BackTrek (5 page)

“Unbelievable. We risk our necks day in and
day out to stop these lunatics, and finally a citizen takes one
down in self defense and now they want to lock him up.”

“If it was self defense, he’d be at home
right now.”

“Damn it, Cap. I’d have done the same thing.
So would you.” Jack said, as Howe leaned forward in his chair.

“No. Not exactly.” He said. “I would have
shot the fucker in the chest. Now get out of here. Go catch some
bad guys.” Jack looked at him for a moment, then shook his head,
and left the room. He fumed as his mind ran over the injustice done
to Mr. McNally and his family. He thought of his dear Tracey and
innocent sweet Bella, and couldn’t even imagine how horrible it
would have been for that family to have gone through such a thing.
The Captain was right, he thought. He would have shot him in the
chest too. Several times. He poured himself a cup of stale coffee,
and began to stir in loads of powdered cream. He took a sip,
winced, and went to his desk.

She entered the garage through the pedestrian
entrance, and nodded to the tall man that waited at the elevator.
He smiled slightly, nodded back, and then looked back towards the
elevator. She noticed the call light wasn’t on. She reached over
and punched the button.

“Silly me.” He said, as the bell rang and the
door slid open. He gestured for her to enter ahead of him. She did,
and punched the button for the third floor. He entered behind her,
glanced at the panel, and then punched the button for the fourth
floor. The door slid shut. “Hot today.” He said in a friendly tone.
She nodded, but continued to stare at the digital floor indicator.
It read two. The read-out switched to three, the bell rang, and the
door slid open. She glanced at him, smiled slightly. He nodded, as
she exited the elevator. She was several steps away when she heard
the door slide shut. Suddenly his arm wrapped around her throat.
Eyes wide, her scream was stifled in her throat.

“Shh.” He whispered into her ear. “Where is
your car?” She continued to struggle, and his grip tightened and
made it difficult for her to breathe. She relaxed her body a bit,
and his grip eased off. As she felt his grip relax, she launched
into the self defense moves she had learned from her daughter’s
karate instructor. Her foot came down hard on his insole, her elbow
slammed backwards into his rib cage. He released her. Then suddenly
excruciating pain flooded her body, and she fell to the concrete
floor. Her body shook in agony. Blue sparks emanated from the end
of his phone, and then went dark. He picked up her keys from where
she had dropped them, and pushed a button on the wireless remote.
He heard a chirp nearby. He hit the button again, and saw the tail
lights flash. He reached down and grabbed her by the hair, and
dragged her over to the car. The trunk popped open, and he heaved
her into the trunk. Her dress tore as her body sprawled inside.

She landed hard, and the back of the car
bounced a little under the sudden weight. She was still out, but
roused slightly. He bent down inside the trunk, and wrapped his
hands around her throat. As he squeezed, suddenly she came fully
awake, her eyes wide in terror and she began to fight him. He
squeezed harder as her face bulged, and her struggles became less
and less fierce. Her gaze shifted from terror to blankness, yet he
continued to squeeze, until he was satisfied that she was dead. He
raised up, straightened, and stretched his back. Just as a man in
business suit walked around the corner, he slammed the trunk lid
shut. The man ignored him as he passed.

He unlocked the car and entered the driver’s
side, and cursed under his breath as he folded himself tightly into
the seat. He immediately began to adjust the seat to accommodate
his long legs. He then adjusted his mirrors, carefully buckled the
seat belt, and started the car. The radio blared, and he casually
turned it off. He adjusted the air conditioner to seventy two
degrees, turned the fan on high, and then pulled the small plain
envelope out of his coat pocket. A small a black card-like object
fell into the palm of his gloved hand from the envelope. He
inserted it into the slot on the side of his phone and activated
the menu. After a few taps on the screen, it asked for a password.
He entered the first set of coordinates, and it asked for a second
password. He entered the second set of coordinates, and it again
asked for another password. He entered his professional name, ‘Mr.
Smith’. The screen turned blank for a second, before listing page
after page of information. There was a list of names, all with the
same last name, along with hobbies, habits, areas they were known
to frequent, and most importantly their address, including GPS
coordinates. He tapped on the first name, and the face of a
middle-aged man dressed in a business suit appeared. He tapped the
image again, and it zoomed in. He tapped again, and the man’s eyes
filled the screen. His target was defined.

