by Rick Murcer
Miami Fire
By
RICK MURCER
PUBLISHED BY:
Murcer Press, LLC
Edited by
Janet Fix, www.thewordverve.com
Interior book design by
Bob Houston eBook Formatting
www.rickmurcer.com
Miami Fire © 2015 Rick Murcer
All rights reserved
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. The book contained herein constitutes a copyrighted work and may not be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, or stored in or introduced into an information storage and retrieval system in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
For JC, who loves me and keeps me on the path, eternally.
CHAPTER-1
Manny Williams sprinted around the street corner into the dark, rancid alley, never missing a stride, his feet adjusting to the worn brick as his eyes searched and his ears strained for the telltale clue.
There it was.
The echo of the pathetic weasel’s footfalls, accompanied by his faint, harsh breathing, was heading away from Manny on his left, toward the abandoned riverfront buildings.
Predictable. Idiots were always predictable.
The target’s fear-ridden attempt at escape only served to spur Manny further. Paybacks are great motivators, and this dick would find out what that meant.
His training as a special agent for the FBI had added to his physical stamina, but that wasn’t really on his mind. Not now. It didn’t need to be. He would run a marathon to catch this one.
The face of the wiry man with the close-set eyes and stringy hair was all he could distinguish through his anger. The worthless punk had raised a knife to Manny’s family. No one did that. No one.
Manny ran faster.
Taking time to sort things out, to compartmentalize so that he didn’t react irrationally to situations like he’d experienced moments ago, had always been a strength for him, but he ignored any pretense of that skill for the moment. This asshole was going to pay for threatening his wife and son.
Pay dearly.
Four more strides into the alley, then a quick left, and he suddenly made out the poor excuse for a human being, dressed in jeans and faded Army jacket, through the semi-light of dusk. He was moving close to the decrepit red brick wall of the abandoned apartment building, trying to stay out of Manny’s view and away from his determination to find him by hugging the shadows.
Heaven or hell couldn’t have prevented Manny from getting to him now.
Turning one step to the exact angle he’d need to intercept him, Manny kicked into another gear and sprinted directly toward the perp’s hopeful exit at the chain-linked fence between the two rundown buildings.
As Manny cleared the sight line of the first building, he saw the weasel climbing the tall rusted gate that would lead him out of Manny’s reach and sprinting toward the Grand River.
Manny smiled. The pathetic ass would never make it over that fence.
A few seconds later, Manny had almost reached the gate.
“Get down from there, asshole. Come take your medicine,” he yelled.
“Get bent.” The weasel snarled, but Manny could hear the fear.
The perp then twisted in Manny’s direction, making a throwing motion.
The glint from the blade was warning enough as Manny hurled himself out of the path of the knife, rolling along the uneven alley floor.
His anger exploded.
He leaped up and made the fence just as the piece of garbage started to swing himself over.
Manny grabbed his left leg, wrenched hard to the right, heard something snap, and then yanked with all of his strength. The man screamed and then thumped ungraciously to the ground.
Humpty-Dumpty had a great fall.
“You . . . you broke my leg,” he screamed. “You broke it.”
“Did I? I bet that hurts like hell. Let me check it out.”
“No! Don’t touch me. You need to call 911.”
Manny could see that his wife’s attacker’s pain was now joined by more fear. It should be. As he started to scoot away, Manny put his foot on the man’s chest.
“Like I said, I think you need to let me look at it first. So stay where you are, got it?”
He nodded his head in rapid succession. “O-okay, Man, just don’t hurt me again.”
Manny dropped to his knees, inches from the crooked nose of his wife’s and child’s assailant. The man’s breath reeked of sour wine, his eyes bloodshot and lost.
“Hurt you? You pulled a knife on a woman carrying a baby and demanded cash or you’d cut the kid, my kid. My son. What should I do with a scumbag who would do that?”
“I wouldn’t have—”
He didn’t finish his sentence before Manny slapped him.
The sound resonated throughout the alley.
“You wouldn’t have what? Cut them, or worse?”
“Stop, Please. No, I swear, man. I just need money for booze. That’s all.”
“So you rob innocent women and children because you need to get drunk?”
Manny drew back his hand to hit him again as all of the hell his family had endured over the last few weeks rose to the very top of his emotions.
His daughter Jen had shot a man who had been stalking Manny’s mother-in-law, Haley Rose. The crazy shit was intending to kill Jen, his son Ian, and Haley Rose, if he didn’t get what he wanted. Jen had had no choice. He admired her for doing what it took, but no seventeen-year-old should have to live with that, ever.
