Parting Gifts, Part IV
Title: Parting Gifts
Pairing: JA/JP
Rating: R for violence
Disclaimer: Of course I don't own these people. Slavery is outlawed. To the dismay of some, I suspect.
WARNINGS: My first RPF. If this is anywhere near the truth, I'm from the Gamma Quadrant.
Summary: Jared Padalecki lost his husband, Jensen Ackles, through neglect. Then the real nightmare begins when a group kidnaps Jensen and ransoms him for fifteen million dollars. The problem isn't paying the money: it's getting Jensen back alive and in one piece.
Title Page
Day Three, Part One
Jensen’s internal clock told him it was close to midnight. During the entire time he worked in Africa Jensen was never able to go to sleep until well past eleven, so he knew he had lost an entire day, at least. Jensen idly wondered if Jared sent Anna away. He doubted it - when knee-deep in crisis his husband was the type to seek comfort from those close to him. Jensen was the opposite; he would try to distance himself from others, as if bracing for bad news by his lonesome made it less painful. However, over the years, he’d gotten used to turning to Jared if things became too much to handle, which was why it hurt him so badly when Jared began deliberately pulling away as the New York project became a reality.
He was beginning to doze off when a memory woke him. Shivers poured through Jensen before he viciously bit his tongue. It was an old trick, but it worked as his mind suddenly shifted its focus on the pain.
Saint Catherine's Hospice never had enough funds to purchase a steady stream of medical supplies from outside Angola. So, when he and Father Dominic were forced to buy much-needed provisions, they had to resort to local towns and cities. They knew entering any crowded area with usable currency, much less American dollars, was tantamount to suicide, but faced with little choice the two would make the journey at dawn, with two young men as bodyguards. Unfortunately, during one such trip, a gang cornered them when they realized the hospice workers weren't armed.
Father Dominic pleaded with the desperate men, but Jensen saw the glassy eyes and knew the thugs were already high on khat and in no shape to listen to reason. The one Jensen pegged as the ringleader punched the Father in his face and then beat him until he was lying on the filthy road. Out of desperation Jensen broke free but before he could reach his friend, the frail old man began convulsing, coughing up blood.
The shocking display was enough to scatter their attackers, as the men were afraid they just killed a foreigner in the open. Jensen fell to his knees, frantically trying to pin his friend's flailing limbs in order to stop the man from harming himself when, suddenly, Father Dominic stilled. Out of shock Jensen released him and watched as the missionary sat up and wiped the blood from his face. Father Dominic saw the astonished look on Jensen’s face and laughed softly.
It was all a show, something the old-timer learned from a seasoned French soldier when he began his vocation. It took some blood but the horrific exhibition was more than enough to get attention or, in some cases, discourage further violence. Jensen felt a mixture of annoyance, relief, and awe as his friend serenely continued on in spite of the bleeding.
Jensen recalled the act and mentally paced himself through it. He knew he would have one chance, if that, and wasn’t about to blow it because he was too hasty. Jensen turned on the light and opened up the cooler to get a drink. He had figured out earlier where the cameras were hidden and calculated the best angle for the show he was about to put on.
Jensen opened the plastic bottle of water and quickly took large gulps, knowing that by doing so he was making himself nauseous. He took a deep breath before dropping to his knees, making loud gagging noises. Then he acted as if his arms suddenly gave out. The sudden collapse allowed him to slam his face onto the concrete floor. He felt the blood gush and tipped his head back, swallowing the blood. That was enough to trigger his gag reflex.
The vomit was colored with the blood he just swallowed, and coupled with his bleeding nose, to anyone watching it would look as if he was throwing up great deal of blood.
Vladovic was aghast as he watched the prisoner coughed up what looked like pints of blood. At first he didn’t know what to think until Masterson said,
“Holy shit, I thought his ulcers were gone!”
“What are you talking about?!” Vladovic yelled.
“Ackles had some ulcer thing few months…”
Vladovic didn’t wait for the rest of the explanation. His paralysis had finally broken. He bolted out of the room and ran down the hall to where containment was located. Vladovic knew enough about ulcers that if they didn’t go untreated, the person could fall ill and die. He didn’t know how long it took but Vladovic wasn’t going to take any chances. Ackles wasn’t going to die on his watch.
He opened the door and saw Ackles slumped lifelessly, faced down in his own vomit and blood.
“Oh shit, oh shit,” Vladovic hissed as he rolled the man onto his back. He prayed for a pulse and found one - strong and fast.
Jensen slammed his head into Vladovic’s face, breaking the man’s nose and shattering his right cheekbone. Vladovic’s head ricocheted back as he howled in pain. Jensen spun around and got to his knees. He cupped his hands together and brought it down full force onto the back of his captor’s neck. The man crumpled forward. Jensen dare not wait any longer and took off. He ran as fast as he could down the dark hallway, and instinctively turned right to face metal stairs leading upwards. He was halfway up when the taser hit his right thigh.
Jensen’s body stumbled forward as the electric current immobilized him. The last thing Jensen felt was his shoulder muscles tightening to the point of agony. Then there was darkness.
Ploiesti, Romania
October, 2006
Jensen had seen more than enough during his two-week tour of the Romanian orphanages. The 'economic revitalization' the country went through in the late 90’s had left a devastating effect on the nation’s children. And though the orphanages made numerous improvements from a decade ago, more were needed. However, funds were severely lacking because the government either didn’t care or couldn’t afford to help further.
Various charitable agencies had made donations through networks specifically tailored not to arouse media’s interest. They hoped that by soothing ruffled feathers, the Romanian government would lift the ban on international adoption. Jensen understood this tactic perfectly. Diplomacy was something he had practiced for years, so he was well aware how quickly skillfully-woven flatteries and quiet monetary exchanges got results.
So, Jensen remained politely quiet but observant, asking non-offensive questions, holding doors for the city officials as they gave the tour of the orphanage located on the outskirts of Ploiesti. Compared to the others he’d seen St. Agnes Orphanage was a big improvement, but Jensen didn’t miss the graveyard in the distance, and the rusting playground that hosted too many children.
