Phoenix

by Roy A. Teel, Jr.

  There was a moment of silence and then the sound of liquid splashing and Cynthia screaming and crying out, “Oh God, please, my God. It’s gas, Howard. It’s gasoline that he’s pouring all over me. Save me for God’s sake. Please, someone, save me. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I will repent of my ways. I will go a different direction in my practice. Please, please let me live.”

  “Don’t worry counselor, I’m not going to kill you … just burn you a bit like you have burned others. Who knows? You might even survive. Howard, after I set Ms. Caldwell on fire, you might want to call the burn ward either in Sherman Oaks or Northridge. You folks are going to want to get Ms. Caldwell immediate treatment for the second and third degree burns she is about to suffer.”

  Cynthia began screaming louder and crying, “I’m burning. My God, I’m on fire. Help me, help me!” Her voice began to fade as the sound of flames could be heard on the other end of the line.

  They could hear a heavy sound of thrashing and pounding, and the voice came back, winded, and said, “Okay, well, I put out Ms. Caldwell, and I have released the blocking on my cell phone, Agent Swenson. You should be able to see my location. You should hurry though. Ms. Caldwell won’t survive long without treatment. Good luck.”

  The line went dead, and John was staring at his tablet when his eyes went wide. Just as he started to speak, the fire alarm in Howard’s building went off, and Jim looked up at John and said, “The parking structure?” John nodded as all ran from Cynthia’s office.

  The only sound that Sara could hear in her sleep was the gentle surf outside her bedroom window. She had fallen asleep reading a medical journal and had just put her e-reader on the nightstand when her cell phone starting ringing. She sat up and reached in the darkness.

  “Dr. Swenson.”

  John’s calm voice was on the other end of the line, “Sara, I need you to call in your burn unit trauma team. We are transporting a victim to Northridge.”

  Sara asked, “Where are you transporting the victim from?”

  “Downtown. We have life flight on the roof, and they have the victim on board.”

  “How bad are the burns?”

  John paused then said, “It’s hard to say. Seventy to ninety percent of the body. The head and face are not burned, but that’s about all.”

  Sara got up out of bed and asked, “Are you coming to the hospital?”

  “Yes … after I process the scene with the others.”

  Sara was throwing on clothing as she spoke, “Got it. I will call our burn team now and have them at the hospital. Does this victim have anything to do with the attorney killed last week?”

  “Yes … it’s the same killer.” Sara hung up the phone and called the hospital.

  There was nothing but a black streak and blood on the pavement in front of Cynthia Caldwell’s BMW. Her purse and personal belongings were neatly set on the front seat of the car where the killer had left them. Howard Cohen was standing to the side as emergency workers and law enforcement worked both in getting Cynthia out to the chopper as well as taping off the garage and the crime scene. Chris, Jim, and Sam were busy processing the scene as John walked down level by level until he reached the street. He moved through the darkness and slid behind several tall bushes next to the structure entrance that faced Santa Monica Boulevard.

  Traffic was very light. It was just past one a.m., and he crouched down in the brush and scanned every aspect of the street. He looked at each car, and as he did, he held his tablet close to his breast plate and typed in license plate number after number, recording every vehicle he could see.

  The action from Caldwell’s burning was on the third level of the structure, and there weren’t any patrol officers sealing it off yet. John watched as cars drove by; some fast, some slow, distracted by the lights coming out the open sides of the ten-story structure. The gleaming structure at ten thousand Santa Monica Boulevard, near the corner of Century Park East and Moreno Drive, had two exits: one onto Moreno Drive and the other out onto Santa Monica, allowing quick and easy access to all major freeways and streets.

