Paramedic Killer

by Patterson, Pat

  “Good luck, gentlemen.”

  Rico patted Mulkhead on the shoulder, climbed off the boat, and ran up the wooden planks to a wide dirt road. He dashed across the road into the trees and dropped low behind a pair of scrubby pines. Ahead, through the forest, he saw the complex. To his left was a peninsula of tall reeds that surrounded a large marsh alive with crickets and frogs. He felt his heart racing. He expected a large mouthed creature to grab his leg and pull him into the inky black water. “Mama mia,” he murmured, dropping to a knee. Mullins and Ham settled in behind him with Delta-2, close on their heels. “All teams,” he whispered. “Round up.”

  “Jeez,” Mullins whispered. “Boss, you weren’t kidding about the swamp. Ten to one there’s gators.”

  Rico pulled a pair of compact binoculars from his pocket and focused the powerful lenses on the Screaming Devils complex. Oddly there wasn’t a soul in sight. He counted a half-dozen motorcycles parked inside the fence, but no people. And thankfully, no dog.

  “Where is everybody?” Mullins asked.

  Rico focused on the front gate. “Gate’s secured.”

  “Manno,” Hose whispered. “Mighty nice of ’em to leave the lights on for us.”

  “Hose, lead your team around the building. Let me know when you’re in position.”

  Hose acknowledged and led his team across the dirt road into the woods.

  “Ghost,” Rico whispered.

  Barnes inched over with his Remington M24 sniper rifle, a surgically accurate weapon loaded with .300 Winchester Magnum rounds. Rico had witnessed more than once the talented Marine sniper’s skills, and in short, it amazed him. Splitting hairs at 500 yards was impossible for most good shooters. “Sir,” he said holding the rifle in two hands as if clutching a priceless heirloom. “Couldn’t have lit it up any nicer for me. Look at that thing.”

  “Let’s just hope you don’t have to shoot anything. How’s your hand?”

  Barnes held out his hand, palm down.

  “Steady as a rock. Go find a spot.”

  Barnes turned and trotted across the road into the trees, his black jumpsuit and killing hardware blending seamlessly into the night.

  “Okay,” Rico said turning to his team. “Follow me.”

  CHAPTER

  21

  SATURDAY—21:15—JIM’S PLACE (#24 Core Creek Rd.) It sounded like a muffled gunshot, a firecracker ignited behind a concrete wall, so muted she wasn’t certain if she was hearing things, until she heard it again. Sadie stood up and gazed across the creek at Jim’s Place. She set down her dinner plate and stepped onto the dock. Warm light emanated from within the house, but all appeared to be quiet. She thought of calling 911, just in case. Instead, she turned and walked up the dock and into the dockmaster’s office. “Sonny?” Tools lay scattered about the floor. An orange extension cord stretched across the room into the supply room. “Sonny, are you here?”

  “Evening, Missy.” Sonny trudged through the front door with a short length of wood in his hand. “Were you looking for me?”

  “Sonny, I think I just heard gunshots.”

  “Gunshots?”

  Sonny stepped outside. Sadie followed him. There was another muffled boom.

  “Good heavens, I think you’re right.”

  “Sh-sh-sh-sh-shhh—” Sadie held up her hand. “Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  “Someone yelled, ‘Help!’”

  “I don’t hear too well,” Sonny said, “but—”

  “Call 9-1-1,” Sadie demanded. “I’m going over there!”

  “Wait! Missy, you can’t—”

  Sadie ran down the hill and jumped into her dinghy. A minute later, she was tying up to Jim’s floating dock. “Help!” the voice came back, still muffled but louder this time. She ran up to Jim’s deck and peeked inside his house. His living room was truly amazing—the ultimate man’s cave. Rich wood paneling covered every wall. A floor of dark red carpet ran across the room from corner to corner. A heavy looking mahogany trimmed pool table sat in the center of the room. The green felt surface glowed beneath a trio of translucent red fixtures. On the far side of the room, a lacquered wooden bar ran end-to-end with a burgundy arm cushion, matching barstools and chairs, and a mirrored wall holding an impressive collection of liquors. To the left sat an elegant office desk, to the right a home theater with a sixty-inch flat-screen TV. It looked incredible, the perfect place for a man to relax and call home, except for one thing … Sergeant Eric Strong stood motionless less than three feet inside the front door. He held up a hand and yelled, “Stop! Do not come in here!”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I need you to call 9-1-1.”

  Sadie tried the sliding door. It was locked. She ignored Strong’s muted instructions and slid open the other door.

  “Don’t come in here. It’s not safe!”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Listen very carefully. I’ve stepped on a trip device. I can’t move.”

  “You’re standing on a bomb?”

  “I’m standing on a trip wire that could lead to a bomb. Now, listen. Get back over to the dockmaster’s office and call East Beach Police Department.”

  Sadie reached for her cell phone.

  “No!” he shouted. “Whatever you do, don’t use your cell phone! It could trigger detonation. Look, please,” he said, his voice primed with tension. “Run back to the dockmaster’s office and call 9-1-1 on the landline. Tell them to contact Corporal Keith Mullins of the Knight Squad. Tell them Sergeant Strong has tripped an explosive device.”

  “Sergeant Strong,” Sadie said, her voice breaking. “Corporal Mullins.”

  “Please hurry. I don’t know how long this thing will hold.”

  CHAPTER

  22

  SATURDAY—21:35—SCREAMING DEVILS CLUBHOUSE (Cedar Creek) Rico’s team trudged through the overgrowth to the southeast corner of the complex. The going was slow, the ground mushy and wet covered with tall slender swamp reeds that ripped and tore at their clothes. Mosquitoes buzzed their ears, and deep mud sucked at their boots. They finally made it to easier ground and stopped behind a small shack just beyond the fence line. Panting, Rico dropped to one knee. His teammates joined him, also short of breath.

  Flooded with light from the harsh halogen spots on each corner of the lot, the Screaming Devils complex resembled a Nazi prison camp, only without guard towers and dogs. The front gate looked to be the only way in or out, and the Rottweiler, he noticed, was still no place in sight. A large red Satan’s face with sharp horns and glowing eyes stared down at them from the front of the building. Rico got the creeps just looking at it.

  The building itself was nothing special, just a rectangular structure with a sheet metal roof, walls of corrugated steel, and two sliding bay doors, both of which were open. A series of windows at the top of the structure indicated separate living quarters above the warehouse. Lights were on inside. He even heard music playing. None of that bothered Rico. It was the Confederate flag flying in the front yard that concerned him … that and the ten-foot wooden cross standing next to it.

  “Sir,” Mullins whispered. “Who are these guys?”

  “Be cool. Delta-one to Delta-two,” Rico said, speaking softly. “Report.”

  “In position, awaiting your go.”

  “Ghost?”

  “Delta-three,” Barnes replied. “Scoped up.”

  “Copy that. All teams, stand by.”

  “This fence,” Mullins muttered pointing at the barbed wire at the top of the links. “Are these dudes paranoid or what?”

  Rico nodded. “Delta-two, cut your fence and stand by.”

  Rico ran from the safety of the pump house and began cutting through the fence with the heavy gauge cutters. The Ghost had his back, he was certain of that, but the cutting process seemed to take forever. Thirty seconds passed before he had the hole large enough for a man to crawl through. “Delta-two,” he whispered. “Approach the building and wait for my s
ignal.”

  Rico crawled through the fence and ran across the gravel parking lot to the sheet metal wall of the garage. Loud heavy-metal music banged overhead. He pressed his back against the wall and glanced inside the cavernous warehouse. The garage, illuminated with fluorescent fixtures, appeared to run from one end of the building to the other. He ducked inside the door and quickly moved to his left, .45 Colt in hand. Ham moved inside to the right, and together they provided overlapping fields of fire as Mullins moved to the center of the room with the 12-gauge.

  A Harley Davidson motorcycle stood in the center of the room. Its black gas tank shone like a polished stone. A red Screaming Devil logo laughed at him from one side. It was the same bike he had seen earlier that day in Lila Canaday’s shed. He shifted his eyes toward the three rows of folding chairs lined up classroom style on the far end of the bay. It appeared to be some kind of meeting room. A projector screen hung from the wall. A wooden podium stood in front of the classroom and beside it, a worn Confederate flag.

  Rico made his way around the room. Mullins and Rogers moved simultaneously across the center and front, clearing the rooms as they moved. They found a long workbench against the north wall. Chrome tools hung from a brown pegboard. A second motorcycle sat on the smooth concrete floor with its gas tank removed. Box wrenches and black rubber tubing lay beside it on the floor.

  Mullins’ voice came over Rico’s headset. “Clear, L-T.”

  “Delta-one to Delta-two,” Rico followed. “Report.”

  “In position at the rear stairwell.”

  “Copy that. First floor clear. Proceed upstairs and await my call.”

  CHAPTER

  23

  SATURDAY—21:48—DOCKMASTER’S OFFICE (PAIR-A-DOCKS) The dispatcher at the 911 Communications Center in downtown East Beach sounded too calm for the moment, almost lackadaisical. But that was her job, wasn’t it? To remain calm in the face of disaster? How else could she survive the constant barrage of emergency calls? Sadie realized she could never do it. It must take a special person. “9-1-1 communications center,” the dispatcher said. “What’s your emergency?”

  “My name is Sadie Miller. I’m at Pair-A-Docks Marina. I need to get in touch with a Corporal Keith Mullins right away. It’s very important!”

  “Ma’am, this is the 9-1-1 emergency call center, not an office line.”

  “But I need to get in touch with Corporal Mullins with the East Beach Police Department. Sergeant Strong asked me to call right away.”

  “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but you’ll need to call the police department. Unless this is an emergency, I can’t help you.”

  “This is an emergency!”

  “Ma’am, why don’t we start over. What is your emergency?”

  “Sergeant Strong has stepped on a bomb!”

  “A bomb?”

  “Yes!”

  “Stand by, ma’am.”

  “Did you hear what I said? Hello? Is anyone there? Lady, where did you go?”

  “Good evening,” a different female voice responded. “This is the 9-1-1 call center shift supervisor. Did you say something about a bomb?”

  “Yes! I tried to tell that other woman, but she wouldn’t listen.”

  “Ma’am, try to calm down. No one’s ignoring you. Please start over and tell me what’s happening. Where are you? Where is this bomb?”

  Sadie took a deep breath, explained the situation, and then waited a moment as she was put on hold. After a moment, the supervisor came back on the line. “Okay ma’am, I have police officers en route to your location now. Tell me again the name of the officer in trouble.”

  “His name is Sergeant Strong. Eric Strong. He wants you to get in touch with a Corporal Keith Mullins.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “No, and I didn’t ask him. Just hurry, please. Send help!”

  CHAPTER

  24

  SATURDAY—21:50—SCREAMING DEVILS CLUBHOUSE (Cedar Creek) Rico had never understood heavy metal. To him, it was unsynchronized noise … loud, shrieking guitar rhythms that ruthlessly banged at his head. But this time he welcomed it. He moved up the stairwell, thankful for the noise. At least, he thought, they won’t hear us coming. He could tell by the glow at the stairwell landing that lights burned down the hall toward the center of the building where he expected the Devils to be. He pulled a flash bang grenade and climbed cautiously, watching each step, aware of the fact that there could be explosive devices rigged up to ward off strangers—like him—but he found no tripwires or triggers. He reached the landing and paused. Ham and Mullins were on his heels, machine gun and shotgun ready.

  “Delta-two,” he said speaking more loudly than he liked. “Stairwell clear.”

  “Same on this side, sir.”

  “Proceed with caution.”

  Rico turned the corner and glanced down a corridor to a large, brightly lit rec-room in the center of the building. He led his team down the hall, sweeping the bedrooms as they moved, into a large rec-room with a pool table and a collection of worn-out sofas and chairs. A refrigerator sat in one corner beside a cluttered kitchen counter. A dartboard hung on the far wall. “Clear,” Hose whispered entering the room. “What’s up?” Rico shrugged. He could barely hear himself think. He glanced about at each of his men and then, rejecting protocol, shouted, “Where the hell are they?”

  The music died. Keith Mullins stepped away from the stereo and removed his goggles. “Never did care for Iron Maiden.”

  “Boss,” Hicks said. “This is totally loco.”

  “Did we miss anything? Side rooms or closets?”

  “Maybe they’re out burning another cross,” Ham offered.

  “A cross?” Rogers took a step back. “I sure hope not.”

  Mullins suddenly jumped. “What was that?”

  “What was what?”

  “Am I the only one that heard it?”

  “Uh, fellas?” Cadarian Rogers said his voice a weak tremble, the color draining from his dark brown face. “I think we’ve got a problem.”

  Rico glanced at his teammate. His eyes were wide with fear.

  “Sir, I’ve stepped on something.”

  “Don’t move,” Mullins ordered, dropping to one knee and pulling out a small flashlight with a powerful, focused beam. He studied the floor around Rogers’ boots and then quietly announced, “He’s standing on a monofilament.” Mullins slowly set down his weapon and removed the black gear bag he carried over his shoulder. “Get everyone out now. And listen to me, everyone. No more radio communications, do you understand? No handhelds or cell phones. Turn off your headsets now. Radio signals can detonate bombs. We’re lucky we haven’t set it off already.”

  Rico switched off his headset. He suddenly felt isolated.

  “Everyone egress slowly,” Mullins whispered. “Exactly the way you came in. Watch for triggers you may have missed on the way in. Wait for us at the boat dock.”

  Rico placed a hand on Rogers’ shoulder. “Hang tough.”

  “Sir,” Rogers said, speaking slowly as if afraid to move his lips. “I don’t know where you stand with Jesus and all. But please, sir, pray.”

  “Keith?” Rico said eyeing his explosives expert. “Get him out of this.”

  “I will,” Mullins responded with a Cheshire grin. “Beat it now. I have work to do.”

  “C’mon.” Rico nudged Ham and retreated slowly, calculating each step, wondering just how in the world the Devils had gotten the better of him. He reached the landing and glanced about the expansive garage floor. He smelled crankcase oil. He spotted moths fluttering beneath the long fluorescent tubes. He heard crickets chirping outside, and a distant boat passing nearby, but there wasn’t a soul in sight. He motioned toward the garage door and then led Ham across the expanse. The two men stopped in the opening.

  “L-T,” Ham said. “I don’t get it. Where are those guys?”

  “No clue.”

  “Do you think we should—”

  A vicious, snarling s
ound spun both men on their heels. Rico’s eyes flew open wide as a blinding streak of fur and foaming teeth raced toward them from the shadows. Rico flinched and raised his gun. A large dog appeared from the shadows and slammed into Ham’s chest, knocking him to the floor. In less than two seconds, the animal’s terrible cutting teeth had reduced the neck of the Kevlar vest to shreds. Reacting out of pure instinct, Rico grabbed the dog by the tail and flung it helplessly against the garage wall. The animal yelped with pain, righted itself, and then focused on Rico and charged.

  The Rottweiler hit him like a truck, knocking his 240-pound frame to the ground and rolling him into a brawling, snarling, cursing and punching, ripping mass of human and canine muscle. Rico was a brute of a man and he made a valiant effort, but despite his bull-like strength it became quickly apparent that the canine would win. The animal thrashed about wildly, biting and slashing as Rico tried to fight back. The Kevlar gloves he wore provided limited protection, but the dog’s sharp teeth quickly pierced the fabric and tore at his arms and wrists. Rico managed a few lucky blows and was even able to grab the dog’s jaws and wrench them to the snapping point, but the dog pulled loose and skillfully advanced his attack.

  Rico’s last thought as the Rottweiler went for his neck was the sad news that Mama Rivetti would receive from the administrative offices of East Beach Police Department: “Mrs. Rivetti, we regret to inform you that your son Rico was mauled by a Rottweiler.”

  After all of the fights, all of the bullets Rico had dodged, all of the arrests and takedowns and busts, the bruises and stab wounds and broken bones he had sustained over the years, he was about to lose it all to a dog. A stupid biker gang mongrel. Rico cursed out of sheer anger. He reached up to block the final attack, but before the animal could reach him the near deafening boom of a large caliber pistol shot resonated through the garage. The Rottweiler jerked, hit the concrete, and took his last breath with an unearthly groan. It panted and choked for a few seconds and then suddenly went limp. Rico half expected the thing to jump back up, but the mean Rottweiler was toast.