A madman is on the rampage in the Los Angeles streets. The City of Angels has become The City of Fear. And everyone from the Oval Office down wants a quick result. The heat is on Jake Mottram, head of the FBI's new Spree Killer Unit, and psychological profiler Angie Holmes to find the madman responsible. Until now, they've been great together. Both at work and in bed. But a killer is about to come between them, in ways that could cost them far more than their careers. Will they survive the spree about to come? Spree Life and death in LA - like you've never seen it before.
Release date:
June 3, 2014
Publisher:
Grand Central Publishing
Print pages:
117
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The man in the mask had a baseball bat across her throat. His hands gripped both ends and he had her trapped against the back wall of Eva Hart’s house. She was eye to eye with him and his smell was all over her. Cheap cooking oil and southern fried chicken.
If she didn’t act quickly she knew she’d pass out.
Her FBI training kicked in and she kicked out. Drove her right knee into his testicles.
The scumbag woofed in pain and the bat slackened enough for her to wriggle free. She shifted her balance and swung a low kick at the back of his legs.
He stumbled into an even darker part of the yard.
Angie followed with a crisp left-hander that clipped his right cheek.
He was beaten and they both knew it.
One hard punch with her right and this cowardly punk was going down spitting teeth.
She stepped forward to swing and felt a blow from an unseen enemy—a trash can.
Her balance went. She stumbled. Dropped to her hands and knees.
The attacker kicked a supporting arm and sent her sprawling.
Angie felt pain shoot from wrist to shoulder as she collapsed.
He kicked at her head and body. Booted any part of her he could see.
She slid the one good arm across her stomach to protect the baby.
A foot rocked her head. She tasted salt and iron. Blood flowed over her teeth.
Light cracked from the back door and fell on her.
Angie’s heart sank. If the old lady was there he was certain to turn on her. Finish what he’d started.
There was a gunshot.
And another.
Then a crashing sound.
The noise of fence panels being climbed or broken.
Another shot rang out.
Then silence.
She lay in pain. Fluttering fingers touched her face. They smelled of night cream. A hesitant voice asked, “Are you all right?”
Angie struggled to sit upright. “I think my arm’s broken.”
“Oh, dear.” The old lady waved the gun dangerously. “Are you police?”
Angie could smell the weapon. “No, I’m not, I’m FBI, ma’am.” She stared down the barrel being shaken in her face. “Can you give me that gun, please, and call 911.”
“Oh, yes. Yes, of course.” She handed over the weapon and slipper-shuffled back inside.
Angie got herself up and was able to sit on the back step. She spat out blood and got her breath back. A few feet away lay the overturned trash can she’d knocked into. Just to the right, half in and half out of the light, there was something else.
A black rucksack.
Involuntary grunts escaped as she got to her feet and wandered toward it. She was pretty certain she knew what it contained.
His rape kit.
Murphy’s Ranch, Rustic Canyon, LA
Jake had been hit by several rounds from the MAC-10. He lay stunned and waited for pain to erupt in various parts of his body. It never came, because layers of Kevlar had done their job.
He rolled out of the blinding glare of the roof-mounted xenon and looked toward the derelict power station. SKU were still “sweeping” the rooms inside. Shouts of “Clear” broke the warm night air.
Ruis Costas appeared, concern etched in his brow. “You okay, boss?”
“I’m fine.” Jake’s voice gave away his disappointment. He got to his feet and saw at least two of his men had been hit.
Chuck Warren had a hand on his right thigh and was pushing hard to stop a bleed. A copter blew up dust. Ruis had to shout above the noise. “Medic will be with you any second, just hang in there.”
Jake knelt alongside Sammy Nicholson, a rookie who’d taken two in the helmet. Kid had been fortunate; neither had gone through, but he was sitting up in the dirt, his face white as a sheet.
“You’ve been lucky,” said Jake, peering into his eyes. “A bit of concussion, that’s all. Tomorrow night you’ll be downing shots and bragging it up with your buddies.”
“I don’t feel so damned lucky,” Nicholson managed.
Jake left him and went over to the crashed motorcycle.
Emma-Louise Bakker was dead. There was no need to even check for a pulse. She’d hit the tree head-first and broken her neck.
