Blood List

by Patrick Freivald

  Marty heard the blast from the country club. He stared numbly at the rising fireball. He spoke into his COM. "Gene?" Gene didn't reply.

  He tried again. "Sam? What the fuck was that?"

  Her voice was soft. "Marty, that was Renner's getaway boat. We had him surrounded. It almost took out the helicopter."

  His voice was thick as he replied. "Gene?"

  Sam replied. "Witnesses saw him tackle Renner onto the boat."

  Marty forced out the words. "But where is he now?"

  "Dive teams are en route, Marty."

  Under the dock, Paul Renner tossed the remote control and the detonator overboard. He paddled the small sailboat into the harbor, ignoring the pain in his chest as he unfurled the sail. The beach was crowded, both in and out of the water, and despite the odd excitement, people were enjoying the beautiful southern California weather.

  Paul lay back and let the sun warm his face and chest. Every breath hurt, but it was tolerable. A new wig crowned his head with long, blond, surfer-dude hair, and light blue contacts changed his eye color. A few hours sunbathing while the feds combed the area, and then he'd be headed home, or what passed as home these days. Not a bad way to spend an afternoon, given the way the day almost went. Not bad at all. He closed his eyes and smiled.

  Chapter 11

  January 6th, 5:53 PM PST; Unknown location; San Diego, California.

  Gene knew he was conscious by the dim haze of red-filtered light. He sucked air into his lungs, then performed a mental checklist of body parts. No torso wounds, right ankle hurts, not broken. Left foot hurts like heck, might be broken. Nose feels as big as a grapefruit. Hands tied, feet tied, and there's something over my head. A quick strain at his bonds brought pain. Wire.

  He explored his options. His chair wouldn't budge. Any serious struggling would cause the wire to slice into his flesh. He didn't know how long he'd been under, and he didn't know where he was. It was deathly quiet. His heart hammered in his chest as claustrophobia crept in.

  Calm down, Gene. A few deep breaths got him started, then he relaxed his hands. Breathe in. Then feet. Now out. Then arms. Breathe in. Then legs. Now out. He soon had control of his heart rate. His mind cleared while his chin sank to his chest.

  "Okay. I give up," Gene said to the room in a voice more calm than he felt. "I'm not gagged, so I assume screaming isn't going to do me any good. What do you want? Why am I here?"

  In response, Gene heard a soft ring, like a wet finger running along the top of a wine glass. It was the unmistakable sound of a blade sliding across metal. He clenched his teeth as renewed fear clawed into his gut. He wouldn't show a reaction.

  Gene jumped as Paul Renner spoke from the darkness less than a foot in front of him. "I haven't decided yet, Palomini." Cold fear like he'd never known threatened to throw him into panic.

  Marty's voice spoke in his head. Don't you give that motherfucker the satisfaction, boss.

  Paul yanked the hood off his head. He sat at a dining room table in what looked like a typical, middle-class, American house. Gene looked into the eyes of the man he'd been hunting and realized he wasn't a predator anymore; he was prey. Renner held a large hunting knife in his left hand and scraped the blade up and down his blue jeans.

  "Any idea when you're going to decide?" Gene said. Atta-boy, boss. Even though he knew it wasn't there, he took comfort in Marty's voice.

  "You see…." Paul cleaned his fingernails with the knife. "I've got a bit of a problem to deal with. You've devoted most of the past few years to bringing me to justice, which is just cop talk for throwing my ass in prison. I've spent a lot of time spitting in your face and laughing at your efforts."

  Gene didn't comment. It was better to let someone ramble rather than to interrupt. This was especially true if you're the one who's tied to a chair, and he's the one with the big knife.

  "That's got to piss a guy like you right off, huh, Palomini?" Paul pointed at him with the knife, then went back to his nails. For all his cool, Paul didn't extend his arm all the way. Renner was hurt.

  "Anyway, the reason that's a problem is that I need your help." Paul winced a little every time he breathed in.

  I definitely cracked a couple of his ribs.

  Gene coughed, incredulous. "I would never help a killer like you."

