Fatal Exchange (Fatal Series Book 1)

by Russell Blake

  No one was questioning whether they’d gotten the right man, and it certainly wasn’t being touted that the only reason he’d been stopped was because he’d blown out his brains with drugs.

  Amy had departed with the corpse an hour earlier, and the remainder of her team was carefully categorizing and printing everything in the apartment. They’d be there until well after nine, but the chief was adamant he wanted this over with and proclaimed a success ASAP, and was unwilling to wait for a few formalities. Turbo had been caught red-handed with the body parts and the killing kit; the only thing more definitive would have been a video of him cutting.

  Ron wasn’t going to rock the boat and fight city hall, especially when every piece of evidence pointed to a successful closure for the case, so he was going on TV and would smile with the best of them. He called Tess to let her know he’d be on the news.

  “Hey, Ron. I figured you were busy ’cause I hadn’t heard from you all day.” She sounded far more cheerful than yesterday.

  “Yeah. We got the serial, Tess.”

  “That’s great, Ron! Congratulations. Who was it?”

  “Turbo. He had all the hair, the eyes, everything at his place. Psycho central over there.”

  “Oh, my God. That’s so strange, you work with someone for so long, and it turns out they’re some kind of monster.” She shivered involuntarily. “How did you catch him?”

  “He didn’t show up for work this morning so we got a warrant for his place. He killed another girl last night, a messenger for Arrow Courier. Looks like he OD’d while celebrating his latest victim.”

  “Let me guess—meth? Duff told me he was dealing. Turbo was trying to recruit Duff to sell for him, Duff told him to stay away from him. I never liked Turbo, Ron. He was a creep.”

  “Well, everyone’s happy it’s over. I’m going to be on television in a half hour. Watch the TV news, you may see me.” Ron clearly hated the press crap, but wanted to show off a little for Tess.

  “Oh, I’ll have to turn it on. That’s exciting, I know a celebrity.” She was teasing him, but maybe he wasn’t so boring after all. Star of stage and screen, serial-killer catcher, super-sleuth. Maybe in his case the boring looks were deceiving.

  “When are you going to be home? Should I wait for you, plan a celebratory dinner?” she asked.

  “Why not? I should be done by seven. Let’s plan on seven-thirty. My place.”

  Tess hung up and considered Turbo as the killer. She remembered her last conversation with Loca, where she’d said something about going to dinner with one of the Red Cap guys, just mentioning it in passing. It hadn’t been for any specific night, so she hadn’t brought it up to Ron—but she remembered Loca saying, “he was really different off-hours than he was at work,” whatever that meant. She couldn’t imagine a meth fiend like Turbo being “really different” in his off-hours, especially if he was dealing. Tess didn’t want to dampen Ron’s success, but she had a strange feeling they’d gotten the wrong man. Turbo didn’t fit.

  It had to be someone else. She’d been racking her brain to remember if Candy had mentioned anything that pointed to someone else, but couldn’t think of anything specific.

  ~ ~ ~

  The conference was somber and self-important, the chief doing all the talking on behalf of the NYPD, and introducing Ron as the man primarily responsible for their success, the head of the special task force, blah blah blah. It went on for half an hour, the reporters asking all the predictable questions, and everyone departed with what they wanted.

  The killer switched off the television and laughed. That had been too easy. He was amazed at the level of stupidity the cops always displayed, and was already planning a new set of killings. He figured he’d save up some more money, then go cross-country—start with Tess, and kill his way to Los Angeles. But he still needed to figure out where he’d gone wrong this time. Maybe he needed to eat their hearts? Absorb their essence?

  He’d been so close.

  But he’d figure it out—he knew he would. A few times he’d become almost completely invisible, so he knew he’d only left out something small.

  He’d get it right eventually.

