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Summer of Fear

Christopher McGarry

Copyright 2014 Chris McGarry

Published by Christopher McGarry

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Cover art by Jessica Cheverie.

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When the Guns Were Turned On Us

North American Empire Series #1

The world is in a state of turmoil. The U.S. economy crashes preceding the outbreak of World War III. Forged through the ashes of chaos and anarchy is an authoritarian North American regime.

Air force veteran Jake Scribner retires to Kamloops for what he hopes will be a life of peace. Once the city is placed under martial law, Jake has no choice but to flee into the nearby wilderness. The former Special Ops soldier joins forces with a small band of fugitives and together they launch a daunting guerrilla campaign against the occupying North American Police and United Nations Forces.

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Chapter 1

June 2013.

It had the effect of being trapped in a steam room. The smothering central Atlantic humidity that slowed downed the pace of life from Boston to northern Virginia during July and August. Only this year the stifling mugginess arrived in late May. And by the looks of things it was here to stay. Though the year for New York City's large public school system officially didn't end for another three weeks, the pre-summer heatwave forced the early opening of local swimming pools and beaches. With temperatures reaching 105 in the shade, businesses that sold air conditioning units were experiencing a miniboom. Excessive use of electricity was already putting tremendous strain on New York's power grid.

Dozens of smiling residents and street vendors took little notice of the towering man walking amongst them. He stood at 6'5 with the physique of a twenty-five-year-old NBA point guard. His face was obscured by a semi-cropped beard. His eyes lurked behind dark shades. Underneath the light beige jacket he wore, a river of sweat poured freely through his back, chest and armpits. In his hand was a briefcase, not the type carried by the Wall Street barons but rather a low- level, perhaps even somewhat shady businessman.

The tall, unsettling-looking stranger stood on the corner of Ellis and Jefferson streets in Washington Heights, which straddled the border between northern Manhattan Island and the South Bronx. As far as the eye could see were hip, attractive apartment buildings with shining black, wrought – iron balconies and fire escapes as well as colorful storefronts.

This massive refurbishment of what had been for years a rundown, crime-ridden neighborhood had taken place over the past few decades. While the Tall Man waited to cross the street, a cluster of children and preteens screamed joyfully as they frolicked in the refreshingly cold water that spewed liberally from a fire hydrant. Not one of the local denizens could even fathom the storms that were brewing in his mind. And at this exact moment, his entire concentration was on the mission the Lord had commanded him to carry out.

*****

It certainly hit the spot. He would argue this point with anyone: his wife made the best Matzah ball soup. Every speck of her cooking he savored. Abraham Rabinovitch sat inside the lunchroom of All Women Health Clinic. Since coming into work at 8:30 a.m., the 69-year-old abortion doctor had performed seven procedures with very little downtime in between. With one more abortion scheduled in ten minute's time, Rabinovitch was looking forward to putting down his tools for the day. After finishing his afternoon snack, Rabinovitch went into an adjacent washroom and ran the water until it was cold. He dabbed at his clammy, flush face. The high cheekbones, conspicuous hooked nose and dark-chestnut brown eyes had been inherited from several generations of Eastern European Ashkenazi Jews.

The fifth child of Polish shopkeepers who'd settled in Manhattan's Lower East Side in the years directly preceding World War II, Rabinovitch had had the good fortune of being able to receive a university education. The general practitioner concluded his studies at Mount Sinai Medical School in the late 1960s. This was during the height of a grandiose though wildly turbulent social revolution whose goal was to shake the very foundations of America's traditional morals and values to its very core.

In age, Rabinovitch was from a different generation than those free-spirited hippies and flower children who rebelliously thumbed their noses at conventional society and especially White Corporate America. At the same time, he felt an unlikely kinship with them. In particular, he found himself embracing the ideals of the burgeoning women's movement, more specifically the right for women to have access to safe abortions. Over four decades had passed since the now well-established physician had made headlines nationwide. In 1970, in defiance of New York Law, Rabinovitch opened an abortion clinic in a poor section of Brooklyn. This action earned him two years' incarceration in a state penitentiary. Imprisonment only served to strengthen the abortion rights crusader's resolved and upon being released, he won a precedent-setting legal battle.

His days of fighting the system far behind him, Rabinovitch, while continuing to work, was beginning to enjoy his early golden years. He lived with his wife Aviva in a charming, turn-of-the-century brownstone in Manhattan's Upper West Side. Two of the couple's children, Hannah and Adam, lived in Washington and Miami respectively and were married with families of their own. The oldest girl, Amelia, a professor of religious studies, lived in the city. After forty-five years of marriage, the veteran physician still deeply cherished the love of his life.

Chapter 2

It was fairly quiet on the hellishly hot street outside of All Women Clinic. Located in a fairly modern one-storey brick building, the clinic stood in stark contrast to the rundown Laundromats, seedy pawn shops and corner-side convenience stores that dotted the vicinity of Liberty and Monroe streets. A feeling of revulsion reverberated through the Tall Man's body as he looked up at the barbaric knacker's yard of death and butchery.

Those ungodly heathens will reap God's judgment for their iniquities," he assured himself.

He averted his eyes away from the stares of locals who hung about on the steps of crumbling red tenements. Merely being a while male in this type of ethnic enclave was enough for people to be suspicious. Not that he had any intention of sticking around once his assignment was complete. The Tall Man took a brief recon of his surroundings. Kitty corner to All Women was a convenience store/eatery called Hamid's Deli. Four men-two black, the others Puerto Rican – stood outside of the business talking. Their faces, t-shirts and muscle shirts were soaked in sweat.

The Tall Man walked further down Liberty Street. Directly across from the clinic stood two boarded-up high-rise tenements. Upon making sure he was not attracting any unwanted attention, the former Special Ops warrior slipped into the dark, narrow, garbage-strewn alleyway separating the buildings. At the end was a semi courtyard lighted by intense afternoon sunlight.

Long, thick tuffs of grass grew out of cracks in the concrete underneath of a bent basketball net. Rusted bicycles and abandoned children's toys lay asunder. The entire area stood as a sad testament to the fall of the once unstoppable American Dream.

The Tall Man stood in the back entranceway to 187 Liberty. He made his way inside. A horde of aggressively squeaking and squealing rats scurried in his wake as he moved along the gutted walls of a corridor littered with cigarette butts, needles and debris. He reached a stairwell and continued to the third floor. In front of him were the remains of an apartment whose living room windows faced Liberty Street. Walking through the pitiful quarters hundreds of the city's poorest residents were once forced to exist in was a nausea-inducing experience. Rusty, dripping sinks, corroded radiators and stoves, cramped kitchens and furniture ripped to shreds by the razor-sharp teeth of rummaging vermin.

*****

The day's final procedure had gone smoothly. Her name was Sherry. Barely twenty-one and neither financially nor emotionally ready for the rigors of motherhood. Abraham Rabinovitch locked the surgical room door. Though he made it a rule not to get involved in the personal lives of the umpteen clients who passed through the clinic's doors in the run of a month, the grandfatherly, pleasant-faced man often saw the human face of their suffering. In his opinion, many well-meaning though misguided prolife activists failed to see this aspect of the thorny hot-button issue.

Rabinovitch walked into the reception area. Francine, the vivacious, cheery executive office assistant and Sandra, who'd worked at the clinic for almost 10 years, were catching up on the latest news and gossip.

"That was undoubtedly another interesting day. Every day it gets harder to keep up. As it is, I'm no spring chicken," he said with a chuckle.

"Actually Doctor, some days we have difficulty keeping up with you," Sandra said lightheartedly.

"What do you have planned for this evening Dr. Rabinovitch?" Francine asked. She was in the process of shutting down her desktop computer as well as the office photocopier and fax machine.

"Aviva and I are going to have a nice quiet candlelit dinner at home."

"Wooo," Sandra replied teasingly. "Sounds romantic."

"It's long overdue. In case you're wondering, I'm going to stick around for a few minutes just in case an unexpected emergency arises before closing time."
Chapter 3

His hands were sheathed in black leather gloves as he set the briefcase on top of the flimsy table in the apartment's kitchen area. He unclipped the brass fasteners. Inside, encased in silvery-grey Ethafoam, were the unassembled pieces of a Remington 700 sniper rifle. Fully aware that time wasn't on his side, the Tall Man speedily attached the rifle's stock, barrel and flash suppressor. Next, he slid in a magazine containing five three-inch 7.62x51mm 150-grain bullets. The last detail involved screwing on the EA LT 3-9x32AO scope. Testing to determine the extent of adjustments to parallax, elevation and windage that would need to be made, the Tall Man peered through the 30-millimeter scope's ocular lens. By his calculations, the clinic was roughly 200 across the street. He shuddered at the prospect of unexpected parallax error at the moment of delivering the fatal shot. These scopes were tough and reliable but nowhere near perfect. He glanced at his watch: 3:57. Three minutes until the unrepentant sinner got off of work.

*****

The burning, late-afternoon sun caught Rabinovitch completely off-guard. His shaky nerves begged for nicotine. For a man who had always lived a relatively clean lifestyle, a daily cigarette or two was one vice he just couldn't part with. He took out a pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket. It took some fiddling with the lighter until a spark touched the butt. Very slowly, he inhaled the strong tobacco. It certainly calmed down his body after an arduous day at the grind.

*****

For somebody about to take the life of another human being, the Tall Man was miraculously calm and poised. After all, Yahweh himself had decreed that this licentious, depraved son of Satan must be put to death. Sitting half-crouched in a rusty metal chair, he rested the Remington's bipod on the frame of the living room picture window. It afforded a bird's-eye view. He observed his mark taking his time smoking the cigarette. He concentrated the Mil-Dot scope an inch below Rabinovitch's solar plexus. The tiny red dot focused on his chest. The reticles exactly where they were supposed to be, the Tall Man took a series of deep, controlled breaths. His right index finger squeezed the trigger.

The initial impact was entirely overwhelming. The aging doctor's mind could not process what was happening. It had been silent-a poisonous projective travelling 4,000 feet-per-second tore through his chest. Rabinovitch lurched violently as the bullet ricocheted wildly against his lungs, liver, kidneys and stomach like an out-of-control pinball. Francine and Sandra rushed out to help. As the bullet continued to tear his insides apart, Rabinovitch clutched at his chest. He collapsed to his knees. Desperate for air, he gasped frenziedly, his surroundings gradually slipping away from him. As Francine frantically dialled 911, her colleague tried in vain to help their dying supervisor. In one cruel final act, the 7.62 round, famously used by militaries the world over, embedded itself in the elderly man's heart, killing him instantly.

The Tall Man quickly disassembled the sniper rifle. His ears picked up the faint whining of fast-approaching sirens. He made sure no fingerprints nor the slightest trace of powder were left behind. He moved quickly down the stairwell and out through the back entrance in which he had entered.
Chapter 4

Would this day ever end? A wave of nausea overcame Antonio Guardini's entire body. Only two more days to go until the weekend. His tired eyes picked through the files pertaining to the six homicides he was trying to juggle all at once. The haunting photo of an attractive debutante who had been found straggled in a Manhattan hotel room stared at him from the desktop computer's dizzying screen. In the four days since the murder, no leads had materialized nor had any witnesses come forward with information.

The 42-year-old detective rubbed the days' worth of springy dark stubble that peppered his smooth, slightly olive face. He'd logged several hours of overtime desperately trying to solve the murder of 50-year-old Annabelle Hampton, whose family had been prominent in New York for close to a century. Three years had passed since Antonio had moved from Narcotics to Homicide. Police work was draining-mentally, physically as well as emotionally. Though there were days he felt like throwing in the towel, being a cop was simply too embedded into this DNA.

The Guardini family's five-generation relationship with the New York Police Department originated in the early years of the 20th Century. Salvatore Guardini, a penniless immigrant from the Naples region of Italy, arrived at Ellis Island in 1900 with his wife Maria and their children, Francesca, Julian, Theresa and Mario. For a newly-landed family who spoke little English, making a life for themselves in the crowded, disease-ridden slums of the Lower East Side was a challenge. Salvatore, who had served in the Italian army, applied for and was accepted into the NYPD.

At the time, Commissioner Theodore Roosevelt, who would later become of the twenty-sixth president of the United States, was transforming the growing city's police department into a modern professional law enforcement organization. Antonio's grandfather, Peter, at the time a 23-year veteran, was one of only a handful of officers who had the courage to speak out publicly against rampant police corruption at the Knapp Commission in the early 1970s. His father, Danny, had retired ten years earlier with the rank of captain.

While Antonio stewed in frustration, his colleagues in the 33rd Precinct's detective squad-Mike Robinson, Chad Henson and Paul Lewis-had their plates full with various homicide cases as well. Antonio enjoyed a stellar working relationship with the easygoing Henson and the comical, lanky Lewis. The same could not be said about Mike Robinson. The 6'2, 230-pound former high school quarterback and marine sported a hideous seventies-style porn moustache and displayed the brash persona of a pro wrestler. He also had one of the worst hair-trigger tempers Antonio had ever seen. In his opinion, loose cannons like Mike Robinson were a disgrace to the uniform.

Antonio was about to follow up on a lead when a baby-faced patrolman who appeared as though he'd just graduated from the academy rushed in.

"There's been a murder," the rookie exclaimed. "On the corner of Liberty and Monroe."

Antonio got up from his desk. Wednesday nights were generally a quiet affair, even in this area of New York.

"There are more than enough gangbangers in that part of town," Lewis commented. "Hear the Street Kings and Wild Deuces are at it again."

"I don't know Detective," the rookie said. "All I do know is that some elderly guy was shot in front of an abortion clinic."

Interesting, Antonio thought to himself. Antiabortion violence seemed to be on the wane over the past decade or so. If that's even what had happened.

"Isn't this just dandy?" Robinson grumbled as he took a .45 9mm handgun out of his desk and placed it in the shoulder holster he wore over his white dressy shirt. "Another stiff to add to our already overwhelming workload."

Antonio looked over at Lewis and Henson.

"Mike and I will get this one guys."

"Thanks Antonio," Henson replied.

*****

The front wheels of the unmarked Sedan drove into a parallel parking spot on Monroe Street twenty meters from All Women Health Clinic. Antonio and Robinson hopped out. Crime scene investigators stood around the body of a man in his early seventies taking photographs from various angles and collecting fingerprints. As they approached the yellow police tape that cordoned off the murder scene, Antonio gazed upon the victim's listless eyes, which appeared to stare straight up at the azure, blazing-hot late-afternoon sun. Brian Sampson, an investigator from the NYPD's Crime Scene Investigation Unit whom Antonio thought he might have met somewhere before, came up to them.

"The victim's name is Doctor Abraham Rabinovitch," Sampson explained. "He worked at the clinic here."

Robinson closely observed the sizable splatter of blood surrounding the exact spot where the 7.62 round had entered Rabinovitch's chest.

"Judging by the size of that hole, it's very safe to say somebody didn't walk up and plug him," Robinson stated. He took note of the two high-rise tenements across the street. "I'm willing to bet the killer was situated in one of those condemned buildings when he sent Dr. Rabinovitch here into the next world," the former marine scout sniper said.

"Then this murder was most likely planned," Antonio alleged.

Antonio walked over to where two uniformed officers stood getting information from Sandra and Francine. Abraham Rabinovitch. Where had he heard that name before? Then, all of a sudden it dawned on him: this was the Abraham Rabinovitch encased in a chalk outline back there. Back in the late 1970s/early 1980s, when Antonio was growing up in Queens, Rabinovitch had been almost as much of a household name as Liza Minnelli and Al Pacino, though in a considerably more notorious way. As Antonio stood close to the clinic, he felt an unnerving, borderline demonic presence. A devout Roman Catholic and prolife activist, Antonio was none too shy about expressing his views about abortion. At times, his outspokenness made him the object of scorn among his colleagues.

At that moment, an NYPD blue-and-white van arrived at the busy crime scene. Two K-9 officers in short sleeves wearing bulletproof vests got out and opened up the van's back hatch. Two 60-pound German shepherds, both of which stood 25 inches at the shoulder and were capable of tearing an adult to pieces, hopped out.

Antonio searched around meticulously for any shred of evidence that might have gotten overlooked. During his childhood, the seasoned investigator spent a lot of time in this part of New York. He'd enjoyed many a hot summer's day in the South Bronx cheering on his beloved Bronx Bombers. Ah, those had been the days. Suddenly he remembered. "Oh shoot! How the heck could I have forgotten?"

Two weeks earlier, Antonio had purchased tickets for himself, his wife Cheryl and children Peter and Sarah for the Yankees' game tonight against the Toronto Blue Jays, a team he'd sort of admired as a kid. This unforeseen circumstance had definitely thrown a wrench into this evening's plans-for him, at least. Antonio hoped and prayed his wife of twenty years would understand. He fished out his smartphone and dialled home.

Chapter 5

The spicy, peppery aroma of meatloaf and potatoes baking in the oven permeated the spacious kitchen. Since their wedding night, Antonio and Cheryl had lived in the two-storey white house with black shutters at 45 Viceroy Avenue in the Queens neighborhood of Woodhaven. Though Cheryl Guardini was primarily a stay-at-home mother, she was by no means a bored housewife. A holder of a degree in social work and counselling from Sienna College, Cheryl worked part-time as a counsellor for Our Lady of Hope Outreach Centre. Operated by the Archdiocese of New York, Our Lady of Hope assisted women contemplating abortion or dealing with post-abortion grief and trauma.

The clock on the kitchen wall had already passed five. Cheryl, whose curly, reddish-auburn-colored hair highlighted her simple though pleasant face, was preparing a quick dinner before the family headed off to Yankees Stadium. She hoped that Antonio was able to navigate through the traffic that often brought New York's streets and throughways to a standstill at this time of the day. Cheryl peeked inside the living room. Sarah, fifteen going on twenty-five with the latest designer clothing and façade to prove it, sat in the big armchair in the midst of a texting conversation with Veronica Daly, a close friend and classmate from nearby St. Joseph's Roman Catholic School.

"Sarah, have you seen Peter?"

No sooner had she asked when a spunky ten-year-old, his tousled hair reminiscent of a rat's nest, came through the front door.

Peter had been out in the yard playing baseball. His clothes were slightly dirty and his face was sweaty. Peter had inherited the Guardinis' Mediterranean features such as dark eyebrows, curly eyelashes, dark wavy hair as well as a fervent passion for the all-American game. Peter's uncle, Joey, was a one-time Philadelphia Phillies prospect whose promising career had been cut short by a shoulder injury. The energetic kid was determined to one day make it to the majors.

"Peter!" Cheryl was a little low on patience at the present time. "We have to be out of here by five-thirty. Now go upstairs and get ready for dinner."

"Okay Mom."

Peter headed up the wood-stained staircase with a flowery runner on it. A sudden surge of intense heat whacked Cheryl in the face as she opened the oven door. She set the scalding pot on the counter. A cradle Episcopalian who'd converted to Catholicism upon falling in love with Antonio, Cheryl was a diehard advocate for the prolife cause. Through the solid faith community the family belonged to, Cheryl engaged in her activism by saying daily rosaries, partaking in prayer vigils outside of abortion clinics and marching in annual demonstrations. A number of years earlier Cheryl had volunteered with Operation Rescue.

She, along with several other prolife activists, had been arrested during a rally outside of a Manhattan abortion facility. Luckily, Antonio had been working nearby at that time. Through his uncanny gift of concession, the fair though serious cop was able to negotiate their release and convince the district attorney's office to dismiss all charges. At that moment the kitchen phone rang.

"I hope to God nothing bad has happened," Cheryl thought to herself as she picked up the receiver.

Antonio shifted his tired, sweaty feet.

"Hi Cheryl."

"Antonio, are you on your way home?"

He sighed wearily.

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news but our plans have been altered for this evening."

Of all the gifts God had bestowed upon her, unreserved patience was high on the totem pole. But even that was frequently put to the test.

"Antonio, this is becoming a trend. Within the last month you've missed two of Peter's games and one very important church meeting. Oh, and you're not spending nearly enough time with Sarah, who's blossoming into a mature young woman."

"Cheryl, this is not some minor overtime duty. There was a murder in Washington heights around four o'clock. I'd have called you sooner but things are crazy here right now."

"I understand you have a difficult job to do but lately your job has become more important than your family. I will not get too upset about this evening but you have to start getting your priorities straight."

"I promise, I'll make it up to you and the kids. I'm taking Peter to a couple of Yankees games this summer. You know, just father and son. Anyway, I have to go. Talk to you when I get home."
Chapter 6

Now was not the time to be getting hung up on issues at home. Antonio yearned to spend more quality time with his children. Take them camping, even a trip to Disneyworld would be nice. A slight feeling of penitence swirled around his conscience. Dozens of black-clad officers searched nearby streets. It was almost a given that whoever had killed Abraham Rabinovitch was long gone from the area. That being said, the remote possibility existed that the killer could be lurking somewhere in the vicinity keen on inflicting further damage. Forensics technicians and K-9 teams searched through the two high-rise tenements near the corner of Liberty and Monroe.

It had escaped his attention the entire time: those four young men hanging out beside the deli across the street. He sauntered over. There was a slight guardedness about the youths as an older guy who was obviously a cop approached them.

"How are you today gentlemen?" Antonio asked.

One of the African-Americans, a skinny kid wearing a muscle shirt and baggy pants, replied.

"Man, if it gets any hotter, I'm gonna melt."

"It's kind of funny, don't you think?" Antonio held up his gold shield, City of New York Police no. 6798. "We complain all winter about the cold then when the heat does arrive, we still aren't happy." He wiped a film of sweat from his forehead. "Guess we have to be careful what we wish for. Anyway, my name is Detective First Grade Guardini."

One of the Puerto Ricans became shaky then defensive.

"Look, I wasn't involved with that..."

"I don't really care if you were," Antonio said sternly. "I just would like you to tell me exactly what you saw this afternoon."

"This dude walked out of the clinic then suddenly dropped," the second African-American youth said. "There was no sound. Nothing."

"Did you see anybody in this area over the past few hours who looked, shall we say, suspicious?"

The youths thought it over for a moment. Then the tall black kid with baggy pants remembered.

"Come to think about it, oh around three, there was this guy walking down Liberty Street. He was carrying a briefcase. White. Nobody I know from around these parts. Oh, and he was tall. Tall as Michael Jordan."

Antonio took out a notepad from his shirt pocket. He started writing what they had told him. It may be nothing. Heck, these kids could be stringing him along for all he knew. Still, patchy information was better than no information.
Chapter 7

The stress of the day weighed heavily on Antonio's lower back. His mind, even at 11p.m., continued to be overloaded with every finicky detail of the multiple homicide cases he was responsible for solving. There were still quite a few front yard lights along Viceroy Avenue. A thorough search of both condemned tenements had been fruitless. No fingerprints or even traces of gunpowder were unearthed.

Antonio parked his 2011 Ford Focus behind his wife's Corolla. Antonio had always enjoyed living out here. Compared to the cramped, 1920s-era home he, his parents and three siblings had lived in over in Ozone Park, it was a palace. That old house had been a continuous nightmare due in large part to poor insulation, radiator pipes going in and out of places, asbestos in the basement and drafty windows that in the wintertime often evoked the feeling of living in an icebox.

Conflicting thoughts assailed the veteran detective's tired mind. As far as he was concerned, those individuals, especially doctors who'd taken the Hippocratic Oath, who actively engaged in the wholesale murder of babies were not much higher up the pecking order than child molesters. Though people like Abraham Rabinovitch were in the wrong, they still had families that cared deeply for them. Antonio looked upon the silver medallion dangling from the rear-view mirror. It was a rendering of Saint Michael the Archangel, the patron saint of police officers.

Antonio speculated as to who could have wanted to eliminate a once high-profile though largely obscure abortion doctor. The simple fact the victim was Jewish greatly increased the likelihood of a hate crime. He could not be shocked if the murderer was of the white supremacist/neo-Nazi variety. Perhaps the well-heeled doctor had a hidden dark side, an expensive coke habit and wasn't paying his dealers on time. Like all baffling mysteries, there were a great number of unknown facts yet to be uncovered.

Antonio entered the house as noiselessly as possible. Thirsty, he headed into the kitchen for a glass of water. Next, he went upstairs. Sarah was still up, as evidenced by the thin bar of light at the bottom of her bedroom door. He peeked inside Peter's room. Daddy's Little Slugger, plum-tuckered out from the busy, hot day, slept soundly under the cool breeze of an air conditioning unit.

Sarah sat up in her bed texting a friend from school. The outgoing teenager jolted at the sudden knock on her door. She set her cell phone on the night table as Antonio appeared in the doorway.

"From what I hear, some outstanding young lady has a big end-of-year final first thing in the morning," Antonio said as he sat on the edge of her bed.

"I was just talking to Bethany. She's a bit nervous about the exam too."

"Look Sweetie, I'm terribly sorry about tonight."

"You didn't miss much. Toronto beat the Yankees six to two."

"There are some promotions coming up in the near future. It's time for a change of scenery anyway."

"You don't like being a detective anymore?"

"I love being a detective. Trouble is, it's taking too much of a toll on our family. Getting a promotion to sergeant will mean considerably more money in the bank at the end of each month. Another added bonus is that I'll be closer to home."

"Where do you want to get transferred to?"

"The 102nd. It's an easy fifteen minute drive from here."

Antonio stretched tiredly as he got up from the bed.

"Daddy?"

"Yes sweetheart?"

"I just want you to know that even with things the way they've been lately, I love you deeply."

His little girl's words came within inches of melting Antonio's heart. He sat back down and embraced her warmly.

"There was never any doubt in my mind about that." Antonio kissed her forehead. "Come on, I'll tuck you in."

*****

Cheryl lay in a groggy state on the queen-size bed. Her head throbbed from the sheer racket produced by 50,000 diehard, raucous fans at Yankee Stadium.

Cheryl didn't hear her better half creeping into the room and undressing, though she suddenly felt his familiar presence next to her. She turned around to face him.

"How are you Tony?"

"Tired. You look like you had a blast."

"Did you give any more thought to what I said?"

"I've been doing that for a while now," Antonio replied. "As I was saying to Sarah, a promotion might be in the cards. That means a transfer close to home."

"You want to get posted to the 102nd?"

Antonio nodded.

"That's correct."

"I briefly heard about that murder in Washington Heights on the radio during the drive home. Can you tell me who it was?"

"Somebody you once engaged in a very heated argument with."

Cheryl sat up in the bed.

"Who is it Tony?"

"Doctor. Abraham Rabinovitch."

Cheryl was quite taken aback.

"So that monster finally met his Waterloo," she stated with a bit of disdain in her voice. Even in her tired state, she couldn't help but get fired up. "My friend Patrice O'Dell from St. Luke's Parish was arrested during a rally in front of one of his clinics."

"There's a possibility I'm going to have to go and speak with his widow sometime tomorrow. As you're aware, Dr. Rabinovitch was a very prominent, well-known figure in New York."

"Antonio, I'm sorry I snapped at you earlier. You're doing a good job providing for this family. Perhaps I should recognize that more often."

"I do my darndest." Antonio turned over onto his side. "I'm ready to cash out. Did you say any prayers this evening?"

"We said our rosary on the way home."
Chapter 8

Alf Reilly, a jovial three-striper who served as one of three desk sergeants for the 33rd Precinct, stood behind the front counter as Antonio entered. A handful of uniformed and plainclothes officers were in the main reception area listening to various complaints by irate local residents.

"You seem to be having the time of your life," Antonio said in a joking manner just as the good-natured cop of Irish descent finished arguing with a woman who rushed out of the precinct.

"It's all in a day's work Tony boy. How's your old man fairing?"

"I think he lost ten pounds since he got out of this racket."

A pair of uniformed patrolwomen who appeared to be new to the precinct walked past Antonio. He went upstairs to the detective squad. As Antonio detoured the offices of the white shirts that administered the 33rd, Daniel Ortiz stepped into the hallway. Though approachable, the fifty-year-old police captain had a yen for being a bit too austere and by-the-book for Antonio's liking.

"Guardini."

"Yes Captain?" He had an enormous pile of work facing him and didn't want to waste any time talking with this bureaucratic pencil pusher.

I just got off the phone with Aviva Rabinovitch. I'd like you to head up to the west side sometime today and talk to her."

"Sure thing Captain."

Antonio passed through the windowed door of the detective squad. Paul Lewis and Chad Henson were out doing investigations. Mike Robinson sat studiously at his desk. He'd arrived at work earlier than usual to research every individual in the New York City area who'd been convicted or even charged with an antiabortion-related offense within the past ten years. Antonio booted up his computer. The body of Abraham Rabinovitch was in the temporary custody of the New York City Medical Examiner's Office. While delving into the slain physician's controversial past, Robinson discovered that only one individual had ever been convicted of uttering death threats against him. That was in 1989.

Harold Raymond Williams, a one-time Ku Klux Klan member with a long, violent criminal history, died in Auburn Penitentiary three years earlier of heart failure. He'd been serving twenty-five years for armed robbery. Since yesterday evening, both detectives decided to collect an inventory of convicted felons with ties to either neo-Nazi organizations or those associated with the utmost extreme fringes of the prolife movement. Antonio's computer was particularly slow this morning.

"Hey Mike, notice anything wonky about these computers lately. Mine is slower than death this morning."

"Department claims there's no money available. I call bullshit. Those bigwigs just got a nine percent raise. Come here. There's somebody I'd like you to get acquainted with."

Antonio got up from his desk. He stood behind Robinson. On the homepage of the New York Crime Database was the full profile of a felon by the name of Ronald Allan Sweeney. Mid-thirties. Crew cut. Intimidating glare. Antonio immediately spotted the lightning bolt tattooed on Sweeney's neck.

"This dirt bag just got out of Sing Sing. Currently on parole here in the city," Robinson stated. "Served a dime for firebombing a Rochester abortion clinic and plotting to blow up a synagogue. Crazy fuck was dishonorably discharged from the army for promoting white supremacist ideologies. It's interesting to note he scored exceptionally well in the sniper qualification course."

Antonio thought judiciously.

"It's a bit of a crapshoot. There's no doubt in my mind this animal is capable of carrying out such an endeavor. I just don't want to go barking up the wrong tree only to have it blown back in our faces."

"We'll just go in under the guise of checking up on him," Robinson stated. "Welcome him to the neighborhood. It's the least we can do."
Chapter 9

The customary troupe of castoffs served as the unofficial welcome wagon to Bedford Stuyvesant. Antonio and Robinson drove past boarded-up storefronts, centuries-old, graffiti-coated crumbling brick tenements and row houses that seemed to embody the north Brooklyn neighborhood long regarded as one of New York's most violent. Groups of locals hung out on stairwells and in front of shops. They failed to as much as flinch at the sight of an unmarked NYPD cruiser driving through their turf. The detectives parked in front of a ten-storey, slate-grey apartment complex with bars covering most of the windows. Faded concrete stained by decades of rain, snow and brutal heat bestowed upon the building a sad, depressing vibe. It was a stark portrayal of gritty urban reality.

A wild-eyed youth with frizzy hair wearing a faded, tattered trench coat hung about on the building's steps. It was safe to assume underneath that trench coat were several varieties of controlled substances. There had been a time when Antonio would not have hesitated to bust some little punk like him. But that was a different time. They were in this virulent city neighborhood today for one purpose only. Robinson observed a black metal fire escape, as much a feature of the New York landscape as the Statue of Liberty and Carnegie Hall, running along the outside of the building.

"What isn't to say that scumbucket won't try to make a break for it?" Robinson, infuriated from a particularly heated conversation with his ex-wife, was in no mood for bullshit this morning.

"If I read his file correctly, old Ronnie's been a good boy since getting out. Apparently he had some trouble making friends in the joint. My guess is he enjoys being behind bars as much as I enjoy seeing my Yankees lose."

They stepped inside of the entranceway. On the left wall was a directory listing each of the apartment building's tenants.

"Sweeney, R, apartment 12," Antonio read off the list.

The veteran detectives ventured up a flight of stairs. They were assailed by the cries of babies and small children, a couple in the midst of a frenzied shouting match and one resident who had a cheesy TV game show turned up full blast. Antonio's heart became heavy. With ancient brownish-orange carpet over the floors, shit-green paint on cracked walls, this place was beyond depressing. He just couldn't fathom how any child could be forced to grow up in such squalor and sordidness with a bleak future to look forward to.

They reached Apartment 12 on the second floor. Robinson felt for the .45 ACP nestled inside the holster under his jacket. Antonio knocked twice. Both times there was no answer. Then, without warning, the door flew open. Standing before the detectives was a brute of a man, easily six foot two, two hundred and twenty pounds. The skinhead wore a wife-beater that displayed his defined physique.

Antonio and Robinson showed their gold shields.

"Ronald Sweeney?" Antonio asked.

Sweeney immediately became belligerent.

"I wish to God you meatheads would stop harassing me. I ain't breaching my parole."

"Nobody's accusing you of that," Robinson stated. "There's another urgent matter we'd like to pick your brain about. Mind if we come in for a few minutes?"

Though hesitant, Sweeney realized that refusal to cooperate with police could land him in hot water. He moved away from the door. Antonio and Robinson entered. Sweeney closed the door behind them. The apartment was a total mess. A squad of cockroaches scurried underneath an old radiator into a crack in the wall. Assorted garbage, food wrappers and boxes of mouldy pizza were strewn about sloppily like some bizarre piece of modern art. A pensive young woman who appeared barely legal sat on a couch. Over her skinny frame was a pair of short jeans shorts and a sexy tank top.

"What is so important you asswipes feel you have the right to come waltzing into my home? Huh!"

Antonio looked him square in the eye.

"Ronnie, I'm sure you're well aware of the murder that occurred in Washington Heights yesterday afternoon."

The big man's eyes contorted in rage.

"You think I killed somebody!"

"Come on Ronnie", Robinson said. "Is that what I said? Just out of curiosity, where were you yesterday oh, let's say around four?"

"I was at work. Parole officer pulled some strings to get me a job at City Tire. I have several alibis to prove it. I never heard about no murder. Who was killed?"

"Abortion doctor. Abraham Rabinovitch," Antonio stated.

"Rabinovitch...he a Jew?"

"Correct you are," Robinson replied. "We know how much affection and love you hold for all ethnic minorities. Figured you might..."

"As I said, I ain't done nothin'." Sweeney was adamant.

Antonio looked at the girl who was curled up on the couch half-texting and half watching television.

"What is your name Miss?"

"Hayley," she replied in a soft voice.

"How old are you Hayley?"

"She's 22. Now I would appreciate it if you idiots would get the fuck out of here!"

"Come on," Robinson said as he turned to his partner. "We're wasting our time with this lowlife."
Chapter 10

Staff at the New York City Medical Examiner's Office retrieved an inch-long 7.62 NATO round from the heart region of Abraham Rabinovitch. Antonio impatiently tapped the unmarked car's steering wheel as he moved along with the sluggish traffic on 36th Street. The busy thoroughfare bypassed one very prominent city landmark, the iconic United Nations building. Antonio deliberated as to how he would field his questions to the anguished, broken-hearted widow. He was thankful that today was Friday. There was a nice warm weekend to look forward to. The car entered the Upper West Side neighborhood of Chelsea, situated along the Hudson River. Antonio punched 55 Concorde Street into the car's GPS system. He drove past the trendy, upscale restaurants, shops and boutiques fringing Ninth Avenue. It was easy to tell that an enormous amount of old money existed here.

