Riders On The Storm Read online

  RIDERS ON THE

  S T O R M

  RICHARD SPARACINO

  Copyright © 2016 by Richard Sparacino

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Design by SCARLETT RUGERS BOOK DESIGN AGENCY

  Internal Layout by POLGARUS STUDIO

  ISBN 978-0-692-75258-6

  This book is dedicated to my family. You are indeed the most important thing in my life.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to my wife, Mari, for her patience and understanding during the many rounds of rewrites.

  A big thank you to Jacqueline Forster, for her gracious help, support and encouragement when I needed it most.

  Praise for my editor, Shannon Roberts, and all those at The Editorial Department for their excellent advice and service.

  Kudos to my daughters, Serena and Marissa, for their inspiration and keen insights.

  Thanks to my daughter, Dayna, for her unwavering compassion for others.

  And thanks to my son, Joseph, for being a real life example of true courage.

  Prologue

  The afternoon sun shone brightly over the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica as the young man carrying a day pack strolled through the crowd toward the Egyptian obelisk at the center of the plaza.

  When he reached the monument, he sat on a bench and gazed about the square. Several children were chasing each other around the obelisk, bumping into tourists attempting to take pictures. A mother called after her two sons.

  The young man glanced at his watch, slid the pack off his shoulder, and pushed it under the bench.

  Then he stood up and walked away.

  A short distance from the square, an ex-Marine in the traditional uniform of the Swiss Papal Guard stood beside the entrance to the secret archives of the Vatican Library.

  Drakin gazed through the eyes of his host and pursed the mercenary’s lips into a crooked smile. Right on time.

  BOOM!

  The explosion was deafening. Black smoke billowed high into the air as the obelisk came crashing down in a blaze of fire.

  In the ensuing chaos, Drakin rode the ex-Marine through the Via di Porta Angelica and stopped at the entrance to the archives.

  Two guards stood at attention.

  “There’s been an explosion in the piazza,” he said. “We’ve been ordered to evacuate.”

  “We can’t leave our post,” one of the guards said. “You should know that.”

  The other guard gave him a curious look. “I’ve not seen you before.”

  “You see me now.” He made as if to turn away but then pulled out a pistol and shot them both between the eyes.

  The mercenary climbed the narrow winding staircase past barred windows and tiny paneled chambers. At the top of the Tower of the Winds, he entered a great room crammed with tens of thousands of ancient tomes.

  Drakin peered through the man’s eyes. Books didn’t interest him. He was here for only one thing: the staff.

  He walked past row after row, searching for the room that housed the artifacts. Finally, in one of the alcoves to his right, he saw a locked door.

  He pulled back his leg and with one swift movement kicked it in.

  Drakin spent several minutes searching, certain he’d sense its location. But he felt nothing. “Where the hell is it?”

  “What are you doing in here?” A man with a gray beard and spectacles, hunched with age, glared at him.

  “Are you deaf, old man?” the mercenary said. “There’s been an explosion in the plaza. Are you the curator here?”

  “Yes.” The old man glanced at the shattered door in confusion.

  Drakin took advantage, slipping out of the mind of the mercenary and sliding into the curator’s. He wasn‘t interested in manipulating the old man—he needed information.

  After a few moments of probing, he found what he wanted and felt a surge of anger.

  The staff had been moved—to New York City.

  No matter. Drakin had mastered the art of adaptation centuries ago. Even in the face of disappointment, he tried to maintain a fluid attitude. Besides, the most vital elements of his plan were still on track.

  He returned to the mind of the mercenary and retraced his steps out of the building and toward the plaza.

  The scent of blood and anguish was thick in the air. Dozens were dead. Many more were seriously wounded. Drakin unraveled himself from the mercenary’s mind and floated over what remained of the obelisk, letting the negative energy wash over him. He tingled with excitement.

  This would be a feast.

  He watched the light flicker and die in the eyes of the fatally wounded, drinking in the fear, the pain, the horror. Soon, his hunger was satisfied. Despite the turn of events, today had still been a glorious day.

  Now it was time to visit New York.

  Drakin rose up, floated over St. Peter’s Basilica, and disappeared into the sky.

  Chapter 1

  December 1, 2016

  The elevator doors opened and a bald man with bloodshot eyes walked out. Detective Anthony Santini stepped past him into the elevator and pushed the button for the 102nd floor. There was a jolt as the car began its ascent. When it stopped and the doors slid open, he walked out onto the observatory platform of the Empire State Building.

  He looked around. It was dark and he was alone.

