Written in Blood

by Chris Carter

Hunter tried Angela’s phone one more time and got the same recorded message as before.

  Martin’s phone – voicemail

  Jordan’s phone – voicemail.

  Again, all three – same result.

  ‘This can’t be happening,’ he said, as he checked his watch – it was nearly one thirty in the afternoon. He reached for his jacket.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Garcia asked.

  ‘To the safe house.’

  Garcia checked his watch. ‘Where is the safe house again? Calabasas?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If we’re lucky with traffic, that’s about an hour’s drive each way,’ Garcia said. ‘That means we might only be getting back here for around four o’clock. Don’t you think that’s cutting it a little too fine? We can call the Sheriff’s Department in Malibu and ask them to dispatch a unit to the house. They can be there in ten, fifteen minutes.’

  ‘I know,’ Hunter replied, moving toward the door and already calling Shannon Hatcher. ‘We’re doing that too.’

  Sixty-Two

  Hunter knew Garcia was right. A simple call to the Sheriff’s Department in Malibu, whose jurisdiction the incorporated city of Calabasas fell under, would get a black-and-white unit immediately dispatched to the safe house. With traffic in Calabasas being nothing compared to LA, the unit wouldn’t take longer than ten minutes to make the journey. That meant that Hunter would have a reply in fifteen minutes, tops, but he was trying to be as practical as possible. Those fifteen minutes could be spent either sitting inside the office, waiting in agonizing anticipation, or gaining time by making a move toward the safe house in case his worst fears were confirmed.

  The fact that neither SIS agent had answered their phones in the past five minutes sent fear into every atom of Hunter’s body. The SIS Witness Protection Protocol Rulebook was clear – the agent or agents guarding a witness needed to be reachable 24/7. If they failed to answer a call at any time of day or night, alarm bells would start ringing everywhere. In the case of both agents in a two-strong team failing to pick up their cellphones more than once, those alarm bells would ring louder than a bomb-attack siren.

  As he left his office, Hunter called dispatch and asked them to connect him to the Sheriff’s Department in Malibu. He spoke directly to the Deputy Sheriff, asking him to please send a patrol car to the safehouse address for a Code 3 and a possible Code 6 – Emergency Call, coupled with a possible Out-of-car Investigation.

  As Hunter jumped into the passenger’s seat of Garcia’s car, he tried calling the SIS agents one more time.

  ‘Still nothing?’ Garcia asked.

  Hunter gave him a single shake of the head.

  Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

  Sixty-Three

  Sergeant David Brooks and Corporal Sergio Rivera had just finished devouring a large Toscana Spicy pizza when the call came through on their radio for an LAPD Assist. The request was for an extreme cautious Code 6 at an address that was less than six minutes away from their current location.

  ‘Dispatch,’ Sergeant Brooks said into the radio’s mouthpiece. ‘This is unit two-three-eight. We’re about five minutes away. We’ll take it.’

  As Brooks and Rivera jumped back into their Ford Escape, dispatch gave the sergeant all the necessary information. With sirens blasting, Corporal Rivera, who had taken the wheel, swerved right into Paul Revere Drive and stepped on the gas, bringing the black-and-white SUV to 65mph in a 35mph residential area. At that speed and with their sirens clearing the way, they covered the short distance between the pizza parlor and the safe-house address in less than four minutes. As they reached the top of the road, Corporal Rivera slowed his car down to a crawl and switched off the siren.

  The dead-end road that they found themselves in wasn’t long – four houses in total, three on the left-hand side and one on the right. The house they were looking for was the last one on the left. Right from the top of the road, they could see a black Cadillac ATS parked directly in front of the house.

  ‘That’s the SIS agents’ car,’ Sergeant Brooks said, indicating with his left hand. ‘Which means that they should be in.’

  ‘Which means that they should have answered their phones,’ Corporal Rivera replied.

  The sergeant nodded his agreement.

  The corporal parked his vehicle right behind the agents’ car, but he did it in such a way that it partially blocked the Cadillac’s escape route, should it need one.

  ‘OK,’ Sergeant Brooks said. ‘Let’s go check the house.’

