The Good Kill

by Kurt Brindley

  After receiving no help from the flop for his lifeless hole cards, he was in the process of deciding whether to open the pot with a half-hearted bluff or to just check his bet to see how his opponents responded when a notification popped up at the top of his phone. He had received a text message from Gary Schneider, his partner from his brief time spent with the Baltimore City Police Department. He quickly checked the bet and then tapped on the notification to open the message to see what his former partner had to say.

  yo black, you seen this video yet? fucker’s blowing up the net. sick shit just like you like it - gs.

  Blackman shook his head in disappointment. He was hoping for something substantive, like an invite to lunch or drinks where he could casually work the aspiring detective for intel about any ongoing investigations or gossip within the department. But instead, it was nothing but a link to another viral video. He would love to be able to tell Schneider to stop sending him that kind of bullshit, but he couldn’t. He was still a pariah to the department so he needed to keep in the good grace of the detective and the other few remaining contacts he had left within it. To be able to respond appropriately to the text in the hope his follow-up might lead to a get-together, he reluctantly clicked on the link in the message, assuming it would take him to some lame revenge porn video or worse.

  It turned out to be worse. Much worse. The link led him to a website called 4chan, a subversive, highly decadent underground site where anyone could post anonymously to its image and video message boards. When the video began he couldn’t tell what was happening at first due to the low lighting, but he soon realized that what he was seeing was the recording of a Hispanic-looking man bound naked to a chair. The man was crying and his head hung low to his chest, where, diagonally across it, blood was oozing out from a long, thin slash of a wound. The end of his right arm was a bloody stump. Its missing hand was lying lifeless on the floor, its fingers reaching out as if beckoning the viewer to help.

  A dim light lit up the area around the man, leaving the rest of the room dark and shadowed. When the man finally calmed his sobbing, he lifted his head to begin speaking slowly, hesitantly, into the camera with a heavily accented English. After a moment Blackman realized that the unfortunate man seemed to be reading a prepared statement.

  My name is Juan Carlos Rios Vasquez. I am forty-three-years old and I am from Veracruz, Mexico. I have been living illegally in various parts of the United States for over ten years and I now live at 1238 White Charm Drive, Logansburg, Ohio, which is forty miles southwest of Columbus. I am recording this video to confess to my crimes and to… and to receive my just punishment for them.

  Vasquez stopped reading and sobbed. Snot ran down into his mouth. He tried to wipe it away with his bare shoulder, but he couldn’t quite reach it.

  I have been a soldier in the Mártires por la Santa Muerte cartel since I was seventeen. In addition to selling and distributing narcotics for the cartel, my job is to traffic and pimp young women and girls that are brought into America illegally, mostly from Mexico and other Central American countries. As of now, I am the pimp for four young women and girls. The oldest is twenty-three. The youngest is eleven. They are all my sexual slaves and I sell their services to other Latino immigrants who live and work in the area.

  If anyone outside the Latino community were to ask about the girls, I would tell them that the oldest is my wife, the second oldest is her sister, and the two youngest are my daughters. Within the Latino community, no one would ever ask about the girls, other than to purchase their services, nor would anyone within it dare report us to the authorities. They know that if they do, the Mártires cartel will deal with them and their families, wherever they may be, in terrible ways.

  As he paused to catch his breath, his eyes darted back and forth from the camera to something off screen to his right.

  To ensure the complete submission and cooperation of the girls, I and other soldiers rape them regularly and get them hooked on heroin and other drugs before working them as prostitutes. When they are no longer making us money, we sell them to other gangs or traffickers. And if we are unable to sell them, we kill them and dispose of their bodies. There is always a high turnover of girls because there are always fresh girls looking to enter the country illegally. And since they are brought into the States illegally, no one in the States is looking for them because no one knows they are missing.

  He stopped reading to try to find some saliva for his dry throat.