He even conversed with the nuns who ran the place through a government-approved translator. Their tough no-nonsense attitude grated the bureaucrats but Jensen appreciated their honesty. He even accepted the nuns’ offer to eat supper with them, to the consternation of the officials.
The dinner was nutritious but almost inedible. Nevertheless, the children ate with gusto and Jensen watched with hawkish eyes as he figured out what food and drinks the children preferred. He mentally calculated the money necessary to buy the provisions and transport them across various checkpoints. Jensen had already made thorough study of various factories near the Romanian border willing to sell supplies, for a price.
Being married to a CEO definitely had its advantages.
He asked questions, fully aware that the translator would probably repeat word for word what he said to his superiors. And the headmistress of the orphanage, Sister Ioana, seemed to understand that as she tactfully answered in near-perfect English. As the children finished their meals, Jensen noticed one girl who barely touched her plate. She didn’t talk with others around her either. All she did was sit and stare at the plate. Something about her somber, disconnected gaze unnerved him.
Jensen saw the girl again at the end of the tour. The bureaucrats had long since departed to their homes, unwilling to brave the institutional food. The nuns were great deal more relaxed though they remained cautious with the translator still in their midst. Only with his departure did the sisters actually speak their minds. Jensen didn’t dare write anything down, of course, as they explained the various hardships faced not only by them but also by other orphanages.
Jensen's tour ended in the large playroom where children enjoyed after-dinner activities. He was listening to a nun reading from a tattered Bible when he spotted the same girl from the refectory. She was sitting by herself, staring at a book in her lap with the same attention she gave to her meal.
“What’s wrong with her?” Jensen asked, pointing at the girl.
“It’s her brother,” Sister Ioana answered sadly.
“Where’s he?”
“He died within weeks of arriving. We tried everything but he was too ill," Sister Ioana said in a defeated tone. "There was nothing we could do.”
“Does she even know that he’s dead?”
“Of course she does, but she desperately clings to hope that we lied to her.”
“Why?”
“Hope, Mr. Ackles, no matter how deceitful, is better than having none at all.”
He stared at the little girl, taking in the grim look on her face. Her hair was neatly braided though greasy and the dress was already too small for her.
“What is her name?”
“Anna. We don’t know her last name.”
“What was her brother’s name?”
“We don’t know,” Sister Ioana replied. “But there are many children whose names remain a mystery to us. So we provide names along with the food and clothing, hoping by doing so the children’s sense of self-worth will grow.”
Jensen looked at the crowd of kids milling around him, all with eager faces and empty eyes, silently pleading to make their lives just a little less miserable. He remembered the graveyard in the back and knew there was already a plot waiting for Anna next to her nameless brother.
For a moment Jensen had to fight the urge to vomit as he was overwhelmed by a strong sense of déjà vu. He closed his eyes and took deep breaths in order to stop losing the meager meal he had earlier. When Jensen was able to focus again he hurriedly approached Anna. Without warning he scooped her into his arms and headed for the exit. Wordlessly and with serene countenance, Sister Ioana opened the door for them. His eyes blurred with tears but Jensen didn’t look back. He remembered his Sunday Bible studies with awful clarity.
Anna began screaming as she realized she was being torn away from the last connection with her brother. She pummeled at him with weak fists but he held her tight. Jensen yelled at the driver to start the car and slammed the door shut as the wheels screamed on the cobbled road. He held Anna tightly until she stopped fighting and started crying.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Jensen whispered as he rocked the hysterical child in his arms. “I’ll make it better, I promise.”
Anna calmed down as they entered the city center and returned to her trance-like state when they reached his hotel. No one bothered to ask why he suddenly showed up with a little girl in tow. The ramifications of the general laissez-faire attitude sickened him but Jensen kept his peace. And in the morning he immediately began making arrangements to return to the States with Anna.
There was an official ban on international adoptions by the Romanian government, but Jensen knew there had to be ways to go around such bureaucratic bullshit. For once he was glad of Jared’s money and what it could buy, and using all his connections it took ten days before he and Anna entered Budapest. After they checked into a respectable hotel with a decent restaurant, Jensen made the inevitable call home. As expected, the phone conversation was laced with Padalecki-sized hysteria.
“What do you mean we have a daughter?”
“I found us a child, Jared,” Jensen replied calmly. “Remember how many extra hurdles we had to jump because we’re a gay couple? How many fucking agencies slammed their doors on us because one of us doesn’t have a uterus?”
“I know, Jensen, I was there. But what do you mean we have a daughter?”
“Her name’s Anna, and she just turned four. Jared … her brother died in the orphanage. They have a cemetery out back; you can see it from the dormitories. Do you understand that? A graveyard instead of a field.”
“Jesus Christ, so you … what? What did you do?”
“Greased some palms, charmed the right people, bullied even more. I couldn’t leave her there. Anna’s a fighter, Jared. It would’ve taken a long time to kill her, but, in the end, she would’ve been buried in the grave next to her brother whose name nobody knows.”
“So you essentially bought her?”
“Don’t say that,” Jensen said harshly. “Don’t you ever say that!”
“I’m not criticizing you, Jensen. I just want to know what to expect so I can have my attorneys draw up the right paperwork. I don’t want something to bite our asses down the road.”
Jensen took a deep breath. “Yes, I bought her, Jared. But I also bought all the paperwork necessary for the adoption to be legitimate." He paused for a moment before continuing. “Jared, baby, we have a daughter. After a fucking year and half, we have a child.”
“I know, I’m just rambling because I can’t believe it. How big is she? I want to get her bedroom ready before you guys arrive.”
“She’s four but she looks about three, maybe even smaller. We need to arrange medical help for her when we get to back home.”
“What flight are you taking?”
“We’re leaving tomorrow morning at seven on Lufthansa, flight 2504. We’ll reach San Diego by 8 PM. Can you have a car pick us up?”
