Baroota- the Hunting Ground Read online

  Jay said, “OK, I get that. Just think about it; if you change your mind, contact me.” He pulled out his wallet and removed a card with his work and cell phone numbers on it.

  Nick took the card, then they changed the subject, moving on to sports, iPad apps, and technology. Eventually, dinner came to an end. They said goodbye to Jessica by way of a hug, then Nick shook Jay’s hand.

  Again, Jay said, “Think it over; we have six months to train up for the next mission, and I’d really like for you to be with us. I think you’d find it a rewarding experience.”

  Nick said he’d think about it, then they parted ways.

  JoAnn and Nick walked to the car, and he opened her door. She paused to kiss him as she got into the car. Closing the door, he walk around the car and watched as Jay and Jessica left the parking lot from the other side of the restaurant. They were talking and smiling, and Jay didn’t look in Nick’s direction at all.

  Weird damn dude, Nick thought to himself as he got in the car.

  Sleep was hard to come by that evening. Nick thought about the last time he felt like he’d done anything that mattered; it had been a very long time. Folding laundry, making dinner and lifting weights to deal with anxiety was his daily routine now. Nothing he did made a difference. If even just one of these rescue operations was successful and real…he thought long and hard about the training that would be required, physical, mental, tactical. He was nowhere near what he used to be and not sure he could ever return to the razor sharp edge required to make a difference – and more than that, survive an operation like the kind Jay was referring to.

  Finally sleep came, filled with fitful and dark visions, full of old memories of long dead faces Nick was never able to eject from his subconscious.

  The next morning, he made no mention of the conversation with Jay at dinner or the thoughts floating around in his head. He and JoAnn went through the daily routine they always went through on these trips. Nick went to the lobby to get breakfast for the two of them while JoAnn showered and prepared for work. When she was ready, he would drive her to work, drop her off and watch as she walked into the building. Nick would return to the hotel and begin the workout that would occupy the next two hours of his day. Today was their last full day at Ft. Bragg until the next trip. They’d planned on leaving the next morning for the long flight back to their mountain home.

  After dropping JoAnn off, Nick returned to their room and cancelled his workout plans. Opening the laptop, he started to do research on human trafficking, which countries were most involved, which organizations, possible methods used to move and distribute people to potential buyers. How many of the victims were recovered? Not many, Nick found out. No one seemed to care once you hit the black hole of being kidnapped, no one seemed to follow up, or for that matter even know where to begin to follow up. Local police didn’t coordinate with federal officials, and when they did, no one took ownership of the cases; the case was handed off, much like a relay race, and then dropped into a bottomless pit of paperwork and red tape.

  The animals that did this kind of thing had constitutional rights as well, and like Jay had said, the government had its hands tied by those protected rights; however, a black ops team properly trained, dangerously motivated, and off the books could unleash a medieval ass kicking on these animals.

  The idea made his heart pound. He’d been involved with many of what those in law enforcement called “milk carton kid” cases. Children taken from their families or manipulated by predators to go willingly and then disappear into the night, only to reappear several months later married and/or pregnant with their newfound love. They’d have new names, identities and initially be resistant to law enforcement’s attempts to extricate them from this twisted relationship. Inevitably, once they realized they were finally and truly safe, they broke down and cried hysterically.

  One girl told Nick she couldn’t believe no one had recognized her; her face was plastered everywhere, yet the people around her didn’t see her. She and her situation were invisible to them. Nick thought at the time, Welcome to reality. No one really cares, and no one pays any attention to what’s going on around them. Sorry, little one, people are really stupid and lulled into a state of gullible unawareness that’s really frightening. There’s no one coming to save you. The world is a very ugly and messed up place, unless someone steps up and does what needs to be done.

  Nick looked out the window thinking, he would later guess for hours until the cell phone buzzed in his pocket, waking him from this intense, dark train of thought. Looking down, he saw a text message waiting. JoAnn was ready to go to lunch. Nick was numb from not having moved for hours. The idea was intoxicating, to be back in the mix for one last ass kicking hurrah. He had to shake off the idea and return to the real world. It was time for lunch, but the feeling lingered no matter what he did to try and shake it off.

