The Other Untouchables

By JN Greene

Javis and Simon were two previous adventures now combined into this book about their organization called the Untouchables. This group is dedicated to opposing crime but with a difference: it recognizes no laws. Named after the caste in India who perform dirty and dangerous jobs, the actions of the Untouchables are often illegal and lethal. Only one man, Mother Hen, knows the true identity of his agents, and, as outlaws, their only protection is their anonymity which they protect with disguises and false identities, enabling them to disappear after a mission like the "ghosts" they are called.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 26, 2006
• ISBN: 9781465333971

JN Greene

The author has written this story as an adventure in the style of those masters of action fiction like Alistair Maclean and C.S. Forester in which the story is free of unnecessary narrative that only interferes with the plot. In our world where law often seems to interfere with justice, Javis and Simon fight the war against evil at the amoral level of the criminal world. While the locations may or may not exist, and the events certainly did not really occur, it is nice to imagine that such things could happen if only in fiction.

Book preview

PART 1

JAVIS

CHAPTER 1

Chicago winters are mostly piles of black slush, icy wet winds careening around building corners as they swirl down gray streets, and incessant dark clouds that choke the sun. Most would agree that Chicago’s frigid cold is alive, animated by its relentless probing into the thickest clothing, enjoying the gasps of lungs suddenly seized with the inrush of the glacial air, and reaching into one’s soul giving a preview of the grave to those who must be out in it. It is no wonder that northerners are rude and selfish. Jack was at the bottom of his bottle of cheap scotch and was philosophical with the warm buzz from alcohol. Perhaps, he mused, this really was the hell of the Bible and we will sink into Lake Michigan when the trumpet blows. At least, he was sufficiently drunk that he did not think of other things, like the pitiful image of himself as a defrocked ex-cop wandering drunk in the alley near the rear of a night club on north State Street. He turned his collar up and pulled the ragged sleeves of his coat down over his hands as he looked for a comfortable pile of boxes to sleep in for the night. He was six feet tall, and stockily built, so not many had tried to roust him out of his familiar alleys, and those few who had tried ended up in the Cook County Hospital; but he was cautious nonetheless. His usually clear blue eyes were bloodshot from booze and they darted about uncertainly. Anyone seeing his auburn hair and Jimmy Cagney face would have guessed him to be pure Irish. His mother had come from Spain and an ancient royal blood line at that, but Jack always considered himself to be three-quarters Irish because he admired his father so much. Aside from his looks, about the only possible result from this genetic pot boiler was his stubbornness and unpredictable temper. Eventually, he picked a spot that had a few crusts of pizza in the garbage that other alley dwellers had missed and proceeded to build a wall of boxes leaving full view of the alley entrance and exit. He nestled down comfortably, munching on the pizza, and wondered where the other alley denizens were. Probably in the halfway house tonight to escape the cold, he thought and passed out into a fitful slumber.

A little past 2 A.M. he groggily heard angry foreign voices at one end of the alley and rose up enough to see a dozen men obviously in the middle of a drug sale that was not going well. Two of the men began to fight with one very big bearded black man who knocked one down and smoothly knifed the other. Jack slowly sat up in time to hear gunshots ring out as one man ran past his location, then stopped, dropping a gun as he whirled around and fell dead into the carefully arranged boxes. Now exposed, Jack could see that the gunshots came from two men who were now aiming at him, which brought him fully awake. As in a dream, his police reflexes raced into play and he rolled past the dead man picking up the gun and returning fire. One of the men fell to his knees, while the other retreated toward a car helping the fallen man but firing all the way. With incredibly poor timing the back door of the club opened at that moment and a woman and man stepped out into the arena. In his excited stupor, Jack heard the woman scream as the man reached into his pocket while grabbing for the now closed and locked door. Still running at an adrenaline-fueled pitch and confused fog he continued to squeeze the trigger while both the man and woman fell to the ground. He stared blankly at the scene, unable to move, automatically pulling the trigger on a now empty revolver.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a man ran up to him and whispered in poor English, You come wit me pronto. Policia coming and you kill innocent people.