“Of course. We should wait a few days before taking her to see the doctors. I don’t want to traumatize her too much.”
“I don’t think that’s possible, but thank you for thinking about it.”
“Does she look like you?”
Jensen laughed softly, “No, actually, she looks like a fairy princess. Blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and if she's healthy she’s going to be tall. I can tell already.”
“Remind me to buy a shotgun and a shovel when she hits twelve.”
“Don’t worry about that. My dad will be more than happy to lend us his.”
“Ahh, so that’s how he kept away all those bad boys from getting to his little Jenny.”
“More like Mac. She went through a crazy period back when she was fifteen.”
“But I’m betting he already had the shotgun when she hit fifteen.”
“Shut up. I should get some sleep now. I’ll call you when we leave Budapest.”
“Love you, Jenny.”
“Love you too, asshat.”
Jensen heard Jared’s burst of laughter as he ended the call. His answering smile was brilliant. Even though they’ve been trying mightily to adopt for over a year Jensen was worried Jared was only going through the motions in order to please him. But the conversation he just had convinced him that his suspicions were for nothing.
Jared will take one look at Anna and realize that, indeed, family was the most important thing in the world.
Jensen took another peek into Anna’s room to make sure their daughter was still asleep before going to bed.
Daughter, the word rolled in Jensen’s head, gathering power as he continued to think about all the repercussions that particular word now has on their lives. Part of him was incredibly anxious, but Jensen learned to embrace new beginnings and not let his fears dictate how he should live.
It’s going to be amazing, Jensen thought, giddy with hope for his future. For their future.
Eric stared at the laptop, hoping the latest software would be good enough to refine the murky photos taken from hotel's security videos. The laptop chirped, notifying is owner that the enhancements were done. When he saw the pictures, Eric gave a large holler of victory.
He called his boss, “Kim, you better get down here. There's something you need to see.”
It took Manners less than a minute to join his protégé. “I'm guessing you got something good?”
“Yeah, and I patched Jeff on the speaker.”
“Hey Jeff,” Kim said.
“Hey there,” was the gravelly reply.
“The hotel security system is designed to download its recordings onto a private server. I hacked into it and copy six hours worth: three hours before and after the kidnapping. The hotel was built next to a convention center and there’s a skywalk that connects the two buildings. Twenty-three minutes before Mr. Ackles was taken two men crossed the skywalk with what looks like an industrial laundry sorter. Seven minutes after the kidnapping, they come back.
"The cameras never caught their faces. So, either they were very lucky…”
“Or they knew where the cameras were and avoided them,” Kim said, “which makes perfect sense.”
“What makes you think these are our men?”
“The hamper is white. The hotel uses some beige color thing now because they went eco-friendly two weeks back. And one of the guys has a tattoo on the back of his neck. I’ve enhanced it enough to see it. And I’m e-mailing it to you now. Does it look familiar?”
“Yeah, it’s the one the daughter drew.” Jeff replied after a moment of silence. “I did some digging already. All I know is that it’s not a military tattoo.”
Kim put on his glasses and leaned forward. “Well, I’ll be damned. It’s a wannabe.”
“What?” Eric asked.
“It’s a Russian mafia thing. This doofus probably did some time in a Russian prison, but in no way is this guy hardcore.”
“Why do you say that?” Jeff asked.
“The tat is suppose to make him look like he belongs to the mafia, but the bastard’s got it all wrong.”
“How?” Eric asked.
“Well, for one, it’s in the wrong place. That particular tat is a skull and it’s on his neck. That’s just stupid; it’s like advertising to the entire world he’s a convicted killer.” Kim paused to study the picture further. “It’s too clean, too elaborate to be a prison tattoo. And it’s too western for lack of better term. He had that done outside of Russia.”
“But he knows enough about the Russian tat system to at least get something right,” Eric said.
“Oh yeah, but there’s no way in hell this guy’s ever going back to Russia. He takes a step in there, they’ll kill him for pulling such a stunt.” Kim sat back in his chair and said, “I bet he can’t go back in any case. That’s why he has that tat now.”
“Outside of Russia … like Hungary perhaps?” Jeff asked.
“Maybe, but the artist had to have been ignorant of the real deal, probably brand new to the business. No way an old-timer would make a mistake this big.”
“You mean to tell me the mafia would go after the tattooist for this?” Eric asked.
“Definitely,” Kim answered. “I'm telling you this is heavy shit, boys.”
“How about the second guy?” Jeff asked.
“Non-descript, no jewelry, no scars, and no tattoos.” Eric answered. “He’s shorter of the two so he’s probably the ten.”
“Ten?” Jeff echoed.
“Yeah, we found two different shoe imprints on the hotel carpet. Size ten and size twelve.” Kim answered. “Size ten was John Deere and Size twelve was Ken Cole.”
“So the smaller guy’s the professional of the two,” Jeff said. “Makes sense if we take the tattoo thing into consideration.”
“Definitely,” Kim agreed, “and he has an old leg wound. His stride pattern was off because he’s favoring the right leg.”
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Jeff said.
“I’m already on it,” Kim said.
“On what?” Eric sniped. He got pissed easily when left out of the loop.
“Checking out military discharges the last five years, cross referencing the intel with what we got so far.” Jeff answered.
“Any news from the kidnappers?” Kim asked.
“No, just dead air.”
“That’s not right,” Kim said.
“I know, I was expecting the ransom demand before midnight. I’m getting worried.”
“Do you think something happened to Ackles?” Eric asked.
“Don’t know, and I'm not going to waste precious energy thinking about it. I’ve contacted Ferris’ firm to set up the money drop.”
“So you think this is the real deal,” Kim said.
“Yeah, that was my conclusion on my noon report. I said if Padalecki pays the ransom, Ackles would be released unharmed.”
“But now?” Eric asked anxiously.
“Now? Now I’m not sure.”
