He walked past the weight room, the locker room, and the assembly room where the Knight Squad met to prepare for raids, then he stopped and waited at the heavy steel door until all firing ceased.
The smell of spent fireworks filled his sinuses as he entered the cavernous room. The familiar aromas of vaporized bullet lubricants and cordite quickly followed. The sharp metallic nature of the gas tasted acrid to his tongue. He stood inside the door and focused on the men standing at the top of Lane #3. Most were dressed in workout gear, but several had already showered and donned civilian clothes. Sergeant Eric Strong wore a uniform. Strong holstered his weapon, pulled a paper target from the track and turned with a smug smile on his face. “Looks like I won again, Little Jimmy.”
“Oh, no, you did not,” Corporal Jimmy Little shouted. “I won.”
“Every one of my shots is dead center in the chest!”
“Yeah, but you were supposed to be aiming for the head!”
The Knight Squad broke into raucous laughter. All but Strong. The gunslinger raised an eyebrow, shook his head, and then slammed a fresh clip into his gun and walked to the top of Lane #4. He pushed a button and a new silhouette target moved down the lane to the farthest point. The rest of the men covered their ears.
Rico had always thought Strong looked more like a pizzeria chef than a cop—a Russian-Italian waiter perhaps, certainly not a killer—but when he raised his pistol all doubt was erased. He fired eight shots in rapid succession and then pushed a switch to retrieve the target. He unclipped it and walked back over.
“Circle ’em. Twenty-five yards. All in the head.”
Rico felt his chest swell. The Knight Squad was his team, the best of the best. And their mission was simple: eradication of gangs through suppression. Each of the men had been specially chosen. Each possessed exceptional skills and a sub- specialty that set him apart from his peers. Eric Strong’s was shooting. He was a quiet man with a round face, crew cut black hair, and a three-day-old goatee just beginning to gray. At thirty-five years of age, he was well into his prime—his sharp brown eyes already a click off of 20-10—but no one would ever notice. Within fifty yards there was no man alive better with a handgun. Automatic or revolver, Strong could smoke any target, easily placing six rounds in the bull’s eye in five seconds or less.
Rico stood quietly glancing around at the group. His jokester Keith Mullins blew up things—locks, hinges, barricaded doors—but his specialty was sniffing out booby-traps. A tall, lean man of thirty-three with eyes like a hawk and the endurance of a horse, he had graduated from the Navy’s elite EOD (Explosive Ordinance Disposal) school as a Chief Petty Officer. Following a brief career, made short by a piece of hot shrapnel to his left eye, he was honorably discharged from the Navy and came home to unwind. But sitting around was not a skill that Mullins possessed, and he soon found himself in rookie school at the East Beach Police Department. After a year on the street, Rico selected him for the Knight Squad.
Andrew Hamilton and Cadarian Rogers could have been professional athletes. Rogers held multiple records as a power forward at Virginia Tech but turned down an offer to go pro in lieu of a career in law enforcement. Ham distinguished himself as a star shortstop at the University of South Carolina, but a hamstring injury cut short his career. After completing a degree in Criminal Justice he moved to Charlotte where he met Cadarian, whom he later nicknamed the Rat. Together they trained and became hardened SWAT team veterans. Both men could break down, clean, and repair any weapon, and both knew how to shoot.
Next came Jose Lopez, affectionately known as Hose, and his best friend, the team’s most eccentric looking member, Vernon Hicks (aka Mister Clean, for his albino skin and pink eyes). These men knew more about street gangs than even Rico did. Having grown up on the streets of Washington, D.C., they had extensive experience in dealing with urban gangs, and after joining the Metro force and distinguishing themselves for shutting down a local faction of the Crips, they were fired for false accusations of narcotics trafficking. Rico met them at an interview with PD and took them into the squad without question.
