Chapter 35 : This Is War

Julie sat on the single sofa in her suite at The Continental, staring intensely at the three men standing in an arc facing her. They were all in dark suits and all had the same murderous look in their eyes. Not one of them had yet to as much as crack a smile or say a word. They looked like they meant business, and Julie liked that. She had never met them before and, knowing what they did for a living, had no interest in knowing their names. When the need arose and Julie required men like these to do her dirty work, she ensured she kept out of it as much as she could, distancing herself from possible backlash. Usually, she didn’t even get to see their faces -- her P.A Red Alert, handlled all the logistics for her.

This assignment, however, was a sensitive one, and she broke protocol, asking Red Alert to send the men to her. “You sure, boss?” he had asked skeptically. “I think it’s better we kept things the way it’s always been,” he advised. However, she insisted. This was a mission that could determine the course of the rest of her and her sons’ lives, and she was willing to get her hands dirty to ensure they did not mess this up.

“The task is a simple one,” she started now, ensuring she maintained eye contact with the thugs in suit. “A straightforward snatch and grab. The target is my stepdaughter, Isla Jackson. You are to take her to a private place, considering what I am paying you that shouldn’t be a problem, and get her to sign a document for me. She does not leave, no one leaves till that document is signed,” she stated slowly, measuredly, staring into all three pairs of eyes to ensure they understood what she was saying.

“Do not harm her,” she instructed. “Just do what you need to do to scare her into signing the document. She’s a spoiled brat," she said with a smirk. “Getting her frightened shoulnt be hard.”

All three men nodded, still no smiles on their faces. “Anything else we need to know?” the one in the middle and standing directly opposite her asked. He was clean-shaven and seemed like the leader of the group. His accent had a hint of Irish in it and Julie wondered about his origin for a split second.

“Oh yes,” she responded, remembering. “My stepdaughter may or may not be with her boyfriend, one George; tall with a hair cut that you might mistake for bald at first. Olive skinned. So keep an eye out. Do what you want with him,” she instructed, waving her arm dismissively. “Just ensure she isn’t hurt. At least not much.” She looked in their eyes again, pressing upon them how critical this was for her. “The stakes are high, boys,” she warned. “No guns, if possible. Keep it clean, keep it professional.”

***

George’s eyes snapped open, his instincts on high alert. He sat up, quickly scanning the room. Everything looked fine, Isla breathing evenly beside him and the ‘Sounds of The Ocean’ track still filtering out softly from the speakers. Yet, every finely honed instinct in him screamed, alarm bells going off in his head.

Something was wrong.

He stared at the door, struggling to recall if they had left it slightly ajar the way it was now before they had gone to bed. He walked cautiously, looking in the closet and cursing himself for leaving downtown Dallas without his gun. It had seemed like a good idea at the time; he was going to be sharing what he expected would be a tiny space with Isla and didn’t want to have to explain why he had a 9mm on him, but now, in the face of possible danger, it felt like naïve folly.

Shutting the bedroom door softly behind him, he proceeded cautiously, his mind working furiously. He paused, eyes adjusting to the dark. His fourth day here, he was familiar with the layout, and if there was an intruder, he hoped the darkness would work in his favor. He was at a disadvantage here though, as the condo was loft-style; the open space offering him no cover. He approached the kitchen area, staying low. His aim was the row of chef knives on the counter. He got to the counter, and as he reached out for the knives, he realized too late that he had made a mistake. There were shelves just behind him large enough for a grown man to squeeze into. He whirled around, but was too late as something hard and heavy crashed into the base of his skull. He had been hit. Hard. As the world went out of focus, all he could think of was his Isla.

***

Someone was calling out to him, screaming out his name. Somewhere deep in the recess of his mind, he could hear her voice. He tried to answer, but thick pain stood above him like a cloud, serving as a barrier between him and the conscious world. George knew he had to stand, but his brain was struggling to give the order to his legs.

“George!!!!!!!!” the scream finally broke through, propelling him. He didn’t know where the energy came from, but he found himself on his knees and searching for a weapon. His eyes fell upon a baseball bat in the corner. He remembered Isla telling him it had been signed by the great Roger Clemens himself. Well, Roger would have to pitch in. He could no longer hear Isla scream anymore, but could still hear a scuffle. They must have gagged her. Releasing a deep breath and hoping to God their attackers didn’t have guns, George dived for the bat.