No Turning Back: Jack Beckett Book Two

1

Six months ago Jack Beckett helped a woman with a stalking problem. Her name was Jackie, and she was being stalked by a former co-worker. It was an easy job for Beckett. He tracked the stalker and showed him how much it would hurt if he continued to stalk Jackie. The guy's name was Al and Beckett followed him to the Bart Station in Walnut Creek, California. The train was packed at rush hour, but he managed to get a seat next to Al so that Al was on his right, and beyond that was the train's outer wall. He had Al more or less trapped. He rocked to his right, leaned back, and in one motion pinned Al behind his right shoulder and his upper arm. He reached over and grabbed the man's right wrist, and dragged his hand toward him twisting the wrist, so the palm was facing away towards the wall and grabbed the man's index finger.

He said, I’m going to do four things that will hurt you, and each thing will be worse than the previous one. You might want to call it progressive pain. Here’s a demonstration.

He broke Al’s finger by working his thumb on top of the index finger and pushing it down and at the same time quickly lifting the tip of the finger up, snapping the knuckle with a cracking sound. The man cried out, but not too loudly, possibly fearing what would happen if he did.

Do you want me to continue my demonstration, or will you agree to stop following and harassing my friend, Jackie? Beckett asked in a soft voice.

The man said he would quit, as of now, as of this very second. He swore to God.

Beckett let go of him slowly and then stood up to take the next exit as the train began to slow.

You might want to drop by urgent care, Beckett said. That looks like a nasty break.

Jackie was very grateful and vowed her lifelong friendship. Now there was a woman on the phone saying Jackie had given her Beckett’s number. He had no idea why she called.

The woman introduced herself as Mary Garret. She told Beckett that he had been highly recommended by Jackie. She said she had a simple request and that she was more than happy to pay for Beckett’s time.

Beckett didn’t need the money, but at the moment he had nothing else to do so he agreed to meet with the woman and hear her story. She sounded young and educated, and she offered to buy lunch. They agreed on a time and place to meet in San Francisco, which was convenient since Beckett was already there. The time of the meeting was three hours away.

Highway 1 out of San Francisco winds its way south into San Mateo and Santa Cruz counties. Along the way the highway hugs the coastline and runs so close to sheer cliffs that one mistake can be fatal, plunging a car hundreds of feet into the sea. In certain places, traffic can pull over to wideouts set between the road and the cliffs. A few are large enough to handle a dozen cars. One was being used by a farm truck owned by Juan Ramirez. It was a sunny July day, and Juan was selling fresh strawberries, tomatoes, and broccoli. About the time that Beckett hung up with Mary Garret, a man with two kids had bought a basket of strawberries from Juan Ramirez's truck. The man and his young sons were walking back to their car when he noticed a black Mercedes sedan pulling into the wideout. Something was wrong. The Mercedes was not slowing down. Due to its speed, it bounced over ruts in the gravel, only slowing slightly, as if the accelerator was disengaged, but the brake had not been applied. The big sedan headed straight for the farm truck. The man scooped up his small children, one in each arm, and ran. The Mercedes bounced one more time and then crashed into the side of the truck. There was a loud explosion. Fruits and vegetables flew in all directions, along with car and truck parts, smoke and dust. The big Mercedes careened off the back of the truck and headed for the edge of a nearby cliff. It slowed, but not enough as the nose of the car peaked a small grassy berm, hung there as if suspended in air and then plunged down the side of the cliff.

Juan Ramirez, who was unhurt, and the man and his two sons ran to the edge of the cliff. They stood there in awe, speechless at first. The big sedan was on its top and had burst into flame. The man pulled out a cell phone and said he would call for help.

Walter Arthur, the man who was driving the Mercedes, was President and CEO of Ridgeway Technologies. He was dead before the Mercedes hit the farm truck. The coroner later determined that Arthur's death was caused by a lethal injection of a drug that speeds up the heart. Overdoses, such as the one Arthur was given, can produce a heart attack or stroke, usually within an hour. It wasn't immediately known how the drug had been administered to Arthur.

