“Do you export?” Al asks.
“You’ve watched too many Liam Neeson movies,” Abdul-Hamid says.
“Maybe I have, but I’ve been having a morality crisis. I need to get rid of a girl.”
“Kill her.”
“No. No killing.”
“How old?” Abdul-Hamid asks.
“Early twenties. Pretty, still has spirit, red hair—natural.”
“Too old. But red hairs becoming popular. I do this for you.”
“Abdul-Hamid, they have you flagged. How will you leave the country?”
“My travel plans are none of your fucking business.”
“Fair enough,” Al says.
“Where is this girl?”
“Sedated in the back under the folded down seat.”
“Show me,” Abdul-Hamid says.
“Not here.” Al drives from the chaotic liberation of the Asian girls. He wonders how many, once deported, will be smuggled back to be sold once again.
In a secluded parking lot Al exits his SUV. He keeps Abdul-Hamid in the handcuffs. Al flips the seat up on his side.
Abdul-Hamid twists to view the back chamber of the vehicle. Bound and gagged, the redhead sleeps spooned against a brunette.
“You didn’t say you had two girls.”
“Does it matter what the cost of your freedom is?”
“How do I know this isn’t entrapment?” Abdul-Hamid asks.
“Then why would I bother snatching you before you were in your office? I need these girls gone and not dead.”
“I export them to nice men,” Abdul-Hamid smiles.
“I just don’t want them dead,” Al stresses.
“Lost the stomach for it? Or did you fall for her? Don’t keep one too long, it helps prevent those emotions. But I make sure they are not killed.”
“Good.” Al knows they will be ill-treated compared to staying with him, but he must remove evidence.
“Then we have a deal, provided you drive me to the docks.”
Al nods.
Abdul-Hamid leans into the vehicle, stretching out his arm signaling for the cuffs to be removed from his wrists.
“Which dock?”
“How about I sit here and tell you when we get closer.”
“Fine.” Al hands Abdul-Hamid a new, unopened burner phone. “In case you need to call your people.”
“You seem quite the expert. These aren’t your first girls,” Abdul-Hamid guesses. “Why not kill these? The life you trade them into won’t be pleasant. But you know this.”
“They will be alive. I don’t have the stomach to murder anymore,” Al says.
“But you know they will be sex slaves.”
“You will keep them alive? I want them to be alive,” Al demands.
“You prevented me from being arrested. I overlook the way you put me in your car. I understand if someone spotted you, you needed to appear as a working cop. Protect yourself first. Consider their living a favor repaid. You will never worry over them again.”
II
AL FLIPS HIS burner phone on. Jane paired him with Jack in case they needed a buddy to prevent a killing. To prevent his own demise, he must satisfy the hunt of the shattered Agent Smith. He may not have to bring down each group member, but he’ll need a few for closure over Shawna’s death.
He activates the only number in the phone.
After two rings, “I don’t want to help you anymore. Just let those…”
“The FBI knows. The kid was a plant.” Al’s short expiation ends with a click. He snaps the phone in two, the pieces to be discarded along the highway in a few locations.
His best course of action would be to run, but he doesn’t believe Jesse knows who he is. If he returns to his case and allows Smith to use the kid he may not have to interact with him.
Al activates his work cell. “Smith.” The phone autodials the number.
“Al. I could sure use you, buddy,” Agent Smith mumbles.
“Sorry, I had to leave right after the funeral. I’ve got an active killer and he’s getting bolder in his attacks,” Al says.
“I need you on this one.”
“I’ll clear this one fast. You be careful,” Al says.
“I know Thornton is pushing me over the edge. Director Engström wants to run us as a task force and pad his resume. Fucker’s got political aspirations. Rumor has it a new director may be assigned. Every agent’s desires to make their career by being the one to bring down a half-dozen killers at once.”
