Chris Carter - The Executioner

As Garcia twisted the doorknob, he felt his blood warming and his pulse race. Every bone in his body was telling him something was wrong. He reached for his gun.

The door opened soundlessly, revealing a long and narrow flight of concrete stairs dimly lit by a single bulb that hung from a wire. At the bottom, another closed door. Garcia took the steps one at a time. The air was damp and heavy with a musty smell. His left foot caught the edge of a worn step and he slipped. His body was catapulted forward awkwardly, and he reached for the dirty walls, desperately trying to stop him from tumbling down. It worked, but he smashed his flashlight. His heart went into overdrive. Despite the cold, Garcia was sweating.

His eyes quickly moved from the door at the bottom to the one at the top several times, his finger tight at the trigger of his semiautomatic. He took a moment to calm his breathing and reassess the situation. He was sure that if the house wasn’t deserted, his clumsiness had given away his position.

‘Smooth, Carlos, very fucking smooth,’ Garcia whispered between clenched teeth. He stood still for a while, listening for footsteps, waiting for somebody to come from one of the two directions – nothing. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his gun hand and descended the last few steps. At the bottom he pressed his right ear against the door once again. The humming sound was coming from inside.

Extra-cautiously, he tried the handle – unlocked. He pushed the door open just enough for him to be able to take a peek inside. It was a large basement room. Garcia observed from the door for a long moment but saw no movement. Satisfied, he took a deep breath, steadied his trigger finger and stepped inside. A series of brass lanterns mounted at uneven intervals on each of the two long side walls lit the room with a pale glow. He walked forward slowly, giving his eyes time to get accustomed to the poor light. Something caught his eye on the north side of the room and he stopped dead, his gaze fixed on the display in front of him. He knew exactly what it was.

‘Oh God!’ He shivered.

At the edge of his peripheral vision he saw a smudge of movement, too fast for him to be able to react. The first blow hit him perfectly across the face. He heard something crack and blood spurted from his nose. Out of balance, Garcia stumbled backwards, but not far enough. The second blow was delivered a split second later, hitting the tender spot on the back of his head with military precision. Garcia’s world faded to darkness.

Hunter stopped suddenly, as if sensing something wasn’t right. He’d been through three of the six upstairs rooms and so far he’d found nothing to substantiate his theory. He unholstered his H &K USP Tactical pistol and turned around, half expecting someone to walk in on him. He heard something, he was sure of it. Some sort of crash.

Carlos . He quickly and quietly moved back downstairs.

‘Carlos?’ he whispered at the bottom of the stairwell.

No answer.

He moved into the next room – a large sitting area. ‘Carlos?’

Silence. The house was still. Stealthily, Hunter made his way through the French doors at the end of the room and entered the den.

‘Carlos, goddamnit. I’m getting tired of saving your ass. Where the hell are you?’ But if Garcia was in this room, he wasn’t talking.

On the opposite wall he saw the dimly lit, small doorway that led to the stairs going down to the basement.

‘I hate basements,’ he murmured and moved down the steps as quietly as he could. Halfway down, Hunter saw broken pieces of thin glass on one of the steps. He also noticed scratch marks on the walls and a small dent, where Garcia’s flashlight had hit it.

What the fuck happened here? His internal danger sensor started to scream at him.

The door at the bottom was ajar, and through the small gap Hunter could see that the room was large and in half darkness. He steadied his back against the wall and pushed the door open with his fingertips. From his outside position, he took in as much of the room as he could before checking his corners and finally stepping through the door. Crude brick walls surrounded the spacious area that was twice the size of the large party room upstairs. The air was saturated with a gagging, fusty smell. But there was something else in that basement room Hunter couldn’t identify. Something that made his skin crawl. Something very evil.

At the far end he could see a long metal table that served as a counter for several instruments, but he couldn’t make them out from where he was. There were seven life-sized dummies lined up against the wall. To their right there were drawings, sketches, timetables and plans. Hunter recognized what they were for before he saw the pictures. Large photographs of seven different people taken from all angles. The photos were divided into distinct groups clearly numbered one through seven. The first five had been marked with a large red cross over them. Hunter held his breath as he stared again at the photographs of the first five victims of the killer the press was calling the Executioner. The killer’s research had been impeccable.

From behind the wide pillar that sat three-quarters of the way down the room, Hunter heard a mumbling sound. A split second later an office chair was wheeled from behind it. Hunter stood fast as he saw Garcia. He was unconscious and bleeding from the nose – it looked broken. His ankles had been tied to the base of the chair, his hands cuffed behind his back to the chair’s backrest. Hunter lifted his gun in expectation. What else would come from behind the pillar?

He saw a black Sig P226 Elite pistol being pointed at his partner’s head. Hunter recognized the weapon as Garcia’s semiautomatic.

‘Put your gun down, detective,’ the man commanded from his hidden position. Only his arm was visible. In such dim light, Hunter didn’t have a clear shot. ‘Put your gun down nice and slowly or I’ll scatter your partner’s brain all over the floor.’

Hunter stood still, his aim as steady as it could be. He only needed one chance.

‘You’ve seen what I’ve done,’ the man continued. ‘I’m sure you know I’m not bluffing.’ His voice was as serene as it’d been the first time they’d met. ‘I’ll give you only a second.’ He cocked the gun.

‘OK,’ Hunter called out before cautiously placing his pistol on the floor.

‘Now kick it this way.’

Hunter did as he was told and his gun stopped just a foot away from the chair Garcia was on.

Finally, Dan Tyler, the owner of the house in Malibu and the person who tipped Hunter and Garcia about the photographs on the fireplace, stepped out from behind the pillar and picked Hunter’s pistol up from the floor. ‘Walk towards me, slowly. Any sudden movements, your partner dies first.’

Hunter took baby steps towards Tyler and, as he did, Tyler walked backwards, approaching the metal table. ‘That’s far enough,’ he said as Hunter came side by side with Garcia. ‘Get your handcuffs from your gun holster and throw me the keys. I don’t have to tell you to do it very slowly, do I?’

Hunter followed the instructions.

‘Now cuff your hands behind your back.’

A clicking sound echoed through the room.

‘Turn around and show it to me.’

Hunter obeyed, snapping at them to show they were secure.

‘Now kneel down next to your partner and sit on your heels.’

Hunter’s determined eyes never left Tyler’s face.

‘It’s over, Michael,’ he said evenly. ‘You know you won’t be able to get away with this.’

Tyler looked undisturbed. ‘No one has called me Michael in a very long time.’ He chuckled. ‘I don’t want to get away with anything, detective. I don’t have anything or anyone to get away to. After I’m done, I don’t care what happens to me. My life ended a year ago.’