The Jada Agenda

By Mark Goldberg

Aubrey Carlisle is a First Grade teacher. She's also a masked, 6'2", leather-wearing, motorcycle-riding, vengeance-driven killer of pedophiles. She finds them before the cops. Then calls and has them clean up after her. The papers have mis-labeled her Mr. Vengeance. But murder is still murder. Can Aubrey continue to evade the police, while carrying out her own brand of justice?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Goldberg
• Release date: Sep 28, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452390420

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The Jada Agenda

An Aubrey Carlisle Adventure

by

Mark S Goldberg

Published by Mark S. Goldberg at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Mark S. Goldberg

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Always and forever for Arlene, my muse, my beauty, my better half.

The Jada Agenda

An Aubrey Carlisle Adventure

by

Mark S Goldberg

AUBREY

Another night, another pervert.

I’ve been killing pedophiles for about three weeks now. You’d think I’d feel something; that all this mayhem would affect me. You know, taking a human life is supposed to be serious business. And, yes, I’m serious about doing it. I just don’t feel bad about it. No guilt, no nightmares and no desire to stop either. The only feeling I have is a sense of accomplishment. I guess that’s something.

As far as feelings go, I don’t really have any. I’m not in love, don’t have any strong attachments, I don’t even have a favorite color. Although I am wearing a lot of black these nights, when I do my killing. But that’s out of necessity.

Actually, there are two things I do care about. One is my dad. If I had a soul, it would be him. The other is kids. Little kids. I don’t know, maybe it’s their innocence or their need for attention that draws me to them, to want to protect them and do things for them. That’s probably why I’m about to be a first grade teacher. Imagine that. Aubrey Carlisle; school teacher by day, perv killer by night. I could almost laugh at that, if I had a sense of humor.

The only person I can talk to about all this is Source. But he’s more my rooting section than my conscience. After all, he’s where I get my information. He has a way of finding the pervs and I have the ability to put them down. We never even talk about it afterward. No high fives. No thumbs up. No pats on the back. He’s got his own reasons. Me, I tell myself I’m doing it for the kids.

So there I was, out on a rooftop, in the middle of the night, getting ready to go over the edge. Rappelling down two floors from a forty-story condo rooftop wasn’t that difficult. Not with the proper equipment. The double-weave nylon cord was strong enough to hold my hundred-sixty-eight pound frame. The grappling hook at one end gripped the edge of the roof securely enough that I had no fear it would come free, even with me swinging out and down from the other end. My black gloves were padded to protect my hands from potential rope burns, when I slid down the line. And, of course, I was covered in black leather from head to foot, to hide my identity and to help conceal me in the shadows. My black crepe-soled shoes were silent, the jumpsuit was perfect for riding my Yamaha R1LE, my dream bike, during the day or on a mission late at night. The leather bondage mask I had picked up in another freak’s home, a couple weeks ago, turned my ensemble into something else. I thought of it as working attire.

I couldn’t get the proper pressure with my glass cutter on the window, what with the strong wind and no traction. Fortunately there was no moon tonight and my point of entry was the back of the building, overlooking Washington Avenue and not Ocean Drive. It seemed as if people were out on South Beach any hour of the day or night, and I didn’t want to be discovered spidering down the side of some posh high-rise.

So, instead of being neat with the glass cutter, I used it as best I could, slashing across the window, until my exerted force had me swaying away from the building and back again, like whichever one of Newton’s laws that was. Then again. And again. And again. Back and forth until I’d carved a crude square in the glass. I pushed off once more from the wall and came back with one of my legs extended, smashing the toe of my heavy shoe into the rough square I’d made. The window came apart and fell inward silently, onto what was probably soft plush carpeting. After all, this was a South Beach condo. I reached through, spun the window lock and raised the window wide enough to accommodate my leggy frame.

The only light within the apartment came from a hallway off the far end of the living room, leaving everything before me in silhouette. My jumpsuit was full of these Velcro-flapped pockets, and I pulled a mini-flashlight from one of them.

Sure enough, the beam illuminated segments of an upscale living room. A modular leather sofa dominated one whole side of the room. Across from it, mounted on the wall, was a flat-screen television that appeared to be at least sixty inches. An oversized glass dinner table, whose base was a large aquarium populated by dozens of fish, could probably seat eighteen people.

It was a brief sweep of the room, but it was all I needed to memorize its layout. I’ve got one of those photographic memories. Tell me your phone number and I’ll remember it forever. I turned off the flashlight and slipped it back into my pocket.

