Warrior's Way

By M.J. Calabrese

'Hello, tall, dark and handsome.’ Out and proud gay Albuquerque Homicide Detective Eagle Woodard studied Dr. Adam Coulter, criminal profiler, with a clinical eye. ‘Slender build...narrow waist, but nicely muscled underneath that Hugo Boss suit. People think you work out, Kemo, but you don’t.’ Eagle’s dark eyes narrowed. ‘You know I hate that day old beard look, but you were probably too wasted to bother. Nice eyes, green when they aren’t blood shot. Flawless tanned skin except for that tiny scar through your left eyebrow.’ The former Army Ranger grinned. ‘I gave that to you accidentally when we were 8 years old. When you stood up for this Navajo kid in an all white school. We both got our asses kicked.’ Eagle sighed and shook his head. That was the day he’d fallen in love with 4 times married, 4 times divorced, current roommate, Adam Coulter.
Eagle and Adam are faced with their toughest challenge yet. They must find an active serial killer before he strikes again. With the powers that be not cooperating and the killer proving to be elusive, will Eagle and Adam be able to stop the murderer while navigating their changing relationship?

PLEASE NOTE: This is the first book in an ongoing series. Although the case will be solved, the relationship will end in a cliffhanger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M.J. Calabrese
• Release date: Dec 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463501573

M.J. Calabrese

My mother now regrets her fateful words she offered the day I came home from our small town library in Palm Springs, California (yes, I’m a Cali girl) complaining that there were no more books to read. “Then why don’t you write some.”My father never saw his old Remington portable until I entered college and they gifted me an IBM Selectric. By then I had produced at least two dozen unpublishable novels which make me cringe when I read them today.I found inspiration in innumerable odd jobs (from migrant work as a Date palm pollinator to the person who cleans the washing machines at the launderette to professional Dominatrix) for stories. After a stint in Rehab for Alcohol and Heroin abuse (so when I write those scenes, I know what I’m talking about), I cleaned up and have stayed that way for 29 years. (Me and Sir Elton, LOL). My gypsy lifestyle gave me a unique perspective on the different people who inhabited the Washington, Oregon, Arizona, California, and New Mexico areas where I have lived.After 3 very bad marriages to men, I finally figured out what was wrong and fell in love with a woman when I lived in Portland, OR 23 years ago. We’ve been married since 2008 (yes it was legal in California at that time). We now live in Asheville, NC and love the people in this liberal and accepting corner of the mountains of North Carolina.To learn all about my upcoming releases, news, and specials, please follow or like me at any of my links!

Book preview

The cool wind attacked Eagle Woodard’s body as he fell head over heels. He tumbled, body tightly tucked as he cleared the modified Cessna, momentarily catching sight of the blue, cloudless horizon before stretching out to embrace the air. Below him, the rust toned surrealist canvas of desert and mountains began to take shape as he allowed himself to freefall through the biting tempest. The winds transformed his tanned face, warping it into a mad, Joker-esque grin.

The former Army Ranger set his plan into motion. Pulling his muscular arms tightly against his torso, the angle of his descent began to change. ‘I feel the need, the need for speed.’ If the wind hadn’t been so brutal, he would’ve laughed. How many times had they used those iconic words in training? At 38, it felt like a lifetime ago.

Eagle tilted his head down. He pressed his legs together with toes pointed toward the heavens, becoming a human bullet streaking through the atmosphere. He could feel the friction heating his head and shoulders. His dark, goggle covered eyes flickered to the left, quickly gauging his altitude in relation to the horizon. One…, two…, three seconds passed.

With an agility reminiscent of his aviary namesake, he arched his back, catching the horrendous pounding of the wind squarely on his upper chest, making it difficult to breathe. Deliberately spreading his arms and sinewy legs, he succeeded in capturing the furious gale, harnessing it. Using calculated care, he began slowing his descent from Father Sky toward Amá ni', Mother Earth.

Eagle reveled in the multitude of sensations inundating his body. The angry roar of the wind deafened him. The white noise of the rushing air blotted out all sound except for the popping of the black, nylon jumpsuit. The wind strained the cloth protecting him almost to its limit. The powerful, talon-like turbulence threatened to shred his clothes, leaving him bare and unprotected from the tempest. The bee sting lash of his long, raven ponytail as it whipped against his neck and face revitalized and reddened his brown skin.

