Iron Triangle: A Jackson Pike Novel (Book One of The Iron Triangle Series) (11 page)

8:10 PM- Saturday,
September 9
^th

Sumner, VA

Julie Page sat up much too quickly and tossed the covers
from her body. She
propped
her head and shoulders
against her mahogany bed frame, a light sheen of sweat covering her body as she
struggled to control her breathing. Her deep brown hair was a tousled
mess,
her hastily applied makeup from this morning was still
smudged and smeared across her face, betraying the tears she had shed for her
friend and coworker Leigh Adams.

Her long brown hair rested against the bed frame as she blew
a heavy breath from her lungs and tried in vain to get her fear and anxiety
under control.

When she had arrived home from the police station, Julie
hadn't known what to do.

There was no one that she wanted to call.

So Julie lived with the knowledge of her friend's murder
alone for the evening, her mind racing as she wished for sleep. She glanced at
the clock. It was 8:15 PM. No wonder she couldn't fall asleep.

Julie had no more tears left to shed.

When she'd returned home from the police station, she'd
played her voice messages. Her boss at the coffee shop had given her the rest
of the week off.

Julie was left alone with her own thoughts, and a large
bottle of red wine.

Even the wine hadn't helped tonight.

It was early, too early for sleep. But Julie could think of
nothing else to do under the circumstances, so she'd crawled into bed fully clothed
at around 7:15 PM, a liter and a half of merlot clutched in her trembling
hands.

That had been an hour ago. Still, Julie found herself poring
over what details she knew in her head, reviewing the day's interactions with
the police, and thinking about Leigh and Clementine.

She shuddered and pressed her soft hands to her sweating
face as a soft sob escaped her lips. She still couldn't believe it.

Leigh and Clementine were dead. They had been murdered by
Jackson in the middle of the night.

Of that, the police seemed sure.

Julie pressed her head and neck against the dark stained
wood of her bed frame and stared towards the ceiling at the shadows that danced
playfully on the off white surface. She
exhaled,
her
head spinning from the alcohol. She reviewed the circumstances in her head.

The evidence all pointed to Jackson.

He was an alcoholic who was known to abuse prescription
drugs. He hadn't been able to hold a job in years.

The police had found the same type of ammunition used in the
double homicide at Jackson's home.

And he was the only person with any possible motive. Leigh
had recently taken away his visitation rights to Clementine.

Still, it just didn't make sense.

Jackson had loved Leigh and
Clementine,
he'd only ever hated himself.

Julie blinked back tears behind heavy eyelids as she reached
towards the darkened nightstand for the large bottle of merlot.

She thought back to the times she'd interacted with Jackson.
Though rough around the edges, he'd loved his family. That fact was never in
doubt.

A tear rolled down Julie's face. She couldn't believe
Jackson could have murdered Leigh and Clementine.

But the police seemed sure.

Julie wiped the tear that rolled slowly down her cheek from
her face and sighed heavily. Her mind
raced,
her head
spinning as she took a long drink from the half empty bottle of merlot she
clutched desperately in her soft hands.

She reached across the soft sheets of her bed and her hand
found the remote control of the small color television which sat on the other
side of her daintily furnished room. Maybe the noise would help her to fall
asleep, she mused, propping herself up higher on her soft pillows.

Her delicate fingers pressed down on the right corner button
of the remote control with only a passing interest. CNN headline news flashed
on in an instant. She hoped the white noise would help her get to sleep. If
nothing else, perhaps the soft murmur of punditry might remove the frightening
thoughts from her mind.

Julie's head continued to pound behind her temples, likely a
combination of stress and the three quarter empty bottle of merlot that she held
between her knees as she stared at the television.

She eyed the deep red liquid that cast a dark shadow
illuminated in the flickering twilight of the small color television.

Her soft trembling hands clutched the bottle tight as she
brought it to her mouth.

She downed the last of the bottle. As she finished the last
few swallows, her head began to spin worse, only aching more. Definitely a
combination of stress and alcohol, she thought as she set the bottle on the
nightstand and laid down, her head resting on her soft feather pillow once
again.

The television continued to flicker, casting dancing shadows
through her bedchamber.

She rolled her head to the side and fixed her eyes on the television.

As always recently, it seemed that the talking heads were
discussing the upcoming November elections. On television stood
a previously recorded Vice President Colgan answering questions
in front of a White House podium as Julie drifted into an uneasy sleep.

The Vice President's voice was at once soothing and
haunting, the deep melancholy just the prescription for Julie's insomnia.

"My opponent advocates an immediate withdrawal from
Afghanistan," began the Presidential candidate as Julie's eyes fluttered
closed. "We as a nation, nay, we as an international community, cannot
allow Afghanistan to fall into the control of the Taliban. This is especially
important as we close in on Monday, the anniversary of the September 11
^th
attacks."

8:23 PM- Saturday,
September 9
^th

Norfolk, VA

Jackson's steps made no sound as he crept down the softly carpeted
hallway which led to the disembodied voices of the murderers who had helped to
take the lives of Leigh and Clementine.