  I know that I am an evil man and that what I have done is wrong. I ask that you all pray for the lives of the many young women and girls I have ruined and killed, either through my own deeds or the deeds of others on my behalf. And finally, I ask for God’s mercy on my soul, for I am now ready to—

  He looked off screen and shook his head and pleaded to whomever it was who was forcing him to make the confession.

  No, no. I cannot read it. Please don’t make me say it...

  His panicked eyes followed the movement of something unseen to the viewer. But what he saw seemed to convey a message that convinced him to continue reading. He took in a deep breath, let it out, and then looked directly at the camera and opened his mouth to begin. But no words came out. Instead, he began to cry again until, finally, through his sobs he spoke his final words.

  I ask for God’s mercy on my soul, for I am now ready to die for my sins.

  With his back to the camera, a large man wearing a balaclava and dressed in all black stepped smoothly into the frame and swung a machete at Vasquez’s neck as if he were swinging at a fastball, all while screaming out something incomprehensible to Blackman, something Arabic-sounding. Fucking raghead terrorists finally making their way onto the homeland, was the thought that ran through the security manager’s mind. The blow from the killer’s explosive swing severed the criminal’s head completely from his body, such was the force. After the deadly follow through the killer stepped back out of the frame, allowing the viewer to briefly witness Juan Carlos Rios Vasquez’s decapitated head lying on the floor next to his chair-bound corpse, its pained eyes still open and looking up toward a heaven he most likely would never know.

  And then the video ended abruptly.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  After the card reader scanned his badge and the gates rolled opened, Sean McKnight pulled his Crystal White Cadillac CT6 sedan into the Half Moon Island Resort executive staff parking lot and parked next to a black Cadillac Escalade ESV. With the engine still running, the stereo pounding out a Slayer classic, and the air conditioner blasting, McKnight took a drag off his non-filtered American Spirit and then inspected the butt barely protruding from between his thick, yellow-stained fingers. Determining the cigarette still had some life left in it, he took one final drag from it and then, with smoke spewing from his nostrils, he took a final pull from his venti Redeye, a twenty-ounce blonde roast boosted with a shot of espresso. He stuffed the butt down the lid’s drink hole and listened for the satisfying sound of the singe as the burning tobacco struck the dregs at the bottom of the cup.

  The unseasonably hot, moist, brackish air blowing off Lake Borgne, which now, thanks to Katrina, was not so much a lake anymore but an extension of the Gulf of Mexico, hit him hard as he unfolded his six-feet, seven-inch, 280-pound frame out from the air-conditioned car. He opened the back door, unzipped the garment bag hanging from the hanger hook, and pulled out a dark blue sports coat from the bag. He shook it out in the fresh air, and then sniffed it to make sure it didn’t smell like cigarette smoke. Shrugging the jacket on over his large shoulders, he walked around the resort’s helicopter pad and out to where the dewy grass met the narrow beach with its white powdered sand.

  As he stared out on the peaceful lake, he took out a red bandana from his back pocket and mopped off the glistening sweat beads atop his brown, clean-shaven head and dripping from his thick, black-bearded face before donning a pair of Oakley Half Jacket 2.0 wraparound sunglasses. Several miles off the manufactured shoreline lay the Hal
f Moon Island. Shaped less like a half-moon and more like a bird with a broken wing, the island was home to and namesake of the luxurious Half Moon Island Resort. From where he stood, the expansive, thirty-two-floor hotel and casino, constructed in the shape of a grand and silvery half-moon, looked to him like nothing more than a glistening blip on the water. A thousand yards or so beyond the island, just off the horizon, he could just barely see a single tiny, floating spec that he knew to be The White Majestic, a 300-foot Benetti luxury yacht belonging to Louis DeBlanc, the resort’s owner and his boss. DeBlanc had received special permission from the New Orleans Port Authority to moor his yacht to one of their single point moorings, a large buoy typically reserved for oil tankers too large to make it all the way into port.

