Eleven Snipers Sniping (A Short Story) (12 Days of Christmas series Book 11)

by H. P. Mallory

  I narrowed my eyes, then cocked my head to the side as I playfully pretended to consider it. “Negatory,” I answered finally as my gaze returned to her lovely face.

  She exhaled, her smile vanishing as we gazed at each other. “I love you, Knight,” she whispered while disentangling herself from my hold as she stood up.

  “If you really loved me, you’d come back to bed,” I grumbled, already missing her.

  She started for the door, adding over her shoulder, “Guess I love my runs more!” I leapt forward, just in time to pinch a good handful of her very cute derriere. “Hey!” she said, resisting while playfully swatting my hand away.

  “Hurry back, you,” I said as my eyes raked her beautiful body from head to toe. “I’m a man with needs…”

  She waved me away with a disinterested hand, but grinned again. “I’ll be back before you know it.” Then she disappeared through the bedroom door, and her footsteps sounded against the hardwood floors as she opened the front door before closing it behind her.

  An hour rolled by, during which I tried to busy myself with showering, making coffee, and reading the paper. At the end of the hour, though, I had to talk myself out of the worry that was beginning to build in my stomach. Dulcie’s runs usually lasted anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour and fifteen minutes, depending on how much she wanted to challenge herself. I had to remind myself of that three times because I had this overwhelming feeling that something was wrong. I didn’t know why, but there it was.

  Even though I attempted to settle the knot that was beginning to grow in my stomach, I still couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. Grabbing my cell phone, I dialed Dulcie’s private mobile number. The loud ringing from the top of the chest of drawers alerted me that she’d left her private phone in our room. I hung up and dialed her ANC-provided cell number. The phone rang six times before her voice mail picked up. I hung up and took a deep breath as I tried to eradicate the feelings of anxiety building within me.

  After my fourth cup of coffee, I tried to focus on how completely irrational I was acting. Dulcie loved her morning runs and took one almost every day. Today was no different. And, again, it wasn’t unusual for her runs to last an hour or so.

  Then why do I feel nausea in the pit of my stomach? I asked myself, my teeth gritting of their own accord. I closed my eyes and dropped my head into my hands as a memory visited me that was suddenly as clear as day, even though it had happened a good five years ago.

  Stone was ahead of me, driving a black Jaguar sports car that wasn’t easy for me to keep up with, given that I was driving my ANC-provided Crown Victoria. He took the curves of Doom Highway sloppily, and the Jag screeched in protest. But Stone didn’t seem to notice or, more accurately, didn’t seem to care. That much was evident as I stepped on the gas in order to keep up with him. Glancing at the speedometer, I realized I was going seventy-five on a canyon road where the speed limit was forty.

  The sirens from my own vehicle continued to blare in my ears, and I could only thank my lucky stars that I’d been able to arrange an ANC blockade at the bottom of the canyon that prohibited any other vehicles from traveling up the road. But because Stone was a Yeti, a creature of the Netherworld, and as such possessed some level of telepathic abilities, he had to be more than aware that his joyride was about to end, as soon as the road did. All he had left to look forward to was either surrendering or encouraging a volley of bullets from the twelve-plus regulators who were waiting for him at the bottom of Doom Highway.

  “Surrender, Angel.” I thought the words, hoping he was cognizant enough to communicate through his thoughts. Not only was Stone driving a stolen car filled with illegal Starboard Stunners, but he was also high on Rainwater, a street potion that was highly hallucinogenic.

  I distinctly heard his laugh as it ricocheted through my mind. It was an ugly sound, but I was relieved to hear it because it meant that I might be able to talk, or think, some sense into him. “You know there’s a police barricade up ahead,” I continued. “There’s nowhere left for you to go.”

  “I don’t give a shit, Vander!” his voice railed back in my head. “Ain’t no way in hell I’m gonna surrender ta you, asshole.”

  “Then you realize you’re asking to be shot?” I demanded, my voice hard, edgy. “You’ve got maybe a mile before Doom Highway ends.”

