Exit Wounds

by Aaron Fisher

  “Well, there’s nothing quite like a staring match to settle an argument,” Paul said, scratching the back of his head. He stifled a yawn and turned to Craig. “Wake me up when one of them blinks.”

  Craig put up both his hands and stepped in between Tony and Richard, “Look, this isn’t helping to solve anything. Tony, I know you’re pissed because you feel left out of the action. Hey, welcome to my world. And Richard, I know you feel that it was best to keep us all in the dark. You’re probably right. But we’re here now. Maybe we could help?”

  Richard kept his eyes on Tony for a moment longer and then nodded. “Alright.”

  Paul pretended to jump suddenly, as if waking, “What I miss?”

  M.I.T. (Murder Investigation Taskforce), Cardiff Branch

  The Anti-Terrorist Force were a specialist branch of the armed forces that dealt with terrorist incidents on home soil. Counter-terrorism operations in the U.K. had previously been handled by the S.A.S.. But as Britain continued to fight more than one major war abroad and their resources spread thin, the domestic A.T.F. was set up and tasked with protecting the country from the threat of terrorism.

  Like M.I.T. the unit was still in its formative years, but already had branches in many major cities, including Manchester, Edinburgh and of course London. Cardiff had not yet been deemed a significant enough potential target and so Zeddemore had called in the Bristol branch’s field unit for the raid on Giacometti’s warehouse.

  Colgan and Zeddemore stood in the centre of the now silent bullpen as they watched the live feed from the A.T.S.T. (Anti-Terrorist Strike Team) officers’ helmet cameras. They had entered with no resistance and so far they had found nothing. No people, no weapons and no more drugs than the couple of used syringes you would expect to find in any such desolate place left vacant for some time.

  Zeddemore spied Colgan from the corner of his eye.

  “If you’ve got something to say, then say it,” Colgan said, spotting him without turning.

  Zeddemore waved a hand at the screen, “It’s empty! There’s nothing there!”

  “I can see that,” Colgan said. “They must have cleared out when Richard busted free. They knew their location had been blown.”

  “Completely cleared out? In an hour? An operation as big as Richard described? No way!”

  Colgan spun round in front of Zeddemore. Snarling through his teeth, he snapped, “Don’t be so stupid! An operation as big as Richard described would have to a contingency plan for any such scenario! They probably could have cleared out within half an hour!”

  Someone in the room screamed. The rest of people began to gasp. Colgan looked around and realised that for once nobody was looking at them arguing. Everyone was staring at the projector screen. Even Zeddemore was more interested with the live feed than Andrew’s outburst. “My god,” he whispered his eyes wide.

  Colgan turned round slowly and stared at the horrific sight in front of him. The A.T.S.T. had entered a room in the warehouse covered in blood. The torches on their automatic weapons bounced round the room, picking up remains of human carcass in their light.

  In the centre of the room was a wheelchair on its back. As the strike team moved in it became clear that the body of a man was strapped into it. He had clearly been beaten and his forehead was punctuated by a single bullet wound but he was in better shape than the threads of human flesh that hung from hooks on the ceiling and walls around him.

  One of the officers in the bullpen quickly picked up a waste bin and threw up. Colgan couldn’t blame him. It was an understandable thing to do.

  The strike team progressed through the room. At the far end they found another door. This one was made of steel and reinforced.

  One of the Anti-Terrorist officers stepped forward, as another took up the wall. Slowly the first officer pushed down on the handle. It gave easily and the door slid open. The helmet cameras took a moment to adjust to the change from complete darkness to the artificial light in the room shining out of the long tubes on the ceiling. When the image cleared, many in the bullpen wish it hadn’t.

  There was a single metal frame bed in the room. The body of a naked young girl lay on top of a dirty mattress. She was handcuffed by her hands to the rails. Her feet were also handcuffed and had been clearly forced apart from each other.