He could see Jen’s eyes, still, as she told him that pulling that trigger had been the worst, but she’d do it again to save her brother and her granny. No doubt she would. He loved her for her strength but hated the scar that might be on her soul for the rest of her life. Now this low-life had threatened to take away two of the great joys in his life with an eight-inch blade.
To put a cherry on top of these events, why in the name of God couldn’t he take a vacation without running into the sickest of the sick and almost get himself or his staff killed in the process? Why was that so much to ask?
He was tired of all of it. Being a profiler and seeing what he routinely saw was difficult enough, but this situation was screwing with his down time, his family time, and that was intolerable. The frustration burned inside like nothing he’d experienced in years. Maybe ever.
No more. Someone was going to pay. This shithead would do just fine.
He cocked his fist back farther, his eyes on fire, and began to bring it down to mash this perp’s face into the bricks . . . then held it.
Then what, Williams? What are you then? You become what you swore to protect against? You take revenge, justified or not, just because you can?
There existed a fine line between justice and revenge, and no one knew that better than he. Even so, Manny had been prepared to step over that line in the name of his family. Yet, in the end, if he did, what truly separated him from those who had to be taken off
the streets?
This Guardian of the Universe persona, his daughter’s nickname for him, wasn’t always all it was cracked up to be, but it was the right one.
The man flinched as Manny brought his hand down and tweaked his nose, albeit a bit too hard.
“Ouch. What are you doing?”
“Not beating the shit out of you. This is your lucky day. You’ll get to go to jail without going to see a plastic surgeon first.”
“Whatever. I’m already in bad shape. I need something for my pain.”
Manny didn’t answer. He lifted the man from the alley floor and slung him over his shoulder.
“What are you doing? I need to get to a hospital. I can’t feel my ankle.”
“I left my cell in the car, so I’ll have to carry you until we get to a phone. And don’t think about doing something stupid, or I will toss your ass in the river.”
“You’re nuts, man. Who in hell are you?”
Manny thought that was a good question.
CHAPTER-2
It hadn’t really been that difficult, had it? Nothing for him truly could be classified as difficult since his real awakening. There had been a few attempts at releasing the real genius, but nothing like this. He was now totally without chains of any kind.
It was genuinely remarkable how freeing it was when one finally came to grips with his true lot in life, his purpose. He doubted many ever reached the pinnacle that was his to cherish, but then again, he’d sought it out while most accepted their miserable, mundane lives the way they unfolded. He’d made the difficult choice of not settling for ordinary, and it was a grand decision indeed . . . because it was about what he could do for others. That was the key, and he’d opened the door with it.
Taking three steps forward, he reached out his hand to caress his creation. And it was his, make no mistake.
He frowned. Creation? He supposed some would see it that way, but that would mean he’d had a selfish purpose for creating it, yes? That was not the case. He only indulged in these joyous activities because he wanted to be faithful to his role in this life’s drama while giving the people what they so desperately wanted.
Tilting his head, taking in the whole of his surrounds, he believed he was getting there, that his journey was far closer to the end than the beginning.
For him, there were no hidden agendas from his past that caused him to seek this path. No abusive, horny, overbearing mother. No screwed-up old man who slept with his sister or bent him over at will. No huddling in a corner after an uncle performed some unspeakable act on him or some priest had his way with him.
In fact, his upbringing and kin and even his church had been far more normal than many. He’d even had a couple of dogs, and he’d possessed no desire to harm them. He’d never wet the bed, and fire was simply fire to him. Well, almost.
He didn’t mind when a match got too close to his fingers; and his gold-plated, customized lighter had its own uses, but he was far from obsessed with flames.
There was no deep religious conviction espousing sinful man’s war against good, no voices from the devil or God Himself. There was no tragic—what did the shrinks call it?—psychotic episode or life-altering event that had snapped his precarious grip on reality and sent him careening down this path.
Hell, he’d never even been jilted by a lover, causing his hazardous perch on sanity to tumble down into oblivion and meet with the dark side. Even though he didn’t really date often, he had enjoyed a woman’s company more than once, the touching of flesh on flesh. Just not nearly as much as the other kind of touching, he guessed.
There had been one incident that helped him release his inner understanding, but that had been far from traumatic.
The truth of the matter was that he was born to do what he did.
It was like a writer or an athlete or a sailor or a carpenter who knew from some early age their calling had been decreed. It was simply instinctive, a gifted perception for the vocation that nature bestowed upon those who recognized their individual gift and embraced it.
Uncomplicated, unpretentious.
His acceptance of this destiny wasn’t the end of the story, rather the beginning.
He desired to excel, to be the very best, and more so, to compare himself with others. To humbly accept the accolades, to hear unmatched praise for raising his game to the highest level, was paramount.