  “I like livin’ in the fast lane,” he answered, chuckling.

  I swallowed hard, trying to pay attention to the road as my tires screeched around a bend. “I’ve already ordered my guys to fire as soon as they see you,” I ground out. “It doesn’t have to end that way, though, Stone. Just do yourself a favor and slow the fuck down!”

  “This isn’t the last you’re gonna hear from me, asshole,” he spat back, his voice suddenly sounding angry in its urgency. “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.”

  Then before I could think another thought, I watched the Jag suddenly lurch to the left as it skidded on the gravel lining of the road, the tires screeching in protest. My breath caught in my throat as the Jag launched itself over the cliff, flying through the air momentarily before nose-diving. I slammed on my brakes and pulled over to the side of the canyon. Putting the car in “park,” I threw the door open and jumped out, just in time to watch the Jag crash into the mountainside. I didn’t waste any time in hurtling myself down the cliff, nearly tripping more than once, owing to the angle of the descent and the uneven terrain. It felt as if it took me hours to reach the Jag, but it was probably mere seconds. As soon as I did, though, the first thing I noticed was the blood—Stone’s blood. It was everywhere—on the windshield where, presumably, his head had made contact. I didn’t know if he was dead or not, but I also didn’t care. I went into autopilot as I pulled against the door, using the immense strength inherent in my species to pry the door off its hinges. Reaching in, I grabbed Stone underneath his armpits and hoisted him forward, finding it no easy task to bear his weight.

  “Ha-ha, joke’s on you.” I heard his voice suddenly infiltrate my head, but then the connection went dead.

  I swallowed hard as the memory left me. Was it possible that Stone was somehow involved in the Christmas sniper attacks? I shook my head against the very thought of it—he was in a coma; he had been since that fateful day I’d rescued him after he’d plummeted over the cliff.

  An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. The words rang through my mind hollowly. Suddenly considering something, I reached for my cell phone and clicked on the icon to connect to the ANC’s database. Even though my cell phone was the least user-friendly way to access and view case files, I didn’t have the time to go to Headquarters, log into my computer, etc. I needed an answer now.

  Clicking on the search parameter button once I was in the database, I entered Stone’s name. It took a few seconds to search through the files, but I was rewarded moments later with a link to Stone’s details. As soon as his file emerged, I searched through the various instances of his breaking the law until I found the case I was looking for. Clicking on the entry, I scanned the case details, trying to find out how many of his men we’d killed when we’d raided his home, prior to his escaping in the Jag and my pursuing him. I had a hunch the answer was eleven…

  “Shit,” I said out loud as soon as I realized my hunch had been right on.

  An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. If I wanted to play devil’s advocate and suspend my disbelief that a comatose Stone Angel could be responsible for these killings, I might find some similarities. Just as we’d killed eleven of Stone’s guys, the Christmas sniper was now responsible for ten deaths…which, if I were still playing devil’s advocate, meant the sniper owed us one more.

  Dulcie…

  I glanced up at the clock that hung on the wall above the kitchen table. She’d now been gone an hour and fifteen minutes. I gulped down my cup of coffee and picked up the phone again, hitting “redial.” I wasn’t sure which was louder, the persistent ring of Dulcie’s phone in my ear or
the increased beating of my heart as it ricocheted through my body. Her voice mail picked up again.

  “Damn it!” I swore, and slammed the palm of my hand into the tabletop.

  I grabbed my phone again and dialed Henderson, one of my lead regulators at the ANC. He answered on the second ring. “It’s Knight,” I said, before taking a big breath. “I want you to get as much info as you can on the eleven thugs of Stone Angel’s that we took out five years ago when we busted them for the Starboard shipment.”

  “Okay,” Henderson responded.

  “Then I want you to compare that information to whatever you have or can find out about the Christmas sniper’s victims. As soon as you have any similarities at all, call me. Got it?”

