The Killer Within

by Jason Kahn

  Frank spent the rest of his shift in a state of nervous excitement. Nothing upset him, not even Vera, who seemed to have her eyes on him whenever he turned around. Not even his ex’s lawyer bothered him when he called to tell Frank she was suing for full custody of their kids. Frank cheerfully told him where he could shove his lawsuit. He was finally getting his big chance, nothing was going to bring him down.

  The next day, Frank met with the other Page 10

  detectives in the squad and the thirty uniformed officers Lieutenant Burke had secured. Frank went over the map of the old Herald building, where each team was going to be stationed, and reiterated their responsibilities. Everything was ready.

  Later that evening, sunset found Frank and Vera in a shuttered boathouse by the docks of the North Metro Bay. Their binoculars were trained through a boarded up window at the back of the old City Herald building.

  The uniformed officers shuffled and fidgeted in their assault gear, waiting until it was go time.

  “Why’d the Herald go under, anyway?” one of them asked.

  “Internet, probably,” Vera replied without turning. “Nobody reads papers anymore.” The last vestiges of sunlight stained the horizon deep crimson, though the detectives paid little notice.

  In the encroaching darkness, the building looked abandoned. However, surveillance had detected movement inside throughout the day, and Frank felt certain it was the Ecuadorians.

  Time crawled. Frank felt the usual butterflies before a dangerous job. Vera did, too. Her every movement screeched with tension, and she wouldn’t go more than a few feet away from Frank, which he found strange. He wondered if she still felt bad about the shooting the day before.

  At quarter past midnight, Frank’s comm crackled.

  It was the lieutenant. His team was watching the ships in the dock. “There’s activity aboard the tanker in slip number thirty-eight. Looks like several large crates are being offloaded.”

  “Any indication where they’re headed?” Frank asked. “Negative, should have that shortly.” Minutes ticked agonizingly as everyone in the cramped boathouse waited.

  Finally, Burke’s voice came again. “They’re headed right for the target area, I count twenty crates being moved by forklift from the pier, you’ve got about Page 11

  five minutes before they arrive. Time to get set.”

  “Roger that,” Frank replied. Then to the officers around him, “Time to go, you all know what to do.” Frank and Vera took the lead, slipping out of the ramshackle building into the cool night air. Frank stayed low as the assault team, each of them carrying an M-16, followed close behind. They approached the loading area from the northeast, taking a position behind a line of old storage containers, the metal corroded with rust. Frank crouched on the ground and poked his head around a corner. It was about forty yards to the drop zone. The area was dimly lit, just a few lights from nearby buildings painting the ground a murky shade of grey.

  Frank trained his binoculars on the far side, searching for approaching vehicles. He smiled grimly when they emerged from the night in a long line. Soon, their faint rumble could be heard.

  “Here they come,” he whispered. Small figures began to separate from the gloom of the Herald building, waiving at the approaching forklifts. They all held semi-automatics.

  “How do you feel, Frank?” Vera asked in a taut voice. Was she kidding? “Like a walk in the park, Vera,” he answered. That shooting must have really messed her up. He dismissed his concern, focusing on the scene before him. The forklifts were all in the loading area, each one lowering a crate as big as a small car. The approaching men spread out around the crates, waiting.

  Frank spoke into his comm. “All units prepare to move on my signal.”

  A man pointed his weapon at one of the forklift drivers, motioning him to open a crate. The driver pulled out a crowbar and pried open the lid. He reached in and pulled out a sack, which he threw down. The man waiting caught it neatly. He put down his weapon and pulled out a knife, slitting the bag and sticking in a finger. He licked it, and Frank could have sworn he saw a smile, even in the dark at this distance.“Frank, that’s it, let’s go,” Vera whispered.

  Page 12

  “Not yet,” Frank muttered.

  Another man motioned at a different crate, which a driver opened before reaching inside. He pulled out a long box that he gently placed on the ground.

  Then he opened it and removed an oblong metal tube that attached to a few other pieces. He held up the end result, a rocket-propelled grenade launcher.