What could be better than practicing one’s destined vocation and being considered the most accomplished at the same time?
Perhaps law enforcement wouldn’t view it that way. He was no fool. He understood his act of service wouldn’t exactly be greeted with platitudes of admiration. The police would want to end him, probably in more ways than one.
His service went stiffly against the laws of men, but not the laws of nature. He knew that now. Still, he would have to watch his ass, as they say. There weren’t many better at that, either.
The warm southern Florida breeze hurried over his face, rustling his dark hair as he reached out his hand once again, running his forefinger down the other side. Even in the still of the late night, he saw clearly what was next.
So smooth, so warm, so much potential to satisfy and be a monument for this man’s own sake.
There was a slight flutter in his chest. His anticipation began to crescendo. Yet, what he was experiencing was more than enthusiasm or excitement. Fulfillment was a far superior ideal.
“I’ve waited for this. I truly have. While there is nothing in it specifically for you in this life, you will be forever remembered. Sometimes life isn’t balanced the way we wish, but in the end, you’ll get yours.”
His fingers grasped the blonde hair of the young man bound to the large magnolia tree. He gently raised his head. The man’s breath reeked of a coppery metallic scent that he’d grown to readily recognize. He supposed he should have anticipated the stink when he’d removed the man’s tongue with his new tin snips, but he’d been concentrating far more on the act than any residual effects.
“Chalk up another lesson to experience,” he said softly.
The man began to moan as his eyes refocused.
Interesting. A desperate plea registered in his captive’s eyes; yet, there was a trace of resignation as well. He understood. He suspected he might have gone down that road himself, especially after he’d lost ears and all ten fingers, never mind the series of long incisions running from his liver toward his heart.
The pain must be unimaginable; yet sacrifice was the fuel that burned the flame of fame.
Reaching into the belt of his black cargo shorts, he pulled out the third knife, the nine-inch blade that could easily shave the toughest of beards, and placed it in his left hand.
“It is time,” he said. “And, when it is over for you, I promise to take the same great care with your wife. You are both truly special.”
Moving patiently, his eyes fixated on the knife and the hand wielding it, he went to work, beginning just below the lower abdominal wall and moving slowly up. He then fixed on the man’s face. Twenty minutes later, after spending a few more moments admiring his giftedness and the young man’s legacy, he patiently circled the tree and then took the hand of the gagged young woman who was now a widow.
“I’m sorry that I took so long with your husband. Take heart in the fact that he did well, but I’ve kept you waiting. It must be difficult to endure the idea of being married for only two nights before your honeymoon is over.”
Bending to her, he kissed her on the forehead.
She shied away, eyes wide.
He stepped back and, this time, removed the two small knives from his belt.
“But the pain of that situation won’t last too long compared to your everlasting reward. I promise. And I’m a man of my word.”
The warm wind freshened again.
CHAPTER-3
“So why in hell didn’t you call me or something? I could have used a little action too.”
Manny smiled at Sophie Lee as she sat in
the booth next to Dean Mikus, her husband of almost a year. The petite FBI special agent and Lucy Liu look-a-like had been his detective partner with the Lansing Police Department and now with the FBI for over twelve years.
She’d seen him through a tough time or two, including the errant gunshot death of his first wife, Louise, and the hell that came looking for him after that.
He’d seen Sophie through two divorces, a boob job, and a career change, and watched her fall deeply in love with the bearded man who’d courted her the minute he laid eyes on her at an airport in San Juan. What girl wouldn’t fall for a guy who got down on his knee, kissed her hand, and called her the Queen of Everything?
She and Manny had history, no question, but he also recognized that tone in her voice for what it was. She really did enjoy the action of a good scrap, but what she was really saying was: I’m glad you and Chloe and Ian are all right, and you should have killed the bastard. I would have.
“My cell was still in the car. I didn’t take it into the store. When I came out and saw that he was threatening Chloe and Ian with that knife, I yelled at him and he took off. I followed him . . . and the rest is history,” said Manny.
“Do you think he really would have tried to hurt us?” asked Chloe, sliding a little closer to him, Ian sleeping on her lap.
Chloe Franson, now Chloe Williams, his redheaded wife, born and raised in Ireland and an ex-FBI special agent herself—who also happened to be a curvy bombshell and the head detective at the LPD—knew the answer to that. She wouldn’t have allowed any such foolishness. Chloe would have throttled the killer or shot him through an eye before letting anything happen to Ian. Her temper was something not to trifle with. Manny knew that from experience.
“I think you would have denutted him first,” said Sophie.
“I agree,” said Dean.
“Yep, me too,” said Manny.
“Dang, you four are harsh,” said Alex Downs, grinning. “I think she would have used his intestines as a lasso.”