Spree

by Michael Morley

  Ruis frowned. “What?”

  “Pee-eg. Swine.” Her face flushed and she breathed alcohol fumes all over them. “Pan Dudek, jest matkojebca—jest dupek, jest—”

  “In English,” demanded Tess.

  The cleaner put her hands on her hips and pushed her face forward to make a point. “He is a motherfucker. An asshole. A dork. A cu—”

  “Okay, okay,” Ruis cut her off. “I get the picture. Not Dudek, we’re not after him; we want to talk to Mr. Hendry.”

  She slapped her ass. “Dudek—he always touching. Always. Always. Think he is God’s gift. Swinia. Pokurwiony. Jebak.”

  “She’s drunk,” said Tess.

  “Thank you, Detective,” quipped Ruis.

  The woman swayed again. “Hendry—Hendry jest mała mysz.”

  “English!” barked Tess.

  “Mouse—he small mouse.”

  A man rounded the corner. His dark eyes fell on the two strangers talking to the cleaner. Then he saw the guns on their belts.

  He turned and ran.

  Ruis sprinted after him. “FBI. We’re armed agents. Stop or I’ll fire.”

  The guy speeded up. He pulled over a staff locker as he turned a corner.

  Ruis hurdled it.

  The man zipped right, through an opening, and banged a door shut.

  Ruis slid to a halt and twisted the handle.

  It was locked.

  “Fuck.” He stepped back and heel-kicked a panel near the lock.

  The frame shook but the door didn’t open.

  Tess appeared two yards behind him shouting into her radio.

  Ruis hit the locked wood with his shoulder and enough anger to roll a truck.

  The door popped.

  The guy was halfway through the window.

  “Stop the fuck where you are!” Ruis pulled his gun and fired into the wall above the window.

  The guy stopped. He froze half in and half out of the small window, covered in brick dust and plaster.

  Ruis grabbed him by the seat of his pants and pulled him back into the room.

  He flipped him over and knew right away it wasn’t Hendry. “What’s your name?”

  The man was Hispanic, late thirties and petrified. “Manuel Fuenta. I am the day supervisor.”

  “Of course you fucking well are.” Ruis abandoned his wristlock in dismay. “What in Christ’s name were you running for?”

  Fuenta didn’t answer.

  Back in the day, Tess had worked Immigration and recognized the look of despair on his face. “How’s your paperwork, Manuel? Is it going to get you home tonight, or a one-way ticket across the border?”

  His eyes gave her the answer she’d expected.

  Ruis put a hand down and hauled the guy upright. “Tonight’s your lucky night, buddy. Sit down and tell me about Warren Hendry, starting with when you expect him to arrive and how you can help us get our hands on him.”

  40

  Skid Row, LA

  Shooter hauled Mike Hanrahan’s body into the john and left it propped in a corner. It wasn’t a long-term answer. Not even a midterm one. But for now, out of sight constituted out of mind. At least it would have if he hadn’t been almost out of his own mind with anxiety.

  Fear—so absent from his early endeavors—had raised its ugly head.

  It wasn’t just that he was afraid of being caught—though that was palpable enough; it was his fear of failing. Even in his own surmised death, he struggled to live up to what he believed was expected of him.

  “You know what I did for you.”

  Winston had said those words two days before his execution.

  It had been in a visitor’s room off Death Row, and he’d leaned over the table he’d been manacled to. His stare had bored through Warren’s skull. His voice had been so deep and intense it had made his heart rumble.

  “What I did, I did for you, bro. Jus’ remember, I sacrificed my life for your life.”

  The words had chilled him at the time and brought shivers ever since. Winston had gone further. Had told him the real reason he’d shot the other gang member. And once he’d listened, Warren knew it was only right that he avenge his execution.

  Shooter felt his world was running at two speeds. His internal clock was painfully slow. It was like being lost on a wild trail without a compass on a hot summer’s day. Externally, everything was uncontrollably fast, beyond the speed of his reactions and instincts.