  Frank smiled. “There’s the money shot.” He spoke into the comm, “Everyone move in, now.” He motioned to his team and sprinted across the intervening space, both hands on his pistol, held low.

  As planned, other teams approached from different directions. Flood lights turned night into day as police choppers descended below the clouds. A voice cried over a mega-phone, “This is the police, drop your weapons, and put your hands behind your head.” Chaos ensued. The Ecuadorians took about two seconds to start shooting. Gunfire cracked in all directions. Frank felt a sharp bite like a hornet sting in his arm, but he ignored it and returned fire. As men around the crates began falling, it became apparent that overwhelming numbers surrounded them. Those remaining threw down their weapons and surrendered.

  Frank, Vera at his side, walked toward the center of the loading area. Officers were placing everyone in handcuffs, and there was one man lying on the ground who Frank recognized. He was bleeding badly from a gunshot wound in the thigh and only half conscious.

  It was Arturo Vega. He kept muttering vehemently in Spanish.

  “Vera, what the hell is he saying?” Frank asked.

  “I’m not sure, something about paying Hector back for this, he’s not making a lot of sense.” Arturo lapsed into unconsciousness as paramedics carted him away on a stretcher. The lieutenant appeared next to Frank.

  “Nice job, everyone,” he said, through pursed lips. He didn’t even look at Frank.

  “I would’ve expected more men guarding an operation like this,” Frank commented.

  Burke turned to him. “They probably weren’t expecting us to hit them, they got lazy.” Page 13

  “You should have that checked out,” Vera said.

  She motioned and Frank looked at his arm. He was bleeding, and he suddenly remembered the sting he had felt earlier.

  “Well how do you like that?” he said, to no one in particular.

  Vera waved a paramedic over to bind Frank’s arm. She gave a crooked smile. “This will look great for the cameras, Frank.”

  Frank smiled a silly grin.

  She was right. The next day there was a big press conference and Frank was center stage. Lieutenant Burke could barely hide his distaste, but did nothing to stop it. The bust was huge news, millions of dollars worth of narcotics and serious firepower off the streets, and a real blow against the Ecuadorians. Frank acted gracious and humble, and his face was plastered all over the local newspapers. He was a hero.

  Two days later, he got the call he had been expecting. Frank sat in Lieutenant Burke’s office, trying not to fidget. He’d been on pins and needles ever since the bust, wondering, hoping.

  “I just got off the phone with Judge Browers,” Burke said. “He wants to see you in his office.” Frank fought to contain himself. “Why?” he asked. The lieutenant frowned. “Why the hell do you think, Frank? Now don’t go doing something stupid like pissing him off, because I don’t want to have to deal with your sorry ass anymore. You’re his problem now.” Frank couldn’t help but grin. “Yes, sir, thank you, sir.” Frank didn’t notice the sober look on the lieutenant’s face as he left.

  Vera smiled when Frank told her the news. She’d still been edgy the past few days. Frank hoped her funk over the accountant shooting would pass.

  “Congratulations, Frank,” she said in a quiet voice. “Good luck.”

  Frank grabbed his things and drove downtown to the Federal Courthouse buil
ding. The whole way over he kept thinking about what being on the task force would mean, better pay, a chance to make a real Page 14

  difference, a nicer apartment his kids could stay at, a better life. He smiled; everything was working out.

  His head was still spinning as he walked up the marble steps of the courthouse. The building was impressive, thick columns, a massive statue of a figure holding the scales of justice. The place had weight. It took half an hour for Frank to make his way through all the layers of security. He surrendered his weapon, saying hello to a few of the courthouse guards he knew.

  He was about to ascend the stairway to the judges’

  private chambers when a security guard Frank didn’t recognize came out of a restroom around the corner.

  The man was in a hurry. He brushed against Frank, bumping him as he passed.

  “Excuse me,” the guard said, nodding as he hurried on his way.

  “Not at all,” Frank replied automatically. He took the steps two at a time, and in short order he was sitting in the office of Judge William Browers. The man had a mane of silver hair and a face that looked like it was cut from a mountain side. He was wearing his judicial robes, which made him even more intimidating. Frank tried not to squirm in his seat.

