Fighting Back

By Gary Funderburk

Brad Taylor has been estranged from his wife and family for eight long years. CEO of Taylor International, a corporate security services company, he is well aware of the threats that exist for the wealthy, the powerful and the connected. When his seventeen year old daughter, Emily, is brutally kidnapped, and the family home is attacked by armed killers, Audrey Taylor sends for her husband, Brad. With his unique set of skills he recruits the help of his sons to bring young Emily back home. Together, they execute the ransom drop, but things don't go as planned and they find themselves in a desperate race against time to get Emily back alive. Brad Taylor is fighting on several fronts. He is fighting to save his teenage daughter from desperate killers, and fighting his way back to the wife and family he left behind eight year ago.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gary Funderburk
• Release date: Aug 29, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311422156

Book preview

It was just after 11pm on an unusually crisp spring evening, when a slate blue Lexus sedan approached the large chain link gate, and doused its lights. The tinted window on the driver’s side slid silently down, and a gloved hand inserted a keycard in the small metal box on the steel pole. A noisy electric motor kicked on and the long gate rolled open, clattering on the crumbling asphalt as the Lexus drove in. The sleek car bypassed the empty parking lot immediately to the left, and continued around to the back entrance of Desert Aviation.

Desert Aviation was the Fixed Base Operator at the Kingman, Arizona Airport Authority. It was a small company employing eight people, and barely surviving by fueling and performing light maintenance on the private and commercial aircraft that flew into and out of Kingman. The small business had been founded by Frank Massey’s father back in the ‘60’s, and had been fairly lucrative in the early days of its existence. But the competitive landscape drastically changed over the following decades. Commercial aviation boomed in the larger cities and competition from national companies drove prices ever downward. Kingman wasn’t a central hub for aviation, what with Phoenix to east and Las Vegas to the northwest. These days it was a struggle just to make payroll. The business was bleeding red ink, and creditors were breathing down Frank’s neck. He found other ways to make ends meet.

The only external lights around the large building were the security lights over the front entrance, a single light bulb over the back entrance had been unscrewed just enough to keep it dark. A hundred yards behind the building, the bright runway lights combined with the piercing blue taxiway lights cast a strange color on the concrete tarmac.

The Lexus pulled up and then backed into the first parking slot next to the pilot’s entrance, the one with the faded yellow letters on the concrete that read RESER_ED. It slowed to a stop and waited. The driver kept the engine running.

On the crumbling concrete tarmac, fifty feet from the back of the building, Frank Massey stood waiting in front of an idling Cessna 172, a flashlight in one hand, and a cigarette in the other. He took a long drag on the cigarette and eyed the Lexus carefully. Finally, he flashed the light twice at the car and the driver’s door opened. A medium-built hispanic man, with tattoos on his neck, huge biceps and powerful shoulders got out and popped the trunk. The man walked to the back of the car and pulled out a black duffle bag and paused to survey the surrounding area, and then crossed over to where Frank stood, chain smoking. A half dozen cigarette butts lay next to his feet.

Evening Frank. Richie scanned the tarmac and the buildings behind him, searching the shadows, apparently making sure they were alone.

Evening Richie. Frank turned his head and coughed up some phlegm and spat it out. Richie Guevera looked over his shoulder again. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then did it again. He studied the small aircraft and then looked back towards the building a second time. He decided he’d have a look inside the aircraft, and started toward the cockpit when Frank held up a hand halting him. Richie recoiled and stepped back. His hand instinctively dove into his jacket.

Frank extended both hands, palms out and flashed his yellowish toothy smile. Easy Richie. Just wanted you to watch out for the prop. They’re invisible when they’re spinning like that. They’ll cut a man clean in half. Richie considered that for a second, and then continued on, giving the deadly propeller a wide berth, and looked into the cockpit. The small plane was empty. Satisfied, he walked back to Frank and dropped the duffle at his feet.

Okay Frank. No fuck-ups. You know what to do. When you land at the ranch, you taxi to the end of the runway and wait. A man will approach and give you a package, you give him the bag. You got it? Frank nodded with his usual condescending, smart-ass grin, and combed his oily hair back with his free hand. Tell me you fucking got it, Frank. Frank obliged him. For the time being he was the customer.

