The Missing Daughter Caper

"Captain," Banks said, "This is too easy. We can snatch those idiots anytime we want. From what you've told us and what we've heard, I don't see any reason we can't just waltz right in and grab the two fucks and be on our way."

Turning to the others, I asked, "Does everyone agree with Banks? Is there anything we might have missed?"

George suggested that the three of us make our way to the backyard and infiltrate the house with stealth. Using flash-bang grenades might alert the neighbors and bring the police. Plus, it would leave unwanted evidence. I wanted the Resendiz brothers to look like they took the money and ran. George's thinking was spot-on correct, so we waited until dusk to make our assault.

As the Sun dipped below the horizon, we approached the Resendiz house, stepped through the hole in the back fence, and entered the dining room with our weapons drawn. The two brothers were smoking weed, drinking beer, and watching the television in the living room. You should have seen their faces when three guys in combat gear wearing balaclavas swept into their view. The brothers quickly realized resistance was futile. While I held my weapon toward the brothers, Ernie and Pitor cuffed and gagged the two brothers. They were blindfolded and marched toward the backyard fence. I signaled George with my infrared flashlight, the all-clear signal. George's night vision goggles picked up my signal, and he brought the Jeep next to the fence. We loaded the two goons into the back of the Jeep and sped away into the night up the hill. During the drive to the remote location, Pitor injected each brother with a mild sedative to keep them docile.

"Captain," Pitor said. "How much do you want to exact physical revenge on these walking dildos? I have an idea that will exact the revenge you want but keep us from needing to clean up the mess afterward."

"Tell me more, Pitor," I said.

About an hour later, we arrived at a run-down single-wide mobile home in the hills above Descanso. I had rented the place using alternate identification and paid for a month in advance with cash when I first planned on fixing the Resendiz's wagons. The property's nearest neighbor was at least a quarter-mile away. In the back bedroom, two steel chairs were bolted to the floor with a folding table before the chairs. We set the brothers into the chairs and affixed hanging lamp chains around their torsos. The chains were weak enough that they could overcome their bonds once the drugs began to wear off, but not until we made our getaway.

As per our plan, Pitor had his laptop set so the brothers could clearly see the screen. His screen saver was an animation video file of a laughing skull and cross-bones that exploded when a bullet pierced the skull. He got the idea from the science fiction movie Independence Day. The screen saver was set on repeat.

Slapping the two brothers to consciousness, George and Ernie removed their blindfolds but left the packing tape gags in place. Their eyes squinted as they realized their predicament. Beads of sweat were forming on their brows, and their body odor foretold their fear. We had experienced this many times in the sandbox with captured Taliban fighters. Pitor was about to begin his interrogation. He placed canine shock collars on the brothers and hit them with the lowest setting to confirm proper operation. The brothers flinched at the first shock.

Pitor is a master of torture. Where he learned his skills is still a mystery to me, and I'm not sure I want to know. The Resendiz brothers squirmed in their chairs when they saw Pitor approach with the syringes full of drugs. I set the dial on the remote for the shock collars to 50% and hit the button. The brothers spasmed in their chairs. I got a modicum of satisfaction at the pain the brothers received. Pitor injected the brothers with some chemicals unfamiliar to me that made them more accepting of answering questions. I used my phone to record their confessions. When Pitor spoke, he acted like we were in a police station interrogation room, and the suspects had agreed to confess their crimes. Did I say Pitor was good? No, Pitor is a magician. He had the two believing they were in the Chula Vista Police Department's interrogation room and were freely confessing their crimes in exchange for prosecution immunity. The brothers waived their right to have an attorney present during questioning. The wealth of information they offered was astounding.

When he finished, Pitor injected the brothers with an antidote that made them more aware of their surroundings. Pitor pushed the spacebar on the laptop and began explaining how he had hacked into their accounts. The Resendiz brothers watched as Pitor showed them their new accounts in the Cayman Islands and explained how he was transferring $20 million into their accounts. They smiled when they saw that happening, thinking they would be set for life. In reality, they were. But not quite like they thought. Pitor told them the money was coming from the accounts of corrupt officials at the Banco de México. The money was actually coming from the Cartel's offshore accounts.

