Fatal Exchange (Fatal Series Book 1)

by Russell Blake

  Now the Asians were on full alert, and they didn’t like their choices. They could either stay at the building or follow the girl; they argued it hurriedly, and decided to stick with the building. They couldn’t take the chance the money had been left there, and they had to see where this led. Normally they’d have split up, but the taller man was still not up to snuff, and it might take both to do whatever was required here. Besides, they knew where the girl lived, so it wasn’t like they couldn’t pick her up again later. But the priority was the cash, and it was probable the money was now on the second floor.

  ~ ~ ~

  The killer finished up his day at work and climbed on his bike to go home. He was feeling good, glad to be done.

  When he got to his apartment, he went through it and ensured everything had been removed, that every shred of evidence was gone. The freezer and fridge still needed to be sanitized, but he’d already mopped the kitchen floor and vacuumed multiple times, throwing out anything resembling evidence, including the clothes and shoes he’d worn to hunt. He really wasn’t expecting trouble, or any kind of search, but you could never be too careful.

  He flipped on his stereo and hummed along with his favorite song, and felt a stirring, an old call to action, which he resisted. Now wasn’t the time. He needed to understand where he’d slipped up on the last bunch of trophies.

  It wasn’t like he did this for fun; there was a purpose to it all, and the girls were just necessary cogs in the big wheel of life, grist for the mill. He simply needed to fine-tune his process.

  ~ ~ ~

  The Asians watched as a man on a bicycle pulled up to the building a few minutes after the girl and her companions left. He shouldered the bike and walked through the run-down doorway, and after a few moments the second floor lights went on again. Bingo. It had been some kind of a drop. Now the question was, how could they get in and find out what had been dropped off?

  Chapter 33

  The killer was in the bathroom, having just taken his first hit of ecstasy of the weekend. He’d munched on a few of the mushrooms as well to add some color and fun to the party—he liked the hallucinogenic quality they brought to the front-end rush of the X. He was transfixed by his reflection in the mirror, his nose about two inches off the grimy glass, gazing at his eyes staring back at him, entranced, humming along with the music.

  He was conflicted over having to stop in his quest to become, but rationalized that it was a temporary setback. His metamorphosis was pre-ordained, and nothing could stop it. The drug was starting to kick and he had an overwhelming urge to masturbate, thinking about the one that was to come: Tess, the first of the real ones, as he now saw. He pulled his pants down as he continued to stare at himself, and slowly closed his eyes as he began the process of ridding his body of filth.

  When he’d been a boy of maybe nine or ten his mother had caught him playing with himself and had been mortified. She’d always suspected he was dirty, and this was her proof. She’d been furious, and had made him go out in the front yard with his pants off, in the snow, and do it while she “and the whole neighborhood” watched. He’d never been sure whether anyone else had seen him, it having been dusk, but from that point on he’d lost any ability or desire to do anything similar unless it was early evening, and he was high. He’d been horrified at the idea of people watching him, judging him as he went about his filthy chore, but over time he’d become fascinated with the idea of the watchers. The mushrooms made it easier to imagine he was being watched—by his victims, by Tess.

  He saw her face in his mind’s eye, watching in revulsion as he touched his filthy parts with his dirty, dirty hands, horrified as his mother had been at the foulness of his deed.

  ~ ~ ~

  The Asians soundlessly pushed the apartment door open, having easily overcome the barrier the cheap lock presented, and registered the incense in the air and the stereo playing in the front room. They cautiously entered the living room, and seeing no one, approached the bedroom, where they could hear a keening noise.

  They could sense something off-balance in the environment, something not quite right. But they had a job to do.

  And they were professionals.

  Both donned plastic bags over their shoes; they’d seen it done on American TV while at their hotel. They’d never bothered with it before, but it never hurt to learn a new trick.

  All part of the benefits of travel, and being exposed to new and disparate cultures and influences.

  ~ ~ ~

  The killer heard a sound behind him and opened his eyes to see two Asian men staring at him in the mirror. He wondered absently if they were real or ghosts, and then the smaller of the two kicked him in the kidney, confirming they were part of the here and now. A starburst of pain shot up his spine and he went down, clutching the sink in futile support. As he fell, the two men stepped back, and the smaller man grabbed his leg and dragged him into the living room, where they would have space to work.

  The killer was in tremendous agony, but the drugs made the pain seem almost separate from his physical body. He allowed them to slide him along—he too needed room for what he intended to do.

  The taller man secured the killer’s hands behind his back using the duct tape he’d brought, holding him face down on the Persian carpet that covered the floor. When he was finished, he grabbed the killer by the hair, bringing him to his knees as the smaller man picked up a wooden dining room chair and approached him.

  The killer launched from his supplicant position in a flash, lunging at the smaller man’s neck, missing the carotid artery by a few scant inches and biting down hard on the muscle of his shoulder. The smaller man screamed, dropping the chair in surprise as the two went down together, the killer attached to his shoulder like a moray eel, blood running down his face from the Asian’s wound. A blinding flash of agony caused the killer to loosen his jaw’s grip; the world spun and turned multi-colored, and then slowly receded into black.