  He went back and sat in the room he called Death Row, leaned against the wiped-down wall and spoke to his brother’s photograph. “I did this for you, bro.” He waved a hand at the still blood-wet photographs of the people he’d killed. “I gave your jurors life sentences of pain. I executed their loved ones for you, man. Blood for blood.” He squatted on his haunches and dropped sweat between his knees. “Blood for blood.”

  Shooter stared at the floor for what seemed like an eternity, then looked up and locked eyes on the only human being who had ever loved and supported him.

  The puzzle of life and death lay between them. Its pieces scattered by the winds of fortune. He’d thought salvation lay in the pictures of slaughtered victims pinned to the wall. There and in the faces of those he still planned to murder.

  Only his plans were coming apart.

  He was burned out. The pressure to complete his task, to fulfill his promise, was eating him like a disease, sucking his strength and health.

  Shooter stood wearily and walked toward his room full of old clothes. A dozen disguises hung on the rails in front of him. They’d been amassed to facilitate his escape from the homicides. But now the urge was different. He longed to slip on the rags of Old Joe and permanently disappear into the cardboard commune of Skid Row. He could fit in there. Nothing would be asked of him. No expectations. No responsibilities. No worries. He could be Old Joe until the heat had died down. Perhaps forever. It really wasn’t such a bad idea.

  Through the open doorway an alarm sounded.

  Not a security alarm. A mundane clock alert. It was time for him to shower. To get ready for work. To pretend again.

  Or not.

  41

  South Los Angeles

  Angie was done. Tired out. Desperate to go home.

  Chips had kept adding to the list of places that might have had significance for Winston, but she was starting to doubt she’d get through them all.

  Still to be checked was the now-empty church hall the gangster had hidden in during an escape from juvie, the old factory building he’d run into during his final shoot-out with the cops, and various lockups in Compton and Florence-Graham where he’d stashed his guns and explosives.

  The Anti-Gangs Unit said Winston had been known to have several stashes all over LA and they suspected they’d never found them all. The intel made sense to Angie. She presumed that’s where Warren had gotten his range of weapons.

  A glance at the clock in the Jeep told her it was a quarter past the time when Hendry was supposed to have started his shift. She didn’t dare call Ruis and pester him. With any luck he might be right in the middle of the arrest.

  Instead, she got out and stretched. A walk would keep her awake. Maybe get rid of the heartburn that was developing from sitting too long and the stiff neck she felt from the tension. Her stomach felt bloated and she worried about how all the physical stress might be affecting the baby. She gently massaged her tummy and gazed at the LA skyline. The old city looked as tired and beat-up as she felt. The sun had long ago lost its youthful morning glow and was anemically bowing out for the evening, leaving only shadowy traces of a spent day.

  Time ticked slowly on and she decided she had to at least text Ruis. He could always ignore it. The message was simple: ANYTHING YET?

  To her surprise, her phone rang almost instantly.

  Ruis sounded lower than the sun. “Hi, how you doing?”

  “Okay.”

  He got to the point. “I know you’re desperate for an update but we’ve got nothing here, otherwise I’d h
ave called you.” His voice was monotone. “We’re just sitting like dumbasses at Hendry’s workplace, and a guy who’s apparently never late for his shifts—no surprise—is late for his shift.”

  She grasped at straws. “Never late?”

  “That’s what the jerk of a daytime guy says. Claims Warren’s always on time.” He took a beat and decided to break the news. “Angie, I’m real sorry to tell you this—Nate Payne died on the way to hospital.”

  For a moment she couldn’t talk.

  Her mind filled with memories of Ruis stopping her from entering the house and the harrowing calls from Chips, telling her how the husband was bleeding out and couldn’t survive much longer.

  “Angie, I’m very sorry.”

  “I know.” She sounded sad and down. “It’s not your fault, Ruis. You didn’t shoot him, so don’t go blaming yourself for this.”

  “Yeah, well, I kind of do—and you know why.”

  “Then don’t. There’s no point. You aren’t a clairvoyant and you made a tough call.”