The sirens were indeed wailing and the man pulled Jack to the end of the alley and out into the street. They stumbled down several blocks until he fell and was dragged into another alley. Lifting him onto an overturned garbage can, the man hurriedly punched in a number on a cell phone and excitedly told whoever was on the other end where they were and to bring the van. About twenty minutes later, a black panel truck arrived. The driver got out, talked briefly with the other man and looked intently into Jack’s face with a flashlight, then searched him and examined his identification closely. In the dim light the truck driver could be seen wearing a black ski mask and handing his rescuer money in exchange for a plastic bag with a gun in it. Another man climbed out of the truck and both of them carried him into the truck, throwing him onto the floor. Nothing was said as the truck drove off, and Jack watched in dazed amazement as one of the men pulled up his sleeve and injected something into his arm. He slowly fell into a cold, black oblivion.

He awoke many times, only to drop back into a maze of bizarre and terrible dreams. Once he realized that he was strapped to a cot in a small room with one bare light bulb overhead and fought to stay conscious, but a little man came in and delivered more injections returning him to his nightmares. At last, he awoke hungry and thirsty and no little man came around. His straps had been removed and he sat up on the side of the cot very slowly and promptly became nauseated and dizzy causing him to lie back down. Questions now swarmed around his buzzing mind and dragged him back up on the cot as he tried to focus on what seemed like a dream. Where am I? Who are these people? What really happened? Just then, the face of the little man appeared in the window of the door to the room and then rapidly disappeared. About ten minutes later, the door opened and a tall thin man in a black ski mask entered followed by an obvious body guard with a gun and also with a black ski mask. The thin man settled into a lawn chair he brought with him and stared intently at Jack for several seconds.

Well, Mister O’Conner, how are you feeling now? he finally said.

Rotten! blurted Jack. I need a drink.

I’m not surprised. You’ve been through three days of delirium tremens requiring heavy sedation and intravenous fluids. What you need is some food. I’ve brought you some broiled ground beef and potatoes if you feel up to it, and here is a glass of water, he continued as he placed the tray on the cot. No alcohol until we have talked.

What about? asked Jack as he sipped the water and gingerly chewed a bite of potato.

Looking steadily at Jack he said, About you and your future. We have researched your rather checkered past and found some things that interest us. Mother and father killed in a car wreck when you were ten years old after which you lived with relatives until college where you excelled. You maintained a 3.8 grade average at one of the best universities in the country majoring in electrical engineering with a minor in languages. Several languages, in fact, for which you seem to have a natural talent. You speak Arabic, Italian, and Spanish fluently. Tell me what possessed you to take Arabic?

A girl friend of mine once told me I couldn’t learn it and I was bullheaded enough to try to prove her wrong, Jack sighed.

Ah yes, bullheaded. That trait has gotten you into a lot of trouble, has it not? I see that you served two years in the military in Vietnam on search and destroy missions behind enemy lines, and were nearly court-martialed for some unexplained killing, but you managed to get an honorable discharge because your tour was up and they were anxious to get rid of you.

Jack started to speak, but the thin man continued, Before you try to explain, let me go on. I will try to be brief. After your military service you had ten years in the city police which went well at first, even being promoted to detective, but you got married and began to drink. Your wife couldn’t stand your abuse, divorced you and took your two children with her. Then your drinking became worse. You were warned by your superiors that you seem to be becoming a loose cannon, literally. At the last count before you were fired, you had killed three men in hostile confrontations, but, unfortunately, one of them was an innocent store clerk. They gave you a chance and placed you into an alcohol treatment program, but you left after a week and showed up drunk for duty. My, my, you do seem to have a self destructive nature. So now you are a forty-nine year old bum wandering the alleys of Chicago and trying to drink yourself to death. Is that about it?

You left out treatment for one episode of VD, Jack retorted.

You are also without funds and can’t get a job. We may have a place for you and the pay is good, very good. You would be doing much the same thing you did as a policeman with certain critical differences that I cannot discuss now, but we can offer you another alcohol treatment program to help you get rid of the habit once and for all and talk about the position later.

It didn’t work the last time, Jack said as he shakily stood up, and it won’t work now. I just need a drink to steady me and I will be out of your hair, but I must thank you for pulling me out of that gunfight. I don’t remember it very clearly, but I thought I was going to be mixed up in a drug war.