  The wind and rain hammered his body as he walked toward the railing. Shivering, he gazed out into the distance, straining to see the Manhattan skyline.

  But there was no skyline—only fire. Everywhere he looked.

  Buildings and bridges were gone, collapsed into piles of rubble. Hot embers rained down, and black smoke billowed in the sky.

  He smelled the pungent odor of burning flesh as a crash of lightning lit the night, revealing a mass grave as far as the eye could see.

  Then he heard it—quietly at first and gradually escalating into a frenzy of
anguished screams. He covered his ears, but the screams wouldn’t stop.

  From behind, a blast of cold wind slammed his body against the railing. He turned and braced himself, trying to resist, but the wind overcame his effort and he toppled over the side. As he fell, he managed to grab the railing with one hand. He dangled there, muscles straining, a hundred stories above the ground, as the wind howled and shrieked. Then his hand slipped and he plunged through the air, his own screams now joining the others.

  Santini jolted upright in bed, beads of sweat sliding down his temples. He opened his eyes. For a moment he felt like he was still falling.

  He reached over, turned on the lamp, and looked at the clock. It was 3:00 a.m.

  Sleep would be impossible now, so he went into the bathroom and splashed cold water onto his face. He looked into the mirror. Little bags hung from beneath red eyes, and his black hair was matted with sweat. He took a deep breath.

  The dream was always the same. A man he’d never seen before would leave the elevator. Santini would ride to the top and look out over an apocalyptic scene. Then the screaming would start, and the wind would push him over the edge. He always woke up before he hit the ground.

  He’d only ever had one other recurring nightmare in his entire life: his father’s murder. But this was new, with a clarity and intensity that was totally different.

  He rubbed his throbbing temples. As a homicide detective, he’d spent his life analyzing clues. It was a long shot, but last week during his off time, he had a sketch artist reproduce the bald man from his dream and run the resulting image through the computerized facial-recognition program. No results. Nothing in the data base at least. Maybe the man didn’t even exist. All Santini knew was that there was something very unsettling about him.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. Santini was exhausted and needed to clear his head. He glanced over at his running shoes in the corner of the bedroom. It was still dark, but it wasn’t raining yet. Maybe he could get in a run before the clouds broke loose. He pulled on his shoes, threw on some clothes, and locked the door of his Brooklyn brownstone behind him. He took a familiar route down Graham Avenue and turned right onto Bushwick. It was hard to catch his breath in the cold, damp air, but his lungs eventually settled down.

  The streets were deserted. All the shops were still dark at this hour. The only dim lights came from Joe’s Bakery. He smelled fresh Italian bread and pastries as he jogged past. Maybe he’d stop there on the way back.

  As he ran, the snap of a cold wind against his face reminded him of the treacherous wind in last night’s dream.

  His subconscious was trying to tell him something, and as he picked up his pace and sprinted further into the night, he was determined to figure out what it was.

  Chapter 2

  Detective John Salvo leaned over the victim and scraped some fingernail residue into an evidence bag as the wind outside rattled the windows of the apartment.

  “Same as the other two,” Santini said. “Strapped to a chair. Gagged. A hypodermic protruding from each arm.” He slowly walked around the body. “But this one has a needle thrust into his heart.”

  Salvo rifled through the victim’s wallet. “Looks like cash was taken again.”

  “This wasn’t a robbery,” Santini said. “This was personal.”

  “Somebody has it in for heroin dealers,” Salvo said. “Drug paraphernalia everywhere. We’ll probably find a hidden stash, just like the other two.”

  Santini closed his eyes and called up the images of the previous crime scenes. He had a clear picture: gray bodies strapped and gagged. Dangling hypodermics. Vacuous eyes.

  He opened his eyes. Salvo was staring at him.

  “You’re giving me that look again,” Santini said.

  “The one where I’m not sure if I should open my mouth because my partner goes into a daydream?”

  “You should be used to it by now.”

  “I should be, but I’m not.” He sighed. “Anything?”

  Santini frowned. “I should have caught this one sooner.”

  “You always say that.”

  “There’s a kid, maybe eight or ten years old. No father, just him and his mom. She’s a heroin addict. He’s used to taking care of her. He comes home one day and finds her face-down in her own vomit—an overdose. He’s shuffled from foster home to foster home, and his anger festers until he’s old enough to take revenge.”

  “I’ll call Marissa at headquarters,” Salvo said. “Have her search the past ten to fifteen years for a heroin-overdose victim, female, who left behind a young boy.”

