The Devil's Army

by Jeremy Michelson

  He straightened up, cracking his knuckles. He needed to have a talk with DeVol.

  After he cleaned up the little mess in his office.

  Sixteen

  Harley had to admit the private jet was a nice touch. Though she wouldn’t let Graves know that. It had been years since she’d flown, and then it had been in a huge airliner, crammed between two fat guys in coach.

  This was much better.

  She stared out at the clouds drifting over green and brown squares of farmland. The drone of the Gulfstream’s twin jets made her drowsy. It was warm in the cream colored cabin. The leather seat she lay back in was cushy and comfy. The only thing that ruined the experience was the stench of coffee in the air. Well, that and Grave’s boss sitting across from her giving her the evil eye.

  Most of the seats were empty. Graves sat a couple seats up. He fidgeted and glanced back at her. The boss man had sent him away. Like a good dog, Graves obeyed.

  A couple other agents in dark suits sat up near the cockpit. Through the open doorway, the white-shirted pilot and copilot did their thing. Brilliant blue sky showed through the cockpit windshield.

  Behind her were two more agents. They sat near the tail. They were already aboard when she climbed in. Big guys with dark glasses and howitzer sized guns in bulging holsters under their open coats, also dark.

  Grave’s boss, whom Graves had introduced as Mr. Parker, sipped at his oversized cup of coffee. It had the name of some obscure coffee stand on it. Maybe Mr. Parker wasn’t a Starbucks kind of guy. By the tankard size of the cup, the guy went for quantity.

  Parker had graying brown hair slicked back over his narrow head. He had the pinched look of a career bureaucrat and the sharp eyes of a cop who's heard every bullshit line and spun a few of his own. He wore a dark brown suit that fit well enough that it had to be tailored. He set the barrel of java down in a cup holder that barely contained the bottom of it, then flicked a speck of lint from the arm of his suit.

  “So, Ms. Harley,” Parker said, “I am told that you are currently employed as a bounty hunter.”

  “Skip tracer, and I’d hardly call it employment,” she said, “I get paid per perp I bring in.”

  “Skip tracers do their work by phone and computer,” Parker said, “They’re not known for physically apprehending their subjects. Bounty Hunters, guns for hire, do that.”

  Harley shrugged. She looked back out at the farmland passing so far below. The world looked peaceful from above. A crummy illusion. Down on the ground meth addicts were holding up convenience stores to pay for their next fix. Parents were beating their children and telling school nurses the kid fell down the stairs. Bookkeepers were siphoning off cash from their employer's accounts to pay for their coke habits.

  The real world was ugly.

  Her missing leg ached and itched. So did the scar leading up to her empty eye socket.

  “According to Agent Graves, you are the only person to have survived an encounter with the Reaper,” Parker said.

  “He was there, too,” Harley said. She clenched her fist in her lap.

  “The Reaper fled and Agent Graves only had the merest glimpse of him,” Parker said, “I would like to hear your account of the incident.”

  Incident. That sounded so sanitized. It wasn’t a life changing event that ripped her entire world apart. It was just an incident.

  “There’s a nice thick report on it on file,” she said, “Which I’m guessing you’ve already read.”

  Parker nodded. The cold eyes in his narrow death’s head never left her. “I have, but I would like to hear it in your own words.”

  “I really don’t have anything to add, thanks,” she said.

  She caught a movement from the corner of her eye. Graves, giving her the look. The one that said, quit being an ass and cooperate. Maybe if Mr. Big Shot FBI Man Parker had a better bedside manner she might be interested. But so far she’d been shoved around a little too much and promised far too little.

  Parker’s eyes narrowed and his thin lips pressed in a line so thin it could have been drawn on his face with a pencil.

  “Your cooperation would be more than helpful, Ms. Harley,” he said, “I know you are not unaware of the severity of what we face.”

