Spree

by Michael Morley

He returned fire.

  There was a screech of rubber, the sound of metal scraping blacktop and finally the dull thump of bike and body against a tree.

  Jake’s team moved on the wreckage. As they did, a powerful arc light lit up the site and exposed them all.

  SKU men squinted rabbitlike into the blinding whiteness. It was more powerful than a security light and it took Jake a second to place it. The mangled remains of the motorcycle glinted in the snow-white beam. The body thrown over the bars was that of Emma-Louise, not Harris.

  By the time Jake swung his gun to the top of the old power station it was too late. The wannabe Hells Angel was firing down on them.

  The intel had been wrong.

  He had two automatic weapons, not just the MAC-10.

  Bullets rained on Jake and the three exposed SKU men. They drenched arms, legs, chests and heads.

  Ruis Costas opened fire and popped Wayne Harris’s head like a melon.

  But he’d been too late.

  Far too late to save his colleagues.

  37

  Lawndale, 22:30 hours

  Angie decided she’d rather drive around than sit at home worrying about Jake.

  The I-405 from Wilshire took her into Lawndale. She wanted to get a little firsthand experience of the neighborhood. Check out the streets and pathways that the UNSUB might have prowled.

  She took Manhattan Beach Boulevard under the San Diego Freeway and drove the back streets around the block where Eva Hart lived. One side of the boulevard was for car enthusiasts. It was lined with body shops, tune and lubes, brake and tire centers and gas stations. The other side hosted the area’s public works depot, a railway line, a storage center and a small mall.

  Off the main roads, most people were settled for the night. It would have been easy for the criminally minded to pick a target. Two cars on the driveway told their own story. As did children’s posters and stickers slapped on front windows. Kids got the small rooms in the house, usually facing the road. Older folk took the bigger rooms at the back, overlooking a square of grass and a little more peace and quiet.

  Angie parked and walked up 159th. She was out on the street at the same time the UNSUB had attacked the elderly woman. She knew that what she was seeing was what he had seen. The sidewalks were empty. At the bottom of McBain stood a school and patches of ground where dog walkers let their animals go before turning in for the night.

  Eva Hart’s house was on a long, tree-lined, badly lit street. All the houses were single story. Most smartly maintained, some run-down. Angie guessed a lot of old folk lived in the less well-kept dwellings, their limited cash going on basic necessities rather than regular repaints.

  She walked the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street to Eva’s place. Even though there was a full moon, thick canopies of trees created deep black pools that an offender could sink into. Angie leaned against a tree and looked around. The night was warm and she could smell grass cut earlier in the day. People had cracked their windows to let in fresh air and save on air-con costs.

  It was too late to knock on Eva’s door, but there was no harm in ambling over and taking a look.

  The house to one side was empty and up for sale. The one on the other side was in blackness with no cars on the drive. Angie felt uncomfortable about the old lady being so isolated. She walked the short drive and saw a light at the back of the house. A TV played so loudly she guessed Eva was hard of hearing. Another giveaway of a senior living alone.

  The house was small and the passage down the side barely wide and long enough for a car. She walked it and stepped into a square of paved yard. There were strong smells of lavender, roses and jasmine. And something else. Something she couldn’t quite place.

  Fried chicken.

  She turned. A shadow moved just feet away.

  A man of her height and build.

  Wearing a black ski mask.

  Moonlight caught the edge of the metal bat swinging toward her.

  Part 3

  The Big Kill

  1

  Lawndale, LA

  Angie had been caught by surprise.

  The man in the mask had a baseball bat across her throat. His hands gripped both ends and he had her trapped against the back wall of Eva Hart’s house. She was eye to eye with him and his smell was all over her. Cheap cooking oil and Southern fried chicken.

  If she didn’t act quickly, she knew she’d pass out.

  Her FBI training kicked in and she kicked out. Drove her right knee into his testicles.

  The scumbag woofed in pain and the bat slackened enough for her to wriggle free. She shifted her balance and swung a low kick at the back of his legs.

