by J E Higgins
Firing her first shot, she watched as the man dropped back and clutched at his stomach. Behind him, the wall suddenly became awash with a massive splatter of blood ─ a grave mistake of not wearing body armor. Though in obvious pain, the cop remained standing as he continued clutching his weapon. He was attempting to regain a fighting position but, due to the darkness of the room and from the way held his wound, he ended up shooting too low.
Sauwa fired her next round, this time angling her body as she aimed slightly higher. The gun bucked in her hands as she fired. The detective jerked back as the round struck him with great force and exploded out the back of his head. He dropped first to his knees and then sank to his side motionless.
She held her ground as she listened. The larger detective had finished choking, becoming a lifeless corpse. After several seconds of waiting, she saw no movement in the other room. Assuming she had neutralized her target, Sauwa rose to her feet, the weapon still at the ready. With the deliberate movements of a soldier on patrol in the jungle, she stepped over the large detective’s body.
Her gun was lowered but, at the slightest hint of movement, she would have unloaded the remainder of her ammunition into his body; however, he remained completely motionless. Not knowing where the lights were and not wanting to expose herself, if a threat still remained, she had the unnerving experience of stepping into the oozing pool of drying blood as she cautiously continued through the doorway into the office.
It felt as if God had sent her a moment of reprieve when her feet were once more touching hard flooring. Confident the larger detective was dead, she picked up her pace and hustled over to where the body of the second cop lay. There was more natural light from the windows in the main room. The shot had gone through his forehead just above his right eye, the back of his head gone. Sauwa didn’t have the opportunity to check, but the signs showed that the first policeman had loaded his gun with hollow point ammunition, a practice used by police around the world. The hollow points mushroom and are said to offer more lethal stopping power.
Sauwa heard grumbling. She turned to see a scared Mr. Larky looking back at her. His face was pale and his eyes wild with the fear of what he anticipated would come next. He was a witness to the murder of two detectives as well as being the only one who knew of Sauwa’s new identities. It would be stupid to think he would be anything other than a dangerous liability to her. He began to shake at the thought his death was imminent. He closed his eyes readying himself for the inevitable.
Then he heard a clicking sound. He forced himself to open his eyes as he looked up to see the young assassin before him lowering the gun and tucking it into her waistband. Confused, he attempted to open his mouth to inquire what she was doing. However, he stopped himself. Pressing such an issue at such a moment seemed incredibly unwise. He wasn’t dead, and a professional killer who skillfully killed two men only seconds ago was showing no sign of extending her tally to him.
To Larky’s surprise, she asked, “Can you walk?”
Still shaken, he could only nod slightly. He didn’t dare say he needed help moving at a time when he thought his life was in dire peril.
“I’m assuming this is not your actual home, nor is Larky your actual name,” she explained as she moved back toward the kitchen.
Feeling a need to answer, he fought to spit the words out. “Ah, yes, you’re correct.”
“Good,” she echoed from the hallway. “Then once we leave here you can disappear.”
“You’re letting me live?” Larky could no longer bear the anticipation of wondering if his death was certain or not.
Sauwa returned with her bergen and shoes in hand. “Of course,” she replied as she dropped into a chair a few feet from where the detective’s body was laying. “I have no need to kill you. And, you resisted turning me over to the detectives when you had the chance. I figure if given the ability to vanish you’ll take it, especially since you are now party to the deaths of two police officers. You really don’t have much to bargain with, if they catch you.”
A sense of relief hit the old man as he saw his survival. At the same time, he also lamented what the girl had brought up. The career he enjoyed as a master forger had come to an end. After today he was retired.
Sauwa finished putting her shoes on. She discarded her flannel as it was stained with splatters of blood. Rolling the garment up, she tucked it under her arm after throwing on her bergen. She saw the old man struggle to get up from his couch and took him by the arm. Not wanting to give her second thoughts about keeping him alive, he began to explain. “You’re right, this is not my home, nor is there any means to connect me to it. Further, none of my clients know me by my real name. When I walk out of here, I’ll become a ghost in the mist.”
Taking his arm over her shoulder, she aided him as he stumbled beside her out the door. It was an arduous journey as the two limped down the stairwell. Strangely, the old man seemed to become more agile as they went along. She could assume much of his invalidism was more an act than real. Possibly, he used this stunt to disarm those he worked with. Dangerous people tended to become less guarded and complacent around those they didn’t perceive as threats. It served as a good tactic if one needed freedom of movement in dangerous circumstances.
“Were the acoustics in the room good?” Sauwa asked as they edged toward the last flight of stairs. “I assume several people heard those gunshots and are calling the cops. I also imagine people are watching the building from outside.”
“You’re right,” Larky replied. “It’s one of the reasons I chose this location. I figured I would be more victim than assailant if it should come to violence.”
“You think we have to worry about anyone in here seeing us?” Sauwa pressed.