Harlan looked at the unconscious man sprawled out on the floor. He then shifted his gaze at Vladovic. Feeling the heat of his boss’ unspoken rage, Vladovic began speaking rapidly in spite of the crippling pain from his facial wounds.
“I swear, I thought he was going to die, with the gagging and the blood he was vomiting.”
“He wasn’t vomiting blood, really,” Jackson said calmly. He knew how this conversation would end and mentally readied himself for it.
“What?” Masterson said, “I saw it too.”
“He was faking it,” Harlan said. “It’s an old trick. Ackles probably learned it during his time in Africa.”
“Where did all the blood come from then?” Vladovic asked.
“He smashed his nose then swallowed the blood.” Harlan answered.
“Why the fuck…” Vladovic began his tirade. Harlan took out his gun and fired one shot right into the man’s skull, killing him mid-sentence.
“Jesus!” Masterson cried out as he scrambled away from the corpse as it keeled over.
Jackson remained quiet, not moving in fear of attracting Harlan’s attention. He watched as Harlan propped the body against the wall, then covered it with one of the blankets.
“Let’s go,” Harlan said.
“We’re going to leave him here?” Masterson asked incredulously.
“Yes, that way when Ackles wakes up he’ll have fucking good reason to behave, since he obviously knows we don’t have his daughter.”
“Won’t he try to see who’s under the blanket?” Masterson asked.
“No, he’s not the type. He’ll see the body and assume he’s the reason Vladovic’s dead. The guilt should chain him down for a while.”
“It won’t be enough,” Jackson said, looking at the outline of Vladovic’s corpse.
Harlan turned to him and said, “What do you suggest?”
The alarm startled Jeff out of his light sleep. He checked his watch. It was not even three in the morning.
“What the fuck?” Jeff said before making his way cautiously to the security room where he found Chris waiting for him.
“I thought it’d be better if you answered,” Chris said.
Jeff flipped him a bird and hit the intercom. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, my name is Terry and I work for Round the Clock Courier Services. I have a special delivery for Mr. Padalecki?”
Chris looked at the various screens. “Looks legit.”
Jeff buzzed the car through the gates. “Stay here, just in case.”
“Will do.”
Jeff made his way to the front door and waited outside. The car pulled up and a young man in a uniform of crisp white shirt and blue slacks stepped out. He had a small package, wrapped in silver paper with a red bow.
“Looks like a late delivery,” Jeff said amicably. “How’d you get it?”
“We picked it up from a guy at the Omni Hotel. Said he couldn’t deliver the present to his niece because he drank too much.”
Jeff signed the paper and asked, “Did you get a look at him? I’m asking because my boss has three brothers and he’s not speaking to one of them, and if this present is from the loser, I don’t want him or his kid anywhere near it.”
The young man said, “Short, little under six feet, average looking, you know? Does that help?”
“Yeah, it does. Thanks.” Jeff said and took the present.
He watched the car drive away and heard Steve’s motorcycle rev up in the darkness. Carlson would follow the courier to make sure the guy was legit, and if not, quietly extract as much information as possible before handing over the man to Ferris. She had places for people who were too valuable to kill and too dangerous to let loose.
The glint of Chris’ gun was the only telltale sign of the man’s presence in the dark corridor. Jeff gave a small nod and the two walked to the office. Jared was asleep on the couch, curled up on himself like a small animal hiding from a predator.
“What is it?” Chris said softly.
Jeff shrugged and put on a pair of surgical gloves before opening the box. When he lifted the lid a small hiss of disgust escaped from his lips. Chris took a peek then looked away, closing his eyes.
“Oh shit,” he whispered before taking a glance at the sleeping man. “What are you going to do?”
“I have no choice. I have to wake him up," Jeff answered as he methodically unfolded a small note taped to the lid of the box.
“This is bad, Jeff. Something definitely went south.”
“I don’t think it’s us. Maybe Ackles did something.”
“What are you going to say to Padalecki?”
“I haven’t a fucking clue,” Jeff confessed. “Best to get this over with.”
He gently shook Jared awake, holding a cup of water as the man groggily came to.
“What’s up?” Jared asked, ignoring the cup. “Did they call?”
"No," Jeff answered calmly, "but they sent us a message. The ransom is fifteen million dollars, to be electronically transferred to Bacatá Banco Internacional in Bogotá, Colombia. This pretty much confirms it's the same gang that robbed all those banks."
"You're talking about drug money," Jared said.
Chris nodded, "The bank has a well-known reputation for serving two cartels: Southern Valley Cartel and the Rojas family, so yeah, drug money probably."
"Okay then ... we pay, right?"
Jeff nodded, "Yeah, we pay. Jared, they sent something else - it's going to be ugly but I need you to identify it."
"What? Did they do something to Jen? Did they torture him? What?" Jared asked, his voice escalating in volume as hysteria quickly set in.
Jeff handed the small box to him. Jared looked at the content and blinked. For a moment he couldn't process what he was seeing. Then he recognized the wedding band. Jared had their rings made exclusively for them so it was easy for him to identify the familiar pattern of vines and leaves. Realizing what that meant Jared once again examined the finger still wearing the band.
"Jared..."
"It's Jensen's." Jared answered woodenly before handing the box back to Jeff. He stood up and bolted out of the room. Chris followed quietly, not bothering to catch up with Jared as the man walked down the hallway and into a small room located at the back of the mansion. He closed the door behind him as Jared picked up a battered guitar and curl up on a well-worn armchair.
"It's his," Jared whispered as he caressed the strings. "Jensen's got real talent, I kept bugging him to cut an album but he wouldn't."
"We'll send it to the lab, just to make sure."
"I want them dead," Jared said, still staring at the guitar. "I don't want them to spend a fucking dime of the money. Not after this ... not after what they've done to him."
"Jared, calm down. You're in shock. You don't know what you're talking about," Chris said gently.
"No," Jared said and met Chris' eyes with a steely gaze. "I was in shock, but I'm not any more. I want the fuckers dead, Chris. Tell me, how much will it cost?"
