Dead Man Walking

by David Carter

  “Well, let me tell you that he would be missed should anything happen. And in saying that, he’s also up on two counts of first-degree murder—the Police Commissioner of New Zealand and his daughter, no less. Can you really trust an asset who would kill a man of the law?” Ryan attempted to manipulate his thoughts.

  Doyle didn’t budge. “It’s too late. The wheels have already been set in motion.”

  “How so? Surely you can pull him out at the next opportune moment? There’s still time.”

  “I’m afraid not.” Doyle shook his head. “Look–” he turned their attention to the front window as the brotherhood’s security gates opened and a convoy of SUVs rolled out.

  “Where are they going?” Spider asked.

  “Let’s just say that I’m using Blaze to kill two birds with one stone.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Ryan said.

  “It’s a given that Blaze will need to prove his loyalty to the brotherhood before they send him inside, so I gave Blaze some information that he could use to his advantage. They’ll have no choice but to trust him after their raid tonight.”

  “Raid?”

  “On one of New York’s largest meth-labs.”

  “He’s gonna go shoot-up a meth lab?”

  “Precisely.” Doyle grinned.

  “What’s so special about a meth lab? There’s probably hundreds of them in New York.”

  “Oh, this isn’t just any old meth lab; this one belongs to Skinny-Jay.”

  “You’re kidding me!” Ryan said anxiously. “If he finds out Blaze had anything to do with it, he’ll kill him for sure! And then he’ll come after us!”

  “That’s a risk we’ll have to take. I want to hurt Skinny-Jay where it hurts most: in his pockets. Blaze was fine with it. He felt betrayed when Skinny-Jay sold him to the brotherhood.”

  “Jesus Christ, this is getting out of hand,” Ryan said, shaking his head.

  “Just relax, all right? Everything is under control. You have to trust me. I’ve been working this case for some time now.”

  “And what is this case, exactly?”

  Doyle felt he could trust Ryan. After a moment’s consideration he said, “Why don’t you come back to my office so I can fill you in. Who knows? Maybe you could be of some assistance? What do you say, detective?”

  “I don’t know.” He stroked his stubble-covered chin. “What about these guys?” He pointed at the SAS members.

  “Oh, I’m sure they can be of some use.” He grinned. “Someone’s gotta fetch the doughnuts and coffee.”

  Chapter 32

  “Are you ready to meet your destiny?” Scarface asked Blaze as they led the convoy of brotherhood-members to Skinny-Jay’s meth-lab in the lower-east Manhattan district. “If I’m going to lose you I might as well get something out of it first,” he sniggered, playfully jabbing Blaze in the shoulder. “I hate that obese motherfucker.”

  “You just make sure your boys do their fucking job,” Blaze replied. “And make sure Skinny-Jay doesn’t know I was involved; I’d prefer to stay in the land of the living.”

  “Don’t worry, we’re all fucked if he finds out any of us broke our current truce,” Scarface reassured him. “We’ve been over the plan a hundred times. We hit them hard, clean the place out; no survivors, then tip-off the pigs to come arrest your sorry ass. That should see you thrown in The Tombs indefinitely.”

  “I can hardly wait,” Blaze muttered.

  Scarface pulled up to the alleyway behind Skinny-Jay’s warehouse. He closed his eyes and inhaled slowly, releasing his breath in the same manner. He gave the signal to his army of men. Lucky traversed the perimeter to the main entrance with a dozen armed brutes and waited in position.

  Scarface cocked his rifle. “Show time,” he said as he led his team of men to the rear entrance.

  Scarface melded a block of C-4 plastic explosives in and around the large keyhole of the solid-steel door. The concrete exterior of the worn, double-storey complex offered no other form of entry.

  “Stand back!” Scarface ordered.

  Everyone retreated to a safe distance down the alleyway and took cover.

  KA-BOOM!

  In a flash, the door was reduced to smoke and twisted shards of metal. “Go, go, go!” Scarface muttered.

  Scarface took point and ran through the void in the wall. He found himself inside a storeroom packed with chemicals and other such supplies. He heard a chorus of anxious shouts coming from inside the warehouse.

