Spectrum

by Ethan Cross

  “Any intel would help,” Edgar said.

  “It’s fairly new, but I’ve heard rumblings,” Nic said. “I don’t actually have any information though. By the time anything would have trickled down from my father’s table to me about GoBox, I was already doing my second tour in Iraq, diffusing IEDs for a living. I’d help if I could.”

  “What about your Uncle Romeo?” Taz said.

  Nic growled and shook his head. “You know he’s still pissed at me.”

  Taz rolled his eyes. “Then get him un-pissed. Butter him up. You’re good at that.”

  “I’ll text him. Anything else I should know?”

  “Your ex-love is running point on this for the city council,” Edgar said.

  Nic dug into a pocket on his tactical vest and tossed a butterscotch candy into his mouth. “Why does that matter to me?”

  “After what you did to her … a woman scorned, you know,” Taz said. “So watch your back for knives on this one.”

  “It’ll be fine, ladies. Bristol and I are both adults. Now, what do our offensive options look like?”

  “We don’t have any. Just the front doors. This place is like a miniature Fort Knox.”

  “There has to be—”

  One of the techs at a computer terminal yelled, “Someone’s coming out the front door!”

  Chapter 11

  Constable Isabel Price of the South African Police Service pulled her decade old Chevy Impala through the gates and immediately recognized the sentries with machine guns hidden among the rows of junked cars. The scrap yard was all sharp edges and rust. Row after row of crushed cars and trucks stacked upon each other like the Lego playset of some sadistic giant. Isabel took a deep calming breath as the guards approached her vehicle. A group of four men, both black- and white-skinned, fanned out in front of the Impala. She didn’t bother to look behind her; she knew four other guards were doing the same at the rear.

  The man who finally approached the window was tall with blond hair and baby blue eyes and was built like a Greek god. He spoke with an Australian accent. “Good day, Constable Price. You can leave your car here. Don’t worry. We won’t let them chop it up while you’re gone.”

  She shut off the engine and stepped out of the vehicle. The big Australian patted her down for weapons, confiscating her sidearm, and checking for recording devices. Once he was satisfied, he escorted her into the only actual building on the property. The interior was black and concrete and smelled of grease and rust. Groups of men swarmed over rows of cars like army ants devouring leaves. They seemed to be stripping the vehicles for parts, but the back half of the large open building held computer terminals and what appeared to be a fairly well-organized shipping department.

  “Do you like what I’ve done with the place, Constable Price?”

  Isabel turned toward the man’s voice. Felix Ginger descended a set of metal stairs coming down from an elaborate loft office, like a king stepping down from his castle and gracing the peasants with his presence. He wore a black suit with purple pinstripes. He had salt-and-pepper hair and a manicured goatee, and his skin matched the dark color of his suit.

  With a German accent, he continued, “What we do here is perfectly legal. Most of our business is selling car parts over eBay, as you can see.”

  Felix Ginger wasn’t a large man, but he projected the presence of someone seven feet tall. His voice wasn’t deep or menacing, but it had a way of effortlessly cutting through the noise of the room and establishing dominance.

  Isabel didn’t allow herself a moment of doubt. Her father had always told her that the most important thing in any situation like this was to act like you belonged there and knew what the hell you were doing.

  She stepped toward him, toward the danger, never shying away from it, and said, “And you also run an auto salvage and repo business that doubles as a narcotics delivery service. Or am I confusing you with a different Ginger.”

  He smiled and said, “I feel that you may be misinformed and ignorant of a good many things, young lady. But let’s discuss this further in my office.”

  He motioned toward the stairs. The Australian went up first, opened the door for her, and gave a cordial bow.

  “A true gentleman,” she said.

  “I do my best.”

  Felix was on their heels. He entered with two additional men and locked the door to the office behind them. Red oak beadboard covered the walls, and the space contained a full bar, a conference area, pool table, and a clear glass desk facing outward from the back of the room. The warehouse beneath their feet may have been filled with the smells of dust and rust, but Ginger’s office smelled of leather and liquor.

