The Extractor

By Emory Kale

Daniel Jameson McKenzie is a widowed forty-six-year-old college professor whose youngest daughter, Amanda, is kidnapped while on a mission trip and carried away by men working for Ramón Duarte, a known drug and human trafficker. Frustrated when the US Government refuses to help, Daniel takes matters into his own hands. He assembles an unlikely team of friends and family and flies secretly into a Third World country to attempt to extract his daughter. Unbeknownst to him, he is interfering in a covert CIA operation to manipulate the political leadership of Colombia in the wake of the assassination of its president, an operation in which Ramón Duarte is a key figure. And in the process, Daniel incurs the wrath of Nathan Stroud, the corrupt and powerful chief of the CIA's Special Projects Office.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: May 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781646707799

Book preview

Acknowledgments

Writing this first novel has been a little bit of a dream. Although the actual writing tends to be a solitary activity, it is not done in isolation. There are a number of individuals who contribute to the finished product.

There was a television show of which my wife and I were both huge fans. It was called Castle and starred Nathan Fillion and Stana Katic. In the show, best-selling mystery novelist, Richard Castle, manages to insert himself into the life of beautiful but savvy New York City police detective, Katherine Beckett, with the excuse of needing to do research for a new series of books about a female police detective.

At the time, I was an elementary school teacher, but I was becoming very frustrated with the demands placed on teachers due to the obsession over standardized test scores. Anyway, as my wife and I watched the show, from time to time, I would joke that I needed to write that best-selling novel, just like Richard Castle, so I could retire from teaching. After joking about it for several years, I finally decided that I would put my money where my mouth was and actually start writing a novel. But then I needed an idea.

As it turns out, my youngest daughter, Natalie, provided just that. Over the years, she had been on several mission trips with our church to impoverished regions where she had met a number unsavory characters and witnessed criminal activities, some of which involved drug deals and sex trafficking. After hearing her stories, being the concerned parent, I began to wonder what I would do if something were to happen to her while on one of these trips. There the idea was born to write a story about a father whose daughter gets abducted while on a mission trip. So I guess I need to credit the television show, Castle, with the inspiration to start writing and thank my daughter Natalie for the inspiration for the basic premise of the story.

A story like mine has a lot of characters, and most of them need names. In my years of teaching, I’ve met a lot of students and a lot of teachers. For twenty-one of my twenty-two years of teaching, I was at one school. I want to thank the students and teachers of North Lakeland Elementary School in Lakeland, Florida. They became the database of names that I drew on to name my characters. Most of my characters share a name with a student I taught or a teacher I worked with.

A writer also needs good readers during the process to read his work to make sure the story makes sense and is engaging. They help to make sure the writer is on the right track. They provide the input regarding what is good, what needs more explanation, or what should be deleted. Many will also spot punctuation, sentence structure, and grammar errors. They become the first story and copy editors…sort of an editorial committee. They are invaluable in making certain the manuscript submitted to an agent or publisher is in as close to final form as possible. Debbie Kale, Natalie Kale, Jennifer Swanepoel, and Chris Philip all provided input which enabled me to improve my work.

I also want to thank the staff at Covenant Books, my publisher, for all they did to bring my manuscript to its final published form. They were the final editors, cover designers, and promoters of my book to make it available in both hardcover and eBook formats.

So you see, many people were involved in some fashion in completing this work, and it wouldn’t be as good as it is without them. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

—EDK

Extract \ek-`strakt\ vb 1: to remove by exerting a force (to extract a tooth; to extract oil from the ground) 2: to rescue from a hostile situation (to extract a downed pilot from behind enemy lines).

Extractor \ek-`strakt-ǝr\ n: one who removes something or someone by force to affect a recovery or rescue from a hostile or dangerous situation (The extractor infiltrated the enemy camp and rescued the POW from further interrogation and torture).

Prologue

No one noticed the low drone of the twin turboprop aircraft as it approached the coast in the darkness. The rumble of thunder from the passing storm and the crashing of the waves effectively disguised the sound of the engines so that none of the locals were even aware of its approach. It was a sparsely populated region anyway, and the few residents were safely inside a smattering of broken-down shacks and old concrete block houses that had all seen better days. Where paint could be seen, it was faded and flaking off. Roofs had numerous patches, and stucco walls were cracked, leaving gaping holes where chunks of the material had fallen away.

