Target: Mendez: An Alex Mendez Tale

by Edward Hancock II

  Target:

  Mendez

  Edward Hancock II

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 Edward Hancock II

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, copied or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  ISBN-13:978-1500462833

  ISBN-10: 1500462837

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to all the men and women in law enforcement. Your courage and sacrifice keep us all safe. Thank you and God Bless!

  Chapter 1

  Blue Eyes. She had the most beautiful blue eyes God ever created. Blue like the sun-kissed morning sky, her shimmering amber tresses the perfect crowning glory. Her smile attested to the warmth that radiated from her very soul, reflected in the warmth of her hugs.

  Standing before the only remaining sign she had ever blessed the world with her inspired love, the cold of the February morning did nothing to sooth the ache inside his dark spirit. It was cold that evening twelve years ago too. It was December. Nine days before Christmas. His thirtieth birthday, to be precise. The day what joy he had in life passed away.

  For such a small thing, she gave the biggest, tightest bear hugs imaginable. Barely 4’10, somehow Jessica always seemed so powerful. At 6’6 and weighing 285 at the time – some 50 lbs heavier than today – he’d always felt dwarfed by the power in his tiny wife’s touch.

  Truth be told, he was nothing compared to her. He never had been. He was, as he’d always been, powerless. Powerless to stop drinking, despite the loving support of his wife and late parents, he’d thrown everything away one bad decision at a time. One bottle at a time. A pile of weak moments and failed wagon hopping had culminated in…

  That day.

  Powerless.

  Powerless to stop drinking. Powerless to control the vehicle. Powerless to resist arrest. Powerless to prevent the deaths of a mother, father and two teenage girls, whom he’d hit head on. One girl had lived a couple days, so he’d heard. Eventually, she succumbed to injuries he’d inflicted. As with many alcoholics, he’d walked away virtually uninjured. It wasn’t enough to carry around the guilt of knowing his drunkenness had finally harmed innocent strangers. Twelve years is a long time when the only thing you have to occupy your time are the haunting images you never saw and the phantom screams you never heard.

  Letting his fingers linger over the date, he tried to recall his child’s voice. Just six at the time, she hadn’t gotten to experience much of life, though perhaps that was a blessing. With an alcoholic loser as a father and a mother too devoted and stubborn to leave him, perhaps her death had been a bit of a mercy killing. But, that thought did little to remove the sting that accompanied the reality that, were his little girl still alive, she would be graduating high school in just a few short months.

  His chest spasmed, tears welled up in his eyes as he ran his fingers across her name, his other hand resting ever so gently on the headstone bearing his late wife’s information.

  Had he been reformed? Maybe. He’d stopped drinking. That was something. Or was it? When he was drinking, he couldn’t feel the pain. When he couldn’t feel the pain, he didn’t cry. When he didn’t cry, he didn’t get angry. For twelve years, he’d found great solace in the only thing left to him – Anger. The parole board had read reports by several guards, the warden and even a prisoner or two, all calling him a model prisoner. If by “model” they meant that he kept to himself, didn’t start any trouble and didn’t respond when trouble tried to seek him out, then yes he was a model prisoner. For twelve years, he’d hidden himself away. He’d made no friends. He’d made no enemies. He didn’t start trouble, but he’d been quick to finish any trouble that found him.

  He’d made a few deals with the inmates that sung his praises when smiling at the guards day in and day out didn’t seem adequate to the task at hand, but he had no intention of remembering the place when he left it.

  Okay, so there was that one guard that pushed his buttons. But he started it, didn’t he? And it had been finished over a very bloodied body. After that, the guard must have decided that life wasn’t for him, because he was never heard from again. But no real punishment was laid out, aside from an extended stay in solitary.

  Twelve years since he’d killed. Twelve years since his family died. Twelve years to find any reason to go on living. Twelve years to think.

  To stew.

  To grieve.

  To plan.

  He’d been born Derrick Calloway but, as of ten minutes ago, the driver’s license and social security card in his pocket had renamed him Jason Kirkland. The prints of the real Jason Kirkland – dead some three years – had been switched in the FBI database and in the Texas Department of Corrections within moments of his release. Calloway’s prints were now Kirkland’s and Kirkland’s had become Calloway’s. Any prints he would leave would ultimately lead law enforcement to a corpse rotting in a hero’s grave. In life, Jason Kirkland had been a war hero from Virginia. He’d earned the Silver Star and Bronze Star along with a Meritorious Service medal and a couple others that civilian Derrick Calloway had never heard of. It meant something to somebody, he thought to himself. To Derrick Calloway, it meant only that he’d been given the shoes of a man he’d forever be unable to fill. But, he’d been given a new life.

  Whether or not it meant anything to the nameless guy that had delivered his papers, he’d never know. It was just one of many questions he’d neglected to ask in his rush to make sure there were no loose ends that could trip him up.

  Derrick Calloway was no more. Searching the dead body he had pulled behind a nearby marble stone, Jason Kirkland found the ten thousand dollars he’d been promised. In the opposite pocket, he found a set of keys to the black Range Rover in which the man had arrived. He picked up the duffle bag that contained a firearm, ammunition, a passport, hair dye and enough plaster, makeup and latex to make the great Lon Chaney jealous.

