26
The limo sped along an empty two-lane road in Bigfork, Montana.
Larry Tukenson, founder and CEO of Incubus, one of the largest communications software companies in the world, was feeling magnanimous. He’d just come from a gala at the Grand Resorts Ballroom, where he’d lavished forty of his top execs with a personalized stay—complete with fine food, a spa package, and one staff person on duty per couple. Larry Tukenson gave a speech to thunderous applause and adulation. And why not? He was the benevolent god bestowing gifts among the loyal masses.
As an added bonus, his gorgeous wife was at his side to aid in the glorification of Larry Tukenson.
They sat in the backseat of the limo, and as the vehicle sped along, she pressed herself against him, sliding a hand up his thigh. He held up a finger, focused on his phone, listening intently to the financial report, smiling. She flicked her tongue against the lobe of his other ear.
He hung up his phone. “We did it. Number ten!”
“Honey,” Sharon whispered, “tonight you’re mine—you promised.”
“We just moved to number ten after earnings—I want to stay there. After Forbes makes their list at the end of the month, I promise, I will not obsess about the short-term stock price anymore.”
“Sure, until next year,” she said, touching his arm affectionately.
Five minutes later, the limo approached a four-way intersection located six miles from the Tukensons’ house. The secluded intersection was quiet, and the pavement gleamed faintly in the dim light of the full moon as the car rolled to a gentle stop.
Without warning, a gasoline tanker with its lights off screamed through the intersection and collided head-on with the limo.
The front end of the limo crumpled like a tin can and every window in the vehicle shattered outward. The limo driver was crushed to death instantly. Larry and Sharon’s bodies flew forward, smashing violently into the back of the front seat. Fountains of sparks sprayed from shrieking bent steel as it scraped against the pavement.
The massive truck pushed the limo another fifty feet before stopping, jackknifed across the road. Its front end smashed, smoke poured from the truck’s engine block. The limo looked as if it had been spat out of a trash compactor.
Larry, semi-conscious, reached out to his wife.
“I can’t move my legs,” she moaned.
Larry tried to speak, but he was barely holding on to consciousness.
Bic took off his motorcycle helmet, looking at the limo from the driver’s seat of the truck. Larry Tukenson and his wife were trapped. It would take the Jaws of Life to get them out.
He unbuckled his seatbelt, and that of the unconscious bearded man he had wheelchaired out of the bathroom, who now sat beside him in the passenger seat. He pulled the trucker’s limp body over the gearshift and into the driver’s seat.
The driver’s side door had struck shut in the impact, so Bic rammed it open with brute strength. He pulled open the ashtray and scattered cigarette butts across the cab. Standing on the landing step, he gripped the truck driver’s head under his chin and in one fluid motion, smashed the trucker’s skull into the windshield, exactly where the driver’s trajectory would have been in the accident. The trucker’s skull crunched, and left a massive, spider-webbed impact pattern.
As the trucker lay bleeding, Bic closed the door and jumped to the pavement. He walked over to the tanker trailer’s control valve and opened it. Gasoline sprayed forcefully onto the road.
Bic walked toward the limo, pulling a small package wrapped in white wax paper from his coat pocket. Just the package in his hand made him feel unstable; he ignored Sharon’s painful moans from inside the car.
Sharon struggled to move as she flopped her head sideways and saw Bic. “Help... please help us...”
Bic slowly slid his sunglasses down then carefully pulled them off, folding them carefully with one hand and sliding them into a pocket. He stared at Sharon, and she recoiled before his radiant red gaze.
“Oh my God!” she cried out, trembling in horror.
Bic unwrapped the wax paper, exposing a thick raw single pork chop. Sharon’s cries dimmed to nothing as the rage filled his body. There was his father’s face. His father’s blood-curdling voice.
It’s pork chop-eatin’ time!
He tossed the piece of meat onto Sharon’s lap. The action shocked the woman to silence, her eyes fluttered, and she barely seemed to breathe as she gaped at the meat before her.
