Spree

by Michael Morley

  A man in his thirties, crouched over his toddler and wife, let out a roar of anger and charged him.

  Shooter’s burst of gunfire ran up his body. Sliced his thigh. Cut through his stomach. Cracked ribs. Burst his big, brave heart.

  Twelve.

  That was it. He was done.

  He took his finger off the trigger. His hand felt hot. Burning like he’d dipped it in a volcano.

  He turned from the carnage and dropped the note. It fluttered and flopped in a pool of blood.

  That should get their attention.

  Make them sit up and take notice.

  15

  FBI Field Office, LA

  Jake’s phone rang as soon as he and Angie stepped out of the elevator.

  She gave him a look that said she’d rather he didn’t answer it.

  “I’ve got to.”

  “I know.”

  “Mottram.”

  “Jake, it’s Ruis. Shit’s hitting the fan at the Sun Western Mall. Some lunatic’s opened fire on a load of shoppers.”

  “I’m on my way to you.” He killed the phone and turned to Angie. “Sounds like a Spree; I’ve gotta go.”

  “Be careful.”

  “I will.” He kissed her again. A peck this time. Nothing long or passionate but a connection every bit as meaningful as the one in the office.

  Jake didn’t wait for the elevator. He banged open the door to the stairs and took them two at a time all the way to the twelfth floor.

  SKU was already snagging kit and buckling up. Ruis had mall security on speakerphone. There were screams in the background and it sounded like the gates of hell had busted open. He finished the call and updated his boss. “It’s bedlam over there. Cops are on their way. Meantime, the mall uniforms are shitting enough bricks to build a pyramid.”

  “Evac has to be priority. The sooner the LAPD take over the better. With that kind of panic going on, people can get crushed to death.” Jake checked his own men. Most were still arriving. Just dressing was an operation in itself. They started with fatigues made from flame-resistant Nomex fiber, leather-palmed flight gloves that gave weapons an extra grip, heavy-duty kneepads and reinforced utility boots. Then came the military-issue gas mask with special air filters to cope with all manner of toxic attacks. The facial fitting had a drink tube so rehydration could take place without removal and a voice box amplifier for communication with the two-channel radio package made up of an earpiece, microphone and shoulder-mounted transmitter. Extra protection came courtesy of Kevlar chest, back and pelvic pads. Helmets and no-mist goggles, strong enough to withstand blasts and flying debris, completed the wrap.

  Jake turned back to Ruis. “Once they’re togged, split them into four units of four and get them gridded around the mall. You take north and west; I’ll go south and east. I’ll call Pryce on the way over. I expect he’ll set a central command vehicle out on the Avenue of the Stars and shut off traffic from there all along Santa Monica Boulevard.”

  “Firepower?”

  “Usual stuff for close quarters, but bring extra flashbangs and tear gas. We best prepare for a lockdown too. If the shooter gets himself in a store with a hostage, then we’re gonna need the whole caboodle—battering rams, bolt cutters, a Halligan breach bar and shotguns with breaching rounds.”

  Jake left him to get on. He grabbed his own sidearms: an M1911 semiautomatic pistol identical to the one he’d been issued in the Marine Corps and a backup Glock. For good measure, he collected his personalized Heckler and Koch MP5 submachine gun. It had been fitted with a tritium-illuminated front sight post and a stainless steel sound suppressor for use with quieter subsonic ammo.

  “Listen up,” the SKU leader shouted across the room. “Agent Costas is going to call your teams. I know many of you worked long and hard yesterday, way into the night, and I guess some of you were just clocking off shift, so I apologize for that. But make no mistake about this—I do not want anyone starting this new operation if you’re anything less than razor-sharp ready. If you are exhausted and not fit to work, then tell me now. There’s no shame in that. Go home, get some sleep. If you’re yawning and slow on this op, then you’ll be risking a colleague’s life and that’s unacceptable. Any questions?”

  A chorus of “No, sir” hit his ears.

  “Anyone too tired to go hunt this motherfucking Spree?”

