The Gunman from Guadalez Read online

He gave him a feral glare that silenced him and strolled out into the evening air, feeling the chill of late fall. After walking for ten minutes he saw the lights of the shopping mall like strings of gaudy Christmas baubles. Lighting up the route he had to take, and he grinned to himself. Someone up there was taking care of him.

  Now he would go there to finish the task the Jefe had given him. Although he couldn't remember the reason why, not that it mattered. Killing people was his job, so he kept on walking. He became confused and struggled to remember where he was.

  The mall. That’s it.

  Except he’d left his precious Panama in the motel room, so as he got nearer, he found a store with a rack of baseball caps outside, and he bought a cap with ‘Aerosmith’ emblazoned on the front. It covered most of the dressing over his head wound, and he knew from experience the peak would hide his profile from the CCTV. It irritated him he’d forgotten the hat. It wasn’t like him, for he preferred to cultivate an air of sophistication and wealth. A man nobody would suspect capable of staging a hit.

  Inside the Beechtree Mall he passed a security guard chatting to a young woman, and the guy didn't even look up to notice him. A few yards further he saw them, a woman with brown hair accompanied by two boys. They were aged around five and seven-years-old, just like his instructions had described. With the gun held low at his side he walked past them. Another few yards and he turned around, bringing up the gun. They were walking toward him, unaware of what awaited them.

  This was the way he liked to do his killing. Up close and personal. Look them in the face and see their shocked expressions as he whacked them. Watch the light dying from their eyes as the bullets tore into them. He squeezed the trigger and hit the woman first, knowing she'd react the fastest. A bullet in the forehead, and she was still dropping when he fired twice more. One bullet into the head of the nearest boy, and the other was starting to run, a more difficult target, so he drilled a bullet into his back, right behind the heart. He was dead before his body began to skid along the smooth floor.

  He’d done his work well, and he strolled toward the exit.

  Always walk, never run. Always appear innocent. A running man attracts attention.

  He passed the security guard, who was racing toward the chaos, gun out, as if the shooter would be crazy enough to be waiting at the scene of the crime. Out into the open, he breathed the fresh evening air. He walked along the street, ignoring the flashing lights of cop cruisers screaming past him, lights flashing, sirens wailing.

  Too late, amigos, much too late.

  When he chanced a look back, it was chaos. People running, screams of terrified children and their parents, and he felt good. He'd done his work, and he’d returned to the motel. The pain was back, jagged flashes of agony in his head, and he couldn't remember where he was. He snorted two lines, and it came back to him. He was here to kill someone in a shopping mall. A woman, brown hair, accompanied by two boys aged around five and seven.

  Tomorrow, I’ll find them. And kill them.

  Chapter One

  Earlier that day an unsuspecting Sheriff had answered the call, and it was yet another domestic dispute. He sighed as he put down the phone and got to his feet. Adjusting his hat to the correct angle, he looked in the small mirror he kept on the wall to make sure he projected the right image. He was satisfied. Uniform neat over his lean, five ten body, and he’d still fit into his Marine uniform if he needed to. Dark hair which showed beneath the brim of his hat, clean shaven and a strange contrast, vivid blue eyes, a legacy from his German father.

  Last, he put a hand to the holster on his belt. The Browning Hi-Power was where it should be, the custom walnut grips reassuringly familiar, and earlier he’d checked the magazine was loaded with ten .40 caliber slugs. It felt solid, heavy, and reassuring, with plenty of stopping power if he needed it. He’d carried the same model handgun all the way through his service in Afghanistan, and it never let him down.

  He reached the door and put out his hand for the final ritual, like he always did before he left the office. When he got the Sheriff’s job, he’d found the Browning M-60 machine gun in a weapons locker, gathering dust. It deserved better. An M-60 had once saved his life, and he’d mounted this one in a place of honor inside the door of his office. A good-luck talisman, like a lucky rabbit’s foot, not that any rabbit’s foot he’d ever heard of packed a punch like the M-60. The cold steel of the barrel was reassuring, and although he’d never need them, the ammunition belts were locked away, ready to load and put the gun to work, doing what they’d built it for. Satisfied, he left the office, climbed into his cruiser, and drove to the address. He didn’t need directions. He’d been there before.