  The weekend was coming up; he’d scored some X and a few mushrooms, and although he was working Saturday he didn’t have a lot planned besides getting high and tripping once he was off. This round was over; he hadn’t reached his goal yet, but he was refining the process, discovering the right combination. He could only learn by trial and error, which was unfortunate but unavoidable. There was no risk he would do something while he was stoned out of his mind—he wasn’t an impulsive killer, he could control himself, so it wasn’t like there were voices in his head telling him to go kill, must kill.

  That would be crazy.

  ~ ~ ~

  When Ron made it home he was struck by how clean his place looked, and realized Tess had tidied up. She came out of the bathroom and practically jumped—she hadn’t heard him come in. She looked amazing, wearing a simple light-colored summer dress that accentuated her deeply tanned skin and showed off the tattoos on her arm. Her hair was down, and she had a wild, untamed appearance.

  He kind of liked it. Hell, he really liked it.

  “You look great,” Ron said, obviously taken aback.

  “Welcome. I caught you on the tube. Very impressive—the conqueror returning victorious,” she teased.

  “Yeah. I’d rather have a root canal, but it’s part of the job. They like to trot out their trained chimp to show the taxpayers they’re getting some bang for their buck.”

  “You looked very handsome and dignified, Ron. What did you have in mind for dinner?” That was a nice one-two punch. What did he want for dinner? Get your mind out of the gutter, pervert boy.

  “There are some great places down by Lincoln Center. You like Italian?” he asked.

  “I like it all. Italian’s good.”

  “Let me change and we can head out.” He walked over to grab a soda and saw the refrigerator was filled with food. “Thanks for picking all this up, and for cleaning—you didn’t have to, you know, but I appreciate it.” He snagged a Fresca and went into the bedroom. “Just give me a few minutes.”

  “It was no problem, Ron. Take your time. We’ve got all night.”

  Chapter 32

  Gordon’s phone interrupted his run on the treadmill at his club. He glanced at the screen. Washington. Why would his contact call on a Saturday morning? He thumbed the phone on, slowing to a jog.

  “This is Gordon.”

  “Gordon, it’s Walter. You got a few minutes?”

  “Sure. What’s up?” He hoped it wasn’t yet more bad news or paranoia. His blood pressure was through the roof from fighting with the Asians yesterday.

  “I found out last night the money coming in on Monday isn’t related to our thing. It’s a mob operation—cheap paper, laser printed. So false alarm.” Walter still sounded tense.

  “Well, that’s a relief. I told you not to be so freaked out. You even had me going there for a while.” Gordon felt vindicated in his decision to hold his positions. Too bad his relationship with the minister had deteriorated, but screw him, he’d get over it. Especially if Gordon called with good news. “How’d you find out?”

  “The secretary told me she heard her boss talking to a Secret Service agent about the quality of the bills. No security strip, crummy paper quality. I guess I got my wires crossed.”

  “It happens. Thanks for calling and setting things straight,” Gordon said, wishing Walter would just die now, have a stroke or something and end the trail there.

  “No problem.”

  A hand came down and depressed a button, terminating the call on Walter’s end. He was nervous, sweating even though it was sixty-six degrees in the office. The agent gave him a humorless smile.

  “Think he bought it?”

  “Sounds like it.” Walter had been very cooperative. Gordon was going down, that was certain, so it was save-yourself time.

 
; And Walter wasn’t taking any more bullets.

  Gordon called the minister and shared the news with him. The man still sounded like all was not well.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “The New York team is back on track, but I don’t like the delays. This is taking too long.” The minister sounded troubled.

  “I don’t disagree—but you have to admit this is good news. It seems we’re in the clear again.”

  “It is good news. Hopefully the rest will get put to bed and we can all get back to normal. I appreciate the information, Gordon.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The killer watched the front of Tess’s loft, wondering why there had been no sign of her. He’d taken to riding his bike by her place once a day, usually before work, and had discovered that the little bohemian java bar on the corner really knew how to make an espresso.

