Kept Boy to Made Man - 12. The Love of Money

Daniel Janick looked around the basement. It was relatively clean, despite being old and unfinished. There was a small open bathroom space, recently added which consisted of a toilet, sink, and shower. There were no walls or doors in the small open space, just stone walls, a concrete floor, and a grid of support beams holding up the modest home above.

His eyes came to rest on Juan who was on his knees trying to comfort and engage the traumatized boy they had literally stumbled upon. The young Hispanic man was talking softly, face to face with the towheaded boy who appeared to be about ten or eleven years old.

The crying child held the dirty blanket Juan had pulled off the mattress tightly around his otherwise naked body. Daniel couldn’t help but wince at the large bruise quickly forming on the boy’s forehead. The pounding the men had heard was made by the desperate child banging his forehead against the metal support post. Not for the first time, Daniel fought to control his roiling stomach.

Agent Thompson was on his way back to the FBI headquarters with Carl Jenkins and Qain Chang. Everyone else had been sent to Charles Miller’s house or to their assigned locations across the block. He had an eight-person Hostage Rescue Team, along with Fisher, Ramos, and himself. It didn’t feel like enough, but he hadn’t had time to vet and brief a larger field team.

“How is he, Juan?” Daniel asked softly.

“I don’t know. He’s not talking. Physically, he seems okay other than his head, but…” Daniel could both see and hear Juan’s emotion; nothing more really needed to be said.

“Yeah. I didn’t bring a crisis counselor. I hope that’s my biggest mistake today. We just don’t have enough people we can trust, and things are moving too fast.” Juan saw the pressure he was putting on himself as the operational leader; He felt an overwhelming desire to support the suddenly vulnerable man before him.

“How do you feel about lawyers?” Juan said as he thought about Daniel’s words.

“I don’t follow,” Daniel said in confusion.

“There are five people I trust beyond you, and your team. My mother, Cap, DA Schultz, Judge O’Malley, and Roger Cicero,” Juan looked at the boy beside him; his expression was now completely vacant under the drying tear stains.

“The mob lawyer?” Daniel asked incredulously as he heard the man’s name for the second time in as many days.

“Maybe once. He’s the reason we’re here. He turned us on to Charles Miller. He warned me about the holes in the department. He told me the mob would try to kill Charlie. He’s already deep in this thing and seems to be several steps ahead. He’s also pretty good with traumatized kids.” Juan’s confidence was growing with each word.

“Okay.” Daniel said simply, holding his cellular phone out towards the beautiful young man he trusted implicitly. “Call him in.”

“He’ll probably insist on representing any boys we rescue,” Juan warned.

“Good.” The FBI boss typically avoided both lawyers and the press whenever possible, but this case was different; all he cared about were the kids, one of which stood paralyzed only a few yards away; He would take help from anyone who could give it.

. . .

Riz heard the short scuffle between Special Agent Fisher and Carl Jenkins. As he turned onto Charlie Miller’s block, he watched the brown-haired man being roughly deposited in the back of the unmarked sedan. He was surprised to see the car parked in front of the wrong house, and began to wonder if the convoy’s trip into the neighborhood was a coincidence after all.

He looked for a good observation point but quickly realized loitering in the residential area would be much more challenging than it would have been in the city. He thought about returning to his car but abandoned the idea as he watched a hand full of people heading towards Charlie Miller’s house on foot. Not a coincidence after all.

Two men climbed into the sedan which pulled quickly away from the curb. Riz walked on, trying to look like he belonged. The man behind him was experiencing the same challenge.

. . .

Roger watched Donald Cassel step out of the office, his arms loaded with case files. Two files remained, and each was in the final stages of negotiation, one criminal case which would reach a plea deal, and a civil suit he expected to settle out of court. He had effectively cleared the docket.

He looked at the phone, but it didn’t ring. If not for the happy voices outside his office, he may have felt a sense of déjà vu. He had no work he needed to do, but at least now he wasn’t lonely. He looked at Eddie’s watch, mostly out of habit. It was 10:43 am.

