Addicted In Cold Blood Read online

  ADDICTED IN COLD BLOOD

  by

  TIANA LAVEEN

  Copyright © 201 3 by Tiana Laveen

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Tiana Laveen

  Book cover design by Travis Pennington

  Edited by Natalie G. Owens

  KINDLE EDITION

  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 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  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, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  TITLE

  DEDICATION

  ADDICTED IN COLD BLOOD

  Prelude

  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

  Book Club Questions

  Author’s Biography

  DEDICATION

  This novel is dedicated to my father, Russell R. Driver. His long time love of science fiction cultivated a period in time where he became my muse for this novel and his expertise, humor and advice was immeasurable. Thank you Daddy for your encouragement and love regarding the writing of this book that not only deals with things ‘out of this world’ but real-life struggles, conditions and emotional, systematic and mental depravity. In the end, people simply want to be loved, some just don’t know how to give nor receive it...

  ADDICTED IN COLD BLOOD

  PRELUDE

  “He left the guy’s body hanging on a meat hook at Canales Quality Meats on Carolina Avenue.” The detective slammed a slew of freshly printed crime scene photos on the seventh precinct captain’s desk. “This is the sixth body found in the last two weeks, another drug dealer.”

  Captain Jasper clasped his thick hands together and pivoted in his worn, brown leather seat. He chewed his thin bottom lip nervously, knowing full well that the jig was up. The pressure gavel was coming down even harder now, pushing his back against the wall and crushing his resolve.

  “The FBI contacted me again. We’re screwed, Max. They’re taking over the case but say they still need our cops around.” He rubbed his wrinkled forehead, his headache trying to burst through his skull and render him as dead on his feet as he felt. “That’s bullshit. They don’t care what we do; they just want to nab him off the streets, and we end up looking like incompetent jerks. They think our entire department is useless. I just buried two of my men over this crap!”

  “At this point, honestly, there is no one in the department, not in any of the precincts, waving their damn hand to try to get this guy now. He doesn’t just murder, he tortures, and now he’s a cop killer on top of it. It’s unbelievable. You should see all the sick calls we’ve had roll in lately.” The detective shook his head and waved his hand in the air, as if he wanted to punch some invisible fiend that had swooped low. “I’ve never seen anything like this in my life. I don’t get queasy easily...but…” Detective Max looked back down at the photos, grimaced and rubbed his throat, as slow traces of bile climbed up his esophagus at the recollection. “I almost threw up on the scene with the coroner.”

  The captain quickly turned away from the gruesome snapshots as he swallowed harshly, pushing the echoing acidic burn in his throat away.

  “The FBI already told me they want one of our guys to go undercover but never followed up with any additional information. Maybe it was a pity pittance... Regardless, this is our last chance. I know what’s about to happen.” He threw his arms up in frustration. “We’ll be asked to send one of our guys in there, someone that can handle themselves, someone that can try to get close to this guy, has the inside track of the city, not just here, but all over Baltimore. Problem is, I can’t think of a good candidate because everyone we’ve sent in there hasn’t worked out and they came down hard on me for this mess. I’ve been arguing with those damn guys for weeks!”

  “I know and trust me; I’ve been bustin’ my ass trying to figure all these cases out. This motherfucker is clean! I don’t know how he does it. No one wants to touch this now, no one!”

  “Yeah, tell me about it and on top of that, we are already short staffed and that son of a bitch has the entire city scared shitless. I never thought I’d see this day.” He pounded on the desk, turning away as yet another alert on his computer popped up about the ‘XXX’ Killer Killing Spree’. “A goddamn serial killer...right before Christmas and worst of all, some people, some damn sickos are cheering this guy on!”

  “He seems to be some sort of vigilante—it’s not a surprise.” Detective Max shrugged as he took a seat, removing his thin framed reading glasses from his light blue eyes before ruggedly running his fingers through his choppy blond and gray hair. “I won’t be surprised if a cult following arises. Have you seen some of the fanatics on the news? Some are talking about these are the end of days, and this is God’s wrath. It’s just crazy. We’re in Washington DC, people hold on for dear life to stories like this here—the president and congress...and a nearby killing spree that no one can put a damn stop to. Fabulous.”

  The captain’s cell phone blinked. “Damn it!” Angry, he read the message. “Another body found near the Lincoln Memorial! Broad fucking daylight, he left his calling card again...”

  Max sighed, “‘XXX’ again?”

  Captain Jasper looked up at the tall detective, who stood and placed his palms on the messy paper covered desk. Meanwhile, he sank into dark emotional depths propelled by his dangerously demanding career—and his job being on the line. Catching a glimpse of himself in a nearby window reflection, he noted his light brown eyes swollen from lack of sleep and weariness.

