Raw Vengeance (The Rich Fordham Series) Read online

  RAW VENGEANCE

  By Josh Handrich

  Raw Vengeance

  Copyright © 2011 by Josh Handrich

  The Rich Fordham Series

  *****

  Thank you for downloading this eBook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form, with the exception of quotes used in reviews.

  Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  Adult Reading Material

  All rights reserved

  *****

  A special thanks goes out to my wife Nikki who gave me the initial confidence to pursue writing this story and for putting up with me. Mike, thank you for keeping it real and offering insight. And thanks to my mother, Nancy, for your eye to detail and words of encouragement. And a thanks goes to all the other friends, family members, and co-workers who have listened and given their opinion.

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  My Blog

  *****

  Raw Vengeance

  A Novella

  *****

  “And I believe that good journalism, good television, can make our world a better place.”

  ~ Christiane Amanpour

  CHAPTER 1

  Sweltering, sticky, Guam-like heat and humidity—just another September heat wave in Chicago—made it impossible to get comfortable. During the bitter cold winter months of snow, ice, and wind, people tended to behave and tough it out. People helped each other. But when the heat rose, so did their tempers. During the summer of 2001, the violent crime rate had grown exponentially in the south side and showed no signs of abating. To Patrol Officer Wes Kines, that meant nothing good ever happened.

  In the Chicago Police Department’s Sixty-Fourth Precinct, it wasn’t even Monday at noon, but the drab four-level building had filled with its usual offenders: A bleached-blond woman in her forties, dressed in a pink tube top and fish net stockings, put up a fuss over being charged with reckless driving and resisting arrest. A twenty-something white male sporting a Bulls jersey and an assortment of religious tattoos was led off in cuffs for beating his girlfriend unconscious. Most were repeat offenders.

  A mix of detective and patrol officers tended to arrest warrants and jail bookings. Two officers were in a heated discussion about rumors circulating over the mayor’s proposed budget cuts.

  Wes kept himself busy by filling out paperwork on a DUI arrest of a heavy-set sixty-year-old blonde with coffee-stained teeth and nappy hair who kept making coffee and donut jokes thinking they were clever and original. It was difficult to focus on work when his mind was preoccupied with the rumors.

  After eighteen years on the force, Wes doubted the long-term sustainability of his career. His annual pay had already been slashed twenty-five percent. His 401K was almost worthless. His alimony and child support drained what little he had left after drinking. Every week he had to pull doubles and work weekends with no days off, and he was still unable to make ends meet.

  A month prior, Wes had been caught on camera roughing up a drunken congressman. After being pulled over for swerving in and out of lanes, the congressman tried to talk his way out of a failed sobriety test. When he grabbed Wes by the arm and threatened to ruin his career if he was arrested and charged, Wes forced the man to the ground and handcuffed him. The following day he was assigned to desk duty pending an investigation.

  “Officer Kines, may I have a word with you?” asked Captain Roy Tomke. Nearing retirement, Roy was a bull of a man who could beat a person to a bloody pulp with one arm tied behind his back. Even at the ripe old age of sixty-two, he was still pulling doubles and worked just as many hours as he had twenty years before. He did it out of necessity and for his sanity; his wife of forty years would have thrown a fit if he were home all the time. Work was his life and his escape.

  Wes looked up from his paperwork. “Yeah, what’s up?” The captain had always referred to him by his first name, so he knew something was wrong.

  “In my office,” Roy said sternly.

  “Probably best not to get too wound up yet,” Wes mumbled low enough so no one could hear. He scratched his head nervously and followed the captain into his office.

  Roy was sitting with his arms crossed and a permanent scowl on his pockmarked face. His refusal to make eye contact was a bad sign. Everything about his body language told Wes that he had majorly messed up.

  “Sit,” Roy commanded. Wes sat and did his best not to look nervous. Without any prelude, the captain took out a letter addressed to Wes and told him to open it. Wes rubbed his sweaty hands on his shaven head before he opened the letter and read aloud:

  To Mr. Wes Kines:

  We regret to inform you that as of September 3, 2001, you are terminated from the Chicago Police Department due to budget cuts put in place by the Chicago City Council. Your service to our community will not be forgotten.

  With regret,

  Mayor Shantell Cogan

  Wes read it to himself again to make sure he hadn’t read it wrong. “Are you serious? Are you fucking serious?” he asked the captain.

  Roy ignored the derogatory remarks. “You have one hour to clean out your desk and locker. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do. This was handed down from the mayor’s office. I have to hand out another ten of these before I’m done, so don’t think that you’re alone on this,” he said without empathy.

  “I’ve got a mortgage and child support to pay for. How am I supposed to do that?” Wes asked in disbelief. “Come on, Captain, can’t I stay on for at least another month? A week? That’s all I’m asking.”

