Nocturnal

by Mark Allen

  Reggie grinned as he passed by. The baby saw him, responded in kind, grinning from ear to ear.

  Horn’s office looked like something out of an old pulp novel. Scarred desk bolted to the floor, yellow pool from above illuminating the center of the cluttered desktop. The light mellowed outward from the bright center dimming to amber, then farther out a coalescence of musty brown. The squeaky Government-issue chair at a forty-five degree angle. Metal bookcases lurked in the murk. The cheap white coffee maker, indistinct in the shadows, sat unused. A small red light at the base announced electricity coursing through its twisted umbilicus.

  Horn, tired and heavy, sat opposite the amber perimeter. The high-backed chair groaned with every move, every shift of his considerable weight. Horn thought it felt like he had a spring trying to coil its way up his ass.

  The acid reflux burned in his throat. He grimaced at the taste of bile on his tongue. He turned quickly and spat something thick and green into the trashcan beside him.

  Where the hell had he hidden those chewable antacids? Even as a Captain, he was not immune from office thieves. He had left personal stuff like chewable antacid tablets on or in his desk before. He would come in the next day or Monday after a weekend and find the bottle either missing, or the supply inside seriously depleted.

  Horn had been down that road before in his Navy days. And Horn was a fast learner. So he now hid stuff quite well, often under lock and key. Problem was, sometimes even he could not find it when needed.

  Like right now.

  Where the hell did he put it...?

  Oh yes.

  Right side, top drawer.

  He grabbed the drawer handle and yanked. He snatched the pill bottle out, muscled the top open. He shook the open mouth over his bear paw of a hand, popped several into his mouth. The fruity taste hit his tongue just as he began chewing. He forced the lid back on, tossed the bottle back into the drawer, pushed it closed with his knee.

  Where the hell was Castle?

  His stomach grumbled. He was hungry. The sun was long down outside. Darkness spilled in through the windows, punctuated by artificial beams from the gulag-style lamps affixed outside.

  He had not eaten since about one that afternoon. And he had not eaten well. Something greasy. Unhealthy, and of low quality ingredients. Wrapped in a flour tortilla. Typical cop cuisine, best left forgotten. He had eaten simply to fuel his body. Too bad the fuel had been crap.

  Horn absently wondered if his case of Cop’s Crappy Diet contributed to his acid reflux. That and the general stress of the job, of course. Then add his latent angst about the divorce and his stalled life in general into the mix, and voila! Instant GERD.

  Looking down at his desk, glasses perched on his nose, he concentrated on work. Crime scene photos from the Sulu Sea Massacre stared back up at him. He picked up the picture of T-Ball’s twisted corpse. Exsanguination was the actual cause of death, according to the coroner. The gaping neck wound had been designated as the cause of the exsanguination. The broken bones had been an effect of being tossed aside with considerable force. The rending fractures to the cervical vertebrae from C-2 through C-4 had shredded the spinal cord embedded within the bones.

  But who - or what - killed like this?

  The crime scene technicians (Horn referred to them as the CSI geeks) had reported the wound appeared to be a bite, not something made by a knife or other bladed weapon. The skin and underlying blood vessels had not been sliced or incised, they had determined.

  They had been torn.

  Torn asunder, was how the CSI geeks had termed it. When pressed on the matter of what kind of animal might have done this, the CSI Head Geek and All Around Guru had told Horn over the phone – off the record, of course – that the forensics fit for a human bite. The bite radius, the imprints of the various teeth: molars, bicuspids, central incisors all matched.

  But with one significant exception.

  Whatever had done the biting also exhibited distinct, unmistakable bite marks of two upper jaw canine teeth measuring somewhere between a quarter and a half inch longer than the surrounding teeth. The canines in the lower jaw impressions were unremarkable.

  These fangs, for lack of a better term, in conjunction with tremendous bite force of the jaws of whatever had done this. Far surpassing the bite force of a human, it had been sufficient to rend five layers of skin and subcutaneous fascia, puncture blood vessels, and then a wrenched outward motion thereby tearing tissue asunder. There was that term again.