“No, most of the rooms are empty,” Larky assured her. “The residents that do live here are old and, between their eyesight and the darkness, wouldn’t be able to make a good identification. I know a couple of old battle axes in the building across the way who were definitely on the phone to police after the first shot. I can assure you they’ll be watching the front. A few are really into crime novels and will probably even have cameras waiting for the first people who come out.”
Reaching the ground floor, Sauwa looked about. Larky already knew what she wanted. “There’s a back door that leads to an alley, and there are no windows facing it.”
“That’s where we’ll go,” she replied.
The two navigated their way toward the back of the building. Eventually, they came to a door that looked like it hadn’t been used in ages. “I test this door weekly,” Larky explained. “It’ll work.”
Carefully opening the door, they were confronted by a powerful glare of light temporarily blinding them, but they managed to press on. With the heavy man walking better than when he started out, they were able to get out the back fairly quickly. Outside, they checked and found the alley deserted.
Larky removed his arm from the girl’s shoulder as the two gave an unspoken look at each other that said it was time to part. Sauwa watched as the old man started down the narrow street. He was walking slightly faster but still with the shuffle of an old, out of shape man. She turned and went in the opposite direction. She traversed the labyrinth of joining roads and alley systems before emerging onto a residential street several blocks away. It was a quiet road with few people around. When she felt she had no one watching her, she discarded her blood-soaked garment in a nearby dumpster before pressing on.
24
It had not registered with him mentally when the deaths of Detectives Curly and Galligan were announced over the phone. Detective Sergeant Ryan Youngest was in utter disbelief as a commander of the intelligence branch ranted bitterly. Hard pressed to find a viable response that wouldn’t sound like hollow sympathy or cold indifference, the homicide investigator remained silent. The only viable information he obtained in the whole dramatic update was the address of yet another crime scene.
A demand for full disclosure o
f what was known of this mysterious woman assassin was made abruptly. However, the demand was left to be argued between the intelligence commander and Youngest’s own Commander Rose, who was enjoying the power of being the center of everyone’s attention. The interest the escalating murder case was generating from the newspapers and broadcast stations as well as the growing focus on an ever-increasing number of departments in the Garda was being soaked up by the homicide office.
The apartment looked like a war zone. Youngest walked about looking first at the bullet-riddled corpse of a man he did not recognize but presumed had been Detective Curly. The man’s head was partially gone and the pools of dried blood caked over his body and on the floor told him the man had sustained a nasty injury before the lethal shot was taken.
Moving down the hallway, he followed the crime scene markings and set up lights that led him to the other body. He recognized Ian Galligan at once when he stood over the larger body observing the grizzly picture before him. The arm had a long hunk of sharp, jagged metal embedded deep into the elbow. It had sliced clean through to the point it had nearly severed the appendage completely. As ghastly an image as that was, it didn’t compete with the sight of the carving knife entrenched in the jowl and the cut along the neckline leaving the entire inside of the man’s throat open for view.
Youngest had seen many deaths in his years on the police force but, somehow, the deaths of other police officers always seemed more real to him than others. Perhaps because it was a reminder of his own mortality. In this case, the savagery displayed only added to the darkness of the moment. Ravenhoof was at the doorway observing as much as he could from his slight vantage point. Upon seeing him, Youngest waved him forward to join him.
The South African looked through the scene as he walked along. Unlike his Irish colleague or his British counterpart, he was less fazed by it. Death, particularly grizzly deaths, were something commonplace in his world. He didn’t like to admit to himself how many times he had been in places exhibiting such terrible displays.
“Your girl is quite the killing machine.” Youngest was shaking his head as he remained focused on the body of Detective Galligan. “This was cold and precise ─ the work of a stone cold killer. I have to admit your people do a crack job creating monsters.”
Ravenhoof said nothing. It was not the time or the place to offer defense or sympathy. He was a cop who had played in the shadows of the covert world. As a cop, he wanted to allow his colleague a chance to process it all. As a veteran operative, he knew that wasting time on sympathy was pointless and made a person emotional as opposed to mindful and logical. Looking at the display and the cold precision by which Sauwa had executed the kills, he could tell she had acted on her training and conditioning. He also knew that to catch someone like her meant being able to function decisively and deduce what they could; time was of the essence. “She was here for a purpose,” he stated in a curt, commanding tone.
Youngest looked up at the South African, who only looked back with an expressionless face that indicated he was all business. Ravenhoof continued, “We’re dealing with a professional assassin. She’s not wasting time processing what she just did. She’s moving on to plan her escape. If we don’t want to lose her, we have to be as clear in our heads as she is right now.”
Youngest was beside himself. Part of him wanted to punch the callous South African prick right in the face. The other side of him reluctantly concurred with everything he had said. He had to snap out of it. Ravenhoof had already pressed past him to head into the kitchen. “Why was she here in the first place?” The South African looked about a little while examining the scene.
“From what I understand, this is supposedly the home of a Mr. Larky, a man the intelligence boys tell me is supposed to be a master documents forger,” Youngest explained.
“Really,” Ravenhoof echoed from the kitchen. “You think your people would have had this place staked out for her already.”
