Dead Burn

by Jennifer Chase

  She looked at Rick’s profile and admired his tough exterior and dark good looks, but she knew that he felt scared too. He gripped the steering wheel with purpose, biceps strained, and his jaw remained set in stone. He was her rock in these types of searches. His eyes kept a serious watch on the road as they took an unsuspected tight right turn.

  The SUV skidded precariously. She felt it would tip to one side, but the rear of the vehicle swung back and forth in the loose gravel, and then found its proper groove on the road once again.

  Seconds counted.

  “Mile eighteen-four.” Rick announced.

  “Look for some kind of back road or path.” Emily instructed.

  She turned her attention out the passenger window to the overgrown trees and giant bushes for some type of road they could access unseen. They hadn’t passed any homes or barns for more than fifteen minutes. They were completely alone, in a rural territory of central California, and only had one chance at a surprise attack.

  “There!” He said.

  Emily looked to the left past Rick’s view and saw a narrow roadway with a single, rusted chain across it. If you blinked, it would have been easily missed in the darkness.

  Rick cranked the steering wheel to a hard left, guiding them into the driveway and abruptly stopped.

  “Got it.” Her hand grasped the door handle and she gave a quick tug.

  Emily jumped out of the car. She hit the ground running and easily unhooked the chain and pulled it out of the way, as Rick maneuvered their vehicle through. She attached the barrier once again before jumping back into the car.

  The cut-through appeared to be a county access for water and drainage, but it hadn’t been used in quite some time. It was overgrown and the SUV barely eased through the pathway, as branches scraped down both sides of the vehicle.

  Rick extinguished the headlights and inched to a snail’s pace.

  Emily’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness as the roadway narrowed to a dead stop. They couldn’t pass the thick obstacles to continue any farther. Safely tucked away, the SUV left no visible view, both from the road and from the air.

  Rick killed the engine and unhooked his seatbelt. “This is it, we go the rest of the way on foot.”

  Emily had already squeezed her small frame out of the passenger door, pushing branches away from her face and body. She moved to the rear of the vehicle. Opening the hatch, it revealed carefully organized boxes in color-coordinated sections. Dark green were guns and ammo, black were all types of knives and cutting tools, dark blue were extra batteries, walkie-talkie headsets, an endless supply of heavy-duty zip ties, and all types of flashlights.

  “Ready?” Rick asked softly as he double-checked his weapons.

  “Wouldn’t be here if I weren’t.” Emily secured a Glock 19 in her hip holster and rolled up the right leg of her jeans where another small holster waited for a smaller caliber pistol.

  For the first time since they had left their home that evening, Rick smiled. His handsome face lit up, which accented his dark eyes. “Maybe we should’ve asked Jordan to come along?”

  Emily playfully rolled her eyes and said, “He’d be pissing and moaning about the scratchy bushes and biting bugs.” She laughed as she inserted a loaded Beretta into her ankle holster. “Jordan is a brilliant profiler, but he’s a pain in the ass in the field.”

  Rick quietly continued to ready himself for the challenging hike ahead.

  Emily didn’t mind the idle chitchat because she knew that any one of these covert missions could be their last, whether it was a dangerous rescue, stakeout, or a crime scene investigation.

  Light banter between the couple helped to relax the situation. Death was just seconds away and precise focus was the key to any successful rescue mission. She quickly put any fatal thoughts out of her mind and continued to arm herself.

  From experience, Emily now made sure she had at least one hunting knife at her disposal. It was easier to handle and conceal than a firearm. She slipped the seven-inch blade into a sheath on the outside of her right thigh against her dark jeans.

  Rick handed her a small hearing device that fit snugly into her ear and hooked the receiver just inside the neck of her long sleeved t-shirt. Emily secured the communication device. She stopped and stared at him for a moment. She never knew exactly what to say before they ventured into the unknown.

  Emily shut the SUV’s hatch.

  Rick checked his portable GPS. “Let’s go. It’s about three-quarters of a mile.”

  The couple proceeded northwest from their vehicle into the dense brush, Rick taking up the lead. They moved steadily, but slowly, in order not to make any unnecessary sounds or alert the kidnappers that they approached. They kept their flashlights low and just out in front.

  The countryside was uncomfortably quiet. Not a single noise from any night dwelling critters filled the night, and not even the wind rustled through loose leaves and branches.

  The air was cool and unusually dry, but Emily felt a trickling perspiration on her scalp that meandered down the center of her back. She anticipated several scenarios in her mind as she crept ahead, but knew if they kept their wits and stuck to the solid plan that everything would work out.

  It seemed that they trudged through the thickets for an hour making considerable progress, but Emily glanced at her watch and only twelve minutes had passed.

  Faint voices cut through the quiet night.

  Emily and Rick stopped and listened, barely breathing.

  For a moment, it seemed that the human sounds came from all around them. The rural landscape played unexpected tricks on the ears as the sound bounced along the ridges.

  Inching forward in a crouch posture, the couple moved slightly to the left and up an incline to try to gain a view of the property. Through the overgrown bushes and approximately two hundred yards away, two men stood smoking cigarettes, engaging in a casual conversation.

