Acts Beyond Redemption

By S. Burke

In Book 1 of the ‘Unintended Consequences’ series Acts Beyond Redemption takes you on a twisted, deadly ,journey.

Mike Matheson is head of a Special Task Force set up by the F.B.I to track down and apprehend the serial killer or killers responsible for 18 brutal murders.
He and his team are exhausted, frustrated, and ready to burn out after almost five years and no leads.

Nothing in their considerable experience has prepared them for this. Nothing in their imaginations could conceive of the truth hidden in plain sight.

He finally has his perpetrator..., or does he? Everything points in the direction of the beautiful Sheila Harrington. She becomes the focus of their investigation. Deflecting their weary eyes away from a truth too incomprehensible to be permitted to exist.

The truth is uncovered, but revealing it and those that set it in motion would bring the most powerful country on earth to its knees. The corridors of power shake. Who will be buried in the shattered remains of a country where freedom and honor are treasured above all things?

Just how far will those elected to protect and defend go, to keep the American dream alive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: S. Burke
• Release date: Jan 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310583865

S. Burke

I am an Australian Author ...Which I guess qualifies me for AA. I live in the glorious Harbor city of Sydney. I'm currently in the process of writing three new books, and have just completed another two...Phew! Not too shabby for a sixty plus year old.I love life, laughter, and my darling daughter and four-year-old grandson.Never enough hours in my day to complete all I have yet to do....my bucket list grows every year. I'm delighted to be here and look forward to interacting with many of you. Stay safe...and stay happy.

Book preview

Prologue

The 747 had been in the air for eleven hours. It was a rough trip, heavy turbulence ensuring the barf bags had a purpose to serve.

The passengers had been quiet for the most part. Strangers all, no real attempt at conversation was made. Each of the young men appeared to be deeply enmeshed in their own thoughts. One of them passed the time watching several of the others push up their sleeves to glance at watches that were no longer there. It amused him to see them pat themselves down seeking the comfort of their cellphones, which had also been taken, together with any jewelry the men may have been wearing.

The window shutters were down and locked, affording no one the benefit of identifying in which direction they were travelling. The plane landed in a storm, and taxied into a purpose-built hangar.

The travelers were split into two groups of fifteen. They were directed to two buses and once seated were blindfolded securely and handcuffed to ensure those blindfolds remained in place. This was, not unexpected. They had been told that security was tight.

Where do you suppose we’re headed? one of them asked his seating companion.

Don’t know, don’t care. Don’t feel like talking either, was the surly response.

The guy who initiated the conversation shrugged. Fine by me.

The outside temperature felt much colder than their point of departure had been. It had been a long flight. With no sunshine to guide them and no stars able to be viewed, they had no idea where on the planet they were and didn’t care. This was all about the money. More money than any of them had even dreamed of having. They couldn’t care less what they had to do to earn it.

The buses carried thirty healthy young men, with five things in common. They were all under thirty years of age. They were all capable of killing another human being if the conditions and the money were right. They each had olive skin and dark hair. They were all discards, who had never found parents who wanted to keep them.

All had failed the parameters on entering law enforcement agencies due to their psychiatric assessments.

The consensus reached by analysis was that they each had ‘sociopathic’ tendencies.

They weren’t the first busload of young healthy men to pass through the heavily guarded sentry gates. They would however, be the last.

Recruitment had required a skilled team months of searching. This load consisted - as did the others - of young people that slipped through the cracks of society through their own skill and ability to manipulate others, and the capacity to survive at any cost.

They were all loners.

Detailed profile reports indicated they would be capable of offences ranging from assault to murder, with barely a thought to consequences.

They were exactly the types the recruiters of this particular unit wanted; healthy nobodies, nobodies who could be trained to be killers without anything other than a large cash bonus as the incentive.

The bus went through a long tunnel and entered an underground area, well lit, and guarded. The blindfolds and handcuffs were removed and they all blinked in the harsh lighting. The uniforms of those standing in a tight group awaiting their arrival were not familiar.

They were directed through a set of electrified gates, a couple of hundred yards beyond which appeared to be accommodation huts. None of them attempted conversation. None had a wish to become even vaguely friendly with any of their suddenly inherited brethren.