  He braked to a halt outside the house and made sure his gun was snug in the holster. He didn't expect to use it. Sheriff Kazimir Walker, known by everyone as Kaz, always worked hard to keep things peaceful. Unlike his deputy Rick Tolley, who was waiting outside the house and wasn’t pleased to see him.

  Rick had been U.S. Infantry, a corporal in the clerk’s office at Bragg, and it was doubtful he’d ever fired a shot in anger. He was a big guy, with a hard, square face, crew cut, and small eyes that stared out at the world through a permanent, suspicious squint. He was well muscled but overweight and fleshy, and he used his weight to intimidate members of the public he came into contact with. There’d been several complaints about excessive brutality, but they were always withdrawn or suppressed on the orders of the mayor.

  “It’s Albert Carter again, the motherfucker, threatening to kill his wife. He’s taken her hostage and says he has a scattergun pointed at her head. He’ll pull the trigger if anyone tries to interfere. Sheriff, we need the SWAT guys in on this. I can get them here in minutes, and they’ll be itching for some action.”

  “I’ll handle it. Leave SWAT out of this.”

  “It’s what they’re trained to do, dammit. Why should we risk our lives?”

  “It’s my life I’m risking, Tolley, not yours. I said I’d handle it, so you can go back to the office. Why don’t you catch up with some paperwork?”

  Her returned a sullen shrug. “If you say so, Sheriff.”

  “I do say so.”

  “I’d send SWAT in there if it was me.”

  “I’m not you.”

  He knew Albert Carter well. He'd been fighting and arguing with his wife ever since he could remember. His problem wasn’t anything new. Alcohol, too much booze, and it started after his service in the U.S. Army. He'd served in Afghanistan, and he manifested the issues suffered by many veterans. Maybe he had PTSD, or maybe he didn't, but his wife needed protection. Sheriff Walker had no idea how he’d get him to lay aside his weapon. Probably he wanted nothing more than a sympathetic ear and to sober up. His job was to ensure he didn’t use the shotgun, like he’d threatened to kill his wife, or maybe himself.

  He banged on the door. "Albert, can you hear me?"

  "I hear yer!” The voice was slurred with drink, “Don't come any nearer! I'll kill her if you enter the house."

  “Albert, don’t do this. I know what it’s like. I served in Iraq, so I can imagine what you’re going through. Why don’t we talk this over like reasonable people?”

  He heard a bark of laughter. "Reasonable people! You don't know what it's like being married."

  Walker didn't reply at first. He did know what marriage was like, or rather he used to. That was when he had a wife, when she was still alive. "This is no way to handle things, Albert. How much have you had to drink?"

  "Not enough!"

  He frowned. There was no other way to resolve this but to go inside, and he didn't want either party to be hurt. "Listen to me. Don't shoot. I'm opening the door!"

  "I'll kill her!"

  “No, you won’t.”

  He pushed the door open slowly, and it wasn't locked. He walked through the hallway into the living room. Albert was standing there with his wife Kayleigh. He hadn’t lied; the double barrel shotgun was pointed at her head. If he pul
led the trigger, it’d take off her head. He kept his hand away from his sidearm, appearing relaxed to the man in front of him. He wasn’t relaxed. He’d tensed his muscles, ready to leap aside, draw, and shoot in the blink of an eye, if it came to it.

  God help me. Don’t let him kill this woman.

  "Albert, why don't we talk about this?" He noticed a bottle of cheap vodka on the coffee table and pointed to it. The gun barrel wavered. "Help yourself to another drink. You'll feel better while we chat."

  He hesitated for less than a second before the appeal of the booze overcame his caution. "I’m not stupid, so don’t try anything when I reach for the bottle. I’ll shoot her dead.”

  "That’s okay, we’re cool. You can see my hands are empty. I’m not holding a weapon."

  The gun barrel moved a fraction away from Kayleigh's head as he reached for the bottle. When it was pointing a couple of feet away as he bent down to pick up the bottle, Walker moved. He could have drawn the Hi-Power and put a bullet in him without any trouble, but the guy needed someone to help him, not to kill him. Just six feet separated them, and he hurled himself forward with arms reaching out.