Pitor shut down his laptop and apologized for the way we handled things and said that we were from the rival Juarez Cartel and wanted to be sure the brothers were rewarded for taking out two Mexican officials who had been putting pressure on Juarez Cartel. Pitor explained that if anyone had seen us, it would look like we were kidnapping the brothers, and they were not complicit with the theft. They were so naive they believed every word Pitor said. The brothers nodded their heads in agreement. Finally, Pitor explained that their chains were weak, and they could easily break free once their sleeping drugs wore off. He wished them a good night and administered Propofol to knock the brothers out for several minutes. Before we left, Pitor sent the self-destructing virus to the Cartel's computer that generated an anonymous email alerting of the stolen funds. Pitor had already transferred the stolen Cartel money to another offshore account that the FBI would soon have access to.

As we were walking out the door, and the brothers were beginning to get sleepy, I stopped and turned to the brothers and said, "I want you to know that what you are about to receive is because of what you did to Cora Singer. The money didn't come from the government officials. We raided your Cartel's accounts and gave the money to you. Try explaining your way out of that, PENDEJOS!"

With high-fives to each other, we left the Descanso trailer and headed down the dirt road back to the highway leading to San Diego. About a quarter mile after we joined the main road, three black SUVs were hauling ass toward the trailer we just left. Looking back over my shoulder, I saw a dust cloud reminiscent of a Haboob dust storm in the Middle East. The Resendiz brothers would be coming around, and the Cartel bad guys would find them soon enough.

We drove to the Fairmont Grand Del Mar hotel. It was too late for dinner in the hotel restaurant, so we sat in the bar drinking and munching on leftover happy hour buffet items.

"Gentleman," I said while standing, "A toast. Here's to friendship, good times, good health, and happiness."

We clinked our beer necks together and reminisced on our lives before, during, and after the sandbox. The team already knew that we would get a substantial reward from the government for liberating the money from the Cartel and the Resendiz's confessions of human trafficking, among other nefarious criminal activities. It was the satisfaction of being able to give Charlie Watters enough evidence to crucify Markham and the Singer couple that made me smile for the first time in many years.

Chapter 7: Charlie Watters

When we returned to Los Angeles, I watched the Gulfstream private jet whisk my team away into the clear blue skies of Southern California. Charlie Watters stood by me as he serendipitously found the abandoned cell phone lying next to a trash can with the recorded Resendiz brothers' confessions. Charlie later told me the evidence was perfect, and it allowed his cohorts to follow up on the Resendiz's confessions and legally obtain enough evidence to not only put Markham and the Singer couple away for life but also to rescue several more women from Markham's previously unknown prostitution and trafficking ring. Markham may have been an idiot when it comes to computer security, but his detailed records of his ownership of three gentlemen's clubs in Southern California sealed his fate. The FBI raids found rampant prostitution, drug trafficking, and ties to other international human trafficking rings. Charlie said that the CIA and Interpol would soon be involved. Markham was only the tip of the iceberg.

Charlie and I had lunch, and I approached him about taking care of Cora. We both knew Cora would never be completely okay and return to a normal lifestyle, and Charlie had admitted to me previously of his instant attraction to her.

"Charlie," I said, "Dr. Hoffman, Cora's psychiatrist, asked me to consider helping Cora assimilate back into a normal world. She told me Cora needs a firm hand to help guide her transition. I explained that I was in no shape to take on that challenge. You, on the other hand, my friend, are the perfect one to do the job."

Charlie nearly choked on his chicken salad sandwich at what I had just said to him.

"Dude," Charlie said, "What makes you think I'm the one to help Cora?"

"Well," I said, "You and she are about the same age, you're single, you don't do field work anymore, so you have businessman hours and can be home for her every night. Plus, do deny your attraction to her. I saw how infatuated you were when she came to your office a few months ago."