Part III * Part V
Pairing: JA/JP
Rating: R for violence
Disclaimer: Of course I don't own these people. Slavery is outlawed. To the dismay of some, I suspect.
WARNINGS: My first RPF. If this is anywhere near the truth, I'm from the Gamma Quadrant.
Summary: Jared Padalecki lost his husband, Jensen Ackles, through neglect. Then the real nightmare begins when a group kidnaps Jensen and ransoms him for fifteen million dollars. The problem isn't paying the money: it's getting Jensen back alive and in one piece.
Title Page
Day Three, Part One
Jensen’s internal clock told him it was close to midnight. During the entire time he worked in Africa Jensen was never able to go to sleep until well past eleven, so he knew he had lost an entire day, at least. Jensen idly wondered if Jared sent Anna away. He doubted it - when knee-deep in crisis his husband was the type to seek comfort from those close to him. Jensen was the opposite; he would try to distance himself from others, as if bracing for bad news by his lonesome made it less painful. However, over the years, he’d gotten used to turning to Jared if things became too much to handle, which was why it hurt him so badly when Jared began deliberately pulling away as the New York project became a reality.
He was beginning to doze off when a memory woke him. Shivers poured through Jensen before he viciously bit his tongue. It was an old trick, but it worked as his mind suddenly shifted its focus on the pain.
Saint Catherine's Hospice never had enough funds to purchase a steady stream of medical supplies from outside Angola. So, when he and Father Dominic were forced to buy much-needed provisions, they had to resort to local towns and cities. They knew entering any crowded area with usable currency, much less American dollars, was tantamount to suicide, but faced with little choice the two would make the journey at dawn, with two young men as bodyguards. Unfortunately, during one such trip, a gang cornered them when they realized the hospice workers weren't armed.
Father Dominic pleaded with the desperate men, but Jensen saw the glassy eyes and knew the thugs were already high on khat and in no shape to listen to reason. The one Jensen pegged as the ringleader punched the Father in his face and then beat him until he was lying on the filthy road. Out of desperation Jensen broke free but before he could reach his friend, the frail old man began convulsing, coughing up blood.
The shocking display was enough to scatter their attackers, as the men were afraid they just killed a foreigner in the open. Jensen fell to his knees, frantically trying to pin his friend's flailing limbs in order to stop the man from harming himself when, suddenly, Father Dominic stilled. Out of shock Jensen released him and watched as the missionary sat up and wiped the blood from his face. Father Dominic saw the astonished look on Jensen’s face and laughed softly.
It was all a show, something the old-timer learned from a seasoned French soldier when he began his vocation. It took some blood but the horrific exhibition was more than enough to get attention or, in some cases, discourage further violence. Jensen felt a mixture of annoyance, relief, and awe as his friend serenely continued on in spite of the bleeding.
Jensen recalled the act and mentally paced himself through it. He knew he would have one chance, if that, and wasn’t about to blow it because he was too hasty. Jensen turned on the light and opened up the cooler to get a drink. He had figured out earlier where the cameras were hidden and calculated the best angle for the show he was about to put on.
Jensen opened the plastic bottle of water and quickly took large gulps, knowing that by doing so he was making himself nauseous. He took a deep breath before dropping to his knees, making loud gagging noises. Then he acted as if his arms suddenly gave out. The sudden collapse allowed him to slam his face onto the concrete floor. He felt the blood gush and tipped his head back, swallowing the blood. That was enough to trigger his gag reflex.
The vomit was colored with the blood he just swallowed, and coupled with his bleeding nose, to anyone watching it would look as if he was throwing up great deal of blood.
Vladovic was aghast as he watched the prisoner coughed up what looked like pints of blood. At first he didn’t know what to think until Masterson said,
“Holy shit, I thought his ulcers were gone!”
“What are you talking about?!” Vladovic yelled.
“Ackles had some ulcer thing few months…”
Vladovic didn’t wait for the rest of the explanation. His paralysis had finally broken. He bolted out of the room and ran down the hall to where containment was located. Vladovic knew enough about ulcers that if they didn’t go untreated, the person could fall ill and die. He didn’t know how long it took but Vladovic wasn’t going to take any chances. Ackles wasn’t going to die on his watch.
He opened the door and saw Ackles slumped lifelessly, faced down in his own vomit and blood.
“Oh shit, oh shit,” Vladovic hissed as he rolled the man onto his back. He prayed for a pulse and found one - strong and fast.
Jensen slammed his head into Vladovic’s face, breaking the man’s nose and shattering his right cheekbone. Vladovic’s head ricocheted back as he howled in pain. Jensen spun around and got to his knees. He cupped his hands together and brought it down full force onto the back of his captor’s neck. The man crumpled forward. Jensen dare not wait any longer and took off. He ran as fast as he could down the dark hallway, and instinctively turned right to face metal stairs leading upwards. He was halfway up when the taser hit his right thigh.
Jensen’s body stumbled forward as the electric current immobilized him. The last thing Jensen felt was his shoulder muscles tightening to the point of agony. Then there was darkness.
Ploiesti, Romania
October, 2006
Jensen had seen more than enough during his two-week tour of the Romanian orphanages. The 'economic revitalization' the country went through in the late 90’s had left a devastating effect on the nation’s children. And though the orphanages made numerous improvements from a decade ago, more were needed. However, funds were severely lacking because the government either didn’t care or couldn’t afford to help further.
Various charitable agencies had made donations through networks specifically tailored not to arouse media’s interest. They hoped that by soothing ruffled feathers, the Romanian government would lift the ban on international adoption. Jensen understood this tactic perfectly. Diplomacy was something he had practiced for years, so he was well aware how quickly skillfully-woven flatteries and quiet monetary exchanges got results.
So, Jensen remained politely quiet but observant, asking non-offensive questions, holding doors for the city officials as they gave the tour of the orphanage located on the outskirts of Ploiesti. Compared to the others he’d seen St. Agnes Orphanage was a big improvement, but Jensen didn’t miss the graveyard in the distance, and the rusting playground that hosted too many children.