  “Yes, it’s burned right into our John Doe’s neck...” he replied after a few thoughtful moments, sadness veneering his voice.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The intermingling odor of rancid bug spray and Pine Sol married, creating a nauseous aroma that filled the small apartment. Three glass canisters of freshly canned pears, two loafs of wheat bread and a new electric toothbrush lay neatly on the pale yellow laminate kitchen counter. The corners curled, annoying Xzion to no end. He ran his left index against the peeling surface, pushing, trying to make it go flush with the rest of the cheap material. In frustration, he turned away and headed back into the living room of his Trinidad, D.C. apartment. Xzion slumped down on the gray, threadbare and worn couch and reached under an adjoining cushion. One after the other, he individually removed thirteen bullets, placing them on the coffee table before him like miniature bowling trophies. He picked up an empty, foil ashtray, and lined them up like miniscule missiles inside of it, glancing at them from various angles as if they held a secret code.

  Smirking, his dark brown eyes narrowed, he remembered his murderous spree earlier that morning...truly divine. He selected one slug from the metal huddle—a black talon, his absolute favorite. It would explode on contact inside the vict
im, ripping them to shreds as if a tiger was clawing away beneath their fleshy surface trying to break free back into the wild. He placed it down into the ashtray, and ran his long fingers through raven black hair, catching his reflection in the slanted, cracked mirror to his left that shone brightly against the worn red and gray checkered wall-papered partition. He stared, unsure what to make of himself at that moment. He was becoming impatient.

  Tonight was the evening to meet up with his newfound business partners at a strip club, Club Ecstasy, on Branch Avenue in Temple Hills. He’d been building a stellar reputation with the small group of local thugs, hooking them into expanded international networks with the best of the best, product rich and super gripping. This hit had to be different. He couldn’t just sit back and relish in his ability to conduct exercises in mind control, let his brain do the bidding. They weren’t just dealers, they were users, and after all the hoops they’d made him jump through, he wanted the sweet satisfaction of saying his own brand of farewell.

  This had taken weeks to achieve, and he needed to send out a message to the people. It was time to play by a different set of rules. Initially, he’d been far less gruesome, but soon realized a memorandum needed to be made, a red hot sounding alarm to cause mass hysteria amongst the people of the living. It would help expedite his mission—people in the life were falling back, disappearing into the gritty shadows which had birthed them, twisting their tormented souls into corrupted shells of what they once were. He soon discovered after he upped the ante that he enjoyed it, completely and immensely—just as his President, teacher and mentor, Aton, had said he would.

  The violence was tantalizing, made his heart beat that much faster. Unlike Iran. There, he had to battle their alarming number of heroine drug traffickers, Russia, where the biggest and most evil dealers were mere children. And from Colombia, where their very survival was contingent upon the trade, the United States brought a different flair and flavor to the scene that he hadn’t expected—the largest number of goddamn users in the entire world. Here was a country filled with automatons, and he was in awe at the state of mental deterioration and despondency.

  Xzion was briefed that the United States, though it had far less traffickers for him to have to eradicate, indeed had many more consumers, making the area of the planet volatile. He’d been warned that much of the population acted like starved zombies; thus, it would be his hardest assignment of all. Mind control is useless over those under the influence and with their blood being tainted, no amount of synthesizing could make it clean again if things continued as is.

  The Americans had the greatest cocaine and meth addiction of the entire world, forcing his people to study in depth for decades how to combat the situation. But, there was a silver lining. Due to this ravenous drug addiction, Xzion was able to offer goods and lure greedy dealers repeatedly into his well-planned snares. He’d discovered a way to infiltrate even the tightest knit drug circles, promising long lasting riches that they’d fallen helplessly in love with. Feed the pigs and they will always come gravelling for more. Give them love, and even when they are full, they will continue their gluttonous behavior until the buttons pop off of their shirts. The cherry on top of the cocaine sundae was a woman. He found them a girlfriend, a rich white girl...

  Xzion had gotten wind of the new wonder drug affectionately called, ‘Rich White Girl’, RWG, cocaine with a twist, while taking down several drug Lords in Columbia and Great Britain. Highly addictive, it left the owner of the beautiful high in a daze for twenty-four hours straight with an out of this world libido and reserved, chillaxed mood that convinced the blind they’d soon see. No need to reload, risk being caught or waste valuable time. One hit, done and done.

  Tonight was the night. Xzion had bided his time on this special assignment. He’d built trust, formed relationships and showed convincing concern about the maniac on the loose that was grabbing throats with his bare hands, branding with heat, dismembering and strewing human body parts up and down public streets like a parade float filled with beloved characters throwing candy. Tonight, he’d finally get to meet the leader of the pack, Lewis Carter.

