Oliver Stark - 88 Killer

Harper called through on the radio: ‘We’re nearly there, people. Get the rest of them cuffed and move them out of here. We need to get this whole place cleared.’

Harper saw the big guy from the truck disappear down an alley with two other rioters. Not wanting any of these cowards to escape, he darted after them, back up the alleyway. As they headed back to their truck, Harper pulled out his badge and called: ‘NYPD. Stop! Drop your weapons — now.’

The lead guy stopped and turned. He saw that Harper was alone. Harper saw them come at him. Three of them and he was the only thing stopping their escape. A hammer flew at him, hard and low. If it hit, it would break his leg. Harper jumped out of the way and the hammer smashed into the brick wall.

‘I didn’t appreciate that,’ said Harper. ‘Not one bit.’ The second hammer rose high and flew across him. It was easy to avoid. Hammers were slow and heavy. Harper pulled the rioter towards him. He landed a boot in his groin and butted him to the ground. The other two came in fast. One jabbed at Harper with the ax, while the second guy threatened a big blow to his head.

Harper backed to the wall. An ax, a hammer and two frightened and desperate rioters. There was no fear, just the thumping of his pulse and the softening of the boundaries between his mind and his body. He could hear the screeching of alarms in the background. He could smell the smoke. He could even see the fear in the two sets of eyes staring out through their masks. He felt the wall at his back, the ax-head thump in his stomach again, the hammer press against his shoulder, being driven backwards like some beast.

Harper calculated they were just out of reach of his fists. He needed to get closer, inside the range of their weapons. He ducked, pushed the hammer away with his right shoulder, and moved inside the ax-head using his left arm. It gave him what he needed: something within his reach. He came up from below, delivering a thunderous uppercut to the hammer guy and an elbow to the lead. The hammer guy dropped his weapon and crumpled, dazed. The lead guy was shaken but not out. Harper moved in. This was no boxing match, this was a street fight. His right boot scraped hard down the man’s shin and dug into his foot, while his arms reached up, grabbed the masked head and tugged it forward at speed. His knee then came up hard to meet the head. There was a loud crack and then a thud as the guy hit the ground.

Harper knelt down and pulled off his mask. ‘You want more?’ The man’s nose was split wide open, and his eyes had that lost look that Harper had seen so many times in the ring. ‘I said, do you want more ?’

The man shook his head. Harper grabbed him. ‘Where’s Martin Heming?’

‘Fuck you,’ he gasped. ‘Heming isn’t here. Heming is cleaning up.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Yeah, like I’d tell you.’

Harper raised his fist, then stopped himself and stood. He had to use his head now. What would Heming be cleaning up?

Brownsville, Brooklyn

March 12, 11.45 p.m.

Harper was sitting on the hood of his car looking out over the destruction with Denise. Eddie Kasper was in the back of an ambulance talking to a young female paramedic with cute dark brown eyes. Any opportunity , Harper thought.

‘What now?’

Harper looked at Denise. ‘We’ve got twenty-four more individuals to talk to, so we can hope that they’ve heard of Sturbe or that they know where Heming is hiding. But how helpful are they going to be?’

‘No sign of Heming, then?’ she asked.

‘He wasn’t here. The guy I took out said he was “cleaning up”.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I’ve been trying to work it out.’ Harper took a call on his cell phone. It was Mark Garcia. ‘Where are you?’ said Harper.

‘Just taken our arrests to the cells. I’m back at McRory’s. Where are you?’

‘I’m still at the scene. You found something?’

‘Yeah, we found the black cards. They all just have the address in Borough Park. They were ditched in the toilets, torn-up and flushed. They weren’t careful. Quite a few pieces were on the floor.’

‘So what’s the news?’

‘One of the cards didn’t have the address on it.’

‘What did it have on it?’

‘We only got two pieces of it. On the right hand side it just says SS and 88. The word Obedience is in the top right corner.’

Harper said, ‘Thanks. Not sure what it means. The SS, the 88 and the motto… Hold on, Garcia.’

‘What?’

‘The other cards. Did they have the 88 on them?’

‘Not that we found.’

‘Neither did the card we found in Lukanov’s place with Denise’s name on it. Keep that card, Garcia, I want to see it. It might be the killer’s card, which means he might be out tonight, with a new target. Oh, and one more thing…’

‘What’s that?’

‘We need the name on that card. They could be in danger. Get the sewers checked out. The card might be somewhere.’

‘You’re kidding? You want me to search the sewage?’

‘It’s someone’s life, Garcia, and I never kid.’

Harper called the investigation center and got through to Swanson, who had returned earlier.

‘What you got, boss?’

‘We’ve got the potential of a hit tonight,’ Harper said.

‘What’s the lead?’

‘Black card with the moniker 88 and the letters SS.’

‘No name, I guess.’

‘No name. We just got the half with the SS and 88.’

‘What do you want me to do?’ Swanson asked.

‘I want to see if we can get as many patrol cars on the streets of Manhattan as possible.’

‘Yeah, right — double overtime. I’ll ask, Harper.’

‘Put me through to Lafayette, can you?’

‘Sure, but he’s gonna say the same thing.’

Harper waited. The SS. The Nazis’ elite force. The previous card didn’t have the SS written on it. Perhaps there were different cards for different things. Some with names, others not.

Lafayette picked up. ‘Yes, Harper.’

There was silence on the line. Harper was thinking again. SS … Then he made a connection. What was Heming going to clean up? He was going to clean up any shit that could incriminate him.

‘Jesus!’ shouted Harper. ‘We got to go!’

‘Harper, what is it?’ demanded Lafayette.

‘I got to go,’ Harper repeated. He disconnected and slid across the hood of the car. ‘Get in,’ he ordered Denise.

The car was moving in an instant, eating up gravel and screeching out of the gates.

‘What is it?’

‘They found a black card with the letters SS.’

‘So what? We know Sturbe was a member of the SS. Our killer likes to use these monikers and symbols.’

‘Yeah, that’s what I thought too. If I’d seen it, I’d have known immediately, but I didn’t. I just heard over the radio.’

‘What would you have known?’

‘The SS doesn’t stand for the Shutzstaffel or whatever it was. It’s the last two letters of a name. All the cards have names on, right?’

‘Becky Glass,’ said Denise. ‘Was that Becky’s card?’

‘Not Becky Glass,’ said Harper. ‘Becky Glass is dead.’

‘Then what?’

‘There’s only one possibility. Her kids — Jerry and Ruth Glass.’

The Safe House, Manhattan

March 12, 11.47 p.m.

Jerry and Ruth Glass were being held in a well-used temporary safe house in the city on 14th Street. It was a two-story building with an anonymous-looking façade, a used Chevy out front and a yard scattered with kids’ toys like any normal family home.