  “Sorry, Ms. Turner,” Kirkland grunted, propping his unnamed companion against Alice Anne Turner’s grave marker. The second man moved, causing Kirkland to turn, fire the sound-supressed weapon once more into the back of his skull. He would not move again.

  Winding his way through a maze of grave stones, toward the cemetery’s entrance, Kirkland afforded one last farewell between his former self and those that must never be forgotten.

  Exiting through the gated entrance, he triggered the Range Rover’s door locks to release. Tossing the duffle bag to the passenger side, the man now named Kirkland climbed into the driver’s seat, grunted, reached for the electric panel which would allow him to adjust the seat more to his liking. The previous driver had been quite a bit smaller and didn’t need nearly the same amount of legroom. With the seat and mirrors adequately adjusted, Kirkland grinned.

  “Well, I haven’t done this in a while. Hope I remember how.”

  Chapter 2

  Drawing his ear close to make sure he wouldn’t be interrupting, Alex rapped softly on Danny’s door.

  “Come on in, Chief,” Danny said, without looking up. “Oh, Alex. Sorry. I was expecting—”

  “Daddy Tom perhaps?” Alex interrupted.

  Danny stood, brush
ed his neatly-ironed shirt, as if some sort of formality was in order.

  “You run over the chief’s foot or something?” Alex asked.

  A noticeable blush crawled up Danny’s neck, into his ears.

  “No, why? Why would you ask such a thing?”

  Danny sat back down, grunted, motioned toward a nearby chair.

  “Well, unless I’ve been named King of England without my knowledge, you have never in your life stood when I walked through the door, certainly not after realizing I wasn’t Chief Steelman. So what’s up, Bud?”

  “Just nervous. Anytime Chief Steelman requests a meeting with you and doesn’t use your first name, you know it’s business, not personal.”

  “Ooh!” Alex winced. “He called you ‘Captain Peterson’?”

  “No,” Danny said. He stopped and let out a hefty breath. “Dude called me ‘Peterson’!”

  Alex mimicked Danny’s expression, more out of solidarity than mockery.

  “What’s it about, Danny? What’s Daddy Tom wanna talk to you about?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine, Bro. I haven’t been back on the job long enough to have messed up that bad. I can’t figure it out for the life of me.”

  “Well, nothing ever got solved by worrying, right? At least that’s what you used to tell me when you were training me. Speaking of training, how’s my rookie doing?”

  “Alyson? She’s good. Talked to Lt. Hannabaker a couple days ago. Cappy McCoy put Alyson with Ken Watson. Good guy. You know him, right?”

  “Yeah. Think so. And I’m glad to know it. But I actually meant Reggie. Since he left my side, I’ve been wondering what’s been up with him.”

  “Oh! Yeah, sharp kid, Reggie. I like him. Somebody did a good job.”

  Alex blew on his nails and rubbed them on his chest.

  “I know.”

  “They had to do a good job to keep you from screwing him up!” Danny laughed.

  “Punk.” Alex said, pursing his lips to mask his own enjoyment of Danny’s ribbing. “Good to have you back, Bro.”

  “I put Reggie with Fletch.” Danny said, ignoring Alex. “Ol’ Fletcher will keep him in line.”

  “You think that’s wise putting a street newbie with a new transfer?” Alex asked.

  “I think they’ll work well together. You’ve met Fletcher. He’s a good guy. More years of experience than either of us. That’s for sure. Two commendations while with Dallas PD. A personal recommendation from the Tyler Police Chief. I think he can handle new streets, Alex. It’s not like he’s never been to Longview. He’s the officer with the most overall experience. I figured Reggie would benefit more from him than anyone. I think he’s learned about as much from you and Kellan has he’s going to, no offense.”

  “So, what have you been viewing on that computer there?” Alex said, leaning forward.

  “Same thing as you. Databases, lists, criminal information. Why?”

  “Wondering what you might have looked at to give Steelman the angry voice.”

  “Boy!”

  Reaching forward, Danny swiped a playful hand toward Alex, who leaned back, putting his hands up as if preparing to box his friend.

  “You don’t want none of this.” Danny growled, feigning a gruff exterior.

  “Ahem!”

  “Chief Steelman!” Danny said. Standing, suddenly serious, Danny’s face lost all color. “I didn’t hear you come in. Sorry.”

  “Lt. Mendez, if you’ll excuse us.”

  Passing an uneasy look to Danny, Alex furrowed his brow.

  “Yessir. Good to see you, Sir.”

  Offering a half-hearted smile, Chief Steelman gave a quick, if dismissive, nod.

  Closing the door, Alex entertained the idea of trying to eavesdrop.

  “Nah,” he whispered. “Even I’m not that stupid.”

  “I dunno about that.”

  Alex jumped, bit his tongue to keep from screaming.

  “Geez, Kellan! You scared the mess out of me! What are you doing?”

  “What can I say? I missed you, Alex.” Chuckling at Alex’s expression, Kellan continued, “Steelman in with Danny?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Saw him come in. Said hi to him but he walked past me like I wasn’t even there.”