  John was getting ready to move back into the building when he saw a dark, windowless cargo van with a modified front end pull slowly out of a one-way alley and turn onto Moreno Drive. The headlights were off, and the van moved slowly up the street. The driver and passenger windows were darkly tinted, and John watched as the van crept slowly toward the intersection of Moreno and Santa Monica. He looked for a license plate as the van passed him, but there was none, so he pointed the tablet’s camera in the direction of the van and began filming. He followed with the camera until the van turned on Santa Monica Boulevard, and he ran across the street and followed it around the corner. He stopped short of the intersection and pinned his body against the side of an office building as he put the tablet around the corner. He could see that the van had stopped and was idling, so he grabbed the police radio off his belt clip and called out, “Jim, do you have your ears on? Over.”

  Jim was standing with Sam, who was taking samples and bagging them, when his radio crackled with John’s voice on the other end. He said, “Where the fuck are you, Swenson?”

  “I’m standing at the corner of Moreno Drive and Santa Monica Boulevard where there’s a black van with blacked out windows, no license plate, and a modified front end idling.”

  Jim walked off in the direction of the open parking structure and looked down onto John’s location and could see him on the dimly lit street. He put the radio to his lips and said softly, “You think you have the killer?”

  “I’m willing to bet your life on it.”

  Jim told John to hold, and he changed channels and ordered an all call for the corner of Moreno and Santa Monica. He changed back to John’s channel and said, “I have units rolling. Where’s your truck?” John looked up and could see Jim looking down at him from the third level. He pointed toward the parking garage, and Jim came back and said, “Well, are you waiting for an engraved fuckin’ invitation? You have about sixty seconds before LAPD and my units come rolling, lights blazing, and chasing this guy.”

  John ran back across the street to his truck, started it, and whipped a U-turn on Moreno then pulled out onto Santa Monica Boulevard. There were two or three seconds of silence, and then the van screeched its tires and began to fishtail as it started down the street with John hot on the driver’s heels. He radioed to dispatch that he was on North Santa Monica Boulevard and was barking out a description of the van as well as cut off points for LAPD, Sheriff’s cruisers, and California Highway Patrol, who were joining the chase.

  He called out over the radio and said, “We need a road block at North Doheney and Santa Monica.” Jim was barking orders to his units, and John was in hot pursuit. He could see the flashing lights in the intersection of North Doheney and Santa Monica and men getting out of their cars guns drawn. John looked down at his own speedometer. He was doing nearly ninety miles an hour, and the van was at least three car lengths ahead of him. He gunned the throttle, and as he did, the van entered the intersection, striking two cruisers head-on, sending the cars spinning and officers flying through the air.

  He could hear the pop of weapons discharging, and two bullets passed through his back window narrowly missing him. John ducked down with one hand on the wheel and the other on the radio, and he called out to Jim and said, “Jesus Christ, Jim! Tell them that the black Chevy Silverado is a damn federal vehicle! I just about got shot!” He was fast approaching the van, which had been slowed down by the impact with the police cars.

  Three officers were now on his tail, and he could hear Jim yelling over the radio, “You fuckin’ assholes! Don’t shoot the black pickup! That’s FBI Agent John Swenson leading the pursuit.”

  EMT and officer-down calls were coming, but John stayed on the van as it picked up speed. He called out over the radio and said, “We are approaching North La Cienega.” John saw several more
cruisers pulling into the intersection and called out, “Get out of the way! Get the goddamn cars out of the way. He just went through three cars like they were butter. The suspect has some type of armor on the van. Shoot the windshield.”

  John tried to get up next to the van, but it cut him off, and he slid in behind it as he heard the weapons and saw sparks flying off the van. They flew through the intersection, and John heard two officers come back over the radio, “We fired at the van, and we had at least five strikes on the windshield with no damage. It appears to have bulletproof glass.”

  “We need LAPD SWAT,” John said. “We need an armored vehicle to block the street.”

  Jim came over the radio and said, “SWAT can’t get here in time. I have eyes in the sky. This fucker isn’t going to get away.” John made a hard turn and moved next to the van, but as he did, the driver hit the side of John’s truck and sent it flying into the median. As he regained control, he pulled his service weapon and shot at the van’s back windows. The shots just sparked and bounced off the glass without making a scratch.