  He stumbled into an even darker part of the yard.

  Angie followed with a crisp left-hander that clipped his right cheek.

  He was beaten and they both knew it.

  One hard punch with her right and this cowardly punk was going down spitting teeth.

  She stepped forward to swing and felt a blow from an unseen enemy—a trash can.

  Her balance went. She stumbled. Dropped to her hands and knees.

  The attacker kicked a supporting arm and sent her sprawling.

  Angie felt pain shoot from wrist to shoulder as she collapsed.

  He kicked at her head and body. Booted any part of her he could see.

  She slid the one good arm across her stomach to protect the baby.

  A foot rocked her head. She tasted salt and iron. Blood flowed over her teeth.

  Light cracked from the back door and fell on her.

  Angie’s heart sank. If the old lady was there, he was certain to turn on her. Finish what he’d started.

  There was a gunshot.

  And another.

  Then a crashing sound.

  The noise of fence panels being climbed or broken.

  Another shot rang out.

  Then silence.

  She lay in pain. Fluttering fingers touched her face. They smelled of night cream. A hesitant voice asked, “Are you all right?”

  Angie struggled to sit upright. “I think my arm’s broken.”

  “Oh, dear.” The old lady waved the gun dangerously. “Are you police?”

  Angie could smell the weapon. “No, I’m not. I’m FBI, ma’am.” She stared down the barrel being shaken in her face. “Can you give me that gun, please, and call 911?”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, of course.” She handed over the weapon and slipper-shuffled back inside.

  Angie got herself up and was able to sit on the back step. She spat out blood and got her breath back. A few feet away lay the overturned trash can she’d knocked into. Just to the right, half in and half out of the light, there was something else.

  A black rucksack.

  Involuntary grunts escaped as she got to her feet and wandered toward it. She was pretty certain she knew what it contained.

  His rape kit.

  2

  Murphy’s Ranch, Rustic Canyon, LA

  Jake had been hit by several rounds from the MAC-10. He lay stunned and waited for pain to erupt in various parts of his body. It never came, because layers of Kevlar had done their job.

  He rolled out of the blinding glare of the roof-mounted xenon and looked toward the derelict power station. SKU were still “sweeping” the rooms inside. Shouts of “Clear” broke the warm night air.

  Ruis Costas appeared, concern etched in his brow. “You okay, boss?”

  “I’m fine.” Jake’s voice gave away his disappointment. He got to his feet and saw at least two of his men had been hit.

  Chuck Warren had a hand on his right thigh and was pushing hard to stop a bleed. A copter blew up dust. Ruis had to shout above the noise. “Medic will be with you any second; just hang in there.”

  Jake knelt alongside Sammy Nicholson, a rookie who’d taken two in the helmet. Kid had been fortunate; neither had gone through, but he was sitting up in the dirt, his face white as a sheet.

  “You were lucky,” said Jake,
peering into his eyes. “A bit of concussion, that’s all. Tomorrow night you’ll be downing shots and bragging it up with your buddies.”

  “I don’t feel so damned lucky,” Nicholson managed.

  Jake left him and went over to the crashed motorcycle.

  Emma-Louise Bakker was dead. There was no need to even check for a pulse. She’d hit the tree headfirst and broken her neck.

  He kicked the gun lying in the dirt alongside the corpse of Wayne Harris’s teenage girlfriend. It was a micro-Uzi. Fashion toy for the bad guys.

  Ruis joined him and wiped blood on his combat pants. “Harris is dead, too.”

  Jake shielded his eyes from the still glaring light of the giant xenon on the top of the old building. “Where the hell did that thing come from?”

  “Come and see.” He walked his boss toward the old power station. “There are two dead guys inside. Looks like they were filming here when Wayne rode up. The big light is part of their equipment.”