The voice was now grim. So you do remember the events of that night in the alley. Do you remember shooting an innocent man and woman coming out of the club? They died, you know, because you are awfully accurate with a gun even when drunk.

Jack reeled and sat down again with the image he thought was just in his alcoholic withdrawal nightmares, but the voice continued, Furthermore, the man you shot at the car was a drug dealer who also died later after giving police a sketchy description of you. So they are looking for a tall, husky white male, who shoots very well and killed three people, two of whom were innocent bystanders.

Wait a minute. You don’t have a shred of proof that I was even there and it doesn’t explain why you pulled me out? Am I a prisoner here? Jack growled as he looked up at the huge bodyguard with an automatic aimed straight at his head.

Oh my, no, the thin man said, you can go anytime you wish after you hear me out, but I would advise you to listen very carefully to what I have to say. Your rescuer salvaged the gun you used to kill those people with your fingerprints on it. Surely it will match the bullets retrieved from the bodies.

Why would he do that, or is that a question I don’t want answered? Hey, don’t get nervous. I just need to stand up, Jack said to the body guard as he stood up slowly and paced a few uncertain steps back and forth.

The man continued, We need people like you in our employment and a few men are paid to deliver prospects to us. He happened to be in on the drug deal. What we offer is a treatment program after which, if you are successful in beating the habit, we can give you an opportunity to become quite wealthy. If you fail the program, or decide to walk out now, the evidence and information of your whereabouts will be turned over to the police. In fact, if you ever fall off the wagon again, you will be turned over to the police, and you know how defrocked police officers are treated in our prisons where you certainly cannot get a drink. So you now have the choice of letting us take you to a drug treatment program, or walking out. I might also add that you are in the state of Virginia, not Illinois, so don’t get lost if you do go.

Virginia! Jack barked. How did I get here?

You were driven here the same night you were picked up, the man explained.

Jack sat down and slowly ate the rest of the meal he was given as the two men walked out the door, leaving it wide open. Jack stood up after he finished and walked through the door into a corridor where the men were waiting. I don’t really have much choice, do I? Jack muttered. Where is this program?

CHAPTER 2

It was April, and spring was just beginning to show itself on the afternoon that Jack walked out of the rehabilitation building where the six week alcohol treatment program was located. It had successfully restored his physical health and he had compulsively been restoring his muscle strength and endurance with workouts in their gym. Drinking was out of the question when faced with a possible manslaughter charge. He grimaced at the thought as he stretched in the comfort of the setting sun and warm temperatures and he felt better than he had in years. At the end of the walk was that same black panel truck he was thrown into that night which he still could not clearly remember, but he knew it was there for him so walked right up to the door. The little man who had given him injections those three days was driving and he motioned for Jack to get in. They rode in silence for a few minutes until Jack asked, Where are you taking me?

The driver gave him a malevolent look and said, Never mind. I will tell you when we get there, but it’s a couple of hundred miles away, so make yourself comfortable and shut up.

They were taking secondary roads in a northeast direction from the rehab center in the Blue Ridge mountains and, after a few hours, it was apparent that they were headed for Richmond or the more coastal towns of Virginia. It was getting late as he dozed off, and very late when he was shaken awake by the little man.

This is it, he said. Get out and walk towards the statue straight ahead of you. You will be contacted there.

Jack did as he was told and walked slowly towards the statue he saw vaguely in the midnight darkness. This was obviously a very large city park that was essentially deserted on this week night, but before he arrived at the statue, two men in black ski masks stepped out of the gloom and studied him with a flashlight before motioning for him to follow them as they walked off the path and through some heavy brush.

They stopped in front of a massive oak tree and walked back through the brush out of earshot as a tall, thin man, also with a black ski mask, stepped out from behind the tree and said, Jack, it is a pleasure to meet you. I see that you have been well treated and have kept your end of the bargain. Please forgive all of the cloak and dagger theatrics, but, as you will understand later, anonymity is the key to survival in our world. Let me introduce myself. I am called Mother Hen.

Mother Hen? Jack repeated doubtfully as he scanned the overcoat and clothes covering the figure in front of him. Except for well pressed pants and black polished shoes, there was nothing unique about him. A high coat collar kept his face hidden except for piercing eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses.