He returned to the original list, and quickly
scanned through it and memorized the important parts. He dismissed
those that would not be needed. He scrolled through and glanced
briefly at each individual’s picture briefly, then he closed the
application, and ejected the card. He rolled the window down, as he
toggled a barely noticeable red switch on the corner of the tiny
black card, and then dropped it out of the window. He backed out of
the parking space and drove off towards the exit. The card lay
there for a few seconds, and suddenly began to smolder and catch
fire. Seconds passed as smoke began to pour from the small black
card, and then just as suddenly, it stopped. The last remnants of
smoke drifted upwards, and the charred, melted, black card lay
quietly on the ground. A blackened mound of useless plastic.

Smith paid with three one dollar bills when
he left the parking garage, and drove slowly back to the hotel. He
pulled into the parking lot, and drove up to the fourth floor,
before he found a sufficiently secluded spot to park. He got out
and stepped to the back of the car. From his pocket he pulled a
small roll of black tape, and in a matter of seconds had modified
three of the seven digits on the license plate.

Once he had returned to his room, he removed
all of his clothes and entered the bathroom. As he reached into a
small black bag on the vanity and withdrew a pair of tweezers, he
inspected his featureless smooth face. He bent forward, looked into
the mirror, and began to pluck the few whisps of eyebrows that had
grown back since his last job. Hair after hair he pulled, and never
winced. Satisfied with that, slowly and methodically he began to
shave his entire body. He first lathered, then shaved his legs,
arms, and chest. He shaved his already plucked eyebrows, his entire
face, and even his hands. He took special care to remove the hair
from his knuckles. Finally he was completely shaven. As he admired
his smooth shaven head in the mirror, he started the shower. From
the open bag on the vanity, he removed a scouring pad and scrub
brush. With these he entered the shower and began his ritual
cleansing that would ensure that no DNA evidence could ever be
found after he had completed a job. As the hot scouring water beat
down on his tortured skin, he scrubbed harder and harder. Rubbing
off any loose dying skin cells, as they washed down the drain.
Though he disliked this part of his chosen profession, it was a
necessity, and he approached it with a careful cool
professionalism. Surgeons rarely spent the time and effort that he
did on cleansing their own hands. Hospital operating rooms would
rarely be as clean as he would be after this preparation.

As he scrubbed, his skin began to take on a
definite pink hue. His chest, devoid of any masculine hair, looked
raw and tender, yet he continued to scrub. He scrubbed his hands
and fingers much like a carpenter would sand a rough cut board. And
soon, satisfied that the job was thorough enough, he rinsed, and
let the hot scalding water run over him in waves, as though it was
purifying his very soul. Gradually he began to decrease the
temperature of the water, to soothe his now sensitive skin, until
finally only cold water poured from the shower nozzle. Slowly the
pinkish hue began to subside, and shortly thereafter he turned off
the water. He stepped out of the shower, patted his body down,
careful not to rub his tender skin, and once dry began to rub a
soothing ointment over his entire body. He inspected his handiwork
in the mirror, as he checked to ensure he had not missed any spots.
He plucked here and there with tweezers at hairs that had been
missed by his razor. Once satisfied that he was finished, he walked
into the room itself, nude and uninhibited even though the curtains
were open.

He lifted his suitcase onto the bed, and
opened it. He withdrew a pair of long legged thermal underpants,
and stepped into them. Next a pair of knee high socks, which he put
on so that overlapped the legs of the underpants. Then he put on a
long sleeved thermal top, careful to ensure that it to over lapped
the pants. He produced a roll of gray duck tape from his suitcase,
and began to carefully tape the overlapping edges that he had just
created. He knew that no DNA evidence could ever be found when he
left a job. The same set of rituals had served him faithfully for
ten years, and each time he was as careful as the last. But
consciously, he thought of none of these practices, as they had
already become second nature. Even as he pulled on his gloves, and
taped the joints between them and the sleeves of the thermal top,
his mind was already on the job ahead. Soon it would be time.

