by Hadena James
The lawyers were going to be lining up to shout from the rooftops about a violation of rights. They would be correct. It would be a violation of their client’s rights, but that ship had sailed years ago and there wasn’t a federal prosecutor in the States that wouldn’t attempt to try the case of a gang leader who was arguing that the SCTU had violated their civil rights.
Oh, what a dangerous web we were about to weave.
Fifteen
Some truths are universal. The universe will continue to grow long after humanity has gone extinct and it will not notice. The price of living is death and no one is immune. And even the smartest people do dumb things.
I was currently dealing with the third. Fiona had found a man in the room that had caught her attention. She’d rushed to the room to primp before we got started. It wasn’t dating that was the dumb thing, it was who.
Malachi Blake sat in the front row of the room. The other five members of the VCU surrounded him. There were about two dozen other federal agents from different departments in the room as well.
Gabriel had a task force. What he intended to do with said task force was still a mystery. It was hard to fathom what the ATF, DEA, and the DSI where going to do in Detroit. The three guys wearing suits with badges that read Department of Special Investigations was the real kicker. I had never heard of them. Since I didn’t know what they did on an everyday basis, there was no way to tell what they were going to do as part of our task force.
Lucas had been released from the hospital and we were waiting on him to arrive before starting the meeting. This had been explained to everyone and everyone was quietly talking amongst themselves. Except me. I sat in a chair, near Gabriel, playing Clash of Clans on my phone. I belonged to a clan called Fort Mizzou. The guys that ran the group had made me an elder some time ago and I tried to play it daily, because they were a clan that liked to go to war.
I was fairly certain that the three main leaders were all men in their twenties. They talked like people, which I appreciated. I didn’t understand modern day slang, but they did abbreviate on occasion. My own village was currently undergoing serious upgrades, which meant I had to keep the big people from attacking me while my builders worked at improving my defenses. It was a balancing act; build up too much offense and you would lose everything because of poor defense. Build up too much defense and you couldn’t win any battles because your offense sucked. I liked the challenge of trying to figure out which to upgrade. I also liked the wars. Scouting out all the targets, picking apart their defenses to find the best offensive attacks. That’s why I kept coming back to it, the human component kept me thinking.
Fiona returned, hair done up, make up on. She strutted over to Malachi and began talking to him. I rolled my eyes. This would end badly, for Fiona. Malachi wasn’t good at monogamy. He wasn’t good at relationships. He wasn’t dating material. He was the guy you picked up at the bar and hoped he left before you woke up the next morning.
Lucas walked into the room. We all stopped what we were doing and watched. He wasn’t wearing a hat. The back of his head was pink and shiny from the burn scars. His hair would never grow back there, not that he had kept much hair there anyway. Lucas wore a buzz cut all the time. In the middle of the shiny, pink scar was a very straight, very angry red line. It was being held closed by staples, a testament to my failure as the muscle of the group. They said he’d been cut, but no one knew what with.
I expected him to sit next to me, so I could whisper to him. Co-conspirators in this dramatic production directed by Gabriel. Instead, Gabriel sat next to me and Lucas took his spot at the front of the room.
“We have a problem.” Lucas started. It was hard not to stare at him. He was massive. Almost every inch looked sculpted because his rigid training routine kept the muscles in excellent condition. He was strong and masculine, even in a room where masculinity oozed from the pores of every male. He was intelligent and intimidating. In private, he was a giant cuddle bug that could just as easily dry up tears and make a person smile as take down an NFL lineman. His posture was erect, his enunciation perfect, his voice cultured and commanding. It was hard not to listen when he spoke. “Detroit has fallen into a state of unbelievable squalor. We all know it’s the nation’s crime capital. We know that prostitution and drugs are easy to come by, but we have forgotten that the lawlessness is contagious. In the last year, the SCTU has caught five serial killers that got their start in Detroit. Another three that had ties to the city. The gangs are running guns and selling rocket propelled grenades. It’s the only place to get armor piercing bullets and all federal law enforcement has had some issues with those lately. If we don’t stop it, we are going to be battling this sort of violence in every major city in the US.