I got it Richie. I’ll be back before sunup.

Yeah, and when you do, you put the money in your safe, okay? I’ll get it tomorrow. Richie turned and started to walk back to his car.

You trust me enough to keep the money overnight? Frank grinned, waiting for his reaction, and took a drag from his cigarette. Without turning back toward Frank, Richie replied.

I don’t trust anyone, Frank. Especially you.

Frank shot back. Hey, when are you going to let me meet your boss?

I’ll let you know, Frank. His voice trailed off. Richie Guevera walked back to his waiting car with his usual macho swagger that Frank despised.

Frank smiled and cast his eyes to the night sky. It continued to fill with billions of stars, staring down, watching. He flipped his cigarette on the tarmac and fiddled with a silver chain bracelet on his left hand, spinning it around a couple of times, and then picked up the black bag. It was heavier than the last package he delivered, but he thought the weight shouldn’t be a problem for the 172.

He circled around the back of the small plane, doing a second inspection of the rudder and flaps, and opened up the right side door and strapped the big bag in the right seat. He had learned the hard way that a bag not strapped in, could roll off the seat and become jammed in the rudder pedals. That would not be good.

Finally, Frank climbed in, buckled up, and did a second check of the transponder to make sure if was off. With the transponder off, should he be inadvertently picked up on radar, the plane wouldn’t identify itself to the control tower. He kept the running lights off. He had taken care of covering the tail numbers with a plastic tape earlier in the day, so everything was set. Yet…Frank had a funny feeling about the flight. It was nothing he could put his finger on. This would be the ninth midnight run for Richie and whoever he worked for. The plane was in great shape and everything in the preflight checked out. He chalked it up to pilot jitters. It was always better to be concerned than complacent.

Frank put his headset on and listened for radio chatter but the airwaves were quiet. He turned his radio to ATIS for automated flight information, and adjusted the altimeter for the correct barometric pressure. Finally, he eased the throttle forward and rolled out onto the dark runway. He looked to the tower, mostly out of habit. It was dark. The tower is not normally manned after 10pm. Pilots can tune their radio to a special frequency and key the mic a couple of times to turn on or off the runway lights remotely, but Frank would dispense with that. The red glow of the map light would be the on illumination he would need. Pilots would also normally announce via the radio, their location and intent to take off on a particular runway, and their initial heading, but not tonight. Tonight was a special flight. Frank kept the aircraft rolling as he lined up on the centerline and pushed the throttle fully forward. The engine roared and the Cessna accelerated down the runway.

In minutes, the small plane was cruising over the desert at less than two hundred feet of altitude. It was dangerous flying, but Frank new the course well, and the half moon set against an inky blue sky was a blessing. After hugging the hilly desert at one hundred and forty knots per hour for over ninety minutes, Frank had the rocky desert runway in sight. Four red flares burned brightly on the ground ahead marking the threshold. He banked the plane hard left, added a little throttle and lined the plane up on the makeshift runway. He approached the first flare and backed off on the throttle, keeping one eye on the airspeed indicator and the other on the runway. The speed bled off quickly and the Cessna finally settled gently on the rocky runway, bouncing and jerking as the tricycle landing gear rolled over rocks bigger than his fist. Frank kept the Cessna rolling to the last flair, and then pushed the left rudder pedal hard, turning the plane in a one-eighty, and lined up to take off again. Then he set the brakes, and reached under his seat and felt around with his right hand. He pulled a shiny black revolver out and stuck it between the seats under some charts and waited. He reached over and popped the right side door open and lit a cigarette, and waited. He didn’t have to wait long.

Twenty or so yards in front of the plane a man stepped out of the pitch black shadows carrying an AR-15 rifle. He crossed to the center of the runway and brought the barrel up, aiming it at Frank. Frank caressed the wooden grip of the revolver, his fingers tapping nervously on the cool steel. The man holding the rifle didn’t move. He stood squarely in the center of the gravel runway pointing his gun at Frank’s face.

Like a nearby bolt of lighting that practically knocks you off your feet, Frank yelled as the passenger door was suddenly ripped open and a large .45 pistol was thrust in his face.