A man, taller than most, exited a building with no windows, off to the left of the group. They watched him approach, each of them wearing differing degrees of testosterone charged body language.

The tall man spoke to the two other men wearing uniform, then turned and stood looking at them much as you would at cattle on display at an auction. When he spoke, it was clear, and crisp.

You have been selected from a number of possible people for a specific task. This is not a movie, people. There is no drill sergeant from hell with a secret soft side here. You can leave at any time, up to a certain point. You will be apprised of that point with enough time to make your decision. The training will be intense. Many of you will fail.

He stopped and watched them for a full minute, until they could no longer hold his gaze. He smiled in grim amusement as they began to look away, then he continued in the same tone, "Those of you that do their absolute best, yet still fail up to week twelve, will be paid well for the time spent here and returned to their city of origin. You are not here because of your unwavering patriotism. You are not here because you are the best and brightest America has to offer. You are here because you are survivors. You are here because you have a mentality suited to the job for which you will be trained.

Hear me clearly; refusal to obey an order in the first twelve weeks of training will have you removed from this place without payment. He paused again and waited … Refusal to obey a direct order after twelve weeks has elapsed will have you shot. There will be no court martial, no jury of your peers. The sentence will be carried out immediately and your remains will be burned. Respond with ‘Yes, Sir’ if you understand.

The silence that followed was absolute.

What part of the directive was not understood?

He pointed to a tall, thin, dark-haired young man with a face cratered by acne. You! What part of that directive didn’t you understand?

None of it. I mean I get it, man, but that you will be shot bullshit, you’re shittin’ me, right?

Firstly, do not ever address me as anything but ‘Sir’ again. Secondly, I was not ‘shittin’ you. Failure to obey a direct order after week twelve- three months- will cause you to be placed before a firing squad and shot. Raise your hand if you understand!

Hands were raised, slowly.

Four of the group did not raise their hands.

You four. Step forward.

The members of the small group looked at each other and took one pace forward.

What didn’t you understand? He pointed at one of them.

Oh, I understood Okay, man … Sir. I just don’t wanna play no more.

You other three, is that how you feel?

Yep.

Uh- yes, sir!

Yes, Sir.

Fine. I don’t like people wasting my time. Fall out here and you can re-board the transport. You will not receive the agreed amount of the initial payment. Discussion of anything that has occurred since contact was made will result in your immediate arrest and incarceration without trial. Understood?

They all replied, Yes, sir.

The rest of you will be spoken to further after you have changed clothing. I leave you with Denver. You will address him at all times as ‘Denver’ or ‘sir’. That is all. At ease. The man strode off with another who had been standing to the rear of the group. This one wasn’t quite as tall, but somehow he looked more menacing in his black jeans and shirt.

The man known as Denver stepped out front of the group. You will follow me and be assigned to your quarters. Your uniforms are on the bunks. From today, you will be known only by the names allocated to you. You will find your photograph at the end of your allocated bunk with your new name and identity attached. Memorize it. Anything from your past, anything ceases to exist from this moment. Four of you will be assigned to each hut. Shower, change, and be back out here in twenty-five minutes. Understood?

Silence.

Understood? he repeated.

Yes, sir! The group, minus the four who had made the decision not to stay followed Denver across a long expanse of yard, rounded a corner and found a group of de-mountables waiting. Denver walked up and down the two lines of remaining men with a clipboard and photographs of each of them; he confirmed their identity to his satisfaction and grouped them in lots of four.

Giving each group a number, he directed them to their allocated accommodation.

The four dissenters in the group re-boarded a bus and were driven again through the tunnel. They arrived at an airstrip and disembarked waiting for instructions to re-board a plane. Two uniformed men escorted them out to the tarmac. There was no plane. The four men stood quietly waiting for further instructions. The guards opened fire and the four of them dropped, dead before they hit the ground.

One hour later, without explicit confirmation of death, they were thrown in a communal grave and burned, along with the others that had decided not to play.

Operation Pale Horse. Team 1. That’s what the card said.

Quentin Hamersley.

