Baroota- the Hunting Ground Read online

  Her captor was neither kind nor gentle; she was raped repeatedly for several days by him and others in his group before being finally sold for one hundred American dollars to another trafficker – and then the whole process repeated itself. She had no idea how long she had been held and completely lost track of time. Life held no meaning, the pain was unbelievable, and finally she began to wither. Her will to live was waning, and she was about die – looking forward to it, actually. Hoping for a quick death, she was lying on the dirt floor of her “room” one night when she began to have a vision. Her namesake, the original Nõnkos, visited her in the dream and promised her that if she would fight back and find the courage to rise up against her captors, she, Nõnkos the prophetess, would protect her and guide her for the rest of her life. She only needed to take the power from her most demented tormentor, Prophetess Nõnkos explained, and she would be protected from then on.

  Nõnkos awoke from the dream and left her small room in the dead of night. She walked among the camp and found that everyone was asleep, drunk and passed out from the evening’s celebration. They had just acquired a new flock of young female sex slaves to sample before they sold them into slavery on the black market. She had no idea, but they had already planned to kill her the next morning. She was damaged goods to them now, older now and used up. She had no worth on the black market. Nõnkos walked the camp, looking for her tormentor, and found him in his mud hut. He was unconscious, and a girl much younger than her lay weeping at his side. She was bleeding from her nose and anus, as she had been anally raped by her captor after being beaten into submission. The girl was startled when Nõnkos entered the dirt hut, and she crawled into a corner whimpering. Nõnkos motioned to the girl to be silent and leave the hut, which she did. Nõnkos bound the man’s hands and feet carefully, using the same coarse rope he had used on her and so many other girls as he used them for his sadistic needs. When at least she was sure he was tightly bound and could not escape, she stuffed a rag into his mouth, then as he started to awaken, she hit him hard repeatedly over the head, knocking him nearly unconscious. She then took his power, his screams muffled by the rag in his mouth.

  She left him bleeding and powerless, as her namesake had demanded. She then walked into the night, protected and unafraid, and was never seen or heard from again.

  Nõn sat at the table of her favorite Starbucks, waiting to meet the curious, strange man who had asked for an hour of her time. He said he had a story he thought would interest her and that he’d make it worth her time if she’d just give him an hour of her uninterrupted attention. She was intrigued by the offer and decided it would do no harm to meet. She told him where and when and arrived early, as was her custom, to make sure nothing was amiss. Her cautious ways had diminished some in the past few years, but still she remembered that safety was an illusion. That was a lesson she would never forget.

  She came armed with her favorite knife. It was clean and sharp and hand made for her by a strange little man she had met at a craft expo while doing research on one of her earliest writing pieces. He was a self-proclaimed craftsman, his works displayed on a card table. The other tables at the event displayed cross-stitch, quilts, photography pieces and an occasional vegetable display that had painted faces on small squash or pumpkins. No one had stopped at the knife makers’ display except her. She stopped and looked at the knives and began asking questions. He promised a knife that was razor sharp and hard, so hard it would cut another knife. She smiled a bright, energetic smile and said, “Show me,” with an ever so slight accent lingering in her now near perfect English. He did just that. Picking up a knife he had forged, he asked her to pick from his collection of old kitchen knives. She handed him a rusted old paring knife and said, “Cut this one, and we can do business.” The odd man smiled and asked her to step back. He then slammed his knife down hard on the back side of the older rusted knife and severed it completely; not breaking it in half, but cleanly cutting it. Impressed, she described the knife she wanted him to forge. He could name his price, but it had to fit her exact description. She explained to him the knife was special and reminded her of a knife that had been hers many years ago, a knife that held great meaning and symbolism for her. Could he do that?

  That knife had become her constant companion, her guardian and protector, and she had named it after her brother. She had never used the knife in battle, but it held great comfort to her to have it and feel its custom handle in her hand. It was not ornate or delicate; like her brother, it was robust and utilitarian. Had he lived longer, he would have approved of its practical design. The knife was her talisman. It brought her strength. Smiling, she remembered her brother’s bright eyes and smile. Yes, he would most definitely approve. She remembered again how he used to flip her ears repeatedly with his fingers and call her “elephant ears” in their native tongue. It had hurt her feelings then, but now it was a fond memory.

  “Ms. Zia?” She was startled back to present day by a man’s voice.

  Rising, she shook his hand and replied, “Yes! Good to meet you, Jay, how are you? Can I get you a coffee?”

  “How about I buy? I asked you to meet me, so I should buy; it only seems fair, and after I explain to you why we’re here, if you decide not to accept my offer, then it’ll be the least I can do to compensate you for your time. Sound fair?”

  “Sure, then I will have a Caramel Macchiato Vente, please.”

  A few minutes later, Jay returned to the table and set two drinks down. He took a deep breath and then began.

  “The reason I’ve asked you to meet with me is first because you have amassed an impressive amount of work in the area of exposing human trafficking, both in the United States and worldwide. I’m forming a team that plans on doing something about that particular issue, and I’d like you to consider writing about our success or failures, should either occur. In the interest of saving us both time, I’ll stop right there. If you’d like me to leave now, then I’ll do so and never darken your door again. However, if you’re interested in the slightest in hearing my proposal, then I would ask you to hear me out. I’ll be happy to answer any questions to the best of my ability. If I can’t answer them now, then I’ll get you an answer as soon as possible. Will you hear me out?”