I paused for dramatic effect and continued, "Besides, you have a minor in psychology and could use a project to keep you busy. Charlie, I'm telling you, son, you need to get away from the Bureau and strike out on your own. How many times have you told me that you want to start your consulting company? Well, this is your chance. You can work from home and take care of Cora at the same time."

Charlie listened to what I was saying and imperceptively nodded at my suggestions.

"I have an idea that I think you'll do good with," I said. "Think about this, Charlie. What if you were to use the reward money to establish an organization that helps battered women that's outside of government influence? I don't mean anything illegal. It would be without having to go through the hassles of finding government grants and the like. Between what you and I have, we can set up a Limited Liability Corporation that promotes healing. I'm sure there are a few friends that you've made that owe you a few favors. Maybe those folks can help you make a legitimate go of the blood money we both have collected over the years. Cora can become involved in the operation, too. She snapped out of her submissiveness because of her artwork. Maybe she can help others do the same by teaching them how to focus on the beautiful things in life instead of the ugliness."

"Let me think about it, Briggs," Charlie said. "I'm not against the idea, but I'm also not as enthusiastic as you are. Yeah, I'll help Cora, but I need to talk to Dr. Hoffman first. You know how I am when I get around a woman. I get so tongue-tied that I nearly piss myself in embarrassment."

I placed my hand on Charlie's shoulder and said, "My brother, who better to not judge you than Cora? She's so messed up that there's no room for finger-pointing on her part. The two of you can grow together and eventually become one if you so desire. I know you can do this, Charlie. You need to take the bull by the horns and do it."

We bro-hugged, and Charlie went to see Dr. Hoffman about helping Cora.

*****

After my time in the sandbox chronicles, I met Charlie Watters again when he and I worked together in the Jackson, Mississippi, FBI office on several cases. From what I can gather, Charlie is slightly Autistic. It's not so much that it makes him terribly odd. Rather, Charlie has trouble reading people's body language and facial expressions. Charlie does not always know when people are pulling his leg or lobbing subtle insults at him. He takes everything at face value and acts accordingly. This characteristic is exactly why Charlie has his job with the FBI. He can weed through bullshit details faster than anybody.

Back when I brought him the mountain of evidence about the drug dealers my cheating whore ex-wife associated with, Charlie compiled the evidence and rendered it down to layman's level. Our boss nearly had a shit fit when Charlie made his PowerPoint presentation outlining the proposed raids and subsequent arrests. He had everything plotted to the second about who would be where and at which precise second they would jointly act. In total, there were 64 arrests with zero agents harmed. I can't say that for a few of the scumbags who were the target of a couple of agents whose family members were lost to drugs from these criminals. Isn't it most unfortunate the arresting agents' body cameras were on the blink and unable to record these arrests? Everyone working on the case with me received commendations and bonuses using the confiscated drug money. Charlie came out nicely, financially, that is.

Charlie spoke with Dr. Hoffman and then with me. When he told Dr. Hoffman what we proposed, she was all for it. We pooled our funds and put good-faith money toward purchasing a property out of Los Angeles in the High Desert near Victorville. The arid desert air and cheap land prices would allow us to build a state-of-the-art desert retreat. I had a former client who works in the L.A. City's building department guide me through the process of working with architects, contractors, and building permits. We had more than enough funds between us to make the retreat like a five-star resort.

With the help of an attorney, Charlie and I established a charitable foundation that would oversee the retreat. Once the Environmental Protection Agency approved our environmental impact plan, we purchased 1,280 acres (two one-mile squares) of barren desert. Man, the amount of hoops you have to jump through to build in the Mojave Desert is something I would not even put on someone I didn't like. But we soldiered onward. It's amazing what cash (figuratively speaking) can buy when enough is waved around. When contractors found out there wouldn't be any problem getting paid, they were ready to roll. A ten percent performance incentive with no quality compromises in each contract helped assure timely completion as well.

In the six months it took for the retreat resort to be built, Charlie and Cora moved in together. At first, it was separate bedrooms, but after six months, Cora seemed okay with the idea of falling in love with Charlie.