  The girl screamed, Albert snarled a curse and swung the barrel back around, but the Sheriff blocked it with his forearm. He grabbed the muzzle and reached out with the other hand to grip the guy’s shirtfront. He used the weight and power of his dive to push him over backward, and as he went over the shotgun pointed at the ceiling, and Albert squeezed the trigger. The explosion inside the room was massive, the girl screamed again, and chunks of plaster showered down from the ceiling. They wrestled for the gun and he wouldn't let go. Until Albert pulled away and Kaz put his other hand on the butt, twisted and wrenched it from his grip.

  Albert gasped with pain. "You broke my finger! I'll sue you for that!"

  "Sure, you will."

  He broke the gun open, ejected the unspent cartridge, and tossed it to one side. Albert was trying to get up, and he pushed him into an armchair. "Sit there and keep quiet. Kayleigh, are you hurt?"

  "No, I'm not hurt. No thanks to the stupid bastard I married.”

  He gave her a sympathetic frown. "We all go through rough patches, but people get over it."

  "What’re you going to do with him, Sheriff? Send him to prison?"

  He chuckled. "Not this time. I'll put him in the tank overnight until he sobers up. Some hot, strong coffee and a night's sleep, and he'll be fine by the morning."

  “Well…” She looked at her husband, considering what he said, “If you think so.”

  “I do.” He looked at Albert. "I'm taking the gun to the evidence locker. When I release you in the morning you can come back here, provided you don't harm your wife. But until I'm satisfied she's not in any danger, I'll keep the gun locked away."

  Albert was drinking from the vodka bottle as if nothing had happened. "Can I take the bottle with me?"

  "Nope, I’d finish it if I were you." He looked at the girl. "Kayleigh, does he have much liquor stored in the house?"

  "Some."

  "Pour it all down the sink. When he comes back, try to persuade him to stay sober, at least for a while. How about you get him into a program?”

  "I don't want him back, Sheriff."

  "Not now, but you’ll feel different tomorrow."

  “I doubt it.”

  He took the prisoner out into the yard, put him in the back of the cruiser and the shotgun into the trunk. He didn't cuff him. There was no need to rile him any further. Besides, he couldn't open the doors or get through to the driver, which was protected with a Perspex screen. He drove to his office and pulled him from the car. Inside, his deputy Rick Tolley was still smarting after he’d sent him away. He glanced up from the computer screen, and Kaz opined he'd been playing an online game, or maybe surfing the net while he worked on his grudge.

  He shifted his gaze to Albert and his nostrils flared. "You want me to book that worthless piece of shit him and transfer him to the county jail?"

  "No, just keep him overnight until he sobers up." He made sure Albert was paying attention. "This really is your last chance. Next time you go to jail, and that’s a promise. I can persuade the judge to give you a minimum term of one year."

  "One year! What for?"

  "To keep your wife safe. Put him in the tank, Rick."

  Deputy Tolley led him to the back, and Kaz glanced at the clock. Almost lunchtime, he'd been meaning to pay a visit today, which was an important anniversary. He waited until Tolley returned and told him he'd be gone for an hour.

  Walking into the cemetery, he recalled the day his wife died. His mind often went back to that day, and it always did when he came to this place. It was a drug shooting, just her bad luck she'd been in a diner when a bunch of narcos came past in a beat-up Chevy truck and one started shooting. First with a .22 pistol, and then two men cut loose with AK-47s on full auto. The target was a competitor who was eating burger and chips inside, but Sheryl got in the way. Afterward, the Chief Medical Examiner established she'd taken two .22 bullets, both into her heart.

  Doc Weatherby was sympathetic to his pain and loss. "She never stood a chance, Kaz. All I can say is she didn't suffer. I'm sorry."

  He’d hidden his tears in public, knowing they’d come later, in private. She'd been his first real ‘head over heels’ love. She was working in a store, helping out a friend when he met her. He took one look, and the thunderbolt hit him. From that moment there was no one else. There’d never be anyone to replace her.

  They never found the shooter, although he never gave up looking. He’d screwed corkboards to the walls of the spare room of his house and pinned up every scrap of information about the killing; photos, diagrams, names of possible suspects, descriptions of vehicles passing at the time, witness statements, every single detail. He’d missed nothing, and yet he found nothing. It was as if a ghost had killed her.

