The Killing Hands

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

15 years ago
Tokyo, Japan

H
e took another long drag of the cigarette and flicked the butt, mesmerized by its perfect arc and fall. The red embers glowed against the white snow for a moment before the cold wetness engulfed them. The butt lay next to roughly ten others, but he wasn't really counting. He'd been freezing his ass off for an hour, catching a glimpse every now and again of a silhouette. Some of his peers would have grown impatient and charged into the small apartment, taking out both the target and his mistress. The killing of a wife would never be sanctioned, never forgiven, but a mistress…they were expendable. But why kill an innocent woman just to avoid discomfort? It was unnecessary and uncivilized; and this business could still be conducted with honor—his father had taught him that. He sighed. It wouldn't be much longer now. The mark rarely spent more than an hour with his mistress.

He returned his gaze to the window, and the entrance. Waiting. This was a big hit, and as the time dragged by he felt himself growing anxious. It was paramount that no one link the killing to him, or his boss. It had to be fast and discreet, no half-alive victim and no witnesses. He must live up to the honor bestowed upon him. To be trusted with this
kill…It wasn't his first, and probably wouldn't be his last, but the high-profile nature of the target made him keen to get it over with. The warmth of his fiancée's bed also called to him. He'd had many other women, but she was different, special. She was the only one he'd wanted to marry.

His fingers slipped inside his down jacket until he felt the cold hardness of his gun. It was instinct to check it every few minutes, to make sure he could draw it fast. He looked up at the window again—movement. This time the silhouettes were moving toward the door. He slipped his hand into his inside jacket pocket again and withdrew the gun, glancing up and down the street. He could take the shot from the doorway and then slink back into the shadows, before inserting himself into the crowd that would gather around the body. The entrance light flicked on and the target came down the stairs, smiling and buttoning his full-length overcoat. A satisfied man.

He leaned back into the doorway and brought the gun up. The mark had only taken two steps onto the pavement when the bullet hit him, piercing his lung and nicking his heart. The perfect shot. He staggered backward, the smile gone from his face, and slumped against the outer glass door before sliding slowly down it. The killer watched the blood pooling and melting the snow ever so slightly, just like his cigarette butt had moments before. He smiled, happy with the visual analogy. And happy with the amount of blood. His shot had been good.

It wasn't long before the crowd gathered. He moved onto the street, toward his victim, ready to confirm the kill. Then something, a feeling of being watched, made him look up. The mistress stared directly at him from her window. They both froze, eyes locked. Then she ran, and he ran. She'd seen him. She'd recognized him.

He pushed past the dead mark and into the apartment complex, racing up the stairs. As he rounded the last step onto her floor, he saw her hurtling up the stairs and away from her apartment. She was barefoot, dressed only in a jade-colored negligee. He ran, confident he'd soon catch up.

She looked over her shoulder, panicked. “Help!” she screamed, but her plea for help was cut short as he put his hand around her mouth.

“Shh.”

She struggled, kicking.

He didn't want to kill her. He'd never killed a woman before. It wasn't right. But the other option—failing his boss—was much worse.

He took a deep breath before grabbing her head in both hands and twisting. He heard the snap as her neck broke and then her body went limp in his arms. He let her fall gently to the ground, her long black hair fanning out around her milky-white skin. Her eyes were open, staring at him, judging him. She looked so helpless, so still, in her lingerie with her neck at an unnatural angle. He'd had no choice…he had to kill her. But still…

He stood motionless, trying to let his rational side catch up to his actions. He must get rid of her body. Quickly.

I
wake up to my 6:00 a.m. alarm and automatically reach for my notebook. I don't remember dreaming or waking last night, but sometimes when I dream I have no recollection the next morning, so I always check the dream diary on my bedside table. This morning I see the words
Someone shot
scrawled across the page. Someone shot…not exactly my most illuminating dream. It doesn't sound like any of my current cases—at the moment I'm profiling a series of rapes in The Valley and the homicide of a young boy who was beaten to death in a video-game arcade. No bullets, no gunshot wounds. So far the dream diary I started a month ago hasn't given me much, but I wanted to start recording as many of my dreams as possible…given some of them come true.

