A Killer Present

1

As the woman sat bound to the chair, Chuck studied her. Her head was slumped forward in unconscious repose, chin resting on her collar, brown hair falling over her face. Even dressed as she was in only her underwear, she didn't do anything for him. Chuck figured the best way to describe her was homely.

She stirred, her head lolling to the side as she began her return to consciousness. Within a minute she was looking around. When her eyes found him, she spoke.

Charlie… her voice rasped. What… what's happening?

Kari, he said, moving closer, setting his own chair in front of her. I need information from you.

Information? she repeated, as though it were a new word he'd just invented. I don't understand. Where… my clothes.

Kari tried to move her hands, but they were bound to the back of her chair by plastic ties. Fear finally began to show on her face as her predicament dawned on her.

I've taken your clothes until you tell me what I need to know, he explained.

It's cold, she said, her teeth rattling, her breath steaming.

Yes, it is. About ten degrees. The sooner you tell me what I need to know, the sooner you can have your clothes back.

What… what do you want?

I need some information about one of your patients, Chuck explained.

I c… can't give you information about my patients. It's c… confidential.

Her teeth continued to rattle and the rest of her shivered.

When you got your PhD, did you have to study hypothermia?

I'm not that kind of doctor, she said.

I know, but how long do you think it takes for hypothermia to set in at temperatures like this?

I don't know.

Neither do I, Chuck admitted. Do you want to find out?

Kari shook her head.

Tell me about Holly, Chuck said.

Who?

Don't play stupid, doc. Teenage girl, blonde, recently pregnant. Recently not. You know who I'm talking about.

I don't know-

Chuck cut her off by slapping her across the face. It was open-handed and it stung even his gloved hand, but it wouldn't do any real damage.

Don't lie, doc. You know who I'm talking about.

She's not my patient any longer, Kari admitted.

That's okay. When was the last time you saw her?

She hasn't been my patient for months, she said.

Chuck slapped her again, across the other side of her face. She gasped after the contact.

I know you visited her two days ago in the hospital.

Then why did you ask?

Chuck chuckled.

I want you to understand that I know when you're lying to me. Do you understand that?

Kari nodded.

Good. Now tell me, where is she?

I don't know.

He hit her again.

I don't, she said with a whimper.

Doc, you must know something. Otherwise, how would you have known she was in the hospital?

I got a call.

From who?

Kari shook her head. Chuck struck her again, this time with a closed hand.

Who called you to tell you she was in the hospital? he asked again.

Beth, she replied, between sobs.

Beth who? Chuck asked.

Again she shook her head. Again Chuck was forced to hit her. She shook him off, so he did it once more.

You need to talk to me, Kari, he calmly told her.

Why should I?

For your own good.

You're going to kill me anyway, she sobbed.

Why would you say that?

Because I know who you are. I can describe you to the police.

That's true. Chuck shrugged. Okay, so you know I'm going to kill you. The question is, how unpleasant will your last moments be?

I don't care, Kari said, defiance in her voice.

You don't care? I can be pretty unpleasant when I need to be.

I don't care, she repeated. She looked him right in the eye. I've had worse.

I genuinely doubt that, he replied, smiling.

Do what you want. You're not getting anything else out of me.

Chuck took a moment to study the woman. He hadn't expected to meet any real resistance in her. He didn't think she had that sort of resolve in her. He had pegged her as a meek and mousy woman averse to pain.

So Beth… he said, trailing off. You think she'll be as tough a nut to crack as you?

It was Kari's turn to study him. Perhaps she was gauging how likely he was to find Beth.

Do you think I can't find her? he asked.

It doesn't matter, she replied.

Why's that?

She won't tell you anything, either.

Chuck shook his head in mild awe. He had interrogated men who coughed up information after less abuse and intimidation.

He punched Kari in the stomach. She tried to ball up into herself, but her legs were bound to the chair as well. Instead, she simply retched as her abdomen went through a series of spasms and her lungs tried to take in the cold air.

Chuck grabbed her by the hair and turned her face up. Her expression was pained, but not submissive. He punched her in the nose, hearing cartilage snap and crack.

