Martyr's Inferno Read online

  MARTYR'S INFERNO

  A novel by

  Scott Gamboe

  Published by Scott Gamboe at Createspace

  Copyright 2011, Scott Gamboe

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  I'd like to offer a special thanks to Rick and Rose Taubold, for their invaluable assistance on the creation of the new cover for this novel. This new image captures the spirit of the novel, in a way my original cover never could.

  MARTYR'S INFERNO

  CHAPTER 1

  The rains had finally moved on. Shimmering puddles dotted the damp, deserted streets. He kept his jacket pulled tightly about his short, stocky body to keep out the chill of the Chechen night. He stroked his dark beard, then thrust his hands deep inside his pockets. The grip of the small pistol pressed firmly against his left palm. Behind him, the waters of the Argun River rolled silently past. Not for the first time, he glanced up at a darkened window across the street. Behind the glass, Viktor waited with his Kalashnikov rifle. When dealing with the Kadyrovtsy, it paid to be cautious.

  At the rumble of an approaching car, he stepped back into the shadows of a doorway. A plain white van rolled up to the curb. Its brakes squealed as the driver brought it to a lurching stop. Two officers of the Chechen secret police exited onto the sidewalk, wearing weather-beaten boots, jackets, and stocking caps. The taller man kept a hand inside his jacket, doubtless gripping a concealed pistol. One spotted him.

  "Grigory?"

  It wasn't his real name. "Da."

  "Gde denyghy?" The burly man's guttural, heavily accented Russian reflected his Chechen origins. But he had gotten right to the point. Hands still in his pockets, Grigory studied the man carefully for a moment before jerking his head toward the pile of duffel bags set in the dark recess of another doorway.

  The larger of the two men chewed his lip, looking askance at Grigory. He motioned to his shorter, slimmer companion. "Atkrivay."

  Grigory almost smiled at their reaction when the smaller man opened the first duffel. The shorter man's sharp gasp was clearly audible from where Grigory stood. The heavy packets of American hundred dollar bills, the final payment for their product, looked almost black in the wan light of the distant street lamp. The two men grunted under the weight of the hefty satchels as they tossed them into the rear of the van.

  They retrieved a pair of leather briefcases from their vehicle and set them on the sidewalk. Grigory never took his eyes off the Kadyrovtsy agents until they had returned to their van and pulled away.

  Although it was a cool, crisp evening, sweat ran down his sides as he reached for the briefcases. With trembling hands, he eased the satchels off the ground, terrified that if he jostled them, one of them might be prematurely activated. The desolation should be brought about in America, not here. He took a deep, calming breath and looked up at the sky.

  He did not know if the two men were to be trusted, so there was little time to waste. The total value of the transaction was around sixty million American dollars, including the five million he had just paid. The strong chance of a double cross existed.

  Grigory backed away from the street. He nodded to Viktor and pulled the penlight from his pocket. Pointing it out over the Argun River, he gave the prearranged series of flashes. Moments later the response blinked back at him, and a small boat slowly materialized out of the darkness. It slid with a steely grate onto the rocky bank. Grigory handed the two briefcases to the vessel's operator, warning him to use caution in their handling. With a quick look behind him, he climbed aboard and pushed off.

  The engine roared to life. Grigory felt a rush of euphoria as he thought of what lay ahead. Soon, entire cities of the infidels would be bathed in his righteous flames. His journey to America, a journey that would change the face of the world forever, had begun.

  CHAPTER 2

  Please, God, don't let him kill any of the hostages!

  The silent plea rang out in the vaults of Officer Jim Hunter's mind. The scent of well-oiled metal wafted up from the rifle clutched in his hands. His right shoulder brushed against Matt James, his partner, with every step. The light contact told him they were still together.

  Jim’s mind raced as swiftly as his heartbeat. The office building was only a single storey, but was a warren of hallways, offices, and storage rooms. Thick white carpet muffled their footsteps. The hallway’s deep blue walls were painted over with murals depicting the company's evolution from a simple, one-office operation into a corporation that employed four dozen engineers. With Matt in the lead, Jim walked backward, in case the gunman should emerge behind them. As a single unit, they glided along the carpeted hallway.