  She admired the space for a second and then said, “Business looks to be going well.”

  As she turned back, she saw a flash of movement from Felix Ginger. He struck her hard and fast in the gut. She doubled over in pain, fighting for air. Then the crime boss stepped forward and whispered in her ear, “No one comes into my house and insults me. I don’t care that you’re a woman or that you’re a cop. You have thirty seconds to explain why I shouldn’t kill you and make sure that no one ever finds the body.”

  “You can’t kill me without bringing heat down on yourself,” Isabel said.

  “What’s my name?” the crime boss said.

  “Felix Ginger.”

  He struck her again, and she resisted the urge to fight back, knowing it would only make things worse.

  “My friends call me Felix. What name do they call me on the streets?”

  Isabel was still fighting to refill her lungs with oxygen. She placed her palms on her knees and drank in deep lungfuls of air. She held up her index finger, as if to show that she could not yet speak. In truth, she was stalling for time. Time to think. Time to figure out how to keep from getting herself killed.

  “They call you Angel.”

  “Because I’m so kind and beautiful?”

  “I think it’s more like the Angel of Death.”

  “Exactly, do you know how I received that name?”

  “I don’t really care.”

  He struck her again and said, “Josef Mengele was the original Angel of Death. He was an officer and physician at Auschwitz, the Nazi death camp. When I was growing up on the streets of Munich and cutting my teeth with the local gangs, I became known as a bit of a butcher myself. I used to toss people into dumpsters and throw in tear gas until they told me what I wanted to hear. But then my techniques continued to evolve. I started filling the dumpsters with hungry rats and tossing my enemies inside. It was hard for a black man to make his mark in the underground in those days. In order to set myself apart, I needed to have flair. So I encouraged it when people started referring to me as the Black Mengele and the Angel of Death. Eventually, it was shortened to simply Angel, but people still realize the kind of angel I am and show me the respect I deserve.”

  “All I want is information.”

  “I know what you want. The moment you called and demanded an audience with me, my men found out all about you. I know about your father. I know about the squatter camp massacre. I know about your connections to it and your obsession. I also know that both the official investigation and your personal crusade have stalled out. And now you’re down to chasing shadows.”

  “Kruger is not a shadow. He’s a man. Flesh and blood. And I will find him or I’ll die trying. I will hunt him to the ends of this earth. Him and anyone else responsible for what happened out there.”

  “I admire your passion. And I wasn’t referring to Kruger. I’ve seen him with my own eyes, and even if I hadn’t, he’s put enough of my associates into the ground for me to have no doubts of his existence.”

  “Then what—”

  “What are you hoping to accomplish with this little crusade? I know that you’re currently on suspension. You’re about to lose everything you have in the world. And for what? Vengeance? Justice?”

  “You ever have a song stuck in your head?”

/>   “Sure.”

  “It’s like that. Except it’s always playing. Every second of every day. I have to know why. Why kill all those people?”

  “You may not like the answers,” Felix said. “But more likely, you’ll never find them.”

  “What do you know about the massacre?”

  “Are you sure this is a hill you want to die on?”

  “I have to know.”

  “I respect that. And to a certain extent, I respect crusaders. As long as they don’t get in my way, ask me for help or money, or disrespect me.”

  “I’m not rich, but I’m willing to pay whatever I have,” Isabel said.

  “I don’t want your money.”

  She tossed a thumb drive onto his desk.

  “What’s this?” he said.

  “Everything the SAPS has on you and your operations. I think you’ll find the information interesting. With those files, you’ll be able to seal up your ship and any leaks. No one on there who needs to be killed, but they have a few of your phones tapped and are watching several of your delivery routes. It’s only a matter of time before they use all that information to knock your doors down.”

  “The SAPS doesn’t worry me in the least, but thank you. I appreciate you betraying everything you once stood for, but I’m not sure it’s enough.”