The middle-class cop soon found himself in a world quite different than his own. Both sides of Concorde Street were lined with faded brick-and-tan brownstones. Charming, flush, though their rather purist, conservative exteriors exuded stuffy Victorian architecture. Antonio pulled up and stopped in front of 55 Concorde. He walked up the stairway and rang the doorbell. It took all of twenty seconds for it to be answered. Standing in the doorway was a woman with a pleasant countenance and surprisingly few wrinkles for her sixty-plus years. Her greyish-brown hair was tied up in a bun. Heavy bags sagged down Aviva Rabinovitch's tear-stained hazelnut eyes. Immediately, Antonio felt a kinship with the small-statured woman.

"Mrs. Rabinovitch," Antonio introduced himself as cordially as possible give the gravity of the situation. "My name is Detective First Grade Antonio Guardini."

"Good morning detective." She greeted him with a sad, weak smile before stepping away from the door. "Please, come in."

Antonio took off his shoes and followed Aviva into the kitchen. The couple's oldest daughter, Amelia, sat at the kitchen table cradling a cup of coffee.

"Detective, this is our daughter, Amelia."

"Good morning," Antonio said. "Sorry about your loss."

"Thank you," Amelia replied as she got up from the table with her mug. "Detective, would you care for some coffee?"

"I certainly would."

"Detective." Aviva pointed towards the living room. "Let us go and sit."

The living room was beautifully furnished. The walls were adorned with paintings and family portraits. A shiny gold Menorah sat on top of a table covered by a Shabbat table cloth. Antonio sat down on a leather recliner while Aviva sat across from him on a couch. Amelia entered carrying a tray with three ceramic cups and saucers, a silver coffee pot, cream and sugar, which she sat on the coffee table before sitting next to her mother.

"What do you take in your coffee Detective?" Amelia poured the strong-smelling brew into the cups.

"Just some sugar please."

Amelia stirred sugar into a cup of coffee and handed it to Antonio. Antonio could feel the tension in the room.

"Detective, I'm going to tell you right now." Aviva became quite shook up as she spoke. "My Abe only did what he believed to be right. Nobody had the right to take him away from us like that!"

Antonio sipped his coffee. Like journalists, police officers had to be constantly mindful that they did not allow personal biases to come out. In his personal opinion, Abraham Rabinovitch had not lived a pious, saintly life. But it wasn't fair to paint his entire family with the same brush.

"I feel your pain ma'am. I truly do. I do have to ask you and your daughters some questions though."

"Do what you have to do Detective," Amelia said.

"Over the past year or so, had Doctor Rabinovitch received any death threats, intimidating letters? Anything of that nature?"

"Not at all." Aviva replied. "That wasn't always the case however. Back when Abe and I were first married and our children were growing, we were often in fear for our lives. We had to change our phone number a couple of times. Our youngest daughter was attacked by a group of girls in her high school. Back, I'm going to say in the early 1980s, Abe received this one really chilling letter. There was a bullet inside the envelope. It escapes me now the exact contents of the note. It was something like..."

"Next one's got your name on it Kike," Amelia said straightforwardly, finishing her mother's sentence for her."

An unsettling nerve twitched in Antonio's body as he listened to her words. Though not a highly-publicized fact, in recent years some of the most extremist, violent elements of the prolife movement had become strange bedfellows with neo-Nazis. The common belief they shared of course was that the Jews were plotting to annihilate the white race through unfettered access to abortion. Antonio braced himself for the possible fallout as be went to ask another question.

"Mrs. Rabinovitch, to the best of your knowledge-and I need you to be truthful with me-had your husband had any involvement whatsoever in illegal activities?"

The already strangling tension in the room would even tighter. Put off, Amelia glared irately at him.

"Detective Guardini, do you mind explaining what you mean by "illegal activity"?"

"Drugs. Gambling. Perhaps he owed somebody money."

Amelia, feisty and ever-ready to defend her family's honor, lambasted Antonio.

"You have an awful lot of nerve coming here and implying that my father, who was the nicest man around, was involved in crime. How dare you!"

"These are only standard questions ma'am. I know that your father was a good person who loved his family dearly. When doing these types of investigations, you have to cover every conceivable angle."
Chapter 11

On Sunday mornings in Woodhaven, the air was alive with the liquida soft fluidity of church bells. Despite getting married in Antonio's home parish of St. Theresa of Avilla, the couple had been attending St. Cecilia's since settling down in the neighborhood just over twenty years earlier. Although it was only 9:30 a.m., an increasingly brutish sun was already making its presence known. Over two hundred parishioners dressed in their best suits, pants, blouses and sun dresses poured into the foyer of the historic cathedral. Like many of the couples in the congregation who juggled careers and children, the Guardinis managed to find time to volunteer in parish organizations, including St. Cecilia's chapter of Right-to-Life. As Antonio, Cheryl, Peter and Sarah waded through the dense crowd, they ran into Gerald and Phyllis McCarthy, a retired couple who were actively involved in the prolife movement.

"You're all looking great this morning," Gerald, a retired structural engineer, said as he and Antonio shook hands. "How was your week?"

"Busy as usual."

"Antonio, how is your father doing?" Phyllis asked.

"Arizona's been treating him really good. Hits the greens pretty near every morning. He's also making a bit of extra income doing private investigations." Antonio glanced at his watch: 9:52. "Let's talk after church, shall we? Mass is going to start in about five minutes."

"Alright," Gerald replied.

Stepping into the vestibule of St. Cecilia's evoked in one a strong sense of reverence. The one hundred and thirty-year-old church had high, cathedral-like ceilings and arched, multicolored stained-glass windows articulating Bible stories. Flanking both sides of the altar were handcrafted, painted statues of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, the Blessed Virgin Mary, St. Joseph as well as the parish's namesake, dressed in flowing robes and holding a violin which reinforced her Papal designation as the patron saint of musicians. High above the altar radiant sunlight shone through an almost ethereal mosaic of a neutral-faced Madonna and Child as if sent from Heaven itself.

The Guardinis took their seats. Sitting two rows ahead of them were some very close friends of the family, Dan, Jennifer and Rachel Cheeseman. The Cheesemans resided at 49 Acacia Drive in Woodhaven. Dan, a giant of a man who had served most of his military career as a member of the U.S. Navy's elite SEAL Team Five, had retired six months earlier. While Jennifer, an attractive brunette, worked as a teacher at St. Joseph's School, Dan was in the process of getting his own business started. Rachel and Sarah, close in age, had become good friends.

"Good morning Antonio," Dan said as he gripped his friend's hand in a firm embrace. "We survived another week."

"Barely," Antonio replied with a joking grin.

Cheryl and Jennifer hugged.

"How is everything going Jennifer?"

"Excellent. I'm enjoying our first summer in New York. Though I must say it's considerably more humid here than in California."

At that moment, the entire congregation rose in unison. The haunting sounds of an ancient pipe organ filled the entire church. The choir, dressed in traditionalist red-and-black gowns-an uncommon sight in many churches post-Vatican II, began singing 'A Mighty Fortress is Our God." As the congregation sang, the customary march of acolytes fronted by a tall youth carrying a gold processional cross slowly progressed down the middle aisle. A female lector and the parish priest, Father Miguel Vargas, followed behind. Short and a bit plump, the 60ish priest with salt-and-pepper hair was a transplant from Nicaragua. His dark complexion was forged though years of living in the hot Latin American sun. The acolytes took their seats in the burgundy-colored chancel. Fr. Vargas kissed the altar before beginning to say mass.

Halfway through the service, the jovial padre addressed his flock. A man renowned for speaking words of wisdom that provided food for thought, on his morning he preached a sermon about the spread of evil in the modern world.

Antonio listened intently as Fr. Vargas explained that Christians have a duty not to simply close their eyes to evil but are called to be a light in the darkness and fight for peace through prayer. It struck a nerve inside Antonio. This was his world being referred to.

Following mass, parishioners shook hands and spoke to Fr. Vargas as they filed into the parking lot. In the two years since the former missionary priest had been rector of St. Cecilia's, the Guardinis had gotten to know him quite well. He'd even been to their home on a few occasions.

"It was wonderful to see you all in mass this morning," Fr. Vargas said. "We need more families and young single people filling the pews again."

"You had an excellent homily today Father," Cheryl said.

"Since becoming a parish priest, I've firmly believed in the importance of preaching about topics affecting people's lives today, not four centuries ago."

There was a question on Antonio's mind.

"Father, I meant to ask you..."

"Actually, I was just about to mention that," Fr. Vargas countered. "Anytime you feel the need to sit down and talk just call the church. We can arrange a time that is beneficial for both of us."

"Thank you so much Father. Have a great day."

The Guardinis headed toward their car which was parked beside a minivan driven by the Cheesemans. Dan opened the trunk. Inside was a case of water. He unscrewed a bottle and let the cool water flow down his throat. Jennifer and Rachel had already gotten in the van.

"What are you guys doing this afternoon?" Cheeseman asked Antonio.

"We're getting ready to head down to Jacob Riis Park. You're welcome to join us if you feel like it."

"Hold that thought." Cheeseman held up a finger before opening the driver's side of the minivan and peering in. "Antonio and Cheryl are spending the afternoon at Jacob Riis. They've invited us to tag along with them."

"I don't see why we couldn't," Jennifer replied. "There's nothing else planned for today. "What do you think Rach?"

"Sounds cool. Sarah and I can go looking for some hot guys."

"They'll have to get through me and Antonio first which isn't going to be easy," Cheeseman said jokingly.

Cheeseman turned back to Antonio and Cheryl, who stood next to their car.

"We'll catch you down there around one thirty. Jennifer just wants to swing by the house and pick up their bathing suits."

"We'll see you there then," Antonio replied before he and Cheryl got in the car.

Antonio drove out onto the Belt Parkway. The disturbing image of Abraham Rabinovitch lying on the pavement stayed etched into his memory. As of late, incidences dating back as far as two decades earlier were beginning to haunt Antonio, visiting him in his dreams late at night or during sudden daytime flashbacks. In this line of work, it was often very difficult-if not outright impossible-to leave one's work behind at the office. Skyrocketing rates of divorce and substance abuse among law enforcement officers was living proof of this. As of this moment, he merely wanted to put it all out of his head. At least until eight o'clock tomorrow morning.
Chapter 12

By this point in their lives, many avid runners began to experience the wearing and tearing of knee joints. This was nowhere near being an issue for Franklin Copeland III. Having recently turned fifty-five, the career abortionist joined dozens of runners and joggers as they pounded the hard-packed gravel trails of Central Park. A delicate, invigorating coolness permeated the morning air. A crop of short-cut, ship-grey hair atop his head, Copeland had a scrunched-up, sneering face which resembled that of a rat's. To his friends and colleagues, the Harvard Medical School graduate was a study in good old-fashioned hard work. Though driven, he harbored a tendency to be an aggressive trailblazer.

The somewhat unscrupulous entrepreneur, who lived by himself in a million-dollar mansion on Long Island, operated three "women's health and reproductive institutes". Two were located in Manhattan, the other in Brooklyn. What many regarded as cold-blooded murder, Copeland simply viewed as a lucrative opportunity to provide an indispensable service and make lots of money doing it.

The busy physician sprinted down a slightly undulating hummock in a section of the world-famous park forested by paulownia, empress, beech, maple and blossom trees. His heart raced at full speed. He jogged on the spot while getting his breath back. With a steady forty-five minutes of running in, it would soon be time to start his workday. He flinched at hearing a sudden rustling coming from the bushes. Could it be an animal? There wasn't much wildlife in Central Park save for the odd, rabbit, squirrel or raccoon.

Copeland barely caught sight of the evanescent, shadowy figure that suddenly sprung out of nowhere.

Then it all happened so fast: a large man, his face obscured by a black balaclava, repeatedly stabbed him in his stomach area with terrifying ferocity. Copeland lurched in agony as his intestines, appendix, stomach and liver were cut like meat. The world around him became hazy as he slipped into the dark, unknown realms of death.

"You are hereby condemned to eternal damnation." It was the last thing Copeland heard before giving up the ghost.

Acting quickly, the Tall Man painstakingly ensured that not so much as a speck of blood had found its way onto his clothing. He took the bowie knife in his gloved hands and threw it into a small pond. Then he fled into the forest.

*****

The call had come through the New York City 911 System at approximately 8:50 a.m. A petrified female jogger stumbled upon the nerve-jangling sight of Frank Copeland's blood-spattered corpse. Minutes later, Central Park Precinct was notified. Detective First Grade Matt Schuster and his partner, Sergeant Jamal Washington, raced to the crime scene.

Schuster, a divorced father of two, originally had his heart set on being a lawyer but decided that putting violent criminals away instead of getting them off was the better career route to take. Washington, mid-thirties, had a tough, unrelenting disposition forged through growing up on the violent streets of Brownsville, East New York.

At the crime scene, uniformed officers kept curious onlookers at bay while forensics experts plied their skills. A stomach-churning hodgepodge of blood, guts and entrails were strewn on the ground all around the victim. Schuster looked upon the macabre display, which looked like something from a low-budget slasher flick.

All of a sudden he felt the greasy egg and sausage sandwich he'd eaten earlier rise to the top of his throat. He averted his eyes.

"You alright buddy?" Washington asked his partner concernedly.

"I felt like I was going to toss my cookies."

A broad-shouldered, short sergeant named Davidson approached the detectives.

"Bet this was the last thing you wanted to see first thing Monday morning."

Schuster still hadn't gotten over the initial shock.

"I have no idea what would possess a human being to do this to another human being."

"I have no idea detective," Davidson replied. "It was definitely personal."

"Do you have any idea who called 911?" Washington asked.

"Some young girl. I believe she told Falkingham she attended Julliard. He and Bill Marshall interviewed her over by the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Poor kid was traumatized beyond belief."

Technicians from the NYPD Crime Scene Investigation Unit searched around the scene for evidence.

"I don't suppose they found the murder weapon," Schuster said to Davidson.

"No, they haven't. We're going to have to bring in a lot more people to search this entire area."

"Any I.D. on this guy yet?" Washington asked.

"Name's Franklin Copeland the Third. Age fifty-five. Lives in Long Island."

Schuster speculated that whoever wanted Copeland dead genuinely hated the man deeply, hence the maliciousness of the crime.

"What exactly do you know about Mr. Copeland here?"

"Next to nothing," Davidson replied. "He is, or should I say was, a doctor."

*****

Beads of sweat flowed liberally down his back. He'd just ran flat-out for what had seemed like an eternity though it had only been for five minutes. The Tall Man had sprinkled ammonia, cayenne pepper and bits of raw meat on and around the trail to confuse and bewilder the tracking dogs that would inevitably be on his trail. He reached the edge of that section of thick forest. After quickly retrieving the kitbag he'd concealed in a clump of bushes, the Tall Man slipped into a men's washroom. He changed out of the sweaty camouflage garb into jeans and a polo shirt. He rolled deodorant under his armpits and washed his clammy face. He prayed that the diversion he'd set would keep the authorities at bay until he had a chance to get far from Central Park.

The Tall Man emerged from the woods into a large open area of the park. It was filled with strolling seniors, kids frolicking on playground equipment and youths playing catch. No one took notice of the middle-age man with an array of tattoos on his bulging arms. He had triumphantly passed another difficult test Yeshua had put him to. As of right now, there was one less deceitful wrongdoer to lead people astray from the path of righteousness.
Chapter 13

Upon retiring from the U.S. Navy with the rank of Acting Sub-Lieutenant, there hadn't exactly been a burning demand for somebody who possessed Dan Cheeseman's skill set. His resume included the deadly disciplines of long-range sniping, demolitions, knowing more than a hundred ways to kill with his bare hands in addition to infiltrating enemy strongholds in missions the American public was forbidden to know about. Cheeseman had elected to break into an industry that had a very lucrative market in the Big Apple-private security. In an age of sweeping budget cuts, universities, colleges, big-name department stores and corporations were shedding their own security/policing services, instead opting to hire private contractors.

It had been two months since Cheeseman first incorporated his business idea into a venture called Reliable Security. In lower Manhattan, renting even the dingiest commercial space was pricey. The 1100-square-foot former clothing store, situated on an historic section of Walker Street, within a stone's throw of the confluence of Tribeca, Little Italy and Chinatown, cost the budding entrepreneur thirteen hundred dollars per month. It may have been expensive, but if one had a serious desire to attract high-level clients, it was vital to have a noticeable presence in their part of town. Located in the front of the building was the company's unorganized office/reception area. In back was a large storage space the ex-Navy SEAL eventually wanted to use for a training area that would include fitness and martial arts equipment.

Cheeseman had hired Mark Strickland, a twenty-eight-year-old Iraq War veteran, to help him get Reliable Security up off the ground. Slightly overweight but exceptionally personable, Strickland had gained a wealth of expertise working in commercial security as well as retail loss prevention. Cheeseman intended to hire applicants with similar backgrounds. Strickland was in the midst of organizing a bevy of files when his boss entered through the entrance of 171 Walker Street.

With the zeal of a businessman determined to make his enterprise succeed, Cheeseman spent a good portion of the time pounding the fast-paced, bloodthirstily competitive streets of Manhattan speaking with potential clients and drumming up as much business as he could. Tiring and at times exhausting, this legwork was necessary as he couldn't expect business to come to him.

Strickland looked up from his work.

"Are the fish biting any better today?"

Cheeseman took an ice-cold bottle of water from the old refrigerator that had been left inside of the historic building when he purchased it. Sweating and dehydrated, he sipped fluidly.

"I'm telling you. If this economy doesn't get any better..." He sat down across from Strickland. "It's a total vicious cycle. These multinational corporations claim they can't hire people because times are tough. Yet these same welfare queens pay their CEOs two-hundred times more than the average working stiff. It's greed. Pure and simple." The muscled former Special Operations warrior drained the bottle and threw it into the recycling bin. "One more thing before I forget. Down in the basement, you know that small office in the back?

"I was vaguely aware of its existence. Why do you ask?"

"That room is always going to be locked. It's off-limits to everyone except me. In case you're wondering, I need a place to go every now and then. Somewhere quiet to unwind."

"Dan, I understand perfectly. You're a busy guy and you need your space."

*****

On rare occasions, Antonio found himself in this neck of the urban jungle. It was usually only when he had to deal with the pencil-necked, sanctimonious, anal-retentive bureaucrats who were the true overlords of the NYPD. Under a scorching afternoon sun, Antonio walked past a horde of white-collar workers sipping lattes and discussing business on their IPhones and Blackberries. He'd just come from a meeting with officials from the NYPD's Crime Scene Investigation Unit. The meeting was regarding the Abraham Rabinovitch murder case, which had been going nowhere. Considering he was in the neighborhood, Antonio figured it would only be fitting to pay his close friend and fellow pro-lifer a visit.

Antonio caught the subway seconds before it pulled out of Fifth Avenue Station. In a matter of minutes, he was at the station a few blocks from Walker Street, somewhere, he guessed, on the southern fringe of Little Italy. Antonio walked past a row of longstanding rectangular red, brown and yellow-brick apartments on his way to Reliable Security.

Strickland looked up from the mountain of paperwork on his desk.

"Hey Tony," he said as Antonio stepped inside. "Hot enough for you out there?"

"The heat doesn't bother me near as much it what it does. Meaning this is the time of year that all the crazies start coming out of hibernation."

Cheeseman was in the back going through unopened boxes of supplies. Alerted to the bell sounding when the door opened, he peeked through the thick blanket which for the present time served as a door.

"Fancy seeing you in this part of town. What are you doing? Slumming?"

"I had a meeting," Antonio replied a bit disheartened. "Police business. Nothing exciting."

"I hope you and Cheryl didn't forget about the monthly right-to-life meeting. It's at our house at seven."

"We were just discussing that last night," Antonio replied. "Or more specifically, how we missed the last two."

"We'll be looking forward to your presence. Say, it wouldn't be too much to ask Cheryl if she could whip up some of those mouth-watering Nanaimo bars would it?"

"Knowing her, she probably already has them made. Anyway, I have to get back to work. We'll see each other this evening."

"Alright buddy, don't work too hard." Dan Cheeseman was known for his joking personality.

"I promise. I won't."
Chapter 14

Across town, Antonio's counterparts from the Central Park Precinct were struggling to locate evidence in the gruesome slaying of Dr. Franklin Copeland III. Matt Schuster and Jamal Washington peered through a window into the examination room in the bowels of the New York City Morgue. Copeland's grotesque corpse lay on a stainless steel table like a slab of meat. Similar to the Abraham Rabinovitch murder, there was as of yet no clear motive. Forensics techs had found the murder weapon, though it was devoid of fingerprints. His hands protected by latex gloves, Dr. Jim Pollack, a forensic pathologist who worked for the Office of Chief Medical Examiner, carefully scrutinized the body.

Burning questions swirled around inside of Schuster's head. Two abortion doctors had been snuffed in less than a week. Pure coincidence or was a scary pattern emerging here? The two detectives had searched for the late wealthy physician's next of kin. He had no close or even distant relatives anywhere near New York City. Copeland's one remaining sister, a born-again Christian from Virginia, refused to have anything to do with him.

Pollack emerged from the sterile, unfriendly-looking examination room to deliver the verdict.

"Dr. Copeland received in excess of a dozen stab wounds that cut all of his stomach muscles to hamburger," Pollack explained.

"I knew that the moment we arrived on the crime scene," Schuster stated. "Furthermore, whoever murdered Dr. Copeland lay in wait to ambush him. Needless to say, it was well-planned.

"Sounds like a highly plausible theory to me detective," Pollack said. "I will write up my report later today. We'll be talking soon."

Pollack disappeared into an office. Schuster turned to Washington. The duo had been working together for five years. Washington could sense when his partner had something pressing he needed to share.

"Jamal, I've been thinking."

"You thinking? That could get quite dangerous."

"Seriously though. Remember that abortionist who bought the farm last week?"

"You mean the dude who was taken out by a sniper up in Washington Heights? You have a feeling these murders could be related?"

Schuster sighed.

"I don't know. Perhaps it's just an exaggerated hunch."
Chapter 15

His form about as seamless as could be for a little leaguer, Peter Guardini concentrated solely on his one objective. He cranked back his right arm, his hand grasping a dusty, faded baseball. Peter, Dylan Matthews and Jesse Schwartz positioned themselves in a triangular formation on the makeshift ball diamond in the Guardini home's backyard. Peter threw the ball with every bit of force his young arm could muster. The ball slammed into Jesse's glove with stinging impact. The familiar sound of a car pulling into the driveway beckoned Peter and his friends. Antonio got out of the Focus. The sight of his only son standing amongst his closest pals, their faces dusty and sweaty, almost made the middle-aged father tearfully nostalgic. On many a lazy summer's day, Antonio and his buddies from the old neighborhood played ball at the local park well into evening. It was truly a shame, due to technology being such a significant part of the lives of children growing up today, that too many of them had to miss out on the simple pleasures of childhood.

"I see you're batting a thousand there kiddo."

"Dad, can you play catch with me later?"

"I should be able to for a little while. I just have to speak to your mother and see what she's up to." Antonio turned to Jesse and Dylan. "I bet you guys are looking forward to summer vacation. How's your mother Dylan?"

"The cancer has come back," Dylan said, his eyes downcast.

"Sorry to hear that son. Cheryl and I will pray for her recovery."

*****

Antonio hadn't been inside of the house five seconds when he noticed Cheryl sitting gloomily on the living room sofa. She'd been crying. Whatever it was, it wasn't good. He quickly moved to console her.

"Cheryl, what's going on?"

The flood of tears dammed behind her nasolacrimal duct suddenly gushed out of her eyes with a vengeance.

"It happened."

"I'm not completely up on current events but---

"Krista." Cheryl breathed heavily as she tried to compose herself. "She went ahead and got it done yesterday."

Antonio was aware that his wife had spent the past two weeks counselling an impoverished young woman who was barely out of her teens and lived by couch-surfing at friend's homes around the city. Krista, age nineteen, discovered she was pregnant by her drug-addicted boyfriend who quickly fled the situation upon hearing that he was about to become a father. Scared and alone, Krista had strongly considered having an abortion. Cheryl attempted in vain to convince the distraught kid not to go through with it.

"Have you spoken with her?"

"Not personally. I failed Antonio. I failed her and I failed my God!"

Antonio held his wife in his strong, toned arms, the result of doing thousands of push-ups and bicep/tricep curls.

"You can't be hard on yourself like that. You haven't failed anybody. In fact, you did everything in your power to help that young girl. The one small comfort to come out of his tragedy is knowing that that little baby is in Heaven with Jesus." Antonio sighed tiredly. "That kid's got a long hard road ahead of her."

"I just pray she finds her way in life." Cheryl got up off of the couch. "I'm just going to put on a pizza for dinner. Sarah's going to stay home with Peter. I told them we won't be too late."
Chapter 16

The split-entry house along Acacia Drive was just the kind of place Dan and Jennifer Cheeseman were in the market for when they relocated from California. It was close to St. Joseph's, shopping malls and restaurants. A warm evening sun gleamed bright orange into the house's west-facing frontal windows. Antonio parked behind the Camry driven by the McCarthy's. In front of what was a van owned by Scott and Tina Chandler, a couple with five children who'd recently become members of St. Cecilia's. Antonio and Cheryl got out of the Focus and walked to the front doorstep. Jennifer opened the door and greeted her guests warmly.

"We are so glad you could make it," Jennifer said as she hugged them affectionately.

Cheryl handed Jennifer a plastic container holding a batch of Nanaimo squares.

"Jennifer, can you put these in the fridge before they melt in this awful heat?"

"I certainly can." Antonio and Cheryl followed her into the kitchen. "We'll be starting in about five minutes."

The air inside of the home was miraculously cool. Gerald and Phyllis McCarthy, along with Scott and Tina Chandler, sat around the living room chatting. The four couples made up some of the nearly forty parishioners that belonged to St. Cecilia's Right to Life Association. In turn, it was a member of a much large conglomerate of Christian-based prolife groups scattered throughout the New York area.

In addition to the Roman Catholic churches, other churches included Lutheran Church Missouri Synod, Evangelical Christian, Orthodox and conservative mainline Protestant churches. Once their guests were seated, Dan and Jennifer entered the living room. Everyone held rosaries of various colors and constructed from wooden beads, crystal, jade and pewter.

"We shall begin our prayer portion of the meeting," said Jennifer. "Oh Blessed Virgin, Queen of Heaven, intercede for us through your son Jesus Christ. Ensure that our prayers reach deep into the hearts of elected representatives, but more importantly, the doctors and medical staff who partake in this barbarous practice every day across America."

The group members bowed their heads in unison as Jennifer said the first decade of their rosary.

Following prayer and minutes, the Cheesemans and their guests got together in the kitchen for a lunch of egg sandwiches, veggies and sweets. Inevitably, the conversation touched on the violent murders that had rocked the city over the previous week.

"It wouldn't surprise me in the least if the bloody liberal, antichristian media seizes on this opportunity to attack the prolife movement," Gerald McCarthy said as he nibbled on a cracker.

Dan Cheeseman turned to Antonio, who he could tell wasn't eager to discuss the topic.

"What do you think Antonio? There've been two murders over the past week. I'm no detective, but by the looks of things there's a serial killer on the loose."

"I heard about that today. In Central Park. I have a colleague who's posted there. We went to the academy together."

"You know how much I think of these so-called "doctors", Jennifer said disdainfully. "Unfortunately, if some wacko is going around murdering abortionists to make a name for himself, his actions are only serving to diminish the credibility of the entire prolife movement."

"Amen to that," Cheryl chimed in. "This war-and make no mistake about it-we're locked in a spiritual battle here-will never be won through violence and mayhem but through education and prayer. As my mother used to say, "two wrongs don't make a right.""

Chapter 17

The much-publicized murders of two abortion doctors had whipped New York City into a debilitating climate of fear. They had been sensationalized at every angle by local media living up to the old adage "if it bleeds, it leads." Major news outlets had even dubbed the mysterious killer the "Abortion Avenger" on the assumption that he was exacting retribution even though the police were yet to determine if both slayings were even related. This fear-mongering was having its desired effect too; abortion clinics throughout New York as well as in neighboring New Jersey and Connecticut had gone into siege mode. Some were going all out by requesting a stronger police presence, screening visitors more closely and hiring private security guards. Even those not directly involved with the operations of abortion facilities but nonetheless part of the prochoice movement began to fear for their safety. The heads of the city's prolife organizations moved quickly to distance themselves from what they viewed as violent extremism. His Eminence Cardinal Sean Flynn of the Archdiocese of New York joined in the chorus of condemnation. A small faction of the prolife movement empathized with the righteous vigilante, though none dared make their sympathies public.

And nobody was feeling the strain and anguish of this entire calamitous ordeal more than the kingpin of Gotham himself, His Worship Benny Rosenbaum. A migraine banging away inside of his head, Rosenbaum sat hunched over in the leather chair in front of his desk. His unravelled nerves screamed for a nicotine fix. He longed for the days before the nanny state and political correctness had taken over society, when people could damn well do whatever they pleased including smoke in their own office.

A slicked-back, receding black and grey hairline and a valley of wrinkles, creases and furrows dug deep into his tanned face, making the popular though burned-out mayor appear older than his sixty years. Thick, horned-rimmed glasses and a grayish/red plaid business suit made Rosenbaum a throwback to a bygone era. Over forty years earlier, his father, Stan Rosenbaum, had been given the keys to the city for one disastrous term. The mayor was still a bit shaky from spending more than an hour fielding questions from a swarm of bloodthirsty newshounds in the foyer of city hall. A wave of nausea overcame the beleaguered city patriarch. As of this moment, the only thing he felt like doing was curl up and die. Sitting across from Rosenbaum were the two biggest hawks of New York next to him: Commissioner Tom Riley and NYPD Chief Blair Zelinsky, a gregarious, silver-haired cop with a jolly paunch and not a speck of lint on his ribbon-endowed uniform.

Rosenbaum fidgeted frustratingly in his swivel chair.

"Tom, please, enlighten me with this grand idea of yours."

"As I was trying to explain to you earlier Mr. Mayor, your office will work closely with the NYPD in the formation of a task force." Riley could tell right away that the crusty civic leader wasn't completely sold on the idea. "We would select a small group of detectives from various precincts around the city."

"The task force members will be carefully chosen based on experience and any special skills they might possess," Zelinsky added.

Rosenbaum's head was too confused for him to be able to think straight.

"Special skills? You lost me there."

Rosenbaum, who'd been a career public servant, had never worn the uniform of a New York City police officer. He certainly didn't think like one. The two highest-ranking members of the NYPD were aware of this. They were just eager to link the murders and find whoever was responsible."

"Military backgrounds such as service in combat arms units or Special Forces, sociology or psychology courses. Even members who have knowledge or involvement with either the prochoice or prolife movements," Riley explained.

"It all sounds wonderful in theory, but we're in a bit of a time crunch here." Rosenbaum just wanted to get the day over with. "I've got the press breathing down my throat. Cindy's phone rings nonstop with angry representatives with every women's rights organization in the city demanding I do something now. Gentlemen, bottom line here is, we don't have a week to put such a task force together."

Riley and Zelinsky were certain they could sell their boss on the idea.

"We already have a few guys in mind," Riley said. "We'll just need to speak with their precinct commanders for permission before bringing them on board."

As of now, Rosenbaum's beloved city was locked in a paralyzing grip of terror. He had to get this quandary nipped in the bud as quickly as possible lest the voters show their rage at his lack of inaction at the polls next year.

"You have my blessing." Rosenbaum rose from his chair. "Ensure all chosen candidates are one hundred percent committed. They must be willing to stick it out for however long it takes to catch this maniac."
Chapter 18

Antonio nibbled on the fingernail of his left index finger. It was one of those pesky habits that was hard to break. His eyes scanned old court documents from 1992. It was regarding the case of Curtis Holder, a then nineteen-year-old street hooligan who'd been convicted of uttering death threats against another prominent New York abortionist, Samuel Silverberg. Holder was sentenced to 18 months in a county correctional facility followed by three years' probation. An extensive Google search revealed how over the past twenty-one years Holder had racked up quite an elaborate criminal history.

The white supremacist, militia member and gun fanatic had firebombed eight abortion clinics in Ohio, Michigan and Illinois. In addition, he'd been convicted of aggravated assault on an abortionist in Cleveland. Holder was currently on parole after serving a three-year stint in a Florida penitentiary for arson. The chances that he had slipped up to New York and dispatched two abortion doctors were slim to none. Antonio knew one thing for certain; if no genuine breakthroughs came soon, the NYPD may be forced to declare the Abraham Rabinovitch case unsolved.

Antonio wracked his brain in search of answers. Meanwhile, Robinson, Henson and Lewis sat around the squad room shooting the shit and pulling apart a freshly-baked bell pepperoni, sausage and hamburger pizza from Rossini's Italian Eatery down the street.

"Tony, you might want to grab some of this nutritious fare before it's all gone," Henson said with his mouth full of doughy, greasy pizza.

I'm going to pass for now guys. That stuff's potent enough to give a rhinoceros heartburn. Besides, I'm swamped with work here."

"Buddy, you have to lighten up a bit," Robinson said a bit mockingly. "You take this job too seriously."

"Thank God one of us does," Antonio countered.

The big lug sat there feeling insulted. But hey, he'd opened himself up to it.

The homicide detectives were halfway through devouring the pizza when Captain Ortiz made a surprise call. The boss of the 33rd normally reserved his sporadic visits to the squad room to chastise a subordinate or announce pressing news. Hanson and Lewis appeared a bit sheepish as their commander's facial expression conveyed his displeasure at their inactivity.

"Sorry to interrupt your little party." Ortiz had a smattering of sarcasm in his tone. "Guardini, Robinson, I need to see both of you in my office pronto."

Antonio felt slightly uneasy. What in the name of God was this all about? Considering that the NYPD brass had Ortiz under their microscope, it was entirely conceivable that some bigwig was unhappy with the precinct's lack of progress in regards to finding the killer of Abraham Rabinovitch. On the other hand, perhaps he was finally getting that promotion.

Antonio and Robinson stood at half-attention in front of their captain's desk. A portrait of the administrator outfitted in full dress blues, a shit-eating grin highlighting his lips, hung on the wall behind the desk. It infuriated Antonio each time he was summoned in here.

"I'm going to get right to the point here," Ortiz said. "You're both being reassigned-temporarily, that is."

"Captain, what is this about?" Robinson asked.

"I just got off of the phone with Chief Zelinsky. The Chief, along with Commissioner Riley and Mayor Rosenbaum, had an emergency meeting at city hall this morning. The NYPD is going to be working with the mayor's office in the formation of a task force."

"A task force?" Antonio asked.

"That is correct detective." Ortiz was slightly perturbed at being interrupted. "Its purpose will be to investigate the recent murders of Abraham Rabinovitch and Franklin Copeland III. It's clear a pattern is emerging here and this psycho, if he gets his way, will murder every abortion doctor in the city."

Oh great, Antonio thought to himself. More nights away from home. More crazy hours. Although their marriage was stable enough, taking on something of this magnitude had the potential to jeopardize it. Mike Robinson, on the other hand, was divorced. The big-feeling arsehole had a 10-year-old son living in California who he only saw a few times a year anyway.

"Ah Captain?" Antonio knew he had to choose his words carefully. "Not sure if I'm your man on this venture."

"What's the matter Guardini? Got more important things to be doing with your life?"

"Sir, I've been working a lot of weird hours lately-which I'm used to. The problem is, it's beginning to hurt my marriage."

Ortiz gazed at his subordinate with mild understanding, though not enough to be in any way considered sympathetic.

"Detective, every man and woman who's ever donned that uniform and sworn an oath on the Holy Bible to protect the innocent from the scum of society has had to deal with the burdensome task of juggling work and life. You think you're special or something?"