He heard Melissa’s phone ring and found himself laughing at the coincidence. He stopped laughing at the knock on his door. Melissa stuck her head into his office, a serious expression of her face.

“Detective Ramos in on the phone. He didn’t say what he was calling about, but he sounded anxious.” Roger felt his stomach tighten as he reached for his phone.

He connected to the main office line as his door closed once again.

“Roger Cicero. How can I help you Detective?” Roger’s tone was crisp as he thought about the recent moments he and Thomas shared with the man on the line.

The attorney relaxed when he heard no immediate mention of Thomas or Uncle Charlie, but straightened again as the man brought him up to speed on the now joint investigation. Roger Cicero was fully engaged by the time Juan finished.

“Where is the boy now?” Roger listened and wrote at the same time.

A feeling of dread returned as he processed the information and the address Detective Ramos shared. He knew the street but not the house number. There was obviously a connection even if he didn’t yet understand it.

“I’m leaving now. No one talks to the boy without me present!” Roger practically shouted before remembering he liked the man on the phone. “I’m sorry, Detective. Just keep him safe.”

. . .

Roger opened his door to find three worried faces pointed at him. He didn’t know how, but he suspected his newest client would impact the three people before him, his family he realized with sudden emotion.

“Detective Ramos found a boy. I don’t know much, but he suspects the child is a trafficking victim. He was in a basement, naked, and taped to a post.” Roger both heard and saw three similar reactions. “The kid isn’t talking, and the Detective asked me to help if I can.”

“Which station are you headed to?” Melissa asked as she fell into her role.

“He’s still in the basement, a few houses away from your Uncle Charlie’s, Thomas.” Roger almost regretted his honesty when he saw his words land in Thomas’ mind.

“Let’s go,” the teen said simply as he stood up straight.

“If Thomas goes, I go. There’s no way I’m letting him near that house without me ever again.” Brendon had opted to spend the day at the office with Thomas; Roger wasn’t sure the teen would ever willingly return home after the single night spent in Thomas’ bed.

“Melissa? Are you coming too?” Roger said with a laugh that didn’t reach his eyes.

Normally she would have said no, but she thought about the question Samantha left with her readers.

“Samantha!” Melissa suddenly said. “Samantha James is supposed to join us for lunch!”

The name, although vaguely familiar, didn’t mean anything to Roger. He correctly assumed Melissa would stay to facilitate the appointment he knew nothing about.

. . .

Melissa stood on the sidewalk, lost in her own frustrated thoughts as she watched Roger pull away. She didn’t notice the tiny brown-gold car that pulled up to the curb next to her.

“Melissa? What’s wrong?” The voice broke through her thoughts.

She turned to see the friendly and concerned face of Samantha James peering over the roof of her old and rusty Honda. Melissa's quick mind assessed her options before she jerked the passenger side door of Sam’s car open.

“Follow that BMW!” Samantha was momentarily frozen in place but started to move as Melissa yelled: “Please, Sam!”

. . .

Roger glanced at Thomas in the passenger seat. Brendon was leaning forward, his left arm snaking between the front bucket seats to hold Thomas’ right hand which lay across his lap.

“What’s going on Roger. What aren’t you telling me?” Roger knew this conversation was inevitable when he hadn’t objected to Thomas and Brendon riding along.

“I don’t know how this new boy fits, but your uncle didn’t just abuse you, Thomas. When you shared your statement with Detective Ramos, he did what he was supposed to do. He opened an investigation into Charlie.” Roger paused, uncertain of how to tell the teen what little he knew.

“Please, just tell me Roger.” Thinking of his uncle made him nauseous, but he needed to know; he gripped Brendon’s hand tightly.

“I’ve told you about my past, Thomas, but I haven't told Brendon. I essentially belonged to a mobster for almost twenty years.” Roger paused to let Brendon process his admission. “He used me, like Charlie used Thomas. He paid for my education and gave me a place to live, but the cost was my freedom. When I graduated from law school, he moved us to Chicago. I became the lawyer he and the other mafia members called when they got in trouble.”

