Chaotic Be Jack Read online

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Series Listing

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Acknowledgements

  Series Listing

  Chaotic Be Jack

  A Novel By

  Robert C. Tarrant

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  Copyright 2018 by Robert C. Tarrant

  Cap’s Place Series

  Cap’s Place

  Nimble Be Jack

  Quick Be Jack

  Driven Be Jack

  Chaotic Be Jack

  PROLOGUE

  The relentless rain was pounding on the sheet metal roof of the shack as it had for the past twenty-four hours. William Matz turned onto his side and squinted into the dim light of the shack that had comprised the majority of his world for the past 215 days. He knew the exact count, because keeping track of the days was one of the mental games he played with himself to stave off the wolf that was stalking his sanity. This count comprised the days he’d been held in the shack. He had no idea how many days he’d lost from the time he was snatched off the street in Caracas until he awoke in the shack, but from the weakness and hunger he’d experienced at the time, he estimated his drugged journey to this place had taken at least a few days. His memories of the journey were a muddled jumble of jarring rides on the floors of cars and the backs of trucks, all the while with a black hood pulled over his head. The abject terror he had felt those first days had either made time stand still or accelerated it, he just didn’t know which.

  The only view William had gotten of his world outside the shack was when he made the twenty-pace journey to the outhouse. He was living, using the term loosely, in some type of a small compound comprised of three shacks surrounded by a crudely erected woven wire fence, eight feet high, separating the compound from the surrounding dense jungle. He didn’t know a great deal about the terrain of Venezuela, but he guessed he was somewhere in the southern part of the country in the headwaters of the Amazon. Another game he utilized to maintain his sanity was to count his blessings every day. First on the list every day came the fact that he was still alive, and he attributed that to the belief that he had been kidnapped by some type of political faction and not by one of the murderous gangs roaming Caracas who had turned kidnapping into the number one industry in Venezuela. These gangs were notorious for killing victims if the ransom was not paid within a week, or sometimes even days.

  Peering through the darkness, William could see his guard stretched out on his own bunk with a machine pistol loosely cradled under his arm. The guard wore the bandana mask that everyone he came in contact with sported. His guards rotated at least twice a day and they never really talked with him, that was a function reserved for the “head man” and he only visited once a month or so. Still, William became familiar with the identities of the various guards and had his own names for each. He never spoke the names aloud, he only repeated them in his mind to help keep the wolf at bay. Tonight’s guard was “Kind Eyes.” William guessed that he was a kid, probably fourteen or fifteen years old. “Kind Eyes” was one of his favorite guards. The only exception to the rule that his guards didn’t talk was the occasional game of dominoes they played with him. He believed that they had taught him to play dominoes as much to relieve their own boredom as for any benefit to him. Learning the game had taken awhile, what with his Spanish being so crude and their English nonexistent. “Kind Eyes” was the one who had been most patient in teaching him to play. Maybe tomorrow morning William could coax him into a game.

  Thinking about his youthful guard reminded William of his own son, a teenager himself. His wife and son must be going crazy through this ordeal. His wife hadn’t wanted him to go to Venezuela, but it was to be a short business trip, in and out. He had reminded her that business had taken him to many unstable areas of the world, but that he was always cautious and had never encountered a problem. Obviously, his luck had run out. What he found unnerving was that “Boss Man” wouldn’t even tell him what ransom was being requested. He had no idea if they were asking for thousands or millions. Regardless, it hadn’t been paid. Some days, when the wolf was angriest, he believed he would never again be free, never again see his family.

  Somewhere in the distance a tree crashed to the jungle floor, its thunderous fall audible even over the rain hammering the roof. When he first arrived here, wherever here was, the frequent crashing sounds had startled him. Now he took them as a part of life as he had come to know it. “Kind Eyes” stirred but didn’t appear to awake. William rolled over on his narrow bed and attempted to find a comfortable position to place the leg that was shackled to the post buried deeply into the earth beneath the wooden floor. Suddenly the shack door burst open and he was instantly bathed in a narrow, but intense light. The light swung abruptly to “Kind Eyes” and William heard two faint pops.

  A black figure, with water cascading from the helmet he wore, moved quickly, but silently, into the shack. He knelt next to William and said, “William Matz, we’re here to take you home.” The voice was low, but confident. The figure wrapped something around the chain securing William to the pole and then covered William with his body while an intense flash of light momentarily illuminated the interior of the shack. He said, “We’ll get the rest off later. Can you walk?” William nodded.