  Their sketchy information on the situation came from a panicked phone call by a hostage before the gunman destroyed the phone. The caller had said the suspect, a white male in his mid-thirties, was in an uncontrollable rage and wanted to speak to his ex-wife's attorney. Since their arrival a few minutes prior, Jim had already heard two gunshots. He prayed no one had been hurt.

  Jim rolled his shoulders to set his tactical vest more comfortably about his athletic frame. An embroidered representation of the Bloomington Police Department's badge adorned the front of the vest. A matching baseball cap concealed his close-cropped brown hair. At six feet, he was slightly taller than his partner, who was noticeably more muscular. Jim swept his rifle back and forth, his right index finger positioned along the trigger guard.

  A distant gunshot sounded through the corridor, and they quickened their pace in response. The years spent training together made talk unnecessary. The irony was that Jim shouldn't even be there. His transfer to the detective bureau had taken him off the streets, away from potentially deadly situations. But he and Matt had been on their way to an apartment building in search of a burglary suspect when the call came in.

  "Hallway ahead,” Matt said. “Branches in both directions."

  "Got it."

  Jim backed up the final few steps. When Matt tapped his shoulder, he dropped to one knee. Jim waited for Matt to ease his way into the next hallway to check both directions for signs of danger.

  "Clear. Which way?" Matt said.

  A pair of shots echoed down the passage to Jim's left. He flinched, shoulders instinctively arching in defense. He rose to his feet. The two veteran officers trotted down the hallway. Jim had to shuffle his feet carefully to prevent a fall.

  "Doors, left and right," Matt said.

  Jim glanced to both sides, but no dangers emerged. Ahead, a woman's piercing scream broke the silence.

  Matt stopped, and Jim gently bumped into him. "Cafeteria is straight ahead," Matt said. "It sounds like that's where he's holding them."

  They took up flanking positions on the closed set of double doors. Each peered through the window of the door closest to him. The cafeteria was about fifty feet from end to end, but was not very wide. Several tables along the far wall were skewed at odd angles. Many of the chairs lay on their sides. Overturned trays of food and spilled drinks covered the tables.

  Movement caught Jim's eye. With his face pressed against the glass, he looked to his left. A bearded man in a filthy white shirt stood at the far end of the cafeteria. Several hostages sat along the wall in front of him, facing Jim. The man carried a semiautomatic pistol in each hand. Jim snapped his fingers to catch Matt's attention, held up one finger, then pointed to where the armed man stalked back and forth.

  Matt glanced in that direction, then stepped back from the door and activated his radio, his voice barely above a whisper. “Adam-Seven, we have a suspect in sight. Main floor cafeteria. White male, armed with two pistols. Blue jeans, white shirt, and a beard. We can see seven hostages, but there may be mor
e."

  "Ten-four, Adam-Seven."

  Jim stood immobile. He kept a watchful eye on the man who stormed about the room, gesticulating wildly. Periodically, the bearded man pointed a pistol at someone seated along the far wall. He stopped in front of a hostage, tucked one of the pistols into his belt, and took a cell phone from the woman seated before him. His face reddened and the veins in his neck bulged as he spoke into the phone.

  "Adam-Seven, the scene commander is talking to the subject on a cell phone. Stand by."

  "Acknowledged." Jim cradled his rifle in his arms so he could wipe his sweaty palms. The shooter's voice rose to a fevered pitch. Jim heard the muffled voice through the heavy metal doors.

  "Don't treat me like an idiot! If her lawyer isn't here in five minutes, I'll kill one of the hostages!" He raised a pistol to point it at the ceiling. Two more shots blasted through the air. The hostages’ shrill voices cried out in a babble of protests.

  Jim and Matt exchanged a glance and nodded in agreement. Other officers were moving into position, but it would be several minutes before they could be of any assistance, several minutes the hostages might not have.