‘Four…, five…, six…, seven…, eight.’ With an eerie calm, Woodard counted the seconds. As he drew closer and closer to terra firma, his confidence in his abilities never wavered. Here he was master. Here he was the great bird of his people’s folklore. He was the embodiment of Atsáh, the Eagle, swooping with deadly accuracy toward his prey on the ground.

The Albuquerque homicide Detective didn’t need to see his altimeter. He knew he only had a few more moments of precious freedom. Reluctantly, his right hand moved reflexively to the left side of his chest. Gripping the cold metal ring, he tugged.

A grunt of air was forced from his lungs. The nylon straps crisscrossing his body suddenly tightened, drawing him up. Eagle grimaced as pain seared up his back. The sudden opening of his parachute at this rate of speed aggravated more than one old injury. Gravity, the purveyor of his discomfort, pressed his chin to his chest for an instant before the strain of rapid deceleration eased.

With skill born of countless jumps, Eagle maneuvered the billowing canopy toward his destination. Calculating the high desert cross winds, he made a last-minute correction which allowed him to plant his right foot firmly onto the center of the large, white cross target. As his left foot touched down, he leaned back, encouraging his chute to take the rest of the breeze until it collapsed and fell impotent to the sand. Instantly, the tall man began to gather the yards of thin ripstop nylon and cord into his arms, beating down any last show of resistance from the exuberant ram-air parachute.

Turning, Eagle reached up and pulled his goggles from his face just as his cell phone rang. Pulling it from his zippered pocket, he grimaced at the sight of the familiar number.

I thought I was supposed to have a day off, Captain.

You do, but I’ve got an FBI agent here that needs to talk with you. Says you knew his brother. Here, talk to him.

Detective Woodard, my name is Kessler. Rick Kessler. I think you served with my brother, Dean, in the Army.

The voice and the name triggered unpleasant memories of a time he had tried to bury. He couldn’t tell if it was his Spanish or Navajo side sending a warning chill up his spine. Suddenly, Eagle realized the man on the other end of the line was waiting.

Yeah, sorry. Yeah, I remember Dean. He died in Afghanistan, didn’t he? Sorry.

What Woodard remembered was what a closeted bastard the guy had been and how he’d used the knowledge of Eagle’s own closeted sexuality against him. Threatening to report him and risking dishonorable discharge at best…, or death if members of their team found out. He didn’t mourn Dean Kessler’s passing when he got word that some insurgents finished him. Captain said you were with the FBI?

"Yes. Detective Woodard, I’ve heard a lot about you and Dr. Coulter. I was very impressed when you apprehended Martin Devoreaux. I read the case report. You and Dr. Coulter are quite the team. The good doctor’s a legend at the bureau. His book on Ritual Behaviorism Among Serial Killers is mandatory reading now at the academy."

Oh, Adam would love to hear that. Eagle rolled his eyes. The last thing Adam Coulter needed was something to bolster his ego.

If it’s alright, I really need to talk with both of you about a case I’m working. I think you might be able to help me.

Today?

No. I’m still putting some final touches on a plan I’ve got in motion. How about tomorrow morning at your home? I want to keep this as low key as possible. Strictly, on a need to know basis, so I’d prefer it if your Captain and I met with you and Coulter privately.

Eagle unzipped his jumpsuit from chin to navel. What time?

0900?

Sure. Tell Cap to bring the creamer.

Pocketing his phone, Eagle gathered his parachute from the ground and slowly made his way to his truck. Stowing the chute away, he unzipped his jumpsuit the rest of the way. Dragging it down off his shoulders, he revealed a tan-colored work shirt and jeans. He pushed the loose-fitting black nylon from around his narrow waist. Wrestling the last couple of inches of fabric over his shoes, Eagle jerked the material free and tossed it behind the driver’s seat completing his impromptu striptease. He looked up toward the sun before glancing at his watch.

Yeah…, I know, I’m late. He said to no one, but the wind.

Chapter Two

Forty-eight hours ago….