  Emily wriggled her body lying on her stomach as close as she dared in order to watch the men. She spied through a pair of mini infrared binoculars and immediately saw the handguns tucked into their waistbands.

  One man, unshaven and his body adorned with anti-sematic tattoos, lit up another cigarette and took a long puff. His expression hardened by years of criminal activity, and he had the definite imprint of prison experience upon his face. The other, shorter man appeared to be ex-military with tightly cropped hair, tidy clothes, and a posture that lent itself to years of obeying orders.

  Behind the so-called guards were three manufactured homes trucked along the property, two of which were small and seemed to be a place that housed supplies, and one main house or headquarters. The larger house remained dark, while a dim light illuminated in one of the smaller buildings.

  A radio played somewhere inside the compound. Two radio voices chattered and the sound was eerie as it echoed around the landscape like in a strange dream.

  “We’re in the right place.” Emily whispered and handed the binoculars to Rick. She continued in a quiet tone, “I get the feeling that there’s one more.” After pausing a moment, she continued. “Maybe the boss is offsite somewhere else?”

  He nodded and continued to study the land and overall layout.

  There was only one way in and out by a single dirt road. A partial barbwire enclosure in between farm-like fencing was the only barrier around the property. It was still quite a hike back to the safety of the car, and it worried Emily.

  “No sign of the girls – at least from here.” Rick whispered, clearly frustrated. “One truck, two guys.”

  “Wait until they split up?” Emily suggested.

  He nodded.

  “I think we can enter the camp from that farthest corner.” Emily pointed in the general direction. “Let’s move.”

  Rick pushed his body up slightly and away from their initial view of the property. He followed Emily through some tough, winding vegetation until they reached the camouflaged location for entry. They kept their flashlights o
ff, which made it more difficult to push through the brush. As luck would be on their side, the rotten wooden fence had an opening just big enough for a single, averaged-sized person to climb through.

  The sound of a gunshot broke the dead silence.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Saturday 2345 Hours

  Bile flooded his mouth. He choked back the repulsive liquid, clenching his jaw as the fluid scorched all the way down his esophagus. His stomach churned and felt like a hollow, burning cavern preparing to erupt. There was nothing to worry about; he had killed countless times before, more than three hundred, and mostly repulsive victims of their own circumstances.

  By society’s standards, he was a clear-cut psychopath. It was easy to fulfill the psychological label, deprived of any remorse or sincerity, and exhibiting antisocial behavior from the most criminal standpoint – at least that was what so-called civilized people believed.

  Still, his long career of killing had now turned his heightened excitement and adrenaline into a mild stomach discomfort of irritable bowel syndrome. Nothing slowed down his work or ambition, and he managed to keep his concentration no matter what occurred.

  He knew more about the human behavior and what made people tick than most highly trained psychologists with their PhDs, just by studying the subjects carefully, looking for their weaknesses, strengths, and fears. Emotions and feelings revealed insight from people’s common expressions. It was all in how they carried themselves and how they interacted with others. The subtle moves were not perceptible by most, but to a trained killer, it was painfully obvious. The human condition was not that difficult to figure out. You just had to know where to look.

  Intensified perception was key.

  He watched and waited.

  The subject’s fate was in his hands now, along with the help of a high-powered rifle and accurate scope. He liked to be up close and personal with his kills. Nevertheless, tonight for some reason, Mr. Bishop wanted it to be different.

  The cool, damp night chilled him. His right hand stiffened, which caused him to straighten and curl his fingers in a slow, painful manner. That familiar clicking noise in the joints only proved to annoy him even more. The increasing chill of the night air wreaked havoc on the muscles and tendons in his hands, arms, and hips.

  He watched through the eyepiece as the short man moved from his kitchen to the living room dressed in a sloppy, stained t-shirt with some 1980s band logo, and baggy sweat pants. His slovenly appearance reflected the same feeling he had for his young victims when he repeatedly violated them.

  The portly man absently wiped his hands on the front of his shirt as he reached for more food from a bright yellow mixing bowl. Like a well-rehearsed machine, he shoved his hand into the container and filled his mouth, crumbs falling down the front of his already soiled shirt. He continued this procedure nonstop.

  It did not matter that the target was the brother of a well-known senator. All jobs were the same – take out the target.

  Then, the heavyset man moved from easy view and stayed away from any of the windows for more than half an hour.

  It was now time for the plan.

  The killer had to move quickly; otherwise, he would risk someone seeing him in the neighborhood. This contract was to be fulfilled immediately and with strict instructions – no questions, no mistakes, or easy clues for the cops to piece together. Forensics my ass, he thought as he quickly broke down the rifle and left the property.

  The street remained quiet and deserted. It was not the typical suburban road, each home had a minimum of an acre, and many houses could not see all of their surrounding neighbors. One home in particular was in bank foreclosure and provided a perfect hiding place.

