Prologue
Prologue
Los Angeles, 1989
Outside a suburban home belonging to the decorated police officer, Richard McEvoy, the pitter-patter of rain was uncharacteristically loud for California. Unfortunately for the home residents, the unusually roaring thunder masked the horrors beyond the darkened windows. The 32-year-old homicide detective from Dublin, Ireland, was reaching for his customed gun gifted by his father when the first masked intruder appeared at his bedroom door. His seven-month pregnant wife was immobilized with fear, unable to utter even the faintest scream.
“Did you think you would get away with what you did, Rich?” The voice belonged to a burly fellow speaking in a commanding voice as he pointed a 9mm at the detective’s chest.
“Nobody gets away with hurting the boss.” The second intruder was a man of small stature but not less intimating than the goliath with a gun. He spoke with a thick Italian accent and exuded confidence despite lacking a firearm. Despite his size, the muscles on his arm were toned to perfection, causing his snake tattoo to crack.
“Quite wasting time on Mac. Dispose of him quickly. I’ll take care of Cecily.” The last of the intruders spoke with a confidence lacking in the first two and carried a no-nonsense expression. In his hands was not a firearm like his ferocious friend but a large, jagged blade of silver nature. An engraving on the handle was a phrase written in a language Richard was unfamiliar despite knowing five different languages, one being the dying dialect of his hometown.
The intruders huddled in an arrangement that blocked the only feasible way out of the room. Richard knew a two-story window slippery from downpour was unsuitable for his wife and unborn child. Years of experience working the mean streets of Los Angeles also told Richard his best option was to talk them down rather than fight a losing battle. But the tingling sensation in the pit of his stomach resulting from the fear of losing Cecily, his beautiful wife and loving mother of their seven-year-old son and unborn baby girl, was too high. At that moment, he thought of his son and the pride he carried for his ‘superhero’ father as he reached for his custom .44 magnum.
Before the perfect opportunity could arise for Richard to fire a shot, the lanky Italian threw his entire weight forwards, knocking Cecily to the ground as he strangled Richard, pinning him to the bed. The magnum escaped Richard’s grasp as he struggled with the darkness consuming the room because of the Italian’s surprising strength.
“Get rid of the woman and make sure that child isn’t around. Leave no witnesses, or you’ll be answering to the boss!” The brute was the one barking orders despite the third intruder possessing the commanding aura. Momentarily distracted by the orders, Richard managed to push the Italian off with the little bit of strength he could muster. Despite the apparent advantages the intruders had over him, Richard’s inner voice told him to fight to protect what mattered most to him.
Before Richard could plan his attack, he felt something cold pierce through his right side. The icy touch penetrated his flesh with minimal effort, like slicing butter. A searing flash of heat disbursed through Richard’s body, causing him to scream in agony. With his terrifying presence of evident skills, his attacker jerked the knife around, silencing any further screams for his prey. With a quick yank, the knife escaped Richard’s body, causing droplets of blood to scatter across the perfectly pressed linens. All his years working with the LAPD, Richard had never experienced anything more debilitating. The pain only intensified as the attacker shoved the knife on the other side of Richard’s torso with more force than the first time. Richard felt his vision starting to blur as the process of the knife hitting flesh was agonizingly repeated. He knew he was screaming and that his precious wife was crying, but the sounds were fading away with the bit of willpower he possessed.
Unaware of how many times the knife was violently yanked from his body, Richard felt it one final time as the world crashed around him and hit the cold floor. Through his hazy vision and shaking body, he saw two intruders descend upon him. The first was the Italian man brandishing a small pocketknife, but no less deadly than the first blade, and the second was the intelligent commander holding the blood-covered blade over Richard’s heart. As for the burly man, he stood beside Cecily, her face remorseful but not troubled despite the blood oozing from a tiny gash upon her left cheek.
Richard had little time to ponder the troubles that would befall his wife as he felt the pressure again on both sides of his chest. The second blade to pierce his skin hit the surface of his rib. In that instance, Richard felt the air escaping his lungs. The unfortunate slicing continued for a lifetime, with each stab hitting hard surfaces beneath his femoral arteries. The silent screams emanating from the detective began to dwindle, and he could no longer spot his wife or the Incredible Hulk lookalike through his blurry eyes.
