~ ~ ~
“I don’t know how you can say Aerosmith and Bon Jovi in the same breath. I mean, come on.
“Why do you always pick on Bon Jovi when you’re bored?” the blond driver asked, already knowing the answer, having had the discussion dozens of times before.
“Because it just bugs me that they got as big as they did, and bands like Tesla and Rhino Bucket, who made real music, faded to nothing.”
“Life’s not fair. I’m sorry to break it to you. But you’ll thank me later.”
“It…it isn’t?” his portly partner stammered, a look of confused concern on his face as he sipped his brew.
“No, Virginia, and there’s no Santa Cl-”
The driver’s head exploded with a wet crack as the back of his skull blew across the rear seat, a spray of bloody tissue spackling the side windows with crimson. A hole in the windshield announced the entry point of the fifty-caliber round and the shattered rear window signaled its departure route. A second bullet tore into the driver’s throat just under his jaw, but he was already dead, even as his ruined head lolled forward to slump against the horn.
A third shot rang out, and one of the front tires hissed as a slug ripped through it.
The driver’s partner instinctively ducked below the level of the dashboard, grappling for his service pistol even as he wiped the bloody remnants of his partner off his face with his suit sleeve. His hands shook as he reached over to the radio and grabbed the microphone, keying the transmit button before he made the distress call.
He glanced at the macabre profile of Supervisory Special Agent Andy Teluride, obviously now deceased, and made the call, hopeful that there would be at least a squad car in the vicinity to lend backup.
The shooter took two more seconds to survey his work through the high-powered Zeiss scope and briefly considered killing the other agent, the top of whose head he could just make out bobbing above the dash. It would be an easy shot, but he decided to err on the side of caution. His assignment was done. No point sticking around any longer than necessary.
He slipped the rifle into the carrying case and scooped up the backpack, taking care to drop the binoculars inside before shouldering it. After running in a crouch to the far end of the building, he tossed first the sack, then the rifle, over the side onto the soft grass a story below, then pulled on gloves before lowering himself over the side until his feet were dangling six feet above the lawn. He released his grip and dropped, landing easily, then retrieved his bags before moving into the underbrush at the edge of the deserted parking lot. His vehicle was a hundred yards beyond the far side of the brush — an easy minute jog.
A handheld police scanner chirped and crackled in his pocket, and he could just make out the chatter. A cruiser would be at the site within five minutes. That left him four to be long gone in the opposite direction, headed for the freeway that would take him to his crash pad in Buffalo.
This had been child’s play. It would ensure that he rose in the ranks and got a bigger slice of Seventh Sons’ drug profits, in addition to the cash bonus he’d been promised for carrying out the hit. All in all, a very productive morning.
He got to his truck and stowed his gear before sliding into the cab. The Nissan’s big motor turned over with a satisfying roar, and within twenty seconds he was headed south, away from the shooting, looking to all the world like a man with no worries. He listened for a few more minutes to the police radio, then switched it off once he was on the road east.
He was home free.
Silver’s phone rang right after she dropped Kennedy off at school.
“Pick up a copy of the Herald,” Seth’s voice advised.
“What now?”
“They notified us late last night that they were running something this morning. We’ve had a team over at their offices for the last hour, but it doesn’t look like there are any traces on the e-mail the killer sent them. Whoever this guy is, he’s good. Knows his cyber-security. The e-mail account he used to contact them was set up yesterday using a proxy mask. We can probably get past that, but what do you want to bet that it was done from a public computer? Same setup he used in Florida? Just get the paper and call me back.”
“I’ll be there within fifteen minutes, so no point. Have one sitting on my desk when I get in. See you in a few,” Silver said before hanging up.
So their killer had turned up the heat in a bid for wider exposure. That wasn’t unexpected given his performance in Boca Raton. But it meant that her life would become more complicated now because the media furor would bring more pressure on the Bureau to do something to stop him. And the truth, which was that they really had nothing, wouldn’t sit well with the inevitable panicky politicians. It never did.
The subway was packed, but she tolerated the jostling from the press of humanity with grim determination. When the train pulled into her station, she got out with a sigh of relief and strode purposefully to the exit, up the familiar shabby stairs a block from her office. New York in late spring could be pleasant, and today was a textbook morning — no rain, light breeze, forecast calling for no clouds and a high in the mid-seventies. She enjoyed the warmth as she made her way down the sidewalk, recalling her discussion with Kennedy last night. It might be nice to get away someplace different, where there weren’t any skyscrapers or horns honking. The thought of Kennedy on a surfboard doing the California dreaming thing made her smile as she turned and approached the coffee shop where she got her morning jolt of caffeine each day before work. Nodding to the invariably aloof young man behind the counter, she exchanged a handful of change for a tall cappuccino, quickly exited, and threaded her way through the pedestrians to the front entrance of her building.
Once through security, Silver bee-lined for her office, where as requested a copy of the paper sat waiting. The front page was a collage of crime scene photos, obviously taken by the killer. Particularly chilling was the central one where the victim was still alive, bound to the bed and obviously aware of his imminent fate. His eyes spoke such horror that Silver found herself looking away. More than any of the other shots, that particular one would cause a riot. She knew it the second she saw it. They were in deep trouble.
Her inbox had a stack of messages, which she rifled through as she waited for her computer to boot up. Three from Washington, spaced every fifteen minutes. That couldn’t be good. Even as she registered the thought, her desk phone rang. Silver steeled herself for the onslaught she knew was to come. She took a quick gulp of her coffee and resignedly lifted the handset to her ear.
The killer re-read the article and smiled, leaning back in his swivel chair, feet up on his computer desk as he nibbled on a doughnut. It had been another rough night, made more so by his brain racing at a thousand miles an hour, and he felt like he had a hangover even though he hadn’t taken a drink in months. He hoped the headache would fade as the day progressed — there was much to do, and he couldn’t afford to be incapacitated.
The reporter had done a decent job of splicing in the message he had sent. At this stage, it was long on speculation and innuendo and short on fact, which is how he preferred it. The art was in getting the balance right — provide enough to titillate and keep the story topical without tipping his hand and revealing too much.
The idea that he was bringing guilty predators to his brand of justice was the most important point, and that had come across loud and clear in the article. He didn’t want to be lumped in with the Ted Bundys of the world — twisted psychopaths who killed to satisfy some primal bloodlust. Quite the opposite, he didn’t consider himself to be a particularly violent man.
He swallowed a morsel of doughnut and reached for his coffee while he debated his next target.
The killings would get harder from here. The final ones were increasingly high profile. He wanted to save the best for last. Make a statement.
He didn’t think anyone would figure out the connection until it was too late. Only a few people in the world understood what these men had done and how they were intertwined. If he had more time, he could have targeted a dozen more equally deserving, who were also beyond the reach of justice, but he didn’t have that luxury, although he’d certainly daydreamed about it.
There was only so much he could accomplish. It would require all his skill and patience to successfully carry