Antonio kept quiet. He should have known better than to complain.

"At eight o'clock sharp tomorrow morning both of you will present yourselves at One Police Plaza for an orientation. Five other detectives will be working alongside you." Ortiz sounded like he was reading from a scripted press realize as he gave them their marching orders. "Upon arrival, you are to report to Deputy Inspector Darrell Keith."

Simply hearing that name again brought about a foul-smelling taste in Antonio's mouth. Seven years earlier, Antonio had been attached to a street narcotics unit in the North Brooklyn 81st Precinct. Darrell Keith, at the time a recently-promoted lieutenant, had been his supervisor. In Antonio's humble opinion, there had never been a bigger asshole to walk the face of the planet.

Power trippers such as the six-foot-two, two-hundred-pound former SWAT goon who revelled in being uncaring pricks were a large part of the reason why the police were nowhere near as respected as they'd once been. Darrell Keith had a near – total God complex and lorded over all those beneath him.

"I guess that will be all gentlemen." Ortiz was eager to get back to the mountain of paperwork on the shelf next to this desk. "You are dismissed. Best of luck to you out there."
Chapter 19

A rapid succession of vehicles spilled off of Queensboro Bridge, veering in every imaginable direction. Looming imposingly in front of Antonio was the boxy, fourteen-storey headquarters of the nation's largest municipal law enforcement agency. To Antonio, Police Plaza had always appeared dreary and monotonous looking. The government building, one of several in New York City designed in the aptly-named Brutalist style of the late 1960s/early 1970s, somewhat resembled the cold, grey, totalitarian blocks of buildings that dotted the cities of the former Eastern Bloc countries.

Already behind schedule, Antonio spent a few minutes he didn't have searching for a parking space. Park Row, an often bustling area, had been closed off to civilian traffic since 9/11. After grabbing a spot, Antonio scurried toward the enormous glass doors of One Police Plaza.

It took Antonio a few minutes to find the conference room on the tenth floor. Robinson and five other people Antonio didn't instantly recognize stood around socializing and nursing coffees. Anxious, Antonio had not slept particularly well the previous night. He was just thankful that Cheryl wasn't upset at his new assignment. In fact, she was somewhat supportive. He made a beeline for the half-empty coffeepot. He poured the strong-smelling, steaming brew into a Styrofoam cup and added cream and sugar. All of a sudden he noticed a familiar face-Matt Schuster.

Standing beside Schuster was a somewhat though toned black detective. Antonio was certain he'd never met the others before; Lisa Chou, Bill Blaney and Manuel Hernandez. Blaney, of average build, age fifty, looked like a mild-mannered executive, though his resume would say otherwise. Before joining the NYPD, Blaney had spent ten years in the U.S. Air Force as a military policeman. Chou, a striking, twenty-eight-year-old beauty of Chinese descent with porcelain cheeks and deep, alluring eyes, hailed from a psychology/sociology background. The fortyish Hernandez wore a conspicuous scowl on his face with a forty-yard stare clearly designed to intimidate anyone dumb enough to screw around with him, qualities honed growing up on the mean streets of Spanish Harlem.

Antonio nodded to Zelinsky and Mayor Rosenbaum as they chatted with Darrell Keith. The newly-minted deputy inspector had aged slightly since Antonio last saw him. The sight of twin laurels and crowns with oak leaves on both sides of Keith's uniform was revolting. An asshole was still an asshole regardless of the rank insignia on his uniform.

"I thought I saw you hiding over there you sneaky son of a bitch."

Antonio whirled around. Matt Schuster stood a few feet away with a big grin on his face. As rookies, they'd worked together in the 83rd Precinct in Brooklyn's crime-infested Bushwick neighborhood.

"Jeez Matt, you haven't changed a bit."

"Even twenty years later I'm still much better looking than you can ever hope to be. Where are you at these days?"

"I'm currently at the 33rd. How about yourself?"

"Central Park."

There was a sudden change in the atmosphere of the room. Zelinsky, Rosenbaum and Keith approached the small podium set up at the back of the conference room.

The detectives took their seats. Rosenbaum, flanked on both sides by the austere-looking cops, got in front of the microphone.

"Good morning everyone. You have been selected for this task force based on the experience and expertise we know you will bring. This man to the right of me, Deputy Inspector Keith, will be your direct superior. Mr. Keith reports to Chief Zelinsky who in turn reports to me. Deputy Inspector, would you care to say a few words?"

"Yes Sir." The embattled mayor stepped aside as Keith took the podium. He scanned the faces of the six men and one woman who he'd be in charge of. It came as a bit of a surprise to see Antonio Guardini among them.

"As His Worship was saying, it will be our job to investigate and find out who exactly is responsible for these murders. Whether it's an individual or some sort of extremist group, it makes no difference. They must be stopped and brought to justice. Each one of you will have automatic jurisdiction anywhere in New York. We will be working closely with law enforcement agencies in New Jersey just in case this maniac decides to strike on their side of the Hudson River. As things currently stand, we don't have very much to work with."

Antonio listened to the man's words. Perhaps he was merely being his old optimistic self, but it appeared, at least from his perspective, that the hardass, gung-ho cowboy had mellowed out of bit.

"As always," Keith continued. "The best piece of advice I can give you is to be vigilant at all times. This killer is hell-bent on putting the entire city into a state of fear. No doubt he'll attack anyone who gets in his way, including us. Are there any questions?

Chou half-raised her hand.

"Sir, I assume we will be working out of Police Plaza."

"That is correct Detective Chou. Right in this room. Each one of you will be assigned a workstation with full access to NCIS and all state and local police databases."
Chapter 20

Sparks flew wildly as the rubber-tire wheels of New York City Subway System Train number 7 zoomed along the angle irons and guide beams of the Broadway-Seventh Avenue Local Line. Packed-in commuters grabbed onto whatever they could as the caboose bobbed and weaved. In an uncommon display of kindness, a passenger had given up his seat to a blind businessman. Unbeknownst to those around him, this seemingly benign "visually impaired businessman" was in actuality the most dangerous man in the city.

The Tall Man was dressed in a $2,000 suit. In his right hand he grasped a collapsible walking stick; in his left hand was a fancy brown leather briefcase. To the Tall Man, being confined to this tomb was a preview of a sort of Hellish world. The combination of suffocating heat laying immobile in the stagnant air and the nauseating piss-and-shit smell was overwhelming. Having been born and bred in a small Midwestern town, the Tall Man had only visited this cesspool of immorality and licentiousness on a few occasions as a child and youth.

Suddenly, as if waking up from a bad dream, bright light shone through the car's windows. The conductor's loud, annoying Brooklyn accent broadcasted through the entire train's speaker system:

"32nd Street. 32nd Street."

The doors slid open. Throngs of commuters spilled off only to be quickly replaced by those standing on the platform directly beneath 32nd Street.

The Tall Man departed with the others. Playing his role with zeal, he tapped at everything around him with the cane. As he headed toward an elevator, an attractive young woman barely out of her teens approached him.

"Excuse me."

The Tall Man froze. He prayed this would not turn out to be an obstacle in his path.

"Yes?"

"You look like you could use a bit of help-if it wouldn't be too much of a burden."

"Of course not," he replied with a smile.

The young woman smiled as she took his arm.

"My name is Veronica," she stated as she helped him up the escalator.

"Bill. Bill Squires."

"It's nice to meet you Bill."

The two soon found themselves in a universe of concrete and steel, of soaring skyscrapers and newly-constructed condominiums only the affluent could afford. Directly in front of the Tall Man, across the street, was Shapiro Tower, where he had a one o'clock "appointment" scheduled.

"Thank you so much Veronica. What does a nice girl like you do with her life?"

"I attend a private business college in the city during the year. I'm interning for the summer."

"Quite often you have to be willing to do whatever it takes to get your foot in the door. I'd love to stay and chat but I have a very important business meeting. I greatly appreciate your assistance Veronica and good luck in the future."

*****

On the best of days, Allyson Shields found her chosen career challenging though very rewarding. For nearly three years, the University of Missouri School of Medicine graduate had been medical director of Manhattan Women's Clinic. One of the largest abortion clinics on Manhattan Island, Manhattan Women's Clinic had close to thirty staff, all of whom Shields was responsible for overseeing. A committed third-wave feminist, Shields occasionally could be borderline fanatical in her defense of women's rights, especially abortion. This was to the chagrin of her deeply conservative United Pentecostal parents, who lived in a small community on the Missouri-Arkansas line.

Shields had spent a particularly stressful morning dealing with bureaucrats from the New York Department of Health. Budget cuts to abortion services were looming on the horizon, something she vowed to fight vehemently. If that wasn't enough to contend with, her clinic had received another threatening letter, the third in less than a month. As well, a group of prolife activists who had their "outreach centre" directly across the street from Manhattan Women's Clinic were hard at work convincing women not to exercise their constitutional right to safe abortion services. Tired, she opted to take the afternoon off.

Attractive, though slightly boyish in appearance, the extremely liberated modern woman had been mistaken for a lesbian. She was straight and occasionally dated men who shared her views.

But overall, Shields was an individual who cherished her own space. She lived with her cat, Gracie, in a spacious condominium on the twentieth floor of the thirty-storey Parkview on 31st Street.

*****

An endless stream of pricey business suits, skirts and blouses continually came and went through the massive doors of Shapiro Tower. The Tall Man fit right in as he entered into the expansive lobby. Before being permitted entry, visitors were required to pass through a security checkpoint. The imposter tapped his cane lightly as he approached the desk, where two beefy security officers were checking IDs and badges. A black officer with a polite smile and the build of an NCAA linebacker stepped out from behind the desk to accommodate the blind man.

"Good afternoon Sir." The man's nametag read "Willis."

"I have an appointment at one o'clock. At Landmark Financial."

Willis nodded.

"Could I see some I.D. Sir?"

"Why of course."

The Tall Man reached inside of one of the pockets of his blazer and retrieved two items: a laminated guest pass and a public identification card. Both were in the name of Bill Squires, owner of Squires Investments. Willis glanced over the documents. Legit as any other. The plan was going according to clockwork.

"I see you have your own company Mr. Squires."

"Did the Wall Street thing for eighteen years. Miracle I've got any nerves left."

Willis handed him back the documents.

"The elevator is straight ahead of you Mr. Squires. If you require any assistance, please don't hesitate to ask."

Walking through the stifling streets of Manhattan was akin to being trapped in a steam room. Allyson Shields had only walked a city block or so and already her capris and blouse were soaked in perspiration.

Oh, the swimming pool is going to feel awesome.

On blistering hot summer days such as this one, the fifteen-meter pool situated on the roof of the Parkview was a big hit with the building's generally well-heeled residents. Filtration systems kept the water temperature refreshingly cool even when it felt like the seventh layer of Hell outside. The former high school swim star, whose team had won the state swimming championships two decades earlier, saw the pool as a place of refuge from her crazy world.
Chapter 21

The ex-Special Forces operative everyone believed to be a visually impaired businessman named Bill Squires had safely navigated his way to the thirty-fifth floor of Shapiro Tower. Upon locating the penthouse, the Tall Man, using a tool he'd designed himself, jimmied open the door. Once the door was unlocked, he locked it behind him and ascended to the roof.

The crown of Shapiro Tower was a world of burning asphalt and gravel, enormous buzzing HVAC units, giant metal fans, smokestacks and solar panels. The Tall Man stood at the ledge overlooking 31st Street. He set the briefcase on top of an elevator shaft and opened it. In this era of high-tech surveillance, including drones with infrared capabilities, one had to be extra-cautious about being seen in the open. Working quickly, he assembled the parts of the Remington 700 rifle. To his disappointment, the scope was off, but only by a few millimeters. By his estimates, Parkview Condominiums was an easy two hundred and fifty yards away. A magazine holding five hollow-point 150-grain bullets was slammed into place. Lastly, the Tall Man fastened a bipod onto the stock and rested it on the ledge.

He'd chosen the perfect day. There was faintly a hint of wind though the humidity was oppressive. He checked his watch: no more than five minutes until show time. It was a blessing to have the Angel of the Lord on your side.

*****

Tired and drained, Allyson Shields walked through the door of condo number 42 on the twenty-fifth floor of the Parkview.

Within seconds, the building's air conditioning system revitalized her entire body. The busy woman's arrival prompted Gracie, the three-year-old Calico she'd adopted from an animal shelter, to affectionately rub up against her leg. She often did this to show her undying love but also to get a treat. Shields placed a few morsels on the floor which her feline friend gladly gobbled up. She then took off her sweaty clothes and jumped into the shower. The cool spray invigorated her toned, healthy skin, the result of regular Pilates, hot yoga and clean eating. Shields turned off the tap, stood on the mat and dried herself. Next, she pulled on a one-piece blue racer. The slightly tight swimsuit fit her curvy, sexy figure almost perfectly. She slid her feet into a pair of flip-flops, picked up a small bag which contained goggles, a bathing cap and water bottle, locked up and took the elevator to the roof.

Stepping back into the crushing heat was overwhelming. The pool's shimmering, cool water was extremely inviting. Shields slipped out of the flip-flops; put on the goggles and cap. Two thirtyish women who lived on her floor basked in the burning afternoon sun. She knew one was named Marissa. She was certain the other woman's name was Susan. Marissa's two sons, Ethan and Mark, and Susan's daughter, Emily, frolicked happily in the pool. Shields nodded friendlily to her neighbors before diving in. Within seconds, she was swimming fast laps back and forth, the cold, bluish water energizing her to the maximum.

*****

The Lord's Avenger, as the wily assassin saw himself, adjusted the scope of the Remington 700. He crouched a few inches in order to get his body into a faultless firing position. He peered through the scope. The crosshairs touched briefly on Susan and Marissa then their children. The Tall Man focused on his mark, who swam at the pace of a sprinting greyhound.

Though he had taken out countless moving targets during his career, exterminating one who swam with the agility of an Olympic competitor was a first for him. He took a handful of deep, controlled breaths. His right eye a few inches away from the exit pupil/eyepiece area, he focused the crosshairs on Shields; squeezed the trigger.

*****

Shields propelled herself across the length of the pool with a finely-honed front crawl. Without warning, she suddenly felt a burning sensation in her side area, as if somebody had just jabbed a sharp object in there. She contorted in excruciating pain. Unbeknownst to the abortion doctor, a three-inch lead projective was tearing through her kidneys and organs. She struggled to breathe as her body fought to stay on the surface of the water. It was a fruitless endeavor. As Shields started her descent to the bottom of the pool, light danced across the water's surface like the proverbial near-death experience. Her relentless spirit not yet extinguished, the feisty woman continued to fight viciously as she slipped further and further into the realms of death. Blood from the entry wound seeped liberally into the pool, turning the water an almost midnight blue color.

Emily sat on a towel on the pool deck enjoying a cup of yogurt. The boys continued to roughhouse in the pool while Marissa and Susan caught up on current events. All of a sudden, the perceptive young girl spotted Shields floating on the surface of the pool.

"Mommy! Mommy!"

It took all of three seconds for Susan, a single mother and former lifeguard, to dive into the water in the hopes of saving the dying woman's life. Marissa yelled to her sons.

"Ethan, Mark! Get out now!"

The brothers saw the blood-infused chlorinated water and got out as fast as they could.

"I'll call 911," Marissa said to Susan, who grabbed Shields around the waist. She swam with Shields toward the pool deck. Small in stature though very strong, Susan pushed her up onto the deck and began performing CPR.

Working against precious time, Susan pinched Shields' nose and blew air into her airway in a desperate bid to revive her. The fading gaze in the woman's eyes signalled arrival at death's door. The door to the penthouse flew open. A half dozen or so residents of the Parkview rushed out onto the pool deck to see if they could help Susan. Tears rolled down Susan's cheeks as she held the deceased woman in her arms.

Chapter 22

Tenants stayed in the safety of their condo units as the rooftop of the Parkview was transformed into a crime scene. Homicide investigators from Midtown North Precinct had been the first to arrive on scene. Upon learning that the half-naked woman sprawled on the edge of the pool deck in a puddle of blood had been the director of an abortion clinic, the mayoral task force was quickly summoned. Antonio was instantaneously ensnared by the grotesque murder. He noted that the bullet had penetrated through a gaping hole in her side. Though Antonio vigorously opposed people like Allyson Shields, no one deserved to be murdered. He said a silent prayer for her eternal soul. Only God actually knew what people had on their consciences at the moment of death.

While their counterparts picked over the area for clues, Antonio, Washington and Hernandez spoke with Detective Wally Harbinger of Midtown North.

"Two women who live on the same floor as the victim were out here with their children when this happened," Harbinger explained. "One of them pulled Shields out of the water. She tried to save her. Did CPR, the whole bit."

Judging by the last two abortion-related murders, Antonio came to the conclusion that the killer had put a considerable amount of time and effort into trailing his victims. He would need to learn their daily routines, their every movement to know exactly where they would be when he intended to strike. A forest of lofty office towers dwarfed the Parkview. Locating the exact one where Allyson Shields was taken out from could turn out to be challenging.

Robinson and Blaney studied the skyline.

"Bill, see that building across the street," Robinson said, referring to Shapiro Tower. "You know, the one on the opposite side of 31st?"

"Shapiro Tower. I assume you've heard the name Aaron Shapiro from time to time?"

"Who hasn't? Bugger's got more money than God."

"Are you thinking that could be the one?" Blaney asked.

"It's a strong candidate, that's for sure. Think about it. Shapiro Tower is a good seven, eight stories higher than the Parkview. Just take a look at the swimming pool. It runs perfectly parallel in a rectangular shape. It's worth checking out."

Robinson looked over to where Antonio was.

"Hey Guardini. Come over here for a sec."

Antonio walked over to where Blaney and Robinson were standing.

"Antonio," Blaney asked. "It's pretty obvious this maniac is using some sort of foldable rifle. You know, something that can easily be carried around without raising suspicions."

"Bill, come on. This if lefty-liberal New York we're talking about here. Even the dumbest criminal wouldn't dare dream of prancing around in broad daylight with a gun."

"We have a theory," Blaney stated. "It's quite possible that the shot came from Shapiro Tower."

Antonio thought this over.

"I wouldn't rule anything out at this point. Though, considering the airtight security in most public buildings today, it would have taken an awfully crafted individual to pull off such a caper."

"So does that mean you're up for heading over there?" Robinson asked.

"Nothing ventured, nothing gained," Antonio replied.

*****

The multitudes of white-collar yuppies and jetsetters who worked at Shapiro Tower were oblivious to the fact that a lone assassin posing as one of them had just shot somebody at long-range from the roof. While Blaney, Robinson and Schuster stayed behind, the four remaining task force members walked across the street to Shapiro Tower. Antonio, Hernandez, Washington and Chou entered the foyer. The time was 2:30 p.m. Approximately twenty minutes earlier, the soft-spoken financial advisor named Bill Squires casually walked out the front doors into the scorching afternoon heat. Willis and another guard named Skyles stood as the quartet of detectives flashed their badges.

"Well what'd ya know? Cops are actually starting to crack down on white collar crime," Willis wisecracked.

"There's been a murder," Hernandez stated in a sombre tone. "Across the street on the rooftop of Parkview Condominiums."

What the heck is going on here? The heavyset security officer thought. Is this some kind of a joke?

"There was a woman shot in the swimming pool," Antonio said. "We have strong reason to believe she was shot by somebody from the roof of Shapiro Tower."

"Detective, we check every last person who enters this building. It's not like someone can simply waltz in here with a gun, gain access to the penthouse and go onto the roof."

"Well that's exactly what somebody did," Chou added. "Besides security staff, who else would have keys to the penthouse?"

"The maintenance guys do. But none of them are here right now."

Just then, Cam Holland and Roger Benson from forensics entered into the foyer. Their customary dark blue jackets had been shed in lieu of cooler short sleeves.

"Good to see you again guys," Antonio said with a smile. He turned to Willis and Skyles. "We need to get up to the roof right now," he told the rent-a-cops in a tone that clearly conveyed he wasn't taking no for an answer.

Willis looked to his younger colleague, whose eyes were studying a bank of TV monitors.

"Brad, you mind doing the honors?"

Skyles quietly got up from the desk. Willis handed him a key. Antonio looked around at his colleagues.

"Manuel, why don't you and Jamal go up there? Lisa and myself will stay down here and gather as much information as possible."

"Sure Tony," Washington replied.
Chapter 23

A trio of paramedics zipped Allyson Shields' corpse into a cadaver bag before setting it onto a stretcher. While Schuster remained on the rooftop Robinson and Blaney were in a lounge located on the 23rd floor of the building. They took turns interviewing Susan, Emily, Marissa and her sons. The mothers comforted their traumatized children. As a father of two himself, Blaney could empathize with them. Young impressionable eyes forced to watch such a disturbing sight unfold in front of them would be hard for any child to handle.

Blaney smiled at Susan before resuming his questioning of Emily, who shivered nervously, a towel wrapped around her little body.

"Emily, when you saw Allyson drowning, did you hear any noise, say like a loud bang?"

Emily shook her head.

"No, it just happened quietly."

Robinson looked at the two mothers.

"Is that what you saw as well?"

"Correct," Marissa replied. She was drained and just wanted the day to be over. "It all happened so fast. All of a sudden Susan was in the pool trying to save poor Allyson. I went and called 911." Marissa breathed deeply as she recounted the nerve-jangling experience. "Let me tell you. It was damn scary."

*****

Skyles, Hernandez and Washington looked on as Benson and Holland dusted the silver doorknob of the penthouse with brushes from their toolkit. To no one's surprise, it was clean of fingerprints. Hernandez felt the cold, hard metal. The keyhole showed signs of being tampered with.

Skyles had to fiddle with the doorknob for a minute or so before he was able to get it open. The four policemen and their escort ascended onto the roof. Hernandez and Washington walked over to the south-facing side of the building, which faced Parkview Place. From eight stories above the luxury condo complex, the blood-infused pool stood out vividly like a massive prop in a horror film.

Hernandez and Washington exchanged waves with Blaney and Robinson. The unusually clear air afforded views of the faraway peaks of the Empire State Building, World Trade Centre site, the World Financial Centre as well as the New York Mercantile Exchange. It was puzzling as to how somebody could conceivably bullshit his way into a highly-secured office tower, especially when he didn't work there. The forensics techs meticulously checked the ledge and surrounding surfaces for fingerprints and powder residue.

It was quite obvious by now that this mysterious killer took extra time to cleanse crime scenes of evidence authorities could use to find his identity. Holland looked over at Benson.

"This has got to be the cleverest son-of-a-bitch I've encountered in quite some time," he said.
Chapter 24

Antonio's normally ironclad patience was wearing dangerously thin. Willis, out of fear of losing his reasonably well-paying gig, had been pigheaded about allowing Antonio and Chou to view surveillance footage taken over the previous few hours. Precious time was being wasted on unnecessary bickering. After a fair bit of wrangling, Antonio had more or less coaxed the burly security guard into contacting his supervisor.

"Mr. Willis, it would be of great assistance to my colleague and I if you'd be so kind to at least tell us if anybody who appeared suspicious or "out of place" was in here today", Antonio said.

Willis understood the strict parameters regarding what he was and wasn't permitted to divulge with regards to the confidentially of clients. Just then, a sense of relief came over him as a woman stepped out of the elevator. Amanda Jackson was of slightly petite build and wore a neatly-pressed blouse and skirt. Chief Officer of corporate and community relations for Shapiro Enterprises, Jackson was in the early thirties and displayed a ruthless, take-no-prisoners demeanor. A modern woman in every sense committed to climbing the arduous corporate ladder.

"Good afternoon. My name is Amanda Jackson. I am head of corporate and community relations for Shapiro Enterprises."

"I'm Detective Guardini. This is my partner Detective Chou. We were just asking Officer Willis here a few questions."

"By all means...continue."

"Mr. Willis, would you please answer the question?" Chou asked.

Uncertain of how to respond, Willis turned to Jackson like a child seeking approval from a parent.

"It's alright John. Tell them whatever they want to know. Should any fallout occur, I'll handle it."

Willis sighed before continuing.

"Come to think about it, there was this one guy. Came in here dressed like Donald Trump. Walked with one of those collapsible canes. Dude had dark shades covering his eyes."

Chou was reeling in disbelief. A blind man? This wannabe cop was intentionally dicking them around.

"Was this 'blind man' carrying a briefcase?"

"Yes he was. Look, to be honest with you officers, I have no idea what's going on here. But I have been working security for a long time and I deal with every type of individual society has to offer. But there was something about this guy that was genuinely creepy, almost like he was..."

"Faking." Antonio finished the sentence for him.

"I don't know what else to say," Willis replied with utmost sincerity.

It was more than a longshot, but Antonio had a feeling the task force had snagged their first actual lead.

"What name did he give you?" Chou asked.

"Bill Squires. He had an I.D. with his photo on it. Squires or whoever is name is was tall and had a beard."

"Did you spot him leaving?" Chou asked.

"Wasn't paying particular attention. This place is like Grand Central Station on most days."

At that moment, Skyles, Hernandez, Washington, Benson and Holland entered the foyer.

"I just spoke to Bill," Washington stated. "They're on their way now."

"Did you find anything of interest on the roof?" Antonio asked.

"There was definitely somebody who wasn't authorized to up there recently," Holland said. "Not a speck of evidence though."

Antonio turned to Jackson, who he could tell was displeased at having her high-and-mighty world invaded.

"We need to view the security DVD."

"I suppose we can arrange that," she said reluctantly. "Willis, would you play the footage for them please?"

Willis sat down at the desk. He pressed some buttons and began rewinding black-and-white surveillance footage on a TV monitor. It took a minute or so to locate the exact spot the detectives wanted to see.

The screen read Monday, June 30, 12:55 p.m. A man, age unidentifiable, dressed in a dark business suit, glasses and beard, walked through the entranceway. Antonio and his colleagues watched very closely. The individual on the tape bore a haunting resemblance to someone he knew, though it escaped his mind as to just who is was.

"Where did Bill Squires have an appointment at?" Hernandez asked.

"Landmark Financial. It's on the thirty-fifth floor."

At that moment, Blaney, Robinson and Schuster entered and joined the others.

"Who is the go-to person for Landmark Financial?" Antonio asked Jackson.

"His name is Jim Bruce. You realize I can't allow you to wander around this building and bother our very prestigious partners and clients."

Antonio was about ready to lose his cool.

"Ms. Jackson," he said in the politest tone he could muster. "We are sick and tired of getting the runaround here. You're impeding a homicide investigation. Now this individual on the surveillance tape is a person of interest. I am politely requesting that you temporarily give us that DVD."

Jackson had a look on her face as if she'd just been asked to strip naked in front of a room full of hundreds of people.

"Not going to happen."

"Alright, if you want to play that game." Antonio's adrenaline was rising. "I'll just slip downtown and get a warrant. Heck, I might even call up Mr. Shapiro himself and tell him how lovely and cooperative you've been with us."

The routinely bossy, dominant woman immediately piped down. She knew she was on the losing end.

"It's all yours."

"Tony, how about Mike and I head on up there to speak with Jim Bruce?" Blaney suggested.

"Alright, we'll be talking to you in a few," Antonio replied.

*****

It had been a nonstop, push-push day for James G. Bruce. The fiftyish former bank manager barely had time to answer nature's call, much less eat lunch. Blaney and Robinson stepped off of the elevator onto the thirty-fifth floor. They were greeted by the brown-and-brass windowed doors of Landmark Financial.

"Guy certainly did his homework," Robinson commented. "Knew exactly how to get to the penthouse."

They entered. Trudy, a pretty administrative assistant with long dark brown hair, sat at the reception desk. Acting businesslike, the detectives displayed their gold shields. Bruce emerged from his office half-munching on a sandwich.

"Good afternoon gentlemen. You'll be happy to know I have several law enforcement officers among my list of clientele."

"We need information about one of those clients," Robinson said matter-of-factly.

Bruce was hesitant. The last thing he needed was to get dragged into something he wasn't involved in.

"I simply cannot, legally at least, divulge that kind of..."

"That's not the kind of information we're looking for," Blaney said, cutting him off. "A man came into Shapiro Tower just before one o'clock. According to security, he had an appointment with your investment firm."

"Guys, if you had any idea how hectic it's been around here today. I just got out of my third straight meeting ten minutes ago. I have another in five so if possible, please try and make this short. What is the name of my client you wish to know about?"

"Bill Squires," Robinson replied. "He's over six feet. Fairly big guy with a beard. Blind as a bat. Wears tinted sunglasses and gets around with the assistance of a foldable cane."

Bruce peered at them strangely.

"I know a Bill Squires. He isn't a client of mine at the moment but we've done business together in the past."

"Can you describe what he looked like?" Blaney requested.

"For starters, he isn't blind. He's a bit slimmer than me with brown hair." Bruce thought for a moment. "Actually, come to think about it, somebody fitting the description of the man you depicted was in this area about one."

"Do you remember that he was doing?" Blaney asked.

"Walking down the hallway. I had just snuck out briefly to use the washroom. Figured he was a client of another company on the floor."
Chapter 25

Antonio's taste buds were usually tantalized by the spicy oregano and basil aroma of his wife's spaghetti and meatballs. But this evening, his appetite was gone. Another gory corpse. The staggering heat of the day had zapped him of almost all energy. He sat with his family around the kitchen table. Peter, hungry after spending an afternoon playing baseball, reached for the dish of garlic bread. His mother promptly obstructed him.

"What do we do before eating?"

Peter sat back in his seat. The family blessed themselves before bowing their heads in prayer.

"Bless, O Lord, this food for thy use, and make us mindful of the wants and needs of others. Amen." Cheryl said.

Everyone except Antonio dug into the food.

"Daddy, you should eat something," Sarah said as she scooped pasta onto her plate.

Antonio heaved a sigh of exhaustion. The bed was going to feel so good tonight.

"It's your favorite," Cheryl said, concerned.

"I'm just not hungry whatsoever."

"I had never crossed paths with the woman," Cheryl said between bites. "From what I gather, she was somebody who kept to herself, wasn't very active in the prochoice movement."

Antonio tapped his hands against the table.

"None of that really matters now. She's dead, along with two other abortionists. I realize that you and some other people from the parish have mixed emotions about me being involved in this case. It's no secret I despise these individuals, but finding their killer is my job, plain and simple. Change the subject a bit, how was your day today?"

"Busy." Cheryl wiped her mouth with a napkin. "We brought a new volunteer on board."

A slight smile broke through Antonio's gloomy, harried face.

"Good news. What parish does she belong to?"

"Oh she isn't Catholic. To the best of my knowledge, Bridget attends one of those vineyard-type churches."

"Interesting." As a lifelong Italian-Catholic, and somebody largely unfamiliar about other religions, Antonio was always under the impression that the Vineyard Church, deeply charismatic, was not in sync with orthodox Christian doctrines. But that had been hearsay and not hard facts. "Well, when it comes right down to it, we're all on the same team here fighting to protect God's unborn children."

*****

A few streets over, the Cheesemans were finishing up their dinner. Dan and Rachel scooped the leftovers into the compost bucket while Jennifer filled an electric kettle with water. As the water boiled, Jennifer took down three china cups from a cupboard. Next, she took a chilled cheesecake out of the fridge and cut three pieces from it.

The family took their tea and went into the living room.

"It's comforting to hear that you're soon going to be able to hire additional staff," Jennifer said to her husband as she sipped the green tea. "Hopefully that will mean you'll be able to spend more time at home."

Lately, Dan Cheeseman had been working around the clock. He hated spending that much time away from his family, but he had to pay his dues, so to speak.

"Although my job is of utmost important at this time, you two will always be number one. Sometimes I probably take your love for granted."

"Don't worry about it dear. Things will work out. I pray daily for our family."

"Thanks. Jen, I honestly don't know what I'd do without you."

"My guess is you wouldn't last long," she replied with a teasing smile.

Cheeseman glanced over at his daughter, who worked at a local supermarket. She steadied her cup on one hand and cake in the other.

"What kind of a day did you have their kiddo?"

"It was pretty good. I enjoy working cash. It gives me an opportunity to interact with lots of people.
Chapter 26

The slaying of Allyson Shields added a third case to the task force's busy workload. Following the customary morning briefing, all seven investigators were sent to do their assigned duties. Antonio and Lisa Chou drove along 48th Street in Manhattan. Soaring concrete and steel hallmarks of American power and wealth dwarfed all of the lowlier buildings on the street. The detectives were on their way to Manhattan Women's Clinic to interview Allyson Shields' coworkers.

It was a sultry early July morning. Antonio and Chou chatted. She was engaged to a banker. They were in the process of picking a date for their wedding. It took no time at all for the conversation to move onto the polemic topic the task force members had become so engulfed in. Antonio was starting to feel his personal life conflict with his professional one. Arguing his staunch prolife position with an avowed atheist raised in a secular humanist family was no easy undertaking.

"I cannot for the life of me understand how the antiabortion movement can justify their argument," Chou said. "Plain and simple, whatever is still inside of a woman's womb is a fetus. It's not a living being. Nowhere near close to being a fully formed human being. Conception to natural death? It makes no sense. So you don't support the death penalty for murderers? Even cop killers?"

"Lisa, let me put it to you this way. I believe God created every living creature on Earth. Jesus Christ, the only son of God, died for my sins as well as yours."

Chou shook her head.

"Sorry, I cannot fathom how any educated person can blindly place their trust in a so-called "Supreme Being" that doesn't even exist."

"I guess we'll just have to agree to disagree." Antonio was beginning to get pissed. The worst possible thing to happen at this moment would be a heated argument.

*****

Five women ranging in age from sixteen to mid-thirties, each in varying degrees of pregnancy, sat in an uncomfortable silence. Antonio and Chou entered the flowery reception area of Manhattan Women's Clinic. A pleasant admin assistant sat behind the desk.

"Good morning detectives. Ms. Breaker is expecting you."

A mildly attractive woman in her late twenties exited an office. Her hair was done in dreadlocks and she wore a wildly-colored skirt. Kathleen Breaker was every modern hippy/environmentalist/bohemian's wet dream come to life.

"Good morning," Breaker said as she shook hands with Antonio and Chou. "I am Kathleen Breaker, assistant director of Manhattan Women's Clinic." She pointed toward her office. "Please, come in."

As Antonio and Chou followed Breaker into her office, an unnerving feeling ate at him. Those five young women sitting out there were heedless to the fact that they were about to make the most psychologically-damaging mistake of their lives. Breaker closed the door behind them. Dotting the office walls were photos of various prochoice events around New York.

It boggled Antonio's mind how otherwise good people got brainwashed into fighting for a cause so evil and destructive to mankind as a whole.

Breaker sat down at her desk. She embraced a steaming mug of herbal tea.

"Could I offer you anything? Tea? Coffee?"

"I'm good," Antonio replied.

"I already drank nearly an entire pot this morning," Chou said with a tired smile. "We're sorry about your colleague."

Breaker took small sips of her tea.

"Allyson was such a nice person, an inspiration to those who worked with her." Breaker cast her eyes dejectedly. "And now she's gone. Detective Guardini, if you don't mind me asking, you are any relation to that loudmouthed anti-woman prolife extremist Cheryl Guardini?"

Yikes! He'd unwittingly got himself trapped in a corner in which there was no way out. Antonio turned to his partner as if to say: 'help me, I'm in serious shit here.'

"She's my better half."

Breaker's brown, saucer-like eyes glared disdainfully upon him.

"I should have picked up on that."

"Now just hold on a minute Ms. Breaker." Antonio was keen to get his business done and get as far away from this factory of death as he could. "What either you or I do in our private lives is not the issue here today. I'm not your adversary. I want to see this animal locked up or dead just as much as anyone in New York. To the best of your knowledge, did Allyson ever report being followed, receiving threatening phone calls or emails?"