  The last thing the killer registered was the satisfyingly salty taste of blood in his mouth accompanied by the sounds of the stereo emanating an off-key baritone singing, “Don’t you want me, baby…”

  ~ ~ ~

  The smaller Asian was in pain, but it was manageable. His partner improvised stitches using the duct tape to hold the two crescents of the bite wound together. He’d have been better protected if he’d been wearing a jacket, but it was hot out and a shirt had seemed like enough. The bite was tender, but the bleeding had stopped; it was more of a nuisance than anything.

  They’d bound the killer to the chair, circling his body multiple times with tape and securing his legs the same way. They were taking no chances with him—he’d done enough damage in just a few seconds for them to assume he was extremely dangerous. Maybe another pro? But how would a pro have factored into the mix? And where was the money?

  The smaller man brought the killer back to consciousness with a few open-handed blows to the head. He’d found a soldering gun and some Raid in the kitchen for the interrogation; he could improvise something with that. Beggars couldn’t be choosers; you had to make do with whatever was available.

  The killer came to with a shriek, muffled by the tape across his mouth. He regarded the two men with wide and unfocused eyes; he looked more insane than afraid. The smaller man exchanged a glance with the taller. This was very unusual indeed.

  “Where is bag?” the smaller man asked. “Tape off, you answer.”

  Just the crazed stare and some struggling by way of response. The smaller man was uneasy, and had a tingling of fear in his stomach, entirely unwarranted, but there nonetheless. What the hell was wrong with this cretin? This was not the way his victims typically responded to his questions. He tried again.

  “Where is bag? Answer now.” He didn’t like the look in the killer's wild eyes.

  The killer nodded and the taller man ripped the duct tape off the killer’s face.

  A high-pitched laugh, otherworldly, emanated from the killer’s mouth. The
tape had removed some, but not all, of the drying blood from around his lips, and he had the look of a demented clown as he let loose a banshee wail.

  “I’m not here, and neither are you.” More shrieking laughter. “If you are, you have no idea what you’ve done. I’ll eat your heart, you motherfu—” He was interrupted by a devastating blow to the head, which brought that portion of the discussion to a close. He slipped into unconsciousness again.

  The men ransacked the apartment and found no trace of the satchel or the money. They were proficient, and methodical, and there was no bag. They were now really perplexed, and the smaller man’s shoulder had begun to ache. He’d make the bound man pay for that.

  Ten minutes later the killer came to again. The smaller man held his hand in front of the killer’s face, and then pinched his nose closed, the duct tape he’d reapplied to his mouth ensuring he couldn’t get any air.

  Both men waited until the killer started to turn blue from asphyxiation, and then the tall man ripped the tape off again, enabling the killer to gulp rasping breaths.

  “Where is bag?”

  Nothing but gurgling.

  “Where is bag?”

  The killer was unfocused, partially from the pain but also from the drugs now hitting full force.

  “Mommy? I’m…sorry…I…”

  This was going nowhere fast. They needed information, and instead they had a hallucinating freak calling them Mom.

  The taller man walked around to the front and slammed him across the face with the can of Raid. He shrieked again, an inhuman sound, and the smaller man clamped another piece of tape across his mouth. The shrieking continued. It was looking doubtful their guest was going to provide any information—he was clearly departed for another world.

  The little man figured he could make the session last for a while; they might as well make it as lengthy and painful as possible, on the off-chance their victim became talkative somewhere in the process. That, and he was more than a little annoyed about the bite. He took the Raid from his partner, and toyed with his lighter, flicking it nonchalantly, an idea for intensifying the torture taking form.

  ~ ~ ~

  Half an hour later, they still hadn’t gotten anywhere and the man in the chair was incoherent, his skin bubbling from the burning. He hadn't given them anything, and was now completely out of it, rambling and gibbering nonsense punctuated by tortured shrieks of pain and laughter.

  They were out of tricks.

  Reluctantly, the smaller man held the killer’s nose again, this time for good. He watched impassively as the man’s body turned red, then purple, and then blue, writhing and straining until it eventually shuddered and remained still.

  The bag was nowhere to be found, the smaller man’s shoulder hurt like hell, and they’d gotten zip from whoever it was they’d just interrogated. They were no closer to the cash than before. Nothing but unanswered questions remained. Who was this man? What had been in the bag, and where was it? What was their next move?

  The shoulder had to be attended to, and they needed to locate the girl.

  Everything came back to the girl. She was the key, and they’d have to get to her to find the cash, that was clear.

  After doing one more search of the place lest they’d overlooked any hidden compartments or false floors, they left as quietly as they’d come and slipped into the dusk, an echo of music following them down the street as they made their way toward their hotel.

  They would get to have their chitchat with their young lady friend sooner rather than later.

  That was certain.

  ~ ~ ~

  Ron got a call in the late morning on Sunday from Barry. He’d been sucked in on the weekend, par for the course in the murder game.

  “Hey, Ron. Remember being all up in arms over one of the other Red Cap crew being the real serial?” Ron had explained his theory to Barry yesterday, and they’d both agreed there was no way the administration was going to let him follow up on his hunch.

