“Yeah,” says Dixon, “someone wanted to say they can reach out and touch somebody.” Dixon looks around, up and down the street. There is a public school on the right side of the limo, sixty or eighty kids, and their moms beyond the crime scene tape. There are houses on the left side, and no commerce at all for half a mile. There is a traffic cam on the intersection, but that is a couple hundred yards or more. “I gotta get that cam footage. Can you get that for me?”
“No, Sergeant. You gotta get that from Traffic.”
“I’ll get right on that.” He pulls his cell out of his pocket, dials dispatch and asks to be patched over to Traffic. They connect him and he makes arrangements for the footage. “Yeah, I’m gonna need two copies of the last two hours’ footage from the camera looking northwest on Churchill Estates Boulevard, from Blanco Road.”
“Two copies?” says the voice on the other end of the line.
“Yeah, two! I’m gonna need to get some help on this one.”
“Would you rather download it, or pick those up from Trans Guide?” he’s asked.
“Can I just get a link to it on my phone?”
“The number you are using?” he asks, and Dixon affirms that this is correct. “There!” says the voice from Traffic.
The phone chirps in his ear, letting him know that there is a message, and Dixon says, “Thanks,” hanging up. He copies the link, forwarding it to his e-mail, returns to his car to open his laptop, and finds the link in his inbox. He clicks and downloads a copy of the incident; pulling the progress bar toward the present ‘til he sees a limo pulling up in the distance. He backs it up a half minute and begins watching at normal speed. He can barely make out that it is their limo, but as it slows in the distance, he sees a motorcycle rider pulling up, slapping the side of the car, moving on as if nothing important were happening. Then there is a cloud of glass as the device on the window detonates, shattering into dozens, maybe hundreds of pieces.
Dixon proceeds back to the limo, looking at the ground beneath the driver’s door, and he sees a few dozen small shards nearby, and a well spread pile of dust, from what looks like a smashed ceramic pot. The glazing on the fragments is grey and metallic. He points it out to his CSU friend who sweeps up all he can find to get it tested in the lab.
He reaches for his phone, dialing Jacob directly, he tells him, “It was a very precise hit. Someone drove up next to the car while it was stopped in the middle of a block, slapped a bomb on the window, and that killed Tony.”
“What makes you think it was so precise?”
“The bomb blew a hole in the window and left a shotgun pattern on the far side of the car that was less than three feet in diameter. That’s exacting work without using an actual shotgun.”
“Why was he stopped?”
“I’m looking into it.”
“See that you do! I don’t want my kids getting hurt because you can’t get something done. I want this guy.”
“That’s the other thing,” he said reluctantly. “It’s not a guy.”
“A woman did this?” he fumed a moment. “How?”
“Somehow she knew the car was going to stop, drove right past the driver’s door, stuck the bomb on the glass, and drove away. I have traffic cam footage – I can put it on a jump drive for you. Can one of the guys stop by and pick it up?”
“Someone will be by soon.”
Dixon copies his download to a jump drive, putting it in his outside right jacket pocket, keeping an eye open for someone who looks familiar. The body is in a bag, on its way to the Coroner’s van when an associate of Jacob’s arrives.
One of the uniforms holds the guy at the crime scene tape, and Dixon waves him through. With one hand the uniform, average height, and slightly above average weight, raises the tape allowing passage. The gent meets Dixon by the hood of his car, shaking his hand. They stand with hands clasped a moment, and both watch in silence as Tony – or what is left of Tony – is carted across the street, then clack-roll-strapped into the wagon, so as not to escape. “Poor Tony,” the guy says, arriving for the jump drive from Dixon. “Hell of a way to die.”
“Hell of a way to live,” says Dixon with a little disdain. “A hardened killer, a favored enforcer, relegated to a job as a babysitting chauffeur. That must have made him a little crazy, keeping out of the action all the time.”
“How’d that work out for him today?”
Dixon waves the guy over to his car to watch the video, just in case he can get an ID on the killer right away. Black boots, pants, Tiny’s colours, a black helmet, and a familiar looking bike bring no one to mind for the underling. “Nope! Never seen her, but you are right, it is definitely a woman.”
