Paramedic Killer by Patterson Pat

Author:Patterson, Pat [Patterson, Pat]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas
Published: 2015-11-23T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER

20

SATURDAY—20:55—CHANNEL MARKER #25 (Intracoastal Waterway) The rising moon resembled a small white light bulb set in a velvety black sky. A brilliant sheen of sparkling highlights danced across the surface of the black ICW. The lighting was perfect for a nighttime mission, but Rico felt a premonition as if their celestial neighbor had shown up to watch a good show. The dark woods raced by on both sides of the creek, an endless procession of pines and swamp grass lit by the rising moon. He tried to imagine being out there alone fighting alligators and snakes, or worse, a pack of mean redneck boys wearing white hoods. He decided he would rather be in the scariest part of Harlem, running from a bloodthirsty street gang toting switchblades and chains. He patted his right hip. His old reliable Colt .45 sat cocked and ready as always.

Rico’s earpiece crackled. “Three minutes.”

He glanced at Sergeant Greg Mulkhead. The police sergeant stood tall behind the wheel peering into the darkness, his eyes locked on a pair of flashing colored lights in the water dead ahead. It made little sense to Rico, but Mulkhead seemed to know what to do. He split the difference between the two poles without slowing—taking the red light on the left, the green on the right—and then pushed the wheel hard over. The boat heeled and then straightened again to continue its race into the darkness.

The mouth of Core Creek was wide and dark, featureless except for the reeds and trees on either bank. The boat sped past another flashing green marker and the creek began to narrow. The banks came in on both sides and the channel began to brighten. A massive, floodlighted industrial complex came into view on the right side of the creek, a huge shipyard with a long dock, and a spattering of gigantic boats sitting high on stilts. Two colossal four-legged cranes shaped like double H’s with giant tractor wheels stood close to the docks. One held a tremendous fishing boat above the ground as if having just lifted it out of the water. Rico studied it as they grew closer. He had never understood how such an awkward looking thing could float. It looked more like a beached whale, an immense beast waiting for someone to scrape off the barnacles and repaint its belly. He shifted his gaze to the left side of the creek. It looked dark and quiet by comparison. A soft glow emanated from the woods in the distance. Mulkhead tapped him on the arm and pointed at it.

“That’s your target.”

Rico glanced at his team. A deep grin etched Mullins’ face. In his right hand, he cradled his baby—a 12-gauge Benelli M2 Tactical. The fingers of his left hand gently stroked the barrel. Ham looked more like Rico felt, anxious. His long, gloved fingers wrapped tightly around his Heckler & Koch-MP5 submachine gun tapping nervously against the plastic stock. Rico placed a hand on his shoulder. “You good?” Ham glanced at him through the clear lenses of his goggles.

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