A quick glance in the mirror showed shock on Brendon’s too-pale face. He continued with the part of the tale Thomas had not yet heard.

“Yesterday, I was contacted by a new man I’ve never met. He asked me to represent your uncle, Thomas.” The teen’s head whipped towards Roger, who didn’t see his look of betrayal as he remained focused on the road before them.

Brendon saw his boyfriend’s expression, however.

“He didn’t say he was representing your uncle. He said he was asked to,” Brendan quickly pointed out.

“Of course, I said no!” Roger did look at Thomas then, who’s tear streaked face softened before his eyes. “But I did learn that Charlie was running boys and producing pornography for the mob.”

“What do you mean, running boys?” Brendon asked the question for them both.

“It’s one of the things Eddie was into. Kidnapping, usually street kids, but not always. They are then sold to people who want kids. Some of them end up like me. I guess I was one of the lucky ones.” Roger didn’t feel lucky, but he knew it was true.

There was silence inside the car as Roger navigated the city he knew well. Eventually, Thomas asked the question he couldn’t ignore.

“Is the boy we’re going to see one of the lucky ones?” He didn’t try to hide the quiver in his voice.

“I don’t know, Thomas. I really don’t know.”

. . .

“Benjamin Fisher was nervous. He felt like they were rushing things before Qian Chang had flushed out Carl Jenkins and discovered the abused boy in his basement. They didn’t have enough agents as it was, and now they were split across two houses with Thompson and Chang both off the field. A quick glance at his watch told him they were out of time. It was 10:56.

He had never been in Charles Miller’s home, but he had read the CPD reports. It didn’t look like the house of horrors he had expected. It was clean and organized. The furniture was old, but in decent shape. Charlie wasn’t going to win any design awards, but the home felt comfortable.

There were four HRT agents with him in the house. The other four were in yards nearby, trying to blend in. He was grateful the appointment had been set during the workday as the neighborhood was nearly empty. He peaked out the window and saw a lone man walking down the opposite sidewalk. Nothing else moved.

. . .

“We’re being followed,” Roger said suddenly as the small brown car matched his turn again.

Brendon turned in his seat.

“I think it’s Melissa, but I don’t recognize the driver,” he said as he heard Roger exhale loudly.

Roger couldn’t shake the feeling of dread he felt. He thought it was nerves over Thomas and Brendon’s potential reaction to the situation, but he was still uneasy after their conversation. The lawyer believed he had left all this behind when Eddie had been ripped out of his life.

. . .

Melissa was beyond anxious. She knew there were painful parts of Roger’s past that he had not shared with her. She also knew what Thomas and Brendon each had been through. They were all unwanted sons in their own way. Her heart broke as her imagination pictured another abused boy in a basement somewhere nearby.

“What’s going on Melissa?” Sam had been following the sports car for almost seven minutes, but the woman who made the request had yet to tell her why.

Melissa thought about her niece and nephew who were growing up without her. One family was lost to her, but she was determined not to lose the new one that was quickly forming around here.

“There’s another boy who needs Roger’s help. I can’t sit in the office and wonder anymore. I need to help if I can. The BMW is Roger’s.” Sam could hear the depth of emotion in Melissa’s tone.

“Another boy like Thomas.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, like Thomas, and Roger, and Brendon. Another unwanted son.” Melissa whispered the last few words, making Sam shiver as the term brought back her own deep emotions from the past several days.

. . .

Stanley Montgomery swiveled again to look at the boys asleep in the back seat. Their boys. The new father loved the sound of that. He couldn’t believe his dream had become reality. He looked lovingly at the man in the driver’s seat who had made it all possible.

“Thank you, Will. I am so happy!” His eyes grew moist as he reached for his boyfriend’s hand; it felt stiff, probably from the stress of driving in city traffic. “How much farther to your house?”