  A half hour later, Nick and JoAnn were entering Arby’s, their usual lunch spot on these infrequent trips. They ordered from an overly exuberant clerk who Nick thought was either on some kind of anti-depressants or perhaps just found out she won the lottery, but continued to work? He didn’t know, but her energy was over the top. He just wanted a sandwich; he didn’t want to talk about his day, where he was from, and how many kids he had – he just wanted to eat, OK? She didn’t pick up on that, though. He wasn’t on Paxil, and not in the mood. So not only was she happy, she was dense and unaware; just his luck.

  “Have you heard a word I said?”

  “Huh?” Nick said as he snapped back to reality.

  “I said, have you heard anything I’ve said?” JoAnn repeated.

  Nick said, “Sorry, I guess not. I’m a little bit preoccupied, sorry. So what were you saying?”

  “Never mind, it isn’t important. So what has you so preoccupied today?” JoAnn asked.

  Nick replied, “Umm, well, you remember the weird question Jay asked me at dinner the other night?”

  “Sure,” JoAnn said as she displayed an exaggerated stare over the restaurant, mocking Jay’s peculiar habit the previous night, except this display was sarcastic and kind of mean. Finally, she too looked Nick right in the eyes and said, “‘Do you want to join me in saving the world and ridding it of all evil?’ That question? You aren’t seriously thinking about that nonsense, are you?”

  Who, me? No, why would I? Why would I want to entertain the idea of doing something more than making the bed every day? Washing your clothes, making you breakfast? Why would I turn a blind eye to 1.2 million children kidnapped and sold into sexual slavery every year, most of which are between 10-14 years old? Why would that bother me in the least? Nick said none of this, but this and much more crossed his mind.

  In the end, he finally mumbled, “Yes, I am. Have you ever heard the name Jacob Wetterling?”

  JoAnn stated, “No, why should I? Is he important?”

  Nick said, “Depends on who you ask. Just listen, don’t talk, and don’t interrupt. Just listen. OK?”

  “Sure,” JoAnn said.

  Nick started his story. “Jacob Wetterling was the first Wanted poster I remember reading as a new cop. I’d just started working, and I was trying to learn everything as fast as I could. Jacob was an 11-year-old kid that went missing a few months after I started at the sheriff’s department. He was from Minnesota and went out for a bike ride one day and never returned. I followed the case, actually still do. I never worked it; it was many states away from where I worked, but I felt some kind of weird connection to it. It happened right after I started, and I never forgot about it. Anyway, years later this woman is dumpster diving in the southern U.S., looking for aluminum cans and anything else she can recycle. She comes across this Polaroid of a woman and a boy tied up and gagged, lying in the back of a van. She turned it in to the cops, and they eventually identified the kid as Jacob, and the girl was actually a woman; she’d gone out for a run in Florida and never returned. The cases were somehow related, obviously. One in Florida, one in Minnesota
. This shit angered me deeply, and I never forgot it. There are animals out there hunting people, helpless children and women, waiting for the chance to get away with this kind of shit. This was why I became a cop. I promised myself then, way back then, before we ever met, that if I had the chance, I would do whatever it took to make animals like the people that took those two, Jacob and the woman in the van, make them pay – and pay in blood. I feel like this might be the last chance I’ll ever have. I’m old, but not too old. Yes, I’m damaged and broken from all the years on the streets, but I’m not done yet, not by a long shot. So yes, I’m seriously thinking about Jay’s offer. Something about it feels wrong as hell, I admit. Red flags are waving like crazy, and Robot is screaming in the back of my head, ‘Danger, Will Robinson, danger!’, but I don’t care. I haven’t decided yet if I’ll take him up on this, but yes, this hits home for me. I can’t just let this slide by.”

