Black Ghost

by Freddie Villacci Jr

  He turned his mind back to the present, determined to prove to Bender that he wasn’t a total screw-up and cringed inwardly. In the era of the twenty-four-hour news cycles, where the meatiest stories get a total of 72 hours’ coverage at best, each death was just taken at face value and forgotten once the next random blood-soaked lead story hit.

  Mack ran through the causes of death in his mind. Killed in a grizzly bear attack: reported and forgotten. Died in a car wreck: reported and forgotten. Died of rattlesnake bite: reported and forgotten. Shot in a gang battle’s crossfire, heart attack: same forgotten story, different days.

  So far, the only lead he could follow up on was in Austin. One of the gang leaders from the shootout had been apprehended.

  A text from Caroline: Here. You awake?

  He texted her back: Working.

  77

  Mack heard the key he’d lent Caroline rattle in the door. And in she came, a small brown paper bag in her teeth, two coffees in either hand, her foot and her butt on the door doing the work of an arm.

  “You come across anything?” he said.

  She placed a cup on his workstation. “Glad to see you too. And you’re welcome. I got you poppyseed. They were out of sesame. How you feeling?”

  He eagerly took the wrapped bagel she handed to him. “Much better now.”

  “Glad I can help.”

  “So?” he said around a mouthful of bagel. “Find anything?”

  She shook her head. “So far everything seems fine.”

  “Same here. No patterns, except for death by strange circumstances.” He grimaced and peeled the top off the bagel. “Is this low-fat cream cheese?”

  “You serious?”

  “This six pack demands it.” Mack lifted his shirt showing off his stomach muscles.

  “I’m sure your abs of steel can handle it.”

  “True that.”

  She stared at him a moment.

  “You want to see them again, don’t you?”

  “Please. Are we sure we shouldn’t be helping TJ and Moretto behind the scenes?”

  “I’m sure. There are fewer than thirty people in the US with over five billion in net worth.”

  “And what does that prove?”

  “That’s one sixth of their demographic dead. And five of them dying within a few weeks of each other? What if 50 million Americans died in the same time period?”

  “Okay, Mr. Wall Street. You’re aggregating where you shouldn’t be.”

  “Only one way to find out,” he muttered. “I’m going to call and see if I can talk to some of the scene investigators. Maybe we’ll get some leads.”

  “Sounds great, you do that. Listen, I’m going to get going. I have a lunch date.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  “Probably not. Get some rest maybe, okay?” She kissed him on the forehead.

  “Sponge bath?”

  She smiled and turned to leave, but then turned back, “I spoke to the Austin cop at the scene. He’d mentioned something that wasn’t in the report—probably nothing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “There was a pork chop on the floor of Henry Barron’s limo.”

  “A pork chop?”

  “A raw pork chop. Pretty weird, huh?” Caroline shrugged. “Maybe it was his dinner. I don’t know. Speaking of, I’m gonna be late. I’ll see you. Get some rest and try not to go chasing down psycho killers without me, will you?”

  “Right, boss. Have fun”

  Mack turned his attention back to his computer screen. He opened the FBI ViCAP database, where he ran a search on pork chops. He could feel the hair on the back of his neck rise as he scanned the list that flashed on the screen. There were at least fifteen cases in which a pork chop had been left at a murder scene. More intriguing, the words “unsolved” appeared next to every case number.

  He opened one of the most recent files and read the comments about the suspect:

  UNSUB is believed to be a high-profile assassin informally known as “Ghost.” He is a highly efficient killer who employs a diverse range of methods, strategies, and weapons to eliminate his targets. The often elaborate, strategic manner in which the assassinations are conducted, along with the skill level of the different weapons utilized, indicates a high level of military training. Despite the impressive variety of killing styles, and a proven record of performing killings for hire, an undercurrent of ritualistic behavior suggests possible psychosis or dissociative personality condition; UNSUB has been repeatedly profiled as a high-functioning serial killer for hire.

  Over the last fifteen years, UNSUB has been responsible for twenty-two killings.

  Mack spent the next two hours reading each of the files, amazed by the things this suspect did to take his targets out. This killer could have easily murdered these five billionaires and made their deaths look like accidents. And in every case, a raw pork chop had been found at the scene. In some cases, the meat was stuffed in the dead person’s mouth. This was the ritualistic behavior cited near the end of the file.

  He put himself in Bender’s shoes. Finding one pork chop in the billionaire deaths was a coincidence. He needed at least one other.

  He shook his head and chuckled. “Pork chops, huh? Friggin’ whack job for sure.”

  78

  Phil Utah sat at the kitchen table of a one-bedroom condo on the 15th floor of a high-rise in downtown San Diego. The condo was one of the DEA’s transitional safe houses, where witnesses in drug cases and the like were usually placed before testifying.

  Plain beige furniture and unadorned white walls heightened Utah’s feeling of isolation—he was all alone in this mess. He was up against an adversary he didn’t want to have to face. Well, he had done it to himself, hadn’t he? And he had taken five good men down with him.