He even conversed with the nuns who ran the place through a government-approved translator. Their tough no-nonsense attitude grated the bureaucrats but Jensen appreciated their honesty. He even accepted the nuns’ offer to eat supper with them, to the consternation of the officials.
The dinner was nutritious but almost inedible. Nevertheless, the children ate with gusto and Jensen watched with hawkish eyes as he figured out what food and drinks the children preferred. He mentally calculated the money necessary to buy the provisions and transport them across various checkpoints. Jensen had already made thorough study of various factories near the Romanian border willing to sell supplies, for a price.
Being married to a CEO definitely had its advantages.
He asked questions, fully aware that the translator would probably repeat word for word what he said to his superiors. And the headmistress of the orphanage, Sister Ioana, seemed to understand that as she tactfully answered in near-perfect English. As the children finished their meals, Jensen noticed one girl who barely touched her plate. She didn’t talk with others around her either. All she did was sit and stare at the plate. Something about her somber, disconnected gaze unnerved him.
Jensen saw the girl again at the end of the tour. The bureaucrats had long since departed to their homes, unwilling to brave the institutional food. The nuns were great deal more relaxed though they remained cautious with the translator still in their midst. Only with his departure did the sisters actually speak their minds. Jensen didn’t dare write anything down, of course, as they explained the various hardships faced not only by them but also by other orphanages.
Jensen's tour ended in the large playroom where children enjoyed after-dinner activities. He was listening to a nun reading from a tattered Bible when he spotted the same girl from the refectory. She was sitting by herself, staring at a book in her lap with the same attention she gave to her meal.
“What’s wrong with her?” Jensen asked, pointing at the girl.
“It’s her brother,” Sister Ioana answered sadly.
“Where’s he?”
“He died within weeks of arriving. We tried everything but he was too ill," Sister Ioana said in a defeated tone. "There was nothing we could do.”
“Does she even know that he’s dead?”
“Of course she does, but she desperately clings to hope that we lied to her.”
“Why?”
“Hope, Mr. Ackles, no matter how deceitful, is better than having none at all.”
He stared at the little girl, taking in the grim look on her face. Her hair was neatly braided though greasy and the dress was already too small for her.
“What is her name?”
“Anna. We don’t know her last name.”
“What was her brother’s name?”
“We don’t know,” Sister Ioana replied. “But there are many children whose names remain a mystery to us. So we provide names along with the food and clothing, hoping by doing so the children’s sense of self-worth will grow.”
Jensen looked at the crowd of kids milling around him, all with eager faces and empty eyes, silently pleading to make their lives just a little less miserable. He remembered the graveyard in the back and knew there was already a plot waiting for Anna next to her nameless brother.
For a moment Jensen had to fight the urge to vomit as he was overwhelmed by a strong sense of déjà vu. He closed his eyes and took deep breaths in order to stop losing the meager meal he had earlier. When Jensen was able to focus again he hurriedly approached Anna. Without warning he scooped her into his arms and headed for the exit. Wordlessly and with serene countenance, Sister Ioana opened the door for them. His eyes blurred with tears but Jensen didn’t look back. He remembered his Sunday Bible studies with awful clarity.
Anna began screaming as she realized she was being torn away from the last connection with her brother. She pummeled at him with weak fists but he held her tight. Jensen yelled at the driver to start the car and slammed the door shut as the wheels screamed on the cobbled road. He held Anna tightly until she stopped fighting and started crying.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Jensen whispered as he rocked the hysterical child in his arms. “I’ll make it better, I promise.”
Anna calmed down as they entered the city center and returned to her trance-like state when they reached his hotel. No one bothered to ask why he suddenly showed up with a little girl in tow. The ramifications of the general laissez-faire attitude sickened him but Jensen kept his peace. And in the morning he immediately began making arrangements to return to the States with Anna.
There was an official ban on international adoptions by the Romanian government, but Jensen knew there had to be ways to go around such bureaucratic bullshit. For once he was glad of Jared’s money and what it could buy, and using all his connections it took ten days before he and Anna entered Budapest. After they checked into a respectable hotel with a decent restaurant, Jensen made the inevitable call home. As expected, the phone conversation was laced with Padalecki-sized hysteria.
“What do you mean we have a daughter?”
“I found us a child, Jared,” Jensen replied calmly. “Remember how many extra hurdles we had to jump because we’re a gay couple? How many fucking agencies slammed their doors on us because one of us doesn’t have a uterus?”
“I know, Jensen, I was there. But what do you mean we have a daughter?”
“Her name’s Anna, and she just turned four. Jared … her brother died in the orphanage. They have a cemetery out back; you can see it from the dormitories. Do you understand that? A graveyard instead of a field.”
“Jesus Christ, so you … what? What did you do?”
“Greased some palms, charmed the right people, bullied even more. I couldn’t leave her there. Anna’s a fighter, Jared. It would’ve taken a long time to kill her, but, in the end, she would’ve been buried in the grave next to her brother whose name nobody knows.”
“So you essentially bought her?”
“Don’t say that,” Jensen said harshly. “Don’t you ever say that!”
“I’m not criticizing you, Jensen. I just want to know what to expect so I can have my attorneys draw up the right paperwork. I don’t want something to bite our asses down the road.”
Jensen took a deep breath. “Yes, I bought her, Jared. But I also bought all the paperwork necessary for the adoption to be legitimate." He paused for a moment before continuing. “Jared, baby, we have a daughter. After a fucking year and half, we have a child.”
“I know, I’m just rambling because I can’t believe it. How big is she? I want to get her bedroom ready before you guys arrive.”
“She’s four but she looks about three, maybe even smaller. We need to arrange medical help for her when we get to back home.”
“What flight are you taking?”
“We’re leaving tomorrow morning at seven on Lufthansa, flight 2504. We’ll reach San Diego by 8 PM. Can you have a car pick us up?”