“We’re almost there,” Will said shortly.

Stan decided to let the man focus on getting them home. He wasn’t sure he was ready to be a city boy, but if moving was what it took to have his family, then move he would. He thought back over the last several years.

He met the twins four years ago when their mother moved them into the empty trailer next to his. Brandi had obvious issues with drugs, men, and debt. He felt sorry for the boys who were just four years old at the time. They were delightful, but their mother didn’t have any time or concern for them.

He had done everything he could to love them like they deserved. Over the years, they had eaten more meals with him than they had with Brandi. Last year, he finally suggested that the boys move in with him permanently, but Brandi refused. He would never forget the sadness he felt when she pounded on his trailer door several days later. The woman, clearly high, asked him how much he would pay for her children. The memory brought tears to eyes.

Stanley wasn’t wealthy. His job at the plant only paid him enough to live, especially since he was already caring for the boys emotionally and financially. He had just over ten thousand dollars in savings, which he immediately offered to her even though the thought of buying the twins made him ill.

She demanded double. He should have known she would be greedy. If he had thought things through, he would have offered five, but the number had been set. He didn’t have it. He smiled again as he looked at William.

They met over a year ago in a chatroom frequented almost entirely by gay men. Most of Stanley’s social life happened through words on a screen. He knew being openly gay in his small southern Illinois town was not an option. He shared his heart with William, including his deep love for the twins who only technically lived next door.

When he had tearfully confessed his inability to afford the boy’s freedom, Will stepped up with the additional money required. Stan had loved the man for months, but that was when he knew they were meant to share a life together.

He had to get himself and the boys up early to be ready when William arrived. He loaded the groggy boys into William’s car while his boyfriend delivered their pooled money to Brandi. It made him sad, but he knew she would likely use it to buy drugs.

It was an overwhelming morning, meeting his boyfriend face to face for the first time and setting off on their new adventure as a family. He tried to describe what their new home would be like to the boys while they waited.

He hadn’t realized until that moment that William hadn’t ever told him anything about his home. Clearly, he saw it as just a place to live. After years of loneliness renting a beat-up old trailer, that was something Stanley could understand. A house was just a building. People living together, loving each other, that’s what made a home.

Stan felt no regrets. His wallet was empty, but his heart was full. His excitement rose as William pulled off the interstate into a beautiful residential neighborhood filled with older but well-maintained houses and mature trees. The yards were small but compared to the trailer park he was used to, Bridgeport looked like a small slice of heaven.

. . .

Roger pulled up to the curb in front of the address Detective Ramos had provided. Seconds later, the small brown Honda did as well. The Attorney took a deep breath before turning to look at the nervous teens beside him.

“Remember, the boy is our priority. He is the client, and it is our job to protect him from anybody who has anything but his best interests in mind. You will have feelings, and that’s okay. Tears are okay. If you need some air, excuse yourself. Are you guys sure you are ready for this?” Roger included himself in that question.

The answer was no, none of them felt ready. They opened the doors, Roger and Thomas waited while Brendon extracted himself from the cramped back seat. Roger made eye contact with his tearful assistant still sitting in the car behind his own. She knew the priorities. He ignored the woman to her right, not because he wasn’t curious, but because he simply couldn’t process any more questions.

The three men moved to the front door. Roger Cicero knocked, persona firmly in place. Roger didn't know the small but well-built man with greying temples who opened the door. Daniel Janick’s eyebrows rose when he spotted two teenage boys behind the infamous man he had been expecting.

“Thank you for coming Mr. Cicero,” Juan called from inside the house.

Daniel stepped aside to allow the three newcomers into Carl Jenkin’s home. It was unfortunate that they were further contaminating his crime scene, but the man had long ago decided to prioritize the terrified boy’s needs.

He closed the door and turned. His breath caught. One of the teen boys was on his knees in the middle of living room with his arms held open wide. He could feel compassion radiating from him. The small boy, who hadn’t said anything since his rescue was slowly unfolding from the corner of the couch where he had been hiding.

