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CHAPTER 1
ABDUCTION
This April has delivered the harshest and most unpleasant weather Manhattan has experienced in over two decades. Eighteen inches of precipitation has been recorded for the first half of the month. Today, once again, the rain is streaming down the bedroom windows of my condominium severely impairing my view.
When I roll out of bed and get dressed, Boynton, my five-year-old German shepherd, begins performing his usual dance; this is my cue to hurry. After getting dressed, I scurry downstairs to the living room, open the closet, grab my poncho, and walk toward the front door while Boynton runs to get his leash. His lack of traction on the hardwood floor causes his legs to slip out from under him. This unfortunate scene repeats itself on most mornings, but he never seems to learn.
Once outside, we walk briskly to Juniper Valley Park, one of the top ten parks in Queens, located just three blocks away. Boynton seems extremely anxious this morning. He's tugging so hard on the leash that I have to wrap the handle tightly around my wrist and hand to keep him from pulling loose. When I pull back on the leash, he begins choking. I stop walking and stoop to rub his throat in an effort to calm him.
By the time we finish our walk, the sun is shining through the receding black clouds, and the rain has halted. The beautiful foliage of azaleas and freesias manifests in a gorgeous diversity of color and pleasant scents from the fresh, sweet gardens. It's a beautiful morning.
When returning home, I see Mrs. O'Malley sitting in a straight-backed wooden chair on her front porch. She's drinking a cup of coffee while intently surveying the surrounding neighborhood. She's been a resident here for over thirty years, and I've known her since my wife and I moved in fifteen years ago. While Boynton and I stand next to the black wrought iron fence that surrounds the grounds of her two-story colonial, she gets up and leans against the railing of her wraparound porch. "Good morning, Sean. Good morning, Boynton."
"Good morning, Mrs. O'Malley. I hope you're enjoying your day."
"I'm just breathing in the morning air and planning my day. The weather promises to improve this afternoon, so I'll probably take a walk.
You and Boynton enjoy your day as well."
"We definitely will, Mrs. O'Malley. I'll talk to you soon."
After tending to Boynton, I have to finish my article about an illegal arms-trafficking ring in Buffalo for the New York International News, my employer. Once it's completed, I'll e-mail it to John Errins, my editor.
When we arrive home, I open the front door, and Boynton dashes to the kitchen. He barks, impatiently waiting for me to feed him. Normally he's very calm, so I'm not sure what's agitating him. When I prepare his food, Boynton continues barking and nervously paces from the center island to the doorway and back. He gets so worked up that he jumps up on my back. As he slides down, his nails dig into my skin, causing me to lunge forward while howling in pain.
"Bad boy! Very bad!" I yell while massaging the burning scratches on my back. Boynton growls in response causing me to step back. I haven't heard him growl since my wife, Debbie, became ill over three years ago. During that period, he was constantly on edge, exhibiting frequent episodes of erratic behavior. He never let Debbie out of his sight though. On the days she was bedridden, Boynton would climb onto my side of the bed and curl up next to her. Sensing she would only be with us for a short time, he was heartbroken.
When I lean over to pet him, he opens his mouth, bares his teeth, and begins snarling at me. Something is really bothering him. I wonder whether he senses tragedy once again.
Just then, the doorbell rings. Boynton charges toward the front door, barking loudly. Through the glass I see two officers from the New York Police Department. When I open the door, they display their badges and introduce themselves as Sergeant Callahan and Officer Caruso. Standing at about five foot ten, the sergeant, who appears to be in his early to mid-forties, is a bit paunchy. Officer Caruso, on the other hand, is in his early thirties and possesses a strong muscular frame. At a height of over six feet, he is a picture of the consummate police officer.
"Sean Carrol?" the sergeant asks.
"Yes, I respond."
After requesting to come in and speak with me, the sergeant asks, "Is the dog friendly?"
"Yes, he's very friendly. Today he's a bit agitated, but I don't think he'll bother you." Boynton watches calmly as they enter. The officers sit on the couch near the front living room window while I take a seat in the lounge chair next to the fireplace. "What brings you here officers?"
The sergeant responds, "Mr. Carrol, have you ever heard of a group by the name of German Christians?"
"Yes, I know that name, however, they use Deutsche Christen, the German version of their name, for public consumption."
"How are you aware of them, Mr. Carrol?"
"I know a little about this group, having previously interviewed some of their members."
The sergeant says, "Your sister Monica received an unsigned note this morning, allegedly from this group. After reading it, she immediately contacted the New Jersey State Troopers. The note demanded that you conduct an interview with their leader, Carl Dietrich, at one of their facilities. Believing that you wouldn't voluntarily cooperate, their organization abducted your niece Amanda and your nephew Danny as insurance. After interviewing your sister, the state troopers notified our office, requesting we contact you."