  Blaze charged past him and pressed himself flat against the wall while carefully opening the storeroom door.

  Scarface charged through the opening, straight into his first victim: rat-tat-tat, rat-tat-tat, he fired two short bursts from his rifle; blood sprayed the walls like a dog shaking itself off after a swim. Then Scarface, Blaze, and the rest of their crew darted down the corridor and into the main cooking room, firing their weapons on full-automatic. Skinny-Jay’s crew were unprepared: handguns verses assault rifles. It was a slaughter, a blood bath, a pack of wolves among the sheep.

  Scarface took no chances, pumping an extra round into the head of each corpse. “Round up the rest of them!” he commanded.

  His crew fled the room in chase of the remaining cooks. They’d made a hasty bee-line for the front entrance. They realised their mistake the moment they stepped outside.

  Lucky gave the command to open fire. The cooks dropped where they stood; each lying sprawled out in a pool of his own blood and tattered organs; the relentless spray of bullets shredded them apart.

  Scarface stepped out onto the battlefield. He unzipped his jeans and urinated over the nearest carcass. “Fucking dogs,” he muttered with disgust as he emptied his bladder, then turned to Blaze, and said, “It was a privilege going into battle with you. To have you join our ranks is a great honour. I’ll see to it you’re taken care of on the inside.”

  “The honour is all mine,” Blaze replied.

  Scarface ordered everyone to head back to the clubhouse, leaving Blaze standing knee-deep in a sea of human waste, acutely aware of the not-so-distant whining of sirens.

  “Hands where I can see them!” the swarm of officers shouted in unison as they frantically burst out of their vehicles.

  Blaze casually lowered his rifle and tossed it to the ground, before calmly locking his hands behind his head.

  The commanding officer and his partner quickly approached Blaze, their firearms permanently locked on his position. “On the ground, now!”

  Blaze didn’t budge. “You’ve gotta sing for your supper, bitches.” He smirked.

  One of the tall, athletic officers kicked his knees in from behind.

  Blaze hit the ground with a thud. “Fuck you, pig,” he snickered.

  The last thing Blaze remembered was the sight of every officer angrily reaching for their TASERS and opening fire.

  Chapter 33

  Doyle made sure Blaze was fast-tracked through the system and placed in The Tombs within twenty-four hours after the meth-lab massacre.

  Blaze craned his neck back as he viewed the exterior of this new home. It was right on dusk. The Tombs were merely another beat-up high-rise building among thousands in Manhattan, with only one distinct difference: no one came out through the front door once inside. “Move it,” the screw escorting Blaze said.

  “Keep your fucking panties on,” Blaze replied.

  “You should take your own advice,” the screw snickered. “And never bend over to pick up the soap.”

  Blaze rolled his eyes, choosing to ignore his jibe. He couldn’t afford to piss-off the first authority figure he made contact with; he had his own objectives to achieve. For the moment he’d decided to keep his mouth in check.

  After being strip-searched and given the third-degree by the warden, Blaze successfully made it to his cell without incident: a minor miracle by his standards. His hate for authority figures had always landed him in hot water; his over-aggressive temperament didn’t often help matters.

&n
bsp; “Welcome to your new home, Blaze,” the screw sniggered as he closed the door to his cell. It was located on the third floor. Cells with concrete walls and doors made from white, steel bars lined either side of a long corridor. There was nothing else noteworthy.

  Blaze’s cellmate rose to his feet. He was slightly taller than Blaze, a little over six-foot, and built accordingly for prison life. His face bore no expression. Blaze noted the swastika, among many other tattoos, emblazoned on his chest, peeking out from behind his beige prison shirt.

  “Welcome, brother,” he said after sizing Blaze up. His face softened a little. “I received word from Scarface you were coming. It’s an honour to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” Blaze said.

  “The boys call me Sharkie.” He gave Blaze a grin.

  Blaze flinched. “I can see why,” he replied. Sharkie had ground his two front teeth into perfect triangles with a metal file during his time inside.