  Torn asunder.

  It kept coming back to that term. This was the key to the case. He knew it, but could not fit the pieces together. Not yet. But he knew they fit. And he knew that when they did, he would not like the picture they revealed.

  And it frightened him.

  The doorknob clicked as it turned. The office door swung open with a thump. Horn jumped, startled. He dropped the photo he was holding.

  “Sorry,” Nick Castle said as he shouldered his way through the door holding two paper bags. They looked heavy and in danger of tearing at the bottom. The detective quickly moved and placed the bags gingerly on the closest edge of Horn’s desk.

  “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Horn’s heart rate was slowly returning to a normal sinus rhythm. “That’s all right. What did you get?”

  “Filipino.”

  Castle grabbed the top of the bags and made a swift downward motion from top to bottom. The paper bags ripped loudly, revealing wax paper food containers. Horn noticed that one could say Castle had torn the bags asunder.

  Damn. Now he had that phrase on the brain.

  “Pancit and lumpia. Pork adobo. Steamed rice.” He pointed to each container in turn. “I got plenty of soy sauce, too. And sweet and sour sauce.”

  Horn smiled appreciatively. “Outstanding.” He jammed some of the gruesome black and white photos into a dull brown file folder to protect them, then dropped the file onto the far left side of his desk.

  Castle produced paper plates, napkins, and plastic forks from a thin plastic bag. They opened the containers and began filling their plates.

  Castle hoisted a forkful of pancit. “So did you solve the case while I as gone?”

  Horn grunted. “I know everything we need to solve this case is right here,” he said, putting voice to his frustrations. “We’ve got all the pieces, but they just don’t fit together in a way that makes any sense.”

  “Maybe we need to open up our minds a little bit on this one.”

  Horn stared at Castle askance. “’Open our minds’? Are you going all hippie dippy new age bullshit metaphysical on me?”

  Nick nearly choked on his food laughing. “Not exactly,” he said when we could breathe again. “But here’s the thing. Like you said, it doesn’t make sense. I agree.”

  Horn crunched on a lumpia roll, waiting for Castle to continue. He loved pork lumpia. He loved pancit. Maybe we would retire to the Philippines. He would probably weigh four hundred pounds, but he would die a happy man.

  “So the pieces must fit together in as way that doesn’t make sense. But that’s not a problem.”

  “Why not?”

  “Process of elimination. Eliminate what we know is false. Then, whatever is left, no matter how improbable, must be possible.”

  “I knew it,” Horn sighed. “You are going hippie dippy new age bullshit metaphysical on me.”

  “It’s stupid to keep banging our heads against a wall, Captain. We have to approach from a different angle.”

  “Which is?”

  “Take drugs out of the equation. Take the weapons out of the equation. What’s left?”

  Horn was on the same page now. “He was there to save Reggie’s life.”

  “A guardian angel,” Nick nodded. “Let’s assume we’re correct. How does he get his intel?”

  Horn shrugged. “ Beats me. But, he knows about the ambush. He shows up, slaughters everybody, saves Downing.” He paused. “That’s assuming Downing isn’t lying abo
ut all this.”

  “He’s not lying, Cap. About any of it. The forensics back him up.” Castle wiped his hands on a napkin. “Downing’s an honest cop. You don’t like him because he’s sassy.”

  “Sassy?” Horn echoed. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “He’s smart and pays attention to detail. He respects the rule of law; takes solid cases to the D.A. You know this. But you’re looking to make him out to be a bad guy.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Horn ate in silence a moment. Castle went for seconds on the pancit.

  “Pretty brutal assessment of your superior officer,” Horn said at last.

  “Am I wrong?”

  “No,” Horn heard himself say. “Look. I’ll admit I’ve driven the car into a ditch. Time for something new. You’re driving the rig now.”

  Castle’s chest swelled a bit. “Let’s assume I’m right. Why would this guy care about a cop being murdered?”

  “Friend? Family?”