  As William stood, the figure pulled a black poncho over him. The hood of the poncho obscured one eye, but William could see that two other black-clad figures lurked just outside the door. The figure placed William’s right hand in a loop attached the back of the pack he wore and said, “Don’t let go of that strap, just follow me.”

  The three black figures, with William stumbling in tow, moved deliberately across the muddy compound and out an opening that had been cut in the fence. Following a narrow path through the dense jungle, they soon emerged at the edge
of a rapidly flowing waterway. A fourth black-clad figure emerged from the undergrowth. He held lines attached to two inflatable boats bouncing in the turbulent river. Two figures leaped into the first boat and started down the river. William was pushed into a seated position on the floor of the second boat with the two remaining figures kneeling on either side of him. His boat entered the swift moving current bobbing and rolling with such ferocity that William was certain they would be thrown into the water at any second.

  William had no idea how long the wild ride lasted, the sound of the driving rain coupled with the roar of the river created a din that had driven him into a semi-conscious state. He was starting to wonder if the wolf was going to win after all when the boat lurched to a sudden stop. He felt himself being pulled to his feet and again towed forward down another jungle path. Tripping and stumbling, his legs unable to keep him upright after so many weeks of inactivity, William held onto his lifeline with all of his strength. Suddenly they stopped, William crashing into the back of his rescuer, who didn’t seem to notice. He adjusted the hood of the poncho just in time to see two small lights wink on and off ahead in the blackness. As abruptly as they had stopped, they were on the move again.

  Fifteen yards farther down the trail, they burst into a small clearing cut into the jungle. Hovering in the center of the clearing was a black aircraft with its horizontal rotors whirring. William was pulled and pushed into the open rear ramp of the aircraft and seconds later it lifted into the air. The ramp closed as the aircraft lifted vertically into the air like a helicopter. The noise inside the aircraft was deafening until the poncho was pulled off William and a helmet with integrated ear muffs was placed over his head. Seated on the floor, he looked around the dimly lit interior and saw the small group of men who had rescued him huddled around several equipment cases. They appeared to be cleaning and stowing weapons and other equipment.

  William realized that the aircraft was no longer ascending like a helicopter, but now moving forward like an airplane. Suddenly, a voice came alive in his helmet. “Are you injured?” He looked up and saw a young man kneeling in front of him. “I’m a medic and I can help if you’re injured. It won’t be long and we will have you back to proper medical facilities.”

  William fought to grasp the reality and impact of the past few hours. It was the matching bookend to the beginning of his entire ordeal. Finally, he said, “I’m okay, just a few bumps and bruises, but who are you guys?” Gesturing toward the four huddled over their equipment, he said, “Who are those guy? God knows, I need to thank them.”

  The young man shook his head and said, “Sorry sir, I’m not at liberty to provide that information. It’s probably best if you just close your eyes and rest. We’ll be down soon and we can get you some dry clothes and a thorough medical exam.”

  Hours later, the two weary warriors watched the small business jet lift into the air. The larger one turned and said, “Well, Mr. William Matz will sleep in his own bed tonight. Where do you plan to sleep tonight, compadre? With some friendly island girl? Or are you going back to the States?”

  The man looked back at him, sighed slowly, and said, “Back to the States for me. Caught a ride that departs in two hours. They’ll drop me at Homestead.”

  “Florida? I thought you last died somewhere up there. Don’t you think it’s a little risky to spend your down time there? What if you run into someone who knows you? Or is Homestead just a waypoint?”

  “Not a waypoint. I’m planning on staying in Florida.”

  “You mean until our next gig?”

  Patting the larger man on the back, he said, “No, I mean permanently. This was my last gig. I made that clear before I agreed to take this one.”

  The larger man scoffed. “Shit, I wish I had a buck for every time I’ve heard you say that. You can’t stay away. They won’t let you stay away. You know that.”

  Another tired sigh. “Oh, I mean it, all right.”

  The larger man ran his hand through the stubble on his head, “What about your boating accident? I get that you can change your name, but somebody may still recognize you. How you going to explain that?” He paused and then added, “No, buddy, you’re stuck in this mess with the rest of us. It’s all we know and we’re too good at it for them to let us go.”

  The man rubbed the three days of growth on his chin and replied, “I agree, this is all I know, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to learn to do something else. Something where people don’t die every time I go to work. And you’re wrong, they let me go.” He paused and then added, “Let’s just say I’ve come to an agreement with certain people that’s deemed mutually beneficial to both parties.”

  “But Florida? What about your boating accident? I even stopped in that marina and bar you hung around, those people believe you died in that explosion. Hell, that bar owner says he saw it himself. How are you going to just come back from the dead?”