  Sharkie chuckled. “Yes, I know...it’s all part of the image. I’m the loan shark inside this shithole we call home. So if you need money, I can get it. But if you don’t pay it back within said-time, well, use your imagination.”

  Blaze noticed the fresh grazes on Sharkie’s knuckles. “Rules are rules,” Blaze agreed. “I’m no stranger to how things work inside.”

  Sharkie’s teeth gave Blaze the creeps as he genuinely smiled. “Scarface assured me I’d like you; he was fucking right.”

  Blaze grinned, then asked, “So, I assume the top bunk’s mine?”

  “Knock yourself out, unless you want the bottom? I’m happy to move for the man who’s vowed to restore order in here.”

  Surprised, Blaze replied, “Scarface told you about that? Who else knows?”

  “For the moment, only a select few. We have a communication network that comes in from the outside. Those in the brotherhood’s upper-echelon need to know everything.”

  “Good to know. When can I see our leader? I would like the honour of meeting him.”

  Sharkie scratched his pale skinhead as he replied, “That could be tricky. Cyrus is in The Box at the moment.”

  “The Box?”

  “Solitary confinement. It’s a wing just like this one, except the cell doors are solid concrete with a food slot. There ain’t nothing to look at. To top it off, you freeze your fucking ass off during winter. Each cell has an open hole in the top of the wall with a single bar down the centre. If one spends enough time in there, he can go fucking crazy. But not Cyrus; aside from doing thousands of push-ups, he spends most of his day in meditation.”

  “Meditation?”

  “He claims it keeps his mind strong. Although others would disagree...”

  Blaze picked up on his tone, and quietly asked, “You mean there’s dissension in the ranks?”

  Sharkie leaned in close. “Word is, there could be an uprising before Cyrus is released.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s changed, man. He was ruthless and strong when he came inside; a respected warrior and father figure. But ever since he was thrown in The Box, he put the word out to stay quiet and go about daily life without drawing any unwanted attention. On one side, it’s good for business. The less riot and noise we make, the more we put the guards to sleep and our operations run smoothly. On the flip-side, our enemies inside are growing strong. It won’t be long before the balance of power is fifty-fifty. We might lose our supply chain and submit to those black fuckers that would have us submit to their rules. And that’s something the brotherhood cannot afford.”

  The way Sharkie addressed The Tombs’ Negro population sickened Blaze. He suppressed his anger as he asked, “So what’s the plan, moving forward?”

  “For now, all I can tell you is that he’s losing control of The Tombs. Many believe he made a deal with the warden, locking himself away in solitary and keeping the brotherhood quiet in return for a reduced sentence and a shot at parole. And between you and me,” he looked left and right as if to make sure they weren’t being overheard, “I tend to agree: he’s a fucking traitor.”

  Blaze seized his opportunity to gain Sharkie’s trust. “No matter what happens with Cyrus, I’m here to stir shit up and make sure we rule this fucking prison. We will be the dominant race. You have my word on that.”

  “And you can count on my help,” Sharkie said proudly. “I’ve got nothing to lose; I’m a lifer.”

  “That makes two of us, brother,” Blaze said.

  The screw on duty marched past the cell and clanged on the bars with his baton. “Light’s out, ladies.”

  “I’ll take the bottom bunk,” Blaze said assertively.

  “Whatever you say, brother,” Sharkie said as he happily relocated his blanket and pillow for his new master.

  Chapter 34

  “Start from the beginning,” Ryan said as Doyle showed him into his office.

  After much protest, Spider, Ace, and Trigger had decided to stay the night in a hotel. And to be sure they didn’t do a runner, Doyle had ankle bracelets fitted to all three of them. He and Ryan enjoyed the sulking looks on their faces as they left them in their room with enough pizza and beer to feed a small army.

  Doyle flopped back in his swivel chair, then explained everything he knew about the women found in the Hudson and Adirondack Mountains, detailing how each victim had the symbol of the Aryan Brotherhood branded on their necks.