"Are you serious? Those bastards took my family? I know they're an extremist group, but I never would have expected coercion to be one of their practices." After pounding my fist on the side table, I fall back in my chair while muttering some threatening obscenities. Within a few seconds, I stare at the officers and tell them, "How cowardly these militia are, using my niece and nephew as a pressure point to induce my cooperation!"
"You're right, Mr. Carrol, but you have no choice other than to cooperate. After all, we don't know what will happen to the children if you don't agree to the interview," responds Sergeant Callahan.
"Do you know why they're demanding that I conduct this interview?"
"We really don't know the answer," Officer Caruso states.
"How is my sister? I need to call her right away."
The Sergeant says, "Wait, Mr. Carrol. We need to ask you a few more questions."
"Well, get on with it!"
"You mentioned an interview that you did with some members of Deutsche Christen. Why did you do the interview, and what was the purpose?"
"About three years ago, I did a story for my newspaper concerning violence committed by the Far Right in the United States. As I recall, the Deutsche Christens were one of several militia groups I interviewed and reported on."
"Did you uncover anything they would have been upset by?" Sergeant Callahan asks.
I peer at the officers while I digest their question. Yeah, I reported that their organization is one of the most violent groups of those I'd interviewed.
"That in itself wouldn't create a drop of sweat from those guys. They relish being referred to as bad boys," the sergeant says.
"Did you discover anything they were trying to keep secret?" asks Officer Caruso.
"I really can't think of anything. You've got to realize I was only there for an interview and didn't have the luxury of time to perform an investigation."
Officer Caruso states, "Right now, the Pennsylvania State Troopers, some officers of Homeland Security, and agents of the F.B.I. are searching for the Deutsche Christen camp in an attempt to locate Amanda and Danny." "The search is concentrated in the areas north of Pittsburgh, where the Deutsche Christens have several camps. The search party hopes to find the children alive. In any event, they won't take any unnecessary chances that may jeopardize the kids' safety. This is a dangerous militia with large caches of heavy weapons. In addition, the organization is comprised of thousands of ex-military men from all branches of the service. If necessary, the federal authorities will call in the military to assist them. However, this will only be employed as a last resort."
While impatiently waiting for the interview to end, I say, "I appreciate you telling me all of this. Right now, though, I really have to call my sister."
The sergeant responds, "That's okay. We don't have any further questions for now, but we may need to talk to you again."
I get up, escort them to the door, and shake their hands as they leave. Then I rush to call Monica. The phone rings several times. While waiting for her to answer, I drift off in thought, remembering how close we had been during high school. I recollect her eye-catching beauty and the unending trail of boys who constantly paraded by our home trying to catch a glimpse of her.
Finally, I hear my sister's distraught and shaky voice. "Hello?"
"Hi, Monica."
"Sean, I'm so scared. Did you hear what happened?"
While leaning against the nearby living room wall, I answer, "Yes. The police just left."
"I don't know who this militia group is or why they've abducted my children. How do you know them, Sean? Who are they?"
"Deutsche Christen is a right-wing paramilitary group with members located throughout the United States. I only know them from an interview I conducted previously with a few of their members."
"With Amanda barely twelve years old and Danny only ten, I know how frightened they must be. Experiencing this trauma at such young ages, I worry about how they'll be affected physically and emotionally. Sean, the real question is, how do we get the children back?"
"I'm not quite sure yet, but I do know the authorities are searching for the kids and hope to find them and secure their release soon."
"Why would this group abduct my children? Couldn't they have just requested that you do the interview without taking the kids?"
"They could have, but I think they figured I'd refuse to do it. They want to force my cooperation."
Still crying, she says, "My two innocent children are being used as pawns by a group that has no respect for other lives. They invaded my life and kidnapped my children. I'm so angry that I can't even think or reason clearly."
"I know how you feel. Knowing that the children are being held by this group enrages me too. I feel so helpless and distraught that I'd like to grab a gun, track these guys down, and blow every one of them away. At this point, unfortunately, the only recourse I have is to conduct this damned interview in the hope that the kids will be released once I complete it. In the meantime, are you okay?"
"I'm all right considering the circumstances."
"Is there anything you need?"
She impatiently says, "I don't know. At this point, I can't think of anything other than my children."
"I understand, but please call me if you need anything at all. After all, I'm only forty-five minutes from your home in North Arlington."
"I know, Sean, but I'm okay for now. Goodbye, and thank you."
"Goodbye, Monica."
After hanging up the phone, I notice that Boynton is lifting his right front paw in a gesture of friendship. I cautiously reach over and shake his paw while he licks my hand. Maybe he was acting strangely this morning, because he'd sensed trouble.