  He pulled out a pair of compact binoculars from inside his coat pocket, pushed his sunglasses up to the top of his head, and took a closer look at the yacht. He could just make out that the resort’s helicopter was still wheels down on the sundeck helipad. This meant to him that he had more than enough time to smoke another square before his employer arrived. He lit up and, with his binoculars, scanned the dank-smelling bayou just to the east of him in search for alligators.

  The resounding blast of a steam whistle drew his attention back to his location to a scene beyond the rock barrier separating the executive staff parking lot from the acre-sized lot reserved for the resort’s customers and non-executive staff. There, they could dine at the Half Moon Island Restaurant, shaped, of course, like a silvery half-moon, while waiting to board one of the resort’s three nineteenth-century replica steamboats for a fifty-five-minute shuttle ride out to the island. He saw that one of the boats, full of happy vacationers looking to gamble away their hard-earned cash, was just getting underway, its large paddlewheel slowly beginning to churn at its stern. Nearly all the people on the boat, he saw, were either crowded on the main deck hitting the slots or were crowded on the upper deck around the ferry’s bar, hitting the complimentary booze. Few were on the outside decks enjoying the view.

  It wasn’t long before the gates to the parking lot opened and another Cadillac sedan came speeding in. Unlike McKnight’s white CT6, this one was the newer model CTS-V colored Stellar Black Metallic. It pulled into the spot next to McKnight’s car. A big man, but nowhere near as big as McKnight, got out of the car and began walking toward the beach.

  “’Bout time your happy ass got here, rookie,” McKnight hollered out, his deep voice booming loud over the sound of the wind rushing in off the gulf.

  Rick, Happy, Henderson flashed a large, white-toothed smile and hollered back, “Big Black Mack Attack McKnight. Holy shit, I have hit the big time now.” As Henderson walked toward his new partner, he gathered his long brown hair blowing from the wind and tied it into a sloppy manbun with the hair band that was wrapped around his wrist. He walked up to McKnight and the two colleagues shook hands and folded into a hug.

  “Happy, as pretty as you are with that smile and all that hair, I have a hard time believing that you’re as badass as everyone says you are,” McKnight said.

  “Ah, you know me, Big Mack. I’m a lover not a fighter.”

  “Well, whatever the hell you are, it sure must have impressed Ham for him to bump you up to this detail.”

  Henderson laughed. “I’m not sure if you’re complimenting me or bragging about yourself.”

  McKnight laughed with him. “Both work for me.” He checked his watch and then looked through the binoculars. “Bird’s still on the deck. Must be running late.” He popped a fresh cigarette into his mouth and lit it from the nub of his last one. He pinched off the smoldering end of the butt and stamped it out after it fell to the ground. The butt went into his pants pocket.

  “Aren’t you quite the environmentalist,” said Henderson with mock admiration.

  McKnight grunted. “I used to just flick the bastards to the ground until Petite Louie figured out they were my brand and almost fired my ass because of it.”

  Henderson shook his head knowingly. “That little prick’s something, isn’t he? He drives Ham nuts the way he’s always trying to red team his security protocols.”

  “If you ask me, Ham’s always been a little nuts,” McKnight said. “Ever hear him tell those fucked up spec op stories from the first Iraq War?”

  “Are you kidding me?” Henderson said shaking his head. “Anyone who’s ever worked the floor for more than five minutes has heard those crazy ass stories at least once.”

  “Damn, I sure as hell don’t miss working the floor with all those asshole tourists,” McKnight said before taking a drag from his cigarette. He exhaled the smoke and took another look through the binoculars. “Okay, wheels are up.” He took a series of quick drags on the cigarette and then disposed of it as before while walking up the short, grassy slope to the helipad. “You know what’s on today’s docket, right?” McKnight asked when they reached the asphalt landing.