Breaker thought long and hard.

"A couple of weeks ago, I can't say for certain that he was targeting Allyson specifically, but there was this weirdo hanging around outside. He appeared to be checking out the building." Her voice became fraught with alarm. "Are we, I mean people who work at the clinic, in any immediate danger?"

"I don't know," Chou replied. "Can you give a description of this individual?"

"I only saw him once. He was very tall; big shoulders, well-built. He had a beard and wore dark sunglasses."

At that moment it occurred to the detectives that a pattern was emerging. For the surveillance footage and now this. It was just unfortunate that as of yet they hadn't been able to find any concrete evidence.

"At least we have an inkling of what this guy looks like," Antonio said to Chou. "It's going to be quite a bit easier finding a suspect."
Chapter 27

By early afternoon, the seven task force detectives were back at One Police Plaza. They sat at their workstations in the conference room that had temporarily been transformed into their base of operations. Each one of them searched the National Police Database hoping to locate convicted felons who were known to use the alias "Bill Squires." It seemed highly unlikely that such a crafty individual would use his own identity or, if he was known to authorities, one of his regular aliases. Tracking down and nabbing the actual killer, Antonio reasoned, was not going to be easy. Tall males sporting beards were a dime a dozen on this island of eight million souls.

The intense quest for answers came in the name of a convicted bank robber who'd also served prison time for theft, aggravated assault and attempted murder. Forty-five-year-old Charles Raymond Harmon of Des Moines, Iowa was a grave enough threat to public safety for his profile to be featured on the FBI's most wanted list. Three months earlier, upon being released from a Nevada correctional institution, Harmon vanished into thin air.

"Though there is a slight chance Harmon could be who we're looking for, I wouldn't bet a year's salary on it," Blaney said.

Antonio read the rough-faced criminal's profile.

"This guy is bad, there's no denying that, but he's no skilled assassin," Antonio commented. "Just not bright enough in my opinion."

"We can't rule anything out," Schuster added. "Considering Charles Harmon is the only guy we've found in the system so far who uses the alias Bill Squires."

"What we need to be focusing on," Antonio continued, are former Special Forces types; Army Rangers, SEALs, Green Berets..."

"Don't forget my old outfit," Robinson added. "Marine Corps Sniper Division. Lots of these guys go bat shit crazy when they return stateside. PTSD fucks up their ability to function in normal society. A few of them even get religion. I think you all know what I'm getting at here."

At that moment, Darrell Keith exited his office.

"Alright people, our meeting will commence in about five minutes."

Two young men with stubbly faces and pimples wearing uniforms of Pizza Boys entered the conference room. The delivery guys carried four16-inch pizzas which they set on the oval-shaped table in the middle of the room.

"Thank you gentlemen," Keith said. "The department will send you the bill."

The pizza guys left. Within seconds the detectives, ravenously hungry, tore into the greasy fare. Everyone except Antonio, that is. From the outset, it appeared to be every cop's "Right of passage" into the blue brotherhood to subsist on a diet of artery-hardening rubbish, dishwater coffee and enough cigarettes to give an elephant cancer. Antonio had vivid childhood memories of spending time with his father and grandfather, who had worked out of such glamorous precincts as the 60th, 9th and 23rd. On many a day, the air inside of those aging brick blocks was fierce with the choking, nauseating smell of chain smoking. It had come as little surprise why so many of the old guard died at their desks, their bodies devastated by a lifetime of stress and bad habits. Antonio swore he would not succumb to the same fate.

Darrell Keith stood at the front of the room like a stern schoolteacher. The task force members sat around the table. Since starting with the group, Antonio had had a chance to talk with his old supervisor. Despite being his regular gung-ho, tough self, it was quite evident that Keith had grown more into his mellower side, a characteristic that not only benefited him but the group as a whole.

"Ballistics analyzed the bullet taken from Allyson Shields' liver," he explained. "Not only is it the same calibre used to kill Abraham Rabinovitch, a study of the rifling marks on both shells casings confirms that they came from the same type of high-powered rifle."

"Inspector, what type of bullet was used?" Washington asked.

"7.62 NATO round. Very popular. Used in many variants of semiautomatic firearms. Moving on, I think it's safe to say that we have a reasonably strong enough description of a suspect to begin building a profile. We will be consulting the Real Time Crime Centre fairly regularly. The Facial Recognition Unit is picking through the DVD taken from Shapiro Tower. We are also going to have to check all state criminal records. It's a nitpicking chore but it must be done. There is a strong possibility that these killings are the work of a lone wolf, though it could be somebody with ties to various right-wing fringe groups such as militias."

Schuster half-raised his hand.

"Inspector, when you say a long wolf, are you referring to people such as Eric Rudolph and Richard Jewell?"

Washington flashed an inquisitive look at his colleague.

"Richard who?"

"You remember the Atlanta Olympics in 1996? Richard Jewel was the whack job that set off a bunch of pipe bombs."

"1996? Dude, I was seventeen years old. All I cared about back then was hip-hop music, smoking up and getting laid."

Robinson couldn't resist an opportunity to be an asshole. He turned to Antonio with a wiseass grin highlighting his face.

"Hey Guardini, sure it isn't one of your people terrorizing the city?"

"I assume you're referring to Italians. Nah, that isn't our style. I'd be more inclined to believe that somebody along the lines of your inbred kin from down south would be responsible for these killings. I bet you have an uncle or a cousin in the Klan. Am a right?"

Robinson froze right up. He was a genuine jerk and he knew it.

"Alright guys, knock that shit off," Keith barked. "Tony, just out of curiosity, what is your take on all of this? Considering you're considerably involved in the prolife movement."

Antonio nodded. Like his ancestors before him, the fiercely-proud Italian-Catholic from Queens truly stood up for what he believed in.

"In my experience, much of the antiabortion violence committed in this country is carried out not by extremist groups but, as Deputy Inspector Keith was saying, 'lone wolfs.' To give you an example; how many of you are familiar with the Christian Identity movement? To make a long story short this hate group-and that's exactly what it is-believes in the supremacy of the white or 'Aryan' race. Everyone else, including half of the people sitting in this room, are classified as belonging to the 'lower races.'"

Washington mulled over what his colleague was expounding. It was heavy subject matter indeed.

"In the past," Antonio continued. "Members of the Christian Identity movement, sometimes working in conjunction with various neo-Nazi organizations, have targeted abortion facilities as well as abortion doctors."

"Antonio, have you ever had to personally deal with these types of lowlife trash? Washington asked. "To be honest, I don't completely get it. Sure, Abraham Rabinovitch was Jewish, and these loons obviously believe abortion is a holocaust-so to speak-engineered to eradicate the white race. But there's no evident pattern here, meaning that these murders cannot be motivated by racial hatred or anti-Semitism."

"You have a strong argument there Jamal," Antonio countered. "I don't believe they are either. I also don't pretend to know his true motives. But don't despair my friends. Because he will soon reveal them to us."
Chapter 28

A family man with little downtime in his busy life, on occasion Antonio got to go out, usually for an after-work drink with colleagues. Once in a while, he enjoyed getting together with his best friend, Dan Cheeseman. Every time Antonio drove past the big yellow-rimmed sign featuring two hands shaking saying: "Welcome to Ozone Park, Settled 1882," it was like embarking on a trip down Memory Lane. The square-roofed brick-and-wood businesses flanking Jefferson Avenue, the gabled houses, even the ball diamonds and sports fields with their aging infrastructure and rusted, chain-link fences-all interpreted a starkly gritty portrait of working-class America. Antonio drove into a parking spot a block down from Dino's Pub.

Dino's was a blue-collar watering hole in every sense of the word. The first thing one noticed were checkered floors that were lucky to see a mopping twice a week, old dartboards, pool tables and VLTs. It was the stereotypical place frequented by big hulking guys named Vinnie and Sal, who worked in the same trade or business that their families had been doing for generations.

With his slicked-back black hair and big, imposing face, Dino Galante could easily be mistaken for a mob enforcer. The fourth-generation Italian-American had operated various enterprises in the neighborhood for as long as Antonio could remember. Dino smiled as Antonio entered with a guy he'd never seen before. Behind him, two flags-one the fern green, bright white and flame tricolors of the old country; the other the stars and stripes-hung proudly side-by-side.

"Great to see you again Tony. Surprised the old lady let you out of the house."

"You know how it is Dino. Compromise is the key to a successful marriage."

"I don't know how Margaret and I kept ours going for the past forty-five years. And you're well aware of all the trials and tribulations we've been through. Who's your buddy here?"

"Dino, this is Dan Cheeseman. Dan, I'd like you to meet Dino Galante."

The men shook hands.

"It's a pleasure to meet you Dan."

"Same here."

Dino set two glasses on the bar.

"You guys go park yourselves at a booth. I'll bring over a couple of cold ones."

Antonio and Cheeseman sat down at an empty booth. Antonio looked around the joint. So many people from the old neighborhood he'd known growing up were now either deceased or had moved away. In this once fiercely Italian enclave, demographics were shaping its character. Over the past two decades, increasing numbers of immigrants, namely East Asians, Somalis and Nepalese, were replacing the original inhabitants. Dino walked over to the booth with two frothing glasses of beer.

"Beers are on the house fellas."

Antonio took a sip of the sharp-tasting brew.

"Geez Dino, you didn't have to..."

"Nah, don't worry about it. Your dad was always good to me. Always fair even back when I was drinking and acting like a real shit to Margaret. By the way, how is the old bastard?"

"Enjoying every minute of retirement."

"I'm happy for him. Anyway, you guys enjoy your beers. I'll be talking to you soon."

Dino went back to the bar. Antonio and Cheeseman turned back to their drinks.

"Great photo of Peter in the Community Echo yesterday," Cheeseman stated as he took a sip. "You work with that kid. One day he'll be pitching for the Yankees."

"My brother could have made it. It's truly staggering the number of promising athletes whose careers are cut short by injuries."

The men nibbled away at the plate of overly salty pretzels sitting in the middle of the table.

"I know we try to make it a rule not to discuss our careers when we get together, but I was just curious to know how far along you are with Reliable Security," Antonio inquired.

"I'll just put it to you this way: my phone's been ringing constantly, day and night. It's driving Jennifer crazy. How are you getting along?"

"Not bad. Being on this task force has been a bit nerve-wrecking. Chills me to the bone just thinking how many more people will die before this maniac is finally stopped."

*****

Dan Cheeseman and Antonio were not the only ones enjoying a much-needed evening out. Their spouses lounged leisurely on the plush cushions of a sofa in the living room of the Guardini home. Their hands held onto fragile glasses of Bordeaux Red. Cheryl and Jennifer indulged in small sips of the exquisite wine. Making the transition from the daily structure and routine of living on a military base to a city on the other end of the country had been hard on Jennifer. The California native missed her parents and sisters back in the Golden State.

"So overall, would you says things are beginning to fall into place for you, Dan and Rachel?" Cheryl asked. She could tell that something urgent was eating away at her best friend and sister in Christ.

"In some ways at least," Jennifer replied. "To be brutally honest with you Cheryl, it's been tough relocating out east. But that isn't the most pressing issue bothering me at the present time."

"Tell me whatever's on your mind."

"It's Dan. For the past two months he's been away from home so much working long hours. Sometimes he doesn't get home until the wee hours of the morning. Don't get me wrong. I completely respect his ambition. But honestly, if this doesn't soon stop, our marriage is going to be in jeopardy."

Cheryl affectionately patted Jennifer's shoulder. She wholeheartedly sympathized with that her friend was going through.

"Jen, you're talking to a cop's wife here. Being married to a man who works long hours in a job with a high degree of risk has been the norm for me since we tied the knot twenty years ago. And believe me. Tony has, on more than one occasion, done things that made me want to skin him alive."

"I'd be interested in knowing what they are."

"If I tell you, you better swear not to divulge it to another living soul," Cheryl warned lightheartedly.

"Cross my heart and hope to die." Jennifer giggled like a giddy schoolgirl."

"About ten years ago, when Tony worked with a narcotics unit, he was actually required to ingest illicit drugs. Marijuana, cocaine, God only knows what else."

"Guess it's all just part of the job." Jennifer took another sip of her wine. "I don't even want to think about the number of people Dan killed during his career. Anyway, let's not dwell on negative things tonight. This is our time to just sit and relax."
Chapter 29

It was a venture that promised to be about as eventful as searching for a needle in the proverbial haystack. With no urgent business to occupy their time, Darrell Keith had ordered the task force members to go forth into the great expanses of New York City. Their mission: canvass each and every sporting goods store that was licensed to sell firearms and ammunition. More specifically, they were to check the stores' records of buyers who'd recently purchased high-powered collapsible rifles.

The heat of an increasingly brutal morning sun was absorbed into the sea of concrete. Antonio and Lisa Chou walked up Dartmouth Street in Upper Manhattan.

"This type of rifle could have been purchased anywhere," Antonio stated. The duo, both of whom were sweating heavily, walked past a block of turn-of-the-century buildings. "New Jersey. Pennsylvania. Texas. Hell, for all we know, he could have bought it on the black market for a song."

"Each and every firearm sold in this city is required by law to be registered with the state police. It makes our job so much easier. I'd hate to be doing this is Texas or Arizona."

"You actually believe that criminals give a damn about gun control laws?" Antonio, a long-time NRA member, countered. "That's a whole stinking pile of liberal B.S. and you know it."

"As I've said many times Tony. You have your opinions and I have mine," she said flatly.

With hunting season a couple months away, business was a bit slow for Jimmy Sorvino. Sorvivo, who'd grown up in Ozone Park, ran Jimmy's Gun Shop. As a few customers perused aisles filled with camping, fishing and hunting gear, Sorvino stood behind a glass-encased counter that displayed several models of semiautomatic handguns and revolvers. He was selecting items from a catalogue he intended to order. Antonio and Chou entered the store. Antonio hadn't seen the foul-mouthed businessman in years. Dark, scruffy stubble and an unkempt goatee peppered his pudgy face. He looked up, noticing right away who it was.

"Tony? Tony Guardini? Fuck brings you to this part of town?" he asked in a crass tone.

"I'm in the market for one of those collapsible sniper rifles. I hear they're all the rage these days."

A smile lit up the scuzzy gun dealer's hammy face.

"Exactly what make and model are you looking for?" Sorvivo remained a bit guarded. Any time an NYPD officer came into his store it was usually to coerce information, not to give him business.

"To be completely honest with you Jimmy, I can't make up my mind. I've been doing my homework though. There's an excellent model manufactured by Nemesis Arms. It's perfect for urban sniping. Taking out abortion doctors and such."

Sorvino's tanned, hairy skin became clammy. He didn't need any additional trouble in his life right now. A few years earlier, the divorced father of two had unexpectedly found himself in a cauldron of hot water after he negligently sold a gun to an individual who failed to produce a valid permit.

Facing the real prospect of a five-year prison sentence and losing everything he'd worked so hard for, Sorvino fought the charges. Only after a lengthy trial that found him not guilty and $20,000 dollars in lawyers' fees did he get his life back.

"Tony, if this is about that incident..."

"Whatever happened in the past is not the issue here today." Antonio spoke in a firm though calm voice. "Now unless you've been hiding under a rock lately, a very dangerous psychopath is targeting abortion doctors in New York. And it just so happens that he murdered two of them with a collapsible sniper rifle."

"Tony, I can't give away confidential information. If someone from the state police requested it, that'd be a different story."

Chou peered at him straightforwardly.

"Ever hear of the Safe act Jimmy?"

Being exonerated by a jury of his peers had not prevented Jimmy Sorvino from being the subject of bureaucratic harassment. He reasoned that it would be better just to work with them.

"Okay, within the past eight months or so, I've only sold two of what you refer to as collapsible "sniper" rifles. They just aren't a popular item at the present time. Give me a couple of minutes and I'll get the information you're looking for."

Hidden within the personal computer that sat prominently atop the counter was a database inventory listing customer names, addresses and contact information.

In addition to this data, Sorvino was also legally required to submit the makes, models and serial numbers of firearms, which were then sent to the New York State Police and the FBI. Sorvino clicked on the sales records of two customers. He printed them off and handed them to Antonio and Chou.

The detectives studied the mild-mannered, studious face of Chase Parker, a forty-four-year-old chartered accountant from Greenpoint/Williamsburg. Parker had paid a cool $2,000 for a Precision Multi-Caliber Takedown Rifle in the previous March. Bob Rolie, a gruff-looking construction worker from New Jersey, owned a similar rifle manufactured by Remington. These were not the faces of cold-blooded killers. Rather hardworking family men who merely were exercising their God-given rights as Americans.

"What do you think?" Chou asked her partner.

"To be perfectly honest with you, neither of these guys look like they're not capable of killing anything more than a few paper targets at the range. We'll just have to look into it."

Chapter 30

It had been a bit of a draining day for Cory Enman and Rick Sterling. The technicians belonged to the NYPD Facial Recognition Unit, hidden deep within the confines of Police Plaza. Their eyes were tired and stinging from viewing the surveillance DVD for the umpteenth time. It was nitpicking work developing a picture-perfect image of the bearded man complete with pinpoint-accurate details of his facial features and eyes. Enman and Sterling entered this vital data into the National Crime Information Centre Database. Hundreds of faces of convicted felons who bore a slight or very similar resemblance to the individual on the video flashed across the computer screen. Then all of a sudden it stopped, focusing on a man with intimidating eyes not even the toughest cop would be eager to meet in a back alley at night. The technicians browsed his profile.

"Ronald Harold Gunther. Age 39. Convicted October 08, 2009 of uttering death threats and attempting to bomb an abortion clinic." Enman found the profile interesting. "Dishonorably discharged from the United States Navy...holy shit Batman! This guy's a SEAL! Gunther was part of some far-right organization known as the Lord's Army."

"Yeah, this lowlife fits the bill to a tee," Sterling stated. "He got caught trying to place a crudely-built bomb outside of an abortion facility in Topeka, Kansas. Claimed God commanded him to do it. They chucked his ass into a state psychiatric hospital for two years. And now, for some strange reason, he lives in Brooklyn."

"I'd say we've finally found our man," Enman said. "He's not only skilled, but callous enough to carry out such killings." Enman picked up the office phone. Two rings before Darrell Keith picked it up in his office. "Hello Deputy Inspector Keith? You might want to come down and check this out Sir."

*****

Just as Antonio had predicted, bothering two taxpaying citizens who happened to own collapsible rifles was a colossal waste of time. Antonio and Chou had not been particularly cordially received by Chase Parker, who promptly told them to get off of his property. Afterward, the detectives called upon the Jersey City residence of Bob Rolie. From talking to Rolie's wife, they quickly learned that the sixty-two-year-old construction foreman was currently in hospital undergoing a triple bypass.

The other task force members hadn't had a very productive morning either. Blaney and Hernandez had visited a popular sporting goods shop on Staten Island. It took a bit of coaxing to procure the information from store staff about the registered owner of a Desert Arms SRS convert. The firearms collector and competitive target shooter-who lived a few blocks away-was more than a trifle pissed when he opened the door to a pair of sombre-looking detectives who asked intrusive questions about his gun collection. Blaney and Hernandez discovered-much to their horror and embarrassment-that the wrinkly, snow-white haired senior was a retired NYPD captain.

After lunch, the task force detectives were back in their command centre. Keith, looking chirpier and more optimistic than usual, stood in front of his subordinates.

"You'll be happy to know, as I surely am, that the Forensic Identification Unit matched the unidentified individual from the surveillance DVD to the profile of a convicted felon listed in the National Crime Information Database." Keith held up a mug shot of Ronald Harold Gunther. "Ronald Harold Gunther."

Keith handed the rap sheet to Mike Robinson, who briefly glanced over it before passing it on to Matt Schuster. Schuster read over the profile of the violent man.

"Gunther plotted attacks against abortion physicians in New York, Kansas, Maryland and several other states including California, where he had been posted with the U.S. Navy. Says here he was a member of the Lord's Army. They're some sort of pseudo-fundamentalist/survivalist wacko group that actively preaches the use of violence against abortion personnel. Yeah, he sounds just like the kind of guy I'd get to babysit my kids. Guardini, here, you take a look."

Schuster handed the report to Antonio. The evil-looking man with the dark, wild eyes, chiselled unfriendly face indicated that they'd finally caught a break. Then again, things were not always as they appeared.

"I have a good friend who used to be a Navy SEAL. Those guys are made of tough stuff indeed. So this Gunther guy lives in Brooklyn. Funny he hasn't gotten in trouble since moving to the Empire State."

Antonio handed the record to Hernandez.

"How soon are you thinking of going after this nutcase Sir?" Hernandez asked Keith.

"Soon as we can get a warrant."

"Tomorrow's the fourth Inspector," Chou stated.

Robinson turned to her with a smirk on his face.

"I can't think of a better way to celebrate the founding of this great nation than by getting one more dirt bag off the street. Can you?"

"Good luck finding a judge who will sign a warrant on such short notice, particularly with weak evidence," Antonio said.

Robinson shot an infuriating glance in his direction.

"What "weak evidence" are you referring to Guardini? This animal threatened to hunt down and slaughter every abortion doctor he could before they finally tossed him in the whack shack. Of course, the godforsaken liberal bleeding hearts let him back out again. Gunther matches the description of the guy on the DVD. Come on man. Whose side are you on anyway?"

"The side of righteousness. I want to stop this killer as much as anybody in this room. But we have to make damn good and sure he really is the killer. That's all I'm saying."

Keith stood unwearyingly as Antonio and Robinson argued back and forth. He looked at his cell phone: 4:50 p.m. His daughter had a piano recital later in the evening. He was itching to get out of there.

"I have to have a quick meeting with Chief Zelinsky. Considering that Ronald Gunther is a proven danger to public safety, an emergency warrant to search his home and bring him in for questioning shouldn't be impossible to obtain. Echoing what Detective Guardini was expounding, we do have to play this very wisely," Keith said. "We screw this up it reflects horribly not only on us but for the NYPD as a whole. It could even jeopardize the entire investigation. Stay close to your phones this evening. You never know. We could get called out somewhere on a moment's notice.
Chapter 31

At the eleventh hour, following a great deal of persuasion, New York Circuit Court Judge Robert Anderson III signed an emergency search warrant. Each member of the mayor's task was compelled-under threat of dismissal-to adhere to the strict limitations outlined in the warrant. It was five minutes after nine. The detectives sweated profusely under thick Kevlar vests. It was going to be another oppressively hot and humid day. While millions of New Yorkers prepared to celebrate the 237th birthday of the Land of Liberty, the task force checked over 9mm SIG Sauer P226 DAO's, Smith-and-Wesson Model 5946's and pump-action shotguns. A unit of the emergency response team had been placed on high alert should the highly volatile Gunther go commando on them.

Sandwiched between the slightly less crime-ridden neighborhoods of Bedford Stuyvesant and East Flatbush, Crown Heights held the notorious distinction of being the most dangerous part of Brooklyn. The detectives drove through a section of the neighborhood in three unmarked cars. It was characterized by row-after-row of abandoned, boarded-up houses and apartment buildings. They turned down a street with a crooked sigh: Locust Drive. It was a fairly quiet morning. A few locals hung out on doorsteps. A group of children kicked a soccer ball around.

The detectives quickly exited the cars. Guns were raised at eye-level as they approached the residence. Antonio kept both hands wrapped tightly around the SIG Sauer's grip.

The man who they suspected of being the "Abortion Avenger" was about as stable as a woman on a million-dollar shopping spree. He had the ability to go from zero to complete psychopath in a matter of seconds.

Antonio kissed his Saint Michael Scapula. Today was definitely not the day he wanted to meet Saint Peter at the Pearly Gates. Blaney knocked on the door. It was barred and had a bug screen. A fearsome beast of man opened the door. His cold eyes and icy stare those of a professional assassin. On this chiselled arms were several tattoos, most notably the SEAL eagle, trident, flintlock pistol and anchor. Also of interest was a cross and heart together with the title 'Jesus Freak.'

"What do you assholes want?! I've paid my debt to society. Get out of here right now or else I'm..."

Gunther went to close the door but Robinson stopped him.

"Ronald Gunther," Robinson said as he held up the search warrant. "We have a warrant to search your home. You also have to come with us for questioning."

The disgraced ex-warrior went from fuming mad to being on the brink of exploding. Antonio kept his finger an inch away from the trigger. Though it appeared that the big ogre had no weapons on or around him, it was unwise to drop one's guard, even for a second.

"I've done nothing wrong."

"Then you won't have an issue with us checking to make sure you didn't," Chou said.

"What the hell is this all about?"

"We'll let you know inside Ronald," Antonio told him.

Gunther stepped aside as the seven detectives invaded his home. Antonio instantly felt as though he was back in one of the many ultra-sleazy biker bars he'd worked undercover in many moons ago. The atmosphere in the living room was a noxious mixture of beer, whiskey, cigarette and marijuana smoke.

Gunther's girlfriend Rhonda, every bit as tattooed and unhinged as he was, sat on a timeworn couch, a cigarette in one hand. A beer in the other. Ashes dropped onto the already filthy carpet as she stared blankly at a show on television. Judging by the collection of Christian symbols adorning the living room and hallway walls, Gunther was a bit of a fanatic in that department as well.

"Show me that goddamn warrant right now!" Gunther demanded.

Blaney handed him the document. He quickly scanned it.

"You think I murdered two people!? Are you out of your fucking skulls?" Gunther threw the warrant on the floor.

While Gunther stood there simmering, the task force members started rummaging through the cluttered, dirty house. Antonio kept his guard up as Rhonda, acting without warning, leapt off of the couch and viciously came aboard them.

"The nerve of you pigs accusing my man of killing those doctors! There's gonna be fuckin' hell to pay for this!" She screamed with the most contorted, ferocious face Antonio had seen in a long time.

"Ma'am, please calm down," Antonio said in a very composed voice. "You're not making the situation any easier."

Even Gunther knew he couldn't allow his emotions to totally override him despite the fact that he was ready to kill each and every one of them.

"Rhonda, go call Lowenstein. He's helped us before. Probably the only lawyer I trust."

Gunther got in the faces of Chou and Hernandez, who were searching through kitchen cupboards.

"You have no grounds whatsoever to be doing this! There are no weapons in this house. Can't you understand that?"

Chou turned to him.

"Mr. Gunther, you may not have been convicted in a criminal court, but because you were found not criminally responsible and admitted to a psychiatric hospital, you're prohibited by law from possessing any firearms."

"You don't think I know that you stupid quiff!"

At that moment, Robinson, Blaney and Schuster entered the living room.

"Place is clean. We searched it top to bottom."

Antonio turned to Gunther.

"Okay Ronald, let's take a little trip into the city."
Chapter 32

"I'm innocent! I swear to God, I haven't done anything!"

Ronald Gunther's pleas of guiltlessness fell on deaf ears. It wasn't the first time the hard-living disturbed man with lots of inner demons found himself inside the confines of a police interrogation room. The fifth child of a crack-addicted welfare mother, Gunther was an alumni of several foster homes and juvenile detention facilities. At the age of eighteen, with next to no future career prospects, he enlisted in the navy. The veteran, who had served in several hotspots around the globe, stared straight ahead as Robinson and Hernandez took turns picking away at his brain in an effort to break him down. The detectives employed contrasting manipulative and browbeating grilling techniques: Robinson played the bad cop/aggressor while Hernandez's role was that of the good cop/counsellor.

Gunther stewed furiously.

"Lowenstein better get here soon", he said to himself.

Hernandez sat down across from the ex-SEAL.

"Ronald, it's a known fact you've wanted to murder abortion doctors. And, judging, by your skill set, you're more than qualified to carry out these types of murders that have plagued New York since the beginning of June. In my professional opinion, which in the long run doesn't mean dick all, I'd say you're a ticking time bomb itching to explode."

Gunther glared at him with intense eyes that nearly struck fear into the heart of the unrelenting Puerto Rican cop.

"Jesus, you don't understand the English language or something? I did not kill anybody."

"Then you won't have any problem telling us where you were on June 3rd and 30th." Robinson said.

"I was at home. I'm unable to work due to PTSD. Rhonda will even vouch for me if you want to talk to her. Now as far as I can see, there are only two reasons why you've decided to target me. You either have an axe to grind with me personally or two, you're so desperate to catch this killer that you're going after anyone with a high degree of military training. Am I close? Besides, you have no proof whatsoever."

"No proof?" Robinson slapped Gunther's rather thick police record onto the table. You told a psychiatrist, and I quote; 'Abortionists are the lowest form of life on the planet. Those Luciferian Zionists are purposely destroying the future of the United States. They must all die for the sins they've committed.' Do you really think we're that stupid Mr. Gunther?"

"I never said anything like that. Those power-hungry psychiatrists work for the same cursed system that wants to enslave everyone. The same system that uses you as its enforcers. Why don't you bozos do the right thing and release me before I sue your asses back to the stone ages?"

"Come on now Jimmy. There's no need to be testy," Hernandez said. "As we said at the beginning, you're not a suspect-at least not yet. Just out of curiosity, if you were going to stash guns in an isolated place, where would you put them? Consider yourself lucky we never found any in your home or you'd be on your way back to the loony bin right now."

"I've got more right to own guns than most people. I served my country with honor and valor. That's a hell of a lot more than I can say about you thugs with badges."

Antonio felt the tension rising as he and his colleagues watched the interrogation through the one-way window in an adjacent room. Schuster closely watched the mannerisms displayed by Gunther as he was being bombarded with questions. He became increasingly tense and edgy, telltale signs of a man desperate to hide his guilt.

"He's as guilty as sin," Schuster stated. "Son of a bitch has been playing us the entire time."

"It would appear that way," Antonio said. "I'm definitely going to be having a chat with that charming consort of his before this day is out."

Gunther steadfastly refused to cede an inch of ground. Robinson, exhausted from trying to extract blood from a stone, intensified his attack on him. He got right in Gunther's face.

"You listen to me you insane piece of shit! We're just waiting for you to slip up. Because when you do, I'm personally going to nail your depraved, hateful ass to the wall."

At that moment the door opened. Antonio entered.

"Why don't you guys go get a cup of coffee or something? If it's all the same to you, I'd like to speak to Mr. Gunther alone."

"If you wish to waste valuable time and energy on this scumbag, be our guest," Robinson said as he and Hernandez exited the room.

Gunther glared angrily at his new interrogator. Antonio seated himself at the other end of the long, rectangular table. The vibes radiating off of the big man were strong enough to set off an alarm. Antonio relaxed his body; cleared his mind.

On the slight chance that this psychopathic combat veteran truly was the elusive killer, he knew it would be best to simply remain composed and not do or say anything that would likely provoke him.

"How's everything going Ronald? In case we didn't formally meet earlier, my name is Detective Guardini. Feel free to call me Tony, if you prefer. So you were a SEAL? One of the elite. I have a close friend who recently retired from the Navy. If my memory serves me correctly, he was a member of SEAL Team Six."

"That's my old unit." Antonio noticed the belligerent man slowly lighten up. Was it a sign of things to come? "You couldn't tell me your friend's name could you?"

"You wouldn't know him."

"Try me."

"Dan Cheeseman."

As if that name meant something to him, Gunther sat up in the cold metal chair his behind had been parked in for nearly an hour.

"Speak of the devil. He wasn't on my team, but I knew him somewhat. A lot of the guys were put off by him."

What in God's name was he talking about? Considering that Ronald Gunther wasn't all that trustworthy to begin with, Antonio shrugged it off. He must have the devout Catholic man confused with somebody else. None of it really mattered anyway. He was only making small talk, hoping that doing so would cause Gunther to reveal more information.

"Ronald, you know as well as I do that you're capable of planning and committing something like this. I just want you to be wholly and downright honest with me."

A sudden quick turning of the doorknob promptly put the kibosh to what was sure to be a lost cause anyway. Antonio took one horrified glance at the $5,000 black leather suede Edward Greens. Big Daddy had just crashed the party. Antonio sat diligently as Howard Lowenstein, aka the "Protector of Justice" barged into the room. The expensive, high-profile defense attorney set down the equally pricey saddleback chocked full of cases of dozens of the city's lowest forms of life. Lowenstein, feared by DA's and loathed by police, had won more cases than any other lawyer on his calibre in New York City.

"This unlawful inquisition is over. From here on out, anything you wish to say to my client you go through me first," Lowenstein barked. He stood behind Gunther as his incensed client rose. "Come on Ronald. I'll take you home."

Antonio couldn't resist ribbing at the uptight big shot.

"Oh come on Howard. What's the matter? Ronny and I were just having ourselves a friendly chat."

"You foolishly expect me to believe that detective? You outright accused my client of murdering two people. This was after you illegally ransacked his home. Let me tell you right now. There will be consequences-serious ones. I hope you're prepared for the fallout."

"That's totally out of my hands. You have a complaint with me? Talk to my superiors. I only do what I'm told. They say shit runs downhill but in this particular situation it'll be travelling in the opposite direction."
Chapter 33

By the time the car's front wheels touched the mouth of the driveway, Antonio was played out, completely wiped from the bullshit of the day. The refreshing whiff of air flowing out of the air conditioning unit slowly reenergized his anaemic, pale body. Nauseous, his body craved nothing but sugar and chocolate. A quick fix to boost depleted energy levels that would have serious consequences down the road. Amidst the low hum of the air conditioner, Antonio heard the activity outside. The joyous screams and shouts of Peter and his neighborhood friends rushing through an ice-cold sprinkler.

The stifling 100-degree heat he'd had the fortune to dodge for much of the day lingered into the evening. Antonio suddenly felt comforted from the vexing stresses of the day when his wife entered the bedroom. Cheryl, who had a better body than many women her age, wore a striped "tankini" style bathing suit. A good portion of her body was browned from lying out on the deck during the broiling afternoon. A sensation of pure gratification came over Antonio as he found himself rubbing against the voluptuousness of his wife's smooth, soft skin. She embraced him in her arms. Even now, after two kids and twenty years of marriage, being intimate with the woman whom God had placed in his life was still as heavenly as it had been on their wedding night.

"Rough day at the office again? Cheryl spoke softly as she stroked his hair.

"Frustrating more than anything. I honestly believed we'd gotten a break and then wham! Right back to the drawing table."

"It was busy this morning at the outreach centre. We're getting more clients, which is a blessing from God because it means we're taking business away from the competition, so to speak."

Antonio snuggled up closer to his wife.

"Funny Sarah hasn't called yet."

"She phoned me after work. I came home after lunch. There was a pool party at Melissa Rundle's mother's place this afternoon. The girls needed some relief from this insane heat."

"That's what we should do," Antonio said.

"Do what?"

"Set up a swimming pool in the backyard."

"I hope you're not serious. Antonio, don't you think that would be a bit out of our price range right now?"

"Once I get my promotion, there'll be more money coming in, don't you worry." Antonio, already feeling much better, hugged Cheryl closer to him. "I believe that you and I should enjoy some downtime together. What do you say Mrs. Guardini?"

Cheryl smiled seductively as she stroked his face.

"You got yourself a deal Mr. Guardini. Let's start off with an appetizer. We can eat the main course later."

Chapter 34

It certainly hadn't been the foulest sight Antonio's middle-aged eyes had gazed upon first thing in the morning. Still, the in-your-face headline on the front cover of the day's edition of the New York Times went about as well with his eggs, toast and coffee as turpentine. A large photograph of that rat bastard Lowenstein and his equally as unscrupulous client rested underneath the headline: "Victim of Police Overzealousness Plans to Sue NYPD."