The man’s voice was quite cultured and his speech sounded almost British as he continued, I am going to outline the employment that we have in mind for you, and it would save time if you would wait until I am finished before asking questions.

Jack nodded as the man called Mother Hen proceeded, Our organization needs men like you with experience and knowledge in the black art of espionage and killing. Although it sounds banal, it is a private organization dedicated to combating evil. We have no offices, are in no way connected to any governmental organization, like the CIA, FBI, or military, foreign or domestic, and we handle jobs that are too risky for those agencies to attempt. When I say risky, I do not mean that they do not have the courage to do them. I mean that they are bound by laws that tie their hands so that they are unable to effectively pursue them. You will be rewarded for a successful mission; up to $50,000 depending upon the difficulty of the mission, and I know that you must be concerned about how to send your children to college. This is one way to reach that goal.

Jack opened his mouth to speak but Mother Hen went on, We are outlaws and, as I said, anonymity is our only protection. It is also your only protection. From now on, you will be known only as Javis. Don’t ask. I made it up. It is your code name. Use it when on a mission or talking with me. After a while, when you have built up a roster of enemies, you would probably be assassinated within hours if your real identity were known. Yes, it is dangerous work, but important work. I will tell you more when you are called for a mission. Here is a cell phone that has been modified to dial my number by pushing the number three only. Transmissions on that number are scrambled by an advanced spread spectrum program that no one can receive without the code, so anything can be discussed if you are not overheard locally. You will be contacted on this phone and given instructions. Never push the send button unless you press the star button immediately afterward. It starts a three second timer that detonates a charge of explosives just in case it is ever used by someone who shouldn’t be using it. Any questions?

Jack pocketed the phone and asked, What makes you think I am the man for this job?

Mother Hen sighed and said, First of all, you are well trained in stealth and mayhem. Secondly, you speak several languages fluently and you are intelligent. Lastly, as an alcoholic, you are a chronic depressive who is suicidal and doesn’t mind taking risks. You also have a psychopathic personality and can kill without guilt. You may find that this job can give you some purpose and challenge which, I think, you will enjoy after a while. We aren’t looking for Boy Scouts. I will give you a few days to mull over what I have told you. We will meet again soon.

The mysterious Mother Hen then turned and walked away into the night as the two masked guards returned and motioned for Jack to follow them. He was led back to the black panel truck where the little man scowled and drove off without a word after Jack got in. He had mixed feelings about the whole thing. It sounded crazy. Was Mother Hen some kind of a lunatic? Psychopathic personality indeed! Still, he admitted that he hadn’t lost any sleep over those killings in Vietnam, but they were enemy and done in time of war. Depressed? Risk taker? He had thought a lot about suicide, but a bottle of booze usually erased the idea. He didn’t know what else they knew about him, but he did know that Mother Hen was the same man who interrogated him the first night.

Soon, the truck stopped at a seedy looking hotel near an all night café and the little man said as he let Jack out, A room in the name of Mark Davis has been arranged for you. Stay there until notified otherwise. Here is some cash to tide you over.

He stood on the sidewalk watching the receding tail lights of the truck as a light rain began to fall, then went in the open door of the hotel as he said to himself, It gets curiouser and curiouser.

CHAPTER 3

Weeks passed without word and Jack had a chance to digest the eerie events of the past two months. There was nothing characteristic about Mother Hen like a limp or stutter, and he could not recognize any ethnic or geographical description that would help identify him on the street except that he was a cultured man. If Mother Hen was what he said he was, his organization is obviously at odds with the law. What kind of missions could possibly be important and dangerous? Why so much money for the missions and where was the money coming from? The more he pondered, the less he understood, and the questions irritated him. He had quit smoking and drinking in Rehab so there was little reason to go out into public places or spend much of the $500 he had been given. He was wary of the remote possibility he might be recognized, so he ate at the delicatessen across the street, watched television, worked crossword puzzles, and slept a lot. Almost a week later, the cell phone rang and a voice at the other end told him to take a cab to the Richmond National Battlefield Park and wait in the parking lot. A rented blue Taurus pulled into the lot, and Little Man, as Jack now referred to him, motioned for him to get in. This time the trip was to Washington, D.C., and he was let out and told to wait at the Vietnam memorial wall. As he walked slowly to the revered black marble wall, Jack thought of the many he knew whose names were there.

