The Crimson Manuscript [The Psychopath's Script 1]

By Michael Pibo

A huge explosion goes off in an amusement park in Indonesia. It was the work of an extremist group originating from Syria; simply known as ‘the Red Jihad’. The group has been on the CIA’s watch-list for a long time.

A continent away, DCI Officer Sean Alex is the most highly-decorated officer in the land. His brilliance, charm and outstanding physical abilities qualified him for promotion to the most sought-after position in law enforcement. He quickly rose to the top due to his unique ability to view crimes from perspectives no one else can.

Sean, however, encounters a criminal who leaves no trace behind, a monster from the viscera of hell; even taunting him with coded messages from gruesome scenes. How will he overcome his own demons to subsequently bring down his arch nemesis?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blazing Heart Publishing
• Release date: Dec 18, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463314241

Michael Pibo

I am a screen-writer, novelist, actor, artist, chef, mixed martial artist and businessman currently residing in Kenya. I graduated 3rd in my class from Catholic University of East Africa in 2015. I however have been writing and acting since high-school. All my work was first designed as screenplays and then afterwards edited into novels. I aspire to one day have my work in theaters worldwide.

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BLAZING HEART PUBLISHING

https://www.blazingheartpub.com

The Crimson Manuscript

© 2019 by Michael Pibo

ISBN: 978-0-46331-424-1

First Blazing Heart Publication: December 2019

Cover Art by Blazing Heart Publishing

Copyright © 2019 by Blazing Heart Publishing.

Edited By: Beth Cotters

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photocopy reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Copyright Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

About Author

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Chapter One

Date: August 24th 2018.

Location: South of Indonesia; Pentai Pekutatan

The time was around noon. The environs were bustling with merriment and activity. The place was crowded.

In the middle of the Pentai Pekutatan Amusement Park was a popular eatery called ‘Healthy Seafood and Happiness Restaurant’. At 11:00 a.m., the place was already packed with clientele enjoying all varieties of seafood the ocean brought. By the time the clock struck noon, the restaurant was almost full.

Outside, three young Indonesian brothers aged 5, 7 and 8 respectively were playing soccer at the parking lot adjacent to the restaurant.

About 100 feet away from the kids; a heavily bearded man with a facial scar, in a red shirt alighted from a Honda Baja 250 dirt-bike. He parked the bike at the side of the road about two hundred feet away from the restaurant. On his back was a rucksack. The contents within made it visibly heavy.

The bearded man had a very serious persona. He sweat profusely as he ambled towards the restaurant. This wasn’t the usual perspiration caused by the hot humid coast; this was different.

Along the way, the ball was kicked by the 8 year old kid and it hit the scarred bloke right in his groin. A loud unmuffled fart escaped his rear and he arched forward; stepping on the ball with a groan. The 5 year old boy then approached him with many apologies.

The man’s beard was intimidating; frightening the timorous child. However, the look of innocence plastered across the boy’s face melted the rage within the bloke.

Assessing his beard and red get-up, the boy asked him, Are you Santa Claus?It was ironical given the fact that it was the end of August, but his ignorance was excusable if you take the boy’s age into account.

The man just looked at him and ignored the query. ‘Santa Claus’ was a contradiction to what the bearded brute actually was. Despite both he and Santa wearing red regalia, the serious man’s beard wasn’t white; it was dark and the bag of treats he had brought contained an item that matched his beard’s color; the item within was dark… and devastating!

He kicked the ball back to the children and left; heading towards the restaurant.

The serious lad then dashed straight for a chair smack-dab in the middle of the establishment, set his bag down and ordered a cup of tea.

After quickly summarizing the tea, the bloke got up, leaving his bag behind. The waiter who served him called him as he walked away, Sir… you forgot your bag!

With a forced smile, the man rotated to him and in a deep Arab accent, he said, That’s not mine. I found it there. The waiter raised his eyebrow, shrugged and then continued his duties; wiping the table hoping that the owner of the bag would eventually come back for it. The place was so abuzz with activity that no one would even notice a peculiarity as minor as that. It was a miracle the waiter did.

On the way out, the man stopped a few feet away from the children and began barking at them, This is a parking lot! Go play at the beach! Go now!

The boys’ father was watching from his table at a distance and he ran towards them to confront the man, Hey! Hey! What in the world do you think you are doing?

The serious man turned to him. The look on his scarred and bearded face sent chills down the boys’ father’s spine. In the most nerve-jarring inflection; the man said, This is tarmac! I was telling them to go and play in the sand.

Their father, now with a humbled voice said to him, I haven’t told you how to raise your children. How about you don’t tell me how to raise mine?

With a sardonic grin, the man warned the dad, I was just looking out for them. If you were a responsible adult then I wouldn’t have to tell you what’s good for them. They might lose their teeth if they keep playing in such an environment. And so will you! The man then eyed the boys’ father with a smidgen of intimidation in his stance.

It was all in the tone and the deadpan look on his scarred visage. The man’s sheer deportment was enough to scare even the toughest of blokes.