  The captain ignored his pleas. “I need your badge and department-issued firearm.” Reluctantly, Wes did as he was told. “Please go now, and the best of luck to you.”

  “Best of luck, my ass. It’s easy for you to say. I’ve been here eighteen years, and what do I get for it?”

  Roy knew better than to provoke him, answering with a distant, silent glare.

  “A fucking termination letter.” Wes held it up in the air and crumpled it into a wad. “Thanks, Captain, I really appreciate it.” He turned and slammed the door hard enough on the way out that the entire roomful of people stopped what they were doing to watch.

  Twenty minutes later, he had all of his things packed into a large duffel bag and was cruising down the freeway at eighty miles per hour in his red, late-model Ford Mustang Cobra.

  Wes pulled the car into the garage of his small ranch-style home, closed the garage door, turned the car off, and sat silently in the dark. A few seconds turned into minutes, minutes became an hour as he mentally replayed the final moments of his career. Wes had promised himself he’d never become a victim; it made him madder than hell that his career hadn’t ended on his terms. He punched the steering with enough force to make
his knuckles raw, and then he screamed until his ears rang.

  Feeling better, he got out, grabbed his duffel bag, and headed upstairs into the cramped kitchen. Dirty dishes were in the sink, empty beer bottles overflowed the garbage, and the remains of yesterday’s dinner were still on the counter. Slivers of sunshine shone through the closed blinds. After flicking on a light, he grabbed a twenty-four case of beer from the fridge and downed the first beer in five seconds. He went on to the second and downed it. Then a third. And a fourth. During his fifth, his emotions got the better of him, and his bottom lip began quivering uncontrollably.

  “How could they do this to me?” he yelled aloud as gobs of spit gushed in all directions. In a flurry of rage, he flung a full can of beer at the porch’s sliding glass door, breaking it into thousands of pieces. Wes forced himself to regain his composure and seek a solution. Seeing the broken glass on the floor wasn’t enough to snap him back to reality. He walked into the bathroom and splashed water over his face and graying hair, then stared at his reflection in the mirror. The wrinkles and scars made him look ten years older. The curl of his lips formed a natural frown.

  “Someone’s going down for this,” he slurred as he plotted revenge. With a vicious right hook, he shattered the mirror into small fragments. The pain and blood on his knuckles further enraged him. He gripped the free-standing sink on both sides and twisted it in an attempt to break it from its foundation. “M…m…mother fucker!” he said as he grunted. The emotional toll added up, and anger shifted to acceptance; lines of drool hung from the middle of his mouth. The last time he had cried was back in tenth grade when his father died in the line of duty. Wes gazed into the mirror’s shattered remnants and became enraged by his own face. Anger had turned his skin a deep crimson, and tears cascaded down his cheeks. The image was a metaphor for his existence. “Why me? This isn’t happening!”

  Wes Kines had no close connections. He was in an on-again, off-again relationship, and he only saw his two kids every other weekend. His parents were dead. His one purpose in life had been taken from him in an instant, and for that he vowed revenge, even if it killed him.

  Wes wiped his face with a towel, then retrieved the termination letter from his duffel bag and spread it out flat. He read it for the third time and made a mental note of who it was from. That bitch is going to pay.

  Wes made a plan. He turned on his desktop computer before going upstairs into his bedroom closet where he stored a small arsenal of weapons ranging from a thirteen-round Glock 21 .45 ACP to a fully automatic assault rifle to cans of pepper spray. After arranging all the gear onto his shoulder and hip holster, he went back downstairs and logged onto the Internet. He needed to do two things: print a map and directions to his target and send a message to his friends and girlfriend.

  Reading the message aloud sent a chill up his back. The thrill of revenge was so close he could feel it. If you puss out now, you’ll never do it, he said to keep from backing out. Wes pressed the “send” button and knew his and another person’s lives were about to change forever.

  Before leaving, Wes chugged six more beers and two shots of whisky. The carbonation made him belch, and he found the bathroom in time to relieve his nervous bladder. Without so much as another glance at his home, he loaded up the Mustang and backed out of the driveway. He shifted into first gear and smoked the tires one last time.

  CHAPTER 2

  The large, non-descript diner was wedged between two chain hotels situated on the corner of State Street and Cermak. Cynder’s Diner was a short hop to the interstate, making it a popular police hangout. Chicago Police Department’s headquarters lay less than a mile to the north. The free coffee and fifty percent off of food for police didn’t hurt, either.

