thebadguy

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The Bad Guy

Mark Lanio

PublishAmerica

Baltimore

in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means

without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a

reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in

a newspaper, magazine, or journal.

First printing

ISBN: 1-4137-1227-4

PUBLISHED BY PUBLISHAMERICA, LLLP

www.publishamerica.com

Baltimore

Printed in the United States of America

Prologue

Bullets began spraying through the mall food court. Chuck McCain

tore past the freshly emptied tables, where patrons once sat eating

burgers, gyros, pizzas, and other fast food entrées. Sprinting forward,

he dove over a planter that lined the edge of the food court. Pushing

his back up against the planter, he dropped the empty clip from his

gun.

“Oh Chuckie!” a voice called out. “Our game isn’t finished. No

time outs!”

McCain grimaced at the bad joke while reloading. “We aren’t in

school anymore Hume. But then I never needed time-outs, even

then.” With that, he spun and rose in one quick motion, firing two

shots with deadly accuracy towards the sound of the voice. The

bullets whistled through empty air. Hume had already vacated that

space in the time it took for McCain to make his retort.

So predictable, Hume thought. “Come now McCain, you don’t

expect me to make it that easy do you? If you could stop making

smart remarks you might actually get me. But maybe you’d like it if

I just hand you the gun instead?”

McCain ducked back behind cover. “Would you? It’d really help

me out,” he shouted back. Hume’s Uzi barked out several dozen

bullets in reply. Dust and stone broke away from the front of the

planter as the bullets ripped into it. The planter – made of sturdy

MARK LANIO

brick and mortar – continued to provide safe cover for McCain. “I

guess he’s not going to let me know where the bomb is either,” he

muttered under his breath.

Chuck McCain was 31 and – as the cliché went – tall, dark, and

handsome. He’d been with SPD for 6 years, rising to Detective in

Seattle’s homicide division fairly quickly compared to the average

cadet. Early in his career he had made a high-profile bust of a contract

killer. Many on the force had attributed that first bust to luck, but

continued successes had allayed all doubters. He had brought down

drug dealers, murderers, and even mob bosses, but his latest case

had him tracking a friend and former partner: Justin Hume.

Hume had gone to the same grade school as McCain although

they never associated much in those years. They lost touch through

high school but reunited at the academy. There they developed a

fast friendship that carried through to their partnership in their first

year on the beat.

Or so McCain thought. Internal Affairs had started up an

investigation fingering Hume and several others for taking bribes.

Hume’s crime was particularly extreme: information supplied by him

had the mob ready for a raid. The ensuing shoot out caused the

death of four officers, one a rookie. IA got their evidence from that

disaster, but many on the force felt it was too little, too late.

McCain was one of them. He felt responsible for being fooled by

Hume, although there was no way he could have known what Justin

was doing. Hume was very thorough in his deception. No one in the

force had any idea he was one of the informants, not even the other

informants. The mob didn’t know his identity either. Hume delivered

the information through the Internet, using one of the many free

anonymous email services available. His emails originated through

the force’s many computers, but never through his own security ID,

instead using computers left on by other officers, dispatchers, and

janitors. Even McCain’s own computer had been compromised.

The problem wasn’t in the technology itself, but in the users’

attitudes. Computer security was always lax in the force. Many cops

viewed computers the same way they viewed crooks: as the enemy.

THE BAD GUY

Passwords were easy to guess; some cops would share it with others

just to make access easier. As such, anyone savvy enough could do

a lot of damage from the inside, and Hume made the most of it.

His strength in computer usage also turned out to be his downfall.

Since he generally understood computers, he was the first one to be

fingered. He constantly helped out other cops with any problems

they had with their terminals, giving him access and passwords

whenever he asked. When a mob stoolie was caught for a third

strike on the ‘three strikes and you’re out’ law, he struck a deal with

the District Attorney to shorten his sentence. That’s when it was

revealed that the mob had been receiving all their information not in

dark alleys, back rooms, or secret rendezvous, but through a simple

email from the force’s own computers. A quick investigation led to

Hume through nothing more sophisticated than the process of

elimination. There were a few who had the expertise but he was the

only one who had the access and the wherewithal.

Unfortunately, much of the investigation’s communiqués were

done with the very computers Hume had compromised. By the time

IA was ready to move in, Hume had made his getaway. Now, years

later, McCain had finally tracked Hume down.

It was never too late to bring down a bad guy.

“More smart remarks, McCain? Never could stop talking, could

you?”

“C’mon Justin, give it up.”

“‘There’s nowhere left to go,’ is that it Chuck? Please let’s not

run through the same tired script.” Hume moved back into one of

the food areas behind the counter. McCain may have gotten the

drop on him in this mall, but he was no fool. He wasn’t about to

press his luck by being reckless. The counter would provide cover.

Besides, he thought, after this is over I could really go for a corn

dog. He stooped low behind the counter, which was filled with various

condiments, napkins and other fast food accessories. Behind him

the stove and fryer were silent. “You know if you kill me, you’ll

never find that bomb.”

MARK LANIO

McCain peeked up over planter, watching Hume attempting to

get into better position. Behind Hume he noticed the main gas line

running down from the ceiling, along the back wall, into the stove.