Even Jackson's breath was still, like a sniper with his
target in sight.

The conference room was ten yards down the hallway. To
Jackson the distance felt like an eternity. His senses were heightened. His
hearing was sharper, his eyesight better as adrenaline surged through his body
and he stepped down the dark, wood paneled hallway.

Jackson's back was against the dark wood of the hallway wall
as he approached the conference room.

He was still vaguely aware of the soft echoes of a phone
call which continued in the background of his foggy mind. Jackson had turned
into a man with purpose. Jackson had become death.

He stepped into the gentle light of the fluorescent overhead
lights that flickered and illuminated the all too average conference room.

For a second, the two men seated across from one another
remained engrossed in their conversation with the disembodied voice coming from
the black speakerphone in the center of the table. Both wore business suits and
stared into the near distance as they listened to the deep voice coming through
the speakerphone.

Jackson cleared his throat loudly.

Both men turned, reaching for their weapons.

They never stood a chance. Jackson's silenced Beretta put
two shots in each man's chest before either could say a word.

Jackson held the Beretta 9mm in his trembling hand and
walked over to the first man, a dark complexioned fellow who bore a striking
resemblance to Mohammed Fatal. The man lay twitching on the ground, his feet
kicking almost comically in his shiny black shoes as his blood ran liberally
from his chest and soaked the pale blue carpet beneath his body.

Jackson's voice was quiet. "This is for Leigh." He
took aim at the man's meticulously groomed hairline before putting a bullet
right between the murderer's deep brown eyes.

Jackson stepped around the solid oak table in the harsh
fluorescent light of the conference room and pushed the black ergonomic chairs
from his path as he tucked the Beretta 9mm into the leather shoulder holster
beneath his left arm. He approached the wounded blonde man who lay on the
ground moaning, wearing a similar dark suit to the first.

Jackson pulled the Ka-Bar knife from his belt holster. He
wedged his foot beneath the man's chest and kicked upward, flipping the dying
SSG employee over and exposing the man's chest and neck.

Jackson's speech was like a whisper now.

"This," he said simply, "is for
Clementine."

Jackson thrust downward with all his strength, the Ka-Bar
knife penetrating the thick cartilage of the man's neck before Jackson ran the
razor sharp blade full force through blonde man's throat. He felt the knife
sever bone, cartilage, vein and skin before he felt and heard the carpet
beneath the man's body tear beneath the pressure of the blade.

Jackson looked down at the spreading pool of blood at his
feet. He had severed the blonde man's head.

Jackson wiped the blade of the weapon on the fine suit of
the gruesomely disfigured blonde assassin. He stood up and shook his head,
finally attuned to his surroundings as he peered around the all too average
conference room.

Jackson was vaguely aware of a voice in the room. He'd
forgotten that a conference call had been in progress when he had stepped into
the room.

Jackson's head was bowed as he surveyed his surroundings,
covered in the blood of the two men who lay at his feet.

He took a deep breath. "Your men are dead," he
said matter-of-factly.

He continued, "You are next. I don't know who you are,
but I will find you and I will kill you."

"Very well," said the stranger via the black
speakerphone that sat on the glass conference table.

The stranger's deep and raspy voice continued, unconcerned
by Jackson's threats. "I think you will find that killing me will not be
as easy as you think. Good luck getting out of the building alive."

The phone went dead.

Jackson paused. There was something about that voice,
something strangely familiar and distinctive. The calming baritone suggested
power and charm.

He shuddered. He would never forget that voice.

As he tried in vain to forget the raspy depth of the
stranger's voice on speakerphone, Jackson heard faint voices in the distance
growing stronger.

He knew needed to get out of the building. The raspy voice
on the other end of the phone would surely be alerting the security team by
now.

He looked around the blood spattered conference room, the
corpses of the newly deceased men sprawled out on the floor, their fine suits
drenched with blood and gore.

He briefly considered an egress via the floor to ceiling
window on the north side of the building, but from the fourth floor, his
chances of surviving the drop unharmed were slim at best. He glanced at the
door, the voices approaching quickly in his ears.

As far as Jackson could remember, there was only one way
out. And there was sure to be a guard posted at the entrance of the building.

Jackson frowned, his brow furrowed in consternation.

There was only one way out.

Jackson patted his Jacket. He still had his smoke grenades.

He abandoned all efforts at stealth now. The voices of what
Jackson could only assume to be the Carmike security team were echoing louder
through the hallway as the men moved methodically through the third floor
offices of the non-descript building.

Jackson's stealthy walk was replaced now with a sprint to
the stairwell. His first few steps down the light blue carpeting of the hallway
left bloody boot imprints on the carpet as Jackson sprinted down the hallway
towards the emergency stairwell.

A flashlight swept through the hallway in the distance now,
accompanying the voices of the security team.

Jackson ducked behind the heavy steel door that led to the
stairwell. He drew the Ka-Bar knife from the sheath at his hip and jammed the
heavy steel blade into the locking mechanism on the door.