  “Jim, the guy has a damned armored van. We need artillery to stop the thing.” The van made several more maneuvers, striking parked cars along Santa Monica as the chase entered West Hollywood and residential areas. John called out over the radio for units to back off. He looked at the clock on his dash, and it was ten to two. He radioed to Jim and said, “Fuck, Jim, the bars are going to start closing, and people are going to be hitting the streets. I’m on the van.”

  Jim called out to the units to back off as he ordered the choppers to stay on the van then said, “You have to call off the chase, John. This is getting too real. I have three officers down. One of them is dead. This guy has no regard for human life. You have to back off.” John was racing behind the van as the two vehicles hurtled in the direction of the 101.

  John came back on the radio and said, “We’re approaching the 101 Freeway. If he stays on the streets, I will pull off. If he hits the freeway, I will stay on him.” He could see the nightsun shining off the black van as it turned onto the freeway and headed for downtown Los Angeles. He swung behind the van and sped up.

  “John, you’re alone with the fucker. CHP, LAPD, and my people are off him. He’s all yours. We have eyes in the sky.” John raced up and bumped the van, sending it fishtailing. As he pulled back, the driver got control. He moved to hit it again when the driver slammed on his brakes, and John plowed right into the back of the van. The airbags deployed, and John was working to push them down as the van took off again headed in the direction of the 110 Freeway.

  He pressed the gas pedal, but the truck was dead. The front end was pushed up nearly into the cab, and John kicked the driver’s side door to force it open and stepped out onto the freeway. Three CHP cruisers passed him and a fourth stopped. The officer got out and asked, “Are you alright, Agent Swenson?”

  John nodded and said, “Get in. I’m not done chasing this guy.”

  John took the wheel while the officer got in the passenger side, and the two men took off down the freeway as John radioed for the van’s position. It was speeding down the 110 and had passed downtown and was nearing Staples Center. John looked over at the officer and said, “There’s no way we’re going to catch this guy.”

  The officer shook his head and said, “Not at the speeds he’s going. If he stays on the 110, however, he will run out of freeway when he hits San Pedro.” John nodded as the two men drove down the 110, listening to radio chatter from the choppers flying overhead.

  One of the pilots called out, “Suspect is on the 110, transitioning into San Pedro, and is headed for Long Beach.” John had the pedal to the floor as they raced down the freeway and made a sharp turn near San Pedro and crossed Terminal Island. He looked at the GPS in the car and said, “He will hit the 710 Freeway and head back inland.” No sooner had he said it then he heard one of the chopper pilots echo his words.

  He looked over at the officer in the seat next to him and said, “We’re not far from this guy.”

  He transitioned to the 710 Freeway when he heard two of the chopper pilots say, “Where did he go?”

  “What do you mean, where did he go?”

  There was a moment of silence, and the two pilots were talking back and forth when one of them came on the radio and said, “We lost the suspect. I repeat, we have lost the suspect.” John could see the hovering choppers with their nightsun beaming down on the freeway and the area surrounding it. The van disappeared into an industrial park off the 710 Freeway not to be found.

  Jim was yelling at the top of his lungs, “You lost him … you fuckin’ lost the suspect? We have one confirmed dead officer, several others with unknown injuries, a fucked up FBI truck, and you’re telling me that you lost the fucker?”

  John broke in on the radio transmission and said, “I’m calling in reinforcements, Jim. You do the same. We need to close down the entire area and start a door-to-door search.”

  One of the pilots came back and asked, “Search of what? This is an industrial area. Shipping container storage and other types of facilities. The only things you are going to get out here are some security guards … maybe. The guy’s a ghost, Agent Swenson. You’re just going to waste time and resources. Whoever that was has some kind of infrastructure to just vanish. This guy isn’t working alone.”