Between the storm and the lateness of the hour, there were few to notice a lone plane passing over. But then they were used to the comings and goings of small aircraft at all hours of the night, landing and taking off from the small dirt airstrip below the hill where Ramón Duarte built his lavish residence within a heavily guarded compound. They had learned that it was wisest to ignore the planes, even if they did notice. There were rumors of both drug and human trafficking involvement, but those who got too curious or made a point of talking about what they observed often disappeared under strange circumstances.

However, there were two unusual observers who did take notice when the low-flying plane cleared the tree line coming from the northern coast. They wore camouflage and were ensconced in the rocks outside a small cave in the hillside above the compound where they could observe both airstrip and residence. These clearly weren’t locals as evidenced by their night vision and infrared observation equipment, automatic weapons, and satellite communications gear.

Looks like another trafficking run…either drugs or girls, observed one, but it’s strange that there isn’t the usual welcoming party—no lights, no trucks, no guards.

Should we go down for a closer look? inquired the other.

No, our orders are strictly to observe, collect information, and report. Who knows? A man like Duarte has a lot of power, but he has a lot of enemies too. Maybe someone’s coming to try to take him out.

Stroud wouldn’t be too happy about that with all the time, effort, and money he has invested in him, said the other, speaking of his boss. It would mess up a lot of careful planning. Oh well, with all the armed guards Duarte has stationed around the compound, he should be able to handle any challenges from one of the other factions.

The pair continued their dark vigil. They were soaking wet, not just from sweat, but from the pouring rain and the water that continued to drip down on them from the trees after the storm had passed. The plane landed, sending up small jets of water where the wheels rolled through puddles on the airstrip, eventually slowing and turning around before coming to a stop, although the engines continued to run as if anticipating a quick departure. Clearly, something shady was going on as the tail number identifying the aircraft was blacked out.

After a few minutes, the engines were finally shut down, and the mysterious observers watched as the aircraft door opened, and two shadowy figures emerged from the plane. In the light from the aircraft door, they could discern the silhouette of another person, the pilot most likely. Moving shadows on the windows suggested at least one more individual on board the plane. The observers’ infrared camera revealed the thermal images of the figures as they advanced toward the residence as well as the guards stationed around the property. Whoever these individuals were, they had little chance against Duarte’s armed guards…or so the observers thought until the figures paused momentarily, and without a sound, two of the guards dropped to the ground, unmoving.

The duo appeared to be using weapons of some sort which couldn’t be discerned at this distance and which made no detectible sound. The two figures continued their stealthy advance, stopped at the bodies of the fallen guards for just a few seconds, then continued toward Duarte’s residence. Passing along the front of the house, they turned the front left corner and proceeded to the back. Two more guards walking their rounds were soundlessly dropped in their tracks as they encountered the pair.

The observers saw them kneel next to their victims for several seconds as if they were searching for something, then move on. Continuing past the fallen guards, the figures continued to a smaller structure on the property behind the main residence. Going around to the side door of the structure, they disappeared from view.

* * * * *

The young woman was one of seven locked in tiny identical cells about five feet wide by eight feet long with a bench to sleep on and a bucket for a toilet. A single dim lightbulb was all the illumination she had. The walls were made of planks of some kind of rough sawn wood, and the floor was hard-packed dirt covered with hay. It looked more like a horse stall except there was a locked door and a ceiling, preventing any escape by climbing over the walls. She had been here for days. She wasn’t sure how many as she had been taken from her bed at night, then gagged and hooded at gunpoint. Her head still ached, and there was a cut on the back of her head from being struck; by what, she wasn’t sure, but it had rendered her unconscious for some time and left her hair matted with dried blood. She had been carried to a truck, bounced over rutted dirt roads to an airfield, and put on a plane.

After several hours, the plane landed at a remote airstrip, and she was again put in the back of a truck like so much cargo and driven up a winding road in the middle of the night. The truck eventually stopped, and she was shoved from the back of the vehicle and thrown into the tiny cell in which she now found herself. From the other voices she heard—some crying and whimpering, others hysterically screaming demands to be let out—she knew there were others in the same situation she found herself; only young women, no male voices in the lot.