  After a short hesitation the reply came. “I expect that all of the necessary bases have been covered from an official perspective. But only time will tell if the people I associated with in Hollywood will buy into my explanation.”

  The larger man stuck out his hand and said, “Well, if anyone can pull off an escape from this life it’s you, Justin. Good luck, my friend.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  I slowed to a rapid walk and doubled over, gasping for air. Finding a bench along the Broadwalk, I latched onto the back of it for dear life. The sun was just peeking over the horizon on the Atlantic and I could find no plausible reason explaining why I was up at this forsaken hour, nor why I was tormenting my body with a feeble attempt at jogging. Well, I knew the reason, I just didn’t want to admit it, not even to myself. The explanation was a simple one and consistent with many in my life. It was about a woman.

  Actually, as I think about it, it’s more accurate to say this latest undertaking is the result of my interaction with a woman and an almost woman. The woman is Patty Johnson, known to most everyone as PJ, and the almost woman is her teenage daughter, Angela. Over the time since I inherited Cap’s Place from my uncle Mickey, PJ and I have become good friends, but my efforts to see our relationship go further seem to have stalled. Oh, we regularly collaborate on cases she’s working as a private investigator, she says she likes my perspective as a former prosecuting attorney, but I’m not so sure I can add much to the experience she gained while a detective with Hollywood PD. Still, it’s flattering and provides me opportunities to see her. Our dates, if you can even call them that, have usually been dinner and drinks at Cap’s Place. Not a real date scene to me when you consider the fact that I spend ninety percent of my waking hours there. The one exception, and the event that led me to this self-imposed regimen of torture, was when PJ and Angela spent the afternoon at the beach with me. I guess it was a date, it just had a chaperone. At least I chose to think of it as a date.

  We were all having a great time at the beach. Angela and I seemed to be hitting it off just fine. I felt that I might have successfully crossed a significant hurdle in my efforts to woo PJ. I was returning from walking up to get us some cold drinks from one of the stores that line the Broadwalk when I overheard Angela say to PJ, “I think Jack’s real nice, but don’t you think he’s a bit soft and pudgy?” I couldn’t hear PJ’s response, but they both laughed.

  I think of myself as looking rather fit for a guy deep into his forties, but after that comment I felt compelled to take real stock of myself in the full-length mirror on the closet door in my apartment above Cap’s Place. What I saw surprised me, to say the least. My mind’s eye held an image of the guy who was a decent athlete in high school, a regular exerciser and weekend warrior through college and law school, and a daily jogger and twice a week racquetball player while practicing law. What the mirror revealed was a guy who hadn’t really exercised with any regularity in several years while living on a steady diet of burgers and fries, washed down with ample quantities of Landshark beer. Angela was probably being kind when she mere
ly called me “soft.”

  The next morning I embarked on the exercise program intended to return me to the glory of my former self. Or, at least a moderately fit middle-aged guy. I joined LA Fitness, where I am attempting to coax my muscles back into some level of firmness, and began my morning aerobic torture sessions that I nicknamed jogging. I know I’m making progress because now when I stop to gasp for air, I don’t experience a steady stream of runners slowing to ask me if I’m okay as they sprint past. Obviously, I’ve progressed from looking like a heart attack in progress to just a guy who’s out of shape.

  I’ve even enlisted the aid of Marge, who manages Cap’s Place, to advise me on nutrition. She’s turned my diet into a nightmare of salads and chicken breasts. I have to wait for her to leave for the day before I can have my first Landshark. She told me I should give up drinking beer entirely, but I’m very sensitive to the number of people that action might put out of work. It’s my patriotic duty to do my part for the economy.

  I finally recovered enough to regain an upright posture. I read somewhere that you should have a cool down period after exercising, so I rejected my first inclination, which was to lie down on the bench until the pain went away, and began my brisk walk back toward Cap’s Place. Although the sun was making its daily trip into the morning sky, the horizon was a funky greenish blue. I don’t think I’d ever seen the sky quite this color. It must be something to do with the weather pattern that the talking heads have been spinning around about for the past few days. When I first arrived in Florida, a few years ago, I followed the weather reports closely every hurricane season. After all, even from Michigan, I’d seen the images of the damage hurricanes had periodically unleashed on Florida. Since arriving here, I’ve found the hype propagated by the talking heads to be way out of proportion to the weather we’ve experienced. This latest event is probably no exception. They’ll fill the screen with their maps and graphs for a few days, everyone will stock up on food and water, we’ll get some heavy rain, and that will be that. Still, I will admit that the sky does look ominous, but who am I to judge, a guy who’s seldom been outside at this hour of the day to observe anything, ominous or not.