They will never again see the beauty of the dawn or feel the soft caress of a woman, said Mother Hen approaching and continuing Jack’s thoughts as he pulled up his collar and scarf around his lower face. This is what we are all about, Javis. We don’t feel like sacrificing good men because of warped Christian morals that stop us from combating evil with force, legal or not. Mind you, it is not Christian morals at fault. Liberal politicians twist those morals into laws for political power, and self serving, greedy lawyers get rich using these perverted laws to win cases that destroy our system of true justice. But, you know all that. I have a mission for you, Javis, but first let us sit and talk, he said as he led Javis to a remote bench. I am sure you have thought about the events over the last two months and have a lot of questions.

You’re right about that, admitted Jack, but first of all, just who are you?

I will be as honest as I can with you, but I cannot identify myself. You will become just as jealous of your real name after awhile. Mother Hen responded. Our organization has been called the Untouchables, not in an Eliot Ness context, but, like the unfortunate caste in India that handles the ugliest, most dangerous and thankless tasks, we tackle the impossible dirty missions. Our support is multinational from private sources who do not wish to ever be connected with our work for reasons that will be obvious to you, so our work can be anywhere in the world. We also observe no law, national or international, except that of the jungle, and we do not recognize any Code of Conduct or Rules of Engagement. Fair play is for Boy Scouts, not for us, but rest assured that our enemies also work in the same environment and their mortality rate is as high as ours. No one here is going to question your methods.

Jack’s mouth went dry with the implications of what was said.

Mother Hen continued, "When you work for us, you will work entirely alone. You will be given all information we can get on a mission and we will provide all expenses, arrangements, and equipment you need, but the actual deed will be your responsibility to plan and accomplish. We even manufacture an alibi for you that places you somewhere else if needed. If you are killed or captured, however, we will not recognize, rescue, or avenge you. Furthermore, we will use every means at our disposal to discredit you and deny any connection. We prefer that you are not identifiable if that occasion arises, so you will carry false or no identification. Most of the time, there is no body to deal with anyway because the enemy has disposed of it. You will have state of the art equipment. For example, the special gloves we provide don’t leave fingerprints and protect the hands from injury and powder burns, but they are thin enough to be almost undetectable and do not interfere with sensation or dexterity.

You will receive a pack of standard items, including these gloves and a compact first aid kit aimed toward treating traumatic wounds. To prevent any risk of detection, all of your equipment is disposed of by an incendiary device that destroys everything, including any source of DNA, after use. And speaking of DNA, be careful where you bleed. It is now an investigative tool that can cause problems. We do provide a chemical to use that destroys DNA that you can spray on spots, but this modern age has presented many hazards such as the widespread use of video cameras and it is essential to use prudent measures to prevent detection. Keep your face disguised or covered, beware of hidden cameras and microphones. and speak as little as possible, plus the many other caveats that I’m sure you are aware of from your stealth training. Always try to make a killing look like it was done by someone else or was an accident or suicide. If you cannot, leave the weapon at the scene. None of our equipment can be traced and it confounds the police. Finally, we usually use bus and train station lockers to transfer mission information, weapons, and other equipment, but occasionally use person to person contact before a mission. These locations will be given to you and you may request more supplies if needed. Questions?

I can see that a lot depends upon blackmailing ex-cops like me, mercenaries, and criminals, Jack said slowly, but what is going to stop them from taking this story to the newspapers or writing a book about it which would blow your cover all to hell

We prefer to call it motivation, not blackmail, answered Mother Hen, but first of all, our high mission mortality rate effectively limits the number of those who know anything about us. Next, we pay well for success and provide the best possible chances of success. Some enjoy it, but all have something in their background that would lead to loss of their freedom or even life, so they expose themselves only at great personal risk. Lastly, the story sounds too impossible to believe and few journalists are going to believe someone with a criminal and/or psychiatric history. Are you following me?