At last, the realization of her situation really hit home, and the comprehension of what had befallen her was terrifying. She understood fully. She was at what was essentially a human trafficking distribution hub, and she now knew why she was here—her work at the mission in the Dominican Republic. There had been threats against the missionaries for the work they did to help free and rehabilitate those girls who had somehow been able to escape their human slavery condition. Regretfully, they had not taken the threats seriously enough. What had that last letter said?

Continue taking my girls, and you will find out for yourselves what the sex trade is really like. And then the confirmation, first from the man behind her abduction when she was first put on the plane, and then from the immaculately dressed but sleazy drug lord with all the gold rings who was there to greet her when the guards first brought her into the compound. She could only assume he was the power behind all this.

And then there were the other girls. This was clearly not a place from which they worked but simply a place they were held prior to their final disposition, sold off and moved to other unknown locations—as sex slaves.

You were warned. He had stared at her with an evil leer on his face that chilled her down to her core. Your friends at the mission will think twice before they interfere in my business interests again. There was no reasoning with a man like this, no appealing to logic nor compassion…if he could even be called a man. Animal was more like it; a hyena. A filthy stinking hyena preying on those weaker than himself with thoughts only of what he could gain from their misfortune. The blackness of his soul radiated from his every pore.

This was a man to be avoided at all costs, but she found out too late. She had crossed him, and he had her. She wondered if anyone knew what had happened to her and where she had been taken. The consequences of her actions were horrifying in the extreme.

Something, however, had disturbed her slumber. It had been an uneasy sleep, filled with bad dreams, a sleep born from exhaustion and maltreatment. It was hot and humid. A stench hung in the air from the primitive toilet facilities in each cell and poor air circulation. All she could hear was the dripping of water from the trees after the passing storm on the tin roof of the building where she was being held. All other night sounds were still. That in itself was unusual. She usually heard the sounds of insects, birds, and even the calls of the howler monkeys residing in the surrounding forest, but now they were strangely silent. Even the other women were quiet, sleeping at last. What had awakened her?

Then she heard it again. A swishing sound of something moving incredibly fast through the air followed by a thock…then the thud of something heavy falling to the ground…a door opening, making a grating sound as it swung on its rusty hinges…then the measured tread of footsteps of someone trying not to be heard coming down the passage, stopping every few feet as if to check the occupancy of each tiny room, and finally, the sound of keys in the lock of her cell and the door creaking as it swung open.

Then a strange figure appeared in silhouette at the door. She was certain her time had come and sent up a quick fervent prayer for God’s intervention or at least the strength to withstand whatever was about to befall her. Then she heard the voice, an unmistakable one that had always represented calm, security, and love. Time to go, sweetheart, we don’t have much time.

She looked incredulously at the man standing in the doorway. Daddy?

1

Three Months Earlier

Dad, have you applied for your passport yet?

Amanda had walked to the field behind the house where her dad had set up a home archery range and was now practicing his hunting skills, shooting arrows into a 3D target of a wild boar some fifty yards away. If we’re going on that Holy Land trip this summer, you need to get it in gear. It takes a lot longer to get a passport now with all the Homeland Security regulations and red tape. I’ll be in the Dominican Republic next month and I won’t be here to hound you to get it done in time.

Amanda McKenzie was Daniel McKenzie’s twenty-four-year-old daughter, the younger of two children, both girls. Five foot two with brown hair and green eyes, she kept herself in shape with regular gym workouts and swimming. Graduating from Florida State University with a master’s degree in social work, she had been hired as the missions coordinator for Legacy Community Christian Church, a local church with a strong foreign missions focus, particularly in the area of human trafficking.

She had learned a great deal about the prevalence of the sex trade in today’s society. Young girls were taken from their homes, sometimes kidnapped, but often were sold by their own families into lives of prostitution. And if that weren’t bad enough, these trafficking rings were also frequently tied to drug cartels. It even extended to the United States with prostitution networks in many of the nation’s major cities, including right here in her own backyard in Florida in such cities as Miami, Orlando, and Tampa.