  JoAnn just stared at him silently, saying nothing. Finally, she said, “Wow, I had no idea this still bothered you so deeply. You know what this job has done to you. The toll it’s taken. It nearly killed you, and now you want back in?”

  Nick replied, “No, I don’t want back in. I want to be off the books, off the damn chain, I want to do what I never could back then: end these motherfuckers, take no prisoners, show no mercy. Make damn sure they never hurt another person again. I don’t want back in. I want closure for all I could never do. I want payback, eye for an eye. I want these animals to know the fear these two felt tied up in the back of a van, never feeling safety or kindness again.”

  Two weeks later on the phone:

  “Jay Blackfoot, may I help you?”

  “Hello Jay, this is Nick. We talked about two weeks ago at The Mashhouse, in Fayetteville. We went to dinner with you and Jessica, remember?”

  “Yes, I do remember. How are you? I hope you’re calling to tell me you’re thinking about my offer – or better yet, you’re going to join the team.”

  “I am thinking about it, but I have some questions. First, why me? There are plenty of younger, stronger, and frankly less fucked up people out there who would jump on this opportunity. Why not pick one of them?”

  “Well, yes, you’re right, there are plenty of others out there who are trained. I’ll be honest, we’ve done a few missions, and the last one didn’t end well. We were wiped out, we lost everyone, and after doing a lot of research and debriefing, we came to the conclusion that we were too predictable. Too well trained in what’s become routine tactics. We came to the conclusion we needed a wild card. Someone who understood the tactics and language, but by their very nature and experience would bring an unpredictable element to the team, a fresh set of eyes and ideas. You would be that intangible element. I don’t want you to train with the team until the last possible moment, and then only to get familiar with each other. You’ll have to train on your own, firearms, tactics, and fitness, all on you. Done your own way, and separate from the team. If you agree, you’ll have to pass tests the last week and show you’re proficient and capable. The team leader will have to approve you. That’s why I asked you to join the team.”

  Nick thought about this logic for a moment. He did agree that if you were too predictable in your tactics, it was a weakness that could be easily exploited. He’d seen it many times on the street. Cops who would become too regimented in their approach or tactics would get a rude awakening. If they survived, they learned to become fluid in their thinking or get the hell off the street. The street is too dynamic and dangerous for lazy, sloppy work. It made sense, at least to him. He’d made a career out of seeing things with new eyes and going against the grain.

  “Jay, I have one question.”

  “Sure, shoot.”

  “Say we’re successful and free some of the victims, what are we doing with the rest of the people there, the people who took them and held them?”

  There was a long pause, then Jay replied, “Nick, we’re off the books for a reason. When we’re done with this location, nothing will be left standing, nothing will be moving, walking, breathing or complaining to some congressional committee about some bullshit human rights violation. The victims will be removed and taken to safety, then we’ll scorch the earth we found them on, and anyone we find there will cease to exist, if you understand my meaning. The last mission was a failure; we lost every single man on the team, and they died slowly, painfully. This mission is payback, and more than that, a wake up call for the people who killed my last team. We’ve heard your challenge, and this will be our response. There will be no mercy.”

  Nick said, “OK, I’m in. When do we go? How much time do I have to prepare?”

  “We leave in six months for South America. Start your training, and keep me updated on your progress with weekly reports. Glad to have you aboard. I’ll let our director know you’ve joined the team. I’ll notify him as soon as we’re finished talking.”

  “OK, starting today, Jay, hope to make this a success, and maybe make a difference. Talk to you next week.”

  “Good, talk then. Train hard, 6 months is a short time to prepare.”

  Nick hung up and started to make a mental list of what he would need to do to prepare.

  Hitting the blinking line 2 button, the director said, “Speak!”

  Jay replied, “Yes sir, the team is nearly complete; the cop I told you about has just signed on.”

  “Will he be ready in time?”

  “Yes, he will be. He’s training on his own, he’ll be ready,” Jay stated.

  “He better be. And the rest of the team, are they assembled and training?”

