The first window we approached looked into the kitchen. I wrapped Boomer’s leash around my left hand several times to keep him close. And I held the shotgun’s pistol grip with my right, pointed it straight ahead.
Then I inched forward in case the killer happened to be standing at the sink, staring out.
Son of a bitch! I stepped back. Sure enough, a tall, thin, gray-haired man stood in the room, but he hadn’t been looking my way. He stood at the island, staring at his left arm. The man wore the typical body armor any trail rider might use, and a large black helmet with a tinted visor rested on the island next to him.
But what really caught my eye was a snub-nosed revolver resting on the granite next to the helmet.
My whole body tingled, but I took another peek.
The man was busy wrapping a wide strip of fabric around his left arm. I recognized the pattern. The killer had pulled down one of Ernie’s kitchen curtains and cut it into strips.
I dropped the leash and stepped on it with my good foot so I could hold the shotgun with both hands. Before I could aim and warn the man to freeze, he sensed my presence.
He glanced at me as he grabbed the pistol and ducked behind the island.
I punched out one of the window panes in front of me using my weapon’s barrel. “Police! Drop your weapon and come out with your hands high.”
He didn’t. No, that would’ve been too smart and easy.
As long as I stayed at the window with my weapon ready, he was stuck behind the island. But if I ran toward the front door, he could dash anywhere else in the two-story mansion. It was a standoff.
I strained my ears to hear any movement. Nothing. Remembering the dog, I patted him to reassure him.
After what seemed like hours, I said, “I’ve got all the time in the world, asshole. Fifty cops are on the way. Feel free to stay put until they get here.”
As soon as I finished my little speech, I realized how stupid I’d been. Why was I trying to flush out a fucking Russian assassin? Muriel would soon call for backup. Even if I had to wait a half-hour for someone to show up, that was a helluva lot better option than blazing away at a professional killer.
Thank God, he didn’t take the bait. After a few minutes, I began to hope my idiotic mistake wasn’t going to get me and the dog that trusted me killed.
Then the man’s pistol popped up above the granite countertop. Although I thought I was ready, he fired off two shots in my general direction before I could react. A pane of glass next to me shattered. Some of the glass dug into my skin. Thank God, my sunglasses saved my eyes.
I flinched and fired off one round at his weapon and hand. Missed.
So, I pumped my weapon’s slide to eject the spent shell and reload the chamber.
My face stung from the cuts, but I tried to ignore them. Blood dripped from my chin. Boomer cowered. He hated loud bangs, no matter the cause.
The killer bolted for the open doorway leading into the great room. I fired again, but my hands were shaking too much. Missed.
My heart beat so loudly, I could hear the blood rushing in my ears. This sucked.
I grabbed Boomer’s leash and raced for the double entrance door. Naturally, it was locked.
After backing up, I slammed into the oversized double doors with my shoulder. One half gave way.
I peeked inside through the open part of the doorway. No fucking Russian in sight. Breaking in had taken too long. He could’ve run almost anywhere.
A wide stairway to my left led up to the bedrooms. Ernie’s studio was on the far side of the great room before me. Or the killer might be hiding behind one of the large pieces of furniture spread out just ahead. The room included two tan leather sofas and several recliners easily big enough for a man to crouch behind.
The bastard could be anywhere.
Everything remained perfectly still. Another standoff. This hadn’t improved my chances any.
My gaze flitted from one spot to another, but the rest of me remained still. Then, I noticed a cloudy dark reflection in a glass door of a display case behind one of the sofas.
The black blob in the reflection slowly moved left against a tan background.
The son of a bitch was creeping behind the sofa, moving to an end where he’d have a clear shot at me.
As quietly as I could, I crouched low and kept most of my body back outside the open doorway where I would be protected by the cedar log wall.
I glanced behind me. Boomer was laying on the ground again, like he did when he heard thunder. Not a profile in courage, but as long as he continued to cower, he’d be safe. I laid on his leash to keep him from darting into the house.