Again he turned her head using her hair. She spit blood into his face. Chuck laughed as he wiped it away. Kari held her chin up defiantly. Chuck obliged her with an uppercut that toppled the chair backward.

Chuck heard another crack as she hit the concrete floor. He figured that had to hurt worse than the punch.

Grabbing the chair between her legs, he righted it once more. Kari's head lolled as she settled upright again. Taking another handful of hair, he looked into her face. Her eyes were closed, blood from her nose colored her mouth. He slapped her a couple of times to get her attention. It had no effect.

Come on now, I'm not done with you yet, he said, slapping her a bit harder.

When he got no response, he sat back down in his chair to wait. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his gloved hand. The beads of sweat trickling down the nape of his neck were a rude reminder of the chill in the air. That and the puffs of steam as he caught his breath from the rush of his exertion.

Chuck froze for a moment, holding his breath. The steam cleared. He noticed there was none around Kari.

Shit, he muttered as he reached out to her neck.

He felt for a pulse, found none.

Shit, he repeated.

Chuck reached around to the back of her head, felt up her neck to the base of her skull. He stood when he felt the gash there. Looking behind her, he could see where her head had hit off the concrete base of a steel pillar. A red stain marred its otherwise pristine new grey.

Well God damn it, he swore.

He looked around the rest of the open floor. Countless other steel pillars just like it dotted this level of the unfinished building. Chuck knew that if he'd simply angled the chair a little to the side, he would not have had this hiccup. But he hadn't expected the woman to offer any real resistance.

Fucking sloppy, he chastised himself.

There was nothing to be done for it now. Chuck cut Kari loose from the plastic ties binding her to the chair. Lifting her up into a fireman's carry, he walked over to the edge of the floor where an orange waste chute opened. Angling her head-first, he pushed her into it. A moment later, he heard a heavy crash as Kari's body hit the waiting dumpster below.

Chuck grabbed the chairs, tossing them into the chute as well, before making his way out of the new building. From the trunk of the car, he pulled out the plastic gasoline can he'd brought along from his garage. After dousing the inside of the dumpster, he lit a match and tossed it in. The dumpster sparked up in flame.

Chuck climbed into his car and pulled out of the lot of the construction area. He needed to find Beth.

2

There are very few cities in the world where down by the docks is actually a nice neighborhood. Buenaventura, Colombia, wasn't one of those. Its docks neighborhood was as dirty and worn out as many others. At night, its streets were just as dangerous as many others.

Bill Fairing didn't mind. He'd been in worse places. He'd made a career out of going to worse places, dealing with worse situations. He'd spent years chasing down the worst people the world had to offer. It no longer surprised him when that took him to some of the worst places the world had to offer.

Two weeks had passed for him in this town. During those two weeks, Bill had walked plenty of these streets. It had to be done, if he wanted to find his target. Ever since the target had been spotted and identified on a yacht travelling through the Panama Canal, Bill had been searching Colombia. And it finally looked like it would pay off.

Eyes on the target, the voice in his ear said.

The voice belonged to his new partner. She said her name was Erin. Bill had no reason to doubt her, but he also had no reason to trust her. He didn't like working with her type.

Erin was what the French called a femme fatale. She was beautiful, seductive, and dangerous as all get-out. Her specialty was using her feminine charms to coerce men—and even some women—to do her bidding.

Bill's problem with her wasn't professional. Erin was good at her job. His problem with her was entirely personal. She didn't have an off switch. She never stopped. Not even when they were alone, just the two of them.

Erin tried to play him as much as she did her targets. Bill did not take kindly to being a target. His obvious reticence caused friction in their working relationship.

While they were in Colombia, there was nothing for it. Erin was all he had to work with. But once this mission was over, once this name was scratched off the list, he'd set the process in motion to find someone else. Erin could go back to whatever agency she'd been with before—the CIA, its National Clandestine Service sub-agency, the NSA or one of the other Department of Defense agencies. She'd have a job; it just wouldn't be with him.

He's got two men with him, Erin said. One of them is Sandoval.