Later, after his ritual had been completed,
he had gone back to the parking garage, outwardly dressed much as
before. As he drove out of the garage he had adjusted the air
conditioning down to sixty, and slowly drove towards his
destination, careful to obey all traffic laws. Clouds had rolled in
over the city while he had prepared himself for the job, and a mist
of rain had begun to fall on the windshield, as the car crept to a
stop in front of the apartment complex. Nothing was unusual about
this building. It looked much like the others that lined both sides
of the street. Smith glanced at his phone, and closed the GPS
application. He had arrived at his destination. As he turned off
the ignition, he reached for the bottle of spring water in the cup
holder, opened the top and took a long slow drink. He returned the
plastic bottle to its holder, checked his holster for his gun, and
straightened his jacket. He was ready. He got out of the car and
walked up the steps to the door, and glanced across the list of
names on the buzzer panel. He reached for a button, punched it and
waited for someone to answer.

“Yeah?” The young female voice asked from the
speaker above the panel.

“Pizza delivery.” He said.

“I didn’t order pizza.”

“Oh I’m sorry, I hit the wrong button.” He
reached back towards the panel and pressed another button.

“Hello?” A gruff mail voice called.

“Pizza delivery.” He said.

“What? I ain’t ordered no damn pizza.”

“Sorry. I must have hit the wrong button.”
Again he reached to the panel and punched a button.

“Yes?” The frail voice of an older woman
asked.

“Mrs. Burnette?” He asked as he read the name
from the buzzer panel. “This is father Mahoney.” The tall man said
with a sudden thick Irish accent. “From Our Mother of Reverence? We
spoke last month, I believe. I was in the neighborhood and thought
I’d stop in and check on you.”

“Father Mahoney?”

“Yes. Father Mahoney with Our Mother of
Reverence?”

“I don’t recall speaking with you.”

“You told me then that you were having a
little trouble remembering things. But no matter, I just wanted to
make sure that you were feeling well.” He paused for a second, as
he gave her a moment to try her best to remember the nonexistent
conversation. “Could you buzz me in please, and I’ll come up for a
nice little chat.” Silence followed.

“I suppose. Just a second.” The woman said as
a smile spread across Smith’s face.

“The third time is always the charm.” He
whispered to himself. Suddenly an aggravating buzzing sound began
to come from the front door, and he opened it and entered the
apartment building. The foyer of the apartment building led to
double elevators, and as he pushed the button, one door opened. He
entered the empty elevator and punched the button for the third
floor, then patiently waited as the elevator began to climb. When
it stopped on the third floor, he peered out of the elevator,
ensured that the hallway was empty, and then walked directly to the
apartment that he was looking for. He rang the doorbell, and waited
for a response. He heard voices inside, the TV going, and a stereo
in the background, possibly in another room. Soon he heard
footsteps as they approached the door, and the door opened. The
middle-aged man from the photo on his phone stood in the
doorway.

“Can I help you?” He asked, as he sized up
Smith.

"Hi. You must be Johnny’s dad. I’m Ralph
Mahoney. From your son’s school? I’m with the PTA, and if I could,
I need to speak to your wife, Brenda." The man hesitated slightly
as he eyed him. Smith stood there and smiled, his hands in his
pockets. The man turned his back to the door and stepped back
inside.

“Brenda! It’s for you!” He said as the Smith
stepped inside behind him and quietly closed the door. He removed
his phone from his pocket, and as he slid the switch on the battery
compartment, a smile came to his face.

“We’ve got a nasty one." Howe said as he
stepped up to Jack’s desk. Jack held up a finger as he finished the
call he was on and hung up. He looked up. “Looks like another
execution case.” Howe said.