He said it aloud, but it still sounded like shit. God, what a name they had chosen for him. Quentin, for Christ’s sake. He didn’t like it, but already knew that was just too damned bad. Operation Pale Horse? What was that? Were they going to be trained as rodeo clowns? The other three in his hut were all sharing a bitch about their new identities.

Hey, man, what the fuck? Birth certificates yet! I ain’t never even seen my own birth certificate, and now I got me a new one. This statement came from a tall rangy guy, with long dirty black hair and a tattoo on his neck, which he hoped wasn’t going to cause a problem. Maybe he could keep it hidden. So, you. He pointed at Quentin. What are you called now?

Quinn, call me Quinn. What’s yours?

Tattooed guy answered, Brad. I guess it’s as good as any other name.

Charles, said the shortest of the four. Make it Chuck though.

Mine’s Danny. Not so bad, eh?

No one shook hands. They each assessed the other and made no further comment. The one known as Quinn smiled at the alpha male shit. Time enough for the getting to know each other crap when they’d had a chance to eat and sleep.

Each of them headed for the bathroom. The bunkhouses were well equipped with showers and a kitchen, plus a larger area with a DVD player, large sofas, and a bar, which was currently locked. No television or radio, which heightened the man now known as Quinn's growing suspicion that they were no longer in the U S of A.

Command Centre

Operation Pale Horse

Time they were out front, the man wearing black jeans and shirt said.

The taller of the two checked his watch and agreed. Yup. What do you make of this lot, Ranger?

Too soon yet. You know that. I’ll answer after a week, if they last that long.

We have to have at least another fifteen ready to go by April.

I will not jeopardize this operation by permitting entry to men who will not make it past the first jump. They must be able to obey without question or hesitation. Only a few of the remaining newbies will make it. So I guess we will have to wait and see, Tonto.

Screw you. You know I hate being called that.

Yeah! But you’re beautiful when you’re angry. Ranger left the other man standing and walked away laughing.

He continued across to the accommodation huts and waited for the new blood to group outside. The operation was nearing completion. They only needed four teams of four out of the remaining males. Those that failed would meet the same fate as the four who, an hour ago, made the worst choice of their short lives.

Command Centre

1:30 a.m.

Ranger? The voice came from the outside the window. You awake?

I am now, was the response as the man known as Ranger tried to focus his eyes on the time. Why am I being woken at 0130, Tonto? This had better be good. His voice was calm and reasonable, not displaying the annoyance he felt.

The uniformed man entered the cabin, Two of the new intake did a runner after lights out.

Damn it, which two? Have they been located? They can’t have gone far, not here. Have they breached the first boundary alarm?

Not yet. It’s only a matter of time before they do. Where else can they go? The question was rhetorical; both men knew well there was nowhere.

What spooked ‘em? And again, which two?

The ones we allocated the names of … hang on let me check. He flicked on the light and glanced at the clipboard. Yeah, here we are, Stan Letheridge and Cody Miles, both aged twenty-six. The first punk is from NYC. The other one, Detroit. Odd, we haven’t had this happen so early in the process before.

Give me that, ordered Ranger, holding out his hand and scanning the pages when the clipboard was in his possession.

Find out if they were seated together on the flight. Then check the cabin, see if they were wearing the uniforms. We don’t need this shit, man. We are already running behind schedule. The boss won’t be happy. He looked at the other man. I don’t like it when the boss gets unhappy, my friend. I don’t like it at all. His slight accent grew more pronounced when he was angry.

Tonto wondered again where it was from, as it was only when he was agitated it came out at all. He shrugged it off; grateful he wasn’t in command of this or any other specific section of the training process. Ranger was welcome to the hefty pay that went with the responsibility; he wouldn’t care to be giving explanations to the boss.

Ranger swung his long legs out of the bunk and stood up, towering over the other man, who himself stood just on six feet tall. Get me a wake up coffee. Who is doing the preliminary search?

Nobody yet, I only just discovered them missing. The last check was midnight, so they have an hour and a half head start. No purpose to it, they can’t get far.

Agreed, but they can cause a ripple amongst the group. Tell the others, if they ask, the two had second thoughts and asked to leave. They will be joining the four who opted out anyways.