  “Detective Arnold,” Judge Browers said. His voice was like the soft rumble of distant thunder. “Thank you for coming down here.”

  Frank nodded, not trusting himself to say anything.

  “I was very impressed with your recent arrest, it made quite a splash.”

  “Thank you, your honor,” Frank said.

  “I’d love to hear how you worked it. Would you mind? Call it professional curiosity.” Hell no, Frank didn’t mind. He gave him the whole rundown, the rumors he’d been hearing, the information he got from Richie, the attempt on his life, all of it.“That’s good work, son,” Judge Browers said.

  “You’ve done your city a real service. I could use a man like you on my task force. Let me tell you a little about what we do…”

  They were the words Frank had longed to hear, Page 15

  words that would change his future, but he was no longer listening. The judge’s voice seemed to recede into the distance, and Frank felt a warm prickliness sweep across his scalp. His face felt flushed, and it was like his head was filled with cotton. He tried to speak but his mouth wouldn’t move. In a panic, Frank realized he couldn’t move at all. Then, as if someone else was controlling his body, Frank felt his hand move into his left pocket, curl itself around the handle of a gun he had not known was there.

  In a flash it all became clear in his mind, little details from the past several days. The accountant had said Frank’s name and drawn his gun slowly. What kind of an assassin says their victim’s name? The hit must’ve been a fake, meant to convince him he was on the right track. And at the Herald building, Arturo only had enough men for a token resistance, nowhere near enough to guard a major shipment. And then that business about Hector setting Arturo up?

  With horrifying clarity, Frank understood. It had all been a set up, the information, the fake hit, the bust at the Herald building, the guy in the uniform who’d just planted the piece on him in the hall, all arranged for one reason – to get Frank in this room before Judge Browers. Hector had given him a hero’s status, sacrificed some of his own men and even had Frank take care of Arturo, a thorn in his side. All to get Frank close to the judge, because without him, the task force would fall apart. The judge was the real target –

  which meant Frank had been a sleeper all along.

  While Judge Browers droned on about the duties of the task force, Frank struggled to warn him, but it was useless. His vision constricted until all he saw was Judge Browers at the end of a dark tunnel. Helpless, Frank pulled the gun out of his pocket. All he could do was scream in silence.

  Frank raised the gun. Judge Browers stopped talking, he stared at Frank, solemn-faced. As if from a great distance, Frank heard a commotion behind him.

  Doors slammed open, men shouted. Someone knocked his chair over, wrestling him to the floor. He pointed the gun, his finger squeezed the trigger, there was a shot.

  Page 16

  He felt a needle-sharp prick in his neck. Then there was nothing.

  ****

  Frank awoke after a long darkness to find himself in a hospital bed, with three faces staring down at him. There was Vera, Lieutenant Burke, and Judge Browers.

  Upon seeing the judge, everything came back to Frank in a rush. He sat up too fast and the room whirled dizzyingly around him. Vera helped him lay back down.

  “I…I thought I shot…” Frank’s voice sounded harsh and broken.

  “It’s okay, son,” Judge Browers said. “I’m all right, though it was a bit close for my taste.”

  “But what happened?” Frank asked. His last memories were a confused jumble.

  “The task force got wind the Ecuadorians might try to eliminate me,” Judge Browers said. “It became clear you were a prime candidate to carry out the hit.”

  “Your desire to get on the task force was common knowledge, always poking around their cases, sticking your nose in,” Lieutenant Burke said, shaking his head.

  He still couldn’t hide his annoyance. “All they had to do was arrange a big score for you, figuring the judge would ask you aboard, or congratulate you, or do something that brought you two together.”

  “But you’re not dead,” Frank said, turning to Judge Browers.

  He gave a tight smile. “We didn’t know for sure you were a sleeper until you pulled the gun,” he said.

  “But we were ready. One of our top priorities has been to get a hold of someone while they were under the influence of the drug. It’s the only way we can hope to develop a test for it or counteract its effects.” Frank remembered the pin-prick in his neck.