Tony Barnes (a.k.a. The Ghost) was the quietest of the eight. This large framed, blond headed Norseman with baby-blue eyes and chiseled chin had served three tours in Iraq and Afghanistan as a Marine Corps Scout/Sniper. To the uninformed, he might have been mistaken for a shy college boy, but to those who knew him, Barnes was a true killer. A rugged southern boy from the woods of eastern North Carolina, he spent his weekends hunting wild hogs—not with a gun, but with a knife. His shooting skills were legendary, but he refused to talk about it, even amongst his brethren. Despite his uncanny ability to freeze into a solid block of ice when his finger wrapped around the trigger, he suffered a chronic quiver to the fingers of his right hand. The doctors called it post- traumatic stress disorder. Barnes called it his ghost. “Some memories,” he once stated, “cannot be easily erased.”
And lastly, there was Corporal Jimmy Little (a.k.a. Little Jimmy), Rico’s second in command. Little was the best man Rico had ever seen. And each of the rest just as impressive, fit and ready for action. And at that moment each man was armed—most with the same weapon—the 45-caliber Sig-Sauer P220 pistol. They were all experts with the Sig, but Eric Strong was the best.
“Beat that, Little Jimmy. Next time maybe you can—” Strong suddenly froze, his face contorting into a confused grimace. “—win. What the…”
Little turned, gazed momentarily at the strange intruder standing behind them, and then reached for his weapon.
“Whoa!” Rico shouted raising his hands. “Easy, Jimmy! It’s me! Just a show boy, just a show.”
“Sarge?”
Rico Rivetti carried considerable weight with his men. To say they worshipped him would not have been a stretch. He could shoot, fight, and lift with the best of them, and since he had formed the elite Knight Squad three years before, gang activity in East Beach had dropped to a ten-year low. From their point of view, Rico was a superhero, but at that moment they looked at him like he was crazy.
“Sir?” Little said slowly approaching. “Why are you wearing a costume?”
“I’m sure you all heard about Charlie Kennedy. What you may not have heard yet is that there were two other murders in the Reservoir district last night. One of the suspects wore a mask just like this one.”
“Pretty good imitation too,” Strong said, removing the clip from his Sig. “Except for one thing, sir. The real Michael Myers used a butcher knife.”
“Unfortunately—” Rico reached inside his coveralls and pulled out a shotgun. Once again, he saw Little flinch. “Our Michael used something stronger—” He rocked the action to chamber an imaginary shell. “One of these.”
Eric Strong stepped forward and took the weapon. “Mossberg 500. Nice weapon. Shame to see the barrel painted up. You saying the killer used one of these?”
“Not one of these. This one. Borrowed it from the evidence locker.”
“What’s with the red barrel?”
“Dunno.”
“Let’s see that, manno.” Jose Lopez stepped forward and grabbed the gun. “Rico, me, and Clean arrested a drug dealer out near Cedar Creek. Confiscated a red-tipped shotgun, like this one. Belonged to some motorcycle gang with red colors. Remember that, Clean?”
Vernon Hicks nodded. “Devil’s face.”
“That’s right,” Lopez added. “Red El Diablo on the back of their leather coats.”
“I’ll look into it.” Rico peeled off the store-bought rubbery mask. He handed it to Strong and then wiped a thin film of sweat from his face. “Didn’t mean to freak out you guys, but I was hoping to make an impression.”
Strong chuckled. “You did.”
“Take a good look at it, gentlemen. This is what we’re up against.”
Strong scowled and passed it to the next man. “What was the other suspect wearing?”
“Hockey mask.”
“Let me guess,” Mullins interjected. “Jason from Friday the
13th?”
“Exactly.”
“Which one did the killing?” Hicks asked, his strange pinkish gray eyes fixed on the mask.
“One you’re holding. He should have a limp. Peters got off a round of his own before he was hit.”
“Good boy,” Hicks said passing the mask to Rogers.
“Really good,” Ham added, a concerned expression seizing his face. “I helped train his rookie class. Is he okay?”
“Just came out of surgery. One of the pellets hit an artery in his neck. He lost a lot of blood.”
“Excellent shot too,” Ham said cursing. “Be a shame to lose him.”
Little grabbed a broom and began sweeping up the spent brass cartridges at the top of Lane #3. “Sarge, you still need to explain why the Knight Squad is being called in on this. A fellow cop was shot. I get that. But we’re an anti-gang unit. Why not just let the homicide detectives handle it?”