Heavy footfall could be heard as the wooden stairs creaked ominously. Each creaky step seemed to coincide with a stabbing gesture. The last thing Richard recalled hearing was Cecily screaming his name for help that sadly would never arrive. The world should have gone black as the blood flowed from his body, but Richard had always lived in a dark world. A world of criminals. Murderers, rapists, and every kind of unimaginable monster. Criminals whose minds he entered daily in his pursuit of justice. Criminals who destroyed the color and joy he once found in the world. With one final image of his wife and son, Richard felt the color slowly returning to his black abyss. The pain that had formerly possessed his soul and the blade’s heat all passed. His body was growing old, but he saw color for the first time in a long time. Freedom. His escape and a door opening to his enteral peace.
~~~
Eric McEvoy sat in his bed drenched in sweat. The nightmares of that rainy Spring Day haunted him still. Eighteen excruciating long years had passed since he lost his parents in a tragic homicide. Eighteen years with no arrests, no new suspects, and zero justice for his father, who dedicated his life to offering families closure. Few officers at the station even talked about the case, aside from the occasional not-so-subtle condolences to Eric. John Gordon, the lead homicide detective with the Hollywood Division, former partner and best friend of Richard, and Eric’s legal guardian, was one of few who kept the case alive. Where Gordon was firm in his fight, Eric was kept awake at night through nightmares and the demons in his brain.
Still feeling like his temperature was dangerously close to hospitalization, Eric reached for the glass of water, still icy from his first wake-up call, on his bedside table. The table, like most of his two-bedroom apartment’s space, was sparsely decorated and cleanly polished. Aside from the recently vacated water, the only objects were his father’s old gun, a .44 desert eagle magnum with a four-leaf clover engraved on the ivory grip, an LAPD badge, a thick blue binder, and a cell phone that was a few years outdated.
Eric had just finished chugging his glass of water and was rubbing his eyes when his phone rang.
“Three thirty in the morning
The city’s lookin’ like a ghost town.”
Eric quickly snatched up his phone before the familiar lyrics could wake up his roommate. The song, after all, was very close to the time, and Eric did not want to upset his former college friend down the hall. He took a deep breath as he anticipated the worst possible scenario of picking up the phone because he knew the caller was his good friend and partner, Jack Hicks. He had chosen a classic from Garth Brooks because it was his friend’s first name and because Jack idolized the singer. As a Texas resident, Eric always found it comical that Jack worshipped the Oklahoma native over George Strait, or King George as he was known in Texas. It gave Eric a much-needed smile when answering Jack’s call as they usually ended with catastrophe, and he was expecting nothing less this morning.
“Let me guess. We got a case?” Eric asked, skipping formalities. His voice was one that most of the officers envied, for he made him appear exotic. Despite only being exposed for seven years, the Irish accent lingered with a hint of Californian.
The line was quiet save for Jack’s breathing. After pausing for dramatic effect, Jack spoke in his Texas twang. “Yes, but be prepared. It’s an ugly one.”
Eric wasted no time getting dressed in his standard attire, an outfit he only donned for work. He wore pinstriped black pants, motorcycle boots (much to the disdain of the higher-ups in the department, including Gordon), a white buttoned-up accompanied with a black formal vest, and a hunter-green striped tie. He was slipping his tie on over his head and dyed black hair. Without the aid of his girlfriend, he couldn’t tie a tie to save his life.
“Aren’t they all?”
Jack sighed. “I’ll spare you the details, but I got a feeling you aren’t going to like this one.”
Eric was attaching his badge to his belt, not being one to display it on his chest; as he thought about the different cases, he encountered both as a police officer and forensic scientist, his original profession. Each case left him positive that a human couldn’t possibly perform anything worse, but he was surprised to be proven wrong each time. He tried to ignore this nagging feeling as he slipped a leather jacket on over his Celtic sleeve tattoos and because the pitter-patter of rain seemed to be growing in confidence. Even with the jacket, he couldn’t cover up the neck tattoo, but he figured it matched his piercings that Gordon tried, in vain, to take out during work hours.
“See you in twenty?” Eric asked, checking himself out one final time in the mirror before grabbing his keys off his dresser.
“Make it thirty. I think you are going to want coffee.”