  There were deep slits carved into each of her wrists and the stains of blood running down to her fingertips. There was also a hole in her chest around where he heart would be and as the helmet cams moved up her body, past her mouth, gagged with a stained cloth, the torches shone through, lighting up the backs of her eye sockets.

  Colgan’s mouth dropped and he shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “No.” He stumbled backward, continuing to shake his head and repeat the same denial over and over, louder each time. “No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No.” His legs gave under his own weight and he collapsed to the floor.

  Zeddemore turned, startled. “Andrew, what is it?” he crouched down next to him and reached out but Andrew shook him off.

  “No. No. No. It’s not her. It’s not,” he muttered. His eyes began to swell, tears inescapably streaming down his face.

  Confused, Zeddemore looked to the video feed and then back to Colgan and then back again. “Oh no,” he said, realising. “Oh no. Andrew, I am so sorry.”

  “No!” Colgan shouted, desperately. “It’s not her! It’s not her! You hear me?! It’s not her! It can’t be! It’s not her! It’s not my Becky!”

  Old Taff's Well Quarry, Taff's Well

  The three M.I.T. officers had formed a semi circle as they discussed and debated on what course of action to follow next. Paul had been passively shunned out of the conversation but that didn’t bother him. Let the bureaucratic policemen have their squabble.

  Paul crouched down and checked the pockets of one of the men he had shot. He found a wallet in the left trouser pocket. He opened it and skipped past the foreign driving license and numerous bank and credit cards. There were a few coins in the button pouch and a wad of notes that he stuffed in his own back pocket. More out of force of habit than anything else. He turned his attention to the man’s jacket and retrieved a mobile phone from his inside pocket.

  Paul could tell it was expensive just by the weight. It was larger than most phones as well. It was wider, with a long screen and a keypad more like that you’d find on a computer than a phone. He took a second to get to grips with its interface but mobile phones were like cars, once you knew where the little things were, they were all pretty much the same. He brought up the phonebook and found nothing more than a list of names that he couldn’t even begin to pronounce.

  “Bollocks,” he muttered to himself. He had hoped for a contact number for Dean or even Giacometti. No doubt his brother would have people able to trace their location from that.

  Paul looked up. The Russian was watching him. Paul smiled back. The Russian looked away. Paul stood up and casually strolled over to the Russian. He checked the others were too busy arguing to pay him any attention, and then nudged the arms dealer with his foot.

  “How you doing?”

  The Russian snorted. “Cosmic.”

  Paul nodded again as if agreeing. Still smiling, he asked, “What sort of missile launcher was it?”

  The Russian appeared confused. “What?”

  “The one you sold Dean Reynolds. What make? Model?”

  “What difference does it make?” The Russian looked away, dismissively.

  Paul crouched down in front of the Russian. “The difference between me snapping your fingers one by one,” He added, “Or not.”

  Kuzenetsov rolled his eyes, “You won’t hurt me. You are a policeman. There are rules for policemen.”

  Paul suddenly clasped a hand over the Russian’s mouth. He pinned down the weapon dealer’s right hand under his knee and pulled back hard on his index finger. It snapped like a dry twig and Paul felt the Russian scream under his palm as he shook. He looked over his shoulder, but the herd of copper
s showed no sign that they had noticed the commotion. He turned back to the Russian, “Ready for number two?”

  . . . .

  “This is getting us no where!” Richard said, waving his hands in the air. “Whatever Giacometti has planned for that launcher, it’s happening today! Everything else has! Hell, he rushed his plans forward for the attack on the server to make sure he had access to the J.I.C. today!”

  “All I’m saying is that I think it’s best to head back to M.I.T.,” Craig said. “Discuss this properly.”

  “And then what? We can’t even agree what to do when there’s three of us, what do you think is going to happen when we bring a hundred other people into the loop!?”

  “Then what do you think we should do?” Tony snapped.

  “Giacometti’s target has to be specific. He only has one missile. One shot. One chance,” Richard told them. “We need to think. There has to be a pattern to what he’s doing. The killings? They were ritual, religious. You said the man he broke out of prison this morning was a former priest?”