“Of course. We should wait a few days before taking her to see the doctors. I don’t want to traumatize her too much.”
“I don’t think that’s possible, but thank you for thinking about it.”
“Does she look like you?”
Jensen laughed softly, “No, actually, she looks like a fairy princess. Blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and if she's healthy she’s going to be tall. I can tell already.”
“Remind me to buy a shotgun and a shovel when she hits twelve.”
“Don’t worry about that. My dad will be more than happy to lend us his.”
“Ahh, so that’s how he kept away all those bad boys from getting to his little Jenny.”
“More like Mac. She went through a crazy period back when she was fifteen.”
“But I’m betting he already had the shotgun when she hit fifteen.”
“Shut up. I should get some sleep now. I’ll call you when we leave Budapest.”
“Love you, Jenny.”
“Love you too, asshat.”
Jensen heard Jared’s burst of laughter as he ended the call. His answering smile was brilliant. Even though they’ve been trying mightily to adopt for over a year Jensen was worried Jared was only going through the motions in order to please him. But the conversation he just had convinced him that his suspicions were for nothing.
Jared will take one look at Anna and realize that, indeed, family was the most important thing in the world.
Jensen took another peek into Anna’s room to make sure their daughter was still asleep before going to bed.
Daughter, the word rolled in Jensen’s head, gathering power as he continued to think about all the repercussions that particular word now has on their lives. Part of him was incredibly anxious, but Jensen learned to embrace new beginnings and not let his fears dictate how he should live.
It’s going to be amazing, Jensen thought, giddy with hope for his future. For their future.
Eric stared at the laptop, hoping the latest software would be good enough to refine the murky photos taken from hotel's security videos. The laptop chirped, notifying is owner that the enhancements were done. When he saw the pictures, Eric gave a large holler of victory.
He called his boss, “Kim, you better get down here. There's something you need to see.”
It took Manners less than a minute to join his protégé. “I'm guessing you got something good?”
“Yeah, and I patched Jeff on the speaker.”
“Hey Jeff,” Kim said.
“Hey there,” was the gravelly reply.
“The hotel security system is designed to download its recordings onto a private server. I hacked into it and copy six hours worth: three hours before and after the kidnapping. The hotel was built next to a convention center and there’s a skywalk that connects the two buildings. Twenty-three minutes before Mr. Ackles was taken two men crossed the skywalk with what looks like an industrial laundry sorter. Seven minutes after the kidnapping, they come back.
"The cameras never caught their faces. So, either they were very lucky…”
“Or they knew where the cameras were and avoided them,” Kim said, “which makes perfect sense.”
“What makes you think these are our men?”
“The hamper is white. The hotel uses some beige color thing now because they went eco-friendly two weeks back. And one of the guys has a tattoo on the back of his neck. I’ve enhanced it enough to see it. And I’m e-mailing it to you now. Does it look familiar?”
“Yeah, it’s the one the daughter drew.” Jeff replied after a moment of silence. “I did some digging already. All I know is that it’s not a military tattoo.”
Kim put on his glasses and leaned forward. “Well, I’ll be damned. It’s a wannabe.”
“What?” Eric asked.
“It’s a Russian mafia thing. This doofus probably did some time in a Russian prison, but in no way is this guy hardcore.”
“Why do you say that?” Jeff asked.
“The tat is suppose to make him look like he belongs to the mafia, but the bastard’s got it all wrong.”
“How?” Eric asked.
“Well, for one, it’s in the wrong place. That particular tat is a skull and it’s on his neck. That’s just stupid; it’s like advertising to the entire world he’s a convicted killer.” Kim paused to study the picture further. “It’s too clean, too elaborate to be a prison tattoo. And it’s too western for lack of better term. He had that done outside of Russia.”
“But he knows enough about the Russian tat system to at least get something right,” Eric said.
“Oh yeah, but there’s no way in hell this guy’s ever going back to Russia. He takes a step in there, they’ll kill him for pulling such a stunt.” Kim sat back in his chair and said, “I bet he can’t go back in any case. That’s why he has that tat now.”
“Outside of Russia … like Hungary perhaps?” Jeff asked.
“Maybe, but the artist had to have been ignorant of the real deal, probably brand new to the business. No way an old-timer would make a mistake this big.”
“You mean to tell me the mafia would go after the tattooist for this?” Eric asked.
“Definitely,” Kim answered. “I'm telling you this is heavy shit, boys.”
“How about the second guy?” Jeff asked.
“Non-descript, no jewelry, no scars, and no tattoos.” Eric answered. “He’s shorter of the two so he’s probably the ten.”
“Ten?” Jeff echoed.
“Yeah, we found two different shoe imprints on the hotel carpet. Size ten and size twelve.” Kim answered. “Size ten was John Deere and Size twelve was Ken Cole.”
“So the smaller guy’s the professional of the two,” Jeff said. “Makes sense if we take the tattoo thing into consideration.”
“Definitely,” Kim agreed, “and he has an old leg wound. His stride pattern was off because he’s favoring the right leg.”
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Jeff said.
“I’m already on it,” Kim said.
“On what?” Eric sniped. He got pissed easily when left out of the loop.
“Checking out military discharges the last five years, cross referencing the intel with what we got so far.” Jeff answered.
“Any news from the kidnappers?” Kim asked.
“No, just dead air.”
“That’s not right,” Kim said.
“I know, I was expecting the ransom demand before midnight. I’m getting worried.”
“Do you think something happened to Ackles?” Eric asked.
“Don’t know, and I'm not going to waste precious energy thinking about it. I’ve contacted Ferris’ firm to set up the money drop.”
“So you think this is the real deal,” Kim said.
“Yeah, that was my conclusion on my noon report. I said if Padalecki pays the ransom, Ackles would be released unharmed.”
“But now?” Eric asked anxiously.
“Now? Now I’m not sure.”