  “Yep,” he answered as I hung up. Not wanting to waste any more time, I grabbed the keys to my Denali and stood up, immediately starting for the front door. I threw the door open and ran down the front walkway as I looked over both my shoulders, hoping I would see a fatigued Dulcie coming down the street from one direction or the other. But I didn’t see anything. I unlocked the car and yanked open the driver’s side door, not bothering to buckle myself in as I started the SUV. Putting the car into “drive,” I peeled onto the street and started retracing one of Dulcie’s runs that I knew well, having accompanied her on more than one occasion.

  I tried not to let my imagination run wild, and did my best to ignore the host of horrible images that could have befallen her. But I was a cop, and as such, I lived and breathed the horrible—I knew it like the back of my hand. Trying to silence my overactive brain was nearly impossible. I glanced down for my cell phone where I had thrown it into the console between the front seats and reached for it. I dialed Dulcie’s ANC cell phone again. Like the last time, the phone just rang before her voice-mail recording came on.

  “Fuck!” I yelled as I bashed my arm into the steering wheel and the horn blared in response. I didn’t even realize I was speeding until I took a bend in the road a little too fast and the tires of the Denali protested with a loud screech.

  Before I knew it, I’d traveled the extent of the run Dulcie usually took and was now back in front of the town house we shared. I pulled up to the main walkway and put the Denali into “park” as I opened my door and hopped down. I quickly ran up the path to the front door, while the SUV continued to purr and hum behind me. I opened the door, poking my head in as I called out her name. There was nothing but silence. I listened a while longer, hoping I might pick up on the sounds of her showering or talking on the phone, or even the sounds of the coffee machine bubbling, but there was nothing. Nothing at all. I closed and locked the door behind me and turned back around, heading for the Denali again. My entire being plummeted into a tailspin of worry, anger, and fear.

  Once I was seated behind the wheel, I put the Denali into “drive” and decided to do some more recon. That amounted to combing through our area, the neighboring suburb of Chestnut Breeze, which was to the west of us, and the neighborhood of Pine Falls, which was to the east.

  It took me maybe thirty minutes to drive through both, and then I found myself heading north into the suburb of Lakewood, which didn’t offer me anything, so I went south into Springville. Each venture was just as useless as the previous one, and with each passing minute, I felt hope deflating as anxiety began overtaking me.

  Two hours later, I’d managed to drive through all of Splendor, and I still couldn’t find any sign of my girlfriend anywhere. It was as if she’d simply disappeared off the face of the earth. When I pulled up to the house again, I could taste my own anguish on the back of my tongue. I parked the Denali, turned off the engine, and sat there for a few seconds as I asked myself what my next steps were. But not having an answer, I jumped down from the driver’s seat, slamming the car door closed behind me. As I started up our front path, rage began brewing inside me as I reached the conclusion that something had happened to Dulcie. Somewhere along her run, someone must have abducted her. I opened our front door and immediately called her name, but got nothing in response. I walked into the house a few more steps and called out again, but only silence was present.

  When my cell phone buzzed in my pocket, I nearly choked on my hope that it was Dulcie on the other end. As soon as I recognized Henderson’s name on the caller ID, I felt my entire being deflate.

  “What’d you find?” I asked.

  “I got some info I think you’ll find interesting,” he started. “Each of the Christmas sniper’s victims share the same first names as the eleven thugs who were working for Stone,” he said, a note of pride in his voice. He was good at hunting down the facts, which was why I’d given him this task in the first place.

  “Really?” I asked, surprised.

  “Yeah, I just e-mailed you an attachment that’ll explain everything,” he said. “So check your e-mail.”

  “One of the victims was a woman, though?” I asked, frowning. “Are you going to tell me she was named Brad or David or something?”

  Henderson laughed. “Nope, but she had a unisex name…Pat.”

  “Ah, hold a sec,” I said, pulling the cell phone from my ear and opening the icon for my e-mail in-box. Immediately noticing Henderson’s e-mail, I opened it and then clicked on the attachment link, waiting for it to download.

  “One other thing that was interesting,” Henderson started.

  “Yeah?”

  “Remember how we thought all those Christmas cards with the lines from ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas’ were all out of order? Like the first one we got was three French hens and the second was six geese?”