  He wasn’t sure when he would be prepared for the next stage of ascension, didn’t know when he’d be called to progress to the next level, but he knew Tess would be key in starting the final phase. She had an energy about her, a strength, like a warrior woman—a Valkyrie, an Amazon. That power would be essential in his realization.

  He’d been so stupid. He’d valued the ritual over the object. Both were important; he’d chosen unworthy candidates, and now he was caught in a kind of purgatory, between states. Close to the new him, but held back by the old him. That couldn’t last forever. His duty, his mission and purpose was to move on.

  And Tess held the key. Not all bike messengers, not all females, not different hair colors or body types. Tess, and a few select others who were vessels of the same strength he required, were his natural prey.

  He’d been so stupid, so shortsighted, and had wasted so much time.

  Now it was clear, and he understood his error. Soon, Tess, soon we will be one, and everything will be as it was meant to be.

  Soon.

  ~ ~ ~

  The Myanmar CIA team had gotten an employee to take them up on their offer, as long as his family could be removed from Myanmar with him. They’d agreed, and he confirmed the plant was being used as a paper mill and currency printing site by the Ministry of Finance; as far as he knew, the only one they had.

  It hadn’t been hard to find someone willing to turn in a country where starvation was the leading killer.

  Offering someone the chance to leave with a half-million dollars in their pocket was a dream come true. It was surprising the compound’s entire staff hadn’t lined up, decided to split the bounty, and blown the place up themselves.

  The 24-hour satellite coverage enabled tracking of the guard shifts and the employee schedules, so now that the operations had been confirmed, planning a mission could begin in earnest. There was debate at the Department of Defense as to how to take it out—whether to fire a salvo of missiles from offshore “by mistake,” or have a rogue pilot violate Myanmar airspace and use a fly-by-wire bomb (with the U.S. apologizing profusely and disciplining the mentally-ill man upon his return), or use a drone, or have a naval ship in the Adaman Sea conduct a missile test exercise where one went off course, or do a nocturnal penetration and destroy the facility secretly.

  After considering the alternatives, it was decided the best approach would be the old-fashioned way: sending in a team while the Asians slept. The CIA advanced that as their recommendation.

  The beauty of the approach was that Myanmar couldn’t go nuts over the plant being destroyed if no destroyer was evident. It would be hard to raise a stink over an illegal counterfeiting plant being flattened by parties unknown. As a precaution, the situation team would develop a contingency plan while they were planning the assault.

  Ten armed soldiers guarded the warehouse at night inside the perimeter of the grounds, with one guard change at midnight, and another at eight a.m.. The optimum time to strike would be at four, allowing enough time for charges to be distributed and for the squad to escape to a safe distance. By going in at that hour they’d benefit from the cover of darkness, as well as from any sluggishness the guards might suffer from.

  It was decided to use SEAL Team Six members of Asian heritage, so in the event casualties were left behind there would be racial deniability.

  As they tightened up the tactics it seemed increasingly straightforward to pull off. The warehouse was in a coastal area of Myanmar between Sittwe and Sandoway, a former naval facility on the Bay of Bengal fallen into disrepair. The only military forces in the five-mile area were the soldiers deployed as guards for the facility—a company of roughly forty men, including officers.

  The barracks for the off-duty military personnel were at the far end of the grounds from the production site, at least an eighth of a mile away. Sound suppressed weapons could dispatch the entire contingent of guards at the warehouse, and the team could theoretically set charges, destroy the plant, and be gone before the barracks could respond.

  There was much debate over whether to infiltrate via low-flying helicopter, or by sea in “radar-soft” zodiacs, possibly launched from a submarine. The sub approach seemed like the most practical. The Myanmar coastal surveillance was iffy, the systems in horrible shape, and likely unable to pick up a few fast rubber boats.

  Summer was the rainy season, which meant ugly sea conditions, but also less likelihood of detection—the rain and swells created scatter that would make spotting small non-metallic craft practically impossible. The team would have to travel across roughly forty-five miles of sea if they departed from Bangladesh, but most of the roughest water would be further off the coast if they took a straight-line route; while nasty, it could be done.