This time, I kept my big mouth shut and kept my face mostly hidden. My right eye aimed along the top of the shotgun’s barrel, pointing it at the left end of the sofa.
I didn’t move, except to breathe quietly and blink as rarely as possible. Still another standoff, but at least I was mostly protected. My heart kept pounding in my ears.
Time passed. Where the hell was my backup? I had no idea how long it’d been, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to divert my attention by checking my phone.
Had I imagined the reflection? If so, he could’ve left the house through one of the studio’s windows and snuck around behind us. Hopefully, Boomer would smell him approaching and warn us before we both got our brains blown out.
Where were those guys? Muriel should’ve sent someone long ago. I had to be patient. Even if she’d forgotten about me, a few neighbors lived close enough to hear gunshots. Maybe they’d confused the noise with target practice.
The dog shifted his position behind me, and his nails scratched on the wooden front porch. He’d gone from terrified to bored so quickly, and he was damned strong. If he bolted and pulled the leash out from under me, I wouldn’t be able to save—
Without warning, the killer darted out from behind the sofa, firing his pistol rapidly from twenty feet away. He charged straight at me.
His first shot went through the open doorway, but the second ricocheted off the aluminum threshold inches from my face.
Enough of this shit! I adjusted the barrel’s aim and fired at his chest. Triple-aught buckshot caught him on the left side, but the pellets bounced off his armor.
The blow spun him sideways, knocked him off balance.
As I ejected the empty shell, he fired again. This bullet hit the door frame next to my face. Something sharp stabbed me in the cheek. Hurt like a bitch.
Needed to put him down. I pumped another shell into the chamber and aimed at his unprotected head. I pulled the trigger right before he let off another round.
My pellets hit him square on the face. His bullet went wide of my right ear.
He screamed, spasmed, and fired again before he collapsed ten feet away. That shot went wide. I blasted him again, hitting the side of his neck.
His revolver dropped to the beige carpet.
I jumped up and raced forward. Kicked the pistol away from him, but no need. He’d never see Russia again, or anywhere else on God’s green earth.
Chapter 5
The buckshot pattern on his neck had turned a three-inch circle into mush. Blood gushed from the wound.
I scrambled forward and put my right hand over it, pressing to stop the bleeding. It didn’t help. His body went limp. No pulse. He was done.
I wiped my face with my non-bloody left hand and hit something that sent pain radiating across my entire head. Something in my cheek was poking through far enough to stick inside my mouth. But if I didn’t touch it, it only throbbed. I could deal with that in a few minutes.
I quickly checked the dead man for an ID. In the right front pocket of his black cargo pants, I found three passports. His left front pocket contained a wallet with cash, two credit cards, and a Colorado driver’s license.
I ran outside and grabbed Boomer’s leash. He was cowering again because of the noise. At least he hadn’t taken off in
to the wild blue yonder.
Nobody was driving on the Jeep trail leading past Ernie’s property, but off in the distance, I heard a siren. No, two.
Better late than never.
A couple of departmental SUVs that’d been lifted high enough to survive this rough road bounced into view. I waved. They plowed through the closed main gate and parked close to the front door.
The first unit contained Skip Tantor, my best friend on the force and my campaign manager.
“Why the heck didn’t you radio in?” he asked. “We were on the way when Sid Newberry reported several shots fired over here. He knew Ernie was in the Big Apple.”
“Long story, dude,” I said. “Basically, I had to keep the asshole in sight, and I’d parked up the road to prevent him from suspecting anything.”
“Muriel wanted to send everybody, but Sheriff Jenkins only sent me and Linda.”
She waved from behind him. “Jesus! You okay? What is sticking out of your face?”
I waved back. “Sorry, I forgot about that.”
I pulled out a one-inch-long wood splinter. It stung like hell for a few seconds then felt much better. More blood dripped onto the front of my uniform, but it was already a mess. I’d have to replace it.