  “Probably wasn’t far from this neighborhood,” Santini said. “You find him, you’ve found our killer.”

  Salvo stepped out of the room and made the call. When he returned, Santini could feel Salvo's eyes staring at him again.

  “What now?” Santini said.

  “Don’t you think it’s time you did something about this?”

  “I just told you—”

  “I’m talking about your insomnia.”

  Santini shrugged.

  “Seriously,” Salvo said. “You look like shit. When was the last time you slept—I mean really slept?”

  Santini closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. The images from his nightmare surfaced. In the distance he could hear the thunder rumbling like an oncoming train inside his head. “I don’t know,” he said eventually. “Five, maybe six weeks ago.”

  Salvo, who’d bent back down to study the body, glanced up. “Let me know when you start hallucinating. I don’t want to be mistaken for a perp.”

  Santini walked over to the window and looked out at the darkening sky. “You think my performance is slipping?”

  “Not yet,” Salvo said. “But you’re not at the top of your game.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Twenty years you’ve been looking at this crap. When was the last time you had a vacation? You know, sandy beach, blazing sunset, a Mai Tai in each hand.”

  “Bad guys don’t take vacations.”

  Salvo rolled his eyes. “That’s not the point. You need a break. Especially from this.” Salvo gestured toward the victim. “Why don’t you come over for dinner tonight? My kids miss their godfather.”

  Santini shook his head. “Thanks, but I’ll take a rain check.”

  For a few minutes, they stared each other down, until Salvo crossed his arms.

  “You’re going back up there tonight, aren’t you?” He frowned. “What the hell do you think you’re going to find?”

  “I don’t know,” Santini said. “A clue, some insight . . . There’s got to be a reason I’m having this nightmare.”

  “You really think you’re the only cop that has nightmares?” Salvo sighed. “Look, we’ve been friends a long time, so maybe you won’t slug me for saying this, but you should really go see Dr. Jordan.”

  Santini glared at his partner. “You know how I feel about shrinks.”

  “She knows cops. Say you’ll at least consider it.”

  Santini pulled on his long black overcoat and wrapped a gray scarf around his neck. “I’ll think about it.”

  “And I’m going up there with you tonight.”

  “I don’t need anybody to hold my hand,” he said. “I just need to gather my thoughts. Alone.”

  “Fine. I’ll have the uniforms canvas the apartment complex.” Salvo gave him a look. “Guess I’m stuck doing the paperwork.”

  “That’s what partners are for.”

  Santini stole another glance at the victim before putting on his black cap and walking out the door.

  Maybe he did need a vacation.

  Chapter 3

  Santini walked toward the railing that surrounded the observation deck of the Empire State Building. As he peered over the edge, he felt a wave of vertigo. He thought about his dream and backed away.

  A cold relentless wind hammered the deck. Low-hanging clouds obscured the Manhattan skyline, though occasionally one would blow past an
d dissipate, giving him a momentary glimpse of the city below. The city he had devoted his life to trying to protect.

  Since the skyscraper’s construction in 1931, thirty-four people had hurled themselves to their deaths from this building. He’d investigated one himself a while back. It had been considered a potential homicide, but it turned out she’d jumped willingly.

  What the hell could make a person think life was more painful than a hundred-story plunge onto cold hard concrete?

  There were only a handful of people up here tonight, and he had the north side of the skyscraper to himself. This was the spot from his dream, where the wind had pushed him over.

  He forced himself back toward the railing.

  He’d been up here three times this week already, and he’d walked the platform every time, noting every nook and cranny, studying the city from every possible vantage point. He had no idea what he was looking for, what he was hoping to find.

  Maybe Salvo was right. Everybody has nightmares.

  He watched black clouds race across the sky.

  For the last two decades, he’d tracked down some of the worst predators to walk the face of the Earth. He’d brought justice to the victims and taken solace in that. But was it enough? For every killer caught, two more took their place. What had he really accomplished?

  A bolt of lightning lit the sky, triggering a steady downpour, and a cold wind wormed its way through his body. He rubbed his hands together, but the chill only seemed to get worse.

  “Santini.”

  He spun around. There was no one.

  Shivering, he inhaled. Must be the lack of sleep.

  “Santini.”

  This time there was no mistaking the sound of his name.

  “Who’s calling me?” he yelled over the wind.

  A buzzing filled his head, barely audible at first and then growing in intensity. Deep fatigue flooded every muscle. Pressure squeezed his temples as the noise grew louder, making it hard to think.