The boys’ father backed down; turning to his children, he commanded them, Hey kids… pergi dan mainkan di pantai! With that, the three young boys collected their ball and sprinted for the white inviting sands of the ocean.

The bearded man then strolled over to his dirt-bike and put on his helmet. He mounted the off-road motorbike. At that moment, his eyes caught something quite disturbing as he kicked the ignition stand; the eldest of the three children was running back to his parents in the restaurant. In his thick Arab accent, the man exclaimed, Shit!

There was nothing more that could be done at that point. The bearded man felt miserable and helpless as he watched the sprightly young boy dashing into the restaurant, with joy and laughter all over his youthful façade.

With a profound heart, the heavily bearded man turned the bike to face the highway and kicked it into gear. He then twisted the throttle and tore down the road.

Behind him, a huge explosion went off!

Chapter Two

About Year Later:

Location: Nairobi, Kenya.

Afande: n, Kenyan Slang for ‘cop’.

Sean Edi Alex contorted his face as he pushed up another rep of 70 kilogram weights. He was fatigued. By his account, he had bench-pressed 32 and counting.

That number wasn’t a lot for him but given the fact that he had been going at it like a madman for the better part of the evening, fatigue was setting in.

Sean looked up at the brawny bloke spotting him and in the middle of a gasp, he shrieked, Support! No sooner had his assistant used his right hand to help him with the weights than the phone in his pocket began to ring.

His helper answered the call; anchoring the phone using his shoulder whilst simultaneously helping Sean with the weight on his chest. Suddenly, his assist shrieked out loud, What! I’m on my way…just seat tight bro, I’m on my way!

Sean’s assist abruptly bolted out of the gym, leaving him with the hefty weight clearly bearing down on his chest. That was the beginning of his problems.

Sean’s hands began uncontrollably shaking as the weights inched closer and closer to his chest, threatening to crush him on the bench he was lying on. He bit his lip and with a short muster of breath, he sounded off across the gym, Somebody p…please…help me…please someone c…come h…help me right now!

The position Sean was in was located almost dead-center in the middle of the entire hall. Anyone would have easily gotten to him.

The gym once bustling with busy sounds of metals clunking and audible chit chat instantly got eerily silent. The men abandoned their workouts and paid their full attention unto Sean. In total, there were about eleven men in number.

The blokes casually meandered around to where Sean was; almost in a choreographed fashion. By the time they reached his location, he was in distress. His hands were vacillating; clearly evident to the fact that he couldn’t sustain the weights much longer.

The lads surrounded him in a perfect circle and just stared. Not a word was uttered.

In a frail voice, Sean spluttered, P…please…g…get this off me, and he shot his eyes around just as his hands finally surrendered and the weight fell on his chest, threatening to crush his essence of life. He ground his teeth as the agony welled up.

Sean then desperately tried to roll the bar backward so that it fell off. This concurrently pulled him from the frying pan into the menace of the actual flames as the bar was then lodged at the sweet spot between his chest and his trachea.

In his now extremely strained voice, he shrieked out another plea, Help m… me g... guys… p… please! As usual, his assailants didn’t do a goddamn thing.

Moments fleeted by when finally, the man directly adjacent to his head advanced forward. He reached for the weight in an insufferably slow manner. When he was about to touch it, he paused and gazed into Sean’s eyes, glaring directly into the deepest darkest viscera of his soul. He then slowly retracted his hand.

By that time, Sean’s eyes were popping out of their sockets. He watched as the man slowly backpedaled to his original position.

Another member of the unseemly circle produced a 5 liter jerrycan; as if from thin air and he began waltzing towards Sean. Sean averted his gaze to his new ‘wish-list Samaritan’. The guy’s gaze was locked into Sean’s bloodshot eyes; savoring the despair they showed and in the most sinister of inflections, the brute said, Mr. Sean Edi, you actually thought that we would never get you? Well, here we are. Do you have any last words or you are too preoccupied in your disconcerted predicament?

The man paused, sniggered and then poured the contents of the jerrycan all over Sean.

The liquid had a clear to pinkish hue. The scent of an all too familiar element hit Sean’s nostrils and he realized that the liquid was petrol. He frenetically gasped as the flammable fluid flooded onto his visage.

The operate standing on his 6 o’clock loudly bellowed over Sean’s frenzy as he fumbled around his pockets for a matchbox, "…And once again the souls of the righteous shall attain justice as the wicked perish! This is the way, this is the truth, and this is what people such as us shall live by!" A dark ominous aura clouded the scenario as the group surrounding him burst out in demented mirth.

Sensing the purity of the imminent peril, Sean turned to his Glock 9 which he strategically placed in a holster on the floor next to his bench. He never travelled anywhere without his firearm and it would definitely come in handy at that particular juncture. It was his only hope.

With immense difficulty, Sean reached for the firearm. The manic antagonist by his feet lit a match-stick and tossed it towards the marinated Sean.

