“Where is he?” Priest said.
“In the tunnel. Half his body lying across the tracks.” He placed Radcliff’s dented badge on the seat beside Priest.
Priest had a pistol aimed at Trent’s midsection. “Was Radcliff the Midtown Murderer?”
“I have no idea,” Trent said. “He left me a message that he’d tumbled to Triple’s lab; said he had to get moving and that he tried to call you.”
“Where were you?”
“Down in Macon,” Trent said, showing Priest the gas receipts. “I found Chloe. She’s at the Lilly Orphanage.”
Priest grabbed the microphone from a cradle that was bolted to the dash and called this vital information into headquarters. Then he said, “We were on our way to bust the meth lab when we got an anonymous call; did you report the fire?”
“No. I was in a bar adjacent to Lynn’s when the fire broke out. When I came out I found Radcliff’s star on the pavement. That’s when I spotted Butler crawling out of a manhole cover.”
Suddenly a man rose up from the back seat and seized Trent by his collar. He jammed his pistol in Trent’s ear and pulled him within inches of his face.
Swinging his gaze, Trent eyed Butler’s raging expression. Good God, man, he thought. I had it all wrong!
Chapter 62
“Utah was an undercover DEA agent,” Butler said with savage anger. “He was working with the Atlanta GID to bring down the Apostles; for kicks they hacked out his tongue and shoved his balls down his throat!”
Trent swung his head toward Priest. “Who did I kill?”
“McClure,” Butler shrilled in Trent’s ear. “You screwed us good, pal.”
Priest said to Trent, “Remember when Dana whispered the word ‘but’ before he died?”
“Yes.”
“He was talking about Butch McClure. Not Butler.”
“When I drove you back from the convenience store shooting, why didn’t you tell me?”
“We’d been trailing McClure for weeks,” Priest said. “Earlier that day he finally led us to the lab; we needed him in place while we identified the main players and formed a game plan. We couldn’t allow him to know that his cover was blown.”
“The fight at the Wire Tap lounge?” Trent asked, swinging his eyes to see where Butler was.
“Real,” Butler said, his face constricted with anger. “Utah figured McClure would take another shot at you so he tried to run you out of town. Lost a damn good man because of you.”
Trent stared into the distance at the burned-out property. Ashes were still rising from the ruins like shooting stars. He thought about his encounter with Butler outside the Men’s room. The blood. His determination to uncover Butler’s deceit. A sudden realization astounded and angered. Butler and Priest had set him up, knowing he’d suspect Butler and then call Garcia. That would give them time to move on McClure. Trent had been a step behind. And he’d been used.
“What nobody figured,” Priest said, “was that you’d get your hands on the GID report; much less find a discrepancy that we overlooked.”
“Who switched the photos?”
“McClure,” he said. “Butler took the pictures of the original site. McClure inserted the others.”
Trent looked at Butler. “You ought to proofread your work.”
“We’d have tumbled to the switch,” Butler said bitingly, “but you just couldn’t keep your nose out of it, could you?”
“I gave Priest the information. That was my duty.”
“And he almost died!” Butler bellowed. “Then you killed Roe and Dana! We’ll never know if they compromised other sensitive undercover operations!”
“What about Butterson?”
“Dead,” Priest said. “We sent a team out to bring him in; he opened fire and went down in a hail of lead.”
“Why did McClure kill Ramsey separately?”
“Thanks to you,” Priest said, “that will remain a mystery.”
“Radcliff will be Public Hero Number One,” Butler said, “and McClure will be credited with killing the Midtown Murderer. Back to the tunnel, Palmer; hands where we can see them or you get it now.”
Trent shook his head bitterly. “Priest, I saved your life!”
“We did our absolute damnedest to get you out of town. But no more cops are going down over your mass murders.”
“You get the Amadou Diallo treatment,” Butler said as caustic a battery acid. “No arrest. No trial. And no questions asked.”
“Dirty fucking cops.”
It was then that Elwood slewed the BMW to a stop in front of the Crown Vic. Jake and Elwood popped out of the car and ran toward the Crown Vic with M93 Raffica machine pistols drawn like in a John Woo movie. Trent rolled to the asphalt as Jake and Elwood backed slowly toward the BMW while hosing the Crown Vic and its occupants with dozens and dozens of parabellum rounds.