Don’t you fucking move. The gravelly voice was hispanic, and his black eyes glaring over a red bandana were bloodshot, watery. He wore a dirty, dark-colored baseball cap, and there was a gold chain around his neck, just visible over his grimy t-shirt. The man fumbled nervously with the seatbelt, and released the black duffle keeping his eyes locked on Frank’s. Frank considered the revolver next him, thought of how quickly he could get his hand on it, then thought better of it. Mr. Red Bandana jerked the bag from the plane and backed away, keeping the pistol trained on Frank. For an instant, Frank’s hand wanted to go for the revolver, but there was the other man on the runway with a rifle to contend with. A pistol against an assault rifle at forty yards was not a fair fight. Frank found his voice, leaned toward the passenger door and yelled at the man.

Hey! Where’s the money? Where’s the fucking money, asshole? Mr. Red Bandana stomped forward again, leaned in and jammed the barrel into Frank’s temple.

"You better take off while you still can puto!"

Richie wants his money! Bandana man twisted the gun sideways and jammed it harder into Frank’s head.

You tell Richie, he can go fuck himself! Now go while you still can, dumbass.

He backed away again, disappearing into the harsh shadows, and slammed the aluminum door of the aircraft.

Think! Frank thought to himself. The man with the duffle had vanished, and the other stood in the middle of the runway with a rifle pointed at Frank’s head. Frank’s hand went for the revolver. He considered his options which he calculated to be zero.

Fuck, fuck, fuck! Frank yelled and pounded the dash of the small plane with the pistol. In a blind rage, he ripped off his headset and slammed it against the right-side door. His heart thudded, his hands were shaking. Frank took a deep breath and combed his long oily hair back with his fingers and then put his left hand on the yoke and his right on the throttle. Son of a bitch! He jammed the throttle forward and the plane lurched forward and accelerated down the rocky runway. The man with the rifle lowered his weapon and jumped out of the way as the small plane rumbled down the runway and climbed into the night once again. As he climbed, Frank thought about how Richie would react and what Richie would do. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Frank banked the plane hard left and circled back. He unlatched his door and thrust the revolver out and emptied the pistol at the dark silhouette in the middle of the runway. Then he slammed the door shut and headed back to Kingman.

Chapter 2

The flight back to Kingman was uneventful but Frank was panicked. He had seen first hand what Richie Guevera was capable of if betrayed. His brutality was legend. Frank’s mind was reeling. He knew whatever he said, Richie wouldn’t believe him. Why should he? He’ll think I took the coke and the twenty thousand, and just tried to fuck him!

This wasn’t the first time Frank had made drops for Richie. The two of them had had a working relationship for the past eighteen months. Richie paid well and Frank was reliable. Up to now, that is. Frank racked his brain for answers, considered leaving town, considered killing Richie. Then there would be Richie’s boss to contend with, whoever that was. Both choices were bad.

Frank circled the field once, coming in over the numbers, and made a perfect landing on the threshold. He taxied to the T-hangars that lined the far end of Runway 31 east of Desert Aviation, and shut down the engine. He sat in the dark silence, listening. There was only the sound of the desert.

The hangars were built in the ‘60’s and hadn’t seen a coat of paint since the ‘90s. Rusty and tired, leaning slightly downwind, they were a metaphor for the faltering business that was Desert Aviation. The large metal door on the end-most hangar was open, as he had left it a few hours before. He didn’t want to have to open the squeaky thing when he returned. The sooner the plane was put out of sight the better. He lined up the plane with the centerline on the floor of the hangar and pushed the plane backward until the back wheels hit the chalks. Then he chalked the front wheel and rolled the heavy closed, and padlocked it.

Frank pulled the wrinkled pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and dug the last one out and lit it. He wadded the pack up and gave it a toss. As he walked across the tarmac toward his car, he halted when he noticed that Richie’s Lexus was gone. That was good, he thought. Hopefully, he could deal with Richie Guevera tomorrow, after some much-needed sleep, and hopefully he could come up with a plan to get the money back. For now though, Frank was exhausted. The business was bleeding red ink, and the extra work from Richie wasn’t enough to keep his creditors at bay. In addition, new FAA regulations requiring upgrades to equipment and facilities meant the end of Desert Aviation.