I hate this. I can’t see the point in killing them, they don’t know anything.

They know enough to start people asking questions.

But they have no idea where we are located, man, they can’t lead people here.

That’s enough. You know the orders. Now, shut up, get me a coffee and join me back here in ten minutes.

The shorter man glanced at his superior; the look on Ranger's face told him he’d already said too much, and he hurried from the cabin. Ranger dressed in under a minute, accustomed to having to do so. Tonto came back in, without the coffee. They’re back. I caught ‘em sneaking into the hut.

Shit! Where did you put them? Did they wake the other two in the hut?

Yeah, they did. I have ‘em in the cells.

Fuck! All four in the cells?

Oh, come on, man. The other two didn’t do anything but get woken up. We can tell ‘em something they’ll believe, can’t we?

Ranger shook his head. Get me a coffee. I’ll take care of the rest. And, Tonto, watch your attitude. You’re lucky it’s me and nobody else you’re talking to. You know the orders, and you know what happens if we don’t follow them. This isn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last. We’ll have to find four more, and damned fast. First up, move the other two over to the lockdown. Then, contact Holliday and put him through to me here. Got that?

The other man nodded.

Good. Get me that coffee. Now.

Tonto felt his gut clench tight and the acid began a slow burn. Fuck, if he couldn’t talk to Ranger about this, then he couldn’t talk to anyone. He’d thought they were friends. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. He hurried to get the coffee determined to never raise the subject again; but it weighed on him, heavily. God damn it, he didn’t even know what their prime objective was. Ranger did. But he would never share the information. He’d die first. Tonto was a doomed man; trapped by his own greed into a situation he had no way of escaping. Not alive.

Ranger’s phone rang. Yes?

Why the contact? came the disembodied voice of the man he knew as Holliday.

We have an inconvenience.

Tell me.

Two new recruits left the hut, missing for around an hour and a half. They came back of their own volition, but woke their team on re-entering the hut.

Where are they now?

In lockdown.

Good, why are you contacting me? You know what needs to be done. Do it.

All four?

How soon can we get replacements? was the response.

I’ll check … it may delay us for a while, this bunch took long enough to locate and convince.

We don’t have a while. We are already behind schedule. This lot have to be fully trained, and you have only twenty-six weeks to accomplish that. You know the penalty if we don’t deliver by early spring. They will all be incapacitated for a minimum seven days after facial reconstruction. Bring that forward. Give them ten days, then the reconstruct. That will bring us closer to the date expected.

That doesn’t give us long to ensure absolute obedience. I will have to change the technique and that is dangerous. We could lose more if I ramp up the training.

That is a risk we need to take. Do it. And forget replacements. Do the job with four down.

There will be others that will fail the training.

"You had better hope at least sixteen of the remaining twenty two pass, or it’s your ass. Now, take care of the inconvenience. Don’t contact me again till it’s done, and make it fast. I need my sleep. And, Ranger … I know you would never question my orders. In consequence, the person who did so will share the fate of the other four. Are we clear?

Understood. Ranger ended the call as Tonto came in with coffee.

Ranger took the steaming mug, and sipped at it. He lit up a smoke and offered the pack to the other man.

Tonto refused it.

Don’t take this so personal, man. This is just the way it is, nothing more than that.

Sure. Anything else?

Ranger stared at him long enough to make Tonto glance away. Then he spoke. Yes, as a matter of fact. You can join me. Outside, in ten. Understand?

The other man paled visibly. Fuck it, Ranger; don’t make me do this, man. Please. They’re only kids, for fuck’s sake.

Outside in ten. You comply or you deal with the fall out. You know the drill.

Tonto turned and left the cabin. He threw up once, and again. He knew he had no choice. No choice at all; not if he wanted to live through the night.

The four young men were huddled in a group whispering when Ranger and the other man entered.

Which ones snuck out? he asked of his companion.

Tonto didn’t have to respond, two of the group stepped forward. It was us. We didn’t mean no harm. We just wanted to …

You just wanted to?

Well, like we, um, we wanted to talk, private like.

Not acceptable behavior. You were ordered not to leave the hut. Ranger turned to his subordinate Corporal, you have your orders.