  Jim pointed to himself, then stabbed his fingers to their left, indicating where he would turn when he entered the cafeteria. Matt stepped close behind him and tapped his arm to let him know he was ready. More shouted threats echoed from inside. Jim took a deep, steadying breath and kicked the door open.

  He took in the entire scene at a glance. The terrified employees sat huddled together at the far end of the room. Shocked disbelief registered on their slack-jawed faces as the two police officers burst into the room.

  The man whirled about. Seeing the officers, he dropped into a crouch and ran, firing over his shoulder. The report of the small pistol was deafening in the confines of the long, narrow cafeteria.

  Reflexively, Jim's trigger finger squeezed to the rear. His rifle thundered twice. From behind him and to the side, Matt also opened fire. Their target reached another hallway just as a bullet struck his left shoulder. He spun to the ground and rolled out of sight as one of his pistols clattered away. Jim motioned to the hostages to leave by the way he and Matt had entered. "Go!" As one, they rushed for the open doorway.

  Moments later, Jim and Matt were alone. They drew even with the hallway where the man had gone. After a silent three-count, both lunged into the open, rifles covering the passage before them. The hall was empty.

  Matt kept watch and called in their situation. Jim squatted to retrieve the fallen handgun, a Beretta nine millimeter with a nineteen-round magazine. He looked up. A fine mist of blood had sprayed across the painted surface around a chip in the wall. Was that his bullet, or Matt's? Did it matter? He rose to his feet.

  He and Matt joined at the shoulders as before, moving more slowly this time. Jim's muscles tensed at each open doorway. The shooter could have hidden in any office, any bathroom, or even a storage closet. The hallway was narrow, and Jim could feel the walls pressing in on him. His breathing came in short, rapid gasps.

  "You all right, Jimbo?" Matt was one of the few people Jim had told about his claustrophobia.

  "Yeah. Just keep moving." He tried to slow his breathing. I'm okay. I can breathe. I'm not suffocating. Moments later, a door slammed and the building's fire alarm sounded.

  "Adam-Seven, fire alarm activated, west door."

  Matt gave a short laugh. "Dispatch is on the ball today." He keyed his radio. "I copy."

  "Fire door?" Jim wiped the beads of sweat from his brow.

  "Yeah. He's outside now and knows we're on his tail. Let's watch for ambushes."

  "I'm following you."

  They held their formation until they reached the fire exit, then took up flanking positions on either side of it. They both gave quick glances outside but couldn't see any sign of the shooter. Matt nodded once. He slammed the door open, pushed through, and darted left.

  Jim squinted against the bright sunlight. The tension flowed out of his body as he ran in the open air. He ignored the sounds of heavy traffic on Veteran's Parkway and focused on the hunt for the gunman. Jim dashed along behind Matt, but cut to the right once he was clear of the door way. They sprinted forward to the cover of several parked cars.

  "Jim, I've got nothing."

  "Same here. Hold on."

  Jim dropped prone and craned his neck to see beneath the cars. He looked further across the lot. A pair of booted feet was running behind a row of vans. Jim leapt to his feet and pointed.

  "That way, fifty meters, behind the vans!"

  Matt keyed his radio as they sprinted through the parking lot in a low crouch. "Subject is on foot in the west parking lot, moving away from the building toward Veterans Parkway."

  "Ten-four. All units in the vicinity, subject has left the building on foot toward Veterans Parkway."

  Jim and Matt split apart to flank their target, staying close enough together to avoid missing him or being caught in their own crossfire, but with enough distance between them to cover more area and force him from hiding. They crept across the asphalt parking lot.

  "I've lost him again, Jim."

  "Me too." Jim dropped to his knees, but he could not see any sign of the gunman. He crawled forward a few yards. The man was nowhere in sight.

  Jim's peripheral vision spotted a truck door flying open. A blurred form leaped out, directly at Matt.

  "Jim!" Matt's sharp cry broke the deceptive stillness of the afternoon.

  Jim raced over. Matt was engaged in a hand-to-hand struggle with their quarry. His rifle lay several feet away, knocked loose in the struggle. The bearded man pressed the shiny blade of a knife closer to Matt's throat. Although their antagonist's shirt was soaked with blood, he did not appear to be slowed by the bullet hole in his left shoulder.

