Almost Taken

Last week, after getting my car detailed, we decided it was time to sell it. And when I say we, I mean my husband. He advertised it on Craigslist, and within minutes, the calls were pouring in. Who knew a banged up Honda Pilot with 175,000 miles would solicit so many admirers. One such admirer was Lenny from Long Beach, who insisted on seeing it that night.

“Should I have him come here?” My husband asked.

 “If you want him to murder us,” I replied.

“He’s not going to murder us. He just wants to buy a car.”

“Don’t you remember in Taken, when the girl’s dumb friend tells the bad guys where they live?”

My husband, not wanting to hear the entire scene, held up his hand. 

A few texts later, my husband agreed to meet the murderer at the Target parking lot.

“I’ll follow you there,” I told my husband.

“Why?”

After Lenny abducts you, I’ll need to describe him to the police.

“If you sell the car, you’ll need a ride home.”

“True,” he said, picking up the car keys. “But don’t park too close.”

“You won’t even know I’m there,” I said. “And remember to observe any distinct features, so when he takes you, you can yell them out. Tattoo on shoulder! Scar on wrist! Unibrow!”

“What are you talking about?” he said.

My husband’s limited knowledge of cinematic abductions is embarrassing.

At 9:00, my husband arranged to meet the felon.

At 9:05, I pulled into the Target parking lot. I spotted my husband next to our car, talking with two men. That made sense. If you’re going to kidnap somebody, best to have back-up.

I pulled into a space two rows over and turned off the car. 

The stakeout had begun.

The younger of the two looked to be about 6 feet, bearded, and in his 30’s.

The other one was a few inches shorter, bald and around 60.

Perhaps a father/son team?

It’s a shame their time is spent kidnapping innocent car-selling civilians; still, it’s important to carve out family time.

The son bent down to inspect the tire, running his left hand over the rim.

Left hand? He’s left-handed!

Was it too late for me to join the FBI?

My husband popped the hood and the sinister duo checked out the engine and some other stuff. 

Don’t ask me, I’m not a mechanic.

My husband walked away from the car.

Why was he walking away?

He pulled something out of his jacket pocket.

Oh my God, it’s a GUN!

Why is he putting the gun to his ear?

Never mind, it’s a phone.

He’s calling the police. He’s finally recognized these thugs for who they are.

My purse vibrated.

Not now, people. I’m on a stakeout.

It continued to vibrate.

My husband lifted his head in my direction. 

I pulled out my phone.

“I see you,” I said in my best undercover voice.

“I see you too,” he said. “Your lights are on.”

Oh, crap!

I flipped the switch and the parking lot dimmed. No wonder I had seen them so clearly.

The assassins continued to inspect the car, and a few minutes later they got into the front seat. My husband slid into the back, without yelling out one distinct character feature.

It’s almost like he wanted to be taken.

I called him on the phone. “Where are you going?”

“For a test drive,” he answered. “It’s cool.”

It’s cool? 

He never says, “It’s cool.” That must be code for, I AM BEING TAKEN! CALL THE POLICE!

Why didn’t we assign a safe word ahead of time? 

What sort of FBI agent am I?

I made a mental note to come up with a really good code word, for my next husband.

Lenny started the car and slowly pulled out.

Goodbye, honey. I love you.

Not you, Lenny.

I waited until the car was halfway down the row before I turned on my engine.

The Pilot disappeared behind a sea of minivans. It wasn’t clear which way they went.

My keen tracking skills said right, so I edged forward.

I looked right. No Pilot.

I scanned left. No Pilot.

Did they just disappear?

Is there a Platform 9¾ in the Target parking lot that I’m not aware of?

I started driving, realizing that perhaps they didn’t go right or left. Maybe they went to the loading area behind Target, where it’s dark and deserted and more conducive to murderous activity.

I drove slowly, looking for clues. 

Nothing.

I returned to the front of the store, meandering through the food court. As I passed In-N-Out, the aroma of burgers and fries beckoned, but who could eat at a time like this?

I continued to drive up and down the rows. My stomach was in knots. I could barely finish my double-double. 

Finally, I headed back to where I started, and as I prepared to turn right, a car made a left turn in front of me. It was them! 

They parked, and one, two, three bodies emerged from the car, none of which were bound or gagged.

I found a spot, partially hidden, but close enough that I could see everything.

I turned off the engine AND the lights.

A good agent learns from her mistakes.

Lenny’s dad hung back while Lenny and my husband talked.

My husband seemed to have all his limbs. It’s like they didn’t rough him up at all.

The talk escalated to an argument. Lenny gestured with his hands. My husband shook his head.

Lenny was probably saying, I should have taken you when I had the chance.

My husband folded his arms. I wouldn’t try it, buddy. My wife is practically FBI.

Then, a final shake of the head, and Lenny and his dad walked to their car, one row over from me. 

I slid down the upholstery, holding my breath as they passed.

Miraculously, my cover wasn’t blown and my husband escaped the jaws of death.

I reminded him of this when I arrived home.

“They just wanted to buy a car,” he said.

“Then, why didn’t they?” 

“They thought it was too much,” he answered. “They were trying to low-ball me.” 

Low-balling sounded dangerous. I made a mental note to look it up later.

“And by the way,” my husband added, “Lenny has a mole on the back of his neck.”

I gave him a hug.

Maybe there’s hope for him after all.