Chapter 63
“Run to the Beemer!” Elwood shouted, right before the Crown Vic went up in a white flash that bloomed into clouds of black smoke. The explosion was deafening, and an invisible fist knocked Trent to the ground. Jake helped him to his feet, and they dove into the BMW’s backseat while the Crown Vic made a hot-metal sprinkle in the general area.
Elwood hit the gas like a sledgehammer, wheeling around the corner where they were gobbled up into the streaming traffic and confusion from the explosions. “Un-fucking-believable!” he said, glancing anxiously in his rearview mirror. “That was some wicked shit you pulled off back there.”
Trent had wrapped his arms around himself and was rocking back and forth.
“Take it easy, Mr. Bad-Ass,” Jake said, putting a hand on Trent’s shoulder. “We got your backside.”
“Yeah, man,” Elwood said. “We got you covered.”
Jake was staring at Trent with something like wonder. “Got to hand it to you,” he said, stashing the M93’s under the seat. He handed Trent a North Face down jacket and said, “You stuck it to those fuckers but good.”
When they drove close to the downtown, Trent heard the chop of helicopter blades from several news-station helicopters stationed overhead. Smoke the color of dirty concrete poured from the crater that was once Lynn’s clinic. Hundreds of people were still watching from the sidewalks and streets. Fire engines and EMS ambulances were everywhere.
Elwood turned on the radio. The first words were “Atlanta warzone.” He flipped to CNN who was promoting a special, “Chaos reigns in Atlanta.” Wolf Blitzer was broadcasting live from the scene of the deadly explosions downtown. “Long hours of fear . . .” Elwood turned off the radio.
Trent donned the coat and said, “McClure, the crooked cops, and the gangsters are all dead.” He added, “I want this to be over now; I want to be a citizen again, like you promised.”
Jake was holding a Desert Eagle .45 casually in his lap. “Elwood and I have a dilemma.” His eyes were flat on the other end of the barrel.
“What dilemma?”
“You are just red fucking hot right now; so hot it could raise the temperature on our employer. Smart move would be to ice you. Right Elwood?”
“Yeah, Jake, that would be the smart play,” Elwood said nervously.
“After all I’ve done for you-”
“Wait a second,” Jake said, holding his hand palm out toward Trent. “Our dilemma is this: You are definitely a man of honor. That firefight could have turned to shit; but you showed courage and determination against overwhelming odds. You did what you said you were going to do.”
“You kept quiet and kept the trust between us,” Elwood said over his shoulder. “And you never complained. Those are all points in your favor. Hard to find those qualities in a man nowadays.”
“All that carries weight,” Jake said. “Truth is, you didn’t kill those crooked cops and gangsters; they killed themselves. Murdering bastards always get what’s coming to them.”
“As far as I’m concerned, Trent, you’re golden,” Elwood said, steering with his knee and popping the tops o
n three ice-cold Heinekens. He set his on the teak dash, then handed two beers over his shoulder and said, “What do you say Jake?”
Trent caught a glimpse of Elwood’s gold ring and the initials ‘L’ and ‘E’ on the face as he handed the beers over.
“You gotta be able to honor and trust a man,” Jake said, sipping his beer. “I can definitely trust my back to Trent Palmer.” He chugged half his brew and patted a black duffle bag with red trim on the seat beside him. “Here’s one million in squeaky clean cash and traveler’s checks and several professionally tailored ID’s. All for a job well done.”
“It represents freedom, Trent,” Elwood said. “A chance to regain your life. Start a new family.”
“Sounds like a great Christmas present.”
“You’re A-list material,” Jake said.
“Never did get your names,” Trent said, a growing suspicion gnawing at his insides.
“Don’t see how it could hurt,” Elwood said, glancing at Jake in the rearview mirror.
“I’m Jake Moore; your driver is Leslie Elwood.”
Trent tipped his beer at them and said, “Pleased to meet you guys.”
“Hand over the merchandise and you’re on your way,” Jake said, scratching the bottle’s label with the large gold ring on his index finger.