When she learned the prevalence of this insidious practice, she literally made it her mission to do all she could to stop it. She spoke at many local churches and civic organization meetings to highlight and bring attention to this cancer on society. She organized mission trips for the church congregants to the Dominican Republic, Brazil, and Africa. She had been instrumental in setting up clinics and safe houses for these girls when they could escape and, in some cases, had been instrumental in helping the girls to get free from their captors.

Amanda had become friends with a number of the missionaries working in this area, and together, they had helped many victims to escape human slavery and assisted them in getting back home or obtaining refugee status if home was not a sanctuary. However, they had also made some enemies—those who made money off the sale of the girls and those who profited from the girls plying their trade. And threats had been made.

I put the application in the mail yesterday, not to worry.

Daniel Jameson McKenzie was in his late forties, but he was in a physical condition that belied his true age. He was not one to grow old gracefully but had often vowed to go down kicking and screaming. You weren’t going to see him sitting on the porch in a rocker in his twilight years. To keep both his mind and body active, he continued to try new things and develop new hobbies. He had spent twenty years in the air force, primarily in aircraft maintenance, but was recruited to work in a special top-secret unit for his last duty assignment in Afghanistan. None of his family knew what had happened that resulted in his selection for the assignment or what he did while part of that unit, and he refused to talk about it. He said he couldn’t discuss it due to the classified nature of the work, but he got a troubled look in his eyes anytime anyone mentioned it, and it seemed more like it was something he wished to forget.

While in the air force, he got his master’s degree in American History and went on to teach at a local community college after retirement. He had since learned to scuba dive, eventually getting certified as a cave diver. Cave diving was one of the most dangerous forms of diving in the sport and one that required an extremely advanced skillset to engage in successfully. If something went wrong 1,500 feet back in a cave, panic was synonymous with death. You had to be able to handle stress and solve your problem if you were to survive.

To keep in condition for diving, Daniel was also an avid swimmer, one to two miles a day. Technically, he was a single parent, having lost his wife of twenty-seven years to breast cancer almost a year and a half ago, but both of his daughters were grown and had moved out on their own. He was only now starting to get his life back on track. He had a job he enjoyed at the college, and although graying at the temples, his active lifestyle kept him in great shape, and it had not escaped the notice of more than one female faculty member that he was now available. Still grieving for his wife, though, he was oblivious to their attentions.

Archery had become his latest hobby. Because he tended to go all out with a passion for any new activity, he became an accomplished archer in a relatively short time and competed in target shooting around the state as well as participating in bow hunting. He was lethal at sixty yards.

Your sister will be here this weekend for her birthday, Daniel reminded his daughter as he lined up his sight with the target. Try to keep your schedule free. Releasing the bowstring, yet another arrow found the ten-ring of the vital area of the target. We’ll do a cookout Saturday with red velvet cake and ice-cream for dessert. Did you get her gift yet?

Just what you said to go with the ‘outfit’ you got her. As we girls say, it’s all in the accessories. I think she’ll be surprised by both of our presents.

Amy, the birthday girl, was Daniel’s eldest daughter. Two years older than Amanda, she was the real athlete in the family and quite the competitor. She had been on the archery team at the University of Florida where she had majored in music, getting her degree in music education. So it was a very spirited day in the McKenzie household when the FSU Seminoles played the Florida Gators each year. Taking some time off after completing grad school, she put her music career on hold as she concentrated on her archery. She was on track to compete in the Olympic trials for a spot on the United States Olympic Team.

Saturday dawned with azure skies, cool and clear without a cloud in sight. A weak cold front had come through, which kept temperatures mild and humidity low. All in all, very pleasant weather for an outdoor party. Daniel and Amanda had been up since dawn, making food preparations and decorating. They let Amy sleep in. She had arrived late the night before after driving home from her apartment in Gainesville. The party was a small family gathering with just a few friends. Daniel’s famous ribs (well, famous to his family anyway) were slow-cooking on the grill. Soon the aroma of barbequed ribs permeated the air, causing everyone’s mouth to water. Hey, Dad, are those ribs ready yet? asked Amy.

Coming off the grill now. Get the table set.

