Dangerous Games

By Mitch Goth

Nine months after the airport incident, Kellen Monello still struggles to readjust to life at the FBI, and life after Ezra. She remains a successful agent without his help, but when a perplexing case lands on her desk Kellen knows she needs Ezra's help. A killer with a deadly game as their weapon has already left six people dead and shows no signs of stopping. With her mind still clouded by the past and the new killer leaving little evidence behind, Kellen can only hope Ezra will intervene, and that his intervention will be enough to capture the killer before more people die.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mitch Goth
• Release date: Jul 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310964657

Mitch Goth

Mitch Goth currently resides in Yellow Springs, Ohio, where he attends Antioch College working towards his BA in Literature. When not writing, he spends his time investigating the paranormal and indulging in a good book or movie.

Book preview

Book three of The Monello/Grazer Series

By:

Mitch Goth

Dangerous Games

Smashwords Edition

Copyright: 2014 Mitch Goth

No portion of this book may be reproduced or reprinted in any medium, or by electronic, mechanical or any other means without the express written consent of the author.

This book is a work of fiction. Any references or uses to real world events, people, products or places are used in a fictitious manner. Other characters, events, or places are products of imagination and any resemblance to actual people, places or happenings is purely coincidental.

Cover Design by Katie Olson

1

A young woman stood beneath the invasive orange glow of a Chicago streetlight, waiting patiently beside a car on the curb of a desolate thoroughfare. While she leaned against the front fender, the woman passed time by running her fingers through her hair, which was up in a tight pony tail. She hated having her hair put up like that, it always gave her a headache.

With the hand that wasn't toying with her long brown locks, the woman pulled a thin cigarette out of her pocket and stuck it between her lips. Over time, her anxiety that went along with meandering through the Chicago streets at night had wavered, but on this night she needed a cancer stick to ease her stress.

Out of the corner of her vision, a pair of headlights appeared. She couldn't tell how far away they were through a large pair of sunglasses, but that didn't matter. There wasn't much else to see on an empty street. Besides, the glasses were a necessity to her.

The woman stopped playing with her hair as the lights got closer. She took a long drag from her cigarette before slipping it out of her mouth to bat the ashes away. The smoke flowing through her respiratory system slowed her heart rate and focused her mind. There was no room for error.

As the lights of the car approached, the woman waved a hand into the air, signaling for help. With her other hand, the woman unclasped a small purse hanging over her shoulder. Once she saw the car slow down and pull over to the curb just outside the glow of the streetlight, her hand slid into her purse.

After the car shut off, a tall figure got out of the driver's side and approached her. At first, the shadows covered them from view. The streetlight revealed a kind-looking, bespectacled man wearing a soothing smile.

Well hey there, the man said. Car trouble?

Yeah, the woman replied, giving the best version of a smile she could muster. Damn thing just quit on me.

Why don't ya pop the hood and maybe I can check it.

Are you a mechanic?

Something like that. I run a lawnmower repair company. I can work my way around an engine if it's something simple.

Okay. The woman nodded and went into the car and pulled the hood lever. She heard the front of the car let out a chunking noise as the man opened the hood the rest of the way. See anything? She shut the door and went around the front of the car to look down at the engine.

To be honest, it looks to be in perfect shape. The man wore a puzzled expression. And it just up and died on ya?

The woman snapped her fingers. Just like that.

Her gaze shifted from the engine towards the car behind her. Despite the vehicle being parked in the shadows, she could make out two distinct silhouettes. She took another puff from her cigarette.

I'm sorry to say I don't know what I can do for ya. The man gave a shrug.

With a sigh, the woman took one last drag from her cigarette before putting it out on the metal of the car. She looked up at the man with a small smile. I can think of something.

What's that?

The woman drew her hand out from her purse, wielding a large revolver. She situated the weapon to be hidden from the other people in the man's car and pointed it at his chest. Hand over your keys.

What? The man's kind expression shattered.

Give me your keys. Try to run back to your car and I'll put a bullet in your fucking back.

O-okay. No need to get carried away here. The man pulled his keys out of his pocket.

She snatched them in an instant. Go get the other people out of your car. Now.

He nodded nervously and walked back to his vehicle. She watched him through every step. Her aim with the large gun stayed strong at his back. With her free hand, the woman slid the man's keys into her purse. The car was never her aim.

A wide smile grew on the woman's face as she watched the man herd a woman and a small girl out of the vehicle. She always liked a family man. The woman lowered the gun to her side and approached the family as they collected themselves by the trunk of their car.

I gave you what you wanted. You can take the car and just go. The man's voice shook with fright.

One more question for you. The woman brought the pistol back up, inches from the man's face. Do you like gambling?

What?

Do you like gambling?

I don't know, I've never done it. The man's whole body was trembling.

The woman saw to the side of her the mother draw her child close to her and turn away. Stubborn avoidance of trauma was something that confused the woman, but she didn't dwell on it. There were far more important matters to deal with.