Chapter 8: The New Beginnings Retreat Resort

The New Beginnings Retreat Resort was state-of-the-art in terms of physical facilities and medical personnel. To the casual observer or family visitor, the facility was more like a hotel than an institution for battered women. In one corner of the campus, there was a separate building for women, who, like Cora, had deconstructed into helpless beings. There, medical staff treated the women with kindness and understanding of their plight. Many months are often required to help these poor souls. Some, however, are unable to cope and must be permanently institutionalized in state-sponsored accommodations such as a public psychiatric hospital. The New Beginnings Retreat Resort has yet to transfer anyone to permanent psychiatric hospitalization.

Charlie Watters resigned from the Bureau and became an integral part of New Beginnings. He was the Chief Executive Officer and administrative team leader who interviewed prospective medical staff. Deep dive background checks ensured there were no individuals with a history of patient neglect or medical malfeasance. Charlie kept a close watch on his girlfriend, Cora Singer, as she still needed daily guidance. Cora held art classes for the women patients, directing their emotions toward the beauty of the New Beginnings landscape. Charlie would often sit at a distance, watching Cora assist budding artists learning how to draw, paint, or throw pots. Cora was happy when helping others learn more about art. Unfortunately, Cora would sometimes be overcome with emotions as the heartache of the women she worked with revealed their pain through their art. Charlie would sometimes spend a few days alone with Cora as she recovered from her temporary depression. Cora sometimes reverted to her submissive self and would call Charlie Master. If one of the patients were subjected to the same conditions as Cora was when she was a sex slave, Charlie would find Cora in his office, on her knees, naked, and expecting punishment. It was clear that Cora would never fully recover from her ordeal.

Dr. Hoffman was recruited as the Chief of Medicine and practiced at New Beginnings. Cora visited with Dr. Hoffman informally for reinforcement, and they seemed to get along nicely. Charlie, for the most part, was happy with his decision to care for Cora.

The transformation of the formerly barren Mojave Desert was nothing less than amazing. Where bare dirt and scrub brush once stood since time immemorial was now covered with lush, drought-resistant vegetation. There were areas of paved and dirt walking trails with placards identifying the native species and transplanted vegetation. Pine trees from the nearby forested mountains supplied soothing "whispering pines" sounds. Deciduous trees from the eastern seaboard changed colors with the seasons. Deep wells found aquifer formations far below the surface and pumped fresh water to the various pools on the property. Near the perimeter of the boundary fencing, small pools of water fed the surrounding animal life. A system of observation wildlife cameras kept many patients entertained with the antics of the animals that quenched their thirst at the pools. Duck blinds were set up inside the fence with one-way glass so patients could enjoy nature firsthand without having to endure the often harsh climate and dangerous environment of the desert.

Although Charlie and I provided the seed money for construction, private paying patients were few and far between. We finally had to petition Medicare to become a part of their provider network. But it wasn't enough. I had an idea and brought it to Charlie's attention.

"Charlie," I said. "I've got an idea on how we can infuse some cash into the operation."

"Go ahead," Charlie said, "I'm listening."

I outlined my plan. "There is one resource that we had not considered when we started this place. I think it would be a good idea to talk with the Attorney General's office to see if we can broker a deal between the AG and Stanley Singer. Cora's father has more money than Davey Crockett, to quote a movie line. What if we were to get the AG to transfer Singer from federal super-maximum security to Club Fed in exchange for providing a monstrous trust fund to Cora for the sole purpose of funding New Beginnings? I'd be willing to bet dollars to donut holes that Singer would do just about anything to get away from the 23-hour daily protective custody lock-up he's undergoing. What do you think?"

Charlie thought about it and agreed. I contacted Pitor Vichma and asked him to see if the AG's niece was still using drugs and selling pussy on the streets of Philadelphia. The news media had learned about the AG's niece from the vetting process John Jepsen went through during his Senate confirmation hearings. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it, Sally Jepsen was hooked on heroin and was living on the streets of Philly. I decided to seek an appointment with John Jepsen to parlay a deal for Stanley Singer.