The Executioner

Though authored by a single individual, I have found that a novel is never the achievement of one alone.

Many people have contributed in different and generous ways to this work and, though a simple acknowledgement page cannot fully express my gratitude, I’d like them to know that this novel would never have been possible without them.

I owe a special debt to Samantha Johnson for her love, undying patience, understanding and for being there every step of the way. To the most extraordinary agents any author could hope for, Darley Anderson and Camilla Bolton. They are indeed my literary Guardian Angels. Staying on the subject of angels, my most sincere thanks also goes to all at the Darley Anderson Literary Agency – the extremely hard-working Darley’s Angels. Thanks, too, to the superb team of creative and talented professionals at Simon & Schuster UK for all their relentless work. To my fantastic editor, Kate Lyall Grant, and my incredible publishers, Ian Chapman and Suzanne Baboneau, my eternal gratitude.

I would also like to say thank you to all the readers and everyone who has so fantastically supported me since the release of my first novel.

‘Ironic how the only certainty in life is death, don’t you think?’ The man’s voice was calm. His posture relaxed.

‘Please . . . you don’t have to do this.’ In contrast, the man on the floor was petrified and exhausted. His voice strangled by tears and blood. He was naked and shivering. His arms were stretched above his head, chained by his wrists to the raw brick wall.

The dark basement room had been transformed into a medieval-looking dungeon, all four walls fitted with heavy metal shackles. A sickening smell of urine lingered in the air and an incessant buzzing sound came from a large wooden box in the corner, placed there by the attacker. The room was sound- and escape-proof. Once locked inside, there was no way of getting out unless someone let you out.

‘It doesn’t matter how you’ve lived your life,’ the other man continued, disregarding the bleeding man. ‘It doesn’t matter how rich you are, what you’ve accomplished, who you know or what hopes you have. In the end the same thing will happen to all of us – we’ll all die.’

‘Please, God, no.’

‘What matters is how we die.’

The man on the floor coughed, spitting out a thin red mist of blood.

‘Some people die naturally, painlessly, as they reach the end of a natural cycle.’ The man laughed a bizarre, gurgling laugh. ‘Some people suffer for years with incurable diseases, fighting every minute to add just a few more seconds to their lives.’

‘I . . . I’m not rich. I don’t have much, but whatever I have you can take.’

‘Shhhh.’ The man brought a finger to his lips before whispering, ‘I don’t need your money.’

Another cough. Another mist of blood.

An evil smile parted the assailant’s lips. ‘Some people die very slowly,’ he continued. His voice was cold. ‘The pain of death can drag on for hours . . . days . . . weeks . . . If you know what you’re doing, there’s no limit, did you know that?’ He paused.

Until then, the chained man hadn’t noticed the nail gun in his attacker’s hand.

‘And I really do know what I’m doing. Allow me to demonstrate.’ He stepped on the bone protruding from the victim’s fractured ankle, bent over and quickly fired three nails into the man’s right knee. Intense pain shot up the victim’s leg and sucked the air out of his lungs, blurring his vision for several seconds. The nails were only three inches long. Not long enough to puncture through to the other side, but sharp enough to shatter bone, cartilage and ligaments.

The chained man took quick, shallow breaths. He tried to speak through the pain. ‘Plea . . . please. I have a daughter. She’s ill. She suffers from a rare condition and I’m everything she’s got.’

The strange gurgling laugh filled the room again. ‘You think I care? Let me show you how much I care.’ He grabbed the head of one of the nails lodged into the man’s knee and, as if using a screwdriver to pop open a can of paint, slowly forced it to one side as far as it would go. The crunching noise was like stepping on broken glass.

The victim roared as he felt the grinding of metal against bone. His attacker applied just enough force to overcome the resistance and splinter the kneecap. Shards of bone perforated nerve and muscle. Nausea flooded through the chained man’s body. His assailant slapped his face several times to keep him from passing out.

‘Stay with me,’ he whispered. ‘I want you to enjoy every moment of this. There’s more to come.’

‘Why . . . Why are you doing this?’

‘Why?’ The man licked his cracked lips and smiled. ‘I’ll show you why.’ From his pocket he produced a photograph and held it inches away from the chained man’s face.

The man’s eyes rested in confusion on the picture for several seconds. ‘I don’t understand. What . . .?’ He froze as he finally realized what he was looking at. ‘Oh my God!’

His tormentor moved closer, his lips almost touching the bleeding man’s right ear.

‘Guess what,’ he whispered as he glanced at the wooden box in the corner, ‘I know what scares you to death.’

Christmas was a week or so away and Los Angeles was embracing the festive spirit. Streets and shop windows everywhere were decorated with colorful lights, Santa Clauses and fake snow. At 5:30 a.m. the drive through south Los Angeles felt eerily calm.

The white front of the small church glowed against the tall, naked California walnut trees on either side of the arched wooden doorway. Picture-postcard scenery. Except for the police officers swarming around the building and the yellow crime-scene tape that kept curious onlookers at a safe distance.

Dark clouds had started to gather as Robert Hunter stepped out of the car, stretched his body and blew onto his hands before zipping up his leather jacket. Bracing himself against the strengthening cold Pacific wind and studying the sky, Hunter knew that rain was no more than a few minutes away.

The Homicide Special Section (HSS) of the LAPD Robbery-Homicide Division is a specialized branch. It deals with serial killers and high-profile homicide cases requiring extensive time and expertise. Hunter was its most accomplished detective. His young partner, Carlos Garcia, had worked hard to make detective, and he’d done it faster than most. First assigned to the LAPD Central Bureau, he’d spent a few years busting gang members, armed robbers and drug pushers in northeast LA before he was offered a position with the HSS.

As Hunter clipped his badge onto his belt, he spotted Garcia talking to a young officer. Despite the early hour, Garcia looked bright and alert. His longish, dark brown hair was still damp from his morning shower.

‘Weren’t we supposed to have today off?’ Garcia said under his breath as Hunter approached them. ‘I made plans.’

Hunter nodded a silent ‘good morning’ at the officer, who returned the gesture. ‘We’re Homicide Special, Carlos.’ He tucked his hands into his jacket pockets. ‘Words like “day off, pay rise, holiday and vacation” don’t apply to us. You should know that by now.’

‘I’m learning fast.’

‘You been inside yet?’ Hunter asked as his pale blue eyes focused on the church.

‘I just got here.’

Hunter faced the young officer. ‘You?’

Six foot two and well built, he ran a hand through his short-cropped black hair nervously under Hunter’s attentive eye. ‘I haven’t been inside either, sir, but apparently it isn’t a pretty sight. See those two over there?’ He pointed to two pale-faced police officers standing to the left of the church. ‘They were first response. I heard it took ’em less than twenty seconds to come running out puking their guts all over the place.’ He mechanically checked his watch. ‘I got here five minutes after they did.’

Hunter massaged the back of his neck, feeling the rough, lumpy scar on his nape. His eyes scanned the crowd already gathered behind the yellow tape. ‘Do you have a camera with you?’ he asked the officer, who shook his head, frowning.

‘How about a phone cam?’