  It was ten after four, and John and Jim had ordered every available agent and officer to do a door-to-door search but nothing was found. Jim looked at John as the two men stood on the now shut down 710 Freeway and said, “It would be better to get to the hospital and see if we can get any information from Caldwell.”

  John was standing with his hands on his hips looking at all the manpower in the distance. He turned to Jim and said, “This is bad, Jim. This is really, really bad. That van was military grade. That thing was a tank. We have a special kind of killer here, and one of the pilots hit the nail on the head when he said the killer isn’t working alone.”

  Jim put his arm on John’s shoulder and said, “Come on. I’ll give you a ride to the hospital. I don’t think we have much time.” The two men got into Jim’s car, and as they headed for Northridge Hospital, Jim said, “Your truck is totaled.” John nodded, and Jim asked, “So what now?”

  John looked out the car window, “I can get another truck, Jim. We only have one chance with Caldwell.”

  Chapter Five

  “I’m not going down with

  the ship, Howard. If you can’t

  deal with this shit, then I will!”

  It was just before sunrise, and the black van sat parked in a large cargo container as its driver surveyed the damage. He was dressed in a pair of black jeans with a white T-shirt and tennis shoes. As he walked around the van, his cell phone rang. “Yeah.”

  “You had to tear apart half of LA and kill three cops?”

  “Would you have preferred I’d been caught?”

  There was dead air, and the caller said, “I would have preferred that you got the hell out of Cohen’s place after you killed Caldwell. Instead, you have tipped our hand at the type of equipment I am providing to you as well as made yourself the most wanted man in Los Angeles. You’re now a cop killer. One LAPD officer and two Sheriff’s deputies. And I guarantee that not only have you put yourself on the state and federal most wanted lists, you have definitely garnered the attention of the Iron Eagle.”

  The man walked around the van and leaned against the front grate and took off the ski mask he’d been wearing all night. He put the phone on speaker and said, “You know as well as I that it was only a matter of time before I got everyone’s attention. Did I want to kill cops and make a mess of the city? Fuck no, but I had fuckin’ FBI Agent John Swenson hot on my ass until I destroyed his truck. I haven’t heard any news. Did I injure that fucker?”

  The voice on the other end of the line laughed and said, “No … you pissed him off, but yo
u didn’t hurt him. He is still hot on your ass.”

  “Well then, we will just see how close he gets. If he gets too close, I know just what to take from him that will bring him to his knees.”

  The caller on the other end of the line coughed and then said firmly, “Don’t even think that way. You go after anyone that Swenson cares about, and I have a feeling you will bring the wrath of hell down on both of us. He will do his job, and you will do yours. If I find out that you’re fucking with Swenson or his friends and family, I will have you killed before you can take your next piss. Are we clear?” There was a deep sigh, and the caller asked again, “Are we clear?”

  “Yes … we’re clear. This is your revenge. You’re the brains, and I’m just the brawn, but I warn you, if Swenson gets too close to you or me, we are not going to have many options short of getting ourselves killed.”

  “I will deal with Swenson. You just stick to the plan … lay low for a day or two. You can’t drive the van anymore. I will have to get you another vehicle. Until I do, go home.”

  The van’s driver pressed the end button on his cell phone and looked down to see bits of blood, flesh, and police uniform in the grill and on the steel housing around the front end. He leaned down and picked bone fragments out of the steel tubing. He took one and put it between his teeth like a tooth pick and took a deep breath in, allowing the smell of blood from the shard to pass over his taste buds. He laughed and said, “What do you know? Cops really do taste like bacon.”

  Cynthia was in a clean room at Northridge Hospital on a ventilator when John arrived with Jim. He looked in through a large window as two doctors and nurses worked on her. Sara walked up behind him and put her arms around his waist, hugging him. He put his hands on her and asked, “Will she make it?” Jim stood off to the side out of John’s sight shaking his head.