WidowMaker (2 page)

“Damn it, Jake! That was real,” Drew yelled, as he crouched down on all fours alongside the
Twilight
wannabe, trying to see into the basement.

In between bursts of laughter, Jake panted, “You are so freakin’ lame! That was the cheapest publicity stunt in the book, and you fell for it!”

Jake swiped the tears from his eyes. Remembering the look on Drew’s face made him burst out laughing all over again. What a dumbass! It was a classic “Boo, I’ve got you!” trick. Drew probably had the tread marks on his tighty whities to show for it.

“No way, man! She grabbed me! Look, that’s blood on my pants!” Amped, Drew pointed to the red coating his jeans.

A tortured scream came from the front of the line. Jake spun toward the entrance of the building as a man stumbled through the door, blood dripping from his eyes. He lurched, frantically clawing at his face. Jake knew better, but it looked like actual bone glistening beneath the shredded skin. Veins throbbed before being torn open, gushing blood down the man’s shirt.

Bile burned up Jake’s throat. Now he regretted adding the extra hot sauce to his fast food taco.

“Holy shit,” the Edward-phile exclaimed. His eyes wide, mouth agape like a kid in a candy store. “They’re pullin’ out all the stops.”

Jake cleared his throat. “Jesus, it’s so fake.”

He tried to play it off like he didn’t just pee his pants. As chunks of cheek landed on the pure, white snow, Jake had to avert his gaze even as he asserted, “Don’t they know we’re horror connoisseurs? That blood’s
way
too red! It’s gotta be watered-down ketchup.”

But just thinking about the moist flesh and the glistening red made his stomach twist. He was gonna have to find a condiment other than ketchup to put on his burgers. And maybe even hold off on the medium-well burgers for a while.

The crowd surged forward, nearly knocking Drew to the ground as Jake grabbed hold of the lamppost to keep from doing a face plant. The sound of sirens wailed in the distance.

“What happened?” someone behind him asked. The answers ranged from “slipped on ice” to “Ebola virus.”

“Ebola in Park City? Guys, it’s just good special effects,” Jake shouted to anyone who would listen. Were these people really that stupid to believe this was real? Sure, it was gross, but real?

A kinda cute girl careened out of the building as red and blue lights announced the ambulance’s arrival. Seeming oblivious to everything and anything, the short-skirt ran directly in its path. The crowd screamed in unison. Brakes squealed as the ambulance swerved, missing the chick by mere inches.

Drew’s bony elbow caught Jake in the ribs not once, but twice. “Oh my God, dude! I told you the movie made people do some freaky shit!” Drew pushed a college-aged preppy out of the way to get a better view.

“Dude, this is just excellent marketing. Making losers like you think the movie can kill them.”

As the EMTs restrained the man from further ruining his face, Drew shook his head so hard that the dusting of snowflakes on his hair became airborne again.

“No, freaking way, Jake. This is real.”

“They are trying to sell a crappy horror film.” Jake explained. “They are just trying to scare the shit out of a bunch of hard-core bloggers to get some advanced hype. I mean, it’s a freakin’ genius marketing move, but a marketing move nonetheless.”

“Oh man!” Drew shook his head. “Who drops this kind of money on an ultra low-budget movie? It doesn’t add up.”

As more sirens descended on their little snow globe full of drama, Jake pressed his friend. “It does when it’s the Baxter brothers, Drew. They’re loaded. They crap out hundred-dollar bills to tip the valet. They’re going to spend what it takes to break this bitch out
Blair
-style.”

The chaos around them only escalated. Police and paramedics pushed through the throng of onlookers. Blinding lights flooded the area, announcing that the local news channel had gone live as their fresh-from-junior-college reporter stepped up to the camera. The camera caught every moment of movie patrons sporadically stumbling out of the theater, blood seeping from random parts of their bodies.

The crackle of a police radio broke through the maddening noise. A police officer barked orders into the unit strapped to his shoulder. “We need more help! Call paramedics in from Saint Andrews! Get the SWAT team down here!”

The officer’s eyes narrowed as he focused on the reply coming through the radio.

“Unit is half an hour out.”

He clicked the button on the mic, the urgency in his voice clear. “We don’t have half an hour! We’ve got four down ... maybe more. We need help now!”

People scattered as a gurney hit the sidewalk. Its wheels rattled against the sidewalk as EMTs slammed it through the front door of the building, nearly wiping out a chick. Immediately, the door burst back open as four EMTs carried a man out on a stretcher.

It was like a freaking revolving door of carnage. The guy’s clothes were shredded and soaked in red as he started flipping out, having a full-blown seizure. His body arched, straining hard enough to break the restraints. A paramedic sprawled over him, trying to pin him down.

“I need help over here!”

Blood spewed from the man’s mouth, spraying the paramedic and a nosy bystander. The paramedic tumbled backward as the guy bucked him off. The man’s head cracked against the pavement as his body crashed to the ground, giving one final lurch.

Jake leapt back from the curb as a police car skidded past. An older officer jumped out, hand braced on his holster. The cop scanned the scene, assessing the situation.

“Come on,” Drew said, indicating the cops, the reporters, and the blood. “Even you’ve got to admit that this can’t all be staged.”

But Jake shrugged. “Um … have you forgotten the launch of
Carte Blanche
? They closed the freaking airport in London, and commandos repelled into the Champagne Bar just to deliver the new Bond book.”