  “You’re a bit more complicated than I expected, Felix.”

  “These are complicated times. For the record, I abhor what happened out there. Enough so that I had some of my men look into the incident. Every child, no matter the color of their skin or the sins of their fathers, deserves a chance at life.”

  “Plus, the poor and downtrodden are some of your best customers.”

  Felix rolled his eyes and struck her again in the gut.

  “I would give you my file on the massacre and wish you well in your investigation,” he said. “If it were up to me. But I’m afraid that your inquiries have drawn the attention of other parties. That’s why our blond friend is here.”

  Isabel looked up at the Australian in confusion. He didn’t acknowledge her. He merely stood there like a giant stone gargoyle.

  “She’s all yours my friend,” Felix continued.

  “I’ll need a soundproof room and some privacy,” the Australian said.

  Felix gestured toward a door in the corner. “The interrogation room is down the hall on the right.”

  “I’m still a cop,” she protested.

  Felix laughed. “When I spoke with your superiors, they said that no one’s feelings would be hurt if you fell into the darkest hole I could find. And remember, Constable, I am the Angel of Death. I have some pretty dark holes.”

  He gave a look to his men, and they hauled her up to her feet and, latching meaty paws around her biceps with vise-like grips, carried her toward the door in the corner. She kicked and screamed and fought the whole way out of the office and down the dark hall, but her resistance was futile. She was at the mercy of sadistic killers, and no one could her hear screams.

  Chapter 12

  Nic burst out the door of the comm center and rounded it with his Sig Sauer pulled and at the ready. The ERT, or Emergency Response Team, had already rushed forward and taken control of the person coming out of the building. Nic could tell it was a woman, but a hood covered her head and hid her features. A piece of plain white paper was taped to her chest. But that wasn’t what immediately drew Nic’s attention. He recognized the vest that had been affixed to her torso. He had seen them many times during his tours in Iraq. She wore the vest of a suicide bomber.

  The ERT team covered the woman and shielded her from the front of the GoBox building as they led her away from danger. But Nic knew that she was far from out of the woods. He ran up to one of the uniformed officers standing next to a patrol car, which formed part of the barricade around the building. The uniformed cop was fifty pounds overweight and looked scared as hell. He had gray hair, but a baby face, making it impossible to guess the man’s age.

  He pushed the cop away from the door of the cruiser and yelled to the ERT team, “Bring her over here and sit her down.”

  The team followed his orders and brought the woman over to the cruiser. Nic helped her down onto the seat and pulled off the hood. Her face was beet red and streaked with tears and mascara. She was an older woman, a bit heavyset, with white hair.

  Nic took both of her hands in his own and said, “You’re safe now. I’m going to help you. Did they tell you anything? Give you any instructions?”

  She was on the verge of hyperventilating, but she said, “No, they just dressed me up in this and told me to walk.”

  “Okay, that’s good. What’s your name?”

  “Deb.”

  Nic smiled. “It’s very nice to meet you, Deb. I’m Nic. Now, I’m going to check out this vest you’re wearing. Don’t worry about a thing. I used to eat bombs for breakfast in the war. I can disarm a bomb easier than a teenager taking off a bra on prom night.”

  Her teeth chattered, and her eyes darted about wildly. If he didn’t keep her calm, she would be the biggest hindrance to saving her own life and possibly his own.

  “Deb, look in my eyes.” He gently took her chin and guided it to where their gazes met. “Do I look scared, Deb?”

  “No.”

  “I’m not scared because I know that these guys aren’t planning on killing us right here and now. If they did that, my team would blow those doors and take them down in nothing flat. They don’t want that. So they’re not going to kill us. Do you believe me?”

  “I guess.”

  “Good, because I need you to stay calm and do exactly as I say. Can you do that?”

  She nodded.