The biased piece of yellow journalism that accompanied the photo, most likely thrown together by some liberal, bleeding-heart Democrat, was a horribly over-exaggerated tale of woe. Lowenstein went out of his way to emphasize how a gang of NYPD "jackbooted thugs" viciously pissed all over the civil rights of poor Ronald Gunther. Had a gullible public known that truth about this supposedly humble, quiet citizen Lowenstein would look like an even bigger ass than he already was. If anything, the whole charade gave the countless leftist civil rights groups in New York the perfect excuse to host their annual demonstrations against police brutality.

Despite feeling completely revitalized from the first long, uninterrupted sleep he'd had in ages, Antonio couldn't shake the contempt he had for that cunning, unprincipled jetsetter. He arrived at Police Plaza. One could cut the tension in the air with a broadsword. Antonio's fellow detectives wore anxious faces as Chief Zelinsky stood in Inspector Keith's office. Every muscle in Keith's body went rigid as his superior lambasted him.

"Inspector Keith, what in the name of sweet God Almighty were you thinking? Never once have I seen you make an error in judgment this severe. Your team had no probable cause to invade Ronald Gunther's home."

"Sir, with all due respect, you were the one who recommended getting the search warrant. I simply do what I am ordered to."

"It wasn't my operation Inspector! Zelinsky felt his blood pressure rising. "This department is mired in problems as it is. Howard Lowenstein is about to give us a highly-publicized screwing over in the courts. I don't need any more shitstorms blowing my way."

Keith sighed wearily. He knew they'd acted somewhat erroneously. But in light of the dire situation, what other options did they have?

"Chief, Ronald Gunther is a danger to the public. That animal tried to blow up abortion clinics in several states. He's threatened to kill abortionists. Sir, if that doesn't raise a few red flags, then quite frankly I don't know what does."

"Inspector, I don't completely disagree with what you did. But we're required to follow strict protocol. Now I just hope Lowenstein sees how much extra work and stress he's bringing on himself by pursuing this. Honestly, when everybody learns about Gunther's past, it'll blow up in his face."
Chapter 35

The glaring afternoon sun was downright fierce; almost unbearable to be outside in. Still, it wasn't the only thing to unexpectedly assail Antonio, Chou and Hernandez as they stepped out of Police Plaza. A swarm of ravenous reporters seemed to come out of nowhere. They represented media outlets ranging from the Village Voice to the Times. The fearless press warriors, acting like a pack of bloodthirsty predators salivating at the mouth at the prospect of devouring their next meal, knew who each and every member of the task force was.

Antonio quickly found himself being confronted by an aggressive, forceful, university-educated sissified pipsqueak. Kirk Hamill of City Perspective was clearly overdressed in business attire. In his hands was a notebook he was obviously quite proficient in using.

"Detective Guardini, what does the NYPD have to say to justify so shamefully violating the rights of Ronald Gunther?"

Antonio deliberated very carefully how he would respond to the question. Did everyone who moved through the doors of the nation's formerly esteemed institutions of higher learning become this brainwashed by the liberal agenda? He hoped and prayed his own children would survive college without succumbing to the same horrible fate.

"At the time, we had reasonable grounds to speak to Mr. Gunther as a person of interest only. Any further questions relating to this matter you will need to speak to the media relations department."

Anthony Browne, a maverick crime reporter with the New York Post, stood a meter or two away from the detectives. Hungry to give his newspaper's readership the most 'up-to-the-minute' information about the "Abortion Avenger" sage, Browne held up a recorder as he spoke to Chou.

"With the recent murder of Allyson Shields, New Yorkers have become increasingly scared and demand that the NYPD stop this reign of terror before there are more victims. Are you currently looking at other potential suspects?"

Chou blinked as a dozen cameras flashed in her face. Like her colleagues, the attractive homicide investigator wasn't particularly well-versed in media relations and preferred to avoid the press as much as possible.

"We aren't at the present time. But the task force will continue to pursue all leads no matter how small until whoever is responsible for these heinous crimes is brought to justice."
Chapter 36

He didn't appear completely out of place in this little slice of Heaven largely ignored by the city's power elite; a towering, frightening-looking stranger. The type you gave a wide berth to on the sidewalk. A slight breeze barely made its way through the destitute Bedford-Stuyvesant street. It brought scant relief to the Tall Man, who sweated profusely under his knapsack and thick jean jacket. He rounded a corner onto another street where groups of locals went about their daily business. Then he spotted his destination. The sign for the Hotel St. John, a swanky, respectable spot-when it was built over a century earlier-flashed on and off. It was ten stories of sleaze and licentiousness.

The chubby, scummy man behind the check-in desk with an unfriendly scowl and three days' worth of stubble dotting his rotund face took no particular notice of the man who walked in off of the street. Just another drifter or weirdo. Nothing special. The Tall Man walked through the lobby. The lounge featured couches and chairs as well as carpet that would have fit nicely into a home back in the late 1960s or early 1970s.

"What can I do for you?"

"I require a room for a couple of hours."

The clerk looked at him a strangely and then shook his head. My God. If his establishment wasn't turning into a haven for every prostitute and lowlife within a twenty-block radius...

"That'll be $37.50."

The Tall Man casually removed two crisp $20 bills from his pocket and set them on the countertop.

"Keep the change."

The clerk removed a key from a rack and handed it to his temporary guest.

"You're getting Room 25 on the third floor. It's now two o'clock. I want you out of here by approximately five-no later."

The Tall Man scooped up the keys in his hand.

"That will not be a problem."

He ascended a stairwell, walking up shit-brown institution-like flooring. The stench of cheap liquor reminded him of exactly where he was and that he should get his task done quickly and leave. He unlocked the door to room 25. What a treat is was; walls covered by depressing grey wallpaper, a single bed with a springy mattress in one corner and a horribly rusted radiator whose paint was falling off in large chips. He didn't dare check the bathroom. The Tall Man set the knapsack down on the bed. Opened it and removed a dozen or so sheets of purple, red and black construction paper, tweezers, scissors, glue, sheets of white paper and envelopes. He flicked on the ancient lamp sitting on the small desk adjacent to the bed. In order to eradicate the evildoers it was imperative to use psychological warfare against them. Wear them down mentally. He slipped on a pair of tight-fitting latex gloves. Next, working very carefully, he began cutting letters out of the construction paper. The next two hours promised to be tedious and painstaking, but it would all be worth it in the end as the master plan-The Lord's master plan -was being realized.
Chapter 37

Of late, Antonio had been feeling the effects of long, stressful days at work and nights that brought little rest. He'd opted to take the afternoon off. As things presently stood, the task force members were more or less on call 24/7. Antonio drove into the parking lot of St. Cecilia's. A mountain of worry and trepidation weighed heavily on his mind. He'd been planning to meet with Fr. Vargas but was never able to find the time.

A succession of papers churned out of the printing machine as Sister Marie O'Brien typed up the Sunday mass bulletin on her computer. The long-serving vestal, still going strong in her seventies, had joined the Sisters of Saint Theresa nearly six decades earlier. A smile lit up the pleasant, curly-haired nun's face as Antonio entered the office.

"I hope I'm not late. Traffic was extremely slow throughout much of Queens."

"Actually, you're plenty early Antonio. Father Vargas is in the vestibule."

"Thank you so much Sister."

Antonio had occasionally been inside of the historic churches' commodious vestibule when it was vacant. He quietly made his presence known. Father Vargas kneeled in front of the sanctuary, his mind and body engrossed in contemplative prayer. Antonio seated himself in the second row from the front of the church.

Father Vargas blessed himself, turned around and greeted his parishioner.

"Good afternoon Antonio. Beautiful day God has given us, don't you think?"

"Very much so."

The stout, pious man of God with kindly dark eyes and a welcoming demeanor sat down next to Antonio. The priest's instinct, refined through nearly four decades of working with people from all walks of life, relayed to him that something pressing was bothering Antonio.

"Antonio, were you wanting me to hear your confession?"

Antonio sighed deeply. Lowered his head.

"I haven't exactly been a saint lately if you get my drift."

"We are all sinners who must repent in order to reach the Kingdom of Heaven. Why don't we just sit here and talk then?"

"Father, I don't know how to say this...this case is literally tearing my life apart."

The aging priest sat up and listened closely.

"I'm not a betting man, but I'm certain that it's a mortal sin to allow Satan to play with your mind and twist thoughts. Anyway, I'll come right to the point," Antonio said. "I've been feeling a strange empathy for this killer who I'm tasked with bringing in dead or alive." A disturbing sensation overcame his body. He took deep breaths. "Why am I feeling this way?! It's like I'm possessed or something."

Father Vargas smiled with the calm wisdom of a man with many years of experience.

"Tony, trust me. I've seen more than my share of cases of demonic possession during my tenure and believe me, you're safe. What you're experiencing is basic human nature. All Christians and especially Catholics, if they truly stand for their faith, must fight against the evil of abortion. The Pope has said this on numerous occasions. Quite often, we become extremely passionate about what we believe in and can harbor vengeful thoughts against others. Ever since the fall of Adam, every living creature on this earth has had to struggle with original sin. With your situation, I can understand it being particular difficult."

"What do you mean Father?"

"You're in a predicament where your personal views and beliefs, as much as it pains you to do so, must be placed aside in order for you to successfully do your job. It's a very vexing dilemma."

"I just want these feelings to go away," Antonio stated. "Do you believe God is testing me?"

"I cannot honestly answer that question. Our savior tests our faith to see if we will emerge stronger. Antonio, just continue to do what you've been doing. Pray every day and don't let your work consume your life. You must always put God and your family first."
Chapter 38

Her hectic, push-push life was nowhere as organized as she wanted it to be; miscellaneous annotations and notes were scribbled hastily in her notepad; both the cell phone and the one atop her desk constantly ringing with news tips and hot leads; overbearing editors always peering over her shoulder. Danielle Owens not only survived in this environment-she thrived in it. Most days, the strawberry blonde, pleasant-faced intrepid reporter stayed afloat on a diet of adrenaline and coffee. She'd just finished her sixth cup since crawling out of bed three hours earlier. Having cut her chops at several weeklies and small dailies around New England, Owens worked as a crime beat reporter for the New York Standard. In addition, she wrote a weekly column for the daily newspaper.

The previous evening, the remains of what police believed to be the body of an elderly woman had been located in a North Manhattan park. Already this morning, Owens had spoken with the lead detective on the case as well as the traumatized teenagers who'd stumbled upon the disturbing sight.

As Owens started typing the foundation of what was going to be a news article, Chet Wilder, a geekish though exceptionally polite young man who worked in the mailroom in the basement of the ten-storey building, entered the newsroom. He approached Owens' desk with a sealed envelope in his hands.

"Danielle Owens?"

"The one and only," she replied as she took a sip of her coffee.

"This was in the mail bin this morning." He handed the letter to his co-worker.

Owens looked over the envelope. No return address. Just her name written in neat handwriting. A bit strange. Chet stood there a bit awkwardly as she reached inside of a drawer for a letter opener.

"Anyway, I need to get back to the mailroom. If you need anything, I can..."

"I got it from here Chet. But thank you anyway."

Chet exited the newsroom. It was very easy to open the envelope. Owens unfolded the letter. Strangely, it was neither handwritten nor typed but consisted of letters cut out of construction paper and glued to a white sheet. She'd barely started to read it when a chill ran down the spine of her skinny body.

Ms. Owens:

You demonic, godless witch. How dare you publicly crucify me, a man who is carrying out the work of the Lord? I've read your disgusting columns. How can a supposedly highly – educated person such as yourself sit there and write that the blessing of life inside of a woman's body is simply a fetus, a clump of flesh? It's the depraved malefactors in the media and Hollywood very much like yourself who shamelessly cast your destructive influence over our once moral, upright and Godly society. You daughter of Eve, don't think I'm not watching you. If I truly wanted to, I could send you to Hades along with those other pieces of garbage. Consider this a warning. Neither you nor the police can stop me.

Rot in Hell;

The Abortion Avenger

P.S: Take a look inside you Moloch – worshiping harlot.

The young woman's entire body went numb. In her weekly columns, the Columbia graduate enjoyed writing about topics near and dear to her; environmental and social justice issues, gun control and women's rights, which included unfettered access to safe abortion. A week earlier, Owens had written a scathing disparagement of the "Abortion Avenger." The outspoken and very opinionated journalist ravaged the elusive killer, publically calling him a 'coward', 'misogynist' and 'typical product of a patriarchal society that objectifies women and permits violence against them.'

Her senses blazing with alarm and trepidation, Owens took a photograph out of the envelope. She nearly fainted. Staring straight at her was a newly-aborted fetus. Grisly and stomach-churning, the bloodied baby's limbs were all ripped asunder. Her face become pale. Her body shook. Visions of some maniac violently ending her life in a dark alley or even her own bed clouded Owens' usually sharp mind. Phil Harmon, a senior crime reporter, noticed his troubled colleague.

"Danielle, are you alright?"

Owens, hyperventilating and on the brink of tears, shot up from her seat.

"I have to see Jones right away."

*****

The bright and sunny Tuesday hadn't exactly been peachy for Allan Jones either. The demanding, often critical crime editor had just gotten off of a forty-five-minute phone call with Standard managing editor Bill Rogers. As Jones' luck would have it, one of his junior court reporters had made a major faux pas by writing several factual errors in a story about a jewelry thief's trial. The thief's lawyer was threatening to sue the newspaper.

He sat there feeling drained. He loved his job, but it came with no shortage of headaches. The heated countenance lingered on his face as Owens appeared in the window of his office door. Right away he could tell that something serious had gone awry.

"Come on in Danielle."

Owens flew into the office. She said no words, only threw the letter onto her boss's desk.

"Allan." She was barely able to get the words out. "That maniac who murdered those abortion doctors. He threatened me."

Jones quickly picked up the letter. Within seconds, his small blue eyes nearly popped out of his head. It wasn't unheard of for reporters to receive hate mail and only once had he known of one's life being threatened, but this was the most disturbing thing he'd ever seen.

"Who brought this to you?"

"Chet...from the newsroom."

"We're going to have to call the police." Jones was totally unnerved at the chilling tone of the letter. "It could be a hoax, or some sicko trying to get his rocks off, but we're not going to take any chances."

Breathing worryingly himself, Jones picked up the phone and pressed ext. 4501 for the mail room.

"This is Allan Jones in crime section. Send Chet Wilder up to my office immediately. Tell him it's urgent."

Chapter 39

'This psychotic maniac who's been terrorizing my city is determined to intimidate and possibly kill all those who oppose him'

Antonio rationalized this in his mind as he, Lisa Chou and Bill Blaney pulled up in front of the New York Standard building. It was located on 86th Avenue, which straddled the Upper East Side and Lower East Side of Manhattan. The very thought that an already prolific serial killer would be brazen enough to target the media chilled Antonio to the bone, as it did to all members of the task force. Blaney drove the unmarked car into the building's underground parking garage. He parked in a spot usually reserved for emergency vehicles.

Minutes later, the detectives found themselves in Allan Jones' office. A shaken, demoralized young woman sat in a plush armchair. Her quivering hand grasped a tissue. Tears streaked her schoolgirl-cute face. On the other side of the editor's desk stood a nerdy-looking chap who smiled from ear-to-ear. A professional smile highlighting his chubby facial features, Jones arose to shake hands with the investigators.

"Good morning officers. My name is Allan Jones. I'm the crime editor for the New York Standard."

"Pleasure to meet you Mr. Jones," Blaney replied. "My name is Sergeant Bill Blaney. These are detectives Guardini and Chou."

"I don't want to waste any of your precious time or any of mine for that matter." Jones picked up the letter from his desk. "Feast your eyes on this lovely piece of literature."

Blaney started reading the letter. A grizzled homicide investigator who was no stranger to violence and mayhem, Blaney was quite taken aback by the sheer disquieting tone of the letter. He handed the letter to Antonio, who immediately read it over.

"Just as I suspected all along," Antonio said. "Anybody who is that passionate about tracking down and killing abortionists is bound to use religion-albeit an extremely warped view of it-to justify his actions. It makes no difference how twisted and heretical his beliefs appear to us, at least those of us that practice a religious faith. But that's how he operates."

"He certainly isn't your garden variety type of serial killer," Blaney commented. "He's super brilliant. Cutting out letters and pasting them onto paper using tweezers. Ten bucks says there are no fingerprints whatsoever on that letter. Here's hoping the crime lab techs prove me wrong."

"The letter was addressed to Danielle here," Jones said. "Ms. Owens is one of my best reporters. Chet works down in the mailroom. He's the one who delivered the letter."

Antonio turned his attention to the mailroom boy.

"Chet, do you recall-to the best of your knowledge-anybody dropping letters off to the Standard anytime within the last twenty-four hours? Even if you did, you probably wouldn't remember who exactly delivered this one."

"That is correct detective. I cannot say for sure if somebody actually walked into the building to personally deliver it. I merely sort through the unending pile of letters and correspondence that arrives each morning. Myself and tem other people, that is."

Chou went over and talked to Owens, who was shaking like a leaf.

"Danielle, of late, have there been any other threats against your life? Possibly emails? Do you have a Facebook page? Perhaps somebody who didn't like what you were writing posted something on there."

Owens shook her head.

"This is a first for me Detective Chou."

Antonio could tell that Jones was genuinely worried about the safety of his subordinate.

"Guys, this animal is out there prowling for victims and until he's apprehended, Danielle is not safe," Jones said. "Is there anything at all you can do to ensure she's protected?"

"Danielle, what is your address?" Chou said. "I can have a cruiser in that area on a constant basis."

"Sixty-six West 4th Street. Apartment 23", Owens replied.

"That's in Greenwich Village," Antonio stated.

"I absolutely love it there. I'm always meeting new people; artists, musicians, social activists..."

Antonio wore the type of face used by a salesman who's about to promote a little-known or controversial product.

"Ms. Owens, if you unaffectedly believe that your life is in imminent danger, you can apply for a CCW permit. Being that this is New York and all, there's more than enough red tape to swim through. But if necessary, I'll vouch for you."

"Way...wait a minute. What exactly is a CCW permit?"

"It authorizes an individual to legally carry a concealed handgun. It's legal in all fifty states-to varying degrees, of course."

A look of horror came over Owens' face.

"You're proposing I carry a gun around? No way man! I despise guns. In my opinion, private firearm ownership should be outlawed."

Oh Goodie, another tree-hugging, granola-munching brain-dead liberal," Antonio thought to himself. "I ought to throw her to the Big Bad Wolf. Perhaps she can reason with him.

"To be brutally honest with you Ms. Owens, you don't exactly have a multitude of options sitting on the table here. With constant budget cuts, officers are continually being reassigned to more pressing tasks. Round-the-clock police protection cannot be guaranteed. I merely want you to think about this. That's all."
Chapter 40

The seemingly unending maelstrom of heat and humidity trudged on into August. It appeared-at least from the NYPD's perspective-that their number one priority had fallen off the face of the planet. Save for the threatening letter mailed to Danielle Owens, all was quiet on that front. Forensics technicians had no luck locating any fingerprints on the letter. The lull in activity gave the task force ample time to devote to trying to solve the three murders, an uphill battle felt like it would never be won.

Over the past few weeks, their hectic schedules had prevented Dan Cheeseman and Antonio from seeing much of each other except on Sunday mornings. Cheeseman pulled off of the busy-as-usual Carnegie Avenue onto Bullman Street which led directly to Acacia Drive. The former Special Ops warrior was finally starting to enjoy the fruits of his labors; recently, his company had brought aboard three additional security officers. Happy that all of the customary paperwork was completed, Cheeseman had spent the entire morning training his new employees. Their on-the-job training included a brief session on pressure points, restraining holds and use of a tactical baton. The downside to the entrepreneur's success was that it was putting increased strain on his relationship with Jennifer and Rachel. In the end, Cheeseman prayed that his spouse would realize he was working so hard to provide his family with a good lifestyle. It was a rare occasion when Cheeseman took any time off from work but today he opted to go home for the afternoon, veg about and no absolutely nothing.

Following the end of her morning shift at the pregnancy crisis centre, Jennifer Cheeseman had been running around buying groceries, getting and oil changed in her car and picking up dresses from a local drycleaners. She pulled into the driveway, quite surprised to see her industrious better half home so early.

I hope everything is okay, she thought to herself.

Her arms full of bags of groceries, Jennifer crossed the flowered grotto that included a wondrously painted statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary stepping on a snake symbolizing Lucifer. She managed to get the door open. She set the groceries on the island in the middle of the kitchen. Dan was stretched out on the couch half-asleep, his attention barely tuned to the sports highlights on the week that flashed across the TV screen.

"What a pleasant surprise. Hope you didn't get fired," Jennifer said jokingly.

Cheeseman sat up; reached for the remote and shut the TV off.

"I took the afternoon off simply because I can," he said with a wink and a smile.

Jennifer sat down beside her husband. He held her in his ripped arms.

"Rachel is going to be gone this evening."

"Again? She's never home."

"Dan, she's fifteen. You still see her as your little girl but she's becoming a mature young woman."

"It's hard to believe."

Jennifer looked at him with seductive eyes.

"Anyway, as I was going to say, what better time for us to spend a romantic evening together. We could have a nice candlelit dinner, take a bubble bath together and after that, I think you know what I'm getting at."

"Well that dinner sounds good but I'm going to have to take a rain cheque on everything else."

Appearing very put off, Jennifer confronted him angrily.

"What's wrong Dan? Am I not attractive to you anymore since you've all but married yourself to your job?!"

Cheeseman sighed wearily. He was tired and simply wanted to unwind before going back out.

"I have to meet with a potential client at nine."

"Who the hell is so important that you have to go back into the city at that hour?!" Mystified, Jennifer waved an accusing finger in his face. "God help you Dan Cheeseman if you're having an affair because nobody else will."

"Goddammit Jennifer! I am not having an affair!" He noticed his adrenaline rising and promptly moved to stop it. "Do you know who Steve Rhinehart is?"

It wasn't as if she really cared.

"Well, Mr. Rhinehart is that construction magnate who owns at least a tenth of New York City. I may very well be signing a lucrative contract with him tonight."

"At nine o'clock!"

"Mr. Rhinehart is an extremely busy man Jennifer. It's the only time he can meet with me. If this deal goes good, you Rachel and I will be laughing all the way to the bank."

Jennifer sighed frustratingly. She wasn't buying what he was selling.

"Dan, I'd like to know when you plan on putting your family first."

"I'm only doing what's best for you guys. I know its tough Jennifer but I promise to make it up to you. You have to believe me."

Pissed, Jennifer got up off of the couch.

"This better be the last time," she said sullenly.
Chapter 41

The clink of martini glasses and unobtrusive, intelligent conversation greeted those who entered through the wood-stained doors of the Speakeasy. The upscale cocktail lounge was situated amongst a cluster of classy restaurants, bars and boutiques in New York's Alphabet City neighborhood. A dark, borderline noir tone imbued the atmosphere of the chic, mainly after-hours joint. A collage of soothing blue, pink, light green, orange and purple bulbs lit up the bar, which featured three levels of every type of pricey liquor and wine on the market.

Dan Cheeseman felt slightly out of place among the business professionals wearing $5,000 William Fioravanti Bespokes and sipping overpriced drinks. It took him a minute to locate Steve Rhinehart. The man whom Cheeseman prayed would be his benefactor sat comfortably at the bar, his sixtyish hands nursing an extra-dirty vodka martini with blue cheese and stuffed olives. Merely in the way that he dressed, doled out cash to tuxedoed servers, even the cologne he wore, exuded an insane amount of wealth.

The transplant from Texas started his business career at the tender age of six, selling lemonade at a roadside stand in Dallas. Since then, the sixty-seven-year-old mogul had built quite an empire for himself. Rhinehart owned two construction companies and a few smaller though extremely profitable businesses. Married and divorced three times, he had four grown children and seven grandchildren who he saw on a regular basis.

"Mr. Rhinehart?" Cheeseman asked as he approached the tycoon.

Rhinehart swivelled around in his stool.

"That was my father's name. I'm a bit more informal in my dealings." He extended his hand. "Steve Rhinehart."

Cheeseman shook the man's hand.

"Dan Cheeseman."

"Take a seat Dan."

"Don't mind if I do." Cheeseman parked his sizable frame on a spongy leather stool.

"I'm guessing that you had a big career of some sort before deciding to go into business for yourself," Rhinehart said as he took another sip of his drink.

"I was in the military."

"I can't say for certain, but a man of your capability was either Rangers, Green Berets or possibly corps."

"Nah, I opted for the best of both worlds, sea, air and land."

"I should have guessed you were a SEAL. I was in the 101st Airborne from 65-70. Spent three of those years in Nam. It was an experience I would not be keen on repeating." Rhinehart finished his drink. "What kind of man are you?"

"Come again?"

"What are you drinking this evening?"

"To be completely honest with you Steve, since leaving the Navy I rarely imbibe anymore. It had become somewhat of an issue for me, if you get my drift. I do have a social drink on occasion though. I'll get a Coors Light."

Rhinehart looked over at the clean-cut young man named Andrew who was mixing drinks behind the bar.

"Hey Andrew. Another dirty vodka for me and a Coors Light for my new friend here."

"Coming right up Mr. Rhinehart," Andrew replied as he handed a drink to another patron.

Rhinehart turned back to Cheeseman. He was anxious to start discussing business.

"Let me explain my situation to you Dan. One of my construction companies, Stanton Brothers, is in the process of securing all of the necessary permits to construct twin forty-storey condominiums along a stretch of riverfront on the Upper West Side. Once the building phase begins, I'll be requiring security personnel to be on site from 5 p.m. to 7 a.m. Monday to Friday and on a twenty-four-hour rotation during the weekends. Is your company able to provide the services I need?"

Andrew placed a frothy beer glass in front of Cheeseman and a dirty vodka in front of Rhinehart. Rhinehart flipped the server a $50 bill.

"There you go Andrew. Take your girlfriend somewhere special this week."

"Thank you Mr. Rhinehart."

"No problem kid."

Rhinehart stirred his drink and took a tiny sip. Cheeseman sipped his beer.

"I currently have five guys working for me and we're being overrun with applications," Cheeseman replied. "I'm ready to play in the big leagues."

"Dan, the biggest reason I sought out Reliable Security is because like me, you're an ex-military man. You have plenty of real-world experience. Most importantly, you have a fairly discerning hiring policy; no druggies, convicted felons, etc."

"As the name implies, I expect my employees to be reliable."

Rhinehart took another sip of his drink.

"I've shopped around for reputable private security companies and let me tell you, they don't exactly grow on trees in this town. I'm going to give your company a shot. Why don't you swing by the office tomorrow? I'll have my lawyer draft up a contract. In the meantime let's close this deal with a toast."

"To a strong business relationship," Rhinehart said as they raised their glasses.

"One that will last a long time," Cheeseman stated.

"Will you stay and have another drink with me?"

Cheeseman glanced at his cell phone. It was pushing ten o'clock.

"I guess one more won't hurt. But I do have to get back to the shop soon though. Have to put in a few more hours before heading home for the night."

"Burning the midnight oil eh? We're the last of a dying breed Dan. Most folks generally don't like to work that hard anymore."
Chapter 42

Her feet were near dead from twelve hours of walking and standing on concrete floors. The lumbar region of her lower back felt as though a heavy rock had been strapped to it. Still, Natalie Breckenridge wouldn't dream of doing anything else. For the past decade, the registered nurse had worked at Long Island Jewish Medical Centre. Breckenridge lived with her husband Joey and children Patrick and Emily in the affluent Queens neighborhood of Forest Hills. She'd just finished a busy twelve-hour shift in the hospital's emergency department. The illuminated dashboard clock of the Prius read 12:15 a.m. as she pulled into the driveway of the Tudor-style house at 35 Halfmoon Crescent where the family had built a comfortable life for themselves. All Breckenridge could think about was crawling underneath the covers and drifting into a long, peaceful sleep. The busy mother of two, who'd recently celebrated her thirty-ninth birthday, winced in pain as the sciatica she'd been suffering from became inflamed again. Keys in hand, she got out and locked the car's doors. All of a sudden Breckenridge froze at hearing what sounded like footsteps directly behind her.

Her heart began skipping fast. Was she imagining something? No, the masked man standing inches behind her holding piano wire in his gloved hands was very real. Breckenridge suddenly felt what seemed like wire tightening around her throat. Unable to scream, she struggled briefly, but quickly felt herself slipping into the dark abyss. She succumbed to death as her unseen assailant dug the piano wire through her jugular veins, carotid arteries and subclavian veins.

The Tall Man dropped Breckenridge onto the pavement, a wave of dark blood pouring freely from her slit throat.

'After all these years, you're finally getting what you deserve bitch', he thought to himself. The Tall Man quickly took off his mask and disappeared into a small wooded area behind the row of million dollar homes that lined Halfmoon Crescent. He'd rehearsed every miniscule detail of his mission and was ready for any unforeseen circumstances that might get in his way.

*****

Joe Breckenridge had finally managed to hit the pillows by 11 p.m. Between driving seven-year-old Emily to and from her soccer game and spending extra hours on a project his architectural firm was doing, Breckenridge was wiped. Startled awake by a weird dream, Breckenridge looked beside him. Strange. Natalie was usually home long before now. Perhaps she was logging some overtime.

'Better check just in case' he said to himself as he got out of bed and pulled on a shirt and a pair of track pants.

He went out into the drizzly, considerably cooler night. Groggy, he couldn't understand why Natalie's Prius was in the driveway but she... "Oh my God in Heaven!" The devoted husband and father went limp at the horrifying sight. He dropped to his knees.

"Natalie! Oh God this isn't happening!"

Patrick, fifteen, and his sister went out to see what was happening. Breckenridge quickly moved to shield his children from the horrific spectacle.

"Patrick, call 9-1-1 right now."
Chapter 43

Jeff Rollins steadied a scalding cup of coffee with one hand while steering with the other. For the third night in a row, the fifteen-year NYPD veteran had been working the graveyard shift. Both Rollins and his partner, Al Rudnisky, belonged to the 112th Precinct. A light show of red and blue flashed wildly against the front side of the Breckenridge home. The detectives parked their vehicle on the street. Officers from the 112th were sealing off the property with yellow crime scene tape while forensics technicians drew a chalk outline around Natalie Breckenridge's bloody corpse. A young patrolman of Greek descent finished tying one section of crime scene tape around a tree.

"Officer Stamos," Rollins asked. "Does anyone even have the slightest idea of what happened here?"

"Not yet Detective," Stamos replied. "Husband and kids are inside the house."

Rollins looked over at his partner.

"Let's go Al."

Rollins and Rudnisky passed through the front door of the swanky wood-and-brick home. Joey Breckenridge sat on a living room couch, his children on either side of him. The man was slumped over, the life completely knocked out of him. Rollins always entered situations such as this with an open mind. The grieving widow appeared sincere, but appearances could be deceiving.

All too often, scheming jealous husbands keen on getting rid of their wives hired a professional or some dirt bag off of the street to kill them. But so far, that didn't appear to be the case.

"Mr. Breckenridge, my name is Detective Rollins. This here is Sergeant Rudnisky. Sorry about what happened to your wife. We do have a few questions to ask you though."

Breckenridge turned to Patrick, who was consoling his traumatized sister.

"Patrick, put Emily to bed. Okay?"

"Sure Dad," the teenage boy replied. His arm around his sister, the two walked upstairs.

Rollins and Rudnisky sat down across from Breckenridge.

"I don't understand why anybody would simply go up and murder Natalie." The devastated man broke down in tears.

"Mr. Breckenridge, I don't mean to sound callous, but truthfully, it appears that Natalie was deliberately targeted," Rollins said as tactfully as he could. "It's obvious that robbery was not a motive. Do you or your wife have any enemies, perhaps somebody you've had run-ins with in the past?"

"We live a fairly sheltered life, Detective. We have excellent neighbors. Forest Hills is a quiet neighborhood. A great place to raise a family. Besides, if there had been an incident at the hospital involving threats or anything of that nature, Nat would have told me about it."

*****

The ground search for the killer had begun. Dozens of officers started at the address at Halfmoon Crescent and branched out into the neighborhood. Dressed in dark blue combat fatigues, their chests protected by Kevlar vests, K-9 officers Don Bradley and Peter Trainer appeared as shadowy figures in the night as they moved through a nearby park which was heavily forested in places. They gripped the leashes of Sadie and Cruz, two fiercely-smiling German shepherds. A small contingent of NYPD officers followed behind them. The dogs had been fortunate enough to pick up the scent of somebody other than a family member who'd recently been on the property.

"Yeah, he's hiding out here somewhere," Bradley stated.

"That damn chopper better get here soon," Trainer groaned. "This park may be big, but it won't be that hard to find somebody lurking around here in the middle of the night."

The Tall Man lay perfectly still at the bottom of a cluster of spruce trees. He dared not move a muscle. Not even breathe. He heard the footsteps of pursuing police. It would be a challenge getting out of there undetected. With God's grace, the steady rain would make him damp and cold, which in turn would weaken his scent. It would also diminish his body heat when helicopters with infrared capabilities began flying over the area.
Chapter 44

Getting rustled from a sound night's sleep on the spur of the moment was nothing new for Adam Moncks. Moncks, who'd earned his rotor wing commercial pilot's license while in university, belonged to the NYPD's fifty-seven-member aviation unit. After quickly throwing on his uniform, which was in need of ironing, Moncks hightailed it to Floyd Bennett Field in Brooklyn. Security personnel unlocked the chain-link, concertina-topped fence that served as a holding area for one of the unit's blue and white Bell 412 choppers. The experienced pilot, who'd helped in the apprehension of suspects, located missing persons and even flown a few missions in support of homeland security, threw on his flight suit, helmet and climbed into the cockpit. He switched on the controls. Pressed down on the gearshift. The helicopter lifted up and began its ascent into the night sky. Millions of vividly sparkling lights lit up the Big Apple like some sort of electric circus. From where he was situated a few thousand feet above, the entire spectacle was nothing sort of awe-inspiring.

"Unit 8, what is your position?" a dispatcher's voice asked through the chopper's radio system.

"Taking a bit of a shortcut over the East River," Moncks replied. "ETA five minutes."

*****

Back at the Breckenridge residence, Rollins and Rudnisky continued to ask Joe Breckenridge questions. It was becoming quite evident that the wealthy suburbanite had no involvement whatsoever in his wife's death.

"Mr. Breckenridge", Rollins asked. "How long had you and Natalie been married?"

"We celebrated our tenth anniversary back in May. My son is from a previous marriage."

"How well did you know about your wife's past? More specifically, any relationships she was in before she met you," Rudnisky inquired.

"Natalie had various boyfriends but she'd never been married before."

"Did you ever tell you much about them?" Rollins asked.

"She preferred to keep that in her past," Breckenridge stated. "Now, as I've said before, my Nat has never been tangled up with criminals, drug dealers, lowlifes of that sort." Suddenly he remembered something very concerning that his late wife had confided in him ironically only weeks before her death. "There is something I am going to tell you guys. As weird as it sounds, it might help you."

"Anything will help us at this point," Rollins said.

"A couple of weeks ago Natalie came home early from work. She was crying and very upset. I figured she'd had a rotten night at work, but I was wrong."

The detectives listened intently.

"Apparently back in the early 1990s when Natalie just seventeen or eighteen she'd gotten pregnant unexpectedly by some guy she was dating. She's from Chicago. Her boyfriend at the time was a recruit at Great Lakes Naval Training Centre. Anyway, Natalie wasn't financially or emotionally ready for the responsibilities of motherhood so she opted to terminate the pregnancy."

It hurt Breckenridge to explain this, something the detectives picked up on.

