to my car at the motel two miles away. I stowed my gear in the trunk and retrieved my combat loadout of body armor, tactical vest with extra ammunition magazines, my sidearm, and Ka-Bar tactical knife. I would be in and out of that house in less than two minutes.

I rode the dirt bike back to the hillside above the house and listened to the transducers for any sounds that the man had returned. It was quiet in the house. I silently coasted the dirt bike down the hill toward the house and parked it next to the back fence of the home. I hopped the fence and quickly defeated the sliding glass door locking mechanism. With my Smith and Wesson model 60.357 magnum revolver in my hand, I crept through the dining room, kitchen, and into the home. I use a revolver because it won't leave any brass at the scene if I need to use the weapon.

There was only one door with a deadbolt lock cylinder, so it had to be the bedroom where Cora was kept. Using my lockpick set, I had the deadbolt retracted within 30 seconds. When I opened the door, Cora had heard the noise and was kneeling on the carpeted floor with her hands behind her back, facing the door with her head bowed. My heart broke for this fragile woman. There were bruises and marks all over her body where they had beaten and tortured the poor girl.

I slowly approached her and softly said, "Cora, I'm Briggs," I whispered. "I'm here to rescue you and take you away to a safe place."

Her eyes looked at me in my dark gear, and she started crying. I grabbed a sheet off of the bed to cover her nude body and led Cora out to the backyard. She winced when walking over the small pebbles barefooted, so I picked her up in my arms and carried her toward the back fence. After setting her down, I kicked the wooden fence panels and opened a hole in the fence, big enough to step through the hole. I helped Cora through the opening and sat her on the back of the dirt bike. The motor came to life when I hit the starter button. Cora held on to me for dear life, and we rode to the top of the hill and beyond to my motel room.

Chapter 4: Rehabilitation

I helped Cora off the bike and led her into his ground-floor motel room. Suggesting to Cora, I told her to use the bathroom and to remove her collar and restraint cuffs. Cora was submissive and acted as if I was her Master. When I didn't hear the shower running, I called out to Cora and asked her if everything was alright. She was crying in the bathroom. I opened the door to see Cora sitting on the toilet, shivering. Moving to sit on the edge of the bathtub, I looked at Cora and saw a broken soul.

"Cora," I said. "Would you like to take a shower and get cleaned up?"

"If that's what you wish, Master," Cora replied.

If there had been a sphygmomanometer recording his blood pressure, the machine would have broken from my fury. No woman should ever call a man her Master. Gathering my courage, I decided to play along for the moment or until he could get Cora the psychiatric help she desperately needed.

"Yes, Cora, I want you to take a shower with warm water," I said. "Be sure to wash your hair and make yourself tidy. While you are in the shower, I'll put some clothes on the counter for you to wear. Do you understand these instructions, Cora?"

"Yes, Master," Cora said. "I will obey."

After closing the bathroom door, I looked through his backpack for clothes that Cora could wear. I figured she could wear a teeshirt, my boxer briefs, and a pair of socks. After placing them on the counter in the bathroom, I left the motel room and went to the vending machine near the office. I bought some chips, a candy bar, and a Coke. I brought the food back to the room and waited for Cora to finish her shower. She came out of the bathroom and stood silent in the middle of the room. I realized then that I had to tell Cora what to do, including sit, stand, or eat.

Man, I had bitten off more than I could chew when I rescued Cora from her captors. Soon, I also realized there was no way that I could tell Cora about her father and stepmother. That would come much later and probably after months of therapy. Cora has been brainwashed into a sex slave and seems to have no will of her own now. I told Cora to sit at the table and eat the food I brought into the room. Cora sat and stared into the distance with no expression. Even though it was nearly 3:00 AM, I called Charlie Watters and woke him.

Charlie answered his phone, and I started to fill him in on what happened.

"Charlie, this is Briggs. I've got Cora with me, but she needs help. I need to get Cora to a safe place where they can treat her mental illness. The poor girl has been brainwashed. She is acting submissive and calls me Master and shit."

"Briggs, what time is it?" Charlie asked.

"Zero three thirty-four hours," Briggs said.

"I'm not sure I can help her, Briggs," Charlie said. "She's not on our radar, and I don't have the authority to take on a charity case."

"Damn it, Charlie," I complained. "Cora's been kidnapped by Markham and sold into slavery to a couple of Cartel muscle named Luis and Armando Resendiz. That should be enough to put her on your RADAR!"

"Can you get her to the L.A. office in the morning?" Charlie asked.

"It'll be likely late afternoon," I said. "I have to do a couple of things before I head back to Los Angeles."

"Alright, bro," Charlie said. "Get her to the office as soon as you can. I'll grease the skids and wait for your arrival. Call me when you are 20 minutes out so I can get a conference room set up."

"Thanks, Charlie," I said.

I asked Cora, "Did you get enough to eat, Cora? Would you like something more to eat?"

"No, thank you, Master," Cora said.

"You must be tired," I said. "I want you to go lie in the bed under the covers and go to sleep. I'll sleep here on the sofa."

Cora perked up and said, "Oh, no, Master. Sluts are not allowed to sleep in a bed. I sleep on the floor at the foot of the bed. Master's sleep in the bed."

I thought for a moment and then said, "Cora, am I your new master?"

She said, "Yes, sir."

I continued his train of thought, "Then if I am your Master, you must obey me. Is that correct, Cora?"

"Yes, Master, I must obey you," Cora said.

"Very good, Cora," I said. "I want you to go to the far side of the bed, crawl under the covers with your clothes on, lay down, and go to sleep. Is that understood, Cora?"

"Yes, Master, " Cora said. "I will obey."

Cora did as she was instructed and fell asleep almost instantaneously. I decided that if I slept in the same bed as Cora, there would be no embarrassment because she is submissive and has no embarrassment left. It had been stripped away.

I slept until 6:00 AM, showered, and put on clean clothing. In the motel office, I met the young desk clerk and told the young man there was a motorcycle in my room and asked the clerk if there was anyone who would like to have it for free. The clerk thought I might be drunk and had me repeat what I just said. I assured the clerk that everything was legitimate and that I had a signed Pink Slip, but the bike had not been registered in my name yet. I told the kid that the bike was his and handed him the bill of sale I received when I bought the motorcycle yesterday.

I returned to the motel room, woke Cora, and told her to take another shower. While she was in the bathroom, I fished out more clothes for Cora. I had her wear my sweatpants and a button-front dress shirt. Cora was still barefooted, so we stopped at Wallyworld to get her a dress and sandals. After stopping at a fast-food Mexican chain for breakfast burritos, we headed back to Los Angeles. The traffic was light driving north on Interstate 5, and we arrived at the FBI office at 1:00 PM. Charlie Watters was there to greet us.