  Harley sighed and shook her head. Good lord, she needed a drink. "I have trouble believing the Reaper is going to really clone himself. I'm no scientist, but it has to take a huge amount of resources and time to make even a single clone, much less an army of them."

  Parker actually looked away, the muscles in his jaw clenching. The knuckles on his hand went white as he clutched the seat rest. Something fluttered in her chest. A thin trickle of fear chilled her.

  “I wish you were right,” he said, “DeVol was respected in the scientific community before…his announcement. Most of his work was destroyed in the arson at his lab. But we’ve had other scientists reconstruct what they could glean from other sources. I have been told by reputable sources that DeVol’s process makes it theoretically possible to clone an adult human body in approximately eight weeks. They also tell me that it may be possible to also copy memories to those clones, as DeVol indicated in his speech.”

  The chill spread over her. This wasn’t just some cop telling her this. It was an upper level FBI honcho with good connections–according to Graves, anyway.

  “What about resources?” she said.

  Parker raised his hand and gnawed at his thumbnail for a moment. He jerked the thumb away and stared at it before putting his hand back on his lap. He still wouldn’t meet her eyes.

  “It would indeed take significant resources to create a large number of clones,” he said, “We have evidence that someone has purchased large amounts of equipment and supplies.”

  “Let me guess, untraceable,” she said.

  “Of course. Supplies, purchased in small batches, delivered to one place, transshipped to another, dropped off at obscure locations where they have simply vanished.”

  Harley rested her head back against the plush seat. It was a giant puzzle, with the pieces constantly in motion. But there was a pattern, too. And somewhere behind it was a single mind.

  “So the Reaper is wealthy,” she said. Parker nodded. “And not just wealthy, but super wealthy.”

  “Yes, we suspect so,” Parker said.

  “Well, that should narrow down the list considerably,” she said, “Just get a list of all the rich assholes and stake them out. Sooner or later you’ll get him.”

  Parker gave her a sour look. Which told her they’d already tried that.

  “Our subject has somehow managed to stealth his assets,” he said, “He lives below the radar.”

  “So this guy, he’s super rich and super smart. He’s like the Batman of serial killers?”

  Parker winced. “Perhaps.”

  An acidy pit was forming in her stomach. How were they ever going to catch this guy?

  Seventeen

  Harley finally gave in and told Parker about how she almost caught the Reaper. Except it was the other way around. He caught her.

  The Reaper had gotten a little sloppy. He was quite obviously working a certain area of town. A run down area that had hookers on one corner and drug pushers on the other. The hookers were disappearing at an alarming rate. It had gotten so bad that the pimps had to hire muscle to make sure the girls kept working. The muscle would get in the cars with the johns and the hooker to make sure the hookers came back. It was awkward for everyone involved. And costly for the johns since the muscle demanded payment above and beyond the hooker’s services.

  Naturally, customers started finding other outlets and the standard of living started going down for pimps, hookers and muscle alike.

  And it didn’t stop the Reaper.

  At first, it seemed like it did. The Reaper had changed his habits before. It was one of the things that made him so slippery. He could never be pinned down to a pattern.

  But the Reaper seemed to take the situation as a challenge.


  The hookers and the muscle started disappearing. The ranks had thinned out so much that not many girls were working one place. They were more spread out along the length of the street. And with the muscle with them, the hookers felt safer. They worked themselves into complacency.

  That’s when the Reaper started taking both the hooker and the muscle. They would get into a car and just…disappear. No trace of them would be found.

  Harley and Graves decided to set themselves up as decoys. Harley could make a convincing hooker, though Graves didn’t have the proper physique to be a menacing guy who beat people up. So they stuffed him in a padded coat and made the best of it.

  For two weeks they worked the street, getting nowhere.

  Then one night a nondescript gray sedan slowed down as it neared Harley’s spot. Graves was standing the shadows by the building, more or less out of sight. For a moment, she thought the sedan was going to stop. It had happened plenty of times in the last two weeks. Her heart sped up a little. Was this going to be another Vice bust, or was it him?

