The Executioner

Hundred and Twenty-Eight

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.’