Dixon hands him the jump drive for Jacob, and as his fingers touch the drive there is a pffpsft sound, a red mist beside the guy’s head and he falls to the ground.
“Gun!” Dixon yells, pulling his weapon, and hunkering down next to his car door. All of the other cops on the site pull their weapons and duck behind some nearby obstacle, not knowing where the gun is, not even realizing that someone has been shot. There are no further impacts, but Dixon notices that the guy has a small hole in his temple, where the earpiece of his sunglasses has been severed, and a puddle of blood under his head, as he lay there. Everyone cautiously glances over their hoods and trunks to see if there is another volley on the way, but in a few minutes, they realize that the target is down, the threat is likely over. They continue to watch over their shoulders, scouting the horizon, looking behind every car nearby, touching their guns from time to time, slowing the work considerably. But they go about the business of processing this crime scene, which now has a second casualty. Soon another half dozen officers will be canvassing the area, looking for a shooter, a nest, or a perch.
The coroner comes over to the body and turns the victim’s head to find that there is a hole on the right temple the size of a pencil. On the other side of his head, there is a mass missing the size of a small tangerine. They find the bullet lodged in the center pillar block between the front and back doors of a nearby squad car. There is still an crime scene wagon on hand so they get the hole saw to cut the bullet from its bonds. The Coroner gets a pocket scale, weighs the bullet, puts a caliper on the tail of the thing, and says, “It is a military .223 or .556 round. You’re looking for something like an M-16, AR-15, or an M-4, and considering the likelihood that the shot had to be over 500 yards . . . I would suggest looking for a sixteen to twenty inch barrel.” He stepped aside, far enough to toss his cigar butt into a drain, stepping back to say, “Did this guy work for the same family?” he asks, knowing the answer, but Dixon nods anyway. “Probably the same killer.”
“Probably the same message,” says Dixon. He steps aside, pulls out his phone, calls Jacob, and relays the message.
Jacob is on his way home when he gets the call, hanging up from Dixon, he dials back to Loma Linda, an app is checked allowing James to find all their GPS signatures. According to the tracker service that Jacob subscribes to for all the phones in the unit – a squad of bikers is dispatched who are nearby, and in fifteen minutes Jacob has an armed escort, before and behind, twelve bikes in all, sailing up IH-410 and out West Avenue. As the convoy pulls into the neighborhood gate at Inwood, one of the bikes lays down, sliding to the side of the road, slamming into the curb, with a dead body whumping against ten inches of cement and bouncing limp onto the grass by the fence. The parade continues and one other rider pulls back out the gate, lays his bike down next to his friend’s, pulling his gun, he approaches the body, looks around, preparing for an assault, then, as if going to sleep, he slumps down on top of his friend as the fine red mist of his brain dissipates in the breeze. The guard of the entrance presses the button to close the iron gate and ducks down behind the counter and window, out of sight. He calls 911 and stays behind the counter.
Thinning the Herd
If Cain is avenged seven times, then Lamech seventy-seven times.[6]
E-Day Minus 7.5 Years<
br />
The site of Tony’s death is thoroughly examined and the ground scoured in the expected direction of the shooter, only to discover an M-16A1 rifle lying on the grass behind a small bluff. The magazine is out and the weapon has been rubbed down with alcohol, along with the mag, with no bullets, and no casings to be found.
Jacob’s home is safe, for now, his guard contingent awaits word from outside, that the area is clear, and word comes in an hour or so. Fellow bikers have come over from multiple directions, walking quietly – full of stealth for such bloat-bodied men – walking every step of the visible area from the gate, and finding a Tavor left behind by the shooter, cleaned, with two spent rounds, resting upright on the side of the magazine of the weapon. The shooter left it to be found. When Dixon gets to the gun, he discovers that the only prints on it are on that magazine, from the previous owner – or at least the last guy who stole it – a certain Mr. Miguel Rodriguez – but Dixon is not alone when he receives this information and is standing in his Captain’s office.