Bic walked away, outpacing the pool of gas that crept under the limo.
Near the wreck, off to the side of the road in a ditch hidden under some pine branches, Bic retrieved a black Ninja motorcycle.
He drove the bike down the road about thirty yards before stopping. He then pulled the trucker’s solid steel Zippo and some butane out of his pocket. Sparking the zippo to life, he squirted excess lighter fluid on it till it was a small ball of flame, uncomfortable to hold despite the protective leather of his gloves. Taking careful aim, he hucked the lighter at the driver’s side door of the truck. The lighter arced through the air, flames snapping angrily, eating up the oxygen and lighter fluid, then landed squarely in the spreading gasoline.
With a huge roar, the deadly liquid burst into flames, spreading eagerly in all directions.
The tanker exploded with stunning force, throwing the flaming limo into the air. As it ascended, it too exploded, rending open like a sardine can just before it fell back to earth. The hungry flames licked the sky.
Bic calmly patted out the flames that had spread onto his gloves with the lighter fluid then kicked the Ninja into gear and pulled away. Within seconds, he was safely concealed in the inky darkness of the valley.
27
Hot water from the steamy shower beat gently against Caroline’s skin. She tried to relax as the warmth and moisture massaged her, but her bungling earlier today made that impossible. She couldn’t stop thinking about how she’d fouled things up by erasing the list file. If they had the list, the case would likely be solved. Instead, more people would probably die—because of her.
Why couldn’t she just have listened to Mack and waited? What’s the matter with me? She shaved her long, tan legs. I got carried away. What were those names again? White? Vine? And those numbers, a bank account? Social security? Phone number?
Garbage, crap, and syringes blanketed the street. A torn tent stood, showing neither pride nor shame, in front of a boarded building without a name.
At four in the morning, Caroline walked down Skid Row with determination–and that alone made her stand out. This was where the damned lived out their sentences. No one had any purpose here. No one was determined. Unless you called survival determination.
No. No one was determined to survive. Survival was vestigial here, like an appendix. Perhaps it had a purpose once, but no more.
The thoughts made her quicken her step. Easy does it, she thought.
She wasn’t going to fail tonight.
A car pulled up to the next street corner and a girl—not a day over seventeen—stepped out of the car after cupping her hand around something the driver handed her.
Caroline picked up pace. As the man drove off, she got a glance at him. He looked over forty. Her first instinct was to reach for her gun and shoot the scumbag, but she had purposely left her gun and badge back in the car.
With a gentle smile, Caroline walked over to the young girl. There was semen in the girl’s hair. Caroline stifled any sign of shock and she asked softly, “What’s your name?”
“April,” she replied.
“How’d you like a nice shower in a safe place? Or something to eat?”
Someone grabbed Caroline from behind in an aggressive choke hold. “You messin’ with my property?”
“Please don’t,” said April. But the grip tightened.
“Hold up?” said the man. “Ain’t you got something for me?” One hand loosened from the choke hold
and extended, palm open.
The girl fumbled in her pocket and produced a wad of cash. This she handed to the man.
“Now get to hustlin’,” said the man. “You got more work to do tonight.”
The girl started off like a kicked dog.
This was Caroline’s moment. She violently snapped her head back, smashing the back of her skull into the man’s nose.
I’m gonna cut you!” he yelled as he jerked back in surprise and pain.
She followed with an elbow to the gut as she broke free from the grip. This was the first sight she caught of the pimp. He was thin too, with a face that could have belonged to any man from thirty to sixty. It too had been rendered featureless by the streets, save for the look of menace in the eyes and the fierce, permanent scowl formed by the rest of the features.
He tore her blouse as he frantically tried to restrain her. “No ho touches me and lives,” the man hissed, throwing a wild right cross.
