Rise of The Iron Eagle (The Iron Eagle Series Book 1)
Read Rise of The Iron Eagle (The Iron Eagle Series Book 1) Online
Authors: Roy A. Teel Jr.
Rise of the
Iron Eagle
A Novel
Roy A. Teel Jr.
Rise of The Iron Eagle
A Novel
Roy A. Teel Jr.
The Iron Eagle Series: Book One
An Imprint of Narroway Publishing LLC.
Copyright © 2014 by Roy A. Teel Jr.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews, without prior written permission of the publisher. ®The Iron Eagle Logo is the copyright and registered trademark of Roy A. Teel Jr. and used by permission.
Narroway Publishing LLC.
Imprint: Narroway Press
P.O. Box 1431
Lake Arrowhead, California 92352
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
First Edition
ISBN: 978-0-9887025-4-7
Teel, Roy A., 1965-
Rise of The Iron Eagle: A Novel, The Iron Eagle Series: Book One/
Roy A. Teel Jr. — 1st ed. — Lake Arrowhead, Calif. Narroway Press
c2014. p. ; cm. ISBN: 978-0-9887025-4-7 (eBook)
1. Serial Killers – Fiction. 2. Police, FBI – Fiction. 3. Crime – Fiction.
4. Drama – Fiction. 5. Mystery – Fiction. 6. Suspense – Fiction.
7. Romance – Fiction.
I. Title.
Book Editing: Finesse Writing and Editing LLC.
Cover and Book Design: Adan M. Garcia, FSi studio
Author Photo: Z
This novel is dedicated to those who take action as opposed to those who have been acted upon.
Also by Roy A. Teel Jr.
Nonfiction:
The Way, The Truth, and The Lies: How the Gospels Mislead Christians about Jesus’ True Message
Against the Grain: The American Mega-church and its Culture of Control
Fiction:
The Light of Darkness: Dialogues in Death: Collected Short Stories
And God Laughed, A Novel
“Revenge is an act of passion; vengeance of justice. Injuries are revenged; crimes are avenged.”
— Samuel Johnson
“All that is necessary for evil to succeed is that good men do nothing.”
— Edmund Burke
Seal of The Iron Eagle
TM
Table of Contents
Chapter One
“What’s The Iron Eagle?”
T
he old man looked at the bum asking the question with disdain. “The Iron Eagle isn’t a thing; it’s a person – if you can call him that. He’s one of the sickest serial killers I’ve ever come across in all my years in this business.” The bum was sitting next to the office building where the old man had his office. “You’s Barry Mullin, ain’t ya?” The old man didn’t answer. “Yea, I recognizes ya from the paper, though it’s been a few years. I heard you’s a drunk, only yous gots a home.” The old man didn’t say anything; he just kept walking toward the entrance of the building. He was slow, but he was walking. The bum called out again. “Hey! Yous don’t have to be rude. I knows your face, that’s all. Can yous spares a cuppa bucks for a fellow drunk?” Mullin kept walking. “You snotty piece a shit… I knows yous gotta few bucks.” The old man yelled back, still walking, “Not for a son-bitch like you.”
He saw Bruce Provonce, the building super, whom he yelled at. “It’s fuckin’ July, asshole, and it’s a hot one. How ‘bout some air?” He kept walking toward the stairs as Bruce yelled back. “You want air, old man? Open a fuckin’ window; and while you’re at it, pay your goddamn rent. You owe me now two weeks back.” The old man brushed him aside with his hand as he started up the four flights of stairs to his office. He pondered the question from the bum, and the fact that the bum had recognized him. It had been a long time since anyone he didn’t know recognized him. He hadn’t been called by his first name in years. He liked being called ‘old man’ because he felt it justified his shitty attitude toward people. He passed one of his neighbors on the way up who offered a friendly greeting. He just shrugged and told him to shut up. He finally made the ascent to his office, unlocked the door, and removed two bottles of cheap scotch and a twelve pack of beer from the brown paper bag he had been carrying under his arm. He knew that Steve Hoffman would be coming soon to retrieve his instructions. He put the beer in the small fridge and placed the two bottles of scotch on an old filing cabinet next to his desk. Bruce had followed him up to his office and was standing in the doorway when he turned around.