  Both officers stepped out of the car and very cautiously approached the house. As they walked past the agents’ car, the corporal cupped a hand against the driver’s window and looked inside. Everything seemed to be in order.

  From the driveway, Sergeant Brooks studied the front of the house. The single front window was almost completely obstructed by the tall foliage from the front garden, but he could still tell that the curtains were drawn shut. That was when he noticed the front door. It was ajar.

  ‘Door is open,’ he announced, immediately unclipping the security belt on his weapon holster.

  That’s never a good sign, Corporal Rivera thought, following suit.

  Both officers drew their weapons and approached the front door. Sergeant Brooks took position to the left of it and Corporal Rivera to the right.

  The sergeant rang the doorbell before shouting from the outside. ‘Is there anybody in the house? This is the Sheriff’s Department.’

  No reply.

  He rang the doorbell one more time and called again. ‘Hello . . . is there anybody in this house? This is the Sheriff’s Department.’

  No reply.

  The sergeant slowly pushed the door open. Dispatch had given him the names of both SIS agents.

  ‘SIS Agents James Martin and Darnel Jordan,’ he called, his voice loud and firm. ‘This is the Malibu Sheriff’s Department. We are entering the house. Please acknowledge if any of you are inside.’

  Dead silence.

  Sergeant Brooks nodded at Corporal Rivera who, in a very well-rehearsed move, fast-rotated his body 180 degrees to the right, placing him at the open door. His arms were extended in front of him and his Smith & Wesson M&P9 pistol held in a firm double-hand grip. His eyes, which guided his aim, immediately moved right.

  A fraction of a second later, Sergeant Brooks repeated the same 180 degrees rotation, his body rotating left. His weapon, a Glock 21 Gen 3, also held in a double grip, followed his eyes and aimed left, both officers searching for any signs of danger.

  They didn’t find danger.

  They found something a lot worse.

  Sixty-Four

  By the time Hunter and Garcia got to the green-fronted house in Calabasas, forty-nine minutes after they’d left their office, the street was already crawling with Sheriff’s Department personnel. Four new cruisers had arrived and a perimeter had already been established at the top of the road.

  A young corporal lifted the black and yellow crime-scene tape to allow Garcia to drive into the street and park on the right. Just a few seconds after Garcia had parked, two other cruisers appeared at the top of the road.

  Hunter and Garcia stepped out of Garcia’s Honda Civic and instinctively their gaze moved up and down the road. There were so many officers walking about, it looked like a Sheriff’s Department conference was taking place somewhere.

  Without wasting another second, both detectives rushed toward the last house on the left. Hunter’s facial expression showed the anger that he felt inside.

  As they got to the internal perimeter, which had been set up at the house’s porch, they were met by a stocky police officer with a thick peppery moustache and a receding hairline.

  ‘You guys must be the UVC detectives,’ Sergeant Brooks said.

  ‘That’s correct,’ Garcia confirmed. He and Hunter quickly displayed their credentials. ‘Were you the first at the scene?’

  The sergeant gave the detectives a head nod. ‘Y
es, me and Corporal Rivera over there.’ He indicated another officer who was standing by the cruiser parked directly behind the black Cadillac ATS. ‘We got the call from dispatch just after one-thirty in the afternoon. We got here less than five minutes after that.’

  They began walking toward the front door.

  ‘As we approached the house,’ the sergeant continued, ‘we noticed that the front door was ajar. We followed standard protocol. After getting no reply . . .’ As all three of them got to the door, Sergeant Brooks paused them for just a second. ‘ . . .We entered the premises – and this is what we found.’ He motioned for the two detectives to enter the house.

  Hunter was the first to step through the door. The anger that he felt inside intensified tenfold as it collided headfirst with sadness.

  Garcia stepped into the living room a split second after Hunter. As he did, his right hand cupped over his mouth while, under his breath, he cursed everything and everyone.

  On the floor, about four paces from the door, SIS Agent Darnel Jordan lay on his back in a pool of his own blood. He had been shot twice in the chest and once in the head. His 9mm pistol lay about three and a half feet from his right hand.

