Chapter 3
Jack Mankel, a.k.a. Mr. J, fought the urge to pull the bottle of sanitizer from his pocket and wash his hands from being in this filthy hovel in the middle of the desert.
The peasant Afghan, Hassan, argued over the price for the girls in such a guttural accent he could barely understand him.
But he didn't need to understand much to know the man was demanding an exorbitantly high sum of money or that he had kidnapped two girls instead of just Caroline Cotter as directed.
Mankel wanted to put a bullet in the ignorant swine's head, he restrained the urge. He hadn't stayed hidden so long by letting his baser instincts rule his actions. Bullets and guns left DNA and evidence, which could possibly lead to his location. Besides, the situation could be easily remedied.
He forced his lips into a smile. Here, no one knew he was a former CIA operative turned traitor, nor did they care, but the man would care when he found out who Mankel worked for.
“Zafar el Abdul ordered the capture of this girl only,” he said as he thrust his finger at a photograph of the girl with the long, blonde hair.
“Now you've given me an extra girl, more trouble to deal with, and you've treated this high-value target carelessly.” Mankel relished the fear growing in the man's wide black eyes.
“Zafar will not be pleased that you have dishonored him, and now you haggle for more money?”
The man stuttered, his steady stream of words faltering under a crushing wave of fear. No, the name Jack Mankel meant nothing, but the name of the most prolific terrorist in the entire country of Afghanistan meant life or death to this poor poppy seed farmer.
Hassan fell to his knees and prostrated himself on the floor. “Sir, please, I did not know. Please, please take the girls, I ask for nothing, only that you not speak of this to Zafar.”
Mankel embraced the surge of power running like white lightning through his veins.
This job was so much more satisfying than acting as a middleman in the CIA, running teams here and there, but ultimately at the mercy of whatever punk managed to promote above him because his daddy knew people.
Jack Mankel had been a nobody. He’d worked his way from the ground up, making the right connections, gathering intel.
Using his above average intelligence to climb higher.
But it had all meant nothing in the end.
Jack learned the hard way that blood was thicker than friendship and even his best friends would betray him for greed.
He’d taken that hard-learned lesson to heart.
Here, he held power over life and death, had slaves at his beck and call, and enough money to buy a small island and retire.
But not before he finished his plan. There were people in the States that had to pay, and no matter what he did, he would make sure they knew who destroyed their life.
Besides, he was having too much fun toying with Hassan.
Mankel tapped his lower lip. “I don't know.
You've bungled the whole thing. These girls are barely alive. What if they die on the way back?”
The man crawled like the filthy pig he was across the floor, grasping at Jack's polished shoes to kiss the tips. Jack clenched his teeth and looked up at the ceiling, having to fight with every fiber not to jerk back and kick the man in the face.
“I beg of you sir, please, please, he will kill my family. My entire village.”
As if this ridiculous little village wouldn't be better off wiped from the face of the earth. Mankel glanced at his Rolex and said, “I'll need to think about that.” He stepped back and walked to the door, ignoring Hassan, who scrambled after him.
“I beg of you. I will do anything. Anything.”
“I will let you know my answer within the hour.” Mankel nodded to his security guard, who opened the door to the last black Range Rover in the line of SUVs. The girls had already been loaded into one of the other cars without hassle.
“Bless you.”
Mankel's security guard blocked Hassan from getting within five feet of the car. “Let's go. Now.” He'd been here as long as he could tolerate.
The guard blocking Hassan shoved the man back and got into the waiting car, and they drove off. Trent, a hired Australian mercenary, turned around and said, “How do you want me to handle the peasant?”
“Clean sweep.” He couldn't afford to leave one scrap of evidence behind. Trent would send in his men and make sure Hassan ceased to exist.
Trent nodded and turned back around, pulling out a secure phone to complete the call. “Wipe him clean.”
Mankel relaxed into the seat. His plans were set in motion, and so far, everything had gone off without a hitch, except for the matter of Celine Latimer. Mankel stiffened. She could be a problem. “Call Katar. Have him come to the compound within the hour.”
“The slave trader?” Trent asked.
“Yes,” Mankel answered.
“Yes, sir.” Trent immediately grabbed his phone again, his ability to follow orders was one of the reasons Mankel had kept him on the payroll for so long. Not only would Trent kill without question or compunction, but he had developed an attachment to Mankel.
Something Jack made sure to enforce with plenty of bonuses and free access to his slaves.
Loyalty could be bought; a lesson he'd learned more than two decades ago when Tom Cotter bribed and stole his fiancée, Sarah, leaving Jack to watch as the love of his life married his best friend. She’d gotten pregnant within the year, given birth to twin baby girls and died from complications a day later.
Insane with grief and jealousy, Jack kidnapped one of the girls from the hospital, longing for a piece of his dead love and for a piece of retaliation.
And now, after years of plotting his revenge, his plans had finally aligned. He’d waited and bided his time, studying his opponent and learning his weaknesses. Tom Cotter had two: his power and his daughter.
Jack had both his daughters now. Next, he would take his power.