  She felt her breath quicken and surprisingly noticed her hand was firmly grasped on the handle of her protective knife. She could feel the contained rage beginning to simmer in her chest as she stared into his cold, pale blue eyes. Taking a deep, cleansing breath, she picked up her drink and sipped the hot, sweet caramel/coffee mixture.

  “I suppose you should call me by my first name, Jay. It is Nõnkos, but you may call me Nõn. It is spelled Nõn, but it is pronounced ‘Nyen’, like the Japanese Yen, with a silent ‘y’, is what I tell people anyway. Please, continue with your story,” she said with a now noticeable accent.

  Three hours later, he finished detailing the operation. “So what do you think, Nõn?” he asked casually.

  Her coffee was now long cold, and she had not taken notice of it since that first drink. Her hand was aching, she finally realized, as she had never relaxed the now vise-like grip she held on the knife hidden under her baggy Mexican poncho; woven with the colors of her native Africa, it was both bright and comfortable. Jay sat back and stared at her, waiting for a hint or clue of what her decision would be. Her previously bright smile was gone, as was the sparkle that had been in her eyes when he arrived. The woman sitting before him was now formidable and hard. Her eyes unblinking, her stare unwavering. Her entire demeanor had changed from warm and friendly to decidedly predatory and dangerous. He was surprised to find himself thinking he was now very glad he had agreed to meet her in a public place. As he felt a cold shiver starting to travel through his now uncomfortable body, he had to admit, he could see why the director wanted her on this mission. It took considerable effort to suppress the shiver, hoping not to let on that her stare had affected him. She was no one to be trifled with, that was clear. Her writing was passionate and well researched, but more than her intellect, there was a ferocity he was now realizing she could barely contain when provoked. He hoped he had not provoked her.

  Finally she spoke, in a controlled, disconnected and unemotional manner. “I will consider your offer carefully. What is the timetable for my decision?” Her accent was now thick and much harder to understand.

  Jay answered, “I need an answer as soon as you can give it to me; our timetable is dependent on intelligence we gather and the team’s preparedness to execute the plan.”

  “I will be in touch,” she replied and immediately got up, moving smoothly and controlled, like a cat that had been poised to pounce on its prey but at the last minute changed its mind.

  Curious, Jay thought as she got up, he had not noticed her accent when he had spoken to her on the phone, but now it was like he was listening to a different person; strange.

  Jay watched her as she left. Briefly, he thought he saw hidden under her colorful poncho her hand tightly gripping the handle of a large, crude knife. Jay made a mental note to add that to her profile. No one had noticed that tidbit, and it could be problematic.

  Smiling, he also thought to himself, Bet the director would shit a brick if he sat here with her for 5 minutes, looking at that soulless, empty gaze. I just sat for three hours and discovered the knife to boot.

  The shudder he had been able to suppress moments before exploded through his body, and he found he could no longer suppress it. Taking a large breath, he gathered himself and picked up the two now cold coffees, dumping them into the nearby garbage can.

  He left the building, thinking to himself, God help whoever angers that woman.

  The director watched as people walked past the window of his mirrored office windows. Smiling
people unaware of the real world around them. He sighed as he reached for the file on the final piece of the large, intricate masterpiece he had been building these past few months. He hated to speak with the woman again. She was foul, impolite, and beneath him in every way; yet, she had come highly recommended in the dark circles he traveled these days. She was said to be the best “freelance” talent available and would ask no questions about the mission, or the cargo. She lacked any concern about the morality of the mission. Her single goal was to be paid, and paid well, and for that she would deliver. The director looked over her impressive resume, 23 years as a pilot for the government, flying for the Forest Service. Dropping firefighters into hot zones, returning with flame retardant and providing cover for “smoke jumpers” that had gotten themselves in over their heads.

  Her reputation in the Forest Service was both courageous and insane. It was whispered she had a death wish, but even “death” wanted nothing to do with her caustic, spiteful personality. In a word, she was a bitch. Capable? Yes. Talented? Definitely, but difficult to say the least. What the Forest Service file did not mention was that on her frequent vacations she flew freelance for the CIA, dropping Special Ops teams into hot zones. These “hot zones” were much different than the fires she flew into during her day job. These were manmade hot zones, areas of political unrest, governments needing to be toppled, dictators in need of an attitude adjustment.