“We haven’t been assigned yet. Just wanted you guys on top of it early. Have a feeling it’s going to get messy. Two murders occurred last night in the same neighborhood. The M-O was different, but the results were the same. One victim got the shotgun in the face, the other a brick.”
“Creative,” Mullins joked. “Brick to the face.”
“I still don’t get it,” Strong objected. “Sorry, sir, but so what?”
“The victims were related, Eric.”
“Say what?”
“The first one was a local paramedic named Devon Washington. The old woman was his grandmother.”
“That’s too bad.” Little dumped the spent brass cartridges into a metal trash can. “But his grandmother, too? Gotta be a coincidence, Rico. Random killings.”
“Wait, there’s more. Same thing happened in Durham Wednesday night. An EMS supervisor and his wife bought it same way. Shotgun blasts at close range. And get this … an eyewitness reported seeing a Halloween mask.”
“Sir?” Hicks said. “Are we dealing with a serial killer?”
Rico shrugged.
“What do you want us to do?” Jose Lopez asked as he studied the mask. “Is this nut a serial killer like Clean said? Some kind of paramedic killer?”
“Wish I knew. Now listen, we need to get a lead on these two clowns before they can kill again. Check your local contacts. See if there’s a connection to East Beach gangs. I’m working with the Daggers in Durham. We’ll pool our info and devise a plan. Two things are certain—these two characters are cold-blooded, and they aren’t from the neighborhood.”
Strong shrugged. “How could you possibly know that?”
“Last time I checked there were no Anglo-Saxon, Braveheart-types living on Reservoir Street. Killer had blue eyes and an accent. Spoke with that local, down East, Scots-Irish dialect.”
“Let me get this straight,” Strong said. “We’ve got a pair of hoi toiders running around in Halloween costumes murdering paramedics?”
“That’s where we are. So no more shift work for a while, guys. Until I say otherwise, you’re back on Knight Squad full time.”
“And when we find them?”
“Tony,” Rico said, glancing at his trusted sniper. “Use whatever force necessary.”
Barnes grinned. “How ’bout a .300 Winchester Magnum to the head?”
“If necessary. Questions?”
No one responded. Rico thanked the men and turned them loose. Little grabbed his gear bag and started for the door.
“Jimmy,” Rico said. “Hold up.”
Rico glanced at his youngest officer. His crew cut blond hair glistened with sweat. A gold shield dangled from a chain that hung around his thin but muscular neck. His chest and arms didn’t bulge like some of the other men in the room, and he had no military experience like most, but what he lacked in bulk and military brawn, he made up for in brain power. Little was a great cop, with more than textbook experience. He had served with Rico on the Knight Squad since its inception, working his way to a spot by Rico’s side. Rico watched over him with the eyes of a hawk. He loved him like a son. Little stopped and turned around, his face beaming with youthful exuberance. “What’s up, Sarge?”
“Think you can get one of the fast boats from Rescue?”
“I can try. Why?”
“Need you to take me out to Core Creek Island to pick up Jim Stockbridge. The paramedic killed in Durham … he used to be Jim’s supervisor here in East Beach. If I’m not mistaken, he was with them out on 101 the night of that wreck.”
“What are you saying, Sarge?”
“I’m saying I believe Jim Stockbridge is next.”
CHAPTER
10
SATURDAY—07:38—JIM’S PLACE (#24 Core Creek Rd, Core Creek Island) Core Creek Island was little more than a tiny spot on the Ocean Graphix chart of Beaufort Inlet and Newport Sound, but to the people who lived there it was paradise. The dry little piece of land sat only a few feet above the water in the Newport Sound behind Beaufort and Morehead City. It got flooded every hurricane season, and because there was little more to do there than think, it received very few visitors. Why the state maintained a ferry landing there at all was a mystery to Jim. Most of the residents used motorboats to come and go from the mainland, and no more than a handful of cars could ever be found on one of the typical two- mile crossings from Teach’s Creek Marina in Beaufort. But the ferry maintained regular hours all the same. Rumor had it a past Governor had pulled strings since his personal sailboat floated—generally unused—at Pair-A-Docks.