He opened the car door, being careful not to hit the car next to him, and collapsed into the worn leather seat. Frank turned the key and the 396 cubic inch engine came to life like a beast being let free from captivity. Frank grinned and revved the engine a little and then put the transmission in reverse. The ’69 Chevelle was his pride and joy. It was the only asset he didn’t owe money on. The car had belonged to his father and sat in storage in an empty hangar for a year until Frank restored it a few years back. Frank backed out, then threw the transmission in DRIVE and headed home.

Frank’s foul mood hadn’t changed when he arrived at the run-down trailer on the outskirts of Kingman, that he called home. The dilapidated aluminum-sided structure sat on stacked concrete blocks, nestled next to a rickety wooden porch that had seen better days. He didn’t notice any lights on at the other trailers in the Kingman Trailer Park, and that suited him. He climbed the three steps to his door and fumbled for his key. He finally found it and managed to get in. He flipped the light switch by the door and nothing happened. Then he stumbled into the living area and found his only lamp on a cluttered table, and managed to get some light in the room.

He found a half empty bottle of scotch on the television where he’d left it the night before but didn’t remember doing so. He unscrewed the cap and threw it at the garbage can next to the tired old fridge, and missed. Then he plopped down in a tired and worn recliner, and took a large gulp of the cheap scotch. He stared at the broken television, racking his brain for a way out of the mess he was in. He was fighting to stay awake, and losing.

Frank had given up on trying to save the business. Let the fucking banks carve it up, he thought. Bloodsucking leeches. He just needed to get enough money to get to Mexico, and start over. Then maybe, he would finally be free. He took another long drink from the bottle.

His thoughts drifted back to growing up in Kingman with his brothers and his alcoholic, abusive father and the goddamned dog of his, Hank. His father routinely beat the hell out of him, anytime something went wrong, which was often, anytime he’d been drinking, which was almost daily. Then for kicks, he would sic his cur dog on him. Frank studied the back of his right hand. The scars on his skin had almost faded away, but not the ones in his mind.

The beatings got worse as the years went on. Bruises and split lips turned into concussions and broken bones. His father would laugh as he screamed when the mongrel from hell bit and ripped at his hands and feet. His father’s sick laughter still echoed in his mind.

His mother had had enough by the time Frank was thirteen, and she went back east to her wealthy family, abandoning Frank and his younger brothers to suffer further under the heavy hand of Frank Sr. He never forgave her for that.

One fateful day in July when Frank was seventeen he had been working in the shop, tuning an aircraft engine in a Cessna 172 when his father staggered in, drunk, wild-eyed. Frank recognized the look. The nasty hound stood at Frank Senior’s head, drooling and panting. The wind raced across the tarmac, howling, calling to him. The afternoon sun converted the large hangar into an oven, slow-cooking his brain. Frank Jr. tried to ignore him, and kept working on the plane. The aircraft wheels were chalked and the engine was running at half throttle.

Frank Junior ignored the drunk and kept working, but Frank Senior would have none of that. Frank Senior’s taunts were not having the desired effect. He flew into a blind rage and grabbed a crescent wrench from a tall rolling tool box and marched around the plane. But Frank Junior had finally had enough of the beatings, and the terror, and the pain. Frank Senior never beat his little brothers for reasons he couldn’t fathom. But Frank Junior’s beatings were finally over.

His could barely stand, rage supplanting reason. He was teetering in front of the aircraft, clutching the wrench and demanding young Frank come forward. The enormous volume of air being drawn into the power propellor pulled at his clothes and hair. He leaned slightly away from it. Again, and again, Frank Senior screamed over the deafening roar of the engine, for young Frank to heal. The young man calmly approached the psychopathic drunk that was his father, as if approaching a wounded animal. The racing aircraft engine screamed, the propellors cutting through the air. Closer still he stepped, until he was within two feet of the man; and grinned. He would never forget the look of evil, pure rage in his father’s eyes. Frank Senior paused, stunned by his son’s arrogance. The look in his watery disoriented eyes changed. He moved his hand only an inch when Frank junior lunged forward, shoving his drunken father as hard as he could, into the spinning blades. The aluminum propellers did their work, slicing and dicing. The propellors left him in a pile of bits and pieces; the butcher’s scraps.