Daniel watched in amazement as the boy slowly and nervously approached the teenager who had yet to make a sound. As the young boy drew near the older teen nodded his head encouragingly, but otherwise didn’t move. He allowed the frightened boy to make first contact. When he did, the teenager’s arms slowly wrapped around the blanket clad child.

“You are safe. No one is going to hurt you ever again.” Suddenly both boys were sobbing, lost in the unique pain their souls shared.

Daniel’s radio crackled. Breaking the moment for all but the two boys locked in the healing embrace.

“There’s a navy-blue Buick turning onto the street.” The voice belonged to one of the HRT agents. “They’re pulling in. Two adult males in the front. No visual on the backseat. It looks like we are a go.”

. . .

“Are you ready to go in?” Melissa asked.

“I don’t know. I write opinions for a pittance. This is way above my pay grade.” Sam said nervously.

“You don’t have to be a journalist, Samantha,” Melissa said kindly. “Just be you.”

As a journalist, Sam was usually far removed from the things she wrote about. On a whim, she reached under her seat for her camera. Holding it like a shield, she opened her door. The two women came together on the sidewalk. Melissa slipped her hand into Samantha’s. They moved together into the unknown.

. . .

Stanley tried to look in every direction at once as William pulled the car into his driveway. The house was unique, but somehow looked like all the others. It was a quiet neighborhood. Movement down the street caught his attention. His heart warmed as he watched two young women clasp hands before moving towards their front door. Suddenly, the city seemed less scary. He and his boys were home.

. . .

“Roger fucking faggot Cicero.” Seeing the Lawyer, his lawyer, had almost sent Jason Rizzo into a rage; He suddenly had another name on his retribution list.

There were several feds doing exactly what he had been doing, trying to hide in plain sight. He had finally given up, slipping through an unlocked back door. The house had been empty, which was a disappointment but probably for the best. He had a perfect view of the mystery house from the front room. He could see Charlie’s driveway from the master bedroom upstairs.

He watched two women disappear into the unknown house holding hands. Nothing he saw made any sense. Frustrated, he moved towards the stairs to check on Charlie’s once more.

. . .

“Hey boss, I’ve got an update on the cowboy,” the thin, greying button man said. “He’s holed up in an empty house. The block’s crawling with feds. There’s action at Charles Miller’s. If I had to guess, I’d say they’re waiting for someone.”

“No, he’s just watching,” he said after listening for several seconds. “Yeah, one more unexpected development. Roger Cicero just entered the second house with two older kids and a couple of women.”

“Could be,” he replied into his cell phone from the porch swing he had commandeered down the block. “Got it. He moves, I move.”

. . .

Stanley Montgomery stood and stretched. He hadn’t spent that many hours in a car in a long time. He opened the back door and poked his fingers lightly into the small set of ribs closest to him. He was rewarded with tired giggles. Soon the identical brothers were out of the car and stretching as well, their curious eyes drinking in the unfamiliar surroundings.

Stan had been talking to them about the move for weeks. The boys weren’t sure what to feel, but they were generally excited. It was strange to know their mother wasn’t right next door, but both boys thought of Stan as family while their mother was the woman they stayed with when he wasn’t home.

William approached the boys, both of whom shied away from the arms he callously extended towards them to get them moving. Stan noticed their reaction but believed his boys would accept the man in time.

The family approached the front door. The boys led, followed by Stan with a reassuring hand on the shoulder of each, with William bringing up the rear. Stan wiggled his butt playfully as they climbed to the front porch. No one, not even the agents watching nearby, saw William reach into his jacket pocket to extract his knife.

“Go on in boys. Welcome to your new home.” Stan was happy to hear William sounding cheerier now that they had finally arrived.

. . .

Ben Fisher was in character. Years of undercover work and the best advanced training Quantico had to offer made him one of the best actors in the Bureau. He was the only person in the front room when the door opened. Two small and identical heads poked through the gap before being pushed in gently by the man behind them.

