“Got a crime scene?”

“Not that we know of yet. Kid said it happened on Apache somewhere. Uniforms are heading up there now to see if they can find anything. Going to have his car towed for evidence—let SIU process it. Guess the little fucker drove to the hospital himself—no teeth and all.”

“Okay, Jack, thanks. Let me know if you need any help.”

For once, an uncooperative victim would work in Thorpe’s favor. It didn’t sound like the guy was going to be a problem; he’d even lied about where the shooting occurred.

Before Thorpe left the office for the night, he removed a two-pound bag of sugar from the cafeteria, went out to the red Chevy he’d been driving earlier and poured most of it into the gas tank. The sugar should cause enough engine damage to keep the Chevy out of action for a while. In fact, since the vehicle was an older confiscation, the department would probably just scrap the truck instead of having it repaired. The last thing Thorpe wanted on his conscience was a fellow officer driving the Chevy and getting ambushed by a revenge-seeking gangbanger.

Tuesday

February 6

Early morning

THORPE TRAVELED THE ROADALONGSIDE his property just after two thirty in the morning. Inside the fence, Al and Trixie paced his truck until both parties met at the gate. Ablaze in headlights, the dogs’ wagging tails projected shadowy ribbons on the otherwise still barn. Removing the lock and chain, Thorpe reached through the metal gate and scratched both dogs under the chin before ordering them to back up. The dogs dutifully obeyed, allowing Thorpe to push open the gate, climb into his truck, and enter his drive. Once inside, Thorpe slid out of the cab and gave his friends a proper greeting—a thorough scratching behind laid back ears.

Thorpe closed the gate and continued up the driveway, parking in front of the barn. After feeding Al and Trixie, he removed equipment from his truck and walked to the front door of his home. Thorpe didn’t own an alarm system; the house was so remote it wouldn’t do much good. Besides that’s what his pooches were for. He unlocked the front door, stepped to the side, and ordered the dogs to search the interior. Thorpe hadn’t found the inspiration to decorate yet. His living room consisted of a leather couch, a recliner, an end table, a television and not much else. Crossing the threshold, Thorpe removed a Glock 27 pistol from his ankle holster and a Glock 22C from his waistband. He placed both weapons on the end table, stepped into the kitchen and grabbed a beer. He stood in hesitation for a moment, reopened the refrigerator and removed the remainder of the six-pack; it had been that kind of night. Thorpe waited for the search’s conclusion, then walked out the back door—beer and dogs in tow.

A stone fire pit sat next to the wooden deck. He tossed some logs into the crater, lit a fire and popped open a can. Ice cold beer and a sizzling fire—the finer things. Settling into a chair, he contemplated the events that had brought him to this moment and forged him into who he was—and who he would become.

Thorpe was born and raised in Kansas City, Missouri. His mother, Margaret, worked as a school bus driver for the North Kansas City School District. This allowed her to be home with little Johnny and his sister, Marilyn, during the summer, weekends, and holidays; an important aspect of her job since she was, for all practical purposes, a single parent for interminable periods of time.

Thorpe’s father, Benjamin, was a soldier. At least that was the profession as explained to little Johnny, Marilyn and anyone else who inquired about Ben’s line of work. This much Thorpe did know: Benjamin Thorpe grew up very poor. Ben’s father had disappeared when Ben was young, leaving his mom to raise eight children. At one point, the family’s circumstances became so dire they separated; Ben moved in with a neighbor. From what Thorpe had been able to learn, the neighbor wasn’t much more than a local prostitute gracious enough to feed and house Ben until the family got back on its feet. That never occurred. Ben dropped out of school in the eighth grade and lied about his age to take a job and help care for his brothers and sisters. He had been deprived of both a father and a childhood.

When Ben turned eighteen, his fondness for fighting began to land him in trouble with the local authorities. In those days judges routinely gave young men the choice between military service and jail time. Ben wisely enlisted and discovered he was a natural-born soldier—except for one problem; he didn’t like to take orders from idiots, of which the Army was in no short supply. On several occasions he threatened bodily harm to those with higher rank, and, at least once, made good on his promise.

John was certain by the time he turned ten, his father no longer served in the regular army. Whether Ben left voluntarily or was forced out, Thorpe didn’t know. Ever since he could remember, his father had left home for long durations. “Overseas deployments” were how his mother and father referred to his absences. When Ben returned, usually with a fresh collection of scars, he spent every waking hour with his children and was a firm but good father—at least Johnny thought so. Some of the things Ben did back then would land a parent in jail these days.

Ben began teaching little Johnny hand-to-hand combat skills shortly after he took his first steps. As Johnny grew, the lessons intensified and often resulted in numerous scrapes and bruises. But Ben always let John know the sessions were conducted with the best of intentions.

“It’s a dangerous world full of bad people, Johnny. Someday this may save your life or the life of someone you love.” To John, these activities seemed normal because it was all he ever knew. While other kids and their fathers were playing football and basketball, Johnny and Ben were going over the finer points of disarming an adversary or how to turn household items into lethal weapons. Looking back, Thorpe figured his dad never had a father who taught him the proper way to throw a football or other facets of team sports. And because Ben had to drop out of school, he hadn’t had the opportunity to learn sports in that environment either.

So Ben taught Johnny the only craft he’d mastered. Before Ben left for deployments, he’d search for a boxing or martial arts facility to supplement Johnny’s skills while away. Ben was a small man, maybe five-eight and less than 150 pounds. In those days, instructors routinely accepted challenges from other practitioners or prospective students to prove they were worthy of teaching. Ben would take Johnny to a school, meet with the head instructor, and ask to spar before signing a contract. If the instructor refused, Ben would ask the man, “If you’re not confident in your abilities, why should I be?” Then he’d stand up to leave. Sometimes the instructors would let Ben and Johnny walk out the door. Other times, either because of financial reasons or pride, they accepted the challenge after laying down ground rules such as no biting or eye gouging. The sparring matches generally lasted several minutes but always ended one of two ways—with John’s father standing over a semiconscious instructor or the instructor submitting to avoid injury.

During those matches, John realized his father could have finished most fights much earlier but was merely auditioning the instructors to see if they possessed skills worthy of imparting to his son. Thorpe remembered seeing his father equaled only one time in all those auditions. Ben had taken him to a boxing gym; the head trainer had been a regional Golden Gloves champion and former professional boxer. The trainer outweighed his father by at least fifty pounds and bested his father during the match. However, Johnny felt positive if the fight had occurred on the street, his father would have picked the pugilist up by the hips and dropped him headfirst onto the concrete. A street fight might have lasted ten seconds.