As the girls set out the plates and utensils, Daniel took the ribs off the grill and placed them on a huge platter in the middle of the table. With the addition of the potato salad, garlic toast, and iced tea, there was a mountain of food, a feast consisting of all of Amy’s favorites. After everyone had stuffed themselves, Amanda brought out the red velvet birthday cake with cream cheese frosting—another of Amy’s favorites—with twenty-six candles. A spirited rendition of Happy Birthday, which was followed by passing out the cake and ice-cream, topped off the feast. Then came the presents.

The outfit Daniel had purchased for her that Amanda had referred to was an archery outfit comprised of a bow, arrows, and a case. It was a top of the line Olympic recurve bow, the latest model from Hoyt, a well-known archery equipment manufacturer, and favored by many competitive archers. The accessories Amanda got her were the sight, arrow rest, clicker, and quiver—strange terms to the uninitiated, but common knowledge to serious Olympic style archers. Amy knew how to use a compound bow and had experience bowhunting with her dad, but her passion was to compete at the highest levels, and that meant using an Olympic recurve.

This was to be the final get together for the family for a while. Amanda was about to depart for the Dominican Republic to work with New Hope Refuge, a mission which she had been instrumental in setting up, and Amy was headed to California for training with one of the top archery coaches in the country in preparation for the upcoming Olympic trials.

2

The dark-blue SUV turned off the two-lane blacktop onto the gravel road winding through the rolling hills of rural farmland some twenty-nine miles west-southwest of the CIA Headquarters Building in Langley, Virginia. The single occupant, dressed in a black suit, looked out of place in the rural landscape. Anyone who saw him would likely think he was lost and looking for a way back to the interstate. But he was not lost. He was Ryan Mixon, a CIA analyst and the newest team member assigned to an extremely specialized covert team of officers within the CIA.

Ryan Mixon’s security clearance was as high as any field officer could get, because this team had access to and handled the most sensitive classified issues relating to the security of the United States. He was married with two kids, a boy and a girl, and he loved his job. A patriot, to him there was no higher calling than to serve one’s country. He saw himself as protecting his country and, in so doing, protecting the family that he loved. His job thus far had been very fulfilling, interesting, and exciting, even if sometimes a little dangerous. To him, he was living an ideal existence with a meaningful job and a beautiful wife and family. What could be better?

Today, he was heading for a particular farmhouse between Manassas National Battlefield Park and Sudley Springs, a small town nearby. The house was set back a quarter mile off the gravel road and surrounded by three large oak trees, which not only provided shade but partially screened the building from aerial reconnaissance. It was very much like any of a dozen other farmhouses in the area—two-story, wood-framed, and with a wide front porch extending the entire length of the house. A wooden railing surrounded the porch except for an opening at the top of the front steps. The railing was interspersed with simple wood columns equally spaced around the perimeter about ten feet apart with one at each corner and one on either side of the steps leading up to the front door. The farmhouse itself was not what it appeared to be from the road. It was a front for a top-secret CIA facility and Ryan Mixon’s new workplace assignment.

Within the CIA Directorate of Operations, there was a Special Activities Division which was made up of a Special Operations Group (SOG) and a Political Action Group (PAG). These two groups were involved in covert paramilitary operations as well as political influence and financial support of foreign governmental factions favorable to US foreign policy. Drawing on the resources of these two groups was a third highly secret department. It was separate from the main headquarters building and in a classified location. It performed the absolutely most covert of all covert operations, frequently referred to as Black Ops. To avoid attracting any unwanted attention, it was simply designated the Special Projects Office. This was Ryan Mixon’s destination.

He turned off the gravel road, followed the dirt drive past the farmhouse, and drove to a large outbuilding next to the fence bordering the fields. Stopping in front of a set of large barn doors, he keyed a ten-character alphanumeric code into a hidden keypad built into a corner fencepost of an adjoining corral. The double doors opened, and he drove in, parking in an available space. He was not the first one there. Several other cars had preceded him.

To avoid detection by reconnaissance satellites of unfriendly nations, the cars were all parked inside the building, which to the casual observer was a barn or large maintenance shed. Arrivals and departures of the vehicles were also carefully scheduled to avoid the times known surveillance satellites from America’s enemies were overhead taking pictures. The vehicles arrived at staggered times so there would be no conspicuous parade of vehicles coming up the road at the same time. It would not do for surveillance to spot numerous vehicles traveling in the same direction or parked together in such an unlikely location. Locking his vehicle, he exited the barn through a side door that was also key coded and followed the gravel walkway to the front steps of the farmhouse.