Tonto looked at him with the question on his face. Me? I … yes, sir.

Now.

Yes, sir.

The young men looked at each other. It looked like they would be going home without payment.

What about the money? one of them asked.

You will be paid only the initial amount agreed upon. Disobeying an order has cost you dearly. Tonto didn’t look at their faces. Follow me, you will be returned to your points of origin.

A second uniformed man waited outside when they emerged from the cellblock. Escort these men to the transport. Blindfolds again. And cuffs.

Yes, sir.

The four young men weren’t happy. Especially the two that hadn’t disobeyed the order. Clearly, they weren’t going to make any difference by complaining. They were going home, their adventure already over.

They were blindfolded, handcuffed, and returned to a bus. The man known as Tonto boarded unseen behind them, they drove to an area just outside the first perimeter. The men were shepherded out of the bus and stood waiting for further instructions.

Tonto raised his gun and shot each of them. The last one running blindly when he recognized what was happening, but his efforts were futile. The bodies were disposed of in the usual fashion.

Tonto threw up. He then re-boarded the bus and returned to the complex.

Ranger watched him approach; he lit a smoke and handed it to the man without speaking. He lit his own, smoked it …drew his handgun and shot Tonto in the head. Then made his way back to his cabin, picked up his cell and punched in the number.

Well?

It’s done.

Fine. I don’t expect to hear from you again till the group is fully trained and ready to deploy. Understood?

Affirmative.

The only response was the sound of the phone disconnecting.

CHAPTER 1

Present Day

FBI ‘Countdown’ Task Force

New York City Field Office.

Except for the four chairs set around a table, and an oversized wall mirror, the large room was empty of furniture.

Only one of those chairs was occupied.

The woman stood abruptly, knocking over her seat as she did so. She gave it a kick and shoved it out of her way before flinging her long hair back with a slender manicured hand; she was agitated and it showed. She sniffed the air, the scent of sweat and the unmistakable stench of fear that permeated the walls was never going to be a pleasant sensation. She gave a delicate shudder, clearly indicating that she was finding the odor offensive.

Hey, Mike! Get in here, man. She’s up and pacing around. She looks a little shook up, Agent Lewinski shouted from the other side of the viewing screen.

Well, at least she’s doing something. The response from an adjoining room held more than just a touch of irritation. The FBI task force had been watching for hours and the seated woman had barely moved in all that time.

Have you ever noticed the empty space, Sheila? said the woman.

The Agent looked across at his partner. What did she say? Who the fuck is Sheila?

I have no idea. Hey, Mike! Mike … she’s talking!

Senior Agent Mike Matheson hurried in and increased the recording volume. Well, whadya know, the bitch does have vocal chords. Who the hell is she talking to?

Someone named Sheila. Not us, that’s for certain.

Get the rest of the team in here. Mike whispered, despite the woman being unable to hear him.

The woman in the interview room now stood still and placed her hands on her slender hips. Her stance gave the impression of waiting for a response.

From whom?

Well, have you, Sheila? What is wrong with you this morning? It was your decision that Paul and Martin had to go. No point you sulking about it now! the woman, thus far known only as Eileen, said. Paul was fun to be with. You can’t deny it. You liked him as much as I did. She laughed coarsely. Not, of course, that it changed the outcome. I didn’t like Martin. He was far too big for his boots. Strutting around like a rooster, and as for all that macho bullshit, he sure changed his tune when it came time to say goodbye.

Her beautiful face broke into a large grin.

She sat heavily on another chair, kicking the one on its side in an absent fashion, hands moving to her hair and constantly pushing it away from her face.

Again, she stood and circled the table, ignoring the chair, stepping around it as if it had been deliberately strewn in her path. She began pacing the way a caged tiger does, back and forth, not increasing her pace, continuing her conversation with herself. She gesticulated her anger with every movement, her hands busy, long fingers constantly wrapping around each other and flexing, then pulling on the ends of her hair.

Your lack of interest is becoming boring, Sheila, she said, walking across to the large mirror that took up most of one wall.

She gazed into it; and gently removed a tiny spot on her cheek. Pleased with her reflection, she sauntered back to the table and sat.