Okay, sure. Agent Ted Borkowski mumbled to the voice on the other end of the line. With his phone cradled against his shoulder, he pulled on his pants as he listened. Yeah, Helen, thanks. I’ll tell him. Just make sure no one touches nothin’, got me? I’ll be there soon.

Lifting his head, Borkowski’s cell phone dropped into his hand. He tucked it into the breast pocket of his cheap black suit jacket. From his hotel room to the crime scene took him 15 minutes. Looking around, Borkowski located Agent Helen Bradley for an update before he bothered his partner. It didn’t take long for her words to confirm what he already suspected. The serial killer had struck again.

Wiping a hand over his stubbly chin, Borkowski pulled his phone from his pocket. He squinted at the face of his government issued smartphone.

Problems, Borkowski? Never thought you’d need glasses. With a grin, Agent Bradley teased her friend.

Hey, I’m almost 50. Whadda ya expect? My long-range vision is just fine, thank you very much but, I gotta get me some reading glasses one of these days. His forefinger swiped the face of the phone, finally finding the app he wanted. Pressing the K’s on his contacts list, the FBI agent waited for his partner to pick up.

Rick Kessler’s hand reached automatically for the Glock stashed beneath his pillow before switching to the iPhone on top of his pillow. He let it ring twice, trying to wake up.

Kessler. Rick cleared his throat, Speak to me, Borkowski.

At 30, Rick Kessler was considered one of the FBI’s best.

I don’t know how you did it, but you guessed it right, Rick. The voice on the other end of the line sounded a bit disgruntled. Two more bodies in San Diego, not Seattle, dammit!

Rick rolled onto his back, still holding the phone to his ear. How much did you lose on me this time, Ted?

Enough. From what he could discern from the background noise, Special Agent Borkowski was at the crime scene. What? You got a crystal ball or something, Kessler?

You’re sure it’s our guy?

Yeah, yeah, same exact M.O.

Kessler interrupted his partner, What’s the address?

221 Pender.

Okay, Ted, give me thirty minutes. I need to see the scene. Don’t let the locals touch it. Call in our guys. The silence from the other end of the line told Kessler his partner was deciding who to call at home late on a Sunday.

Okay, I think I know who I can call on without getting ripped a new one. Again, his partner subjected him to his trademark silence. So, uh, the older man responded slowly, what should I tell the local PD?

The agent grinned as he sat up in the bed, swinging his legs out from under the warm coverings he was reluctant to leave. He turned and looked at his still sleeping hookup, deciding he was better looking earlier in the bar than he was right now. Shaking his head, he definitely wouldn’t be sad to show this one the door in the middle of the night. The guy snored like a bulldog.

Tell them the Bureau is sending in their best and brightest.

Ted Borkowski laughed loud enough to draw unwanted attention from the first cops on the scene. Yeah, right, He wiped a tear from his left eye, I’m sure that’ll go over just great. Don’t worry, I’ll think of something. See you in an hour, Superman. Remember you’re in California, nobody gets anywhere fast.

****

Outside 221 Pender, Rick Kessler flashed his I.D. at the first officer to step forward. One of San Diego’s finest took a cursory glance at the wallet and the man before lifting the yellow crime scene tape and waving him through. He pointed out a rumpled suited man standing to the left of the house talking with the FBI’s forensics team. As Kessler approached, Borkowski nodded to the group, separating from them.

No one heard or saw anything, I suppose?

Borkowski laughed, but there was no humor in it. Do they ever? I mean, I got nothing against fags, present company included, but nobody deserves to go like this. This guy’s a real Marky de Sod.

Marquis de Sade? Kessler smiled at the Jersey coming through in his partner’s accent.

Hey, I read. Borkowski defended himself. Contrary to popular belief.

Kessler grimaced. Sometimes it was difficult to tell when his partner was joking and when he was being serious. This time he decided to err on the side of caution.

Yeah, tell me about it, but be careful with the fag word, okay? I don’t take offense, but some reporter could hear you. Another suspension would not be good. Your sweet wife, Millie, needs you working, man, and money’s tight, right?