  Paul's eyes brightened. He slid the knife back into its sheath and grinned. "I think you're going to take some convincing. My motives are pretty simple, Gene-o. Clients give me money, and I kill who they want dead. I think you figured that much out. What you don't know, though, is that more often than not I'm working for the same U.S. government you are. I've got way less rules tying me down, and I get my hands a lot dirtier than you're allowed to, but that's just the nature of the beast.

  "Just like a Navy SEAL, for example, might have a different set of rules than a common soldier. When a SEAL kills for his government on a black op, it isn't always strictly legal, is it, Lieutenant-turned-Special-Agent in Charge Palomini?" Paul let the question hang in the air.

  Gene kept his voice carefully controlled. "I wouldn't make that comparison, Mr. Renner."

  "At what point does a paid government killer become a criminal? Just because the illegal work he does for the government is now illegal work he's doing for somebody else? You've killed people for a paycheck. You've ordered it done." He looked Gene in the eyes. "A job's a job, and this is mine. I'm not some crazy psycho. I even work hard to minimize collateral damage, especially when I'm using something flashy like a car bomb. You and I are not so different."

  "Wonderful story," Gene said. "Do you have a point?"

  "Gene," Paul said with a raised eyebrow, "you're tied to a chair, so hush up a second, and you'll hear the point." Paul groaned slightly as he stood. He paced while he talked. "Where was I? Oh yeah.

  "After a point I started to recognize patterns, to see the reasons behind the hits. This guy's cheating on his wife, that guy's a commie spy, this lady slept with the Secretary of State, whatever. Every now and then, not knowing is no big deal.

  "When your superiors ordered your unit to fly to God-knows-where on a black op, did you ask questions? Of course not." Paul took a step toward Gene, his eyes wide.

  Gene started to think that Paul really wanted to be believed. That's not the same as telling the truth. "Umm. Sure. I'm not saying I agree, but I see where you're coming from."

  "Okay, good," Paul said. "So over the past couple years the same guy contacted me for multiple jobs. I don't know who he is, but I'm pretty sure he's a private citizen. But here's the fucked up part. He doesn't have me kill some cheating wife, or a businessman he's in competition with, or a bookie. There wasn't any obvious motive behind the job.

  "For one hit, it's no big deal. If I can't figure out why, whatever. It happens sometimes, like I said. So anyway, he calls me up again pretending to be someone else, and offers me another job. And then he does it again." Paul waggled his finger at Gene, hissed in pain, and pulled his arm back. "Now that's fucked up. If someone wants multiple people snuffed and you can't find the pattern, it gets your brain churning, and you can't help but get curious, you know?"

  Gene almost suppressed a snort. Pain shot through his broken nose. "I know all about victim patterns not making sense, Mister Renner."

  "Touché," Paul said. "So I end up with a series of targets, all from the same guy, in all different parts of the country with no rhyme or reason. To make a long story short, I call this one off. Tell him I'm done, give him his money back. No big deal, I've done it before." He spun around, both fingers pointed like kids' guns at Gene. "And then, you know what?"

  Gene didn't reply.

  "The next thing I know someone tries to kill me."

  Paul knelt inches from Gene's face and pushed his hair back with his palm. A mostly-healed scab adorned his scalp, the scar pink and glossy. All of the enthusiasm leached out of Paul's voice. "He shot me in the head, Gene, but I got him before he could finish the job."

  Gene looked at the scar
and said nothing.

  "Look, I know you cops cut deals with the little guys if it'll help you catch a big guy. All the time. What I want is a deal. You use your resources to help me find the bastard who put the hit out on me, and I give you the information I have on the victims. You bust the real bad guy, the guy who hired out at least seven killings. This fish is bigger than me. Way bigger."

  Gene laughed harshly. "You've been messing with the FBI for a decade. Why would I possibly believe you now?"

  Paul took a step back, frowning. "I've never lied to you, Agent Palomini. Never once."

  Gene raised his eyebrows. "Perhaps not, but you toyed with me. With us."

  "That's true," Paul said. "But I've never killed anyone who someone else wasn't going to kill if I didn't. I'm not a random murderer. I'm a weapon. What I'm offering you is the chance to catch the killer."

  Gene tugged at the wire on his wrists and ankles. "Mr. Renner, you're crazy if you think I'm going to negotiate while tied to a chair."