“Well, I thought I’d at least give you the whole policeman’s spiel.

Let you experience it from the other side.” C’mon, just poke your

head up! he thought desperately.

Hume laughed. “I never was on your side, McCain. Or don’t you

remember? Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten those four already. I

remember them. They were the biggest idiots on computers there

has ever been. Always whining to me because they deleted their

own reports. You know what it’s like trying to help people who make

the exact same mistake over and over again? It was a pleasure to

use those terminals to tell Jimmy just where they would be coming in

that day.”

“You bastard!” McCain shouted. “You don’t even care!”

“Well, well, well. A remark made with sincerity. Well let me

respond in kind: I do care, Chuck.” Hume laughed again. “They

made me a ton of money!”

McCain clenched. He’s baiting me. Can’t lose my head now.

“Face it, McCain. I beat the entire force that day! All I need to

do today is beat you,” he smiled. “Soon I’ll be rich and free and

living the high life on some tropical island.”

“The city will never pay!”

“Oh they’ll pay, unless they want to lose their prize attraction.

Not to mention the people in it,” he added wryly.

Prize attraction? The Space Needle! McCain realized with a

start. Hume never did anything small. He might just try to actually

put the Space Needle into space. At least McCain knew what his

plan was. Now all he had to do was stop him. He smirked. Sure.

Yeah. Piece of cake.

That’s when he noticed that a florescent light hung in the area

above Hume. Supported by two chains on either end, it was the

same kind found hanging over pool tables in bar and grills all over the

city. The chains were flimsy and cheap. McCain fired at the right

chain. The bullet severed though the thin metal and the light swung

THE BAD GUY

down towards Hume. He instinctively jumped back towards the

stove. McCain shot again, this time into the gas pipe running into the

stove. A burst of flame blew out the hole catching Hume in the face.

Hume fell to the floor clutching his damaged cheek.

In one graceful motion, McCain vaulted over the planter, quickly

closed the distance to the counter, and pointed his gun over it. Hume,

his gun thrown clear in the blast, looked at McCain in pain and fear.

McCain’s eyes narrowed. “Gotcha Suckhead.”

Chapter I

Hume’s expression changed from one of fear to puzzlement. “Did

you say Suckhead?”

“CUT!” A new voice rang out from behind them.

“What was wrong with that?” McCain said, turning towards the

newcomer.

“Gotcha Suckhead? Suckhead? What the hell does the script say

Lewis?” The other man’s voice boomed through the bullhorn he

held to his mouth.

“I know what the script says Marty, but I thought it could use

some pizzazz.”

“Pizzazz. PIZZAZZ?!!” Marty McGregor dropped the bullhorn,

leapt up from his canvas stool, and stomped over to Mark Lewis. He

waved script pages in his hand violently. “You just ruined a $150,000

take! Do you have any idea how long it takes to set up these special

effects? Not to mention John’s time in makeup to put those burns on

his face!” The director’s face was red.

“It’s okay, Marty. The makeup’s not going anywhere.” John

Duncan had lifted himself up from behind the mock counter, the mad

face of Hume gone from his features. It was instead replaced by a

softer, more thoughtful countenance. The latex “burn” on his face

was the only trace Hume had existed.

MARK LANIO

Lewis shrugged. “Aw, just burn him for real. It’s cheaper. Anyhow

Bruce Willis had ‘Yippe-Ki-yay’, I want a catchphrase too!”

Marty put his head in his hands. “Catchphrase. He wants a

catchphrase.” He glanced at John who simply shook his head and

shrugged. Marty held the script up in Lewis’s face and pointed at a

random line. “Look. The script says for you to say: ‘NOT THIS

TIME’. Now listen closely, you high-priced dumb ass. THAT IS

THE CATCHPHRASE!”

John snickered, but quickly put his hand over his mouth to cover

it up.

Not quick enough. Mark Lewis whirled on him. “You think

something is funny? I don’t see your name at the top of the credits,

Duncan!”

John tried to be reasonable. “Hey, Mark it’s just…”

Mark stepped towards him and poked his finger into John’s chest.

“No one comes to see the bad guy.” With that he turned and stalked

off. After about ten steps he proclaimed, “I’ll be in my trailer! You

think about it McGregor!”

Marty watched him go. “Hell.” He began waving everyone off.

“All right everyone, let’s call it a day, it’s late anyways.” A flurry of

activity ensued; cameramen put up equipment, soundmen took down

boom mikes, technicians shut off stage lights. Marty sighed and looked

at John.

“Sorry Marty.” John looked sheepish.

Marty put his fists on his hips and leaned against the camera.

“Don’t be. This is one of his good days. There’s more to shoot, we’ll

just pick it up with the line and clean it up in editing.”

“If it’s so easy to fix, why did you bawl him out?” John questioned.

“Because he pisses me off.” He shook his head. “Suckhead.

Good lord!” Marty looked hard at John. “Don’t listen to his ranting.

You’re a good actor. I’d rather have you be the lead.” He sighed

heavily. “But studios cast stars these days. Directors don’t have as

much say as they used to.”

“Oh, I don’t care what he thinks,” John replied, jabbing a thumb

in Lewis’s direction. “Especially from a guy who needs writers for

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