  As usual, he walked through the cemetery, relishing this special time when he felt he was alone with his wife’s memory. He stood over the grave for a half-hour and talked to her in his head. If there was nobody nearby, he spoke the words aloud, like now, although he felt embarrassed if anyone was within earshot.

  As always, he promised her he’d locate the guy who murdered her. And as always, he had to tell her he’d drawn a blank, and the chances of finding the killer dwindled with each day that passed. The investigation was going nowhere, and he’d started to accept the task he’d set himself was impossible. He murmured an apology to Sheryl, said goodbye, and returned to the office. He hadn’t eaten lunch. He never did when he came here. He wasn’t hungry. Like always.

  The Mayor’s building was next door to his office, and he saw William Bridges peering out the window as he pulled up. A moment later he came out to the front and waited for him.

  “Sheriff, I need a word.”

  “Now?”

  Bridges shuffled uneasily, as if embarrassed about something. “It can’t wait. I’ve been working through my budget for the coming year, and we need to make cutbacks.”

  “Mr. Mayor, there’s no room for any cutbacks. The cupboard’s bare, and we’re overstretched as it is. We’re working flat out, twenty-four seven.”

  He was shaking his head, his expression a dark scowl. “There’s no money, Sheriff, so you’ll have to lose a deputy.”

  “Will, I…”

  “Don’t call me Will,” he snapped, “It’s William. I’m the Mayor of this city, how many times do I have to tell you? I’m also telling you to start thinking about who you can let go. Let me know at the next budget meeting. That’s in ten days’ time, the Monday after Black Friday.”

  “That should be a busy time.”

  He snorted. “The way trade has been lately it better be busy, or businesses will start to close. Let me know about that deputy. I want a name.”

  Bridges left him and Sheriff Walker entered his office, thinking about what he’d said about losing a deputy. It was true nothing much happened in Lewes. No mass shooting
s, and the drug problem so far hadn’t got too far out of hand. Then again, his wife had died in a drug-related killing, so maybe it was more of a problem than people admitted.

  He worked through the rest of the day, and it was early evening when he finished some paperwork, left the office, and went home. When he entered the living room he switched on the TV, and the news was about an ambush by the Mexican Federales inside the Centro Commercial Shopping Mall, Ciudad Juarez. They claimed it as a victory over organized crime, and there was plenty of talk about ‘turning a new page in Mexican law enforcement.’

  It was true they’d managed to avert a mass killing, which was commendable, even though the suspect had escaped, and that wasn’t commendable. They followed the story with the usual stuff, ‘armed and dangerous, do not approach,’ and he switched off. Not his problem, another shooting in Ciudad. No surprise.

  It’s in Mexico, not our jurisdiction. Thank God it doesn’t happen here.

  The phone rang, and it was his deputy, Rick Tolley. “Sheriff, we have a problem.”

  “Dammit, Rick, I left the office less than a half-hour ago.”

  “There’s been a shooting, a woman and her two sons. It happened in Beechtree Mall, and the bad news is the guy got away.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  He raced out the door, climbed into his cruiser, switched on the lights and sirens, and floored the gas pedal. He’d forgotten to ask Rick which hospital they’d taken the victims to, but when he arrived at Beechtree, he knew the question was irrelevant. A security guard was standing outside the doors, his face as white as Christmas in Alaska.

  “How are they, the victims?”

  The parking lot was in chaos, people screaming in terror, running every which way, and he returned a look of astonishment. “You don’t know? They’re dead. One shot each, and he didn’t miss.”

  He walked inside, and he couldn’t believe the scene that greeted him. Not much had happened, at least, not since Sheryl was murdered. For two years everything had been peaceful, and now that peace had come to a sudden and shattering end. Three bodies lay on the floor covered in blood. The woman had once been pretty, with medium length dark hair, and the two boys looked like they’d been neat and well dressed, just like their mom. Blood had pooled on the floor, a ghastly backdrop. Rick Tolley was bending down, looking at an empty cartridge case. He picked it up with a hand encased in a surgical glove and popped it into a clear plastic evidence bag. He looked up, saw Kaz Walker, and nodded.