Half an hour later I jump on the gym scales and the digital readout levels off at 136.4. I smile, but while I am happy with my weight from an aesthetic point of view, for me it's about a lot more than getting into a size-eight dress or looking good in lingerie for my man. Besides, it's been
a while since anyone's seen me in lingerie—a fact that I'm happy about most of the time. No, it's about health for me. I know firsthand that fitness can be the difference between life and death and I don't want to haul more than a hundred and forty-five pounds in a chase.

The Bureau used to test field agents every year, making sure they fell within a set weight range and that they could pass a physical, including fitness tests…until the 1990s, when a judge found in favor of a discrimination lawsuit. However, I agree with the Bureau's original stance, and so I plan to test myself every year, using the Bureau's physical requirements for its new recruits—the only time agents now need to meet the weight requirements and prove their physical fitness.

I've asked Mercedes Diaz, one of the L.A. field office's IT resources and my workout partner, to help put me through my paces. Diaz is five-six and all lean muscle, accentuated by a natural olive skin tone—no fake tan required. While her job may be tied to a computer, she makes up for her sedentary nine-to-five routine with lots of exercise. Our shared obsession has made us friends—we kept running into each other at the gym and eventually planned our workouts together. I hardly use my apartment's gym anymore, opting for the better facilities at FitnessOne, only a block away from the office. This morning it's busy as usual, but everybody starts a new fitness regime on a Monday, right?

Mercedes hovers over the mat I'm lying on. “This will be a breeze for you, Sophie.”

“Hopefully,” I say, even though I know I'm incredibly fit at the moment. FBI recruits need twelve points across a series of tests to pass, and members of the Bureau's elite Hostage Rescue Team (HRT) need twenty. I want to push myself and make twenty.

“Ready?”

“Yep.” I lie on the mat, hands behind my head and elbows back.

Mercedes brings up her stopwatch, finger poised, and counts me in. I work on my abs a lot, with stomach exer
cises and pilates, but I still only have a four-pack not a six-or eight-pack. A genetic potbelly makes the lower four bumps pretty much unachievable, unless I starve myself to the verge of anorexia. Besides, I like the rounded look.

When Mercedes calls time after one minute, I've clocked up forty-eight sit-ups, equal to five points. Next I flip over for the push-ups, skipping the three-hundred meter sprint, which is too hard to do on the treadmill. Mercedes and I are meeting at Westwood Park right near my place tomorrow morning for the sprint test. I'm aiming for around fifty-six seconds, but I know that will be tough. Likewise, I'll have to push myself for the push-ups, but at least they're not timed—it's just pump out as many as you can.

I line my hands up directly below my shoulders and stretch my legs out fully. Mercedes checks my posture and pushes my bottom down slightly—no cheating, even though this isn't a real test.

“No more than an inch between your face and the mat, Sophie.” Mercedes and I push each other during our workouts and today is no different.

“Give a girl a break, Mercedes.”

“You don't need any breaks, Sophie,” she says with a smile. “Hit it.”

I lower myself all the way down and push up. Even after fifteen I'm slowing down. Fifteen is only one point on the Bureau's scale, and while that is the Bureau's minimum requirement for each activity, it's not enough for me. I keep going, pushing my muscles as each one gets harder and my arms threaten to shake.

“Keep it low,” Mercedes says, both warning and encouraging me as I sink into my twentieth push-up. Twenty is two points. I decide to force myself to twenty-two and three points. The last push-up is slow and my shaking arms are on the verge of collapse, but I manage it. I flop onto my stomach, my biceps and triceps cramping.

“Excellent.”

“Mmm…” It's hardly excellent, but I know my upper body is my weak point.

After a few arm stretches and a couple of minutes I move onto the treadmill for the one-and-a-half-mile run. In this one, the number of points is determined by how long it takes. I normally run fast—nine or ten miles an hour—which means the run should take me around ten minutes. And that'll give me the full ten points for the task.

The rhythm comes easily, and ten minutes and five seconds later I clock up the distance. I slow the treadmill to a steady walking pace.

