Random Revenge (Detective Robert Winter Book 1)

by William Michaels

  A tenuous link, but it wouldn’t be the first one Winter had correctly identified, a sliver of a thread which had eliminated the excuse of randomness. Winter’s success bought him some slack from the captain, but not enough to justify time, let alone overtime, on a stakeout such as this one. So Winter and Brooker gave it a shot, every few days hanging around the airport to see if they could spot a returning traveler being stalked.

  Today offered an added incentive, the regional airport had just started weekly flights to Aruba, which had a new casino. The flight was due to land in a half hour.

  A sharp beep to Winter’s right, his hand going to his Ruger LCP at his hip under his hoodie. Too warm for the sweatshirt, even at night, but Winter hated wearing a belly band like Brooker did, using his untucked, oversized shirts to hide his gun. Winter was carrying his backup piece; his standard 9 mm locked up at the station, too bulky on a stakeout. The beep noise registering, a car being unlocked with a remote, yet no one around. The unmistakable sound of the stairwell door opening, one of those bars you had to push. The Hispanic guy came out, looking somewhat confused. He held up his hand, Winter focusing on the motion, thinking gun, but it wasn’t a gun, it was a set of keys, the beeping again.

  The guy visibly relaxed, heading for the car. He passed right by Winter, looking more sheepish than suspicious, and Winter almost laughed, the guy had forgot where he had parked, and was just using his remote to unlock the car so he could find it.

  Not a bad idea, thought Winter, I’ll have to remember that.

  Brooker couldn’t find a parking space on the top level. Who the hell parks way up here? He was forced to go back down to seven, where there were plenty of spaces, go figure. No people in sight, nine in the evening, but he checked it anyway, walking its length, realizing that if the mugger were here hiding, Brooker would look pretty suspicious. On the other hand, if the mugger were crouched down behind a car or one of the massive support poles, he’d look pretty suspicious himself.

  Brooker bypassed the stairway. He had to check the upper floor, which meant going up the ramp. The stairs would be faster, but the man they had spotted might drive out from eight, and then they would have wasted a trip. Although the guy would have to be a track star to have made it up six flights already.

  Up the ramp, huffing a little, he needed to lose some weight. He wondered if he had ever got married if his wife would have helped with that. Or maybe he’d be heavier, home cooking instead of takeout. The takeout was certainly fatty, but maybe he would eat more if the food was better tasting? Another unsolvable mystery.

  Not that he thought these muggings were unsolvable. Maybe they were, maybe they weren’t. Winter’s idea was as good as any, better, because the man had a history of pulling cards out of thin air, a magician who made randomness disappear. Until he explained the trick, which was the hidden connection, the string that yanked the card into his sleeve. Then it all made sense, and, because Winter never rubbed it in, you felt more awed than put down or stupid. At least that was true for Brooker. Some of the other detectives didn’t get it, they thought it was luck, Winter’s success—and Brooker’s by association— as random as the crimes had appeared to be.

  A clanging echo, coming from everywhere and nowhere, just as Brooker hit the top floor. Someone coming out of the stairway? He slipped behind a support pole, thankful of its girth, a plane revving up, drowning out any chance of hearing footsteps . . .

  Winter fought the urge to relax, even though the Hispanic wasn’t the guy they were looking for. Winter wasn’t certain he could predict how someone who pulled off multiple assaults would act if spotted, but pretending he had misplaced his car didn’t seem to be it. Besides, the Hispanic didn’t fit even the vague descriptions they had received from the mugging victims. No one had gotten a good look, not that it would have mattered, eye witness accounts were notoriously unreliable. All these people carrying phone cameras around, catching evidence of infractions by cops everywhere, yet no one ever got a picture of a crime? Another mystery to solve.

  He headed for the stairway, since that was where Brooker would expect to meet him, and it wouldn’t do to leave your partner wondering, especially on a stakeout. Brooker would expect the worst, just as Winter would. Winter also didn’t want Brooker to take all those stairs, even down, he had to get his partner on some kind of diet. Too bad the guy wasn’t married. Winter’s ex wife’s cooking had been so bad it was better than any diet.