The Captain smells the blood of a potential gang war on the horizon and, wanting to stop it before it starts, he sends Dixon, along with a rookie detective, and an HRT squad. They are headed to the last known address of Miguel Rodriguez.
The house belongs to his grandmother, or it did when she died, seven years ago. He never put the property through probate, never transferred ownership, and never changed the tax status from senior citizen/homestead, which is the cheapest rate at which to be taxed. Dixon and the rookie, Officer Eldridge Sheen, arrive a block away via Dixon’s car, and the HRT shows up about a half minute later. Reviewing Google Maps, they examine the face of the house and satellite view to determine the best approach. They divide into four teams; two go around the left side, leaving two men to watch the non-entry side of the house with three windows. The second team passes through the gate to the back yard where they are met by a snarling dog, which is immediately tranqed into a deep and snarl-free sleep. Team 3 hustles around to the carport side of the house, taking up positions surrounding the door. Team 4 prepares to violate the front door in a no-knock warrant received on the way. Miguel has an extensive rap sheet with numerous violent offences, drug associations, and more. The HRT lieutenant raises the shotgun to blast the knob off the door as his sergeant shoots the deadbolt, when he says, “One, two, three!” And on three, both guns explode, a major portion of the door blows into the living room of the house, showering splinters to the farthest corner. The knob bounces into the kitchen, as the others, on cue with the explosion, hammer the back and side doors with their two man high impact rams, and doors on all three sides of the house in a moment are open. Men stream through the doors on every side and they are confronted with a stink that begins to make them woozy, wobbling toward the floors. The wiser ones in the rear, wise enough to stop breathing, begin dragging the others out. They mask up, take oxygen, clear the house, wait a few minutes for the breeze to blow in and the stench to waft out, before they begin to look for details.
Gas masked, one man goes in each door and finds the house littered with bodies. There are seven of them; one, pants down, fallen off the toilet, one in the kitchen, laid down on the floor with his head keeping the fridge door open. There are three on or near the couch, mouths covered with dried foam, and one between the living room and the kitchen having died, clutching at the cheap shag carpet, looking as if he had been trying to drag himself to anywhere, but failed. One more was in a bedroom, sleeping . . . but not anymore.
The team outside will be fine after a few minutes and with a little oxygen. The team inside finds liquids dripping from the A/C vents; providing leads and samples for CSU to examine. There are four jars with jars inside, set on rubberized mats, in the extremities of the duct systems of the house. In the lower jar was some generic pool bleach, real high concentration stuff, and in the upper jar was nearly pure ammonia, with a timer-controlled bendix that simply drove a peen through the bottom of each jar, smashing them and mixing their contents. The gases created flushed from their points of origin by the air conditioners, filling the breathable air in every room, devastating every occupant of the house so quickly that every one of them could only realize that they were being killed, but no one had time to do anything about it. They each died where they sat, or stood, or lay. Hazmat guys came to clean up the mess in each of the ducts, drying them down, wiping with water, cleaning one more time with something lemon scented to be sure. No prints, no DNA, no neighbors to report seeing anything, or to mourn the passing of these sterling citizens.
The word goes out; the house was hit, seven dead here, two at the gate to Jacob’s neighborhood, plus Tony. Someone is out to damage the Club, but so far no one knows whom, or why.
That trailer is their starting point, the place the killing began, and the beginning of a social media campaign. Everything is part of the social media campaign now. The bikers killed at the gate showed up on Tiny’s Facebook page. The setting of the devices for the gassing of Miguel’s house is on the web, along with a view from the web cam of his computer in the living room, watching everyone’s sudden revulsion, quick retching, and expedient death. Each time one of these death videos is posted there is a comment about it being a scene from a movie, then the comment “. . . not really~!!!” and every friend is tagged in every post so it ends up on everyone’s timeline. The first video was compiled about the exploding trailer. The second was a short one about Tony dying, which was filmed using a front and rear view helmet cam, along with footage from the traffic cam. The third is from a sniper cam, terminating the messenger next to Dixon, followed by footage of Miguel’s house, and now the police are in the loop. It’s not all that difficult to figure out whose accounts to watch. After reviewing the first video, they can see the faces of the first dead and figure it out. The killer is using their phones to post the videos, and the accounts of the first dead are the ones to watch. One of those phones had been used for the first three of the videos, but now it is offline. A different phone is used for the forth. The police begin tracking all those phones, but none of them is online, having their batteries removed. She is thorough.