  “Yeah, I seem to recall that. What have you got?” Ron asked.

  “I think it’s safe to say you can stop worrying,” Barry responded.

  “What are you talking about?” Ron wasn’t following.

  “You might want to come down to the perp’s apartment—I’m here right now, and it’s ugly as hell. Amy’s going over the place and thinks she may have found something in the freezer. She’s like a bulldog on this one.” Barry gave him the address.

  “What happened?” Ron didn’t understand. Why was Barry dealing with his serial suspect?

  “The torture squad seems to have put in an appearance. They were especially thorough. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy. Makes you believe there might be a God.”

  “But…that makes no sense. Why would they hit him? What’s the connection?”

  “Dunno, Ron. All I can say is your buddy Stu here has definitely seen better days. He looks like a bad art project.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “Oh, and Ron? It looks like he was planning on taking out your girlfriend next. His hard disk is an architect’s dream for loft plans in her neighborhood.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Ron returned from the crime scene that evening, having spent the better part of the afternoon going over Stu’s place. He’d never seen a more gruesome killing, and that was saying a lot. And he’d never felt less remorse over a human life having been extinguished.

  Amy had found suspicious trace material in the freezer, and had collected evidence from his closet that looked promising. But for Ron, the damning evidence had been the computer. Not of the crimes Stu had already committed, but what was to come.

  Tess and Ron elected to walk to one of his favorite neighborhood places for seafood. He looked worked from the afternoon’s events.

  “So, you were out with Barry today?” She’d spent most of the day picking up odds and ends for tomorrow—a big day, to be sure.

  “Yeah, it was a hoot. Stu got himself murdered, and it looks like it could have been the same group that got your father and Nick and Stan. I don’t see the connection. It’s baffling, frankly.”

  Ron recounted the finding of Stu butchered at his apartment, apparently by the same team that was involved in her father’s death. He wondered again to himself what evil had been going on in his city over the last week.

  Tess was all shocked surprise. “That’s horrible, Ron. God. But what did Stu have to do with the rest of this mess?”

  He studied her face, trying to tell whether it was an act or not. He felt like she knew more than she was letting on, but he couldn’t be sure. He paused, considering, and then told her about what they’d found on Stu’s computer.

  “Maybe it’s not the worst thing in the world. Kind of karmic justice. We would’ve never been able to pin anything on him; there’s no way I could have gotten a warrant to search his place, and it’s unlikely he would have slipped up and given me an opportunity. He was way too cunning to make any big mistakes. Stu would have gotten away with the murders, no question. Just like it looks like he did in Pennsylvania.” He looked at her. “And he wasn’t planning a very long retirement.”

  A range of emotions played over her face. Fear, dread, understanding, and finally, relief.

  “Well, then everything worked out for the best,” she observed, and took a swallow of water. “God. Stu…who would have guessed?”

  He really couldn’t read her worth a shit, he thought.

  Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.

  Chapter 34

  Monday came quickly, and Gordon felt like he could still use a few more days off after a week like the last one. His lingerie model was behaving petulantly, and had thrown a minor scene in Daniel’s on Saturday night, which he supposed was what hot young lingerie models did. Still, it was exhausting.

  He was stopped by two men in bad sports jackets as soon as he entered his building. They flipped out badges. FBI.

  “Gordon Samuels?”

  “Who wants to kno
w?”

  “Sir, we’re with the FBI and we’d like to have a word with you. Would you be kind enough to step outside?” one of the agents suggested.

  “Uh, sure. What can I possibly do to help the FBI? You guys need some tips on the futures markets?” Gordon’s pulse had increased twenty beats per minute; he noticed no one was smiling at his little funny.

  They exited the building and Gordon stopped on the sidewalk.

  “So what’s this all about?” he asked.

  “Sir, you are under arrest for treason. You have the right to remain silent…” The first man had pulled out a small card and was reading from it while the second man expertly cuffed Gordon’s wrists.

  “This is preposterous. You have no idea... I want to talk to my lawyer, now, do you understand?” Gordon was being led to a waiting Lincoln Town Car with federal plates.

  “Watch your head as you get in. You’ll have plenty of time to consult with attorneys, Mr. Samuels.” The agent was courteous but firm.

  “Did you say treason? Are you guys kidding? You have the wrong guy.” Gordon was processing furiously. What could they possibly prove? He’d been careful. It was one thing to suspect, another to prove anything.

  Unless they had Walter. If they had him, this could be a real problem.

  If they knew about the bills, if they had Walter, then the plan wouldn’t be moving forward, and his fortune looked to get devastated by the futures and options markets.

  His fortune. That was the only thing that would insulate him; he’d get a good legal team, he had the ability to make bail. He had to sell his positions this morning.

  “You have to let me call my office and put in some trades. There’s millions on the line, and when this turns out to be a mistake you two will be liable for my clients losing their money. Personally liable.” Encountering studied indifference from the agents, Gordon switched tactics. “Please, just one call—you can listen in, it’s just some sell trades. Please.” Maybe they would listen to reason.