“Director Slincard hates my ass. It’s why he keeps playing musical chairs with our supervisors. My concern is nabbing the Car Tap Killer fast. Sounds like the administration is more dangerous than a group of serial killers.” Al ramps up his empathy. “Smith, you be careful. Just from the few bits of information I gleaned of your case I suspect none of those people are the type to be arrested. They will fight. Sutherland’s death proves my concern.”
“It’s this kid. Your assessment of him might help. He’s been withholding information. You’d see right through him,” Smith says.
“I’ll wrap up my case as fast as possible. Trust me, these people won’t surrender.” Al plants a seed. An officer on edge will more likely shoot first.
“I’ll watch my back. We are serving a warrant on one of the alleged group members now.”
I
“HOW DO YOU want to play this?” Agent Thornton asks, staring at the book store across the street.
“From what Jesse said, Edgars always meets someone after the show. Sounds like a fangirl. He didn’t carry weapons on him when he flew, but we are in his home town. We get in line near the end as the place clears, we get his autograph and we arrest him.” Agent Smith waves a copy a of hard back book at his partner. “Just like our new task force leader wishes.”
“Sounds all too easy. When was the last time Director Lawrence was in the field? I heard he met Hoover.”
“Don’t bet on it.” Smith practices keeping the book in his left hand, allowing his right clear access to his service Glock. “I’m committed to this case. Agent Sutherland may have been a new partner, but she was mine and I will bring down this group to honor her. I ain’t jumping ship because she died on my watch, nor am I seeking a multi-criminal arrest to make my career like all these new bosses we keep getting.” Al knows the fool behind the wheel misses the jab at his own reason for being assigned to this case.
“We nab Edgars, we get this Kenneth, too,” Thornton speculates. “It might lead us to this Jane who founded the group, but I doubt we figure out who Ed or this Al is.”
“I’ve done this enough, you need to focus on one task at a time. We get this guy secure in a cell and we all go home before we worry about any other arrests.”
“I know who Al is,” Thornton says.
Smith slips his hand to his Glock, double checking. “Who?”
“One sick fuck. Choking out woman like that as he rapes them. He’ll leave one too many bodies one day and we’ll nab him. No one who does that will be able to stop.”
Smith relaxes his hand. “You’ll get no argument from me there. Why not this Ed guy?”
“Long distance truck driving killers are near impossible to find. The kid says he travels through Dallas. Texas leads the nation in unsolved highway killings. There are almost no clues and no telling how many are actively hunting at one time.”
“You’re correct as always, Thornton. When the kid said truck driver killer, I did a search and ran across the Highway of Tears,” Smith says.
“Some forty reported young women have vanished on British Columbia Highway 16 over the last thirty years. I’d lay odds more than one truck driving killer hunts that stretch of ground,” Thornton says.
“After this case you need to take a break. You’ve become way too engrossed in the subject.”
“Only way to catch one is to become one,” Thornton smiles. “Line’s thinning,” he says as he slides from behind the wheel of the car.
“Now you sou
nd like Al.” Agent Smith slams the car door behind him. “Are all you profilers this insane?”
Thornton jogs across the street, ignoring the question.
They reach the table. Smith places his book with the well-worn dust jacket before Edgars. He steps back, half into his gun drawing stance.
Edgars opens the book without glancing up. “You’ve read this more than once.”
“It was good. I enjoyed it.”
“I know you want it personalized.”
“Make it out to Agent Smith, FBI.”
Edgars flips the folding table into Thornton. He doesn’t even wait to learn why the agents stood in line.
Agent Smith’s gun clears its holster, but he balks at firing with a book store full of screaming civilians.
He makes a second rookie mistake that Director Lawrence will later chastise him heavily for. He digs Thornton out from under the table of books instead of immediately chasing the suspect. Once clear of the entanglement Thornton could call for backup and then follow.
Embarrassed, Thornton jerks away from Smith. “I’m good. Get after him!”
Edgars hits the fire exit door, activating the automatic alarm.