You get a chance now. She smiled and spun the cylinder of the revolver. Six chambers, five bullets, you wanna take a chance?

No!

The woman sighed, tightening her grip on the trigger. I do.

She pulled the trigger.

A massive blast of fire came from the gun and the woman felt a spray of blood smack into her face. She didn't flinch. The sound of the gun made many of her senses numb. It was a sensation she adored.

Once the first shot had been fired, the woman knew that she didn't have much time. She turned to the wife, who still averted her gaze and clung to her child. After another spin of the cylinder, the woman raised the revolver and pressed the still smoking muzzle against the mother’s head.

Please, the mother blubbered.

No, the woman replied before pulling the trigger again. Once again, the front of the weapon exploded. This time, she felt a ribbon of blood strike her in the neck and chest. As the body of the mother fell into the curb, the woman looked down at her clothes. Unsalvageable, but it wasn't her favorite blouse to begin with.

Alone and frightened, the young girl wept as she looked back and forth to the slain bodies of her parents. It was a depressing sight, even for someone like the woman. To her, that was just more reason to put an end to it.

The cylinder spun once again and she aimed the weapon at the child's head. The girl only looked to be six or seven years of age. It didn't matter that much to her, age was just a number.

She pulled the trigger. This time around, the gun let out a hollow click. The firing pin had fallen on an empty chamber. Another smile came to the woman's lips. She knelt down to the girl's level and stared the crying child in the eyes. You tell the police what happened here.

At that, the woman stood up and walked back towards her vehicle. As she put her hood back down, the woman also picked up her discarded cigarette butt and pocketed it. She knew enough about criminal investigation to know how many criminals get captured because of DNA on cigarette butts.

When she got into the car, the woman tossed her sunglasses aside and took her hair out of the pony tail. She felt freer. With a relieved, comfortable sigh, the woman started the car and turned on the lights.

The little girl still stood and wept between the corpses. A thought crept into the woman's mind, she could just put the car in drive and run the girl down. To the woman, death seemed in some ways preferable to life as an orphan. After some thought, the woman put the car in drive and drove around the girl and the car. The girl had won the gamble and continued life was her prize. It was not the woman's place to cut short a fair win.

As she drove away from the scene, the woman lit another cigarette and took a look at herself in the rear-view mirror. Blood stained her face in long strings. It reminded her of war paint, like she had just come away from battle. The thought made her chuckle to herself. Real battle probably wasn't anywhere near that exhilarating.

2

Kellen Monello sat behind her desk at FBI headquarters and spent her morning reading through the newest case files. She had spent several weeks working the case involving someone quickly becoming known as the Roulette Killer. To her, it was a ridiculous name, no matter how true it may have been.

Four shootings had occurred before the most recent one. Each one was perpetrated by a single shot to the head. Ballistic analysis proved that each of the shootings were done with the same weapon. A witness around the corner from one of the shootings reported a spinning sound before the shot was heard. Then rumors abounded about a rogue Russian Roulette player in the streets of Chicago, and the name was born.

It frustrated Kellen to think that a witness had been close enough to the shooting and keen enough to tell the sound of a spinning cylinder, yet still not get a good look at the shooter. Kellen had only been on the case for a short period, but it still infuriated her.

As a headache began to consumer her, Kellen leaned back in her seat and rubbed her forehead. It had been nine months since her head went crashing into that window outside Reagan Airport, but the pain hadn't gone away. The headaches were becoming rarer with the passing weeks, but they hadn't faded completely.

Thoughts of that day only exacerbated Kellen's aching brain. For a while afterwards, she doubled her time with Remi. That helped, but pain and thoughts of responsibility still lingered. Remi kept giving her all the reasons why what happened wasn't her fault and continued to say that time would heal all her wounds. All Kellen could think was that she needed a lot more time.

When thoughts of Ezra appeared in her head, Kellen leaned forward again and submerged herself in her work. She had been down memory lane enough times to know that if she thought about Ezra, he wouldn't leave her head all day. Even with nine months of not seeing each other he found ways into her psyche.

While the pounding in her head continued, Kellen read through the case file in front of her. Whoever the Roulette Killer was, they were picking up speed. The FBI had followed the case after the third murder, and since then a man had been shot dead outside a shop he owned, and now two parents were dead while their child lived on.

Kellen paged further through the file to a transcription of the Chicago Police Department's interview with the young girl. According to what the girl said, the Roulette Killer was correctly named. As well as a six year old could explain it, the girl detailed how the killer would spin the cylinder of the weapon after every shot, and how the gun didn't go off when it was her turn.

The transcription made Kellen's stomach turn. It reminded her of her own after the death of her parents. She had been interviewed by professionals trained in talking to traumatized children, but that didn't help. Kellen still recalled all the questions she didn't want to answer, all the memories she didn't want to have in her head anymore.