  He set his pistol and glass of Scotch down, then picked up his cell phone and called Tidwell. It had been two days, and he hadn’t heard a word from the bastard.

  When he finally heard Tidwell’s voice, he snapped.

  “I knew after my last email you’d pick up my next call, you piece of crap!”

  “Have you lost your mind?” Tidwell hissed.

  “Lost my mind? You’re the one who sent that sick psychopath after me, aren’t you?” Utah grabbed the glass off the table and took a deep swig. His hand was shaking.

  “Phil,” Tidwell said coldly, “Gabriel is in San Diego to do another job for us.”

  “Enough lies! He shot an FBI agent right outside my building. I know he was coming for me.” Utah clenched the glass, drank, and slammed his glass down hard. “Now, you listen, and listen close,” he said, grabbing his gun. “If I—or anyone in my family—so much as breaks a fingernail, I’ll blow this thing wide open. I have our whole Wasatch Mountain meeting on tape.”

  “You shouldn’t bluff without the cards.”

  “You wanna try me, pal?”

  Utah listened to the congressman’s measured breathing on the line, then continued. “Now listen very carefully. I will email this conversation—the pipelines, the oil, the bribes, the Russian mob, the death taxes—every bit of it to every legal and political agency in the country, along with a nice, neat transcript with attributions and everything. You prepared for that, Mr. Congressman?”

  “Phil, you’re overreacting,” said Tidwell. “But just so we’re clear, I have five different contracts in place on you and everyone in your family. If I go down, you and everyone you’ve ever cared about will be gone.”

  Utah was silent as he walked over to the window and peeked out at the San Diego skyline. “So, I guess we’re still partners, then,” he said at last.

  “Glad to have you down here in the muck, Phil,” Tidwell said, then disconnected.

  Utah threw his phone onto the couch in disgust.

  He licked his dry lips and thought for a moment then retrieved his phone and dialed a number.

  “I’ve been waiting for your
call,” said Bender.

  “Is that so?”

  “The kid was right. About Hernandez… and you.”

  Utah sighed. “That kid has great instincts.”

  “Mack’s one of the good ones. Plus, he’s pure.”

  “What are you trying to say?” Utah asked.

  Bender was silent for a long moment. “I took him off the case.”

  “You trying to kick an old friend when he’s down. I did you a favor and got my men killed.”

  “Listen, Phil, I don’t want this kid or his partner to wind up dead. We both know how these deals work. If it was just chasing after the bad guy, then fine, but when things are more complicated than that—well, he’s just not ready to cover his front and back.”

  “Listen, we need to do a little house cleaning, is all. Hernandez somehow found out I called for the raid and now he’s after me.”

  “Phil,” Bender said weakly, “I’m always willing to help out the DEA any way I can. What do you need from the Bureau?”

  “I want Mack Maddox back on the case.”

  “Can’t do it. We have two of our top agents already—”

  “The kid IDed the guy from a sunflower seed. I want his help finding Hernandez before he finds me.”

  There was a moment of silence. “I’m sorry, Phil. Mack’s already working on another case.”

  Utah growled. “Don’t go using some smoke and mirror excuse like that.”

  “Phil, I’m telling you this in confidence. This morning he came in here and laid out a pretty compelling case alleging those five billionaires all over the news the last couple of weeks had all actually been murdered.”

  “Yeah?” said Utah. “Well, I’m a little confused.”

  “Confused about what?”

  “About how you can so casually allow a friend to get killed by some Mexican junkie.”

  “Moretto and Jackson are still after Hernandez for murders in Chicago. They’ll get him. Don’t you worry.”

  “Well, you know, friend, any help would be appreciated.”

  “Listen, Phil, you keep safe out—”

  Phil Utah disconnected the call mid-sentence. He downed the last of his drink, then prepared to tap out an email to Tidwell outlining Mack Maddox’s investigations into the billionaire assassinations. It was the last card he had, one that would ensure his survival.

  It was nice down here in the muck.

  79

  Mack found himself locked in a dingy, gray, cement-walled room, sitting at a steel table in an Austin County jail cell. He had pulled some strings, stretched some truths, to convince the warden to let him interview the inmate. He had even dropped the president’s name into the conversation, insinuating he was here by his request—Mack didn’t even want to think about what would happen if any of this got back to Bender.

  It had been less than a week since he’d sustained his concussion, and though it felt pretty good to be back out in the field, the stale compactness of the room brought a bit of nausea into his head.

  The door buzzed open, and an exceptionally powerful-looking man shuffled in, his legs and wrists shackled and connected to his waist by a thick leather belt. He was flanked by two prison guards and dressed in an orange jumpsuit. The guards directed him to the chair opposite Mack.

  “You sure you don’t want us in here?”

  Mack looked at the man, whose stony eyes were fixed on him. “I think we’ll be alright.”

  The guards were buzzed out, and it was just the two men, face to face.

  “Can I call you K-six?” Mack said.

  The man just stared in response.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” He flashed his badge. “FBI. Do you mind if I ask you some questions? I thought maybe we could talk a little about what landed you in here.”

  “Nothing to talk about,” said K-six.