  Winter waited a few steps outside the stairwell door, expecting the whine of the revving jet to dissipate. Lessons learned while serving in combat situations: normal background noises drowned out the footsteps of danger, everyday sounds lulled you into a sense of complacency. He’d seen men lose their lives that way, and while he had no particular feeling of invulnerability, why add to life’s dangers, especially a cop’s life, even one in a relatively small city?

  The pilot of the jet wasn’t co-operating, a frustrated drag racer. Winter weighed the risks of not having a quiet stairwell versus that of Brooker left alone in case the real mugger happened to be in the garage, and that being no contest, he opened the door.

  Muffled thuds, an echoing resonance that could be anything, especially against the backdrop of the jet. Winter closed the door quietly, his hand again on his weapon. More thuds, an animalistic grunt, a yelp of indeterminate origin.

  Some kind of commotion not far above, no way Brooker could be this far down so soon. Winter took the stairs two at a time yet under control, his gun in his hand by his side, not able to see up the enclosed stairway yet not wanting to spook some innocent civilians by rushing on them with a pointed gun.

  Winter passed the third landing, the tumult still above him. As he turned for the next flight of stairs the door he had just passed smashed open into him, throwing him against the wall and numbing his arm as his mind registered a woman’s yell from above, immediately stifled. Winter bounced off the wall as a ruddy skinned, long haired man rushed in, Winter’s mind flashing to the Hispanic, this guy was much bigger, the clothes all wrong, a baseball cap pulled low, the head down. The man’s momentum carried him into Winter, a quick look of surprise on his face, but not so surprised that he didn’t grab for the gun, Winter not able to feel his hand, afraid to squeeze his fingers, no telling where the bullet would go, ricocheting around the cinder block walls.

  The guy outweighed Winter by fifty pounds, but only thought he knew how to fight, relying on his size, moving in to smother Winter with his body. Winter did know how to fight, and he never gave a shit about fighting fair, slamming his foot into the man’s ankles, quickly followed by a knee to the stomach, getting a grunt, the guy half bending, but he was tough, catching Winter flush in the chest with an uppercut, a wild swing Winter couldn’t get away from.

  Winter pushed off to create some space, at the same time swinging his still numb arm around, aiming the butt of his gun at the man’s head. Missed, his hand hitting the wall, the man still reaching for the gun. Winter went with it, his hand to hand training ingrained in muscle memory, sliding around, pinning the big man to the wall, along with his gun, not what the guy expected. Winter gave him three quick shots in the kidneys, too much bulk there to do much good, but a kick behind the knee worked, hitting the right nerve, the knee buckling. Winter wrestled his gun hand free, catching the guy’s head with the butt, and he went down.

  Winter backed off to get him covered, he didn’t have handcuffs but always carried a long zip tie. “Don’t move,” he ordered, but as he was reaching for the zip tie another anguished yelp from above, a woman in pain.

  “Brooker!” he yelled, on the off chance Brooker was in the stairway, and to give whomever was above fear, and hope, that help was on the way. Winter took two steps up, his gun hovering on the long haired guy, lying on the landing, bleeding from where Winter had cut his head. Winter couldn’t wait, the woman screaming for help. Shifting the gun to his left hand he grabbed at the rail with his right, pulling himself up the stairs.

  At t
he next landing another big man stood behind a petite woman, his arm around her neck, bending her over the rail, her skirt pulled up, her dark hair dangling in air, the woman sobbing, the guy holding a knife, a good sized Tanto. Winter lifted the gun, awkward, he couldn’t hit the fucking wall with his left hand. The assailant, crew cut, clean shaven, almost military in appearance, holding the knife like he knew what he was doing, the way Winter would have held it. Winter bringing the gun around as the man, not cowed, calmly pulled the woman’s head back by the hair, the knife against her neck.

  The jet screamed on takeoff, rattling Winter’s teeth even in the stairway, deafening. A huge weight slammed into him, shoving him down, the edge of the hard stairs driving in his shins and then his forehead. He lashed out with his feet, hitting nothing but air, his forearm screaming in pain as a foot stomped on it, a quick impression of the long haired guy’s legs. Winter fighting to hold onto the gun, not giving up even as the boot came down again, but even his resolution was no match for hundreds of pounds of force, his fingers opening beyond his control.