I know you are all asking why the SCTU called this task force together. It is hard to know for sure, but our research is indicating that there are at least twenty-two serial killers working within the confines of the city limits. There are twice as many serial rapists. However, one particular serial killer is about to start a war. We just didn’t realize it until recently. We were called in for a case where a killer is burning his victims in house fires, and the remains are so badly burned that we haven’t been able to identify any victims.
That changed a few days ago. We identified a woman whose body was found via an implant in her knee. At first, we thought she was just another prostitute. After a little more digging, we discovered that she is connected with a gang known as the Detroit Thugs. As a matter of fact, she was the mother of the current leader. Armed with that information, we began looking into previous kills where the bodies were set on fire. Marshal Cain identified an early stage pattern that we believe to be the same serial killer. He slit the throats of his victims while they hung upside down, then he set their bodies on fire and washed the crime scenes down. In each incident, a special residue was found, bromate salts. Bromate salts are not only explosive, but also flammable and hard to get anywhere in the country, except here. The same salt compound was found with our most recent victim.
All the victims have belonged to the Detroit Thugs. We held a conference with the prostitutes in the city and the gang knows they are starting to miss members. They are blaming rival gangs. When they suspect a different gang is responsible, there is going to bloodshed. The streets will be filled with gunfire. A lot of people are going to die that have nothing to do with the serial killer or the Detroit Thugs. Our dilemma is that we can’t tell the Detroit Thugs that they are being stalked by a serial killer in an attempt to stop the gang war that’s brewing. They’ll begin executing anyone they consider a weirdo. And if we catch the killer first, they are going to come at the SCTU hard with weapons we aren’t equipped to handle.
That’s where you all come in. The SCTU is not used to hunting down gangs and gang members. However, that is exactly what needs to be done. We are going to have to take the Detroit Thugs out of the picture before we can concentrate on taking down the serial killers of the city. But violent criminals are like hydras. You cut one down and another springs up. This will keep our serial killer in business. So, the Detroit Thugs are just the beginning. We are going to work on eliminating as much gang activity as possible.
There will be two divisions working. Marshal Cain will run a small, five-man group that hunts down the serials. The other group, led by Marshal Henders, will work on gang operations. With the SCTU spearheading operations, there will be some liberties that you normally can’t take. For example, we know the locations of three stash houses. Stash houses contain guns and violent criminals. This gives the SCTU the right to break down the doors without a warrant. All we need is probable cause and probable cause is more lax for us than for you. Unfortunately, you won’t be able to arrest just anyone. You will only be able to arrest people with violent intent. This does include anyone with a weapon, even if it is just a rock held in the hand.
The Department of Special Investigations is here to make sure we don’t screw up. One agent will
be assigned to Marshal Cain’s team. Another will be assigned to Marshal Henders’ team. For the most part, we’re going to let you choose which team you join. Marshal Henders’ team will see more bullets and bad guys. Marshal Cain’s will deal with the more dangerous, less predictable elements. The average working life span of an agent with the SCTU is three years. We have the most dangerous job in law enforcement. Our agents don’t retire. They die or become disabled. We want you all to remember that when choosing a team.
The final DSI agent will stay here with Marshal Stewart and me. We will be coordinating all information and operations. We don’t want Marshal Cain busting down the doors of a serial killer’s house only to find out that a high ranking gang member lives next door. And vice-versa; if Henders’ team is busting down the doors of a stash house and a serial killer is their neighbor, they are going to spook and go to ground. They’ll kill any victims they have in their possession at the time. Any questions?”
“Do you honestly think that thirty federal agents can take back the city of Detroit?” Someone in a DEA coat asked.