  “Can you believe the nerve of those pricks?” asked Sergeant Rhonda “Mack” Diaz of the CPD; the nickname had been affectionately given to her by male colleagues who always said she was built like a Mack truck. Her workout routine included running five miles a day and power lifting. Now in her fifties and a twenty-five-year veteran with the force, she was the alpha female of the department.

  She continued her rant on local politicians. “These guys are taking kickbacks from large corporations while they fire school teachers, police officers, and other state workers. They mess up their budget, and they expect us to pay for their mistakes. And those that they didn’t fire, they’re taking away their pensions and collective bargaining rights. It ain’t right.” Rhonda took the aviator sunglasses off the top of her head, giving WSNO rookie news reporter Rich Fordham and his cameraman, Gabriel Amiri, a better look at the lavender and pink highlights in her jet-black hair.

  Rich took a sip of coffee, but wasn’t in the mood for a late lunch. He took notes and listened as she vented. At twenty-eight, he was the junior fish in a pool filled with sharks. His six-foot-one height, swimmer’s physique, and chiseled features made him appealing on camera and off. He kept his dark hair closely cropped and styled in a trendy fashion. Bright-blue contact lenses were used to correct his far-sightedness.

  The news disturbed him, and he tried to find out how to best work the story. He understood the need for the city council to slash costs, but how to best go about it was in question. As much as he wanted his source to go on camera, he knew it wouldn’t be in either of their best interests. For media exposure, he’d enlist the help of the police union spokesman with whom he would meet next.

  “Any idea how many officers are affected?” Rich asked, even though he knew the answer.

  “All of us,” she replied. “Our bargaining rights went right out the door. Our crime rate is already up fifteen percent over last year. Can you imagine reducing the force by ten percent? Think of what losing fourteen thousand officers would do to our community. Do the math. The streets aren’t going to police themselves. Kids will continue to shoot other kids. So instead of raising taxes, the mayor and the governor threw us under the bus.” Rhonda stirred creamer into her coffee, and then ordered a club sandwich to go from the waitress. “Of course, now that Mayor Cogan is running for President, she has to keep all of her constituents happy, and that means tax cuts for the rich.” She switched gears and said mischievously, “Hey, you boys are cute. I’ve got some girlfriends who would think you’d make a fine mocha-Oreo cookie.” She chuckled and winked at Gabe with glitter-encrusted eyelashes.

  Gabe took Rhonda’s offer as a compliment, but wiggled his left hand in the air, displaying his wedding band. “Thanks, but I don’t think my wife would appreciate it,” he replied as he tried not to blush. His mocha-colored skin, handsome looks, and six-foot-three-inch stature did nothing to repel the ladies.

  “It’s okay, brown sugar, if you ever change your—”

  Rhonda’s walkie-talkie cut in, “All units in the vicinity of the Kennedy Expressway and Dan Ryan, respond to a 25 on a red late-model Ford Mustang with Illinois license plate number 052 1201. Wes Kines posted a message on an online social networking site with the intention of a 187 against Mayor Shantell Cogan and is an 11. We believe the suspect is headed for the mayor’s office and is considered armed and dangerous. He is also a former blue, so proceed with caution.”

  “That can’t be good. I know 187 is for murder, but I don’t remember what an 11 or a 25 is,” admitted Gabe.

  “An 11 is code for a suspicious person, and a 25 is a suspicious vehicle. Sorry, loves, I need to go and get onto the Kennedy and see if I can find our guy,” said Rhonda.

  Rich and Gabe pointed at themselves, and Rich asked, “Mack, if it’s not too much trouble, do you mind us riding along? We’ve already got our clearance.”

  She paused before answering with a smile, “Oh, why not? It might be kind of fun.” She reached for her radio. “Unit 640 is responding to the 11 and the 25.” They paid for the meal and left.

  To Rich, riding in a squad car with lights flashing and sirens blaring was more exhilarating than jumping out of an airplane, and it never got old. The Chevrolet Camaro’s 310 horsepower V8 engine
accelerated to one hundred twenty miles per hour as aggressively as a commercial airliner during takeoff. Watching the other cars on the interstate give way and whiz by wasn’t something the normal person did. He rode shotgun while Gabe prepared to film the chase from the puny back seat.

  As they sped northbound on the Dan Ryan Expressway at one hundred ten miles per hour, the radio broke in with an update: “Suspect vehicle has been spotted on interstate 90 heading north, just past Roosevelt, doing approximately one hundred.”

  “Oo, they’re less than a mile ahead of us,” Rhonda said. She looked up in time to see a Bell Ranger TV helicopter with WSNO painted on the belly paralleling their course at five hundred feet, flying at its maximum speed of one hundred twenty-two knots. A police helicopter was not far behind.

  “Mack, this is one of yours, isn’t it?” asked Rich in reference to the suspect.