That man stopped suddenly, surprise registering on his face when he saw Ben standing in the front room. He too was pushed into the house by the man in back. The door closed.

“William, what’s going on? Who is he and why is he in our house?” Fear, realization and shock registered on Stanley Montgomery’s face as his fraudulent boyfriend pulled the knife across his soft throat.

The boys both turned towards the man they thought of as their father as his blood sprayed from the gaping wound. They didn’t even have time to scream before Stan’s dying body was shoved aside and they were each wrapped roughly in a strong arm. Their terror-filled eyes locked onto the blood coated knife only inches from their gore-covered faces.

It took everything Special Agent Fisher had not to rush forward or draw the gun he had hidden in the small of his back. He knew nothing could be done for the dying man who was obviously not the accomplice the agent had assumed he was. The man struggled to remain in character as the young boys were still in mortal danger.

“What in the actual fuck? My boss is gonna be pissed about the mess.” Ben saw the crazed man’s eyes focus as he responded like an amoral mobster.

“That faggot has been making eyes at me and touching me all fucking morning!” The boys both started to cry, but their eyes never left the knife.

As wrong as it felt, Ben was grateful for the knife’s distraction. Neither boy would remember the horrid scene playing out below them.

“Bring them in and set them down. Let me get a better look at them.” Ben let the hatred he felt for the man before him fuel his emotions.

“Not so fast. Where’s Charlie?” Ben was ready for the question.

“I’m the new Charlie. The last Charlie couldn’t keep his hands off the merchandise. Fucking pervert’s no longer available.” Ben could read the greed in the man before him and guessed he had no interest in the boys beyond money.

“Speaking of merchandise, I want triple the usual finder’s fee.” The man reenforced Ben’s initial read.

“Triple? I ain’t the best at math, but I only see two brats,” Ben said, playing the disgusting game.

“Identical twins, and they’re fresh. The stiff, sick as he was, had some wholesome father figure fantasy. I know what these two are worth. Some sicko’s going to pay three times what I’m asking. I gotta eat, and this took some time to set up.” The man was tempted to ask for compensation for killing the boys’ mother, but he did still have Stan’s ten grand in the trunk.

“What about the mess? You get three times the rate minus disposal fees. Take it or take your chances moving them on your own.” Ben waited for the man to nod before making a further gamble.

“Jocko, Willie, we got two new recruits who need to be camera ready, ASAP. Fear sells, so let’s take advantage of it.” Ben hoped a despicable focus on profits would break through any further suspicions.

Special Agent Fisher was proud of his team as they went along with his improvisation. Two HRT agents came in looking like thugs. Neither shied away from the grisly sight of the now unmoving body lying in a puddle of blood. They ignored the man’s knife as well. Each roughly grabbed a struggling boy, pulling him free from the active threat before calmly carrying their kicking and crying charge out of the room.

Ben’s eyes never left the eyes of the man before him. He remained stone cold, moving only when he heard the yelled “Hostages secure!” He used the distraction created by the unexpected declaration to draw his weapon.

“FBI Shithead. This studio folded with Charlie on Monday. Please give me a reason to save a few taxpayer dollars.” He watched the man’s greed turn to panic and finally to resignation. He dropped the knife and placed his bloody hands behind his head.

“Apparently, you’ve done this before. You are under arrest, you sick fuck.” Ben didn’t lower his weapon until Jocko and Willie had the man restrained.

“One in custody. One deceased. Two minor victims secure.” Special Agent Ben Fisher said into his radio while his agents read their prisoner his rights.

He was already running through the last several minutes wondering what he could have done differently; the boys were safe, but he hadn’t prevented the violent murder which happened only feet away.

. . .

Riz watched the two men and twin boys get out of the car before moving towards the front door. He also watched as the scattered federal agents converged on Charlie Miller’s house several minutes later.

“They’re going after the kids,” he observed before making his way out of the house. “Interesting."