“Yes and no. There are only four major gangs here. There are three dozen smaller gangs vying for territory. We take out the four major gangs, and a few of the smaller ones fill the void. We take out the four major gangs and a large number of the smaller gangs, along with the intense presence of federal officers and the elimination of some serial killers and we might give the local police a fighting chance.” Gabriel frowned. “And that may be another issue. We don’t know if any of the local cops are dirty. There might be a few or there might be none. However, we don’t want to take any chances. Detroit Metro is strictly out of the loop on this. The State Attorney General is going to send in a sweeper team to handle them.”
“Nothing like this has ever been attempted before,” Lucas jumped back in. “It will be a first. If it works, we’ll know how to deal with these problems in the future. If it doesn’t, we’ll probably all end up dead, which is why there are only thirty of us. It was strictly voluntary because of the dangerous nature of the task force and the fact that a lot of federal law enforcement doesn’t want to work with the SCTU.”
The decision for me to lead one group of agents seemed surreal. I wasn’t known for my people skills. I had never been a leader or a joiner. I was the loner. Also, I was a bit of a loose cannon. I did things that others wouldn’t do. At least they wouldn’t do them willingly, like meeting a serial killer in the woods for a knife fight to the death.
My team consisted of two VCU agents, neither of them Malachi, a DEA agent that looked like a biker, and a DSI agent that looked a little pale. The DEA agent and the VCU agents weren’t a problem. I wasn’t confident that the DSI agent could handle himself or the situations we were about to confront. I caught Lucas’s attention and tried gently to nod towards the DSI guy. Lucas nodded back.
“We’ve decided to make Marshal Cain’s unit a six man team, anyone else want to join?” Lucas announced. There wasn’t any shuffling feet or averted eyes. One guy instantly raised his hand. His badge announced that I had a US Marshal joining the team. I nodded once, unsure of having another Marshal on the team, especially one that I didn’t know. I’d assess him on the first hunt, a stabber, they were fairly violent and dangerous.
Daniel Jacobs
It hurt. It hurt. It hurt so bad. Everything. Everywhere. All of it was nothing but pain. Nothing took the pain away. It hurt. It hurt all over.
The noises were deafening. They hurt the ears, made them want to bleed. They hurt the head, made it want to explode. Nothing but pain, constant pain, all the time.
The pain was consumptive. It dominated every thought. It controlled every heartbeat. It surged through every nerve. It was all consuming.
It created fear. Fear that made goose bumps form on the skin. Fear that made the stomach cramp. Fear that made the brain race.
It created hate. Hate that made the entire world look ugly. Hate that made it so nothing made sense. Hate that filled the voids with rage.
Rage that had nowhere to go. Rage that made the body shake. Rage that had to be released. Rage that led to the hunt.
The hunt. Finding the perfect victim. Finding someone to minimize the pain. Finding someone to take to quell the rage.
The hunt was constructive. It was an outlet. It was a rush. It was necessary. It made it possible to breathe.
The kill was destructive. A little piece died with the final screams of the victim. The soul withered as the blood flowed.
The crimson tide washed down upon the flesh. Everything turned dark pink, light brown as it dried. It stuck to the hairs that coated the skin. For a moment, the pain was gone. The fear disappeared. The rage was satisfied.
Then the pain returned. The fear returned. The rage returned. It ate at the insides. It tore at the brain. It created darkness.
The darkness was worse than the pain. There were whispers in the darkness. Terrible whispers. Whispers that came from within. Ideas about how to quiet the pain. Whispers built from memories.
The memories were still there. Still on the surface. Still searing themselves on the brain. The memories drove back the darkness. But the price, reliving those memories, it was too much. Always too much, better to be consumed by the dark than relive those terrible memories. The screams drove them away. The blood drove them away. The memories needed to be fed, like parasitic demons, sucking away the soul. They demanded blood. They demanded pain. They demanded rage.