  Using a submarine was ultimately dismissed because of the likelihood of detection when it surfaced. Because of the proximity of China and India, and the tensions in the region, keeping the mission as small and deniable as possible was prudent.

  All the experts liked their chances. A group of sixteen men would go in, take out every living thing within the vicinity of the building, and then blow it up before anyone had awakened. With any luck they’d be back in Bangladesh before daybreak. It wasn’t a bad plan. Now they just had to execute—always the hard part.

  ~ ~ ~

  Ron and Tess spent the first part of the morning at one of the countless restaurants shoehorned into slots at the bases of the buildings along Broadway. Any awkwardness between them had subsided during the prior night’s dinner, and they were now comfortable in each other’s company, chatting easily as they enjoyed a relaxed breakfast.

  He had to go into the office to tie up the case’s loose ends after they ate, so Tess breached the topic of Turbo and her doubts about him being the serial. Ron hated talking shop outside of work, but she was persistent and they ultimately spent the meal discussing her concerns over Turbo’s death—she couldn’t shake the sense they’d gotten the wrong man.

  Ron couldn't shake his uneasy feeling, either; it had all fallen into place too easily, and in his experience life just didn’t happen that way. A sketchy doper like Turbo was certainly capable of being a killer, but the level of planning and methodical attention to detail was inconsistent with what they’d found at his apartment. That’s what had rubbed Ron the wrong way.

  Here was a perp perennially addled by meth, whose dwelling was unkempt and disorganized and whose body was ravaged by signs of addiction, and yet he’d been able to pull off four murders in public places within two weeks of each other using wildly innovative techniques for the killings, without slipping up anywhere.

  It was possible, but it didn’t fit the scumbag he’d interviewed and the shithole he’d spent most of yesterday searching. The apartment was clearly the abode of a meth user who was high most of the time, who lacked self-awareness, and consequently also lacked attention to fine detail.

  The killings had been the work of a ritualist, someone who placed importance on repetition and minutia, whose internal world was highly organized and rich in imagery. He’d kept to an aggressive schedule, hadn’t made any mistakes, and had obviously
aroused no suspicion in his victims. Turbo looked exactly like what he was—a loser on the edge, propping himself up with chemicals.

  The killings just didn’t feel like Turbo to Ron once he’d seen his place and gotten more sense of his character. It was a nuance, but an important one.

  “You’ve been doing this a long time, Ron; if the facts aren’t lining up for you, dig some more,” Tess advised. She didn’t want to push him, but she also wanted to tell him what she’d remembered. “Loca mentioned having a dinner date with someone from Red Cap, but never said who or when, just that he was different away from work. That doesn’t sound like Turbo, does it? I can’t see her going anywhere with a scumbag like that, or him being different off-hours.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”

  “I just remembered yesterday. It didn’t seem like anything until you told me it was Turbo, and then it didn’t fit and it became important.”

  “I’ll say. As far as I can tell, he was a junkie dirtball 24/7.” The little voice in his head that was singing “maybe you’ve got this wrong” was quickly becoming a Greek chorus. “I just don’t buy it in my heart, you know? I feel like I’ve been played by an intellect far more developed and malevolent than Turbo—not that he wasn’t a wrong number.”

  “Ron, you’ve got an algorithm you’ve developed for these serial killers based on input you’ve accumulated over time. Now you’ve fed the facts of the case into that algorithm, and what comes out the other side isn’t Turbo. Am I missing something?” Tess had distilled it; if the algorithm came up with someone different, then the serial was someone different, and Turbo was a set-up.

  Simple.

  She had a rigorous and logical way of viewing situations that reminded him of Amy, except Tess was wearing board shorts and a tank top this morning and looked like his wildest fantasy. That was a pretty important distinction from where he was sitting at the moment.