  “Thanks.” His tone changed. “We’ve got movement in the yard. Looks like he’s coming.”

  The line went dead.

  42

  Angie drove with mixed emotions. Sadness at Payne’s death. Elation that Warren had turned up.

  She pushed the gate open and looked around the abandoned yard that spread in front of her. Not that there was much to look at. This was one of those patches of earth that progress had left behind. Greens and yellows of thick weeds busted through blacktop that once hosted delivery vehicles and the hurrying feet of workers. Not anymore. Windows were shuttered. Roller doors rusted and bolted.

  Her phone rang again. She felt a jolt of excitement.

  The display said it was Chips, not Ruis. Nevertheless, he sounded excited. “Where are you?”

  She was desperate for news. “You just talk to Ruis?”

  “No. Where are you?”

  “Skid Row, the old shoe factory address you gave me.”

  “He’s there, Angie.”

  “What?”

  “Cyber Squad finally got a fix on his computer. Warren’s online and he’s in the factory. You’re just yards away from him.”

  She felt her heart quicken. Instinctively, her hand reached for her gun. “You’re absolutely certain, Chips?”

  “As much as I can be without a visual. He tweeted only a minute ago.”

  She walked up close to the side of the dilapidated building so she couldn’t be seen. “What’d it say?”

  “Decision Time.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Only those words. Spelled and spaced properly.”

  “Sounds like he’s refocused.” Angie looked up and around for security cameras. She couldn’t see any from where she was but she was damned certain they were there. “This is what we’re going to do. Call for backup, Chips. Call Ruis. Call Crawford. Call everyone you know with a gun and do it quick.”

  He knew what was on her mind. “Angie, wait—don’t do anything crazy. I’ll get people to you—fast as I can. Please, just hang off till they get there. Okay?”

  “No, not okay.” She checked the magazine of her Glock. “Nate Payne died earlier today because I was made to wait. Not again. No one else dies tonight except the motherfucker who deserves to. It ends now, Chips, and on my terms.”

  She hung up before he could reply.

  Angie’s heart was hammering. She shut her eyes and breathed slowly. It was vital she cleared her mind and focused. A factory unit like this would have several exit points. No way was this bastard going to slip out and vanish as he’d done before.

  She was going to have to go in. Take him by surprise. Contain him.

  All her FBI combat training rewound in her mind. How to go through an open door, adjust quickly to darkness, sweep the space in front, check behind, take no chances. Kill if necessary.

  She took one last pause and began to walk the outer wall.

  The roller door was locked. A side door rusted and closed. Cobwebs over the corner said it hadn’t been opened for ages. She moved on and accidentally kicked an old Bud bottle. It rolled forever. Sounded as loud as a truck of glass being emptied. Angie took it as a timely reminder to focus on her feet as well as the gun in her hands.

  The next door had been freshly fitted. It was white metal and clean. Sunk into the wall at shoulder height was a numerical keypad.

  Her heart sank.

  Ten digits meant there could be a zillion combinations of numbers to enter. Often, it was a sequence of four. She tried zero, zero, zero, zero—the usual factory default. There was no satisfying buzz.

  Angie examined the metal edges. A stone had caught in the corner of the doorplate and it hadn’t closed properly. She worked her fingertips in and pried open the gap.

  Blackness.

  Alarm bells rang. Not in the building but in her head.

  There was a good chance the door had been left open deliberately. Chips had said Hendry had traced the fake FBI server to the safe house; it followed that he might also have worked out that the Feds were behind Judge Elysia.

  She raised her gun and knew she could be about to enter a trap. For a moment, she felt as if she was turning into Ruis. Finding textbook reasons not to do her job. Not to stop the murderous piece of shit before he killed again.

  Angie counted to three, pulled the door and rolled inside. She kept low to avoid body shots and was relieved when none came. She flattened out on the floor and stared into the black tunnel ahead.

  Music ran like a rat toward her.