  The methodical assassin casually took his time returning his rifle into the trunk of his four-door sedan that he conveniently borrowed from a nearby dealership. Nothing would ever be traced back to him and, even if they had seen his face.

  The cops would not be able to identify him from fingerprints due to years of excessive cutting and peeling of the skin on his hands. His fingerprints were probably on file somewhere in the big uncoordinated database called the government melting pot. It really did not bother him. He had joined the Army at seventeen after running away from his foster home, too many years ago to count, but that was where they had found him.

  As he quietly made his way back to the home of his target with an untraceable handgun, a familiar twinge within his gut greeted him again. This time, it was anticipation. He slipped on a pair of snug fitting gloves just for comfort from the cold.

  He was excited like the old days and the eagerness of the kill filled him with joy. He stood at the side door to the garage where it was impossible for anyone to spot him or hear his movements. A long row of unkempt hedges further helped to block him from any potential collateral complications.

  The side door was locked.

  A basic tumbler deadbolt proved only a slight distraction and a loss of a minute or two. He could kick the door in, but did not want to leave any more clues than necessary. Within seconds, the assassin inserted the slim tension tool into the bottom of the keyhole, while he used another apparatus with an uneven tip. It only took a little bit of pressure with an in and out motion, and he easily unlocked the door.

  The garage interior was warmer than outside, but smelled of old, dirty clothes and mothballs. A few boxes were stacked chaotically at the far corner. He walked to the door leading into the house, which was unlocked. He slowly opened the door, the heat from inside brushed past him along with a sickly stink of filth and garbage. He could see through the darkened kitchen into the messy living room.

  A faint sound originated from a television somewhere else in the house.

  With purpose and a relaxed ease, the assassin walked toward the hallway. He continued forward as the sounds became louder.

  The bedroom door was slightly ajar. A flash of light flickered around the doorframe and down the hallway at an odd angle from the TV. It became clear that a homemade movie played on the television of a crudely taken video of the molestation of a young child.

  The killer stood for a moment at the doorway – the horror of the video did not elicit any reaction as he then looked to the child predator. The heavyset man, now stripped of his baggy sweats and underwear, slept like a baby on top of his bed with the yellow snack bowl at his side. Eyes closed, softly snoring, and a barely audible whimper from some pleasing dream was the only aspect that represented any human identity.

  Walking to the bed and standing over the sleeping man, the assassin retrieved his gun from under his jacket. There was no silencer because this hit was to look like a suicide. The cops would not look any farther into the case of a registered sex offender and a three-time acquitted child molester that decided to take his own life.

  A few seconds passed before the assassin shoved the pistol into the man’s mouth slightly at an upward position. He looked into the wide-open, shocked eyes of the bastard, and easily pulled the trigger.

  Brain and bone matter spoiled the pillow, linens, and headboard. Blood slowly pooled around his head and almost instantly seeped into the mattress. His eyes open, glazed, as the life ran out of them.

  Carefully taking the pedophile’s right hand, the killer slipped the man’s index finger through the trigger and his palm around the grip. He stepped back and let both the gun and hand fall limply to the side.

  The scene looked perfect, just like a suicide. The one gunshot sound would not alert anyone in the neighborhood. He took a small digital camera out of his top pocket and snapped two frames, one portrait angle and the second a landscape view.

  It was the proof of death.

  He knew the cops would never take the extra time to have the fat man’s hand tested for gunshot residue.

  Forensics… what a useless crock of shit.

  The hit man mindfully backed up from the bedroom and retraced his steps toward the hallway, watchful not to disturb or leave anything behind. His energy dra
ined and the killer suddenly felt tired because his newest assignment did not evoke any inspiration.

  He walked slowly down the hallway when he heard a low guttural growl.

  He stopped.

  The snarl grew louder with a bark in between heavy breaths.

  The assassin turned and saw a brown and black stout dog at the end of the hallway. The canine’s eyes flashed an amber glow. It was difficult to tell the exact breed, most likely mixed, but the dog weighed at least fifty pounds and meant business.

  This was the exact reason why he painstakingly surveyed all of his targets for any potential complications, before he completed any contract to prevent needless problems.

  The dog inched his way closer, hackles pronounced, and spine low to the floor.

  It was either, run or stand firm; either way, the assassin was not going to make it safely out of the home before the animal sunk its teeth into his body. The only weapon he had to protect himself was lying in the bedroom next to the dead pervert.

  The dog gave one last growl before it charged.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sunday 0105 Hours

  Another two gunshots exploded before Emily got her bearings to think clearly. Catching her breath, she dared to inch forward to look toward the compound area.

  Rick grabbed her arm and motioned for her to stay still. His eyes, even in the shadows, said so much more than the simple gesture. She respected him and his expertise. Even though he had retired early from the Santa Cruz County Sheriff’s Office as a homicide detective to join her in covert investigations, he still had the sharp intuitive factor when it came to bad people and human behavior.

  Heated voices argued and continued to escalate.

  Emily peered through an opening in the bushes. She could see the two men engaged in a spirited argument over which gun packed more of a punch in a hand-to-hand combat situation.