‘What?’

‘The time frame. How long between the picking of the victims and the attack?’

Russo stayed quiet.

Big mistake. Mr. J squeezed the trigger for the third time. This one exploded against Russo’s right hand, splattering blood and flesh against the wall, fracturing several bones, and severing two fingers. They bounced against the cold tiled floor.

Russo went flying back, crashing against the wall, his face contorted in pain. Blood flowed from his mutilated hand.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’ Russo’s left hand moved to what was left of his right one. ‘Are you fucking insane? You’re a fucking cop, man. You can’t do this.’

‘The time frame.’

‘We waited six to eight months, man. Six to eight months.’ Spit flew from Russo’s mouth. ‘I’m going to fucking sue your ass, you motherfucker. I’m going to fucking sue the whole police department for this shit. You can say goodbye to your fucking badge, do you hear me?’

‘You’re as stupid as you look, do you know that?’ Mr. J said. ‘Let me ask you something. Do you know what this tube, this extension to the barrel of my gun is?’

The pain in Russo’s face was blurred by confusion.

‘Well, do you?’

‘Yeah, it’s a fucking muffler, a silencer, so what?’

The smirk was now on Mr. J’s lips. ‘How many cops do you know walk around with a silenced gun?’

Russo’s eyes widened.

The bullet hit him inch-perfect right between them.

As Mr. J exited the house through the kitchen door, he stopped by Toby, still unconscious on the floor.

Calmly, Mr. J grabbed Toby’s head with both hands and, in one swift but firm move, snapped his neck from left to right.

Ninety

Hunter stood before a large organizational board divided into twelve columns. Each column started with a photograph of the person it represented. There were eight women and four men. Underneath each image, a printed sheet carried all sorts of information about the subject on the picture – name, address, age, phone number and so on. The very last item on every sheet read: ‘Question to be asked’. A red ‘X’ had been drawn over the faces of three of the twelve subjects. Three faces which were now very familiar to Hunter, but the twist was, they didn’t belong to the three victims of the ‘video-call killer’.

As Hunter’s eyes studied the subject pictures, he felt sick, his stomach twisting inside of him, because he had been right.

The photographs on the board had all been downloaded from social media websites. They were the exact same photographs Hunter had been looking at back in his office.

‘How could I have failed to notice this before?’

Click.

The sound of a round being chambered into a semi-automatic pistol came from just a few feet behind Hunter.

‘If I were you, I’d put that gun down, Detective.’

As Hunter recognized the male voice, his muscles tensed and his finger curved itself firmly over the trigger of his H&K Mark 23.

‘Do you really think you’re fast enough?’ the killer asked, as if reading Hunter’s thoughts.

Hunter was a great marksman and a very fast mover, he knew that, but being able to spin around and squeeze a shot before the killer’s bullet got to him first was a trick he didn’t think he could pull off.

‘Drop the gun, Detective,’ the killer said one more time, his voice unaltered, ‘or I’ll blow your head off, and since the weapon I’m holding is a three fifty-seven Magnum, which I’m sure you’re familiar with, it will blow your head clean off your shoulders. The only way that they will be able to identify you, after scooping your brains off that wall, will be through fingerprints or DNA.’

‘You should know that well enough, Nick,’ Hunter replied. ‘After all, that’s where your expertise lies, isn’t it? Fingerprints.’

Nicholas Holden, the fingerprint expert forensic agent from Dr. Slater’s team, smiled. ‘Well, since you are in my basement uninvited, it’s obvious that you figured out who I was. I’m intrigued by how you did it, because I know I’ve made no mistakes, but we’ll get to that soon enough. Now, drop your weapon, or this conversation is about to end very badly, at least for you.’

Hunter closed his eyes and cursed himself. Walking into that basement alone had been a mistake. He should’ve trusted the tingling sensation he’d got moments earlier. He should’ve called for backup. There were too many shelving units down in that basement. Too many places one could hide behind. There was no way that he could’ve secured that whole area single-handed. What he should’ve done was have a SWAT team with him.

All a little too late now.

‘Arms wide open, Detective. Weapon dangling from your left index finger.’

Too many shelving units down in that basement. Too many places one could hide behind – that worked both ways. If Holden could hide behind them, so could Hunter . . . or so he thought.

Without turning his head, Hunter’s eyes quickly moved left then right. The closest shelving unit to him was on the left, but it was about seven feet away – way too far for him to get to before a bullet either blew his head off or added a hole the size of a grapefruit to his back.

‘Still wondering if you’re quick enough, Detective?’ Holden asked. ‘Why don’t you give it a go and we’ll find out. My money is on me. Want to take that bet?’

No reply.

‘Arms wide open, Detective,’ Holden repeated. ‘Weapon dangling from your left index finger. Do it now.’

Hunter knew he had no other option but to comply. He took a deep breath and did as he was told.

‘Now, toss it to your left. Don’t drop it, toss it, and make me believe you mean it.’

Hunter didn’t move.

‘Now, Detective.’

Angering a man holding a three fifty-seven Magnum was a mistake in any imaginable scenario. Angering a serial killer holding a three fifty-seven Magnum was just plain stupid.

Hunter flicked his wrist firmly and his weapon flew across the room. As it hit the floor several feet away, it slid up to a cardboard box by a shelving unit. Hunter followed it with his eyes.

‘Keep your arms wide open, Detective,’ Holden said. ‘They come down, you go down, minus a head, is that clear?’

‘Crystal.’

There was a long silent pause and Hunter couldn’t help but wonder if he was about to get shot in the back anyway. What did the killer have to lose? He’d already killed three people, and according to his ‘death board’, there were nine more still to come. Adding Hunter to that list wouldn’t make a difference.

‘Admit it, Detective . . .’ Holden finally broke the silence. Hunter could tell he had moved a little to his left. ‘You’re impressed by my work, aren’t you?’

Hunter hadn’t seen it, but Holden had nodded at the board.

‘I’m not sure “impressed” is the word I’d use, Nick.’ Despite how fast Hunter’s heart was beating, he still managed to keep his voice composed and its pace steady. ‘More like . . . sickened by it.’

The new pause that followed felt heavy and Hunter wondered if he had just sealed his fate with his poor choice of words.

‘That’s because you don’t understand it, Detective.’

This time Hunter put more thought into his reply. ‘What is there to understand, Nick?’

Hunter kept using Holden’s first name for a very simple reason – he was trying to insert a subliminal message into his sentences. Trying to make Holden’s subconscious mind perceive him as a friend, not an enemy. As he spoke, Hunter’s eyes stayed on the board in front of him. The more he looked at it, the more dots he connected.

‘You were . . . punishing innocent people by killing someone they were close to. Someone they loved.’