  The car angled to the curb. She bent down to look inside. The interior was a black mystery. She made out only the barest silhouette of the driver.

  Then the engine revved and the sedan sped away. She gave the car a one finger salute and made note of the license plate. The car had a bright yellow baseball team bumper sticker on the right side.

  There was another girl working the corner a block away. She went by the name of Sheba and her form-fitting gold lamé dress made her look like a funky disco ball in the passing headlights. Her muscle, a six-four ex-minor league linebacker with a coke habit, was leaning on the street light pole, smoking an endless chain of cigarettes.

  When Harley started working the street, Sheba and her muscle had paid them a visit. Sheba sized her up in an instant. If you’re gonna pretend to be a workin’ girl, you need to show some more titty.

  Back then Harley had the looks, but Vice wasn’t her thing. She preferred homicide. She liked solving the puzzles, piecing together the evidence, making a case. Vice was just…bait the hook and wait.

  Sheba gave her some pointers, then told her to stay the fuck off her corner.

  Harley watched the gray sedan pull up to Sheba. Sheba leaned in the open window, negotiating with the driver.

  Harley’s shoulders tightened and her gut churned. There was something about the car, the driver. She’d had drivers pull away from her before. But something felt different about this one. She motioned to Walt. He came out of the shadows.

  You seen that car before? she asked.

  Walt shrugged. Gray sedans aren’t uncommon.

  Sheba and her muscle got into the car. It pulled away from the curb. Harley watched the red taillights until they disappeared. There was a pit in her stomach. Her gut told her to follow the car.

  She wished she had listened to it.

  Sheba and her muscle never came back.

  They put out an APB on the car. The plates were stolen. Of course. The captain was furious. The Reaper had taken them right out from under their noses. Harley stood and took the tirade. She was madder at herself than the captain was.

  She got a call from her father. He was an ex-cop. After he retired he started a small auto repair shop, more to keep himself busy than anything else. A lot of cops brought their cars to him and kept him up to date with local stuff. One of them told him they were turning the city upside down looking for this gray sedan with a yellow baseball bumper sticker.

  Late the next day someone brought in a gray sedan with a yellow bumper sticker for a tune up. The person dropping it off wasn’t the owner. He said he’d been paid to bring the car over and the owner would be in the next day to pick it up. Harley’s father called her and told her about it. She couldn’t believe her luck. She left a message for Graves and raced over to her father’s shop.

  It was a cold winter evening. The sky was dark and cloudless. A single light was still on in the shop. Harley went in, calling for her father. The shop was quiet except for the hum of the big electric Texaco clock on the wall. Smells of grease and tires clogged her nostrils. The light was coming from the office. Chills ran up Harley’s back. She called again to her father. No answer.

  She took out her gun.

  The gray sedan sat in the open bay, its rear end facing her. In the light coming from the office, she could just make out the yellow bumper sticker. The trunk was open, the lid up and the trunk gaping like giant, toothless mouth. Her heart began to pound.

  She called for her father one more time.

  As she approached the open doorway, she saw the pool of red seeping along the dirty concrete.

  The inside of the office was a horror show. There was just enough left of her father to recognize him. She gasped like some stupid chick in one of those movies. And, of course, in those movies, the killer was always right behind you.

  She never knew what warned her. Maybe it was a tiny clink of metal. Maybe some sixth sense tingling the back of her neck. Maybe it was the whistle of air as the Reaper swung the heavy wrench down on her.

  She whirled around, dropping down and firing.

  Something slashed her face, going down to the bone. Searing pain blossomed and her left eye went dark.

  She rolled. Fired her gun again.

  She caught a glimpse of a figure cut out from night. He was covered in black from head to toe. Not a single speck of skin showed.

  The figure sprang at her. Kicked her gun away.

  She rolled, blood flying from her face like a sprinkler. The Reaper was faster.