  Winter grabbed at the boot, twisting hard, the jet still whining, the man with the knife stepping down toward him, a mountain. Winter couldn’t get up, two men on him now, arms and legs and somewhere, a hand with a knife . . .

  Adrenaline adding magic fuel to his training and his raw survival instinct, grabbing the ruddy guy by his hair, using it as a lever and bouncing his head off the stairs, bang, bang, bang, the cracks so loud they overcame the now fading jet. Winter feeling more than seeing the knife come at his face, twisting the handful of hair so the head was between him and the knife, he was too close, the knife only partially blocked, the tip catching Winter in the forehead, blood flooding into his right eye.

  Winter twisted the hair again, the man screaming as the next knife stroke gashed his ear, rising up, crazed enough to lift the knife man, the pressure off of Winter for a heartbeat, he slid down stairs, his nose smashing into each step. No time, there was still the knife and his gun, he desperately tried to clear the blood from his eye, the pain from the cut not yet registering.

  The knife wielder had fallen back on his ass. Winter pounded back up the stairs and drop kicked him in the face while holding onto the rail, getting his weight into it. The short haired man’s head snapped back, but he didn’t let go of the knife, so Winter kicked him again. Another scream from the woman, the long haired guy had latched onto her, her face smeared with his blood. Winter stomped on the fingers holding the knife, twisting, trying to break as many as possible, kicking the knife down the stairs as it came free. Not a word from the downed guy, which tipped Winter off that he wasn’t giving up, a silent warning to leap out of the way of the man’s other hand reaching for Winter’s legs.

  The miss left the now unarmed man stretched out, awkward, so Winter kicked him in the face again even as he turned to the woman, who had gone slack, hurt or in shock. Winter could deal with the punches, the kicks, even the knife, but not with seeing a man with his hands on a woman. He rushed forward, Long Hair trying to put the woman between them, Winter going for his cut ear, grabbing, pulling, his hands slick with blood, getting nothing, going back again, the guy screaming, telling Winter he had his fingers in the right spot. He dug in deep, yanking the guy around by the ear, pulling his arm away from the woman, spinning him just as the military guy loomed. Winter used the long haired man as a battering ram, letting go as he hit the other assailant, both of them crashing down the stairs.

  Winter’s eye was now filled with blood, his hands slick, he didn’t know if he could shoot even if he could find the gun. The woman collapsed, he had to step over her as he flew down the steps, the bigger man pushing Long Hair off. Winter grabbed his hair again and used it like a whip to smash his head against the wall as hard as he could. Winter let him go, grabbing the rail just as the big one got up, no hair to grab on to, so Winter kicked him in the neck. The man went down, gurgling, Winter on top of him, pummeling away, a rushing in his ears, he’d taken a hit somewhere he hadn’t even realized, the sharp pain from his forehead cut now registering, he might not have much time, needed to finish this . . .

  Strong hands pulling him off, Winter stunned, he’d bounced that fucker’s head off the wall, no way he could be back up. Winter spun around wildly, arms wrapping around him, an urgent but somehow familiar voice forcing it’s way through the blood and haze.

  “It’s me, Winter, slow down, hey . . .”

  The voice finally registering, Brooker. “Knife,” croaked Winter, tasting blood.

  “I got it. Your piece too. They’re both down for the count.”

  “Woman,” said Winter, still barely able to see.

  “In shock, but breathing. Not cut, it’s not her blood. I’ll go check on her again. Just sit, okay?”

  Win felt for the stairs, pulling his shirt out to clean his face. Long Hair lay crumbled at his feet, his head a mess, his body twitching in pain. Alive. The bigger guy looked unconscious. A scream behind Winter, he turned, the woman in a frenzy, biting and clawing at Brooker. Brooker wrapped his burly arms around her, the wrong thing to do, as it only made her fight harder. Winter crawled his way up the stairs, the woman probably thinking her nightmare wasn’t over, Brooker another attacker. Her eyes widened as she saw Winter, another nightmare on the way, Brooker trying to be gentle, the woman having none of it. Winter held up his hand, trying to tell her it was okay, a bloody zombie crawling toward her as she was held immobile. Winter stopped, suddenly feeling useless.