Smith doesn’t know if the klaxon attaches to an automatic system alerting the fire department or not, but it will attract witnesses. In today’s world of constant cell phone video he must make sure it is a clean shoot or none at all.
He barrels through the door. Edgars abandons fumbling with his car keys and bolts between two houses.
Smith pours on the speed, chasing after a man who’s no spring chicken. The suit Edgars sports deceives the expected stereotype of a man who sits behind a keyboard for hours at a time.
Smith detects the swift footfalls of Agent Thornton behind him.
Edgars leaps a short fence tumbling through some staked tomato plants. A little old lady screams profanities no grandmother should use from her porch.
Smith yells, “Get back inside! The man has a gun. He’s dangerous!”
Agent Thornton orders, “FBI! Get back inside!”
Smith knows Thornton has yet to witness Edgars brandish a weapon. But he planted the seeds in the old lady’s mind. She saw a gun even if she didn’t.
Thornton will be quick on the draw as well, believing there is a gun. He may fire on adrenaline.
Edgars darts across a street, nearly being hit by some soccer mom’s minivan. Thornton waves his hand and screams for her to remain in her car. She wasn’t going fast enough to kill Edgars if she had impacted him.
Edgars climbs a brick wall, tearing his suit jacket and pants on the barbed wire laying hidden across the top as he flips over.
Smith follows.
Thornton slips off his suit jacket, balls it before flipping it to shield his hands from the sticker points. He lands in the yard on overgrown grass, informing him no one has been home to mow in a while.
Agent Smith stands alone in the yard, gun in hand, no sign of Edgars, as if he just magically disappeared.
II
EDGARS CRANKS THE natural gas level in the fireplace. The flames crackle higher. He tears pages from a moleskin journal, the hand-written script having the gleam of an artisan. The grind of the cross cutting shredder pains him as if it were his own fingers slipping between the razors.
The banging on the solid oak door outweighs the whine of the whirling blades. Edgars knows the reinforced wood and steel door will take five or six impacts from the battering ram the SWAT team utilizes. A few years ago an obsessed fan kept breaking in and spreading her scent around the house. Edgars had bars, shatter proof windows and the reinforced armored doors added to keep her out.
She would have been an ideal research project, but her first break-in was while Edgars was on a signing tour. Her face was plastered in all the rag sheets when the neighbors reported her running around the yard naked.
Edgars made sure when her second break-in occurred he was home. He became the terrified celebrity, the kind of person too scared to venture out, but too scared to own a gun. He thought it might add to his alibi if a fangirl’s death came into question.
The door opens with the crunching clatter of a bulldozer. He imagines the wood around the bolt splintering and stakes of wood impaling the Persian rug in the foyer. Edgars breaks the spine on an unshredded notebook before tossing it on the flames. The open pages, crisp with age, catch like fall leaves. He pops the spine on a second book. A closed book’s inner pages are protected and will survive the mild heat from this teasing flame.
He jerks free the trap from the shredder and sprinkles the confetti reduced pages onto the flame. They grow and reach up for each fluttering square. Paper reduced to embers escapes the fireplace and reach the carpet.
Edgars doesn’t bother to stamp the living beast posed to devour his study. If the fire reaches the shelves of books stretching to the ceiling, this end of the house becomes a tinderbox. He thought years ago to install a sprinkler, but the water chemical would damage books as bad, if not worse, than the flames.
The ancient oak desk would withstand a blast from a grenade. Edgars alone hasn’t the strength to flip it over to use as barrier. He jerks open the center drawer and removes his legally registered pistol. He checks the clip and racks the slide.
He swallows, mouth turning to desert.
He glances down. A twisted mangle of multiple electronics scattered across the top of the desk. He won’t make it easy for them.
The fire escapes the fireplace and crawls from the smoldering carpet to the books on the bottom shelf.
The movement of men in full tactical gear clearing the house room by room reaches the edge of the study. The doorknob rattles with two quick twists.
Edgars raises the Beretta 92FS squeezing off three nine mm rounds. The grouping scatter across the center of the door. He never practiced.