  The chorus sang the same refrain. “No, sir!”

  “Good. Ruis, get the show on the road.”

  16

  Angie grabbed black coffee from the corridor pantry and returned to the case files on her desk.

  Her head was all mixed up.

  She and Jake had been building bridges. Now he was back on the streets trying to get close enough to kill or be killed. It made her think he’d been right after all. Perhaps his whole life did make him completely unsuitable to be a father.

  She’d hoped for just the opposite. Convinced herself having a kid might actually stop him taking risks.

  Chips breezed in, oblivious to her personal drama. “Never again.” He threw down his shoulder bag. “I promise you, boss, I’m gonna resign rather than sit through another four hours about ethnic diversity and responsibility.”

  She ignored his rant. “You hear about the shootings?”

  “No.”

  “A Spree at Sun Western Mall.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Can you hack into their CCTV system?”

  “Sure.” Chips sat down. “But we don’t need to hack.” He spoke as he picked up the phone and turned on his desktop PC. “LAPD have all mall feeds linked to their central ops control. I can get a patch through to my monitor.”

  “Thanks.”

  As Chips dialed, the office door opened.

  Angie’s heart sank.

  It was her boss, Assistant Director Sandra McDonald. Or “Ronald” as Chips referred to her. The assistant director was forty-five, single and cut a trim figure in her trademark black business suit and platinum blond bob cut. She had the kind of cold and acerbic manner that always brushed Angie the wrong way.

  “How’s everything going with the rape-homicide?”

  Angie suspected she’d heard about the difference of opinion on what should and shouldn’t be revealed to the investigation team. “We’re making progress. I think the base of the profile is solid enough to help focus the team in the right direction.”

  “I hear you and Lieutenant O’Brien aren’t the best of friends.”

  “Do we have to be?”

  “No. But don’t bring shit to my stoop. Do you understand?”

  Angie bit her tongue. “Entirely.”

  “I’m seeing the director in the morning. Anything I should know about before I go in there?”

  Angie nodded to the files she’d put back on her desk. “I’ll send you a full briefing before I turn in tonight. Feel free to call me if something’s not clear.”

  “You can bank on it.” McDonald left without a good-bye.

  Chips looked up from his computer. “You and Ronald are not exactly BFFs, are you?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Why doesn’t she like you?”

  “We had a beef at a VICAP conference. It was before I even came here. It ended in her getting overruled by her section chief—which, I might add, he should have done privately. Anyway, McDonald never forgave me.”

  “So why did she hire you?”

  “She didn’t. I was already in post before she was promoted here to AD.”

  “Ah, I see.” He checked his computer. “Feed’s just coming up.”

  Angie left her desk and pulled a chair alongside his.

  The pictures hitting the monitor were in black and white from four separate fixed cameras. They were displayed on the screen in quarter-frame feeds. Three showed people running everywhere. The fourth was fixed on a store. There was no movement here. Just too many bodies to count and the stillness of death.

  Chips glanced at his boss. “That’s a mess. A very dangerous
mess.”

  “I know.” Her voice was slow and sad. “What the hell possessed someone to do that?”

  They both looked back at the feed from the optician’s. It was taken from a camera on the other side of the mall and the security operator had zoomed in as close as he could. Corpses were sprawled everywhere. Angie could see hands stretched out for loved ones and the bodies of men covering their partners in the hope of saving them. The lack of color made the black pools glistening on the floor all the more shocking. Angie noted the continued absence of cops or even security.

  The reason lay in the adjoining feed.

  The mall was consumed by madness. Crowds rushed everywhere. There were crushes and fights, bottlenecks and battles. Several elderly people got pushed to the ground. Baby strollers were toppled. It was everyone for themselves. Survival of the fittest.

  The way Angie saw it, the crush to get away could easily claim more lives than the UNSUB.