  Brooker whispering something to the woman, slowly winding her down, Winter hearing the word police. The woman shaking her head, disbelieving. Brooker let her go, but kept his arms loosely around her, a fence of protection.

  “I’m going to show you my badge,” said Brooker. “It’s okay, I’m a cop, we’re just trying to help you, don’t you remember?”

  The woman never took her eyes off of Winter, her arms clutched over her breasts protectively, her clothing tie dyed in blood. Brooker reached for his shield and held it in front of her face, the badge must have had some kind of power, because she collapsed.

  Brooker grabbed her as she fell, guiding her to the floor, checking her pulse. “Feels okay, I think she just fainted.”

  “Call it in,” said Winter.

  “I will, let me just lock these guys down.”

  Winter handed Brooker his zip tie as Brooker passed him on the stairs, not upset that Brooker wasn’t checking on him, the first priority was safety. Brooker handed Winter back his gun and Winter painfully followed his partner down the stairs to cover him. Brooker cautiously approached the short haired man first, staying out of Winter’s line of fire. It didn’t matter, the guy was dazed, completely out of it.

  “These our muggers?” asked Brooker.

  “I very much doubt it. All wrong, no masks, a knife instead of a gun, the assault.”

  “You just stumbled upon them? Randomly?”

  “Very funny.”

  Brooker zipped up Long Hair, who hadn’t moved at all, the bright blood clashing with his ruddy features. “Jesus, buddy, you almost killed this one.”

  Winter looked down at the prone assailant, shook his head, and stomped as hard as he could on the guy’s nuts. “I hate fucking rapists.”

  Brooker, impassive, observed, “Technically, he’s an attempted rapist, at least as far as we know.”

  “You going to kick me in the balls too?” asked the short haired guy. He’d come to, his voice a croak.

  Winter felt good hearing the raspiness, he must have tagged the guy pretty good in the throat. He picked up the knife and used it to cut a strip from his shirt to wrap around his forehead. When he was finished he held the knife up. “Army?”

  The guy sneered. “Marines.”

  “You’re a disgrace,” said Winter. “But I won’t kick you.”

  Brooker looked from the Marine to Winter, shrugged, and kicked the Marine in the crotch.

  “Fuck! You said you wouldn’t kick me!”


  “He did, I didn’t,” said Brooker.

  “What was that for?” asked Winter.

  “I hate attempted rapists.”

  Winter laughed, that was worth the price of the cut. “Call it in.”

  Brooker shook his head, pulling Winter up the stairs, out of earshot of the woman and the two assailants, whispering. “Listen, this looks bad. You’ve got your history . . . and everyone is all over law enforcement, here, everywhere, all of us, that man in custody our guys did a number on, the two shootings by the Boston cops, this won’t go down well.”

  “Come on, they were raping her,” protested Winter.

  Brooker pressed on. “Not a rape. Attempting an assault is how it will play.” Brooker jerked his hand down the stairs. “If that guy dies . . . look, man, I know you did what you had to do, this time and the other times, I would have done the same thing, but this isn’t the right time for this to come out, they’ll have your badge.”

  Winter nodded toward the woman, who seemed to be breathing normally. “She’ll back me up.”

  “Want to bet your career on that?”

  Winter sagged, the reality of the unfairness a more potent assault than the two men he had fought. “What do you have in mind?”

  Brooker looked down at the two men, the woman, considering. “They were out of it when I got here and announced myself, and the woman was in shock, we can say she was in shock. You need to get out of here.”

  Winter was already shaking his head. “That won’t work, it’ll just turn the attention on you.”

  “Better me than you, I’ve only got one strike, you already have three, plus the one they don’t know about, the big one, ours. They would have run you out already if you didn’t clear so many tough cases, we’re both on borrowed time. I can take one more hit if I have to. And I won’t have to, I’ll tell them I didn’t do it. Some good Samaritan intervened, some stranger, he ran off as I was arriving, I was too focused on the woman to get a good look at him.”