His thunder in the airtight concentrated space shatters an eardrum and halts the movement outside. He doubts the pussy 9s penetrated the door and any body armor, but it delays a charge while the men outside rethink their tactics.
A deafening blast stronger than the three ringing 9mm shots splinters the door knob. Some fired a shotgun.
The door flings open, followed by a hissing canister rolling across the floor. The powder blue smoke steams out—tear gas. It will stink and blind Edgars. Knowing he lacks the skill to target the broadside of a barn, he decides not to duck behind the desk as the chemical mixes with the growing black smoke from his books.
Edgars raise his right arm and tightens his index finger around the trigger.
Between the smoke and the gas watering his eyes black blurs cross his vision. He jerks the trigger as fast as he’s able to flex and pull. The discharge is met with a hail of reports. Edgars’ abdomen blazes with fiery pain, and in a quarter of a second he detects the bullet break apart and shred a kidney. He assumes it is his kidney, for warmth soaks his groin.
The muzzle flash penetrates his fluid filling eyes as the second bite thumps his shoulder. Edgars would never believe a bullet would bounce off flesh, but he detects the flick as if a fly landed.
His lungs burn. And his chest hurts. He attempts to bring his left arm up to stifle the blood oozing from the hole. The arm fails to cooperate. Through cloudy eyes he spots the waterfall of blood sloshing from the hole in his shoulder.
As two more rounds penetrate his chest, one shredding open his right ventricle, he ponders how the bullet felt like a fly landing on his shoulder but the ones in his chest and stomach were like being impaled by a flamethrower. As he loses his legs, he wishes he was able to record the experience.
JACK MASHES THE gas pedal of his Rogue to the floor with a wrench, wedging the end against the seat to hold it in place. He braces himself for a leap backward before he flips the gearshift into drive. He barely lunges fast enough to escape the vehicle as it barrels across the street, hops the curb and smashes into the porch of the house.
“That will wake the neighbors!” Jack follows behind the car, bran
dishing a revolver in each hand. This time he’ll give the crack dealers inside a chance to respond.
A man climbs through the front window of the house, screaming and cursing at the driver. Before he realizes there isn’t anyone in the Rogue, Jack pops a round in the porch ceiling above his head. The man jumps back through the window, a strong indication he’s been shot at before.
Jack passes the midway point of the street, still marching to his doom.
Bullets fly from the house.
Chunks of blacktop erupt, as their fear cost them proper aim.
A second man leaps through the window, diving for cover behind the railed fence running around the porch. It provides no real protection, except in his mind, as he raises his gun.
Jack’s bullet embeds itself in the man’s face. He has no idea where the dead man’s bullet impacted. As he reaches the yard a jet-black SUV slams on its brakes, catty-cornered in the street.
Two suited men leap from the driver’s side, using the car as a bullet stopper.
“FBI! Throw down your guns and put you hands in the air!” The driver yells brandishing his weapon.
Jack places a foot on the grass. He spots a third man at the window.
“Place your weapons on the ground!” Screams one of the agents.
Jack ignores the authorities.
Sirens wail in the distance.
Jack knows he won’t be able to aim both guns. He raises both arms. The shots spew wild from his left hand at the house. The right gun releases two slugs into the man at the window.
Bullets tear open Jack’s side. He left the FBI agents no choice. He knew as soon as he opened fire on the house they would have no choice.
Police are trained to shoot to kill.
Three. Four. Six. Jack loses count of the bullets puncturing his trunk. His thoughts—his last thoughts shift to his family and how he will finally be reunited with them again.
“I’VE GOT TWO agents out on administrative leave because of this cluster.” FBI Director Lawrence stews in his chair. “One dead agent and nothing to show for any of these alleged killers this kid says he’s been holding a vigil with, except two more dead suspects, one who burnt up any evidence tying him to any killings.”
SKA: Serial Killers Anonymous Page 32