  “Yep,” I answered as the attachment downloaded and then opened.

  “They weren’t really out of order so much as they were in order based on the first letter of the victim’s name.”

  “You lost me,” I said, finding it difficult to pay attention to Henderson while trying to read the attachment he’d sent me at the same time.

  “You got that open yet?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Check out the first name on the list,” he started.

  I glanced at the attachment and read out: “First victim of the Christmas Sniper: Harry Mondavi.”

  “Right and then you’ll notice that one of Stone Angel’s thugs was named Harry,” Henderson said.

  “Harry Gandolfi,” I said as I nodded, remembering the son of a bitch well enough.

  “Yep,” Henderson answered, and I could tell by his tone that he was getting excited with his findings. “When we found Mondavi, the Christmas card on him said something about three French hens. Well, we shouldn’t have been paying so much attention to the number three as we should have been paying attention to the letter h for hens.”

  “Harry, Harry, and hen,” I said, inhaling deeply as I glanced at the next line. “Second victim of the sniper was Bob Hatcher and Stone’s thug was Bob Rampley while the Christmas card found on the first Bob was four calling birds.”

  “Bingo,” Henderson answered. “We’ve got two Davids for the two turtledoves, two Marcuses for maids milking, two Georges for geese laying, two Pauls for the partridge in the pear tree.”

  “And two Pats for pipers piping?” I asked, remembering how he’d said the only female victim’s name had been Pat.

  “Yeah,” he answered. “Two Ralphs for golden rings, two Larrys for lords leaping…”

  “Or the Larrys could be for ladies dancing,” I corrected him.

  “Um, well, we found the lords leaping Christmas card on one of the victims, Larry Lauriston, so I’m pretty sure Larry stands for lords leaping.”

  “So who are our ladies dancing?”

  “Lars Stoddard was the sniper’s victim and Lars Grenolt was…”

  “The bastard who first took a shot at us when we raided Stone’s place five years ago,” I finished for him. “Good work, Henderson.” I took a deep breath and shook my head. “I’m now firmly convinced that Stone Angel plays a big part in the sniper attacks. I’m just not sure how.”
r />   “I’ll keep looking and if I find anything else, I’ll let you know.”

  “Sounds good,” I answered as a beep on the line alerted me to another call coming in. “I gotta take this,” I said immediately, hoping it might be Dulcie even though the caller ID read “Unknown Caller.” “Vander,” I said in a flat tone as I answered the call, after hanging up on Henderson.

  “If you wanna see her alive again, go to the docks at Fifth and Havanna tomorrow night at ten P.M.” the robotic monster voice sounded on the other line. It was exactly the same voice that had called me the other day.

  “If you touch her,” I started, trying to rein in my temper, but it was already getting the best of me. In fact, rage steamed inside me, just waiting for my permission to be released. These sons of bitches were about to be very sorry they’d kidnapped the woman I loved. They would soon see the consequences of threatening a Loki. Let’s just say I wasn’t a soldier of the Netherworld because of my good looks.

  “Bring the shipment of Alscahhosh with you,” the voice continued, referring to an illegal-potion shipment we’d busted maybe a week or two ago. “And we mean the entire shipment, asshole. There should be eight crates, forty bottles total. And we want our Starboards back, also…”

  “I got it,” I said between gritted teeth, trying to stifle my impulses. At this point, losing my temper would do nothing to help me.

  “An’ one other thing, asshole, you better tell no one about this. We just want you showin’ up by yourself. That means no ANC. If we even see your shadow, we’re gonna take it out on Goldilocks here.”

  I took a deep breath, and forced myself to keep cool. Dulcie needed the cool, calm, collected Knight at the moment. Losing my temper could mean losing her. “Understood.”

  “We ain’t gonna give you more than one chance. If you botch this, she dies.”

  I gritted my teeth and felt my hands fisting of their own accord. “How do I know you haven’t already killed her?” I demanded. I had to force myself to remember the protocol, and the questions I was supposed to ask in such a scenario. I was surprised at how difficult my anger was to force into submission.