Two Weeks In
Well, looks like I finally ran into someone that likes to play as rough as I do.[7]
E-Day Minus 7.4 Years
As the cops wrap up the crime scene at Miguel’s, the sun is setting in the west, the Black Hand Bar and Club is filling up with members, all summoned for a strategy session on how to identify the threat, or maybe to somehow deal with it. They set the two newest members on guard at the door; big, burly men, about six four and well over two hundred pounds of mean. They seem to stand a steady guard, watching the traffic on Commercial Avenue, each keeping one hand on their XD-M/.45 with the threaded barrel. This is the standard issue gun of the Club, and with a native thirteen round capacity of heavy ammo, it is choice. They are both ex-Army, battle tested, proven dishonorable, set free to explore their options. These two came into the Army together, and now, fresh from the poppy fields overseas, and documented bad behaviour, here they are together; Mac and Sam – the new guys.
Inside, the meeting progresses, questions are asked about anyone who has seen anything, from anywhere, about anyone. There is absolutely no clue as to the source of the threat, but the threat is well established by the body count – nine at the trailer, Tony, then the messenger, two at the gate, seven at Miguel’s. They are down twenty men and have no idea what’s going on, or why it’s happening to them. There is considerable dissent, lots of wrangling, shouting up, and shouting down of the underlings. Orders are given to never go anywhere alone – packs of three at all times, even in the head, like women if they want to live – and above all, stay in communication with your superiors. These are orders from above, given to all divisions of the Club. No one is to be out of contact for more than an hour unless they are sleeping, and their fellows are keeping guard. Furthermore, anyone who kills the killer will be rewarded with $200,000, “That’s ten grand for every man we have los
t so far.”
Their conversation is being broadcast and recorded, kind of like “anything you say can and will be used against you,” but there will be no court of law. Last night, while most of the gang was in a jovial mood, there was drinking and shooting pool, even a few extra women to squeeze, and one of them put a transmitter on a light by the bandstand, another above the pool table, and a couple under the ends of the bar. Outside, tuned into 1420 AM, she is listening, and much more. The right hand man of the big dog is in the room, receiving a phone call, and pulls the clubhouse boss over to whisper in his ear. No one hears, even she doesn’t hear, but she knows of what they speak. They’ve received news that a storage locker – a massive weapons cache – has been broken into and emptied out. Video surveillance shows a plain, white panel van leaving the scene. An average sized, individual woman got out of the van, loaded all the goods, took over thirty minutes, got into the van, and disappeared.
As the meeting breaks up and leadership prepares to depart, she is ready. Wham! There is the sound of someone striking the front of the building with a sledgehammer, but it isn’t a hammer. The guys all pull their weapons, head for the door, where they will find that Mac, who had looked around the corner to see if anyone was there, now has a small hole in the back of his head – but a grapefruit size chunk is missing from his face. Sam, not yet knowing what happened to Mac, stood at the door, only to take a round straight through the face, which then hammers the back of his head on the door post of the entry. That was the “wham” that got everyone’s attention. All of them are on edge, heightened levels of fear, rage, whiskey, and Red Bull, with more fear growing as they begin to survey the residue of Sam. Another round – very messy – passes through the head of the local boss and right through the plywood covered front window of the bar, killing the jukebox beyond. Men scurry like rats under and over one another, in hopes of getting inside the bar before the next guy, just as another round flies. This round is not a rifle round but a LAW rocket. It is the projectile of a Lightweight Antitank Weapon – a handheld missile system. The door is still slightly open as the missile comes their way, making its path all the way into the bar, where it detonates and blows the doors and windows out of this archaic, piece of crap saloon.
The Warriors' Ends- Soldiers of the Apocalypse Page 8