  With Deb calmed down a bit, the first thing Nic did was reach into one of his pouches and pop a butterscotch candy in his mouth. Then he reached into another pouch to retrieve his wire cutters. Examining the vest, he traced the wires back to their source and carefully checked the contents of the pouches on the vest. He found the pouches loaded with two bricks of C-4.

  He rolled the candy around his mouth faster, transferring all of his fear and anxiety and worry into the candy, so that his mind could focus solely on the problem at hand. He traced the wires, careful not to disturb any kind of anti-tamper mechanisms.

  But the more he searched, the more he realized that there were no detonators or ignition systems of any kind. It had all been to make a point. The hostage takers wanted to make sure that no one started to doubt the kind of firepower and resolve they possessed.

  Nic said, “I’m going to slip this vest off you know, Deb. Then you’re going to go with my friends, and they’ll take you to a safe place. Okay?”

  She nodded vigorously.

  He doubled-checked for any kind of trap and then slid the zipper down and pushed the vest back from her shoulders. When the vest was clear, he helped Deb up from the cruiser’s seat and gave her over to the waiting ERT team.

  Nic picked up the vest and laid it across the hood of the cruiser. Removing a latex glove from one of the many pouches on his tactical gear, he pulled off the note.

  Not realizing that Ortiz was behind him, he jumped when Taz spoke.

  “What does the note say?”

  Nic read the message aloud: “This is our show of good faith and proof that the hostages are all still alive. As you can see, we have the equipment to turn this building into rubble. Don’t test our resolve. When the FBI SSA arrives, send him up to the door unarmed with his arms held out at his sides and hands open.”

  “That’s real cute,” Taz said. “Their ‘show of good faith’ just ruined my best underwear.”

  The uniformed cop, whose cruiser Nic had usurped, walked up beside them and said, “Nice job, Nicky.” The cop accentuated the nickname with obvious overtones.

  Nic rolled the butterscotch candy over to the other side of his mouth and narrowed his eyes at the officer. “You can call me Nic, Dominic, or just plain sir. But don’t you ever call me Nicky again. And you ca
n tell all your cronies the same damn thing.”

  The cop shrugged and said, “I didn’t mean any offense. I just heard that they used to call you Nicky Jewels. That you were some big mobster’s kid. I assumed you still went by Nicky.”

  Nic took a step forward, getting into the man’s personal space, and then he stared him down. He gave him the kind of look that a wolf gives a stranded hitchhiker. A look that said I’ve killed before, and I wouldn’t feel bad about doing the same to you. In fact, I might enjoy it.

  “Forget what you’ve heard, dough boy,” he said. “Nicky Jewels is dead, and that’s a good thing too. Because you see, my man, Nicky Jewels had a problem with what I call escalation management. A guy like me asks another guy not to call him a certain name, and if that other guy keeps going … then a good nice, calm guy like me just shrugs it off. Maybe he asks nicely again, and then he just tries to let it roll off his back.”

  “Look, buddy, I’m sorry that—”

  “But you should be very happy that Nicky Jewels isn’t around anymore. Nic’s a nice guy. But remember, Nicky has problems with escalation management. So instead of shrugging it off, maybe Nicky goes to this asshole’s house in the middle of night. He drugs the son of a bitch to knock him out. Then he cinches ratchet straps all around the guy and ratchets the bastard down tight to his bed. See Nicky’s done this many times. He doesn’t bother with fair fights. He takes a pool ball, and he puts it into an old sock. Nicky then waits for the guy to wake up, and he beats the immobilized gentleman with the pool ball and the sock. He beats him until he’s the sure the guy will be pissing blood for a month. At this point, if the guy still persists … Anyway, you get the idea.”

  Nic took another quick step forward and grabbed the pudgy, baby-faced officer by his shoulders, holding the two of them together, eye to eye. At Nic’s touch, the uniform jumped liked he’d fallen asleep in class and had been smacked awake by the teacher.

  “So now, I’m going to ask you, friend,” Nic said. “Which guy do you want around? Nice Nic or Nicky Jewels?”