  “That’s too bad. One of the people killed, Henry Barron, was one of the richest men in the world.”

  “That supposed to impress me?” the man rumbled.

  “Judging from the report, someone killed most of your friends and your ass wound up in prison. So, I guess you’ll take all the blame and let the Crips just punk you like that. I think it’s great you’re not scared of the death penalty.”

  The gang member’s stone-cold eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”

  “Would it surprise you if I told you I believe Henry Barron was the real target in that incident? That you and your crew were set up to take the fall?”

  K-six leaned back, looking thoughtful for a long moment, then his expression hardened.

  Mack leaned forward. “I can tell it grates on you, K-six.”

  The man’s hard eyes bore into him.

  “What can you tell me?”

  “I can tell you about your mama. I did her last week, and she’s juicy.”

  Mack kept a deadpan expression on, one eyebrow barely twitching. “She lives too far away. What else?”

  The man smiled and shrugged.

  Mack kept his gaze fixed in the man’s eyes. “Listen, screw that ‘snitches get stitches’ bull. We’re not talking ‘bout being a snitch. We’re talking about justice here, K-six. You got set up.”

  “Alright,” said K-six, “we’ll play your little game. What’s in it for me?”

  “I can work to have your sentence commuted.”

  K-six smiled skeptically. “I like your soft language.”

  Mack smiled back. “What do you mean?”

  “You can work to get me off. You ain’t a ho, and you ain’t getting me off. I know your type, all promises. I know you ain’t letting a me out easy, not with what you’ve got me in on. You get me minimum security and a private cell. Guarantee it ain’t nowhere near the Arian brotherhood, and I’ll talk.”

  Mack slid a finger across the cold steel of the table, thinking. Finally, he nodded. “I’ll get it done. Tell me what happened.”

  K-six leaned his huge frame back in his chair and looked over at the wall. “Not yet. My baby sis, 4.0, 35 on her ACT.” He turned back to Mack. “There was a drug raid at the house. She’s never even touched the stuff, but because she’s related to me, she’s now got a dope felony on her record.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “No school will even look at her for a scholarship. I need it erased. Give her what my life has taken away.”

  Mack smiled again, this time at the thought of Caroline. “You’re in luck. I just happen to know a passionate attorney who lives for these cases.. I will get her help, you have my word.”

  He met the inmate’s stone eyes for a cold, unwavering minute, until he saw something soften in there.

  “Tell me what happened, K-six.”

  The man took a deep breath through his nose. “This dude calls me on my cell and starts throwing a bunch of insults. A couple of minutes into the call he shoots TP in the head.”

  “While you’re driving?”

  “Not fast or nothing, but all of a sudden there’s a shot, and TP’s messy brains are in my lap.”

  “Did he take any more shots after that?”

  “Nope, punk just disappeared until after the funeral. Me and my boys was sittin’ around, and I get another call from the clown. He says meet him to kick pistols.

  “So, we go lookin’, and it turns out the dude has some kind of automatic weapons. Man, I don’t know what happened. He pinned us down and killed half of us, then just walked away.” K-six lowered his head.

  “How many of you were there?”

  “Thirteen solid soldiers.”

  “How did you guys fight him off?”

  K-six looked away. “I told you, Junior G-Man,” he said, his hissing in anger. “We didn’t fight nothin’ off. When he was done, he walked away.”

  “Did you get a good look at him?”

  “No, I never got within a hundred feet of the dude. He was big though.”

  “How big?”

 
“Big as me, probably bigger.”

  “Anyone else get close to him?”

  “Didn’t nobody get a look at that joker, at least that didn’t get shot. He closed-casketed three of my boys. He shot Fronts right in the forehead. Our cars was all shot up and the heat was comin’, so we all ran on foot. I saw Fronts and went to him. He’s dyin’, but he kept on jabberin’ about the dude havin’ ‘crazy eyes, the dude had crazy eyes.’”

  “I have another question,” Mack said, “and it’s gonna sound crazy. Do you know of any reason why someone would have left a pork chop at the scene?”

  “A pork chop?”

  “Yes. Raw,” Mack added.

  K-six snorted derisively. “You mean like an actual pork chop? Nah, man.” He shrugged his shoulders, then his face became focused. “Wait. Before he shot TP in the head, he said something. Damn, I just remembered.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Dude said, ‘Tell your friend it’s pork chop-eatin’ time.’”

  80

  It was a late Thursday night and Mack was sitting in his apartment. He stared at the yellow legal pad where he had written the phrase, “It’s pork chop eatin’ time,” at least twenty times.

  Before he brought this to Bender, he needed a motive. If these killings were hits, and not random accidents, and this man named the Ghost was involved, then it must be an elaborate scheme with some high-end players involved. It wasn’t a personal motive. Not for this assassin.

  He tapped his pencil gently on his cheek as he tried, for the umpteenth time, to figure out why someone would want this particular group of people dead.

  Mack sighed and opened the reply to an email he had sent out earlier. It was from the head coroner at the morgue who had handled the bodies of Larry Tukenson and his wife. The email read: