by Luke Murphy
Dale jumped in, “Almost impenetrable. Good thing we have heavy contacts, some of the smartest hackers in the world, on our side.” He didn’t want the Major General to know that they had nothing.
The Major held his glass in the air as the guard behind Dale appeared at Kennedy’s side to take the empty glass. Kennedy popped the last cube into his mouth and crushed on the ice before handing the glass over. Dale watched the guard jog eagerly back to the house and disappear inside.
“So, you know about the Deadly Sins.”
Kennedy’s voice spun Dale around. Dale gauged the Major, wondering if the military leader could read Dale and know that the detective was trying to bullshit his way through this whole meeting.
“We know enough about them,” Dale lied.
Kennedy nodded, and Dale couldn’t read whether he believed him or not. The Major sighed and scratched the three-day stubble on his face. He rubbed his chin and looked out into the bushes, stalling. His face was lined and tight from stress.
Dale looked at Jimmy, who shrugged his bulky shoulders.
Kennedy spoke without turning around. “This whole thing has been one big cover up. The FBI, CIA, USMC, and every other federal agency acronym protecting this country have been cooking reports for the last four years. There’s been so much bureaucratic bullshit and backstabbing that I can’t remember where it began and no one knows where it will end. When Hughes was killed, we all felt it. He was one of the originals. One of ours. Hope was the only thread I clung to.”
Kennedy looked down at the paper in his hand, when the back door to the house banged shut, startling the detectives. Dale jumped as high as he would have had a shotgun blast gone off behind him.
Neither man said a word or even looked at each other as the soldier came back with the drink.
“Thank you, soldier,” Kennedy said, as he received the sweating glass from the young military man.
“Yes, sir.” He saluted, spun on his heels, and walked back towards the house to take up his post just outside the back door.
Dale could see the appreciative smile in the young man’s eyes, as he was an honored member of the United States Military and pleased to serve a senior officer, even if Kennedy was retired. It made Dale proud to be an American, knowing that there were young men and women willing to serve their country and fight for his freedom.
Dale thought about the whole situation—standing in the backyard of a retired US military Major General’s on-base home, talking about government corruptions and conspiracies—when a loud crack echoed in the trees behind the house.
The glass in Kennedy’s hand shattered. The shards broke his skin, blood squirting from the wounds. The young guard went down behind Dale, a bullet hole in the back of his uniform. The shot had gone through the Major’s glass and into the guard’s spine, killing him instantly.
Dale fell to the ground and yelled for the Major General to do the same. But Kennedy didn’t. Instead, he turned and faced the noise, looking straight into the middle of the wooded forest. He extended his arms out wide, like Jesus Christ nailed to the cross, opening up the middle of his chest. He still held what remained of his glass, and blood dripped from his hand onto the ground. Kennedy looked as if he was ready to go down with heroic dignity.
“Get down, Kennedy!” Dale screamed again. But Kennedy still did not move.
Dale jumped to his feet and started running towards Kennedy when two bullets struck the Major General in his unprotected chest, snapping Kennedy’s body back. Kennedy stared into the bush before falling to his knees, and then face first onto the ground.
The next shots ripped up the grass where Dale ran and he threw his body on the ground behind Kennedy. He rolled the Major General up on the General’s side, shielding himself behind Kennedy’s lifeless body.
Dale looked back and saw that Jimmy was also on the ground, shielded by the dead guard’s body.
Dale heard the back door to the house shut and watched the other young guard from the front run through. He took only three steps, firing his gun wildly in the direction of the bush, when he got a bullet to the eye, throwing him back into the door and shattering the glass.
Dale pulled on the paper that was still lodged in Kennedy’s death grip. Even though Kennedy was dead only minutes and rigor mortis had not set in, the Major General had been grasping the paper so tightly that Dale had to twist and ream it to loosen the page from the Major’s hand. He finally removed the small sheet and shoved it into his jacket. Then he closed his eyes and whispered a silent prayer.
Chapter 25
At the crack of the rifle, Calvin slipped out of his hiding spot in the back of the car.
No rest for the weary.
Just when he thought he might get a break having only been home less than twenty-four hours, Calvin moved after the first shot, back into the action. He’d heard three more since then and was able to follow the sound, taking the long and least-likely path. He didn’t know the area, but used his ears to lead him to where he needed to go.
He’d taken care of his gunshot infection in Brazil, before flying home, but he could still feel the muscles the bullet had torn as he ran.
After busting through a backyard, he entered the bush and methodically made his way towards the loudest gunshot. He shielded himself behind a tree, looking up into the forest treetops, the sun making him squint. He could smell the pungent Nitroglycerin in the air from a gun recently fired.
The crunch of branches caught Calvin’s attention. He heard a thump on the ground and peeked around the tree to see Derek Baxter land, having climbed down and jumped from halfway up. Baxter picked up his rifle and looked around. Calvin pulled his head in, just before Baxter saw him.
Calvin took aim, sighting Baxter, when his heartbeat multiplied by ten.
The hitman took off at a run, gaining speed with each stride.
Dale had mentioned Baxter’s new, high-powered, techno-manufactured prosthetic limbs, but Calvin was not prepared for the results. Amazement etched his face watching Baxter move.
Then Baxter stopped, as if sensing someone watching him. He turned and looked right at Calvin. He smiled and nodded, as if acknowledging the opportunity for another one-on-one combat-style showdown.
Calvin raised his gun and fired but the former marine had slipped behind a tree, the bullet splitting wood with slivers of bark flying in the air.
He kept his gun aimed and his eye trained on the tree Baxter now hid behind. He wasn’t letting him get away again.
“Let’s do this right!” Baxter called from behind the tree. “Let’s finish it the way we started.”
Calvin thought back to that afternoon, his one-on-one pursuit on foot. He and Baxter had spent thirty minutes on the Vegas streets, taking turns being the hunter, and then the hunted. Thirty minutes of nonstop pursuit, with neither man able to get a clean shot without risk of being exposed to the other.
“Do you think I’m going to trust you now? The minute I step out from behind this tree you’ll blow my head off.”
Baxter laughed, a loud sinister chuckle. “You’re a competitive spirit, Watters. I know you want to do this as bad as I do. I owe you, and I think you owe me a chance for some payback. The way I figure it, we have about seven minutes before we’re surrounded by the cavalry. And they have no intention of taking me alive this time. Even I know that.”
Calvin heard a thud. He looked around the tree to see Baxter, holding his hands out, pointing to the rifle he’d thrown down. He reached behind his back and pulled a handgun from his waist, and also set it down. Baxter smiled. “I’m unarmed. Come out and play.”
Calvin closed his eyes. If you can’t trust a rogue marine sniper who betrayed his country to go into the underground world of hired hitmen, who could you trust?
Baxter was right about one thing, Calvin did want this. He threw down his gun and stepped out. Walking towards Baxter, he was wary of any sudden moves. But Baxter didn’t move; he stood in place like an alligator stalking, waiting for
Calvin to approach.
Baxter had changed since their last encounter, and it wasn’t just his prosthetic legs. He looked a lot older, in only a short time. His head was fully shaved, his face pale and gaunt, cheeks concaved with lines of worry. His clothes looked too big for his slender body.
Then Baxter moved towards Calvin, just as slowly as Calvin approached. Even with mechanical legs, Baxter moved like a normal human. They stared into each other’s eyes, circling the ground, sizing each other up.
Calvin had his hands up, fists clenched in a fighter’s stance, shielding his face and rib cage, trying to shift less weight on the leg with the gunshot wound, but trying not to show that to the hitman, who would be looking for an advantage. He knew he still had injuries from his trip to South America.
His leg had far from healed, and still burned, even though the infection had been treated. His nose, which throbbed, had been broken twice, and played with his vision. But the hardest part was having to somehow forget about the exhaustion—his body drained from the physical exertion in South America, not to mention jet lag and the emotional impact of still not having seen Rachel.
Baxter’s arms hung at his side, as if taunting Calvin, baiting the big black man into making the first move.
Each man was hesitant, knowing what kind of damage the other could inflict. The last time they’d been together, they’d left a bloody battlefield, both men battered and injured, and Baxter with one leg missing.
Baxter rubbed his chin and took a step closer. Calvin also stepped in, limping slightly on his surgically repaired knee, reducing the distance between them. They never once took their eyes off each other. Calvin smelled Baxter’s sweat. Tiny insects buzzed around him. His saliva had dried up, and his peripheral vision was blind, seeing nothing except Derek Baxter.
Then Baxter pounced. He came at Calvin with the speed of a featherweight boxer, but threw a roundhouse right like a heavyweight. Calvin ducked and lifted his arm to block the punch. But Baxter, anticipating the block, swung his other fist in an uppercut, connecting into Calvin’s now unprotected rib cage. He gagged for air.
Calvin instinctively brought his arm down to his side, and Baxter took that advantage, connecting Calvin’s jaw with a malicious, heavy elbow. Blood squirted from Calvin’s mouth as a tooth wiggled loose. He wiped his mouth with his shirt, tasting metal.
Calvin staggered, his vision blurry, but regained himself in time to avoid a sweeping kick. He couldn’t believe the range of motion and flexibility Baxter’s new legs offered him.
Calvin threw a quick left jab but Baxter dodged it with a sidestep and head shift. He wondered how much force he had left behind his punches.
Baxter fired back, striking out at Calvin with a boney-knuckled punch. Calvin spun his body and caught Baxter’s wrist, twisting it and jabbing his elbow into Baxter’s chin. Baxter staggered, taking a step back, dazed.
Calvin seized the opportunity, jumping at Baxter and hitting him with a flying forearm, splitting the marine’s lip. But when he landed on his bad leg, heat shot up the back of it from the gunshot wound. He grimaced, staggered, but was able to throw a short left, drawing blood just under Baxter’s eye, the assassin’s orbital bone crunching under the weight of the blow.
Baxter’s right eye bulged, and Calvin knew the increased swelling would soon make it impossible for Baxter to see. Calvin had to take advantage of it.
Calvin pulled his giant fist back and swung with as much force as he could muster, but just as the punch was about to land on the center of Baxter’s chin, which would surely render the marine unconscious, Baxter dropped to his fake knees and drilled Calvin’s rebuilt knee with his sharp elbow. Calvin’s legs buckled, and he dropped to the ground.
Baxter got up, looking down at Calvin through one eye. He trudged towards Calvin and stood over him. “I told myself not to underestimate you again. When Sanders first hired me to take you out last year, I thought you were just a lowlife street punk. I read over your file. That knee of yours,” he pointed, “is your weakness. I haven’t been following you since then, but this is all the opening I need.”
Calvin could hear his own breathing, loud, heavy. His eyes blurred from the tears.
“So, you haven’t been watching me since last year?” Calvin asked.
“Nope.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Why’s that?” Baxter asked. A look of surprise registered on his face.
“Because my knee isn’t as weak anymore.”
Adrenaline spurred him on. Calvin took a deep breath and jumped to his feet with the same agility he’d used to beat Johnny at the Four Corners Drill in the gym over a week ago. He threw a left roundhouse that Baxter couldn’t see from his swollen eye. His fist connected with Baxter’s temple, the soft tissue giving way under Calvin’s fist.
Baxter went down, blood leaking from the right side of his face. He shook his head, trying to get up, staggering to his feet, but dropping again, groggy.
Then, for the first time, Calvin noticed he and Baxter weren’t alone. They were surrounded. Dale, Jimmy, and several uniformed soldiers, had formed a circle around them. It looked like a scene from some low-budget fight club movie, only this wasn’t a movie.
He could have gone down and let them shoot Baxter, but this wasn’t just about Baxter any more. Besides, going down wasn’t Calvin’s style. It hadn’t been, ever.
Calvin pulled Baxter up onto his feet and held him firmly by the collar. Baxter didn’t show much sign of a fight. His rubbery legs and glazed-over eye told Calvin all he needed to know.
Calvin brought his head down firmly, head-butting Baxter on the bridge of the hitman’s nose, busting it and pushing it halfway over to the side of his face.
Baxter’s body wanted to go down, but Calvin held him up by his shirt. The fake mechanical legs went wobbly as Baxter tried to find them to stand on. He was dead weight and Calvin had to use all the strength he had left just to hold him up.
Calvin looked at Dale, who’d been with him since the beginning of the Baxter debacle. They shared a special bond. It didn’t matter the circumstances that had brought them together. They were now best friends, and understood each other. He looked to Dale for an “okay” to end it all for good.
Dale nodded to Calvin.
Calvin spun Baxter around and stood behind him. He snaked his arm up around Baxter’s neck, putting the marine in a half-nelson. Once Calvin’s arm was in place and his left hand locked with his right, Calvin squeezed, easily at first, and then increasing the force of strength.
Sensing the finishing move, Baxter tried to wiggle, scratching at Calvin’s grip. It started out firmly, but the hitman’s fingers loosened gingerly as Calvin showed no plans of letting go. The marine’s strength slowly diminished as Calvin had to hold him tightly in order to keep him in an upright standing position. After a few seconds of futile struggling, Baxter gave up and let it happen. Ready for the inevitable ending, maybe even welcoming it.
Calvin held Baxter for a few more seconds, and then with a quick flex of his massive biceps, snapped his neck.
Chapter 26
The next morning, Dale and Jimmy sat at their desks in the homicide office, going through paperwork and making the final calls needed to close the cases. Shawn Grant was dead. Ace Sanders was dead. Derek Baxter was dead. Now, finally, it seemed that all of the ends met, all questions answered in the original Doug Grant murder investigation.
Except for one. One that had been gnawing at Dale for days.
Dale leaned back in his seat, staring at the wall, lost in thought. He hadn’t been able to get those words of hate out of his mind—the evilness behind them. They kept him awake at night.
“What are you thinking about?” Jimmy asked.
“Alexandrov.”
“I thought we agreed to let that go. You said there was no point in pursuing him since he’s already behind bars for life.”
“I know what I said, but he threatened my family.”
“Come
on, Dale.”
Dale stared at Jimmy, and the big, black detective must have seen something in his partner’s eyes, because he looked away.
“What if it had been your family, Jimmy? What if he’d said something about Tina and the kids? What would you do? You saw what that monster did to Steve Sullivan’s family. This will never be over. We’ll always be wondering if and when Alexandrov will strike. We’ve seen his reach, even from prison. Sullivan’s family, as well as every other family that Alexandrov has affected, deserves some peace and justice.”
“What are you thinking?”
“There’s only one way this can end. Call the warden.”
Dale pulled out a business card from his top desk drawer and dialed the number on his phone. It was answered after two rings.
“Hilary McDonough, KVVU, FOX5 Las Vegas News.”
“You still interested in that exclusive?”
“Absolutely.”
“Let’s make a deal.”
♣
Less than three hours later, after a quick helicopter ride in the FOX5 Vegas News chopper, which took the promise of an exclusive on the Shawn Grant ordeal, Dale and Jimmy stood back in the claustrophobically small video room at Ely State Penitentiary.
On one screen, they watched Alexandrov in his cell, alone, looking comfortable and relaxed lying on the cot, arms extended behind his head, not a care in the world. It made Dale sick looking at a master manipulator, someone who could dish out pain or order torturous murder without losing a second of sleep.
On another screen, they saw Burkov, Alexandrov’s bodyguard, in the holding chamber. He was alone, seated at a table in a separate room, away from the prison cells. It was easy to see the burly Russian didn’t like waiting.
The door to the video room opened and the warden slipped in, looking as if he’d just wakened. He adjusted his tie and rubbed his eyes.
“Burkov has been in the interrogation room for ten minutes, just like you requested. Are you going in there?”