Caroline ducked and swept the pimp’s legs out from under him. He went down, his head smacking against the curb. As he staggered to get to his feet, Caroline kicked him in the face. His head snapped back in a bloody mess, and he fell senseless to the sidewalk.
Caroline saw April go around the corner of the block and ran after her. Adrenaline numbed her skin and turned her blood to electricity.
The girl wasn’t hard to catch. Caroline got her in a restraining hug. Her arms could have wrapped around her twice.
“He’ll make me pay for that,” said the girl.
“No, he won’t,” Caroline said confidently. She let the girl go as she stopped struggling.
April looked miserable, and hugged her own midsection, shivering. She stared at the ground. “What am I supposed to do now?”
“You’re coming with me.” Caroline held out her hand encouragingly.
Walking back to the car, for the first time in a while, she felt good about herself. She couldn’t save them all. She wasn’t even sure if she could save April. But she could try, and it was a start. The start she had been searching for.
28
A couple of hours later, Caroline rushed out of the elevator. Seemingly from nowhere, Mack intercepted her with two cups of coffee. He handed her a cup, not breaking stride.
“Your shirt… what the hell happened?” he said.
Caroline glanced at the tear in her shirt. This would have embarrassed her terribly yesterday. But today she walked into the meeting room considering it a badge of honor.
A.D. Bender, TJ, and Moretto were already discussing the case when they entered. The whiteboard against the wall had been converted into a suspect board. There were three pictures across the top of the board: Senator Bryson, Bubba Taylor, and Gentry Jacobson. Written beneath the pictures were two column headings next to each other: ‘MOTIVE? HIT LIST?’ To the right of the word ‘LIST,’ the recorded conversation between Bryson and Taylor was written out.
Bryson: It’s big… real big. And bad.
Taylor: Just lay it on me.
Bryson: Murder. Assassination. A lot of innocent people are going to die. Women too. They’re being clever about it, though. No one will figure it out until it’s too late.
Taylor: What are you talking about?
Bryson: They’re bringing in a specialist. Do you have any idea what that means? A specialist?
Taylor: A specialist?
Bryson: A profess—a professional killer. This is big, Bubba. I’ve seen the list! Rock stars, all of them. And all killed to fund—
Taylor: Now take it easy, Gary. I’m sure no one’s going to die.
Bryson: I—dear God, is this line secure? I’ve said too much, haven’t I?
Taylor: Stop with the ridiculous conspiracy crap. Do I know these people?
Bryson: Of course you know them. Everybody does.
Bender looked at his watch. “What’s with you two?”
“Not her fault, sir,” said Moretto. “She’s still trying to shake off that nasty virus she caught yesterday.”
Caroline glowered. If that buffoon knew she had let a computer virus ruin the files, then everyone at the Bureau did as well.
Bender glanced at Moretto, his expression signaling the agent to knock it off. Moretto shrugged innocently, then smirked at Caroline, looking at her feet, and said, “Nice crime scene.”
Caroline looked down to find her right tennis shoe with a blood spatter across the top, she smirked back at Moretto, “Just gotta know how to keep a smart ass in line.”
“Knock it off, Moretto,” said Bender. “Agent Foxx, would you care to address the fact that you look like you just crawled out of a tiger cage?”
“I got into a slight accident, sir. It’s nothing. I’m fine. I just didn’t have time to change.”
Bender shook his head. His patience had obviously worn thin.
Mack had dropped a cheap cell phone on the table. “Burner phone, sir.”
“Burner phone what?”
“There was an inbound call to Taylor yesterday that was from a burner phone. We got a trace on the IMEI number and were able to find out where it was scanned at time of purchase. There’s a small electronics shop just south of San Francisco. The same area Jacobson hails from. Now, of course we don’t know what was said, but in the last year, this is the first time Taylor received a call from an untraceable number.”
“Good work, Mack,” TJ said as he walked over to the whiteboard. “Taylor seems to be the key.”
TJ wrote ‘burner phone user’ on the whiteboard under ‘suspects.’ Then he drew a connecting line between Taylor and ‘burner phone user.’