After Jack nodded, Mother Hen continued, Remember the order of importance here. Anonymity first and mission next. If our detection and exposure is imminent, the organization would simply dissolve and disappear as would the players. Because we can vanish, we refer to ourselves as ‘ghosts’ or sometimes as ‘spooks’ which is a term borrowed from the spy world, but we do not want to disband simply because one of our people has a fit of conscience.

But, couldn’t they simply run to South America or Australia? Jack persisted.

You would be surprised how easy it is to track each one of you. We even found one in Concepciòn, Chile, who had tried unsuccessfully to sell the idea to a publisher. Unfortunately, he broke his neck in a fall from a horse.

Yeah, accidents happen, Jack said sarcastically, and speaking of anonymity, you and all your henchmen know who I am. How is that keeping my identity secret?

Only you and I know the true identity of Javis and it does not exist on any computer or file. Since you are, from now on, going to be only Javis, no one can make the connection with your real name if you are careful to never appear without disguise or cover when you are Javis. Outside of missions, you can readopt your true name if you are careful. But now to business. Mother Hen pulled out an envelope and handed it to Javis as he spoke, This is the address and building plan of a rundown apartment building in Los Angeles. There is a room for you rented in the name of Peter Brent and you will be provided with the usual forged personal identification in that name. You will be an unemployed bricklayer who is a heavy drinker which will give you an excuse to stay in your room. You also have another identification in case the first one becomes a liability. Next door, there are two Iraqi nationals who were smuggled in over the Mexican border three weeks ago. You are to find out the purpose for which they were placed here and what their plans are. A local Greyhound bus station has your equipment in a locker with the number and combination listed at the top of these plans. There will be a weapon, but we cannot provide ammunition in case an explosive sniffing dog should happen to be around. That you must buy yourself. Sign for it with your fake identification. Also, there is a device used to listen through walls and a small tape recorder to record when you are not there. This envelope also includes $2000 for transportation and other needs. All the information you should need is here. Burn the papers after you have read them. Mother Hen then got up and walked quickly away.

Jack fingered the money from the envelope and slowly arose with the feeling that somehow he had just passed over into another life from which he could never return. Back in his room, Jack opened the papers detailing the plans and address of the apartment house in Los Angeles. A room on the top floor was marked and was adjacent to one overlooking the street where he surmised the Iraqis were staying. These were the only habitable rooms on the floor, the other space used for storage. There was nothing unusual in the plans so he burned them after memorizing certain details and was on the next flight to Los Angeles.

CHAPTER 4

Jack was finding out how devious his new boss was when he had to go to several Los Angeles bus stations before he found the locker number listed in the papers he was given. The locker had an average looking leather valise that Jack quickly removed and, after wiping fingerprints from the locker, left the station. After checking into his room at the apartment house, he slowly opened the valise remembering how an officer in Nam had been blown to bits opening a similar valise, but inside he found a semi automatic Colt .45 with silencer, a small microphone with amplifier to connect to walls for listening with a wire connection to a small tape recorder, tools, plus a small kit containing some theatrical makeup, the special gloves, a plastic box with a covered button that he assumed was the incendiary ignition device, and a small spray canister that was probably the DNA eraser.

The sound of a door opening in the adjacent apartment caught Jack’s immediate attention and he quietly hung the listening device on the intervening wall and turned on the receiver, but all he could hear through the earphones was muffled voices despite locating the device in several other places on the wall. He sat down to decide what to do when his eye fell on the electrical outlet lower down on the wall, but he would have to wait for them to leave since work there could be heard in the next room. About an hour later, their door opened and Jack watched through his partly open door as they both descended the stairs on their way out the front door of the apartment. As quietly as possible, he carefully removed the cover plate on the outlet and pushed the electrical socket and junction box aside while he threaded the listening device inside the wall to contact the inner side of the sheet rock of the next room and taped it in place. He then replaced the box, socket, and cover plate and turned on the receiver again, anxiously awaiting the return of the Iraqis. It just then occurred to him that he didn’t even know the names of the men next door, and just as quickly he realized that it probably didn’t matter if they were going to die.

It was early in the morning when the men returned and Jack began several days of intense listening and relearning the Arabic language. The device worked remarkably well and he was able to discern over time that they were indeed planning some big and important move in the terrorist vein, but they never described or named it. Meanwhile, Jack