“Where’s my fuckin’ rent?” The old man walked over to his easy chair, pulled a cigarette from his pocket, and lit it. “There’s no smoking in this building, asshole; it’s the law. Put it out.” Mullin sat down and took a drag and blew the smoke at Bruce. There was an open can of warm beer and a half-eaten bag of whole peanuts next to him on an old TV tray. He grabbed the two and took a drink and popped a few nuts in his mouth. “Look, asshole, I want my damn rent… now cough it up.” Mullin scowled in frustration, finally reaching into his pocket and pulling out a wad of bills with a small white piece of paper wrapped around it. He fanned out the bills and peeled off four hundreds and threw them at Bruce. He walked in to pick up the money then drew back with a look of disgust. “Now was that so damn tough?” The old man didn’t respond. “This place smells like a combination of sewer and sweat shop. You’re not a hebe. Why don’t you shower once in a while? And clean this fuckin’ place up; it’s a pigsty in here. If the Health Department ever raids me, they’ll close me down for good.” Mullin just sat drinking his beer. Bruce turned to leave and said, “I’ll talk to Steve. He seems to be the only person you listen to anymore. I don’t want him to end up an alcohol-soaked bum like you. He has a reputation in this town, a helluva lot better one than you. The boy’s educated, and, unlike you, he gives back to society in his work.” The old man didn’t say a thing. He just sat smoking and drinking. The door closed, and he could hear Bruce mocking the words on his door. “‘Barry Mullin, Private Investigator.’ You couldn’t investigate your head out of your ass.” His voice faded as he walked away and down the stairs. The old man yelled back at him. “Don’t you go gettin’ the boy involved in my business, you son-bitch, or I’ll kick your ass.”
He sat in his sweltering office, brushing the remnants of peanut shells off his shirt; the sweat had pooled around his neck, and his bald head shined in the afternoon light. His pale thin skin and gaunt face made him look malnourished. He had a cigarette burning between the fingers of his left hand, and the yellow stain from the tar of his smokes had formed a yellowish brown ring around his fingers. Steve came in but didn’t say a word. The smell of sweat, body odor, beer, booze, and cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air. He wouldn’t be in this environment for anyone but the old man. He had been kind to him in his own way through his formative years. Now in his early thirties, everything he knew about the world and the people in it, or scum as the old man called them, he learned from him. He felt he owed him, so he dealt with the shit that Mullin dealt and helped him.
The old man saw him enter and without saying a word reached into the pocket of his bootcut jeans and pulled out a hundred dollar bill wrapped around a slip of folded white paper and handed it to him. Until Steve broke the silence, the only sound in the room was the hum of an old box fan in the office window. “You sure you want me to do this?” The old man looked up at him with an icy stare. “Boy… I’ve been doin’ this shit for forty years. I picked up the tip from the police scanner. I know where they think he will strike next, and I’m gonna be there first. Got it?” He nodded. “I’m gonna go get that son-bitch.” The old man’s voice was gravely from years of smoking and drinking. Steve recalled stories the old man had told him about his years as a U.S. Marshal. He had been retired for nearly 20 years and started his own private investigation service right after retirement.
The old man stood up from his chair and walked across the small one room office to a steel desk where papers and folders were strewn all over. There were several full ashtrays on the desk along with the bottles of scotch and a couple of empty and half empty bottles. He reached around to the back, opened the center drawer, and grabbed a carton of cigarettes along with one of the near empty bottles, then pushed some of the papers out of the way and went back to his chair. The wall behind the desk was covered with awards and certificates. Steve remembered the story of the Mission Stalker and how the old man had tracked him down when the cops couldn’t figure out the case. That guy had killed ten people before the old man caught him. There was a yellowing framed front page newspaper in the middle of all of his awards and certificates. The banner headline read,
“America’s Top PI Catches the Mission Stalker – All Can Rest Easy Tonight.”