As they sped under the sodium street lights, Trent could clearly see the letters ‘J’ and ‘M’ inside the pentacle on the face of Jake’s ring. The tumblers were clicking behind his eyes as the face of the ring flashed repeatedly like a death star pointing the way back to Sylvia’s brutal murder.
“Drive to the Piedmont Secure Storage facility,” Trent said, holding out the cyber key to Jake. “It’s on Juniper and Thirteenth. This key will get us into the unit; that’s where the weapons are stashed.”
“Is all the merchandise there?”
“Twelve brand-new M4 12-gauge combat shotguns with several cases of Magnum slugs. And twelve MANPADS loaded and ready for action.”
“And just in time for Mr. Big who’s flying in from Miami this morning to collect his merchandise,” Elwood said, pounding the dash with his fist. “Way to go, Trent!”
“You heard the honorable man, Elwood, step on it.”
“Yes, sir!”
Chapter 64
Jake and Elwood followed Trent down the sterile corridors inside the Piedmont Secure Storage facility to unit EE348. The only noise was from the silky conditioned air rushing through the ventilation system and out of the overhead vents.
“Quiet as a morgue in here,” Elwood remarked.
“What do you expect? It’s three A.M on Christmas morning,” Jake said, inserting the key into the slot in the keypad. There was a beep and the small light on the keypad flashed a Christmassy green and the locking mechanism clicked.
Jake and Elwood filed in first and Trent turned on the lights. “There’s a crowbar in the corner,” Trent said, leaning against the door, within easy reach of the M4 shotgun resting on a shelf beside the door.
“Heavy fucking box,” Jake said, as he and Elwood lifted the top one down. Elwood went to work with the crowbar. They lifted the lid off and set it in the corner. Jake thrust his hand into the sand and came up empty. “The fuck?”
The men spun on Trent, but it was too late.
Trent pulled the trigger and shot Elwood through the sternum. The Remington round sounded like a cannon going off as the one-ounce copper slug ripped his chest in half and punched a hole through the wall the size of a giant truck tire. The warm stink of urine and excrement and blood mingled with the acrid smoke. Elwood’s torso folded backwards like it was hinged to his lower body. His legs and gut stayed upright, spilling blue-coiled intestines and organs and spouting blood like a macabre water fountain.
Trent’s ears were ringing as he tossed Jake a pair of handcuffs. “Put ‘em on,” he said, gesturing with the M4. “Or you get it now.”
Jake put the cuffs on. “W-what do you want?”
“On your knees,” Trent said, swinging the M4 like a baseball bat and striking Jake in the side of the head.
Jake staggered sideways then dropped to his knees. Blood trickled down his ear. He groaned and said, “How long you think before the attendant calls the police to check on the explosion?”
“With everything going on downtown? We got time.”
“Time for what?” Jake said, struggling to get up.
Trent kicked him hard in the face and his nose burst in a cloud of red. He fell over backwards and Trent straddled his chest.
“Elwood said the Kings are inbound this morning,” he said, holding Jake’s head down with the palm of his hand on the man’s forehead. “What type of aircraft are they flying in and when are they landing?”
“Y-you got it all figured out,” he said, bright red blood flowing over the side of his face. “You tell me.”
Trent pulled out his knife. “Now, Jake!” he yelled slicing a flap of skin from under Jake’s right eye down to his chin.
Blood flowed from Jake’s face and his eye quivered in its socket. Minutes later there was a small pile of sliced skin on the floor and Trent had the last piece of the puzzle he needed.
“H-have mercy, Trent,” Jake said, tears mixing with the gushing blood from his ruined face. “I-it’s Christmas.”
“Mercy like you showed Sylvia?”
The veins in Jake’s neck almost popped through his skin. “Y-you think vengeance is going to bring her back?”
“No,” Trent said, burying the knife to the hilt below Jake’s collarbone. The scream made him almost feel sorry for the one who had tortured and killed Sylvia. Almost. He twisted the handle hard and said, “But you’ll never hurt anyone again.”