“How did you spot him?” Skip asked.
“I noticed the dirt bike, and I didn’t think anyone who knew Ernie would ride one here. That Russian bastard almost fooled us all.”
“What happened to the rest of your face?” Linda asked. “It looks like a bear or cougar swiped at it.”
“Broken glass, nothing serious.” I ran my tongue over the hole inside my cheek, and it burned like crazy. That’d take a while to heal.
Skip gave me a big hug then ran into the house to examine the crime scene. Linda hugged me, too, then used her radio to tell Muriel one man was dead but all officers were okay.
Jenkins came on. “Deputy Morgan, is the person who killed Charlie Raton there? How do you know for sure?”
I’d taken enough crap from him for one day. “I’m saying I shot and killed a man who shot at me with a revolver. He had an earlier wound on his left arm. The asshole was hiding in Ernie’s house and bandaging his injury. He carried three sets of identity papers, American, Finnish, and Russian. I’m pretty sure he’s the guy we’ve been looking for.”
-o-o-o-
By the time Jenkins and over a dozen other cops made it to Ernie’s cabin, our boss had decided to be happy rather than annoyed. That was probably because dozens of cops had spent all morning and afternoon trying to find the elusive assassin. This case had started to look like a huge local law enforcement failure.
Then we’d gotten lucky. That was the long and the short of it. I’d stumbled upon him while doing something else. That was nothing to be particularly proud of, but we got our man.
Randy, our tall and lean chief deputy, arrived to take charge. He ended up sending Linda to investigate the break-in by the bear.
I was roundly congratulated by everyone except Jenkins, but I kept reminding them how lucky I’d been. For some reason, they all wanted a photo standing with me and my messed-up face.
When Skip got a free moment, he whispered, “You probably just won the election, girl.”
I shook my head. “I’ve still got two months to screw something up.”
He snickered. “Here’s the key advantage for you—injured in battle. You can’t see your face, but I promise you, it’s a fucking mess. I’m going to put this picture on a billboard next to Highway 82. Everybody’s going to see how you suffered while serving and protecting.”
He was beginning to worry me. “You’re getting too caught up with this politics bullshit. I hope you aren’t planning to run for the legislature or something.”
He gave me a Cheshire Cat smile. “Not making any promises for two years down the road, but I’m sticking with the office for a while.”
He took another picture of me and went back to work.
I followed him into the mansion and finally got a good look at the killer. He’d modified ordinary biker armor to make it into true ballistic body armor. His chest plate contained two small divots in the center where Raton’s bullets had bounced off. The guard’s third bullet had caught the killer’s left arm. I also saw where my next-to-last blast had slammed into his side.
Raton’s injury was the one that’d kept the killer close by. Riding a motorcycle with a bad arm is tough under any circumstances, but as soon as he’d started up that brutal Jeep trail, the pain from each bump must’ve been excruciating.
A couple of EMTs arrived, and they cleaned me up. Their antiseptic stung like crazy, but they cleaned most of the blood off of my face. My uniform remained a mess.
Eventually, I met the two FBI agents who’d spent their afternoon helping with the manhunt.
After I told them what little we knew about the assassin, I asked, “Do either of you have a good contact for a Chinese translator or, even better, an expert on the Hong Kong triads?”
The older, stouter agent was Jim Carson. “We don’t have much need for those guys here, but I’m sure I can get you recommendations for translators from one of our West Coast offices. As for the triads, not sure. That’ll be tougher to swing. Make a written request to the special agent in charge of our office. He’ll decide how much intel the bureau can share, but I’ll put in a plug for you when I see him.”
“Fantastic,” I said. “With regard to this dirt bag, I’m sure he didn’t come up with his murderous scheme alone. Is the bureau going to take over the investigation and find who ordered the hit?”