  She was an adrenaline junky. She had to find increasingly more challenging missions; the more dangerous, the better. Occasionally, prisoners were brought on board and interrogated in-flight. Most exited the plane before it landed; the interrogators had no need of their prisoners’ survival after the painful extraction of information. Early on during one of these missions, she had laughed as she heard one of the interrogators’ off-hand comment that “it wasn’t the fall that killed them; it was the landing,” and that “they just needed to work on their landing.” In him she had found her soul mate, which if she had a soul would have been remarkable. She did not. They were a perfect fit. They complemented each other. One Chaos, the other Mayhem. He liked to say she had a black hole for a soul, and he had been the only one who could appreciate that quality. Like disease and death, they walked hand in hand. She had been married before they met and had given birth to several children. One day she walked away from it; no notice, no warning. She sent the kids to school, and her husband went off to work. Smiling, she packed her clothes and walked out the door. In her file it was all described with one sentence, which quoted her directly, “I was not meant to be a parent. I just don’t give a shit about raising little fucking brats. I am not capable of nurturing anyone, or anything.” It was all in the secret files he had access to. He found the pilot distasteful, but necessary. If she was as dark and soulless as suggested, she was a perfect fit for his operation.

  It could be a profitable arrangement if she was as good as he had been told. She just needed to learn to be more respectful of him and his station. She had not yet learned respect. Already, she was five minutes late for their meeting. No call, no explanation; just absent. The soothing tones of Bach’s Cello Suites calmed his nerves as it played over the interoffice communication system. If music could be food, he imagined this piece would be dark chocolate and salted caramel from his favorite chocolate shop, a small mom and pop treasure he found in “Havre de Grace” one year earlier while on vacation. Savoring the complementary flavors of the music, he remembered the last woman who was late for an appointment with him was, well…reprimanded in such a way that being late again would never be a concern for her again. He smiled as he thought back on that fond memory. Interesting how quickly someone could be made to realize that manners were important. Manners and respect.

  “Sir, your 9 o’clock has arrived,” the strained voice of his male secretary announced over the inner office intercom.

  He grimaced. Here we go, he thought and then stopped and smiled. No, I think I’ll make her wait a minute and give her a taste of her rudeness.

  “Fine, have her wait. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Moments later, the door flew open and slammed against the wall as it came to a sudden stop. There in the doorway stood the pilot.

  She was exactly as he had remembered her, stocky, square, muscular body, no hint of femininity in that stance. She had short-cropped red hair that looked like it had been cut in a fit of rage with a pair of scissors. Perhaps insight into her mental state? He made a note to check out her psych profile for self-mutilation. She wore no earrings, perfume, or makeup as she walked into his office unannounced and uninvited. He waved off his secretary as he ran in behind her, apologizing loudly for the intrusion. He knew the woman did not have manners. He should not have been surprised at her lack of respect.

  “Pat, nice to see you again. Please, have a seat,” the director said. He then addressed his secretary. “That will be all, Arthur. Please hold my calls until this meeting is over.”

  “Yes, sir,” Arthur replied and quietly closed the door.

  Pat met his stare with a steely gaze that spoke volumes about her opinion of him and his expensive suits.

  “May I get you a drink, Pat?” he said.

  “Sure, double shot of Laphroaig, neat,” she replied.

  He smiled a tight and slightly angry smile and asked, “How do you know I have Laphroaig in my bar?”

  She responded, “All you fancy three-piece suit pussies have Laphroaig in your bar. Just pour it and let’s get down to business.”

  He stopped briefly, hand tightly gripping the whiskey glass, and took a deep, calming breath. Making a mental note, he thought, If I ever get a chance to correct her behavior, she’ll regret that statement.

  He poured two glasses, double shots in both, and returned to his desk, handing her glass to her; she took the glass with no comment, no thank you. Nothing. To make matters worse, she threw a leg over the arm of her chair, spreading her considerable legs in a most un-lady-like fashion and grimaced as she bore down. BRRRRRRRRRRRAT!

  “Ahhhhh,” she smiled and said, “that was a juicy one, gonna have to change my shorts when I get home. Now where were we?”

  Like cancer infecting a previously healthy body, a foul, toxic stench began to creep its way into every corner of his office. He felt like he was about to throw up and started to comment but stopped himself. That would be exactly what she would want, his fancy, well spoken protests.

  Instead, he stared back at her and commented, “Still pleasant as ever, I see.”

  She smiled and lifted her glass towards him. “Cheers!”

  As he expected, the negotiation would be a chess match with this foul creature. Even more aggravating, she was an excellent negotiator. She was foul, ill-mannered and a downright disgusting human being. She was also brilliant.

  She would provide the plane and exit site for the team. She only had a few non-negotiables. First, she did not want to know anyone on the team’s names, or for that matter anything about them at all. She said it made her job much easier to “drop the cargo and go.”

  “If things go south,” she said, “I do not want to know. Period. I fly, I deliver the cargo, and that’s it. I don’t hold anyone’s hand. Are we clear?”

  “Yes, we are clear.”

  “I want five hundred thousand up front, deposited in an offshore account in the Caymans. Once I have confirmation of the deposit, then I am in. No deposit, no deal. The remainder of my fees will be deposited when I drop cargo. Clear?”

  “Yes, clear.”

  “Now what type of landing area are we going to drop the cargo in?”

  “The area is remote, in the jungles of Panama. The runway is short and paved. It is cleared and safe, but very remote and bordered by heavy jungle on all sides. It will require a skillful landing and takeoff.”

  Hmm, she thought. “You’ll need a STOL aircraft for that. Do you have the length of the runway?”