  “So you put me out and studied me,” he said softly. “The Ecuadorians used me, and you used me, too.” He looked at Burke. “You knew about this the whole time.”

  “It was done over my objections, but yeah, I knew,” the lieutenant said.

  “This operation was under my orders,” Judge Page 17

  Browers said. “You want to blame someone, blame me.” Frank wasn’t done. He looked at Vera. “You knew, too.”

  She nodded, unable to speak for a moment. “I knew,” she said. “You’d been under surveillance for a while. We were pretty sure your date put something in your coffee while you were in the head. But we couldn’t be positive, she must’ve been a real pro. And then, after that sleeper whacked Richie, and almost got you, we didn’t know what to think. I was just told to stay close, in case…in case…” Her voice hitched.

  Frank covered her hand with his. “It’s okay, kid, you were just doing your job.”

  Judge Browers coughed. “Well, what’s important is that it’s all over,” he said. “You’re free and clear of the drug and we’ve made real progress against Hector and his hoods. Now get some rest, we want you healthy as a horse so you can hit the ground running.” Frank’s eyes narrowed. “The task force? Your offer was legit?”

  The judge’s craggy features softened. “Yes it was, detective, if you still want it.” Frank thought hard. Pictures of the neighborhood where he would move flowed through his mind, as did the look on his kids’ faces when he told them the news.

  But then his pride – his stupid, towering pride – got in the way. How could he look Terry and the other task force members in the eye after he had been used like a patsy in their little plan? How could they look at him without wondering if he was still under the drug’s influence?

  Lieutenant Burke read his face like an open book. “Frank, for once in your life, don’t be a goddamn fool, the judge here is giving you…” The lieutenant went on, but Frank had stopped listening. Vera’s hand, still under his, had just gone rigid. He looked at her. Vera’s face was flushed, her expression completely blank…just like the accountant’s.

  Frank watched in horror as she turned her
vacant eyes toward the judge, who was looking away somewhat embarrassed as Lieutenant Burke continued to berate Frank.

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  Oh my god, Frank thought. Words stuck in his throat. He knew he only had seconds. Vera reached down and calmly pulled her gun out of its holster.

  Frank lurched out of his bed and propelled himself into Vera, knocking her backward over the chair and onto the floor with a terrific crash. The lieutenant and Judge Browers swore, but then Burke saw the gun in Vera’s hand and threw himself into the pile while the judge yelled for security. Frank tried to reach for the gun, but his head was still groggy and now there were three bodies struggling and fighting instead of two.

  There was a gunshot, a whiff of powder filled Frank’s nostrils. The lieutenant and Frank rolled off Vera, and Frank saw his partner laying still, a spreading stain of crimson soaking through her shirt around the stomach.

  Frank screamed for help, and in moments the room filled with security and medical staff. He crouched on the floor, cradling Vera’s head in his lap. The gun had fallen out of her hand and she blinked a few times, coming out of her stupor.

  “Frank, what…?” Her face mirrored pain as sensation returned to her body in a flood.

  “It’s okay, kid, stay with me, you’re going to be fine,” he promised.

  Medical staff pushed Frank back and expertly lifted Vera onto a gurney, which they rushed over to the ER. In seconds the room was empty, save for the judge, Lieutenant Burke and Frank, who remained where he was on the floor, staring at the small puddle of his partner’s blood.

  Shock registered on each of their faces, and a cold rage began to build inside of Frank. He looked at Judge Browers.

  “Judge, about the task force,” he said.

  The judge looked at him, grim-faced.

  “I’m in.”

  About the Author:

  Jason Kahn

  Jason Kahn lives in Park Slope, Brooklyn, with all the other young families who fled Manhattan for more space. By day, he works as a medical editor for a New York-based cardiology research foundation. Jason’s hobbies include rooting for his University of Michigan Wolverines and chasing after two mischievous gnomes who claim to be his children. Jason’s most recent fiction, The Dark InSpectre series, is currently running.