  “Why did Downing not know him? Why did he not recognize the voice? Cross out family or friends.”

  “Perhaps someone with military training. Spec Ops skills, that kind of thing?” Horn mused aloud. “Nah. The computers would have picked it up.”

  Castle sighed in exasperation. “The only play we have is to talk to Downing again.”

  Horn checked his watch. “When do you want to do that?”

  “Before the cartel does.”

  “And before his JTF.” Horn added. “I never liked Walt Coulter.”

  Castle knew there was more to that than Horn was saying, but he let it go for now. “But where would he go? We have to assume they know about his apartment.”

  “It’s just a cookie-cutter McCondo we confiscated in a drug bust. San Diego PD’s been using it ever since.” He grinned again. “Not even Coulter knows that.”

  “You really don’t like him.”

  “I don’t like most people,” Horn replied. “Most people are full of shit.”

  “You like me.”

  “You’re not so full of shit,” Horn conceded. “Besides. I’ve simply... grown accustomed to you over time.”

  Horn tossed his plate in the trash and pushed upwards with his powerful legs to stand. His chair squeaked as rusty casters rolled it away behind him. The movement was quick for a large man; so fluid it was almost graceful.

  Castle reminded himself to never underestimate Horn. He looked big and slow and overdue for retirement, but in a “push come to shove” situation, this guy would go toe to toe with anyone, and probably hold his own. He watched as Horn opened a drawer, pulled out a Colt Python.

  Castle was impressed. A four-inch anodized barrel with ventilated rib on top, custom sights, plus a custom black rubber combat pistol grip with molded finger grooves. He blew air through his pursed lips in appreciation.

  A massive weapon, it looked intimidating even in Horn’s oversized fist.

  The Python was of classic handgun design: an old-fashioned double-action revolver, with a spinning cylinder that held six .357 magnum rounds.

  It was a hell of a reliable weapon. Revolvers tended to not jam in the heat of battle. On the other hand, with double action and no automation, one had to cock the hammer back each time, or squeeze the trigger hard enough to cock the hammer back so it could drop onto the firing pin.

  “Where the hell did you get that hand cannon?”

  “Since I graduated the Academy. Bought it as a graduation present. Carried it as my service weapon for the first few years.” He shoved it in the waistband at the back of his trousers, careful that his belt loop did not get hung up on the hammer.

  “You think we’ll need that tonight?”

  “You never know.”

  Suddenly, Castle’s 9 mm Berretta, with four clips carrying a mere sixty rounds seemed rather inadequate. Castle stood, adjusted the pistol on his hip. Horn was already turning away, grabbing his coat off the old coat rack near the door.

  Castle was careful to close the office door behind them as they left.

  Rick Oakley stood off to the side, watching his men prepare for war. He pretended to not be nervous. He also pretended it did not bother him that he was no longer a glorified foot soldier himself.

  Of course, that was false. But he was now head of a large, transnational, multimillion-dollar drug smuggling empire. He could not get his own hands bloody. It sent the wrong signal, the wrong message.

  His job now was similar to any C-level executive at any “respectable” company in the world. He delegated the dirty work to the underlings. He had keep his eye on the big picture. He had to have vision for where he wanted the organization to go in the future.

  But as any C-level executive can attest, any tenure can be... tenuous. If business runs on supply and demand, an executive’s survival runs by the law of the jungle. The strong, the cunning, the ruthless, the merciless thrive. Any sign of perceived weakness can be like blood in shark-infested waters.

  He had been in charge less than twenty-four hours, even though he had been in this business for almost twenty years. It felt like his first day on the job, and a bit... awkward.

  As far as he could tell, no one else shared his unease. Everyone went about their business. The new foot soldiers were no longer regular gunmen. Every foot soldier now wore body armor, and each man carried mobile tech and coms.

  Oakley listened to the metallic cacophony of crisp sounds: rounds pushed into clips, the springs recoiling against the resistance, the snapping in of the clip into the magazine of the oiled weapons, and the following snap as the weapons were locked and loaded, ready for firing. Then the comforting clicks of safeties being flipped expertly into place.