Time then seemed to slow down as the flame glided through the air.

As soon as Sean picked up his Glock 9 shooter, the match went from a dawdling smooth soar to a fiercely swift tumble. Within the bat of an eyelash, his mouth widened in a nerve-jarring shriek as a vicious flame engulfed him!

Suddenly, he woke up panting and sweating profusely in his bed. He was in a frantic state of panic; touching himself all over to confirm that it was simply a nightmare. It all seemed extremely real and he was glad he wasn’t a piece of sizzling chicken-fried steak.

Nightmares had become a regular nuisance to Sean. He wasn’t sleeping at all and whenever he was lucky enough to drift off, the demons of his past always seemed to haunt him.

It was so traumatizing to him that sometimes he was actually afraid to shut his eyes and take a nap. That phenomenon isn’t uncommon for some insomniacs but to him it had bordered on the extreme.

Sean fell back onto his bed, eyes wide open and rapidly breathing as the adrenalin coursing through his veins rendered his heart a palpitating mess.

After finally settling down, he stared at the ceiling. He never slept a wink afterwards. The alarm clock on his night-stand ticked until the sun rose; getting louder and louder. By the time morning arrived, each tick felt like a mallet bashing his skull in.

His eyes got more and more raw; with veins that could be easily mistaken for an abstractly-painted red tree’s roots.

The tale of Sean Edi Alex was a truly captivating one. His success as a C.I.D. officer was notable among his peers. The amount of cases he had cracked in his short tenure as a lawman was staggering. No one else could outdo his natural talent in whichever field he was placed in.

With the political landscape in Kenya shifting from tribal favoritism to work and ethics recognition, Sean was on the forefront to head the most coveted position in law enforcement. No one else could even claim to be in the running.

Sean had outstanding achievements; and thus had been deemed fit to perform even better as the D.C.I. (Director of Criminal Investigations) in the Criminal Investigation Department of Kenya. It was his dream come true; especially since he got the position at a mere 32 years of age. That was quite an accomplishment for anyone let alone a man as young as he was.

Sean Edi Alex had a remarkable but peculiar persona. He was very hands-on in comparison to any other departmental heads in any organization; including the private sector. Unlike other directors, he liked being directly involved in the cases that intrigued him. That was just another factor that added to his appeal.

Some believed that Sean did it for the glory; others speculated that it was the fame that drove him to achieve what most mere mortals labeled as impossible; but to him, he believed that the case would only be better done if he was directly involved. He was the kind of guy that would literally mop the floor if the janitor never showed up for work; saying ‘lemme show these guys how floors should be properly mopped, they never get it right’.

His light-skinned, well-built and slightly brawny 5ft7 physique worked to his advantage especially at the commencement and growth of his career. Before his well-deserved fame, he could easily go under-cover and penetrate any gang that terrorized the citizens. He was gifted at spontaneously getting into character and earning the trust of even the most ingenious of criminals. His knowledge of the streets was unsurpassed, backed up by his outspoken guise, followed by his skills in combat and weaponry.

The icing on the cake was the fact that his I.Q. was much higher than any antecedent the C.I.D. ever had. He had all the traits of an undefeatable man in blue. Nevertheless, all his gifts came at a price.

Chapter Three

In the morning; Sean woke up and staggered to the shower, bushed from countless days of enduring sleep deprivation. He was too weak to even properly cleanse himself. He just stood under the trickles; letting them glide over his body.

It was clear that he needed to get his issues checked by a professional; but the fact is that most hard-headed Africans don’t treat depression, anxiety, insomnia and such. They call them imaginary problems.

Sean soldiered on to work looking bug-eyed and exhausted.

At the headquarters, the premises were lit up with activity. Sean slowly and absent-mindedly strolled through the lobby to his office door with his face bowed down.

At the corner of the hallway, three officers were chatting amongst themselves a few feet away from Sean’s door, sporadically chuckling as he inconspicuously slithered by.

Two of them were males; Deputy O.C.S. (Officer Commanding Station) Carlisto Dima, a 35 year old vet who once served with the presidential escort; and C.I.D Officer Frank Otis, a 40 year old hard-hitting bloke.

The other officer was an attractive long-haired female in her late twenties. Her name was Alice Kamau, a decorated officer who was (as most described) too hot to be a cop; judging by Kenyan standards. Her Latin origin which was amalgamated with a Kenyan gene pool accentuated her look; making most of the people she met assume that she was of Indian descent.

When Alice saw her superior, she greeted him, "Morning boss."

Sean could barely hear the salutation as he arrived at his door, opened it and got in. He placed his rucksack on his desk, pulled out his chair and took a load off.

Seconds later; Carlisto, Frank and Alice let themselves in. They all stood around examining him with a hint of concern. His eyes were red, droopy and teary with huge bags under his eyes punctuating his torment. His mind seemed to have travelled to a different dimension as he barely perceived his colleagues right in front of him.

Frank finally broke the silence, "EEsh! You