  Jay replied, “Yes, all but the woman. Are you sure you want her on the team? That’ll be a hard sell to the rest of these Captain America - Death From Above types.”

  “I don’t care what they think, she’s a last-minute addition. I need her there, this is a personal favor asked of me by an old and dear friend. Don’t question it. I don’t pay you to question me, understand? Get the team together, make it happen. That’s your job. I’ll take care of the rest. Don’t think, Jay, just do!”

  Jay abruptly stated, “Yes, sir. Sir, may I ask about the pilot? Do we have that end confirmed?”

  The director said, “The pilot is not yet confirmed, nor is the aircraft. We’ll be on time, one way or the other. Get the team trained and ready, and I’ll inform the others of the timetable. If this works, we’ll be wealthy beyond your wildest dreams. Once the word is out that we can deliver the product, the maggots will come crawling out of the woodwork, willing to pay whatever we choose to charge. You will be a wealthy man, Jay, you and the rest of your talent scouts.”

  The phone went dead. Jay smiled as he slowly hung up the phone.

  In South Africa, there exists a barely spoken of type of medicine. It is a dark, toxic medicine. Muti medicine, as it is called, is basically practiced in South Africa in place of real medicine. It is perhaps the reason the locals have such a difficult time understanding how to combat or deal with real diseases like Ebola and AIDS.

  Muti medicine is magic, or perhaps better described as the belief that human body parts, preferably taken from a live human, have magical powers when used properly by a gifted medicine man, or witch doctor. Of course, some parts are better than others, holding more magic and more power. Sexual organs, in particular, hold a lot of potential for power if properly harvested from a live victim. And the absolute cream of the crop, crème de le crème of sexual organs, are the organs from an African Albino, or a black person born with naturally red hair. Any witch doctor worth their hoodoo bag of tricks can muster up “big magic” given the sexual organs of a red-headed or albino “black African”. It is a well-guarded secret and rarely discussed that these harvests continue today in South Africa.

  One of the most widely known incidents of Muti murders is the 2008 Kei Ripper murders. During the investigation, a few of the organ harvesting body part dealers were captured, and some were killed by stoning. One, however, was interrogated by loca
l police and admitted to harvesting the organs of an 11-year-old boy. The man admitted to convincing a group of young boys they could play a game of pretend dying, during which he would harvest their organs, and then they would come back to life. The boys agreed until the man, named Gwayi, actually started to remove their friend’s liver, fingers, penis and eyes as he lay dying. They refused to help him any longer, according to his statement to the local police. What the story doesn’t add is that the boy, whose name was Vika, had an older sister.

  Vika’s older sister was named Nõnkos, after a famous prophetess in the mid to late 1800s. Nõnkos and Vika were members of the original Xhosa people in the Butterworth area of South Africa. Nõnkos was to be the next target of the Kei Rippers but escaped with the help of family members. She was given bare essentials for survival and told to leave and never return. Unfortunately for Nõnkos, she was born with the power of red hair and fair skin in the mostly dark-skinned region. She was highly prized as a potential victim to be harvested for witch doctors wanting to get rich and gain additional status for their dark spells. Nõnkos escaped that night and wandered for weeks, starving, dirty and disoriented; she nearly died.

  Wandering aimlessly and nearly dead, she was found by a woman who promised her sanctuary and food. The woman was kind and cleaned her up, fed her, dressed her properly and provided a bed for Nõnkos to sleep in. Nõnkos felt the terrors she had known for the past few weeks were finally over. She slept well and would awaken rested, and for the first time in a long time safe. Her sanctuary was a façade, however, as she would soon discover.

  One morning she awoke to a man standing over her, looking at her in a way the village men had looked at her as she started to mature into womanhood. There was a hunger in his eyes she understood was madness; the madness of lust and power over another human being. The woman who had been protecting her had sold her to a human trafficker, a person who sells others for slavery, usually sexual slavery, to the highest bidder. Nõnkos had escaped one hell in exchange for another. She was fourteen years old.