  Without hesitation, Jim slung the rifle around behind his back and charged, shoulder lowered. He slammed into the struggling bodies and knocked all three to the pavement. Matt and his foe both somehow maintained their grip on the knife. Matt's pistol tumbled free. The man released one hand from the knife and grabbed for the gun, but Jim was quicker. In an instant his own semi-automatic pistol was drawn and placed tightly against the man's head.

  "Drop the knife, or you're dead!"

  For the span of several heartbeats, no one moved.

  Then the enraged man lunged once more. His free hand landed on the pistol just as Jim fired his weapon.

  With a violent thrash, the man bucked off the pavement, then lay still.

  Jim rolled aside, the adrenaline rush fading and leaving him drained. Blood covered his face and hands. Matt lay gasping at his side. Jim held his gun in front of his eyes, almost able to believe he had just had a bad dream. He barely noticed the ringing in his ears and the smell of gunpowder.

  Matt lay flat on his back and grabbed his radio. His breath came in rapid, shallow gasps. "Adam-Seven . . . shots fired . . . subject is down."

  #

  The alarm clock buzzed. Jim grudgingly opened his eyes. Having spent the entire night tossing and turning, it seemed he had only been asleep for an hour, which was probably true. He sat up, allowing his blankets to fall away. Although he needed more sleep, he dragged himself out of bed to take a much-needed shower. The hearing in front of the Police Commission was in two hours.

  In the next room, he heard the expected thump as Matt smacked the "snooze" button on his alarm clock. They had been roommates for four years. Jim tried to remember the last time he'd heard Matt's alarm go off without Matt hitting the snooze. He shrugged his indifference. At least he could be first in the shower while Matt slept.

  The headaches had started a couple of days after the shooting. According to his doctor, Jim's chronic tension headaches were a direct result of his feelings of guilt over the taking of a life. The doctor recommended a counselor, but Jim refused to go. This was something he could work through on his own. All he needed was time. He would be back on the job soon, and focusing on work would be therapeutic. But fi
rst, he had to get through the day’s hearing with the Police and Fire Commission. Commissioner Ryan had a personal vendetta against Jim, so he knew to expect a long day.

  #

  Jim opened the door to the refrigerator and removed several bottles of beer. He returned to the table just as the next hand was dealt. Matt threw several chips into the ante pile, then suddenly broke into laughter, drawing confused stares from their fellow officers.

  "I wish we could have seen the look on Commissioner Ryan's face when Jimbo called him out!"

  Bob Lee, on Matt's right, broke into a broad grin. "What did you say, Hunter?"

  Jim took a long drink from his beer. "I just mentioned that I gave Ryan’s son a DUI a few years ago. The little prick lost his job at a trucking company. If Ryan’s smug attitude hadn’t gotten to me, I would’ve kept my mouth shut. I thought my attorney was going to shit a brick."

  Matt gave him a firm slap on the back. "Once they yanked Ryan from the panel, the hearing ended fairly quickly." With his eyes wide in an obviously false show of gravity, he placed a reassuring arm about Jim's shoulders. "We are now on two weeks of paid vacation! Mr. Hunter and I are about to spend a week on the sunny beaches of Mexico."

  Jim counted several chips and tossed them to the center of the table. "Don't ask how we're paying for it, because I don't have a clue."

  Lynda Kelvin, another member of the SWAT team, rolled her eyes. "It's simple. Matt's on the take."

  "Nice." Matt pried the cap from his beer bottle. "Actually, I have a friend who owns a condo. It's right on the beach in Playa del Carmen."

  Jim looked up from his cards. "You have friends?"

  #

  Jim donned his sunglasses as he stepped onto the broad, sandy beach. He strolled along the water's edge. The waves crashed onto the beach and slid back into the sea, only to return once more. The beach was fairly crowded. Towels and plastic reclining chairs dotted the sand. Up and down the beach, tourists enjoyed a walk in the open air. A squadron of pelicans gathered around a fishing boat, waiting for the crew to discard some of their catch.