  He was on her in an instant, her father’s bloody wrench in his hand. The wrench whistled through the air, coming right for her head. Somehow she moved in time. The wrench hit the concrete hard enough to send chips bouncing off her cheek.

  Harley kicked her legs out. She caught one of his legs and he stumbled back. She rolled to her feet and ran for the door.

  Something slammed into the back of her head. She went down, lights flashing behind her eye. Dazed, she got to her knees. A horrific kick connected with her side. Pain blasted out as ribs crunched and the wind went out of her.

  A silhouette appeared out of the darkness. The Reaper. He had something familiar in his hand. She couldn’t focus, couldn’t breathe. She tried to scrabble away from him. He stepped up and put a boot on her chest.

  He leaned down. Something covered his eyes under the black ski mask. Something like wrap-around dark glasses. There were no eyes. Just two soulless pits in the mask.

  She caught a faint whiff of citrus. Then the Reaper raised the thing in his hand. She gasped. Her father’s big angle grinder with the cutoff wheel. The electric motor whined to life, running up to a high pitched scream.

  Or maybe that was her.

  She struggled, but could only claw weakly at him. He lowered the grinder to her left leg. Searing pain shot up her leg and she screamed in agony.

  Somehow she didn’t pass out.

  The electric motor whined down. The Reaper lifted something from the concrete floor. It was part of a leg with a familiar running shoe on it. He waved it in front of her face. Blood from the end spattered her.

  The electric motor whined up again.

  Then someone shouted. A gunshot rang out.

  The Reaper threw the grinder. And then he was gone and Graves was kneeling over her, shouting her name.

  Go get him, she said.

  Jesus, Harley, you’re going to bleed to death, Graves said.

  Get him!

  But he didn’t. He called for an ambulance first. He put a tourniquet on her leg. He didn’t leave her side.

  She lived.

  Eighteen

  Parker stared at her for a long moment. The drone of the Gulfstream’s engines went on and on. She looked back out the window. The green and brown farmland was giving way to roads and houses. Pretty soon they’d start losing altitude. Then the airport and out into the heavy, humid Florida air. Back to earth, back to reality. It had been a nice
diversion.

  “So he kept your leg?” Parker asked.

  “He took it with him,” Harley said, “What he did with it, I don’t know. Maybe he made himself some sandwiches or soup with it. Maybe he uses my tibia for a back scratcher. Maybe he gave it to his dog. How the fuck should I know?”

  Or maybe the asshole kept it in his trophy case. He’d taken a part of her, like a souvenir. If there was any justice in the world, someday she’d return the favor. Maybe have his balls for a door knocker.

  “So all you really know about him is that he had a slight citrus scent?” Parker asked.

  Harley gave him a baleful look. Parker returned it with his own cold look. “Average height, average build. He never spoke a word. Didn’t leave any physical evidence behind.”

  “And the car?”

  “Stolen. He switched the plates with another car,” Harley said, “Forensics when over it a couple dozen times and found nothing useful. The Reaper left some blood in it. They think he deliberately placed it. They were eventually able to do a DNA analysis and link it to Sheba and her muscle boy. The bastard left his little calling card sitting next to the blood. Taunting us.”

  “And the sticker?”

  Harley watched the edge of the city roll under the plane's wing. Gray asphalt and gray roofs. It all blended together in a soup of humanity.

  “We think he planted it deliberately to lure us in. Lure me in,” she said, “He wanted to get rid of me.”

  “Why?” Parker asked.

  She turned to him. There must have been something in her eyes, because he blinked and looked unguarded for a fraction of a second.

  “Because I was starting to figure him out,” she said.

  Nineteen

  Carlson Junior surveyed the room. The old guy sure had a lot of blood in him. Which was a good thing. The dingy off-white walls of the tiny apartment made a fine canvas. The metallic scent of the blood electrified him. He breathed it in, exulting in his power.