Sandoval was the name of one of the target's bodyguards. Erin had used her talents on him the previous night when he'd slipped off the yacht for a little fun and a good time at one of the local establishments. To say that Erin was better looking than the local prostitutes would be an understatement. So when she turned her attention to Sandoval, he was very receptive. So receptive that his lips loosened, revealing his employer's plans.

This outing to a warehouse in the shipping district of Buenaventura had been planned well in advance of the target's arrival in Colombia. This outing to the warehouse was the entire purpose of the target's trip to Colombia.

A black SUV rounded the corner just up the street from Bill's position. It turned toward him as it approached the warehouse. Bill was on the opposite side of the street from the warehouse, a short distance away. His position was deep in the shadows between two other warehouses.

The SUV stopped outside a large roll-up door. Instead of driving in, the three men exited the vehicle and used the adjoining personnel door.

They're inside, Bill said after activating his throat mic. I'm approaching the vehicle now.

Standby, Erin said quickly, freezing Bill in place. Three more vehicles approaching. On you in ten.

Bill slid back into his shadow and waited. Ten seconds later, three more vehicles rounded the corner. They didn't look nearly as new or as well maintained as the SUV. They did look more full to capacity, though.

Five men with an assortment of firearms spilled from each vehicle. They went straight for the door the target had entered moments before. A ripping staccato of gunfire followed.

What's going on? Erin asked.

Hold your position, Bill told her.

Are they shooting at our target? she asked.

Just hold your position, he repeated.

We should do something. We need information from him.

Damn it. Just shut up and hold your position.

Bill was surprised when he didn't hear a rebuttal. All he heard was the continuing firefight inside the warehouse. He didn't know why they were shooting. He didn't particularly care. If they all killed each other, he wouldn't shed a tear.

The roll-up door started to open. When it got about three feet up, gunmen started to fall out of it. Some literally fell out, as they were struck in the back by bullets. Bill counted eight in total who made it back to the vehicles. Eight of fifteen. Whatever sort of raid this was, it paid a heavy toll.

The gunfire trickled to a stop as the vehicles tore off down the street and out of sight. Bill reached his hand to activate his mic, but Erin broadcast first.

I'm going in, was all she said.

No you're not! Bill said, barely controlling the volume of his voice. Remain at your position!

Only silence followed his directive.

Acknowledge last transmission, Bill directed.

A few moments later, gunfire erupted on the other side of the building. As much as Bill wished it were a pocket of raiders left behind, he knew it wasn't.

Damn it, Bill swore, not bothering to transmit it.

As Bill moved again from his shrouded position toward the warehouse, the target and one of his bodyguards ducked out of the roll-up door. Bill couldn't tell if it was Sandoval or the other guy. What Bill could tell was that he'd been injured. The bodyguard staggered to the black SUV. The target got behind the wheel.

When the car started up, Bill stood in the middle of the street, fully illuminated by the headlights. There was a moment of indecisiveness from the target as Bill continued to approach. Then the SUV was put into reverse and backed away.

Bill was holding a pistol at his side. It was a familiar extension of his arm, his favorite .45 caliber Smith & Wesson Model 1911. He quickly took aim at the windshield and put five holes in the glass. They hit in an area roughly the size of a basketball, just above the dash, centered on the driver's seat.

But the SUV didn't stop. It didn't even slow down. Bill sent the last four rounds of his clip down range. They all hit the vehicle as well. That didn't stop it from turning the corner and disappearing from sight.

Bill ejected the empty clip and slotted another. After chambering a round, he activated his mic again as he moved to the warehouse door.

Target on the move, he said, hoping Erin would acknowledge.

Understood, she replied. Pulling-

That was all she said, her transmission cut off abruptly. The gunfire inside the warehouse slackened once more. Bill was dropping to the ground to get under the door when it started to rise again. He flattened himself to the wall as four vehicles burned rubber exiting the building. Bill figured he'd gone unnoticed when the last of them turned the corner down the street.

Bill waited ten more seconds without hearing any further activity. He played his mic again.