You weren’t so bored when they were around, were you? You were excited then, sure enough. The goodbyes always excite you, don’t they, Sheila?

Her agitation now showed in her voice.

Haven't I always said that the gun would’ve been better? Hmm? But, oh no, not good enough for you, Sheila. You wanted them to plead. Although I have to admit it was rather fun watching Martin grovel and cry like that. She giggled at the image it appeared to conjure in her mind.

The group listening in the viewing room were tense, recording every word, and waiting. They’d worked long and hard to reach this point in their investigations. This, whatever the hell it was … was the pay off.

Did you even bother to notice the revolting mess you made? Her tone was increasingly high and irritated. No, of course not, getting all bloody doesn’t worry you at all! Does it, Sheila? No, you didn’t care. Why would you? she screamed. After all, you’re not the one who has to clean it up! Well, I’m tired of it!

Sweet Jesus, said Agent Mike Matheson.

He cast a glance at the other members of his team. They all sat forward, tense and hopeful. Special Agent Trish Clayton was biting her nails as she watched the unfolding scene in the other room. Mike caught himself running his hands through his thick greying hair. All but three of his team had been on this case with him from day one. They were dedicated agents, and the stress of this investigation showed on their faces.

It had been close on four years. Long, frustrating years of nothing, no leads, and what little information they did manage to secure came to a dead end and a dead body every time, until twenty-seven hours ago, when they at last had a break.

What the fuck? That was some performance! Mike Matheson muttered, half to himself.

But was it, Mike? Was it a performance? Or is that woman in there one twisted piece of goods? I think she honestly believed she was talking to another person. Don’t you? asked Trish, and walked up to the two way mirror as if by standing close to it, she could absorb some hidden truth.

Trish Clayton was a fine agent. Mike simply didn’t know how to respond, and opted for safe ground. It looked that way, Trish, but it’s not up to any of us here to make that call, thank God. Let’s leave that to the shrinks, shall we? I’ll say this much for her. He turned his head and indicated the two-way mirror. She is either a damned fine actress or her headspace is seriously overcrowded.

Hey, Mike, what in hell is she doing now? asked a junior team member.

The woman they knew as Eileen now stood in front of the mirror. She remained unmoving at first, then gathered her mass of long hair and wound it into a knot at the nape of her neck. She slowly unbuttoned her blouse until her cleavage was exposed. Then she began to suck on her fingers one at a time. She placed each one deep in her mouth and withdrew it, very slowly, finishing each finger off with a flick of her tongue, moving tantalizingly on to the next, her free hand stroking her pubic area with deliberately provocative moves.

The entire room seemed mesmerized.

Jesus Holy Christ, one of the males managed to murmur.

Jesus had nothing whatsoever to do with that erotic little performance, boys, said Trish Clayton, not quite succeeding in smothering a smile.

Most of the male members of the task force shook their heads in an attempt to clear the images from their minds. They were all embarrassed at being exposed.

This case from its beginnings had been a sick form of a reality show, only there were no prizes. Eighteen of the contestants had paid the highest price of all.

When’s Cantrell due to arrive? Mike Matheson asked, throwing the question to the packed room.

His plane got in about an hour ago. He's coming straight here, said he was anxious to begin. Not a bad attitude after a long flight, huh? The young agent was about to say more, but the surly look on his commander’s face stopped him cold.

Mike looked again at the photographs pinned next to each name on the board in front of him, and shuddered. Even after all this time they still made him sick, clean through to his soul.

They were all Polaroid shots, self-developing, two for each victim.

How well he remembered the first one.

The picture had been sent to the editor of ‘The Times’. It showed victim number one, Quentin Hamersley, bound in what looked like duct tape. The eyes were uncovered.

On the back of the picture was written, ‘Help me. You have seven days to find me. If not, I will die!’

The editor immediately contacted the police. The threat was taken seriously and the police worked frantically against the clock, to no avail. Exactly eight days after the first photo, the editor received photo number two.

It was another Polaroid shot.

This time, it was Quentin Hamersley’s severed head sitting in a bloodied mass in the middle of a wooden table.

On the back was printed, in blood, ‘TIME’S UP’, and a map