“That’s above my pay grade,” Jim said. “I do know that the head of our organized crime unit back in DC is very interested in what happened here today. And he’s getting an ear full from certain powerful banking officials. Higgins is apparently very popular back at Treasury.”
I hoped that meant they’d handle the Russian connection. My time would be totally taken up by finding Splendid’s killer, and one deputy could only do so much.
-o-o-o-
Randy took me aside and recorded my statement about what’d happened after I’d noticed the dirt bike. Then, he placed me on administrative leave, with pay. That was standard procedure for any officer-related shooting. And he politely but firmly suggested I go home.
He was right. It’d been a helluva day.
Before six p.m., Boomer and I reached our cabin. That was unusually early for us, but we’d started work before five a.m. and put in a thirteen-hour day.
After dinner, I rode my big black gelding, Rambo, up into the forest, and Boomer followed us. A well-worn trail led up the mountainside behind my property. A blissfully peaceful trip through aspens and spruces.
I didn’t get to ride nearly as often as I would’ve liked, but Rambo was lucky in one respect. My closest neighbor, Sally Randolph, was a retired vet. She lived only a mile away and loved horses. She spent more time riding my horse than I could. That was a win-win situation for everybody.
-o-o-o-
My Saturdays were usually busy because I had to finish the work left over from earlier in the week. Not this time. I took a long shower to clean more blood off my face that’d oozed out overnight. It was going to be a while before the cuts healed.
After a leisurely breakfast and long morning ride with my critters, I was ready for something more challenging than watching the Cartoon Network or college football. I’d made the team at the University of Northern Colorado, playing as a cornerback. It’d paid for my criminal justice degree, but I’d mostly sat on the bench. Since moving to Aspen, I’d switched to softball, playing catcher for our office’s team.
Boredom soon set in. I kept getting ideas for ways to investigate Splendid’s murder, but I couldn’t pursue them. At least, not officially. And I’d left my files back in the office.
But I could do a little unofficial snooping. Splendid had come to town along with a dozen other up-and-coming rap artists. Over four da
ys last June, they workshopped a new reality TV show under the supervision of some Hollywood producer. He’d wanted to create an American Idol for rap music. The meetings to discuss the project had taken place at Aspen’s best hotel, Little Annie’s, where one of my old flames, Pam McGuire, worked.
I could count on her to keep her mouth shut about any extracurricular snooping. So, I dialed my favorite redhead up and thanked her again for her generous campaign contribution. For a few minutes, we caught up with each other’s news, and I learned she’d just been promoted to Director of Hospitality Services. To celebrate, I asked her to meet me that evening at a new nightclub in town.
Then, I asked, “Did you get to know any of the rap artists who came to town last June?”
“Sure, most of them. They were all young, amazing talents.”
“Did the disappearance of one of them ruin the project for everybody?” I asked.
“Actually, the opposite. All the publicity helped the production company sell the series. That’s Hollywood for you. I wouldn’t be surprised if Tyrone Payton whacked Splendiferous Wang to make the show notorious.”
I couldn’t suppress a nervous laugh. “Jesus, Pam, and I thought I was cynical. You’re joking, right?”
She waited for a moment before answering. “Yeah, Tyrone’s a great guy. But listen, I deal with Hollywood people a few times a year. Most of them make Osama bin Laden look like Santa Claus.”
She had to be exaggerating. “Are you telling me that any movie or TV mogul would kill a kid just for the sake of publicity?”
Pam sighed. “I wouldn’t trust them, but like I said, the producer for the rap project, Tyrone, is a good guy.”
“Who didn’t you like?”
“Wang’s manager,” she said. “He’s a world-class asshole. And I’ve met plenty of them. Wang’s overlord, in just four days, managed to make it into the top ten of my shit list.”
“Wow!” She was a connoisseur of scumbags and she’d told me stories about famous people who’d treated her and the other hotel staffers like vermin. “Do any of the high and mighty ever treat you right?”
His Song Silenced Page 4