Borkowski frowned and shrugged. Yeah, sorry, when you’re right, you’re right. Millie would kill me if I got suspended again. The older man’s mouth had been the bane of his existence. Despite being a brilliant investigator, this was one of the major reasons he didn’t move up the management ladder. He had the seniority, but not the drive. He didn’t suffer fools and he was famous for letting others know what he thought.

Kessler glanced at the house. His team, already inside, would confirm this crime scene’s connection to the other four. Kessler tried to dislodge his memories of this killer’s first known crime scene. The brutality that made him lose his breakfast could still make him nauseous. He hadn’t done anything like that since he was a rookie.

So…what’s our next step? Borkowski looked at his partner.

Let’s suit up and work the scene, then I’m on a flight to Albuquerque in…, He checked his phone, four hours. I think a small window of opportunity might be opening up for us to catch this bastard.

The younger agent turned his back to the gathering crowd of police mixed with a few journalists and gawkers. If I’m right, I’ll set some bait this guy won’t be able to resist.

Borkowski raised an eyebrow, impressed with his blond, Ivy League partner. Rumor had it that Kessler was on the fast track to becoming Bureau Chief. That was one of the reasons he had agreed to partner with the younger agent. By allowing Kessler to take the lead in this serial killer case they might both get what they wanted. He understood Bureau politics. If Kessler succeeded in capturing this elusive interstate killer, he was confident Kessler would give him a cushy administrative job for his remaining years with the FBI. If the younger agent failed, Kessler would take the fall and he’d be no worse off.

Covered from head to toe in a white crime scene jumpsuit, shoe covers, and hood, the two men made it to the front door of the large Spanish stucco and tile house. They hesitated, mentally preparing for the scene they knew they would see inside.

Borkowski broke the silence as he pushed open the door. Albuquerque, huh? Good luck with that.

Kessler gave voice to the same first thought which ran through his mind. How could there be so much blood in just two human bodies?

A pint didn’t look like much in a bottle, but when you combined almost nine pints from each person, spread it liberally over nearly every surface in the bedroom or living room of a house, you could see exactly how much there was.

Shaking his head at the horrific scene, Kessler mumbled to himself. Too damn much.

Borkowski nodded.

Numbered triangles of plastic showed them where they couldn’t step. Bits and pieces of Victim #1 were strewn about as if some mad doll maker had ripped the parts out of his creation and haphazardly tossed them on the floor. Tongue here, testicle over there. Some pieces were unidentifiable. ‘Liar’ was carved into the victim’s forehead. The stench of burned flesh confirmed their killer used a cautery to burn the word, ‘Adulterer’ into his chest.

Again, Kessler shook his head, Why is it you’re never prepared for the smell?

Forensics determined from the first crime scene that this was how the killer could methodically cut the first man apart without him bleeding to death too quickly. His partner, duct-taped to a chair across from him, was forced to watch his lover’s agony and eventual death.

The Bureau’s profiler maintained the second victim was then dispatched humanely, that is, if you’d call someone coming up behind you while you were tied to a chair, helpless, then slitting your throat from ear to ear, humane. The second victims never had any other marks on them except where they had obviously struggled against their duct tape bonds. There was only one exception, one outlier in this whole mess, but Forensics’ insisted he belonged to this killer.

Kessler paused, looking around the room. His team was good, but the killer was careful. All he could do was hope this scene turned up something they could use in pinpointing the murderer’s identity.

Sleepless nights and repeated overdoses of caffeine had given him a crazy idea. It was a link he followed despite the doubts of the District Chief and the profiler, but his guesses paid off. The young agent knew he needed more to stop this guy. Now he knew ‘where’ he was looking for his killer. All victims had in some way come into contact with West Coast Events, Inc. Unfortunately, the person inside this company who was behind the killings still eluded him.

Ted, stay sharp, I need every piece of information we can find. Two more lives may be at stake if we screw this up.

Borkowski was an excellent field agent, though his mouth had a tendency to get him into political hot water. He was loyal as a lap dog and a hard worker. Seemingly content with his position, he didn’t work hard to climb the FBI administrative ladder. Despite their differences, the two of them worked well together. Rick admitted he had misjudged how the conservative family man would react to the cases they’d be working on, but Borkowski, for all his prejudices and problems was a guy you could trust.

Two