Are you clear? he asked, hoping once more for an acknowledgement.

When none came, he knew he had to go inside. Bill got up from his prone position into a half-crouch and quickly ducked inside the warehouse. Nobody shot at him, so he took that as a good sign, though he didn't drop his guard.

There were dead gunmen just inside the door, where they'd fallen after breaching. A few of them made it twenty or thirty feet further. None seemed to have gotten any further than that, though.

Bill moved on into the interior. It was a mostly open space. In the rear, he could see more bodies on the floor. Bill suspected that's where Erin had been.

Once he approached, his suspicion was confirmed. In fact, Erin was still there. The expression on her face was one of surprise. She had a gash in her neck, and her eyes were vacant. The pool of blood beneath her and the pattern on the wall spoke volumes. She'd bled out quickly. A bullet to one of the major blood vessels in your neck will do that.

Bill looked around again. He knew you could never be too wary. When no threat presented itself to him, he holstered his weapon. As quickly as he could, he stripped Erin of everything that could identify her. They weren't stupid enough to carry their passports this night, but other things could look suspicious to authorities. He took her radio and ear piece. He took her weapons and holster. He took the tactical vest that had done her no good. There wasn't much else he could do.

Without thought, he cupped her cheek in one hand, momentarily flashing on another girl, at another time, whose life had been cut far too short. Like Erin, the girl was blonde and beautiful. Unlike Erin, the girl had been flayed, her skin removed while still alive.

Bill's hand trembled. He snatched it back from her face as the trembling spread up his arm, into his torso, and settled into his stomach. A moment later, Bill lost his lunch—rice and beans on cornmeal tortillas—turning just in time to avoid Erin's lifeless body.

After rocking back from his doubled-over position, he stood. He didn't know the response time for Buenaventura's police, but he suspected a major gun battle wouldn't go entirely unnoticed. He needed to leave. He looked Erin over once more, shook his head at the waste and to clear the queasiness, then made his way back out into the street. Into the shadows.

His partner was dead and his target had escaped. And to make matters worse, he was apparently an assassin who could no longer stomach death.

3

When Detective Lilly Montgomery pulled into the construction lot, it was a little after sunrise. It was also entirely too cold. The mercury was headed in the wrong direction, even though common sense said that the sun should have started to warm things up a bit. The weather never followed common sense, though. Especially not in Chicago.

Climbing out of her car, she stuffed her hands deep into the pockets of her coat, as far as they would go. Even with gloves, that barely helped. She could feel her fingertips going numb already.

It wasn't hard to figure out where she needed to be. The group of people milling about, all looking at the same spot, was a pretty decent clue. She headed over there and made her way through the crowd.

A few patrol officers were doing their best to both keep their extremities hidden, and use them to keep the gawkers back. She didn't envy them their job. She'd done her time on patrol in weather just like this. She knew what it was like, and she knew she didn't want to go back to it.

The butterflies in her stomach reminded her of her first day on the job, though. Back then, she'd been nervous simply because she was a newly minted cop, straight out of the academy. Now the butterflies were the result of something similar, though more sinister.

This would be Lilly's first homicide investigation as primary. Since returning from a leave of absence months ago, she'd been part of a number of homicide investigations. Chicago averaged a homicide per day, so there were plenty to keep the Violent Crimes section busy. But she'd always been in a support role.

Today a case fell to her. Lilly had the sneaking suspicion it was because of the weather. Perhaps the detectives with more seniority had all decided to stay inside where it was warm.

Either way, Lilly was prepared to do her job. She wanted to solve her first case. Proving herself to her new co-workers in VC was part of it. The larger part of it was proving to herself that her transfer from Special Victims Section, Missing Persons Unit, was a good idea.

Lilly was forced to remove a hand from her pocket in order to badge the patrol officer who moved to stop her. When he saw the metal, he let her through. His shivering was noticeable, even without her special detective powers.

I've got a thermos of hot coffee in my car, if you need it, Lilly said as she passed him.

Marry me, he replied almost instantly. Lilly laughed and continued on.

There was an ambulance parked near a large steel commercial dumpster. The