  “You bet,” Henderson said, his voice taking on a serious, operational tone. “After he lands here, we take him to the bank. From the bank, it’s to the airport for the hop to Houston to meet with Daddy DeBlanc. From Houston back to the airport, and from the airport to University Medical Center for the dedication ceremony. After the ceremony, back to here for a shuttle to the resort where he’ll have his weekly with his managers. And then finally, a quick hop on the bird back to the yacht for the night. Sound about right?”

  “Yeah,” McKnight said impressed, “except that Houston got bumped to tomorrow so he and his lady will hang out at Royal Street until it’s time for the ceremony. And he won’t be going back to the yacht. He’ll be entertaining some player from Russia at the resort, so he decided to stay overnight at the hotel. Ham called me earlier to let me know the change in plans.”

  “Damn. I was really looking forward to spending the night on the yacht,” Henderson said.

  “Don’t worry. You’ll have plenty of chances. Besides, our rooms in the resort are pretty nice. Not that you’ll be seeing too much of yours, rookie, since you’ll get the first and last shifts.”

  “Yeah, yeah, “Henderson said as he grabbed his crotch. “I got your rookie right here you big baldheaded mother fucker.”

  McKnight chuckled. “That’s a rookie, too, huh?”

  They watched the small dot of a helicopter for a moment. Henderson cleared his throat and said, “Hey, um, I heard that it was you who put the good word in for me with Ham. I really appreciate that, Sean.”

  “Ham’s got a big fucking mouth,” McKnight said, pretending to be pissed.

  Henderson’s face grew concerned. He was going to say something but McKnight cut him off.

  “But what I said to him really didn’t matter. You proved yourself, Happy. You deserve the bump up.” He nodded toward the cars. “How do you like your new wheels, courtesy of Mr. DeBlanc?”

  Henderson’s smile stretched wide. “Dude, that is one badass ride. I’ve never driven anything like it.”

  “That’s the CTS-V, right?”

  “Damn right it is. All 600 horsepower of her,” Henderson said proudly.

  Both men admired the new ride for a few moments before McKnight asked, “You already been through the combat driving course or you still waiting for a slot?”

  Henderson threw his head back as if he were having a religious experience. “Holy shit, Mack. That course was off the motherfucking hook, bro. No lie, I have never had so much fun in my life. Totally blew away the army’s program.” Henderson chucked McKnight on the arm affectionately. “Seriously, Mack. Thank you. I won’t let you down, brother.”

  McKnight’s eyes narrowed. “Damn right you won’t, ‘cause if you do, I’ll make sure your ass ends up just like Lazlo’s.”

  Henderson reflected on that for a moment. “Fuck that. Won’t be me,” he said soberly. “That asshole got exactly what he deserved.”

  McKnight nodded in agreement. “Got your piece, right?”

  Henderson held open his jacket to show him his pistol secured
in its shoulder holster.

  McKnight nodded his head in approval. “Glock 19. Nice. Can’t shake the CAG mentality, I see.”

  “Hey, man,” Henderson said defensively, patting the sidearm through his jacket. “Can’t go wrong with a Glock. Mother fucker will never let you down.” He nodded at McKnight. “What’re you holding?”

  McKnight reach inside his jacket and pulled out a black Desert Eagle .50 AE pistol from his shoulder holster. “All American, baby,” he said as he held it up proudly before the both of them.

  “Dude, that is badass. Love the tiger stripes,” Henderson said stepping in closer to get a better look at it. “Damn, bro, your big ass hand makes even that canon look like a pea shooter.”

  “What can I say,” McKnight said still admiring the pistol. “I have presence.”

  Henderson laughed and nodded in concurrence. “You know, we got to hit the range ASAP so I can fire off a few rounds with that baby.”

  “Sorry, but no one gets to finger this baby’s trigger but me,” McKnight said as he holstered the weapon and turned his attention back to the approaching helicopter.

  Henderson followed McKnight’s example of silent reflection only momentarily before saying, “Hey, I heard the boss has a new babe. Have you seen her yet?”

  “Oh yeah,” McKnight said. “She is by far his finest piece of ass yet. And he’s had some fine ones.”