  The SKU men entered the building and Jake saw the bodies in a far corner. It was easy to work out what had gone down. The walls around them were covered in graffiti and blood. Harris and the girl had herded them over there with the guns. Paper tissues, discarded wallets, small photos and coins lay around their feet. They’d been robbed. Emma-Louise had taken their phones, cards and cash while her crazy boyfriend had pointed his machine pistol at them. Jake finished the last of his thoughts out loud. “Punk just killed them for the sake of it.”

  “Looks that way,” answered Ruis. “There’s a camera and tripod over there.” He pointed to the opposite corner. “I think the girl filmed it, snuff-movie style.”

  “Fuck.” Jake remembered orders he’d given. “Hadn’t we checked this area for filming permits and such?”

  “We had. Not everyone who films has a permit. They must have just winged it. Planned to save a few bucks because they were doing something cheap.”

  Jake saw a clipboard against the wall. He picked it up. Several sheets of paper flapped. It was part of a script. “They were filming something called The Big Scare. Names on the top are Luke Henrik and Joey J. Aston.”

  Ruis was bent over the bodies. He spotted a photo ID in a gritty pool of drying blood. “One on the right is Luke.”

  “Someone best find their next of kin and call the cops. Make sure that camera footage stays with us. I don’t ever want to see a frame of this on YouTube.”

  3

  Lawndale, LA

  Emergency services arrived at Eva Hart’s house within ten minutes of being called.

  The local cops hit the streets and got a copter with night sun lighting and thermal imaging to comb the area for the perp.

  Paramedics patched Angie up. She had dislocated her right elbow and there was a chance of a hairline fracture or chipped bone as well. She’d need an X-ray and possibly a cast or sling. Aside from that, there was extensive bruising to her shoulders and face. Her lip was split but no teeth were busted and she didn’t need stitches. Most important, they were confident the baby was unhurt.

  Angie refused a ride to the hospital and promised to go later. She wanted to comfort Eva, who’d gone to pieces after she’d been told the man she’d shot at in the dark was most likely the one who’d previously attacked her.

  Two female officers were helping calm her down when Cal O’Brien turned up. He stood in the back doorway talking to a CSI and gave Angie a look that said he wanted a private word.

  She excused herself and joined him.

  His eyes immediately roamed her torn clothes, bloodied face and bandaged arm. “Please tell me the other guy looks worse than you.”

  “He does. But that’s not thanks to me. Our brave old lady shot him.”

  “She hit him?”

  “There’s blood in the yard, so I’d say yes.”

  “Good for her.” He looked back to the yard. CSIs were bagging and tagging under a blaze of lights. “Maybe we’ll catch a break.”

  “Bad choice of words.” Angie lifted her bandaged arm and winced.

  “Sorry. Did the old girl see him?”

  “No. She just came out frightened and firing. She’s one plucky lady. From what I could learn, she’s got no one to come and stay with her. Can you fix protection and social support?”

  “Can try. Best protection is to catch this scum.”

  “I’ve got something that might help with that. Take a look at that rucksack; he left it.”

  O’Brien dug in his jacket pocket and pulled out gloves. The top of the sack was buckled down, inside tied with a drawstring and toggle. He opened it and tipped out the contents.

  The heap of objects included a pair of sex shop handcuffs, five or six lengths of cut rope, rolls of silver gaffer tape, a hunting knife, a pair of pliers and a thick roll of black trash can liners.

  O’Brien moved the bags.

  Underneath was a length of wood about eighteen inches long and two inches square.

  They both silently considered the stave and the lives that had been ruined with it.

  “Please, God,” implored O’Brien, “let me find this lowlife, let him resist arrest and give me good cause to blow his fucking head off.”

  4

  Rustic Canyon Park, LA

  It was past 3:00 a.m. when SKU finished at Murphy’s Ranch.

  As Jake drove to Angie’s, he reflected on how they’d found the young filmmakers’ van parked at the back of the power station, out of camera shot and deep under a canopy of trees. Ruis Costas had been right. They’d cut corners and come filming without a permit. It had been a shortcut that saved a few bucks but cost them their lives.