My crepe shoes were just as soundless on the hallway’s marble floor as on the carpet. I hung against one wall anyway, cancelling out shadows that could be cast by the ceiling’s high hat lights. The first door on the right opened into an impressive bathroom. A Jacuzzi filled one complete wall. At a right angle was a glass-stall shower big enough to fit practically everyone I knew, all at once. Toilet and bidet were separated by a half wall of marble tile that matched both the hallway and bath floors. The room was large enough to service an entire dormitory floor.

The next room was dark. I could just about make out the shape of bedroom furnishings; a twin bed, corner desk, as well as some of those glow-in-the-dark adhesive stars on the ceiling that one would find in a kid’s room. I backed out and pulled the door closed.

The last door was on the left side of the hall. I heard a strong voice behind it as well as what sounded like metal being scraped across a marble floor. I turned the knob and cracked the door just enough to see within.

The doctor stood before this super king-size bed with his back to me. He was of average build, which meant he was smaller than I am. He had this thick black hair that he’d greased and pompadoured, like he was trying out for an Elvis look-alike competition. Worst of all, he had on these too-small, too-tight red briefs and nothing else. I watched from a spot behind the door, trying not to gag at his get up, as he dragged compact movie lights into position on either side of his bed. A camcorder rested high on a tripod at the foot of the bed. Cables trailed from it to another plasma television on a side wall.

He spoke, his voice playful, as he continued to fuss with the lights. Being in a movie is fun, Dennis. You’ll see. I’ll lie on the bed next to you and you pull down my undies. Then I want you take me in your hand and kiss and lick me. And smile. You have to smile, Dennis. You have to show the camera that you love doing this to Dr. Abe, that you’re having fun. You do a real good job and make Dr. Abe happy and then I’ll make you happy the same way. That’s called love, Dennis. You do know that Dr. Abe loves you, don’t you? And you want to love him back, right?

He moved to his right and I could see who he was directing. It was one of the kids the city had been looking for; a little boy, maybe five years old. He was thin and pale, a shock of unruly brown hair rose above an innocent face. He lay on his side, stark naked. He looked like he was in awe of the doctor.

Let me see you smile, Dennis, said the doctor. That’s a boy. He was behind the camcorder now, looking through the viewfinder.

I quietly pushed the door open enough to slip inside. The doctor was so intent on his video that I probably could have ridden my Yamaha into the room without him hearing.

You are going to be a movie star, Dennis! he said. Now I want you to spread your-

The doctor was leaning into his camcorder, his feet apart, his backside pointed toward the ceiling. I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I moved close behind him, trying not to think of how those red briefs crawled up into his crack. But they made the perfect target. I brought my crepe-soled shoe up between his spread legs. Hard.

I’m a big girl. At six-foot-two and a hundred-sixty-eight pounds, I present a formidable presence. Add to that a workout regimen that my dad set up for me when I was still a little girl, and all the wrestling moves he taught me, and I can command just about any physical confrontation. That’s probably why I’ve been able to put down so many of these pervs already.

Anyway, when I say I kicked him hard, believe it. The doctor jumped about a foot straight up. It took a second for the pain to travel to his brain, for him to know where he had just been savagely kicked, and he turned before he grasped his groin and collapsed to the floor. He just as quickly rolled to face me. That surprised me. I’d have thought the kick would put him down but good. The guy had no breath and tears of pain must have distorted his vision, but he had to know that whoever I was, I was big, mysterious and frightening. The little boy on the bed saw me kick the doctor and opened his mouth, as if to scream, but no sound came.

I stood there in my best super hero pose, with my arms akimbo and my hands on my hips, a stance made popular by my dad’s favorite hero, George Reeves’ Superman, decades before David Caruso began using it as an acting crutch. The doctor crouched on the floor, trying to catch his breath. I figured I’d be smug. It’s Wednesday, I said, lowering my voice as deep as I could. Must be movie night.

My appearance could be confusing in this black jumpsuit, since its binding design subdued most of my feminine curves. That and my height usually makes these guys think this figure in the black ninja outfit and mask might be some masculine assassin.

The doctor grabbed a corner of the dresser and pulled himself to his feet. He had his breath back and his wry smile made me wonder if he knew that the person before him was nothing more than a first grade teacher who lived at home with her dad.

Now that he was facing me, I could see the recognizable face that appeared in the Miami Herald on a frequent basis. Abe Turner was a pediatrician, known more for his parties than his practice. Anyone who was on the fast track had been in this apartment for night-long gatherings. If parents had big bucks, their kids had only one doctor; Abe Turner.