The younger officer cut him off, his eyes panicked. “The first one’s eyes just started bleeding, and this one’s seizing.” He gestured to the now-lifeless body on the ground. “Another went blind, one girl put her hand through a window, and another one fainted.”

* * * * *

CHAPTER 1

FBI agent Derek Boulder waited in line at his favorite hot dog stand with his younger partner, Fred Meyers, who happened not to be his favorite partner—at the moment.

Fred was texting or sexting, or whatever the hell twentysomethings fresh from the academy did when they weren’t whining about the lack of action they were getting. The kid still thought running was an exercise, not the necessity it was in undercover work.

Of course, Derek wasn’t exactly in his best fight-a-meth-head-off shape himself. Since transferring over to the White Collar division, his six-pack had melted into a bit of a two, or let’s be honest, “for individual sale only” pack.

Sucking in his gut a little, Derek watched as the elderly woman at the front of the line slowly counted pennies to pay for her hot dog and can of root beer. Her white hair was neatly pinned up in the back.

A warm breeze blew in off the Pacific Ocean. The temperature must be hovering in the mid-80s. Hot for late October. San Diego was experiencing a prolonged Indian summer, although he wasn’t sure whether that was the politically correct term anymore. Whatever it was called, Derek could feel sweat gathering under his holster. On days like these, he pined for his old undercover “uniform” of jeans and a T-shirt. Alas, he was relegated to a suit and tie now. Probably a fitting punishment for all that had gone down in D.C.

Restless, Derek shuffled from one foot to the other. He could feel his patience unraveling with each
clink
of the coins. He should be home by now. Pizza, beer, and the Chargers on TV. Now he had to put in overtime with Fred. Sitting in the car. Just the two of them. Perfect.

How many hours was Derek going to have Fred “pick his brain” on how to be an upwardly mobile agent? Derek was sure the kid had a five-year plan stashed in his underwear drawer at home—with a fifteen-year plan that had Fred as the director of the FBI. Wonder how that was going?

“All right,” Fred announced as his thumbs flew across the phone’s itty-bitty keyboard. “It looks like we’ve got the address for tonight’s bust.”

As the little old lady clunked down a pile of pennies and started separating them, Derek turned to Fred. “Refresh my memory on why we’re chasing after the lone copy of some stupid horror movie?”

Still texting, Fred replied, “Some moron hijacked the reels to
Terror in the Trees
while it was en route to LA. We think that they are trying to smuggle it across the border to get it duplicated.”

Derek tried to contain his frustration with the little old lady and Fred. “Yeah, I got that part. My question was, why are
we
involved? Sounds like something the locals should be handling.”

Derek resisted the urge to count the money for the old lady as she lost her place and started over. Heavy sighs and agitated mumblings began behind him. Derek glanced over his shoulder, giving them his best “shut the hell up” stare. Yeah, he had other things he’d rather be doing, too, but bullying an old lady wasn’t one of them.

“Video piracy. It’s our jurisdiction,” Fred stated as he fiddled with his phone. “Don’t you read the warning labels at the beginning of your DVDs? There will be no rerecording or ...”

“Fantastic. Now we’re the Netflix Police. Next, we’ll be shaking down perps for illegal downloading.”

This was not the kind of case that inspired Derek to join the White Collar Crime Division. He liked his nice, boring cases where the perps hung out in high-rises, ensconced in their well air-conditioned offices. Then, after an arduous day of wagging a finger at Harvard grads, you went back to the office, feet propped up, and keyboard on your lap. The most dangerous situation in White Collar was a pencil-necked executive giving you a paper cut with his lawyer’s card.

Derek really, really, really did not want to go back out into the world of syringe-laden alleys and crack hos. Especially not with Fred. Had the kid even drawn his weapon in the line of duty? Everyone thought they were cut out for fieldwork. Hadn’t Derek thought himself more than ready? Then … Well, then fieldwork took a cut out of you.

“Ma’am, you’re still thirteen cents short,” stated the owner of the hot dog stand. Traffic whizzed by, horns blared. Everyone was in a rush, except ...

“Oh, dear ...” the old woman replied softly.

For the love of .... Derek shifted his coat and put his hand into his jacket pocket. His fingertips grazed the velvet box inside. Derek jerked his hand back as if he had been stung. Crap. He’d nearly forgotten about that. Derek quickly pulled out a quarter, placing it on the cart next to the woman’s change.

Surprised, the woman looked up at Derek, a slow smile spreading across her face. She clutched her age-spotted hands to her chest.

“Oh thank you! You are the kindest, sweetest man! You are a true gentleman,” the old woman exclaimed as she leaned in, placing a papery kiss on Derek’s cheek.

She quickly collected her hot dog and soda, as well as Derek’s change, and hobbled toward a nearby bench.

Derek’s face burned as he adjusted his tie. It was just a quarter. A jab to the ribs from Fred rudely interrupted his attempt to satisfy his hunger.

“You only did that to hurry up the line,” Fred chided, giving Derek a lopsided grin.

“Yeah, well, I'm starving.” It wasn’t so much a lie. He
was
starving. But the woman and her frailty reminded him of his own grandmother. He watched under hooded eyes as the old woman sat on the bench sipping her soda. Guilt tightened his throat. If he wasn’t on that damn case in Washington, D.C. He didn’t even know about the funeral until he came off the assignment three weeks later. Fucking undercover work.