  Jake hadn’t called Angie because he’d presumed she’d be asleep, so he was surprised to find the light on when he crept into the apartment. He was horrified to find her sitting in PJs on the sofa, with her arm in a sling and her face cut and bruised.

  “Jesus Christ, what happened to you?” He dropped his jacket and knelt down beside her.

  She put her head on his shoulder. “I got myself beaten up.”

  “What?”

  She knew he’d be cross. “I took a ride out to Lawndale to see where the rapist had failed during an attack, and he came back.”

  “You what?”

  “Please, don’t start up with a lecture.”

  “And you tackled this guy?”

  She sat up and grimaced. “I had no choice. I was checking out the old lady’s house and there he was in the yard, complete with freaky ski mask.”

  “I’m guessing from your injuries he’s now downtown having what’s left of him patched up?”

  “No, no, he’s not.” She sounded tired and strained now. “I fell over a damned trash can.” She looked at him. “Don’t you dare laugh at me. I was just about to plant a punch that would have knocked him all the way to the bull pen when I fell over it and ended up taking an air shot.”

  “I wasn’t going to laugh.” The twitch in the corner of his mouth said otherwise. “How bad’s the arm?”

  “Not as bad as it looks. He kicked me and I thought he’d broken the elbow but he hasn’t. It’s a dislocation and bad swelling. O’Brien ran me to the hospital. Hurt like hell when they reset it.”

  He tweaked her bandage a little. “What’s under the sling? Plaster or splints?”

  “Splint—a neat little fiberglass number.”

  “You almost make it sound sexy.”

  She gave him a stay-away look. “Don’t even think of coming near me for the next few days.”

  “Not even to kiss away your bruises and bring you drinks and snacks whenever you need them?”

  “Yeah, I guess that would be allowed.”

  “Any other injuries?”

  “None to worry about, Doctor Mottram.”

  He put a hand tenderly to her face. “You know, pregnant ladies shouldn’t be fighting in the street.”

  She leaned into his big, safe hand. “Yeah, I’m sure I read something in the books about not fighting homicidal rapists late at
night during the first trimester.”

  He kissed her head and stroked her hair the way he knew she liked it.

  Angie grew somber. “I scared myself tonight, Jake. Right in the middle of the fight I forgot all the training, all those years of martial arts I’d done. I just curled up in a ball to protect the baby and let him kick away. If this sweet old dear, Eva Hart, hadn’t come out shooting like Annie Oakley, God knows what would have happened.”

  “You were thinking like a mom, not a trained soldier; that’s only natural.”

  “I know. But it means the piece of shit escaped. Someone else is going to get hurt—maybe raped or killed—because I didn’t tough things out.”

  Jake shifted alongside Angie and carefully wrapped a protective arm around her. “You’re being stupid now. If anything, it sounds like your intervention saved an old lady’s life.”

  “Maybe.” She couldn’t help but feel sad and exhausted. “I just wish I’d got him.”

  “You will.” He prized himself free, stood up and offered an arm to help her off the couch. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

  Angie took it and made faces as she got to her feet. “How was your night?”

  “Eventful,” said Jake. “I’ll tell you when you’ve had some sleep.”

  5

  California

  Shooter had managed to finish work early.

  He’d started his shift faking a dose of flu, and after five hours of coughing, nose blowing and acting listlessly, his boss had sent him home.

  There had been good reason for wanting the time off, and it had nothing to do with feeling ill or simply swinging the lead like so many of his coworkers did.

  He had history to make.

  And making it required him to do something special.

  FOCUS.

  Right at the beginning of his mission he’d writ the word large. Cut his finger with an art knife and daubed the blood on a sheet of white cartridge paper until he’d completed the five letters.

  FOCUS.

  You could do nothing without it. Ask great athletes. Consult business gurus. Talk to spiritual and yogic leaders. They’ll all tell you the same thing.