Beckett was staying at a hotel near Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco. The meeting with Mary Garret was in North Beach, a historic and colorful neighborhood that offered everything from fine dining to adult entertainment. It was a ten-minute cab ride. Although it was July, the temperature was in the low 60s, and Beckett was wearing a lightweight pullover top and jeans. The third cab he waved down pulled over. He gave the driver the address and sat back to watch the street scenes along the way. Although he'd been to San Francisco once before, he had not spent time along the waterfront area.

The cab worked its way down Bay Street which was filled with cabs, tour buses, and tourists dashing from one side of the street to the other. Beckett watched the people as they scurried about. When the cab hit The Embarcadero, it turned right and picked up a little speed.

Where you from? the cabbie asked. He was an older man, bald, and looked Middle eastern.

Nowhere, I guess, Beckett said.

Got to be from somewhere, the cabbie said.

I guess that would be New York State, Beckett replied.

Never been there, the cabbie said. Maybe I’ll go one day.

Don’t go in the winter, Beckett said. Go in the fall. Upstate has some beautiful fall colors.

The cabbie shook his head and hit the brake in time to avoid running over a man who darted across the road. That was the extent of the conversation. Beckett guessed the driver had the same conversation a hundred times a day. It was a short ride as the cab turned onto Broadway and drove the final few blocks to the restaurant at the corner of Columbus and Broadway.

He paid the driver who then pulled out and merged into midday traffic. When he turned, there was a tall woman watching him. She was five feet from the curb and walked up to Beckett with a smile.

I’m Mary Garret, she said with a smile and outstretched hand.

Beckett took her hand. How did you know it was me?

Tall, good-looking, rugged actually. Just the way Jackie described you.

I’m glad she has a good opinion of me, he said.

You’re practically a hero to her, she said.

I’m glad it worked out. Those stalkers are a crazy lot.

Apparently you put the fear of God into him. She hasn’t seen him since. This is our restaurant. I wanted to wait here and get some air.

It was one of the better known Italian restaurants in North Beach. The restaurant had been at the same location for decades and was a favorite with locals and business types alike. The wait staff wore white shirts and dark ties. The ceiling was high, and the walls facing the street had tall windows. The large and impressive bar was just off the entrance, and farther back a more secluded dining area awaited. Mary and Beckett were seated before the conversation began.

I'd like to thank you, Mr. Beckett, for seeing me on such short notice.

Please Mary, call me Beckett. Mr. Beckett was my dad. May I call you Mary?

Mary is fine. May I call you Jack?

I’ve gotten used to Beckett, but you can call me by either name.

I sense that you prefer Beckett, so I’ll stick with that. Jackie and I talked about you quite a bit before she finally gave me your number. I hope you don’t mind, but I feel as though I know you somewhat the way Jackie went on.

I don’t recall telling her that much about me. What do you know?

You're an ex-boxer with knee problems, and I'm guessing age was another reason you retired. Thirty-two is young, but not for an athlete. Did you enjoy it?

Enjoy is not a word I would use. You take a lot of physical punishment, and the training can be brutal, too. But I learned a few things about myself, so I suppose I enjoyed the ride.

What did you learn?

That I’m resilient. I don’t give up. I like a fair fight. Bullies deserve to have their ass kicked. Things like that.

I like those qualities, Beckett.

Then I guess you’ll like me.

She smiled. I believe I will.

So why am I here, Mary?

I have a problem, or at least I think I do.

And that would be? Beckett asked.

I think I’m being followed.

What have you noticed? A person? A car?

It’s a person, she said. In fact, I saw him briefly while I waited for you this morning.

What does he look like?

He's a small man. Thin. Maybe early 40s. Reminds me of a college professor I once had, but of course, it's not him.

How often have you seen him? Beckett asked.

Including this morning, probably a half dozen times over the last week.

That’s hardly a coincidence, Beckett said. How does he dress?

Professional, I’d say. Nice slacks, open collar shirt, conservative sports coat. A funny short brimmed hat. Oh, and he wears glasses. Horned-rimmed glasses. Gives him that professor look I’d say.

He's not too subtle, Beckett said. It seems he doesn't mind if you notice him. Do you have any idea why he's tracking your movements?