"After learning of this," he continued. "Her boyfriend become enraged. Apparently he had a hair-trigger temper. He left but not after threatening to kill her. She just kept this buried for two decades and then one day out of the blue she starts having flashbacks and dreams."

"Post Abortive Stress Syndrome," Rollins said quietly. "Mr. Breckenridge, what you told us might help in the case but it's a longshot. Anyway, do you know the name of her boyfriend from back then?"

"I believe his name was either Donnie or Daniel. He hailed from somewhere in the Midwest. Possibly Illinois or Ohio but I'm not one hundred percent sure."

Armed with this information, the detectives walked out into the night. Rudnisky sensed that his energetic partner was itching to tell him something.

"Al, call me crazy, but the psychotic piece of shit was here," Rollins said in a low tone.

"Jeff, what are you talking about?"

"The Abortion Avenger."

"Don't you think you're over-exaggerating? Our murder victim had an abortion over twenty years ago in a city seven hundred miles away. How would he even know about it?" Rudnisky thought hard. "Unless her ex-boyfriend is the killer. I'm not going to rule anything out. I just don't think it's a good idea to hitch our wagons to such a farfetched theory."

"He's gotta have some connection to her murder," Rollins stated with conviction in his voice. "I know somebody who works on that mayoral task force."

Yeah, who's that?"

"Antonio Guardini. Last time I talked to him, he was with the 33rd. Bet you any money the captain is going to want to hand this case over to them.

"Over my dead body he will," Rudnisky snapped. "This is our turf. Our collar."

"Anyway, we'll talk to him tomorrow. See what happens."
Chapter 45

Bradley and Trainer tramped through a rocky, slightly hilly section of the park that bordered Forest Hills and a few nearby affluent neighborhoods. Sadie and Cruz sniffed around but were becoming increasingly confused as the scent dissipated. Trainer looked up as the helicopter hovered in the sky overhead.

"Bout' fuckin' time," he said impatiently. "If he's in here, the chopper'll spot him."

Moncks flicked on the Bell 412's spotlight a.k.a. the "Night Sun." The searchlight featured a 1600-watt Xexon Short-Arc with a peak beam intensity of 30-40 million candlepower. Great for ferreting out suspects who believed they could cloak themselves in the darkness of the night. Moncks directed the 4x20 onto a large playground. A vanishing pair of footprints imprinted into sand was revealed. According to the chopper's infrared screen, the murderer of Natalie Breckenridge was hiding in the woods below but the heat emanating from whoever was down there was very weak.

*****

The Tall Man knew he had seconds to make a decision or this whole party would be for nothing. Even worse, he'd have incensed Yeshua. The prospect of eternal damnation for disobeying God's word wracked his conscience. As the Tall Man clung to the pine needle-covered forest floor, the ground around him almost shook from the sheer intensity of approaching rotor blades. His vehicle was parked a good quarter of a mile away. His pursuers were still far enough away that he could slip out unnoticed. He'd thrown the balaclava into a pond. No one-at least not to be the best of his knowledge-had seen a masked man on the Breckenridge property.

*****

Moncks slowly moved along, meticulously scanning the ground below. The rain had become heavier and the outside temperature was dropping at a steady rate. Cooler temperatures in the forecast over the next couple of days would be a welcoming relief from the heatwave that had not abated since commencing in June.

"Alpha One." Moncks didn't recognize the voice but knew it was most likely coming from the commander on the ground. "Keep that spotlight focused on the forest. Our dogs have lost the scent but we strongly believe he's lurking in there somewhere. Proceed with caution. If that's the Abortion Avenger, he's armed to the teeth."

"Roger that ground leader. If he's in there, we'll flush him out," Moncks said confidently.

The veteran police helicopter pilot hovered at the edge of the suburban woodland. Considering it was in the heart of suburbia, the swath of forest was quite expansive-not to mention dense. By now, ground crews would have a perimeter set up around the area.

The Tall Man crawled on his belly in a northerly direction. The sound of police tracking dogs, even the chopper were distant-but only temporarily. He'd been so well-trained by the U.S. government and had survived real-life excursions through enemy territory, which he was in right now. His body shivered as the air temperature dropped to a chilly fifty-five degrees. He'd have to crawl as far as he could. Only when it was a certainty that the coast was clear could he safely walk down one of the countless nearby suburban streets. If anybody inquired, as the police most certainly would, he was simply a shift worker getting in a bit of exercise before heading off to work.
Chapter 46

He'd been burning the midnight oil again. Honest to God, once his business was fully established, Dan Cheeseman, his wife and daughter were going to Hawaii. Mark Strickland was more than capable of running the company for a few weeks in his absence. Jennifer had called him just before she went to bed at eleven. He told her he wouldn't be later than midnight. What time was it now? 1:40 a.m. Shit! He was really in for it. Cheeseman quietly drove into the short driveway, a carbon copy of all the others on Acacia Drive. A steady drizzle continued to cascade from the sky.

He went inside and locked the door behind him.

"How dare you pull a stunt like this?"

Cheeseman nearly jumped out of his skin. He wheeled around sitting there on the living room stairs was Jennifer, her eyes harboring a look that could kill. She glared at him with contemptuous eyes.

"Daniel Robert Cheeseman!" he emotions were a wild jumble of anger and sadness. "You are incorrigible. Whatever possessed you to...I'm about this close to filing for a divorce."

Cheeseman stood there solidly. He was expecting this tongue-lashing. Jennifer sensed that he was out there neglecting his marital duties, quite possibly in a bedroom other than their own. When Dan had entered the recently-blessed home, an unsettling, subtly sinister seemed to hang over him. His clothing emitted a strong smell. She was certain he'd been drinking.

"Let me guess. You picked up a bottle of something expensive and went over to your girlfriend's place. Dan, am I right?"

Cheeseman didn't answer her. He averted his eyes.

"You could at least be upfront with me and tell me her name."

"There is no she, only you. Why the hell can't you get that into your head! I had a few drinks with Steve Rhinehart. Probably a few more than I should have had. Jennifer, I got the contract!" His eyes widened with elation, which only served to irk her even more. "I'm doing this all for you and Rachel."

"Like Hell you are! I can't even trust you any more Dan. You're supposed to be my best friend. The person I share my most intimate fears and desires with. Lately, you've been nothing but dishonest with your wife and daughter. To be brutally frank with you, I can't see how this marriage can survive."

"So that's it. After all I've done for this family, you're just going to take everything and leave. What's the goddamn point anymore?! Have a good night."

Cheeseman headed up the stairs. Tonight, he would sleep in the guest bedroom. Jennifer sat weakly on the stair. Drained of energy. Deep down, she loved her husband but he could not be allowed to get away with what he was doing.
Chapter 47

Captain David Moreno of the 112th Precinct had a feeling from the start that the strange midnight slaying of Natalie Breckenridge was a job for the mayoral task force. There were no apparent motives. The wife and mother did not appear to have any dark secrets. Moreno went through the proper channels of the NYPD hierarchy, who in turn relayed the message to Keith. The task force detectives sat around the conference room for the customary noontime briefing.

"We've gotten something thrown unexpectedly onto our plates," Keith announced. "There was a murder in Queens around midnight."

This struck Antonio as a bit odd. Why hadn't he heard about it?

"Where at in Queens, Inspector?" Antonio asked.

"Forest Hills. I'm not totally familiar with Queens but I believe it isn't too far from your neighborhood Guardini," Keith said. "The victim's name is Natalie Breckenridge, age thirty-nine. She was just coming off of a shift at Long Island Jewish Medical Centre when somebody robbed her family of a wife and mother. Something of great concern has come to light. It has been revealed that Mrs. Breckenridge had an abortion over twenty years ago. At this point, it's an extremely far-out theory to suppose that this psycho has expanded his repertoire to include bumping off women who've had abortions. Natalie Breckenridge's husband revealed to detectives from the 112th that an ex-boyfriend who supposedly is the father of the aborted baby had once threatened to kill her. All we can do at this point is interview the husband and see where this goes."

Robinson half-raised his hand.

"Inspector, has the 112th officially handed this case over to us?"

"Yes. I spoke with Captain Moreno who is head of the precinct. Apparently it was a grisly murder. The killer snuck up behind the victim and slit her throat with piano wire. This murder was well-planned by somebody who had a vendetta against Natalie Breckenridge and wanted her dead. I'm sending two of you over to 35 Halfmoon Crescent to speak with Joe Breckenridge. Detective Guardini, you up to the task today?"

"Yeah sure, no problem."

Keith scanned the faces of the detectives in the room.

"Washington, I'll send you along with Guardini. You two haven't really gotten a chance to work together yet."

*****

Their drive over to Queens had been surprisingly traffic-free. Antonio and Washington approached the front door of 35 Halfmoon Crescent. It was the type of safe neighborhood that generally yielded few police response calls. The door opened. A man wearing a housecoat with sunken, sleep-deprived eyes and a noticeable whisker obscuring his face stood there. A traumatized teenage boy and a little girl stood on either side of him.

"Joey Breckenridge?" Antonio asked and he and Washington displayed their gold shields.

"Sorry I don't look any better."

"We understand perfectly Sir," Washington said. "Mind if we come in?"

The detectives followed Breckenridge and his kids into the kitchen. It was messy; coffee stains blemished the marble counter, dirty dishes were piled high in the sink and plates of uneaten food were left on the table. As well, the floor was in bad need of a sweeping. Breckenridge crumpled into a chair.

"Make yourselves at home guys. Sorry about the mess."

"Mr. Breckenridge, this investigation is going to be handled by the mayoral task force from here on out," Antonio explained. "Has anyone notified you of this?"

"No...nobody told me anything." Breckenridge was almost too worn down to talk. "You know, to be honest with you, this is the last thing I would ever have expected to happen. Natalie had oodles of friends. Everybody liked her." Suddenly the aggrieved widow become chocked up and started to cry. "I'm so sorry, I..."

"We empathize with you completely," Washington said as he handed him a tissue.

"Mr. Breckenridge, I understand your wife had had an abortion when she was a teenager?" Antonio asked. "And that the father threatened your wife? You think he had something to do with this after so long?"

"She only told me a few weeks ago. I didn't really bother me one way or another. I for the most part support a woman's right to choose. You know, my Natalie had the nicest smile. The best personality you could want in a woman. Nobody had the right to rip her away from me!"

Owing to the fact that Joey Breckenridge was extremely worked up, Antonio knew he had to tread carefully.

"Mr. Breckenridge, I realize that detectives from the 112th asked you a lot of the same questions last night. You're tired and don't want to be grilled again. Do you know about all of Natalie's ex-partners?"

"I explained the same thing to Detective Rollins at one o'clock this morning. There was one guy she dated back around 1991. Natalie is from Chicago. She didn't have the greatest life growing up. Anyway, her mother still lives there. They're not particularly close, but she has seen her granddaughter a couple of times. Her name is Hannah Smith. If you like, you can contact her. She'll be able to tell you a lot more than I can."
Chapter 48

From the moment both of them had arrived at the outreach centre to begin another day's work, Cheryl Guardini sensed something vexing was bothering her closest friend and sister in Christ. It had been an exceptionally hectic morning with zero time for chitter-chatter. Although the job was always enriching, the women needed to get away from the suffering and heartache for an hour. They headed to Linda's Diner, a popular working-class eatery down the street from the outreach centre.

The restaurant busy and noisy as usual, Jennifer and Cheryl found a booth at the back. Cheryl could not even fathom how demoralized and upset Jennifer was at the moment but she'd soon find out. A short, heavy-on-the-hips waitress with curly hair and a rough though friendly smile walked over to the table with two steaming mugs of coffee.

"Good afternoon ladies," the waitress, whose nametag said 'Suzanne', said cheerfully. "Did you get a chance to check out our specials yet?"

"We need a few minutes before we decide Suzanne," Cheryl said as she reached for creamers from the sugar holder.

Metal clinked against ceramic as the women stirred sugar and cream into their black brew. Cheryl raised her mug to her lips and took a sip.

"So what's bothering you Jennifer?" she asked concernedly.

"It's Dan," she replied flatly. "He's purposely destroying our marriage."

Hearing this sudden revelation startled Cheryl. Every marriage had its ups and downs- hers included-but was something else going on here she wasn't aware of?

"He never got home till two a.m.," Jennifer stated.

"Really?! Where was he?"

"Claims he was working but I know that's a crock of bull." Jennifer sipped her coffee. "I smelled it off of him, Cheryl."

"That is not good. Do you think he's having an affair?"

"Big time. I just don't know what to do. He's not even close to the same man I married."

Cheryl thought long and hard. Realistically, what could she tell her friend?

"You really caught me off guard there Jennifer. You and Dan should really look into counselling."

"Cheryl, we're beyond that point, it saddens me to say."

"Jen, I'm not telling you what to do, but you think long and hard before even considering going the divorce route. My marriage to Antonio has been a constant rollercoaster. Trust me. We've come to blows a couple of times. It takes a lot of work but it isn't impossible to get your marriage issues worked out.

"I'll see what happens Cheryl. I've had many good friends in my life but none of them have been anywhere as kind and compassionate as you."

"The feeling is reciprocal," Cheryl replied.
Chapter 49

The harsh reality that her only child had been brutally murdered had not yet begun to set in for Hannah Smith. The sixtyish semiretired factory worker had been at home in her apartment complex on Chicago's Gold Coast when she got the news. She was more than a bit prematurely aged for a woman of her years, a testament to the hardships she'd endured as a single mother raising her daughter in some of the Windy City's roughest neighborhoods. The unstable environment in which Natalie Anne Smith had grown up in had an adverse effect on her life. Plagued by severe learning disabilities and scarred by sexual abuse at the hands of some of her mother's many boyfriends, Natalie dropped out of school at seventeen and turned to drugs. Hannah Smith was not surprised when the voice on the other end of the line was that of a New York police detective.

"Yeah, back in 1991 Natalie was living on her own," Smith told Antonio. "She was getting by but that's about it. Anyway, she met this young man who was going through basic recruit training at Great Lakes Naval Training Centre. That's just north of Chicago."

"Yes, I know where it is." Antonio sat back in his comfortable leather chair. "Mrs. Smith, do you specifically remember the name of Natalie's boyfriend?"

"I only met him once or twice but if my memory serves me correctly, it was Donny Ziggler. Apparently, he had grown up in a small town in southern Indiana. Lynnville or Booneyville or some nondescript place like that."

"Natalie's husband explained to us that this Ziggler individual, at least according to what she had told him, had a violent streak and actually threatened to kill her after she'd went and terminated the pregnancy. Were you aware of this?"

"Detective, she was seventeen, scared and pregnant. Donny, who to the best of my knowledge grew up in some sort of fundamentalist church, told her that abortion was akin to murder and that she had to pay for her transgressions."

The pieces of this complicated puzzle were all starting to come together now.

I'm actually starting to get somewhere, Antonio thought to himself.

"I knew there was something unwholesome about that young man from the time I first laid eyes on him," Smith said resentfully. She desperately wanted whoever murdered her daughter to be brought to justice. "At first I thought wonderful, a farm kid wanting to do something with his life and serving his country at the same time. Then I started hearing these stories from Natalie. Donny was overbearing. Constantly berating her for not believing in the same God that he did. Personally, I think the vast majority of those born-agains are hypocrites. Isn't sex outside of marriage supposed to be a sin?"

"That's how I see it anyway," Antonio replied.

"So he goes and gets my drug-addled daughter knocked up with no plans as to how he's going to look after her and her child."

"Mrs. Smith, what did you say to your daughter when she contemplated having an abortion?"

"To be a bit honest with you Detective Guardini, I'm a bit on the fence when it comes to the entire abortion debate. There was no way in hell that young girl could have realistically looked after a baby. Hell, she was just a kid herself." Smith sighed as she recalled memories Antonio could tell she much rather preferred to keep in the past. "I drove her to the clinic. I mean, what else was I supposed to do? After that, I told her to get as far away from that psycho as possible."

Antonio felt as if he might actually be stumbling onto something major.

"Mrs. Smith, I just have one more question for you. This Donny Ziggler. I realize the last time you saw him was twenty-two years ago, but from what you can remember, what did he look like?"

"Tall-well over six feet. Big guy too. Big, broad shoulders. I also believe he had reddish hair. We never saw anything of him after that. My guess is he shipped out to sea. Hopefully he stayed there."
Chapter 50

Antonio pulled his chair up close to the computer on his desk. He began typing up every detail of the information he had hastily scribbled onto a notepad while interviewing Hannah Smith. The name "Donny Ziggler" was most likely quite common in parts of the United States, particularly those with high concentrations of people of German and Swiss descent. After he had all of his information typed and saved in a Word file, Antonio logged into the National Crime Information Centre with his username and password. He typed in "Donny Ziggler". All clear.

'Perhaps he smartened up and become a model citizen,' Antonio said to himself.

It was often standard procedure nowadays to do a Google search on either a suspect or someone police were seeking information on. Approximately 902,000 results for Donny Ziggler came up. Antonio checked Facebook. Nine results, none of them over the age of thirty.

'Not everybody is into social media.'

Antonio continued scrolling through the pages, checking each result as he did so. It was very overwhelming, to say the least. By the time he reached the fourth page, Antonio was contemplating giving up when something caught his eye. The headline of a news story dated July 19, 1990. It was written by the Lynnville Examiner. Lynnville? Lynnville? Wasn't that Donny Ziggler's hometown? Immensely curious, he clicked on the link. Perhaps it was a story about one of his run-ins with the law.

'What the heck is going on here?' Antonio's mind screamed out as he read the twenty-three-year-old front page story; "Local Teen Dies in Fiery Car Accident." A few lines down, Antonio saw the victim's name: Donny Ziggler, age sixteen, of Lynnville, Indiana. Survived by his parents Bill and Geraldine and sister, Sarah.

Antonio was very taken aback. Something didn't feel right. Surely to God Hannah Smith was telling him the truth. He was delving deeper into an increasingly twisting mystery. There was no turning back now.
Chapter 51

The suffocating heatwave that was slowly unbridling its ironclad grip on the U.S. northeast had had a much more adverse effect on many areas of the nation's Midwestern region. Consistent temperatures in the 100s had already destroyed millions of dollars' worth of crops. Bill Ziggler still tinkered around the farm a bit these days but had largely gotten out of farming a few years earlier. Drained from being outside in the smothering humidity all morning, the seventy-two-year-old, whose body was muscled from a lifetime of hard work, closed up the door to his largest barn. Bill and his wife, Caroline, had lived inside of the old farmhouse just outside of Lynnville, Indiana, since the late 1960s. He parked himself at the table. Geraldine placed a cold glass of lemonade in front of him. He eagerly sipped it. Suddenly the phone rang.

Geraldine picked it up. Bill wondered who it could be. Possibly their daughter Sarah, who'd lived in Los Angeles for close to twenty-five years and rarely got back to her place of birth?

Geraldine nodded as she listened to whoever was on the other end of the line.

"He's right here," she stated before putting the phone away from her ear.

"Bill, it's for you."

"Who is it?"

"Some police detective from New York."

"What in tarnation?" Bill Ziggler quickly got up from the table and answered the phone.

"Yallo? This is Bill Ziggler," he answered in his usual heavy tone.

Antonio's heart felt heavy as he got ready to ask his questions. Most likely these people would think he was some kind of weirdo...or worse.

"Mr. Ziggler, my name is Detective First Grade Antonio Guardini of the New York Police Department."

"Good morning detective. Weather hot where you're at?"

"It's winding down a bit...finally. Mr. Ziggler---

"Please, call me Bill."

"Okay Bill. The reason why I'm calling today is in regards to your son..."

In an instant, twenty-three years of painful memories the bereaved father had just recently come to terms with all came rushing back full-tilt. His blood pressure rose as he become angrier.

"Is this some kind of a sick joke you're pulling here! You better hang up right now or else I'm notifying the FBI."

"Sir...please. Just hear me out. Last night, a woman from Queens by the name of Natalie Breckenridge was murdered. She was originally Natalie Anne Smith from Chicago. We spoke with the victim's mother. She told us back in 1991 that her daughter had dated a young naval recruit whose name was Donny Ziggler. According to her, he was from Lynnville, Indiana."

Bill Ziggler settled into a kitchen chair. His wife stood there looking alarmed. It all seemed so weird, almost creepy. It was all too surreal, like a strange dream you just want to awaken from.

"Detective Guardini, my son was killed in a car accident in 1990. The only other Don Ziggler to have ever lived in Pulaski County was my father. Donny was sixteen when he died. He'd only been to Chicago once or twice in his life. This woman who was murdered, do you believe her ex-boyfriend did it?"

"We're not entirely sure. The newspaper article stated that two boys had survived the accident. The victim's mother told me that Donny Ziggler was tall and had reddish hair."

"My son was short, just over five feet, but strong as a bull. He was on the wrestling team. Tall with reddish hair. That sounds like one of the guys Donny used to get around with."

"What was his name?"

"Daniel Caruso."

"He was one of the survivors."

"I wish to hell the good Lord would have taken him instead of my son. Daniel Caruso was nuts. A bad influence on everybody he was with. He was raised in some sort of messed-up Christian fundamentalist sect. They felt the only purpose women had in life was to be baby factories. Very sexist if you ask me. They claimed the federal government is promoting abortion and birth control as a way of destroying the white race. I told Donny to say away from him but he didn't listen."

"Who was driving the night of the accident?"

"Chris Spencer. He lives in Indianapolis now. Caruso, I don't know what ever happened to him. Frankly, I don't give a damn. Not long after the accident, his family moved somewhere and that's the last we ever heard of him."
Chapter 52

It had been long-deserved. Following an exhausting week, Antonio and Dan Cheeseman knew it was time for another Saturday evening out on the town. Jennifer and Cheryl, along with a couple of women from St. Cecilia's, were headed to a dinner theatre hosted by a local performing arts company. Peter, Sarah and Rachel were staying with friends. Opting to stay close to home, the men drove down University Avenue in the heart of downtown Woodhaven in Antonio's Focus. He pulled up in front of Buddy's Sports Bar, a somewhat classier place than their usual haunts.

Buddy's was a de facto shrine to the memory and legacy of some of the hundreds of iconic athletes who'd graced the rosters of the city's pro sports teams over the past century. Hanging from the walls were color and black-and-white pictures of Babe Ruth, Mike Bossy, Patrick Ewing, Joe Namath, Eli Manning and Wayne Gretzky. Antonio and Cheeseman entered and right away found a booth. Frankie Manero, co-owner of Buddy's and coach of Peter's little league team, come over with menus.

"Great to see you again Antonio. How are you doing Dan?"

"Tired and hungry," Cheeseman replied with a smile.

"Frankie, we're just going to have two steak specials," Antonio stated.

"I'll send those orders in right now."

Manero went over to the counter.

"You're still working around the clock I see," Antonio said as he picked a few peanuts out of a tray. They were quite salty. "Don't feel so bad. I'll never have a normal life again until that monster is put out of commission."

Antonio studied the bothered look on his friend's face. It was not going to be such a relaxing evening after all.

"What did Jennifer tell you Tony?"

"She never told me anything. A couple of days ago, she and Cheryl went out for coffee. Things are rough, aren't they?"

Cheeseman lowered his head a bit.

"I was out late the other evening. And yes, I admit to having a few drinks. I'm also not afraid to admit that I am a bit of a workaholic. It's the way my father raised me. And I intend to instill those values in Rachel. Jennifer sincerely believes that I am having an affair. She is the only woman I've ever loved. I simply wish she could see that."

Manero arrived at the booth carrying two plates of steak, baked potatoes and steamed vegetables.

"Gentlemen enjoy. You won't find a juicier steak in town."

Antonio and Cheeseman quickly blessed themselves and said a quiet grace. Antonio squeezed a drop of steak sauce onto his plate before cutting the meat.

"Frankie was right," Antonio said as he savored a small piece of steak.

"I want to make more time for my family Antonio. I truly do. I just signed a contract Wednesday night worth two hundred thousand dollars. I'm actually going to be able to pay my guys good wages and provide benefits and a pension plan. Of course, it still isn't good enough for Jennifer. Antonio, I love my wife more than anything else in the world but she has her share of problems. She was born with a silver spoon in her mouth. Her folks have all kinds of money. She attended Stanford University for crying out loud. Back where I grew up, after high school you either went to work on a farm or some dead-end job. Why do you think I joined the navy?"

"Dan, I don't think you ever told me exactly where you grew up."

"All over really. My father died when I was in high school. My mother remarried. I never really got along with my stepfather. Anyway, sorry for venting in front of you. I just pray to God everything comes together in the end."

"It will. We've been praying for you guys. Now I was thinking. For the rest of the evening, do you just want to take it easy? Maybe cruise around Queens a bit. Give us a chance to talk more privately."

"We might as well. The girls won't be home till late anyway. Kids are away for the night."
Chapter 53

Although Dan Cheeseman hadn't said much for the remainder of the evening Antonio knew- simply by his friend's unsettled demeanor- that something was eating away at him. They drove around in the cool, misty night. He desperately wished that his friend would open up more but like most men, he wasn't particularly skilled in expressing his feelings. There was much activity on Atlantic Avenue this evening.

"I don't feel good about what I've been doing," the former SEAL said with remorse. Antonio had a feeling he was a bit depressed. "I feel like I've failed as a husband and father. It's a wonder Jennifer even married me in the first place. A man whose occupation embodied the shedding of blood-some of it innocent. Many a day I ponder why I was so eager to risk life and limb for a corrupt federal government that doesn't give a rat's ass about the brave men and women who died or were willing to for this so-called free country."

"I echo your sentiments." Antonio kept his eyes attentively on the road as Atlantic Avenue led into Brooklyn. "I never had any interest in going into the military myself. You know, I was thinking we check out Brooklyn Bridge Park. Still be a lot of boats going through there this time of the night."

"Sounds good to me."

Antonio drove for about ten more minutes before arriving at Brooklyn Bridge Park. The eighty-five-acre park located next to the East River, popular during warm summer days, was deserted this evening. It afforded an amazing view of the glittering tip of Manhattan Island.

Antonio turned off the car. It looked like he would have to counsel his friend tonight.

"Well Dan, I can't speak for the decision you made to serve America but I can give you some advice regarding marriage. I'm no guru, but you just have to take the good with the bad. Remember that as long as you have God in the centre of your life, you'll make it."

"I think you missed your calling," Cheeseman said lightheartedly.

"No, from the moment I exited by mother's womb, I was destined to be a flatfoot."

"I meant to ask you how the case is moving along."

"Woman murdered in Forest Hills Wednesday night. After midnight. As usual, no evidence to point us in the right direction. My money says our serial killer has returned."

"What makes you think that?"

"Promise to keep this to yourself. The victim had an abortion over twenty years ago. I spoke with her mother. Apparently the guy she had been seeing back then was incensed that she wanted to murder his child. I say child because the life inside of a woman's womb is never a 'fetus'."

"You think he could be back for revenge? Perhaps it was the Abortion Avenger."

"Dan, this situation is so screwed up I don't even know what to think anymore. Honest to God, the last time New York was in this much of a grip of fear was almost four decades ago. My father was in the homicide division then."

"You're referring to the Son of Sam murders."

"It was the summer of 1977. Hotter as Hades too. I was just a kid. Four or five years old. My father put in a lot of overtime during that period." Antonio couldn't help but laugh as he took a walk down Memory Lane. "History is repeating itself all over again. Here I am thirty-six years later doing what Dad was doing back in the late 1970s, raising a family and trying to stop a serial killer every bit as dangerous and cunning as David Berkowitz."

The mood inside of the vehicle suddenly became darker.

"Antonio, about a week ago I called up an old buddy from the teams. He's retired. Lives in Arkansas. He's a good guy. Died-in-the-wool Southern Baptist. You know what he said to me? Every one of those murderous abortion doctors had it coming to them. Can't say I completely disagree with him. They take the Hippocratic Oath to save lives, not end them."

"Dan, that isn't a very Christian way to talk. Personally, I have no sympathy for them either. But we can't live in a world of anarchy. Jesus even says that. We must pray daily that the Lord will change the hearts and minds of politicians to give them the courage to change these laws."

"Sounds great in theory but that formula hasn't exactly been working. Do you have any idea how many hours Jennifer and I have spent writing letters to every GD senator, congressman, governor, state representative, whatever? It don't make one shred of difference if they're Republican or Democrat. The cursed prochoice lobby including Planned Parenthood has each and every one of them in its back pocket."

Antonio become unnerved by the way his best friend was talking. His tone of voice was almost sinister.

"We devote our lives to a peaceful cause. And what do we get for it? Spit on. Cursed at. Threatened all the while expected to lovingly turn the other cheek. Ever hear of the slogan, "When diplomacy fails, shoot from the rooftops."? It isn't merely a catchy phrase."

Antonio become more concerned. This was a side of Dan Cheeseman he couldn't have fathomed even existed.

"Dan, please, for the love of God, settle yourself down. Get those thoughts out of your head."

Cheeseman took a few deep breaths to calm himself down.

"I'm sorry. I just get so worked up sometimes. I hope you'll forgive me."

"It's all water underneath the bridge."

"Now let's get back to your wives before we both end up sleeping under a bridge tonight," Antonio said with a smile as he started up the car.
Chapter 54

Dan Cheeseman's disturbing statement as well as the chilling tone of his voice lingered on Antonio's conscience throughout the remainder of the weekend. The veteran homicide cop entered Police Plaza. Although the guy occasionally had a short fuse, Dan Cheeseman was an overall good person who merely was very passionate about what he believed in.

The task force members seated themselves around the oval-shaped conference table. The boring-looking room was alive with the aroma of strong coffee and fatty, sugar donuts. Darrell Keith, his short-sleeved white dress shirt and black pants starched and free of even the slightest hint of lint, stood in front of his charges.

"I'm assuming all of you had a great weekend. In case any of your memories are foggy, I'm going to remind you that this Thursday is the annual Abortion Rights March."

Antonio sat up. Holy shit! Where had the time gone? Pretty near every year since they'd been married, Antonio and Cheryl had attended the counter – demonstrations organized by various prolife groups in the city.

"Considering that 2013 marks the fortieth anniversary of Roe vs. Wade, this year's event is forecasted to be extra special. We're expecting every right-wing whackjob with a pipe bomb and a cause to be in attendance and make their presence known. And I believe, as do all of you, that our old friend the Abortion Avenger has plans to take in the festivities as well. For this reason, we are collaborating with the FBI and DHS. Pray to God the unthinkable doesn't occur but if it does we will be more than ready. You all will be undercover. Mixed well into the crowd. Keeping an eye out for suspicious activity. Between now and Thursday, we will be taking part in several sessions and even a drill in preparation for the rally."

*****

As the morning dragged on, Antonio had been busy searching every known database for anything on a Daniel Caruso who had lived in Lynnville, Indiana at the time of Donny Ziggler's death. The usual social media sites didn't bear much fruit. People often used pseudonyms while on Facebook and Twitter. It seemed like the ideal thing to do checking with the Indiana Department of Corrections to request the criminal history of any offenders in the state with that name. A woman with Indiana DOC did locate a Daniel Caruso-the one he was attempting to track down. Unfortunately, since the offenses occurred when the individual in question was under the age of eighteen, his record was expunged. Just then, Keith exited his office.

"Detective Guardini, can I speak to you for a second?"

Antonio got up and followed Keith into his office.

"What else have you found regarding the background of Natalie Breckenridge? That boyfriend she had. Is there a chance he could be a suspect?"

"There's only one problem there Inspector. Donny Ziggler was killed in a car accident on July, 1990 in his hometown of Lynnville, Indiana. So either all of this is just some bizarre coincidence or somebody enlisted in the U.S. military using this dead kid's identity. I managed to get a hold of Donny Ziggler's father. He and the missus still live on the family homestead. Bill Ziggler told me about one of the boys who survived the accident a friend of Donny's who was one of the biggest troublemakers in town."

"Why would he mention him?"

"His name is Daniel Caruso. Apparently he was raised in some sort of fundamentalist whacked-out church that preached violence against homosexuals and abortionists. I did a fair amount of digging around. Can't find anything on the guy. It seems as though I'm just wildly grasping at straws here."
Chapter 55

Cheryl stood in front of the kitchen stove frying haddock and home fries. Antonio entered, took off his shoes and coat. Happy to see each other after a long day, the couple hugged and kissed.

"You're never guess what big important event I almost totally forgot about?"

"I have no idea," Cheryl replied as she turned back to the stove, turning the fish with a spatula.

"The annual Abortion Rights March is taking place this Thursday."

Cheryl turned off the element and set the frying pan of haddock on another one.

"I haven't forgotten about it. In fact, there's a quite a large contingent from St. Cecilia's going this year. Peter and Sarah are interested in going as well."

"That's what I was really wanting to talk to you about." Antonio leaned against a cupboard. "We're anticipating something catastrophic happening this year, and I don't mean every one of those pro-choicers mending their ways and finding Jesus. Considering 2013 marks the fortieth anniversary of Roe vs. Wade, guaranteed this psycho will be out to make the biggest statement he can. Cheryl, for your safety and that of our children, I cannot let you go to that rally."

Cheryl frowned at her husband's instruction.

"Antonio, we go every year! I'm committed to standing up for the unborn. Lo and behold the pro-aborts will be there screaming in the middle of the street making sure their message is being heard. I understand what you're saying. But this killer only targets certain individuals. We're safe. I mean it isn't like everyone from the parish doesn't know you're working undercover."

"Bombs don't take sides Cheryl."

"Bombs? I thought he shot and stabbed his victims to death."

"We have no idea what he may try to do next. I have never seen a serial killer as skilled as he is. To date, he has left no clues behind. This animal is controlling the entire show and he knows there isn't a whole lot we can do about it. I just pray to God he can be stopped before it's too late."

Cheryl thought for a moment. Perhaps he was right after all.

"I talked to Sarah Whalen today. She is going. As are the McCarthy's, the Riley's and Ann Marie Mulder."

"What about Dan and Jennifer?" Antonio asked.

"I haven't talked to Jennifer yet. Seriously though, what should I tell them Antonio? I mean, I don't want to stir up panic amongst our closest friends."

"Don't say anything to them. They can each go at their own peril."
Chapter 56

A frenzy of activity centred itself around the scintillating signs of nightclubs, restaurants and soaring buildings that dominated Broadway Avenue. Dressed in the regulation uniform of dark blue pants, light blue shirt and cap, the Tall Man, masquerading as a New York City Public Works Department employee, travelled on a stuffy, crowded transit bus. In the toolbox he carried with him a combination of plastic binder and plasticizer mixed with 2,3 dimethyl-2,3-dinitrobutane, commonly known as C4 plastic explosive.

The bus stopped at the corner of Broadway and Fulton. The Tall Man departed. From here, it was a short jaunt to city hall, which was surrounded by Broadway, Park Row and Chambers streets. When he arrived at New York City Hall, the area was devoid of activity. Surprisingly, there was no security present either. The Tall Man examined the historic building's imposing concrete stairway. No doubt that Marxist in the mayor's office would be kicking off tomorrow's reprehensible day of events.

The Tall Man made sure nobody was coming in his direction as he knelt in the darkness on the left side of city hall. He opened up the toolbox. Inside, hidden amongst a variety of tools, were three varying-sized gobs of the highly malleable volatile putty-like substance. He took out one chunk no larger than a large package of bubble gum. A tiny blasting cap was embedded inside of it. The Tall Man filled a large crack in the stairs with the C4, making sure it was stuffed in good.