“You were moonlighting last night,” Moretto said to Caroline off to the side.
Caroline nodded, “Something like that.”
“I looked into your deal—pretty gutsy leaving a gig high in the six figures to do this.”
“Gutsy, maybe. Some would say stupid. But thanks nonetheless.”
Moretto laughed. “Yeah, stupid for sure, but gutsy.”
Mack pointed to Taylor on the whiteboard. “My guess is he’s not involved. Not directly, anyway. Not his style. But whoever used this burner phone killed Bryson, and probably Jacobson, and also paid a courtesy call on Taylor to keep his mouth shut on any hunches he might have.”
“Considering how reluctant he was to talk,” added Caroline, “our killer probably has dirt on Taylor—or threatened to keep his mouth shut permanently like they did with Bryson.”
“I want to know who bought that phone within twenty-four hours and have lockdown surveillance on Taylor around the clock,” Bender demanded.
“TJ and I will handle Bubba Taylor,” Moretto said.
“Good.”
Mack looked at Caroline, then at Bender. “I guess that means we’re going back to San Fran?”
“Don’t screw this up,” the A.D. replied.
29
A black scorpion scuttled out from under a rock, lifting its tail in indignation. A huge fist slammed down on it, splattering it into the sand.
Peering through the top-of-the-line Leica binoculars positioned between two prickly pears, Bic watched Steven Vorg make his way down Camelback Mountain in the cool Sunday morning air. Bic took special note of the other man’s slender, well-muscled frame. He didn’t want to put himself in a situation where he had to chase Vorg down. On a piece of graph paper attached to a clipboard, he mapped out the different landmarks as Vorg ran past them, seeking an ideal spot to ambush him.
Bic’s mobile phone vibrated. He pulled it out of his front pants pocket and scowled at the tiny digital screen. The confirmation he had been waiting for came in—payment for completing the Tukenson job had been transferred into his account.
Almost there, he thought forcefully as he remembered standing over Chandra’s freshly-dug grave holding little Gracie’s hand as she stood right beside him, tears running down her cheeks. Everyone else had left the funeral.
“We’ll get thro
ugh this, baby girl,” Bic had said as he bent down, rubbing her shoulders, his massive hand practically covering her entire back.
Gracie looked up at Bic, the tears staining her cheeks now belying the furious determination burning in her big brown eyes, “I’m going to find a cure.”
“Sweet girl, we can’t bring her back,” he replied softly.
“I know. When I get big, I’m going to stop cancer from hurting other people.”
Bic marveled at this five-year-old little girl’s resolve. Inspired, he assured her, “I’ma gonna get us outta the ghetto. Put you in the type of schools where kids go on to do things like cure cancer.”
Gracie reached out and shook Bic’s hand, and a deal was made that neither party would ever give up on.
His phone vibrated with a news alert, snapping his attention back to the present.
He rechecked a few news sites to see if the scoop on the Tukensons had changed. No indication, yet, that their deaths had been anything other than an accident.
It’s been over twenty-four hours, he told himself. And there hasn’t been a single mention of foul play.
He went back to his binoculars and watched patiently as Vorg started down the mountain.
30
It was a misty morning in downtown San Francisco’s Union Square. A cool breeze swooped down through the glitzy shops and hotels, ruffling the hair of passersby, but doing little to dispel the fog. Tidwell looked around thoughtfully. For mid-morning on a Sunday, the downtown district seemed awfully crowded.
He stood reading his newspaper outside Café Paris, a trendy new designer coffee shop he frequented since it had opened the previous month. He hid behind his newspaper, seeing but unseen.
“Sir, got any extra change?” asked a toothless man in a stained flannel shirt.
Tidwell gave the bum a baleful glance before burying his face in the newspaper again.
“Please sir, I ain’t eaten in days.” The bum’s breath smelled like hot garbage dipped in camel turds.
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