No, I’m afraid I don’t, she said.

A phone went off. It was Mary’s. She pulled it out of her purse and looked at the number.

I’m expecting a call. I’d better take this.

Beckett just nodded.

Mary said hello and then listened. Her mouth opened and she gasped, then she involuntarily covered her mouth with her hand.

It was her ten-year-old daughter.

Mommy, it’s me. The man said I could say hi and then give the phone back. Here.

She dropped her hand and screamed, Lee Ann, oh my God! Put her back on. Put her back on. The restaurant suddenly grew still.

What have you done with her? she screamed into the phone.

Ms. Garret, listen carefully. Do not say a word or your daughter will be hurt. It was a man’s voice. Mary opened her mouth to scream again, but reached deep inside to stifle it.

Go home, Ms. Garret, and wait for my call. Do not call anyone. Do not call the police. Do not call the FBI. I will call you in one hour.

The phone went dead.

Mary covered her eyes with her hands and lowered her head. She sobbed.

Beckett didn’t interrupt. He checked the time. It was 1:45 pm. He waited a minute. The waiter came over and looked inquiringly at Beckett, who signaled it was going to be ok. He bowed slightly and walked away.

Someone has kidnapped my daughter, she finally said as a look of disbelief and confusion replaced her initial fear. They put her on the phone, and she only said a few words.

What do they want? Beckett asked.

They didn't say. Oh, my God, I can't believe it. Lee Ann is ten, and she must be out of her mind in fear. Tears came to her eyes, and she quietly sobbed. She gathered herself after a moment. They said to go home and pack for a week, and they would call me. They said I would be watched. They said one call to the FBI and Lee Ann would die.

Beckett instinctively reached for her hand and held it. She didn’t resist.

What do you want me to do? he asked.

Help me. Please. Will you?

2

H ow can I help you? Beckett asked. Maybe you should call the police.

I want my daughter back. I won’t call the police. I can’t take that chance. I can’t trust strangers who might want to make a name for themselves, or pad an arrest record.

So let’s play their game for a while, see what they want. Can we get to your place in an hour?

Yes, she said, sooner if we leave right away.

They settled the bill quickly and went outside, catching the first cab that came along. Mary Garret lived on Broadway in Pacific Heights, a neighborhood of large, older homes, some offering views of the bay. Beckett didn’t have to ask if this was an expensive neighborhood. They paid the cab and were starting up the walk to the front porch when another car pulled up to the curb. Mary grabbed Beckett’s arm.

That’s him, she said. That’s the guy who has been following me.

Go inside and start packing, he said. I’ll be along in a minute.

All right, but hurry. I want you there when the call comes in.

Beckett turned and began to walk towards the car, a late model Ford. It could have been a rental. The driver got out and walked towards Beckett, casually, as if he had all the time in the world. Both men stopped ten feet apart. The man was just as Mary described him. Small, thin, well dressed and wearing glasses.

Who are you? the man asked.

I should ask the same question. I’m Beckett. Who are you?

My name is Pippen, the man said. Mr. Pippen, if you don’t mind.

Ok, Mr. Pippen. Why are you following this woman?

The man reached inside his jacket and came out with a handgun, a small .22. He pointed it at Beckett.

It’s my job to follow her, he said.

And who hired you? Beckett asked.

The people who kidnapped her daughter, the man said. All of this will become obvious when Ms. Garret receives a phone call. He glanced at his watch. In about ten minutes.

I'm not impressed by that gun you're carrying, Mr. Pippen. It looks like I've got 100 pounds on you and nearly a foot. I could probably kill you even if you shot me with that small gun of yours.

I’m sure you could, Beckett. But that would be a huge mistake. If I don’t call my employer every 30 minutes and make my report, bad things will happen.

What bad things?

Ms. Garret's daughter will die. She will be told that during the phone call. You see, my job is to keep tabs on you until you reach your destination. I'm going to be your shadow. If you break any rules of engagement, the girl dies. I'd say that is a bad thing, wouldn't you agree?

Beckett was quiet. He simply stared at the