  Distant strains of hard, heavy rock. Somewhere off to the side a TV blared. No, not one. Several. News channels, turned up, different anchors and reporters speaking over one another.

  Angie edged forward on knees and elbows, her gun pointing up at what would be gut- or heart-height of anyone standing in the shadows.

  The music was now clear enough for her to make out Marilyn Manson singing about being a bullet heading into the heart of God.

  A male newsreader reported the shooting of a middle-aged couple.

  The door creaked shut behind her. She’d heard nothing outside, meaning the inside had been soundproofed. The space was confined. Tight. The big unit paneled out in a strange way.

  Scenery.

  Hendry had used his stage skills to create a long, narrow passage with various rooms off.

  There was a burst of white light.

  Angie edged up to a wall. Swept the gun left then right.

  No one was there.

  Across the floor glistened swirls and deltas of bloody footprints. Marks of sneakers. A history of going back and forth. And dragging something.

  On the wall were four bloody ticks.

  One for each victim.

  She heard herself breathing. Panting like a dog.

  Angie shut her mouth. Drew air in, long and slow. Calmed down like she’d been taught at Quantico.

  She stayed low, raised the gun and crept round the corner. Her finger stayed curled around the Glock’s trigger. The weapon never more than a hair’s weight away from being fired.

  There was a door to her left.

  She got to her feet, rushed over and pushed it open.

  The Glock swept the air as her eyes took in a washroom. Gray. Cold. Old. Three stalls. A shower in the corner. Cracked mirrors over a run of old basins.

  In the last silvered glass she spotted the legs of a man. Adrenaline surged.

  Hendry.

  She swung left and was about to fire.

  Then she saw the shattered skull. The matted blood. The lifeless torso. Angie leaned back against the wall while she rode the full shock of seeing the dead young man.

  She had no doubt now of where she was. This was the end of the line. The place she might die in. Killed by the same monster that killed Jake.

  Anger gripped her hard. Fortified her nerve. Gave her resolve.

  If she was going to die here, she wouldn’t be the only one.

  The
coward had caught Jake unawares.

  That wasn’t going to happen to her.

  It took Angie less than twenty seconds to settle her breathing. She opened the washroom door and slowly and silently slid back into the passageway.

  Five feet of corridor led to another door. Seeped around the foot of the jamb was blood-colored water. It shimmered. Wet and fresh from where someone had cleaned. She figured it was linked to the corpse she’d seen in the washroom. There had been too little mess in the john for him to have been capped in there.

  Her breathing shortened again. More panting. No time to gain control.

  Angie saw a handmade sign dangling in front of her. It said: DEATH ROW.

  She pushed the door open.

  Everything registered at once.

  There was no body. But there had been a shooting in here. The walls had been wiped down and were stained pink. She saw candles on a shelf, throwing cheap false light onto nearby photographs. Pictures of men, women and children. Grouped, not alone. Faces familiar. Now she recognized them. The poor souls slaughtered at the mall and in the Strawberry Fields. The dead banker.

  Jake.

  Angie struggled to breathe.

  Jake.

  She froze.

  Her love. The father of her unborn child. Her future.

  She turned. Saw another face. Familiar. Dead.

  Winston Hendry.

  The music stopped. The TVs stopped. All sound was muted.

  The lights went out.

  Complete darkness.

  Angie moved on her toes. Facts sank in. Awful truths. She’d walked into a trap and now it was being sprung. As she’d guessed, the front door hadn’t been left unlocked accidentally. The Cyber Squad hadn’t gotten lucky and broken Hendry’s IP mask; he’d removed the shield so they could trace him.

  He’d wanted this confrontation.

  He’d made it happen.

  Then so be it. She was more than ready to face him.

  She turned the corner of the corridor and glimpsed a shower of red spotlight. It came from up ahead, its source hidden around yet another doglegged corridor.

  As Angie edged along the black paneling, she made out white-painted theater signs: STALLS—CIRCLES—ACTORS ONLY—QUIET PLEASE.

  The boards ended.