The homicide detective rubbed his face. “The detectives were here initially looking for Mr. Rudy Sheehan, the one we believe to be providing all her logistical support. Mr. Larky has done a very good job hiding from everyone. He keeps a low profile and selects his clients carefully. The intelligence units really had to dig to find out about him, and they only got lucky with a tip from a source.”
“Where is he now?” the South African asked as he emerged from the kitchen walkway.
Youngest nodded. “We have two dead policemen. This begs the question as to where our Mr. Larky is. What’s more, why didn’t she kill Larky, since he had to have witnessed everything? Assuming he was in the room when it happened.”
“He was, I can assure you.” Ravenhoof was once again looking at the Irish detective. “I’m assuming she had no need to kill him.”
Youngest gave him a puzzled look. The South African continued. “I’ve had a lot of time to look over the files of our Ms. Catcher. She’s interesting in that she’s not as stone cold as we would think. All her kills while in service to the state have either been at the direction of her superiors or against combatants in the course of carrying out an operation. My guess is that the documents were not in her possession and she needs the forger alive to obtain them. The police posed a threat to her, and Mr. Larky did not. I’d wager Mr. Larky is an alias and this apartment, from everything I’m seeing, is not his actual home. That said, the idea that both had a great deal to fear from the police and, therefore, she let him live with the consideration that he would disappear entirely.”
“That’s a pretty big guess,” Youngest interjected. “I mean she had to assume he lived here and that we would find him.”
Ravenhoof shook his head. “She’s trained to assess environments for situational awareness. She’d have seen the same things I’m seeing and concluded that this was a front, not his actual home.”
“Same things?” Youngest had already answered his own question before he had even asked it. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to give the impression the place was an actual residence. The place was littered with second-hand furniture that fit nicely with the environment and a few scattered documents were there to make the place look lived in. Looking closer, it was an obvious setup; it was all cosmetic. Mr. Larky was certainly a master of his trade, and everything here showed it.
This left the detectives paralyzed to know what to do next. They had lost their lead. By all accounts, whoever Mr. Larky was, he was gone ─ most likely forever given the gravity of the situation. Ravenhoof and Youngest did as their police instincts dictated, they continued to investigate the scene.
“What the bloody hell!!” A graveled voice, so familiar to both men, cried out. They looked up to see the bald figure of Detective Glenahaughan practically bursting his way into the room. “Jesus, this is a bloody slaughterhouse in here,” he said after looking at the room and the two shredded bodies.
Ravenhoof shot a questioning look at Youngest that demanded an answer. Youngest had learned long ago that the best way to stave off needless turf wars and rivalries was to be inclusive early on with other rank and file investigators. “I had a call placed to Glenahaughan to give him an update; it’s part of his case as well.”
Glenahaughan walked past the first body and followed the trail of markers until he had joined his two colleagues. “So, this appears to be the work of this Catcher woman?” he asked as he came up and gaped down at the body below. “Christ, she carved this one up like a pig. Who are they, more IRA heavies?”
“Garda detectives,” Youngest replied softly. “They were here following up on a possible lead. From what we can tell, they expected to find someone else and ran into Ms. Catcher instead.”
“My God,” Glenahaughan realized he had placed his foot in his mouth. “The intelligence boys are going to be up in arms.”
“We need to consider our next step,” Ravenhoof interrupted the Irish detectives who seemingly had fallen into a muddle of despair over the loss of more of their comrades. “As I see it, o
ur best play is to assume she’s leaving the country. We should focus on that.”
“We don’t even know if she has the documents she came here to get.” Youngest was irritated. He hated the idea that so many had died on his watch, and he was no closer to finding this whirlwind of death.
“She came here for a reason. There’s no camera equipment, but we know Mr. Larky’s profession. We all agree that this place is not his true residence. By simple process of elimination, we have to assume she has what she came for. Leaving the country is the logical next step,” Ravenhoof summarized.
“You speak as though she’s leaving tonight,” Glenahaughan interrupted. “Why are you so sure she’s not going to simply lay low in another warehouse until the heat dies down?”
“I don’ know,” the South African retorted sternly. “I do know she has the full weight of the Garda after her and, after today, the pressure is only going to be greater. In addition, there’s the IRA that still has a score to be settled ─ five of their people are sitting in the morgue. Her own handler/support agent is on the run. Plus, if your Protestant Loyalists are behind her activities here. They can’t afford to keep her in Ireland ─ not alive anyway. She has nowhere else to go. If she was planning on leaving in the next few days, you can be sure her departure has been moved to tonight or tomorrow morning at the latest.”
“She won’t be traveling by plane,” Youngest interceded. “It will have to be through the water ports.”
“That is where we must focus then,” Ravenhoof said, with Glenahaughan nodding in agreement.
Constable Sean Willock saw the sign to Garrity’s Watering Hole. He beckoned his superior to let him go relieve himself at the necessary. The man he was with, a gruff old sergeant, grunted before pulling over to the side of the road. “Be damn snappy about it,” the old man grumbled. “You’re not paid to take a piss on the city’s time.”