Jim waited for the crew to lower the forward deck chains and then drove off the ferry. He pulled into the General Store for a cup of coffee and some small talk, and then made the short half-mile drive around the island to Jim’s Place. Still soggy from humidity and rain, he parked his truck under the oak tree at the end of his driveway, grabbed his coffee, and stepped onto the side porch. He removed his uniform shirt and tee, hung them on the rail to dry, and then followed the deck around the house to his favorite perch overlooking the creek.
The harbor could only be described as tranquil. The twenty-four sailboats that made their home at Pair-A-Docks sat motionless in their slips. His, a solid thirty-three footer named Shoal Survivor, floated peacefully at the end of West Dock, and even from a distance he could see the thin line of scum that had formed along her waterline. He made a mental note to have her pulled, scraped, and repainted soon and then shifted his gaze two spaces to the left. An unfamiliar yacht floated in slip #23, a cream-colored vessel rigged for heavy sailing. Blue jerry cans were tied to the port railing. Yellow lifelines extended from bow to stern. A young woman sat in the cockpit with her head bent over a laptop. She had her hair pulled back into a brown ponytail.
“So, you must be Sadie Miller.”
Jim inhaled deeply. The welcoming scent of fresh-scrubbed pines and rotten oyster shells filled his nostrils. The tiny island possessed a natural tranquilizer that he had yet to identify. Under normal circumstances he would have felt the tightness in his shoulders begin to slip away, but this morning the muscles in his back felt like over-tightened guitar strings. He drained his cup and went inside for a shower. Afterwards he made a fresh pot of coffee and reached beneath his bar to retrieve his medicine bottle. He stared at it for a moment wondering what type of hallucinations might follow, and then pulled out a white pill and reluctantly popped it into his mouth. After chasing it down with a mouthful of java, he stepped back out onto the deck with a towel wrapped around his waist.
There wasn’t a puff of wind over the island, and almost immediately he began to sweat. He took a sip from his mug anyway and glanced again at the girl on the boat. Her fingers flew across the keys. She seemed to be hard at work. He was just beginning to concoct an image of her face when he felt his cell phone vibrate. He pulled it from his pocket and glanced at the screen. The caller ID read “1-VAL”. He pushed the SEND button and tried to sound cheerful.
“I’m so glad you called.”
Jim’s fiancée chuckled. “Weren’t you expecting me?�
�
“Yeah, it’s just really good to hear your voice.”
“Rough night?”
“That would be an understatement.”
“You sound exhausted.”
“I am. Val, pray for Sharon. She just quit.”
“Quit? Why?”
“Let’s just say she picked a really bad night to return to work.”
“Is Bagwell being a jerk again?”
“No, it’s not him. You remember my old partner, Devon Washington? He was murdered early this morning.”
“What!”
“We found him behind the old Cannery shot in the chest.”
“Oh, my word.”
“We were treating him when these two weirdoes came out of the woods wearing Halloween masks. Val, they shot him in the face.”
“Jim? What in heaven’s name?”
“They killed his grandmother, too. And, a cop.”
“How come they didn’t shoot you and Sharon?”
“It’s a long story. I wrestled the shotgun away from the killer and had it on him, but then that ridiculous haze came over me again.”
“And they got away?”
“I should’ve shot them when I had the chance. I can’t help but wonder if Devon’s grandmom would still be alive.”
“You can’t blame yourself.”
“I don’t mind telling you, Val, I’m getting a pretty weird feeling.”
“We need to get you off that medicine before you do kill somebody.”
The silence that followed was unnerving. Jim knew Valerie was right. He needed help. He also knew it wasn’t his fault; he had a chemical imbalance that demanded medications, and it was nothing to be ashamed of. Still, that didn’t change the fact that he felt out-of-control and frightened.
“So how about today?”
“You still want to go sailing?”
“Why not?”
“I just thought after all that happened last night … oh, never mind. Hon, I need to ask a big favor. My little sister came in from Wilmington last night, and she would really like to come.”
“Mel’s here?”
“She dropped in by surprise. Would you mind too much if she came along?”
Paramedic Killer Page 6