  One of the bottom cameras showed the parking lot. The scene was terrifying. Shoppers and cars raced for the same exits. Metal hit metal. Bodies fell beneath wheels. Drivers broke down pay barriers. Many deserted their vehicles and fled on foot. Motorcycles slalomed through the mayhem.

  The last remaining camera was an external one. It showed the first of the ambulances had arrived but no one was going inside. Not until the police escorts and sharpshooters were in place. The emergency teams realized there was every chance the scumbag with the gun might be lying in wait, more than happy to make them his next target.

  Angie took out her phone and typed a text message to Jake. It said simply, TAKE CARE. I LOVE U. X

  17

  Sun Western Mall, LA

  Jake and Ruis had their teams in place.

  Jake had settled one of his on Constellation Boulevard and the other in the middle of the landscaped lawns that languished between the giant glass and steel skyscrapers on the Avenue of the Stars. Ruis fixed units on Santa Monica Boulevard and Century Park West.

  LAPD cars were already strung up and down the block like waiting taxis. Foot patrols were still fighting to shut down the roads while simultaneously guiding traffic out of the mall and away from the scene.

  As Jake had guessed, Pryce had placed his command vehicle east of the mall and was prowling the back of it, giving instructions on a radio. The LAPD agent was standing next to a clip-on whiteboard already marked with a zonal plan of where the attack had taken place and where the mall exits were.

  “We’re going to have to stop meeting like this,” said Jake as he approached.

  “Couldn’t agree more.” Pryce hung up the phone just as a blond woman in SWAT fatigues came out the side of the vehicle looking for him.

  “We’ve got security video of the shooter.”

  The two men followed her up metal steps into the truck. One wall was racked with tech equipment, including a monitor and a playback machine. She waited until they were both in a position to watch and then she hit play. “This is where it starts from. I’ve got the mall camera operators chasing other feeds to see where the Spree went afterward.”

  “Right now, afterward is all that matters,” said Jake.

  “I’m on it.” She grabbed a phone while they watched the video.

  The screen showed a mix of people coming and going—young and old, smart and casual. In the midst, slowing down by Bloomingdale’s window and incongruously browsing a collection of summer dresses, was a young African American male. He was dressed in white sneakers, baggy black shorts, white Lakers cap and white T-shirt. A black sports bag was slung low over his shoulder.

  As the youth hitched it up and walked on, Jake had no doubts about what lay inside.

  The cameras switched a couple of times as the young man made his way along to Judy-Ju’s. He seemed to pause again just before he went inside and disappeared from view.

  Then people started running out.

  The camera angle switched again. The back of the UNSUB was visible. He was swinging the sports bag and chopping people down like it was a chainsaw. Jake saw a kid go down and a middle-aged man get cut to pieces.

  “Cold-hearted bastard,” said Pryce.

  “Where the fuck were security?” asked Jake.

  “Probably keeping the hell away.”

  The camera showed the gunman turn and leave. Not the way he’d come. In the opposite direction.

  “Is that it?” Pryce looked at the blonde.

  She cupped the phone she was on. “I’m trying for more.”

  The SWAT commander shook his head in disgust and left the truck.

  Jake followed him down the steps.

  “I’ve got men over on that side of the building,” said Pryce. “They’re trying to clear shoppers. Once we have that mall level emptied, I’m going to send units in from the ground and roof and sweep the place clean.”

  “He may have gotten into the crush of people and be gone by then.” Jake unbuckled his Kevlar pads. “Either that or taken a hostage.”

  Pryce watched him start to strip. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going in. If he can mix with the crowds, then so can I.”

  18

  SKU always came prepared, and that included carrying street clothes in the command truck.

  Time was bleeding out. Jake grabbed a white T-shirt and a denim jacket fitted with a buttonhole video camera.

  Ruis Costas would be able to follow a live feed from it, just as he would from a helmet camera worn by his team.

  Pryce briefed SWAT to get Jake up onto the roof and down through a service entrance on the east side.

  The entry was locked from the inside. An officer opened it with a sledgehammer.

  Jake slipped in.

