R.O.P.E. Squad 5 A Case of Kidnapping

By Lillian Baker O'Malley

This book is R.O.P.E. Squad 5, the fifth book in the R.O.P.E. Squad series. R.O.P.E. Squad stands for Repeat Offenders Parole Enforcement which is the Police Department that pursues fugitive parolees who have violated their parole conditions. The fugitive parolee is running and causing chaos to every person he meets. On the run and desperate, Dougie Johnson kidnaps a real estate agent Eden Dale. He drags her through one disaster after another until he tries to kill her by hitting her with her own S.U.V. that he stole. Sheriff Charity Nixon as interim replacement for the injured Sheriff, Tasha Avery, the R.O.P.E, Squad detective, and Chayton Phoenix from Phoenix Security solutions combine their efforts and race against time to save Eden Dale. They find another injured kidnapping victim, a cougar who is wounded, and discover Dougie Johnson's brother lying in mud and suffering from gunshot wounds. The aftermath of the kidnapping involves the insatiable press who pursue the victims with a frenzied race to grab the money shot while they ignore the real truth of the stories they publish. The injured Sheriff seeks his revenge on Sheriff Charity Nixon and brings his wrath to the media. Eden Dale must keep her nerve and try to survive for the sake of her family. Will help arrive in time? 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lillian Baker O'Malley
• Release date: Nov 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393814801

Book preview

R.O.P.E. Squad Five

A Case of Kidnapping

An Imaginary Friend’s novel 

©Lillian Baker O’Malley August 2020

All Rights Reserved

Chapter One

Staying Alive; 

He knew he had to slow his breathing or someone passing by on the sidewalk might hear him and he couldn’t let that happen. The dense leaves that he was peering through moved a bit from the stream of his labored breath. He was getting out of shape, but didn’t do too badly because he still managed to escape the cops who were even now hunting for him.

The chase had been frantic and desperate on both sides. 

The cops were pursuing him because he was a wanted fugitive parolee who had killed a man for his car. The driver and the rest of the family in the car were thrown out of the car and left by the side of the road with their bleeding husband and father. They cried and wailed and watched helplessly as he slowly passed away. As they watched their loved one die, the family vowed revenge on the carjacker.

By the time the police and ambulances arrived at the place where the man and his family who were carjacked were thrown out of their car, the fugitive parolee was only about ten miles away. The family car was out of gas. The fugitive parolee pounded on the steering wheel and cursed. He searched through the vehicle and found some small bills and change in the console. There was about $25. Coffee and fast food money. There was a prepaid cash card for a major coffee chain. He opened the glove compartment. There was a flashlight, a couple of packs of cigarettes, three lighters, and a small handgun. It was loaded. A grocery tote bag on the back seat held bags of snacks, chips, chocolate bars, and a six pack of beer. He loaded the money and the coffee card and the gun into the grocery tote bag. He put his own gun, that he had shot the driver of the car he hijacked with, into the tote bag and tried to conceal it by wrapping it with a sweater that someone sitting in the back seat had left behind.

The fugitive parolee was smeared with the blood of the man he had shot. The man had been in the driver’s seat when the bullet had ended his life. Now the blood on the seat and the driver’s door was transferred onto his clothing.

He tried not to think about the blood from his victim that made him want to tear off the clothes and burn them and then shower and shower until he could function again. He had to find refuge. A place to get clean and eat and think.

There was a small grove of trees off the highway to his right. He could see tall skyscrapers in the far distance. If he cut across the small field behind the fence, he could enter that forest. He would have to keep moving though. The police would find the car that he had abandoned on the side of the highway. They would search the forest first.

The fugitive parolee climbed over the fence, ran across the small field, and entered the small forest of trees.

The trees and brush and weeds got thicker as he moved through to the denser part of the forest. He was in the forest for about 20 minutes and couldn’t find a path or any way to tell what direction he was going in. He hoped he wasn’t walking n circles. He sped up when he heard dogs barking. Did the police send for the tracker dogs to hunt him down?  He stopped and listened, but then decided that the dogs were just farm dogs, maybe they had caught his scent. He must be close to the edge of the forest. He was into an overgrown, thick part of the brush. The ground underneath his feet was full of fallen branches. There were damp muddy places that his shoes sank into with a sucking noise when he pulled his foot free of the mire. There were bunches of dead grass and piles of fallen dead wet leaves and clouds of mosquitos rose up and started biting him and crawling on him and divebombing his face and arms. They could smell the blood on his clothing. He waved his arms wildly batting at then. He started to run. He ran without thinking, not looking where he was going and when he was pushing aside branches that were slapping at him, he almost stepped out onto a newly laid sidewalk. Across a subdivision street, he could see a new house with the interior lights on.