Tonight Turner wasn’t practicing medicine. He was preparing for video stardom. Apparently he believed a little light lipstick, some work with an eyebrow pencil and a bit of blush would make his face camera friendly. If I had known he was made up like some perv drag queen before he turned around, I might have kicked him even harder.

Turner looked back at the boy on the bed. It’s all right, Dennis. You stay right where you are. This will only take a minute. He then took a step toward me. He stopped and stretched his neck to look up. "How tall are you?"

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. Tall people hate that How’s the weather up there bullshit. Women even more so. Besides, didn’t this creep know it was already over? Did he think he had a chance at stopping me?

I studied Turner’s body language. He had dropped down a little on his right leg, the toes of that foot arched as if to gain traction against the marble floor. He was practically naked, so I could see his thigh and calf muscles tighten as he prepared to leap at me.

The pain in his groin must have eased up enough for him to make his move. He sprang up and outward, surprisingly quick for an unimpressive man.

I saw him coming all the way. I glided back on one long leg and angled my body slightly to the side. With my quick reflexes, it seemed as if Turner moved in slow motion. He passed right by me, stuttering his bare feet along the marble floor in an attempt to stop. I raised my leg to a ninety-degree angle, rose up on the ball of the opposite foot and connected a spinning heel kick with the side of Turner’s face, as he went by. I was surprised his orbital bone shattered so easily, since I had on those soft crepe soles. But I heard his cheekbone crack and could see the results.

Turner was back on the floor. This time he was crying. His fingers gingerly played at his face, where a piece of his cheekbone protruded from the skin. Even better, it looked like his eyeball was about to roll free from its shattered socket. His eyeliner was running with his tears.

The doctor was far from the door now. Without speaking, I motioned for the boy to get up off the bed and out of the room. The child hesitated, looking from this tall masked figure before him to the doctor on the floor. After a few moments and repeated motions from me, he skittered off the bed and out into the hall. I closed the door behind him.

Then I pulled the cables from the camcorder, never thinking to follow a secondary pair along the floor to where they connected with a Blue Box that fed into a desktop computer. I unscrewed the camcorder from its tripod, pushed a button on its side, and the camcorder spit out a small cassette. I reached two fingers in and pulled the tape from the cassette, stretching and tearing it free, so it was unusable. Then I knelt at Turner’s side.

Where are the rest of the tapes, Doc? I asked, in my practiced, gravelly voice.

That’s it. There are no others, answered Turner between sobs. His voice was high now, like a woman’s.

I don’t believe you. I placed a leather-gloved thumb against Turner’s damaged eye socket and applied pressure.

The chest! They’re in the chest! he cried, pointing to the wall on the far side of the bed. He moved backward on his hands, like a cockroach surprised by kitchen lights.

A wooden chest, the size of a large footlocker on stubby legs, rested against the wall. No locks, no clasp, just an easy-access, flip-open lid. A toy chest for Turner’s nighttime enjoyment. I lifted the lid. There had to be at least a hundred cassettes in there. I didn’t have the time to destroy them all. Then, again, I didn’t want to.

I dragged the chest easily across the room to where Turner still lay crumpled on the floor.

I’ll destroy them as soon as you’re gone, he said. I promise. I’ll do that even before I call for an ambulance. Okay? No one will know about these kids ever. I swear. Their parents won’t know, their friends won’t know. Okay? They’ll have their lives back. And I’ll…I’ll…I won’t do this anymore. I promise. Okay? You can take the boy with you. Okay? Take him and just go. You got me. You hurt me. I’m done. I promise, I’m done. Take the tapes, too, if you want. Then you’ll know they won’t get out. I don’t need…I don’t want them anymore.

Fuck the fake voice. I don’t want them either. What I want is for these kids’ parents to know, I said in my natural voice, scooping a handful of the tapes out and dropping them on top of the doctor. Once they really know what their kids have been through, they can get them help, counseling, the proper guidance. I dropped several more cassettes on Turner. And I want them to know about you. The good children’s doctor. Cassettes rained down on him. You’ve put these little ones through a hell of your own making. More cassettes. I’m shutting this particular hell down tonight.

I grabbed Turner by the hair and yanked him to his feet. He tried to pull away, but I wrapped him in a headlock. I hoped he felt my muscles bunch beneath my leathers.

Hearing my voice or maybe feeling or smelling something feminine about me, Turner said, You’re a woman, aren’t you? You…you’re probably a mother yourself, right? I can understand how you might-

I’d heard enough. I dragged him out of the bedroom, his feet kicking behind him in an attempt to gain traction, scattering the tapes in all directions. He flailed his arms weakly, most likely because the pain of his shattered orbital bone had taken the fight out of him.