He kicked the gun lying in the dirt alongside the corpse of Wayne Harris’s teenage girlfriend. It was a micro-Uzi. Fashion toy for the bad guys.
Ruis joined him and wiped blood on his combat pants. “Harris is dead, too.”
Jake shielded his eyes from the still glaring light of the giant xenon on the top of the old building. “Where the hell did that thing come from?”
“Come and see.” He walked his boss toward the old power station. “There are two dead guys inside. Looks like they were filming here when Wayne rode up. The big light is part of their equipment.”
The SKU men entered the building and Jake saw the bodies in a far corner. It was easy to work out what had gone down. The walls around them were covered in graffiti and blood. Harris and the girl had herded them over there with the guns. Paper handkerchiefs, discarded wallets, small photos and coins lay around their feet. They’d been robbed. Emma-Louise had taken their phones, cards and cash while her crazy boyfriend had pointed his machine pistol at them. Jake finished the last of his thoughts out loud. “Punk just killed them for the sake of it.”
“Looks that way,” answered Ruis. “There’s a camera and tripod over there.” He pointed to the opposite corner. “I think the girl filmed it, snuff-movie style.”
“Fuck.” Jake remembered orders he’d given. “Hadn’t we checked this area for filming permits and such?”
“We had. Not everyone who films has a permit. They must have just winged it. Planned to save a few bucks because they were doing something cheap.”
Jake saw a clipboard against the wall. He picked it up. Several sheets of paper flapped. It was part of a script. “They were filming something called The Big Scare. Names on the top are Luke Henrik and Joey J. Aston.”
Ruis was bent over the bodies. He spotted a photo ID in a gritty pool of drying blood. “One on the right is Luke.”
“Someone best find their next of kin and call the cops. Make sure that camera footage stays with us. I don’t ever want to see a frame of this on YouTube.”
Lawndale, LA
Emergency services arrived at Eva Hart’s house within ten minutes of being called.
The local cops hit the streets and got a copter with night sun lighting and thermal imaging to comb the area for the perp.
Paramedics patched Angie up. She had dislocated her right elbow and there was a chance of a hairline fracture or chipped bone as well. She’d need an X-ray and possibly a cast or sling. Aside from that, there was extensive bruising to the shoulders and face. Her lip was split but no teeth were busted and she didn’t need stitches. Most important, they were confident the baby was unhurt.
Angie refused a ride to the hospital and promised to go later. She wanted to comfort Eva, who’d gone to pieces after she’d been told the man she’d shot at in the dark was most likely the one who’d previously attacked her.
Two female officers were helping calm her down when Cal O’Brien turned up. He stood in the back doorway talking to a CSI and gave Angie a look that said he wanted a private word.
She excused herself and joined him.
His eyes immediately roamed her torn clothes, bloodied face and bandaged arm. “Please tell me the other guy looks worse than you.”
“He does. But that’s not thanks to me. Our brave old lady shot him.”
“She hit him?”
“There’s blood in the yard, so I’d say yes.”
“Good for her.” He looked back to the yard. CSIs were bagging and tagging under a blaze of lights. “Maybe we’ll catch a break.”
“Bad choice of words.” Angie lifted her bandaged arm and winced.
“Sorry. Did the old girl see him?”
“No. She just came out frightened and firing. She’s one plucky lady. From what I could learn, she’s got no one to come and stay with her. Can you fix protection and social support?”
“Can try. Best protection is to catch this scum.”
“I’ve got something that might help with that. Take a look at that rucksack; he left it.”
O’Brien dug in his jacket pocket and pulled out gloves. The top of the sack was buckled down, inside tied with a drawstring and toggle. He opened it and tipped out the contents.
The heap of objects included a pair of sex shop handcuffs, five or six lengths of cut rope, rolls of silver gaffer tape, a hunting knife, a pair of pliers and a thick roll of black trash can liners.
O’Brien moved the bags.
Underneath was a length of wood about eighteen inches long and two inches square.
They both silently considered the stave and the lives that had been ruined with it.
“Please God,” implored O’Brien, “let me find this lowlife, let him resist arrest and give me good cause to blow his fucking head off.”
Rustic Canyon Park, LA
It was gone 3:. . .
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