It was a newly built subdivision.

He hid in the shadow of the trees trying to figure out if anyone was living there. The last thing he needed right now if he broke into the house was to find some six foot angry homeowner with a gun or a massive guard dog that would be even more vicious than the homeowner. His previous history of burglary and theft made him wary of the potential dangers of unexpected surprises when he tried to break and enter premises that looked like no one was home.

He slowed his breath and peered through the branches of the tree. Through the front window of the house he could see a woman. She came into view, her arms loaded with a stack of papers. She set up an easel board and was putting up photos of houses and house plans. Next to it she moved a bigger display into view that showed the maps of the planned houses and playgrounds and street layouts in the new subdivision. The house the woman was in was a sales office in a model home. There was a sales sign out front on a moveable rack. The woman was probably the real estate sales agent who was selling the houses. There was a smart looking Nissan SUV parked at the side of the driveway. It was probably her car.

If this was a model home sales office for the subdivision, it must be open to the public. That meant that the front door would be unlocked and customers could just walk in to see the sales presentations of the different models of the homes that were available for sale.

He waited a long time, watching her move around the house. He could see a lot of the house, an open concept design that everyone who was shopping for a house seemed to prefer. She was vey busy and seemed to be always moving, making little adjustments, and wiping off surfaces and making coffee in the coffee pot.

The fugitive parolee was certain she was alone. No one else appeared in view except the woman.

Sometimes the woman came to the window and peered out into the gathering darkness. There were street lights that had come on. She seemed to sense that someone was watching. 

He stood in the treed space and ate some of the potato chips and drank a few beers. He smoked a couple of the cigarettes. No one else arrived.

The woman came out of the house and went towards the for sale sign to pack it up for the night. She picked up the sign and went to open the back of the SUV to load it in with the other real estate signs that were in the back.

She was leaning far into the back of the vehicle to make room for the sign.

The fugitive parolee dashed across the street. He took the gun and shoved it into the side of her neck. He was shaking so much that he kept his finger off the trigger so that he wouldn’t accidently shoot her.

Back up slowly and get in the car. The fugitive parole made his voice come out in a deep commanding tone.

Okay, okay, don’t shoot. The woman backed a little way from the back of her SUV.

Give me the key fob. He made the demand as frightening as he could.

I can’t. She was staying calm but she refused to obey.

Don’t mess with me lady. Give me the key fob now! He pushed the gun into her side forcefully.

She gasped in pain. I don’t have the key fob on me. It’s in the house in my purse. I need my purse.

You’ve got to be kidding lady. How did you open the back of the SUV if you didn’t have the keys? The fugitive parolee was getting mad. Time was wasting.

She replied in a calm, sales call tone of voice. I opened it from inside the house. The key fob works 150 to 200 feet or more away. I needed to put the sales sign away and bring in some of the sales booklets so I wanted both hands free. I opened the SUV doors with the key fob when I was inside the house. I put the key fob back in my purse. I changed my high heeled shoes to my Trail Grinder hiking boots and came outside to load up the sign. I’m almost ready to close up for the day and head home.

She was trying to sell him an explanation like he was a client for the house, not her kidnapper.

We can get the keys together. Let’s go. He dug his fingers into the soft part of her arm and shoved her towards the front door.

They entered the model home. The fugitive parolee had the wild idea that he would have bought the house if he had been a client. It was fully furnished and the coffee pot was on and there were cookies and other snacks laid out on the kitchen counter. Family oriented snacks here. No champagne was offered or sexy women on the posters. They featured a mother and father and a girl and boy child. The pictures featured the family oriented parts of the houses and the surrounding area. There was going to be a playpark for the nannies and the children. There was a grown ups parkette that had benches for reading or relaxing. A fountain sprayed water that sparkled in the sun. A splash pad was down the street for the children to have fun in on hot summer days. There was an indoor community pool and recreation center for the whole family. The pictures on the sales poster portrayed the dream family lifestyle that buying a house in the community would fulfill.

The fugitive parolees’ first reaction of a welcoming home place that he would have purchased changed to a rage when he realized that he would never have any of this life style. In his wildest dreams he would never been able to get this lifestyle. You didn’t get to college where he came from. Some people liked to point out that people who were as disadvantaged as he was, still managed to make a success of their lives. That was one person out of 200. But out of 200 or more kids in the area he had grown up in, not one had been able to get past Grade 9 level. It wasn’t because they didn’t work their guts out. To be able to understand, you had to live the life and the hopelessness after life beat you down, no matter what you did to get out of the ghettoes of the city. The day to day fight to stay alive and eat were almost insurmountable. Death struck randomly without any sense. When they were on their way to school or work, most people didn’t have to dodge bullets or hide from roving gangs looking for a fight. Good people and children suffered more than the gangs. Life was cheap. The criminals prospered. Even though they made a lot of money, very few of them moved out of the area. Sometimes you had the flashy car and the jewellery or the latest brand name shoes but there was always someone who wanted your flashy car and gold jewellery or shoes and would kill to get it. Sometimes you had to eat peanut butter sandwiches if you were lucky when you were broke. Feast or famine was a common way of life to people he ran with. You could never own a home like this or live on this street.