Chapter 65
Now it was five A.M. on Christmas morning and Trent was sitting in the driver’s seat of an old panel van off the side of a rutted dirt road in Atlanta. The truck, which was more than a decade old, was painted a dull green. Huge silver flakes were falling from a slate-gray sky, whirlpooled by a strong wind. Even with the window rolled up and the heat on full blast he cringed at the frigid air.
He was parked beside an open sewage trench next to an enormous landfill that had a gray-green mist of methane gas hanging over it. He was feeling slightly nauseated from the stench of the garbage. He flicked on the radio and heard the words, “Trent Palmer, the Lone-wolf killer, massacres 36 in downtown Atlanta . . .” Then there was a lot of fuzzy speculation as to his whereabouts and whether or not he was still alive. He flipped the channel, “. . . Christmas miracle. Chloe Lee was reunited with her mother . . .”
Some good news, he mumbled, dialing in the Atlanta Air Traffic Control frequency on his Aviator Pro iPad app. ATC was sequencing the jets to land to the west and he was abeam the final approach course roughly five miles from the end of the runway. The MANPAD was on the seat next to him. His Ducati was in the bed, fastened down tight with straps, and pointing toward the doors, like a fighter jet on the alert pad.
Trent knew his best bet to demolish the Kings was to take out the ringleader. According to Jake, Huero Largo and his upper-level management team were inbound from Miami to collect their MANPADS. They were onboard a chartered a Boeing 737 with the call sign ‘Kings 666’ and scheduled to land at five-ten.
Trent heard the first exchange with the Atlanta control tower and the aircraft.
“Atlanta tower,” the pilot said, “Kings 666 is outside Acer intersection for the ILS approach to runway 27 left.”
“Kings 666, you are number two behind a Delta 757 on a three mile final.”
“We have the traffic on TCAS.”
Trent crawled between the front seats with the MANPAD into the bed of the truck and swung open the rear doors. A cataract of frigid air rushed in and numbed his ears. He knelt down and shouldered the weapon. The smell of the garbage assaulted his nostrils as the Delta 757 emerged from the bottom of the clouds directly east of the dump.
He was fully awakened by the ear-piercing screams of the turbofan
s as the pilot increased the engine power to compensate for flap and slat drag. The aircraft was trailing streamers of mist from its flaps and wingtips as it thundered overhead.
He heard the next exchange between the tower and Boeing 737. “Kings 666, the Delta 757 is over the numbers. You are cleared to land.”
“Kings 666 is three in the green and landing lights on. I understand we are cleared to land.”
Trent shouldered the MANPAD and switched on the tracking laser. The moment, he thought, has come; everything is now; rolled up into the present. Into this instant.
When the Boeing descended through the clouds, he sighted the beam on the aircraft’s underside and squeezed the trigger. A malicious white light that looked like the flame on a welder’s arc streaked on a flat trajectory toward the Boeing. A split second remained before impact. Then came the sound of the explosion. It was a deafening crash as the Boeing’s right engine and inboard wing erupted in a raging storm of fire and smoke. Streaming flames, black smoke, and shedding parts, the jet rolled and shuddered like a ship foundering in rough surf.
“Fuck you, Kings!” Trent screamed, feeling the dry roar of blood in his ears as the right wing separated from the fuselage and the crippled jet rolled on its back. The Boeing exploded in a fan of white-hot flames. The blast almost rolled the van into the ditch; and the sound hit his eardrums like a thunderclap.
The crippled jet buried itself in the wasteland of rotting garbage; igniting the buildup of methane gas in a great ball of fire that bloomed upward and outward into the clouds. Jets of garbage and pieces of shrapnel speared upward and outward from the landfill looking like great galaxies of sparkling stars. The air howled with the violence of the explosion.
Trent could hear the steady pelting sound of the blasted fragments hitting the earth as he connected a narrow, corrugated aluminum ramp to the floor of the van and lowered it to the ground. He unfastened the straps that held his Ducati in place and took the handlebars in his gloved hands. He started the bike and the engine screamed inside the sheet-metal cab. He steered down the bridge and onto the dirt road, briefly turning his head to see random tongues of orange flames and spurts of white vapor rising from the landfill.
The Midtown Murderer Page 22