I hauled the great Dr. Abe Turner, pediatrician, down the hall and into the dining room. I threw him to his knees, beneath his fancy glass dining table. I grabbed the back of his neck and forced his face down into the table’s aquarium base. The doctor kicked and writhed a bit, but not much. Initially the fish darted out of the way, frightened by Turner’s feeble thrashing and the air bubbles he was expelling. But after his motions finally ceased, they returned to investigate the fresh flesh.

No. What I did to the good doctor wasn’t any kind of self defense. Yeah, he did come after me, following my kick to his nether regions. But I was never in fear of my life. The bastard never had a chance. And, as I’ve already said, I don’t feel bad about it. He was a bad person and I put him down. That’s all. Just like people do to vicious animals.

I walked down the hall to the second bedroom, in search of the kid. He was in there, as I knew he would be. He was on the bed, under the covers. Only his eyes and the top of his head showed.

I reached into another pocket and pulled free a miniature voice synthesizer. It makes things a lot easier than that fake baritone that hurts my throat for a day afterward. I placed it against my neck and knelt down at the side of the bed. Hello, Dennis, I said, my voice sounding masculine and throaty, but friendly, just the same. I’m going to see that you get home to your mom and daddy tonight. How does that sound?

The boy’s shaking slowed. He pulled a hand from under the covers and pointed it at me. Dr. Abe has a costume like that, too.

I’m sure he did. I’m nothing like Dr. Abe, I said. And I need you to do something for me. Would that be all right?

He nodded.

I need you to sit right here in this room and not to leave it for any reason. Can you do that?

By myself? Or should I get Dr. Abe?

No, no. Let Dr. Abe be. He’s busy feeding his fish right now. You just sit here by yourself. All right?

We were going to make a movie.

I winced beneath my mask. No more movies. In a real short time, some policemen will come here and take you to your mommy and daddy. Would you like that?

His face brightened and he nodded. Then he pointed toward the bedroom door. Can I say goodbye to Dr. Abe?

If I had those kind of emotions, I’d feel awful for this kid; how Turner had his understanding of right and wrong all screwed up. I shook my head no. That’s all right. I’ll say goodbye for you. You just wait for the policemen. I gave him a smile, but I doubt he could see it beneath my mask.

I closed the door behind me and moved back to Turner’s dining room. It was time to make the call. I again placed the synth against my throat as I picked up the phone and dialed. The entire city had been searching for this child for two days. When the desk sergeant answered the call, I asked for Braver. Braver was gone for the night and they transferred me to someone else. I waited until a detective came on the line, and gave him the name of the child and the address where the police could find him. I did my best at making my voice sound mechanical. The voice converter was an inexpensive item I’d picked up at the Spy Store in the Dadeland Mall, so it needed a little help from me.

I left the condo the way I arrived. Through the window and back up my nylon rappel line to the roof. I’ve got to tell you, going down is easier than climbing up. I may feel it in my shoulders in the morning. Once on the roof, I slipped off my mask and shook free my hair. I tucked the mask into a pocket and rode down the service elevator to my bike. I waited until the police cars, the ambulance and the boy’s tearful parents had come and gone. Then I flipped the ignition on the Yamaha and the twenty-valve, liquid cooled monster came to life.

I had to get some sleep. It was already past ten on a Sunday night and school orientation was tomorrow. I needed to get up early, wash my hair – which takes forever to dry – and have breakfast with dad. I know he’s going to give me a rah-rah speech. After all, it’s his little girl’s first day at her first job. I hope he makes pancakes.

TIM braver

The captain wants to see you.

Yeah. Good morning to you, too, Manny. Shit. Ramirez wants to see me. Even before I have my first coffee. Means Vengeance called again last night. Took down another pedophile. Probably killed him. Good for him. Good for me. Good for Miami.

The captain can wait. I get here before eight in the morning, I’m entitled to twelve ounces of coffee before I’m handed ten gallons of bullshit. Damn, the pot is empty. But some genius still left it on the burner. The bottom’s scorched. It’s going to need to be scrubbed before they can make another pot. Let someone else do it. I don’t need coffee that bad.

Ramirez isn’t a bad captain. He’s just stressed out. Like everyone else. All these child abductions. Seems like it’s been going on for months now. The papers and the TV won’t let it go. It’s spread to the national news now. And the only one making headway is Vengeance. That crazy vigilante is getting better press than we are.