  Tony nodded, “We think Boccanegra may have abused Giacometti as a child.”

  “Well then, it makes sense that this next attack is going to be against the church. Are they any parades, any religious festivals going on in Cardiff today?”

  Craig shook his head, “Not that I know of.”

  Tony shrugged, “I’m not exactly religious.”

  Richard shook his head and clapped his arms against his side. “Fan-fucking-tastic!”

  Craig pushed out his bottom lip as he considered vocalising he was thinking. “There’s always... nah, don’t worry about it.”

  Richard’s eyes honed in on Craig immediately. “What?”

  “Well, the Pope’s visiting the country today.”

  “I thought that was next week?” Tony asked.

  “Nope. They moved the U.K. visit forward because of the bomb attacks in Turkey. Didn’t want to go there when it’s so hot.” Craig stumbled over his own words, “Target wise I mean...”

  Richard shook his head again and pinched the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb. “That’s great, Craig. Great. But he’s not actually visiting Cardiff is he?”

  “No. But he’ll be flying over here.”

  Richard stopped. He looked up.

  Craig thought for a moment that he was going to punch him in the face, but instead he rushed over and held him by the shoulders.

  “You fucking genius!” he laughed. “That’s it! It has to be! That’s the target!”

  “Don’t get too excited yet,” Paul interrupted, stepping into the circle. “The type of missile launcher our comrade back there described doesn’t have the range to take out a plane flying at the height Shepherd One will be.”

  They all turned toward the Russian, still handcuffed but now biting back tears and holding his free hand close to his chest.

  “What did you do to him?” Tony demanded, angrily.

  “Easy there, Dexter. We just had a little chat.”

  Craig smiled nervously, “Remind me never to get into any lengthy discussions with you.”

  “You assaulted a restrained prisoner! Do you have any-”

  Paul turned quickly, “Shut up.”

  Tony physically retreated, taken aback by Paul’s bluntness and the quickness of his movement.

  Paul turned to the others, “Now if I could have everyone’s attention please?” When no one else interrupted he smiled, before continuing, “The missile launcher is an anti-aircraft weapon but its range is intended for much lower aircraft. It intended for use in battlefield scenarios. However, if the launcher itself was already partway elevated, it could lock on and down any plane Giacometti wanted.”

  “How high would it have to be?” Richard asked.

  Paul pushed his tongue down against his teeth as he considered this. “I’d say around two hundred and fifty feet.”

  Tony scoffed, “There’s not a building that high in Cardiff.”

  “Actually there are two,” Craig corrected, rattling out the facts like a local history textbook. “Capital Tower is two hundred and sixty two foot to the roof and Stadium House is three hundred and ninety four with mast, but only two hundred and fifty six to the actual roof.”

  Paul pointed out a finger at Craig, “I like this guy.”

  Craig smiled and raised his head slightly, visibly pleased with the praise.

  Richard had already headed back to the boot of their Mondeo. He pulled out a black duffel bag and began filling it with the contents of the weapons drawer as he talked. “Okay, Tony and Craig, you take Capital Tower. Paul and I will take Stadium House!”

  “Are we gonna let M.I.T. know what we’re doing?” Craig asked.

  Richard nodded as he slammed down the boot, “I’ll call them en route. See if they can get a photo of Dean off the system for identification for you. Now get going!”

  “Come on!” Tony shouted, already revving the TT. Craig had to run to get back in before the car pulled away.

  Richard went over to one of the Russian’s cars and flung the bag on the backseat.

  “What about Comrade?” Paul asked, nodding his head toward the Russian.

  “Leave him here. I’ll get someone from the office to pick him up later. He’s not going anywhere.”

  “Hey!” Kuzenetsov yelled. “You can’t do that! I need medical attention! I need hospital!”

  “For a couple of broken fingers?”

  “It’s fucking raining!”

  Paul shrugged, “Welcome to Wales, my friend.”