  Carter was low-key. No one would suspect the seemingly shy family man and freelance preacher to be a big time drug leader, having his will and way with the street peddling thugs willing to do his bidding for mere chump change on the seedier streets of Maryland. According to the men under his thumb, Xzion had arrived from Columbia, bringing a slew of hard to obtain ‘Rich White Girl’ with him and causing clientele to come so fast that demand was no longer able to be met. He’d provided his information, receipts, and spoke English so well, that his slight Latin accent was of no concern or hindrance. It was all in the programming—making him all the more believable.

  Xzion had been trained, groomed and studied under the watchful, strict eye of President Aton, on his planet Zarkstorm. Xzion’s appearance made him a chameleon of sorts, at least amongst his human peers. He could ‘pass’ for so many nationalities, it afforded him blending abilities that truly came in handy as he toured the globe. He had every language and dialect down pat.

  Wherever he went, he was more times than not mistaken for a local, which made him a Zarkstormian dream come true with physically matched vague physical specifications—tall Hispanic male was all anyone could grapple onto, and even that was at times up for debate and questionable. He could pass for Italian and Latin if need be, but his original programming, due to his first assignment, was Columbian…and that was what he stuck to, paying homage to the place that gave him birth by fire. He’d been shot at and almost beheaded more than once while in the unruly areas of the country. In that jungle, he’d had his very first taste of human homicide as he navigated the volatile, high-stake drug cartel. He’d almost lost his life due to the rigorous demands and never wished to come that close to termination again. So he took precautions.

  His father was a proud, highly-regarded Zarkstormian warrior and his mother a revered academic, a professor at the military college. His parents enlisted him immediately into the same schooling they’d received, but soon found out that Aton took a special interest in their first born child—much more than he’d taken in any other pupil in years past. The reasoning: upon diagnostic analysis of the young man, it was found he could kill swift and clean, just like his father. An admirable trait, more so because he didn’t suffer from the same limitations of the Earthly climate controls, as his forefathers had.

  After years of failed attempts, Zarkstorm finally had a survivor in their mists. He seemed far more resistant to the changing world temperatures, and his existence proved to be a win-win situation for all of his people. This was not the only gift he had, however.

  Xzion had an uncanny ability to mimic any and all emotions and personas around him—to become loose, less robotic in his mannerisms, and slide into almost any scene without alerting a suspicious eye. The total opposite of his normal self, but he managed just the same. He made people feel comfortable and at ease. It was this ability, to pretend to have apathy, humor and humility, which would score him big assignments and land him right here, completing the final leg of his worldwide takedown—the United States of America...

  Xzion slowly rose from the couch and made his way into the mildewed bathroom. It didn’t help that the damn temperature was completely inconsistent, but he maintained and persevered. He looked around, his nasal passages on overload from the damp, stagnant confines. He abhorred the neighborhood, the area, and his temporary residence but for this particular venture, he had to appear as if he were an immigrant trying to keep a low profile. In some ways, that was true. It was imperative that after his work was done for each hit, he stay out of the limelight. The police didn’t know what he looked like or what he was doing, and if he wanted to keep it that way, he had to stay the course. Within hours, he’d learned the necessary vernacular and was able to name drop with the greatest of ease—making his slated victims feel more relaxed, thus letting the treacherous entity in closer, dange
rously closer.

  Xzion leaned over the sink, turned on the cold water and splashed his face. Opening the medicine cabinet, he removed a razor and shaving cream. Over the next few minutes, he meticulously went over his hard jawbone, removing all remnants of black stubble, leaving behind only a well-trimmed goatee that he’d shave completely off after the assignment was complete.

  He ran his hand over his skin, looked himself over and walked to the small bedroom. Past the full sized bed with threadbare white sheets, he entered the diminutive closet, rummaging until he found a button down black shirt, dark pants and a pair of Aldo Arkin shoes to match. No matter what, he had a real issue with wearing cheap shoes. He just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Upward, on a shelf past the swinging lamp chord, sat his ebony fedora hat with a small red feather. A wicked grin formed as he placed it atop his grown out dark locks, relishing what was to come. He grabbed his favorite cologne, Acqua Di Gio, and splashed it along his neck and face. Back in the living room, he sat down on the couch and propped his feet onto the peg-legged coffee table. The television played old, ‘America’s Funniest Home Videos’, not giving him much mirth.

  This shit is fucking corny...

  Xzion now enjoyed profanity. He picked up the habit after years of observation and immolation and began to use it without a second thought. Whether he was doing it in French, Spanish, Italian, Mandarin, Swahili or English, he enjoyed it immensely—nonsensical words designed to be negative, yet, eliciting, at the very least, an internal laugh every single time.

  He lifted up his right shirt sleeve. Pressing deeply into a knotty blue vein on his wrist, he caused a small rectangular section of his skin to open, exposing a miniscule computer that resembled the face of a watch.