Captain looked up as I entered. Must be nice to have an office; a little privacy. Better than sitting at a desk, in the middle of the detective’s squad room. Gotta listen to everybody else’s private bullshit. Fortunately, I don’t have private conversations. You need a family or friends for that. Mine’s gone. I’m pretty much a loner these days. Gainesville seems like a long time ago.

Ramirez looked up at me. He nodded his head in the direction of one of the chairs in front of his desk. So I sat. He moved some papers around, looking officious. Then he looked back at me.

Your friend Vengeance called last night, close to one in the morning, he said. Of course he asked for you. The desk sergeant told him you were probably at home, sleeping. He said Vengeance sounded pissed that you weren’t here twenty-four/seven waiting for his calls. Then he told Jergens, on the night shift, about Doctor Turner.

Who?

"I guess you didn’t read The Herald this morning. The doc’s a big socialite pediatrician. At least he was until Vengeance visited him last night. It turns out the doctor was a bigger perv than he was a socialite."

Shit. A kid doctor preying on his own patients. Job gets sicker all the time. I assume he’s dead, Captain. How’d Vengeance do it this time?

He beat the crap out of him, then drowned him in a fish tank. Captain looked up at me with tired eyes. It wasn’t pretty Braver. And because of who he was, this one’s already made a big splash in the papers. He gave me the slightest of smirks. No pun intended.

And Vengeance called me. It wasn’t a question.

Of course he did. The captain picked up a pencil. He bounced the eraser tip on his desktop. Asked for you personally. Just like every time before. He took a breath and gave me his patented hard stare. So what gives, Braver? Do you know this whacko?

I raised both hands, palms out. Shook my head. No, Captain. Just like I’ve told you after each one of his calls. I don’t know this guy. I don’t know how he knows me or why he’s decided I’m the one to call. I was getting pissed. I had things to do. Namely, finding out why so many kids were being snatched off the streets, abused and tossed aside. Like the pedophiles in Miami had formed a union or something. I didn’t have time to sit with the boss answering the same questions over and over. If you’re going to keep dragging me in here every time this guy calls me to announce another successful kill, Captain, I got up from my chair, at least come up with some new questions. Because this got old weeks ago.

I walked out of his office. Didn’t wait for a response. He wouldn’t have one, anyway. What more could he ask? What more could I say? The newspapers named this vigilante Mr. Vengeance. The public just ate it up. Half of Miami wanted to throw the guy a parade. Pin a medal on him. The other half want him thrown in jail. Like any other murderer. My take? I’d go with the parade. The only thing bad about him, far as I’m concerned, is he makes us look incompetent. He does what we can’t. And, as head of the Children’s Task Force, that makes me, the great Detective Sergeant First Class Tim Braver – former star detective from Alachua Country – the biggest incompetent on the force. Shit. That’s the longest thought I’ve had in weeks.

I plopped down in my desk chair. I felt like slouching. But I’m too tall for that. My knees hit that panel in front. I looked across to Manny. His desk butts up against mine. The department likes to have partners facing each other. So we can bounce ideas back and forth without yelling across the room.

Same shit, different day? he asked me.

Same shit, different way, I said. Vengeance again. Saved another kid we couldn’t find on our own.

How is that different?

He didn’t just beat the guy to death this time. Drowned him in the guy’s own fish tank.

Jesus. We’ve got to stop this guy, Tim. He’s just as bad as the pervs he’s killing.

I gave Manny a hard stare. Here we go again. Manny Arce was a good guy. A detective, third grade. Strong aspirations and a straight-edge belief in right and wrong. He’d been in plainclothes for about a year. They paired him up with me to learn things fast. I think the bosses wanted him on the fast track. That was fine with me. I liked the guy. I liked his wife and kids. I’d been over their house for dinners and weekend barbecues. But his righteous black-and-white attitude could get to me.

Just as bad as a pedophile that can fuck up a little kid’s mind forever? Or worse? Abuse him or her, then leave their body in some ditch? Nah, Manny, I can’t believe Vengeance is as bad as that. Picture Manny Jr. in the hands of one of these guys. Then tell me you wouldn’t pray for someone like Vengeance. You’d change your tune quick enough.

Manny shook his head. There’s right and there’s wrong, man. Murder is murder. That’s it. Over and done. He brushed his hands together. Like he’d just finished eating a bag of chips. We’re cops, we bring in the bad guys. We’re not judges and we’re certainly not executioners. But, as long as any one of us condones what Vengeance is doing, it’s like we’re facilitating murder. We can’t do that.

I didn’t want to have this conversation any more. "Get the