To anyone else, the man on the tractor working in the field adjacent to the house was the farmer. Officer Mixon knew otherwise. Inside that tractor was a sophisticated communications transceiver, which the farmer had no doubt already used to notify personnel inside of his arrival. He also had a high-powered automatic rifle within reach in the cab of the tractor should any security threat appear on the grounds.

Officer Mixon walked up the wooden steps and arrived at the front door. After ringing the doorbell, he was greeted by a middle-aged motherly lady wearing a housedress who, to all appearances, was the farmer’s wife. But she was a far cry from what she appeared. She was a top operations officer with fifteen years of field experience and a crack shot. If he had posed any threat, he knew that a .45 caliber semiautomatic pistol would have instantly appeared in her hands, and he would have found himself staring down the muzzle. Recognizing him from the photo in his file, she moved aside, and he stepped through the door.

The foyer led to a typical family room one might expect to see on a farm with family photos on the mantle of a stone fireplace, a rocking chair in one corner, and a comfortable overstuffed sofa, chair, and loveseat bordering a large area rug. A large, flat-screen TV between two bookcases completed the room’s furnishings. However, down the hall, there was another room that did not look so typical. Inside was a security desk with two armed guards. Behind them was a set of elevator doors. He approached the security desk and was directed to place his right hand on a plate which scanned his fingerprints. He also had to look into a retina scanning device before he could proceed further.

His identity verified, he was allowed to proceed, and the elevator doors opened once the security guard keyed in the proper code. It was a fail-safe system. Without proper identity verification and the guard’s key code, the elevator doors would never open. Once inside, Ryan selected the lowest level, the tenth-floor button, but this was the tenth floor down instead of up. At the lowest level, he was nearly one hundred feet down. The elevator began its descent and, within a few seconds, had arrived at its destination. The doors opened to another security desk, but here, it was sufficient to simply show his ID badge to the security guard to be passed through a set of double doors.

Beyond those was a conference room where a special team of intelligence officers gathered around a polished mahogany conference table. Some were in civilian attire and others in uniform, representing all branches of the military. On the walls were three giant computer screens showing maps of several Central American, South American, and Caribbean nations as well as photos of a number of individuals along with pertinent information regarding each. There was a computer console with two technicians whose fingers flew rapidly over the keyboards, pulling up various screens of information pertaining to the nations and individuals in question.

Ryan went to an available chair and took his seat. The attendees were all having private conversations regarding their areas of expertise when a tall, gaunt man in a black suit, white shirt, and dark-blue tie walked in. His hair was jet-black, combed straight back, and slicked down to his head. There was an almost skeletal look to his appearance. His complexion was sallow with sunken in cheeks and a face with angular features and a long, thin nose that he always seemed to be looking down at those around him. He had deep-set light-blue eyes that looked almost electric with a piercing stare, which intimidated almost everyone who came into his presence.

At his appearance, the room became silent, and all eyes turned to him, attentive, and most a little fearful. He was Nathan Stroud, Chief of Operations of the CIA Special Projects Office. Due to the highly secretive nature of its work, it didn’t even show up on the list of federal offices or appear on any federal budget. No Senate or House subcommittee had any knowledge of its existence. It was funded through a shell game of ghost government agencies and funds transfers that made it nearly impossible to track.

Nathan Stroud was there to do the jobs that the government needed doing but didn’t want to know any of the details about; jobs which, once completed, the US government could and would deny any knowledge of or else blame on other nations or political groups. With unparalleled access to personal information of any person in the country, Nathan Stroud had the power and means to delve into and manipulate personal finances, phone records, credit card and banking information, even social security to get what he wanted out of people. That along with his knowledge of covert operations of questionable legality and all the parties involved gave him profound leverage, enabling him to make use of blackmail to manipulate certain government officials.

It was common knowledge that the United States sometimes targeted known terrorists for death, but Nathan Stroud’s activities went beyond that. Rumors suggested that when a political assassination occurred anywhere in the world that seemed to benefit the United States in any way, he was the one behind it. Of