“Ten, five. You'd outrun most of the guys in the office.” Mercedes gives me a little wink.

That's the point—to be able to outrun most men. One man that comes to mind is AmericanPsycho, the president of an online group of serial killers that we took down eight months ago. We got three of the four members, but he managed to escape. Mercedes knows about AmericanPsycho; unfortunately most of the office does, given he sends me a single red rose on the first of every month. But I don't point out that at some stage in my future I might have a sadistic serial killer on my tail—literally.

“You're already up to eighteen points, but if you were at the Academy you'd still need to get a point in the sprint.”

I nod. One point means I have to run the three hundred meters in less than 64.9 seconds. Totally doable, given I'm aiming for fifty-six. Looks like I'll make my goal of twenty.

“What you got on today?” Mercedes jumps on the treadmill next to mine and starts walking.

“I'm working on that boy's murder, the one I was telling you about.”

Mercedes nods with a little wince. In her job, she's often removed from the case details.

The murder victim's a fourteen-year-old boy who was found in the men's restroom of an arcade in South Central. I think this case bothers Mercedes because she's got a nephew that age, so she's personalized the case. Every case gets to me, one way or another, but I consciously try not to relate to the victim too much. It's hard to be objective when I'm a profiler—after all, part of my job is to get into the
minds of the killer and victims—but I still need a buffer. I need to be able to come up for air and, more important, stay up.

The LAPD believes the perpetrator is a youth and that the death may be gang related, but two weeks after the murder they still had lots of suspects without any hard evidence, so they sent the case details to George Rosen, the head of the Criminal Division, and requested a profile of the perp.

“Don't worry, Soph. You'll get to it.”

“I better.” The case has been on the back burner for the past couple of weeks, with other cases taking precedence. I increase the treadmill's speed, moving back into a fast jog. “It's been four weeks since his murder and every time I bump the boy down the list I can't help but think about his parents.”

“Can you finish it today?” Mercedes asks.

“If I get the whole day, yeah.” Problem is, my caseload has been heavy and I've already been putting in thirteen-hour days, plus some time on the weekends. L.A.'s got a high murder rate—one murder every twenty-six hours according to the L.A. Sheriff's Department. And that's only in L.A. County, not the wider area that the Bureau services. It makes assigning the whole day to the boy's case difficult—who knows what will come my way?

 

A couple of hours later I'm sitting at my desk with the boy's file open when George Rosen pays me a visit. I immediately notice he's carrying a file, but that's not surprising given that most of my profiling work originates from his division—homicide, kidnapping, sexual assault, armed robberies and so on.

“We've got a new request from the LAPD. A homicide. We're waiting on identification of the body and the autopsy report, but the injuries are a little strange.”

“How so?”

“The throat and hyoid bone have been crushed.”

That doesn't sound so strange to me. “Strangulation,” I say, even though to crush the hyoid bone rather than simply break it requires substantial force.

“Not exactly. Here's what I received from the LAPD.” Rosen slides the file across my desk.

When I flip it open, the photo of the victim hits me. He's lying on top of a couple of stray bricks and wood, partially propped up against a fence that surrounds a building site. The front of his throat almost looks as though it's been ripped off, like an animal grabbed him by the throat, pulled and then let go. The front section of the vic's throat hangs limply, and congealed blood covers the skin, exposed muscle and the bricks on which his head rests.

“And I'm guessing there's no report of a wild dog in the area,” I say sarcastically.

Rosen raises an eyebrow. “No.”

I guess the sarcasm was lost.

“This is a fresh one—it happened yesterday. Brady's approved your involvement.”

I nod. Brady's the big boss, the assistant director in charge of the L.A. office. Brady and I didn't exactly get off on the right foot when I started here in August, but over the past four months I like to think I've won him over. I've also realized that his general manner is a little distant, so he wasn't as annoyed with me in that first week as I thought.

Rosen continues. “He said to work it in with your other cases…sorry. And given the LAPD's called us in so early, I'd like you to make it your priority.”

I see a flash of my fourteen-year-old boy, James Santorini.