  “Wonder what’s up.” Alex said. “Dare you to listen at the door.”

  When Danny’s door creaked, Alex jumped again, this time letting loose with a soft growling yelp

  “If you two are quite finished deciding which one of you wants to get fired first, maybe you could go find something else to do. Somewhere else.”

  Without a word, Alex retreated to his office, unsure as to where Kellan had gone.

  Chapter 3

  Yes, it was barely after 11:00 a.m. Alex didn’t care. As he shut his computer down, he regarded the pile of paperwork on his desk. Nothing pressing, he thought to himself. For the first time in a while, the citizenry of Longview, Texas was pretty quiet. Of course, that might have had something to do with the temperature outside. Standing, Alex grabbed the brown leather jacket from the back of his chair.

  “I’m heading out.” Alex sighed, putting his jacket on, retrieving the gloves from either pocket. “Come in!” Alex said, turning his attention to the door.

  “Alex, you got a minute?”

  “Sure, Chief. What can I do for you?”

  Walking in, the chief shut the door, turned back toward Alex. Shaking Alex’s hand, a slight mile quickly faded into an almost icy demeanor.

  “Going somewhere, Alex?”

  “My mom is leaving town today. Going to visit my Aunt Rita. I am taking her to the car rental place.” Alex lied.

  “I didn’t think your mom drove anymore.”

  “Oh she can. She just never bought a car when she moved out here. I offered to let her take mine. Even offered to take some time off to go with her. She decided to do it this way.”

  Smiling the first genuine smile Alex had seen on the chief all morning, he said, “Well, Mother knows best.”

  “Doesn’t stop me from worrying though.”

  “Rather Karmic isn’t it?”

  “What do you mean, Chief?”

  “As parents, we raise our children. We worry, fuss, fret. Then, one day, it changes. Without warning, our children are worrying about us. Worried we’ll fall or not wake up. It starts out with parents wondering if they’re failing as parents. Then it morphs into kids hoping they’re succeeding as caregivers.”

  “Well, Mom is a ways away from needing a care nurse or whatever.”

  “Don’t blink, Alex.” Chief whispered, sullen. Sitting down across from Alex’s chair, Chief motioned for Alex to sit. “Give me a minute will you?”

  “Sure, Chief. What’s up?”

  “The name Derrick Calloway mean anything to you?”

  Alex shrugged. “Should it?”

  “You put him away several years ago. Man 2 I think? Man 1 or 2. Intoxicated. Killed a family while driving.”

  “Wow, Chief. Yeah, that rings a bell, now that you mention it. That’s going back a few years! That pre-dates you even. That goes back to—”

  “Your days in uniform.”

  “Why wasn’t I notified of his parole hearing? Isn’t that S.O.P.?”

  Steelman shrugged, “He’d served his time and was released. Your presence would have been irrelevant.”

  “Well, here’s hoping he’s rehabilitated.”

  “Rumor has it he’s returned to Longview.” Chief Steelman said. His eyes finished what his words had not.

  “I’m not worried, Chief. It was more than a decade ago. I’m sure he’s long forgotten me.”

  “His wife was murdered, Alex. His child too. While he was out getting arrested for being drunk, wrecking a car and destroying the life of total strangers, his wife and child were being killed during a home invasion. At his trial, he said one thing, to one person. According to records I read this morning, he said he’d kill you no matter how long it took him. He did
n’t apologize to the victims’ family. He didn’t express remorse. He said one thing. One thing, to you.”

  “Get his revenge.” Alex said, absently.

  “Pardon?”

  “Said, he’d get his revenge, no matter how long it’d take him. I wasn’t completely sure I remembered him until you said that. It rang a bell, but yeah. I do remember him. That’s one I would have never thought I’d forget. Drunk. Bum. My grandpa would have said he was ‘all hat and no cattle.’ I think that’s how it went anyway.”

  “Well, between you and me, Alex, I think Hat Boy found some cattle while in prison.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, let’s just say he served his time. But he wasn’t released on good behavior, if you get my meaning. His drunk driving killed a kid, so the prisoners were gunning for him for a while. You know how they are about child killers. Broke a guard’s nose three months into his incarceration. Guard caught him with food in his cell, tried to take it and bam! They think he stabbed one inmate to death, but nobody could pin it on him for sure. Oh, he cleaned up. Stopped drinking. As far as anyone knows, he isn’t on drugs, but the guy is the typical unrepentant prisoner. Did his time and tried to keep his head down most of the time, it seems. An angry guy with a lot of time on his hands to lift weights.”

  “Well, you’d think all that exercise would help him burn off some of that anger. Isn’t that the theory anyway? Giving them a constructive outlet for their hostile tendencies? Personally, I’ve always thought it was about as useful as teaching them to shoot a gun or give them karate lessons. It doesn’t cure their anger. It makes them more efficient killers. It makes more sense to have them weaving baskets or just gorging themselves on cupcakes until they’re too fat to fit out of the cell door. Or just hand everybody a wet rag and tell them to wash the entire prison from top to bottom…Wax on, Wax off!”

  Steelman smiled at Alex’s hand gestures.