  Rudy Valdez stepped up to him. “The men are ready, sir.”

  Oakley nodded. Rudy looked perfectly at ease in the new gear. Combat boots, dark cargo pants with the legs bloused just above the boot tops. Black mock turtleneck underneath matte black body armor with regimented plates that reminded Oakley of a scorpion’s back. An earpiece wirelessly connected to a two-way radio in a Velcro pocket near Rudy’s hip.

  “Let’s go over the strategy again,” Oakley said.

  “Find and kill Reginald Downing.”

  “Tactics?”

  “We employ a two-pronged attack,” Rudy recited. “He will mostly likely go to one of two places. His apartment – his real apartment,” Rudy added for emphasis, “or his grandmother’s house.”

  Oakley nodded.

  “We deploy two teams of six men,” Rudy continued. “We set up surveillance at each location. When he shows himself, secure any escape route. We trap him, corner him, and kill him.”

  “No collateral damage. I expect Grandma remains unharmed.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  Oakley glanced past Rudy, saw the other men. Some he knew, some were new. He trusted none of them the way he trusted the man in front of him. He wondered if he could possibly talk Rudy into staying on.

  “Make sure they understand.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “All right. Make it happen.”

  Rudy turned around and walked slowly towards the other eleven men. Most of them were mercenaries, hailing from a military background. Rudy had handpicked them based on this criterion. Oakley had explained to Rudy a few hours prior how he wanted to create a well-oiled operation. That meant employing operators with military proficiency.

  Rudy had selected his operators for the night, gave a few the night off, and fired two more whose sloppy habits made them liabilities.

  These men understood chain of command. They would obey orders without question, or Rudy would shoot them. Violent death was part of doing business, part of the life. They understood this as well.

  “Okay, guys. Mount up. Terminate with extreme prejudice. Check your targets. No collateral damage.”

  None of the men spoke. They simply nodded their heads.

  Rudy nodded back. They all turned and walked out of the warehouse, filin
g silently, one after the other, through the narrow, industrial metal door. When the last one went through and disappeared, the door closed shut behind them.

  Outside, the kill squads moved towards two large Land Rovers. Black and shiny, with options that made them look reminiscent of military vehicles, the machines waited. Six crammed themselves into one, and six more folded and fitted themselves into the other. Doors closed. Men adjusted themselves inside, trying to get comfortable for the ride ahead. Discomfort frayed even the most professional person’s nerves, made them distracted, irritable. Such distractions often lead to delayed responses and sloppy performance.

  Sitting in the driver’s seat of the lead vehicle, Rudy made sure his weapon was within easy reach to bring to bear at the side window, but kept the muzzle hidden from the casual observer with an outside view. He turned the key, started the engine.

  “Radio check. Melvin. You copy?”

  “Read you Lima Charlie,” came the immediate response from Melvin, who sat in the front passenger seat of the other vehicle. Besides Rudy, Melvin a disciplined, no-nonsense black man, had been with the organization the longest, and had the strongest military background.

  Melvin had done eight years active duty Army. He had been part of a Stryker force, and had completed combat tours in both Iraq and Afghanistan. But Melvin had found out the hard way when he got back that two tours in war zones with a body laced with scars, a chest full of medals and the often empty, perfunctory “thank you for your service” from civilians who had no fucking idea what his service had entailed, simply did not pay the rent. And legit jobs were scarce in a “recovered economy” that had never truly recovered.

  “We’ll set up at Downing’s apartment,” Rudy said.

  “Roger that,” Melvin replied. “To Grandmother’s house we’ll go.”

  Rudy grinned. “It’s important for a man to have a sense of humor.”

  Headlights snapped on. The two vehicles edged forward, Melvin’s falling in behind Rudy’s. They crept through the maze of narrow lanes that snaked between closed and quiet warehouses and storage spaces. Some had been leased or were owned by both legitimate businesses and by more covert enterprises. At this time of night on the weekend, they sat dark and still.