His hand started to shake.  What’s taking so long? Get the keys. Let’s go.

Take the keys and go. I’m not coming with you. The sales woman put the key fob on the kitchen counter and walked away from them.

Pick them up. I said pick them up! He cocked the hammer of the small pistol that he had taken out of the glove compartment out of the first car he had stolen. He grabbed the sales woman by the hair and shoved her towards where the keys lay.  Pick them up.

A coffee cup with a small bit of coffee in it was knocked off the counter and the cup fell to the hardwood floor and shattered, spraying coffee over the immaculate surfaces. They struggled some more and a plate of cookies with chocolate and vanilla icing on them, fell on the floor too and some of the cookies were crushed underneath their feet as they struggled.

Finally the woman relaxed and gave up resisting because he had her head pinned to the counter with one hand and the gun shoved into her temple hard. It’s muzzle pressed so hard against the bone of her skull that she was afraid that it was going to fire. She waited for the gunshot that would end her life. She thought of her children who would be left as orphans. She let her body go limp.

He gradually let her up and eased the gun away by dragging it down her cheek and under her chin. Try that again and I will shoot next time. Give me that key fob. You’re coming with me. 

The sales woman grabbed key fob and the purse too. I have to get my tote bag too. It has my medication in it.

Just a minute. The fugitive parolee saw an open closet door. There were paint buckets in there and also there was a brand new pair of overalls and a denim shirt with a hoodie and a plaid lumberjack type of jacket in red and black plaid. There were two scarves and two pairs of gloves. He grabbed all the clothing that had been left there by the painters.

Is there any food here? He handed the sales woman the tote bag he had with the chips and chocolate bars and what was left of the beer and cigarettes.  Pack it all up. Empty the coffee pot and we will put the coffee pot and the painter’s clothes in the car first. I want everything you can put in those garbage bags. Bed comforters. Towels. Sheets. Pillows. Everything." He grabbed a saucer and took out the cigarettes and lit one with a shaky hand. He smoked two cigarettes as he watched her as she loaded everything into bags and boxes. Before she packed the coffee maker, he made the sales agent pour out the last of the coffee that was made into two big coffee mugs. He sipped one to try to become more alert and more sober.

The woman got out several big green plastic garbage bags. She stripped the beds of their coverings and pillows. She took the towels and other linen out of the bathroom and the linen closet. She found an empty box and loaded up the coffee cups and coffee maker and the food that was there for the open house. She looked at the man when they came to the cleaning supplies and he helped her throw it all into boxes.

After they had loaded the woman’s SUV with the items from the model home that he wanted, they went back into the house. The fugitive parolee took the cloth that the sales woman had been polishing the counter with and he wiped everything down that he remembered touching. They would search for the sales woman when someone realized she was missing, but they would only be able to guess who took her.

After he had finished cleaning, he shoved the real estate woman into the big four piece bathroom.  He told her to face the wall and close her eyes. She stood there with her heart pounding but she did face the wall and close her eyes. She expected a bullet to come crashing into her skull. She thought of her husband and two children. She prayed a quick prayer for them, for her family, before dying.

He didn’t shoot her. He used the toilet and told her to do the same. He went out of the bathroom and didn’t close the door all the way. He smoked another cigarette at the counter. They would leave as soon as he finished smoking. He looked around at the model home again. In just a few minutes, he had trashed it just by being there. It no longer looked clean and relaxing. It didn’t look like a welcoming home anymore. It showed the chaos of his mind and his life. He brought destruction to everyone and everything he came into contact with.

She used the toilet and washed her face and hands. Her hands were trembling and she felt weak with relief that she hadn’t been killed yet. When she looked in the mirror she thought she should fight him. If it had been just her fate that was impacted, she would have fought tooth and nail. Her three children would never understand how difficult it was to try to decide whether to fight back or wait for a chance to escape when both outcomes seemed to be hopeless. If she died would they blame her for trying to fight back and not just do as she was ordered, hoping that the kidnapper would relent and let her go? The SUV wasn’t worth fighting over, her life was. The first rule was to never get into the car with the kidnapper. Right now she might not have a choice. She couldn’t fight back against the kidnapper who had a gun and seemed to not have any hesitation to use it if she resisted. She had to wait