CHAPTER 2
WAITING FOR INSTRUCTIONS
I put on a pot of coffee while ruminating about Deutsche Christens' motives. My thoughts naturally begin and end with Amanda and Danny, and what they may be experiencing. I'm like a second father to the kids, and I can only think of our weekends together as a family. They love to go the movies, especially original Disney productions. Our times together have always created special memories; I really miss them.
While sitting at the kitchen table, I evaluate the potential impact of the interview with Carl Dietrich. What does he expect to gain from this? I can't fathom why the members of Deutsche Christen would target me, and why their insistence? There are so many other seasoned reporters who would jump at a chance to take on this interview. When I get up to pour a cup of coffee, my phone rings.
An unfamiliar voice with a deep, raspy tone asks, "Is this Sean Carrol?"
"Yes."
"Mr. Carrol, this is John White. I'm a member of Deutsche Christen.
My reason for calling is to arrange for an interview between you and Carl Dietrich."
I angrily respond, "Why are you demanding I do this interview, and why have you abducted my niece and nephew?"
"Your reputation as an investigative reporter is impeccable. Besides, your special forces background assures many of us that you share a common understanding of the frustrations and difficulties that we face as ex-military men. No other reporters possess these credentials. With regard to your niece and nephew, be assured they're safe and unharmed."
"They'd better stay that way, or I'll make sure your group pays."
"There's no need to make threats, Mr. Carrol. We have no intention of harming anyone. To arrange the interview, someone from our organization will meet you at a predetermined location. You should bring a cameraman, but you won't be permitted to take pictures of anything outside of the designated area where the interview will be conducted. I'll call you tomorrow to arrange the time and location of the meeting. Goodbye, Mr. Carrol."
After slamming down the phone, I clench my coffee cup and then throw it hard against the wall. It smashes into pieces, while leaving residue on the wall and the floor. In my confusion and anger, I find myself fixated upon exacting revenge against Deutsche Christen. After all, they've violated my family and made unwarranted demands on my life. In essence, they've placed a gun to my head. I learned early on, during my special forces training, that an enemy attack requires a merciless response. Somewhere down the road, I'll have to even the score.
It's now noon, and I have to figure out what alternatives I have to secure the release of my niece and nephew. I'm not overly confident that I can count on the good nature of the Deutsche Christens to voluntarily release them. I get up from the table and walk into the living room, still rattled from the trauma of the kidnapping.
After calming myself, I decide to take a ride to Stan Monahan's house. He's a trusted friend, whom I know will be able to provide an objective viewpoint to my ordeal. He always seems to be able to put things in perspective. Stan lives on Katonah Avenue, near Woodlawn Cemetery, in the Bronx. We've been friends since our special forces days when we were part of the elite Maxim unit. This name was specifically assigned to our team due to our ability to fight with blind ferocity much like the Maxim Czech underground unit who fought the Warsaw Pact troops after the 1966 invasion of Czechoslovakia. The Maxims ambushed the Soviet troops and their mercenaries at will throughout the occupation of Czechoslovakia. Like ghosts they appeared and disappeared without detection.
I recall during Desert Storm how Stan saved my life while we were under attack in downtown Baghdad. After a bullet from enemy fire grazed my temple, I got pinned down in an alleyway. He opened fire on the gunmen and took out three of them. The remaining two fighters ran but were immediately killed by incoming mortar fire. If it weren't for Stan, I would have been another statistic of the war.
At quarter to one, I climb in the car and head to Stan's place. The drive will take about half an hour from my home in Queens. After I travel through the communities of Whitestone and Malba, I cross the Bronx-Whitestone Bridge continuing on through Unionport and Schuylerville. A congested checkerboard of industrial and residential buildings, both communities display the character of their blended histories representing nearly two hundred years in development.
When I finally arrive at Stan's, he's sitting comfortably in a lounge chair on the front porch with a can of beer in his hand. He's still a mountain of a man, standing at six feet four inches and possessing a powerful muscular frame. His red hair has grayed on the sides, and he's gained a few pounds. In spite of this, he still appears to be in pretty good shape. I get out of the car and can see Stan grinning from ear to ear. We haven't seen each other in over a year, but we do manage to stay in touch by phone.
After I climb the porch stairs, Stan gets up, puts out his hand, and then pulls me to him, crushing me with a bear hug.
"My God, Stan. You still have the strength of a Brahma bull."
"It's nice to see you too, buddy. Do you want a beer?"
"Yeah, that'd be great."
"I'll be right back. Just take it easy." Stan walks into the house and eliminate then in a couple of minutes with a Heineken in hand. He tosses the bottle to me and then takes a seat. Stan knows I have a good reason for visiting him. Over the years, having spent so much time together, he can almost read my thoughts. "So what brings you out here, Sean?"
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Conflux"
by .
Copyright © 2018 William Brazzel.
Excerpted by permission of Balboa Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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