Harlan looked at the unconscious man sprawled out on the floor. He then shifted his gaze at Vladovic. Feeling the heat of his boss’ unspoken rage, Vladovic began speaking rapidly in spite of the crippling pain from his facial wounds.
“I swear, I thought he was going to die, with the gagging and the blood he was vomiting.”
“He wasn’t vomiting blood, really,” Jackson said calmly. He knew how this conversation would end and mentally readied himself for it.
“What?” Masterson said, “I saw it too.”
“He was faking it,” Harlan said. “It’s an old trick. Ackles probably learned it during his time in Africa.”
“Where did all the blood come from then?” Vladovic asked.
“He smashed his nose then swallowed the blood.” Harlan answered.
“Why the fuck…” Vladovic began his tirade. Harlan took out his gun and fired one shot right into the man’s skull, killing him mid-sentence.
“Jesus!” Masterson cried out as he scrambled away from the corpse as it keeled over.
Jackson remained quiet, not moving in fear of attracting Harlan’s attention. He watched as Harlan propped the body against the wall, then covered it with one of the blankets.
“Let’s go,” Harlan said.
“We’re going to leave him here?” Masterson asked incredulously.
“Yes, that way when Ackles wakes up he’ll have fucking good reason to behave, since he obviously knows we don’t have his daughter.”
“Won’t he try to see who’s under the blanket?” Masterson asked.
“No, he’s not the type. He’ll see the body and assume he’s the reason Vladovic’s dead. The guilt should chain him down for a while.”
“It won’t be enough,” Jackson said, looking at the outline of Vladovic’s corpse.
Harlan turned to him and said, “What do you suggest?”
The alarm startled Jeff out of his light sleep. He checked his watch. It was not even three in the morning.
“What the fuck?” Jeff said before making his way cautiously to the security room where he found Chris waiting for him.
“I thought it’d be better if you answered,” Chris said.
Jeff flipped him a bird and hit the intercom. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, my name is Terry and I work for Round the Clock Courier Services. I have a special delivery for Mr. Padalecki?”
Chris looked at the various screens. “Looks legit.”
Jeff buzzed the car through the gates. “Stay here, just in case.”
“Will do.”
Jeff made his way to the front door and waited outside. The car pulled up and a young man in a uniform of crisp white shirt and blue slacks stepped out. He had a small package, wrapped in silver paper with a red bow.
“Looks like a late delivery,” Jeff said amicably. “How’d you get it?”
“We picked it up from a guy at the Omni Hotel. Said he couldn’t deliver the present to his niece because he drank too much.”
Jeff signed the paper and asked, “Did you get a look at him? I’m asking because my boss has three brothers and he’s not speaking to one of them, and if this present is from the loser, I don’t want him or his kid anywhere near it.”
The young man said, “Short, little under six feet, average looking, you know? Does that help?”
“Yeah, it does. Thanks.” Jeff said and took the present.
He watched the car drive away and heard Steve’s motorcycle rev up in the darkness. Carlson would follow the courier to make sure the guy was legit, and if not, quietly extract as much information as possible before handing over the man to Ferris. She had places for people who were too valuable to kill and too dangerous to let loose.
The glint of Chris’ gun was the only telltale sign of the man’s presence in the dark corridor. Jeff gave a small nod and the two walked to the office. Jared was asleep on the couch, curled up on himself like a small animal hiding from a predator.
“What is it?” Chris said softly.
Jeff shrugged and put on a pair of surgical gloves before opening the box. When he lifted the lid a small hiss of disgust escaped from his lips. Chris took a peek then looked away, closing his eyes.
“Oh shit,” he whispered before taking a glance at the sleeping man. “What are you going to do?”
“I have no choice. I have to wake him up," Jeff answered as he methodically unfolded a small note taped to the lid of the box.
“This is bad, Jeff. Something definitely went south.”
“I don’t think it’s us. Maybe Ackles did something.”
“What are you going to say to Padalecki?”
“I haven’t a fucking clue,” Jeff confessed. “Best to get this over with.”
He gently shook Jared awake, holding a cup of water as the man groggily came to.
“What’s up?” Jared asked, ignoring the cup. “Did they call?”
"No," Jeff answered calmly, "but they sent us a message. The ransom is fifteen million dollars, to be electronically transferred to Bacatá Banco Internacional in Bogotá, Colombia. This pretty much confirms it's the same gang that robbed all those banks."
"You're talking about drug money," Jared said.
Chris nodded, "The bank has a well-known reputation for serving two cartels: Southern Valley Cartel and the Rojas family, so yeah, drug money probably."
"Okay then ... we pay, right?"
Jeff nodded, "Yeah, we pay. Jared, they sent something else - it's going to be ugly but I need you to identify it."
"What? Did they do something to Jen? Did they torture him? What?" Jared asked, his voice escalating in volume as hysteria quickly set in.
Jeff handed the small box to him. Jared looked at the content and blinked. For a moment he couldn't process what he was seeing. Then he recognized the wedding band. Jared had their rings made exclusively for them so it was easy for him to identify the familiar pattern of vines and leaves. Realizing what that meant Jared once again examined the finger still wearing the band.
"Jared..."
"It's Jensen's." Jared answered woodenly before handing the box back to Jeff. He stood up and bolted out of the room. Chris followed quietly, not bothering to catch up with Jared as the man walked down the hallway and into a small room located at the back of the mansion. He closed the door behind him as Jared picked up a battered guitar and curl up on a well-worn armchair.
"It's his," Jared whispered as he caressed the strings. "Jensen's got real talent, I kept bugging him to cut an album but he wouldn't."
"We'll send it to the lab, just to make sure."
"I want them dead," Jared said, still staring at the guitar. "I don't want them to spend a fucking dime of the money. Not after this ... not after what they've done to him."
"Jared, calm down. You're in shock. You don't know what you're talking about," Chris said gently.
"No," Jared said and met Chris' eyes with a steely gaze. "I was in shock, but I'm not any more. I want the fuckers dead, Chris. Tell me, how much will it cost?"
Part III * Part V