She wondered what would become of the little girl. It wasn't a thought she stayed on for too long. Just like remembrances of Ezra, if she kept on it, it wouldn't leave her head. It wasn't something she wanted to think about anyway. That wasn't her job. Her job was to find the person that made the poor girl an orphan to begin with.

As she went further, Kellen paused at one passage. The girl described the killer to the best of her ability. She described a woman, age unknown, but she looked younger than her mother. Records showed that her mother was thirty-five years old.

That was something Kellen couldn't wrap her mind around. It wasn't often that female serial killers popped up. But this one was something special. A woman, late twenties to early thirties, going around Chicago at night with a revolver and playing rounds of Russian Roulette with her victims. In all her years in the FBI, Kellen never came across a female killer with tendencies as ruthless and sadistic as this.

Kellen turned the page in the file to reveal a scan of the composite sketch the child had given. It was a vague depiction of a female face. The hair was put back and the top of the face was covered with dark glasses. It was a simple disguise, but it worked. Anyone with a feminine facial structure would fit that drawing. Kellen would fit that drawing.

Despite her best efforts, Kellen's mind fell back into her past. She wished for a long time she could have gotten a glimpse of the killer. Young Kellen wanted to do everything to help find the man responsible for her parents' death. Even though they caught him some time later in another home invasion, the frustration still lingered. Kellen wanted to help, but there was nothing she could do then.

It was in that anger with herself that the seed was planted in Kellen's soul to be someone who could always stop the killers of the world. That seed took her to the FBI, and that seed had put away dozens of murderers since the start of her career as an agent.

In a way, Kellen was happy to see that the girl could give a halfway decent description, even if the final drawing wasn't much help. She hoped that would help give the girl some closure even though she knew it wouldn't. There wouldn't be any closure in that girl's life until the killer was brought down, and that was where Kellen came in.

The drawing was the end of the case file. Kellen closed it and stood up from her desk. As much as she didn't want to, there was someone she had to talk to about the contents of the file. Begrudgingly, she made her way across the room to Renald's desk.

Even as she stood right at the foot of his desk, Renald didn't look up from his work. To avoid the awkwardness of staring blankly down at him, Kellen shifted her gaze to the gleaming nameplate at the edge of his desk. She smirked.

I always forget your first name is Gregory, she said. It suits you.

What the hell do you want, Monello? Renald asked.

I was just wondering if you had time to read through the Roulette Killer case file we got?

Yeah I went through it. Son of a bitch is going bigger.

I think it would be 'daughter of a bitch'.

What? Renald looked up at her.

The killer is a woman, so it would be daughter of a bitch, not son.

I don't give a damn what gender they are, they're out there killing people. I had a meeting with Don earlier this morning. We're headed over there to take charge of the investigation.

Great. Kellen groaned.

Well CPD is doing so well at it. It's not like this lunatic is still roaming the streets leaving children orphaned and scarred for life. Oh wait, she is. CPD isn't doing its damn job, so we've gotta go do it.

Fair enough. When do we leave?

Not until next week. There's still some things that need to be dealt with here first.

Sounds like a plan. Happy to be working together?

Hell no.

Kellen sighed. Me neither.

3

That night, Kellen sat alone in her dark apartment and pondered the case in Chicago. She didn't travel for several months after the Reagan Airport incident. The bureaucrats in the FBI kept her stuck at a desk until the onset of spring. They called it a precaution, something to keep her close until the side effects of her head injury subsided. To her it felt like punishment.

Since spring, Kellen had gone out in the field half a dozen times. She had caught killers with her own two hands, slapped cuffs on to them and sent them to prison. Each time, more of Kellen's pride and sense of empowerment returned. There was still a long road ahead, and it was to be built on the outcomes of field cases.

In a way she was excited to be going back out again, although at the same time Kellen had a lingering fear within her. She had never been to Chicago before, but her anxiety came from another source. The killings, and the killer, perplexed her. It wasn't often that a female serial killer landed in the crosshairs of the FBI.

Women killed, that much was obvious. Kellen had heard stories of women murdering their children, their husbands, strangers, everything. Stabbings, shootings, drowning, even a case of burning had passed through Kellen's ears. Still, the new case made her nervous.

As she thought about it, Kellen sipped at an iced glass of straight whiskey. It was the only thing that came as close to easing her stress as Remi. When she got restless in the wee hours of the night or morning, Kellen found the amber liquid was a decent replacement for her therapist. But she doubted even Remi's power would sway her fears.

The woman in Chicago was a random killer, or at least it appeared like she was. Kellen was certain a motive was there somewhere, but it remained unapparent. Until a motive was found, the killer was a random shooter. More so, she was a killer willing to kill a child's parents right in front of the kid. If the girl's testimony was true, the killer also wasn't touched by murdering children.

Kellen got goosebumps. This was the most muddled motive she had seen in years. That