  M.I.T. (Murder Investigation Taskforce), Cardiff Branch

  Zeddemore had respectively left Colgan alone in his office when asked. Michelle had come in twice. The first time to say how sorry she was and to see if he needed anything or wanted her to call anyone, and then again to bring him a hot mug of tea.

  Colgan hadn’t taken one sip, his hands were trembling too much, but he could smell the full fat milk and the shovels of sugar she must have spooned in whilst brewing it.

  Sugar. To help with the shock. How could sugar help him come to terms with the sight of seeing his daughter mutilated like that?

  Becky should have been at school. No, college, or sixth form. His job was time-consuming and she was growing up faster than he could keep up with.

  Colgan slumped forward, his head in toward his chest, his elbows resting on his knees as he pushed his hands up over his face and through his hair. He closed his eyes tight but still the image wouldn’t go away.

  This was a nightmare. This was his nightmare. Ever since these murders started, the inevitable thought of his own daughter meeting such a horrific end had played heavy on his mind.

  He had lectured her to be careful. Not to take any risks. There was a serial killer on the loose. Cardiff was not as safe as it once was. Why didn’t she listen to me?

  The image of her on that bed started to animate in his head. He knew what Giacometti did to the girls he stole. Becky would have been alive when her eyes were removed. She would have been alive when he...

  It was strange. But the thought of her being raped was more unbearable to think about than her being murdered.

  How could I let this happen? I should have protected her. I’m her father. I’m a police officer for Christ’s sake! I’m the head of the bastard Murder Investigation Taskforce and I can’t even save my own daughter from being raped and murdered!

  Colgan opened his eyes suddenly, unable to watch the vision projected onto the insides of his eyelids anymore. On his desk in front of him was a framed photograph of his family. It had been taken the night of one of Becky’s dance performances. One of the few that Colgan had actually managed to attend. She stood centre, her parents behind on either side of her. Colgan smiled proudly, a protective hand on her shoulder.

  He cradled the frame in his arms before hugging it close to him.

  As he buried his head into his chest and sobbed, Colgan heard the door to his office open again. “Please,
Michelle, just leave me alone,” he said quietly.

  “It’s me,” Zeddemore corrected gently.

  Colgan put the photograph down and tried his eyes before looking up.

  Zeddemore shifted awkwardly from one foot to another. “You should go home, Andrew,” he said eventually.

  “I know, “Colgan nodded. “I know. Just... I just don’t know what I’m supposed to tell Audrey.” His eyes lost their focus. “What do I even say to her?”

  Zeddemore didn’t answer. He didn’t know what to say.

  Colgan nodded again anyway. He slowly rose from the chair and ran his hands down his shirt, patting out the creases. “I’m standing down as head of the department, effective immediately.”

  Zeddemore nodded once.

  Colgan forced himself to put one foot in front of the other. He moved quietly round the desk.

  “Andrew,” Zeddemore said. “I am, really very sorry.”

  Colgan hesitated for a moment and then left the room without saying another word.

  North Road, Galbalfa

  The clamp-on siren blared out nosily as the Audi TT weaved in and out of traffic towards Central Cardiff. Tony had to shout to be heard over its piercing tone.

  “Get on the phone to Zeddemore,” he told Craig as he spun the car round an oncoming van. “Let him know what’s happening.”

  Craig was gripping onto his seat with both hands, his feet stamping in the foot well every few moments. “I thought Richard said he was gonna call M.I.T.?”

  Tony glanced sidelong at his counterpart. “Do you honestly believe that?”

  Craig shrugged and reluctantly pulled out his mobile. “Alright, but shouldn’t I phone Colgan first?”

  “No point,” Tony said. “Phone direct to Zeddemore.”

  Craig shook his head as he dialled the number.

  “If you’ve got something to say, Craig?”

  “Well it’s just...” Craig sighed, waving a hand in the air. “Tony, up until this morning you’d probably shine Colgan’s shoes if he asked you to! Now all of a sudden you’re doing your very best to cut him out of all this whilst keeping yourself busy brown-nosing Zeddemore instead!”