  With an exaggerated roll of his eyes, Paul moved behind Gene and out of sight. He heard the knife clear the sheath. At the metallic ring of wire being cut, Gene felt immediate relief from the pressure in his feet. A spike of pain followed as blood flowed to the battered bones in his left foot. That's got to be broken.

  "You fucked up my chest," Paul said from behind him. More faintly he continued, "I'm going to let you out of the chair now. If you attack me this go around, one of us isn't walking out of this room alive. I can guarantee that that person will be you. Got it?"

  "Got it, Mr. Renner."

  "Good. And call me Paul."

  Another quick snip and the wire pressure relaxed on Gene's wrists. He flexed his hands to restore circulation, staying seated as Paul moved back in front of him. He wasn't sure he could stand yet anyway. Paul grabbed a chair, dragged it across the room one-handed, and set it so the back faced Gene. He let his arms take the brunt of the effort as he lowered himself into a sitting position. "I think you cracked some ribs."

  Gene chuckled. "I think you broke my foot, and I know you broke my nose." He continued flexing his hands, wrists, ankles, and toes. The pins and needles were almost unbearable. "Paul, you know I can't trust you."

  With a flick of his wrist, Paul tossed a cell phone to Gene. "Call your team and tell them you're not dead. They think we both are, so I could kill you and walk away now and the case would be closed. So as a gesture of good faith, call your brother and tell him you're alive, but keep it under ten seconds." A compact pistol appeared in Renner's hand, then disappeared. The man moved so fast it might as well have been magic.

  Gene's eyebrows rose.

  "And," Paul added, "even if you say 'no' to the deal, I'll let you go. Safe and sound, with no more injury than you've already got."

  Gene dialed. Marty picked up with a string of expletives and threats he couldn't quite decipher. "It's me, Marty. Not him. I'm alive, he's alive, and I'll call you later. Got to go." He pressed the "end" button. The sound of his brother's voice being cut off made Gene's chest tighten. He wanted to redial, but instead he tossed the phone back to Renner.

  With a quick look at the phone, Paul put it back in his pocket. "How's that? You're untied, your brother and your team know you're alive, and they can hunt me until the end of my days if something happens to you."

  Gene sighed. "There's just no way I can offer you a deal. You're a serial killer, for crying out loud."

  "I don't need a long-term deal, and I won't ask for immunity," Paul said flatly. "I just want help finding who's behind this, who's trying to kill me." Paul leaned forward. "I'll put myself in your custody."

  Gene wanted to spit in Renner's face. He wanted revenge for Carl's arm and Jerri's concussion. Still, while Renner was an awfully big fish, whoever this other man was, he was bigger. "No immunity, no pardons, and we keep you on a very short leash," Gene began.

  "No arrests, no kicking the shit out of me."

  "And when it's done?" Gene asked. "What?"

  "I walk away," Paul said.

  "We just let you go?" Gene asked.

  "That's right," Paul answered. "I walk off into the sunset a free man. Chase me down all over again if that's what it's got to be. Just give me a day to lose your team; something tells me they're going to want blood."

  Gene looked the killer in the eyes as the saying there's no honor among thieves popped into his head. I'm sure the same applies to paid killers. Sometimes, it applies to the FBI.

  "So you'll let me go, and if I want to deal I can, what, call you?"

  "Drive away. In five minutes, when it's obvious you're free, come back and pick me up. Just you, though."

  "So what do you want from me? Something in writing?"

  "Nah," Paul said. He pulled out a set of car keys. "If your word's no good I'm screwed either way."

  "I'll have to clear it with the Assistant Director." Gene couldn't believe he'd just said it.

  Paul held out the keys. "Car's in the driveway."

  * * *

  January 6th, 6:27 PM PST; FBI Building, 880 Front St; San Diego, California.

  "He hasn't called back." Marty's eyes were still red. His voice was hoarse from screaming.

  "But we know he's alive," Jerri said, putting a tentative hand on his shoulder.

  Marty jerked away from her touch like it burned him. "That's bullshit and you know it. All we know is that he was alive half an hour ago. I swear to fucking God I'll kill that motherfucker with my bare fucking hands…." He turned away from her, his hands clenching and unclenching with hopelessness and rage as he hid his tears from the rest of the team.