Jackson turned around, his back to the steel door. He was
bathed in an eerie red light that shone from the red emergency exit sign above
his head.

The lighting in the stairwell was dim, but the darkness
suited Jackson. He took the stairs one flight at a time, his feet hardly
touching the concrete stairs as he descended as fast as he could. This part was
easy.

Getting out of the lobby would be the hard part.

8:30 PM- Saturday,
September 9
^th

Sumner, VA

Officer Jimmy Howe cradled his heavy head in his broad
calloused hands as he stared at the photos of the crime scene laid out across
his cheap wooden desk. His breathing was shallow and labored as he drew a
bottle of Maker's Mark from the top left drawer of his desk, topping off his
coffee cup and reviewing the details of the double homicide he had stumbled
into this morning.

The case seemed cut and dry from the surface: an ex wife and
child murdered by an unstable former husband. The suspect fit the profile.

Jackson Pike was a disgraced war veteran with diagnosed
traumatic brain injury, PTSD and substance abuse problems who had been highly
trained in weapons and tactics. He owned a registered weapon fitting the
ammunition profile from the crime scene.

Jimmy sipped thirstily at the chipped blue coffee cup that
his wife had given him on their anniversary as he studied the crime scene
photos and reviewed the scene in his mind.

He thought back and reviewed his actions after the elderly
neighbor had entered the residence and discovered the bodies of Leigh Adams and
Clementine Pike.

2100 Marywood Circle, Apartment 113 had been a blood bath.

The memory of that apartment would likely haunt Jimmy's
memory for the rest of his days. How someone, no matter how disturbed could do
that to their loved ones, not to mention their own child Jimmy would never understand.

He shuddered and drank thirstily once more at the bourbon in
his glass. He recalled picking up the elderly neighbor, who had sat alternately
weeping and screaming on the beige carpeting of the small apartment.

Jimmy had then called the station for backup and checked the
victims for a pulse. It had been a futile effort. Based on the appearance of
the bodies, Jimmy knew they were dead before touching their cold skin. But it
was standard procedure.

Jimmy stared at photos on his desk once more. The evidence
pointed to the fact that the mother, Leigh had been savagely beaten before
being shot twice in the chest and once in the head, assassination style.

The daughter thankfully had not suffered the exact same
fate.

Jimmy had to assume this was some twisted permutation of a
father's love.

He shook his head. Clementine, the young girl, had been
spared the beating, but had been shot in the same pattern. Two rounds to the
chest, one in the head.

It was a merciless fire pattern, designed for maximum
devastation and assurance that the target was dead. It was the standard fire
pattern taught to military special operations forces.

Jimmy flipped the page to the coroner's initial report.

Based on the entry and exit wounds, both victims had been
bound and placed on their knees before they were murdered. The powder burns
told investigators two things. They had been shot from close range, and they
had been shot with a silenced handgun.

Jimmy swallowed the rest of his coffee mug full of Maker's
Mark and refilled the ceramic vessel as he stared at the photos once more
before turning his rotund face skyward, his eyes surveying the fluorescent
lighting of the police station, lost in thought.

It seemed like a cut and dry case.

The brutality of the murders themselves made Jimmy Howe want
to see this Jackson Pike fry for the heinous murder of these two girls.

But there were some things that just weren't adding up for
the veteran officer.

Unfortunately, this wasn't Officer Howe's first murder
investigation. It was also not his first murder investigation involving members
of the same family. And it just wasn't fitting the profile.

Sure, parts of the crime fit the profile.
The
brutalization of the Leigh prior to her murder, for one.
The self
indulgent note left haphazardly in the ransacked home of the murderer, for two.
And the disappearance of the suspect was normally a pretty clear indicator of
guilt.

But parts of the story bothered the veteran investigator.

First, he wondered, where was the security camera footage?
Oh, it was all there. But there was no sign of anyone moving towards the
building during the night.

Second, why go to such an effort to silence the murder
weapon, if as indicated by the note found later, the suspect intended suicide?
It would make more sense for the murderer to turn the weapon on himself at the
scene.

That would have fit the profile.

Jimmy took another deep draught of Maker's Mark and
continued to wrack his mind for the little nagging doubts about the case.

Why the assassination style double-tap? He wondered.

And why did the murderer lock the door to the apartment
after snuffing two of the people he once loved most in the world? That level of
calculation just didn't mesh well with the portrait of the insane and enraged
former husband.

Jimmy sighed as he closed the manila folder containing the
photos and evidence that had been collected so far.

Tomorrow was a new day and hopefully they would get some
information that could help them catch the monster that did this.

As he pushed the plastic wheeled chair back from his desk he
stood and polished off his cup of Maker's Mark. It was sure to be a long and
lonely ride home.

One thing was certain, he thought glancing at the photo of
his wife and two boys that sat in a silver frame on his cluttered desk, he was
going to hug his family tonight.

In fact, he might never let go.