  It was dark and cool in the roof space. Thick with dust and covered in spiderwebs. He was still a level above the top floor of the mall, crawling through a vast snake pit of service cables and pipes. Muffled noises came from the floor beneath him. He used a compact Maglite to find his way across the darkened floor to the exit.

  Jake unfastened a service flap and stuck his head through the gap.

  The bright light of the mall made him blink. He could see that this part of the shopping complex had been emptied. Shutters were down on some stores but not others. There were a dozen doorways in which the UNSUB could be lurking. Jake turned around and dropped through the gap.

  His feet tingled on impact. Instinctively he checked his gun. It was still there—not dislodged and left in the roof space.

  He moved briskly down the mall.

  A noise stopped him. He heard metal on tiles.

  Something had toppled over in the empty clothes shop he’d just passed. Jake put his back to the wall and peered sideways through the window.

  The store was moodily lit. It had been fitted out to look like a garage and body shop. The hood of a car was embedded in one wall and the back of a Harley in another. Oil drums and a fake gasoline pump interrupted hanging rails of grunge clothes. Jackets, jeans and Ts were spread over workbenches marked SALE and NEW ARRIVALS.

  Jake went in gun first.

  Everything was still, except for a rack of shirts to his right. The cuffs on the red check lumberjack XLs swayed, then stopped.

  Someone was behind them.

  “FBI! Come out from behind the shirts. I’m armed and will fire.”

  A metal bar smashed across the middle of Jake’s back.

  The impact threw him forward. He wheeled to his left and saw a bearded black man in his late twenties swinging hard with what looked to be the top rail of a clothes display. Jake resisted the urge to shoot him and stepped into the blow. The metal slapped his left shoulder. A split second later, Jake’s right fist broke the man’s jaw and filled his mouth with blood and broken teeth. He threw a follow-up gut punch and watched the guy sink to his knees. This was no Spree. It was a looter. One of two opportunist scumbags who’d hoped to grab what they could while others were running for their lives.

  The second thief broke for the door.r />
  Jake took a couple of steps, stuck out a boot and tripped him. The looter crashed face-first into a workbench and squealed like a pig. Jake could see wads of dollar bills stuffed in his side and back pockets.

  Jake grabbed both injured men and dragged them across the floor to the car display. First, he snagged their wrists together with plastic cuffs, and then he fastened their other hands to the fender.

  Security could sweep up the dirtbags.

  He had something more urgent to deal with.

  19

  SWAT leader Connor Pryce had been standing with Ruis watching the action on Jake’s jacket cam. He instantly dispatched two three-man units to sweep up the grunge store looters and search for more.

  Ruis’s men were now on Jake’s tail and SWAT units were also inside the opposite end of the mall, systematically clearing and searching the lower floors.

  A few minutes later, the parking lot and a route to the bodies in the optician’s had been secured and declared safe.

  Pryce spoke into his radio. “Clear to let the paramedics in. Just make sure they don’t stray from your sides.” He finished on the radio and turned to Ruis. “Sun Western staff have set up a makeshift hospital in one of the work canteens. They’ve been doing a good job. Head of security, Wayne Patterson, is an ex-cop, so he’s been able to help a little with the crowd control.”

  Fire bells went off and almost burst their eardrums.

  “I thought we’d killed the alarms.” Ruis had a finger in one ear.

  “We had. They keep accidentally resetting. Probably, someone went out through an exit door.”

  Ruis hoped it wasn’t the UNSUB. “Your team got any footage of where the shooter went after he exited the store?”

  “Not yet,” said Pryce. “Turns out these cameras have blind spots. Lots of them. The tech running the mall video system says the black guy with the sports bag turned the corner when he left the optician’s place, went into a big sports store and then disappeared.”

  “Disappeared? How the fuck can he have disappeared?”

  Pryce stayed cool. “He says it could be the camera angle, or the perp could have ducked low and come out in the body of the crowd. Flanked on both sides by throngs of people pushing like crazy, there’s every chance he wouldn’t have been seen.”