Once his first task was complete, the Tall Man walked around the building to City Hall Park. The well-groomed green space, popular with lunchtime crowds, was also empty this evening. The last thing he needed was for some unsuspecting horny young couple out for a romp in the bushes stumbling across something that could potentially get them killed. In the midst of the lightly forested park was a miraculous water fountain. Park benches and garbage receptacles were situated all around it. He went over to one of the garbage cans with a chocolate bar-sized chunk of whitish plastic explosive. It too had a blasting cap stuck in it. The Tall Man got down on his knees and placed the C4 underneath the garbage can. Suddenly, without warning, a low, commanding voice came out of nowhere.

"You there. What are you doing?"

The Tall Man froze. He quickly reminded himself that it was imperative to maintain his cool at all times lest he raise even the slightest suspicions. Slowly rising to his feet, the Tall Man turned around to see a hefty black patrolman standing thirty feet away shining a flashlight at him. The cop's cruiser was parked by the curb on Chambers Street.

"I just got called out here. Damn gas leak somewhere in the basement of city hall. I got a crew on the way."

It was as if the officer, whose nametag read S.J. Jordan, was hearing from his instincts that this guy wasn't who he claimed to be.

"Can I see some identification please?"

The Tall Man unclipped a laminated City of New York Department of Public Works employee I.D. card.

On it was the name Hank Lundgard. Employee number 274056. Jordan examined the excellently forged document before handing it back to its owner.

"Sorry about that Hank. You can never be too sure these days. How long have you been with the city?"

"Going on twenty years. And you?"

"Let's put it this way; this time next year I'm going to be relaxing on a beach on Key West."

"That sounds like a good plan."

Just then, a dispatcher's voice came through the small radio clipped to the lapel of Jordan's bulletproof vest.

"Unit 57, do you copy?"

"Loud and clear."

"Robbery in progress on Billings Streets. All units requested."

"I'm on my way. Good meeting you Hank. Hope you get that leak fixed." Jordan hightailed it back to his cruiser, got in and drove away with lights flashing and siren blaring.

The Tall Man breathed a sigh of relief. God had seen him out of yet another perilous situation. He would finally get to accomplish his ultimate goal.
Chapter 57

Mark Strickland's bespectacled eyes were nearly dead from spending three hours glued to the dizzying glare of a computer screen. The war veteran spent the preponderance of his working hours chained to the cluttered desk in Reliable Security's tiny office. There was never a dull moment processing job applications, writing up reports, performing basic bookkeeping duties and answering endless phone calls. Dan Cheeseman entered the business. Strickland felt a negative vibe emanating from his usually jovial boss.

"How are you doing Dan?"

Cheeseman didn't answer.

"Did Ralph Bogasian call back?" he asked in a rather unfriendly tone.

"He did in fact. About ten minutes ago," Strickland replied as he picked a piece of paper off of the desk. "Here's his contact info..."

"I'm not in the mood to talk to anybody right now," Cheeseman said with a brush of his hand. "I have some business to attend to down in the basement. Regardless of who calls, I do not want to be disturbed."

"Oh, one more thing."

Incensed, Cheeseman stopped. Glowered at his subordinate.

"Antonio called. Wondered what you were doing this afternoon."

Cheeseman opened the basement door.

"I'll call him later."

"Are you okay Dan?"

"This doesn't concern you Mark," the businessman replied in an icy tone. Although the two had formed a strong working relationship, Strickland knew better than to get on his boss's bad side, particularly on days such as this."

Cheeseman descended the stairs after closing the basement door. Strickland was quite taken aback at his sudden change of mood. It was eerily similar to a Jekyll and Hyde complex.
Chapter 58

The house on Acacia Drive was quiet tonight. A potential business deal with a city department store had gone south when representatives from the large century-old business refused to accept Dan Cheeseman's terms. It was just after four. Jennifer had started working a few hours each day at St. Joseph's School in preparation for the upcoming school year. Cheeseman took off his coat. Jennifer came into the kitchen.

"Look who's home early for once," she said happily.

"I'm not feeling very good Jen. I lost out on another lucrative contract. Those Stephenson's can be real hardasses to deal with."

Jennifer pulled a chair away from the kitchen table. Cheeseman sat down. He felt the tension in his shoulders unwinding as she started massaging them.

"I know we've had our ups and downs lately. But as long as you're willing to give this a hundred percent, so am I. I've probably been a little harsh on you as well. I know you're not having an affair."

"I couldn't even dream of doing such a thing." Although Cheeseman was slowly starting to feel better, many things were still eating away at him.

"Dan, what's wrong? Tell me what's bothering you."

"Remember what I said to you the other night?"

"It pains my heart too but you have to learn to forgive and let go. She's in Heaven for eternity."

"I don't know how I can ever do that," Cheeseman said in anguish. "It's one of those things that can never fully be reconciled."

*****

The night air lingering in the moonlit sky outside of the bedroom window was surprisingly cool and refreshing. Fingers were crossed that the oppressive heat was finally starting to subside. A serene peacefulness pervaded the Guardini household. Despite this, Antonio's mind was a jumble of fears and anxieties about the forthcoming day. Unable to drift into sleep, he lay on the bed, tired though restless eyes gazing up at the ceiling. His right hand clasped the wooden rosary his aunt Rosa had given him as a Confirmation gift three decades earlier. Fidgety, Antonio sat up. His eyes reluctantly glanced at the clock radio; 12:45. Would he get any sleep tonight?

Cheryl stirred awake at the sound of her husband moving about.

"Antonio, you have to try to get some sleep," she said groggily.

"I'd have a better chance winning the lottery."

Cheryl sat up beside him.

"Trust in God that He will guide you through should the inconceivable happen."

"Did you get a chance to talk to anyone from the church yet?"

"No. Jennifer isn't going. They're going to be busy over the next two weeks getting ready for the fall. Did you get a hold of Dan?"

"I left a few messages on his phone. Called the office a couple of times. The man is unreachable."

"That's strange. Anyway, we'll see them all in church on Sunday."

Cheryl hugged her worry-laden husband close to her. Antonio slowly felt himself becoming relaxed and sleepy.

"Cut all of that crap out of your head and just let your mind wander into the dream world. Everything will turn out okay."

Chapter 59

Antonio stumbled out of bed, his blurry eyes viewing the multitude of shades of grey in the morning sky. He ran the bathroom tap for half a minute. When the water was almost ice – cold, he ran as much of it as he could over his face, washing out the crusty sleep in his eyes in the process. The scant amount of sleep he'd gotten during the night had been surprisingly sound. Antonio ran his hand through the woolly two days' worth of dark brown and black stubble peppering his chin, moustache area and jawline. In order to play his role as a curious bystander with perfection, the veteran detective had foregone shaving since Monday.

He hurried back into the bedroom and sorted through his closet. He grabbed a faded pair of blue jeans and an old heavy metal t-shirt that hadn't seen any action since he was in high school.

In the kitchen, Cheryl was cooking what might very well be his only meal of the day. Seeing her husband in ripped jeans and a throwback-style Bon Jovi 1989-1990 World Tour t-shirt instantly brought back memories of the early 1990s when the two had started dating.

"So when's the concert?" Cheryl asked as she finished setting the table. "Have room for one more in that van?"

"It isn't exactly going to be a rocking good time if you dig me." Antonio sat at the table with Peter and Sarah.

There were plates of freshly-cooked bacon, toast, boiled eggs and fruit. Cheryl walked over to the table with two cups of coffee in hand. She set one of them in front of her husband.

"So what do you kids have on the agenda for today?" Antonio asked as he took a sip of his coffee."

"When you leave, we're going to Glen Woods Shopping Centre," Sarah answered.

Antonio looked over at Cheryl, who stirred cream into her coffee.

"Thought this would be as good of time as any to start getting their school supplies," she said. "Peter needs new clothes in the worst way. A few of the stores in the mall have some excellent deals on right now. I hate waiting until the last minute. Now let's say grace."

In unison, the family members bowed their heads.

"Dear Lord," Cheryl started off. "We implore you watch over Antonio as he goes about his duties today. Should any danger transpire, please keep him safe from harm. In Your name, we thank you. Amen."

They all blessed themselves.
Chapter 60

It was going to be another hazy, cloudy day in the Big Apple. An estimated ten thousand demonstrators representing a smorgasbord of women's prochoice organizations as well as unions started their procession at the bottom of Chambers Street. Blended amongst the raucous, loud protest were the seven members of the mayor's task force. From where he stood, Antonio scanned the dense crowd. There were people of every height ranging from older men and women as well as young impressionable children. The rally even included a couple of tall guys with reddish beards. For all he knew, the Abortion Avenger could be right underneath their noses. Antonio's hair was unkempt. He had a noticeable whisker and slung a leather jacket over his shoulder. The quintessential tough, streetwise Italian rebel. Antonio kept tabs as to where each of this colleagues were situated.

As the prochoice demonstrators marched towards city hall, they were met by a smaller though no less energetic crowd of prolife advocates, some of whom carried signs showing graphic images of aborted fetuses. A sizeable police presence-including several officers on horseback-was on hand to ensure behavior was kept civil and the usual shouting matches didn't escalate into physical confrontations.

Antonio didn't recognize anybody from St. Cecilia's. Nor was there any sign of Dan Cheeseman. The veteran detective stood back and observed one particularly radical mass of pro-aborts. They consisted mainly of college-age women with some seniors mixed in amongst them-old hippies and Steinem-era feminists hoping to capture some of the glory of old.

Rage etched into their faces, they shouted "Women's rights are human rights!" and waved placards with such slogans as "Forty Years: We've Come a Long Way Baby!" and "This is What a Feminist Looks Like!" They participated in the chant "keep abortion safe, keep abortion legal!" Antonio was shaken by their fiery zealotry. How could any rational human being allow themselves to be deceived by such a despicable lie? This display of wickedness was a solid testament to the amount of influence Satan had in the modern world.

Antonio kept a constant eye out for the other task force members. Their earpieces had been checked and tested thoroughly in the days prior to the rally to ensure not even the slightest chance of failure. Antonio didn't notice the young woman approaching him. She wore hippy/bohemian-style glasses. Her hair was done up in thick braids. She probably was inquiring as to why a man, whom many of these brainwashed jezebels considered to be the enemy, was doing here. Antonio prayed he wasn't being made for a cop this early in the game.

"Hey man, what'cha doing?"

"Today's my day off. I'm enjoying the cooler weather. What exactly is going on here?"

"You never heard? It's the fortieth anniversary of Roe vs. Wade."

"Roe vs. who? I guess I lead a bit of a sheltered life."

"It was a decision by the United States Supreme Court in 1973 ruling that American women have a legal right to safe abortion services."

"Interesting," Antonio replied. "And those demonstrators over there, who are they?"

The initially cheery girl suddenly had a repulsive mien.

"Those pieces of shit? Cursed pro-lifers. Christians. Makes me sick even looking at them. Just think of what they're teaching their children. Personally, I think every one of those women haters should be in jail for promoting hatred."

Antonio felt his blood pressure increase tenfold. Oh, he would like nothing more than to smack this nasty little bitch. Of course, such a reckless action would jeopardize the entire operation and guarantee spending the rest of his days in uniform on some shitty watch such as patrolling the slummy areas of Roosevelt Island, if he wasn't fired outright.

"Well, I guess everybody has a right to their own opinion."

"You're welcome to join us if you like. We have plenty of extra signs."

"Nah, I gotta get going. Have a nice day."

Antonio walked over to another section of the crowd. No more than forty meters away, nestled amongst the demonstrators, was one of the most wanted men in America. The Tall Man had changed his appearance somewhat by shaving his head, cutting his beard and putting on a fake moustache and goatee. He'd done his homework meticulously. He familiarized himself with all seven task force members. The guileful killer, whose current appearance was a considerable departure from the composite police had on him, made sure he knew where each of them were at all times. They weren't watching him; he was watching them.

Antonio walked along a chain-link fence. He heard a low squelching in his ear. Blaney's voice followed.

"Guardini, you copy?"

"Ten-four."

"How is everything on your end?"

"Business as usual."

*****

A huge gathering of pro-choicers congregated around the barricaded steps of New York City Hall. Lisa Chou, playing the part perfectly, yelled and chanted along with her fellow sisters.

She wore a t-shirt with the statement "My Body, My Right!" in big, bold letters. Robinson, Hernandez and Blaney were all back about thirty feet. Washington and Schuster were seated on a park bench. Both wore the shoddy clothing of homeless men and had were scruffy in appearance. Thongs of demonstrators or those simply interested in the event sat around on the manicured lawn of City Hall Park.

All of a sudden a thunderous applause erupted from the crowd. Benny Rosenbaum, flanked by two prominent-looking women as well as a small security detail, descended the steps and stood in front of a podium. Antonio moved closer. Immediately, he recognized the two women. One was Judy Arthur, president of the Abortion Rights League of America. The other was Ruth Friedman, a revered, outspoken feminist. Rosenbaum touched the mic to ensure it was ready for his deep, loud Brooklyn voice.

"Can't take a shit in this town without Rosenbaum sticking his nose in it," Washington said a bit contemptuously.

"Yeah, I've personally always found the guy to be a bit of a do-gooder," Schuster replied.

"Good morning." Rosenbaum greeted the crowd. "It's wonderful to see such a major turnout to mark a very significant turning point in the battle for women's rights in America. In the quest to preserve equal rights for all, but especially the civil rights and dignity of women, we must always recognize the inherent right to contraception and safe abortion services."

Antonio was angered by the mayor's words.

'Abortion destroys the dignity of women you self-righteous asshole. New York voters will toss your ass to the curb next election.'

"I'm sure you all didn't take time away from your busy lives to hear me chatter," Rosenbaum continued with a laugh. "It makes me proud to introduce Judy Arthur, president of the Abortion Rights League of America."

Rosenbaum shook hands with Arthur as he stepped aside and she took the podium. She was a somewhat petite, intellectual-appearing woman in her early fifties. The crowd cheered loudly. Arthur took it all in.

"It's definitely an achievement when we can stand together today knowing that we've fought a hard fight for reproductive freedom in this country. But we must never become complacent as there is still a long, arduous road ahead."

The Tall Man steadied his nerves. In his right hand he clasped a homemade detonator. It was a rather simple device with one button which he kept his thumb inches away from.

"A century ago, women in the United States of America-and indeed most nations-were not even considered persons," Arthur continued. "There was no right to vote and no protection from domestic violence. And a woman especially had no control over her own womb."

Suddenly, the third lowest step exploded in one ear-shattering blast. A massive chunk of concrete flew through the air, striking the base of Arthur's skull. The impact sent the feminist flying over the podium, slamming her head against the pavement, killing her instantly.

Hunks of brick and concrete flew wildly in all directions. Within seconds, a furious stampede had been triggered. Chou tried to maintain her cool as she was squeezed in by a hundred women around her. A brick travelling at 100 mph slammed into her chest. The wind knocked completely out of her, Chou fell unconscious onto the ground.

Antonio, Robinson, Blaney and Hernandez navigated their way through the chaos. Without warning, a second blast erupted in the middle of the water fountain. Brick statues of angels were instantly transformed into missiles of death as thousands of pieces of stone were flung at the demonstrators. Washington and Schuster, who'd been sitting next to the garbage receptacle where the Tall Man had planted the larger chuck of C4, were blown to pieces.
Chapter 61

Antonio's entire body ached from being thrown onto the pavement. At first, his surroundings were a bit blurry. There was an incessant ringing in his ears. Hordes of terrified, panicked people rushed past him. Antonio slowly got to his feet. Chalky smoke rose from the debris left in the wake of the bombings. The air was thick with the sounds of wailing sirens. Antonio stumbled about a bit disoriented as an army of police and paramedics descended upon the scene. Hundreds of demonstrators were being treated, mainly for shrapnel wounds. Dozens more lay dead. All of a sudden Antonio's mind was overrun with terrifying flashbacks of 9/11 or the Boston Marathon Bombings which had occurred the previous April. Then he spotted Washington and Schuster's bodies, or more specifically, their torsos. All of their other body parts had been blown off.

"Jesus no!"

Antonio went to run over to his fallen comrades but was held back by Blaney, Robinson and Hernandez, whose neck had been penetrated by a small piece of flying debris.

"Tony! Tony man," a worked up Blaney fought with him. "They're dead. There's nothing you can do to help them."

"Oh my God where's Lisa!" Antonio was beyond frantic.

"We don't know," Robinson said.

*****

The Tall Man moved slowly through the wave of sheer pandemonium all around him. He found himself amongst a large group of fleeing demonstrators that rushed down Park Row and then onto Beekman Street. In his haste to get as far away from New York as possible, the righteous avenger had gotten a bit careless. He checked his pants and jacket pockets. Where was that detonator! There was no going back now. If that simple device was discovered, he'd be I.D'd for sure.

He veered off into a back alleyway shared by a block of businesses for the purpose of storing garbage cans and dumpsters. A manhole cover was directly beneath his feet. Although the SUV he'd rented was parked in a parking garage on the corner of Greenwich and Barclay, a mere fifteen minutes' away, there's no way he'd make it there. The Tall Man bent down. Lifted the cover. Carefully looked around for prying eyes. He crawled inside and began climbing down the ladder into the reeking darkness.
Chapter 62

Manhattan Island had taken on the appearance of a militarized police state. A completely locked-down control grid. Traffic came to a standstill as hundreds of NYPD officers and Department of Homeland Security officials set up checkpoints at all major intersections, bridges and arteries leading in and out of the island. Traumatized citizens looked on as the enormous fireproof tires of Mine Resistant Ambush Protected tactical armored vehicles (MRAPs) rolled through the streets. Stone-faced machine gunners sat in turrets. Dozens of DHS agents dressed in camouflage fatigues, battle helmets and combat boots walked alongside the tanks. Helicopters zipped through the sky.

The staff of area hospitals quickly found themselves overwhelmed by the influx of injured demonstrators-many critically. Among them was Lisa Chou, clinging to life after the brick had smashed her ribs, then causing them to pierce inches from her heart. Firefighters and emergency services personnel continued to sift through the wreckage. The bodies of the dead were zipped into cadaver bags.

Bob Wheeler had come a long way from the depressed Kentucky mining town he'd grown up in. The twenty-five-year FBI veteran had the build and vigor of a man who would take on a charging bull and probably win. His never back down approach to life and intimidating demeanor had been ingrained in him through generations of his family surviving in the mountains of eastern Kentucky.

Wheeler, the recipient of citations from both Presidents George Bush and Barack Obama, surveyed the staggering carnage with his partner, Special Agent Simon Barnaby. Born into old wealth in Danbury, Connecticut, the mildly geeky intellectual and philosopher held a Master's degree in forensic psychology. In many respects, he was the mirror opposite of his knuckle -dragging, good ole' boy counterpart. Both field agents belonged to the bureau's antiterrorism unit.

"It bothers me deeply," Wheeler lamented. "Everybody basically knew this was going to happen. "There should have been a lot whole hell of a lot better preparation."

"I share your frustrations buddy," Barnaby answered.

A fortyish FBI man with coke-bottle glasses ran over to where they were standing.

"Sir, you better come take a look at this."

Wheeler and Barnaby followed him over to a sidewalk along Park Row where a young woman dressed in an abortion rights shirt stood with two FBI agents. One of them held a plastic evidence bag containing the detonator.

"This is Anna Hershey," the agent, whose name was Billings, explained. "She vaguely caught a glimpse of who dropped this on the ground.

Barnaby scrutinized the handcrafted device.

"From what you remember, what did he look like?" Wheeler asked Hershey.

"He was tall. Well over six feet. Like I said. The guy just disappeared into the crowd."
Chapter 63

Close to a thousand NYPD officers, New York State Troopers, FBI, DHS and BATF agents scoured the terror-stricken streets of Manhattan in search of the mysterious "Abortion Avenger." Among them were Antonio, Mike Robinson, Manuel Hernandez and Bill Blaney. The task force members were reeling in total shock from the horrifying deaths of Matt Schuster and Jamal Washington. Antonio prayed for the repose of their souls as well as for the recovery of Lisa Chou.

The four detectives followed behind a platoon of Department of Homeland Security tactical officers who walked beside a slow-moving armored vehicle.

"It's doubtful that we'll find him anytime soon," Blaney said. He was utterly disheartened.

"Don't worry," Antonio replied. "Even the smartest criminals slip up. He'll make an error in judgment and then it will be all over for him."

*****

Upon being recovered, the crudely-built detonator was shipped immediately to the FBI crime lab in the city. Special Agent Stephen Marsden, a forensic analyst, examined the device for fingerprints, finding several sets. Marsden ran the fingerprints through a biometric reader, which in turn showed up on the FBI's crime identification database. He quickly found himself staring into the eyes of a stern-faced bearded Daniel Robert Cheeseman, 37, of San Diego, California.

Cheeseman had been convicted on July 29, 2009 of uttering death threats, felony assault and damage to property. The file also mentioned that Cheeseman was a former United States Navy SEAL.

"Well I'll be damned," Marsden said gleefully. "I just knew it had to be somebody with a high level of military training."

The feeling was a bit surreal. Marsden, who had spent much of his career as a federal agent cooped up inside of a lab, had uncovered the true identity of the "Abortion Avenger."
Chapter 64

Unbeknownst to Dan Cheeseman, some nerdy lab rat had given him away. As thousands of pairs of boots pounded the streets above, their quarry navigated a netherworld of seemingly unending tunnels. The flashlight's penetrating beam reflected off of the damp, slimy confines of the ancient sewer system. A stream of nauseatingly putrid sewage ran along the bottom of the massive corroded pipe. Butterflies fluttered nervously in his stomach as dozens of squeaking rats scurried in his wake. He'd finally accomplished his mission carrying out the work of the Lord. Inescapable thoughts of Jennifer and Rachel dogged the mass murderer. He would never see them again. What troubled Cheeseman the most was knowing that the federal government would take out its aggression on his wife and daughter. But in the end, they would all be together in Heaven. And then there was Antonio. His best friend may be working for the Enemy but nonetheless he thought highly of him.

In no time, the true identity of the man who nearly singlehandedly brought the city of New York to its knees circulated around the world. Those who'd known the family were beside themselves with shock. Father Vargas had just finished up a late-morning mass when a parishioner, who'd received a tweet, announced the startling news. Cheryl, Peter and Sarah were eating lunch in the food court of the local shopping mall when Dan Cheeseman's mug shot appeared all over the television sets in an electronics store.

*****

The unimaginable had just become reality for Antonio. His best friend, a patriotic American, loving husband and father, devout Catholic and prolife warrior had committed some of the most shocking crimes the city had ever seen. Nearly out of breath, Antonio and his fellow task force members stopped. He was becoming exhausted. So far there had been no sightings of Dan Cheeseman. At that moment, an NYPD cruiser drove up. While a patrolman stayed in the driver's seat, a captain with the insignia of the NYPD intelligence division and counterterrorism bureau on the collar of his white shirt got out.

"Detective First Grade Antonio Guardini?"

"That's correct."

"My name is Captain Mike McVey. The feds want to speak to you down at headquarters."

"What the hell is going on Captain?" Guaranteed, the minute Dan Cheeseman had been identified, it would have quickly become known that the two were good friends. Antonio looked over at his colleagues, who appeared perplexed by what was happening.

"I can't discuss it here Detective. But I need you to come with me right now."

"Alright, let's go," Antonio said unenthusiastically as he followed McVey to the car.
Chapter 65

Jennifer Cheeseman had had a busy morning at work. This fall, an additional seventy-two students were going to be starting at St. Joseph's, one of the largest enrollments in years. She was fully mindful of the late-morning bombing that had put the city into a state of panic but was blissfully unaware of who was responsible for it. She'd picked up Rachel from the supermarket. As Jennifer drove up Acacia Drive, she noticed the heavy police presence in the area. Her heart sank the moment she encountered dozens of city cops and agents from the Federal Bureau of Investigation and the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms on the lawn and coming in and out of their home.

"Mom, what's happening?" Rachel's heart was pounding.

"I don't know darling," Jennifer replied as she parked across the street.

Jennifer quickly got out. She ran towards the house but was routed by two FBI agents named Cole and Roberts.

"Are you Jennifer Cheeseman?" Roberts, a solidly-built, short-hair G-man, asked.

"I most certainly am! And what are you doing in my house?"

Cole held up the emergency search warrant that had been signed by a federal judge barely an hour earlier.

"Ma'am, we need you and your daughter to come with us immediately."

Jennifer was beside herself. She tore into the federal agents.

"I demand to know what is going on here!"

At that moment, Rachel got out of the car and ran to her mother.

"Mrs. Cheeseman," Cole said, "As we speak, your husband is in a world of trouble. Please do not make this situation any worse than it already is."

It was like a horrific nightmare that had become reality. Then it hit her like a four hundred-pound sledgehammer. Oh God no. Had he been living a double life the entire time?

"We'll explain everything to you down at Police Plaza," Roberts said. "Now let's go."

*****

Inside of the Cheeseman household, federal agents ripped open walls and searched every nook and cranny. They were on the hunt for firearms and any components Dan Cheeseman could have used to build bombs. Down in the basement, special agents Victor Hemmings and Chris Hamilton stood in front of a large worktable. They were busy sifting through a wall of tiny compartments which held an assortment of tools, nails, screws and just about anything one could expect to find in a home workshop. Hemmings' sharp eyes spotted an antenna and a small blasting cap hidden amongst some wrenches and screwdrivers.

"He definitely knows his way around bomb-making." The veteran BATF agents examined the blasting cap. "I shudder to think what you and I are going to find down here Chris."

In another section of the basement, Steve Rich and Larry Matthews, also of the BATF, had spent the past five minutes fiddling with the secured compartment underneath of the basement stairs.

After getting it opened up, they BATF agents shone flashlights inside of the dark, confined space. In there were several boxes, a couple of suitcases as well as a leather briefcase.

"Surely to God he's got something incriminating hidden inside there," Matthews stated.

Seeing the briefcase triggered a thought in Matthews' mind.

"Steve, if you were transporting a collapsible sniper rifle through New York as discreetly as possible, do you think it would make sense to use a briefcase?"

"It would make perfect sense," Matthews replied. "That's definitely how Cheeseman got into Shapiro Tower."

Matthews grabbed the briefcase. It was quite heavy, a telltale sign that there was something more than paper inside. The agents set the briefcase on the floor and unclipped it. Inside, packed neatly into silvery foam compartments, were the individual pieces of the Remington rifle.

"So this is the gun that psycho used to dispatch Abraham Rabinovitch and Allyson Shields," Rich said. He unclipped his cell phone and dialled a number. "This is Special Agent Steve Rich. I think we just found the collapsible rifle Dan Cheeseman used to murder those abortion doctors."
Chapter 66

It brought about images of a realm akin to Purgatory; a dark, putrescent, terrifying underworld in which one felt they were wandering forever. Cheeseman moved slowly forward. In his left hand and was the flashlight. His right hand gripped a .45 with a sound suppressor screwed onto the end of the barrel. Though he'd barely been down here half an hour, it seemed like an eternity. Reaching the parking garage on Barclay Street was his ticket out of Gotham. The weird sound of what appeared to be an older man singing his heart out reverberated throughout the cavernous chamber. Cheeseman gripped the pistol handle. His heart beat faster. Within two minutes he found himself at the intersection of four tunnels. Sitting in the large open area was a haggard homeless man. Atop his head was a chaotic mop of long, matted, possibly lice – ridden hair over a bearded, wrinkled face.

The man wore a weathered, somewhat smelly work shirt and pants. He had a garbage bag of clothing beside him. He seemed quite surprised to see a stranger in his territory.

"You look a bit out of your element in these parts." He noticed the .45. "I hope you don't plan on robbing me. As you can see, I've got nothing anyway."

He hadn't planned for this. The chances of a guy down on his luck ratting him out to the cops was slim.

"I need your shirt and pants," Cheeseman said in a demanding tone.

"You're going to rob an old man?"

"Of course not. But I will make it worth your while."

Cheeseman fished out a $100 bill from his pocket and handed it to the old man. He took the crisp Benjamin Franklin in his hand and smiled exuberantly. He quickly took off the work uniform, revealing a pair of long underwear underneath.

"I think it's a safe bet you ain't out for a leisurely afternoon stroll," the man said, subtly insinuating that he had a feeling why Cheeseman was in the sewer system. He was not aware of the bombing that had occurred and had no idea how dangerous this stranger truly was.

"I need to reach Barclay Street."

The vagrant pointed to the tunnel to the right hand side of him.

"Keep going in that direction. You'll eventually come to a ladder which leads to a manhole in an alleyway not far."

"Thank you," Cheeseman said before he disappeared into the darkened tunnel."
Chapter 67

More often than what was good for him, Mark Strickland, as evidenced by the sizable gut he sported, enjoyed fatty, greasy fare. The Iraq War veteran was savoring a mouth-watering bacon cheeseburger from Mack's Diner two doors down. All of a sudden the office door burst open. Strickland's adrenaline shot up full blast as a group of men dressed in full body armor armed with pistols, shotguns and MP5 submachine guns flooded into Reliable Security. They were followed by four FBI agents wearing dark blue jackets. A stern-looking G-man, Assistant Special-Agent-in-Charge Evan Morales, whose facial expression resembled that of a pit bull's, came right aboard Strickland.

"Where is he? Where the fuck is he?"

Strickland had no idea even what was going on.

"Who are you talking about?"

"Dan Cheeseman," Morales replied. "If he's hiding somewhere in here, you and everybody else who works for this company is in a world of shit."

"He isn't here. I swear to God."

Alarm bells went off inside of Strickland's head. Why had an FBI SWAT team just broken down the door? The so-called "Abortion Avenger" had just sparked the second-largest manhunt in the city's history.

"When did you last see him?" Morales inquired.

"Yesterday. He told me he had a bunch of running around to do today and would not be in the office," Strickland replied.

Morales turned to a fellow agent named McCormack.

"Pat, take your team and search every inch of the main level. We're going to check out the basement."

Strickland looked on tensely as half of the agents rummaged through the main level. Several more were posted on the sidewalk and street outside of Reliable Security. A small group followed Morales into the cool dark basement that had been off-limits to everyone but the Big Kahuna himself. Guns raised, they slowly descended the stairs. At first, there really was nothing to raise anybody's suspicions. Then an agent named Butler spotted the room in the back. Two of the agents tried the door.

"Bust it open," Morales ordered.

Using a small battering ram, agents Brickman and Potter busted the heavy door open. They FBI team then quickly spilled into the room that had been Dan Cheeseman's 'quiet space.' A disturbing piece of vital evidence stared each one of them in the eye. Hanging from a wall was a twisted collage featuring photographs and news clippings. They all were of Abraham Rabinovitch, Franklin Copeland III, Allison Shields and Natalie Breckenridge. Morales examined them closely. One was a New York Times article from 1970 about Rabinovitch's fight to establish an abortion clinic in downtown Manhattan. Another was dated April, 1993, and was about Allison Shields' all-girl high school swim team winning the state championships.

"Son of a bitch planned every detail," the veteran FBI agent said. "If he hadn't have dropped that detonator, we wouldn't even know who he is."

Brickman and Potter looked through a desk drawer. There was plenty of paper inside of it. Something caught Potter's eye. It appeared to be a listing of businesses. He looked at it closely.

"Sir, you better take a look at this," he said to Morales.

Morales took the paper. He felt a chill run down his spine as one after another were the names and addresses of each abortion clinic and doctor in the New York area.

"It's truly a miracle this demented piece of garbage didn't get a chance to wreak any more havoc. Because he sure as hell was planning to. Anyway, let's get wrapped up here gentlemen."

*****

Tears streaked Jennifer Cheeseman's rosy cheeks. Demoralized and downtrodden, she held her manicured fingers in her hair. The stress of the entire situation weighed down on her shoulders. It was all over. Their life. The future she knew she was destined to build with Dan. None of it would ever materialize now. She was worried sick about Rachel. The poor kid was being interrogated in a room across the hall by officials from the FBI and New York Child Protective Services. Jennifer averted her bothered eyes every time Kevin Roscoe glared upon her with his. She was alone with the Department of Homeland Security agent in the small interrogation room on the eighth floor of Police Plaza. The uncompromising Roscoe had the manner of a star crossexaminer who would not have been out of place in the Papal Inquisition of the Middle Ages. So far, Jennifer had been tight-lipped.

Although she knew full well that her husband had harbored angry, vengeful thoughts, the idea that he was a serial killer was too shocking to even comprehend.

"Mrs. Cheeseman, I'm not buying what you're trying so hard to sell me. You claim you had no knowledge of your husband's activities. But as you told me yourself, you found it quite strange over the past two months when he was gone for long periods at a time supposedly working all kinds of weird hours. Surely he could have been planning and carrying out his murders during those periods."

Jennifer took a deep sigh. She wouldn't answer him. This only served to infuriate Roscoe even more.

"Mrs. Cheeseman, you do understand the severity of this situation I hope. Aiding and abetting and failing to report a terrorist. And that's exactly what your husband is." Roscoe placed his hands on the cold metal table in front of Jennifer. "I could have you locked up right now under provisions of the Patriot Act. You want to join that maniac in prison while sweet little Rachel is sent to foster care? It'll happen unless you start providing me with answers."

Jennifer looked right at Roscoe.

"I've told you everything I know. I'm being honest with you."

"Mrs. Cheeseman, we have strong reason to believe that your husband murdered Natalie Breckenridge. During all the years you were married, did he ever mention her name?"

"He told me before, years ago, long before we met, that while living in Chicago, he was dating this girl named Natalie. She had aborted their child. It hurt him deeply and he suffered with post abortion syndrome for many years after that. But he never elaborated much beyond that."

"So he never told you her last name?"

Jennifer shook her head.

"Not at all."
Chapter 68

A few doors down, Antonio was receiving a similar grilling. He sat restlessly at a table. Standing around him were Darrell Keith, agents Wheeler and Barnaby, Commander Paul Riley of the U.S. Navy and Raymond Snider, a hack from Internal Affairs who took an almost perverse pride in wrecking the careers of good cops. Snider came aboard Antonio fiercely.

"Detective Guardini, I find it hard to believe that for somebody who spent so much time with Dan Cheeseman, you failed to notice any warning signs indicating that this maniac wasn't exactly the wholesome family man next door," Snider said.

Antonio looked up at the cocky, big-feeling bureaucrat who hadn't worked the streets in over a decade.

"Snider, is your hearing not working today? If I had in any way suspected that my friend had committed or was plotting to commit murder, I'd have brought him in. See, unlike you, I strive to be impartial and treat everybody equally."

Snider stepped up his offensive against the feisty detective.

"You're on thin ice here Guardini. What do you think is going to happen once the press gets wind of the fact that a New York Police detective-one tasked with catching this wacko-had been friends with him all along? Oh, it's going to get nasty alright. If I were you, I'd start looking at other career options."

Antonio sat back in his chair. This was his story and damned if he was going to change it to please this asshole.

Wheeler stepped forward and plopped a manila file folder on the metal table.

"Apparently you didn't know Dan Cheeseman as well as you thought you did."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Antonio asked.

"Take a look."

Antonio opened up the folder. Inside was a scowling mug shot of Dan Cheeseman, taken by the San Diego Police Department in 2009. Antonio looked at the FBI agents as if hungry for answers.

"Four years ago, during a rally outside of an abortion clinic, Cheeseman severally beat a male nurse who was entering this workplace. That's after he and a bunch of demonstrators smashed half the windows in the facility," Barnaby explained. "While posted at Coronado Naval base, the Cheeseman's belonged to a church that was, shall we say, on the fanatical end of the fundamentalist spectrum. The congregation was looney toons all the way. They actually believed it to be perfectly okay to use violence against abortion staff and destroy property."

What Barnaby was telling him seemed so weird. It made no sense at all.