The gun was cold. It was always cold. It hurt. It smelled. The metallic taste burned the throat. A small squeeze. A gentle tug. That was all that was needed. Yet, it didn’t happen. The gun went back in the drawer. Unwilling to cooperate with the hand that held it. Unwilling to end the pain.
It was harder this way. Hard to live this way. Every day not knowing. The days dragging slowly on and on. Slowing down every day, waiting for the end. The end that would never come.
There was no pleasure anymore. There was no joy anymore. There was no sorrow anymore. There was regret. Lots of regret. It should have been done differently. It could have been done differently. If it had been done different, things would have been different. A tiny thing was all that needed to be changed.
But the past didn’t change. It haunted. It skulked. It slinked through the shadows, always there as a reminder.
There was hope. A woman, long brown hair, tan skin, thin lips pulled back to bare imperfect yellowing teeth. Inside was blood. The blood the rage craved. The blood that could cleanse the body.
Her skin was leather. Dark and dry from the sun. Spots on her arms. Pre-cancerous spots. Spots that needed to be cut out.
The hand held the knife. Her eyes, brown and yellow, opened wider. The knife moved, stabbing the spots. Up and down. In and out. Each wound bleeding more than the first. The blood flowed from the arm. Her arm. Her blood. It was warm. It covered the hand.
Closer now. Moving closer. Around the blood. Around the arm. Into the body. The knife, covered in blood, moved into the skin. The blade sliced the flesh. More blood flowed. It flowed down the unblemished skin. It dripped into a bucket. The drops fell hard. They hit the plastic with a noise. Each drop audible. A stab of pain that spurned the hands to move faster. The blade plunged in further with each stroke. Bringing it out was getting more difficult with each wound. The body. The woman’s body sucked at the blade. It tried to pry it loose from the hands.
The drops no longer hit the bottom of the bucket. They splashed down into the collection of blood. It pooled up. It stained the plastic. The stain was dark pink.
The blood slowed. No longer flowing, it oozed down the body. It slowly dripped from the feet. Falling into the bucket, louder than it had been before. The noise still hurt.
The hands reached for the bucket. They picked it up by the handle. Carrying it carefully into the bathroom. They set it down. They were pink, like the blood, but lighter in color. The blood sloshed in the bucket. It swirled and whirled with the sudden stop of being placed on the f
loor.
Feet stepped into the bathtub. Hands picked up the bucket. The blood splashed down. It coated the body. Sticky and cool against the skin. The pain stopped. The rage stopped. The fear stopped. Everything was silent.
His head was silent. No evil whispers echoed through his head. The buzzing in his ears quieted. He was still, reveling in the silence. Time ticked slowly by. The seconds passed, changing into minutes. The awesome power of silence.
He stared at his hands. They dripped blood into the tub. Horror washed over him. Disgust took hold of his stomach and knotted it. Vomit mixed with blood at the bottom of the tub as he searched frantically for the handles. The water turned on. It was ice cold, but he didn’t care. He hit the button for the shower. Freezing water cascaded over him.
He fumbled some more, looking for the hot. Once found, he turned it all the way up. The water was too hot, but he didn’t care. It scalded his skin and wicked the sticky, congealing blood off his skin. He grabbed the soap and scrubbed everything that was uncovered. He tore at his clothes, desperate to get them off.
He tossed them in a soggy heap at the back of the tub. The bar of soap rubbed furiously at his skin, trying to remove all the blood that clung to the hairs on his body. He gave up and went to work on his hair. It wasn’t long, no more than half an inch, but the blood was thickest here. It clumped together, creating clots. He worried the shampoo into his hair. His fingers aching with the force, but they didn’t matter. He had to get the blood off. He had to get the smell of copper out of his nose. Chunks of hair came out as he tugged at it, trying to get the shampoo to loosen the clots. He rinsed his hair.
The water continued to run as he stepped out and looked at himself in the mirror. The face that stared back was an interloper. Someone that wasn’t him. Someone monstrous.