  On the red corner sofa, to the right of the front door, Agent James Martin was sprawled against the sofa’s backrest. He too had been shot twice in the chest and once in the head. His pistol sat just by his right hand.

  Hunter took a second, his right hand clenching into a fist by the side of his body. ‘How about the girl?’ he asked Sergeant Brooks, moving past the two bodies and heading toward the bedrooms.

  ‘There’s no sign of her whatsoever,’ the sergeant replied, as his mouth twisted awkwardly to one side. ‘But there’s a message.’

  Those words halted Hunter and Garcia in their tracks.

  ‘There’s a message?’ Garcia asked.

  Sergeant Brooks nodded, as his right index finger pointed toward the bathroom. The door was already open. ‘In there. You can’t miss it.’

  The two detectives entered the bathroom and their attention was immediately dragged toward the large wall mirror above the washbasin. In big letters, written once again in red lipstick, was a single phrase.

  I told you that you wouldn’t be able to protect her.

  Garcia closed his eyes, while allowing his head to slump forward, his chin almost touching his chest.

  Hunter, on the other hand, kept his eyes wide open and on the message. Right then, two destructive feelings took over his body, making him shiver – guilt and failure. He breathed out, trying to compose himself. It didn’t work. Without saying a word, he turned and walked out of the bathroom and into the room that Angela had occupied. There was no blood anywhere. There was no sign of a struggle either.

  ‘Do you think she’s dead?’ Garcia asked, pausing by the unmade bed.

  ‘No, not yet,’ Hunter replied, his voice steady but beaten. ‘He still hasn’t got his diary back, so he’ll use her as leverage. Plus, her things are gone,’ he said, checking the wardrobe. ‘If his intention was to kill her straight away, what would be the point in grabbing her things before taking her with him?’

  ‘How is this even possible?’ Garcia asked, as they returned to the living room, his voice shaking with anger. ‘These guys were SIS agents. They’re highly trained and the best of the best at what they do. This guy right here,’ he indicated Darnel Jordan’s body on the floor, ‘was clearly the one who answered the door.’ He skipped over the body and the pool of blood, and approached the agent’s 9mm pistol – a HK VP9 tactical semi-automatic. From his jacket pocket, Garcia retrieved a pen, hooked the weapon through its trigger guard and brought it up to his nose before shaking his head at Hunter. ‘No gunpowder smell. He didn’t even get to fire a shot.’ He walked over to the sofa and did the same to James Martin’s weapon. ‘Same thing here. So how do two, highly trained LAPD Special Investigation Section agents get executed in this way?’

  Sergeant Brooks had no answer, but he looked like he would be very interested to hear one.

  ‘They obviously weren’t caught by surprise,’ Garcia continued. ‘Because this guy . . .’ He once again indicated Darnel Jordan’s body on the floor. ‘ . . . came over to the door to open it up. Yet, neither agent managed to squeeze a single shot at their assailant. How?’

  ‘Because our killer is also highly skilled and probably an expert in tactical close-quarters combat,’ Hunter replied, walking over to the front door. ‘So the killer knocks on the door.’ He allowed his mind to picture the scene. ‘I’m sure that he had a very believable story already cooked up. Something like, “I’m so sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for my daughter, or my daughter’s dog. Have you, by any chance, seen her/it?”’

  Sergeant Brooks scratched the side of his head.

  ‘He could’ve very well had a photograph with him to strengthen his story,’ Hunter said. ‘The agent who answered the door, Darnel Jordan, probably followed protocol, dismissing the question and trying to get rid of the stranger as fast as possible, but the stranger pushes. He’s got tears in his eyes, or whatever, insisting for the agent to have a look at the photo, telling him that she’s just five years old or something. The agent gives in and looks at it, even if only for a split second. That’s all the time the killer needs. His gun was probably ready, hidden behind the photo.’ Hunter used his hands to demonstrate the position. ‘Bang. Bang. Double-tap straight to the chest. The agent stumbles backwards and the killer takes a single step into the house.’

  As Hunter re-enacted the scene, Garcia and Sergeant Brooks turned to look at the sofa.