  “I see why you would take on such a case,” Ryan said. “I wouldn’t sleep at night knowing how many victims have been recovered. What’s the body-count thus far?”

  “We’ve identified fifty-seven over the past decade.”

  “And the FBI deemed the case unworthy of solving?”

  Doyle sighed. “Yes, well, ever since the nine-eleven attack, the FBI and every other agency in the country have poured all their resources into the war against terrorism. Fifty-something white women found in the mountains over the past decade doesn’t even reach the footnotes of the nation’s priority list these days.”

  “I see,” Ryan said, spotting an espresso machine in the corner of the room. “Do you mind?” he asked.

  “Not at all. I think I’ll join you.”

  Ryan stood quietly, perplexed at the magnitude of the case in front of him while the machine chugged and gurgled away. He returned to his chair and passed Doyle his mug.

  “Oh, God, what a brew,” he said with an exaggerated overtone after sipping a mouthful.

  “Always helps to lubricate the ol’ grey matter.” He grinned.

  “Touché.” Ryan chuckled, then reached for the first folder on the pile. He took a moment to flip through the pages but nothing jumped out at him. He repeated this process with a few more reports until something did spark his interest. “Doyle,” he said curiously, “you said a moment ago that the FBI wasn’t overly interested in fifty-something white women, did you not?”

  “Yes I did. Why do you ask?”

  “Do you not find it interesting that every woman identified is classified as white?”

  “Yes, I looked into that, and came up with a theory similar to that of your boy, Blaze: that the victims were girlfriends or mistresses of certain brotherhood members and had joined the gang before being murdered for whatever reason. But when I thought it over some more it didn’t make any sense. Why would they kill some of their own? I would have thought it more likely to be men or women of African-American origin on their hit list.”

  “Agreed. So maybe you’re looking at it from the wrong angle.”

  “How so?”

  “Maybe the brotherhood isn’t behind these murders at all. Perhaps a rival gang or Negro sect is behind this?”

  Doyle paused before he answered, “While I like your way of thinking, it doesn’t explain this–” He walked over to his filing cabinet, unlocked it, then carefully retrieved a thin folder from the top drawer. He handed it to Ryan as he said, “What I’m about to show you is top secret. Nobody, and I mean nobody knows about this; it’s the reason I won’t give up on my theory
, and why I’m positive the brotherhood are behind these murders.”

  Ryan was instantly intrigued. He opened the file, and was immediately put off his coffee. There before him was a photograph of a mutilated naked women, wrapped tightly in razor wire. The sharp edges bored deep into her flesh.

  “Does anything about this picture seem odd to you?” Doyle asked.

  Ryan scoured the image. “How long was the victim deceased before she was found?”

  “Coroner said approximately twenty-four hours. A group of hikers on a wilderness survival expedition came across her body and called it in. First real break I’ve had.”

  “How so?”

  “Flip over to the next photograph,” he replied sombrely.

  “Jesus Christ!” Ryan exclaimed as he witnessed the raw patches of flesh on her body. “They cut off her tattoos?”

  “That’s right: hacked them off and pinned them to the base of the tree adjacent to where she lay, as punishment, so she could see the errors of her ways as she slowly bled to death. To be sure the message got through, they snapped her neck and removed her eyelids so she couldn’t look away.”

  Ryan shuddered. He observed the various flaps of skin in the photograph. They were a range of Nazi and white power symbols common among brotherhood members. “How are you so sure the brotherhood is behind this women’s death?”

  Doyle rubbed his chin as he replied, “How much do you know about gangs and their emblems—particularly if a member is exiled?”

  Ryan’s memory transported back to when Blaze had discovered the former police commissioner’s daughter had been a rat among the SAS, and how he was going to remove the MC’s logo she had had tattooed to her back using a blowtorch. “Most outlaw gangs almost always insist on removing the symbols from the member’s body. It severs the tie between themselves and the exiled one.”

  “That’s right. And from history we know it’s always in a painful and grotesque way. The way this poor woman was forced to look upon the brotherhood’s symbols as she died makes perfect sense that this was, indeed, a punishment for betrayal.”