It was stories like that that had inspired him and kept him trying to help the old man. He had been like a father to Steve, who referred to his biological father as a “sperm donor.” The old man yelled, “Get away from my fuckin’ desk,” as he wiped a dribble of scotch from his chin. His speech was slightly slurred, but he had seen him much worse.
He walked back over to the office door. The old man sat in his chair with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and ordered Steve to get him another beer from the small refrigerator. He complied and then sat down on the corner of a small filing cabinet next to the office door. “Are you sure about this, old man? I mean, this guy has killed 30 or more folks. He’s not your run of the mill serial killer.” The old man cracked open the beer and took a sip then sat the can on the arm of his chair and took a deep drag off his cigarette. “You worried ‘bout me boy?” Steve nodded. “Now what the fuck makes you think this guy’s any different from any of the rest of the sons-a-bitches I caught in the past? That university you graduated from messed up your head.” There was a tipping point when speaking to the old man, and once he pissed him off there would be no further opportunity to speak. “This guy’s different… he’s… savage.” The old man pressed his back against his chair in a stretch, and with a yawn in his voice said, “We’re all savage, boy…that’s the nature of the beast. Only this guy’s going to be more satisfying to get.” “Why?” “Because he killed my granddaughter.”
There was silence. Steve hadn’t known. “Now, get your ass out of here and get me the things on that paper. Meet me at Legion Park at nine sharp tonight and don’t fuckin’ be late.” Steve left the office and walked out to his car. He pulled the cash and the note from his pocket and went over the things on it. He was surprised by the content of the list:
a box of latex gloves, two bottles of rubbing alcohol, a pair of medical scissors, three two-liter bottles of Pedialyte, two gallons of distilled water, a bag of salt, a bag of sugar,
and a few other items. He looked at the list for a long time before he entered the local drugstore to pick them up. He knew from the items on the list that the old man had more than catching a killer in mind. After he made the purchase he had a few dollars left, so he stopped and bought a sandwich. It was nearly seven, and he had some time to kill. He nervously watched as the second hand on the clock on Jerry’s Deli wall clicked in steady persistence toward an unknown future.
Back at his office, the old man was packing a bag with every kind of medical supply imaginable. He had two collapsible IV poles and IV and catheter tubing. He placed several vials of a prescription anesthetic that he could dissolve into an inhalable solution to knock out his prey, as well as several different kinds of surgical tools, into the bag. He also pulled a nine millimeter handgun out of his desk drawer and placed it in his shoulder holster. He placed two twelve gauge shotguns in his bag with several large syringes and needles in sealed medical kits. He had his own emergency room, and he was taking it all with him. One thing was certain – he wasn’t planning on turning this sicko over to the police. He had plans of his own.
Legion Park was right off Interstate 10 in Boyle Heights, one of the roughest parts of Los Angeles. If you were looking for anything illegal… this was your shopping center. Drugs, guns, hookers, anything a low life scum could want was there. The old man pulled into a parking spot well away from the action in a dark corner of the lot. He sat in the car with the window half down, smoking a cigarette when he heard the sound of Steve’s car pull in next to him. The old man popped his trunk open and didn’t make a move. He sat there enjoying his smoke, waiting for the goods to be placed in the trunk. The old man was a well-known figure in the park, the only “white boy” allowed according to the local gangs. He had no concerns about the element. Hell, he passed out there at least twice a month after dropping off one of the girls he picked up for entertainment. It was a strange relationship he had with this element.
He was a former law man and every one of them knew it, but for some reason they watched out for him. He couldn’t count how many times he had woken up the next day in his car after passing out – the key in the ignition; the windows up in winter, down in summer. If the weather was cold, he would find himself, at minimum, with his jacket on, but most of the time someone covered him with an old blanket, usually one of the local homeless people, and lit a trash can fire next to the car. If it was summer, the windows would be down and depending on how he passed out, pants on or off, he would always find all of his belongings, including cash and weapons, right where he had left them. In some strange way, they respected the old man for who he was and the things he had done, and they thought of him as one of their own. He never would acknowledge it, though. He would often berate the locals for doing their business, but they would move on to another location and leave him be. Steve called it the scum bag neighborhood watch. The old man laughed his ass off the first time he ever heard the term, but deep down he knew it was true.