"Special Agent Barnaby, my wife and I have known Dan, Jennifer and Rachel for at least six months now. They're died-in-the-wool Catholics, not Christian fundamentalists."

"They could have easily switched religions to better conceal their past," Barnaby said. "I can't say for certain."

"So, if I get this straight, after Dan was arrested, he was most likely hauled off to jail. But wouldn't that have put the screws to his military career?"

Wheeler turned to Riley. The veteran naval officer stood at 5'6 and was built like a Rottweiler. His chest was awash in medals.

"Detective Guardini, despite this incident having happened off base, Cheeseman was simply too valuable an asset to risk being tried and sentenced in a civilian court. If you have any idea about the missions this sailor has fought and survived in defense of this great nation, you'd be confounded," Riley explained. "Anyway, getting back to what I was saying, there was a fair amount of wrangling between the navy and the San Diego County District Attorney's Office, who was determined to make sure he paid for what he had done. We reached an agreement that would see Cheeseman, whose Pentagon file remains closed, serving out this sentence on base. The victim, who intended to sue, was given a settlement by the federal government."

"There's something else I need clarification on," Antonio stated. "Commander, to the best of your knowledge, did Dan Cheeseman legally change his name before or after he enlisted in the United States Navy?"

"I'm not sure what you're saying Detective."

"I've been doing a lot of digging. That woman who was murdered recently, Natalie Breckenridge, lived in Chicago in the early 1990s. She dated a young naval recruit named Donny Ziggler whose real name was Daniel Caruso. Now Caruso, who was a textbook shit disturber back in his hometown of Lynnville, Indiana, had been friends with Donny Ziggler, who died in a car accident in 1990. My theory is Daniel Caruso didn't want to be associated with his family's notorious name so he changed it. Does any of this make sense to you?"

Riley felt a bit put on the spot.

"That's some fine detective work I must say," Riley said. "But you're right. Daniel Caruso legally changed his name to Dan Cheeseman when he turned eighteen, months before graduating from high school. Now during the time Cheeseman was posted in Chicago, I have no idea what false name he used while off base. And you're right about another thing. Cheeseman didn't exactly grow up in an idyllic household."

"So, despite delving deep into Cheeseman's past and being fully aware that he was a loose cannon, the U.S. Navy still didn't care?" Antonio asked.

"That's a bit above your pay grade detective. The navy thoroughly checks the backgrounds of each and every American male who earns the privilege of serving as one of the elite. Yeah, we were aware Cheeseman had more than enough garbage kicking around the basement. But with the service that man has given this country-not to mention the repertoire of deadly skills that he possesses-it would have been pure folly to throw him to the curb. We take full responsibility for creating this perfect killing machine that has unfortunately gone rogue. Hopefully my federal counterparts here can put a stop to this monstrosity without any further bloodshed."

Chapter 69

As it turned out, the man was right. Dan Cheeseman stood at the bottom of the ladder which ran up to a manhole. Light shone through the manhole. He began climbing the rungs. His heart pounding at the thought of what lay above, Cheeseman lifted the cover a few inches and peeked up. He was in an alleyway. Wasting no time, he pulled himself out. An increasingly hostile grey sky brewed overhead. Rain had already begun to fall. After ensuring that no one had spotted him, the wily fugitive casually walked out onto Barclay Street. He continued walking up Barclay Street until he was at the entrance to the parking garage. A young man who appeared either a bit spaced out or simply disinterested in his job sat in a booth. He nodded as a customer, plainly dog tired after a long day's work, walked past him over to a 2010 Ford SUV.

Cheeseman opened the door and got inside. Before setting out this morning to commit his nefarious deed, he'd created a "bug-out" bag consisting of food, matches, first aid kit, a survival rifle as well as an AR-15 rifle and close to 200 rounds of ammunition. It was his intention to disappear into the Catskill Mountains. From there, he would plot an exit strategy to get out of the U.S. entirely. As Cheeseman drove out onto Barclay Street, he reflected on what he was doing and how much it was actually affecting his family. He prayed that Jennifer and Rachel would find it in their hearts to forgive him.

*****

Jennifer fidgeted in the uncomfortable metal folding chair. Kevin Roscoe had not let up on her one little bit. But what exactly was she supposed to say? She'd been truthful about everything she'd told him.

Cole and Roberts, the two FBI agents who'd escorted her and Rachel into Police Plaza stood sternly in the interrogation room. She'd been in here for nearly an hour and had not heard anything about what kind of state her daughter was in. She shuddered at what those cold-hearted federal agents could be saying to try to manipulate her and get her to lie.

"Mrs. Cheeseman," Roscoe continued picking away at her. "I know there is more you're not telling me. Now I can't prove that you had knowledge of your husband's crimes but I'm willing to betted money you know where he's planning on fleeing to."

"Sorry, but I don't. All I know is he's driving a 2010 Ford SUV. It's one he rented from a local used vehicle dealership yesterday afternoon. Told me he needed it for work. Who am I to question what he needs for his business?"

Roscoe still wasn't totally convinced that she was telling him everything she knew.

"I swear to God. That's all I can tell you."

"Alright then. Where did he rent this SUV from?"

"A place called Scott's Quality Used Vehicles. It's on Hemphill Street in Woodhaven. It's red. I'm not sure what the license plate number is."

Roscoe moved in closer to his subject of interrogation.

"I know all about Dan's little escapade in California. You stood behind him one hundred percent after he kicked the shit out of that nurse and screamed, let me quote his exact words; 'I'm going to blow this satanic factory to smithereens.' Considering how fanatical both of you are about being prolife, I find it tough to believe you're in no way shape or form involved."

Jennifer locked eyes with the overbearing DHS agent.

"Agent Roscoe, the last time I checked, having beliefs contrary to the politically correct dogma that has infested every faucet of our society is not a crime. Perhaps you've forgotten that such beliefs are protected under the First Amendment."

Roscoe backed away. He was starting to become convinced that this woman was telling the truth.

"I have nothing more to say. Please, just me and my daughter go," Jennifer pleaded.

Roscoe looked over at Cole and Roscoe.

"I don't know about you guys, but I see no point in pursuing this any further. But what we have to do right away is call that rental place and get the license plate of that SUV."

"Sure, no problem," Cole replied.
Chapter 70

The incessantly noisy, pollution-emitting late afternoon rush hour traffic crawled at a snail's pace. Cheeseman tapped the hard rubber of the steering wheel as he waited along with thousands of other vehicles on Canal Street. At the New York end of the Holland Tunnel a mass of state and federal law enforcement officials stood guard. State troopers and DHS agents, their faces a blank stare, grasped MP5 submachine guns as they briefly checked each vehicle before allowing them to pass through into New Jersey. Cheeseman calmed his rickety nerves. The key was to play the part with perfection and he'd home free.

The lineup of cars was being waved through at a fairly steady pace. Before he knew it, Cheeseman was being stopped by three beefy DHS agents. Their bodies and faces sweated under thick Kevlar body armor and black helmets. Cheeseman put down the driver's side window. A DHS agent in his early thirties looked inside of the SUV.

"How are you today, Sir?" the federal tactical officer displayed no emotion as he talked.

"I'm tired as Hell. Traffic is backed right up into midtown Manhattan."

The DHS agent got a whiff of the strong smell emanating from the dirty outfit the blue collar worker was wearing.

"What company do you work for Sir?"

"First Choice Sanitation. I commute in every day from Patterson."

"We're checking every vehicle that comes through. Hope to God we can catch that maniac."

"Yeah, saw a little clip of that on the news earlier today. Don't know what to tell you Officer. The world is going to Hell in a handbasket."

"I see it every day. Anyway, Sir, you're free to go. Have a safe drive home."

*****

The disturbing images of police and federal agents taking over the streets of New York and firefighters and search crews sifting through the carnage of the bombing etched themselves in Cheryl Guardini's mind. Since late morning, she'd been worried sick about Antonio. She'd left innumerable messages on his voicemail. Peter and Sarah walked into the living room where their mother sat edgily on the couch watching the supper hour news.

"Mom, have you heard anything from Dad yet? Sarah asked as she sat down beside her mother.

"Sorry kids, I haven't."

The young girl cast her eyes dejectedly. Cheryl put her arm around her.

"It's going to be okay sweetie. You know your father. He possesses the uncanny ability to survive pretty near anything."
Chapter 71

Antonio was dangerously close to blowing his top. He literally hated every hair on Raymond Snider's head. Harboring vengeful thoughts against another human being was wrong, but he couldn't resist. Riley had already left. Antonio hoped that Snider would soon follow suit.

"Detective Guardini, do you realize that your lack of vigilance cost the lives of nine people including two police officers-your fellow task force investigators? This bullshit you've been feeding me just isn't going to cut it."

Antonio glanced up at a clock on the wall. It was nearing five o'clock. It was anyone's guess as to how long he would be kept here. He gazed at Snider with daggers in his eyes as he rose from the table.

"Guardini, where do you think you're going?" Keith asked sternly.

"Even great men have to pee once in a while."

Feelings of anger and worry plagued Antonio as he stepped out into the hallway. Anger at the NYPD brass who he felt was allowing him to be hung out to dry. Worry about the insane amount of power wielded by the suits from Internal Affairs and their political masters. If the buggers wanted to, they could make his life a living hell. He wanted desperately to check Cheryl's messages but there was simply no time for that right now. Antonio rounded a corner. He was shocked to find Jennifer and Rachel Cheeseman standing with two men who assumed were federal agents. As soon as Jennifer saw Antonio, she ran up to him.

"Antonio! Antonio, I'm so sorry about what happened. You have to believe me. Rachel and I had no part in Dan's actions."

Antonio sighed tiredly.

"At this point Jennifer, I really don't know what the hell to believe anymore. Have a good life because I sure as hell won't be."

Antonio continued walking down the corridor. Jennifer stood there out of breath, quite put off by his treatment of her. Antonio walked into a lounge. Robinson, Blaney and Hernandez sat around looking worn-down. Like Antonio, they were infuriated at the deaths of their comrades. Antonio sensed that they were upset at him as well. He avoided eye contact with them as he walked by. Then, without warning, Robinson stepped out in front of Antonio. By the angry look in his eye, it was apparent he was raring for a fight.

"You have a lot of nerve showing your traitorous face among our close circle. To be completely honest with you Guardini, I never trusted you from day one. In my books, you're nothing but a fucking turncoat."

This day was about to get a whole lot longer. Antonio felt his adrenaline rise as the big ogre slammed him.

"Matt and Jamal are dead and Lisa is fighting for her life because of your stupidity."

"Robinson, get out of my way," Antonio said in a quiet though threatening tone.

Robinson smiled cockily as he prodded Antonio further.

"You think you're something, don't you Guardini? He pushed Antonio back. "I'd like to see how tough you truly are. Better yet, prove just how much of a pussy you are."

Antonio took a deep breath before hauling off and punching Robinson. Robinson stumbled to the floor, his jaw throbbing intensely. Knowing full well not to infuriate Antonio any more than he already was, Hernandez and Blaney gave him plenty of space. Antonio kept his fists up as Robinson slowly got to his feet. He held a hand over his jaw.

"Oh come on wop. Is that all you got?"

All of a sudden the bear of a man charged at Antonio, knocking him to the floor. Within seconds, the men were rolling around on the floor trading blows. Keith, Wheeler, Barnaby and Snider, along with two uniformed officers, rushed into the room. The officers jumped in and broke up the melee.

"What in the name of God is going on here!?" Keith screamed as the detectives were separated. "There's a psycho on the loose and you clowns are fighting amongst yourselves."

Antonio and Robinson stood half at attention. Antonio's right eye was black. Robinson's lip was bleeding.

"You just can't leave things well enough alone, can you Robinson?" Keith knew he had started the fight.

"But Sir, I..."

"You've been at Guardini from day one. Now get out of my sight." He turned to Hernandez and Blaney. "You guys might as well call it a night. Antonio, let's get back to the room. I believe Mr. Snider has some more questions before you're cleared to go."
Chapter 72

He considered himself blessed to have gotten as far as he did without being captured or shot. Heavy rain hailed against the windshield. The lights of endless vehicles lined up ahead of him reflected against the wet concrete. It seemed almost a probability that a checkpoint awaited all those who drove south on Interstate 78. Cheeseman had reached the outskirts of New Jersey's Gateway region, a labyrinth encompassing the cities of Newark, Elizabeth, Jersey City, Patterson and Woodridge Township. The busy highway ran through an area of scattered subdivisions interspersed with an abundance of open fields and patches of forest.

Gradually, the traffic become slower and slower. Cheeseman felt himself becoming panicky and edgy, two emotions rarely experienced by the tough ex-SEAL. A quarter mile up the road, an entire detachment of New Jersey state troopers dressed in khaki-colored raingear stood in lines on both sides of the double highway. They stopped cars and spoke to each driver before sending them on their merry way.

Cheeseman's heart beat faster. He had found himself smack dab in the midst of a precarious position which seemed to have no way out. Lining both sides of this stretch of the highway was forest. Beyond that lay a great unknown territory-unknown, at least, to him. Helicopters with infrared capabilities would be in the sky in minutes once it became established that the highly-dangerous killer flew the coop. Though the rain was nearly falling in buckets, he would use the inclement weather to his advantage. At last he decided to make his move.

Curious travelers sitting in the car behind him watched as Cheeseman quickly got out of the Ford Explorer. He hit a button on the van keys, popped open the trunk and swiped his bug-out bag. A New Jersey state trooper, named Peterson, who was taking a break in his cruiser, spotted what appeared to be a man running into the woods.

"What the---

Peterson hopped out and ran over to a colleague in his late fifties named Staff Sergeant Hollis.

"Staff Sergeant, you see that." Peterson was quite excited.

"See what Peterson?"

"A guy just ran out of a red SUV and fled into the woods."

Hollis shook his head in disbelief.

"We better check it out to see what's going on there." Hollis looked over at a tall, lanky trooper named Larsen. "Larsen, you and Peterson go check out that SUV down there. Apparently somebody abandoned it after running onto the woods."

Peterson and Larsen walked past the legions of impatient drivers to the SUV. The driver's side door was half-open. The officers looked inside. It was like new. Larsen walked around the looked at the license plate; New York Empire State FBY 2093. He looked over to where Cheeseman had made his escape.

"I'm just going to run this."

Larsen quickly went to his cruiser. He typed the license plate number into the onboard computer system. An alert quickly came up on the screen notifying all law enforcement personnel of the description of the vehicle Dan Cheeseman was driving. Holy shit! Larsen got out and ran over to Hollis.

"That SUV is what Dan Cheeseman used as a getaway vehicle. And right now that SOB is running loose in the dairy country of northeastern New Jersey."
Chapter 73

With the threat of a full Internal Affairs investigation hanging over his head, Antonio was wracked with trepidation about the future. He had just over twenty years on the force. Ten more and he would be eligible for a full pension. Raymond Snider had made it perfectly clear that if the investigation revealed Antonio had even the slightest knowledge of Dan Cheeseman's activities, he would be automatically canned and possibly face criminal charges. Suddenly Barnaby's cell phone rang. He opened it up and spoke.

"This is Simon Barnaby." His face exploded in astonishment. "Get out of town. Where?" All eyes in the room looked upon the nerdy FBI agent as he waited for an answer. "We'll be there ASAP."

Barnaby put his phone away.

"Cheeseman ended up in a checkpoint on Interstate 78. He just left the van and fled on foot into the woods."

This was music to Wheeler's ears.

"Who was on the phone?"

"Reisman. Two units of Hostage Rescue Team operators are flying up from Quantico as we speak."

"I knew he'd screw up. They all do," Wheeler said gleefully.

Keith glanced over at Wheeler. There was a yearning question in his eyes.

"Agent Wheeler, I would like to know how much further you intend to pursue this matter with Detective Guardini."

"Inspector, as far as I'm concerned, he's off the hook. What the NYPD's Internal Affairs division decides to do is beyond our control." There had been a zany idea swimming around inside of Wheeler's head for the past few hours. "There's something I have to ask you Inspector."

"You can ask me whatever you like."

"It's no secret that Dan Cheeseman is one dangerous individual. We're going after him with everything we've got but lo and behold, if he gets desperate enough, that piece of shit will fire upon us. I know you probably won't approve of this. I don't expect you can give permission anyway, but we we're hoping Detective Guardini can come along with us and possibly talk this psycho-who was his best friend-into surrendering."

Before Keith could even give his reply, Snider burst out.

"I wholeheartedly object! Detective Guardini is going to be kept on a really short leash from this moment until our entire investigation has been completed. He is being taken off of regular duties. He certainly can't go on a wild goose chase in another state."

Like much of the NYPD rank-and-file, Keith had little use for Raymond Snider.

"Snider, I think you've caused enough damage here today. Why don't you go home to your charming domestic existence?"

Snider stood there feeling affronted.

"If that's how you want to play this." Snider packed up his briefcase and went to the door before turning around. "Detective Guardini, you and I have not seen the last of each other."

Snider left the interrogation room. Keith turned back to the FBI agents.

"It's a bit spur of the moment gentlemen," he said. "I don't think you could ever talk Cheeseman into surrendering no matter how hard you try. Hell, even on the slight chance that he does give himself up, he's facing a certain life sentence. He actually believes that God is commanding him to do what he's been doing. And I'm not even sure if Detective Guardini would be keen on such a venture anyway."

"So is that a yes or a no?" Wheeler was getting impatient. Time was of the essence here and they had precious little of it.

"I don't have any problem with it. I'm sure I'll have some explaining to do with my superiors though."

While Keith and the G Men talked back and forth, Antonio checked the messages on his cell phone. Cheryl had called six times! He'd be in the doghouse if he didn't call her back soon.

"Detective Guardini," Wheeler said. "Are you ready?"

Antonio got up from the table.

"I just have to give my wife a quick call."

"You can do that on the way out there," Wheeler said as he gripped the doorknob. "We have to get out of here pronto."
Chapter 74

Driving rains had turned the soil of the fields into a thick, muddy sludge. Cheeseman moved as quickly as he could through an open area where there was a risk of being spotted by aircraft. His clothing as well as the bug-out bag he had slung over his shoulder were completely soaked. So far, he'd used the advantage of the weather to get ahead of his pursuers. He'd already passed through a thickly vegetated swamp. Once Cheeseman reached the edge of the field, he ran into a section of thick forest. The drone of a searching helicopter was audible but not visible. The ex-SEAL did not feel any remorse for what he'd done, as his actions were justified in bringing awareness to the silent holocaust that takes the lives of over one million American citizens each year. Cheeseman knew he would be vilified by the press and hated by much of society in general, but he would also gain tremendous support.

*****

The black Sedan driven by special agents Wheeler and Barnaby drove into the parking lot of the large New Jersey State Police barracks on the outskirts of Elizabeth. During the relatively short trip across the Hudson River, Antonio had gotten to know the two men quite well. Wheeler, who had a house in northern Virginia, was married with two grown children. Barnaby, on the other hand, was single and searching for Ms. Right. Overall, they came across as good men who were as passionate about their jobs as he was.

They got out of the car and walked into the station. Their next stop after this was the FBI Mobile Command Post set up further down the interstate. Standing at the front counter to greet them was an older New Jersey state trooper who wore the chevrons of a first sergeant.

"Good evening Sergeant," Wheeler said. "Is Major Sharatt in?"

"Yes Sir, I'll fetch him for you."

Suddenly Antonio's phone rang. How could he have forgotten to call Cheryl? He opened up his phone and talked into it.

"Hi Cheryl."

"Where are you? I'm worried sick."

"You're not going to like this but I've been sent out on a special assignment for this evening."

"What kind of an assignment?"

"I'm working with the FBI to try and bring Dan in alive. They asked me and I couldn't say no."

Cheryl, already wracked with worry, was at the point of freaking out.

"Antonio, are you trying to get yourself killed! Your children need you home. I need you here. Not out gallivanting around looking for some animal who is permanently out of our lives."

Cheryl sat on the living room couch gobsmacked as to how her husband could even think of doing something so dangerous. As Antonio put his phone away, a somewhat tall, stocky man with grey hair and a grandfatherly appearance walked out from behind the counter and shook hands with Wheeler and Barnaby. Josh Sharatt wore the gold leaf of a major on his neatly pressed dress shirt.

"Great to see you again gentlemen. With a storm coming up the coast and over four hundred cops hunting him down, it'll only be a few hours before this scumbag is put out of commission."

"I wish I shared your confidence Josh," Wheeler said. "Cheeseman is clever-and he's deadly. He has a never-say-die mindset and has no scruples whatsoever about killing. The only way this is ending is by putting a bullet between his eyes."

Sharatt looked at Antonio and then back to the FBI agents.

"Is he with the New York office?"

"Josh, this here is Antonio Guardini. He's actually a homicide detective with the NYPD. I'm not going to get into the complexities of the story behind all of this, but Antonio is coming along with us to see if we can end this peacefully and get Cheeseman to surrender."

Sharatt and Antonio shook hands.

"Joshua Sharatt. You must've worked on the mayor's task force."

"I'm not sure how you guess that one Major, but you're one hundred percent correct."

Wheeler turned to Barnaby and then to Antonio.

"I guess we better get going then guys."
Chapter 75

Dozens of search teams decked out in raingear tried to keep their weapons from being rendered unworkable by the rain. They trudged through the endless patchwork of swampland, forest and fields. Due to the heavy downpour, tracking dogs could not pick up the scent of their quarry. One team consisting of a dozen New Jersey state troopers had stumbled upon a pair of deep footprints. The state troopers followed the footprints for a good quarter of a mile before they abruptly ended.

Although his pursuers were not yet in sight, Cheeseman felt the heavy police dragnet closing in around him. He stalked along the edge of an emerald-green, expansive pastureland. Over the past few hours the air temperature had dropped dramatically. He felt miserable; literally chilled to the bone. By now, the canvas bag had become soaked and bore down on his body. Continuing to take it along would only slow him down. Cheeseman tossed the survival pack into the woods. All of a sudden a New Jersey State Police helicopter appeared in the sky overhead. It was loud and seemed to be probing every inch of the ground below.

"Dammit!" Cheeseman said to himself.

Cheeseman ducked into the woods along the field. He made sure he was far out of sight of the helicopter pilot before running as fast as he could.

*****

Wheeler, Barnaby and Antonio had made a quick stop at one of the command posts the FBI had set up in the area. After getting raingear, they set off into the dark evening with a half dozen or so members of the FBI's Hostage Response Team. Antonio's back was soaked in sweat. The tired NYPD detective did his best to keep up with the heavily-armed federal agents as they moved quickly through an orderly grove of pine trees that appeared to have been planted only a few decades earlier. The team had walked through several farm properties. Though close to home, it was a part of the country Antonio had only seen a few times in his life. He studied the well-constructed barns of various colors and sizes. It was safe to assume that Dan Cheeseman could be hiding out in any one of them.

*****

Cheeseman shivered inside of the lean-to he'd found in the middle of this thick forest. Though not fancy, the lean-to, similar to the ones he'd learned to build as a boy scout years ago, was dry. Through the trees he spotted a light shining. He left the shelter to get a closer look. Across a field, no more than fifty yards away, was an old red-and-white farmhouse and a large dairy farming operation.

The fugitive knew he'd be taking a significant risk venturing over to it but he was-for all intents and purposes-a dead man anyway. Cheeseman breathed slowly then started trekking out into the open field. He had to devise a way to sneak up on that old farmhouse without being spotted.
Chapter 76

From the safety of their kitchen, Warren and Evelyn Grayson watched as wild streaks of lightning dashed across the horizon at the edge of their fields. Thunder boomed loudly, almost shaking the rafters of the house. Warren Grayson was one of countless dairy farmers who ran a large operation in the northeastern section of the Garden State. Stronger and with a much higher vitality than most men in their 70s, Warren still worked six days a week as he'd done for over fifty years. The dairy producer and his wife had raised three sons in the 120-year-old house in Essex County. All of a sudden Warren jumped at hearing what sounded like something had fallen off of the deck.

"I wonder what that was," Evelyn said as she sipped her tea.

The aging farmer got up and went into a closet in the porch. He took out a Winchester lever-action rifle and loaded six bullets into it.

"That psycho is rumored to be hiding right around this area," Warren stated as he went into the kitchen.

"Warren, where are you going?" Evelyn was quite concerned as she got up from the table.

"I'll be okay. Just be ready to call the sheriff's office."

Warren walked out onto the deck. He held the rifle at chest-level. Then he heard a clicking sound. His entire body froze.

"Don't move a muscle old man," a low, chilling voice ordered. "Set the rifle on the deck and slowly turn around.

Warren did as he was told. Slowly, he turned around. Dan Cheeseman stood a few feet away pointing a .45 at his head. Cheeseman quickly scooped up the Winchester.

"Warren, what's happening?" Evelyn called out from the kitchen.

Cheeseman put the .45 in his pants and leveled the rifle at Warren.

"Believe me. I have no intention of hurting anybody tonight. But please, for the safety of you and your wife, do exactly as I say or there will be deadly consequences."

Warren, pale and worked up, led Cheeseman into the kitchen. Evelyn nearly went numb with shock.

"Oh my God Warren! Please, don't harm us! We have money, jewelry...take whatever you want."

"None of that is of no use to me right now," Cheeseman said. "I assume you know who I am."

"What do you want with us?" Warren asked.

"I'm hungry and I'm wet. I need a place to lay low for a while." Cheeseman pointed the rifle at them. "Now let's take a little walk into the living room."
Chapter 77

Antonio and his two FBI cohorts had branched off from the rest of the group in an effort to cover more ground, though dozens of federal agents and state police were close by. They moved through a stretch of forest, coming upon the lean-to Cheeseman had taken shelter in earlier.

"Looks like some kids were camping out here," Barnaby noted.

Antonio noticed a pair of deeply-engraved footprints that ran from the edge of the woods across a field towards a farmhouse.

"Holy shit!"

"What?" Wheeler asked as he turned to Antonio.

"Take a look at those. See where they lead?"

The FBI agents spotted the trail.

"He's looking for a place to ride out the storm," Wheeler stated. "And if anybody happens to be inside, their lives are in jeopardy." Wheeler looked at his cell phone. "Figures there'd be no cell phone service out here in Jerkwater U.S.A. Fuck it, let's go in and nab him."

"We can't just go in by ourselves Bob," Barnaby said.

"I'd like to know what bright ideas you have because I can't think of anything else to do. Antonio, we need you to stay here. Watch our backs when we cross that field. I realize you have lots of experience but this is a federal matter."

"It's your party, I'm merely a guest," Antonio replied.

Wheeler nodded to his partner. They took off across the sodden field, Wheeler brandishing a Remington 870 12-gauge shotgun, Barnaby gripping the handle of a Beretta. They slowly approached the farm. As Wheeler held the shotgun at action, Barnaby knocked on the front door of the farmhouse.

"This is the FBI. We need whoever is inside to please come out."

No response except an eerie quietness. Something just didn't feel right. Barnaby knocked again.

"This is the FBI. Please open up."

Barnaby checked the door handle. It was open. Guns aimed, the federal agents slowly entered the house. They immediately found themselves in an immaculately clean kitchen.

"Hello, is anybody home?" Wheeler asked.

There was no indication that anything nefarious had happened. It wasn't uncommon for folks who lived in the country to keep their doors open. At the same time, the FBI agents felt an uncomfortable presence in the house. While they stepped lightly through the kitchen, Cheeseman had his back against a living room wall. The terrified elderly couple sat on a couch. Cheeseman held a finger to his mouth in a threatening gesture for his hostages to not even do so much as breathe. His finger touched the Winchester's trigger guard.

"We'd better check out the rest of the house," Wheeler said.

At that moment, Cheeseman appeared from behind the wall. Before the agents could even react, the fugitive fired several shots, hitting Wheeler in the torso, upper chest and head. The force of the bullet caused him to fly against a kitchen wall. Barnaby returned fire. Cheeseman ducked for cover behind the wall.

"Come on out Cheeseman!" Barnaby yelled. "You're done. You've got nowhere else to go." He then spotted Warren and Evelyn Greyson.

"Oh my God---

With lightning quickness, Cheeseman shot out from behind the wall and hit Barnaby directly between the eyes. The young FBI agent fell backwards over the kitchen table. Evelyn screamed hysterically. Cheeseman swung around and pointed the rifle at her.

"Quit that screaming or you're going to be really sorry."

Warren held his wife close to him.

"Mister, come on. You don't have to do this."

Cheeseman sat down on the other couch in the living room across from the Graysons.

"What are you going to do?" Warren asked, petrified for the safety of he and his wife.

"As I said earlier, I really don't want to hurt any innocents."

"What about those---

Cheeseman rose angrily, swiftly cutting the old man off.

"Those were not innocent people. They were agents of the ZOG, minions of Satan."
Chapter 78

The entire time, Antonio had been half-standing in the lean-to. As soon as he witnessed bright flashes through the house windows, the seasoned NYPD detective ran out into the field. The crashing thunder would have drowned out any gunshots. All the same, owing to the simple fact that his federal counterparts had not yet returned, it was obvious something bad was transpiring. He stood in the field gripping the .45 and saying a prayer.

"Lord Jesus, through the immaculate heart of Mary, I beseech you to guide and protect me through what I must do."

Antonio blessed himself before proceeding towards the house. He hadn't fully come to the realization that the close relationship he'd had with his best friend was ending like this. It all seemed too surreal. The barrel of the .45 stayed in tow as its handler stepped onto the deck. He moved slowly through the front door. Immediately, Antonio was knocked for six at the sight of the two FBI agents lying on the kitchen floor, their black and white dress suits stained in blood.

"Please...help us."

Antonio jumped at hearing the elderly voice. The .45 aimed forward, he rushed into the living room. Sitting on the couch trembling and terrified for their lives was a couple who appeared to be in their mid to late seventies. Antonio heard somebody standing behind him. He wheeled around, coming face-to-face with Dan Cheeseman.

"Well look what the cat dragged in. Nice of you to drop by Antonio. I was just having a visit with these kind folks."

"I'm bringing you in Dan. It's over."

"I should have assumed you'd turn against me. Because in reality, despite being my friend, at the end of the day you're just another foot soldier for the New World Order."

"You're one sick individual."

"You're not so clean yourself there Antonio. Admit it. You, Cheryl, Jennifer, probably half the people in New York secretly loved what I had to do to purge those evil elements from our society."

Antonio kept his eyes focused through the .45's sights. He wouldn't dare avert his attention from Dan Cheeseman even for a second.

"You know Dan. Just when I was sure you couldn't be any more depraved, you invade this innocent couple's home and hold them against their will. Why? They've done nothing to you."

"It's called survival Antonio. You do what it takes to stay alive. Now since you don't have a chance in Hell, no pun intended, please make everything easier for yourself and hand over that pistol."

"I'll blow your brains out Dan," he warned in a threatening tone.

"You were always an obstinate son of a bitch," Cheeseman replied. He aimed his gun at the Grayson's. "Then I guess I'll just have to blow their brains out."

"Fine." Antonio relented. "Here you are."

Antonio passed the .45 to his adversary handle first. As Cheeseman received it, Antonio daringly attacked the former Special Ops warrior with everything he had. Cheeseman immediately started resisting. Antonio slammed a knee into his groin and drove an elbow into his throat. Cheeseman collapsed to the floor. His adrenaline going a mile-a-minute, Antonio prepared himself mentally for what would be the fight of his life. Raging fury in his eyes, Cheeseman lept to his feet.

He threw a barrage of punches and kicks at Antonio. The veteran detective, who'd been in his share of scraps, did his best to block and deflect.

"Antonio, I loved you as a brother but you leave me no choice. I just hope you've made your peace with God."

"I know all about your past with Natalie Breckenridge." Antonio still had plenty of fight left in him. "How could you so callously slaughter someone like that?"

"An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. A life for a life. Don't you read your Bible?" Cheeseman circled around him. "That evil witch denied me of my right to fatherhood. And she will burn in Hell for all eternity, just like the others. There's not one day that goes by that I don't think about that child, how it would have grown up, the happiness it will never get to experience."

"I also know your real name is Daniel Caruso and that you stole your dead schoolmate's identity."

Bringing up things he wanted to keep in the past caused Cheeseman's body to contort in rage. He punched Antonio with such overwhelming force that he fell onto the floor. Antonio fought viciously as his opponent-a good forty pounds heavier-mounted him and starting delivering punches to his face.

"Get out of here!" Antonio yelled to the Grayson's. "Call the police."

"I don't think you're a Christian at all Antonio. You side with the devil."

Antonio's body ached. His desperate, searching eyes darted all around the living room. Disoriented, he spotted a fired glass ball on top of a coffee table. With as much force as he could muster, Antonio slammed the glass ball into Cheeseman's forehead. Cheeseman fell off of Antonio, blood flowing freely from the nasty gash. Seizing the moment, Antonio rolled out from underneath the colossus. He scooped up his .45.

"You're not leaving here alive!" Cheeseman screamed.

Antonio focused though the pistol sight dead centre mass on Cheeseman's chest area. This was truly the point of no return.

"Dan, this is your last chance."

Cheeseman unsheathed the Bowie knife hanging from his belt. He brandished it threateningly.

"You don't have it in you."

'Lord, please forgive me for what I am about to do,' Antonio said to himself.

As Cheeseman proceeded forward with the knife raised, Antonio fired two shots into his solar plexus area. He froze. Dropped the knife onto the floor. The two men looked into each other's eyes for a few seconds before Cheeseman collapsed onto the floor.

By now, the Graysons were standing. The couple was shaken but appeared relieved.

"Are you alright?" Antonio asked them.

"I think so," Warren replied with a shortness of breath.

Antonio heard a noisy chorus of sirens moving up the driveway.
Chapter 79

Antonio stumbled outside just as legions of law enforcement officers were getting out of their vehicles and spreading themselves around the property. Paramedics rushed to assist the Graysons as they walked out into the yard. By now, the rain had subsided. Streaks of sunlight were trying hard to break through the cloudy evening sky. FBI agents quickly moved past Antonio into the Grayson homestead. Gary Heinrich, special-agent-in-charge of the operation, got out of a black sedan. The veteran FBI man was beginning to show his age. Most likely he was counting down the months until retirement. Heinrich watched as a team of agents and paramedics took Dan Cheeseman's lifeless body out of the house. He walked over to Antonio.

"Detective Guardini. My name is Special Agent in Charge Gary Heinrich."

"Where've you been the entire time?"

"I've been around. I have to tell you detective. You have some balls doing what you did."

"I'm going to be honest with you Mr. Heinrich. Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined being forced to do something like this."

"Life is full of surprises. Anyway, you can get a lift back into the city with me."

Heinrich moved on to talk with a group of agents who were inside of the house. Antonio looked up at the sky.

"Thank you God," he said in gratitude. "I am grateful for you keeping me alive through all of this."

Antonio's cell phone rang.

"Well I'll be damned. You can get cell phone reception out here." Antonio put the phone to his ear. "It's so great to hear your voice again honey."

"I honestly wasn't sure if you were going to survive," Cheryl said. "Once more, God has proven me wrong. Now, is this finally over?"

"You bet it is."

"When are you coming home?"

"I'll probably get home within the hour. The Feds are going to deliver me right to our doorstep."

"I better get started cooking then. We've all been really uptight here Tony wondering if you were going to make it. We'll be having a late supper tonight."

"Sounds good. I just want to tell you again that I love you from the bottom of my heart. Now we can finally get back to having a normal family life again."

The End

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The world is in a state of turmoil. The U.S. economy crashes preceding the outbreak of World War III. Forged through the ashes of chaos and anarchy is an authoritarian North American regime.

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