  ‘The front door opens to the left, if you’re standing inside the house,’ Hunter explained. ‘And to the right, if you’re standing outside. So from the door, the killer could see the portion of the living room to the left of it. He knew that there was no one there, so as he steps into the house, his body rotates right, looking for a target. He finds agent number two, James Martin, sitting on the sofa. The agent sees his partner stumbling backwards and reaches for his gun, but it’s way too late. The killer is already inside, with his weapon ready to fire. Bang. Bang. Another double-tap to the chest. Have you checked the bullet wounds?’

  Garcia nodded. ‘Both shots to the heart and barely fractions from each other.’

  ‘Which tells us that he’s also an expert marksman,’ Hunter concluded. ‘So the killer knows that both agents are dead, but it doesn’t matter to him because he’s trained to take no chances – two to the chest and one follow-up shot to the head. This is a close-quarter tactical kill method known as “The Mozambique Drill”, or “The Failure Drill”.’

  ‘War technique?’ Garcia asked.

  ‘And assassins,’ Hunter confirmed. ‘So, after putting two rounds into their hearts, our killer walks up to agent number one.’ Hunter walked up to Darnel Jordan’s body on the floor. ‘And bang, delivers the follow-up shot straight to the brain. He walks over to agent number two and does the same.’

  ‘Silencer?’ Garcia again.

  ‘I have no doubt,’ Hunter agreed.

  ‘So Angela didn’t hear any of this, other than the doorbell?’ Garcia supposed.

  ‘Probably not,’ Hunter confirmed. ‘The rest is easy. He goes over to her bedroom, knocks on the door and sedates her. Game over for us.’

  Sixty-Five

  Hunter was right. Angela never got a chance to fight.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ she said to Hunter over the phone and, without giving him a chance to say anything back, she disconnected from the call. A split second before she did, she heard the front doorbell ring.

  Angela knew that Hunter would probably try to call her back straight away, so she immediately pressed and held down the power button on her phone to switch it off. That done, she used the paper clip she had used earlier to extract her SIM card and put it away.

  DING, DONG.

  The doorbell again.

  Angela checked the time. It was nearly one thirty in the afternoon.

  �
�Did those two order some food without asking me if I wanted in on it?’ she said out loud, while reaching under the bed for her tennis shoes. She didn’t like walking around the house barefooted. ‘Motherfuckers. I could really do with some pizza right about now . . . or maybe some fried chicken.’

  Angela tied her shoelaces and got to her feet, ready to go give Martin and Jordan an earful for not having asked her for her order, but she didn’t even get a chance to leave the room. As she approached the bedroom door, she heard three knocks.

  ‘Oh, now you come ask me if I want some,’ she whispered to herself, pulling the door open.

  It took Angela’s brain a full second to realize that the tall man standing there was neither of the two SIS agents.

  That was a full second too late.

  As she locked eyes with the man, the syringe in his right hand was already halfway to her neck. The needle pierced her skin, embedding its tip into the muscle, and dispersing two milligrams of the fast-acting sedative, Flunitrazepam.

  Angela didn’t even have time to react.

  ‘Easy now,’ the man said, while using his left hand to hold the back of her head. ‘It will all be over soon . . . very soon.’

  Sixty-Six

  On their way back to the PAB, neither Hunter nor Garcia said a word. Their expressions were solemn, their eyes distraught.

  By the time they got back to the LAPD Headquarters, Hunter was feeling sick to his stomach, so while Garcia went straight back into the UVC Unit’s office, Hunter took a bathroom detour. He splashed some cold water over his face before staring straight into his reflection in the mirror. His eyes looked tired, drained of light. He was about to say something to the man looking back at him in the mirror when his cellphone rang in his pocket. He answered it without checking the display screen.

  ‘Detective Hunter, UVC Unit.’

  ‘Robert, it’s Vince. Everything is set and ready to go. The tracker is ready and in place. All I need to do is switch it on and seal it in, which shouldn’t take me any longer than twenty minutes. The front cover has been restored to what it was before and it looks pretty flawless, if I may say so.’