  Jerri turned to Carl. She didn't know what to do with rejected offers of comfort. She worried about Gene as well but still rode the high that came from his call. She had always considered her relationship with her co-workers to be clinical. They were teammates, not friends or family. Carl's sheepish grin told her he didn't know how to handle Marty either. Doug stared out the window.

  Today's events put something in perspective. She didn't just respect her co-workers. She loved them. They were her family, every bit as much as her real family. She couldn't love Marty the way he loved her, but she did love him.

  Carl's nerdiness, Marty's brutal honesty, Gene's obsessive determination, Doug's quiet intelligence, and even Sam's stupid sense of humor were all a part of her now. Two and a half hours of knowing that Gene was dead had hurt her more than she thought possible, and his call had filled her with so much joy she couldn't imagine slipping into Marty-esque defeatism.

  He'll call, Carl mouthed to her, his confidence cementing the certainty in her head.

  "I know," she whispered back as she came close. "But waiting for it sure does suck."

  As if on cue, Marty's phone rang. The caller ID glared "D Street Killer." He snatched it from the desktop. He didn't have a chance to hit "send."

  "I got it," Sam piped over the COM. "Team broadcast."

  "This is Sam Greene," the team heard in their ear-beads, "please identify yourself."

  "Hi, team, it's me again." Gene's voice sounded nasal and tired but relaxed. "I'm bringing him in. ETA twenty minutes. I want an interrogation room set up for non-hostile debrief of Paul Renner and a conference room for the crew to meet."

  The relief on Marty's face was palpable. "Gene. I—We thought you were gone."

  "So did I, bro. I'll be there soon. I lost my COM bead on the dock. Carl, get me a replacement."

  Carl piped in with an unsure tone to his voice. "Will do. Um, what do you mean, a non-hostile setup for debrief?"

  "Exactly what it sounds like. I'll explain when I get there. See you soon. Bye."

  The phone clicked off.

  "Back to work!" Doug said, grinning. He clapped his hands together and stood.

  Jerri winked at him, beaming a smile of her own.

  "We got the son of a bitch!" Marty said.

  Chapter 12

  January 6th, 6:48 PM PST; Front Street FBI Building; San Diego, Californ
ia.

  Oh, hell, yeah! Marty thought as the car pulled into the parking garage twenty minutes later. He couldn't keep still.

  His forehead creased with confusion as the car got close. There was no one in the back, but someone sat shotgun. Gene pulled into a space about eight car-lengths away and killed the engine.

  Marty shared confused looks with the rest of the team as Gene got out of the driver's side and the D Street Killer stepped out of the passenger side. No handcuffs. No restraints of any kind. The car door wasn't even locked. What the fuck?

  A firm look from Gene stopped him from stepping forward, but his hands clenched into fists. "What the fuck are you up to, Gene?" he said into the COM.

  Carl held up an ear-bead. "He can't hear you, Marty."

  Marty's chin jutted out as they limped closer. Gene leaned on Renner for support. Like they're best goddamn friends, just helping each other along.

  Marty noted how little Renner moved his arms and how carefully he walked. The killer obviously had some significant pain in his chest. Gene looked worse. His nose was crooked, dark purple, and twice its normal size. Black bruises crept under each eye, and he walked like he didn't know which foot to limp with more.

  Gene looked like shit, but the killer's injuries were more limiting. He made a mental note to take advantage of the damaged ribs when the opportunity arose. But if he's the one who got the beat-down, why the fuck isn't he in handcuffs?

  "Paul Renner," Gene said by way of introduction, "this is Marty Palomini, Doug Goldman, Jerri Bates, and Carl Brent. Team"—the trepidation in his voice was slight but perceptible—"this is the D Street Killer." Gene wore his don't-fuck-this-up face.

  Gene motioned to Doug. "Agent Goldman, please escort Mr. Renner to the debriefing area. Gently. Agent Brent." Gene mouthed Thank You as he took the replacement ear-bead and inserted it. "Get another ear-bead for Mr. Renner, then have Sam queue him up. Everyone else, come with me to the conference area." Marty helped Gene limp across the parking lot as Doug shadowed Renner.