And just like that, young Frank was free, almost. There was one more bit of work to do. Later that same night, Frank went home and put on steel-toed boots. Then he chained old Hank to a metal stake in back of the trailer, and kicked him to death.

The coroner ruled his father’s death an accident, and that was that. Young Frank was then a business owner.

***

Frank finished off the bottle of scotch sometime after 2am, and tossed it toward the overflowing garbage can and started on another before he eventually passed out.

Frank’s only dependent, an English bulldog named Carl, managed to wake him shortly after 7am, by dragging his metal water bowl into the cluttered bedroom, clanging it on the floor with each step, and dropping it next to the bed. It bonged against an empty bottle of Johnny Walker Red and Carl gave the bottle a quick sniff.

Frank cursed and sat up in bed. His head was splitting. It took him a few seconds to get his bearing. Then he remembered the night before and cursed again. He grudgingly got up and filled the dog’s water bowl and tried setting it on the floor but dropped it the last few inches, spilling half of it. Carl didn’t mind. Then he opened the door to let him out, and the blinding sun felt like it was cleaving his head in two. He couldn’t keep his eyes open, and covered them with his arm. Carl saw his opportunity and scrambled for the door but his portly body got caught between the doorframe and Frank’s foot. Frank was startled and stepped back and place-kicked the dog out into the yard. Carl hit the ground and rolled, yelping loudly and Frank slammed the door behind him.

The only plus to the morning was that, thanks to the wretched dog, Frank made it into the office, even though he’d gotten little sleep.

Chapter 3

Okay, Emily. Just like last time. Ease off the throttle, and line it up with the runway. Emily Taylor, all of seventeen years old, reached for the red knob protruding from the dash panel, and pulled slowly back on the throttle. She immediately heard the engine slow, and felt the small plane begin to descend toward the long runway ahead.

Emily, look at your airspeed indicator. She glanced at the small dial.

Eighty-eight knots.

Nick Haines had been a flight instructor for fourteen years and had taught dozens of people to fly. But he was particularly impressed with his new student’s grasp of the fundamentals of piloting a small airplane. The confidence and calm she displayed was a rare thing to see in someone so young.

What’s the climb indicator showing?

Descending at eighty feet per minute.

Good! You’re doing fine.

The small plane continued to descend toward the almost-two-mile long runway. Emily used the rudder pedals to keep the nose of the plane lined up with the centerline of the runway, and held the right wing dipped slightly into the mild crosswind. Nick kept his hands off the controls but continued to monitor the gages and Emily’s situational awareness.

Again he quizzed, What’s your airspeed?

Seventy knots.

"Emily, if you remember anything, remember this. Airspeed, airspeed, airspeed. This plane stalls at around forty-seven knots. Keep it above that and we’re fine. She nodded, focusing on her alignment, checking her gauges, but otherwise calm.

The aircraft was descending through one hundred feet of altitude, and without being instructed to, Emily pulled the throttle completely back to the idle position. As the plane crossed the numbers on the runway, at about five to eight feet above the concrete, still descending, Emily pulled the yoke back ever so slightly, keeping the nose of the aircraft slightly up. The feeling of the control surfaces was becoming mushy as the plane settled gently on the rear wheels of the landing gear and then she pushed the nose forward. The plane continued to lose speed and young Emily applied the brakes and finally turned at the intersection leading to the taxiways.

That, young lady was perfect! Well done. I never touched the controls. You just landed this airplane all by yourself! Emily was beaming. She thought of her father and how much she wished he could have been here to see her land the plane. It was another one of those special moments she would write about in her journal, another special moment he missed. She would have to settle for a text or an email to him.

Do you think I’m ready to solo? She was ecstatic and animated, adrenaline circulating in her body. She taxied the plane toward the T-Hangars and stopped it next to a big, red fuel pump.

Nick laughed and said, Hold on girl. We have a lot more things to learn and a lot more practice before that. But you’re doing great. You should feel very good about what you’ve accomplished in such a short time. Go ahead and shut it down. I’ll show you how to refuel her.

As she climbed out of the cockpit, Emily saw her mother, Audrey, standing by the chain link fence separating the parking lot from the tarmac. She was smiling and waving excitedly. She